Season of the Wolf Pt. 01

I don't know how inheritances or wills work. But, I would have assumed that Mr. Galloway would need some sort of proof that I am who he and my grandfather think I am. What makes them so certain when I'm not sure of it myself? Would I slobber on a cotton swab to prove it for the value of the estate I've inherited? Um, I don't really need to ponder that particular question. We're talking a lot of money and well, to be blunt about it. Spit is free.

Of course, I wasn't about to take Mr. Galloway's word on anything. He sent me a copy of my grandfather's will and I had an attorney friend of Christine's check it out. It's legit. The land, the house, and hell, even the damned chickens collectively are worth a hefty sum and as for the money in the trust. I've never seen that long of a string of numbers remotely connected to my name. I'm one rich bitch, to put it mildly. And for some reason, I can't seem to wrap my head around that either.

Maybe, Christine is right and I should take the money and run. Logically, I know I don't owe anybody anything. But, it doesn't feel right to me to sell out when I've never seen the place. At the very minimum, I should go there and check things out for myself before making a decision.

I don't really know what my life's ambition is at this point. I have a degree in library sciences. But, I'm pretty sure there isn't much need for librarians in that remote dark spot of the universe. Hell, there doesn't seem to be a need for librarians anywhere. If the land is as picturesque and the house as quaint as Mr. Galloway says it is. Maybe, I could open a bed and breakfast or rent the place out to tourists desperate for a getaway from it all. Maybe, I'll just soak up all that quiet and solitude and buckle down and write the great American novel. Who knows? Luckily though, thanks to my benevolent grandfather. I've got the money and time to figure it out.

Chapter 4

Christine spears me with a particularly disparaging glower. She's right. It is time to go. She dragged herself out of bed before sunrise to see me off and it's nearly nine o'clock in the morning and I haven't even made it to the front door yet. It's not my style, but I'm procrastinating. My life isn't great, but I'm hesitant to leave it behind. I feel as if I'll never see Christine or the city again. As if this chapter is over and there is nothing ahead of me but blank sheets of paper waiting to be filled.

I dismiss the foreboding thoughts. I'm moving to Indiana not sailing for China. Christine is just a phone call away. I'm not going to disappear into some dark pit. I can be on a plane and back to the sunny beaches of California in less than six hours. The inheritance and the move are positive things. I'm getting a chance to discover my roots and a rare opportunity to reinvent myself in the process. I'm just not sure that I want to discover where it is that I came from or that I need any mental remodeling.

Change is good. I repeat the mantra over and over again in my head. But, if that's truly the case, the why do I feel the way I do about the whole thing? Well, it's too late to change my mind now. Everything I could possibly sell has been sold. Christina has plans to turn my old bedroom into a home gym. Mr. Galloway is expecting me bright and early the day after tomorrow. My future isn't here, in California as I've always expected. It lays to the east, in a remote, flat landscape, and if Mr. Galloway is to be believed, it flows from the earth and the sky through my very veins.

Rod is a gentleman and offers to carry the final box of stuff to my car. Normally, in the essence of women's lib and equal rights, I wouldn't allow such a thing. But, I can tell Christine put Rod up to offering to play pack mule by the way he stomps out the front door. She wants a few moments alone with me. I steel myself for what is most likely going to be a tearful and dramatic goodbye and give Rod the go ahead. I'm packed. I'm ready and I'm leaving.

Christine stifles a sniffle and with a high-pitched squeak choked with emotion drags me off the floor, crushing me to her. I do my best to placate her and offer reassurances that we'll stay in touch. I promise to call her when I get there and to spare no details in the telling of my tale.

She knows how much I love wolves and as a parting gift she gives me a travel mug with a cartoon picture of a wolf on the side. The caption reads Happy Tails to You. The mug is corny, but I love it and as a bonus it comes with free coffee refills at any participating Shell station nation wide.

I smile at the thoughtfulness of her gesture and she bursts into tears. I don't know how she manages it, but she does. She has turned my parting, which should be about me, into an event all about her. I shake off my irritation at her and clutch the mug in my fist. I hear the slam of the car hood as Rod gives the engine one final go over. It's a guy thing. I guess. I doubt if Rod has a mechanical bone in his body. But, it's also his way of saying goodbye.

I give Christine's hand one final squeeze and toss my purse over my left shoulder. It's all over but the crying and that's Rod's problem to deal with not mine. Thank God. There's nothing ahead of me now but the open road and a destination not listed on any map made in the last century.

Chapter 5

Unfortunately, my exodus has taken longer than expected. I've got a gas tank the size of a Dixie cup and a bladder with a two-hour time limit. Pump gas, pee, grab another free refill at the friendly neighborhood Shell station, and merge back onto the interstate for another couple of hours of driving before my bladder strikes again. That's kind of how things have gone to this point. It's sometime around nightfall and I've finally made it to Colorado. I'm not exactly sure of where in Colorado. Only that I'm on the longest stretch of interstate I've ever seen in my life and I'm not even halfway there. To be certain, I'm in the middle of nowhere and that is kind of funny, considering nowhere is exactly where I'm headed.

My back is aching, my temples throbbing, and the headlights from the oncoming traffic are just one big white blur. I should pull over, find some cheap hotel, and sleep. Start out fresh in the morning. Watching the sun dip lower and lower in my rearview mirror and the moon climb higher and higher into a perfect velvety indigo sky has served to increase my anxiety about my destination. It's not too late to turn around and beg Christine to let me have my old room back. I could forget this whole thing. I'm certain I could find a job. I could tell Mr. Galloway and his history lessons to stick it. Tell him that I don't want or need the inheritance, birthright or not. But, it's simply not the truth. Not only do I need the money. He has piqued my curiosity about the place and the family I've never met.

I've listened to the same CD for the past five hundred miles and frankly, it's getting a little old. My tastes are eclectic in music. Christine made the CD and certainly does not share my appreciation for variety. Hip-hop and bubble gum snapping teenage pop music are fine. But between the monotony of the lyrics, the repetitive beat, and the endless miles of interstate stretching out ahead of me, I'm about to lose my mind. I stare longingly at the exit ramp and watch it zip past my window. The more distance I put between me and the state of California, my old life, the less likely I am to turn around and go crawling back.

I'm not delusional enough to think I can drive two thousand plus miles straight through. But, as exhausted and bleary eyed as I am, I'm reluctant to call it a night. I crack my neck to relieve some of the tension and buckle down to the task of driving. Fortunately, the interstate is pretty much a straight line from point A to point B. I'm a little wound up thanks to all the free coffee I've slugged down and I know I'll have a hard time sleeping once I do decide to finally hang it up.

The old car has held up pretty well. I'm thankful to Rod and whatever miracle he performed under the hood. Kansas City is just a mere two hundred and fifty miles away. At my current speed, I should be there within a few hours. My cell phone has buzzed at least a dozen times announcing I have text messages. Christine should know better. I'm not crazy enough to text and drive. She'll just have to wait.

I love paper almost as much as I love wolves. Despite the GPS app on my phone, I've got an old road atlas spread out on the seat beside me. I don't think I'll need the map. I-70 is pretty much a straight shot though Kansas, Missouri, and Illinois, but after that I'll have to use my GPS if I want to get to where I'm going.

I'm still having trouble with the whole moving to a town that doesn't exist and the fact that I own a good chunk of it. I've inherited a ghost town. I don't know whether to be freaked out about it or not. I don't believe in ghosts or haunted houses. After spending my whole life in L.A., I've seen plenty of freaky shit, all of it perpetuated by living, breathing humans. Besides, I'm quite certain the dead probably have much better things to do than to haunt some nonexistent town in the middle of nowhere.

Although it's dark, I have no trouble noticing the changes in the landscape zipping past my window. Gone are the flat rocky scrublands in shades of brown. I'm starting to see copses of trees dispersed between the rolling acres of farmland. I've never seen a real deer in my life outside the confines of the zoo. But, one goes bounding across the interstate a little too close to my car for comfort. I don't know where it comes from, but the instinct to pull over to the side of the road and give chase is almost overwhelming. I dismiss it and chalk the strange stirring up to too many hours on the road and too much coffee.

The din of a city lights up the distance in an ethereal glow. Now is my chance to stop, eat something besides chips, and bed down for the night. But, I still have half a tank of gas and my bladder hasn't sounded the alert yet. Soon enough it will and I'll be forced to pull over. I ignore the exit sign and press on. St. Louis isn't that far away and there are plenty of places to stop in between. It might be better to bunk up in some little town than to risk it in an unfamiliar city. After all, everything I own is in my car and though none of it is worth anything. It has value to me.

I buzzed through St. Louis about midnight. The city is a confusing maze of cloverleaves and exits going every which way. As insane as the traffic is in L.A. at least the interchanges make sense. Out here, even in the middle of the night, it's a free for all. Cars and semi-trailers whiz around me as if I'm not even on the road. I thought Midwesterners were supposed to be friendly and polite. I guess that's not the case on the interstate. Hell, maybe my fellow travelers are all from L.A., but probably not. For all the craziness out here, I haven't been flipped off once. My gas tank is hovering close to empty. Which makes sense considering my bladder is near bursting. I'll stop somewhere once I cross the Mississippi River. Illinois should be a safer bet than St. Louis.

Big mistake, big freaking mistake, I pumped gas while looking over my shoulder the entire time. The gas station was deserted and the entire place locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I shoved the money to pre-pay for my gas to the checker through a little slit in a window made of thick bulletproof glass and covered by a row of steel bars as wide as my index finger. I didn't bother asking for the bathroom key or my free coffee refill. I hauled ass and got the hell out of dodge.

I've never really thought about what it means to be female and out on the interstate alone in the middle of the night until now. The traffic thinned as I drove further into Illinois and for long stretches I was the only person on the road. I try to put thoughts of my desperate need to pee out of my head. My gas tank is full and stopping anywhere seems like a really bad idea.

I have a can of pepper spray on my key chain. What sane person living in L.A. doesn't? But, I didn't think pepper spray and the self-defense class I took my senior year of high school would be enough. I had no idea what time it really was or even what time zone I was in. Watching for woodland critters crossing the road, worrying about some random serial killer deciding to make me his next victim, and the weariness of driving for hours and hours on end was getting to me. I was restless, achy, hungry, and not fit to be around other people by the time dawn started to break the horizon just shy of the Indiana border.

Small towns are known for their hospitality. Right? I pulled into a little burg just inside the Indiana border and sighed a weary sigh of relief. I thought about renting a hotel room and immediately dismissed the idea. Hell, I was almost to my destination. What was the point of giving in to my exhaustion now? Stiff legged from sitting so long, I hobbled into a diner and waited patiently to be seated. Ten minutes later I was still waiting and not so patiently either.

A waitress walked right past me and didn't even acknowledge my presence. Out of spite I took my time in the bathroom and indulged myself in the luxury of splashing my face with cold water in hopes of jolting my weary brain awake. I could use something hot in my belly besides coffee, but it was obvious I wasn't going to get it here. I double checked the GPS on my phone and consulted the atlas. This was the fork in the road. Driving through the little town that in my opinion boasted nothing but the rudest waitresses and the worst stench in the entire United States, I headed north. I'd be there in about three hours.

Wide awake, thanks to the fresh coffee in my travel mug, I squinted through my dry sleep deprived eyes. Out of the little town and on a pretty much deserted two lane highway, I could see it. What drew people to this part of the country and kept them here. The landscape was picturesque, just as Mr. Galloway promised it would be. Flat farmland and gently sloping hills, thick patches of dense woods and trees, so many trees, and all of it was absolutely postcard perfect.

Everything was green and lush, rugged and wild, barely tamed by the hand of man. There were fields of corn for as far as the eye could see. Golden acres of wheat stretched out past the distant horizon. Horses and cows grazed in emerald green pastures. The sky above was vibrant blue and cloudless and the air sweet with the smell of growing things and nature.

Something about the scenery, the hills and outcropping tumbles of rock, the trees, the lazy winding streams, and the wildness of it all called to a place deep inside of me. It wasn't my impatience to get from point A to point B that had me pressing my right foot down on the accelerator. It wasn't the fact that I had driven over twenty hours that had me pushing the speed limit. It was my eagerness to see what was around each twist and turn of the road.

Except on TV, I haven't seen an actual farmhouse ever. But, I counted a dozen of them dispersed like random dots on a page along this desolate stretch of road. Stoic homesteads plain faced and made of brick and mortar and houses with sprawling front porches certainly not built in this century were predominant and somehow seemed to fit into this place time forgot. In the distance I saw red barns faded to a shade of rusty brown, sometimes dull gray, by the sun and farmland and woods stretching as far as the eye could see.

I hadn't anticipated the raw beauty of this place. I thought everything would be flat and a bunch of nothing. It wasn't. Flowers grew wild in brilliant splashes of color along the roadside. Leafy green branches of tall trees formed towering arches and made cool patches of dense shadows over the narrow highway. Birds soared high in the sky and colorful butterflies fluttered in the meadows like leaves stirred by a gentle morning breeze.

There was plenty that was new and strange to me. People dressed in dull colors and simple clothing. Bearded men wearing wide brimmed straw hats and women with their faces shadowed by bonnets. The steady clip clop of horses' hooves pulling polished black buggies piled high with children shyly peeking out at me as I drove past. I didn't know a thing about the Amish. I certainly had never seen anyone quite like them.

To me the drive was like traveling backwards in time. There were signs of civilization. Power lines and cell phone towers stretching up into the sky, but even they were not immune to the encroachment of nature. Vines scaled up the structures and decorated them in garlands of green and flowering buds. Signs and mile markers rusted along the roadside. Once in a while, I'd pass the bloated or sometimes, decayed carcass of an animal not quite fast enough to dodge what little traffic there was.

The little towns, no more than wide spots in the road, I drove through were just as picturesque as the landscape. People mulled about enjoying the morning and nobody seemed to be in a particular hurry to go anywhere. There was no shortage of antique shops with the windows piled high with wares. Greasy spoons, hole in the wall taverns, churches, and motels a little too reminiscent of the Bates Motel for my taste were a common theme in these burgs time forgot.

I coast into the last little burg before my destination and pull into a gravel parking lot. Stretching, I exhale a relieved sigh. I'm here, wherever here is. I made it in one piece. Rod's patchwork on my car's engine held together. Determined to text Christine and double-check my GPS app, I grab my phone. I have no signal out here in the land that progress forgot. Wandering around the parking lot doesn't change a thing. Not even one damn bar lights up on my phone. I've got the directions pretty much memorized, but I'd like to be able to confirm them with my GPS. This isn't a place I'd want to get lost and Christine is going to be frantic if she doesn't hear from me soon.

The diner boasts the best breakfast for fifty miles. That might not be an understatement considering the place is probably the only place to eat within fifty miles. There's not even a damned McDonald's in this forgotten town. My joy and sense of peace at the scenery has worn thin. I'm agitated and pacing, kicking bits of white rock with the toe of my shoe as I contemplate what to do next.

Drawn to the entrance by the enticing aroma of bacon, I wrinkle my nose at the red and white checkered gingham curtains covering the windows. The diner resembles something straight off of the set of the Andy Griffith Show. There's a glass and stainless steel display case sitting on a worn Formica countertop. And damn, do the pies inside, towering with meringue and bursting with bits of fruit and cream, and crumbling flaky crusts, look good. My stomach growls in agreement.

The smells coming from the kitchen have me salivating like Pavlov's dog. The diner is crowded with locals. Men dressed in faded flannel and worn blue jeans. Kids with droopy eyelids lounge on the tabletops with their cheeks nestled onto the palms of their hands while they pick at oversized breakfasts they couldn't begin to finish. Harried moms sip coffee and gossip over half eaten plates of food with one another. The diner is homey and comfortable, but something about it puts me ill at ease. Perhaps, it's the fact that everyone is watching me as I shyly weave my way over to an empty seat at the counter.

The din of dozens of different conversations going on at the same time is deafening. I'm so tired that I really have to concentrate on something as simple as reading the menu. Actually, I'm hiding behind the laminated pages and as hungry as I am. I'm hoping not to be noticed. A waitress with a wide smile and a mound of frizzy bleached blonde hair piled high atop her head flips my coffee cup over and fills it to the brim. "What can I get 'cha, honey?"