Roosevelt's Gold and Rattlesnakes and 24 Other Short Stories

By Truman Godwin

This book is a revision of and update for one of my previous novels entitled THE TREASURE OF CHAMA VALLEY.
Secret loves, unrecognized prejudices, illogical fears, and crying needs are often hidden in human hearts and minds In each person, these feelings and emotions exist simultaneously with an untested potential for cowardice or heroism in the face of adversity. Whether an unexpected problem is major or minor makes no difference to one obsessed with these crippling attributes, the reaction will usually be weak and ineffective and quite possibly make matters worse. On the other hand, there are some who find extra strength and courage to deal heroically with circumstances that seem impossible to resolve. Whether discouraged to the point of despair or inspired to persevere, there is a story to tell for each one of them. It has been my pleasure to delve into the hearts and minds of my characters and present to my readers a variety of people and situations that will both surprise them and entertain them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mathis B Rogers
• Release date: Apr 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311121899

Truman Godwin

Truman D. GodwinAUGUST 17, 1931– DECEMBER 4, 2020Truman was born in Vernon, Texas in 1931. After graduating from Lubbock High School in 1948, he attended Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas where he majored in Electrical Engineering and Economics. He also studied British Literature and Business Law at the University of Texas. Truman was a Korean War veteran, and he was in the Telecommunications business for 52 years before retiring. He leaves behind his wife, Nancy, six children, and ten grandchildren. His favorite diversion was golf.His published works include: The Heritage of Luke, 666, and The End of the Row; a book of short stories, The Treasure of Chama Valley; a book of poetry, Beyond the Hedgerows; other miscellaneous magazine publications.He received the rights back to some of his books, and re-released them on his own and published them in Kindle and eBook editions also. Some of them he changed the names and covers.Find all of his books listed below.

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ROOSEVELT’S GOLD

and

RATTLESNAKES

And 24 Other Short Stories

by

Truman Dayon Godwin

Copyright © 2014 Truman Dayon Godwin

All rights reserved.

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.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

This is to acknowledge my personal recognition and appreciation to Craig Edwards for the beautiful picture that graces the cover of this book. I have watched Craig grow over the years in experience and excellence in his avocation of photography. And I thank him for providing the beautiful cover of this book.

Truman Dayon Godwin

Index

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

TIMMY

THE ULTIMATE REVENGE

CHOICES

SYLVIA

OL' CHARLEY

ROOSEVELT’S GOLD AND RATTLESNAKES

EPILOGUE

MAMA

THE BROTHERHOOD OF OLD MEN

PATCHWORK QUILT

THE PRIZE

THE SUMMER OF ‘68

THE MUSIC BOX AND THE HAMMER

A TOUCH OF IAGO

ONCE IS ENOUGH

SS LAMBDA

MISTER PREDICTABLE

MISS PYBAS AND THE CHICKEN THIEF

THE MIRACLE OF THE RED HAT

THE DUNES OF DEATH

LIVING ON THE EDGE

PEEWEE, THE RODEO CLOWN

TRUE STORIES

A HUNDRED STEPS

THE BOBBLEHEAD DOLL AFFAIR

ONLY SECONDS TO LIVE

THE LAST FLIGHT OF THE DREAM PLANE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TIMMY

Bart cringed in the corner. He had been pursued relentlessly from behind the couch to the desk, then to the easy chair, and finally to the closet. He failed to avoid the blows of his angry father, whose swatting belt left painful marks on hs body. He covered his head and face with his arms, gritted his teeth, and choked back tears. He wished he could cry out, let the tears flow, and feel their salty wetness on his face, but that always brought more blows. It was better to suffer quietly until his father's rage was spent: he would cry later.

Bart's mom stood in the door with an odd look on her face. He believed she enjoyed watching him suffer. Sometimes she was kind and loving and made him feel happy, and at other times she would betray him by tattling when he did something wrong.

Another stinging blow hit his neck. The pain was excruciating, almost unbearable, and he felt himself sinking into a pit where once again the blows and pain would disappear almost magically.

When awareness returned, he was in his room on his bed. Dammed up tears broke through to flood his pillow. Objects in the room floated by in a watery vision: the dresser with one corner of its mirror shattered by an accident—his B-B gun really had gone off; the shelves on the wall heaped with his knickknacks; the small desk where he studied and read comics; the steer horns mounted on the wall above the desk, a gift from his aunt.

And Timmy was there, too.

Timmy sat at Bart's desk staring at Bart like he always did after Bart got a beating. There was a mixture of pain and compassion in Timmy's eyes that flowed out to create a bridge of healing power between them.

It sure hurts, Timmy, Bart said. Don't call me a crybaby, either. You'd cry, too, if you got whipped.

Timmy nodded his head in understanding and walked to the bed. He stood beside Bart, gently touched the red welt on his neck, and said, I know. The pain in Bart's neck went away, and he almost cried with gratitude.

Why do they do it, Timmy? I used to think it was something I did or didn't do. But that's not so. I think they do it for fun, or when they get drunk—like today. If I can, I sit in a corner and don’t move 'cause I know I'm safe as long as they don't notice me. I'll soon be ten years old, Timmy. As far back as I can remember they've beat on me. It sure gets tiresome.

Timmy said, I know, and he touched Bart on the leg where a big blue spot was beginning to form. The pain in the leg went away.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm going to die, but they always stop before I do. When it’s over, I think some bad thoughts—like how good I’d feel if they died. Then I start thinking of ways to make them die, and I get scared that they'll know what I'm thinking and beat me again. But you know about that, don't you, Timmy?"

Timmy nodded. We know all about each other, he said. He moved his hand over the raw, red streaks on Bart's back, and the pain there was suddenly gone.

Timmy, the best part of knowing you is watching them when you're around. They think they're smart, but they're really dumb. Have you ever seen Daddy make that circling sign around his ear with his finger and then point at me? What does that mean?

Timmy shrugged and shook his head.

I don't know either, Bart said. Mama frowns and nods her head when he does it, like grownups do when they have a secret.

Timmy grinned. Well, we have a secret, too. He lifted Bart's arm and looked at the blood-clotted cuts left by the belt. Tenderly, he touched the wounds.

I'm glad you're my friend, Timmy. Please don't ever leave me. You're the only friend I've got. The boys I know—well, you've seen how they treat me. They don't want me around. My sister's my friend, but she’s too little to count. She’s only three, and they hurt her sometimes, too. When they do, I hold her and try to make her feel better. It'd be nice if she could talk to you like I do, but I guess she's too young to understand someone special like you.

Maybe someday she'll get to know me, Timmy said. I'm really not that special. He limped back to the desk and sat down. On his neck was a red welt, and both of his arms had bleeding cuts. There was sadness in his eyes.

"I remember how bad it was before you came, Timmy, so I know how much better it is now. I even remember the first time we met. You walked right through the wall of my room and came over beside me. I was locked in, and when I saw you I was afraid they'd come in and find you and beat me again. You smiled and talked to me. You made me feel good, and when they came back they acted like they didn't see you. That's when I knew you were special and belonged only to me. How do you do it, Timmy? How come I see you but nobody else does? Why is it I hear what you say, but other people don't?"

I don't know, Timmy said. I guess some people aren't meant to see and hear certain things.

Then we have another secret, Bart said. Just like Mama and Daddy have about that silly sign he makes.

Yes, we do. Feeling better now?

Uh-huh! Let's play the game we always play after they beat me. You know, the pillows are Mama and Daddy and we hit them with our fists until they cry. The way I feel now, I don't think I can stop. I think I'll just keep hitting until they don't ever cry anymore.

After their game, Bart fell exhausted on his bed and went to sleep. When he awoke the next morning, Timmy was gone. Summer sunlight streaked through his window and across his bed. He threw back the covers and let the warm rays penetrate the soreness of his legs and back. While he relaxed, he thought about the day and what he might do. His father would be at work, and since it was Saturday, his mother would be shopping most of the day. He didn't feel much like playing, even if there were someone to play with. He decided to find something he could do alone.

He got up and went to the bathroom. When he came out, he met his mother coming down the hall. She was in her nightgown and headed for the kitchen. She needed coffee for her hangover. Her short, uncombed hair stood straight out in places. Her bloodshot eyes and puffy face warned Bart not to upset her. She grunted when she passed, but otherwise she ignored him.

He went back to his room to change pants. He'd slept in them, and they were soiled and wrinkled. After changing, he went to the kitchen for breakfast. Beth, his sister, was already there. She looked up from her cereal bowl to greet him. It was a silent greeting filled with compassion. Her look also conveyed a fearful message: Let’s be quiet and not make Mama mad. At least that’s how Bart interpreted her expression, so he reassured her with a smile.

Inwardly, his twitching gut ached, and he was nauseous. When took a bite of cereal, he thought he'd throw up. After a few bites, the feeling went away, and he was able to finish most of it. When he left, his mother was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. Without saying anything to him, she watched him leave. This wasn’t unusual: they always treated him with long periods of silence after a beating. Timmy said it was because they felt guilty, but Bart wasn't sure. He only knew their silence gave him a few hours of peacefulness.

It was a relief to be outside. The fresh morning air was clean-smelling, and singing birds added a cheery note to the beautiful weather. Leaves in the backyard maple trees rustled in a gentle breeze that carried the delicious odor of honeysuckle from neighboring vines. Bart thought the sweetness of the day was God's apology to him for the terror he suffered last night. Despite the soreness in his legs and back, he left eagerly for the vacant lot next door where the huge mulberry tree with his tree house was located. The climb up the tree was painful, but he reached the house by resting along the way.

The structure was crudely built, but sturdy. Its platform stretched across two giant limbs that curved out sharply from the bole. Its sides, only two feet high, gave Bart the privacy he wanted. He was proud of it. He had built it himself with bits and pieces he'd scrounged. It was a great achievement, but no one—not even his parents—had ever acknowledged his creativeness.

He sat on a wooden-box, rested his arms on the railing, and looked out across the neighborhood. The high view was exhilarating, and he saw things no one else could see. Sometimes Timmy joined him there, and they played games and feasted on ripe mulberries for hours. At other times, they sat quietly and pretended they were forest rangers on the alert for forest fires.

Today, Bart was alone. He wished Timmy would come, but Timmy was unpredictable. He sat quietly for an hour and watched the neighborhood. Some people were mowing their lawns, and others were watering or digging around in flower beds. He saw backyard sunbathers and children playing on sidewalks. The postman was on his route two blocks away. But Bart’s greatest interest was Mr. Bain's nearby orchard.

Mr. Bain grew the sweetest, most succulent fruit in the neighborhood. He raised peaches, cherries, and apricots in his huge backyard. Bart liked all of them, but he favored peaches. From his high perch he saw that Mr. Bain had raised a beautiful crop of fruit that was ready for picking.

The more he watched, the more he hungered for those tender, juicy peaches. Finally, his desire for the succulent fruit overcame his other interests: he climbed down the tree and headed for Mr. Bain’s orchard.

Several hours later, after he satisfied his appetite for peaches and tore his shirt in the process, he was hunkered down in a small clearing beneath a giant hedge on the side of his house. It was growing dark, and he was afraid to come out. His mother had tattled, and his dad was angry again. While he waited to be found, he played with the matches he kept hidden there. It was just a matter of time: it made no difference where he hid, his father always found him.

Timmy was with him.

I shouldn't have done it, Timmy! I guess it's my fault this time.

You haven't done anything wrong, Timmy said. All the kids eat Mr. Bain's fruit. He don't care, if you don't take too much.

It's not that. Mama said Daddy works hard to buy clothes and I don't take care of them. She's mad about the torn shirt, and so's Daddy. She called him at work and told him. Now they're looking for me and I'm gonna get busted.

Maybe not, Timmy said.

Yes I will, too! Hear 'em hollering for me? I can tell by their voices that it'll be bad this time.

Maybe you shouldn't be hiding, Timmy advised. Maybe if you'd go in . . .

Timmy didn't finish. Bart's Daddy reached through the hedge and pulled him out. Bart flipped the matches to Timmy and gave him a desperate look as he disappeared through the foliage.

****

I can't stand it anymore, Timmy. The pain's too much. You saw, and you know. Now I'm locked in my room again, and I hurt real bad. Thank goodness he didn't see the matches.

Timmy sat across the room from Bart. Compassion flowed from his eyes, and to Bart he seemed much older. I don't know why people cause pain, he said. Seems like everything that's good brings pain, just like those peaches.

Bart said, A long time ago, before you came, I heard Mama and Daddy talking. It was just before Beth was born. Daddy asked Mama how she felt, and she said okay, but she didn't think another kid was worth all the pain. That surprised me 'cause I didn't know mamas and dads ever had pain. I still don't understand. It's my sister and me that have the pain. When they beat us, Mama and Daddy don't ever hurt. The only time I can remember when Mama had pain was the day they kicked me out of school. They called her to pick me up, and they kept me in a room where a teacher watched me. When Mama came, she went to the principal's office for a long time. When she came out she was crying. Do you think the principal hit her like she does me sometimes?

I don't think so, Timmy said. Grownups can cry without feeling pain or being hit.

After that they started sending me to private schools. That's when you came along, and you know the rest. One school after another, none of them any good. And those doctors! Don't remember how many, but we saw a bunch of 'em, didn't we Timmy?

Yes, Timmy agreed. But they never knew I was with you.

Yeah, that was funny. I liked to play the games they had, and answer the fun questions they asked, but I could never understand why they asked them.

Me either, Timmy said. I think they wanted to learn if you were lying, but I could never understand how it worked.

"Well, the good part about going to those doctors was the way Mama and Daddy acted before they took me. They'd go for weeks without beating me. I'd get to feeling good, and the ugly places where they hit me would go away, and I'd think that they'd changed. But after the doctors got through with me, they started the beatings again."

I know, Timmy said. Those good times were when you didn't need me, and that's why I didn't come.

Gee, Timmy, you know so much! You know I can think away my pain, too. I learned that before you came.

Yes, Timmy said. But I don’t know how you do it.

Let me explain, Bart said. "Have you ever wanted something real bad, Timmy? Like ice cream, or candy, or a new toy? Wanted it so bad you could almost taste it or feel it? I learned that if I closed my eyes and pictured what I wanted and thought on nothing else, it was almost as good as having it. Then one day—when I got whipped real hard and was hurting so bad I couldn't stand it—I closed my eyes and pictured myself riding in a boat. I was riding on water so pretty it nearly took my breath away. I rode and rode, and went to pretty places and saw pretty things. After awhile I opened my eyes and my pain was gone. Well, not gone, but I could stand it. This worked so good for me, I kept on doing it when I was hurt. I've flown airplanes, rode horses, climbed mountains, and-and done lots of other things, Timmy. And that's how you came to me."

Tears flowed down Timmy's cheeks. Bart had never seen Timmy cry before, and it scared him. Timmy smiled reassuringly and said, I have a plan. You'll never have to worry about pain again.

Timmy! Oh, Timmy! You've come back! Bart was so excited he nearly fell off his bed.

Timmy had changed. An expressionless stare replaced the compassion and sadness that normally glowed in his eyes. He walked in quick, jerky motions, like a caged animal.

I'm sorry, Bart said. "Please don't be mad at me, and don’t stay away so long again. I couldn't help myself. That big man, the one they called 'detective,' made me tell what happened. I said I did it, but he wouldn't believe me. He kept asking me the same questions, while he stared at me with his eyes half shut—like Daddy used to look before he'd beat me. I had to tell him the truth. I told him it was your plan and you did it. I told him how you went to the hedge after dark. While everyone was asleep, you got the matches I left there. I told him how I got Beth and took her outside while you made a big fire out in the living room. He could tell I wasn't fibbing anymore, so he left me alone with a policeman. I was with the policeman for a long time before they brought me here."

Timmy inspected the room. It was bare except for a hospital-like bed, a night stand with a pitcher of water on top, and one metal chair against the wall. It was small, too, and its door opened to a long, narrow hall lined with other doors on both sides. Timmy was nervous and unsmiling.

I like this place, Bart said. "It's clean and quiet. Nobody bothers me except to talk to me and ask me questions I don't have answers for. I've been here for days. Don't know how many, and it's been lonesome without you.

"Miss Dover, the woman that comes in and talks to me a lot, said Mama's in the hospital. Daddy pushed her out of the upstairs window to save her, then he went to look for Beth. He's dead. They found him in the hall by Beth's bedroom door.

"When I first came here, Miss Dover made me take my clothes off. She and two men felt of my back and legs. They took pictures of my body, and they frowned and shook their heads while they were doing it. They asked lots of questions about Mama and Daddy. Miss Dover even cried.

"They've been nice to me. They give me ice cream twice a day, but Miss Dover said something that scares me. She asked me a lot about you, and today when we had our talk, she said I don't need you anymore. She said you'll be going away soon.

"That can't be true, Timmy. You know that. But I've been scared that you don't want me anymore 'cause you've been gone since they took me away from the house. Tell me I'm wrong, Timmy. Please say you're not mad at me, and that you won't go away again.

Why don't you answer me?

Timmy stood at the foot of the bed and stared at Bart. His eyes became colorless holes, and his face began to melt and droop. Suddenly he turned and walked away.

Oh, Timmy! Stay away from the wall, Bart begged.

When Timmy reached the wall, his body became mist-like. Sunlight from the window made the mist glow in rainbow colors that flared and then faded.

Don't leave me, Timmy! Please don't leave me, Bart cried.

The room was bare, except for the bed, the table, and the chair. A great spasm shook Bart's body. Sputum dribbled from his mouth. When it was over, Bart moaned feebly into his pillow.

I love you, Timmy, he said.

Then he slept a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

THE ULTIMATE REVENGE

. . . He was going downhill and approaching a familiar sharp curve that turned left. Straight ahead and 300 feet below was a green valley. In the green valley, there was a small park with a picnic area.

Arthur looked at the speedometer and pressed harder on the accelerator: 60, 70, 80 . . . .

The road curved through small hills and valleys, past oak and cottonwood, pecan and elm, past sights vaguely familiar—sights pushed from his memory like other things of long ago. But something Arthur Bennet had tried to forget for thirty years welled up in his mind and hammered it with unwanted visions.

He gripped the steering wheel of his Buick Le Sabre with sweaty hands and turned onto a narrow, two-lane road recently covered with macadam. Trees, tall brush, and shrubbery on both sides blotted out the passing scenes of green terraced hay fields and lazy herds of grazing cattle. He remembered that beyond the narrow path of the roadway there was open countryside marked with little streams and small gullies, and higher up the sharply ascending landscape there were hidden grottos—places of privacy where lovers went to romanticize their longings and satisfy their urges. The old, familiar environment launched an avalanche of memories that tore through his mind and scraped away the crusted layer that covered his past.

He remembered his time with Dolly thirty years before. It was their senior year; she was a cheerleader, and he was a halfback on the football team. Their team won the District championship but lost in the Regional playoffs. It was the same year his father had a heart attack and almost died, and his mother had a nervous breakdown and took tranquilizers and acted like a zombie most of the time. And Jim, his older brother, was drafted and sent to Vietnam. That same year Dolly’s mom surprised everyone when she got a divorce from her salesman husband. But the most memorable event was his love affair with Dolly.

It was also the year he grew up—into a man, his father said—and he was prematurely burdened with hard responsibilities. With Jim gone, his father disabled by the heart attack, and his mother a clinging vine of self-pity and hysteria, it became his unwanted job to be the strong one and to keep the household functioning in a reduced state of efficiency. Inevitably, he had to quit the football team. That wasn’t important, but he resented being forced to do so. In essence, the anomalous year compelled him to cope with the contradictory prospects of life and death, which he did with equal perturbation.

The macadam road became straight and descended into Woodward, his former hometown located in the valley below.

Won’t be the same, he thought. Been gone too long.

In the distance, the sights of chimneys and rooftops and buildings emerged. Their shapes were constantly twisted and changed by refraction in summer heat waves that hovered low in the atmosphere. The kaleidoscopic effect reminded him of his own life—unstable, shifting, temporary—and he was struck with a sudden surge of despair.

He remembered Vietnam and all its misery. Suffering and pain, blood and death were cemented together in his subconscious like a dirty old scab. Although the scab itched occasionally, he was able to control the discomfort. Even the memory of Hanoi Hanna, who regularly spewed her Communist propaganda on the Hanoi radio station, no longer brought the irritation it once did. The swarming mosquitoes, thick as fog that he sucked up his nose and down his throat, and which landed stealthily on his clothes and skin and drank his blood, were now relegated to a lower level of his remembrance. Yet, because of Joel, the darkness and the stinking holes crowded in on him sometimes.

There wasn’t a spark of light that black night in the wet hole where they had questionable refuge from the enemy, a hole filled with the stench of mildew and rotting vegetation. The absolute darkness was like a heavy, impenetrable shroud that blinded them to all else, and it was there that Joel died quietly, never uttering a word—not even a groan—and Arthur didn’t know it until daybreak when thin rays of sunlight came streaking through the foliage around them.

Joel, wake up! Arthur said. He jabbed him playfully in the side.

But Joel didn’t wake up, and when Arthur felt the sticky stuff on his hand, and smelled the odor of death intermingled with the stench around him, he knew before he looked that it was Joel’s congealed blood and that Joel was dead, and he let out a mournful wail that split the early morning silence. It was an eerie sound that was projected through the air for all to hear.

The sudden, unwanted memory of his best buddy in the Army made him shake. He steered with his left hand and pulled a pack of Benson & Hedges cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He pulled one from the pack with his lips and returned it to his pocket. After a quick flick of his 99-cent plastic lighter, he took a long, slow draw. His shaking stopped, and he began to relax. On the third draw, he shut the window on Vietnam and thought of other things.

Woodward had changed a lot. He drove slowly down Main Street and through some residential areas. The old buildings were still standing, although they now housed different businesses. Beyond the central part of town and past a fringe of old houses that surrounded it, there was a solid ring of new growth. New business buildings had sprung up along major thoroughfares. Interspersed between them were modern houses in clean, prosperous residential areas. Every house he saw had neat, manicured lawns and colorful flower beds. Some had swimming pools, and he wondered if Dolly lived a fancy new house similar to those he saw. The invitation from the Reunion Committee listed Dolly Faver as treasurer, but it didn’t give her address.

His old house on Avenue K was gone now. In its place was a small, two-story building occupied by Farmers’ Mutual Insurance Company. The vacant lot on the corner where he once played ball was now home for the Community Laundromat.

He circled back to Main Street and drove through the central business district to his destination on the west side of town. It was a Holiday Inn that was built after he left Woodward. The reunion was there, so that’s where he made his reservation; single occupant, king-size bed, ground floor, smoking. He parked and went inside to register.

Fifteen minutes later, he was in a comfortable air-conditioned room stretched out on the bed, smoking a cigarette, and watching Family Feud on TV. Richard Dawson had just kissed—and been kissed by—four lovely young ladies and their still attractive mother. The eagerness they exhibited made Arthur think again of Dolly and the wonderful springtime they shared in 1965.

Because of the divorce, Dolly’s mom had to get a job. She had no formal training for anything specific. She was once a waitress at a small café, and that was the only job she ever had. Those limitations forced her to take anything she could get, which was another waitress job at a 24-hour café and truck stop. She worked the four-to-midnight shift.

Dolly resigned her cheerleader position to help her mother. She came home right after school and cared for her eight-year-old brother, Waylon. During the week, usually about eight in the evening, he went to Dolly’s. They studied, did homework together, and made sure Waylon was in bed by 10 o’clock. They gave him thirty minutes to go to sleep before going to Dolly’s room. The time frame gave them more than an hour together to make love, although they didn’t always do that. Sometimes they just smooched and talked about various things: school, friends, the war, her mother’s divorce action. The future.

He thought: the future is a mystical, elusive monster. It rises up in a dark cloud to shut out the brightness of the present. It’s a cruel ambassador of foreboding thoughts and tragic possibilities. I was too busy looking at the future to consider the present.

He formed the words with his lips, but the only sound that emerged was a regretful whisper. It was a truth he had avoided for years. Now it emerged to strike him like a haymaker to the belly. The unexpected insight was as clear and vivid as the painting of a bowl of fruit hanging on the motel wall in front of him. It wasn’t the future that bothered him then: he could see that now. It was the formidable present he was forced to live in. It was the daily bother of living with sick parents and coping with everything that existence required. It was the continuous reminder that his daily portion of life was unpalatable and indigestible, and it would remain so forever. He felt like a prisoner locked up in a small world that went nowhere.

Dolly was similarly afflicted by the circumstances of her life. She and her father were never close: he was gone most of the time. When he did come home, it was only for a day or two, and she always dreaded to see him. He was selfish; he was the master; Dolly and her mother were his slaves. Nevertheless, the divorce, while not totally unacceptable to Dolly, upset her and made her feel insecure. Waylon didn’t understand the situation, and Dolly had to deal with that problem also. To make matters worse, Dolly’s mother assigned her many extra duties. It was a bitter fact that Dolly had little time for herself.

Now, after thinking on it, he had a better understanding of why they clung to each other: they managed to build themselves a secure world and escape the real world they were forced to live in. They were driven to seek happiness and a meaningful reason to exist through their frequent sexual liaisons—a solution that proved more transient than they imagined.

He stabbed his cigarette butt into an ashtray on the bedside table and tapped a new one out of the package. After he lit it, he leaned back against the huge pillows on his bed, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and watched it drift lazily across the room.

Dolly was a perfect lover. She was always ready, and she was an eager participant. There was never any doubt that she enjoyed the experience, nor did she ever hold back for fear of pregnancy. Some would have labeled her an easy conquest, but he knew the hidden forces behind her cooperative spirit and his own willingness to be so reckless. They were driven more by a need to escape rather than by passion. Passion was merely the vehicle that gave them a temporary haven of peace and rest.

He didn’t understand the deeper aspects of their relationship; the day he made up his mind to leave proved it. Maybe deep inside he knew, because he recognized it was time to stop and move forward with his life. At least that was his need at the time.

"But I thought—I assumed—we’d