A Fall in Bark River

By Vaughn Vowels

Gabriel Lees world comes crashing down on a sunny summer day in Southern California. His fathers untimely death forces the Lee family to abandon life as they knew it in Westminster and return to their ancestral roots in rural Michigan. Gabriels emotional wound is quickly shadowed by the cultural shock of trying to adapt to new surroundings. Generational family secrets soon reveal why his parents made their western migration. He learns that he is not the only one suffering, that there is no opportunity to practice courage without experiencing fear, and that our pain is a necessary aspect of emotional growth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503593480

Vaughn Vowels

The author teaches a full course load in psychology at Lansing Community College, in his home state of Michigan. He is also a group leader for Cognitive Consultants Inc., an agency that works to reduce risk factors associated with criminal recidivism and addiction. Vaughn spent fifteen years in the field of social work as a family outreach counselor, primarily assisting families involved with child protective services to gain needed skills to improve and preserve their family ties. He holds a secondary-education degree from Michigan State University and a master’s degree in psychology from the State University of West Georgia.

Book preview

A Fall

in Bark River

Vaughn Vowels

Copyright © 2015 by Vaughn Vowels.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/14/2015

Xlibris

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

This book is dedicated to the memory of my late father, Dale Charles Vowels; my mother, Patricia Currigan; wife, Tam Marie; children, Keisha Marie, Dale William, and Kaycee Lou; and grandchildren, Izaak and Logan Wright—without all of whom I would be eternally lost. Their loving presence is my greatest blessing and salvation. And to all of you young people who are grieving the loss of a loved one, may you find some solace in this story—and in the proposition that many of the souls that will lighten your heavy heart have yet to arrive from the Lord’s infinite nursery.

Chapter 1

June in Westminster, California, is nature’s gift to orange groves, baseball, and sun worshippers. School is out of mind, and Huntington Beach is only four miles down Interstate 39. Orange County is a young person’s dream. Knott’s Berry Farm, Disneyland, putt-putt golf, and French bikinis are ample distractions for most of life’s vicissitudes. But not on this early summer day. All I could feel was a cold chill running up my spine from an overachieving parlor air conditioner, and the sweaty palm of my sister’s tiny hand. In lockstep, we sullenly walked between the polished oak pews toward our father’s motionless body. The nightmare that had abruptly become my waking life could no longer be denied. A lump in my throat helped stuff down the persistent ache pushing itself up from the hole in my stomach. I was mostly numb. The only thing that felt remotely real was the grip of Tracy’s nine-year-old hand. Mother clutched a hanky while tears rolled down her cheeks. I swallowed in an attempt to hold back the flood of my own tears so determined to interrupt my stoic gaze. I would become the man of the house, my uncle had told me, and men don’t cry in public. Dad was better dressed than I’d ever seen him. He was quite dapper in a freshly pressed white shirt, solid light blue tie, and dark blue suit. I silently cursed the Lord for taking him, then Dad for leaving us alone, then myself for thinking such thoughts. Anger is so much easier to feel than fear and pain. It was too overwhelming to imagine that life would go on without him in it. Just wake up, Dad, just wake up. I touched his cold, pale cheek and soft, curly black hair. His lineage revealed a dark Irishman with light blue eyes and a chin of granite cut deep and square. Tracy and I stood for an eternal moment by the casket, then turned and ascended from life as we knew it—forever.

The minister spoke of faith and heaven and that saying good-bye was only a temporary condition, of a loving husband and devoted father who left this world before his time. But all things are in God’s time. We shouldn’t question his plan nor love for us. The message fell on my deaf ears. I didn’t understand. I’d be damned if I would cry either. Crying would be admitting that he was gone. I was determined to defy such a cruel God by never saying good-bye.

At the wake, I sat silently listening to the grown-ups’ stories about my father. The words were like echoes in the wind. Uncle Charlie spoke of the time his brother jumped into the Bark River, without fearing for his own life, in order to save a drowning man. Mother expounded on his generous and compassionate nature.

Once, when William was driving taxi in the city, he came upon a house fire. Stopping to witness the event, he learned that the family had lost everything. He offered to shelter them at our home until they could get back on their feet, she stated with pride. She didn’t mention how this act of compassion had led to a serious verbal confrontation between the two of them. It occurred to me how much funerals and wakes are full of partial stories and half-truths.

Uncle Charlie had flown into Los Angeles from Michigan the day before the funeral. I hadn’t any recollection of Charlie. But I felt a connection. I enjoyed listening to his mellow voice and memories of growing up with his baby brother. It was the first time I had thought about smiling since receiving the call that had changed all of our lives. I guess Dad kind of lived on as long as the conversation centered on his memory. Inevitably the stories waned, and the future needed to be addressed.

What are you going to do, Pam? my uncle asked Mother abruptly.

She twisted in her seat.

I haven’t had much time to think about it, she responded. I am not sure I can raise these kids in Los Angeles without any family here. Maybe it’s time to head home to Michigan. Tracy should be all right with the move, she isn’t old enough to have too many connections, but Gabriel has his sports, long-term school friends, and is set to go to Westminster High this fall. It would probably be more difficult for him. He’s spent a lot of time with the neighbor girl, Linda McMaster, this spring. Christ, they’ve been inseparable since Christmas. That situation could be a problem.

She was right, I didn’t want to leave. I’d just lost the most important person in my life, now they want me to give up the rest of it? So much for being the man of the house. I wasn’t even consulted about the first major decision. I lay in bed that night counting the perforated holes in the ceiling tiles. I must have read five stories to Tracy before she fell asleep. Mother was zoned out in front of the TV, drinking red wine, by herself, starring through the screen. We hadn’t talked much since the funeral. I don’t believe either one of us knew what to say. Uncle Charlie was already on his way to LAX for a red-eye flight home. My gut was heavy and empty. I couldn’t envision a life without my father in it. That ominous telephone call kept running through my head.

Hello, may I speak to your mother. Your father has been taken to the hospital.

Those words hauntingly echoed through my consciousness. One tiny blood vessel in his head had ruptured, and our lives were shattered as well. The first few days that he spent on a respirator I prayed for a miracle. Miracles can happen I assured myself. But no miracle came. Maybe he’ll just be in a coma for a while. People have recovered from long term comas, six months, even years. God refused to recognize my plea.

Nearly resigned I became more demanding for an answer. Why, God, did you do this to us? You are not a good God. I pounded my pillow, and shook with rage. A few tears would well up, and I’d renew my bargain. Please bring him back Lord, I’ll never do anything wrong again, if you’ll just bring him back. Maybe if Mom and Dad hadn’t fought so much. Maybe if I’d been a better son, he’d never had to get upset with me or slap me or call me stupid for the stupid things I’d done. Mom shouldn’t have argued with him so much. She knew he had high blood pressure. Maybe if I could just fall asleep, when I wake up this nightmare would all be over. Maybe if …

I did my best to disappear in comic books, card games of solitaire, television, and compulsive free-throw shooting on our driveway basketball court—a repetitive ritual that served me well.

I would stand at the free-throw line, dribble the ball four times, bend at the knees, rise up, take a deep breath, exhale completely, raise the ball over my head, and let it fly toward the rim above the garage door. Each dribble, each breath, each shot, every ball retrieved was a necessary aspect of my escape ritual. After ten shots, I’d chalk how many made on the concrete drive. It was easy to get lost in the numbers. Before noon I’d tabulated 587 out of 800. My only interruptions were well-wishers stopping by to give their condolences. They’d pull up out of nowhere, babble for a few minutes, then be on their merry way. I felt contempt for their pity. I had even more disdain for the song birds. How dare they sing; as if the world was no different than it was yesterday. The voices of children playing capture the flag, and hide-and-seek were just as offensive. How callous the sounds of delight are to the suffering. Didn’t they understand that the world is a horrible place?

You gonna be at Tuesday’s game, Gabe? A familiar adult voice caught me by surprise.

Coach Daugherty. You startled me. I arose from the concrete with my chalk in hand.

I heard rumors about your dad, son. Has he really passed?

We had the funeral yesterday. Thanks for stopping by Coach. I really don’t know what to say. I think everybody’s still in shock. I know I am. I could see genuine concern in his face. He’d been my summer league baseball coach for two years. Mom emerged from the house and greeted him with a hug. She must have heard him question me about playing ball. She answered before I could beg out of it.

That would be good for him Coach. He needs to do something normal again.

Yeah, I’ll be there, I blurted, wondering if anything would ever feel normal again.

I came to resent the commonest intrusions. When Mother would call for dinner, I wasn’t hungry; or a trip to the store. No, thanks. Her request for me to take a shower, sounded like an unreasonable demand to be rejected. No conversations please. The only time I could spare for humanity was Tracy’s bedtime story. I envied the desire in her eyes to hear old stories she’d been listening to for years. They were still vibrant, living, breathing things, in her world. Story time was the only connection I had left with my imagination, with my own heartstrings. Jack and the Beanstalk was her favorite. I watched her impish face run through a gamut of emotions while intently listening to every word. Sympathy for Jack’s poor family, delight and wonder at the sight of the magic beans, empathy when Jack’s mother scolded him for being fooled. Then the excitement and hope as Jack climbed the beanstalk. Her strongest response was always to the chase. Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman! Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread! Her eyes widening, her legs pulled up beneath her chin, as if she were being pursued by the great giant. When the giant succumbed to his fate, she would look at me with relief and triumph in her eyes. But the story wasn’t complete until Jack’s mother gave him a big hug for saving the family from their terrible plight. The story never got old for Tracy. Her ineffable spirit never got old for me. Just as I finished up with Rumpelstiltskin, the doorbell rang. I’d made it a practice to ignore the doorbell, but it was after nine.

Gabriel, you have company! Mother shouted.

I pulled the covers up to Tracy’s nose. Sweet dreams, I told her.

It’s probably your girlfriend, Tracy snickered, as I turned out her bedroom light.

Maybe it’s your boyfriend, come to ask me and Mom if you can go to Disneyland with him on a date, I retorted.

Ick! I don’t even like boys.

Let’s keep it that way, Jezebel.

Mom, who is Jezebel? Tracy hollered.

Gabriel, you’re supposed to be winding her down, not riling her up! my mother shouted from the front room.

That girl is wound up in her sleep, I said as I made eye contact with Linda.

We just got back from Lake Tahoe this afternoon. Cindy told me what happened. I’m just sick for you, Gabe.

It had only been a week since I’d last seen her, a week that had turned into a lifetime. She had never looked so lovely. Linda was a natural blonde with short hair and dark sunbaked skin. Her freckled nose and shoulders were peeling from too much exposure to the summer elements. I’d never really figured out what this beautiful girl saw in me. Maybe it was just the familiarity of growing up two houses down from one another on McClure Street. We’d ridin the bus to school together every day since the sixth grade. She reached for my hand, then hugged me like there was no tomorrow. She started to cry.

I love you, Gabe, she whispered in my ear.

I love you too babe. The words stuck in my throat.

I’ll help you get through this. It must be awful.

I am OK, I lied. It feels so good to just hold you. That was the truth. My mother had never seen us embrace. But she didn’t look surprised. Tracy poked her head around the corner and giggled as she covered her mouth with her hand. It was nice to hear her laugh. I was sure I would never find anything funny again to laugh about. I faked a smile Tracy’s way, then shooed her away with the back of my hand. Linda and I made our way to the back porch and found a lounge chair to share. The sun was setting on the horizon; a warm sea breeze chased away the last remnants of daylight. Holding her close was a respite from my living hell. I asked about her family vacation in Tahoe. She followed my lead, and we made small talk as the sunset. Eventually, my emotional guard became overwhelmed, and I blurted out mother’s plan for us to relocate to Bark River, Michigan. I had hoped that I wouldn’t have to face Linda, to say good-bye. She felt like heaven. It was the first time I had felt anything in days. She laid her head on my chest and began to sob. After a few minutes, she raised her pretty face and wiped the tears away. She promised that she would always be faithful to me and that we could go to college together, visit each other on vacations, and write every day.

We’re meant for each other, I assured her. I’ll be back.

We talked of our future together, our dreams, our children, and most of all how we would always be in love. But when I kissed her good-bye, I knew our time together was over. I’d never felt so lost and alone.

Why do we have to move back to Michigan? I screamed at my mother shortly after closing the door on Linda. We could make things work out here. You don’t need a crutch. Why can’t we give it a chance? I pleaded.

I could feel the blood pounding through my temples. But I bit my tongue on what I really wanted to say. How she was the reason that Dad died so young. If she would have given him any real attention or genuine affection, he’d still be here. How she was the one really responsible for this horrible mess our lives had become. She looked at me with pity in her eyes.

Financially, we just can’t do it, son. And I am not so sure I can hold myself together without family support.

I knew she was hurt, but my rage kept me from showing her any concern. She turned and solemnly shuffled out of the room.

Chapter 2

I am not sure when I first noticed the quiet. It wasn’t my mind that was still. Thoughts were continuously intruding and interrupting the hiding places I’d build within. It was the world around me that I could not hear. The mass of humanity strolling purposely through the cavernous terminals of the LAX Airport provided added cover.

Watch out Gabriel. You didn’t see that little boy? You damn near ran over him. Gate 9 is over here, follow me. Gabriel! Pick up your other bag. Come on get with it. Do I have to put your sister in charge of you today!

Huh? I replied.

As we boarded the plane the what ifs took flight in my head. I had no reign on the what-ifs. When they took over, the here and now disappeared from view. What if the plane crashes? I began to feel the fear of being out of control. What if we get hijacked? A plane in Miami was commandeered just two days ago by Cuban exiles. My fear turned into terror. What if Mom died? That is the scariest what if. The thought haunted me like no other. Tracy and I would be orphans. I couldn’t think of a worse fate. I sat down, and put my headphones on, hoping to disrupt the torture chamber of my internal chatter. I hadn’t said more than a few words to my mother since I blew up at her. Why should I talk to someone that doesn’t respect my opinion? She lost Dad. But I lost him and Linda. In a couple of years, I could run off and find my own place in Orange County. Linda and I would be together. Her parents really like me. They wouldn’t object.

When will we get there? Tracy asked no one in particular.

In three hours, honey, but it will be six hours on our watches, stated Mother.

Can we go sledding when we get to Michigan, Gabe?

I don’t think so, Tracy, it doesn’t snow in Michigan in the summertime. I poked my head out of my fog for a moment.

Oh, you can speak, Mother said.

I immediately shut my mouth and clenched my teeth.

Darn, I wanted to build a snowman! Tracy said.

I spend most of the next three hours staring out the window at the various land formations. The what ifs came back to pester me, then the why’s? But most of all I was just plain angry. The big hole was always with me now. It had moved up from my abdomen to my chest. It was like being stuffed from a big Thanksgiving meal, yet having a gnawing feeling of hunger at the same time. I wished I could throw up and be rid of it. I first noticed the feeling when I saw Dad at the funeral home. It would leave briefly when I played Atari, or read a comic book, or told Tracy a story. It always returned. I bet it would always be there.

The what ifs slowed down as my eyes drew heavy watching the clouds roll beneath the 707. I could see faces in the hazy vapor. Why do we see faces in the clouds I wondered as I drifted off in a restless sleep?

Dad stood before me with a baseball in one hand, and an undersized mitt on the other. He pounded the white and red threaded sphere into the glove then threw it my way. We stood sixty feet apart, on the freshly cut grass in our backyard. I could smell the bear greased leather of my new baseball glove. The ball made a soft thudding sound as it hit the palm of my mitt.

Always catch the ball in your palm, Gabe. And move toward the throw so you’re in position to throw it back as soon as you catch it, he directed.

I caught the ball in the webbing, and threw it back three-quarter armed.

Two hands, now. Step toward your target when you throw. Always throw overhand, Gabriel. It’s too easy to make a bad throw when you come sidearm or three-quarters.

I know, Dad. You tell me the same thing every time we play catch.

Well, do it then. I wouldn’t have to remind you if you were doing it right in the first place! Practice doesn’t make perfect. Perfect practice makes perfect. And quit reaching for the ball. Get your chest in front of it.

I threw the ball back as hard as I could. It sailed high and wide, crashing into our wooden fence with a loud crack. His jaw clenched.

Go get it! he shouted. And straighten up your attitude. There isn’t a coach in this world that will put up with that kind of attitude.

Not that speech again, I thought as I scuffed after the ball.

Gabriel, Gabriel, wake up, it’s time to eat. Mother’s voice brought me back to the plane. I struggled to open my eyes, while the stewardess recited the dinner options.

Would you like chicken parmesan? Or would you prefer Swedish meatballs?

The chicken is fine, I replied to one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.

As she left with our requests, my mother commented, She must be a part-time model. Isn’t she gorgeous, Gabe?

Wow, I thought to myself, but I just nodded. Mother wasn’t going to trick me into breaking my silent treatment strategy. She acted like my silence didn’t bother her one bit. She laughed while conversing with Tracy and the passenger sitting in the aisle seat. She seemed oblivious to my passive attempt to make her suffer.

Shortly after our pinup quality attendant removed the dinner trays I tried to force myself back into my interrupted slumber. I’d once seen a hypnotherapist induce a classroom full of teenagers to various levels of unconsciousness by counting backward, and suggesting that they would become twice as relaxed with each inverted number. It was worth a try. I imagined laying on the beach in Malibu, watching the sunset slowly sinking into the Pacific. As it submerged, sliver by sliver, I counted backward from 100—99 down, 98 down, 97, 96, 95 down, down, down 94, 93, 92. Somewhere between conscious awareness and oblivion I came upon an old half-forgotten memory.

My father was sitting next to me on the family room sofa. I must have been ten or eleven. Gabriel, he said. I want to talk to you about football. You like football, don’t you, son?

Sure, Dad. We play touch all the time on the playground during recess. I get to play quarterback lots of times. I score lots of touchdowns.

He smiled. You’re pretty fast aren’t ya?

Yeah, I’m the fastest in my class. Donquell’s fast too. We usually tie when we race each other.

I want to talk to you about organized football.

We always pick teams. Isn’t that organized football? It’s not like we play smear the queer anymore, I replied.

"No. That’s called sandlot football. I’m thinking about Pop Warner football. Real tackle football, with shoulder