“I got my G.E.D. while I was incarcerated,” said the old man selling fruit from the back of a rusty pickup to the young, stylishly dressed couple standing in front of Cassie. A Chanel crossbody was draped across the woman’s crisp white cotton button-down, and the man wore shiny Gucci loafers without socks. They picked up various peaches, squeezing them and then placing them back in the various piles. Cassie looked down at Simba, watching her small black and white dog prick his velvety black ears forward as if he also had questions.
From June through September the fruit man’s pickup sat in the corner of the gas station parking lot just off the Taconic’s second to last exit, two and a half hours north of Manhattan. Cassie and her husband Eli always stopped there because the gas station convenience store had a relatively clean bathroom, and they could take Simba for a quick walk in the field next to the store.
That October day the trees were starting to tinge orange and burgundy, like watercolors spreading across paper. A light wind was swirling the scattered piles of leaves on the pavement, and Cassie heard the season’s first crunching under her sneakers as she walked toward the store. An aging biker with a long grey beard, mirrored sunglasses, and a black leather jacket with an embroidered insignia that said Grim Riders, held the door.
There was only one person in line ahead of her, so after using the bathroom and buying a small bag of wasabi almonds that she’d eat later (because Eli hated the smell though Cassie thought they were odorless), Cassie left the store and took Simba’s leash from Eli so he could also use the facilities and then buy dark chocolate like he always did to keep him awake for the last 40 minutes through back roads to Williamstown. A family with four little kids hurried into the store just ahead of Eli; Cassie realized the bathroom line would now take him a while. She looked at the faded green pickup facing a taco food truck sitting in the opposite corner of the lot. Cassie had purchased fruit from the old man a few times that summer, strawberries and blueberries and plums, always picked that morning and fresher, juicier and cheaper than the corner market on their block or Whole Foods. She saw the sign that said Last Fresh Peaches of the Season in crudely marked black magic marker.
“It’s our lucky day,” she said as she walked Simba toward the truck.
The stylish couple kept asking, “How much?” and “How much now?” while filling multiple pint containers with different sized peaches.
The old man responded quickly to each question., “Seven dollars…sixteen dollars… twenty-three dollars.”
“I can’t add in my head,” the young woman said with a shrug that communicated counting in one’s head was a useless activity when every iPhone had a calculator.
The woman’s boyfriend (they seemed too young and clingy to be married), grunted in agreement, which was when the old man mentioned his penitentiary-acquired G.E.D. Wide-eyed, the woman reared her head back as if the old man said he’d injected each peach with salmonella, while her boyfriend handed him the money and then wiped his hand on his pressed jeans. Whispering, they took their bags of fruit and scurried to their BMW SUV.
Cassie stepped forward tentatively and took in the old man, his scruffy beard, worn Neil Young t-shirt, jeans with real rips at the knees and the black, blurry tattoos running up his arms. Eli would call them prison tattoos, one of the things he noticed as a public defender. She thought about the time their son Jameson went through their closet, looking for old concert t-shirts.
“So cool, so retro,” he’d said, pulling out a Led Zeppelin shirt, and Cassie felt cool for a minute, if old. She avoided the old man’s gaze, staring at the baskets of different sized peaches as if they contained secrets of the universe.
“Makes people uncomfortable,” the old man said, and Cassie couldn’t help but look back at him with a faint smile, unsure how to respond. She realized she was twirling the ends of her long brown hair, a nervous habit she’d had since childhood. “Five years in prison is no joke,” he added, staring directly at her. His ice blue eyes surrounded by weathered, leathery skin, pierced right through her, and Cassie couldn’t look away while he continued, “but it sure beat Vietnam, where I did time before prison.”
“Wow, from Vietnam to prison, that must have been rough.”
She tried to imagine his crime. Five years back in the late 60s, early 70s, maybe he sold weed or deserted while on furlough.
“Killed a man.”
It was a declaration, not necessarily intended to shock, just dropped like a boulder there in the mostly empty parking lot on a cool, crisp, clear fall day. Cassie focused on the fields behind the gas station, filled with Black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s Lace, thinking about her favorite pictures of Jameson as a toddler, when they’d gone pumpkin picking and the air reddened his cheeks and his bright blue fleece sweatshirt contrasted so beautifully with the yellow and red mums sold at the farm they visited that October day, the light that time of year glazing everything with a luminous glow. Jameson loved the petting zoo most of all, feeding the baby goats, and she remembered how he smiled up at her while wrapping his small arms around her thigh, clutching animal food pellets in his small fist. She forced herself to look back at the old man while her mind raced, trying to think of an appropriate response.
“Weren’t you wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt last Friday?” she asked, feeling like an idiot.
“Very observant.” The old man chuckled, and his laugh quickly turned into a phlegmy hacking cough. He pulled a red bandana out of his jeans pocket and blew his nose. “I have a collection from a long time ago.” He looked so wistful Cassie knew she needed to acknowledge the boulder.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Did three tours in Da Nang, then was supposed to ship out to Cambodia but I got in a car accident and destroyed my leg. Three tours without a scratch, but a rainy night and a sharp turn and I’m in the hospital for a month.”
“What was Da Nang like?” What about the dead guy, was what Cassie really wanted to ask, was it vehicular manslaughter the night of the accident?
“It was beautiful. And terrifying. Sometimes in the same minute.” Now it was the old man’s turn to gaze at the field while he remembered. “Ever see a tiger?”
“A tiger?” Cassie wondered where he was going. “In a zoo I guess, and the circus.”
“One brutally hot day we were resting on the trail, laying down, using our helmets as pillows,” said the old man. “Sharing a bone, needing to just be high and look at the trees and not think about guns for a minute, even though we could hear shooting down the hill.” He stared over Cassie’s head again at the meadow of wildflowers, but she knew he saw something else.
Cassie was transfixed. She thought about timing and the luck of her generation because she remembered those protests from when she was a little girl or maybe she heard her parents talk about them later. Thankfully Eli never had to face that and then she thought about Jameson, just turned seventeen and confused, telling them last night he wasn’t going to college, was quitting the basketball team, wasn’t even sure he wanted to attend high school graduation next year. Maybe a gap year but he had no real plans. She lost her temper though she knew better. But she was angry, and scared for him,
“Well, if you think you’re going to sit around all day smoking weed with that girlfriend of yours…”
“Maybe we can discuss graduation next year when you’re a senior,” Eli said, calmly interrupting. Always the peacemaker. Jameson stormed out and she cried to Eli, wondering why she wasn’t a better mother.
“You’re an amazing mother,” he said reassuringly, before adding, “but maybe you should try and listen more.”
Watching the fruit man lost in his war memory made her think of her father, gone three years now and how he always said that the military made a man out of him. Jameson had worshipped his grandfather. She couldn’t imagine Jameson a man, but wasn’t that what he was?
“And then there was a horrific smell,” the old man said, continuing his story. “Rancid, like nothing you ever smelled before, and suddenly branches started snapping and we all sat up slowly, reaching for our M16s, when a tiger suddenly stepped out of the jungle, his head about six feet from us. It was enormous. We froze while it stared at us. Beautiful and terrible. I can smell it now if I concentrate.”
“What happened?” Cassie asked, looking down at Simba wagging his tail, whining for a peach.
“The tiger walked across the path while we all held our breath wondering if an M16 could take it down before it took us down. It was so long that its head was in the trees on the left while its back legs hadn’t walked out of the right side of the jungle yet.”
“Oh my God,” Cassie said, trying to picture it.
“It wasn’t interested in us,” the old man said. “And Johnny Gil, a guy in our platoon from South Dakota, he’d been a quarterback in high school and could throw the most beautiful spiral,” he paused, smiling, and Cassie knew he remembered catching one of Johnny Gil’s passes. “Yeah, Johnny Gil just took a long drag off that joint, blew a smoke ring and said, ‘Join the army young man, see the world,’ and we all lay there, stoned and laughing while the tiger disappeared into the jungle.”
“Were you scared?” Cassie asked. She stared at the haunted look in his eyes, the dark circles so deep she wondered if he ever slept.
“Of a tiger? Nah. He didn’t want to kill us. I was scared of girls with grenades in their baskets.” He paused, focusing on the field of weeds. “Johnny Gil died later that afternoon. Stepped on a mine.” He shook his head and the faraway look on his face faded and he handed Cassie an empty container.
Cassie busily filled two containers with peaches, fuzzy and fragrant; the smell intoxicating, and she breathed it in, not sure what to say to the old man, thinking maybe she’d make a cobbler to bring home Sunday for Jameson, a peace offering.
“What a nightmare,” she finally said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. Yeah, the scary things happen when we’re not paying attention.”
Simba strained at the leash, pulling Cassie toward the open back of the truck and jumping up on his hind legs. When he whined there was a deep return growl from behind the old man.
“Stop it Ace,” said the old man, turning his head. A mangy looking dog, a Shephard mix with a snout gone grey, struggled to stand. The old man patted his head gently, “Yeah, getting older ain’t for the weak.”
Cassie had to know. “So how did you end up in prison?”
He considered her from the back of the pickup and cocked his head as if he forgot he’d mentioned that to her, but then he told the story in a monotone while he counted her peaches. She didn’t want to watch his face, so she focused on his swollen knuckles and callused fingers.
“A few months after the accident my leg mostly healed, though I still limp, and then I got a job at a 7-11. The VA gave me drugs for the pain but all that did was make me want more drugs. It didn’t stop what was going on in my head. Sometimes drinking did that.”
Cassie lifted her head to look him in the eye because it now seemed rude not to.
“It was stupid really,” the old man continued. “I was in a bar one night after a double shift doing shots and playing pool and some guy was arguing with his girlfriend at the other pool table and she had on a tight shirt with a tiger print that made me think about that day in the jungle when Johnny Gil died.”
The old man stopped and closed his eyes. Eli came up behind Cassie and she turned and shot him a look that said please don’t speak right now and Eli understood immediately the way people who are married awhile get each other. He stood there quietly.
“And the girl hit him with the pool stick,” the old man continued, opening his eyes. “Not hard enough to hurt but enough to get his attention and he punched her. I mean with a closed fist, and she went down, and I don’t know, it’s hard to remember because I was drunk but I ran over and tackled him, and he fell back and slammed his head on the edge of the pool table and died two hours later from a blood clot. Stupid. Like I said.” And then he closed his eyes again and said so quietly that Cassie had to step closer to the back of the truck to hear. “I killed in Nam and then came home and killed in a bar. Weren’t enough drugs to fix that.”
Cassie didn’t know what to say and she felt Eli shift nervously behind her. She imagined he was thinking that he’d waited for the bathroom for eight minutes, then waited in line to buy some 80% cacao dark chocolate and now instead of just buying peaches his wife was listening to this old guy talk about how he murdered someone. She felt Eli’s eyes boring into the back of her head, but she didn’t turn around because she wanted to hear more, her head tilted forward slightly, her hazel eyes unblinking, the way she looked when she was really listening. Eli always told her it was incredible how strangers told her things.
“Was there a trial?” Cassie asked as the man put the peaches carefully in a brown paper bag.
“Nah. Thankfully the bartender was a friend of mine and said the guy started it and the guy’s girlfriend was knocked out and didn’t see any of it, so I pled out to eight years. Turns out the guy had priors a mile long and was a bad dude, but that didn’t always make me feel better.” He paused again, pondering with half-closed eyes. “I got out after four years ten months for good behavior.” The hint of a smile played at his mouth. “I’d never been accused of good behavior before so that was kinda funny.”
“And the G.E.D.?”
“Yeah, that was good. And some group therapy crap about anger management. I mostly hung with the other vets inside. Wasn’t great but I seen worse.” He looked at the bag, “Twelve dollars. These are good peaches. I got them from a farm down the road at six this morning. Nice guy that farmer. But farming sucks. I feel sorry for him.” He glanced up at the dark clouds that were gathering above them. “I’m going to close up shop for today, before that storm hits.”
Cassie paid him, said goodbye and she and Eli walked to the car. Simba jumped in the back seat, curling up in his dog bed and Eli started the car and pulled out of the gas station. Cassie waved to the old man, and he waved back. They rode in silence for a few minutes and then it started to rain. She unwrapped the chocolate bar and broke off a piece for each of them. She let the bitter sweetness melt slowly in her mouth while she listened to the rain beating on the roof and windshield. Elton John’s Billy Don’t be a Hero came on the radio; Eli loved the 70s channel. It reminded him of his childhood.
Lightning flashed followed by a crack of thunder and Simba jumped into the front seat onto Callie’s lap and she stroked his head to calm him down. She felt Simba’s anxiety seep into her own; it was getting dark, and Route 22 had no lights. When they rounded a sharp turn, a tractor was suddenly right in front of them moving so slowly Eli had to slam on the brakes. Cassie squeezed Simba as the tires screeched and their car skidded, spinning in a circle. She watched the scenery whip around her as if in slow motion, the tractor, a red mailbox on a wood post, a cornfield, the tractor again, the mailbox again and then their car came to a stop facing the wrong way in the left lane. Cassie could see headlights in the rain coming toward them and she shut her eyes, bracing for the impact. She heard brakes screech and then, nothing. Opening her eyes she saw the car had just missed the tractor, and just missed them as it swerved into the other lane and then back, before continuing along the road. Eli carefully turned the car back into the right lane and drove slowly, creeping along behind the tractor. They both breathed. Simba shivered.
“That was close,” Eli said quietly.
“Yes, good skidding recovery,” Cassie responded lightly, and they both laughed nervously. Eli grabbed her hand and squeezed it and then put his hand back on the wheel. Cassie thought about how much she loved his quietness as she broke off two more pieces of chocolate and handed one to him.
They drove for a few minutes in silence and then Cassie asked, a catch in her voice, “What if he joins the military?”
“Who?” asked Eli. His voice sounded confused, and he quickly glanced at her, his eyebrows raised in that question mark.
“Jameson.” Her voice was so low Eli barely heard her.
“Why would he do that?”
“He’s young and confused and my father—”
“He hates guns,” Eli said, cutting her off. “He hates waking up early. He hates pushups.” He was trying to make a joke, which he did sometimes to calm her anxiety, but Cassie felt a big fear in her heart and wanted it to go away.
“The military preys on people like him.”
“Stop it, Cassie. He’s not joining the military.”
“I know,” she said gently, “but I’m scared for him.”
“Me too.” Without turning away from the road, he reached for her hand again. “But fear is part of being a parent. And anyway, the scary things happen when you’re not paying attention.”
Cassie thought about the tiger while the chocolate melted soothingly into the roof of her mouth.