Aurendel - Strays

The first time Jack had been to Savannah had been back in the late ‘50s, when he'd sailed up to Tybee Island just offshore. That had been just at the start of the restoration of the historic districts, and the town hadn't been very attractive--all tumbledown, and stinking of paper mills. Now, as Jack checked into a nice inn housed in part of what had been the old Cotton Exchange, he could appreciate the changes that had been made over the decades. He'd have to come back some other time, at his leisure. Maybe Kate would like a vacation here. He'd never taken her on a real trip other than fishing on his old boat before it finally gave up the ghost last fall. He'd buy a new one, and take a long trip ‘round the peninsula, up the coastline. A lot slower than overland, but it'd be worth it.

Checked into his room, Jack tossed his bag onto the dresser and stretched out on his bed to work out the kinks from the long drive. He had left Okachula just before noon and stopped at the first filling station on the way. There he had gassed up the truck, topped off the water in the radiator, added some air to the tires, and checked the oil. Before leaving he'd bought a bag of fresh, hot boiled peanuts from the roadside stand beside the filling station. Then he'd taken back roads to get to SR 24 north to Gainesville, sucking peanuts and spitting the shells out the window, until he'd stopped for an RC Cola and a moon pie at a little old diner on the side of the road. Back behind the wheel, he kept his radio on AM, listening to talk radio or golden oldies or country, according to what station he could pick up best.

Kate always teased Jack about driving like a geezer, but Jack just considered himself careful. It paid to be cautious getting on US 301 at Waldo. That blink-and-miss-it little town was the worst speedtrap in the southeastern U.S. Traffic tickets were about the only source of income for the community. Then it was past the state pen at Starke, and up and around Jacksonville to get onto I-95 north, and finally I-16 east to Savannah. And here he was. Around 270 miles in about six hours, including two stops. Not too bad.

Now that he was here, the next order of business was dinner. He left his room and walked down to River Street, right along the Savannah River, passing gift shops and street musicians, until he found a hole-in-the-wall seafood restaurant. He flirted idly with his waitress, a spunky little brunette, as she served his meal. When he was done, he asked her directions to Emma's, and walked to the piano bar to sip a few beers and listen to Emma Kelly play old favorites on her piano.

Jack hummed tunelessly along with songs like "Moon River" and "I'll Be Seeing You" until he'd had enough beer to feel a tad sloshy. Then he wandered about the historic district a while before heading back to his inn. He admired the orderliness of the park-like squares the neighborhoods were built around. If people had to live in a city, this was a better way to do it--not so crowded, plenty of trees and such. Each square was a garden, with a commemorative statue or memorial at the center, and all the houses facing it from across the streets. He didn't bother to examine the statues closely--another trip, maybe. He wasn't nutty for architecture, like some folks, but had to admit that the colonial and federalist houses were a sight better than ‘60s concrete block or ‘70s "ranch" abominations. Well, he wasn't here to enjoy himself, so he might as well turn in. He wondered how that wolf was getting along.

The next morning he breakfasted at his inn, then checked out and drove to Lynne's Antique Emporium on Broughton Street. After circling for a good twenty minutes to find parking on the side of the street, he discovered that the place didn't open until 10 a.m., so he wound up pacing the sidewalk for half an hour, glancing in shop windows, looking like a damn tourist. As he stomped past the Emporium for the third time, he glimpsed movement inside, so he rapped sharply on the glass door. After a moment, a woman's voice called from inside. "We're not open yet! Ten minutes!"

Jack waited impatiently, rocking on his heels and chewing his moustache. It was only about five minutes when the door opened and a well-preserved woman about Jack's age invited him in. Her silver hair was swept up in a stylish twist, and her figure was trim in her pleated khakis and red sleeveless sweater. "Can I help you?" she asked, in a pleasing alto.

"You're Lynne?" Jack asked.

The woman nodded. "Lynne Meredith," she said, extending a slim hand.

Jack shook it, finding it firm and calloused. He could appreciate a woman who knew how to do real work. "Jack Randolph. I called yesterday."

"Oh, you're here about the mirror."

"Yes, ma'am."

"It's in back. Just follow me." She smiled over her shoulder invitingly. Jack followed willingly, admiring the view from behind. He abruptly realized Lynne was talking to him, and tried to pay attention to what she was saying.

" . . . and it appears to be early Spanish. I understand it was found in the Gulf of Mexico. It must be at least two hundred years old, and is probably twice that." She stopped walking and turned to him.

Jack shook his head. "I'd doubt it."

"Well, see for yourself." Lynne pulled a canvas cover off a large mirror propped against a bureau. "Here it is."

Jack made a show of examining it closely. "Two hundred my hat," he concluded. "It's a reproduction. I'd say early ‘20s."

Lynne threw up her hands in horror. "Oh, no! Just look at the way it was made, no metal nails or staples in the frame, all mortise and tenon with wooden pegs . . ." She caressed the frame, drawing his attention to its features--and her own.

"Craftsman," Jack interrupted, recalling his business. "Definitely late Craftsman. They did that kind of thing."

"I don't think so!" the outraged antiques dealer exclaimed, and named an obscenely high price, which she said she couldn't possibly come down from.

At once Jack countered with an absurdly low price, and the two began haggling in earnest. Since Jack knew what the mirror really was, just about any price he'd end up paying would be a steal, but damned if he'd pay one red cent more than he had to. Lynne pointed out the gilding buried under the dirt and corrosion. Jack noted the amount of labor restoration would take. Lynne called his attention to the fine condition of the glass, which Jack declared proved the glass wasn't original--it hadn't gotten wavy. At last they struck a deal, the shopkeeper wiping mock sweat from her brow before shaking Jack's hand. Jack paid the price rather smugly, which worried the dealer. Lynne offered to help Jack load it into the truck, but he refused. However, he did accept an old blanket to pad it with.

"Well, I guess that's that," Jack declared.

"Can I offer you a cup of coffee before you go?" Lynne asked.

"Wish I had time. Take a rain check?"

Lynne smiled. "Think you'll be back to Savannah soon?"

"Well," said Jack, thoughtfully, "I guess I could be at that."

"Call me when you're coming."

"I'll do that." said Jack, "Say, Miz Meredith, afore I go, I'd like to make a call. Got a phone I could use?"

"Certainly, Mr. Randolph, right over here."

Jack used his calling card to dial his home number. He hoped the wolf was all right. The phone rang four times, then the machine picked up. After the tone, he hollered into the receiver, "Hey, wolf, you there? It's me, Jack. Pick up the phone." There was a moment's silence, followed by the sound of someone fumbling with the receiver, then after a pause a hesitant voice said, "Hello?"

"Hey, I got it."

"You've got the mirror, Jack?" the wolf asked.

"Yep. I'll be leaving here directly. Should make it home by around five, maybe sooner."

"Oh. Okay." The wolf didn't sound as enthusiatic as could be hoped.

"You doin' all right? Not still sick, are you?"

"I'm fine."

"You'd say that if you were bleedin' out your ears. I'll believe it when I see it," Jack retorted. "Well, the sooner I hit the road the sooner I'll be there."

"Drive carefully, Jack."

Jack hung up the phone, thanked Lynne, and started the long drive back home. As soon as he got out of the historic district, he stopped for gas and maintainance and checked the mirror. After driving a couple of hours, he lunched off I-95 just outside of Brunswick, checking the mirror again to be safe. Everything was going just fine. That is, until he got near the Florida-Georgia border. There, traffic came to an absolute standstill. He fiddled with the radio tuning knob until he found a station with a traffic report. Then he groaned. A semi had overturned on the bridge over the St. Mary's River, and other vehicles had gotten involved in the crash. The lanes were completely blocked, and there were no more exits between where he was and there. He would be stuck for at least forty minutes, probably longer, until the wreckage could be cleared away. Jack cursed a blue streak, then settled down impatiently to wait.

By the time Jack finally got back to Okachula, it was after seven, so he stopped by town to pick up some dinner before going home. He was stiff and sore from driving all day two days running. He pulled up in front of his house, expecting to see the wolf through the front window, or even at the door, but it wasn't visible. The front door was unlocked and no lights were on. Jack brought in his overnight bag and the KFC, but left the mirror in the back of his truck.

"Hey! I'm back," he called. The house was silent. No sign of the wolf anywhere. Jack cursed again. He was fed up. He decided he would eat his dinner and forget about that varmint until it saw fit to show its face. Here he'd gone clear to Georgia and back, thrown away good money on an old mirror--and a pretty darn tacky-looking one, at that!--and the ungrateful wretch was off gallivanting about in the woods. To hell with it.