Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One (7 page)

She was just considering a cup of coffee in
the café when a dusty blue cargo van pulled off the road and into
the lot, washing her in the beams of its headlights as it
passed.

Cassie blinked, looked at
the rear of the van, and then blinked again. There, on the bumper,
half hidden under at thick patina of dust was a yellow bumper
sticker that read,
Water Music Festival
1997, Long Beach, Washington
.

Cassie forgot, for a moment, just how to
breathe, as her heart began to hammer against her ribs. She gave
her old Bible a quick squeeze as she stowed it back in her bag and,
glancing upward, whispered, "Thank you!"

The van had pulled into the darkened lot to
the rear of the café, between two big semi-trucks. Cassie watched,
from the safety of the shadows as a tall, bulky man with
close-cropped white hair, stepped from the van, stretched for a
moment, and crossed the parking lot towards the truck stop.

Cassie watched him as he walked away, noting
that he wore a faded brown bomber jacket with a white turtleneck
underneath, so she could find him again once he was inside. Once
the man was gone and the door had swung closed behind him, Cassie
crept across the lot to the van. Passing behind several of the
towering semis, some with extended living quarters that had lights
shining through the tiny curtained windows, she stopped behind a
carrier full of new Toyotas and listened for the sound of
footsteps. She could hear nothing but the soft stomping and lowing
from the cattle-truck to her left and the bass hum of a huge
refrigeration unit to her right.

Realizing that she would probably draw more
suspicion, were she to be seen skulking, Cassie straightened up and
walked quickly to the faded blue Chevy. Up close, it looked like it
had seen more than its share of the open road.

Both the front and rear bumpers were pitted
with small dents and the blue passenger-side front fender had been
replaced with one painted primer-gray. All four tires, though,
appeared to be fairly new and the van didn’t have that miasma of
burning oil that surrounded poorly kept vehicles after a long
drive.

Coming around the far side, she could see
the sliding door had been replaced as well, matching the gray
fender. Through the dusty glass, Cassie could see the dashboard was
littered with maps, magazines, and what appeared to be several
days’ worth of fast-food wrappers. She double-checked the bumper
sticker and, sure enough, it still read Long Beach, WA. From her
new vantage point, she could see what she hadn’t been able to make
out as the van had passed her. The grime-coated license plate was
from Washington as well.

Cassie took a deep breath and leaned against the back of the
van for a moment.
Planning
to ask someone
if,
oh by the way, did they mind driving
her halfway across the country
, had
been one thing. Now, faced with the reality of the moment, she
actually had to walk up to a total stranger who, oh by the way,
hopefully wasn’t a serial killer, and
ask for a ride
.

Once she had gathered her courage, Cassie
glanced at the rear window and, after wiping some of the dirt off
with her sleeve, peered into the back of the van.

In the darkness, she could make out several
closed cardboard boxes, a couple of sleeping bags and an even
larger collection of drive-thru refuse. Stepping away, Cassie
glanced around and, seeing no one, stashed her duffel bag under the
dumpster behind the café. After pulling some flattened cardboard
over the top of it and checking from several angles, Cassie nodded,
satisfied that it would remain hidden for the short time she was
inside.

Continuing around the side
of the building to the front door, Cassie passed though the tiled
entryway, lined with newspaper boxes and penny-candy machines,
around the
Please Wait to be
Seated
sign, and into the
restaurant.

Most of the coffee bar and many of the
booths were taken by lone occupants. Truckers, who read their books
or magazines, ate in silence, or just dozed over their coffee cups.
Near the end of the aisle, Cassie could see the back of a
white-haired head above the seat cushions and the empty arm of a
brown leather jacket hanging off the bench on the far side of the
table.

She took a deep breath as she walked
tremulously toward the man. The smell of French fries and strong
coffee dominated the room. Cassie tried to focus on these
observations and not on the knot that was developing in her
stomach. She reached the table, turned to face the driver of the
van and, suddenly, found herself unable to speak. The man looked to
be in his early fifties, his face weather-lined and tanned. He kept
reading his book for a moment or two and then, after slowly
slipping a finger between the pages, he glanced up at Cassie over
his reading glasses.

As soon as his gaze met hers he seemed to
jerk slightly in his seat, his eyes grew wide, his face pale, then
he blinked, and whatever had come over him passed. Head to toe, his
eyes took her in for a long moment and, under any other
circumstances, Cassie would have blushed, but something in his
manner made it clear that his stare was nothing inappropriate.

“
Did you forget your
uniform?” he asked, in a soft baritone, “and my coffee?”

Cassie stood, blinking and dumbfounded, for
a moment, trying to decipher what the man was talking about.

“
No,” Cassie stammered, “I’m
not here…I mean, I don’t work here. I’m not a waitress!”

“
Oh?”

“
No, I’m not. I was just
wondering if you minded, I mean if I could…is that your blue van
out there?” Cassie spluttered.

“
It is.” He replied, still
looking directly into her eyes. His expression was serious, his
voice flat, but his eyes had begun to twinkle with
amusement.

“
Okay,” Cassie began, taking
a deep breath, “Let me try again. I saw that your van has
Washington plates, are you from Long Beach?”

“
I am.”

Okay,” she repeated, “um…are you heading
back that way?”

“
Eventually,” he said, his
eyes twinkling even more.

Pausing, Cassie tried to collect her
thoughts before asking the next question. This was quickly becoming
a most frustrating conversation. If only the man would stop staring
at her and start answering her questions with more than just
monosyllabic responses. Cassie decided to try another route.

“
Can I…do you mind if I sit
down?” she asked.

At this, the man’s stony expression finally
broke and the corners of his mouth curled into a slight, sardonic,
smile.

“
Aren’t I a little old for
you, kid?”

Cassie felt her cheeks grow hot as she both
sputtered and stammered, in an attempt to reply.

“
No!” she almost shouted,
lowering her voice quickly when heads at the nearest tables turned
their way, “I mean yes! I mean…that’s not what I mean. I just need
to get to Washington!”

Cassie felt herself on the verge of tears. Her head was
spinning from the convoluted dialog, and the knot in her stomach
had tightened into a hard, solid ball that threatened even further
unpleasantries if she didn’t find herself in a less stressful
situation soon. It was such a simple question, why couldn't she
just ask it?

“
The lady doth protest too
much, methinks…” he said softly.

“
Huh?” she replied,
wondering if she could possibly sound as stupid to this stranger as
she did to herself; she was fairly certain that she
must.

“
Hamlet”

“
I…uh…”
Another brilliant response, would this never
end?
She would happily walk all the way
to Oysterville, barefoot, if it meant that she could just get away
from this table and hide her crimson, burning face.

“
You
do
know who Shakespeare was?”
he asked, closing his book and seeming genuinely interested in her
for the first time. Cassie was able to keep her mouth shut this
time, and was grateful for that small blessing.

“
Well,” the man said at
last, “if you’ve never heard of Shakespeare, I don’t want to know.
Have a seat.”

Cassie sat.

A moment of silence stretched into two and
finally the man leaned forward and, waving a hand in front of her
eyes, asked in that same low voice, “Well?”

“
Um….” Cassie groped for an
answer, “Thank you?”

He laid a weary hand over his eyes and
sighed.

“
Okay,” he said, looking up
and smiling for the first time. “Let’s try rowing this boat in
another direction, shall we? Can you give me one good reason why a
pretty young gal like yourself would be doing something as
stupendously idiotic as asking to ride halfway across creation with
a strange man?”

At last, Cassie’s embarrassment had found
its limit and, unable to become any more humiliated, she found
herself growing annoyed at the man’s seemingly unending
sarcasm.

“
And are you?” she asked,
her eyes starting to spark.

Now it was the stranger’s turn to look
confused. “Am I what?” He asked.

“
A strange man?” Cassie
answered sweetly, with the same smile that had driven the cashier
at the Greyhound ticket desk nearly to distraction. Two could play
this little game!

The man across the table merely looked
amused. “The tales I could tell you, kid.” Cassie knew she
shouldn’t, but the haughty way he had quoted Hamlet, as if she were
some ignorant country bumpkin who had never read a book, had stung.
Cassie Belanger, as any number of the fine folk in Bowie, Arizona
could tell you, didn't like to be stung.

“
Tales told by an idiot?”
she quoted, in that same sweet voice, “full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing?”

That caught the man off guard. “Wha…” he
started.

“
Macbeth?”

He gaped at her.

“
You
do
know who Shakespeare was?”
she finished innocently.

Silence descended on the table, and Cassie
was sure that she would soon resume her wait at the bus stop.
Suddenly the man slammed both hands down on the tabletop, threw
back his head, and roared with laughter. This went on for some time
until, finally, Cassie began to giggle herself as the older man's
face turned bright red and he pounded the table, snorting for
air.

Soon, despite the curious glances from the
diners around them, both were doubled over, laughing uproariously,
tears streaming down their faces. Cassie laughed and cried at the
same time, her sides aching, and her breath coming in short
hitching gasps. The knot in her stomach loosened as some measure of
the tension of the last week began to ease. It felt as though a
small hole had pierced the dam within her as the pressure that had
begun to leak out through the cracks and fissures of her spirit
dissipated.

Their laughter was finally interrupted by
the waitress who quickly set a cup of black coffee and a piece of
apple-pie in front of the red-faced man, slipping the bill under
the edge of his plate. She raised a questioning eyebrow, glancing
back and forth between the two of them as they tried to regain
their composure, shrugging, she turned and began to walk away.

"Miss," he said, "I'm sorry…" He snorted
again and wiped his streaming eyes, "I think we're going to need
another piece of pie here."

Turning to Cassie, he asked, "What's your poison? Dessert's on
me."

Cassie sniffled, trying to stop the giggle
in her voice.

"Apple would be great, thanks!"

The waitress gave them one more long look
and then hurried away. He let out an explosive breath, mopping his
face with his napkin. "Well," he said, still chuckling, "I guess I
deserved that; I was starting to get a little full of myself
there…"

Cassie decided to strike, as her mother
would say, while the iron was hot.

"So?" she asked.

"What?" he answered, this time seeming to
have genuinely forgotten the original question.

"So," she repeated, "are you heading back to
Long Beach?"

"You first," he said, "why would you be
doing something as dangerous as bumming rides at a truck stop?"

"No choice, I have to get to Long Beach
and--"

"Why?"

Cassie paused, "That's my…"

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand,
"If you’re asking me to let you ride along all the way to
Washington, then it's my business as well. Now let’s hear it."

Luckily, Cassie had taken the time, during
her long wait at the bus stop, to come up with a story that
validated her trip.

"I'm writing a book," she said quickly.

Now it was his turn to raise an eyebrow.
"Oh?"

Cassie rushed ahead, "Yeah, I'm working on a
book about the histories of small towns on the Washington coast.
It's for school. I need to spend a couple of weeks there before
spring term starts, to do research." She held her breath; waiting
for him to ask what school she attended. Instead, after studying
her for another moment he just said, "Well, that's ironic, but
okay," and took a sip of his streaming coffee. Cassie was almost
disappointed that she hadn't been able to use the rest of her
story.

"So," he went on, "What's your name?"

“
Huh?”

“
Well, unless you just want
me to call you
hey
you
…”