One Summer - Ebook

By M.W. Southard

Andy, Truck, Striker and Calvin made their way into the Big Boonies. They would have never guessed that a simple camping trip, something they'd done many times before, would turn into a fight for survival. They would have never guessed that Old Man Hodd was still alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312085657

Book preview

One Summer - Ebook

ONE SUMMER

M.W. SOUTHARD

Pam, Josh, and Tim Southard

Copyright Pam, Josh, and Tim Southard 2014

Prologue - August 2000

Thirty-nine year old Leslie Strickland slowed the ancient pickup truck to a crawl, nosing it from the road and into a sea of dew-heavy weeds before killing the motor.  He leaned forward until his head rested against the steering wheel, eyes closed.

Dear Lord, let this work out all right, he whispered.  Please.  Let this work out okay.

It wasn’t even daylight yet, with only the faintest pastel wash of color hinting low in the eastern sky.  Leslie had driven out to this empty place alone, with only his thoughts for company – no radio, the windows rolled up against an unusually cool summer night.  Thankfully the truck’s heater still worked.  He’d turned it on the minute the temperature gauge’s needle had begun to move.

Still, Leslie Strickland shivered.

This was too much like those mornings so very long ago – the biting and relentless chill, the endless silence, the awful isolation.  As he stepped from the truck he found himself surrounded by a familiar, frightening wilderness which stirred his darkest memories.

Why in God’s name was Andy out here?  Of all places, why here?

He was acting crazy, sir . . . Father . . . Emily had sobbed over the telephone, not even an hour earlier.  "Oh, shit!  I don’t even know what to call you!"

Call me by my name, he’d answered.  Call me Leslie.  Andy knows me by my name, Mrs. Calman.

Leslie, she’d allowed, speaking the name and seeming to consider it at the same time.

Sounds like a girl’s name, doesn’t it? Leslie joked.

It’s not that, Emily replied. 

He had held the phone, waiting for her to continue.

I’ve never seen him like this, she whispered finally.  Never this bad.  I don’t know what to think anymore.  I don’t know what to do.

Tell me what’s going on.

"He was in this . . . this rage!  He was screaming!  At the top of his lungs!  At Terry!  Right there in front of all of Terry’s friends!  In front of my whole family!"

Terry is your son?  You and Andy?  He’s your son?

She sobbed.  "Terry’s girlfriend just melted into tears!  I couldn’t do anything, Leslie.  There wasn’t anything anybody could do!  Oh my God!  Oh my – you should have seen him!  It’s like he was out of his mind!  And now, this morning . . ."

For the longest time she could only cry into the telephone.

Leslie listened, distraught.  Emily?

We have been married eighteen years now, she finally continued, her tone that of a hushed, defeated woman.  Andy’s a . . . a wonderful man.  He used to be anyway.  Maybe not so much anymore.  I don’t know.  But I still love him.  I swear I do.  I love him with all of my heart, Leslie.  The things that are wrong . . . some of the things about him that are wrong?  I’ve learned to live with that, okay?  The good . . . the good outweighs the bad.  Most of the time it does.

What things are wrong about him?

Her laughter was muted, heavy with regret.  "He talks about you.  Did you know that?  He calls you Preacher Man and . . . something else.  I can’t remember.  I’ve never heard him call you Leslie, though.  But every now and then he’ll come home and tell me that he saw Preacher Man down in Mud Town.  And one time we went for a drive – just a long drive – to talk.  We were trying to sort some things out.  I didn’t have any idea where we were.  I thought he didn’t either.  We drove into this little town out in the middle of nowhere.  All of a sudden he pointed at a church there on the corner and he said to me, he said . . . There’s Preacher Man’s place!"

What things are wrong about him, Emily?

That’s how I got your name.  It was there on the sign in front of your church - Leslie Strickland, Pastor.  I’ve come so close to calling you, a million times it seems.  You’re the only person he ever talks about from when he was little.  Did you know that?  She didn’t wait for him to reply.  When I saw your name on that church?  I was terrified that I would forget it before we got home.  I couldn’t write it down with him watching or he would’ve gotten mad.  I just kept saying your name over and over in my head.  We took so many twists and turns getting to that town I just know I couldn’t find it again if my life depended on it.

Leslie held the phone in utter silence.

What’s wrong with him?  Emily asked, repeating his query.  Silly things mostly, except for the drinking.  The drinking is bad.  It keeps getting worse.  He swears he isn’t an alcoholic but I know he is.  I guess the other things pale in comparison to the drinking.

What other things?

Like I said, silly things.  Stupid things.  You’ll think I’m crazy for even bringing them up.  But he sleeps with a light on, and the door open.  Always.  Even after we . . . after we make love.  Not that that’s happening a lot lately, she said, sounding immediately embarrassed.  But it’s the first thing he’ll do; get up and open the door, and switch on a night light.  He has nightmares.  Not normal nightmares and not all the time.  Sometimes he’ll go months without one.  I know we all have bad dreams but these . . . these are different.  He wakes up screaming, or he wakes up crying, just sobbing like a baby and he won’t be able to stop for the longest time.  He’ll get out of bed and leave the room and I’ll have to follow him downstairs.  But he . . . won’t tell me . . . w-w-what’s wrong, her own voice breaking then.  I don’t know what he dreams, Leslie.  He’s never told me.  It breaks my heart he won’t tell me what’s wrong.

How often is it like this, Emily? Leslie had asked, suddenly more concerned than he had been in a very long time.

He takes spells, she’d managed.  Usually it gets worse around now, you know?  This time of year, summertime.  Isn’t that odd?  I’ve never really noticed that until just now.  But July and August . . . high summer . . . that’s when it’s the worst.

Tell me what happened yesterday.

My family, we have a reunion every year, every July Fourth, out at the park.

Which park?

Spring’s Glade State Park, out past Bedford.  We always reserve the pavilion over-looking the lake.

I know the place.

Andy was talking with my Uncle.  They’d had a couple of beers I guess, maybe.  But they were fine.  Andy wasn’t drunk.  Not yet anyway.

Take your time, Emily.

She took a deep breath then, trembling in her exhalation.  "There was a commotion all of a sudden, down by the lake.  It startled me at first, too.  I mean, it scared me at first!  We’re all just standing around getting things ready and suddenly a bunch of kids down by the water started screaming.  I looked down there and there were all of these kids standing right at the shoreline . . . yelling and pointing.  I thought – and I’m sure Andy must have thought the same thing--"

Somebody was drowning, Leslie answered for her.

Uh-huh.  You could hear water splashing.  A lot of water splashing.  That’s when I realized there were two boys swimming.  They were having a race.

And Terry?  Your son?  He was one of the two?

He said he did it on a dare, Emily answered, then continued.  Terry’s a good swimmer.  Andy’s seen to that.  But Andy has always had this thing about swimming where you can’t see the bottom.  Ponds and lakes and creeks are out-of-bounds.  He’s insane about it.  It’s swimming pools or nothing with Andy.  He’s always been that way.

Not always, Leslie spoke without thinking.

I beg your pardon?

What happened next?

She’d paused then, troubled.

Emily?

"When was he not that way, Leslie?"

He had held the phone against his ear with his shoulder, kneading his brow with his fingertips.  What did Andy do, Emily?

She’d sighed.  He went crazy.  It happened so fast.  One minute he’s right there talking to my Uncle, the next thing I know, he’s running like a madman down to the lake.  I’ve never seen him move that fast!

I’m not surprised, Leslie said.  Considering the circumstances.

Emily fell silent again. 

He’d pictured her then; her head down, eyes closed, the phone held loosely in one hand while the other clenched at a damp tissue.

Emily?  Are you still there?

A barely discernible sigh answered him.  I get this feeling, she finally whispered.  You have all the answers to all of my questions.  But you’re not going to tell me.

He shook his head.  That’s not true.  I’ll tell you anything I know.  I promise.  But I need you to tell me what’s happened.  What did Andy do?

He ran down that hill.  Pulling his shirt off and kicking his shoes off.  He was in the water before he even realized what was really going on.  Her same empty laugh carried over the phone line.  He thought he was saving someone.  But it wasn’t heroics.  He wasn’t trying to be a hero or anything, you know?

Leslie closed his eyes, nodding to no one.  I know.

He’s forty years old now, Leslie.  He’s . . . not exactly in the best of health these days.  But I’ve never seen any man – I don’t care how old – move that fast.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that he was scared to death.  He was doing what he was supposed to do but it terrified him.  You could see it in his eyes.

I can understand that, Emily.

Well, so can I!  Don’t get me wrong!  It’s just that when he realized that nobody was in any danger, he should have been able to let it go at that!  Do you see that?  Her voice lifted a level or two then, up into the higher reaches.  He should have just taken a deep breath –

But he didn’t?

"When he saw that it was Terry in the water . . . he just went crazy.  Just out-of-his-mind crazy!"

Now, over an hour later and sitting alone in a borrowed truck, dreading what he might soon find, Emily’s words filled his head with horrible visions.

Andy had stormed toward his son, thrashing through the water, violently pulling Terry from the lake, dragging him ashore, and shoving him ruthlessly to the ground.

He humiliated him! Emily had cried.  His own child!  I don’t know how Terry could ever forgive him!

Emily, listen to me, Leslie had implored.  "Terry will forgive him.  He’s just got to understand."

Perhaps that had been the final straw for her.  Loyalty to a friend was admirable, yes.  But even loyalty had its limits.

"Goddamn you, Leslie Strickland!  How can you say that?  You weren’t there!  You didn’t see how awful he was!  Her voice was an angry shriek, jarring his senses.  What’s to understand?  In God’s name what is there to understand?"

Now, miles away from the comfort of his home, Leslie reluctantly elbowed the truck’s door open, stepping out into the predawn darkness.

Emily had told him that Andy had taken a gun with him.

He’s never done that before, she’d cried.  He’s gone off before, but never with a gun.  Leslie, I’m scared.  Why would he take a gun?

The answer to that – at least to Leslie – was painfully obvious.

Twenty feet ahead of him the dim outline of Andy’s car stood behind the moving mists. 

I should have called him.  I should have stayed in touch.  Dear God, Dear Lord, please forgive me because I knew . . . I knew . . . every single time I saw him, I knew.

A brief yet painful memory then; Leslie Strickland stepping out into bright sunlight, exiting the branch bank of Duller’s Ravine’s Savings and Loan and there, across the street – noticing this from the corner of his field of vision – a man, obviously drunk, who seemed bent solely upon reaching the security of the shaded bench bolted down into the concrete in front of a saloon.  As Leslie gazed at this man with a mixture of sympathy, compassion, and unexpected revulsion, he had realized in the span of one soft heartbeat that he knew him, that it was Andy.  This realization was so awful he’d quickly turned away, desperately wishing not to be seen or recognized.  He had hurried toward his car, ashamed of himself, yet feeling all the more relieved as the distance between them grew.

I knew.  I knew . . . every single time I saw him I knew.

Andy’s car was empty.  Leslie rested his right hand upon the hood, looking down as he did so.  Seeing his own hand he could not help but notice – all four fingers gone.  A thumb and the back of his hand and that was it.  His hand ached from the cool damp air. 

He’d gotten to where he never really looked at this hand anymore.  Questions about it from curious members of his congregation were quickly brushed aside.

A long time ago, he would say.  Just something that happened.

Yet now with the night time surrounding him, and the smells and sounds of a vast, unfamiliar countryside crowding in, a buried past anxiously awoke.

Goosebumps fleshed out over his arms as a convulsive shudder overwhelmed him. 

Help me, Lord.  Help me, God.

The hood was cool.  His friend had already been here for some time.

There’s an old quarry down there, Emily had told him.  It used to be that every so often when we’d get into a fight he’d just leave.  Just get in the car and go.  Sometimes he’d be gone almost all night.  I got it in my head – you know, that he was out running around on me.  So one night I followed him, and that’s where he went.

He went to a quarry? Leslie asked, with audible disbelief.

I know.  It’s crazy.  He stops at a liquor store and comes out with a bottle, and then off he goes to this quarry.

And?

He sits.  Sits and drinks.  Smokes cigarettes.  I guess that’s all.  I don’t know, Leslie.  Half of his life’s a mystery to me anymore.  Maybe all of it, she blurted out between sobs.  It’s just that this time he took his gun!  I can’t go out there!  I’m afraid to go out there!  And I remembered you tonight, Leslie.  I remembered Preacher Man.  I don’t know who else to call!  

I’ll go, Emily, he’d told her, attempting to calm her.  I’ll go.  You stay put and try to relax.  This will work out all right.

Now, with his mangled hand resting upon the cool metal of Andy’s car, he couldn’t be so sure.

With one last unspoken prayer, Leslie Strickland stepped out into the damp bone-shaded mists.

He lost all sense of time as he stumbled blindly around the quarry’s perimeter, expecting the crack of a rifle at any moment.  Afraid to call out for fear of spurring on Andy’s grim task, he found he was equally afraid not to, for it might be his voice alone – a friend in the wilderness – which might save Andy.  In the end he prayed, and God seemed to guide him down into the open maw of the deep, sprawling pit.

Eventually he emerged from dense undergrowth and onto a flat plain of hard stone.  There he found his friend, facing away from him, sitting upon a chiseled limestone block, a nearly empty whiskey bottle in hand. 

Daylight had only just begun to filter in through the deep fog.

Leslie paused, studying Andy.  The rifle was there beside his friend, pointed toward the heavens and within easy reach.  He wasn’t certain as to how he should approach, still fearful of causing the worst to happen.

Andy solved his dilemma by speaking first.

I heard you ten minutes ago, Striker.

Leslie lifted his eyebrows, genuinely surprised.  I guess I’m not much on being sneaky, huh?

You never were.

Mystified, Leslie wondered aloud how Andy had known it was him.

Andy lifted the bottle, taking a long drink.  He drew the back of his hand over his lips and tilted his head back, eyes closed.  Do you really need me to answer that, man?

Leslie watched him, suddenly recalling a host of memories.  Just curious, I guess.

Andy laughed then, unexpectedly.  You snap branches off of trees while you walk, Striker.  I think you do it without even realizing it.  It’s your . . . calling card, I guess.  You walk past a branch and you just reach out and snap it.

That’s pretty incredible, Leslie offered.  That you’d remember that.

Andy shrugged.  I remember it from way back.  I remember everything from way back.  I remember how you walk through woods.  Not so incredible, I reckon.

Mind if I sit with you, Andy?

His friend tipped the whiskey back and finished it off.  He spun the cap on, then leaned back to hurl the glass bottle out into the fog-shrouded water.  The splash was heard but not seen.

How’d you find me, Strike?

Emily called.

Figures, he snorted.

Strike, Leslie mused.  I haven’t been called that since forever.

"It’s been forever, dude.  Many, many moons."

Since?

Andy turned toward him and for the first time Leslie was truly shocked.

His friend had aged tremendously, terribly, since last he’d seen him.  His once blonde hair was now entirely gray, his broad shoulders reduced to the rounded posture of an old man. 

Jesus, Andy, Leslie gasped involuntarily.  He realized too late how his reaction might affect his friend, and was relieved when Andy merely shrugged, laughing it off. 

Booze will do that to you, you know, he slurred.

Booze and ghosts, Leslie thought.  Lots of ghosts.

So you talk to Emmie often, do you? Andy wanted to know.

Leslie shook his head.  Never.  I didn’t even place the name when she first called.  Not until she said your name anyway.  He tried to guess the direction of his friend’s query.  "I think she just didn’t have anybody else to call, Andy.  She’s worried about you and it sounds like she’s running out of options.  Looks like you think you’re running out of options, huh?"

Andy grunted, nodding to himself.  If I ever had a good friend then I’d have to say it was you, Striker.

Leslie grimaced, recalling they day he’d seen Andy stumbling toward that bench.  He cautiously moved closer.  It sounds good to hear that again, you know?  Strike.  Striker.  It’s been a long time.  Too long.  I should have called, Andy.  I knew you were having some trouble.  

Andy glanced at him, smiling sadly.  For you to have to open up my can of worms would have been the same as you opening up your own can, Strike.  I understand.

Leslie wouldn‘t hear it.  "Nothing to understand, man.  I should have called you.  But I still like hearing you say Striker.  I was Striker once."

Man of the cloth that you are now, I guess nobody calls you anything but Reverend, or Father.  Huh?

Preacher.  Father.  Reverend.  Brother.  That’s about it.  Sometimes it gets a little tedious.  You’re right.  There’s nobody around to even call me Leslie anymore.

"Yeah?  Well, I’ve heard you say fuck too many times to call you any of those things, my friend."  Andy spoke with an attempt at levity, but the hopelessness of his situation stole the breath away from it.

Yes, Leslie agreed, moving closer still.  But that’s kind of all in my past now.

Just those few spoken words were cause enough for Andy to revert to his grim reverie.

Leslie stopped, spreading his hands.  Why are we here, Andy?

Now Andy settled back, casually grasping the rifle.  The movement was so subtle that it caught Leslie wholly un-aware.  "Well, Striker . . . I know why I’m here, he answered.  And I’m guessing that you’re here to try to save me."

That said he hefted the gun easily, shifting it with both hands, studying the weapon with an unsettling calm.

Leslie tensed.  He was still a good fifteen feet away from his friend and he found himself trying to calculate how quickly he might cover that ground should Andy begin to turn the weapon on himself.  As a pastor, Leslie had dealt with desperate people on many occasions; individuals bent on taking their own life were not new to him.  But he had known Andy for as long as he’d known anyone, ever.  Though it was painfully true they’d not stayed in touch for many years now, Andy Calman was practically family.  This meant a lot to Leslie Strickland, who no longer had any family of his own, save for his congregation.       

So much of his own past had been carefully put away, generally with little consequence or retribution.  He’d allowed himself to believe that it could be equally simple for others to do likewise; to simply box-up the memories and stow them away.

Imagine you are in a huge old castle filled with rooms, he’d once instructed a distraught member of his congregation.  "Each room has a door.  Each door has a lock.  You hold all of the keys."

The allegory was simple and direct.  The rooms were for your memories.  The bad ones you dragged kicking and screaming into their own private chamber, where you left them.  You pulled the heavy door shut; you turned the key in the lock, and then walked to the nearest window.  You imagined yourself inconceivably high up off the ground, that the castle is surrounded by deep, lush forests.  You hurled that key out as far as you could throw it.

In this exercise, all of the bad memories were consigned to their own wing, so that only when you found yourself forced to haul another festering episode to its doom were you compelled to hear the painful lament of your past.

God had helped this to work for Leslie Strickland and only the two of them knew how much the banishing of these demons of days long gone, to forgotten rooms, had saved him.

And still, how many dreams had there been where Leslie found himself stumbling through that great ancient forest, where deep, thick mosses covered the ground and the tremendous heights of ancient trees surrounded him?  And everywhere, everywhere, the forest floor littered with the rusting keys he’d flung from the castle’s ramparts?

Andy’s past still surrounded him, Leslie knew; a perpetual maelstrom of dark and heaving seas which relentlessly threatened to engulf his tormented soul.

Andy?  Listen to me, Leslie spoke earnestly.  "You have to understand something.  You’ve got to learn this like I’ve learned it.  You’ve got a nightmare inside of you.  It’s deep down into you and it’s got roots that run to China.  It fills every moment of your existence, doesn’t it?  I know it does!  I know! 

"This thing . . . that happened to you – to us – back then, that one summer?  Andy it’s taken away from you every summer since!  Can’t you see that?"

His friend did not reply.  Leslie inched forward.  He’d reduced the distance between them to less than ten feet. 

You’ve got this awful secret, Andy.  There’s this terrible story that’s been deep down inside of you all these years.  But you haven’t told it to anyone, have you?  You haven’t said a word.  Andy, why?

Andy shook his head, refusing to hear.  His lips quivered as tears threatened, yet his countenance suddenly betrayed anger and resentment.

Emmie told you about yesterday, didn’t she?

Leslie hesitated, and then nodded.  She told me.

About Terry?  About what I did to Terry?

"You didn’t do that, Andy, Leslie spoke, his voice filled with real sorrow and compassion, with heartfelt conviction.  Your past did that.  I told Emily it was understandable.  How you reacted to that situation, well, Andy, it’s psychological, isn’t it?  Leslie maneuvered carefully.  Anyone . . . anyone . . . who knew the story, would understand that!  They wouldn’t bat an eyelash, Andy!  I told her you acted the way you did because of Truck, and because of what happened to him.  That’s what I told her."

Andy lowered his head then, sharply inhaling cold, damp air.  He lifted one hand toward his face as his composure began to come apart.

Do you know what she said to me then, Andy? Leslie pressed.

Andy would not or could not reply.

Leslie sighed.  "She said to me, she looked at me with this question in her eyes, and she said . . . Who is Truck?"

Leslie watched for a reaction but there was essentially none to see.  Andy, fully inebriated, could only spill tears upon the ground.  Up until a few minutes earlier he had been here all alone, working up the courage – through all of the veils of despair – to take his own life.

I’m sorry, Andy, Leslie managed.  "Honestly, I am.  But I don’t understand that.  Up until that summer your brother Terry – Truck – was the most important, most wonderful person in your whole life!  And then I find out, not even an hour or so ago, that your wife and your son never even knew he existed!  I don’t get it, Andy.  Explain that to me, will you?"

You think it’s so easy, do you? Andy asked suddenly.  His tone weighted with defeat.  He lifted his head and turned to face Leslie.  "You think I haven’t tried?  Is that what you think?  He lifted his free hand up to his throat, making a chopping gesture.  It’s right here, Striker!  All the time it’s right here!  It gets this far and then it just stops!  I’ve got this voice in my goddamned head twenty-four hours a day . . . Tell Her!  Tell Her!  TELL HER!  I’ll be out in the yard, mowing the goddamned grass!  And I’ll stop . . . I’ll just stop and I’ll leave the mower running and I’ll start walking toward the house and I’ll know . . . I’LL KNOW . . . exactly what I’m going to say!  I’ll know how much I need to say it!  It’ll be right here in my throat!  He suddenly pounded hard on his chest.  It’ll be right here in my heart!  Screaming to be let out!  Tearing me apart!"  He dissolved, coming loose at the seams, his hands moving over the lines of the rifle with the deadly intent of purpose.

Leslie stepped toward him, desperation feverishly gripping him.  Andy!  Then why haven’t you –

I DON’T KNOW!  DAMN YOU!  You think it’s so GODDAMMED EASY!  Don’t you GET IT, Striker?  Don’t you fucking GET IT?

Get what, Andy?  Leslie’s question was filled with anxiety.  What am I not getting?

You think it’s so damned simple but don’t you ever stop to think, Striker?  Do you?

Think what?  Tell me?

"It was MY FAULT!  ALL OF IT! YOU! CALVIN! SHARON! TRUCK!  Jesus Christ, Striker!  Look at your goddamned poor hand!  My fault!  All of it!  EVERYTHING WAS MY FAULT!"

And at that point the torment swam over him like the raging waters of a terrible storm tide, pushing him past the fears and into the roiling black seas of hopelessness.  In that single instant he was suddenly able to swing the rifle around, maneuvering it clumsily about so that the barrel swung resolutely down, then upward, beneath his chin . . .

Leslie sprang toward him then, arms outstretched, shouting at the top of his lungs.

They came together at the sound of the blast.  It resounded with deafening chorus throughout the limestone walls of the quarry, a horrific tumult of noise held in close by the sheer vertical cliffs and the accompanying canopy of stifling mists.

Through that sound Leslie flew, toppling wildly out of control, a collision of flailing arms and legs.  The detonation jarred his entire body and even upon coming to a sudden and painful rest upon the wet earth and cold rock, Leslie wasn’t certain as to whether he’d saved his friend, or accelerated his demise.

He felt Andy’s chest heave then, and quickly rolled over on top of him, pinning Andy’s shoulders with both hands, gazing ferociously into his friend’s face.  Andy stared back at him, wild-eyed and stricken.

There was no blood to be seen.  The slug had missed, the rifle having landed several feet away.

NOT YOUR FAULT! Leslie cried out, surprising even himself with the intensity of his cries.  "No!  No!  NO!  How could you even believe that?  How could you think that?

Andy?  I WAS THERE!  Do you remember that?  I know what happened, too!  I was just as much a part of it as – "

YOU DIDN’T CAUSE IT!  YOU DIDN’T LOSE ANYBODY!  GODDAMMIT STRIKER!  YOU – DIDN’T – LOSE – ANYBODY!!

"Don’t you say that!  Not one more time don’t you say that!  Leslie suddenly found himself consumed by rage.  He purposefully moved his face closer to Andy’s.  I lost the same people you lost!  You’re not playing martyr on me, pal! It might work somewhere else but it doesn’t work here!  Not with me!  I lived through the same hell that you did and –"

NO!

-and I lost the same people that you lost!  Nothing you say –

NO!

NOTHING YOU SAY OR THINK WILL EVER MAKE ME BELIEVE OTHERWISE!

Andy snapped his head to one side, refusing to look at Leslie.  YOU DIDN’T LOSE YOUR BROTHER! he insisted.

"He was like a brother to me!  You were like a brother to me, Andy!  You think you’re the only one hurting, do you?  You think you’re the only one with bad dreams?  You think because I became a preacher that all of the bad things magically go away?  They don’t, okay?  Nothing like that ever goes away!  You learn to deal with it.  You learn to cope.  You play stupid little games that work most of the time but Andy; they don’t work all of the time!  They don’t!  And so you pray.  You pray.  That’s what I do.  That’s how I survive it.  But I still have dreams . . . Andy . . . I still have dreams.  Bad ones.  And when I wake up--Leslie pushed himself up and away, tears filling his own eyes.  When I wake up there isn’t anyone there for me to grab a hold of, Andy.  I can pray.  I’ve got Him.  But you can’t really wrap your arms around Him, you know?  I can’t get up out of bed and walk down the hall and go into my son’s room the way you can, can I?  I can’t look down on some sweet child of my own and tell myself that this child . . . my own flesh and blood . . . proves to me that it’ll be all right.  Do you understand that, Andy?  I don’t have that!  That’s my choice, sure.  But I don’t have what you have.  Maybe you did lose a brother, but you have a son.  You have a child."

Andy struggled to rise now that Leslie was free of him. 

"What happened out there happened to all of us, Andy!  All of us! Leslie said, moving toward the rifle, lifting it up suddenly, chambering out the rounds with a practiced motion before hurling it end-over-end out into the deep quarry waters.  It’s eating you alive because you won’t let it out of you.  You won’t let it go!  You said it yourself – you think it’s your fault so you won’t forget it.  And you sure as hell aren’t about to forgive yourself.  That’s why you won’t tell Emily!  It’s why you drink so much!  You won’t let it out of you.  And you’ve got to do that, Andy.  You’ve got to let it out.  You have to tell her.  You have to tell your son."

I can’t tell her, Andy managed.  I’ve tried.

Try again, then.  And then try again.  And again.  Don’t stop trying until it finally comes out, Andy.  Sit right down in front of her and don’t stop trying until it comes out!  You’re giving up!  You’re giving up on Emily.  You’re giving up on me.  You’re giving up on yourself.  You’re giving up on Terry.  But worst of all . . .

Don’t you say it!

Worst of all you’re giving up on Truck, and everything that he-

SHUT UP!  GODDAMMIT JUST SHUT YOUR –

"Truck didn’t do what he did just so you could blow your brains out in a damned quarry twenty years later, Andy!  You know that!  This isn’t what your brother wanted!"

It’s what I want!

THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU!  IT ISN’T ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT, EITHER! IT ISN’T!

GOD! Andy cried.  "Just leave me alone!"

It isn’t about you, Andy!  It’s never been about you!

Andy, lost with his grief, his senses so utterly diminished by liquor, dissolved into tears.

You think . . . Leslie said, now speaking softly.  You think that you’ve fought this for so long . . . but it doesn’t get any better.  It doesn’t go away.  It’s just something that’s . . . always there.

Andy found he was nodding his head as Leslie spoke.

I know how that is, Andy.  But there are ways--

I’m tired, Strike, he sobbed.  Tired of fighting.

So stop fighting, brother, Leslie pleaded.  Stop fighting.  But not this way.  Not like this.  Not out here in the cold and the wet.  Not when you have a wife and son at home worried sick about you.

Terry.  Oh, God.

That’s right.  Terry.

He hates me!  I don’t blame him but he hates me.  I saw it in his eyes.

He doesn’t hate you, Andy.  He just doesn’t know.  He’ll understand and so will Emily.  All you have to do is tell them.  They’ll both understand as soon as you tell them.

Leslie saw the despair, the resignation.  His friend rolled his head sideways, staring out into the fog-washed gloom of the quarry waters.

Les, he whispered.  I don’t know how to tell them.  I don’t . . . I don’t even know how to start.

Leslie moved back toward his friend, offered his hand, pulled Andy back to his feet. 

With tears in his eyes, speaking his friend’s name so that Andy - his senses still terribly dimmed by the alcohol - lifted his swollen eyes up to meet Leslie Strickland‘s penetrating gaze.

You say to her, you say . . . Me, Striker, Calvin, and Truck, on bicycles, one summer, and a long, long time ago.  We were heading out to . . . out to where, Andy?

Andy stared at him, whispered, To Number Eleven.

Yeah, Leslie tried to smile.  Out in the boonies.

The Big Boonies, Andy corrected.

"The Big Boonies, he nodded.  Just the four of us."

Just the four of us, Andy whispered now, his gaze finding the distant past, settling gently upon it like motes of dust drifting into high, wind-blown grass.

That’s how you start, Andy, Leslie said. That’s how you tell the story.         

Chapter 1 - April, 1971

The man hurried up from the hollow just as Simon knew he would.  He came up carrying his precious camera and the look on the man’s face was one of surprise and frustration.

The storm was nearly finished by now, having blown through hard and mean, as southeastern Indiana storms were so often known to do.  Lightning and wicked thunder had filled the valley, while torrents of rain hammered angrily off the roof and dashed against the weathered clapboard walls of the old church.

Simon had stayed within the sanctuary’s walls throughout the tumult, smelling the pungent gasoline smell – inhaling deeply of it – while contemplating the rapture yet to come. 

He had walked the long aisle down the center of the church several times, mulling dimly over the number of young brides who must have made a similar journey back when times had been better.  Simon had climbed the steps to where a podium once stood, then turned to face a gathered assembly of emptiness, wincing at each boom of thunder, watching as the lightning flashes illuminated the grim interior so that what little remained of the old stained glass windows fired a prism of color throughout with each brilliant burst.

Simon longed for a podium.  He imagined himself clothed in his Sunday finest, with an entire flock of devoted followers seated before him.  He was a man of medium build, made slimmer in appearance by his daunting height of just over six feet.  Well into his fifties, Simon wasn’t sure of his exact age, no more than he was certain of his own immediate lineage.  He was gaunt, haunted looking, with an unshaven face which appeared perpetually jaundiced.  He had the look of the terminally ill and people who encountered him immediately shied away.  Simon had the reputation of being the town drunk, though - when pressed - no one speaking truthfully would ever be able to say they’d seen him bottle-in-hand stumbling blindly down some darkened alley . . . he had the reputation, and that was more than enough for a small town. 

Yet Simon was not a local.  He spent far more time out in the wilds than he ever did wandering the streets of Duller’s Ravine or Mud Hollow.  He was known to be a trapper and the local beliefs held that Simon Strickland lived in a cave far out in the deep woods which still dominated southeastern Indiana during the early 1970’s.  He either lived in a cave, or spent time in one of the many abandoned homes or barns in the most outlying parts.  He was a drunk and he was crazy.  He was rumored to have burned down many of the useless dwellings far out in the hinterlands.  Only during high-summer - when drought became a problem and the possibility of grass fires was a real concern - would the local volunteer fire departments even bother to drive their rigs out to extinguish the blaze. 

Fortunately, during periods of less rain, Simon had developed a somewhat admirable penchant for not setting any fires.  Because of that, county law and fire personnel were content to leave him be.  Simon Strickland was the local enigma - the mystery wrapped within a riddle - and fodder for numerous campfire stories and wild yarns.  He was, therefore, something of a celebrity in Mud Hollow - the Wild Man of the Woods. 

Most everyone knew he’d fathered a child quite some time back, and most everyone knew this child was Leslie Striker Strickland.  Leslie’s numerous run-ins with the local law and his rumored drug use had already painted a like-father-like-son opinion amongst the town folk.  At some point in his life, Leslie Strickland - it was assumed - would wander off into the deep woods, as his father had done, and add to the mysterious stories and bizarre tales.     

None of this, of course, fired a single synapse through Simon’s clouded mind now.  He stood atop the upraised platform of the church floor, wholly in his element.  Clearing his throat, his chest swelling with pride, Simon directed his attention toward a make-believe congregation.

We are gathered here this day to honor the many womenfolk who have walked down this here aisle, he began.   "We are here to celebrate – yes, celebrate – their precious and eternal sacrifice!  For we know that the body of a woman, just like the body of this sweet earth we call home, is as close to perfect as it can be until it is defiled by man.  And so I say to these women . . . Brides!  Brides!  Brides!"

Simon closed his eyes, lifting his face upwards, repeating the word several times over until it became a kind of grim mantra, his voice falling off to a mere whisper.  He envisioned them even now, all of those beautiful virgin women marching solemnly toward him; each sweet, lovely, innocent gaze downcast as the soon-to-be matriarchs floated blindly toward their terrible destiny.

Do you take this man, Simon beckoned.  To be your lawful, wedded husband?

His voice climbed into high laughter, the timbre’ rising.  "Do you take this man . . . into your home?  Into your bed?  Into yourself?  Simon placed one hand humbly upon his chest now.  Do you take this man . . . this . . . humble servant of God Almighty . . . between your lovely white thighs?  Do you take this man . . . deep into your -"

Hush, now!

Simon gasped, surprised.  He stepped quickly backwards, faltering, squinting into the dark corners of the further pews.  He strained to find the source of the command, knowing the voice well before he was finally able to locate the lone figure.

I’m sorry, sir!  I didn’t hear you come in, he managed.

Not a place to mock the Lord, I don’t suppose, the shadow mused.

Simon lowered his head, embarrassed, knowing better than to argue.

The figure leaned back, causing the wooden pew to groan in protest as he studied the building’s interior.  You’re poor and tortured soul, Simon.  What shall we do with you?  What shall become of you, I wonder?

The Lord God Almighty shall become of me, sir! Simon replied fearfully.  I stand in the light of his love!

The dark figured shook his head.  He drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly, before speaking, I have been in here a time or two, myself.  Were you aware of that, Simon?  Oh, yes!  This was back when I was a young man.  My mother – rest her soul - she forced my attendance.  She was of the belief that I was desperately in need of churching.  There had been a couple of . . . incidents, shall we say?  Can you imagine that, Simon?

Simon bit his lip, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.  These early April storms came in with winter still in their bellies, the rain falling bitterly cold.  An aching chill had steadily worked its way into Simon’s aging joints.   

I used to preach here, Simon finally said.  Maybe I preached a Sunday or two when you was here?  I preached when I was fairly young.

I would surely have recalled your sorry self, his companion replied.

Simon took no notice of the barb.  I got myself saved by a Mister Billy K. Race, who was a leader in our drilling crew down at the quarry.  He saved my soul, sir!  Yes, he did do just that!  I am forever obliged to Mister Billy K. Race!

The shadow-figure snorted with amusement.  It does not appear to me that your friend did a very satisfactory job of saving your soul, Simon, for I fear that you are lost!  A saved man does not stand at the pulpit of a house of God crying out for virgin women, does he now?

Not lost, Simon answered, dismayed.  "No, sir!  I am not lost!  I am found!  I do the Lord’s work!  You know that, sir!  I deliver up the evils of this old world!  I destroy the material passions!  I restore!"  He felt the will of God at work within him even now!  The spirit was nearly overwhelming! 

We are engaged in an act of restoration this very day, sir!  Simon cried, straining to see into the darkness, to read the man’s face.  I have visions!  Every night I lay down to visions!  Fire and water!  These are the Good Book’s instruments of destruction!  And today we have the storm breaking over our heads, sir, and that is the water!  And soon . . . at your request . . . at the striking of one match!  We shall have the fire!

Is that what we are about then, Simon?  Restoration?  Visions?  Destruction?

It is, my brother!

Will he come up then?  For this storm is nearly over and I do so very much wish to see your prophecy fulfilled.

Simon could not see the older man’s features at all, and so could not determine if he were being mocked or lauded.  But the shadow was correct in that the storm had abated somewhat, moving farther away to the north and east.  Rain still fell, but less harshly now.

Simon nodded, smiling.  Then it is time, brother.  Time for yet another chapter of this Holy valley’s reclamation to be written!

With that said, Simon Gregory Strickland lowered his head, and began to pray aloud.

*

Tony Chipman managed to fall asleep once the worst of the storm had passed.  He’d only just made it back to his campsite after a long day of arduous hiking along the western flank of the Dust Creek Valley’s upper reaches.  At some point well past noon he’d felt the change in the air, causing him to begin watching the sky.  Sure enough, the unmistakable cumulus nimbus clouds had begun to build to the southwest, forcing him to make the decision to head back to camp.

The interruption however was a welcome one.  Today marked his ninth day alone in the valley.  During that time he’d photographed and documented nearly everything he’d encountered in this wonderful, forgotten place.  South-eastern Indiana’s Dust Creek valley was perhaps one of the few regions in the world to actually find itself under circumstances where nature was being permitted to reclaim her domain.

At twenty-seven years of age, with overly long hair framing a strong, handsome face, Tony was no stranger to the out-of-doors.  He had spent the better part of his life staying as far away as possible from the confining walls and cubicles of a structured existence.  He camped as often as time allowed and had even managed to convince his parents to grant him a six month sabbatical from his college career in order for him to hike the entire two thousand one hundred fifty-eight mile length of the Appalachian Trail – a feat which he’d accomplished solo.  His sturdy six foot one inch frame easily carried him through these endeavors and it was a rare occasion for him to be intimidated or turned back by any natural obstacle.

A geographical engineer by trade, Tony had been involved in the initial topographical surveys which lent credibility to a proposal by the Army Corp of Engineers for the construction of a vast reservoir at the headwaters of southeastern Indiana’s Dust Creek.  During the middle 1960’s the Corp had designated several regions for development of flood control projects, the Dust Creek valley being first and foremost among them.  Tony, then working as an engineer on loan from Indiana’s Purdue University, was assigned to help formalize the effort.

Where several of the Corp’s other projects unfortunately displaced numerous small towns and villages, the Dust Creek Reservoir project was somewhat unique.  Most of the territory slated to be submerged was held by a single entity – the Mandy and Dust Creek Limestone Company – which operated three quarries in the region.

Because the architecture of the 1960’s had begun to turn away from traditional stonework, years had passed since any of these three local enterprises had shown a marked profit.  That, coupled with competition from the more productive stone quarries of Indiana’s famed Salem and Bedford regions, made the Mandy and Dust Creek operation procurable.  Two small villages – Paseul and Hope, Indiana – with populations of one hundred thirty-seven and forty-two respectively – would slip beneath the new waters of the Dust Creek Reservoir.

Since the two community’s existence depended solely on quarry operations which were to be shut down, relocation for the inhabitants was inevitable.  But where some reservoir projects displaced thousands of individuals and respective property owners who – in some instances – had held deed to their land for generations, the Dust Creek enterprise effectively relocated less than two hundred souls.  On top of that, the body of water created upon completion of the reservoir in 1967 turned out to be one of Indiana’s largest, at well over fourteen thousands acres.  The benefits of this monumental effort far outweighed any of the minor disadvantages caused by it.

Yet what had brought Tony Chipman back to the remnants of the Dust Creek valley had nothing to do with this incredible body of blue water, or the massive engineering marvel of an earthen dam which held all that water in place.  Instead, Tony was fascinated with the land he was currently engaged in photographing.  The initial surveys had produced one intrinsic effect which, at the time, no one save Tony had paid any particular attention to.  This being that once the reservoir was filled to capacity, a huge quantity of land to the west of the new lake would be effectively and completely isolated from civilization.

The roads that are out there now will all be cut off by the lake, he’d explained to a colleague years earlier, while marking the locations on an unrolled topographical map.  See here?  One set of train tracks runs through it but the tracks are owned by the quarry for transporting their rock, which they won’t be transporting anymore.  The tracks are the only way in and out of this entire region.  You’re looking at miles and miles of land with no access or egress other than on foot.  The roads that service the area are there for the stone quarry and the two towns.  The engineers have already gotten approval for closing them down.  No need to waste time and money on unused infra-structure, eh?

The friend had shrugged, oblivious.  Your point is?

Tony’s point had been that here was an insanely large tract of land which had gone through several stages of primitive industrial development since Indiana had first become a state.

An unfortunately natural progression of events, he’d explained with unbridled excitement.  "From virgin forests – ninety percent of southeastern Indiana was densely covered with hardwood deciduous trees prior to the American Revolutionary War – to this current state of something close to . . . I don’t know . . . call it reverse progression."

His friend hadn’t even bothered to look up from his morning newspaper.  There’s no such thing as reverse progression, Tony.

Tony had forged on.  "I’ve read about black walnut trees in this area that once grew to twenty-two feet around!  There are documented records of four hundred fifty year old Tulip trees!"

That statement had garnered an incredulous response.  They’re there now?

Not now, Tony lamented.  Not anymore.  He’d leaned forward, hovering over the map, his voice filled with passion.  "But that’s my point, you see?  We’ve built this huge dam, we’ve covered a hell of a lot of history over with a lake that has an average depth of twenty-six and a half feet . . . and we’ve done it on purpose.  What we didn’t do on purpose was create this, this . . . new wilderness!"

He used the map to illustrate his dissertation. 

"During the Civil War, for example, large flatboats were manufactured here in Stemsford.  This community once thrived with a population of nearly three hundred.  This was back in 1862, 1863 . . . ten years after the war there were only a hundred or so left.  Prior to the reservoir’s construction the place was just a ghost town, with only three abandoned buildings left over from the glory days. 

"Then there’s Milltown, right here.  Milltown preceded Stemsford even.  Once upon a time there was a massive stone building here that housed a mill for grinding corn.  Back in those days a mill could create a viable commerce for an area a couple of hundred miles in diameter.  We’re talking a community – a community mind you - of maybe a hundred and fifty people occupying a land area of over seventeen thousand square miles!  That all by itself is totally mind-boggling!  And all that’s left of that old mill are some fieldstone foundations and the rock pilings of the sluiceway.  There’s a pioneer cemetery nearby and that’s it!  The people who are buried in that cemetery are just the ones who lived near the mill.  Can you imagine how many got buried out there in those hills and hollows, with just a wooden cross to mark their grave?  And all those crosses are rotted and gone?"

The friend had shrugged.  I’m still not getting it.

Tony had removed his glasses, using thumb and forefinger to massage the bridge of his nose.  This whole area was going away even before we came in with the reservoir.  It’s been dying all along!  The process was already underway!

"What process?"

What Tony found so fascinating about this region simply could not be put into words.  Here was an instance where civilization had taken turns over two hundred years in transforming the land to suit its own needs.  In most cases these efforts had eventually met with futility.  The remote territory – many miles removed from any major rivers or easily accessible throughways, had inevitably defied any prosperous settlement.   Now, because of the steady march of progress, an unimaginably large area of that same land was suddenly going to be preserved, permitted to return to what it had once been; wilderness.

It’s halfway there already!  Don’t you see?  This part of Indiana is dead anyway, he’d explained to his uninterested co-worker.  The time will come; I’m sure, when it’ll be discovered again.  Cincinnati is within fifty miles of this place.  Indianapolis is to the north, Louisville is to the south and west.  Developers will move in and they’ll build the bridges and new highways, they’ll open the whole area up again.  Hell, the reservoir itself is going to create some pretty prime real estate in no time at all.  But right now it’s been left alone for eight years!  Eight years without interference!  Eight years of being ignored!

Tony had even gone so far as to call in a favor from a pilot-friend two weeks earlier.

He flew over the whole map-area for me, he exclaimed.  And it’s just like I’m saying!  The entire region is empty.  It’s cut-off!  I’ve got an opportunity here to go in there with a camera, to photograph what happens to Mother Nature when we give it back!

At that time, Tony could only imagine old abandoned roads; barns and empty houses standing a lonesome sentinel to the ravages of time.  He could envision telephone poles marching wearily to destinations which no longer existed.  He saw broken and twisted fences stumbling over into the high weeds of his imagination.  The thought of the sound of wind coursing lonesomely along some long-forgotten drive became a kind of siren-song beckoning him.  He found himself awakening in the dead of night, alone in his bed, dreaming of those ghosts.  His desire to be there – amidst the wreckage as it was cast aside my nature’s fierce and relentless determination – grew day by day.

He would journey to that place – a kindred soul not only with the land as it re-made itself – but also with the ghosts of hundreds who had once dwelt there, their very remains now part and parcel to nature’s resurgence.

It might make for a good book, his friend had casually ventured.

The thought hadn’t occurred to Tony until then, but he was immediately intrigued.  He envisioned himself as a modern-day Edward Weston or Paul Strand, and recalled the collection of haunting, poignant photographs he’d pored over from the Farm Security Administration’s 1935 to 1945 photographic retrospective of rural America.

Once the seed was planted, it was only a matter of time.  He applied for and received a leave of absence from his employer.  He notified his parents who had long since given up on any hopes of a daughter-in-law or grand-children. He paid his rent up through the end of the month of July, and then set about provisioning for the adventure. 

Before he knew it, he was well into the journey; finding himself scrambling back to the tent before this April storm had hit.  And still, despite the storm, what a glorious adventure it had been so far!  Just this day he’d devoted seven rolls of thirty-six exposure Tri-X black-and-white film to the remnants of the old Kessler Iron Works Foundry!  The foundry had once stood silhouetted against the sky on top of Old Dutch Ridge.  The Tri-X film, he knew, would yield a grainy, gritty image that would be perfect for documenting a rotting iron foundry. He was certain the black-and-white photographs of stark brick chimneys standing against a wide-open western sky, of massive iron cupola furnaces rusting into the ground while canted at crazy angles reminiscent of the Eastern Island monoliths, would prove to be enthralling and memorable.  Indeed, his duffel bag was already filled with dozens of rolls of film waiting to be developed.  All in all, Tony was certain that once his parents and friends had opportunity to see his work, they’d agree as to the worthiness of this venture.

But it wasn’t just the photographs, was it?  No.  For Tony, this much-anticipated summer-long trek he’d embarked upon was becoming a surprising Thoreau-like escape into the woods.  Here he’d found a peace of mind which had abandoned him in the past few years.  Lying awake at night, with only the forest sounds for company, Tony had experienced a restive calm and sheer contentment which he knew he would be hard pressed to abandon.  More than once the thought had crossed his mind to somehow find the money to purchase as much of this wonderful land as he could.  He knew as well as any reasonable man could know that land such as this – so close to major population centers - wouldn’t last.  The work of Mother Earth – eight years of her labors to restore what civilization had taken from her – would be vanquished virtually overnight.

Tony Chipman now viewed himself as her guardian.  He had solemnly vowed that upon return to his normal life, he would endeavor to find a way – to the best of his ability - in preserving what was left of the Dust Creek valley.  Possibly the rolls of film stowed safely in his haversack might just provide those means.

Over the past ten days he’d encamped in nine different places.  Nomadic by his own admission, it had never been part of the plan to find one place within the bosom of these hills to throw down roots as a main camp, then to venture out from there.  He’d parked his car in a local mechanic’s lot in the distant community of Mud Hollow - having cleared it with the owner - and then begun his journey.  Each day he’d packed his gear in farther north, never once looking back.  Part of the intrigue of venturing alone into the wilderness had been scouting out the potential campsites where he might spend the night in safe, secluded hollows or coves.  Surrounded by the cacophony of thousands upon thousands of nocturnal insects and creatures engaged in creating their evening symphonies, he