The Legend of Safehaven

Also by R.A. Comunale

Requiem for the Bone Man

Clover: A Dr. Galen Novel

Berto’s World

Dr. Galen’s Little Black Bag

Shoes: Tails from the Post

The Legend of Safehaven

Copyright © 2011 R.A. Comunale

All Rights Reserved

ISBNs:

978-0-9846512-6-9 (EPUB)

978-1-4956004-7-0 (Mobi)

978-1-4956004-8-7 (PDF)

Published in the United States of America

By Safehaven Books

A division of
Mountain Lake Press

Ebook formatting by

eBookIt

Cover design by Michael Hentges

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to real persons living or dead is unintentional and purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a data base or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photo-copying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

To Nancy and Bob K., the true legends of Safehaven

Mama and Papa died for us.

Sandoval and Felicita Hidalgo sacrificed themselves one night on a storm-tossed ocean so that my brother, my sister, and I, Antonio Galen Hidalgo, might live.

Federico Edison and Carmelita Nancy do not believe that I remember, but I do.

God help me, my son, I remember it as clearly as I see you now: Papa held Mama tightly, whispering his words of love, as the waves overwhelmed them in a never-ending echo within my soul.

I remember the first time I saw the bear-sized man—my Tio Galen—and his friends, Tio Edison and Tia Nancy. I remember the night of the second hurricane. It was on Bald Head Island. The three of them carried us to safety in the old lighthouse, as the fierce storm raged around us. They fought for us, when the government sought to take us away and return us to Cuba, even though our dear parents had perished to bring us to a safe land. And they brought us to the mountain in Pennsylvania, which became our home and the place where we grew to adulthood.

Now, my son, I hold you in my arms. One day, when you are old enough to understand, I will teach you these things about myself and about your grandparents. Then you must remember my words, for you are my immortality. When I am gone, you must carry them. You must remember the three Old Ones, your Abuelo Edison and your Abuela Nancy, and especially your Abuelo Galen.

Someday I will tell you this again, my son—my beloved Galen Antonio Sandoval Hidalgo—I will tell you…

“He’s seeing ghosts again.”

He heard them whispering from the kitchen doorway.

You don’t know how right you are, my friends
.

He continued to stare, as the procession of wraiths filed past him: Papa, Mama, Leni, Cathy, June, his schoolmate Dave, all his friends—and all gone now.

Galen lay slumped in the big easy chair in the living room overlooking the mountain vista. It was a cool August evening, and the flames licked the inside of the fireplace glass door like undersized tigers, as he stared blankly out the large picture window.

Edison and Nancy had often seen him sitting there, reliving a past only he could perceive. It had been three years since he and the children had moved in with them—three years in which they had tried their best to understand what continued to plunge him into darkness.

Far removed from his longtime home and medical practice in Northern Virginia, Galen now sat perched high and isolated in the hills of north-central Pennsylvania, Everything he had agonized over and sacrificed to achieve during the last forty years—all had symbolically gone up in smoke along with his past dreams of wife, family, and children of his own.

Ashes where once hope and dreams had been.

He sensed his friends watching him, though they went to great lengths not to disturb him or broach the subject of his fitful sadness. They did not realize this was how he had always managed to drag himself out of the past—by embracing it before letting go.

Could he do it now?

The philosophers had it wrong. The only true immortality is in the hearts and minds of those who follow you in life. They carry your memory forward in time and remind the world of who you were, what you were, and why your life really mattered.

He knew Nancy and Edison felt the same way. Both had accomplished so much during their lives. But now, all three of them had found renewed meaning for their existence in children who weren’t remotely or genetically their own. Maybe the kids were meant to be surrogates, tossed up by the Fates to confuse, confound, and perhaps fulfill their remaining years.

For the children, for their future, Galen quickly sold the house that had served as his home and workplace for four decades. He would miss the sounds of the nighttime creaking, so resembling his own joints, and the distinctive groans of the plumbing, which like his own, would need replacement to restore full function.

Most of the furniture, the knickknacks, the framed photos on the walls, the objects of value only to him, the books and magazines, went to new homes. His patient files were either reassigned or incinerated. His part-time secretaries—his lifelines and support system—finally entered retirement, satisfied that their charge was delivered into a life that did not require their constant attention and protection.

What he treasured—those holy relics of his loves and friendships—were the only possessions he carried to his new home in his ancient red Jeep Wagoneer.

Now, all that remained was what he and Cathy had called their secret hideaway.

He had joked many times with his beloved second wife that he really needed a Fortress of Solitude, just like the one Superman used as a refuge whenever he wanted to restore himself. And Cathy, dear Cathy, had taken him at his word.

*   *   *

“Tony, look, it’s in today’s paper. This could be what you’re looking for.”

She laid the Sunday Real Estate section in front of him and pointed to a small ad:

For sale by owner: Mountaintop acreage

He phoned the seller that very day and drove immediately with Cathy to the outskirts of Front Royal, Virginia, near the northern terminus of Skyline Drive. Nestled in one of the valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains, watered by the north and south forks of the fabled Shenandoah River, the Civil War town overflowed with history.

The property owner, a retired pharmacist, met them at the local roadhouse/cafe renowned for its sweet apple cider and fresh donuts. Over servings of both he showed them the plat for almost 60 acres he had decided to sell.

They followed his red pickup truck, climbing the winding dirt road, past the apple orchards, to the very top of Blue Mountain. They saw POSTED signs of the Virginia Fish and Wildlife Service, as they approached the crest along a rutted dirt road almost impassible except for trucks and jeeps, and stopped in front of a gigantic oak at least six feet in diameter. They got out and walked toward the owner, who was lovingly patting the big tree.

“See, here it is folks, untouched since the last logging crew came by about twenty years ago. I made sure they didn’t take old Ollie. He’s been here since colonial times according to the tree experts.

“By the way, did you folks know the road we took for the last half mile is part of the Appalachian Trail?”

He walked them through the upper level, the long-unused logging trail winding its way across the slope of the mountain, its ruts filled with bushes and small trees.

The old man made a sudden motion to keep quiet then pointed to his right. Galen and Cathy saw two deer peacefully drinking from the free-flowing spring that bubbled up between two glacier-strewn boulders. No doubt, like the rest of the area, the mountain was honeycombed with limestone caverns that served as subterranean rain cisterns, until the water found an escape route.

She took his hand and whispered “a buck and a doe,” and he understood.

He immediately fell in love with the place, and when he looked at Cathy he knew she had instantly read his mind in that way of all women.

“Yes, Tony.”

That was all she needed to say.

In short order they signed the papers, paid the deposit, and arranged for the bank loan. It was all theirs now.

“Cathy, I don’t think we should build anything on it. Let’s leave the animals to their home. We can always come to visit, maybe even camp out or stay at a local motel. I don’t want to spoil the beauty of this place.

“Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Deer were here first.”

Once more she answered him, as he knew she would.

“Yes, Tony.”

Then came that fateful dinner and his nervous question: “What’s the matter, honey?”

An MRI followed, sketching his beloved wife’s fate in glowing electrons on the monitor screen: metastasized pancreatic cancer. Like Leni before her, and like nearly everything else that had mattered in his life, Cathy was soon taken from him.

Afterward he had made the pilgrimage to their special place every chance he could, walking the trails, pretending that Cathy and Leni were by his side, rushing to be the first to name the plants and animals each had spotted. He felt thankful for the isolation. Not that it mattered, but anyone watching him as he talked to himself surely would have considered him crazy and fled down the mountain. Yet alone, he said what he wanted—his heart exposing its deepest feelings—and even talked to the animals. They didn’t mind.

*   *   *

He hadn’t returned to the hideaway for quite a while. His relentless workload had acted as a diversion. Truth be told, as the years passed, he had built up a reluctance to go. The relief and exhilaration he originally felt had been replaced by creeping sadness. And now the children had become the focal point in his life.

Maybe it was time.

Alone in his room he sat at his desk and mapped out the logistics of the trip in his mind before approaching the others.

“How would you all like to take a quick trip to my Fortress of Solitude?”

Edison and Nancy responded with looks of puzzlement. This was the most energetic their friend had sounded since he had moved in.

Even Galen realized the incongruity, so he tried to lighten the mood.

“I figure we might have to hide out there if the government ever decides to avenge their man Thornton, after we dissed him so badly. I still can’t believe we got away with becoming guardians of the kids.”

They immediately relaxed.

“It needed to be done,” Nancy replied. “People shouldn’t just be pawns for the powerful to play with. I still think if Thornton hadn’t been convicted on federal charges the children would have been sent back to Cuba.”

Edison quipped, “Yeah, imagine, a federal official lying. Who would have thought it possible?”

The three burst into spontaneous laughter.

“Besides,” Edison continued, “they wouldn’t blame us, they’d blame Judge Todwell. She’s the one who went to bat for us and made it easy for us to adopt the kids.”

Galen interjected, “
Mirabile dictu
, an honest public figure. Amazing!”

Edison paused.

“I wonder if she and that lawyer … what’s his name … Comer are still … uh … friendly.”

Nancy shot him a quick conspiratorial look, and he blushed. Then she turned to Galen.

“When would you want to go?”

“How about tomorrow?” Edison piped up.

Now Galen paused.

“Hmm, that way, if the black helicopters come for us, we’ll be gone.”

That did it. Once more the three shared a burst of laughter.

The children, who had witnessed the exchange, studied their guardians, and then nine-year-old Freddie turned to his sister.

“
Que loco!
”

Carmelita, who had just celebrated her tenth birthday, promptly smacked the top of his head and told him to stop being so disrespectful.

“
Si, mamacita Carmelita!
” he replied, mocking her.

She smacked him again.

Eight-year-old Antonio kept his mouth shut.

Edison drove them in his “kidmobile,” as he now called his minivan, down Interstate 81 through Harrisburg. There they picked up U.S. Route 15 and followed it south to Frederick, Maryland, where it joined I-270 into the Washington, D.C., area. Edison surprised Galen by veering from the plan and taking Route 340 west for a few miles before resuming on Route 15.

“I really hate the Beltway,” he grumped, but Nancy understood. They knew that even a brief approach to Galen’s old home would sink their friend’s mood, and though they had dealt with him patiently since he had moved to the mountaintop, both were becoming a little weary of it all. And they knew the visit to his former refuge would be emotional enough.

As it turned out, the detour provided some scenic benefit, meandering as it did through some gorgeous countryside before widening through the now-sprawling outskirts of Leesburg, Virginia, then shooting straight down to join I-66 west near Manassas.

Nancy took in the gigantic outlet malls and sea of townhouse clusters lining both sides of the wide highway. She wondered what the many men who had fought and died in this area in the Civil War nearly 150 years ago would think of it all.

The interstate began a detectable rise, as the surroundings gradually changed to horse and dairy farms, and they could see the first row of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance, their tops appearing volcanic in the heavy mist. They were part of the vast Appalachians, which run more than a thousand miles from Georgia to Maine and are among the oldest ranges on Earth.

They rode through a cleft in the hills near Delaplane then descended into a valley outside the small community of Linden.

“Here’s our exit,” Galen called out.

They pulled off the highway and stopped at the roadhouse where he and Cathy had closed the deal so many years ago. It had changed a bit, not quite as rural or folksy, but it still featured cider and donuts.

“Okay, guys and gals, pit stop and eats,” Edison called out. He knew Galen needed the break as badly as he did.

Ah, the pleasures of senior-citizen bladders!

Newly relieved, they reconvened at one of the tables that reminded the three adults of the old diners populating every rural roadside after World War II: chrome-trimmed, Formica counters and the long soda bar with red vinyl, mushroom-pedestal seats that stretched the length of the room.

After wolfing down donuts with apple juice—an act for which Edison’s dyspepsia would punish him later—they wandered through the adjoining crafts shop, which was loaded with hand-made quilts, wooden lawn ornaments and signs, and stuffed animals. The kids were fascinated by all the toys made of wood. Edison, ever the master carpenter, made mental notes on how he would duplicate them in his shop.

Nancy and Carmelita browsed the dry goods and quilts, while the boys pulled at the two men, pleading for the specialty of the house: raccoon-tail fur hats.

Edison grabbed a hat and put it on.

Galen did likewise.

“Fess Parker,” he said.

“Buddy Ebsen,” Edison replied, grinning.

A beat, and then suddenly as if on cue the two sang, in unison, “Davey, Davey Crockett, king of the wild frontier!”

Those younger than sixty just stared in confusion.

Galen bought hats for each of the boys and offered to get one for Edison and Carmelita as well. Edison was tempted but noticed Nancy’s disapproving look and declined.

Carmelita also declined but did ask for something else: a framed needlepoint. It was in the style of an 1830s-vintage sampler, done by young girls in the distant past to demonstrate their home skills. She didn’t know that, of course. She only knew it somehow attracted her, its border of birds and good-luck signs double-framing its message, which she read in her now-flawless English:

“Bless the children of this house and those who love them so.”

Edison, faster than Galen at pulling out his wallet, took the framed art to the counter.

“How about one last bathroom break?” Galen asked. He and Edison took the boys, and Nancy took Carmelita. Apple cider makes a very effective diuretic.

They headed briefly along state route 55 then turned at the old general store. The former dirt road, now paved, twisted and turned up Blue Mountain.

Not just the pavement had changed. The apple orchards had fallen victim to the lure of developers’ money. Where once row after row of carefully pruned trees blossomed in the spring and appeared laden with Christmas-ornament-colored apple globes in the fall, new houses were sprouting.

The three adults sighed wordlessly, as older people often do when confronted by the inevitability of change.