The Call with Rod
The morning was leisurely and the trip was not underway until around 1 PM’ish. There was no need to pack the night before as there was no particular arrival time Hudson needed to make. Packing was left for the late morning after getting some much-needed extra sleep (which would also - - hopefully - - help with the unmanageable levels of anxiety since the episode at Meade and his subsequent resignation).
There were no particular plans after arriving back home in Bennington, other than, of course, visiting with Rod. Dinner with Rod, a few Millers and some requisite catching up would be the perfect low-key homecoming to start leveling out.
The weather was partly cloudy but still cool and wet from the rain on Tuesday - - it seemed there was a chance of a storm in the evening but, with any luck, he’d already be in Bennington and off the road at that point.
Somewhat frustratingly, interrupting all the road trip music on the FM dial was the nearly continuous breaking news broadcasts. The President had been confirmed dead at 3:33 AM last night. The reports confirmed an assassin, John Hinckley, had shot President Reagan the afternoon prior in front of the Washington Hilton upon returning to his limousine after a speaking engagement and the President succumbed to his wounds in the early morning hours thereafter.
The shooting happened in broad daylight and was, in fact, captured on live television, nevertheless, this Hinckley, was carried off screaming and had continued to vehemently maintain his innocence so far throughout the day insisting to reporters that he was framed - - utter madness.
A few hours into the trip just north of Levittown PA put enough time and distance from Hudson’s departure to require a stop for lunch at a highway diner and a call to Rod to coordinate his evening arrival.
The greasy meal in the diner failed to settle his stomach and the lingering feeling of being stalked managed to so far follow him from Meade and persisted through his meal - - constant strange staring glances at uncomfortable moments from the other diners were continuously caught while eating - - a menacing atmosphere.
There was a payphone in the parking lot, and though there was only a single quarter left in his pocket, that should be just enough for a short call telling Rod that his target ETA was about 7:30 PM.
“You have to do this for me, please, I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
Rod sounded frantic and totally unnerved. Hudson had never heard that sound in his voice before . . . ever . . . a combination of dread and despair.
“Just listen to me. You have to stop at the Museum of Natural History in New York, tonight . . . at about 7:00 P.M. There’s an auction taking place there, guest list only . . . you need to be on it or you won’t be admitted access . . . when they ask . . . give the name Orrin Hull . . . they shouldn’t ask for I.D.
When you’re inside you have to bid on a book . . . it’s an original manuscript of a title called ‘The Book of the Damned” by Charles Forte . . . you have to get it. Just bid, I don’t think it will go for more than fifty thousand . . . bid up to that number . . . a little more if you have to . .. Just get it Hudson . . . I’ll pay you back, I swear . . .
I know this sounds crazy but, you have to do this for me brother, please, if you leave now, it should put you in good time to make it there on your route and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Rod’s voice panicked and on the verge of collapsing into tears . . . for his entire life Hudson had only known him to be a rock . . . solid, calm and confident. To hear him practically beg like this shook Hudson to his core and his already gnawing anxiety was now through the roof.
Worse, asking Rod for an explanation (or even to calm down) was useless . . . his 25 cents was up, the call dropped.
Casting a glance back upwards towards the highway, and then back across the diner parking lot . . . back inside the diner . . . all those faces . . . glancing out the window . . . all watching him, blankly . . .
