Veil Mountain: A Father and Son 'Coming of Age' Story, with Mystery, Secrets and Forgiveness

© 2012 by Mark G. Walliser. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  10/08/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5954-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5953-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5955-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012918293

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1  The Departure

Chapter 2  Devil’s Road

Chapter 3  The Campfire

Chapter 4  A Pesky Visitor

Chapter 5  Tree Stump Trail

Chapter 6  Half Truths

Chapter 7  Secrets

Chapter 8  Pages Of Death

Chapter 9  Nature’s Fury

Chapter 10  The Cabin

Chapter 11  Sandy Parker

Chapter 12  The Waiting Room

Chapter 13  Veil Mountain

PREFACE

There are as many sides to a story as there are pairs of eyes. It’s always been that way. As the scope of every novel or work of fiction varies, so do the motivating factors that inspires each writer, regardless of what genre they specialize in. Veil Mountain has the plot, theme, and story line of a novel that I have wanted to write for a long time. It is both straight-forward narrative, as well as a multifaceted work open to many different interpretations.

There is a common question that I come across as a writer that I find worth mentioning, and that is whether the story relates to my personal life as an author, inspired by a real event, or is entirely fictional. The answer for me is rather simple—it is entirely fictional. All my characters, for instance, are neither auto-biographically real nor are they based on anyone I have met specifically.

My collection of experiences and personal thoughts that I have accumulated are without a doubt present in all of my works, whether I want them there or not. In part, this is what makes writing so powerful and meaningful to me.

In addition to writing an entertaining, thrilling, funny, or dramatic story, all genres are inevitably a part of the author’s world of imagination, as well as the actual world of the novel.

The main characters in Veil Mountain, for instance, manifest multi-layered emotions, specific aspects of family, friendship, trust, and love. Since my favorite genre for writing is realistic drama, my characters must act, feel, speak and live in the setting I create, as if they were individuals in everyday life. To have readers laugh when my characters laugh, or get angry, sad, or cry when the scene manifests such reactions—this is what I strive for.

A good book is one that will make you laugh, cry, or think; a great one will do all three.

Mark G. Walliser

CHAPTER 1

THE DEPARTURE

When I was seventeen I wanted a designer suit, a flashy car, respect from lawyers wearing silk ties who’d carry leather briefcases just like the one I would someday carry. I had it all planned out, from Harvard to the Mercedes. I even knew what briefcase I wanted. I almost became a lawyer.

With the ring of a bell, my junior year of high school was over. My girlfriend Lindsey and I had been together since the beginning of the school year. In her absence life became unbearable. I knew all I ever needed to know about life, and no one could tell me otherwise, except for my best friend, Andre.

As students hurried down the hall to greet whatever promise of a summer that awaited them, I strolled with Lindsey. My black backpack hung over my right shoulder. It moved in stride with my pace. Each sway rubbed my blue sweater against my pale skin, while the bottom of my white Diesel shoes skimmed the tile floor. We made our way through the narrow halls of the 50-year-old school building, out the squeaky, push-handle doors into the warm Denver sun. Crowds honked their horns in parking lot traffic, while those on foot moved briskly on sidewalks leading away from campus. I gave Lindsey a kiss goodbye then hopped into Andre’s Jeep.

Call me later so we can make plans for tonight, Lindsey called.

All right, I waved as we drove away.

You guys are pathetic, Andre said. Pathetic, he repeated.

Nah, you’re just jealous. I’ve got a girlfriend and you don’t.

I nudged him on the shoulder. The car swerved into the middle of the road before Andre straightened the wheel back to the right side. When he shoved harder in return, I slammed against the passenger door and regained my composure.

I’m single by choice, he said, rolling his eyes.

I’m in love by choice, I answered.

I turned the volume up; Andre spoke louder.

Of course you think you’re in love, she’s your first girlfriend.

You’ve been saying that all year. But look at us—we’ve stayed together for a year so accept it, will you? I said.

Uh huh, he mumbled under his breath. Listen, have you given any thought to our road trip to Canada? Andre continued.

I don’t think my parents would let me. And I can’t leave Lindsey.

Lindsey, Lindsey. Alright, bring her along.

She’d never get permission. Are you kidding?

Have you even asked your parents yet? We headed along the lightly trafficked highway that led away from the schoolyard toward my house.

The highway ran alongside rolling plains covered in light green, waist-high grass. Large dirt mounds standing several feet above the ground caught my attention. Prairie dogs sat atop their burrows, almost statuesque creatures. Leaning the seat back, I stretched out my legs.

I haven’t brought it up to them yet, I answered.

I’m leaving next week, dude. You better ask them soon. As for Lindsey, what’s a couple of weeks? You’ve been the cliché couple all year, give it a break—this is an experience of a lifetime. When will you get the chance to wander Canada again? Experience the party life, the culture. No rules no responsibility.

He continued with the enthusiasm of an over-caffeinated televangelist. Andre was an expert at manipulation, especially when parents were concerned. No matter how silly or farfetched the idea was, I couldn’t help but feed off his excitement. His zeal for life was contagious. The passion alone was enough to follow along, despite whatever deceiving methods they required. I had never met anyone with such enthusiasm nor desire for adventure. It was powerfully attractive. My outlook was comparatively mundane. I was more rational, pessimistically uncertain, more of a follower than a leader; Andre was the only person I deeply admired. Despite our personality differences, maybe because of them, we’d been best friends since childhood.

Andre stood six feet tall, had light green eyes, medium length black hair—always gelled to perfection—and the most fashionable clothes his allowance could afford. Having the athletic build of a wide receiver, he participated in every popular sport at our high school. Although on game day he followed alongside the other jocks, he was never truly one of them. He never partied with them, never slept around like they did, never even socialized much outside of campus. Instead, he hung out with shy people like me; those who never quite made it in with the popular kids. My sports career consisted of sitting on the sidelines. I could have played if I wanted to, but I lacked the desire for sports, or any school activity for that matter. I did enjoy cheering Andre on.

He was an odd character indeed!

Andre was a grade ahead of me. He stayed with his father after his parents got divorced. My parents often seemed like they were in a marriage of convenience, both of them disconnected from family life. A toast of apathy was the common exchange at the dinner table.

My father cared about his work more than anything else. When he wasn’t at the office he was either at home yelling at me or fighting with my mother, or else he was at his downtown condo.

My mother was equally absent. A traveling salesperson, she gave presentations all over the country to potential buyers of chic clothing from exclusive designers. She was always traveling to New York or Los Angeles or somewhere. She never left the house in anything other than formal or semi-formal attire, strictly adhering to a sense of old-fashioned, upper class values inherited from her mother. To me it was all a façade. Unable to let go of her mother who died the year before, her habits were sealed to her personality. Under the influence of my grandmother’s huge wealth, my mother walked around society in queenly fashion, as if royal blood actually flowed through her veins. Our house was kept in perfect order, just in case a friend or family member dropped by, which they never did.

Despite her constant expectation for me to conform in public like I was a charming schoolboy, I despised formalities and etiquette. As much as I hated it, I played along. It actually gave me more freedom than if I refused, and like any son, I enjoyed seeing my mother happy.

My parents were educated, and my father especially was controlling and twice as cautious as he was gullible.

I’ll talk to my Mom tonight, I sighed.

Don’t sound too excited.

Sorry. Not much chance they’ll let me go.

You got straight A’s for Christ’s sake! Don’t they trust you?

My Mom wouldn’t care too much, but you know how much of a control freak my father is. He would never give me permission to leave the country.

Ask your Mom first then. Let her convince him.

I thought for a moment.

That might work. I’ll call you later, I said, as we arrived at my house. Wish me luck.

My family lived on the outskirts of Denver in the suburban college town of Boulder, Colorado. I stood on the curb watching Andre drive away in his new Jeep that his dad bought for him. My father would never buy me a car. Once in a while they would let me drive one of theirs, but only on special occasions.

Walking up to our beige-colored, two-story house, thoughts raced. What could I say? I walked into a vacant house. My parents must still be at work. Grabbing a coke from the fridge, I walked downstairs into the basement, my refuge. It had a big screen television set, a fancy pool table, and a master-sized bedroom that I slept in. I had a full two floors of privacy.

I sat on the black sectional that still smelled of new leather. It curved around in front of the television, near the base of the stairs.

Flipping through commercials, I saw visions of Canada—The Canada that would be an adventure with the ever-adventurous Andre whose choice of Canada for his father’s graduation present defied the usual senior’s hop on a luxury yacht or a trip to Cancun. Instead it was a wide open road trip. Just like Andre.

Before long, the front door opening shook me out of my daydreams. Thumping footsteps echoed on the floor above.

Mom is that you? I yelled, tossing the remote on the cushion, sprinting up the stairs, skipping two at a time.

No, it’s me, my father said.

Oh. When will Mom will be home?

She’s gone till Sunday. She’s meeting with a client in L. A.

Rolling his eyes, my father turned his head away.

Great. Just great. I need to talk to her.

Call her cell after the plane lands.

Nah, it’s not that important, I shrugged my shoulders as I turned back to the stairs.

Is it something you can ask me? he said.

What?

Ask me, he said. Why not?

Only because you never take an interest. That’s why.

My father sat his shiny leather briefcase on the mahogany dining table adjacent to the kitchen.

It’s no big deal, I added.

All right then, he paused. Then I have some good news for you.

And what’s that?

I’m taking a vacation for the next two weeks. You deserve a reward, Jeremy he said. Straight A’s.

A new car, that must be it! Then my father revealed his idea.

I went through a few options and decided that a camping trip would be great fun. We get to spend the next 10 days in Colorado’s high country, he said, a giant grin stretching across his face.

You’re joking, right?

No joke. You don’t like it? Time with your Dad—just you and me. I already picked up a 2-man tent, a pair of blue sleeping bags, insect repellent, two hiking backpacks, a gas lantern, a large cooking stove, two ice chests, and a few other things. It’s a done deal. We leave tomorrow morning. Before we leave tomorrow, we’ll get you some hiking boots. Good ones.

We’re leaving tomorrow?! I’m going on a road trip with Andre! We’re driving through Wyoming, Montana then into Canada. We leave in a week. I can’t go camping tomorrow.

You think you’re going on a road trip? No way. This camping trip is not negotiable. I’ve already spent hundreds of dollars. You should be thanking me. Give up this tantrum now.

He walked into the living room, sat down on his favorite tan recliner, then flipped through the latest issue of some lawyer magazine. I froze. To hell with that. I marched after him.

You’ve never been camping before. Not once, I said.

When I was seven, your grandparent’s took me and your aunts to Yellowstone. It was grand.

I’ve only been camping once too, and that was just for a night with Andre last summer.

Even better; it’ll be the first real camping trip for the both of us then. We’ll share that together.

Ten days is way too long without any experience.

Stop acting like a child. It’ll be fine. Get your laundry done then start packing.

What about Mom? You want to go on vacation without her? I asked him.

Don’t go there, Jeremy.

He crinkled the magazine in his fingers.