Never What It’s Supposed To Be
Geoffrey Kruse-Safford
Copyright 2012 by Geoffrey Kruse-Safford
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Never What It’s Supposed To Be
Yesterday's just a memory, tomorrow is never what it's supposed to be. - Bob Dylan
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Ed thought the wonders would never cease. Who knew, out here in the middle of the central Texas scrubland was something as beautiful as Lake Brownwood? He’d seen it on the map a couple days before, when he was heading out of Hattiesburg, MS. He thought he could make it after a long day’s drive. With no particular place to go, it seemed as good a choice as any. After struggling through the Dallas-Fort Worth rush hour, he’d made his way down US 183, passing through Rising Star, then, south of May, cutting west. He found a pleasant Inn right on the lake. The sun had set over the sere horizon an hour or so before, and he was road-weary. He found a Sonic Drive-Thru, grabbed a greasy dinner, then collapsed on the very comfortable king-size bed without removing even his shoes.
Dawn was coming earlier, which was as sure a sign that spring had most definitely arrived. Out here, on the shores of this mystery, this lake in what looked like a desert to Ed’s Midwestern eyes, spring was well under way, even though it was still early April. Back in Bensenville, IL, the early bloomers would have passed, but high spring was still waiting its appointed time. He could picture Sherri, her hands and knees black with the good thick soil, that floppy hat on her head . . .
Don’t, he thought. That’s done.
After waking up, catawampus on the bed, the comforter a knot beneath him from the inevitable tossing and turning, the first thing he’d done is check and see if there was a coffee maker in his pleasant little room. After getting that brewing, he jogged to the office. He was happy to discover the room was available for three more nights, but Ed paid for just one more. He had to keep moving, always moving.
Back in his room, the drapes blocking out the glorious early morning Texas sunrise, he stripped, showered, shaved, and dressed. Sitting at the small table, a copy of the Brownwood Bulletin open to the daily puzzle, Ed sipped his coffee and wondered why, exactly, he’d decided to spend an extra day here. For two months he had been in near constant motion. One morning he might wake up in Skaneateles, NY. The next he might be as far north as Brighton, ME, as far south as Danville, VA, or as far west as Elyria, OH. It wasn’t about anything, this trip of his. It was a trip for trip’s sake. The point was to keep moving, always with one eye on the sweet spot. Gotta avoid that sweet spot at all costs.
At thirty-four, Ed had been about as successful as any person in his line of work could imagine. Once upon a time, he’d been considered a prodigy, publishing a series of novels under a couple pseudonyms before he was sixteen. His parents had to sign the contracts along with him, and they’d agreed to put royalties in a blind trust. At first there hadn’t been much, sure, but then a reporter at The Chicago Tribune got wind of the new sensation in fantasy epics. It took the lady about ten minutes of digging to discover that the two most popular series of novels in the fantasy genre had been written by the same person.
The feature on him in the Trib had been picked up by syndicates, then by the cable news outlets. Soon enough, he was, as his agent kept telling him, a household name. He wasn’t sure he liked that; he enjoyed the anonymity the pseudonyms afforded. His publisher hounded him for new volumes, his agent was trying to renegotiate the terms of the original contract, and all Ed wanted to do was write.
He’d been thinking about all this because, right here in the Crossword, he saw his name: ______ Dillon – fantasy writer. That was the clue. Six letters, begins with an “E”.
He sighed as he block-printed his name in the puzzle.
He managed, in just a few short years, to earn enough money from writing that he could start helping his parents with some of their debt and not feel the pinch. A few years later, thanks to the Last Honest Brokerage House, as he called them, his investments had landed him in the dim stratosphere most folks he knew would call “rich”. He thought about retiring. That didn’t work, though, because writing just felt too ingrained in him. It was his routine.
Then, at the ripe old age of 26, already wealthy and successful beyond the imaginings of most people twice his age, he met Sherri Ames at a Writer’s Conference his publisher sponsored. They used to joke that theirs was that rare instance of love at third sight. Sherri had attended a couple Conferences at which Ed had given talks, and wanted to meet him. This time, though, was her chance.
An aspiring writer of the kind of fiction that made the critics sit up and take notice, Sherri had all sorts of potential as a writer. She’d handed Ed a short story she’d written, and Ed promised to read it and get back to her. That night, sitting in his hotel room sipping hot tea, he’d read through the story with deepening admiration and surprise. Sherri wasn’t just good. She was very good.
They had lunch the next day, and Ed discovered, to his delight, that she lived just a short drive away, in Evergreen Park. They shared the same tastes in music and TV shows. They parted company on sports. Ed was a dyed-in-the-wool Chicago Bulls fan, even in the recent multiple winters of their discontent. Sherri professed not to understand basketball, but took in, so she claimed, at least 20 Cubs home games a year.
Stop it!
He realized, with something like surprise, that he had downed two cups of coffee. Pulling the drapes open, the view took his breath away. The land, sloping away to the lake, gave him a marvelous view west and north. The sunlight, still playing on the water, made the room even brighter.
He poured himself another cup, glanced at the paper, then decided to head out and see if there was anything to see. Heading to the small office, he saw several brochures on area attractions, including a couple antique shops and places to eat. He tucked them in his hip pocket, waved a salute to the young woman behind the desk, then headed to his car.
A black Dodge Charger, fresh off the assembly line when he’d purchased it seven months before, it had been his constant companion. Buried in a freak blizzard outside Canton, NY in January, he’d headed south once he had the road to do so. He made it as far as Marietta, GA before heading northwest through Tennessee, then up to southern Indiana. He discovered the pleasant city of Terre Haute, then spent an extra day in Effingham, IL before heading back south. There wasn’t much in northern Louisiana to keep his interest, but he though a day or two on the Gulf Coast might do him good, so he made for Biloxi, MS, then east to the panhandle of Florida before reversing course. Hattiesburg had been a nice stop; one of his childhood heroes, the kicker Ray Guy for John Madden’s Oakland Raiders was an alumnus of the University of Southern Mississippi. The campus and town were still quaint as only southern college towns could be. Now, here he was, in the midst of the switchover from the broad plains of eastern and northern Texas to the deserts of southern and western Texas. Lake Brownwood seemed a nice way to say, “Goodbye”. What was a day exploring Carson Cove, or driving down Farm to Market Rd 2125, which changed its name from Baptist Encampment Rd. less than a mile away? It promised, if nothing else, a chance to stop and smell some fresh, spring flowers.
The antique shop in Carson Cove, right where County Road 573 made a hard left, heading almost due west after a run north, offered a nice view of the cove below. Inside, it had the same air so many antique shops had. A mixture of kitsch and treasure, of southern eccentricity and old world yearning, Ed found it nearly impossible to move around the shop without bumping in to something. Old milk cans, gussied up to serve as conversation pieces in a corner vied with a Restoration armoire in the far
corner that would have looked nice in the dining room back in his house in Bensenville. . .
NO! , he yelled to himself.
Maybe an antique shop wasn’t such a hot idea.
He had decided to exit before the sales clerk noticed he’d entered – he was busy with a couple who appeared to haggle over the price of an intact Hoosier cabinet that was hard on a rack of old pickaninny dolls – when he saw the battered head- and footboards. A sleigh bed.
Good God.
After they got engaged, Ed and Sherri had gone shopping, hunting and prowling through every furniture store they could find, high-end or discount, for exactly the right bed. It had been in an antique shop in Walworth, WI they found it. The wood was heavy, the owner wasn’t sure if it was oak. Stained