He made a very difficult decision. He left the leather satchel on the ground where the now dissipated ashes had been. He didn’t want to carry it with her remembrance just a bit of dust inside. He might obsess on it, caress it. It was time. He thought of his promise to her. She wanted him to be happy.
He started walking north. He carried a couple of maps for the Colorado and Wyoming CDT and had highlighted water access, campsites, towns and sections of road. He walked for days and got so damn tired and dry.
But his mind felt free to wander and, unsurprisingly, he spent a lot of time thinking about his childhood and about his dad, Jed Jones. In fact, he worried about his parents a lot. Jed was so flaky and unbalanced, the range of possibilities with him was endless. He’d gotten a little steadier in the past several years, since he’d been on the farm in Iowa and wasn’t roaming, but Cal wouldn’t be surprised to hear his parents were suddenly off on a mission to save cheetahs in the Congo or... Or that his father had taken his own life. He’d attempted suicide a few times, though they were halfhearted attempts. He jumped off a bridge and broke a leg once, but it was a low bridge. He took a bunch of pills, but slept it off—it turned out he didn’t have enough for a deadly dose. He stabbed himself in the heart—missed.
In the way that the eldest child in a family with dysfunctional parents will shift into the parent role at a very early age, Cal had become the one in charge. He couldn’t say exactly when. Maybe it was when Sierra was born. He was about eight and remembered carrying her around, feeding her, changing her. His mother had usually been preoccupied with their father, making sure he was happy and as secure as possible, so Cal tended to look after the children and watch over his parents. His mother said Jed was a genius and needed a lot of room to think and of course, Cal believed it. He still believed it—Jed had an amazing mind and was charismatic. When he started talking, people couldn’t turn away. He’d lecture on everything from the solar system to the cure for cancer. Jed had studied law before marrying Marissa, Cal’s mother, and he remembered every word he’d ever read. Or so it seemed.
Cal always knew there was something wrong with his father but he had no idea what. Eccentric, they called him. When Cal was about thirteen he thought he had it figured out—he blamed it on the pot. Jed smoked daily. But it was another few years before he’d learn the truth—his father heard voices. They were back on the farm because Marissa’s father had fallen ill and she was an only child. It was a lucky break—they were stable for a while. Jed, who knew a lot about everything and had experience in farming from their days as migrant workers, had something to do and they were all warm and fed. And one night Marissa asked, “Where’s your father?”
Cal said, “I saw him by the barn, talking to himself again. I guess he’s running ideas.”
And out of the blue Marissa said, “He’s not talking to himself.”
Cal was seventeen and suddenly it was all so clear. Jed had secret friends. Their mother was completely devoted because she was busy trying to conceal his illness. His delusions conversed with him and gave him advice, not always good advice. He smoked a lot of dope to keep them quiet and Marissa watched over him like the keeper she was and made sure the drug use didn’t get out of hand. She supported him in not seeking medical intervention because the drugs doctors used would slow down his beautiful mind and he couldn’t bear it. He’d tried a couple of times, she said, and it was brutal. He became a zombie. But worse, he became depressed because he couldn’t think.
Things had been quiet in those quarters the past ten years or so. Cal’s grandfather had died a long time ago and then his grandmother, as old as the ages, had needed Jed and Marissa on the farm, so they stayed. Then Grandma passed. Cal and his siblings were raised and gone. Jed and Marissa had no other means of support. Sometimes Cal held his breath, ready for some harebrained idea that would have them off on an adventure, but so far so good. Cal, being the father to his father, could usually talk Jed out of things. I think if we burn the fields instead of plow them, the ash will give essential nutrients to the soil and make next year’s crop richer.
He started walking north. He carried a couple of maps for the Colorado and Wyoming CDT and had highlighted water access, campsites, towns and sections of road. He walked for days and got so damn tired and dry.
But his mind felt free to wander and, unsurprisingly, he spent a lot of time thinking about his childhood and about his dad, Jed Jones. In fact, he worried about his parents a lot. Jed was so flaky and unbalanced, the range of possibilities with him was endless. He’d gotten a little steadier in the past several years, since he’d been on the farm in Iowa and wasn’t roaming, but Cal wouldn’t be surprised to hear his parents were suddenly off on a mission to save cheetahs in the Congo or... Or that his father had taken his own life. He’d attempted suicide a few times, though they were halfhearted attempts. He jumped off a bridge and broke a leg once, but it was a low bridge. He took a bunch of pills, but slept it off—it turned out he didn’t have enough for a deadly dose. He stabbed himself in the heart—missed.
In the way that the eldest child in a family with dysfunctional parents will shift into the parent role at a very early age, Cal had become the one in charge. He couldn’t say exactly when. Maybe it was when Sierra was born. He was about eight and remembered carrying her around, feeding her, changing her. His mother had usually been preoccupied with their father, making sure he was happy and as secure as possible, so Cal tended to look after the children and watch over his parents. His mother said Jed was a genius and needed a lot of room to think and of course, Cal believed it. He still believed it—Jed had an amazing mind and was charismatic. When he started talking, people couldn’t turn away. He’d lecture on everything from the solar system to the cure for cancer. Jed had studied law before marrying Marissa, Cal’s mother, and he remembered every word he’d ever read. Or so it seemed.
Cal always knew there was something wrong with his father but he had no idea what. Eccentric, they called him. When Cal was about thirteen he thought he had it figured out—he blamed it on the pot. Jed smoked daily. But it was another few years before he’d learn the truth—his father heard voices. They were back on the farm because Marissa’s father had fallen ill and she was an only child. It was a lucky break—they were stable for a while. Jed, who knew a lot about everything and had experience in farming from their days as migrant workers, had something to do and they were all warm and fed. And one night Marissa asked, “Where’s your father?”
Cal said, “I saw him by the barn, talking to himself again. I guess he’s running ideas.”
And out of the blue Marissa said, “He’s not talking to himself.”
Cal was seventeen and suddenly it was all so clear. Jed had secret friends. Their mother was completely devoted because she was busy trying to conceal his illness. His delusions conversed with him and gave him advice, not always good advice. He smoked a lot of dope to keep them quiet and Marissa watched over him like the keeper she was and made sure the drug use didn’t get out of hand. She supported him in not seeking medical intervention because the drugs doctors used would slow down his beautiful mind and he couldn’t bear it. He’d tried a couple of times, she said, and it was brutal. He became a zombie. But worse, he became depressed because he couldn’t think.
Things had been quiet in those quarters the past ten years or so. Cal’s grandfather had died a long time ago and then his grandmother, as old as the ages, had needed Jed and Marissa on the farm, so they stayed. Then Grandma passed. Cal and his siblings were raised and gone. Jed and Marissa had no other means of support. Sometimes Cal held his breath, ready for some harebrained idea that would have them off on an adventure, but so far so good. Cal, being the father to his father, could usually talk Jed out of things. I think if we burn the fields instead of plow them, the ash will give essential nutrients to the soil and make next year’s crop richer.
