an astronomer,” I said.
The pilot seemed to think that was a good enough explanation. “That would put us somewhere over south Alabama,” he said.
“Somewhere?” asked the policewoman.
“Probably about fifty miles to the northeast of here,” said the pilot. “Lots of pine trees up there.”
“Longleaf pine,” said my mom.
4
My dad doesn’t believe in coincidences. According to the dictionary, a coincidence is an event that looks like it might have been arranged by somebody even though it happened by accident. In other words, a coincidence just happens. According to my dad, a coincidence cannot “just happen” because nothing in nature “just happens.” It’s because he’s an astronomer, a scientist. He sees everything as having a cause. Cause and effect. My dad says if things “just happen” there is no reason for science, because the goal of science is to discover what makes things happen. I don’t know about all of that. What I do know is that I just happened to be looking out the window of an airplane that just happened to be over the Conecuh National Forest when I just happened to see three guys pushing a vehicle of some kind into a lake that just happened to be visible among the longleaf pines. And, oh, by the way, the Conecuh National Forest “just happened” to be where we were going
The Pensacola policewoman contacted the Covington County, Alabama Sheriff’s Department and told them what this kid on an airplane “happened” to see as he flew over their area. She made arrangements for a deputy to meet us out in front of the Best Western motel which she said was in the town of Andalusia, Alabama. “Stay on US Highway 29 going into Andalusia,” she said, “Best Western’ll be on your right.”
We picked up a rental car at the Pensacola airport and headed northeast. Mom was driving, and every now and then I would catch a glimpse of her in the rear view mirror. She did not look happy. Andalusia was on the other side of the national forest, and she was not thrilled about this delay in her expedition. The good news is that US Highway 29 took us straight through parts of the Conecuh National Forest. This seemed to cheer Mom up a bit, although she still didn’t say anything. Most of the time when we enter a new area, Mom likes to tell us all about it. She kept quiet this time. So did Dad. So did I.
Seeing these trees at ground level was kind of strange. A couple of hours before I had been looking down on them; now here I was looking up. That emerald green carpet I had seen from the sky was still in the sky. I mean, these trees had no limbs and no pine needles near the bottom or even the middle of the tree. All of the limbs, all of the needles, all of the green didn’t start until about three fourths of the way up. And every single tree was tall and straight. I had never seen anything like it. Tall. It was as if every tree was the same age, and not one tree was any taller or shorter than any other tree. And straight. I’m used to trees that are bigger at the bottom and smaller at the top. These longleaf pines . . . they started off at one size near the ground and ended up the same size near the sky. And just like they were all the same height, they were all the same size around. I’m not saying that they were all the same. Each tree seemed to have its own personal space a respectful distance from every other tree. Maybe it was this space between them that made each one different from all the rest.
Without warning the trees were gone. Highway 29 had carried us out of the Conecuh and where there once was forest there now was treeless pasture. The shock to my eyes reminded me of how I felt as we flew over the treetops and the trees opened up around that small lake. Wish I’d never seen that lake. We could be setting up camp; instead we were headed to a Best Western to meet a county deputy sheriff so I could tell him a story that even I was beginning to doubt.
5
The Covington County deputy sheriff met us out in front of the motel. His name was Shirley Pickens. That’s right, his name was Shirley. In fourteen years I’ve never met a man named Shirley. My dad says in forty-two years he’s never met a man named Shirley. Here he was, though: Deputy Shirley Pickens. He had the uniform, he had the badge, he had the gun, and he had the name. Shirley. Didn’t look like a Shirley. He was at least six feet four inches tall, at least two hundred and thirty pounds. And this was no baby fat. This was like two hundred and thirty pounds of “I’m going to knock you on your backside if you call me Shirley.”
And yet his name was Shirley. He introduced himself that way, “Shirley Pickens.”
“So you saw this ‘event’ from an airplane widow?” Deputy Shirley Pickens was asking me, “an airplane doing about three hundred miles an hour at about five thousand feet. Do you know how high five thousand feet is?”
I didn’t answer. I was still stuck on his name. Shirley.
My dad jumped in to help me out, “Five thousand feet would be point nine five miles or one thousand five hundred twenty four meters or one point five two four kilometers—give or take.”
“Well, Professor,” said Deputy Shirley Pickens, “you’re pretty quick with numbers.”
When he called my dad “Professor,” I thought he was being a smart aleck; my dad said, “How did you know I was a professor?”
“One point five two four kilometers?” said Deputy Shirley Pickens. “You’re either a professor or a know-it-all, and you strike me as a nice enough guy. What about this fellow?” He looked right at me when he said, “this fellow.”
“He’s all right,” said my dad, “but I think he’s a bit intimidated by the badge and the gun and a man named Shirley.”
“It does sort of take ’em off guard,” said Deputy Shirley Pickens. “Sometimes they’re laughin’ so hard I can get the handcuffs on ’em before they realize what’s happenin’.”
He looked right at me when he said “handcuffs.”
I know my face was red. It had to be. I gulped, “I didn’t see it for long,” I said, “I just know I saw what I saw. Three guys . . . three people pushing a vehicle of some kind into a small lake. I guess it was small—everything looks small from five thousand feet. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Son,” said Deputy Pickens, “you did the right thing. I wish more citizens would come forward—courageously—as you have today.”
“Courageously.” He looked right at me when he said, “courageously.”
Deputy Pickens went on to say, “Look, I know pretty near every lake, small or otherwise, in this county and half the other counties around here. I’ll check it out.”
My mom said, “We’ll be at the Open Pond campgrounds in the national forest all week. You’ll let us know what you find out, won’t you?”
This was Mom’s way of saying, “Let’s get out of here and set up camp.”
Deputy Pickens agreed to keep us informed, and we headed to the camp site. I figured that was the end of it as far as I was concerned. I figured wrong.
6
