Flying Clean

Flying Clean Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Before we knew it, only two days after the memorable night at the carnival, we were in California. It seemed an oddity to me; for all of my dreaming of the state, I had somehow believed it unattainable. I don't know what the Desmonds felt, for we did not speak, but as we passed beneath a sign indicating the state's border, I felt as Icarus ascending as high as the sun. I only hoped my wings would not catch fire.

We wandered through much of the winter, though we were pleased to find that winter in northern California was quite mild. I had admitted to the Desmonds that I didn't know where we were going- a confession I had dreaded from the very first day. John seemed a little put out, but other than that, there were no complaints. It astounded me again how strong these children were, and how willing they had been to live any life other than the one which had been theirs. They knew it would be a difficult road for us- California was a very large state and I had nothing other than a name with which to locate my uncle. I believe that I was merely improvising, at that point. That we had been so lucky until then that our fortune must certainly sustain us. I can't say that I was wrong; luck is something which always seems to be present, though perhaps it works in mysterious ways, as does God.

Christmas came to us in a town called Colton- and Santa Claus had brought each Desmond a set of fresh clothes and a number of new magazines to read. New Years came in a town called Walter's Bluff, a beautiful hillside community overlooking the most magnificent valley I have ever seen. We celebrated the coming of 1939 with another picture show; this one a double feature of The Adventures of Robin Hood and A Christmas Carol. We had traveled northern California for two months and no one had ever heard of Herbert Hardy or his ranch.

A terrible thought occurred to me that January; what if momma and poppa had lied about Uncle Herbert? They had read me his letters every month, but perhaps it had all been an elaborate ruse meant to encourage me that even a poor boy from Indiana could bite a piece of fortune out of the skin of the world. Perhaps Uncle Herbert had been a pipe dream my parents had drilled into me with their loving and excited words about the successes of my unknown relative.

It was a thought that I would not reveal to the Desmonds, though I was sure they would just shrug and ask what's next? I even allowed myself a little relief at the thought. If there really was no Uncle Herbert, then our road could end whenever and wherever we wanted. We wouldn't have to chase down a grail that seemed inexorably just out of reach.

But, with a little luck, and when I least expected it, I caught a bit of news on the wind.

We had come to a town called Monterey, California- a large town that was fiercely proud of itself and its history, though I must admit that I never cared enough to look into it. It was a fishing town until the 1950's, when overfishing the bay had left the town shrugging its shoulders, but in early February 1939, it was still thriving.

I spent a week working with the fishermen- for very little money, but there was always plenty of food to bring back for the Desmonds. John was working, also, but on another vessel and I saw him little. One evening, after taking in for the night, the fishermen who employed me invited me for a beer and, though I wished to return to the Desmonds, I reluctantly obliged. The establishment was called The Quarter Barrel and was one of about twenty dockside bars at that time. It was a dirty place that always smelled as bad as the fishermen who gave it patronage, but it was a dry place to knock back a glass of beer. Although I was not a fan of alcohol- it reminded me of Harry Desmond- I thought it impolite to turn down a drink and I accepted a beer and barely wet my lips with it.

As my fellows lost themselves in their first few drinks, I began to cast my eyes toward the door, growing anxious to be away from that place and back home with the Desmonds. There was no home, exactly, but the forest where we were living felt like home when all of us were there and safe. The owner and operator of The Quarter Barrel, a long haired and wiry man with a disfigured nose, began making casual conversation with me and before I knew what had happened, I let it slip that I was looking for Herbert Hardy. It was not a practice of mine to use my family name while in the town I was working. I searched for Uncle Herbert while passing through towns, but I didn't want to bring attention to myself. Though the headlines had lessened in the last months, the world was still very aware that the infamous Derrick Hardy the Child Murderer was still at large.