Purgatory 

When I grew up in the American South, there were fish in the 

now-dry creek beds, people playing in the parks, shops open 

with food and clothing, and tolerable weather. That was then, and 

not that long ago.

There was enough for everyone - except for the power-hungry, 

self-righteous bigots who salved their insecurities with the 

domination of others in the name of religion, wicked charlatans 

controlling the masses with fear and superstition.

But in the end, even with all the forced piousness and mandatory 

church attendance, or perhaps because of it, all of the places of 

“worship” were destroyed by rival denominations: the self￾implosion of religious fanaticism.

Still, the damage was done.

There should have been room for all of us, but there wasn’t. 

Southern man, better keep your head 

Don't forget what your good book said 

Southern change gonna come at last 

Now your crosses are burning fast… 

“Southern Man” was a favorite of mine. It gave voice to the way I 

felt. It said it like it was. But playing the song in the heyday of the 

White American Christian Organization would have doomed one 

to hard labor or worse. There was no room for dissent.

I could never have published this book in that world, the world of 

WACO. But still, I write this tome with the hope that someone, 

someday, finds it, perhaps after I am gone, after history has been 

rewritten and buried, and remembers.

Change what you can and accept what you can’t, to paraphrase 

the slogan. But now, for me, I know there’s nothing I could have 

done to change anything. The world is the way it is, but it’s not 

my world, nor has it changed me. For now I know - I am the 

same from the beginning.

I am Tod.

1. 

Tod gazed blankly at the fluorescent ceiling. All a blur. Sounds: 

murmurs and clicks and bells and the annoying humming of 

blinding fluorescent lights above him. All strange and discordant, 

dissonant.

It’s a shame. The whole family. But a miracle the baby survived. 

Hmmm, hmmm. What a tragedy, and this close to Christmas.

Tod heard the words, but having opened his eyes and ears for 

the first time only seconds ago, had no understanding of them. 

He closed his eyes, longing for the warmth of the home he had 

just left, the free floating effortlessness, the all-permeating, 

omnipresent sound-beyond-sound, the golden weightless 

timeless home that was already starting to fade from his memory. 

The voiceless sonority vibrated through him: Home… Home… 

Home… 

He opened his eyes again, straining to focus on the beings 

standing around him in protective single-colored blood-stained 

attire and masks. They were completely alien to the newborn. 

Alien and frightening.

Tod closed his eyes again. The etherial sound was fading into 

nothingness. He struggled to stay but to no avail; there was no 

going back, he was stuck in this strange new world.

We’ve reached out to the next of kin. There’s a brother of the 

deceased father who will retrieve the baby in a few days. Lives on 

a farm in the South. The doctor sighed. They should never have 

made this trip so close to her due date, in this ice storm. And the 

whole family. My God, what a way to begin a life!

Baby Tod struggled with his own feelings of loss, unaware of 

sister and brothers and parents he would never meet.

At least the mother held on long enough for the child, a nurse 

consoled. Amazing when you see the shredded and burned 

Gideon’s Bible she was carrying in the pocket of her dress.

2. 

“Rudy!” screamed little Tod chasing his wooly friend around the 

large grassless pen, giggling nonstop. “Rudy!” The boy grabbed 

the lamb and nuzzled him, forehead to forehead, then squealed 

with laughter when the lamb began chewing on his hair.

Rudy had arrived at the Stern farm nine months earlier, and right 

away, the two had bonded. As in the song, they were two little 

lambs that had lost their way: the lamb, alone, without any others 

of its kind, and five-year-old Tod, who never fit in with the other 

kids in the little southern town of Lowman, the tiny hamlet six 

miles from the farm, an outpost occupied by generations of 

families where everyone knew everyone and each was resigned 

to their assigned stations. The community, to a person, was 

hard-working, God-fearing, no-nonsense folk. And everyone of 

them spoke with diphthonged twangs. All except little Tod, for 

some reason.

Each morning, Rudy would meet Tod at the gate for their ritual 

love fest and carrots. It was a magical time of the day, the rising 

sun, the crowing rooster, dairy cows mooing. It was the only 

world the five-year-old boy knew or, at least, remembered. Tod 

had everything he needed: food, shelter, clothes, but it was Rudy 

who gave him love. 

All in all, he was a happy youngster with no inkling that his 

“parents,” Bryan and Evelyn Stern, were actually his uncle and 

aunt. No one had ever told the boy about his family’s accident: 

southern folk keep secrets out of southern politeness - at least in 

public.

“Come here, you silly sheep!” Rudy kicked up dust as he ran 

towards the boy. “Fetch!” Tod yelled, throwing a knotted piece of 

bailing twine over Rudy’s head. Rudy hesitated. “Behind you!’ 

Tod pointed. “Behind you!” Instead, Rudy wriggled up to the boy 

and nibbled on his chin. “I’ll get a dog if you can’t fetch,” Tod 

laughed, his breath curdling in the first frost of the season.

“Don’t get that critter all worked up,” Bryan Stern yelled from the 

backdoor of the red brick farmhouse. But Tod continued to play 

with his friend.

The stocky, balding man in overalls lumbered toward the the pen 

carrying a bundle in his hands. “I said, don’t get him all excited. 

Leave him alone!”

Tod stepped away, confused. “Sorry, we were just… playing.”

“Fetch the animal over here, son.” 

“Yes, sir.” Tod gently grabbed the lamb by the scruff of his neck 

and led him over to where Mr. Stern stood.

Baaaa, bayed the compliant animal, and followed his friend to 

where Mr. Stern was now kneeling.

“Now hold him steady.” 

Stern removed the sharp-pointed sticking knife from its hiding 

place.

“What are you doing with that?” Tod gasped.

“Now you watch, boy. Soon you’ll be doing this yourself.”

Baaaa, Rudy bleated.

Stern rolled the sheep on its side, knelt behind the unsuspecting 

animal, and extended its neck. With one quick motion, he 

inserted the knife at the top of his neck, and sliced through the 

carotid arteries and jugular veins. Baaaa! Bright red blood spilled 

onto the dusty bare earth. 

Tod fell to the ground atop his fallen playmate. “What did you 

do?” he screamed.

“Get up and stop that belly aching!”

“He was my friend!” Tod protested.

Mr. Stern reached around the boy and with one quick twist, broke 

the lamb’s neck. “Nonsense. And just where do you think your 

meat comes from? The good lord gave us dominion over the 

animals, so stop that crying and get off that bloody beast before 

you ruin your clothes.”

3. 

Bryan Stern’s life was bordered with religion, duty, and purpose, 

a fortress that offered no crack for the light of any other 

wavelength. Not a bad man, just rigid. A man of convictions and 

fixed parameters. He was up with the sun to feed up, then 

bathed and dressed, then read the Bible at the breakfast table. 

“Time, patience, and perseverance” his motto.

Evelyn Stern was a tough woman of few words, and always 

submissive to her husband, except when she wanted something 

from him. She could be warm, but never indulging. Like her 

husband, she did her duties without complaining. She had 

agreed out of obligation to her husband to take in his brother’s 

son.

Now with Rudy gone, Tod pretty much kept to himself. He had no 

other friends. Mrs. Stern assured him that he’d make friends in 

school, but his first year of school was a year away. There was 

Sunday school, of course, but he had never clicked with any of 

the kids, boys or girls.

Jesus loves the little children 

All the children of the world 

Red and yellow, black and white 

They are precious in His sight 

Jesus loves the little children of the world

Tod loved to sing, and he sang loudly. The other kids in his 

Sunday school class would giggle as he belted out the songs, 

but Tod would just smile and sing louder.

“OK, children. Today we’re going to talk about faith. Who knows 

what faith means?” Silence. “Anyone?”

“My sister’s name is Faith,” chirped a little blond-haired boy.

“Yes, indeed. But what does it mean for Christians to have faith?” 

Only blank looks. “Faith is very important, children. It is what 

makes us Christians.”

“Like dressing up on Sundays?”

“No, it’s something inside. Faith is believing in things we cannot 

see.”

“Like space ships?”

“Like the bogyman? My grandmother sees the bogyman.”

“No, no. In God, in Heaven. God wants us to believe in him, and 

to trust him when he tells us to do things.”

“Like my mom?”

“Yes. Well, God is our heavenly parent, our heavenly father.” 

Blank looks. “When God tells us to do something, we should do 

it with no questions.”

“Even if my parents tell me something different?”

Mrs. Gates sighed. “If God were to tell you something, it would 

be through the Bible, or… Listen, Kathryn, the Bible tells us you 

should obey your parents. So… but… OK,” she sighed again, 

“today’s lesson is about Abraham and his son Isaac. God loved 

Abraham very much, but he wanted to make sure that Abraham 

trusted in him, that he had strong faith in him, so he decided to 

test Abraham.”

Tod sat quietly, paying attention to every word.

“God told Abraham to take his son Isaac to a mountain and he 

did. And when they arrived, they climbed to the top of the 

mountain.”

“Was it one of those mountains in North Carolina? My dad takes 

us up there in the summer.”

“No, no. This happened in… This was in the old world, uh… Let’s 

continue. So Abraham took his son to the top of the mountain 

where he built an altar to make a sacrifice to God.”

A hand went up. “What’s a sacrifice?”

“It’s, uh, it’s when you give up something to God.”

“Like money?”

“No, not money.”

“But what does God need?”

“He needs our devotion. OK, let’s get on with this story. So God 

told Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac.” 

Gasps. “To kill him?”

“Yes, but he didn’t kill him. He was about to, but then a sheep 

appeared and Abraham sacrificed the sheep instead.”

“He… killed the sheep?” Tod stammered.

“Yes.”

Tod began to sob. “Why?”

“To please God.”

“What did that sheep ever do to God?!” Tod sprang to his feet 

and ran out the room. He swung open the first door he came to. 

“Jesus died for your sins!” shouted the preacher. There, to his 

horror, sat the entire adult congregation in their pews, staring at 

him.

Tod slammed the door and spun to his left. The stairs to the 

basement. He hurried down, embarrassed and confused. He 

fumbled through his tears into the dark musky space lit only by a 

small gold-tinted window at the far end of the room. In spite of 

the smell, it felt strangely comforting. Tod curled up on the 

battered couch, bathed in the golden light.

Later on at the Stern farm.

“You embarrassed us, Tod,” Mr. Stern scolded. “Just what were 

you doing running around the church, slamming doors, then 

hiding in the activities room?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t answer the question! Why were you acting like 

that?”

“I… I got scared.”

“Of what?” asked Mrs. Stern.

“Of God. He wanted that guy to kill his boy, then he killed a lamb, 

and he killed Jesus.”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“But Mrs. Gates said so, and the preacher…”

“You mustn’t question the lord,” Mrs. Stern admonished. “It is 

not our place to question.”

“Do you doubt the Word of God, Son?” asked Mr. Stern. “‘Cause 

if you do, you’re in danger of hellfire.”

“But what did I do?” little Tod sobbed. “What? I, I, I don’t want to 

go to hell!”

“We’ve all sinned, Tod - all of us. So you better shape up and get 

right with the lord - before it’s too late. And stop that crying!”

“Come on, you two,” said Mrs. Stern. “Dinner’s ready.”

The three sat around the Sunday afternoon table as Mr. Stern 

said grace.

“Roast beef. My favorite,” said Mr. Stern, passing the dish to Tod. 

Tod averted his eyes and passed it on to Mrs. Stern. “Have some 

roast beef, Son,” Mr. Stern insisted.

“I just want the vegetables, sir.”

“You need to eat your meat,” said Mrs. Stern.

“I don’t really want it.”

“Your mother went to the trouble to prepare this, and you will 

respect her by eating it.”

Tod took a small portion of the meat and pushed it around as he 

ate the potatoes, carrots, and collards. 

Silence.

“Where are you getting these crazy ideas, Tod?”

“What do you mean?”

“Questioning the Bible, not eating meat. Have you been watching 

some liberal TV show?”

“No. I… I don’t know.”

“Maybe its time for you to have a meeting with Reverend Wagner. 

He’ll set you straight. Now no more of this nonsense, and eat that 

meat.”

Tod put the pink flesh in his mouth and slowly chewed. Images of 

Rudy choking on blood overtook him. Paralyzed, he sat at the 

table, his stomach in knots. When for a brief moment the Sterns’ 

attention shifted away from him, Tod spit the half-chewed meat 

into his napkin.

“Must be my weird brother’s genes,” Mr. Stern mumbled. 

Mrs. Stern cleared her throat and shook her head.

“By the way,” said Mr. Stern, “I just hired a guy to help with the 

milking. He worked for Bud Arant. He and his family are going to 

move into the old sharecropper house.”

Mrs. Stern turned to her husband. “Can we afford to hire 

somebody, Bryan?”

“Not to worry. After he pays rent on the house, we’ll be just about 

even.”

“May I be excused?” Tod asked.

Mr. Stern sighed. “Put your plate in the sink.”

Tod sulked out the back door, past the pen where Rudy had been 

slaughtered, past the large fig tree that he often climbed on, 

through the wooden gate, and past the shed that housed the 

farms single tractor. Dust flew up beneath his feet, dirtying his 

Sunday shoes. It was extremely quiet out here, and the quiet only 

compounded his feeling of aloneness: there was no one to talk to 

about the cloud of doubt that had creeped in. He struggled to 

push it out of his mind, but it refused to go.

Caw-caw-caw. A single crow cut through the weighty silence, 

first from far away, then closer, CAW-CAW-CAW. 

Tod walked on, step, step, step.

CAW-CAW-CAW. 

Step, step, step. 

CAW-CAW-CAW. CAW-CAW-CAW.

God is good. God is good. 

CAWCAWCAWCAWCAWCAWCAWCAW 

GodisgoodGodisgoodGodisgoodTODISBAD! 

Tod began to weep uncontrollably. 

TodisbadTodisbadTodisbadTodisbadTodisbadTodisbadTodisbad 

TodisbadTodisbadTodisbadTodisbadTodisbadTodisbadTodisbad 

4. 

“You’ll be starting school soon,” said Mrs. Stern as she sorted 

through Tod’s shirts and pants, “I don’t want you going wearing 

these ratty things with holes and stains. Besides, you’re growing 

like a weed. Reckon we’ll have to buy you some new clothes. 

Take these old ones and toss them in the trashcan by the barn.”

“Yes’m.”

Tod went out back, his hands full.

“Where you goin’ with all that?” asked Mr. Stern.

“Mom said to toss these, sir.”

“Your old clothes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take those up to the Backmans. Their son’s about your age. I’m 

sure they’d be happy to have ’em.”

“OK, sir.”

The old sharecropper house was about a half-mile down the dirt 

road behind the Stern’s house, past the open pasture that 

bordered the creek. The shack had been vacant for years, and 

the old tin roof was rusty and peeling up in places. It sat alone, 

no trees or grass. Cows grazed in the field behind the house; the 

stench of manure permeated the air like a heavy, acrid cloud that 

seeped into every pore.

Tod held his breath as he approached the ramshackle house. Wet 

clothes hung from a line across the front porch, men’s dress 

trousers, women’s blouses and skirts. And there in the yard stood 

a boy about his age, the recipient of the used clothes. He was 

smiling with his right hand index finger extended and stroking a 

bird, a sparrow.

“Hi,” Tod called out. The sparrow fluttered away to the top of the 

shack.

The boy turned, wide-eyed. “Hello.”

“I, uh, brought some clothes, uh, my dad thought they might fit 

you, and, well, they’re not in great shape, but…”

The boy continued smiling while his left eyebrow rose quizzically, 

gazing at the bundle.

“Thank you,” he said and took the raggedy heap and placed it on 

the porch.

“I’m Tod Stern.”

“Norwood, Norwood Backman. But everyone calls me “Woody.” 

His voice was sweet and lyrical. “Nice to meet you.”

“You in school, yet?” asked Tod.

“I start next year.”

“Me, too.” Tod was elated. “So, when did your family move to 

this area?”

“To Lowman? Far as I know, my family, my dad’s family at least, 

has always lived around here - aunts, uncles, grandparents, great 

grandparents.”

“Do all of them have light skin like you?”

Woody chuckled, “No. Mom says I fell in a vat of lye when I was 

born. I was born right after they got out of the service and moved 

here.” 

“The service?”

“The Marines.” 

“I didn’t know there were women in the Marines?” 

“Yep. That’s where they met.” Woody reached in his pocket, 

“Want some licorice?

“Sure!” 

“My dad says licorice is an acquired taste. That means you gotta 

learn to like it.” Woody took a big bite and grinned, “Guess I’m a 

quick learner!”

“Me, too! So,” Tod managed through his chewing of the black 

candy, “you like living out here on the farm?”

“It’s OK, I guess. We’ve lived on farms all my life. Gets kind of 

boring, though, you know.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I might go crazy if it weren’t for all the critters, the birds and 

cows, squirrels, groundhogs.” 

“Well, if you ever want…”

Just then, Woody’s mom came through the front door, singing a 

mournful tune, carrying a load of wet clothes. “Sometimes I feel 

like a motherless…” She stopped and eyed Tod, staring at him 

like she had seen a ghost.

“And… who are you?” she sputtered.

“Hi, ma’am. I’m Tod Stern, Bryan Stern’s son. I just brought over 

some clothes I didn’t need anymore.”

Mrs. Backman gazed at the pile of ripped and worn clothes as 

she hung the newly-washed clothes on the line across the porch.

“Uhhh, OK. Thank you. Norwood, weren’t you going to clean up 

your room?”

“Yes’m.”

“Then maybe you should get to it.” Mrs. Backman turned with 

her empty clothes basket and walked into the house.

“Guess I better get inside,” said Woody.

“Wanna play ball or something sometime?”

“Yes. Anytime!”

Tod skipped back toward his house. He had connected with 

someone his age. Someone thoughtful in what felt like a barren 

wasteland of people going about their days like automatons.

The wind was picking up as he walked back down the lonely dirt 

road canopied in pine tree branches. As he reached the pasture 

by the creek, the trees gave way to an open blue sky devoid of 

clouds. Tod paused and watched a red-tailed hawk glide 

effortlessly on an air current, spiraling higher and higher on one 

thermal, then gliding downward to catch the next air steam.

He leaned against a worn wooden post, the remnant of a long￾rotted fence. Once he felt balanced, he let go and climbed, 

climbed, then soared with the bird high above. His breath 

followed the hawk’s rise and fall; the earth fell away, and all that 

was left was the open sky. 

Tod flew weightless, twisting and turning, the hawk always within 

arm’s reach. Below, Woody had returned to the yard and was 

smiling and waving. Then, with just a few flaps of his arms, Tod 

was flying over the farm. The Sterns were in the front yard as he 

swooped over. He waved and called out to them, but they did not 

see or hear him. Then Tod turned toward town, and in a flash was 

crossing over Main Street with its lazy trickle of cars, the cotton 

gin, the doctor’s office. When the church with its looming steeple 

came into view, the hawk took off, flew away. Alone, Tod 

suddenly found himself losing altitude and falling toward the 

church steeple, head first. He struggled, but nothing he did 

would change his descent. The jagged point of the aluminum 

cross rushed towards him. He instinctively shoved his left hand 

out only to have it ripped open. 

Tod was panting, crying, trying to keep his balance, his feet now 

on solid ground but wobbly. The splinter from the old fence post 

he had been leaning on had cut in deep, his hand was bleeding 

profusely.

God is punishing me. I know it! Tod fretted. “I’m sorry!” he 

screamed. “I’ll be good! I’ll be… I won’t question again!” Tod 

pressed his bloody hand against his shirt and began to run. 

“Jesus loves me this I…” he sang, desperately trying to convince 

himself. “I know. Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me, Jesus loves 

me…” 

Mrs. Stern intercepted Tod at the front door. “What did you do to 

that shirt?!”

“I fell,” he whimpered.

“On what, for Christ’s sake?! Go wash up, and give me that 

shirt.”

Mr. Stern heard the commotion and marched in. “What were you 

doing so long down at the sharecropper house?”

“Nothing. I was just…”

“I just sent you to take those folk some clothes, not to lollygag. 

They’re not our people, son. They’re Negroes.” 

5. 

Tod did not see Woody for the rest of the summer, though he did 

walk by the old sharecropper house several times hoping to “run 

into him.” But he never did. One time Mrs. Backman was in the 

yard raking. She saw Tod for sure, but turned her head and said 

nothing.

Well, he thought, at least I’ll see him at school. 

The night before his first day at school, Tod lost his front tooth. 

Actually, he didn’t lose it. After refusing to eat his supper because 

of his wobbly chomper, Mr. Stern chased him around the house 

and yanked it out. So, the next day, snaggletoothed and wearing 

his new brown corduroy trousers, a light blue cotton shirt, and 

sneakers, Tod showed up for his first day of school. 

Mrs. Stern drove him, this being his first day.

“You excited about your first day, Tod?”

“Yes ma’am. A little nervous, though. Woody’s the only kid I know 

that will be there - that I know of.”

“Woody?”

Tod hesitated, remembering what his dad had said about 

befriending Negroes.

“Who is Woody?”

“Norwood.”

“The Bachman boy? He won’t be in your school, son.”

“Why?”

“The Negroes have their own school. There’s plenty of nice white 

kids for you to meet and make friends with.”

“But…”

“It’s the way God intended. Now sit up straight or you’ll get that 

shirt all wrinkled.”

Tod sighed. He couldn’t argue with God.

Mrs. Stern walked Tod to his first-grade classroom in the two￾winged red brick schoolhouse which housed the elementary and 

high school. She exchanged cordialities with many of the moms, 

but Tod recognized almost none of them or their progeny. 

There were twenty-eight students in his class, but none that Tod 

knew - none went to his church, and where else would he have 

met them? There were five white churches in this small town - 

more buildings than the grocery store, pharmacy, hardware store, 

and dry-goods store combined.

His teacher, Miss Harrison, was a soft-spoken, diminutive woman 

in her sixties. She welcomed Tod with a gentle smile and pointed 

to an empty desk near the front.

After the school buzzer buzzed, the moms that were still lingering 

in the room exited leaving Miss Harrison with her new brood.

“My name is Miss Harrison, children. Now before we introduce 

ourselves to each other, let’s please stand and recite the pledge 

of allegiance. You all know that, don’t you? I pledge allegiance to 

the United States… Just a minute class.” Miss Harrison turned to 

the girl with bright red hair still seated across from Tod. “Molly, 

isn’t it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Are you unable to stand? Are you sick?”

“No ma’am. Just rather sit, Miss Harrison.”

“Don’t you love your country?”

“Do you mean all the people in it, or the government of mostly 

rich old white guys?”

Miss Harrison looked lost for words, flustered. “Uh, OK, students, 

uh, let’s continue. I pledge allegiance…”

Tod focused on this outlier sitting calmly beside him and smiled 

while continuing to reciting the vow.

When recess came, the first-grade rushed out to the dirt field 

where the swings, jungle gym, see-saw, and merry-go-round sat 

waiting, all the metal surfaces smoothed down by decades of 

little hands and feet. 

But Molly wandered off to the grove of trees, all the while 

glancing up into the branches, her left hand grasping the trunks 

of smaller trees. She seemed not to notice any of the noisy 

children running around, spinning and hanging on the playground 

equipment just yards away from her.

Tod walked over to the swings where a girl sat struggling to 

overcome inertia. “Give you a push?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Tod gave his classmate several pushes propelling her into a nice 

easy arc. 

“Thanks,” she said.

“Happy to.”

“You!” a boy called out from the open field to the side of the 

playground. “Come play dodgeball with us.”

Tod had never played dodgeball in his life. In fact, he had never 

been invited to play anything with any kid - except when Woody 

invited him to play ball, and that hadn’t happened. He walked 

over to where seven boys were waiting. 

“OK,” Bengy ordered, “us four here, you four over there. That 

includes you, sissy boy.”

No sooner than Tod had lined up with the other three boys and 

parallel to Bengy, than Bengy flung the ball fast and hard right 

into Tod’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

Tod buckled over, tears welling up. Bengy just cackled, “What’s 

wrong, sissy boy? Wanna go back to playing with the girls?”

Tod stumbled over to the trees where Molly was still standing, 

gazing into the tree branches. “If gravity did give way, trees like 

these could save us - at least momentarily.”

Tod cocked his head. “Gravity? Why would gravity quit? Never 

has before.”

“Doesn’t mean it couldn’t.” Molly turned to Tod while still 

clutching the tree. “Who knows? Who knows anything?”

Tod felt suddenly suspended in space, quiet and content. 

“So, you enjoyed flying with the hawk?” Molly asked. “That 

would scare me like crazy.”

“Wh…?”

But before Tod could ask Molly how she knew about that, a gruff 

voice interrupted. “So, hanging with the Commie weirdo?” Bengy 

taunted, crashing through the underbrush. “We just got started, 

sissy boy. You can’t leave the game like that.”

Molly turned slowly to the blustering kid. “There’s a spider on 

your shoulder.”

“Yeah, sure…” He glanced down then jumped. “AHHHHHHH! 

GET IT, GET IT OFF OF ME!!!”

Molly calmly reached over to Bengy. “Stop shaking,” she said 

calmly, then reached over and incanted, “Aranea, suco, 

permissio,” then plucked the large, hairy arthropod from his 

shoulder. 

“Commie witch!” Bengy yelled and ran off.

Molly stared into what might be described as the eight-legged 

beast’s face. “You know, spiders have eight eyes. Imagine what 

they must see.”

Tod stared at this strange girl with caution. But the apprehension 

he felt was dwarfed by the rush of affection. 

“What was it you said to that kid when you grabbed the spider?”

“Huh?” Molly gently placed the spider onto a nearby limb. “Oh, 

just some… mumbo jumbo.”

Tod grinned, then, “OK, I’ve got to know, how did you know 

about the hawk?”

Molly just looked at him and smiled and said, “Time to go in.” A 

split second later, the school bell rang announcing the end of 

recess.

For the rest of the day, Bengy and a couple of his tagalong 

buddies heckled Molly and threw spitballs at her whenever Miss 

Harrison’s back was turned. Molly seemed unaffected, her focus 

divided between Miss Harrison and the large round clock on the 

wall behind her.

Tod rode the bus home. While the other students horsed around, 

he sat quietly, considering his first day at school. Had he learned 

anything? Not really. Not in the classroom. But something had 

shifted in his young mind. Molly had opened a door that he didn’t 

even realize was closed. She saw things others didn’t and knew 

things she had not been told. She saw the world through different 

eyes. Inquisitive eyes. Eyes free of inhibition. But her question, 

“Who knows anything?” really made him think. And the more he 

thought about it, she hadn’t even said it as a question.

“Sit down in back!” yelled the bus driver. “Sit down or I’ll report 

you to the principal!”

Tod barely noticed the ruckus. How do we know anything 

anyway? Because someone told us? And how do they know? 

And even if we saw something… Tod’s memory flashed to the 

time he had begged Mr. Stern to get the snake out of the tool 

shed, only to find out it was a coiled rope. And he had been sure 

it was ready to strike. And what if someone goes crazy? How 

would they know anything? And God - does God still exist if 

we…? 

He stopped the thought before it had time to nest and turned his 

attention instead to the world passing by his window. They had 

just passed the town’s water tower, still flaunting the swastika 

graffiti the town had yet to remove. Downtown was dead, as 

usual, with a couple of cars in front of the drugstore, and a few 

people getting gas. There. Molly was walking home carefully 

avoiding cracks in the sidewalk. Then as the bus turned out of 

town, all the little shacks with dirt yards - the poor black section 

of town. Tod thought of Woody in his ramshackle house, then 

sighed and looked away. A hawk flew across the empty sky. 

For the next several nights, Tod had the same dream over and 

over. He dreamt himself sitting in Miss Harrison’s classroom as 

his teacher berated Molly about her lack of patriotism. And as he 

sat there silent, uncomfortable, hearing all this, he looked down 

and realized - he was totally naked. Next thing he knew, he was 

standing in front of his Sunday school class, naked, as the class 

sang “This Little Light of Mine.” He wanted to join in, but no 

sound would escape his mouth.

That Sunday morning was overcast and drizzly. But as always, 

the Sterns ate their breakfast and readied themselves for church.

On their drive in, Mr. Stern told Mrs. Stern, “You know, Reverend 

Wagner is retiring soon. The board thinks they may have found a 

good candidate to replace him - a retired Marine chaplain, a 

Reverend Martins.”

“Hope his wife is nice,” Mrs. Stern answered.

“I don’t think he’s married.”

Mrs. Stern looked at her husband quizzically.

Sunday school started as it often did with a song. 

This little light of mine 

I’m going to let it shine

Hide it under a bushel? No!

I’m going to let it shine

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Tod just sat, tongue-tied feeling embarrassed even though he 

was, thankfully, fully clothed.

He still felt panicked that night when he went to bed, sure that the 

devil was laying claim on him, producing doubts and questions, 

sneaking in to his dreams. And clearly he couldn’t trust his own 

perceptions if he thought he had actually flown with a hawk. No, 

he had to be on guard, trust the Bible, his parents, the preacher, 

and stop his evil ways, at least his thoughts. Otherwise, his soul 

was definitely in danger of Hell. He turned on his backlit Jesus 

nightlight and took out his Bible.

Tod had learned to read at an early age, and to fortify himself 

against his perceived enemy, the devil, he began reading the 

Bible every night before bed. Most of it he couldn’t understand, 

but still, he plowed through, taking notes as he went. Some of the 

verses that were most perplexing, that baffled him the most, were 

verses like:

Deuteronomy 23:1 No one whose testicles are crushed or whose 

male organ is cut off shall enter the assembly of the LORD.

Genesis 38:8-10 Then Judah said to Onan, "Go in to your 

brother's wife, and perform your duty as a brother-in-law to her, 

and raise up offspring for your brother.” 

Then there were the verses that denoted “unclean” animals that 

were not to be eaten: shellfish, rabbits, pigs, frogs, snails, and on 

and on. Of course, since Tod had quit eating animals altogether, 

this didn’t personally concern him. But many in his church still ate 

some of these, including Mr. and Mrs. Stern. Tod tucked all these 

mind-boggling questions aside in a safe place far from his 

conscious mind. 

6.

“Welcome, Reverend Martins. The governor is happy to have you 

on board.”

“And I am pleased to be asked.”

“So you’re just back in the states?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, after serving your country so bravely in the service, you are 

especially aware that America is under attack from Communist 

and internal groups that would upend our way of life.” The 

reverend nodded. “That is why the governor asked me to talk to 

you today. Governor McNair and a few other governors and 

patriotic lawmakers have founded an organization to reclaim our 

country from the liberal Communist types, to make God the center 

of our lives and our government.”

“The White America Christian Organization,” Reverend Martins 

interjected.

“You’ve heard of us. Yes. So, we are organizing at the grassroots 

level, and what better way to engage godly patriots than through 

our churches.”

“How can I help?”

“Well, first of all, this is a process that will take time, years. But we 

need to show the faithful that their way of life is in danger, that 

their voices and their votes make a difference, that they need to 

prepare to be good Christian soldiers.”

“Would that we could arm our people.” 

The governor’s lapdog paused. “There may come a time for that, 

and people with your expertise will be especially valuable.” 

The reverend sat up proud in his chair. “Anything for God and 

country, sir.”

That Sunday…

“Today, we welcome our new minister and spiritual leader, retired 

Marine chaplain, Reverend Martins.”

“Thank you, deacon. I am very pleased that you have chosen me 

to be your pastor. It is an honor and a sacred duty.” Reverend 

Martins took a solemn breath. “As some of you know, I was a 

chaplain in the Marines. I know what war is like.” He took another 

dramatic pause. “These are troubling times, times that call for all 

good Christian soldiers to gird themselves against the agents of 

the devil.” A few congregates squirmed, most nodded in 

agreement. “Ephesians, chapter six, verse twelve tells us, For we 

wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, 

against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, 

against spiritual wickedness in high places. There’s a battle 

brewing folks, let’s not be deceived. And we, God’s children, 

must be ready. We are being attacked by Communists and 

propagators of immorality and homosexuality and radical social 

corruption like feminism and integration. We need to be strong! 

Strong in the Lord! Strong in our faith! In our loyalty to our 

country! Ready to fight these enemies of Christianity!” 

Tod squirmed next to Mr. and Mrs. Stern as he struggled to push 

down the nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong with 

what he was hearing. A shrouded rage bubbled beneath the 

surface. But what’s more important than God and country? he 

asked himself. Nevertheless, the lingering apprehension 

persisted. 

The new preacher was standing by the exit shaking hands after 

the sermon. “Welcome, Rev.” said Mr. Stern. “Bryan Stern.”

“Bryan. And who do we have here?” the new preacher asked, 

completely ignoring Mrs, Stern.

“This is my son, Tod, Reverend Martins.”

Tod dutifully extended his hand.

“What a… what a handsome young man,” gushed the Rev. as he 

grasped Tod’s hand with both of his and held on much too long.

God is good, God is good… Tod pulled back. “Thank you, uh, 

sir.” Tod slipped by the Sterns and hurried down the steps of the 

red brick church. 

“And thank you for your service,” exclaimed Mrs. Stern, her head 

bowed. 

Tod looked up at The Stern’s talking with the new preacher and 

wondered what had creeped him out. He had definitely felt 

cornered, trapped, like a lightning bug in a mason jar.

This little light of mine…

But maybe he had it all wrong. Self-doubt showed up again and 

made him question his own judgement. 

After the Sunday midday meal, Tod excused himself and walked 

to the creek which ran through the backside of the Stern farm. 

The afternoon light dappled through the autumn colors waving 

above the stream. The natural beauty temporarily quelled the 

nagging questions and feelings of guilt. 

The creek side seemed a world away from bullies and screaming 

preachers and the already-confusing world of a nearly-seven￾year-old. The trees and rocks and water and birds and breeze 

were here - here - with no concerns about Communism, morality, 

religion, or skin color.

Tod peered into the shallow water. A small brown trout swam 

gracefully around fallen tree branches and over rocks. He 

followed giddily with his new friend, a friend that would soon 

swim away and never be seen again. But that was OK - right 

now, everything was just as it was meant to be.

A water snake sunning on a rock slipped into the creek and 

glided away. Everything as it was meant to be.

Up ahead, the creek took a sharp turn. Splashing? The 

overhanging trees were now thinning out and light was streaming 

in. The water deepened a bit. More splashing.

As Tod rounded the curve, a glistening dark caramel torso 

greeted him from the middle of the creek, knee deep in the placid 

stream. Water dripping from tightly curled black ringlets. Curving 

flesh like glass reflecting the sunlight. The head turned, and the 

sweetest smile framed by a kindly face greeted Tod. 

“Hi, Tod!”

Tod glanced to his right and saw the folded clothes on the rock 

on the bank. “Oh, hi, uh, Woody.”

Woody stood in the creek, carefree, his arms to the sky. “Come 

on in!” Tod hesitated. “It’s not cold - not much.”

Except for Mr. Stern, once, Tod had never seen another person 

naked - male, or female. Nor had he ever imagined a godlike 

figure like he saw in front of him. He tried to avert his gaze but 

couldn’t. 

“I love the water,” Woody chuckled and lay down in the water. 

“I’d rather be swimming, but better than nothing. Come on in!”

Tod found himself automatically unbuttoning his shirt. For early 

fall, it was rather warm and the slight breeze felt good against his 

bare chest. But when he reached to unbuckle his belt, he froze. 

“Come on in!” Woody called.

Tod took a deep breath and stripped down to his underwear. The 

water was chilly, but not too. The creek bottom was rough and 

jabbed against his feet with every step. The light had changed, 

just a tad, but perceptibly. Time itself had taken on its own 

personality here in the creek, away from the very confounding 

real world. 

Baptism by nature. Absolution, cleansing, resurrection.

“It’s great, didn’t I tell you?” Woody splashed a few feet away. 

“Mom says I’m a water sign. Birthday’s on July 9th. She’s way 

into that stuff. Drives my dad nuts!”

Tod eased himself into the water keeping his head dry. “I was 

really disappointed you don’t go to my school.”

Woody looked at Tod and smiled, “You’re white; I’m not.” Then 

continued to frolic in the water, bringing up rocks from below and 

examining them.

“Isn’t nature wonderful?” Woody asked. “Below our feet, above 

our heads, it’s amazing.”

Tod heard all this but as from a distance. He had lost touch with 

his normal day-to-day. He was, for the moment at least, in the 

spell of the moment, of Woody, of freedom.

“Tod?”

“It’s… great. Yeah. So, I would have visited again but my dad told 

me not to.” Tod sighed. “What’s wrong with people?”

Woody laughed. “My Mom didn’t want us to hang out together 

either. Said I should keep to my kind. Funny ‘cause all the kids in 

my class are much darker than me.”

Tod sighed and smiled.

When Tod put on his clothes, the water on his body soaked 

through his Sunday button-down shirt, and his pants were 

soaked from his wet underwear. Didn’t think of that.

His clothes and hair were still wet when he arrived back at the 

Stern farmhouse. They’re going to ask me where I was, what was 

I doing in the creek and with no clothes on. He decided to avoid 

the confrontation by sneaking in the back door. 

Tod slowly opened the creaky door. He could hear the Sterns 

talking in the front room. Now to make it to his bedroom halfway 

down the hall. He removed his shoes and crept in. 

“You know,” Mrs. Stern said, “your sister lives just a couple hours 

away. Why can’t she take care of him?” Mr. Stern said nothing. 

“Why should we have all the burden?”

Tod stood dripping in his bedroom doorway, listening.

“He’s not really a burden, Evelyn, is he? I know he’s a little weird 

and all, but he’s a good kid. Helps me out on the farm when he 

can.”

“No, he’s not a bad kid, but he has problems. He needs more 

discipline. Maybe a military school, if not your sister’s.”

“And who would pay for that? What’s really bothering you, 

Evelyn?”

Mrs. Stern took a moment. “He’s underfoot all the time. I’ve no 

time for myself. Plus people talk about him, about how weird he 

is. I hear the gossip.”

“Don’t be bothered with all that, Evelyn, they’re idle words 

spoken by fools.” Mr. Stern paused. “Let’s just try to be patient 

with him.”

Tod slipped into his room and closed the door, shaken. They 

want to get rid of me! Oh, dear Lord, I promise I’ll be better!.

7. 

Tod did his best to keep out of trouble over the next few years. 

He doubled down on his Bible reading, never questioned the 

preacher, and said the blessing at the dinner table. All the while 

he kept an ever-watchful eye on Mr. and Mrs. Stern. 

He occasionally ran into Woody at the creek. If it were not for 

their parents’ and their community’s small-minded views the two 

could have been best friends.

Molly remained always in her own world and always distantly 

cordial. In the 5th grade, before her disappearance, Molly and 

Tod were eating lunch together in the school cafeteria when 

Molly blurted, “I didn’t know you had two brothers and a sister.”

Tod responded, “I don’t.” Molly continued calmly, “Anyway, you 

should never blame yourself for what you can’t control.”

Then one day Molly just vanished into thin air. There was no trace 

of her, just footprints leading out into an open field. Tod could 

only imagine. Maybe a spaceship beamed her up, or maybe 

gravity finally gave out for her. 

“Draw swords!” Tod stood erect in the church choir gallery just 

right of the pulpit with a dozen other kids his age. With the 

command to “draw swords,” Tod placed his Bible on his left hand 

with his right hand resting on top. “Ephesians 4:32,” called the 

middle-aged woman in the polyester purple paisley dress. 

“Ready, set… charge!”

The twelve young participants thumbed frantically through their 

Bibles. Tod was the first to find the scripture and stepped 

forward.

“Tod?” 

“Ephesians 4:32. And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, 

forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven 

you. Ephesians 4:32.” He smiled while trying not to expose his 

pride.

“Very good, Tod.”

Tod had become very active in the Lowman Southern Methodist 

Church - as active as a twelve-year-old can be. He found it much 

more comfortable to put aside his reasoning and questioning and 

just go with the flow. 

One Sunday, the pregnant Sunday school teacher for the 

kindergarten group asked Tod to fill in for her as she had done 

several times before. 

Tod looked across the eager faces of the 5 and 6-year-olds. 

“Today, we’re going to talk about Jonah and the whale. Does 

anyone know what a whale is?”

“A whale’s a big fish!” shouted one little boy.

“Well, not really,” Tod explained. “It is actually a mammal.” Lots 

of blank stares and cocked heads. “Like people and monkeys.”

“Mom says we’re nothing like monkeys. She said not to listen to 

people who say so because they’re wackos. Are you a wacko?”

“No, I don’t think… Listen, let’s get back to our Bible story.” The 

class settled down. “Now God told Jonah to do something, but 

he didn’t want to. God told Jonah to go to the city of Nineveh 

and warn them that he was going to destroy them.”

“Kill them?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they were wicked.” Blank stares. “They were bad.”

“What did they do that was that bad?”

Tod sighed. “I don’t know, but God must have thought it was very 

bad.”

The group of 5 and 6-year-olds became very still.

“OK, so, Jonah decides to run away and he gets on this boat. 

And after a while a terrible storm came up and was about to sink 

the boat. Everyone onboard was very scared. The other sailors 

began praying to their gods, and…”

“Their gods?”

“Well, yes, maybe they were, uh, I don’t know, confused? 

Anyway, Jonah confessed that it was he that had been really bad, 

so they threw him overboard, and the storm calmed down. But a 

whale came along and swallowed poor Jonah.”

A little blond-haired girl was on the verge of tears. “Diddeedah?”

“Sorry?”

“Diddeedah?”

“I’m sorry, Ginger, I don’t understand, what does diddeedah 

means?”

A little boy sitting next to her huffed, “DID HE DIE?”

Tod chuckles quietly. “No. He didn’t.”

One blond-haired boy had been sitting quietly the whole time, a 

cherub incarnated. “What’s your name?” asked Tod of the boy. 

The boy lowered his head and answered in a voice so soft it was 

indiscernible. “Sorry, what did you say?”

The girl sitting next to him responded, “It’s Freddy. He’s real shy.”

“Frady Freddy,” a little boy snickered.

“Well Freddy, you just speak up anytime you feel like it,” 

encouraged Tod.

Tod also competed in the Women’s Christian Temperance Union 

oratorical contests. Any student, well, white student, was eligible 

to compete in the contest after taking taking the pledge:

I promise not to buy, drink, sell, or give   

Alcoholic liquors while I live. 

From all tobacco I’ll abstain, 

and never take God’s name in vain. 

A cute little sing-song assemblage of words which had little 

meaning for a 12-year-old. He might as well have pledged to 

never pilot a spaceship for all he knew about the subject.

Tod spent hours memorizing the speech, trying out different hand 

gestures, voice inflections, facial gestures. Not that he was aware 

of it, but like a used car salesman, he had a product to sell and 

was selling it - with all his heart. To be sure, Tod was sincere, 

earnest, honest, and clueless. An excerpt: 

The cocktail is a pleasant drink;

It's mild and harmless — I don't think!

When you've had one, you call for two,

And then you don't care what you do.

Tod would come to learn over the years that a belief system 

needed a bogyman, and today it was demon alcohol. But even 

now, his twelve-year-old heart surged with the conviction that he 

was better than the drunks and the lowlife, creatures he had yet 

to see but imagined creeped under rocks and behind bushes. 

This moral righteousness helped Tod avoid his lurking doubts.

What Tod and everyone else in Lowman didn’t know at the time 

was that before Tod was legal to drink, alcohol would be banned, 

possession of pot would be a capital offense, sex outside of 

marriage would be punishable by castration, and on and on. No 

one knew.

Tod still felt more like an observer than a full participant in sixth￾grade. At least the class bully, Bengy, had failed the third grade 

and was held back, but with Molly gone, Tod felt alone and out of 

place.

For instance, one day, he was returning to his sixth-grade 

homeroom and heard a gang of his schoolmates laughing 

boisterously at the end of the hallway. When he asked them what 

was so funny, one answered, “That nigga-lover president’s been 

killed!” The group burst into more laughter. Tod shuffled into the 

classroom, shocked and unable to fathom how anyone could 

laugh about their country’s leader being gunned down. He 

struggled to keep his tears to himself.

The school bell rang indicating the start of the next period, the 

state-required Bible class.

The State had just the last year decreed that all schools, public 

and private, begin each day with prayer and the pledge of 

allegiance, provide a period for Bible study, and display a copy of 

the Ten Commandments and a large American flag in the front of 

each classroom. The library had already been purged of all 

“inappropriate books” the year before. 

“OK, settle down, class,” said Mrs. Dixon, whose singsongy 

voice was even more cheerful than usual. “Now take out your 

Bibles. We’re going to be reading and discussing First John, 

Chapter 4, verse 20.” The sixth-grade class took out their Bibles 

and opened to the verse.

Mrs. Dixon made no mention of the president of the United 

States having just been assassinated.

“Justin, would you please read for us?”

Justin cleared his throat. “Um, OK, uh, ‘If a man says, I love God, 

and hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his 

brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath 

not seen?’”

“Thank you, Justin. What does that verse say to you?”

“Umm, if we love God, we should love everybody else?”

“Yes. Any other ideas about the verse? Class?”

Tod kept quiet, to himself. It was Justin that just minutes ago was 

shouting about the president’s assassination and using the word 

“niggas.” Tod silently shook his head. What is wrong with 

people?

Fifteen minutes after the period started, the door swung open, 

and three men in WACO Guard uniforms barged in.

“May I help you?” asked Mrs. Dixon.

“Which one of these kids is Mary Mendoca?”

Mrs. Dixon paused but knew better than to ask questions. “Mary, 

please stand.”

“Come with us,” one of the agents barked and escorted her out, 

no further words.

It was never revealed what the shy, reserved girl’s infraction was. 

But she was the only Catholic or Latina in the entire school. Mary 

nor her family were seen again. No questions asked.

That Sunday at the Southern Methodist Church, Reverend 

Martins started the sermon with “a moment of prayer for our 

country.” 

“Dear Lord. We know you work in mysterious ways. We know 

that you want your Word restored in this land, your moral codes 

restored, and your people exalted again. Grant our country a new 

leader that will fulfill your will. Amen.”

8. 

By the tenth grade, Tod had become adept at meeting 

contradictions with conviction. This was a protection strategy, 

though unconscious: as long as he could keep his vision narrow, 

through the blinders of doctrine, he was OK. Safe.

But sometimes, it was particularly hard. Like when the school 

board fired his favorite teacher. First, they banned the schools’s 

science books because they didn’t follow the WACO guidelines: 

they still contained the theory of evolution and never mentioned 

God. This left Mr. Carter to his own resources from which to 

teach. Then when he slipped up one day mentioned and the idea 

of natural selection, a student tattled and WACO fired Mr. Carter. 

It’s not that Tod had ever given much thought to Darwin’s 

theories, but he did like Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter was an enthusiastic 

teacher who brought out enthusiasm in his students and inspired 

curiosity, and he had been silenced. Mr. Carter was replaced by 

the wife of the Baptist minister who was always “delighted to talk 

about the wonders of God.”

Still, Tod continued to go through the motions of praying and 

going to church.

“Today,” Reverend Martins proclaimed from the front of the 

church, “we’re going to arm our congregation to fight the devil’s 

plague of marijuana.” The man sitting in the chair behind the 

pulpit righted himself and grinned. “We have today an agent of 

the White American Christian Organization, Agent Malfoy. He is 

going to instruct us as to how to detect the devil weed. But first 

let us start with prayer. “Dear Lord, thank you for the courage of 

folks like agent Malfoy who guard us from the evils of the 

ungodly, liberal horde that would snare our children and lead 

them down the road to hell. In Jesus name.” Reverend Martins 

opened his eyes and turned to the man sitting on the stage. 

“Agent Malfoy?”

“Thank you, Reverend.” The overweight man with pasty white 

skin stood and stepped forward wearing the customary dress of 

the WACO Guard, brown shirt and blue pants that clashed 

horribly. And on the shirt, a patch of the WACO symbol, the 

bleeding crown of thorns. “Folks, today we’re going to talk about 

marijuana, weed, mary jane, pot, dope, grass, all names for the 

gateway drug, Cannabis sativa. Thanks to our state government 

under the counsel of the Organization, the White American 

Christian Organization, the drug is becoming scarcer with its 

dealers and users now being severely punished. Still, the 

substance abound, and we citizens can do our part by reporting 

any use so that we can put away the criminals and end this 

scourge. To that end, I am going to burn a little of the substance 

so that you good people can all know its smell. And to be clear, 

this sample was not purchased but confiscated from a user who, 

I can assure you, won’t be needing it now!”

The congregation laughed haughtily. But not Tod. How could 

anyone rat out their fellow citizens, even family members? And 

they were laughing about it! He picked up a hymnal and 

mindlessly thumbed through it.

But the next words out of the agent’s mouth shook him back. 

“Ask your children if they smoke pot or if their friends do.” Pause. 

“It is better they serve time here than in hell.” There was a slight 

murmur through the congregation, then a mounting chorus of 

amens.

After burning a bit of pot in a ceramic bowl and wafting it around 

the congregation, Agent Malfoy returned to the front of the 

church. “It has been an honor talking to all of you fine Christians 

today. Before I go, I’d like to encourage you all to pick up a copy 

of our personal pledge, sign it, and return it to the box in the 

vestibule where we also have WACO badges, rings, bracelets, 

and necklaces for purchase. Thank you, and I turn you back over 

to Reverend Martins.”

After a few words and prayer, the service closed with a hymn, 

“Onward Christian Soldiers.”

Mr. Stern picked up three of the pledge forms.

It was quiet at the Sunday afternoon meal before Mr. Stern 

abruptly asked, “Have you ever smoked marijuana, Tod?”

Tod was in disbelief, in shock. “Me? No! Of course not!”

“No need to get upset, Tod,” Mrs. Stern chimed in.

Tod stared her down. “And if I had, would you turn me in?” The 

Sterns were silent.

“We’re just thinking of the greater good, cleaning up this country 

for the Lord.” Mr. Stern took another bite. “Have any of your 

friends?”

“What friends do I have? But if I did and they did, I wouldn’t rat 

them out! May I be excused?”

Mr. Stern nodded. 

Two days later, after supper. “I heard the Benjamins have left 

town,” said Mr. Stern over the newspaper. “Went to stay with 

their daughter in Colorado.”

“Hmm.” said Mrs. Stern. “And their store?”

“Closed it. That Keturah woman, too. They say she went to visit 

family in Baltimore. Or was it Philadelphia? Anyway, she left the 

store stocked like she was coming back.”

“Why don’t they just do the right thing and convert, find Jesus?” 

Mrs. Stern wondered out loud.

Mr. Stern just shrugged and returned to the sports section.

“I think I’ll take a walk,” Tod announced as he sprung to his feet.

“It’s kind of late, but go ahead,” Mrs Stern answered. “You can 

finish the pots and pans when you get back.”

Tod knew why the few local Jews had left town - they were 

afraid. Afraid of the growing army of “Christian soldiers.” Why 

does God play favorites to one group of people and damning all 

others? His telltale heart told him this was wrong.

But Tod did not trust his heart. Not yet.

When Tod reached the creek, Woody was already sitting on the 

bank, totally focused on a leaf.

Barely looking up, Woody said, “This leaf has died. Look how 

beautiful it is - oranges, reds, yellows. It has fed the tree as it was 

intended to, and has now made way for the next to follow.”

Tod sat down next to his would-be-friend. 

“It has followed the sun all its life, the best it could,” Woody 

continued. “And it worked with all the other leaves to make sure 

the tree survived.” Woody smiled as he looked at Tod. “How did 

it know to do that?” Tod just shook his head. “It’s a wonder,” 

Woody sighed and released the leaf into the creek.

“Do you believe in heaven and hell, Woody?”

Woody laughed. “Who knows? Though if I’m honest, it sounds a 

lot like that mother I saw in the grocery store the other day 

threatening her whining kid who is reaching for something she 

doesn’t want to buy.” Woody watched the leaf swirl downstream. 

“You ever read The Wizard of Oz.”

“No. I saw the movie.”

“Reminds me of the Bible. First, there’s the Wicked Witch, the 

devil. There’s Dorothy wanting to go home, and of course, she’s 

been home the whole time. And of course, the Wizard, duh.”

Tod looked puzzled.

“Perhaps we’re all Dorothys!” Woody laughed. “I’d better get 

back. Homework.”

That was the last time Tod saw Woody.

9. 

October, and the county fair was in full swing. The annual affair 

was a big deal in this part of the country where the most exciting 

events the rest of the year were fish fries and revival meetings. 

For spending money, Tod was allowed to pick up all the pecans 

he could from the grove on the farm and sell them to the local 

grocer. It was a bumper crop that fall.

“OK, Tod, meet me back at the entrance at 5 o’clock sharp,” said 

Mrs. Stern from the fair’s parking lot. “Mrs. Weathers and I are 

going to the ag barn.”

Free of Mrs. Stern and her adult friend, Tod skipped into the 

arena of swirling rides, whacks and whams of carnival games, 

and the constant bellowing of sideshow barkers.

A boy no older than 18 called out to him from behind the counter 

of a shooting booth. “Hey kid! Show us what a good shot you 

are!” 

Tod diverted his eyes and hurried by.

There were lots of games like ring toss, bean bag toss, skee-ball, 

dime pitch, spin a winner. None of these interested him. The 

hoochie coochie shows had been closed down the year before, 

not that Tod would have tried to go in. A whiff of carny food 

caught his attention and led him to the Lowman VFW food tent. 

Hmm hmm, french fries!

The grounds were getting crowded as he passed the Ferris wheel 

and scrambler. Plus, he seemed to be walking against the flow, 

so Tod moved to the far side where it was less congested. As he 

did, he scanned the sea of people to see if he knew anyone. No. 

Then it occurred to him that everyone was white, no people of 

color in a county that was at least 70% Black. He walked on past 

more food vendors: cotton candy, candied apples, hotdogs - the 

smells made him woozy. He grabbed onto a tent pole holding up 

a carny game. “You playing?” growled the ancient woman 

holding two balls, a cigarette butt hanging from her lips.

Tod stumbled away, back into the crowd.

Ahead, a preacher in his Sunday best shouted warnings of 

eternal damnation from a makeshift stage. “Repent! REPENT! 

YOU’RE ALL GOING TO BURN IN HELL REPENT!” He turned to 

Tod and pointed. “Repent!” Tod hurried away and ducked into an 

alleyway between carnival tents

There, ahead of him at the end of the alley, all by itself 

underneath the canopy of trees, a small nondescript tent, its 

flaps slightly open. In front, a sign read, Miss Lolana, Psychic. 

And above the name, a picture of a hawk flying freely in open 

blue sky.

Tod felt drawn to the tent though he knew his church would never 

approve. Before he could turn to leave, a kind looking woman 

dressed in everyday street clothes peered through the tent 

opening. She smiled and motioned for Tod to come in.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said.

Tod walked cautiously into the small, well-lit space populated 

only with a coffee table and two folding chairs.

“Please, sit.” Tod sat in one of the folding chairs next to the 

coffee table. “And don’t worry, if you don’t like, you don’t pay.”

“Why did you say you were expecting me?”

Miss Lolana sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

“Your sister told me you were coming. She wanted you to know 

that she and the rest of the family, your two brothers and your 

parents, are fine.”

“I don’t have brothers or a sister.”

“No. Not on this plane.”

“I’m sorry,” Tod said and pushed away from the table, “this 

sounds like gobbledygook.”

“Your sister is telling me she’s sorry you had to move to the farm 

with your stern aunt and uncle. No? OK, she’s giggling, that’s 

their name, ‘Stern.’”

Tod flashed back to Molly talking years ago about a family he 

didn’t have, two brothers and a sister. He sat down uneasily. 

Tod started to question Miss Lolana, but the fortune teller 

continued. “Uh, Now I’m getting a visual; it’s very upsetting. The 

murder of a dear friend, uh, Trudy? Or, oh, maybe Rudy?”

Ted began to cry. “He was my best friend. A sheep.” He dried his 

eyes.

Miss Lolana gazed steadily at Tod. “You want answers but the 

answers people give you do not satisfy. It is a frustrating time for 

you but also a dangerous one.” Miss Lolana straightened up in 

her chair. “You must be very careful,” she said, her tone now 

heavy. “There are forces that would do you harm. I’m seeing - I 

don’t know what to make of this, but it is not good: a giant bird is 

sitting on top of the world with something in its mouth. And a, uh, 

looks like there’s a large fish hook. I sense deception and great 

danger.”

“Look,” Tod said, “this is too creepy for me. How much do I owe 

you?”

The fortune teller took Tod’s hands in hers. “You will need the 

money more than me. Keep it.”

Tod stood and hurried out of the tent. He had only gotten about 

thirty feet before several WACO Guards in their blue and brown 

uniforms and brandishing rifles bolted into the alleyway, nearly 

running into him.

Tod ducked to one side and watched as the WACO goons 

pushed by him, then burst into the tent, shouting. Moments later, 

they dragged Miss Lolana out and marched her away. “There’s 

no place for devil witches in the Lord’s world!” one blasted. The 

fortune teller stayed silent and expressionless but turned a 

concerned eye toward Tod as she passed by.

Tod was shaken. Miss Lolana had been very kind to him, and 

while she was definitely strange, she definitely was not evil.

When he reached the midway, Tod froze - dozens of WACO 

Guards were scouring the fairgrounds, and to his surprise, none 

of the fairgoers seemed to notice.

Tod stumbled through the grounds toward the meeting place with 

Mrs. Stern. All along, the games of chance were being 

demolished by the Guards, the frightened operators fleeing into 

the crowd.

Up ahead was the VFW food stand Tod had passed mere 

minutes ago. Now, WACO Guards were smashing beer kegs with 

axes and hauling away handcuffed customers. 

Further on, two Guards passed in front of him roughing up a 

long-haired man with an anti-Viet Nam War placard still hanging 

around his neck. Tod turned quickly and nearly collided with 

several other Guards manhandling two young women wearing 

tee shirts promoting the first Earth Day. He looked around him, 

horrified, as the masses continued to move around him, 

unconcerned with the goings-on.

“You’ll be amazed in the maze, confused and delighted,” shouted 

the barker in front of the House of Mirrors. “Come see the world 

as you’ve never seen it before!”

Tod paused in front of one of several curved freestanding mirrors 

outside the attraction. A contorted monster looked back at him. 

Tod shivered. “Who am I?” he shouted, then ran the rest of the 

way to the meeting place.

The first thing Tod said when Mrs. Stern returned: “Who am I?”

10.

“Who am I?” Tod insisted.

Mrs. Stern looked perplexed and a bit embarrassed standing 

next to her friend, Mrs. Weathers. She laughed nervously. 

“Whatever do you mean? You’re Tod Stern, a handsome tall 

young man.”

“Am I your son? Are you my real mother?”

Mrs. Weathers cleared her throat. “I’ll meet you back at the car, 

Evelyn.”

“What are you getting at, Tod?”

“I’ve had two people tell me that I have two brothers and a sister, 

and well, I’m not sure you’re my mom.”

Mrs. Stern sighed. “Let’s talk about this when we get home, 

OK?”

Mrs. Weathers chattered nonstop on the drive back. Neither Tod 

nor Mrs. Stern paid her any attention. The air in the car was 

heavy with tension.

They were only a half mile from Lowman when Mrs. Weathers 

pointed to a column of smoke ahead. “Looks like there’s a fire on 

this side of town.”

As they entered the town limits, the lone policeman waved them 

around the scene. The town’s only liquor store was completely 

engulfed in flames. A couple of volunteer firemen stood by the 

firetruck, casually watching the flames. No one was making any 

effort to extinguish it.

“Why aren’t they putting it out?” asked Tod.

“It was a liquor store, son,” Mrs.Stern answered, as if that was 

explanation enough.

Tod spied a car around the corner of the burning building as they 

passed, a nondescript car, and standing next to it, Agent Malfoy.

One block down Main Street, the library was padlocked. Across 

the street and a few doors away, WACO agents were removing a 

laughing Buddha statue from the Chinese restaurant as the 

owner stared horrified from the open door.

Nothing was said in the car.

Mrs. Stern dropped off Mrs. Weathers, then continued the few 

blocks to turn on John Street and home. 

“You want to sit up front, Tod?”

“I want to know who I am.”

“Sweetheart, we’ll be home soon. Let’s all talk when we get 

there.” The two were silent the remainder of the drive.

Mr. Stern was putting away some tools in the barn when they 

arrived. He looked up but didn’t wave.

“Go on in, Tod. I’ll get your dad.”

A few minutes later, the three were sitting in the small living room, 

staring at each other.

“Are you my mother and father?” pleaded Tod.

“Son,” said Mr. Stern in a hushed tone, “you are like a son to us, 

always have been. But…”

“We adopted you after your family,” Mrs. Stern interrupted, “well, 

your first family , uh…”

“Your family died in a car accident,” said Mr. Stern. “The night 

you were born.”

“Why? Why didn’t you yell me?” Tod cried.

The Sterns questioned each other with a glance. Mrs. Stern, “We 

didn’t want to worry you.”

Tod silently shook his head. “Didn’t want to… It’s my life! You 

should have told me!” 

“Tod,” Mrs. Stern started.

“This has all been a lie! You, me…” Tod sobbed. “What happened 

to them? What happened to my real family?”

The Sterns explained that his birth family had a car accident 

when driving on an icy road during the Christmas holidays.

“And me? Where was I?”

“You were… you weren’t born yet,” said Mrs. Stern. “They were 

rushing to the hospital when the accident happened.”

“Hospital?”

Mr. Stern leaned in. “You were premature, and…”

“So it was me! I killed them!”

“No, no!” Mrs. Stern pleaded.

‘You can’t think like that, Tod,” said Mr. Stern. “They really 

shouldn’t have been on a vacation with her in that condition in 

the first place.”

“So, then,” Tod gasped between words, “who are you?”

Mr. Stern leaned back. “I’m your father’s brother, Tod. Though I 

think of you as my…”

Tod jumped to his feet and ran out the door.

He didn’t stop running until he reached the creek where he and 

Woody had sat and talked. Woody was not there. Tod was 

desperately alone with his thoughts and ravaging feelings of 

betrayal, anger, loss, and guilt.

There was no one, not even a bird or butterfly to calm him. The 

creek was little more than a trickle, and all the leaves had fallen 

from the trees.

His life had been a lie. And no one, none of the many citizens of 

Lowman that must have known, no one ever told him who he 

was. Secrets. The whole culture was based on secrets and 

niceties, hiding behind fake smiles, ignoring uncomfortable 

issues. They probably all secretly blamed him for his family’s 

deaths, too.

Tod sat on the creek bank and cried as the light faded into night. 

He screamed an unheard scream into the air. Chunked rocks into 

the pitiful creek.

He felt trapped.

Just hours earlier, the fortune teller had described his lost family. 

If she was in contact with his deceased family, why hadn’t he 

asked more questions? Now it was too late. Miss Lolana had 

been arrested. He thought back on the time he overheard the 

Sterns talking about him. That’s what they were talking about that 

day - they were trying to pawn me off.

I would have been the youngest of four kids. I could have had 

playmates growing up, gone on family vacations, celebrated 

birthdays. Instead, I grew up on a farm out in the boonies with 

two old people.

Tod’s anger was turning into a deep sadness. If only I had waited 

to be born. 

He threw another rock in the creek bed. “But why would they 

want me?” he asked aloud. “Who would?” I am not worthy of 

anyone’s love.

Tod locked himself in his room when he returned.

Everyone was quiet at the breakfast table the next morning. 

When Tod took his plate to the sink, he announced, “I’d like to 

see pictures of my family.”

Mr. and Mrs. Stern glanced at each other. “Sure, son. I’ll find 

some and give them to you,” said Mrs. Stern.

Everything appeared normal inside the bus to school - the 

students roughhousing and teasing each other - but it didn’t feel 

normal to Tod at all. He was not the same person as before. He 

just sat quietly and watched the world go by, though he knew 

that it was really he who was passing through. 

His world was changing fast. Main Street was not the same with 

posters of the WACO bleeding crown of thorns nailed to every 

telephone pole, and WACO agents in their tacky uniforms 

policing the nearly empty streets. And yet, the few citizens that 

were walking the sidewalks seemed not to notice. Nor did they 

seem to care that the library was still padlocked.

And school. Now, above the school name, a huge cross. Along 

the hallway, placards with Bible quotes. Tod glanced through the 

classroom doors as he passed down the hall - all had the WACO 

symbol hung in front of the rooms next to posters of the Ten 

Commandments. Already rumors were spreading that the 

school’s library was half the size as it was just days ago - WACO 

“pruning.”

“Good morning class,” Mrs. Thompson, the 10th-grade teacher, 

welcomed. “Let’s begin with prayer and the Pledge of 

Allegiance.” Everyone, including Tod, stood and did as they were 

told. Mrs. Thompson continued, “We have finally gotten new 

science books! Aren’t they lovely?” she chirped while holding up 

a copy. ”We also have new history books that are sure to be 

more accurate and supportive of our Christian ideals.” 

Supportive of our ideals? “George and Tod, please distribute the 

books to everyone.” 

Tod grabbed the stack of science books and stared with dismay 

at the cheery cover of Noah’s Ark and numerous pairs of animals 

standing under a large rainbow. The Wonder of God’s Creation.

The history book was waiting for him when he returned to his 

desk: One Nation Under God. And the cover: a painting of the 

founding fathers bowing in prayer in a church.

“And class,” said Mrs. Thompson, “please leave your old history 

books on desk at the end of the day.” Mrs. Thompson began 

chuckling. “Old history books!” She laughed aloud. Tod may have 

been the only student who got the joke. Never the less, Mrs. 

Thompson repeated it for good measure, “Old history!” Tod 

laughed out of pity. 

When lunchtime arrived, Tod discovered that the cafeteria menu 

had changed, too. No macaroni and cheese or sides of 

vegetables, not even french fries, just hot dogs and hamburgers. 

Tod chose a hamburger with lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles and 

removed the meat.

The crowded bus home was noisy, as usual. But a shriek from 

the back of the bus cut through the general mayhem. Then 

another scream, a high-pitched cry of distress. Tod jumped up 

and hurried to the back of the bus. Two preteen boys were 

taunting young Freddy with a hognose snake.

“Stop it!” Tod shouted.

One of the boys looked up at Tod who was a foot taller and a few 

years older. “It’s not poisonous,” he insisted. 

“Both of you, sit down!” Tod demanded. They sat.

Tod took the seat next to Freddy. “Are you OK?”

Freddy nodded and whispered, “They were teasing me, calling 

me Frady Freddy.”

“Don’t listen to them, Freddy. You’re perfectly fine, perfectly fine.”

Freddy smiled, but Tod could see that behind the awkward 

gesture was pain. 

“Is there anything else bothering you, Freddy? Anyone?”

Freddy looked as though he was going to speak, then gently 

shook his head and shifted his gaze to his book sack. 

The Sterns ate their evening meal in silence. Tod retired to his 

room to study - which did not go well - then prepared for bed. As 

was his habit, he kneeled beside his bed to pray.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my Soul to keep

If I should…

He couldn’t finish it. The prayer rang hollow. It sounded robotic, 

automatic, a defense against an ingrained fear that had been 

crammed in his head since the beginning, or at least since he 

could remember. 

It took a while to sleep, and when he did, it was restless. Tod was 

on the bus again, but this time, the bus was full of folks in choir 

robes, all singing, Jesus loves me, this I know… Freddy sat in the 

back of the bus, his arms folded around him, completely silent, 

sweat beading on his forehead. … for the Bible tells me so… A 

snake slithered over Freddy’s left shoulder, its tongue flicking, its 

eyes glowing red, the end of it nowhere in sight. …Little ones to 

him belong… Tod turned his eyes away - outside, the world was 

blood-red. …they are weak… On the road next to the bus stood 

a family singing along - mother, father, two boys, and a girl, all 

drenched in blood. … but He is strong.

Tod woke in a sweat, his whole body shaking. He gazed up at his 

Jesus nightlight; the Lord seemed not at all concerned about the 

goings on on the bus or the general malaise in the world. Tod 

listened for sounds in the darkened farmhouse, worried that he 

might have screamed and woken the Sterns, but heard nothing. 

After a while, he was able to sleep again.

The next dream was quite different. Tod found himself in a 

tropical paradise. Dappled light, cool breeze, exotic birds singing. 

Then from behind a large fern, a beautiful nude woman stepped 

out and approached. Tod was immediately aroused. He then 

realized that he, too, was naked. She pressed herself against him 

and looked directly into his eyes. Just as he climaxed, she 

offered him an apple. Tod woke drenched in sweat and guilt. 

Jesus scowled down from his perch.

Tod cleaned up the bed sheets as best he could and washed out 

his underwear.

That Sunday, Tod skipped the teen Sunday school class and 

slipped around the front of the church and into the balcony. The 

adult Sunday school was in progress. He sat alone in a seat the 

furthest back he could find, out of sight. All the adults were 

sitting below, intent on a group of WACO agents lined up in front 

of the pulpit.

Reverend Martins spoke first. “As is our new custom, the good 

agents of the Organization, the God Squad as we like to call 

them, will brief us on what has been accomplished this month 

and what we can all do to participate in God’s cleansing of our 

communities. Agent Malfoy?”

“Thank you, Reverend Martins, and thank you, members of the 

Southern Methodist Church, God’s army. The past month was 

very successful. With the help of many of you, we were able to 

arrest three Lowman residents using alcohol - they are now 

behind bars, and two young people smoking marijuana - they are 

presently doing time in a work camp. And your police officer, 

Chief Smith, came across two teenagers parked in the town 

cemetery fornicating, unmarried, of course. Medical experts are 

making sure that never happens again. So, it has been a 

productive month doing the Lord’s work. Now, Agent Drafus will 

educate you on other areas we are focusing on. Tom?”

Tod felt as though he was continuing his horrible nightmare. So 

this is what the adults have been planning and doing while we 

kids have been in the back talking about how much Jesus loves 

us?

“Good morning,” said Agent Drafus. “We have noticed a rise in 

Negro activity, non-violent but disrespectful, still. The 

Organization feels it very important to keep the balance right with 

whites and inferior races. So we ask you to please inform the 

Organization of any incidents of insubordination, disrespect, or 

attempts to mingle outside one’s tribe. We especially ask you to 

be alert to physical relations between races, including the 

products of such activities. We God-fearing people don’t want to 

see half-breed mulattos walking around in our communities. 

Thank you.”

Agent Malfoy stepped up and spoke. “We are grateful for 

Reverend Martins’ support and cooperation. It is godly people 

like him and all of you who will bring God’s kingdom on earth and 

squelch the liberal satanic power that has been sweeping our 

country. To facilitate this work, the Organization asks that any of 

you who have anything to report please leave your information 

with the pastor. He is keeping a record of all our work and the 

tips that you give him. May God’s kingdom come at last.” Malfoy 

then turned and handed Reverend Martins a folder. Before 

returning with the other agents to a pew, “By the way, the 

Organization is introducing a WACO credit card. We’d like to 

encourage you all to switch to it, then all your purchases will 

benefit the cause of godliness and patriotism.”

Tod snuck out of the balcony in and slipped through the vestibule 

past the display of WACO pamphlets: Return to the Godly Family, 

Man & Wife, The Woman’s Place, God’s Racial Plan, Demon 

Weed, Eradicating Race Mingling.

Tod ran from the church as fast as he could.

11. 

“Come on, Tod,” said Mrs. Stern. “It’s Wednesday night. We’re 

going to be be late to prayer meeting.”

“I don’t feel well.”

“I’m sure that if you go, the Lord will know and you’ll feel better 

right away.”

“What if I throw up in the car on the way?”

Mrs. Stern rolled her eyes to Heaven. “You don’t look sick to me, 

Tod. Besides, your dad’s working on that broken fence, and I 

don’t want to be driving home alone in the dark.”

“Before we start our prayer meeting,” announced Reverend 

Martins, “let’s read from God’s holy word, his only word,” 

There were many more people in attendance than in past 

Wednesday night prayer meetings. Most carried Bibles. Quite a 

few of the men wore camouflage. 

Reverend Martins continued, “In 1 John 4:7, the Bible tells us, 

Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every 

one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.” Reverend 

Martin took a dramatic pause. “For love is of God; and every one 

that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.

“Do we Christians love each other? Really love each other? If we 

did, we would be willing to sacrifice everything, including our 

lives, for each other. Satan is on the warpath, and we may be 

called upon to fight for each other - out of love.” The reverend 

paused again and looked over the still congregation.

“What would you do, brothers and sisters, if a homosexual 

teacher tried to lead your child into debauchery? What would 

you, gentlemen, do if a Negro man tried his savage wiles on your 

wife, or daughter? What if your neighbor was harboring drugs? 

Would you cower and look the other way, or do the right thing 

and report them and protect your family and community?

“Tonight, I want us to concentrate on these issues, to ask God for 

the strength and clarity to spot and call out these transgressions 

and those who commit them. And for love - love for our families, 

love for our community and country, and - most of all - love for 

God. Let us pray.”

The meeting went on and on, one pious prayer after another. 

Reverend Martins’ closing remarks, “Remember to keep your 

eyes and ears open for the Lord, and report any unChristian 

behavior, and I’ll put it in the folder.”

The reverend made his way to the front of the church and shook 

the parishioners’ hands. Tod felt cornered, unable to slip by. 

“You’re growing into such a handsome young man,” gushed 

Reverend Martins, “and so tall!” Tod turned from his piercing 

gaze and struggled to free his hand from the reverend’s grip.

“What a good man,” said Mrs. Stern on the drive home. “What a 

godly man.”

Tod walked into the kitchen Saturday morning where the Sterns 

were talking over coffee.

Mr. Stern, “I’m going to have Carlos drive the truck in to Kirvin’s 

today to have that left brake pad checked.”

“Why aren’t you taking it?” asked Mrs. Stern.

“I’ve got to finish fixing that fence.”

“Wouldn’t you want Carlos to help you?”

“He’d just get in the way. Besides, I’d rather work by myself.”

“Why don’t you go in with Carlos, Tod?” asked Mr. Stern. “Get a 

feel for what mechanics do. They make good money, you know.”

“A mechanic? I don’t know anything about cars. Plus, I want to 

go to college.”

Mr. and Mrs. Stern looked at each other. “Son,” said Mrs. Stern, 

“now is not the time for filling one’s head with a bunch of 

nonsense. The Lord’s coming soon and, well, we just need to 

carry on until he does.”

Tod bit his tongue, then remembered that the mechanic’s shop 

was just a few blocks from the church. Maybe he could find the 

WACO folder and warn those on the list. “OK, I’ll go.”

Carlos was a jovial sort, talking a mile a minute. Tod pretended to 

listen, nodding his head and smiling, but really, he was fixated on 

his mission.

When they arrived at Kirvin’s shop, Tod slipped away and walked 

to the Southern Methodist Church. Tod opened the church door 

slowly and quietly entered. The sanctuary was empty. Good. The 

WACO notebook must be in the preacher’s office. Tod slowly, 

slowly opened the door to the left of the altar and surveyed the 

hallway. Seeing no one, he slipped into the hallway. But then, a 

noise? He froze and perked his ears but heard nothing more. 

The “Pastor’s Study” was clearly marked, the door was ajar. After 

peering in and finding it empty, Tod entered and closed the door 

behind him.

The small room was very orderly, the pastor’s desk, too. A shelf 

to one side of the room held books and folders. If he could just 

find the WACO folder, he could warn the people on the list. But if 

he were caught snooping, what would he do? What would he 

say? 

Tod poked his head out into the hallway one more time - no sign 

of anyone. He began pulling out folders and thumbing through 

them. There were papers from church conferences, archives of 

previous sermons, fundraiser suggestions. No WACO folder.

He reached higher on the shelf and pulled a group of books 

down from the top shelf. As he did, a single piece of paper 

wafted down to the floor. A photo. Tod set the books aside then 

turned the photo over. A couple arm in arm in military uniforms. 

Tod pulled the picture close to his face. The man was obviously 

Reverend Martins. The woman was beautiful. A Black woman. 

She looked vaguely familiar. Then it dawned on him: Woody’s 

mom! It hit him like a ton of bricks that Woody was light-skinned 

because his dad was Reverend Martins.

A muffled cry. Tod panicked. He quickly replaced the picture from 

where it came from on the shelf and put the books back in place. 

He turned to make his escape then saw it, on a separate shelf 

near the door: a plaque, red, black, and gold, a giant bird, a 

globe, a large anchor… “There are forces that would do you 

harm. …a giant bird is sitting on top of the world with something 

in its mouth. And a large fish hook.” This was the emblem of the 

Marines, and Martins was a Marine. 

Tod slipped out into the hall but was immediately immobilized: a 

scream, a child’s call for help. Tod looked around. The basement. 

Tod grabbed the basement door and flung it open. “STOP!” he 

screamed.

Reverend Martins pulled up his pants and bellowed, “What are 

you doing here?!” With Martins distracted, a little boy broke away 

and hurried up the basement steps. 

“You’re a monster!” screamed Tod. Then turning to the boy, “Run, 

Freddy!”

“You are out of your league, kid!” screamed the reverend. In a 

flash, Martins raced up the stairs. Tod froze. “You’re in big 

trouble!” Reverend Martins screamed as he thrust his hands at 

Tod’s throat. Tod struggled, his breath cut off. With a desperate 

mustering of will, he jerked his knee into Martin’s crotch. Martins 

shrieked, fell backward, and tumbled down the stairs.

“Run!! Run home, Freddy!”

The church was eerily silent now save for the footsteps of little 

Freddy running out. Tod was alone with Reverend Martins, 

lifeless at the bottom of the stairs, his head oozing a crimson 

pool. An image flashed in Tod’s mind accompanied by an unseen 

angelic choir: There is power power wonder working power in the 

precious blood of the lamb… of the lamb… of the… “RUDY!” Tod 

shouted, turned, and raced out the church under the blank stares 

of saints.

No one was on the road. Tod hurried back toward the mechanic’s 

shop. But then, turning the corner a couple of blocks away, Chief 

Smith patrolling. Just ahead, a large truck sat idling at the cotton 

gin with a dirty green tarp bunched up in a heap near the cabin of 

the truck. With no one in sight, Ted dived into the back of the 

truck and tunneled under the tarp.

“Thanks, Chip. Nice doing business with you,” said the farmer as 

he climbed into the truck and drove off.

12. 

After 10 minutes, the truck joggled off the road and came to a 

stop. Tod lay motionless in his hiding place. He could hear voices 

and car doors slamming nearby, engines running, and the smell 

of gasoline and car fumes wafted through the crack in his tarp 

hideaway. The front door of the truck squeaked open then 

slammed shut. Footsteps. 

Tod waited, then peeked out from under the canopy. The gas 

station and convenience store on the interstate. I’ve got to get 

further away! No sign of the driver. There. A moving van. Now if 

only… Tod slipped out of the truck and walked as casually as he 

could toward the vehicle. But when he was only a few feet away, 

the driver walked up, zipping his pants. Tod continued walking. 

The door to the store opened, and the cotton truck driver exited, 

walked to his truck, and drove away. Tod was stuck standing in 

the middle of the parking lot. He panicked and walked quickly to 

the side of the gas station, out of sight. 

People came and went while Tod remained transfixed, unable to 

budge from his hiding place. A distant siren set him into a panic. 

A car pulled up close by. A dog jumped out and ran toward him 

followed by a little kid. The dog stopped a few feet away from 

Tod and peed; the kid just stared at Tod, then grabbed the dog 

and returned to the car.

I killed him. Tod fretted. I killed him, and now they’re going to be 

looking for me. I can never go back. Then a reality hit him: he was 

penniless with nowhere to go. And his empty stomach was 

already crying for food. And poor Freddy - what’s to become of 

him? He’s ruined for life because of that, that monster. 

Just then, a car towing a turquoise and white travel trailer pulled 

up very close to where Tod was hiding. A family, two adults and a 

teenage daughter, exited the car and headed for the station’s 

door. The license plate indicated they were from Florida. Tod 

made a quick decision: if the trailer was unlocked, he was going 

to take his chance and get as far away as he could. 

He casually walked around the back of the trailer, then tried the 

door handle. Success. He hurried in and quickly closed the door 

behind him.

The camper had the standard arrangement of benches that no 

doubt folded out into a bed, a closet which probably contained 

the toilet, and a small kitchen area.

Tod searched the small space for a place to hide should 

someone enter before he was able to exit. Then, he heard the 

family returning. He froze. The daughter called out, “I just want to 

get my jacket, mom.”

There was no time to hide. The trailer door opened. The girl 

gasped. “Anything wrong, Chelsea?” her mom called out. Tod 

put his finger to his lips. “No. Just decided I don’t really need that 

jacket,” she said and closed the trailer door.

Has she gone to call the police? Do they have a gun? The car 

started up and slowly pulled away. After a few bumpy stops and 

turns, they were on the interstate.

Tod was starving. He looked in the little cabinet that served as a 

pantry. There were crackers and nuts. He picked up the jar of 

peanuts but then decided, no, that was stealing. Not that he had 

any idea of where his next food would come from. He also had to 

pee really badly. He steadied himself against the sides of the little 

trailer and opened the door to the tiny toilet. But just as was was 

starting to relieve himself, the car swerved. What an inconvenient 

time to pass on the freeway. 

The family drove on for hours, not stopping until they reached 

their destination, somewhere just inside the Florida border. By 

that time, it was dark.

Tod tried to squeeze himself into the toilet closet to hide, but the 

door would not fully close. He had already checked under the 

benches for a hiding place, but there was no room there either. 

The best he could do was pull a blanket from the edge of one of 

the benches and cover himself at the far end of the trailer.

Outside, doors slammed. The mom’s voice rang out, “Leave the 

clothes and all until tomorrow.”

Minutes later, the outside flood light came on. Tod dared not 

leave his hiding place. He kept an eye on the backyard through 

the trailer’s curtains. Members of the family moved around in the 

house. Every once in a while, the daughter stopped in front of the 

sliding door and looked out into the backyard. Meanwhile, Tod’s 

stomach was growling. 

Finally, the inside house lights went out; the floodlight remained 

on. Wait a few minutes to be safe. But before he could make his 

escape, the backdoor of the house opened. A shadow figure 

backlit by the floodlight approached heading directly for the 

trailer.

Tod shut the curtain, grabbed the blanket, and hunkered down as 

far back in the trailer as possible. The trailer door opened. “Psst. 

You still here?” the daughter whispered.

“Uh, yeah.”

“You hungry? I brought you a peanut butter sandwich. All I could 

put together.”

“Thanks, uh… yes.” Tod took the sandwich and took a bite. “But 

why are you helping me? You don’t…”

“You look harmless,” she said. “Anyway, I figure you’re running 

away - something I wish I had the guts to do.”

Tod sighed. “I am running away.” Tod stared through the dark at 

the young woman kneeling before him in the camper. “I killed 

someone.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well…” Tod proceeded to tell how Reverend Martins had 

molested young Freddy, and how he had kicked him in the nuts 

causing him to fall down the basement stairs.

“Damn! Good job! That asshole deserved it,” she said. “You 

should get a medal!” 

Tod was dumfounded. He stared at the face barely highlighted by 

the light filtering through the trailer’s curtain, but enough to tell 

she was pretty. “Chelsea, right?”

“Yeah.” She stared back at the stowaway sitting inches from her. 

“Did you check his pulse?”

“No. But he looked plenty dead.”

“Then you don’t really know if you killed him,” she shrugged. 

“Anyway, sorry I couldn’t put together some better food for you. 

So…. there’s a hunting cabin through the woods down this 

overgrown trail.” She pointed. “No one’s using it now - hunting 

season doesn’t start for another month. The keys are under the 

mat. You should stay there tonight and I’ll bring some food 

tomorrow.”

“Why are you doing this? You don’t know me.”

“Like I said, you look harmless - if a murderer can be called 

harmless,” she laughed. “Besides, you’re cute. Oh,” Chelsea 

reached into one of the trailer’s cabinet, “here’s a flashlight. But I 

wouldn’t turn it on until you’re into the woods a ways.”

She started to leave, then stopped. “Uh, and careful for 

rattlesnakes and alligators. OK, sleep tight.”

As Chelsea left Tod alone, he realized that, for the first time ever, 

he was very attracted to someone. Sure, he had noticed girls 

before, but this was different. And this girl - a pretty girl - had 

noticed him. 

But then reality struck: he was in Florida never having been more 

than sixty miles outside of Lowman, in a trailer, about to hide out 

in a snake and alligator-infested swamp after probably murdering 

a preacher. And he was thinking about a strange girl? Tod took a 

deep breath, gobbled the rest of his sandwich, and grabbed the 

flashlight.

He did as Chelsea directed and walked into the woods. But 

before he was able to turn on the flashlight, a hairy web 

entangled his face. Tod muffled a scream and dropped the 

flashlight as he scrambled backward. 

He fumbled around in the dark until he rescued the flashlight. 

Then, pointing the light in front of him, gray ghosts surrounded 

him, still, silent, and sinister. Tod had never encountered Spanish 

moss before, and the gray curly threads resembling an old man’s 

very long beard frightened him.

There was no turning back, not to the camper, not to Lowman. 

As Tod trekked on, he strained to see what lurked above and 

below him as no light filtered through the heavy canopy of trees, 

and the darkness of this alien landscape swallowed up the puny 

light of his tiny flashlight. 

The path turned down through a stand of brush. As he broke 

through into the clearing, flashlight blazing, a glowing pair of eyes 

greeted him. The alligator hissed and retreated into the pond only 

a few feet behind it. Tod stood shaking, momentarily paralyzed. 

Then looking around the small body of water he saw the outline 

of the tiny cabin.

The door was already unlocked, the cabin, empty and reeking of 

the musky smell of mold. Spiderwebs inhabited every corner, 

though as best he could tell, there were no spiders.

Tod was exhausted, but sleep wouldn’t come. Just hours before 

he had ridden into Lowman with Carlos to get the truck worked 

on, and now he was a fugitive many miles from home with no 

money, no home, no friends. 

“Good morning.”

Tod leaped up in the bed. A few feet away, a young woman with 

fiery redhead and piercing green eyes stood grinning.

“Brought you some breakfast, and the newspaper.” Chelsea was 

grinning.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. Well, a little while. Sorry I couldn’t manage a cup of 

coffee.” Chelsea brought over a small table. “Here you go.” She 

placed the plate of food on the table in front of him.

Tod slipped around to the edge of the bed and, after pushing the 

bacon aside, dived in. “Mmmm. Thank you.”

“Don’t you want to see the paper?”

“Not really.”

“You’re famous! You made it to the front page!”

Tod grabbed the paper and unfolded it. There on the front page, 

his picture with the caption, “Lowman boy kills beloved pastor.”

“Damn,” Tod whispered.

“I probably should have waited until you finished breakfast to 

show you that, huh?”

Tod pushed the food aside. “It was an accident. I was only trying 

to get him to stop, stop choking me.”

“He had it coming.” Chelsea pushed the food back in front of 

him. “Eat.”

Tod ignored the gesture and continued reading. 

Respected ex-Marine chaplain viciously murdered by deranged 

Lowman boy and church member. 

Reverend Timothy Martins, pastor of the Lowman Southern 

Methodist Church, was found dead in a pool of blood in the 

church basement. 

After a resident in a nearby house saw Stern run from the church, 

she ran over to investigate and found the preacher’s body. 

The 16-year-old boy is said to be emotionally unstable and 

confused. People should use caution if approached by him. 

If seen, please contact your local WACO Guard headquarters. 

“They’re down here, too?”

“Who?”

“WACO.”

“Oh yeah. The governor, preachers, police, even some teachers - 

they’re all in it.” 

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Tod panicked.

“If I were you, I’d let this die down a bit. Besides, as long as no 

one knows you’re here, what’s the danger?”

“You know I could get you and your family in trouble.”

“Who’s going to know?”

“Let me think about it.”

“I can sneak you food every day.”

“Aren’t you in school?”

“Hah! I was so smart I graduated early,” she laughed. “Naw, I’m 

homeschooled,” she air-quoted, “to avoid liberal influences. 

Liberal influences? In the Florida panhandle? “If I had the money, 

I’d get out of here. They’re kinda weird - my parents - especially 

my dad. Don’t know why anyone needs so many guns.”

Tod reached to the side of the bed and pulled the grimy yellow 

curtain back. The terrain was not as frightening in the light of day. 

Large cypress trees draped in Spanish moss surrounded the 

banks of the large pond. A gray heron stood elegantly in the 

water near the cabin as a hawk screamed kee-eeeee-arr from a 

nearby tree. 

“Listen,” said Chelsea, “I’d better get back. Mom’s up and wants 

to start the homeschool lessons. We’re studying American history 

today.” Chelsea rolled her eyes. “Why would I care about wars 

and a bunch of stodgy old white guys? Anyway, I’ll check on you 

a little later - that is if I don’t die from boredom. You really should 

eat your breakfast.” She turned to leave. “Want me to sneak you 

one of dad’s beers? He never notices.”

“No, that’s OK.” Tod silently took in the pretty redhead with his 

eyes. “Thanks, Chelsea,”

“You better be here when I come back,” she ordered and left.

Tod was left alone with his thoughts. Wanted for murder. How the 

hell - they’d never believe me if… But Freddy. Maybe they’d 

believe him if - if.

There had been no mention of Freddy in the newspaper article. 

Had he talked? Had WACO censored that part out of the article if 

he had?

As Tod pondered all this while absentmindedly consuming the 

eggs, the fork slipped from his hand. He was reaching for it on 

the floor when he noticed that all the nails had been removed 

from one of the particularly wide floor plankings, and one corner 

was chipped away. Hmmm…

He remembered discovering a stash of money Mr. Stern had 

hidden behind a loose board in the wall once. His curiosity 

overtook him. Tod crawled down from the bed to investigate.

He pried his fingers into the small space at the chipped corner of 

this nearly two-foot-wide board, but it wouldn’t budge. But using 

the handle of the fork, he was able to finagle the board so that he 

got his fingertips in the tiny space and forced the board up.

Indeed, there was a stash, but not money. A voluptuous scantily￾clad woman gazed seductively back at him from her hideaway. 

Playboys, Penthouses, Hustler, Swank - all promising carnal 

satisfaction. The sixteen-year-old was aroused.

Breasts, buttocks, curves, wet lips. Tod slipped into another 

world. Slipped, slid, tumbled, throbbed. Sixteen and he had 

never had a girlfriend. Never even kissed a girl.

13. 

A raucous din of buzzing cicadas and frogs calling filled the air 

that evening as the sun was starting to set.

Knock, knock.

“You still here?” Chelsea giggled as she walked in carrying a 

paper bag. “I brought you something to eat.”

With the magazines tucked safely under the mattress, Tod was 

happy to greet her. “That’s very nice of you, Chelsea.”

“And the way you avoided the bacon this morning, I figure you 

don’t like meat. So, two pimento cheese sandwiches and a 

surprise.” She pulled two cans of Old Milwaukee from the bag. 

“Now, I take it you don’t drink, but hell, I bet you never even tried 

one.” 

Tod smiled sheepishly and took the can. “Guess a little taste 

wouldn’t hurt anything.” He popped the top and took a sip. 

“Guess it’s an acquired taste,” he said and took a bigger gulp.

“There you go,” Chelsea joked and popped her own beer. 

“Whatcha been up to?” she asked casually.

“Ah, nothing, really. Just, you know, looked around the place, 

thought about what I should do with this murder thing. You 

believe me that it was in self-defense, don’t you?”

Chelsea just smiled and ignored the question. “You’re a virgin, 

aren’t you?”

“That’s a crazy question to ask me,” Tod spluttered.

“Thought so. Here. Got two more beers. Why don’t you chug that 

one.”

Edges were softening, long-held restrictions were fading into 

somewhere - not the present.

“Do you like me?” Chelsea asked. 

“Sure, I guess.”

The young temptress slid her jacket off, exposing a low-cut lacy 

top. Tod was already feeling buzzed from the one-and-a-half 

beers. So when Chelsea came close to him, he just stood and 

stared.

“You like what you see, Tod?” she asked, then grasped his hand 

and placed it on her breast.

“Chelsea!” a woman’s voice yelled from outside. “Chelsea! Time 

for Algebra!”

“Damn,” Chelsea sighed. “It’s my mom. To be continued?” she 

winked and left.

Tod was left holding his hand in the same position, caressing the 

air. He felt like a man, a real human being, or at least a well￾grounded teenage boy. He had tiptoed into the real world: still a 

virgin, but initiated at least.

He gobbled the two sandwiches and washed them down with the 

remaining Old Milwaukee. It was still light out, just barely. Tod 

walked out into a different world, a world of sound and 

movement and dancing light swirling around him. 

He was high. 

Tod followed his feet around the backwoods pond. Frogs 

serenaded him. An alligator hurried back into the water. Cicadas 

began their courting concert. Some of the Spanish moss hanging 

from cypresses in the pond was glowing orange in the setting 

sun.

Tod began to absentmindedly sing to himself: Love lifted me. 

When nothing else could help… He dodged the ferns and 

cypress roots lining the pond and stepped over fallen tree limbs. 

Occasionally, a rustling in the underbrush would draw his 

attention, but only momentarily. He felt fearless and a bit giddy.

Then, smoke just ahead in the waning light. A campfire? As Tod 

approached, an elderly Black man came into view. He sat stirring 

embers in his campfire, totally transfixed on the flames.

“Uh, hi,” Tod said as he ambled up. “Uh, I just, uh, was taking a 

walk and saw your fire.” The man did not respond. Tod looked 

around and spied a makeshift tent set back under trees “So, 

you’re camping here?” 

Without looking up, the man said “So, you’re a fox, eh?” 

“Sorry? Name’s Tod.” 

“Uh huh, means fox.”

“Oh.” 

The man finally looked up. His eyes were like deep-set jewels. “If 

you ate meat I’d offer you some of this Alligator.”

“How did you…?” But the man’s stare was arresting and the 

question remained stuck in his throat.

“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Running.”

Tod said nothing.

“Got lots of questions, haven’t you, boy.”

“Uhh,,,”

The old man took a bite of alligator from a stick hovering over the 

campfire. “Ever think that maybe the questions might be keeping 

you from seeing?”

Tod was silent. The man smiled while chomping on the meat. 

“Sure?” he asked, holding the alligator up to Tod, who just 

nodded. The old man chuckled as partially chewed meat dribbled 

from his mouth. Then his face turned solemn. “Listen, son. If 

you’re really clever like a fox, you’ll get out of here tonight.”

“But…?"

“Satan can transform himself into lots of things, including a 

seductive angel, you know. I’m just sayin’.” He returned to 

stirring the embers.

It was nearly pitch-black now, Tod realized as he looked around 

this very strange place. With his head spinning, he stumbled 

back to the little cabin and, after a few minutes, fell asleep.

14. 

A loud SNAP woke Tod.

He jumped up in bed, still fully clothed, and peered out from 

behind a curtain. But there were too many trees and too much 

undergrowth to make out what was going on.

He eased the window open just a bit and positioned his ear up to 

the opening. Several gruff-sounding male voices and one female 

were deliberating something in loud whispers. Tod panicked. 

There was movement in the brush. A burly man in a WACO 

uniform stepped into the clearing.

There was no time to run. Tod frantically searched the room for a 

place to hide. They would surely look under the bed. The 

cubbyhole under the floor! Tod ground his nails into the edge of 

the floor plank and pulled. Stuck. He heard the group walking up 

the steps to the cabin. He pulled again, nearly tearing his 

fingernails out. The board budged. He squeezed into the tight 

space between joists and flattened himself as best he could. The 

door creaked open as he pulled the plank over himself.

“There’s no one here,” a male voice announced.

“You can see he’s been here,” said another, pointing at the 

crumpled bed linen. “Look under the bed.”

The plank hiding Tod bent with the man’s heavy mass.

“No.”

“The bathroom?”

The other man flung the bathroom door open. “Nope, nothing.”

“You must have dogs,” a female voice chimed in. Chelsea!

“We do, but we’re not bringing them back in this swampy area. 

Snakes, gators. Out of the question.”

“Well,” Chelsea protested, “I still get the reward, right?”

One of the male voices scoffed in a low growl, “Right. Come on 

Jake, he’s long gone - if he was here.”

“Wait! Wait! I’m telling you, he was here. I saw the picture in the 

paper and on the news. I know it was him.”

“Tell you what, little lady, when you capture him, give us a call.” 

Both men chuckled then left.

“Goddamn it,” Chelsea groaned to herself. “That was my ticket 

out of here. Sonofabitch.”

Tod was devastated. So much that he momentarily forgot about 

the spiders and roaches crawling over him in his dank hideaway. 

I can’t trust anyone! Then he remembered the old man at the 

campfire. He warned me. He told me to leave!

Tod waited a few minutes more before leaving his refuge under 

the floor. When he did venture out, the room was empty, and the 

only sound was a lone pileated woodpecker. He peaked out the 

window and saw no one. He walked to the door and slowly 

turned the handle; the door was locked. He cautiously turned the 

lock and peered outside. No one.

With no other obvious options for escape, Tod determined to 

take out into the woods by the pond. Perhaps the old man he 

met the night before would help him.

But when Tod made his way around the pond, there was no sign 

of the old man or his campfire, or the tent. Nothing. Now what? 

No money. No food. No means of transportation. And I’m wanted 

for murder.

15.

It took Tod two days to wind himself out of the snake-infested 

woods to a clearing, and a backroad.

He walked along the road, tired and hungry, not knowing where 

he was going. He avoided showing his face to passing cars, 

afraid of being recognized.

Then, mid-morning, a Volkswagen van slowed and stopped. A 

young blond-haired woman wearing a red headband stuck her 

head out of the font passenger window and asked, “Need a lift?” 

Others in the back of the van waved. 

Tod had never seen a hippy before, but he was sure these were. 

Still, he hesitated; it was risky. He didn’t know these people. And 

what if they recognized him and turned him in for drug money? 

But what options did he have? Besides, they didn’t look at all like 

WACO sympathizers.

“Thanks,” he said and stepped into the back of the crowded van. 

Guys and girls patted him on the back and welcomed him in. The 

skunky smell of pot filled the space. “One of the young women 

smiled at him and said, “Hi, I’m Rainbow. Care for a toke?” Of 

course, Tod had never smoked pot before, having only had his 

first beer the previous day. But what the hell - “Sure.”

Maybe he was trying to fit in, to not draw attention to himself. 

Nevertheless, he took one toke then coughed like crazy.

The van occupants laughed - not at him - just laughed. Then one 

by one they introduced themselves. Meanwhile, Tod felt his head 

disappearing. 

“And you!” said one of the occupants. “You need a freak name!”

“Yes!” “Yes!” The group went through a lively discussion of 

appropriate names for the boy they had just met. “ How about 

Leaf, ‘cause he’s young and, I don’t know, maybe he blows in the 

wind?” “What about Sage?” “No, he’s too young.” “Quest? 

Because we found him on the road?” “I’ve got it!” said the girl 

who had offered him the joint, “Buzz! ‘Cause look at him, look 

how high he got from one toke!” 

“Yes!” “That’s it!”

Tod - “Buzz” - grinned, enjoying all the attention of this whacky 

group.

“Why don’t you come to our place?” Rainbow asked.

“Where’s that?”

One of the long-haired guys answered, “Not far from here. We 

have a, I guess you’d call it a commune. All are welcome.”

“I’d really like to,” Tod answered. “But I think you ought to know 

who I am, why I’m here.”

“We know,” the driver replied. “We just wanted you to feel 

comfortable. But don’t worry, any refugee from the WACO goons 

is welcome here.”

“Besides,” another chimed in, “no one in their right mind could 

believe for a second that a boy like you could overcome, let 

alone kill, an ex-Marine.”

After puzzling over that last comment, Tod decided to take it as 

supportive.

“You look famished, Buzz. Here, have something to eat.”

Tod stared out the window of the VW van as he devoured the 

peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watched the world and the 

road signs go by. One sign indicating an exit alerted him that he 

was now In Alabama. The road and surrounding land was flat 

with only a few dwellings dotting the landscape. But there was 

no scarcity of billboards. Billboards like White Christians for a 

Better Tomorrow; Be a Man - Join the New Klan; WACO for 

America!; Rid the Scourge: Turn in a Traitor; and of course, the 

ever-present Jesus Saves! 

The bus then turned onto a bumpy dirt road that clearly had not 

been properly maintained. Dilapidated barns, rundown houses, 

trailers, and open pastures were strewn along both sides of this 

tucked-away dusty byway. A dog limped along beside the road. 

A few scraggly cows grazed in the open fields.

“Almost there,” Rainbow announced.

The road dead-ended in a large circular patch of dirt lined with 

several unpainted wooden structures, the central one being 

larger and topped with what appeared to be a steeple, though if 

it once had a cross, it had long broken off.

“Welcome to the Camp,” the driver announced.

As he turned off the van, a woman appearing to be in her sixties 

approached wearing a long floral maxi dress and beads. 

“Welcome back,” she said. “And welcome, brother,” she gushed, 

gesturing to Tod.

“This is Buzz, Father Ellen,” Rainbow announced. “We met him 

on the road.”

“Very fine,” she said. “You are most welcome at the Camp.”

Several of the group from the van carried out a few bags and 

several gallon jugs of what appeared to be milk.

“We had a good harvest,” said one of the males. “Enough 

mushrooms to trade for milk, and plenty left over for us.”

“Excellent!” Father Ellen exclaimed.

The driver turned to Tod and said, “My name’s Wolf, brother. 

Come with me and I’ll show where you can crash.”

As they walked, Tod noticed all sorts of people milling around, 

some tending gardens, some repairing buildings - Blacks, 

Hispanics, Whites, people of all ages, all sorts. “Father Ellen 

started all this.” Wolf gestured. “She was born near here, lived 

here all her life.”

“Why do you call her father?” asked Tod.

“Why not?” Wolf chuckled. “Well, she’s sort of our spiritual guide, 

not to mention an ordained minister, too.”

“Really? What church?” Tod asked.

“No church,” Wolf laughed. “She was ordained through the mail. 

Mostly so she could marry people.”

Wolf recounted how Father Ellen bought the old property that 

had been used for Methodist revival meetings. “They called the 

revivals ‘camp meetings’. That’s why we call it the Camp. Now, 

it’s a refuge for social outcasts and the abused.

“She salvaged what buildings she could. The larger one over 

there is the Center where we gather as a group to eat and 

whatever.” 

Just then, a little Black boy ran up. “Wolf, Wolf, look!” he 

shouted, holding out his hand. “It’s a monarch!”

“It’s beautiful, Trey. Beautiful. Trey, this is Buzz.”

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Very nice to meet you, Trey. Pretty butterfly.”

“Thanks,” Trey answered and ran off.

Wolf turned to Tod. “His father was lynched. Tried to protect his 

wife from a white gang raping her and they lynched him.” Wolf 

shook his head. “Trey’s mom, Marci, is here, too.”

“God help me. God help me. God help me,“ mumbled a hunched 

over elderly man crossing in front of them. “God help me. God 

help me…”

“That’s Jonas,” said Wolf. “Once was a Bible-thumping, hellfire 

preacher ’til one day, he just lost it. Only thing that sees to help is 

mushrooms. Guess he forgot to take his microdose today.” 

“Mushrooms?”

“Magic mushrooms, like we harvested today. OK, here’s your 

cabin. There’s a spare cot. Why don’t you go in and rest. If you 

get hungry, come up to the Center and we’ll rustle you up a bite 

to eat.”

Tod walked up to the cabin which was more like a barn with 

roughhewn unpainted wood, pitched roof, and wavy glass in the 

windows. He stepped through the open door.

“Hello. Who do we have here?” asked a voice sitting in the small 

room.

Tod approached the middle age man. “They’re calling me Buzz.”

“I’m Bob. Just Bob. So, where you from?”

“A little town you never heard, Lowman, South Carolina.”

“Lowman? I just read an article about a poor kid that drowned 

there. It’s in the paper today.” Bob grabbed the paper from the 

little table next to him and flipped through it. “Here you go.” Bob 

read from the paper. “Young boy from Lowman, South Carolina 

found drowned in Cow Castle Creek.” 

“No!” Tod gasped.

Bob continued, “Norwood Backman was found alone and lifeless 

in the creek. It has been determined that the cause of death was 

drowning.”

Tod cried uncontrollably. “They killed him! The bastards killed 

him!”

“Who?” Bob asked.

“The damn WACO Nazis!”

Bob walked over to Tod and embraced him. “He was a friend of 

yours?”

“My only friend. I tell you, they killed him. There’s never enough 

water in that creek to drown anybody. They killed him because he 

was mixed race. Hypocritical bastards!”

Tod curled up on the cot for the rest of the day, ignoring his 

nagging stomach, and brooded over his friend and the state of 

the world. 

A metallic clanging roused him later. “Time to eat, Buzz,” Bob 

announced. “That’s our dinner bell.”

The old man Jonas was already present and smiling, evidently 

having gotten his daily dose of mushrooms. About twenty people 

were sitting around two long wooden tables set up in the middle 

of the Center. To each side were easels with paintings in 

progress. And while the group served themselves family style - all 

vegetarian - a young woman strummed guitar.

Tod tried his best to smile and fit in, but the death of his friend 

Woody was weighing heavily on him. Then Trey and his mom 

walked up to the two empty seats to his right.

“Hi, Trey. Miss Marci. I’m Buzz.”

Marci smiled back; Trey turned nervously to his mother. She put 

her arm around him and guided him to the chair. “It’s OK, dear,” 

she whispered.

Meanwhile, Bob, who was sitting to Tod’s left, tapped him on the 

shoulder. “Dig in. Don’t let the food get cold.”

“Thanks.”

“We grow most of what we eat,” Bob continued. “What we don’t, 

we buy with the help of our worker bees, our brother and sister 

carpenters and mechanics. They work in some of the nearby 

towns. Everybody pitches in.”

“I know a thing or two about farming,” Tod piped up. “I could 

help with that.”

“A little late in the season for farming.” Bob smiled. “But maybe 

we can find something else for you to do around here.”

“Great,” Tod smiled, relieved to get his mind off Woody. He filled 

his plate with mashed potatoes and fall vegetables, then turned 

to young Trey. “So. Trey, do you know the best time to go to the 

dentist?” 

The boy scowled. “I’ve heard that one.” 

“OK, then, what did the duck say after it bought chapstick?” No 

response.“Put it on my bill!” Trey rolled his eyes. “How about,” 

Tod continued.

“Why did white guys kill my father?” Trey countered. Tod became 

quiet. “Look,” Trey sighed, “I know what you’re trying to do. I’m 

just not in the mood.”

Trey’s mother leaned over and explained, “It is the anniversary of 

his father’s death.”

“I am so sorry. Please forgive me, Trey. I didn’t know.”

The young boy nodded silently and turned back to his empty 

plate.

“So, Buzz,” a baritone voice cut through the tension, “how are 

you finding it here at the Camp?”

“Hi, Wolf. Uh, great. Listen, I’m worried that I might be a problem 

for all of you, seeing that I’m wanted by the law, and all. Maybe I 

should move on.”

“Nonsense. We’re here for you. Besides, no one believes you 

intentionally killed anybody.”

Tod prayed that night for the first time in weeks. He prayed for 

Woody’s parents, that they could find peace. He slept well.

The next morning at breakfast, a woman he had never seen 

before showed up at the Camp. She was conservatively dressed, 

and probably in her sixties.

“Well look what the wind blew in,” Father Ellen joked. “Good 

morning, Judith. Sit with us and eat.”

“Can’t. Just came in to say hello.” As she spoke, she scanned all 

who were seated having breakfast. Her eyes locked on Tod. 

“New freeloader?”

“Judith, now how on earth did we ever come from the same 

parents?” Father Ellen chuckled. “He’s just passing through. Nice 

kid.”

Tod felt cold under the woman’s stare but kept eating. After a 

while, Judith left.

Bob leaned over. “She’s a bitch. Hypocritical, sadistic, an ultra￾religious troublemaker.”

The eggs and grits were too good to let this agitation get in the 

way. Tod had seconds.

The rest of the day, Tod helped weed what was left in the garden 

and collected eggs from the hen house. Trey showed him the 

ropes like how to gather eggs without disturbing the hens, and 

how to distinguish weeds from the remaining radish plants. They 

sat together that night for supper as friends.

16. 

“WAKE UP!”

“Wh-at?”

“Get up quick. WACO goons are here!”

It was still pitch-black, Tod shook the cobwebs from his head as 

best he could and jumped up.

“Put on your clothes,” Bob ordered. “We’ve got to get you out of 

here.”

Gruff male voices outside. “Where is he? We know you’re 

harboring a murderer! Where is he?!”

In a calm voice, Father Ellen, answered, “What on earth are you 

talking about? Won’t you dear men come in for a cup of tea? It’s 

so chilly out…”

“Stop the crap, lady. Turn over the kid or we’ll turn this place 

upside down!”

“Come on,” Bob insisted. “There’s some woods out back. Go 

hide until this blows over. This way!”

Bob led him to the back door, then cracked it open and surveyed 

the back area. “I think it’s clear. Run!”

Tod bolted into the dark not daring to look anywhere but straight 

ahead. As he reached the edge of the forest, he heard the WACO 

commander shout,“Positions, men!” Dozens of men scrambled 

through the crunching autumn leaves, snorting like excited dogs 

on too tight leashes.

“Come out with your hands up, Tod Stern!” shouted the WACO 

commander. “All niggers, communists, and Jews, too!” 

Maybe a half minute went by with no movement from the cabin. 

“OK, men,” shouted the commander, “torch the place!”

On cue, the mob of WACO guards lit their torches and set every 

structure on fire. The structures were immediately ablaze. 

Commune residents rushed out with their hands up, silhouettes 

against the burning inferno.

There was a rustling in the underbrush next to Tod. “What’s 

happening?” a shrill voice cried out. 

Tod grabbed Trey by the arm. “You need to stay here and be very 

quiet,” he whispered to the shivering child.

“But my mom. She said she was coming right behind me.”

“Shhhhh.”

From the compound, “There’s one. There’s a nigger!” Blam, blam, 

blam. “There’s another,” a different voice cried out. More 

gunshots. “And that one, a longhaired hippy communist!” 

Tod squeezed his arms around Trey’s ears to shut out the sound 

as best he could while the blaze of the burning former revival site 

illuminated the flashes of blood against the black night.

Within less than an hour, the entire encampment was reduced to 

heaps of embers. Bodies lay strewn around in the rising sun. The 

guards were poking through the detritus as if looking for 

something.

Some of the WACO guards were now fanning out through the 

property, some heading toward the woods where Tod and Trey 

were hiding.

“Listen to me carefully, Trey. We have to leave here. Now! If you 

need, I’ll carry you. But we need to get away from here.”

“But what about momma?”

“We’ll try to find her - later. But now, I know she would want you 

to run and hide.” Tod grabbed his hand and ran back into the 

dark woods.

It was probably midmorning when the two boys, out of breath 

and tired, stopped to rest. Trey was silent and solemn. Tod was 

wallowing in guilt: if he had not been at the Camp, none of this 

would have happened.

But he couldn’t dwell on this now; he had the boy to care for. He 

had to keep Trey focused on surviving. And with no money and 

no plan or friends, just surviving was going to be really tough.

“I’m hungry,” Trey sniffled. 

“Maybe if we continue through these woods we’ll come across a 

nice person who will feed us. Maybe they’ll spread out a feast for 

us. You know?”

Trey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.” He stood up, removed his 

jacket, and flung it on the ground. “We’re going to die out here,” 

he said. “And if we don’t die in the woods, the white devils will 

get me anyway. They’ll leave you alone. You’re white!” 

Tod didn’t feel the time right to tell him that he was being hunted 

by the White American Christian Association. “Come on, Trey. 

Grab your jacket and let’s keep going.”

Trey sighed heavily and grabbed his jacket. And when he did, a 

folded paper fell out of one of the pockets. He picked it up and 

unfolded it. “Its a note from my mom, and some money.” He 

started crying again.

“What did she say, Trey?”

The boy choked back sobs, then read:

My dear son, 

When you read this, I hope you are safe and far away. You are the 

world to me, but I’m sorry to have brought you into such a 

horrible one. Please find someone to help you get to your Aunt 

Jesse in New Jersey. The address is below. I will meet you there if 

I am able. Enclosed is the last of the money I have. 

Be safe. I love you. 

Mom 

Trey handed the tearstained letter and money to Tod, then 

snuggled close to him. “We’ve got to be strong, Trey. I promise, 

I’ll do my best to get you safe to your auntie’s house.” Tod 

rocked the boy in his arms. “Let’s pray your mom meets us there 

soon.”

“What if she’s dead?” he sobbed.

“We don’t know that. But now, we have to follow your mom’s 

wishes. OK?”

Tod pocketed the note and the $100 bill for safekeeping. 

They trekked through the woods, not knowing where they were 

or what lay ahead. Both were hungry and thirsty but said nothing 

of it.

The light was dimming when they reached the edge of the woods 

and came upon a country road devoid of traffic and road signs. 

The two went right, walking along the shoulder. After about a 

mile, they came upon a gas station. 

“Stay here,” Tod instructed. “I’ll see what they have to eat. Must 

have crackers, peanuts, sodas for sure.”

Trey waited out of sight while Tod entered.

“Hey kid,” said the old guy behind the counter. “What the hell are 

you doing way out here all by yourself?”

“Sir. Just getting some, uh, snacks.”

The clerk kept a close eye on him while he gathered crackers and 

peanuts an a couple of sodas.

“That’s a big snack for one kid,” the man said. “That’ll be five 

dollars and twenty-five cents.” Tod pulled out the $100 bill. The 

old guy scrunched his forehead as he scrutinized Tod and the 

large bill. “Where did you steal this from, boy?”

“I didn’t steal it, sir.”

“I don’t believe you. And you better not be thinking about ripping 

me off.” The man grabbed the merchandise and put it under the 

counter. “You just wait right here.” The man reached for the 

phone and started dialing.

Tod dashed out the door and grabbed Trey waiting out of sight. 

“Come on,” he shouted, “let’s get out of here!”

They ran to the woods behind the gas station, avoiding the road. 

Still hungry, still thirsty, Tod dared not stop. 

As they followed the road from a safe distance just inside the 

trees, several police and WACO Guard cars sped by on the 

otherwise quiet road. A little further on, several police cars 

formed a roadblock. Tod said nothing but shivered silently.

Trudging on, they came upon a dirt road cutting through the 

trees. With night coming on and no other options, they followed it 

back into the woods.

At first, the humble wooden house looked as though it was 

abandoned. Not that it was rundown, but there was little sign of 

life. The two boys walked up to the front door. Tod knocked. No 

response. He knocked several more times with no response. 

“Let’s go look in the back,” Tod suggested. 

As they rounded the back of the house, a Black woman was 

taking clothes off a clothesline. Tod took Trey by the hand and 

approached the woman. On seeing the two, her forehead 

furrowed, her head cocked. “And just who do we have here?” 

she quizzed.

“Ma’am, my name is Tod, and this here is Trey. We’re really 

hungry and just wondered if you might have a little something to 

eat. Ma’am.”

The woman stared back. “And just what are you two doing out 

here in the woods?”

“We’re just, uh, taking a walk, and…”

“I’ve seen your face before. On the TV this morning, in fact. 

You’re that boy they said killed a preacher.”

“Yes’m. But I swear it was in self defense. He, he…” Tod began 

to weep tears that had no doubt been damming up for weeks. 

“He was a very bad man, ma’am. A very bad man.”

The woman stood sizing up Tod. “Did he hurt you?” she asked.

“Not me, but a little boy from our church. I caught him, and…” 

Tod choked up, “he tried to strangle me.”

“Mmm mmm. And a preacher at that. White preacher, no doubt.”

“Yes’m.”

“So, y’all tell me, would you happen to be coming from that old 

camp meeting spot? I heard about a ruckus there from some 

neighbors, but haven’t seen anything on the news about it.”

Trey jumped in. “These white guys burned the place down. And 

they were shooting guns.” He started to cry. “My momma sent 

me into the woods and I haven’t seen her since.”

Mrs. Williams shook her head and sighed. “Just let me get the 

rest of these clothes in and I’ll rustle you up something to eat.”

Tod held the basket as Mrs. Williams filled it with the remaining 

clothes.

The interior of the house was simple and clean. African-inspired 

art spruced up the small living room. Photos lined the wooden 

end table. Several of the pictures were of men in military 

uniforms standing next to airplanes. Mrs. Williams eyed Tod 

staring at the photos.

“That one there is Mr. Williams when he was in the service. Mmm 

mmm. He was sure good-looking. And that one, that was our 

son, Henry.” That’s all she said, then walked into the kitchen. “Mr. 

Williams will be home soon. Y’all go wash up right over there. 

These cheese sandwiches should hold you over until supper.”

“Does that mean you’re not sending us on?”

“Now, how can I, a good Christian woman, send two hungry kids 

out into the dark? Now go, go wash up.” She placed the 

sandwiches and glasses of milk on the table and when the boys 

returned, bowed her head. “Thank you, Lord Jesus, for this food. 

Amen. Now, eat.”

Just as the boys were finishing their snacks, a rough sounding 

truck drove up the driveway. Tod flinched.

“There’s Mr. Williams now.” 

Mrs. Williams picked up the plates and returned them to the 

kitchen. As she entered the kitchen, the back door opened, and a 

low baritone voice crooned, “Embrace me, my sweet 

embraceable you.”

“We have guests, Harold.”

“Hello, there. And who are you good looking kids?”

“I’m Tod Stern, sir. This is Trey.”

“So how did you end up in our neck of the woods, Tod? Trey?”

“Sit, Harold, and I’ll tell you,” Mrs. Williams called from the 

kitchen.

And she did, including the part about Tod being wanted for 

murder.

“You don’t strike as the murdering kind, young man,” said Mr. 

Williams.

“No, sir. I would never do that.”

“But why did you run?”

“Nobody would have believed me, Mr. Williams. He was a 

preacher and a former Marine, and I was, well, everyone thought 

I was weird.” Mr. Williams just nodded. “And,” Tod continued, “he 

was an member of that WACO group.”

“Say no more, son. That’s one group you want to stay clear of. 

You got any place to go to?”

“No, sir.”

“Then maybe you’ll just have to hide out here for a while, just 

until we can figure things out. How does that sound, Maggie?”

 “I think we could manage that,” said Mrs. Williams. “Maybe you 

boys could help me with some chores?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Trey,” said Mr. Williams, “I’ll see what I can find out about 

your mother. So, what about some supper, Maggie?”

“These two might be full from just eating sandwiches.”

“Oh, I bet they could find some room for one of your good home 

cooked meals.”

Mrs. Williams served up the sweet potatoes, green beans, 

cornbread, and fried chicken. Tod politely passed on the chicken. 

“My husband works two jobs, sunup to sundown,” said Mrs. 

Williams. “Mmm mmm. He’s a short-order cook at the diner 

down the road until about 2:00, then flies a crop-duster in the 

afternoons.”

“You can fly?!” Trey asked.

“Yes, sir. But not much crop-dusting left to do, now that it’s fall 

and all. Mostly just laying down cover crop seeds for the 

offseason. I learned to fly way back when I was in the service. 

The Tuskegee Airmen, that’s what they called us.”

“We saw your picture in the uniform,” said Tod. 

“What about your boy?” asked Trey.

“My son, our son Jacob, died in Vietnam.” Mr. Williams shook his 

head. “We tried to talk him out of signing up, told him we had no 

business in that war, but he did it anyway. Then they sent him 

and a bunch of his Black buddies to the front line. None of ‘em - 

not a single one of that group made it back.”

“Eat up, boys,” Mrs. Williams urged. “There’s dessert, too.” 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Williams, Mrs. Williams.” Tod shook his head. 

“It just isn’t right.” 

“Humph,” Mrs. Williams mumbled under her breath, “when Mr. 

Williams and the other Black pilots returned, they were treated 

worse than the German prisoners of war. Mmm mmm.”

Mr. Williams slowly shook his head. “No, our son wasn’t treated 

fairly, Tod.” Mr. Williams squirmed in his chair. “So, Trey, tell me 

about yourself.” Trey just shrugged. “What do you like to do? 

Play ball? Climb trees? Ride bikes?”

Trey scrunched his face. “I like to read and draw.”

“Nice. We’ll get you some paper and pencil after we eat ice 

cream.”

Trey’s eyes lit up. It was the first time he had smiled since leaving 

the Camp.

After dessert, Tod helped Mrs. Williams with the dishes, and Mr. 

Williams brought out a pad of paper and several pencils. “Here 

you go, son. Why don’t you take this over to that desk over 

there? That used to be Jacob’s. Maybe tomorrow we can find 

you something to read. OK?” Trey took the paper and pencils 

over to the small wooden desk and began to draw. 

Mrs. Williams brought out bedsheets and made up the pullout 

couch. “You two will have to share this bed. It’s all we’ve got. I’ll 

leave a light on in the kitchen so you can find your way around.”

The next morning, the boys still asleep, the Williams quietly had 

coffee and eggs. “Guess I better get going,” Mr. Williams said. “If 

I have time, I’ll run by the old camp meeting place after the diner 

and see what I can find out.”

“Sounds good.”

“But first, let’s see what our little guest drew.”

Mr. Williams tiptoed over to the desk and gazed at the pages and 

pages of drawings. He silently shook his head, then walked back 

to the kitchen table. 

“This kid’s in trouble, Maggie. Look at these: guns, buildings on 

fire, and this - looks like a boy crying, and I bet that’s his mom 

and dad lying on the ground.”

“Mmmm mmm. Sad. Sad. Sad.. This boy needs some love.”

“Yes he does, momma. I sure hope there’s some good news from 

the camp meeting grounds.”

Mrs. Williams made no mention of the drawings when the boys 

got up. After breakfast, Tod and Trey raked leaves for much of 

the morning. When Mr. Willians returned that evening, they were 

out back playing ball in the back yard.

“Welcome home, hon. Come sit down.”

“Well, Maggie, I went by the old camp meeting site; it’s all ashes. 

Nothing left but ashes. Then I dropped by the police station to 

inquire, and they told me there was nothing to know and to mind 

my own business. They’re covering this up, Maggie. They say 

they don’t know anything about a Negro woman or anybody else. 

Then, the chief escorted me out and told me not to cause 

trouble. Can you believe that?”

“They killed her?” a small voice quivered from the back door. 

“They killed her, didn’t they?” Trey asked again.

17. 

Trey was inconsolable. Alone. No mother or father. Lost. But lost 

among others who knew loss. The Williamses lived with a hole 

that seemed bottomless having lost their only child in a pointless 

war. Tod lost a family he never knew and the only friends he ever 

had - Woody and his pet sheep. But a six-year-old, alone in the 

world, how was he to cope?

For the next two days, Trey said nothing. He wasn’t interested in 

any of the books Mrs. Williams offered him. He only ate tiny 

portions, and only because Mrs. Williams insisted. Tod tried his 

best to comfort his friend, but Trey just turned away and inward. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Williams would sit silently next to Trey, stroking 

his hair, even checking on him in the middle of the night.

On the third day after learning of his mom’s fate, Trey entered the 

kitchen while the Williamses were having their morning coffee 

and hugged Mr. Williams, then climbed back into bed.

That same day, he began drawing again: birds flying, a whale 

leaping into the air. But perhaps the most revealing drawing was 

of two figures holding hands on a puffy cloud. Underneath the 

drawing, the words “mom and dad.” Still, he said practically 

nothing.

That night at supper, Trey announced over sniffles, “I want you to 

take me to see, Mom and Dad, Mr, Williams.”

Mr. Williams put down his fork. 

“What do you mean, Trey?”

“I want you to fly me up to Heaven.”

“Son, I can’t fly that high. But,” Mr. Williams continued, “I could 

get you closer.” The boy’s eyes opened wider. “I’ve got a bit of 

seed left over I could drop on the Whetsell farm. Tell you what, 

tomorrow’s my day off. I’ll take you up.” 

“Can I go, too?” Tod begged.

“I really wish you could, but it’s too dangerous for you to be seen 

in public. Besides, the roadblocks are still up.”

“I understand.”

“Now Trey, people would just think he’s my grandson. Besides,” 

Mr. Williams chuckled, “we all look the same to white folks”.

“Well, I wish you could drop bombs on every one of those WACO 

creeps while you’re up there,” Tod blurted.

“I hear you, son. I hear you.”

“Lordy, Lordy,” Mrs. Williams exclaimed. “Ain’t gonna be no more 

talk of killing around here!” She adjusted her smock. “But, if there 

ever was anybody that needed it, it’s those jackasses. Forgive 

me, Jesus. Now look what you’ve done; you’ve got me talking 

nonsense!”

The next day, Trey was up and dressed and sitting at the table 

when Mr. and Mrs. Williams walked in for breakfast. Outside, it 

was raining, but inside was filled with the warmth of caring 

people. Trey sat quietly, drinking a glass of milk, his eyes 

sparkling.

“Now, I just want you to know,” said Mr. Williams, “if the weather 

doesn’t clear up, we might not be able to take off today.”

Trey nodded.

Mr. Williams and Trey left right after breakfast. It was still raining 

as they drove toward the regional airport. A Sunday morning, 

there was no traffic on this backcountry road. 

Trey sat quietly next to Mr. Williams in his old truck. Mr. Williams 

broke the silence. “So, I guess you’ve never flown before, right?” 

Trey nodded. “Well, looks like the rain is lightening up. That’s 

good.”

“Will we be able to see Heaven if it’s cloudy, Mr. Williams?”

“We shall see.”

A few miles out, a roadblock. “Trey, I need you to be very quiet. 

Don’t say anything unless I tell you to. OK?”

“Yes, Mr. Williams.”

Mr. Williams slowed to a stop and rolled his window down.

“Seen you around here before,” said the officer. “Shouldn’t you 

be in church?”

“Yes, sir. See, sir, my grandson and I are going to see his mother, 

my daughter, in the hospital over in Mobile. She’s having trouble 

with…”

“I don’t care about your daughter or the kid’s mother.” The officer 

walked around the car looking through the windows, then 

motioned him on.

Mr. Williams scanned the sky as they pulled away. “Yes, might be 

a good day for flying.”

After turning down a gravel road, they arrived at the small 

regional airport. It consisted of several tin sheds, a gas pump, 

and a short blacktop runway. 

“This is it. This is where it all happens,” Mr. Williams announced. 

“Now this hangar is where my baby is.” Mr. Williams pulled over 

to the rusty tin doorless shed and parked. “Come on, Trey. Let’s 

get this show off the ground.” They walked over to the plane. 

“This is Amelia,” he gloated.

Trey looked on at the two-seater, World War Two salvaged 

recommissioned single-engine craft and replied, “Like Amelia 

Earhart?”

“Yes. You are a smart boy.”

“But didn’t she crash?”

“But did she?” Mr. Williams smiled. “Come on, she’s all gassed 

up.”

Mr. Williams helped the slight boy into the back seat and 

strapped him in. “Are you ready?” Trey nodded yes. “OK.”

Mr. Williams climbed into the front compartment and buckled in. 

It took several tries, but finally the old engine coughed awake. 

They taxied out onto the asphalt stretch that served as a runway. 

The rain had stopped but the clouds were less cooperative. With 

no other planes in sight, Mr. Williams gunned the engine lurching 

the small plane forward.

Little Trey bounced around in his seat, holding on for dear life. 

The stand of trees at the end of the runway were rushing toward 

them when the engine sputtered loudly. Then at the last minute, 

the plane and its passengers were airborne.

Trey released his breath and, gradually, his grip on the seat. The 

air whistled by as they flew over forests, country roads, and 

empty fields. Trey’s fear turned into elation. He held his hands 

high into the wind. Then, the plane turned sharply to the right. Mr. 

Williams gestured to a furrowed field below. Within moments, he 

swooped down to just a few feet above the ground and let loose 

the seeds. Trey whooped though only he could hear it. Then, at 

the end of the field, Mr. Williams took the plane into a steep 

climb. Trey lost his breath and his palms began to sweat. If he 

had ever had the chance to ride a roller coaster, he might have 

known the feeling. No control. A hostage of the situation.

The plane banked left and leveled out. No longer clutching his 

seat, the young boy leaned his head over the side. More trees 

and pastures, a few houses, a pond, all cast in blue-grey light, 

then, without warning, piles of charred wood splayed about in a 

pattern. The Camp.

As he stared at the detritus, his eyes watered, he trembled. But 

through his tears, a focus of light crossed over the otherwise 

cloud darkened landscape. Trey wiped his eyes and followed the 

glow to its source: rays of golden light thrust through a tear in the 

clouds. He was transfixed. This was the sign that he yearned for, 

an assurance of his parents’ presence.

Trey talked nonstop on the way back. “I saw Heaven! I saw 

Heaven! Did you see it, Mr. Williams?”

“I believe I did.”

“When’s the first time you saw Heaven?”

“Well, I’d have to say it was when I first met Maggie, Mrs. 

Williams.”

“Was she flying in the airplane with you?”

“No. But I guess I felt like I was flying.”

Trey looked puzzled but kept on. “Tell me another time, Mr. 

Williams.”

“Well, I suppose I did see Heaven today reflected in your face.”

Trey just smiled and watched the Alabama autumn foliage pass 

by, “I want to learn to fly,” he exclaimed. “Would you teach me to 

fly?”

“You’re a little too young I’m afraid.”

“How about when I’m older? Please?”

“I’d like nothing more, but remember, we have to get you to your 

auntie in New Jersey. I’ve sent a letter to her. That’s what your 

mom wanted.”

“But I never even met her, Mr. Williams. Besides, I’ve never been 

up there in New Jersey. Uh oh.” Trey pointed at the roadblock as 

they rounded a curve.

“Just stay calm, son.”

The officer walked over to the driver’s side and peered in. “I 

remember you. You were going to Mobile, weren’tcha? There’s 

no way you went there and back already. Get out the car, boy.” 

Trey made a move for the door handle; Mr. Williams signaled for 

him to stay put.

“What are you really up to on a Sunday when you ought to be in 

church? No good, I reckon. You trafficin’ in drugs? Get out the 

truck and spread ‘em.”

Mr. Williams did as he was told and leaned against the truck 

while the goon roughly patted him down. 

“What’s in the back?”

“Take a look…”

The officer slapped him hard against his face. “Don’t you get 

sassy with me, boy. I’m out here doin’ the Lord’s work and I don’t 

need no nigga sassin’ me.”

After a few more minutes, the officer let them pass. Trey was now 

sullen and quiet.

Mr. Williams finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry you had to see 

that, Trey.”

“Why are you sorry? That asshole should be.”

Mr. Williams just smiled. “Yes, but, I don’t want you to lose that 

feeling of love you just had in the plane.”

“I loved my dad and they killed him. I loved my mom and they 

killed her! Love just makes you sad!”

“Love’s the only thing that makes life worth living, son. I love you. 

Mrs. Williams does, too. I’m sure your auntie in New Jersey does 

too.”

Trey started to cry. “Please don’t send me away.”

18. 

Several days later, a letter arrived, a returned letter from New 

Jersey marked: Deceased. Return to Sender.

Mrs. Williams looked at her husband. “Now what do we do?” She 

watched his expression and shook her head. “I know that look.” 

Then smiled. “Not like we got a lot of money, you know.”

“No. But we’ve got a lot of love.”

“Yes, that’s true. And what about Tod? What’s to become of him? 

His guardians must be in a tizzy. And out of school this long?”

“WACO would put him away for life or worse if we sent him back. 

I don’t know, Maggie. Let’s talk to the boy.”

“You going to tell little Trey about his aunt?”

“What about my aunt?”

“Where did you come from?” asked Mrs. Williams.

“What about my aunt?”

“Well, son,” Mr. Williams started. “I’m afraid I have some bad 

news. Seems she has died.”

“Then can I stay?” Trey was beaming. “I’d help out and be good. 

And maybe I could learn to fly? Help you crop-dust?”

Tod walked in after just having cleaned the workshed. “What did I 

miss?” 

Mr. Williams explained, “Trey’s aunt is deceased. We were talking 

about him staying here.”

“You can stay here longer, too, Tod,” said Mrs. Williams. “Until 

things cool down.”

“Thanks, ma’am, but I’ve been thinking that my being here puts 

all three of you in danger. You’ve been so kind to me, but I think I 

should be moving on.”

“Son,” Mr. Williams sighed, “it’s too dangerous for you to be out 

in public right now. WACO has taken over the entire South and’s 

spreading fast.”

“Yes sir. Still I couldn’t live with myself if I caused harm to you. 

Besides, I’ve got to get back and clear my name.”

“Son!” Mr. Williams protested.

“Let’s talk about it, after supper,” said Mrs. Williams as she 

hugged Tod. 

The only one smiling at supper was young Trey, The rest ate their 

soup and cornbread and kept unusually quiet.

Tod broke the silence. “I hope you know that I love you all, that 

you are the first family I feel at home with, I, I…”

“We love you, too,“ said Mrs. Williams. “We just don’t want 

anything bad to happen to you.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Mr. Williams. “If you’re really 

determined to move on,” he cleared his throat, “there’s a man I 

know who delivers sweet potatoes and such to the market for a 

white farmer. You’d be safer with him than anyone else I know. 

He could get you to just outside Atlanta at least.”

“That would be great, sir.”

“But what would you do when you got there, Tod?” asked Mrs. 

Williams. “You’ve got no family. No place to stay. No money.”

“I’ll figure that out when I have to, I guess. But, oh, money…” Tod 

pulled out a roll of bills from his pocket. “Trey’s mom gave him 

this when we left the Camp. I almost forgot about it.” He 

stretched out his hand to Mr. Williams.

“No, son. You need it more than Trey.”

“But sir.”

“We’ll take care of Trey. You keep it.” Mr. Williams patted Tod’s 

hand. “That is, if you’re set on leaving.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll talk with the guy I know and see when he’s doing his 

next run. And I heard they’ve taken down the roadblocks.”

Mrs. Williams chimed in, “Can’t have you running around with all 

that money. I’ll sew you a hidden pocket before you go.”

A few days later. “I talked to George Brown. He’s delivering a 

truckload of sweet potatoes on Saturday. Says he’d be willing to 

help out if you’re willing to hide under potatoes in the back of the 

truck.”

“Thanks, Mr. Williams.” Tod teared up. “It’s going to be really hard 

leaving here.”

At the crack of dawn Saturday morning, Mr. Brown showed up 

with his oversized pickup truck. The cab, once blue, was rusting 

through. Its large wooden bed was lined with rain-stained 

plywood and held dozens of crates of sweet potatoes.

Even Trey was up to see his friend off.

“Now I’ve made you a little tunnel to crawl through here,” Mr. 

Brown pointed to a small gap between the middle crates. “Once 

you’re in, I’ll shove ‘em back to cover up the hole.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tod thought better than to mention his 

claustrophobia.

“Take this bottle of water, too,” said Mrs. Williams. “And write as 

soon as you can.”

Tod squeezed through the dark tunnel and into the only slighter 

larger area next to the cab. The tiny space was filled with the 

smell of dirt and diesel fumes. 

The truck sputtered and burped, reluctantly inched forward, then 

ambled down the dirt road pocked with bumps and craters 

banging the crates around like a too-loud offbeat drummer.

Finally, out on the asphalt-surfaced road, Tod could at least lie 

comfortably; his mind was another issue. It raced. His 

predicament came crashing in on him. I’ll be seventeen next 

month. Do they execute seventeen-year-olds? Would they torture 

me first? Have they arrested my aunt and uncle? Then he 

remembered his friend Woody’s execution and Freddy - had he 

spoken up? The anxiety only escalated his feeling of 

claustrophobia.

Tod tried focusing on the sounds that made their way into his tiny 

hideaway, but, except for the occasional car passing, it was just 

clunk clunk, clunk clunk. Finally, the rhythmic road noise lulled 

him into much-needed sleep. It wasn’t a comfortable sleep, but 

deep, nevertheless.

The squeal of brakes. Tod jolted awake, smashing his head into 

crates of sweet potatoes. He could not tell if his eyes were open 

or still closed, but the pain in his head assured him he wasn’t 

dreaming.

“PAPERS!” shouted someone outside. Though muffled, the voice 

was definitely hostile. “Get out the truck!” More conversation, 

then the truck door slammed shut.

Tod waited in the dark, trembling from fright. Minutes went by. No 

more voices. He was trapped in this prison of sweet potatoes. 

The only way out would be to kick a crate off the truck - if he 

could - and then, what? What awaited him? The longer he waited 

the more panicked be became.

He wiggled himself toward the back of the truck until his feet hit a 

crate then took a long breath. OK, here goes. But the crate 

wouldn’t budge, and in this cramped position, there was no way 

to get any leverage or momentum.

I can’t be captured! Tod took a deep breath and pushed with all 

his might. The crate may have nudged an inch. He thought of the 

humiliation he would feel if paraded around by sanctimonious 

WACO hypocrites and pushed again. Another slight movement. 

Then he thought of Mr. Brown and the trouble he would be in and 

how it would get back to the Williams as accomplices. He 

pushed relentlessly until the heavy crate slid to the edge of the 

truck bed. Light seeped in through the edges of the crate. Then 

one big heave and the crate crashed to the ground sending 

sweet potatoes rolling everywhere.

Tod pushed through the opening and scrambled to his feet. He 

quickly assessed his surroundings: stands of various vegetable￾filled stalls for as far as the eye could see, and people staring at 

him standing in the middle of dozens of sweet potatoes. Some 

started walking toward him. Gotta get out of here. 

He walked as casually as he could. Then, the WACO posters. 

Some admonished citizens on proper behavior including 

attending church. Some warned against the mixing of races. But 

the poster that frightened him the most announced rewards for 

capturing fugitives and punishment for assisting them. 

Tod hurried his pace. Two men sitting behind a vegetable stand 

stared at him and pointed. Tod began to run. He was out in the 

open with no one to protect him - no member of the Camp, not 

the Williams, no one. He eyed the exit just ahead and hurried 

toward it.

Just outside the entrance and a pickup truck pulled over. A fat 

white man about forty years old rolled down the passenger’s 

window. “Looking for work?” he asked in a southern drawl. Tod 

nodded. “Get in.” Tod got in, and the truck drove away.

19. 

“So you want some work?”

“Yes.”

“You got some farming experience?”

“Yes.”

“If not, I can teach you. Got a place to stay?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“Well, I’m sure we can find you some accommodations. We’ve 

been needing a hand on the farm. It’s just my wife and daughter, 

so you’re a godsend, son. A real godsend.” The man turned on 

the radio to a country station and bobbed along, smiling. “Yes, 

sir, a real godsend. Mind if I smoke?” he asked, then lit up 

without waiting for an answer. “Yeah, since the organization 

started lockin’ up niggas and Mexicans, hard to find help.” Tod 

side-glanced the man but kept his mouth shut.

A road sign indicated that Atlanta was six miles ahead. “Well, 

here’s where we turn off,” the fellow drawled and exited onto a 

two-lane county road. After a while, he turned onto a gravel road 

that reminded Tod of the road to the Camp, except that there 

were no other houses or farms.

After a mile or so, “Here we are,” the man declared, driving up to 

a rustic wood farmhouse. “Come on in and meet the old lady and 

my daughter.”

“By the way,” Tod interjected, “you never told me your name.”

The farmer ignored him and opened the front door. “Look,” he 

announced, “I found us a worker, and a pretty one at that.” The 

unkempt, dumpy daughter, about Tod’s age, blushed and 

diverted her eyes.

“Sit down, feller. The wife will make you some of her special tea. 

Then we’ll see about gettin’ you some grub.”

Tod, the man, and his daughter sat silently in the disheveled 

room watched over by a large picture of Jesus and surrounded 

with Christian knickknacks. No one made eye contact. Tod was 

having second thoughts.

The woman of the house reentered with a tepid mug of liquid. 

“Here you go,” she said. No one else got tea. 

Tod, being the polite southern boy that he was, thanked the 

woman and took a sip. He forced a smile to disguise his disgust 

with the drink then took another sip. All along the family looked 

on saying nothing.

Then the room began to spin. Slowly at first, then faster. Tod tried 

to stand but fell. Everything went black.

“I know who you are. You are a sinner, and I, through the grace of 

God, am going to bring you back into the fold.”

Tod struggled to lift his head. Then a stench overwhelmed him 

making him immediately nauseous. He coughed. “Where am I? 

What, what is this?” He tried to stand but found himself encoiled 

in chain.

“You are in purgatory,” the farmer growled. “Here to pay for your 

sins.”

“What’s all that noise?”

“That grunting and snorting? Those are your babies to take care 

of, and they’re waiting to be fed. Let’s get to it. That’s your job, or 

a part of it at least. I’ll show you the ropes once, then don’t ask 

me again. I’ll feed you after you feed them.”

“This is slavery! It’s illegal in this country, you know!”

“I live by a higher law - God’s law. Bible says, slaves, obey your 

earthly masters with respect and fear - fear! - just as you would 

obey Christ. So you must obey me! Now get up!”

Tod pushed the chain aside only to find it attached to a shackle 

around his left ankle. He struggled to his feet.

“Now no more backtalk. Do as you’re told. There’s just enough 

chain to get you around to the feeding troughs and inside the pen 

for cleaning. The wife will bring you slop every morning to feed 

them. After you’ve done that, then you shovel all the manure into 

a pile over in that corner. After the pen is clean, and only then, 

you can have your breakfast. Then in the evening around five 

o’clock, clean the pen again. And if it passes inspection, you can 

eat again. Now get that bucket of slop and feed up!”

“Where do I sleep or go to the bathroom?”

“Wherever you like. Just clean up after yourself,” the farmer 

snickered. “Now get to it! There’s the slop.”

Tod was weak from not having eaten since an early breakfast at 

the Williams’, and that was yesterday. His head pounding and in 

a fog, he preceded to do the only thing he could do: put one foot 

in front of the other and slop the pigs. He lumbered over to the 

large pen, the swill as odorous as the pigs themselves and the 

bucket so heavy that he had no free hand with which to cover his 

nose.

There were twenty or more of these caged creatures, Tod 

reckoned. It was hard to say for sure as they were constantly 

moving about, and every one of them looked pretty much the 

same, pink and dirty, their feet and legs covered in muck. Each 

poked their dirty snouts through the metal bars of the pen and, 

with sleepy pleading eyes, waited for their meal.

Even through the terror and confusion of his predicament, Tod 

was keenly aware that, not only was he placating these animals’ 

hunger, he was helping fatten them to have them slaughtered 

and their flesh digested by human animals.

Then, to add to his misery as he shoveled the copious amount of 

pig excrement, a sappy organ began blasting the hymn, “Trust 

and Obey” from a hidden speaker. And to think that once he not 

only liked hymns, but sang them enthusiastically. Now, it was like 

nails on a chalkboard.

Just then, the barn door opened. The wife entered carrying a 

bowl and spoon and set the bowl down on the grimy cement 

floor, then exited making no eye contact.

Tod laid the shovel down and wiped his hands on his already￾soiled pants. He was starving. The gruel was tasteless but for a 

slightly sour aftertaste.

The hymns continued nonstop, except when interrupted by 

preaching from an irate, man with a chip on his shoulders raging 

against the wicked infidels. There was no end to the audio torture 

as it was broadcast from a 24-hour Atlanta gospel radio station. 

God’s work never slept.

No one but the farmer ever spoke to Tod, and he only yelled at 

him when he was unhappy with his cleaning or if he spilled the 

pig slop. Tod occasionally saw a pair of eyes spying in through 

one of the larger gaps in the barn wall - the daughter perhaps - 

but no words were spoken. Over time, his situation wore him 

down, his resolve weakened, he became like an automaton.

Early one morning, the farmer tramped in, rope in hand. If not for 

the godawful radio, Tod wouldn’t have known that this was the 

day before Thanksgiving. The wretched man scanned the pigs, 

then looped his rope around one of their necks and led it over to 

a corner of the barn. A few minutes later, a rifle shot sent the pigs 

jostling wide-eyed in their pen. The farmer then hoisted the 

carcass up with a series of pulleys, placed a large bucket under 

its dangling head while the animal was still twitching, and slit its 

throat. Thanksgiving ham. 

“Softly and Tenderly” played as the soundtrack.

At this point in his downward spiral, Tod hardly noticed the gore, 

he had only the slightest shiver, then went on about his duties.

The days were getting cooler, the nights quite cold. Tod grabbed 

a few burlap bags and covered himself as best he could at night. 

His nose had become almost numb to the stench, his torso thin, 

his thoughts now dulled and repetitive. He barely heard the drone 

of gospel music anymore or the ranting of the fearmongering 

evangelist. His world was the length of his chain.

His ankle had long developed sores under the heavy metal 

shackle. Now they bled. His response was to disconnect from 

the pain as he had done with the stench of the excrement and 

the radio. What other choice did he have?

A fleeting thought one day: How did Black slaves in the South 

ever sustain themselves day after day, year after year? The 

question shamed him. He detached.

Again, eyes staring through the barn wall.

Then one day, a few days before Christmas, with the radio 

blasting carols from a whining organ, the barn doors opened and 

a truck backed up to the opening.

“Boy,” barked the farmer, “get in there and shoo the pigs this 

way. All but that little fellow.” Tod did as he was told. After 

loading all the pigs into the truck, the farmer closed the pen and 

turned to Tod: “Got a good price on ‘em, yessir. Now, you got 

only one critter to look after until Christmas. After that, looks like 

you’re out of work,” he cackled, slammed the barn door shut, 

and drove off.

Luckily, there was a break in the weather as happens sometimes 

in the southern region of the US. But the days had gotten shorter, 

and with no light in the barn, Tod was in darkness more than not. 

The constant Christmas carols didn’t help his mood, either. So he 

fell deeper into nothingness.

One morning, soon after the other pigs were sold off, Tod was 

feeding the remaining pig. But instead of immediately gulping its 

breakfast down, the pig stopped and stared into Tod’s eyes. Tod 

was transfixed. Not since he was with the Williams did he feel 

seen or valued. “Hey, buddy.” The pig raised its snout and 

touched Tod’s hand. “Rudy. That’s what I’ll call you.” Tod reached 

down and stroked Rudy’s head. “I had another friend named 

Rudy once.” Rudy grunted, then focused on his food.

If Tod had been thinking straight, he would have known better 

than to name a doomed animal. But Tod found solace in focusing 

on the present. Besides, who knows the future? Not Tod.

Tod found a stick and played tug of war with the pig - or “hog of 

war” as he called it - until Rudy chewed the stick up. Sometimes 

Tod would talk to the pig, tell it stories, and Rudy just sat 

attentive, his eyes on Tod. 

The accelerated onslaught of carols and Christmas messages 

should have alerted Tod that his time with Rudy was quickly 

coming to an end. But when the day came, the day before 

Christmas, the farmer walked in with his rope and rifle. Tod was 

devastated.

This time, Tod could not zone out, could not retreat inside. There 

was his buddy hanging upside down with blood gushing from its 

slit throat. There was no place to hide, nothing to distract him, no 

relief from the pain.

Then it dawned on him, I’m next.

20. 

Christmas morning. The farmer came into the barn without 

saying a word and sliced Rudy into sections, bones crunching, 

the head rolling on the cement floor. He then carted the pieces 

away in a large wheelbarrow. All the while carols groaned in the 

background, songs of peace and hope and joy. The farmer 

glanced back at Tod and smirked as he left the barn.

Now Tod was truly alone. His aunt and uncle, the Williamses, all 

in their homes, celebrating. Were any of them thinking of him? 

Would he ever see them again?

With the barn door closed and no pigs left, there was nothing to 

take his mind off his circumstances. He sat down on the stack of 

burlap bags and leaned against the wall. “Joy to the World” 

taunted him. He closed his eyes.

He must have dozed off for a bit, for when he looked up, the 

farmer’s daughter was creeping into the barn with something in 

her hand. She motioned to him to come over.

She diverted her eyes and kept her distance, then handed Tod a 

piece of cake. “Here,” she whispered. “Now you gotta get out of 

here.” Then for the first time, she stared into his eyes. “Now.” She 

quickly turned and left, closing the barn door behind her.

Get out of here? And how am I supposed to do that? Tod bit into 

the cake. Pound cake. The first food he had had all day. Then on 

his second bite, he bit into something hard, something metallic. 

There in the middle of the cake, a key. That’s how. 

After gulping down the cake, Tod slipped the key into the rusty 

restraint and turned; it squeaked open; he was free. He had to 

make his escape quick. Who knew when the farmer might come 

out looking for him. But where to go, and how to get there?

Tod had never seen outside the barn. He walked over to the 

wooden door and peered through the cracks. He saw no one. He 

cautiously opened the door and slipped out, knowing full well 

that the farmer had at least a rifle.

He creeped over to the side of the barn to get a better view but 

the old truck was parked next to it blocking the line of sight. Tod 

ventured over to the truck and peered through the windows of 

the cab. He was not far behind the farmhouse. Then he saw 

them: the keys. They were in the ignition.

Tod slipped in the passenger’s side and slid over to behind the 

steering wheel. He had never stolen anything in his life. I’ll just 

borrow it. He held his breath and turned the ignition. The truck 

started up on the first try.

He gradually stepped on the gas and turned the truck around, 

being as quiet as he could. He eased by the house and onto the 

long gravel driveway. Then once a safe distance from the house, 

he gunned it, getting as far away as he could from his torturer.

Tod only slowed down when he turned onto the county road. 

When he came to the four-lane, he turned north toward Lowman. 

His plan: to get young Freddy to speak up and clear his name.

Tod was still very naive.

After a few miles, he saw flashing lights ahead. To be careful, he 

turned off toward a small town he had never heard of. He passed 

numerous boarded up storefronts with roofs caving in. Obviously 

an area that had seen its good days pass years ago. Then he 

drove by a small motel a few miles in, a ramshackle 

establishment called the Macenroy Inn, whose sign announced 

that it was indeed open, even on this Christmas Day. Ah! A bath!

Tod drove a bit further until he saw a dirt road partially covered 

with grass. He turned onto it and drove in a short distance until 

he saw a stand of trees. This looks like a good place to ditch this 

rattletrap. 

There was no traffic on the road as he walked back to the motel. 

Tod pulled the money from the secret pocket Mrs. Williams had 

sewn into his pants and walked up to the rickety office door.

He saw no one when he stepped inside. “Anyone home?” 

Someone shuffled in the back room. “Merry Christmas,” Tod 

shouted.

A woman bent over with age stepped behind the counter wiping 

her face with a paper napkin. She looked him over, then grunted, 

“Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you. I’d like a room for a day, please.”

The woman stared at Tod. “Where’s your suitcase, son?”

“I’ve got none. Was just hitchhiking and got dropped off here.”

“You in trouble, kid? You look nice enough, but, looks like you 

been in a fight or something.”

Tod chuckled and answered, “Took a tumble a ways back. Got 

myself muddy. But I wash up OK,” he laughed.

“You got money? We get cash up front. Twenty-five dollars for 

one day. Checkout is 10 A.M.”

“Thank you.” Tod pulled the money from the wad in his pocket 

and handed it to her. “Are there towels in the room?” 

“Of course there are towels,” the woman snapped back.

“Thanks, uh, is there any place to grab a bite to eat?”

“Around here? No. Hasn’t been for years,”

“Oh, OK, then.”

The woman studied Tod’s crestfallen look. “OK, tell you what I’ll 

do - I’ll make you a plate for a dollar.”

“That would be great! No meat, please, just vegetables.

“No meat?” She shook her head. “OK.”

A minute later she returned with a plate of mash potatoes, green 

beans, yams, and cornbread.

“This looks terrific!” Tod reached into his pocket.

“No charge. I couldn’t have eaten all that myself. ‘Sides, you 

didn’t want the meat.”

The woman grabbed a key and walked Tod to his room. There 

was no sign of any other motel guests.

“No girls and no drinking or rabble rousing,” she insisted as they 

approached the room. “This is a family place.”

“Understood. And thank you.” Tod took the key and walked into 

his first private room since he left the Sterns, other than the tiny 

swamp cabin, of course. It was what you might expect in a little 

motel in the middle of nowhere: the bed was small, the mattress 

lumpy, the “art” a faded print of two deers standing in snow, the 

bathroom adequate but rust-stained, one chair, one tiny old black 

and white TV, one wobbly desk. It was heaven.

Tod sat at the desk with his banquet and devoured every morsel 

with the help of the plastic fork the old woman had provided. He 

found a plastic cup enshrined in plastic in the bathroom and filled 

it with tap water after the rust had cleared.

Fully content, Tod showered and then filled the tub with water. He 

scrubbed his encrusted clothes with the single bar of soap and 

rinsed them, then hung them on the shower rod to dry.

Clean, full, and warm, it was time to rest. He was asleep as soon 

as his head hit the wafer-thin pillow, never noticing the multiple 

lumps in the mattress.

Knock, knock, knock.

Tod roused from his sleep expecting to see the farmer standing 

over him. But no. Maybe he had fallen down a rabbit hole like 

Alice, or died and was caught in some nether region. 

Knock, knock, knock.

The light still on in the bathroom revealed where he had landed.

“You up?”

Tod jumped out of bed and threw on his still-damp clothes. The 

woman was standing outside the door with a piece of paper her 

in her hand.

“You know it’s 9:30,” she said. “Check out’s at… Never mind. 

Would you read this for me?” She handed the paper to Tod.

“It’s a letter from the state tax department. Looks like… looks like 

they’re threatening to seize your property for back taxes.”

The woman sighed. “Can’t get blood out of a turnip.” She started 

to walk away.

“So what are you going to do?” Tod asked.

The woman turned around. “Why would you care?”

“Umm, why wouldn’t I? You seem nice enough. Your fed me and 

all. Besides, I’d hate for you to lose your motel.”

The woman fought back tears. “I never asked your name.”

“Tod, ma’am.”

“Tod. A good name. I’m Irene Macenroy, and I don’t remember 

nobody caring about little old me for as long as I can remember, 

including my niece who’s supposed to be helping me.” Mrs. 

Macenroy took a breath. “You seem like a nice young man. Why 

are you hitchhiking around by yourself? Where are your parents?”

“My parents are dead. The rest of my family, too. Traffic 

accident.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

“I was living with my aunt and uncle.”

“Was?”

“Before I went, uh, hitchhiking. Well, it’s almost 10 o’clock. Guess 

I should get out of here.”

“My parents died when I was six,” Mrs. Macenroy continued. 

“Tuberculosis. An aunt took me and my younger sister in. Lived 

here in this motel. Then my aunt died and my sister took off with 

some guy passing through.”

“Whew. So you’ve taken care of the motel all this time by 

yourself. But I don’t understand, why don’t you contest the tax 

foreclosure?” 

“I can’t read. Never went to school.”

“You could learn.”

“Too old.”

“Nonsense. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, ma’am. But you 

could.”

Mrs. Macenroy studied Tod for a long while. “You could teach 

me?”

“Absolutely. But I’m leaving.”

“You could stay longer, for free, of course, and eat for free. Sorry 

that’s all I have to offer.”

Tod considered the offer: he had no real plan, and the TV in his 

room might help him catch up on WACO shenanigans. Plus, it 

would be nice to build his strength back.

“OK. Let’s do it. I’ll teach you to read. But first, we need to see if 

we can work out a payment plan with the tax people.”

Mrs. Macenroy hugged Tod with tears in her eyes. “You’re an 

answer to prayer, young man. A real gift from heaven. But for the 

life of me, I can’t understand why you don’t eat meat.”

Tod ate three square meals a day. He and Mrs. Macenroy spent 

two hours every morning and one hour every evening working on 

reading; she was a determined student. In the meantime, Tod 

wrote a letter to the Williamses telling them that he was OK, and 

a letter to the Georgia Tax Office asking for a payment plan that 

Mrs. Macenroy could better handle. Now, how to attract more 

guests to the motel in order to make the payments?

To start with, Tod mowed the overgrown grass and hosed down 

the facade of the 10 room motel. Then while rummaging around 

in a storage room, he discovered leftover paint for the motel sign 

and gave it a much-needed touchup. And while he was up on the 

ladder, he replaced one of the two lights on the sign.

Business did pick up a bit, as did the spirits of old Mrs. 

Macenroy. Tod noticed a new spring in her step, and on more 

than one occasion, when she thought she was alone, Mrs. M 

began to whistle old songs from her youth.

Tod would make himself scarce if a guest drove up during their 

reading lessons. He still feared being recognized though it had 

been several months since WACO had posted his picture. After a 

few more weeks, Tod relaxed and occasionally even checked in 

the guests if Mrs. M was particularly focused on a reading 

assignment.

Tod split his free evening time between watching TV and reading 

books left by guests like Tom Sawyer and The Old Man and the 

Sea. Watching TV was like listening to a staticky radio while 

watching a snowstorm. Still, he was able to garner some news. 

Like the rapid expansion of the White American Christian 

Organization. WACO had made strongholds in the Midwest. And 

in the South, they had already taken over many statehouses. 

School boards were purged of any members who were thought 

not to conform. Segregation, while already existing in many 

areas, was now being enforced as law in schools, restaurants, 

doctors’ offices, and hospitals. Movie theaters were shut down. 

Church attendance was now mandatory, and all churches were 

commanded to follow a strict evangelical interpretation of 

Christianity. The few synagogues in the WACO run South were 

“reappropriated”.

This one bit of news troubled Tod the most: public punishment of 

violators had become a public sport with stocks set up in town 

squares throughout the region. This had begun on Christmas Eve 

with the restraint devices festively decorated for the holiday. 

After several months of teaching Mrs. M, a letter from the 

Georgia tax center arrived. “What do they say?” she asked.

Tod handed her the letter. “You tell me.”

Her lips silently formed the words as she read the official-looking 

communication. Her eyes widened. “They’ve accepted our 

payment plan,” she exclaimed.

“That’s wonderful, Mrs. M!” 

Mrs. Macenroy grabbed Tod in as much of a bear hug as a small, 

frail woman could muster. “You’re the son I never had.”

But Tod was longing to clear his name, to end the hiding and 

running. It was late Spring and the motel was bringing in just 

enough money to pay the taxes and provide an income sufficient 

for Mrs. M to live comfortably enough. It was time to make his 

move. Tod decided to tell Mrs. M of his plans the next morning at 

breakfast.

“The eggs are really good this morning, Mrs. Macenroy. Coffee, 

too.”

“What’s on your mind, Tod?”

Tod sighed. “Mrs. M, it’s time I get back to my hometown. I really 

appreciate what you’ve done for me, and I’ll miss your company, 

but…”

“You’re a young man, Tod, with your whole life in front of you. 

You’d only collect moss if you hung around here. Yes, go. Have 

you contacted your aunt and uncle?”

Tod hesitated but continued. “I haven’t. There’re things I haven’t 

told you. You see, there was an accident, and, well, people think I 

murdered someone.”

“That’s got to be malarky.”

“Well…” Tod described how he killed the preacher in self-defense 

while rescuing the young boy. “So the law is looking for me and I 

didn’t want to cause my relatives any more trouble. That’s why 

I’ve kept them in the dark.”

“I can understand that. So why go back?”

Tod sighed. “I’m tired of running, Mrs. M. If I could get the boy to 

vouch for me, to tell what really happened, then I might have a 

chance to clear my name. Otherwise, I’ll be on the run forever.”

“You should at least reach out to your relatives first and see what 

they think. Write to them.”

It took a couple of days to think that over, but Tod did write the 

Sterns.

Dear Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Bryan, 

Please forgive me for leaving and not contacting you 

before. I was scared. 

I need you to know that I was defending myself from 

Reverend Martins when he fell down the church stairs. 

And I need you to know that the reason he attacked me 

was because I caught him molesting young Freddy 

Wilson. You may not want to believe that, but it’s true. 

I know that the police and WACO have been looking for 

me, and that is why I went into hiding. I think the only 

hope for proving my innocence is to get Freddy to 

explain what happened that day. 

I am planning to return to Lowman as soon as I can find 

a ride. Please do not report me. I just need this chance 

to tell the truth. I am tired of hiding. 

With love, 

Tod

What if WACO agents intercepted my letter? Nervous days went 

by as Tod kept a lookout for WACO agents and for cars with his 

home state’s plates. Each passing day was more unsettling. 

Should he run? Where to? What about Mrs. M? Had he made the 

biggest mistake in his life?

Then on the fifth day a truck drove up to the motel. An old 

weathered red Chevy. His uncle’s.

21. 

Tod panicked in his room. Why was he here? Was he going to 

turn him in? He was stuck with nowhere to run. Tod watched 

from behind the curtain as his uncle, alone and more stooped 

than he remembered, stepped just outside his truck and looked 

the motel over before heading to the office. Now’s my chance - 

I’ll run for it. But the office door opened, and out came Mrs. 

Macenroy leading Mr. Stern straight to Tod’s room.

He was caged like a helpless animal.

Knock, knock, knock,

“Tod, your uncle is here to see you.”

No need to postpone the inevitable, Tod opened the door.

Mr. Stern immediately hugged him so tight he could hardly 

breathe. “Son, son. You’re OK. We were so worried. Praise 

Jesus.”

“You’re not turning me in?”

“No, no. Never.”

Mrs. M looked on. “Why don’t the two of you follow me to the 

kitchen and I’ll make some tea.”

Tod had never seen his uncle so emotional. He not only cried, he 

held Tod’s hand at Mrs. M’s table. Mr. Stern assured Tod that he 

knew what had happened. Carlos, the farmhand that had driven 

the truck to the mechanic’s that day, had seen plenty. 

He told Mr. Stern that he saw Tod walk into the church, and then 

later, Freddy run out screaming. After that, he saw Tod flee the 

church. Carlos ran to the church to investigate, and when he 

found the preacher dead with his pants down, he called the 

police from the church office.

“What did the police say?”

“They just threatened to send him back to Mexico if he didn’t 

keep quiet.”

“Damn. So what do we do now?”

“Well, son, do you remember old Mr. Weathers who has the dairy 

farm?” Tod nodded. “He’s been after me to sell the farm. Seems 

he wants to get into the chickens and eggs business. Evelyn and 

I think that now is a good time to move. Start over.”

“But what would you do?”

“See, your mother has a cousin in New Haven, Connecticut. He’s 

offered me a job in his butcher shop. Plus, it’s near the ocean - 

we could take weekend trips. And the schools are much better 

there, not to mention Yale when you graduate.”

“College? You’re serious?” Mr. Stern nodded.

“And WACO hasn’t infiltrated - yet.”

“What about my police record?”

“You’ve never been tried for that. Besides, no one that far north 

would ever take the word of WACO wackos. So, is it settled? You 

in?”

Tod’s eyes teared up. He squeezed Mr. Stern’s hand. “Yes!” He 

looked over at Mrs. M who had been silent to this point. She was 

smiling. “Will you be OK, Mrs. M?”

“Better than ever. You gotta go. Like I said, you’d only gather 

moss in a place like this. ‘Sides, I’m thinking of writing that niece 

of mine and offering her a deal she can’t refuse.”

“I haven’t cleaned my room, Mrs. M.”

“I can manage that. You just go on, go on and have a wonderful 

life.” She then turned to Mr. Stern. “He’s a wonderful boy. Sent 

from Heaven.”

Tod talked the whole way back. He told his uncle everything that 

had happened - except for the drinking and pot smoking. About 

the family that lived near the swamp and the cabin that he stayed 

in. About the Camp and its friendly helpful people that were 

burned out. About Trey and how he was left without parents. 

About the Williamses who took them in.

Mr. Stern pulled the truck over as they neared the Lowman town 

limits and hid Tod in the truck bed under a tarp. Tod’s breath 

quickened as the truck crawled away, his heart raced. What the 

hell was he doing returning to a place that had been not only 

alien to him but hostile?

His aunt burst through the front door to greet him when they 

arrived at the farmhouse. “Welcome home,” she cried and 

embraced him.

The next few days were spent catching up. The Sterns had finally 

seen the leaders for who they were when they took over their 

community: power-hungry, depraved thugs. And worse, they 

proclaimed they acted in the name of Christ. But the last straw 

was blaming Tod for the preacher’s death, never acknowledging 

the preacher’s pedophilia.

The plan was agreed: Tod was to stay at home and out of sight; 

the sale of the farm would be finalized as soon as possible; the 

Sterns would move to New Haven, a new start, a place of safety 

and refuge.

Mr. Stern kept the family informed of goings on each night 

around supper: Waco guards had arrested a Black man for 

loitering; Jimmy Waters was caught fornicating and placed in the 

stocks; Mrs. Weathers was accused of using the Lord’s name in 

vain and incarcerated with no trial.

What Bryan and Evelyn Stern did not talk about was how the 

community had ostracized them. They avoided them when they 

shopped in the little downtown and had voted Mrs. Stern off the 

school library committee. Even their church had kicked them out.

So, for the weeks before they left, the Sterns had church together 

at their kitchen table, Tod stayed inside the house and studied, 

breezing through his school books.

The farm sale was completed, and the day to leave had arrived. 

Mr. Stern hitched up a farm trailer and loaded up what 

belongings they could fit on it. Mr. Stern had built a wooden shell 

over the truck bed from some scrap plywood and two-by-fours 

with just enough room for a person to sit upright. There were no 

windows, only a gap in the wood through which to look out. Tod 

would be safe in it and much more comfortable than he had been 

crammed between a load of sweet potatoes. 

Tod moved into the cab of the truck only after they crossed the 

state line. It was a cozy fit. The three sang songs for hours and 

not all hymns for a change.

Near Richmond, Virginia, they stopped for the night in a little off￾the-beaten-path motel, then started out at the break of day. The 

ever-present WACO scare billboards started to dwindle as they 

passed through Maryland, and by the time they reached 

Pennsylvania, there were none.

This was a new adventure, an exciting new start. Tod breathed 

easier. And for the first time since he was a little boy, he felt close 

to his aunt and uncle. It was like being reborn.

22. 

The Sterns drove through downtown New Haven on the way to 

Mrs. Stern’s cousin, Harold’s butcher shop. It was the first big 

city Tod had ever been in as he had only glimpsed the skyline of 

Atlanta from a distance. 

The butcher shop was in a strip mall on the outskirts of town in a 

middle-class suburb. It was full of customers when they arrived, 

purchasing meat for the evening meal no doubt.

Their relative looked up as the Sterns walked in, grinned, waved 

a bloody hand then continued wrapping a slab of beef. No 

wonder he had jumped at the chance to have Mr. Stern work with 

him - he was the only one servicing all the people standing 

around.

It was close to closing time, so the Sterns waited. Then after 

washing up, Harold Stroman greeted the family.

“This must be Tod.”

“Yes, Mr. Stroman.”

“Please, call me Uncle Harold.” He patted Tod on the back, then 

added, “I bet, a good looking boy like yourself, you’ll be fighting 

off the girls.” Tod just smiled. “So,” Harold continued, “just follow 

me. The house is only 10 minutes from here. Then you can wash 

up and relax. Ginger should have dinner ready soon. We’ve 

cleared out a couple spare rooms which should do you until we 

can get your cabin up to speed.”

Mr. Stroman had offered the Sterns free lodging in an extra 

building on his lot but it needed work which Mr. Stern had offered 

to do. It was small but adequate, and best of all, free.

Over dinner. “You can’t imagine how hard it is to find reliable help 

around here, Bryan. Nobody wants to get their hands dirty. I’ll 

hire someone and they’re gone within a week. Crazy. Tod, aren’t 

you going to have some pot roast?”

“He doesn’t eat meat,” offered Mrs. Stern.

“But the veggies are just great,” Tod chimed in. “You’re a 

wonderful cook, Mrs. Stroman.”

“Thanks, Tod. Call me Aunt Ginger.”

Mr. Stern started immediately working at the butcher shop and 

working on the cabin on weekends - with Tod’s help. Mrs. Stern 

took a part time job as a seamstress.

Tod enrolled in New Haven High School, a nearby public school 

that was much more challenging than his small country school. It 

was just the stimulation he needed. And, he made friends, one of 

them a Jewish boy named Jeff.

Jeff played guitar and dreamed of one day living in a commune. 

Strongly opinionated, he had no love for “corporate types” who 

“raped the earth and robbed the masses.” He grew vegetables in 

the plot next to his family’s condo, and secretly grew pot hidden 

in the tomato and corn. Like Tod, he was also a vegetarian. 

Jeff introduced Tod to the poetry of Ginsburg, books like To Kill A 

Mockingbird, Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty-Four, The 

Autobiography of Malcom X. These books had, of course, long 

been banned by WACO, but this far north, they were still 

accessible. What Tod wasn’t yet aware of was that New Haven 

was in a time of turmoil with protests over the Vietnam War and 

the upcoming trial of Black Panther members.

Jeff, on the other hand, was obsessed with current affairs, 

politics, and the state of the world. And while his parents didn’t 

encourage his participation in protests, they didn’t forbid it. Not 

that one could control a headstrong sixteen-year-old.

“There’s a big protest down on the New Haven Green this Friday 

in support of the Black Panthers and to rally against the war,” Jeff 

announced. “Some really important speakers will be there. We’ve 

gotta go.”

“But, what if there’s trouble? You know, violence and the police 

show up and…”

“You’ve got to take a stand, Toddy” - the nickname Jeff had 

taken to calling his friend. “We the people are being oppressed. 

We have to fight back.”

Tod considered Jeff’s words. He couldn’t imagine how Jeff was 

being oppressed personally. On the other hand, he himself had 

absolutely been harassed and threatened by WACO, and 

definitely didn’t want to bring more trouble down on himself now 

that he was free of WACO’s grasp. But then he thought of his 

friend Woody, Trey’s mom, and the driver of the truck who risked 

his life to help him escape. How could he stay silent and live with 

himself?

Tod told the Sterns that he was staying over at Jeff’s that night. It 

was May 1, 1970, a Friday. The boys skipped their last classes 

and caught a bus to the New Haven Green where thousands 

were already assembling. They milled around reading the signs 

and checking out the “hippy chicks” in their halter tops and 

billowing skirts.

“Come on,” Jeff urged. “Let’s get closer to the stage.”

As they shuffled through the crowd, Jeff stopped. “There’s Abbie 

Hoffman!” Tod looked puzzled. “Abbie Hoffman! Let’s go talk to 

him.”

They hurried to where the curly-haired, shortish man in jeans and 

jean jacket was standing. “Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Hoffman!” Jeff called 

out. “Could I have your autograph?” Hoffman looked puzzled at 

the request then walked away. “That was Abbie Hoffman!” Jeff 

continued. “Abbie fucking Hoffman!”

Tod and Jeff listened to Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, and others speak 

about social inequities, atrocities by the government, racial 

discrimination, and the Vietnam War. But as much as Tod agreed 

with what was being said, the style and the context were off￾putting for him, like a bunch of self-absorbed speakers talking to 

an audience that already held the same beliefs. Other than the 

media coverage, he couldn’t see the benefit of it. He knew for 

sure that the White American Christian Organization would never 

allow protests or dissent on any media platform they controlled. 

There had to be another way to take down WACO, he thought. 

A few days later, he read in the New Haven Register, “The White 

American Christian Organization has declared war on the United 

States, declaring that they ‘will not rest until every citizen of the 

country is a Christian, and that those who resist will be dealt 

with.’”

The WACO cancer was metastasizing. What would happen to his 

New England friends who did not profess Christianity if WACO 

expanded this far? His mission of taking down WACO - absurd 

as it sounded - took on a feeling of urgency. He thought, what if 

a large enough group could be educated about the threat of 

WACO? But how?

One day over lunch at school, Tod brought up his concerns to 

Jeff. “I’m not sure what these protests are accomplishing. Yeah, 

some news coverage, but I don’t see it changing the hearts and 

minds of regular people.” 

“Then they’re just dopes,” Jeff huffed and bit into his sandwich.

“But if the people don’t change, how are we ever going to get the 

world we want?” Jeff kept eating. “The people need to be 

educated.” No response. “I never told you this, Jeff, but I am 

wanted by WACO for murder.”

Jeff’s sandwich fell out of his mouth.

“I didn’t do it, well I did, but it was in self defense and…”

“Damn! You’ve got bigger balls than I thought!”

Tod described the incident at the church and how he had run 

away. “And I had friends that were murdered by these goons.” 

Tod took a breath. “It’s a personal thing for me.”

“I hear you. I really do. So what do we do?”

“We? Well, whatever we do would have to be incognito; the 

WACO guards are not known for their compassion. I thought 

about distributing pamphlets. Maybe distribute books or 

something.”

“Too small. We need to reach a wider audience. TV!”

“TV?”

“Yeah. Remember? My dad’s a producer at one of the largest 

networks in the country.”

“He’d produce something for us?”

“Ummm, probably not. But I could get us into the studio during 

the news hour. Then we could hijack the show for at least a few 

minutes. Betcha Hoffman would be impressed with that!”

“We’d get into trouble! And, WACO would know where I am!”

“I could do the talking. I’d never mention you.”

Over the next days Tod and Jeff worked out what was important 

to say, what, and how to say it quickly. They decided to focus on 

WACO’s hypocrisy, its violence, and how its mandatory church 

attendance conflicted with the Constitution. There was more they 

could say, but with only a minute or two before security escorted 

them out, that had to suffice.

So the day was planned and the time, the 6:00 news. Mr. Miller 

was pleased to see his son’s new interest in the television 

business and happy to have his friend Tod tag along. “Just be 

quiet and don’t get in the way.”

Jeff’s plan was to set off the fire alarm, then grab the microphone 

and talk as fast as he could until he was hauled off. 

A stupid plan in retrospect. Of course the engineer in the control 

room would have cut him off if he hadn’t already shut down the 

broadcast when the alarm sounded. 

But it didn’t get to that. Just as Jeff placed his hand on the fire 

alarm, “What are you doing, son?”

“Hi, Dad. I didn’t see you there in the dark. Uh, I was just 

checking out the backstage, and…”

“We need to talk, Jeff.” Tod took this interaction as his cue to slip 

out.

The next day at school. “So, your dad pissed?”

“Not so much. Well, yeah. He chewed me out. I think he was 

more mad about what he called ‘my harebrained idea’. He wants 

to interview you.”

“What?! Am I in trouble?”

“No. He’s interested in your story, what you know about WACO. I 

think he wants to do a piece on it. You’d be anonymous, of 

course.”

“Wow! And that would be heard nationwide?”

“Pretty damn close. Yeah.”

“So why didn’t you ask your dad to do a segment in the first 

place?”

“And miss Abbie Hoffman seeing me on TV?”

The piece aired a couple of weeks later.

Tonight we’re going to talk about a sinister group that 

has overrun portions of our country, and who threaten 

the rest of our wonderful country. That group is WACO, 

the White American Christian Organization. 

You may ask why that should concern you. You’re 

content and happy with your life; why should you 

bother with some radical group who, to date, has not 

bothered you? 

It is only a matter of time, my friends. These people are 

convinced that their way is the only way and will not 

rest until we are all under their control. Their stated goal 

is to take over the White House and Congress and to 

command the military and law enforcement. The group 

has steadily pushed outward from two headquarters, 

one in the South and one in the Midwest. They have 

taking over school boards, local and state 

governments, mandating segregation, requiring church 

attendance while closing synagogues and temples, and 

persecuting minorities including gay people. 

A few days ago I spoke with a nice young man who 

recently escaped the claws of WACO. He had been on 

the run for months, unjustly charged with murder when 

in fact, he was defending a six-year-old boy from rape 

by a WACO member. A preacher. WACO officials 

covered up the preacher’s crime but to this day hunt 

down the young hero. This young man also spoke of 

people of color disappearing or being outright 

murdered, facilities being burned to the ground 

because they did not espouse the religious teachings 

of the fanatics, books removed from libraries that did 

not agree with the narrow views held by WACO 

officials. 

Please, contact your representatives and senators and 

let them know of your concerns. And if you live in one 

of the WACO controlled territories, please be careful 

with whom you speak. Anyone outside of your closest 

friends or family could be a WACO informant. These 

are dangerous times. 

This is an ongoing issue which we will be retuning to in 

the near future. And I, David Miller, a Jew, and 

someone who deeply loves this country, will be 

speaking with scholars, clergy, and politicians to try to 

find solutions to end this scourge on our nation. 

Thank you, and good night. 

The phones began ringing before the newscast even ended. Yes, 

there were plenty of threatening callers, mostly from WACO￾dominated regions, but there were many calls from scholars of 

sociology and religion, religious leaders, and others wanting to 

be of service, to be a part of Mr. Miller’s efforts. The group 

became known as the Justice Squad. 

The Justice Squad met weekly in a conference room provided by 

Yale University. Many different ideas were bantered around, 

including financially supporting local resistance groups, 

smuggling in books, posting pamphlets in WACO-occupied 

territories, petitioning the federal government, and providing a 

repository for information regarding WACO atrocities. All the 

ideas had merit, but there was no money to fund projects and a 

pervasive fear of implementing them. The Squad continued to 

meet for a few months, but its numbers dwindled. Mr. Miller 

made one more news segment before management instructed 

him to drop the cause: WACO bosses had threatened suit.

Then, one day in the school cafeteria. “Do you know that man 

over there? A teacher?” Jeff turned to where Tod was indicating. 

The man quickly diverted his gaze.

“No. Never seen him.”

The man quickly left the cafeteria. 

“I have a very sneaky feeling,” Tod muttered.

“What?”

“I’ll bet you a million dollars he’s a WACO goon.”

“Here in Connecticut?” Jeff scoffed.

“They followed me all the way down to Florida.”

“That’s it. I’m going to tell that jackass to go fuck himself.” Jeff 

sprang to his feet and hurried toward the door.

“No, no, no, no!” Tod called out, but Jeff was already out of sight. 

Tod rushed to the cafeteria door and peered into the hallway - no 

sign of Jeff.

Tod called the Miller’s residence when Jeff did not show for 

political science. “He probably just got a wild hair and skipped 

school,” Mrs. Miller surmised.

“No ma’am, I don’t think so. He loves political science, and 

honestly, the guy he ran after looked pretty rough.”

“And he ran after this guy… why?”

“We think the guy might of been a WACO agent, and…”

“Why is that his business?”

“It’s not, really. They’re looking for me.”

Mrs. Miller was beside herself. “I knew this political crap would 

get him in trouble. I’ll call his dad.” Mrs. Miller muttered 

something. Then, “Let me know if you hear from him.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Tod did not return to classes but hid in a storage room until the 

end of school. Then, as the students flooded out, he pushed his 

way into the center of the crowd, all the while looking for Jeff. He 

dreaded the trip home, completely vulnerable in the city bus, but 

what choice did he have?

The bus was late. He felt exposed. Tod held a schoolbook close 

to his face pretending to study, all the while scanning the street 

and school grounds for WACO agents. 

Finally, it arrived. Tod slipped into the bus and chose a seat on 

the aisle in the middle. Of course, they could be on this bus, Tod 

fretted. He dared not look around. He slyly observed each person 

that boarded - none looked suspicious. What if they found out 

our address? What if they’re waiting? What about Aunt Evelyn, 

home alone? It was too late to do anything about that. 

When the bus reached his stop, rather than going straight home, 

he took the street that ran a block behind their cabin, then 

crossed through a neighbor’s yard to a small stand of trees. From 

that vantage point, he could see the back of the house. He could 

see Mrs. Stern watering plants as she often did. Things looked 

normal. He glided through the backyard to where she was 

standing, hose in hand.

“Aunt Evelyn.”

Mrs. Stern gasped and flailed about spraying water every which 

way. “Tod! What in the world are you doing sneaking up on me?”

“I, I’m sorry. Look, we need to get in the house. I may have been 

followed.”

“What?”

Tod took his aunt by the arm and guided her to the back door, 

pausing just long enough to turn the water off. After entering the 

house, Tod walked to the front room and gazed out the window.

“Aunt Evelyn, do you recognize that black car parked across the 

street?”

“No, Hon. Please, what is this all about?”

He closed the curtains and locked all the doors.

“I think a WACO agent came to our school. They may have 

kidnapped Jeff.”

“I’m calling the police,” announced Mrs. Stern. “And Bryan.” Five 

minutes later, a police car drove up to the house, and the 

suspicious car pulled away. After the policeman inspected the 

cabin and yard, he left. Mr. Stern arrived shortly after that.

Tod was explaining all that had transpired when the phone rang. 

It was Mrs. Miller. “Have you seen my son?”

“This is Harold Stern. No we haven’t, Mrs. Miller. What can we do 

to help?”

“For one thing, keep that boy away from my son!” She hung up.

“She hung up on me!”

“She shouldn’t be mad at us,” said Mrs. Stern. “It was a really 

dumb thing to run off after that guy,”

“The Stroman house!” Tod interrupted. “That black car was 

parked in front of their house. Do you know if Mrs. Stroman is 

home?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Stern answered.

Tod jumped to his feet. “Come on. Those guys may thought that 

was where we lived.”

“Stay here,” Mr. Stern ordered. “Both of you. I’ll check on her.”

Mr. Stern hurried out the door; Tod followed. The door was open. 

A muted grunting came from somewhere in the house. “Ginger?” 

Mr. Stern shouted out. Louder moaning and coughing. There on 

the floor of the living room lay Mrs. Stroman hogtied and gagged. 

“Hold on, Ginger. We’ll get you loose.” Mr. Stern pulled out a 

pocket knife and cut away the gag.

“They’re looking for Tod,” she managed. “I told them I didn’t 

know who they were talking about. Then…”

“Take it slow,” said Mr. Stern as he cut away the ropes.

“Then he got back in the car, I think to wait for Tod.”

“Did he say anything about Jeff Miller?” asked Tod.

Mrs. Stroman shook her head, “No.”

“I’m going to call Harold,” said Mr. Stern.

Mrs. Stroman broke down crying. “What’s this world coming to?”

Mr. Stern leaned over. “Come stay with us until Harold comes 

home, Ginger.” Mrs. Stroman nodded through her tears.

Later, Mr. Miller called and asked for Tod. “Son, what do you 

remember about the guy who was in the cafeteria?”

“He was wearing a black coat down to his ankles, a white shirt. 

He was clean-shaven, not too tall, a little pudgy.”

“Pudgy?”

“Not fat, just, uh, stocky. Oh, and his skin looked kind of pasty 

and, well, rough.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No.”

“OK, son. Let me talk to your dad.”

Tod handed Mr. Stern the phone. 

“Mr. Miller.”

“Those WACO monsters are holding my son and making extreme 

demands. I need your help. Could we meet somewhere private?”

“Sure. I’m moving the family to a hotel.”

“Which one?”

“Uh, the New Haven, Meet there?”

“Yes. See you around 7:00?”

“Yes.”

The Sterns packed suitcases. Then, after Mr. Stroman arrived 

home, they drove to the hotel. Mr. Miller arrived shortly after 7 

o’clock.

After brief introductions, they got down to the matter at hand. Mr. 

Miller began. “The kidnappers say they won’t give Jeff back until 

I give them… Tod.”

Mrs. Stern gasped. “You would do that?”

“Of course not.”

“Have you called the police?” Mr. Stern asked.

“No, they warned me against it. Besides, the chief’s a religious 

zealot and, I just learned, a WACO sympathizer.”

“No matter what you do, they’ll keep looking for me anyway,” Tod 

fretted.

“Not necessarily,” said Mr. Miller. “Hear me out. Suppose we 

staged your death?” 

“What? No!” Mrs. Stern protested.

“Hold on. Tod would be in no danger. It may sound a little crazy, 

but I know a special effects guy in the movie business who lives 

right here. He could make a life-size double of Tod, and I’d 

arrange a time for a fake execution.”

“But,” Mr. Stern began, “they’d know it wasn’t real.”

“I thought about that. If we staged it in a public place like on a 

park bench, they’d be less likely to get up close.”

“Can’t you just pay a ransom?” asked Mr. Stern.

“They’re not interested in money. They only want to kill the story, 

including having me promise not to report on them again.”

The Sterns looked to each other. Then Tod spoke up. “I think it’s 

worth a try.”

“I need a picture of you, Tod. Something for the effects guy to go 

on. I brought a camera.” Mr. Miller took the photo then, “I’ll get 

right on it. Call you tomorrow, Bryan.”

After Mr. Miller left, Mr. Stern exhaled, “That’s the most 

harebrained idea I ever heard.”

The next day around noon, Mr. Miller called. “OK, we’re on for 

tomorrow morning, 10:30, Edgewood Park. I told the WACO guy 

that Tod thinks we’re picking up Jeff. They know which bench 

we’ll be at.”

“This sounds so dangerous, David.”

“Yes, but I can’t let them harm either of our sons. Tell you what, 

I’ll call you by 11:00, 11:30 at the latest and confirm how it went.”

“Please. Have you talked to Jeff?”

“Just this morning. He seems OK. Really, I’m not sure he isn’t 

enjoying the attention.”

The next morning, the Sterns were still holed up in the hotel and 

too nervous to eat breakfast. Meanwhile, Mr. Miller loaded the 

dummy in his car and drove to the park. It was almost deserted 

which was not unusual for a weekday morning. He set up the 

mannequin on the appointed bench and waited. Then paced. 

Then walked to the road a hundred feet away to see how 

convincing the dummy was. He hurried back to adjust the 

mannequin’s head as its hastily constructed face was too visible.

10:15. 10:20. 10:25. 10:30. 10: 32… Now 10:45, David Miller 

could not sit still. He began to panic. What if they’ve already killed 

my son? A car had driven by and slowed before continuing on; 

that was 10:15-ish? Or was it earlier? Then the sound of a car 

driving slowly up from behind the row of trees. Mr. Miller leaped 

into character, standing to the side of the Tod mannequin and 

speaking to it as if in conversation.

The black sedan with tinted windows slowed to a stop as Mr. 

Miller gestured to the Tod dummy, nodded to the car, then 

stepped further away.

The front passenger’s window rolled down, and a hand holding a 

pistol emerged. Blam Blam Blam. But instead of falling off the 

bench, the dummy exploded into a cascade of paper mache. The 

shooter turned his gun on Mr. Miller and yelled, “No one fucks 

with the Organization!” and shot him.

David Miller slumped over, bleeding profusely. As he turned 

toward the car, the back door flung open and his son flew out 

onto the ground. Jeff ran to his father. “NO ONE!” screamed the 

WACO bastard. BLAM BLAM!

23. 

My bologna has a first name; it’s O-S-C-A-R. My bologna has a 

second name…

“It’s already 11:00,” Mr. Stern fretted. “Something must have 

gone wrong.”

“Give him a little more time,” Mrs. Stern counseled.

Mr. Stern paced the room. Mrs. Stern straightened the towels in 

the bathroom and tidied the bed. Tod watched silently from a 

chair in the corner of the room. 

Like a good neighbor, State Farm is here.

“Turn that thing off,” Mr. Stern snapped. 

Mrs. Stern walked over to the TV. This just in. “Wait,” Tod 

shouted. TV producer David Miller and his son have just been 

found gun-downed in Edgewood Park. 

“Jeff,” cried Tod. “They killed him?”

“Pack up, you two. NOW!” Mr. Stern ordered. “We’ve go to get 

out of town.”

“But where, Bryan?”

“I don’t know. North. Maine, maybe? Let’s go.”

The Sterns did not return to the cabin to fetch their remaining 

belongings but headed north, all three crammed in the front seat. 

Tod cried silently; Mrs. Stern just shook her head every few 

minutes; and Mr. Stern drove on with a determined look on his 

face saying nothing. Before they left Connecticut, Mr. Stern 

pulled into a bank branch and withdrew his savings.

They drove on, only stopping for a quick sandwich, then on into 

Maine until reaching the Atlantic Ocean in a little town called 

Lubec. It was almost 10:00. There were no hotels or any other 

businesses open. The three exhausted refugees slept where they 

sat.

“You folks lost?”

The old man’s face was backlit by the mid-morning sun.

Mr. Stern rubbed his eyes and sat up erect. “Oh, uh, good 

morning, sir. Lost? No. I guess we just fell asleep after driving all 

day. Suppose we should move the truck.”

“Where you folks from?

Mr. Stern thought quickly: to say New Haven would just lead to 

more questions about his southern accent, and saying the truth, 

Lowman, was too risky. “North Carolina.”

“Well, you’re a long ways from home,” said the short, wiry, bald 

man baked from years in the sun. “You folks hungry? The wife 

could cook you up some breakfast.”

“That is very generous of you Mr…?”

“Cliff. Cliff Macky. Run the oldest sardine packing company in 

Maine. With a name like mine, you’d think I’d be packing 

mackerel.” Mr. Macky had a good chuckle - it was good to have 

a new audience that hadn’t heard the joke a million times.

The Sterns laughed politely; Tod, too, though the accent made it 

hard to decipher what he said.

“So,” continued Mr. Macky after he caught his breath, “see that 

house just there on the cliff, that’s me, of course. Cliff!” Mr. 

Macky slapped his leg. The Sterns tried their best to look 

amused. “Just bang a yoo-ee at the… No, better just follow me,” 

he said and walked over to an ancient rusted out car.

“Bang a yoo-ee?” Mrs. Stern laughed. “Where the hell are we?”

The weathered wood house sat on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic 

Ocean. One large window on the front, a pitched roof, squared 

chimney on the right side. It appeared as though it grew out of 

the landscape.

“Come in, come in,” Mr. Macky beckoned. “Let’s get you some 

breakfast and a cuppa coffee. The wife’ll be happy to meet’cha.”

The house smelled faintly of old seafood. Or maybe seaweed. 

The TV was on in the den. “Maggie! We have guests. MAGGIE!” 

The TV went silent. A rotund woman wearing a flowery muumuu 

walked in with a glass in her hand. “Bub dear, these folks are 

from away. Just up from the south. These are the…”

“Sterns,” said Mr. Stern. “Very nice to meet you. I’m Bryan, my 

wife Evelyn, and my… Tod.”

“What a pleasure to meet you!” Maggie Macky gushed, then 

stumbled further into the room.

Mrs. Stern stood up and approached Mrs. Macky. “I hope we 

aren’t intruding, Maggie.”

“Not at all. Not… so where did you say you’re from?”

“North Carolina,” Mr. Stern interjected. Mrs. Macky just tilted her 

head and nodded.

“Dear,” said her husband, “these folks are hungry. Do you think 

you could scramble up some eggs?”

“Absolutely. Would you like some sardines with that? Just 

kidding!” she laughed. “And I’ll get that coffee going.” Mrs. 

Macky barely cleared the doorway into the tiny kitchen.

“She makes a helluva omelette, too. So, sit. Are you on 

vacation?”

“Y-y-yes,” answered Mr. Stern. “Though really, we’re thinking of 

moving here to your wonderful state.”

“Here?” Mr. Macky looked shocked. “No one moves here. Sheet, 

once the kids are dry behind the ears they take off for warmer 

climes. My kids included. Rarely see them.”

“Get’s that cold does it?”

“Colder than a… never mind. So what would make you want to 

get away from North Carolina.”

Mrs. Stern spoke up. “Honestly, the government has gotten so 

repressive, telling us what books we can read, when and where 

we can go to church, school… They’re taking away our freedom, 

honestly.”

“Mainers would never go for that! No sir,” Mr. Macky voiced 

loudly. “We love our freedom, yes, sir.”

“Did you say something, Cliffy?” Mrs. Macky called from the 

kitchen.

“We’re hardworking, kind folk, but we won’t take sheet like that.”

“You want what?” Mrs. Macky yelled from the kitchen.

“It’s not for everyone, but if you’re looking for friendly people who 

won’t try to mind your business, well, I reckon you found it.”

“You wants some baked beans with these eggs?” Mrs. Macky 

asked.

“Sure, Bubby.”

The circular dining table was just off to the side of the kitchen. 

Mrs. Macky quickly set out three place settings then teetered out 

with a steaming bowl of scrambled eggs, a plate of sausage, and 

a bowl of what looked like larvae swimming in a reddish-orange 

soup. “And baked beans, if you like. Come sit down. Coffee’s 

nearly ready.”

“So, Bryan,” said Mr. Macky, “if you were to stay around in Maine 

for a while, what would you do, or are you independently 

wealthy?” Mr. Macky chuckled.

“Well, my truck says it all. Not broke but would need a job and I 

don’t have any plans.”

“What did you do before?”

“I was a farmer. Then after I sold the farm, a butcher.”

“How would you like to work with me? Packing sardines is kind 

of like butchering, just on a smaller scale.” Mr. Macky laughed 

himself into a coughing frenzy.

“Are you offering me a job?” Mr. Stern paused. “To be honest, I 

don’t know how long we’ll be here.”

“Well, see, summer’s the busiest time of the year, not that we 

don’t catch ‘em mostly year round. But yes, I could use another 

hand around here. Pay’s OK. What do you say?”

Mr. Stern consulted visually with his wife and Tod; they all 

seemed to be amenable. “OK. Let’s give it a try. But first, we’ll 

need to find housing.”

“Might be a little tricky ‘round here. But in the meantime, no 

one’s using the old trawler in the harbah. Gotta be better than 

sleeping in that truck of yours. Just ’til you found a place.”

“What about those cottages down by the cove?” Mrs. Macky 

suggested, “Last I heard, Mabel had a vacancy.”

“Oh, yeah. Tell you what, finish breakfast and I’ll lead you there.”

“And tell her to give them the Mainer price,” Mrs. Macky added.

The drive wasn’t far - nothing in Lubec is far. “Follow me,” said 

Mr. Macky. “I’ll introduce you to Mabel.” The owner lived in the 

last of the ten cottages, all facing the cove where seals bobbed 

in the water not far from the rocky beach. A small wooden sign 

reading Office hung over the white screen door.

Knock knock. “Mabel! I’ve got some possible renters for you. 

Mabel! Come meet the Sterns. They’re from away.”

The form of a wispy woman in her mid-seventies appeared 

behind the screen, diffused.

“Hi Cliff. Come in.” The woman opened the door into her office 

which doubled as her living room. “Come in folks and make 

yourselves comfortable. Tea?”

“Thanks, No thanks,” said Mrs. Stern. “I’m Evelyn Stern. Nice to 

meet you, Mabel. My husband, Bryan, and this is Tod.”

“So, Mabel, these folks are just up from, uh…”

“North Carolina,” Mr. Stern inserted.

“… and Bryan has agreed to work for me.”

“At least for a while.”

“Do you have a place you could rent them? I’m sure they are fine 

people - not Mainers - but fine people anyway.”

“Just how long do you think you might be staying here, Mr. 

Stern?”

“It’s hard to say, ma’am. We have no plans of leaving…”

“Just wanting to try something new,” Mrs. Stern interjected. 

“Now that we sold the farm.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, you’re in luck. I have a very nice 

cottage overlooking the cove, clean, bright. Two bedrooms, 

family room, and a kitchen. I could show you that, if you like.”

“Yes, please,” said Mr. Stern.

The cottage was to their liking, a bit small, but no smaller than 

the cabin in New Haven. After wrangling for a “Mainer price” - 

with the help of Mr. Macky - they came up with a reasonable rent 

to be subsidized by occasional handyman jobs by Mr. Stern and 

Tod.

“Well, get settled and show up tomorrow morning at the cannery. 

8:00 sharp.” Mr. Macky shook Mr. Stern’s hand and left.

24. 

The Sterns got to work fitting in with the locals. 

The sardine cannery had Mr. Stern working several different 

tasks. When the trawlers came in with their hauls, he helped 

bring in the large containers. Sometimes, he washed the little 

herring. Sometimes, he helped with the beheading and gutting. It 

was monotonous work, and smelly, but over time he got used to 

the stench and the Maine accent of his fellow workers.

Mrs. Stern checked in often with their aging landlady, performing 

odd jobs for her including light gardening.

Tod got his driver’s license and took a job washing dishes during 

breakfast and lunch at the Wharf, one of several seafood 

restaurants in Lubec. He drove Mr. Stern to work each morning 

and picked him up that evening. And like Mr. Stern, Tod was 

around the smell of fish all the while he worked, a little off putting 

for a vegetarian, but not as much as the fish bones and heads he 

removed from the plates he washed. Still, the independence was 

invigorating. 

Tod kept up with the news on the cottage’s TV. One story that 

really troubled Tod: “New Haven Chief of Police declares shooting 

of TV producer David Miller and his son a random act of violence 

leaving no clues. The case has been closed.” WACO had 

established itself in Connecticut. Meanwhile, they were in 

complete control in the South and Mid-west and spreading with 

more and more stories of lynchings and disappeared people of 

color. Gays, executed. Libraries, burned. Churches that deviated 

from the authorized doctrine, razed. Opponents of the regime, 

incarcerated or exterminated. Where was the federal 

government? Cowering, no doubt.

The Sterns’ haven in the cove was a respite from the craziness. 

Tod took frequent walks on the quiet rocky beach, seals bobbing 

in the water just beyond reach, bald eagles flying overhead. 

One day in late summer, when the restaurant was particularly 

busy, the owner of the Wharf had Tod help deliver food to tables. 

While the dirty dishes in the back piled up, Tod smiled and 

brought fish to diners. But he almost tripped over his own feet 

when he approached one table, for there sat the most beautiful 

girl he had ever seen. She was about his age and there with her 

parents.

Tod placed the plates on the table, then apologized, “Seems the 

chef forgot the fish on this plate.”

“Oh,” said the girl, “that’s mine. I’m a vegetarian.” 

Tod smiled and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone - me, too.”

When Tod returned to pick up empty plates, the girl told him they 

were from Canada and only in Lubec for a couple of more days. 

Tod took a deep breath and did something he had never done 

before - he asked her for a date.

“Love to.” She blurted, then turned to her parents.

“What’s your name, son?” asked the dad.

“Tod Stern, sir.”

“You don’t talk like everyone around here.”

“No, sir. My folks and I just arrived here early this summer.”

The father looked at his wife, then said. “Alice wouldn’t listen to 

me if I said no, anyway.” He smiled.

So it was set: Tod and Alice would meet that evening at 

Mommas, a restaurant near the hotel she was staying in that was 

supposedly vegetarian-friendly, then go from there.

Tod raced home after washing the mountain of pots and pans 

and dishes, then dressed in his best and picked up Mr. Stern 

from work. 

“What are you all dressed up for?” his uncle asked.

“Well,” Tod declared, “I have a date tonight.”

“Really? A date? And how did you meet this mystery girl?”

Tod told the story emphasizing that Alice was from Canada, very 

pretty, and a vegetarian.”

“That’s terrific, Tod. Terrific. So you’ll need the truck, right?”

“Yes. Please.”

As you might expect, Tod was both excited and nervous. Plus, 

the nagging thought, What if we hit it off, then they leave in a 

couple of days?

He arrived at Mommas a little early. He shuffled around, trying to 

stay out of the way. Should I get a table or wait for her? What if 

she changed her mind? What if she isn’t as pretty as I thought? 

Then the door opened. Alice was beaming as she sashayed in in 

a tie-dyed flowing dress. She was even more beautiful than Tod 

remembered.

She walked directly to him. “Waiting long?”

“All my life,” Tod blurted, then blushed. “No, not at all.”

At the table, Tod asked, “So what part of Canada are you from?”

“Montreal. And you’re from a little farming town in South 

Carolina. Lowman. Your family is on the run.”

“H-how did you know that?”

“I read the papers, watch the news.” Alice’s lips curled wryly. “I 

thought I recognized your name when you introduced yourself.”

Tod sighed. This was not the beginning he had imagined. “I didn’t 

mean to kill that preacher.”

“You don’t look like a killer, Killer,” she chuckled. Tod sighed 

again. “What are you going to have? To eat?” Alice asked, 

smiling.

“Oh, uh, let’s see.” He picked up the menu and stared. There 

weren’t as many vegetarian options as he had hoped for, but the 

plate of vegetable sides looked good enough. “The vegetable 

plate.”

“I’m thinking that too - if the veggies aren’t swimming in animal 

fat. Want a beer?”

“I’m not old enough.”

“I’ll order one and we can share.”

Once the waiter assured them that only the beans had lard in 

them, they chose their “sides” and ordered.

“So you’re eighteen?” asked Tod.

“Not really. Fake ID.” Alice put her finger to her lips. “So, tell me 

about this preacher, Killer.”

Tod recounted his experience in the church and how he fled after 

that.

“So, do you still go to church?”

“Sometimes.”

“To each his own.” Alice took a sip of the recently-arrived beer, 

then passed it to Tod.

“You an atheist?” Tod asked.

“I wouldn’t say that. Haven’t decided. Have you heard that new 

song by that singer, another southern boy, James Taylor?” she 

asked, then began singing:

“A song that they sing of their home in the sky 

Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep 

But singing works just fine for me” 

Tod noticed the other diners staring. But his initial 

embarrassment quickly turned to enchantment. Who cared what 

the other people thought. He was in Heaven. Heaven.

The young waiter arrived with their food, and after eyeing the 

beer next to Tod, quietly shifted it in front of Alice.

“Guess we got off to a rather serious start. Sorry, Tod.”

“No, no. So, how do you like your food?”

“Not bad for a restaurant here in fish land.” They both laughed. 

“I’d probably have cooked the broccoli less. But that’s not why 

we’re here.” She slid the beer back over to Tod. “Do you believe 

in premonitions?”

“You mean, like hunches?”

“Yeah. Well I had a hunch that this trip with my parents was going 

to be something auspicious, something special. Then I met you 

at the Wharf.” Alice grabbed the beer from Tod and finished it. 

“My premonitions are never wrong.”

“Man, I’ve never met anyone like you. Never. Not close.”

“Wel-l-l-l,” she chuckled, “my name is Alice Goldberg; I’m 

seventeen; Jewish; an artist - painter to be exact; I’m skipping a 

year of high school and starting McGill University this coming 

year; I generally don’t like politicians; absolutely don’t like clergy; 

and I like tall guys with curly hair. Anything else you want to 

know?”

“What’s your favorite color?” Tod laughed.

“Red. Bright red! Waiter, could I have another, please,” she 

beckoned with her empty mug. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Purple.”

“Ahhh. Figures. Red mixed with a sad blue. We’ll have to see 

about that blue streak.”

Tod was speechless, swept along in a landslide. He had only just 

met this girl that day. Had only talked with her for ten or fifteen 

minutes. Still, it felt like the rest of his life was unfolding just then 

in a restaurant in northern Maine.

“But if I had been through what you’ve been through,” Alice 

continued, “I would be totally blue, deep desperate blue. You’re a 

brave and gentle man, Killer.”

“So you know, I’m nothing special. Really.”

“I’ll be that judge of that. You’ve obviously got your head on 

straight, not full of yourself. I suspect that being too humble 

might be your only fault,” she giggled. “All the guys I meet - 

mostly artists - are pompous pricks, a bunch of Narcissus 

sissies. You obviously don’t think that the world turns around 

you.”

“No. More like I’m running from the world these days.”

“Running, yes. But there’s a difference between running to 

protect yourself and running from your fears. Ugh! There I go 

getting all serious.”

“From my fears?”

“Forget it - I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“You want to know what my biggest fear is? You’re going to 

laugh. Going to hell.”

Alice did not laugh but looked fondly into Tod’s eyes. “Takes a lot 

of courage to question your long-held beliefs.”

Tod sighed. “So, what sort of painting do you do?”

“Non-representational. Oils and acrylics, mostly. I started out 

drawing - well, finger painting before that,” she laughed. “I used 

to paint representational, then switched to abstract.”

“Why the switch?”

“I want to paint what I feel, to explore color and shape without 

the confines of objects in the so-called real world. Besides, if 

someone wants a realistic picture, there’s always the camera.”

“The ‘so-called real world’? What do you mean?”

Alice slammed her hand on the table. “Would you say this table is 

solid?“ Tod nodded. “Actually, it is made up of molecules further 

apart relatively than objects in space. Yet we see it as solid. A 

hawk can see a mouse on the ground from a hundred feet above. 

Or take people on acid - their world is particularly real to them. 

And to the fundamentalist, hell is as real as this beer.” Alice 

smiled. “Sorry. I’m just saying that we only perceive the world to 

the extent that our senses and predispositions let us.” 

“I think I know what you’re saying. I had a friend named Woody. 

He lived in a very different world.”

“Yes. Do you still keep up with Woody?”

“No. He died. Murdered actually. He was Black.”

“Damn!” Alice shook her head and stared at her food.

Tod broke the silence. “I love the way you explain things, Alice. 

Have you ever thought about being a teacher?”

“No. But I bet you are a good student,” she chuckled. “So where 

do you want to go from here?”

“Maybe a walk?”

“There’s a little dive a few blocks from here. We could walk there. 

They’ve got a band playing - don’t know if they’re any good.”

“Sure, but do you think we can get in?”

“It’s a little dive in a little Maine fishing town. We can get in.” Alice 

ran her hand through Tod’s hair. “Their,” she laughed, “now you 

look older.”

They finished their meal and headed toward the dive, The Shark’s 

Lair. The night had a chill, cloudless, no moon but infinite stars. 

Rarely did a car pass. 

As they walked, Tod reaccessed the moment: he was falling too 

fast for someone leaving in a couple of days and going to college 

in Canada. He suddenly felt very vulnerable and out of his 

depths.

“So, what do you do in your spare time, Tod Stern. I mean, when 

you’re not running from terrorists or washing dishes?”

“Hmmm, not much. I like to read. And I keep a journal.”

“What about?”

“You know, what’s going on around me. What I’ve been through.” 

“When did you start journaling?”

“After they killed Woody.”

“Could I read it sometime?”

“It’s pretty depressing.”

“You should turn it into a book.”

“But who on earth would care to read about me?”

“Don’t you see? You’re chronicling the demise of the United 

States from a personal perspective. It’s not so much about you 

as it is about documenting an important time in history.”

As they walked on quietly for a block, lively bluegrass music 

began to seep into the otherwise quiet night.

Alice chuckled, “Not my favorite kind of music, but they sound 

pretty good. A good dance band, anyway.”

There was no one checking IDs when they arrived at the Shark’s 

Lair. Nor did the bartender check. The lighting was low, the music 

loud, the beer cold. This was a totally new experience for Tod.

The band was playing a medium-slow song. Alice turned to Tod, 

“Let’s dance.” Tod looked petrified. “I’ll lead,” she laughed and 

dragged him out to the middle of the floor.

It wasn’t that Tod didn’t like music or had no sense of rhythm, he 

just had never danced before. Before the song was over he felt 

he had danced all his life.

After a handful of songs and a couple of beers, Alice leaned over, 

“Let’s go outside for some fresh air.” They exited out the back 

onto a small patio under that canopy of stars. Before either said a 

word, Alice pulled Tod against her. Their lips touched then parted. 

They merged into wetness, falling deeper and deeper into each 

other. Her hands roamed his back; his, hers. 

Generations were born and died, seasons came and seasons 

went, stars were born and then expired. His fate was sealed 

within that kiss.

They were holding hands when their lips parted. Looking into 

each other’s eyes as if they had known each other for ever. 

Finally, “Want to dance some more?”

Tod caught his breath. “Sure.”

They entered the dive as different people than when they had 

stepped out. For the moment, words were not necessary; they 

were intrusive. The moment was enough. The endless moment. 

It was a slow song playing. The two swayed on the dance floor, 

invisible, alone in the crowd. Even after the ballad had finished, 

they swayed. Then, moments or maybe hours later, “Last call.”

The two walked back hand in hand, silent for the most part. The 

streets were practically empty, the stores all long-closed. 

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Tod asked as they approached the 

hotel.

“See me? I hope you want more than just to see me,” Alice 

teased, then wrapped herself around him. “But don’t you have to 

work?”

“I’ll call in sick.”

“Bad boy. B-a-ad boy.” Alice licked her lips. “See you tomorrow, 

coffeeshop 10:00,” she purred as she slinked away. 

Tod woke the next morning with a smile on his face. The Sterns 

were up and having coffee. The TV was on. The Supreme Court 

has ruled that WACO detention camps are permissible as they fall 

under states’ jurisdiction. In a related story, the White American 

Christian Organization has announced its own candidate for 

president. This after already taking over a majority of the House.

“Better hurry if you’re taking me to work,” said Mr. Stern.

“How was your date?” asked Mrs. Stern.

“Good. Can I have the truck today, Dad? Alice wanted to hang 

out.”

“Don’t you have work?”

“Roger can handle it for me.”

“Sure. I guess so. I can get Cliff or someone to drive me home.”

Tod walked into the coffeeshop at 10:00 to find Alice already with 

a cup of coffee and scouring the newspaper. Tod sneaked behind 

her and kissed her on the top of her head.

“Killer, my Killer!” She turned and kissed him. “I thought you’d 

never get here. Have you seen the news? Those WACO guys are 

going nuts. Now they can legally detain innocent people, and 

now they’re running some asshole for president?” Alice took a 

breath. “Sorry, there I go again,” she sighed. “How did you 

sleep?”

“Like I was on a cloud.” Tod sat down next to her.

“Coffee, sir?” a witness asked.

“Yes, please. Black.” Then smiling at Alice, “You ever thought 

about studying political science? Getting into government?”

“Absolutely not. Like I said, I abhor politicians. They’re all crooks. 

And if they’re not when they’re elected, they become crooks in 

office.”

“Of course that’s not for you. What was I thinking - you’re an 

artist.”

Yes, but I also don’t need somebody telling me how to paint. I 

want to study philosophy or journalism, or both.”

“Philosophy? I didn’t think you were religious.”

“I’m not, but I’m curious how people think and why they think it. 

OK, enough with all that. What shall we do today?” 

“I thought we might take a walk along the coastline. There’s a 

state park about 4 miles from here. I brought some sandwiches in 

case we wanted to picnic.”

“And a blanket to lie on?”

“Absolutely.”

“Sounds dreamy.”

They parked in the park’s parking lot and made their way to the 

shore. Tod pointed across the channel. “That’s Canada over 

there.”

“I know. You know, you really should move to Canada.”

“And how could I do that?”

“A student visa. Or, of course, if you ever married a Canadian you 

could get citizenship.” A few more steps. “Not that I’m trying to 

imply anything.”

“God no,” Tod responded. “We just met.”

They clasped hands and continued walking. On one side, the 

channel and Canada; on their side, black cliffs of magmatic rock. 

And up ahead, a giant candy cane thrust into the sky - a 

lighthouse. 

Alice pointed to the structure. “Want to climb that?”

“Sure.”

They traversed the rocky shoreline, gulls calling above them, 

waves crashing gently on the rocks beside them.

The lighthouse was empty when they arrived. A plaque at the 

entrance informed that it was built in 1808 and was the most 

eastern lighthouse in the country. The two climbed the 

windowless tower, its ancient wooden steps creaking under them 

until a gust of air announced they were nearing the top.

The view was breathtaking as they stepped onto the gallery 

deck. Tod had never experienced anything like the vastness of 

water stretching as far as he could see. He felt free and 

weightless, much like that brief moment of flying after visiting 

Woody.

He moved behind Alice and wrapped his arms around her. It felt 

so natural. She placed her hands on his and gently squeezed.

“See those red cliffs over there,” Alice pointed. “That’s New 

Brunswick. Canada.” She squeezed his hands tighter. “You know, 

I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Silence.

“I can’t bear to think about it, Alice.”

“Me neither.” Silence. “I want you to make love to me.”

Tod squeezed her harder. “Here?”

Alice chuckled. “Remember the stand of trees we passed?”

That was all that needed saying. They hurried down the 

lighthouse stairs, hand in hand. Just as they were reaching the 

bottom, a family going up blocked their way.

“Excuse us,” Tod muttered.

The man gave Tod a strange puzzled look, then moved to the 

side saying nothing, his eyes never leaving Tod.

“That guy was weird,” Alice huffed. “C’mon, Killer. Time’s a￾wasting.”

The two hurried back to the wooded area and walked in until they 

found a secluded spot covered with a carpet of pine needles. 

They both lay their jackets down. Tod looked into Alice’s eyes. 

“Just so you know…”

“I know, your first time. Come here. Let’s just see how good of a 

teacher I would make.”

And for the first time, Tod lost himself. Lost himself in another. 

Lost himself from his fears. 

They spent an eternity embraced.

“You’re a very good student, Killer,” Alice whispered.

“Thanks, Teach.”

“Shall we get that picnic basket from the car and replenish our 

strength?”

The two dressed and floated back to the parking lot. There were 

a lot more cars there than when they first arrived. As they 

meandered through the vehicles, “Agh!” Tod stopped dead and 

pointed at the car adjacent to the truck. On the bumper, the 

bleeding crown of thorns WACO bumpersticker. And a second 

sticker, Exterminate the Infidels. A row over, another car with the 

same WACO emblem and a sticker that read, Eliminate the 

Enemy. Both cars were from Maine. 

“They’re in Maine!” Tod gasped. “In Maine! Let’s get out of here!”

25. 

“It’s not the end of the world. Not yet.”

It was midafternoon when they entered Lubec.

“Got any money,” asked Alice.

“Yeah, a few dollars.”

“Let’s get a beer and eat those sandwiches.”

There were just a few customers at the Shark’s Lair when they 

entered: one fellow who looked as though he had been there all 

night and two gray-bearded gentlemen playing checkers. The TV 

was on in the background.

“Maybe I was overreacting at the park,” Tod thought out loud.

“Are you kidding me? It was a terrible shock to see those damn 

stickers!” Alice took a sip of beer. “Especially after the wonderful 

time we had in the forest,” she sighed and squeezed Tod’s hand.

They sat and talked as they ate their sandwiches until a TV 

announcement caught their attention: New poll predicts that 

WACO-loyal legislators will take over both houses of Congress in 

the coming election.

“There’s no way you and your family can stay in this country,” 

Alice insisted. “Look, my dad runs a large manufacturing 

company in Montreal, and he always needs employees. They 

make gears, of all things. If your uncle worked for him, you could 

live in Canada without worry and you could finish school there.” 

“That would be terrific. But how could we make that happen? 

Plus, you’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Let me handle this. Just talk your people into having dinner with 

mine tonight and leave the rest to me. So, Mommas again?”

“Sure.”

“7:00. Fingers crossed.”

They hung out a bit longer before Tod dropped Alice off at her 

hotel, then drove to the cannery. He found Mr. Stern on the 

processing line cutting and gutting sardines as fast as he could, 

so fixated on keeping up with the line that he didn’t even notice 

Tod walk up.

A horn sounded after a bit announcing the end of the shift, but 

Mr. Stern kept working for a few more minutes. When he looked 

up, he was perspiring profusely. He smiled at Tod. “What are you 

doing here? I thought you were on a date.”

“Was. You ready to go home?”

“Yes. Just got to clean up a little.”

On the way to the cabin, Tod told Mr. Stern about the WACO 

stickers and about the man who eyed him on the lighthouse 

stairs. “They’re already in Maine. They’ll soon control the whole 

country.”

Mr. Stern just shook his head in disgust.

“Tell me something good, Tod. Tell me about your afternoon with 

this girl.”

“Alice. She’s wonderful, Uncle Bryan. She’s pretty and smart 

and… I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“Sounds like you’ve been bitten.”

Tod smiled. “Would you and Aunt Evelyn join us tonight for 

dinner? I want you to meet her and her parents.”

“This really sounds serious.” 

“Would you?”

“Let me shower and think about it. You need to ask your aunt, 

too. You know how she doesn’t like to spend money.”

“You’re going to love Alice, Uncle. She’s wonderful!”

It didn’t take much arm twisting to convince his aunt. She was 

obviously very happy to see Tod happy. 

The Sterns were the first to arrive at the restaurant and sat at a 

table for six. Tod fidgeted and kept a close watch on the door. 

Mr. and Mrs. Stern casually looked over the menu. Only ten 

minutes had passed, but Tod was already worried that the 

Goldbergs would not show up.

“There they are.” He stood and waved.

Mrs. Stern turned to her nephew, “She’s very pretty, Tod.”

Mr. Stern stood and extended his hand to Mr. Goldberg. “Bryan 

Stern.”

“Adam Goldberg. Nice to meet you.”

After all the introductions, the six sat and chatted.

“My daughter tells me that things have gotten pretty rough for 

your family with these WACO idiots.”

“They have indeed, Adam.”

Mr. Goldberg shook his head. “Why can’t people just live and let 

live? Seems so simple. Shall we order a bottle of wine?”

“Umm, Mr. Goldberg,” Tod started, “my folks don’t…”

“…drink that much,” Mr. Stern inserted. “But tonight, let’s.” 

Tod was both flabbergasted and tickled. He had never seen the 

Sterns drink. Even Evelyn Stern seemed to be OK with the idea. 

Mr. Goldberg ordered the wine and six glasses. This is a night of 

firsts, Tod thought.

“So,” said Mrs. Goldberg, “Alice has told us a little about your 

struggles with that mob. What got you all the way up to Maine?”

“It was as far away as we could get from them, I reckon,” said 

Mrs.Stern. “After we sold the farm, we thought we’d be OK in 

New Haven; I have a cousin there. But then WACO agents 

showed up. So here we are.”

“And you’re working at the sardine cannery, Bryan? How is that 

going?” asked Mr. Goldberg.

“Wouldn’t be my first choice of work. But it’s steady and provides 

a decent income.”

Adam Goldberg placed his hands on the table. “Whatever they’re 

paying you, I can do better, Bryan. Much better. Why don’t you 

come work for me? I hate to think of a sweet family like yours 

being trapped in the States; it’s not safe. Besides, I could use a 

good trustworthy man like yourself.”

Mr. Stern looked at his smiling wife. Then answered, “I don’t 

know what to say, Adam.”

“Just think about it. Meantime, let’s order some food and get 

another bottle of wine.” 

The whole time Tod and Alice sat next to each other holding 

hands. This was to be their last night together, but now there was 

the possibility of more days and nights. Years, perhaps.

Bryan Stern gave two weeks notice at the cannery. Mr. Goldberg 

arranged for a Canadian work visa. Everything was set.

Paradise 

A few days after they arrived in Montreal, Tod was up at the crack 

of dawn. He dressed warmly and walked out onto the tree-lined 

sidewalk bordering the suburban houses close together like tight 

rows of cotton. His first impulse was to look over his shoulder; 

instead, he chuckled - no one would be following him here. The 

air was brisk and froze his breath in front of him. It was 

invigorating to this transplanted southern boy. A neighbor 

walking his dog waved from across the street; a city bus passed 

with passengers of all colors going to work; a smiling policeman 

drove by; a paperboy bicycling by called up forgotten feelings of 

exhilaration when he learned to ride a bike as a young child - his 

earliest taste of freedom. And now, he thought, I have been 

reborn. His mind cleared, his heart opened. Free at last.

The Sterns quickly adapted to their new lives. Mr. Stern enjoyed 

the change of pace working at the gear company; Mrs. Stern 

discovered a love for dogs and started a dog walking service; 

Tod began his senior year in high school with an accelerated 

class in French; and Alice began her freshman year at McGill 

University and moved into a dorm, promising the young lovers 

plenty of opportunities for romantic rendezvous.

After a year as a philosophy major, Alice switched to business 

and later joined her dad’s company. And Tod, Tod found his voice 

in journalism and eventually became a reporter for one of 

Montreal’s popular newspapers. Many of his early stories 

focused on abuse of power by religious groups and 

governments. 

And there was much to write about. As for the planet, with little 

cooperation from the masses, climate scientists had given up. In 

the States, WACO had infiltrated all levels of the government. 

Their power was total. The country had become a theocracy 

ruled by wicked, self-serving autocrats. And once WACO 

controlled the government, they closed all borders to the U.S. - 

not that the Sterns would ever want to return. 

But as Tod aged and the world unraveled, he turned inward. 

There he found peace not answers, acceptance not retribution, 

possibilities not solutions. He had become content with not 

knowing. And best of all, Hell seemed a distant fairy tale. 

And there was no more running.

Many years later, Tod and Alice sat warming themselves next to 

the fire in their cabin and reminiscing. “Does it ever bother you 

that you can never go back, Tod.” 

“Of course not. Why would I want to go back? Everything I could 

ever want is here.” He reached for Alice’s hand. “Tu es tout pour 

moi, Alice. Je t’aime.” 

“Moi aussi, je t’aime, Killer.”

They were just as much in love that day as the day they met. 

Even more so. 

Alice looked into the eyes of her beloved. “Tod, you should write 

a memoir some day.”