Winter's Stormy Rage

By Ralph Hunter

In Autumns Dancing Leaves, we met Eddie, an abused and neglected kid whose personality fractured to create Randy when he reached a point where he could no longer cope with the trauma in his life. Randy, defiant and determined, undertook the crusade of becoming Eddies champion, endeavoring to save him from his abusers and all who were a threat to him. Because of Randys effectiveness, Eddies mind decided it was possible to enjoy the life that Randy insured, that being involved with the world was preferable to merely surviving the lifetime.

Eddies mind then developed Jesse from unused personality traits. Jesse, an aesthetic personality, believed his goal was to interact with people and the world to find missing elements in Eddies life and use his experiences to bring balance to the life he shared with Eddie and Randy.

Randy and Jesse believed they were moving closer to what they saw as a normal life, exposing Eddie to the things they thought determined quality of life. But, Jesse made a mistake he felt would be devastating for Eddie. Randy responded by deciding to take them away from an environment he saw as detrimental ...

Winters Stormy Rage picks up the story with Randy on the road, looking for a new life, a new place where they can settle down. He travels to Kansas City, to an old neighborhood where he is exposed to other runaway kids surviving on the streets, and those he calls societys undesirables. From there he makes his way west, toward the coast, stopping along the way for a time with a biker gang that picks him up alongside the highway.

A series of tragedies convinces Randy that they dont have a chance of success in trying to attain a new life. With that realization, he turns to drugs and alcohol, which keep him numb and muddled, preventing him from sorting out the truth. When he hits a low point, Jesse takes over to lead them for a time, a role in which hes not comfortable. Jesse catches a ride on the highway with Marcella, a female impersonator, who declares herself to be an entertainer. Marcella takes him to San Diego where he meets the colorful crowd Marcella associates with.

While Jesse is struggling to cope with the role of directing their life, Randy keeps showing up, still wrestling with substance abuse problems. Jesse fears Randy could be a threat to their existence. He decides he must seek help for them, but that would entail telling someone the secret of their life, a secret they had always sought to conceal.

Winter's Stormy Rage follows the three facets of Eddie through their struggles, through the setbacks and the successes in the complex life they shared, from a bleak beginning to a promising conclusion ...

Author Biography (Communication with Readers)

PROLOGUE

Prior ... Autumns Dancing Leaves ... Eddie was born not favoring anyone in his family, which created problems between his parents. His mother irrationally blamed him. When he was five years old, Evelyn sought to punish him by loaning him to pedophile men. As a result, he was abused by the companions and neglected by his mother.

Intelligent, with heightened abilities in logic and reasoning, little Eddie attemped to rationalize his situation in an effort to keep the abuse in an acceptable perspective that would allow him to cope with it.

He struggled with the increasing severity of the abuse but, by age eleven, he could no longer handle the circumstances of his life. Gravely depressed, he decided his only escape would be to die, that by conscious will, he could simply resolve to give up life and cease to exist.

Eddies mind, alerted to his decision, was determined to survive, believing the ultimate goal for any entity was to continue, regardless of the form or quality of life. Panicked at the threat of cessation, his mind made a desperate decision - it fractured his personality and created Randy from traits that had been repressed in Eddie.

Randy, a tough, defiant

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 28, 2001
• ISBN: 9781453533697

Ralph Hunter

Autumn's Dancing Leaves is Ralph Hunter's first book. He is working on a sequel to be called, Winter's Stormy Rage and developing other projects at his home in Montana.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

From the somniferous grove of nescience, the umbrageous security of budding childhood, the fledglings of mankind issue forth from the sheltering forest of innocence into the harsh, unpropitious glare of adult reality. From copse and canopy—they ultimately strike out in fervent quest . . .

Leaves rustled nearby, eerily shifting in the dark. Turning his head, Eddie focused his attention in their direction and he opened his eyes.

The leaves, scattered on the ground beneath a grove of bare-limbed, sleepy trees, rattled again in the gloomy light of pre-dawn. Eddie looked for the movement. As they shuffled slightly he located the grating leaves, just a few feet from where he sat.

Maybe they’re from this tree, he thought, tilting his head back to look up into the dark, naked branches of the tree that loomed over him. He brought his gaze down and twisted his neck to look over his shoulder. He saw that he was leaning against the gnarly trunk of a wide-boled tree, standing spectral in the ghostly gloom of the bosky forest. The old plica-face of the tree, slack in slumber, appeared undisturbed and indifferent to the fact that someone was leaning against it.

The adumbrated leaves scraped across the grass and he turned back to look at them. He watched as they lethargically shifted, seeming to make a half-hearted attempt at standing up, or turning over—some kind of weak adjustment, but apparently unable to find the strength to accomplish the action, they fell back flat onto the dry, lifeless grass that carpeted the ground.

Eddie squinted at the leaves, trying to focus in the dim light. As he strained to see across the shadowy space, he became aware that the tenebrous blanket of night above him was fading, paling its inkiness to the softness of twilight. He loved morning. He looked up through the denudated trees, up toward the sky, and he watched as the ebony quilt of darkness was drawn back, giving way to the shy, delicate pastels of the breaking day. He liked the image his mind conjured—the steely blackness shied away from the purple tendrils of dawn as daylight reached out to invade the nocturnal pall that nighttime had draped over the canopy of earth.

The glittering stars, sprinkled across the satiny coverlet of nightside, fluttered their lids and closed their eyes against the striation of oncoming light. Those delicate, radiating threads of morning’s aurora were the herald of daybreak, the harbinger of dawn, seeking a hold in the sky above the horizon, a hook by which to pull itself up, to create a carpet of purple and pink onto which the sun would regally step. Then, to the pomp of the accompanying songfest of the earth’s bird-choir, the life-sustaining deity would march aristocratically to his royal throne. From his kingly seat the celestial emperor would smile down upon Mother Nature’s domain as he waxed toward noon. But, lacking the intensity he achieved in other seasons, here, from his winter palace, the sun would be inadequate in his attempt to warm, and the smile would be weak, cold. At his failure to gladden the hearts of the dwellers below, the sovran would slacken toward the horizon as he tired from his crossing and sought out rest beyond the cuspate reach of earth.

And with the morning came the wind—the acrimonious wind of early winter. The angry breeze whistled through the trees, slowly at first, almost gently, but grew stronger with each harsh breath.

Eddie looked over at the leaves in the growing light. They were dry, brittle—a dull, brownish color—lusterless, pedestrian . . . lacking spark or spirit. He watched as the contumelious wind rushed through the trees, kicking at the leaves scattered across the grass. It snatched up the poor leaves that were left from the last ball of the season when the trees, in their multi-colored gowns, had pranced gaily in the gentle breezes of autumn. Then, as Mother Nature had arrived, waltzing in the wind’s song, dancing across the landscape of her realm toward her sleeping season of winter, the enchanting gala had come to an end. The festivities over, the trees shed their party gowns, dropping their leafage by ones and twos to the ground where the discarded leaves covered the unslippered toes of the tired trees.

After the divestment, the leaves were called to dance by the brisky breezes of season’s end. The trees had watched as their colorful foliage was whisked away across the dance floor of Mother Nature’s ballroom to disappear in the distance. The trees had sadly sighed with the passage, turning their backs on the scampering leaves and bracing themselves for the oncoming winter. Unclothed, pilloried, they had turned inward, to the sleepy solitude that would sustain them throughout the wicked season-of-freeze which would bear down upon them and test their resilience, their fortitude.

Eddie knew how it happened. He’d always loved autumn and had witnessed the events so many times over the years. It was the cycle of the seasons; he thought it wondrous, marvelous. He’d learned from the afferent trees to be brave, to be accepting, to internalize and withstand life’s harshness and the cruelty he had been forced to face in his life—a life of abuse.

The whistle of the wind pulled his focus from his inner contemplation. The stiff breeze blew sharply and the hapless, straggler-leaves rattled dryly as the wind raced through the sleepy grove, quickly sweeping away the trees’ party-gown tatters like confetti missed by the earlier passes of the volant broom of the wind.

Eddie knew the early wind of winter was bitter by nature, infused with some inherent malevolence, maybe angry at having to snatch away the remaining garment-shreds the trees had neglected to relinquish until too late. The nettling gust seemed determined to punish as it tore through the denuded trees toward its rendezvous with destiny. The wind would grow in strength, with increasing bitterness, as winter flexed its muscle, displaying its power and forcing the earth to note its might. Eddie shrank from its ire, its potential fury.

He watched the bedraggled leaves jump and race away ahead of the broom-sweep of the bracing wind, frightened, terrorized by the sudden mini-gale. This was no invitation to dance. He pressed his back harder against the tree that propped him up and he felt its shudder as the old tree steeled itself in the face of the onerous wind.

Fourteen-year-old Eddie felt an affinity for the trees, always had—ever since he could remember. For most of his life he had identified with them, had at five years old, because of abuse and neglect in his life, turned in his loneliness and begun to see the trees as his friends. He had given them importance in his life and came to know their aliveness, to believe he could hear and understand their whispering, murmurous song as they called to each other . . . and to him. In his mind, he was certain he knew them; he didn’t accept that it was only his imagination. And he had recognized a need within himself to draw strength from their brave resilience as they endured the changing seasons of time. They were his friends.

Craving the sense of security one feels when cared for and watched over by the nurturing mother-image that is so compelling and so necessary for harmony and balance within oneself, especially in the younger, formative years of building character and self-assured confidence, he had projected that image onto a tree outside his bedroom window. The void within him was filled by the mother-by-proxy tree and it seemed so natural to him that he hadn’t thought the situation unusual until later when the tree died, was cut down, and hauled away. He was made to realize the important role the tree had played in his life. He transferred his dependency to a feisty little old lady he met in the neighborhood near his school. Her name was Beebe and she was wonderful, bringing breakfast out to him each morning when she met him on the sidewalk in front of her house and talking to him about her long life and many experiences while he ate.

He was intelligent, with self-trained abilities in logic and reasoning. Early, he had figured out the relationship with the tree, but because of the lack of any other support-system in his life, he had continued the connection. The arrangement worked for him and helped sustain him through his many struggles to cope with the severity of the abuse he was forced to endure. The example of the trees had given him the courage to accept, to persist, to withstand the emotional and physical pain he was subjected to throughout his life. He was grateful for the trees’ presence and their friendship. He appreciated their endurance. They were his role models because he had little interaction with the people around him and found no ideal he could emulate in the humans he regularly had contact with.

He felt the tree behind him tremble again and he felt a shudder within himself. The loneliness and unhappiness of his childhood washed over him in heavy, suffocating waves of remembrance. He had accepted his life of pain and isolation, not daring to allow himself to think about why he had been chosen for the focus of hatred and hurt—until he had gone away to summer camp. At camp his situation was brought sharply into perspective. He knew his life was different from the lives enjoyed by other children, but at camp, maybe because of the close-living environment of cabin life, he saw just how very different he lived from others.

He had spent his life reading all the books he could get his hands on and everything that the school library had to offer. He used the erudite knowledge to sharpen his analytical abilities and hone his powers of logic. He had made an effort to understand people, but had given up the attempt when he did not encounter anyone remotely resembling the characters he read about. There were no noble or caring people in his sphere of existence.

Having been made to believe everything that happened to him was his fault, he had never allowed himself to compare his life to that of people around him or the characters he discovered in the books he read. Rather, he distanced himself from others lest they discover his dark secret of pain, a secret he could not allow them to know. He learned self-shame early, shaping his personality and lifestyle to hide the truth. He accepted the blame and believed himself responsible for the misery and unhappiness that was rife in his dysfunctional family. He was made to believe the abuse focused at him was a punishment for his destroying the family he’d been born into, that he was unlucky—a Jonah who brought devastation to all who came in contact with him. The belief was reinforced by events in his life and by his mother.

But at camp, he made a friend, Johnny, and he came to entertain the idea that maybe he could fit into the other side of life, a realm of life that had denied him entry. He began to think he might allow someone into his private world and permit himself to feel, to care, to let himself be someone’s friend . . . without life bringing devastation upon them in retaliation for their befriending him.

He liked Johnny. He didn’t usually permit himself to feel good things because he believed life would punish him because he was evil and didn’t deserve to enjoy good things. So, ever cautious, and afraid the taste of life was only a tease—a cruel taunt that would be snatched away if it were discovered he liked it, he braved the fears and became friends with Johnny.

After camp, and at summer’s end, he started seventh grade at a new school, the same school Johnny attended. Happily, their friendship continued and for reasons Eddie didn’t know, the suffering at home lessened. He almost allowed himself to believe the worst was behind him—the abusive beatings, the neglect, and the forced companioning of his mother’s circle of pedophile friends to whom he had been made to submit for years.

No! He shouted at himself. He pushed away the surge of memories. They were too painful to view again. He didn’t want to think about that. He’d left it all behind him when he ran away from home—.

He abruptly stopped. Had he said, ran away—that he thought he’d run away from home? He paused to consider the revealing thought. How did he know that? Had he really run away from his mother’s house? He couldn’t recall the act of leaving, so how could he know he’d left? Well, he admitted, he did understand how it was possible. The unmeditated thought was very provocative. Even though he couldn’t remember, he may very well have left . . . well, he must have, because he was obviously no longer there. He looked around. He wasn’t sure where he was. He had no idea.

The situation was confusing; he was mixed up. Another period of unconsciousness—he knew. He turned his attention inward and cast out a mental hook, out across the abyss of confusion, attempting to snag and draw to his conscious mind, the last memory. The hook came back empty. He couldn’t pull any thought across the chasm. His last memory was lost to him. That wasn’t unusual.

He had suddenly come to awareness here under the trees with no clear idea of how he happened to be where he was. Without memory, how could he know he’d left home? The thought was curious; it had been spontaneous and without conscious effort. It had come impulsively into his head. Did it prove that he did actually know, but couldn’t pull the knowledge into his active mind? It must be some kind of verification, he reasoned. How had he known with certainty that he’d left home? The idea was unprompted, like it was a permanent fact stored in his head. So, he concluded, it was actually true. It had to be. He just didn’t remember—another instance where he’d lost time. That seemed to happen a lot.

Eddie’s mind rolled back to the coma he’d experienced in the past—three years before. That was the beginning, when the blackouts started.

He had turned the information every which way in his mind in an attempt to understand. He awakened in a hospital bed with a nurse telling him he had been in a coma for two weeks. He hadn’t known how he’d come to be comatose, but he’d guessed a companion was responsible. To himself he had always called them companions because the term had been the only one he could safely handle when he thought about them. He’d been battered by them and sustained many injuries from them over the years. It was logical to conclude that it had been one of them, but he could never remember the specific occasion or recall a single detail related to the onset of the coma. He decided that he must have blocked it out, retreated from the memory’s trauma and buried the whole episode deep down in the chambers of his mind.

That’s when the times of forgetfulness had begun, the recurrent blocks of lost time after which he could never recall what may have happened during the hours, and sometimes days, when he was unaware. He worried at first; the lost limpidity of thought was scary. The heavy veil of opacity had prevented him from analyzing and understanding the situation. His ability to sort and qualify his experiences had always been his only means of handling his life. Without information to analyze . . . he was lost. Understanding the coma was beyond him and he didn’t like that.

He accustomed himself to the headaches, which preceded the periods of blankness. At first, he thought he was asleep, sleeping off the headaches. But, later, he discovered that he was actually up and active while insentient. He had probed his mind, exploring the possibility of head trauma, guessing at some neurological disorder or some form of amnesia caused by the coma. He finally concluded, and came to believe, that his condition was an effect of brain damage, some type of insanity which caused blurred cognition, which blocked memory, that diminished the cogency of those afflicted. He figured he’d gone crazy from his injuries. Though not fair, it was a fact, and he accepted it as being somehow deserved.

When he settled on insanity as the resultant aftereffect of the coma, he’d kept the fact to himself, not daring to tell anyone. It had been unnerving to learn he had a few episodes where he’d been violent, fighting and hurting other people without knowing. He was very surprised by the discovery because he was always undersized—shorter and thinner than other kids his age. He’d began to be concerned that he would be institutionalized were his condition discovered. He had determined to hide the truth from everyone.

He learned to fall in with whatever the situation might be when he’d come to consciousness and be involved in some activity, instantly assessing the circumstances and concurring with whatever and whomever so as to hide that fact that he didn’t know what was going on, that he was insane. Thus, he covered the missing periods and hid the insanity, which was taking over his life as the blackouts lengthened and also came more often.

At an early age he had adjusted to accept any situation and treatment, so handling the insanity and making a place for it in his life hadn’t been a great stretch for him. He learned to live with it. He coped and he tolerated; he accepted.

Enough! Enough! He chastised himself for allowing the memory. It didn’t matter. Crazy or not, runaway or not, the past was gone and he’d have to let it go. He’d have to live with the condition and try to handle it until it degenerated to a point where it was beyond his control. By then he might not know enough to care, so it wouldn’t make a difference whether he was locked up. At that point he might not even be aware he was confined. Probably, by then, he’d be completely gone, a prisoner in his own mind, lost in the tumultuous, rapacious vortices of hopeless insanity.

Eddie pushed his attention outward. He looked down at himself in the growing light of morning. He was wearing his own clothes. He recognized them—the sneakers, the jeans, the button-up shirt, the jacket. He must have simply walked away one day. It seemed so out of character, but he understood that in his blank periods he had done even more remarkable things.

He felt in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a tightly-wrapped sandwich. Turning it over, he saw a small label holding the flaps of the cellophane closed. He read: B & B Truck Stop—Bologna and Cheese—$ 1.75.

He considered the idea. He couldn’t remember purchasing the sandwich, nor could he recall the truck stop where it had been bought. He shrugged and shook his head in acceptance.

He was feeling tired from all the thinking and from trying to sort through the confusion that seemed as if it would be a permanent part of his life. He felt a little weak, but not really hungry. He’d never been a big eater, so the lack of hunger didn’t really surprise him. The weakness—that was more of a concern. He unwrapped the sandwich and ate. Perhaps it would give him strength, he thought. It was a dry sandwich, without condiments, and he had nothing to drink. He forced down some of the sandwich a bite at a time. He thought it important that he eat.

He looked around him in the broadening morning. He could see a two-lane highway through the trees ahead of him. That must be the way I came, he thought. He shook his head musingly. He’d worried that he’d do something while he was unconscious that would be harmful or that he’d regret. This could be it; the situation seemed to be serious. He couldn’t have wandered away and gotten lost—he wasn’t even in the city anymore, or anywhere near it, apparently. So, then, his first thought that he’d run away from home appeared to be an accurate conclusion. This was weird. Where was he going? Did he have a specific destination in mind? What possessed him to leave? Without memory of his intent, what should be the plan? So many questions . . . enigmatic, perplexing.

He wasn’t frightened. He’d already faced fear and terror to a great degree in his life. He would just simply adjust for this new turn of events the way he had adjusted and accepted the circumstances of his life. Somehow, he would manage to handle it. Fear wasn’t a factor, but the confusion was. He didn’t like being confused and out of control. He surely didn’t know what he was doing, or why he was doing it. That made the situation much more difficult, and more challenging. Was he up to such a challenge? He didn’t feel as if he was focused to adventure. He’d always lived vicariously, learning from the lives of the characters he encountered in the books he read.

He would have to figure out what to do; he needed to make plans of some kind. He determined that he could handle this—he’d have to. He was already doing it, whatever it was. He would take hold as best he could, and he would see it through. The acceptance of his dilemma made him feel more in control—a little stronger. Like it or not, he was actively involved in this adventure, intricately entwined in the plot.

He wondered if anyone was looking for him? Had they called in the police because he was missing? Knowing the situation back home, and he paused a moment to consider the thought—he’d have to guess . . . no, they’d not be searching for him. Maybe they didn’t even miss him yet. He had no idea how long he’d been gone. Perhaps they didn’t know he had left. No, that didn’t really stand under scrutiny—he was always in his room, so it could easily be determined that he wasn’t there.

He was tired of eating the sandwich. He re-wrapped it and put it back into his pocket. His head was starting to hurt. Was it the start of another episode of blankness? A little rest and I’ll feel more like sorting through the options, he decided. The headache might go away.

He leaned back against the sturdiness of the old tree and closed his eyes. His head nodded and he didn’t resist. He saw no threats in the darkness behind his eyelids and he allowed the sleepiness to creep over him. The pressure in his head eased some when his eyes were closed. He felt the urgency of the headache lessen. Feeling like the trees about him, nodding and drifting toward their winter hibernation, he drifted too.

He paused to be sure no dreams loomed ahead; dreams weren’t permitted . . . too disturbing to be allowed. He’d trained himself to stave off dreams after a pattern was established, one that brought sharp reminders of his plight during his waking hours. He’d obviate the onset of the dreams when he saw them looming in the shadows of his mind, ready to sweep and swarm when he let down his guard in sleep. But now, seeing no signs presaging dreams, he drifted quickly away, determined to sort through the confusion later, and decide his best course of action—his next step out into the unknown . . .

***

Randy stepped out onto the edge of the two-lane highway that Eddie had seen through the trees. He looked to his left. That was the way he had come. He turned to his right and started walking. As he moved along he reached into his jacket pocket and took out the half-eaten bologna sandwich. He looked at the little, half-moon-shaped places where bites had been taken by Eddie.

Goddamn! he exclaimed aloud. Goddammit. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He was upset with himself for allowing Eddie to wake up alone in the woods. He didn’t want it to happen that way, but he had walked and walked—for several days now, and he had been so tired. In his exhaustion he hadn’t had the strength to prevent Eddie from coming out. He was angry that he’d been weak in that respect. Poor Eddie, he thought, waking up in the middle of nowhere with no memory of how he’d come to be there.

Eddie didn’t know—had never known, not since the start, but Randy knew. He thought back . . . to the beginning, well, his beginning—his issuance into existence. Eddie was severely abused for years and had determined that his only escape would be to give up life and go on to whatever lay beyond, deciding that whatever it might be, it certainly couldn’t be any worse than what he’d already been forced to suffer in his life. Eddie had become very depressed and was ready, by his conscious decision, to just lie down and cease to exist.

The creative, controlling mind at the center of Eddie’s being had panicked at the idea of cessation for it believed the overriding goal of existence was continuation. In its alarm Eddie’s mind had made the desperate decision to create Randy from repressed, unused personality traits. The entity, calling himself Randy—and now he smiled at the memory—knew he was developed and thrust out to take a defiant stand in an effort to protect Eddie from the abuse and to ensure the life force of Eddie did not cease to exist.

Randy was aware of the decision. He knew why the personality was fractured to create him and what his purpose was to be. He was keenly aware of his reason for existence. He had accepted the onus task of watching over Eddie. He had taken the responsibility of protecting him from the abusers of the world very seriously and he was determinedly focused to success. It was he who had viciously attacked one of the companions and the retaliation of the man had resulted in the coma of which Eddie couldn’t recall the onset. It was he who had been violent . . . doing the fighting that Eddie thought was himself.

Randy always had full knowledge of Eddie, but the decision had been made by the controlling mind that Eddie was to know nothing—not until such time as it was determined he could handle the concept. The mind had worried that because of all he had suffered Eddie would be unable to accept the split, that it would be too much for him to take.

Thusly, Randy had come into being, championing Eddie and defending him at all costs. Randy was proud of the job he had done so far. He was focused to their preservation and he was highly protective. He fought back in Eddie’s stead and he had addressed the abuse and the victimizers, fighting his way to being left alone. He had been successful. That was the reason Eddie didn’t know why his situation had improved at home when he started seventh grade. The static life of hurt and depression had moved forward in a positive vein—as Randy saw it. He hoped to indemnify the life he shared with Eddie and he sought to minify the long-term damage done to Eddie psychologically by making the memories of pain distant and unfelt.

Later, the controlling mind got the idea that since Randy had resolved the cause of abuse dealt to Eddie, and the life was more stable, that maybe there was a possibility of enjoying the existence—rather than merely surviving and persisting through the years allotted for the lifetime. Deciding that Eddie would never be able to step into such a role, working toward the goal of seeking out enjoyment of life, the mind fractured again and it created Jesse, an audacious, prurient facet with coruscating hazel eyes who was inquisitive and loving, which Randy felt had brought unintended problems.

Jesse believed his purpose was to find the love and happiness that had been denied to Eddie and he threw himself into the quest with alacrity. Randy knew Jesse was convinced his reason for existence was to tune to the aesthetic, to seek out the beauty that could be found in the world, to find love for them, to learn appreciation for music, for art, for all the wonderful things that other people loved, things that determined quality of life—things that Eddie had never known, had never been exposed to in his life of pain and suffering.

And . . . with Jesse came more responsibility for Randy. He attempted to control the effervescence of Jesse, the exuberant thirst Jesse had for fulfilling his purpose. Jesse’s twinkling, titillating eyes and his precocious attitude had attracted the very element Randy was trying to fend off. He and Jesse had argued over their roles, debating right and wrong, and what each should be doing to contribute to the progress of the life. From his perspective of protecting Eddie, and coming to realize that Jesse had just as much right to exist as he did, Randy backed off and allowed Jesse to have his way.

Jesse had unknowingly made some bad choices and there had been a few problems, but overall they felt they were adhering to the purpose for which each was developed and that they were making progress in the stormy existence that had been Eddie’s life. Without Eddie’s being aware of either of them, they had moved him out from the blanket of misery under which he had abided and had given him a life in which he had friends and relationships, aspects which they felt were necessary in the development and progress of the life they shared.

They allowed Eddie to believe he’d slipped into the atrabilious canyons of insanity because it was not their decision as to when the truth could be revealed. They had each pursued their individual goals, both working on behalf of Eddie, and with each aware they were but facets of him.

Then, Jesse made a mistake—a huge one . . . or so he believed. He was devastated by the revelation that he may have destroyed all the progress he and Randy had made. And Randy . . . he had exploded in self-anger, feeling he should’ve kept a tighter rein on Jesse, that his failure to protect them made a mockery of his very reason for existing. He’d been so determined to live up to his purpose. He felt he’d failed; his disappointment in himself was overpowering. It was a bitter realization, but he accepted the responsibility for the setback. He held Jesse blameless. He was the one charged with their protection and he’d let them down.

In his fit of anger he decided to remove them from the environment . . . to take them away from the life that had so crippled Eddie. He wanted them to be as far away from Eddie’s old life and as distant from Eddie’s mother as they could possibly get. For better, or worse, he was determined to move to new surroundings, create a set of circumstances where he could prove himself by finding a new life, one in which Eddie could have a relaxed and healthy existence. In his anger at himself for his failure, he was firmly focused to reparation.

Though it may have been a foolish, naive idea that a fourteen-year-old boy could strike out on his own, he had resolved to see it through and he hadn’t look back when he left. He’d left behind all the relationships they had established—it had to be a clean break. There wasn’t anything there for them, had actually never been. Eddie didn’t belong there and he certainly never fit into the so-called family Randy was taking him away from. Randy was extremely defiant and very determined; they were basic characteristics in his creation, and he was resolute in his decision. He felt that he had to find a way to make it work for them—whatever it took. He had obstinately turned to challenge the world, to unwaveringly brave the frontier of fear. He believed they would be okay.

So, they ended up on the highway in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t realize that because he was so tired, that if he fell asleep, Eddie could wake up. The possibility hadn’t occurred to him. Otherwise, he would have tried to exercise more control, or rested before he had grown weak from walking the miles and miles, traversing the highway to wherever he was going. Eddie couldn’t have guessed where they were heading because their destination had not been determined. Randy had left with the idea that they would end up somewhere else—where hadn’t been a factor at the time. So, probe as he might, Eddie couldn’t have pulled the information into his mind. Even now Randy had not yet made the decision.

He had walked to utter exhaustion because he wanted to get as far away as possible as fast as he could. Apparently it worked. He’d left the city far behind. He wasn’t sure how far he’d come in the several days since he left . . . but it seemed a great distance. No one had offered him a ride; he had walked every mile. But, that was his nature—to ask no one for help, to defiantly stand on his own and grit his way through whatever he had to face. It’s okay, he said, we’ll see it through. We’ll make it. I promise you both we’ll be all right.

Poor Eddie, he thought. I’m sorry guy, but I’ll make it up to you, he said. And poor Jesse . . . he’d been so upset and so devastated the night they left that he had retreated deeply into the psyche and become completely unresponsive. Randy hadn’t heard from him and was unable to reach him.

Don’t worry, Jesse, it’s gonna work out. You’ll get another chance. You’ll see, we’re gonna make it work for us. We’ll make it. That’s a promise.

With the vow he continued walking up the road. Okay, he said to the ribbon of road ahead, and to himself, let’s do it. Let’s get tough. Let’s have courage. Then he remembered something he had—no, something that Eddie had read somewhere, and he recited it aloud: Courage is the ability to let go of the familiar for the unknown. He considered the remembered adage. It makes sense. Hell, we can do that. Well, actually, we have done it. Hell, yes! Bet your ass! We’re going forward. The positive reinforcement of his decision made him feel better, more determined—good.

Randy continued walking up the deserted highway, shoulders hunched against the wind and the dampness of the afternoon. It had rained a earlier and now the day was overcast, portending more rain . . . and getting colder. He looked ahead through the growing mist but he couldn’t see very far in the fog that enshrouded the trees on either side of the highway and drifted across the road in ghostly shreds of tattered smoke.

The weather was deteriorating from the promise of the early morning when there had been some sunshine. He watched the sides of the road as he walked, hoping to find a place where he could take refuge if it started to rain. He didn’t see anything like what he was looking for. There were just trees . . . and more trees, lining the road on both sides and walling the highway into a lonely, desolate corridor. He kept walking.

He was on the verge of deciding he’d have to spend another night outside on the damp ground under the trees when he heard the engine of a vehicle coming up the road behind him. He continued walking, bracing himself for the swirl of wet wind that enveloped him every time a car went whizzing past, churning up the standing puddles of water on the road. The big trucks were the worse, but there wasn’t much of a shoulder and he would have had to wade through the knee-deep, damp grass along the roadside to avoid the spattering sluice of the wake the passing vehicles created. He steeled his back for the rush, but heard the car’s engine slow down and pull up in the middle of the road next to him.

Hey, kid, wanna ride? a high-pitched voice called from the passenger window of the vehicle.

He turned to face the speaker. A girl, in her late teens or early twenties, with long, uncombed, brown hair, leaned out the window of an old van. It was some kind of panel-van, which had been painted a bright chartreuse. She leaned out, bracing herself with her hand pressed against the middle of the door. She waited for a response, her head tilted to one side, and an amused look on her face. When Randy hesitated, she gestured with her hand, palm open, extended toward him in supplication.

Well, she asked, do you, or don’t you?

Sure, he responded, not having time to consider an alternative.

Well, don’t just stand there. It’s gonna rain. Get on in here so we can get going.

The side door slid open and Randy ducked into the dim interior of the vehicle. The person who had opened the door slammed it closed and sat back down on the mattress that covered the floor of the van.

Randy took a seat on the mattress, on the far side behind the driver and looked around, trying to adjust his eyes to the change of light. The interior was dark, and was kept that way by a heavy curtain draped across the rear window. He glanced at the guy across from him, the one who’d opened the door.

Hey, little dude, the guy said, Whatcha doin’ way out here, huh? His speech was slow, deliberate; his words were slurred a little.

Just walking.

Well, you didn’t pick a very good day for it—far as I can see, the man added, chuckling to himself while he smoothed down the beard below his bottom lip with the stretch of his hand between his thumb and forefinger. He was obviously amused by something that Randy didn’t know about.

Randy looked at him. He had long, wavy blonde hair, worn halfway to his waist. It looked like it had only been finger-combed. He had a full beard, bushy and reddish in color. He looked like a lion. Randy looked at his eyes. They were a watery blue color and they looked sleepy.

So, where you headed then, little dude? the guy asked without waiting for a response.

He looked away from Randy and down at his hands as he talked. Randy followed his eyes. He was rolling a cigarette. The tobacco looked different, not like tobacco really, more like dried green leaves and little sticks. Randy only gave it a passing thought.

You smoke, little dude? he asked. As he raised his head, he put the cigarette between his lips and lit it with a wooden match he struck by raking his dirty thumbnail across the head.

No . . . no, I don’t, Randy answered. He almost threw in dude to punctuate his sentence the way the man kept doing. It was infectious.

The guy drew on the cigarette, pulling the smoke deeply into his lungs and holding it in. He held out the cigarette toward Randy. Trying to talk and still hold his breath, he grunted, Here, just take a hit of this. It’s really mellow.

Randy held up his hand in a gesture to fend off the proffered smoke.

Come on, Leon, the girl cut in. Leave the kid alone. If he don’t smoke, then he don’t smoke. What’s the matter with you? She took the cigarette from Leon’s hand. She said to Randy, You gotta ignore him. She motioned toward Leon with her head. He’s a pig, real insensitive to other’s feelings. Don’t pay him no mind. He don’t know nothing from kids.

Aw, Angie, came the protest from Leon. Feigning hurt feelings, he pouted and whined in a truckling voice, Give me a break, huh?

Angie made a face at him and turned back to the front. Randy watched as she inhaled the smoke in a deep drag, held the smoke in and handed the cigarette to the driver. Here, Cody, wanna hit?

Randy followed the cigarette and watched as Cody puffed and held in the smoke. When he let it out, he shook his shoulder-length, curly blonde hair. Oh, man! he exclaimed loudly, good stuff! Hitting the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, he breathed loudly, Whew!

Cody looked like Leon to Randy. Must be brothers, he thought. Except for the curliness of the hair and lack of a beard, Cody looked almost just like Leon. If they were brothers they couldn’t be more than a year or two apart, he decided . . . maybe twins. An image of one of Eddie’s brothers came into his mind. It was Travis. He’d left home for the Job Corps and the family had hardly heard from him since. You can add Eddie to that list of missing family members Randy thought and shook his head to clear away the image.

Randy felt a movement against his leg. He turned his attention toward the rear of the van. He noticed for the first time that two people were sleeping cross-wise in the back, on the far end of the mattress, near the door. It was a man and a woman. The woman had rolled over and her foot had brushed against Randy’s leg. He waited for her to get up, but she didn’t move again.

So, little dude, where did you say you’re headed? asked mellow Leon, pressing the issue.

Well, I didn’t say. Randy looked over at Leon, squinting through the smoke that was filling up the interior of the van from the cigarette they were still passing around. It was back in Leon’s hand. He was exhaling the smoke across into Randy’s face and Randy was breathing it in. He was starting to get a little light-headed from the pungent haze.

Hey, it’s okay if you wanna go along with us, little traveler. You can go as far as you want, Leon continued. We’ve just been chasing around, following a few concerts. It’s been pretty cool. We’re headed back to Kansas now. That’s where we’re staying for a while. We’ve been crashing up at a place owned by Angie’s grandpa. There’s plenty of room there. Hey, it’s okay if you go all the way to Wichita with us.

Wichita! The name screamed through Randy’s head setting off all kinds of bells and sirens. Randy felt his eyes widen as he instantly made the connection. Wichita had very bad connotations. Eddie had lived there when he was five years old and the experience had been very unpleasant. It was in Wichita that Eddie’s mother had started him on his career of companioning. No . . . Randy didn’t think he could go there, not even to pass through. If Eddie should wake up and find himself in Wichita . . . well, Randy just couldn’t take the chance that it could happen. There had been enough problems already. Why intentionally step into something risky when it could be avoided. It’d be stupid.

He breathed in, recovered his composure. No, thanks, he replied. It’s nice of you to offer, but I’m not going that way. I’m going north. I’d appreciate a ride to the Interstate. He figured there had to be a crossing highway. He’d change directions there . . . and north was as good a direction as any. Thanks again.

Oh, hey, it’s cool, little dude, Leon answered, nodding his head as if he understood, or that it didn’t matter to him either way. Whatever you want. We’re not gonna kidnap you or nothing. He laughed at his own joke and smoothed his beard as he handed the cigarette stub back to Angie in the front seat.

Cut the shit, Leon, she said curtly. Leave the kid alone. What’s wrong with you? I think you’d better lay off the smoke for a while and let your thick head clear out a little.

I think it’s about eighty or ninety miles to the northbound road, Cody put in, glancing up into the rearview mirror and smiling at Randy. We’ll drop you there. It’s a good place to catch a ride.

Randy was feeling relaxed—and a little silly. I guess I’m still tired, he thought. The heat inside the van was making him feel warm after being out in the damp weather. He felt his eyelids droop. He knew he was nodding toward sleep. It was hard to resist.

Hey, little dude, Leon cut into his drowsiness, you go ahead and snag some sleep. We’ll wake you up when we get up to the highway, okay?

With that, Randy felt himself slipping away. He closed his eyes and he felt as if his head was spinning slightly. Maybe it was something in that cigarette, he thought. He’d never smelled anything like it. He didn’t think it was real tobacco, but how could he know? He didn’t know anyone who smoked, so it just might be some different brand. But, it had an effect. Well, maybe it’s just the heat in here, he ventured, the heat and my damp clothes. Not important, he decided as he floated away in the pungent cloud filling the inside of the van . . .

CHAPTER TWO

From the opulent aristocracy, wrapped in auspicious cloaks of comforting pelf . . . to the impoverished downtrod, tied in the bleak rags of misfortune—all attempt to cully the Fates. We choose different paths, but we all shed the same bitter tear . . .

The night was very cold. The biting wind assailed from around the corners of the buildings, whistled angrily through the narrow alleys, and raced up the dark streets of the city, snatching at the hunched, hurrying figures along the sidewalks.

In his light jacket, Randy was keenly aware of the bone-freezing wind. The coldness made him feel stiff as he stood holding his collar tightly closed around his neck. He watched the rumbling, shadowy shapes of cars glide by on the wet pavement, splashing the curb with icy spray, their drivers apparently ignorant to the plight of the people that were showered with the freezing gutter-water along the sidewalk’s edge. It had rained earlier, a cold, sleeting rain and Randy was sure the standing water in the streets and on the sidewalk added to the coldness of the night as the wind blew across the leftover water.

Randy didn’t have a watch, but he guessed the time to be sometime after ten o’clock. He saw only a few walkers along the street, straggling away to get out of the weather, hopefully heading toward some warm home which awaited them . . . maybe with family. And a hot dinner, he added to the thought. That made him realize he was hungry, but he turned his attention away from the faint gnawing in his stomach. He stood for a while as the streets emptied and became quiet.

Shelter for himself would be his next decision. A dumpster? A doorway? Would he have to hunch down in the corner of some building, in an alley, or could he find a stairway under which he could crouch, protected from the penetrating wind and the cold of the dark night? It looked as if it might snow and he didn’t want to be out in the open, exposed to it—not tonight.

He looked up the vacant street, at an old rumdum down the block, awkwardly trying to roll himself in newspapers, obviously intending to pass the night outside, sleeping along the storefront where he was drunkenly positioning himself.

No, thanks, said Randy in the old man’s direction. He turned to look behind him, at the barred window of the darkened pawnshop that was closed for the night. As he looked at the items displayed in the window, his eye was drawn to a dark, recessed doorway to the right of the store. That’s unoccupied, he thought, as good a place as any. At least I’ll be out of the wind. Probably no one’ll even notice me there.

With a quick glance around, he slipped into the protective darkness of the doorway’s sanctuary. In the recess he discovered a door, a heavy wooden door with a grime-covered window showing a very dimly-lit stairway leading to the floor above. Oh, great, he said sarcastically into the glass. I guess there’s some apartments up there. A veiled picture crossed through his mind, a reminder of all the stairwells Eddie had been made to climb to the apartments of the companions who had all seemed to live in dirty rooms and apartments above stores.

Well, I don’t know those people up there, he whispered. Maybe no one lives here; it looks pretty run-down. He opened the door and went inside a small foyer about four feet square. He sat down on the third step. Maybe I’ll just sleep here, he decided. In the morning I can find some other place where I can stay longer. He leaned against the steps behind him and braced himself with his feet on the floor of the small entryway. Some first night in Kansas City, he whispered into the dimness.

As he relaxed and warmed up, he thought back to Leon, Cody, and Angie, the concert chasers, and the ride he’d accepted from them. Wow, he considered, had it really been two months? He remembered Leon waking him up when they crossed the highway that would take him north. After assuring Leon he didn’t want to go to Wichita with them, he’d walked up the road to a service station. He spent the night inside the protective fence enclosing the trash dumpster out beside the station, back in the corner of the inside of the fence.

The next morning he was sitting by the dumpster, eating a bag of peanuts he’d bought inside, and thinking how stupid it was to be out on the road . . . going nowhere fast. He had known that he wouldn’t be able to just live along the side of the highway, that he’d have to get somewhere, some place real—a town, where he could get a job, make his own way.

The road seemed to stretch on forever and he was impatient to start the new life he’d planned for them. He had watched a man on the edge of the road in front of the station, facing back into oncoming traffic, holding his arm out, hand closed into a fist and with his thumb out. He was hitchhiking. Why hadn’t it occurred to him to do the same thing? After only a few minutes the man got a ride. Randy realized that was the way to get some place. He remembered saying to himself, Now, that’s the way to do it. I ought to be hitching a ride instead of just dragging my ass up the highway a step at a time. He felt stupid that he hadn’t thought of it.

He went out to the highway and held out his thumb to passing traffic. It was certainly a busier road than the one he’d been on when the concert chasers picked him up. Within two minutes a tractor-trailer pulled over and honked its horn. He turned to look and the passenger door swung open. He ran over to the truck and climbed up into the cab.

He still remembered the conversation with the driver like it was more recent.

Hi there, son, the driver said as he steered the truck back onto the road. Where you headed to?

I’m, uh, headed for Kansas City, uh, to my uncle’s house, he had replied, and marvelled at the speed at which he’d formed the lie. It wasn’t like him to lie; it was against his nature.

"Well,