The war surplus jeep swung out of the dirt road and accelerated down the two-lane highway, seventeen-year-old Dan Case at the wheel. His brother Paul reached back and steadied the fishing rods.
“Make sure my sketchbook doesn’t blow out,” Dan shouted over the four-cylinder engine’s noise and wind roaring through the open vehicle.
“It’s okay.” Paul turned forward, grabbing the passenger seat arm to steady himself. “It’s under the tackle box.”
Dan nodded a reply and shifted to third gear. The jeep bounced and hopped down the road, the chassis clanging as if every piece of metal inside was striking another. Dan held onto the wheel not only to steer, but in order to keep from being tossed out. The pair drove in silence, each accustomed to the loud noise after owning the vehicle for a year. They avoided lengthy conversation altogether when they rode in it. If they tried, they ended up yelling so much they became hoarse.
A late model blue sedan zoomed past them, its engine rumbling.
“Nice car.” Paul checked over his shoulder before leaning toward Dan. “Now a Greyhound is coming up behind us.”
“I’m already doing 45!” Dan shouted back. “Can’t go any faster in this thing. If it wants to pass me, let him go. I’m not arguing with a bus.”
Dan pulled over to the right as far as he could. The huge bus roared past. Both brothers winced and turned their heads away as the Greyhound blew its horn and a blast of air hit them as it passed. The bus returned to the lane, belching a burst of black diesel exhaust. The billowing smoke clung to their clothes and hair as they whipped through the cloud.
“I bet they do that on purpose!” Paul coughed and fanned one hand in front of his face to clear the lingering black smoke. “The driver must push a button on the dash!”
Dan laughed as Paul braced his feet against the floor and pulled off his glasses, cleaning them with the bottom of his tee-shirt. Dan checked the dashboard.
“We need some gas,” he called to his brother. “How much do you have on you?”
“About half a dollar, I think.” Paul slipped his glasses back on.
“Maybe I’ve got a quarter,” Dan said. “That will get us about four gallons.”
The highway cut through a hillside forest. The trees, mighty oaks and maples, grew so thick that the woods were almost impenetrable. Scattered between the forests, on either side of the pavement, lay small family farms, many of them still tended by the descendants of the original nineteenth-century settlers, growing corn and hay and raising dairy cows, pigs, chickens and sheep.
The Wayside Filling Station came into view as the jeep rounded a curve. The Greyhound stood next to it, its door open. Some of the passengers milled around, stretching their legs.
“That story of the tortoise and the hare is correct!” Dan pointed at the bus. “Slow and steady wins the race! Or at least comes in a strong second.” He turned into the driveway, the signal bell clanging as he stopped by the pumps. He glanced at the prices on the sign. “Damn! Look at that! Twenty-three cents a gallon now!” He reached in his pocket, pulled out some coins, then held out his hand. “Put some money in the pot, son.”
Another teen came out of the garage, wearing blue coveralls with a “Ken” name patch sewn on and wiping his hands with an oily rag that was probably red once. He grinned as he approached the jeep. “Hey! It’s the Bobbsey Twins!”
“Bobbsey Twins,” Paul grumbled as he fished out his money and slapped the coins in Dan’s outstretched palm.
Dan spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Down, killer, down.”
Ken stopped next to Dan, one hand resting on the top of the windshield while the other gripped the rear of the open doorway. He titled his head toward the fishing gear. “Any luck?”
“Caught our limit of trout,” Dan waved at the creel holding the catch. “We went to the north end of the lake.”
“I’ll have to try out there.” Ken stood at attention and saluted. “What will it be, sir? Fill it up with super? Our super is the finest grade of gasoline money can buy. The best super I reckon for 1947.” He lowered his voice and nodded at the office. “We’re supposed to say that to every customer. At least when the boss is around.”
Dan grinned. “And very well done, I must say. But our jeep wouldn’t know what to do with high grade gas. It would probably get drunk. Give us…” he counted up his handful of coins, “…seventy-two cents of regular.”
“Coming up.” Ken walked to the pump, then quickly came back to the driver’s side. It didn’t take long to put in less than three gallons. Dan dropped the coins into Ken’s hand. “Thanks. Want the windshield cleaned?”
Dan responded in a poor imitation of an English accent. “That will not be necessary, kind sir.” He indicated his brother. “My man here will take care of that when we put the Rolls into the garage.”
“If I don’t do it all right and proper like,” Paul added, “he beats me with a stick.”
Ken laughed. “Likely story. How’s the next Joe Louis doing?”
“My dear brother, the Brunette Bomber,” Dan grinned.
“Won my last bout,” Paul gave a thumbs up. “The other guy never laid a glove on me. At least, no more than twice. Maybe the driver of that exhaust-puking Greyhound would like a match. Say, why is it still here?”
Ken glanced at the bus. “Oh, this is now supposed to be some kind of rest stop. The boss is talking about putting in a hot dog stand or pay toilets or something to rake in some extra dough. By the way, you may need some air in your left rear tire. It looks a little low. We fixed our pump finally.”
Dan looked where Ken pointed. “Thanks. We’ll just fill it up here.”
“Well, back to the oil change job,” Ken waved. “See ya!”
“Yeah, see ya!” the brothers said in unison.
Ken shook his head and chuckled as he started back toward the garage. “See? Just like the Bobbsey—”
Dan hit the button to turn on the engine, drowning out the rest of the sentence. The Greyhound’s driver called all the passengers back. The door closed with a hiss and with a growling exhalation of more exhaust, the bus continued its journey through the countryside toward town.
“Paul, look, I know that the Bobbsey Twins thing bothers you,” Dan said to his brother as they parked next to the air pump, “but Ken’s a good guy. He’s just trying to be funny.”
“I know, but we’ve been hearing that same crack since elementary school,” Paul complained. “I mean, it’s getting old. Like we don’t know we’re identical twins?” He gave an irritated sigh. “Besides, it’s not even accurate. The Bobbsey Twins were a boy and a girl, not identical. Nan and Bert, Freddie and Flossie.”
“How do you know that?”
“I went to the library and looked it up years ago. I’ll check the oil.” Paul climbed out, went to the front, and lifted the hood.
Dan hopped out of the jeep and grabbed the hose, pulling it to the left rear wheel. He squatted on the ground and unscrewed the valve cap. After squirting some air in the tire, he got up and turned around. He jumped a little.
A tall, thin man stood behind him. The suit he wore appeared new, but not particularly expensive, and hung on him as if it was still on its hanger.
For a second, the man seemed to recognize Dan, then he gave a wan smile. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s all right.” Dan reeled in the hose, then brushed off his hands. “I just didn’t hear you.”
“I’ve been told I have a light tread.”
“You can say that again,” Dan said.
Paul slammed down the hood and walked next to Dan. “Oil’s fine.”
The man glanced between the two. He audibly gasped.
“You’re not seeing double,” Dan assured him. “We’re twins.”
“Except I’m the more handsome one,” Paul tapped himself on his chest.
“Says you,” Dan shot back.
“Oh, good.” The man seemed relieved. “You see, I’ve been sick. I’ve been in the hospital for months.”
The siblings exchanged glances. There was something pathetic about him; his pallor looked as if he hadn’t been in the sun in years.
“That’s too bad,” said Paul. “Are you better now?”
“Yes, a lot.” The man brightened. “You see, I’m on my way to my brother’s place in Omaha, Nebraska. He has a small business there and has offered me a job.”
“Oh, that’s great. Did you miss the Greyhound?” Dan jerked his thumb in the direction the bus took. “Didn’t get back on time from the rest stop?”
“No, I wasn’t on the bus,” the man said. “The doctor suggested I get plenty of fresh air, so I thought I might try hitchhiking to get to Nebraska. I might get strong enough to help to my brother when I arrive.”
“That sounds like a great idea.” Dan spoke with a little too much enthusiasm, partly to cover his own discomfort over the man’s situation. “Doesn’t it, Paul?”
As sometimes happens between them, Dan didn’t have to ask the next question. He looked at Paul, and his brother nodded.
“If you decide not to hitchhike any longer, we’d be glad to take you as far as Farmingford,” Dan said. “We live there ourselves. It’s a small town, but the bus stops right in front of the drug store. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay overnight, since that was today’s last northbound Greyhound.”
“That’s kind of you,” the man said. “But I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s not any trouble at all,” Dan patted the hood. “Although we need to let you know in all fairness, you’ll be hitching a lift in a 1945 ex-army jeep. It’s quite a different experience, but you probably rode in one during the war.”
“Oh, I didn’t serve in the military,” the man sounded slightly ashamed. “My health, you know.”
“Yes, of course,” Dan flushed a little in embarrassment at his oversight.
“Do you mind hanging on to the fishing rods?” Paul tilted the driver’s seat forward. “They won’t go anywhere else. Just give me the other things. They can go in the back. Your suitcase should fit next to you.”
The man handed the tackle box to Paul, then picked up the sketchbook. “Who does the drawing?”
“Artist here.” Dan raised his hand, then pointed to Paul. “Athlete there.”
“May I look?” The man tentatively tapped the cover.
“Absolutely,” Dan grinned.
“He loves it when people gush over his art.” Paul stowed the tackle box.
“Just like he eats up the cheering crowds at boxing matches,” Dan retorted.
The man leafed through the pages. “These are excellent. Very colorful landscapes.”
“Thank you,” Dan beamed. “I sell them at the local historical society gift store.”
“And he gives trading stamps with every purchase,” Paul added.
Dan titled his head toward his brother. “The extra ones I paste over his mouth.”
The man flashed a quiet smile. “This one of the boxer…you, I suppose?” he looked at Paul, who nodded, “… is quite dynamic. A striking likeness.”
“Of course, he had an exceptional model,” Paul put in. Dan rolled his eyes.
“Where’s this?” The man held the book open to a page.
“That?” Dan peered at the drawing. “Oh, that’s what remains of Wolf Lodge, out by the lake.”
“Remains?” A look of concern flashed over the man’s face.
Dan got behind the wheel. “A fire happened there a few years ago. The interior was heavily damaged…almost gutted.”
“Oh.” The man returned the book to Paul, then climbed in the back. Paul started to slide the sketchbook under the tackle box. “No need to do that. I’ll hold it in my lap.”
“Thanks.” Paul handed the sketchbook back and got into the passenger seat. “Dan, drop me off at the Epsteins, will you? It’s their day.”
“Paul has cornered the lawn mowing business in town,” Dan told their rider. “He knows every blade of grass personally.”
“I get to be outside,” said Paul, “and at least I’m not a jerk.”
“I work behind the lunch counter at the Allen Drug Store,” Dan said. “He means ‘soda jerk’.”
Paul folded his arms. “Not necessarily.”
Dan slugged his brother in the arm. “No more free sodas for you, bub.” He started the engine and called over his shoulder. “Remember, we warned you!”
The jeep pulled out of the gas station and returned to the highway. A few minutes later, Dan saw a black delivery truck coming up behind them. He muttered angrily.
“What?” asked Paul.
“That guy back there is on my bumper,” Dan yelled back irritably. “I wish he’d pass!” He stuck out his left hand and tried to wave the other driver past.
The truck finally passed them, and as he did, the man at the wheel honked his horn and waved. Dan noticed in the rear-view mirror that their passenger was looking away from the truck.
“Idiot!” Dan said under his breath as the truck pulled ahead. “Recognize it, Paul?”
His brother shook his head. “Not a local one.”
They drove on until reaching the outskirts of Farmingford. The highway turned into the town’s main street, lined with stores and businesses. They drove by the post office and a daycare center next to the local library branch. The church stood by the town hall, a brick building with columns in front and a clock over the doors. Dan turned into a residential street, tidy, small bungalows huddled along the curb. The trees were large and old and gave the residents welcome places to escape from their homes when it grew too hot.
After they stopped in front of a green cottage, Paul hopped out of the jeep. He turned to their rider. “Good luck at your new job.”
“My new—oh yes, thank you.” The man smiled.
“I’m closing tonight, so I’ll eat at work,” Dan said to Paul. “I’ll put one of the trout in the refrigerator for you.”
“Thanks!” Paul waved and walked toward the Epstein’s detached garage.
“Climb up here.” Dan motioned to his passenger. “It’s a little more comfortable—but not much.”
“Oh, yes, certainly.” The man switched to the front seat.
“Watch this.” Dan nudged the man and nodded at his brother. “Right on time. See the window in the white house next door? The curtain just pulled back a little? That’s Betty Wilson peeking out. She’s a cheerleader at school. In about an hour, she’ll bring Paul a tall glass of ice cold lemonade. It’s like a mating dance between a couple of birds.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Why do the girls go for the brutish athletes, and not for the sensitive artiste?” He laughed. “Where do you want to be dropped?”
“When does the next bus come through town? Do you know?”
“There are two in the morning, going north and south,” Paul said.
“And you said there are motels…?”
“Three. One’s outside the south end, about two miles out. The other two are on Linden Avenue, about a block apart,” Dan answered.
“You can take me to the nearby one, if that’s alright with you. I’ll let you pick which one,” the man tentatively said.
“Be happy to.” Dan made a U-turn, headed back down the street, and turned right on Linden. After driving a couple of blocks, he pointed to a bench. “The bus stops there. I work in the drugstore across the street.”
“Have you lived in town long?”
“Paul and I grew up here,” Dan answered, “but our parents came from Chicago.” In a few minutes, he stopped at a cluster of small cottages with bright blue roofs. “Here we are, the imaginatively named ‘Farmingford Auto Court Motel.’ The office is in the first cabin. If this doesn’t work, the ‘Mountain View’ is in the next block.”
“Thank you. This will be fine, I’m sure. I want to repay you for your kindness,” the man pulled out his wallet. “It was so generous of you to give me a ride.”
“You don’t have to pay me anything,” Dan waved off the offer with one hand. “Enjoy your stay in the teeming metropolis of Farmingford!”
“Well, thank you again for your assistance,” the hitchhiker said.
“You’re welcome, and good luck,” Dan said.
The man got out of the jeep, his small suitcase in hand, and headed for the office. Dan drove the short distance to his house, parked in the driveway, and grabbed the creel. He carried the catch to a laundry sink that was attached to an outside garage wall–named “Mom’s Fish Washing Station,” after the brothers and their father gutted and cleaned one too many fish in the kitchen.
Paul carried the prepared trout inside, putting one in the refrigerator for Paul and the rest in the freezer. He glanced at the clock and growled. He had to hurry or he would be late for work and have to listen to grumpy Mr. Allen’s standard “young people nowadays” speech.
Quickly washing his hands, he passed through the living room, stopping at the fireplace as he frequently did. A framed photograph of a smiling young man in an Army uniform rested on the mantle. Next to it hung a small, rectangular banner with a blue border and gold star.
“Miss you, Dad,” Dan whispered.
Memories and emotions flooded over him. It didn’t happen every time he viewed the picture, but at unpredictable moments. He remembered the dreadful time the telegram came: “Regret to inform you…” Days followed of crying, silence, disbelief, the family propping each other up, or simply not wanting to do anything at all, completely numb. Paul grew so angry that he and Dan got into their first—and only—physical fight. Soon after that, Paul started taking boxing lessons.
The striking of the mantle clock snapped Dan out of his memories. He glanced at the time and swore. He ran down the hall to his room and quickly changed into his uniform: black pants, white long sleeve shirt, black clip-on bow tie, and a red apron. He raced back out the kitchen door, locked it, then made for the jeep. He skidded to a stop.
He’d forgotten to unload it completely. With an angry cry, he opened the garage door, grabbed the fishing poles and tackle box, and stuck them inside. Then he spotted his sketchbook on the passenger side floor. Dan groaned with annoyance and snatched up the book. Something rectangular, a piece of beige pasteboard, lay under it. Dan picked up the object up and examined it.
It was the stub of a Greyhound bus ticket. Dated today.
