National Forest. By the time he reached Highway 2, he was sweating so hard he had to keep wiping his eyes. His forehead was on fire. He knew he had a fever. One hundred degrees, at least.
He stared at the black river of asphalt that flowed down to the tiny town of Leavenworth. On either side, spindly green pine trees stood guard.
Town was only a mile or so away. From this distance, he could see the Bavarian-themed buildings, the stoplights and billboards. It was, he knew, the kind of town that sold handmade Christmas ornaments year-round and had a quaint bed-and-breakfast on every corner. The kind of place that welcomed tourists and visitors with open arms.
Unless you looked or smelled like Joe.
Still, he was too tired to walk uphill, so he turned toward town. His feet hurt and his stomach ached. He hadn't had a good meal in several days. Yesterday, he'd survived on unripe apples and the last of his beef jerky.
By the time he reached town, his headache was almost unbearable. For two hours, he went from door to door trying to find temporary work.
There was nothing.
Finally, at the Chevron station, he spent his last two dollars on aspirin, which he washed down with water from the rusty sink in the public rest room. Afterward, he stood in the candy aisle, staring blindly at the products.
Corn Nuts would be good now . . .
Or barbecue potato chips.
Or—
“You gotta get a move on, Mister,” said the young man behind the cash register. He wore a tattered brown T-shirt that read:
We interrupt this marriage to bring you elk-hunting season.
“Unless you're gonna buy something else.”
Joe glanced up at the clock, surprised to see that he'd been there more than an hour. Nodding at the kid, he took his canteen into the rest room and filled it with water, then used the facilities and headed out. At the cash register, he paused. Careful not to make eye contact, he asked if there was a place he could find part-time work.
“The Darrington farm hires transients sometimes. Usually at harvesttime. I dunno about now. And the Whiskey Creek Lodge needs maintenance men during the salmon run.”
Picking fruit or gutting fish. He'd done plenty of both in the past three years. “Thanks.”
“Hey. You look sick.” The kid frowned. “Do I know you?”
“I'm okay. Thanks.” Joe kept moving, afraid that if he stopped for too long he'd stumble, then fall. He'd wake up in a hospital bed or on a jail-cell cot. He wasn't sure which fate was worse. Each brought too many bad memories.
He was outside the mini mart, unsteady on his feet, trying to will the aspirin to take effect when the first raindrop hit. It was big and fat and splatted right in his eye. He tilted his chin up, saw the sudden blackness of the sky overhead.
“Shit.”
Before he finished the word, the storm hit. A pounding rain that seemed to nail him in place.
He closed his eyes and dropped his chin.
Now his flu would escalate into pneumonia. Another night outside in wet clothes would seal it.
And suddenly he couldn't live like this anymore. He was sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Home.
The idea came to him like a balmy breeze, took him far away from this ugly spot in the driving rain. He closed his eyes and thought of the small town where he'd been raised, where he'd played shortstop for the local ball team and worked at a garage after school and every summer until he went away to college. If any town would still accept him after what he'd done, it would be that one.
Maybe.
Moving slowly, his emotions a convoluted mixture of fear and anticipation, he went to the phone booth and stepped inside its quiet enclosure. Now the rain was only noise; it was like his heartbeat: fast, breathless.
He let out a long breath, then picked up the phone, punched
0
and placed a collect call.
“Hey, little sister,” he said when she answered. “How are you?”
“Oh, my
God
. It's about damn time. I've been worried sick about you, Joey. You haven't called in—what?
He stared at the black river of asphalt that flowed down to the tiny town of Leavenworth. On either side, spindly green pine trees stood guard.
Town was only a mile or so away. From this distance, he could see the Bavarian-themed buildings, the stoplights and billboards. It was, he knew, the kind of town that sold handmade Christmas ornaments year-round and had a quaint bed-and-breakfast on every corner. The kind of place that welcomed tourists and visitors with open arms.
Unless you looked or smelled like Joe.
Still, he was too tired to walk uphill, so he turned toward town. His feet hurt and his stomach ached. He hadn't had a good meal in several days. Yesterday, he'd survived on unripe apples and the last of his beef jerky.
By the time he reached town, his headache was almost unbearable. For two hours, he went from door to door trying to find temporary work.
There was nothing.
Finally, at the Chevron station, he spent his last two dollars on aspirin, which he washed down with water from the rusty sink in the public rest room. Afterward, he stood in the candy aisle, staring blindly at the products.
Corn Nuts would be good now . . .
Or barbecue potato chips.
Or—
“You gotta get a move on, Mister,” said the young man behind the cash register. He wore a tattered brown T-shirt that read:
We interrupt this marriage to bring you elk-hunting season.
“Unless you're gonna buy something else.”
Joe glanced up at the clock, surprised to see that he'd been there more than an hour. Nodding at the kid, he took his canteen into the rest room and filled it with water, then used the facilities and headed out. At the cash register, he paused. Careful not to make eye contact, he asked if there was a place he could find part-time work.
“The Darrington farm hires transients sometimes. Usually at harvesttime. I dunno about now. And the Whiskey Creek Lodge needs maintenance men during the salmon run.”
Picking fruit or gutting fish. He'd done plenty of both in the past three years. “Thanks.”
“Hey. You look sick.” The kid frowned. “Do I know you?”
“I'm okay. Thanks.” Joe kept moving, afraid that if he stopped for too long he'd stumble, then fall. He'd wake up in a hospital bed or on a jail-cell cot. He wasn't sure which fate was worse. Each brought too many bad memories.
He was outside the mini mart, unsteady on his feet, trying to will the aspirin to take effect when the first raindrop hit. It was big and fat and splatted right in his eye. He tilted his chin up, saw the sudden blackness of the sky overhead.
“Shit.”
Before he finished the word, the storm hit. A pounding rain that seemed to nail him in place.
He closed his eyes and dropped his chin.
Now his flu would escalate into pneumonia. Another night outside in wet clothes would seal it.
And suddenly he couldn't live like this anymore. He was sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Home.
The idea came to him like a balmy breeze, took him far away from this ugly spot in the driving rain. He closed his eyes and thought of the small town where he'd been raised, where he'd played shortstop for the local ball team and worked at a garage after school and every summer until he went away to college. If any town would still accept him after what he'd done, it would be that one.
Maybe.
Moving slowly, his emotions a convoluted mixture of fear and anticipation, he went to the phone booth and stepped inside its quiet enclosure. Now the rain was only noise; it was like his heartbeat: fast, breathless.
He let out a long breath, then picked up the phone, punched
0
and placed a collect call.
“Hey, little sister,” he said when she answered. “How are you?”
“Oh, my
God
. It's about damn time. I've been worried sick about you, Joey. You haven't called in—what?
Similar Books
