Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One by Perry P. Perkins Page B
Authors: Perry P. Perkins
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door, which he did.
"Thanks! That was a lot of fun!” Cassie
said, licking peppermint-candy ice cream from her fingers, “you’re
really good at that, how often do you play?"
"Oh, maybe four or five nights a week."
"A week ?" she asked, eyes
widening, "Whoa!"
"Yeah," he said, sobering, "when you say it
out loud like that, I guess it sounds pretty pathetic. What is it
you youngsters say?"
" Get a life ?" Cassie
offered.
"That's the one."
"Well," she said, "I still had a great time, so thank
you!"
"Yup," replied Jack, juggling his own
double-scoop cone, "and to think, three straight games and you
didn't break a single bone!"
As they walked back across the parking lot
of the bowling alley, Cassie noticed a black pick-up in the far
corner of the lot. Something seemed strange about the vehicle and
she thought to tell Jack, but he was deep in the middle of a
monologue on the history and origins of bowling. By the time the
sport had reached modern day, she had forgotten all about it.
*
They spent that night in a rented campsite
at Pismo State Park. Cassie insisted that Jack take the van this
time, and that she sleep in the tent. Jack turned in early,
claiming exhaustion from their trip to the bowling alley.
After borrowing a towel, the one item that
she had managed to overlook in her own packing, she walked through
the moonlit park to the bathhouse and treated herself to a long,
hot shower. The tile floor was cool to her bare feet, as Cassie
stood before the mirror, brushing her wet, spiky hair. The cinder
block building reminded her of the rest rooms and showers at the
campground near Bowie where she and her mother had retreated to
when the blistering heat of summer turned their trailer into an
unbearable oven.
The Belanger ladies would pack up their
meager camping supplies; a second-hand tent, two sleeping bags, a
cooler and the pillows off their beds, and set up camp in the shade
of the willows that lined the creek. Kathy would bring the monopoly
board, and they would play long games of financial conquest, taking
a break to toss a Frisbee or play Bocce.
When the heat became too much, the two would
swim in the deep pool where a bend in the stream had been dammed.
This was the same spot where, years before, Kathy had held her baby
to be dedicated. Each night, they would walk across a meadow of
short, brown grass to the shower house and wash away the sweat of
the day. Then, sitting in the cool concrete building, her mother
would comb the tangles from her hair as they made up scary stories
together, and then raced back through the darkness to the lights of
their camp.
Standing in front of the mirror, Cassie felt
the ache of loss engulf her. Her mother wouldn't be waiting by the
campfire when she got back, with two freshly cut sticks and a bag
full of marshmallows. She wouldn't join Cassie in round after round
of campfire songs about silly billboards and bears in tennis shoes,
or lie with her on their backs and point out the
constellations.
Her mother was gone. In her mind, Cassie
heard again the squealing tires, the dull thump of a steel bumper
hitting flesh and then, worst of all, the broken cries for help
echoing through the dark, quiet streets. Cries that no one
heard.
She was alone now. As the tears rolled down
her cheeks, Cassie fingered the folded scrap of paper in her pocket
and felt the tiniest spark. If she could find him, track him down
to wherever life had carried him in the last two decades; maybe he
would be different than her mother had remembered.
Time, Cassie knew, could change people,
sometimes mellowing and softening the hardest hearts. Why couldn't
this be true for William Beckman?
Whoever he had been eighteen years ago,
didn’t mean that he had to be that same person now. Cassie
shuddered as she remembered her mother's fevered voice,
"He's not someone you want to know,
Cass."
Looking at her reflection in the harsh white
lights of the shower room, Cassie heard once more the
"Thanks! That was a lot of fun!” Cassie
said, licking peppermint-candy ice cream from her fingers, “you’re
really good at that, how often do you play?"
"Oh, maybe four or five nights a week."
"A week ?" she asked, eyes
widening, "Whoa!"
"Yeah," he said, sobering, "when you say it
out loud like that, I guess it sounds pretty pathetic. What is it
you youngsters say?"
" Get a life ?" Cassie
offered.
"That's the one."
"Well," she said, "I still had a great time, so thank
you!"
"Yup," replied Jack, juggling his own
double-scoop cone, "and to think, three straight games and you
didn't break a single bone!"
As they walked back across the parking lot
of the bowling alley, Cassie noticed a black pick-up in the far
corner of the lot. Something seemed strange about the vehicle and
she thought to tell Jack, but he was deep in the middle of a
monologue on the history and origins of bowling. By the time the
sport had reached modern day, she had forgotten all about it.
*
They spent that night in a rented campsite
at Pismo State Park. Cassie insisted that Jack take the van this
time, and that she sleep in the tent. Jack turned in early,
claiming exhaustion from their trip to the bowling alley.
After borrowing a towel, the one item that
she had managed to overlook in her own packing, she walked through
the moonlit park to the bathhouse and treated herself to a long,
hot shower. The tile floor was cool to her bare feet, as Cassie
stood before the mirror, brushing her wet, spiky hair. The cinder
block building reminded her of the rest rooms and showers at the
campground near Bowie where she and her mother had retreated to
when the blistering heat of summer turned their trailer into an
unbearable oven.
The Belanger ladies would pack up their
meager camping supplies; a second-hand tent, two sleeping bags, a
cooler and the pillows off their beds, and set up camp in the shade
of the willows that lined the creek. Kathy would bring the monopoly
board, and they would play long games of financial conquest, taking
a break to toss a Frisbee or play Bocce.
When the heat became too much, the two would
swim in the deep pool where a bend in the stream had been dammed.
This was the same spot where, years before, Kathy had held her baby
to be dedicated. Each night, they would walk across a meadow of
short, brown grass to the shower house and wash away the sweat of
the day. Then, sitting in the cool concrete building, her mother
would comb the tangles from her hair as they made up scary stories
together, and then raced back through the darkness to the lights of
their camp.
Standing in front of the mirror, Cassie felt
the ache of loss engulf her. Her mother wouldn't be waiting by the
campfire when she got back, with two freshly cut sticks and a bag
full of marshmallows. She wouldn't join Cassie in round after round
of campfire songs about silly billboards and bears in tennis shoes,
or lie with her on their backs and point out the
constellations.
Her mother was gone. In her mind, Cassie
heard again the squealing tires, the dull thump of a steel bumper
hitting flesh and then, worst of all, the broken cries for help
echoing through the dark, quiet streets. Cries that no one
heard.
She was alone now. As the tears rolled down
her cheeks, Cassie fingered the folded scrap of paper in her pocket
and felt the tiniest spark. If she could find him, track him down
to wherever life had carried him in the last two decades; maybe he
would be different than her mother had remembered.
Time, Cassie knew, could change people,
sometimes mellowing and softening the hardest hearts. Why couldn't
this be true for William Beckman?
Whoever he had been eighteen years ago,
didn’t mean that he had to be that same person now. Cassie
shuddered as she remembered her mother's fevered voice,
"He's not someone you want to know,
Cass."
Looking at her reflection in the harsh white
lights of the shower room, Cassie heard once more the
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