An Instant Shy of Death

Author © Scott D. Zachary

Bill and my favorite bartender Jackie, Bobbie and her son Jonathon, and I cruised Skipper’s Dream to the West End of Grand Bahama Island where Bobbie and I got married. Bobbie returned home to Lewisport, Kentucky, afterward. I followed her two weeks later, hauling my travel trailer up to a cozy trailer park overlooking the Ohio River. Bobbie, Jonathon, and I lived in a modest rental house. I continued to work remotely from my travel trailer on my clients’ software during the weekdays. Bobbie and I renewed our efforts to complete my novel, Scorn THIS, in the evenings and weekends.

Bill, enthralled by the Dream, volunteered to watch over her at Cape Canaveral Marina. Ultimately, Bill’s boss at the lawnmower repair shop confronted him about spending too much time on my boat. Bill excused himself by quipping, “Fricking lawnmowers can’t float,” and his boss fired him.

I already felt jittery about leaving my boat in Florida. An impending hurricane and Bill’s announcement that his little truck failed to pull the Dream out into the safety of a dry-dock ratcheted up my uneasiness to emergency response. Bobbie and I made a bee-line to Florida and retrieved Cruisin’ Skipper’s Dream. Feeling partly responsible for Bill’s unemployed status, I invited him up to Kentucky and guaranteed him at least four months’ employment working on my boat and trailer.

I rented another lot in John and Betty Philp’s trailer park adjacent to where my office trailer was parked overlooking the Ohio River. Bill drove his RV up from Florida with his pickup truck in tow, and we became neighbors once again.

Everything went well for the next four months. Bill got my trailer and boat ship-shape. He picked up a gal named Linda, and the three of us took a one-week cruise on the Dream down the Ohio River. (Bobbie couldn’t go due to her recent knee surgery.) Maneuvering the Dream into the water, I noted Bill’s jack-o-lantern smile gleaming at the helm of my boat. Our seven-day cruise began there at the boat ramp in Hawesville, Kentucky, a few miles upstream from Lewisport. Bobbie waved as she bid us bon voyage.

       Top of the world: Bill piloted my 24-foot Stamas Sports Cruiser while I sat on the steering cabin roof drinking Coronas and taking in the river scenery, the warm wind fondling my skin, the Dream softly jolting me as she bisected the whitecaps. At the mid-point of this day’s cruise, we watched two empty barges pass through the lock at the Newburgh Dam while we waited our turn. Late afternoon, we passed Cave-In-Rock State Park. I imagined what a supernatural spectacle we would have been to the Shawnee Indians who inhabited these caves three centuries earlier. Would they have welcomed us with their arrows? Would they have bowed down to us? Would we have become a painting on the wall of their cave?

We docked the Dream at the marina in Golconda, Illinois. That evening, we hiked up a long, winding gravel road into town for dinner at a remarkably classy country restaurant that transported us back in time to the 1920s. Even the music was of that era. We slept aboard the Dream that night.

The following day, we traversed the Smithland Dam and hung a hard left up the Cumberland River. We dodged barges plying their way down the narrow, curvy Cumberland. This leg of our journey led us into the gargantuan lock at the mouth of Lake Barkley. Feeling akin to a mouse in a large, empty cardboard box, I looked up in awe at the 110-foot-tall Herculean doors that blocked the trillions of gallons of water held in Lake Barkley, Kentucky Lake, and the Cumberland and Tennessee Rivers. The gravity-fill-and-empty system exchanges 37,500,000 gallons of water per lockage. Only in a Dream would they raise and lower a major river a hundred feet on demand. We motored a short distance across Lake Barkley and then diverted through a canal over to Kentucky Lake, which is formed by the Tennessee River. We continued up the Tennessee River for a couple of days before retracing our course home.

We devised this trip as a practice run for next spring’s circuitous cruise down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers to New Orleans, tracing the Gulf around the Florida Keys, skirting the Eastern Seaboard to New York, cruising up the Hudson, and zigzagging several rivers and canals back to home base. In preparation for the long intervals from Cairo to Memphis, and Memphis to New Orleans, I had Bill fabricate an auxiliary fuel tank to increase our range substantially. Except for an emergency repair of the welded seams on our new fuel tank, Cruisin’ Skipper’s Dream performed admirably throughout our trial run.

Our trip gave us a lot to talk about over the next few weeks, but then I ran out of work for Bill. He took my termination notice in stride, though he snarled when I told him to put his electricity in his name.

Bill soon proposed a partnership wherein he and I would build a marina near Cloverport, Kentucky, on the Ohio River. Bill had scouted an ideal location. A fascinating idea, Bill would operate the earth-moving equipment, and I would provide financing and manage the overall project.

To scope the potential construction landscape, Bill and I cruised the Dream upstream on the Ohio River through the locks at the Cannelton Dam. We motored a few more miles, and Bill turned into a narrow stream on the right. We proceeded slowly to ensure that we didn’t bury the hull of the Dream in the shallows. As we puttered along, Bill described his vision for our marina. We would build an earthen dam to cut off this creek from its Ohio River source, pump the water out of the lake supplied by the creek, and excavate the creek and lake to provide a depth sufficient for boats to navigate. We’d build the docks and finally remove the earthen dam to flood the marina’s basin.

       We nosed the Dream into the muddy shore of the lake and hiked throughout the acreage where Bill envisioned the marina. A 50-foot-high railroad trestle bridged across the muddy stream that connected the Ohio River with Bill’s proposed marina site. Bill and I had walked a tad more than half-way across the trestle when we felt it vibrate. Seconds later, the source of that vibration rumbled around the bend, bearing down on us at high speed. We dashed toward the train instead of jumping into the mudflats along the stream 50 feet below. Offhand, I can’t think of anything that ever flushed adrenalin into my system faster than running straight at that speeding locomotive! We dove into the briars on the far side of the trestle an instant shy of death. After the train passed, Bill and I regrouped on the tracks where we high-fived, hollering, “Hoe Dee Doe!”

       Daylight had faded by the time we boarded the Dream, so we hurried back out onto the Ohio River. We cruised downstream and traversed the locks at the Cannelton Dam. Once clear of the dam, Bill pressed the throttle forward. Sitting cross-legged on top of the steering cabin, I drank my beer and occasionally panned the spotlight in front of us watching for large driftwood.

       In the pitch-black, moonless night, I focused on the lights of two tugboats, one to our left and another off to our right. I watched as the Dream skimmed the water at full speed, the bow of our boat pointed between the tugs. Closer and closer, I suddenly realize that what I thought to be two tugs is only one tug to our left. The lights to our right are the front of a string of barges being pushed by that tug. We are cruising 40 mph dead smack into a barge!

       I pounded my fist on the top of the steering cabin and screamed for Bill to stop. He saw the crux of my clamoring. I held on tight as he cut the throttle and executed a hard left at the last possible second. Bill halted Cruisin’ Skipper’s Dream an instant shy of a collision that would’ve exploded her and likely would’ve ended any future dreams for both of us. Inertia would’ve flung me off the cabin roof into the solid iron wall of that barge, the Dream would’ve sandwiched my body onto the iron hull, and the explosion would’ve disintegrated my remainder.

       We slowed down appreciably after that. Two close encounters with death in one day is enough for me!

Bill’s marina nearly got my sparkle. Over the next few days, I wrestled with Bill’s proposal. It sounded like fun! However, Bobbie and I were also nearing the completion of my first novel. I didn’t think I could adequately manage the marketing of my book and development of the marina at the same time while continuing to make a living by maintaining my clients’ software, so I put the brakes on the marina.

Things didn’t go well after that. Bill became resentful when I told him that he needed to get a job. Occasionally, he popped in at my office trailer. His excitement spiraled as he periodically related details of his partnership with Linda’s brother, Ernie. Bill claimed they were harvesting catfish from local ponds and the Ohio River, and they were selling them to restaurants in the surrounding counties. I think Bill’s venture was genuine because I saw him constructing fish traps in front of his trailer.

Then Bill vanished. If Bill thought he’d be away for more than one night, he always asked Bobbie to take care of his black cat Peanut. Several days passed and Bobbie reported Bill missing. The Lewisport Police Deputy asked for a picture of Bill to publish in the weekly Hancock Clarion. Bobbie provided him one of Bill on the Skipper’s Dream. An article appeared in that Thursday’s edition asking for information on Bill’s whereabouts.

Bobbie and I submitted the transcript for my first novel to the publisher on the 31^st of January. We booked a limousine to Evansville, Indiana, to celebrate Bobbie’s 50^th birthday and the completion of my book. Our merriment was interrupted by the local police knocking on my trailer door. The Lewisport Police interrogated us as though we were murderers—Bill’s murderers! One officer said that before Bill’s disappearance, he had told people that I killed someone with my truck in Florida. I was flabbergasted! I assured the officer that that was complete nonsense.

       Bobbie told the cops that she’d been taking care of Bill’s cat Peanut in his absence. After all their pointed questions, we were wary of stepping foot in Bill’s RV ever again. Peanut would now be their responsibility. The Chief of Police shrugged that job back onto Bobbie after he failed to feed Peanut for nearly a week.

       Bobbie and I did celebrate in Evansville, but we didn’t enjoy ourselves. Bobbie fretted about a possible murder charge. I was more concerned about the local cops disparaging my reputation in my new hometown. We booked an appointment with a lawyer in the next town over to discuss the potential for slander.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I looked across the large conference table at this lawyer who reminded me of a countrified Perry Mason, a Perry Mason who had become self-righteously omniscient. This high-and-mighty lawyer introduced me to his lackey son and daughter-in-law, also lawyers. I described our situation and my concern about the possibility of being slandered by the police as they asked people if they knew anything about my having killed someone in Florida.

The lawyer pompously stuck his thumbs in the straps that held up his pants as he declared, “You would have to prove that the defamation adversely affected your earning capability. Otherwise, there’s no money in it.” He illustrated by saying, “If someone went around telling people that I, William J. Halter, was a pedophile, they’d naturally take into account who I am. Therefore, no tort executed and no damages realized.”

My inordinate disdain for lawyers reared its ornery head. Aware of his two tail-wagging assistants spectating from each end of the conference table, I looked across the mahogany expanse directly into Halter’s eyes and articulated, “You obviously are poorly apprised. Twenty years ago, I filed a slander suit in a district court against my neighbor who had maliciously slandered me. There was no damage inflicted on my earning capability. I sued for one dollar nominal damages and one hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars in punitive damages. I won. The jury found for me unanimously.

       Now, with regard to you being a pedophile: It’s not an absolute; it’s a matter of probabilities. If someone told me that you are a pedophile, I would naturally assign a percentage of likelihood...” Shrugging my shoulders, “possibly two percent, five percent, or maybe ten, depending on fact.” I shifted my tone to extreme admiration. “But in your case, you’re a l-a-a-w-w-y-e-r.”

       Halter instantly puffed his chest out and poked his thumbs into his suspenders.

       I glowered emphatically and quipped, “So it’s a hunnerd-n-fitty percent likely!”

Seeing their over-confident mentor’s pomposity orchestrated as if by a puppeteer, his lackeys’ uncontrollable laughter mushroomed.

       I stared into his eyes as I watched it register to him over several seconds that I had made His Excellency a laughing stock. The sudden, beet-red flush in his face flash-fired to purple as I stood, smiled an exaggerated smile, and mocked, “Have a good day!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Okay—you probably want to know what happened to Bill. Well, it turns out that he had been pulled over by the police in the next county for expired tags on his truck. The patrolman’s background search revealed that Bill was wanted for numerous felonies in South Carolina, including conspiracy to commit fraud. Bill sat in the Breckenridge County jail for several days before being extradited back to South Carolina. Apparently, the local police hadn’t done their homework because they didn’t even bother to check with the police in the next county where Bill was last seen. They preferred to cook up a murder mystery with Bobbie and me as their prime suspects.

Cat lovers might want to know what happened to Peanut. She’s now our beloved Spooky who sleeps on Bobbie’s shoulder most nights. I’ve always rewarded Spooky with a “treat-treat” after I shower, and she won’t let me forget it. Spooky, who is keeping my feet warm under my desk, perked up when she overheard me whisper “treat-treat” as I was typing. Is she conditioned, or am I?