There Is No Someday

By Bill Vietti

Sexually abused children never reach a “someday” when the horror stops. Even in adulthood, night terrors frequently disturb their sleep, trust in or loving someone else is elusive or even impossible. The psychological anguish often lasts an entire lifetime, long after the actual atrocities have ceased.

In There Is No Someday, John and his sisters have suffered horrendous abuses by their father. He sees no end to the torture and knows what he has to do about it. He plans and successfully carries out the killing of his dad. At the time he is certain that he is justified in what he has done – it was self-defense – their means of survival. And yet afterward, he is relentlessly tormented by the memories of the abuse. He wonders if the thoughts and nightmares will ever end. In addition he now fears being imprisoned for his dad's murder. He needs justification from someone, exoneration, vindication for what he has done. But none will come. Even though the man's death is ruled to have been an accident, John desperately wants to let everyone know why he has done what he did. But he can't tell anyone. Not his mother or his younger sister, not his dad's parents. All of them seem terribly saddened by his father's death. If he just tells them about what his dad did to his older sister; if he tells them that his dad had threatened to kill him if he ever told what he had seen; if he just tells them that he knew what his dad was doing to his little sister;wouldn't it have been all right? Wouldn't they tell him that what he had done was not wrong?

John lives with unremitting torment, shame, and guilt from his past. A life-long loner now in his thirties, he is working as a big-game hunting guide when he suffers a horrific accident that leaves him clinging to life in a hospital. In a drug-induced state during recovery, he inadvertently reveals more to his young hunting client than he ever intends to about the death of his father. And the consequences of their exchange lead to John's re-examining his beliefs of right and wrong. He realizes, contrary to what he had been taught through religion or by any laws, but in his own way, that he was indeed justified in his actions as a teenager. He understands, finally, that he had not been wrong in what he had done all those years before. And that ultimate vindication will change not only his life, but that of another lost teenager that day.

There Is No Someday is a book designed to make readers think for themselves. It questions several basic religious tenets. It's a book about what's right and what's wrong. And the reader must decide which is which.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Vietti
• Release date: May 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311758736

Bill Vietti

Dr. Bill Vietti is a retired optometrist. He and his wife Suzi live in the Kansas City area near their three children and six grandchildren. Both Bill and Suzi are powered parachute pilots and have traveled across the entire lower 48 states seeking out new places to fly. They also spend much of their time spoiling grandkids.

Book preview

Prologue

At four, he could not have understood. As he scurried up the hill to the lake, he thought his sister was screaming in pleasure, as she often did when they played hide and seek together. And then as he reached down and touched the water, he shivered at how cold it felt. Maybe she was screaming because it was so cold. Why was she and their daddy swimming in that cold water? And why did she never scream again?

Part I

Chapter 1

Tuesday, August 24, 1955

Clambering from one boulder to the next, his mind far away from his climbing, the frightened thirteen-year-old tore his way up the mountain. He didn't know how high he might go, hadn't even given that a thought. All he knew was that he wanted to be as far as possible from what was happening below.

Although a Kansan and not nearly acclimated to the altitude of the Rockies, John was in excellent physical condition. Scarcely pausing even to catch his breath, he raced up the side of the huge mountain from one precarious foothold to the next. It was steeper now and his progress was via sweaty hands grasping at jagged stones and instinctive weight shifts of his lean body. Oblivious of the precariousness of his ascent, he continued his climb, not chancing a glance behind him, looking instead ever upward, watching Thunder Peak grow nearer with each step.

More like bushes now, the lower branches of the wind-twisted alpine fir trees grabbed onto the boulders like tattoos clinging to a sailor's arm. The last of the trees surviving at that elevation, they splashed deep green onto the agglomeration of pale gray rocks. John stepped around them, unaware of the menacing wind buffeting his backside, ignoring the darkening skies of a summer thunderstorm bearing down on him and the massive mountain. Although not near the top, he was close now to the almost-vertical cliffs that were the true face of the magnificent mountain. He had not even paused to think about where he actually was. A place he had only wished to someday visit was now a matter of only a few hundred yards away.

No towering trees now, just rocks adorned by lichens. Tiny alpine flowers and thin grasses. Marmots lived here, scurrying betwixt this immense pile of stones. And ground squirrels. And birds – ravens and vultures and eagles. But little else. Yet on this day there was an intruder amongst them. The solitude of the place was mildly interrupted by the presence of a confused and frightened boy -- or as John was destined to become on that day -- young man.

Chapter 2

John padded carefully across a steep field of shale-like rock, sharp-edged and slipping beneath his feet perilously as he went. Still he hadn't chanced a look below, perhaps because he was too scared, possibly because he was simply too preoccupied. His breaths came in deep gulps now, his lungs toiling to pull oxygen from the thin air. Finally he reached the base of the giant stone wall that was the precipice of the mountain, the summit of the peak at least another thousand feet above. Streaked with pinks and grays and black, its surface was smooth, polished by eons of rain and wind. He reached out to touch the rock with the flat of his hand. It felt cold against his palm.

He had to rest, he thought, leaning his back now against the stone, still gasping for oxygen as if he were trying to suck a milk shake through a flattened straw. His chest heaving, he faced out from the mountain for the first time since leaving the stream bed below. The trees and lakes, hillsides and plains stretched out below him as he'd never viewed them before, his eyes devouring the grandness of the panorama, the sight causing him to catch his breath in mid-pant. He was certain he had never seen any place more beautiful. Hills of magnificent greens rolled away from the mountain like giant wrinkles of velvet. Tiny pools of clear water shimmering in the darting sunlight dotted the landscape as far as he could see. Puffy clouds reached out and touched the blue mountains in the far distance. And wildflowers splashed their vibrant colors onto the nearer hillsides.

This would be his place, he chanced to think. Someday. Someday, he thought. But could it be? Was it possible? Was it over? Was it really over? Was today the someday he had always prayed would come?

Chapter 3

Glancing now off to his right, toward the angry thunderstorm advancing from the northwest, John could no longer see the tops of the nearby peaks. The frenzied, boiling clouds had totally gobbled them up and were bearing down on the mountain where he stood. Claps of thunder now shook the very ground he was standing on, and for the first time John's mind shifted from the events by the river to his current situation. He recognized the imminent storm that was nearly upon him, realized that he had no place to shelter himself from the certain downpour. As huge widely scattered raindrops began to dot the boulders at his feet, he spied an overhang of rock to dart beneath to shield himself from the shower. The rain was now coming down in sheets just a few hundred yards away as he reached the dryness of the concavity, his t-shirt and jeans spotted by the sprinkles that had caught him in his sprint.

John hunkered down beneath the rocky ceiling – rather more of a ledge than a ceiling, which kept him mostly dry from the rain. The outstretched hills were still bathed in intermittent sprays of sunshine, the sun finding its way through the gaps between the cumulus clouds that accompanied the thunderhead. The sound of the rain ushered by the violent winds from the storm almost totally drowned out the rolling thunder from above. John stood and plastered his back against the rock trying to avoid getting any wetter, but the wind whipped the rain inward, dousing his jeans and tennis shoes. He shivered from the coldness of the downpour and watched the storm steal the sunlight from the valley, listened to the wind wailing in the clefts of rock above. Lightning crashed into the mountain and lit up the blackening sky. John clenched his eyes tightly and covered his ears with his hands. He hadn’t considered being in this predicament when he left the campground in the bright sunshine a couple of hours before. Suddenly he felt that he, too, might die that day. And not at the hand of his father.

Chapter 4

John grabbed a stick from the ground and flipped it out into the rain. Then another. Then he reached down and from the sandy ground picked up a tiny crooked bone, a couple of inches or so in length. He studied it, then searched for more. There were others. Many others. A tiny skull, or at least the top of it, a perfect row of teeth. A rabbit's foot, fur still attached. The skeleton of a small fish. A fish! he thought. At 12,000 feet? This was a nest, he realized. A bird's nest? A vulture, maybe? Or an eagle? He surveyed the ground around him again. A huge pile of sticks lay at his left, splashed with the white of bird droppings. A few downy feathers clung to the twigs, some long brown feathers cluttered the ground. And tufts of fur and scattered bones littered the place. For sure this must have been an eagle’s nest, he thought.

The wind screamed through crevasses in the rock above him, a bolt of lightning exploded against the peak, the impact reverberating through John's whole body. He peered outward again through squinted eyes, the clouds and the deluge of rain now obliterating the panorama except for a tiny piece of it to his far left. He and the mountain were consumed by the storm itself now, totally invisible to those below. The wind, the rain, and the thunder in combination were all deafening. For the first time, John wondered how he would get back down to the campsite. For the first time he realized that his mother would be frightened about where he was and if he'd be all right. He also now wondered if he would too.

The roar of the wind and rain against the giant slabs of stone was sinister now. John shivered, chilled by the storm and frightened by it. His tennis shoes would be slick against the boulders, his clothes would be drenched, he would be freezing. In the dimmed light, how would he find the same path back? Any path for that matter. How would he know where to go? And nobody could help him. Nobody even knew where he was. He hadn't told his mother or his sister where he was going. How could he? He hadn't known himself.

Lightning again slammed into the mountain followed instantly by a tremendous crack of thunder. John flinched, sitting backward and hugging his knees to his chest, trying to make himself smaller against the mountain. He could not see but a few feet out from the overhang now, the torrent and the thunderhead having obscured the mountain itself, the storm clouds having devoured the light from the sun. John's entire body quaked as he came to fully realize the predicament he'd placed himself in.

He hadn't been trying to reach the top of the mountain. Even without the rain and wind, he would not have attempted to do that. The sheer cliffs were too steep for a thirteen-year-old with no knowledge of rock climbing. He hadn't come here for that. He'd climbed the mountain only because he didn't know where else to go, where else to get away from what was certain to happen to his dad. He wasn’t sure how long it would take – hours maybe. Maybe even days? His grandfather had not been that specific. Why would he have? John hoped it would be hours and not days. It was now mid-afternoon – more than six hours had passed. Surely, John thought, it wouldn’t be days!

Chapter 5

Friday, August 27, 1955

Gently gripping his grandmother's arm, John led her through the huge leaded-glass entry door of the funeral home. Although he had never thought of her as feeble, she had asked that he help steady her. She'd told him that she might faint. He wondered what he would do if she did.

Over the summer he had grown several inches, and at thirteen now stood even taller than the diminutive woman. He had been proud to be asked to help her, yet now felt ashamed. Ashamed at what he had done, even though she could not have known. No one could, he thought. No one would. Moving slowly and silently across the deep burgundy carpet, his grandmother feigned a smile at a staid woman standing beside a pedestal table with an open guest book. John kept his eyes on the vacuum marks on the rug.

As they proceeded toward the entryway to the parlor, the boy felt his grandmother hesitate and glanced at her. Holding her right hand to her face, she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Her body was trembling and he could hear her sob. Quickly he looked away from her, trying to shift his concentration to the textures of the wall covering, or the whistle of a distant train; not wanting to think of his father, not wanting to feel any sorrow in his death. He wouldn't let himself feel anything, he told himself. Not anything at all.

John realized then that he hadn't given any thought to his grandmother's feelings about her son's death. It seemed normal for her to cry over him, though. Sure she would have felt a loss; she did not know him in the same way John did. His dad was still her little boy, her baby. She could not have seen him in the same light he had. To her he wasn't threatening. Crying must have been every mother's reaction to a son's death. Even his father must have been loved by his own mother. Wasn't it only natural? After all, she didn't know what all her son had done.

The room had the feel of a vaulted chamber in a cave, cold and damp, uncommonly quiet. The stale air had been freshened only superficially from an aerosol can. What windows the room had were shrouded by heavy dust-laden drapes, their muslin hems streaked with brown stains from condensation that had previously dripped from the glass. The lights lining the walls flickered as if illuminated with candles, their glow casting a drab skein of yellow onto the room and a dull scintillating aurora that danced on the ceiling.

The funeral director seemingly trapped in a dark suit and tie greeted them at the mid-point of the large parlor room. Good evening, he said, his hands held tautly at his sides. His pallid face wore a pasted-on smile. Come with me, he said, backing up, his arms stiff, his head slightly bowed, the group following. John, as if learning to waltz for the first time, tried to keep a rhythm with his grandmother's tiny unsteady steps, the two of them leading the others grudgingly slowly toward the front. They passed between the long aisle of unoccupied wooden folding chairs, each stamped Warren Funeral Home on the back in bold black letters against rusting gray painted surfaces. There were seven empty chairs on each side of the parlor room. John counted them. It helped keep his mind off of the situation. He wondered how many of the seats would be filled the next morning at the actual funeral. It helped him escape feelings he did not want to have.

Chapter 6

Perfectly centered in the room several feet beyond the front row of vacant seats sat the coffin, dark metallic gray with an American flag adorning its top. The sight of the casket startled John. Surprisingly so. He had been there just that morning and helped his mother select it, had known it would be draped with a flag. But in that room, on that evening of the upcoming visitation, he sensed a coldness and, perhaps for the first time, the realization that his dead father lay inside.

The funeral director led them to the coffin and asked that the family stand in a make-shift semi-circle facing it, John's grandmother still clinging to his right arm, his mother standing at his left. For the first time John noticed that she, too, was crying. He looked at her then, almost disbelieving. Unlike his grandmother, John could not understand his mother's tears. Her nose was still swollen by a recent right-hand slap from the man inside the casket. Her summer make-up barely hid the greenish-yellow remnants of her blackened left eye. How could she have any feelings for him? he wondered. How could she harbor any sadness, any grief whatsoever? For all she had been through, she should have been experiencing only relief. He thought she should be absolutely jumping with joy like a little kid at the Dairy Queen counter. He found himself actually disappointed that she was not.

His younger sister stood at the far right of the family group near the foot of the coffin, not crying, her face icy and stern. John noticed she was staring like a mall store mannequin straight ahead at the wall behind the casket. No way could she be experiencing any sadness. He knew that, or at least felt that he knew it. But was she feeling exhilaration? Like him? He wished he knew. Their grandfather, between her and their grandmother, had placed his hand on her shoulder, his attempt at comforting her. She allowed it, but didn't respond in kind.

The boy wondered what his grandfather's thoughts were, too, maybe even more than the others. Feeling himself watching the older man, studying his face for any signs of emotion, John found himself hoping there would be none. But the man's dark, wrinkled face with its square jaw was hard to read. He had no tears. John certainly anticipated he would not. He expected him to remain stoic and strong, like a true Indian would in front of white folks. The older man's firm chin did not quaver. His mahogany -- almost black eyes hardly blinked. He squeezed his granddaughter's shoulder, then lightly touched the thin arm of his bereaved wife. He met John's stare with his own, his eyes telling nothing of how he felt inside. John looked away. He didn't want to know any more.

They all then watched as the undertaker folded the flag partially back on the coffin, the white stars in their blue background remaining on top. Impressed with the richness of color in the flag, John noticed the stitching around the stars, the creases in the fabric. He wondered whose hands had made it. He found himself thinking that it was too pretty for his father, even though the man had served stateside during World War II. It showed him more respect than he deserved. John wished they had reconsidered its use.

The funeral director stepped between the family and the coffin and slowly opened the top. Pulling the frilly cloth sheets from inside, he fluffed them neatly then moved aside and stood erect at the head of the coffin, his hands folded behind him. Immediately the two women began openly crying, as if on cue. John held more tightly onto his grandmother's arm as she stepped forward. He could feel her gripping securely in return.

John hardly recognized the man inside the casket. His complexion was pale. He had on a suit and tie, something his father almost never wore. His mouth appeared to be tautly pulled into a non-expressive pose. And his eyes were closed. Those awful eyes -- the ones that John had learned to hate so much -- were closed. It had only been a few days since John had seen his father’s face lying in a pool of his own vomit. But his face now shocked him even more in the casket than it had when they found him by the creek. It was indeed real. Finally. The man that he had wished so often would die now lay there in front of him, lifeless as stone.

A wave of sympathy rushed through him like a cold chill. It was unexpected yet inescapable. A tightness formed in his throat and his eyes began to sting as if he were going to cry himself. Impossible, he thought. He hated the man lying in front of him. Tears would only betray him. He couldn't have them. He fought them back, closing his eyes tightly, visualizing his father in life, remembering again as so often before what the man did to him and his sister. No, his sisters. Plural. The sympathy and any feelings of sadness left him. Immediately. They would not return.

He wished his grandmother would turn away from the coffin, but she wouldn't. She continued to weep softly. Closing his eyes, John tried to shut out the image of his dead father's face. But only more ugly semblances flashed through his mind. He saw the man's dreadful eyes then, glaring, minacious, vicious. He jerked, the images frightening him so badly, and reopened his eyes. Visualizing again his dead father in the coffin, he realized that his face in death was less disturbing than the memories of him alive.

Perspiration beaded on John's upper lip. Again he looked toward his grandfather who was stepping away, his arm still around his little sister. They seated themselves in the first row of chairs, the older man whispering something to his granddaughter. John imagined it to be some words of comfort, although he didn't guess she needed any.

Again John's thoughts were of his grandfather. The boy held him in high esteem, a symbol of what a good parent should be. John knew him to be both honest and fair, qualities that his father did not possess. And he suddenly saw himself to be just like his dad, not honest with the older man about what he had done. He felt ashamed. Ashamed and even saddened. Wouldn't his grandfather understand, though? Wouldn't he have agreed that his dad was no good? Hadn't he even said so himself, in his own way? But the older man could not have known about the abuses. How could he have possibly known?

Finally the elderly Mrs. Cohosh began shuffling away from the coffin, her weeping having subsided. John steadied her as she took a seat beside her husband. Relieved to be able to look away from the casket, John wondered how many more times he would envision his dad's menacing face over his lifetime. Would the thoughts haunt him -- thoughts of what the man did to him? And of what he made him do. Maybe they would. Maybe forever. He hadn't counted on that. He had assumed he would be safe from his father's bane after his death. Was he wrong? Had he made a mistake by what he'd done? Would he ever really know?

Chapter 7

Tuesday, August 31, 1955

John was in an eagle’s nest. An eagle soared high over the summit of Thunder Peak. Suddenly it was dropping from the sky like a little kid jumping from the high board at the pool for the first time, wings back, shedding the wind that had held it hovering above. Its giant legs stretched outward, its sharp, black talons ugly in the sun. He could see its yellow eyes, its giant beak ricked into a frightening grin. . . . . No, it wasn’t an eagle after all. It was his dad’s menacing grin. A scream . . . John's scream.

The nightmare awakened him, his heart pounding, his chest heaving with panting breaths, his pajamas and sheets wet with his sweat, wrinkled from writhing against the nightmare. But it was over. Again. For now. For this night. He had suffered through similar nightmares so often before. But why now? His dad was dead he recalled as he awakened more, rubbing his face with his hands. Only three days before they had buried him.

John sat up, his legs dangling over the side of the bed, grown almost long enough now for his feet to reach the floor. The pupils of his blankly staring eyes were dilated both from the relative darkness in the room and the fright he'd just received from the dream. But the dream was different. It wasn’t his dad in the dream – it was an eagle. Yet it turned into his dad. John stared at the tiny reflection of a streetlight on the brass door knob to his room. Did this mean that the nightmares would continue? Did this mean he hadn't stopped them after all! How long would he have to live with this man? Would his memory now haunt him forever? Would it ever stop!

Chapter 8

Saturday, September 4, 1955

The barber shop was packed on that Saturday afternoon, the first day of the Labor Day weekend. John sat down at the side of the shop so he could look out the window. All he could see were the old-ladies' clothing store across the street and the drug store next to it. But he could see outdoors, and that was important to him. He felt his front jeans pocket again to make sure he had the two quarters that his mom had given him for his haircut. Normally he would have come with his dad. No. Those days were behind him now.

Maynard Ward was in here and said they got damn near two inches of rain over by Morrisville, Sam said to the man he had just thrown a white sheet over in his barber chair. John didn't recognize the guy, but he looked to be a farmer. His balding head was pure white above a distinct hat line just over his eyebrows. Below the demarcation his facial skin was tanned and leathery. He wore dirty denim overalls and dirtier cowboy boots.

They been getting rain all summer. We need a toad strangler here, that's for sure. And it don't sound like we're gonna get it.

Nope, Sam answered him, initiating his perpetual clipping.

Sam knew everybody else's business, and it was the place to go in Tobias, Kansas, to hear something new that had happened in town. Most conversations started with comments about the weather in Sam's Barber Shop. The man undoubtedly had begun thousands of haircuts in that way over the years. He stood in that shop five days a week without a radio, just the sound of the scissors and the electric clippers and the six or seven minutes of small talk with each customer.

Today there were several other customers ahead of John. He knew he would have a lengthy wait, but he had to get a haircut before school, and this was his last chance.

John pilfered through the rickety magazine rack at his side. It held various out-dated magazines and parts of newspapers. He grabbed for the well-worn April 12,1954 issue of Life Magazine. He knew there would be photos in the magazine. The articles held no interest to him whatsoever. Although he would be entering the eighth grade the following Tuesday, he was only able to read at about the fourth grade level.

The barber and his client spoke of some barn that had burned down and of the price of wheat. John paid no attention. But as he leafed through his magazine, John sensed the stare of a man sitting directly across from him. Not having noticed him before, he chanced a quick glance at the man who continued his gawking. He recognized the uniform then. The man was the sheriff of Raymond County -- Sheriff Don Alexander.

John quickly turned back into his book, feeling uncomfortable about the sheriff's stare. Beginning to rock back and forth in his seat, he quickly thumbed through the photo essay of artwork from the Andes. Why was the sheriff looking at him? John grew increasingly unnerved.

How's that, Pete? Sam asked as he spun his customer around to face the mirror.

Fine, the farmer said, standing and reaching for his wallet. You're not earning your money on me anymore, Sam, and you know it. He grinned and handed the older man a dollar.

I suppose that means the rest of this ain't a tip, right? Sam smiled back.

You got that right.

The sheriff stood, adjusting his gun belt on his hip, stepping toward the barber's chair. His eyes did not leave John, and the boy could feel them on him. Leaning forward on his knees, John pretended to be engrossed in his magazine. Hearing the ringing of the cash register bell, he noticed the feet of the farmer leaving and those of the sheriff on the step of the chair. Beads of perspiration began to collect on John's forehead. His heart boomed in his chest.

Hot enough for you, Don? Sam asked.

Yeah, the sheriff forced. Plenty.

Sam threw the cape over his customer's lap. How would you like it?

Leave some for seed. I don't guess I need much more than that this time of year.

The sheriff continued to look John's way. John wanted to get up and leave, or at least move to a different seat. Then the sheriff abruptly asked a question. It could not have been directed at anyone else in the room. Ain't you that Cohosh kid?

John lifted his eyes to the man, startled. Yeah, he answered weakly.

Too bad about your dad.

Thanks, John managed and quickly shifted his focus back to his magazine, hoping the conversation was over. He flipped idly through the next few pages, not even seeing what was on them. He continued slightly rocking. He continued sweating.

I liked your dad okay, Sheriff Alexander continued. He was all right. Quite a pool shooter.

John didn't respond.

"You didn't want to beat him in pool, though. Not when he was drinking. He kinda took it personal.

I remember one night he laid ol' Bart Masters right on his ass inside of Vernie's after Bart had sunk the nine ball on the break for the second time in a row. You know Bart -- his ribbing just finally got under your dad's skin. I had to drive both of them home that night. No harm done, though. They was both friends the next day even though Bart's eye looked like shit for a while.

Still John offered no response. Putting his magazine down, he rifled through the stack for another.

Wasn't he an Indian? the sheriff continued with his interrogation.

Huh? John asked.

Your dad. Wasn't he part Indian?

Yeah, half. Minaki. John was guarded with his answer, although he didn't know why.

Huh, the sheriff grunted.

Suddenly John realized how quiet it was in the shop, except for the humming of the dust-caked ceiling fan in the center of the room and the sound of the scissors as Sam worked away on his client. He also noticed more eyes on him, those of others in the shop -- Reuben French, the local jeweler, a prissy man with greasy hair in wild curls chaotically piled on top of his head; a snot-nosed seven-year old kid with gaping holes in both knees of his jeans and both rows of his teeth; a burly man with three-day whiskers, sagging lids, and an alcoholic's nose; an older man whose frizzy gray hair encircled his round head like a pine cone Christmas wreath. John wished he were somewhere else and tried to disappear into his magazine. His hands, even against his straining effort to stop them, began to noticeably shake.

The rest of you . . . your mom and you and, who else, your little sister? None of you, you didn't even get sick, right?

Right.

Hmmm, the sheriff went, his eyes still not leaving the face of the boy. Twisting in his chair, John tried to turn away from the officer. There just was nowhere else to go in that small barber shop.

We never know, do we? Sam chimed in. Sometimes things just happen.

Sometimes things just happen and sometimes things are meant to happen, Sheriff Alexander said. I've been in this business long enough to know that.

Probably just Max's turn was all, Sam said, finally turning the chair and the sheriff's face away from John and back toward the mirrored wall.

Maybe something like that, the sheriff answered. Something like that.

Chapter 9

Monday, September 6, 1955

John's grandfather picked up his cereal bowl and slurped the last of the milk from the bottom. Then wiping his mouth with the back of his huge hand, he smiled his lopsided grin at his grandson. Smile, boy, he said. Just cause summer's over don't mean you should be moping around all over the place.

John's mind was far away from the breakfast table at his grandparents' house as he stirred idly in his bowl. His thoughts were of his mother, of his sister. He was thinking about the sheriff and his dad's funeral. He was thinking of the nightmare that woke him again in the night. He was thinking what the rest of his life might be like without his father. And he wouldn't look up.

Hale Cohosh studied the boy, his deep walnut-colored eyes squinting through shrubbery-like eyebrows grayed by time and experience. John could sense those eyes on him and continued tracing doodles through his cereal and milk. He didn't feel like talking either, if that's what his grandfather had in mind. He sensed the big man sitting back then, crossing one knee over the other and one arm over the other. What're you going to do this last day before school starts?

John shrugged his shoulders.

Wanna go fishing?

Naw, John said, continuing to stare into what was left of his bran flakes, now quite soggy and unappealing.

What's bothering you, boy? his grandfather asked bluntly, removing his glasses now and placing them down on the table.

John shrugged again, surprised by the question. He didn't guess anything was wrong and wondered why his grandfather would think that there was. Nothin’, John mumbled.

Not much of a birthday for you this year, was it? Not with your dad dying and all.

The teenager shook his head, then offered his first real words of the morning in a listless tone, I guess I'm not ready for summer to be over yet, that's all.

It had been twelve days since his father's death. It didn't seem that long. The time had passed so quickly. And yet it hadn't. Almost every night since the funeral John had been awakened by the vision of his father, his bed sheets damp and crumpled, his thumb in his mouth, the skin of it wrinkled and pink from sucking on it in his fitful sleep. He no longer wet the bed from being so frightened like he did until he was nine, but the fear of it was with him nightly. He had assumed the nightmares and the sleepless nights would have ended with his dad's death. But he was wrong. Quite wrong. If possible, perhaps his nights were worse.

Still peering across the table at his grandson, the elder man continued. You know, I've thought a lot about your momma and you kids since your daddy died. She really needs you and Maggie now. She's not going to make it without a lot of help from you.

The boy nodded shallowly, chasing a raisin with his spoon.

Your grandma and I will help what we can. But we're not rich folks. It'll be hard.

A strong feeling of guilt came over John again. It had been bothering him off and on since his dad's death. He felt especially guilty when he thought about his mother, knowing she would have a rough time without his dad's support. After all, she had depended on it her entire adult life. She had worked, but only odd jobs, taking in laundry, cleaning houses for other folks. Indeed it would be hard. Had he not given it enough thought before he did what he'd done? Had he made a mistake? Was it the right thing to do after all? His thoughts were again lost in his cereal bowl when his grandfather's voice again shattered them.

How are you handling his death? the man asked, still staring at the boy intently.

All right, John said, his eyelids concealing any emotion beneath them as he continued gazing downward.

You sure?

Yeah.

Finally the boy raised his face to the older man. The eyes riveting back at him were dark and impassioned. He could feel them offering consolation. They weren't accusatory, as the eyes of the sheriff had seemed. His grandfather's eyes weren't blaming. They didn't seem vengeful. John thought that they should have been. Had the man known the truth about the death, John sensed that he would have hated him for it. Certainly he wouldn't have been concerned about how he was feeling; he wouldn't have been trying to cheer him up. On the contrary, had he known the truth about the death of his own son, John figured his grandfather would have felt anything but compassion. He would have felt betrayed and deceived, likely even seeking justice for the death, for the killing of his only son.

It was all different from what John had thought it would be. Somehow, although he really didn't know how, he had surmised that others would see the value that he himself perceived in the man's death. That his mom or his sister or his grandfather would realize that the death was good, not bad, that the man got what he deserved. They all knew that his dad was mean and abusive. That his dad had done things that simply weren't right, the way he had beaten his mom and him and his sisters. But they didn’t know it all. They didn’t know all the other things that the man had done to him and now to both of his sisters. It wasn't normal – was it? Had they known those things that he'd done, surely they would understand. Wouldn’t they? But how could they realize that his death was justified if he didn’t tell them? He wanted to tell them what the man had done. Explain it to them. He didn’t know how and he was frightened by the possible consequences. And he was still -- even though his dad was dead -- he was still afraid of him. He had lived with the fear so long, he simply couldn't shake it just like that.

His grandfather’s voice interrupted his thoughts. You've lived a lot of sadness, John. Your dad dying. Your sister.

John set his spoon down beside his soggy bran flakes, no longer eating from the bowl. He offered no response to his grandfather's comments.

"It's hard. And not just for a kid. Losing people