On the morning he had decided to leave once and for all, it had been gray and humid—his least favorite kind of day in the already depressing town of Sewell, Ohio. He set his alarm to go off before dawn and immediately fell back asleep after hitting the snooze—it was rare that he got up before two p.m. these days. Finally, at eleven a.m., he rolled his heavy body out of bed and pulled on too-tight jeans and a gray hoodie before checking the fridge for something to eat. A normal occurrence when you had crappy parents, it was almost empty, so Dennis took a sip of expired orange juice before finishing off the bag of damp tortilla chips that he had eaten the night before. It had been an awesome night. His shaman had made it to level seventy-three on World of MageCraft and murdered a necromancer that had been taunting him for weeks. He stretched his sore arms over his head and began to pack a bag. There wasn’t much he wanted to take—his Sarah Michelle Gellar poster, underwear, his favorite book—Virgin Fire Mage—such a good read, an extra pair of jeans and … well, that was mostly it. And World of MageCraft—he couldn’t forget that. He carefully removed the disc from his crappy computer, placed it lovingly into a sleeve and tucked it into his pants. You couldn’t be too careful, and he didn’t want to risk losing it if the bag was stolen. Done. He looked around the dismal room—a claustrophobic dark cave, littered with trash, furnished only with the dingy mattress on the floor and a revolting yellow couch in the corner. A mouse ran from one corner of the room to the other, but was such a normal occurrence that Dennis almost didn’t notice. Honestly, there was nothing else he wanted to take, and if it was possible to leave himself behind, he would have. Dennis walked out into the small and disorderly living room, which reeked of beer and old pizza. Even though his dad had been dead for three months, it still smelled like he was here. The bastard. Dennis kicked an overturned Coors can out of his way and shuffled toward his parents’ bedroom at the end of the trailer. There was only one thing he wanted, and it was in there. The floor of his parents’ bedroom was covered with his dad’s dirty clothing—grimy flannel shirts and worn-out jeans. It smelled like piss and Dennis could spot a pile of mouse droppings in the corner. It hadn’t been this way when his mom had been alive. The house had always been semiclean, even though when she got depressed, it had gone downhill quickly. Holding his breath and rooting around under the bed, he quickly found the jewelry box he was looking for. Before his mother’s body had been cold in the ground, his dad had sold everything she owned to buy bottles of Jack Daniel’s, but he was too stupid to know she kept a small jewelry box under the bed. Dennis flipped the wooden box upside down in his palm. A picture of their family came tumbling out— happier times, he thought, or were they ever?—along with a jade necklace in the shape of a tiny pineapple. It was the only nice thing his mom ever had, a gift from her uncle who had moved to Japan and then never talked to her again. He remembered sitting in her lap when he was little, the necklace swinging from her throat as she leaned forward to kiss him. She would tuck it in her shirt when his dad came around, otherwise there would be his intoxicated accusations of snobbery and a persistent paranoia about her leaving him for a richer man. She should have. They would have both been better off if she married anyone else. His dad would scream at her, swaying on his feet, his collared shirt soaked with pungent sweat stains, peppering her with insults about her parents (“Lazy capitalist snobs who didn’t work for a living”) and her background (“High and mighty, that’s what you’re raising our son to be, looking down on people like me, hard-working and honest people, not like you! What do you do besides sit around and cry all day? Huh? Tell me, Claire!”). His mom would quickly send Dennis to his room to play with a broken Atari while their fight escalated into wild screaming.
A tear ran down Dennis’s cheek as he sat by the bed, embarrassing him although there was no one around. Good riddance to this hellhole. He stuck the necklace in his pocket and the picture inside his book. He knew the jerkwads from the bank would be here soon, to foreclose on the trailer and to throw all their crap in the front yard. He had read the letters. Screw those tools. I don’t care. At the front door, he took one last long look around this tiny trailer, a house that had never felt like home, and shut the rickety screen door behind him. He felt strong with his backpack straps on. Dennis pulled the gray hood of this sweatshirt over his head and began waddling slowly to the bus station, past the graveyard for container ships that was steps away from their yard, past the closed factories, their rusty metal glinting in the sunlight, their odor permeating the air. Huffing, Dennis walked past the boarded-up downtown, colored with bright and vulgar graffiti, and the empty playground where he had once watched boys run and play; always watching, never included. The rain pelted his face as he walked slowly, but Dennis didn’t mind, reveling in his sense of liberation. He had what he needed on his back: three hundred dollars that he had made selling all his used video games and systems, the stuff in his backpack, and most important of all—a Post-it with a name and address that he had now memorized: Elly Jordan, 1168 Hickory Lane, Peachtree, Georgia. After his dad’s funeral—he had died sitting in his recliner, his face somehow both slack and angry at the same time, dead from a lifetime of drinking and abusing everyone around him—Dennis had broken into his dad’s safe. There had been a half-empty bottle of Crown Royale; a hand gun—this terrified Dennis, that it might have been in here the whole time; a gold pocket watch, which Dennis promptly sold for the World of MageCraft expansion pack; and a small, very worn envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter from a woman named Sarah Jordan.
February 16, 1979
Dear Barry,
I hope this letter finds you well. While the single night we spent together last year was regrettable—indeed I have never been so drunk and made such a colossal mistake, as you turned out to be NOT the man I imagined—the outcome of it has been nothing less than a miracle. You, Barry Tragar, have a daughter. Her name is Elly Iris Jordan and she is the light of my life. She has thick blond curls, your bright-blue eyes, and a smile all her own. I cannot tear myself away from her, not even for a minute, or fathom how this tiny angel came into my care. Elly is the love of my life, and words can never express how happy she has made me. Please know, upon reading this, that I do not expect anything from you, nor do I want you to be a part of her upbringing. I will find a way to provide for our daughter and give her the beautiful life she deserves. Perhaps down the road, if you find yourself to be sober, please look us up, if only for the privilege of seeing your daughter’s face. Do not expect anything more.
Sincerely,
Sarah Jordan
Peachtree, Georgia
Dennis had read and reread the letter as he did now, sitting alone at the bus stop, his outstretched arm protecting the thin paper from the rain. With a loud squeal, the bus pulled up in front of him and Dennis plodded heavily into his seat. The bus gave a rumble, and his breath fogged up the window as his past billowed out behind him. For twenty-three hours, he watched the landscape roll along the bus window—the yellow pastures of Ohio gave way to the imposing brown peaks of the Smoky Mountains and the thick, drippy trees of the South. Mostly bored out of his mind, he read his favorite book from cover to cover, bought two video-gaming magazines from a gas station where he stocked up on Pringles, Twinkies, and Red Bull, and then spent about two hours fantasizing about the hot girl from Farscape. He changed buses twice, once in Columbus and again somewhere outside Knoxville. The heavy rhythm of the bus tires slowly lulled him to sleep. He awoke when his fellow passenger gave him a rough shake. “Hey, buddy, I think this is your stop.” He was here.
As he stepped off the bus in Peachtree, his heart gave a furious hammer and Dennis turned and puked on the pavement. In retrospect, it was probably the Red Bull and the six Twinkies he had eaten on the bus, that and his heaving stomach. Mortified, Dennis fled to the nearest park where he sat under a tree and collected his thoughts, suddenly realizing how much he appeared like a homeless person in this quaint downtown. After asking around, he found his way to a local diner, where he casually inquired about Sarah or Elly Jordan while ordering a slice of peanut butter pie, like a badass detective.