Saving Brooksie Read online

  Saving Brooksie

  Prologue

  Summer 1981

  John lifted his ball cap as he drew the bandana from his back pocket. The sun was definitely punishing him for coming out today. He should have been sitting next to the air conditioner with a tall glass of iced tea and a good novel. He swiped the rag across the top of his balding head just as someone brushed against his arm.

  A harried woman who looked much too young to be much too pregnant nudged past him with a mumbled pardon. She then slapped a five-dollar bill onto the card table cluttered with bibs, baby pajamas, and miniature shoes.

  “I’ll take that playpen,” she said to the tattooed woman with the leathery skin.

  John dabbed his forehead with the bandana as he watched the exchange. While he tucked the rag back into his pocket, the young mother-to-be proudly received her treasure from the nomadic merchant. The young lady lifted the folded playpen over her head and carried it past the other bargain hunters with a something of a bounce in her step.

  To some, it was a treasure hunt, but to John it was just an overgrown yard sale.

  He scanned the crowd of people nearby, knowing his wife couldn’t have gone far. When it came to shopping, she was never one to hurry along. John didn’t understand it. He gave each table 2.75 seconds to lure him in. If he didn’t see something he wanted, he moved on to the next table. Take the baby clothing, for instance. He knew that he wanted nothing at the table after less than one second – time to move on to the next.

  Although, he did stop and watch the lady who pushed past him. He just wanted to understand what had lured her with such intensity. She must have seen the playpen earlier, wanted it, and then came back when she had the money. It was time for John to move on.

  Just then, he spotted his wife three tables away. Cheryl was apparently haggling with an elderly gentleman over the price of a radio-controlled car. Ever the bargain hunter, she wouldn’t back down until she won her prize. First she’d try the tough customer routine. Then she’d turn on the charm. Finally, if all else failed, she’d bring out the sob story and follow it up with a few tears. The flirtatious giggling told him that she was well into level two right now.

  He smiled and then glanced down at the table beside him. The large glass-topped cases at this table were loaded with old coins and baseball cards.

  “Ya’ see anything you want, jus’ holler,” the grizzly man said from the back of his ancient yellow and rust pickup, “We’re packin’ all this up and leavin’ for Pennsylvania at five.”

  Why couldn’t he just look in peace – John wondered. And he wasn’t really even looking. The 2.75-second limit had already passed. Cheryl was always into these summertime flea markets. John, however, always got the creeps from these solicitors – much the same as when the carnies attacked him at the fair.

  “I can cut ya’ a deal on full cases of Topps or Donrusstradin’ cards,” the man prodded.

  That was enough for John. Even if he wanted to look, he wouldn’t. If Grizzly Adams wouldn’t let him browse in peace, he would just go to the next table.

  The next table, loaded with worn paperback books, was being watched by a teenage girl with a mouthful of bubblegum. She cracked her gum loudly while she stared into a compact mirror. If John felt like stealing a book, no one would ever know.

  “Look what I got for two bucks!”

  Cheryl sidled up beside him and held out the knobby-wheeled dune buggy. The glittery red paint was scratched in a few areas, but otherwise, it looked brand new.

  “You think Richard will like it?” she asked, “And don’t tell me he’s too old for radio-controlled cars.”

  He kissed the side of her head and took the vehicle from her.

  “I’m not even too old for something like this. Rich will love it,” he replied, guiding her toward the next table.

  She always called their son Richard in spite of Rich’s strongly expressed wishes. Of all the ways a teenager could assert his independence, this was trivial and worthy of their respect according to John. He also understood this desire since he was burdened with the same transition into manhood many years ago. To this day, his family still refused to call him John. He would forever be Johnny to them.

  “I think we should pick him up on the way home. Darren’s house doesn’t have air-conditioning, so I doubt he slept good last night,” Cheryl stated, “This heat is a killer.”

  John’s attention was grabbed by a table loaded with a bunch of old signs – both decorative wooden and aluminum. The long table had lured him well within the allotted time. It wasn’t the signs however that caught his attention, but rather the words on them: “Bethel Lake Park – 2 miles”, “Bethel Lake Park cannot be held accountable for lost items”, “Welcome to the Strat-o-Ship”, “Bethel Lake Park will charge 25 cents for towels not returned”, “B.L. Park 8 miles”

  “Wow,” John said, lifting the towel sign, “How did you get all these?”

  The lady behind the table smiled proudly as she enjoyed his reaction.

  “My granddad headed up the demolition crew in 1958,” the lady stated.

  “What’s Bethel Lake Park?” Cheryl asked, looking down at all the vintage signs and plaques.

  “Are you kidding?” John asked, stepping back and grinning at his wife, “That’s where we live. Bethel Lake Park was one of the greatest amusement parks of the 20th century. It was razed sometime in the 1950’s.”

  The lady behind the table just nodded and smiled. She took a drink from her bottle of RC and then set it on the table.

  “Why would they destroy the park if it was so great?” Cheryl asked.

  “It couldn’t compete with the larger parks like Brady’s Point or Stow Beach,” the lady stated, running her finger along a large arrow-shaped sign, “Bethel Lake Park simply ran out of room to expand and couldn’t accommodate the growing needs of the thrill-seekers. Just like today, the customers rush to the newest rides or the biggest parks. If you refuse to grow… well, you die.”

  “That would have been so cool to have an amusement park right here in Silver Falls. What side of Bethel Lake was it on?” Cheryl asked.

  “Our side,” John stated, “Our whole neighborhood was built in the late 50’s right overtop of the old park site.”

  Cheryl picked up the little “Bethel Lake Park” keychain and spun it on her finger.

  “That’s so sad,” she said.

  John glanced up at the lady who seemed to agree with his wife’s statement. Then he noticed some large, ornate pieces of furniture behind her.

  “Are those from the park also?” he asked.

  She turned around and nodded. She set her bottle of soda down and then approached the dark wooden chair. Her mind seemed to drift as she ran her finger down one of the ornamental spindles in the back of the chair.

  “These two chairs are from the dining hall. That engraved bench was from the picnic area and the mirror is from Hilarity Hall,” she said, pointing to each item, “That was the name of the funhouse. The bronze spittoon is actually stamped with the old symbol of the park. I have three of those, but I only brought one. And that door, believe it or not, is actually from the old Wisteria Ballroom.”

  John just stared at the vendor’s wares in awe. Cheryl looked over at the man she married a dozen years ago and just shook her head. Every time she started to think of him as a forty-six year old man, he tumbled back into that world of teenage wonder.

  “How much for the door?” John asked.

  Cheryl elbowed him, almost knocking the dune buggy from his arm.

  “What?” he asked.

  “It’s…” she started to say before lowering her voice, “It’s ugly. What do you want a door for?”

  “I was thinking about the tool room i
n the basement. It’ll keep the cold air from entering the rest of the basement. Besides – it has history.”

  She shook her head. The lady glanced at Cheryl and then looked over at John.

  “Five bucks,” she said, “And the reason I say only five bucks is because it weighs a ton. I’m tired of lugging it.”

  “I’ll take it,” John said, reaching for his wallet.

  “But…” Cheryl grumbled.

  “It has history. And look at the wisteria engraved on the corners. It’s a piece of a world that doesn’t exist anymore,” he whispered.

  “And you’re going to hide this piece… this piece of history in the basement?” she asked.

  “Fine, we’ll use it for our bedroom door and…”

  “In the basement it goes!” Cheryl blurted, “If we must buy it, I don’t want to see it.”

  He offered a smile to the lady and handed her the five-dollar bill. John steered around her table and walked past the other furniture. He approached the door and grasped it by the edges. Just then, he noticed something shiny imbedded into the thick wood in front of his nose.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  The lady grinned as she stepped closer and pretended to examine it with her fingertip.

  “That, my friend, is the bonus piece of history that comes with your door. It also comes with a million theories. That…” she said, scratching at the little hole in the door, “is a bullet that may have killed Patience Webb.”

  1

  June 9, 1928

  The lipstick she had been swiping across her lips jumped only a hair, but it was a hair too much. The knock on the door had startled her. Patti watched her shoulders slump in the mirror as she envisioned another fifteen minutes of arguing. She sighed as the door opened slowly behind her.

  “Hey, girl.”

  It was Lowell again. He poked his head in and smiled at her reflection, still holding the door partially open.

  “I gave the okay on the photo shoot,” he said, watching the familiar anger appear on her face, “Now, hold on. I know what you said, and I swear I took it into serious consideration. But Patti, you have no idea what this can do for your image.”

  “My image?” she shouted, tossing the tube of lipstick onto the vanity shelf, “I know exactly what it could do to my image! I told you I wasn’t going to do it. I told you-”

  “Hush, sweetie,” he interrupted, stepping in and quickly closing the door behind him, “The walls of these trailers are thin. We don’t want everyone to hear you disrespecting your agent that way.”

  She stood up and turned to the source of her frustration. He was twisting that hideous “LB” ring that he always wore on his pinky. She often wondered if he glanced at that ring every time he signed someone’s life away – What were my initials again? Oh, yeah – good thing I had the ring on.

  “I said no,” she whispered, “I have given youseven successful movies!”

  “And we need to keep this going while you’re still the hottest item in Hollywood. The world adores Patience Webb,” he said, reaching over and taking both of her hands into his.

  She shook her head and snatched her hands away from his.

  “How can you even suggest I do this? You claim to want me as your wife one day and-”

  “And my wife is gorgeous. I don’t mind if the whole world knows that. My wife is Runaway Daisy and the New York Flapper,” he stated.

  She slapped him hard across the face and turned back to her vanity.

  - - -

  Lowell stared at the woman he owned as he pressed his hand to his stinging cheek. Whatever she believed about her success or her independence was hogwash. When the checks were printed at the end of the day, they were printed with the name Lowell Barnes on them. He owned her and she was going to realize that soon enough.

  She sat down on the stool and caught his gaze in the mirror. His lips curled up into a smile as he watched the recognition in her eyes. It was the recognition that she was going to do whatever she was told.

  “The photo shoot will be tomorrow morning, and you will be here,” he stated, verifying that she could see the warning in his eyes, “And they wanted me to remind you to wear only a nightgown with no undergarments. This way there are no creases in your skin.”

  She gasped as he quickly turned and walked out of the room.

  She looked up at the ceiling and started to cry.

  “No!” she whispered to the ceiling, “I’m Patience Webb and the world loves me as I am. They love me for the person inside. They love… they… they love the New York Flapper.”

  She placed her hands over her eyes and cried harder. She would smear her makeup, but what did that matter?

  “They don’t love me at all.”

  * * * *

  Patti raised her hand to knock on the door of Lu Lu’s trailer. If anyone would understand her, it would be Lu Lu. Just before she knocked, she heard a familiar laugh behind the door.

  “And how long have you been together?”

  That was Lu Lu’s voice.

  “Three years.”

  That was Lowell’s voice. Patti and Lowell had been together for three years. He was talking about her. He was talking about Patti to her best friend. Suddenly there was a giggle.

  “Oh my,” she giggled some more.

  Patti stepped back from the door and stared at it.

  “Ooh…I don’t know what I’d do without you, Louie,” he said.

  She giggled some more. Patti gasped.

  Patti turned and ran toward the studio. She refused to permit the tears, though somehow they managed to escape. How were they supposed to shoot a movie while her life was crumbling all around her? She stopped abruptly and glanced over at the parking lot. Then she turned back toward Lu Lu’s trailer.

  “God help me,” Patti muttered as she spun and ran toward the parking lot.

  She located Lowell’s Dodge and opened the door. She had ridden in the car long enough to know that he always stored the key under the seat. She reached under and her hand grasped a hold of a thick envelope. She pulled it out and looked at it. Across the front, someone scrolled the words – “I know you’ll come through on the shoot. Mac”.

  She opened the envelope and discovered dozens of twenties stacked neatly inside. There had to be several hundred dollars in there. Lowell had been paid upfront to get her to pose for some nude photos. She would have never seen this money.

  She punched the dash and then tossed the envelope onto the seat beside her. She reached under the seat and finally located the key.

  “Goodbye, Lowell,” she growled as she inserted the key.

  2

  June 2009

  “So, did you get all your stuff moved into Jumpy John’s house?” Carl asked.

  Eddie chuckled as he grabbed a hold of his empty coffee mug and spun it on the desk. Carl shared the cramped cubicle with Eddie, where they spent eight hours a day answering the phones and routing groceries across the United States. Their official titles were “Dispatch”, but Eddie revised it to a more accurate title last month. Now they were simply referred to as “Dead Men Walking.”

  This new title came about when Carl blabbed his mouth at the last corporate meeting. The Vice President of Fairway Foods offered a $500.00 bonus to anyone who could come up with a plan to save the company over $100,000 per year. Carl, whose brain always reacted ten seconds slower than any other body part, fired his hand up toward the ceiling.

  “ConFreight implemented the X-350 routing system last year which…”

  Carl paused while everyone stared at him. Eddie seriously considered punching him in that moment, but everyone was looking. The X-350 was a computer-based dispatch system that virtually eliminated the need for nearly 10 employees – dispatchers included, of course. Apparently that portion of information had finally traveled the distance from Carl’s upraised hand to his brain. Now he just gaped at the Vice President.

  “The X-350?” the VP asked, “I heard there were some bugs in
that program, but perhaps they have worked those all out by now.”

  Yeah, and I hope you like your $500.00 layoff bonus, sucker!

  He didn’t say that of course, but Eddie heard it nonetheless

  “Yeah, I moved all my stuff into the house over the weekend. I still can’t believe it’s mine,” Eddie said.

  Carl laughed, shooting staples into Eddie’s empty mug.

  “You’re the only man under the age of 25 who owns his house outright. Lucky dog. So when are you throwing a house party?” Carl asked.

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure everyone will be anxious to come over to Jumpy John’s haunted house and have a party,” Eddie replied, “Frankly, I’m tired of all those cracks about the house anyway. It’s seriously a nice house.”

  “It’s a nice house until you discover the body buried in the basement. I tell you, Rich is buried somewhere in there,” he stated.

  Eddie turned to him and glared. He flipped the mug over and shook the staples out onto the floor. Then he swept his hand along the desk top, brushing away all the staples that had missed their target.

  “I know you don’t want to hear anymore haunted house stories, but look at the facts. Your relative… what was he anyway - your great cousin or second cousin? Anyway, your relative disappears in 1989. The supposed story is that he moved off to God-knows-where. But if this kid simply moved away from home, then why did John’s wife divorce him the next year. ThenJumpy John goes crazy and never leaves the house,” he stated, ticking off the points on his hand.

  “First of all, Rich was 20 years old and could do whatever he wanted. And yes, he was my mom’s cousin. Rich simply moved away in 1989. He was an adult. Unfortunately, the children in a family sometimes are the only reason parents stick together. Without Rich there, Cheryl and John just drifted apart. John probably spent the rest of his life in a sore state of depression. Plain and simple,” Eddie stated.