Redemption

The road sign along the highway reads Flagstaff, 5 miles. David begins to downshift, reducing the speed of the transport truck.

“Do you want to get out at the junction that takes you to Albuquerque? That’s the highway that will get you to Wyoming?”

“I’m not sure which way I want to go,” I say to David.

“Tell you what. You could stick with me. I have a drop-off near here and will be coming back this way.

“I’ll buy you dinner at Rita’s Diner if you give me a hand unloading the cargo. Rita’s is near the junction. She always has a Sunday special.”

“Alright. You have a deal.”

David backs the truck down a back alley in the Flagstaff business area. I jump out of the passenger’s seat, guiding him to the back of a furniture store.

Two of the staff from the store come out to help us unload the truck. The store manager checks and recounts all the pieces we delivered before he signs the receipt.

“David, why is this delivery on a Sunday?”

“I don’t know, but this is my fourth delivery to this furniture store. All the deliveries were on a Sunday.

“Must be it gives them time to reorganize the store and showroom. I enjoy the Sunday run; Mildred and the baby came for a ride with me last time.”

David parks the transport close to Rita’s Diner. I notice two police cars in the parking lot among the freighters and buses.

Thinking quickly, I ask, “David, can I slip off my army shirt and wear your work jacket? It’s tiresome when people see me in uniform and come up to me, asking questions about the war.”

“Sure, go ahead. I know what you mean. It happened to me when I wore my uniform in public. Hey, slip off those shoes and put on the boots that are behind the seat.

“There may be a few caps there as well. Pick what you like. Just leave my New York Yankees baseball cap alone,” David says with a smile.

“Okay, thanks. You go ahead. I need to find the washroom and will meet you in the diner.”

I quickly make my way to the washroom, which is attached to the side of the diner. After running the cold water to wash my face, I look in the mirror while wiping myself with the towel hanging on the wall.

I rewash my face, trying to scrub the guilt away. This time, I don’t look into the mirror.

Slipping into one of the stalls and locking the door, I dig into my pockets for the money taken from the old kettle. It amounts to $127 plus some change.

I stuff ten bucks into my back pocket to pay for dinner and exit the stall. My heart skips a beat, and a rush of sweat pours from me. A police officer is washing his hands at the sink.

“Good afternoon,” says the officer as he hangs up the towel and leaves the washroom.

My knees feel like putty as I lean against the wall, trying to regain my composure. Is the officer in here to check on me? Are they outside waiting for me to come out?

I bite my lip, thinking it may be best to surrender. Opening the door slowly, I cautiously leave the washroom, looking over both of my shoulders, much like a stray cat would do.

No officers waiting. David is sipping coffee at the table while he waits for me.

“Allen! You look like you just saw a ghost. Sit down. I ordered coffee. Rita said the chicken dinner is today’s special. What do you say?”

I sip the black coffee, calming myself. “I’ll pass on the chicken and go with the roast beef.”

David beckons for the waitress to come, and he orders two dinners. Sitting at the table, I glance from side to side, feeling as though I am about to step into a mousetrap.

As everyone watches me, the spring-loaded trap is about to snap. Are the four police officers that are having dinner watching me? Are they making plans to arrest me?

Why are they whispering? Damn—I can’t breathe.

“You should have ordered the chicken. Rita does a good job of it. That’s why I keep coming back here.”

I shake my head at the word ‘chicken’ as my thoughts run away for a brief moment, back home, when I was young.

“No, David. Chicken disagrees with me.”

A waitress sets my plate of roast beef down, along with David’s chicken. The smell of the roasted chicken disturbs my senses and rolls down into the pit of my stomach.

Ignoring my qualms, I dive into the roast beef; the mashed potatoes melt in my mouth like ice cream. David devours his chicken in short order, leaving his mashed potatoes on the side of his plate.

“Give me those potatoes if you don’t want them. You were right about Rita’s cooking. It’s great!”

The four police officers get up from the table. Three of them step toward the cash register, and the other walks to our table.

I’m at my wit’s end, wishing I could crawl into one of the many foxholes I slept in during the war. Do I stand and surrender or run?

The officer addresses David. “It’s good to see you again. How is Mildred?”

David stands and shakes hands with the officer. “Chester, it’s good to see you again. I was about to come over to your table and say hello. Mildred is fine; she is still adjusting to motherhood.”

“Congratulations, David. How is the baby doing?”

“We named her Barbara. She’s a gift from God. I can’t wait to get home and hold her. Chester, this is a friend of mine, Allen.”

I stand, taking the napkin to wipe my sweaty palms before shaking his hand. He smiles and nods to me as I sit down.

“Nice to meet you, Allen. Well, David, my partner is waiting for me. It was good to see you again.”

I can feel Chester’s eyes on me as he walks away. He stops and turns toward us. “David, give me a call tomorrow night.”

I let out a sigh of relief. My heart rate finds its regular rhythm while I put the used utensils on the dirty plate.

I hold up my empty coffee cup to the waitress, who comes to the table and fills both our cups. Smiling, I thank her, and she smiles back.

“It was good to see Chester again. I haven’t seen him for a few weeks. He’s a good man; we trained together at Glendale Field.

“He was farm fresh from Idaho with nowhere to stay, so I offered him the storage room in our basement. Mildred introduced him to Susan, her best friend.

“Chester and Susan got married in our church after only knowing each other for less than a month. They’re a perfect match.”

David gets up and walks to the cash register, pulls out his wallet, and pays for our dinner.

After he put his wallet back in his pocket, I notice him touch the piece of shrapnel hanging from the short chain attached to his belt.

He takes a pencil off the counter and writes on a piece of paper, then makes his way back to the table and sits down.

“Allen, here is my telephone number and address. I get the feeling you may be in trouble, or the hell of the war is catching up with you.

“If you ever need to talk, please call me. We may not have been on the same battlefield together, but we fought the same war.”

Unable to look David in the eye, I take the piece of paper and slide it into my pocket, feeling my wedding ring.

A flush of guilt sweeps its way through every ounce of my flesh—it feels like I’m being watched and judged from above.

I stand and follow David to his truck, all the while glancing over my shoulder.

“I guess we are all a casualty of war in one way or another,” I say, retrieving my duffel bag and long coat from the truck. “Thanks for the ride and dinner, David, it’s much appreciated.” I shake his hand.

“Allen, keep the work jacket and boots. I hope you make it back to Montana in good time. You can catch a bus from the diner to Albuquerque if you can’t hitch a ride.”

I may do that. Take the bus, I mean. Oh, David, I am heading to Wyoming, not Montana.”

“Oh, hmm, right. Wyoming. Good luck, Allen.”

Walking toward the diner, I wave to David as he drives away. Why do I feel he knows more than he is letting on, or am I just being overly cautious and paranoid? How did he come up with Montana? Was it on purpose?