The Escape

by S. H. Linden

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

The old school bus wheezed down the rutted dirt road. Its faded yellow paint looked about as shaggy as the land behind the fences it passed. A bad winter had done a number on the alfalfa crops. Remnants of picked corn stalks blew in the light wind and black crows rested on the top part of fences that passed by Moore’s eyes. This was now familiar territory.

He grew excited as the bus chugged up a slight hill and cruised down to a row of dilapidated mail boxes that were beside the road. Finally the bus stopped right at the middle of the row of mailboxes and the doors swung open.

“I remember you as a kid,” the bus driver said. “You’d be waiting for me with your lunch in a brown paper sack. I would open the door and you took your favorite seat which was right across where I sat. You’d say, Good morning Mr. Jenkins.” The driver gave a quiet laugh. “You were always a polite kid.”

Moore smiled, “How long you’ve been driving this route, Mr. Jenkins?”

“Been driving this old bus thirty-five years now.”

Moore was amazed at how quickly time had passed. “That’s a long time...”

“I can’t remember your name anymore... What is it?” the driver asked.

“Frank Moore.”

“That’s right... I remember your pappy and momma well. Did you come back to see where you growed up?”

Moore nodded yes.

“I think your old house is still standing. I’m sure it’s all boarded up... Probably you won’t be able to get in the place. But you could look around.”

Moore was puzzled by what the driver was saying.

“Where’ve you been all these years?” the driver asked.

“Here and there. Joined the Army and fought in Nam for a few years...”

“What’s Nam mean?”

“Sorry, it means Viet Nam.”

The driver looked at Moore, his arms resting on the steering wheel. “Yeah... I remember now... . You was in the papers... Said you were some kind of war hero... I think?”

Moore laughed and started out the open bus door. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Jenkins.”

“I’ll be back this way at three. If you see me, wave and I’ll stop and take you back into town.”

Moore waved at the old man and headed up a path.

The bus started off in a cloud of smoke and disappeared down the road.

As Moore walked limping up the path that led to the farm house, he stopped and admired a tree he’d planted. The leaves looked good and healthy. Then his eyes caught the old chicken coop he had helped his father build. He remembered gathering eggs for his mom. She always looked happy when he could bring in at least six for their breakfast.

It didn’t take long before he was at the top of the rise and standing in front of the farm house he had loved as a young boy. He saw the wood sidings were faded light brown. His father had never painted their home. He told young Frank there was nothing more beautiful than natural wood in the sunlight.

Moore looked at a big plank nailed across the door and at smaller planks across the side windows. The abandoned house left a sadness in his heart. He remembered taking a shortcut from school and climbing over a fence and trudging up the rise and being greeted by Rusty, his dog.

What a big happy dog he was. He also remembered the smells of an apple pie that was baking in the kitchen. The apples came from a tree that was on their property.

He had missed not having a brother or sister, but Rusty filled that place. Frank Moore realized the war had blunted his memory. He had forgotten his parents were dead. They had been killed in an auto accident. He had been left an empty farm house without sounds of laughter. So, at seventeen, he joined the army and went to war in Viet Nam.

Moore reached out and grabbed a board that kept him from going inside the house. He tore it away and threw it off the front porch. He put his shoulder to the door and hit it a couple of times and the front lock gave away and he was inside.

He stood at the doorway waiting for his eyes to adjust, while he looked at the dusty, cobwebbed living room. He walked to a bookcase he had helped his father build. Both he and his dad had liked reading. Every month they went into town to the secondhand bookseller. They always came home with a few books and a package of seeds for his mother’s garden.

After a while, Moore went outside and got the plank he had thrown away and nailed it over the front door again, hammering with a rock he picked up by the porch.

He went down the path and crossed the road and climbed the fence to an overgrown pasture. He looked around, and smelled the air. He saw the abandoned pasture needed water and care again to become green.

Moore walked to a small group of pepper trees that were near a pond. No birds were swimming in it now. He wondered if any birds came back when the season was right? The water reeds had grown big at the pond’s edge. You could almost miss seeing that the pond was still there.

He remembered after shooting a couple of doves for an evening meal, how Rusty loved jumping in the pond and bringing the birds back to him.

Moore moved on to the largest pepper tree and squatted down. With his hands he cleaned up some debris around the tree and dusted off an old wooden grave marker that read: “My pal Rusty, the best damn bird dog in the county.”

Moore started to cry quietly. His thoughts of Rusty and his parents filled him with grief. Where was the happy feeling he was supposed to have when everyone said, “After the war you could go back home and start a new life.”

Moore stood there by the pepper trees and looked at the quiet countryside around him. He reflected on how life had not turned out the way the newspapers and magazines said it would.

After a while he got up and headed toward a fence that was deeper into the pasture. He walked to the end of his father’s property. On the other side of the fence was another farmer’s land.

Moore leaned on the fence, staring at an empty pasture. He started to think about his life. What should he do? Go back to the hospital? Wait for the school bus to take him back into town?

As he was daydreaming, he heard a faint noise and saw movement in the tall grass on the other farmer’s property. Curious, he climbed the fence and walked toward a spot where he had seen movement.

He found a rabbit caught in a steel trap. He must have been there a long time, the poor fellow. He had chewed all the fur and part of his leg away but was too exhausted to continue his escape to freedom.

With sadness in his heart he looked at the rabbit and became bitter and angry. What kind of person would set a steel trap and not come out the next days to see if it had caught something?

Moore bent down and saw the rabbit was still alive, but barely. He had no idea how long this poor creature had laid there. He started crying again and talking to the rabbit as he released the steel jaws. Now the rabbit was free but he didn’t move.

Moore picked up the little guy gently and continued talking. “I’m going to take you home and fix you up, old fellow. You and I are going to be pals. I’ll feed you until you want to stay or move on.”

Moore carried the rabbit back to the road and towards the farm house. There was a dazed look on his face as he continued talking: “Don’t you worry, Dino, I’m taking you to the medics. We’ll fix you up... Hang in there, Dino. Don’t die on me.” Tears were still streaming down Moore’s face again. He climbed over the fence, holding the rabbit like a baby.

The old school bus was coming down the road and the driver honked, but Moore waved him on. The bus gave a final honk and disappeared down the road.

Moore tore away the plank on the door and went inside and headed for the kitchen sink. He laid the rabbit gently on the counter. He reached for the rusted water pump, to see if it still worked, when he noticed the rabbit had died in his arms as he was heading for the farm house.

Moore screamed in anger and burst into uncontrollable tears of pain. “I tried to save you, Dino! I tried, but you went and died on me! Will you ever forgive me?”

Moore got up and limped to the big rock and started breaking and pulling the siding boards off the farm house. He broke them into smaller pieces and stacked them in the middle of the living room. Then he limped out of the house and went out to the back yard.

The garage door wasn’t locked. He went inside, but the garage was empty except for odds and ends of junk. He saw a rusty gasoline can and shook it. There was still a little gasoline left.

He brought the can into the house and poured what was left of the gasoline over the broken pile of wood in the middle of the living room. He was crying and babbling, “Hang in there, Dino. A chopper will come soon and save us... Don’t worry I’m still here, Dino. We’ll make it! And we’ll leave this goddamn jungle to the VC’s! We’ll go home...”

Moore picked up the rabbit and gently placed it on top of the wood pile. He struck a match and started a small fire. He stood by the pile of wood and the dead rabbit and watched it grow into a bigger fire, all the while talking to Dino about what they would do after they got out of the Army.

The farmhouse floor started burning rapidly. Part of the walls broke away and fell to the floor. In a short while the blaze was huge. Moore began to laugh and slowly sat down near the burning pile. He stared one last time at the burning rabbit and said, “You‘re free now, little guy. Dino and I will join you soon.”

Moore continued watching the blaze until he had to close his eyes. Fire sparks landed on his jacket, but he made no move to slap them out.

When the farm house was completely in flames, the roof collapsed. There only sound was the cackling of hot, burning wood.

* * *

A fireman walked up to the Fire Chief: “There’s parts of a human skeleton in the ashes. He must have been smoking or trying to warm up the house when the fire got out of control.”

“Gather up some bones and let’s see if we can identify who he was.”

“I think it may be easier, Chief. I found this ID dog tag near the center of the fire. It’s scorched but you can still read it.”

The Chief took the tag, looked at it, then put it into his pocket. “OK, let’s clean up the mess here. Call the police and get them to tape the area off limits. Tell ’em we found a dead body in the fire.”

Back in the fire truck a fireman told the Chief what he had heard from an old school bus driver: “He let off a man who once lived in this place. Said he was a local kid here years ago... even been in the papers once... They said he was a war hero.”

“Yeah, sure,” the Chief said, smirking. “Everyone’s a hero these days.”

to Challenge 397...