Within a Man's Heart (2 page)

Breaking Away

While sipping coffee through the lid of a foam cup, I zigzagged through Manhattan’s Sunday-morning-quiet streets without a problem. I’d bought the coffee at a deli before returning to my apartment and it was lukewarm by now. But that didn’t bother me. Despite still having some reservations about leaving, my spirits were higher than they’d been in years. The sun was shining bright and I, Christian Crews, was on my way to the White Mountains. It didn’t matter that I’d never seen them. It didn’t matter that the only things drawing me to the area were Steinbeck’s short description, a handful of pictures I’d seen on the internet, and the images I’d conjured in my mind. If I didn’t work out, there was still that plan B.  

Yes, I pretty much had my ducks in a row. I had given Worldwide Paper the requisite two-week notice. I’d set everything up with my corporate customers so it would be a smooth transition for them and for whomever ended up filling my position. My company wanted me to stay, but that wasn’t going to happen. Each time Frank O’Mara, Vice-President of marketing, asked me to reconsider, his words had been drowned out by those of another voice—the voice inside my head. It was loud and clear. And it kept saying those same words over and over, “Live Free or Die. Live Free or Die.” I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I was hell-bent on at least
trying
to do exactly that.

With traffic light as it was, I made it out of the city and onto I-95 in no time. Although the new Volvo came equipped with a GPS, and I had it turned on, I still had my trusty atlas alongside me. I wanted it there. I needed it there. No, I didn’t need it for directions anymore, not with the nice lady’s voice from the dash-mounted GPS telling me well ahead of time where to make each and every turn. I needed the map for another reason. I needed it for encouragement. During the five-hour drive up to the Massachusetts/New Hampshire border, as I coursed six different highways, I don’t know how many times I glanced over at that map. And each time I did, the newly traced route out of Portsmouth caused me to ache inside. I couldn’t help but to feel I was leaving Elyse behind—abandoning her. But a funny thing happened each time one of those aches subsided. A small smile came to my face. They were melancholic smiles for sure, but they
were
smiles. I felt as if Elyse was guiding me north. And that sure helped. It bolstered my doubt-filled confidence enough to make me feel I was doing the right thing.

At about three in the afternoon, I crossed the border into New Hampshire for the third time in my life. On this fine spring day, all eight lanes of I-95 were abuzz with vehicles. I saw license plates from all over the Northeast, but the majority was from New Hampshire. Once again, the green lettering at the tops of all those plates shouted their message to me. And somehow they seemed even louder this time. For the second time in not very many miles, the corners of my mouth began to pull again. But this time my smile wasn’t melancholic. This time the gentle pull w
as rooted in a different emotion. It wasn’t a strong enough feeling to fill me with joy, but for the first time in a long, long time, a hint of contentment had found its way into my soul.

When I reached Portsmouth, the GPS lady ordered me to exit the bustling highway and directed me onto Route 16 North. Glancing at the road atlas once again, I double checked that narrow highway to make sure it ran all the way up to the White Mountains. It did. I patted the new yellow line; shut off the GPS; and
for the first time that day began to relax.

For the next hour I motored through a maze of what had to be the
greenest trees on earth. So close to the road were the towering pines and broadleaf trees that it felt like they were constantly embracing me. To this Brooklyn-raised boy, the drive seemed like one big, yet subtle, welcome party. Like a welcome home to a place I’d never been. Then it got even better. Nose to the windshield as I closed in on the town of Conway, I rounded a curve and the hills got bigger. An entire range of mountains seemed to be swelling from the earth. To this city boy the site was breathtaking. Other than my previous trips to the southern part of the state, and two others to Florida as a small boy, I’d never travelled far beyond the George Washington Bridge. And I’d never seen anything much taller either. The White Mountains may be considered small when compared to The Rockies, but to me these burly, verdant mountains were magnificent. I knew that somewhere before me, and not all that far away, was Mount Washington—the highest peak in the Northeastern United States. But there was also something I didn’t know. I hadn’t a clue that within the next thirty minutes something far more impressive would grace my eyes.

But before that happened, when I was maybe fifteen miles beyond the picturesque valley town of Conway, another event took place as I was tooling along through the dense forest on a narrow two-lane. The only things I’d seen besides trees were two passing vehicles, one fox, and an occasional cabin or mobile home. It was just the kind of a place I’d had in mind when I was back in New York dreaming about escaping to the North Country.

The sun was getting lower by now and had disappeared behind the tree tops. I was doing about fifty, and the air coming through my open window had gotten cooler yet. Steering around a gradual bend now, I raised the window a bit and then BOOM, it was there. I hadn’t seen it earlier because of the way the dense forest buffered the curving road, but there it was now—a huge, speeding truck. And part of it was storming toward me, on my side of the center line. It was
barreling
toward me. Its flat bed was stacked to the sky with logs every bit as long as the trees alongside me were high.

In half the time it takes to bat an eyelash, this truck from hell was right alongside me. I mean
right
alongside me—mere inches away. Even though I’d reflexively swerved as far to the right as I could, he was so close that I thought for sure the maniacal Mack was going to rip my outside rearview off. As weighted down as the truck was, I felt the road quaking beneath my wheels. The wind shear it created was so strong that when it rushed through the open window, it lifted the hair on my head—straight up! That I could live with it, but the tremendous gust also shoved the Volvo even farther to the right.

It seemed like forever before the truck finally passed, but the ordeal was still far from over. By this time both my passenger side wheels were rolling and bouncing on the grassy road shoulder. Quickly, I was being pulled toward the trees. Rigid as a corpse by now, I struggled and strained with the steering wheel, but the SUV would not react. It was like being on the back of an unresponsive, psychotic mustang—yanking and jerking at the reigns to no avail. This went on for a five-second eternity. I now thought I was going to lose the passenger side rearview, and my life, to the immovable wall of thick, brown tree trunks blurring alongside me.

But I didn’t. At the last possible second, I somehow managed to right the vehicle, just a bit. And with two wheels still thumping along on the grass, and me bouncing in the seat, I gradually coaxed the SUV back onto the asphalt road. And it’s a damn good thing I did. Another twenty yards and I would have smashed right into the first road sign I’d seen for miles. It was a worn and weathered thing that looked as if it had seen a hundred winters. About the size of a sheet of plywood, I had just enough time to read its faded black letters as I rolled by. It said:

WELCOME TO MOUNTAIN STEP, NEW HAMPSHIRE

Population 247—plus six old grouches

Had I not been so traumatized, I might have smiled, but at the moment the best I could do was shake my head a couple of times.

Up ahead there was another curve and just before it a few white houses peeked out from beneath the trees. There were two on each side of the road and all of them, except for one, were neat and tidy with freshly-cut lawns. All had porches and, since it was just two weeks after Memorial Day, one still had an American flag bunting draped across its railing.

As I got closer I could see somebody standing in the knee-high weeds in front of the shabby house. It was an old man, an overweight old man. And the only things he was wearing were a black eye patch and a Speedo that matched. He was looking at me as if I was the best thing to come down the pike in a long, long time. With eyes bulging and a beaming ear-to-ear smile he suddenly started bouncing on his toes, waving at me excitedly. Obviously the old-timer was on a different wavelength than most folks. The way he so enthusiastically waggled his hand and bobbed his head from side to side you’d have thought that, instead of me being a complete stranger, I was “Johnny” coming marching home again. As I drove by the poor guy, I flashed him a shy little return wave; then shook my head again, like I did after reading that sign. But this time I couldn’t help myself. I just
had
to smile.

Leaving the happy greeter behind, I
steered around the curve and found myself on another straightaway. Immediately I knew I was heading due west. The early evening sun that had fallen behind the trees a few miles back suddenly reappeared way off in the distance. And as I squinted through the windshield, the fiery red sphere looked like it was wedged in the notch that the road cut into the tree line. Nearly blinded by its light, I pulled down the sun visor, and I did it just in time. There was a stop sign just ahead. 

With the glare now out of my eyes, the red and white sign wasn’t the only thing I could see as I slowed to a stop. Right before me there was a small village. It was a quiet village, and the vision of it was absolutely amazing. The falling red sun casted a radiant glow on everything in sight. All of it was a luminescent pink—the two-pump gas station/convenience store, “Molly’s Mountain Step Café,” a general store, and a small weathered church. Beyond those buildings there were a few more businesses. But from where I was stopped, the only other two I could make out were a small shop with a “Used Everything” sign above its windows and a tiny library that sat beneath some tall oaks.

It was a quintessential New England hamlet. And in this magical early-evening light, it looked like a Norman Rockwell painting but with the kind of surreal illumination that could only come from a Thomas Kinkade brush.

With no cars coming from any direction, I just sat there in the idling SUV for a moment. As my eyes still wandered slowly, I whispered to myself as if it were a secret, “
Oh my God
. This is it! This is
exactly
what I’d hoped to find. No! It’s even better.”

But then I felt a tug. That all too familiar ache. It was pulling at the dark part of my heart again. And I knew, for the first time, that I hadn’t been able to leave it behind in my empty apartment. My face tightened, and then I said, “Oh Elyse honey. How I wish you were here to share this with me.”

Sniffling twice, I lowered my head and slowly massaged my brow. But I caught myself. I fought back. I sniffled just one more time then cleared my throat. I forced myself to straighten up in my seat again, looked three ways, crossed through the deserted intersection, and turned into the parking lot alongside the general store.

The Woman

After pulling into the unpaved parking lot, I slowly nosed my Volvo up to the side of the old wooden store. Glancing out the passenger-side window, I saw only one other vehicle in the lot—

a hulking green Chevy pickup with a snowplow harness on the front. It was parked alongside an equally
-green dumpster, beneath yet another tall row of elm trees. I could tell that the truck, just like the store, had seen its share of tough New England winters. The body had lost its luster and along with a dent in the door, there were two matching rust rings above its huge tires. I vowed right then and there that
if
things worked out for me and I stayed in New Hampshire, I would always keep a good coat of wax on the Volvo.

Stiff and road-weary, I made my way around to the store’s front entrance. Once there, I trudged up three stone steps and pulled opened a squeaky screen door. When I stepped inside and let the door go, the belligerent thing slammed me a good one right square in the behind. I gave it an unkindly look then just stood there a moment checking the place out. There was nobody in sight.

To my immediate right, a newspaper rack backed up to the end of a wooden counter that ran parallel to the front window. There was just enough room between the two for somebody to work what looked like an antique cash register. Down the counter, just past a small checkout area, a canister of beef jerky and a tall jar of pickled eggs stood next to a coffee machine. On top of the latter, there was a clean glass pot on each of the two burners; and next to the machine, four tattered chairs were lined side by side along a wall. Through a window above the chairs, I could see the black roof of my Volvo. 

It was so quiet in the store that when I heard a female voice coming from somewhere in the back it startled me.

“Who goes there?” the woman asked in a friendly tone.

Still unable to see anyone, I answered, “Oh . . . ah, it’s just me, a customer. I wanted to poke around a bit, if that’s okay.”

“Sure! Go ahead. I’ll be right with you.”

“Alright. I’m in no hurry.”

Now noticing a refrigerated section along the back wall, I slowly headed toward the row of glass doors. And as I walked along a worn path in the oak floor, I glanced around some more. The low shelves on both sides of me were well stocked with many of the basic items local folks might need. Everything from canned green beans to bags of flour to red-and-white fishing bobbers were neatly arranged and strategically located. A few steps later I came upon a small hardware section and then I heard that voice again.