Without (16 page)

Well, at least I now had a plan for the day.

When Sam (giddy as a school girl that I decided to find
Uncle Perry) left me, I sat at my father’s desk thinking about all the reasons
why it was a bad idea. I couldn’t argue with her that the isolation was slowly
driving me insane, but the idea of heading back out onto the road seemed more
insane.

Pushing the conflict aside, I grabbed a pen and paper to
create a checklist for securing the house while I was gone. Reality set in a
few minutes later, reminding me there was nothing I could do to keep people out
unless I stayed. The checklist changed directions, showing me the only thing I
could do was hide everything I wanted to keep.

I hated that shovel.

With blisters still trying to heal from working the soil for
the gardens, I started digging again. I needed four holes deep enough to bury
three fifty-five gallon drums and a steamer trunk. I chose a spot off the
gravel driveway around a bend. In the event somebody – or a group – decided to
move into my house, I needed the hiding spot to be well concealed. On the flip
side, I wanted the holes to be close enough to move the contents back to the
house if I returned and it was still unoccupied.

A clearing behind a row of trees thirty yards off the
driveway seemed like a good spot. Not two strikes into the earth, and I was
hitting roots and rocks. It became an exercise in perseverance. I had no choice
but to break through the barriers. The chances of bears or hillbillies finding
my stash of food and weapons were too great to leave them above ground. After
digging all day – dragging the 500 pound shovel behind me – I made my way back
to the house.

After grabbing a bite to eat, I walked through the house taking
inventory of the items I’d be stowing inside the uncovered containers in the
morning. Room by room, I found myself collecting objects other than food and
weapons. As the pile in the main room grew, I was surprised at what I
considered valuable – what was important to me – and what wasn’t. I sat next to
it, picking up each object, taking myself to a different place and time.

I held a small wooden box my father helped me build when I was
six years old. On the bottom my name was carved. Inside were his wedding ring,
pocket watch, whittling knife, and a small laminated photo of my mother when
she was seventeen. Those were the four things he always carried with him.

As a lump formed in my throat, I knew I was embarking on
another exercise in perseverance. It wasn’t a pile of objects in front of me.
It was a time machine, taking me back to brilliant moments filled with color,
warmth, and sincerity. They were reminders of two lives well lived that joined
together to create mine. They were also reminders that they were living them
long before I came along. In an instant they became more than my parents. They
became two people I admired and envied who lived full lives and never had to
see what the world – and everyone in it – had become, including me.

As I looked into my mother’s young eyes and beaming smile, I
thought about the men I burned, shot, stabbed, and buried. I wondered if that
smile would hold true if she learned about the atrocities committed by her son.
Would it hold true if she learned about what I did to Hope? Would it hold true
if she learned about the anger and hate that fueled my rage against anything
that challenged me? Unable to look her in the face any longer, I returned the
photo to the box.

Picking up the pocket watch, I was able to clear my mind of
the painful thoughts. It was handed down to my father from his. Before mine
died, he told me it belonged to me now. He told me everything belonged to me
now. When I opened the cover and wound the spring, it was as if I were listening
to the sound of a miracle as I held it to my ear. Time was moving again.

I walked outside to a large flower garden my mother had tended
like it was her second child. In the center an ornate brass sundial sat on top
of a pedestal. I remember my father telling me it was accurate to within thirty
minutes of the actual time. I set the watch to the late afternoon hour and
attached it to my shirt, sliding it into its new home in my pocket. With it
resting over my heart, I closed my eyes, feeling even closer to the men who had
owned it before me.

Returning to the pile in the main room, I opened one of
several thick photograph albums. (My mother was meticulous about having each in
chronological order.) Sam was right. I looked exactly like my father when he
was my age. It was as if I were looking into a mirror.

The painful thoughts of what my mother would think of my
decisions over the past month were replaced with how I thought my father would
feel. I thought of the hell on earth my father would rain down on anyone that
attempted to hurt his bride. In my eyes he was the definition of a warrior.

He was a stoic man with little use for words, determining a
man’s worth and character through his actions. As I grew older – and more aware
of events taking place around me – I would notice when my dad approved, or
disapproved, of someone he was with. He shook everyone’s hand. If he approved,
it would be accompanied by a wide smile. If he didn’t, the smile was absent,
but I could see the muscles in his forearm flex. He was letting them know his
strength was much deeper than the pressure in his grip.

Flipping through the pages of the album, I noticed there was
a period of time when pictures of him were few. The four years of family photos
taken during his tours in Vietnam lacked his presence. There were only two
pages dedicated to his service of our country. In each there was a forced
smile, but the sadness and pain in his eyes wasn’t forced.

Shortly before he died, he spoke to me about those years. He
told me it was easier to think of his death in the jungle than it was thinking
about making it home alive. He tried many times to forget my mother’s face,
knowing he’d never see it again. When he did make it home, he vowed there
wasn’t a force on earth that would ever separate them again. He made a promise
to her he never broke. The cause of his death three months after my mother’s
was listed as heart failure. I knew he was just keeping that promise. My father
was a man of his word.

My mother died of natural causes. Sam didn’t. She was
murdered by three men who were never punished for their crime. I saw those
faces whenever a coward crossed my path, thinking they could take from me or
anyone else. I didn’t set out looking for them, but they were fucking
everywhere. When they made that decision to challenge me, they got punished
shortly after. I didn’t think my father would have a problem with that.

“They were good people, your folks,” said Earl, sitting at
my father’s desk. “My pops was a good man, too. All he cared about was takin’
care of his family. You know, providin’ us with more than what he had growin’
up. Did you know he had two other jobs other than tendin’ the greens at the
club?”

“That doesn’t surprise me, Earl. My dad was the same way.
Any spare time he had, he’d fill it with work. My mother and I never wanted for
anything. I think all she ever really wanted was for him to take it easy and
enjoy his life.”

“Him workin’ to give you a better life and take care of his
bride is what he enjoyed, son. It made him feel like a man worth something. His
time away from you both during that war helped him to figure out what’s really
important. His family and the folks he loved. That’s it. Nothing else matters.”

“Then what do you do when they’re all gone? All the people
you cared about or loved. What do you do then?”

“Don’t you mean what do
you
do?” asked Earl. “That’s
who we’re talking about here, ain’t we? You.”

“You’re very perceptive, old man,” I said, grinning. “Yes,
the people I cared about most in my life are dead.”

“Oh, now, young man,” said Earl, shaking his head. “You got
it all mixed up. Those people you loved are dead, all right. But your ability
to love isn’t. That’s still there. That makes your life worth livin’. You’ll
care about people again. You lose that hope, and then you might as well end it
yourself.”

“I told you that I’m not the suicide type.”

“I know what you told me,” said Earl, leaning back in my
father’s chair. “I know you’re not that type. But let me ask you then. What
type are you?”

“I have no idea.”

“I do,” said Earl, ginning wider. “You’re the type that
don’t quit.”

“I agree, buddy. Suicide is quitting. I’m not ready for
that.”

“I’m proud of you,” said Earl, standing and walking over to
the window.

“For what?”

“Goin’ to look for your kin out there. I think that’s the
best idea Sam has had. It’s important that you find your uncle. You’re gonna
see a lot of your father in his face. Even more than in your own. You see, he’s
connected to him in different ways than you are. He’s got stories and tales
goin’ way back with your papa since they was kids. Things you ain’t never heard
of or seen before. It’s gonna be good for you, son. Real good.”

“Okay, let me play devil’s advocate here,” I said. “What if
he’s not the type to stroll down memory lane or even give a crap that his
nephew showed up at his door? He may look at me as just another straggler
begging for food or shelter. He may look at me as a burden.”

“I’ll eat my hat,” said Earl, turning to face me. “I’ll eat
it right in front of you if he don’t give you a bear hug when he sees you. He’s
got kids, your uncle?”

“Yeah, he’s got three, I think. No, I’m sure of it. He has two
sons and a daughter around my age.”

“Yes sir, I’ll eat my hat if he don’t light up.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You ain’t a father, so you don’t know why I know. I just
do. I know he’s gonna take you in and take care of you like one of his own.
You’re his brother’s child. Makes no matter that you’re a grown man. He’s got
somethin’ deep inside him that’ll always make him wanna take care of you. I’d
do it for mine. That’s how I’m sure.”

“I hope you’re right, Earl.”

“I know I’m right. You see, son, you’re at war, too. It’s no
different than your father’s war. Just a different place and time, but war is
war. You’re learning things, too. Like he did. Look at what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“That,” said Earl, pointing at the pile in the middle of the
room. “You’re learning what’s important. You wanna protect the things that
connect you to your parents. You know you can find more food and guns out
there, but you won’t find another wooden box with your name carved on the
bottom. You won’t find another ring your father wore on his finger, showin’ his
love for your mother. And you’ll never, ever find another picture book with
those same photos. You’re learning what’s really important to you. That’s why
you’re riskin’ everything, headin’ out to find your uncle.”

“Actually, Earl, I wouldn’t mind if you helped me out with
that. I don’t think I know why I’m risking everything to go find him.”

“It’s because he’s got your father’s blood in him,” said
Earl, putting his hand on my shoulder. “The same blood you got pumpin’ through
your veins right now. That’s why.”

I slept like an exhausted baby. I woke up stiff but feeling
good about the decision to find my uncle. One of the many lessons I’d learned
in the past month was that a person constantly needed to have a goal to fend
off boredom. Winding my father’s pocket watch, I set out to complete the
checklist before I left.

Filling the wheelbarrow, I made my way up the driveway to
the open containers. It didn’t take me long to stuff each to the rim with the
items I had recently discovered were important to me. Two of the drums held
food, weapons, and ammunition. The third drum and the steamer trunk held the
only evidence my family ever existed, besides me.

After I covered and camouflaged my stash, I wanted to throw
that evil shovel down the mountain. I knew it was a valuable tool, but I was
tired of digging holes to hide supplies and bury bodies. Thinking into the
future about having to search for it when I returned, I decided to spare its
life, for now.

Walking onto the deck, my mind was filled with conflicting
thoughts, each battling for first place. The way I figured it, my mother was on
my right shoulder with my father on the left. It wasn’t a question of who was
the angel or the devil, but whose philosophy would drive my actions of securing
the house.

On my left side, the voice was telling me to booby trap the
entrances, rig the propane tank to blow, and foul the water supply. Hell, even
poison it if someone decided to take up residence in my parents’ dream home.

On my right side, the voice was telling me to leave the
front door unlocked with a note. It was telling me to leave a message that
anyone was welcome who needed shelter for the night.

Of course I was leaning to the left. The only occupants I
saw coming around the bend were drifters looking to pillage. Visions of a
family on the verge of starvation, dragging tired bodies through the doorway,
looking only for a place to rest were in the back of my mind.

 As if my mother peered around my neck, shooting my father a
chilling stare, I decided a balance of the two might satisfy both. I couldn’t
help but account for the kindness that was shown to me by others who had the
same choices. (Ms. Emma and the rangers were obviously standing with my
mother.)

Finishing the sign that would hang on the front door,
directing any visitors to a note on the kitchen counter, I could feel my
mother’s pleasure. It welcomed them to rest for as long as they needed, but
also warned them of the consequences if they took advantage of the hospitality
or decided to make it their permanent residence. I wrote that we were all
well-armed, weren’t far, and would be back in a few days.

There was a certain amount of comfort knowing the time of
day and exactly when the sun would be setting. As I returned the watch to my
pocket, I decided dinner would be a feast. I splurged, firing up the gas grill
and opening a jar of seasoned venison. (I was pleased I wasn’t greeted with the
smell of rotting meat when I removed the lid.)

Throwing more caution to the wind, I built a fire and lit
torches on each corner of the deck. Snapping a white cloth over the table, I
set it with my mother’s fine china and silver. When I finished the preparations,
the maître d’ of the five star restaurant was ready to seat my two guests.
Arriving with a smile, wearing a simple, elegant black dress, Sam seemed to
float across the deck. As I pulled out her chair, Earl followed with a grin.

“Now, this is something,” said Earl, shaking my hand.

“Isn’t it?” said Sam, turning around in her chair. “And look
at that sunset. It’s gorgeous.”

“Mother Nature has been kind to me these past few days,” I
said, knocking on the wood rail. “I think she approves of my decision.”

“The red sky?” said Earl.

“Yep,” I replied. “Always a good sign, buddy.”

“We approve as well,” said Sam. “I can’t wait for you to get
there. It’s going to be the best day you’ve had in a long time.”

“I’m counting on it,” I said. “I want to thank you both for
showing up.”

“I wouldn’t miss a home cooked meal for nothing,” said Earl.
“That smells delicious.”

“We’re never far, sweetie,” said Sam, killing me with her
radiance.

“This is the first time we’ve all been together,” I said.
“It means a lot to me that you’re both here. I have to admit I’m a bit
apprehensive about this new plan, but I also have to admit I’m just as excited.
I’m not looking forward to the road, so I figured we’d all spend a quiet
evening together before I left.”

“You’ve done an amazing job with this dinner and the
ambience, but I wish there was a little music to go with our meal,” said Sam.
“Other than you, it’s what I miss most about our old world.”

“Shoot,” said Earl. “I can take care of that for you. All I
need you two to do is close them eyes and concentrate on what you wanna hear.
I’ll make it happen.”

“Really?” said Sam, lighting up even brighter. “Can I make
the first request?”

“Sure, baby,” I said, grinning. “Whatever you want.”

We both closed our eyes, but I couldn’t help peeking at her.
She lowered her head, concentrating so hard I could feel it. When the song came
to her, she inhaled with delight. My grin stretched to a smile. As if the
moment wasn’t magical enough, the air filled with music. It was the first song
we ever danced to. Sam lifted her head, leaned over to hug Earl, and then held
out her hand over the table, putting it in mine. We stood and walked to the
dance floor.

With her eyes glassing over with tears, I slid my hand to
the small of her back, pulling her close into me. She rested her head on my
shoulder, swaying to the rhythm of her favorite song. Earl responded with more
magic, turning up the volume on the mysterious juke box. I looked over at him
with his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands. I whispered a thank
you as he watched us glide over the floor.

If I was going to lose my life, I wanted it to happen in
that moment. Whatever I would face in the next world had to be better than
missing her in mine. I didn’t tighten my hold to pull her in closer. I
tightened it so I wouldn’t fall to my knees. Earl must have noticed my weakness
as the music began to fade. Sam didn’t make it easier whispering in my ear that
she loved me.

In a place and time that should’ve made me happy, I found
myself filling with rage. The violence in my heart drained the magic from the
deck, pulling Sam and Earl back into the darkness. As her fingertips slid
across mine with outstretched arms, I watched her face fade back into my memory
where she belonged.

Silence returned to my world as I stood alone, staring into
the shadows where they disappeared. I felt ridiculous, looking down at three
place settings after I had finished dancing with a ghost. I was like a child
with imaginary friends, allowing them to make decisions I couldn’t make on my
own.

Before the consequences could stop my actions, I watched in
slow motion as my mother’s china hung suspended in the air. Tumbling over the
rail, the table held on to the cloth as if it were wearing a cape. When I
reached out for a spinning plate, the others crashed to the deck, exploding
into little pieces. Slipping through my grasp, the last plate died with the
rest.

Nothing was real in my world. Nothing made sense. I was
letting the dead live my life. Sam, Earl, my parents. All dead. All making
decisions for me. It had to stop. It had to stop right now. The next decision
had to be mine. Wrong or right, good or bad, it had to be mine. The way I saw
it, I had two choices. Put a gun in my mouth or leave the past behind.

As a wave of calm passed through my body, I walked inside
the house. My pistols were always on my belt. My pack, shotgun, and AR were
always ready to move. Loaded down with ammunition and food, I slung it out the
front door. Going back inside, I separated every gas line connection in the
house.

I knew I didn’t have much time, but the urgency didn’t
quicken my pace to the deck. I removed one of the lit torches and walked back
inside. Standing in the middle of the main room, I dropped it between my
parents’ favorite chairs that overlooked the valley.

Turning toward the stairs that would lead me away from
certain death, I took slow, deliberate steps up to the foyer. Staring at my
pack in the middle of the driveway, I stopped in the doorway. I was going to
give the Reaper one last opportunity to cross my soul off his list. When he
decided it wasn’t my time, I walked outside, picked up my pack and guns, and
strolled away from the house.

As I walked around a bend, I wondered if the torch had
burned itself out before the gas could reach it. The thought was pushed out of
my mind as the explosion knocked me to the ground. Even with the edge of the
mountain between me and the destruction of my home, the gravel danced around my
face from the shockwave.

When I pushed myself up to my knees, the concussion from the
thousand gallons of propane igniting sent me back down. Larger rocks dislodged
from the side of the mountain rolled passed me, cutting in on the dancing
gravel. As a boulder crossed my path less than two feet from my head, I swear I
could hear it laughing at me.

It was easy to spot any more attempts by Bootleg Mountain to
bash in my skull as the fireball rose above the ridgeline, illuminating the
entire valley. If anyone was stargazing, they had just become witness to the
power of my first decision. I just sent the past where it needed to be.

My next thought was of my parents. I could imagine them
looking down on me with gaping mouths and wild eyes. It was the moment that
there was no doubt in their minds that their son had lost his. But I didn’t
care about what they thought. They were dead. There would be no conversation
about what I did. There would be no consequences. Just like there were none
when I broke her china. In this new world, I was free to do anything I wanted.

Dusting myself off, there was vigor in my stride. I was
looking down the dirt road, hoping there would be cowards waiting for me around
the corner. They would meet the same fate as the house. They would be the only
consequences of my decisions. Until I was struck down by man or Mother Nature,
I’d punish them all.

There was no hesitation on which direction I would walk into
the dark when I reached the asphalt at the end of the driveway. Before I
turned, I pulled the shotgun, using the buckshot as a chainsaw on the mailbox.
After the third round, I yelled timber as it fell over.

I stepped over it, putting my foot on road I hadn’t
traveled. I decided to leave everything behind me, heading in a new direction
that would take me to my uncle’s house. If I ever had a chance to find home, in
my mind, it was with him.