Cornfields

By Chris Whitmore

Chip Thurmond, a 33 year-old high school English teacher in San Jose, CA, has a problem. Her name is Estella Santos, an obsessed, conniving, 17 year-old who sits in the back row of Chip’s 2nd period class. The girl, who fancies herself Juliet and Chip her Romeo, will stop at nothing in her pursuit of her inspiring English teacher. One afternoon she meets with him after school and fabricates a story about her dad molesting her. She pleads for Mr. Thurmond’s assistance, but is empathetically told the two of them will meet tomorrow with Estella’s school counselor. That’s not what Estella had in mind! That night she contacts Chip, telling him she’s run away and has nowhere to go. Can he please, please help her? She ends up on his apartment couch and when Chip rebuffs her advances . . . it’s game on for Estella. Early the next morning, Chip’s principal discovers on his cell phone pictures of Estella at Chip’s apartment, including one of her wrapped only in a sheet. Chip is placed on administrative leave pending his dismissal and thinking it best, Estella decides to disappear. Assuming his arrest imminent, Chip buys a trailer and heads east eventually landing in the little town of Jones Lake, KS where he hopes to enjoy anonymity while finding employment at the town’s small, rural K-12 school. Street-smart, fearless, and a little crazy, Juliet soon picks-up her Romeo’s trail. Her only wish in life it seems is for the two to consummate their love or die trying.  

Jones Lake, Chip assumes, is a small, innocuous place where little happens, He soon finds out differently. Loaded with intrigue, romance, mystery, crime, and mysticism, the small town is full of off-beat characters, including: a homeless man claiming to be an angel; a troubled but beautiful teaching colleague plotting the death of her husband; an ornery chief of police who’s antagonistic toward everyone; a girl-next-door parent smitten with Chip; a cemetery caretaker who talks with the dead; and many more. 

And, as if it couldn’t get any worse, Chip learns from his previous school that Estella Santos has learned his whereabouts and is en route. Is it time to flee again Chip wonders or has he journeyed far enough? Is he ready to confront the must cunning, self-assured person he’s ever known and again risk his career. Or, maybe it’s just time to pack his bags and head to North Dakota?   

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977273635

Chris Whitmore

Chris Whitmore started his 40 year career in education as a high school English teacher. Despite later moving on to school administration, Chris never forgot his love of teaching and interacting daily with his students. Dr. Whitmore lives in Indian Wells, CA, where he writes, plays golf, spends time with his four children, and four grandchildren, and occasionally takes a long road trip east. Cornfields is his first novel. 

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Jones Lake, Kansas. After four days at the wheel, Chip Thurmond could think of little else. A successful high school English teacher in another life, he’d inexplicably become a man-on-the-run. His flight from suburban Western Hills High in San Jose forced him across southwest deserts, over the Rocky Mountains, and down a straight Colorado stretch to the Kansas state line. There a wall of cornfields like an invading army marched across flat land.

Desperate and scared, Chip drove on, unable to erase the girl’s treachery from his mind. Her name was Estella Santos, a 17 year-old in his second period English class. She’d come to him one afternoon claiming her father being sexually inappropriate with her. Through her deceitfulness, she wrangled her way into Chip’s apartment that night and soon confessed her obsession with him. Immediately rejected, Estella rushed a text—swift as a dagger—to Principal Hollins. Soon the well-regarded teacher became the lead actor in a made-for-TV scandal … one sweeping through the school and neighborhood. And even worse, Estella in the turmoil had suddenly disappeared. Certain to be fired and even arrested, Chip fled.

A KS-142 sign whizzed by as truck and driver continued parting the fields, droning through unknown land. Hitched behind a weathered 29-foot Cherokee trailer swayed, the perfect coupling for his old pickup that somehow made the pull through the 10,000 foot Rockies.

Just 33, unshaven, his blue eyes sunken in despair, Chip no longer recognized himself. He nervously glanced in his side view mirror, wondering if anyone would follow. Losing his career and reputation were bad enough, but if harm had come to Estella, he’d be a wanted man. He recalled the line from the rejected girl’s note left on his couch: Stuff will happen now.

Jones Lake lay some 350 miles east. There a K-12 school waited in need of a high school English teacher. It seemed perfect, offering Chip a chance to pursue his love of teaching; to start a new life; and to live undetected in an obscure place.

Chip drove on through a morning clothed in clouds and humidity. Clutching his steering wheel to control the trailer’s sway, he had no need of a GPS, knowing the highway would travel straight into Jones Lake and right by the two-story county courthouse surrounded by trees like sentries guarding downtown. The courthouse grounds lay between 1st and 2nd, connected behind the courthouse by Front Street, a block of commerce including the Wheatland Cafe, Front Street House (1912) and the Border Ruffian Saloon. At a nearby corner stood the The Hole Truth, a tiny donut shop revered all along the stretch to much larger Emporia. And just north was the Jones Lake Union School, hopefully Chip’s future employer.

The lake from which Jones Lake derived its name was swallowed up in the 1920s by an engineered reservoir. Nevertheless, the name stuck, a fact that would have pleased rancher Hiram Jones who owned the first spread in the area. As for the new and larger body of water, locals refused to call it anything but the reservoir.

Along with lacking a lake, the town and its 2,100 inhabitants lacked a stoplight. Instead, brick buildings dressed in a leafy shade looked down on a generally content citizenry doing what they’d done for generations. It sounded ideal and Chip needed a job. That meant he had to teach. It was all he knew and remained his salvation. Never good at managing money, his cash clip in his levi pocket contained his remaining $300. He’d paid too much for the trailer, but his rush to depart didn’t allow bartering.

The school’s advertisement for a high school teacher sounded too good to be true. Not only was Jones Lake an innocuous dot on the Kansas prairie, but it also offered the Shady Lane Trailer Park, his new home he hoped.

And there was more. A mile northwest of town, and bordering the reservoir, the nine hole Howling Prairie Golf Course waited. These were desperate times, but without teaching and without golf, life had no purpose for Chip. Golf consumed him and although a challenged player—some would say inept—Chip dreamed of competence and admiration from his fellow players. When on the course, a kind of rebirth gripped him, though he never shared his euphoria for fear of ridicule.

His interview was tomorrow at 10 a.m. in the school library. He planned to pull into town by late afternoon, find a space at the trailer park, then search for the neck tie his rushed departure neglected. He’d called the school days earlier and spoke with Sadie Caldwell, the school secretary. She immediately faxed him the application which he filled out and faxed back the same day. Later she called and arranged the day and time of his interview. Not once did she ask the dreaded question: Tell me, Mr. Thurmond, why are you leaving your current teaching assignment?

In his prior life, Chip Thurmond enjoyed the status of a motivational and well-liked high school English teacher. His students respected Chip’s scholarship, enthusiasm, and friendly demeanor. Unlike most of his fellow teachers, he dealt with few behavior problems and even dared to teach Shakespeare to his more academically challenged classes. You have a death wish colleagues told him in the staff lounge, but it all worked.

That is until a week ago.

Part I

Pin Flight

May - June

2017

1

ESTELLA

Mr. Thurmond sat at his desk late that Thursday afternoon just two days away from the Memorial Day weekend. A writing assignment asked his students to create their own version of Romeo and Juliet’s balcony dialogue. He smiled as he read: Hey, dude, get your butt up here!

He looked up. She stood just inside his classroom, waiting patiently.

Hi, Mr. Thurmond. Can I talk to you?

Her name was Estella, a Latina student who sat in the back row of his second period class. She was pretty, mature, but unmotivated, and not approachable though Chip knew boys had tried.

He slid his stack of papers to the side. Sure, come in.

She sat in a desk directly in front of him, her skimpy top probably a dress code violation. He assumed she was here with the usual excuses for her missing assignment.

Is your paper in that pile there? he asked.

She shook her head. Sorry, Mr. Thurmond, but I think you’re a really good teacher.

Is this about your homework?

She shook her head again, then suddenly began to cry. He retrieved tissues from his desk drawer, handing them across to her.

What is it, Estella?

It’s my dad. He’s starting to … I don’t know … mess with me. She briefly cupped her breasts. Like this, she said. Last night he came up behind me and started again. I told him to stop, but he said he was my dad and he loved me so much.

Estella, you need to be talking to your counselor about this. I care about you, but it’s your counselor you should be sharing this with. She’ll know what to do.

I can’t do that, Estella answered, Ms. Martin always calls CPS or the cops. My dad will kill me. I trust you, Mr. Thurmond. You’re the only adult in the world I trust. You have to help me, please.

Her teacher stood and asked, What about your mother?

She moved back to Mexico. I wouldn’t go with her. I think my dad knocked her around, but Mom would never talk about it. Please help me, Mr. Thurmond.

Do you have brothers or sisters?

Two older brothers, but they moved out, too. They’re hanging out with gangs now.

Chip walked to the classroom door and looked down empty corridors.

What should I do? she asked, standing.

Give me your address. I’ll come over and talk with your dad this evening.

She stared at him, then said, I thought teachers were supposed to be smart, Mr. Thurmond. You don’t get it. As soon as you leave, he’ll beat the crap out of me or worse. I trusted you!

She suddenly stormed past him and out of the classroom.

Chip tried to return to grading papers, but couldn’t concentrate. As a teacher it was mandatory that he report any suspected child abuse to Child Protective Services. Now dark outside, he wondered if Estella was home. If not, where would she go? He stuffed his ungraded papers into his brief case. It was too late for him to make calls, but tomorrow he’d talk to her again.

Back at his cramped third-floor apartment, Chip switched off the news, still contemplating Estella’s problem. His cell rang.

Mr. Thurmond, she whispered, please can you pick me up?

Estella? What’s happening?

He started again and I ran out. He’s too drunk to follow me, but I’m not going back. Please, Mr. Thurmond, help me.

Where are you?

A bus stop. Near your apartment.

In his pickup, Chip made his way to where Estella stood waiting. She climbed in, still wearing her school clothes, but with her dark hair now unfastened and falling far past her shoulders. Without a word, he drove around the corner and parked at the curb, shutting the ignition off.

How did you know where I live?

She smiled slightly. Everybody knows where you live, Mr. Thurmond.

Yeah, I suppose. Look, Estella, we need to talk to the police. They’ll place you in protective custody. Your dad won’t hurt you anymore, I promise.

No, she said, no police. I don’t want to report my dad, I just want him to stop. I can live on the streets if that’s what you really want Mr. Thurmond. Just don’t expect to see me in school.

They sat silently, then he asked, Don’t you have any other relatives or friends you can stay with?

Not really.

Awkward moments passed and Chip said, Okay, I’ll find you a motel room just for tonight, but I have to call CPS in the morning. I’m sure they’ll be at school sometime early and find a safe-house for you.

Thanks, Mr. Thurmond, but I’m too young to stay at a motel alone. I’m 17. You’ll have to register me and I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?

He stared out the windshield as a light rain started. The drops increased, drumming the truck’s roof, complicating any solution. He glanced over, uncomfortable with Estella’s nearness, her scent, her skimpy top.

You must be cold, he said.

I’m okay. I just need your help. I know I’m not being fair. I know teachers like you have to be careful about female students. I get that, but this is so horrible. She turned toward him, eyes brimming with tears. Okay, she said, I’ll see CPS in the morning. Can I just sleep in your truck tonight. Park it somewhere safe and I’ll lock the doors. Maybe you’ll let me take a shower in the morning?

I can’t do that.

You won’t let me take a shower?

No, I can’t let you sleep in the truck all night. Not in this neighborhood or even in this weather.

Then maybe on your couch? I’ll clean your place sometime to make up for it. Girls like me are good at cleaning.

He feebly said, It’s small.

She brightened. Better yet, Chip. Can I call you Chip?

No.

She shrugged. I won’t be a problem, I promise. No one will ever know.

Unnerved by the girl … by the situation … Chip wavered. Never had he envisioned a female student sleeping in his apartment. Although tall and certainly charming in front of a classroom of students, Chip Thurmond suffered an insecurity when it came to women. He’d never married and his few brief relationships amounted to lost homework. With women, he considered himself a D+ at best.

He pulled away from the curb, temporarily relieved at having made a decision that settled Estella’s persistence. Minutes later, they made the climb to his third-floor apartment and stood contemplating his couch, the green one with pink flamingos.

No guest room, right Mr. Thurmond?

One bedroom, one bathroom.

I doubt if your students could imagine this, she said. Seems a long way from Shakespeare, right? What are those things?

Flamingos, he said, an artist’s rendition. You won’t notice them when the lights are out. He left the room briefly, then returned with sheets, a blanket and a pillow. Together they made her bed.

Toothpaste? she asked.

In the bathroom. We’ll be up early. I’ll drop you off a couple of blocks from school and we’ll meet at Ms. Martin’s office and get this taken care of.

Do you know how many girls at school have a crush on you, Chip? she asked. You should hear the stuff they say about you at parties after a few drinks.

Look I’m going to bed, he said, tossing the pillow down. You should be fine out here.

"Stuff like Mr. Thurmond, Mr. Thurmond, where art thou Mr. Thurmond? Actually way worse than that."

He quickly turned, walking into his bedroom and closing the door. His situation was risky beyond words and now Estella had turned from weepy to playful. If he could just get her to Ms. Martin’s office tomorrow, it might work. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he came to grips with what he had always suspected … Estella Santos was trouble. Perhaps he could deal with that, but the circumstances of her here in his apartment could never be justified. It was just 8:00 meaning another 12 hours before she became someone else’s problem.

A knock at his door startled him and there stood Estella, looking way too comfortable in her new surroundings. I know I’m a bother, Chip, she said, but I can’t sleep in my school clothes. I’ll either have to curl up naked with the flamingos or borrow a shirt or whatever. Any suggestions?

It kept getting worse. He went to a drawer and lifted his largest t-shirt, a celebration of Coachella, and handed it to her.

Thanks, Chip. She held it up, then smelled it and smiled.

He escorted her from his bedroom, this time locking the door. Stripping down to his underwear, Chip crawled beneath the sheets and hit the light. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

Another knock at the door. What is it, Estella? he shouted from his bed.

It’s locked, she said, how can I use the bathroom?

After turning his bedside lamp on, he wrapped himself in a blanket, and once again opened the door. She shuffled to the bathroom, his shirt just above her knees. Back in bed, Chip shut off the lights. The toilet flushed and out she came, leaving the bathroom light on behind her. She walked to his bed, turning once.

What do you think? Sexy, huh?

Estella, go to bed. Now!

Come on, Chip. Don’t be that way. I’ve seen the way you look at me.

What are you talking about?

It’s okay, she said, I like it.

You’re imagining things.

She sat at the edge of his bed. So imagine this, she said, I’m not wearing anything under this shirt. Do you know how many boys at school would kill to be you right now?

I’m not in high school, Estella. How about helping me out here?

You’re sweet, Chip. I know you’re not in high school. Do you remember when I was a sophomore and you had study hall for all the kids who ditched? You sat down and talked to me about how important my education was and I was being such a bitch, but you just kept talking to me anyway.

I talk to a lot of students, Estella. I don’t remember.

So, Chip, I knew that day you were the one. I’d never had a man talk to me like that. A cute one, too, but I’m sure you get that all the time. Anyway, I’m almost 18 and I’ve never let any boy touch me. You’ll be the first. Now … if you want. I mean your bed looks way better than the flamingos.

He threw the covers off, forgetting about his underwear, and led her firmly to the front room.

Stay out here, he ordered. I’m locking the door. If you need the bathroom, deal with it! We’ll be out of here first thing in the morning.

He left and she said after him, I’m not going away, Chip. It’s gonna happen.

A restless night followed and with first light, Mr. Thurmond edged his way to the living room, relieved there had been no further knocking at his door. At the couch, he found the blanket and sheets neatly folded next to the pillow and his shirt. He also found her note.

Dear Chip,

I expected more. I guess I thought Romeo would sweep Juliet into his arms.

I’m not giving up, Chip. Stuff will happen now and then we’ll be together forever. One way or the other.

Juliet

One way or the other was an incomplete sentence the English teacher noted, and what did it mean anyway? And stuff will happen? He flashed to Romeo and Juliet, a play Estella’s class was studying, then to the double suicide in the tomb that ended the star-crossed lovers forever. So, Estella—for once—had done her homework and read the play, creating her own little drama. My God, he thought.

He drove to school in a daze, then climbed the stairs to the second floor administrative wing, and walked right into Counselor Lesley Martin’s office.

How’s my favorite English teacher? Lesley said, cheerfully.

He closed the door. What can you tell me about Estella Santos?

Lesley, a matronly woman who cheerfully pursued all problems, was a straight- talker who students and faculty respected.

This sounds serious. No happy Memorial Day weekend?

Lesley, please.

Okay, sit down. Lesley pursed her lips. So, the enigmatic Ms. Santos. Off the top of my head, I’d say she ditches school when she feels like it, doesn’t care about rules or grades, makes the boys drool, and is probably a load of trouble waiting to happen. I’d imagine you’re her favorite teacher, but that figures since you’re everyone’s favorite teacher. I can pull her file. Why do you ask?

No behavior problems, weird stuff?

No, she’s too mature and bright for that. Probably stopped passing notes in the 5th grade.

Not exactly, Mr. Thurmond thought. Her note from last night was in his brief case and he considered handing it to Lesley but how would he ever explain the circumstances?

Lesley said, Chip, if Estella’s in some kind of trouble, I need to know. What’s going on?

It’s complicated, but I’m a little worried about her situation. The grades, the absences.

Isn’t it a little late in the school year for that? You’re not telling me something.

He lifted his brief case. I have to get ready for first period. Thanks, Lesley.

Let’s have lunch, she said. I want to hear more.

As Mr. Thurmond arrived at his classroom door, several of his students were already waiting, all eagerly anticipating his fun and often theatric explanations of Shakespeare’s language and characters. Sadly, today’s lesson would be a disappointment. Throughout the 55 minute period, Chip struggled to maintain his focus and to keep the class engaged. Second period arrived and Estella’s back row seat was conspicuously empty. In the middle of the period, a young blonde guy, maybe 22, stepped into the room.

Can I help you? Chip asked.

Hi, Mr. Thurmond. I’m your sub. Ms. Martin told me to take your class.

Surprised, Chip announced to his students, Read Act 2, Scene 3 again and keep it down. I won’t be long.

He and the substitute, a Mr. Drew, went into the hallway. Sorry, Mr. Thurmond, I thought you were expecting me. You’re wanted in the office. It seems urgent."

"The class is studying Romeo and Juliet, Chip told him. Just have them read aloud starting with Act 2, Scene 3. We’re talking about why Friar Lawrence agreed to marry the couple. Thanks."

Chip hurried along the corridors to Lesley Martin’s office. A substitute was never assigned without a teacher’s request unless there was an emergency. It all seemed too coincidental. Stuff will happen now Estella had written.

He found Lesley waiting for him and no longer cheerful.

Happen to know who Irma Santos is? she asked.

Chip sat down. No. Why?

Ms. Martin frowned. You should. She’s Estella’s older sister, her guardian. It seems Estella didn’t come home last night and Irma wanted to know if her sister was in school today. What do you know, Chip?

Her guardian? What about Estella’s dad? She lives with her dad.

My God, Chip. Estella’s mom and dad died years ago in a car accident in Mexico.

No. That can’t be. She told me her dad was being inappropriate with her.

She told you that? What the hell’s going on, Chip?

I don’t know where Estella is, he blurted out.

Do you know where she was last night?

He hesitated. At my apartment, but I can explain.

Lesley stared at him. What was she doing there?

I told you. She reported her dad being inappropriate with her and I gave her a place to stay. Just for the night.

You’re telling me you didn’t know Estella lives with her older sister?

Lesley, I see 180 students every day. I can’t know all their details.

Details? Give me a break, Chip. Estella Santos is different and we both know it. My God, what were you thinking?

I was trying to help her. I can’t believe this is happening.

Well, you better start believing. Dr. Hollins is in a dither and wants to see you immediately.

Does he know about this?

He knows something. Apparently Estella sent him a text. Lesley shook her head. I’d wish you luck, but you really don’t deserve it Chip. I mean, how could you possibly be so stupid?

Dr. Hollins, the school principal, was a tall boss at 6’4". He seldom concerned himself with students, rather devoting his energies to what he considered The Three Cornerstones of a successful school: order, respect, and industriousness. He could be a menacing figure in a teacher’s doorway and often intimidated the younger staff. In Hollins’ universe, the essence of a school was its reputation and by extension his own. Anyone jeopardizing either was expendable. Neither Chip or Lesley liked him.

Take a seat, he said gruffly as Chip walked in. And shut the door.

Without pleasantries, the principal asked, Estella Santos is a student of yours?

Yes, she’s in my second period class.

And what is your relationship with her outside of school?

I’m not sure what you mean, Dr. Hollins.

Really? he said, pulling open a drawer and lifting a cell phone. An awkward silence followed as he manipulated the screen.

Handing his cell to Chip, he said, "I received this from Estella this morning. She called it A Good Time at Mr. Thurmond’s Apartment."

Chip took the phone, his hand shaking, his spirit sinking. He scrolled through the pictures: first a shot of his couch without bedding, then a picture of his open bedroom door, followed by a shot of his golf clubs standing in the dining room corner, then a selfie of Estella in the Coachella shirt, and another of her without the shirt, standing bare shouldered and wrapped only in a sheet, and finally a picture of his front door and apartment letter.

Dr. Hollins waited, stone-faced. Is that your apartment?

Yes, but I can explain.

The principal offered a dismissive wave. And that’s Estella Santos, correct?

Yes, but …

Just how did she come to be there?

She was having problems with her dad and needed help. So I picked her up at a bus stop.

At a bus stop? Is that your shirt she’s wearing?

Yes, I loaned it to her. Chip shifted in his chair, realizing how damning it all sounded.

And did Estella spend the night?

I don’t know. I told her she could sleep on the couch, but she was gone by early this morning. I don’t know when she left.

You’re sure she didn’t end up in your bed, Mr. Thurmond?

My God, no! She slept on the couch. I locked my door.

Did you have sex with her?

Absolutely not!

And tell me again why you allowed her into your apartment?

She ran away from home. She told me her dad was being inappropriate with her.

Ms. Martin informs me her dad is deceased, Hollins said.

I swear I didn’t know that. She made up a story.

The principal shook his head. I’ve heard enough. Effective immediately, I’m placing you on administrative leave pending a full investigation. Clearly, what you’ve already admitted to is grounds for your dismissal, but to placate our teachers’ union, you’ll get your due process and a full investigation.

Chip gripped the arms of his chair, face burning. May I say something, Dr. Hollins?

I suppose, the principal said, but understand this … though I’m not recording this conversation, whatever you say will be a part of the record.

I was just trying to help her. I have a note from her that says as much.

Bring it to the hearing, Mr. Thurmond. He reached across his desk with open hand. My phone, please, he said and after receiving it, he slammed his desk drawer shut harder than needed.

I don’t understand why Estella would do this, Chip lamented.

Suppose you reflect a little more on your own actions, Mr. Thurmond. And incidentally, Estella’s sister has made an appointment to see me this morning. I’m informing you that I’ll be sharing these pictures with her and don’t be surprised if she files charges against you. Especially since Estella’s disappeared.

She’s disappeared?

The principal shrugged. She’s not at school, she’s not home, it’s a tough neighborhood. Apparently you’re the last known person to have seen her alive.

Dr. Hollins, I did nothing wrong. I was just trying to help her.

Everything you did was wrong! Angrily leaning forward, Hollins said, Do you know how much damage you’ve done to this school? I’ll be cleaning this mess up for years. Not only have you ruined your own career, but you’ve besmirched mine and all of your colleagues. He waited, then said, Get a good attorney, Mr. Thurmond. If any harm has come to Estella, you’ll need one.

My God … I can’t believe this.

I’d suggest you start, he said. Estella is missing and your apartment’s her last known whereabouts. Like I said, it’s a tough neighborhood. You figure it out.

The principal paused, then said, In the meantime, you are to leave this campus immediately and will not return prior to an administrative hearing and my recommendation to our school board. You may stop by your classroom after school today and pick up your personal effects. That is assuming you’re not already in custody. Lesson plans for your substitute would be appreciated.

Chip started to rise. Just a moment, Dr. Hollins said, softening his tone. It pains me to say this, but if you have done harm to Estella, accidentally or otherwise, you would be wise to inform me now. This needs to be resolved quickly for the good of the school.

Chip rushed from his seat and fled the campus.

2

PEERLESS SMITH

Ten miles from Jones Lake, Chip eased his rig to the shoulder. With the engine running, he flipped on the truck’s air conditioning. The AC wasn’t advisable while tugging a load, but now the cool air brought the afternoon’s first respite. Sweat trickled down his back as he sipped at his bottle of warm water, its moisture soothing chapped lips. Two trucks sped by, one honking. Chip looked across the highway at a flat field littered with rolled bales of either hay or alfalfa. He grimaced, realizing himself a teacher in search of employment in Kansas, who didn’t know the difference. Even worse, he hoped to teach Shakespeare to farm kids living lives full of chugging tractors, squealing pigs, and vast fields of corn.

He dropped his head to the steering wheel. Allowing Estella into his apartment was the mistake of his life. And now he was running away because he was a coward and couldn’t deal with it. He couldn’t deal with Estella, either. She told him that night I’ve seen the way you look at me. He’d denied any of it, but in truth, Estella Santos was hard to ignore.

He had to go back. Running away would do no good. What if Estella was somebody’s victim like Dr. Hollins suggested? Chip would be the primary suspect and a nationwide manhunt would ensue with Chip’s face plastered all over the Internet. Some one would spot him in a second. He had to turn around and confront his mistakes, not run from them. If Estella was missing, he had to find her.

A tap on the passenger window startled him. An old guy in a tattered sports coat stared in. He gestured downward, then opened the door.

Didn’t mean to surprise you, fella, he said, pleasantly enough. Just thought I’d inquire if you’d give me a lift into Jones Lake. Ain’t far.

I’m not going there.

Like I said, it ain’t far and being there’s nothing between here and there, I figured you were.

I’m going back to California.

The guy rubbed a scraggily beard. All the better reason to push on to Jones Lake first, then head back.

I’m turning around here.

With that trailer on this highway? That’s asking for trouble, fella. The old guy paused, then said, I’d recommend continuing east to Jones Lake and making a circle around the courthouse, then be on your way back west. Better for you and better for me.

The stranger pulled himself into the cab, dragging a bulky satchel with him. I’d be honored to accompany you and provide directions. Ain’t far.

Chip checked his sideview mirror. KS-142 was clear in both directions. He glanced over at his passenger, a local character no doubt.

I’m turning around right here, Chip said. Could you please get out and stop traffic in case someone comes along.

No, sir, that’s dangerous work. I’d require some form of remuneration for that.

You’re talking about money?

That’s a clip in your pocket there.

It’s all I’ve got. Look, I’m having a rough time here. How about helping me out?

Offering his hand, the old guy said, Name’s Peerless Smith. I’m known in these parts. Hobnobbed around the Flint Hills all my life. Good deeds are one thing fella, acts of stupidity another.

Can you make change for a $20?

Truth is my services would require two $20s, but my suggestion—like I said—is to continue on east to town, then turn around and come on back. You’ll lose 20 miles or so, but you’ll wake up tomorrow.

I can make it, Chip repeated. He pulled out his money clip and peeled two $20s, handing them to Peerless. There, happy? Maybe you’ll reconsider after this is done.

I’m not one to abet foolishness, the old man said, climbing out of the truck, but you being bound and determined and having made your contribution, I’ll do what I can.

Chip eyed the two-lane turning radius, realizing he’d have to back the trailer up at least once to get it turned west. Before today his stops consisted of pull-thru rest areas and Walmart parking lots—all selected to avoid backing up 29-feet of swiveling metal.

Peerless stationed himself at the highway’s center, straddling his satchel, looking in both directions. He signaled for Chip to move forward.

The truck lunged and Chip edged it along the shoulder, searching for a wider spot to turn. Looking east he could see a speck shimmering through heatwaves, a vehicle probably traveling 70 mph and definitely coming his way. Peerless raised his hands, wanting Chip to start his arc. A determined Chip eased truck and trailer onto the highway and began his turn, but stopped as the trailer groaned in protest.

Peerless stood at the passenger door. Too sharp, he said, ease up. He started to move away, then shouted, Something’s coming from town. Probably the 4 o’clock Greyhound bound for Denver.

Chip looked east. It sure did look like a bus. Panicking, he shifted forward, lurching into the westbound lane. With the highway now blocked, he shifted to reverse, but the rig resisted.

Waving his arms, Peerless rushed to the driver’s side. In reverse you got to turn it the opposite direction you’re wanting to go!

The approaching Greyhound slowed, its horn blaring. Chip looked west where three pickups stood in a line, the first with Colorado plates, the driver’s frown as wide as a wheat field. An undaunted Peerless remained on the road, gesturing the correct maneuver.

It’s now or never Chip thought as he pulled forward, then shifted to reverse and hit the gas. An agonizing shudder followed, tearing trailer and ball hitch apart. The pickup’s front tires lifted as a free-falling trailer smashed into the truck’s rear bumper, both crashing onto asphalt.

Peerless opened the driver’s door. Hop on out, he said, ain’t much more damage you can do today. You jackknifed the trailer and popped the hitch. Lost your rear bumper, too.

Covered in sweat, Chip noticed more vehicles behind the pickups and also passengers hustling out of the now parked bus whose driver was striding their way.

That’s Mort, Peerless said. You just made his day.

Chip surveyed the damage. His truck and trailer stretched across the highway, blocking both lanes. For now, KS-142 was closed to traffic.

Mort arrived, a flushed, rotund man in uniform and cap. Never seen nothing like that, he said You get your driver’s license at Disneyland?

I’m really sorry, Chip stammered, just miscalculated, I guess.

I got 52 folks on that bus due in Denver by 10:00 tonight. We got schedules in this part of the world. He glanced at Peerless. And just what are you doing here, old man?

Bound for Jones Lake having concluded my business in Fowler. Mind your manners, Mort.

A siren wailed in the distance and flashing lights came into view.

Mort shared the obvious. Here comes the law.

Someone must have called it in, Peerless said.

The guy with the Colorado plates ambled over, his handsome face in the shade of a full-brimmed hat.

Never backed up a trailer before? he said to Chip. Should have asked, I do it everyday with my horse vans. Some of us were talking … , he stopped, looking at the trailer. What’s the hitch weight? We got some able-bodied men here, we might be able to move it off the road. I really need to get on the trail, buddy.

It’s too heavy for lifting, Peerless said. Ain’t no paramedics in Jones Lake, but we got a tow truck. Let the local authorities take care of things.

The fellow shrugged and ambled away.

You don’t look so good, Peerless said. Stupidity ain’t necessarily a crime. Take it easy.

The Kaw County Police unit pulled in, tires screeching, vehicle fishtailing near enough to the gathering of bus passengers.

Chip felt the old man’s grip on his arm.

That’s Captain Coleman himself. Be polite and cooperative. It’s your mistake and you’re sorry. That’s the script. Getting pissy with Coleman never works. If things go south, let me do the talking. I’m your star witness.

Chief of Police Coleman opened his patrol car door and stood for a moment scanning the growing line of vehicles in both directions. Reaching for his recorder mike, he said: We got a 25-30 foot trailer and a damaged pickup with California tags in the middle of KS-142 blocking both lanes west of town. Appears the driver tried to turn it around and didn’t know how. Nearby we got a Greyhound bus stopped with Mort and a bunch of passengers gawking. Out west a line of vehicles is waiting to move on. Witnesses might be Gregg McGowan, our School Board President, and Chance, a rancher from Colorado. We got our local itinerant, Peerless Smith, standing next to some guy in his 30s I’ve never seen before. Probably the perpetrator. Could be drugs or alcohol related. We got a probable reckless driving charge, an illegal u-turn on a state highway, yada,yada, yada. No sign of injuries.

Officer Coleman walked confidently toward the trailer, but first shouted at Mort, Get your passengers back aboard!

I’m already running late, Mort shouted back.

Did you see this?

Saw the whole thing. The guy’s an idiot.

Coleman nodded, continuing his assertive walk toward Chip and Peerless.

Hello, Peerless. How’d you get mixed up in this?

Just trying to get a ride into town, Captain. How are you?

Coleman looked around. I’ve been better. He eyed Chip. You responsible for this, mister?

Yes, sir, I had some trouble turning my trailer around.

You don’t say. I’ll need your license and registration. Also, your keys.

Is that normal, Chip asked, I mean to take my keys?

Is here.

Chip handed his keys over and Coleman said, Well? Go round up your documentation.

Coleman turned to Peerless, Started out a nice quiet day in early June. Thought I might play a quick nine holes this afternoon. What’s your role in all this?

Just call me the acting consultant.

Coleman laughed. Always a funny guy, Peerless. He looked around. Don’t get much dumber than this.

It ain’t as bad as it looks, Captain.

Chip returned with his license and truck registration. Coleman took a quick look. I saw your tags. Can’t say I’m surprised you’re from California. Where you going, Mr. Thurmond?

"I was going to Jones Lake."

And then you decided to turn around?

Yes. I decided to go back to California.

I told him a few of our dirty secrets, Peerless joked.

Coleman scoffed. So you came over 1,500 miles then thought you should go back? What about your trailer?

Chip hesitated. "You mean moving it?

No, I mean where’s the registration?

I’m not really sure. I don’t remember.

Could be inside the trailer, Peerless said.

Have a look, Coleman told him. And Peerless, get on your tax-payer phone and call Rod. We’ll need a tow truck. Then call Sally and tell her I want Deputy Lloyd here pronto. I’ll be taking Mr. Thurmond to the station and can’t wait around to open up the highway. You’ll find me at the cruiser checking up on the guy.

Mort’s bus horn blared and Captain Coleman ignored it. At his trailer, Chip tore through the place, but found nothing. He rejoined Peerless.

You look scared out of your wits, Peerless said. "You wanted by the law or something?

I don’t know.

Peerless frowned. You find the trailer registration?

No, I don’t remember anything about the registration.

Seems the Captain’s already decided to take you in.

I should have listened to you.

You’d profit by remembering that.

Captain Michael Coleman strolled back. A broad shouldered guy with a middle-aged belly, he came clean shaven with cropped greying hair. Impressive sweat stains defined his armpits.

No trailer registration, Mr Thurmond?

No, sir. Sorry.

Coleman said, "It’s illegal to make a u-turn on this highway. You’ve inconvenienced a lot of people, Mr. Thurmond. I’ll be taking you in for further questioning.

You’re arresting me?

I’m holding you. Coleman gestured toward his patrol car. Please wait over there. I’ll be with you in a moment.

I’ll bring your pickup in, Peerless shouted to Chip.

The tow truck arrived, Rod’s Towing Service written across the door in bright red cursive. A disheveled guy in a baseball cap clamored down.

Lordy, who did this? he asked.

Coleman said, Mr. Thurmond from California. Seems he got all the way to east central Kansas, then decided to turn around and go all the way back. Seems he didn’t know how to back a trailer up even though he drove it over 1,500 miles.

The Greyhound’s horn blared again.

A guy like that won’t have any money, Rod said. I brought Luke to help out. And what about the truck bumper there? What do you want me to do with that?

Just throw it into the back of his pickup, Peerless said.

Coleman glared. Peerless, I’ll decide what to do with the damn bumper.

They waited and Coleman said, Hell, we ought toss it out in the prairie. Go ahead, throw it in the back of his pickup. And Peerless, did I hear you say you’d bring Mr. Thurmond’s truck into town?

Ain’t no harm in helping the guy out.

Problem is, I know you don’t have a driver’s license. You can’t drive his truck.

Would you accept a little cash just to get this done? The old man reached in his pocket and handed Coleman two $20s. How about just letting me bring the truck in as a way of helping Mr. Thurmond? Ain’t far, Captain.

Officer Coleman took the money and handed Peerless the truck keys.

I suppose, Peerless. I’ll consider this a donation to the office emergency fund.

Just as I intended, Captain.

Rod and his helper Luke, a tall, high school senior with weight room biceps went to work, attaching trailer to tow truck. Deputy Lloyd pulled up and after conferring with Coleman, entered the trailer for a quick search. At the patrol car, Coleman opened the back door and told Chip to watch his head while climbing in. A cage separated Chip and driver. Leaning back, Chip closed his eyes, keen to the smell of leather and the sound of a roaring AC.

At the tow truck, Rod asked Peerless, You know where Captain Coleman wants the trailer taken?

Take her to Shady Lane, Peerless said.

Did you clear that with Dot? I don’t wanna get there and have her squawking. That woman’s got an attitude.

Peerless held up his hand, then from his satchel produced a cell phone. Dot Vargas answered his call.

Ah, Dot, he said, how are you, love?

You start sweet talking, I know you want something. What is it?

I’ve got a friend with a 30-foot trailer who needs a place to park. Any vacancies?

Three spaces right now. The best’s No. 29 by the creek. What friend?

The trailer will fit?

Of course it will fit. Who’s your friend?

You’re a princess, Dot Vargas. Rod should be there in less than an hour.

Rod? Rod your friend or Rod the tow truck guy.

The latter, dear.

Peerless Smith, what in the hell’s going on?

My friend’s been temporarily detained by Captain Coleman. Nothing serious.

Dammit it, Peerless!

No worries, sweetie. I’ll be along to facilitate.

Peerless hung up and watched Rod and his helper Luke awaiting the okay from Deputy Lloyd before hauling the trailer on its creaky journey east.

Space 29! Peerless shouted to Rod.

3

CAPTAIN COLEMAN

Neither Chip or Captain Coleman spoke during the ride into town. Chip remembered Peerless Smith’s admonishment: be polite and be cooperative. He could manage that, but the idea of Coleman performing a background check worried him. What did Coleman know? Was Chip officially a fugitive? If so, Coleman wasn’t saying.

Been to our little town before? the Captain asked over his shoulder, as his cruiser slowed, passing over Jayhawker Bridge.

No, sir. Can I ask you a question?

Coleman eyed him in the rearview mirror. You can ask.

What are you gonna to do with my trailer?

Rod’s got a salvage yard out behind his garage. It’ll be secure there until we get this wrapped up.

Chip didn’t respond, instead watching tree-lined Shady Lane Drive pass by on the right. The road led to the trailer park where he hoped to reside. Farther along came railroad tracks running parallel with the highway. Chip saw the depot, an old but well-maintained structure. On the left, the cruiser inched past 1st Street as Chief of Police Coleman, like a tour bus docent, began commentary on the town. Between 1st and 2nd stood the handsome Kaw County Courthouse, sweeping sprinklers soaking the front lawn. Tall trees including ash, poplar, elm, and a single stately oak covered the grounds. Coleman turned left at 2nd.

We’re taking the scenic route to the station, he said.

You’ve got some beautiful trees in this town.

Coleman grunted. You people are all the same. If we had more time, I’d pull over and let you hug one.

Chip asked, Peerless has my truck, right?

That old coot. Yeah, he’s got it. He’ll bring it by the station unless he crashes into something.

At Front Street, they made another left. Chip glanced at the post office, the Jones Lake Market, and noticed school signs leading toward a two-story building father up 2nd. My future employer, Chip thought, although that now seemed unlikely. Recently arrested teaching candidates rarely get offered teaching positions.

The Border Ruffian Saloon came next with its swinging front doors followed by the Front Street House (1912), and the Wheatland Cafe. All faced the back of the courthouse. Another right took them directly to the Kaw County Police Station. Coleman swung into the rear parking lot behind the squat, rectangular building.

Inside the back door, a dimly lit walkway led past unoccupied jail cells. A larger greeting area followed, including a counter facing the street entrance and a closed door on the right with gold lettering reading:

Captain Michael Coleman

Chief of Police

On the counter a full-throated fan turned left and right. Sally, the office manager, rose from her seat by the dispatch console. She looked a gaunt woman around 50 in a simple print dress and coiled hair bun.

We’re getting a lot calls about the highway, she said. People want to know if it’s open yet.

Call Lloyd. It should be by now. Then call that damn Hank. I told him last week to stop watering the courthouse grounds in the afternoon. Does no good … wind just blows it away.

Sally snuck a glance at Chip. Is this the guy with the trailer?

Yep, Mr. Thurmond. He likes our trees. Take a seat in my office, Mr. Thurmond. Leave the door open.

Chip entered, sitting in front of Coleman’s desk. Plaques covered the walls, along with a set of antlers and two stuffed fish. A golf bag full of shiny clubs stood in a corner. Chip examined the cluttered desk, then turned his attention back to the plaques. The Captain was a popular Citizen of the Year designee and—judging from the plethora of Marksmanship Awards—a good shot, but it was the golfing plaques that caught Chip’s eye. In the outer office he heard Sally say, You might as well put Peerless on the payroll, Mike. He’s been on that phone of his all afternoon.

Hell, I bought it for him. Came in handy today.

Coleman entered and took a seat behind his desk, giving his cropped head a rub. So, Mr. Thurmond, he said, we’re about to have a little chat. Anything you say can be held against you. Just answer my questions directly and none of that 5th Amendment crap you people out there hide behind. Ain’t no aces in your deck today. Are we clear?

Yes, sir, very clear. I’m sorry about all this.

You interest me Mr. Thurmond.

Chip didn’t respond.

Peerless seems an advocate, but from where I’m sitting, you suffer poor judgment and got no business pulling a trailer.

Right on both accounts.

What are you doing in Jones Lake?

Your school’s advertising an opening for a high school English teacher. I have an interview tomorrow.

Coleman leaned back in his chair. And why would you come all the way out here to teach school? You like humidity? Cornfields? Bugs? Tornados? Fruit jello? Or maybe it’s our redneck farmers, small town snoops, and overheated theocrats. Or is it our weather? Do cold winters; hot summers; and wind that never stops blowing appeal to you, Mr. Thurmond? If so, you’ve come to the right place. Or is it something else? Enlighten me.

I’m changing lanes, Chip answered, looking for a place where life’s a little slower. I’ve been teaching in a large urban school for years and decided to try something new. Maybe an identity crisis. I don’t know.

Then you tried to turn around 10 miles out. That’s no lane change… that’s a 180 degree death wish.

A panic attack is all I can say.

Coleman gave his head another rub. Sally walked in grasping a hanger and a shirt identical to Coleman’s.

Your wife dropped it off earlier. Said you might need something fresh.

Just put it in the closet, he said. And close the door, Sally.

Coleman waited, then asked, You know anything about our school, Mr. Thurmond?

Not really.

It’s an embarrassment. Our graduates can’t read or write and if that’s not enough, me or one of my deputies gets called over there almost every day. We got fights, vandalism, assaults, fire alarms going off, you name it. They got just over 200 kids and over half of ‘em are 12 or under. The whole damn place is out of control.

Is there a principal?

Coleman scoffed. Name’s Mirth. Spends his time at luncheons in Emporia telling the Elks Club or some damn organization about his secrets of leadership. When he is around and trouble starts, he hides in the boiler room downstairs.

I should have done a better job of turning around.

Oh, it gets worse, Mr. Thurmond. One of the guys inconvenienced out on the highway today is our School Board President. Names Gregg McGowan. He remembers you and you’re toast."

Maybe not, Chip said. You saw what I did and you and I are getting along just fine.

Who told you that?

I was just thinking we might be two golfers bonding.

You play golf, Thurmond?

Yeah, I love the game.

That so? I’d consider golf tougher than backing-up a trailer. You any good?

I shoot in the low to mid 80s mostly, he answered. That was a whopper of a lie, but Chip needed a shiny object, something to catch Coleman’s attention.

Really? My congratulations … that makes you about the fourth best golfer in town. Only yours truly, the dentist, and the donut maker play better than that.

I noticed your plaques. Looks like you’ve won a few tournaments.

A few. The three of us play on the weekends out at Howling Prairie. I just might invite you along if by some miracle you take up residence here.

I’m a well-qualified teacher, Chip responded. I might surprise you.

Yeah, well, I ain’t much for bursting bubbles, Thurmond. You see about getting your trailer back from Rod, find a place to stay, and do your interview tomorrow. You’ll owe Rod some big bucks and he ain’t much for credit. If you make it to the trailer park, you’ll be dealing with Dot. She’ll want something up front, too. Woman’s quite a pistol. Watch yourself. If all else fails, rooms at our only hotel run around $80.

Coleman stood, not offering his hand, and walked Chip to the door. You decide to leave town with that trailer in tow, I want notification. You’ll need an escort.

I’m free to go?

That’s the idea. You owe me a moving violation, but I’m waiving it for now. You got enough problems.

There’s nothing else?

Coleman frowned, then shouted to Sally. Where the hell’s Peerless? He was told to bring that damn truck here.

Peerless Smith lurched along Shady Lane finally reaching a wooden sign reading:

Welcome to Shady Lane Park

Spaces available by the month

Overnight guests welcome

Rustic setting with creek

Pulling onto the park’s gravel lane, Peerless eyed Space 1 with its large screened porch. From beneath the trailer, Dot’s two German shepherds rushed out, creating a ruckus before retreating. With gears grinding, Peerless continued on to Space 29, pleased to see Chip’s trailer already backed in neat and tidy. The trailer’s only door faced a picnic table covered in hand-carved initials. A primitive fire ring sat nearby and a few strides later the site descended sharply toward Kaw Creek and its lively flow. Stands of cottonwoods sheltered the site.

Peerless spotted a piece of yellow paper taped to the trailer door. Leaving the truck, he read Rod’s invoice, listing charges of $250 for bringing the trailer to Jones Lake and another $100 for backing it in. Thank you for your business Rod printed at the bottom among smudges of grease.

I’d think so, Peerless said aloud. He was in the wrong line of work, but since he wasn’t in any line of work, he guessed it a moot point. He folded up the invoice, climbed back in the truck, and stuck the yellow paper in his satchel. The guy didn’t need any more worries, he figured. Shifting into reverse, Peerless grimaced at the grind. It was time to negotiate with Dot.

The dogs growled and sniffed, but Peerless paid no mind. He’d had his time with dogs both gentle and mean and could handle both. He rapped at the porch door and down the trailer steps came Dot, cigarette in hand. She always looked the same. A 40- something woman, smallish, but lean and mean, with short dark hair, too much make-up, and usually braless.

So where’s the owner? she asked. I’m not in the habit of people occupying my spaces without making their acquaintance.

He’ll be along, Peerless said. Got any lemonade or sun tea. It’s been a busy day.

Sit down, old man. I’ll get you something cold while you figure out how to explain yourself.

She brought tea and Peerless enjoyed a long gulp. Both reclined in plastic chairs on green outdoor carpet.

So, Rod came and went, she said. Had Luke with him. I’m telling you, that boy gets better-looking every day. She took a drag. Anyway, they were here and got it done. Talk to me Peerless. I’m not a happy woman.

His name’s Chip Thurmond and I like him. He’s got problems and I’m asking for a little time.

Dammit it Peerless. What kind of problems?

Well, he was last seen sitting in the back of Coleman’s patrol car headed for the station.

What’d he do?

Accidentally blocked some traffic out on the highway. He’s trying to start a new life here. I don’t know all the details. I’m just trying to give the guy a chance.

Has he got a job?

He just got here, Dot.

Dammit, Peerless, you’re ruining my day. She took a longer drag, then looked around for an ashtray.

Just give it a few days, Peerless said. When you meet him, you’ll like him.

Liking doesn’t pay the bills.

I just think something good might come of this. Something good for everyone.

Through the smoke, she stared at him. What’s got into you?

I have a good feeling about Mr. Thurmond. That’s all.

You and your do-gooder friends in Fowler?

That’s right. They meet him—they’ll know.

She stood and went to her trailer, returning with an ashtray and two beers. So, where is he? she asked.

If Coleman let him go, probably looking for his truck. I’ll go round him up.

Brightening some, Dot said, I’ve got a date tonight. Meeting a guy named Earl at the Border Ruffian. We connected online.

Put some underwear on.

You mind your own damn business. I don’t need you leering at me.

It sends the wrong message, Dot. Are you gonna help my friend or not?

Peerless, dammit, there’s no reason I should.

It might mean more than you think.

She frowned. I swear, old man, I’ve never heard you talk like this. Annoyed, she snuffed her cigarette. Tell him he can stay in his trailer tonight and we’ll work something out tomorrow. And no more comments about what I’m wearing. You ain’t so old I can’t whack you.

Peerless excused himself with a wave, then bumped along in Chip’s truck toward town. He parked next to the Wheatland Cafe. Meatloaf starred as the cafe’s Sunday Special, a dish the homeless man relished. Joe, the owner, owed Peerless a favor and the old man was cashing in.

Good evening, sir, Peerless said on his cell. Could you manage two orders of meatloaf to go? I’ll be a few minutes. Need a word with the law first.

You got it, Peerless, Joe answered. Wifi’s working great. Thanks for setting that up for me. Business has never been better.

Minutes later, Peerless stepped into the police station. Coleman’s office door was closed and Sally looked unhappier than usual.

Looking for the prisoner, Peerless said.

Peerless Smith, she answered, shame on you. Rod just called about securing the trailer at Dot’s. She nodded at the closed door. He’s gone home, but when he finds out that trailer went to Dot’s and not to Rod’s, there’ll be hell to pay. What’s the big idea?

Peerless shrugged. Mr. Thurmond needs a place to stay tonight and now he’s got one.

A little free advice, Sally answered, don’t get too big for your britches, mister.

Can’t afford to, Peerless responded, only got one pair.

Later—with two dinners, including extra mashed potatoes and peas—Peerless headed east on Washington, a block north of the business district and the first of thirteen residential streets named chronologically for U.S. presidents. A right at 3rd and Peerless was back at the highway. He started toward Rod’s and immediately spied the truck’s owner walking along the railroad tracks and pulled even. Chip hurried over.

Sliding into the passenger seat, he said, You were supposed to bring the truck to the police station.

Had a change of plans. Your trailer’s at Dot’s.

You mean the trailer park?

Right. Ain’t far.

Chip twisted in his seat. Man, something smells good.

Dinner, Peerless said, I figure we’re both hungry. How’d it go with Coleman?

He asked me a few questions and let me go. Didn’t even fine me.

No, but he’ll be watching you. You mind your manners.

He seems like a fair man to me.

Fair, but ornery. You watch yourself.

They pulled up to Space 29, both pained as Peerless downshifted. Chip stared at his trailer through the day’s remaining light.

I can’t believe it. It’s parked and ready to go.

You can thank Rod, Peerless said. Folks around here grouse some, but they ain’t bad people.

Chip jumped out. I hear water, he said, hurrying toward the creek.

Later they found plates, glasses, and utensils inside and with his new friend Chip dined at the picnic table, sharing a bottle of merlot discovered in Peerless’s satchel.

All the spaces have hookups, Peerless said. Electrical, water, sewage just like home. You know about hookups, right?

I understand the concept. Not so much the details.

For a guy with a trailer, you’re remarkably uniformed about its functions. Or even how to drive it.

You really helped me out today. Even fed me.

It cost you $40. Coleman keeps it in cash at the office. Seen him use it plenty of times helping others.

Chip thought about that as his finger traced MM + PS etched into the table.

My interview’s tomorrow, he finally said, and I didn’t pack a tie. Anywhere open in town I might find one?

Town closes at dusk except for Joe’s and the saloon. Hold on. Peerless opened his satchel, commencing a search.

No way, Chip said.

Finally, Peerless lifted a wide, wrinkled tie vertically divided by a zipper. Had this a long time, he said. Wear it to weddings and funerals mostly.

What’s the zipper for?

Concealing something. Go ahead, take a peek.

Peerless handed it over, feigning a sneaky look around the park. Somewhere a trailer door slammed, some children skipped by laughing, and in the distance the Eagles celebrated a corner in Winslow,