James and Jack

By Edna Bell-Pearson

James Caldwell has just graduated from high school. An only child, his parents indulge his every whim; his graduation gift is a red Corvette convertible. Their expectations are that, after college, James will return to Grangerville, a small Illinois town, and work in the printing business which his father has dedicated his life to building, and which is to be his son’s heritage.
He should be enthusiastic about his good fortune but, more than anything, James, who has never been further from home than a lake, thirty miles distant, where he and his dad sometimes go fishing, wants get out of this humdrum town. His dream is to become a foreign correspondent and travel the world.
A couple of weeks after graduation, he suggests, at dinner, that they take a trip. His father’s excuse, as always, is that he “can’t leave the business.”
James is furious. The next morning, without notifying his parents, he takes off, heading west, determined to “see the world.”
Jack Trent’s background is quite different. Jack has never had a home. After his mother and baby sister died in an apartment fire in Kansas City, his father spends the next fifteen years moving from place to place, from job to job. Jack has never attended any one school for more than a year. His lifelong dream has been to have a home of his own.
He has just begun the second semester in the community college in Grand Junction, Colorado when his father is killed in an automobile accident.
Trying to decide what to do Jack, who has been completely dependent on his father, drops out of school and hitches a ride in an 18 wheeler.
He has just decided that the sensible thing is to become a truck driver. Then he and James meet up at a truck stop in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
James invites Jack to ride along,
They decide to travel the perimeter of the United States. As they drive, they discuss their hopes and dreams, each envying the other for having lived a life the other wants so badly. With the passing of time, they give each other hope that fate will intervene and their dreams will ultimately be realized.
Ten months later, after sojourns up into Canada, down into Mexico and the Florida Keys, they have reached Rockland, Maine. While there, James receives word that his father has suffered a heart attack. They rush back to Grangerville.
His father recovers, but James is trapped. As a matter of fact, it appears that both boys are doomed to give up their dreams.
Is James’s fate to settle down in Grangerville, working with his ailing father in the printing business? Will Jack again be forced into drifting from place to place, following in his father’s footsteps, forever seeking?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edna Bell-Pearson
• Release date: Dec 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370938254

Edna Bell-Pearson

Edna Bell-Pearson's stories, articles, essays, and poems have appeared in hundreds of magazines, newspapers, literary journals, and anthologies world-wide. She has published six books. She is most noted for Fragile Hopes, Transient Dreams and Other Stories, a Southwest Kansas saga, which was chosen during the Kansas sesquicentennial year, as one of "150 Best Kansas Books."

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JAMES AND JACK

By

EDNA BELL-PEARSON

JAMES AND JACK

Copyright 2016 by Edna Bell-Pearson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission.

James and Jack is a work of fiction. Characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Smashwords eBook version

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Also available in Print

ISBN-13: 978-1540895271

ISBN-10: 1540895270

Cover design by Gordon A Kessler

Email: [e-mail]

Blog: http://GordonKessler.com

Published in the United States of America.

By

EDNA BELL-PEARSON

www.bell-pearson.com

To the reader: Please overlook all literary liberties taken with timeline, place, etc. Enjoy the story!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to my writer friends and editors, Mark Scheel, Fred Farris and Gordon Kessler, whose patience, consideration and expertise helped me get all my I’s dotted, my T’s crossed and the words in the right place.

CHAPTER 1

James V. Caldwell III slouched behind the wheel of his new red 1992 Corvette, a graduation gift from his parents, and flipped the radio dial from 96.8 to 86.9 to 70.2—from hard rock to top forty to country—and back again. Nothing worth shit listening to, he flipped it off and stretched out his legs across the passenger seat. A scowl on his face, he looked blackly down the street stretching westward out of town, disappearing in the distance.

Grover Boulevard was a quiet, pleasant street with century-old oaks and elms gracing neat lawns surrounding rows of well-kept, two-story homes, all white except Jess Beezley’s house, across the street and down the block. Beezley, in a feeble effort to be different, had painted his house a bilious green.

In the late afternoon of this peaceful spring day, the broad street, now empty, seemed to be waiting expectantly for the end of the work day when automobiles bearing clerks and shop-keepers would ruffle the serenity before sliding one by one into the paved slots leading to doors governed by automatic openers.

It was a scene James had witnessed every day of his life. And in that lay the problem. Was this all there was? The excitement of graduating from high school was behind him. This fall, he would register at the community college—still the same old thing. After that he’d enroll in the State University and, a couple of years later, receive his degree. Then he would join his father in the printing business which he would, one day, inherit.

His life was planned and laid out neatly for him, even down to the kind of girl he’d marry; if not Darlene Jordan, his current girl friend, then someone like her—someone who would fit in.

He’d just gotten off work at the grocery store where he spent three hours a day unloading trucks, moving boxes, stocking shelves. Pretty soon, he’d go in to dinner. After that, he’d spend the evening hanging out with kids he’d hung out with all his life. They’d go to the pool hall, maybe, or the video center or, if anything decent was showing, a drive-in movie. They’d razz a few girls—the same girls they’d razzed all their lives—and when he got home the old man and old lady would be turning off the TV, putting out the cat and heading up the stairs to bed.

They’d ask him if he had a nice evening and he would say yes, keeping his distance for fear they would smell the beer on his breath. They knew he drank a little—he’d heard them talking about it once, when they didn’t know he was around.

Don’t worry about it, Stella, Dad had said. All boys have a little drink now and then. James is a good boy; it doesn’t mean a thing.

James pictured himself starting the motor, driving down that peaceful—make that dead—street, cross Main, which was also State Highway 21 and straight on through town to the open road. In a matter of hours, he could be seeing country he’d never seen before!

He wished his folks took an interest in traveling. He’d never been much of anywhere and just thinking about it took some of the edge off the dead weight in the pit of his stomach. Mentally he felt the car surge forward, speeding westward on the interstate. He could even feel the wind in his hair, his foot pressing down on the accelerator.

He straightened up behind the wheel, his mind whirling.

What about money? He had forty-four dollars and change in his pocket and two hundred, ten in his savings account. He’d need food. Gas. Weather was warming up; he could sleep in the car. His car was new so he wasn’t likely to run into any trouble there. If he did have car trouble, he could fix it himself—he’d only be out the money for the parts.

What would he do when he ran out? Stop somewhere and get a sacking job in another grocery store? The same shit he’d left behind? The difference was he’d be somewhere he’d never been before. That would count for something. Vaguely, he wondered if he knew enough to get a job as a mechanic. But that was something he could think about when the time came.

He thought about college. He thought about his dad’s printing business. He thought about how bored he was. Then he thought about how chicken he was and got out of the car, slammed the door and went in to dinner.

Why were you sitting in your car for so long? his mother asked.

Listening to the radio, he replied.

When they sat down to eat, she turned to his father, asking about his day. Same old shit. Not once during the meal did they seem to notice that James wasn’t talking much.

There was a lull in the conversation when his mother rose from the table, gathered up their plates and went to the kitchen to serve dessert.

I’d like to take a trip, James blurted out when she returned a few minutes later with sherbets of coconut pudding.

He felt, rather than saw, them exchange glances.

Why, that would be nice, son, his father said, but I really can’t leave the business right now.

James felt his face flush. Hell, he’d never been able to leave the damned business! That was why they never went anywhere.

"I mean I’d like to take a trip—by myself. I just want to go somewhere!"

This time their exchanged looks expressed concern—as if they were silently asking each other; what is getting into this boy?

But where would you go? his mother asked.

Anywhere. I just want to get away for a while.

Get away from what, dear? You have everything a boy could want right here.

Shit! he exclaimed. He lunged back his chair and stomped up to his room, but not before he saw his mother’s mouth fly open and her face pale.

He’d never used language like that in her presence before.

He flopped down on the bed, thinking about all the adventure stories he’d read; how he’d always dreamed about doing things like that.

Kid stuff, he thought. This was real life.

He looked around the room. The checkered bedspread and matching curtains his mother had made. The desk and bookcases they’d bought when he was a sophomore. The school supplies. The clothes piled on the overstuffed chair in the corner. The room was cluttered, but clean—thanks to Mom who tidied it up when it got too messy. She never fussed at him to keep it picked up, seeming to accept disorder as what boys did.

What was a fella supposed to do? Just give in to it? He thought of the guys he ran around with. None of them ever talked about leaving; trying something new. All he ever heard from them was plans for college, after which they’d come back to Grangerville, get a job; perhaps go into their father’s business—or start one of their own. He wondered if they had dreams too. Perhaps, like himself, they just didn’t talk about their fantasies, and the dreams their parents considered foolish.

He stood, washed his face, combed his hair, and left the house. As he passed the den, he waved to his parents who were watching CNN.

I’ll be back in a while, he said.

Have a good time, son! his father called out.

They’d obviously forgotten his tantrum at the table. How often he’d heard them say: Boys will be boys! He vaguely wondered why they never seemed to worry that he might do something that would get him in trouble.

The fact was, they trusted him.

He found the gang at the pool hall, involved in a game of pool. He watched, but didn’t join in. His mind was elsewhere. After the game ended, he asked if anyone would like to go out to the truck stop for a cold drink.

Most often they went to drive-ins and sat in their cars, but James liked to go to the truck stop. He liked the atmosphere; to sit around the table and talk. He found it exciting to watch the huge 18-wheelers come and go; to watch the drivers climb into the cabs, the roar of the motors as they pulled out of the parking area, their lights slowly disappearing down the long stretch of highway.

The truck drivers always sat together. He envied their carefree camaraderie as they ate and drank their coffee, or soft drinks. Occasionally, he could hear snatches of conversation naming places he might never see—Denver, Portland, L.A., Chicago—

He wondered what it was like to spend one’s life on the road. Well, it was a way to see the country!

It was nine o’clock when Bruce Johnson and Gene Hopewell piled into the car; he headed for the truck stop.

Once inside, they ordered drinks. He ordered a beer. While they waited to be served, James looked around the crowded room.

You guys ever think about leaving Grangerville? he asked.

Two pair of eyes turned his way; curious, as if wondering where a conversation such as this could possibly lead.

You mean like going to college? Bruce asked.

Naw. I mean getting out of Grangerville completely—moving to a different part of the country—see the world! Is there anything that says that, just because we were born and raised here, we have to stay?

Actually no, Gene said. But what would be the logic in leaving Grangerville? We know everybody here. Our friends are here. This is where it’s at—our future—the good life!

The waitress brought their drinks and they kidded around with her a bit. After she was gone, the two boys looked questioningly at James, expecting him to continue the conversation. A lot of truckers here tonight, he said, taking a swig of beer, changing the subject.

Before he knew it, it was eleven o’clock. Time they started drifting toward home. They’d be expected.

Like wind-up toys we’re expected to run down in a given length of time, James thought.

When he got home, his parents were going through the nightly ritual, making ready for bed. Had he been late—as he was on occasion—they would still be in the den, awaiting his arrival, his lateness delaying only the final trek up the stairs.

James had never found it easy to talk with his parents about issues that concerned him—such as this discontent. If broached, the subject was always met with the same reaction it had met at dinner.

He always ended up angry but, until tonight, he had suppressed his anger, giving in, accepting their seeming unconcern.

It wasn’t as if they were oblivious to his needs. His father worked hard at the printing business he’d started right out of college, and they were proud they could give their only son the best life offered. It was just that they seemed incapable of understanding James’s need to explore a greater world.

As with his friends, his restlessness was beyond their understanding.

As he dressed for bed, James puzzled over the reason for these urgings; this curiosity, this longing for something more. Would he ever be content to settle down in Grangerville?

Perhaps, once he had a taste of the outside world, this insatiable longing to know what was out there would abate. The more he thought about it the more certain he was that the only way he was going to find out was to give it a try. And the way to do that was to just start driving down that road and see what happened.

***

The next morning, he left the house before his parents were up. He didn’t want them to see the small bag he carried out with him and tossed in the trunk of his car. It would be three hours before the bank opened, but there were a few things he needed to do.

First, he went to the truck stop for breakfast. He would be less likely to see anyone he knew there. He had no desire to talk to anyone. About anything.

After breakfast, he went to the market. It was almost eight. Verne Grant, the manager, would be there by now. He found him in the cold storage room, filling out an order.

What’s wrong, buddy? he asked when James asked him for his check. I thought you were satisfied with your job.

You know I am, Verne, James said. But the old man thinks it’s time I start learning the printing business—you know how fathers are!

Verne sighed.

Can’t blame him, I guess, he said. He’s looking out for your interests—and he’s right. Come on up to the office and I’ll write out your check.

Good luck, kid, he said a few minutes later, handing James the check.

Thanks, Verne. I’ll be seeing you around, James said, feeling guilty for lying. Old Verne wasn’t gonna feel too good when he learned the truth. Why, he hadn’t even said a word about his not giving notice!

James looked at his watch.

Herbert would have left for work by now. He’d drop off the tapes he’d borrowed with his mom, then only one more stop—the bank.

He rang the bell at the Wall home and shuffled nervously until Mrs. Wall opened the door.

Thought I’d better return these so Bert wouldn’t think I’d decided to keep them, he said. Thrusting the bag in her arms, he hurried back to his car before she could ask any questions.

His father should have arrived at the shop by now, but there was no use taking chances. To avoid possibly running into him, he drove six blocks out of the way to get to the bank.

He withdrew his savings and cashed his check. That, plus the cash he had in his billfold, added up to three hundred fourteen dollars and change. As he pulled out into the street and headed west, he wondered how far that would take him before he’d have to look for a job.

As he drove he mentally listed what he might do to earn money when the time came. Grocery store stock boy, of course. Then there was yard work, busboy, painting—no doubt he’d think of others once he started looking.

He hadn’t left a note in case his mother went to his room before he was out of town. He wouldn’t be missed until evening, so he’d wait and call then. In the meantime, he’d figure out how to explain what he was doing. He did a mental calculation; he should be close to four hundred miles down the road by then. He wasn’t looking forward to the arguments; his mother coaxing him to just come home.

His foot tended to be heavy on the accelerator until he reminded himself that there was no need to hurry—that he was already on the road which was exactly where he wanted to be.

He slowed down, settled back and took in the sights with new interest.

Two girls, driving a green Honda, passed and waved enthusiastically. James waved back. When they reached the next town, the girls turned into a drive in, but James drove on. Too close to home; too much to see.

As evening approached he nervously reminded himself that it was nearing time to call home. At five-fifteen, he pulled into a service station, filled up with gas and went to the pay phone. He thought a few minutes, inserted some coins, and dialed.

His mother answered.

Hi Mom, he said. I won’t be home for dinner. I’m in Shamrock Texas.

"You’re where?"

Shamrock, Texas. I decided to take that little trip we were talking about at dinner last night.

Dad, pick up the phone! he heard his mother call out nervously.

I’ll see you when I get back, he said hurriedly. Love you, Mom.

He hung up and took a deep breath, picturing his dad hitting the roof.

He felt a sudden stab of guilt. They’ll think this is just an act of rebellion on my part, he thought. Is it?

No, he decided, I have to do this. He got into his car and pulled back onto the highway. Come what may, he would keep on driving down that road.

He turned on the radio. Now that he was here, he might as well relax and enjoy the experience. He’d spent his whole life in a dinky town, practically in the center of the United States. He’d never seen an ocean or a prairie or a mountain range. Well, by gosh, that was about to change!

An hour before dark, he stopped at a MacDonald’s and bought a Big Mac, a coke and a couple of candy bars. A few miles down the road, he spied a rest stop and pulled in. He checked the speedometer; he’d driven almost 500 miles. Sipping on the coke, he ate the sandwich and one of the candy bars. Then he got out the map of the United States he’d purchased several months before, and opened it out on a picnic table. With his forefinger he traced highways west to the California coast, then to the north and west—where the State of Washington and Canada met at the coast of the Pacific Ocean. He then checked highways around the perimeter of the United States. Maybe he’d just drive all the way around it—maybe take side trips into Canada and Mexico. There was a lot of country here. Uncharted—for him. He felt the blood rush through his veins.

Relaxing, he finished his coke. Anticipation replaced the apprehension he’d felt after talking to his mother, and a thrill of excitement ran through his veins.

As darkness settled in, he got into the car, closed the top and rolled up the windows, and fell asleep. He woke only once during the night. Since the rest stop seemed to be vacant except for himself he sought out a nearby hedge, peed, got back into the car, and went back to sleep.

The sun was peeping over the horizon when he awoke. He went to the restrooms, emptied his bladder, washed his face and combed his hair. When he pulled back onto the road, he turned on the radio and flipped the dial until he found a country western station.

Yippee! he said, singing I’m an old cowhand along with the country western singer. When I get to Albuquerque I think I’ll buy me a cowboy hat!

Meanwhile, he reminded himself, he was in no hurry; he was safely away from Grangerville. He settled back to enjoy the landscape.

Evening found him just short of Albuquerque. He had kept well under the speed limit, taking in the scenery, stopping occasionally to look around and give the area he was driving through a closer inspection. At dusk, he drove into a small town and pulled in at a roadside café. The special was roast beef, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and gravy, all for three ninety five. Not as good as Mom’s but it was tasty and the price included all the rolls he could eat.

It was dark when he left the café. He drove around until he found a small park at the west edge of town. Pulling in, he parked in the shelter of a grove of trees and went to sleep, tired but happy.

He awoke during the night, sat up