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 s