THE CAVE- Story of Willy By G.F.

Sinclair CHAPTER ONE

Many years have passed since that summer when my brother left for the army to fight in Vietnam and the following day his dog ran away. I remember being very sad, I used to follow him and his dog when they went hunting, trailing behind a good ways so I wouldnt scare away the deer, as I had done a couple of times and made him so mad he chased me away with rocks. Two days after my brother left, and then his dog ran away the following day, I sat by the small window in the attic, with the excuse that I would keep an eye out for Tracy, the golden retriever Roger hated so much and I am sure it was because of him that she ran awayand the fact that she knew my brother was not coming back for a long time, and maybe never as long as she was concerned. Anyway, I sat by the window for a while studying the tree line and the long sloping meadow that was our farm, hoping to catch a glimpse of red fur and that long bouncy run of Tracys, but I knew deep inside that she was far gone, not wanting to being kicked anymore by Roger now that Joe that was my brothers name, but he liked being called Skip was gone. I told myself that Tracy could survive on rabbitsshe sure was good at catching them, but I was afraid that the cougar that lived in Bald Mountain would get her without my brother being around. He told me that he never really had to scare the cougar away and for sure didnt want to kill him, that the big cat didnt do anyone any harm, and we should all just leave him be and for me not tell anyone about him because people would come after him trying to kill him, some because they were afraid, farmers because they were concerned for their sheep and goats, and some hunters because they were just mean and stupid and wanted to sit around showing off the dead cougar and bragging how brave they were. I promised Joe, but I always called him Skip to his face, that I never would tell anyone about the cougar, even though at the time it made me real fearful knowing that it could come to our farm and eat our goats and chickens and Tracy, and maybe even attack us too. Every so often we heard the stories of hunters being attacked by a cougar, but Joe said that the big cats were really bashful, and all of that were mostly stories people made up. I wanted to stay in that attic forever, if I only could. The dusky light and smells of old boxes, camphor and clothes; the dark corners stacked with old crates and suitcases that no one had opened for maybe a century; all of that made the place mysterious and fun, besides being safe since Roger never came up.

I knew there was no stopping him, now that Joe was gone. Roger, whom I had to call Dad in his presence, would start with Mom, I was sure, and then with me. First only yelling and cussing, but then would come the hard shove, and soon enough, after a couple more beers and whisky, he would use his fists. As always, he would start saying how this was now his house, how my Mom was now his wife, either though they couldnt marry until my real Dad was declared legally dead, and it was how we still clung to Dads memoryanyway, he would sit there cussing Dad, and cussing us, and anything to do with Dad, even though they had been best friends all their lives. So he would start getting madder and madder, and eventually hit one of us. The last time he hit me he knocked me out and I couldnt see real well for a while and I had a big bump on my head for several days. With Joe around he wouldnt dare, not since that evening last winter when Roger started with Mom after kicking Tracy and it was then that Joe got up from his chair and stood in front of MaDont you dare hit her, he said red-faced and his fists clenched. And dont you ever kick my dog again. Roger had cussed and swung at him like he had done many times before, but this time my brother blocked him and punched him hard, knocking him down. Roger had lain there just staring up at Joe, and holding his jaw with one hand, while my Mom knelt down beside him crying and rubbing his head like trying to appease him. The sun was still high in the sky that day, and I liked the stream of sunlight that came through the small windows wavy glass and made the dust dance in the air. I was kneeling down at first in front of that window but then I sat cross-legged with that lump in my chest that wouldnt go away. When I got the sick feeling that Tracy was not coming back, not that day anyway, I looked in some of the boxes spread out throughout the place and found some toys I had forgotten about; some broken, others just worn a bit, and some that I didnt recognize, probably because they had belonged to my brother who was seven years older. Some stuff was my mothers when she was a little girl; some stuff was my grandparents and great-grandparents, on account that the farm had been in my mothers family for four generations and my great-grandfather had built the house well over a century before. I found a train with one wheel missing, and figured that it must have been Joes, so I imagined how Joe would have played with it when he was little. But that made me even sadder, so I put it away. I also found a box with stuff from my Dad, because when Roger came to live with us my Mom put all the stuff away that would remind Roger of my real Dad. One time Roger found a jacket that had belonged to my real Dad and he went into a rage, breaking things and throwing things around, and he wasnt even drunk. In a box tucked away in a corner and covered with a blanket, I pulled out a framed picture of Dad and Mom holding hands and smiling and I looked at it long and hard because she looked so pretty and happy and I wondered why God changed all that. I mean she looked real beautiful, and my Dad, tall and muscular. Aunt Alice said once that they were the perfect couple and belonged in Hollywood. I stared at my Mom, not quite believing it was the same person, although I knew she was, on account that she looked really wonderful. I mean the long blond hair and blue eyes, and the face that looked like a movie star was still the same, but in the picture she was so very beautifuland now, even

though she had the same nose, same hair, same eyes, she lookednot the same, sort of ordinary. Back then, when my real Dad was with us, we used to call Roger Uncle Roger. But then after my real Dad disappeared and Roger came to live with us he made us call him Dad and it was so strange at first, and I guess it still was, like when I would wake up and half expected my real Dad to come into the bedroom and rustle me up and tickle me and say little buddy its time to rise and shineand feed the chickens! And he said it with the funny voice of a goofy bear to make me laugh. Some time later I heard Rogers truck rumble in and I ducked inside the attic, although from down below there was no way he could see me on account of the porch roof that stuck out right below me. I could just see him with my mind, big and clumsy, the big belly hung over his jeans and belt buckle, pushing his lumberjack shirt out so you could see part of his bare belly hanging down under the shirt where the fabric no longer reached; baseball cap high up on his head hiding his bald spot that he tried to cover in the morning by brushing long strands of greasy black hair over it, but when he took off his cap in the evening the hair would just hang limp on the side of his head and the bald spot was there for all to see, but by then he was usually drunk; he had a walrus moustache that always had something, like milk, coffee or beer dripping from it, or crumbs stuck to it; and he had this slow walk on his work boots, that made him seem drunk even when sober. In his right hand he always held a can of beer that Joe said was real cheap and called horse piss. I didnt quite know whether I hated him or not, but I surely didnt like him and I was afraid of him, that was for sure. I knew it would be a happy day when I never had to see him again. I was getting hungry, but afraid to go down, or maybe it was the grief in my chest that kept me there because I knew it was on account of Joe and Tracy and it was something of theirs that belonged to me and going downstairs Roger would start haranguing me about the long face and how he didnt want to see any of that in his house, and I was sure he would start hitting me again, so I decided to stay real quiet and they would think that I was outside somewhere.