CHANCEY DOUBLE-BACK by Pam Ingebritson
Chapter 2 – Samantha Harlow

Samantha Harlow stood balanced motionless on the train rail, one leg
extended straight out in front. Both arms were upraised, fingertips lightly caressed
the air. Strands of gold-red hair floated lightly around her delicate-featured face as
a breeze kicked up. Her green eyes focused straight ahead as she placed her left
heel slightly ahead of the leading foot’s toes. Repeating the move, her path
continued along the steel balance beam. Her record was 438 steps without a missstep
– 100 yards or so, not too shabby!

I’d be a natural for the gymnastics team, thought Sam regretfully, knowing it
wouldn’t happen. Suddenly, she brightened. Nah! Too much like work; she preferred
fun. Speaking of which… Enough of this! It’s home to the Nielsen’s for me. Home had
two faces for Sam. Her primary home was the home of her neighbors, the Nielsens.
Bridget and son Eric were her family, having acted as her caretakers since she was tiny,
as her truck driver father, Les Harlow was on the road 5 days out of 7, and many times
for weeks on end.

Her real home wasn’t much. She and father, Les resided in a small adobe house,
right down the road from the Nielsens. Both families lived near the village of Chancey,
a tiny farming community southeast of Ruidoso. Right now, Harlow house, as Sam
thought of it, was far from Sam’s thoughts. The lure of the bullseye was great. Yeessss!!!
Sam gleefully jumped off the steel beam and headed for the home where her heart was,
the Nielsens.

Hand-eye coordination activities were Sam’s thing. Unlike her peers, she
didn’t go in for computer games, pinball, or other arcade games which required
money and/or a computer. Her father just barely provided the basics. Instead, Sam
indulged her passion for hitting-the-mark with more primitive games such as target
shooting with her bow and arrows, knocking down tin cans or hitting knotholes on
trees with her slingshot, pitching horseshoes, shooting basketball hoops – anything
that required hitting a target with a projectile. She got a strange thrill out of nailing
it, whatever it happened to be, time and again. Repetitively hitting a target,
unerringly, soothed her. Her powers of concentration had become machine-like.
The setting for her games was the outdoors, her great love. The land brought a
feeling of stability and peace into her shaky little existence, showcasing as it did, the
creativity and power and awesomeness of its Creator. She felt close to God, outside,
under the endless dome of the universe’s ceiling. Outside, the aching knot of
loneliness, habitually present in her chest, relaxed for a time.

Sam’s mind rambled as she hurried on, recalling the time when she had first
learned how to shoot. Target shooting with bow and arrow was her favorite. Sam’s
penchant for shooting at targets, and her high level of skill and accuracy at it, had
not gone unnoticed. Although Sam’s own father paid her no mind, Grandfather
Sullivan had observed her activities, noting and appreciating her talent for
marksmanship. He had gifted her with a junior archery set when she was 9, and
instructed her. Although her relationship with her grandfather wasn’t traditional or
warm, she did have a way with him no one else did. Her resemblance to his side of
her heritage, with her red hair, ivory skin, and intense green eyes, earned her
points with the old man. She was, literally, the only blood relative he had left in the
village. Although she knew his name was synonymous with “drunk,” and “maniac,”
around Chancey, Sam believed the liquor and his deep-seated anger, for unknown
reasons, made him act like he did. While everyone else in town loathed and feared
him, she was thankful for him, not holding his weaknesses against him. He sensed
her acceptance, and it allowed them a cautious relationship. Still, she had sense
enough to stay away if he was drunk. Same went for her dad. For a young girl of 12,
Sam knew a lot about booze and alcoholics.

Her shooting hobby delighted Sam. She loved the feel of the tension in the
string as she drew the bow, and the flexing of her forearm and shoulder muscles.
That magical moment, just before she released the arrow, and the hissing sound it
made slicing through the air, sent a shuddering thrill down her spine. Hitting the
red bull’s eye was the crowning achievement of that moment in time. Her ability was
a cherished secret. It gave her confidence and self-respect. Putting herself in the
role of an Apache of long ago, she roamed the mountain foothills, blazing trails and
shooting at roughly hacked out targets on tree trunks. Once, her travels brought her
across an old family cemetery, overgrown and neglected for decades. She visited
the place often, studying the crude headstones, and making up personalities and
lives for these long-ago dead. It was comforting to think of these graves’ occupants
as her own family. One crumbling headstone was strangely alluring. A pair of wings
was faintly visible. The engraved words were part of a quote, or scripture, about
angels having been given charge to watch over every living thing. Sam assigned
this particular headstone to her mother, imagining she was buried there. This
scenario was easier to bear than the truth of Gina Harlow’s desertion of her when she
was small. She had never even glimpsed a picture of her mother, so adamant was
Les in his loathing of his ex-wife. Not ever having seen her or known her meant Sam
could think of her mom any way she wanted, as she visited the pretend grave.

Despite Lester’s ravings about Gina, Sam chose to believe that Gina had left Les, not
her. Surely, her mother had been unable to take her along, that’s all. Sam harbored
that hope for a long time, and that Gina would come back for her someday. But as
she grew older, the reality of her mother probably being dead settled in like a dull
constant ache. She had to be dead, thought Sam sadly. Better that than being alive,
but not caring. She shook her head, shaking off the strong emotions and focused on
the good things and people in her life.

Funny how thought process worked. She started out excited about her
archery and ended up mourning the mother she’d never known and being ticked off
at Les. Not that he’d mistreated her, just grossly neglected her. His truck driving
kept him on the road, where he preferred to be. Because of his profession, Sam had
been left to the care of the neighbors during her formative years. The home of the
kindhearted Mrs. Nielsen, who lived with son, Eric, in their large, two-story
farmhouse with a big wrap-around front porch, was just a stone’s throw from the
Harlow’s tiny residence. Since Sam was very small, Mrs. Nielsen had looked after
her. She was like a grandmother to Sam. Eric, a blond giant of a man, also filled a
role, that being of a big brother or uncle.

Many an evening, it was their routine for Sam and Eric to take a walk down the
winding country road. “Come on Sam, let’s stroll,” he’d say, and away they would
go, into the dusk. Eric called them their “wonder wanders.” Other times they would
just sit together companionably on the front porch, looking at the sky. Sam would
lay back in the porch swing while Eric’s huge, oak rocking chair creaked in time to
his awesome frame’s motion. He would tell stories of Nordic warriors of old – Viking
tales – and of mythological gods and trolls, about the oracle of the runes, fascinating
things like she’d never heard or read anywhere. Fact or fiction, Eric told it all like
Gospel. They talked of stars and dreams, of all the tomorrows and their possibilities.
Sometimes, a funny debate would ensue on such deep topics as pre-destination
versus futures-undetermined, the concept of no such thing as time, other worlds and
their inhabitants, or any topic that was controversial or unprovable by scientific
method. Such forums wildly stimulated Sam’s imagination and left her in awe at the
complexity, yet pure simplicity and beauty of life. Ultimately, their talks inspired
Sam, helped her cope, and grew her in strength, maturity, and understanding. She
reflected on Eric’s kind words, wisdom, and intriguing stories long after the initial
telling, feeling at peace and in tune with all that was. Her deep gratitude and love
for Eric and Mrs. Nielsen grew and she was certain the Almighty was looking out for
her through them.

Sam spent little time at Harlow house, even during Lester’s infrequent visits
home. Instead, she hung out on her grandfather’s ranch in her hideouts, or roamed
the deserty and wooded terrains. Though there was little opportunity to do so, Sam
tried her best to win her father’s attention and approval. But Lester had other
people, places, and things to do. So it went, the years rolling by in this dreary
manner of part-time living at the Harlow house. Even when Les was in town, he
didn’t come home many nights. Sam adjusted to solitude within the small house,
eventually coming to think of it as hers alone, even relishing the time Les wasn’t
around. Her need-for-family was met in the Nielsens. Lester and Sam hardly knew
each other and, as Sam grew up, she came to know that she didn’t particularly care
anymore. Eventually, Sam began to view Les as an inconvenience to her life style, as
she had always been to his.

Lester’s drinking and coming home drunk had increased lately. Her life,
when he was in it, was becoming more endangered. In her maturing, she was
coming to resemble Gina, (unbeknownst to her). Her hair, delicate features, voice,
and mannerisms were a dead-on ringer for Gina’s. Lester’s rage at Gina’s desertion
still festered and now, the vision of her that Sam was becoming, fanned his buried
fury into a full-blown fire again, enflaming Lester’s drinking and rantings. So far,
he’d directed no violence toward her. But if his verbal abuse was a precursor to a
violent follow-through, Sam was a target, and she knew it. She had a plan. Should it
be necessay, she would escape through her bedroom window, get on her bike and
vamoose. A backpack was loaded and ready to grab out of the closet. Out the
window, round the corner to the shed for her bike, and go! One of her hideouts
would serve as a safe haven from her father. If necessary, it’s a plan, thought Sam,
although, she didn’t like the idea of running from anything. The Nielsen’s place, of
course, was practically right next door. But the thought of seeking shelter with them,
as compelling and natural as it felt, also made Sam squirm with the fear of what Les
might do, if he found her with them. Eric, Bridget, and most of Chancey, weren’t
unaware of Lester’s drinking and neglect of Sam. They just weren’t aware that
Harlow’s alcoholic rages were now increasingly being directed toward his daughter,
at Gina’s image in her. The situation was coming to a head. But Sam wasn’t afraid for
herself. She only worried about unwittingly dragging those she cared for so much
into something she felt was her problem. No, she would not risk that the Nielsens
should somehow get hurt because of her. The burdens this young woman-child bore
were far removed from the trials and tribulations of her peers.

As Sam’s marching strides led her over the crest of the hill, the sight of the
Nielsen house turned her from her troubled musings. Home, she thought, my real
home. Although the Harlow house was also within view, beyond the Nielsens, she
didn’t even see it. Her spirits lifted, just like the smoke lazily drifting upward from
one of the old house’s chimneys.

She pushed through the old wooden picket gate and followed the sidewalk to
the front porch. Jasper, Eric’s beloved German Shepherd/Akita mix quickly
appeared, his tail and eyes saying it all.

“Hi fella, come here and give me a kiss, that’s my good boy!” Sam's arms
went around him as she petted and praised him. Mrs. Nielsen appeared at the
screen door, at the sound of Sam’s voice.

She pushed open the door and met Sam on the porch. Wrapping one arm
around Sam’s shoulder, she gently led her inside saying, “Samantha darling, there
you are. I’m afraid we’ve had some rather bad news.” (we?) Mrs. Nielsen’s voice
was tremulous, “Sit down, dear.” She steered Sam into the kitchen, to where the
afternoon plate of cookies sat on the table awaiting her. Though the cookies smelled
delicious, Sam made no move to reach for one. Mrs. Nielsen lowered herself into a
chair opposite Sam. Her eyes sought Sam’s, dropped to her lap, and then burned
into Sam’s gaze again.

Panic seeped into Sam’s mind. Eric!! Something horrible about Eric. “Is Eric
okay? Where is Eric?” Anxiety flooded through her at the thought of Eric being
hurt, or worse.

“Eric is fine, Dear. He’s on his way now.” Mrs. Nielsen’s eyes drifted over
Sam’s head into the living room where Deputy Sheriff Will Barton sat on the sofa,
quietly waiting. Sam hadn’t noticed his presence when she came in. But she didn’t
miss Bridget’s slight glance. Her head whipped around. The chair’s legs scraped
the wooden floor rudely as she pushed herself shakily upright.

Will stood immediately and spoke as he started toward the kitchen. “It’s
okay, Samantha, no fear, I’m here to help.”

Samantha shook her head oddly and replied, “I’m not afraid, I guess I just
thought I should stand up in your presence.” She wasn’t panicked anymore, but
confused. If Eric was okay, then what could it be?

“What’s going on?” She looked from Mrs. Nielsen’s troubled face to the
deputy. “You’re not here because of me.” The silence was thick. “Are you?” Sam
suddenly felt weak and lightheaded. She sank down onto the chair.
Bridget Nielsen sighed deeply, dreading this. “Sam, Deputy Barton is here
because of Les…”, Bridget’s voice trailed off. Sam relaxed. It figures. Easy to
imagine the law wanting Les for some crime-committed-drunk.

“And because of your grandfather.” Mrs. Nielsen’s voice continued in a
gentler tone, that set off a warning bell in Sam’s head. Suddenly, she knew. The
proverbial ‘official at your doorstep with bad news’ scenario. Far away, she heard
Will say, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Samantha, but there has been an accident
and your grandfather is dead. We think the last person to see him alive could have
been your father, and we need to talk to him, about, uh, the situation.”

Sam’s mind was skipping around oddly and she didn’t follow the last part of
Deputy Barton’s statement. She totally leaped over the death of the person and
zeroed in on the real loss. All that mattered was the future of “her ranch.” Her mind
conjured up terrifying images of the whole place being bulldozed and transformed
into some cheap housing development, her beloved woods, the critters, and bike
routes being laid waste. Her hideouts, her favorite lookout tree, the squirrels and
birds that she fed out of hand, all gone. Dear God, her mother’s pseudo grave, the
ONLY thing she had of Gina, would be lost forever!

“Wait! You can’t just bulldoze over a graveyard,” Sam blurted out stupidly.
Bridget Nielsen and Will Barton looked at each other, then at Sam,
uncomprehendingly.

“Samantha, do you know your father’s schedule for this week? When he was
home this weekend, did he mention where he’d be?” asked Bridget gently. Sam
shook her head, mumbling, “The only thing he mentions lately is how much he hates
my mother. I don’t care if he ever comes back!! Grandpa gone makes my chest
hurt. Les gone…" Sam trailed off. Her outburst was uncharacteristic. She sat
quietly, not looking at either adult. The thought of the loss of the farm had so
dominated her mind, it hadn’t occurred to her to ask. She did so now. “What
happened to Grandpa, anyway?” Heart attack, stroke, drunk-driving accident, even
bar fight wouldn’t have been surprising to hear.

Nothing but dead silence in response made her wonder whether she had
spoken her question aloud, or merely thought it.
Finally, Will Barton spoke, addressing the air above her head, until finally, he
mustered the guts to drop his eyes to hers. His words blew her away. Then his
voice slowed and became a faint drone. She understood his words, but he couldn’t
have been talking about her grandfather. Impossible. Samantha called up all the
bits and pieces of the comments she’d heard from village folk about Dan. Maybe the
deputy’s story wasn’t so outrageous. “…found dead on his property; …haven’t
pinpointed time of death yet but probably was sometime between…; …no weapon
recovered; …no firm clues, but there are a few leads we’re following up;… OOhh!”
When will Les be in town? It came together now. Pathetically, not a shred of
defensive feelings surfaced in Sam’s heart, related to the implication that her father
might be involved. Her mind was numb; she drifted from thought to disjointed
thought. Disgust and anger at Les welled up for the sorry excuse for a life he had
provided her. The good times she had in her little world occurred mostly on the
ranch. She suspected the little happiness she had known would now go away. If Les
proved to be a killer, she might have to go away, to some nightmarish children’s
services agency, or some such thing.

The deputy was still speaking. He was repeating himself, silly man.
“Samantha, Samantha, Samantha…” That’s pretty funny, thought Sam irrationally,
Samantha’s a mantra, Samantha’s a mantra; Samantha’s a…
“Sam!” Her meandering, pink bubble suddenly popped and she found
herself still sitting in the kitchen.

“Yessss, Ma’am, I’m Sam, I am; Green eggs & ham? I say it’s all a sham!” Sam
giggled hysterically, then choked, fell silent, staring morosely at the floor. Her
sneakered toe traced a sweeping ellipse on the floor, over and under, repeating the
pattern…

“Sam!” Bridget Nielsen said sharply once again. “Did you hear Deputy
Barton?” Bridget Nielsen’s normally calm demeanor was nowhere in sight and she
spoke more harshly than she meant to, rattled by the not knowing of Sam’s fate, and
by Sam’s odd responses to this disturbing news. She had expected confusion,
sadness, questions, even horror or inconsolable grief. But this incomprehensible,
sing-songing of nonsensical nursery rhymes, and now non-responsive silence,
frightened the unflappable Bridget.

Deputy Barton stood by helplessly, pondering the situation. In all the years
he’d known Bridget Nielsen, the mother of his good friend, Eric, he had never seen
her this disturbed. Oh, how he wished Eric was present! He had never grown used
to these ‘next of kin’ calls, this one proving to be even more difficult, since it
involved personal friends. Robbie, his best friend amongst the other deputies,
would have handled this smoothly. He had wanted her to be present for this. But
she’d set out on some mission, before this Sullivan murder case threw the whole
town into an uproar, rumblings of which had already started, though the discovery of
the body had occurred less than 24 hours ago. What was she up to? Both he and
Robbie had a personal interest in this case. The Sullivan females were like family to
Robbie, and Eric was like a brother to Will. He’d seen him through a war and its
aftermath, the loss of his wife, and a couple other serious situations that had surfaced
through the years. If there was anything Will could do to help Eric, or his family, he
wouldn’t hesitate. Will was baffled and frustrated by Sam’s bizarre behavior. He
wasn’t sure what to do or say, Oh how I wish Robbie or Eric were here! Will Barton
thought again.

The front screen door squeaked and banged, breaking the awkwardness.
Eric Nielsen’s large frame suddenly filled the arched kitchen entry. Two pairs of
relieved eyes swung to meet his, while the remaining pair of eyes remained
downcast. Sam was lost in a dark zone, immobilized by the unfamiliar emotion of
fear. She desperately wanted to look at him but was afraid she’d never be allowed
to look at him again, never hear his gentle words again, never feel his strong arms
wrap around her again, never…

No one spoke. Eric stood waiting for Sam to speak, or move. His questioning
gaze read a look of quiet desperation in his mother’s eyes. Will’s expression was
simply inexpressibly sad. Gaining no clues or cues, Eric acted totally on instinct,
and out of love. Approaching the chair where Sam sat, he dropped to one knee,
putting himself at her level. A forefinger tipped up her chin. Sam’s green eyes
reluctantly met his. They were swimming in pools of moisture. Eric’s warm brown
eyes reassured her. A large set of fingers gently took her hand and squeezed
lightly. “Sam, I’m here for you. I will never leave you. And no one, no one, will take
you away from me.” His voice was low, strong, and deadly serious, and the sweetest
thing she had ever heard. The tears spilled over then, and the small, red-haired
beauty was swallowed up in the gentle blond giant’s arms. Exactly the right words.