We’d followed Interstate 70 west out of Denver and were now well into the mountains, although Jason wasn’t appreciating their snowcaps. He was dozing in a sleeping bag on the backseat.
“After you …” I had trouble continuing. “It suddenly occurs to me that you might not want to talk about it.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“After you got away from …”
“Say it. The sick bastards who kidnapped me. It’s a fact. You don’t need to tap—dance around the subject.”
“You were sixteen when you escaped. You’ve talked about roaming the country, working on construction jobs or whatever. But you never mentioned anything about school. When you disappeared, you were in the fourth grade, but you’ve obviously had more education than that. Who taught you?”
“Oh, I had plenty of education in politeness,” Petey said bitterly. “The man and woman who kept me in that underground room insisted on a lot of ‘Yes, sir, yes, ma’am, please and thank you.’ If I ever forgot, they punched my face to remind me.” The sinews in his neck tightened into ropes.
“I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t raised the subject,” I said.
“It’s fine. There’s no point in hiding from the past. It’ll only catch up in other ways.” Petey’s gaze hardened. He took a deep breath, subduing his emotions. “Anyhow, in terms of education, I have better memories. As I wandered from town to town, I learned that an easy way to get a free meal was to show up at church socials after Sunday—morning services. Of course, I had to sit through the services in order to get the free meals. But most times, I didn’t mind —the services were peaceful. After so many years of not reading, I’d sort of forgotten how to do it. When members of this or that congregation realized that I couldn’t read the Bible, they took steps to make sure I learned my ABC’s and, more important, the Good Book. There were always teachers in the congregations. After work some evenings, I’d get private classes at a church in whatever town I happened to be in. There are a lot of decent folks out there.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Hear what, Dad?” Jason asked sleepily from the backseat, where he’d woken up.
“Just that there are decent people in the world.” “
Didn’t you know that?”
“Sometimes I wondered. You and your uncle better concentrate on the map. Our turnoff isn’t far ahead.”
12
We were looking for a place called Breakhorse Ridge. It’s odd how some names stay in my memory. Twenty—five years earlier, that was where Dad had taken Petey and me on our camping trip. Somebody at the furniture factory where Dad was the foreman had once lived in Colorado and had described to Dad how beautiful the Breakhorse Ridge area was. So Dad, who’d already committed to taking us camping in Colorado, had decided that would be our destination. But back then, all during the long drive, I’d had a horrifying mental image of somebody breaking horses in half. Not knowing anything about how cowboys “broke” wild horses so people could ride them, I’d been afraid of what we were going to see. Dad finally got me to tell him what was bothering me. After he explained, my fear turned to curiosity. But when we arrived, there weren’t any horses or cowboys, just a few old wooden corrals, and a meadow leading down to a lake and an aspen forest with mountains above it.
I never forgot the name. But as Petey, Jason, and I had made plans, I couldn’t find the place on a map. I finally had to phone the headquarters for park services in Colorado. A ranger had faxed me a section of a much more detailed map than I was using, showing me the route to Breakhorse Ridge. I’d spread my general map on the dining room table, put the fax over the section we were interested in, and shown Petey and Jason where we were going.
Now we were almost there, turning to the right onto Highway 9, heading north into the Arapaho National
“After you …” I had trouble continuing. “It suddenly occurs to me that you might not want to talk about it.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“After you got away from …”
“Say it. The sick bastards who kidnapped me. It’s a fact. You don’t need to tap—dance around the subject.”
“You were sixteen when you escaped. You’ve talked about roaming the country, working on construction jobs or whatever. But you never mentioned anything about school. When you disappeared, you were in the fourth grade, but you’ve obviously had more education than that. Who taught you?”
“Oh, I had plenty of education in politeness,” Petey said bitterly. “The man and woman who kept me in that underground room insisted on a lot of ‘Yes, sir, yes, ma’am, please and thank you.’ If I ever forgot, they punched my face to remind me.” The sinews in his neck tightened into ropes.
“I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t raised the subject,” I said.
“It’s fine. There’s no point in hiding from the past. It’ll only catch up in other ways.” Petey’s gaze hardened. He took a deep breath, subduing his emotions. “Anyhow, in terms of education, I have better memories. As I wandered from town to town, I learned that an easy way to get a free meal was to show up at church socials after Sunday—morning services. Of course, I had to sit through the services in order to get the free meals. But most times, I didn’t mind —the services were peaceful. After so many years of not reading, I’d sort of forgotten how to do it. When members of this or that congregation realized that I couldn’t read the Bible, they took steps to make sure I learned my ABC’s and, more important, the Good Book. There were always teachers in the congregations. After work some evenings, I’d get private classes at a church in whatever town I happened to be in. There are a lot of decent folks out there.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Hear what, Dad?” Jason asked sleepily from the backseat, where he’d woken up.
“Just that there are decent people in the world.” “
Didn’t you know that?”
“Sometimes I wondered. You and your uncle better concentrate on the map. Our turnoff isn’t far ahead.”
12
We were looking for a place called Breakhorse Ridge. It’s odd how some names stay in my memory. Twenty—five years earlier, that was where Dad had taken Petey and me on our camping trip. Somebody at the furniture factory where Dad was the foreman had once lived in Colorado and had described to Dad how beautiful the Breakhorse Ridge area was. So Dad, who’d already committed to taking us camping in Colorado, had decided that would be our destination. But back then, all during the long drive, I’d had a horrifying mental image of somebody breaking horses in half. Not knowing anything about how cowboys “broke” wild horses so people could ride them, I’d been afraid of what we were going to see. Dad finally got me to tell him what was bothering me. After he explained, my fear turned to curiosity. But when we arrived, there weren’t any horses or cowboys, just a few old wooden corrals, and a meadow leading down to a lake and an aspen forest with mountains above it.
I never forgot the name. But as Petey, Jason, and I had made plans, I couldn’t find the place on a map. I finally had to phone the headquarters for park services in Colorado. A ranger had faxed me a section of a much more detailed map than I was using, showing me the route to Breakhorse Ridge. I’d spread my general map on the dining room table, put the fax over the section we were interested in, and shown Petey and Jason where we were going.
Now we were almost there, turning to the right onto Highway 9, heading north into the Arapaho National
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