A would be, wayward scion of southern gentility with antebellum roots, Isaac Wheeler had willingly eschewed such familial responsibility. The saccharine falsity of such a condition would lead to a cavity of conscience; that diabetic expectation threatening to amputate the soul.
And so he'd left it all behind...all but that dogwood drawl and dogged deliberateness which were as much a part of his DNA as was the thunderstorm grey of his eyes.
There was a quiet about him, a humid stillness like that of a backwoods swimming hole which many found off putting or down right rude. Maybe that was why he preferred the company of animals...no guile...no expectation...just raw existence and take it or leave it presence.
Having abandoned the southern comfort of Savannah, he'd lived all over the place, even as a guest of the state of Tennessee for awhile before signing on with the Crossroads Carnival as a showman...a master of the stage...with an audience's fear and sense of living poised on the edge of a knife.