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No Hitching
by Cherise Wyneken © 2001
We rounded the bend just at the summit and there he was. A tall, grey-haired gentleman standing straight as a Mississippi pine, thumbing a ride. He looked natty and out of place. Not from this forsaken mountain village near Citinge (the ancient capital of Montenegro). He wore a dark suit and felt hat and carried a black umbrella like a cane.
"Let's give him a ride," Priscilla said.
"Are you out of your mind?" I shot back. "The back seat is full of stuff. Where would he sit? He'd probably steal the camera anyway."
"Oh, Honey. Don't be ridiculous. He looks so sweet."
I looked in the rear view mirror. "It's too late now. No way to turn back."
We drove on through this southwest section of Montenegro. Until Priss said, "Let's stop and enjoy the view." I pulled off the road near the end of a long curve overlooking a lake. We got out.
"Just look at that!" Priss said. "I never realized Yugoslavia had such fantastic scenery. You know what I think?"
"What do you think, Hon?"
"I think a giant lives in these mountains and yesterday when he was making curry for lunch he spilled it. The turmeric landed on this tree and the cumin in that light cluster across the valley. A bit of curry powder sprinkled on this bush. Those white rocks are the salt. There's some paprika and bay – and what should that blue, blue lake be?"
"Water on the brain." I got back in the car. "Come on. We haven't all day to stand around here spicing poems. I want to get down the Dalmatian Coast before dark and locate our hotel. And tomorrow – tomorrow I take you to Dubrovnik!"
When we reached the Serpentine, I shifted into second and started the winding descent.
"Just like in the movies," Priss said, "only this is a VW instead of a Porsche."
She sighed. "We should have done it."
"Done what?" I concentrated on a hairpin turn.
"Picked him up."
"Picked him up? What do you want to do? Take on the whole world?"
"No. Just that old man."
"Forget it. Aren't I enough for you?"
She gave me one of her soft smiles and patted my hand. Everything about Priss was soft. Brown eyes. Long silky hair colored like summer grass on a California hillside. My California girl. Her voice whispered through my days. Carried echoes of her softness.
It wasn't that she was too soft to tell me what she thought – even if it hurt. But just as she had a soft spot for the old man she had one for me and dropped the subject. It never came up again – touring the Dalmatian Coast: Dubrovnik, Split, and a short stop at the lush resort town of Opatija – till one night in Venice.
We had spent the morning in St. Mark's, standing for a while with our mouths agape, in awe of the beauty, the ancientness, the vibes. We had climbed to the balcony and touched the four gilded copper horses brought there in the 13th century from Constantinople. It was almost too much for a couple of earthy Floridians.
Quite cold, we settled for lunch inside one of the cafes lining the Piazza. We bought some seeds to feed the pigeons. The whole bit.
"Are you ready for some more?" I asked, tossing the last handful.
"Sure. What's on your agenda?"
"I thought we'd go see the Doge's palace now and from there cross the Bridge of Sighs to the prison."
"Prison? Ugh."
True to her display of distaste, she didn't like the prison with its gloomy cells. "Let's go. Their ghosts are still here. Can't you feel them crying out to us? Come on, Alex. Please!"
"I'll take you back to the hotel. I think you need a rest."
As we approached the quaint, arched footbridge near Hotel Europa, she spotted a man and his gondola, waiting for a customer.
"Let's have our ride now. Let's be merry."
And merry we were, despite the cold and fog of November. The gondolier's wife had crocheted two bright, multi-colored pillows for the seat. He stood behind us on the stern, and sang as he maneuvered his craft down the canals. We closed our eyes to the dirt and garbage floating along beside us. I put my arm across Priss's shoulders and took her hand in mine.
"How about it? Let's be romantic."
I figured the prison ghosts were gone by now. But that night she awoke crying.
"He was here."
"Who was here?" I muttered over my shoulder.
"The old man. 'Please give me a ride. I've got to get there on time,' he kept saying – over and over."
"Do you realize what time it is?"
"I don't care. I've got to get home. Something terrible has happened to Roxanne. I just know it!"
"Lie down and forget it. You're not going any place without me. And I am delivering this car to Milan as we planned."
I could feel her lying there awake long after I had pulled my head around and kissed her saying, "Go to sleep, Hon. It'll be all right."
We made our way to Milan. We were tired of traveling and sight seeing, but did the usual things and somehow I managed to outwit the complicated city streets to find The Cloisters at the Church of Santa Maria Delle Grazie for a look see at Da Vinci's "Last Supper." Our hotel was across from "La Scala," so we saw that and Il Duomo, the cathedral, on foot. Then we turned in the car at the airport and flew home.
I had left my bank car with Charlie to get serviced and touched up. He drove it down to the Miami airport to pick us up. Priscilla shook his hand. "Good to see a familiar face."
"How'd you make out stuck three weeks with the boss here?" he winked and looked over at me.
"He had me in his power. I couldn't read the menus."
We had gone through Customs in a whiz. Charlie took one of the bags from me and led us to the parked car. I inspected the paint job on the maroon Continental. Gas guzzler, Priss called it.
"They did a good job. Don't you wish we would have had this with us on our trip, Priss?"
"No. I like what we had."
"Oh, oh. We'd better get her home before she gets on her soapbox about wasting fuel."
We paid the parking ticket and headed north on I-95. "I'll drop you at the bank for your car," I told Charlie. "Anything happen while I was gone?"
"Not much. Interest rates went down again. They finally got the sign done for the Davie branch."
Interest down. I’ll have to call a Loan meeting first thing Monday. We dropped Charlie in Dania, then continued on to Fort Lauderdale. Home wasn't any kind of a show place. Just a typical Florida house. White tile roof and paint, furnished with comfortable things we'd gathered over the years. Anything that could be, was green. Priss was mad for green. All except her room. When the last kid left home she made over his room for her own den. I don't think there's a green thing it – unless it’s a tree in a picture. No figuring her.
It was the usual "half and half" when we got there. Glad to be home but sort of let down from all the excitement. We called the kids and everyone was fine. In fact Roxanne announced she was pregnant. That’ll be a first. Maybe that was the big premonition Priss felt. Whatever. We looked through the mail, took a swim, and turned in.
Priss kissed me goodnight. "Thanks for a wonderful time."
"Thank you." I pulled her close.
It’s great to be in your own bed. I drifted off to sleep.
Things took up as usual from there till one day several months later. It was late afternoon. The tellers had closed their windows and were balancing. Charlie was letting stragglers out the side door with his key.
"Excuse me, Mr. Pearson" – Margot, my secretary. I tried to hide my irritation at her interruption. I told her specifically I didn't want this conference with Elliot disturbed.
"Yes?"
"It's Dr. Beaugelais on the line. He says it's urgent."
"Pearson speaking."
"Alex. Alex, old man. I've got some bad news. I'm down here at Broward General with Priscilla. She's been in an accident. I'm taking her into surgery as soon as I scrub up. I'll talk to you there as soon as I've finished. No time to waste."
He rang off.
I sat there stunned for a minute then Elliot's words came through, "Bad news?"
"Yes. It's my wife. She's been injured. I must go right away. I'll call you tomorrow. Please excuse me."
"Of course."
I snapped the lid shut on my briefcase and headed out of my office. "Priss has been hurt," I called across my shoulder to Margot whose desk was right outside my door. "I'll get in touch later. Take care of Mr. Elliot and cancel my 5:00 meeting."
I sailed past the airport without any traffic delays. I even found a place to park without any trouble.
"What floor is surgery?" I asked at the Information Desk.
Then into the elevator and up. When I rounded the bend to surgery – I saw him. He was standing tall and straight. Straight as a Mississippi pine. He held his black umbrella like a cane. He tipped his dark, felt hat and said, "I'll give her a ride."
Then he was gone.
I ran down the corridor and looked around the corner. No one in sight.
"Come back," I called. "Come back."
"May I help you?" a passing nurse asked.
"Did you see an old man? A man with a black umbrella?"
"No, Sir. I don't believe it's raining."
"Yes, well. Could you direct me to Surgery?" I stumbled.
But I was late. Too late. Priss was gone. Everything I lived for – gone. No chance to even say good-bye.
That was Wednesday. I set the funeral for Saturday to give the kids time to get here. What a comfort they were. The neighbors brought in cake and casseroles with condolences. The phone rang off the hook. Somehow we made it through the service at church and the receiving line at the door. Who are all these people?
I didn’t know she knew so many. And then it started. The eternal loneliness. The kids had their own lives to live. Roxanne stayed a while and helped me sort through Priss's things. Then she too was gone. I tried hard to cope and other than an occasional overdose of sentimental flashbacks, I managed pretty well. The job kept me busy and my mind off myself. The Brickle Avenue building was finally completed. We opened our branch there and another on Biscayne.
Coming in from work I'd check the mail and the rain gauge, then strip for a swim. I'd fix myself a pot of rice and some frozen peas or lima beans. Then top it off with a bowl of Haagen-Dazs smothered in chocolate flavored Ovaltine.
The three B's: Bach, Brahms, and Boris – my computer chess game – kept me company till it was time for a movie on one of the CABLE channels. But all I could see was Priss. Priss and her lovely, long legs and how she could dance. I'd teased her unmercifully about her Sacred Dance group. Sisters of Friendship, or some such thing they called themselves. How she had pleaded with me to come watch.
"You do enough church going for both of us," I'd quipped.
"You can't get to heaven riding on my wings," she said.
"You've got to come this time, Alex. I'm doing a solo of Queen Esther."
It was down at Piney Grove Baptist. I must have been the only white man there. What was it King Ahasuerus said? "What wilt thou Queen Esther? ... It shall be given thee to half of the kingdom." What man wouldn't give her anything she asked after watching her dance?
Anyway, I muddled along pretty well until this thing with my stomach. All that "Home Cooking" I guess. If I can ride this out maybe I'll take a little trip somewhere. I'll go see Roxane. She and her husband are health food nuts. Maybe they can teach me something about cooking.
A couple orderlies arrived then and shifted me onto the gurney. I was kind of dopey from the first shot but not quite out. Coming off the elevator we rounded the bend to surgery and there he was – standing tall and straight. Straight as a Mississippi pine.
"No!" I screamed.
The orderlies looked across me with knowing looks and kept rolling me along.
"Priss! Where are you? Help me!"
The old gentleman tipped his dark felt hat. "I'm sorry, Sir. We don't give rides to hitchers."
THE END
The author, Cherise Wynken, has selections of prose and poetry which have appeared in a variety of journals, periodicals, and anthologies, as well as in her book of poetry, "Seeded Puffs," from Dry Bones Press, Inc.