The Old Man

Copyright © 2000 by Paul E. Pepe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright

owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

EPILOGUE

FOR MIRIAM because of you . . .

PROLOGUE

Baxter’s Corners is a tiny upstate village mired in the last century. At one time, it held the promise that its founder, Lester T. Baxter, had predicted for it. Baxter, it was said, had made his fortune in the slave trade, and had ultimately opened two very successful banks in New York City. In the late 1860’s, he had become disenchanted with the noise, the dirt, the danger of New York, and had traveled across New York state to find a better place in which to raise his growing family.

During his travels, he stumbled upon a rich, fertile valley, in the shadow of the Adirondack Mountains. It abounded in healthy trees, beautiful flowers, swift-running streams and all kinds of animals. But more especially, the air was pure and clean, and the only danger was from bears and coyotes. He sat for a long time on the crest of a small hill, watching the sun beginning to sink behind the mountains, breathing in the crisp mountain air, and knew that this was the place he would settle in.

He found the owners, and managed to close a deal that would make him the owner of one thousand choice acres in the middle of all this splendor.

Within a year, the rough beginnings of a village were laid out. For his family, he built a three story house on the edge of what would be his town, which he named Baxter’s Corners. He brought in carpenters and woodsmen, as well as farmers and trades people, and within five years Baxter’s Corners was a thriving backwoods metropolis of more than five hundred people, who all worked for him, and who lived happily in the cabins he had built for them. By the turn of the century, the population had climbed to more than one thousand, and he constructed several huge hotels along the growing Main Street. The town became famous for its clean air, the healing effects of its mountain streams and hot salt baths, and the cleanliness of nature. People came from New York and the surrounding territory to spend all summer there, traveling partly by train, and then by covered wagon to his property. The influx of summer visitors increased his wealth and his importance. He spent two terms as a State Senator in Albany, and returned to oversee his holdings.

When he died in 1903, at the age of seventy eight, he left behind three sons and two daughters, and a widow who was now one of the wealthiest women in New York State.

His sons, and then his grandsons took over the property, running it the way their father had taught them, and it continued to prosper as a summer resort until World War II put a halt to almost all pleasure travel. During the years 1941 to 1945, many of the residents, with no work to keep them busy, left to find jobs in the plants that were turning out valuable products for the war effort. When the war ended, the writing was on the wall for Baxter’s Corners. Vacationers, who now had more money to spend, automobiles to ride in, and many other opportunities, deserted the once glorious paradise for more prosaic pastimes. The construction of the New York State Thruway, and the emergence of the Southern Catskills as a vacation mecca spelled doom for Baxter’s Corners, and it began to slide into disrepair.

In the early fifties, skiing was becoming a major vacation experience for many people. The Baxter family, led by grandson Harry Baxter, thought it would help save their village to create a ski area that would attract people to their mountain hideaway. The family, by this time, had amassed a total of forty thousand acres, including several of the mountains that ringed the valley. Their property reached halfway up the mountain, the rest being owned by the state as forever free public lands. In order to create their ski resort dream, they would need the approval of two successive legislatures to obtain rights to develop the land.

Using their not so inconsiderable resources, and political contacts, the Baxter’s mounted a campaign to acquire permission to build ski lifts and lodges on the state’s property. In 1953, the legislature approved their plan, and they were ecstatic. But in 1954, their plan was turned down, and their dream of reviving the village crashed and burned.

During the following years, the village lost more and more of its young people, who left to pursue other careers in more promising areas. They went to New York City, Hartford, and Boston. Many of them left for college, never to return.

Now in the 1990’s, the town stood mute and silent, a testimony to dreams unfulfilled. There was only one Baxter family left, and Baxter’ Corners was in its death throes.

Skiing had indeed taken hold on the other side of the mountain, where it now reigned supreme and made millionaires of a number of independent promoters who had managed to put together parcels of private lands and did not need permission from the legislature.

The large hotels along Baxter’s Corners main street were now closed and boarded up, silent sentinels of what might have been. Main Street, with only a handful of businesses still open, was a ghost of its former self, and was only eroding in the mists.

Baxter’s Corners now held less than five hundred people, with more moving away each year.

The Old Man arrived in 1985, when the hands of time were writing finish to the story of Baxter’s Corners. It did not bother him, he enjoyed the fact that there were fewer and fewer people around. He had come here to be alone, and the silence and inactivity pleased him.

I

CHAPTER I

BAXTER’S CORNERS: 1997

The old man lived in a two room cabin at the end of a dirt road miles from town. He had no electricity, no telephone, no heat except what he was able to coax from his fireplace and old pot-bellied stove. He had no running water. He had just turned eighty two, tall and spare with a growing belly that was beginning to stretch the front of his plaid work shirt. He wore old, faded Levis and work boots that had seen better days. His beard was white and his white hair was long and uncombed.

He was a mystery to even his closest neighbors, who lived two miles away. Nobody knew where he came from, but twelve years ago he had just turned up and taken residence in the cabin. He lived pretty much off the land, a small vegetable patch stood behind the cabin in a cleared spot just before the woods. He hunted, trapped and fished, and once a week went into town, riding a rickety old bicycle that was held together by baling wire and rust. He was neither friendly, nor unfriendly, but kept to himself when he went into the General Store to pick up the meager provisions he bought to supplement what he had grown or trapped or shot.

Tommy Stubbs, who had been postmaster for all the time the Old Man had been living there remembers only one letter ever coming in addressed to him. It sat in the post office

for the better part of a month before he picked it up. Tommy remembered that it had a San Francisco postmark on it, and that the Old Man had taken it and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

Other than that, he received no communication from anyone, including the U.S. government. He had no discernible income, and he never filed taxes—and for some reason he was never bothered by the IRS. Despite that, he always paid his grocery bill with one dollar bills. They were old and moldy, as if they had spent some time buried underground. People believed that he had a hidden stash of money somewhere on his property but nobody ever bothered to check it out because he discouraged visitors. As far as anyone knew, he had never had a visitor to his modest cabin.

One time, a bunch of teenagers from the high school had gotten a little drunk and decided to harass him a bit. After he took out his thirty-thirty and shot two of them in the ass, the others ran like hell and never came back. The boys went to the hospital to get patched up and never filed charges against him. Word of the confrontation spread quickly and he was never bothered again. Most folks figured it wasn’t worth getting their asses shot, so they just left him alone. The kids knew they were wrong and figured he was just a crazy old coot, and if they made a fuss he might just take it in his mind to come after them and finish the job.

The Old Man had one companion, an ugly, smelly, flea bitten mongrel who came to him one October, obviously left behind by summer campers who were tired of taking care of it. It arrived unannounced one dusk as the Old Man was preparing to eat his dinner. The dog hung around just outside the clearing, whining and shuffling back and forth. Finally, as hunger became too much for him to bear, he approached the Old Man who swatted him two or three times, just to show who was boss, then fed him part of his dinner.

The dog had been with him ever since, accompanying the Old Man as he set his traps and hunted for food. When the Old Man went to town, the dog would stay behind and guard the cabin, waiting patiently for him to return. The dog was no hunter, but every once and a while he would chase down a rabbit or raccoon and would bring it back to the Old Man, laying it down in the doorway, and then sitting up so that the Old Man could see that he was trying to do his part. The dog always made certain that he did not mess up the animal too badly, because he knew they would share the food that evening.

Billy Sampson drove slowly down the empty country road. It was a beautiful, quiet day in mid-April, and his gaze shifted from one side of the road to the other, alert to anything new or different or out of place. He couldn’t help but take in the wonderful vistas of this marvelous countryside. The longer he stayed here, the more certain he was that he had made the right decision.

In high school, his nickname had been Samson, for obvious reasons, and at six feet two inches, two hundred and twenty pounds, his well sculptured body, from hours of pumping iron, made the nickname a reality.

At twenty-three, Billy felt he was at the height of his powers, he drove the New York State Police cruiser with practiced ease, and he cut an imposing figure in his gray uniform, black belt and Smokey the Bear hat.

He had been on the force less than a year, and had been assigned to the boonies, which was just fine with him. He was just happy to be a cop, any kind of cop, but especially happy to be chosen as one of the finest of the finest. The State Police had a history of excellence, which he promised himself to uphold.

There were no calls today, so he would take a leisurely route north, from Halenville to Pomona, going through Baxter’s Corners. He really liked visiting that town, the people who lived there, few as they may be, were friendly and always happy to see him. He planned the trip so that he would be there at lunch time, and would have an opportunity to sit and talk to the natives. Baxter’s Corners, like most of these small towns and villages, had no police force of its own, and relied solely on the State Police to handle any problems. Fortunately, there was very little crime. The problems of the big cities, and more recently of suburbia, hadn’t affected them yet. There were no drugs here, no bank robberies, no murders. It was relatively quiet, and Billy knew he had been given this assignment to ease into his job as state cop. He also knew that eventually he would be transferred to a more exciting

beat, and he would handle that when the time came.

Tommy Stubbs sat in Dolly’s, the only cafe in Baxter’s Corners. Actually, it was the only place left at all to get any food at all. Should someone be foolish enough to look for dinner in Baxter’s Corners, they would be out of luck. Dolly opened for breakfast at five, served lunch until two, and then left to tend her small farm. It was just the way it was around here now, and everyone knew and understood it.

There were a half dozen regulars in Dolly’s, digging into her famous overstuffed sandwiches, and scarfing up her special of the day. The food was good, truly home made as anyone who had ever eaten at Dolly’s house could attest to. The prices were right, and despite the fact that hers was the only game in town, she treated everyone fairly. It was the kind of town where everyone relied on everyone else. Most of the men in town belonged to the Volunteer Fire Department, and they all checked on each other on a regular basis.

While there was no real crime problem, some times the kids from the high school in the next town came along and raised some hell. But that was always taken care of quickly.

The doorbell chimed and Jerry Platzer came in, wiping sawdust from his pants and heaving himself onto the stool next to Tommy Stubbs. They exchanged pleasantries, and Jerry ordered the special and began sipping from the coffee cup that had been placed automatically in front of him. Without preamble, he said to Tommy, ya seen that old crazy feller lately?

Nope, said Tommy, chewing on a section of his ham and cheese on rye. Ain’t seen him for two or three weeks now that you mention it. Kinda strange, too. He comes in like clockwork every Monday for supplies, only misses when there’s a big storm or somethin’, but then usually shows up in a day or two.

Platzer began to dig into his lunch. Usually see him two or three times a week when I pass his place. But haven’t seen him for a while. Drove by the other day and that crazy old dog was sitting outside howling like crazy. Thought I might stop by, but as soon as I stopped the car, the nutty dog started growling at me, so I got out of there.

Both men turned their head as the familiar State Trooper car pulled up in front of the restaurant and young Billy got