The Conversation
Francine looked at her mother. Her mother looked back at her. Then, Francine turned and quickly looked at her children sitting at the table in the motor home where they had been playing games all evening. All she saw was eight round frightened eyes and questioning faces with a veneer of unbelief. She looked hastily back at her mother to see in her face whether she had heard what she herself just heard. Yes. Her mother hadn’t moved or changed her stunned expression. Francine’s mind raced to comprehend what was happening and what should be done. Even though it had been only a few moments since over hearing the conversation—crucial time was passing. She turned, took a few steps to the door and burst out of it like a race horse exploding out of a starting gate at a race track. She called back to her children to lock the door and not to open it for anyone while they were gone. Francine’s mother dazed and with a look of incredulousness followed quickly behind her not quite knowing yet what Francine was going to do.
Francine’s mind swam in fear as she ran hard towards the manager’s cottage. Her heart pounded and her mind was still in shocked disorientation as she reached the door. It was now around eleven o’clock at night and she saw the finer of conscience pointing at her to remind her of the late hour and the bother she would be to the frail looking, slightly built older woman who earlier in the day had assigned them a spot in the trailer park for the night. Eleven or not, out breath and confused, she pounded on the woman’s door. It took what seemed like forever for the woman to get there. In the meantime, Francine continued to frantically beat on the door with a clenched fist that was voicing her frustration and defiance against a strange, and unpredictable and sometimes violent world.
The door finally opened and a startled and half awake manager asked what in the world was wrong.
“Mrs. Florence where’s your phone? My … my dad has disappeared.” Francine was so out of breath from the running and the fear, and so confused she could barely get anything out of her mouth. “They said on the CB that they had log-rolled him and left him lying by the road.”
Mrs. Florence still not quite awake was trying to make some sense out of what Francine was saying. She pointed to a phone that was sitting on a small antique table against the wall on the right.
“I’ve got to call the police. Please what’s the number?” She tried desperately to catch her breath and to calm her mind as she rushed across the small room to the telephone but to no avail. She continued to breathe like a 1,000 year runner at the finish line and her mouth had gone dry.
Mrs. Florence had never had to call the police and not being totally awake couldn’t think right away where her telephone book was. She walked quickly to a room off the living room and came back with the book. After fumbling for a minute she found the number and held the book up for Francine to see, shaking slightly.
Francine had to try several times before she dialed without a mistake. She had broken out in a cold sweat and felt sick. She could hear the phone ringing on the other end and after a nerve racking seven rings, someone answered.
“Help, please, help us. My father has disappeared and we heard that he’s been hurt, or..,” she didn’t want to say killed). “We’re on a trip up to Canada and just staying the night here. And…”
“Hold on. Slow down. Take your time,” the voice on the other end was grave as if it understood the importance of the call but it had a calm, reassurance in it, too. “Who are you and where are you calling from?”
Francine’s mother stood there white and tense, overwhelmed and unable to do anything. She was fifty-three was still full of like and looked younger than her years. It was so senseless to have her husband of thirty-one years ripped away from her like this by a heartless world. She looked helplessly on as Francine talked to the police.
My dad’s name is Bill Wainscott. We’re here at the…,” She looked questionably at the slight woman.
“This is the Shangri-La Trailer Park. They know where it is. It’s the only one in town.”
Francine repeated the information to the voice on the other end of the line. Her mind continued to reel from the shock of the conversation she’d just head over the CB radio.
“We’ll send someone over right away,” the voice said matter-of-factly, “Maybe you’d better wait out in the front. Calm down.” The woman hung up.
“Let me make up some coffee. Please sit down and try to collect yourselves.” Mrs. Florence started for the kitchen area across the room. It was a fairly small room that looked like it came out of the 1940’s…frozen in time except for the television set. It had a slightly musty smell of old carpet, and walls that hadn’t been painted for a long time. Francine took this all in quickly as she tried to collect her senses which had exploded like a grenade.
“We’re going to have to wait outside. I’m not feeling at all well.” She didn’t feel comfortable eight around strangers especially so far from home. She looked over at her mother to see if she wanted any coffee. Her mother shook her head slightly while turning to leave.
As they got outdoors into the coolness of the summer evening, the manager called behind them, “Nothing like this has ever happened in Crescent City.” Chills ran up and down Francine’s back. She didn’t look back but waited for her mother to come alongside, and they continued to walk silently towards the entrance of the park.
She knew that the police would want information so she began trying to go over in her mind what had happened that day. It was difficult to put everything in order. Her mind fought to shut everything out.
She suddenly became aware that her mother was speaking to her. Francine focused her attention on her mother as best as she could. She wanted to scream. Dad was gone. Gone.
They said something about the bushes on the CB. You wait here for the police. I’m going to get a flashlight and check on the kids. I’ll be right back. We’ll the bushes around here. I just can’t stand around and do nothing!”
As her mother hurriedly walked away, Francine looked thoughtfully after her. There was no use in hugging her or crying together. Dad’s fate wasn’t fixed yet. They needed to keep busy. And they shouldn’t be speculating upon probabilities—yet. But, then, there was the conversation on the CB.
While her mother was gone, Francine began to recount the day. They had been travelling all day and had arrived at the trailer park about four in the afternoon. What excitement there was as they parked in the rented motorhome in their assigned space. While Dad made it level, Laura, Julie, Anne, and Bobby ran to the small playground area not too far from the motorhome. They had been confined all day as they drove up from the San Francisco area, their second day from home, and were eager to get out to play. They were all still very young, Laura being the oldest at twelve years old. It was only their second real vacation. They anticipated it for months and months and now…
Francine looked up and down the highway, then turned and walked back around the very dense foliage and trees that grew along both sides of the entrance for some distance and separated the trailer park from the highway in front. As she walked along, the gravel underfoot, crunching and munching, reminded her of the sound that her dad’s powerful jaws created as he chewed. It seemed like a sweet sound now. She remembered, too, her slight irritation with him earlier that afternoon as he began to fool around with the CB radio in the motorhome. A CB radio is the perfect toy for him, she thought, since he’s an incorrigible talker. He was nearly sixty but handsome and playful and full of stories…or rather, he had been full of stories and trivia gleaned from things like the TV and Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, and the latest 1971 U.S. Almanac. Time was an inconsequential issue with Dad and, therefore, one of consequence to the rest of the family. While Mom and Francine had prepared dinner, Dad fooled around with the CB. It had been no use trying to get him to do anything else. All else was of no importance except finding someone to talk to. That radio was just a nuisance to Francine, so she only picked up a few words of conversation here and there as she helped get dinner ready, played with the kids, and kept the machines running in the laundry room which was just a stone’s throw from where they were parked. The 28 foot motorhome seemed luxurious. There was plenty of room for the seven of them to be comfortable. When dinner was ready, they pried Dad away from the CB and had a wonderful dinner. It’s funny how one minute you’re care-free having a great time, and the next minute it’s all gone like the vapor coming out of a cook pot… Oh, just what did he say as he left about 8:00 o’clock to go to the park entrance? He never has had a respect for time or plans, so Francine just didn’t pay much attention to him.
She could see her mom returning. Oh, poor Mom. What will she do Francine thought to herself. –Was it her that suggested that they turn on the CB about eleven after her dad had been gone for over three hours? She wanted to listen to see if her dad might be trying to get a hold of them. It would be so like him: always the kid. Francine shuddered as she began to recall the conversation.
“. . .a city slicker. Over.”:
“Ten-four. I read you High Tower. I know the type. They come through here with their money trying to impress people.”
Roger, Bird Dog. Stringbean picked him up at the entrance to Shangri-La Trailer Park. There he was standing’ there, a city-dude wearing’ his boots and polyester bell-bottom pants as big as life. Stringbean said it was quite a sight. I met them over at Ma’s Café. You know Uncle Tom and his ‘ole lady, Little Bell, they came and so did Stringbean’s wife, Butterbean. We missed you ’n Hot Pants, Bird Dog. Roger.”
“Just couldn’t make it, High Tower. Did it go OK? Over.”
“Yah, the city dude, ole’ California Kid he calls himself, had do-nuts and milk, and we talked for a long time. He told all kinds of stories. You wouldn’t believe it all. We had a hard time getting him outta there. He left with Stringbean and Uncle Tom. You hear what happened? Over.”
“You mean the log-rollin’?. Over.”
“Yah, roger. He was log-rolled and left alongside the road in the bushes. Over.”
“I thought somethun’ was up I heard sirens. Over.”
“Yah, will find out more details after Stringbean gets back. Over.”
At this point she’d turned the CB off. They sounded so sinister. She shuddered again. She tried to keep it sorted out and ready to tell the police but it happened so unexpectedly fast.”
“Francine, I have a flashlight. Let’s look through some of the bushes in front of the park while we wait for the police. I wonder why they aren’t here; it’s been almost ten minutes?” Francine could see her mother shiver even though it was quite balmy and warm out. “They said something on the CB about sirens. Do you remember hearing any awhile ago?”
“Yes. Let’s just look around.” She didn’t want to talk about it. The shrubbery is so thick here. …What’s that? Point the flashlight this way,” Francine pointed to a spot about thirty-feet away.
“Where?”
“Over there to your left towards that group of short pines in front of that dogwood tree. Do you see anything? No? I thought I saw something on the ground. Don’t forget to listen for the police since we can’t be seen from the entrance.”
Francine, I hear something now. Do you?”
“Well, yes.” She could hear muffled voices.
“It sounds like your father’s voice.”
They looked at each other and stopped and listened intently. They became aware of the sound of crickets, but just loud enough to hear they heard his voice. The voices came from the other side of the bushes so they walked hurriedly and somewhat dreading around them to the entrance. As they came around the bushes to the gravel driveway entrance, they saw Bill sitting inside an old rather dilapidated car talking to a thin slightly backing man dressed in an old plaid shirt. A third man sat in the back seat. They all smiled and nodded their heads in greeting.
Francine’s mom approached the car with a mixed look of relief and exasperation. Francine’s mind slowly emptied itself of fear and began to fill with a blend of frustration and anger as the sight of her father brought back visions of the dozens of time in the past where he had gone off, and stayed unreasonably long and kept her mom and herself, and sometimes others, waiting for hours.
“Where in the hell have you been,” Francine’s mother yelled at her husband of thirty odd years, “we’ve been worried sick about you. We were scared to death you’d been log-rolled. It’s almost midnight for crying out loud. We thought you were dead somewhere.”
Dad kind of smiled at Francine’s mom, and jokingly looked over to the man in the driver’s seat. I don’t know what could be the matter. She never talks to me like that.”
Mom tight with anger couldn’t handle it anymore and walked away still not over the fright, full of frustration and relief.
Francine saw red, too. Here they had been waiting for four hours, and he didn’t know what could be the matter? She got close to the car and all the fear and terror, and now the humiliation flooded from her brain into her mouth. And out it came—she talked to him as if he were a naughty little boy. She yelled into his face, “It’s not funny. We thought something terrible happened to you and--.” She could see the police car pulling off the road and into the entrance. It quenched her fiery speech. She suddenly was conscious of having a sense of the humiliation of sanity gone mad, and feeling foolish and naked she spun around to make a quick exit, but first she dumped everything in his lap. “Well, you can just explain it all to the police” –and disappeared around the bushes.
