Barb and I owned an acoustic email device that worked on analog telephone. I used it sent stories to my editors, to keep in touch with the kids as well as friends. We used it on a daily basis. I’d sent a few emails to Frank, letting him know that I was having no luck at selling his things. He needed to make other arrangements. But my queries fetched no responses.
Weeks became months and one day an email arrived in my inbox: STOP! DONT SELL ANYTHING ELSE. IM COMING HOME. COYOTE HARLEY.
“ Who the hell is Coyote Harley?” I asked Barb.
“Beats me. One of your friends, I suppose,” she replied.
It was the next afternoon before I realized Coyote Harley was Frank. And I wondered how I could have forgotten.
A week later he drove into the park. He’d shipped his car to Hawaii, and then he’d shipped it back to Arizona.
“i guess you learned how to do email,” I said as he got out of his VW.
“No. I went into the library and gave the librarian the paper with our addresses. I told her I didn’t know how to do it. She did it for me.”
There was something different in his manner, a glint of trust in his eye. He’d found people who cared about him. He’d found a home.