Keeping the Tarnished
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Authors: Bradon Nave
Keeping the Tarnished
Bradon Nave
Keeping the Tarnished
Copyright © 2015 by Bradon Nave.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: November 2015
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-344-1
ISBN-10: 1-68058-344-1
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my beautiful wife, Bethany.
Table of Contents
And Then There Was Freedom
The Boy
Midnight. Finally. The moments leading up to it had crawled slower than one of the maggots behind the kitchen trashcan, etching its way blindly through the coffee grounds and eggshells. He grabbed his weathered book bag full of a few clothing items and $188.00 in cash, and then stuck his leg out the window, arching his back as he felt his foot touch the ground outside. He pushed against the house, dragging his other leg across the bottom of the window frame as he lost his balance and fell backward to the ground. He didn’t care. He had been outside of this rundown shack a million times, but never had he been outside and free. Even if this freedom were short lived, and he went in the ground tomorrow, he owned it for this moment.
Quickly, he sprang to his feet, grabbed his bag, and began running in the direction of the cornfield near the end of the farmhouse drive.
The air was eerily still on this night. All was silent with the exception of a few chanting crickets and the occasional cry of the whippoorwill sounding out over the horizon. The moonlight illuminated the decrepit barn to the north of the house, as every single cornstalk in the field up ahead seemed to be reflecting the moon’s rays.
The yellow light bulb atop the wooden pole near the end of the drive was bright and buzzing in a calming manner. Several fat toads sat at the base, waiting for unfortunate insects to fall to the ground from their dizzy escapades near the globe at the top of the pole.
He ran past the half-built clubhouse his father and Uncle Doug had begun several years prior. He never understood if Doug was actually his uncle, but the men had wanted to build a ‘guy’s getaway’ for the three of them. He paid little attention to the details. He’d seen it all before hundreds of times, and he hoped to never see this place again.
Leaping over old car parts and garbage, he finally reached the corn. Although it wasn’t tall enough to hide him completely, it was all the cover he needed to make an effective escape. His heart raced wildly as he ran feverishly over the soft earth through the chest-high stalks. He began to smile through his heavy breathing, running—sprinting—excited as if he were scratching off the winning number on a substantial lottery ticket.
The prospects raced through his mind, and no adversity outside of his former confinements seemed to scare him. Starvation, disease, injury: nothing conjured concern except the idea of returning. He couldn’t go back, not now, now that a glimmer of hope had been resurrected.
As he bounded through the field like a fawn that had been mercifully released from the jaws of a predator, he felt as if he were being lifted off the ground; as if he were flying, and nothing in this world or the next could anchor him.
The taste of freedom was that of a bloodied lip, cornstalks, and the occasional mosquito; it was delicious. He knew he would leverage everything to maintain all he had in that moment, which was merely a tattered wardrobe, his father’s liquor-cash reserve, the worn clothing in the backpack, and a desperate desire to exist.
Hypervigilant and full of life, one would never have known only seven minutes prior he was a prisoner of technicality and his bedroom. Like a thief in the night, lowly and cunning, he darted through the cover, running on what seemed to be an endless rush of endorphins and adrenaline.
He was running for his life; this reality gave him wings.
The air was heavy and stagnant and seemed to fill his lungs with a thick, boggy perfume. He knew for certain that, if there were a higher power within the heavens, it would not have him come this far to go back. Even if he were found right now he knew he would die before he went back, and he would die a free man. Yes, a man. No longer a boy and no longer bound to his bedroom—to that shack—by the law. With a head full of dreams and the legs of a gazelle, he shot through the field, promising himself to never look back.
The boy was certain he had run a decent distance. Lost in the idea of an alternative existence, he had left the house mere moments prior, and already he was nearing the first stop of his journey. This was, in fact, the only scheduled stop. Just as he began to tire, he heard the faint sounds of motors passing on the two-lane blacktop on the other side of the cornfield. He knew it would only be a matter of minutes; a kind driver would pick him up, and he would be forever free of this field, the shack, and everything else imprisoning him. Finally, he could see headlights, and his future. He felt alive, and overwhelmed with the brand new taste he had acquired for freedom.
Then he saw it. A very familiar 1987 blue Chevy extended cab pickup was braking just as he had leapt from the field like a bullfrog jumping to safety in the meadow’s pond. There was no mistaking that it was the vehicle of his closest neighbor, Bill Clementine, from two miles south. Half of him wanted to jump back into the field and race somewhere else, but there was nowhere else to run. This, he decided, was one of several challenges he would be facing. He understood he would have to overcome it. After all, he was free, and no one could tell him what to do.
The truck grumbled as it came to a complete stop about two hundred feet in front of where the boy was standing. The truck’s reverse lights lit up the stalks behind him as he covered his eyes with his free arm from the red glare. Slowly, almost unsurely, the truck reversed down the road and stopped in the center, right in front of where the boy stood.
Cautious, he remained put, panting like a winded coonhound, covered in cool sweat, and red from the recent escape efforts. The boy knew, depending on how this conversation went, that this encounter could either offer assistance, or just be a hold up.
“Boy, are you okay?”
The escaping teen understood Bill to be the kind of man that seemed to only show concern if the need was genuine. He was not known as one to converse with the local busybodies at the feed store and greasy spoon. The bed of his truck was full of feed sacks and the cab was disgustingly cluttered. But the man seemed only interested in maintaining his privacy and his small farm and livestock.
“Boy,” he continued, “is you okay? Ain’t you Thomas’s boy, yeah, ain’t you Johnny?” Bill’s teeth resembled shards of butter brickle, and his blue and white striped overalls were stained heavily.
As the boy caught his breath and continuously glanced back and forth down the two-lane for lights, he finally acknowledged the question. “Yes, sir. I am.”
“Well,” said Bill, “get in and I’ll get’cha back home, you must be five or more—”
“No!”
Johnny blurted out in a desperate and exhausted voice. “You ain’t taking me nowhere, I gotta get away from here, and I don’t gotta be there by law anymore!”
Bill looked straight ahead as if he were offended. “All right now, boy. No need to get restless, I’m just being neighborly. I’ll bid ya good evenin’,” Bill said, as he reached to put his truck in gear.
“Wait, please. I need to get a ride outta here. Can you drop me off a bit up further so I can find a lift? I really need to get away from this field.” Johnny felt as though his anxiety was clawing its way free from the confinements of his core.
“A ride to where, boy? It’s damn near twelve thirty, anyone out on this road at this hour is either half-lit like myself, or lookin’ for you. Go ahead and get in just the same.”
“Thank you,” Johnny said politely as he reached for the door handle.
Bill, although good-natured, clearly had a love for the bottle. His pickup cab was evidence of that. Empty whisky bottles littered the floorboard and the ashtray was full of beer caps. Either good luck or good ol’ boy reputation had kept Bill behind the wheel for all these years.
“Just where do you plan to go, son? Ain’t you got one more year of schoolin’ before you’re done?”
Johnny merely remained silent a few moments; he had no clue where he was going. The boy took a deep breath and let it out; he then gazed out the window. He hadn’t thought about it much. He honestly thought he would have been caught or worse before now.
“I don’t know where I’ll go, but I ain’t goin’ back there. You can just drop me off up here a ways and I’ll find a lift,” he said softly, pointing up the road.
“Well, don’t you got no other family round here? Where did your momma end up?”
Johnny continued his gaze out the passenger window as his mind immediately envisioned his mother on the day she left him. His father had been at the mill that day, and his little brother had turned two the day before. Johnny was only sixteen when his mother left him. He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t go with her and his baby brother, but he knew his brother couldn’t stay.
Johnny was about three when he started to remember things—things that should be etched in no child’s memory. Jacob, Johnny’s brother, would have been three in one more year. They couldn’t stay there. Jacob would be ruined too. He now understood how scared his mother must have been on the night she left. Johnny was horribly frightened, and he didn’t even have a child to look after.
“Look, boy. I know you need help. Everyone knows you need help. You been needin’ help a while now. There’s a bus station in Shreveport. I got a bit of cash and—”
“I got money,” Johnny interrupted. “Why would you think I need money?” Johnny was irritated by the offer. Years of taunting by townsmen and classmates had left him easily offended by the topic.
Bill appeared unsure of how to respond. He looked at Johnny with a scowl and opened mouth, exposing foul breath and massive decay.
“I got my own money,” Johnny continued as he folded his arms.
“I’ll take you to the station, and you can use your money to take a bus to your momma. Will that work?”
“I can leave now?” Johnny asked in a confused tone. “I can get on a bus and leave now?” He continued to stare at Bill, but he couldn’t quite grasp what the man was saying.
“Well, you gotta get your ticket first, and to do that, we gotta go to the station. Now, does that work for you?”
“Yes, it does,” Johnny replied.
