The bus had no driver. It took its overall control from a satellite navigation receiver located on the roof, while an onboard radar told the computer where other cars and trucks were and how fast they were going. But Josh felt that he had to ask somebody what was going on.
He stood up, on legs stiff with lack of use, and walked back a few seats to where another passenger was drowsing, eyes closed and mouth open, in the morning sunshine.
“Excuse me.”
Josh was half expecting a scowl or a curse, as you’d get from a stranger in the city, but the man just squinted up at him.
“Eh?”
“I’m wondering if I’m going the right way. I’m trying to get to Burnt Willow Farm. It’s supposed to be between Payette and Baker.”
“Mm. Never heard of it. Did you enter the farm as your destination in Boise?”
“Sure.”
“And the system accepted it?”
“It seemed to.”
“Then you’re in good shape. You’ll be dropped off at the nearest point on the route, guaranteed within five kilometers. To the door, if you paid extra.”
“I couldn’t afford to.”
“Me neither.” The man shrugged. “No matter. Nice day for a walk, ’less you’ve got a ton of luggage.”
He closed his eyes again to show that the conversation was over. Josh went back to his seat.
A ton of luggage.
If he had learned one thing in his fourteen years with his mother, it was to travel light. She hauled twelve trunks of clothing around with her, costumes to audition for any part in any play—and what an endless nuisance that had been. Josh had resentfully carried them up and down a hundred flights of stairs. Sometimes it seemed that costumes were the only thing they had in their apartment, every closet stuffed with them, no space for food or furniture or toys.
He had brought with him from New York two small cases, and that was all. All he needed. All anyone needed.
The sadness and pain came again. Mother said that she loved him, said she always did what was best for him. But why hadn’t she asked him what he wanted? Why didn’t she let him have a say in what happened to them? He was pretty much of an adult. He didn’t mind traveling, didn’t mind living in crummy places. He could have traveled with her forever.
He knew the answer. She even said it now and again, when she was in one of her moods. “You’re a big load on me, you know. When I ought to be thinking about my career I’m worrying about you—your education, your friends, your clothing, your meals…”
Josh laid his head again on the seat back. Maybe it would work out better this way, getting away. It sure couldn’t be much worse. And it would let her concentrate on the acting break that she had talked about for as long as he could remember.
“It’s not just talent, Josh, or good looks.” She would run her hand through her great lush waves of blond hair, and cock her head to show off to him what she always said was her best angle. “I have those. But you need luck, too. Up to now I’ve not had luck.”
She was right about that. Maybe his move to Burnt Willow Farm would bring her luck. It might even bring some for him. He felt his wallet, now close to empty. He could sure use a little luck—or if not that, a little money.
The farm had changed.
Josh had been dropped off the bus on a final rise, where the road turned to follow the dried-out watercourse that had been Burnt Willow Creek.
From high above it, the farm stood out against the rest of the landscape as a square-mile patch of drab brown in a sea of greenery. He didn’t need to see the fences to know where the lands of Burnt Willow Farm ended. Outside, the silver pipes of an irrigation network provided a fine spray of water that left everything green and vigorous. Within the farm’s boundaries, the crops grew less densely. Some patches of land in the middle of fields actually stood bare, devoid even of weeds. Josh imagined the farmlands as an old fortress, one that had withstood a long siege but was now barely surviving.
At least the farmhouse and the outbuildings seemed the same. He hadn’t remembered the layout, but when he saw it again everything came back to him. The main house was three-storied, painted a uniform white but with the lumpy, asymmetrical shape of a building that has been added to for generation after generation. The farmyard in front of the house was a hollow square of hard-baked earth. On its left stood a barn with brown walls and red-painted curved roof. On the right was the machine shed, where Uncle Ryan housed the tractors, plows, harrows, seeders, threshers, and combine harvesters. Closest to Josh was the dilapidated old barn, a crumbling ruin where chickens had wandered freely. The pump, once worked by hand but on his last visit to Burnt Willow run by electricity, was in the middle of the farmyard. The dry earth and empty troughs around it suggested that it had not been used for a long time.
Josh continued down the path, noting that it had a well-used look. Someone was making frequent trips up to the brow of the hill. But apparently they did not go beyond, to the road traveled by the bus. The track became almost invisible past the hilltop. It was as though someone climbed all the way up from Burnt Willow Farm, then went right back down again without doing anything.
Close up, he could see other differences. In his mind, the big farmyard was packed with animals, cows and pigs and chickens and dogs and cats, in one glorious mix-up. All he saw now was one brown-and-black cocker spaniel, wagging its tail at his approach but too lazy or overweight to stand up and come to greet him.
He remembered that dog! In the old days it had been all over the farmhouse, on beds and sofas and under tables. It had been thin and energetic. Now it looked too fat to walk.
The whole farm seemed very quiet. As Josh approached the main building, he suddenly felt nervous. Eight years was a long time. He wasn’t sure what to expect.
Worse yet, what would they be expecting? What did Uncle Ryan and Aunt Maria and Dawn remember of him? What had Mother told them, when they all discussed the idea of him coming out here to live? He had better be on his best behavior, at least until he learned what he could get away with.
He stood before the main door of the farmhouse and hesitated. There was no electronic monitor and entry system, as you would find in every apartment building that he remembered. There was not even a bell or a knocker.
Finally he raised his right fist and rapped on the wooden door panel, hesitantly at first and then harder.
The door swung open at once, as though someone had been watching his approach from behind the thick net curtains at the front window.
A girl was standing there. He knew her at once. She had grown taller and her knee-length sleeveless dress showed she was getting an adult figure, but her features hadn’t changed a bit. Even if they had, he would never forget those round, brown eyes.
“Hello, Dawn. I’m Josh.” And, when she stared through him without speaking, “You know. Joshua Kerrigan.”
The brown eyes did not blink. She looked him up and down, from the top of his head—they were almost the same height—to his dusty shoes. Then she did the same thing all over again. He could not say that she looked at him. It was as though he was quite transparent, and she could see right through him.
Finally she turned around, still without saying a word, and went off through the left-hand door that he remembered as leading through from the hall to the dining room, with its black Franklin stove.