Another Springtime Ch 05

Chapter 5: Encounters On The Open Road

Looking back now afterward I still cannot make sense out of what happened that day at the motel at LeGrande, Oregon. They had picked up our trail somehow, although I think it must have been a matter of pure chance. I have reviewed it now a thousand times and cannot see where we left a trail to open ourselves to their tracing. Nevertheless, we had an encounter on a Tuesday morning after a pleasant stay in LeGrande and breakfast at the restaurant across the street from the motel. It was the first week of summer break and we had been on a field trip to Utah to see some of the sights, but this altercation changed our itinerary.

In the course of breakfast I noticed two men watching us… watching Christine, of course, who then left and drove away out of the restaurant's parking lot in a battered green station wagon. Their image went into the folder in my head of those people seen here that would be held in "pending" for a few days. Otherwise the people flow was unremarkable.

Walking back across the street together a few minutes later, we headed for the car. We had loaded everything and checked out and were ready to leave. We had been discussing one of the stories from her literature book that intrigued her and I might have let myself get immersed in the discussion except that the battered green station wagon was in the motel parking lot, and four men were getting out as we approached. One with a baseball cap had been driving and I recognized him from the restaurant, his sidekick as well with the Levi-jacket. The third was bald, in a black t-shirt; the fourth a non-descript shorter man in an open sport shirt.

I signaled Christine with a squeeze of her hand and we turned to cross the parking lot to the other side and she fell silent. The men were still in front of us and watching us approach. They were clearly not four men simply leaving their car and heading into the office, they were waiting for us to come to them.

Did they know us? I could feel the adrenalin squirting into my system in large volume. To avoid a confrontation on the sidewalk with them ahead of us we shifted back to the open parking lot as the space between us closed. They shifted as well, and I knew this was going to be a test. Baldy was in the center, assuming a somewhat menacing look, and then at his signal his two flankers started to move out to the sides.

That was my moment to move and in a second I had my Colt at the ready in my right hand, motioning the flankers back to the center. They were complying at first, surprised by my pistol and show of authority. Baldy had a chain in his one hand and suddenly, rather rashly, I thought, yelled and rushed us from about twenty feet away.

Two slugs in the abdomen and chest laid Baldy on his back right now. The Levi-jacket to my right was going for his own weapon and a third slug hit him in the shoulder and spun him around like a top and onto the hood of the car behind him. The baseball cap to my left was only some five feet away when the .45 caliber slug hit him in the chest and tossed him ten feet backward onto the asphalt. Sport shirt was streaking for the protection of a nearby car and a fifth shot hit him in the hips, I think, and he crumpled screaming in agony.

There was only another fifty feet to our white suburban and we were inside quickly and moving out of the parking lot at a studiously slow pace. Carefully, so as to attract no attention, I cruised through several residential streets to work my way down to the highway entrance off the main road.

All this time Christine sat close to my side, quite and watchful, shivering a little with fright, anxious… and yet calm with me and confident, I think. We stopped briefly in a gas station and I pulled my kit from under the seat and replaced the clip in the Colt with a fresh one, all the time watching the movements of vehicles around and behind us. Everything seemed normal and quiet for the moment. She watched the process without a word and we pulled up onto the highway.

There are basically only two ways to leave LeGrande… north and south on the Interstate. Guessing at which would be more likely to throw off pursuers I elected north, therewith scrapping the Utah adventure and heading basically for one of our safe houses in Seattle. We settled down to a reasonable speed, watchful for cars around us and alert to any pursuit.

Of course, the wheels were turning furiously analyzing what had occurred to assess what else might be out there. The four had sought to waylay us behind the motel, out of sight of the street and the restaurant opposite. It was just possible that no one else actually saw the shooting. In addition, the suburban was in a parking space that opened away from the event and into a back driveway. Of the four men probably only two were in any kind of condition to observe but at very best they saw us only in a white vehicle… if they observed at all.

As to the four men, I was staggered by the power of the 1911 Colt. Two of them were very likely dead, one without an arm and the other unlikely to walk again. So much for graphic evidence. I was very impressed at what had happened. As the adrenalin surging through my system slowly dissipated, I felt impressed with myself for reacting so well and for shooting so accurately. Clint Eastwood and Harrison Ford do that in the movies, not a reservist several years from his last small arms qualification.

Well, maybe I do have some presence of mind after all… but did I overreact? After all, four men were down and possibly two dead just on the basis of my judgment? Perhaps. Well, no, Baldy made his move and we were clearly the target! Incontrovertible! No equivocating there. They obviously did not think me armed and willing and able to shoot like that. Well, they had thought wrong. Sometimes mistakes can be overlooked; sometimes there is a price to be paid.

Then, too, were they just some local hooligan's on the make or were they somehow lashed up with this syndicate bunch? No way for me to assess that. No way to tell.

I began to turn my attention to my young charge at my side, and noticed that her lower lip was quivering and her eyes were closed tightly. She was hanging on bravely, her arm though mine as she sat right beside me, but her composure was melting away quickly as she thought about what had happened. I also noticed how her blouse revealed the upper swell of her breasts as she snuggled closer. Marvelous!

There is a rest stop on the Interstate just some five miles or so north of LeGrande, and I pulled over. There was a place to park on the far side, offering a good view of cars coming and going, and I pulled in and parked, and took her in my arms. She was in tatters.

She had no idea how to handle such experiences in her life and clung to me like the hounds of hell were at her very heels… and the metaphor was not without some considerable validity. I pulled her tight against me, and her arm around my neck wanted yet more, and her pretty breasts pressed against my chest. I rubbed her back gently, tracing the shallow valley in the middle to the waistband on her skirt. In doing so the image flashed into my mind again of holding her in her swimming suit in the pool, with my hand on her bottom and her kissing my cheek so lightly. She was very much worth all my efforts to protect her and keep her safe, but my own perceptions constantly struggled between considering her in a quasi-father/daughter relationship and a darling girl to love as a sweetheart. There were strong inclinations both directions; what she was no longer and could never be again was just a job assignment.

Eventually she found her voice and we talked some about what had happened and she gradually overcame her fear. It all happened so fast that she was amazed.

"Your gun sure is loud," she said, calmer now, and trying to be conversant. "What will happen to those men now?"

It struck me immediately as something special that she would feel concern for those who would have been her tormentors. I was pleased with myself for not voicing my first thought, which was quite a bit less generous. With a thoughtful tone I responded that I did not know. I did care… really… any kind of violence has unpalatable consequences. Caring for them was just not nearly as high on my priority list as caring for her. She was the victim, not they. Had I been less alert and prepared she would have been even more of a victim than she was. All I had to do was consider again what four burley men wanted with her… and, quite without effort, caring for their distress slipped quickly even further down my priority list.

Still, I considered to myself, what a remarkably charitable set of personal values would lead a person to express such genuine concern in the face of such calamity. I still felt that I did not understand her very well, and this confirmed that conclusion and also that she was a very special young lady.

"You are very brave, Dace." Her words surprised me. The unaffected delicacy of her innocence came through the few words, and in them the marvelous tones of a young girl's adoration. A chest full of medals and a big ceremony and fanfare and all of that could not compare with her simple and heartfelt regard for me.

"Thank you for taking care of me." She was smiling now. Her face was tucked under my chin, but I could hear it in her voice. She felt better. It was a magnificent moment together, and I felt ten feet tall and absolutely bulletproof!

There are rewards, and then there are rewards. If you've been there, you know the difference. If you haven't, there's no way I can explain it to you.

The Utah excursion seemed out of the question now and the relative security of our several apartment safe houses in Seattle very inviting. From LeGrande we doubled back along I-80 to near Pendleton where we could cross the Columbia to find a country road on the north side of the river and head west.

Christine had come now to recognize that I was working hard on our basic problem and sat quietly by my side for long periods as I tried to think things through.

At the same time she was very quick to try to help and was becoming quite adept at reading the maps and interpreting the symbols. I would read the advisories along the road and she would let me know what she was finding on the map and we discussed various options as we went along. Involving her in the maps and the decisions as to where to go next added to her education and boosted her self confidence as well as calming her anxiety somewhat.

Similar to most every aspect of our relationship I learned about her in the process, and could observe and measure to some degree the scope of her learning and understanding. Initially the maps were a daunting challenge. She knew something about maps, of course, but making current decisions about important matters… considering life and death to be among them… was something she had not had to deal with before. Nor was she familiar with the thousand and one little detailed interpretations of symbols and graphics that an experienced driver has long taken for granted.

My point is that her schooling and childhood had been rooted in another culture and even then, from my viewpoint, rather severely restricted in breadth by the very traditional, ultra-conservative family environment and the deeply religious underpinning of the school. To step from that into a much more liberal, multi-cultural society dominant in the western USA was a leap. I could not altogether comprehend the dimension of the gap between her worlds, but my own travels and experiences made it obvious to me that it was enormous. In my own resident periods in Germany, and I had lived for more than two years in southern Germany, just across the border actually from Sankt Gallen, and had been from my close association with the Germans somewhat familiar with the education system and the family environments in the cities as well as the smaller towns and even on occasion the countryside villages… "dorfs" we called them, using the German word.

To be sure, that cultural gap was not near as drastic as it would be, for example, for a young girl coming from the interior of China or a village along the Congo River. Yet, confronting such a yawning gap has to be daunting, regardless of comparative distances. And all this girl had to rely on was an impromptu companionship with a well-worn fellow twice her age and a chequered background, a security clearance, and his name on a list somewhere that got him tagged for a weirdo assignment.

So, what was I concluding about how well she was handling the challenge? Well, she was on the whole very positive and creative in dealing with her situation, not given to discouragement nor complaining, even if fragile and innocent. She was studious and quick to learn and adapt, and in this regard her language is a good indicator. We could slip into German quite easily, but such was usually at my instigation now that I thought about it. She was deeply into English and was daily wrestling with the avalanche of new terminology and vocabulary in her surroundings. For all that, she did not complain nor ruminate disconsolately about loss and tragedy, but saw goodness and beauty all about her. She was remarkable!

And how was I meeting the challenge of my assignment? The gap I confronted was very much smaller and my resource of experience very much greater. I was to be protector first, but then also by default companion, certainly friend, mentor as well, always a gentleman – that in my mind virtually by definition. Then too, I was something of an ersatz-father, confidant and counselor, giving comfort and even perhaps discipline as the need might arise. She was, of course, no longer a child… and I was frequently reminded of that reality. All I had to do was look.

To that list as well I had come to wonder about the potential for adding a romantic relationship between us. I alternately hoped and dreamed, and railed at myself for chasing rainbows that belonged to some younger man, seeing the very idea as being perhaps altogether inappropriate. Well, I concluded, my focus had to be elsewhere and my passions held in tight check while attending to other duties… and if something emerged between us, then fine.

Being the best man I could be would advance the issue; I could not, in any event, force the issue.

I had reviewed and re-settled this in my mind mostly on the long drive north from LeGrande. Upon crossing the Columbia the scenery and the mood changed to lighter fare and my thoughts as well as our sporadic conversation took some new turns.

Longview, a medium-sized community of the I-5 corridor just north of Portland, was on my mind for reasons I could not fathom, and I guess that was my destination even if I could not then perceive why that should be so.

For some diversion and to ease the tension I decided to stop at the Stonehenge replica and the Maryhill Gallery at Goldendale, thinking these attractions would interest her and breakup the tension of the day.

They did.

It turned out to be a most tender and inspiring interlude.

First, the Stonehenge replica is a fascinating and mysterious thing. We discussed that for more than an hour together, sitting in the soft sunshine amidst the massive stones, and what all we knew about the Druids and the early religious activities in England and other places… classical mythology and old Germanic tribal practices… and between us we knew very little. Here, too, I learned about her. She knew next to nothing of the subject, but picked up on the details, and was very quick to inter-relate many diverse bits and fragments from elsewhere, on astronomy, for example, and the evidence that the Stonehenge builders had understood some basic astronomical concepts. When I complemented her on her quickness, it embarrassed her a little, I think. She blushed prettily and dropped her eyes. When I took her hand and we just walked together she rebounded quickly, and her playfulness being so at ease with me was a tremendous delight.

Secondly, at the Maryhill Gallery are a number of fantastic sculptures. Included there are reproductions of two of my favorites: "The Thinker" and "The Kiss" – both by the Frenchman August Rodín. Christine knew something of the former – an all-time classic – but her ultra-conservative schooling had made no room for the latter.

Considering each in turn at our leisure, we sat a moment together and contemplated "The Kiss" and I commented to her that, though the sculpture was fixed in space, I felt the artist had captured a powerful sense of movement and motion in his work, as if, said I, the man had welcomed the young lady into his arms with great respect and love and affection, and she had come to him willingly, loving him as well and wanting him to kiss her. They were in love, and for them no one else in the world mattered but each other. It was almost, I observed, as if we were peering into a very private and passionate moment in their lives as they shared with each other a rich and rewarding emotion; almost as if we were…

intruding

. Still, it was remarkably inspiring to witness the depth of tender feelings for each other that the artist had managed to portray. We sat for a while and she said nothing, but I did notice how she held my arm close to her and I could feel the delightful pressure of her soft breast.

When after a time we rose and stepped around the piece once again and then moved on slowly, she stopped at the door to the room, still holding my arm close to her, and looked back at the statue again for a while. Then she turned her face up to me.

"You loved your wife like that, didn't you, Dace?" Her insight surprised me, and I think I heard in her voice a bit of excitement at her discovery.

My response came easily after a moment's consideration. "Yes, I did…" and then, after a pause, "and I still do."

There were pink roses in her cheeks then and her voice as sweet and delicate and feminine as I had ever heard: "She must have been a very wonderful lady."

I had not thought my feelings for my wife had been so evident. "That she was," I responded softly.

The thought struck me in that moment as a ray of light on a dark night… and has recurred many times, that my wife of earlier years and Christine were, even while being each so incomparably unique in so many ways, so very much alike in having nurtured in themselves the highest ideals and personal qualities and character, that they might well have been twins. That one was a blue-eyed Dane with shorter, darkish blond hair while the other was a brown-eyed Swiss with long auburn hair were only outward and superficial variances. They were both strikingly beautiful women physically, though not in a showy kind of way, and had cultivated inward qualities that made their respect, friendship, love and companionship treasures beyond earthly measure to a gentleman who appreciated such things.

This young Swiss girl was lightening my heart in ways I had thought would never come to me again. She was blushing as I looked down at her beside me, and turned her face away, and we walked on together to other things.

Yet, the impression came to me quite clearly in that moment, and has since returned again and again… though the seasons of one's life supposedly do not repeat themselves, this time with Christine seemed to me like… well, like another springtime in my life.

We found a medium-sized mom-and-pop diner and motel just west of Goldendale and decided that would be our end of the road haven for the day, and on the morrow we were up and gone early, though the chances of our pursuers looking for us there were one in a million. Statistically we were doubtless safe, but Longview was on my mind and the country roads on the north side of the Columbia were slow and winding and took forever. Still, by early afternoon we had reached the I-5 Interstate and were having lunch together in a nice place in Longview.