“You little fuck!” Buck ripped open the trailer door and grabbed Billy before he had a chance to run.
“You gonna blow up your own daddy, boy? Don’t have the balls to take me on face-to-face?”
Buck hurled Billy onto a faded blue Formica table. A cup of cold coffee and a half-eaten bowl of cereal—warm milk being nursed by flies—splashed to the grimy vinyl floor. Fist clenched, Buck reared back. It was a tableau Billy had seen countless times, and he was ready for it. He ducked his head, slipping from Buck’s grasp just as his father’s hand slammed into the trailer wall.
“Shit! You little prick!” The much-scarred skin on Buck’s knuckles was ripped back. Blood streamed down his fingers onto the floor.
Billy, on all fours, scooted out of reach. He saw sky through the open doorway and bolted for the ancient blue Chevy waiting in the dusty drive, knowing Buck could never catch him in a footrace. Luckily, he was prepared. The key was in the ignition, and the car was packed with food, hunting gear, and anything he could find that might be the least bit useful. He’d cleaned Buck out.
Billy wrenched open the car door and glanced over his shoulder. Buck stood breathing heavily in the trailer’s doorway, blood dripping from his wounded hand.
“Don’t you fuckin’ come back here! Go runnin’ to your momma, the cheatin’ spic whore.” Buck started toward him.
Billy turned the key and the engine coughed. He tried again, and this time she turned over. He floored the accelerator. If only that stupid guy hadn’t gone in to use the can, Billy would have finished what he started, and wasted his sorry excuse-of-a-dad by now.
The car roared down the road picking up speed. Billy glanced into the rearview mirror and could see Buck in the driveway holding his mangled hand, hurling expletives at his only child.
It didn’t matter now. Billy had what he’d come back for. The two brown cartons were safely stowed in the trunk.
“Buck!”
Jack Cooper slammed the door on his white Yuma County Sheriff’s Department Blazer. The AC was acting up again. Non-desert dwellers swore that white cars were cooler in the blazing heat. But hot was hot, no matter what color vehicle you drove.
A door swung open. “Hey, Coop. What’s up?” Buck exited the bathroom, drying his hands with a paper towel.
Cooper noticed the mangled knuckles, but said nothing. Then, he followed Buck into the station and watched him settle on his customary stool behind the counter. “Got something you’d like to tell me?”
Buck glanced down at a girly magazine that was open to a centerfold spread.
Cooper crossed his arms. “Well?”
“Wasn’t nothin’, Coop, but I guess that city boy just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”
“You’re tellin’ me a couple sticks of dynamite tucked under the sink in your bathroom ‘wasn’t nothin’?”
“Probably just dropped there by accident.”
“Yeah, right. Where is it?”
“Out back.”
“I’m guessing you have no reason to need dynamite, and no permit allowing you to possess it,” Cooper said.
“Nope. But it’s not mine. And I was gonna take care of it.”
“Whadya say we take care of it now?”
Five minutes later, the deputy lit the fuse and hustled back to the hulking station owner who stood with his hands in his pockets. Buck’s ratty cowboy hat was squashed on his head, shielding dark eyes nature had placed just a little too close together. It was not an impressive explosion, as far as they go. And if anyone asked, Cooper would have had to admit there was really no need to blow up the dynamite. He just didn’t want to have to transport it.
“Who do you think ‘dropped’ it in your bathroom, Buck?” Cooper asked when the all-too-brief fireworks display ended.
“I already told you. I don’t know.”
“Try again.”
Buck coughed and spit a green glob into the dirt. “Coulda been my boy.”
“Didn’t know you had a son, Buck.”
“Doesn’t live here most of the time. And don’t worry. You ain’t gonna see him ’round here any time soon.” He turned his back on Cooper and stalked back inside.
5
“BILLY! WAKE UP!”
Billy flipped over and saw a shadowy figure wavering, back-lit by the sun’s rays pouring through the mouth of the shallow cave. Unable to determine the identity of the human presence thanks to a lingering alcoholic haze, he panicked. He pushed himself up, then screamed in pain. A broken bottle of Jack Daniel’s left a three-inch shard sticking in his palm. “Shit!” He grabbed his hand, eyeing Ray Eddy as the boy knelt at his side. “Fucking asshole.”
“Sorry, Billy. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”
“You don’t fucking scare me, you little prick.” Billy stared at the jagged piece of glass, gritted his teeth, and yanked the shard out of his hand. Bright red blood flowed freely. He saw the bottom of the bottle, which still held an inch or so of amber liquid, and though the smell nauseated him, he poured the whiskey into the wound. He swallowed the stinging pain, then reached for Buck’s best hunting knife. “Hold out the bottom of your shirt!”
“Jesus, Billy!”
“Just hold it, dickbreath. I only got one hand here. Wouldn’t want to slip and cut you.”
A menacing grin split Billy’s face as Ray grasped the bottom edge of his T-shirt and held on tight, afraid to move. He said nothing as Billy sliced a strip of fabric from the bottom of the shirt, blade edging dangerously close to skin, and then watched as Billy wrapped the material around the bleeding wound. When he finished, Ray sank to the ground.
“Why’d ya have to go and do that?”
“It’s only a fucking T-shirt, Ray. I got a bunch in the car. An inheritance from old Buck. Go get one.”
Ray eyed his friend with concern from under long, stringy bangs. “He’ll kill ya, Billy.”
“Nah, he’ll never catch me. Anyway, I ain’t goin’ back. I got what I came for.” He remembered the two brown boxes in the trunk. “Cleanin’ out Buck was just a bonus.”
“What are you gonna do now?”
Billy ignored the question. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that, aside from the Jack Daniel’s and some homegrown weed, he’d consumed nothing the night before. He rose, steadied himself, and stepped slowly toward the mouth of the cave. Ray stared at the ground.
“Come on! Give me a hand,” Billy called as he disappeared into the sunlight.
Ray smiled. “Sure, Billy. Sure.”
After a breakfast of cherry Pop-Tarts and Coke, courtesy of Buck, the boys sat in the warm dirt outside the cave and stared at the two cardboard boxes. They were labeled 1 and 2 and had been bound tightly with clear packing tape.
“Open them,” Ray said like a child at Christmas. He held up one hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun.
Billy peeled the tape away from the box marked 1. After lifting the flaps, he found a white envelope addressed with his name. A quick glance at the contents of the container revealed nothing but old magazines. Billy tried to hide his disappointment as he ripped open the envelope. Inside, in tiny, neat handwriting, was the following:
Dear Billy,
I was hopin to see you again. But it dont look like I will. Try and forgive your Daddy. Hes a mean man. But hes my son. I’m sure sorry for the way he treated you. But I told him not to marry no woman whos half spic. Not surprisin she run off like she did.
Anyway, its not your fault. I wish I coulda done more for you but I hope this will help some. Could a had more for you if that nigger boss hadn’t run me off my job. Never did get that Southern Pacific gold watch. Oh well. By the time you get this I’ll be somewhere I don’t need no watch.
Stay away from your Daddy boy.
Love,
Grandpa
PS
Ha. Ha. I knew your daddy never would look in a magazine.
“What’s it say?” Ray asked.
Billy read the letter out loud, omitting the line a
bout his mother being part Mexican. Nobody needed to know about that. When he finished, he put the letter on the ground beside him and rubbed the top of his head with both hands.
“Why’d your grandpa get fired from the railroad?”
“Shit! What are ya, stupid? Niggers and spics get all the jobs now. Grandpa got run off cause he’s white.”
Billy looked out over the simmering valley floor below. His grandfather had been a drunk. He knew the old man got caught drinking on the job numerous times. After thirty-two years with the railroad, he’d been fired. Four months later he died.
Billy reached into the box. The Spring 1995 issue of SP Trainline rested on top of the pile. Why would his grandfather have left word for him to come all the way from L.A. for a bunch of old magazines? He rummaged through the carton. All of the magazines appeared to be about trains.
Ray grabbed one and began flipping through the pages. “Hey, look at this.”
Billy glanced up to see Ray holding a twenty-dollar bill. “Give me that!” Billy reached for the money, dropping the magazine he was holding in the process.
“Look!” Ray pointed to the ground. Another twenty-dollar bill lay in the dirt.
Both boys grabbed for the box and began pulling out magazines. In each one they found a single bill. When all the money had been counted and neatly piled on the ground, Billy’s inheritance added up to $1,840.
“I’m fucking rich, Ray!” Billy leaned back against a warm slab of rock.
A sudden wind buffeted the side of the mountain, lifting bills into the air, sending the boys scrambling to gather them up. When they were all collected and safely hidden in the trunk of the blue Chevy, Billy headed for the second box.
“More magazines?” Ray grinned at the prospect.
Billy didn’t answer as he peeled back the lid. This container, much heavier than the first, held no magazines. Instead, Billy found a collection of tools, each bearing the Southern Pacific Railroad stamp. He didn’t know what most of them were, but he knew his grandfather had taken great pride in his equipment.
Billy removed each tool and lined them up on the ground. Then he found a box which was made of corrugated cardboard, the red and black lettering faded, almost impossible to decipher. But Billy didn’t need to read the print to know what was inside. Though he was almost eighteen, he could still appreciate what he knew was a child’s toy. His grandfather had left him the old train set, the one with all the little passengers inside, a tiny engineer at the helm, a conductor in his cap and uniform holding a miniscule lantern standing at the rear of the caboose. The Southern Pacific Railroad logo was stamped in gold letters on the side of each car.
“That’s cool, Billy.” Ray reached for the engine.
“Don’t touch it!” Billy snapped as he slipped the cars back into the box.
6
EARLY MORNING SUNLIGHT pushed through the bedroom window, striking the bare wooden floor in a square shaft. Dust danced throughout the sunbeam, mesmerizing Ramm until he felt a wet nose nudging his hand. He rubbed his head and tried to clear away the images that plagued him. The burning boy was just one of many. The dog placed one paw and her muzzle on the bed, gazing at him with soft, adoring eyes.
“Okay, Dog. Just give me a minute.” Ramm stroked the animal’s head, threw back the covers, and hauled his long naked body out of bed.
Half an hour later, he sat outside eating a peanut butter and grated carrot sandwich. The now empty prescription container taunted him from the tabletop. He’d been cutting the dosage, weaning himself from the powerful medication, and now the pills were gone. He wanted to believe he’d be fine without the drugs. His only other option was to find a hospital. But his former employer was, no doubt, still looking for him and, even if he assumed a different identity, there was the chance he might reveal himself when the images took hold. His mind could betray him and make him a liability. As miserable as he was, he didn’t want to die. Not yet.
Ramm took another bite and then, having lost his appetite, gave the rest to Dog. He didn’t know how angry his handlers were about the mission’s failure. He never checked in when he returned. He just disappeared. If they knew about his stay at Kfar Shaul and the reason for his confinement at the hospital, there was a good possibility they wouldn’t want him back. They might even feel the need to have him eliminated.
A soft whinny came from around the side of the house.
“Damn it!” Ramm jumped up, wiped his hands on his jeans, and headed for the horse. “Sorry, Becky.” He dropped some hay over the fence and scooped the last of the molasses-flavored grain into the red plastic bucket mounted by the gatepost. “I ordered your feed yesterday, and I’ll pick it up for you this afternoon. Gotta run errands, anyway.” Ramm still had the groceries he’d picked up for the Children of Light, and they expected the delivery this morning. He scratched the Appaloosa between the ears. “And, maybe, I’ll get you some carrots, too.”
An hour later, Ramm parked his truck on the gravel drive fronting the main building of the compound owned by the Children of Light.
“Elect Sun?” He tapped on the small pane set high in the front door.
A scholarly looking, seventy-year-old man appeared. “Jason. Please, come in.”
“Thank you, Elect Peter.” Ramm nodded, as always, taking care to be especially polite to the members of the Children of Light.
“Let me help you with those.” Elect Peter bent his wispy frame to lift one of the boxes Ramm had stacked on the porch.
“Elect Sun,” Elect Peter called as the two men passed through the communal dining room and into the kitchen. “Jason is here.”
A bright smile lit Elect Sun’s pale eyes as she nodded in greeting. Wavy gray hair reached below the woman’s shoulders. Wearing no make-up, her face reflected her sixty-four years in a glorious array of wrinkles, the byproduct of a life in the desert sun.
“Ma’am.” Ramm removed his cowboy hat.
The two commune members put the first of the supplies away, while Ramm toted the rest of the boxes in from the porch.
“Sit, Jason. I’ll fix you a glass of lemonade.” Elect Sun reached for a chipped red bowl overflowing with lemons. “We picked them this morning.” She smiled as Ramm folded his body into one of the green wooden kitchen chairs. “Your father…” She trailed off. “He always loved fresh-squeezed lemonade.”
The boy, thirteen, peered up at the handmade wooden sign from the backseat of his father’s rusting station wagon: a painted yellow setting sun emitted rays ending in a rainbow, a lush garden surrounded by desert landscape was overlaid with the words Children of Light—on Land of God’s Ownership.
The Reverend Alexander Ramm, his car rattling, small stones crunching beneath worn tires, drove down the dusty, date palm-lined lane whistling an old hymn. The people he and his son found at the end of the road were much like themselves—devout Pentecostals—though the Children of Light were descended from a Canadian branch of the faith.
Jason Ramm, the only child in the compound, was doted on from the moment they arrived, and was, at first, overwhelmed by the Children and the attention they lavished on him. The people, gentle and kind, hoped Jason and his father would stay, learn to live their way. The style in which they believed Jesus Christ had lived: “wholly under Spirit control for food, drink, and raiment, selling all worldly possessions, having all in common, forsaking all flesh relations, and living as eunuchs and virgins for the Kingdom of Heaven’s sake.”
Alexander Ramm, however, was an itinerant preacher, a man who spoke the word of God to housewives and migrant workers, anyone looking for religion, and yes, a little entertainment. Alexander was an amiable, handsome man, and though he understood the choices the Children made, theirs was not a life he’d be content living. He enjoyed the road and the people and the laughter he sometimes coaxed from the lost and lonely. Humor was a gift from God, as was his gregarious personality, both of which would be wasted at the commune.
One year later, Alexander and Jason
said good-bye to the Children of Light. The people cried openly and waved as the car clattered down the palm-lined lane back into the world. Jason had turned away from his father, not wanting to show his tears.
The boy had never known his mother, but Elect Sun had given him a glimpse of what having one might have been like. He would miss her the most.
“Jason. Jason. Are you all right?” Elect Sun was holding out a tall glass of lemonade, a worried look on her weathered face.
“Oh. Um. Yes, I’m fine,” Ramm said, trying to clear his head.
Elect Sun peered at him like a mother having caught her child in a lie, but she asked no more, and set the glass on the table before him.
“Thank you.” Ramm sipped the cool drink, savoring the tart, mildly sweet concoction, just about the perfect desert drink.
A tiny ancient woman entered the room using a walker. Cataracts clouded her eyes. “Jason. I know you’re here.” She smiled as she inched her way toward the table. He pushed his chair out and began to rise, but she stopped him. “No. No. You sit. I’ll get there.”
Elect Sarah was blind, yet she seemed to see things with perfect clarity. Did she see through his lies? Would she be making her slow walk toward him, a march ending with a smile and a kiss on his rough cheek, if she really knew him? Would he be forgiven, despite the Children’s abhorrence of any form of violence? They were vehement conscientious objectors. By their way of thinking, Ramm’s entire adult life was nothing but one long grievous sin. He wanted forgiveness, but knew he was undeserving. Pentecostals believed that God forgave anything. All you had to do was ask. But Ramm couldn’t even do that.
Elect Sarah did not have to bend down, just forward a bit, to kiss Ramm on the cheek. She giggled like a young girl. Elect Sun rolled her eyes.
The kitchen door slammed.
“Kelly,” Elect Sun called. “Remember about the door.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ramm had not seen the girl’s face clearly before. He looked directly at her as she entered the room, and though his face betrayed no hint of the shock most people conveyed when seeing her for the first time, Kelly turned her face down.
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