Wesley

by Leanne Davis

  Yeah, I like her spirit and fire.

  I hate to put it out. But I have to come first. Always.

  She stumbles backward when I shove her, the force ripping her death-grip off the handle. I have it, and I turn it on her and am now standing over her. She fails to regain her footing and puts her hands out in a universal sign of “Okay, okay, let’s be calm here.”

  But I keep my gaze on her as I start to lean down to grab my backpack strap. And then I hear the click of a gun being cocked. Oh, damn. I was almost there. Almost gone. Done. Outta here.

  But not now.

  I turn slowly and find my face in the sights of a shotgun. Cocked and aimed, it is being held on the shoulder of a pretty, blue-eyed, blond woman. “I was just going to leave. I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I swear.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Wesley.” I say immediately, pointing my hands upwards to my shoulders. Why lie about a common enough first name? There are no warrants out for me. Maybe foster care files but no missing person files, that’s for sure. No one cared that I went missing when I was fifteen years old.

  “What are you doing in my barn?”

  “Sleeping. There was a huge squall coming. I intended to be gone before light. I swear. I wasn’t going to damage or take anything.”

  “What’s inside the pack?”

  “My life’s belongings.”

  Something about my answer surprises the woman because the gun barrel seems to waver as if she moved her arms by reflex.

  “Push it towards me. We’ll see if you’ve taken anything. And what weapons you have.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Dani, come here, honey,” Tara says to the girl staring up at me from the ground where I pushed her. Dani and I exchange a look and her eyes are riveted on me. All the bravado from before is gone. She’s shaking but soon comes out of her trance and scurries behind the big, ugly gun.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. He said the same thing to me. He tried to get me to let him go. But I saw him, Tara. On the barge parked before the old boat works. He swam out to it three nights ago. I saw him then. I thought he was harmless enough because he hunkered down and went to sleep. No vandalism or whatever. I never dreamed he’d show up here, much less, threaten me. I’m sorry I didn’t call Ryder then.”

  I hold my hands up and remain still as they have their discussion while Dani, the original pitchfork holder, stutters with panic over her dramatic story. I fear her panic will leach into Tara—who continues to hold the gun on me.

  For the first time in a very long time, real fear starts to prick my nerve endings.

  Tara nods at me. “Use your foot to slide the pack my way.”

  I hate giving anyone access to my stuff. Most people have a house, a car, a storage unit, or a college dorm and well this, for me, is my house. I sweat a little if I am ever separated from it. I need to have control of it at all times. If I have to separate myself from it, I always control the how and the why and the where. But I have a gun pointed on me by two people who are afraid I might mean them serious harm.

  I take my foot and push on the heavy pack. It doesn’t slide easily. With the weight and bulk of a large log, it’s pretty hard to push on the floor. I can’t reach it anymore without stepping towards Tara and Dani. I know not to do that, so I step back and keep my hands up.

  “Dani, open it.”

  She quickly rushes forward, grabs the straps and drags it back towards Tara. She unclips the top and then unzips it. I wince. This feels like the greatest violation, right up there with physical assault. Stuff comes spilling out as she hurriedly examines it and spreads it around without any care. My clothing, the few sweatshirts, jeans, sweats, t-shirts, socks and underwear all pop out as she haphazardly empties my pack. I grit my teeth but smother a smile at her sudden realization when she holds my underwear. Like an anvil, she drops them as if they were covered in anthrax.

  There goes my food supply, including several bags of rice, quinoa, oats, my portable water purifier, flashlights, my tent, my small axe, my extra shoes, and my mess kit, which she opens before inspecting my utensils. There is a pocket knife and a sharp knife that I use for all kinds of stuff especially since I spend most of my time in nature. I also carry my plastic bag of personal items. I own a few pictures of friends whom I’ve met in my travels. I have some poems that were written to me by a friend and a couple of my favorite books. There isn’t much I own. And my money, of course.

  Still, she’s pulling stuff out. She gets to the bottom and sits back on her heels. “That’s it.”

  Tara frowns, nudging the stuff at her feet. Her gaze jerks to mine. “You’re homeless.”

  “I’m not. I’m not anything-less.”

  Her eyebrows lift in surprise at my answer. “You’re a runaway?”

  “No, I’m a traveler. I’m not running from anything, nor towards anything, actually.”

  She stares at me and I remain still. Dani rises up, her gaze puzzling over me. I don’t glance at her, however, but keep my eyes centered on the gun-holder. Slowly, Tara starts to lower the barrel a few inches. Without completely lowering it, she uncocks it and puts the safety back on. “You were getting out of the rain.”

  It isn’t a question but a statement, and she’s nodding as she says it. I let out a breath at her setting the safety on the gun. I keep my hands up, but my shoulders slouch a few inches—and I feel intense relief in that moment—I’m not going to die in the next five minutes by a scared woman who holds me in the crosshairs of her shotgun.

  “Tara?” the girl asks. Dani. I’m not looking at her. She’s sweet and pretty, the type I would never glance at twice. But after wielding a pitchfork in my face and then aiming a shotgun at me in the span of ten minutes, she has captured my attention.

  “Put his stuff back. He doesn’t have any weapons.”

  “Except the sharp knife and an axe!”

  “He lives off this stuff, Dani. The axe cuts his firewood. He needs the knife to cut food, twine, and other things.”

  I nod. I’m shocked the older white lady knows that so quickly. I’m surprised she doesn’t just think I’m a rowdy camper out to cause trouble. People often call me a hobo or a drug addict or any number of other slurs. Few are ever polite at first or show any understanding of how I live. Most people go directly for the most negative words and stereotypes they can think of.

  “But to get here, you had to leave the main highway, and I know for a fact the cops were crawling all over it an hour ago. My husband, who’s a cop, called to let me know he was going to be late. There was a hiker that got lost. So, you are trespassing, and you scared the shit out of my son’s girlfriend. I think all the commotion probably frightened you off the road and you grabbed our shelter for the coming rainstorm, which makes perfect sense. I get all that, but I also think you have a reason you thought those cops might be looking for you. So, you should at least come inside, and we’ll sort this out, okay?”

  “Inside your house?” My eyebrows shoot. It’s one thing to hold a gun on a trespassing youth that you don’t recognize and are afraid of. I can’t blame the ladies. Truly. If I had a weapon or even the element of surprise, I could have snuck up on them and my strength would have ensured that I had the upper hand. It’s human nature to react to this situation here as they did. I’m not upset, even though I’d like to just grab my shit and run. I don’t, however, expect to be invited into the lady’s house. A cop’s wife at that.

  “Dani, put his stuff away, please.” Tara is in total command of the situation. “And yes, Wesley. Come into my house. You trespassed. There was a robbery in town. The suspect was described as a youth, black, wearing a gray shirt.” She waves her hand at my shirt. Gray. Damn. I should have changed it. God damn it, I’m ending up getting arrested anyway.

  “Are you sure about this, Tara?”

  “Yes. I’m sure. I still have the gun. We just don’t need to point it at him now, right? He gets it. He understands. I think he un
derstands how this works.” Tara’s eyebrows rise and a small smirk lifts her mouth. I find her reaction odd. Most rural white women, upon finding me hidden on their property, would surely suspect me of a crime, and wouldn’t be so confident in their ability to control me. Or believe that I wouldn’t hurt them.

  “Are you calling Ryder?” Dani inquires. She is stuffing my things back into my pack without even looking at what she is grabbing.

  “He’s working. There was an emergency and it’s his case. We’ll just wait until he’s done. Come on, kids. It’s still raining outside, and it’s too cool out here now. Let’s go inside.”

  Dani finishes with my pack. I wince because it’s all wrong. There’s a distinct order in which I put my things into that pack. It’s based on weight, accessibility, and ease of travel. I keep certain stuff I want access to in certain pockets. I’ll have to re-do the entire thing whenever I get out of jail and have it returned to me. I’m also assuming that whoever takes custody of my backpack won’t ruin my stuff. I cringe at the idea. I can’t stand the thought of being cooped up for even an hour in a jail cell. My hands grow slick with sweat at the very thought. I belong in the woods. Or on a mountain top, a snow field, a barge floating on a river… anywhere but being trapped in a box inside. I could kick my own ass! I deserve this. I did this. The easy route of grabbing the money from some unsuspecting old lady collecting small funds in honor of a charity wasn’t funny. I deserve the punishment I get. I deserve the anxiety rippling through me at the prospect of being separated from my pack and facing the cops and jail. Yeah, I deserve it. And they have no idea how taking my pack from me will result in the most crushing claustrophobia and panic attack of all.

  If I lose that, everything I claim to be, not being homeless or in need, is no longer true. Without my pack, I am unable to survive on my own. I have no money. No regular means of travel. No shelter. No food. No water even. I have nothing.

  Dani tries to straighten up, lifting my pack with her. She almost falls down on top of it for her efforts. I press my lips together to keep from laughing at her. Serves her right for touching my stuff. I keep my hands firmly up, totally unhelpful. Tara bites her lip to hold back a smile that I don’t fail to notice. “It’s probably eighty pounds of gear he lugs around, huh? All right, just leave it there.”

  I all but snarl at Tara, NO! It is bad enough to have it pawed through and put back together completely wrong, but leaving it there on the floor of the barn and out of my sight? Unacceptable. The ladies stare at me. Tara says, “Grab your shoes, Wesley, and then, please walk out the barn door.”

  I do as she says and shove my feet into my boots. I realize then, the packs stays, and we go with the gun, though not cocked but still trained on me from behind. Tara’s smart, too, in that she doesn’t let me get close to her, unlike Dani, Tara seems to understand that my strength and speed and height mean I could easily disarm her if I got too close. Tara knows that Dani and her pitchfork were in danger of that happening from the moment I opened my eyes.

  We cross the puddle-strewn yard to the porch. “Stand back over there, please, Wesley. Dani, get the door.” The gun is on me, and I wait as Dani rushes forward to open the door. She goes in, and then I’m directed inside. I glance around, always quick to take in the details around me. The entry is large, clean, and welcoming with a flight of stairs on the left and a half-wall on the right, giving me views into the living room. It’s a well decorated and furnished room, warm in colors and clean in its upkeep. Dani slips her shoes off. I don’t. Any chance to bolt, I have to be ready.

  Tara still has the gun on me. “Sit down, please.”

  I go to the chair she indicates, a maroon recliner. Dani sits on the couch opposite, and Tara takes a chair beside a round coffee table that occupies most of the middle of the room.

  Now what? We just wait? I keep my face neutral. I’m unwilling to show my anxiety over the thought of jail. Or the unease I have inside this house, with these women. It’s unfamiliar to me and it’s not like any house I’ve ever been inside in my entire life. It’s so fancy and nice. I feel like a gigantic, uncouth grizzly bear planted inside a glass greenhouse.

  But Tara starts talking to me as if I’m some kind of guest. Not a criminal intruding on her quiet, wonderful, privileged life.

  “So where have you been?”

  “Been?”

  “Yeah, traveling? I assume you hitchhike. You must have traveled far?”

  “You know anything about traveling?”

  “I know travelers. Sure. I still have a few in my contacts. Facebook, right?”

  I’m speechless. Rarely does anyone surprise me anymore. The affluent, beautiful, blond woman before me has me puzzled.

  “Traveler?” Dani says, her gaze falling on Tara. Tara, though pleasant-toned, doesn’t take her eyes off me. She keeps her shotgun across her lap, harmless, but accessible. She is polite but doesn’t for a moment seem to be anyone who could get lulled into forgetting anything. I have to admire her steely resolve, and frankly, I’m more puzzled by her reaction to me than anyone I have dealt with over the past few years.

  “Yeah, they travel around the country, hell, the world. Some go international. They have no homes or permanent places. They are self-sustaining, hitchhiking and walking and going wherever they want. They are usually loners, harmless, and they like to camp in woods, parks, or city streets before they move on at some point. They aren’t typically the drug addicts, beggars, or dregs of society. They aren’t criminals either. It’s a chosen lifestyle.” Her eyebrows rise up in warning at me. She suspects and is correct that I am a criminal. In this town, at least.

  “How do you know about this?” Dani asks, her gaze landing on me. The lamplight exposes my face and body.

  She is even sweeter looking now than in the shadows of the barn. The light there did not do her justice. Her eyes are bright and warm. But it’s the crazy, chaotic hair that I love the most. It seems well beyond her control.

  “It’s a small, fractional subset of the population of homeless and runaways you see out and about. However, Wesley, you seem young, and your pack is a testament to that, to which I commend you. You seem to have everything you could need, without anything excessive or arbitrary. It takes a while to figure out what one truly needs, so I feel like this isn’t exactly new for you. I think you’re also a runaway. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.” Years of pulling around a huge pack on my back and living on the ground have combined to make me physically fit, far more than most my age, unless you count athletes who strive to be like that.

  “Bullshit.”

  I blink. Blond Tara is not dumb but quite savvy to the world. I really wouldn’t peg her to be that way. “I lived in Seattle. I know you, Wesley. You aren’t twenty. You probably aren’t Wesley.”

  “You lived in Seattle? So, what? I never lived there.”

  “I lived in the parks, underpasses, tent cities, and even under freeway on and off ramps. It depended on my circumstances.”

  Respect. I give her a look of profound respect. She went from a transient to this. How? How did she come here? Married to the cop, Ryder? Interesting. I usually can spot people who are or once were living off the grid at any point in their lives. There is something a little different that distinguishes them from the masses. Wow, I would never have guessed about this woman. I cringe. I’m judging her as I so often get judged. I get that people have a lack of understanding. I’ve learned to not care about it either. Usually.

  But Dani with those big eyes and crazy curls makes me hesitant to talk in front of her. I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.

  “Seattle? That place is a shithole. I’d never be homeless there. As it is, I wouldn’t stay there for two hours. I passed through it on my way down here and it’s nothing to do with how I live. In fact, it’s everything I am not, and what I don’t want. It gives fellow travelers like me a bad reputation.”

  “It really was a shitty place to be homeless in. You know, all t
he rain and all. No tent could hold up to it and the dampness was constant, along with so much mud,” Tara says softly, her smile holding mine with genuine understanding. Well, damn! That’s something I don’t usually have with a thirty-something rural woman, especially one who is holding a gun on me.

  I grudgingly feel a certain amount of respect for this woman. I decide to give her something, one small nugget of concession. She’s not what she seems, and I appreciate her not assuming certain things about me. “My first name really is Wesley.”

  “Well, my name was always Tara. But I had no last name.”

  I give her a half smile, “Yeah, who needs those?”

  She nods. “So, Wesley, you realize robbing the local blind charity is considered pretty heartless and tacky, I hope.”

  “You can’t prove anything. New guy in town whose lifestyle is a little new or different compared to others and you already assume I’m guilty?”

  She swiftly shakes her head. “Well, besides the fact that you were trespassing on my property, there’s video surveillance. I’m not being a jerk. I’m just being honest. You were in front of a liquor store. You think they don’t keep tight security on that?”

  Well, duh. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “I don’t know,” she admits, a small smile on her face. “I really don’t know yet. Other than you scared Dani here to death.”

  “But not you?” I tilt my head.

  She shakes her head. “Not even a little.”

  Somehow, I know it’s not because she’s holding the gun on me either. Tara has history, and for some odd reason, travelers like me, who most people take a glance at and assume I’m dangerous or on drugs, don’t scare her. It seems like I remind her of something, as if I represent some experience from her past. But what’s weird is I feel like I have an instant rapport with her, too.