Flying Clean

Flying Clean Chapter 7

Chapter 7

My plan came to me in reverse: the broad scope of the scheme was invisible to me, while the little details came so crystal clear. I came to realize that the little things that I had committed to memory since first arriving on the hellish Desmond farm had become a sort of Chekhov's gun of observation. For instance, I had noticed almost immediately that John- the first of the Desmonds who had showed goodness- was forced to slave the back acres of the farm, along the Wabash River. I had also, more slowly, realized that Susan would arise twice a week in the early hours of the morning to do the washing. I believe that this was because of my accidental meeting her that afternoon and, her father having somehow known, had been forced to change her laundry schedule. It was these seemingly insignificant details which stoked the plan itself. If it had not come to me in this way, I don't believe any success could have been had.

The plan that I was working out mentally every waking moment was tentative at best- it relied upon the weather; the only element in the world that cannot be predicted, despite what the people on television would have you believe. During the months- yes, the very long months- that my plan emerged as a sculpture from stone, I was plagued with self-doubt, entirely certain that it would go wrong from the very beginning. I credit this utter doubt as the mortar which held the bricks in place. Because I was so certain that everything would go wrong, I was able to extend my plan into grass roots of possibilities, forking in all directions. I think now, that something else was pushing me to the conclusions that I came to. That perhaps the human survival instinct goes much deeper than can be theorized or comprehended.

Those months were a time of misery on all levels. I continued dealing with the cold brutality of the winter- and of the Desmonds- and when spring finally came around, I refrained from donning cooler clothing. I was dressed in layers always, for if even one Desmond noticed that I had lost weight over the winter, all bets would have been off. I was hoarding my food, of course, as I had been all along. I didn't know why I had started, but by the time my plan came to me fully, I understood that I really had known all along. When spring came, I was significantly slimmer and my food-stores of bread and potatoes were enough for me to live off of for two months. Or enough for more people to eat for several weeks. I kept my food hoard wrapped in my canvas tarpaulin, buried beneath the hay. I knew I was the only person to ever come up to the loft, but I wasn't taking any chances.

From the very beginning of my deliberate planning, I began going to town every week. Harry griped more and more about it, but in order to keep me working for free, he had to play with his own bluff. Instead of the four dollars he had given me that first time, he only gave me two and only rarely three. I never spent money in town; I only took the trip for the money and for the exercise. Once a week, rain or shine, I would run the seven miles into Hambria; every quarter mile I dropped down and did fifty push-ups. For the first month, I would vomit at least twice before reaching Hambria. When I got to town, I found a good tree and did chin-ups until my muscles cramped in agony and I could do no more. Then I would sit on my rock and watch the western horizon, no longer thinking of Uncle Herbert, but how to get to him. On my way home, I would repeat my routine, utterly miserable with pain and exhaustion. When I was a half mile from the farm, I would sit down until I had stopped sweating and I would walk the rest of the way, holding myself upright with the last of my strength. When spring neared its end- my days a countdown of only double or single digits- I no longer required layers, but long sleeves to hide the hard toned muscle that I had so painfully earned.

When I knew my time had come down to the last weeks, I finally took the biggest risk aside from the deed itself: I confessed. I remembered that John had been the only Desmond that had gone to school- if only for awhile- and I dared to write him a note on a piece of wax paper with a pencil stub I had found weeks before in the secondary barn. I had to wait three days for the opportunity, but I seized it beautifully.