East of Hope

                                                June 14, 1985

“He still there?” Florence finished loading her favorite revolver.

“Yep. Just standin’ there, staring at the house.” Millie closed the curtains and stepped out onto the porch. The rain wasn’t heavy, but it was substantial enough to make her question the sanity of anyone voluntarily standing in it.

“Hey! Get up here!” Florence waved the man to the porch with her gun hand. The man, being intelligent enough to be leery of any command given by a woman with a gun in her hand, declined the offer.

“Put the .357 away, Flo.”

Florence looked at her friend like she had just asked her to vote for a Democrat. “Hell no. That man may be here to rob us, or somethin’ even worse.”

Millie had already considered that. “ Well, if he was, he wouldn’t be standin’ like a durn fool in the rain. ‘Sides all that, he’s lookin’ mighty frail.”

It was true. The fool in the rain, Robert Westcott, had endured three days of being on the run. When he escaped the Institution, he neglected to procure (steal) food and water for the trip, the result being that he was now weak and dehydrated.

May I sit on your porch? And could I have some water?” Robert spoke, his voice subdued, but his eyes clear and blue.

Millie, being the adventurous one, suffered the rain to bring the man to the porch. She sat him in a chair and brought out a pitcher of water. Robert drank most of it before sitting back and closing his eyes.

“Reckon he’s dead?” Florence asked.

“I’m not dead.” Robert opened his eyes and attempted a smile. What he achieved was a crinkling about the eyes and a thinning of the lips. The women were relieved. Having to explain a dead man on their porch was more than they wanted to deal with at their time of life.

“What the hell you doin’ out here in the middle of the night, young man?”

Robert sat up and told them.

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The next morning, like most June mornings in this part of the country, was sunny. Birds were searching for their morning meal, snakes were creeping up on birds, and turkey vultures were swooping down on snakes. Cows lowed in the distance, and the occasional pickup truck sped by, kicking up dust clouds that hung in the still air longer than anyone wanted. The Esperanzas were showing off in a riot of yellow, the lone burst of vibrant color in the area.

A typical morning for Florence and Millie, with the exception of a young man sleeping on the porch. Florence cooked breakfast and Millie served it, along with offering an offending toe to Robert’s ribs. Robert took no offense, though he would have preferred a gentle shake of the shoulder, but such is life when you’re on the run.

“That’s a durn silly story you told us last night,” Millie offered, eschewing the traditional ‘good morning’ for something more to the point.

Robert remained silent. He hadn’t figured on two old ladies living here. He felt a sinking in his soul. Old ladies, he knew from experience with old aunts, were hard-headed and not easily swayed by a young man’s entreaties. They preferred to suck on peppermint candies and bandy about unwanted advice to all. The only difference in this situation was that the old ladies didn’t suck peppermint candies; they preferred an after-breakfast cigarette.

“Do you, perhaps, have some paper I may write on?” Robert’s question raised every female eyebrow on the premises, but his request was granted. He scrawled on the paper and handed it to Millie. He judged that she was the brains of the operation, and that Florence was the armed bodyguard.

Millie read the short missive before handing it to Florence. Florence read the few words and handed it back to Millie.

Seventeen paces east of Hope. The Ides of June. 29.7513N 99.5315W

“What’s all them numbers at the end? Some sort of math?” Millie stared at the numbers.

Florence had already forgotten the numbers, along with the rest of the missive. The man was clearly off his head and should be put in a straitjacket. She put a hand on her revolver, just in case. Besides the possibility of being attacked by this young man, she knew she would be deeply embarrassed if she was killed by someone and she hadn’t taken a shot at him first.

“GPS coordinates.” Robert kept on eating. Three days without food made him appreciate it, even if the food was covered in gravy and fried to within an inch of its life.

“What?” Millie looked up sharply.

“They tell you every location of Earth. These coordinates are here, at your house,” Robert laid a greasy finger on a map of the area.

“I ain’t never heard of such a thing. Lordy, what’ll they come up with next?” Florence leaned over and looked at the numbers again.

“And if we somehow find Hope and go seventeen paces from it, on the Ides of June, then we’ll find it.”

“Uh-huh. The treasure,” Millie said sarcastically.

Robert gazed at her, a sadness overwhelming him. He wondered if this would happen to him. Losing the desire to believe in pots of gold at the end of the rainbow.

“You sound like a loony. Are you a loony?” Florence asked this rhetorically, and didn’t expect an answer. Still, she got one.

“According to the State of Texas, I am.”

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                                         November 17, 1985

Robert Westcott, after several more minutes of pleading with the two ladies, gave it up. He left in a funk, traipsing down the road in what can only be described as a hangdog manner. Millie felt sorry for him. Florence was glad to see the back end of him.

But Robert wasn’t forgotten. He made the San Antonio newspaper by way of being caught and brought back to the San Antonio State Hospital.

“Hm. Not considered dangerous, it says. I think he was a little dangerous,” Florence said between puffs of a cigarette.

Millie didn’t respond. She smoked her own cigarette and ruminated. The boy seemed so normal, except for the part about hidden jewels and hundreds of pounds of gold.

“Not a bit of it, Flo. I liked the kid.”

“That’s because you’re a softy. But the kid’s okay, I suppose, if you think so. Looked like a Democrat, though.”

“I don’t think he’s allowed to vote. He’s in the Rubber Room Inn, after all.”

“Good enough for him, Mill. The boy’s mind is taken up with buried treasure. Ha! As if our little piece of Texas has hidden loot.”

“And he ain’t dangerous. You just wanna shoot somebody before you die,” Millie said.

“I don’t think it’s much of a crime, shootin’ a trespasser or a Democrat,” Florence huffed. “Besides, how do you know he ain’t a bad man?”

Millie tamped out her cigarette and sipped her coffee before responding. “He has kind eyes.”

“Well, we ain’t likely to see him again, so I guess it don’t matter none.”

Millie, though, wanted to see him again.

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                                            April 28, 1986

Millie sat across from Robert, gazing around the room and not liking what she saw. The walls were painted in a shade of cream guaranteed to desolate the soul. That it was also peeling in many places did little to lift the oppressive atmosphere. The furniture was cheap and scuffed, and when someone rose from a chair, the screech on the tile floors grated on her nerves. Not a place, in short, to induce happiness.

“Well, I see you’re still in one piece. You doin’ okay?”

Robert tilted his head and gazed at Millie, mystified as to her presence. “Um, yeah. Sure. Just whiling the days away until the carry me out of here in a box.” Robert grinned. It reminded Millie of Florence’s grin when she shot rabbits.

“You still wantin’ your treasure?”

Robert’s gaze searched Millie’s face, suspecting that she was humoring him for some enigmatic reason. She doesn’t seem the type to kick a crazy man when he’s down.

“Certainly.”

Millie leaned forward, keeping her voice low. “I met your brother, you know. When we bought the property. Is he the one had you put here?”

Robert nodded, his face darkening with the thought. “ That way, he inherited everything.”

“He seemed like the kind of guy who’d do that. Shifty eyes. Beady. Like in books.” Millie felt that the information she received from novels was solid. In this case, she was correct.

“I’m here to break you outta this place. You game?”

Robert’s eyes widened. His jaw obeyed the laws of gravity and headed downward. “What?”

“Unless you wanna stay in this God-forsaken place.”

He looked around. The decision was an easy one. “Let’s go.”

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“You get the bedroom that faces west. We ain’t got much to give you in the way of clothes, but we’ll rustle somethin’ up.” Millie stood in the bedroom, hands on hips, surveying the small area as if she were a general surveying a battlefield.

Robert was puzzled. “Where will you sleep?”

Millie avoided his gaze. “Flo and me sleep together.”

Robert nodded. “I slept next to a man who threatened to cut my throat when I fell asleep. I’m moving up in the world.”

Millie was horrified. “Didn’t you tell someone about it?”

“I did. They told me he hardly ever cuts throats any longer.”

“Jayzus!”

“But Florence might shoot me, so maybe I haven’t improved my chances for living.” Robert turned to Millie and smiled. It reminded her of what it felt like to be a kid again.

“Don’t you worry none about Florence. She talks big, but she mainly shoots rabbits and rattlers.”

Robert frowned. “Why?”

Millie laughed. “For supper, silly boy.”

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                                         October 12, 1986

The big breakthrough had occurred in July. Once Robert learned that the plants bearing yellow flowers were called Esperanza plants – Esperanza being the Spanish word for Hope – he sprang into action. Calculations and measurements were taken. Shovels were provided by Millie and Florence.

“I worry about that boy,” Millie said. She sipped her coffee and smoked a cigarette.

“I don’t. He stays busy, and a busy man don’t cause no trouble.” Florence, likewise participated in the caffeine and tobacco bacchanalia known as breakfast.

“If he don’t find what he’s a lookin’ for, he may go off his nut.”

“I reckon he’ll dig to the edges of Hell before he stops.” Florence tamped out her cigarette and went back inside for more coffee.

Robert was not a lazy man. He would get up every morning and dig until lunchtime, his efforts and conviction never wavering. His work made him strong and healthy, despite the artery-clogging food that Millie and Florence were so fond of.

He introduced more non-fried vegetables into their diet. Salads started making their way to the dinner table, and bacon was becoming an endangered species there. Rabbits and rattlers still made their appearance at the table, but they now emerged from the stove bathed in olive oil and not lard.

“That boy has growed on me.” Florence lit another cigarette. She smoked slowly, almost luxuriously, reveling in watching someone else work over the rim of her coffee cup.

“I reckon so. You done taught him how to shoot.” This, Millie knew, was a sign of deep attachment for Florence. Showing someone how to turn a living thing into a dead thing so you can eat it is, undoubtedly, a higher form of love.

“Well, I can’t sit here all mornin’ jawin’ with you. Reckon I’ll go hunt us up some dinner,” Florence said, standing up and grabbing the Winchester rifle.

“Maybe you could bag a deer, Flo. We been eatin’ so many rabbits I’m startin’ to feel like I’m growin’ fur.”

Florence kissed her on the head. “Shut up, old woman.”

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                                             July 3, 1987

A change had come. Slowly, almost imperceptibly. Millie, the sensitive one, noticed it first. Robert was digging with less enthusiasm and less frequency. He started making excuses.

I’d rather hunt with Florence. I’d rather chop firewood. I’d rather read French poetry while stabbing myself in the leg with a rusty knife than dig another hole.

 “The boy’s takin’ it well, don’t you think? He ain’t mopin’ around like some kid what got their feelings hurt.” Florence wasn’t a keen judge of human nature, but even she could see that Robert, while losing a taste for digging, refused to let constant disappointment dampen his spirit.

Millie, by dint of extensive reading of trashy novels, saw deeper into the situation.

“It’s like that book I read last year. The man loses his money but gains happiness.”

“How’s that?” Florence was puzzled by the synopsis.

“Well, he just did. Perspective and all. Anyway, he wound up marryin’ the girl of his dreams and havin’ kids with her.”

“That don’t sound like Robert’s situation at all,” Millie argued.

“It is and it ain’t.”

“Sounds more like it ain’t.”

“Shut up, old woman.”

“I will if you will.”

Both women watched in silence as Robert started filling in all the holes he dug.

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                                            April 15, 2007

Robert gazed at the two headstones soberly before sitting down. He sighed, pulled out his notebook, and began to write.

Millie and Florence have been gone for a year now, but it still feels raw. I’m trying to write this without tears. Florence would have my hide if she knew I was crying for her, but Millie – sweet Millie – would give me a pat on the back and tell me to cry it out. The roughness of Florence and the tenderness of Millie made me what I am today.

And now, I have to tell them the truth. If they rise from the grave and smite me, it will be no more than I deserve. I’m a little fretful because I buried Florence with her revolver and rifle. And shotgun. Oh, yes, and her hunting knife.

I buried Millie with a few books, to keep her company. She liked overly dramatic romance tales. I loved her for that.

So, the truth. In July of 1987, I found it. All of it. Several hundred pounds of gold, and more diamonds than I cared to count. After I found it, I buried it again.

Truth is, I just wanted to be right.

The deeper truth is that I wanted to be right so that I would be accepted as me, and not some crazy institutionalized person.

The even deeper truth is that Millie and Florence accepted me as someone worthy of their love, without the money. If there was treasure to be found, it was in Millie and Florence.

The money. Oh, the money! I sold a twenty-pound bar of gold for a ridiculous amount of money. Made sure Millie and Florence were buried well, and had beautiful headstones. The rest is in the bank, gathering interest and dust. I have everything I need.

I shoot rabbits and rattlers for dinner, as well as the occasional deer. I grow vegetables. I chop firewood and tend to the gravesites. I planted lantana over the gold and diamonds. I think the treasure will remain hidden for a long, long time. Forever, possibly. The thought pleases me.

Robert closed his notebook and leaned back against an old oak tree, watching the wispy clouds chase each other in a celestial game of tag. His thoughts traveled back in time, to a rainy night outside the house of two middle-aged women.

On the way back to the house, Robert shot a rabbit for supper.