The Marlene Stottsberry Award Winner for 2008:
Ron Luikart for Charles S. Price
The Stottsberry Award honors a former Guild president, an inspiring and generous writer, who is remembered with affection. Guidelines are fiction, 2000 words or less. Open to all.
Charles S. Price
by Ron LuikartJust after crossing the Peace Bridge at Buffalo, New York and heading north twenty miles into Canada on the Queen Elizabeth Highway, there is an exit for a small town named Thorold. That’s where David was going. It had been an eight hour drive for him to get there, but when he had left for work that morning, he had never had it in him mind to go to Thorold. However, when he came to the traffic light just before the interstate that would take him south to his job, a little voice said, “Don’t go.” So, he turned north. David had thought about calling his wife, but he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure himself of what he was doing, but he knew why.
1989 had been a tough year for him. His company was being downsized. The boss had called David into his office several days earlier and gave him the news.
“Cost cutting……Shifting sales focus……Possible relocating company….No reflection on your abilities….Six months’ notice…..Appreciate your work…..Glad to give you a recommendation…..Good luck.”
The news staggered David. After twenty-three years of busting his ass and making sacrifices that , at time, involved his family, and this was what it all meant. Nothing. His blood pressure rose several degrees just thinking about it. But, what really knocked him to his knees was the meeting with his doctor the next day. Two words. Two stinking words.
“Six months.”
The tests were all back, and there was nothing that could be done. The cancer was inoperable.
“Six months.”
The words bounced around in his head like a series of echoes. Tears welled up in his eyes, and the highway became blurry. He began to scream and pound the steering wheel. He cursed the boss, the cancer, God. Some people who were trying to pass David noticed his behavior and looked in his direction.
“What the hell you lookin’ at ?” he screamed at them.
Other times he just gave them the finger. In every instance, David sped up and distanced himself from them. Suddenly the flashing blue light of a police car in his rear view mirror caused him to change his focus of attention.
“Damn. Now what?”
David pulled his car to the side of the highway and stopped beneath an overpass. The police car followed. David took out his handkerchief and began to dab at his eyes and blow his nose. The policeman had gotten out of his car and now stood at David’s door.
“Good afternoon, officer. What’s the problem?”
“License and registration, please.”
David fumbled nervously in his wallet and glove compartment and finally produced the documents.
“From Ohio, I see?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“Thorold.”
“Have you been drinking, sir?”
“No. Why?”
“Noticed your eyes.”
“Allergies.”
“I see. May I smell your breath?”
The officer bent low to the window, and David exhaled. The policeman straightened himself and seemed disappointed.
“Sir, did you know that I clocked you at 165 km?”
David glanced at his speedometer. “You mean I was doing 115 miles an hour!”
“The limit is only 100km. I’m afraid this will cost you a ticket.”
While David waited, he became aware of a breeze coming into the open window. He took a deep breath and his mind and spirits emerged from a dark dungeon, and he began to relax. There was a sound at the window; David looked up as the policeman handed him a clipboard.
“Sign at the bottom, please.”
David did so and gave it back.
“Have a good rest of the day and do drive more slowly.”
“Thanks. I will.”
As the policeman drove away, David got out of his car, walked to the front, and leaned against the hood. He realized that he had been sweating heavily. The breeze had picked up and he began to feel chilled as he stood in the shadow of the overpass. He began to shake. So, he walked a few feet to get out of the shadow. As he stepped into the sunlight, he felt as if he were stepping into a warm shower. David closed his eyes and turned his head upward and took another deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he saw a small bird struggling against the wind. It had something in its beak, a piece of straw David thought. He watched the bird and silently cheered it on. Finally, it reached one of the crossbeams, and he saw that there was a nest that the bird was building. It placed the piece of straw in the nest and arranged it just so. After the chose, the bird rested and glanced at David. He wondered if the bird had a smile on its beak, a look of triumph in its eye, or a feeling of accomplishment in its breast. David took several steps toward the bird, but his movement startled the little creature, and it flew away. He smiled in admiration of the bird’s persistence.
“Maybe the last days won’t be so bad.” he thought. “I just need to sort things out.” He got back into his car and continued his journey.
He got off at the Thorold exit and followed the familiar street signs through the small town. Thorold was an old place with a small downtown section. All of the businesses closed at five o’clock, except the video store and the Chinese restaurant. He and his family had been here many times for long, relaxing weekends. He drove down the tree shaded streets, past an old church that had a cornerstone stamped in 1824, until he came to the motel he was familiar with. The Lock Seven Motel was a small bed and breakfast operated by a local family. It was a white, three story building that had twenty-four rooms. The building was surrounded by large oak trees and a well kept lawn. He parked his car and went into the small lobby. A young girl was dancing to music that David could hear from the headphones that she was wearing. He rapped loudly on the counter.
“Yeah,” the girl said as she turned toward David.
“I’d like a room.”
“Sure. We got plenty this time of year. Any particular one?”
“Anything on the third floor will be fine.”
“How ‘bout twenty-two? How long ya’ stayin’?”
“Couple days. Twenty-two is fine.”
David took his keys and began to climb the three flights of steps to the third floor. It dawned on him that he didn’t have any luggage. It felt strange. With his family, he was always carrying something, but now it was different.
Room twenty-two was a typical motel room. Two beds, a chest of drawers, TV, two chairs, and a small desk. The bathroom was small with thin, white towels that had a slight smell of bleach about them. David walked across the room and ount onto a small patio. This was what he enjoyed most about the motel. Less than the length of a football field from where he stood was Lock Seven. The lock was part of the Welland Canal that was used to lift and pass all of the Great Lake ore boats and Atlantic ships around Niagara Falls and into the heartland of America. He had often daydreamed about where these ships had been and where they were going and all of the great adventures that he was missing. He had decided at one time that if he ever got the chance, he would get on one of those ships and see where it would take him. There had been some opportunities for him to break out of his routine. But, he never did. There was always work, a game, or something else. Now as he reflected back on those missed chances, he began to realize that maybe it was fear that had stopped him. Fear of doing something different, maybe drawing attention to himself, or appearing to be selfish. Whatever the reason, the opportunities came and went, and he stayed behind in his hum-drum life.
Suddenly he remembered that he used to keep a log of the ships that passed through Lock Seven when he was visiting with his family. After the weekends, he would find himself looking through the log and wondering where each ship came from and where it went after it passed through the lock. He went back into the room and took a pad of paper from the desk and settled himself at the window to begin a new log. He didn’t have to wait long for the ships to appear. He noted their names, homeport, company name, and the type of ship that it was. He was occupied for several hours and soon had a list of eight ships. He was fascinated by the lock operations, the men moving on the ships, and just dreaming.
After awhile David needed a bathroom break. When he returned, he saw a ship just approaching the lock. He noticed that the ship was quite different from the others that had passed. It looked older and not as well kept. The wheelhouse was smaller, and the stack was taller and not as rakish. Black coal smoke poured from the stack as opposed to the diesel smoke from previous ships. The company logo was one that he didn’t recognize. He could just make out its name on the bow, Charles S. Price. David quickly wrote the name in his log. As the ship approached the lock, he had a strong urge to be near it. He left his room and ran down the street that led to the edge of the lock. When he arrived the Price was just beginning to nose into the lock. The edge of the lock was so close to the ship that David could reach out and touch its side as it slid passed. The ship smelled of age and mildew. Its side was streaked with rust and patches of read lead primer could be seen where paint should have been. As the ship moved into the lock, David reached out and put his right hand on it. The side was rough and a cold chill moved up his arm and radiated through his body. He began to shiver and fear caused him to turn and run from the lock. Before he had gone far, a shrill whistle caused him to stop and look back at the ship. He saw the dark figure of a man standing at the back of the ship. He was motioning with his arm for David to return.
“What!” David shouted.
The man didn’t respond, but he kept gesturing for David to come back. David retraced his steps until he stood just below where the man was. A rope ladder dropped from the deck above, and without hesitation or thought, David climbed it. When he finally stood on the deck, he noticed that it was covered with what appeared to be seaweed and a thin coating of mud. He looked for the man, but he was nowhere to be seen. David had just turned back to the ladder when another shrill whistle drew his attention to the forward part of the ship. There was the same man motioning for David to come. Without hesitation and without fear, David walked toward the wheelhouse.
When David did not check out of his room at the proper time, the owner became concerned and went to David’s room. When she knocked, there was no answer. She unlocked the door and went in. Everything was in order. Nothing missing, except the occupant. Something wasn’t right, so she called the police.
During the investigation, one of the officers noticed David’s log.
“Look at this.”
“What about it? Looks like he was keeping a list of ships.”
“Yeah, he was. But look at this last entry.”
“Charles S. Price So?”
“There was a small article in the morning paper about the Price. Some kind of an anniversary. Seems she disappeared with all hand during a storm on Lake Erie in 1913.”