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The Cloud Chamber
by Joyce Maynard

June 2005
Simon & Schuster Atheneum/Anne Schwartz Books
Cover by Kamil Vojnar

I wanted to share with you the first chapter of my new novel, The Cloud Chamber, published by Simon and Schuster. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one.

— Joyce       

Chapter 1

Even in the pitch dark, Nate figured he could walk this particular stretch of gravel road from the two-lane blacktop to their ranch, he knew it that well: the barn, the implement shed, the pond where his sister Junie liked to launch her little home-made boats, and beyond it, the two hundred acres that was Chance's Cattle Ranch. Their land -- and the vast acreage beyond, where they held grazing rights -- stretched out almost perfectly flat as far as the horizon, except for a single rise, at the far corner, where a stand of birch trees marked the spot his father called the animal burial ground. Off at the farthest end of the property, the skeleton of a long-abandoned firetower pierced the otherwise-unbroken sky.

A long time ago, when he was little, Nate and his dad hiked to the edge of their land together to watch the total eclipse of the sun. They'd buried a time capsule under the birches that day, with a Matchbox car inside, along with the wrapper from the Mounds bar they'd shared, a handful of plastic Indians and his dad's old baseball cap.

Today, though, as the school bus made its way along the final hundred yards that curved around the barn to where his family's house came into view, an unfamiliar sight greeted him. A police cruiser was parked out front, and in the yard stood two officers in uniform. One he recognized as the umpire from last summer's Little League games. The other was the dad of somebody he knew from school, a kid a few years younger than he was -- sixth grade, maybe. He was one of those regular-looking dads you sometimes saw, manning the grill at the annual baseball picnic, that Nate used to wish, guiltily, his own father resembled. His father being, as they all knew, different from the others.

Seated on the aisle next to him on the bus, his best friend Larry spotted the cruiser too. "Man-o-man," he said. "You think your family got robbed or something?"

"Maybe some convict's on the loose," a girl named Susan said, who was always recounting the plots of TV shows like Dr. Kildare and Perry Mason. "And they took your mom hostage."

Nate's little sister Junie -- across the aisle from him -- looked suddenly anxious. "It's probably nothing, J," he told her. "I bet they're just collecting for some fundraiser. More than likely they want Mom to make her lemon bars again."

By the time he stepped off the bus, he knew that something was wrong. You could see it in the face of his mother, standing outside in her old blue dress and a cardigan, though the February air was cold enough to sting.

"Take your sister in the house, Nathan," she said, her voice tight and low, as he surveyed the snow-covered yard: the officers, the cruiser, and a second cruiser he hadn't noticed before. Over by the barn a third policeman held tightly to the leashes of a couple of bloodhounds, barking like they'd caught the scent of a dead animal. Rufus, their ranch hand, would normally be heading out to the barn for late afternoon milking right about now, but he had set his bucket down and was talking with rare animation while another officer -- number four -- wrote in a notebook.

Before Nate could ask what was going on, one of the officers took hold of his shoulder and pushed him towards the door of their house. "Mom -- " he started, but she just stood there, motionless, as if she couldn't hear. Nate had never seen a look on his mother's face like this one. Like she‘d seen a ghost.

He could make out Larry, staring through a window of the bus. Rocky, the driver, was just backing up to turn around. Out the back of the bus, more kids craned to see as they pointed towards the barking dogs.

"Go in the house, son," the officer said again. Only it was too late. Nate had spotted them: Two other officers, moving slowly towards the ranchhouse, with a third figure, bent over and staggering, supported between the uniformed men. It took a moment to realize who this other person was: his father.

Junie had seen him too. Now she was running towards the men. Running , until the policeman closest to them grabbed hold and held her back.

"This isn't the time to see your dad, honey," he said. "You'd best go inside with your brother."

Nate stared at the figure, slumped between the officers, moving towards them. He recognized the work boots, and the old blue jeans, the mop of sandy hair. The part that was new was the blood, pouring down his face, and the terrible, crumpled expression. He looked as if the weight of the whole world was pressing down on his shoulders, as if something had broken inside him that could not be fixed. He must have put his hands to his face at some point, because they were bloody too, and on his work pants were splotches of deep red.

"What's going on?" Nate called out, his voice as choked as if there was a pair of hands around his throat. The officer was holding him by the shoulders. His mom was there too, putting her arms around him, or trying to. "It's going to be OK," she said, but she didn't sound like she believed it. A little ways off, one of the other policemen had grabbed hold of Junie as she flung herself into the snow, towards the huddled figure of their father.

"I need to see my dad," Nate yelled, louder this time.

The dogs' barking made it hard to hear anything else, but from one of the cruisers Nate could just make out the crackling sound of the dispatcher on the radio, and one of the policemen -- holding the microphone to his mouth, speaking in the clipped tone Nate had heard on Dragnet, where whatever terrible thing that was going on that week on the show was boiled down to a few flat syllables.

"We've got a victim of a gunshot wound, over at the Chance ranch," he was saying, into the microphone. "Guy's been missing since this morning, but the dogs finally located him, wandering the back quarter. From where the bullet entered his head, you'd never think he could've survived."

"I have to see him," Nate yelled. More desperate now.

"Daddy!" It was Junie this time. They were putting her father in the back of an ambulance that had pulled up, and she was wriggling and crying, trying to get free of the police officer's grasp.

"Bullet must've missed his brain," the officer said into the transmitter. "That's the miracle of it."

"Unclear what happened," the other officer was saying. "The guy isn't making any sense at the moment."

For a long minute, Nate didn't move. He could hear the other officer's voice again calling to the policeman who was holding them to get him and his sister in the house, and the barking of the bloodhounds, the police car idling out front, Aunt Sal's car pulling onto the gravel drive next to them. He could hear Junie, who seemed to have got the impression the blood came from the dogs biting their dad -- her faint, muffled weeping. He heard the cows, overdue to be milked, lowing in the barn, and the voice of Rufus. "See what I mean? Crazy."

From his mother, no sound.

All Nate knew was, he had to get to his dad. He smelled sweat and realized it was his own. He could feel the thick arms of the police officer, wrapping around his waist and lifting him off the ground, as he bucked to free himself.

"Get your hands off me," he yelled. " Just leave me alone."

"Easy, honey." Aunt Sal this time. He could feel her cool hand pressing on his jacket, like she was easing an ornery bull back into the stall. The softness of her voice, coming at a moment like this, only made him angrier than ever.

He went crazy then, like the coyote that wandered in the yard one time with rabies. The animal had made wild, looping circles in the dirt, his fur matted, foamy drool coming out his mouth and his head and legs twitching every which way, like an old drunk. And now here was Nate, flailing his arms to get them away, screaming over the gentle voice of his aunt.

"Let go of me," he screamed. "I want my dad."

He flung his whole body down, scrabbling his fingers in the frozen ground. There were hands pulling at him -- Aunt Sal, and two of the policemen. He could see the feet of the dogs as they pawed against the sides of the police van, heard the scratchy sound of the dispatcher on the radio, and quieter, the voice of his father through the open car door. Not words, just a low moaning.

He tried crawling on his belly. He had to get to the ambulance with his dad in it, but the hands kept him back, as the door slammed and the car pulled away.

One of the officers lifted him up. "Easy, kid," he said. "You don't need to be seeing this."

"That's my dad inside," he screamed. "I have to see my dad."

"Your dad's in no shape, son," the police officer told him. "We're bringing him to the hospital. Your mother's coming along to answer some questions. You'd best let the adults take charge and go on in the house with your aunt."

He was still kicking, so hard one of his shoes came off. He watched the boot sail past the tire swing their father had put up for them and land in a mud-encrusted snowdrift along the road. He stood there, finally still, one boot on , one holey sock.

"Come on now, honey," Aunt Sal was saying. "Let's you and me and Junie go back in the house and fix ourselves some hot chocolate."

As the ambulance disappeared down the driveway, with the two cruisers behind it, Nate took a last look at the figure in the back seat -- his father. By the time he reached the door, he was quiet again. He even knew to take his one remaining boot off, and the wet sock, so he wouldn't track mud onto the linoleum.

Joyce Maynard on The Cloud Chamber

A letter to young writers from Joyce Maynard

Also available in unabridged audio format, read by JOEL JOHNSTONE

 RECOMMEND JOYCEMAYNARD.COM TO A FRIEND

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