17 April 2005 STEALING HENRY by Carolyn MacCullough, Roaring Brook/A Deborah Brodie Book, April 2005, ISBN: 1-59643-045-1

"The night Savannah brains her stepfather with the frying pan is the night she decides to leave home for good."

"Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike

They've all come to look for America."

--Paul Simon

It was slightly cool and very dark at five-fifteen. I slipped out the back door, wearing the backpack, carrying the rest, breathing in that dried pine needle scent, feeling my way step by step to the carport. Silently, I loaded everything into the pickup before hopping in, turning the key, and shattering the quiet. A minute later I was cruising down the winding main road, accompanied by Elizabeth Reed, headed in the direction of Truckee.

At five thousand feet there are still dirty mounds of snow alongside the road, cleaner accumulations in the adjoining woods. An hour later the sky had become light, revealing rows of snow- and evergreen-covered mountains stretching to the horizon, one of the closer ones scarred by a few long white gashes down the side which are ski runs. Joining up with Interstate 80, I occasionally passed an eighteen-wheeler but otherwise had sole possession of the road. At Donner Pass I glanced over my shoulder at the long, dark lake, the wooden tunnels over the railroad tracks, and the rush of spring melt over a cliff.

Descending from the mountains the drifts change from snow to housing developments outside Sacramento; the accumulations there are of drivers on the road. Two hours on the Interstate and I veered off into the hills south of Napa. A handful of stately wineries punctuate the miles of vineyard trellises pulled tight like the warp on a loom. The fog surrendered the hilltops and fled just before I reached them. Drifts of orange California poppies, alternating with yellows and rust reds run through the green of spring pastures in the coastal hills as I approached home.

Sure, I get burnt out on sitting in the car for too many hours, but it's one hell of a pretty country we have. Despite all the places I've seen overtaken by progress and humanity in my fifty years, I still don't begin to take for granted what a wonderland we're so fortunate to inhabit.

"And in the end they traded their tired wings

For the resignation that living brings."

--Jackson Browne, "Before the Deluge"

Savannah spent the first half of her life wandering around this beautiful country with her mother, Alice. She's got miles of memories about all those places they'd seen across America. I'd expect that in all that time they also gotten a taste of Donner Pass and of restored Old Town Truckee. Maybe they even got to visit the little community near Plumas-Eureka where I spent the last couple of nights.

But Savannah and Alice's life on the road came to a halt years ago when their car broke down on the Jersey Turnpike, and they were "rescued" by Jack. Now Savannah has spent years in the same place, dealing with her abusive stepfather Jack, and helping care for her little brother Henry. Alice seems to always be off at work and oblivious to what is going on at home. But things are changing again for good because Savannah has had enough. And she loves her little brother too much to even consider taking off and leaving Henry to deal with Jack by himself.

"Jack's body is blocking her vision, but she doesn't have to see Henry to know he's close to tears. Jack swings around, and now she can see her little brother, standing half in and half out of the kitchen doorway. Henry is flushed and sweating, on the verge of being sick.

" 'What's the matter, buddy?' Jack says, his voice still too loud and jarring, but now forcefully bright. He holds out his arms as if waiting for Henry to run to him.

"But Henry is digging one toe into the splintered doorframe. 'I heard yelling,' he says, and Savannah knows he heard a lot more. Like her, Henry has learned to listen in at doorways before entering a room.

" 'No one's yelling,' Jack says, belatedly trying to lower his voice. He advances two steps toward Henry.

" 'What were you doing, then?' Henry says. He sounds like he needs to clear his throat.

" 'Are you crying, bud?' Jack says, and now his voice is dangerously quiet. Savannah closes her eyes, listens to Henry swallow, knows they are lost.

" 'No,' he squeaks. 'I just...thought...'

" 'Jesus Christ, what a...'

"But Savannah doesn't wait to hear the rest. It seems that the time stretches and fades, replaced by something cold and hard and crystallized in her mind. She snaps back in to hear Henry sob, to see Jack take another turning step away from her, giving her all the space she needs to curve her fingers around the hot handle of the skillet. She does not feel the now boiling butter foam across her skin, although she will wonder later at the red blisters on her wrist and forearm. Instead, she feels a rush of blank air, of nothing, as she slams the pan up like a tennis racket, through unencumbered space, and into the side of Jack's head."

Interspersed with the story of Savannah and Henry on the run is the tale of how Alice and Savannah had first come to live their nomadic life and how a relationship from the past can play a role in the present and future.

Buckle your seatbelts. STEALING HENRY is one heart-pounding ride. YA thriller joined with a bit of mystery and a healthy dose of treachery make STEALING HENRY a trip you don't want to miss.

Richie Partington

http://richiespicks.com

BudNotBuddy@aol.com