9 Seconds of Freedom, Original Suspense, Part Twenty-two, links to parts 1-21
On the way back to River Grove, Leeanne snuggled up to me. We were sharing the back seat with Nana Murphy, while Ben and Fred sang harmony on old classic rock in the front.
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“I’m so happy,” she said. “I’m just sorry it’s all going to end.”
“Why?” I asked.
Murmuring so only she could hear.
“You’re stuck with me now,” I said.
“You haven’t heard the rest of the story,” she said.
On the way back, Fred took a different route and as we passed the turnoff to the old barn, I saw plumes of dust rising from the dirt track. At the top of the ridge, a tow truck, hauling a small red car, was just cresting the hill. It disappeared before I could see more.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“Yeah, they got another one,” she said.
Every so often, Ms. Murphy would point out another landmark.
“Oh, I used to get the loveliest apples from that farm,” she’d say. Or, “There’s the field where Johnny Morris got gored by a bull. Boy was never the same after that.”
It made for entertaining travel narration. I wondered how many of the tales were true. I could hardly remember where I left my shoes, I doubted I’d be able to remember those details from my own child hood, even if I had my memory back.
We pulled to the curb at a tiny white house. It was well kept and reminded me of an English garden cottage. Fred got out and walked Ms. Murphy to her door.
“Cute house,” Leeanne said.
“She’s been there for twenty years,” Ben said. “It’s her retirement home. That’s what she calls it.”
It was about six blocks from the hardware store and I felt like stretching my legs.
“I think I’m going to walk back by myself,” I said. “I’ve got a lot to absorb from the past few days."
“Okay, I’ll call you later,” Leeanne said.
We had mentioned having dinner together, and I liked the sound of that. But, I needed a few minutes to myself.
Walking the streets of a really small town is an interesting experience. It feels to me, like the streets are haunted. Not just by people, but by what the town might have been. I was always curious, what made one town grow, while another died?
In River Grove, the answer seemed simple. It was a whistle stop. A town placed every so many miles along a railroad line to provide coal and water for the locomotives. Once cars became a thing, and highways were introduced, they lost importance.
People forgot. We use the term “history” as if the most important events of every timeline were the ones that got recorded, but I doubted it. They were just the most visible, the most obvious. But there were millions of little corners like this, with people living and dying, inventing and scheming, surely things had started here, in River Grove that changed history, even if we didn’t see it.
I wondered how long it had been since Annabelle Murphy had gotten to tell her story. She was a local celebrity, but here she was, living out her anonymous life in a little white cottage, and behind the counter of the hardware store, with thousands calling her Nana Murphy and never having a clue.
Maybe memory wasn’t so important, when you looked at it like that. What really mattered wasn’t what had happened to her, but what was happening to her now. Not what she had done, but what she was doing, and was going to do.
I took the long way home. I took a tour around downtown, walked the tracks up to the depot and took a stroll along the “river” that the town got its name from.
It was mostly dry these days. Fred had told me that when they named River Grove, the creek had been overflowing from two good years of rain. So, they’d planted a grove of cottonwoods along its banks, that was supposed to be the center feature of the town.
A tornado took out most of the cottonwoods the next year, and a drought took the river the year after that. The railroad had saved this place. I sat on a rock, overlooking the stream.
I had a lot to think about. Going to Frozen Rosary hadn’t helped. I didn’t remember anything. Even seeing Mr. Ted hadn’t. What if I never got my memory back. Did it matter? I was happy here, with Leeanne, and Fred and Ben. I had friends, a home, and work that I enjoyed.
But, there was this secret hanging over it. I could have been anyone. What if I wasn’t a good guy? What if I’d left people in the lurch? I might have a wife, or kids. They might be looking for me somewhere in Wisconsin, right now.
Then there was Leeanne’s secret. She seemed to think it would wreck us when she told me. I was shaken up by what she’d shared so far, but no less falling in love. But, she seemed to think the rest was somehow bigger. Was it? What was it, and how did it involve this place? Could we even be happy here?
When I got back to the hardware store I smelled cooking. Whatever it was smelled good. I went up the stairs.
Leeanne was at the stove, ingredients were spread across the table and counter. She was singing to herself.
“Hey, I wondered when you’d show up,” she said. “I hope this is okay. I thought maybe we’d just eat in tonight.”
“What are you making?” I asked.
“Chicken enchiladas,” she said. “My mother’s recipe. You like Mexican food?”
“Sure, what I can remember having,” I said. “It smells amazing.”
“That,” she said, “Is the cumin. Here, smell.”
She held out a small spice jar. It smelled rich and savory. My mouth watered.
“I use it in everything,” she said.
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“Can you cook?” she asked.
I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember. I’d microwaved things and made spaghetti once or twice, but that didn’t seem like it should count.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“You need to learn. No self-respecting human should be at the mercy of others for good food,” Leeanne said.
I chopped cilantro and green chilis. I grated cheese and crushed garlic. She blended all of the ingredients in a big bowl and scooped the mixture into tortillas, rolled them tight and put the pan in the oven.
“Okay, we have an hour,” she said.
“Well, that’s just enough time to do what I’ve been dying to do,” I said.
She giggled, ran down the hall and threw herself into the bed. I followed her, carrying a box.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Scrabble,” I said.
“But you said you’d been dying,” she said.
“To beat you at Scrabble,” I said. “What did you think I meant?”
She laughed.
“Okay, but I have to warn you, it might not be as big a thrill as you think, I really suck at spelling,” she said.
We went to the kitchen and set up the board. What she lacked in spelling skills, she more than made up for with her knack for hitting every single multiple word score, with Qs and Zs.
“I’ve been hustled,” I said. “You told me you couldn’t play.”
“No, I didn’t. Think back, what did I actually say?” she asked.
I thought about it. “You said you sucked at spelling, it wouldn’t be much of a thrill.” I said. “But I thought that meant…”
“That I sucked at Scrabble? Well, that’s what you get for thinking,” she said.
The oven timer dinged. Steam rose from the casserole dish as she slid it out of the oven.
She loaded up two plates with enchiladas, fresh sliced avocado and tortilla chips. It looked delicious. Her phone rang. I picked up my fork.
“Oh, my god,” she said. “We’ll be right there.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“We have to go,” she said.
“What happened?” I said.
She was tying her shoes. She looked up.
“Ms. Murphy. She’s in Elkview hospital in Hobart,” She said.
This is an original work @originalworks
Well it seems the right fiction for me to experience and read in this cold chilly season. Thumbs up to you man, this is one hell of a story. Keep up the good work.
Thanks, how about an upvote?
:D almost forgot, keep the stories coming.
hey thanks, and will do!
👍👍