STRUGGLES OF A COUNTRY BOY
by
Herb Blanchard
Struggles of a Country Boy
by Herb Blanchard
Copyright 2011 Herb Blanchard
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover photo & others from the author’s collection
Also by Herb Blanchard published at Smashword
An Okinawan Affair
Shuri Gate
My Life Before & Without Boomers & Yuppies
BOOK DESCRIPTION
This is the fictionalized story of the author's growing up years during the 1950s. It is the story of a troubled boy, a dysfunctional family and how the boy learned to cope with the adversities life threw at him.
The 1950s was the time when it was generally thought the ideal way to raise a boy was to live in the country, give him a dog, a .22 rifle and let him roam the open fields and woods and for Brad Burgess this was indeed the case. Although he was a troubled youth Brad was a unique person and his way of dealing with the adversities in his life were often dangerous for a young boy but showed great courage and a strong will for survival in a world he did not completely understand. Brad's major problems were precipitated by his mother. It becomes obvious to the reader that she had major mental problems. Her rages were short lived but extremely dangerous for a boy who could easily trigger one or be in the way when life took a twist his mother would be unable to deal with. Her dissatisfaction with life was not particularly different from other people's but the way she dealt with it was.
Brad was sexually abused by his ten year older half brother before he entered the first grade and again later when he was 7 and 8 years old. We see the effect of this abuse on his relationship with people, particularly women, though no connection is ever made between the abuse and these relationships in that era of time.
Brad learned to protect himself in a family environment which at times appeared to be uncaring and against his best interests as a young man. While at the same time he discovered the good in his away-from-family environment, in the people he got to know and those who got to know him for the caring human being he developed into.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my paternal grandmother, Clara Burgess Blanchard.
The only sane person in the family.
ONE
The image of the black cast iron skillet raised like a prehistoric club over her head, and the wild primitive look in his mother's eyes would stay with Brad Burgess forever.
The sharp crack of breaking glass slashed the stillness of the Burgess kitchen drowning out the dull thud of the wooden chair striking the French door.
It was carelessness, but the thirteen year old boy hadn't placed the chair in front of the French door with all of its little pieces of fragile glass.
Brad was skinny and small for his age, but wiry and fast from many hours of roaming in the woods, and he had developed a strong instinct for self preservation which made him react instantaneously.
It was just a split second after he had humped the chair up onto its back legs, felt it slam into the door and heard the sound of shattering glass that his hazel eyes took in the hunk of swinging iron. Terrified, Brad bolted off the chair. A fraction of a second and he was in a crouching gallop going around the towering, enraged female figure who stood between him and escape. Brad swung himself through the doorway into the narrow hall skidding on a throw rug in his haste to escape. He caught himself on the ugly black varnished maple buffet with the cracked marble top. His balance regained, he sprinted down the dimly lit hall towards the back of the house.
He slowed just enough to jerk open the door into the pump room. Two quick steps skirting the water pump and pressure tank and he was across the room.
His right foot came up to kick the scarred door blocking his way. He struck the door with all his strength.
The door snapped open with a shower of wood splinters from its tired frame. The brass striker plate spun by his ear like a piece of hot shrapnel.
The door crashed against the wall and bounced back.
Brad caught the rebounding door with a small, dirty hand slamming it back towards the wall in one flowing motion.
It's open! Brad thought when he saw through his tears of fright that the outside door was open. Less than fifty feet away was the safety of the trees.
Is she chasing me? I don't dare look back, passed through Brad's mind as he vaulted onto the broken granite rocks which formed the stone wall which ran around the side and back perimeters of the house.
The shock of landing on the slabs of granite hurt the balls of his feet through the worn, paper thin soles of his cheap sneakers.
Brad felt secure the instant he entered the woods. This was his domain, his sanctuary. Here, he could escape from the raised voices, arguments and physical threats which were part of his everyday life. He slowed slightly before trotting deeper into the trees where he was sure no one could see him from the backyard.
His heart was still pounding when Brad wiped the tears from his cheeks and bent forward, with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.
A slow change came over Brad as he caught his breath. He raised his head, stood a little straighter and looked around his little piece of the New Hampshire forest. He listened to the familiar sounds of the woods, adjusted his ball cap low on his forehead before looking back towards the red trimmed, white bungalow. Satisfied that no one was pursuing him, he turned back towards the house.
His mother's rages never lasted long. In minutes, sometimes only seconds, and they were over. But it was the lack of any expression of remorse that hurt. Even a quiet "I'm sorry, Brad," would have dulled his pain. It was not like he wanted to be held or hugged. That didn't happen in his family. A ritual peck on the cheek at bedtime was all of the physical contact in the Burgess household.
"The hell with her!" Brad spoke loudly to the trees while he wiped the last traces of his tears away.
It only took him a couple of minutes to slip through the door from the porch and into the house. He got his .22 rifle from his bedroom before quietly going back towards the front of the house. Instead of going directly outside Brad took a half step into the kitchen and in the doorway looking slowly from the pieces of glass scattered in an arc around the French door and the offending chair to his mother’s rigid back as she stood motionless in front of the kitchen stove. He continued to stand in the doorway and scuffed a nervous toe against the threshold. He shifted the little rifle from one hand to the other when he wiped his clammy hands on the upper leg of his thin dungarees.
He stared at the rigid back and felt the lump of emotion in his throat. That awful sense of being alone was returning to overwhelm him again. He shook his head sadly. Hot tears welled in his eyes as he slipped quietly back out the door.
"Let's go, Rusty." He spoke in a subdued voice to the brown and white mongrel bitch who had been lying in ambush behind the stonewall.
The two friends started up the driveway towards the neighbor's place. It was the only other house within a mile. While Brad lived right on the state road, the French's house was a quarter of a mile up a sandy lane from the narrow highway. Brad followed the driveway past the barn and with the big New England farm house on his right, went down the gentle slope to the creek bottom where the French family had their acre of vegetable garden.
"Maybe the woodchuck is out, Rusty. Stay close now."
He tried to snap his fingers to call her to him. As usual he blew it. All he got was a muffled sound like two pieces of cloth rubbing together. And as usual, the dog ignored him. She took off at an aggressive trot for the farmhouse's wide country porch. Brad didn't pay any more attention to his two year old mutt; she was rubbing noses with the French's collie-cross, who was her mother.
Rusty followed Brad everywhere. She was loyal to a fault, but had absolutely no discipline. She did just what she wanted to do. Anyway, it didn't matter, his mind was on the possibility of shooting the fat woodchuck who had taken up residence in the French's huge garden. Brad wanted to get the laugh on Doctor French's two grandsons, Robbie and Ernie, by doing it. Brad didn't really like them and was sure the feeling was mutual, particularly Ernest who was the oldest. Smart-assed bastard, Brad thought, distracted from his mission for a second by envy and resentment. Carefully, Brad kept the newly painted garden shed between himself and the rows of vegetables. He set each foot down deliberately, quietly stalking closer towards the garden and its elusive resident.
When he reached the corner of the freshly painted white garden shed he turned towards the big white farm house which stood only fifty or so feet away.
Brad felt a quick flash of heat rush across his face as his thoughts went back to an afternoon last summer.
It was right after lunch on a hot, late June day, the second week of school vacation. He walked up to the French's looking for Robbie and Ernie to go swimming.
When Brad reached the big barn he decided to look for the boys out by the farm pond first. He started across the front lawn walking towards the cool looking water when he saw Rita French, Robbie's and Ernie's mother stretched out on a white blanket by the edge of the man-made lake. The thirty-something mother was clad in short-shorts and a skimpy halter top. So taken by the female figure before him all Brad could verbalize was, "H-h-i, Ri--ta."
"The boys aren't here, Brad. They went to Nashua with their father." Rita flashed even white teeth which were in sharp contrast to her overall mahogany colored tan.
"They won't be home until supper time. Come here, Brad. Do me a favor, will you?"
Rita raised up and took a red tipped hand from under her dimpled chin, patted a spot on the soft, cotton blanket next to her bare right shoulder.
Brad hesitated when he reached the edge of the white cloth and looked down at the skimpily clad 'mother figure' below him. He felt the heat of his blush race up the back of his neck and into his ears. The boy felt a cold sweat breakout on his head when he realized Rita was watching him stare at her barely covered breasts.
"Here, Brad," she had a soft understanding smile when she patted the blanket again, "I need you . . . ," she was still smiling softly and ignoring Brad's discomfort which was increasing each time she moved to make room for him on the tiny blanket, "to look at my back and be sure I'm not getting too much sun. Look close for small white blisters, Brad. I don't want to peel and ruin my tan."
Brad was dying, his heart was racing and he could hardly breath. His thoughts were confused and racing in all directions at once. He was in a situation way beyond his years.
"Here Brad, put some of this on my back. It's a special formula that I read about in GOOD HOUSEKEEPING. It won't let your skin dry out. Are there any blisters?" Rita was holding a small glass bottle in her left hand, close to her breasts.
Brad watched the shimmering mixture with fascination. He was sure it was made of exotic oils and perfumes. The bronze liquid rippled against the inside of the clear glass bottle with each tiny motion of Rita's tiny, soft hand. Brad reached over her shoulder and hesitantly took hold of the small bottle.
"I don't see an-ny. Y--ur back is all oily, Rita."
She took the bottle from his hand. "Never mind then. If there are no blisters and there's still oil on me, I don't need you to rub more on me." She turned around and lay back down on the blanket.
"Good-by, Brad, I'll tell the boys you were here."
He bounced up onto his feet and hurried away.
"I hope she isn't mad because she caught me looking at her boobs." Brad spoke quietly to himself with feelings of wonder and guilt as he trotted across the wide, green lawn in his rush to get away from this seductive creature. "Damn! I hope she doesn't tell my mother. If she does I'll really be in trouble."
He turned back to be sure Rita was still on her blanket and not hurrying into the house to call his mother. He saw the inert form on the blanket much as he had left her.
Brad blinked his eyes, wiped away a trace of spider web from his face. He thought of all the agony he had suffered since that day. Every time the phone rang had become a traumatic moment for him. He was sure it was Rita calling Carrie to tell her the awful thing her son had done. Whenever he had the faintest inkling his mother and Rita might be talking to each other the pit of his stomach would knot up in fear. It had happened over three months ago and he was still living with the guilt of wanting to see and touch Rita's bare breasts.
He turned back towards the garden. "Bitch," he said aloud and started across the vegetable patch kicking at the rows of dried up string bean bushes as he went. The woodchuck was forgotten for the moment.
"Come on, Rusty!" Brad hollered at his dog.
He heard the mongrel racing after him when he entered the trees and stepped onto an old logging road which was so overgrown with brush that few people knew of its existence. It led to a newer road which would take him to the south end of the sugar maple orchard. Close to the orchard was the slab-sided cabin which he used as a hideout.
The trees and brush had encroached into the center of the road, but he could move swiftly and quietly through the smaller weeds and grasses growing in the wheel ruts. Coming around a bend in the road he could see where the trees gave way to a large sun-lit meadow. On a small knoll to his right, East, stood a huge sugar maple, his landmark to the cabin. Brad was sure the ancient giant was five or six hundred years old. To the north of the massive old tree was the slab-sided cabin. In its front wall were two windows whose panes of glass had twisted and distorted with time. They made the sun dance and race about the walls whenever a faint breeze would move them in their loose fitting frames. The front and only door was split, Dutch style. It was made of thick pieces of rough white pine which were gray and cracked with age.
Just before he stepped into the clearing Brad saw the cabin's door was ajar, not much, only several inches. When he was here on Wednesday or Thursday evening, he couldn't remember which, the door had been open then also. But he had closed and latched it after checking inside for a stray porcupine that he might collect the bounty on.
Brad looked around and listened for any strange sounds and also for Rusty who was nowhere in hearing or sight.
I wonder where that mutt is now?
Brad slipped through the brush around to the west side of the clearing. It was a maneuver he had used before to scare the French kids when they had hid from him in the cabin.
Creeping quietly to the front corner of the one room cabin, Brad stopped before stepping around the corner towards the front door. He felt the hair raise on the back of his neck. The palms of his hands became slick and wet. His heart raced.
The soft footfalls on the cabin's worn pine board floor penetrated the thick slab walls only as pressure and faint squeaks of the boards. The footfalls were quickly followed by the solid thump of a heavy body dropping to the floor.
Though scared, Brad clung to the corner of the building with his left hand. His right hand held the .22 out around the corner pointing towards the front door. Behind his little rifle, one slow step at a time, Brad steadily crept around the corner of the cabin. One uneasy step at a time he made his way towards the open door.
THUMP! Thump! THUMMP!
Brad's heart did a skip and threatened to quit.
The familiar jingle of the dog's chain collar and license tags erupted from inside the cabin when she chased another flea up her side and across her ribs.
"You fucking jerk! Where did you come from? You scared the shit out of me! Someday I'm going to shoot you just to get even." Brad hollered false threats at his dog when he stepped up onto the slab of gray granite that served as the cabin's front step.
With her eyes laughing and a smile on her glossy black lips, the brown and white mutt charged out the door around Brad's legs. She was in close pursuit of another nonexistent rabbit.
All of the furnishings, except for a couple of built-in shelves hanging on the walls, had been removed from the cabin years before. Brad and the French boys had dragged an old bed frame to the cabin the summer before and it was there if someone was brave enough to sleep over.
Not completely satisfied the cabin was empty, Brad looked around carefully. There was no place to hide at the west end where the huge rough rock fireplace took up the whole end wall. He looked across the rock hearth, worn and polished by use, to the bed of cold ashes pushed up into the back right corner of the firebox. It was the remains of the last fire he had built in the late spring, when it was still raining. Wet and cold he had stopped at the cabin to get warm and to dry out after coming off of the mountain. But mostly he had just been killing time. It had been too early to go to a house full of relatives, none of whom he really liked or cared about.
Brad looked over the rest of the room to satisfy himself it was empty before flopping down in the doorway to catch the last bit of afternoon sun.
If I go back just when dad gets there from work she won't say anything to me about the window.
TWO
It was a hard day for Brad. The thought of going back to his house had nagged at his mind most of the day. When he had left for school that morning his mother had been in her bed in the throes of a migraine and was constantly moaning.
She reminded Brad of his sister Greta's cat. It had been hit by a car and for two days laid in a rag-lined cardboard box moaning and growling softly until it finally succumbed to its injuries.
The smell of his mother's bedroom was the combination of a sweaty, sour body and that awful Rexall Balm she used for her headaches. To Brad the balm's overpowering smell of eucalyptus and camphor was ten times more potent than the odor of Vicks Vaporub's that was liberally smeared on him whenever he caught a cold.
On the first day the smell wasn't very strong, but by the third morning the hall leading to the bathroom and his room was so foul and strong Brad could no longer stand it. He would go out through the side porch door and around the outside of the house to come in through the pump room door. It was the long way around, but easier on his stomach.
While the school bus carried him closer to the source of his anxiety Brad was desperately hoping his mother felt better and was out of bed so he could go squirrel hunting. He was sorry his mother had a bad headache but he really didn't want to hang around the house to hear and smell her agony.
The yellow school bus rounded a sharp bend then followed the blacktop down a short hill. They were entering the grove of ancient oaks where Brad hunted squirrels when George, the burly bus driver, hollered over his shoulder.
"Hey, Brad!" George's deep voice made Brad leave his thoughts of his mother.
"Did ya see' m, Brad? He crossed the road right in front of us!"
"What, George? I didn't see anything." Brad got interested in a hurry and his mood immediately switched gears.
George was a hunter and fisherman. He and Brad often talked hunting and fishing on the long rides back and forth to school. Brad knew if George hollered about seeing something it would be of interest to him also.
"Biggest damn cat I've seen in years. And he's crossing roads in broad daylight no less. You'd best get your rifle and go after 'em, Brad!" George was shaking his head vigorously in disbelief.
George drove the big, forty passenger school bus faster than he normally did. When he swung it around in the mouth of the French's driveway it leaned heavily into the turn and its rear tires slid on the gravel before George got it stopped with the mud splattered front step hanging over the Burgess’ flagstone walk. George was anxious to get Brad on his way after the big cat.
George ignored the French boys. They had crowded up behind Brad, and were fighting with each other, as usual, to see who would be the first off the bus. Brad knew George wouldn't open the door until he was through talking. For some reason Brad could never comprehend, the Frenchs didn't get the message. No matter how much of a rush they were in, Ernie and Robbie wouldn't get off the bus until George wanted them to.
Brad didn't think George liked them very much, but George never said much out loud, good or bad, about anyone.
"I think that cat is headed for the big ledge behind Ballou's sawmill. That's where people have been seeing him crossing the state road at night.
If you go over the ridge Brad, and come into the ledges from the top, you might get a shot at him. But be real quiet and take your time."
George swung the shiny metal door handle with the flourish of Arthur Fiedler bringing in the strings section. A gentle slap on his small backside from George's work worn hand hurried Brad on his way.
"See ya, Kid, and good luck!" George hollered after him as Brad hit the flagstones on the trot and an instant later threw open the front door.
Brad thought of his mother lying in bed barely in time to catch the heavy maple door and prevent it from slamming open. A quick look down the hallway towards his parent's bedroom and with an equal mixture of dread and hope he realized she was still in bed behind the closed door. He stood stock-still in the doorway dreading the moment when her plaintive cry would summon him to do her bidding.
Brad was mentally hurrying George and his bus on their way. He was anxiously aware that his mother might have heard the bus and would already be wondering where he was.
When he heard George shift the bus into fourth gear and the bus's rumble fading up the hill Brad slipped back outside closing the door quietly behind him. He hurried to the corner of the house and cautiously looked towards the French's. The boys were out of sight so he stepped around the corner.
He stood on the old granite stonewall which ended at the house under one of his bedroom windows. He felt lucky for the moment. There was no one around to wonder why he was going into his house through a window. Mentally crossing his fingers and hoping the window wouldn't screech out an alarm Brad slowly pushed it up. He also hoped his bedroom door was still closed. The last things he had done this morning, before running out to catch the bus, were to hid his .22 rifle under his bed and to close his bedroom door. The good natured George had kidded him about crowding his luck since it was a seven mile walk to school in Wilmet if George should take it into his head to leave without Brad.
It had been well worth the kidding from George and the dirty look from fat Greta for holding the bus up. He wanted the door closed in case he had to slip in to his room after school. He thought he might want to change his clothes and get his .22 rifle without his mother knowing he was there.
The door was still closed. Now the chances of his mother hearing him come in and go out through his bedroom window were slim. He would just be extra quiet.
Brad had already decided if she called out for him he would pretend he was not there. She could not be sure whether he had got off the bus or not. For all she could tell, only the French boys had been on the bus.
Besides, sometimes I wait in Wilmet for Dad instead of riding the bus. Anyway, Greta will be here before long. Brad rationalized. She can wait on Mom and clean-up the kitchen before Dad gets home.
In under fifteen minutes Brad was quietly climbing back out of the window and onto the stonewall. His rifle lay in the grass where he had lowered it out of the window with the piece of nylon parachute cord which was still attached to the stock.
He was ready to go after George's cat.
It was a hard forty minute climb to the crest of the ridge. Brad went over the top picking his way through the low bush blueberries and head high birch and beech saplings.
The chill of the cool fall breeze blowing on the east side of the ridge hit him as he broke over the rocky spine. The wind was light, but it held a strong promise of frost before morning.
With the slowly setting sun on his back he kept going down the east slope until he hit the upper part of the granite ledges where he could rest before descending further down the ridge. His shadow on the ground ahead of him had grown in length and he knew that he was running out of daylight fast and could only halt for a minute or two. Before he started to hurry down the ridge again the sun was barely hanging above the purple hills forming the southwest horizon.
A fast, quiet quarter of a mile more and Brad could see Ballou's sawmill. The mill sat next to the highway a half mile as the crow flies from where Brad was and five or six hundred feet lower at the foot of the mountain.
Between Brad and the mill were a series of vertical faced ledges with massive piles of jagged granite boulders at their feet. The smallest of the rocks were the size of fifty-five gallon oil drums, while the largest ones were as big as good sized houses. All were aged dark gray and streaked with green and silver-gray lichens. The rocks had been broken off the face of the ledge and stacked haphazardly by the last glacier as it crept southward. The great sheet of ice had slowly receded thousands of years ago leaving a unique architecture of tunnels, crevices, and holes in its wake. These natural structures became the homes and sanctuaries for countless animals. The foxes, bears, bobcats and any other creatures which needed shelter from January's sub-zero cold and deep snows or the torrential spring rains had sought refuge here over the ages.
Brad reached the garage-sized slab of granite he was seeking. The huge block of igneous rock appeared to be teetering on the very top edge of the tallest cliff on the ridge. It also sat the highest up on the ridge. This vantage point next to the gray giant was one of Brad's favorite spots on the mountain. He looked off to the southwest thinking about the rapidly sinking sun as he caught his breath.
Darkness was approaching faster than Brad cared to think about. He contemplated hurrying down the ridge to the next ledge. This ledge was the closest to the gravel road which ran along the bottom of the ridge next to the sawmill.
I don't believe the tom is up this high, he's down below. Brad thought. At that moment he had no doubt in his mind the big cat was below him and hurried down the ridge to find him.
Brad reached the lower ledge just as the last sliver of a faded orange sun slipped out of sight behind the distant Pack Monadnock Mountain.
The lower ledge was the second largest in a series of cliffs. At its foot lay the biggest pile of fractured granite slabs on the mountain.
Brad had tracked a smaller bobcat, one he was sure was a female, into these catacombs last spring. He thought there was a good chance she had a den and maybe a kitten or two hidden down there.
He and George knew the big cat was a tom. So either he was out scouting for a mate, or had already found one in the rocks below.
"Come on, Kitty. Come visit your girl friend," Brad called softly to the cat, but more to himself, from where he was sitting on the very edge of a vertical face, among a few mountain laurel branches which were clinging in desperation to the bare granite. He was sure the next snow or heavy rain could uproot them and send them hurtling down onto the jagged rocks sixty feet below.
Lower down the slope, the night shadows were rapidly eating up what little daylight remained, and the ragged edged boulders were beginning to merge together in the diffused light. Brad stared down at the base of the cliff where he had stopped tracking the little cat in the spring snow. He imagined a liquid shadow pouring across the flat top of a slab of granite. It was a little off to the right of where he had been watching. Not even his teenage imagination would accept what he was seeing. Not until a second, smaller shadow, bellied across the same slab did Brad believe what he was looking at.
Brad nestled his single shot .22 rifle against his shoulder. He swung the front sight across the rocks towards the flowing shadows. A hound-sized lump appeared in front of his sights. It was crouched on top of a white quartz streaked block of granite less than seventy feet from Brad.
Even in the rapidly failing light Brad could see the fire in the huge yellow-green eyes. He was intimidated by the flash of large white canine teeth between sneering pink lips.
As he watched an intense yellow eye in front of the knife blade rifle sight Brad squeezed the slack out of the trigger. The intensity of the eye forced him to look over the top of the rifle barrel and full into the cat's fiery eyes.
The fire flashed brighter in his eyes for a fraction of a second. Then the cat broke his stare as he casually turned his head towards his mate.
As if on orders from the male the little she-cat dropped from sight between two slabs of the dark gray granite.
Brad watched the small white patches on the tom's ears disappear when the cat laid his tufted ears down against his head and spit noisily with a flash of long canines just before he too faded into the deepening shadows.
He swung his rifle around anxiously. Brad couldn't see anything but dark lumped rocks and the deepening dark void where the cats had disappeared. All the time Brad was searching the emptiness below him he wondered why he hadn't shot the cats. They were each worth twenty dollars in bounty money. He could not come up with a satisfactory reason for letting them escape, especially the huge male bobcat.
Off in the distance, the bulky square shadows of the stacked lumber stood out in Ballou's mill-yard. Brad watched a set of yellow headlights hurry across the straightaway in front of the bulky shadows and heard the hiss of the car's tires cutting the quiet of the night.
"Now what?" He spoke out loud in a quivering voice while he wiped first his right hand and then his left on the leg of his dungarees. Even after going through the ritual twice his hands were still slick with nervous sweat.
"Too bad I didn't bring a flashlight. It sure would help." Brad spoke louder this time, as if he were talking to a hard of hearing friend.
His knees felt weak when he stood up and his first few steps were clumsy. He tried to make a lot of noise to be sure the cats heard him. He wanted them to leave or stay hidden deep under the rock pile.
"You guys stay there!" Brad hollered out at the cats. His voice puffed full of bravado.
His hands were shaking while he tried to uncock the stiff springed hammer on his rifle. The serrated knob on the hammer bit deep into the soft flesh on the inside of his thumb.
"Oh, the hell with it!"
Being scared was making Brad impatient, but he knew it wasn't safe to crawl down through the thick brush and over the rocks in the dark with his rifle cocked and ready to fire.
He didn't bother to aim. It was just a matter of pointing the .22 towards a big white pine and pulling the trigger.
The quick flash of fire from the short barrel momentarily ruined his night vision. For several seconds it made the night seem even darker.
In the evening quiet the sharp crack of the .22 echoed off the hills and reverberated up and down the valleys.
When the quiet returned it was quieter than before. The rustling of the small nocturnal animals and the twittering of the birds while they were settling down for the night had stopped. It was if all life on the side of the mountain was holding its collective breath and waiting to see what would happen next.
Gradually, the scratchings, peeps, and chirps increased in number and volume. There were even a couple of hearty tree frogs joining into the chorus far below in the creek bottom.
I guess no one told them it was close to freezing and was going to frost.
Brad started to pick his way through the thick brush and around the jagged rocks going across the slope.
It took him several long minutes stumbling around in the growing darkness to find a place on the steep-sided ridge where he knew he could descend through the grove of mixed red oak and beech trees with an occasional fir sapling. The forest floor was just as steep and rock strewn, but in the shade of the two and three hundred year old hardwoods, the laurel and juniper bushes couldn’t get a foothold. Once entrenched, the bushes would have spread into a head-high, almost impregnable mat as they had over a lot of the mountain’s West and North sides. Even in the dark Brad could see the outlines of the larger rocks so he didn't stumble as often as he had when he was traveling in the brush.
When he came to Stoney Creek he stood on its steep bank for several minutes listening to the rush of the water. It was not a friendly burbling stream. Thirty feet across the creek was the dirt road he wanted to be on. If he crossed here, instead of upstream on the old wooden bridge, he would save himself over a mile of hiking in the dark of the night.
The instant he plunged his right foot into the icy water Brad was sure he had screwed up. As he put more of his weight on that foot the swift current tugged at his leg threatening to sweep him off his feet and the water was far colder than he thought it would be. The blackness of the night made it impossible to see where he was stepping.
The rounded stones on the creek's bottom were slick and offered no traction to his worn sneakers. Each step was like putting one ball bearing on top of another. The knee deep torrent kept tearing at his calves trying to upset him. By shuffling slowly along he managed to travel the thirty feet to the far bank.
Finally after several tries he got his right foot planted against a small boulder next to the bank.
He was clutching his .22 in his left hand with a white knuckle grip which was cramping and hurting his fingers.
One more time Brad lunged for the steep roadside bank. His right hand grabbed for a hand hold in the whip-sized willows growing on the bank above him. Struggling to get a hold on the bank's face put Brad on his knees against the rocky slope.
Two more tries to lift his right knee higher up the steep bank failed. On the third try he made it by forcing his knee against a rough, oval shaped stone. He felt the burning of skin peeling from the side of his knee.
Pushing with his knee and with a hard tug on the handful of willow stems in his right hand pulled him out of the creek's icy grip.
He felt the asphalt road through the squish of his wet sneakers and hoped in vain that it was not yet six-thirty. He was sure it was well after supper time. Even though he had made good time since crossing the creek he knew from times before it was a twenty minute walk up the dirt road to the State highway. He couldn't see his "Big Ben" pocket watch, but he was sure that it was at least quarter to seven.
He knew the sound of the engine and the look of its tired headlights. His father's old Chevie was coming around the curve a quarter of a mile or so down the State highway behind him.
Brad's first thought was elation. It isn't as late as I thought. It can't be, Dad is just getting here. But his better sense and instinct for time told him his first thoughts, before he heard the Chevie, were correct. It was almost seven o'clock and his dad was also running late.
Brad thought seriously about a way to delay the inevitable confrontation. At least he could postpone it temporarily. All he had to do was to step into the roadside brush before the yellow beams of the headlights hit him. He still had plenty of time to disappear into the gloom. But Brad admitted to himself he was really afraid of the dark and enough was enough for one day. His heart had finally settled down to its normal slow tick and his hands were no longer shaky and sweaty.
The faded brown interior of the old car smelled musty. Like old, rotten grain sacks. Brad thought and took a chance on opening his window an inch or so to get some fresh air.
"Close it! As wet as you are, you'll catch pneumonia."
Harold shifted into third gear and allowed the hot smelling engine to smooth out into a dull throb before saying any more. "You're out kind of late aren't you, Brad?"
"Did you work overtime, Dad?" Brad ignored the question which didn't really demand an answer. He had trouble understanding why his father asked those kind of questions. He does it all the time, to everyone.
It really smells in here.
Brad turned the window crank slowly and allowed the window to drop down less than an inch. He hoped it was an acceptable distance.
"Yeah, got stuck in Miss Hendricks' yard again first thing this morning."
"Sorry. If I had known that you were behind, I could have helped you after school."
"You're too small. Besides, last time you helped me, you sprayed kerosene in old man Snyder's spring."
Brad clutched his .22 tightly between his knees and fought back the tears. It was always the same. Why won't they leave me alone? Why are they always telling me what I can't do? Well, I can damn well do more than they think that I can.
Brad took a long shaky breath. He wiped his runny nose on the too short sleeve of the corduroy shirt which he used for a hunting jacket and tried again.
"Coming home on the bus tonight, we saw a big bobcat. It crossed the road right about here." Brad pointed through the dirty windshield towards where the grove of old oak trees lay hidden in the dark night.
"Oh yeah. How is your mother?"
"I went up above Ballou's to find him. George said the cat would go up in the ledges behind the sawmill." Brad paused.
Harold was still sitting in the driver's seat after turning off the foul smelling engine.
In the sudden silence Brad hurried on. "I saw two cats up there in the big cliffs. I could have shot at least one of them!" His boyish enthusiasm was starting to pick up speed. "The cliffs are really high up there. You can't see them from the road."
"She must still be in bed I don't see any lights on. Get that brown paper package off the back seat. Now damn it, be careful! It's the glass for your mother's window that you broke."
"Ya, okay. I don't think Greta is home yet either. She and lover boy must be in Wilmet yet." Brad added. He was successful in getting the result he had expected. Even in the dim glow of the feeble yellow dome light he saw his father's jaw muscles tighten. Bringing up Greta's boy friend was a touchy thing in the Burgess household and would always provoke some kind of reaction. Brad hated his sister's grimy lover Edgar, and put him down every chance he got.
Brad was bursting to share his experiences of the evening with someone. He was sure Harold wouldn't let him use the old wall-mounted crank telephone to talk to George. The phone was across the hall from his parent's bedroom and under no circumstances would he be allowed to do anything which might possibly disturb his mother. Behind the closed bedroom door she would be in her bed curled up in the same fetal ball. Suffering the same migraine she had been suffering since yesterday morning.
When Brad heard his father running water and rattling their breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink he went to the phone. He was sure if he was careful no one would hear him using it. He quickly swiveled the brass and Bakelite mouthpiece down as far as it would come. By standing on tip toes Brad could talk into the mouthpiece. He listened to the black ear piece for just a second to be sure that no one was using the party line. Swiftly he made a loop in the brown cotton covered ear piece wire and snagged the shiny brass shutoff hook. He pulled the hook down against the oak cabinet into the off position. You aren't going to get me this time. Brad remembered one of the few times when he had forgotten and kept his hand on the brass hook when he had cranked the magneto to ring for the operator. He could still feel the lump on the back of his head from a couple of weeks before when the electrical shock bounced him against the heavy, ugly maple buffet.
He stole another quick look around the doorway into the kitchen. The water faucet came on and Brad rapidly cranked the phone as quick and short as he dared. He hoped that if his dad heard it he would think it was someone ringing off the party line. But on the other hand Brad wanted the operator to know he needed her.
Almost immediately the operator responded with, "Number please?" letting Brad know she hadn't been too-busy or preoccupied.
"BJ? This is Brad Burgess. Can you ring George, the school bus driver for me, please?" Brad spoke low and quick. He stole another fast look towards the kitchen while he listened to BJ. She was the youngest of the five telephone operators. Even so Brad thought, she sounds pretty old, maybe twenty two or three, or even as old as twenty-five.
"Sure, Brad dear, hang on now."
Brad took a deep breath, exhaled quickly and waited. First he heard a long ring followed closely by two evenly spaced shorter ones. In the background, the rattle of dishes and his father sloshing dishwater blotted out the electrical hiss that the phone always emitted.
"Hello?" Came the soft melodious voice of Muriel Sampson, George's petite, and Brad thought, very sexy wife.
"Muriel? This is BJ. How are you dear?"
"Oh, fine BJ. You're working the swing shift this week?"
"Oh, yes. Sara is on vacation and "
Come on for Christ's sake. Brad thought. But he would not interrupt. It wasn't right to interrupt an older person, especially when they were doing something for you. Of course, he was capable of talking for himself. He could butt in and ask Muriel if George was there.
"Oh, I am sorry, Brad." BJ cut herself off as if she had read Brad's impatient mind. "Muriel, Brad Burgess wants to talk to George. Is he there?"
"No, he isn't BJ.
"Brad, how nice!" The sweet voiced Muriel proclaimed. "Can I help you? George is at a Volunteer Firemen's meeting and won't be home until really late, maybe nine or even nine-thirty."
Brad knew as sweet as she was Muriel wouldn't shut up if he ever gave her a hint of what he wanted. Also, BJ was still listening and would keep on listening.
It was great when he talked with George though. He always told the operator to stop listening. "We're going to talk man things," he would say, "now do you want to make ole Brad here blush?"
If it was BJ on the line, she would laugh in her deep strong voice and tease back, "I can take a hint now, George Sampson.
"Good-bye, Brad. Ring if you want me." And she would unplug her 'gossip wire' as George called it.
"No, that's okay, Muriel, I'll ask him on the bus in the morning, thank you. Bye now." Brad hurried to finish when he heard his father's heavy boots coming across the red and green speckled gray linoleum. It was then he realized all of the kitchen sounds had stopped.
"Who were you talking to? I didn't hear the phone ring."
"It didn't. I called Andy about history class." Andy was Brad's best friend and sometime hunting partner.
"Well, never mind. Just don't bother your mother. Supper is almost ready."
What does 'never mind.' mean?
Brad started for the kitchen with a frown on his forehead as he thought about it some more.
He looked at the simple meal. Boiled potatoes reheated in the frying pan and cold pot roast his father had cooked for supper on Sunday. For a vegetable, there were canned peas which Brad could see were bigger than double ought buckshot and were sure to be almost as hard.
He was having a problem hiding his disappointment. It was important to Brad that he tell someone about his adventure. Anyone who would listen. He really wanted to tell George. George was always a good listener. And Brad was sure George would understand why he hadn't shot the big tom. As well as why Brad had stayed on the mountain until well after dark. Brad had confided in George one time that he was afraid of the dark. George had told him not to worry about it. The more Brad was out in the woods and in the dark the quicker he would get over it.
THREE
Brad squirmed around between the warm sheets after some of the cold predawn air had invaded his bed when he tried to look out of the high windows on the opposite wall of his bedroom.
Even though the sun hadn’t risen above the hills to the east he could see it promised to be a crisp, clear Saturday morning. Squirrel and bird season would open at sunrise and he was going hunting.
It had been too quiet around the house for a couple of weeks. In fact, it had been that way since he broke the window in his mother's French door and it worried him. He also realized that during the past two weeks there had been hardly an argument from anyone in the household. Even his sister wasn't talking back in her high whining voice about wanting to spend all of her time with her grimy anemic looking boyfriend Edgar.
There were the usual silences at the supper table. Supper was always a rather boring, every night occurrence and last night had been a typical evening in the Burgess household: There were moments of sheer quiet between the lively tidbits of, 'pass the salt.'
"Eat your beets, Brad."
"I hate them. They make me gag."
"Eat them anyway." His father commanded.
"Shit!"
"What did you say!?" His father's voice never got any higher. It would just get louder and louder as his eyes flared brighter and brighter. It was really scary to Brad. He always tried to avoid pushing his father too far. Usually he couldn't help it. The words just seemed to come out by themselves.
"Nothing! I didn't say anything!"
"You did too! You swore. I heard you," Brad's older sister, squealed on him again.
Why do you do that to me? Dad wasn't going to do anything until you had to open your big fat mouth. Brad glared across the table at the overweight sixteen year old.
God. I hate you.
He tried to zap her with his mind. But he decided that it was useless. This is too much like trying to talk with a slug. Brad thought.
Brad flopped over onto his belly, buried his face in both hands and tried to wish the unwanted images away. He wasn't even out of bed. The sun was still just a figment of the morning's imagination, but he felt his whole day would be ruined unless he could escape from the house right now.
It took him twenty long minutes to make it out the door to freedom.
The sun was just clearing over the low easterly hills and cracking open the dark valleys when Brad silently slipped the door latch back into place. His dog was chasing shadows ahead of him. Under his thin flannel shirt a peanut butter and jelly sandwich oozed grape jelly onto its wax paper wrap. He trotted across the paved road and slipped under a wooden gate ignoring the warning posted on the green board in yellow letters. It proclaimed to any who bothered to read it: WILDLIFE SANCTUARY: NO HUNTING.
It had taken him most of an afternoon pretending he was his mother, (his voice was still too high to fool anyone that he was his father), to reach the Game Warden. "No Mrs. Burgess. It is not a real or legal animal preserve.
Yes ma'am, your son can hunt there. If he doesn't trespass.”
"What?”
"Yes ma'am, he must have the owner's permission to go onto the land. And yes, he must have a hunting license."
"Shit! Let them city people catch me hunting on their land. They could have said yes when I asked them, instead of being so damn uppity and mean." Brad talked quietly to himself while he quickly walked away from the gate on the freshly graveled road.
When he was out in the woods, he either talked to his dog, or to himself.
"Well, at least it's a one way conversation." He always rationalized out loud whenever he felt strange about his lonesome conversations. Particularly after his brown and white mutt overheard him and gave him one of her through-the-top-of-her-eyes looks. It would immediately make Brad defensive as if she had accused him of something. He never could quite figure out what she was accusing him of.
Brad never bothered to tell his parents he needed a hunting license to roam with his rifle or the small fact that he had to be sixteen to get the license. He just kept breaking the law and avoiding people he didn't know or trust whenever he was away from his house. His parents neither knew such laws existed nor seemed interested in finding out about hunting seasons and such.
He opened the bolt of his single shot .22, dropped a hollow point, Super X cartridge into the chamber and quietly slipped the bolt home. The serrated steel of the hammer bit into the cold flesh of his small thumb and index finger while he struggled against the heavy hammer spring to cock the rifle. Brad knew the feeling well but still continued to wince in pain every time he attempted to cock the round ended hammer. The loud click of the hammer locking back brought a smile of success replacing the frown of his struggle.
From fifty feet away, his constant critic snapped her head around and threw a glare at him for his intrusion into the quiet of their domain.
The boy-sized .22 was the love of Brad's life. He remembered the day a year and a half before when he had finally reached his goal of $15.98. That was the price of the single shot rifle in the Sears and Roebuck catalog and a carton of .22 long rifle shells at Joslin's hardware in Wilmet.
Brad had not eaten hot lunch in the school cafeteria since the day after Labor Day which was the day school started that year. Instead, he smuggled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from home under the constant threat of Greta squealing on him. He knew if his sister discovered what he was doing, she would tell his mother. There was no doubt in his mind the result of that would be for him to go back to eating those terrible unappetizing school lunches.
The $1.22 per week for school lunch went into his cache along with the State's fifty cent bounty on each of the porcupines he had killed with a stick during the summer. To collect the bounty he had to cut the head off each porcupine and present it to the Town Clerk. He had greedily hoarded his money until he had enough for the rifle and a carton of 500 .22 shells.
His struggle to raise money continued. Only now it was to buy .22 shells for the little rifle. He always seemed to fire the shells faster than he could come up with the fifty-two cents to buy a new box of shells. Brad had found a friend in Oscar the clerk in the hardware store. If Brad could scrape together five dollars, Oscar would sell him a carton of ten boxes of fifty .22 cartridges and throw in an extra box for free. But at a dollar and twenty-two cents a week for hot lunches it took a while to roundup the five dollars. Saving his hot lunch money to buy shells was almost the same as getting an allowance like his classmates. At least that was how he thought about it. The illusion of an allowance was there.
With the .22 hanging from his right hand he hurried after the brown and white mongrel. His fingers were carefully wrapped around the trigger guard and his small thumb was stretched to its limit encircling the upper part of the serrated steel hammer. He did this to hold the hammer back should the trigger get pulled accidentally. The little rifle had no other safety.
It was turning into a hot Indian Summer day. Brad tied the sleeves of his lightweight, brown corduroy jacket around his skinny waist before he unstuck his shirt from the smear of jelly on his stomach.
A half hour ago, he had eaten the squashed peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. After eating the sandwich he was still hungry enough to lap the smeared jelly and peanut butter from the wax paper wrap even though the heat was melting the wax. Now his mouth felt hot and gummy from the jam and wax mix.
The exceptionally dry summer and fall constantly changed the face of Brad's world. The small water holes and beaver ponds were slowly drying up, and the hidden springs of clear, cold water had retreated into the rocks and gravel. The other signs of the year-long drought were in plain evidence as the thirsty alder and willow leaves twisted and shriveled, their way of conserving moisture, in the heat along with the cattails. The usually lush green rushes had turned prematurely brown and hard, and were rattling in the warm breezes.
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(Pages 1-44 show above.)