her youthful face. When she was finished she inspected the results, which were better than she had thought they might be. Her eyes appeared wider, wilder, and more mysterious than ever. Womanly, she concluded. Though she had worn lipstick before, this mauve colour (a shade she ordinarily wouldn't have thought to wear), gave her a different, almost exotic look.
In her reflection she saw the transformation from a naive teenager to the ambitious woman she wanted to portray.
"In the right clothes, Jeremy Atkins won't take his hands off you," she said aloud. "The right time and place are around the corner." As an odd smile crept across her face, she began to assess her ever-developing body. "You better watch out Susan Parker, 'cause you've got only one thing that I don't - Jeremy Atkins."
She turned in front of the mirror and admired herself. Not a true beauty, she could be a passable substitute. In seductive clothes and a change of outward attitude, she could be competition for many girls, although there was only one female in Lasting she had her sights on.
"Hey, Susan," she commanded, "I hope you're ready for me, because when I start to fight, it's going to be to the death."
CHAPTER FOUR
Dale kept off the main highway, thinking he might wander into a town where he could stay overnight. It was mid-afternoon and the sun's warmth was too hot for comfort. He wasn't a summer person, liking the cooler seasons better.
Dale couldn't get enough of winter and the work that was involved with it. Shovelling snow was the only activity a youngster could do that was both legal and paid well. To suit up after a big snowfall was akin to winning the kid lottery. Once told by a customer that if he worked slower, he could do a better job, Dale replied, "If you don't like my work, you can shovel it yourself!" The man was taken aback by the boy's candor, but could see from his eyes that something possessed him to go quickly, to get the job done.
Those same eyes managed to get Dale most of his work, whether the people he approached needed his services or not. It was as if they were afraid of what he might do if they declined his offer.
Growing up in the small town of Freeling effected Dale's life considerably, as it had as many disadvantages as advantages. The biggest hindrance was the lack of work, with the main source of employment being the local lumber mill.
Dale's father was one of those poor suckers dying little by little, long shift by long shift. Awake at 6:00 a.m. and out the door an hour later was his regular schedule, which meant there was no time for his three good-for-nothing boys.
Stan Hawks' plans hadn't included any children. Unluckily for him, his high school bride was as fertile as a rabbit. It was as if every time he touched her, she gave him another boy to carry on the Hawks' legacy. When she passed away giving birth to Dale, Stan also wanted to die. What did he know about kids? His wife had raised the other two almost single-handedly. With both of them now over 12 and old enough to take care of themselves, what did Stan need with an infant?
He decided to pay a kindly mother of six to raise Dale, figuring he could easily handle the two older boys. Then when Dale reached school age, tragedy struck: his father moved him back home, ripping him away from the devoted arms of Mrs. Davenport and her loving family.
If a psychologist needed an example of how a child's robust outlook on life could stop instantaneously, Dale Hawks would be the perfect test subject.
In his spare time Dale was basically not allowed to play, be it before school, at lunch time and especially after school. With his other sons now out of the house, Stan took advantage of the new healthy, albeit small, body around. While he slaved away at the mill, he expected Dale to keep the house tidy by doing a few menial tasks like emptying the garbage cans. In the evenings, Stan had Dale fetch him a beer or two, making it seem like a fun game they were playing together. Stan figured in a year or two Dale would be old enough and tall enough to do more strenuous chores, such as washing the dishes and vacuuming. Until that day arrived, if Dale got out of line, Stan would simply put him back in place with a powerful smack of the hand. When things got really out of hand . . . .
Thinking of that night always made Dale shiver, from both fright and repulsion. Today was no different. As there were no cars in sight, he took a position under the shade of a roadside tree. It was times like these he dreaded, when he had the opportunity to think, and remember the awful past.
***
After class was dismissed for the day, Dale and a few other boys remained to play in the school yard, which was a block away from Dale's house. As the games grew more intense, the less Dale thought to keep track of the time. When he realized it was almost 6:30, the plans that would forever change his life had already been set in motion.
Stan Hawks awaited his son's return with a gleeful smirk plastered across his face. After a long hard day, he'd become accustomed to having Dale greet him with a beer when he arrived home, maybe even have a sandwich made. That's the way it was when his other two sons were at home and that's what was now expected of Dale. Stan often called Dale his "lost" son because of his nicey-nicey upbringing at the Davenports where they let him have fun and play games. How did they expect the boy to learn respect when they let him get away with murder all the time? If you give him everything his selfish heart desires, what does that teach him about the cold hard facts of the world?
Tonight, however, Dale would learn some cold facts about behaviour and reliability.
Dale's chest was pounding like a locomotive when he reached the front porch of the house. The lights were on and he knew his father was already inside. His mind could not comprehend what might take place within those four walls in the next few minutes. In his dreams he had courageously fended off dragons and evil kings, but they were all imaginary.
This was real.
The notion of his imminent demise rapidly came and went. Maybe Dad worked some overtime and I can still throw some soup in the microwave or make a quick sandwich. With that boyish fantasy tumbling inside his head, Dale burst into the kitchen.
Stan Hawks stood by the sink, his back to Dale. He lifted a meat cleaver and slammed it through a raw piece of meat on the counter top. "Is that you, son?"
Dale's voice was barely audible. "Ah, yes . . . it's me, Dad. I'm really sorry I'm late. I didn't mean to. I was playing at the school and I—"
His father turned quickly. The sight of the bloodied cleaver in his hand made Dale's vocal cords freeze in mid-sentence.
"Oh, don't worry about it, Dale," Stan said, wiping the blood from the large blade with his index finger and thumb. "Boys will be boys, I always say." With a warm smile he put the cleaver on the counter and went to a boiling pot on the stove. "Do you want some stew, Dale? Nice and hot. After playing so hard, you'll need some good nutrition in you."
Dale couldn't believe his luck. Something must have happened at work - a raise or a promotion. Still leery of his father's sunny attitude, Dale walked to the cupboard and grabbed a bowl and spoon. Cautiously, he went to his father, who placed a ladle of steaming stew into the bowl.
"There you go, son. Better eat it quick before it gets cold."
Dale walked briskly to the table, with each step bracing himself for the outpouring of rage he believed must be burning within the old man. As he sat on his chair, his father excused himself from the room.
"You eat up. I have to check on my laundry," Stan said calmly.
His laundry? Oh no! Dale thought.
