He would talk to his grandmother about the workshop when she returned.
#
Vernon King grabbed the keys hanging on the nail embedded in the wall, pushed open the screen door and stepped outside. The truck, he saw, was parked next to the barn. He was relieved to note that the bed of the vehicle was empty.
Absently tossing the keys in the air with the open palm of one hand and catching them with a downward snap of the same hand, he strolled across the dusty yard. He was reaching for the handle to the driver’s side door when he heard his father.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Vernon turned and saw the man standing by the corner of the barn. He had been pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure and now set it down.
“Out,” said Vernon.
“Don’t you have chores?”
He did, at least by his father’s reckoning. But he also had something else he wanted to do, and the two conflicted. He’d made the decision that the one outweighed the other. And, if he’d had more time, he might have been willing to engage in a more lengthy discussion about it. But he needed to get going and therefore opted for a much shorter response.
“Nope.”
His father came around the wheelbarrow and took a couple steps in Vernon’s direction. He had a look on his face Vernon knew all too well. It was one that had terrorized Vernon from the time he was old enough to remember until about three years earlier, when, at the age of fourteen, Vernon had, almost overnight it seemed, grown four inches and added about thirty pounds, all of it muscle.
As a youngster, Vernon had been a tall, gangly boy. He’d gotten his size from his father, who stood almost six foot three inches and was built like a locomotive. All of Vernon’s other physical attributes he’d inherited from his mother, a pretty petite blond who’d been forced to marry his father when she’d become pregnant with Vernon at the age of fifteen. Several years younger than Vernon’s father, she had, for almost ten years, put up with the man’s abuse, both verbal and physical, until one day, without warning, she’d simply left. Her parting words had been scribbled on a piece of paper she’d impaled on the nail from which Vernon had just retrieved the keys. They read, “I can’t take it no more. I’m going where you won’t never find me. Good bye. PS. Go to Hell.”
With his mother gone, Vernon had borne the brunt of his father’s cruelty. Even after he’d grown to be the same height as his father, he’d been thoroughly cowed by the man. Then came the miraculous growth spurt. It roughly corresponded to the time Vernon had begun playing basketball.
Everything came to a head one winter evening. The Jackson High School basketball team had played an away game, and Vernon arrived home several hours after sundown. His father, who had been waiting up for him and had been working himself into a rage, aided in no small part by a pint of bourbon, shoved Vernon the moment the boy walked in the door. Vernon, who was still smarting after the loss his team had suffered that evening, shoved back without thinking. His father fell backwards and sprawled on the floor.
Vernon was amazed at his own temerity. What had been more amazing, however, was the look on his father’s face. It was mostly surprise. But there was something else.
Fear.
It was a revelation for Vernon. Though his father, particularly after he’d sobered up, continued to intimidate him, it was never quite the same as it had been.
He considered his father for a long moment. Then he took a couple steps in the man’s direction. His father involuntarily took a step back. Vernon snorted. “Like I told you,” he said, “I’m going out.” He tossed the keys in the air and caught them, this time with a sideways snap of his hand that looked almost like a punch.
His father said nothing.
Vernon turned and casually walked to the truck. He slipped behind the wheel, fired up the engine and pulled away. In the rear view mirror, he could see his father still standing in the same spot.
#
With nothing better to do, Jon decided he might as well take the opportunity to explore the town. Leaving by the front door, he turned right and retraced the steps he’d taken the previous afternoon following his grandmother. He came to the commercial street on which he’d been the day before.
As he was trying to decide which direction to take, the door to a beauty salon across the street opened, and three women walked out. The small figure in the middle caught his attention. It was his grandmother.
She was talking to the woman on her left when she did a double take and looked directly at him. He raised his hand and waved. To his surprise, however, she gave no acknowledgement, instead turning and striking up a conversation with the woman on her right. The three continued down the sidewalk without a further glance in his direction.
Confused and a little hurt, Jon headed the other way.
#
The town of Jackson, Jon learned, was not much larger than what could be seen standing at the only intersection. The primary commercial drive, referred to in town as Main Street, was actually part of State Route 26, a highway that ran the width of central Indiana. The town, with a population of fewer than 300 people, served a large rural area in the northern part of Winamac County and a portion of nearby Clark County.
This information came from a garrulous old man whose sole function it seemed was to defy the laws of gravity by balancing on the back two legs of a chair planted in front of the small garage of the service station located on one corner of the intersection, while spitting sunflower seed husks with remarkable accuracy into a paper cup sitting on the ground near his feet. In the time he spoke with the man, Jon counted zero automobiles entering the station and several dozen bull’s-eyes in the cup.
“So, young fella,” the old man said, working a sunflower seed around his mouth with his tongue before expelling the broken shell and scoring a direct hit on the cup, “are you new in town, or passing through?”
“I just arrived yesterday. I’m staying with my grandmother.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, popping another seed into his mouth. “Who’s that?”
“Mrs. Wilson. Marvella Wilson.”
“Ah, Ernie’s widow.” Another spit, and another direct hit on the cup. “Didn’t know she even had any relatives.”
“My mother was her daughter.”
Brows furrowed, the old man leaned forward and allowed the front legs of his chair to touch the ground for a moment while he fished around in the pocket of his coveralls and pulled out another handful of seeds. Leaning back, he squinted his eyes and scrunched his face in thought. Then he snapped his fingers. “Sure, I remember. Claire, right?”
Jon nodded.
“Yep, I do remember her. Pretty girl. Smart too. So,” the man said, shuffling through the seeds in his gnarled left hand, “you’ve come back for a visit.”
“Actually, I’ve come here to live.”
“Really?” he asked with a renewed interest, looking Jon up and down. “You play basketball?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame,” the man said, returning his attention to the sunflower seeds. “We’ve got a darn good team up at the high school.” Plucking a seed and tossing it into his mouth, he added, “Especially for a town this small. Went to the regionals last year. Would’ve won, too, ‘cept for a lucky last-second shot by that guard from Muncie. Thank God he’s graduated.”
The old man leaned his head back and this time sent the shell in a high arc so that it dropped straight down into the cup. “Yep, just like that,” he said, shaking his head sadly.
He sat quietly, apparently lost in the memory. After a moment, he shook himself and jerked his thumb. “High school’s about a mile up the road. On the right. Elementary’s on the left. Gym’s in the back of the high school.”
Jon said his thanks, and, with no better plan, started off in the indicated direction, leaving the old man still perched precariously on his two-legged throne, mouth working sunflower seeds.
#
“Come on Judy,” Vernon
said. “You know you want it.”
They were in the back seat of the big Oldsmobile that belonged to Judy Swisher’s father. It was parked in a small clearing several miles east of town. The clearing was accessible down a narrow lane that led off the highway, and it was used as a parking area by hunters during deer season. In June, of course, with hunting season months away, it would normally be deserted. This afternoon, however, there were two vehicles parked beneath the canopies of the large trees that encircled it. One was the Oldsmobile Judy had borrowed from her father. The other was the pickup truck that Vernon had taken.
Judy and Vernon had been dating for almost a year, and she had quite willingly and regularly succumbed to his charms in the past. Today, however, to Vernon’s surprise, he was getting nowhere. He’d been trying for about ten minutes, and she was having none of it. She had her legs crossed and her arms folded over her chest.
“I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Not that kind of girl?” Then he grinned. “Well, you sure were when we were out here last week.”
She flushed at that. “Don’t you want to talk?”
“Talk? Talk about what?”
“I don’t know. What about the future. Don’t you ever think about the future?”
“Sure,” he replied, leaning in again. “In fact, I’m thinking about the next ten minutes right now.”
She turned her head away.
He sat back. He was starting to get annoyed. “What the hell is this about, Judy?”
She was quiet for a long moment. Finally, she said, “I think we need to talk about us, our relationship, and where it’s going.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere at the moment.”
Judy turned to him. “That’s not what I mean. We’re going to be seniors. We’ll be graduating in less than a year. Shouldn’t we start making plans?”
“Plans for what?”
“You know. I think it’s time we ought to, maybe, think about,” she hesitated a second, then concluded, “getting married.”
“Married!” Vernon exclaimed, and Judy flinched. “Are you crazy?”
She looked at him, but said nothing.
“You’re serious.”
She nodded, but still said nothing.
“Well, I’m not. There’s no way I’m tying myself down.”
She looked away, her arms still folded. There was a long silence. Then, without turning, she said quietly, “In that case, I think we should stop seeing each other.”
That surprised Vernon. Sure, he’d been thinking about breaking it off with Judy anyway. In fact, he’d figured today’s liaison would probably be their last. But it was supposed to be his decision. He was, after all, the King. And, in any event, he’d been looking forward to a little action this afternoon. He considered her for a long moment, resentment beginning to build.
“All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.” He grabbed the handle and yanked open the door. He stepped out, turned and looked back, fully expecting that she would say something to stop him. She continued to stare out the other side of the car and said nothing.
That was the last straw. He slammed the door and stalked to the truck. Gunning the engine, he threw the vehicle in reverse and backed up a few feet, the tires skidding in the dirt. Then he put the truck into gear, and, with the rear wheels kicking up dust, pulled out of the clearing and shot down the narrow lane, headed for the highway.
Angry thoughts roiled in Vernon’s mind. Who the hell did Judy Swisher think she was anyway? She wasn’t even that pretty. Sure, she was blond and had an ok body. But, really, Vernon was so much better looking than her. He knew it. She knew it. Everyone knew it.
Driving much faster than the lane was ever intended to be traveled, he flew down the narrow path, the truck bouncing over the rutted surface. When he reached the highway, he didn’t even look to see if there was oncoming traffic. He slewed the pickup onto the paved surface, mashed down on the accelerator, and began the long ride back to town. His thoughts were black. He was mad, and he was ready to take it out on somebody.
#
Jon discovered that, up around the bend from the intersection where he’d had the conversation with the service station attendant, the town pretty much petered out, giving way to large homes set back from the road. Soon, he found himself walking past fields planted in crops he didn’t recognize. Beyond a long thicket of trees that pressed in on either side of the road, he emerged to find the two schools exactly as the old man had indicated. With students out on summer break, the structures sat quiet, with no activity in the adjacent parking lots.
As he stood looking at what would be his new school, he felt drops of moisture on the back of his neck. Glancing up, he saw that, though he was still standing in sunlight, a large, solid block of dark clouds was rolling in, bringing the promise of quite a storm. The shadow crossed over him, and then the rain came in earnest.
Breaking into an awkward gait, he ran with a limp across the lot in front of the high school, dodging puddles already forming in the uneven surface. He found a spot against the building under an overhang. Standing with his back pressed against the wall, he was able to stay just out of the downpour.
Growing up, he and his brother, Sandy, had loved to play in the rain, the heavier, the better.
“Bet you can’t jump over this one!” Sandy’s face, glistening with moisture, had grinned back at him. “Bet I can,” Jon had exclaimed, and, pumping his five-year-old legs as hard as he could, Jon had taken a mad dash at the large puddle and flung himself across, landing well short of the far edge, the galoshes on his feet sending up a mighty splash in all directions. Laughing, Sandy had jumped in next to him, and the two of them had stomped madly at the water, shrieking hysterically. Then Sandy had turned to him, his face alive with excitement. But now Sandy’s face began to fade, and, as it did, it became serious, somber, and, just before it was gone, there was an overwhelming sadness.
Jon shuddered, and the familiar nausea rose in him, just as it had ever since the accident, the sound of rain and the sight of drops landing in puddles turning his stomach and giving him chills. He huddled forlornly against the brick wall and tried to ignore the hissing made by the water as it struck the loose gravel covering the parking lot.
After a few minutes, he began to detect another sound, this one higher pitched, faint, as if a great distance away. One moment, it was there. Then it faded into the noise of the rain. Then it returned. As he strained to identify the source, the sound grew much louder, deepened, and morphed into a roar.
Emerging from the shroud of rain, a Model A pickup truck came barreling down the highway, water jetting out to either side and a plume of mist rising behind it as it raced by. Suddenly, there was a squeal of rubber skidding along wet pavement. Fishtailing back and forth across the highway, the truck gradually came to a stop a hundred yards beyond the school. The driver threw the truck into reverse, and, incomprehensibly, backed the vehicle up to a point opposite the place where Jon stood, heedless of the possibility that another vehicle might be traveling down the road in the direction it had come.
The driver turned the truck into the high school parking lot and drove it to a spot about thirty yards from Jon, where it sat facing him, engine idling and rain dancing on the hood. Jon could tell there was one person in the cab. At that distance, however, with the rain as heavy as it was, he could not make out the features of the driver.
Just as Jon had resolved to push himself off the wall and walk to the truck, the driver put the vehicle into gear, swung the wheel to the left and, as Jon watched, drove slowly to the far end of the parking area. He then turned, drove across the highway into the lot in front of the elementary school, turned left again and began retracing his route, picking up speed as he did.
When he pulled even with Jon’s position, he made a hard left and gunned the engine.
The truck lurched and jumped across the highway. Engine roaring, it came flying directly at Jon, who
stood frozen, too shocked to move. At the last possible moment, the driver yanked the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes, causing the tail end of the truck to swing around and come to rest just a few feet from Jon. The driver then hit the accelerator, the rear wheels bit into the soft, wet ground, and Jon was showered with a wave of mud and gravel.
Jon instinctively threw his hands up in front of his face, and bits of gravel dug into his open palms and forearms. Then the deluge from the truck subsided as it pulled away across the lot and veered back out onto the highway, speeding off toward town.
#
The long walk back to his grandmother’s house was painful. Though the rain had let up, it was heavy enough that most of the town was still indoors. The few people Jon passed on the street stared, but he kept his head down and avoided eye contact. He had wiped off much of the blood from his hands and arms, but the wounds continued to ooze, and his clothes were covered in mud.
When he stepped through the front door, his grandmother was sitting at the piano next to a boy of nine or ten. They both looked up and froze. The boy’s eyes widened to the size of small saucers, but his grandmother’s narrowed, and her lips pursed. She slowly took in the sight of him, then sighed.
“Please go clean yourself up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” was all he could say, and, with as much dignity as he could muster, he walked quickly down the hall, not wanting her to see the tears that suddenly filled his eyes.
2
“You’re going to Hell, and you don’t even know it.”
Amused, Mary Dahlgren lowered the book she was reading and looked at the dark-haired girl who had just made the statement. Typical Sam.
Samantha Parker was stretched out on a wicker chaise lounge, concentrating intently on the right foot of Gwendolyn Barnes. Gwenda, in turn, had Sam’s right foot in her lap and was carefully brushing nail polish onto Sam’s large toenail. The polish was a vivid red.
As Mary watched, Sam delicately dipped a brush into a bottle of the polish and, with exaggerated care, touched the tip of the brush to Gwenda’s smallest toenail. Then she held the brush away and lightly blew on Gwenda’s foot, slowly turning her head side to side. Everything Sam did had to be theatrical.
Defiant Heart Page 2
