Just at the peak of his anxiety, Joseph looked down and noticed that the board with the nail sticking out was loose. He realized that the board could be lifted, so, out of childish curiosity, he pulled it up and revealed a nice little cubby between the floor and the downstairs ceiling. This was a great treasure because now no one would ever have to find out about his shirt. He was saved. He removed his shirt and stuffed it in his newfound hiding spot. This became where he hid the cigar box he used to stash his money. A fine cigar box it was, because, as we all know, Mr. Kingsley smoked only the best.
At times, Joseph felt guilty for not returning the soiree guests’ dropped change. Not returning the money was not of the highest moral order, but he was just a young boy during those times. He had not yet developed a mature moral gauge, but he still had more morality than the guests from whom he profited. In his older years, he would return money even when he felt they didn’t deserve it, but as a young boy, he knew no different. There was something that just didn’t seem right about it, but what’s a boy supposed to do? That money could help him someday when God gave him a path to save himself. He had very wisely learned in his short existence that God would provide a path, but the only person who could save him in this life was himself. “Be your own hero.” That was what Berta had so wisely told him right before she died.
In some rare cases, other members of the help would give Joseph money for his birthday or other special occasions. It was only a penny here and a penny there, but that added up over the years. He felt very special on those exceptional days. The money itself was not special to him, even though he really appreciated it; what was special was how the money made him feel. That warm, fuzzy, loved feeling didn’t come along very often during his childhood, especially after Berta died. If other help didn’t do kind things for Joseph, who would? Not the Kingsleys. They were too hateful and stingy with their money. Mr. Kingsley’s thought process was, That could be good whiskey money; why waste it on the boy?
Most young boys would spend every cent they got on a coke or some candy. Not Joseph; he was a little planner. He started saving the day after Mrs. Kingsley struck him so hard. That was the day he knew he was going to liberate himself from that horrible place. He had been plotting ever since. He had also been slowly collecting first aid supplies in case he was injured in his escape or during the journey to his mother.
9
The Great Escape
It had been about an hour since Mr. Kingsley had brutally beaten Joseph, who was still experiencing the unpleasant sensation of stinging and burning throughout his body. His clothes were ripped and stained with blood from the thrashing. He was leaving this shell of a home; it was time for him to fly. He was going to wait until Mr. Kingsley passed out from all the whiskey he had been knocking back all afternoon. After the immense amount of energy he had expended beating Joseph, he was surely due for a nap.
Joseph snuck into the living room, where Mr. Kingsley lay. He had finally passed out on the couch. Joseph was positive Mr. Kingsley was fast asleep because of the obnoxiously loud snoring coming from his gaping mouth. His fat, whiskey-filled belly was sucking in and swelling out, resembling that of a hippopotamus. Everyone knew this was not an animal to piss off.
Mr. Kingsley had gifted the couch pillow with a small puddle under his gaping mouth from his incessant drooling. He tended to drool a lot when he took alcohol-induced naps. Mrs. Kingsley would have had a fit because these were the nice pillows, not fit for him to lay his drooling, sweaty face on. Everyone knew that would ruin silk.
Joseph looked around to ensure Mrs. Kingsley was nowhere to be found. Earlier in the day, she had gone out with the church ladies for lunch. She would surely be gone a while because there was a whole lot of gossip to catch up on around town. Good gossip was hard to resist.
This was the perfect opportunity for Joseph to make his escape. All the excitement and fear of the unknown nauseated him. His rough hands were shaking, and everything looked a little hazy—surreal, even. He tried to stay in the present and keep it together. He rushed to his closet and grabbed a brown duffel bag that he had packed months before. He had been waiting for the right moment. Each night before bed, he would add and remove things from the bag, keeping it current and always changing his mind about what to take. He had a few summer clothes, a few winter clothes, the first aid kit he had cobbled together, an old canteen filled with water, and his cash, safely secured in the cigar box. The time was coming soon, so that week, he had collected some rolls from the dinner table along with several apples and two handfuls of dehydrated deer meat. That should do just fine for his journey.
Joseph had also packed a small teddy bear Berta had given him when he was a baby. It was a little worn and missing an eye, but it made him feel comforted and safe. He still slept with this bear even though he was fourteen, but he would not dare tell a soul that.
Joseph threw his brown duffel bag over his shoulder and crept his way down the stairs, his heart beating immensely faster with each step. If he were caught, the beating he’d receive would be like nothing he had ever experienced. He might not ever have another opportunity to escape this place. It was easy to get trapped but hard as hell to escape.
He could still hear Mr. Kingsley sucking in the walls with his snoring. The stairs creaking sounded like an orchestra striking up. Each creak sent chills up his spine. Once he finally made it to the end of the stairs, which seemed like an eternity to him, he peered around the corner, looking for Mrs. Kingsley. He did not see her, and he had not heard her car pull up. With their rocky driveway, he could hear a car slinging rocks the second it turned into the drive.
Joseph crept past the living room, where he could see the couch Mr. Kingsley was consuming. Joseph ever so gently slipped past him and into the foyer. The front door was within a few feet. He was trying with all his might not break into a full run, which was what his mind was screaming at him: “Run!” He knew that if he ran, it would surely wake the sleeping drunk. So tiptoe he did.
He finally reached the door. With his hand shaking uncontrollably, he reached up and turned the knob. When he started to pull the door open, it let out a loud, piercing scream. He froze, waiting for a reaction. His face flushed, and his heart felt like it was about to explode. There was nothing. No movement.
“Oh, thank God,” he whispered to himself.
He slipped out the door, made his way down the porch steps, and then stopped and looked around, ensuring the coast was clear. It was, so Joseph took off running down the gravel driveway. Freedom! he screamed inside. He was not yet far enough away from the house to be completely safe, but, boy, it sure felt good. He was finally off to find his real mother.
Joseph had been walking several miles on this old dirt road to freedom when he heard the most awful sound he could think of.
“Joseph Kingsley, what in the hell do you think you are doing?”
He was frozen in fear; he knew that voice even better than his own. He slowly turned his head to reveal the nightmare he knew to be true. It was Mrs. Kingsley, finally returning from her lunch. A thousand things flew through his head too fast for him to process.
All of a sudden, Joseph felt a warm sensation over his body: a courage; an anger. It was an adrenaline he had never felt before. Then he screamed at the top of his lungs: “Joseph Dove! My name is Joseph Dove!”
He turned and continued to walk away down the dirt road. Mrs. Kingsley was dumbfounded and had no response. She had seen the fire in his eyes and was a bit scared of the anger she saw in him. Last time she saw this kind of rebellion and anger had been with Berta—dear, sweet Berta.
When Joseph turned to walk off, he felt shock and pride. Mrs. Kingsley watched him walk away in her rearview mirror, and the strangest thing happened. A tear formed in the corner of her eye. It fell down her face, leaving a streak of white where it washed away the makeup. It had all happened so suddenly, before she could stop it. Somewhere along the way, through all the hate and mistreatment she had forced upon him for fourteen years, she had grown fond of having him in the house. Now she feared she would