“We’re going to try to help you remember.”
The woman typed on the laptop, and a picture appeared on the screen. It showed a young, blond-haired boy, perhaps seven years old, standing next to a tall, ruddy-faced man in overalls. An oil rig towered behind them.
Desmond studied both faces. “It’s me, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Do you remember him?”
Desmond had seen the older man’s face once before—in a memory.
Out of pure instinct, Desmond lied.
“No.”
To the woman, Conner said, “Keep at it. Call me if you make any breakthroughs.”
Chapter 39
When Conner had slipped out of view, Desmond again looked at the picture on the screen. Seeing it did bring back a memory. An unpleasant one.
Soon after arriving in Oklahoma, Desmond learned why Charlotte had been so hesitant to put him on the airplane. Despite being his next of kin, Orville Hughes had no use for Desmond, or any five-year-old boy for that matter. The man was tall and muscular, with a mean face, constantly arranged in a sneer.
He lived just south of Oklahoma City, in a small farmhouse outside Slaughterville. Orville worked on the oil rigs, usually on two-or three-week shifts, after which he’d be home for a few weeks. Desmond was largely left to fend for himself. He looked forward to the time alone.
When Orville was home, he drank whiskey late into the night and slept half the day. Sometimes he listened to music, mostly cowboy songs. The rest of the time he watched reruns of old Westerns. Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and Have Gun—Will Travel were his favorites. Desmond wasn’t allowed to speak or make noise in any way when a movie with Charles Bronson, John Wayne, or Clint Eastwood was on. He was, however, required to cook and clean. His uncle meted out punishment only once for non-compliance. That was enough for Desmond.
He soon identified a pattern to his uncle’s drinking. The first half of a bottle barely affected the man. The remainder was like a potion that changed him completely. He got meaner with every swallow. He talked more, sometimes to himself, sometimes at Desmond, his English accent growing thicker by the minute.
He talked about his childhood, in London, after the war. Everything was prefaced with after the war.
“You think your life is hard, boy? You don’t know a thing about hard living. After the war, that was hard. You’re soft, boy. Your daddy was soft too. He took over that sheep ranch from your mother’s family, lived the soft life. Raised a soft little brat.”
He talked about work on the rigs, how hard it was, how heroic he was. Late at night, when he was deep into the bottle, he talked about the accidents: men losing fingers, hands, entire limbs. Deaths. The stories were gruesome. When Desmond couldn’t take it anymore, he got up to leave. That was a mistake. His uncle yelled at him not to walk away when he was talking to him. “You’re so soft you can’t even bear to hear about real men’s work, can you?”
He took another swallow of whiskey.
“Can you?”
He studied Desmond.
“You watched them die, didn’t you? Then you ran away. That’s why you got them scars on your legs—from running.”
He had argued then. That was his worst mistake of all. He learned after that. His uncle only wanted a verbal punching bag. It was like Orville was using his words to drain the poison out of himself. He didn’t want that poison returned. Desmond learned to sit in silence.
A few weeks after he arrived in Oklahoma City, Desmond learned why the bitter man had taken him in. Orville was standing in the kitchen, the phone cord stretching from the wall, muttering about how much the call to Australia was costing him. When the line connected, he demanded to know when the money would arrive. Desmond sat in the living room, listening.
“I don’t care if it’s burned worse than the gates of Hell! You sell that bloody property and send the money. That was the deal.”
A pause.
“Well send the money or I’ll send the snot-nosed brat back, and you can deal with him.”
Desmond felt the tears welling in his eyes. He couldn’t bear to let that monster see him cry or to stay there another minute. He grabbed the rifle by the door and ran out of the house, into the early March afternoon. He had decided: he was running away. He would live off the land, build another fort, live there until he could get a real job and get away.
An hour later, he sat in a tree, waiting. He missed the white-tailed doe with his first shot. The old rifle kicked like a mule, and Desmond nearly fell out of the tree—and the doe was gone before he could work the .30-30’s lever and load another cartridge. But he held on and waited. Snow began falling, scattered flakes at first, then a steady downfall.
Desmond had never seen snow before. In Australia, his father had said that it only snowed in the mountains of the Victorian High Country, in the northeast.
He watched as the white flakes blew in the wind.
When the next doe emerged from the far tree line, he was more patient. It was smaller than the last, younger, less cautious. He waited as it meandered closer, sighted, held a breath as his father had taught him, and squeezed the trigger.
The animal fell and flailed on the ground.
Desmond was out of the tree in seconds, making tracks across the open field. He finished the poor doe quickly.
As he studied his kill, he realized the foolishness of his plan. He had no way to clean the animal, store the meat, even cook the portions his empty stomach cried out for.
But he could take it home, show his uncle that he could earn his keep. That he wouldn’t be a burden. Seeing the doe would change his uncle’s mind. Desmond was sure of it.