Billy Goat Hill

by Mark Stanleigh Morris

  Tomorrow, June 3, 1966, three days after my sixteenth birthday, I shall emancipate myself. And unlike most runaways, I know I will never go back. Having made my decision, the thing I now dread most is telling Luke what I must do.

  “But, I want to go with you!”

  “I can’t take care of you by myself, Luke.”

  “You don’t have to take care of me. I can take care of myself.”

  “No. You have to stay with Lucinda. It’ll be bad enough for her with me leaving. I won’t go far. I’ll still see you often.”

  “But I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know—but I just can’t stay here anymore. I have to get out on my own. In a couple more years you can fly away too, if you want to.”

  This goes on for hours. He cries. I cry. In the morning as I prepare to leave, he refuses to look at me. He lays on his bed, his back to me, and stares at the wall.

  I have a gift for him, a little book about small airplanes and flying, which I lay on the bed. He ignores it. Finally, I say good-bye.

  “I hate you,” he hisses as I close the door.

  The worst of this new life is the sting of missing Luke and the shame I put on myself for running out on him. Luke suffers from the separation as much as I do. We are linked sprites pulled apart by a cruel mystery, and it is no longer the same between us. With me gone, Luke catches the brunt of Lucinda’s reaction. He tells me she has become paranoid and fearful that he will leave, too. I talk to him often, that is, whenever the enemy doesn’t answer the phone.

  It’s not easy living on my own, but I quickly gain experience. It’s amazing what a person can do in order to survive. Mac’s heroic death had nearly killed me, and leaving Ruby Place was hard, but the worst thing I struggle with is my anger and resentment toward Lucinda.

  “You can’t see the Sergeant and Miss Cherry anymore.” It was the way she had said it, almost like an afterthought, and so cold and heartless. It poisoned my heart toward her. She became jealous of them, after all. Lucinda, my own flesh and blood mother, viciously turned against me. No consultation. No questions allowed. Period! She is a traitor!

  I have no clear memory of the actual physical move from Ruby Place. I just remember swallowing my rage.

  The Huntington Car Wash in Monrovia provides everything I need to survive: a job. I figure it will take me six weeks at the car wash to scrape up enough money to put a roof over my head, which I am going to need soon. It has been threatening rain for several days, and the guys at the car wash have been grumbling. In the car washing business, rain means no work. While my coworkers complain, I fight off images of flash floods and storm drain doors. I am living on the streets with little in the way of possessions, but my mind is rich with memories both good and bad. I get lonely but never bored.

  After a full day of work, I gather up as much cardboard as I can find. Under an overhanging bush against a cinder block wall which backs up to the railroad tracks, I stash my precious few belongings and make my nest. The rain comes and so do the trains every couple of hours.

  Eventually the cardboard soaks through and sags down all around me. Wet, cold, miserable, and very lonely, I think about quitting and going home. I miss Luke terribly. I imagine I hear the Sergeant whispering, “Never look back, Wade.” I remove the plastic I use to protect Rodney’s Bible from the elements and open the book to a random page. It’s too dark to read, but I place my palm on the open pages and close my eyes.

  I am dozing fitfully about an hour before daybreak when something grabs the front of my jacket and jerks me to my feet. A hulking ghostly form towers over me, its foul breath of cheap wine and rotting teeth stinging my nostrils. Gnarled paws close around my neck and I can’t breathe. I am terrified that the dead man of Three Ponds has returned to carry out his revenge. I am sure a third eye of wicked silver is staring with sinister clarity deep into my psyche.

  A voice, barely human, hisses like a serpent in my ear. “Got any money-y-y, boy-y-y?”

  In a reflex of its own, the Louisville Slugger comes up from my side, over, and down with such savage power that it must have stored the awesome energy of the Duke’s last swing. The serpent goes down hard and slumps with a horrible hiss against the wall, a murky dark ooze tracing down its neck.

  My compressed larynx spasms and then relaxes enough to allow me to gasp in some air. “No!”

  I kick the slumping torso as hard as I can, slipping in the process and falling down next to it. I scream again and then realize another train is screaming by at sixty miles per hour a few short yards away.

  I run, bat in hand, as fast as my trembling legs will take me. I make it maybe ten blocks, and my throat swells up, nearly cutting off my breathing completely. Wheezing terribly, I stop and try to gather my wits. I survived, though I had to leave my few possessions behind, including some food—and Rodney’s Bible. I am thankful for the miracle of Duke’s gift, without which the serpent would have surely eaten me.

  Three hours later I am in the car wash owner’s office begging for as many hours as possible. I desperately need to earn enough money so I can afford to sleep behind the safety of a locked door. Six weeks is a long, long time.

  I have been on my own eight months now. Suffering from loneliness and obsessed with memories of a better time, I make a long-contemplated decision. I will try to find the Sergeant and Miss Cherry.

  On a rainy day when car wash labor isn’t needed, I thumb my way west on Colorado Boulevard from Monrovia through Pasadena over Suicide Bridge and down past Eagle Rock to Highland Park. The journey takes most of the day, but the last ride drops me off right in front of the Highland Park police station. I am a nervous wreck, very tired, and too scared to immediately enter. I hang around outside for over an hour, hoping one of them might come out. Finally, I go in and plant myself at the front counter.

  A burly desk officer approaches. “What can I do for you, kid?”

  “I was wondering if it would be possible to see Sergeant Cavendish, or, Officer, uh, I’m not sure about her last name, but her first name is Cherry, uh, please, sir.” I am sweating under my shirt and feeling sick to my stomach.

  He gives me a long, careful look. “Webster.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Webster. Cherry’s last name was Webster. Cavendish and Webster.” He scratches his forehead. “What do you want with those two?”

  “Nothing. They’re old friends of mine. I would like to see them please.”

  “I’m afraid you’re a few years too late, kid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They don’t work for the department anymore.”

  My heart sinks. “Why not?”

  “Well, now. That’s really none of your business, kid. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Do you know where they live?”

  “Couldn’t tell you if I did. Department policy.”

  I must look pitiful as I start to turn away, because he leans forward across the counter, glances around, and then whispers to me. “You best forget about those two. They both got into some trouble a while back. Big secret investigation. Caused a whole lotta grief for the big brass. You seem like a good kid. It’s best you don’t have anything to do with those two.”

  I am in tears before I get outside. I don’t want to believe him. They’re O.C.I.U. undercover cops. He’s just making up a story because he can’t tell me the truth about them.

  Up the block from the police station is a phone booth. I dial Luke. I need to hear his voice.

  “Hey, you big dumb donkey!”

  I feel so much better. “How are you?”

  “Okay.”

  “How is she?”

  “The same. What’s going on with you, Wade? Still looking for ghosts?”

  “Not funny, Luke.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Actually, I’m over in Highland Park.”

  “No kidding? You really are looking for ghosts.”

  “I went by the police station and tried to se
e them.”

  “And?”

  “I was told they haven’t worked there in years.”

  “Sorry. Are you going to let go of it now?”

  “No.”

  “Thought so.”

  “Do you think she’ll let you go with me to a Dodgers game when the season starts?”

  “I don’t ask for permission anymore. I just go. Let me know when you have tickets.”

  “Okay. You still mad at me for leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so. I love you, Luke.”

  “I love you, too, you big dumb donkey.”

  Near dark, I find myself walking up the hill at Ruby Place. Molly, her muzzle now a wintry gray, is barely able to walk. She no longer cares about barking at passersby. She looks at me with sad disinterest. It seems, other than Molly, not a soul who ever knew me still lives in the neighborhood.

  I sit on the curb in front of our old house. The place needs paint, needs Carl to sing a song, needs Mac to snooze on the porch. No lights on yet. Looks like nobody is home. My misplaced childhood appears to be a thing of the distant past.

  The sun is fading fast, and the idea of hitchhiking back to Monrovia in the dark seems less sane about now than sliding down the Crippler in the dark. Maybe I ought to leg it up to Billy Goat Hill and sleep out under the stars tonight, that is, if it doesn’t start raining again.

  “Wade Parker?”

  I turn around and see Carl’s wife, Esther, standing on her front porch. Unlike Molly, she looks exactly the way I remember her. “Hello, ma’am.”

  She smiles and cranes her neck to get a better look at me. “My goodness, praise the Lord, it is you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Using a cane for balance now, she takes one careful step at a time down off the porch. “You’re practically all grown up. Come over here and let me get a good look at you.”

  I walk over to the fence. “It’s nice to see you, ma’am.”

  “My heavens, you’re so tall and thin. Are you eating enough? You’re a bit too skinny, you think?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I live on my own now, but I get enough to eat.”

  “On your own? Well, honey, you can’t be more than sixteen. You’re not living with your mom anymore?”

  “No ma’am…not for a while now. I’ll be seventeen pretty soon. I do okay for myself.”

  “Well, I’m sure you do. I always thought you were a resourceful little boy. You were always making things work somehow, weren’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “It sure is nice to see you. It’s a blessing from the Lord to know you are doing well. It was such an awful thing that happened that night. I still pray for you and your family.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Of course, honey. How is your brother doing?”

  “He’s fine. I talk to him fairly often, just today, actually. He’s become interested in flying airplanes, and he thinks he might want to get his private pilot’s license some day.”

  “Imagine that. Flying of all things. Didn’t he used to be afraid of birds?”

  How did she know that? “Yes, he had some hang-ups about mockingbirds for a while. That was my fault, really. Kind of funny though, isn’t it?”

  I manage a small smile and she laughs. “Our heavenly Father does have a sense of irony and humor. In my eighty-odd years of loving the Lord I’ve been fascinated to observe how God’s wisdom works in the lives of people.”

  “I guess so. How is Carl, ma’am?”

  Her smile softens. “My Carl passed away in January of ‘64. He was never the same after President Kennedy was killed. He loved the president very much, and all the speculation about the Russians being behind the assassination took quite a toll on him. Goodness, if he were here now he’d be quick to correct me. I mean the Soviets, not the Russians.”

  “I’m sorry he passed away, ma’am.” I can’t believe how I used to wise off to Carl about the Russian stuff.

  “No need to be sorry. The good news is my Carl had quit drinking for over a year before he died. He had been going to church with me every Sunday, and he accepted Jesus as his personal Savior. Carl was born again in the Lord. I believe we’ll be together again in heaven, which gives me tremendous comfort.”

  Born again? “Well, it was good to see you again, ma’am. I better get going though. I’ve got a long walk ahead of me.”

  “Are you sure? Tell you what, how would you like to have supper with me? I don’t get much company, and it would be a real treat for me to serve you a nice meal.”

  “Well, uh…”

  “Unless you have a date lined up with a pretty young girl, this old girl would love to have supper with you. I already have a nice little pot roast in the oven, and there is plenty for two.”

  My mouth is instantly watering. “Well, um.”

  “No uhs or ums about it. Come on around the fence here.”

  How can I say no to this sweet old lady? “I guess supper would be fine, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “Good then—it’s settled. I might even have a big slice of blueberry pie for you, too.” Blueberry…my favorite. “Maybe you have a little work I could do, or something that needs fixing. I’m pretty good at fixing things.”

  “Don’t be silly; you’re my guest, not a hired hand. So what brings you back to the old neighborhood? It’s so nice to see you, honey. I think about you and Luke all the time.”

  Esther is making me feel better than I have in a long time. “I was looking for some old friends, but I didn’t have any luck finding them.”

  “Oh, well, maybe you should pray about that. You just never know, the Lord might help you find them. I know He would sure like to hear from you.”

  He’d like to hear from me? Right. “Couldn’t hurt, I guess.”

  “Have you heard what they’re doing to Billy Goat Hill?” She opens the gate and pulls me through.

  “No, ma’am—what?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t believe it.” They’ve started building houses up there. Not much cardboard sliding going on anymore. Most kids have these skateboard contraptions now. They zoom by the front fence all the time. It looks like a lot of fun riding on those skateboards, and a lot of skinned knees too, I think.

  “Well, come on in now.” You know, not too long ago I sold Carl’s old ‘55 Chevy Bel Air. Do you remember that noisy thing? What an old clunker that thing was. Carl was never much for vehicle maintenance, but the young man who purchased it was quite excited about it. Three hundred dollars’ worth of excitement, to be exact.

  “Goodness me, Carl used to start that awful sounding motor up every night when he headed for the bakery, and it used to worry me that the racket would wake up the neighbors. Were you kids ever bothered by that noise?”

  “Not really…”

  “That’s good.”

  She loops her arm through mine and moves us toward the house. This is the first time I’ve ever been in her yard, much less in her house. I am curious to see the inside.

  “Let me get the door for you, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. I had a little stroke last year, but praise God, I bounced back just fine. My new friend Mister Cane here keeps me steady, but he does get in the way sometimes. Say, guess who I saw at Kory’s Market a few weeks ago, and he asked about you boys?”

  “Who?”

  “Jake—you know, from the barbershop.”

  “Really? Jake asked about us?”

  “He most surely did. Say, I bet you’d like to see Carl’s old antique rifle. And by the way, do you still have the bat that meant so much to you?” She giggles. “I guess you can tell I knew a thing or two about you boys.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I can tell.”

  Esther’s pot roast was meant to be in my stomach. I’ve never felt so completely satisfied in my entire life. A home baked piece of heaven describes the blueberry pie. Sitting at her kitchen table watching her clean up the dishes, I am overcome by a feeling of appreciation and
thanks. It has been forever since I experienced this kind of caring and attention. It would be great to feel like this all the time, to belong, to matter to someone.

  Esther’s kindness rekindles some hope in me. I came here to find the Sergeant and Miss Cherry, and instead, I find a friend who I am beginning to think maybe I always had but didn’t know it.

  Esther dries her hands and drapes the dish towel over the faucet. She pauses for a moment, scratching her wrinkled chin, and then looks at me with eyes so sparkling and warm I can feel the love in her heart.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something, Esther?”

  “I always enjoy a good conversation.”

  “We got to talking about other things, but earlier you said Carl was…born again?”

  “Yes?”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “That is a wonderful question.” She removes her apron and sits at the table with me. “Well, first I should tell you I have been reading the Bible since I was twelve years old, and I’m still learning about how much God loves the world.”

  “I’ve only read bits and pieces of the Bible. A friend of mine died a long time ago. I had his Bible. But I lost it one night when I got…uh, I accidentally left it behind.”

  “I remember you told me you had your friend’s Bible. I think you said his name was Rodney.”

  Amazing. “Yes, ma’am, Rodney. I forgot I told you about him.”

  “That’s a shame about the lost Bible. But all is not lost that’s misplaced, you know. Let’s hope it came into the hands of someone who needed to know the Lord. Well, my goodness, things do happen, don’t they?”

  “Yes, ma’am, they sure do.”

  “I have not had an easy life, and I don’t mean the challenge of being married to Carl, but I have had a wonderful and wonder-filled life. For all the troubles I’ve ever faced, I’ve always found answers and instruction in the Bible. I pray you will be inspired to read more of it.”

  “So, what about being born again? What does it mean?”

  “The term born again comes from the Bible. Jesus said, ‘No one can enter the Kingdom of God without being born of water and the Spirit.’ You see, Wade, by His boundless mercy, God offers everyone the privilege of being born again…by accepting that we are His offspring, His children, and He is our true Father in heaven.”