Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Trevor
Carter finds me sitting in the back seat of the Charger. I could’ve gone to my parents’ house, but I really needed to be alone, and this is the one place I feel truly safe, especially now when I’m struggling to work through my shit. I’m feeling angry. Betrayed. Lost.
He leans through the window and eyes the duffle bag. “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah.”
“Is this one of those conversations that requires a drink?”
I shake my head. “I probably shouldn’t be drinking if I’m going to drive.” I pound the seat next to my leg. “I just wish she were up and running.”
Realizing I have no car, and I’m not about to ask Ava, Dawn, or Chuck to borrow theirs, I laugh. “I guess maybe I’ll take that drink after all since I don’t have a ride. I might just hop on the train.”
“And go where?”
“I have no fucking clue, man. Anywhere but here.”
“You need a car?” He nods his head to several other cars at the far end of the warehouse.
“You can use one of those. People sometimes sign their old, totaled cars over to us if we think there’s a chance we can repair and sell them.
I wouldn’t recommend it for a cross-country trek, but that silver Hyundai in the corner runs decently. ”
“You’d let me borrow it?”
“Sure. Why not? How long are you planning on being away?”
I lean back into the seat, the ripped upholstery digging into my neck. “I need to disappear for a while. Figure my shit out, you know?”
“You want to leave town, but you don’t have anywhere to go, and you don’t know how long you’ll be gone?”
“That about sums it up.”
“Wait here.”
He walks back in the direction of the main building, returning a few minutes later with two sets of keys.
“For the Hyundai,” he says, jingling one.
“This one is for a fishing cabin I sometimes use for weekend getaways. My brothers and I go. Sometimes it’s just me and Christian.
You’ve actually been there a few times. It’s not anything special, but it’s got electricity and running water and it’s off the beaten path.
There’s a small mom-and-pop store a few miles away.
You’ll pass it just before the turnoff to the lake.
” He hands me a piece of paper. “Here are the directions. It’s about an hour northwest of here.
I can’t think of a better place to disappear. ”
I take everything from him. “Aren’t you going to ask why I need to leave?”
He shrugs. “You’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”
I get out of the back seat and hoist the strap of the duffle onto my shoulder. “You’ve been a good friend, Carter.”
He laughs. “It’s strange hearing you use my first name. You always called me Cruz.”
My eyes narrow. “How come you haven’t told me that until now?”
“Figured you have enough people telling you shit.”
I huff out a rush of air. “You have no idea.”
He follows me to the Hyundai. Maybe to make sure it starts. It does. He pounds the roof. “There’s cell service up there. Feel free to call if you need anything.”
I nod, back out, then stick my head out of the window before driving away. “Hey Cruz!” He turns. “Thanks.”
Happy that the GPS in this old clunker works—because no way would I have found this place without it—I pull into the parking lot of Bart’s Market, and park next to a pickup truck that must be sixty years old.
I look around when I enter the place, sure I’m in some kind of time warp. Honestly, I’m amazed stores like this even exist anymore.
“What can I do you for?” the old man behind the counter says from his perch on a tall stool.
“Nothing really. I just need food for… actually, I don’t know how long. I’m going to be staying at a nearby fishing cabin.”
He studies me. “Which one? I don’t recall seeing you ‘round here.”
“Do you know Carter Cruz?”
The old guy smiles. “Well, hells yeah, I do. Those Cruz boys been coming here since their daddy started bringing them up back in the early part of this century.”
“Carter was nice enough to let me come up here for a while.”
He strains his neck to look out the dirty front windows toward the Hyundai. “You alone?”
“Yup. That’s the point.”
He chuckles, starts coughing, then spits phlegm into the nearby trashcan. “Well, just so you know, I’m closed on Sundays.”
“Point me to the liquor?”
He cocks his head. “You must not be from around here, boy. This is New York. The only thing we can sell in grocery stores is beer and cider. You want anything stronger, you have to drive ‘bout twenty-five miles up the road to Bobby Stikes’s liquor store.” He thumbs to a small wall of refrigerators.
“Cold beer’s over there. Got some stacks of warm beer in the back if you prefer.
Don’t be expectin’ no high-end stuff. Pabst. Michelob. Budweiser. The usuals.”
“The usual stuff will do just fine. Thank you.”
I pick up a basket that’s definitely seen better days, and fill it with bread, bacon, eggs, a pack of granola bars, some boxes of mac-and-cheese, and a box of frozen hamburger patties along with the fixings to go along with them.
I pull a case of beer from the cooler and make my way back to the counter.
Bart, I assume, snickers as he rings me up on a cash register that may be older than he is. “Looks like you’re ready for a good ol’ bachelor weekend.” He narrows his eyes. “Kind of early in the season for any good fishing though.”
“I’m not here to fish.”
He narrows his eyes. “You come up here to write a book or something?”
I snort. “Not writing a book. Just needed to get away.”
“Ahhh.” He nods. “Gal trouble. I get it. Had some of that back in my day.” He points to a picture of a woman on the wall.
“Gerty done left this earth thirteen years ago. But, Lord could we get on each other’s last nerve.
” He laughs. “Makin’ up, that’s the fun part.
Just don’t stay away so long that makin’ up is off the table. ”
“Your wife was very beautiful,” I say politely.
He laughs like a man who’s a two-pack-a-day smoker. “Didn’t never marry. If I had, she’d have been the one. But a guy like me wasn’t never marriage material.” He knocks a fist on his skull. “Serving overseas when I was young messed me up in a bad way. Wasn’t about to put that on anyone, ya know?”
He puts my food into a large paper bag and slides it across the counter.
“Thanks, Bart, is it?”
He cackles. “Bart was my daddy.” He slaps the counter. “Built this place with his own two hands back in nineteen forty-five, right after he got back from the war.” He holds out a hand. “Name’s Butch.”
“Trevor.” I shake.
“Didn’t have the heart to change the name.
” He looks back at the photo. “And since I got no one to hand it down to, I’ll be running this place until I got both feet in the grave.
Hell, I got nothin’ better to do. Don’t have no one or nothin’ save a few other old-timers who come by for a game of backgammon on occasion.
” He cocks his head. “You got any ankle biters?”
Instinctively, I shake my head, even though something inside me knows it’s wrong. Because I do have a kid. Or I will in about six months.
“You still got time, by the look of things. I tell you, there ain’t nothing better than the thought of handing something down to your own kin. Between you and me, I was always hoping for a son to run this place. Alas, it just wasn’t in the cards for me.”
He picks up an ancient remote control and aims it at an old, small, boxy television on the counter behind him.
“‘Bout time for Wheel of Fortune. Good to meet you, Trevor. If you still find yourself with gal trouble come next week, Tuesday is when I get most of my deliveries. Fresh fruit and veggies. Even a small selection of steak.”
I pick up the bag and the case of beer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Back outside, I load my purchases in the trunk. Gal trouble. If only that was the extent of it. If we’d just had a fight over something stupid I’d done or some frivolous purchase she’d made. This goes far beyond the reaches of normal girl trouble.
She got pregnant without telling me. Using money she secretly borrowed against a business Chuck and Dawn left me.
Okay, so they left it to both of us. But still, who the fuck does that?
It tells me more about our relationship than any photo albums could.
Did she control everything? The business. Our finances. Me?
Was I just some shmuck in love who went along with everything she did? Or maybe it was just her way of getting back at a man who chose his career over her.
Those questions burn in my head as I approach the fishing cabin. I park in the gravel driveway off to the right, happy to see a charcoal grill out front. Hmm. I might have to go back for charcoal and lighter fluid if they don’t have any lying around.
Then I slip the key into the lock and walk into what I can only describe as the best bachelor pad I could envision.
I have to laugh as I look around the place.
Fishing poles line the walls. Various knives are secured on a magnetized strip by the stove.
There’s a pair of antlers attached to one wall.
On another, a large fish is mounted on a backboard.
I’m sure the damn thing would wiggle and sing if I pushed the button below it.
There’s one small bedroom. One tiny bathroom. A couch that I surmise turns into a bed, and a blow-up mattress that’s sagging in the corner, almost out of air.
A four-seat dining table sits near a wall of cabinets. The appliances look as old as Butch, but when I open the refrigerator I’m happy to see the light come on. And it’s partially full with things like butter, sauces, sodas, and bricks of cheese—all things I neglected to pick up at Bart’s.
A smile crosses my face when I go through the cabinets and find enough liquor to serve a small army. Finally, after a long day, I find a rocks glass, fill it with a more than generous pour of Buffalo Trace, and retire to the porch to watch the sun set over the lake.
It’s hard to enjoy anything, however, when I think of the colossal mess my life has become.