Evergreen by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 2

Crossing the street, Christine returned to the police blazer, opened the door and stood as she surveyed the street. Observation was part of the job and with nearly everyone in town gathered in one place, she found it easy to observe them -- to study their faces. Who was tense? Who stared at the ground? But why was a different matter. What was the unknown? This was one of the reasons Christine loved her job. It gave her the chance to try to figure people out, to separate the saints from the sinners. After a few minutes of people watching, she received a call from a concerned resident. Touching a button on her cell phone, Christine’s response was both immediate and professional.

“Sheriff Thomaston.”

Her expression quickly became one of frustration as the voice on the phone reported the disappearance of an elderly man.

“Alright,” she said. “I think I know where he went.”

George was something of a fixture in Evergreen. A victim of dementia, he walked the small downtown area, occasionally wandering off into the woods. Only one or two people knew George’s story but chose to remain silent. That night, he slept at the clinic. No matter how busy things got, there was always a gurney set aside for him. During the day, he wandered and although he was homeless, the people of Evergreen provided him with food as well as the occasional jacket or winter coat. Some small towns insist on taking care of their own, but as confused as George was when he wandered into the woods, he always seemed to end up at the same place. This made it easy for the sheriff to find him.

Christine drove about two miles out of town and pulling off to the side of the road, began the short walk into the woods. She held a special fondness for him and knowing that he had no place to go, she tried to keep an eye on him, to keep him out of trouble. She had once tried to take him in, to give him a roof over his head. But in his state of mind, it soon became impossible for her to care for him. He would wander out in the middle of the night and regardless of the weather, he always went to the same place. Considering the rugged terrain, Christine often wondered how he managed to stay alive in the first place. With the area is mountainous as it was one wrong step in the wrong place and one’s body would become unrecoverable. But for the past few years, George had managed to avoid this fate while being drawn to one particular place, seemingly by some invisible force.

Twenty minutes after walking into the woods, Christine approached George, who stood with a hand on the rail of the front steps of an abandoned house. “George. Again?” she asked.

Taking him gently by the arm, she helped George slowly back to the road.

“How do you manage to get out here?” He stopped and looking her squarely in the eyes, said, “I have to get back.”

It was the same thing every time. But, Christine was insistent.

“C’mon, George. We’ve got to get you back to town.”

Occasionally, George would put up a bit of resistance - usually, nothing more than a bit of pulling. “George,” Christine continued. “It’s not safe out here for you, okay?”

A tear ran down his face as he repeated his strange response. To anyone else, it would have been grossly out of context, the product of a decaying mind. But, Christine understood. The fact was, Christine understood more about George than anyone else - far more.

Driving into town, she pulled off to the side of the road in front of the market. Beeping the horn brought Joan to the front of the store. George opened the passenger’s door as Joan walked out to the blazer. “George!” she said. “You go and get lost again?” She helped him out by the arm while looking at the sheriff with concern.

“Hey, Sheriff!”

Christine reached into her breast pocket and handed Joan a five-dollar bill.

“Here, get him something to eat,” she said. “Sheriff,” Joan began. “Forget it, this one’s on me.” She helped George into the market as Christine drove away.

Joan was one of the many people in town who made certain that George didn’t go hungry. Unlike many people, their Christian values would not tolerate otherwise and the last thing they wanted was to find his lifeless body curled up in the woods. Having him in the market was always the highlight of her day. He was someone she could take care of, in spite of the odor that constantly clung to him. Even after ten years in prison, Joan always managed to put her anger aside in order to exercise her maternal instincts. Many times, George wandered in on his own like a lost puppy. He seemed to know enough to understand where he could get a meal and who he could rely on.

Preparing a small meal, Joan served him a burger with all the trimmings and a large glass of milk. She stood watching as George slowly consumed it. Letting out a sigh of concern, she said, “George, what are we going to do with you?”

Finishing what anyone would call a generous meal; George got up and, without a word, slowly meandered out. As he stepped back out onto the sidewalk, Joan raised a hand as if waving to him.

“You’re welcome, George! Come back again!” She walked to the front of the market, letting her eyes follow him down the street. Like everyone else who ran into George, Joan’s compassion masked the fear and hopelessness she felt for him. She was certain that he would someday be found half-buried in the snow, his skin cold and yellow, his limbs stiff and frigid.