Category: Stories

       The church was filled to capacity, standing room only. Two hundred people at least, in attendance, all strangers to me. A priest droned monotonously from his perch up front, looking up from his written speech from time to time, pausing at key moments for effect. As far as I was concerned, I wished he would just shut up. He didn’t know my mother and his familiarity rubbed me wrong. I could feel myself growing angry. Continue reading “LEFT”

     The walk home from school was quiet along Lakeview Blvd., and the spring air was cool and bright. Railroad tracks to the left that ran parallel to the road, were mostly blocked from view by the thick trees and untrimmed underbrush. On the right, sturdy high-end homes hugged the lake’s edge. Further up ahead, I could see the entrance to our driveway, and as I approached I saw something unusual. Dad’s Buick Riviera was parked in the carport, half-hidden behind a line of shrubbery. This was curious, to say the least, maybe even worse than curious. He was never home from work this early. Something must be wrong. Continue reading “THE BUICK”

      We were sitting in the dining room, at a small wooden table that was just large enough to accommodate Gloria, her husband David, her sister Kathy, and me, when I felt someone’s toes rub up and down my foot. It was a probing gesture in search of a response; deliberate, intentional, a willful act of reconnaissance. To say, at that moment, that I felt panic would have been, to say the least, an understatement. Impulsively, I wanted to look up and make eye contact with whoever was the source of this provocation, but my better sense stopped me from committing such a potential error. To look up could risk a disastrous reveal, exposing the look of terror on my face to examination. No, I had to, at all costs, not look up. Instead, I kept my focus frozen on a piece of steak attached to my fork, which had been hovering at a standstill above my plate, just below chin level. In that same instant, I realized that suspending all motion completely could attract an equal amount of attention and inquiry. So, I forced myself to utilize all the guile at my command to reengage my full presence at the table. My hope was to convey an attitude of utter casualness and to resume eating my dinner as if nothing at all was afoot.
       But the probing toes continued to elevate their searching to higher altitudes. When David was asking me about school, the toes were passing above shin and calf. By the feel of things, they were giving every indication they intended to achieve even greater heights of ascension. There was no doubt, the aim was for the rarefied pinnacle, where if contact were made all possibility of restraint would fail and I would run screaming like a madman out of the house, and disappear insanely into the night.
       Before that happened, however, there was hope that something might alter the course of things. Perhaps, if I contributed something interesting to the conversation, say, something about the weather, anything that might distract the probing toes from their upward trajectory and cause them to reverse course. But in answering David’s question, I blurted something out that made not the slightest bit of sense. By the look of the twinkle in Gloria’s eyes, I might have spoken a completely unrecognizable language. I think I said something like, “God! What a beautiful day it is!” Even though it was completely dark outside and well into the night.
       As awkward as this non sequitur was, it, thank God, was jarring enough to achieve its objective—the probing toes retreated from between my quivering knees. Now, I only had to contend with my stumbling interruption regarding the beautiful day. I smiled shyly, chuckled softly, and looking down modestly, said, “I mean, what a beautiful dinner this is, and with such beautiful people!”
      I was confident who the guilty toes belonged to. Gloria. It had to be her. She was sitting opposite me at the table, with the most direct line of access. I thought I knew her well —we’d been having a secret affair for a few months — and, yes, I know I had just turned 15 years old and she was my 25-year-old art teacher, but love was love. I was head-over-heels and I would forgive her anything, anything! Even if that meant having dinner with David, a kind man, sitting right next to me, and with her younger sister, Kathy, just to my left, who, by the way, had been staring mysteriously at me all night long. So, I could overlook Gloria for putting me in this absolutely terrifying circumstance, because that’s what made her special, made her who she was, the kind of person who delighted in living dangerously.
       Yes, I was entirely convinced it was Gloria whose toes had touched mine when a shocking thought came to me.  Maybe it wasn’t Gloria at all, maybe it was Kathy. Maybe Kathy’s toes had done the initial outreach. Who’s to say it wasn’t her? It certainly would explain Kathy’s intense gaze. What was I to do? I struggled for an answer, and then it came to me. I would do nothing.

       Lying in bed, wide-awake, I watched a square of light reflecting on the patio outside my window. I knew that as soon as that light went out my father, in his bedroom above me, would soon be asleep. It must have been after midnight. I could tell that my brother was already asleep in his bedroom next to mine because I hadn’t heard a sound from him in over an hour. And my father’s new wife hadn’t made a sound for quite some time either. All I had to do was wait for my dad to close his book and turn off his lamp.
       After several minutes I heard a soft click and the patch of light on the patio went out. Again, I waited long enough to feel it was safe to slip out into the night. I threw on jeans, a t-shirt, sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. The house was absolutely quiet. I slid the sliding glass door slowly open, stepped out onto the patio, and slowly closed the door behind me. The night air bit into my skin. The moon was out, giving me all the light I needed, and I knew that once I got moving the chill would fade.
       Crossing to the other side of the patio to the stone path that led past my brother’s bedroom window, I stepped soundlessly up to the carport. Once there, I stopped to listen. It was quiet. I turned onto Lake View Road, which was lined on the left by Douglas Firs that hid railroad tracks, and lined on the right by the houses on the lake’s edge. After walking a short distance, I picked up my pace to a light jog. A half a mile later I came to a dark curve, and it looked like I was entering a cave. The moon’s light was completely blocked-out except for an occasional sliver slipping through thick branches above. Entering this darkness I slowed down because I could barely see my feet, let alone the road. It was difficult to keep my bearings but I kept moving forward, step by step, listening for anything threatening. Finally, the darkness gave way to the grey light of a clearing and I could see the railroad tracks up ahead. I picked up my pace again, crossing the railroad tracks, and followed the road around one more bend until it opened up to a valley of quiet farmhouses nestled in grey sepia against darkened foothills.
       I was now on Iron Mountain Road and had about three miles of country to go. Looking ahead, the distance seemed to dissolve into mist. I felt an urgency to get across this stretch as fast as possible, so I plunged ahead into the grey hush. The only sound was the soft tapping of my tennis shoes on the road.
       Then, about midway to my destination, my worst fear happened. From one of the farmhouses came two dogs running fast toward me barking loudly. They stopped at the fence line, but I kept moving. They followed me on the other side of the fence, making such a racket I was sure the farmhouse would light up and I’d hear an angry farmer shouting to know who was out there. All I could do was keep moving, praying the canines stayed on their side of the fence. At the end of their property, the dogs stopped at the fence corner but continued their vicious barking. When I got far enough away their barks become savage growls, as they reluctantly returned to their porch.
       With little more than a mile to go, I felt encouraged after surviving the dogs. That’s when headlights approached from up ahead. Sprinting off the road, I hid behind some wet shrubbery, crouching low just in time. I could hear the deep mumble of the car’s engine getting louder as it rolled by where I’d just been standing. Could this be the police? Did the farmer call them? There was no way to know, but it sure felt like the car was moving way too slowly as it passed by, like it was looking for something. Thankfully it didn’t stop. 
      I waited a minute to make sure all was clear before getting back on the road. A new, heavier silence pressed down on me, fueling unwelcomed imagination. I rounded a long curve and saw houses in the distance. Within a few minutes, I entered an old suburban neighborhood of well-to-do houses. The Episcopal Church where, incidentally, I had been baptized, came into view, I was almost there. I crossed the street and entered a small park overcrowded with tall fir trees. Emerging from the trees, I stopped and listened. It was absolutely still, not a sound. I stepped up to a fence and placed my hands on the top railing and lifted myself up and looked at the cottage-like house. All lights were out. I dropped back down and found the latch handle that opened the fence gate. Slowly and quietly I pressed the lever and the gate opened a few inches. I held still for a few moments. Then I pushed the gate open enough to slip through and closed the gate behind me. I crossed the backyard of soft lawn, passing the single, separate garage on the left, and stopped at the side back door. The house was small, like most of the houses on this street, there wasn’t much space between them. Mrs. Urban’s car was parked in the driveway, meaning Mr. Urban was gone.  I looked up to the second-story window where I knew she would be, asleep. But now the question was, how to wake her up? She didn’t know I was coming.
       So, what to do? I couldn’t knock on her door, that would be too loud for the neighbor not to hear, and to circle around to the front door would be too exposed. I certainly couldn’t call up to her. I was beginning to feel foolish and almost ready to give up when I looked down and saw the gravel under my feet. Gravel. Little stones small enough to make a soft plink on a windowpane, but not big enough to break it. I gathered up a small handful of gravel and picked out a small stone that looked to be the perfect size. Taking careful aim, I tossed it gently up at the window, where it struck the pane with just the right amount of force. Plink. I held still for a moment, listening. Then I gently tossed another one. Same sound. Same silence. Same hope. And then, once again. One more try. Plink. And then, there she was, standing on the other side of the window, looking down at me. She wore a long, white nightgown, and as I looked up at her she smiled at me. She gestured with her hand for me to wait and disappeared from the window. A moment later the back door opened and she whispered for me to come in. After closing the door behind me she wrapped her arms around me and I felt her warmth. I didn’t realize how cold I was. Then she led me upstairs.
       I was fourteen-years-old and Mrs. Urban was my Art teacher. 

     It was the summer between my seventh and eighth grades and I had just turned thirteen. My brother, Bill, two years older, and I, were slated to spend the majority of this vacation time with Mom. She lived in Bend, Oregon, on the eastern side of the Cascade Mountain range, with her new husband, Bob. We lived in Lake Oswego, Oregon, on the western side of the Cascades, roughly a four-hour drive between the two.
       The idea of spending nearly two months with Mom had its good and bad sides. It was good because I still loved her, even though she had left us six years earlier, and because there was the unspoken hope that she might someday return. The bad side of visiting Mom and Bob was that Bob was a part of it, and it was their home. I was always suspicious of Bob and held the little kid instinct that he couldn’t be trusted. I didn’t like him and the feeling was mutual.  Which was why he was always picking on me. Case in point: one night the four of us were playing cards and Bob was obviously cheating, slipping cards from the bottom of the deck.  When I called him on it he laughed in my face. Furious, I threw my cards down on the table, stood up, and declared, “I’m not going to play with a cheater. I’m going to play with myself!” and charged out of the room.  Bob laugh even louder, yelling, “Yeah, you go do that!” (I didn’t understand the tactical opening I had left him with.) But there was another time he was so nasty to me with a crude joke that my mother exploded in a fury at him, letting loose a torrent of protective maternal invective at the top of her lungs that was so loud she froze the whole house in fear. It was in the immediate aftermath of the silence that followed, that I knew I had a mother who still loved me.
         We got out to their house located just outside of town on several acres of land, which included a private airstrip, a runway to accommodate Bob’s Cessna 180, a four-seater single-prop airplane.
       It was going to be the longest extended vacation ever with  Mom. However, a couple of days later, Mom pulled us aside and a new plan was laid out for the two of us, a new plan for the summer, full of fun and adventure, a character-building adventure. Now, as soon as you hear the words, “character building”, you know you’re not going to like it.
        Bob and Mom had arranged for Bill and me to spend the summer on a wheat ranch, working.  Bob had a friend, a Mr. Hudspeth, who owned one of the largest wheat ranches in Eastern Oregon, something like 50,000 acres, and he was more than happy for the extra hired hands. It wasn’t as if Bill and I had any say in the matter; it was decided for us – a fait accompli.
        So, a few short days after arriving in Bend, we climbed into Bob’s Cessna and took flight into the blue morning sky heading east. I don’t really remember any specific conversation during the flight, just some vague talking sounds coming from the front seat, Mom trying to paint a rosy picture of the adventure to come, barely audible above the loud and constant growl of the airplane’s engine. We flew above a terrain that was expansive and vast and essentially deserted. Looking out the window, I remember seeing miles and miles of endless rolling hills covered with billowing windblown wheat fields. This is what we finally landed on, a converted stretch of field that had been cut down to make a rudimentary landing strip.  Bob taxied to a stop next to an old pick-up truck and we were met by Mr. Hudspeth, a crusty old codger. Greetings ensued and everybody had their smiles on, except for Bill and me. Then we watched Mom and Bob climb back into the plane and take off into the still blue morning sky and disappear into the direction from which we had just come.
       Mr. Hudspeth drove us in the pick-up down to the main farmhouse, which operated as the headquarters of this working wheat ranch. It was where all the meals were served and it had several rooms upstairs where most of the hired hands slept. There were a large living room and a long porch outside with wooden chairs. The dining room opened off the living room and accommodated a sizable table, where everyone sat together at mealtime. Mr. Hudspeth introduced us to a few people, including the main boss, and more or less just handed us over to strangers, with instructions to get us bunked, get us fed, and get us to work. Separate from this main farmhouse was a smaller but nicer farmhouse where the head guy, the main boss, lived with his wife and 14-year old daughter. These two women did all the cooking—-three large meals a day for upwards of a dozen people—-and kept the main floor clean. I remember the daughter being pretty.
       Now, there’s one thing about the main boss that was new to me and to which a few people would refer to from time to time behind his back, and that was that the boss had tits. Big tits, as big as a full-grown woman’s and he had to wear a bra. Most of the time he would cover them up with his blue work shirt, but every now and then he’d walk around the house with just his white tank top on and it’d be hard not to look at them.
       After introductions, Bill and I were led out the back door to a shack about 30 yards away. It was situated under the shade of a big old tree and it didn’t look like it had seen a brush of paint in a long time. There were no interior walls, just the frame structure of a square shack, boarded up on the outside with weathered planks. When the wind blew outside, it was drafty inside. There was no plumbing, just some creaky beds and some wooden boards for shelves and one exterior door that never seemed to close right.
       The next day, it was an early rise, breakfast at 6 am. Then we were loaded into the trucks that took us up to the fields. Being the smallest person there, I always rode in the back of one of the pick-ups and it was cold most mornings, especially before the sun came up. And then, of course, by mid-day it got really hot, the kind of hot that makes almost everything stick to your skin, like wheat dust and wheat chafe, the latter of which, when it got down into your jeans, required immediate attention.
       So, we worked the wheat fields of Mr. Hudspeth’s wheat ranch, with a crew of about ten to twelve men, mostly misfits, parolees, probationers, some down and out adult delinquents, and a few serious dimwits. I remember this one guy, you couldn’t say the word “mother” around him or he’d explode into a paroxysm of profanity and run insanely out of the room. I learned that the hard way. At dinner one night, I spoke the word ‘mother’ in some lame adolescent joke and this man dropped his fork and sprang up from his chair, screaming, “don’t you talk about my mother. Don’t you ever talk about my mother!” and he cussed his way out of the room. From upstairs you could hear him slugging the walls for a while.
        It turns out I was too small to lift the bales of hay up onto the flatbed truck. Each bale weighed 80 to 90 pounds and try as I might, I couldn’t get them up there. So, being as I couldn’t do the full work of a man, they said I was only worth half of what they paid the men who could. The minimum wage at the time was $1.35 an hour, half of that was .67 cents, which is what they paid me.
        They finally settled on me walking ahead of the flatbed truck and pulling the bales into straight lines so the men who could buck the bales onto the truck wouldn’t have to veer very far to pick them up. At one point, they did try to teach me how to operate and drive the big truck, which was a prospect beyond my wildest dreams. Imagine me, driving a thirteen gear truck, sitting up there on high in the cab, while my brother had to slog along bucking the bales all day behind me. It was a possibility that couldn’t be topped. But they gave up on the idea pretty fast after I messed up with the clutch one too many times. I just couldn’t get the hang (quickly enough) of working the clutch and the accelerator at the same time, which made the truck  lurch forward or slam to a halt going backward, causing the stacked hay bales on the flatbed to tumble down.
         We were warned to be on the lookout for rattlesnakes, the kind that likes to sun themselves in the field and become almost invisible in the color of the grass. You had to be careful not to step on them, which I nearly did a couple of times, the rattle of the snake’s tail so loud and frightening I swear I leaped 20 feet high and 20 feet backward, landing in a sprint, screaming, “Snake!” There were also badgers, which we saw, but only at a distance; flat, low to the ground, aggressive looking. We chased one once to his burrow in the field, but he wouldn’t come out and let us get a better look, even after I found a stick and poked it into the hole several times. We found out later that badgers belong to the wolverine family and could have, in the blink of an eye, torn our faces off. We saw a cougar once, stalking the ridgeline, looking lonely and hungry, but he never got any closer. And there were the porcupines that would come and visit us in the middle of the night, as we slept in our rustic little shack. The thing with porcupines, we learned, was that they liked to clean and sharpen their quills on old boards, which made the exterior walls of our little shack the perfect tool for their needs. That first night, the scraping noise that the sharpening and cleaning created scared the bejesus out of the two of us, having no idea what the sound was.
        There was also a fistfight, if you could call it that. A couple of weeks into our sojourn, a 16-year old juvenile delinquent from reform school was sentenced to work the ranch, and they bunked him in with Bill and me. After exchanging greeting preliminaries, we all agreed that a pillow fight was in order, and we began to whack each other in friendly fashion. But then, I got in a better than expected whack in the new guy’s face and his look of shock was so funny that Bill and I couldn’t help but laugh. This made him furious and set off a barrage of profanities and fist punches directed at my brother, who was ill-equipped to avoid them. After landing a few choice hits, this scary young man slammed outside, nearly wrenching the door off its already rusty hinges. He was never seen by us again.             

         Later that day, I heard my brother crying from inside the barn. He was hiding behind a large stack of hay bales. Approaching quietly, I shuffled my feet in the gravel to let him know I was there. He stopped crying, but his eyes were red with tears. I sat down nearby, but we didn’t talk. Bill and I weren’t really friends. We were two angry boys, who took that anger out on each other, fighting constantly, with me usually getting the short end of the stick. But now, we only had each other, and an unspoken truce seemed to have been agreed upon. After waiting a bit, I climbed to the top of the haystack and sat on the highest bale. Looking down, I saw that Bill had started throwing rocks at the back wall of the barn, denting the wooden planks. I stood up and stretched out my arms, pretending to do a swan dive, but Bill just ignored me. Jumping down, yelling, “Geronimo!” on the way, I landed on a bale right next to him. But even that death-defying feat didn’t shake loose the hurt he was feeling. After one last hard pitch, and one last dent in the wall, Bill said, “I hate this place,” and walked out of the barn into the bright daylight. Sitting on the bale of hay and plucking at the twine string that held it together, I hummed an old cowboy song for a while. Then I caught a couple of barn mice and put them in a box. I watched them run around for a bit, looking for a way out until finally, they stopped. Then I tipped the box over and left the barn. The dinner bell was ringing.