On His Own Terms

By Doug Shidell

Delone Taylor didn't belong. Raised on welfare by a solo mother in small town Wisconsin, he rebelled against the labels, the charity and the assumptions. He didn't fit in at the University, either, where he carefully shielded his past from friends and strangers alike. He didn't know if he belonge

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bikeverywhere
• Release date: Sep 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781935372172

Doug Shidell

Doug Shidell has published bicycle guides and maps since 1972. He has also been a bicycle columnist and frequent contributor to magazines and newspapers. "On His Own Terms" is his first novel. For more information, check his website www.bikeverywhere.com

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shidell-cvr.jpg

Cover Design by Mayfly Design, LLC

Bike and rider photography: Jana Freiband

Rider: Ryan Beard, an employee at Rydjor Bike Shop in Austin, Minnesota. He displayed an amazing patience as we made him climb a gravel hill repeatedly in hot August sunshine.

Bike: As described on the Rydjor Bike Collection website.

This bicycle is a one owner beauty originally purchased in Postville, Iowa in 1973. Dan Ulwelling, co-founder of Rydjor and avid collector of vintage bikes, acquired the bike in 1999. It has a completely French made component mix including Super Champ rims, Maillard hubs, Stronglight cranks, Simplex derailleurs and MAFAC brakes. This model was called the PX10E and has the distinctive Peugeot colors.

Jersey: Molteni cycling jersey similar to the one worn by racing legend Eddy Merckx. Rydjor Bike Shop Collection

Leather cycling helmet: The most common cycling helmet of the era. Rydjor Bike Shop Collection.

Contents

1970: Madison, Wisconsin

Ma’s Place

Surf N Turf

Bike Gear

Devil’s Lake

Reflect

Zoo Kitchen

On the Road

Veterans

Prairie du Chien

Cabin Life

Hitchhiking

Reckoning

The Bike Shop

Wedding Days

Boston

June 1971, French Sundays

September, 1971

1970: Madison, Wisconsin

From the top of Observatory Drive, Delone could see most of Lake Mendota, including Picnic Point just off to his left. During the three years that he’d been on campus, he’d never ventured past Picnic Point, or paid much attention to anything beyond the kayaks and sailboats on University Bay.

Up here, he could ignore the anti-war protests on University Avenue and discount the Teaching Assistant’s Strike that had crippled campus. He could pretend, sometimes, that he actually belonged on campus, that the difference between his background and that of the rich east coast kids didn’t matter. He could pretend that campus was the great leveler, that education was the same for everyone.

But today, out beyond Picnic Point, he saw a fishing boat. Squat, gray, powered by a small outboard engine and hosting a lone fisherman, it symbolized his relationship to campus. He was on the outside, looking in, pretending that he had as much right to be here as everyone else.

He glanced at his watch, 12:45. Campus was shut down for Earth Day. Ecology Teach-ins replaced classes for the day. He was registered for a one o’clock session on an obscure topic titled the Greenhouse Gas Effect.

Delone scanned Lake Mendota again. The fisherman was gone. He’d drifted out of sight to the other side of Picnic Point. Someday, he told himself, he would go beyond Picnic Point, beyond the edge of campus, to see what was out there. He mounted his bicycle and drifted down the serpentine descent of Observatory Drive.

* * *

Dr. Robert Hergass, tall, mid-30s, shoulder length strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and an athletic build gone soft, strode to the podium and shuffled a few papers. He addressed a cluster of post graduate co-eds, some of the most beautiful women on campus, with a gaze that lingered below their necklines, then scanned the auditorium.

Thank you for attending the first of what we hope will be an annual Earth Day observance, he began. "My name is Dr. Robert Hergass. I’m a climate scientist and I’ll be talking about the Greenhouse Gas Effect.

"Greenhouse gasses trap heat in the atmosphere. Without them, heat from the sun would simply disappear into space, leaving Earth as cold as the moon. Too many gases, however, capture excessive heat, potentially warming the planet until it can no longer support life. But before we get into the causes and environmental consequences of greenhouse gases, I want to give a brief history of climate science.

I’ll begin with the Swedish scientist Svante Arrheius who calculated, in the late 19th century, the impact of CO2 on the earth’s climate.

What about Eunice Newton Foote?

The question came from a short woman with dusty brown hair and a deep tan. She stood to be heard better, revealing powerful legs scarred by small cuts and scrapes.

She proposed the greenhouse gas effect.

Hello, Celeste, Dr. Hergass responded. "I should have known that you would bring out the contribution of women scientists.

"For those of you who haven’t heard about Mrs. Foote, she was the first to define the effect of CO2 on climate in a paper presented in 1856 to the American Association for the Advancement of Science. Mrs. Foote, however, was not allowed to present her paper because she was a woman, so it was presented by Professor John Henry of the Smithsonian Institution.

Thank you, Miss Goldman.

The beauty queens stole surreptitious glances at Miss Goldman, determined that she was pretty in her own way, but not in their league, and returned their gazes to Dr. Hergass.

It should be noted, Professor Hergass continued, "that Mr. Arrheius and Mrs. Foote were building on a relatively new scientific principle. Prior to 1700, no one believed that climate changed. What you see today is what the earth has looked like since the Creation. Erratic boulders, marine fossils on hilltops and other phenomenon were easily explained by the Biblical flood.

"James Hutton proposed an alternate theory. In Hutton’s theory, glaciers scoured and changed the shape of the land and small processes, such as erosion and floods, changed the face of the earth over a very long time. Those changes are still going on.

So if glaciers could suddenly appear on the horizon where they’d never been before, Hergass continued, what changed? Why did they come and go? That’s the question geologists tried to answer throughout the 19th Century. Mrs. Foote and Mr. Arrheius were part of that discussion. If you want more details, sign up for my introductory class in climate science.

A tall brunette from the beauty queen cluster raised her hand.

Delone tried not to stare, but it was impossible. He’d never seen anyone as beautiful, or as out of his league. She was one of those co-eds whose hair floated in the wind as they sailed University Bay. He was the fisherman off Picnic Point.

You have a question? Hergass addressed her. Please state your name.

Brenda Larson, the brunette stated.

What’s the difference between a scientific theory and a conspiracy theory?

Low laughter circulated through the auditorium.

That’s a good question, Hergass responded. "The answer is ‘Not much.’

"The difference is in the approach to proving, or disproving, the theory. The best theories hold up to the toughest attempts to disprove them. In the world of science that process can be brutal, personal and infused with over-sized egos, but in the end it’s the evidence that counts.

"Conspiracy theories rarely go through that process. They ignore contrary evidence and seek out only supporting evidence. They fall apart when all of the evidence is taken into account.

So, Miss Larson. The professor’s gaze lingered on her face and scanned lower. The best answer to your question is that there is little to distinguish a scientific theory from a conspiracy theory or a religious theory. They are all just theories. The best stand up to rigorous testing.

Miss Larson smiled demurely, causing the professor to lose track of his thoughts. He never regained his rhythm.

It was obvious to the beauty queens that Miss Larson had won this round. Mirrors came out, make-up was applied and nails inspected. Hergass rambled. After listening to ten minutes of his nonsense, Celeste Goldman stood up.

You are no longer making sense, she said directly to Hergass and stomped out of the room. Her protest galvanized a general feeling and the auditorium emptied.

Delone had more questions than answers, so he stayed to the confusing end. Hergass, however, had lost all interest in the teach-in and ended the lecture as soon as the allotted time expired. He took no questions and zeroed in on Miss Brenda Larson.

* * *

Anti-war protests resumed the next day with a matinee event designed for Walter Cronkite’s evening news on CBS. Delone took up his usual perch on the lawn of the Chemistry Building, outside the protest zone, but close enough to follow the action.

Down on University Avenue, protesters milled around while National Guard troops stood at ease a block away. City police, geared up in riot gear and proudly displaying their PIG buttons (Pride Integrity, Guts), stood in small clusters.

Delone’s mind wandered as the protesters waited for the TV cameras to appear.

If the planet is warming dangerously and threatening civilization itself, what difference does it make if the Vietnam War ends today or goes on for another decade? He wondered.

Except, of course, that my draft number is 129. A quick wind-down will keep me out of the war. And what about those guys getting killed daily? What did it matter to them that the planet might be too hot for humans in a hundred years? And that pretty brunette? Was she there because she wanted to learn about conspiracy theories or to swoon over that oversexed professor? It was the kind of dialogue that could swirl around in his head forever.

PIGS! The voice came from the knoll, several yards to Delone’s right.

He glanced up to see three police officers racing toward him. They were grinning and scowling, and they had the pepper spray out. Delone jumped to his feet and bolted, but the pepper caught up. His throat burned and he could barely see through the tears. The incident was over in a minute, because the cops ran out of breath, but they managed to slap each other on the back and chuckle. They were just having a little fun at the expense of the hippies.

Coughing and blinking away tears, Delone shuffled toward the back of the building. He leaned against a maple tree and slid slowly to the ground. A shaft of sunlight pierced through his tears, doubling the pain in his eyes. He shifted to the shady side of the tree. He was still coughing and blind with tears when he heard a camera click several times, then a voice asked.

Are you OK?

I got gassed, he replied. He felt the light touch of a damp handkerchief dabbed around his eyes. He coughed hard, throwing his head directly into the finger behind the dabbing handkerchief. It poked his left eye. White flashes and floating purple blobs filled his vision. The finger pulled away quickly.

Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was only trying to.. oh, are you OK?

Delone’s right eye cleared enough to see the Brunette hovering inches from his face.

I’m OK, he said, but he wasn’t. He wanted to retreat to a point deep inside his shell. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn’t it be someone in his league or a guy who would say Shake it off, man. It’s just pepper gas. Tonight you’ll be drinking beer and impressing the girls with protest stories.

I’m OK. I’m sure you have other things to do. Delone said. It came out wrong.

Are you sure? She asked. What happened? Were you in the front of the protest, or the back?

Neither, Delone said. I was sitting in front of the Chemistry Building with a bunch of others, watching from a distance when three PIGS charged us. I got pepper gas in my eyes. I’ll be alright. Delone got up to leave. Even through blurred vision he could see how beautiful she was. He had to get away.

Wait, the Brunette said. I’ve got water to flush your eyes. That’ll help.

I’m OK, Delone insisted.

Can you at least tell me your name?

Delone.

D_E_L_O_N_E?

Yes.

What’s your last name?

Delone, just Delone. I’ve got to go.

He stumbled off quickly. In the background, a block away, he heard chants about war being bad for the planet. The TV cameras must have arrived. He didn’t stop until he reached the bike rack at Memorial Union.

Standing near the water, staring at the rippling waves of the lake, he took a deep breath. Except for a few floaters, his left eye had cleared. The pepper gas was gone, along with the tears and scratchy throat.

He unlocked his bike, wrapped the cable around his waist and pedaled to the top of Observatory Drive. University Bay was dotted with a few sailboats, piloted by beautiful women and athletic men, all bundled against the April weather in sweaters and tight jeans, but Delone’s eyes went to the far shore of the lake, well beyond the protesters and the sailors.

He pedaled down the west side of Observatory Drive and hugged the shore. Picnic Point came and went as did the graduate student housing just beyond. He kept the lake on his right, to act as a guide, bumped into dead ends and got forced out to University Avenue, the same road where protesters chanted on campus.

Out here it was an orderly street with free flowing cars, office buildings and small businesses. Out here, he was just a bicyclist, although one with long hair and a beard. No one asked questions or attached labels while he was on the bike. He could just ride. He could breathe.

Traffic dropped off and neighborhoods gave way to scattered clusters of homes. A tailwind pushed him along the north side of the lake. Long, deep inhalations of oxygen filled his lungs.

Picnic Point jutted into the lake. Behind it was campus and beyond that University Avenue.

Is the protest still on?

It was a fleeting thought.

He flew downwind, turned right onto a promising road that hugged the lake shore and stopped on a bridge to look at the water. A sign identified it as the Yahara River.

The Yahara River, Delone mused. Doesn’t that run through Tenney Park? But that’s near campus. Are they the same river?

He rode on. Middle class houses gave way to mansions with views of the state capitol.

The capitol was no longer on the far side of the lake, it was down the shore. He’d already circled three quarters of the lake. Twenty minutes later he was at Tenny Park. He checked the name of the river, it was the Yahara.

The river churned as it escaped the locks of Tenney Park, then settled into a quiet flow through a man made channel connecting Lake Mendota and Lake Monona. Delone followed it.

Get a car, Deloner!

It was Dicky, his housemate. He was tossing a football around with Neal and Mike, his other housemates.

Where you been Deloner? You were supposed to be here an hour ago. Didn’t you see the note on the refrigerator? Dicky asked.

Sorry, I forgot. Delone responded.

Hey baby, you’re hot! Dicky let out a wolf whistle at a passing coed. The woman moved on without acknowledging him. Delone and Neal exchanged eye rolls.

The roommates invited Delone to join in a friendly game of two-on-two. He declined, but they insisted. Dicky picked Mike as his teammate, leaving Neal to play with the inept Delone. The game was as lopsided as expected and wrapped up quickly.

Sorry, Delone said to Neal. I’m not much of an athlete.

Neal shrugged. You look tired. Did you do a long bike ride?

I rode around Lake Mendota.

Neal looked toward the lake and took in it’s circumference with his eyes.

Damn! He said. How far is that?

I don’t know. I don’t have a speedometer.

I started running. Neal patted his stomach. I need to burn off this pouch. I probably ran less than half a mile, but I get that Aerobics stuff. There’s a rush to it. I could see training for a marathon.

Seriously? You’re talking about running 26 miles?

Thinking about it. Are you riding back to the apartment? I’ll run along if you don’t mind. Neal poked his thumb toward Dicky at the far end of the field.

It beats riding with him.

He’s gotten worse lately. What’s up?

Dropped from the football team, Neal explained. He hasn’t said anything, but he stopped working out at the gym and doesn’t go to practice.

Neal stopped running halfway to the apartment. He bent over, placed his hands on his knees and gasped for breath. Delone dismounted and waited. When Neal was ready to move again, the two of them walked together.

Have you heard from Ted? Delone asked.

A couple of days ago. He asks about you, but you’re never around.

How’s he doing?

"Between you and me, I think he’s losing it. He found a hilltop on the edge of town during one of his walks and wants to build a cabin up there. He thinks the farmer will just let him do it. Nobody in their right mind would let a stranger build a cabin on their land.

I didn’t say that to him, Neal continued. I figure he’s still got about a year and a half on this conscientious objector gig. If he can dream about building a cabin in the woods for a couple of those months, it might keep him sane for a little longer. He shrugged.

Of course, I didn’t think he’d pull off the conscientious objector thing, either. I thought he was headed to Cambodia.

I’ll call him, Delone said, but not this weekend. I’m heading back home.

You don’t get there often, do you?

Maybe it won’t be so bad now.

Is your family still there? Neal asked. Delone clammed up. He cursed himself for leaving that opening. Neal eyed him carefully.

Sorry, he said. I didn’t mean to pry.

* * *

‘Police Attack Innocent Bystanders with Tear Gas, Mace’ blared the Daily Cardinal the next morning. It was more of the same old stuff; breathless headlines about the war in Vietnam or the protests at home. Delone rolled up the newspaper and tucked it into his duffel.

He walked to East Washington Avenue and stuck out his thumb. Within a minute he had a ride to the I-94 ramp where he stood on a narrow dirt path worn in by college hitchhikers.

Ma’s Place

Ma’s place, on a dark stretch of highway near the edge of town, served beer only, which made it a legal drinking establishment for returning college students like 20 year old Delone Taylor.

Ma, the proprietor, stood about 5 foot 3 in her sturdy black shoes. Her voice, gravelly from three decades of working smoky bars, was still strong enough to silence a noisy tavern. A no-nonsense bar owner, Ma didn’t provoke easily, but she ruled with an iron fist, and a broom handle when the need arose.

When Ma charged from behind the bar wielding her broom, the regulars stepped back, leaving a clear corridor to the offender of the night. She was fearless, but not foolish. There was always one lout in the building who could swat away the broom and lift her off the floor with one hand. It never happened, because Ma called the police before her charge. The wise offender offered a swift apology and a hasty exit. The ignorant received a star-inducing whack with the broom and a close encounter with the local sheriff, who probably knew his name and his parents.

Ma’s place was the first stop for returning college students, soldiers on leave and wanderers. It was the place to catch up with neighbors and high school friends, check out the opposite sex and reconnect with people who stayed in town after graduation. For locals, it was a chance to see how the military or college changed those who left town.

Delone had changed. His beard went wild and hair long. Combined with the rail thin appearance of someone on drugs, he attracted attention, both good and bad.

The good came from Patty, who stayed in town after graduation. Bored with the bar scene, equally bored with staying at home, and clueless about alternatives, she slipped from a rowdy group of friends and pulled a seat next to Delone at the bar. He played to the University stereotype. She clung to his words, but Delone began a slow retreat. The bar scene never suited his temperament.

The bad arrived in the form of a burly drunk who stuck his head between Delone and Patty. He ordered a drink for himself and the little lady, then draped his armpit over Delone’s shoulder.

Hey hippie, got any of that there merry wanna on you?

He played to the three guys who egged him into harassing Delone, with the possible goal of picking a fight, and to Patty. The first audience snickered and elbowed each other in the ribs, the second rolled her eyes.

Ma placed a couple of 8-ounce taps on the bar with a stern warning.

Don’t start any trouble, Ron.

Ain’t no trouble at all, Ma. Just talking with my old hippie friend here. He placed 30 cents on the bar. Ma scooped it up and moved on.

Hey, hippie, you into that free love stuff, thinking maybe you’ll get a little here with Patty? She’s a good girl, ain’t you, Patty? And my friend Brad over there, he’s got his eyes on her, so don’t go trying anything funny or you’ll find out what a real man can do to a skinny little shithead like you.

He bumped Delone hard on the shoulder as he staggered back to his buddies.

You Fuckin’ son of a Fuckin’ Bitch! Buddy One said as he punched Ron in the arm. Delone could see the action in the bar mirror, Ma’s eyes behind her head. Brad, he looked familiar, stepped back from the group and stared at the mirror. His focus was on Patty. She glanced at the mirror, then down at her drink. Brad shifted his gaze toward Delone, who stared at the mirror vaguely, saw him indirectly and refused eye contact.

Don’t mind him, Patty said.

Who? Delone asked.

Patty’s eyebrows furrowed.

Ron, he’s an asshole. She paused. Who’d you think I was talking about?

Brad.

Patty took a deep draw on her cigarette.

He’s staring at you in the mirror.

She glanced up, then back at her drink.

He’s a pussycat, she said. He tries to act tough, especially around those guys, but it makes him look stupid.

Ron and his buddies sauntered toward the bar. Ron stuck his head between Delone and Patty while Buddy One boxed Delone in on one side and Two stood directly behind him. Brad shifted toward Patty’s side, but held back several feet.

MA! A pitcher for me and my buddies. Hey hippie, this beer’s on us! We was just havin’ a little fun. No hard feelings, OK?

OK. Delone said, but kept his eyes on the mirror. It was the only way to see them all at the same time.

Ma shifted to the far side of the bar and picked up the phone. She had her back to the crowd, but her eyes scanned the mirror while she talked. She served a couple of customers at the far end of the bar, then filled the pitcher.

Hey MA! Where’s that beer? My hippie friend here is gettin’ thirsty.

Ma placed the pitcher in front of Ron, he placed a dollar on the counter. She held the handle an extra second and glanced out the front window, then released it.

Ron, she cautioned. I don’t want no trouble.

No trouble, Ma. We’re going to toast our new friend.

Patty covered her glass with a hand, but it wasn’t necessary. Ron had forgotten about her. He overfilled Delone’s glass, sending beer across the bar. Delone shifted back, but the stool wouldn’t move. Buddy Two was tight against it. The beer flowed into Delone’s lap.

Shit man, you peed your pants! Hey! The hippie peed his pants!

There was a commotion in the barroom. Delone saw Ma’s broom handle swing in a compact, vicious arc and ducked instinctively. Ron crumpled as the handle cracked across his shoulder. Delone swung around on the stool.

Ma, I can leave. I don’t want to cause trouble.

You got the same right to stay here as anyone, she said as three officers walked in.

Ma got you good on that one, Ron, the sheriff said. Ma nodded toward the two buddies.

Let’s go boys. We don’t want any trouble.

Delone slipped along the bar to the door, but one of the officers blocked his way.

No one leaves, he said. Delone tried the Men’s room, but the door was locked.

Where you going, hippie?

He’s OK. Ma said.

You’re OK, hippie. What’s the rush? Ma said you can stay.

Yes Sir, but one guy’s got a broken shoulder and the others are going to sleep off a drunk in jail because of me. Those guys have friends in here.

You one of Margaret’s boys in the Hollow?

Yes.

You the youngest?

No, the third.

We never had any trouble with any of you, except him. He’s OK, but has a streak in him.

We all do.

Yeah. Here they come. The officer pulled a high-powered flashlight out of his holster and shined it directly into Ron’s eyes, blinding him.

Stay in the shadows around back, he instructed Delone. We’ll have them out of here in two minutes.

Delone slipped out the door and squatted behind a 55-gallon oil drum.

Ma walked outside with the Sheriff. The two of them stood a couple of feet from the drum.

Georgia, I’ve told you before. We have a whole county to patrol. We can’t be stopping here every weekend.

I’m doin’ my best, Ma replied. They’re just kids letting off steam.

You could’ve sent them outside to fight it out instead of calling us. The boys would have knocked that hippie kid around a little. He’d go back to college and we could get over to the Little Pines on ‘P.’ They’ve been having some problems over there lately.

That hippie kid is part of the welfare clan in the Hollow. They’re no trouble and Margaret needs a break. She got those boys through school. She doesn’t need no more trouble.

Your choice Georgia, but your beer license is up for renewal in two months and I have to file an incidence report for the City Council.

The squads pulled away from the parking lot.

Delone slipped through shadows to neighborhood streets, then assumed a quick, but casual, walk. He detoured toward Long Lake and hiked down the fisherman’s path to shore. The moon came out from behind clouds and cast a beam across the lake.

Welfare clan, Margaret’s boys, Never had a problem, Hippie kid, Knock him around a little.

The words hung over the lake.

...has a streak to him.

We all do.

He walked the path, climbed a fence, dropped down on private property and walked to another hideaway. The words were supposed to drift across the water, not follow him. His breath tightened. He was suffocating, and only six hours after returning.

The words re-formed.

You don’t belong here.

Delone leaned against a tree and clasped his hands behind his head. He should have known it wouldn’t work. He had too much history, and too many labels, to overcome.

He’d seen a bigger world in Madison. He’d met smart and ambitious people who moved with confidence and goals. People who thought they could make a difference or get rich or start a family and live a comfortable life.

He didn’t fit with them, either.

He let his hair grow and his beard bush out, but why? All it did was give him new labels: hippie, drugs, free love. He didn’t fit that mold, either.

And there was no way he could get involved in a relationship while hiding so much of his past. That kind of intimacy was just too scary. He took a deep breath and let it out in a long slow exhale.

The moon cast its pale blue light across the lake and into the woods. Delone watched it play among the trees. He could still observe. He could do it here in the woods and he could do it on his bike. He could pass through those other worlds as a specter.

* * *

You’re home early, Margaret said.

Nothing going on tonight. I’m heading back to Madison early tomorrow.

You just got here. I thought you were going to stay for the weekend. Wally’s working the night shift at the paper mill, you know. He said he’d stop by around noon.

Something came up. I have to get back.

What’s wrong? You come home moody, you look like you haven’t eaten for a week, then you say you’re going to leave the next morning. Are you smoking that funny tobacco?

No, marijuana makes me feel stupid the next day. I don’t like it.

So you have smoked it.

Everyone has. It’s no big deal.

It leads to heroin and out-of-wedlock sex. It’s true. Oral Roberts says so.

Right, I’m tired. Will you take me out to the highway in the morning or do I have to walk?

"I wish you’d get a car, I don’t like this hitchhiking. Your Uncle George has one that he’ll sell cheap. We could go there tomorrow. And I can help with gas. I don’t have much, but it would get you to Madison.

I don’t need money. Next week I start cooking at the Surf N Turf.

But you’re so...

Mom, was Dad violent when he was home?

Margaret stopped mid-sentence.

He never hit any of you. I made sure of that.

Did he hit you? Delone pushed. Margaret didn’t answer. After a long pause, Delone followed up.

I’m like you, Mom. There are things I don’t want to talk about. I’m not on drugs. I’m not in trouble. I just have to figure out some things on my own. I know this, though. I don’t belong here.

You have family here, and friends. You had good friends in high school. Nice boys. They were smart. They didn’t cause trouble.

I’m not getting into that, Mom. How old was I when Dad left?

You were three and a half.

Did he ever come back to live with us again, or was that it? He just left.

He didn’t just leave. I had to send him away. I wanted him to come back, and so did he. We talked about packing up and moving somewhere else, to get away from all the talk. We tried for two years, but you know what he’s like. He just never got any better.

I don’t have a single memory of him when he was home, not one.

You would hide behind a chair and plead with him to stop screaming, Margaret said. I think you tried to block that out later, but you had nightmares and then you’d go away, just like you do now. Maybe if you went to see him, you’d see that he isn’t dangerous. He’d like that.

Why? So I can hear him say the same stupid things he always says? Delone’s voice was tense, exasperated.

‘I dug her grave. It was a hundred and five in the shade. God said I was going to live to a hundred and five. Hyup!’ He mocked, even imitating the cut-off laugh of his dad.

We made wine from raisins. The ants beat us to it. We scooped them out and drank it anyway. God said it was OK. Hyup!

Don’t say that about your dad. You know it’s not his fault.

"Why not? Everyone else does. What am I supposed to say? ‘Hi Dad,’ then look at my feet like we always did when we