Читать книгу The Light in the Mirror - David I. Lane - Страница 5

1

A Near Tragedy

“Yow!”

Richard Hawkins let loose a yelp from the abrupt change in water temperature.

“Uncle Mac must be working in the kitchen. Well, that woke me up. Guess I’ll forego my morning solo.”

After showering, he toweled vigorously, put on shorts and slippers, and headed down the hall to his bedroom. He surveyed the image in his full-length mirror. Richard’s high forehead, hazel eyes, and strong jaw reflected his naturally serious attitude toward life.

He gave his mustache a couple of strokes with the comb, then moved to the chest of drawers. Slapping a generous amount of shaving lotion on his face, he mused, “Even if I don’t look like I’ve shaved, I might as well smell like I have.”

Downstairs, Richard found his uncle in the kitchen preparing their breakfast of Quaker Oats. Richard helped by making toast and pouring orange juice. There was little conversation. Uncle Mac had raised Richard; their relationship was as secure in silence as it was in speech.

When Richard finished eating, he sat back, sipped his coffee, and gave his uncle an affectionate glance. Uncle Mac was busy at his morning ritual, working the daily crossword puzzle.

“Finished in 14 minutes.” Uncle Mac’s voice conveyed his satisfaction.

Richard responded teasingly, “Considering your years as a top librarian, a newspaper crossword puzzle is as challenging as high school algebra is for Einstein.”

Uncle Mac chuckled, pleased with the comparison. Changing the subject, the Glasgow native said, ‘If ye don’t want Quaker Oats for dinner too, ye’ll have to go to the store and get a few things.”

“Just a few? In that case, I’ll walk. What do we need?”

Uncle Mac handed him a short list.

“I’m on my way.”

Richard liked puzzling over something when he walked. Today, as he walked the five blocks to the grocery store, he thought about how long it would take him and a friend to paint his Uncle Mac’s house.

Now, how could I convince Uncle Mac to give the old place some color? He’ll insist on painting the house gray again. He smiled as he recalled how his uncle defended the color gray. “You see, laddie, the color matches Oregon’s climate.”

At that moment, Richard looked up to see a squirrel, frightened by his approach, dart across his path and into the street.

“Stupid squired!” he exclaimed, as a car came within inches of hitting the animal.

Maybe, I could get Uncle Mac to at least change the trim from boring white. But, no, he’s stubborn like me.

As if to prove his own stubbornness, his mind flashed back to an incident that, years later, still made him feel ashamed. Often during his teenage years, his uncle would press him to take up golf. The theme of his insistence was always the same: Golf was good exercise and it would enable him to meet people who could help him land a job some day. “No, that’s not my thing,” Richard would reply.

He slowed his pace and kicked a pine cone off the sidewalk, reluctant to remember what happened on his sixteenth birthday. The memories intruded nevertheless.

Uncle Mac had bought him an expensive set of clubs. Weeks went by while he stubbornly refused to try the clubs out at the local golf course. Then one day, he traded the clubs to a friend for an old pair of skis. He rationalized that he should have what he wanted on his birthday and he didn’t want golf clubs.

When he told his uncle about the trade he realized that it hurt his feelings, but his uncle only said, “Your friend got a gude bargain.” Uncle Mac never mentioned golf again. Though Richard knew his uncle had forgiven him, he still felt guilty.

Trying to shake off the mood his memory had created, his mind quickly turned to the task at hand as the grocery store came into view.

The sky had gone from sunny to overcast in the time that Richard Hawkins took to finish shopping. As he stepped out of the store, he felt the early-warning drops of a spring shower. He had lived long enough in Verity, Oregon—all of his life—not to be surprised at sudden changes in the weather. The old-timers in his church had told him that 1999 would be a rainy year, and so far their prediction had been correct. Lines from Lowell’s The Vision of Sir Launfal came to mind: What is so rare as a day in June?/ Then, if ever, come perfect days.

Ducking his head against the drizzle, he glanced up when he came to a street corner. As he was about to cross, he saw a young woman coming toward him on the sidewalk, about 150 feet away. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, she was jogging in the rain. Someone else caught in this drizzle. He looked more closely at the attractive runner. Her shapely, athletic body and her blond ponytail flying behind her presented a captivating picture.

When a white van pulled up alongside the woman, a man on the passenger side yelled something out his window at her. She stopped running and walked over to talk with him; she pointed down the street as if giving directions. As she spoke, the side door of the van unexpectedly slid open. Another man grabbed her, attempting to pull her into the van. The young woman resisted, striking him. As the two struggled, the woman kicked her attacker. He released his grip, but before she could get away the other man grabbed her. She screamed for help.

Richard dropped his grocery sack and sprinted to the van just as the men had nearly pulled the woman inside. He planted his fist against the face of the man, who was leaning out the door. The sudden crunch of knuckles to nose elicited a pain-filled expletive. Richard pulled the woman back out of the van at the same time that she planted her knee in the chest of the man who still had her in his grip. Their combined efforts freed her. The abduction thwarted, one of the men slammed the van door closed and they drove away with such reckless speed, they nearly hit an oncoming car.

“Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” Richard asked the young woman. She shook her head, but didn’t speak. She leaned heavily on Richard’s arm. One sleeve of her T-shirt, torn in the struggle, hung down her arm by a thread. He led her to a nearby bus-stop bench and watched her for a moment to be sure he could leave her to retrieve his damp grocery sack. As he started back toward the young woman, a police car pulled up to the curb with another right behind it.

“Did you see what happened?” the officer asked him.

“Yes, I did. I saw the whole thing. Two men in a white van tried to kidnap that girl on the bench over there.” He pointed. “I think she’s in a state of shock. She hasn’t said anything since it happened.”

“I’ll be careful when I talk to her. The other officer will want to speak with you, sir. Just remain here.” She walked toward the young woman.

Richard put down the grocery sack again. As he straightened, he saw the other officer approaching. Though slightly shorter than Richard’s six-foot frame, he had the same slender, muscular build.

“A man in a house across the street saw what seemed to be an altercation and called us. The caller first assumed it to be a domestic argument. Can you describe what happened, sir?”

Richard repeated what he had told the other officer, but he could not give the make, model, or year of the van. “It all happened so fast,” he explained. When asked if he noticed anything unusual about the van, he replied, “Well, it had a couple of bumper stickers. One said: ‘Question Authority’. Is that helpful?”

“It might be, sir. I need your name, address, phone number, and date of birth.”

“My ‘date of birth’?” Richard questioned. “Why do you need that?”

“It’s not that we plan to send you a birthday card,” said the officer with a smile, “but you may not be the only Richard Hawkins in this part of Oregon.”

“Oh, I see,” Richard responded grinning, and gave the officer the requested information.

“Mr. Hawkins, I take it you’d be willing to help us try to identify these men, in the event we bring in suspects.”

“Sure. Of course.”

“The young woman can be grateful that you acted as fast as you did, Mr. Hawkins. You may have saved her life.”

Since Richard was only a couple of blocks from his house, he declined the officer’s offer of a ride home. He noticed with satisfaction that the young runner was talking, as the policewoman helped her into the squad car.

Richard picked up his pace as he headed for home, glad the rain hadn’t spoiled any of his groceries. A sprinkling of drops promised another shower.

He ran up the steps of the two-story house’s wide front porch.

When Richard entered the front door, he saw his uncle watching a newscast in the living room. Richard believed that most news programs made a special effort to create as gloomy a picture of events as possible. He was suddenly reminded of Eeyore in the Winnie-the-Pooh stories, who always saw the negative side of things. An Eeyore Award could be given to the most depressing newscaster of the year.

Mac got up from his chair to greet his nephew.

“It’s gey dreich the day!” he said, pouring on the Scottish accent.

“Yes,” Richard replied. “The day is dreary.”

“I was beginin’ to worry aboot ye. Ye were gone so long at the store.”

“I’m sorry I worried you, Uncle. Would you believe that I had to help a damsel in distress?” he asked.

“I don’t doubt ye cured some damsel’s loneliness by your attention.”

“Have it your own way, Uncle.” Richard smiled to himself.

“Let’s see what ye brought home, laddie.”

“Oh, ye bought pickles too!”

“I thought you might like to have some,” said Richard with a twinkle in his eyes, knowing this to be an understatement.

“Ye thought right, my boy!”

“I suppose you’ll want to sample the pickles at dinner tonight, Uncle. I’ll open the jar for you.”