IMAGES OF ONESELF
Chapter One

The gravel road stretched before him, like a straight gray line, as far as the eye could see. The three miles out to the farm seemed like a million when a person didn’t know where they were going. The boy went over the directions in his head again. “Cross the bridge, bear right on the main road out of town for about two miles. When you come to the first sharp left fork, that is Abely Road. Take Abely and go about a half mile.” He looked ahead and could make out what seemed to be an intersection. With luck, that would be the road he sought.

“Better be. I want to get there before dark.” The young man leaned his head back and searched the late October sky. He could see the light slowly starting to fade over to the west. He guessed that he had about another hour of daylight. He picked up the pace, lost in his thoughts.

He had been on the road for six months now, since April 1930. The depression had hit and hit hard about a year ago. For awhile, he tried to find work at home, but that plan had not been successful. Santa Monica, California was a pretty town, but not exactly a place where a seventeen year old could easily find a job. Things had come to a standstill there. Even the movie studio where his mom had worked closed up last March and she too was out of a job. The larger studios were still going, but since she was not a well known actress, she had not been able to get hired at any of them.

Things had gotten really tough at home. His mom had finally found work as a maid to a large family, but even with her pay from that, they had been barely able to make ends meet. That is when he decided to strike out on his own. Partly to relieve her burden and also to try and see if he could find work somewhere else. They’d had to move from their little cottage to a boarding house and that was the last straw for him. He had to get away. While he hated to leave his mom, he just could not stand the stifling and oppressive atmosphere of sharing living space with ten other people, plus dealing with an annoying and noisy landlady. Somehow he thought that if he hit the road and worked along the way, he might make enough money to be able to send some back to her. So far, he hadn’t made much. There just was not enough money out there anywhere.

He remembered how bad his mom had looked that day he left. She had really not wanted him to leave, but she said she understood. He would never forget the sadness on her face as she stood on the steps of the boarding house waving goodbye, with her red hair blowing in the wind. He had been writing to her regularly, but since he was never in one place long enough, she had not been able to correspond with him. He hoped she was okay. But there was no way of knowing that. Maybe he’d go south for the winter and then head back home. She’d be worried sick about him if he stayed away too long and besides he really missed her. She was all he had and in the past years, she had looked to him to be the man in the family.

He sometimes wondered why his mother had never remarried. She was pretty and personable, but there was also a sadness about her that she never seemed to be able to shake off. He wanted desperately to be able to cheer her up, but sometimes when he made the attempt, she ended up crying instead. At least he knew the reason for that. She would tell him that he reminded her so much of his father. He had met other people who had lost someone dear and they had recovered. So he wondered what it was that made his mother mourn for so long. After all he was almost eighteen, the same length of time since his father had died. That was a long time to despair over someone’s death.

Since he’d been gone, he had tried his hand at lots of jobs. Picking fruit, delivering coal, washing dishes and working in a sawmill. The pay had been pitiful, but at least it was money. He had traveled from place to place either by hitchhiking or walking. The railroad police kept a close watch on things, so he had given up riding the rails. He would never be able to look his mother in the face if he’d landed in jail. When he ended up by chance in Wisconsin, he decided to find his way to Chippewa Falls, the place where his father had been born.

He really didn’t know much about his father, just the few facts that his mother had revealed. In addition to knowing where his dad had been born, he knew too that he had died in 1912, months before he himself was born. He had been named for his father, Jack Dawson, and his mom had said that he looked just like him. She told him that she had met his father on a trip home from Europe and that he had been an artist. Beyond that, there was nothing else. No grandparents or other relatives, no tangible mementos or even photographs. His mother’s and his dad’s early lives were like blank pieces of paper. He had to admit it was rather mysterious. The only thing he knew for certain, was how close he felt to his mom, and how much she wanted him to be like his father.

“Mom always seemed so uncomfortable talking about those times. There must have been some reason why it bothered her so much.” Still though she had said that his father was a good person and that they had been in love. “At least I know that much,” he thought to himself, comforted somewhat by the fact that at least he knew who his father was.

He had hitchhiked into town this afternoon and asked a few subtle questions before heading out to find his dad’s old home. When he asked for information, he'd gotten a few strange looks and the directions he wanted. But not much more.

The boy was jarred out of his reverie when a car raced past him, throwing up a cloud of dust. He realized then that he was at the junction of the two roads. He looked up at the sign and sure enough, it was Abely. “Only another half mile or so.” He drew his arm across his forehead, trying to wipe the dust away. The boy followed the new road, noticing the evenly spaced rows of corn in the fields next to him. In the distance he could hear the red wing blackbirds, the sounds of cows mooing and the shouts of men. It looked like the fields were in the process of being harvested. With the colors of the last leaves on the trees, the whole scene could have been on one of those calendars he’d seen in gas stations and restaurants. Just like an oil painting. From somewhere came the scent of wood smoke. Suddenly he felt a longing to belong, to be inside of a cozy home, instead of these constant days of wandering.

His thoughts went back to his father, longing to know if perhaps he had walked these very same roads as a boy. “I wonder if there is anyone around here who might be able to tell me more about my dad. Has to be someone I trust though.”

He pondered that question, interrupted from time to time by the growling of his stomach, as he trudged along the last few hundred feet. Boy, was he hungry. He hadn’t had a solid meal in two days. Just some water and that candy bar this afternoon. Maybe he could find someone tonight who would give him a meal in return for some work. Out here in this almost deserted countryside, that seemed unlikely though.

The sun was setting, but in the last light of day, he could make out the shape of a mailbox a few paces ahead. It was freshly painted and there was a name on it. He walked up closer so that he could read what it said. “Dawson.” He jaw dropped in disbelief. No one had said that anyone still lived here, let alone someone by the name of Dawson. He glanced around to see if anyone was in sight before opening the mailbox. With trembling fingers he pulled several pieces of mail out of the box. What he found was a couple of bills. Each one was addressed to Jack Dawson.

The boy blinked as he reread the name. “Jack Dawson. My name and my father’s. But he is dead. And for a long time. What’s going on?” he asked himself, nervously fingering the envelopes with his grimy fingertips. It was odd to see his own name of a piece of mail. Odder still that is was the name of the person who obviously lived here. “Maybe it’s some relative? A cousin?” He stood there for a long time, staring into space, trying to make some sense of this strange development.

Jack walked along the gravel lane that led from his house to the main road. He was bone tired after another grueling day of trying to get the harvest in. He was sharing the work with his neighbor Ed Miller and some other men who had hired themselves out as a harvesting crew. A few of them had not shown up today, making more work for the others.

“You’d think with jobs so hard to find these days, people would be a little more responsible,” he thought, kicking a few stones that were underfoot, digging his hands deeper into his pockets.

Another few days of work on his one hundred acres and then they would move on to Ed’s farm. In a couple of weeks, they would be done and he could relax a little. Of course, there were still the animals for care for, plans to be made for next year’s crops, and repairs that needed to be made to the various out buildings. Farming was hard work and the only good thing that Jack could say about it was that it kept him busy. And when he was busy he didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to think about his loneliness and the persistent sadness that filled him to the very core of his being. He didn’t even have to think about his artwork that made him alternately melancholy or angry. When he drew there was only one person that came to his mind. He would look at the pictures and remember the times they shared and he would think about her until he couldn’t take it any more. The anger would rise in him until he felt almost ready to tear up each picture. He never could bring himself to do it though.

He tossed a stick ahead for his dog Pepper to catch. Jack was just going out to get the mail and then have dinner. He’d be in bed early again tonight, because he knew that yet another long workday loomed ahead tomorrow.

“Bed, a very lonely bed,” he muttered, bitingly.

Sometimes Jack thought that maybe he should make a little harder effort to find someone with whom he could share his life. He was only 38. Not ancient, by any means. Why, he knew plenty of men in the area who got married at his age, still becoming fathers. There was lots of social life in the area, providing him with a chance to meet people. It was either a dance, the harvesting parties, or church social that was taking place. He had dated a few times in the past years, shown up at a few of the county activities, and he’d had a couple of on and off relationships. Nothing that lasted, however. Whenever things got serious he saw that beautiful face come before him. The face of Rose, dead now for so many years. Being with someone else seemed like a betrayal to her and he could not force himself to make a commitment to anyone else. So he lived alone here, sometimes included in his neighbor’s activities, but just as often not, spending week after solitary week in his own company. Maybe he was crazy for living like this, but it was what he was used to.

He was just coming up to the bushes that blocked the view of the road from his house. His head jerked up when he heard Pepper barking by the mailbox. “Easy, Pepper, take it easy. Don’t scare anyone,” he called.

Jack wondered just what it was that was causing Pepper to bark. Probably a stray dog, or a rabbit. Hardly anyone came out here at this time of day. He passed the bushes and his mailbox came into view. Pepper was circling the figure of a person whose head was bent over his mailbox. Jack blinked his eyes in the fading light trying to see who it could be, wondering what they were looking for in his mailbox.

“Looking for someone?” he asked.

Slowly the person lifted his head. It was a young boy, probably in his late teens. He straightened himself slowly, shaking the hair off of his face. Jack’s eyes widened and he stared in disbelief. He looked long and hard at the boy, stunned by what he saw. It seemed as though his heart was pounding in his ears. He felt like he was looking at himself. The young man could have been a mirror image of what he had been in his teenage years. For a minute Jack was speechless as he studied the guilty looking young man. Then he repeated his question.

“Looking for someone?”

The boy lifted his eyes and saw the person addressing him. Shock waves ran through his system. The man who stood before him had blond hair, eyes as blue and piercing as his own and a similar lanky build. He appeared to be about twenty years his senior. The boy felt his throat constrict as he stood dumbly staring at the man. He had the eerie sensation of seeing himself in the future.

Jack’s eyes traveled over the young man, taking in his appearance. He was dressed in blue jeans and a dirty plaid shirt, over which he wore denim jacket. His hair, while passably clean for a drifter hung in his face. He looked down at the boy’s dusty and worn shoes and guessed that he must have been on the road for a long time. On his back he carried a seedy looking pack that he kept shifting from side to side. As Jack scrutinized the boy, he felt an odd sensation. A feeling not exactly of dread or foreboding, but something else he could not identify. It was almost as if his own past had come back to haunt him. This boy though was not ghost, but a living, breathing replica of himself. And how such a thing could exist, he could not possibly imagine.

The young man stoically stood before Jack, watching at the man looked him over from top to bottom. When he decided that he was not going to hurt him, he found his tongue and answered Jack’s question. “No, no sir,” he said slowly. “Not really looking for anyone, just wondering if someone lived here. I was just wondering though if you need any help around here.”

Jack looked at the thin figure that stood before him. He wondered if the kid could even put in a full day’s work. “I remember being that skinny and hungry when I was on the road,” he thought to himself. “Might as well feed him. I know I would have appreciated a good meal in those days. And they were few and far between.”

He studied the boy again, whose look of guilt had changed to embarrassment as he was caught snooping. Jack reached around the boy and put his hand in the mailbox. He took the two pieces of mail out and glanced at the envelopes. Nothing important. Just the usual bills.

“Looks to me like you need to eat, more than I need the help,” said Jack, looking up at the boy. “Want to come in and have dinner with me? I was just about to sit down myself. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll put some meat on your bones.” He was trying to put the boy at ease, but could not resist asking one more question. “Tell me, what is the real reason you were looking in my mailbox? Not planning to steal anything, are you?” he said meaning it as a joke.

Jack watched the boy’s face and saw the hurt there at Jack’s suggestion. Almost as if he had been insulted. Immediately Jack regretted his words. There was something almost vulnerable about this person. He did not seem hardened to the ways of the road. The boy had a sort of innocence about him that even Jack himself knew he had not possessed at the same age.

“No, no sir. I really was just wondering if anyone lived here. I thought if the house was empty, I might find a place to sleep tonight. Really,” the boy said earnestly.

Jack nodded his head, remembering how hard life was for a young kid on the move. He had spent many days looking for places to sleep and food to eat. He could understand. The boy, Jack noticed, was well spoken and very polite. Cultured almost. It was an odd combination for a road person. Surely the boy meant no harm. Jack was a pretty good judge of character and this boy didn’t seem like someone who was on the wrong side of the law.

“Well, come on, son. I’ve put in a long day. Let’s go eat. I’ll fix you up with a place to sleep too.” He noticed that the boy’s face took on a look of relief when he was told he’d have somewhere to spend the night. Jack glanced around looking for Pepper, who was digging a hole near the road. “Come on, Pepper, you too. Time to eat.” Pepper looked up, wagged his fluffy black tail and raced over to Jack. He circled around him and the boy and then dashed ahead of them up to the house in anticipation of that wonderful word “eat.”

As they walked towards the house, the boy watched the man next to him. His movements and his voice were so like his own. Was this a mistake? Some giant coincidence? Surely he couldn’t be his father. He didn’t even know this man’s name. Maybe he wasn’t even the Jack Dawson from the envelope. Perhaps he was just a caretaker. He decided that until he knew more, he was not going to divulge much about himself. For the moment, he would just let things go. With his stomach gnawing and his eyes drooping from weariness, he was not thinking clearly anyway. Maybe tomorrow he would get to the bottom of what was happening and find out more about this mysterious man who reminded him of himself.

Chapter Two
Stories