The Promise: A Wyoming Story

By Jim Watt

Taylor Robin Morrissey, at fourteen years of age, has his safe New Jersey middle class home broken up when his father goes to prison and his mother drifts into alcoholism. His only relative is his grandfather who is a small rancher in Wyoming, but who is estranged from Taylor's family. He decides to hitchhike to his grandfather to try to put a family back together again. On the way he has one adventure after another and eventually learns that his family has a significant role in the history of the West and he has inherited an obligation to continue it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483525211

Book preview

9781483525211

Part 1

Chapter One

The pickup drove slowly along the highway through the rolling grassland. The May sun beat down and a small breeze picked up dust and swirled it before disappearing, letting the dust settle. The truck turned onto a dirt road which led to a ranch house and beyond to a white trailer, one of four, sitting a quarter mile away.

A small herd of cattle, ten or twelve, grazed on the dry looking grass, constantly moving. Above, a few clouds sped across the sky. In the distance stood the tall silver sentinels, the wind turbines with their one hundred foot blades slowly turning. The wind always blows in Wyoming.

The pickup pulled up beside the trailer and an elderly man got out and walked slowly toward the door. He had the black hair, dark eyes and high cheek bones of the Arapaho tribe. His face was dark with hundreds of wrinkles, the sign of a man who had worked hard in strong sunlight and bitter winter winds. It would be hard to tell his age. He went in.

A woman was sitting at a table in the kitchen. She also was dark, with black hair in a braid hanging down her back. She also had wrinkles about the mouth and eyes, but the eyes were black and set off by dark eyebrows and very large.

Joe, she said in Arapaho, how is he?

Not good, Maila.

Will he come back?

No, I don’t think so. The doctor said he was too sick and too old to get better.

They both looked sadly at each other.

Joe, what will happen to us? Who will keep the Promise?

I don’t know, Maila. I don’t know.

* * *

At the Regional Hospital in Cheyenne, a very tall, distinguished looking man in his 60’s climbed the steps and went to the desk.

I’d like to see Charles Hawley. Where is his room?

Just a moment. The clerk tapped the computer. He’s in 369, third floor, but he’s very ill. You’ll have to stop at the nurse’s station first.

Very well. And he left, taking long strides to the stairs, which he took two at a time.

On the third floor, he quickly went to the nurse’s station.

I’d like to see Charles Hawley, please.

He’s very ill, only close relatives are permitted.

I’m the closest friend he has. I’m Professor Richard Willetts from the University, and I need to see him. How is he?

He’s stable. I’ll have to ask the doctor. Please wait.

He sat down in the waiting room and drummed his fingers. A doctor walked in.

Professor Willetts?

Yes, Doctor. I’d like to see Charles Hawley for a short time. I’m professor of Wyoming and Native American history at the University and Hawley and I have had many discussions about his family in the history of the state and there are some questions I need to ask. Can I see him?

Yes, but for a very short time. He is getting oxygen and shouldn’t have the mask off for very long.

What is his illness?

Old age. He doesn’t have too much time left.

I see. Very well. I’ll make it short.

Willetts opened the door carefully and saw an old man with white hair, sun burnt face and hands, lying on his back breathing slowly into a mask. The oxygen pump hissed with each breath. The professor went to him and pulled up a chair, sat down and watched the old face. In a moment the old man sensed his presence and his eyes opened.

Dick, he said in a whisper.

Yes, Chawley, how are you?

Tip-top, he said, smiling slightly.

I’ve been worried about you.

No, you haven’t. You’ve been worried about the Promise. And he smiled.

Well, yes, but you too. What’s going to happen?

I don’t know, Dick. I’ve run out of time. Kitty’s gone. There’s a boy, but he’s too young. Twelve or thirteen, I guess.

Who gets the ranch?

I’ve left it to the boy, but there’s nothing for him. I spent it all. The Bank‘s foreclosing.

Yes, I heard."

Well, there’s your answer.

The professor looked at him sadly.

Well, it was a good run.

Yes, it was. Dick, I’m tired now. Come back again. And he closed his eyes.

The Professor took a last look, patted the old man’s hand and got up and left.

Chapter Two

The eighteen-wheeler ran on through the hills of Pennsylvania. The boy sat huddled against the passenger door staring out at the trees and fields. It was May and the sun was gathering strength. The driver looked over.

What’s your name?

Taylor.

Where you from?

New Jersey.

Your sign said ‘Wyoming’. Is that where you’re headed?

Yes.

The driver reached down and turned off the radio. It was playing Nashville music.

I never been there, Wyoming. Been most everywhere else. You got family there?

Yes.

Your Dad?

No, my Grandpa.

He know you’re coming?

No.

Taylor watched the driver shift gears, double clutching. He looked around the cab. In back of him he saw the driver’s bed, a narrow bunk built on the back wall of the cab, narrower than his bed at home. It had a thin plastic mattress and a folded blanket with a small pillow. On the passenger side there was a locker with a coat on a hanger swaying with the movements of the truck. In the corner was a box that looked like it had clothes in it, and a bag on top with maybe dirty laundry.

He realized that this was the driver’s home. He probably had a wife and kids somewhere, but he spent most of his time in here, driving. There were photos of kids attached to the ceiling above his head, must be his kids, and the photos were there to remind him what they looked like. Taylor decided he didn’t want to be a truck driver.

He turned away and searched for cows or horses on the farms they passed. He saw some sheep standing still in a field. As they grew nearer he saw they didn’t move at all, they were cutouts the farmer had put in the field for the tourists. He gave a short laugh. The driver looked over and saw the sheep.

Yeah, that guy’s a joker.

Taylor thought his Mom would laugh at that.

* * *

Mom! Mom! Wake up!

Huh? Whazzat? Timeizzit? Who?

Mom, it’s me, Taylor.

Taylor, lemme sleep. And she rolled over.

The sun shone in through the venetian blinds, casting bars of light across her form in the dim room. She was spread across the bed sideways. The room smelled like a bar room. She hadn’t gotten home till three this morning, he’d heard her stumbling up the stairs.

Her blond hair looked like a bird’s nest, her makeup smeared all over her face. It was an old face, even though she was only thirty five. She looked fifty or more. He felt sorry for her, but nothing was going to change unless he did something. He was fourteen now and he had to turn things around or they were both in trouble.

Mom! I’m leaving now. I left you a letter on the kitchen table. I’ll write to you.

Mmmmph.

He took one last look, closed the door, and went back to his room to finish packing. In his backpack he had put an extra pair of jeans, two t-shirts, a wool shirt, a rain cape, some sox and underwear, toothbrush and paste and soap. He now added his primus stove, and a bag of rice from the kitchen. He had his Scout knife and his water canteen and his wallet with $25 in it. He carefully put ten $20 bills under the inner soles of his boots. This was his savings from working at McD’s in the summers and after school. He wanted to stop at a store to get some power bars and beef jerky.

Taylor put on his jacket and jammed his Mets cap over his curly blond hair, took one last look around his room with all the reminders of his childhood, his posters, his models, his books, his own bed, and said goodbye to it all. He might never be back.

He went downstairs, gave a last look around, took his house key out of his pocket and put it on the kitchen table next to his letter. He hoisted his back pack and went out the back door, closed it, and it locked.

He walked quickly down his street to the main street through town, turned to face the traffic and stuck out his thumb as he had seen so many travelers do.

The third car stopped and he ran up to it.

* * *

The truck was going through tunnels now, and finally came out on some flat land. The driver picked up speed. He looked at Taylor out of the corner of his eye.

You got folks at home?

Yep, my Mom.

She know you’re on the road?

She does now.

He glanced at him, but the kid was staring out at the fields.

Are you a runaway? Are the police looking for you? Because I don’t need the cops on my case.

No. Nobody’s looking for me.

How about your Dad?

He’s in prison.

The driver looked at him again. Didn’t know what to say. He started to ask a question and then changed his mind.

* * *

He was watching a ball game on TV in the den with his father when the door bell rang.

Taylor, see who that is.

He went to the door and opened it. Two policemen were standing there.

Is this the home of Brendan Morrissey?

Yes, that’s my Dad.

Is he here?

He went to the den.

Dad, there’s two policemen here asking for you.

His father looked up and the blood left his face. His eyes went back and forth as though looking for a way out of the room. Then he stared at Taylor, got up and turned off the TV and took Taylor by the shoulders.

I know what they want. It’s going to be bad for you and Mom. I want you to know I’m sorry, and I love you both.

He hugged him, and went with the policemen.

The trial was quick and he was convicted of massive investment fraud. Everything was confiscated by the court to pay the defrauded creditors, except for the home which was in his mother‘s name. But she had no income. She got a part time job and began borrowing on the home, which kept them going.

His Mom had always liked a social drink, but now she began drinking a lot, at first in the evenings, but then in the afternoons until she was drunk or high most of the time.

* * *

They were approaching Pittsburgh.

I’m going to get off the turnpike up ahead and go into Pittsburgh, the driver said. He suggested Taylor get out at the tollbooth. It was getting dark and the driver said he’d be more likely to get a ride there than in the city. There was a truck stop and a restaurant where he could get something to eat.

OK, let me off there, then.

The driver pulled off at the exit and through the toll booth and stopped. Taylor got his backpack and jumped down.

Thanks for the ride. Sorry I didn’t talk much.

That’s OK, you got some thinking to do.

He trudged through the gloom onto the highway. He saw the truck stop lights across the road and headed for them.

While he had been in the truck he had felt OK, safe, sort of. But now in the dark, Taylor pulled his jacket close around him and jammed his hands into his pockets and, peering anxiously around him, hurried toward the lights.

He stepped into the restaurant and looked around, saw a place at the counter, sat down and put his backpack down on the floor beside him. The waitress came over.

"Whatllitbe, hon?’

A glass of milk, please, and some toast.

Izzatit?

He nodded.

OK, hon.

As she left, he glanced around at the people in the booths. Most of them seemed to be truckers, one or two couples who looked like tourists, and a few men in suits who might be salesmen.

He thought for a minute and then got out his sign, put the backpack up on the next stool and propped the sign on it so whoever came by would see ‘Wyoming’ and know where he was going.

The waitress came back from the kitchen with his toast and milk and saw the sign.

Going to Wyoming, huh?

Yes, I’m looking for a ride. When I finish this I’m going out to the toll booth and hitch.

Hon, we can do better than that. Hey, you guys!!!

All the people in the place lifted their heads.

Any of you guys going towards Wyoming? This kid here needs a ride.

A couple of heads shook and they went back to their food. One guy got up and came over.

I’m going to Minneapolis. That help?

Yes, sir. It sure would.

I’m leaving in about ten minutes. Come out when you see me leaving.

Yes, sir, I will.

See? said the waitress. We take care of everybody.

Thank you very much, Miss. I wasn’t looking forward to standing out there in the dark.

Nobody would. Good luck, kid. Take care of yourself.

He paid his bill and left a dollar tip for the waitress, and when the trucker got up to pay his bill, Taylor got up and went to him.

It’s the red Mack out there. Go to the john and fill your water can and come on out. I’m going to go straight through if I can. We’ll stop for gas and the toilet but nothing else. What’s your name?

Taylor.

Mine’s Jake. Put’er there. And they shook hands.

He studied Jake. He was big, had a black crew cut, a three day growth of beard and his nose was flat against his face. His hands were scarred and his knuckles swollen. Taylor began to have second thoughts. But a ride was a ride and he didn’t want to stand out in the dark.

Reviews for The Promise

[Erin Alleyiah · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great book , the author is a great man I actually went to work at his home as a caregiver and he gave me his kindle to read the book and spent the entire shift hooked to the book , bought it myself to finish it