The boy: a story

People in White Cliff knew Sam Sanderson drove a white pickup truck, and they’d read about the restitution money the state had paid, almost $750,000 and based on a convoluted formula of what his income would have been had he not been in prison plus the going rate, not the prison rate, for the work he did at Pine Tree.

And they all knew that the lawsuits he’d filed were enough to bankrupt the county twice over. The litigation had become a gigantic black cloud over the town and the county, effectively chilling development and investment. Sam did all of his shopping in Bozeman or Billings; in fact, this appearance in her store was the first time Alice Willis had seen him up close since his return from Pine Tree, although she and many others had seen him jogging with the church pastor. The first time they’d jogged into town, jaws dropped at the sight of the slender Dennis Cannon and the more muscular Sam jogging side by side right down the state highway into the center of town and on to the track at the high school.

And there he was, sitting by himself near the store’s stove, sipping his coffee and facing the front window. She wanted to talk to him, to say she was sorry for what had happened. But she just didn’t know how to get the words out, or how to say them.

He wasn’t bad looking, she thought. But he still had that prison pallor, an almost yellowish tinge to his skin. He was average height at most, maybe 5 foot 9, and was on the stocky side, but muscular, all muscle. It was said that he’d installed a home gym in his house and did regular workouts. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, but somehow that enhanced his appearance.

Seeing him up close for the first time, Alice was both surprised and not surprised that his hair had turned completely gray. And he’s only 31. It was cut short, like a buzz.

He sat, not saying a word. The third time he looked at his watch made Alice realize why he was there. He’s waiting for the bus from Denver. The bus only stopped when there was a passenger to drop off or pick up. He’s waiting for someone or something on the bus. He doesn’t look like he’s going to Seattle. No suitcase or bag. And if he is, he better think twice about leaving that pickup of his out front.

Alice could see that he was tense. Whatever he’s waiting for, it’s making him real nervous.

They both heard the wheeze of the air brakes before they saw the bus. Sam stood up, and walked quickly outside. It was sunny but cold. Alice, unable to contain her curiosity, grabbed her coat and followed, standing a few feet away. If he asks, I’ll say I’m officially greeting the bus.

The bus stopped, and the driver walked around with the passenger Sam was waiting for. Alice nearly dropped her teeth.

It was a little boy. Dark curly hair, thin, a little on the scrawny side, dark eyes. He was holding on to a blanket that Alice could see had some kind of design on it.

Alice watched Sam and the boy stare at each other for a moment.

“I’m Rafe,” the boy said.

“Rafe, I’m Sam.”

Photograph by Peter Griffin via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.