by Kevin Hogg
Of all the days for his car to break down—the hottest day of the summer. Sloan found himself praying for a patch of shade near the road. Sure, removing the trees next to the highway reduced collisions with animals, but it left him nowhere to hide. His water bottle long since empty…
A distant roar. Maybe the end to his suffering, unless they passed by like everyone else.
No luck.
He began walking again. He kicked a beer can. “3.85,” he recited, resuming his game of counting deposit value of roadside garbage. “No, wait. That was the last one. $3.95.”
Twenty minutes and $1.40 later, he heard another roar. “If this one doesn’t stop, I might just throw myself in front of them,” he muttered.
It didn’t come to that. A blue sedan pulled over, and an elderly gentleman with wavy gray hair smiled. “Hop in, friend. Where you heading?”
Sloan smiled. “Brookfield, or as close as you can take me.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day. Brookfield it is.”
Sloan buckled up. “It sure didn’t start lucky. Timing was going to be tight anyway, but my car wouldn’t start this morning.”
The man gave a sympathetic nod. “I’d be tempted to see it as a sign to call in sick for the day.”
“Not with my boss,” Sloan laughed. “During orientation, he described his policy as ‘I don’t care if it’s your brother’s funeral. Throw the first shovelful of dirt and then get your butt into work.’”
“That’s awful,” said the man, his eyes wide. “Some people have no compassion.” He almost whispered the last few words, wiping what looked like a tear from his eye.
They had driven a mile or two in silence when Sloan asked, “Hate to bother you, but is there any chance we could stop somewhere for some water?”
The man gestured to the back seat. “There are a couple of bottles back there. They aren’t chilled, but they should get you by.”
Sloan eagerly unbuckled and turned to the back seat. Sure enough, he found a sealed bottle. More curiously, though, was the stack of garbage bags. How had he missed them earlier?
“You taking your garbage into the dump?” he asked. “Bit of a messy job in a car.”
The man took a minute to respond. A tear was forming in his eye. “Those were Jamie’s.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
The man smiled. “No, no. I’m glad to remember him.” He paused, lost in his thoughts for a few seconds. “My husband Jamie passed away a couple of months ago, and I’m just getting around to donating some of his clothes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sloan replied, unsure whether to keep going or respect the man’s privacy. He decided to go for it. “Were you together long?”
The man nodded. “Twenty years.”
“That’s…well, a bit longer than I’ve been alive. No pressure or anything, but I’d love to hear about him if it would help to share a little.”
After a slow start, the man opened up, laughing through a story about getting lost in Rome with Jamie. He told about Jamie’s love of cooking, of skiing, of the short-lived experiment in dirtbiking. By the time they got to Brookfield, the man was beaming.
“Can I help you drop these bags off?” Sloan asked. “I’m late for work anyhow.”
“No, no,” the man said in a hurry. “They’re always good about unloading at the thrift store. We’d better get you to work before your boss is too upset.”
“Thank you for the ride,” Sloan said as he exited.
“It was my pleasure,” said the man. “I’m always happy to help out.”
* * *
Sloan needed the help sooner than he imagined. The following week, his car made it just a few miles down the road before stalling. This time, he only had to wait ten minutes. He could hardly believe it when a familiar blue sedan pulled over.
“Sloan! It’s good to see you again, though it doesn’t look like it’s under good circumstances. Can I offer you another ride?”
As he pulled back onto the road, the man said, “I got a bit distracted last week and didn’t ask much about you. Do you travel into Brookfield every day?”
“No, I share an apartment with a couple employees. Keeps things affordable, but I stay with my parents on the weekend so I can get out into the forest.”
That was all it took. The man launched into Jamie’s love of the forest. He spoke with love and admiration about Jamie’s adventures and mishaps on his many hikes and breathtaking sites they had visited together.
As the man spoke, Sloan turned around and noticed the back seat filled with garbage bags again. When there was a pause in the discussion, he asked, “Was the thrift store closed, or is this another load?”
The man had looked over as Sloan began to talk but quickly averted his eyes. “No, no. That’s another load. Jamie was always one for clothes. An outfit for every occasion.” He laughed. “Maybe three or four outfits for every occasion, I should say.”
Sloan frowned, something about the story not quite adding up.
Once again, the man seemed lost in his thoughts. Sloan found himself overheating in the unexpectedly warm weather. He slid his jacket off. An older jacket, but still in nice condition, he reflected. But definitely overkill with the clothes he already had in Brookfield. He dropped it on the bags in the backseat along with Jamie’s donations.
As he dropped Sloan off, the man said, “I’m heading into Brookfield again next week. Why don’t I give you my number in case you need a ride again?”
* * *
Sloan was glad to have taken him up on the offer. Unfortunately, the mechanic had discovered a few problems and needed to keep the car in the shop.
Sloan walked to the highway and found the man waiting in the blue sedan.
There was little pretense this time. The man drifted through several memories of Jamie, lost in a stream of consciousness.
Sloan seized the first opportunity to look into the back seat. A quick glance confirmed a growing suspicion, but he said nothing, continuing to listen in rapt attention.
As they approached Brookfield, Sloan had a wave of inspiration. He glanced at his phone. He furrowed his brow and pretended to type frantically.
“Is something wrong?” the man asked.
“Problem with one of the machines. They don’t need me until one o’clock at the earliest. That leaves plenty of time to help unload these bags.”
Despite reassurances that Sloan needed something to pass the time, the man declined repeatedly.
Sloan worked up his courage. “Can I ask you something a little personal?”
The man eyed him warily. “What would you like to know?”
“It sounds like you and Jamie were together for quite a while. How did your families feel about your relationship?”
“Wow. You really did mean personal,” the man responded. “Well, my parents and siblings never said much, but they didn’t exactly go out of their way to be around us.”
“And his family?” prompted Sloan.
“I never met them,” the man responded. “They apparently live in the area, but they cut off all contact. Jamie spoke about them with love, but he could always see the best in everyone. I don’t really know what to tell you.”
Sloan nodded, now fully convinced of his theory. “One more question, if you don’t mind.”
The man took a while to respond. “I don’t know that there’s time,” he said in a shaky voice. “We’re coming into Brookfield now. I see your apartment building. Ummm…maybe next time?”
Sloan persisted. “You didn’t drop off any clothes last week. I left a jacket on the bags, and it’s still there. What happened?”
The man pulled over outside of Sloan’s building. He broke down into tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to lie. It’s just…” He paused, lost for words.
“I think I understand,” said Sloan. “It’s okay.”
“I miss him so much. It’s been four years, and it gets so lonely without him. These were the last bags from all those years ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with them—the final threads of our life together. I’ve been driving the same clothes back and forth for a long time. Just an excuse to find someone to talk to and keep the memories alive.”
Sloan put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Uncle Sean?”
The man wiped his eyes and gave Sloan a startled look. “I never told you my name. I never tell anyone. How did you…”
“Jamie was my uncle, and I once heard my parents mention your name. I’m sorry about how they treated you.” He reached out for a handshake. “I hope it’s better late than never, but I’m pleased to meet you. Welcome to the family.”
Kevin Hogg is a high school English and Law teacher in British Columbia's Rocky Mountains. Perhaps hitchhiking wasn't the safest teenage hobby, but his stories are often informed by the people he met--chance meetings with people who wouldn’t remember him but he has never forgotten. His website is https://kevinhogg.ca.
January House Literary Journal 
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