enough," his father would thunder. "No one's had an easy time around here."
"You can't side with her now, Dad. You can't. Who'd you always come to with the money for the shopping? To me, that's who. Who'd Sharon and Lei Lani and Doug always run to if they was hurt? Huh? Did they go to her? To you? No, they damn sure didn't. To me, that's who. To me!"
Greg would sit in class that year, in junior high school, and his thoughts would be in the big two-story frame house: She's a liar, that's what she is. She's always been a liar and he's a coward and takes anything she hands him and now they're trying to turn the kids against me. Against me.
It was about this time that his performance began to suffer both academically and in extracurricular endeavors. He no longer asserted himself in sports. He'd always considered himself a good athlete, especially in winter sports, and now he didn't seem to care. He even lost interest in his saxophone and in music in general. He began losing weight and dropped off the football squad.
Then, when he was fifteen, he ran away. There were many times on the road that he regretted his decision, especially when he stood on the mountain highway in Kentucky in the rain, and the rain turned to sleet and made heaps of gray-brown slush, and the sky blackened before his eyes so that the boy had a feeling that the sun would never return. All the cars passed without slowing and he counted his money for the tenth time, but it still totaled three dollars and some pennies. He was wheezing, rattling, ripping phlegm from deep within. Then a big sedan stopped, skidding a little on the wet asphalt.
"Want a lift?" asked the man holding the door open and Greg splashed through a puddle and fairly leaped into the car.
"Thanks," said the boy when his teeth stopped chattering.
"Going far?" the man asked, and for the first time the boy looked at him. He wore a black topcoat and black pants. He had dark hair and eyes, wore glasses, was both tall and big.
"I'm going to Florida."
"Well." The man laughed softly. "You have a ways to go. Do you have money?"
"Enough," the boy said suspiciously.
"Where do you come from?"
"Cadillac. That's in Michigan."
"Thumbing all the way?"
"No, I came by train most of the way."
"Where're your parents? Michigan?"
"I don't know where my parents are and I don't care. Now maybe you better just let me out if you care so much."
"Hold on." He laughed. "Don't get angry. I didn't mean to pry. What's your name?"
"Greg."
"I'm Father Charles, Greg," the man said, and it startled the boy. For the first time he noticed the Roman collar barely showing beneath the black topcoat.
"I never met a priest," said the boy. "Do they call you 'Father' or what?"
"Most people do." The priest laughed. "Some less charitable Protestant neighbors call me other things. I have a parish in Georgia. You can ride a piece of your journey with me."
And then the priest began suggesting, gently at first, that Greg should at least call his parents, and he was saying something else, something about traveling like this, and the conversation seemed to have religious overtones but Greg couldn't tell. His eyelids were closing and his head was nodding forward onto his chest. He woke up in the state of Georgia.
"This is where I stay, son," said Father Charles as Greg rode with him to the rectory, planning to leave after a promised hot meal. It was a small poor parish in a region of Baptists and Methodists, but the parish house was clean and warm, and there was a part-time housekeeper to help the priest keep things tidy. Despite his long sleep in the car, the boy was glad to accept the invitation to stay another night. He slept thirteen hours in a warm clean bed.
The next morning Father Charles said, "I can't persuade you to wire your folks?"
"No sir."
"You're determined to go on?"
"Yes sir."
"Well then, would you consider staying here for a while? I know a man who has a job putting up galvanized siding on buildings. I
"You can't side with her now, Dad. You can't. Who'd you always come to with the money for the shopping? To me, that's who. Who'd Sharon and Lei Lani and Doug always run to if they was hurt? Huh? Did they go to her? To you? No, they damn sure didn't. To me, that's who. To me!"
Greg would sit in class that year, in junior high school, and his thoughts would be in the big two-story frame house: She's a liar, that's what she is. She's always been a liar and he's a coward and takes anything she hands him and now they're trying to turn the kids against me. Against me.
It was about this time that his performance began to suffer both academically and in extracurricular endeavors. He no longer asserted himself in sports. He'd always considered himself a good athlete, especially in winter sports, and now he didn't seem to care. He even lost interest in his saxophone and in music in general. He began losing weight and dropped off the football squad.
Then, when he was fifteen, he ran away. There were many times on the road that he regretted his decision, especially when he stood on the mountain highway in Kentucky in the rain, and the rain turned to sleet and made heaps of gray-brown slush, and the sky blackened before his eyes so that the boy had a feeling that the sun would never return. All the cars passed without slowing and he counted his money for the tenth time, but it still totaled three dollars and some pennies. He was wheezing, rattling, ripping phlegm from deep within. Then a big sedan stopped, skidding a little on the wet asphalt.
"Want a lift?" asked the man holding the door open and Greg splashed through a puddle and fairly leaped into the car.
"Thanks," said the boy when his teeth stopped chattering.
"Going far?" the man asked, and for the first time the boy looked at him. He wore a black topcoat and black pants. He had dark hair and eyes, wore glasses, was both tall and big.
"I'm going to Florida."
"Well." The man laughed softly. "You have a ways to go. Do you have money?"
"Enough," the boy said suspiciously.
"Where do you come from?"
"Cadillac. That's in Michigan."
"Thumbing all the way?"
"No, I came by train most of the way."
"Where're your parents? Michigan?"
"I don't know where my parents are and I don't care. Now maybe you better just let me out if you care so much."
"Hold on." He laughed. "Don't get angry. I didn't mean to pry. What's your name?"
"Greg."
"I'm Father Charles, Greg," the man said, and it startled the boy. For the first time he noticed the Roman collar barely showing beneath the black topcoat.
"I never met a priest," said the boy. "Do they call you 'Father' or what?"
"Most people do." The priest laughed. "Some less charitable Protestant neighbors call me other things. I have a parish in Georgia. You can ride a piece of your journey with me."
And then the priest began suggesting, gently at first, that Greg should at least call his parents, and he was saying something else, something about traveling like this, and the conversation seemed to have religious overtones but Greg couldn't tell. His eyelids were closing and his head was nodding forward onto his chest. He woke up in the state of Georgia.
"This is where I stay, son," said Father Charles as Greg rode with him to the rectory, planning to leave after a promised hot meal. It was a small poor parish in a region of Baptists and Methodists, but the parish house was clean and warm, and there was a part-time housekeeper to help the priest keep things tidy. Despite his long sleep in the car, the boy was glad to accept the invitation to stay another night. He slept thirteen hours in a warm clean bed.
The next morning Father Charles said, "I can't persuade you to wire your folks?"
"No sir."
"You're determined to go on?"
"Yes sir."
"Well then, would you consider staying here for a while? I know a man who has a job putting up galvanized siding on buildings. I
Similar Books
