Dooley Downs

By Scott Byorum

Two twin twelve year olds go looking for their missing Father in their home town of Prudence while trying to evade an Aunt who wants custody over them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Sep 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781490790664

Scott Byorum

Scott has a BA in Psychology from Sonoma State University. He has always been interested in art, writing, and music and resides in Guerneville, CA, with his 2 Turkish Angora cats: Monkey and Flower.

Book preview

Copyright 2018 Scott Byorum.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-9062-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-9061-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-9066-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018956543

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Trafford rev. 09/07/2018

33164.png www.trafford.com

North America & international

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

fax: [phone]

To Bug, one of the coolest cats I ever knew.

Gemini is half ‘happy go lucky, go where the wind takes me’ and half ‘what the hell is going on with my life’?

~ Unknown

Contents

Preface

Prologue

I           Dooley Downs

II         Kramer’s Kompound

III        Beer Can Flats

IV        Max the Axe

V         Fast Eddie’s Last Gas

VI        Swenson Park

VII       Sid’s Toy Bazaar

VIII     Red’s Recovery Room

IX        Officer Holt

X         The Straw Dog

XI        Aunt Gretchen

XII       Mirror Falls

Epilogue

Appendix I     Dooley Lexicon of Lingo

Appendix II     Gemini

About the Author and the Book

Preface

S ome of the most powerful memories I have was when I was twelve years old, or thereabouts. As opposed to other ages, the memories are not simply a recollection of events. The memories I have of being twelve are both visceral and spiritual.

While everyone enters puberty at a different time, the age of twelve often signifies those stirrings. It represents a passing from childhood into the precursors of adulthood. At some point in time around that age we begin to discover who we will become, even though we may not fully realize it.

Though we experience various events of rebellion throughout our lives, puberty sparks the rebellion from ourselves. We cast off the innocence of childhood and begin to explore the confusing and conflicting world of adulthood. At this fragile moment in our growth, we are often our own worst enemy.

As a child, I revered adults as possessing great wisdom and knowledge. They all seemed to have the answers. They all seemed to have life figured out. I believed everything they said, even when it conflicted with the views of other adults.

Puberty often unveils the truth of adulthood: that no matter how old you get, you still struggle with life, especially with your childhood issues. As much as I wanted to write this book for the children that are entering puberty and beyond, I also wanted to write it for the adult children who are still dealing (or not) with the great disappointment that maturity brings. Childhood issues never go away, especially those experienced at the tumultuous time of puberty.

It was a great shock to me when I learned that adults do not have all the answers; that they are not the well-adjusted people that they portray themselves to be. They are really just big children with different experiences. And those experiences continue to define and harden that child within, whatever temperament that child has nurtured throughout their lives.

That is what this book is about. It is just as appropriate for a twelve year old as it is for a twenty-one year old as it is for a seventy-nine year old.

For the young, it will be an insight into adulthood and the affirmation that they will be dealing with internal conflict, especially events of the past, no matter what age they attain. It is how they deal with these issues that really matters most.

For adults, it will remind them of the resiliency of childhood and how much children really understand… and how much they may have lost. It is how they deal with these issues that really matters most.

I will never be twelve again, but I know what twelve was.

It was one of the most fascinating, adventurous, and terrifying ages of my life.

Prologue

T im eased the Jalopy into the center marked parking space of the only three available spaces at the Mirror Falls Overlook. A shrill squealing protest issued from the weary brakes. Sarah cringed in the passenger seat and openly gritted her teeth, wincing her eyes. Tim noticed her reaction with a furtive, sidelong glance. As the dilapidated primordial vehicle came to a stop, Tim lifted the emergency brake handle with some effort, switched off the headlights, which could easily be described as head lamps , and turned off the engine. It chugged and clunked a few more times before falling silent completely. Cushion springs creaked as Tim shifted in his seat to face his wife, placing one arm on the large steering wheel and casting a suspicious eyebrow at her.

"It’s not all that bad, is it?" he inquired.

Sarah held her exaggerated cringe a moment longer and then relaxed, putting one hand over her face in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her spreading smile. She parted her forefinger and middle finger slightly to get a glimpse at her husband’s reaction. Finally, her wild giggling gave it all away. Tim stoically held up his façade of wariness.

I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, he admonished.

"Oh please, Sarah feigned incredulity. She continued to giggle. I only had two glasses of champagne!"

Yeah, and one of them was mine!

Oh, phooey! You’re driving… exactly what you are driving, I’m not entirely certain.

Tim patted what passed for a dashboard, scuffed and cracked from deep age and sun exposure. The Jalopy is a masterpiece of modern engineering. It runs like a clock.

Yeah, a broken one!

Tim’s expression changed. He appeared pensive, almost hurt. He looked down, then sat back in his seat and gazed out his side window. Sarah stopped giggling, suddenly caught with the feeling that she had said something that hurt his feelings.

Tim, I…

No, Sarah, Tim mildly protested. It’s nothing.

"Really? she wondered mockingly, nodding her head up and down vigorously. Because it certainly seems like something."

It’s you and me, forever… Now Tim was all smiles, leaning in close.

Babe, Sarah stroked his cheek, "as much as I appreciate your goofy, romantic overtures, I also know that you are deflecting. Just spit out what’s on your brain… please?"

They stopped, their respective gazes examining each other’s features, measuring the depth of their shared connection.

They kissed, long and sensual. When they pulled away, Tim’s expression intrigued Sarah.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

Lots of stuff.

Yeah, me too.

He smiled softly, but it seemed somewhat forced. Okay, what do you think about your sister’s antics tonight?

Gretchen? Sarah flabbergasted.

No, your non-existent other sister: Broom-Hilda. He offered a wink.

She giggled, but failed to comprehend what Tim was driving at. She gazed at him quizzically.

She balked rather hard at us coming up here to the Falls.

Tim, it’s my sister. She’s a little quirky, you know, she waved him off. "Look, she was just concerned I might drive. C’mon, just brush it off; it’s nothing."

"Well, she is weird," Tim asserted bemusedly.

She is not! Sarah protested, breaking out in a huge grin that she tried unsuccessfully to hide with her hands. Okay, she admitted in a muffled voice, a little bit…

Tim grimaced at her, knowingly.

Falling suddenly silent, they both turned, looking beyond the windshield. The full moon cast the night in twilight. The glow and sparkle off of the Upper Carp River as it split and spilled over the edge of the cliff to become Mirror Falls was mesmerizing. Without looking, Tim reached over and gently scooped up Sarah’s hand into his own. She squeezed back.

Tim?

Yeah, babe?

I feel a bit dizzy… She touched her forehead and closed her eyes. He looked over at her with sudden concern.

Are you okay?

Yeah, yeah… I just got a little dizzy. It’s kinda stuffy in the old Jalopy, you know? I’m gonna step out for some fresh air.

That sounds like a bully idea, babe. It’s a nice night. I’ll get a blanket from the trunk in case a chill picks up or we want to sit down.

Good idea, hon.

The vehicle’s doors groaned as they both exited the Jalopy. The night air was crisp and clean smelling with a slight coolness, appropriate for mid-Autumn. Sarah walked slowly towards the overlook, weaving slightly in step. Tim missed this as he made his way to the back of the Jalopy and opened the curved trunk. Inside, a bald spare tire and an old bent tire iron greeted him.

Darn, Sarah, he said with a raised voice so his wife would hear, I forgot the blanket!

He didn’t hear any reply, which wasn’t too unusual, considering the noise of the river and falls. He pulled a small penlight from his coat pocket, turned it on, and examined the contents of the Jalopy’s trunk further. No blanket was to be found.

Hey, Sarah? he called louder.

No reply.

He closed the trunk, looking for her, smile fading from his features.

His wife was nowhere to be seen.

Sarah?

I

Dooley Downs

P eter Dooley pondered the back yard, certain that its condition was as critical as he and Priscilla’s own. The ground consisted of a cruddy mix of dusty tan soil and grey loose gravel, barely nourishing tufts of scrub. It reminded him of a description his Dad told him of what mange was, like on a dog. His Dad also conferred that other things in life contracted the mange, too, such as people. He sometimes said that, unlike animals, people that got mangy rarely crawled off to die somewhere alone. More often than not, according to Dad, they ended up in well paid Government positions and that’s how the mange kept spreading around. Peter quietly questioned the facts behind that assertion, but there seemed little doubt that the back yard looked mangy. It had been that way since Mom died.

Peter turned and looked at the kitchen. It wasn’t much better. The sink boasted a stack of crusted plates, cups, and utensils that would put a professional dish washer to the test. They migrated onto the counter top in a mass exodus, seeking asylum from the sink’s congestion. A couple cabinet doors’ hinges needed tightening and hung slightly askew. Only one burner on the stove worked and a pot of leftover stew sat upon it, protecting it apparently from the fate that the other dishes had come upon. The refrigerator groaned at its place in the lot for ten minutes at the top of every hour. Peter’s Dad set his watch by it and often beamed at having something so dependable in their lives. Newspapers populated the kitchen table where Peter sat. They didn’t subscribe; they couldn’t afford it. His Dad brought them home from the bar he frequented, Red’s Recovery Room, and he never threw them out it seemed. They teetered there on the table majestically, monuments to the world’s past affairs. Peter sighed.

Life was weird at Dooley Downs. That is what Dad called their house and property: Dooley Downs. Peter understood the ‘Dooley’ part perfectly well, as it was their last name. But he remained fuzzy on the ‘Downs’ portion. Dad always gave obscure and conflicting answers regarding its origin, all the while grinning and nodding, like Peter was in on a joke that he should understand, but didn’t. His Dad said things like: Y’know, Down Home. Or the obscure: Y’know, like in England. Or the completely bizarre: It’s a Lorry, all the while stretching out the ‘o’ almost as if it were some sort of calling or announcement. Sometimes, the most practical approach was just to accept Dad’s answer at face value. A person could end up completely baffled if they pressed for clarification. Still, Peter appreciated Dad’s brand of weirdness and held in high regard.

The kind of weirdness crossing Peter’s mind at the moment was a sort of uneasiness. Dooley Downs felt like it was, at best, just muddling along, and at worst, winding down. They all still enjoyed laughter and hugs and conversation, love. But Dad’s presence there diminished day after day; he and his sister were left more and more to take care of themselves. And Dad was letting things go, skipping the bills, frowning on cleanliness, schlepping from meaningless job to meaningless job. And yet he seemed perfectly content, always tip-top and beaming. Peter couldn’t quite fathom what was happening to him: whether he was slowly giving up or if he was scrubbing away Mom’s former presence.

Mom used to take care of things, Peter reflected, and he used to help her. He actually enjoyed keeping things clean, organized, and in order. Now he and his sister’s shared room upstairs bore the only remaining memory of her influence on the family, in regards to cleanliness. Dad always said Peter was the spitting image of his Mom, but since he and Priscilla were identical twins the observation failed to gather muster in Peters mind. Maybe his Dad meant something more, but the thought was losing steam. Best to just pitch it in the closet for a while. Maybe he would understand it better when he grew older.

Peter tried to make the effort, but his Dad halted progression on cleanliness endeavors just short of completion. As soon as things looked a tad too pristine or orderly his Dad would proclaim That’s enough now, Son. It’s close enough for Government work, topping it off with a nod and a wink to drive the point home. Peter wondered; if his Dad knew so much about the Government, why he didn’t just get a job there instead of passing from menial job to menial job. Maybe it came down to the mange factor.

He maneuvered his attention towards the back yard again. The edifice to time’s passage tilted in the middle of it: a steel piped swing set with a dented aluminum slide. Only one of the two swings remained, the other links of chain just hung there, rattling with the breeze. Peter couldn’t remember the last time he or Priscilla played on it, but it was pretty unplayable now, rusted and bent as it was. He remembered how his Mom used to swing both he and Priscilla on it in tandem, alternating a push for each from behind as they swung ever higher into the Spring and Summer months, laughing for hours.

Mom laughed right along with us.

Those were easy times, when Dad and Mom had their lives together. Life was rolling in lush green grass, cloud shapes in crystal blue sky, bedtime stories in the living room instead of bed, waffles and bacon on weekend mornings, marshmallows and camp fires in the Summer… feeling secure. It was a lot different now. Peter felt the strain of a constant struggle above and below the surface; that, though they all still smiled and had good times together, something seemed strained, faltered. Dad drank a lot these days and though it seemed to make him happy, Peter found that more and more he and Priscilla were taking care of themselves. They all appeared to flounder in a strange new territory, one that had yet to settle after five very short years. Except to Peter, those years also felt long. How could that be?

The front door opened and Peter’s sister, Priscilla, entered the kitchen without the mail. It was the first Monday of the month, which wasn’t good. It meant the mail would largely be populated with bills; bills that would have to wait their turn in a very long line. Mr. Dooley wasn’t much for paying bills, often advising his children: Bills can wait, life can’t. He never said that statement when Mom was alive, but then again, she used to handle their finances back then. Peter and Priscilla weren’t interested in bills right now. They were interested in word from Dad.

Took you long enough, Peter said, merely as an observation.

The mailman hasn’t shown up yet, Priscilla proclaimed, taking nothing by Peter’s remark. They were close. They knew each other’s tone and usually knew when the other was being facetious or sporting.

No mail? Peter asked. Not even bills?

The mailman hasn’t come yet, Peter! I’ve been standing out there for thirty minutes. He’s usually here by ten o’ clock, but sometimes they’re off, y’know. Priscilla bit her lower lip, troubled.

You think he would’ve called by now, Peter mused absently.

The mailman?

"No… Dad."

Peter, the phone has been out for two months. Dad didn’t pay the bill, remember? He said we weren’t using it anyways. Priscilla was exasperated.

Oh yeah, I forgot. Sorry, Princess.

I told you to stop calling me that, Peter. You know that.

Sorry, Peter offered lamely. Peter thought Priscilla looked like an elf, with her soft, slender features and long, straight blonde hair. As such, since they were twins, he concocted this fancy that their family were the last remaining elves left in the world, born of noble blood, making him Prince Peter and his sister Princess Priscilla Dooley. Their friends were lesser mythical creatures, such as gnomes or centaurs. Everyone else filled in as the various rabble of goblins, trolls, bugbears, cyclops, and other unsavory mythical denizens that they were forced to navigate through each day. They had fun with it for a while, until Peter actually started calling her Princess Priscilla openly. She had locked that jibber jabber down right-quick. Peter sometimes slipped.

Squib! Priscilla teased, trying to lighten things up. She pinched up her face and thrust it towards him.

Squib knocker! Peter retorted, pitching her face back at her.

Dogalog! Priscilla put her hands on her hips, leaned forward, and goggled her eyes crazily towards Peter.

Ewe, Peter sniggered.

They both giggled for a moment, overlooking the enormity of the situation. This wasn’t the first time Dad had failed to come home. Ever since Mom’s death, Dad spent most of his evenings down at Red’s Recovery Room in downtown Prudence. Sometimes he drank too much, especially on Saturday nights, and the barkeep, Red, had to scoop Mr. Dooley from his stool and put him to bed on the cot he had in the storage room for such occasions. Most times Red would load up his bicycle into what passed for Mr. Dooley’s vehicle, possibly the first vehicle known to mankind, a rattling amalgam of car parts that formed some half-baked jalopy, and drive Dad home. Then Red would peddle his bike back into town. But sometimes it was just easier to put Mr. Dooley to bed in the storeroom. Right or wrong, Red knew that Mr. Dooley’s children were independent and could mostly care for themselves.

But Dad was always home on Sunday if there was school the next day. The school district had started charging for busing a couple of years ago, something Dad had calculated that they couldn’t afford. He was their ride, something he faithfully executed despite all that he had let go to waste in their lives. This time he had left Saturday evening for Red’s and hadn’t come home Sunday. When they awoke for school Monday morning, Dad remained absent.

Now it was eleven AM on the first school day of the week without word from Dad and no phone to place or receive calls. Peter began to contemplate strategy. Behind her brave face, Priscilla looked worried. Peter was, too, but he felt obligated to remain the strong one.

What’re we gonna do, Peter? Priscilla’s brow buckled with concern bordering on fear.

Bo bo! came an unexpected reply from the floor.

Peter and Priscilla looked down at their cat, Bo Bo. Bo Bo returned the acknowledgement, first to Priscilla, then to Peter. Peter suspiciously surmised that his sister held preferred status in Bo Bo’s mind. Despite Peter’s affections, Bo Bo, when he determined that being awake was considerably more satisfactory than being asleep, seemed significantly more interested in Priscilla’s lifestyle than Peter’s. Bo Bo cooed and purred and nuzzled with Priscilla. He apparently just tolerated Peter. Peter didn’t get it and wasn’t quite sure what he was doing wrong. After all this was over he would have to seriously sit down and deliberate his tactics in the matter.

Bo bo! The cat arched his back against Priscilla’s leg, purring lovingly. Bo Bo wasn’t really saying bo bo. He had what you might call a severe under bite. That, coupled with an oversized lower lip, for a cat, gave Bo Bo a speech impediment. He was trying to say meow but it came out all mucked up. There had obviously been no alternative but to call him anything else. Bo Bo seemed entirely unaffected by the reasoning of it all.

He’s hungry, Peter observed.

I’ll get some turkey from the fridge.

Priscilla reached for the door handle just as the fridge shut off its hourly moaning. She jumped noticeably and shot a glance at Peter. Peter quickly looked away. She knew. He knew. They both knew. Even Bo Bo sensed something was amiss, his purring ceasing with the startle of the moment. Priscilla recovered her composure deftly and resumed with opening the refrigerator in earnest.

Look, Peter said after a few minutes. We are going to need to go to Red’s.

Priscilla looked up from feeding Bo Bo strips of turkey meat. Bo Bo’s attention remained unwaveringly on the turkey.

Peter, we are truant. We’ll get caught.

Well, what’re we supposed to do? Dad’s never done this.

Maybe it’s just a bad spell. Maybe Red will bring him home tonight. Dad can give us a note for school that we were sick. Everything will be OK.

Oh blarg, P, you know that’s just jaw jack. I mean brear! It’s after eleven. Red would’ve had him here by now. You know something is wrong.

Bo bo, Bo Bo commented. He looked over at Peter. Clearly Bo Bo was beginning to see the reason of the situation. Peter might have to garner solidarity with the cat to convince Priscilla that things had gone awry and a new course of action was warranted.

I wish Mom was here. Priscilla’s face bunched up and her breathing hitched.

Peter contemplated the skyscraper skyline of newspapers before him on the kitchen table. Someday they would fall, and fall hard. All it would take was one last paper and the whole construct would come clamoring down, possibly burying any witness to the momentous event. It might even be considered a noble way to die… crushed by the weight of the world’s past problems. Oh, breck, Peter thought. It didn’t take a skyscraper of newspapers to experience that. Circumstances proved that the insubstantial worked just as well.

Well, as I see it, Peter began. Prudence knows us, P.

Priscilla could handle her name shortened to ‘P’ as long as Peter refrained from Princess or Pris. She often called him the same. Regardless, she knew what he meant. The town of Prudence knew them because of the accident that killed Mom. Most of the community pitied what remained of their family. They tolerated Dad’s drunkenness. Some who were close to Dad before the accident occasionally sent money anonymously, even if they never came around to visit anymore. It often kept them afloat between Dad’s employment opportunities, a gap which increasingly felt larger. It didn’t help that Dad spent a large portion of their funds at Red’s Recovery Room, more so if you consider the large bar tab that Red let him keep. Dad was affable and amiable, even if pathetic. He used to be a respected member and contributor to the community. Now he existed as an embarrassing fixture. Yes, Prudence knew them.

Yes, Priscilla murmured wistfully. Peter caught it but remained focused on his reasoning.

"Dad himself would not willingly skip out from taking us to school. It is the one thing he is consistent at; that and making sure you and I have food. Brear! He sets his watch to the refrigerator to make sure we are on time for school days. If something bad had happened to him that somebody knew about, they would’ve come out here to tell us. The fact is that nobody has tried to contact us and Dad’s been gone since Saturday night. That is unusual in and of itself, since it is a rare day indeed when Dad is gone more than one night.

"But let’s say that he was having a particularly hard time… missing Mom and such, soaking it up, y’know. If