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BOOK 2: SLEEPLESS
Chapter 8: Dream State | Chapter 9: Friend of Yours? | Chapter 10: Suspicious | Chapter 11: A Reluctant Hero | Chapter 12: Arrival at Sheridan's Island | Chapter 13: Mrs. Gervais | Chapter 14: Flight to the Farm House |
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John had been sitting on a large rock at the edge of the lake, pouting. This display of misery had stretched into a full hour and during the interval, the sun had receded until it was just a wedge of red light moving slowly behind the spruce and fir trees to the west. |
“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Gervais muttered to her husband, pushing a gray bang beneath the scarf which was holding the hair out of her eyes. They’d spent six hours on the highway and another two looking for a forest road which, based on how overgrown it had been, probably hadn’t been traveled in decades — and maybe never by an automobile. “If we don’t get across the lake now, we’ll be sleeping in John’s car,” she stated, though truthfully sleeping in the Eclipse was the least of her worries at the moment.
“I know, I know,” Mr. Gervais whispered back. He was equally frustrated, but didn’t have the luxury of showing it. Between a domineering wife and a moody son, it had always fallen to him to be the peacemaker. “I’ll go talk to him.”
“No, I’ll go.”
“Please don’t. You’ll make things worse.”
She put her hands on her hips and gave him a withering look. “How the hell could things get any worse, Max?”
“By you going over there and giving him what for. You know how hard this has been on him.”
“Hard on all of us,” she corrected him.
“He’s just a kid, Gracie.”
“Not so much.”
Mr. Gervais furrowed his brow. “Then how about being a little sensitive to his feelings? Yes, it’s hard on us. It’s harder on him.”
“I know, I know,” Mr. Gervais whispered back. He was equally frustrated, but didn’t have the luxury of showing it. Between a domineering wife and a moody son, it had always fallen to him to be the peacemaker. “I’ll go talk to him.”
“No, I’ll go.”
“Please don’t. You’ll make things worse.”
She put her hands on her hips and gave him a withering look. “How the hell could things get any worse, Max?”
“By you going over there and giving him what for. You know how hard this has been on him.”
“Hard on all of us,” she corrected him.
“He’s just a kid, Gracie.”
“Not so much.”
Mr. Gervais furrowed his brow. “Then how about being a little sensitive to his feelings? Yes, it’s hard on us. It’s harder on him.”
She looked away. He knew his wife was contemplating wading over to that rock, grabbing John by the arm and dragging him back to the car like she’d done when he was small, like she’d done until John had made it clear that that wouldn’t be tolerated anymore. After all, it was true that John was not a kid. Inside that adolescent's body was a person much older than either parent wanted to remember, an adult soul trapped in a seemingly endless childhood. This might’ve been a blessing had the childhood been a happy one, but circumstances had precluded that from the beginning. The best Mr. and Mrs. Gervais could offer were periods of serenity which almost always ended in moments of panic. It was unclear what lay ahead — serenity or panic — but for the moment, Mr. Gervais’s son was enjoying a quiet moment on a rock and it broke his heart to disturb him.
“Johnny,” he called from the shore where tiny waves lapped at the toes of his boots. The boy turned to look at him. “Johnny, we have to get out of the woods. We have to get to the island. It’s not safe here. You understand that right? I’m sorry, I really am. But we need to go, okay? Please?”
John squeezed his eyes shut and dislodged one large tear which ran down the side of his nose and settled on his upper lip. He wouldn’t refuse his father. As much as he wanted to sit until that rock eroded into sand and he sunk into the mud below, he could hear the fear in his dad’s voice. He nodded, stood, stretched and with a solid kick of his right leg leapt from his perch. His arms and legs clipped the tree limbs as he sailed over his father’s head and landed next to the Eclipse.
“Go to the boat,” he said to his parents. “I’ll be right there.”
They gathered the suitcases which had been piled in the grass nearby and began to make their way down to the water’s edge where a large rowboat had been tethered to a tree. John climbed into the car and the gunned the engine, the sound dislodging a loon which had stood motionless among the reeds the entire time he’d been crouched on the rock. He backed the car into the sagging wooden shed hidden among the trees and pulled a large canvas tarp over the top of it. The keys were dropped into a heavy plastic bag and buried behind the front left tire. He latched the shed’s door shut and secured it with a padlock and chain, although this seemed a meaningless gesture. The wooden structure had sat so long in the New Hampshire wilderness that every inch of it was covered with moss or lichen. Between this natural camouflage and the remote location, who would ever stumble across it?
When he arrived at the rowboat, his mother was sitting up front, stiff-backed, looking like George Washington about to cross the Delaware. His father was holding the oars but John immediately reached out and took them.
“It’ll be faster if I row, Pops,” he said softly.
Max clapped him on the shoulder and reseated himself at the rear of the boat.
John seated himself in the middle, thankful that he was faced away from his mother, and dipped the oars in the water. With a single pull the shore slipped away, and with it everything John Gervais had known.
“Johnny,” he called from the shore where tiny waves lapped at the toes of his boots. The boy turned to look at him. “Johnny, we have to get out of the woods. We have to get to the island. It’s not safe here. You understand that right? I’m sorry, I really am. But we need to go, okay? Please?”
John squeezed his eyes shut and dislodged one large tear which ran down the side of his nose and settled on his upper lip. He wouldn’t refuse his father. As much as he wanted to sit until that rock eroded into sand and he sunk into the mud below, he could hear the fear in his dad’s voice. He nodded, stood, stretched and with a solid kick of his right leg leapt from his perch. His arms and legs clipped the tree limbs as he sailed over his father’s head and landed next to the Eclipse.
“Go to the boat,” he said to his parents. “I’ll be right there.”
They gathered the suitcases which had been piled in the grass nearby and began to make their way down to the water’s edge where a large rowboat had been tethered to a tree. John climbed into the car and the gunned the engine, the sound dislodging a loon which had stood motionless among the reeds the entire time he’d been crouched on the rock. He backed the car into the sagging wooden shed hidden among the trees and pulled a large canvas tarp over the top of it. The keys were dropped into a heavy plastic bag and buried behind the front left tire. He latched the shed’s door shut and secured it with a padlock and chain, although this seemed a meaningless gesture. The wooden structure had sat so long in the New Hampshire wilderness that every inch of it was covered with moss or lichen. Between this natural camouflage and the remote location, who would ever stumble across it?
When he arrived at the rowboat, his mother was sitting up front, stiff-backed, looking like George Washington about to cross the Delaware. His father was holding the oars but John immediately reached out and took them.
“It’ll be faster if I row, Pops,” he said softly.
Max clapped him on the shoulder and reseated himself at the rear of the boat.
John seated himself in the middle, thankful that he was faced away from his mother, and dipped the oars in the water. With a single pull the shore slipped away, and with it everything John Gervais had known.
