It is the late 1940s, and Steve Bowman, a fifteen-year-old Nebraska farm boy who has run away from his abusive father, finds himself in a small Alabama town with only the clothes on his back. Unknown to Awillah Pike, an elderly woman who befriends him, he moves into a dilapidated shed in her backyard and sets about fashioning a new identity while avoiding discovery and being sent back to his father. He manages to forge the documents necessary for him to get into high school and to get part-time jobs to support himself, but living in the shadows, his life becomes one of isolation, deception, and the constant threat of discovery. In the segregationist South, Steve’s friendship with Taliaferro, a Negro teenager, must be kept secret. Romance finds him, and his growing relationship with his girlfriend, Laura, brightens his life and gives meaning to it. However, his life must be conducted in and out of shadows, and any meeting of the three most important people in his life, Awillah, Taliaferro, and Laura, could bring his carefully crafted façade tumbling down, sending him back to his father! In this compelling tale, his accidental discovery sends the novel in unexpected directions, ending in a twist of fate that brings resolution to the story.

Circle of Shadows

By Keith M. Heim

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Keith M. Heim
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4697-4473-5

Chapter One

It came out of nowhere, weaving wildly in and out of the leafy barriers that invaded the road, spraying gravel and dust at each turn. The boy had been deep within his thoughts, thoughts of his hunger, thoughts of his mother, when the car came upon him suddenly. He jumped out of the way and glanced over to see a new white 1946 Chevy with the words "Coosa County Sheriff, Morefield, Alabama" circling a gold star on the door. He quickly turned his face away from the vehicle and brought his hand up over his face as if to shield it from the rolling dust that burst up from behind the car. He was relieved when it sped on its way, its uniformed occupant seeming to pay no attention to him at all. In a moment or two, it disappeared from sight.

His heart beat wildly. Suppose the sheriff had recognized him! He was a thousand miles away now, but he'd need to be more careful. For all he knew, a lookout had been posted for him. As he trudged on his way, he glanced up from time to time to make sure the sheriff was not coming back.

The road was a virtual obstacle course. Last night's windstorm had rained leaves, twigs, and branches down, and here and there, a large limb from a tree in a nearby field had crushed a fence down and protruded into the road. The light sprinkles of the early morning had done little to forestall the heat that already pressed down upon the land by mid-morning or to settle the dust that lay heavy on the unpaved road.

The sun hung motionless above him, seeming to pulsate as its yellow heat beat down relentlessly upon his back and shoulders, making his shirt hot to the touch. He was grateful for the intermittent shade of the towering oaks along the sides of the road, if not for their debris. His heels churned up angry-looking red puffs of dust behind him that seemed to propel him grudgingly forward. Already, he had walked the six miles from the gas station on the main highway where the trucker had let him off.

Although the slump of his shoulders betrayed a weariness, there was something of resolution about him as he picked his way toward yet another strange town. He had had nothing to eat or drink all morning. Maybe, he thought, the leaves and branches would give him some work, work that would buy him at least an evening meal.

Soon, the neighboring cotton fields gave way gradually to the scattered houses that marked the outskirts of the town. The late morning heat, however, fell impartially on field and town, and after a while, he paused to rest for a few minutes in the spreading shade of a giant oak and wipe the sweat from his face. Across the street, a small, tired-looking, clapboard house with peeling yellow paint and a sagging front porch caught his attention. Rank weeds and renegade hollyhocks threatened to overpower the flowerbeds along the walk and fence, complementing the general aspect of long-term neglect the place presented.

Like the rest on the street, the yard was littered with the debris from the storm, and in one corner, a solitary apple tree had surrendered most of its promised harvest to the expectant earth below. Yellow-green apples dotted the leafy carpet, and a few of them had rolled under the fence and out into the dust of the street.

Manna from Heaven, the boy thought with a smile, and he bent down and picked one up, rubbing the dust from it on the thigh of his blue jeans. He looked up to see a heavyset, elderly woman in a faded yellow housedress sitting in a swing on the front porch of the house watching him closely. She rocked slowly back and forth as if she were carefully measuring out the moments of the morning. She looked as though she belonged there, had always been there, he thought. It was almost as if she and the house were one.

"Hey, young man, that's my apple you got there!" she called out suddenly.

The voice didn't sound angry, he thought. There was something of humor, perhaps teasing, in it. He grinned. "Sorry, ma'am. Since it was lying in the street, I didn't think anybody'd mind. I didn't mean to steal it from you, and I'd give it back to you, but I've put some labor into cleaning it up. I'd be willing to go halves with you."

The woman smiled broadly, long-established wrinkles radiating out from her eyes. "You look tired. Why don't you come sit here in the shade on the porch, and we can negotiate."

The boy readily accepted her invitation, stepping through a gate that hung wearily on one hinge and advancing up the root-plagued path to the porch steps.

The woman stopped her swinging and regarded him closely through her glasses as he sat down on the edge of the porch. He was a nice looking boy, even handsome, she thought, clean-cut, though his shirt and pants looked a bit rumpled and his shoes were badly scuffed and covered with dust. His light brown hair had the look of wheat straw burnished by the summer sun, and his tanned face and arms gave him a look of health and vitality. She smoothed a lock of silvery white hair back from her brow as if to see him better. He smiled up at her, and she was immediately struck by his eyes, a dark blue that seemed to convey something of substance deep within. The eyes, a broad brow, and a firm chin combined to present a look of quick intelligence, of transparent honesty and wholesomeness.

The apples had been badly bruised from their fall, and he held up his prize for her to see. "I count three dents in this one, and I think the worm was killed in the fall. That ought to mean a healthy discount, ma'am." His hunger had overcome his innate shyness, but he was careful to address her as "ma'am." Midwesterners didn't generally use "sir" and "ma'am," even in addressing older people, but he remembered from a Civil War novel he had read that well-brought-up boys in the South used them when speaking to adults. It would be important to blend in as much as possible.

She laughed loudly. "You take all you want—on the house! They're about ruined. The storm last night was a real ripsnorter, and I don't guess there's any savin' 'em. Give you a good old-fashioned bellyache," she warned, rubbing her ample stomach in wide circles.

He grinned up at her, and her attention immediately returned to his eyes, eyes that flashed a quick recognition of her intended humor.

"Had a few of them myself when I was a little girl, before I learned my lesson. Eat all you want, but don't say I didn't warn you."

She spoke loudly, and he guessed she was hard of hearing. "I'll risk one. Just enough for a small bellyache," he said, taking a big bite and grimacing at the sour, tart taste of the nearly green apple.

The woman smiled and resumed her leisurely swinging, the rusty iron chains supporting the swing accompanying her voice with a regular squeee–squaaa, squeee–squaaa, squeee–squaaa. The late morning sun filtering through the trees and splintering off her glasses gave an impression of geniality, and he felt drawn to her.

"It's gonna be another scorcher today! Would you like a drink of water?"

"Yes, ma'am, I sure would! I'm really thirsty."

He watched as the woman pushed down heavily on the seat of the swing with one hand, straightening up stiffly to her full height and clapping her free hand to the small of her back with a grimace of pain. She walked unsteadily across the porch, pushing her feet forward as if she were wearing four-buckle overshoes, he thought. Her shoes, the low heels run over to the outside, were badly...