Let Me Tell You About the Swamp

As promised...

Kelly drove down the the state highway pass the bridge. A police car waited at the entrance to the road. She checked her speedometer. As many times as she has been on this road over fifty years, she still wonders what is the speed limit and was she speeding? She almost wants to slow down enough to let the marked car enter the highway ahead of her, but she knows that won't work. She slows but not that much, because she drives slowly now. She also wonders if it will follow her into town or even put on its lights to stop her before town. Everything is in order, but was she speeding?

The black and white car pulled onto the road behind her. She watched her mirror. No lights and he quickly turned into the motels' driveway. She breathed easily, and went on her way for her hair appointment and other errands in town.

After the quick style and cut, Kelly feels nostalgic. She mentioned the house with a silo the other day and how in the seventies that was unusual. People started getting over conventional constraints then. She wanted to see it, so she drove straight instead of turning left. Trees grew, as they do so well in western Pennsylvania and she could barely glimpse it. She tucked the thought in the back of her head that when she gets her long hair cut again in six months, it will be winter. She will travel this road so she can see this house, then.

The cutting edge house of the seventies dwarfed by the newer homes on this country road, that never gets traffic. Houses that could be in the Rockies soar on a lengthy driveway from the road. But this area doesn't have the land like that and neighbors' homes are closer than out west. A new house sat on the spot of an old lady's trailer. Kelly enjoyed visiting her in high school. She spoke loudly with wit.

Another house on the corner, owned by someone completely different than lived there only a few years ago. That middle aged couple in the seventies lived well into this century. The wife died at age ninety seven. Kelly tried to remember if the husband's mother was still alive when she was a little girl. She tucked that away to look at old church directories when she got home.

The shoe store now, had been a drug store with many changes. Kelly didn't remember the soda fountain. She bought her first dime store novel here, but she's sure it was more than a dime, but probably under a dollar. She loved in later years before Covid, her friend had a yoga studio here. She connected with her childhood with that neighborhood friend's parents taking some classes. Comfort stolen away by a virus, never to return. Now, she bought shoes to at least comfort her feet from in this old building. Vaguely remembering the hardware store that surrounded this room in the building like an L.

Smoke rolled out of the coffee roasting company downtown. Air conditioning kept her from smelling the coffee. Their store allowed her to bring that morning brew home, as well as some tea and a treat to drink.

Waiting for the farm store to open, Kelly drove around the countryside. Now, which farm had she visited in sixth grade on a warm spring day? The girl and she had gone separate ways in high school and she never made her way back there again. There were three choices of houses, all worn down. She couldn't decide which one was in her memory.

Back in her new town of thirty seven years, a dog sniffed at the door of the vet's home for sale. The first time, Kelly read the description from the realtor, she thought, How many pets euthanized there and would that be freaky? Her first dog "put to sleep" there sixty years ago. She thought that the sniffing dog's sensitivities heightened to the souls of anguish or relief. What a story that could make. The first name to come to mind was Benji. He looked like a black Benji. The light turned green and Kelly moved on.

At home, later that evening, Kelly reads a death occurred at the motel where the police car turned in. She now wished he had followed her and maybe spared a death. The story reported, "Officer involved death." in a three hour hostage situation. A woman told of a stench in the hall that burned her eyes. She was forced by police to stay in her room. Kelly dreamed up a story.

The young cop torn between being called to an emergency and the car speeding down the state road. He chose the motel emergency. All hands on deck. Calling in the state police and Crisis Intervention Response Team. Excitement in waiting the three hour stand off? Well, not really. Just tension in the waiting.

In her sad story, the cop, let's name him Mark, is either killed or kills the forty five year old man. Mark, nervously holds his gun as they all surround the room. Tear gas sprayed in the hall, (the pungent smell reported by the woman.) Maybe a minute amount gets in Mark's eyes building the tension in his body. Seldom does anything like this happen, but then again, they are near an interstate and human trafficking at the state line is reported to be the highest in the country because of all these roads converging in the area. Is the man involved in human trafficking? Most likely, it is drugs.

The next day and the day after, Kelly knows more of the story. The man holed up in the room of the motel that holds so many memories for her, is the one killed. Did her "Mark" kill him? The young policeman from the township?

Again, she doesn't really write a short story. Holding out for the swamp. But we're closer. And why does this author write in third person? Tell you about that later.