Lee Fitts Read online

  © 2019 by Rich Garon All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination used for purposes of fiction.

  richgaron.com

  Edited by Kiele Raymond

  Print ISBN: 978-1-54394-287-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-54394-288-0

  Library of Congress Control Number 2018910270

  To Russell J. Campbell

  You won’t have to sleep in the cold again in the woods

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  “Once more and you’re through. You either work here at the firehouse or you drive the damn school bus; your choice,” said the man with the clipboard.

  Speakes had never been yelled at like that. He knew he would have to kiss his part-time driving job good-bye. But by evening’s end, he recognized how dependent he was on those extra dollars. Maybe he could shave some time from his bus route and get to the firehouse on time.

  The next morning, Speakes watched as the Fitts boy walked down the long winding driveway toward the school bus. Once, Speakes had told the boy to walk faster and his mother called the junior high principal. The principal warned Speakes never to harass the kid again. As the boy finally boarded the bus, Speakes closed the door and shifted into gear.

  The light at Hillman Road turned green. If he picked up some momentum for the incline ahead and then accelerated just a bit more than usual, he thought he could make up time. He’d only been late to work by two minutes last time.

  Speakes always got a rush as he felt the huge vehicle hug the bend before the fast descent. At the bottom of the hill was a short straight-away happening fast on to a double set of railroad tracks. The school was a half-mile beyond those tracks giving Speakes more than enough time to slow his bus down to the speed limit before he turned into the parking lot.

  He rose from his seat a little higher than usual that morning as the bus broke the crest of the hill. The students paid little notice to the extra blip of momentum capturing the bus. Speakes looked at his watch and calculated his arrival time at work. He looked in the rear-view mirror and down at his watch again. I’m going to be okay, he concluded. That was until he saw a multi-engine freight train barreling across from his left. It was far away enough that it hadn’t tripped the crossing gate and lights. He calibrated distances, speeds, and times much as if he were in an algebra class at the school beyond the tracks. More than a good grade hung on his answer. Other mornings he would have downshifted by now to get a little bit better traction going down the hill. He could still do it, he told himself, would buck some, but he could still do it. But if he did, that was it. No doubt, looking at the length of that train, he’d be late again by the time the train passed.

  It wouldn’t be long before all the warning signals would announce the train’s approach. In that second, he pressed down on the accelerator. The gate began to lower and the lights flashed. His hands froze to the steering wheel as his shaking foot dusted the brake before the bus hit the lip of the first track.

  “Stop that screaming,” Nelson Speakes yelled. “We’re okay, we’re okay.” He floored it as the gate came down on the bus’s hood.

  Lee Fitts was thrown against the window as the bus began its quarter-mile trip sideways down the track. He was still all right; his head throbbed a little, but he thought he was okay. But maybe he wasn’t. How could he tell anything? He could never have imagined the sights and sounds that were exploding in bursts around him: bodies punctured and twisted, bones splintered, a severed arm identifiable only by the blood-drenched sleeve of a pink sweater, screeches of students up front in horrific harmony with the bending and shearing metal, and shattering glass raining on fountains of piercing sparks. Struggling to pull his friend from a crumbled seat, Lee lost his balance and fell to the floor. His eyes closed on impact. The feverish trainmen, not far from him now, cried as panels of yellow steel sheathing at the point of impact began to separate.

  “Am I going to have that report by nine?” Martin Wendell asked.

  Jim Fitts collected some papers from his desk and stared at the printer. “Yes sir, I’m almost done. Made sure it would be ready for your meeting. Got in at six this morning to take care of all your edits. We’ll be in great shape, great shape.”

  “Notify the others that we’re going to meet at four-thirty to review the next steps in the project,” Wendell said gravely, as if the company’s contract to modify a water-treatment plant carried the same import as America’s efforts to develop the atomic bomb.

  “But Mr. Wendell,” Jim said to the painfully-thin man. His boss paused and turned around. “I mentioned yesterday that I hoped to leave a little early today. If you remember, I said my son had a football game and I haven’t been able to see him play much, and well, I thought you said it would be okay.”

  Wendell started to purse his lips and touched his forefinger to the rim of his metal-framed glasses. “Look Fitts, that was yesterday. Things change. I’ll have to think about this and let you know later.”

  Jim Fitts shook his head and watched as Wendell hurried down the hall. He looked at the wall of his cubicle where he had hung a photo of Lee in his football uniform and a letter from Lee’s coach. Few fathers had such a letter. He and Wendell had such different opinions about what was important.

  The phone rang. “This is Jim.”

  “Jim, you’ve got to take this call right away; something about your son and a school bus.”

  Ellie Wilson looked at the newspaper her husband D.H. had tossed on the table. She knew there would be painful headlines; words etched in ink that would frame the event for her as other people saw it: “TEN YEARS AFTER: THE FATAL CRASH of SCHOOL BUS #19.” She stared at the twisted, smoking wreckage of the bus. She could only imagine the horror unleashed when two-city long blocks of metal punched into the school bus’s vulnerable middle. “Twenty-Nine Students Killed as Moonlighting-Fireman Races to Beat Train. Three Student Survivors Hospitalized.” Ellie cleared a place for the paper as she surveyed other photos and sidebar stories. “The Survivors Today, page five.” She flipped through the paper and stopped when she saw her brother Lee’s picture to the right of two other photos. A photo of the surviving bus driver appeared below. That year, 1981, seemed so far away.

  D.H. placed his arm on her shoulder and kissed the top of her head.

  “Time was really helping,” she said.


  “You going to be okay? I can stay longer if you want.”

  “No, you’ve got to go to work, and so do I. It’s not a holiday or anything. I wish I could reach my father, but still no answer. I’ll have to stop by this morning. I just hope Lee’s not there. He won’t know what today is, but if he sees me crying, he’ll pester me until I tell him.”

  Ellie and her father had declined all recent requests to interview Lee. Over the past ten years, he and his family had been hit over and over again by that train. The story in the paper had just scratched the surface.

  “Call me today, I mean it, don’t keep everything inside,” D.H. said. “Besides, I’ll be on the road most of the day, won’t be no bother.”

  As she watched her husband pull away from the house, the phone rang. She lifted the receiver slowly.

  “Do you know what today is?” Jim Fitts asked his daughter.

  “I do Dad. I’ve been looking at the paper. You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m all right. I’ve seen that damn paper too. Got up early this morning to make sure I got it before the boy saw it, though I know he’s never up this early.”

  “Daddy, do you want me to come over?”

  “No, no, I’m going to be late for work. I got to get going right now.”

  “You going to be okay today?”

  “I’ve got to go. Look, after all is said and done this day is no different than any other except to those guys that want to sell newspapers. Make sure you call your brother this afternoon, he’s got weeds to pull and a lawn to cut.”

  Jim Fitts placed the receiver down and picked up his hat and jacket. If he didn’t get that frayed cuff fixed, someone was going to complain about him not showing up in a neat uniform. He opened the kitchen drawer and tore off a piece of tape that he placed inside the cuff to hold back the frayed material. Should hold till tonight, he thought. He grabbed a piece of paper towel and wiped it quickly across the shield on his hat and the one on his shirt. He opened the door and walked down the creaking wooden steps in front of the three-room bungalow.

  “That day,” he muttered to himself. “Piece-of-shit house and piece of-shit job and a twenty-one-year- old son that doesn’t know what planet he’s on.”

  He’d thought about taking his son back to the doctor. It had been five years. Maybe there was some new treatment that could help Lee. That was when he still was able to scrape together enough to take him to the doctor. That wasn’t possible anymore. Lee was never going to be like he was; no getting around it.

  Reid Fletcher’s finger stabbed at the doorbell. “C’mon Lee. What the heck’s going on here, man? You’re supposed to be ready.” Reid kept the button depressed as if that would make the bell ring faster. He did the same thing with the pump at the gas station, thinking that if he held the lever tightly the gas would pump faster than its programmed maximum rate. Chime, chime, chime echoed through the small alcove.

  Reid stopped and looked hurriedly down the sidewalk. He should have checked sooner. Okay, Mr. Fitts must have left for work. Reid sighed. He still couldn’t figure out why Mr. Fitts didn’t like him. He renewed his attack on the doorbell and started tapping against the glass. A shadow appeared heading toward the door. The doorbell still chimed and the finger didn’t release until the door opened.

  “How long does it take you to answer the damn door?”

  “I was in the bathroom and I cannot rush when I am in the bathroom,” Lee said. Lee cut a lithe figure. He looked out at what could have been his body-double. Beyond that similarity were much different characteristics. Reid’s thin, olive-skin face faded into disheveled black hair. Below his lower lip was a two-inch by three-inch brush. Lee’s face spoke of a complexion that sunburned but never tanned and his light brown hair fell naturally neat. While Reid swayed impatiently in black sneakers, jeans, dark blue Insane Clown Posse T- shirt, and black-rimmed sunglasses with oil swirl wrap-around lenses, Lee tucked his golf-style shirt into chino pants that rested on sneaker-type hiking shoes.

  “You were in the bathroom and can’t be rushed? Are you kidding me or what? If we don’t get down to Kaptor’s by nine, you ain’t gonna have to worry about being rushed. You can stay in the bathroom the whole damn day. Last week we had to hang around in the street for an hour with that mutt who I told you wasn’t going to make it after getting whacked by that truck. That whole episode cost us a good job movin’ those old appliances at the landfill. Might have only been temporary, but you know what they say: one good job leads to another, Lee Boy,” Reid said, using the name he sometimes called his friend since grade school. “You know why we’re going to Kaptor’s this morning?”

  “Yes, I know why we are going to Kaptor’s this morning. We are going to Kaptor’s this morning because you got us a job. And the pay is good. You said the pay is going to be good at our job at Kaptor’s.”

  “More important, Lee Boy, this is a job I think you’re going to be real good at. You got your key? C’mon, we gotta move; I need to stop and get some gas.”

  The Kaptor’s sign was pure-1950s: three-lines of script in a tangle of blackened-out neon tubes made visible by the morning sun. Reid and Lee walked down the alley beside the old brick building and up the crumbling cement steps to a locked steel door. Reid pounded on the door.

  “You guys here for the circulars?” asked a man with yellowish-white hair and the name Billy written on a Kaptor’s employee badge pinned to a faded blue sweatshirt.

  “Yeah, we’re here for the advertising circulars,” said Reid. “Let me do the talking,” he whispered to Lee.

  “Well, get in here and sign the forms with the rest of them. You guys need to get here earlier tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, sorry, we got stuck in a little traffic.” He then mumbled to Lee, “You got to be out of the bathroom and waiting for me in front of your house tomorrow. You hear me?”

  “Yes, I hear you. I will be outside in front of my house waiting for you tomorrow morning,” Lee mumbled back.

  There were about twenty of them there to assemble circulars near the loading dock. Reid strained to hear Billy’s instructions against the noise of the forklift unloading trailers nearby.

  “You guys got ten circulars to work with today. Those crates over there got bundles of each circular. I want you to assemble piles that have all ten circulars in them and then we’re going to band them together and stack them back in the crates. These are the inserts for the Sunday paper. How many of you guys read the paper?” Billy asked.

  “Sometimes,” Reid shrugged as another man raised his hand.

  “Well that’s real nice. We got a couple of intellectuals with us this morning. Look, these circulars got to be done by five or we start deducting from your pay. You know we got plenty of people who want these good jobs,” Billy said as the sputtering hydraulic lines of the nearby forklift smothered the rest of his instructions. “Put a move on it.”

  “All right, so maybe that wasn’t the best job after all,” Reid said as he put the key into the ignition and rubbed his hands together. “That Billy turned out to be a real jerk.”

  “Reid, I tried. I just could not put those circulars together any faster. I did not want to have duplicates in the pile. I did not want to make any mistakes. I do not think I made any mistakes; I just was not able to work as fast as everyone else.”

  “Can’t always worry about being perfect.”

  “But I did not want to have those people think I could not do the job,” Lee said as his eyes glared through the windshield.

  “Ah, no sweat man. We’ll find another job. We don’t need no Billy and his damn piles.”

  “My mom still sends me forty dollars each month. But she says I cannot tell my dad. But I know he will suspect something if I buy things if I am not working. He still yells at me for not working; but not as much as before. He pretty much says ‘Ah, what’s the use?’ to everything.”

  “You don’t think your dad doesn’t know you’re getting money from somewhere?”

  “I sa
ve just about all my mom gives me. And my Dad, cause I guess he sees that I have trouble getting a job, gives me five dollars a week. Says I don’t need any more than that because he pays the rent and buys the food and my socks and underwear. And my sister bought me two pair of khakis and three nice golf shirts and my hiking sneakers for Christmas, and sometimes she also gives me a five-dollar bill.”

  “You are set for life Lee Boy, no question about it, you got everything covered. And now you got that twenty-dollar bill Billy the Circulars King gave you. I need something to eat. Want a cheeseburger?”

  “I want a regular hamburger and a large Sprite. But one time I lost about three years’ worth of the money my mom sent. I had it under my mattress. I had my money in two big mailing envelopes. But I looked one day and one of the envelopes was gone. I do not know how I lost it. You are the only one I am telling about that Reid. I could not tell anyone.”

  “Lost it? You don’t think someone might have taken it?” Reid asked.

  “Who could have taken it? Nothing else in the house was stolen.”

  “I don’t know,” Reid said. “But I hope you keep it in a better place now.”

  Reid stopped in front of Lee’s house and looked into the bungalow. “Guess your dad’s not home yet.”

  “It is Tuesday. He gets home late on Tuesdays.”

  “Where’s he go?”

  “I asked him once and he told me it is none of my business; that just because I lived in his house did not mean he had to answer all of my stupid questions.”

  Reid shuffled his palm across his two-day stubble and slurped the last of his Diet Coke. “You know Lee Boy, maybe when we get some good steady work, we can get a place together. You won’t have to worry about your father saying it’s his house.”

  “But I love my father.”

  “Yeah. Well, I got a couple of job leads. They sound pretty good. I think one of them is going to be the one that’s just right for us. You remember that fort we built in fifth grade? We really didn’t know each other; I mean my mother dumped me at that vacation Bible school at your church. But we got along good. That fort, just a bunch of branches and old 2x4s up against that old tool shed by that steep hill. But we had a lot of fun there. You were always good to me Lee; especially on the team when I got picked-on. I sure wasn’t very good, but you were a star and you always stood up for your old fort buddy. We can get a place and you’ll see it’ll be just like having the fun we had in that old fort.”