Portrait of a friendship

 

By: Kenda

 

 

 

 

 

*This is the final story in the Dances With Rattlesnakes series. If you’re a new reader to Kenda’s Emergency Library, the ‘Dances’ stories might best be enjoyed if read in chronological order.

 

*This story is dedicated to all of the readers who have enjoyed the Dances With Rattlesnakes series. Portrait of a Friendship is rated PG-13 for the occasional use of strong language.

 

*Thank you, Jill Hargan, for the beta read.  When I wasn’t certain if this was a story waiting to be told, you assured me that it was.  In the process, a friendship has been born I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on.

 

*Thank you, Icecat, for assistance with the picture of southeastern Alaska, where the fictional Eagle Harbor is located, and for assistance with the picture that appears at the end of part 8. How fitting that a story centered on friendship, involves assistance from both a new friend, and from an old friends. 

 

*Thank you, Audrey, Jane L., and Jill, for friendship, as well as for the brainstorming session on movies that appeal to teenagers. Thank you, Jane, for being the first ‘official’ reader of this story, after corrections and revisions were made. 

 

*Thanks to Janet of Johnny’s Green Pen website, for allowing me to capture from her photo gallery, the two photographs this story contains.  Thanks, Janet!

 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

 

Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009

 

     There are only a few days of school left, but that didn’t stop my English teacher, Mrs. St. Claire, from giving us an assignment.  All twenty of us groaned at the same time. When a teacher tells you that she’s giving you ten months to complete an assignment, you know it’s going to be something you won’t like. 

 

Eagle Harbor High School has a student body of just eighty-three.  That means that some of the teachers we had as freshman continue to be our teachers through sophomore, junior, and senior year.  Mrs. St. Claire is one of those teachers.  When I was a freshman and complained to Papa about how tough she was, he’d tell me she was tough because she was trying to get her students to live up to their full potential, and then surpass it.  I’d just give him the ‘teenager’s look’ as he referred to it, every time he told me that.  I don’t know how he defined the ‘teenager’s look’ because he never told me, but ever since I came back home from the summer I spent with my mother, I’ve come to realize that Papa is a lot smarter than I gave him credit for when I was fifteen.  Because of that, I suppose he realized the ‘teenager’s look’ meant, “Yeah, right.  How stupid can you be? Mrs. St. Claire hates me.  She hates all kids. She became a teacher just so she could torture kids with tons of homework assignments.”     

 

     By the time I started my junior year last August, Mrs. St. Claire didn’t seem so bad any more.  I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. Most of the kids in my class feel the same way, and as the year progressed, we even started saying she was one of our favorite teachers. I don’t know if we’ve simply gotten used to her, or if we’ve matured since our freshman year, or if she’s loosened up on us because we’re no longer new to her classroom.  All I do know is that I’ve learned a lot from her.  She formed a book club at the start of my sophomore year and made me president of it, without even asking me if I wanted to be a part of the club in the first place. We read books I thought I’d hate, only to discover I was wrong. Or at least most of the time I was wrong.  I’ll never make it through the Scarlet Letter without wanting to slit my wrists, just because watching blood spurt from my veins would be more entertaining than trying read that stupid book.

 

We’ve written our own plays in Mrs. St. Claire’s class, and then performed them. We’ve published a monthly class newsletter, written short stories, long stories, poems – which I hate and totally suck at because I always make them rhyme, even when I try not to, and we’ve written from every point of view possible and then some.  Jake Shipman even wrote a story in the first person point of view as told by his iguana.  It seems whacked, I know, but Jake did a great job of sounding like you’d think an iguana would if it could talk. Mrs. St. Claire even gave Jake an A, and complimented him on being so creative.

 

We’ve kept journals during our junior year, too, and it’s in my journal that I’m recording all of this. Or maybe I should say typing it, since I keep my journal on my computer. A lot of the kids didn’t like this assignment – especially the guys, because they think it’s too much like keeping a diary, which everyone knows is a girl thing. But I’ve read that most of the military leaders in our country have kept journals, including Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee. I’ve also read that a lot of soldiers who fought in the Civil War – just regular enlisted guys - kept journals, and I think that’s awesome.  It gives us a view of the Civil War we never would have had otherwise.  A lot of history would have been lost without those first person accounts scribbled on any scrap of paper the soldiers could find.

 

One of the reasons I like recording things in my journal is because Mrs. St. Claire respects the fact that our journals are private.  She’s never asked to read our entries, and trusts us to follow through with the assignment and keep the journal current during this school year. (I don’t think she should have trusted Ethan Hackstrom or Travis Wieland, but since we’re not getting graded on our journals, no one’s ratting them out.) Mrs. St. Claire said someday when we’re grown we’ll read these entries and learn about ourselves as teenagers, while realizing why we’re the adults we’ve become.  It’s kind of hard to figure out now, but maybe when ‘someday’ arrives I’ll know what she means.

 

It probably sounds like Mrs. St. Claire’s Advanced English Class is all fun and games, but that’s not true.  She makes us do the kind of things English teachers are supposed to make kids do, like diagram sentences, and memorize the meanings to words like macabre and oligopsony, then tests us on them each Friday.  Man, how I hate Fridays.

 

     Because we’ve done all of these things and more, I was pretty confidant that we’d get to coast through our senior year.  The students in Mrs. St. Claire’s senior English class are the reporters, editors, cartoonists, and photographers of the school’s newspaper, so I knew that project awaited us when we return to school at the end of August.  I figure she’ll still make us memorize the meanings to obscure words, and the book club is going to get underway too, because she assigned us three books to read over the summer that are to be discussed in September.  I don’t mind that. I’ve always liked to read, probably because my pops started reading to me every night before I was even two.  By the time I was nine, I was reading on my own most nights before I went to sleep. Because of that, reading three books over the summer is no big deal to me.  I know I’ll have them done before Papa and I go on our annual trip to California in July.  But then today, Mrs. St. Claire gave us another assignment. One she said we didn’t have to turn in until April of our senior year.   

 

     “Each one of you is going to write a book,” she said, as though writing a book is as easy as composing a three sentence e-mail to a friend.

 

     Our groans were followed by exclamations of, “A book!” then everyone started shouting questions.

 

     “How long does it have to be?”

 

     “As long as you think is necessary,” Mrs. St. Claire told Dalton Teirman.

 

     “What’s it supposed to be about?”

 

     “Whatever you want it to be about,” Mrs. St. Claire said to Jenna Van Temple.

 

     “Are we supposed to tell it from the first person point of view or the third person?”

 

     “I don’t know,” Mrs. St. Claire smiled at Tyler Cavanaugh.  “You’re the writer.  You’ll have to decide what point of view best tells your story.”

 

     “Mrs. St. Claire,” I moaned, “do you know how hard this is gonna be?”

 

     “Only as hard as you make it, Trevor,” she said in a way that told me Pops is right.  She is pushing me to do the best job I can.

 

     “Does it have to be fiction or non-fiction?” I asked.

 

     “What do you think?”

 

     I sighed. “It’s up to me as the writer to decide that.”

 

     “You’re learning, Trevor.” Mrs. St. Claire winked at me. “You’re learning.”

 

      Mrs. St. Claire continued to field questions while she passed out what she referred to as Writers’ Guidelines.

 

     “If you ever attempt to be professionally published - regardless of whether you’ve written a short column for a newspaper, a story for a magazine, or even something as lengthy as a book, there are guidelines the publication you’re working with will want you to follow.  Therefore, these are the guidelines I expect each one of you to follow.”

 

     I scanned the sheet of paper Mrs. St. Claire had laid on my desk.  It told us how she wanted our manuscripts spaced, told us we were to number each page, told us that our names were to be on the upper left-hand corner of each page, told us the books were to be typed on a computer and what font we were to use, and told us we were to bind our books. The sheet provided suggestions about what types of binders we could buy at the Office Max in Juneau in order to get that job done without spending much money.  There were also pointers regarding research, a reminder of what plagiarism was, and a sentence that informed us we’d flunk Mrs. St. Claire’s class if she discovered our work was stolen from another source. The one thing Mrs. St. Claire’s guidelines didn’t tell us, was the one thing I was looking for – a topic to write about.  She didn’t even give us a list of ideas to choose from.  Before I could voice my disappointment over the lack of ideas, the bell rang that signaled the end of the school day.

 

     My classmates rushed by me as I slowly stood. I continued to read the guidelines as I scooped up my spiral notebook and English book.  I must have made a face, because Mrs. St. Claire asked, “Trevor, what’s wrong?”

 

     I looked up, and saw that everyone else was gone.  Evidently none of my classmates was nearly as worried about this assignment as I was.  I suppose that makes sense.  In three more days school will be out for the year.  I figured everyone else must be thinking that April is a long way off, and that we might as well enjoy our summer and not worry about the writing assignment until fall.  Usually, that’d be how I’d think, too.  Why I’m not thinking that way, I’m not sure. I guess there are several reasons.  The first being that I’m ranked number one in my class, and will graduate as valedictorian if I have another year of straight A’s on my report card.  Jenna Van Temple is ranked number two academically, so all it’s going to take is one slip on my part and she’ll ease past me.  I like Jenna, but I’m not going to let her take away from me what I’ve been working so hard for since I started high school. 

 

I know graduating number one in a class of twenty students isn’t nearly the accomplishment graduating number one in a class of six hundred would be, but still, the teachers here in Eagle Harbor are tough on their students, and we’ve always scored in the top percentile whenever we’ve taken tests that compare us with other kids in the nation.  Besides, whenever I mention to Papa that being the valedictorian at Eagle Harbor High isn’t anything to brag about considering how small my class is, Papa tells me he intends to brag about it on my behalf, and brag about it plenty.  Pops always gets this look of enormous pride on his face whenever he says that to me, which then makes me work twice as hard so I don’t disappoint him. That’s not to say Papa puts pressure on me regarding my grades, because he doesn’t. But ever since I was in kindergarten, he’s said he expected me to do the best I can in school. Since the best I can do usually means I earn all A’s, I’ve fallen into the habit of excelling at school, and haven’t given my efforts conscious thought in years.

 

     Mrs. St. Claire approached and stopped in front of me. “Trevor?” she asked again.  “Is something wrong?”

 

     “No...no. It’s just that...” I glanced at the guidelines, before giving her my attention again. I’m six feet tall now, and had to look down at the slightly built woman who’s eight inches shorter than me. 

 

     “It’s just what?”

 

     “It’s just that I don’t know what to write about.”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire laughed.  “Is that all?”

     “Is that all?  Mrs. St. Claire, come on!  I mean...well...look.” I thrust the guideline sheet toward her. “Have you read these?”

 

     “Certainly I’ve read them.  I wrote them, didn’t I?”

 

     “I don’t know. I guess. . .maybe. Yes.  Yeah, I suppose you did.”  I raked a hand though my hair, not realizing that action, or my stammering, or my upset, or the way I was standing with my left arm out and a pleading look on my face, meant that anyone who knew my father would have told me I was a chip off the old block.  “Look, Mrs. St. Claire, I...I don’t think I can do this.”

 

     “Oh, Trevor, of course you can.”

 

     “No.” I shook my head. “No, I can’t. I mean, it’s one thing to write a short story for you, or even a term paper...but a book?  No way.  I’m not gonna be a writer, ya’ know. I’m gonna be a doctor.”

 

     “And you don’t think doctors write books?”

 

     “Well...yeah, they do.  My mom and stepfather are doctors, and they’ve both written books.”

 

     “See there.”

 

     “But, Mrs. St. Claire, those are boring books. Medical textbooks. Nobody but medical students read them. If I wrote something like that, you’d flunk me for sure. You’d be asleep before you finished the first chapter. Besides, I don’t ever plan on writing a medical textbook. I wanna be an old-fashioned country doctor like my Great Grandpa Hamilton was. Just a guy who lives in Alaska, has a small office, and travels to see patients if they can’t make it to him ‘cause they’re too old, or too far away and don’t have transportation. I don’t plan to work in a big city, or be famous in the medical community like my mom and Franklin are.”

 

     “And what does that have to do with your assignment?”

 

     “Just what I said.  I’m gonna be a doctor, not a writer.”

 

     “Don’t be so sure about that.”

 

     “Whatta’ ya’ mean?”

 

     “Trevor, you just turned seventeen a month ago. You’re far too young to know what you will or won’t do.  Have you ever read any books by Robin Cook?”

 

     “Yeah.”

 

     “What does he do for a living when he’s not writing?”

 

     I knew she had led me right into a trap. When I hesitated, she said, “Trevor?”

 

I sighed. “He’s a doctor.”

 

“Yes, he is.  Robin Cook is a doctor, but he’s also a fiction author.  Therefore, don’t be so quick to tell me what you may or may not do long after you leave Eagle Harbor High School.”

 

     “Okay, I won’t.  But if I’m a doctor, I’m not gonna need a sideline like writing in order to pay my bills and stuff.”

 

     “No, you’re probably not,” Mrs. St. Claire acknowledged, “but who knows? You just might find out you enjoy writing, and someday on down the road you might want to pursue it as a hobby.  Not unlike Robin Cook. Or John Grisham, who’s a lawyer.  Or Tess Gerritsen, who’s a surgeon when she’s not writing fiction. Or Jonathan Kellerman, a child psychologist who writes mystery novels from the point of view of the protagonist he’s created, Alex Delaware.”

 

     “My hobby is gonna be flying.  I’ve had my pilot’s license since March.”

 

     Now it was Mrs. St. Claire’s turn to sigh. I could tell she was getting exasperated with me, in the same way I’ve seen my Uncle Roy get exasperated with my pops, when Uncle Roy is trying to make a point that Papa refuses to see.

 

     “Trevor, don’t be so stubborn.  You can do this.”

 

     “Can’t you give me another assignment?” I pleaded.

 

     “No, I can’t.”

 

     “Now it’s you who’s being stubborn.”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire laughed again.  “Since I’m your teacher, I reserve that right.  You, however, are the student, and a student that I know without a doubt can complete this assignment. Therefore, you’re not allowed to be stubborn about it.”

 

     I folded the guideline sheet in half and shoved it inside my English book while shaking my head.

 

     “I just don’t think I can do this.”

 

     “Well, I happen to think you can.”

 

     “But a book...to write a good book, that’s a lot of work.”

 

     “Yes, it is. That’s why I’m giving you ten months to complete the assignment.”

 

     “It takes some authors years to finish a book.  Some of them never finish their books.”

 

My teacher gave me a knowing smirk. “Trevor, you’re bound and determined to make this more difficult than it is, aren’t you.”

 

“I’m not making it more difficult than it is. I’m just pointing out some things you might not have thought about.”

 

     “Allow me to assure you, I’ve thought of them, and I have no concerns.”

 

     “That’s ‘cause you’re not the one doing the writing.”

 

     “Trevor...”

 

     “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that...”

 

     “What?”

 

     “I already told you.  I don’t know what to write about.”

 

     “If you had half as much faith in yourself as I have in you, you’d already have an idea for that novel and be anxious to start typing it into your computer.”

 

     “Then I wish I had half of your faith,” I teased. I headed for the door with a sigh. “Thanks anyway.”

 

     “Trevor?”

 

     I turned around to face my teacher again.

 

     “Let me give you a little hint.”

 

     “Yeah?” I questioned, anxious for any hint, suggestion, or an entire plot line if it happened to come my way.

 

     “When you begin your quest for ideas, start that quest close to home.”

 

I could feel my brow furrow. “Whatta’ ya’ mean?”

 

“It’s my opinion that the best stories come from within the writer. I’m willing to bet that whatever story you have to tell, already dwells inside of you to a large extent. It’s part of who you are, and maybe through telling it, you’ll even learn more about yourself...or those you hold dear, than you already know.”      

     “Mrs. St. Claire, if I had a story inside of me, I wouldn’t be worried about coming up with a story to begin with.”

 

     The woman chased me out of the room by scurrying toward me and making shooing motions with her hands. 

 

     “Trevor, get going.  Go on with you.  Get home and start writing. Go, go, go!”

 

     I laughed as I ran from the room, but my good humor didn’t last long.  I stopped at my locker and filled my backpack with the books I needed to bring home, then walked out to the student parking lot and climbed in the Dodge Dakota pickup that Papa had bought used and given to me for my sixteenth birthday.  I’m responsible for maintaining the truck, including keeping it insured, and keeping the gas tank filled.  Because of that, I work at Gus Zirbel’s airport as often as I can.

 

I started the truck, put it in gear, and headed out to Gus’s.  The usual euphoria I feel in early June as a result of long summer days finally blanketing Eagle Harbor, accompanied by the end of the school year, was absent today.  Instead, I mulled over the prospect of writing a book.  By the time I reached the airport, I still didn’t have any ideas for a plot.  I suppose I’m getting myself upset over nothing, which my Uncle Roy says I’m good at doing in the same way my father was when he was younger.  Obviously, it’s unrealistic of me to expect I’d come up with an idea for a book thirty minutes after receiving the assignment, but as I drove to the airport I was sure Jenna Van Temple had a plot churning in her head, and was already home outlining it. And because of that, I’m certain my chances of being class valedictorian are hopelessly lost.

 

     I slammed my truck door and walked toward the hanger with my head bent and my shoulders slumped. It wasn’t until I heard Gus say, “Hey, Trev, you wanna test a new plane with me today?” that I lifted my head and smiled. 

 

I shoved thoughts of book writing aside as I soared through the clouds with Gus as my co-pilot. If I had a story inside me to tell like Mrs. St. Claire said, I couldn’t imagine what it was.  As I flew over the mountains that bordered Eagle Harbor on the east, and then banked the plane and soared over the ocean that bordered the town on the west, I momentarily forgot about the book.  I smiled as we flew over the roof of the fire department – the place I thought of as my second home.  I recognized Carl and my pops standing out in the back lot, and tilted a wing in greeting.  I was flying low enough now that I could see Papa look up and wave.  He couldn’t see my face, but he knew by my actions who was piloting the plane. I grinned, and then flew on.  The June sun glinted off the mountains.  It reminded me of how much I loved Alaska, and how much I’d come to realize that my life was here in the Last Frontier State, and always would be. 

 

The vastness and natural beauty of Alaska can’t really be appreciated until you’ve seen it from the air.  No matter what Mrs. St. Claire says; flying will always be my hobby.  Yeah, some doctors write books, but I’m not going to be one of them. 

 

 

Friday, June 5th, 2009

 

     School ended for the year at noon today.  I stopped by Papa’s office at the fire station to show him my report card.

 

     “This is great, Trev.” He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a sideways hug. “I’m really proud of you.”

 

     “Thanks.”

 

     “What’s with the glum, ‘thanks’? You make it sound like this report card is filled with F’s instead of A’s.”

 

     “I might get an F next year.”

 

     “Come again?”

     I sighed, which I seemed to be doing a lot of lately.

 

“Nothin.’ Forget it.”

 

     I could feel him studying me and trying to gauge my mood.  We’ve come a long way since my freshman year.  Back then, Papa’s scrutiny would have ticked me off and caused me to lose my temper, which in turn, would have caused Papa to lose his temper, and would have made me storm out of the fire station after we got done yelling at one another.  Papa’s learned how to handle a teenager better than he did in those days, and I’ve learned how to be a teenager in my father’s house better than I knew how to be back then.  Because of what we’d both learned together, he didn’t push me to explain my remark, but instead said, “Let’s go to the diner and have lunch.”

 

     “I have ta’ be at work at two.”

 

     “We’ll be done before then,” Papa assured me.

 

We walked to the kitchen that’s shared by the Eagle Harbor Police and Fire Departments.  I said hi to everyone sitting around the table, while Pops let his employees know where he was going. 

 

     Carl Mjtko entered from the hallway that led to the police department. He’s Papa’s best friend here in Alaska, and Eagle Harbor’s police chief. Carl’s mother, Clarice, has been our housekeeper ever since we moved here when I was a year old.  She doesn’t baby-sit for me any more, but she still cleans and cooks for us, and stays with me on the nights Papa pulls a twenty-four hour shift.  I don’t think she needs to – I’d be fine staying all night by myself, but that’s an argument I’ve lost a number of times since I turned fourteen, and one I’ve finally quit instigating.  Besides, Clarice is both a mother and grandmother to me in many ways, so I don’t want to hurt her feelings by making her think I don’t need her.  In another year, I’ll be graduating from high school. At that time, Clarice’s employment with Papa will pretty much be over, except for the two or three days a week he’ll keep her on to clean and do some cooking.  Not that he’ll really need her to do those things when I’m away at college, but Papa doesn’t want to hurt Clarice’s feelings any more than I do.

 

Carl greeted me with a, “Hey, Trev!”

 

“Hi, Carl.”

 

Carl poured a cup of coffee, then leaned back against the counter top.  “So, did you give your pops a report card filled with A’s again?”

 

My eyes dropped to the tiled floor. “Yeah.”

 

Carl chuckled. “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

 

“I’m happy about it.”

 

“Coulda’ fooled me.” 

 

Carl has never married and doesn’t have any children, therefore he looks upon me as the son he’s never had.  Or so Clarice has told me on several occasions.

 

Carl stuck his broad chest out as though my accomplishments were a direct credit to him. “You guys know you’re lookin’ at Eagle Harbor High’s next valedictorian, don’t you?”

 

There was laughter around the table, where a lunch of barbequed meatballs and buttered noodles was just getting started. 

 

Crazy Kenny said, “I think Chief has mentioned that a few times in the last year.” 

 

Rick LaMeer teased, “A few times? At last count we were up to one hundred and five.”

 

Everyone laughed, even Papa, while I stood there turning red and wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. I wasn’t mad at Papa or anything – I know how proud he is of my grades and all, but the expectations weren’t something I wanted to hear considering the worries on my mind.  Now I felt like not only will I be letting Papa down if I’m not class valedictorian next year, but I’ll be letting down the entire fire and police departments, too.

 

Papa put his arm around my shoulders again. “Obviously, my son didn’t inherit the ‘brag gene’ from his old man.”

 

“Obviously,” Carl teased.

 

We said goodbye to everyone and turned for the hallway.  Papa never dropped his arm as we walked past his office, through the apparatus bay, and out the service door.  We stopped to check for traffic, even though the word ‘traffic; is misleading considering how quiet the streets in Eagle Harbor are on most days during lunch hour.  We could probably cross the road a dozen times with our eyes closed before our luck would run out and we’d be hit by a car.

 

Because it was twelve-thirty, Donna’s Diner was busy.  Everybody in Eagle Harbor knows my pops. He responded to greetings of, “Hi, Chief!” and “Hi, John!” as we headed for a distant table. Our progress was stopped several times when people engaged Pops in conversation. My grades were brought up again when Papa told Eagle Harbor’s mayor, Jim Beaumont, that we were having lunch to celebrate my report card. 

 

“Straight A’s again, Trev?” the rotund mayor winked and elbowed me in the ribs. 

 

On most days I love living in Eagle Harbor, but every so often I realize the drawbacks to small town life.  It seemed like all six thousand residents knew about my grades, and in truth, many of them probably did.

 

As we walked away from Mayor Beaumont and the town’s councilmen he was seated with, I rolled my eyes and said out of the corner of my mouth, “Please don’t tell anyone else about my grades.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Just don’t.”

 

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  Just the opposite. You should be proud.”

 

“You’re proud enough for both of us.”

 

“Well, if you’re not gonna blow your own horn, then I have to blow it for you.”

 

“Papa,” I pleaded with just that one word.

 

Papa laughed.  “Okay, okay.  I won’t say anything else about your grades...until I call your Uncle Roy, and your grandfather, and your Aunt Reah. Or aren’t I allowed to brag about you to them, either?”

 

“I guess that would be okay.” I pulled out a chair at the small table for two in a back corner and sat down beneath the caribou head that hung on the wall above my seat. “Just don’t call any of ‘em when I’m around.”

 

“No promises there. They’ll all wanna talk to you.”

 

I didn’t argue further.  My grandpa’s eighty-eight years old, so given his age, you never know when he might not be around to talk to any longer. Or so Papa has been telling me for the last couple of years now.  Aunt Reah is Pops only sibling and doesn’t have any kids of her own, so my accomplishments mean a lot to her, like they do to Carl. And Uncle Roy...well, he’s been Papa’s best friend longer than anyone else, and I have a lot of respect for him, so if Papa was going to make me tell Uncle Roy about my grades, I figured I could live with that. Besides, better than anyone else, Uncle Roy knows how Papa is.

 

     Donna, the owner of the diner, hustled over to take our order. She always gives us extra helpings no matter what it is we want.  Even if we just order cheeseburgers and French fries, like we did today, our burgers are thicker than anyone else’s, and our plates are heaped with fries.  Carl says that’s because Donna has wanted to date Papa ever since we first moved to Eagle Harbor.  I think sixteen years is a long time for a woman to have a thing for a guy who has no interest in her beyond raving about her cooking, but since Kylee and I started going steady, I’ve learned that women aren’t always easy to figure out.

 

     Donna squeezed her way through the tables. Her hips are as a wide as a barn door, which means she likes her cooking as much as Papa does.  She gave Papa a big smile that he returned. 

 

     “How are ya’, Chief Gage?”

 

     “Fine, Donna.  How’re you?”

 

     “I’m doin’ okay.” Donna shoved a thick patch of gray curls behind one ear and thrust her right hip sideways.  I think she was trying to be sexy, but if she was, it was lost on Papa. Or maybe he just ignored her hints. “There’s a good movie playing on Friday night.”

 

     That’s what Donna says every time she sees Papa, just like he always says in reply, “I’ll have a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke to drink. How about you, Trev?”

 

     “I’ll have the same.”

 

     Donna scribbled our order on her pad. If it bothered her that Papa had once again deflected her offer of a date, you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. 

 

     “Say, Donna, you should see Trevor’s report card.”

 

     Papa started to pull my folded report card from his shirt pocket, but I kicked him under the table.  He’d just told me he wasn’t going to mention my grades to anyone else in Eagle Harbor, and already he was blowing it.

 

     “Sure, I’d love to have a look.” She smiled at me in the same way she’s been doing for years. As though being my stepmother would be second best only to being my father’s wife.

 

     “Uh...” Pops looked at me and saw me shaking my head.  “Guess I don’t have it with me after all.  Musta’ left it in my office.”

 

     “You can show me later.  Maybe on Friday night?”

 

     Pops countered the offer of the potential date. “How about those Cokes?” 

 

     And with that, Donna turned on the heel of her New Balance walking shoes, weaved her way between tables, and told one of the waitresses to get our drinks.

 

     “Now you’ve upset her,” Papa scolded me. “We probably won’t get extra fries today.”

 

     “I didn’t upset her. You upset her when you wouldn’t agree to show her my report card on Friday night.”

    

     Papa waved a hand at me in dismissal.  I never have figured out if he’s caught on to how interested Donna is in him, or if he thinks it’s all a joke on her part.  If he’s caught on, he’ll never admit it, because he knows how much the guys he works with will tease him about it, which is why I think he’s been feigning ignorance where Donna is concerned for years now.

 

     Mrs. Schwitec, an older lady whose husband was one of Papa’s volunteer firemen until he died of a heart attack a couple of years ago, brought us our Cokes. She talked to Papa and me for a minute, then hurried off to wait on other customers.

    

     The noise level in the restaurant rose as the bell over the door dinged over and over again, signaling the arrival of more people.  Pretty soon, every table and seat at the counter was filled.  Because we were at the back of the room, Papa and I could talk without shouting, but at the same time, no one could overhear our conversation.

 

Pops took the paper off his straw and stuck the straw in his Coke.  He took a long drink, then set his glass back on the table.  I did the same.  When my mouth was no longer filled with soda, my father asked, “So, what’s this about you getting an F next year?”

 

“I said a might get an F.”

 

“Okay, so you might get an F. Since you’ve never gotten an F, maybe you wanna explain that remark to me.”

 

“I don’t want to.  Like I said at the station, forget it.”

 

“Trev...”

 

I played with my glass, rubbing my finger over the cold condensation on the outside of it.  I could feel Papa staring at me.  The tone of his voice told me he wasn’t going to take “forget it” for an answer.

 

“It’s Mrs. St. Claire.”

 

“What about Mrs. St. Claire?”

 

“She gave us a stupid assignment.”

 

“Whatta ya’ mean she gave you a stupid assignment?  School’s out for the year.”

 

“I know. But she gave us an assignment that’s due next April.”

 

“Oh. Well, I don’t know what you’re so worried about then. Sounds to me like you’ve got plenty a’ time to get it done.”

 

“Yeah, maybe.  If I didn’t have to write a book.”

 

“A what?”

 

“A book.”

 

“You mean like a ‘book’ book?  The kind you read?”

 

“Yeah, the kind you read.  What other kinda book is there?”

 

“What’s it supposed to be about?”

 

“Whatever we want it to be about.”

 

“Fiction or non-fiction?”

 

“Either one. Whatever I decide.”

 

“How long is it supposed to be?”

 

I was beginning to think Pops had been sitting in Mrs. St. Clair’s class on Tuesday. He sounded just like my friends and I had sounded as we grilled our teacher about the assignment.

 

“However long it needs to be in order to tell the story.”

 

We took our arms off the table when Mrs. Schwitec brought our food.  Papa was staring at his plate when she asked us if we needed anything else.  When Pops didn’t answer, I said “No, thank you,” for both of us, which sent Mrs. Schwitec off to wait on another table.

 

I reached for the ketchup.  Papa frowned as he watched me make a pool on the side of my plate to dip my fries in.

 

“What?” I asked him.

 

“Donna gave you more fries than she gave me.”

 

I shrugged as I passed him the ketchup.  “So? Go out with her on Friday night, and she’ll probably give you all the fries you want for free.”

 

He caught the smile I was trying to hide.

 

“Very funny, young man.”

 

In-between bites of food, Papa brought the subject back to book writing.

 

“Listen, Trev, don’t worry so much about that assignment Mrs. St. Claire gave you.  You’ll do fine.”

 

“Now you sound like her.”

 

“Like who?”

 

“Mrs. St. Claire. Pops, I have to write a book.  A book. People like Ernest Hemingway write books, not a kid from a small town in Alaska.  What do I know about the world?”

 

“He was a drunk.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Hemingway. He was a drunk. Besides, I don’t think his books are any good. As an author, the guy is way overrated.”

 

“You’ve read Hemingway?” I asked. Papa told me once he hadn’t been much of a reader other than the sports section of the newspaper, and Wheels and Gears magazine, until after I was born and he started reading to me.  He began to read more then himself, but his interests have always leaned toward what’s referred to as ‘popular fiction authors’ like Joseph Wambaugh, Nevada Barr, John Grisham, and Tony Hillerman.

 

“Had to in high school,” Pops said, as he took a bite of his burger. “His books are boring.” 

 

“I’ll be happy if all I manage to write is a boring book. I’ll be happy with any book at this point.”

 

“You’ve only had the assignment for how long?”

 

“Three days.”

 

“Trev, cut yourself some slack.  Three days isn’t enough time to figure out a plot for a book.”

 

“Jenna Van Temple has hers figured out. She showed Mrs. St. Claire an outline this morning.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, she’s ranked right behind me, Papa.  If she gets an A on her book, and I get an F, she’ll be the class valedictorian.”

 

“First of all, you’re not gonna get an F.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Because I do. And besides, like I said before, you’ve never gotten an F since the day you started kindergarten.”

 

“There’s always a first time for everything.”

 

“That’s true, but in this case I’m confident that’s not gonna happen.”  He used a French fry as a pointer and thrust it in my direction in time to his words. “And I’ll be proud of you regardless of whether you’re the class valedictorian or not.”

 

“You won’t be proud of me if I get an F.”

 

“Trevor, sometimes you’re too much like me, ya’ know that?”

 

“How?”

 

“You’re like a dog with a bone. Let it go.  You’re not gonna get an F.”

 

“I will if I don’t get the book written.”

 

“You’ll get it written.”

 

“But--”

 

“Trev, you’ll get it written.”  Papa’s voice was both confident and stern, letting me know what was expected of me, and that I might as well quit fighting the inevitable.

 

“Okay, okay, I’ll get it written.”  I took two bites of my cheeseburger, chewed, and washed the food down with a swig of Coke. “So what should I write about?”

 

“Beats me,” Papa shrugged. “It’s not my assignment, it’s yours.”

 

“Pops!”

 

He laughed. “Hey, kiddo, it’s been forty-six years since anyone’s given me a high school English assignment. Heck if I’m doin’ your work for you.”

 

Now it was my turn to say, “Very funny. Just for that, I’m tellin’ Carl that Donna has the hots for you.”

 

“Carl already knows Donna has the hots for me.”

 

“Then I’ll tell--”

 

“Trev, this is Eagle Harbor, remember? Everybody knows Donna has the hots for me.”

 

“See? That’s exactly my point.”

 

“What’s your point?”

 

“This is Eagle Harbor.  How can I find a story to tell in Eagle Harbor, Alaska, where the most exciting things that happen are the fireworks after the Fourth of July picnic, Santa Claus riding in the Christmas parade, Donna having the hots for you, and Mr. Larson gettin’ drunk and sleeping his bender off in the fire station, while all of you tell his wife you don’t know where he’s at?”

 

“That right there sounds like a story to me.”

 

“Well, it doesn’t sound like one to me.”

 

“Then keep looking.”

 

“Huh?” I asked, as I dipped two fries in ketchup.

 

“Keep looking. If you keep looking, you’re bound to find a story somewhere. And maybe even one that’s,” he reached across the table and used his index finger to lightly flick the end of my nose, “right under your nose.”

 

“Pops!” I scolded, while looking around to make sure none of my friends were in the diner and had seen my father treating me like I was eight years old.

 

We didn’t talk about the book after that. We finished eating, and Papa paid for our lunch.  I got to the airport at one forty-five. As I worked on the engine of an old B-17 Bomber Gus owns, I spent a lot of time looking for that story Papa claimed would be right under my nose.  Trouble is, by the time I got home at seven tonight, I hadn’t found it yet.

 

 

Sunday, June 7^th, 2009

 

     Now that school’s out and my junior year is officially over, I don’t have to keep this journal any more. But I’ve gotten so used to writing something every few days; that I’m going to try and continue it until I graduate next year.  It’s kind of neat having a place to record what I’m thinking, and what’s been going on in my life, without worrying about anyone else reading it. Papa knows I’m keeping the journal, but respects my privacy where it’s concerned and told me he’d never look at.  I never worry that he will, because Papa and I have a lot of trust in one another, which is a good thing for a father and son to share. I almost blew that when I was fifteen and lied to him about going to Anchorage with Connor, Kylee, and some other friends. That mistake on my part made for some rough times between Papa and me, but one thing I learned from those rough times, is that trust is not a God-given right, but rather it’s something you earn through your actions.  When I get down on myself about the stupid mistakes I made that summer, Papa tells me that he’s proud of me for learning from those mistakes. Then he tells me many grownups never learn from their mistakes, much less admit to them, so I’m on the right path to being an honorable man as far as Papa is concerned.  I always feel good when he says that, and his words inspire me to live up to the trust he’s placed in me.

 

     I worked at the airport from eight to three yesterday, then had to leave for a baseball game that started at four.  This will be my last summer playing in the Senior League within our state’s Little League organization, so I plan to make the most of it.  Papa watched the game from the stands, but had to dash to the parking lot when he was toned out for a rescue call in the bottom of the sixth inning. 

 

Kylee was in the stands cheering me on, too.  We had a date last night, so after the game I went home and showered, then picked Kylee up at her house.  We met Dylan and Dalton Teirman and their girlfriends at Ochlou’s Pizza Parlor.  Mr. Ochlou is a Tlingit Eskimo, but he sure knows how to make pizza like an Italian. Or so he always tells us.  Afterwards, we went to the only movie theatre Eagle Harbor has, and saw a third run film for a dollar each that we’d all seen before.  The movie’s a good one though, and the price is right, so like Papa says, who can complain when a night out with your best girl doesn’t cost you more than fourteen bucks?

 

     Kylee and I did some necking in her driveway after I took her home, but unfortunately the sun shines almost all night in Eagle Harbor this time of year. That kind of limits a guy’s enthusiasm for necking with his girlfriend outside her parents’ house, especially when her father is looking out the front window every five minutes.  Mr. Bonnette seems pretty determined that his daughter and I don’t experience much more than a goodnight kiss.  Sometimes I’d like to take things farther than that, and I think Kylee would too, but Pops has talked to me a lot during the past few years about a guy’s responsibilities when it comes to sex.  He keeps reminding me of the goals I have for myself of being a doctor, and opening my own office in a rural area where the people are in bad need of medical care, and then tells me that I might never reach those goals if I end up having to raise a family before I’m out of college.  Since I don’t want to get married before I finish college, let alone raise a family, I guess it’s for the best that the sun is still shining when Kylee’s curfew rolls around. Kylee’s going to college, also. She’s majoring in restaurant and motel management, and plans to run a bed and breakfast inn some day, so she doesn’t want to get married anytime soon either.

 

     Papa was working in the barn when I sat at the kitchen table and called my mom this afternoon to tell her about my grades.  She heaped praise on me like she always does, then said she’d mail me a one-hundred dollar check. I know Papa doesn’t like it that Mom rewards me for my grades with money, but all he ever says about it is, “Make sure you write your mother and Franklin a thank you note.” 

 

Papa and my mom were never married.  I learned more about their relationship from Mom when I lived with her and Franklin a couple of summers ago, but Papa never talks about the years he and my mom lived together in Colorado.  Whenever I would bring the subject up when I was little, and ask why Mom lived all the way in New York, while we lived in Alaska, Papa would just say, “Your mother loves you very much, Trevor.  The reasons she and I aren’t living together have nothing to do with you.”  That was easy to accept when I was four, but by the time I was fourteen it was harder to understand.  I wanted to know why my father hadn’t married my mother, especially because by then he was talking to me about sex and telling me a man had a responsibility to the woman who bore his children. It seemed to me then, like Papa had reneged on his responsibility, given the fact that my mom was married to another man and had made her life so far away from us.  It wasn’t until Mom told me it was she who hadn’t wanted to marry Papa, and that Papa had asked her to marry him numerous times, that I realized situations aren’t always as clear as they seem to someone who’s looking from the outside in, rather than from the inside out.

 

     After Mom finished telling me about the things we’d do when I visited her, Franklin, and my little sister, Catherine, later in the summer, I asked, “Hey, Mom, how do you write a book?”

 

     “How do I write a book?”

 

     “Yeah.  You know.  You and Franklin have written books.  I was just wondering how you go about doin’ it.”

 

     I could hear the amusement in her voice.  “Why do you ask?  I thought you were going to be a doctor.  Have you changed your mind and are now aspiring to be the next great American novelist?”

 

     “No, I haven’t changed my mind about bein’ a doctor.  And if it was up to me, I wouldn’t even be the next worst American novelist, but I think that’s where I’m headed.”

 

     “What do you mean?”

 

I explained the assignment Mrs. St. Claire had given us, then said, “So?”

 

“So?”

 

“So, how do I write book?”

 

“You just write it.”

 

“That’s not much help.”

 

“All right.  How about this?  You start at the beginning, and write it until you’re finished.”

 

“Mom...” I implored.

 

“Trevor, I don’t know what else to tell you, sweetheart.  That’s the best advice I can give you until you have more specific questions for me.”

 

“How much more specific can I get other than, ‘how do I write a book’?”

 

“First, you need to settle on a subject or plot, depending on whether the book you’re going to write will be non-fiction or fiction. Then you need to draft an outline. Then you need to do the necessary research. Then you need to conduct interviews with experts in various fields if your subject or plot calls for that. Then you need to incorporate all of your notes into the outline.  Then...”

 

I laid my head on the table and moaned.

 

“Trevor?  Trevor, are you still there?”

 

I lifted my head and answered into the mouthpiece, “Yeah, I’m still here.”

 

Mom gave me a few more pointers, all of which seemed overwhelming, considering plot ideas were still escaping me where this assignment was concerned. It’s hard to think of outlines, and research, and interviews, when you don’t even know what your book’s going to be about.

 

I thanked Mom, told her that I loved her, then pressed the button that disconnected the call.  I stood, crossed to the counter, and put the portable receiver back in its base.  

 

I turned around and stared out the bay window that faced the front yard.  The bay’s side windows were open, letting a breeze flow through the house along with the scent of Sitka pines.

 

I never heard Papa enter the laundry room, wash up at the sink, and then come into the kitchen.  I didn’t know he was next to me until he clamped a hand on my right shoulder.  I gave a startled, “Ah!” and jumped, which made him laugh.  He loves to sneak up on people and scare the crap out of them if he can.  You’d think by now I’d be on the lookout for him, but he can still catch me by surprise every so often.

 

It was only four-thirty, but Pops started pulling things out of the fridge.  He handed me a casserole dish of hash brown potatoes that Clarice had made, and asked me to put it in the oven on ‘warm.’  I did that, while Papa grabbed a plate of hamburger patties he had put in the fridge the night before. 

 

“I’m going to start the grill,” he told me. “You wanna get the buns, ketchup, pickles, onions, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, and anything else you want on your burger, and bring all of it out to the picnic table?”

 

“Sure.”

 

I spent the next fifteen minutes slicing cheese, tomatoes, onions, and pickles, and putting the food on a platter.  Thirty minutes after I had finished, we were sitting together at the backyard picnic table eating supper off paper plates. Our dogs sat around the table begging for scraps, and every so often one of us would toss them part of a hamburger or a piece of bun. 

 

We had to put our male Malamute, Nicolai, to sleep last year.  He had cancer, and it reached a point where he was suffering so bad that we couldn’t let it go on any longer.  Taking him to the vet that final time was the hardest thing I ever had to do.  Papa told me I didn’t have to go with him, but Nicolai was my dog as much as he was Papa’s, so I wanted to say one last goodbye.  I felt stupid crying over a dog, but I did cry, and for a while I was pretty sad every time I’d see something that reminded me of Nic, like his dish or his collar.  This Christmas Pops surprised me with two eight-week-old Malamute puppies, one female and one male, that we named Nadia and Zhavago. We still have Tasha, but she’s the same age as Nicolai was, so I know one of these days I’ll be forced to say goodbye to her as well.  She’s doing okay though, considering she’s thirteen. She really missed Nicolai after he died. If a dog can be depressed, she was.  She’s more like her old self now that Nadia and Zhavago are here. She even plays with them, though she has a hard time keeping up with them, since they’re young and have so much energy. She doesn’t seem to mind, however.  When she gets tired, she lays down in the yard and is happy to watch them chase each other, or fetch a ball I’ve thrown.

 

While we ate, Papa asked, “Did you call your mother this afternoon?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What’d she have to say?”

 

I shrugged and swallowed my mouthful of potatoes. “Not much.  Just talked about what we’d do when I go to New York in July.”

 

“Did you tell her about your grades?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“If she sends you money--”

 

“I know, I know. Be sure to write her and Franklin a thank you note. I will.”

 

“Good. I don’t want her to think I raised you with no manners.”

 

“She doesn’t think that. Far from it.”

 

Now it was Papa who shrugged. “Whatever. Don’t much care what she thinks.”

 

I hid my smile within my hamburger. Of course Papa cares about what my mother thinks.  He always has.  It’s to bad things didn’t work out between them, because I know even after all these years he still loves her.  Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he’s never been serious with a woman here in Alaska – if the reason behind that is because he still loves my mom.  It’s hard for me to know for certain either way. I’ve heard all the excuses he’s given Clarice over the years. 

 

He’s not interested in a serious, long-term commitment.

 

He hasn’t met a woman in Alaska that he wants to pursue a relationship with. 

 

Between his responsibilities to the fire department and to me, he’s too busy to have a woman in his life right now. 

 

Whatever the reason, Pops seems happy being single, and since he has been single for most of his adult life, maybe a major change like marriage just isn’t something he wants.  Now that I’m almost grown, I kind of wish he’d find someone who’s special to him – some woman he could enjoy spending time with after I’m off to college, but when I mentioned that to Papa this winter, and told him it wouldn’t bother me if he had a girlfriend, he just laughed and said, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine when you’re out on your own.”

 

“But if you meet a woman--”

 

“If I meet the right woman, I’m not against dating...or marriage even, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure.  I didn’t want you to think I’d be jealous or anything.”

 

“That’s not what I think,” Pops assured me, then he changed the subject and we haven’t talked about it since.

 

I finished my hamburger, wiped my hands on a napkin, took a long gulp of Coke, then said, “I asked Mom how I’m supposed to go about writing my book.”

 

“Oh yeah?  What’d she say?”

 

“Just to start writing.”

 

“Sounds like good advice to me.”

 

I sighed as I stood to help my father clear the picnic table.  “It doesn’t sound like good advice to me.  It doesn’t sound like advice at all.”

 

Papa laughed at my expression, and told me not to look so pitiful.  After we had everything cleaned up we went back outside and took a hike with the dogs. We were gone an hour. When we returned, I fed the dogs and the barn cats, while Papa fed the horses. Afterwards, we sat together on the picnic table enjoying the evening.  Alaska has such a short summer, and our area of the state receives so much rain, that we enjoy every bit of sunshine and mild temperatures that come our way. 

 

I was sitting on the ground roughhousing with Nadia and Zhavago, when Papa went into the house for the portable phone.  He came back out with the receiver and sat down on the picnic table bench once again.  He called my grandfather first.  After they had talked for a few minutes, he handed me the phone and said, “Tell Grandpa about your grades.”

 

I rolled my eyes, but did as Papa requested. Grandpa’s a great guy, and despite his age, still healthy both mentally and physically.  He’s lived through so much history. He was a boy when the Great Depression hit, and a young man when it came to an end.  He was amongst the forty-four thousand Native Americans who served in the military during World War II, and then went on to start a successful, self-owned business during an era when few minorities were able to do so.  As we talked, I started wondering if maybe Grandpa had a story to tell me that I could turn into a book. Besides the stuff I already mentioned, he’d grown up on an Indian reservation, and then had married a white woman – my paternal grandmother who died in 1967 - at a time when being in a mixed marriage could get a guy killed. I filed my thoughts in the back of my mind, deciding they were definitely worth contemplating over the next few days.

 

After Pops and I had talked to both Grandpa and Grandma Marietta, Papa called Aunt Reah.  She used to live in Newfoundland, but because Grandma Marietta and Grandpa are both in their late eighties, Aunt Reah moved back to Montana two years ago so she could help them when needed.  She owns a house in White Rock, the town near my grandpa’s ranch, and provides prenatal care to women on area Indian reservations.

 

Pops made me tell Aunt Reah about my grades, and while I talked to her I got to thinking that she probably has lots of stories to tell.  She delivered babies for women in Newfoundland, and now she was doing that for women in northwestern Montana. She’s also traveled overseas several times on vacation because she’s curious about other cultures and customs, so she’s seen and done a lot of interesting things in her life.

 

I was still mulling over the possibilities of getting some kind of story for my book from Grandpa or Aunt Reah, when Papa called Uncle Roy.  Roy DeSoto isn’t my real uncle, but rather, he’s Papa’s best friend, and has been for thirty-eight years.  Once again, Papa handed me the phone.

 

“Tell Uncle Roy about your grades,” he urged, while he ignored my eye roll for the third time that evening.

 

Just like with Grandpa and Aunt Reah, I realized Uncle Roy probably had a lot of stories to tell, too. He’d been with the Los Angeles County Fire Department forty-one years when he retired last summer. You can’t do all the things Uncle Roy has – everything from fighting fires, to being one of L.A. County’s first paramedics, to advancing in the ranks to battalion chief, to retiring as the paramedic instructor for the entire fire department, without having some exciting stories.

 

I thought I’d finally hit on an idea for my book as I handed the phone back to Papa, when just as quickly I returned to being overwhelmed. Now that I’d thought of three people who had led full and interesting lives, I didn’t know which one to talk to.  Grandpa could tell me a lot about the history he’d been a part of, while Aunt Reah could tell me a lot about living alone in remote areas of Newfoundland while assisting women with childbirth who would otherwise have no medical care, while Uncle Roy could tell me a lot about being a firefighter/paramedic for most of his adult life.  The subjects were so varied that it was hard for me to decide which one would make a good story. 

 

“Man, I can’t believe this,” I muttered, while petting my dogs.  “First I don’t know what to write about, now I’m worried that I’ve got too much to choose from.”

 

I sat on the grass and listened as Papa talked the talk of old friends with Uncle Roy.  It was comforting, because it reminded me of when I was younger, and used to listen as Pops talked to Uncle Roy while I did my homework at the kitchen table.  They’d reminisce about when they worked together, telling the same stories over and over again.  They never seem to tire of those stories though, and I never tire of hearing them. Their relationship has embodied and endured so much over the years, that even at the young age of eight, it stood out to me as a symbol of what friendship is all about - two people from different backgrounds and with different personalities, whose differences grow to become the strength that binds them together for life.     

 

Nadia chewed on my hand while I quietly wrestled with Zhavago. I smiled when I heard Pops start laughing at some story Uncle Roy was telling – a story Pops has laughed at dozens of times over the past nine years since he and Uncle Roy renewed their friendship. They’d lost touch after Papa moved to Denver in 1985. In a frightening chain of events, it was a pedophile serial killer named Evan Crammer who brought Uncle Roy and Papa back together again in July of 2000. My father had first encountered Crammer on an April weekend in 1978, when he had taken Chris and Jennifer DeSoto camping. Crammer tried to abduct Jennifer in the middle of the night.  Papa was stabbed multiple times while wrestling Jennifer away from the man, and was close to death when help finally arrived and he was transported to Rampart Hospital.

 

I thought over what little I knew of my father’s experiences with Evan Crammer as I listened to Pops gab to Uncle Roy.  For the first time, I wondered what had been running through Papa’s head when Crammer was attacking him. He must have been so scared. So frightened that Crammer would kill both him and Jennifer.  And then nine years ago, Crammer returned for revenge, and my father found himself facing the guy again while trying to keep Jennifer’s then ten-year-old daughter, Libby, safe.  For Papa, it must have been like reliving a nightmare, but whatever thoughts he’s had about those two experiences he’s never voiced. Or at least not to me, and not to anyone else as far as I know.

 

After Papa said goodbye to Uncle Roy and disconnected the call, he stood and walked toward the house. When he sensed I wasn’t following him, he turned around.

 

“You comin’ inside, Trev?”

 

I continued to pet my dogs, my mind barely focusing on his words.

 

“In a little while.”

 

“Okay. I think I’ll read the newspaper, then go to bed.” He bent and kissed the top of my head. “Good night.”

 

“Night, Pops.”

 

I sat in the back yard for another thirty minutes. By the time I locked the dogs in the barn for the night and entered the house, Papa had gone to bed.  I locked the door, took my tennis shoes off, washed my hands at the laundry room sink, and then sat at the kitchen table eating a piece of cherry cobbler along with a scoop of ice cream. Clarice is one of the best cooks in Eagle Harbor. I think half the reason she likes Pops and me so much, is because we appreciate everything she makes, and tackle it as though it’s our last meal. Or so Clarice says when she’s teasing us about our appetites, while wondering how we’re lucky enough to stay so skinny despite all we eat.

 

I put my dishes in the dishwasher, shut off the kitchen light, then walked through the great room. Papa had left a lamp on for me, though it wasn’t necessary.  It was ten o’clock, but there was still sunlight coming in through the windows.  I shut the lamp off and turned for the stairs that would take me to my room, then on impulse changed my mind about going to bed.  I went to the office Papa has that’s off the great room.  I flicked on the overhead light and crossed to his desk.

 

I sat down in my father’s chair, hesitating a moment before reaching for his lower right-hand desk drawer.  I pulled out two thick photo albums that contain pictures from the years Papa lived in Los Angeles.  Beneath those two photo albums were two manila envelopes. Without looking, I knew one envelope contained cards and artwork made for Papa by Chris, Jennifer, and John DeSoto when they were kids.  The other envelope held newspaper clippings regarding various fires and rescues Papa had been a part of during his years with the L.A. County Fire Department, and newspaper clippings about the attempted abduction of Jennifer that took place over thirty years ago.  I was eight-years-old when I found the artwork and newspaper clippings. Even though I was young, for the first time I understood my father had left a very important part of his past, and a very important part of himself, in the city he had moved from in 1985.

 

Curiosity got the best of me tonight.  I wanted to see if Papa had added any newspaper clippings about the abductions of himself and Libby Sheridan to his collection.  In all the years since that happened, I’ve never thought to ask.  Sure enough, a vast collection was there.  There were stories about the event in the Los Angeles Times, as well as in the Eagle Harbor Chronicle.  As odd as it seems, I’ve never read these articles, even though my name was mentioned in the ones that appeared in the Chronicle. After all, it’s not often that an eight-year-old kid stows away on a plane in an attempt to rescue his father from the clutches of a serial killer.

 

I read the articles, then read them a second time.  I picked up the articles that had appeared in the L.A. Times in 1978, and read them through twice as well. I could feel my brows furrowing with concentration as I slowly paged through Papa’s photo albums in an attempt to capture in my mind the young men he and Roy DeSoto had once been.  I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I looked up at the clock hanging on the wall opposite my father’s desk.  Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne had given it to Papa for Christmas.  It was in the shape of a fire engine, with the face of the clock located on the engine’s door.  It was eleven-thirty, but I didn’t feel tired.  Instead, I was too excited to sleep, because suddenly I knew exactly what I was going to write about.

 

I scooped up a photo album and the newspaper clippings and ran from the room.  I charged up the stairs, never thinking about the fact that my father had been asleep for two hours now, and probably wouldn’t appreciate being woken up by his budding novelist.

 

I burst into Pop’s room with a cry of, “Papa!  Papa!  I’ve got an idea!  I’ve got an idea for my book!”

 

     And no, Papa didn’t appreciate being woken up. By the time we finished yelling at one another, I could have kicked myself in the butt for sharing my idea with him in the first place.

 

 

Wednesday, June 10th, 2009

 

 

I was too tired on Sunday night to finish my journal entry, (actually, the entry stretched into the early hours of Monday morning) so I ended it in kind of a dumb place.  Or at least I thought I did, until I read it again a few minutes ago.  It makes a person wonder what happened next, which reminds me of how a lot of authors end chapters. That prompted me to record in the notes I’ve started for my book:

 

 At the end of each chapter make the reader want to keep reading.

 

I’m not sure how much luck I’ll have at that, but I like how I ended my journal entry the other night, so maybe I’ll get the hang of that method if I practice it some more. For now, though, I’ll go back to the events of Sunday night.

 

Papa shot up in bed when I flung his door open and yelled, “I’ve got an idea for my book!”

 

He threw the covers back and started climbing into his blue jeans.  I realized then that he wasn’t fully awake.  I found out later he thought he was at the fire station, and that the klaxons had gone off.  I should have known he’d think that. After all of his years working for fire departments, if you wake him from a dead sleep he usually spends the first few seconds going through the motions of jumping into turn-outs before he’s oriented. 

 

It was when I turned on his bedside lamp that Pops realized where he was.  I had a sheepish look on my face as he collapsed back on the bed with one leg in his jeans, and one leg still out of them. 

 

“Ah...sorry, Papa.”

 

He scowled at me.  “Is the house on fire?”

 

“Uh...no.”

 

“Did you hurt yourself?”

 

“Uh...no.”

 

“Is someone tryin’ to break in?”

 

“Uh...no.”

 

“Is there a gas leak?”

 

“Uh...I don’t think so.”

 

“Okay then, what’s the emergency?”

 

“There...there isn’t one.”

 

Pops pulled his jeans off and threw them to the end of the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress in his boxer shorts and raked a hand through his hair.  What hadn’t been standing up in spikes messed by sleep was standing up now.  I thought Pops looked pretty funny, but I was smart enough not to say anything about his appearance.

 

“So if there isn’t an emergency, would you mind tellin’ me why you threw my door open in the middle of the night while yelling at the top of your lungs?”

 

“Well...see I’ve...I’ve got an idea for my book.”

 

“Good for you, but don’t cha’ think that news coulda’ waited until morning?”

 

“Um...yeah, I guess it could have.  Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

 

Papa shot me half a smile. “You’re forgiven.  But next time there’s not an emergency, remember two things please.”

 

“What two things?”

 

“Don’t come in here without knocking first. And don’t wake me up if I’m already sleeping.”

 

“I’ll remember.”

 

“Glad to hear it, ‘cause your old man’s heart can’t take a lot more of these middle of the night jump starts.”

 

I laughed. “Yeah, sure. You’ll be jump starting when you’re eighty if that means you’re still working for the fire department.”

 

“Maybe,” Pops agreed, acknowledging in that one word his life-long love of being a firefighter-paramedic.

 

  He pointed at the things I was carrying in my hands.  “What’s that?”

 

I sat down next to him.  “One of your photo albums from when you lived in L.A., and these newspaper clippings.”

 

I thrust the clippings at Papa, but he didn’t take them.  He glanced down long enough to see the headline on the top one - A Hero Fights For His Life! - then looked at me again.

 

“What are you doing with that stuff?”

 

“Like I said, I’ve got an idea for my book.”

 

I could hear the wariness in his voice when he asked, “What idea?”

 

“It came to me when you were talking to Uncle Roy on the phone.  I got to thinkin’ what good friends the two of you have been for so many years, and then after I came inside I went to your office.  I started looking at these old pictures, and the newspaper clippings from when Evan Crammer tried to kidnap Jennifer, and then kidnapped you and Libby, and that’s when I knew what I’d write about. That’s when--”

 

“No.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“No.”

 

“But, Pops--”

 

“Trevor, I said no.  You’ll have to come up with another idea.”

 

“But I’ve been thinking for a week now and this is the first idea I’ve had.  And the great thing about it is just what you said the other day at Donna’s.”

 

“What I said?”

 

“It was right under my nose.”

 

“No,” he shook his head.  “Not that.  Not...not about Crammer. You think harder. I’m sure you’ll come up with something else over the next few days.”

 

“But, Papa--”

 

We don’t get into yelling matches often any more, but every once in a while we can still get pretty upset with one another.

 

“Trevor, I said no!  Now drop it. It’s late, and we both have to work in the morning.  Go to bed.”

 

“Pops, come on!” I jumped to my feet, still clinging to the photo album and clippings.  “This is the best idea!  No one is gonna be able to write a story better than this one!  Besides, I don’t have any other ideas.  This is the first good plot that I’ve thought of since Mrs. St. Claire gave us the assign--”

 

“Trevor, how many times do I have to say no?”

“You don’t have to say it any times.  All you have to say is yes.”

 

“Well I’m not gonna say yes.  Now go to bed.”

 

“Papa--”

 

Now it was Papa’s turn to stand up.  He’s taller than me by only an inch now, but even when wearing nothing but boxer shorts he can still intimidate me into good behavior when he shoots me that glare he has.

 

“Young man, I’m not gonna say it again.  Drop it, and get to bed.”

 

I resorted to the only defense I had left. Immaturity.

 

“Fine!  Fine, I’ll drop it. But when I get an F and Jenna Van Temple is valedictorian, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself!”

 

With that, I stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind me.  I marched to my room, and slammed that door for good measure. I tossed the photo album and clippings on my dresser, then spent ten minutes pacing the room while muttering things like, “He’s so stupid,” and “Fine, I’m not gonna a write a book at all then. I’ll flunk, and he can brag about that to his friends.”

 

When I’d calmed down some, I sat at my desk so I could type in my journal. This is the first year Pops has let me have a computer in my room, though he doesn’t let me have Internet access.  If I need to get on the Net I have to use the computer in his office, meaning he can check the History icon at any time to see what sites I’ve visited. I think Papa’s convinced that teenage boys do nothing but access porn sites if left unsupervised to surf the Net - which probably isn’t too far from the truth.  I’ve surfed the Net a few times with friends who are allowed to do so from computers in their bedrooms, so I know what teenage boys – including me - like to look at when they don’t have to worry about their parents checking up on them.

 

 I was surprised I could set my anger aside while I recorded the events of the day, but I could, which means I’ve learned something else about writing.  It’s therapeutic, and it allows you to escape to a place far removed from your current reality. Maybe that’s why I stopped my journal entry where I did.  Maybe my anger was too fresh, and I didn’t want to reenter my current reality. Or maybe I was depressed because I had to come up with a new idea for my book, or maybe, like I said earlier, I was just too tired to keep typing.  Whatever it was, I saved my entry to my hard drive and to a disk, then stripped to my boxers and climbed in bed.  I tossed and turned for over an hour. I was so upset with Papa for dashing my book idea that I couldn’t settle down.

 

When the alarm went off at six, I felt like I could use another seven hours of sleep.  Unfortunately, I had to get up because there were animals to take care of before I reported to work at eight.

 

I made my bed, then took clothes across to the hall to the bathroom and got dressed.  I could smell bread toasting in the toaster as I made my way down the stairs.  I entered the kitchen to find Papa setting a box of Wheat Chex and a box of Cheerios on the kitchen table.  Orange juice had already been poured into glasses that were setting on the table as well.

 

I headed for the laundry room.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

 

“To the barn.” I refused to look at Pops. “Got chores to do.”

 

“You can do them after breakfast.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

“Sit down.”

 

I hesitated long enough for Pops to order again, “Trevor, sit down.”

 

I pulled a chair out and slammed the legs on the floor in the act of sitting. Papa shot me that glare of his again.

 

“I’ve heard enough slamming of doors and chairs in the past six hours to last me until you graduate from high school, so cool it.”

 

“I’m not gonna graduate now.  I’ll be lucky if the Merchant Marine will take me after I flunk Mrs. St. Claire’s class next year.”

 

“You’re not gonna flunk Mrs. St. Claire’s class.”

 

“I will if I don’t turn a book in.”

 

“You’re gonna turn a book in.”

 

“I was gonna turn a book in,” I said as Papa placed a plate of buttered toast in front of me, “until you told me I couldn’t write about Crammer.  You know, you can’t tell me what I can or can’t write. There is this thing called freedom of the press. The constitution says I can write whatever I want to.”

 

“That’s true, except the constitution doesn’t feed and clothe you, now does it?”

 

I scowled, but kept my thoughts to myself. I knew if I opened my mouth and said anything, what came out was going to get me grounded for at least a week.

 

Papa sat down across from me and filled his cereal bowl with Wheat Chex.  As he poured milk in and added two teaspoons of sugar, he said, “I’ve been giving this idea of yours some more thought.”

 

“I already heard you.  You said I can’t write it, so forget it.”

 

“You give up too easily.”

 

“What’s the supposed to mean?”

 

“Just what I said. You give up too easily.”

 

“I don’t have much choice, do I?  You said I can’t use that plot.”

 

Papa smiled. “Anything worth doing is worth fighting for.”

 

“Yeah, but don’t cha’ think I’m at kind of a disadvantage?”

 

“How so?”

 

“It’ my father I’m fighting with over this.”

 

“Good point,” Papa nodded. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then asked, “So, you’re sure you can write a book about Crammer?”

 

I wasn’t sure I could write a book about anything, but I didn’t say that to Papa.  I figured my father’s experiences with Evan Crammer were as good of a subject to settle on as any.  At least the research and interviews, as Mom mentioned were necessary, wouldn’t be too hard to come by.

 

I sounded more confident then I felt when I gave a firm nod, and an equally firm, “I’m sure.”

 

“All right, here’s the deal then.”

 

“There’s a deal I have to make?”

 

“Yep. There is.”

 

“I don’t think Hemingway ever had to make any deals when he wrote his books.”

 

“That’s because Hemingway wasn’t seventeen years old and living with his father when he was writing.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Pretty sure.  And even if I’m wrong, we’re not talking about Hemingway. We’re talking about you.”

 

“That’s what I thought you were gonna say.” I put grape jelly on my toast, took a bite, chewed and swallowed, then asked, “Okay, what’s the deal?”

 

“The deal is that you first have to find out if anyone but Mrs. St. Claire is gonna read the book.”

 

“I can do that.  I can stop by her house on my way home from Gus’s today.”

 

“Okay.  If she’s the only person who’s gonna read it, then I’ll be more inclined to say yes.”

 

I grinned. “All right!  Thanks, Pops. I--”

 

He held up a hand.  “Hold on just a minute. There’s two more parts to this deal.”

 

“What?”

 

“You have to change everyone’s names. I don’t want anyone’s real name used. Not mine, not Crammer’s, and most of all not your Uncle Roy’s, Chris’s, Jennifer’s, or Libby’s.  You have to be willing to respect our privacy.”

 

“I will,” I promised. I was pretty sure fiction authors sometimes based their books on actual people and events, but changed stuff like names, places, and facts.  I made a mental note to ask Mrs. St. Claire about that when I saw her.

 

“The other thing is, you have to get permission from Uncle Roy, Chris, Jennifer, and Libby to do this. I don’t want you askin’ them questions, or bothering them in any way, if they don’t wanna participate.”

 

“Okay, I’ll talk to them as soon as possible.  I can call them after I get home from work.”

 

This had been Libby’s freshman year at UCLA.  She’s majoring in music, and hopes to play in a symphony orchestra after she graduates.  She lived on campus during the school year, but now that summer is here, she moved back to Jennifer’s house.  She works at a GAP, and when she’s not working, she plays with an orchestra that gives evening performances in parks around the L.A. area.  I knew I could get a hold of Libby and Jennifer at Jennifer’s house, and Chris is easy to get in touch with on most days since he works out of his home. I wasn’t as certain about Uncle Roy, because now that he and Aunt Joanne are both retired, they travel some.

 

“Is Uncle Roy around?”

 

“He was last night when I talked to him on the phone.”

 

“What I mean is, he didn’t say anything about him and Aunt Joanne going away this week, did he?”

 

“Nope. He didn’t mention any plans for trips until they go to Wyoming in August to see John and his family.”

 

“Okay. Then I’ll try to get in touch with all of them after I get off work today.”

 

“All right.  And if any of them say no--”

 

“If any of them say no, then I’ll come up with another idea.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

We talked about other things while we ate. I had just finished my breakfast when Clarice’s vehicle pulled in the driveway. I stood to carry my dishes to the dishwasher. After I had placed them in the lower rack and shut the door, I walked by Pops, bent down, and encircled his shoulders with my right arm.

 

“Thanks, Papa.”

 

He reached up and patted my arm.  “You’re welcome.”

 

“See you tonight. I’ll bring supper to the station for you, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Pops agreed.

 

Papa was starting a twenty-four hour shift that morning.  When I was little, Clarice and I took supper to the station when Pops had all-night duty, so he and I could eat together.  That ritual has continued, even though I’m not a kid any more. Now that I’m driving, Clarice doesn’t come with me. She either packs a hot meal for both Papa and me that I take as I leave the house, or I treat Pops to something like pizza from Mr. Ochlou’s, or burgers from Donna’s.

 

“Be careful today,” Papa said, like he has every day since I started driving.

 

“I will be,” I promised while heading for the door. “You too.”

 

I met Clarice coming in as I was going out.  She told me to make sure I stopped back in the house to pick up the lunch she was going to pack for me. I smiled my thanks at her and said I would.  While I was doing chores, I heard the fire department SUV Papa drives start up.  By the time I walked out of the barn ten minutes later, he had left for work.

 

I thought about everything I had to do as I went to the house to shower, change into clothes that didn’t smell like horses, and brush my teeth, before going to the airport.  Despite my confidence with Papa, I wasn’t certain how to go about asking the various members of the DeSoto family for the permission I needed to write the book. 

 

It wasn’t that I was nervous about talking to Chris, Jennifer, or Libby.  Libby is one of my closest friends, and Chris and Jen treat me like an older brother and sister might treat a favorite little brother.  I guess it’s kind of egotistical to refer to myself as a ‘favorite little brother’ but that’s the best way I can describe it.  Enough years separate me from Chris and Jennifer that they’re old enough to be parents to me, but my relationship with them has never included parental overtones. I look up to both of them in the way I imagine a kid looks up to much older and respected siblings.  Therefore, uneasiness didn’t play a part in asking them for permission to write a book in which the plot would mirror terrifying events they had lived through, but rather, figuring out how to ask, how to explain this crazy idea I had, was what had me worked up. After all, who was going to take a seventeen-year-old seriously when it came to a novel as complex as this?  And all for nothing but a dumb school assignment that seventeen-year-old wouldn’t be participating in if he had a choice.     

 

 On the other side of the DeSoto family coin, I was nervous about talking to Uncle Roy, which is kind of odd, because he’s never given me reason to be afraid of him other than the first time I met him. That was when I was eight and had stowed away to California.  I was too young then to realize that the man I thought was grouchier than the Grinch, was grouchy because he was worried about his granddaughter’s whereabouts and safety.  All I knew was one minute Roy DeSoto didn’t seem to like me very much, and the next minute I was calling him “Uncle Roy” and beginning to feel strong affection for the gentle man with the soft voice who comforted me while I cried for my missing father.

 

I’m still not sure why the thought of asking Uncle Roy for his permission to write this book was so difficult, other than to say that, like Papa, I’d never heard him talk about Evan Crammer.  Not that I’d heard Chris, Jennifer, or Libby talk about Crammer a lot either, but I have heard them say a few things about their experiences with the man – mostly in relationship to how grateful they are to my father for keeping them safe, and how he was willing to sacrifice himself for them.  Just the three of them talking to me that little bit about Crammer over the years gave me the impression the subject wasn’t off-limits with them.  Somehow, I’d always gotten the opposite impression with Uncle Roy.  Maybe it’s just because he’s not a guy to talk much about his feelings. Or maybe it’s because I’ve never really asked him about Crammer. Or maybe...well, maybe it’s because Evan Crammer is difficult for him to talk about, just like Crammer is difficult for Papa to talk about.  

 

After I was showered and dressed, I raced down the stairs.  I grabbed my insulated lunch bag from the counter, gave Clarice a kiss on the cheek, told her goodbye, and dashed out the door.  I arrived at the airport a few minutes before eight.  Although I usually hate it when Gus asks me to give his office a good cleaning (the guy is a total slob when it comes to keeping an organized file cabinet, putting away receipts for taxes, and throwing away papers he no longer needs) I was actually glad for such a routine chore. While I separated papers into piles, then filed, dusted, and swept, I rehearsed how I was going to present my case for the book to the DeSotos.  Even after three hours of talking to myself, I wasn’t sure if I sounded like anything other than a stammering idiot. If nothing else, Gus’s office looked great.  Or so he said as I ran by him on my way to my other job. 

 

Monday through Friday in the summertime I do lunch deliveries for Mr. Ochlou along with Dylan Teirman.  Kylee is a waitress at Ochlou’s Pizzeria, and if Dylan and I get our deliveries done early we help her out by bussing tables.  Besides pizza, Mr. Ochlou serves sandwiches and hotdogs, so he’s always busy between eleven and one-thirty. 

 

“See you around two!” I called to Gus as I ran out of his office, headed for my truck.

 

“See you then!  I’ve got a plane for us to load when you get back!”

 

I waved a hand in acknowledgment of Gus’s words. He hauls cargo all over Alaska, and down into Washington, Oregon, and California, too. 

 

It’s always good to see Kylee, and I’ve been best friends with Dylan and his twin, Dalton, for as long as I can remember, so working at Mr. Ochlou’s is as much fun as working for Gus, only in a different way, of course.  At Gus’s, I get to indulge in my love of flying. At Ochlou’s Pizzeria, I get to indulge in my love of Kylee.  Or at least I get to make ‘goo goo’ eyes at her from afar, as Mr. Ochlou is always accusing me of doing in that grumpy way he has of talking. I learned a long time ago that his bark is worse than his bite, so I never let anything he says get to me. 

 

I ate my lunch as I drove from the airport to the pizzeria. I worked at Ochlou’s from eleven-fifteen until one forty-five.  I punched out, said goodbye to Mr. Ochlou and Dylan, then grabbed Kylee and pulled her into the seclusion of the short hallway that leads to the public restrooms.  We exchanged two kisses before Mr. Ochlou yelled, “Hey, lover boy, be on your way so Kylee can get back to work!  I’m not paying her to keep your lips warm, Gage.”

 

Kylee giggled while I shook my head and rolled my eyes. 

 

“I’ll call you after work,” I promised. “I’m gonna eat supper at the station with my pops, but before I go home maybe I can stop by your place. We can take a walk and get some ice cream.”

 

“All right,” Kylee agreed. “I’ll talk to you later.”

 

“Yeah. Talk to you later.”

 

I stole one more kiss, then pushed the swinging glass door open and ran across the parking lot to my truck. As I came upon Mrs. St. Claire’s house, I saw her working in the yard, so decided it was as good a time as any to talk to her. 

 

Mrs. St. Claire acted happy to see me, which I thought was pretty nice of her considering no teacher probably wants to see a student during summer vacation.  Of course, here in Eagle Harbor that’s kind of hard to avoid, considering how isolated this community is from the mainland of Alaska.

 

I asked Mrs. St. Claire the questions Papa told me I had to.  She assured me that she’d be the only person reading the book, and she confirmed that fiction authors often base their books on real events, but take numerous fictional liberties to hide that fact from their readers at large.

 

“Sounds like you have quite a plot in mind, Trevor,” my teacher said, even though I hadn’t told her many details about my idea.  However, she’d been a resident of Eagle Harbor when Papa was kidnapped and I stowed away, so she was at least aware of the information given in the newspaper, and then whatever else had circulated as a result of small town gossip.

 

“Maybe.  I don’t know. First of all, I have to get permission from a few people to write it...people who were involved in the incidents.  If they say yes, then I’ll have to see if I can do something with it. You know, turn it into a real book.”

 

“I’m sure you can.”

 

“I’m glad you think so, because I’m not so certain of that.  Writing a book is already hard work, Mrs. St. Claire, and I haven’t even started yet.”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire laughed, then told me she was confident that I wasn’t afraid of a little hard work.

 

     Her mentioning hard work made me look at my watch. I thanked my teacher for her time, got back in my truck, and headed for Gus’s.

 

     I finished my day at the airport at four-thirty.  I smelled supper cooking when I entered my house at ten minutes to five.   

 

Clarice smiled as I walked in the door. “I knew you’d be home soon.  I’ll have food packed for you and your papa within the hour.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

I unpacked my lunch bag while telling Clarice about my day.  I didn’t mention anything about stopping to see Mrs. St. Claire. I didn’t want Clarice, or anyone else in Eagle Harbor, to know about the book.  Or at least not right then.  If I blew it and didn’t get it written, or if it turned out to be lousy and I got a bad grade on it, I figured the less people who knew the better.

 

While Clarice worked in the kitchen, I went outside and did chores.  I threw a ball a few times for my dogs before I fed them.  I petted all three of them, and promised we’d take a hike on Tuesday.  Between work, baseball, and Kylee, I don’t have as much time to play with Nadia and Zhavago like I used to play with Tasha and Nicolai. I guess that’s why I think of Nadia and Vag as Papa’s dogs, more than I think of them as my own.  Not to mention that they’ll be his companions after I leave for college.

 

When I was finished with chores I went into the house.  I cleaned up and changed clothes again, then slipped into Papa’s office without Clarice seeing me. She had the TV on that’s mounted beneath a set of cabinets in the kitchen. She was watching Jeopardy while she ate her supper, so she wasn’t paying attention to where I was. 

 

I shut the office door and sat down behind Papa’s desk.  I wiped a sweaty palm on the leg of my jeans, then laid my hand on the phone’s receiver. I took three deep breaths, picked up the receiver, and punched in Uncle Roy’s number.  I figured I might as well call him first, since he was the DeSoto I most expected to say “no” to my request.  If he refused to give me permission to write the book, then there was no use in wasting my time calling Chris, Jennifer, and Libby.

 

The phone rang four times. Just when I was expecting the answering machine to pick up, I heard a man’s voice say, “Hello?”

 

“Uh...uh...” I swallowed hard and wiped my sweaty palm on my jeans again. “Uh...Uncle Roy...this is Trevor.  Uh...Trevor Gage.”

 

Uncle Roy chuckled over the way I had supplied my last name.  “I’m not so old yet that you need to give me your last name, Trev.”

 

“Oh...uh...no. No, I didn’t mean...I don’t think you are.  Old, I mean. I don’t think you’re old. Sorry.”

 

The man must have sensed my nervousness, because his next question was an urgent, “Trevor, are you all right?  Is your father okay?”

 

“Uh...yeah. Yeah. We’re both fine.”

 

“Good. Good, glad to hear it.  You had me worried there for a second.  So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, young man?”

 

“I...um...Uncle Roy, is it okay if I write a book?”

 

And that was the brilliant way I tried to obtain permission from Roy DeSoto to write a book about his experiences with a serial killer named Evan Crammer.

 

 

Sunday, June 14th, 2009

 

 

I didn’t know being a writer was such hard work. Since Wednesday night I’ve spent every spare minute I have on my book, and I haven’t written even one page of it yet!  At this rate, I’ll have to repeat my senior year in order to finish the stupid thing. I said that to Papa this evening when he came home from work and found me at the computer in his office – the same place he had found me before he left for work at seven-thirty this morning.

 

Once again, Papa voiced his confidence in me. 

 

“You’ll have it finished before the deadline. Don’t get so high-strung over it.  Work on it an hour or two each day, then call it quits. If you do that, little by little it’ll get done.”

 

If you knew my pops, you’d know why I thought it was funny when he told me not to get so high-strung. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.  (That’s an old-fashioned expression, but it’s one Clarice uses all the time in reference to Papa and me. I’ve picked up on it over the years, and on some of her other expressions, too. Therefore, I find myself sounding like a seventy-seven year old woman at times, and not like a seventeen-year old guy.)

 

“An hour or two each day?” Even I could hear the disbelief in my voice. “Pops, there’s a lot more to this than I thought. I’m gonna have to spend every free minute I have on this book, and even then, I’ll be lucky to have it done by April.”

 

Papa shrugged. “Then pick another plot.”

 

I had a feeling there was more to that comment than met the eye.  Papa said it casually enough, but I got the impression that’s what he really hoped I do. Which, in turn, made me even more determined to write about Evan Crammer.

 

“No,” I shook my head. “No, I’ll stick with this one. Besides, I’ve already gotten everyone’s permission. I’m not gonna change my mind now.”

 

I meant that too.  No way was I going to change my mind.  Just getting in touch with all of the DeSotos, explaining my assignment, and telling each of them my idea for the plot, had taken a lot of time.  I had to call Libby after I got home from taking Kylee for ice cream on Wednesday night, because I hadn’t been able to reach her before I left for the fire station with Papa’s supper. Jennifer was on duty at the hospital when I finally got in touch with Libs, so I had to call back on Thursday night in order to talk to her.  

 

As I had expected it would be, talking about my book to Chris, Jennifer, and Libby was pretty easy.  Chris thought it was a neat idea, wished me luck, and told me he’d answer any questions he could.  He was eleven years old in April of 1978, and it had been Chris who rode my father’s horse, Cody, down a mountain in order to get help after Evan Crammer had stabbed Papa multiple times.  That’s all I know about Chris’s involvement, so I’m anxious to find out what he remembers about that weekend when Crammer tried to kidnap Jennifer, and Papa was seriously injured protecting her.

 

Getting permission from Libby to write the book wasn’t any more of a problem than getting it from Chris had been. Even though she must have some terrifying memories of her four days held captive by Crammer, Libby was excited about my book.

 

“That’s awesome, Trev. It’s a great way to let everyone know what a hero your father is.”

 

“It’s just for a high school English assignment,” I reminded her. “It’s not like it’s really gonna be published or anything.”

 

“You never know. It might be.”

 

I laughed. “Libby, I’ll be lucky if this so-called book of mine is interesting enough to hold a first grader’s attention when I’m finished with it.  There’s no way it’s ever gonna be published.”

 

“Don’t sell yourself short. You haven’t even written it yet.”

 

“No, I haven’t, but even when I finally do get it done, and even if it is halfway decent, Papa would never let me get it published.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Beats me. He’s been kinda weird about the whole idea.”

 

“Weird?”

 

“Yeah. At first...on Sunday night, when I first told him what my idea for the book was, he got pissed off and told me that I couldn’t write it.  Then on Monday morning he changed his mind, but only if I met certain conditions.”

 

“Conditions?”

 

“Yeah, I have to get permission from you, your mom, Chris, and your grandpa before I can write it, and then no one but my English teacher can read it.”

 

“You mean even I can’t read it?”

 

“I dunno.  I guess you could. I think Papa just meant no one could read it who wasn’t involved.  But either way, you won’t wanna read it. Trust me, it’ll be dumb.”

 

“How can it be dumb?”

 

“I’m writing it, that’s how.  But before I can do that, I’ll have to call back tomorrow night and talk to your mom.  I already talked to your grandpa and Chris earlier today, so if I get a yes from your mom, I can start this ‘epic’ of mine.  Do you think she’ll be home by seven your time?”

 

Libby laughed at the sarcastic way I said the word epic, then told me, “Yeah, she should be here. She’s on a twenty-four shift right now, so if she’s not tied up at the hospital for any reason, she should be home by nine in the morning. I’ll let her know you’re trying to get in touch with her. And speaking of your epic, what are you gonna call it?”

 

“You mean aside from writing it, I have to come up with a title?”

 

“Yes, silly, you have to come up with a title. Who did you think was gonna give it a title?”

 

I scribbled the word ‘Title’ in my notes while I said, “Libby, take it from me. Don’t ever give up music to become an author.”

 

Libs laughed once more before telling me goodbye and breaking our connection. I called Jennifer’s house again on Thursday after I got home from work.  Jen picked up on the second ring. After I identified myself, she said, “Hi, Trev. Libby told me to expect your call.”

 

Jennifer’s been through some tough times with the death of her son, Brandon, when he was only six, and then her divorce from Libby and Brandon’s father not long after that, but you’d never know it. One of the things I love about Jen is that she always has a smile in her voice whenever she talks to you.  She’s a really positive, caring person, and that’s one reason she makes such a great doctor.  She connects with her patients in the same way I hope to connect with my own patients some day.  I know professors at medical schools preach against personal involvement, but how can a guy be a small town doctor without wanting to be personally involved with his patients?  Doesn’t make much sense to me, that’s for sure.

 

After we exchanged small talk, I explained my assignment to Jennifer.  Jen didn’t voice any reluctance to the idea, but on the other hand, I got the impression she didn’t take my assignment too seriously either. Like Chris had, Jennifer wished me luck and told me she’d help in any way she could.  She was sincere about all of it, but I’m pretty sure she was thinking it was just a high school English assignment, and since I’d never written much of anything before beyond what was required of me in Mrs. St. Claire’s class, how could I possibly turn her experiences with Evan Crammer into a full fledged novel? Which are exactly the same thoughts I have whenever the impact of what I’m going to attempt hits me.  It’s interesting that I fought so hard with Papa in order to get the privilege to write a book I have my doubts I can write in the first place. Just goes to show you that as soon as someone tells a Gage he can’t do something, he’ll turn around and prove that person wrong.  Or so I’ve heard Uncle Roy say in reference to my pops.  Guess that applies to me too.

 

The conversation I had dreaded the most when it came to getting permission to write this book, had been the one that turned out to be the shortest. Like I said, I called Uncle Roy first because if he told me no, then I’d be wasting my time to contact Chris, Jen, and Libby. Right away I got suspicious when Uncle Roy didn’t ask me any questions after I’d stumbled through, “I...um...Uncle Roy, is it okay if I write a book?” nor did he act surprised by my request.  It was as if he knew it was coming, which meant I knew who had called him before I did.

 

Uncle Roy told me that it was okay with him if I wrote the book, and that yes, he’d answer any questions he could for me.  I was ready to thank him and say goodbye, when my suspicions regarding a phone call preceding mine were confirmed.  As I was about to wrap up our conversation, he requested, “Trev, just do me one favor, okay?”

 

“Sure. Whatever you want, Uncle Roy.”

 

“When you’re writing this book, you need to keep in mind that this...this entire subject...time period, might not be easy for your father to relive. Don’t...well, just don’t give him any grief over it, all right?”

 

“Whatta’ ya’ mean?”

 

“I...I just mean it was difficult for him.”

 

Papa has always been my hero for a lot of reasons, not just because he protected both Jennifer and Libby from Evan Crammer and lived to tell the story.  Even during recent years when our relationship hasn’t always been smooth sailing, my father is the guy I most want to grow up to be like.  And like that guy, I’m persistent, which is why my response to Uncle Roy wasn’t an amiable, “All right,” but instead a probing, “Difficult how?”

 

There was a hesitation before he responded. “Just difficult. There...just give your father the respect he deserves, Trevor, and don’t put pressure on him where this subject is concerned. That’s all I’m asking. Will you do that for me?”

 

My response came quickly and without much thought.  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll do that.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

It wasn’t until after I hung up the phone that I really thought about what Uncle Roy had said. 

 

Just difficult. There...just give your father the respect he deserves, Trevor, and don’t put pressure on him where this subject is concerned.

 

Suddenly, it seemed as though there was more to this story than a pedophile serial killer intent on kidnapping Jennifer, and then years later, intent on revenge against my father.  I thought Uncle Roy was hinting at other things I wasn’t aware of, but if I was right about that, I didn’t have a clue as to what those ‘difficult’ things were.

 

By the time I arrived at the fire station with Papa’s supper that night, the other firefighter on twenty-four hour duty with him had already eaten and was in the parking lot behind the station washing the paramedic squad.  Pops and I had the kitchen to ourselves as we ate the baked chicken and rice Clarice had packed for us.

 

I answered Papa’s questions about my day spent working for Mr. Ochlou and for Gus, then told him of my plans to take Kylee for ice cream after I left the station. 

 

“How’s your day been?” I asked in return.

 

“Busy, but fine.”

 

Pops told me about a couple of runs they’d had, and then the three hours they’d spent searching Eagle Harbor National Forest for a lost little boy.  Between May and September is the peak tourist season here in Alaska. Since the National Forest borders our town, every so often the fire department has to scour it for a lost kid.  Fortunately, that kind of run has never ended in tragedy.  Or at least not in all the years Papa has been Eagle Harbor’s fire chief.

 

“Glad you found him,” I said of the missing five-year-old.

 

“Me too,” Pops agreed. “That’s a heck of a lotta territory to cover. About ten years ago we spent twenty hours looking for a kid.  I didn’t think we were ever gonna find her, and we were damn lucky when we did.”

 

I nodded. I vaguely recall that incident. I was seven, and since I always looked forward to Papa arriving home from work, I remember how disappointed I was when he didn’t show up that evening before Clarice put me to bed. Because of the lost little girl, he didn’t arrive until eleven-thirty the following morning. 

 

When we were done catching up with each other and were working our way through second helpings of Clarice’s chicken, I said casually, “I talked to Uncle Roy a little while ago.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“He said it’s okay if I write the book.”

 

Though Papa said, “That’s good,” he didn’t sound very happy.  He didn’t sound mad or upset...not like he’d been in his room on Sunday night, but he did sound disappointed, which I thought was odd since he was the one who said I had to call Uncle Roy in the first place.

 

“I called Chris after I talked to Uncle Roy.  He gave me permission to write the book too.  I called Jennifer’s house, but there was no answer.  I’ll call back when I get home tonight.”

 

Papa nodded, but didn’t say anything.

 

I waited for him to speak, but when I saw a minute tick off on the kitchen clock I broke our silence.  My tone was more curious than it was accusatory.  I was pissed at Papa, but I wasn’t stupid enough to start a fight that might put an end to my book.

 

“Pops, why did you call Uncle Roy?”

 

“Call him?”

 

“Yeah. I know you talked to him sometime today before I did.”

 

“Did he tell you that?”

 

“No, but I know you called him.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“ ‘Cause he’s a rotten actor. It was pretty obvious that he knew what I was calling about before I even opened my mouth.”

 

Without hesitation, Papa acknowledged, “Yeah, I called him.” 

 

“Why? Didn’t you think I’d tell him the truth about the book? Or explain my idea good enough?”

 

“No, that’s not it at all. I knew you’d be honest and give him a thorough explanation.”

 

“Then why did you call him?  So you could tell him not to give me permission to write it?”

 

“Now that would be kinda dumb, wouldn’t it, considering I was the one who said you had to call him to begin with.”

 

“That’s what I’m thinkin’.”

 

“Then you’re thinkin’ right.”

 

“So why’d you call him, Pops? I mean, I’m seventeen years old. I’m old enough to handle something like this without your help...or interference.”

 

“I wasn’t doing either of those things.”

 

“Then what were you doing?”

 

My father gave me his ‘look’ for a long moment – the one that tells me to back off and remember he’s the parent and I’m the kid. When he was done putting me in my place with just that look, he said softly, “I was letting an old friend know that if he didn’t wanna agree to being a part of your book...however indirectly, that it was okay for him to say no.”

 

“I woulda’ told him that.”

 

“Maybe you would have, but he didn’t need to hear it from you, Trevor.  Roy needed to hear it from me.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because if you haven’t figured it out yet, you mean a lot to Roy DeSoto.  He thinks of you as the grandson he doesn’t have. The last thing he’d wanna do is say no to you.”

 

“So that’s why you called him? To tell Uncle Roy that he could put a stop to my book if he wanted to?”

 

“Yes, that’s why I called your Uncle Roy.”

 

“I don’t get it.”

 

“You don’t get what?”

 

“On Sunday night you told me I couldn’t write the book, but then on Monday morning you told me anything worth doing is worth fighting for. Now you’re acting like you don’t want me to write the book again.”

 

“I never said that.”

 

“Then why’d you call Uncle Roy?”

 

“I already told you why.”

 

“But--”

 

“Trevor, I don’t have to explain a thirty-eight year friendship to you.”

 

“I know, but--”

 

“And even if I did have to explain it to you, I couldn’t.”

 

“What’s that mean?”

 

Papa stood and gathered our empty dishes. “Just what I said.”

 

I would have hung around the station and bugged him more in an effort to get a straight answer, but he was toned out for a possible heart attack. He left the dishes in the sink and ran for the paramedic squad.  He turned around right before he opened the service door that led from the kitchen/dayroom, to the back parking lot.

 

“Have Kylee home by her curfew, and you be home by yours.”

 

“I will be!” I called as the door shut behind him.

 

I finished cleaning up the kitchen, loaded our dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and packed the casserole dish into Clarice’s insulated carrier.  I took it to my truck, climbed in, and went to Kylee’s house.  We walked to the Last Frontier Ice Cream Parlor, but it was so crowded with tourists that we ended up going to Donna’s Diner for milkshakes instead.  It was after I had taken Kylee home that I called Libby. Clarice was waiting up for me, just like she always does when I’m out on a date and she’s spending the night because Papa’s on-duty. She shut off the TV in the great room when I walked through the kitchen door.  Clarice told me goodnight, kissed my cheek, then headed to the bedroom we think of as hers, that’s behind the formal dining room we hardly ever use. 

 

I used the phone in Papa’s office to call Libby.  When she and I finished talking, I was too keyed up to sleep. Even though I still had to get in touch with Jennifer, I was anxious to start working on my book.  I pulled out all of the newspaper articles, read them through again, and began making notes.  From those notes, questions started to form that I wanted to ask my father and the DeSotos.  I used Papa’s computer to start a file I named, ‘Trevor’s Book’ for lack of anything better to call it.  Once questions started churning in my head, it was hard to stop them.  But when I glanced up at the fire engine clock and saw it was ten minutes after eleven, I knew I needed to go to bed. I had to work the next morning, so I had to be up early to do chores before leaving for the airport.

 

I took the newspaper articles with me on Thursday.  After I got off work I stopped at the library and made copies of them.  I didn’t want to lose any of Papa’s originals, plus I wanted the copies so I could highlight various sentences and make notes in the margins.

 

I worked on my notes and questions for a couple of hours on Friday night, and then again on Saturday night after I took Kylee home.  She’d come to my house for supper after my baseball game. Papa cooked hot dogs and polish sausage on the grill for us, and then after we’d eaten he went into the house to watch a movie while Kylee and I took a horseback ride.

 

I spent today organizing the notes and questions I have so far.  I want to make this as easy as possible for everyone, meaning I don’t want to fumble through papers in order to find my questions, or end up asking Jennifer the questions I meant to ask Libby.  I had papers spread all over Papa’s desk when he got home from work, but he didn’t ask me about them as he stood in the doorway still dressed in his fire department uniform.  I looked up when I sensed his presence.

 

“I found some things about Evan Crammer on the Internet.”

 

“Good,” he said, but without any of the usual enthusiasm he normally shows when I’m having success with a school assignment.

 

“I printed a bunch of stuff about him. Would you read it later?”

 

“Why?”

 

“I wanna get your perspective on it.”

 

“My perspective?”

 

“Yeah. You know, not everything that’s printed in the newspapers or on the Net is true.”

 

That comment made Papa smile a little bit, as though based on experience he was well aware of that fact.  “Oh really?”

 

“Really. So I need to know how much of this stuff I found on Crammer is fact, and how much of it is fiction.”

 

“Trevor, there’s a lot I don’t know about the man.”

 

“Maybe not.  But there’s a lot you do.”

 

“Look--”

 

“And is it okay with you if I talk to Doctor Brackett and Dixie?”

 

“Why?”

 

I picked up one of the newspaper copies. “Because this article from 1978 quotes Doctor Brackett in several places, and I know Dixie was on duty both times you were taken to Rampart – back in ‘78, and then again nine years ago.  Dixie mentioned that to me once.  I don’t know if I’ll use anything they tell me, but I figure as long as we’re gonna be in California in July, I might as well talk to them too. I don’t know if my book will have any hospital scenes in it, but it might.”

 

He gave a heavy sigh. For a second I thought he was disgusted with me for some reason, but when I studied his face, I decided he just seemed tired.

 

“Pops?” I prompted.

 

He hesitated, but finally said, “Yeah, you can talk to them as long as they both agree to it. If either of them says no though--”

 

“If either of them says no, I’ll drop it. I won’t bother them.”

 

“All right.”

 

“I’ll call them this week and get everything set up.  They’ll be at Uncle Roy’s reunion picnic, won’t they?”

 

“Probably.”

“Do you have their phone numbers?”

 

Papa pointed to his desk. “In my address book. It’s in the top left hand drawer.”

 

“Thanks.” I opened the desk drawer, saw the address book sitting in there by itself, then shut the drawer again. “So, will you read this stuff on Crammer for me?  And I’ve got a whole bunch of questions for you too.  Can we sit at the kitchen table and go over them?”

 

“First I’d like to change outta this uniform, then I’d like to sit at the kitchen table to eat supper, not to answer questions.”

 

“Oh...oh sure.  Yeah.  Okay.”  I tried to hide my disappointment.  Pops just doesn’t understand that a writer has to work while the urge to write is burning hot inside him. 

 

I had met Clarice for service at the Methodist church this morning, like I do on most Sundays. After the service was over at noon, she came to our house to put a pot roast, potatoes, and carrots in the oven. She’d left right after that to return to her own home in town. I could have saved her the trip to our place and put the roast in myself, but she insisted.  I think Clarice likes the feeling she gets from looking after Papa and me, even on days when we don’t need any looking after at all. 

 

I stood up and walked around the desk.  “Supper’s in the oven.”

 

“I can smell it,” Papa acknowledged. “Clarice was here, wasn’t she?”

 

“Of course. She thinks we’d starve without her.”

 

“We wouldn’t starve, but we’d eat a lot of hot dogs, Red Baron Pizza, and Swanson Pot Pies.”

 

“That’s true.”

 

I went to take the roast out and set the table.  I had carved the meat earlier, so by the time Papa was done changing his clothes everything was ready.

 

When we finished eating, we worked together to clean up the kitchen.  Once the dishes were in the dishwasher and the table and counters had been wiped off, I turned for Papa’s office.

 

“I’ll be right back.” 

 

“Where’re you going?”

 

“To get those questions I have for you, and to get those articles about Crammer.”

 

“Oh...uh...listen, Trev, I wanna take a ride on Omaha first.”

 

Omaha is Papa’s horse.

 

“But I thought you were gonna answer my questions.”

 

     “I will, but I need to unwind for a while first.  I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

 

     I couldn’t say much of anything but what I did.

 

     “All right.  I guess I can work on my research some more while you’re gone.”

 

     “I’m sure you can,” Papa agreed.

 

     It’s not like my father to be gone longer than he tells me he’s going to be if he’s running an errand, or taking a horseback ride. But tonight, he was gone an hour and a half beyond the ‘hour or so’ he had originally stated.  When I heard him come into the house I gathered up my papers and stood.  Before I stepped out of his office, he stepped into it.

 

     “Good night, kiddo. Don’t stay up too late. You’ve gotta work tomorrow.”

 

     “Where’re you going?”

 

     “To bed.”

 

     “But you said you’d answer my questions and read these articles when you came back in.”

 

     “Oh...oh yeah. Sorry. I forgot. Listen, Trev, I’m tired and ready to call it a night.  We’ll get to that stuff, I promise.”

 

     “When?”

 

     “Soon.”

 

     “How soon?”

 

     “Soon.”

 

     “But--”

 

     In an instant, his mood changed. He scowled and grumbled, “Trevor, I said we’d get to it.”

 

     “Fine! You don’t have to get so mad.  I didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

     “I’m not mad!”

 

     “Well you’re sure acting like you are!”

 

     He stood there a second, then nodded. “I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that.  I’m tired.  We’ll go over your questions soon, I promise. Sometime during the week, okay?”

 

     “O...okay.”

 

     He must have still been feeling bad about blowing up at me, because he walked over, put his arms around me, kissed my left temple, and said, “ ‘Night, Trev. I love you.”

 

     He was acting so weird that I figured it was best just to say, “Good night,” hug him in return, and leave it at that, even though I had a lot of things I wanted to say – most of which would have started an argument.

 

     I heard Papa moving between the bathroom and his bedroom for a few minutes, then all movement from the upper floor stopped. I put my papers in order, saved my work to the computer’s hard drive and to a disk, then shut the machine down.  I stopped in the kitchen for a snack before heading to my bedroom.  I glanced down the hall and didn’t see any light coming from underneath Papa’s door, so I assumed he was asleep.

 

Because I wasn’t tired enough to sleep, and didn’t feel like reading, I shut my door and sat at my computer so I could type in this journal entry.  I didn’t bother to turn on the ceiling light, but just used the glow from the monitor for what light I needed. Papa hates it when I do that. He says it’ll ruin my eyes. 

 

I was sitting here typing when I heard him pass by my room and walk down the stairs. Since he didn’t knock on my door, he probably thought I was sleeping.  The light from the monitor won’t reach far enough to be seen beneath the space between the bottom of my door and the carpeting.  I kept typing, though a portion of my attention remained on my father’s whereabouts.  When thirty minutes had passed and I didn’t hear him come back up the stairs, nor hear the sound of the television drifting up from the great room, I snuck down the stairs.  I don’t know why I snuck, because it’s not like I was going to get in trouble for being awake, but some odd instinct...or maybe it was intuition, told me to keep my footsteps light.

 

I found Papa in his office. He didn’t see me peer around the door. Or at least I didn’t think he did at the time. He was wearing a red Eagle Harbor Fire Department t-shirt, a pair of blue pajama pants, and had his reading glasses on. If he had just come downstairs for a drink of water or a late night snack, he would have been wearing what he usually sleeps in during the summer time – his boxer shorts. Since he was wearing more than that, and had his glasses on, I knew he hadn’t just wandered into his office by chance, but rather, had intended on going there for some reason.

 

 Papa was sitting in his big leather chair and looking down at the copies of the newspaper articles I’d left on top of his desk.  There was something about the look on his face – sadness? guilt? remorse? - I still don’t know which it was, that told me it was best if he didn’t know I was there.  Before I could make my escape, he looked up.  I think he must have known I was there all along.  Guess I never was very good at sneaking down the stairs.

 

Softly, he said, “It’s not easy, Trevor.”

 

“What’s not easy?”

 

“These articles call me a hero because I protected Jennifer.”

 

“You were a hero,” I said. 

 

“No I wasn’t.”

 

“But you saved Jennifer.  You kept Crammer from hurting her even after he’d stabbed you.  And you did the same for Libby. You kept her safe. That would be a hero by anybody’s definition, Pops.”

 

He shook his head. “Don’t make me out to be a hero in your book, son. I’m just a man.  A man who has had both triumphs and failures in his life.  A man who has countered everything he’s done right, with one mistake along the way.” He looked back down at the article he’d been reading. “Evan Crammer killed eighteen little girls in the twenty-two years that passed between when I took Jennifer and Chris camping, and the day he kidnapped me. If I had somehow been able to hold onto him that night...or even been able to...well, to kill him with the knife he was using on me, all those lives would have been spared. All those little girls would have gotten the chance to grow up.”

 

Without saying another word, Papa stood and brushed past me.  In that brief moment, he laid a hand on my shoulder and gave it a light squeeze before heading up the stairs. 

 

Now I had my first clue as to what those difficult things were that Uncle Roy hinted about on the phone Wednesday afternoon.  Now I had at least a partial understanding of why he asked me to give my father the respect he deserves, and not to pressure him where the book is concerned.

 

Papa’s door was already shut when I came back upstairs.  I hesitated a moment before entering my room.  I wanted to go to him, but I didn’t know what to say that might make him feel better, so I returned to my journal. 

 

As I sit here, I’m realizing that for the first time in my life, I’ve seen John Gage not as my father, or as my hero, or as the chief of the Eagle Harbor Fire Department, but instead, I’ve gotten a glimpse of him as a man with vulnerabilities, sorrows, and regrets.

 

The more I think about the look I saw on his face a few minutes ago, the more I wonder if writing a book about Evan Crammer is such a good idea after all.

 

 

Part 2