The Journey Back (10 page)

It wasn't long before I had the entire hide off the deer—and a small crowd watching. Somebody called out that he'd give me five dollars for the hide.

“You got it,” I said. Wasn't anything else I could do with it.

I knew most of the people watching were there for a meat handout, and I was going to be good on my word. But first, I cut a few pieces of venison for not only Luke and me, but Nora and her mom, too. I wrapped the meat in a plastic bag and nestled it at the bottom of the cooler under all the ice we had left.

Standing back on the table, I went to work quartering the deer and offered up the hind quarters to several women who'd been watching me from the get-go.

“The top is real good,” I told them. “Toward the bottom it'll get tough.”

I handed out other chunks of venison from the shoulder area. “That's excellent for a roast,” I told folks. “Don't overcook it! If you do, you'll hate it. It'll be dry and tough. You want it just barely pink inside.”

Still more people came by and asked if I had anything left so I cut as much meat off the neck as possible and suggested it was good for stew, or making deer sausage. “Mix in a little sage, or just salt and pepper,” I said.

“How about chili?” a woman asked. “Would it make good chili meat?”

“Great idea,” I replied. “Barbecue, too.”

—

It was wonderful biting into fresh venison for dinner that night. Good to have a real meal for once. And one that I provided! But let me tell you, it was a far nicer feeling giving most of that meat away.

I just hoped I wouldn't be needing more of it myself.

“H
ey, how's it going?” Woody asked after slamming the door to his pickup. Like he'd never been gone for four whole days without a word. Like nothing ever happened!

I just sat at the picnic table and stared at him 'cause I was pretty ticked off that he had disappeared and left me with Luke.

He came over to the table and plopped down across from me. “Sorry,” he said when he realized I wasn't going to jump up and down to welcome him home. His eyes fell away from mine. “I got in trouble and spent a couple nights in jail.”

That probably explained his bloodshot eyes, the dirty hair, and rumpled clothes. But I didn't have a lick of sympathy for him.

“That's just great,” I said flatly. Then I let my hands fall open. “I mean, what if I wasn't here? What would've happened to Luke?”

Honestly, it blows my mind how many adults should
not
be taking care of kids.

Woody lifted his head. “But we had a deal, you and me. I asked if I could trust you to take care of Luke when I wasn't here.”

“You didn't even call us!” I shot back.

“Who was I going to call? Neither one of you has a phone!”

That sounded pretty lame to me 'cause he could have called
somebody.
I leveled my eyes at him. “You're about as good a dad as my own. And that's no compliment.”

He sighed. “Where's Luke now?”

“It's Tuesday morning. He's in school.”

“Good. That's good,” he said. “Thanks.”

I didn't say “you're welcome.”

“Look, I'm really sorry,” Woody said. “I love Luke more than anything else in the world. You gotta believe that. My life is nothing without that little boy—”

“Then you should've thought about him!” I suggested.

Woody nodded. “You're right. I should have. No question.”

Silence for a moment. I waited for him to go on 'cause I figured he owed me an explanation.

“I'm not a perfect person,” he admitted. “Not by a long shot. But God knows I do want to be a better father, even if I do have my faults.”

“What is it? Drinkin'?” I asked.

He shook his head and met my hard gaze. “Not so much that as the gamblin'. I just keep thinking I'll come out ahead, that Luke and me, we'd have the extra money we need.” He continued moving his head back and forth slowly. “I can't help myself. The other night I started losing big and got told I couldn't stay at the blackjack table. I don't do too good with people telling me what to do . . . I don't know. I thought that me and Luke, getting on the road and moving to a new place, that we'd have a fresh start . . .”

He was quiet again, and again I waited. I didn't ask him to tell me his life story, but he started in anyway.

“I got in a lot of trouble when I was a boy. There was ten of us kids. We was dirt poor and I had a lousy home life with nobody caring much about me or what I did. So I skipped school a lot. I was always runnin' off, stealin' stuff. But I remember I had a guidance counselor once in high school—before I quit—and this guy told me a story about a dog trying to get away from the kite that was tied to his tail. He said no matter how far the dog run, every time he sat down to rest, he'd turn around and see the kite. He was always runnin' from it, but it was always there.

“Well, that's me all right. Was then, is now. I keep thinking a new place is a fresh start. Only I never change who I am so things stay the same.”

I knew he was opening up and being truthful 'cause he wanted me to understand. And I could see that even if he did screw up, Woody loved his kid and was sorry for what he done. If anyone could understand, it ought to be me. I had a ton of faults and was plenty sorry for what I done, too, but it didn't mean I cared any less about my mom, and my brother and sister.

“Well,” I said finally. I wasn't angry anymore. “You're just about out of food. There's no milk, no eggs, no cereal— nothing.” I didn't mention the venison we'd been feasting on 'cause I figured that didn't count.

“I'll make a food run right now,” Woody said.

I pulled a piece of paper out of my pocket. “Here's a list I been keeping. The stuff you need most. You don't have to get the dog food. Buddy's not your problem.”

Woody took the list, but he didn't even unfold or look at it. He just slid it into a pocket on the front of his shirt. “I'll take care of it right now,” he said. Then he got up and left.

—

Somehow, we fell back into a routine that week. I kept a low profile at the campsite but even so, I had a lot of new friends on account of that venison. People walking by from time to time would call out, “Hey, Gerry! What's up?” and I'd wave back. Evenings, I made dinner and helped Luke with homework. But his dad was the one who come in and read to him at bedtime. Luke was still reading that book
Tornado
for school,
but
it's funny how no matter where they ended, Luke always wanted to start on page one. “
Tornado
, by Betsy Byars,” he'd begin. “‘Twister!' Pete yelled. ‘Twister!'”

Mornings, I got Luke off to school, then I'd clean up and hang out until Luke got off his bus at three. After lunch one day, returning from a walk, I saw Woody's truck and caught a glimpse of him disappearing into the bathhouse with a towel over his shoulder. He must've got off work early. My eyebrows went up 'cause I'd been waiting for a chance like that.

Stepping into his tent, I looked for his jean jacket and saw it right away, tossed on his cot. He took care to hide that jacket, probably 'cause he suspected I'd go through it. Which is exactly what I did. Hurriedly, I checked out the pockets looking for the cell phone he claimed he didn't have. Found it right off, too. I quick grabbed a pencil from the crate by Luke's bed to write down the number on a candy wrapper, the only paper I could find. I needed that number in case I needed to get in touch with him in an emergency—or in case he disappeared again.

After slipping the phone back, I come across his wallet. My heart really started pounding 'cause I didn't want to get caught with
that
in my hands. Fingers shaking, I flipped through it fast. He had about ten dollars, which I didn't steal, a gas card, a credit card, and—I had to stop for a minute—his driver's license. It was a Maryland license and this time the picture looked just like the Woody I knew with blond hair and a full beard. But the name was not the same as the one on the Texas license. This license had the name Sherwood Hawkins. And I wondered: was that Woody's
adventure name?

One of those licenses was a fake. I knew it was an important discovery. Woody was hiding something.
But what?
I stuffed everything back in the wallet, shoved it into the pocket where I found it, then got myself outside fast.

Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I decided I wouldn't say anything. After all, I was using a phony name, too. Woody wasn't coming after me, so I wouldn't go after him. Not unless I had to. But it bothered me, this little secret. It was one thing for Woody to make up stuff about himself, but he had a little kid to take care of. Something was up, and I knew none of it could be good for Luke.

—

On Saturday morning of that week, Woody fried up some sausages and made us blueberry pancakes. A real treat. Then he and Luke left for the nearby city of Frederick to buy Luke some new sneakers and catch a movie. I washed the dishes and went to the horse farm to see about getting work. I rode over to the farm with Nora and her mom and guessed that the farm was about a mile from the campground. If I got hired, I thought, I could walk over, but I'd have to find a way to get there without being seen from the road.

“Heavenly Days?” I asked from the backseat, reading the mailbox sign.

“It's a horse rescue facility,” Nora said. She looked at her mother, sitting beside her up front. “Can you explain it, Mom?”

“Yeah, sure. All the horses at this farm are here because the authorities—the courts in Maryland—took them away from abusive owners. Mrs. Crawford, who runs the place, rehabilitates them and then tries to find homes for them.”

“Like foster care for horses,” I said.

“Exactly!” Nora smiled at me, and I was thinking she looked especially cute the way she had braided her hair.

Nora's mother looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You're not afraid of horses then?”

“No way,” I told her. “I'm not afraid of anything.”

—

I got introduced right off to the farm owner. Mrs. Crawford was a short woman in blue jeans, boots, and an oversize flannel shirt. She pulled her thick gray hair back into a ponytail and had a face with a lot of wrinkles, but I had absolutely no idea how old she was. Could've been forty, fifty—even sixty.

“Nora says I can trust you,” Mrs. Crawford said. “You a hard worker?”

“Sure thing,” I answered.

“You're hired then. I'll pay you cash on Friday,” she said. And the best part? She didn't make me fill out any forms or show an ID.

“Can you show him around?” Mrs. Crawford asked Nora. “Then teach him how to punch in on the time clock and get started on those stalls?”

Nora gave me a little tour, and I could tell right off this farm was a place she loved. She pointed out two herds of horses in two separate fields. “Geldings are in one pasture, the mares are in the other,” she said. “A really beautiful stallion is in the barn along with horses that need the most care.” That meant the horses who came in starving or sick, and had their ribs showing and chunks of hair falling out.

Horses weren't the only animals at the farm. Nora curled her slender arms around the necks of two miniature donkeys named Winston and Earl to give them hugs (I couldn't help but be a little jealous) and introduced me to three goats who tried to nibble at my hands.

Most of the farm buildings were run-down, but the volunteers at the farm had a nice, air-conditioned room with a couch to sit on, and—I couldn't help but notice—all kinds of snacks on the table. All these places, I thought, I'd check 'em out good later on 'cause I was still on the hunt for something I could use for a weapon, if only to protect myself from my father when I got home.

A couple Mexican guys, Hector and Miguel, also worked at the farm. “They're illegals,” Nora whispered as we watched them carry buckets of feed. She said they didn't speak much English, but it wasn't like I wanted to strike up a conversation with them anyway. Even though I had Spanish in middle school no way could I understand 'cause they spoke too fast. Nora introduced us—
en español
—but when those guys rattled off something in Spanish and laughed, I figured it was an insult. Was it my poison ivy? I narrowed my eyes and balled up my fists.

“Gerry! Hector! Miguel!” Mrs. Crawford called out. “I need you boys to unload this hay and stack it in the loft above the stalls.”

I hopped up onto the back of the truck and started grabbing hay bales, but right away I saw that the hay was damp, like it hadn't dried out before getting cut. My grandfather never would have stacked it. He'd dry it out first. “It's wet!” I called out to Mrs. Crawford. “You sure you want to stack it?”

Miguel and Hector laughed and looked at me funny. What? Did they think I was just saying that 'cause I was lazy?

Mrs. Crawford returned to the truck. “I know. But I can't afford to wait,” she said. “Let's just get it all in the barn. Maybe I can move it around later.”

When we finished with the hay, Nora showed me the wild stallion in the barn. He was a pretty horse, kind of reddish brown with a long, gold-colored, but snarled, mane, and hair that fell over his eyes. When he spotted us looking at him, he laid his ears flat, turned around, and kicked the wall where we were standing.

We jumped back. “Best to stay away from him,” Nora warned. I liked it when she put her hand on my arm. “There's a lot of hostility bottled up in him. He already bit Miguel once.”

“What's he so mad about?” I asked.

“His previous owner kept him nailed into his stall. He never went outside, wasn't fed regular, and his stall never got cleaned out. When he was rescued, he was walking on three feet of his own manure packed down. His head almost brushed the ceiling! Honestly, we thought he'd never put his head up again. Guess you can't blame him for hating people. Miguel started calling him Fuego (she pronounced it
f-way-go)
and the name stuck. It means fire in Spanish.”

After Nora showed me how to punch in on an old-fashioned time clock, I got down to business mucking out those stalls. This meant shoveling manure into a wheelbarrow, which I pushed behind the barn and dumped into a big pile. After a stall got cleaned out, I shook straw over the floor. In no time, sweat was dripping down my face and my back. All afternoon, while I worked, I heard Fuego snort and kick the wall whenever anyone passed by. He sure was ticked off at the world, I thought.

I had a lot of time to think while shoveling that manure. I thought about all the food I could buy (if I had to) with the money I was earning. I thought about Nora—how could I not? I thought about how Hector and Miguel had already gotten under my skin. I even thought about some of the things Woody had said. Like how I was either running
from
something, or
to
something. And the dog that had the kite tied to his tail. I thought about Fuego, too, this horse named for fire, who had been nailed into his stall and sometimes not fed for days. It's no wonder he didn't trust nobody and kept kicking at the wall.

In some ways, I finally realized, even if he was an animal, that horse was a lot like me.

—

The following week, while Luke was in school, I worked at the farm every day mucking stalls.
Mucking
—that sure was the perfect word. It was boring, back-breaking labor. Buddy and I made our way to and from the farm by walking behind a little shopping center, then paralleling the road about a hundred feet away, just inside the tree line. At one road intersection where there was a good bit of traffic, I crouched and made my way through a water culvert under the road.