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But then, something incredible happened. During my middle school years I was assigned a new case worker named Melody. She was, I recall thinking, a very strange person. She was an older lady with a neat curl of graying hair, mocha skin, and the deepest brown eyes I had ever seen. During my first meeting with her, she just looked at me for about a minute shuffled through my file, and gave a grunt. Hmph. Troublemaker my black ass! Son, what you need is a decent set of folks to take care of you and an assload of fresh air and sunshine. This was not typical for a meeting with a social worker, at least in my experience. But before the week was up I was on a bus headed towards a farm that the papers I was given called Applestream Orchards. The trip took days, and every time I would transfer to a new bus the highways gave way to back roads, which gave way to black top tarmac strips, which, at a dusty old gas station that still had a Vote for Carter sign hanging in the window, branched off. The first anger filled words I wrote were: ‘I have always heard there are three kinds of people in the world.’ I wanted to put her betrayal on paper, but soon realized that it really would not mean as much unless I first told how much I had loved her, and how I thought she loved me. By the time I started writing about John’s sudden death, and his will, I knew it was perfect. Could anyone . . . anyone . . . doubt how much I had loved Susan? Now I could write about her betrayal. How she had nearly destroyed me. Destroyed everything in my life, destroyed our love, and destroyed how I was trying to build her company and her father’s company. Destroyed all the sacrifices I had made to make her proud of me! But something went wrong. Somehow, when I wrote about how many times Susan and I had visited Rosewood Canyon during our first three years . . . well it started me thinking about how many times we had visited it after John died. During that first year, without John’s help and assistance.
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