The Truth

by

Justin Webster

Published by:

justinwebster.ca at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Justin Webster

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real in any manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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The Truth

I was ten and a half when it happened. I thought I’d get in trouble, otherwise I knew better than to get in that car. We’d been riding our mini-bikes down the Fansher Road for as long as we’d had them. While we’d known that we could get in trouble, the road wasn’t used much and nobody had ever bothered us. It was around harvest time as there were V-Boxes in the field, dust in the air, and the constant accompaniment of combines.

Chris headed home and I decided to hit the trail one more time. I rode by a farmer whose name I’ve tried over the years to remember and can’t. He was leaning against the wheel of his tractor and casually examining his soy beans. He was talking—or rather listening—to a familiar looking guy in a newer Crown Victoria. I waved and the farmer waved back, but his visitor just seemed to take note of me. I’d just about turned the corner by the McCutcheon farm when the sedan pulled a U and was coming up behind me. It was about then that the Crown Vic with the sport coat wearing guy who looked familiar took on a more official air.

I hightailed it into the ditch just beyond some thorn bushes, dropped the bike on its side, and burrowed into the thorns as far as I could. When the car pulled up I was pretty much out in the open, but took my best shot at camouflaging anyway.

Didn’t work.

My mind always flip-flops between the squeaky brakes and the settling gravel and which stopped first. In the end, it doesn’t matter. It’s funny how you replay the seemingly meaningless occurrences in your life.

I think it was the gravel.

It was a long time between the end of the sound and the door opening. It was so long that I thought I’d underestimated my camouflaging job. But then it happened and the sounds of approaching footsteps soon followed. Then they stopped and there was another drawn-out silence.

“You really shouldn’t be out here during harvest.”

Silence.

“Do you know who I am?”

Silence.

“That’ll be the last time I talk to the ditch. If you’re just going to lie there, we’re going to take this to the next stage.”

I stood up and still couldn’t see much of the man. I could tell he’d removed his jacket but his face was hidden by the thorn branches.

“Are you the Sewell boy?”

Yes…yes, sir.

“Do your parents know you’re out here?”

“Yes. Well, sort of.”

“Sort of? Your mom works for the township, doesn’t she?”

I moved to try and see his face better but he looked back in the direction of the farmer. That drew my attention there, but he was even more obscured than my interrogator. I could just hear the drone of his combine in the distance.

“I think we better go see to this. Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“Sir, what about my bike?”

“I can’t let you ride it again. You can push it home or I can give you a lift. You decide. You and your dad can come get it later.”

With that, he got in his car and I was at that fork in the road.

I grabbed the chrome handle but got nowhere because it was locked. The man reached across to unlock the door and I got my first good look at him. I think he worked with mom or was on township council or something.

We’d barely rounded McCutcheon’s corner (with me thinking we were going to turn around in their laneway) when he put the cloth over my face. It had something on it and it burned when I breathed in. I held my breath for as long as I could, but eventually I had to breathe and I went numb. To this day, I’m pretty sure the car had been moving the whole time. I put up what fight I could, but I don’t think he even had to pull over.

When I woke up I was in what would be my home for about the next nine years. It was a cellar. Actually, it was a crawlspace. My back always hurts now and I think it was because of the crawlspace. Near the end of my time there, I’m not sure I’d have been able to have sat up if not for the way I hunched over. I worked on the curve in my back like Chris and I used to work on hockey stick blades. When I was about fifteen, I could sit on my butt and still not manage to hit the underneath of the floor. By the time I got to about eighteen (I have to say about because I didn’t start keeping track of time right away) I was about a foot taller and I could still do the same thing.