Conversations with Saint Bernard by Jim Kraus

Author:Jim Kraus
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abingdon Fiction
Published: 2015-02-03T05:00:00+00:00

33

George did not curse, had never been a man given to epithets and swearing, or even harsh words, but tonight, he felt closer to the edge than ever before.

They were somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania, on their way to Gettysburg, taking a scenic back road, through the Allegheny Mountains, and the sun had set and the road narrowed to a tight two-lane affair. And now, feeling lost in the dark, George realized the RV Park that was supposed to be there, simply wasn’t.

George pulled the RV to the side of the road.

“I don’t know why I’m bothering pulling over. There isn’t any traffic out here. I could just stop in the middle of the road.”

But I follow the rules.

As normal for his breed’s characteristics, Lewis was not one given to anxiety or nervousness, but this evening, he was exhibiting signs of both.

Maybe it’s because of what happened at Falling Water. He encountered a sort of deep-soul sorrow he couldn’t make any better.

George took out his cell phone and checked his reception.

“One bar is better than none, Lewis.”

He dialed the number he had for the RV park.

He heard static, then a hiss, then an automated voice, explaining the number was no longer in service.

I didn’t call them before we left . . . I just assumed they would be open and have space. But they are not where the map said they would be. They must have closed. Or maybe they’re somewhere where the GPS doesn’t reach.

George looked out into the blackness.

There are such spots, I’m sure. Where even a satellite doesn’t reach. Too dark, maybe.

He tapped at the GPS screen, found the setting to decrease the size of the map. He hit the button once and saw nothing other than a road passing through a beige emptiness. He tapped it again. Still nothing but road. One more time, and a town came into view, on the far northeastern side of the map.

“Thirty miles,” he said to himself. “Maybe forty.”

George had decided to take the back roads to the Gettysburg battlefield and had selected Route 220—the Bedford Valley Parkway.

In the darkness, he saw a few lonely, cold, sodium vapor lights on barns, the illumination frosty and uninviting, opposed to the warm, the intimate glow of lights inside houses, filtered by gauzy curtains. But those he saw only on occasion, miles apart from one another. Other than those isolated points of light, the land was dark and felt uninhabited.

Like life itself. Like people.

To a man who had grown up in a city, had never camped in the wilderness, had never traveled to remote places, the isolation, such as it was, was unnerving. Perhaps his uneasiness had affected Lewis. Lewis whined a bit when George stopped, looking out on the expanse of lonely darkness.

“Bedford. It’s not so far. We’ll go there. It’s a pretty big town, Lewis. An hour or so is all.”

Lewis whimpered, softly, almost as if he did not want to show his discomfort.

“You need to go out?”

Lewis looked out the window and saw only dark.

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