Timothy's Home Chapters 1 & 2
Chapter 1
Timothy held his breath as he peered from behind the haystack. The man he watched tossed his head back with the mostly empty bottle gripped in his hands. The whiskey dripped down the corner of his mouth as the amber liquid loosed his lips and he cursed into the darkness of the broken-down barn. Cecil screamed, “Git your sorry self out here and face me like a man!”
The boy emerged from the safety of the shadows thinking, I’m too tired to go through this again! Cecil stormed to him and yanked the kid’s emaciated arm almost from its socket.
“Pa…please…!” the boy croaked.
Cecil swaggered across the room, dragging the boy by the galleasses of his overalls to a chain hanging from the main beam of the building. He looped a large hook through the overalls and pulled at the chain until the boy was suspended a few inches above the floor. “C’mon kid…see iffen you can run now!” He grabbed a bridle from a nail on the wall and hit the boy across the face with the braided leather strap. “I said ‘run’!”
He flailed in the air with his legs and arms trying to appease his father as leather slapped across his back. I must watch to save some energy for later in case this one lasts through the night. “God, let him pass out soon,” he prayed softly.
“Cecil! What in tarnation are you doin’ to that kid?” John Forrester asked as he opened the barn door.
Cecil Forrester rubbed his bleary eyes and tried to focus on his younger brother. “Tain’t none of yer business, John! Watch this…kid, flap your arms and fly away!” he commanded.
The boy moved his arms slowly.
“You never thought you would see a pig fly, did you?” Cecil fell over in drunken laughter.
“Let me take him home with me. The kid is tired. C’mon Cecil…you need to sleep,” John pleaded.
“You go home and leave us be! He is my kid and I’ll do with him as I please.”
John looked at the ground and stepped into the clear night air.
The boy’s heart sank. He dared not look into his father’s eyes but could not keep from it. A voice, strained and evil, came from his father’s lips. “I tried to kill you before you were born! I will finish the job one day.”
He looked at his father as if he were a child. “Pa, you don’t mean that! I know you don’t mean that. It is just the whiskey talkin’.”
Cecil’s mouth flew open in astonishment that the boy spoke kindly to him. He jerked the chain from the hook and the boy fell in a heap. Cecil left the barn without seeing the damage that was done to the youngster.
*****
He couldn’t get the face of his nephew out of his mind. He would have liked to have brought him home, but Cecil was right. The boy was his son and he had no right to interfere. He walked past the train station and wished there was a way to get a ticket for the boy and send him far away. Of course that was impossible since everyone in town knew Cecil and his boy. He dug his hands down further into his pockets. “You’re a coward to leave him at the mercy of Cecil,” he growled. He could not recall one time that he had stood up to his older brother.
The sound of dogs fighting on the baggage platform drew his attention to the train station. John noticed a large trunk pushed against the wall. The big old thing had been there for years. He wondered why no one had claimed it. Boston was a bustling city and the station was the hub of all activity, yet this trunk was sitting like an old maid wallflower waiting to be asked to dance. He shook his head and went down two buildings to the blacksmith’s shop.
There was no one to greet him as he came through the door. He went through the mundane routine of every evening of his life. After stoking the fire in his wood stove in the small area allocated as the living quarters, he pulled out a few potatoes from a gunny sack sitting in the corner of the tiny room. He scrubbed them with water from the bucket sitting on a table beside the only window in the place. He poured more water from the bucket into an old cast iron kettle and placed it on the stove top. Suspending each potato over the kettle in the palm of his hand, he quartered it with a large butcher knife. He hated peeling potatoes so he decided that he would make his tater soup with skins and all.
A large onion sat in the window sill. He plucked it off and peeled the outer layer and cut the root off. He quartered it and threw it into the now-boiling water with the potatoes. White foam floated on the top of the rolling water and the potatoes bounced into one another. The concoction smelled good to the ravenous man. He liked black pepper so he did not spare when he used the pepper mill. He added a hunk of butter to the soup and poured salt into the hollow of his hand. The potatoes were softening up and he took a large spoon and broke them up in the boiling water. He added a splash of cream and watched the butter take hold of it. Ready or not, he was starving.
Placing the boiling kettle on the table, he turned and found his large wooden bowl and long-used spoon. There was bread left over from his noon meal. He was glad he had wrapped it in the ragged dish towel. It seemed soft enough. He dearly hated the chore of bread-making but it would have to be done tomorrow if he were to have any. He filled an old canning jar with milk and the simple meal was done.
He folded his hands and thanked the Good Lord for his food. As he savored the flavor and satisfaction of his supper, his mind turned to his skinny little nephew. Little Timothy didn’t have much of a chance. His ma left him on the day he turned two. She ran off with a man who promised adventure. Cecil tended to blame the little tyke instead of the careless woman.
“Dad blame it!” he yelped as the hot substance burned his tongue. He took a big swallow of milk to put out the fire. He finished the first bowl and filled a second. “How can I get Timothy out of town without Cecil knowing?” He fussed around the kitchen cleaning up the supper dishes. “The only way that kid will get away from his old man will be in a coffin.” He sat at the table and laid his head on his folded arms. He pictured Timothy in a small casket and his stomach turned sour. “I can’t let that happen!” he exclaimed as he slammed his fist on the table. He extinguished the flame of the lamp as he crawled into the small bed in the corner of the room. “God help me help the kid!”
Chapter 2
Timothy moaned softly as he pulled the chains from his shoulders and torso. New bruises throbbed on his backside and legs, but he got through this episode in relatively good shape. He pushed away a bit of hay that hid the loose board that housed the piece of bread the storekeeper had given him for supper. It had a tough crust, but the starving boy ate it with gratitude. He went to the horse trough and knelt down beside it, dipping his hand in it and bringing up a bit to wash down the stale bread. He stripped off his clothes, eased his tired body into the cold water and soaked in it, letting it cleanse his wounds and take some of the pain from the bruises.
He shivered as he pulled on the same dirty, ill-fitting trousers and shirt. He had outgrown his shoes months ago. There were no replacements. He heaped the straw into a large mound and burrowed into it. Blessed sleep! Thank you, God. He fell asleep instantly in spite of the cold and the rumbling of his stomach.
*****
John bounded out of the insufferable bed and jerked on his coat as he fought his way through the thick fog. He had to clear his head. Something had to be done about Timothy. A loud whistle arrested his attention and he jumped free of the train tracks and onto the high platform just as the midnight train screeched into the station. Backing away from the boxcar doors as men opened them to stack the freight onto the platform, he bumped against the weathered old trunk he had noticed earlier. It almost put him off balance. The worn tag attached to the handle was barely legible. He blinked against the darkness and read the faded date stamped on the tag. That’s nearly twenty-eight years ago! Where did this old thing come from? He strained his eyes in reading the return address, Campo, Colorado. “This old thing is almost the size of a coffin!” he muttered. He remembered the words he spoke in the darkness of his kitchen. It might save the little guy from needing a real coffin. He raced to the livery and hitched his horse to the buckboard. Returning to the platform, he loaded the trunk into the back of the wagon. If nobody has picked up that thing in twenty-eight years, they aren’t going to miss it now.
After loading it up, he entered the station to find the ticket agent. The little man looked over his wire-framed spectacles and set aside a stack of papers as John approached the counter. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“…Yes, how much to send a large trunk to…ah…Colorado?”
“Depends on which city in Colorado you are sending it to.”
“How far will ten dollars take it?” John asked.
The clerk frowned and ran his finger down the rate ledger. “'Peers that Trinidad, Colorado is as far as ten dollars will take it.”
“Would that be in…a…northern…”
“Southern Colorado, sir.”
“Of course, I was thinking southern Colorado. That is where my grandmother lives, southern Colorado. Of course she will have to get someone to pick it up for her since she does not live in Trinidad. She does live in the neighboring countryside, however,” John said.
“That will be ten dollars, sir.”
John found the lone coin in his pocket and placed it on the counter. “Thank you.”
“Here is the tag. Just put it on the handle of your trunk.”
John made a hasty retreat to his waiting buckboard. He was nervous. Lying was not his strong suit.
*****
The first streaks of sunlight filtered through the gaps in the livery. John already had the forge fired up and had finished several orders. He was busy with a project when the first farmer came in to check on the status of the harness he had left for repair. “I took care of your harness at first light, Jeb.”
Jeb fingered the repairs, asking, “How much do I owe you?”
“Two bits will do.”
“What are you working on there?” the nosey man wanted to know.
John grimaced as he said, “Another repair.”
“Well then, be seeing you around,” Jeb said.
“Goodbye, Jeb.”
John held the lock in his hand and closed his eyes tight. “God is this idea from You?”
He opened his eyes slowly and tripped the lock. It worked fine. The adjustment had taken some time to figure out and more time to fashion, but it would work. “Just attach it and it will be done.”
He endeavored to stay within the bounds of his routine so as not to draw attention to his movements. It wouldn’t do for him to appear to be “up to something”. John breathed a prayer as he watched the street. Finally Timothy crept down the street and approached the livery. He stood inside the door and cracked it open. “Timothy, step inside for a moment, please.”
Timothy obeyed quickly. “What is it, Uncle John?”
“I have found a way for you to escape.”
The boy’s eyes grew large as he registered what his uncle said. “…Escape? How?”
“Then I am right, you want to get away?”
“I don’t mean to be bad, but Pa told me he would be killing me someday. I believe him.”
“Timothy, if I get you out of here you can never come back. Do you understand?”
He nodded gravely. “How do I get out of here?”
John took the boy to the back room and showed him the large trunk. “You will fit in here. I got some food and water in here. You must do as I say.”
He nodded.
“When you finish drinking from each jar, save the lid. You will relieve yourself into the jar and put the lid on tight. I am sending the trunk to a place out west called Trinidad, Colorado. When you get there, you can open the trunk from inside. See, trip the lock like this.”
“How did you come up with this idea?”
John put his arms around the kid. “We don’t have much time. Just listen to me. You can find work. Storekeepers and the like always need someone. You might want to go further west. I will see to it that your pa will never find you.”
“Oh, Uncle!”
“Get in, Timothy; I’m taking you to the station now.”
Timothy climbed in and noticed that Uncle John had given him his only pillow. “Uncle!”
“Git in there. It will be all right!”
He lay down and bent his knees to fit. John put a wool horse blanket over him. “You don’t want anyone to be able to say they saw you, so resist the urge to get out of the trunk in the boxcar until you know for sure that no one else is in there. There are men who ride in the boxcars sometimes and they might tell on you. I left you some good air holes so you should be fine. One day I will find you.”
The plank door burst open and Cecil bellowed into the darkness of the livery. “John, you got any grub? I think my belly is hittin’ my backbone.”
John quickly shut the lid on the trunk and yelled back. “You want some coffee and eggs?”
“That’ll do,” Cecil answered as he dropped his large frame into the only chair at the table. He eyed the trunk in the middle of the room. “What you got there?”
John slid two fried eggs into a tin plate and said. “That old thing has been a sore contention for me. An old lady needed the lock fixed and told me to take it to the train station when I finished with it. Do you think you could help me load it up? It is full of books for a school out west.”
“Books! What a waste of time,” Cecil grunted.
“Hurry and finish them eggs, Cecil, this thing is supposed to be on the next train.”
Cecil sloshed down his second cup of coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I’ll help you even if you are a mite bossy today. I’ll take hold of this handle.”
John hurriedly grabbed the handle next to him and lifted at the same time as his brother. “Much obliged.”
They loaded the trunk onto the buckboard with a thud and plodded down the street to the train station. Timothy felt certain that his pa would hear his heart hammering. He stuck the corner of the blanket into his mouth to keep from crying out. Bile filled his throat when he heard his pa speak to Uncle John as they put the trunk into a boxcar and walked away. Did he dare believe that he was going to be free from his torturous father? He swallowed hard and listened for them. He felt the train jerk and heard the whistle. He was free.
Chapter 3
He woke to the rhythm of the moving train. His legs cramped and with great effort he turned onto his side. There was little room to maneuver but he had managed. The change of position was a relief. Next to his head was a loaf of bread wrapped in a rag. He grabbed it and gnawed on it hungrily. He must conserve his food. This trip could last for days. He had no idea how far away Colorado was, but it sounded like the other side of the world to him. “God, are you still here? I need you more than ever now,” he whispered. His eyes grew heavy and he slept again.
After several hours, the train slowed to a stop. Timothy heard the heavy door to the boxcar open slightly as a couple of men climbed inside. A small dog scampered to the trunk and sniffed. “What have you got there, Rex?”
“Quiet down, George! The train feller will hear you! Keep that old bag of bones quiet. Do ya hear?”
“I hear 'ya,” George answered.
The train whistled and the wheels were once again in motion. Rex continued sniffing and yipped quietly. “Let’s see here,” George said as he approached the large trunk.
Timothy held his breath as he eyed the dog through one of the air holes. George tried the latch but it was locked.
“Too bad you don’t have any bullets for that gun else you could have blew the lock off and opened it,” the other man said.
“Aw, it’s probably nothin’. Rex tends to get excited over anything these days. Do ya got any grub? All I got is an apple.”
“That’s more than I got. Be quiet and let’s get some shut eye.”
Timothy listened as the men snored the night away. He didn’t dare sleep. He awoke screaming many nights so he couldn’t risk going to sleep until they were gone.
His legs were numb but he couldn’t change position. I wonder if my legs will fall off if I don’t get some feeling back into them. His mind raced as he tried to make a plan for living with useless legs. God, please make these men leave soon. I think I will die without sleep!
After many hours, the door scraped open and the stowaways jumped to the ground just as the train slowed. The open door allowed Timothy to hear the sounds of the city where the train stopped.
He peeked through the hole at the end of the trunk and watched the door. Finally, the wheels slipped down the track and the city was left behind. Timothy was alone in the boxcar. He tripped the latch and eased the lid open slowly. The hinges creaked and his muscles froze at the sound. He determined that he was alone and opened the lid and let the top fall open. He sat upright and stretched his arms over his head. His legs were dead. He slapped and punched them with his fists until the violent sensation of needles stabbed his leg. Placing his fist into his mouth, he screamed as the feeling returned to his feet. He moved his knees up to his chest and pounded his calves until the pain subsided. He gripped the sides of the trunk and eased to his feet. His back seized up but he forced it into a stretch. He tumbled to the floor from the swaying of the vehicle and found that lying flat on his back and stretching his toes apart relieved much of the pain. He placed his hands behind his head and enjoyed his freedom. He would return to his prison box when the train slowed for the next stop. His eyes grew heavy and he slept soundly.
*****
The days blended one into another and Timothy realized that he was out of bread and water. He hoped that he was almost to his destination. His stomach growled loudly and he pulled his knees up closer to his chest. If I’m going to die, this is better than dying at the hand of my own pa. The thought of his father’s hatred brought hot tears to his eyes. He rubbed them away quickly. Men don’t cry.I’m almost fourteen years old! I can’t cry.
