We're All in the Plan

By Robert James Allison

Mike Maltby has more time and money than he knows what to do with, and nothing to do with it, but a young boy and a broken bicycle enter his life and give it new direction. Now for the first time since his wife died, Mike has a reason to live. Instead of taking and taking and taking, he is going to give something back. With the clothes on his back and a motorcycle loaded down with as much as he can cram on it, he strikes out on the road, going where the spirit moves him and finding adventure after adventure along the way.

Join Mike on his quest for new horizons and see him discover that life has much more to offer than money and possessions. Blessings come in many forms and Mike Maltby was blessed in ways her never dreamed.

This is a chronological compilation of the inspirational short stories of the adventures of Mike Maltby, including the final, previously unpublished, episode.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert James Allison
• Release date: Mar 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310888731

Robert James Allison

I was born and raised in Decatur, Illinois, but moved to the Moweaqua area around 1991. I like small towns and rural settings, as does my wife of thirty-five years, Barbara. We have two grown children, John and Anna to whom I dedicated my first book, The First Suitor. I started writing about fifteen years ago as a diversion from my regular job as an attorney. At that time I had been practicing law in Central Illinois for about fifteen years and was looking for another avenue to exercise my writing and organizational skills. Now after thirty years of practicing law I would like to write full time, but yet I find myself full time in the law and part time in writing. I enjoy telling stories and some would say that all lawyers are born fiction writers, because fiction is all they write in the first place. I have to admit that there is some truth to that.I have had five books published with Wings ePress, Inc., and more manuscripts in the works. I recently started the process of removing all of my books from Wings and putting them on Amazon in Kindle format and other digital sites. In the future I plan to publish all of my books in ebook format on various sites such as Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Some new books will be going up soon, too.Recently I have retired from the private practice of law and have relocated to Louisville, Kentucky.I try to draw on my experiences in the practice of law and my life experiences in general to give realism to my stories and characters. In the 1970s I served in the U.S. Army as a Military Policeman and in the late '80s, I was a Captain in the U.S. Army Judge Advocate General Corps, Army National Guard. I have been to Germany, France, Belgium, Holland, and many of the United States. I like to work the settings of the places I've been and things I've done into my stories. I write romance into almost every book, but it isn't always the main theme and it is never explicit or vulgar.I am foremost and always an entertainer and that is why I write fiction, but I try to make it real and believable as well as entertaining.

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We’re All in The Plan

A compilation of the inspirational Mike Maltby short-story series

By

Robert James Allison

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage, and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First Suitor Enterprises

www.robertjamesallison.com

Copyright © 2014 by Robert James Allison

ISBN 978-1-31088-873-1

Published by First Suitor Enterprises at Smashwords.com

March 2014

Cover photo by the author:

The Smoky Mountains

Pigeon Forge, Tennessee

All rights reserved

Chapter One

Think he’ll stay around here, Doc? Joe Ranney asked as he leaned back in the kitchen chair and stretched his long legs out under the table.

Hard to tell, Joe. Don’t know why he would with his wife dead and the exhibition over, Doc Collins replied from across the table as he picked up his coffee cup and noted it was empty again.

Too bad about his wife. She was a real nice lady or so I heard. Never met her myself, Joe said dispassionately.

Well, I met her and she was the salt of the earth, Doc responded, as he got up from his kitchen table and crossed to the counter to get more coffee.

Too bad her husband wasn’t. I did meet him. I never ran across a more greedy and disagreeable man in my life. He lived to make a buck and never gave a hoot about his charming wife, Joe said with disgust as Doc held up the coffee pot inquiring if Joe wanted more. Joe nodded and scooted his cup toward the edge of the table.

Don’t be too quick to judge, Joe. You and your brothers have been on that sheep ranch too long, you don’t get out enough. The world’s not all black and white you know, he responded in a gentle admonishing tone as he poured Joe another cup of coffee.

Yes, father Doc, Joe drawled facetiously with a smile. Joe’s real father and mother had died years ago, leaving him and his brothers to fend for themselves on their ranch. Doc had always been their father figure.

In a serious tone, Joe continued, Still, you’ve got to admit he’s the most disagreeable fellow to be found in these parts.

Doc retook his seat, poured several spoons-full worth of sugar into his coffee and as he stirred it in he said, "Maybe, but I’m not so sure there isn’t more to him than meets the eye. I think he’s just lost. Some people get that way, Joe. They get off on the wrong foot or head in the wrong direction. Sometimes they wander around for years before they find themselves or their purpose in life.

Mary must have seen something in him, she stuck with him, so maybe, just maybe, there’s more to Mike Maltby than meets the eye. This might change him.

I hope you’re right. I’d hate to think a fine woman like Mary Maltby died for nothing, but I have my doubts, Joe ended cynically.

No one dies for nothing, Joe. Everyone and everything is in the plan. I’ve drummed that into you and your brother’s heads for years. I figured it took, but maybe it didn’t.

Yeah, it took alright. That and a lot of other things. Mostly things we didn’t want to hear, but needed to. Maybe we ain’t always acted like it, but we appreciated your guidance, Doc. With no parents we were up against it, Joe finished as he took a drink of coffee.

I was proud to do it and likely I’ll keep on doing it until I die. Mark my words, Joe, Maltby may just surprise you…if he stays around.

Joe responded, Man at the boarding house says he still has his room. He also says Maltby hardly leaves it. Even eats up there, all by himself.

Doc took a sip of his coffee and after a moment of thought responded, He’s a lonely man. He has been for years, but it just now hit him. If I get the chance I’m going to talk with him. Maybe I can get him to come to church.

Sure you can, Doc. You got us Ranney boys to go to church. We had no use for church or God after losing our mom and dad like that, but you made us see the light. If anyone can make this guy see the light it’s you, but you got your work cut out for you on this one.

Not me, Joe. I just talk. The light comes from somewhere else. It ain’t my plan. I just play along.

Well just the same I think Maltby got what he had coming. He was on top of it all and didn’t care about anyone or anything else. He drove the best cars, stayed in the best hotels, and always went first class. I heard he could really throw a fit if he didn’t get things just his way. He got people fired and ruined their careers on a whim and in less time than it took to make a phone call. He grabbed and grabbed and then grabbed for more, not caring who lost in the end. Just so he won. You say what you want and you do what you want, but it’ll be a long time before you convince me that there was or is an ounce of good in that man, Joe pronounced as he grabbed another donut off a plate in the center of the table and then continued, his wife now, she was a different story. Like you say and I hear tell from others that she was a real gem. How she put up with that creep for so long is beyond me. Could be you’re right. Maybe no one dies for nothing. Personally I think she died because Mike Maltby needed to be brought up short.

You’re a hard man, Joe and that’s a hard attitude you take toward a man you barely know. I thought I taught you better than that.

You taught me and my brothers to fend for ourselves, Doc and along with that comes the ability to spot the likes of Mike Maltby and avoid him like the plague.

~*~

Alone in the dark room Mike Maltby sat staring out the window watching the moonlight shimmer off the snowy landscape. His mind was as dark and dismal as the room. The beauty of the snowy landscape was wasted on him. His eyes were unseeing. His mind drifted back over the years when he and Mary had traveled the country hopping and running from one deal to the next. His deals, not hers.

He could still deal, he had the contacts, but his heart was no longer in it. Without Mary the money meant nothing. The money was for Mary, though he had never told her so. Had he told her it would have made no difference—she lived for him, not money. He still had the money, but Mary was gone.

Back in time his mind drifted. He could see her face and hear her voice. Just like yesterday. She was here with him again.

I want a house and a place to call home, Mike.

Soon, Mary. Just this one more deal and then the one in Santa Fe. Just a little more money and then we can take it easy.

I like it here, Mike. This little community has accepted me and would you, in time. Please, Mike. Let’s stay here and get a nice house in the country. One with a nice shady yard and a garden to tend. Here…in this place, please. No more running, no more deals. Just a little place in the country.

No, Mary! I don’t want to be accepted here or anywhere. I don’t care about the snide remarks and jealous looks. Besides, we’re too young to retire. We’ve got the time to put together a few more deals. Plenty of time to make some more money so that we can be on ‘easy street’ the rest of our lives. Plenty of time….

Mike’s mind came back to the present, where he least wanted it to be. Time was gone and so was Mary. What good was time without someone to share it with? All the time in the world, when you were alone, was useless. Why couldn’t I see that before? he asked himself. Why couldn’t I see the hands of time spinning around?

No, he thought, I’m wrong. Mary’s time is gone, but mine isn’t. I can still get that house in the country. It won’t be the same, but I can still do it. For Mary’s sake and her memory, if for no other reason. Just a small place with a nice shady yard. Here, in this community where she so wanted to be accepted and live. Where instead she was buried. Besides, he had no urge to move on now. Not without Mary. He couldn’t leave her here by herself. She was the only good thing to happen to him in a very long time. Too bad I didn’t recognize that before she died.

~*~

Mike sat in a wrought iron chair in his front yard, under the massive white oak tree, gazing down the dusty lane toward the hard road about 300 feet distant. He was intent on watching someone doing something to a bicycle. The midsummer sun had been up for about three hours and his third cup of morning coffee sat on the wrought iron table opposite his chair.

He continued to look out over the front yard to the hard road and watch the small figure through the shimmering heat waves. The figure was working furiously on something. Maybe the bicycle, maybe not.

He finally got up out of his chair and walked a few steps down the lane to get a better look and saw that the figure was a small boy working on his bicycle. He went back to his chair and coffee, but a few minutes later when he looked up again, the boy was just sitting by the road, staring at the bicycle.

Again, he put down his coffee and walked down the lane, but this time he walked all the way to the hard road. When he reached the road, he asked, Can I help?

The boy looked up, saw him for the first time, and stood up. As the boy walked across the road toward Mike he said, Lost both nuts off of my rear axle. The wheel and chain come clean off and I can’t figure a way to keep them on without the nuts.

Well, I don’t know if I have the type of nuts you need, but I can give you a glass of lemonade and after you sit in the shade and rest for a while we can have a look in my barn.

Sure. That’d be great, Mr. Maltby.

You know my name, but I don’t know you.

Yes, sir, everyone around here knows about you. My name is Billy Stephens. I live down the road, south two miles and west one mile.

Well, nice to meet you, Billy. You grab a chair under the tree and I’ll get some lemonade. I could use one myself.

Mike went into the house to get the lemonade as Billy parked himself in a chair and gazed out across the road toward his bike.

When Mike had brought the lemonade and Billy had guzzled one whole glass, in less time than it took to pour one, Mike said, After we rest you can come inside and call your dad. I’ll bet he can fix that bike or haul it home for you.

Billy said flatly, No. We don’t have no phone and besides, pa don’t drive no more.

Oh, then how do you get to the store and such?

My bike mostly. That’s where I was going this morning, but I didn’t get far.

How about your mother? Doesn’t she drive?

Sure, she drives, but she works late and I usually go to the store on my bike, because she don’t have time to stop on the way home. Sometimes she stops, but usually it is too late and the store is closed. She don’t have the extra gas to go to the big town up the way where the stores stay open later. She don’t make much money. So I usually do most of the shopping.

How about on her days off? Mike asked.

Sunday is the only day off mom gets and with all the other work she has to do she don’t have time to go shopping.

Oh, I see. How come your father doesn’t drive? If you don’t mind telling me, he asked cautiously, not wanting to butt in to other people’s business.

He used to, but he was in an accident a few years ago and banged his head real bad. Pa don’t do anything anymore. He has real bad headaches when he tries to do much of anything and we have to be real quiet all the time so he won’t get a headache. Pa usually just lays in bed and sleeps or reads some.

This was all news to Mike, but then he hadn’t lived here too long and didn’t know the community. He hadn’t really tried to get acquainted, either.

Billy continued, as if feeling the need to defend his father, It ain’t that pa don’t want to help, but he just can’t. Before his accident he was a real hard worker. He worked down the road at the grain mill and did real good. Since pa was hurt though we ain’t done so good. Don’t tell nobody I said that, because ma and pa don’t want anyone to know we ain’t getting along so good.

I won’t, Billy, but tell me, do you have any brothers or sisters to help you? Mike asked, compelled for some reason to understand this boy’s situation.

I got a little sister, but she ain’t big enough to do much. I can ride my bike and go to the store and stuff, so I get to do that. Sis washes dishes some and helps with the laundry.

How old are you, Billy?

Ten last May.

I’ve seen you ride by here a lot now that I think of it, but I thought you were going into town to practice baseball.

No, sir. I’d like to, but it costs fifteen dollars to sign up and we can’t afford that, he said dreamily.

You must be in about fifth grade.

Yes, sir, I start fifth grade this fall. My bus comes right by here, too. Sometimes I see you sitting right here under this pretty tree. This year you watch for me on the bus and I’ll wave. You can’t miss me ‘cause I always wear a bright yellow coat.

Mike was remembering something now. Yes, he thought, I remember overhearing some ladies in town talking about how their kids were doing in school. I remember one lady talking about her little girl’s reports on the other kids at school. This little girl reported to her mother that there was one boy who never brought his lunch. He always forgot it and the other kids gave him parts of theirs that they didn’t want. The little girl couldn’t figure out why the boy was so forgetful. She said his name was Billy and that he always wore a bright yellow coat.

A raincoat, whether it was hot and dry or raining, even in the winter, when it was too cold for anything except a very heavy coat. All the kids thought he was strange, but they wanted to get rid of some parts of the lunch they didn’t like and this boy would take anything. Mike wondered if this wasn’t that boy and if the reason he forgot his lunch was because he didn’t have any lunch to forget.

How are the lunches at school, Billy?

I don’t eat them school lunches.

You know I remember hearing about a boy who always forgets his lunch. I’ll bet he goes hungry a lot.

Oh no, sir. The other kids always have parts of their lunch that they don’t want. You can always eat that if you are hungry, he said and then stopped as if he had said something that maybe he ought not to have said.

Mike changed the subject at that, asking, Do the doctors know what is wrong with your father?

No. Pa ain’t been to no doctors since he got out of the hospital. We got no insurance so he would have to pay himself and that costs too much. He says he will get better if he just rests enough.

Is he getting better, Billy?

Billy pursed his lips in thought and responded seriously, I don’t think so.

Doesn’t your father know that the government will give him help if he really needs it?

Pa don’t abide by no government money. No siree. Ma and pa don’t take nothing from nobody. Why if they knew I was taking parts of other kid’s lunch they’d…well, I got to go, sir, he said, obviously realizing that he was saying too much.

But what about your bike?

I’ll drag it home and fix it, I guess.

Wait. Come and look around in my workshop. Maybe you can find some nuts to fit your bike. Then you won’t have to drag it home.

Billy hesitated, thinking. With a shrug he finally said, Okay, I guess.

Come this way and I’ll show you where to look.

Mike’s home in the country was a real country home. It had a barn, a detached garage, and a workshop he rarely ever used. The place had just come with a workshop and typical of an old farm homestead the workshop was full of almost everything you could imagine. Farmers never threw anything away; and when this farmer retired and moved to town Mike bought the place lock, stock, barrel, and junk.

The light wasn’t real good inside the workshop, just a bare 60-watt bulb and no windows to let in more light, but Billy went right to work digging through box after box of junk. After a good 30 minutes he had come up with all kinds of nuts, but none that would fit the axle on a bike. When Mike inquired how Billy could be so sure they wouldn’t work without trying them, Billy responded, A bike axle has a special thread, Mr. Maltby, it is called a machine thread and they are different from the threads on these nuts. No, sir, I got to find a machine thread and it has to be just the right size or it will just come right off again.

Mike pondered that a moment furrowing his brow and then said, Hey, you know out in the barn loft there is all kinds of big junk. I’m pretty sure I saw an old bike up there. Would the axle nuts from it fit your bike? I mean are they all pretty much the same size?

Yes, sir they are. I made my bike out of several old ones I scrounged up. I’ll bet I can make it work. Where exactly is it?

Mike motioned Billy out the door and as he crossed the yard to the barn he was thinking, For only being ten years old this boy is pretty sharp.

He showed Billy the bike and Billy went to work immediately. He said that he carried a little tool kit with his bike because he was always having to fix something on it and he liked to be prepared. Not ten minutes later Billy had the nuts on his bike and pronounced it fit to ride.

Time for another lemonade, Billy?

No, sir, thanks though, but I got to get going. I got to get the groceries and get back home. Thanks for the lemonade and the nuts, Mr. Maltby.

Anytime, Billy.

~*~

After Billy had left, Mike decided he wanted the full story on this boy’s father. Just why, he didn’t know, but he felt compelled to know. Something inside of him had been awakened. He was feeling things he hadn’t felt since long before Mary’s death. For the past several months he had been devoid of emotion, but not now. Now he was feeling some emotions and those emotions told him to find out more about this boy and his family. He thought he knew where he might find out.

He didn’t even bother to put the lemonade glasses and pitcher away. No one bothered anything out here in the country. He was quite sure he could leave a gold-plated serving tray on that table and it would still be there after Christmas.

Backing his car out of the garage he drove out to the hard road and turned north. Doc Collins was just down the road, as distance was measured in a rural area. About two miles as the crow flies.

Chapter Two

Mike pulled into Doc Collins’ driveway and as he expected, he saw Doc sitting under a shade tree in the side yard. It seemed to Mike that everyone in this country had a nice shade tree and made liberal use of it in the summer time.

Mike had come here because Doc Collins knew everyone and everything about this community. Over 40 years of practicing medicine on people and animals, even though he was no veterinarian, had left little undiscovered. Doc had also befriended him after Mary had been killed. He was probably the closest thing to a friend Mike had—here or anywhere. Though Mike had never returned the concern Doc had shown him, nor acted as if he appreciated it. Still, he felt closer to Doc than anyone else.

As Mike shut off the car and climbed out Doc Collins said, Morning, Mike. Motioning him to a spare lawn chair.

Morning, Doc.

What brings you around on this hot morning?

Billy Stephens. His bicycle broke down in front of my house and I got to talking with him. Seems his father was injured and can’t work. Know anything about it?

Doc responded amiably, Sure, but why do you care? Don’t take this the wrong way, Mike, but you’ve never expressed any desire to know about anyone or anything in the community since Mary was killed or before for that matter. Why now?

I’m not sure. I just feel compelled to know. Do you mind?

No, Doc responded, "guess not. Just don’t let on you know or if you do where you heard it. The boy’s father is Vern Stephens. He was in a car accident on the way home from work one night a couple of years ago and badly injured his head. The hospital discharged him a few days after admission, because they couldn’t keep him longer against his will. He had no insurance and didn’t want to pay for any more treatment. The hospital offered to help him get financial assistance through Medicaid and social security benefits, but he flatly refused.

Vern Stephens is probably the proudest man in the county. As a result, he is the poorest. No one even offers to help him anymore, because he is so stubbornly proud and downright nasty when help is offered. Even I gave up and that’s saying something. I rarely give up on anyone, including you, he ended looking Mike directly in the eye.

Mike averted his gaze and let that comment pass, asking, Tell me something else, Doc. Billy Stephens said everyone around here knew about me. What did he mean by that?

He’s just a kid. Don’t pay no mind to him.

Come on, Doc. I know I’ve kept to myself and don’t really belong here, but what does everyone know and think about me?

You mean you actually care? Doc asked, a little on the harsh side.

I’m asking aren’t I?

Doc grunted and continued, "Well...they say you bought that big house with 20 acres of woods just to ease your conscience. That you are trying to make up for what you didn’t give your wife when she was alive.

They say you’re too rich for your own good and that 38 is too young to retire. That you sit around in that big house, with all your money just remembering all the crooked dealings you were involved in to get that money.

Mike knew his face had fallen and a cloud was passing over it.

Doc continued, I’m sorry, Mike, but you asked. I don’t agree, of course and I think they are dead wrong, but I can’t change what they think and say. You aren’t well thought of in this community.

Mike did not respond and sat quietly for many minutes with his eyes looking off in the distance over the fields of corn and beans, unseeing, then he said, "A lot of what they say and think is true. I was a money-grubbing, greedy, and unscrupulous businessman. I took and took and took. I dragged Mary all over the country and never gave her what she wanted. A real home. Now it’s too late and so I guess I did buy that house to ease my conscience, but it hasn’t helped. It’s too late for Mary and too late for me.

The first couple of months I thought about killing myself, but I couldn’t do it. I can’t change what I’ve done or not done, but I can change what I do in the future. How to change I’m not sure. I guess that’s the real reason I didn’t kill myself. I learned long ago that taking one’s own life doesn’t change anything, it only makes past mistakes look worse and confirms everyone’s darkest suspicions.

After a few more minutes of silence Mike asked, What exactly is the problem with Vern Stephens, other than the fact that he’s too stubborn for his own good?

Doc hunched forward in his lawn chair, pursed his lips and responded, As near as I can tell, only from what I have heard, the injury caused pressure on the brain which results in headaches, loss of some motor functions, restlessness, mood swings, and occasional temporary paralysis of the limbs. With that condition he can’t work, drive, or do anything with machinery, because he might have a spell of paralysis or loss of motor function at any time, Doc ended clinically.

Is it curable? Mike asked still looking out over the cornfields.

Couldn’t say, Doc sat back and responded in a matter-of-fact voice.

Mike turned now to face Doc and said, Billy talked like he wasn’t getting better. I got the feeling he might be getting worse.

With a noncommittal shrug Doc answered honestly, Could be. I just can’t say.

What would you need in order to say?

All of his hospital records and a thorough examination of the patient with all his medical history not included in the hospital records and there always is medical history not included in the hospital records, he said, once again in his clinical tone.

Suppose I got you that? Mike asked earnestly.

How! Doc exclaimed sitting a little more upright now.

Mike smiled an easy smile, one of the few in the last few months and said, That’s my specialty, Doc. Getting things done by getting things that no one else can get. That was what I did to make my fortune.

Then Mike continued in his own clinical tone, Let me pose this hypothetical situation to you. You look at his records and make a physical examination of him, with full medical history and it turns out that his condition is operable. What would his chances of complete recovery be?

Depends upon what is wrong with him. If what I’ve heard is correct and it is pressure on the brain and if everything checked out okay I would say one hundred percent or pretty close to it, but how am I going to be able to examine him? I can get his hospital records or at least a look at them, because although I’m not on staff at the hospital where he was treated, I still have some connections. All that aside though, I can’t examine a man without him knowing it and he won’t let me examine him if he knows I am doing it, he said plaintively.

Maybe he would let you, Mike said cryptically and at Doc’s skeptical look he continued, now just suppose that he was approached by you requesting a favor. You wanted his permission to examine him to see if he would qualify for an experimental treatment at some hospital or another. If he qualified he would not only get the treatment free, but the hospital would pay him five thousand for letting them treat him.

Doc’s mouth dropped open and he exclaimed, That’s preposterous, Mike! No hospital works like that! Why even the teaching hospitals don’t PAY patients to let them treat them! It would be unethical, if not downright illegal.

Mike just smiled again and said easily, You know that and I know that, but Vern Stephens doesn’t know that and probably won’t, at least not until it’s too late.

Doc responded cautiously, "I’m not going to let you get