The Adventures of Wiliford: Heretofore Untold

by The Captain of Deep Springs

Preface

The 2015 National Survey of Drug Use and Health revealed that 50.1 percent of your fellow Americans had tried illegal drugs at some point in their life. Only 6.4 percent admitted to trying methamphetamine. Yet that small percentage represents over twenty million Americans, and many of those who did walked into a snare from which they will never free themselves.

Amphetamine is a synthetic drug developed in 1887 in Germany. Later, in 1919, the Japanese developed a more potent and easier-to-produce version called methamphetamine. It was used to give soldiers on both sides of the war a short burst of energy for combat.

Methamphetamine usually comes in the form of a crystalline white powder that is odorless, bitter-tasting, and dissolves easily in water or alcohol.

Other colors of the powder have been observed, including brown, yellow-gray, orange, and even pink. It can be compressed into pill form. It can also be snorted, smoked, or injected. Crystal meth comes in clear chunky crystals resembling ice and is most commonly smoked.

In the short term, “meth” and “crystal meth” create a false sense of well-being and energy, so a person will tend to push his body faster and further than it is designed to go. Afterward, users can experience a severe “crash” or physical and mental breakdown after the effects of the drugs wear off.

Because the continued use of the drug decreases natural feelings of hunger, users can experience extreme weight loss. Deleterious effects can also include disturbed sleep patterns, hyperactivity, nausea, delusions of power, increased aggressiveness, and irritability.

Other serious effects can include insomnia, confusion, hallucinations, anxiety, and paranoia. In some cases, use can cause convulsions that lead to death.

In the long term, meth use can cause irreversible harm: increased heart rate, elevated blood pressure, and damaged blood vessels in the brain, resulting in strokes or an irregular heartbeat. But it doesn’t stop there. It can also cause cardiovascular collapse or death, not to mention liver, kidney, and lung damage.

Users may suffer brain damage, including memory loss and an increasing inability to grasp abstract thoughts. Those who recover are usually subject to memory gaps and extreme mood swings. Abusers are distinguished by severe tooth decay and tooth loss, sunken and emaciated features, and a poor completion. In general, they appear to have aged at a greatly accelerated rate.

But this only describes their decline. It says nothing of abusers’ impact on others. An addict’s woes refuse to stop at their life’s borders. Like a raging forest fire, it leaps rivers, jumps ridges, vanquishes whole structures, and refuses to acknowledge boundaries. The fire, once lit in the soul of the addict, takes on a life of its own. The initial arsonist is irrelevant. Once the combustibles are assembled, the spark ignited, and the oxygen of availability combine, the fire ranges on until all semblance of normal is reduced to ashes. Winds of passion swirl into untraceable patterns of destruction. The dry tender of unmet needs, neglect, poor nutrition, poverty, and anger explode in violent bursts of energy no one can stand against.

Everyone who comes close to the addict feels the scorching heat and either retreats or becomes enveloped by it and instinctively begins their own fight for life and normalcy. Until weakened and scarred by the battle, they, too, respond with similar toxicity. Eventually, the whole family is a daily swirl of constant conflagration—pathos, intimidation, violence, vulgarity, and sorrow. Schedules, routines, promises, and duties all fall to the flame. But unlike the forest fire that rages for a few days and is eventually extinguished, these fires often run their course over generations.

Family life might best be captured as a piece of German Expressionism than with the sharp and distinct lines of a photograph. Odd caricatures replace the people in the picture. Distorted. Indistinct. Stunted. Potentials are not completely erased but smeared on the page. The future is not illuminated but comes at them in a fog. Healthy appetites for life are diminished, while dark desires gnaw at their souls.

Happiness, joy, love, faith, and peace are no longer discernible in their native form and are replaced by tokens. Triggers of pain line every day’s path, like land mines in a war zone. A single careless word releases an explosion with massive spiritual carnage. Family members walk on eggshells, choosing to say nothing than to start a war over anything. Souls die.

Roles are turned upside down. Parents become children. Children become caretakers. Siblings create their own dynamics, assigned not by the parents’ authority but by the unassailable authority of the disease. The family mobile hangs sickeningly out of balance.

Yet in these very settings, we find stories of hope and redemption. Stories that reveal the love and providence of our Creator. Tales that belie that notion that nothing can be done and that there is no hope. The story of Wiliford Hayes is one such story.

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I wish to give thanks to the Holy Spirit who, on so many occasions, gave me the inspiration to forge a new plot line not previously planned or supplied a dialogue that was foreign to my normal lines of thought. I rarely think of myself as an especially creative person, yet His creativity awakened parts of my brain that I had rarely experienced before. Writing became such a joy as He surprised me with something new and exciting each day.

I am also indebted to my daughter, Charity Keith, for the kind praise and the inspiration she offered to me. This was especially helpful when the process seemed to be without reward.

And likewise, to my dear friend and former coworker, Carla Franks, whose efficacious praise and belief that my work had spiritual value and importance, I offer my sincere thanks. I dare say that without your insistent prompting and gentle pleadings, this book would never have come into being.

To my brother in Christ and longtime fellow Bible student, Marion Beacham, thanks for the time you volunteered to read my galley proof. Your insights and observations were important to me as I continued to revise my writing.

Last, but perhaps most important, I would like to thank the grandparents that I came to know through my grandson’s Cub Scouting endeavors. Especially those of you who were raising your grandsons because of your own children’s disabling drug addiction to meth. The tragedy of your situation and the knowledge that meth abuse has such a grip on an entire generation of rural young people touched me deeply.

The number of people close to an addict, whose lives are disrupted by their choices, is staggering. The call for others to step up and fill in the gap is huge. Beyond the demand for prisons to hold the gangs, mules, and dealers of these drugs is the need to build rehab centers, halfway houses, and work-release programs to salvage the human ruins these drugs leave behind. Not to mention the cry for family and friends to come alongside the children and spouses who seek to find normalcy once again. For those of you who step into these roles, I can only hope this work of fiction brings honor to your nonfictional sacrifices.

And to all of you who decide to take a chance on an unknown author and read this book, I must also express my gratitude. It is for you that I have spent so many hours writing and editing this work in the earnest prayer that the same Holy Spirit who inspired me to write would inspire you with a new desire for understanding of your Heavenly Father and His infinite love for you, and further, that by seeking Him, you will find blessings that continue to unfold throughout your life on earth and in the eternal ages to come.

Introduction

I was shocked when I received a call from Wiliford Hayes in November of 1990 with a request to meet him at his mother’s home. I was even more shocked when he gave me the address. It pointed to a rundown trailer outside of town on a rural road, condescendingly referred to as Inbred Alley by everyone at our high school. It was a narrow, creepy road that was mostly wooded but sparsely dotted with rusty algae-covered trailers or small frame homes with busted front porches and no garages. Tacky lawn ornaments, broken swing sets, and abandoned vehicles seemed to be the community standard. Residents were mainly poor or old and on welfare or drugs, or some combination. This was not a place I would have connected with Wiliford Hayes in my wildest imagination.

I knew Wiliford from high school even though he was a grade ahead of me. In fact, there wasn’t a girl in the whole county who didn’t know Wiliford. He was a star athlete, tall, deliciously handsome, and an all-around great kid. It was a standing challenge among all my friends and the girls in his class on who would be the first to “get” him. He was every girl’s hottest fantasy, but it never seemed to go to his head. He was later given a free ride to play football for state, where he excelled and was in line to go pro. But he chose the military instead.

He was the straightest arrow in school, which made him “just out of reach” and all the more tempting. I didn’t think he even knew my name, so it was entirely unexpected when I received his call.

It was now six years after he graduated, and a lot had changed. Like so many girls in this part of the country, the expected rituals of prom had caught me unprepared and seemingly destined to life as a single mother. Through an act of unbelievable grace, my now-husband, who was not the father, found the love of Joseph to marry me anyway, and we now have two wonderful children that he loves equally and passionately. Yet as gratefully and happily married as I now am, I have to confess that when I heard the voice of Wiliford Hayes on the other end of the phone line, I felt quite a flush of schoolgirl emotions. Fortunately, the maturity of marriage and the responsibility of children put those feelings back in the box, and after an exchange of shock and surprise and a catching up of time and the news of a few mutual friends and teachers who had passed or been fired, he got to the business of his call.

It seems that he was on leave from Desert Shield because of the passing of his mother. He was her only relative, and not only did he need to bury her but also dispose of her possessions. The military had given him two weeks. There was no urgency from their perspective since the thrust of the operation was primarily to build a defensive perimeter for our ally, Saudi Arabia. They were staging troops and military equipment in a show of force and intimidation, hoping that Saddam Hussein would come to his senses and leave Kuwait. It was primarily a waiting game at this point, so the Army felt they were giving him a gracious plenty allotment of time. He explained that the funeral had been held yesterday and was a nice service. But he also shared that there were just a few in attendance, mostly members from his church and some from the hospice, where she had passed. I think he was saddened by that.

I offered my deepest sympathies at his loss and asked how I could help. Wiliford said that he would explain more when I got to his place but that he needed my help to tell his story since I was the only writer he knew. I explained that I just wrote some freelance articles for our local newspaper, that I had never gone to school for journalism, and that I wasn’t an author by any stretch of the imagination. But that didn’t seem to deter him. So I agreed to meet him the next day after dropping my kids off at day care.

So as I drove down the narrow dusty road of Inbred Alley (apologies to any offended), I tried to imagine what he would look like, how I should act, and how in the world I would be able to write about his story of sporting triumphs when I had no love for sports at all, other than to watch hunky guys slamming into each other like rams in rut. I had picked out my most professional-looking black suit, one that I wore to pick up and turn in my assignments at the newspaper. It was slimming and did a pretty good job of hiding my remaining “baby pounds.” I admit that I spent a little more time in front of the mirror, though I reminded myself that this was just business as usual.

I parked in the front yard next to his truck and climbed the broken front steps, trying not to form opinions of what was clearly a wrong setting for the life I knew as belonging to Wiliford Hayes. “Wiliford! Hi, it’s Jenny. We spoke on the phone.” I spoke through the tattered screen on the outer door once he struggled to open the sticky inner door. I didn’t suppose that he would know who I was by sight.

“Jenny! It’s great to see you. My, I am glad you said your name. I thought maybe you were some high school girl out selling Girl Scout cookies or something! You look great! You haven’t aged a bit. Come in and give me a hug.”

Wow, after a line like that, I was putty. Not to mention the military haircut and ripped muscles that I was sure would split open his tight T-shirt and jeans at any second. I am not sure what I said next, but I am pretty certain it was stupid and incoherent. He invited me to sit down at the only furniture remaining in the home—a card table and folding chairs. We chatted a bit more and then began to get to the point.

What followed was his first telling of the story that comprises this book. Fortunately, he had kept several notebooks in almost diary form, though most of the early information was added after the fact. It was an amazing story that frankly I didn’t believe at first, but I agreed to at least read his notes and consider the project. That night, I read through the notes he had written. They were, in part, a retelling of initial events. Then once I caught up to the time he began to journal (at age thirteen), the notes turned into a detailed diary of his life. The notebooks spanned from nine years of age until he went to high school at age fourteen. I was hooked, in no small part because it didn’t involve sports, but mostly because it was one of the most harrowing and touching stories I have ever heard.

So I called him the next day and agreed to take on the project. For the remainder of his leave, we managed to get together at the trailer. Later, he took me to some of the other important places in his story as he laid out the details of his amazing childhood. To be honest, it didn’t fully sink in until I started to type it on my home computer. Over the following weeks and months, I began the task of verifying and organizing the story. I often came to places in the story where I had questions and had to convey those questions through a very tedious process of mailing Wiliford my questions then awaiting his answers. Military mail in a war zone is not always efficient, and this became one of my greatest frustrations. Having never written anything larger than a newspaper column before, this became a great vexation to me, and I often had to break my focus and set my questions aside for up to a week or two as I awaited his reply.

However, before I could finish the book, I received the greatest heartbreak of my life. It came just a few months later, in January of 1991, when I received word that Willie Hayes was one of what would eventually be the 148 casualties of Desert Storm. I remember dropping the phone and just sobbing. It was like losing a member of my family.

My family and I attended his funeral. Unlike his mother’s funeral, half the county showed up to wish Wiliford Godspeed to his final resting place. A police escort slowly led the hearse from the airport to the church. Veterans in uniform, mothers with babies, sports teams with their coaches, families, classrooms of students and teachers, scouting organizations, politicians, and several news organizations lined the roads for the miles that led to the church. Each saluted or waved a flag as the hearse carrying the body of Second Lieutenant Wiliford Hayes slowly passed.

The humble little Full Gospel Church where Wiliford was a member could not hold the crowd, so the First Baptist Church graciously turned over their sanctuary to the fiery old Black preacher who memorialized the life of Wiliford Hayes and brought the joys of heaven and fear of hell alive to everyone in attendance. They said that seventy-eight people turned their lives over to Christ in area churches the Sunday after that funeral service, and churches were full for months afterward.

Yet nothing of what Wiliford shared with me was made known to the attendees during the service. After the funeral, I waited and managed to get a moment alone with Reverend Barger and shared who I was and what Wiliford had asked me to do. I asked him why he didn’t mention anything of Wiliford’s childhood or their time together in the woods. Instead of giving me a direct answer, he asked if I would meet him the next morning at his little church.

The next morning, he met me at the building that sat next to the trailer where I met Willie just a few months ago. While it no longer looked like a gas station convenience store, it didn’t really have the appearance of a church either. Just a nondescript building with no signage at all. There was a fresh pot of coffee and a dozen donuts waiting on a table. He explained that he only had a half an hour before some of the neighbors would be arriving for their morning fellowship hour. But he graciously and patiently answered my questions during the time we had available. I suppose that we developed a friendship and respect based on the trust that Wiliford had extended to each of us. He had trusted his life to Sammy Joe, and to me, the story of his life.

Sammy Joe did not tell me not to write Willie’s story but asked me to pray and wait until God told me to write it. He explained to me the reasons he had remained silent on the subject, and I felt they were valid from his point of view, at least for a few months, but I didn’t see that they should stop me. After all, that would be the time when people would be most eager to read Wiliford’s story. But I honored the pastor’s request and prayed. And inexplicably, the desire to complete this project evaporated.

I convinced myself that my change of passion was because there was no further reason or need to write his story. It seemed that the humbleness and shame of his roots might take away from the heights of glory that he had been memorialized with. It just felt wrong to tell his childhood story then.

Yet on so many of the nights that followed, as I tucked my children in bed, I prayed for them and told them how very much I loved them. I thought of a little nine-year-old boy who had no one to tuck him in bed or comfort him when he was hurt. So I would tell them the story of that little boy and how God led him to an angel who changed his life in the most remarkable ways.

Then strangely, just last year, I received word that Pastor Sammy Joe Barger had gone on to his eternal reward, a full twenty-five years to the day after Wiliford passed. I realized after telling that long story to my precious little grandchildren that it was not just Willie’s story that I was supposed to write. It was the story of his “angel,” Sammy Joe. It was as if God had kept me from writing the story until he had passed. Something reawakened in my soul, and I knew it was time to tell the miracle of Wiliford’s adventures.

Nom de plume,
Jennifer Rutherford Miller

Chapter 1 - It’s Time to Pack

Wiliford sat in his bedroom, looking out the window at the forest behind his house. It was mid-November, and a shroud of mist had turned the vibrant autumn colors to a pale gray. For those struggling with difficult emotions, it had the effect of dialing hope, joy, and optimism down by half. Happy people were just okay, while the normally melancholy now felt despondency. Pity those already in the throes of deep sadness.

Willie was gently rocking, trying to calm himself after the torrent of shouts and insults that had rained down on his head. His mother and her “special friend” had been arguing all morning in their bedroom after another night of heavy drinking. Wiliford had made the mistake of asking for breakfast. It was late in the morning. He had a gnawing hunger. He had obediently waited until the clock reached 10:30 a.m., as he had been repeatedly told to do on Saturday mornings, before he quietly knocked on their bedroom door.

What followed was so massively uncalled for and so emotionally unbalanced that it would have been comical if acted on a stage. But it was a hysterical tirade that no nine-year-old should have to endure. Both Henry and Wiliford’s mom took turns berating him for his inconsiderate behavior, selfishness, lack of resourcefulness, and general unworthiness to live in the same home. His mom took up a pleading tone, begging him to look harder for food in the pantry or refrigerator or under the counter. Henry mocked his request, using a baby voice then launching into the child, full commando style, complete with a full phalanx of verbal expletives designed to melt any courage a child might possibly muster.

It no longer had the effect of previous assaults. This offense was just too undeserving of the verbal punishment it received. Instead of crying, declaring sorrow, and offering a pledge to never do it again, as was the expected and customary response to such mistakes, Wiliford just walked back to his room and closed the door.

Wiliford resolved that it was time for a change. Odd, isn’t it, the moments where we find the path to change? Or that change is even possible, or that we, amid all our perceived defeats and inefficiencies, could be the agents of change through some simple action. Yet that was the revelation that was about to come to Wiliford.

As Wiliford rocked and stared at the woods, the mist began to rise, slowly yielding a fully colorized autumn forest in all its splendor. The changing scene brought Wiliford into a growing awareness, as if the forest was again calling him to a better life. He wasn’t sure what that life would be, but he knew that the woods behind his house would be a much more peaceful home than the one he was sitting in now. He rehearsed the plan that had been turning in his mind for the last several days.

It started on Monday when Jimmy and Derick discussed their Cub Scout campout that weekend. They couldn’t stop talking about the fun they had with the campfire, hiking in the woods, shooting bows and arrows and BB guns. They bragged about how good the s’mores tasted, even with the burnt marshmallows. Then both decided that they would move out of their houses and live in the woods. Jimmy said that as soon as he turned sixteen, he would buy a tent and move out. Derick said he was going to do it at thirteen.

Wiliford knew they were just talking fantasy talk. If they were really going to do it, why wait until they were sixteen or thirteen? Besides, there was no reason for them to leave their nice homes in the suburbs, with two good parents who loved them and gave them everything they ever wanted. No, for them, it was just talk. But for Wiliford, it was becoming his new reality. He knew that he was much tougher than either Jimmy or Derick. In fact, he could probably take them both on in a fight at the same time if he needed to. Besides, he had heard the nightly sounds of coyotes howling in the woods behind his house for a couple of years now, and he was no longer scared by their cry. He bet if either Derick or Jimmy heard the sound of just one coyote, it would send them running for their mommies, let alone when a full pack of them let loose with their bloody cries to the moon.

Wiliford’s plans were fixed now. A week earlier, he was thinking that he might leave someday soon. On Wednesday, after the beating he got for back-talking Henry, the plan was moved up to next week on the day after Thanksgiving. And after this morning, he decided that he couldn’t wait any longer. The plan had to be moved up to today, five days before Thanksgiving. There certainly wasn’t any hope of a turkey dinner this year. He knew that there were a lot of things he hadn’t figured out yet. But a man can only take so much before he has to act, he thought. He had thought about taking on Henry in a fair fight, mano a mano. He had thought about it a lot. Henry, I’ve had just about enough of you telling me what to do. You are not my dad. You don’t have a job. You don’t help my mom. All you ever do is watch TV, drink all day, and fall asleep on the couch. You don’t ever help my mom with cooking or dishes or laundry. You don’t even pick your clothes off the floor. You’re not ever going to tell me what to do ever again.

And with that short speech said, Wiliford imagined himself letting loose a hailstorm of haymakers, uppercuts, kicks to the chin and groin, and a masterful poke in the eye, which would finish him off, and he would leave for good. Then his mom would come back to her senses and profess her eternal gratitude to Wiliford for saving her from the evil, wretched man who had ruined their lives.

But no matter how forcefully Wiliford said his speech or choreographed the fight scene, somehow, he could never get the satisfaction of really believing that what he imagined in his mind would actually work out that way. Let’s face it, Henry was 150 pounds heavier and fifteen years older. No, Wiliford had abandoned the idea of liberating himself and his mom through mortal combat. That door seemed closed for now. His real-life encounters with Henry had left Wiliford cut, bruised, scarred, sore for weeks, and humiliated to tears.

Sadly, over the last few months, Wiliford had watched his mother side with Henry and against him, time after time, until it seemed there was no love left in his mother’s heart for Wiliford at all. It had slowly come to him that there was no salvation for her or Henry or even himself if he stayed one day longer. The plan would have to be moved up. Today would be the first day of the rest of his life, and the rest of his life would be spent away from them, no matter how short that life might be.

Better to die on the battlefield than live as a coward. This often-repeated saying of his father frequently echoed in his head. He wondered what his dad would want him to do. Wiliford reasoned that his dad had led by example, and he would follow that example.

It was about 11:00 a.m. now, and they were still in their room. The volume of the conversation was still loud, but it varied in intensity. The shouting would go back and forth like a tennis match. Some volleys were delivered with force and passionate energy, while others seemed like gentle lobs over the net. Each exchange seemed intent on probing the other’s insecurities and weaknesses. Other volleys would contain wicked spins of vulgarity and ugly accusations intended not merely to defeat their opponent in this contest but also to psychologically wound them enough to remove them from any future contest. Wiliford could only make out some of the words through the radio music that blared from their room.

But it was time.

Wiliford pulled the garbage bag that served as his backpack from the closet. In it were the items he assumed he would need—a change of clothes, a blanket, a tarp, a ball of thin rope, a small rusty hammer, a butter knife, spoon and fork, the last of a roll of aluminum foil, half a jar of peanut butter, half a roll of Ritz crackers, and a pack of matches. At the last minute, Wiliford had remembered to take a quarter roll of toilet paper. He figured he would go light now since originally, he had tried to carry a bunch more and couldn’t lift his bag and had to pull a several things out. The extra pairs of socks and underwear were clearly not necessary. He would wash his clothes in the stream and hang them out to dry. The pillow would be replaced with his rolled-up sweatshirt. And so on until he trimmed down his pack to the bare minimum.

He could only find one box of matches but decided that would be enough. Once he made one fire, he would just keep it going. He didn’t need food. He would trap rabbits and shoot squirrels with the bow and arrow he would make. And if all else failed, he would sneak back into his mom’s trailer to get anything else he needed. He looked around his room in case he had forgotten anything. Oh, of course. The flashlight. He stuck it in his “backpack,” lifted it through the window, and dropped the pack to the ground. Wiliford looked once again at his room, this time to say goodbye. There wasn’t much to say goodbye to. His bed, well, the mattress on the floor, some comic books that were next to his bed, some boxes on the floor containing his few clothes. Since his bed frame, dresser, desk, and all his toys had been sold off to help pay for his mother’s “medicine,” there was little else left. The few clothes hanging in his closet were mostly too small to fit him.

A picture of Jesus with children around him hung alone on the wall, a gift from the only Vacation Bible School he had ever attended. The caption said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”

A T-ball trophy dangled from the side of one of the two small cardboard boxes that held a few of his mementos. It reminded him of the good times he had had with his mom and dad. But that life was gone forever. The only life with any hope now lay in the woods behind his house. He lifted his leg over the windowsill.

The shouting stopped, a door opened suddenly, and footsteps fell angrily on the hallway floor. The tiny trailer seemed to shudder with every angry step. Wiliford pulled his leg in just in time as the door to his room opened with a start.

“Going somewhere?” Henry shouted. He must have heard the window open.

“No, sir.” Wiliford thought quickly. “I was just trying to get some fresh air in my room. It seems stuffy in here.” Wiliford thought that surely, he had given a perfectly reasonable answer and delivered it in a believable tone of voice. He returned calmly to his bed, lay down, and opened the comic book that always served as his cover when anyone entered his room unexpectedly.

“Jeez, kid. You need to get some new comic books. Haven’t you read all of those about a hundred times?”

“Yeah…but I like them.”

“Suit yourself.” And with that, Henry closed the door. Wiliford waited for the footsteps. He knew Henry’s games.

“Oh, and another thing.” The door reopened quickly to see if he could catch Wiliford getting out of bed. “Your mother and I have to go out. She is low on her medicine. We are going to run in town after we get her medicine and watch the game at Tubbies. You can make yourself a PB and J or whatever else you can find. And stay out of trouble. We won’t be back until late. I don’t want to see the cops here when we get back because you did something stupid!”

Henry closed the door, but Wiliford could hear him talk to his mom. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you fixed up. Henry knows what his baby needs, and he’s going to take care of you real good.”

“Thanks for talking to him. I just don’t think he should see his mommy like this, you know. I mean, he’s really a good boy. It’s just with his dad and me splitting up like we did and his dad dying so quick and all…and with my condition and all. You know it’s been hard. I know you would like him if you would just spend some time with him. You know.”

They opened the front door of the trailer and walked out. As Henry locked the door, Wiliford could hear him say, “I told you, baby, when we got together that I ain’t no daddy. You told me if I would take care of you, you would take care of the kid. That was the agreement. And I been taking real good care of you, ain’t I?”

Wiliford felt sick every time he heard Henry try to sweet-talk his mom. Henry couldn’t hold a candle to how his dad had treated his mom. He did everything he could to convince her to get help and straighten up. He took her to church and to counseling, but she didn’t want anything to do with it and pushed his dad away. And Wiliford too. He watched as she got skinnier and skinnier. He watched her teeth turn black and rot away. He watched her clean obsessively then crash on the couch, unable to move for days. He watched her get sick, scream, vomit, and moan when she had no “medicine.”

No. His old mom was dead, and the one who lived here now was nothing like his old mom. He watched her go from sweet and loving to cold and cruel. Once calm and steady, her emotions now traversed a violent roller coaster ride with highs of passion and lows of pathos. Self-pity replaced self-respect, and a bitter tongue grew where whispers of love once lived. Wiliford had lost his mom long before he lost his dad. To make things worse, what lived in her place had attracted a leech and serpent whose mission seemed to be the elimination of Wiliford.

Wiliford thought, You may push me out for now, Henry. But it will be on my terms, not yours. But someday, I will return a man and claim that which has been wrongfully taken from me.

Wiliford heard the car start and drive away. He lifted one leg then two over the windowsill, ducked his head under the raised window, and jumped to the ground. He picked up his “backpack,” carrying it with both hands in front of him because there were no straps to slide over his shoulders. He carried it with deliberate care since the thin plastic of the cheap garbage bag could hardly be trusted to survive the thrashing of branches. He found the rabbit trail leading into the woods, ducked his head under a low-hanging evergreen, and entered the lush forest behind his home. No, that’s not right. The forest was no longer behind his home. Now it was his home.