Migration Patterns by Gary L. Schanbacher

Author:Gary L. Schanbacher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fulcrum Publishing
Published: 2013-03-13T00:00:00+00:00

Clayton lived out the summer in a tent on the slopes behind town. Often during those first months, he hiked to the summit of Mount McKnight. It was indeed a wondrous view. To the west, the Rockies stretched out beyond vision, snow holding stubbornly in the pleats and folds of the mountains. To the east, through a notch in the Front Range, he could make out where the land flattened into prairie, blue in the distance, passing into infinity. It reminded him of the ocean, all of this vast openness, and, by association, Loretta Pine, and he would go weak-kneed with shame, at the sight of Loretta’s voluntary humiliation and his role in it. He would stand there and shudder with fervor, literally shaking the image from his memory, and then he would hike back down the mountain and would not talk to anyone for a few days.

A month after he had settled in Peakview, Clayton fed twelve quarters into the pay phone at the back of the café and dialed a long-distance number. After three rings, the other line was picked up.

“Hello, Sonny.”

“It’s good to hear your voice. You okay, boy?”

“I am. Listen, Sonny, I need you do something for me. Collect my gear, my boats and equipment, and sell it all off.”

There was a pause at the other end, and then Sonny spoke. “Where you at, Son?”

“Out West. I’m done with the water, Sonny. I’m as far from it as I can get.”

“Why you run off like you did? Thought you and Walter was going to talk things out.”

“Didn’t work out that way. I’m done with it. Done with it all.”

“If I sell the gear, where you want me to send the money?”

“You keep it. I don’t need the money.”

“Then I won’t sell your boat, Clayton. I won’t sell the crab pots. I’ll store them up for you. I got room.”

“I won’t be back, Sonny.”

“Still, I’ll not end it like that.”

“Do what you want. Burn them, for all I care.”

“You’re talking crazy now. Just settle down for a bit and get your sense back and then we can talk some more.”

“One more thing, Sonny. Could you get this number to my folks? They can reach me here.”

“You want me to give them a call, see if things are okay?”

“Thanks. You take care, hear? I’ll be talking to you.”

Clayton hung up the phone. He knew he would not be able to ask about Loretta but thought at least he would feel better after giving up his boat. Something decided. Something let go. Instead, his insides felt empty, and he left to fill them up with beer.

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