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"Any truth is better than indefinite doubt."
~Sherlock Holmes, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

Prologue

RUNAWAY PLAN: Day Sixty-Three (1984)

I grabbed Bufford's keys from the edge of the kitchen counter. Scooping change from my bedroom coin dish into my jeans pocket, I headed down the stairs two at a time.

I needed to eat.

In the car, I tore out of the Park At Your Own Risk lot. Bufford's tires spit gravel in my wake.

Reaching the grocery store, I headed for the snack aisle. Pulling coins out of my pocket, I counted five dollars in quarters. I miss my dad's store, I thought, grabbing at a dollar bag of pretzel rods. On my college budget, I could only afford to add a medium-sized bag of M&Ms and a one-liter bottle of diet 7-UP. It would be enough.

Rushing through the express lane, I hopped into the front seat of my car and yanked at the candy bag. A jagged slit tore down the side as pieces of chocolate flew onto the floor and disappeared down the crack of the seat.

"Shit!" I swore, trying to contain the rest.

I poured the remaining M&Ms into my car's drink tray and opened the pretzel bag more carefully. Positioning it on the seat next to me, I began to chew, watching the people coming and going.

A man and woman rode up on bicycles. They pulled their bikes together, locking them to a pole in front of the store. Two teenage girls giggled as they walked through a group of parking-lot pigeons. An older couple loaded brown grocery bags into the back seat of a station wagon like Dad's. I could faintly hear them arguing.

Everybody was in pairs. Everybody seemed to know who they were. And how to belong. Everybody except me.

I turned the key in Bufford's ignition and tore out of the brightly lit lot. Pigeons scattered in my wake. Continuing to cram pretzel rods into my mouth, I headed down the one-way street, away from our Park at Your Own Risk apartment.

I had to move. I had to think.

I headed toward the river.

Sheena Easton's Best Kept Secret cassette was still in the stereo. I cranked up the volume and rolled down both front windows.

Streetlights flashed like lightning into the car's interior as I raced through Cincinnati. I pulled onto Route 50, the five-lane highway that hugged the river's bank for miles. I pushed harder on Bufford's accelerator.

Thoughts rushed at me as quickly as the night air that whipped past my head. The speedometer jumped as I worked to outrun them.

Route 50 goes all the way to Ocean City. I could go there.

You don't have enough money for gas, the Jupiter part of my mind whispered back.

The drop-off to the river's edge increased as I left city limits. Sheena's driving beat cut through me. I could feel the bass pounding in my chest, in my belly. I was glad there were hardly any other cars on the road.

I thought about the recent conversation with my dad, telling him I wanted to quit college. It conjured the image of him sitting at Big Brick's kitchen table years before, a glass of scotch in his hand, deciding that I, The Caboose, would be the only one of his children to attend Catholic school.

My stomach groaned.

Other images emerged from the rush around me. The shotgun pointed at my chest during the store robbery. My nightly habit in my Big Brick bedroom. Dead flies trapped in the ceiling fixture.

Thoughts of my friend, Roy, surfaced. The raft floating on Duck Lake. Hands flailing in the burning van. Hot tears struggled to flow from the corners of my eyes. I fought them, turning up the radio another notch. I glanced at the mucky water of the Ohio River, but its dark surface reflected only secrets.

Nothing worked. Not quitting college. Not eating my favorite snacks. Not driving eighty miles an hour.

I just couldn't escape.

 

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Cast of Characters

Gregory Gerard: The youngest, a.k.a. The Caboose; a kid whose interests lie in all things mysterious.
Darwin Gerard: Greg's dad; his mellow scotch whiskey persona is known to the family as Drinking Dar
Betty Gerard: Greg's mom, dubbed The Booker, who won't have fighting in the house
Gram Gerard: Darwin’s mom; she tells her grandchildren true crime stories even though Betty doesn’t approve
Paul Gerard: Oldest son whose hydrocephalus requires regular neurosurgery
Molly Gerard: Oldest daughter; Greg's Cincinnati companion and laughing buddy
Kathy Gerard: The thinnest Gerard, never seen without a matching outfit
Mike Gerard: A middle child; when he's not taunting Greg, he mentors him
Anne Gerard: The tomboy daughter; her boldness earns Mike's respect
Father McFarland: A parish priest whose confessional inspires obedience

 

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Chapter One: The Plan (1974)

I was visiting my gram the day I hatched my runaway plan. A way to escape from everybody telling me what I should do.

At eight, the youngest in our crowded Western New York farmhouse - Big Brick - I was different from the rest of them; I sensed it. Everybody else had a regular name, but I went by nicknames: The Caboose to my dad; The Baby to my mom; Greg-ums to the others.

I longed to get away through the craggy forest behind our property and discover my own adventure. Something like Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys might encounter.

My grandmother's living quarters had originally been a two-car garage attached to our laundry room. Before she moved in, Dad and some workers converted the space into a one-bedroom suite with a kitchenette and separate entrance. A bay window in the dining area looked out over the three-tiered lawn. Beyond, an expansive field ended in a grove of fruit trees down by the creek.

Gram was not satisfied.

Dad gave her the initial tour because she was his mom. I tagged along.
She looked at the new appliances and fresh paint, her old-lady golden wig and large white earrings dipping forward in silent evaluation. As he showcased the living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bath, I watched her bracelets slide back and forth loosely on her bony wrists.

When they had seen the entire apartment, she drew back, clasped her hands, and nodded toward the tan walls of the living area. "Now, if ya had it to do over again, would ya have picked that same color?"

I held my breath and watched my father closely, to see if he'd yell. A heavyset man, he could raise his powerful voice to shout or swear at a moment's notice.

Instead of shouting, he only snapped, "Aw, Mom," and brought the tour to a quick finish. I breathed more easily.

"They put me in the garage," Gram told me later, her muted tangerine dress gathered about her legs as she sat in the living room. I knew she meant my mom and dad, but it was hard to understand why she didn't like the place. I had to share a bedroom with my brother, Mike. With five older siblings, somebody was always telling me what to do. To me, her three rooms seemed spacious and private, a place where she could do what she wanted when she wanted.

I visited her often, after school or during summer days, winding down the back hallway of our home, through the laundry room, to the double doors that entered her apartment. She served me maple walnut ice cream when we sat at her small Formica table in front of the bay window. She told true crime stories my mother didn't approve of, stories of life ending mysteriously for unlucky victims she'd encountered in her eighty years. Kids, dads, drunks - no one escaped the cool hand of death in her tales.

"He was never up to no good," she shared one day, about a man she'd known a long time ago. "He was a hard man. A drinkin' man. That night he wandered out on the tracks, he'd been drinkin', don't you doubt it." She stared at me over her gray-framed glasses and stabbed an index finger at my face. "That train came along and good night shirt!" I recognized one of the strange phrases that often accompanied her stories. Phrases like "Get off my foot!" Or if she balled up her gangly fist and shook it in the air,"Smella that, Brother."

My mind spun. A train clacking through the night. The guy - maybe a crook! - crushed like a soda can, right here in our little town. I sat riveted to the chair, soaking up the intrigue between mouthfuls of creamy maple.

I hadn't been planning to run away. The idea just sprouted one day as I looked out Gram's bay window at the two hundred acres of farmland beyond the barn. Logistics immediately pushed their way through the folds of my mind: what mysteries I might encounter (find a lost treasure); which direction I would head (north); what gear I might need (a compass).

Gram interrupted my thoughts of escape. "Go into the bedroom and get me the picture with five boys in it," she instructed. "They took that picture and a week later one of 'em drowned. Good night shirt!"

I located the small frame on top of her sewing table. Reaching for it, I noticed the bottom drawer was not completely shut. A hint of Reese's orange peeked out at me. I opened the drawer another inch, slowly, so it wouldn't squeak. There with her stationery and envelopes lay a ten-pack of peanut butter cups. Perfect sustenance for my trip. I looked around the room. The window was open a crack.

I could do it.

As I slid the drawer fully open, my mind saw Father McFarland pull back the tiny window in the confessional at our church, Saint Patrick's. There in the darkness, I would have to shamefully whisper of my theft, praying the mesh screen masked my identity. He'd whisper back my penance, concern evident in his low tones. Would it be ten Hail Marys? Apologize to my grandmother? Something worse?

I loved most things about church. Mystery peeked out at me from every corner; darkened shadows whispering the secrets of Saints long dead. At Mass, I watched the priest lift his shrouded arms toward Heaven, muttering prayers only God could hear. Desire to be holy like him, like my mother, always flooded me. To be a son of God. To belong.

But the confessional was another story. Whenever I entered the tiny wooden room, I felt embarrassed and exposed. My budding crime came to an abrupt halt. I considered the Reese's carefully. Was it worth it?

"Do ya see it, Honey?" Gram called from the living room.

"Yeah, I got it."

I grabbed the frame and, with no time to consider further consequences, the candy as well. I shoved the ten-pack through the narrow gap of the open window. The orange wrapper flashed as it fell to the grass outside.

I handed Gram the frame. She pointed to the different children in the aged photo, including the one who had met with an untimely death. Normally this would hold my attention, but I worried about the peanut butter cups melting in the afternoon sun.

She talked mother's tears; I pictured tears of chocolate dripping off my candy. I finally told her I had to go and raced through the laundry to one of Big Brick's back doors. Outside, I crawled low under her window to snatch the Reese's. I felt them through the wrapper. They were intact.

I brought the orange package to my bedroom and laid it on my sleeping bag, then gathered more supplies. A pillow, some Hardy Boy books. I looked at the pack and evaluated. It needed a goodbye note.

I sat on the corner of my bed and wrote a long letter to my family, listing how sorry I was to leave, but for them not to miss me. I drew eight round faces - my mom, dad, gram, my five older siblings - and penned streams of tears running down their tiny paper cheeks.

There wasn't a dry eye on the page.

The goodbye note went in with the other supplies. I rolled the sleeping bag into a tight cylinder and hid it in the back of my closet.

The excitement of my impending departure distracted me from the guilt of my theft. I did worry that Gram would miss the candy and tell my dad but, as two days passed, the paternal wrath I expected never materialized. I continued to imagine my adventure, waiting for the right opportunity to escape.

 

The next morning I woke to rain, a steady, pounding curtain of water on the upstairs windows. Using the delay of weather to tighten my plan, I decided to add a map to my runaway kit. On my adventure, I'd travel further than our rural twin towns, Macedon and Palmyra, where I'd lived all my life. Heading to the downstairs bookshelves, I pulled out a thin road atlas - which promised Up-To-Date Construction Information in a little yellow bubble - and carried it upstairs.

Opening my bedroom door, I discovered Mike and Anne, my brother and sister, sitting in the center of the carpet.

Mike was six years my senior and wiser about everything. He wore his brown hair short and straight-cut across the bangs, giving him a serious, tough-guy edge. He wrestled at school - which showed in the tight bulge of his arm muscles.

Just a year younger than Mike, Anne was often at his side. My tomboy sister, her hair hung in a long dark splash to her shoulders, curling slightly near the ends, as if in defiance to the straightness of the rest. Her boldness earned my brother's respect. I envied her.

My sleeping bag lay between them on the floor, unrolled. Mike had my goodbye note in his hand and was reading it aloud.

They were in hysterics.

"What - is - your - problem?" he asked, barely able to get the words out.

I reached for the note, my face flushing with familiar warmth. He held it toward me, waving it back and forth. I grabbed, missed, then snatched it from him. I tore it up quickly.

"So you're gonna run away?" Anne transitioned from laughter to concern.
My meticulous plan evaporated into embarrassment.

"NO," I said.

The impact was gone - now that they knew about it. Besides, it was really raining outside, and the reality of sleeping on soggy grass diluted the portrait of my grand escape.

"Where'd you get the peanut butter cups?" Anne interrupted my thoughts.

"At the store," I said, mentally adding lying to the list I'd review with Father McFarland, as Mike tore open the package and divided the spoils among us.

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Are you living in Jupiter's Shadow?

Are you hiding in others' expectations—
whether they are unspoken expectations from society…
or unquestioned expectations from family and friends…
or unconfirmed expectations from God…

instead of just being who you really are?

Do you convince yourself of what you "should be“?
Or how you "should look“?
Or whom you "should love"?

Leave the shadow behind. Know yourself.

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