The morning after demolition of his home, we decided to go to breakfast in town and as we pulled off the dirt road from our house we were startled to see—on the wide turnoff next to highway 1, under the shade of some trees—an old Army tent… and Lester making coffee over a Coleman stove.
Something had changed about him. He no longer looked so boyish or so pale. And he was wearing an uncharacteristic camouflage cap, like the kind duck hunters wear. He looked at us as we pulled slowly by him and turned on to the highway.
Lumps in our throats and silence for a minute permeated the car. In the rear view mirror, I saw Juliet was rubbernecking and Lester was standing, sipping his coffee watching us depart. “Do you think he’s going to go trash our house while we’re gone?” June then asked.
“I sure hope not,” I replied.
“Is it legal to camp out on the road like that?”
“You want to take him to court again?”
“I’m going to call the Sheriff and invite him to breakfast.”
I nodded and June called Mel Willits on her cell.
So we ordered waffles at a local breakfast spot called The Tides and comforted ourselves in carbohydrates and maple syrup. After he drove by Lester’s campsite and checked our property to make sure it hadn’t been molested, Willits joined us half way through the meal and sat at a booth with us. Level headed as he always was, he told us he didn’t think harassing Lester was wise—that probably Lester will get sick of camping by the side of the road and move on. “He probably is going through a mourning period and is afraid to leave the area.”
“If he was afraid to leave the area and wanted to camp out near home, why on the side of the road?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why not deeper in the woods, out of sight??”
“You’re saying he wants you to know he’s still around.”
I nodded. “He’s trying to terrify us.”
The Sheriff thought it over and mentioned that I was probably right. “I can talk to him,” he then said. “And I can tell him to move… I just don’t want to inflame things for you.”
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