Relocation

(image by author)

It was an oppressively hot day as the moving van arrived at 146 Highway K and turned slowly into the gravel covered drive. It was at least six hundred yards to the two-story frame house at the crest of the hill and, close behind, a worn Honda Civic followed. This would be Barton Dunn’s home now that he had graduated from college and accepted a junior position with Magnus Petroleum. The money was good, but largely because no others sought to relocate to such a desolate place. He would be working at a tank farm just outside the nearest town, Essex, Indiana. Essex had once been a bit of a boomtown when oil was discovered there in the nineteen thirties, but now the Magnus C-suite viewed it as largely an afterthought. It was profitable enough to maintain, but would never enjoy the investment it once knew.

Barton had rented twelve acres that included a house, barn and an abandoned double-wide trailer. As he approached, the structures appeared bleached and timeless. The house faced west and caught the full weight of the sun. Barton parked the car and ran up to the front door to unlock. The movers wouldn’t be there for long — he had very few possessions at this point in his life — but he assumed that he’d need little more than a bed. This was, after all, the first rung on the ladder and he would have little to occupy himself other than work. Certainly, the diner in Essex would hardly keep him out past dark and he didn’t plan on entertaining the locals anytime soon.

The movers finished up and Barton tipped them as they climbed in the truck and headed back down the drive. It was a dusty path and they hadn’t gone very far before the van disappeared in the tan clouds it stirred up. Barton stood on the porch and looked over his estate.

“So, this is where it starts.” He said to himself.

Inside the house he moved a few things around and assembled his bed. All that he had brought was easily contained on the first floor so he didn’t bother to venture upstairs. He turned on the window unit air conditioner and tested the faucets in the kitchen and bathroom. Everything was old. The air was old. But it all appeared functional, as advertised, and it didn’t take him long to bring some order to the living room and turn on the television. As expected, Essex didn’t offer a great selection of channels, but cable was an option. He would work it out. His first day at the tank farm wasn’t for another week, so he had plenty of time to get himself situated. Thankfully, the refrigerator had been left on and was perfectly clean. Tomorrow he would hit the town, buy provisions and hopefully meet a few of the locals. When he felt he had accomplished enough for day one, he placed a lawn chair on the porch and pulled a beer from the cooler his parents had stocked. It was at that moment that he remembered to call his mother and assure her that he had arrived without incident.

The night was as quiet as any he had known. The air was still and Barton was just a bit restless. When he finished watching the late farm report, he walked out onto the front porch and did a quick lap around the place. There were a few halogen lights on the property and, behind the house, he looked down a small slope to the trailer. There was no telling when last it had been occupied and the barn nearby was largely empty. No one worked this farm any longer but he could envision a time when the yard would have been insulated by newly-tilled fields where sweet corn was just beginning to produce. The place had once enjoyed a far greater life, but was now reduced to a roof over his head.

Barton was good about getting an early start. He took his first shower — a bit cooler than he would have preferred — and threw on his cargo shorts. It looked as though there’d be another warm day ahead. He watched the local news and noted that it didn’t include a traffic report. What an amusing change from his college days in Boston.

As nine o’clock rolled around, it was time to hit the town. Essex was only another five miles down the highway and it consisted of just over a dozen buildings facing main street. There was the market, a bank, a resale shop, a diner, a pool hall and tavern, the library and historical society, a gas station that doubled as an auto repair shop and a mortuary. A bit further down the road was the Baptist church and public school. Barton parked in front of the market and headed in.

Had it not been for a few video games near the entrance, it would have been a perfect time capsule. Well-swept wooden floors, ceiling fans and displays of produce that had, in most cases, been grown locally. It had everything he could need and with his cart nearly full he stepped up to the check stand where a middle-aged woman was quick to greet him.

“You find everything O.K., dear?” She asked.

“Yeah. I think this should take care of me for a while. Although, I saw beer but no hard liquor. Where can I get something for a special occasion?” He said with a grin.

“Well, the tavern across the way opens at ten thirty and they sell package liquor. You can get the usual stuff there like whiskey or vodka but he’s a little pricey so some folks drive the extra miles to Murphysburg and they have a store with a better selection.”

Barton nodded as she bagged up his goods.

“Say, you wouldn’t happen to be the young man who just rented the Reynolds place, would you?” She asked.

“Yes I am. Barton Dunn.” He said as he extended his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Barton. I’m Mandy Humes and welcome to Essex. It’s a bit quiet so it’ll be nice to have some fresh blood in town. You workin’ with the oil company?”

“I am. I just graduated and this is my first job so I’m looking forward to getting to know the place. Pleased to meet you.” Barton said.

She smiled. “Feel free to ask me anything. I’m sure you’ll find your way around just fine. The diner’s fryin’ fish tonight if you’re interested. I know you might get a little bored on your side of the highway and it’ll be a good chance to get a look at everybody.”

“That sounds good — I appreciate the tip. You take care, Mandy.”

And, with that, Barton had made his first connection. He wheeled his cart out to the car, opened the hatchback, and loaded his supplies. Back at the house, he put the groceries away and unpacked the mismatched plates and silverware his parents had given him. He found a channel on the television that showed repeats from the seventies and eighties and flopped on the futon that had been his college refuge. And his Monday passed away. When he woke up during his third episode of Barney Miller, it was dusk and Barton decided it was time to head back into town and try the fish. He didn’t see another car on the highway, but the diner had a lively crowd and over the course of the evening he managed to make several introductions. Everyone was perfectly nice and had just a bit of history to share. He learned of the Reynolds family that lived in his house and how the kids all moved away so, when old man Reynolds couldn’t farm any longer, he took his wife and left. The place has stood empty for most of the time since, but a neighbor agreed to manage it and rent it when he could. Barton was told about the glory days of Essex when it supported three grocery stores and held the biggest harvest fair in the county. And, there were vague references to “an incident”. Something happened on the Reynolds property. Specifically, something happened in the trailer. He was curious, but Barton resisted the urge to press for more. He was sure he would learn it all in time.

The next day drifted by like summer days do. Barton slept in and then, after cooking a couple eggs, realized the house had no dishwasher and he would be scrubbing his utensils the old -fashioned way. It wasn’t quite as warm as the day before and he dressed himself with the intention of further exploring the property.

The acre he lived on was relatively well-groomed and he knew he would be responsible for firing up the riding mower and keeping the grass under control. Beyond that, the rest of the farm had surrendered long ago and was already overgrown. In the barn, he found a few buckets, the lawn mower, an extension ladder and a pile of lumber. But, that wasn’t all. At the very back, under an old tarp, he found a basketball backboard and hoop.

“Oh, this is going up!” He said to himself. He pulled it to the front of the barn and wiped away some of the dust. The backboard was plywood, but the layers hadn’t separated and the paint was still in good condition. Barton retrieved his toolbox from the Civic and plugged his battery charger into an outlet in the kitchen and began to prep a battery.

“This,” he thought, “will be a good project for tomorrow.”

He then went back outside and headed through the tall weeds to the south of the house to find the feature he was quite interested in: the creek. He knew a creek ran through the property and it was promised that it was deep enough to support fish. Barton hadn’t fished in years, but he still had his pole and a meager tackle box. Fishing could be a good way to spend a slow afternoon and it wasn’t long before he reached a point, just past the tree line, where the ground fell away and a creek meandered in a bed that lied seven feet below. Clearly it was prone to flooding and over the years the waters carried away most of the shore, leaving walls of mud and tree roots on both sides. Where trees had fallen, there gathered just enough soil and pebbles for a man to stand but getting down to the water’s edge was a slippery challenge. Clinging to a few tree roots, Barton accepted the challenge and made his way down. It was ten degrees cooler near the water and the path of the creek was shielded by a canopy of trees that allowed dappled sunlight to make its way through. Just as promised, it did appear to be substantial enough to support a population of bluegill or crappie or catfish.

Barton was pleased with his discovery. “This will do just fine,” he thought. There wasn’t room for a full lawn chair, but he could buy a folding stool in town and establish a modest base camp. Although he didn’t plan to keep anything he caught, he was sure the exercise would be entertaining.

And that’s when he heard it — a rustling from above. He turned and looked back up the embankment to find, looking down on him, a young boy who appeared to be about eleven or twelve years of age. He was crouched down with his arms folded over his knees and wearing a plaid shirt, denim cut-off shorts and a pair of well-worn cowboy boots. When he realized that he had attracted Barton’s attention, he became alarmed and stood up. Barton attempted to say “hello”, but the boy turned and retreated away from the creek. Getting back up the mud wall was far more difficult than getting down and Barton struggled to climb the tree roots. When he had reached the top, he was crawling on his hands and knees and he could see that there was a path that had been cut through the weeds. The boy had fled and Barton was alone and winded from his climb. “I wonder who the hell that was?” He thought.

On the way back to the house, he wiped the drying mud from his hands and, for the first time, contemplated his isolation. Just three months prior he had been living in an apartment in a major city where he was never alone — even if he wanted to be. But now he found himself on an island. He reached the yard and stepped out of the wilderness to see heavy clouds on the horizon. It would rain tonight and what better excuse than that to justify a trip into the local tavern and experience what Essex, Indiana had to offer on a Tuesday evening.

It wasn’t much. This wasn’t the wild west and there were no rowdy brawls or cowboys being tossed through windows. The tavern was owned by a retired postal worker who had moved to Essex for exactly what it had to offer. He and his wife wanted a quiet place to spend their time together. If you wanted a glass, you asked for it. The beer came in cans but it was ice cold and Barton had no complaints. Travis, a nightly regular, introduced himself and seemed sincerely interested in Barton and his reason for moving to town. Barton explained that he just finished his degree in environmental engineering and worked for Magnus. Travis wanted to know more, so Barton summarized it as best he could.

“Basically,” he explained, “my job is to visit the tank farms in this region and do an environmental risk assessment. I inspect all the facilities and the equipment and I report to the company if I find anything dangerous.”

Travis nodded his head as if he understood and Barton continued. “It’s really their way of squeezing the last drop of oil out before something bad happens and they get hit with a huge lawsuit. If things look good, nothing will change. If they don’t, you might see things close down.”

“Well, we’ve seen plenty of that around here.” Travis replied. “But the farms still seem to be holding up so there’s always gonna be a few of us around to buy a beer.”

Barton smiled, threw ten bucks on the bar and made his way out. It was nine thirty as he drove through the rain back to the house. He was convinced, at that point, that the summer ahead was certainly going to drive him insane.

By the time he reached the house, it was raining heavily. He hustled inside and toweled off in the bathroom. Much of the house was dark, but he turned on the light in the kitchen and pulled another beer from the refrigerator. He thought to himself that tomorrow would be too wet to make another trip to the creek but he could mount the basketball hoop. Just how to do it alone? It occurred to him that he could fasten a couple two by fours from the garage at about the correct height and then hang the backboard on nails, adjusting it as needed. Then, he could center it and drill through the backboard to allow him to anchor it solidly to the two by fours. It all seemed easy enough, but he would want to start early to avoid the afternoon heat.

As these thoughts organized themselves, he wandered about the kitchen and stopped at the east window, facing out the rear of the house. From there, he could see down to the trailer. He was about to take a drink when he saw him. Sitting on the wooden, three-step staircase leading to the front door of the trailer was the boy. Dressed in his short-sleeve shirt and cowboy boots, the boy sat in the rain with his arms wrapped over his chest. He didn’t move. He just sat under the jaundiced light.

Barton walked quickly to the front door, grabbing his Red Sox cap and went out onto the front porch. He dodged a couple of puddles as he moved across the lawn and around the south side of the house. By this point he was soaked. He came around the southeast corner and stood where the lawn led down to the trailer and barn.

After just a few steps towards the trailer, he could see that there was no one there. Once again, the boy had fled and Barton was left standing in the rain.

“Did I really see that?” He asked himself. There was little point in pondering it too long and he returned to the dry warmth of the house. The farm report told him that the sun would rise at 6:11 in the morning. He finished his beer and took a few books from his bag and placed them on the mantle over the fireplace. They were assigned reading in school, but he had only skimmed enough to pass the exams. Now would be the time to slow down and actually read them.

The sun broke through the blinds a bit after six just as promised and Barton pulled on the same cargo shorts he’d been wearing since the week began. After a glass of orange juice, he headed to the barn. The day was ideal. The rain had percolated through the gravel of the drive leaving a perfectly solid surface to work on as he extended the ladder and headed up with his first beam. Initially, he mounted the beams with wood screws but then drilled through both the beam and garage itself to anchor the beams with bolts. They wouldn’t be going anywhere. The hoop was installed exactly five inches up from the bottom of the backboard so Barton made pencil marks on the beams at exactly nine feet and seven inches from the ground. The hoop would be ten feet high in accordance with regulation.

It took some doing. Lifting the backboard up the ladder was slow going and the process of hanging and centering it required no small degree of patience. A third arm certainly would have helped, but by ten minutes after nine, the basketball hoop was in place. Now, if only he had a ball.

Barton’s cell phone didn’t get the best reception, but he was able to pull a up a map that gave him directions to Murphysburg. (It wasn’t a challenge as it sat along the same highway as Essex.) The drive took roughly twenty-five minutes and he found himself in “the big town”. A big town that had, to his amazement, a Montgomery Ward store. He really couldn’t believe his eyes, but he wandered through the place until he found the sporting section. It had all the basics you would expect: baseball gear, footballs, the basketball he sought, a couple frisbees and even a tennis racket. There was also a prominent sign that assured everyone that additional items could always be ordered through the catalog. Barton took the ball and an air pump to the front register and marked yet another item off his to-do list.

It was time to reward himself and Barton walked across the street and entered the Fiddle-n-Griddle café. It was a very tidy place with a couple families enjoying an early lunch. Barton sat at the counter and ordered the chicken fried steak — something he hadn’t eaten since leaving the Midwest for college. It was delicious and he was struck by how much he had missed milk gravy. The entire meal cost him seven dollars and ten cents, before tip.

The rest of his afternoon was spent doing his best Larry Bird imitation and battering the backboard with shots that weren’t nearly as accurate as what he expected. His days in Boston had made him a huge Celtics fan and, at one time, he did have a decent jump shot. But the gravel made for a difficult surface to dribble on, so not even his best moves retained any elegance. This hoop was reserved for shooting.

At times, he would stop and mop off the sweat with his t-shirt and look around. He wondered about the boy and half expected to find him watching. But, not on this day. Barton was alone as usual and entertained himself with his new toy until the mosquitos began to rise from the grass. “It’s a shame.” Barton thought as he realized that a nearby halogen light would have allowed him to play much longer. Tonight, he would resist the temptations of Essex and stay in. He had already planned tomorrow’s activities.

Wednesday morning brought another project. As it turned out, there was just enough lumber in the barn to fashion a rough ladder. This required another trip into Murphysburg where he bought a full-sized hand saw and the folding stool he planned to fish from. He cut two large beams down to eight feet in length and cut the rungs from planks that were just wide enough to take two screws on each side. It really didn’t take long to assemble and by mid-morning he carried it to the creek and walked along the edge of the embankment until he found just the right spot. It was relatively clear with a wide channel and a shore of rocks that had been worn smooth. He slid the ladder down and pushed it a few inches into the mud. Then he tested it a few times until he had it positioned just right.

Barton had forgotten to buy bait, but this was the country. The soil was rich and he had a folding Army shovel in the car that was originally intended to dig himself out of Boston snow drifts. After fifteen minutes of digging, he had a plastic cup brimming with earthworms. Now he was fully equipped and headed back to the ladder with his gear, bait and stool.

It would take him a few casts to properly gauge the depth of the stream, but once he had a sense for it, he placed a bobber on the line and took his seat. Nothing bit right away, but that really wasn’t the point. If he caught anything at all he would have proof of concept, and that was enough for today.

“Damn,” he thought, “forgot the cooler.” The beer was the only missing ingredient.

Then came a voice that startled him to the point that he nearly dropped his pole in the water.

“You like fishin’?” It said.

Barton turned slowly and found the boy standing near the ladder.

“Yeah.” Barton replied. “I haven’t done it in a while, but I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“You live up in the house, don’t you?” The boy asked.

“Yes, that’s right. My name’s Barton. I guess you live around here?”

The boy paused for a moment and looked back over the weeds beyond the trees.

“Yeah.” He answered. “I stay over at the next place not too far from here. There aren’t many kids on this side of the highway, so I just kinda wander around. My name’s Enos.”

“Pleased to meet you Enos.” Barton said. “Do you fish this creek? Maybe you can tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

Enos smiled. “You’re doin’ it all wrong if you want to catch the big ones. You want me to show you?”

Barton nodded. “C’mon down and teach me, neighbor.”

Enos scrambled down the ladder and plopped down on the rocks. He was pale and thin but appeared no different than any other kid his age. He reached down and pulled off each cowboy boot, careful to place them where they’d stay dry. And then, without hesitation, he walked straight into the creek and made his way through the shallow water to a dying tree that was about three feet from shore. Its roots had been stripped of all soil and Enos bent at the waist and plunged his hands into the water. He began to feel his way around the roots.

“Noodling!” Barton exclaimed. “You’re noodling. Damn, that scares the hell out of me. It would be my luck that I would stick my hand straight into the mouth of a snapper.”

“Yeah,” Enos replied, “you gotta be quick and test the holes first. After a while you learn when there’s a cat and when there ain’t.”

And, just like that, Enos suddenly shuddered and backed away from the tree. When he turned to face Barton, he proudly held up a huge flathead catfish. It appeared to be more than the boy could lift, but seeing was believing and Barton was amazed.

“You think this is a keeper?” Enos asked with a grin.

“It sure is. It sure as hell is, but I’m not keeping anything today.” Said Barton. “You wanna take it home for dinner?”

“No. I’m sure mom’s already got that started. But next time I just might.”

Enos gently placed the fish back into the muddy water and it quickly made its escape. The boy struggled a bit in the mud while making his way back to the shore. When he emerged, his legs from the knee down were black with sediment. He washed what he could off in the stream and then pulled his boots back on.

“You gonna come out here tomorrow?” He asked.

“I haven’t decided. I’ve just got a few more days off before work starts, so I might. But, I also put up a basketball hoop. Do you like basketball?”

“Yeah. I like to shoot if you’ll let me. That used to be the hoop that Will Reynolds and I played on when his dad lived here.” There was excitement in the boy’s voice.

“Well, just come and knock on my door sometime and we can shoot a round of horse. I just bought a new ball and I need someone to break it in.” Barton smiled.

With that, the fishing lesson was over and Barton explained that he wanted to get back to the house and take care of a few things, but he was glad to make a new friend. Enos understood and led the way up the ladder.

“I’ll see ya later, Barton! Maybe I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“That fine.” Barton answered. “I’ll put some soda on ice just in case.”

Enos turned and headed through the weeds parallel to the creek and down the hill. Barton thought that he must live somewhere southeast of the house and much farther off the highway. What he didn’t stop to think of was when Will Reynolds would have been shooting hoops at the barn. He wouldn’t have known and didn’t seem to cross his mind.

The next day Barton finished unpacking most of his things and took a pile of clothes down to the basement. The house came with a washer and dryer, but he wasn’t quite in the mood for laundry. Instead, he fixed a bowl of cereal and went out onto the porch with a few manuals and schematics that Magnus Oil had provided. This was intended to provide a general overview of the mechanics he would inspect and the operational procedures that were currently employed. He could tell that much of it was dated and it was a dry way to spend a day off, but he stayed disciplined. He wanted to be up to speed on his first day.

By noon, he heard the basketball pounding the gravel and knew that Enos had paid him a visit. He walked around the side of the house and saw something that took him back to his own pre-teen years. He saw a thin, pale frame heaving the ball at the hoop with a motion that seemed to start in his toes and tested every part of his body on the way up. A pale frame. Something didn’t seem right about that given that Enos spent his days in the Indiana sun. And his clothes — no different than the day before when his legs were covered in mud. The mud was gone but nothing else about his appearance had changed.

“Hey Enos,” Barton said, “don’t you have any other clothes to wear?”

He said it light-heartedly but it caused Enos to pause and look away. He waited a minute before he answered.

“Sure I do. But these are my play clothes. Mom would get mad if I got my good clothes dirty.” He paused again. “It’s your shot.”

And so began the afternoon. The two played their games of horse and Barton asked a few more questions about other kids in town, Enos’ family and life in Essex. Enos was noticeably hesitant with some of his responses and often changed the topic. He mentioned a few names of kids in his class, but said he didn’t always get along with them and, besides, they lived on the other side of town. He talked about his younger sister Daisy. She was only four so she couldn’t keep up with him, but he was clearly pretty fond of her. His father worked for a local farmer who had a large operation, but it was far away so he was always gone when Enos got up in the morning. Barton got the impression that the boy and his father didn’t have the best relationship.

To his surprise, Barton found himself a bit worn out after a couple hours. It wasn’t the most strenuous workout, but the temperature had reached the upper eighties and he had a good sweat going. Enos didn’t and it seemed as if he would be content to shoot until dusk.

“How about I go inside and get us a couple Cokes?” Barton asked. “I could use something cool about now.”

“I can’t drink soda. Teacher said it makes me hyper so I don’t want none. I probably need to get back anyhow and take care of my chores.”

Barton nodded. “Yeah…I understand. Have you told your mom you come up here? Is she OK with this? I mean, I’d be happy to meet her.”

“I ain’t said nothin’ yet but I’m sure she’d be fine with it. …You ain’t gonna try to kiss me, are you.” Enos said with a grin.

“Oh no. You can relax. I only kiss girls and my gal is pretty far away right now.”

Enos looked up, squinting in the sun. “Where’d she go? Why ain’t she here?”

“Well,” Barton said with a sigh, “she studied something different than I did in college and when we graduated she had a chance to go to school in Europe so she went to France and I came to his glamorous place.”

Enos didn’t grasp the sarcasm, but his demeanor took on a great sincerity.

“Was that hard? You know, was it hard to decide to go away from each other? Didn’t you want to stay together?”

“Yes, part of me certainly did, but that’s part of life. Sometimes you have to make changes even when it’s not easy. And, just because things stay the same doesn’t mean you’ll be happy. You’ll understand that better when you get older.”

By this point, the ball had rolled off the gravel and was sitting in the grass. Enos walked over to retrieve it and suddenly exclaimed, “Hey! Look at this!”

As Barton approached, Enos present his right hand which was gently closed. As he opened it, a small praying mantis climbed over his palm and onto his forearm.

“This is my favorite bug!” Enos squealed. “It’s got two sets of wings and it eats all the other bugs. It’s good for your garden…if you ever grow one.”

“I like them too. Back in Missouri, where I’m from, I used to see them all the time. But you better be getting back and I probably need to do a few chores of my own.”

Enos held his arm aloft and watched the mantis take flight. Then he waved at Barton and headed down the hill, departing in the same general direction as he had the day before.

Enos didn’t return until Sunday and knocked on Barton’s door just after two o’clock. He asked if Barton wanted to walk along the creek, but Barton declined.

“I can’t, Enos. I start my job tomorrow, so I’m not going to be around as much. They’re going to have me pretty busy over the next couple of months.”

There was obvious disappointment on the boy’s face.

“Are we still gonna get to shoot baskets?” He asked.

“Not as much as we have, but I should have an evening or two free. And, I’ll be back on weekends so we can catch a fish or two. I need to buy a grill so we can cook out. What do you think about barbecued pork steaks?”

Enos looked down at the porch and thought for a moment. “Mom probably wouldn’t like me eating over here. It’d spoil my dinner and we always have to wait for dad.”

Barton thought about suggesting that Enos take food home for his family, but something stopped him before he could extend the offer. Something wasn’t quite right but there weren’t any alarm bells. The boy was hiding something, but it was too early in the friendship to ask any serious questions. Best to keep things limited to basketball, fishing and the many things that inhabited natural world around them.

This is how things went over the months that followed. Two or three times a week Enos would visit — always in late afternoon or after Barton returned from work — and the two would play games or walk about and talk about fast cars and ripe tomatoes and whether or not there were flying saucers to be found in rural Indiana. The boy convinced Barton to buy two cane poles and he led the way to holes in the creek where the two of them finally found their bluegill.

Away from the farm, Barton had full days. The tank farms he had been assigned to were showing their age far more than he expected. He had to walk a fine line between maintaining good relations with the crews he met — all of whom knew their jobs were on the line — and his obligation to document the risks he detected. His report to the executive team in Chicago would have very little good news and, silently, Barton knew each day that he was working with people who would likely be unemployed by the fall. Because of this, an after-work game of horse became a welcome respite. A young boy’s imaginative ramblings had a calming effect on a mind that spent its days considering the implications of petroleum-based carcinogens reaching the local groundwater.

And, when he sought adult company, Barton made his way to the tavern in Essex where, by this point, everyone knew who he was. This hardly prevented him from retaining the mantle of “new guy”, but he was comfortable at the bar and bought drinks regularly enough that his presence was generally welcomed.

One evening, in late July, he found his friend Travis at the bar and the two began to chat.

“How’s work been treatin’ you?” Travis asked.

“Oh, I guess as good as can be expected. Same shit, different day really.”

Travis chuckled a bit. “And the house? That old place still holdin’ up?”

“Yeah.” Barton answered. “For what I’m doing, it’s perfectly fine. Gets kinda quiet at night sometimes, but I suppose that’s a good thing. They sent me here to work.”

Travis sipped his beer and paused for a moment before swiveling on his stool to face Barton. “You ever see anything strange out there?”

Barton glanced back. “What? You mean like Bigfoot? Yeah, the other day he lifted up my car while I rotated the tires.”

The two shared a laugh for a moment.

“Listen, Travis, a few folks around here have suggested that something happened up there. So…what was it? Why would you ask me if I saw something strange?”

“Well, I know it’s just gossip and people makin’ stuff up.” Travis replied. “You’ll find that happens a lot around here. I mean, let’s face it, this ain’t Las Vegas and we don’t always have a lot to talk about.”

“But something happened, right? Just tell me what it was.”

Travis took another swig and looked across the bar. “I guess it was about twenty-five years ago now. It was the middle of winter and old man Reynolds had the trailer out back rented to a family. Man and wife and two kids.” He paused and took a breath. “A week or so went by and nobody seen ’em. Reynolds took down their mail and saw that the old mail hadn’t been collected so he got kinda worried. He and his oldest boy took their spare key and, when they opened the door, they choked so bad it nearly knocked ’em down.”

“The family…they were dead?” Barton asked.

“Yep. The father had put a propane heater in the back to keep the place warm but it should have never been in an enclosed space like that and the place filled up with fumes in the middle of the night. All four of ’em suffocated. Now, people die and we do have an occasional accident — like someone having a little too much whiskey and wrapping their car around a tree. But…this was different. This was a whole family. …Two young kids. It was a shock to the whole town and I guess we really never got over it. Reynolds locked up that trailer and I don’t think it’s ever been opened since.”

Both men sat silently for a moment. Barton’s brain split as it normally did and contemplated both the reality of the moment and the unimaginable. But, now he knew “the incident”.

“So, what would I see up there that’s so strange?” He asked.

Travis smirked. “Aw, don’t make a damn thing outta this. When the house was empty, there were some teenagers that run up there to smoke some pot. A few came back and said they saw somethin’. They said they saw shadows in the yard over by the trailer. Most folks figured it was just the whacky tobacky.”

They finished their beers and Barton pushed himself back from the bar. “Well, thanks for the background. I guess I gotta head back to my haunted hill.”

“Just be careful what you smoke.” Travis said.

“Don’t you worry about me. Magnus has me pissing in a cup twice a month.”

The evening had cooled just a bit as Barton slid into his Honda. It was now a very familiar drive back to the house. He thought about the story and, as the last sunlight was dying, he walked down to the trailer. He opened the screen door and attempted to turn the knob but, just as Travis said, it was locked up tight. The air began to fill with the sound of crickets and the bats had come out to feed. Despite what could have been a disconcerting conversation, Barton was quite serene as he entered the house and turned on the TV. Tomorrow he would prepare the final summary of his report and send all that he had done off to his superiors sometime over the weekend. This is what occupied his thoughts as he fell into bed but, just for a moment, he thought about ghosts. “Now that could make for an interesting summer.” He thought and then dropped off to sleep.

Enos was nowhere to be found for the rest of the week. Barton drove the lawn mower around the yard and spent a few hours on his laptop. The report was finished but he didn’t want to email it too soon. Instead, he took his cane pole down to the creek and wasted the early evening over a few beers and a few fish that were too small to keep, not that he would have otherwise. A few times he caught himself looking over his shoulder, but the boy wasn’t there and he knew that if he hadn’t arrived by now, he wasn’t coming. Maybe his family was up to something or he was occupied with other friends. Surely the kid had a life beyond the creek and basketball hoop. Still, Barton was starting to enjoy the role of big brother. As darkness fell, he returned to the house. It was expected to rain in the morning, so that would be the best time to send the report and then, perhaps, wander through the grocery store or check out Murphysburg. It was going to be a lazy day.

The next morning, Barton ate a few slices of toast and opened his cell phone hotspot. The house was decades away from having internet service, but his phone worked fine on most days. This day wasn’t one of them. It may have been the storm, but he couldn’t get a reliable connection and he didn’t want to take any chances. “Surely,” he thought, “someplace in Essex has wifi.”

The rain began to let up as he walked into the library. He was a bit shocked at the size of it and took a seat in the spacious reading room. Near the door, behind the check-out desk, sat a distinguished looking man with a gray beard and spectacles. He smiled cordially as Barton approached.

“Excuse me,” Barton said in a hushed tone, “do you have wifi here? I need to get an email out the door.”

The man stood up and came around the counter. “We sure do and you can relax. I haven’t seen anyone else here all morning so you’re free to practice a trumpet if you want to. Let’s get you a table and I’ll give you the password.”

The two of them walked back to the reading room and sat down.

“Just search for the network ‘essex7782’. Once you find it, the password is ‘the whale wins’, all lower case with no spaces.”

“Where’s that come from?” Barton asked.

“You don’t know the story of the Essex?” The librarian said, feigning surprise.

Barton shook his head.

The librarian smiled. “They just don’t teach kids like they used to. The Essex was a whaling ship built in New England in 1799. It was nearly ninety feet long and, in 1819, it departed late in the season for Cape Horn. But, upon discovering that much of the waters off the Cape had been depleted, the Captain made a fateful decision to head out into the Pacific seeking whales. In late 1820, they found one. They found an extremely ill-tempered Sperm Whale that measured over eighty feet in length. It ferociously attacked the Essex which eventually sank, leaving the crew to abandon ship. Before they found refuge, they suffered all manner of horrors — in some cases, even resorting to cannibalism. The story of the Essex was what inspired Herman Melville to write Moby Dick years later.”

Barton paused for a moment as the librarian relished his own tale.

“Alright, but what the hell does that have to do with a backwater town in Indiana?”

The librarian conceded. “I really don’t have the slightest idea. I honestly don’t think it has anything at all to do with the name of this town, but that’s the password.”

Barton thanked him and learned that the librarian went by the name Kelly and had lived in the area since the mid nineteen seventies. It took only moments for the report to be sent and Barton was repacking his laptop when a thought occurred to him.

“Kelly, this is also the local historical society, right?”

Kelly nodded. “Yes sir. We’ve got info on just about any significant event in this area dating back to the founding in 1831.”

“Would that include a newspaper archive?”

“Yeah. I mean…we don’t publish a paper anymore, but we’ve got old copies until 1988 and we keep copies of the Murphysburg Sentinel too. Is there something specific you’re looking for?” Kelly asked.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been living in the Reynolds house for the summer and a few people have mentioned an incident that happened there sometime in the 1980s. No one seems to have the whole story, but I was wondering if maybe it got written up somewhere. Something about a family dying on the property…”

“Yeah, I remember. That was a real shame. I think the family name was Loggins and they rented the trailer from Reynolds. One cold night the heater they were using backed up and filled the place with carbon monoxide while they were asleep. It was a goddamn tragedy. I think we have a copy of the issue, just give me a minute.”

Kelly walked out of the reading room and Barton could hear his footsteps as he went down a flight of stairs. It was far longer than a minute, but eventually Kelly returned holding a newspaper stick with the yellowed pages dangling below. It was an issue of the Essex Monitor from January 22nd, 1987. Barton didn’t have to flip a page — the story covered the front page and he froze as his eyes fell on the black and white photo of a fireman wearing an oxygen mask and leaving the trailer with a young boy in his arms. He saw the plaid, short-sleeve shirt and the denim shorts and the bare feet that normally sported the cowboy boots his mother had given him. The boys head hung in a most unnatural fashion over the elbow of the fireman. Everything about his frail frame was limp and lifeless. The reality of it closed in on Barton. Skin that would never be sunburnt. A brow that would never sweat and lips that would never welcome a cool drink ever again. The impact of the photo couldn’t be disguised.

“You can see why this sticks in the minds of folks around here, can’t you?” Kelly asked.

Barton couldn’t bring himself to respond, or turn away. His eyes skimmed the text and found that Kelly was correct. The boy’s name was Enos Loggins and he was found with his mother, father and little sister Daisy.

Barton inhaled deeply. “Well, so that’s why everyone whispers about the trailer.”

Kelly nodded. “You can just leave the paper here when you’re finished with it. I’ve got a few things to take care of up front.”

Barton would sit at the table for another twenty minutes. It wasn’t just the photo. It was a flood of questions that filled his mind. He really didn’t know where to begin. Why was Enos still here? Why was he pretending to be the boy he was when so much time had passed? Where was his family and what does this say about death? Do we all wander when this life ends? It was really too much and Barton struggled to pull himself together. He got to his feet, grabbed his laptop and headed back to the exit but there was no hiding the fact that he was shaken.

“Thanks for the history lessons.” He said to Kelly as he passed. “I don’t know if it will ever come in handy, but I know now not to pick any fights with a pissed off whale.”

Kelly chuckled. “Then I guess my job is done. It was good to meet you and please drop by anytime. I’ve got happier stories to share when you’re ready.”

Barton walked out and headed up to the diner. He wasn’t ready to go back to the house yet and, for the moment, he simply wanted someone to talk with about familiar matters like the weather or the next church picnic or what it was like to live in a city like Boston. The diner offered him that distraction for a couple hours but in the back of his mind he couldn’t shake the most pressing question: “How will I react when Enos drops by?” Thankfully, it wasn’t a question that would need to be answered that particular day. Barton drove back to the house, took a beer from the fridge and sat in sun on his porch. He wasn’t alarmed by what he had learned. He didn’t believe that Enos sought to cause him any harm. This wasn’t a movie or work of gothic fiction and he faced no specter adorned in chains and lamenting a great injustice. He was simply filled with questions — so many questions.

The next day, the inevitable came to pass. As Barton was washing his car, he turned around to find Enos standing there. The boy was smiling as he had so many times, but the unearthly features suddenly seemed so obvious, so apparent. His pale skin. The shirt as clean as ever and hair that seemed oblivious to the breeze.

Barton wanted to be natural. In one respect, he wished he hadn’t learned the truth.

“Hey there, long time no see.” He said.

Enos nodded. “We been up north to see my grandma. They got her in a home up there and we visit sometimes. My grandpa passed on a couple years ago from cancer.”

Barton saw no need in hesitating. He wanted to open the conversation.

“Was that your grandpa Loggins?” He asked.

The smile ran away from the boy’s face and he paused as if he were struggling to think of an answer.

“How…how do you know my name?”

“I know you’re not a regular boy, Enos. I was in town yesterday and I saw the newspaper. I know what happened. I know why I haven’t met your family. It doesn’t scare me, but I’d like to hear the truth from you. …Are you a ghost?” Barton could hardly believe those words had left his lips and they were met with an angry reception.

“Don’t you call me that! Don’t you ever call me that! I just…Nobody would understand. I’ve just passed over.” And with that Enos turned and began to run down the hill.

Barton shouted after him. “You don’t have to leave! I just wanted to know. Friends are honest that way.”

But Enos didn’t stop. He fled down the hill and when he reached the end of the yard he quickly disappeared into the taller weeds. Barton could see the weeds moving at first, and then they stopped. But Enos didn’t return that day or the day after and Barton couldn’t be sure if he would ever see him again.

After three days, Barton rose with the alarm and shaved and dressed for work. He packed himself a soda and ham sandwich and walked out onto the porch with plenty of time to reach the tank farm. He knew it would be a light day as much of his work was already completed and he was simply awaiting further instructions from the Chicago office.

And that when he found Enos standing by his car.

“Hello young man.” He said. “It’s good to see you. I’m sorry if I upset you the other day.”

Enos kicked at the gravel. “Naw, it’s just me. I ain’t had a friend in a while and I don’t want things to change. I mean, I know I’ve passed. I remember it like it was yesterday. But I ain’t tryin’ to scare anybody. I just wanna be who I was. I didn’t want things to change.”

“I think I get that. Change can be hard but you gotta know that there’s a lot I don’t understand. I don’t know where you are and I might need to ask questions. It’s not going to be just basketball and fishing anymore.”

Both of them looked away from each other before Enos spoke again. “Can it be basketball and fishing sometimes?”

Barton smiled. “Yeah little brother, it can. I’ve got to go to work, but I’ll be back this evening and after I put on my play clothes we can shoot some baskets. Does that sound O.K.?”

“You think I’m your little brother?” The boy asked.

“Sure, why not? I beat you at horse every time and the only thing you do better is grab catfish out of the creek. You just occupy yourself for a little while and I’ll be back tonight.”

Enos watched him climb in the car and head down the drive before he turned and walked back. Barton wouldn’t see it, but Enos headed back to the trailer. He climbed to the top step and passed through the front door. He never noticed the stagnate air or decaying curtains. He simply sat in the last room he knew as a living being and comforted himself in all that had not changed. Enos was not one to appreciate change.

Thoughts swam through Barton’s head all day and during the drive home. The whole situation was nearly too much to grasp. He was returning to his home to speak with the dead and he was just as bewildered by his own reaction as anything else. Why no fear? His entire life he had been inundated with stories and images of the dead as vengeful, maniacal entities that preyed upon the living and were driven by unholy motivations. Perhaps it was something in the boy’s face. He didn’t want to be a ghost, haunting the rural hillside. He wasn’t the victim of any heinous act. He simply, as Enos himself said, had passed. Barton’s struggle was not with any notion of a malevolent force or confrontation with the unnatural. In truth, there was something very natural to all of this. Barton’s struggle was with the far more basic question of just where to begin.

He saw Enos shooting baskets from the drive as his car approached. He stepped out, grabbed the laptop case stuffed with his computer and the schematics he’d studied in the months prior and walked towards the barn.

“Is this how you spend your days?” He asked with a smile.

“Better than workin’ inside.” Enos replied. “At least that’s what my dad says.”

“I’ll go get changed and be right back. You’ve got a beating coming.”

And that’s how the early evening began. Barton returned and the two played their games and talked of simple things that made no reference to the extraordinary gulf between them. Two friends played basketball. But, after nearly three hours, Barton excused himself, retrieved a beer from the house and sat himself down in the yard.

“Can I ask you some questions, Enos?”

The boy continued to shoot and didn’t look at him. “Yeah…I guess. Just don’t call me that word. I know what I am.”

“Where’s your family? Are you alone?”

With that, Enos stopped and joined Barton in the yard. “Yeah, I guess I have been alone…’til you showed up. You’re my friend, right?”

“Yeah, I’m your friend. But where’s your family?”

“I don’t really know. See, they was all sleepin’ in the back bedroom. Daisy was with ’em and dad had moved the heater in there. It was a cold night, but I wanted to sleep in the side room and dad always called me his little freezer pop. Whenever we went huntin’ I never got cold like all the other guys. Grown men would be blowin’ in their hands and cursin’ at how cold it was, but it never really bothered me. Anyway, the heater was in their room when the poison got in the air. They all passed before I did — even my little Daisy. I loved my sister.”

Barton watched to see if there would be tears, but there were none. Just a forlorn gaze into the distance.

“They was all gone when I passed. Took a while for the poison to get to me and I didn’t even know what happened. I just remember looking down and seeing the fireman carry me out like it was somebody else. But, it was me. It was dark around me and I was somewhere I’d never been before. I called out but mom and dad and daisy were just gone. It wasn’t like they said in church. I didn’t see no light or Jesus waitin’ for me so I just…I guess I just stayed.”

“Have you ever looked for them?” Barton said in as calm a voice as he could muster. When he closed his eyes, he could see the photo from the newspaper.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I do and I even think I might know the way. But, I get scared and I always come back. This place is all I know and it’s safe for me…even If it means bein’ alone.”

“Where do you go at night? Where do you stay?”

“I go be still, just like my momma always told me to. I go up on Titus Hill and lay with Daisy and I just kinda go to sleep. It’s not like you sleep, but things stand still and it doesn’t seem too long before the sun comes back.” Enos looked up and grinned. “That’s when I wonder what you’re up to, or I chase the grasshoppers in the field and watch the birds fly over.”

The last light of the sun was on their shoulders.

“Do you disappear? Can other people see you like I do?”

“Sometimes…like now. It’s kinda hard to do but when I remember how I used to be I start to be real again. I can touch things and talk out loud. That’s when I know I’m a boy. But what about you? Where’s your family?” Enos asked.

“Well, my mom and dad live back in Missouri where I grew up. It’s just the three of us, but I always wanted a little brother. When I finished high school I left and went to Boston University and I suppose that’s how I found my way here. When I graduated from college, Magnus Petroleum offered me this job, so I moved here. I think you pretty much know the rest.”

Enos looked him in the eye. “Were you sad when you left your hometown? When you left your folks?”

“No. It’s what they always wanted for me and I wanted it to. I didn’t see myself having much of a life in Missouri and Boston University is a great school. I loved college. I mean, it was a little scary at first, but that’s life. Sometimes you’ve got to move on. In fact, maybe that’s true even beyond life. Here, look at my hand.”

Barton extended his hand palm up. Enos initially reached out and touched it but he quickly remembered himself and withdrew. The boys’ hand was cold and smooth.

Barton continued. “This is not the hand I had as a boy. It’s grown. It bears the scars of mistakes I’ve made. I can see the mark that was left when I tried to repair my bike and I was cut when I caught it between the chain and the sprocket. I can see wrinkles and lines that weren’t there fifteen years ago. But, I also see a hand that’s skilled and stronger than what I had. A hand that’s been shaped by all I’ve done. Do you get that?”

Enos nodded and sat silently. It was time to leave.

“The Titus Hill you mentioned, is that where your family is buried?”

Enos nodded again.

“Well, I think we should call it a night, don’t you? Maybe tomorrow we take the cane poles back down to the creek and you can show me a few more spots.”

Both of them got to their feet and Barton headed toward the porch before turning back as Enos made his way across the drive.

“You’ll think about what I said, won’t you?” Barton asked. “I think it’s important.”

Enos was, again, silent and simply nodded. The halogen flickered to life but he was quickly beyond the cone of light it cast and he disappeared into the night. He would follow his familiar route to Titus Hill and lay near the stone of one Daisy Loggins, age four. He thought about what Barton had said. He thought about it right up until his form dissipated and his essence embraced the familiar ground.

Barton entered his house and turned on the light in the living room. He wasn’t ready for bed and sat in the silence for a moment before turning on the TV. Was Enos there with him? No, he was certain that wasn’t the case. The boy wasn’t a ghost and the truth that Barton envisioned was, in fact, a far lonelier reality. How long can a soul sustain itself on the sound of the wind, the clouds above and the memory of a family that would never return? It was all a great deal to take in, and Barton had an emerging life of his own to manage. One that would demand his attention far sooner than he anticipated.

The following morning started much like any other. Barton had gotten into the habit of visiting the diner before work and chatting with a waitress named Carla. He ordered his usual breakfast of two eggs, two strips of bacon, toast and a tall glass of orange juice. It had become a routine that caused Barton think about life for a moment. He thought about the comfort of a familiar place that never seemed to change. It made him wonder to himself, “Am I aging? It doesn’t feel like it.” He looked around the diner and saw tranquility. A place where the topics of discussion rarely changed and anything remotely unexpected and traumatic would be memorialized as if it had always happened yesterday. “Was this what it’s like to pass on?” He wondered. His parents were not particularly religious, but he had attended enough church services to have a general understanding of the concepts involved. He thought about heaven and questioned how it could possibly work. He asked himself, “Does our restlessness leave us when we die? Do we stop looking at the lines on our hands when we know they will never change?” No more haircuts, or lost teeth or corporeal reminders of a dynamic existence. No more blisters or belly fat or clothes that don’t fit. He looked at Carla as she poured a cup of coffee and thought, “Would I know peace by coming here each morning until time itself wasn’t worth noting?”

“Hey, sleepy!” Carla said. “Snap out of it. It’s only Friday and you’ve got oil to pump!” She had no understanding of what Barton actually did for a living, but it had something to do with oil and it obviously paid well enough that he tipped her far better than the farmers she’d served for years.

But, she was right. Barton laid his money on the counter and thanked her. He left the diner, climbed into his car and reminded himself that he was due to receive his next assignment from the execs in Chicago sometime before the end of the day. He was praying that they wouldn’t order him to shut down operations and lay everyone off — but that was the clear recommendation from the reports he had drafted. The tank farms in the Essex region were simply outdated and continuing to maintain them would not only be costly, but would likely result in environmental violations and lawsuits. Whatever use the storage tanks had could easily be transferred to newer facilities in East Texas.

Once he arrived on site, Barton made his way to a small room he shared with cases of copy paper and other office supplies. There was no oak desk or windows, but it had a phone, printer and network connection so, as humble as it was, he called it his office. People would come and go to refill their staplers or grab a toner cartridge for the copier and, while they were polite enough to knock before entering, none could possibly imagine that Barton was the one who would decide their fate. All things proceeded peaceably and few foresaw that things would ever change.

They were wrong. They existed in the realm of the living where change, even if uncommon, was inevitable. At two o’clock in the afternoon, the receptionist informed Barton that a call was waiting on line 3. He took a deep breath and picked up the line.

“Am I speaking with Mr. Dunn?” A voice asked.

“Yes, this is Barton Dunn. How can I help you?”

“Barton, this is William Kinsley and I’m the Chief Operating Officer here at Magnus. I’m calling from Chicago regarding the work you’ve been doing for us this summer. Is this a good time to talk?”

“Yes. This is a fine time. And, pleased to meet you.” Barton replied.

“Well, I’m glad to meet you too, Barton. A number of us up here have been reviewing your work and I’m happy to report that we’re all quite impressed. Your analysis of the situation down there was extremely thorough and I appreciate the way you drew conclusions that even those of us who didn’t study environmental science could understand. You took it easy on us number crunchers.”

Barton sat up. “That’s very nice of you to say, sir. That was a goal of mine, but I can also supply the back-up data if needed.”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary.” William said. “I think we’ve got a pretty good grasp of what needs to happen and I’m willing to bet you’re wondering how it’s all going to affect you. Am I right about that?”

“Yes. I mean, I’m ready for the next assignment. Things have been a little slow since I finished the report. I do like to keep busy.”

“That’s good to hear because we’ve decided to move you along a little quicker than we normally would with someone of your limited time on the job. You see, we’ve got a few senior team members who’ve recently informed us that they intend to leave the company. Most are retiring and, as you can understand, these are roles where we need considerably more than two weeks’ notice. Given their importance, we prefer to know of their departure a year in advance. One of these people happens to be our Senior Director of Regulatory Compliance. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

Barton paused for a moment. “I’ve got an idea but I’d appreciate a few more details. I mean, I think we’d both agree that I’m not ready to step up to that.”

“Oh no.” William chuckled. “That would be setting you up for failure for sure and that’s not how we do things around here. But, we do want to offer you a place in the Chicago office and we want you working directly with her for as long as we’ve got her. Her name is Patricia Farotto and you can find her bio online. She’s been fantastic for us and we think you can grow exponentially with her as a mentor. We’ll give you the title of Compliance Manager and, of course, there will be a bump in your compensation to help with the increased cost of living. Chicago’s gonna cost you a bit more than Essex, but I have a feeling that someone who spent four years in Boston knows a thing or two about surviving in expensive cities.”

“That sounds fantastic, sir. I’m definitely interested!” Barton blurted.

William continued. “That’s great. We’d love to have you onboard. I’ll send the offer down to your home address next week for your review. If there’s anything you have a problem with, just let me know. Now…we’ll want you here ASAP, so please don’t hesitate to respond. We have three months of temporary housing we use for these situations so you don’t have to worry about finding a place right away. Just get up here and we’ll work everything out. Oh, and, don’t mention this to anyone. Once you’re out, we’ll be sending down a mop-up crew to close things down. You might not be the most popular guy in Essex after you leave — folks tend to blame the messenger — but this call had to be made. Are there any questions I can answer?”

“Uh, nothing really comes to mind. Thank you, sir!”

“You can call me Bill. I’ll plan to have lunch with you and Pat when you’re here. Again, thanks for the great work — you certainly distinguished yourself.”

And, with that, the call was over. Change was imminent and Barton was overwhelmed with the chance to advance far faster than he ever expected. He thought about Chicago. He thought about all the strange faces he would pass each day. Businesses that would open and, in less than a year, close only to be replaced by the next to take their shot. Chicago would be a garden brimming with life and possibility, and all the bruises and blisters that come with it.

Barton was ecstatic on his drive home. He didn’t stop at the house and drove straight to the diner where he treated himself to the steak and baked potato. There was nothing fancy about the presentation, but it was a great cut of meat that was likely roaming a pasture within fifty miles of Essex in the not-too-distant past. From there he walked to the tavern and graciously endured all the comments about the “city boy” wearing a tie and jacket. He shared in the laughter and bought a round for the bar. When asked about it, he simply explained that he had a good day at work and, after all, it was Friday and that should be all the excuse anyone needs. He didn’t think about the house or Enos or the last conversation they had. Instead, he thought about the phone call he would make to his parents the next day and how he would share the news that he would be joining the Magnus management team in Chicago. At that moment, nothing else really mattered.

The rest of the weekend was largely a blur. And, as had happened a few times previously, he was not visited by Enos. Barton wondered about this. Where does a friendless spirit wander on days like this? Does he walk among the trees along the creek, ignoring the heights they’ve reached? Or would he follow the highway into town unseen? Perhaps he walked through the aisles of the library and discreetly slipped books off the shelves to read. But, how could he avoid that which troubled him most? How could he ignore the years that pass and the searing truth that he was a lost soul? What is the purpose to such solitude?

In the back of his mind, Barton was already envisioning the conversation. He knew that Enos would be upset that he was leaving. He wouldn’t accept it. And that’s when Barton decided it was time for Enos to understand.

When Monday rolled around, Enos appeared shortly after Barton arrived home and they shot baskets. Barton said nothing of the things to come, but simply enjoyed the’ company and talked about the usual things. It just wasn’t the time to get heavy.

The following day brought the offer. It was originally sent by an overnight service, but there was no overnight delivery to Essex so the envelope was delivered to the Postal Service and arrived with the normal mail. Barton was nervous as he opened it and read the introduction letter from Mr. Kinsley. But, then he couldn’t stop himself from skipping to the good parts. His salary exceeded the “bump” described over the phone, so it wouldn’t be long before the loyal Honda would become a trade-in. The benefits were far more comprehensive, including a modest expense account and gym membership, and he would now have twice as many paid personal days off.

And then Barton reached the last page instructing him that the offer was open for his acceptance for three business days and, upon acceptance, he was to report to the Chicago office by Wednesday of the following week. It didn’t quell the excitement, but things were moving a bit faster than expected. Between packing and wrapping up loose ends at work, there would be virtually no time for goodbyes. In the end, there was no question as to what Barton would do and that would be the very lesson he would leave Enos with.

Barton took a long lunch break the next day and called Mr. Kinsley to accept the offer. A truck would arrive early the following Monday and his time in Essex would come to an end. “I guess it’s a good thing that I didn’t fully unpack from the last time.” Barton thought.

When he entered the offices at the tank farm on Thursday, he could tell the Site Manager had already been told the news.

“I understand you’re moving on.” There was disappointment in his voice. “I was kinda hoping you were gonna be permanent, but I have a feeling that was never the plan. …It’s alright. I haven’t told anyone else.”

The two men’s eyes met and the Manager continued. “I was planning on retiring next year anyhow. But, some of these guys are gonna take the news pretty hard. There aren’t a lot of jobs around and most of the family farms have been bought out.”

“I’m sorry.” Barton said. “This is my first job out of school and I really didn’t know what Chicago had planned. It’s just that…It’s just that this place has outlived its usefulness and there’s no business argument for keeping this running. Not to mention that, within five years, you’re not going to be able to drink the water that comes out of your faucet. Not the way things are now.”

“I know. I get it.” The Manager conceded. “It’s just that the folks who work here like to count on there being a tomorrow. Another paycheck at the end of the week and a vacation once or twice a year. Business arguments can be hard to explain to people like this.”

Barton nodded. “I’m going to gather up my things and get out of your way. I won’t be in tomorrow. If you don’t already know, the company will send down a team to shut things down and I’m sure they’re going to issue severance. I know it’s a shock, but I’m sure most folks are going to be alright.”

There really wasn’t any assurance that Barton could sincerely offer. He knew most of the workers would be leaving and, in time, Essex would slowly die. They had existed on an island and now that just wasn’t going to be the case any longer. So many thoughts melded together as he drove through the gate for the last time and turned onto the highway. The parallels between a town and the spirit of a young boy that have both been left behind. The town was a living thing and, like all living things, it can’t deny change — not forever. As for the boy, well, Barton had grown convinced that his decades of denial should also end. For one last time, Barton would need to be the big brother.

Enos was waiting at the house when the Honda drove up. It was barely past noon and Enos asked why he was off work so early. But, Barton wasn’t ready. His thoughts were entirely without order and so he dodged the question as best he could. Enos told him of a hawks’ nest he had found down by the creek and two chicks that were just a week or two from taking flight. He assured Barton that, with those around, there’d be no mice in the barn but he seemed to completely overlook the fact that the mice were only interested in grain, something the barn hadn’t housed in many, many years. There were no mice in the barn. Barton explained that he would have the next day off and the two of them could go look at the nest. He made Enos promise to show him and then he said that he had brought work home and wouldn’t be able to do anything tonight. As the boy departed, Barton walked into the house and once again removed his offer letter. He was proud of himself. After nightfall, he indulged in a few beers before pulling himself into bed to slowly map out the things he would say to Enos. This would be different from hurting a living, breathing human being. In most cases, the living will heal and scars will fade and shifting circumstances will move us through a reality accompanied by an unspoken understanding that one day it will all end. There was no such process with Enos. His days of scarring and healing were gone. Barton awoke at four in the morning and slept very little thereafter.

In the morning, he drove to town and stopped at the market. He found Mandy at her post and approached.

“Something I can help you find, Barton?” She asked.

“Actually, what I’m hoping to get are a few boxes. Any chance you’ve got some empties in the back?”

“I know we always do.” She answered. “You’re not moving away on us, are you?”

Sheepishly, Barton nodded. “Yeah. It would be best if you don’t tell anyone, but I’ll be leaving on Monday. Magnus wants me in Chicago.”

“Well, damn, we hardly got to know you! But Chicago sounds exciting. Are they giving you a big, fat raise?”

He smiled. “Something like that. It’ll be a nice next step.”

She walked around the check stand and headed to the back of the store. “Cubby is stocking in the back.” She explained. “I’ll have him bring up what we’ve got.”

Barton opened the hatchback and stacked the boxes in. Cubby, someone he had never met, had been good enough to break them down and Mandy included a roll of packing tape for free along with wishing him good luck. “And,” she said, “if you ever get back down this way…” It was a warm goodbye, but the finality was obvious.

It was three o’clock when Enos appeared in front of the barn. For a moment, his pale skin almost appeared flushed but that really wasn’t the case.

“You ready to go see my hawks? I think their mom is getting used to me. I ain’t tried to climb the tree, but she looked at me for, like, ten minutes today.”

Barton felt there was no reason to wait.

“Actually, Enos, there’s something we need to talk about.”

“I already told you everything.” Enos said. “I don’t wanna go back to all that stuff. You know the story now — the secret — and there’s nothin’ more to say about it. I’m not goin’ back in my mind again and remembering that night. It’s done. It’s just done.”

Barton looked at the boy square in the face. “It’s not that, Enos. I’ve got to leave Essex. My work called and they want me to move away. They want me to move to Chicago and I’ll be leaving on Monday.”

A shadow fell over the boy’s face. He walked to the edge of the gravel and fell on his knees in the grass with every appearance of grief, but no tears to show. It had taken him so long to find a friend. Someone with whom to share the endless fields and muddy water and the little secrets he knew that hid in the trees and grass. He was being left behind once again.

Enos rose and ran across the drive along the same unseen path he had taken all summer. He fled and, despite his best efforts, Barton could not keep up. Barton called out to him. He begged him to come back and talk but to no avail. Enos was gone and Barton had so much more to say but all he had accomplished was reminding the boy of a pain that even a ghost could feel.

And, so, it was back to town. Barton returned to the library and caught Kelly just as he was preparing to close up shop for the day.

“Ahh, Barton, you caught me just in the nick of time. Do you need the internet again?”

“No, not this time Kelly. I don’t mean to inconvenience you but this shouldn’t take long. I was wondering if you could make me a copy of the newspaper we looked at last time — the one about the family that died?”

Kelly gave him a bit of an odd look, but was happy to accommodate. “Sure, that’s no problem. Just give me two minutes and I’ll be right back. Oh, and, that will cost you fifteen cents.”

Barton had no change but took a dollar from his wallet and laid it on the counter. The rest could go to the Essex New Book Fund. As promised, Kelly returned with a crisp, black and white copy of the front page featuring the photo that Barton had regularly recalled.

“Thanks Kelly, now just one more favor, if you will. Can you tell me how to get to Titus Hill from here?”

“Titus Hill?” Kelly repeated. “You mean, the graveyard? The place where these folks are buried?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“And what’s got you going up there on a Friday night?” Kelly asked.

Barton paused and took a breath. “Why don’t we say that I’m working on a local history project and then you can stop asking questions and we can go our separate ways?”

That was good enough for Kelly. He quickly scribbled down a brief set of directions. The directions weren’t hard to follow, but anyone unfamiliar with the dirt roads could easily lose their way. The roads weren’t marked and there were no signs indicating that a cemetery was nearby. Everyone in town knew right where it was, as all locals would faithfully attend any funeral. Barton folded his copy of the photo and slid it into his back pocket as he walked out the door.

Just off the highway there was a street that Barton had passed many times over the preceding months. He never bothered to wonder where it led. But, on this particular evening, he turned on to it and drove for about a quarter of a mile until the pavement ended and the dirt road that replaced it took him another half-mile. Following Kelly’s directions, he then took a left turn and drove five hundred yards before taking a right and seeing, just up ahead, a hill that stood out from its surroundings. It was well-groomed and, rather than the barbed wire that ran along the roads approaching it, this hill was contained by wrought iron. As he drew closer, he saw the tombstones. The gate was open and there was a modest chapel where he parked and left his car. He walked among the silent stones, some of which had been placed nearly two hundred years earlier. There were Civil War dead, settlers who had been stricken by illnesses now vanquished, and reminders of quiet individuals who had lived long, productive lives working the soil and guiding subsequent generations. The dates led him through each era the town had known and, at the crest of the hill, he arrived at the nineteen eighties. It was there that he found, in perfect alignment, the modest stones commemorating Ernest P. Loggins, Charlotte M. Loggins, Emma “Daisy” Loggins and Enos W. Loggins. The stone brought it all home to Barton and he was temporarily dumbstruck by what he knew to be true but was hardly prepared to lay eyes upon.

“Enos!” He called out. “Enos, we need to talk! There are things I need you to know!”

He got no response. There was only a breeze that smelled of rain so he walked around to the back of Enos’ marker and sat down with his back against the granite. He knew that, sometime that night, the boy would return.

It was nearly an hour after sundown when a light rain began to fall. It seemed to evaporate as quickly as it collected on Barton’s face and silenced the crickets. The moon appeared through the broken clouds and, to his amazement, Barton watched as Enos materialized before his eyes. This was the first time in their friendship that the boy demonstrated anything that would reveal the true nature of his existence. Enos walked to Barton and stood over him.

“Why are you leaving? Why are you going away?” He asked.

“I’m getting promoted. It’s what I want. I want to live in Chicago. I want to visit art galleries and eat at different places. I want to be surrounded by millions of people and go to Cubs’ games. I want to meet women and see new things and grow. …Can you understand that? Don’t you want things? You come here because you miss your family. You miss Daisy.”

Enos sat beside him. “There are girls here. You could always stay here. We can fish and shoot baskets and dig a garden next year.”

“No, Enos, we can’t. It’s what I’m trying to tell you. Neither one of us can stay here forever and you’ve stayed too long. You were meant to be free and go somewhere beyond this world and you need to do that. The summer and fields and everything you know so well are just distractions, but they won’t give you peace. They can only give you the past.”

The rain began to seep through Barton’s hair and trickle down his face. There was no rain on Enos — it simply fell around him. His appearance was unchanged. He knew what Barton was saying but there was a fear that remained within him. He looked around at all he had ever known.

Barton continued. “No one knows this yet, but things are going to change around here. Many of the people around town are going to lose their jobs and, when they do, they won’t stay. They’ll be leaving too. Here, I want you to look at this.”

Barton leaned on to his left hip and produced the copy of the newspaper. He gently unfolded it and showed Enos the image of his lifeless body in the arms of the fireman. The boy was clearly shaken. He took it from Barton and stared at the picture for a several silent moments as the rain began to cause the toner to bleed down the page.

“How long has it been?” Enos asked. “What year is it now? How long has it been since we passed?”

“It’s been twenty-five years.”

The realization washed over Enos and he nearly cried out. “That can’t be right.” He thought. He closed his eyes and the memories began to fill his mind. He watched his friends start each new school year and graduate. He watched as the feed store closed and became the library. He saw the sunlight that shone on the retirement party for the grocery store owner who always gave him a crisp, new apple when he and his mother visited. And he saw the trailer. A memorial that sat perfectly sealed. Could it really have been twenty-five years?

“Enos, I don’t know what I’m going to find in Chicago. That’s always the scary part about change but I do know that I won’t be happy — I won’t be truly happy — if I don’t go. You’ve got to be brave enough to cross over and face what you’ve avoided for so long. I know it’s not easy but think about it. You don’t even know the years that pass and very soon Essex will be empty. Everyone will be gone. Look at that picture, Enos, and tell me. When you’re wandering down the streets of an empty town, what will you become?”

The boy stiffened. He knew the answer.

Barton repeated the question. “What will you become?”

Enos whispered. “A ghost.”

With that, he disappeared into the night and the soggy page he had been holding blew a short distance down the hill before melting onto the grass. Barton picked himself up and took one last look at the stones around him before making his way back to the car and leaving.

The rain was gone in the morning and Barton began to pack away his things. He pulled the bedding from his mattress and replaced it with a sleeping bag that he would use for the next two nights. He ate as much as he could from the fridge and did the dishes for the last time before insulating them in newspaper and placing them in boxes that were lined with Boston College sweatshirts. He then walked to the creek and placed both cane poles near the shore before heading back and carefully leaving the basketball just inside the barn. He wasn’t sure that he had convinced Enos of anything so, if not, he could always pass the days working on his jump shot.

In the evenings, Barton went into town and ate at the diner and visited the tavern as he had normally done. Enos did not visit on either Saturday or Sunday and there was no goodbye. It made for a heavy heart.

On Monday morning, the truck arrived just after nine o’clock. The two men who manned it had no difficulty loading the limited possessions they found. Barton unplugged the refrigerator, wiped it down and left the door open. Then he called the property manager to assure him that he would mail the key and a check for next month’s rent in lieu of providing thirty days’ notice. He confirmed the Chicago address with the movers and stuffed the sleeping bag into the car. The truck pulled down the drive and headed for the highway and, after a moment of reflection, Barton followed.

He had gotten about two hundred yards down the drive when he saw him. Amongst the dust clouds that rose in his wake, he saw Enos running after him. The boy’s arms were pumping dramatically but there was no exertion. There was no heaving chest or sweat on his brow. Barton stopped the car. He got out and looked back at the boy. Enos stopped as well and raised his right hand in the air. It wasn’t a wave, but it was a farewell, so Barton did the same. The two looked at each other for a final moment before a stiff breeze cut across the field and over the drive. It pushed the dust clouds out into the weeds and, with them, Enos began to dissipate. It was as if he were made of fine sand and the breeze was taking him aloft, starting from the top down. In the end, the last that Barton saw was a pair of dime store cowboy boots that disappeared seconds later.

Barton returned to the car, opened his window just a bit, and continued down the drive with a newborn confidence that neither he, nor Enos, would ever again return to Essex, Indiana.