The Long Journey to Jake Palmer by James L. Rubart Read Free Book Online Page A

framed photos, his breathing steady, his heart rate low, but a fire was building inside. He rose slowly and approached the pictures. When he reached them, the volcano inside erupted. With four sharp blows of his fist, he smashed the glass of each frame, then ripped them from the wall.
    As if he were someone else, Jake slumped into the chair in front of his desk and watched himself grab the hem of his sweats down by his right ankle and pull the fabric up over his calf. He stared at one of the darkest globs of charred flesh anywhere on the lower half of his body. At one time that spot had boasted an M-Dot tattoo, the mark of someone who belonged to the exclusive club of those who had completed an Ironman. Now it was buried in a mass of scar tissue forever.
    Jake let the pant leg fall. He rose and slammed the door of his den as he walked out toward the kitchen. Another night of a silence that screamed too loudly in his ear was the only thing on the menu.
    After his emotions settled, he flipped on the stove and warmed up spaghetti from four nights ago, then sat down on his couch to take part in the same exciting activity he engaged in most evenings. A movie. Then a few pages of a novel. Then an hour or so working on his stupid model train set in the garage. Exciting times.
    After his meal was warmed up, he turned on his TV. An old Sean Connery movie, Just Cause , filled the screen. The one where the best James Bond ever was a Harvard professor lured back into the courtroom after twenty-five years to take the case of a young black man condemned to death for the murder of a child.
    On-screen, Connery was saying, “Just give me a sign,” to Ed Harris as he searched for the clue that would solve the crime. Jake put on his best Sean Connery accent and held his arms out wide.
    “Jush give me a shine. Am I shawpost to go on the trip? Jush give me a shine!”
    Should have made him laugh. It didn’t, but he told himself the effort was noted by someone somewhere in the vastness of the universe. By God? Possible. But unlikely. God had abandoned him that night at the gas station. He hadn’t even let the punks who had ruined Jake’s life get caught. All things work together for good? Yeah, right. Sure they do.
    Jake finished the movie, decided not to read or work on the model, and by ten fifteen his head was on his pillow. Sleep had started to take him when his cell phone vibrated. He opened his eyes a crack, picked up his phone, and opened the text.
Hey Jake. It’s Leonard. We met on the plane. Just thinking about you. Hoping you decided to spend the week with your friends. I don’t think you’ll regret it.
    Jake shook his head and smiled. Half of him thought he’d never hear from the old guy again. Leonard thought he should go, huh? Funny. It felt like more than a thought. For some strange reason it felt like a command. When he’d asked for a sign he didn’t expect an answer. But what was the point in asking for one if he didn’t follow through when it arrived?
    Plus, Leonard had nailed him during the flight. The old man was right. Jake was on the verge of an extremely poor decision—to go down the same path his mom had taken when Jake was just a kid. He told himself the thoughts weren’t too serious, but he admitted that too much flirting with the idea could easily become deadly serious. And he’d vowed never to give his dad the ammunition to tell everyone, “I told you so,” after Jake was gone. But even that resolve weakened after the disastrous Chicago trip.
    A week with his friends would at least put the UFC match going on in his brain on hold. And if he got nuts and decided it was time to close the final chapter, at least he’d have the chance to say good-bye to them. He snatched his phone off the end table next to the couch and dialed Peter. He picked up on the first ring.
    “Give me the answer I want to hear.”
    “I don’t want to go, Peter.” Jake rubbed his eyes.
    “Yeah, got that part. But I’m not asking