The Kids

By Philip K Edwards

Two sixteen-year-olds are hitchhiking in front of a rural Ohio farm when Marge spots them from the kitchen window. Frank and Marge have retired from their first careers and are happy raising cattle. Marge wants to help the kids. Frank doesn't want to get involved, but he is drawn into their story. Eventually he must revisit his past and confront a harsh reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip K Edwards
• Release date: Oct 19, 2010
• ISBN: 9781465916914

Philip K Edwards

The author was born in Riverdale, Maryland in 1943, graduated with B.S. in engineering from the University of Maryland in 1967. In addition to writing history and fiction he holds patents in video technology and is active in local government. He and his wife Suzanne now reside on their farm in rural Pennsylvania.

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The Kids

A NOVEL

by

Philip K Edwards

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

In Your Shoes Productions on Smashwords

The Kids

Copyright © 2010 by Philip K Edwards

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The Kids

DEDICATION

This work is dedicated to the people who haven’t made the changes they need to in time to live their lives fully. May they find a way to do so eventually.

Chapter 1. Day One

Frank was in their big country kitchen doing the daily crossword. It was mid morning of the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and there wasn’t that much to do on the farm. It was a warm day for November and the back door was open. He had folded is large frame into his captain’s chair, tilted it back and put his legs up on the table. Puzzle in his lap, pen in his right hand and a cup of coffee in his left.

The coffee had gone tepid while he worked over the puzzle, and when he reached out to set it down he was suddenly aware that Marge hadn’t made a sound for several minutes. He looked over, thinking she must have left the kitchen, but she was standing stone still at the sink, hands on the edge of the countertop, staring out the window.

He waited for her to move, but she didn’t. She hardly seemed to be breathing.

What are you looking at? he finally asked.

She started, then spoke over her shoulder. There are two kids out front, hitchhiking. Isn’t that strange?

Frank tensed a little. Which way are they headed?

That’s the strange part, they’re headed away from the highway.

The Wright farm was half a mile from the village. Since the interstate was on the far side of it, they got hardly any traffic from it, though south of town it veered in their direction and on a still day they could hear the low rumble of semis.

She had first noticed the pair as they’d walked along their road, a modest two-lane that had once been the main road to Columbus, and had entered her field of vision from the kitchen sink. Just as she finished unloading the dishwasher they’d come to a stop near the first entrance to the Wright’s U-shaped driveway.

She had watched as they’d lowered their burdens—the girl’s a small suitcase, the boy’s a sizable duffel—to the shoulder and turned to face the traffic, if there had been traffic. She continued to watch as they had stood for at least a minute posed in that way, their body language expectant. When a pickup came along she saw them straighten up, as if to make a good impression. The truck passed, and she could see a slight relaxing of their postures.

Maybe it’s someone we know?

I don’t think so. They’ve got a suitcase. And a duffel. It was odd, he thought, but he really didn’t want to know any more. He hoped they’d move on soon.

Marge was his opposite number when it came to unexplained phenomena. She wouldn’t be able to move on at all until she had satisfied her curiosity. Hmmm. I think I’ll go out and find out.

As she left the room Frank pushed up out of his chair to have a look for himself. He didn’t like the idea of Marge exposing herself to transients. It had been forty years since Truman Capote’s book about the Clutter murders, but no one who lived in the country was forgetting. He heard the bang of the screen door and from the window over the sink he saw her stepping off the porch.

She made her way up the walk toward the mailbox deliberately, but not hurriedly. She paused at the box and opened it, although the mail wouldn’t be there for couple of hours. It was an unnecessary artifice, though, as the two young people were still concentrating on the road behind and were not aware of her presence.

A car approached from her right, and she turned to see a neighbor headed toward town. She and the older man exchanged a wave and when she turned back to the kids had turned to watch the car. As it passed, their gazes fell back to rest on her. She hesitated over the mailbox for a moment, then closed the tin door decisively and called out a ‘hello.’

The boy bobbed his head in acknowledgement. She didn’t notice any response from the girl. The space between her and the kids was too great to carry on a conversation, but too near to pretend that nothing had passed between them. She could have left it at that and gone back to the house, satisfied that she’d been about right about their ages—the boy was probably seventeen or eighteen, the girl a little younger.

Instead she walked the short distance along the shoulder to the apron of the driveway. When the kids saw her approaching they both seemed to stand up straighter in anticipation. The boy was taller than he’d looked, maybe within in inch or two of Frank’s six feet. She stopped in front of them and asked cheerily, Where are you kids headed?

They looked at each other for a moment, then the boy said, We’re trying to get to Akron, ma’am. My sister and I. We have family there.

Akron? That’s a long way.

Yes, ma’am.

Where’d you start from?

Lovelace, ma’am. Where we was living.

There’s not much traffic on this road, wouldn’t you do better getting a ride on the interstate?

Yes, ma’am. We was doing that, but when we got to… he jerked his head toward the village, …Myerdale, a policeman told us it wasn’t allowed to ask for rides on the interstate. He said we’d have to take the back roads.

Oh. Well, good luck to you. I’m sure you’ll get a ride.

Frank just grunted when Marge reported the situation to him. He went off to the barn to recheck the supplies for the fence job he’d start Monday morning. For the rest of the morning she looked out one window or another, but they hadn’t moved. Near noon she saw them pick up their bags and move from the entrance to their U-shaped drive—the sunny side—to the exit, now in shade. They put the bags down there and looked back up the road.

At twelve-thirty she took a couple of bottles of water and a bag of trail mix from the pantry and stuffed them into a Food-Saver bag and headed back out the drive.

Not much traffic, is there?

The boy answered. No, ma’am. She looked at the girl: bony arms, pale skin, not much fat on her. Thin blouse and pegged pants in good condition, but cheap. Funny black sneakers.

She told them, The factory lets out about now on Saturdays, there should be someone coming along soon.

Factory was an exaggeration—the largest local employer was a company that rebuilt starter motors and alternators. They were located in an old building a couple of miles south of Myerdale. The personnel count was maybe fifty.

Yes, ma’am.

When he turned again to look up the road she noticed that the boy was thin too, but fit. Muscular shoulders showed under the lightweight shirt. The boy’s shirt and tan slacks had been washed many times, and he seemed to be growing out of them as well. A silvery chain lay just inside his shirtfront. She thought she glimpsed a cross hanging from it.

Have you two got any lunch?

Oh, yes, ma’am, we’re all set. Marge wasn’t so sure. The girl didn’t say anything. Marge studied her for a moment. Under Marge’s gaze the girl lowered her head but kept her eyes on Marge, like a stray dog that’s not sure whether it’s going to get a pat or a blow.

She handed the bag to the boy. Here’s a little something to help pass the time .

Thank you, ma’am. He took the bag, but didn’t look inside.

As she reached the front porch she heard a car. She turned and saw that the boy was removing his hand from the bag she’d given them. She saw the car slow and stop. She watched for a moment as the boy ran up and talked to the driver through the passenger window, then walk quickly back to his sister and the bags.

Satisfied, she turned back toward the house. Just as the screen door banged she heard the car pulling away.

Frank came in about three-thirty and took the rest of the newspaper into the den, an old parlor across from the kitchen they’d converted to a computer/media room. Marge was seated at the computer. Running a farm was all about timing and weather and yields, and the computer had become an essential part of their farming system.

When he saw she was on the weather page he asked, What’s the forecast? She knew he was asking about the weather for Monday morning, when it mattered. Unless there were tornadoes or something drastic, Sunday could take care of itself. But she happened to be looking at the Sunday forecast. Rain in the morning, then clearing.

Ooh, he groaned. She smiled. Just kidding, that’s Sunday’s. Were you maybe asking about Monday? I’ll check.

She made one more click, than announced, Clear and cool.

Before getting back to their budget she pulled up a game of Spider Solitaire and won it, faster than usual.

At four she was out in the kitchen putting the teakettle on, if Frank interpreted the sounds correctly, when she let out an exasperated, Oh, for Pete’s sake! They’re still out there. I thought they got a ride!

Frank came out and found her at the sink. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked, too. He was a head taller and could easily see over her hair. They were still there.

Too late now to get to get to Akron before dark.

Marge started to slip out from under his hands, saying I’ll see if we can give them a ride partway. Frank frowned, holding her back, then said, Let me do it.

As she watched from the window, Marge could see them talking and then Frank had lifted the duffel. She watched him swing it over his shoulder. At sixty he still had the muscular arms and back she’d admired the first time she laid eyes on him, though now there seemed to be a little air inside his shirts alongside the muscle.

She’d been just a girl then, Frank the towering but mysterious loner, the relentless number-cruncher too busy to stop to eat. A long time ago now. She hadn’t tamed him, either, only calmed him down. It had been the children who’d finally tamed him. Made him give it up, cash it in, buy the farm. ‘Oh-oh, not ‘buy the farm!’ she thought—for all her practicality she remained selectively superstitious. The boy picked up the suitcase. The girl followed just behind him with her canvas bag.

Back in the kitchen Frank explained, "They have an aunt in Akron. I’ll see if she can meet us halfway. He asked the pair to have a seat while he called the number scratched on a crumpled piece of paper from the boy’s pocket. They took chairs at the table Frank and Marge ate breakfasts and lunches at, but they both sat on the edges of their chairs. Marge offered them something to drink, but the boy said no.

Frank dialed the number. It rang, but no one was picking up. He let it ring more than a dozen times, hoping for at least an answering machine. He murmured, No answer.

He turned to the boy, You sure this is your aunt’s number?

I guess so. My mom gave it to me.

He handed the paper to Marge. Am I reading this right? He read the number off the portable phone’s redial.

That’s it. You want to try again? Frank nodded and punched Redial.

While he waited Marge quizzed the young people. So, you’re brother and sister? The boy nodded, Yes ma’am.

What are your names? Again the boy answered. I’m Bobby Travis. That’s Lexie, with a thumb to his sister.

Marge gave a little bow. Hello, Bobby and Lexie. I’m Marge and that’s my husband Frank.

Yes, ma’am. The girl said nothing.

How do you come to be hitchhiking? I mean, do your parents know you’re out here?

Oh, yes, ma’am. My mother gave us our aunt’s telephone number and said we should go there.

That struck Marge as odd behavior for a mother, but you never know about how others live. Still, she wanted a little more assurance.

Do you want me to call your mother and tell her you’ve got this far? So she’ll know you’re on the way?

She don’t have no phone, the boy explained.

Frank had counted fifteen, sixteen rings, then listened to a bunch more. He punched off, adding Same deal.