Chapter 2

For two days, I stayed away from my studio. I did nothing but think of what had happened. I had no choice! I could not get it out of my mind.

Pictures did not just start moving! No one I had ever heard of talked to their drawings... and especially, no one had ever had them talk back! Well, except in fantasy novels, fairy tales, or maybe the movies.

But this was real life! I was living it, damnit!

I didn't really have anyone to talk to about all this. Honestly! It was not something you could bring up in everyday conversation, and not be labeled a nut.

I had not spoken to my parents in years, except to exchange polite Christmas cards with them.

As for my older sister, she was the cause of my problems with my parents, to begin with. As the older sibling, she had been the 'trailblazer'. She had screwed me over, but good, with her behavior.

She was five years older than I. When she hit puberty, she went 'around the bend', if you ask me. She would sneak out of the house, and bring boys to her room for experimental heavy petting. A few months later, that included having sex. She even 'experimented' with some drugs, right there in her room!

As a result, I was treated like a prisoner, even before I'd made it to high school.

What really hurt me the most was my parents' automatic distrust of me. They searched my room constantly. They monitored my phone calls, and implemented a strict curfew. They did drug testing on me regularly during the school year, and at least twice during summer months. I was, in effect, their prisoner. I had already been convicted in all but name. All this was thanks to my older sister, who had lived a wild and carefree teenager's life, a bit too well.

They took action, in my case. I came to dislike my parents, intensely. To this day, they never have understood why I dislike them. Some people are just dense, I guess.

So, I could not talk to my parents or sister about this... not at all. When I had moved, I had lost contact with my old friends... not that I'd had many.

Parents, again.

I wracked my brain trying to think of someone who might at least listen with an open mind. I came up with two answers. One answer was any one of the catholic priests in and around my neighborhood. The other was a writer who had liked the cover art I had done for him. He had actually taken the time to say so.

I had felt he was a little strange, to begin with. He was an elderly gentleman. He lived alone, in a large house in the mountains of Wyoming. I had met with him twice, while doing work for him.

He had liked my art, so had made a trip east to meet me. Normally, he was something of a recluse, and avoided people if he could. He had given me his phone number. He had asked me to call him anytime I felt the need of a friendly ear.

Well, if ever I needed 'a friendly ear', it was now. I went to my phone desk. I found my address and number book, for contacts. I looked up his number. Picking up the phone, I dialed his it.

"Hello?" a loud and gruff voice answered.

"Matt? This is Franklin Farrow. I was wondering if we could get together..." I began a bit hesitantly.

"Frank! How are you, boy? Doing all right? A meeting? Well, you would have to come out here for a face to face. I broke my damned leg a couple of weeks ago, and I don't get around too well, right now," Matthew Baxter boomed loudly.

That was just the way he was. He never spoke, he 'boomed'. He was as much larger in real life, as his characters were in the books he wrote. We talked for a few more minutes. I got his address, and directions on how to get to his place. I hung up, and called the local airport, to book a flight.

Matthew Baxter was a fantasy writer, and a damned good one. Four of his books had been turned into movies in just the last ten years.

He never seemed to be short of story ideas. At least every year, he churned out a new book. They went into hard cover immediately, and always hit the top of any list you care to name.

Since I had asked for a meeting, I felt it was only fair that I travel to him, especially when I thought of his broken leg.

I booked a flight to the main airport in Laramie, Wyoming. I got the package deal that included a rental vehicle, for the rest of the trip. Besides, I wanted to have transportation available at all times, anyway.

The flight out was pretty smooth. After I landed, I picked up the Jeep Grand Cherokee I had rented. After signing for it, I got the keys and loaded my bags into the back. I headed toward the mountains where Matthew lived.

Some hours later, I came into a little town in the mountains called Stockton, Wyoming. This was one of the landmarks that Matthew had given me. I needed to call him, though, as his instructions for leaving town had been a little vague. Thank God for cell phones!

"Matthew? Ok. I am in Stockton, but I need clearer directions, out of town. There are two roads going in the general direction you indicated," I said into my cell phone once he answered.

"Frank? Here already? Great. Stop at the Stockton Valley Market. I phoned in an order, and it should be ready for pick up. Don't worry about paying for it. It's on my account. Once you get loaded, take the street immediately behind the Market, and follow it out of town. Take the extreme right hand fork, when you get to the confusion point," Matthew said and hung up.

I stared at my phone after it went dead. Damn! The man was very pre-emptive, to say the least. Still, he was the only one I felt anywhere comfortable to talk to.

I didn't really want to talk with a priest, as I would have to show him what was happening. That could well lead to much more than just theological problems, for me. Roman Catholic priests were not being portrayed well, just now, anyway.

I stopped and picked up his order. It turned out to be nine large bags' worth. I had to wait for the dairy, cooler, and frozen items. They hadn't pulled those, yet. So much for 'ready to go'. I signed for them, and then a guy to helped load it all into my jeep.

It was only an hour and fifteen minutes further up the mountain to Matthew's place, but it was a climb, the whole way. I turned off at his road... ahh, umm... his 'driveway'.

It was not that inviting to look at, but at least it had a sign. It was a dirt road in very poor repair. I bounced my way through the potholes and rough patches of road, and pulled up to his place some minutes later.

His place was big, actually. Bigger than one person needed, but then, when you had his kind of money, you could buy and live where you wanted. Everything seemed, well, huge. I wondered about that, as the front door opened.

Matthew Baxter, his crutches under his arms and his left leg in a cast from ankle to mid thigh, crouched in the doorway.

"Well, don't just stand there gawking. Get my groceries in here, boy," he bellowed, and hobbled off.

I chuckled to myself. Crotchety old bugger. Still, I liked him.

I always had, even when I had first met him. It took me ten minutes to unload all nine bags, and twenty to put the stuff away, under his direction.

"Good job, boy. Now, then, why don't you put some water on to boil? We can have some of that tea you like so much," he said.

I must have looked surprised, because he chuckled.

"I remember from that snooty restaurant, where I had that book signing gig. You drank tea. I forget the brand you mentioned, but I picked up several different ones. Tea is ok, but if you want a drink with kick, try an Irish coffee. Now there is a man's drink," he said, smacking his lips.

After we got the tea made, we settled down and drank a cuppa. He waited for me to start.