Terri McIntyre: Stronghold Chapters

The story!

Chapter One - Joe

 

Stronghold

 

 

Chapter One: Joe

 

Joe Aberdeen stood dead still, his eyes on a bare gray and orange ring above him, a basketball poised on his fingertips. His arms shot forward. The ball flew upward, arced toward the ring, bounced up, as though trying to decide whether it wanted to make the plunge, and then tumbled through the circle.

 “Yes!” he shouted and ran to get the ball, now resting against the coal shed which held the netless hoop on its wall. He heard the screen door to the back porch of the house creak open. His mother peered out at him.

“Did you call or somethin’? Anything the matter?” She wore a robe and held a bath towel against her wet hair.

“Mom, come out here! You’ve gotta see this. I just threw five perfect shots!”

“Not now, Jojo. I’ve got to get ready. Calbert’ll be here any minute.” The screen door crept shut behind her.

Joe frowned and watched her form disappear through the shadow. “You never have time. Never!” he muttered.

He absently let the ball roll off his fingers to the bare patch of hard dirt between the porch and coal shed, and wandered past the shed, a clothesline and chicken house. He stood with his hands tucked in the front pockets of his jeans, staring across the fields of goldenrod, seeing none of it, then turned back to the house, a white wood building set on a hill above a little town where his grandparents ran a general store. Maybe he’d go down to see them. Nothing to do here. Nothing but a backpack full of homework, and he was already so far behind, he knew it would take a month to catch up. He quickly shut out the thought. Maybe he could finish reading his latest Spiderman comic.

“Jerk,” he thought. The image of his mother embracing a man who had slapped her, knocking her backward, brought a scowl to his face. The pain of her words when he had run at the man to punch him in the stomach brought the sting of tears to his eyes.

          “Go to your room!” she had screamed at him. She had screamed at him, not at the man who had hurt her. He spat.

          Finding the basketball, he tossed it and missed. He could hear a country song drifting from the house.

          “Yeah, Mom’s got the radio on,” he mumbled to a speckled, black rooster strutting by, “and she’s getting ready to party!” He laughed bitterly as he slammed the ball onto the edge of the ring. It bounced off and fell among several chickens, sending them squawking. He heard someone pull in the driveway and froze, then slipped to the edge of the porch and peered around.

          Calbert, a short man with a big belly, was sliding out of his truck cab. Joe pulled his head back and flattened himself against the porch wall, listening to the slam of the truck door and the heavy crunch of footsteps in the driveway until it was silent. He waited, listening for Calbert to knock at the front door.

          A shadow fell suddenly across the ground in front of Joe. He sucked in his breath. Calbert’s square body stepped around the corner of the house.

          “Whoa!” said Calbert. “Didn’t know anybody was here. I thought I’d slip in the back door and scare your ma. Instead, I’m the one jumpin’ out of my skin.” Calbert looked Joe up and down as he lit a cigarette and stepped closer. In a lowered voice, he said, “But hell, I’m glad I caught you, Kid. Wanted to talk to you.”

          Joe moved toward the screen door. “Yeah, what about?” he asked with indifference.

          “What do you think about me and your old lady? Think we go good together?”

          “I don’t know.”

          Calbert took Joe’s arm and led him toward the shed. “Let’s go over here. I don’t want your mom to hear yet. You wanna know something?”

          Joe shrugged and pulled away from the man and his smell of cigarettes and whiskey. He stopped at the edge of the coal shed as Calbert disappeared behind it.

          The man reappeared. “Where’d you go? Come on. This is top secret.”

          Joe turned to go. “I’ve got things to do,” he said.

          “Okay, okay!” the man called. “Just stop. Here’s the deal, Kid.” Calbert stepped gingerly, holding his cigarette high as though he were walking in deep water. “Damned chicken shit everywhere. Listen.” He caught up with Joe and laid his free hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is THE day,” he said confidentially, “that I’m gonna pop the question!” He flipped his cigarette away.

          Joe shook off Calbert’s hand, wrapped his arms around himself and tilted his head back as Calbert continued. “Yep, I’m gonna be your old man soon!”

          “You’re crazy. I’ve got a dad.”

          “Yeah, well, he ain’t around, is he? I hear he up and moved to the hotdamn desert!” Calbert held his arms open. “It’s gonna be me and you, Kid!”

          Joe clinched his fists as he glared at Calbert. He saw himself hitting the man’s shiny face until blood oozed from his eyes and nose and lips.

          “Why don’t you just stay away from us, Creep!”

          “Hey now, Kid. That’s no way to be. I thought I was being nice letting you know first.”

          The screen door flew open.

          “What’s all this racket out here? Hey, Cal Baby!”

          Calbert swaggered toward her, his arms open. “There’s my May, my May-be Baby!”

          “I think I’m going to puke,” Joe muttered. May Aberdeen, wearing bright red lipstick and a filmy, red dress with white polka dots, ran to Calbert. Her perfume sickened Joe, but it was the sight of her embracing Calbert Miller that brought burning tears to his eyes.

He ran toward a clump of trees, grabbed his bicycle and spun out of the driveway. As he turned onto the road paved in crushed white rock, his bicycle tire hit a large rock that he hadn’t noticed through his tears. He lost control and felt himself tumble onto the road while the bicycle slid away from him. He lay there a moment, staring through the frame of sassafras trees lining the road sides into the small town of Green Hollow below that cradled white board houses like his own. He could see his grandparents’ house and store at the bottom of the hill.

          Joe stood up, looked toward his house and hoped no one had seen him fall. He heard music and laughter. As he brushed the rocks and white dust from his clothes, he felt a ragged tear in his jeans near his right knee and saw a trace of blood in the threads. He didn’t care. Picking up his bike, he straddled it and rode it down the rest of the hill and was glad the bike had not been damaged. He turned into the driveway by the store and rode to the house in back, where he let the bicycle drop with a clunk. Stepping onto the breezeway that connected the two buildings, he peered through the back screen door of the little country store and saw his grandfather, Henry Pollo, bending over a box, removing bags of cookies and placing them on shelves. His grandfather stood up slowly, his hand rubbing his back as he looked through the screen door.

          “I was hoping you’d come along, Joe,” he said. “Give me a hand?”

          “Sure,” said Joe, entering. “Looks like you got a big delivery today.” He eyed a large stack of boxes by the delivery door where his grandmother stood with a clipboard. She peered over her rose-rimmed glasses at him and frowned.

           “Hey, Grandma,” he said. “Wearing that cowgirl vest I gave you last Mother’s Day, huh? Lookin’ good.” He held up a thumb.

          “Hey, yourself, Jojo,” she said and patted the leather vest. “Yes, indeed, and it makes this old dress look brand new!” But she was still frowning as she approached him, looking him up and down. “What happened? You’re covered in scratches and dirt!”

          “Aw, nothin’. Bike slipped on the rocks. I’ll be all right.”

          “Well, go clean up. There’s some hydrogen peroxide in the bathroom cabinet. Go on now.” She patted his shoulder and gave him a gentle shove.

          Several customers came in over the next hour, keeping Joe’s grandfather busy at the counter. Joe had finished shelving the boxes of snacks, cans of corn and peas, soda and juices.

          “Your mom fixing supper?” his grandfather asked handing him an ice cream bar when the customers had left. They walked out onto the front porch of the country store.

          “Thanks. Don’t know.” Joe spat off to his side. “Calbert’s there,” he said with a snarl. He didn’t want to think about the man. “You don’t look too good, Grandpa. Are you okay?”

          “Ahh, just getting’ old. Otherwise, I’m fit as a fiddle.”

          In silence, the two sat side-by-side on two feed barrels on the front porch of the store, licking ice cream. Joe stared at the empty elementary school playground across the road.

          “So, how’s eighth grade in the big city of Boonville?”

          “It’s all right.” It wasn’t all right, he knew. He rarely did his homework and some days he’d even skip school, spending time wandering around the town park or the mall. Joe thought of Boonville, with its population of 10,000. Guess that’s a big city, he thought, compared to Green Hollow. Not a big city like Evansville, though, where he had lived when his dad was part of his life every day. Anger welled up inside his chest whenever he thought of his father’s new life, new family, and, for a year now, a new home almost two thousand miles away in Arizona.

          The ice cream gone, Joe flipped the stick onto the road across the parking area.

          “You wanna pick that up?” his grandfather asked.

          “But it’s in the road.”

          “It’s littering, that’s what it is.”

          Joe fetched the ice cream stick and dropped it in a trashcan by the front porch steps. He turned his head and looked up the road toward his house.

          “You look like you lost your best friend,” his grandfather said. “You wanna talk about it?”

          “No!” Joe kicked a rock. It ricocheted off a porch step. “I don’t know. Guess I’m bored.”

          “No fun being bored. I thought you liked to read.”

          “I do, but not when that jerk comes over. You know.”

“Your mom’s friend?

“Some friend. He smokes and stinks up the house. I hate him.” Joe spoke with his head down and his fists clenched.

          “Hate’s a pretty strong word.”

          “Yeah. Can I stay for supper?”

          “I wish you would! Then maybe your grandma will fix your favorite, and mine. You know, pineapple upside-down cake!” He winked and poked Joe in the side.

          Joe glanced at his grandfather’s paunch pushing against his over-alls. The old man was, other than his well-fed stomach, in trim condition, strong arms evident under his rolled-up sleeves. Though his short sideburns were turning gray, most of his thinning hair was still dark brown, the color of Joe’s own hair.

          “Mom says I eat down here too much though. She’s says I’m getting fat.”

          “Yeah, well, if you get any fatter, you’ll look like a bean pole. Say, here comes your buddy.”

          Joe saw a stout boy scuffling toward them in the middle of the crossroad, huffing and waving.

          “What’s up?” Joe asked when Kyle plopped down on the porch steps.

          “Well, I got work to do,” said Joe’s grandfather, standing up slowly. “Don’t forget about supper, Joe.” He winked as he added, “Especially dessert!”

          Joe smiled at his grandfather and sat down beside Kyle. He waited until his friend stopped breathing hard. Mrs. Hatfield, a small, tidy woman in a blue dress, had been crossing the road from her house and now walked toward the steps. Joe and Kyle leaned sideways to let her pass.

          “How’re you boys?” she asked, smiling.

“Doin’ okay, Mrs. Hatfield.”

Mrs. Hatfield went inside the store. Joe stood up.

“I’ll get some soda, then let’s go down to the creek. I saw some mud turtles there last time.”

“Ooh,” Kyle groaned. “That’s too far. I just walked all the way through town ‘cause my dad said go get some chips. Anyway I gotta take ‘em back soon or he’ll whup me.”

Joe stared at his friend and frowned. “Maybe I’ll go back with you then. I got nuthin’ to do.”

          “Okay!”

          Kyle came out of the store with a large bag of potato and corn chips poking out the top just as Joe appeared from the driveway pushing his bike. Joe handed his friend a can of orange soda dripping with cold beads of water. The two boys walked down the dusty road toward the other end of Green Hollow, talking about basketball and mud turtles and nodding back at old Mr. Ritter raking gold and red leaves from his lawn. As they approached Jenny Ludon’s house where the pretty teenager sat on her front porch swing reading a magazine, Kyle handed the shopping bag to Joe.

          “Can you hold this for me, man? I got a rock in my shoe.”

          “Hold it yourself! I’m pushing my bike.” Joe glanced toward the porch swing out of the corner of his eye. He covered the hole of his pop can with his thumb, shook the can, and made it spray toward Kyle, who jumped higher than Joe had thought possible for his heavy-set friend.

          “Watch it!” Kyle yelled.

          “You watch it,” Joe retorted. Both boys cast grins at each other and by this time, they had passed the Ludon house.

          At the end of the two rows of houses, a grocery store and church and down a short, shady lane to the left, Joe and Kyle approached Kyle’s ramshackle house. Tricycles, rag dolls, and dog bones cluttered a yard with bare patches in the grass from hard playing. Joe could hear loud screeches and sirens from a television set.

          “Something smells good,” he said to Kyle as they stepped carefully among several black and brown pups hanging around the front door. He followed Kyle into the house, trailed by the pups.

          “Mom’s frying chicken,” Kyle said as he handed the bag to his father, who stared past him at the television screen. Three smaller children sat cross-legged on the floor.

          “What the hell!” Kyle’s father yelled suddenly. “Get these damn dogs outta here, Kyle! What’s the matter with you?”

          Joe’s face reddened. “My fault,” he said as he and Kyle scrambled after the pups to carry them back out the door. Kyle grabbed Joe’s shirt when they had taken out the last pup.

          “Let’s go,” said Kyle. The two hurried off into the woods at the edge of the yard and followed a well-worn path through the trees and undergrowth.

          Joe had the familiar sense that his friend was trying to distance himself from the house and his father as quickly as possible. He thought of his sudden flight from his own house at the appearance of his mother’s boyfriend.

The path dipped sharply. A thick grapevine that had been cut years before hung from a hickory tree at the side of the path. Joe stopped to grab it, pull it back, and run forward, lifting his feet as he swung over the depression in the earth five feet below. The sensation of flying thrilled him. He closed his eyes and imagined he could really fly. He was thousands of feet above the ground, soaring in and out of clouds. Below were roads and farms and houses full of unhappy people. But he was free.

          “Hey, Tarzan! Come on!” he heard Kyle yell.

          Joe opened his eyes. He let the swinging slow down and then he dropped to the soft, black earth where he scrambled down one slope of the dip and up and over the other. Kyle was watching for him.

          “You’re not going to believe what I found the other day,” Kyle called, panting.

          “Yeah?”

          “Come on. I’ll show you. It is really weird.”

          Joe followed Kyle through locust trees, their fern-like leaves hanging yellow in the autumn air. Squirrels chattered at them from branches. Joe inhaled the musty odor of layers of decaying leaves and aged fallen trees. He found the forest mysterious, as if filled with everything that ever was. All around, life and death mingled in natural beauty. Even at this moment, he thought, the leaves and logs that lay dead on the ground were turning into soil, able to transfer the life they once had to new trees, shrubs, vines, grass, and then to the animals that ate the plants.

          They had come to a meadow.

          “Come on, it’s right over here,” Kyle said, pointing past an old, neglected peach orchard. A few yards to the right of the gnarled, nearly bare fruit trees, boards and stones lay strewn about. A chimney and short portions of wall were all that remained of a house that had once graced the edge of the meadow. They had been here before and Joe knew Kyle called this place his fort, but wondered what his friend was so excited about.

          Kyle hurried to the chimney and began tugging at something in its fireplace, but Joe’s attention was on a huge oak tree and the remains of a tree house in its massive branches. The tree house had always intrigued him, but now it seemed magical. He wasn’t sure why; it was simply a mood he was in. He strode toward the tree as though in a dream, touched its bark, and stepped slowly around the huge trunk. There was a sudden loud fluttering and the largest black bird he had even seen flew from a branch to the top of the chimney. It sat there and Joe was sure it was watching him. Just an old crow, he thought, and turned his attention back to the tree. Boards, gray with age, had been nailed up the trunk. The ladder. Kids, maybe my age, used to live here, he thought. He touched the lowest board, split slightly at the nail, long rusted and almost useless, but the oak tree had grown over it and it was still secure.

          “Joe, look!”

          Joe turned and saw that Kyle held up something heavy. He walked over the debris and took a closer look at the stone slab.

          “What is it?” he asked.

          “It’s a gravestone!”

          Joe’s eyes widened. “You stole somebody’s gravestone?”

          “It was all by itself, down there in the woods on the other side of the field. Come on, I’ll show you.”

          Joe still stared at the elongated stone. “But there’s nobody’s name on here. Just letters and numbers.”

          “Those are initials,” Kyle insisted. “And that’s the date he died. 1910!”

          The air took on a sudden chill. The sun was low and the sky was pale. Joe heard the crow caw as it flew toward a dark hollow in the woods beyond.

          “Uh, it’s getting a little late,” he said.

          “I’ve gotta show you the grave,” Kyle insisted. He returned the heavy stone to the fireplace and hid it under gray boards. “You comin’ or not?”

          Joe said nothing, but followed Kyle across the field. As they ran through the tall, yellow grass, they startled doves and larks that erupted around them from the grass, fluttering noisily to a few yards away, then back again. Kyle stopped at the trees and crept forward, motioning Joe to stay closely behind. As they moved into the shadows, Joe tripped over a dead branch, nearly falling. His eyes adjusted to the twilight of the darkening forest and he saw Kyle bending over a hole in the ground. He drew nearer. The hole was the same size and shape as the stone slab. Kyle struck a match on a rock and held it just above the hole, peering into the darkness until the match burned to his fingers.

          “Ouch!” He dropped it and struck another match, this time letting it fall into the hole. “It went out, but I saw something, the same thing I saw before--bones.”

          Joe shuddered.

          “Here, you look this time.”

          Joe bent over the hole and Kyle dropped another lit match into it. Joe jumped up.

          “What?” asked Kyle. “Did you see the bones?”

          “Yeah,” said Joe, backing away. He had seen something, maybe bones, maybe roots, or maybe nothing at all but what his imagination had supplied. Whatever it was, he knew he did not want to stay any longer. “Let’s go. I gotta get back.”

          “See? I told you! Was that cool? Was that weird?” said Kyle, hurrying behind Joe to catch up with him.

          “You’re weird, ya mean,” said Joe. “Digging up gravestones.”

 

          Joe grabbed his bike from Kyle’s yard and rode it back to his grandparents’ driveway, where he stopped to look up at the big maple tree near the fence. Light from the living room window illuminated a tree house perched on its sturdy branches. His grandfather had built it for him years ago and at times Joe still climbed the ladder boards to sit inside the little room to think, and sometimes to cry. He heard a door open and saw his grandmother silhouetted in the kitchen door at the end of the house.

          “Jojo, is that you?”

          “Yeah, Grandma,” he called back as he rode his bike closer and left it leaning against the garage.

          “Come on in here and eat. Your supper’s on the table.”

          Joe washed his hands and sat at the kitchen table where his plate sat wrapped in clear plastic on a flowery tablecloth. His grandmother made a cup of tea and sat across from him.

          “Thanks, Grandma. This looks good.” He tore the wrap from off the plate of mashed potatoes, gravy, meatloaf, and string beans. A saucer of upside-down cake sat next to a glass of chocolate milk. He heard his grandfather speaking to someone. “Somebody here?” Joe asked, his voice muffled through meatloaf.

          “Don’t talk with your mouth full, honey.”

          “Mmmm, sowwy.” Joe slid a heaping spoon of mashed potatoes into the meatloaf still in his mouth. His grandmother looked away.

          “Your mom called and Grandpa’s calling her back to let her know you’re here. She said you can spend the night if you like.” His grandmother leaned forward, smiling. “You know what Saturday nights are like at Grandpa’s and Grandma’s, right? Popcorn and Monopoly!”

          Joe widened his eyes in an attempt to look excited. “Okay. Yeah, okay.” He realized he was still nodding his head when his grandmother cleared the table, and stopped himself abruptly. He thought of the ruined house in the woods and wondered if she knew anything about it.

          “Grandma, have you lived here all your life?”

          “All my married life.” She poured oil into a skillet and added popcorn kernels, then placed a potholder on the lid of the pan and waited. “Now your grandpa was born in this very house.” There was a small explosion in the pan, and another, and she began to shake the skillet back and forth on the gas burner. The popping and scraping reminded Joe of a train pulling to a stop in a railway station, part of a memory of traveling somewhere once with his mother.

          His grandfather entered the room carrying the Monopoly game box as his grandmother shook the white fluffs of corn into a big bowl and then proceeded to melt butter.

          “Ain’t that right, Henry?”

          “I’m sure it is, Love. Whatever you say.” He winked at Joe and placed little stacks of cards and markers on the game board. Joe grinned.

          “Oh!” his grandmother said as though exasperated. “I’m talking about you being born in this house. And your brothers and sisters as well, ain’t that right? Have some popcorn, Joe.”

          “Yep. I was the last of the brood. Why?”

          “Grandpa, do you know about that house, well, what’s left of it, over on the edge of the woods? It’s behind Kyle’s house. Do you know who used to live there?”

          His grandfather placed a hand on his knee and squinted. “Hmmm. Oh yeah! The Asher Place. I used to play with Johnny Asher when we were kids. Then one day, they all up and moved to Missouri.” He turned to Joe and leaned forward with a twinkle in his eyes. “Some people say the house was haunted.”

          Joe’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

          “Now, Henry, none of your ghost stories.”

          “Ahh, please,” Joe begged, his hand lingering in the popcorn bowl. “I love ghost stories, especially yours, Grandpa.”

          His grandmother sighed, went to the refrigerator, and brought out a pitcher of lemonade. After setting the pitcher and three glasses on the table, she turned off the kitchen light. The kitchen was now lit only from the glow of the living room. “May as well set the right mood,” she said, “but, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go read awhile.”

          His grandfather leaned back in his chair and stared a moment at the ceiling. “Well, let’s see. I remember my friend Johnny Asher was having a birthday party, see. All the kids in town were invited. All except for. . .Leonard Smith. After we had ice cream and a big chocolate marble cake we went outside to play. It was turning dark but nobody cared, ‘cause we were all having a good time. Then all of a sudden, Janie Johnson lets out a scream! We all look over in her direction and see this tall, tall, I mean TALL shadow standing by her. It had to be ten feet tall!”

          "No way!" Joe groaned. After a while, as he listened to his grandfather's voice deepen, he felt his eyelids grow heavy. Nearly asleep, Joe heard, “But--out of the shadows in the road ahead walked. . .somebody. When he got close enough, we recognized him. . . .It was. . . Leonard Smith.”

          Joe blinked. “That’s it?” he asked. “It was just Leonard Smith?"

          “There’s more,” his grandfather said in an ominous tone. “The next day at school, Leonard wasn’t there. We found out he had died two nights before.”

          Joe let out a long gasp and leaned back against the bars of the chair. “I'm really sleepy,” he said at last.

 

It was the middle of the night when Joe awoke. Moonlight flooded through the window and filled the little guest room of his grandparents' house with a ghostly sweetness. He sniffed the air and sat up. He jumped up, crossed the room and shoved the window open. A heavy waft of smoke-filled air overwhelmed him. He coughed.

          There was an urgent knock at his door. His grandmother called, “Joe, are you okay?”

          “Yeah!” He coughed again as he pulled his jeans on. The door swung open.

          “Oh, my! Your window’s open. No wonder it’s so strong in here.” His grandmother shuffled past him in her house slippers and robe and slammed the window shut. “There’s a fire somewhere and Grandpa’s outside trying to locate it. Put your shirt on. It’s chilly.”

          "Grandma, uh," Joe began, but faltered. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

          "You want help?"

          "No, I mean, well, I think I know where the fire is."

          "What? Where?"

          "Kyle, well, I mean we. . . had some matches," Joe stammered as he followed his grandmother to the kitchen. "Out in the woods. Behind Kyle's house. Past the Asher house, I mean."

          Joe heard his grandfather shouting and saw him standing on the porch, the glow of the kitchen light on him from the open door, the telephone to his ear, his face written with fear.

          His grandfather was looking through the darkness toward the hill. Joe’s hill. “Get everybody!” he shouted into the phone. “Yes! I already called-- Yes! Our May’s house! Hurry! Please hurry!”

          Joe stood stunned, not understanding. How could the fire he had imagined have traveled from one end of town to the other without burning everything in between?

          “My God, no!” his grandmother cried. “Henry?”

          “Grab some blankets, Ruth. Joe, help me get some shovels. The Volunteers are on their way. Joe, get moving!”

          Outside, Joe stared in disbelief at the top of the hill where flames leaped skyward.

          He ran into his grandfather’s garage and threw the shovels into the back of the truck parked inside. He scrambled into the truck bed. His grandmother handed him the blankets and got in front. He held the blankets tightly as the truck lurched backward onto the road, and up the hill.

          Everything was black except for the road in front of the truck and the top of the hill. He thought he heard his mother scream and he jerked his head. No, she would be outside and safe. She had to be outside. She had to be safe.

          They parked in the road. “Stay there, Joe!” his grandfather ordered, grabbing a shovel. Joe watched in horror as his grandparents ran toward the old wooden house, already engulfed in a brilliant shroud of light and heat. An explosion hurled flares into the sky. His grandparents stopped suddenly as the glowing pickup truck belonging to his mother's boyfriend convulsed, as if clutched in pain, then erupted, sending metal and glass in all directions. Joe heard someone yell, “Get back!”

          Suddenly, he jumped from the bed of his grandfather’s truck and ran toward the skeleton of the house visible in the blaze. “Mom!” he screamed. “Mom!”

          Joe felt someone’s arms around him, pulling him from the intense heat, belching flames and suffocating smoke. He felt dizzy. He barely heard the screeches of other vehicles, the shouts, and was only vaguely aware of figures running toward the back of the house, shovels and buckets in hand. Everything seemed far away and unreal. The tree near the house looked like a flaming candle, the coal shed a warm and friendly campfire, the house a cheery red and orange cradle. He felt himself being rocked, and thought he heard his mother singing a lullaby. Then everything went black.

Chapter Two - Terror

 

Chapter Two

Terror

 

Joe turned over, pulling the blue comforter over his head so that he could see out as through a tunnel. He had had a nightmare. As he drifted back into a half-sleep, images of huge orange and yellow flames reappeared. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils. He reached up under the blanket and rubbed his nose. Suddenly he sat up. The smell was real. It lingered in the air. He threw off the blankets and got out of bed, scared.

A knock on the bedroom door startled him.

“Joe?” It was his grandmother’s voice, small and quavering.

He watched as the door was pushed open. His grandmother’s tear-stained cheeks and hollow eyes told him what he feared to know. The nightmare had been real. He swayed slightly and felt himself choking.

“Get dressed, Joe, then come in the kitchen,” she said softly. “I’ll make you some breakfast. Or lunch. It’s well past noon.” She laughed, her voice strained.

“I don’t want to eat,” he said, following her a few steps. “Where is Mom?”

“Oh, Honey. . .”

“Did they find her? Is she okay?” He looked desperately into his grandmother’s eyes.

“Get dressed, Honey. Then we’ll talk.”

Joe re-entered his bedroom as though in a stupor. He stared at his clothes lying on the floor far below him. It seemed to take forever to reach down and pick them up, pull his jeans up over the shorts he had worn through the night, and push his arms through his tee shirt. He found his socks stuffed into his tennis shoes. Vaguely, he wondered how they’d gotten there.

Through the open bedroom door, he could see his grandfather’s head above the back of an armchair. The chair faced a bay window that framed a view of the smoke-shrouded hill to the north. Henry Pollo turned his head. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you come here, please?”

The image of his grandfather’s swollen eyes and bent shoulders pierced Joe’s mind as though sharp claws had clamped into his skull. He struggled with the pain as his vision blurred. “I’ll be right there. I need to get something first.” He turned, ran past his grandmother in the kitchen and bolted from the house.

Joe ran up the road toward a gray cloud that coiled up and over the east side of the hill. A stench filled the air and he coughed. As he neared the top of the hill, he heard voices and the hum of machinery. He panted and coughed again, then stopped dead at the last green tree.

From that point on, black poles leaking streams of smoke stood in the wide, charred clearing where his house had been. He stared, at first oblivious to the people in yellow rubber suits holding a fire hose connected to one of two red fire trucks, spraying a stretch of rubble that hissed like a threatened snake. Through the haze of steam and smoke, he thought he saw the house as it had been; in the next moment, it was reduced to ashes. In the driveway, the skeleton of a pickup truck leaned slightly on wheel drums, ribbons of melted rubber hanging from the drums. The once-red truck was now ash-gray and windowless with the door to the driver’s side missing. A few yards away, Joe saw with horror where the door had slammed into the trunk of a tree and remained stuck to it. He moved, as if in a dream, toward the tree.

“Hey, Kid! Stay back!” someone yelled. A woman was approaching him. She wore a uniform with “Danburg, Indiana Electric Co-op” embroidered on a front patch. “You shouldn’t be hanging around here right now. It’s dangerous.”

Joe looked intently at the young woman, a question burning his mind that he could not put into words. He simply asked, “Why is it dangerous? There’s no fire now.”

“There are still wires around,” she said patiently, “and we’re making sure they’re not juiced. Hot, you know. There’s water all over the place and sometimes when it’s misty and smoky like this, even the air can be charged. You could get electrocuted. Plus, there’s a lot of poisonous gasses in the air from burned carpet and vinyl and who knows what else.”

Joe was silent.

“What’s your name, Kid?”

“Joe.”

“Well, Joe, you should go on home now. Your parents wouldn’t—

“I am home.”

“What?” The woman looked back at the ashes of the house, then at Joe. “Oh, my god.” She turned again and waved at a fireman wearing a helmet with a badge on front. “Chief Wahl! Yeah, can you come over here?” She looked back at Joe.

“Hello, Son,” said Chief Wahl. “Problem, Miss Reynolds?”

“This is Joe, Sir. Joe Aberdeen, right?” she asked Joe.

He nodded. He felt cold and removed from the people in front of him. He observed the glance between them with a growing numbness. The fire chief had removed his helmet and was wiping soot and sweat from his brow.

“Where are you staying, Joe?”

“My grandparents. Down the hill.”

“Have they talked to you about this fire?”

“No. Yes. I was. . .I don’t think so.” Joe teetered. Miss Reynolds put a hand on his shoulder until he was still again.

“Listen, Joe. I’m not the right person to . . . .” The man stopped, shook his head and looked at his assistant.

“I’ll take him to his grandparents’ place,” Miss Reynolds said. “Is that okay, Joe?”

The muddle of thoughts in Joe’s mind seemed to clear for a moment. In their place, his mother’s face appeared, kind and loving.

“Is my mother dead?” he asked, looking directly into the man’s eyes.

Chief Wahl held the gaze a few seconds. “Son, I urge you to let Miss Reynolds drive you to your grandparents’ house.” He placed a leather-gloved hand on Joe’s shoulder, then turned and stalked away.

“My truck’s over here,” Miss Reynolds said softly.

“I can walk down,” said Joe.

“I think you should let me take you.”

“No, that’s okay.” Joe turned away from the place he had called home and walked to the road, turned south toward his grandparents’ house, and after a few yards entered a growth of sassafras trees. He heard an approaching vehicle and peered through the trees to watch his grandparents drive by. They were looking for him, he knew, but he didn’t want to see them yet.

He hurried through the trees and cut out across a field of golden rod, breaking into a run. He didn’t stop running until he came to a persimmon tree beside a pond. There he fell onto a knoll, pressed his face against the soft grass and sobbed uncontrollably.

Overhead, a black bird sailed across the pale gold of the meadow. It flapped its wings and settled on a branch of the tree, its shiny feathers framed by the butter-yellow leaves and orange fruit. It cocked its head this way, and that way, as though studying the boy. A ripe persimmon lay on the ground near Joe, a small split in its tough skin caused by the fall. The bird hopped from the branch and glided down to pick at the fruit. Joe groaned and turned his head sideways. How long had he lain there? Had he fallen asleep? He opened his eyes and saw the crow a few feet away. The big bird hopped comically a few inches into the air and down again, watching Joe as it danced. When Joe sat up, it flew a short distance away and returned to settle in the tree.

“Ohhh, my head,” Joe muttered. With both hands, he pulled his hair straight up from the top of his head, trying to relieve the throbbing pain. He heard a voice, someone speaking from a distance. He glanced around, searching for the source. Maybe it was his grandfather, or a search party. He saw no one. Again, the chortling and clicking sound. He realized it was coming from overhead and he looked up. There was the crow, staring right at him. I’m imagining things, he thought.

He stood up and stretched, wondering where to go and not caring. He noticed his shadow had grown longer and knew he must have been on this knoll for a long time. He heard a flapping overhead and saw the crow take wing. Without deliberation, he started walking in the same direction the bird had flown.

A small stream cut through the meadow. Joe stepped into the water without noticing and wandered through tall, autumn wildflowers and into the woods and out the other side into a cornfield of dry stalks that rustled as he passed them. There was the crow again. Or was it a different one? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. More trees. Another meadow.

He saw a stone chimney silhouetted stark and alone against the sky and realized he had reached the ruins of a house. Had this house burned down as well? Did someone die inside as it burned? He imagined a person writhing in horrible pain among the licking flames and tightness began to grip him until he could not stand it.

“Nooooo!” he cried. He doubled over, holding his stomach, and vomited. He stayed bent over for several moments, then straightened up and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Exhausted, he stumbled to the remains of a fireplace under the chimney and sat down. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked until he fell asleep.

It was dark when he awoke. He felt cold and pulled back from the stones of the ruined fireplace. His stomach churned and he had a sour taste in his mouth. He longed for a drink of water. A crack, like the sound of a branch being snapped, captured his attention. He sat, alert to sounds of the night. Crickets chirped, frogs sang in deep chorus, a whippoorwill called softly, and, again, he heard a crack. A sudden chill breeze wrapped around him, lingered and swept away. He wanted to run away as fast as he could, but he couldn’t move. A monstrous shadow leaped across the field, then another. Joe cringed in terror.

“Joe!”

Were they calling his name? He heard it again and turned his head toward the woods. Lights bobbed up and down. He realized what it was. Flashlights.

“Joe! Where are you, Joe?” It was his grandfather’s voice.

 

Chapter Three - Arthur Aberdeen

 

Chapter Three

Arthur Aberdeen

 

Joe was grateful to be back in his grandparents’ cozy house, food and drink set on the table for him by his grandmother, who gave him hugs every time she came to the table, carrying something else for him to eat. His grandfather stood nearby speaking quietly with Fire Chief Wahl.

“Well, gotta be going,” said the fire chief. He patted Joe’s shoulder. “Glad you’re safe, Son.”

Joe looked up at the man. He felt suddenly awkward. A large number of people had come looking for him. From outside, voices called to him, “Bye, Joe. Glad you’re safe.” Engines started and vehicles drove away.

His grandmother cleared the table. "Joe, go take a shower and then go to bed, okay? Get some rest. Your father will be here tomorrow."

Joe absorbed this news slowly. “Dad’s coming home?”

"Yes, I called him to let him know about, about everything. He’s very anxious to see you, and—.” A catch in her voice caused her words to trail off. Joe looked at his grandmother, waiting.

His grandfather spoke. “I think that’s enough for tonight. Let’s let the boy go to bed.”

The phone rang. His grandfather answered it, paused and then handed the receiver to Joe.

“It’s your dad,” he said and glanced at his wife.

Joe put the receiver to his ear. Although his father had called once a week since moving, this time he knew it was different.

“Hello?” Joe said, shyly.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Joe? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“You sound so far away, Son.”

“I am far away.” Joe said.

“Listen, Joe. First thing, I love you and miss you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes. I guess so.”

“No guessing. It’s a fact. I’ve been in Albuquerque today on standby for the first flight available. I was just told I can take a plane out of here in a couple of hours. When I get to Evansville at 8:00 tomorrow morning, I’ll rent a car and be in Green Hollow about 9:00. Sound good?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and I’m coming alone. Alberta and your sister are staying home. It was easier to get a flight if I went alone. But they send their love and their con--, well, I’ll talk all about everything when I see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call when I get to Evansville. You hang in there, Son. I love you.”

“I—I love you, too.”

Joe held the telephone receiver long after his father had hung up. His grandfather gently took the receiver and placed it on its stand.

“Dad's coming. I’m going to see my Dad!” said Joe, suddenly surprised.

 

The next morning, after going through the motions of a breakfast that was barely touched, Joe sat dazed on the front porch of the store waiting for his father. He watched children swing, climb, and tumble in the fenced playground across the road, his old school and playground before he was old enough to take the bus to junior high in Danburg. He saw two little boys in a scuffle in the corner of the school yard and remembered all the times he had gotten in trouble for fighting. His teacher had called him a “naughty boy.”

 

A car appeared at the top of the hill from the direction of the Danburg highway. Joe watched as it approached, visible, then hidden by trees, then visible again. Only one person in it, he noticed. His excitement mounted as it drew closer. It was his dad and he was waving. Joe stood up and almost ran out into the road, but stopped himself. He waved back and waited for his father to pull into the driveway at the side of the store. Unable to contain his sudden energy anymore, he ran from the porch to the car. A blonde-bearded man wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned at the top, and Levis got out and held his arms wide open as Joe ran into them. After a moment, he stepped back from his father, feeling awkward by his show of emotion. His father’s cheeks, wet from tears, erased the embarrassment Joe had felt. He could hardly believe his dad was here.

“Say, you’re almost as tall as I am.” Arthur Aberdeen said. “Listen, Joe. . .,” he began, but stopped when a voice boomed from the doorway of the house.

“Arthur! What are you doing standing out there in the pouring-down rain? Get on in here, Man!”

Joe’s father looked at the clear sky and then at Joe. “Huh?”

“That’s Grandpa’s humor. His way of saying hi.”

“Ohhh. Hello there, Henry! Long time, no see!”

The two men shook hands and Joe and his father followed Henry into the house where Arthur gave Joe’s grandmother a hug. “Ruth, I’m so sorry,” Joe heard him say.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Ruth Pollo pulled a tissue from her apron pocket, turned away and dabbed at her eyes.

Arthur looked around. “I always liked your house. So pleasant! It’s good to be here,” he said and quickly added, “though I wish the circumstances were different.”

“Yes. Yes, I know,” said Ruth, fidgeting with her apron. “Have you had breakfast, Arthur?”

“Thank you, I have. But I see you have a full pot of coffee. Wouldn’t mind a cup of your famous java!”

Joe’s grandmother gave a little laugh. “Famous? My word. You haven’t changed, Arthur.” She poured coffee in a huge cup she found in the cabinet and handed it to him. “I don’t remember if you take cream and sugar.”

“Black is good. Thanks.”

Joe watched his father sit down at the table.

“Come and sit by me, Son,” he said, pulling out the chair next to him.

“Hell, bring your coffee in the living room, Arthur,” Henry said, motioning to Ruth and Joe as well. “We may as well get comfortable.”

For some reason, Joe felt uneasy. Why did it matter where they sat? His dad was here. They were in the same room together. That’s all that mattered. He thought about the alternating weekend visits he’d had for years before his father moved to Arizona and how he’d had his dad to himself. Except for, he thought, the times his half-sister Kamerine came along, but that was okay.

Arthur and Joe headed for the couch when Henry took Arthur’s arm and directed him to the big recliner. “Sit there, Art. It’s the most comfortable chair in the house.”

“I don’t want to take your chair.”

“No, no. I insist.”

Arthur looked at Joe who had gone to the couch. “Well, okay. What do you know! I can see my son better from over here anyway. Hi, Joe!”

Joe felt somewhat foolish waving to his father who sat only ten feet away, but he gave a small wag of his hand as his grandparents seated themselves on either side of him. Henry set one leg on his other knee and placed his arm around Joe’s shoulder. Joe’s grandmother patted his arm, then folded her hands in her lap.

“How was the flight?” Henry asked.

“Yes, was it tiresome waiting around the airport?” asked Ruth.

Arthur shifted in his seat. “Actually, I--,

Henry pointed to the side of the chair. “The foot rest handle is to the side there, Art. Go ahead. Just push on it.”

Arthur blinked. “I’m fine, thanks. Actually, I didn’t find anything tiresome about the trip. I was too excited to come and see everybody, especially that guy right there.” He nodded at Joe, who grinned shyly. “How about you folks? Joe told me last week you’ve been experiencing some back pain, Henry.”

Henry put his leg down and leaned back slightly. “Well, yeah,” he drawled. “It’s been pestering me some. But Joe, here, has been a big help to me.”

“Oh yes, to me, too,” said Ruth. “We don’t know what we’d do without him, do we, Henry?” She gave Joe’s arm a squeeze. Joe smiled at his grandmother, feeling uncomfortable by the praise.

“I don’t do all that much,” he said.

“Oh yes, you do!” his grandfather argued. “You helped me move those boxes, and you shelved groceries, and when I couldn’t stand up any longer, you even helped at the counter. You’re a big help, yessiree.”

Joe’s father was silent, looking from Joe to his grandparents and back.

“We love having him here,” said Ruth and turned to face Joe. “Not just because you help, young man, but because we love you!”

“I know, Grandma,” he said, almost in a whisper, and slid down an inch in his seat.

Arthur said, looking at Joe, “That’s a great gift, being loved.”

Joe chewed on his lips and nodded. He wished someone would change the subject. He felt as though a spotlight shone directly on him.

“Hey, I brought you something, Joe," said his father, slapping his knees and standing up. "Come on out to the car. Excuse us a few minutes, Henry, Ruth.”

Gratefully, Joe jumped to his feet and followed his father through the kitchen and outside.

“While I was waiting on the flight, I did a little shopping,” said Arthur, opening a back car door. “I hope I got the right size.”

“Clothes?” Joe immediately wished he hadn’t shown his disappointment. “I really need some,” he added quickly. “I only have one change that I always keep here at Grandma’s. Everything else I lost in the. . . .”

“I know. We’ll replace those sorts of things.” Arthur put his arm around Joe’s shoulder. “But for now, check these out.”

Two sacks lay on his father’s suitcase in the back seat of the car. Arthur handed the first sack to Joe, who reached in and pulled out jeans and tee shirts. He read one of the shirt logos aloud, “‘I’d like to care, but my give-a-damn’s busted.’ Yeah,” he said quietly. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Those are everyday threads. I thought in a little while we could run into Danburg and get you a suit and dress shoes.”

“You know me, Dad. I don’t like suits and ties and all that stuff.”

“I know, Joe. We’ll talk about it, okay? Anyway, I need to get a motel room in Danburg for a few days. I’d like you to stay there with me.”

Joe look surprised. “In Danburg? Aren’t you going to stay here at Grandpa’s house?”

“Well, I would, you know, but, uh, your grandparents have enough to think about without having a guest. Staying at a motel will give us a chance to talk. We need to talk. Oh, one more thing.” His father reached inside the other bag and handed an electronic game to Joe.

“Awesome!”

“I’m glad you like it. Go ahead and play with it. I want to talk with your grandparents a bit, and have another cup of coffee, okay?’

“Sure, Dad.” he said, his concentration now on the game as he began pushing buttons.

Half an hour later, Joe heard voices coming from the house. What’s going on, he wondered, and got out of the car. As he opened the living room door, he heard his father’s voice booming from the kitchen. “…I’m his father and he’s going home with me! That’s all there is to it.”

“But he’s all we’ve got of May!” Joe heard his grandmother say, and he could tell she was crying. “He’s our life, Arthur, don’t you understand that? You have a family. You have a life. I gave birth to three children and they’re all gone. Please don’t take Joe from us!”

Joe entered the house, struggling to understand what he was hearing. He could see his father’s back, his hands clenched at his sides, something Joe had seen him do in nightmares of arguments between his parents. Now his grandfather spoke in a menacing tone.

“I want you to know, Arthur, we’re going to fight for him. You’re the one who left, you know. And don’t give me that crap about your company sending you fifteen hundred miles away. You had a choice. You could have quit and stayed here near your son. You had your chance. Now you’ve lost it.”

 

Chapter Four - The Battle

 

Chapter Four

The Battle

 

The argument Joe had overheard between his father and grandparents bewildered him. He couldn’t make sense of anything. His head ached. He stayed in bed for two days and mostly he slept. The thoughts, images, sounds, smells and feelings that swirled in his mind didn’t go away even when he slept. He dreamed that he wandered down unfamiliar streets in search of something. Monstrous shadows swayed in and out of dark doorways. He felt himself screaming, but no sound escaped his mouth.

When he would awake, he felt no interest in where he was, or why. On returns from going to the bathroom, he would find a pitcher of water, a glass of juice, a plate of toast or other food on the bedside stand. He left them untouched. Sometimes he would find his father waiting for him, but Joe couldn’t speak.

“Son, I am really sorry,” Arthur Aberdeen said from the edge of the bed where he sat. “You shouldn’t have found out that way. I wanted to talk to you about coming home with me. I want to talk to you about a lot of things. I still do.”

Joe walked around the bed and climbed in, pulling the blankets over his head.

His father continued, “I want to tell you how really, really sorry I am that you’ve lost your—about everything, Joe. I’m sorry about everything. Joe, would you please sit here beside me?”

After what seemed a long time, his father left. Later in the day, his father returned with a large box of pizza. Joe saw his grandparents watching from the living room.

“I picked this up in Danburg. Mind if I join you in eating it?”

“Go ahead,” said Joe, and turned away, facing the wall opposite the door. He felt the bed sink slightly in the middle when his father sat down. He stared from under the blanket at the window. Even though it was closed, the sickening smell of smoke still hung in the air as if it drifted ghostlike through the walls. He had learned about molecules in science class at school, little clusters of different atoms held together by strange and invisible powers. Were there molecules from his mother’s body floating around in the room? At times, he felt that she was there. It was at those times that he wished his father would leave. Go back to your own world and just leave me alone, he thought. He felt the mattress move as his father stood up and left the room. He was glad to be alone again.

He wasn’t sure what his world was anymore. Where was home? Where was his mother? She had meant home to him and she had been his world. The pain from these thoughts tightened his chest and stomach until he doubled nearly in two, bringing his knees to his chest inside the womb of his blankets.

“Mom,” he sobbed into the pillow he clutched. He tossed and turned and drifted in and out of sleep. Finally, exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning, Joe drank the apple juice that had been placed on his bed stand. A note with the words “Pancakes in the kitchen!” was propped against the lamp. He sat up, wondering how long he had confined himself to his room. The ray of sun that lay across his bed disappeared slowly, replaced by a gray stillness. He got up and went to the window. Clouds hung in the sky, their floors of vapor stretched sideways like pulled taffy. Nothing moved outside, no leaves trembled. There was no wind. It was as though the world waited for some signal to let him resume getting on with his life.

On the dresser, his new clothes lay folded. He picked them up and cautiously opened the door. He heard voices, but saw no one. He crossed the hallway and entered the bathroom where he turned on the shower. He let the hot water run over and down him for a long time, then worked shampoo into his hair and rinsed. His brown hair hung in strands over his eyes. His grandfather had wanted to cut his hair two weeks ago. No, I’ll let it grow, he thought. His hair had always been kept short; now he wanted it long.

Dressed and feeling refreshed, he went to the sunny kitchen where his grandparents greeted him with smiles as bright as the flood of sun coming through the windows. Too bright, Joe thought, and felt himself a shadow in comparison.

“Well, good morning!” his grandmother said, setting a plate in front of him and heaping pancakes on it. “Bacon?”

“Okay,” he said. He sliced off a slab of butter and spread it on the pancakes.

“Good morning, Joe. Here’s some syrup.” His grandfather, a napkin tucked into his open collar and hanging over his shirt, gave him a salute from across the table.

“Morning,” said Joe, without smiling. He ate in silence. When he finished, he asked, “Did Dad go back to Arizona?” He caught the glances between his grandparents.

“Uh, no,” said his grandfather. He’ll be here in a bit. He’s bringing your. . .he’s bringing the urn. From town, you know.”

“Oh yeah? What’s an urn?” Joe asked. He had heard the word somewhere, maybe a poem. It sounded like a word from a poem.

His grandfather squirmed in his chair and set his coffee cup down. “It’s a, how would you describe it, Ruth?”

“It’s a special kind of vase,” she said, and sat down, her eyes on Joe. “Are you still hungry? Would you like some fruit?” she asked, pushing a tray of sliced cantaloupe toward him.

Joe leaned back and patted his stomach. “No thanks. I’m full. That was good.”

“Are ya feeling better?” his grandfather asked.

“Better than what?” Noticing dripped syrup on the table in front of him, Joe pulled a napkin from the holder and wiped the tablecloth. He observed, without much interest, that his grandfather tapped the table with his index finger.

“Listen, Joe, I don’t know how much you heard the other day, but I want to explain that we want you to stay with us for as long as you want. Do you know why?”

“Sure, Grandpa. ‘Cause you need my help.”

“That’s not it,” said his grandmother. “It’s because we—

“You love me. I know. Is this going to be a big heart-to-heart talk, or something? I don’t want to go to Arizona, okay, so you don’t need to worry about it.” He pushed his chair back, ready to get up, but he didn’t know where he would go, so he continued to sit, staring sullenly at the hen and rooster salt and pepper shakers.

“Well, we’re glad to hear that,” his grandfather said, smiling again.

“Oh yes, Joe, this is your home. We may be only country folk, but we are family.”

“Grandma,” said Joe, impatiently, “my dad lives in the country, too. And he’s also family.”

His grandmother blinked. “I’m just saying that we love you, Jojo, more than anything or anyone in this world.”

“You know what, Grandma? I don’t want you to call me Jojo anymore.” He stood, picked up his plate and silverware, and rinsed them in the sink. He didn’t look at his grandparents, who were silent.

He heard a car pull into the driveway and turned around, drying his hands with a dish towel.

“That’ll be Arthur,” said his grandfather. Henry and Ruth Pollo looked at each other solemnly and got up from the table. His grandmother stumbled and, as Joe lurched forward to catch her, his grandfather grabbed her arm.

“Careful, Dear,” Henry said. “Let me help you.”

Joe followed them through the living room, but stayed inside by the picture window through which he could see his grandparents and father looking at something under the raised lid of the trunk. Curious, he went out on the porch and heard his father ask his grandparents, “When do you want me to bring it inside?” Then, looking up, he saw Joe and said, “Good morning, Son.”

Joe rested his hands on the porch railing and jerked his chin up in a return greeting. “What’s in the trunk?” he asked.

No one answered.

“You may as well bring it in now, Arthur,” his grandfather said, a stiffness in his body as he stepped back. “Don’t see any reason to wait.”

Joe watched as his father lifted a medium-size box from the trunk. Probably another gift to soften me up, he thought. I’ll never go to Arizona. Why would I go to a god-forsaken dry-bone desert? He’s got to be crazy.

His father did not stop on the porch to hand the box to Joe, but smiled weakly at his son and carried it into the house where he set it on the coffee table.

“Coming, Joe?” his father called through the open doorway.

Joe shrugged. “Guess so.”

The box was plain and about a foot square. A very uninteresting box, Joe thought, yet his grandparents stood staring at it as if it were full of gold. Joe noticed his father had sat on the couch. He looked tired.

Henry Pollo bent forward and opened the box. Joe watched his grandfather lift a white porcelain jar trimmed in gold and gaze at it before setting it with care on the table. On the lid, a gold tree had been painted in the center. His grandmother set aside the empty carton, and she, too, now stared at the jar. Joe glanced from one to the other, then at his father, and shrugged again.

“Must have cost a lot to deserve this much attention,” he said, and wandered to a chair across the room from his father and sat down. He was surprised when he saw his grandmother lean against his grandfather’s chest and begin weeping. Suddenly, he knew. It wasn’t an ordinary jar. It was the special vase his grandmother had mentioned at breakfast. The urn. It contained his mother’s ashes. He looked questioningly at his father.

Arthur nodded slowly.

Joe laughed. He had not meant to. He heard himself laugh again.

“It’s okay,” his father said.

“It’s okay,” Joe repeated and he laughed again. He hated himself for laughing and wished he could stop. His father crossed the room and started to put his arm around him, but Joe jerked away. A surge of anger swept through his body.

“It’s your fault. I hate you!” he said, and ran from the house.

“Let him go,” he heard his father say.

 

Joe, propelled by the fuel of his anger, charged up the hill. He could not accept that the solid and warm person who had been his mother was now reduced to ashes in a jar. That was impossible. He would look through the charred ruins of their house and find something, he didn’t know what, but he had to hold something that had belonged to her, something she had touched. When he reached the top of the hill, he was not prepared for what he saw. A soft cry, like the whimper of a puppy, escaped his lips. He stared at the bare space, unbelievably small, where his house and the sheds had once stood. Everything had been cleared away. He wandered slowly in a daze toward the scorched earth. He sniffed the air, which still held a faint odor of smoke, musty like the smell of mold in a damp blanket. Slowly, he became aware of a movement in the center of the blackened ground. He focused on the spot and saw a crow pecking at the dirt. When Joe approached it, the bird flew away. Squatting, he examined the ground and saw a thin, gold chain half buried in the earth.

That afternoon, Joe wore a navy blue suit and tie, the gold chain that had been his mother’s now around his own neck and tucked under his shirt, and sat next to his father in the living room as visitors from the town came to pay their respects to the family. Some had brought flowers to place on or near the lace-covered table that held the urn containing the remains of May Pollo Aberdeen. A portrait of Joe’s mother, her smiling face framed by her wavy, dark hair, stood next to the urn.

Unable to stand the sad smiles and courteous condolences any longer, Joe left the house through the back door and climbed the ladder to his childhood tree house. An old blanket lay folded in one corner. He laid his head on it and fell asleep. He dreamed of his mother. He was a small boy and they sat together in his tree house eating peanut-butter crackers and drinking cold chocolate milk. She chattered on and on about wonderful things--how to build a Lego fortress, why he should eat his greens, and how he needed to keep his room tidy.

Joe opened his eyes and realized he had been dreaming, yet he could still hear her voice, or someone’s voice. There in the open window square sat a crow, sounding as if it was mumbling to itself.

Joe sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Are you somebody’s pet?” he asked. The bird gave a little hop and flew off. “Come back!” Joe called.

“Ah, there you are.”

Joe poked his head out the window hole and looked down at his father, who was shading his eyes from the late afternoon sun.

“What?”

“Mind if I come up?”

Joe frowned. “It’s pretty tight up here.”

“I was thinking you might go with me into Danburg for dinner. How long has it been since you had a steak?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like steak.” Joe sat back down on the tree house floor. Through the boards, he could see his father pushing gravel with the toe of his shoe.

“I know you like fish and chips,” Joe heard him call.

After a moment, Joe grumbled, “Okay,” and climbed down. “I’m going to change then. Wear real clothes.”

 

On the way to Danburg, Joe looked at the green and gold countryside. A weathered red barn sat in a field of corn stubbles, and beyond stood a tall clump of trees, remnant of an ancient vast forest. His thoughts meandered from barns to trees to creeks to school. He realized he had been out of school almost a week. Last year he would have felt anxious about that. This year was different. Everything was changing.

“Is this your school bus route?” his father asked, as though he’d read Joe’s mind.

“Yeah.”

“How have you been doing? Still getting good grades?”

“Nope.”

His father was silent for a moment, and then asked, “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

They were crossing a wide creek, a tributary to Little Pigeon Creek that itself emptied into the Ohio River a few miles to the south.

“Your sister attends a year-long school and gets two weeks each for fall and spring breaks and three weeks for the winter break.”

“Oh yeah?” Here it comes, Joe thought. He’s going to campaign for Arizona. But his father did not continue the subject.

In Danburg, Arthur pulled into the parking lot of a motel. “Think I’ll change my clothes too. Be right back.”

“Can I see what your room looks like?”

“Oh, of course. Come on in.” Arthur clicked the remote to lock the car door and Joe followed him up a flight of stairs that led to a long, carpeted hallway.

“This is cool, I guess,” said Joe, entering his father’s room and looking around. The small front room was furnished with a kitchenette, a couch, chairs, end tables, lamps, and a television set. Through an arched door he could see two large beds and beyond them, he discovered a balcony. He stood outside. Through the trees he could see the bell tower of the county court house in the center of town. He wandered back in and sneaked a look in the little refrigerator. Cheese and crackers and an unwrapped jelly roll.

“Not too interesting, hmmm?” said his father, pulling on a dark blue sweatshirt. “You know, if you’d like to stay overnight, we could pick up some snacks after dinner, watch some TV.”

“I don’t know.” Joe noticed the phone on the stand between the beds. “I’d have to ask Gran--.”

For a moment, there was an awkward silence. “Son, you don’t have to ask. Just tell them your dad said it’s okay.”

Joe stood for a moment unable to speak. He felt bewildered. He wanted to rush at his father and beat at him with his fists one moment and wrap his arms around him the next. He felt his jaw tremble.

“It’s okay, Joe. Go ahead and call.” His father pulled a cell phone from his pocket, pressed the keys and handed it to Joe.

Joe bit his lips to stop the trembling, sat down and listened to the ring.

“Hello?”

Joe took a deep breath. “Grandpa. It’s me.”

“Joe! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just—

“You sure?”

“Sure, everything’s good. I wanted to let you know I’m going to stay over here with Dad and—

“What? Why? Joe, here’s your grandma. She wants to talk to you.”

Joe listened to the more distant sounding voices as his grandfather repeated his words and his grandmother responded with, “Oh, dear. I was afraid he’d talk him into that.”

Her voice became more distinct. “Jojo, this is Grandma.”

“I know.”

“What’s this about you staying with Arthur?”

“Who? Oh, you mean my dad. It’s just overnight, Grandma. We’re going to go eat and then watch TV.”

“Oh. When will you be home?”

“I dunno. Tomorrow.” Joe looked at his father who was sitting on one of the beds looking through a magazine. “Dad, Grandma wants to know what time I’ll be back.”

“Whenever you want, Joe.” His father’s lower jaw had shifted to one side and seemed to be stuck there.

“Grandma? I’ll let you know. G’night . . . .” He thought of saying what he usually said: “I love you.” Instead he handed the phone to his father.

“You okay?” his father asked him, closing the phone.

“They act as if you’re going to kidnap me.”

His father looked up at the ceiling, then at Joe, and heaved a sigh. “Let’s go eat.”

After a small salad and all the shrimp he could eat, Joe slumped in the booth seat and belched.

“Musta been the salad,” he murmured and grinned when his father burst into a laugh.

“No doubt it was the salad,” his father agreed. He looked at his watch. “What now? You want to pick up some ice cream or chips or something and head back to the room?”

“Yeah, right. I can’t even move.”

“Hmmm. No room for dessert, huh?”

“I always have room for dessert. Not really. Not yet.”

“Tell you what. Let’s walk over to the town square, walk around it a couple of times, then you’ll be ready for a banana split at Benny’s Ice Cream Parlor. What do you think?”

Joe moaned.

“No?”

“Yeah.”

When they reached the courthouse lawn, raised and bordered by a short concrete wall, Joe plopped down on the grass. “I don’t wanna walk and I don’t want ice cream,” he groaned. “I just wanna sit here.” His father sat nearby on the wall.

“You know, Son, I really, really miss you.”

“So why did you leave?” Joe felt the anger well up again.

“I was transferred, Joe. You know that.”

Joe glared at his father, whose face was partly lit by the glow from a nearby street lamp and partly in the shadow of his own bent head.

His father continued, his voice sounding strained. “Joe, I don’t quite know how to explain how a man feels about his job. You’ll understand it when you become a man yourself. Hell, maybe I should just say grown-up, any grown-up who is responsible for taking care of a family. It’s a big weight.”

“Why didn’t you quit? Just get another job so you could stay here?”

“I looked, Joe, but it would have meant a huge cut in pay. I would have had to start at the bottom of the pay scale of some other company. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

“No.”

His father’s face was now in full shadow, his body hunched forward, both hands on his knees.

“Anyway,” said Joe, “I’m getting cold.”

“Yeah? Me, too. Just one more thing though. And it’s the most important thing. You know I have to go back and I want you to go with me.”

Joe had folded his arms. He said nothing.

“OK,” his father said after a few moments. “Let’s go.”

Shivering, Joe followed his father back to the motel.

 

Before breakfast the following morning, the phone rang. From the cozy blankets wrapped around his body and head, Joe heard his father answer.

“Hi there, Honey! What’s that? Yes, this is Dad. Who did you think it would be? . . . Ah. No, it’s not Santa. Are you hinting for a present?. . .Maybe. . . No. No, he’s hanging in there. . . Yes, I’ll tell him. . . Well, I’m not sure yet. Soon. . . Let me talk to Mommy now. Huh? Oh, sorry. I mean ‘Mom.’ Okay, bye. I love you, too. Bye. . .”

Joe got up to go to the bathroom. He suddenly felt uncomfortable knowing his father was going to speak to Alberta and that he would likely be a subject of their conversation.

“Hi, Hon. Yeah, I miss you, too. Know what? Joe is here with me. . . Yeah! Spent the night. We had dinner at Bilbo’s, remember that place?”

Joe heard his father chuckle as he closed the bathroom door. He stared in the mirror at his puffy eyes, tousled hair, and tight mouth. Yanking the shower curtain back, he bent over the side of the tub and struggled with the faucet knobs, trying to figure out how to make them work.

“Stupid tub,” he growled. A sudden spray of ice-cold water hit him in the face. “Dangit!” He grabbed a towel from a shelf and dried his face, then removed his soaked underwear and stepped into the tub.

After his shower, he poked his head out the door. “Dad, could you toss me my jeans?”

“Oh, sure. Here you go.”

“My underwear got wet. I mean the shower got me—oh well, uh, thanks.”

“No problem,” said his father. “We need to get you some more clothes anyway. I noticed there’s a new department store on the edge of town.”

Joe took the pants and shut the door again. He heard his stomach growl, although he wasn’t hungry. He knew his father would take him to breakfast, but he decided he wouldn’t eat. The clothes were a different matter. He needed shirts and pants and underwear and socks and shoes. How could he go to school without clothes? He imagined himself walking down the school hallway naked and hearing all the girls scream, then being sent to the principal’s office for indecent something or another. A new idea occurred to him: he wouldn’t go to school. Ever.

In the coffee shop, Joe’s father said, “I feel a little funny sitting here eating when you’re not. Can’t I get you a slice of toast and some juice, at least?”

“This water’s enough. I ate a lot last night. Anyway, it doesn’t bother me if you’re eating.”

“Really? Okay then.

“Dad?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I know you want me to go home with you, but. . . ,” he paused to gulp a drink of water. His father had set his fork on his plate and was giving Joe full attention.

“So, well uh. . .I think I should, I really want to stay here.” He took a deep breath and another long drink of water.

The silence caused Joe to fidget. He had focused on the napkin holder while he talked and now he shifted his eyes to his father’s face. There was no anger in it, not even disappointment. He wasn’t sure what the look on his father’s face meant.

“I hear you,” Arthur said finally, and sat back.

Joe felt the need to explain. “They need me. They’re old.”

“Not so old, Son. They just seem old to you. They’re only in their Fifties.”

It came as a shock to Joe that people in their Fifties were not old. After all, even his father was getting old. He thought of another reason to stay. “All my friends are here.”

“You can keep your old friends and make new ones as well. You could invite your friend, uhm, the one you always talk about?”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah. I’ll bet Kyle would love to come out West and see where the deer and the antelope play.”

Joe saw a smile at the corner of his father’s mouth.

“And you’ll meet new kids at school. The school there is like schools here, same subjects, same sports, not too many clubs, but I know you love books. You can read books anywhere. Look, Son, I know you’re comfortable here. It’s what you’re used to and it’s an old saying that change can be scary. But change happens whether you stay put or not. I want to help you cope with it. So does Alberta. She loves you too, you know. By the way, she and Kamerine both asked me to give you their love.”

Joe said nothing more, but as they drove from the restaurant to the clothing store, he was glad the subject had changed. He wasn’t sure now what he wanted to do and he didn’t know if he even had a say in what would happen. He sensed a tug of war between his father and his grandparents and this perplexed him. What if they did leave it up to him? What if they all said, “Joe, you decide”? The thought both excited and terrified him.

“Well, Joe, which one?”

“What?” He heard the high pitch in his own voice.

“The jacket or the vest?”

“Oh,” he said, catching his breath. “The jacket, I guess.”

When Arthur and Joe drove back to Green Hollow, Joe wondered if his grandparents had been watching for hours through the living room windows, because they rushed out the front door as soon as his father pulled in their driveway. Maybe they had paced back and forth, wringing their hands. They hugged him as though he’d just arrived from Arizona instead of Danburg, eight miles away.

“I made a blackberry cobbler!” his grandmother told him, patting him on the head, and smiling right into his face. “And potato salad and fried chicken!”

“Cool.” Joe didn’t know what else to say. “I’m starting to get hungry, I guess.”

His grandfather held the front door open for him as though he were a celebrity. “You’re not going to believe your eyes when you see what’s in your room,” he said, winking. It was difficult to walk across the living room as each grandparent gave him another hug or pat or poke in the chest or to stop him as they related a bit of news.

“So many people stopped by last night,” his grandmother said. “Let’s go in your room and see what they brought you.”

Joe looked around for his father. Through a window, he could see him sitting on the porch swing, rocking back and forth. For a moment, he imagined that his father was not there, had instead gone on his way. Feeling disorientated, Joe let his grandparents lead him to his room. When his grandfather opened the door, Joe blinked. The little room was full of bags and boxes. His grandmother, her face crinkled in a smile, pushed her way through the clutter, and turned to Joe and his grandfather as if she were about to make a speech. Like a magician, she reached in containers and pulled out articles of clothing, paperback books and comics, music, a portable CD player, games, a comb and brush set and several cans of mixed nuts.

“That’s a lot of stash, huh?” his grandfather said, slapping Joe on the back.

“Stash?” Joe asked, raising his eyebrows. He had heard the word used by kids at school, but only in reference to drugs.

“Loot!” His grandfather translated. Henry. stood with both hands on his waist, gazing around the room, like a pirate, Joe thought, who had just done a lot of hard work stealing treasure.

“Wow,” was all Joe could think to say.

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful how our neighbors care so much about you, Joe?” his grandmother said. “They know you’ve lost everything.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Joe looked at the collection of things, knowing the only important loss was not in the room. He wondered if he could bear losing his father again as well. Or his grandparents, who had raised him and loved him as much as his parents had, maybe more. They had always been there for him. He loved them too, but when he thought of his dad leaving without him, he cried inside. In his bewilderment, he felt a fury begin twisting in his body like a tornado, ripping his whole being apart.

His grandmother wrapped an arm around Joe’s shoulder. “What do you think, Henry, are we going to have to enlarge and remodel this room for the best kid in the world?” She turned to Joe and asked, “Would you like that, Joe?”

“You won’t need to do that,” Joe heard his father say from behind. He turned and saw the big man filling the bedroom doorway, his head nearly touching the frame.

“What’s that you say?” asked Joe’s grandfather, his voice bristling.

“I’m saying my son is going home with me.”

“Do you really want to fight this out in court?”

“Do you really want to put Joe through the agony of a court fight?” Arthur retorted.

Everyone stood in silence for a moment. Then Joe’s grandmother said, her voice trembling, “Why don’t we ask Joe what HE wants?” She looked at Joe, her lips tight, her eyes brimming with tears.

Joe’s own eyes widened. He didn’t know what to say. He felt his legs tremble.

“Nope,” his father said, moving next to Joe. “We’re not going to do that either, Ruth.” Arthur turned to Joe and placed an arm on his shoulder. “Son, you’re going home with me. I’d rather you be angry with me for making the decision, than you making it and possibly feeling guilty for the rest of your life.”

Arthur looked around at the room full of gifts. He took his wallet from his pocket and handed two fifty-dollar bills to Joe’s grandparents. “Here, Henry, Ruth. My rental car is too small for all this stuff. This should cover shipping costs to send Joe’s things.”

Henry and Ruth stood like statues, unmoving. Arthur laid the money on the bedside table and looked at Joe, who looked at no one but stood in a daze, baffled by what was happening.

“It’s getting late, Joe, and I want to get moving. I’m going to give you and your grandparents a little time to say your goodbyes. Then we’re going to take off. We have a long trip ahead of us, Son.”

 

 

Chapter Five - The Lost Highway

 

Chapter Five

The Lost Highway

 

An hour and a half later, Joe and his father crossed the Ohio River. All his life, Joe had loved the river; it had meant going fishing with his dad, or his grandfather, enjoying family fish fries and picnics. He was leaving that behind.

“It’s about fifteen hundred miles from Indiana to Arizona,” Joe’s father announced when they had crossed the long bridge and entered Kentucky. “We’ll stay in Memphis tonight, then tomorrow, it’s Westward Ho! We’ll cross the Mississippi River into Arkansas, then drive through--know the next state?”

Great, thought Joe, a geography lesson. Indifferently, he stared out the window at the hillsides and harvested farmland, yellowed cornstalks bent nearly to the ground. Other images and sounds begged for attention as he drifted to sleep, blurry images of his mother laughing across the kitchen table, of her in the supermarket asking what kind of cereal he wanted her to buy him, of gray shadows dancing in dark corners.

“Hey!” Joe heard someone call. “Wake up, Son.”

“Huh?” Joe blinked and looked around, bewildered.

“I think you were having a nightmare. Are you okay?” Arthur Aberdeen had stopped the car and was looking at Joe, his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I’m okay. Where are we?” Joe sat up and peered through the window at the city buildings.

“We’re in Memphis. We’ll find our motel and freshen up before dinner. Sound good?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

They turned a corner. “There it is. That two-story building that looks like a plantation home.”

After checking in at the lobby, they parked behind the building in a walled lot and grabbed their bags.

“Want some help? You still look a little sleepy.”

“I can do it,” Joe muttered, holding on to his suitcase.

Dinner was in a restaurant on the upper floor of the motel, the window by their table overlooking the Mississippi River. Joe pushed peas around his plate until they enclosed a hill of fried potatoes smothered in white gravy.

His father pointed out the window. “Check out that riverboat, Joe!”

“I’ve seen tons of boats,” Joe said, yawning.

After a pause, his father said, “Of course you have. The Ohio’s not exactly a creek now, is it? I’m trying to remember how wide it is where it meets the Mississippi.”

“I don’t know, Dad. I’m tired. Can we go to our room now?”

His father frowned. “You don’t mind if I finish my dinner first, do you?”

“Go ahead.” Joe turned his chair and stared out the window.

That night in bed, listening to sirens, deep frog-like croaks from boat horns and the hum of traffic, Joe fell asleep missing his grandparents. Now he had his father, but had lost his mother, his grandparents, his best friend, everyone. Nothing was fair.

The next day, they resumed their journey, crossing the muddy water of the Mississippi River, and driving through the wooded hills of Arkansas. At one place, the woods opened into a clearing and Joe saw a country grocery store, similar to his grandparents’ store, down a side road from the Interstate. The fresh memory of his grandparents’ tears when he left them made him feel sick to his stomach. “Could you stop the car?” His father pulled over and Joe jumped out to vomit into the grass. When he got back in, his father, looking worried, handed him a roll of paper towels and a water bottle.

“In case you want to rinse.”

Joe gargled and spat out the open door.

“Are you all right, Joe?” his father asked when they got back on the road.

“Dad, could you stop asking me if I’m all right? I’m not all right, just so you know.”

His father was silent for a moment, and then asked, “What can I do to help?”

“You can take me home,” Joe muttered.

“I am taking you home.”

Joe jerked his head toward his father and glared at him. “Not your home. I meant mine. . . Grandpa’s.”

They rode in silence mile after long mile. When they reached Little Rock, Arthur pulled off the ramp from the interstate and entered the city. He drove to a fast food restaurant, followed the drive-through path and stopped at the window to order.

“What would you like to eat, Joe?”

“I’m not hungry.”

His father turned to the clerk at the window and ordered, “Two chicken salads with Italian dressing and two apple pies, please. Oh, and instead of sodas, I’d like orange juice.”

While they waited for the order to be filled, Arthur turned back to Joe and said, “This town is known for its parks. We passed a sign pointing to one called Riverfront Park. I thought we could eat lunch there. Or, if you’d rather just sit and look at the Arkansas River, that’s okay too.”

Joe said nothing. Since leaving Indiana the day before, he had felt strange, his moods swinging suddenly from anger to despair to feeling nothing at all. He had always been moody, he knew, because his mother had told him so.

“I swear, Joe, you can slide from happy to sad easier than anybody I know. Where’d you get that from?”

Now, however, he felt tired almost all the time. He found it was easy to slip into feeling nothing.

Arthur drove to the park and stopped. “Come on, Joe. There’s a bench under that elm tree. We can sit there. Maybe you’ll feel like eating soon.” Indifferently, Joe followed his father, stopping for joggers going by on a path, and then plopped down on the bench. He stared without interest at buildings across the river. His father placed the food between them on the bench, opened one of the plastic bowls, poured the dressing on the salad and began eating. “I read somewhere that the locals call Little Rock 'the City in a Park,'” Arthur said between bites. When he had finished eating the pie and downing the orange juice, he stood up and took the used containers to a nearby trashcan. Joe watched a small boat go by on the river. His father returned to the bench and sat facing Joe.

“I’m going to tell you something, Son. The reason I decided we’d drive across the country instead of fly is so it would give you a little more time to adjust to the idea of moving. I know you’re going through a lot of changes and that’s hard on anybody.”

Joe turned his head away from his father and stared at an unoccupied bench farther down the path. He didn’t want to listen. He didn’t want to talk. He only wanted to be left alone to float around inside himself.

Arthur continued. “I told you back at your grandparents’ home that if you’re mad at me, I’d understand. I’ll have to live with that. I hope your silence doesn’t last forever, but in the meantime, I’m going to talk whether you join in the conversation or not. One of the reasons I have to talk is to keep myself from falling asleep. This is a long drive. Another reason is that I’m trying to help you focus on the here and now.”

Joe felt his father’s hand on his chin, forcing his head to turn. He saw the face he loved so well close to his own.

“The here and now, Joe.”

“What?” Joe felt himself being pulled from his nowhere place out into sunlight and hard ground. His father released his chin.

“Right now, you and I are sitting in a park on a bench. I’ve been talking and now, thankfully, we’re both talking. Stay with me, Son. Keep asking yourself, ‘Where am I right now?’”

“What good will that do?” Joe asked.

“It will help keep your mind from feeling like it’s sliding down a dark tunnel. Believe me, I’ve been there.”

“What if the here is bad news and the now is bad news?” Joe asked, folding his arms and rocking forward and backward. His father wrapped an arm around Joe’s shoulder.

“Son, let me tell you the good news: the here and now keep changing. There is almost always lots of good right in front of you, but you’ve got to be paying attention to see it.”

Joe hung his head. After a moment, he said, “I’ll try.”

They returned to the car and resumed their journey west.

“Want some music?” his father asked, turning on the radio. “Go ahead, pick out a station.”

Joe turned the dial and found a song he liked. He sat back.

Arthur talked on and on about this and that and anything. Joe tried to listen and respond. At times, his father’s voice sounded far away. When Joe realized he was slipping back into himself, he would look at his father and silently remind himself where he was and what was happening at the moment.

It became a game. He imagined inserting a coin into an arcade game machine called “Dad and Me.” The screen lit up and he could see a car moving fast down a highway. He squeezed his fist around a pretend control and zoomed in to see a man and a boy inside the car. A button on the control made their mouths move and heads nod. Another button caused seat belts to pop open and the man and boy to get into a big fight. The car swerved. It was out of control as fists flew in the front seat. Joe began laughing.

“Yeah,” his father’s voice came out of nowhere. “I thought that was pretty amusing myself. You just can’t tell about people sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Joe agreed, wondering what his father had been talking about. He decided to turn off the arcade game in his mind and play the electronic game his father had given him.

The hills of Arkansas gave way to gentle slopes as they drove across the grassy plains of Oklahoma. In Oklahoma City, Arthur Aberdeen announced, “Hey, see that sign? We’ve just gotten on a very special part of the highway.”

“Uh-huh.”

“From here on to the West Coast, I-40 follows alongside a ghost road. Historians call it the Mother Road, historic Route 66!”

Joe blinked. “The what?”

“Route 66. You know that song, ‘Get your kicks on Route . . .’”

“No, I mean, you called it—oh, never mind,” Joe muttered.

Arthur glanced at his son. “It’s also been called The Main Street of America. It connected cities and towns all the way from Chicago to Los Angeles. In fact, our little town of Red Ridge sits right on it!”

“You live in the middle of a highway?” Joe murmured, staring dismally out the window at billboards and the high-rise buildings of the city they sped by.

Arthur chuckled. “No, we don’t. But the interesting part, Joe, is that this famous road, full of history, has been lost. Except for fragments of frontage road along I-40, it doesn’t exist anymore. Yep, Route Sixty-six was torn up and trashed. Most people probably don’t even know where it used to be.”

And probably more don’t even care, Joe thought.

“It carried many lives and stories, just as this highway, I-40, that replaced the old 66 is carrying us from one world to another.”

“Yeah?” said Joe, pretending to be interested. He munched on salted peanuts, leaned back in the seat and paid less and less attention to his father’s stories about someone named Will Rogers, about the last years of Geronimo, about the shameful treatment of all Native Americans.

Who cares, thought Joe. He hid tears belonging to his own misery as he stared through the window at what now had become endless, flat land. It was late afternoon when they entered the Texas panhandle, the narrow strip of the state at its north end, and dark when they checked into a motel in Amarillo.

The next day, their last on the road, Joe played electronic games to avoid looking out the window at barren landscape.

“We’re in Billy the Kid country now,” said his father. “You know, the outlaw?”

“Yeah, I know. I feel sorry for him if he had to live out here,” Joe murmured, casting a quick glance out the window. “There are no trees. No wonder he wanted to kill everybody.”

His father laughed. “Don’t worry. In about another hour, when we start climbing to a higher elevation, you’ll see lots of trees.”

When they crossed the state line into New Mexico, the grassland changed to desert with a few farms scattered along the way. In Tucumcari, Joe’s father pointed out murals commemorating Route 66 on walls visible from the highway.

“Hey,” said Arthur after a while, “have you been watching the horizon? There are the mountains we’ll be climbing.”

Joe squinted at the bump on the edge of the world in the far distance. “Uh-huh,” he said and resumed his game. Arthur turned on the radio and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to rock music.

When they entered the mountains and drove through junipers and pinions, Arthur turned down the radio volume and said, “Okay. What do you see?”

Joe forced himself to search for something remarkable. “I guess we’re in the mountains?”

“Yeah?”

“And there are a lot of bushes out there.”

“Bushes? Those are full-grown trees, Joe!”

“Oh.”

“Now look, Son, I’m a Hoosier boy too and I know the trees in Indiana can grow to eighty feet tall, but you’ve got to admit this landscape is still pretty interesting.”

Joe noticed his father’s grin and realized he was teasing. “Uh, yeah, it is. Lot of rocks. I’ll bet we’re in the Rocky Mountains.”

“Good deduction!” Arthur held up his thumb.

It wasn’t long before they stopped for snacks in Santa Rosa where trees grew tall around many of the buildings and parks they passed, and the air held a smell of flowers and water.

“A few miles south of here,” his father said as they returned to their car from the convenience store, “is a place called Fort Sumner at Bosque Redondo. Oh, could you hold this ice, Joe, while I get the door? Thanks.” Arthur poured the bag of ice into the cooler chest sitting on the back seat. As he stuffed cans of fruit juice into the ice, he continued. “It was a camp where a cavalry officer named Kit Carson forced thousands of Navajo people, even old people, sick people, little kids, to walk all the way across New Mexico.” His father shut the back door and got in the car. “They call it the Long Walk, and many people suffered and died. It’s also where Billy the Kid was shot.”

“Sounds like a happy place,” said Joe buckling his seat belt and folding his hands on his lap. He tried to reject the image of an endless line of people walking and limping and falling. He imagined he could hear children and mothers crying and felt his stomach tighten.

Arthur gritted his teeth as he started the engine. In a strained voice, he said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”

Joe heard his father’s voice, but not his words. He was distracted by a heaviness settling on his shoulders and running down his chest as though someone were tightening thick ropes around his body. Where was this feeling coming from? The weight pulled him down and he felt afraid. He had to do something to save himself from falling forever. What had his father told him a long time ago? Or maybe it was yesterday. Here. Now. Here. Now. He heard the words, even saw them. They were like hats in the wind, blown and bouncing around in his head. He tried to grab one. Here! I am here. Where is here? In a car. With my dad. But where is my mother? He felt himself slipping farther downward. From somewhere in the distance, Joe heard his father’s voice again and, in desperation, he tried to climb to it.

“We’ll have lunch in Albuquerque. Do you like Mexican food, Joe? I know a great little place in what’s called ‘Old Town,’ right by a park with a cannon.”

In his mind, Joe saw a cannon. He grabbed it and held on. He felt his legs steady and he stood on solid ground, but he was exhausted.

“Joe?”

“What?”

“Do you feel all right?”

“I don’t know,” Joe replied, grimacing. “My stomach hurts.”

“There’s a box of crackers in a bag on the floor behind me. Maybe they’ll help.”

Joe remembered his mother had given him crackers or a slice of bread whenever his stomach was upset. He wondered now if it hadn’t been the food that had settled his stomach, but rather the loving attention from his mother. She wasn’t here and he didn’t reach for the crackers.

His father drove on in silence, but Joe didn’t care. He tried to care, but he ached from missing his home, his grandparents and most of all, his mother. He didn’t think he could stand it. He had to get back.

 

It was early afternoon when Arthur pulled off the highway at Albuquerque, a sprawling city in a wide valley, to pick up a lunch of tacos and sweet horchata drinks. As they continued their journey, the scenery changed to the pine-clad Mt. Taylor looming above a river of black volcanic rocks and the Indian village of Laguna Pueblo. It was evening when they reached Gallup, New Mexico.

“We’re not far from home now,” his father said to Joe. “Fifty miles to go.”

Arthur pulled to the side of the road and made a call on his wireless phone. Joe folded his arms and stared at adobe and sandstone buildings across a wide stretch of railroad tracks.

“Hi, honey. We’re in Gallup. Want me to pick up anything from the store? . . . . I’ll tell him. . . . Well, I’ll tell you all about the trip and everything when we get home . . . Okay, feta cheese, tortillas, lettuce, and tomatoes. That it? Okay, see you in about an hour. I love you, too. Bye.”

What a strange place, Joe thought. He had stared in awe at the red cliffs they had passed a few miles back. Here around this desert town, the mountains looked like leaning loaves of stone bread that had been sliced lengthwise and were gripped from deep within the earth.

His father pulled into a shopping center parking lot. “Want to come in and pick out your favorite foods?”

“I’ll wait here,” Joe answered.

“Okay, suit yourself.”

“I will,” he muttered under his breath. He watched his father disappear through the automatic doors of the grocery store. This is my chance, he thought. He opened the car door and stepped onto the parking lot. When he tried to open the trunk to get his suitcase, he found the trunk locked. I’ll just get my travel bag from the back seat, he decided. That’ll be better anyway if I’m going to hitchhike. I’m going home! Grabbing the handle of the door set off the vehicle alarm, startling him. He stepped back and looked around. A few people glanced his way, but no one approached him. He opened the door to the passenger seat in front, quickly slid back into his seat and slammed the door. He tried to stop the alarm, stretching a leg under the steering wheel to press the brake, twisting the locked wheel, sliding the lock key on his door. Something worked and it was silent again. It was a bad idea anyway, he thought. A crazy idea. He had heard stories about what could happen to runaways.

Subdued, he watched as an old woman in a long flowered skirt pushed a basket of groceries to a pickup truck. He wondered if she was Indian, remembering photographs and books his father had sent him. Her black hair was pulled back into a bun and held by yarn. A younger man, who also looked Indian, wearing a red kerchief wrapped around his head approached her and said something. The woman shook her head and waved him away. He frowned, and then hurried toward a middle-aged man who was coming out of the store. Joe watched as the man reached in a bag and offered the younger man a bottle of tomato juice. The man in the bandanna shook his head, laughed, and stalked away.

The back door of the car was opened and his father shoved a bag of groceries onto the seat. When he got in the driver’s seat, he handed Joe a bottle of water and a bag of corn chips.

“In case you’d like these,” Arthur explained.

“Thanks.” Joe noticed his dad had gotten himself a cup of coffee.

It was already dark, twenty miles later, when they crossed the New Mexico/Arizona state line. Joe was aware of giant cliffs illuminated by lights from the Yellowhorse Trading Post. A tipi restaurant caught his attention, but he said nothing through the following miles of darkness. All at once, he sat up, alert. He saw another lighted area, and he could not help gasping, “Cool!” when they passed a truck stop constructed like a fort walled by pointed logs complete with a lookout tower and what appeared to be a soldier patrolling from the tower. After a mile of blackness, Joe slumped back into his seat. He felt his eyelids grow heavy and he was hardly aware of his father slowing down to turn off the interstate highway.

The next thing he heard was, “Wake up, Joe. We’re home!”

 

Chapter Six - A Misunderstanding

 

Chapter Six

A Misunderstanding

 

Joe woke from a disturbing dream of his mother wandering around the remains of their house searching for him. He rubbed his eyelids. At first he wondered where he was and then remembered the long drive from his Indiana home. Sitting up, he looked around the small bedroom. A portrait of him holding his sister Kamerine when she was a baby, sat on a dresser.

“Kammie” they called her. He loved her; he hated her. He thought of their reunion the night before, another confusing event with everyone talking at once. He hadn’t reached the front door before an eight-year-old girl in blonde braids attacked him with hugs. Alberta, a tall, blonde woman with a wide smile, didn’t hug him, but shook his hand and kissed his cheek. Dinner was a huge salad with everything in the world in it, he concluded, except meat. Maybe Alberta had forgotten to include it, but he didn't ask. He didn't really care. All he wanted to do was go to bed.

Now, his first morning in Arizona and in his father’s house, he noticed a pattern of light playing on the dark green carpet, cast by the sun through a rosebush outside the partly open window. He stood up, breathed in unfamiliar but pleasant scents, and stepped into the bright spots on the carpet. For a few seconds, he felt an unfamiliar sense of joy. He stood still, not thinking with words, but trying to capture and hold on to fleeting images of his mother’s face, smiling down as if she were cradling him. Then the feeling was gone.

He opened his bedroom door, not sure he could remember how to find the bathroom, and nearly tripped. A gray dog slipped silently down the hall and turned to watch him.

“Here, boy.” He squatted and snapped his fingers, then remembered he had to use the bathroom. Which way was it? To his left extended a short hallway with open doors on either side. He peeked into a lavender room next to his and saw a made bed piled with dolls, teddy bears and a huge stuffed rabbit. “Must be Kammie’s room,” he muttered, hopping to a door across from her room. "Found it," he muttered.

Through the small bathroom window to his right, Joe could see a courtyard enclosed by the house on three sides and a short, plastered wall on the fourth. A blue wooden gate was in the center of the wall. On the tiled courtyard floor sat a table, chairs and a grill. Everything was so quiet he wondered if he was alone in the house.

He walked back to his room and fished through his suitcase to pick out clean jeans and a black tee shirt. A sand painting clock on the wall caught his attention as he pulled on his socks. Its hands, indicating it was 10:30, were shaped like ears of corn. Weird, he thought as he dressed. He dismissed the desert scene in the background as ugly. Nothing but sand and rocks.

“Knock, knock,” someone said.

Joe stared at the door. When he was small, his mother had often said, “Knock, knock” before entering his room and they would play a riddle game.

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“May.”

“May Who?”

“May I come in?”

“May I come in?” It was Alberta’s voice, pleasantly musical.

“What? Oh. . . yeah. Sure.”

Alberta opened the door and smiled at Joe. “Good morning. Would you like breakfast?”

“I don’t know. I guess. It sure is quiet here.”

Alberta walked to the window and opened it farther. “Not too quiet. Hear those birds?”

Joe had never thought of birds as noisy. He had never really thought of birds at all, at least not until his recent encounters with crows. “Where’s your dog?” he asked, and then he saw the animal, sitting in the hall staring intently at him.

“Shadow? There she is. Shadow, come,” Alberta called. The animal approached cautiously, her bushy tail hanging straight down.

“She kind of looks like a wolf,” Joe observed.

“She is a wolf. Isn’t she pretty?” She petted Shadow’s head.

“Isn’t it against the law for people to have wild animals as pets?” Joe asked.

“In some cases, but in Shadow’s case, she adopted us.

Joe knelt on the floor to reach for Shadow, who quickly backed up.

“She’s shy. She’ll get used to you. Just take it slowly.”

Joe followed Alberta and Shadow down a step into a sunken living room with pink and tan plastered walls. A stucco fireplace protruded from the corner walls to his left, and past it was a double door made of small panes set in wood. He could see the courtyard through the glass. To his right was a small entry way and what he assumed was the main door to the house.

“Did I come in this way last night?” he asked Alberta.

“Yes, you did. That’s a big old door, isn’t it? We found it in a salvage shop. That frame too."

Joe studied the picture of cliff dwellings in a frame of old wood.

As they entered an open archway into the dining room, Joe turned and looked around trying to get his bearings. He noticed log beams stretching across the ceiling. The house appeared to be U-shaped, with bedrooms down one wing, and the living room sandwiched between it and the wing they were entering.

He followed Alberta through the dining room into the kitchen where a breakfast booth was built into a bay window overlooking a patio and lawn.

“Have a seat,” said Alberta. She took a covered, glass dish from the refrigerator and placed it in a warmer.

Joe slid into the booth and looked through the window. Beyond a hedge, shrubby trees dotted the landscape. He saw that they were on a hillside that sloped into a wide valley. On the opposite side of the valley the earth appeared to rise straight up, forming a ridge that was miles long. There were no other houses in sight.

“Do you like veggie sausage, Joe?” She fed a link to Shadow.

“I don’t know.”

“Here. Try one.”

Joe pulled a link from the fork Alberta extended and stuffed it in his mouth. He wished she would not watch him with such interest as he chewed. He liked it, but for reasons he did not understand, he resisted being enthusiastic about anything, so he said, “It’s okay, I guess.”

“Alrightee then,” she said brightly, warmed a tortilla in a pan, and wrapped Joe’s eggs and sausages in it.

“I remember you as taller,” Joe said as she approached the table with his plate and immediately wished he hadn't said that. It sounded stupid.

“Well, I remember you as shorter! Milk or orange juice?”

“Orange juice. Thanks.” When she handed him the glass, he took a gulp and then asked, “Is my dad at work?”

“No, he’s here. Still sleeping in. Resting from the long drive. Well, you know all about that! When he gets up, he’ll have to take the car to the rental center in Gallup. I’ll pick up Kammie from school and we’ll follow your dad in so we can bring him back. That sounds complicated, doesn’t it? But it’ll be fun.” Alberta brought a glass of juice for herself and sat across from Joe. “I know your dad is so happy to have you here. We all are! And,” she added, nodding toward a counter top, “whenever you want to call your grandparents, just pick up the phone, okay?”

Joe looked in the direction she had nodded but saw no phone.

“Oh, sorry!” Alberta got up and went to the counter where she reached for a wood sculpture of a hawk perched on a short branch. She picked up half of the hawk, revealing a black, cordless phone.

Joe stared at it.

“This is what I do, you know. Crafts.” She returned the phone half of the hawk to its body. “Believe it or not, I’ve sold two of these.”

“Awesome,” Joe said slowly and blinked. He turned his glass around absently. “I’ll just stay here today, if you don’t mind, and maybe I’ll call home while everybody’s gone.”

Alberta hesitated and then said, “Sure. That’s cool with me, Joe. Just let your dad know. Well. Hmm. Oh, I was telling you the story of how we got Shadow. There used to be a family that lived halfway up the hill and we heard they kept a wolf. In fact, we could hear such mournful howling sometimes that I wondered if it was tied up or something. One day Kammie and I decided to stop and, you know, introduce ourselves.”

Joe’s thoughts wandered from Alberta’s story to memories of when he was little and would visit his dad. Alberta’s hair was long then; now it hugged her face in short, honey-yellow curls. He remembered that she talked a lot then too.

“. . . and maybe Shadow isn’t the same wolf,” Alberta was saying. “If they didn’t take the animal we saw when they moved, then she probably is. Anyway, that’s the story.”

Joe said nothing. He had slowly chewed a bite of the burrito and again stared out the bay window, remembering a stray dog his mother had let him keep when he was nine. One day he found it dead on the side of the road and his mother held him and cried with him.

“Joe?” said Alberta.

“Huh?”

“I thought I lost you there,” she said with a laugh.

“Sorry.”

“No problem. Oh, the week after next starts a two-week fall break at the school, so that will give you some time to settle in and get used to things. I’ll drive you in to register whenever you’re ready.”

Joe furrowed his brow. “I probably won’t stay long enough to go to school. I don’t think I’m going to like it here.”

Alberta reached for his hand. Her kind, sad look reminded him of people at his mother’s memorial service, and Joe pulled his hand back from hers.

“Oh, Joe. I know you’re feeling a lot of things right now,” she said. “I want you to know I understand—.”

He didn’t want to listen, to know that she understood anything about him. He slid from the booth and ran out a door into the courtyard. There, among potted plants, he plopped down in one of the chairs and sat in despair, his hands grasping the arms of the chair. He stared across the top of the blue gate at nothing, his vision blurred by threatening tears.

Struggling to control the tears, Joe gave his eyes angry swipes and tried to think of something else besides his ever-present sorrow. He focused on the decorative hole in the gate. Something moved and he shifted his gaze to the view visible through the hole: a very big, black bird had just landed on the edge of a water trough where it now perched and looked straight toward the courtyard.

Joe stood up and walked slowly to the gate. He could now see over it. “Johnny Crow,” he murmured, remembering a nursery rhyme his mother used to read him. A favorite line came to mind. “. . .While the elephant said something quite irrelevant, In Johnny Crow’s garden.”

The bird opened its beak wide and emitted a loud “Caw!” and then flew away toward a nearby hill. Joe opened the gate and followed it.