Echoes of a Distant Summer (16 page)

It was the most unhappy time in Jackson’s short life. At least at his grandmother’s house, no one tried to starve him. Sometimes during the long, hot day in between his dreams of hamburgers and eclairs, he would cry for no reason. It was too hot to stay in the cottage and too hot to stay in the sun, so he would sit outside in the shade of the cottage and cry for hours. He missed his father terribly.

Although he had been living in the cottage for nearly a week, Jackson had not made friends with any of the village children. They did not speak English and he did not speak Spanish, plus they seemed to shy away from him. After a while it didn’t matter, for he was too hungry to play games.

He had three constant companions: hunger, heat, and boredom. At first, he attempted to devise ways to distract his mind from the thought of food, but there was nothing around the house but cacti, scorpions, and lizards. He soon grew tired of trying to divert his attention from hunger and spent days sitting in the shade with his back to the cottage wall, writing in the dust. Finally, in his second week of residence, his stomach drove him out of the shade of the cottage. Hunger caused him to be bold. He went to the village store.

There was only one store in the village, and like most stores of its kind it sold a wide variety of goods, from foodstuffs to clothing to hardware.
Jorge Olazabal owned the store and, like every small-time merchant, he knew every item in his inventory by heart. He was one of the leading men in his village, so he had heard the rumors and stories about Jackson’s grandfather being a criminal on the run from the authorities in the United States. It was reputed that he was a dangerous man, but Jorge always scoffed when he heard these unsubstantiated comments. “No man is tougher,” he was wont to say, “than a man who knows what is rightfully his.” He also knew that Jackson had been left to his own devices for days at a time. He had heard about how the boy stared hungrily at anyone eating food.

Jorge knew it was a question of time before the boy came into his store to steal. Jorge was ready for him. He would make an example of the boy and show the village who was tough. The day Jackson came into the store, business was slow, so Jorge had ample opportunity to observe the boy. The boy moved furtively along the aisle closest to the door, obviously seeking something he could take and dash away with. He was typical of all the hungry children Jorge had seen and he felt no sympathy whatsoever. Jorge, like millions of merchants who preceded him, kept his valuable items and meat products near the counter where bills were paid. Pretending to ignore the boy, Jorge kept him in view out of the corner of his eye.

Jackson probably would not have had the courage to steal anything had not Jorge’s attention been distracted by the store phone. The phone was one of Jorge’s prize possessions. It was one of two phones in the whole village. It was unheard of to have the phone ring and not pick it up. The phone was by the door to the back room. Jorge hustled his chubby body over to the instrument and picked up the receiver. It was his brother-in-law calling to find out if Jorge could get a good price on tires. Jorge could no longer see the boy from where he stood, but he saw a string of cooked sausage disappear from the line hanging over the counter. Jorge screamed, “No!” and dropped the phone. The boy had already escaped the store. Jorge ran back to the phone and told his brother-in-law that he would call him back.

As Jorge walked to King’s cottage, he called out to the villagers to come and watch how he dealt with a thief. By the time he reached the door of the cottage, half the village was with him. He banged on the door forcefully. There was no answer. As with most doors in small villages, this one was built for privacy, not to stop forcible entry. Jorge put his weight against the door and broke it open.

Jackson had barely eaten one sausage. It had not occurred to him that anyone would dare to break down his grandfather’s door. Jorge dragged him struggling and kicking from the house and knocked him to the ground with his fist.

When the blow landed next to Jackson’s right eye, he saw red and yellow lights. There was no pain, only a loss of sensation. He felt himself being pulled to his feet. Another blow was aimed at his head but he ducked in time so that it glanced off his forehead. He pulled free of the grip that Jorge had on him and ran pell-mell through the crowd of villagers as they laughed at him. He ran until he couldn’t catch his breath, until the village was out of sight.

Jorge went into King’s house and reclaimed his remaining sausages, vowing that now they were unworthy to sell, that he would feed them to his dogs. He fooled no one. Everyone knew that the sausages would be washed off and rehung on the line over the counter. Jorge also declared that he would return the next morning and finish administering the beating that the boy deserved.

Jackson had never been so far away from the village. He could no longer see the buildings themselves, only the smoke from various cooking fires. The sun now restated its presence by burning him every time he stopped to get his breath. In the distance, he saw a small arroyo lined with scrub and stunted trees. He sought safety from the sun in the shade of the shrubbery. In the middle of the arroyo was a small stream of cool water. Jackson threw himself facedown in the water and soaked himself. His head was throbbing and his chest hurt from running full speed. He stood up and heard the warning rattle of a sidewinder. He watched the snake writhe out of view under a thicket of sagebrush.

Jackson did not return home until he saw his grandfather drive up to the cottage that evening. When he walked in, his grandfather was examining the door. Jackson was so exhausted and hungry that he could barely talk. Nonetheless, his grandfather interrogated him while he prepared the evening meal. Jackson told him everything, except that he had stolen sausages from the store. His grandfather examined his eye, which now had a large, dark bruise around it, and saw that he was slightly feverish from too much sun. Jackson was so spent, he could not finish his dinner. He fell asleep at the table. His grandfather put him to bed and had to rise several times during the night to place cold compresses on his body.

Jackson was awakened before dawn by his grandfather. He was told
to get dressed. There was no breakfast cooked. They left the cottage as soon as Jackson was dressed and went to Jorge’s house. There were no lights on when they arrived. Jackson was told to wait outside. His grandfather drew an ivory-handled pistol from a holster and kicked the door open.

Jorge had gone to sleep with his rifle at the foot of his bed as a precaution, although he didn’t expect any trouble. He was awakened by the sound of his door splintering, but he had trouble coming to full consciousness because he had been in a deep slumber. By the time he had his wits about him, King was in his bedroom. At first, Jorge was indignant. He was about to give King a piece of his mind when King picked up his rifle and smashed the butt into his chest. The blow knocked the air out of Jorge and stunned him. His wife began screaming for help as King pulled Jorge by the hair from his bed. She tried to intercede and help her husband, but King knocked her down and she did not get up.

Jorge was dragged outside of his house and dropped in the dirt. King pulled out both his pistols and fired several rounds into the store to wake the village. He then proceeded to beat and kick Jorge senseless, taking his time with every blow and kick, repeating in Spanish, “You will never lay a hand on my grandson again, even if he comes for your mother!”

Before he passed out, Jorge begged his fellow villagers for help. No one came to his aid. King continued to kick him even after he was unconscious. Finally, an old lady yelled that Jorge had been only trying to protect his business and that King’s grandson had stolen meat from the store.

King turned to his grandson; there was fire in his eyes. “Did you lie to me? Did you steal from this man?”

Jackson nodded his head in admission.

King went and pulled a wire coat hanger off a nearby clothesline and opened it. He wrapped part of the wire around his hand and advanced upon his grandson, who was now quivering with fear. King commenced to whip his grandson with the wire until the boy’s legs were bloody with welts while the whole village watched. When he finished, he said in Spanish for all to hear, “I will kill the next person who lays a hand on my grandson. I have whipped him so that you will see we do not coddle thieves and liars in my family. If you have a problem with him, come to me. I will see that justice is done.”

Jackson remained in the house for the next three days with the shades pulled down. He was too embarrassed to show his face to the villagers. He had been humiliated twice in front of them. When his grandfather came home in the evenings, Jackson stayed out of his way and kept silent. He never initiated another conversation. He would rather do without than ask his grandfather for anything. The seedlings of hate and resentment had been sown and they would be fed and watered regularly over the years by his grandfather’s stern code.

When Jackson did leave the cottage, he avoided the village and went to the arroyo with the little stream. As the days passed, he wandered farther afield. He went upstream and discovered a series of steep ravines, which he explored. Once again, his hunger made him bold, and he attempted to eat anything that he saw animals eat. Unfortunately, he did not realize that some animals were able to metabolize certain foods which were toxic to man. So, when he attempted to make a meal of red berries which he saw both birds and kangaroo rats eating, he did not expect to get sick. In less than an hour after eating as many of the bitter berries as he could stand, his stomach began to hurt. In fact, the pain doubled him up so that he could not walk. He dragged himself to a shady spot by the stream and passed out.

When he awoke, he heard the mournful howl of a coyote. The stars were out in all their brilliance. A quarter moon smiled down upon him. The ravine looked strange and ominous in the dim moonlight. The terrain was unrecognizable. He didn’t know which direction was the way home. He forced himself to his feet and discovered he could barely walk due to the pain. The temperature had dropped nearly fifty degrees and he was shivering with cold and sweating at the same time. He sat back down, dizzy and exhausted. He fell back in a stupor which lasted for hours.

In the early morning before dawn, the sound of men’s voices awakened him. He did not have the strength to call out. He attempted to drag himself closer, but he was too weak and stiff to move. He lay back and waited for discovery or death; he no longer cared. His grandfather’s voice brought him out of his delirium. Jackson heard him say, “Where the hell is that boy?” There was unmistakable anger in his voice. If Jackson had had the strength he would have crawled deeper into the thickets of madrona and manzanita to avoid discovery. He did not want to face the anger of his grandfather again.

A flashlight passed over his foot, then steadied on him. “I’ve found him!” he heard a familiar voice say. There were sounds of running feet. Hands reached underneath him and propped him up. Someone poured cool water down his throat. A flashlight shined in his face. He heard his grandfather ask, “What happened, boy? Are you all right?”

Jackson raised his hand in front of his face defensively and pleaded weakly, “Please don’t whip me. Please don’t whip me.”

Strong arms lifted him up and held him close. He could smell his grandfather’s cigars and cologne as he was carried back to a waiting jeep.

The next morning, Jackson had vague memories of men in white coats putting tubes down his throat, making him throw up. He turned over in his bed, hoping to fall asleep again, but a tantalizing smell brushed away the cobwebs of sleep. It was the smell of frying bacon. He threw back his blankets and swung his legs slowly out of bed. An occasional pain lanced through his stomach. He sat on the side of the bed for several minutes, trying to marshal his strength.

His grandfather appeared at the door and watched him silently. When Jackson saw that his grandfather was watching him, he grew frightened. “I’m sorry I didn’t get up earlier,” he mumbled. He tried to push himself to his feet and his legs collapsed under him. He fell back on the bed heavily. His grandfather was by his side in an instant. Jackson felt cool hands touch his brow and then his legs were lifted back in bed. He fell asleep again despite his desire to see if bacon really was cooking.

When Jackson awakened, there was a woman sitting in the room knitting. He did not recognize her, but she seemed friendly enough, for she smiled at him when she saw him stir. She washed his face with a damp towel and gestured with her hand, asking him if he wanted to eat. Jackson was famished. He nodded his head so enthusiastically, it made her laugh. She brought in a big plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and tortillas. Jackson’s eyes grew big when he saw the food. He wasn’t sure it was all for him, but she indicated that it was. He cleaned the plate and would have asked for more, but the memory of his grandfather made him keep his desires to himself.

Later that afternoon, Carlos walked into his room. Jackson greeted him with a big smile.

“How’s the wolf cub?” Carlos asked lightly.

“I’m fine,” Jackson answered. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to teach you how to hunt, fish, and forage for food,” Carlos answered. “El Negro says that all your problems have originated with your desire to eat. So, he says, it’s time for you to learn what’s safe to eat and what’s not.”

“How am I going to hunt?”

“Well,” said Carlos, reaching underneath Jackson’s bed. He pulled out a soft rifle case and handed it to Jackson. “I’m going to teach you how to use this.”

Jackson couldn’t believe his eyes. He opened the case slowly and pulled out a Marlin twenty-two-caliber rifle with a small scope. “This is mine?” he asked incredulously.

“It used to be your grandfather’s but he’s had your name carved into the stock.”

Jackson turned over the rifle and saw that his name was indeed carved deeply in the rich wooden luster of the rifle stock. “Gosh” was all he managed to say.