A Village of Strangers

By Frank Scalise

Fleetwood is in Leavenworth for a terrible purpose, but he hasn't worked up the courage to follow through yet. Before he can, he meets Tara, a woman on the run from her own demons. Will their friendship be enough to save them from their own mistakes? Can either face the ugliness of the past or the uncertainty of the future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Code 4 Press
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223573722

Frank Scalise

Frank is a recreational hockey player.

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A Village of Strangers

By

Frank Scalise

A Village of Strangers by Frank Scalise

Copyright ©2022 Frank Scalise

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without the prior written permission of the copyright owner(s), except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Design by 100 Covers

Code 4 Press, an imprint of Frank Zafiro, LLC

Redmond, Oregon USA

This is a work of fiction. While real locations may be used to add authenticity to the story, all characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All song lyrics are fictional and the creation of the author.

A Village of Strangers

Fleetwood

Now

Fleetwood Mac Conroy hears the beginning rumbles of the day around him. Next to his room, the door slams. No doubt it’s the father from the family on vacation that arrived after dinner last night. He seemed the uptight type who would be up this early, scouting the terrain, preparing for the forced march he’d put his wife and kids through that day. Fleetwood imagines he has a very precise schedule documented on his iPhone.

Such judgments have not always come to him so quickly. But staying at the motel for several weeks has honed his ability to read each new guest, transient and long-term alike.

He sits up and swings his feet over the side of the bed. His bare toes graze the carpet. A glance at the clock tells him that he is only twelve minutes away from hearing the loud, insistent alarm from Kent’s room. The die-hard bicyclist is up early every day, heading off in a different direction, exploring the flat farmlands, the pine-strewn mountains, the rows of grapes in nearby vineyards. Two days ago, he gushed to Fleetwood, This town is gorgeous, man. All the Alpine houses…

He was right. The town of Leavenworth, Washington, could be lifted whole and dropped down in the countryside a half hour outside Munich and the only clue it was out of place would be the street signs in English.

…but it’s so perfectly situated, too. Every direction I go is a different miracle. It’s heaven.

And then he pedaled away to find another one.

Fleetwood didn’t mind. Let Kent find his miracles. He’d sit with Charlie, a near-resident at the place, who was always kind enough to share a couple of beers with him while they sat in lawn chairs outside their respective rooms. They drank in near silence. Charlie seemed to sense that Fleetwood didn’t want to talk about much of anything, so he let those silences stretch out, punctuating them every so often with a dry observation about a transient guest or a pointed question about one of the longer-term guests. But always other people, never about Fleetwood. For his part, Fleetwood appreciated this about Charlie.

Silence is underrated. Even viewed with suspicion. But Fleetwood knows it is where the true power and beauty lay. Even music is defined by the silences between the notes.

It was while they sat drinking beers that Fleetwood saw the mini-van arrive with the family of prisoners and their warden, who doubled as driver and guide. He had the look of a man who was doing his duty, who wanted to get through it as efficiently and as quickly as possible. A week with the family and then back to the blessed confines of the office. For their part, the expressions on the faces of both kids, twin sons, screamed, This ain’t Disneyland! The wife seemed to share their sentiment. She put on a brave face, though, or so it appeared to him.

Not a one of them wanted to be where they were in that moment, he was certain of that.

He is also certain he would have traded places with them in an instant, even if it only lasted for an instant.

Fleetwood is tempted to just remain there. Sit still on the edge of that bed. Listen to the hum of his air conditioner fan. Wait for Kent’s alarm. Think about what the day might hold, if he found his courage.

But he has never been patient. Even now, after everything, the tickle of impatience comes to him quickly. So, he gets out of bed and pads to the little coffeemaker. Carlotta and Al were most likely already in the office, brewing coffee and setting out the continental breakfast. But he has a ritual now. He drinks the first cup of coffee here in his room, alone. He listens to the hiss and spit of the coffeemaker until his single cup is prepared. Then he takes it with him while he stands near the sliding glass doors that lead to the tiny balcony, and he peers out through the sliver of the parted curtains at the world outside.

It is still there. The balcony overlooks a patch of forest, cut through by a creek.

He sips.

Contemplates.

Checks the depths of his courage.

If he can’t make up his mind before the cup is empty, he’ll get dressed and go to the motel office for his second cup. Maybe a banana or a breakfast muffin. He’ll see Bridget there, almost certainly. A teacher on summer break, she likes to eat her breakfast there in the office.  Carlotta talks her ear off, going on a long monologue about the history of Leavenworth, or city politics, or her grandchildren. Bridget just nods and spoons food into her mouth. Al stands by dutifully in case either woman needs something.

That’s what Fleetwood will see if he gets through this cup of coffee without finding his courage.

If he finds it, he won’t leave the room.

Kent is right, in his own way, he’s decided.

Leavenworth is perfect.

It is a perfect place to die.

Fleetwood

Then

The drive was six hours, more or less. He’d made it faster in the past, pushing the speed and only stopping for gas and relief. But that was when the destination was the entire point.  This one was about the journey.

Isabel sat in the passenger’s seat, fiddling with her phone. The sun slashed in through the window, highlighting the freckles sprinkled across her nose. He’d let her be in charge of the radio, though when she called it that, her eleven-year-old face screwed up in delighted contempt.

I’m streaming, Dad. Who listens to the radio? She shook her head. Jeez, you’re really showing your age.

Fleetwood chuckled at that. He had to admit that radio was a word that was swiftly losing its literal usefulness. Who did listen to the radio anymore? It was all streaming services and podcasts now. Even the few CDs he kept in the car rarely saw rotation. He expected the next car he bought wouldn’t come with a CD player in it at all.

Is the ban still in effect? Isabel asked, her voice tinged with hope.

All the way to Portland, he confirmed.

She sighed. I don’t get it. We’re going to see him play. Why can’t we listen to his songs on the way there?

You don’t want to be sick of his music when the curtain goes up, do you?

Fat chance. I barely know any songs.

You know more than you think.

"Yeah, because you play them, like, all the time. But I haven’t actually listened to them. Not really."

Then you’re in for a treat.

Isabel frowned. Even at her age, she was a researcher. She wanted answers, familiarity, knowledge. It was something she got from her mother, and one of the things he most loved about her.

How about this? he suggested. We’ll blast his full catalog all the way home, okay?

"That’s when I’ll probably be sick of him. Not now."

Fleetwood shrugged. Sorry, kiddo. Them’s the rules.

But why?

It’s a long tradition.

What tradition?

He was quiet then, wondering if he should tell her. How much of yourself do you reveal to an eleven-year-old who hasn’t figured out her parents are real people yet?

She seemed to sense his struggle. Come on, Dad. You can tell me. I’m not a little kid.

He glanced over. Her dark hair and oval face so resembled her mother that it was uncanny. Same with the knowing eyes that seemed as if they could see into his soul. Isabel couldn’t pierce the adult veil just yet, but he wondered if she saw her peers as accurately as her mother saw hers. It wasn’t quite a superpower