Week 27: Happy Father’s Day

The truck stops in Reno, Nevada are not the nicest in the world, but they’re a lot better than most. Some are well lit, some have decent food and there’s one out on I-580 with a $10 shower that will strip the paint off your chassis. Luke was about to finish a four week haul that saw him criss-crossing the western half of the lower 48 a few times before he headed back across the Mississippi and made his way home toward Peril County. 

It was about 4am local when he started out of the cab for a nice session of the 3S’s (Shit, Shower & Shave) and a big plate of eggs before getting back on the road. His feet were sweaty, so Luke decided to slip his boots off and throw on his flip flops. His gym shorts and Panther’s teeshirt were wet with sweat, and he was already looking forward to that powerful shower. What he was not paying attention to was the 5’ diamond-back rattler that had curled up under the steps of his truck, just a few feet from where Luke would soon be stepping down. The creaking of shocks startled the snake and it tightened into a tight bundle of scales, ready to strike. 

Luke pushed open the door to his truck and took in a deep breath of desert air. It was colder than he had expected this morning and the refreshing breeze felt good against his damp shirt after being cooped up in his truck for the past few hours. The snake below him sent out a rattle of a warning, but Luke was too lost in the thought of his shower to notice. He took two steps down toward the ground. The diamond-back intensified it’s rattle, but Luke didn’t hear anything. Feeling threatened, the snake struck, lunging quickly at Luke’s exposed heel. 

BANG! The sound of a gunshot rang out in the quiet desert night. Luke jumped and then fell to the ground, trying to find some sort of cover. When he opened his eyes, he saw two halves of a dead snake lying in front of him and a large shadowy figure wearing a white cowboy hat and carrying a pistol walking in his direction.

“Tha’s a close’un, Hoss,” the large man said when he got a little closer. In the light, Luke could now see  he was a man in his 50’s with salt and pepper hair that came down to his shoulders, a bushy white beard and a bulbous pot belly. “Rattler’s ‘er mean little shits, let me tell ya.” He reached down and helped Luke to his feet. “Name’s Nick Sherman. Folks call me Saint Nick. What’s yer handle, Hoss?”

Luke’s mind was racing. He looked down at the bifurcated diamond-back and back up to Saint Nick. “That thing was gonna bite me,” he said on the verge of shock.

Saint Nick patted Luke on the back, knocking some of the sand and dust off. “Well, he ain’t gonna bite no-one now.”

“Geez, man. Thanks. Let me buy you breakfast. It’s the least I can do,” Luke said, picking up his bag. 

After a quick shower, Luke met up with his new friend at the lunch counter. A few other early risers were already there, eating plates of eggs and toast. He plopped down next to Saint Nick and patted the older man on the shoulder. “I sure do owe you one. That thing woulda got me for sure.” 

The two men shared a nice breakfast together. Luke learned that Saint Luke grew up in East Texas and now lived in Oklahoma. His husband Frank ran an antique store in Broken Arrow, which is just a stone’s throw from Tulsa. They like to go hunt for rare finds at swap shops and thrift stores on the weeks Saint Nick is off of the road. He has two grown children from a previous marriage that was doomed to fail. But his grandkids lovingly call his partner “Aunt Frankie” and they both just ate that up. 

Luke told about his family in Baker’s Fork in Peril County. He’d been married to Rita going on fifteen years now and his children Zander and Hailey were the light of his life. He liked to go deer hunting in the fall and was learning to build rocking chairs in his dad’s old tool shed. They swapped road stories and throughly enjoyed each other’s company. 

“Well, I could sit here an jaw all day, but I got a load headin’ ta Abilene that ain’t gonna drive i’self,” Saint Nick said wiping the last bit of egg out of his beard. He stuck his hand out to Luke. “I’m much obliged for the breakfast. Hope we run into one another out there on the road again somewheres.” 

Luke took his hand and shook it vigorously. “I can’t thank you enough. Really.”

Saint Nick chuckled and, sure enough, his belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. “It ain’t often I get to shoot off ol’ Pearl when we ain’t at the range or way off in the boonies. ‘Sides, you’d a done the same for me.”  He patted the holstered revolver at this hip. 

“Well, you definitely earnt that nickname today. You sure was a saint fer me,” Luke said with a big grin. 

The two men walked out to the truck lot. “This is where I leave ya, Hoss.” Saint Nick stopped in front of a huge rig, painted red with green trim and twin branches of brown LED lights that looked like antlers sticking out of the engine block. There was even a red light on the front that gave the unmistakable look of a red nosed reindeer. He gave the Kentuckian a big wave and climbed into the cab. As he pulled out, he smashed his horn and it blared out the first eight notes of “Deck The Halls With Bails of Holly.” 

Luke stood in the parking lot and watched to truck drive off, shaking his head. “I’ve heard of Christmas in July, but that was something else,” he said to no-one as he turned to head into his own truck. 

New Orleans was the next stop on his haul, but there wouldn’t be any sight seeing or partying on Bourbon Street. He had to pick up a load from the Port and that usually took a couple hours. Over two thousand trucks will load up every day at the Port of New Orleans, not to mention the trans and freight boats that pass through. It’s one of the busiest ports in the world. As he was waiting, Luke watched the line of cruise ships off in the distance. He could see a line of passengers waiting to come aboard.

“Bet Rita would like that. She loves Myrtle Beach and I’d say that ain’t nothin’ compared to what you’d see on one a them trips,” he thought as he inched along the track to get his load. He made a mental note to look up prices for cruise lines when he laid down that evening. 

It was finally Luke’s turn to pull into the loading area. The dock foreman let him know that he had a full load for this trip and it would be about two hours to get him ready to leave. It was late, but he decided to try and call Rita anyway.

The FaceTime ring rumbled a few times before an error message came up saying she was unavailable. “Probably already in bed,” he thought. Luke took this time to check out the large selection of shops just a few blocks away. Zander’s birthday was coming up and he still hadn’t found anything for his coming home present for either of them. One shop featured Voodoo inspired trinkets and Luke quickly purchased a “100% unauthentic Shrunken Head” that many would probably find culturally insensitive. But Zander would get a kick out of it. Next door, there was a store selling candy from around the world where he found Arabian Honey Candy and English Toffee’s. He knew the kids would fight over them, so he bought two boxes of each. 

After his excursion to the stores, it was time to head back to the port and turn his truck north. Huntsville was his next stop, then on to Atlanta, Charlotte, Huntington, and finally back to Black Grass.

He’d had trouble reaching Rita and the kids most of this leg of the trip. She’d texted him a few times, but they never seemed to be able to connect on a video call. It bothered Luke, but he didn’t give it too much thought. Rita was odd like that sometimes and she had said that the kids were being punished by not getting any screen time right now. 

The road into Black Grass had been under construction for years, but a lot of work was done in the weeks Luke had been gone. Orange Barrels were only in half of the lanes now. It was foggy and dark when he pulled into his driveway on Preacher’s Creek. 

Immediately, he knew something was wrong. There were no lights on in the house and he didn’t hear Banner barking. He sat his bin of dirty clothes down by the door and tried the handle. It was locked. “It’s late, everyone’s asleep. Or the power is out,” he thought. But the pole light shining in his yard proved that was not the case. 

He pulled out his keys and unlocked the door. The house smelled stale and the a/c wasn’t on. “Rita?” he called into the darkness. 

No answer came. 

Luke walked into the kitchen and flicked on the overhead light. On the table, he saw an envelope with his name on it. His heart sank as he picked it up and pulled out the letter inside. He recognized Rita’s handwriting. It was smooth and deliberate. 

Luke,

I can’t deal with this anymore. If I’m gonna live by myself, I’m gonna do it at my momma’s where at least I have some help. I’ve been talking to a lawyer. Call Mama’s house when you get home and we can set up something where you can see the kids. 

It felt like he’d been hit in the guts by a shotgun blast. The room was spinning and he couldn’t think. A single tear streamed down the left side of his face.

He felt his phone vibrate and a twinkle of hope surged through him. “Rita?” he thought. 

He looked down to see an automated text from his route booking firm, wanting to confirm his next trip that started in four days. 

On the kitchen table, Luke looked down to find  a hand drawn picture of his family. On the top, scribbled with green crayon, Zander had written “Happy Fathers Day!”