RUNNING SCARED # 13


I’d never met my Aunt Fern, my mother’s oldest sister, but I had good memories of her because she had sent me a book every birthday up until I turned eighteen. According to the family grapevine she had Asberger’s Syndrome – a high-functioning form of autism. She was supposed to be intellectually brilliant, but lacking in social skills which kept her reclusive. She had never married, but managed to support herself doing some kind of consulting work from her home in Gorseport on the southern Oregon coast.

She never attended family functions, and was rumored to discourage drop-in visitors. Nevertheless, I thought I’d try to do just that. I had no idea how much of what I’d heard was true, but she had always interested me. What drove my current interest was the fact that Vern knew nothing about her so it seemed like a safe thing to do.

I got back to Murietta in time for the Wednesday night poker game. Winning more than usual put me in a good mood. I hung around afterwards trying to wangle a ride the few blocks home. Then I overheard one of the regular poker players talking about going to visit a brother in Coos Bay, Oregon, but complaining about the price of gas. I asked him for a ride home, then impulsively asked him if he did drive north if I could ride along to Gorseport just south of Coos Bay. I promised to help pay for gas.

“Sure, no problem,” he said. “It’s my money anyway,” he said, reminding me that he’d been the biggest loser of the night. “If I do go I plan to leave a week from Friday and drive straight through. Got a valid driver’s license?” he asked. I just nodded. He didn’t need to know anything more about my driver’s license than that I had one.

I worried about what seemed to be my compulsive restlessness. Always wanting to be somewhere different than I was these days. I wondered if I’d ever again be interested in settling down. I seemed to be searching for answers to questions I didn’t yet have words for.

Friday after my morning shift at the diner I began walking back to my room. It was a beautiful warm day and I was enjoying just being alive. I heard a car approaching from behind me. Suddenly Ryder’s pickup truck swerved to a stop in front of me. I started backing away getting ready to run. He jumped out of the driver’s seat and stopped maybe ten feet away. He was carrying a shotgun. “You just stop right there,” he said. “I could blow your head off, you know.”

I wondered how much he had had to drink. My response might defuse things or send him over the edge depending on how drunk he was. “Where’s Myra?” I asked, trying for a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

“None of your damn business. Damn busybody! Damn woman busybody! None of your damn business.” He was so furious he was vibrating. He was clearly irrational, but I’d never seen him any other way.

“Yes,” I said. “You could blow my head off. But Sarge told me to remind you what would happen to you if anything happened to me.” I put my hands on my hips and just stared at him. I knew I needed not to show the fear that threatened to overwhelm me. I took a step in his direction.

He backed up two steps. “I ain’t afraid of that old man,” he blustered. “You tell him I said so,” he yelled as he ran back to his truck and screeched away. Gravel, like buckshot, stung my face and arms.

I was so shaken that I had to sit down on a low wall for a while to calm down. I hated feeling afraid. I wondered if it were possible to not feel afraid ever again. The whole next week I scurried around feeling afraid -- always looking to see if Ryder or his truck was anywhere around.

On Thursday I told both Steve and Sarge that I would be gone for at least a week. “Family emergency,” I lied. “My elderly aunt,” I said. I found I was getting better at lying, but it was increasingly difficult to remember which lie I had told which person. I thought I might find it useful to write those things down for future reference.

Wes and I set out early Friday morning for Oregon. Wes was a mill worker who had been temporarily laid off and had been at loose ends while he looked for a better job. His father in Coos Bay had been begging him to visit, and Wes had run out of excuses. By dusk we were in Gorseport. I’d done some research and found that there was a youth hostel in the town. So I asked Wes to drop me off there.

On Saturday morning I had some breakfast at a nearby café while I figured out how I was going to go about finding my aunt. I decided to start at the library. It was a short walk from the hostel. I was waiting outside when it opened. The library was quite small befitting a town with a population of 937 inhabitants. I figured if anybody knew where she lived in town it would be the library. “I came to visit my aunt, Fern Albright, and I don’t remember where her house is. Can you help me?”

The young woman at the desk gave me a strange look, but said, “I don’t know the address, but it’s just three blocks south of here on the right -- behind the motel. It’s an old beach shack, a faded turquoise blue. There’s a great old Monterey cypress tree beside it. You can’t miss it.”

That was the easy part, and the irony of my looking for her the way that detective had been looking for me did not escape me. There was no point delaying any longer. I trudged the three blocks to the dumpy cabin that looked as if no one lived there at all. The shades were all down on the windows. I knocked. Then knocked again more loudly.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I waited.