Carrying Kerrie Read online

Carrying Kerrie

  A Short Story

  Steve Sporleder

  Copyright © 2012 by Steve Sporleder

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  Cover design and illustration by: Letty Samonte

  Carrying Kerrie is fiction. The characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Other books by Steve Sporleder

  From Sleepy Lagoon to the Corner of the Cats

  A Fouled Nest

  Gallivanting in the Gem City

  Available from: www.rpauthor.com/Sporleder

  https://www.Amazon.com

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  Contributor to:

  Saratoga Fire: A Century of Volunteer Firefighting in Saratoga, California

  by April Halberstadt

  Contact Steve Sporleder:

  www.stevesporleder.com

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  mailto:[email protected]

  Chapter One

  A south wind rang the chimes on my porch, and I knew rain was imminent. The fire crackled and popped in the fireplace as it consumed more fuel. A blast of air blew down the chimney and sent a wisp of wood smoke into the living room, so I opened the damper wider to allow more oxygen in. I placed my steaming coffee cup on a round cork coaster on the ancient pine chest of drawers next to my chair and went outside to get the newspapers. The magnolia trees creaked and groaned in the gusts. I picked up two newspapers from the driveway and walked back to the house. Smoke issuing from my chimney top filled me with a sense of sanctuary and comfort. Despite the cold and blustery daybreak, my world was good.

  I finished another cup of coffee and my second crossword puzzle at the same time. I try to be done with this ritual by 7:45 each morning.

  As I climbed into the shower, the phone rang, interfering with my tranquil morning. I let it ring. As the water cascaded over me, I wondered who would be calling me so early in the morning. If it were important, there would be a message waiting for me.

  The caller ID panel on the phone read Caller Unknown. I pushed the play button and a weak female voice said, “Hello, Venice. This is Kerrie. Please call me back as soon as you can.”

  “Why in Christ’s name would my ex-wife be calling me?” I whined.

  She didn’t leave a callback number, so I decided to ignore her message. Our divorce had ended somewhat amicably decades before, although we hadn’t spoken in years. Memories and events from that time are somewhat sketchy to me. I was working in the fire department at the time and was a certifiable drunk. An on-the-job injury led to my early retirement and more drinking. Kerrie ran off with a carpenter.

  I got sober, moved back to my hometown, Los Gatos, California, and set up a home office in the house where I grew up. I work for Resorts International, an insurance company that writes policies for hotel properties worldwide. I guess you could say I’m my own boss. I visit the properties and do fire prevention and safety inspections. I have an expense account that seems endless, as long as it’s work related. I stay in the hotel I’m inspecting, eat their food and after the inspections, I fax my report to the home office in Seattle, then I take my time and do some vacationing. My friend, Kate, travels with me from time to time, which is nice. I’ve been to places from Fresno, to France. However, I go to Fresno by myself.

  I’d recently started a part-time gig doing fire cause investigations. I hired off-duty firefighters to help me investigate fires for cause and origin. I also taught Fire Scene Investigation in the Fire Science program at the community college. As I said, my world was good and comfortable, or so I thought.

  “Why didn’t you call her back?” my sister, Lydia, asked as we sat in the coffee shop of the ElGato Hotel where she is the manager and her life partner, Helen Gray, is the owner.

  “She didn’t leave a call back number,” I replied quietly.

  Lydia removed her eyeglasses, tilted her head and glared at me.

  “What?”

  “For her to call you, it must be important. Maybe something happened at your house there.”

  “Damn, I never thought about that.”

  “It’s probably nothing, Sweetie. Just give her the courtesy of calling back.”

  I was pulling papers and address books apart searching for Kerrie’s number, when the phone rang again. I knew it had to be Kerrie calling. I was breathing rapidly and I could feel my heart beating at my temples. I picked up after the third ring.

  “Hello,” I said flatly.

  The same weak voice spoke, “Hello, Venice. It’s Kerrie.”

  “I was about to call you back, Kerrie. I just got your message,” I lied. “What’s going on?”

  There was silence for several seconds, and then she said, “I’m sick, Venice. I have ovarian cancer.”

  “Jesus, Kerrie. I’m sorry,” I said. It sounded awkward, but I hoped it came through as sincere, because I was.

  “It is what it is, Ven. I’m okay with dying.”

  She was sick and dying.

  “I have some unfinished business that I need your help with.”

  “Sure. You bet. Anything you want me to do.”

  “Thanks. I knew I could count on you. My attorney is sending you some papers that will explain what I need. It doesn’t involve any legal issues with you, but I do need some legwork done. You still do investigating don’t you?”

  I told her that I was still doing fire investigations, and she told me this wasn’t an investigation into fires, but about finding a missing person. As we continued to talk, her voice became weaker and she had several coughing bouts.

  “Kerrie, how…” I fumbled.

  “A couple of months at the outside. Another day is too long, though.”

  “God, Kerrie. I just wish…”

  “You’re a good guy, Venice. Come and see me before I transition,” she rasped.

  “Who do you want me to find?” Before she could answer, the coughing increased, and then a female voice with a foreign accent came on the line to say that Kerrie could not finish the conversation.

  I sat at my kitchen table attempting to shake off the news. My eyes brimmed with tears for Kerrie. She didn’t deserve this. She was way too young. I recalled the first time I saw Kerrie. It was at a concert at a winery. She was the cutest girl there, and we ended up getting married. Just like that.

  “What’s wrong with you, Venice? You look like somebody just ran over your dog,” Lydia said, lowering her eyeglasses. When I told her, Lydia gave me a hug and said she was sorry. She asked for Kerrie’s address, so she could write her a note.

  Numerous thoughts kept running rapidly through my mind. Who does she want me to find, and why? Do I want to do this? How much time will it take? The answers came quickly also. It doesn’t matter who. No, I don’t want to do this. But I will. It will take as long as it takes.

  All I could do now was wait for the information to arrive from Kerrie’s lawyer.

  Chapter Two

  The distinctive color of the large envelope sticking o
ut of the top of the mail box caught my eye as I drove up my driveway. I took the bundle of mail into the house and sorted through the bills and ads. Finally I picked up the big envelope. The return address was from the law firm of Charles Donaldson in Seattle, Washington.

  My hands shook as I put the letter opener to the flap. This had all gotten to me more than I expected. Inside was a manila folder and a white sheet of paper folded in thirds. My name was written in blue ink on the top fold. I recognized Kerrie’s handwriting, although it was written with an unsteady hand.

  Dear Venice,

  Thank you for agreeing to help me. As you know I have terminal ovarian cancer. My time is short, so I’ll get to the point. I have a daughter, albeit estranged, but she needs to know what’s happening with me. We haven’t spoken in over ten years. Our lifestyles didn’t mesh and she moved on. Her name is Mandy Wilkes and she is forty years old and the last address I have for her is in Iowa, of all places. A copy of her driver’s license and social security card is enclosed. There is also her high school graduation photograph. She was studying marine biology in college, which is pretty perplexing considering she was living in Iowa. If you need any legal investigation expertise, Charlie Donaldson can help you out.

  I hope this isn’t too much of an inconvenience for you; but you were the first person I thought of. Please come and see me.

  Fondly,

  Kerrie

  I was stunned. Kerrie had a kid? I was expecting to be asked to find the man she left me for or to chase down somebody who owed her money. I re-read the letter several times and each time I looked between the lines searching for a clue into this child. Was I the father? From time to time I wondered what it would be like to be a father, but always figured it wasn’t meant to be, and now this. I felt sure Kerrie would have said something to me. If she was my child, Kerrie had to know I would have supported her if I had known about her. I looked at Mandy’s photograph to see any resemblance to my family. One moment I saw my mother and the next there was no connection at all. Then I saw my father’s chin. Stop it! My mind was playing tricks. For the life of me I couldn’t remember the name of the contractor Kerrie took off with. It could’ve been Wilkes. I just didn’t remember.

  Mandy was an attractive high school girl but that photo was from decades before. Lots of things could’ve happened to change her looks—weight gain or loss, plastic surgery, a disfiguring accident or certainly hair color and style change. Drugs and alcohol could have taken their toll, also. How did I know I could find her after all these years?

  I sat at my desk and made an outline of what needed to be done. The first thing on the list was to visit Kerrie. After that, the rest, hopefully, would fall into place.

  Chapter Three

  During the flight to Seattle, I jotted notes in my day planner about what needed to be done and what resources I’d need to accomplish this task as quickly as possible.

  I had a valid social security number and an expired Washington driver’s license for Mandy. I was still a sworn peace officer in the states of Washington and California, so I had access to records from police agencies across the US. I didn’t relish the idea of going to Iowa, but if that’s where it would take me, that’s where I’d go. I’d go to Timbuktu if necessary.

  I parked the rental car a few doors from Kerrie’s house. The walk would steel my nerves before I saw her. Three days ago I was in a good space; my life was uncomplicated and on autopilot, and then the call came from Kerrie.

  The weather was unseasonably warm for April and a storm that had passed over a few days before seemed to brighten up the trees and plants. The air was fresh. If I hadn’t had to visit a dying woman, I might have enjoyed the day.

  I turned the old fashioned key for the bell and listened for footsteps inside. After another ring, I stepped away from the door and looked in the living room window. The interior was tidy, but nobody was around. I went to the side gate and opened the latch. I saw a woman with black hair and a dark complexion sitting on a lawn chair and Kerrie on a chaise under a maple tree. She wore a white warm-up suit, fuzzy pink slippers and huge sunglasses. A multi-stripe babushka adorned her head.

  “Hello,” I said from the walkway. “Kerrie, it’s Venice.”

  The woman was out of the chair in a flash. She reminded me of a protective dog getting between her owner and possible trouble. She was slight with a wide face. Her eyes were slits as she stared at me. “Its okay,” Kerrie said faintly to the lady.

  Kerrie removed her glasses and gave me a warm smile and waved me over. Her eyebrows were gone, but the pencil application was done nicely. Even though she was ill, she was still the beautiful girl I’d met at a concert. She offered her cheek to me and I kissed her and squeezed her hand. Face and hand were warm to the touch.

  “Vayda, this is Venice. We used to be married,” she said to the dark lady.

  Vayda greeted me with an outstretched hand. Her eyes wide open were dark as obsidian and kind. She asked if I’d like a drink of something, which I declined. After several awkward moments, Vayda went into the house.

  “Damn, Kerrie. I’m sorry we have to meet like this. So much time has gone by; I don’t know where to begin.”

  She grinned and put her glasses back on. “There’s an old Chinese saying that seems appropriate now: ‘The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second best time to plant a tree is today.’”

  She saw the confusion on my face.

  “Don’t look back, Venn. There’s no future in it. Take the day and go with it. I don’t want to dwell on what might have been, or on any mistakes I made.”

  My thought was that she meant take it one day at a time.

  We sat and chatted about the next treatment she was going to have, then I interrupted her. “Kerrie, I know you don’t want to dwell on the past, but I get nostalgic about Rueben and Hattie. And I want to know what your life has been like until now.”

  Rube and Hattie had been our neighbors on either side of us when we lived in my house in Blueport.

  “Nostalgia is fine as long as the memories are good,” she wheezed.

  We had a nice talk about our old neighbors and the good times we had. She told me up to six months ago she was still teaching pre-school. “In fact I had three campuses and sold them all. I have a nice sum of money for Mandy, but I don’t want her to come for that. I want her to come home so I can go over to the other side and have no regrets.” She took in a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips.

  “Would you get Vayda for me?” she said tiredly. “I need to rest and take meds. Can you come back in the morning?”

  I’d planned to fly out in the morning. “Sure. What time?”

  “Why don’t you come for breakfast? Vayda does good pancakes and bacon.”

  “When did you start eating bacon?”

  She gave a hint of a laugh and said, “When I found out I was terminal.”

  I cocked my head like a dog hearing a strange sound.

  She looked at me and said, “What’s it gonna do, kill me?”

  Chapter Four

  The smell of frying bacon permeated the yard as I walked to the door. I turned the bell key and heard footsteps.

  “Good morning, Mr. Venice. Come in,” Vayda said sweetly. “Would you like coffee?”

  A plate of sliced oranges with powdered sugar sprinkled over them sat in the middle of the dining room table. The aroma of the citrus was comforting.

  From the bedroom, Kerrie summoned Vayda, who handed me a coffee mug and went to check on Kerrie. I wandered into the living room. I recognized several pieces of furniture that had at one time been in our house. A cobalt blue vase from my childhood home sat on a side table. Several framed photographs of Mandy, and Mandy and Kerrie sat prominently on the mantle piece.

  “If there is anything there you want, take it, Venn,” Kerrie said as she wheeled herself into the living room. I hadn’t noticed the chair yesterday.

  I stepped over to her and bent and kissed her cheek.
“Good morning, Kerrie. How was your night?”

  “Eh. So so,” she replied rocking her hand. “Maybe I overdid it yesterday.”

  “Miss, breakfast is served,” Vayda said with a slight bow, and turned to go back into the kitchen.

  “She treats me like I’m a princess.”

  “Where is she from? Her nationality, I mean.”

  Kerrie wheeled herself into position and said, “Sri Lanka.”

  She seemed perplexed. “Why are there only two places set, Vayda?”

  “I’ll eat in here, Miss. Let you have some privacy.”

  “Nonsense, you set up out here.”

  Vayda looked at me, and I smiled and pulled a chair out for her.

  The meal was great. The pancakes had a nice amount of vanilla in the batter and the bacon was delicious. How bad can bacon be? The orange slices at first were tart after the sweetness of the syrup, but were counteracted by the powdered sugar.

  I helped Vayda clear the table, which caused her concern. “Don’t fret, Vayda. It’s the least I can do after you’ve fed me.” She giggled and started to rinse the dishes. I started to help her; she turned and faced me. With a knitted brow, she motioned her head toward the dining room and whispered, “She needs to talk with you, Mr. Venice.” I looked into her eyes and she nodded and motioned with her hand.

  Kerrie was sitting in the living room in a shaft of sunlight. Her eyes were closed. I walked as quietly as I could, and she said “I’m not asleep. Sit and talk with me. You must have questions about Mandy.”

  I asked her about the name “Wilkes” and was told that Mandy had been married briefly to a man named Russ Wilkes. “You’re probably wondering if you’re her father.” She opened her eyes and looked at me long and hard; then a grin slowly formed. I guess my look was enough to satisfy her sense of drama. “To tell the truth, I don’t know if she’s your child or Pat’s.” That was the contractor’s name, Pat Storm.