May 1968

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Vast fields rolled past the cab window in patches of gold and brown. Wild trees and shrubs grew sparingly and poorly. In the distance, a tiny house would appear every now and then. Otherwise, though, it looked like one of the last untouched plains of the west. And to Emile, it was home.

But right now, his mind was on other things. His eyes to his lap, he tried to make sense of the recent blur of emotions, the sound of the gravel road being a subtle backdrop. Just when things started to go right again for him, it had all gone terribly wrong. His joy of being on stage before crowds bigger than ever and finally singing his very own songs was overshadowed by his other memories. The shock of seeing his own bandmates fighting each other, the anxiety of the recording sessions that followed, and finally: the ending. It all happened so suddenly. And yet Emile could still remember the exact moment he had heard the news. First, Doc had disappeared from L.A., and then... Jo.

His chest seemed to tighten around his heart like a snake as he envisioned her gentle smile and sincere words. Why did she leave him? Did he mean that little to her? The entire time that they had toured again, he held onto the belief that she would one day turn around. And time and time over, he had told himself that it was a foolish hope. Her disappearance was proof that she had chosen Doc in the end. So why did it still hurt?

Before he had time to dwell on it much longer, though, the car slowly came to a halt. By the time he raised his head, the driver was already facing him and shooing him out.

"The address is on the mailbox," The older man said curtly as Emile grabbed his suitcases from the other seat and stumbled out onto the uneven stones. Upon regaining his balance, he saw the car making a gradual u-turn before speeding back the way it had come. Afterwards it was just him, the occasional chirp of a swallow, and the soft breeze running through his wavy hair.

The scene reminded him of nearly three years ago when he had last stood in this exact spot. His attempts to live on his own in the big city had proved to be in vain and, upon losing all of his money to his own neglect, he took a ride back home. That following week was one of the worst of his life. Even now, his breath caught in his throat at the memory of the poor sleeping conditions, the non-stop attacks from his siblings, but most of all: his mother's words. His fingers curled tighter around the handles of his luggage in a desperate attempt not to cry.

It could be different, He tried to tell himself as his eyes shut tight. He could get her to tolerate him, maybe even love him. If given enough time, it could be just like how his childhood had seemed. Those were only hopes, sure, but it was better than the inevitable failure of trying to make it alone in L.A. again.

With a heavy heart, he finally forced himself to turn around. Upon opening his eyes, however, his jaw and shoulders both fell. The suitcases slipped from his fingers and landed on the dirt in a clatter. No. It couldn't be.

With a sudden burst of speed, he stumbled through the half-dead weeds that grew up to his hips. About ten yards away from the road, a few scraps of wood and rusty corrugated metal were scattered along a barren part of the field. Falling heavily before them, he lifted some of the sheets over, trying to find something that remained. But a few seconds in, he caught himself. Letting the metal fall back down with a clash, he sat there to catch his breath.

What happened? Where was the shack? Where was his family? The questions that spun around his head were enough to make him dizzy. At long last, he rose to his feet, scanning the rest of the land. For just a moment, he could've sworn that the taxi had dropped him off at the wrong address. At least then the course of action would've been a bit more certain. But as he trudged along the dry land, he spotted something else taken over by grass. A few steps closer would reveal it to be a thick chunk of stone poking out of the earth like a giant finger. Emile stared at it numbly for a while before realizing it was the very boulder that he used to play on as a kid. A vision rushed in of a much thinner and rougher version of himself sitting on the stone as his hair blew in front of his eyes. Then, upon seeing Rod running over, his heart lifted with excitement before the memory faded into a blur.

Now he felt nothing but crushing regret at the thought of his brother. The last time he had looked at Rod was through a glare as he screamed at him for simply trying to be of comfort. Before he knew it, Emile was sitting on the stone once again, his chin in his hands. The "boulder" felt rather small and uncomfortable now. As if a reminder of the extra pounds was something that he needed.

Obviously, his family was somewhere, right? Pushing his palms against the rock, he stood up again and soon spotted, in the distance, another tiny hovel. It sat like a little acorn on the horizon, a much more cleanly-cut yard surrounding it. Urgency flooding back into his veins, he dashed off again. The tall grass didn't rustle around his legs much longer before he stepped over a small, rickety wood fence. That said, he must've severely misjudged the distance as by that time, he was already gasping with each breath.

By some luck, an old woman was walking hunched-over along the side of the house. Just as she was taking the steps onto the patio, she saw him running over and stopped in her tracks. By then, Emile had almost reached the house and began to lumber to a halt. Between her thin, straight gray hair, the woman's wiry eyes stared at him from above in cold indifference- perhaps even annoyance, but it was hard to tell.

At the very least, though, she didn't move as he struggled for air, holding up an open hand as he drew near. Only after he had flopped onto the wooden porch did she finally speak in a dry, hoarse tone.

"You could've just walked and knocked on the door."

He twisted his neck to glance at her before turning away and merely nodding, still too breathless to speak.

"And I wouldn't be wearin' a vest in this weather if I were you," She added. Emile brought a hand to himself, thereon finding his favorite green floral vest. At first, he tried unbuttoning it, but suddenly remembering his mission, he gave up and dropped his hands.

"Th- That family... That lived over there," He began between pants, pointing towards the deserted field, "What happened to them?"

She smacked her lips, her tone rising in realization. "Oh, you mean them Duncans? They moved away months ago. That plot's been empty since well before the winter."

His heart immediately sank at her words. So it was true. They had left him behind for a better place. The old woman continued to stand there as he stared out towards the land in shock, putting a hand to his forehead. At long last, he found the strength to rise to his feet. Desperation took one last hold of him, however, as he saw her reach for the door. There was one more question that demanded an answer.

"Where did they go?" He asked her in a rush, making her pause. His anxious eyes begged her face for some sort of good sign. But it looked just the same as it had when he first ran up to the house.

And to his dismay, she finally shrugged and rasped, "How on earth would I know?" before slipping into her home.

~~~

He never would've suspected his family of being the one to fly the coop. They must've lived on that land for generations. But it never was a happy place, was it? His mother always complained how nothing grew and how little space there was for seven kids. For so long, it had been a fact of life and even now he wanted to believe that it had been normal. But maybe, just like he had, they soon learned better.

By the hot early afternoon, Emile was walking along the road with both of his suitcases in hand again. The pitiless sun bore down on him the entire way. On four occasions, a car would drive past. Each time one did, he dropped one of his suitcases to stick out a hopeful thumb. And each time, he was ignored.

After what felt like hours of trudging past the fields, he finally spotted a road sign and some turns in the distance. Next to it was a tiny strip- just a single parking lot facing a gas station, a locally-owned general store, and another shop that had long been abandoned and boarded up. The former had a neon light on the window and was the closest. So lifting up his suitcases, he picked up his pace in spite of his exhaustion.

When he finally burst through the glass door of the gas station, the blast of conditioned air was already an immense relief. But that still left something else that his throat begged for. As soon as he entered, he made for the counter and placed down a hasty fistful of pocket money.

"Water," He just barely choked out, nearly collapsing onto the desk. The one middle-aged man working there took one look at him before walking away to a nearby fridge to get his order.

Shortly afterwards, Emile was sitting at a small round table between the counter and the shelves, desperately ripping the cap off of the bottled water before chugging it down. Some of the cold drink trickled down his neck and dripped on his button-up but he didn't care. By then he was already a sweaty mess, anyway. His hair, his shirt, his pants- they were all sticking tightly to his skin.

At last, his heart rate began to slow back down and he slouched in the chair. Only when he reached his arm to place the bottle on the table did he realize there was somebody across it watching him the entire time. She was also an elderly woman, only much older and smaller than the one he'd spoken to before. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate but frizzy bun, and her face was very wiry. She stared unwaveringly at Emile with an expression that he couldn't quite place.

Suddenly aware of his appearance, he forced himself to sit up. His gaze awkwardly shifted away from her and then back again. One part of him tried not to return the stare, and another kept wondering if he should say something.

He was finally spared the decision when a tall, young man with a cowboy hat over his blond hair approached her from the counter, a small store bag in his hand.

"Come on, MeMaw," He said to her, leaning close to her ear but keeping his tone, "I got your favorite." The old woman's chair pulled away from the table with him, and Emile quickly realized that it was a wheelchair that she was in. As the two moved slowly out the door, he swore the young man gave him a curt look. But she didn't look back at him once.

After they disappeared, Emile finally got to his feet, reaching for his water bottle. He ran his other hand through his dripping hair as he looked around absent-mindedly. The man working at the register suddenly broke through his hazy thoughts.

"Look who's comin' to," he said in a gruff, almost amused way. When Emile met his gaze, he raised an eyebrow, "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No," He lied. It was the easiest thing to say.

"Are you lost?" The cashier then asked. Emile put his two hands together, nervously running his finger along the ridges of the bottle cap.

"I-I guess so..." was the response that came naturally to him. By then the man had taken out a wipe from under the desk and laid it over the counter.

"Well, down here it's just cabbage farms for miles and miles. Nothin' your type would be into. There's a payphone in the next store if you want a ride back to the city."

As he began to wipe down the wood with a strong arm, Emile said nothing for a while. Looking around again, it occurred to him that something was oddly familiar about the store. Perhaps it was simply the quaint shabbiness that, for better or for worse, reminded him of the days of his youth.

"Did you happen to know any Duncans?" He suddenly blurted out, causing the cashier to pause from his work and stare at him for a second before tightening his brow in thought.

"We had a John Duncan workin' here for some time, cleanin' bathrooms and what have you. Strong boy, very hard-workin'. But his family moved away ages ago, from what I've heard, to who-knows-where."

So this was it. The same gas station where Jerry Schaefer invited him to be the lead singer of the Surfers and drove him all the way to L.A. It had changed so little...

By then, Emile was still numb from the realization that his family was gone. He didn't say anything more on the moving or press the older man further. Instead, an unusual curiosity compelled him to ask, "What about Emile Duncan?"

The cashier looked up with widened eyes at first. "Emile Duncan?" He echoed as he slowly pulled away from the wipe and put a hand to his chin, "Hmm... No, I'm afraid it doesn't ring a bell."

"Oh..." Emile's shoulders lowered dumbly. He wasn't really sure why he had asked anymore. Eventually, he began to draw towards his suitcases that were laid next to the table. "Thanks, anyway. I, uh, guess I'll go pay that phone now."

The middle-aged man gave him a sort of weird look that made Emile nervous all over again. But by then, he already had enough reason to get out of there. The more he thought about his early years, the more his heart ached. The town as a whole swarmed with painful memories. Awkwardly stuffing his water bottle into the little pocket of his vest, Emile grabbed his suitcases once more and hurried for the entrance. The only sound that followed was the creak of the door as Emile pushed it open with his foot, and then the prompt slam as it closed behind him.