The Runaway

by Mike Walsh

  Michael cleared his throat. “Well sir, since it is getting hot outside and I know you just had your lunch, I think a little nap is in order for you. You could put me in this room here and go take yourself a nap, and when you wake up, maybe your whole problem will be solved.”

  The judge chuckled and said, “You’re one piece of work, Michael. I like the way you think. I’ll tell you what. You go in that room there and I’ll go see about that nap. Probably sleep for an hour or so. Get in there now.”

  Michael got up and went into the holding room. It had a bunk, chair and small table. He waited three or four minutes and quietly opened the door a crack. No one in sight. He stepped out, closed and locked the door and moved to the outside door. As he passed the desk, that was clear, he saw the money, ten dollars, and a bus schedule. A little map showed the location of the bus terminal, just up the street inside the edge of town. He slowly closed the door behind him and casually walked back towards town and the bus terminal. He caught a bus just leaving for Indianapolis, nine dollars and seventy cents.

  Chapter 6 – Terre Haute

  Michael was glad to be out of Terre Haute, on the road and on the way out of Indiana. It was so flat, you could see for miles. Michael was used to the lushness of New England, especially Massachusetts and Rhode Island areas. It would be great, he thought, if he could get a ride all the way to the state line. He felt comfortable on Route 40 going west, a lot of traffic, especially trucks. It was just a few miles to the state line and a new notch on the belt, so to speak. That was his way of racking up another state. Racking up, he learned that in the pool hall in Baltimore. Michael liked to think, and he liked to think more about where he came from than where he was going. He said more than once to himself, “I know the past is behind me, I can see it and feel it and wallow it around in my mind. But the future, well I haven’t been there yet, and it’s no fun thinking about nothing.”

  • • •

  Michael was just west of Terre Haute walking briskly backward, his thumb out at four o’clock when the traffic thinned out to just a few local cars now and again. This close to the state line, a lot of out-of-state license plates usually zoomed by. Michael wasn’t discouraged. He felt he was an expert hitch-hiker. He thought of those dummies that stand one block down from another hitch-hiker, like who is going to get a ride first. Or the dummy that stands across a street at a light. What car is going to stop at a corner after just starting up at the light. No, Michael had it all down pat. Walk briskly like you’re going someplace. Ten steps forward when no car is real close, turn around without stopping, arm out at four o’clock walking briskly backward. You’re in a hurry. You’re going someplace. You’re no threat to the driver. Late for work or supper. Car stops, run, don’t walk to the car. Open the door and hop in. No leaning in the window, asking are you going this way. You’re in, the car is moving, you got a ride. Where you going? The next town, always the next town. How far you going? Further? Hey, that’s great. I’m going there to. Don’t really need to stop in the next town to see grandma or whatever. Extend the ride. Go forward all the time. Yes, Michael thought, he was an expert. He also walked a lot. A whole lot. And did a lot of thinking. A whole lot of thinking.

  A truck was slowing down. A white pickup. You didn’t see a lot of white cars or pickups. It looked like a new ‘51 Dodge. Farmer probably. Won’t go far with this one. Michael ran to the truck, opened the door and hopped in. He could see through the windshield the long straight road at this different, higher elevation. Nothing but plowed and planted fields with a straight ribbon of macadam stretching to the horizon.

  The man looked short and stocky with a hat depression along the little hair he had at the side of his head. He was sweating, and no wonder. He had on what looked like a sheepskin lined jacket. His boots were muddy, but his jeans were ironed with a sewn in crease. Michael thought he looked real weird. And a waste. He couldn’t be going that far. “You want a job for a few days?” Michael jumped at the voice. He had not oriented himself to the new truck and the new smell and must have been in a sun trance himself, out in the sun with no hat for several hours. He looked over a little more than peripheral and said “What?”

  “I said you want a job for a few days. I’m digging out a cellar under my house and I can’t keep any help for more than a few days. My name’s Frank Nelson, you want a job or don’t you?” He had reached his arm around and over his shoulder off the wheel like he was going to shake Michael’s hand, but found it awkward and returned his hand to the wheel. “I got plenty of food the wife cooks up and a pretty good place for you to sleep. What do you say? You want a job or don’t you?”

  Michael wasn’t much of a talker, but he did come out and say, “I guess.” The man, Frank, looked over with his eyes going up and down one time and grunted.

  “I guess, you say,” he said in a guttural whisper.

  Pretty soon he turned south off US-40 onto a state road with wide ditches on both sides. Michael was just watching where they were going and particularly where they were coming from. He knew when he left he would need to find Route 40 again. Just a mile or two going south on this road, the man turned back east on a narrow county road about a half mile or less.

  Michael was thinking about his uncle’s farm in Massachusetts again, where he lived for a year. Now that was a farm. Chickens, ducks, cows, a horse and lots of acres of corn, tomatoes and peppers. And the woods. All around the farm. You could take your new .22 and hunt rabbits and squirrels or just use the tops of wild asparagus for targets.

  But this place he drove into was pathetic. The man Frank pulled in behind an old clapboard house, actually the front. A small building looking like a garage straight ahead, that turned out to be the place Michael would sleep. In the distance to the east were a whole lot of oil wells, the rigs cranking up and down. What kind of farm had oil wells on it?

  Michael got out of the truck after the man said, “Well, here we are,”

  He could see between the corner of the house and the garage structure a long open-fronted barn with four stalls about eight feet wide each. When he walked towards the garage to see what it looked like, he could see down a hill to the east, some distance from the back of the house a low roofed barn with closed doors. There were some sheep milling about outside, like they wanted in.

  Michael walked back to the truck where Frank was unloading supplies into the house. There was a mobile home-like free standing stairway that went up to the door. It looked to Michael that it went right in to the kitchen. He stayed by the truck until the man came back out.

  “Are you hungry, boy? The wife cooks up some good vittles. Yes, your gonna like her, boy.”

  The woman came to the door, shouted out a little loud for how close he was, asking him what his name was and did he like franks and beans. Michael thought, if this was his mom, and he was home, this would be Saturday night. Saturday night was always franks and beans, Friday fish and so on. He said, “Yeah, I’m Joey and I can eat anything.”

  He thought he should have said “ma’am” but he didn’t. Frank came up behind her and put his arm around her shoulder.

  Michael could see her flinch, just a little, but enough. Something to think about. Frank was now saying things like, “Ain’t she just sweet?” and, “Ain’t she just a wonderful woman?” and tickling her. She kept saying, “Oh, Frank” And stuff like that, and pulling away to go into the house. Frank sat down at the picnic table sort of in the middle of this front-backyard. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and was drinking small little gulps at a time.

  “The wife got some nice cool lemonade for you, boy. After you eat, we can get to work. There’s still a couple hours before dark.” Frank sort of slammed the bottle down on the table, now empty, and got up. “C’mon, while we’re waiting to eat, I’ll show you the cellar.”

  He walked around to the other side of the house from the garage thing, Michael trailing along, and leaned against the building. There was a big pile of dirt on each side of this big h
ole at the middle of the side of the house. The hole went through and down an incline and under the house. “Go on down there, boy, see what it’s like.”

  Michael scrambled down, but Frank didn’t follow. He could see with no problem, there was still plenty of light and the hole was not that deep. Michael was tall for fifteen, almost six feet, and his head just brushed the floor joists at the top. It was about ten feet wide and as much deep back toward the kitchen. He figured it was under half of two bedrooms on that end of the house.

  “How big you going to make it?” Michael hollered up to Frank.

  He didn’t answer, so Michael climbed out and found Frank back at the table with a fresh beer. The woman, not as short as Frank, but plump and matronly with white hair pulled back and fluffed out, was putting plates of food on the picnic table. There was a pitcher of lemonade and one big glass. She picked up her apron, wiping her hands on it and mumbled something about “eat all you want” and “there’s more” or something like that.

  She didn’t look at Frank or say anything to him, just turned around and went back into the house. Frank was concentrating on eating, looking down on his plate, so Michael picked up a fork and started eating.

  • • •

  Later, at the hole, Frank showed Michael how to attach this sack to a stiff basket, fill it with dirt, climb out and pull the sack up with a rope attached to it, leaving the basket down below. Then he emptied the sack around the back of the dirt piles and go back for more. Michael wasn’t out of condition, but it was back-breaking work.

  • • •

  When it was half dark, Michael emptied his last sack of the night he thought, and sat down with his elbows on his knees and his head between his arms. God, he was tired and sore. He had to break loose the dirt with a shovel and a pick and then shovel it into the sack. The dirt higher up was pretty easy but down lower it was packed real hard and difficult to loosen. After working it all afternoon, he hardly made a dent and his hands were blistering. He couldn’t wait to lie down and rest. Frank came around the corner carrying a long cord with a light at the end, like a work light you would hang on a nail in your cellar to work by. And that was just what Frank had in mind.

  “C’mon boy,” he shouted, “let’s get to work. You need to pay me back for them good vittles and that nice female companionship you been enjoying.” Frank pushed the button and the light came on real bright. “Hang this near the opening, and you can see under and out here both,” he said, tossing the light to Michael.

  He started to climb out saying no, he was tired, and was quitting. Frank doubled over a length of the light cord and swung it at Michael’s head, hitting him across the ear. It stung real bad but Michael was more shocked than hurt and fell back into the hole. He looked up with tears in his eyes, on his butt with his hands in the dirt behind him. Frank just looked down swinging the light at him. Michael didn’t know what to do except catch the light and do as he was told. He was afraid but just a little. This guy was real strange, he thought. And what was that crack about female companionship? This was too much. What a nut. Well, first chance, he was out of here.

  Frank just sat there on the mound of dirt, must have been hours, seemed like to Michael. He had asked Frank for some gloves and Frank went and got some, tossing them down to him. Finally, Frank said he’d call it a night, he was tired and needed his rest. Michael climbed out of the hole and was marched over to the garage building.

  Frank said “Well, I guess you won’t be doing any traveling tonight, huh boy?” Then he sort of laughed a little chuckle, like he just told himself a joke or something.

  The door was around the back at the front end. Frank opened it, gave Michael a little push in and closed the door. Michael heard a latching sound and assumed he was just locked in. He didn’t waste time looking around, just spotted the cot and went for it. He was on his back, arm over his eyes to block out the light from the kitchen and the porch coming in a small window above the cot. He was fast asleep immediately.

  • • •

  Michael jumped awake to the banging on the side of the building and the shouting to get up lazy boy, there’s work to be done. Get out here and get cleaned up, and that kind of stuff. He looked around the room. He noticed he was definitely filthy, head to toe and wanted to wash up. The door was facing the downhill side towards the open barn and the sheep barn, he guessed, to the left more behind the house. The wall across from the cot had nothing on it and a rickety table sat in the corner to his right. There was some shirts and pants on the table. They looked clean. That and the cot was all that was in the room. There were wide cracks in the wide boards that made up the opposite wall and Michael peeked out. He saw what looked like an outhouse and that reminded him he had to go. Frank was still hollering and Michael was glad he didn’t come inside, probably afraid to.

  Michael stepped outside, saw the padlock hanging on the hasp, and Frank told him to strip down and use that hose by the outhouse to shower down.

  “Don’t you worry none now, that nice little lady you like so much won’t come peeking at you.” Michael went into the outhouse first wondering what was going on. Why was he saying these weird things? He came out, went up against the back of the garage thing and hosed down. The water was cold but felt real good on his aching bones.

  When he saw Frank he said, “I can’t go back to digging, Mr. Nelson.” He was glad he remembered his name. He thought his first name was Frank, but didn’t dare call him that.

  “That’s ok, boy, we done all the digging we need for right now. Let’s get some breakfast and we’ll get that barn cleaned out.” Breakfast, alright.

  Michael sat at the picnic table and Mrs. Nelson brought out a plate of food. He kind of liked her, not reminding him of his mom, but more of his Memere. His grandmother was French Canadian, small and frail looking like Mrs. Nelson. She set the plate down and said something Michael didn’t catch.

  He started to say “What?” and caught himself as Frank Nelson came up behind him. She picked up her apron and scooted for the house, wringing her hands on the apron. Frank stopped next to Michael and eyed her till she was inside and then gave Michael the eye. Saying nothing, he laid his rifle on the table and sat down to his lunch. Michael spun the words he thought he heard her say around and around until he came up with “something... away fast” or something like that. When he finished eating, he decided she had said “Run away fast.”

  Michael was starving after all that work and a good sound sleep. Frank sat across from him and started the weird talk again. Michael thought he must think him older than fifteen since he was tall, but skinny. He talked about girls and doing it and wouldn’t he like to spend some time with the little woman, and such like that. Michael couldn’t figure it out. He said nothing as usual. But he did think on it. He thought a lot on it. Something was definitely going on.

  Frank shut up when the woman came out with food laden plates and put them in front of Michael and Frank. She was obviously afraid of Frank and he felt sorry for her. She set everything down, ignored the lewd remarks Frank made and went back inside. Frank had the rifle he was carrying with him that morning and took it off the table and leaned it against the top, real close. Michael could see the woman looking out the kitchen window, looking at them with sad eyes.

  Michael cleaned up his plate with toast, drank down the rest of the pitcher of milk and got up when Frank told him to. Frank took him down to the open barn that was full of manure. He handed him a pitchfork and told Michael to fill the wheelbarrow, wheel it out in front, and dump it every twenty-five feet or so.

  “And don’t get funny with that pitch fork,” he said. Frank sat down in an old wooden lawn chair, cradling his rifle, a .30-.30 lever action bush gun.

  Michael knew quite a lot about rifles and shotguns. His uncle told him never touch his .30-.30, so of course he had. He played with it often when his uncle was working at the foundry, dry shooting it at imaginary targets.

  When Michael came back from dumping the wheelb
arrow, Frank would start his talking about girls and wouldn’t he like a nice warm woman to take care of him and shit like that. Michael just kept working and said nothing. It was hot work and he had his shirt off. Sweat was pouring off him, but the work was not as bad as the digging. He told Frank when he was tired and hungry and he took him down to the other barn where the sheep were. There were baskets of peaches and pears on a wooden bench and they sat down and ate some for lunch. The oil wells were closer and Michael could hear the steady hump-de-dump as the big arms went up and down.

  Frank talked about Dora, his wife’s name, Michael guessed. “Got them wells from her Daddy, wouldn’t take the lease payments from the oil brokers, and when he died she wouldn’t take them either. Real dumb and a real waste. All that money, must be millions now, just piling up in some trust back in Indianapolis. A real crime, that’s what it is. Well, come on boy, it’s time to go back to work. I’m gonna leave you here while I go up to the house. Don’t you go running off now, you hear? I’ll be watching you.”