Start with a middle-aged man who lays tile for a living but doubts himself in many ways. Add a wife who is seeking satisfaction of any kind: sexual, personal, and getting rid of a childhood addiction. Throw in a neighbor who's mentally challenged and a target for the neighborhood bully who doesn't care whom he roughs up, even if it's neighbors' pets. For added tension add the thoughts of a young married couple who believe every thing their young daughter tells them, even when it hurts others. Finally, throw in the lonely life of a woman who's probably frigid and hopes to connect with a man and life. Mix these characters well and observe how they touch each other's lives in a way small towns are commonly known for. The results bring death, revelations, and redemption.
Tracking Lives
By James D. HandAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 James D. Hand
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4389-9735-3Chapter One
Harry Ludlow stood sideways in front of the mirror, trying not to suck in his stomach but afraid to look at his reflection without doing it. He might not be too muscular, he thought, but if he could avoid the middle-aged spread, all was not lost. Love handles be damned! He wanted-no, needed-a trim look.
"Do you need to take a lunch today, Honey?" queried Hazel, his wife.
"No, I'm pretty sure I'll be home for lunch. I'm just going for an estimate this morning, nothing more. I'll call you when I'm leaving there, just in case something else comes up," Harry said. He was not quite as confident about his appointment as he probably sounded to Hazel, but he tried to hide his insecurities as best he could. He knew he seldom succeeded. It was easy to read Harry's inner feelings.
When he was a youngster, Harry was always a prime target of the schoolyard bully. Gary Dickey was his name and terrorizing younger kids was his game. And he was good at it. Actually, all a bully has to do is huff and puff like Billy Goat Gruff and he will find an attentive audience in the neighborhood. If only the poor beleaguered victims had had the acuity to analyze Gary, they would have realized he was just making up for a lack of love and respect he received from his parents. The old expression "Misery loves company" was Gary's theme song, whether he knew it or not. "Pass the pain" would have worked just as well, for Gary seemed jealous of the happiness of others more than he did of their grades or possessions. Seeing Harry playing with David Payner at cowboys and Indians, Gary would quickly grab all the arrows he could get his hands on and break them over his knee, not that he wanted arrows. He just wanted to see someone cry and they usually did.
Then there was the time when Harry and a friend rode to the edge of town on their bicycles to have a fun day climbing a hill that was known as a place where, years ago, Indians had buried their dead. The boys had been there many times and always hoped they would see some bones sticking out of the ground, perhaps holding a hatchet, but it never happened. The best they could do was pick around in the dirt and look for Indian beads. On this particular day, however, their fun was cut very short by the appearance of Gary Dickey. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to know where to be to find his victims and Harry was one of his favorites. Gary really didn't do that much to intimidate Harry and his buddy. His repertoire of mischief for that day consisted of little else than shoving Harry and Bob around, kicking dirt on them, and making them roll down the hill to the bottom. It could have been funny if Harry and Bob had given it much thought, but they had left their sense of humor at home; they were lucky not to cry. Once at the bottom of the hill, they hopped onto their bicycles and rode directly home, but not so fast that they were unable to hear Gary's wicked laughter.
Another day Gary was delighted to discover that both he and Harry had decided to go to the Y.M.C. A. at the same time. Gary couldn't believe his good luck. Actually, it was easy to find Harry at the Y, as he called it, for it was one of Harry's favorite hangouts. He loved to play ping pong, swim, and shoot baskets. Normally he took the time to lock his bicycle when he arrived at the Y, but one day he forgot his combination lock and had no choice but to leave his pride and joy standing in the bike rack without protection. Gary, recognizing a gift from Heaven, jumped on the bike while Harry was inside and went for a joy ride. Eventually he left it lying on its side in an empty lot not far from where they both lived and then waited for Harry to come home. He acted concerned when Harry arrived, worn out from a walk of 13 blocks, and began asking questions about its whereabouts. He even feigned surprise that someone would actually steal a bike from the Y. After an hour or so, Gary couldn't stand it any more and told Harry what he had done and where the bike was. Harry tried to get up enough courage to give Gary a shove or least do something-and Gary hoped that he would-but Harry just couldn't muster up the nerve. His only attempt at getting even was to call Gary a bad name under his breath as he started trotting toward the vacant lot. If Gary heard the name he ignored it. He was satisfied with what stress he had caused Harry that day.
Harry's worst moment of being tortured was right in his front yard. He found himself lying on his back with Gary on top of him, yelling at him to say Uncle so he could be let up. That would have been the ultimate disgrace, so the only alternative he had, as he saw it, was to tell another friend who was watching the sad affair to go tell his mom that Gary had him pinned to the ground. In retrospect he wished he would have at least swung his arms and fists at Gary even if it had been a futile effort. Perhaps Gary would have respected him a little bit for the effort, but Harry was never to know that. Yelling for Mommy was his first line of defense. And so it went.
A quick glance at his watch told Harry that he would be in plenty of time for his appointment. He smiled as he remembered the times others had marveled at his punctuality, thinking he surely had been in the military. No, it simply was important to him to arrive either on time or early, whatever the occasion was. Why chance a late arrival and be subjected to all those glances, all those accusations: Who do you think you are? Where have you been? What do you have to say for yourself? Letting the door shut quietly behind him after a quick goodbye kiss to Hazel, he complimented himself on leaving early. If no one else noticed his punctuality, he certainly did, and that's all he needed, he concluded.
Harry was sensitive; he always had been. He had no idea how it all started, but it was not coincidental that heal ways rooted for the underdog in any sporting event. It takes one to know one and he knew himself thoroughly. He was the archetype of the fellow in the football joke: When the team huddles, they are doing so to talk about him!
He had tried to figure out the reasons for his insecurities and sometimes found himself scratching his head, although he didn't know why that was supposed to help. It just seemed like the thing to do. He recalled being so nervous when he was a kid that he had chewed a knuckle on his right hand so much it became raw and eventually left a scar when it healed. Oddly enough, he never chewed his fingernails or showed any overt signs of nervousness or insecurity, unless you call grimacing such a gesture. His dad has once told him he grimaced just like Louie Tinzer. Harry had no idea who that person was, so the comparison was lost, and he never knew if it was a compliment or criticism. He was afraid to ask.
Then there was the time his friend George Lewis had talked him into bleaching his hair with peroxide and ammonia when he was a senior in high school. It was supposed to make him look cool, but after George saw the results, he refused to let Harry bleach his hair. In a week or two after the experiment as the roots began to grow out, Harry looked even more ridiculous and tried to keep as low a profile as possible in school. His parents were so confused about why he did it they asked only a few questions and then shrugged their shoulders. His classmates didn't even bother to laugh behind his back. The fall from cool to stupid was immediate.
He switched from one radio station to another as he headed west. He couldn't decide if he wanted country/western music or classics from the 70's. There really wasn't much choice anyway because in the early morning hours there were more commercials than music to corner the unlucky many who were trapped in a 9-to-5 job and had to commute. Harry was self-employed. He eventually turned the radio off since he didn't have any tapes in his van. He very seldom left tapes in his van because they scooted all over the floor mat and invariably got separated from their plastic cases. A cluttered van meant a cluttered mind, he concluded, and that was not appropriate. He hummed a few favorite tunes until he arrived at his destination.
"Hi, Harry, c'mon in." It was Jennifer, someone he had worked for before.
"Hi, Jennifer," Harry offered. "I'm glad to finally see your new home, another work in progress." He tried to say the appropriate things with being ingratiating.
"Yes," she said, "and it's already too small. I'm pregnant."
Harry was very surprised, not only because of her age but also because he hadn't noticed her condition. "Talk about a work in progress," he blurted out, and he walked over and gave her a perfunctory hug. "Congratulations," he added, almost forgetting to say it. Immediately he wondered why he had hugged her since she was just a customer and not really a friend. And then he said, "I know what causes that, just in case you don't." He was immediately sorry he had said something so stupid, especially since Jennifer was clearly elated to tell him the news.
"Stephen and I are very happy, especially since we thought we couldn't have any more children. And Caitlin is very anxious to meet her new little brother. Now all we have to do is come up with a name."
"How about Harry?" he said, and winced at his weak joke. Jennifer didn't acknowledge his attempt at humor. Why would she? It was time to get down to business.
Jennifer pointed out the areas where she wanted the tile laid while Harry jotted down some time and material notes. Sensing that Jennifer was in a hurry, Harry skipped his normal, precise method of creating an estimate and just jotted down some quick figures in an almost cavalier fashion. He hated to keep people waiting.
"I'll do it for $5,000 dollars," Harry ejaculated, almost breathless as he noticed Jennifer looking out the window toward her car. Where is she going? he wondered. Man, am I in the way or what!
"I'll take it!" Jennifer seemed to gleefully pounce on his projected fee and he immediately felt that he had underestimated it. He tried to rescue the moment.
"Boy, this seems low," he said, and he scratched his head, thinking that self-effacement might help save the day for him, might make Jennifer cry out, "You're right! I'll give you twice that amount!" Instead, she said.... nothing, but glanced at her watch. Was that a diversionary tactic to throw him off? Harry's paranoia kicked up a notch. "Well, since I've worked for you before, I'm sure we trust each other enough that we don't need to worry about the estimate, so we'll see what happens." He waited for her response. Nothing. He wanted so desperately to believe what he said that he concluded he didn't even need to send her and Stephen a detailed list of exactly what he was being asked to do, or what he thought he was being asked to do. She would do the right thing, wouldn't she?
Jennifer gave Harry a Mona Lisa smile. Now what did that mean? Thanks, sucker. We got the bargain of a lifetime. Can you start now? Is this your first estimate? How do you like working for free? There was no way he could fathom the depth of her reaction to his estimate. He took off his cap and scratched his head again. Then he put it back on quickly. She must think I have fleas, he mused. How do I get out of this mess? he wondered.
Jennifer solved his dilemma for him. "I have to go to the bathroom," she said. "I'm sure you understand."
Of course he didn't. At the moment he didn't understand much at all, except that he was, once again, acting like he had just graduated from a School for Fools at the top of the class. He forced himself to stop biting his lip as he nervously waited for Jennifer to return from the bathroom. He didn't know if he was supposed to go or stay. He wished for a rule book on How to Talk to a Pregnant Woman. He would pay top dollar for such a book, especially if it had pictures.
"Oh, you're still here," Jennifer said when she returned.
Instantly Harry jumped up, dropping his clipboard and cursing his dilemma. "I'll let myself out," he stammered. Was it his imagination or did Jennifer say, "Are you sure you can find the front door?" He reached into his rear pocket for his handkerchief, one of his diversionary tactics that he had developed. Unfortunately, there was none there and he didn't know how to rescue the movement. With a weak smile, he put his calculator in the pocket. "After all," he said to the front door, "it's a pocket calculator." Then he took it out and punched in some random numbers as he exited the house, just in case Jennifer was watching him.
As he was backing out the driveway, he realized that he hadn't told Jennifer when he could start. No surprise there, he thought. Not much had gone right for Harry with this estimate. Well, at least he was on time. Things could have gone worse, he supposed. He decided to go back home before taking care of the rest of his business of the day, which wasn't much. He hoped Hazel would be pleased to see him back so quickly.
Chapter Two
A cock was once strutting up and down the farmyard among the hens when suddenly he espied something shining amid the straw. "Ho! ho!" quoth he, "that's for me," and soon rooted it out from beneath the straw. What did it turn out to be but a pearl that by some chance had been lost in the yard. "You may be a treasure," quoth Master Cock, "to men that prize you, but for me I would rather have a single barley-corn than a peck of pearls." Marshall let the screen door slam behind him even though his mother had told him many times not to do that. As soon as he stepped out onto the front porch, he stopped, forgetting what he had had in mind when he left the house. It didn't matter anyway; there was a butterfly on the banister that caught his attention. Hugging the boards of the house with his back, Marshall tried to silently creep toward the butterfly, unaware that the clumsiness of his left foot would never allow the word silent to work for him. To further make his mission possible, he placed the palms of his hands also flat against the boards of the house. Finally he put the heels of his shoes against the house and then he was set to pretend he was a shadow fleeing from the sun. It was a great idea and Marshall smiled to himself as he considered what he must look like from the street: a black ghost being absorbed into but moving along the side of the house. He giggled, he writhed, he flinched, and he scooted completely along the porch to the furthest banister and, extremely proud, gave himself a high-five which would have looked to someone walking down the street as though Marshall was trying to clap with one hand. Alerted, the butterfly flitted away, unseen by Marshall who was now intent on playing "Here's the church, here's the steeple, open the doors and see all the people" with his hands. His uncle had taught him that for his twenty-fourth birthday and he was pretty good at it, good enough to demonstrate it to anyone who had the patience to watch.
"What are you doing, Honey?" It was Millie, Marshall's mom. He remained motionless. He wondered if she could see him. Ghosts are invisible, aren't they?
"I just made some chocolate-chip cookies," she continued. "Would you like some?"
Marshall nodded, or at least it looked like a nod, even though his mom was still in the house, but he knew that she would know he wanted one..... or two. He had a good mom. He slid back against the house toward the screen door and as he did, he could smell the cookies his mom was talking about. A small bit of saliva made its appearance in the corner of his mouth, indicating that there certainly was nothing wrong with Marshall's salivary glands. He even smiled as he put his index finger to his mouth to pick up some of the spit and wipe it on his shirt. Millie met him at the door.
"Here you go, Honey. They're still warm. And I also brought you some milk. I thought you'd like that better than iced tea."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Tracking Livesby James D. Hand Copyright © 2009 by James D. Hand . Excerpted by permission.
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