#22 Cursed Part 1 - Cuid Cursed 1

The woosh of the car doors startled me as I crossed to the next car. Usually I practiced a superstition where I refused to set foot on the uneven metal flooring that covered the open space between cars. I felt exhilarated to pretend that I was on an adventure - however trivial it may be - and that the wobbling floor was like lava.

Tonight I was over exhilaration, I'd experienced real danger and pretending didn't do it for me anymore.

Lyle and I'd split up after my growling stomach refused to discuss anymore plans until it was adequately fed. Lyle crossed ahead of me in search of a dining car while I set out on a mission to find someone with a working phone. Lyle's turned out to be dead, and mine was either dead battery wise or in need of a proper telephone funeral.

After consulting a framed map and the flashing sign above the sliding doors we figured that we hitchhiked onto the Westbound train. A dull silver lining to the night, this route would stop at the town where Unit #16 lived before turning back on its way into the city. By early morning we would arrive, retrieve the painting and catch the next train into the city ready for the exchange the morning after.

In just a day I would meet the man who wanted my mother's painting.

Before my stomach interrupted I'd pressed Lyle for any information on Rick Monroe.

Surprisingly Lyle shared what little she knew with little contest from me, I suppose I'd finally worn her down.

From what she gathered, Monroe is head of a company that I didn't recognize. X-Enterprises, which sounded completely fabricated like they make spaceships or something out of a dystopian book, but Lyle assured me it was something far less intriguing. Basically, they managed money, traded it, bonded it, invested it, bought time shares and yachts - whatever bored rich people do.

1101 N. Hampshire St., the address typed on the professional business card was the address for the company. I made a mental note to memorize it - just in case.

I'd been to that part of the city only a few times before. Hampshire was one of many that intersected Main Street in the bustling metropolitan downtown.

Why would he want to meet in such a public place? He would want to meet at his office wouldn't he? That was why he gave the men this address. Why not at his home? Was there something he was trying to hide that he didn't want his family or neighbors to see? What would be so incriminating about an acrylic painting.

I didn't voice my concern to Lyle, instead listened as she intently laid out our plan to extract as much money as possible from Monroe, or as she so fondly called him "Rich Rick" - occasionally exchanging some consonants.

I was thankful I'd cleaned up before emerging from our private car. I checked myself again in the reflection of the window closest to me. I'd re tied my hair into a tight bun after struggling to comb through it with my fingers. A splash of cold water on my face attempted to hide the redness and clean the cuts that decorated my cheeks and forehead, most of which had already start to scab over.

As for my hands I was going to have to do my best to hide them. Lyle's blood stained my fingernails and the creases of my palm. I shoved my them into the pockets of my jeans whose color varied over my thighs as dirt stains replaced a layer of flour dust.

The neighboring car was dimly lit. Each seating pair had independent lights that could be turned on as needed but only one was lit. Under it sat two elderly women who knit furiously beneath the fluorescent light.

"Excuse me," I approached the women who sat opposite each other as they knitted away. "I was wondering if I could borrow a phone, it seems mine died."

The woman to the right of me worked intently on a purple scarf - or maybe a blanket - that extended into the seat beside her. After finishing a stitch she stopped her work to look me over. Apparently pleased that I was not a serious threat to her yarn she smiled sweetly.

"Betsy!" She called to the woman across from her. "You got your telephone with ya?" Her voice was shrill and three times louder than any normal speaking voice.

I did my best not to flinch as the sheer volume coming from the small woman who couldn't be more than five feet echoed in the empty car.

Betsy, who apparently was so absorbed in her knitting that she hadn't heard my earlier request brought her vision laboriously away from her identical pink blanket. "What was that Ingrid?" She called back. Her pitch was lower but somehow even louder than her friends.

Now I could see how they had managed to get a riding car all to themselves.

"Do you have your telephone with ya?" Ingrid, the woman knitting the purple blanket repeated. She pronounced each syllable in telephone slowly until the light of recognition hit Betsy whom dug into the pile of pink yarn she had at her side.

"Gotta be in here somewhere."

Ingrid exchanged a tired look with me as if to say 'see what I have to deal with?'.

"You want it honey?" Betsy produced the phone from the massive pile of yarn. Her skinny arm dangled the flip phone between two bejeweled fingers.

I nodded and thanked her assuring that I wouldn't be more than a few minutes.

Delicately I flipped the phone open and took a seat kitty corner to the women.

Checking the time I saw it was almost one in the morning and was surprised when Grace's animated voice answered on the third ring.

"Hey Grace it's me."

"May?" She chirped. I can't begin to explain how relieved I was to hear her voice on the other end of the line. It'd only been three hours since I saw her last but it felt like days. "I haven't seen you all night sweetheart, whose phone are you calling from?" There was a tad of concern in her voice and in an instant I felt my relief sink and melt into guilt.

There was no way I could explain to her what I was doing. Even she did not know about my mother's paintings.

"About that, I um-" I paused. Before today I had thought myself to be a pretty good liar, but never before had I fabricated a story this grand. My mind went blank, what the hell was I doing? My free hand reached up gently to hold my locket. Images of her photos flashed before my eyes. Concentration etched on her face as she painted. She was always a mystery to me, but now more than ever. Someone was after something she created with her own two hands and I intended to find out why.

Grace would know everything as soon as I did - I owed her that much.

I drew in a deep breath. "I am going to be gone for the next few days because," I faltered. Gosh people made it look so easy in movies to make up a smooth explanation that never required further details. "I mean I'm in-"

"Oh my god." Grace's dramatized expression of each word pushed them through the phone speaker with such force I jerked the cellphone back a few inches. "You're with Lyle aren't you?" Her excited squeals vibrated through the waves and I could picture her bouncing up and down in victory.

"No, I'm not I-" I attempted to interject but it was useless.

"Say no more!" I'll take up breakfast myself. You take your time!" I heard a slight scuffle accompany her sing songy voice and I figured either Tony or one of the girls had walked past and she'd covered the receiver to relay the good news.

May was no longer totally single.

More like May almost got herself killed.

Nevertheless I couldn't help but smile at her excitement, however unbased it was. Going with a happy lie was better than going with a sad one wasn't it? And for the record I hadn't lied per say, by omission yes but I was holding out on that measly technicality.

"Thanks Grace, you're the best."

"I know sweetie, just give me a call when you're on your way back." She paused in reflection as if remembering that for once I wasn't going to be across the driveway or in the next room.

Was she sad or happy? Or maybe a mix of both. She'd spent so long trying to get me out of my comfort zone that this had to bring feelings of success, but I knew she'd also miss me.

"Make sure you charge your phone, and call me if you need anything." She finished emphasizing her offer.

"I will." I nodded my head dutifully. "Hey one last thing, did those two men, Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones check out?"

She hummed in response. "They just checked out, that's why I am over at the house. Goodness me the bonfire is still going on, well not as much as it was earlier it's mostly some townies." She went on a bit longer before remembering her original point. "How did you know? It seems like they were in a hurry."

A sigh of relief left my lips before I could control it. Grace was safe. White Pine was safe again. I slumped back in the padded seat and looked up toward the plain ceiling. "Just wondering, they spilled some flour in the kitchen tonight and seemed embarrassed about it." It felt good to blame the mess on the men, they were after all the ones that made it necessary for Lyle to tip over a 20 pound bag of flour. How I would explain the broken door, I was unsure.

Grace hummed in acceptance of my lie. "Well, I'll let you go now. I think I am going to have to be the party pooper who shuts down this bonfire. I hope I'm not getting to old for this stuff."

"You'll never be too old to throw a great party."

"Oh, I know." She chirped back as if I was the one who insinuated the outrageous claim. "Love you."

"Love you too." I whispered into the phone before flipping it shut.

I melted into the cushion and sat in solace. There was no going back now. Everything was set to go through with my mission to learn more about my mother.

"Thank you for letting me use this. Have a good night." I reached across Betsy to lay the phone on top of the mountain of yarn that her needles were slowly working away at.

"What's wrong honey? Something on your mind?" Ingrid observed without lifting her head from her knitting.

"Rough day." I replied.

Quiet the understatement, but what could I say?

Well it was alright, apart from the bit about getting shot at and hitchhiking onto this train via an Olympic level sprint.

For now I would go with the phrase I used to describe a twelve hour work day.

"Man troubles?" Ingrid inquired.

"It's always man troubles." Betsy mumbled.

"Not exactly." I responded trying to laugh off their response as I pulled a loose bit of hair behind my ear.

The only 'man troubles' I was having was plural as in the two men who had tried to kill me.

"Go on." The women waited for a further explanation as their knitting needles slowed.

I bit my lip and paused, the quiet clicking sounds of their work filled the otherwise empty cabin. I was really doing this. I was about to trek across Maine following a whim, a smidge of information that I couldn't possibly know the origin of.

The strangest thing was I know I should have felt more apprehensive, as I had when I jumped out of the car, or jumped onto the train, but I didn't. I was totally at peace and a little excited with my decision.

Talking to Grace affirmed what I already knew. I needed to do this for myself. A luxury I rarely took on. My work at the B&B was always for others, the only 'self care' practice I implemented regularly was my artwork. Now that simply didn't seem enough. Not with the opportunity before me, an open path that I couldn't see the end of, as if a subtle cloud of fog lay over the horizon. It wasn't ominous - quite the contrary - it was promising.

Hopeful.

"We are cursed to want the things we do not know and cannot see." Ingrid interrupted my internal monologue.

I shook my head. Had she just read my thoughts? Or was she an old senile woman projecting her own dilemmas?

I must have been staring at her too long because when I didn't respond she turned to me, offering a small smile. I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant by her cryptic timely message when Lyle appeared by my side.

"Hey, all good?" She cradled plastic wrapped sandwiches, bottles of water, and several bags of chips.

"Definitely not man troubles." Betsy mumbled exchanging an ornery smile with Ingrid.

Lyle – oblivious to the two women's comment –looked from my elderly companions to me before nodding that we head out. Ithanked the women again before leaving them in peace to knit to their heartscontent.

-

Betsy & Ingrid may be wise gals ...

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