The Blue Light

The Blue Light

  By Darrel Bird

  Copyright ©2014 by Darrel Bird

  “THE EDGE, there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”

  ― Hunter S. Thompson

  *****

  Nick Jordan was a writer, and a damn good one, that is until his six year old son drowned in the pool of the brand new house he had bought with a four hundred thousand dollar check from his publishers. His wife blamed him, and he blamed her for the boy’s death. The truth of the matter was that it was just a crazy accident that was unforeseeable by the best of parents, but what does truth matter when common sense does not prevail? It drove them further, and further apart, until one day she packed her clothes and went to her mothers in Atlanta to live out her bitterness.

  The last time he had tried to talk with her on the phone all he got was that southern way of stating a matter, “Nick, you don’t have sense enough to get in out of the rain!” Well, he wasn’t a dog, and he didn’t have to take that kind of talk from anybody! Much less Elizabeth Blaine Jordan, lately of New York, and presently queen over her own southern crapper.

  He remembered sitting in front of his sons casket, a picture of the smiling boy on his tricycle when it seemed a still small voice came to his mind, “This is you’re last warning Nick.”

  He remembered the pastor’s words of hope when the man had visited them after the accident. He remembered the homeless man who had approached him on the street. The man had raved on about God, and Nick had flipped him a quarter, and laughed as it rolled behind a garbage can.

  The man had looked after him with pity in his eyes. I don’t need God, my writing career has taken off with a bullet, Bam, what do I need God for? When he remembered the homeless man, the still small voice left him, and somehow Nick felt deep down in his soul the voice wouldn’t be back, ever, not in his life time, not in all of eternity.

  All well and good, but the money was getting low, his publishers were making noise, and so here he was, slopping up Jack Daniels, with blank sheets overflowing the waste basket. Something had to give. He had been offered a job as a sports writer for a small rag on the outskirts of New York City. He went to two games, and then slurred out a few lines that made no sense, they said. Maybe they could use him later, don’t bother to go to the Yankees game, here’s your check, and thank you very much, you washed up bastard.

  His agent called, “You got anything Nick? My publishers are giving me fits; they paid on the assurance that there would be another book within a year.”

  His agent was a shriveled up little man that looked like a grade school kid looking over his desk behind glasses that were too big for his head. “Trust me Donald; I’ll have something within six months.”

  That had been a year ago, and sabers were now rattling in the New York law firms of Duck, and Cover.

  Something had to give, and wasn’t he a writer? They still owned the cabin high in the Adirondacks didn’t they? Yeah, I’m going up there and I ain’t coming back until I have one hell of a novel! A million seller. That’s the ticket, away from New York, away from society. Away from Harvey Wall Banger publishers that don’t know crap from shineola.

  So nick laid the booze aside, and went shopping for groceries to last him a whole winter. He would be snowed in, and there was no electricity at the cabin. The water was gravity fed to the house from a spring up the hill, so water wasn’t a problem. No going back for gloves, or food, or medicine when the snow flew. He rented a U-Haul, and got ready for a long winter, writing, as a writer is supposed to write. He called his ex wife, told her what where he was going, and got the usual, “Nick Jordan, you are crazier than a bedbug in a pile of horse pucky!” So much for southern charm.

  He found himself a week later on New York state road 9, heading for the Keene valley, and the small village of Keene with a total population of six hundred, including dogs, cats, and horses, in the whole of Keene valley. Fall colors were gone, the leaves had fallen as he looked up ahead at one of the smaller mountains. Fog rolled over the mountain road like soft cotton floating through the air, and not being used to coming up here, the scenery had an other worldly and foreboding appearance. He could feel the pressure on his ears as he climbed higher, the road winding, and winding. He was taking it slow, as he didn’t want to whip his groceries down the side of a mountain, and spoil his plans to be a total hermit for the winter.

  Two hours later he pulled into a service station/grocery store in Keene. It was self service, and up here, it was self sufficient all the way. He saw a total of three live bodies looking strangely at him because while the rest of the summer people were leaving, he was arriving. He stuck the nozzle of the pump into the car, and watched it fill slowly, and everything about the place seemed on slow time. He walked into the store to pay. The man behind the counter nodded cordially, “Going up or coming down?”

  “Going up, I own a cabin further up about six miles.”

  “Oh, you mean the old cabin up past Cascade trail head?”

  “That’s the one, I’m going to be staying for the winter up there.”

  “Snow gets mighty deep past Cascade, ya might want to reconsider that.”

  “I have plenty of food, and fuel for the generator.”

  “Ayup… if you’re set on staying, you might have old Ben Cullen to haul you up four or five cords of wood fore the snow flies.”

  “How do I get hold of him?”

  “Numbers by the cash register there. Ya can use my phone, cell phones don’t much work up here.”

  “Thanks.” He picked up the phone to dial. “Ben Cullen here.”

  “Mr. Cullen, my name is Nick Jordan; could you bring me five cords of firewood to the cabin just west of Cascade trailhead?”

  “The old cabin about three miles up the hill you talking about? I’ll have to charge extra for gas out that far.”

  “That’s fine Mr. Cullen, when can you bring it? I’ll have the cash for you.”

  “Day after tomorrow do it for you?”

  “That will be fine, thanks.”

  “If you need groceries bout mid winter, just send up a signal fire.” The man laughed as he went back to stocking shelves.

  Good on you jerk wad. He knew his face was red with anger as he walked back to his car without looking back. Thirty minutes later, the over grown limbs scraped the paint on his car, as he drove up the hill to the cabin yard, which was also overgrown with bushes that had seeded themselves in the yard. The main structure of the cabin had been built with thick logs. The thick roof shingles were moss covered. The front porch rail ran across the length of the house, and that also had a coat of moss. It looked a little rotten from the yard. He got the car turned around, and with some trouble, backed the trailer up to the wide rock steps that led up the porch. The house had been built to last, with three bedrooms upstairs, and a large kitchen, a sitting room and game room downstairs. His folks had bought the place when it was first built, but he hadn’t been here in years.

  He unlocked the front door, and was welcomed by a dank, musty smell of a house that has been long unused. He went over to the large wood stove, where he found a fire laid. He struck a match to the paper under the wood, and as soon as the blaze was going he walked through the back door where he remembered the generator to be. The generator was built on a brick stand, with a small insulated hut built over that. He set the can of gas down, and prepared to haul in the supplies.

  He worked steadily for two hours stowing the food, and other supplies in the house, and by that time with leaving the doors open, and the fire going, the house smelled better.

  He closed the door, fixed himself a sandwich, and sat by the fire eating as it began to warm the house. He was already
getting a feeling of home. After he had eaten, he walked up the stairs, through the bedroom, and opened the door that led through to the upstairs porch.

  He stood looking out over the distance, the fog making it’s way in great wisps at ground level as it flew through the high Adirondacks. The only sound was the breeze sighing through the trees, and the sound of distant bird calls.

  He went back outside, and carried the old Remington typewriter into the sitting room, and set it on the old desk. That desk probably has a story or two. It had been passed down through the generations of Jordan’s, dating back to the civil war. His Mom and Dad had wanted to modernize the house in New York, so they had brought it here on a