It is 1953 in rural Ontario, and a 5-year-old boy's cheeks are wet with drool. His eyes are focused on his red-faced father. Soon, his father's words are not relevant, for the young man has already received the only message that matters: this day will not be scored as a no-hitter. The boy, who thinks of himself as Ranger, wants to grow up and be just like the Lone Ranger. But his harsh and unavailable father seems determined to make his coming-of-age journey tumultuous, challenging and isolated. With a mother who could do little to balance the turmoil, he must rely on his imagination to transport him away from the strife and tension that hangs over his home like a dark cloud. As he rides his make-believe horse, Silver, down Main Street with his six-shooters strapped to his waist, he momentarily forgets the angry father who often stands over him with a belt and threatens to rob him of his spirit. In this moving tale, a young boy engaged in a quiet war of wills with his father must learn how to survive and thrive as he grows into a man and realizes the true meaning of forgiveness.

Broken Road

A NovelBy STEPHEN MICHAEL ZIMMERMAN

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Stephen Michael Zimmerman
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-3532-5

Contents

Prologue.................................................................1Chapter One Bad Pitch...................................................3Chapter Two The Ranger..................................................8Chapter Three Pearl Handles.............................................12Chapter Four Loving Ducks...............................................20Chapter Five Dead Cows Talking..........................................25Chapter Six Buried Treasure.............................................36Chapter Seven First Day at Work.........................................45Chapter Eight The Big Rain..............................................57Chapter Nine Cow Fishing................................................66Chapter Ten Night Terrors...............................................72Chapter Eleven Milkshakes...............................................80Chapter Twelve War Games................................................86Chapter Thirteen Bull Shooter...........................................94Chapter Fourteen Guns...................................................105Chapter Fifteen Earl and Mr. Boag.......................................113Chapter Sixteen The Visit...............................................125Chapter Seventeen End of an Era.........................................133Chapter Eighteen The Fight..............................................144Chapter Nineteen Trouble at School, Trouble at Home.....................151Chapter Twenty Broken...................................................163Chapter Twenty-One The News.............................................178Epilogue.................................................................191

Chapter One

Bad Pitch

The stones skipped across the road as if they had been propelled by a star pitcher from the big leagues. As they struck the pavement, they accelerated and took off like tiny spaceships into the summer sky. The pitcher desperately waited for a car to come into sight. The humid summer morning hung its moisture in the air, waiting for the sun to warm it away. Off in the distance, a rumble announced a truck's intent to make its way past the pitcher. As the big leaguer became aware of the target, he turned and fired a slider at the last wheel on the trailer. The stone found its mark, and the pitcher was rewarded with a burst of metallic applause. The game was on. One out.

The next car passed quickly, and there was no time for the pitcher to pick up a stone and ready himself for the throw. The "whoosh" of the air caught the thrower off guard and pushed him—all 45 pounds of sinew and muscle on a three-foot-six frame—back off the mound. A runner was now on base.

The star hurler stiffened and waited for the next batter. Silence. A plane passed overhead. Then came the faint sound of an opponent. This one was smaller, sleeker and faster. The hurler tensed. His steely eyes locked onto his foe, and he palmed the missile from left to right, right to left. Timing would be everything. When his opponent was almost directly in front of him, he reached back, kicked and unloaded.

The shattering of glass and the screaming of tires announced the results of the throw. The hurler had missed the mark. Red lights exploded from the rear of the car. The angry batter turned and rushed the mound. Time to hit the dugout! The big leaguer had not trained for this—he was terrified. At 5 years old, he did not know the dangers of windshields and stones and little girls in front seats and fathers who were angry. The hurler's legs had turned to lead. His arms pumped at three times the rate his legs were moving, and he could hear the gravel yielding to angry tires behind him. The big leaguer kept ahead of the injured car all the way up the long lane and made it to the front door of the house. The door opened. It was the Second in Command, known to the pitcher simply as Mother. She was in charge of the farm in the absence of the Manager—the boy's father.

There was one, and only one, objective for the big leaguer: to get on the other side of the door. The Second in Command, on the other hand, was in no hurry. She saw a visitor coming up the walk and was ready to follow the custom of greeting visitors with a friendly face. The hurler made every attempt to alert her to the fact that this was not a time for pleasantries, but to no avail. The angry man came up the walk, and the negotiations began.

She seemed alarmed when the stranger came too close to her offspring. Her blue eyes darted toward her son, and he instinctively moved in behind her. She stood her ground in the doorway and inquired about the stranger's visit. Her black hair was groomed perfectly, and her dress of black and red checks provided a visual alert as she positioned herself between her son and the visitor.

It soon became apparent that there had been a "stray throw" and some "damage." The big leaguer was sent to the clubhouse.

Upstairs in his room, the pounding in his ears mixed with muffled, distant voices. He had never noticed the thumping noise in his bedroom before. How had he slept with that awful racket? Perspiration completely drenched his shirt as if he had gone the full nine innings. His eyes burned. Legs that could easily carry him around the bases hung limp off the side of the bed, still short of the floor. Hands that had fired the pill at fantasy speeds now were wet and shaking. Dreams of a masterful pitching performance eluded him, replaced with the awful notion of an unavoidable visit from the Manager. As he waited for the inevitable, his stomach formed a huge cannonball. It must have been intensely hot in the clubhouse to cause his eyes to sweat so heavily, and his breathing was strangely laboured. As he sat alone, his emotions were somewhere between fear and panic, knowing that there would be dire consequences to his ill-fated throw. The full impact of what was about to occur came over him. His shoulders fell, and he cried.

Sometime later he heard the telltale creaking from the stairway, announcing the imminent arrival of the Second in Command. Her passage up the steps had its own language. She ascended each stair with grace, gently and methodically. He recognized the sound and knew the difference between her temperate approach and the sound of the Manager. When the Manager was on his way, the stairs warned of his invasion with louder, harsher creaks. The old staircase was forced to give up all its warning at once as the weight of the Manager assaulted each step. The pitcher was relieved that this time it was her.

Seconds later she appeared in the doorway with a sad smile on her face. "They left," she said. She looked at him, awaiting judgment. The tears had traced trails through the dust on his reddened cheeks. The lesson had already been well learned, but the real pain was yet to come for both of them. "You'll have to stay there till your father comes home." She was, after all, the Second in Command. She was not the one who would dole out punishment. He had to wait for the Manager. This was the beginning of the sentence—the waiting and fearing of what was to come.

After a few minutes, the Sister appeared in the door of the clubhouse, having emerged from the room across the hall. "You've done it now," she said. "You smashed the windshield of that car and got glass all over those people. I told you to stop throwing stones."

He...