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This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Valerie Tibbs
Once and Once Again © January 2010 Phillip Sweeny
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Once and Once Again
By Phillip Sweeny
CHAPTER 1
The battered pendulum clock resting on the cluttered work-table clicked with an aged feebleness as it chimed the hour. Amos Decker smiled, and with reverence placed a calloused hand on the clock’s water stained wooden casing.
“You’re old, but you never miss a second.” Amos rubbed the warped wood. “You’ve lasted through my grandfather and his before him. Will you last through the boy? Will he even want you?”
“Well, I’ve got a few years left.” Amos took a deep breath and held it as he counted eight chimes. “The boy should be here at any moment.” He removed his hand, leaned across the counter and looked through the window at the main street of the sleepy Louisiana town. “Ah, here he comes now. I can see his blonde head bobbing up and down-running at full speed. He’ll be out of breath, but spinning like a tornado with excitement. I’ll tease him a bit.” Amos smiled and placed both hands on the counter to brace himself.
The humid morning air, mixed with the boy’s exhilaration, hit Amos full in the face as the boy burst through the front door and slammed it shut with enough force to produce a loud bang, rattling the windows of Amos Decker’s bait and fishing tackle shop. Not losing an ounce of speed, the tornado of excitement crossed the room in one single leap to stand before him, panting so hard his words started in a stutter.
“I bet you ran all the way from home-didn’t you, Luke?” Amos smiled, getting in the first words while the boy tried to catch his breath.
“Y-yes,” Luke Blake, managed a reply, trying to catch his breath and speak at the same time. His voice cracked, going from a high soprano to a deep rich baritone.
“You took the short cut-I see.” Amos clicked his tongue in mock disapproval as he looked over the edge of the counter at the boy’s wet, grass covered pants. “You smell like onions and fresh mustard greens. The Thompson’s aren’t going to be pleased. You used their garden as a short cut again, didn’t you.” He raised one eyebrow and waited.
“Most of the stuff is fresh cut grass from the school yard.” Luke’s quick reply spoke of a pre-calculated defense. “They mowed it yesterday.” Wet shoes squished water onto the wooden floor as the boy stomped back and forth. Grass clippings from his pants dropped onto the freshly waxed surface.
“Won’t do any good to fuss, I guess.” Amos forced a frown to hide a smile. “I could make you clean up your mess, you know. Now-what’s got you so excited you would risk Aaron Thompson’s wrath by trampling his precious mustard greens? You’re generally calm, cool and collected. Why are you jumping around like a bucking calf at a rodeo? You’ve been in here every day for the last week acting the same way. You look like you might bust apart and fly about the room like a bunch of dandelion seeds in a strong wind.”
“I am-absolutely and for sure-thirteen years old today!” Luke shouted with such force, his voice cracked again, going back up in scale from the baritone to the high pitched soprano.
Amos Decker took a seat on a stool and lowered his head to gaze at the prancing boy over the top rim of his glasses. He knew pretending to be oblivious agitated Luke beyond description-for Luke wanted something in the worst of ways.
“Not nice to tell lies, boy!” Luke took a step back at the curt, abrupt response as Amos stared him down. “This is the seventh time in as many days you’ve tried some sneaky ploy to get me to cave in. You’ve told lie after lie. It’s not nice to lie to your elders, and to your betters, I might add. Fibbing will get you a place in Hell. Maybe you ought to go spend some time in Church. I think I’ll have a talk with your mother about it.”
“I’m not fibbing this time, Mr. Decker!” Luke spluttered the words, his lower lip protruding and quivering in a practiced pout.
“Mr. Decker, is it now? And why do you think being so formal will get you anywhere with me?” Amos looked out the window, pretending to study something across the street. “Uncle Amos will be sufficient. It’s not going to happen today. Beg all you want.”
“It’s the truth, Uncle Amos! And I can prove it!” The words tumbled from Luke’s lips as he made a show of acting like he was going to pull some confirming document from his back pocket.
“How do you think you’re going to do prove what?” Amos turned his back to the boy and smiled, pretending to study a row of fishing rods displayed on a shelf behind him.
“I’m thirteen,” Luke whined.
“If I remember correctly,” Amos began with a slow deliberation, reaching and touching several of the fishing rods in a measured cadence. “I was present at your birth and you were born on the twenty-sixth. Today is only the twenty-second. You’ve got four more days to go, by my calculation. I’m very good at math, you know.”
“But-but Uncle Amos, please!” Luke pleaded and dropped to his knees to plead his case, begging like a puppy. “Please!”
“Now-let me see,” Amos muttered as if talking to himself, putting his right hand to his chin and examining the long row of rods and reels. “Could it be this one?” He picked one from the end of the row and held it in front of him. “Yes-it might be the one. It’s a good one, too. A little heavy for a lad your size, though. I don’t know why you would you want this thing. Not many fish around here would require gear this heavy. You might go down to the coast and fish in the surf with it-I suppose.”
“No! That’s not it,” Luke moaned, whining with impatience. “You know which one. It’s the third one from the left!”
“Do you mean this one?” Amos asked with a feigned air of indifference as he selected the six-foot rod with a new style of open-faced spinning reel and shook it so its tip wiggled. “It can’t be this one. This one is promised to some kid when he reaches his thirteenth birthday. Seems to me-and I have a good memory-the boy’s papa gave explicit instructions it wasn’t to be given one day before, no matter how much the lad might beg.”
“Uncle Amos, please!” Luke pointed at the door. “There’s a four-pound bass under a log in the bayou and I know I could catch him if I had that rod right now!”
“Four more days.” Amos looked down at him over the top of his glasses, this time raising both of his eyebrows. “No ifs-ands-or buts about it.”
“Oh phooey!” Luke turned on the heel of a squeaky sneaker and stalked out of the bait shop, letting the screen door slam behind him. “At least it’s Saturday and I don’t have to go to school!” he yelled back over his shoulder, bragging. “I’m going to go down to the bayou!”
Luke kicked garbage cans on his way out of town in desperation and threw a rock at a Stop sign as he made his way, following the main road for a mile. At last, sweating in the heat, he came to a wooden bridge and crossed to the other side of the bayou and then to a worn path which led to the water’s edge.
Thinking about the fishing rod and paying little attention to where he put his feet, he stumbled on a root and tumbled down the grassy bank, his feet landing in the murky water. Grumbling and grinding his teeth, his thoughts still on the rod and reel, he stood and brushed dirt, grass and twigs from his pants.
“That’ll do.” He looked critically at his grass stained jeans. “Mom won’t fuss too much.”
He brushed once more and resumed his journey, wandering along the bayou at the edge of the water. I’ll go to the old tree and think this thing out.
Once a massive landmark and a favored location for duelists because of its large shading limbs, the ‘Old Tree’ lay half submerged in the bayou, its roots still stuck deep into the embankment as if trying to hold onto life. The tree’s limbs, all bare and stark, extended well into the bayou, reaching the center of the stream.
“I know you’re there,” Luke whispered as he crawled out onto the trunk of the tree, exhibiting the stalking stealth of a hunting cat. Half-in and half-out of the water, the tree had become a sunning place for turtles and shade for the bass which Luke had high hopes of catching. “At least, if you’re not, I’ll catch a nap and wait. You’ll come in soon.”
“Ah, there you are,” Luke whispered to the bass as if the fish understood. “Not moving much, are you? I can see your fins going back and forth. I’m gonna’ catch you in a few days.” Luke sat on the trunk of the old tree and watched the bass well into the middle of the afternoon.
Shadows crept across the bayou as the sun inched to the horizon, searching for evening. The day could not have been more peaceful and Luke yawned, his eyes heavy with sleep. He had started to snore when he awoke and jerked his head up as if he had been stung by a wasp.
“What’s that?” Luke felt the back of his neck with his hand, the warning chill causing the hair on the back of his neck to prickle in response. He smoothed his hair down with the palm of his hand and looked at the far side of the bayou and then right and left.
“Hello? Billy?” He called into the empty air, expecting to see one of his friends sneaking along the edge of the bayou. He shook his head when he saw no one. He felt the chill again, frowned and looked in a circle around him one more time, trying to figure out the cause of the feeling. He looked for snakes, but found none.
Luke shifted his weight on the tree trunk as he turned back and forth to take a second look. The movement and scraping noise spooked the bass, which swam to another part of the bayou, leaving a ripple behind him.
Luke wiped the sweat from his neck and spoke to the bass, which swirled the water as he took an unsuspecting bug from its surface. “At least, there hasn’t been any rain and there aren’t many mosquitoes. I couldn’t stay here for long without repellant. I’m glad I didn’t use any before I left home. I’m sweating so much it would be in my eyes, stinging like hell.”
Mosquitoes were not to be totally denied, however, and one buzzed past his ear and landed in the peach-fuzz hair on his forearm. He studied the insect with a sort of morbid fascination as it probed his skin, looking for the right spot to insert its bloodsucking proboscis. Inquisitive, Luke decided to watch and see what happened.
“Ouch!” He bit his lower lip as the needle-sharp feeler of the mosquito found its mark. Gritting his teeth to control the urge to swat the insect, he watched as the long black object entered into the tanned skin of his arm. In but a moment it sank all the way up to the furry face of the mosquito.
He frowned as he remembered what his friend, Billy, had told him about letting a mosquito suck until he sucked all the blood out. He had said if you did, it wouldn’t itch. He had some theory about sucking out all the itch juice. Luke decided to see for himself and watched intently.
For the first few seconds, he noticed nothing. The mosquito pulled the probe half way out and then reinserted it. Luke watched the mosquito’s abdomen bulge and take on a red tinge.
“You’re filling up with my blood! You’re gonna’ bust if you get any bigger!” The mosquito disengaged and flew away, with a slow sluggish buzz.
Luke watched the engorged insect pick up speed until it had almost gotten out of his reach. He had to stretch to bring his hands together in a loud clap. “Gotcha!”
He looked at the palms of his hands and found the furry body and a smear of blood, which he absent-mindedly wiped onto the front of his jeans.
“Darn it.” He spit on his arm, scratching at the bite site. “It itches and it’s swelling! Billy, you lie, lie, lie. You don’t know much about mosquitoes. That’s the last time I’ll trust anything you say.”
He continued to scratch at the bite, stepped to the edge of the water and squatted down thinking it might help to wash, but stopped and looked at his reflection staring back at him.
“I’m tired of this long hair.” He touched the side of his head. “I’ve got curls and bangs like a girl. I look like my sister-but it’ll be gone next week!” His voice echoed back to him from the opposite side of the bayou. A great blue-heron squawked at the intrusion and took flight from its hidden fishing spot behind a covering of willow bushes.
“Mama said I could get it cut on my thirteenth birthday!” Luke yelled at the departing bird as it made its way down the bayou. “She said I could get a crew cut like everyone else. Nobody will tease me about looking like a girl anymore. Joey said I might become a girl. He asked if my tits were growing.”
Luke let out a slow breath of relief, pulling his t-shirt up and inspecting his chest. “Thank God, they aren’t. I don’t want to look like Sarah.”
He thought about Sarah, then. He thought about her hair, as curly and blonde as his. Sis, you’re the only person I can talk to. You’re the only person who understands how I feel about things. Why do you have to be a girl? You’re six years older than me, but you understand.
Luke frowned as his thoughts about Sarah continued. I wish you were here right now. I would show you the squashed mosquito, but you might not want to see it. You’ve changed, Sis. You haven’t been staying around the house as much. It’s the boys. I heard Mom and Dad talking.
Luke had not noticed the effect her soft blonde hair or her teasing smile had on the boys, nor did he notice how she looked when she stood in the sunlight wearing a thin cotton dress. This, however, had not escaped the attention of boys her age or the attention of Luke’s friends.
Luke had no clue she often performed this little act on purpose. He did not know she enjoyed slipping her bra off in the school bathroom so the boys could get a bigger eyeful during lunch break. He did, however, feel jealousy at the attention the older boys were giving her.
“Something’s wrong,” Luke spoke to the bass as it made its way back to the safety of the tree trunk. “She fights with Mom and Dad. They yell and scream at each other for hours and hours. It keeps me awake.”
Luke thought about one such fight which had occurred the week-end before, after Sarah came home, hours past her curfew. He had tried to sleep, but could only toss back and forth, sweating, and listening to the screams coming from Sarah’s bedroom. The words, sex-pregnant-slut-and whore still echoed in his head.
“Sarah’s not a slut,” he continued to talk to the bass in a whisper, covering his mouth with his hand as if to hide the word. “She’s my friend. She’s not a whore. She’s pure.”
He closed his eyes and tried to put the subject out of his mind, but his thoughts turned to the description of a girl’s pussy, Bobby, the school bully had made only a week before. He had boasted about putting his finger in his girlfriend’s pussy and to prove it, made a show of smelling his finger, starting at the base and slowly sniffing to its tip. Bobby bragged about how he could ‘beat himself off’ and get cream. He said he had a six inch long dick. Luke left the group when Bobby unzipped his pants and offered to show anyone who might be interested.
“Bobby’s gross,” Luke told the bass.
“I bet little 'Lukey' only has baby fuzz! Bet he hasn’t got any hair!” Bobby had teased and pointed as Luke walked, then ran away.
Luke told Sarah all. She listened patiently and told him not to worry. He did not know why Bobby and his girlfriend broke up the next day, or why Bobby avoided him whenever they came in contact on the school grounds.
“Why don’t I have any hair and why can’t I get a hard on?” Luke continued his conversation with the bass-as if the bass cared. “I don’t care about girls. I’ve got better things to do. I’ll catch you as soon as I get my new rod and reel.” He pointed his finger at the bass. “And Bess and I’ll get that ole’ rabbit as soon as hunting season gets here.”
“I won’t think about it,” he said to the expanse of water across the bayou, yet he could not get it out of his mind. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, but his thoughts turned to Sarah. “The boys ask about you all the time. They want to know if I’ve seen you naked. I won’t tell them.” The bass moved out of the shade and then back into the shadows as Luke shifted position on the tree trunk.
No, he would not listen to the lurid suggestions, as Sarah was too special to him to be degraded in such a way. So, he would run, hide, and spend time in the woods with Bess, but yet, he could not escape, for he had seen her naked. He fought desperately to keep the memory from surfacing. He tried to suppress it, but found he could not keep his mind on the woodpile and Jake the Rabbit, or on the bass swimming in the shadows before him.
The shock of seeing Sarah happened three months before. He had to go to the bathroom to pee, thinking of nothing else but the pressure, when he walked in on her taking a bath. It had happened by accident, but he could not get what he had seen out of his mind. The memory returned every time the boys on the schoolyard brought up their probing questions. Yes, he could still see her, partially covered with soapsuds.
She had looked up at him and smiled, not saying a word or trying to cover herself. He had stood still and looked at her for what seemed like an eternity before he turned, slammed the door shut and ran back to his room.
He had no understanding of puberty, or why each time one the boys would ask him a question about Sarah, he felt a twinge of excitement. He tried to think about other girls, but the vision of Sarah, covered with soapsuds would come back into his mind. So, he forced himself to daydream about the bass under the tree or rabbit hunting with Bess.
Luke stared into the pool of water and watched the bass. The memory of Sarah taking a bath would not get out of his mind-so he tried to slip off into a dream of a hunting trip. He tried to think of his father and mother. He thought of duck hunting and trips to the lake on cold winter mornings, but nothing would erase the vision of Sarah.
He stood and looked for snakes as he felt the cold chilly premonition prickle the hair on the back of his neck. Leaning to get a better view, he lost his balance, saving himself from an unexpected swim by grabbing a branch. His foot hit the placid water and the bass hurried across the bayou with a splash.
“Darn!” He shook the water from his sneakers and eased off of the tree trunk, holding firmly onto branches. He picked up a stick and beat the ground around the roots of the ancient tree. Satisfied there were no snakes, he climbed up the bayou bank onto solid surface, looked right and left and started for the meadow.
He took a well worn path to the meadow, knowing it well as the meadow provided another place of refuge from his worries. He looked over his shoulder as he walked, for the chill seemed to follow him, almost within his grasp, yet out of sight. He tried to walk as quiet as a deer and slowly the foreboding left as he trod the familiar trail.
He reached the meadow as the sun found the horizon, bathing the meadow grass with a soft yellow-orange glow. Near the center of the meadow, he found the large oak standing alone, casting deep shadows across the grass and wildflowers. He followed the shadows, stopping every few yards to pick blackberries until he stood at the base of the tree, its lower branches hanging over the meadow grass, forming a natural shelter.
Luke stared up into its ancient branches, turned and spit the remaining blackberry seeds from his purple stained lips. Turning back, he crouched and jumped, grabbing a low limb with practiced ease. The climb was easy for he knew which limb to grab and how to swing so as to get his foot onto the next higher one. His muscles responded to his demands with little effort. Stopping halfway to his destination, he watched and waited. The sun dropped below the horizon as he gazed across the field and the summer’s full moon started to rise.
He looked upward into the blackness and continued his climb. Now, fifteen feet from the ground, he could see below him as well as he could see out into the meadow. He found the fork in a limb where he had previously placed several boards. Taking his usual position, he settled in, and stretched out. The platform was sturdy. He knew he would not fall. He waited.
If the deer were true to habit, he would see them soon. He watched the spot where they would come out of the woods, cross the meadow, and then walk underneath the branches of his hiding place. He could watch them browse on honeysuckle in the moonlight. If they did not come, the platform would hold him safely and he could drowse and dream without fear of falling. He had a lot of things to think about.
The moon made its way upward and the meadow became brighter as the light played tag from one patch of grass to another. The shadows simmered like gossamers and Luke nodded, his eyes heavy with sleep. Myriads of fireflies danced about the meadow like playful fairies in front of him. He watched, let out his breath, stretched and yawned.
The call of a whippoorwill sounded off to his left and he opened his eyes, searching the shadow of the bird he knew would be sitting atop an old telephone pole at the meadow’s edge.
He heard a twig snap and turned his attention to movement at the edge of the woods. Thinking it might be the deer, he shifted his weight in order to get a better look. He made sure he had a firm hold of a branch so he would not fall and give himself away.
“It’s not the deer,” Luke whispered and opened his mouth to call out, but stopped as a cold chill crept up his back. Something made him stop and he rubbed the erect hair on the back of his neck.
He watched, fascinated, as the two figures stopped and then walked back into the shadows, emerging fifteen yards down the tree line. They repeated the pattern several times until they reached the path which led across the meadow. The two walked along the path timidly, bathed in moonlight. They stopped halfway across the meadow and Luke took in a short breath as he watched them come together.
He watched a full two minutes before the two separated and resumed their trip through the moonlight. They stopped, came together again for ten minutes, parted and headed for the tree, walking hand in hand.
“Sarah!” A voice shouted in Luke’s ear. “Run-run!” He gritted his teeth and flattened as much as he could-hugging the boards and the limbs that supported him.
“Don’t kiss her, please!” Luke cried in an inaudible whisper as Sarah and the man came together in a passionate embrace.
He closed his eyes and opened them, only to see more clearly in the moonlight. He lay still as a leopard, as if waiting for prey. His eyes opened wider as he watched his beloved sister and the man kiss again and again.
A low soft moan came from Sarah’s throat and drifted up through the branches to Luke’s ears. He stretched his neck, trying to get a better look. Things had gone too far. He had to see. He had no choice. Something had taken control. He moved his head to see better, but a stray cloud crossed the moon, throwing the meadow into darkness, leaving only the light of the fireflies.
Luke strained to see, but the shadows hid the scene below him. He had no trouble hearing as the night sounds had seemed to go silent. He listened, closed his eyes and cried as the scent of Sarah’s favorite perfume drifted through the lower branches and filled his nose.
He looked into the night sky and tried to time the movement of the cloud across the moon. He could see the edges of the light, but the cloud was moving very slow. It would be several more minutes. He wanted to see and to scream. He opened his mouth to try, but no sound came out. An owl hooted a chilling sound from its perch in a distant tree.
“Please!” Luke heard the deep guttural plea of the man and shuddered at a trace of recognition.
“No. I can’t do it tonight.” Sarah’s voice had a teasing giggle. “It’s my period time.”
“But I have to!” The begging plea changed into a harsh demand and Luke’s fingers cut into the bark of the limb which held the planks of his platform.
The man let out a long groan. “I’m ready and it hurts. I need you. Do something! Make me come!”
“Sure.” Luke heard Sarah giggle. “I can take care of that little problem for you. Unbuckle your belt, I’ll fix you up. It’ll be almost as good as my pussy. Not quite, but almost.”
Tears flowed down Luke’s cheeks as soft sucking sounds reached his ears. He put his hands over them in an effort to block them.
“Whew!” The man groaned after several minutes had passed.
“All done,” Sarah giggled. “Feel better, now?”
Luke’s eyes searched the darkness below and if by some unseen command, the cloud disappeared and the base of the tree flooded with light. Luke’s eyes widened and he gasped.
“Oh, no! Oh, Jesus God, no!” The words tumbled out of his mouth.
“Did you hear someone?” Sarah asked as she and the man looked into the darkened tree branches at the same time.
“No.” The man pulled Sarah to him. “I need-.”
“Stop!” Sarah pushed the man away, stood and peered into the dark foliage, searching. “I heard something. It sounded like-.” She walked into the meadow and circled the tree.
“It’s got to be a night bird, an owl or something,” the man grumbled. “Come back. I’m hard again. Give me another blow-job.”
Sarah laughed and stopped circling. “That’s a fine thing for a church youth minister to say-especially one who is supposed to teach our youth group about the sins of sex.”
“I’m teaching you.” The man stepped into the meadow in full view. “Come here and let me teach you some more.”
“I think I heard something up in the tree.” Sarah began to circle again.
“Can we come back next week then, after the Youth Service?” The man asked as Sarah stepped back into the shadow of the tree.
“We probably can,” Sarah laughed and ran out into the open meadow. She stopped halfway across, reached down and pulled a clump of grass from the soft meadow soil and ran back.
“What the Hell?” Luke heard the man say as he watched Sarah grab his belt buckle.
“You better bring two rubbers.” Sarah pulled his pants open and dumped the grass down the front. “You’ll need them both!”
Luke’s eyes filled with tears as he watched Sarah run back across the meadow. The man gave chase, but tripped and fell halfway across. Sarah squealed with laughter and disappeared into the darkness of the waiting woods.
“No!” Luke could not hold back the tears as he brought his hands to his eyes. The man stood and looked back at the tree before melting into the darkness of the woods.
“No Sarah! No!” The blackberries he had eaten filled his mouth as he gagged and retched. He heaved, again and again, until he could vomit no more. Exhausted, he fell back onto the boards of the platform and looked into the sky as another cloud covered the moon.
“Oh-Sarah-why?” He screamed his pain into the night as his mind filled with all the stories he had heard in the schoolyard. He heard echoes of his mother and father shouting behind closed doors, ‘slut’, ‘whore’. He saw the scene below him, playing over and over as his eyes searched the sky. He closed his eyes and in place of the moon, saw Sarah taking a bath.
The owl hooted again as Luke slid off of his platform and made his way to the ground, falling the last five feet. He hit with a thud and lay a moment in the soft grass trying to catch his breath.
He tried to move and felt of his arms and legs with his hands to see if any bones had been broken by the fall-his shattered heart pounding in his chest. He took a deep breath and smelled Sarah’s perfume as it lingered in the humid evening air. Closing his eyes, he saw her all around him, dancing, laughing and teasing.
Her words, “next time bring two rubbers,” echoed in his mind as he screamed, “Oh-Sarah. No-no-no!”
He fell to his knees and sobbed, crying his heart out. He reached for what he thought to be an old stick and instead, his hands closed on a piece of cloth, which he held up to the moonlight.
“No!” The scream came from his lips in a shriek as he looked at Sarah’s bra, dangling from his fingers. He tried to throw it, but it landed only a few feet from him. He stared at it as he brought his hands to his face, the perfume scent from the bra filling his nose.
“It won’t come off.” He tried to rub the smell off into the grass under the tree, but it lingered and he shook as he brought his hands back to his nose.
“Sarah, Sarah,” he shouted into the night, scrambled to his feet and bolted into the meadow and woods beyond, running like a frightened deer. He ran as fast as he could, charging ahead without any thought as to where he was going. Briars pulled at him and scratched his legs as he ran headlong into the blackness of the deep woods, thinking only of escaping-escaping the sight, smell and the sounds of Sarah.
CHAPTER 2
‘SLUT’--‘WHORE’. The words echoed in Luke’s head as he stumbled through the dark woods, tearing into his heart while the briars and thorns tore at his clothes and exposed arms. As he ran past the fallen tree at the bayou, he tripped on its roots, tumbling down the bayou bank and landed headfirst in the murky water.
He fought his way to the surface, gasped in a breath of air and dog-paddled to the opposite shore. Without a moment’s rest, he scratched his way up the slippery slope, ripping his fingernails as he fought to gain traction. He tried to stand when he reached the top, but lost his balance and fell backward into the bayou.
After three more attempts, he pulled himself over the rim and onto flat ground, panting and covered with mud. It took all his strength to get to his knees and stand, sore and bleeding, with tears streaming from his eyes. Unable to focus, he headed into the sinister darkness of the woods without a thought of danger. His rage propelled him onward and onward.
“Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!” His screams penetrated the darkness as he careened from limb to limb of the sentinel trees of the deep woods, each holding onto him like tentacles. Tears and the darkness blinded him, yet he ran on, groping and falling again and again over logs and roots until he fell into a patch of wild multi-flora rose-the vicious thorns tore into his arms without mercy.
‘Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!’ The words echoed again and again, hurting more than the pain inflicted by the bleeding cuts from the rose thorns as he fought to disentangle his arms and legs. Pulling the last of the clinging vines from his jeans, he rolled over in the dirt fighting for air.
‘You’re a little tramp! Slut! Whore!’ His parent’s accusations screamed in his mind.
He turned around and around with his hands over his ears, searching for an escape from the forest and the horror in his brain. As he looked right and left, a cloud passed from over the moon and he noticed a path leading through the trees. He took it and reaching its end, fell onto soft freshly plowed earth of a cotton field.
Regaining some control over his breathing, he turned his attention to the cotton field, which spread out before him. The soft earth offered little resistance compared to the horrors pushing him from behind. He could not go back and face Sarah after what he had seen, so he started across the cotton field at a trot, stumbling once before his feet gained a foothold.
He could not sit at the dinner table, looking at her acting as if nothing had happened. He shook his head, but could not get the thought of what he had seen out of his mind, so he ran faster as he tried to reason through what had happened, his mind starting to take over.
He lost track of his progress through the cotton field, stopping once to get his breath and to his surprise, found that he had crossed the entire field and now stood next to a set of railroad tracks. He looked right and left and shuddered, his eyes following the tracks as they ran like ghostly ribbons from east to west in the moonlight.
Exhausted, he bent at the waist with his hands on his knees and bitter stomach juice flowed into his mouth. He vomited and retched until only bits of bitter bile dripped from his nose. He heaved again and fell forward from the force, striking his head against the cold steel railroad track. He looked once at the moon and stars as he passed unconscious into darkness.
As Luke lay unconscious across the railroad tracks, an old black man, shuffled along the track bed, humming to himself. He stopped when he got to Luke and smiled, prodding him with his gnarled wooden cane. He nodded, stepped off the track bed and disappeared into the darkness. Walking only a few yards, he stopped, leaned against his cane and waited.
Luke slept for an hour before a faint humming sensation woke him. He listened, his head against the rail-the quietness of the night interrupted only by the occasional chirp of a cricket and croak of an old bullfrog from a pond off in the distance. Luke closed his eyes and slept another ten minutes, but awoke as the humming vibration in the tracks became more intense.
Luke sat up and looked right and then left-confused and still in his nightmare of sleep. He looked back across the cotton field, but saw nothing. He rubbed at his eyes, opened them and searched, looking back across the fields at the darkened tree line beyond. The moon had set and he could see nothing except the twinkling of the stars.
He looked directly at where the old black man stood watching, but his darkness blended in with the night, making him invisible. The old man shifted his weight on his cane and sighed.
‘Slut! Whore! Sarah!’ The words exploded anew in Luke’s brain. Tears fell down his cheeks. He managed to sit and hung his head between his knees. An owl hooted and he looked up, but only saw the headlights of a lone automobile, far in the distance.
He felt the vibration in the tracks when he put his hand on the rail and at the same time the long steady blast from the horn of the west bound train reached his ears as it approached a crossing a mile to the east.
The train came around a curve and its lone headlight pierced the darkness. Luke heard the humming of the diesel engines as the train started into a slight grade, straining against the weight and drag of a long line of boxcars and flatcars filled with pine logs.
Luke watched the train as it chugged closer and closer. He could run, but no, something stopped him-he felt frozen to the tracks. He watched mesmerized at the approaching train. The horn sounded again, but he did not move.
‘Sarah, oh Sarah! Slut, whore!’ He held his hands to his ears, cried and closed his eyes.
“Go away!” He cried into the night as the solution hit him. He turned his eyes from the approaching train, crawled to the center of the railroad tracks and curled up into a fetal ball-closed his eyes and waited.
“I wouldna’ do dat. Not nice wha’ yo is a-tinkin’, young fella’. The old black man stepped from the shadows and stood next to him, poking at him with the tip of his cane. Luke stirred and the man stepped back into the dark cotton field.
“Who? What?” Luke opened his eyes as an unseen force lifted him into the air. He turned his head back and forth. He was standing upright now, but still in the center of the railroad tracks. He looked at the train as it came closer and closer.
“Who’s there?” Luke called, but no one answered. “How did I stand up?” He turned as the deep throbbing sound of the diesel engines reached him. The train would be on him in seconds.
“No, I can’t do this!” Luke shouted as he jumped from the tracks and rolled down into the cotton field, landing at the feet of the old black man, who took a few steps backward. The train lumbered on by.
Luke stared at the passing boxcars as if in a trance as the train hummed, its wheels and casings squealing at the weight and grade under the load of cut pine trees and pulpwood piled high in the cars behind the four diesel engines.
“Stinks.” He curled his nose as boxcars carrying cattle passed.
‘Slut! Whore! Sarah’-pounded in his brain. He bit his lip, stood and without a second thought took off, running along side of the train. He caught a hand rail and the next thing he knew, rolled onto the wooden floor of an empty boxcar where lay motionless, giving in to his tears.
He sensed when the train picked up speed as the grade leveled, crossing a swamp. Opening his eyes, he saw only blackness as the dampness of the night swamp air closed in upon him. Giving in, he curled into a ball and let his tears and the rhythmic swaying of the boxcar lull him into a fitful dreamless sleep.
“What the?” The train lurched an hour later and Luke awoke with a start. It took a moment to get oriented. He shook his head to clear the nasty nightmare of Sarah kissing the youth minister.
Luke shuddered as the horn sounded at a crossing, the eerie moan drifting back to him. He looked around for the first time at his new home, expecting to see ghosts drift from the darkened corners of the empty boxcar.
He let himself think for the first time as the realization of what he had done hit him. ‘What have I done? Will I ever get home? Oh, Sarah! I’m sorry. I do love you. I don’t care what you are! I’m so lonely-and-and-I’m scared!’
He looked out of the door of the speeding boxcar and swallowed hard, watching the countryside pass before him as the train sped along, eating up the miles. The old boxcar lurched and swayed. At times he had to hold on for fear of being thrown out of the door and into the darkness beyond, the only indication of life being the lights of an occasional distant farmhouse.
“No cotton fields or pine trees,” he tried to speak, his throat dry, but tired of the loneliness of silence. “I must have come a long way. I’ll never get back home. But do I want to go home? I don’t know.”
Sarah, oh Sarah, what have you done? He closed his eyes as he thought. Do you miss me? Do you and Mom or Dad even know I’m not at home? You have to know. But maybe you don’t. It’s no use. You couldn’t find me even if you wanted to.
I do love you, Sarah. I miss you so much. I want to see you. I want to tell you I’m sorry. I’ll love you no matter what you’ve done. If you know that I know, you’ll stop. You’ll still be my sister and my friend. We can go fishing together.
“But now I’ve run away.” Luke put his hands to his eyes. “I’ll never see Mom or Dad, again.” Wiping his tears, he looked into the darkness. He stretched to see as the glow of lights of a city came into view.
“Mesquite, Texas.” Luke read the sign as the train sped past a small train station, its horn blaring at the crossing.
Where is Mesquite, Texas? He tried to think. There’s another sign up ahead. He leaned out of the open door to look.
“Dallas, Texas. Seven miles,” Luke read the sign, the glow of the rising sun illuminating its surface. He turned and looked to the east, shading his eyes and shaking his head as the warm rays struck him in the face.
Luke held on to the door latch, leaned out of the boxcar and looked up and down the track. His stomach growled with hunger as he licked his thirsty parched lips.
The train slowed and with thirst driving him, Luke measured the distance to the ground and jumped. He hit the hard soil and fell, rolling over and over until he came to rest, kneeling in a muddy ditch, panting to catch his breath. He tried to stand and his feet sank past his ankles into the soft mud. He felt his arms, legs and ribs.
“Nothing broke,” he mumbled with satisfaction. “I’m stuck.” He tried to pull one of his feet out of the mud. He tugged and tugged until the mud yielded and his foot came free with a slurping sucking sound.
With his foot freed, Luke stepped from the ditch and onto the grass of firm ground. He stopped to wipe his mud covered hands onto his jeans. He felt his arms and legs one more time for breaks and then bent down and rinsed his muddy hands in the brown oily water.
The sky continued to brighten revealing that he stood next to two parallel rows of tracks. Telephone poles loomed in front of him on the opposite side of the tracks and he spoke to himself, “Got to be a road. I’ll go over there.”
His stomach growled as he made his way to the road. He looked east and then west. Hope came in the form of a neon sign flashing a promise of food a quarter of a mile to the west.
“Route 80 Cafe. Eats. Cold beer,” he mumbled as he read, his stomach churning at the thought of food.
Hunger overcoming caution, he crossed the railroad tracks, slogged through a muddy ditch on the opposite side and up onto the highway. As he approached the cafe, he put his hands into his pockets and pulled out the contents.
“I’ve got two quarters, a dime and ten pennies,” he counted in disappointment. “Maybe I’ve got enough to get a soda or a candy bar.”
The screened cafe door loomed before him like a forbidding cave. He hid in the shadow of an old truck and watched as two young men came out carrying steaming cups of coffee. They walked over to an old pickup truck, loaded heavily enough with hay that the front-end sat high up and off the axle.
The smell of the hot coffee drifted across the small parking lot and Luke cried at the smell. Memories of duck hunting days and early mornings with his dad letting him have sips from his coffee mug solidified his homesickness.
“I’ve got to get home. There has to be a way, somehow.” He looked at the telephone poles and highway with longing.
“Hey kid! Need a ride?”
What?” Luke shrank back deeper into the shadows.
The man called again as Luke turned to run, but froze as the man shouted. “Hey kid! I’m talking to you.”
“Are, are you-,” he tried to answer, but could not get the rest of the words to pass his dry lips. Instead, he pointed at the door of the cafe.
“What do you think’s wrong with him?” The man turned to his friend and then spat tobacco juice into the dirt, before leaning out the window of his truck and pointing at Luke.
“Probably a runaway,” came the answer. “See a lot of them riding the trains. It’s dangerous business. Glad he wants to go inside. Mama Grace will fix him up.”
“Yup, Grace is a mother to all kinds.” The man spit another wad of tobacco juice out the window onto the pavement. “Come on. Let’s get going and get this hay delivered. We don’t have time to chit-chat with no runaway kid. Boss’ll have our skins if we’re late getting this stuff over to feed his cows.”
The truck backfired and a large cloud of blue-black oily smoke belched from the tailpipe as the driver cranked the engine. He shifted the truck into first gear and it backfired again. The truck lumbered out of the parking lot and onto the highway, the engine whining and straining under the heavy load of hay.
As the pickup labored to gain speed, Luke backed nearer to the screen door of the café, still hiding in the shadows. His hand closed on the latch and the door swung open, a bell attached to its top tinkled, startling him, but he stepped inside, driven by hunger.
Luke sniffed as the smell of hot food and coffee filled his nose. He looked about and his eyes came to rest on a sign tacked onto a pedestal next to the door. “Wipe your feet or wash dishes!” Luke read the sign twice and then looked at his feet, still wet and muddy from the ditch next to the railroad track.
“Oops.” He took a step, leaving a perfect muddy footprint in the center of the doorway. Looking up and to his left, he saw a rack of magazines and several short isles of canned foodstuff, all arranged in precise neat little rows. His mouth watered and he wiped it with the back of his arm.
“Vienna sausage, beef stew, potted meat.” He looked at the canned food and licked his lips. “Moonpies! I want a Moonpie.”
Holding his quarters tightly in his fist, he continued to look about the dimly lit room. Even in the dim light he could make out a large sign with a picture of a hand pointing toward the rear door that read, “RESTROOMS OUT BACK. CORNCOBS ARE FREE.” A neon sign at a doorway at the opposite end of the room flashed a warning: “NO BEER TO GO. MUST BE 21 TO ENTER.”
Luke smelled fresh coffee, fried bacon and eggs. He looked again at the change in his hands while he edged closer to the counter, which traversed the room, guarded by a row of red, vinyl covered bar stool. He counted-unaware of the watchful eyes following his every move.
“Seventy cents,” he mumbled, his spirits falling as he looked up and read a sign on the wall behind the counter. “HAM AND EGGS SPECIAL $1.25.”
“How much you got, boy?” Dragging out the word ‘boy’ into a long slow drawl, the voice pounced from the shadows behind the far end of the counter. Luke jumped as if he had stepped on a snake.
“How much you got, boy?” The voice demanded again, ending in a wheeze and gruff raspy cough.
Luke braced his feet to run, but hesitated and stared at the obese woman wearing thick glasses, who coughed and wheezed as she tried to catch her breath. He watched her take the glasses from her nose and toss them on a table with little regard. Luke took a step backward.
“I said, ‘how much money you got, boy!” The command came with another cough and wheeze. Luke stood still and waited.
“Well?” She belched. A smell of stale tobacco juice mingled with fried bacon wafted across the room and found its way into his nose. “Speak up, boy. Ain’t chu’ got any ears. I knows that you do. I kin see ‘em on the side of your head. Ain’t they workin’? It seems like I asked you a question?”
“S-s-seventy cents.” Luke held the coins tightly in his hand. “T-Thought I might get a coke and a candy bar.”
Two hundred eighty pounds of Grace Martin leaned forward, turned and then moved with surprising speed and ease. In an instant, she stood and stared directly at Luke from behind the counter. Tobacco juice dribbled from her mouth as she spit into an empty coke bottle, which she carried in her right hand. She put the bottle on the counter with a bang and stared across at Luke, leaning closer. The tobacco smell mixed with the smell of her sweat and Luke stepped back, his nostrils flaring at the stench.
“Move over into the light so that I can see you better,” she spit the command, pointing to a bright spot, where a florescent light hung over the countertop. He obeyed and stood, petrified while she spit into the coke bottle and looked him over, up and down.
“Sit!” She pointed with the coke bottle at the vinyl covered stool next to him. A drop of tobacco juice fell onto the floor.
“Yes, ma’am,” Luke managed to mutter. The chair squeaked as he sat on it, his feet barely touching the floor.
“Turn around,” she belched again, thumping her chest with her fist and pointing. “Now back this way. That’s right. Now, sit right there and be still so I can get a good look at you.”
“Let’s see.” She spit into the coke bottle, again. “You’ve torn your shirt. You’re covered with mud stains and your arms are all scratched and bloody.” Grace took it all in at a glance, nodding her head. “I bet I’ve seen two dozen kids like you in as many years. You’re a runaway, aintcha? I’d bet my cat, Emerald, on it.”
“Emerald?” She spoke to a green-eyed tabby cat sitting on a stool at the far end of the counter. “Did you drag this urchin in here?” The cat perked its ears and swished its tail back and forth.
“I, I slipped and fell,” Luke answered, looking down at the countertop, his hands trying to cover the thorn scratches on his arms.
“I bet yo’re hungry.” Grace frowned. “Where did you come from, boy?”
“Home.” The answer came in a choked whisper.
“Where you headin’?” She pressed immediately, not giving him time to start crying.
“Home,” he sniffed, hiding his face with his hands.
“Home is a good place to be from and a good place to be going to.” Grace put both hands on the counter with an air of expert authority. “Tell you what, boy. Just for today, I got a roadside special for folks that's going home. It’s all the ham and eggs you can eat, and all the coffee you can drink for special price of fifty cents. Give me another nickel and you can have a glass of fresh squeezed Florida orange juice.” Grace chuckled and picked up a can. “So fresh, it comes straight from a can.”
“I’m hungry,” Luke sniffed as he looked up at her and nodded. He wiped the tears from his eyes and placed the seventy cents on the counter.
Grace squeezed her massive body around the end of the counter, exiting through a doorway and into the kitchen, but continued to watch him through an opening in the wall behind the counter.
“Wonder if I should call the Sheriff, now?” She muttered and spit the rest of the tobacco plug into a large can on the floor. The can rattled and tipped over, spilling several days’ collection of tobacco juice onto the floor.
“Perhaps-not this time.” Grace ignored the spill, wiping her hands on a not too clean dishrag as she continued to talk quietly to herself. “Not this one. He looks pretty tore up, both outside and inside. At least he says he’s going home. It might be better to let him do it on his own. It’ll mean more to him. It’ll help heal the hurt. I’ll have to think about it some. There’s got to be a way to do it safely.”
“Here it is!” She burped as she crashed a plate of down in front of him. “Eat it all up! Hey, there! Slow down some, boy. There’s more where that came from!” She chuckled, looking down at him with her two large hands resting on her hips.
“Ifin’ you bolt it down like a ol’ hungry dawg, you can bet yo’ life’ you’ll throw it up in sight of twenty minutes. Food won’t do you no good if it’s all over my clean floor.” She looked at the floor and shook her head. “Well, it’s pretty clean. I mopped it a couple of weeks ago.”
“Yes’m.” Luke looked up at her as she filled up the space in front of him, stopping to chew as he had been instructed.
“That’s better. Here’s some coffee. You do drink coffee, don’ you?’
“Yes’m.” He nodded and took the cup of steaming hot coffee from her.
The long low moan of a distant train horn sounded off in the distance and both Luke and Grace turned at the sound. Luke swallowed his coffee and looked out of the door at the tracks beyond. He slid off the stool, reached for the napkin and wiped his mouth.
“That’ll be the 407.” Grace nodded as the horn sounded again, noticeably closer. “It’s headin’ east toward Shrees’port. You be headin’ thata’ way, boy? Is that the way home?”
“Yes’m.”
“Then you might as well sit down and have another plate of my good cookin’. The train’ll pull off onto that sidin’ over there.” Grace pointed out the door and then back at the bar stool. “Be there for nearly half an hour, waiting on the westbound to come by.”
“Thanks,” Luke reached for his second plate of bacon and eggs, which had mysteriously appeared on the counter in front of him, but stopped and looked back out the door. The train slowed and stopped, exactly as she said it would.