The Prodigal Brother Returns to Benedict.....

(Maynard Jenkins making an important phone call to his people.)


With Strang and McCool Junction behind me, I continued up Highway 81, crossing Interstate 80 and passing through York, Nebraska on the way to a small town by the name of Benedict. I exited onto Logan street and took a right onto Ragan just over the railroad tracks where I became a man. A little ways down on the corner of Ragan and Shiloh is the office of the Mayor of Benedict, my brother Maynard Jenkins. I parked my hog and faced my past.

My older brother is a perfectionist of sorts, a personality trait unlike any of my own, and has ran this bustling town of 278 citizens for more than 50 years doing a damn fine job along the way. Not an irregular sheep or Turkey Death Brigade in sight. We hadn't spoken in a long time and I grew very nervous as I made my way slowly to the front door of his office. His secretary, a familar fixture named Ernestina, looked at me with mild suprise and a touch of what I could only describe at utter sadness.

"Spooner?", She whispered throatily, "That you? Oh, I didn't recognize you with that beard. I heard about Agnes from one of the Rose children. They make it up this way to visit an aunt I think. Spooner I'm sorry."

We spoke just long enough for me to let her know that I was doing alright and to wish her well. I had a lot of miles ahead of me and my only goal for this stop was to make amends for the misdeeds of my youth. I walked into Maynard's office and prepared to take my lumps.

"I was wondering when you would show up here. It's been a long time.", my older brother by 5 minutes exclaimed. "I'm suprised you had the gumption little brother. Sorry about Agnes."

Agnes, my wife of over 40 years until just a few weeks ago, was the wedge that came between my brother and I . She was his girl until I swept her off her feet and took her away to sit by my side as the First Lady of Belvidere.

"I figured you would have heard by now. I'm an old man Maynard and I'm not long for this world. You either. We need to settle this."

"It's in the past. I'm not saying what you did didn't hurt like hell though. It took a long time for me to forgive you. I kept waiting for you to call or stop by."

"Damn my pride Maynard."

"Like I said, it's in the past. Where ya headin?"

"Don't quite know. Away from Belvidere I guess. North just felt right. You heard from her?"

"Yep. She's settled in Strang with a deaf man. Tim or Jim. He's a hobo but he's got an important position of some sort. Runs a fountain I think."

The irony of the situation hit me and my knees buckled. Luckily Maynard's whittlin chair was just behind me. We both love a good whittlin to calm our nerves but it would take a mighty heap of sturdy whittlin timber and as many years to get over this I fear. The kindly fellow I befriended on the first stop of my cross country roadtrip is the very man who stole away my Agnes. The absurdity of life boggles the mind sometimes.

"Deaf Jim. I met him on the way up here. I promised I'd come back to visit now I'm not so sure. No, that's just wrong. I'm a man of my word. But I won't enjoy it. Not one bit. Bronson Pinchot or no Bronson Pinchot, Strang is dead to me now."

"So that's where Bronson Pinchot ate that egg salad sandwhich? It really haunted?"

"Can't say for certain. It's good to see you Maynard."

We embraced and fourty years of seperation melted away. The Jenkins brothers were united once more and for one last time. Maynard died that night smiling as if content for the first time in a very long while. We both were I reckon. I made the necessary calls and arrangements but left before the sun rose. The solace of the open road beckoned and with my headlight pointed north, I answered its call. Never looking back, the harsh southerly wind dried an old man's tears.

Sincerely,
Spooner Jenkins