THE ASCENT
OF
PJ MARSHALL
a novel
Brian J. Anderson
Also by Brian J. Anderson:
Ghosts of Florence Pass
For exclusive access to Brian J. Anderson's latest work in progress, along with information about author promotions, giveaways and contests, visit bjandersonauthor.com.
Copyright 2012 Brian J. Anderson
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Dad: my hero and muse.
acknowledgments
I imagine I’m like most fiction writers in that my inspiration comes from many sources. Family dynamics and personal history. People met and places seen. Joy and sorrow. Triumph and tragedy. Things the brain recalls from experience and things the heart just knows. Not to mention an overactive imagination.
But inspiration, like life, doesn’t exist in a vacuum. The Ascent of PJ Marshall—its early drafts the crudely excavated bones of a story at best—truly began to take shape with the help of many people.
First and foremost, I thank my wife Elizabeth. For her love, support and encouragement as a partner and for her honest and invaluable feedback as a first reader. Without her, this book would never have seen the light of day.
Also providing critical editorial guidance and deserving of many thanks is Becky Powers. Her keen eye for detail and sense of realism kept the story—and its author—grounded, resulting in a much improved final product.
Special thanks to Richard “Uncle Dick / Ol’ Smitty” Anderson for providing not only the initial spark to write this book, but for inspiring central characters, locations and themes contained within. Among his many talents—a strong editorial eye.
Additional thanks go out to Christopher Mohar, Sherry Schad, Diane Dietrich and Jeff Martinka for generously offering their time and efforts to the development of this book.
contents
prologue
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
six years ago
chapter five
chapter six
five years ago
chapter seven
chapter eight
five years ago
chapter nine
chapter ten
five years ago
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
six years ago
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
epilogue
from the author
about the author
A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials.
-Seneca
twelve years ago
PJ
Paul James Marshall sat in the sand watching his father disassemble their camp stove, dutifully arranging its parts on the hull of their overturned canoe. A flicker of lightning drew his attention to the west, where a dense wall of gray had gathered, filtering the sunset and painting the earth in deep shades of green. He began to count aloud as Butch handed him the generator tube.
“Here you go, PJ. Check the inside, too.”
PJ blew sand from the piece and performed a thorough inspection before setting it down at the end of the line. Butch aimed his flashlight into the stove’s carcass as a low rumble of thunder rolled up-river to their camp, stopping PJ at eight.
“Eight seconds.”
Butch set the stove on the canoe.
“All right,” he said, squeezing a bead of grease from a small tube onto the burner gasket. “What was it last time?”
PJ stared thoughtfully at the river, watching a tree branch float past their sandbar, its leaves rustling in the wind.
“I don’t remember.”
Butch pointed to PJ’s line of parts.
“Now you can hand me the pieces back, starting with the last one first.”
PJ gave him the generator with a blank stare.
“Do you remember, dad?”
“Sure. I’ll bet you do, too. You said it was how old Sara would be on her next—”
“Twelve!”
Butch smiled, twisting the generator into place.
“Right. And that was…” He checked his watch and pointed to the burner assembly. “Fifteen minutes ago. So in fifteen minutes, it’s gotten four seconds closer.”
PJ nodded and handed over the burner. As Butch set it in place, PJ gathered the screws and washers needed to secure it, holding them out. Butch glanced at PJ’s hand with a nod.
“You’re an expert already.”
PJ grinned, watching his father struggle to align the screw holes on the burner to those on the tank. Butch reached for a screw, catching PJ’s stare.
“I wasn’t sticking my tongue out, was I?”
PJ shook his head.
“Okay, so if the storm came four seconds closer in fifteen minutes, how long until it gets here?”
Turning back to the river, PJ watched as the wind kicked up patches of foam, counting to himself.
“Eight seconds? No, wait…” Shaking his head, PJ closed his eyes.
“Boy, I hope not,” Butch said with a chuckle. “I’ll need to work a lot faster.”
PJ’s head snapped up in a minor epiphany.
“Thirty minutes! Right?”
“Right. So we have half an hour to get the stove going and make our cocoa. Think we’ll make it?”
PJ nodded.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry I knocked the stove over in the sand.”
After securing the final screw with the repair kit’s tiny screwdriver, Butch set the stove on the canoe with a satisfied nod. He glanced at PJ.
“Don’t worry about it, partner. I’ve done it plenty of times. This old stove has eaten lots of sand.”
He took a flat, nearly empty roll of duct tape from his back pocket and tore off a strip, wrapping it around the stove’s base just below the burner assembly, its top edge flared out to cover the assembly from beneath.
“There,” he said, rotating it for PJ’s approval. “Let’s see the sand try to get through that.”
He handed the tape to PJ.
“Just in case you ever need it for something. I’ve got another one.”
PJ stuffed the tape into his pocket as another crack of thunder rolled up-river. He looked to the approaching storm.
“I didn’t see the lightning.”
The stove’s pump squeaked as Butch began to pressurize the tank.
“Sometimes you don’t. And sometimes you see the lightning but never hear the thunder. Mother nature is full of surprises.” The stove lit on the first attempt, and they both raised their fists, cheering in victory. Butch filled their water pot and set it on the burner. From their packs, they took their cups and spoons and set them on the canoe. “So, PJ…there’s something we need to talk about.”
PJ turned away from the rising wall of gray and black.
“It looks like mom will be staying at Aunt Ruth’s longer than we told you. She called yesterday.”
“Okay. When’s she coming home?”
Butc
h picked up a twig from the sand and began to break it into small, identical pieces.
“I don’t really know. I don’t think she knows either.”
“Will she be home for my birthday?”
Butch watched the river, silent.
“Dad?”
“No. No, she won’t be home by then. She—”
“We can call her. Maybe you and me can go out there for my birthday. That’d be fun.”
“No, PJ…mom is…she’s very sad right now. And sometimes when people get really sad, they need to be by themselves for a while.” Puffs of steam were beginning to escape under the edges of the pot lid. “Remember last summer when we had to put Rufus to sleep? Remember how sad you were?”
“Um, yeah.”
“And do you remember how that first night you just wanted to lay on your bed and not talk to anyone?”
“Uh-huh. I felt really bad.”
“Right. That’s what mom feels like.”
“She’s sad about Sara, isn’t she?”
Butch nodded and cast the stick aside. He picked up another as they turned to one another in silence. A mosquito lit on PJ’s cheek and Butch crushed it with the heel of his hand. A low roll of thunder rose and faded as PJ looked away.
“Are you still sad about her, Dad?”
Butch looked down and began sectioning his new stick. PJ picked up the pieces as they fell and stood them in the sand like a column of toy soldiers.
“Yes. Very sad.”
“Are you going to leave too?”
“No. I’m not going anywhere, PJ.”
“Then why does she have to go away?”
“Well, not everyone…some people need more time by themselves to think about things like that.”
“Did she leave because she’s mad at me?”
Butch looked up at PJ, his fingers frozen on the stick.
“Why would she be mad at you?”
PJ smoothed the sand around his creation with a shrug.
“I don’t know. Because my cells didn’t work?”
“Jesus,” Butch whispered, drawing a surprised glance from PJ. “No. She loves you very much. And she’s very proud of you. So am I. What happened to Sara wasn’t your fault, okay?”
“Okay. Is she mad at you?”
Butch resumed his work on the stick, handing the pieces to PJ.
“No.”
“I hear you fighting sometimes.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But that’s not why she’s at Aunt Ruth’s.”
“Okay.”
Butch pried the pot lid up with his last piece of wood and peeked inside. He let it down and handed the stick over to PJ, who set it at the front of the line.
“She’ll be back before you know it, PJ.”
“Okay.”
“We can call her when we get home if you want.”
“Okay.”
From their food bag, Butch gathered two packets of cocoa and handed one to PJ. In his excitement, PJ tore his packet down the middle, spilling most of its contents onto the sand. He dumped the feeble remains into his cup with a groan. Butch split his own packet with him, mixing the spilled cocoa into the sand with a sweep of his foot. PJ looked up briefly and then back to his line of soldiers.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“What was she like?”
“She was beautiful. And she loved one thing more than—actually, two things more than anything in the world.”
PJ looked up, beaming.
“Ice cream, right?”
“That’s one.”
“Like in that one picture of her. Remember? She has it in her hair and all over her face?”
They broke into simultaneous laughter, each watching the other as their voices filled the camp, drowning the rumble of the approaching storm. Butch’s throat caught as his laughter died and he cleared it, looking away from PJ and then back. PJ sat in silence, watching his father.
“Yeah, chocolate was her favorite,” Butch said, his voice gravelly.
“What’s the other thing?”
Butch again cleared his throat and heaved a sigh, leveling his gaze on PJ.
“Her baby brother. Like in that other picture where you’re crying because you got a splinter from the tree house ladder. Remember that one? Sara’s got you in a big bear hug and she’s kissing your finger.”
PJ picked up one of his stick soldiers and studied it, rolling it between his thumb and finger.
“I don’t remember her.”
“I know. That’s why those pictures are so important.”
PJ looked up with a half-smile and reached under his shirt behind him.
“My scars remind me of her too.”
“And you don’t remember getting those either, do you?”
“No. And I wouldn’t want to remember it either.” A distant crack of thunder. Its echo rolled slowly over their camp. PJ brought his hand back to his lap, again rolling his stick man. “Mom says the big scar is supposed to be Sara, but I think it’s you because you’re the dad and—”
With a look of sudden horror, PJ turned away, shaking his head. Butch reached out and tried to turn him back, but PJ resisted.
“PJ, what’s the matter?” The stick fell from PJ’s hand, and he crossed his arms over his stomach. “What about your scars? You can tell me. It’s okay.”
PJ shook his head and began to tremble.
“It’s…a secret. Mom said it was supposed to be a secret.”
Gathering his knees to his chest, PJ tucked his head, whimpering.
“PJ, it’s okay. Look at me.”
PJ lifted his head, his upper lip curled on the brink of sobbing.
“You can tell me anything,” Butch said, holding PJ’s stare. The corners of his mouth twitched as he forced a smile. “But you don’t have to.”
PJ dragged his arm over his eyes and then pushed it back across under his nose.
“I don’t like secrets.”
“Me neither.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, PJ lifted the collar of his shirt to dry his tears, raising it in the back and exposing four surgical scars, each forming the corner of a near perfect square just above his waist. Small and circular, their raised surfaces cast distinct shadows across the surrounding skin in the slanting green light. Butch held his breath, looking at them as if for the first time.
“Which one are you supposed to be?” He asked, cringing as the words hung silently between them. Sniffling, PJ let his shirt fall.
“The little one.”
Butch turned away and watched the thunderhead boil, his eyes glassy.
“Well, I guess smaller’s better. If you’re a scar.”
“Please don’t tell her,” PJ said, his eyes wide, searching. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”
Butch grabbed PJ by the neck and gave him a playful shake. He pulled him in and kissed the top of his head.
“I know. Don’t worry, partner.”
Butch let him go. Clearing his throat, he began to rummage the mess kit.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Are Sara and Rufus together in heaven?”
Butch set the aluminum pot gripper on the lid of their pot.
“That would be pretty cool, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah. So are they?”
“Well, if they’re not, I sure as heck don’t want to go there.”
PJ gave his father a quizzical glance as he began to rearrange his stick men.
“Huh?”
“Of course they are.”
PJ sat on his heels, admiring his work.
“Dad?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Do you believe in God?”
The pot lid sprung open with a burst of steam and fell closed with a muffled clank. The gripper rocked and settled back into place. Butch exhaled, his cheeks puffed.
“Wow. Well, I…I don’t know. Do you?”
“I guess so,” PJ said with a shrug. “Tommy Baker says if you don’t believe in Go
d, you’ll go to hell.”
Slowly, the lid began to dance and rattle as the water came to a rolling boil. Butch turned off the stove and took off the lid and set it on the canoe.
“Tommy Baker. Didn’t he try to light his farts on fire at your birthday party?”
PJ laughed.
“Yeah.”
Nodding, Butch lifted the pot and filled their cups. He dumped the leftover water in the sand.
“Well, he could be right. I’m sure he’s given it lots of thought.” He set the pot on the canoe and stirred their hot chocolate. “Do you know if he’s ever set one on fire?”
“He said he did one time, but I don’t believe him.”
“Do you believe what he said about going to hell?”
“I don’t know. You’re not supposed to lie about God.”
“Good point.” Butch set down the spoon and reclined against the canoe, lacing his fingers behind his head and studying PJ’s line of soldiers. “So, big birthday coming up—double digits. What do you want to do this year?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you getting too old for ‘PJ’? You want me to start calling you Paul instead?”
As he marched one of his men to the front of the line, PJ glanced up at his father, shaking his head.
“No. PJ’s okay.”
A flash of lightning made the woods surrounding their camp flicker a brilliant green. PJ watched in silence as the trees on the opposite shore rustled and swayed, their leaves hissing in the wind. Whitecaps rose against the current, their foamy crests struggling skyward and then vaporizing. Butch lowered his head, trying to catch PJ’s gaze as thunder rolled in the distance.
“PJ?”
“Six seconds,” PJ said, turning to his father with wide eyes. “It’s getting closer.”
“Looks like it. You want to drink this in the tent?”
“Okay.” With the palm of his hand, PJ sunk his soldiers into the sand as Butch gathered their cooking gear. “I think I want to—can I come with you and check the ice?”
“I don’t know, PJ. I’d like you to be a little older. Besides, I probably won’t go this year.”
“Can I go the next time you go?”
“We’ll see.” They put their stove into the mess kit and set everything on the blade of a paddle and slid it under the canoe. Butch packed their bags of food and garbage into a stuff sack and cinched it closed. As he tied a length of parachute cord around the closed end of the sack, he motioned to the river with a flick of his head. “Better get your fishing pole. I’ll hang the food and meet you at the tent.”
The Ascent of PJ Marshall Page 1