Roadblock III
Restored in October 2026 from a 2003 copy of the original PenBase page saved by the Wayback Machine; Pentrace’s own database copy had been cut short.
Lambert’s Taxi Service was a Ford Galaxy from the 1960s. Its owner and driver, Ezekiel Lambert, was the town handyman and hauler. He drove a more recent vintage of Chevy truck for his hauling business, which was not very successful since he had competition from Ralph Dunn. His taxi service did better since his car was the town’s only taxi. When someone’s car got stuck or someone went for a walk and decided at the last minute to buy something too heavy to carry and couldn’t get a ride from a family member or friend, Zeke Lambert was the one to call. He drove like the lunatic he was, telling bad jokes at the top of his lungs and laughing even louder, gesticulating wildly and looking backwards at his passenger as he held onto the steering wheel with his other hand and floored the gas pedal. No one over the age of ten liked riding with him, and Anita, who was a cautious driver when she drove, needed to take aspirin and lie down whenever she returned home from being driven by Zeke. He tried to driver slower and more carefully when she was his passenger, and once or twice he didn’t charge her his usual fee of ten dollars because he could tell that his driving had really made her ill.
So Anita was relieved when I agreed to drive her out to see Laurel, and I was determined to milk her gratitude for all it was worth. After all, it wasn’t everyday that Anita had to be nice to me.
“Laurel,” Anita informed me as we entered the flow of traffic on the main road leading through town, “no longer goes by the name of Wayne. That is why I referred to her initially as Laurel Clausen. Clausen was her maiden name, though her mother was a Halverson.”
I nodded, having no idea who the Halversons were.
“The Halversons built the granary,” Anita explained, “so in a sense they were the founders of this town. Alvin Halverson was a self-made millionaire.”
I shrugged. “I remember now,” I replied. “It always amazes me how much of the town’s history you know, Anita.”
She didn’t reply, so I continued, I take it Laurel and Hand…, uh, Dennison are already divorced. Or am I mistaken?”
“She’s expecting the final decree to arrive tomorrow or the next day. That’s why I need to go out to see her. She has a pen collection for me to evaluate.”
“What for?”
“Wait until she tells you her story, Marian. Then you’ll understand.”
I grunted and pulled onto the highway. Soon we were moving along in the flow of traffic on the highway.
“I didn’t know that Laurel was one of your fountain pen cronies.”
“She isn’t,” Anita replied. Well, she wasn’t, though she may become one.”
“How mysterious,” I said, not feeling very interested.
“Not really,” Anita observed. “Dennison had a pen collection.”
“Had?”
“Had,” she repeated. “Turn off at the next exit and go three miles west.”
I pulled off the highway onto a brief strip of paved road.
“Turn after the railroad crossing,” Anita ordered, and I did, onto a very bumpy, unpaved rural road. At the end of it stood a large house with a very ugly, ultra-modern exterior. There was a “For Sale” sign by the front step.
“Here we are,” Anita said unnecessarily as the house had its back against a boulder at the base of rocky hill. “Laurel is probably off in the side yard tending her plants.”
We climbed out or the car and walked around to the side of the house to find Laurel on her knees, trowel in hand. She looked up as soon as she sensed that someone was approaching and stood up to greet us as soon as she recognized Anita.
“How good of you to come so quickly!” she said. “Please come inside and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll put on some water for tea and get out myself cleaned up.”
She turned her head to face me and seemed to do a double take. Her face flushed and she led us into the house without another word.
We followed Laurel into her living room, and she left us seated on a surprisingly comfortable sofa. I was about to complain to Anita about not having been introduced to Laurel when I realized that the room seemed very familiar to me. I looked around and then stood up and walked around the room slowly, taking it in. When I turned to Anita, I saw her watching me with an amused smirk.
“If I didn’t know better I’d swear this was the old Damon place,” I announced.
“It is,” Anita replied, her smirk turning into a broad smile.
“But that was at the east edge of town,” I protested. “And besides it was torn down last year.”
She shook her head. “Look at that painting!” she commanded. “It’s a perfect match for the new siding on this structure, but it doesn’t belong in this room at all.”
I followed her gaze to an incomprehensible jumble of scratchy marks on a large canvas. “It belongs on a junk heap,” I replied. “Now tell me how this could possibly be the Damon place!”
“You know that Jefferson Damon bought the house back in the forties from the Halversons.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I grumbled impatiently.
“Well, he did, and Samuel, his eldest son, lived in it until his death five years ago. His son Winslow sold it to Dennison Wayne because a developer wanted to buy the land under it. Dennison bought it because Laurel wanted it. But then he moved it out here to the edge of nowhere and redid the exterior in a supposedly modern style, which is why the house is so ugly when you first set eyes on it. It was supposed to be an anniversary present for Laurel. But she really loved it in its original form and location and categorically refused to live in it if he ‘updated’ the interior. Her husband was quite disappointed that she didn’t appreciate the relocation and modernization. His feelings, she told me, were really quite hurt. So she bought him the painting we were just looking at as a combination anniversary gift and apology for her lack of gratitude. It cost nearly as much as the house. She hates it, but he wanted it. Dennison is a collector. He collects all manner of objects, as long as they are costly.”
“Well,” I said cattily, seating myself next to Anita “it’s a nice life if you can afford it.”
Anita stopped me from saying anything further by squeezing my arm just as Laurel entered the room with our tea.
“It’s Assam,” she said to Anita. “I remember that you like Assam tea.”
Anita smiled, and the young woman turned to me. “I don’t know what sort of tea you like, Mrs. Euling, but I hope you have no aversion to Assam. May I pour you some as well?”
I was surprised she knew my name because, although I knew her by sight, I could not remember ever having exchanged two words with her. “Yes, please,” I replied politely. I refrained from mentioning the tea Anita and I had just drunk at Mirabelle, though it was an effort. Sometimes I just can’t control my impulse to tell the truth.
When Laurel handed my cup of tea to me, she smiled broadened and she blushed. “I know you don’t remember me, Mrs. Euling,” she said very sweetly, “and I couldn’t expect you to either. I do remember you though.”
I tried to smile back, but I couldn’t quite manage. I really resent it when anyone has the advantage of me. It was all I could do not to snap at her.
“I’m afraid you have the better of me,” I said, trying not to sound or look ungracious.
“I’m not surprised,” she said gently. “I was four years old and my maternal grandfather Bob Wilder was being laid to rest. I’d been terrified all through the funeral service and when the coffin was about to be lowered into the grave I began to scream uncontrollably. My parents were very angry. I think my father would have slapped me, had you not intervened. You scooped me up and carried me off to the flowered area near the angel fountain. Then you told me not to be afraid as my grandfather was not in the box but at home with the angels. At that point, you seemed very much like an angel to me yourself. I never forgot how kind you were, but I’ve always felt uncomfortable at the idea of seeking you out to thank you for what you did all those years ago. But now that you’re here, I want you to know how grateful I am and have been for so very long.”
I was uncomfortable at being compared to an angel, as I picture my head embellished with a small but distinct set of horns rather than a halo.
“Well,” I responded, “I hope you’ve never had cause to scream at a graveside since then.”
I felt Anita’s eyes on me, and I shrugged. I did vaguely remember quieting a screaming child thirty-five or forty years earlier. I could still see the blank stare in her eyes and the large red-faced man with his hand raised to strike her. Off to the side stood a woman so overcome with grief at her loss that she didn’t seem to notice what her husband was about to do to their child. I shook my head to clear it and resisted the temptation to correct Laurel’s recollection of the event with the information that her father was the mortified, angry parent, while her mother was simply oblivious. People have a right to their memories, I think, even if thy are erroneous or at best only half-truths.
“I know,” Laurel went on, “that you have three sons who are not very close to you. I can’t understand it. I’d think they’d appreciate a mother who stood up for them. I know I would have.”
I winced. My sons and I were estranged and had been since my husband’s death so many years earlier. Laurel’s words made me uncomfortable because I didn’t like to think that my familial difficulties were known to all. Of course, in a small town like this one, little remains private. Laurel was right. I had stood up for my sons when my husband was, I thought, unreasonable or too demanding. My sons, however, had always preferred their father, despite his strictness. He’d sent them off to boarding school as early as possible to “make real men out of them,” or so he’d claimed. I suspected he just wanted them out of his hair. They were all terribly homesick at the time, but years later they’d claimed it was the best thing that had ever happened to them. I’ll never understand why nor how they, if they were so attached to their father, could all have turned their backs on his business.
I attempted a weak smile. “Well,” I mumbled, “your mother did the best she could, I’m sure.”
I felt Anita’s eyes on me, but the moment felt too awkward for eye contact. I breathed a deep sigh of relief when she spoke up.
“Why don’t you get those pens that no-good, almost ex-husband of yours left behind, Laurel,” she said. “I’d like to take a look at them. After all, that is why I’m here today.”