by Shawn Inmon
“Including slipping the dick to me every chance you got?”
Margaret Hollister gasped, but before that sound faded, Clayton bridged the distance and slapped Michael hard enough to knock him out of the chair.
Clayton’s breath came in ragged puffs. Fury blazed in his eyes. He straddled Michael, leaned close and whispered, “That’s enough. Do you understand?”
“Clayton! He’s just a boy!”
“I’m not sure what he is any more, but I don’t think it’s a boy. In any case, it’s not our problem now.” He looked down at Michael, who had a red welt on both cheeks. “Go pack your clothes. Tess put a suitcase on your bed. I’m putting you out.”
Michael picked himself up. Inside, a battle raged. He didn’t want to ask, but curiosity won out. “Where?”
A slow smile spread across Clayton’s face, but of course it wasn’t a smile at all—it was a baring of teeth. It made Michael shiver involuntarily. “Hartfield Military Academy. They might not be able to fix you, either, but they know what to do with boys like you. One way or the other, they’ll solve this problem.”
Chapter Sixteen
Michael didn’t sleep that night. He had a terrible foreboding that his father would try to make one last nocturnal visit, so he sat on the edge of his bed, the same kitchen knife he had used to kill him dozens of times held loosely in his hands.
The hours passed, but no shadow darkened his door. By the first light of dawn, he was up and dressed. His father had told him that a taxicab would be at the house at 10:30 to take him to the bus depot.
Can’t even bother to get rid of me by taking me to the bus themselves. Fine. I don’t need them—or anybody. I’ll be glad to be away from here.
He dressed in summertime clothes—a pair of tan shorts, white socks, and a blue pullover knit shirt—slipped on his Keds and pulled the small stack of books out from under his bed, where he had stashed them the day before.
He made his way downstairs and found bright sunshine streaming in through the kitchen windows, but no sign of Tess. Unusual for a weekday.
He opened the back door and stepped onto the porch. Immediately, his eye was drawn to the stump of the tree that had held his tree house twenty-four hours earlier.
Screw you. I’m glad I did it.
He walked through the dewy grass and pushed through the gate to the yard next door, hoping that Jim Cranfield would be up, enjoying a morning cup of coffee on his back deck. Instead, all was quiet.
Michael set the pile of books down, then clambered awkwardly up into the chair facing the sliding glass door. He plucked the top book off the pile and opened it just past the midway point.
Maybe I can at least finish this one.
He opened it to page sixty-seven.
Simeon checked the revolver in his front pocket, the one that was intended to be found. He gave a light pat under his left arm to make sure the small single-shot gun, the one intended to be easy to miss in a quick frisk, was in place. “They said to come unarmed, doll,” he said to Bridge. If that’s not a reason to carry at least two guns, I don’t know what is. Now come here, and give me one of those special goodbye kisses. If I’m going to end up looking down the barrel of a gun, I want to do it with the taste of your lips fresh in my mind.”
Twenty minutes and two dozen pages later, the slider whooshed open and Cranfield poked his head out. His graying hair was askew and stuck out at odd angles, as did his bushy eyebrows. “A little early for one of our visits, isn’t it, Michael? You can’t tell me you read all of those already. I know you’re smart, but you haven’t taken the Evelyn Wood speed-reading course, have you?”
“They’re sending me away. I didn’t want to take your books, or leave them to be found in my bedroom, so I brought them back.” Michael closed the book he was reading with a slight regret—The Magician was in a terrible predicament, and Michael couldn’t figure out what kind of magic he was going to work to escape.
“That’s very responsible, Michael.” Cranfield pulled his bathrobe tighter around himself, covering the white T-shirt and pale blue boxer shorts beneath it. “I have many copies of them, though. Are you sure you don’t want to take them with you?”
Michael shook his head. “I’m not sure what it will be like where I’m going. Your books might be contraband there.”
Cranfield cocked one great eyebrow. “Where are you off to, then?”
“Hartfield Military Academy. I’m not even sure where it is.”
“Hartfield, Hartfield ... hmm. Hold on, I’ll be back.” With a flourish of his tartan robe, he disappeared back into the house. A few moments later, he re-emerged with a large book. He placed it on the table, took a seat, and patted the nonexistent pockets at the breast of his bathrobe.
Michael pointed to the top of Cranfield’s head, where a pair of reading glasses perched.
“Oh, yes, there they are. Getting old is not for the faint of heart. They say the memory is the first thing to go, but I can’t remember what is the second thing.” He glanced at Michael over the top of the glasses, but Michael’s expression didn’t change. “This is not a morning for jokes, is it, young Master Hollister? You are correct.” He flipped the book open to the very back, turned a page, then another, then ran his finger down a column until he found what he was looking for. “Mmm-hmm,” he mumbled under his breath, then flipped back to a midway point in the book.
He looked at Michael again. “Just because I am a hack doesn’t mean I can’t be a factually accurate hack. I have a research library slightly better than what is available at the Middle Falls Library tucked away in what was once the spare bedroom. It serves several purposes—keeping me informed and keeping overnight company away. Can’t say which I appreciate more. Now ...” He lowered his eyes to the book once again, and said, “Hartfield Academy, located in the tiny hamlet of Jenkins Cove, California, fifteen miles north of Crescent City. Hartfield Academy has prepared young men to serve their country in every conflict since World War I. It was founded by Curtis M. Hartfield in 1909 and is currently overseen by his grandson, Curtis M. Hartfield III. Hartfield Academy accepts boys for training between the ages of eight and eighteen years old.”
Michael nodded. I’ll be the smallest one there, then, locked in with a troop of GI Joe wannabes. Thanks, Dad.
Cranfield’s eyes softened. “Well, that’s probably not ideal, but there are worse scenarios for you, yes?”
“If he could have arranged to drop me into the Bataan Death March or the Trail of Tears, I’m sure he would have chosen one of those.”
Cranfield smiled, but not with much humor.
Michael slid down off the chair and extended his small hand. “Thanks. You’ve been one of the less awful parts of this whole experience.”
“High praise indeed,” Cranfield answered, shaking Michael’s hand. “Come see me when you come home for Christmas break, perhaps.”
Part Two
Chapter Seventeen
The bus rattled and bumped as the driver shifted gears on the on-ramp to Interstate 5 southbound. Michael sat a third of the way back on the bus. He had chosen that seat because when he climbed aboard, that section was empty. He was hoping for no human contact for the rest of the day. His hopes were dashed when a skinny man with long, dishwater-blond hair, dressed in an orange tank top and bell-bottom jeans, sat down in the seat across the aisle.
I don’t remember hippies being around town in 1966. Maybe he tried to get off here and the city fathers encouraged him to move on down the road. I’m not sure many places in Middle Falls would serve him looking like that in this era.
The long-haired man, who appeared to be in his early twenties, carried a guitar case, which he placed on the seat beside him. He looked across the aisle at Michael, gave him a nod, then settled back for a nap.
Wish I had a guitar, then everyone would avoid me, too. If he whips it out and starts playing “Tom Dooley,” or “Blowin’ In the Wind,” I might have to take it and smash it over his head.
&nb
sp; Directly in front of that man, a fortyish woman in a faded blue dress and a hat straight out of the 1950s sat down and arranged herself. She took out a bag of knitting and set to work, ignoring everyone around her.
Before they left the Middle Falls depot, the bus was almost half full. It was possible to drive from Middle Falls, Oregon, to Jenkins Grove in five hours. Because the bus would stop at every farmhouse, henhouse and outhouse, their projected drive time was instead eight and a half hours, with a thirty-minute layover in Coos Bay for lunch.
As he left the house, his father had told him that he could make himself a sandwich to take with him if he wanted, but he damn well wasn’t paying for him to eat out on the trip. His mother, in a rare display of maternal love, slipped him two one-dollar bills as she gave him a brief hug and a distant air kiss on his way out the door.
Michael had inquired after Tess, but his father had smiled contentedly and said, “She took a half day today.”
In other words, he didn’t want to give me a chance to say goodbye to the one person in the house I care about. Bastard. Doesn’t matter now, he’s behind me. I wonder what’s ahead?
Ninety minutes into the trip, the long-haired man rousted himself from his nap. He rubbed a hand across his straggly beard, then glanced at Michael with a wink. Michael rolled his eyes and stared out at the passing countryside.
The man leaned across the aisle and said, “Hey, buddy. I’m Glenn. What’s your name?”
Michael continued to stare out the window several beats longer, so that Glenn would have no doubt about whether he was being ignored. Finally, he turned and said, “My name is, I don’t like to be bothered by fruity hippies who smell like patchouli and marijuana.”
Glenn flushed and turned away.
That ought to shut down conversation for the rest of the trip.
Glenn sat silent for several miles, then opened the guitar case. He fiddled with it, tuning it, playing a number of false starts, then began to sing softly. Michael had never heard the song before, but figured that it must have been called “Plastic Jesus,” based on how often that phrase was repeated throughout the song.
He started singing softly, but picked up a little volume as he got into the song, singing about “magnetized Mary” and how he was fine and dandy, as long as he had plastic Jesus sitting on the dashboard of his car.
Hey, could be worse. Could have been “Kumbaya.”
The woman who sat in front of Glenn seemed oblivious to what he was doing, but after one verse, something about plastic Jesus being hollow and using him as a flask, she stiffened. She threw her knitting down and stood up a little too quickly. The shim and sway of the bus made her lose her footing, and she nearly ended up across the aisle, in the lap of a man dressed in overalls. She recovered, though, and took a threatening step toward Glenn, who played on, eyes closed, unaware of anything except for the next verse.
“Young man, that is my savior you are singing about!” Her eyes blazed and she quivered with righteous anger.
Glenn’s eyes shot open in surprise. He stopped singing, but his hands kept playing the guitar. “Wh-what?” he said.
“Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior. I will not sit quietly by and listen to him be defamed by you.”
“Whoa, hold on, lady. That’s not what this song is about. It’s not sacrilegious. It just makes fun of people who try to act all high and mighty with Jesus when they ain’t. That’s all.”
The woman shook her head in tight, tiny shakes. “No sir. No sir. That is not okay with me.” Tears of anger welled in her eyes.
Glenn opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Sorry, ma’am. I really didn’t mean any offense. It’s just a lark.”
“There are many things to joke about. That’s not one of them,” she said, and turned and sat down with a huge exhalation.
Well. That oughta shut him up for a while.
The bus driver, a man in his sixties with gray hair and a gray uniform, called back over his shoulder, “Is there a problem? No music on the bus, please. It bothers the other riders. Thank you.”
Glenn placed his guitar back in the case, set it beside him, and shuffled his hair into a veil over his eyes.
Aside from announcements about what stop was next, the rest of the trip was made in silence.
Chapter Eighteen
The Greyhound pulled into what passed for the Jenkins Cove bus station—a Shell gas station with all its lights turned off. The station sat alone on the side of Highway 101, with no other businesses in sight. Michael was the only passenger to get on or off. The driver clambered down after him, retrieved his suitcase from the bowels of the bus, and dropped it at his feet. Without a word, he climbed back on board and, with a hiss of air brakes releasing, turned back onto the highway. A few moments later, the bus was gone.
Michael looked around. The Shell station was locked up tight. The only sound was a battalion of frogs singing in chorus somewhere to his right. He took a Payday candy bar he had bought in Coos Bay out of his jacket pocket and unwrapped half of it.
Save the other half for breakfast, just in case I’m still sitting here.
The clock on the wall inside the station, in the shape of a seashell, glowed yellow. 9:20.
Michael pulled the collar of his jacket up over his neck. It wasn’t cold yet, but once darkness settled in, he could see where it might be.
Worst-case scenario, I guess I can put all the clothes in my suitcase on to stay warm. I’ll look like the Michelin Man, but who cares?
Down the road to Michael’s left, a pair of headlights shone around a corner. As it drew nearer, Michael could see it was an olive drab Jeep. It pulled into the station without signaling and rolled to a stop in front of him. A teenage boy, all blond hair and angry acne, sat behind the wheel.
“C’mon, kid, there’s no other vehicle dispatched to get you. Either get in or walk, and it’s about five miles to the school.”
Michael stood, grabbed his suitcase and put it in the back seat. The Jeep had no top, and no doors. It was a bit of a struggle, but Michael climbed up and in.
The teenager behind the wheel turned his head and looked Michael up and down. “Sit back and hold on.”
He ground the gears and the Jeep leapt forward, leaving a spray of gravel behind them. The northern California air was a lot colder at 60 mph, so Michael zipped his jacket. His hair whipped straight up and his eyes watered a bit.
“Your dad a senator or something?” the boy shouted over the whipping wind.
That caught Michael off-guard. He shook his head.
“He must be something important.”
“Why?”
“Academy’s closed for the summer. Everyone has scattered to the four winds, but here I am, picking you up.”
Michael chewed on that for a mile or so. So this place is mostly empty? That might not be too bad, at least at first.
Five minutes later, they pulled into a gated private road on the left. The gate was formidable—brick columns on each side, a ten-foot-high black gate with spikes on each bar—but it was open and they drove right in. They drove through the twilight, tall elm trees encroaching on both sides of the road.
Half a mile later, the trees parted and they entered a driveway that circled an immense lawn at least two acres in size. As they faced the largest building, the Jeep’s headlights illuminated a gold and black sign: Hartfield Military Academy, where boys become men and men become soldiers.
The driver glanced over at Michael and saw him reading the sign. “That’s our motto. Ready to become a man?” He laughed, drove around the driveway, and stopped in front of an impressive brick building three stories tall, with white columns supporting a pediment. It looked substantial enough to survive even the legendary California earthquakes, which is exactly what it had done for more than fifty years.
“C’mon,” the teenager said, hopping nimbly out of the Jeep. “I’ll show you where to put your stuff, then I am officially off du
ty for the night.”
Michael got out, stood on tiptoe to retrieve his suitcase, and hauled it over the side of the Jeep. It wasn’t very heavy, but it thumped down onto the gravel. Michael grabbed it again and chased after the retreating figure of his driver, who pointedly wasn’t waiting for him.
The main doors were magnificent. Hand-carved designs in solid oak, nine feet tall. They led into an equally impressive foyer, which had high-backed chairs upholstered in red velvet scattered around the sides, each lit by a small pool of muted yellow light from a floor lamp. A chandelier that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Las Vegas casino hung from the ceiling.
The driver turned to Michael. He was wearing an olive drab jumpsuit with a name over the breast pocket: Curt.
The guy who founded this place was Curtis. The guy who runs it is his grandson, Curtis. What are the odds that this guy is another one in line to run this place eventually? Pretty damn good.
“This is the great hall,” Curt said, waving his hand expansively. “You won’t spend any time in here. This is for guests—parents and military muckety-mucks—not cadets.”
Cadet. Is that what I am now? I guess so.
“What’s your name, again?”
“Hollister. Michael Hollister.”
“If you’re unlucky, you’ll get a nickname. You won’t like it. Nobody does. Until then, you are Cadet Hollister. Understand?”
Michael nodded.
“I’m Cadet Hartfield, or you can call me ‘Sir’ or ‘Prefect.’ Anything else will not be answered, and will result in punishment. Understood? Any questions?”
Michael knew it was best to keep a low profile, but he still said, “Sir. Did you get a nickname you didn’t like, sir?” He did manage to keep any trace of a smile off his face.
