“I love you, Dad,” Travis whispered. He thought for a moment about kissing his father on the forehead. He knew his father loved him, even though he never said it. But his father might wake up if he kissed him. Then he would stop Travis from going.
“I’ll never let you go.” That was what his father had said many times. “You are all I got left.”
It always confused Travis when his father said that. How could his dad tell him he was worthless and then say that?
“I can’t help you,” Travis thought. “I have to help myself.”
He’d thought before about what he would do when he turned eighteen. At eighteen he was legally an adult. Then he could get away. Maybe go live with his grandparents. Maybe join the Marines. His father couldn’t stop him then. But he was still seventeen. Still a minor. His birthday was three months away.
Travis crept down the stairs. It was too early for anyone else to be up, but he still had to be quiet. His father wasn’t the only reason he had to run. When he reached the door, he slung his backpack over his shoulder.
The other reason he had to run had been hidden in his pack.
“Evan,” he thought. “It had to be Evan who put that stuff in there. Evan and Mannie.” Who else would try to set him up? They were the ones who hated him.
What was it that his father said sometimes? When he was sober and acting like a real dad?
“It only takes a minute to make a friend for life.”
Travis nodded. That had been true with Will Chan. But it took even less time than that to make an enemy. Two enemies.
Evan Black was the first one. He was the same age as Travis but much shorter and skinny as a stick. Mannie Senter was the second one. He was taller than Travis and built like a pear. He had narrow shoulders, pitted cheeks, and a big stomach. He and Evan were always together.
Travis knew why they hated him. The first reason was because he was Native. There were always people who didn’t like you because of that, and Evan and Mannie were among them. Whenever they said anything about Indians, it was always nasty.
“Indians are all on welfare.”
“Indians are all alcoholics.”
“You can’t trust Indians.”
“Indians steal.”
“Indians stink.”
“Indians suck.”
The second reason the two boys were out to get him was more important. He wouldn’t do what they wanted him to do. Travis looked older than seventeen. The other two boys looked young for their age.
The first day Travis was at the shelter, they came up to him.
The skinny kid with long, straw-blond hair leaned close. Travis read the words on his black T-shirt: “I CUT DOWN TREE HUGGERS.”
“Indian, right?” the boy said.
Travis said nothing.
He poked Travis in the chest with one finger.
“Want to get along here?” the boy asked. His voice was a harsh whisper.
Travis still didn’t say anything.
The blond boy gestured to the big, heavy-shouldered boy with him.
“Mannie here will help you understand. Tell him the facts of life, Senter.”
“You bet, Black.”
Mannie Senter stepped forward. His stomach stuck out like a basketball. He bumped Travis with his belly. Travis stepped back.
“Hey, Indian? You hear what my buddy Evan said?”
Travis nodded.
Evan held out a crumpled ten-dollar bill.
“You take this and buy us a six-pack of beer. The Asian guy at the corner store won’t even check your ID.”
Travis shook his head. He turned and went back into the room that been assigned to him and his father.
“Bad move, man,” Evan hissed.
“You just failed the test. Big time,” Mannie said.
Travis wasn’t afraid of them. The only person Travis feared was his father. And that was only when his father was drinking.
Travis knew some karate. Not much, but enough. He had taken lessons when he was fifteen. They were living in New Hampshire then. His father had a good job building a power plant. He had enough money to send Travis to a self-defense school.
“You need to build up those muscles,” Rick Hawk had said. “Don’t let no one push you around.”
He signed Travis up at a kenpō karate school in Portsmouth.
To Travis’s surprise, he enjoyed the classes. He went three times a week after school. He never missed a class.
Master Kwan was the sensei, the teacher at the school. After Travis had been there for four months, Master Kwan took him aside.
“Good balance. Strong base. You are a natural. Stay with me three years and you’ll have your black belt.”
Travis had smiled. But it was a brief smile. He’d heard stuff like that before. He’d always been told that he had a natural talent for this or that. Someone was willing to teach him. All he needed was time to develop it.
“Time,” Travis had thought back then. “I’ll never have that.”
And, as always, he was right.
Rick Hawk was laid off the day after Master Kwan had said that. Two days later, Travis and his father were on a bus to Oklahoma.
“A bus,” Travis thought. “That’s the way to start.”
Hitching was too slow. He might get caught. He also didn’t want to stand out in the rain. He wanted to get away from it all as fast as he could. Away from the shelter. Away from his father. Away from the rain.
Travis knew where the bus station was. That was the way they had come into Seattle. The station was two miles from the shelter. An easy run.
He already knew the bus schedule. He’d looked it up on his phone two days ago. He knew the time for the next bus going due east. It would leave at 6:46 a.m.
He heard a sound from behind him.
Was it his father? Evan or Mannie?
He spun around.
No one was there. It was just the creaking of the building. The shelter was an old building. It was always making noises. The groaning sound was coming from somewhere in its foundation. It sounded like a ghost moaning, “Goooo awaaaay.”
Even the building knows I have to leave.
No one was up yet. Evan and Mannie never left their rooms till breakfast.
His dad was not awake. Rick Hawk would sleep until noon, maybe later. He had been very drunk. It took time for him to sleep it off.
Travis mentally ran through the list of things in his backpack. His wallet with his ID. The $82 he’d managed to hide from his father. It was money he had earned from doing yard work for people. If he stuck around, he could earn even more. The school year was over. He had more time to work.
He shook his head. If he didn’t leave, he’d end up with no money at all. His father would take it. Plus there was Evan and Mannie.
They wouldn’t stop trying to cause trouble. If he stayed, he’d have to fight them.
The best way to fight your enemies is by not fighting. Master Kwan had told him that.
Travis continued his mental list. No cell phone. He’d heard you could be tracked through a cell phone, so he would leave it behind. Two clean red T-shirts with nothing written on them. Two sets of underclothes. A second pair of Levis. Two pairs of socks. One toothbrush and half a tube of toothpaste. A plastic bag with a space blanket in it. The deerskin leather pouch holding the fire-making kit Grampa Tomah had given him.
“A man who knows how to make a shelter and a fire,” Grampa Tomah had told him, “can survive just about anywhere.”
And one black lock-blade knife.
Travis bought the knife three years ago when they lived in Maine. He had used the Christmas money his grandparents had given him.
“Get something you can use,” Grampa Tomah had whispered. “A good knife, maybe. That is all you need in the woods. Just a knife. Get it before your father knows you have this money.”
The plastic bag with the crack cocaine in it was no longer in his backpack. It was now in the room Evan shared with his fa
ther. Evan’s father hadn’t been there when Travis went in. He was working the night shift at a convenience store. Travis had placed the bag under Evan’s cot. Evan hadn’t woken up because Travis knew how to move quietly. He knew how to move like a bear through the forest. He’d learned that from his grandfather.
The police could be arriving soon. And they’d likely be told that the long-haired Indian kid in the shelter had drugs. Tipped off by Evan or Mannie. But there would be no drugs in Travis’s room. Just his father, still drunk. So drunk they probably wouldn’t be able to wake him up.
Travis thought for a moment about that. Would his father get in trouble? No. It wasn’t illegal to be an alcoholic.
It was illegal to be a minor and on your own, though. Three months till he turned eighteen. Then he’d be on his own legally. But not now.
No way he would wait for three months.
Time to go. Now!
He turned and looked east. The only people in the world who loved him were there. His grandparents.
Even if he had a phone, he couldn’t call them. They lived in the woods. They had no cell phone. No TV. Just a battery-powered radio. And they had Grampa Tomah’s old Jeep to use if they needed to go to the town of Eagle Lake for supplies.
“We will know when you are thinking about us,” Grandma Kailin had told Travis. Her voice was as sweet as a wood thrush singing. Remembering her voice made Travis smile.
Travis thought about his grandparents. He tried to send his thoughts to them.
I am coming to you.
He shut the door of the shelter behind him. He stepped out into the fog. He began to run.
3
The Bus
Travis climbed the steps into the bus. It was only half full. He moved down the aisle and found a seat four rows from the back.
It was a good place to sit.
Don’t ever take the seat furthest back. It’s too close to the bathroom. You don’t want to smell that for a hundred miles.
Don’t take the seat in front behind the driver. Whenever people get on, you’ll be the first person they see.
He had learned that from his father.
He didn’t want to be seen. He wanted to be invisible. He wanted to disappear. He didn’t want anyone to know where he was going. Especially his father.
Would his father come looking for him? Maybe not. He didn’t act as if he cared about Travis. All he cared about now was getting drunk.
Did he want his father to come looking for him? Travis wasn’t sure. The only thing he was sure about was that he had to go.
The wall outside his window began to move. No, they were moving. The bus was backing up.
Next stop would be Spokane. That was far enough to start with.
He kept looking out the window. He was so tired. It had been a long time since he had slept a whole night. The bus went up and down the hills. Its motor sounded like a huge cat purring.
Soon there was water on both sides of the road. Then there was a sign for Puyallup, then Tacoma, then Auburn. A large sign for I-90 appeared on the right.
Beyond that sign was a big old cedar tree. It had two limbs that lifted up like arms. Its bark was dark brown. Its needles were as green as new grass. It made Travis think of a story Grandma Kailin had told him. Years ago his grandparents had been traveling cross-country. They used to make trips like that all the time to see friends. At the top of a long hill, the brakes gave out on their old car. They could not stop. The car kept going faster and faster. It seemed as if they were going to crash.
“There was an old cedar by the road,” Grandma Kailin had said. “Cedar trees have always been our friends. I asked that tree to help us. As soon as I said that, our brakes started working again.”
Grandma Kailin had smiled and nodded. “Every year, whenever we traveled, we would stop at that tree. We would say thanks to it for helping us.”
Travis watched the cedar tree until it was lost from sight.
“Grandfather Cedar,” he whispered. “Help me as I travel.”
He wrapped his arms around his backpack and closed his eyes.
“You okay, son?”
Travis woke up. He lifted one hand in front of his face as if to protect himself. A man was looking down at him. The man’s skin was as dark as cedar bark. He’d never seen this man before, but the man’s broad face looked kind.
“You speak English, son?” The man’s voice was deep and pleasant.
Travis nodded.
“Right,” the man said. There was a smile on his face now. “I was just joking. I know you speak English. You were talking in your sleep.”
“What did I say?” Travis asked.
“Nothing much. Just that you had to run. Mind if I sit down?”
Travis nodded again.
The man slid down into the seat beside him. He held out his hand.
“Diggs is the name. Poems are my game. Lawrence Diggs.”
Travis took the hand of Lawrence Diggs. He didn’t squeeze his hand. He just held it lightly for a moment. That was how he had been taught to shake hands.
Lawrence Diggs nodded. “Indian handshake,” he said. “Good for you. No need to try to break a man’s hand like some folks do. Mind telling me your name?”
“Travis, sir.”
Lawrence Diggs settled back in his seat and crossed his arms. He looked over his shoulder at Travis.
“Where you off to, Travis?”
“East.”
Lawrence Diggs chuckled. “Travis the traveler, off to the east. Traversing the land to see what he can see. Now me, I am just going to Spokane. Going to see my grandson, name of Dan.” He patted his breast pocket. “Tomorrow’s his seventh birthday. What I have here is a poem. One I wrote just for him.”
Travis looked out the window. Big fir and pine trees were whizzing by. Mountains with snow on their peaks were around them. They were on I-90. Snoqualmie Pass. “Elevation 3,022 feet” read the sign. He liked Mr. Diggs. But he didn’t want to talk. The more he said, the more he would be remembered. And he didn’t want to be remembered. He wanted to be invisible.
“That is one big bruise you’ve got, Travis the traveler.”
Travis lifted his hand to his forehead. His father’s elbow had struck him there last night. He didn’t know it had left a mark. It felt sore and hot. He hadn’t noticed it before. He’d only been thinking about getting away.
“Here.”
Lawrence Diggs was holding out something. It was a tube of ointment.
“This will cover that up. Help it heal faster, son. I’m guessing you don’t want to draw any attention. Right? When I saw you get on, I noticed you were traveling light.”
Travis put some of the ointment onto his forehead. It made it feel cooler. He handed the tube back.
“Thank you, sir.”
Lawrence Diggs nodded. “You’re welcome. You have good manners, son. But don’t bother calling me ‘sir.’ Just Diggs will do. That is what I answer to.”
“Thank you . . . Diggs.”
Diggs smiled. “You’re welcome, Travis.”
He crossed his arms and leaned back. Travis waited for him to ask questions. How did you get that bruise on your forehead? Who did that to you?
But Diggs didn’t ask those things the way most adults did. The way his teachers did when he came to school with a black eye or a bloody lip. Travis always lied when they asked him those things. He’d say, “I fell down the stairs” or “I ran into a door.”
Diggs just sat there. His silence was a peaceful sort of silence. It made Travis feel better.
“I’m going east to see my grandparents,” Travis said.
“Hmm,” Diggs replied. “Grandparents. That’s good. Bet you’ll be glad to see them.”
Travis started talking. He talked about his grandparents. He told Diggs stories about them and where they lived. Diggs just listened, nodding now and then. Travis kept talking. He was surprised at how much he kept talking. When he finally stopped, the sun was high in the sky. Mo
re than an hour had passed. His throat felt dry.
Diggs reached down to a bag by his feet. He pulled out two cans of soda. He popped both open and passed one to Travis.
It was warm, but it tasted great. He hadn’t thought about bringing anything to drink with him. All that he’d thought about was running away.
“Hungry?”
Diggs was handing him a sandwich from that same bag.
“You sure?” Travis asked.
“I always pack enough to share,” Diggs chuckled. “Never know when I’ll run into a hungry traveler.”
Travis ate the sandwich. His stomach still hurt from being punched. But the sandwich tasted good. It was chicken with a peppery dressing.
“This is about the best sandwich I ever had,” he said.
“Food eaten together always tastes better,” Diggs said. “A man is supposed to share. That’s what the old sacred books tell us. The Bible and the Koran both say that.”
Travis nodded. He felt full and relaxed. He leaned back in his seat and yawned.
When he opened his eyes again, the bus was not moving. His face was pressed against the window. He could see a sign. “SPOKANE” it read.
He sat up. There was no one next to him. Diggs was gone. The whole bus was empty.
His backpack was on the seat where Mr. Diggs had been. It was open.
“Oh no!” Travis thought. “My money!”
He grabbed the pack and looked into it. The zipper pouch that held his cash was still there. He opened it. His money had not been touched. Then he noticed something else—a folded piece of paper.
“FOR TRAVIS THE TRAVELER” it read.
He unfolded it and a twenty-dollar bill fell out.
Travis picked it up. Then he saw that a poem had been written on the sheet of paper. The letters were carefully printed:
When a man is alone and on the road,
and he needs some help to share the load,
sometimes a stranger may give him a lift
and say, “Pass it on to return the gift.”
4
Missoula
Travis had been on the road for two and a half days. He’d tried hitching, but no one stopped. After four hours he gave up. He went to the bus station and bought another ticket. It had taken him to Missoula. Missoula was a city in the state of Montana.
The Long Run Page 2
