The Way Home

She kept looking at street signs as she drove along, trying to find names that were familiar, but she often had trouble reading the signs in the rapidly descending dusk. She uttered a curse at daylight savings time, which brought the dark so early. She’d made a wrong turn somewhere and now didn’t know where she was or what to do. Frustrated, she pulled to the side of the road and stopped.

She shook her head, knowing she had to focus on her current situation, not just sit on the side of the road, lost in an area she didn’t know and failing to find a way to get home, to get to safety. She wasn’t certain how long she’d been driving when the car sputtered to a stop on a dirt road. “Out of gas,” she moaned. “Now what.”

Well, there were only two choices, lock the car doors and doze off till morning came or get out and walk till she found a house or shop or something. Making her decision, she curled up as much as one could in the driver’s seat, but not only was she hungry and thirsty, sleep was elusive. Lying there, the cold began to seep into her bones, and she remembered the weather forecast that morning had included a frost warning. 

She tried to decide if dying from hypothermia or meeting someone who would mean her harm was worse. After a while, she took a deep breath and managed to shake off the lethargy that was overwhelming her. Feeling more decisive, she took her car keys and put them in one pocket and took her Driver’s License, credit cards, and money out of her purse and put them in the other, leaving her hands free.

Then, she suddenly remembered the flashlight her son had put in the glove compartment and gave a sigh of relief when she found it and discovered it still worked.

Her slow memory worried her given how she’d heard it came with age. Sometimes it was hard to believe how old she really was, seventy-seven, and she found it even harder to accept the changes in her appearance brought by time. She remembered the day, when walking along the avenue to the drugstore, she’d caught a glimpse of an older woman in a shop window and turned her head to get a better look. Then she realized it was her own image she was seeing. She was that old woman.

She pulled herself together and walked as briskly as she could and felt her body warming up from the exercise. She was eagerly looking for a light, a sign of a residence or someplace welcoming, but nothing was greeting her but darkness.

 “Oh lord,” she muttered a few minutes later as she saw something glimmering whitely some distance ahead. She kept going in that direction, frightened, but determined. She relaxed a bit when she realized it was a monument of some sort. She murmured, “Dear god,” when she saw it was a marble tombstone topped by a cross. She realized then that she was walking alongside a cemetery. 

Old ghost tales from her childhood, told by her brothers around the campfire when the family was vacationing, swirled about, making her uncomfortable. She jumped when she heard a voice. Someone was there, and when she shone her flashlight in that direction, she could just make out the face of an old man, well, a man of about her age, patting a tombstone.

He jumped up, realizing someone was there, observing him, and in anger yelled, “I have every right to be here. Leave me alone.”

She called out, “I’m lost. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to bother you, but I need to find a place to make a call. I got lost and ran out of gas driving around and around. Now I don’t even know where I left my car, or which direction to take... please,” she added on a sob. It was all too much. She was weary, cold, and feeling sorry for herself, which she hated. So she just stood there, feeling helpless and frightened, waiting for an answer.

The owner of the voice, tall and sturdy looking, drew closer to the fence that enclosed the cemetery, and looked long and hard at her. Finally, he spoke. “It’s a good mile to the nearest gas station and diner. They’re next to each other. I tell you what. Walk along the fence about 100 yards. My car is parked there; it’s light blue. Wait for me there—or maybe I’ll wait for you. Don’t know which of us will go faster,” he added with a small chuckle. She did as he said, wondering as the car drew into sight if she was meeting trouble or simply a rescue. He arrived at almost the same moment she did and quickly opened the car door for her.

When she’d gotten in, he’d had to remind her to use the seatbelt; then he went silent, concentrating on driving, leaning forward like old people do, like she did after dark. Not wanting to disturb his concentration on the road, she decided she would pay the people at the gas station to help her find her car, taking a couple of gallons of gas with them, and get directions home from there. But as they neared the gas station, it was clear it was closed. 

Her rescuer, who’d remained silent till then, said, “We can get you warmed up at the diner. They seem to be closing up, but they know me by now and are likely to be kind.”

Someone came to door when he rapped on it. A man in whites opened it, saying as he did so, “You’re later than usual; sorry, but I’m almost finished cleaning up, and there’s no hot food.” Her rescuer pointed to her and said, “Found this little lady here walking along the road. Shivering. Car out of gas.”

The man looked at her for a long moment before saying, “Okay, you can come in and stay till I finish. It’ll give you a chance to warm up. I can get you some tea, and a piece of pie or cake, but that’s about it.”

She nodded at the man and said, “Tea would be lovely.”

When it came, she drank it greedily. It was comforting, and she was suddenly aware she was ravenous. The piece of pie the man had taken out was waiting for her, and she gobbled it down. She felt much better then and began to thank the men for the consideration they’d shown her. They asked her if she wanted to use the phone, but she explained, “I don’t know who I can call at this hour, when it’s so dark out.”

“Is that why you didn’t use your cell,” he asked, “or is it out of power?”

Feeling ridiculous, she admitted she didn’t have one. Both men looked at her, a little skeptical, then looked at each other smiling that patronizing smile men share about “helpless” women. 

 “Well, I guess I’ll just have to drive you home then. Where do you live?” her rescuer asked, pulling her back to their conversation.

“Over by Willowbrook.”

“No wonder you’re lost. This island has a lot of Willowbrooks, a Road, Lake, Center, as a matter of fact, it’s the name of a whole area. I take it you haven’t lived here long?”

She blushed and, feeling stupid, said, “For seven years.”

“May I ask what made you decide to come here to live?” he asked, clearly curious.

“Well, I decided that since I had to retire, I’d need something to do, and I always thought gardening would be peaceful. In Manhattan, one lives in apartment houses, so no garden. Also, I wanted someplace where if my hearing started to fail, I could play my music and the TV as loud as I wanted without bothering anyone.”

 The man who had let them in came back then, saying, “I’m finished and want to lock-up. Besides, it’s started to rain.”

She noticed that her rescuer tensed at those words, and asking exactly where she lived, turned pale at her answer, saying, “Why that’s halfway across the island. I’m not sure it’ll be safe to drive all that way—and then back.”

He looked thoughtful, pulled out his wallet, and showed her his Driver’s License, then a card that said he was a member of the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association, murmuring, “former cop,” as he did so. 

She smiled at him, relieved, and pulled out her own Driver’s License.

Simultaneously, each said the other’s name as a way of a formal introduction, and yet somehow it was an acknowledgment that they were more than rescuer and rescuee. “Daniel” “Barbara”

Daniel said, “Let’s go to my place. It’s not far from here, and we’ll be warm while we try to get a car service to take you home.”

She nodded her acceptance, and they left the diner, going to his car through the rain as quickly as possible. He lived nearby and before she could wonder if going with him was an indication she’d lost all sense, he pulled up before a small Cape Cod, one of a line of them. 

Once they were inside, he left her in the living room, disappearing for a moment, then he reappeared clutching two large towels, one of which he handed her. They worked at drying their hair, smiling at each other as they did so. She stopped and realized she was shivering, and he noticed as well.

He took her by the hand and led her to a somewhat shabby but, as she discovered when she sat down, wonderfully comfortable sofa. Then, he took a throw from the arm of the sofa and wrapped it around her. She snuggled into the throw, feeling her eyes closing, but she was too tired to fight the sleep claiming her.

She woke, confused at first, but feeling better. It was dark in the room, making it difficult to untangle herself from the throw and stand, wondering how long she’d been asleep. In a few seconds Daniel appeared, saying, “Heard you moving on Sophie’s baby monitor. I set it up so I would hear you when you woke.”

He’d put on the light, and she could see he was looking very down. 

She asked, “Sophie? Your wife?”

“No. My daughter. She was a Down’s child, happiest, smilingest, sweetest child. When her mother died ten years ago, I retired to care for Sophie. Enjoyed our time. Then, six months ago, Sophie passed. Heart issues. Can’t believe how empty I still feel.”

Barbara took his hand and held it in her own for a minute. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together, saying, “Made some sandwiches and have hot chocolate that only needs heating in the microwave.” He led her into the kitchen, and they ate, chatting as they did so. 

Looking at the clock over the credenza when they moved back into the living room, she was surprised to discover it was after two. She said she hoped her son hadn’t tried to call, and he asked what she’d worked at, reminding her she’d said, “I had to retire,” and asking what that meant.

She explained that she ran workshops aimed at helping companies teach their employees about unconscious discrimination, harassment, stuff like that. 

Somehow, she found herself not explaining that it was her own very successful company and that she’d retired because the constant travel from place to place, often flying cross-country, was proving too much. So she’d sold the company, leaving her very wealthy, an admission she did not want to make, given what she’d seen of his home and matching that to the likely salary of a policeman.

Of course, when he drove her home, he’d see her house and know their lives were very different, but he could assume it was her husband’s money. She thought about that and wondered what she was anticipating, why she didn’t want him to think they were so different. 

He said, “You look sleepy, and given how late it is, why don’t you curl up again and catch a few hours more sleep,” adding, “I’ll take you home in the morning. After some coffee, of course.” 

It turned out that they both were early risers. After she’d refreshed herself, she joined him in the kitchen for the promised coffee. The idea of parting seemed to bother both of them, if the way they kept extending their conversation over lots of coffee and toast was any indication. It was almost three hours of learning about each other. 

He was two years younger than she was. She told him about her relationship with her over-protective son who was an accountant for a large law firm. He told her stories about his years on the beat, and the side jobs he’d taken because of his and his wife’s determination that Sophie would have a Trust Fund his brother could use to care for her if she outlived them.

She told him a bit more about her career and her successes, and he said that after a few years on the beat he begun an upward path, becoming a police union leader and eventually Commanding Officer of Patrol for Staten Island.

 Through it all, neither said much about their now deceased spouses. He only said his wife was a good mother. She said the same about her son’s father. 

Once they were in the car on their way to her house, he asked what was on her “bucket list.” She chuckled and said “Getting away from everything I’ve always known. Yours”?

He laughed, and seemed embarrassed when he admitted, “Kansas City.”

Bemused and intrigued, she asked, “Why Kansas City”?

“Because I’ve been to Yellowstone and California, San Francisco for a police convention, D.C. a few times, and some east coast cities for funerals or PBA meetings, but the heartland, it must be different. I knew someone who grew up there, who kept saying he was so happy to have escaped that life, but it couldn’t have been that bad. He was a great guy, knew a lot, and talked like the newspeople on TV—you know, no accent. Foolish, huh?”

“Not at all. I’ve heard it’s a fascinating city, a combination of old America, historic places, steamboats, and an area that’s supposed to be like a small piece of the South Street Seaport. I think it also has a real downtown business area and a Moorish shopping center.” She paused, smiling, then added, “I learned all that from one of my son’s college friends who was always talking about his hometown, which he missed horribly.”

 They looked at each other long and hard for a moment. Daniel finally said, "Well, Barbara, should I just take you home and leave—or?”

She smiled, feeling the years falling away, and deciding it was time to let go, to fly free, asked somewhat shyly, “Do you mean, Kansas City, here we come?”

He returned her smile, nodded, then began to sing the Elvis song “Home Is Where the Heart Is.” She joined in, suddenly realized she might just have found a way home.