Monday, June 22nd, 2009

 

     Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday passed without Papa saying anything else about my book.  He didn’t offer to set time aside for us to go over my questions, nor did he offer to read the information I’d printed from the Internet about Evan Crammer.  I wasn’t sure what I should do. I kept my promise to Uncle Roy about not pressuring Papa, but even if that promise had meant nothing to me, I still couldn’t have pressured Papa into talking about Crammer.  Each time I thought of bringing the subject up, I recalled the look I’d seen on his face Sunday night, and remembered what he’d said about the eighteen little girls Crammer had killed between 1978 and 2000.  It’s obvious Papa blames himself for the deaths of those girls, even though he has no reason to. Evan Crammer stabbed my father four times that night, and then beat him the next day when Crammer returned for one last try at getting his hands on Jennifer. Given the severity of Papa’s injuries, how he thinks he could have prevented Crammer’s escape, I don’t know.  The point is, he couldn’t have. While a part of him probably knows that, I guess the part of him that instinctively wants to help others has a hard time reconciling that he’d done the best he could, and the choices Crammer made to go on killing children after he’d fled were just that – Crammer’s choices, not Papa’s.

 

     It was my mom who helped me find the patience I needed to get through the week.  By Wednesday, I was ready to throw all my newspaper copies and notes away. I figured I’d call my grandpa and see what information I could get from him that I could turn into a story.  The only thing that stopped me from doing that, was the phone call I received from Mom late on Thursday afternoon before Papa got home from work.  After we’d said hello and spent a couple of minutes catching up with one another, she asked, “What’s this about scrapping the idea for your book?” 

 

     I had been in contact with my mom through e-mail about my book ever since I’d settled on a plot. She doesn’t know much about Papa’s experiences with Crammer in 1978, beyond what little he told her once when she questioned him about the scars he carries from the knife wounds. She’s got a bit more knowledge of Papa’s experiences with the guy nine years ago. Mom and Franklin were vacationing in Paris when Evan Crammer kidnapped Papa, and I stowed away on Gus’s plane.  She found out about everything after it was all over and Papa was recovering from pneumonia at Rampart, while I stayed with Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne. 

 

     “I just don’t think it’s gonna work,” I said in response to Mom’s question.

 

     “But, honey, you’ve already put so much time into it.  You got permission from the DeSotos like your father requested of you. You stopped and saw your English teacher.  You’ve made copies, and notes, and come up with questions to ask your father and the DeSo--”

 

     “I know. I know. But it’s just not gonna happen.”

 

     “Why?”

 

     I hesitated a moment, not sure if Papa would want me to be sharing something like this – stuff that’s really personal to him - with Mom.  Then I decided, what the heck, the two of them had lived together for almost six years, and during that time had created me, so I guess I have the right to share what I want to with Mom, unless Papa specifically puts certain subjects off-limits - which he never has.     

 

     Clarice wasn’t at our house on Thursday, so I was alone in the kitchen while I talked to Mom.  I told her everything, from Papa’s initial negative reaction to my plot, to the way he’d seemed to warm up to the idea, to the way he was now sending me mixed signals about it.

 

     “He just doesn’t wanna talk about it, Mom.”

 

     “Did he come right out and tell you that?”

 

     “No, but you shoulda’ seen his face on Sunday night when he was reading through those old newspaper articles.  He...I guess he’s done a good job of hiding how much his encounters with Crammer still bother him. Or maybe he can...you know, kinda forget about all of it as long as no one brings it up.”

 

     “Possibly. Where your father is concerned, it’s often hard to guess.”

 

     “Whatta’ ya’ mean?”

 

     “I mean your father is a complex man. There are a lot of facets to his personality, but those facets aren’t readily revealed to the outside world.”

 

     “Maybe. I guess you’d know about that kinda stuff better than me.”

 

     I could tell Mom smiled when she said, “I guess I would. Even after all the years that have passed since we lived together.”

 

     I didn’t have a response for that.  I’d gone through a time period when I was fourteen and fifteen, where I wished my parents were married, but it was Mom who helped me see that a marriage between them was never meant to be.  I’ve moved beyond being curious about their relationship.  I figure I now know about as much as either one of them will ever be willing to tell me, so I’ve learned to quit asking questions.

 

     “Anyway, I might as well come up with a new plot,” I said. “Papa told me he’d answer questions for me this week, but since it’s already Thursday and he still hasn’t--”

 

     “I’ve never known your father to break his promises, Trevor.  If he says he’ll answer your questions this week, then he will.”

 

     “But it’s Thursday and--”

 

     “Have a little patience, son.  The week isn’t over until midnight on Saturday.”

 

     “Mom!”

 

     She laughed at me, then said, “Trevor, the only advice that I can give you is what I’ve already stated. Be patient. Bide your time and see if your father brings the subject up.  If he doesn’t say anything about it by Sunday morning, then ask him when the two of you can sit down and discuss your questions.”

 

     “What if he won’t give me a straight answer?”

 

     “Tell him you need to have one, or you’re going to move on to a new plot.”

 

     “I guess I could do that. I mean, I guess I could give it until Sunday.”

 

     “That’s what I think you should do.”

 

     “Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

 

     “You’re welcome.”

 

     Mom and I talked a few minutes longer, then said goodbye. I had a date with Kylee that night, so Papa and I only saw one another briefly after he arrived home from work. He was waiting up for me when I got home at twenty after eleven, but he went to bed ten minutes after I stepped into the house.  

 

     Friday came, and still Papa didn’t say a word about my book. He acted like his normal self, joking and teasing with me like he does, and when Clarice arrived, playfully giving her a hard time over an upset she’d caused at a Methodist Women’s Guild meeting, which was the talk of Eagle Harbor.  You know you live in small town America when the biggest news is the uproar a seventy-seven year old woman causes because she refuses to back down about the way the eggs should be fixed for the annual Prayer Breakfast.

 

     I had a baseball game late on Friday afternoon that Papa came to when he got off-duty.  Afterwards, he treated Kylee and me to pizza at Mr. Ochlou’s, and then Pops went home so we could finish our date without him. The rest of our date wasn’t too exciting. We got ice cream, then went to Kylee’s and watched a movie with her six-year-old brother sitting between us on the couch. I’m pretty sure Kylee’s father put Chandler up to that, because when the movie was about half over Kylee’s mother looked into the living room and spotted Chandler. She shooed the kid out, and then I heard her say, “Oh, Rick,” to Kylee’s dad in a disapproving tone. 

 

     On Saturday, Papa and I slept in.  Or at least slept in for us, which means we were both up by eight.  Pops had the weekend off, and I didn’t have to be to the airport until noon.

 

     I could smell bacon cooking as I trotted down the stairs.  I was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt since I had chores to do.  Papa was dressed in faded jeans, too, but rather than a t-shirt, he had on a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up and secured at his elbows.  His clothes indicated to me that he planned to work outside most of the day.

 

I grabbed plates from a cabinet.  “Morning, Pops.”

 

     He didn’t look up at me when he said, “Good morning.”

 

     He sounded funny. Not like his usual cheerful self. He didn’t sound mad or upset, but more like preoccupied.  Like his mind was on something besides the bacon that was cooking and the eggs he was scrambling in a Pyrex mixing bowl.

 

     “Are you okay?” I asked while I set the table.

 

     He looked over his shoulder at me.  Although his glance in my direction didn’t last more than a few seconds, I thought he looked tired.  So tired that I wondered if he’d gotten any sleep the night before.  He had been waiting up for me when I got home on Friday night like he always does when I have a date, but I hadn’t been out that late.  It had been about ten-fifteen when the movie ended.  I’d left Kylee’s a few minutes after that, and was home at ten-forty.  Papa had been watching MASH on the TV in the great room when I came in the house. He’d gone to bed when it ended at eleven.

 

     “Yeah,” Pops nodded as he returned his attention to his cooking. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

     I shrugged my shoulders, not sure what was wrong – if anything.

 

     He poured the eggs into a skillet while I poured orange juice into our glasses.  His back was still to me when he said quietly, “It was Roy and Joanne’s wedding anniversary.”

 

     I thought I heard him right, but since what he’d said made no sense to me, I asked, “What?”

 

     He swirled the egg mixture back and forth with a spatula.  “Their wedding anniversary. It was Roy and Joanne’s wedding anniversary.”

 

     I still had no idea what he was talking about, but assumed he meant that Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne had just celebrated an anniversary.

 

     “Oh. Well...did you send them a card?”

 

     “No, I mean...the weekend...the weekend I took Chris and Jennifer camping. I had ‘em...I had the kids ‘cause it was Roy and Joanne’s anniversary.  I’d taken the kids for them every year since Roy and I had become partners.  It was kind of a tradition; I guess you’d say.  Sometimes I just stayed with the kids for a few hours at Roy and Jo’s house while they went to dinner, and sometimes the kids came and stayed at my place so Roy and Jo could have a weekend alone.  It was just Chris and Jennifer then.  John wasn’t born yet.  He wasn’t born until the next year.  In January of 1979.”

 

     Papa wasn’t looking at me, so he didn’t see me nod. I knew John DeSoto had been named after my father in honor of what Papa had done that weekend to keep Chris and Jennifer safe.  So the fact that John wasn’t born yet when Papa encountered Crammer for the first time, was something I was already aware of.

 

     “We were working three days on then in exchange for four days off. Man, that was a killer.  The department had decided to try a new rotation schedule.  At first, most of us liked it, but after a while, it burnt you out.  After a year, headquarters scrapped it, and we went back to our old rotations of twenty-four on and twenty-four off, or twenty-four on and forty-eight off.  That was a heck of a lot easier on us.  But that weekend I took the kids camping we had four days off, so I picked ‘em up after school on Friday, and was supposed to take ‘em back to Roy and Jo’s late on Sunday afternoon.” Papa gave his head a small shake of regret. “Never got ‘em there, though. By then Crammer...well, I didn’t get the kids home thanks to him.”

 

     Papa talked while he cooked. He never looked at me, as though he was afraid of what I’d see if I got a chance to make eye contact with him. I tried to ask him a question, but he just kept talking.  It took me several seconds to realize Papa was keeping his promise to talk to me about Crammer, but he was going to do that on his terms, not on mine. So much for all those questions I had typed up, organized by subject, and stapled together. 

 

     I didn’t want to leave the room for fear he’d say something I’d miss, yet I was afraid to ask him to stop for a minute for fear he wouldn’t talk again when I returned.  It was like he’d had to create the right mood for himself, and that by having his attention on making breakfast, he’d done just that. 

 

I watched as he prepared pancake batter.  Pops will be the first person to admit he’s not that great of a cook, nor does he like to cook.  He does a pretty good job when it comes to making breakfast though, but he’s still not the kind of guy who wants to make a seven-course meal when cereal and toast will do.  That day, he appeared to be intent on seven-courses, because he started frying sliced potatoes, too.

 

     I eased out of the room as quietly as I could, hoping he wouldn’t notice.  Papa’s back was still to me as he whisked the pancake batter in a bowl. He was talking yet, saying how he’d made Chris and Jennifer do their homework on Friday evening, because they’d be gone all weekend on the camping trip.

 

     “I wasn’t planning to have them back to Roy’s until about six on Sunday night, so I figured they’d better get their homework done. Roy called while they were sittin’ at my kitchen table. Joanne was on the phone in the bedroom. She was surprised that I was able to get the kids to crack the books on a Friday night.  She and Roy always thought the kids had me wrapped around their little fingers.  Most of the time that was true, but I could be strict with ‘em if it was for their own good.”

 

     I hurried to Papa’s office while his monologue continued.  I didn’t bother to get the list that I had titled, Questions for Papa. Like I said, I could tell he had no intention of telling me his story other than on his own terms. 

 

I opened the desk drawer where I’d put my lists, notes, newspaper copies, and information I printed from the Net.  I didn’t grab any of that stuff, but instead, got a small hand-held tape recorder like the ones you see reporters use, or that college kids use as a means to take notes while sitting in a lecture hall. When Mom had sent me the one hundred dollar check for my straight A’s, she’d also sent me the tape recorder, along with a dozen tapes and the necessary batteries. She’d enclosed a note with the recorder that told me I might find it useful when conducting interviews for my book.  I hadn’t really thought much about using it. I’d figured I’d just write down the answers everyone gave me to the questions I asked.  But on Saturday morning I silently thanked my mother for her insight, as I hurried back through the great room. I put a tape in and hit ‘Record’ as I entered the kitchen. Papa was still talking, but thankfully he’d only gotten to the point where he, Chris, and Jen were making camp on that Saturday in April of 1978.

 

I put the tape recorder half under the lip of my plate.  I hoped it was strong enough to pick up Papa’s voice, and then I remembered it was a gift from my mother, which means no expense was spared, and it’s a top-of-the-line model.  Therefore, I left the recorder where it was. I wanted it to be as unobtrusive as possible. I was afraid Papa would stop talking if he saw it.

 

He continued to tell me about that camping trip until breakfast was cooked.  I thought the pause in his monologue was only going to be long enough to allow him to put food on our plates and to get settled in his chair, but I thought wrong.  It was like someone had turned off a water faucet. Just that abruptly, he quit talking.  He sat down across from me and started eating.  When he said anything at all over the next couple of minutes it was, “Pass the syrup please, Trev.” Or “How’re your eggs? Did I put enough cheese in them?”

 

I slipped the tape recorder from the table to the empty chair next to me.  I flicked the button that shut it off. Pretty soon our conversation moved beyond the food, though Papa didn’t steer it back to Evan Crammer. Instead, we talked about the usual stuff, like my jobs, and my date the previous night with Kylee, and his job, and what was going on around town, and the softball practice that was scheduled for Sunday afternoon.  We play on the fire department’s softball team every 4th of July. There are always four practices leading up to the game, though why, I have no idea, because the members of the Eagle Harbor Fire Department’s team have far more enthusiasm than they do talent.  Or so Papa always says, and since we usually get our butts whipped by the Juneau Fire Department, I guess Papa is right.  Part of the reason behind that is because no one has to try out. Anyone who is associated with the fire department is welcome to play, which means we sometimes have kids as young as eight on our team, and guys as old as eighty.  But we always have fun, so Pops and I put aside our competitive natures for this one game a year.

 

After we were done eating, we cleaned up the kitchen, which was quite a project considering Chef Gage had gone overboard where breakfast was concerned. I decided I didn’t need to pack a lunch to take to Gus’s. Even with my appetite, there was no way I was going to be hungry again before five o’clock.

 

Papa didn’t bring up Evan Crammer again until thirty minutes later, when we were working together in the barn.  I don’t know what made me take the tape recorder outside with me.  I guess some kind of intuition told me that I’d better have it.  The recorder has a thick plastic clip on the back that I was able to slip over the waistband of my jeans. I did that, and then covered it with my t-shirt.

 

Papa turned the horses out into the corral, while I fed the cats.  It was when we were mucking horse stalls that Pops started talking about that weekend. He again waited until his back was to me and we were both engrossed in our jobs. When I realized he’d brought the subject back to Crammer, I reached under my shirt and flicked the recorder on.

 

     Papa’s words painted a picture in a way I’d never thought possible.  I’ve always known Pops is able to carry his end of a conversation, and then some, but until yesterday, I didn’t know he was such a good storyteller. He talked about hiking with Chris and Jennifer to a place they called the Pow-Wow cave, and remembered that they’d gone fishing that afternoon, and had eaten for supper the fish they’d caught.  Once it got dark, they told ghost stories around the campfire, or at least Chris told a ghost story.  Papa remembered that Jennifer’s attempt at telling a ghost story fell far short of it being scary, but then, she was only nine years old, and a girl at that, so what do you expect? 

 

     “I didn’t tell a ghost story,” Papa said. “Chris’s story had scared Jenny, and I could tell he was primed to scare her all night if given half a chance, so I decided we’d all be better off if the scary stories were put to rest for a while.  I didn’t want to be up half the night with a little girl who was having bad dreams thanks to her big brother.  ‘Cause of that, I told them about Katori.”

 

     He didn’t have to say anything more on the subject. I knew the legend of Katori, or He Who Dances With Rattlesnakes. When I was about seven, I used to beg Papa to tell me that story at least twice a week.  The poor guy had to have gotten tired of repeating it over and over, but I never got tired of hearing it, so as long as I was game for it, Papa was willing to tell it.

 

     Papa moved around the barn as we went about our work. I never interrupted his monologue by asking questions.  Sometimes there would be long pauses between his sentences, which caused me to assume that maybe he had told me all he was going to for the day.  But just when I’d think that, he’d pick up where he’d left off.

 

     The expression on his face never changed as he talked about waking up to Jennifer’s screams of, “Uncle Johnny! Uncle Johnny! It’s the Stone Ridge Killer! Help me, Uncle Johnny! Help me!”

 

     “At first I thought Jennifer was having a nightmare. Chris’s ghost story was about a guy called the Stone Ridge Killer, who snatched little girls from their beds at night.  I remember thinking, ‘Thanks a lot, Chris’ as I rolled toward Jen’s sleeping bag.  Only she wasn’t in it, and that’s when...that’s when I saw Crammer carrying her away from our campsite.”

 

Papa’s voice got quieter when he talked about how he fought with Crammer in an effort to get Jennifer from him.

 

“The guy was huge.  Musta weighed close to three hundred pounds, which means he weighed twice as much as me.  I remember being afraid one of us would hurt Jen. We were literally playing tug-of-war with her.  But I couldn’t worry about that, ‘cause I knew whatever he had in store for her if he got away with her still in his arms, was gonna be a lot worse than any cuts or bruises she might get while being pulled back and forth between us. Crammer...he stabbed me in the arm. I didn’t let go of Jen, though, and I think it was then that Chris was at my side and was trying to help me get Jenny from Crammer.  Chris wasn’t very big – pretty typical size for an eleven-year-old boy – kinda scrawny and not too tall, but he fought like a tiger that night for his sister. I was so proud of him. 

 

“Chris and I finally got Jenny loose, and I was able to shove her into Chris’s arms.  I yelled for him to take her to the Pow-Wow, hoping he’d know I meant the cave. I figured that was the place the two of them would be the safest. I’d camped up in the San Gabriel Mountains with the kids several times, and I’d always told them that if we ever got separated, they should go to the Pow-Wow cave and wait for me.  It was our meeting place, ya’ see, just like you and I had a designated meeting place in the National Forest when you were younger.”

 

I nodded my head, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t looking at me, so he didn’t see my response to his words. Papa and I have always done a lot of hiking. When I was young, one of the safe guards he’d put into place was making sure I knew where I was to go and wait for him if we ever got split up for any reason while hiking in the Eagle Harbor National Forest.

 

 “I was kind of aware that Chris took off with Jenny. I could hear her crying, and outta the corner of my eye I saw that Chris had her hand and was runnin’ as fast as he could for the cave.  The woods were really thick just a few yards beyond where we were camping, and Chris ran for them.  He knew just what to do without me telling him. He knew the best chance he and Jenny had was to use the woods for cover as they headed for the cave. 

 

“Crammer and I...we were really fighting by then. Crammer – well, he was fighting with the intent to kill, while I was just trying to buy Chris and Jennifer time.  I figured the longer I could keep the guy occupied, the more likely it was that the kids would make it to the cave. I don’t know how long we fought before Joe – my dog – I’ve told you about him. He was a Malamute that the DeSotos had given me for my birthday a couple of years before the camping trip – well anyway, Joe attacked Crammer. I don’t know for sure where he’d been.  I think he was off in the woods somewhere when Crammer first took Jennifer.  I think Crammer might have put some food out for Joe, ‘cause he was a good dog and wouldn’t have normally wandered off, but I never did find out for sure if Crammer had lured him away, or if he was just off chasing a rabbit or something.  Anyway, Joe attacked Crammer.”

 

Papa walked to a corner of the barn and hung up the shovel he’d been using.  He got a pitchfork off a hook and went back to work.

 

“If Joe hadn’t been there that night, I’d probably have died.  Crammer had stabbed me four times by then, and had broken my left wrist and my collarbone. I didn’t have much fight left in me.  It was like the spirit was willing, but the body wasn’t.” He paused and looked out of the window, his concentration appearing to be on Nadia and Zhavago, who were chasing one another back and forth in front of the barn. “At some point I was aware of Crammer running by me, and Joe chasing after him. I tried to get to my feet.  I knew I needed to find Chris and Jenny.  All I cared about was getting to the kids and keeping them safe.  I guess I musta been in a lotta pain. I’m sure I was, but I don’t really remember it.  I just remember knowing that Chris and Jennifer were my first priority. That’s why I was so angry with myself.”

 

When he didn’t say anything else, I risked asking in just above a whisper, “Why?”

 

He looked at me for the first time since we’d entered the barn. “Because I couldn’t get to them. Because I passed out before I could make it beyond our campsite.”

 

“But you were seriously injured.”

 

He shook his head. “That was no excuse. The kids were my responsibility.  They were my best friend’s children.  It was...” He turned away from me again. “Not being able to get to Chris and Jen, not being able to make sure they were safe, was worse than being dead, as far as I was concerned.  Crammer could have stabbed me ten more times as long as I had the guarantee that Chris and Jennifer were all right. The last thing I wanted to do was go back to Roy and Joanne’s without the kids. The last thing I wanted to do was tell my best friend that I’d fucked up and his kids were dead.”

 

I’d never heard my father use the word ‘fuck.’ I don’t think he swears very much.  I was teenager before I heard him use the word damn in front of me.  He kidded me once and told me that he’d changed a lot of his ways after I was born.  Papa takes his responsibilities to me seriously, and the older I’ve gotten, the more obvious it’s become that he wants to be the best father he can be. 

 

“But you were hurt,” I said again.  “You had life threatening injuries. You’d been stabbed and--”

 

“No excuses,” he repeated. “None whatsoever. Maybe for other people where something like this would be concerned.  It’s not my place to judge what another man in my position would have done, or how he would have felt. But as for me where Chris and Jennifer’s safety was concerned – like I said, no excuses.”

 

     He looked out of the window again, as the dogs barked and a vehicle stopped in front of the barn.  Carl climbed out of his Ford Expedition. Papa rested his pitchfork against the wall and headed for the door.

 

     “It’s not that big of a deal anyway, Trevor.  I was in shock.  I really didn’t feel the pain.”

 

     And that was the last thing he said on the subject. “I really didn’t feel the pain.”  As though being stabbed four times is the same as getting four paper cuts, or falling off a bike and scraping your knees and elbows.

 

     I shut off the tape recorder.  I exited the barn a few minutes later, marveling at how Papa could sound normal while joking with Carl, as though he and I had just been talking about our weekend plans, or something we’d watched on TV, and not about the time Papa almost died at the hands of a serial killer.

 

     Like my mother said, Papa has many facets to his personality. I’m beginning to realize more and more how true that is, and how hard he works to hide his vulnerabilities. 

 

     I said hi to Carl, but didn’t stop and talk.  I had just enough time to shower and change clothes before leaving for the airport.  For a long time that day the words, “No excuses,” echoed in my head. 

 

     Whatever mood had prompted Papa to talk about Evan Crammer on Saturday, didn’t return to him on Sunday.  Sometimes he goes to church with me when he’s off on a Sunday, and yesterday was one of those Sundays when he did.  I tried not to read too much into that.  I wasn’t sure if his memories of that day in 1978 made him feel as though he owed God a thank you, or if he went to church for no other reason than Pastor Tom is one of Papa’s volunteer firemen, and sometimes ribs Pops over his lack of church attendance, or if he came with me because the Women’s Guild hosted a coffee cake brunch after the service.  With Papa, it could have been for any one of those reasons, or for none of them.  He likes the fact that Pastor Tom has brought informality to the Eagle Harbor Methodist Church. Blue jeans and khakis have become the norm for a guy’s Sunday best, so for all I know Papa went to church just because he didn’t have to dress up, and because Clarice slipped him an extra piece of coffee cake.

 

     We went home after the service, had sandwiches for lunch, and then got in the Land Rover and headed for the park where softball practice was held.  Three hours later, we were back at home. We cooked pork chops on the grill, took the dogs for a long hike, and then watched a movie.  When the movie was over, Papa went to bed and I talked to Kylee on the phone.

 

     I thought Papa was sleeping when I sat down and started transcribing his words from the tape to my computer.  I had my bedroom door closed, and wouldn’t have heard him leave his room if I hadn’t paused while typing. I was just getting ready to hit the ‘Stop’ button on the tape recorder, when I caught sight of Papa’s shadow from under the door. I let the tape keep on playing.  Papa remained in the hall listening to his own voice fill my room. 

 

     I thought Papa might knock and ask to come in.  As far as I know, that was the first time he would have realized I’d been taping everything he’d told me. But he didn’t knock, and pretty soon I heard him walk down the stairs.

 

     I finished my transcribing an hour later. I knew Papa hadn’t come back upstairs during the time I was working.  I saved everything I’d done to my hard drive and to a disk, then stood. I walked to my door and eased it open.  I peered down the stairs, but didn’t see any light coming from the great room, nor did I hear the TV. I didn’t exactly sneak down the stairs, but I did keep my footsteps light.  When I got into the great room I saw a light coming from beneath the closed door of Papa’s office.  He hardly ever closes the door when he goes in there, so I thought that was an unusual action on his part.  I considered knocking on the door, then decided not to.  I figured he was looking over the newspaper articles to refresh his memory, so he could tell me the rest of his story when he was ready.

 

     I never heard Papa come back upstairs last night.  I must have been asleep by the time he returned to bed – if he returned to bed at all.  He was in the kitchen making toast and putting cereal boxes on the table when I got downstairs this morning.  He said, “Morning, Trev,” to which I responded, “Morning, Papa,” and then we sat down to eat.  I didn’t ask Pops what he’d been doing in his office last night, and he didn’t say anything about it either.  I had brought my tape recorder to the table with me – it was clipped to my jeans again and hidden under my shirt – but Papa didn’t say anything about Crammer.  He left the kitchen for me to clean up because he was running late for work.  He looked tired again, and I wondered just how much sleep he’d gotten, if any. 

 

     It didn’t take me long to put our cereal bowls, glasses, silverware, and the small plates we’d used for our toast, into the dishwasher. We had Sunday’s breakfast, lunch, and supper dishes in there, too, so I put soap in the dispenser and started the dishwasher cycling.

 

     I went outside and fed the horses and cats, then spent a half an hour playing ball with my dogs. I didn’t have to be at Gus’s until two this afternoon. He was expecting to be back from Washington then with some cargo he wanted me to unload.  So until eleven when I reported for work at Mr. Ochlou’s, my morning was free.

 

     It was nine-thirty when I got back into the house.  I took a shower and changed clothes, and still had forty-five minutes to kill before I had to leave for the pizza parlor. Clarice hadn’t arrived for the day yet, so I knew that meant she probably wasn’t coming over until sometime in the afternoon, when she’d make supper and dust, or mop, or wash windows, or find some other chore to do that didn’t need doing nearly as bad as Clarice thought it did.

 

I went to Papa’s office with plans to pull out all of my research and see if there was anything else I could work on before I saw the DeSotos in July.

 

     As I walked into the room, I spotted a stack of papers on Papa’s desk, with a white envelope resting on top of them. I knew I hadn’t left anything there, and wondered if Papa had forgotten some reports he needed for work.  I walked around behind the desk and sat in his chair.  I pulled the papers toward me, planning to take a quick glance through them. If they were something related to the fire department, then I could drop them off at the station on my way to Mr. Ochlou’s.  When I picked the envelope up and turned it over I saw the word ‘Trevor’ scrawled across the front in Papa’s handwriting.

 

     I opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of white paper folded in thirds. I opened that and read,

 

     Trevor,

 

        Here’s the rest of the information you’ll need from me for your book.

 

     Love,

     Papa

 

     I set the letter aside, picked up the papers and skimmed them.  Papa had started where he’d left off in the barn on Saturday, with him passing out from his injuries before he got beyond the campsite. As I flipped through the papers, I saw that his story was actually two stories.  One ended with the night John DeSoto was born in January of 1979, and one ended with the day in July of 2000, when Uncle Roy took Papa and me to the airport, where Gus was waiting to bring us back to Eagle Harbor. The first story covered his initial encounter with Evan Crammer; the second story covered his more recent encounter, when Crammer kidnapped Papa and Libby.

 

     As my eyes scanned the pages, I focused in on Papa’s first ending: 

 

‘It meant more to me than I can say even today, that Roy and Joanne named their youngest son for me. I didn’t think I deserved that. Like I said, no excuses.  Roy was my best friend.  I’d have done anything for him or his family, just like they would have done anything for me, because that’s what friendship’s all about.’

 

And then I read his second ending:

 

‘Despite the circumstances that brought us back together, being reunited with Roy was one of the best days in my life.  To have our friendship back intact, and as strong as it had once been, actually made the hell Crammer put me through worth it. The bad times...I can actually say that thanks to Evan Crammer, the bad times that Roy and I went through have forever become a thing of the past. Friendship should never be taken lightly, and when you have a strong friendship with someone, you should cherish it and never think it can easily be replaced.’

 

I read his final words again. I have no idea what he meant by, ‘the bad times that Roy and I went through.’ When I first met Roy DeSoto nine years ago, I knew he and Pops hadn’t seen each other for a long time.  But whenever I’ve asked Pops why they hadn’t stayed in contact with one another after Papa moved to Denver, he’s always shrugged and said, “No reason, really.  Just distance, I guess.  I moved to Denver, met your mother, worked a lot of hours for the Denver Fire Department...time just got away from me.  Sometimes friendships don’t survive when miles separate them.”

 

I’ve never thought there was any reason for Papa and Uncle Roy not staying in touch for fifteen years, other than the reason Papa has always given me. Now I’m sitting here wondering if there’s even more to this story than what Papa has revealed.  And if there is, how do I get him to tell me about it?

 

 

Sunday, August 16th, 2009

 

     I’ve really neglected this journal the past month or so.  Between my jobs, chores, working on my book, baseball games, spending time with Kylee and my friends, reading the novels Mrs. St. Claire assigned us for the summer, and then being gone for the last two weeks in July and the first week of August, I’ve had no time leftover for my journal, or for much of anything else.

 

     I just read my entry from Monday, June 22nd. Man, do I have a lot of catching up to do.  So much has happened since that day with regards to my book. It’ll probably take me two or three hours to type it all up, but that’s okay.  These entries give me good writing practice, and besides, it’s raining today, Kylee’s working, Dylan and Dalton are working, Papa is working, and Clarice is in Juneau at a women’s retreat for our church. Since I have the house to myself, I won’t have any interruptions.

 

     Because Carl was working the night shift on that Monday in June when I last wrote in this journal, Papa asked Clarice to eat supper with us. Like I had thought she would, she’d arrived in the afternoon while Pops and I were at work.

 

Clarice took Papa up on his invitation. Her husband had been dead for a long time – years before Papa and I arrived in Eagle Harbor. Sometime after he passed away, Clarice moved in with Carl. He has a house in town that’s provided for him by the police department, just like this house is provided for Papa by the fire department.

 

Clarice never seems to be lacking for something to do, or lacking for company, considering she has nine brothers and sisters, and more nephews, nieces, great nephews, and great nieces than I can keep track of.  Clarice’s family and extended family make up a quarter of the population of Eagle Harbor, and probably more when you start talking about ‘shirt-tale’ relatives.  Those are the ones who know they’re related to Clarice in some manner, but can’t tell you exactly how.

 

I don’t know if Clarice didn’t have anything going on that Monday night, or if she just wanted to eat with us since she considers Papa and me to be family too.  Whatever the reason, she stayed and ate supper, then insisted on cleaning up the kitchen, even though Papa told her not too.  The three of us hadn’t sat around the kitchen table playing a game in what seems like forever, but we did that night.  I got Monopoly from my closet, and we played until Papa finally won at nine o’clock. We had a lot of fun. It reminded me of when I was younger, and Papa would invite Clarice to eat with us when Carl was working.  We almost always played a game back then before she went home for the night.

 

The phone rang as Clarice was walking out the door. Kylee had just gotten home from work, so we spent the next thirty minutes ‘whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears,’ as my father refers to it.  Whenever he makes that crack, I roll my eyes and turn my back on him while telling Kylee, “My father is advertising his age again.”

 

Papa had gone into the great room and turned on the TV during my conversation.  After I’d said goodbye to Kylee, I called from the kitchen, “Do you want some of the cookies Clarice baked?”

 

“Sure!”

 

Neither of us had eaten dessert, so I put six chocolate chip cookies on a plate and poured each of us a glass of milk.  I was going to carry everything to the great room, but Pops flicked the TV off and came into the kitchen. We sat at the table, not saying much of anything to each other while we ate.

 

The overhead light was on, though the sun was still shining in through the bay window.  The long hours of summer sunshine is the main we reason we have room-darkening shades at our bedroom windows, along with heavy curtains.  Some families put foil over their bedroom windows in the summer in order to keep the sun from shining in. It’s neat to have it light so long, but it can really screw up your body’s sleep cycle.

 

I was the first one to finish eating. Because Clarice had been at our house when Papa got home, I hadn’t said anything to him yet about what he’d left on his desk.

 

“Thanks for typing all that information for my book.”

 

Papa finished chewing his last cookie, then took a long swallow of milk before finally answering me.

 

“ ‘Welcome.”

 

“I haven’t done more than skim it yet, but it looks like everything I need is there.”

 

He shrugged.  “I just told it like it happened.”

 

I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it. 

 

“Well...uh...thanks again. It’ll be a big help.”

 

“Like I said, you’re welcome.”

 

I waited until he’d finished drinking his milk, then said, “Papa, can I ask you a question?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“What did you mean when you said ‘the bad times that Roy and I went through have forever become a thing of the past’?”

 

He hesitated long enough to make me think he wasn’t going to answer. 

 

“Didn’t mean anything by it.”

 

“You must have meant something by it.”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Pops...”

 

At first, I thought he was going to get mad. He sure looked like he was.  But just as quickly his expression changed, and I could tell he knew that any questions I had were a result of what he’d written, therefore he had no one but himself to blame for my curiosity. I could also tell he regretted including that information, and he knew that if he hadn’t stayed up all night typing, he might have been thinking clearly enough to exclude it.

 

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Trevor.”

 

“Then how come you lost contact with Uncle Roy after you moved to Colorado?”

 

“No reason, other than what I’ve told you before.  Distance. Lack of time due to my job. My relationship with your mom.”

 

“What did that have to do with it?”

 

“What did what have to do with it?

 

“Mom. What did your relationship with her have to do with you not contacting Uncle Roy?”

 

“Do you see as much of Dylan and Dalton since you started dating Kylee?”

 

“Well...I guess not.”

 

“Then you know why I lost contact with Roy.”

 

“But what did you mean by ‘bad times’?”

 

“Nothing. Poor choice of words on my part.”

 

He stood, carrying our plates and glasses to the dishwasher. 

 

“Is that really all there is to it?”

 

“Yes, son,” Papa said firmly. “That’s really all there is to it.”

 

Pops sounded like he meant that statement, but the trouble was, he wouldn’t look at me when he said it.

 

He seemed anxious to leave the room.  Suddenly, he was “tired” and “needed to get to bed.” 

 

Papa said goodnight and hurried for the stairs. He took them two at a time, disappearing onto the upper floor before I could say goodnight in return...or ask any more questions.

 

For the first time I realized how a parent always knows when his kid is lying to him.  I knew my father was lying to me that night, but since I’m the kid and he’s the parent, there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

 

I don’t give up easily, though. Or maybe I’m just too stubborn to know when to quit.  For the rest of that week, I tried to get an answer out of Papa regarding those mysterious ‘bad times’ but he stuck to his story. 

 

Distance.

 

Lack of time.

 

His relationship with my mom.

 

If there was more to it than that, my father was determined not to talk about it.  Since he hadn’t lost his temper over the issue yet, I would have kept bugging him if it hadn’t been for my trump card - the DeSoto family. 

 

After Pops had given me the same lame answer for the sixth time that week, I realized I could ask the DeSotos about this when I interviewed them for the book. I figured at the very least, one of them would provide me with the details I was trying to uncover.  Because of that, I didn’t question Papa about the ‘bad times’ again.  He seemed relieved that I finally let the subject drop.  He was no longer giving me a wary eye when we were in a room together.  It was like he’d been walking on eggshells around me, because he was afraid I’d bring up something he didn’t want to talk about.

 

I had everything with me that I needed when we left for Los Angeles on Saturday, July 18th. The newspaper photocopies, my notes, and the information I’d printed about Crammer from the Internet. My questions for the DeSotos, Dixie and Doctor Brackett, were all in a multi-pocket file folder in my suitcase.  I had packed my tape recorder in my suitcase too, and had my new laptop computer with me. My mom had shipped the laptop to me a week before we left. When I’d called to thank her for the gift I hadn’t been expecting, she said it was an early graduation present. She knew I’d need a laptop at college, but thought I could make use of it now for my book.  It was sure going to come in handy while I was at Uncle Roy’s house, and told Mom so when I thanked her a second time.  Papa didn’t seem too happy about the laptop when he saw it after work that night, but he didn’t say anything beyond, “Did you call your mother and thank her for that?”

 

Clarice told me a couple of days later that Papa had been planning on buying a laptop for my graduation present.  I felt bad about that – about Mom having bought one before he got a chance to.  Because my mom has always been generous where gifts and money are concerned, I suppose some people would think I have it made.  But when things happen like Mom buying me a present Papa wanted to get me, it’s not easy seeing the look on his face.  It’s as though Mom’s attacked his ego, or his self-worth as my father, by doing for me what he’d wanted to do.  I love Mom, but I hate it when she inadvertently hurts Papa like that. The last thing he should ever think is that he hasn’t been the best parent he can be.

 

The week we spent at Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne’s was fun, just like it always is.  Papa got together for breakfast with two guys he used to work with out of Station 8, but other than that we did things with the DeSotos.   The week was capped off with the annual Station 51 reunion picnic that Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne have hosted for the last twenty years or more. 

 

I’ve always thought authors had it made. I mean, what’s there to sitting in front of a computer and typing up a story from your own imagination, right? It seemed like a pretty easy way to make a fast buck to me.  Well, that week I once again learned what a time consuming job writing really is. 

 

I didn’t get to swim in Uncle Roy’s pool with Chris’s girls and Libby nearly as much as I usually do, and trips to the movies and mall with Libby were almost nonexistent this year.  Instead, I spent hours interviewing the DeSotos, Dixie McCall, and Kelly Brackett.  I’d planned to interview Dixie and Doctor Brackett at Uncle Roy’s picnic, but Dixie suggested I meet with them at her apartment on Tuesday.  Dixie lives in a senior citizen complex that’s like it’s own small town behind big stone walls and an iron gate. 

 

Aunt Joanne let me borrow her car that Tuesday. Dixie had invited Papa to eat with us, too, but he told her the book was my project, so he’d let me handle that, while he floated around Uncle Roy’s pool working on his tan.  Papa’s remark made Dixie laugh, and seemed to serve the purpose he was aiming for – to prevent Dixie from pressuring him into being present when I talked to her and Doctor Brackett about his medical condition after his encounters with Crammer.

 

     I spent four hours with the nurse and doctor.  In the end, I was glad I’d conducted my interview at Dixie’s home, rather than at the picnic. Doctor Brackett and Dixie gave me a lot more information than I’d anticipated. And since we weren’t at a picnic where people were having fun that Dixie and Doctor Brackett were missing out on, I didn’t feel like I had to rush.  If something they said led to me asking another question, then I didn’t hesitate to do so. I found out little things that were going to add depth to my story – like the fact that my grandfather made a scene when he first arrived at Rampart. He came straight from the airport carrying a copy of the L.A. Times.  Papa’s picture was on the front, because some reporter had snuck into the ICU the night before. Dixie said Grandpa was ‘fit to be tied’, whatever that means.  She also said that seeing my grandfather then, gave her a glimpse of what my father would look like when he grew older. She smiled at me.

 

     “Just like sitting across this table from you, makes me remember what your father looked like when I first met him forty years ago.”

 

     I don’t know why that comment made me blush, but it did. 

 

     “You blush just like your father did too,” Dixie teased, which only made me blush again.

 

     Doctor Brackett saved me from further embarrassment, by saying that Jennifer was the person to ask about Papa’s medical condition after his second encounter with Evan Crammer.

 

     “Jennifer was the attending physician that time.  While I remember some things about your father’s condition when he was brought to Rampart, she’ll be able to give you more details than I can.”

 

     “Thanks, Doctor Brackett.”

 

     I concluded my visit with Dixie and Doctor Brackett by thanking them for their time. Dixie said she wanted an autographed copy of my book when it was published.

 

     “I do too,” Doctor Brackett echoed.

 

     “It’s just for a school assignment,” I reminded them. “It’s not going to be published. It won’t even be very good.”

 

     I gathered my notes and tape recorder, then stood from where we’d been seated around the dining room table. Dixie stood as well.

 

     “You’re putting a lot of time and effort into something that won’t be ‘very good,’ as you put it.”

 

     “I wanna do the best job I can, but still, I’m no writer.”

 

     “You never know. You just might discover that you are.”

 

     I gave the nurse a teasing smile.  “Now you sound like my English teacher.”

 

     I turned and offered my hand to Doctor Brackett. He stood in order to shake with me.

 

     “Thanks again for taking the time to answer my questions, Doctor Brackett.”

 

     “You’re welcome, Trevor.”

 

     When Dixie and I reached her front door, I thanked her once more while kissing her on the cheek.

 

     “Thanks for all your help, Dix.”

 

     She laughed. “Now you sound just like your father, Trevor.”

 

     I blushed again. I said a quick, final goodbye and hurried out the door before Dixie could embarrass me further by comparing me to my father.  Not that there’s anything wrong with being compared to Papa, it’s just that it’s hard to imagine that he wasn’t much older than I am now when he first met Dixie. Trying to compare myself to him is almost impossible because he seems so...well - old.  Papa’s in great physical shape – he hikes in the National Forest, works out with weights, uses the treadmill in the station’s exercise center, bowls on a league the fire department sponsors, and jogs or rides his bike whenever the weather allows for it, but still, on average he’s twenty years older than my friends’ fathers.  I have a hard time thinking of him as the “rakish, impetuous young man he used to be,” as Dixie had said at some point in our conversation.

 

     Speaking of that rakish, impetuous young man who was now my father, Papa never asked me anything about my visit with Doctor Brackett and Dixie other than, “Did you get all your questions answered?”

 

     “Yep, and then some.” I smiled. We were seated at the round iron picnic table on Uncle Roy’s deck. “I also found out you were young once.”

 

     “Ha. Ha. You’re real funny.”

 

     “And that you were rakish and impetuous.”

 

     “I can tell you’ve been talking to Dix. Guess she and I will be havin’ a discussion at the picnic on Saturday about just what she can and can’t tell you.”

 

     I laughed. “You’ll lose.”

 

     “What?”

 

     I reached for the relish tray that sat between us and snagged a carrot. “With Dixie. You’ll never win any argument you have with her.  Even though she hasn’t been a head nurse in a long time, she’s still in charge.”

 

     Uncle Roy heard me as he carried from the house a platter of spare ribs Papa was going to grill for us.

 

     “Trevor’s right, you know.”

 

     My father sounded mildly indignant, though I could tell it was an act. “Right about what?”

 

     “If you tangle with Dixie, you’ll lose.” Uncle Roy handed Papa the platter and a pair of metal tongs. “Besides, Dix didn’t lie.”

 

     “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

 

     “You were rakish and impetuous.”

 

     “Impetuous I’ll reluctantly go along with.  But rakish? What the heck does that mean anyway?”

 

     “It means you thought were you hot stuff,” I teased as I stood to see if I could help Aunt Joanne get anything ready.

 

     Papa gave the back of my head a light smack as I ducked by him on my way into the house.  Pops and Uncle Roy spent the next ten minutes debating whether or not the word rakish applied to my father as a younger man. Aunt Joanne looked at me as we stood at the counter getting a salad ready. She shook her head and chuckled.

 

     “Those two will never change.”

 

     I leaned sideways so I could look out the patio screens. Uncle Roy was supervising Papa’s cooking, and now the two of them had changed subjects and were bickering over how much barbeque sauce should be brushed on the ribs.

 

     “Have they always been like this?”

 

     “Like what, hon?”

 

     “You know – best friends who spend about as much time arguing as they do not arguing.”

 

     Aunt Joanne chuckled again. “I’d say that sums up their relationship.”

 

     “Was there ever a time when they didn’t get along?”

 

     Aunt Joanne started to answer me. She opened her mouth, but I could literally see her have second thoughts before anything came out.  She seemed to carefully calculate each word she did finally offer me.

 

     “They worked side by side for eleven years, Trevor. Because of that, I’m sure there were times when they needed a short break from one another, just like there are times when Roy and I need a break from one another on occasion.”

 

     “Did they ever need a long break from one another?”

 

     “What do you mean by that?”

 

     “Did something happen that caused Papa and Uncle Roy to...well, to part ways with one another for a while?”

 

     I knew I was being evasive, but I also figured if there was something to the ‘bad times’ Papa had mentioned, then Aunt Joanne would know what I meant.

 

     She turned away from me in order to put the tomatoes back in the refrigerator. With her upper body half in the appliance, she said, “No, not that I’m aware of.”

 

     “Not even when Papa moved to Colorado?”

 

     She turned and looked at me.  I think she was trying to figure out how much I knew.  Like my father, I’m pretty much an open book, and unfortunately, Aunt Joanne read me like one that evening.  She must have concluded I was fishing for answers. Answers that she was determined not to give me.

 

     “No, sweetie, not that I know of.”

 

     “But if Uncle Roy and Papa are such good friends, how come they lost contact with one another during the years Pops lived in Denver?”

 

     “Oh...I don’t know.  Lack of time had something to do with it, I suppose. Your Uncle Roy was a busy man then. He was captain of Station 26 when your father moved away, and then was promoted to Battalion Chief a few years later. And John was still a boy, so Roy spent most of his free time coaching John’s Little League team, soccer team, and helping with his Boy Scout troop. Then the next thing you know Libby was born and...well, with everything that followed, Roy and I ended up helping Jennifer raise her.”

 

     Aunt Joanne kept glancing out the screen doors, as though she wanted to make sure Uncle Roy and my father didn’t overhear us.

 

     “There was the distance too. It was...different after Johnny...your father, moved away. He and Roy were used to dropping in on one another.  Used to helping each other with household projects, or giving each other rides to work if one of them was having car trouble.  The distance...well sometimes friendships don’t--”

 

     “Survive distance.  Yeah, I know. Papa told me.”

 

     “You’ve asked your father about this?”

 

     “Yeah, but he’ll only tell me the exact same things you just did.”

 

     “Well, see there,” she smiled at me while giving her head a firm nod. “That’s because there’s nothing more to it than that.”

 

     I might have believed Aunt Joanne if she hadn’t sounded like she was trying so hard to convince me of something she knew wasn’t true – and if she hadn’t put those tomatoes back in the fridge before she’d sliced them and added them to the salad.

 

     I let the subject drop, because Aunt Joanne asked me to carry the plates and silverware to the patio. I think she knew I wouldn’t keep asking her questions in front of my father, which is also why I think she was so anxious to go outside with me.

 

     The next day, Aunt Joanne let me borrow her car again so I could meet with Chris.  I drove to his house after breakfast.  He’d told me that nine thirty would be a good time for us to get together. By then, Chris’s wife, Wendy, was at work, his oldest daughter, Brittany, was at a basketball clinic, and his younger daughter, Madison, was at Disneyland with Wendy’s brother and his family.

 

     Talking to Chris is a lot like talking to Uncle Roy. If they’re in the same room together and you close your eyes, you don’t know which one is speaking.  The tone of their voices, as well as the pitch, are exactly alike. Jennifer and John are outgoing and exuberant, while Chris tends to be more quiet and contemplative.  Papa says Jen and John take after Aunt Joanne, while Chris is his father through and through.

 

I’ve always admired the way Chris handles his disability. He suffered a spinal cord injury during some kind of training exercise shortly after he’d joined the fire department.  He’s partially paralyzed from the waist down, and though he can walk using two canes, it’s a struggle for him to. Because of that, Chris generally uses a wheelchair to get around in.  He belongs to a wheelchair basketball league, and he also participates in the wheelchair divisions of 5 and 10K races. He says he’d like to race in a marathon someday, but because of the website design business he owns and his busy family life, he hasn’t made the time to train for the rigors of a 26 mile race yet.

 

Chris never complains about his physical challenges, and Jennifer told me once that other than a short period of time after Chris’s accident first happened, he’s never been depressed about his disability either. Chris has always struck me as a strong guy who never complains. The kind of guy you can depend on, and the kind of guy who makes a good friend.

 

Chris must have been watching for me, because he opened the front door before I had the chance to ring the bell.  I shook his hand, and before I could release my grip, Chris reached up with his other hand and clasped our hands together for a moment with a firm squeeze. That action reminded me of the way I’d seen Chris shake hands with his brother. It made me feel good to know that Chris thinks of me with the kind of...warmth? Does that sound too feminine?  Well, anyway, that I have a place of value in Chris’s life similar to the place his brother John holds.

 

I followed Chris to the dining room table.

 

“Is this a good place for you to conduct your interview?”

 

“Yeah, this is great.”

 

Chris transferred himself from his wheelchair to a cushioned chair at the table, while I took everything I needed from my folder. I turned my tape recorder on and placed it in the center of the long, mahogany table. I sat across from Chris, glanced down at my list of questions, and started our interview by asking him to tell me about the events that took place that April weekend of 1978.    

 

     My writer’s imagination was inspired as I listened to Chris.  I’d already heard this story from my father’s point of view, and while some of what Chris told me was exactly what Papa had said, I was now getting an entirely new perspective on that weekend as seen through the eyes of an eleven-year-old boy. 

 

     As with Dixie and Doctor Brackett, Chris’s story prompted more questions from me than what were on my list.  We talked until noon, stopped long enough to eat the sandwiches Chris insisted on making for us, and then at one o’clock the interview continued.

 

     Chris smiled at me when we were finally ready to call it quits at three. He concluded the interview by declaring, “If anyone defined the word hero that weekend, Trevor, it was your father.”

 

     “Based on what you’ve told me and what Papa has told me, I’d say you were a pretty big hero yourself.”

 

     “No, I was just a scared kid who prayed with all his might that he could stay on Cody’s back long enough to get help.”

 

     “That took a lot of guts,” I said. “Riding a horse that’s too big and strong for you down a mountain.”

 

     “Your father threatened to tan my hide if I left the campsite on Cody.”

 

     “He did? Really?”

 

     My father hasn’t spanked me more than half a dozen times in my life – the last time being when I was nine or ten.  I can’t imagine him ever having done that to one of the DeSoto kids.

 

     “Really.” Chris smiled again. “He didn’t, of course. He wasn’t physically capable of tanning my hide when he made that threat, and after he’d recovered from his injuries, all was forgiven where my transgressions with Cody were concerned.”

 

     I thought over everything I’d been told about that weekend so far.

 

     “Papa must have been awfully worried about you. Between you riding a horse that was too big and fast for you, and riding out of the campsite alone with Crammer lurking in the woods somewhere, Papa must have gone out of his mind wondering if you made it back to his ranch okay.”

 

     “According to Jennifer, he just about did.  It was a terrifying day for all of us, Trev, but now that I look back on it, I realize what a remarkable day it was, too.”

 

     “Remarkable?”

 

     “Yeah,” Chris nodded.  “I was only eleven, and Jennifer was just nine. Your father had lost a lot of blood and could have easily died before help arrived. Yet it was the strong bond that the three of us shared that caused us to pull together in an effort to help one another.  It was that bond that gave me the courage to do what I needed to in an effort to get help for Uncle Johnny, and in an effort to keep Jennifer safe. Your father inspired that courage I found, Trevor.  If it hadn’t been for my strong...love and admiration for him, I don’t know if I could have kept my cool and done all that I did.”

 

     I quietly sat absorbing Chris’s words. He’d fled through the woods in the middle of the night with his sister to hide in a dark cave. When he finally felt it was safe to do so, he’d left the shelter of that cave with Jennifer clinging to his hand, and had snuck back to the campsite in order to find my father. When Chris saw that my father was injured, he got Jennifer to help him apply the first aid skills he’d learned in Boy Scouts. Then after the sun came up and Chris saw my father’s condition was worsening, he’d made the decision to go for help, despite a killer being in the woods surrounding them.  Now, thirty years later, Chris takes no credit for his brave actions, but instead, says it was my father who inspired him to find the courage he needed to tackle all he did that weekend.  Pretty heady stuff.  And a huge, huge credit to the man my father was...and still is.

 

     I shut off the tape recorder and stood to clear the table. We hadn’t done more than push our dishes and glasses aside when we’d finished eating lunch.  Chris started to move toward his wheelchair, but I raised a hand that indicated for him to stop his movement.

 

“You fixed lunch. I’ll clean up.”

 

     I rinsed off our dishes and then put them in the dishwasher. While I wiped off the table with a damp dishcloth my eyes came to rest on Chris’s wheelchair.

 

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get hurt after you joined the fire department?”

 

     Chris glanced toward the French doors that looked out over a deck, and then to the backyard beyond it.  I immediately regretted opening my big mouth.

 

     “I’m sorry, Chris. I shouldn’t have--”

 

     He turned to face me again and smiled. “You don’t have to be sorry. Besides, there’s not much to tell.  It was just an...accident.”

 

     “What kind of accident?”

 

     “It...it doesn’t matter.  It happened a long time ago, Trev.  The only thing you, or anyone else needs to understand without a doubt, is that my accident was no one’s fault. No one’s. All right? Understand?”

 

     I had no idea why Chris was so intent on my understanding that his accident was no one’s fault, but when he said again, “All right, Trev?” I nodded and said, “Sure. All right. Whatever you say, Chris.”

 

     When Chris didn’t offer me further details, I dropped the subject.  This was another one of those questions that I’d always received vague responses to whenever I’d asked my father about it. Any time I’d questioned Papa about Chris’s injury, I was always told, “He had an...accident shortly after he’d joined the fire department.”  Now Chris was being just as vague, and I couldn’t figure out why.  I mean, if he’d fallen from a hose tower or something, did he think I was going to call him a klutz, or accuse him of having made a mistake? 

 

     As I was packing up my stuff I asked one last question.

 

     “Chris, do you know if my father and your father ever had some sort of falling out?”

 

     “Falling out?”

 

     “Yeah.  You know, a fight or something like that?”

 

     “I wouldn’t call what they do fighting, Trev. They bicker sometimes, but don’t let that worry you. They’ve always teased and bickered with one another. It doesn’t mean anything.”

 

     “I know. What I meant was a big fight. Some kind of bad disagreement. Something that caused them not to contact one another after Papa moved to Denver.”

 

     Chris was too quick to answer in my opinion.

 

     “Nope, nothing happened like that.”

 

     Before I could ask any more questions, the man transferred himself to his wheelchair. 

 

     “I need to head out and pick up Brittany. Her clinic ends at four. You wanna ride along?”

 

     “No thanks. I’d better get your mom’s car back to her.”

 

     “She can always use the mini-van if she needs to go somewhere.”

 

     “I know.” Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne have three vehicles.  Uncle Roy’s beloved Porsche, the mini-van they use for family outings and when they travel, and then the car I was driving, Aunt Joanne’s Chrysler Sebring. “Still, she’s been really generous about letting me use it this week. I’d better not take advantage of that. Besides, Papa said I should fill the tank up for her this afternoon, so I need to do that yet, and then Libby’s picking me up. We’re going to dinner and a movie.”

 

     Chris grinned. “I’d say that offer sounds better than mine. You’d better be on your way then.”

 

     We left the house together.  I shook Chris’s hand when we reached Aunt Joanne’s car, and thanked him for his time.

 

     He told me, “You’re welcome,” then just as I was climbing behind the wheel he added, “And Trevor?”

 

     “Yeah?”

 

     “It was just an accident. Okay?”

 

     At first I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but then he patted the arms of his wheelchair in order to give me a hint.

 

     I nodded slowly and said, “Okay,” even though I was now more confused than ever.

 

     I drove to the gas station a few blocks from Chris’s upscale neighborhood.  While I stood in the hot July sun filling the tank, I wondered again why it was so important to Chris that I understand the reason behind him being in a wheelchair was an accident, as opposed to his injury being a deliberate act on someone’s part. Suddenly, I felt like I was getting tangled up in the kind of mystery you only read about in good novels, and that the protagonist has to spend his time unraveling.

 

     I contemplated asking Aunt Joanne about Chris’s accident when I returned to Uncle Roy’s house, and discovered he and Papa were gone.  Aunt Joanne said they had just left to grocery shop for Saturday’s picnic and would be back around suppertime.

 

     “Did you get all the information you needed from Chris?”

 

     “Yeah, he was a big help.” 

 

I thought a long moment as I stood in the garage watching Aunt Joanne paint a three-foot tall wooden reindeer. Uncle Roy makes the reindeer, Aunt Joanne paints them and ties red ribbons around their necks, and then the reindeer are sold at craft fairs in the fall along with other holiday things items they make. 

 

“Aunt Joanne?”

 

     She didn’t look up from the workbench she was bent over, as she painted a bright red nose on the reindeer using a small brush.

 

     “What, hon?”

 

     “How long has Chris needed his wheelchair?”

 

     Aunt Joanne’s attention remained on her work. Because of that, I don’t think she gave much thought to my question. She answered without hesitation, “Let me see...it’s been twenty-four years this month.”

 

     I did some quick math.  “So he was hurt in 1985?”

 

     Her eyes darted to me when I stated the year. What she thought it meant to me I’m not sure, but I could tell she was concerned it meant something.

 

     “I...it was a long time ago, Trevor.  I think that’s right, but I could be off by year or two.”

 

     I didn’t believe her.  I was certain that she, as Chris’s mother, would know the exact day and time when he lost the use of his legs. Despite the wariness that had suddenly overcome Aunt Joanne’s tone, I forged ahead.

 

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did Chris’s accident happen?”

 

     She hesitated, then said, “During his paramedic training.”

 

     “I know that but--”

 

     The beep of a car horn in the driveway interrupted me.

 

     “Oh, look,” Aunt Joanne said with more enthusiasm than was warranted. “Libby’s here already.”

 

     I turned around and gave Libby a wave. I held up my folder as Libby got out of her car.

 

     “Just let me put this stuff in the house and clean up a little. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

 

     “Sure,” Libs agreed. She stood talking to her grandmother while I put my folder and tape recorder in Chris’s old room.  I changed my shirt, then stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands and comb my hair. 

 

     We left ten minutes later. We said goodbye to Aunt Joanne, and then Libby walked ahead of me to her car. Aunt Joanne’s voice caused me to stop and turn to face her.

 

     “Trevor?”

 

     “Yeah?”

 

     “Chris’s accident wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

 

     “Pardon?”

 

     “The reason Chris is in the wheelchair...that wasn’t anyone’s fault. No one’s.  It was an accident, nothing more.”

 

     My brows furrowed together, but I didn’t get a chance to ask any of the questions that immediately came to mind, the first being, “What are you talking about?” because Libby beeped her horn and stuck her head out of the driver’s side window.

 

     “Come on, Trev!  I’m starving!”

 

     I remained where I was a moment longer, but Aunt Joanne said, “You’d better get going, sweetheart, or Libby’s liable to leave without you.”

 

     I wanted to stay and talk with Aunt Joanne further, but since I got the impression she wasn’t going to offer me any more information than what she already had, I said goodbye and jogged to Libby’s car.

 

During the course of our evening I asked Libby about Chris’s accident, but she didn’t know anything more than I did.

 

     “And that’s all anyone’s ever said about it?” I asked while reaching for a third slice of pizza. “Just that Chris had an accident while he was going through paramedic training?”

 

     “Yeah. Or at least that’s all that’s been said to me about it. Why?”

 

     “I’m just curious.” I thought on the subject some more. “Libby, has anyone...your mom, or your grandpa or grandma, or Chris, ever said anything to you about why my father moved to Denver in 1985?”

 

     “No.”

 

     “And no one’s ever said anything about your grandpa and my father going through a bad time that might have caused them to have a falling out of some sort?”

 

     “Not to me, no.  Why? Do you know something I don’t?”

 

     “I’m not sure.  Sometimes I think I do, but then when I ask about it I keep getting the same answers.”

 

     “What kind of answers?”

 

     “Just that Papa moved away to take a new job opportunity, and that distance and lack of time caused him to lose contact with your family.”

 

     “I suppose that’s the truth then.  Coincidently enough, shortly before Evan Crammer kidnapped me, I was looking through Grandpa’s photo albums. I had come across a lot of pictures of Grandpa and Uncle Johnny during the years they worked together at Station 51.  I knew who Uncle Johnny was based on stories Mom had told me, and pictures she’d shown me of him that were in a photo album she has. I asked Grandpa why Uncle Johnny never came to any of the reunion picnics, and he said he didn’t know where Uncle Johnny lived.”  Libby put another slice of pizza on her plate. “I guess they must have lost track of one another over the years.”

 

     “Yeah. Or maybe that’s just what everyone wants us to believe.”

 

     Libby laughed. “Trevor, you sound like a writer in pursuit of a mystery.”

 

     “I’m not pursing one, but for some reason I keep getting the feeling there’s a mystery for me to find if I’m willing to look hard enough for it.”

 

     “If you want my opinion, you’re trying to find something that isn’t there. Look at how close my grandpa and your father are. They sure don’t act like two people who had an falling out.”

 

     “Yeah, but what about the fifteen years between when Papa left Los Angeles, and when Crammer kidnapped him and brought him back here?”

 

     “What about them?”

 

     “Papa and Uncle Roy had no contact during that time, Libs. You said it yourself. Uncle Roy didn’t even know Papa had moved from Denver to Alaska. Uncle Roy had no idea where my father lived, and didn’t even know I’d been born.”

 

     Libby shrugged. “I still think you’re wasting your time trying to uncover something that doesn’t exist, but if you really wanna know the truth, ask my mom tomorrow night.”

 

     Which was exactly what I intended to do.  I was supposed to interview Jennifer and Libby the next evening. Jennifer’s house is just a few blocks from Uncle Roy’s, so at four-thirty on Thursday afternoon I set off for Jen’s on foot.  I carried my folder and tape recorder with me, and by quarter to five was knocking on her front door.

 

     We ate dinner first.  If nothing else, I was getting an abundance of good meals out of these interviews.  Libby and I cleaned up the kitchen for Jennifer since she’d cooked.   Jen’s house is similar in layout to Uncle Roy’s – a ranch style with the bedrooms all down one hallway, the living room, kitchen, and dining room in the center of the house, and a laundry room and attached garage on the other end.

 

     The phone rang while we cleaned the kitchen.  Jennifer picked up the portable and took the receiver into the living room as soon as the caller had identified himself. She’s been seeing a doctor that she works with at Rampart. Papa and I met him at the reunion picnic, and he seems like a nice guy.  Libby likes him, but I know she hopes her mom doesn’t think about marriage until after Libby graduates from college and has moved out of the house. 

 

     “It would just feel funny, you know?” Libby had said to me the night we went to dinner and the movies. “It’s been me and my mom living alone for so long now that I...well, it just wouldn’t feel the same.”

 

     “I know,” and I did, because I was in the same situation with my father.

 

     “I want Mom to be happy though, so whatever she decides, I’ll go along with.”

 

     From what I’d overheard Uncle Roy say to my father, I don’t think Libby has anything to worry about. Jennifer would like to remarry eventually, but wants to get Libby out on her own before she does so.  

 

     “Ron has joint custody of his two teenage daughters,” Uncle Roy had told my father one morning while we ate breakfast, “so Jennifer and he have decided they don’t want the stress of a blended family. They’re serious about one another, but they’re playing it smart. They’re in no rush to get married until all the girls are over eighteen.”

 

     My father said he thought that was smart, and remarked that he’d never had a desire to be a stepparent. “Too many problems waiting to happen. I give anyone credit who can parent someone else’s kids and do it well.  As for me, the thought has never held much appeal.”

 

     Jennifer said goodbye to Ron when she saw Libby and I were finished.  The three of us sat at the table, and once again I turned on my tape recorder. This session took longer than any of my others had, but then I’d expected that it would.  I was getting information from Jennifer regarding her experiences with Crammer in 1978, and from Libby about her experiences in 2000.  Add to that, I was getting Jennifer’s perspective of what it had been like to discover Evan Crammer had kidnapped her child, and then information about my father’s medical when he arrived at Rampart. It was a lot to cover in one evening, but we did it.

 

     It was after eleven when we finally finished.  I shut off my tape recorder and sat back I my chair.

 

     “Thanks, Jen. Thanks, Libby. You’ve both been a big help. This took longer than I thought it would. Sorry about that.”

 

     “Don’t worry about it,” Jennifer said with a smile. “For you, Trevor Gage, anything.”

 

     I smiled in return.  “Thanks.”

 

     Libby got up to cut each of us a piece of cake. No one had wanted dessert after supper, so Jennifer had said we’d wait until the interview was over and then have it.

    

     “Hey, Trev, don’t forget to ask my mom about Uncle Chris’s accident.”

 

Jennifer’s looked at me.  “What about Chris’s accident?”

 

“I was just wondering how it happened.”

 

“He had an accident during his paramedic training.”

 

“What kind of an accident?”

 

“Just...just an accident. An unfortunate accident that was no one’s fault.” Jennifer stood and walked over to Libby. “Here, honey, let me carry in the plates. You pour each of us a glass of milk. Nothing washes chocolate chip fudge cake down better than cold milk.”

 

I gave Libby a “See, I told you so,” look.  She shrugged her shoulders at me while she got glasses from a cabinet.

 

Libby finished her cake first, then stood and said good night. She had to open the store the next morning, so had to leave for work at eight-fifteen.  Jennifer and I said goodnight in return, and I called, “Thanks again for your time, Libby!” as she headed down the hall to her bedroom.

 

I helped Jennifer gather up the plates and glasses when we’d finished eating. 

 

“Jen, can I ask you one last question?”

 

“Sure, sweetheart. Anything.”

 

“Do you know why my father and your father lost contact after Papa moved to Denver?”

 

Jennifer turned her back on me as she bent to put our dessert dishes in the dishwasher.  Her body language told me she regretted being so eager with her, “Sure, sweetheart. Anything.”

 

“Lost contact?”

 

“Yeah. How come they didn’t call one another, or visit one another, like they do now?”

 

The supper dishes were in the dishwasher, too, so Jen pulled a box of soap from a cabinet. She added some soap to the dispenser and started the appliance.

 

“I don’t know, Trev.” Jennifer stood and straightened her canister set, though it looked perfectly straight to me.  “I’m sure they were both busy. John was still young, so Dad was involved in a lot of his activities when he wasn’t at work.  I’m sure the same is true of Uncle Johnny after you were born, isn’t it?”

 

“I guess. I mean, he raised me all by himself from the day I was born, so I suppose he was busy.”

 

“As a single parent myself, I can assure you he was. Sometimes...well, sometimes distance and lack of time prevent friends from maintaining the bond they once shared.”

 

“Yeah, but look at how tight Uncle Roy and Papa have become again in the last nine years.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“I just don’t get it. How come they have the time to be close now, even though they still live far away from one another and are both still busy, but they didn’t have the time to keep their friendship intact right after Papa moved to Denver?”

 

“I don’t know. That’s just the way life works sometimes where friendships are concerned.”

 

“I suppose,” I reluctantly agreed, while at the same time feeling as though there was a lot Jennifer wasn’t telling me.

 

     I picked up my folder and tape recorder from the table. Jennifer walked with me as far as the end of her driveway. It was a nice night – warm, but with enough of a breeze so that the heat of the day had dissipated after the sun went down. 

 

     “Thanks for everything, Jennifer - supper, the interview, dessert. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.”

 

     “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, for you, Trevor Gage, anything.”

 

     As I turned to walk to Uncle Roy’s house, Jennifer said quietly into the darkness, “Trevor, no matter what you uncover as you write this book, never forget one thing.”

 

I turned around.  “What’s that?”

 

“To this family, your father will always be a hero.  He’ll always be the man who saved my life, and who kept my daughter from harm. He’ll always be the man who fought to free me from Evan Crammer’s arms, even as Crammer was stabbing him.  He’ll always be the man who hid me with his own body and endured a beating he barely had the strength to withstand. Uncle Johnny would have willingly sacrificed his own life before he would have let Crammer know where I was, Trevor. And then when Crammer took Libby, the only comfort I had...the only thing that enabled me to have some hope I just might get her back alive, was the knowledge that your father was with her. He’s a hero, Trev. Plain and simple, your father is a hero.”

 

“He says he’s not.”

 

“He might say that, but I know differently, and so does my entire family. Therefore, just remember that what your father did for Libby and for me supersedes anything else. Anything at all.”

 

“Anything like what?”

 

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing.”  Jennifer pointed at her car. “Do you want me to give you a ride to my parents’ house?”

 

“No thanks.” The neighborhood is quiet, safe, and illuminated by streetlights, so I had no worries about going back to Uncle Roy’s on foot. “It’s only a few blocks. I’ll walk.”

 

“Okay. Goodnight then.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

I stood on the sidewalk until Jennifer had gone back into the house.  I headed for Uncle Roy’s then, all the while wondering what Jennifer had meant by, “no matter what you uncover as you write this book.”

 

According to everyone I’d talked to so far, there was nothing to uncover. But if that was really the case, I sure couldn’t figure out why they were trying so hard to emphasize that fact.

 

     My last interview was with Uncle Roy on Friday morning. After a quick cup of coffee and a piece of toast, Aunt Joanne had left in the mini-van for Chris’s house.  His business has grown to the point that two days a week Aunt Joanne spends several hours at his house doing bookwork, answering the phone, and filing.

 

A few minutes later, Papa left in Aunt Joanne’s car to meet his old friends from Station 8 for breakfast. As soon as they were both gone, Uncle Roy and I sat at the picnic table on the deck so I could get the interview underway. Banana muffins and grapefruit slices rested on a plate between us, with my tape recorder setting beside the plate. We ate our breakfast while we talked.

 

     This interview ended up being the one I enjoyed the most. I started it by asking Uncle Roy how he’d met my father. Though I knew the answer to that question, something told me it was important to start at the place where this thirty-eight year old friendship had formed.  If my book was going to be about what one friend was willing to sacrifice for another, then I needed to know everything I could about the friendship that inspired me to choose this plot – everything. The good, the bad, and the ugly, as the expression went.

 

     I didn’t interrupt Uncle Roy, and didn’t refer to my questions even one time. I just let him talk, and through that, I learned more about my father than I had ever known. I discovered just how close he’d been with the DeSoto family during the years he’d lived in Los Angeles, and how much Uncle Roy had valued that closeness.  He didn’t say that in so many words, but the feeling was always present.

 

     Uncle Roy’s monologue unveiled each year as it progressed, from late 1971 when they’d first met, until the early 1980s when Uncle Roy became the captain of Station 26, and my father became the chief paramedic instructor for the Los Angeles County Fire Department.  Just when I thought Uncle Roy was going to say something about the year Papa had moved to Denver, he skipped ahead to the summer of 2000, when Evan Crammer had kidnapped Libby. 

 

     “It was a tough, tough time,” the man said. “Almost harder on me than when we lost...lost our grandson Brandon. You have to remember that when Crammer had tried to take Jennifer, I was unaware of it.  By the time Joanne and I found out what was going on, Chris was able to tell us that Jennifer was safe with your father.  Of course, I was really worried that Crammer would come back and try to take her again before I got to their campsite with the police, but still, at least I had some assurance that Jenny was all right.  When Libby was kidnapped...well, it scared me to death.  She was gone for two days before we knew who had her...and that your father was with her, thanks to you showing up, young man.”

 

     I smiled at the memory. “You sure didn’t like me much at first.”

 

     “It wasn’t that I didn’t like you, Trevor, it was just that I wasn’t...expecting you, let’s put it that way.  I didn’t know Johnny had a son, and for you to show up out of the blue, and then for us to find out you’d run away from your home in Alaska of all places...not to mention the news you brought us.  Well...it was pretty overwhelming, let me tell you.”

 

     “I suppose it was.”

 

     “But once I knew your father was with Libby, I had some hope.  Some hope that she’d return to us safe and sound.”

 

     “Jennifer said the same thing last night.”

 

     Uncle Roy nodded. “I think knowing Johnny was with Libby is what got Jennifer through those next few days.  I know that’s what got Joanne and me through them.”

 

     I asked Uncle Roy to tell me about the events that led up to him taking Libby’s place in the old ranger station where Crammer had been holding my father and Libs. I knew Crammer had called Uncle Roy late one night and demanded that he meet him, but I was uncertain of what had happened next.  My memory as an eight-year-old boy is of a girl I didn’t know showing up suddenly at Uncle Roy’s house. Upon discovering she was the ‘Libby’ I’d heard so much about, who had been kidnapped along with my father, I got really upset because Papa hadn’t come home with her, and no one could tell me when, or if, he was going to come home.

 

     “When Crammer got me to the cabin, he shoved me inside.  Your father was so sick, that even if I had been able to make a run for it, I couldn’t have gotten Johnny out of there with me. After Crammer left us, I did what I could for Johnny. Despite the circumstances it was good...real good to see him again.”

 

     Uncle Roy’s story progressed until he reached the point where my father suggested they try climbing up the chimney and making their escape that way.

 

     “It was a tight fit for me. I didn’t think I was gonna make it a couple of times, but Johnny wouldn’t let me give up, and he wouldn’t leave me behind.”

 

     “Good thing, too, considering Crammer started the cabin on fire.”

 

     “Yes, that was a good thing.  Being burned alive while stuck in a chimney isn’t exactly the way I wanna go when my time comes.”

 

     “I don’t blame you for that.”

 

     Uncle Roy then told how he and Papa made it out of the chimney and onto the roof of the ranger station just as Crammer returned. They would have hidden from him up there, but he started the building on fire, leaving them no choice but to jump from it and flee through the woods. The fleeing part was difficult, considering Papa was really sick with pneumonia, and Uncle Roy sprained his ankle when he landed on the ground. Uncle Roy told me how, despite these things, they ran for all they were worth. Crammer caught up to them though, and by then the fire had spread to the surrounding woods.

 

     “Crammer’s gun was pointed right at me. He was gonna shoot me, Trevor.  He was going to kill me. Your father...your father jumped in front of me just as Crammer squeezed the trigger. To this day, Johnny says all he was trying to do was knock me out of the way.”

 

     “You make it sound like you don’t believe him.”

 

     “I don’t. I think he took that bullet for me on purpose, but if he did, he’ll never admit it.”

 

     Uncle Roy told the remainder of the story then.  I stayed with him and Aunt Joanne during the two and a half weeks my father spent recovering at Rampart.  I knew Papa’s condition was serious, because I wasn’t allowed to see him during the first week he was hospitalized, but until now, I didn’t know just how close he’d come to dying.

 

     “It’s odd, you know.”

    

     “What’s odd?” I asked, as Uncle Roy concluded his story.

 

     “That out of such a bad time came a good thing.”

 

     “What good thing?”

 

     “Your father and I...uh...we...”

 

     He stopped there, as though he realized he was about to say something that he’d rather not. 

 

     “What?  My father and you what?”

 

“Just...just that we were able to get together again and renew our friendship. That was the good thing that came out of what Crammer did to us.”

 

“Speaking of that, I have another question for you.”

 

“I thought we were finished.”

 

“We are – we will be in just a second. Do you have time for one more?”

 

“Sure,” Uncle Roy grinned. “I’m retired now, remember? My time is my own.”

 

“Okay. Well...you don’t...you don’t have to answer this if you don’t wanna, Uncle Roy, but Papa...he wrote some stuff down for me about his experiences with Crammer, and when he did that he said...” I pulled out the papers Papa had typed up for me and flipped the stack to the last page.  “He said, ‘The bad times...I can actually say that thanks to Evan Crammer, the bad times that Roy and I went through have forever become a thing of the past. Friendship should never be taken lightly, and when you have a strong friendship with someone, you should cherish it and never think it can easily be replaced.’ ”

 

Uncle Roy allowed a long silence to linger after I’d finished reading Papa’s words.  When he finally spoke he said, “Your father’s right, Trev. Friendships are something to be cherished. And take it from someone who knows, just like Johnny said, friendship can’t be easily replaced.”

 

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I wasn’t sure how to ask what I wanted to without just coming right out and saying it, so finally decided that’s what I had to do.

 

“Uncle Roy, was there a time when...”

 

I stopped there, suddenly unsure if I should be so bold. It was one thing to ask Aunt Joanne, Chris, and Jennifer about this. It was another to ask Uncle Roy.

 

“A time when what, Trev?”

 

“Uh...a time when you and my father had some sort of fight that caused the two of you to lose contact with each oth--”

 

Before I could finish my question, the patio screen slid open. I looked up to see my father standing on the deck. His glare and deep scowl told me he thought I was poking my nose places it didn’t belong.

 

“Are you done?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Are you finished interviewing Roy?”

 

“Uh...yeah. Yeah, we just got done.”

 

“Then thank him for his time, pick up your stuff, and go put it in your room.  After you do that you can help us get things ready for tomorrow. Those picnic tables Roy borrowed from his neighbors need to be washed.  You can start with those, then I’ll find something else for you to do.”

 

I could tell Papa was ticked at me just by his tone, let alone by his sudden need to find things for me to do. I guess he figured if I was busy, then I wouldn’t have time to ask questions he didn’t want me asking.

 

My eyes darted to Uncle Roy.  I’m sure I must have looked as uncomfortable as I felt, but if he was feeling any discomfort over my questions, or my father’s anger, he did a good job of hiding it.

 

“Thanks for letting me interview you, Uncle Roy. I appreciate it.”

 

“You’re welcome, Trev.”

 

I picked up my stuff and hurried past my father, who was still glaring at me.  I paused in the hallway with no other intention than to eavesdrop. Because the patio doors were open, I could easily hear every word that was said.

 

“I’m sorry about that, Roy. He shouldn’t have brought it up.”

 

“You don’t have to apologize.”

 

“Yeah, I do. It’s none of his business. He doesn’t...there’s no reason he needs to know. Not now. Not ever.”

 

Uncle Roy didn’t disagree with Papa, but then, he didn’t agree either.

 

“However you want it, Johnny.  I’ll handle it however you want me to.”

 

“It’s none of his business,” Papa said firmly. “If he asks again, you tell him that.”

 

“I think I can find a nicer way to say it, but okay, in one form or another, that’s what I’ll tell Trevor if it’s what you want.”

 

“It’s what I want.”

 

I heard the patio screen slide open as if someone was coming into the house, so I hurried down the hall to the room I was staying in. 

 

As I suspected would be the case, my father kept me busy the remainder of the day.  He had all kinds of things for me to do on Saturday morning too, in order to help Aunt Joanne and Uncle Roy prepare for the guests that invaded their backyard at noon. 

 

On Sunday morning I caught a plane that took me from Los Angeles to New York, where I spent the next two weeks with my mother.  Papa stayed at Uncle Roy’s one more day.  On Monday, he boarded a plane bound for Montana. He visited with my aunt and grandparents through Friday. On Saturday morning, Pops flew to Anchorage, where Gus picked him up in a Cessna and took him home to Eagle Harbor.

 

     During the remainder of my stay in Los Angeles, I didn’t ask anyone how Chris got injured, or why Roy DeSoto and my father lost contact with one another for fifteen years.  I didn’t need to ask, in order to have finally concluded that, in some way, those two events are connected.  Now, three weeks after leaving L.A., my questions still remain unanswered. I have a feeling that if Papa has his way, they always will.

 

 

Monday, September 7th, 2009

(Labor Day)

 

 

     Fall comes early to Alaska.  There’s already a “nip in the air” to quote Clarice, and once again we’re seeing more rain than we’re seeing sunshine. 

 

     School started two weeks ago.  I like being a senior. Finally, I’m at the top of the heap.  Papa said I should enjoy this last year of high school as much as I can, because someday I’ll look back on it and wonder where it went.  Old people say stuff like that a lot. I don’t understand why Papa thinks time goes by so much faster for him than it does for me, but anyway, I do plan on having fun this year.

 

     Aside from having fun, I’m busy, too. Dalton and I are co-captains of the cross-country team. We had our first practice a week before school started, and our first meet in Juneau on the third day after school started. I was elected secretary of the student council, which means I have even more writing to do since I record the minutes from each meeting, and I was voted senior class president.  I was surprised by that.  I figured Jenna would be our president.  She’s well liked, good at organizing things, good at scheduling events, and good at getting people to do stuff. Papa was really proud. He says this means my classmates think highly of me. When I told Pops why I thought Jenna should have been voted president over me, he smiled and said, “You’re good at all those things, too.”  I thought about that for a while, and I guess it’s true.  Clarice says I’m a “responsible young man,” and I heard Aunt Joanne tell Papa when we were there, “Trevor’s very mature for his age, Johnny. You have every right to be proud of the job you’ve done as his father.”

 

I think Aunt Joanne’s words made Papa feel good, even though his only response was, “Thanks, Jo.”  He’s not the kind of guy who cares much about what people think, but Uncle Roy’s opinion and Aunt Joanne’s opinion do matter to him.  

 

     Along with everything else I have to do this year, when Mrs. St. Claire assigned positions for the newspaper on the fourth day of school, she made me editor-in-chief.  I have no idea why, and I told her so after class.

 

     “Mrs. St. Claire, between the book you assigned us and my position as student council secretary, don’t you think I have enough writing to do?  I’m still keeping my journal, too.”

 

     “I’m glad to hear that,” Mrs. St. Claire said while she walked up and down the rows straightening desks.  I trailed along behind her.

 

     “So see, I’m doing tons of writing.  Can’t I be a photographer instead?”

 

     “No.”

 

     “Why not?”

 

     “Because Dylan and Dalton are the paper’s photographers.”

 

     “I can switch places with one of them. Dylan would probably--”

 

     “No.”

 

     “How come?”

 

     “Because I chose you to be editor-in-chief, not Dylan.”

 

     “But--”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire stopped what she was doing and turned to look at me.

 

     “Trevor, do you think the positions I assigned to you and your classmates were chosen at random?”

 

     I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”

 

     “Well, I did. Think about it, that is.  Therefore, I can assure that I didn’t just throw your names in a hat and draw them out.  You’re the editor-in-chief because that’s where I feel your talents lie.”

 

     “But, Mrs. St. Claire, if you’ll give it more thought, I bet you’ll see that Dylan--”

 

     “Trevor, if you’d quit fighting it, you might discover what I already know.”

 

     “What’s that?”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire gave me a gentle poke in the chest.

 

     “That a writer lives deep inside this soul.”

 

     “Well if he does, I sure wish he’d make himself known.”

 

     “Don’t you worry,” Mrs. St. Claire assured me, “he will.  Now get out of here before Coach McKinney comes looking for you.” 

 

     I glanced at the clock. I didn’t have any more time to debate my position on the newspaper with Mrs. St. Claire.  I would have been late for cross-country practice if I’d stayed any longer. I called, “Can we talk about this later?” as I ran from her class.

 

     I heard her, “No!” as I raced to the boys’ locker room.  She meant that “No!” too, because I’m still editor-in-chief, despite my best efforts to have the job given to someone else.

 

     Aside from assigning newspaper positions on the fourth day of school, Mrs. St. Claire told us our books were due April first.

 

     All of us except Jenna groaned, “April first?”

 

     “I told you at the end of last school year the books would be due in April.”

    

     Dylan said, “But I thought we’d have until the end of April.”

 

     “Dylan, there are twenty of you in this classroom.  I need time to read the books before the school year ends, you know.”

 

     “I suppose. But if it’ll help, you can skip mine.”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire laughed.  “No, I won’t be skipping yours, or anyone else’s for that matter.”

 

     Jenna raised her hand and Mrs. St. Claire called on her.

 

     “Yes, Jenna?”

 

     “If we have our books finished before April first, may we turn them in?”

 

     “Yes, you may.” Mrs. St. Claire smiled at the perfect way Jenna phrased her request.  It probably validated her existence as our English teacher to know that at least one of us had listened to the endless grammar drills she’d put us through. “I’d welcome your books ahead of the deadline.”

 

     “If mine is already finished,” Jenna said, “may I turn it in now?”

 

     I laid my head on my desk and stifled a groan.  I’d barely started my book, and Jenna already had hers done. Just like I’d feared was going to happen.

 

     “Yes, you may, if you’re certain it’s finished.”

 

     “I’m certain.”

 

     I watched as Jenna paraded a thick binder up to Mrs. St. Claire, complete with a cover she’d illustrated herself using a charcoal pencil. 

 

     I’m doomed, I thought.  I’m totally doomed. She’ll be valedictorian for sure.

 

     In-between school, homework, cross-country, and worrying about Jenna being valedictorian over me, I work for Gus whenever I can, which is mostly on weekends now. Mr. Ochlou’s business slows down after tourist season ends, so while Kylee and Dylan still work for him on weekends, I don’t, unless he’s catering a party and needs extra help.  I play on my school’s hockey team, too. As soon as cross-country season ends in mid-October, hockey will start.  Youth group activities for the Methodist Church start again next weekend, too, and a week after that the fire department’s bowling league begins its season. I’ve bowled on my father’s team since I was thirteen. On Friday, Papa looked at September and October on the calendar. When he saw all the activities I’d written in, he turned and grinned at me.

 

“Looks like we have a busy year ahead of us.” 

 

     “Yep,” I agreed, while I set the table for supper. “Bet you’ll be glad when I’m away at college and you have more time to do things you want to.  You know, like you must have been able to do before I was born.”

 

     Papa was quiet a moment.

 

“I’ll be proud that you’re in college, but as for having more time to do things I want to...no, I won’t necessary be glad about that.  The years since you were born, Trev...they’ve been good ones. Every single one of them.”

 

     “Even the tough ones?” I asked.

 

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that some of my teen years have been rough on Papa, and I know the first year after my birth was difficult for him, too.  He was a single parent, lived far away from his family, and therefore had no help with running his household. When he was on duty, I was at a twenty-four hour day care center the Denver Fire Department ran for the children of its employees. When Pops wasn’t on duty, he saw to my needs, cooked, cleaned, did laundry, grocery shopped, and ran any other errands that were necessary.  I heard Papa tell Uncle Roy that he hadn’t slept more than three to four hours a night after my birth until we moved to Eagle Harbor, and Clarice came into our lives. 

 

“Raising Trevor alone that first year was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, Roy. That taught me to never again think a stay-at-home mom has it made. I wouldn’t trade Trevor for all the money in the world, but being both father and mother twenty-four hours a day is exhausting. For the first time in my life, I was getting’ more sleep when I was on-duty, than I was when I was off, believe it or not.  Moving to Eagle Harbor, and then hiring Clarice to help me out, was the best thing I ever did.” 

 

 

     Without hesitation, Papa confirmed to me, “Even the tough ones.”

 

     He must have read my mind, because before I could say, “I don’t get it,” Papa smiled and said, “You’ll understand when you’re a father.”

 

     Labor Day weekend is always cause for celebration here in Eagle Harbor, even if it is rainy and chilly, like it has been this weekend. We know the long, dark days of winter are coming quickly, so everyone finds an excuse to be outdoors.  For that reason, the fire and police commission hosts its annual Labor Day picnic for all department personnel, including the one hundred and twenty volunteer firefighters and EMTS. 

 

While Eagle Harbor isn’t exactly overflowing in population, the fire department has to cover five thousand square miles of township, water, wilderness, forest, and the combined populations of Barner and Yusik Islands. That large amount of territory is the reason for so many volunteers.  When Papa first came to Eagle Harbor, the fire department was in bad shape.  They’d had problems keeping a chief after the guy who’d been the chief for twenty years retired.  Because they’d gone through four chiefs in six years, the volunteer force was down to thirty members. Given the department itself only employs fourteen full time firefighters, and given the vast area the fire department covers, it was a “crisis waiting to happen,” as Carl has told me. It was Papa who built the volunteer force back up to the number that’s needed, and Papa who suggested to the commission members that it wouldn’t hurt them to show their appreciation of their employees and volunteers one day out of the year. I was three when the first picnic was held, and I haven’t missed any since.

 

If it doesn’t rain, we get together in a picnic area Papa reserves in the National Forest.  If it rains, we still get together in that picnic area, only under long, continuous rows of canvas that some of the men erect like roofs.  I’m looking out my window right now, and it’s pouring. Pops went to the picnic site at eight-thirty this morning, so I bet he’s one of the men putting up the canvas roofing.  He’s probably wondering where I am. He’s also probably figured out I’m not showing up until I know the canvas is in place and the food is cooking. I invited Kylee to the picnic, so I have to pick her up at eleven-thirty. When Papa asks why I wasn’t there to help with the canvas, I’ll tell him Kylee was still getting ready when I stopped at her house and that delayed me.  I can already picture the look he’ll give me right before he says, “Uh huh,” in that way he has of letting me know he’s aware I’m trying to pull one over on him. 

 

Before I started this journal entry, I sent the third chapter of my book to Mom. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s the one who gave me the push I needed to start the book.  While I was staying with her and Franklin at their home in the Hamptons, Mom helped me get the first chapter written.  I don’t mean she wrote it for me, or told me how to write it, because she didn’t.  But what she did do was give me pointers about how to turn my notes and research into a fictional story. That first chapter was so hard to write. I deleted the first paragraph ten times before I finally had something I was satisfied with, and that I thought was half way decent. Mom was sitting at my elbow and laughed when I collapsed on her desk.

 

“Don’t laugh.” I sat back up in my chair. “It’s just taken me half an hour to write one paragraph.  At this rate, I’ll never get the book done.”

 

“You will too,” my mother assured.

 

“No I won’t.”

 

“Each paragraph will come easier, Trevor, until eventually the characters will take over and tell the story.”

 

I thought that sounded pretty bizarre, and I said so.

 

“That’s nuts. How can the characters tell the story?  Even though this book is based on an actual happening, the characters are made-up, Mom. They’re not real people.”

 

“I know that, but you just wait and see.  You’ll reach a point in this story...maybe it will be at page fifty, or page one hundred and fifty, that I can’t predict, but at some point the characters will take over and tell the story for you.”

 

“How do you know that?  You’ve only written non-fiction books.”

 

“I’ve dabbled in fiction writing over the years.”

 

“How come you’ve never had anything published?”

 

“Because I’ve never tried to.  It’s just something I do as a way to relieve stress now and then.  It’s a hobby for me, nothing more than that.”  Mom tapped on the computer screen with one fingernail. “Now come on. Quit stalling.  The first paragraph has to lead to the second. Write it, son.”

 

Despite Mom’s promise, that second paragraph didn’t come any easier than the first had, nor did the third or fourth.  Mom told me I’d eventually find a rhythm to my writing.  She said it would feel like the mental zone I get into when I run.

 

“Your fingers will race across the keyboard typing words without conscious thought on your part, Trevor, just like your legs churn and your arms pump when you compete in one of your meets.  When you compete, don’t you reach a point where your body seems to be working independently from your brain?  Where you’re no longer thinking about what you’re doing, but instead, you’re just doing it?”

 

“Yeah. That’s called a runner’s high.”

 

“Well, writers reach that place to.  I suppose in this case you’d call it a ‘writer’s high’.”

 

I haven’t achieved a ‘writer’s high’ yet, but I hope I reach it soon. So far, I’ve had to think hard every time I work on my book, and I still end up deleting more than I keep. I do appreciate Mom’s help, though. Before I left New York, I had finished the first chapter and she’d proofread it for me.  She pointed out a lot of things that I took more notes on. She taught me how to tighten my writing by getting rid of adverbs and replacing them with more “powerful verbs” as she put it, and Mom taught me how to say the same thing with less words.  At first, I didn’t understand what she was getting at, but after she helped me rewrite the first chapter, I saw what she meant.  My writing was clearer and more concise when I took her advice.  That’s when I asked Mom if she’d proofread each chapter for me.

 

“I want to do all the writing myself,” I emphasized, “but if you could read each chapter and give me pointers, or find my typos, I’d really appreciate it...if you have the time, that is. I know how busy you are.”

 

Mom smiled at me. After all my years of living with Papa, I think Mom liked it that she and I finally had a project we could do together. She kissed the top of my head and promised,  “I’ll make the time, Trevor.”

 

That’s a promise Mom’s lived up to. She found a few minor mistakes in my second chapter that I had overlooked when I proofread it, then made a few suggestions.  I corrected everything I needed to, and made some changes based on her thoughts. A couple of things I left alone though, despite her suggestions, which Mom told me was okay when I talked to her on the phone about it.

 

“You’re the writer, Trevor. Above all else, you’re the person telling the story, not anyone else.  As the writer, you’re in charge of the story’s destiny, so you do with it as you think is best.”

 

That’s when I realized what a big responsibility it is to be a writer.  You’re actually in charge of something that no one else can interfere with, yet if you’re basing your book on a real-life happening like I am, then you want to be respectful to the people involved.  That’s why I asked Papa if he’d read each chapter as I finished it, too, just like Mom was doing.  I was shocked when he told me no.

 

“What?” I questioned, thinking I hadn’t heard him right.

 

“No.”

 

“But why?”

 

It was Friday night, August 28th – Papa’s birthday, and we were just leaving our house in the Land Rover. We’d been invited to Carl and Clarice’s for dinner and cake.

 

“Be...just because.”

 

“That’s not a very good reason. Mom’s reading each chapter for me.”

 

“Then you don’t need me to read them too.”

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

“Why?”

 

“ ‘Cause I wanna make sure I’m not...you know...screwing anything up with all the facts everyone has given me, or being disrespectful to anyone who was involved, or--”

 

“I’m sure you’re doin’ fine.”

 

“How do you know unless you read what I’ve written so far?”

 

“I’ll put my faith in you.”

 

“But, Pops, if you’ll just take a look at it. Just a quick look.  It won’t take long, I promise.  I just need you to--”

 

“Trevor, I said no!”

 

I was surprised by his anger, and even more surprised when he didn’t apologize for losing his temper.  Usually, Papa is interested in all my school projects, and will help me in any way I need him to. 

 

“But Mom’s helping,” I ventured in a timid voice.

 

“Good. Like I said, then you don’t need my help.”

 

“But--”

 

Papa swung the Land Rover into Carl’s driveway.  He pointed his right index finger at me and gave me a glare.

 

“That’s enough. You have my answer. Now let’s go inside.”

 

As we climbed out of the vehicle, Papa added, “And don’t you dare bring this up in front of Carl and Clarice.”

 

     “Okay, okay,” I snapped as I grabbed the present I’d bought for him from the back seat.  At that moment I didn’t feel much like giving it to him, but I carried it with me to the house.  I put on my best party face and so did Papa; therefore neither Clarice nor Carl realized we’d been fighting just seconds before we walked in their door. 

 

     Three years ago, when he’d turned sixty, the men and women who work for Papa threw a huge surprise party for him.  My father is never one to complain about being the center of attention, so he loved that party and the sentiments behind it. Then two years ago, Grandpa, Grandma, and Aunt Reah were here for Papa’s birthday, and last year his birthday was celebrated at the Labor Day picnic. Considering our moods when we got out of the Land Rover, I think Papa was as glad as I was that this year the gathering was small and quiet. 

 

We left around ten-thirty, loaded down with the presents Papa had received along with leftover birthday cake.  We rode home in silence, partly because we were tired and full, and partly because we were aware that if one of us said the wrong thing, the other was going to blow his stack. It wasn’t until my father parked the Land Rover in our driveway that he said anything.

 

“I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

 

I looked out of the passenger side window. I know I sounded like a pouting five-year-old when I answered him.

 

“You didn’t disappoint me.”

 

“Yeah, I did. Trevor, look at me please.”

 

I hesitated a second, but then did as Papa asked.  He didn’t turn the dome light on, so the inside of the Rover remained dark. His features were heavily shadowed, but I could still make out the regret on his face.

 

“I can’t read your book, son. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to read it.  I don’t...you just need to understand that there’re a lot of reasons why I don’t wanna relive that time in my life.”

 

“What reasons?”

 

“Reasons that are...private. Personal.”

 

“In other words, none of my business.”

 

“That’s right.”

 

When he didn’t say any more and a long silence lingered between us, I finally broke it.

 

“Papa, would you give me an honest answer to my next question?”

 

“I’ve never been less than honest with you.”

 

“Does that mean yes?”

 

“It means yes.”

 

“Okay then.  Do you regret giving me permission to write this book?”

 

Papa turned his head and stared out the windshield.

 

“Pops?”

 

“I’m sorry, Trevor, but...yeah...yeah, I do.”

 

Papa wouldn’t look at me when he climbed out of the Rover. He left the cake and his presents behind. By the time I entered the house carrying everything, Papa was in his room with the door shut.

 

I didn’t bring the book up the next morning, and neither did Papa.  It was Saturday, and we both had to work.  We left the house about the same time. When I got home from Gus’s at five-thirty, I did my chores, showered, and then took Kylee out for dinner and a movie.

 

It wasn’t Papa waiting up for me that night, but Clarice, since Pops was on a twenty-four hour shift.  The only thing I said about the book on Sunday was when Papa and I were eating supper.

 

“About my book?”

 

I saw his hand clench around his fork, but other than that, his voice and face didn’t give me any clues as to what he was thinking.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’ll just have Mom help me with it.”

 

Papa hesitated a moment before nodding. “I think that’s a good idea.”

 

My father left the kitchen that night without finishing his supper, or helping me clean up.  I don’t remember a time when he’s ever done either one of those things.  I wanted to ask him what he was so afraid of where my book is concerned, but I knew I wouldn’t get a straight answer, so I kept my mouth shut. That was probably a first for me, but one I think Papa was grateful for. 

 

Part 3