A Step Of Faith Part 45

At the entrance, Dustin pulled a large ring of keys from his ignition, then got out of the truck, unlocked the padlock, then unwound the chain that held the gates together. He dragged open the gate and we drove inside.

The home was maybe 1,500 square feet and had barred windows and concrete walls with a forest green corrugated tin roof that had been enhanced with flourishes of spray-painted camouflage. Connected to the home was a propane tank covered with a steel grate.

Partially visible near the back of the house was a wooden storage shed and to the side of the house was an eighteen-foot-high carport, which covered two ATVs and an older model twenty-six foot Winnebago RV. There was also a Fleetwood camping trailer.

The place looked a little like an automobile graveyard, with an a.s.sortment of vehicles scattered around the yard. In addition to the RVs, there were two and a half trucks in disrepair, an old station wagon up on blocks and an aged yellow Caterpillar wheel-loader tractor that looked powerful enough to clear forests.

He parked the truck next to the house and we climbed out.

"You can stay in the Winnebago over here," he said, nodding toward the RV. "It's the most comfortable."

"Thanks," I said.

I grabbed my pack and we walked over to the trailer. He again took out the ma.s.sive ring of keys and opened the door. We both went inside.

"The big bed's just at the end of the hall. You can use the toilet if you want. I'll turn the pump on."

"This looks really comfortable," I said.

"Better than sleeping with the gators," he said.

I lay my pack down on a bench in the kitchen.

"Have you had dinner?" Dustin asked.

"No, not yet."

"You carryin' it in your pack?"

I nodded. "As usual."

"I'm makin' stew. It's been in the Crock-Pot all day. You can join me if you like."

"That sounds better than anything in my pack. I'm pretty hungry."

"Let's eat."

I followed him back out of the RV. The sun was beginning to set and the yard was already obscured with shadow. "Come into the house."

I followed him inside. His front door was thick metal with two deadbolts and set in a metal frame.

"How long have you lived back here?" I asked.

"Five years. It's my ark."

"Ark?"

"Like Noah," he said. "When the rains come, I'll be ready."

I walked into the front room. Dustin was clearly a h.o.a.rder, and all the countertops, shelves and chairs were piled high with clutter.

Against the one windowless wall was an ancient console television. On top of it was a ham radio and a 12-gauge shotgun sh.e.l.l press filled with buckshot. On the carpeted floor below it were tubes of black powder and empty casings.

On the other side of the console were several framed pictures-one a family portrait with a younger Dustin standing next to a woman and a teenage boy and girl. The other two pictures were of the same woman, though in one of the pictures she looked twenty years younger than the other.

"Is this your family?" I asked.

I noticed his expression fall a little. "Yeah. Just a minute." He walked out of the room, returning a few minutes later carrying a loaf of white bread. Then he took two bowls from a cupboard above the stove. He set them on the counter next to the Crock-Pot and dished out two heaping ladles of stew into each. He carried them over to an oblong wood dining table, which divided the front room from the kitchen.

"Supper's ready," he said.

I walked over and sat down while he grabbed some spoons, two blue enamel cups and the bread. He sat back down, tore off the end of the loaf and handed it to me with my bowl.

"The stew's hot," he said.

I lifted a spoonful, blowing on it before putting it in my mouth. It was surprisingly good.

"You're a chef," I said. "What kind of meat is this?"

"Venison. I know it don't taste like it, that's because I let it stew all day. Takes the gaminess out of it."

He took a piece of bread and scooped up some of the stew. "With that brain tumor did you have to go on chemo or anythin'?"

"No. It was benign. And they were able to cut it all out."

"You're lucky," he said.

"I am."

When I finished the bowl, he asked if I wanted more.

"Please," I said. "If there's enough."

"I made plenty," he said. "I usually make enough for three or four days. It freezes well."

As I finished my second bowl, Dustin said, "I suppose walkin' like you do, you can eat a lot."

"That's true. I figure I burn five-to-six thousand calories a day."

He nodded. "Want more?"

"No. Two bowls is plenty. It's good, though. Thank you."

"Glad you liked it." He reached across the table and took my bowl, then grabbed his own and carried them to the sink. He came back a minute later and tossed a couple packages of Twinkies on the table. "Like Twinkies?" he asked.

"Who doesn't?"

"They last forever," he said.