Chapter 20
Christina jerked the steering wheel to the right and swung the Humvee into the small parking lot of the Rockfield Village Store, almost tipping it over in the process.
“What’s this place?” she asked after we skidded to a stop.
“Rumor has it that an old friend of mine works here.”
I felt a sharp pain down my leg as I struggled to get out of the vehicle. I stubbornly tried to walk without the cane, but it was a failed experiment. I slowly made it to the front of the store and entered through the same creaky door I remembered from my youth. In fact, the whole place looked exactly as it did when I was growing up. Rockfield was one big time-capsule.
I immediately spotted the person I’d come to see. But as usual, he beat me to the draw. “Well, looky here,” Murray greeted me from behind the counter. Always an impeccable dresser, he wore red suspenders over his button-downed Oxford.
He was in the neighborhood of eighty, although nobody was really sure-the old journalist never revealed his sources on that one. His hair and mustache had turned much grayer since the last time I’d seen him, but he still had the same youthful twinkle in his eye.
I limped behind the counter to give him a hug. He was always rail-thin, and I could feel the bones in his spine as we embraced.
After releasing, Murray looked me up and down, focusing on my cane. “Looks like I’m still getting around better than you these days, John Pierpont.”
A horrified look came over Christina’s face, and she mouthed in my direction, “Pierpont?”
Murray’s focus switched to her. “John Pierpont keeps getting older, but his girlfriends keep staying the same age.”
Christina begged to differ. “I don’t know what you’ve heard but…”
“Young lady, are you questioning my sources?”
“I think it’s time for some new sources, grandpa, because if you think JP and I…”
“I wouldn’t doubt his sources,” I cut in with a chuckle. “I heard Deep Throat is his bridge partner at the senior center.”
Christina, now understanding she was being hustled, flashed the look of a teenager who was embarrassed of her parents.
It seemed like a good time to make the introductions. “Murray, this is my chauffeur and future world renowned journalist, Christina Wilkins. Christina, this is my mentor, and the most over-qualified cashier in history, Murray Brown.”
“If I’m his mentor, I didn’t do a very good job,” Murray remarked.
“So you taught this guy to go off to places that make Hades look like the Club Med?” Christina asked.
“Oh no, young lady. I taught him the art of journalism. I thought he should have stuck with it, but instead he decided to join the circus.”
I pointed to the newspaper with the large headline:
Murray smiled at his premature eulogy. “All important politics are local. Your father and I didn’t agree on a lot, JP, but
“I believe he is much more likely to die from boredom than the cancer. You seem to have taken much better to retirement than him.”
“I learned that the best way to enjoy retirement is to never retire. My retirement is based more in myth than reality. I still stay involved with the paper’s management, and write a Sunday editorial, but I did acquiesce to my wife’s demands and hire someone to run the day to day. Which left me with too much idle time on my hands, so I took the job here. If you’re going to write about a community, you better know that community, and what better place to learn about the people of Rockfield than the Village Store,” he said with a smile, while simultaneously waiting on a customer.
“Once a journalist, always a journalist,” I added.
“I agree with that sentiment. But the question is-will you prove your theory correct, and return to your journalistic roots?”
“I’m currently unemployed, so I guess I’m open to anything.”
Murray smiled like he was up to something. He usually was. “It’s never too late to do what you were born to do. Perhaps you should think about the
“What’s the name?”
“Gwen,” Murray replied, unable to hold back a grin.
If his goal was to get my attention, he certainly succeeded. But before I could ask any of the endless questions that were about to cliff dive off my tongue, the doors creaked open and sunlight shot into the dimly lit store. When my eyes adjusted, I recognized Rich Tolland, who acknowledged me with a nod, along with his partner from the day before. And just like our first meeting, I immediately got an uncomfortable feeling as I looked into his eyes. I’d seen that look before.
The officers purchased bottles of water and candy bars. They made brief chitchat with Murray about the upcoming fair, before leaving. My eyes followed Officer Kyle Jones out the door.
Christina brought two peach flavored drinks to the counter, and a newspaper. Feeling nostalgic, I requested a vanilla swirl ice cream cone.
After Murray rang up the damage on an outdated cash register, and we bid each other a cheery goodbye, Christina and I exited into the sun-filled afternoon. I licked my ice cream cone and mentally rang up my own damage. It appeared she too had returned home.
Chapter 21
The Rockfield Fair festivities didn’t start as I’d hoped.
I attended the traditional football game with my parents on Friday night. My father was full of his usual energy and wore the green and gold sweatshirt with large ‘R’ on the front, as he did to every game during my youth. My mother was bundled up in a heavy sweater and turtleneck, but she remained anything but warm toward me.
Things with my brother Ethan actually became a little frostier. He’s been the head football coach at Rockfield High for ten years, and had numerous league titles to show for it. But when longtime Rockfield principal Wayne Mulville spotted me, he dragged me into the locker-room prior and interrupted Ethan’s pre-game speech. Mulville declared that “American hero JP Warner” wanted to say a few words to the team. When I waited for Ethan after the game to explain, I learned that he’d ducked out another entrance like a senior skipping out of study hall.
But I was still looking forward to the official opening on Saturday morning, marked by a parade down Main Street. My father was ready to go with blanket-in-hand at six in the morning. I struggled with the early departure, but after gulping down three cups of coffee like they were shots of bourbon, I was ready to go. I wanted to avoid being recognized, so I dressed incognito, wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses.
I’d never been a fan of parades, but after the events of the past few months I was just glad to be back home, and actually enjoyed sitting on the dew filled grass while watching fire-trucks and marching bands mosey by at a snail’s pace. When it concluded, we headed toward the town hall with the rest of the crowd.
First Selectman Maloney stood on a makeshift stage that was covered in patriotic red, white and blue
