EMMETSBURG: Fifteen

The current dragged him down, and spun him wildly as he banged and bounced painfully against all manner of things. Mud and debris obscured any light at all making it impossible to be sure if he was reaching for air or driving himself deeper into the creek, and towards certain death. In an instant he was sucked and tumbled beneath the front axle of the car.

John was caught, bent with his head towards the slick bank, and his back wedged up against the bottom of the auto. His legs kicked uselessly, and his fingers dug madly at a muddy back that came away in cloudy chunks through his fingers. They dissolved raging current, pelting his face like a thousand angry insects.

He fought harder, his cheeks puffed, eyes pressed tight in a vain attempt to hold back the air wanting to explode from his lungs. Something deeper inside came upon him. It was a stillness compelling not to fight any longer. He had seen it in dying men’s eyes during the war, and in the face of a young German boy as John plunged a bayonet into his chest in a fetid French crater. It was a voice that compelled a body more gently from this world. At the end of that voice was Anna's face. He could see her there, standing over his grave.

He could not. He could not bring that grief upon her again, and not so soon. He cried out, mud and water rushing into fill his mouth as quickly as the air left him. He knew he was losing the battle. Without air the creek would quickly overwhelm him. John twisted his body sideways, enough to get his legs around and push off the right front tire. His powerful legs propelled him out and into the torrent once more.

For an instant he was up, his face out of the water, gasping for air before being dragged down again. In that final instant before going under he spied the great roiling mass debris crushed up along the bottom of the bridge, and knew if he was carried into that he hadn't a chance.

EMMETSBURG: Fourteen

Rust red, the roof of the cab was now like the top of a furnace as the afternoon sun’s full fury bore down. Halfway to Emmetsburg John had more or less forgot about all the hubbub at Himmel's place. Tensions and emotions were running high these days, John convinced himself, but the bond between neighbors was stronger for the same reasons that drove those wilder emotions.

The creek was just ahead. He’d be home soon. With a bit of luck he could get up on the roof and patch a few places. Anna would be down at the Conlon place. He meet her there and take him time walking her home. John was lost in the perfect nature of that thought as the truck bumped and bounced along.The shade of the tree line was splashed across the road. John would be happy for the shade's cool respite, if only for a moment.

Sweat poured into his eyes and burned there. He reached up and swept it away with his fingers. He flicked it away, the drops falling fat and wet upon the dash and floorboards. From the corner of his eye John caught sight of something just off the road. Half hidden among the trees, tipped down into the rushing creek was the back of a car. It was cocked at an odd angle. The left rear tire was off the ground and cleaved by a ray of golden sunlight slicing the trees.

John ground to a stop beside the bridge. The engine was still sputtering as he leapt out and ran across the road. He stopped short of the steep and grassy bank. One slip and we might tumble into the creek and be carried under by the churning brown waters, where he risked getting caught beneath the auto or swept under the bridge and drowned. There was no sense in risking life and limb if the driver was finished or had abandoned the wreck and was already back in town. Of course there was no way to know for sure without getting down into the water.

The car had taken down a small tree. One branch jutted from beneath the auto where its feathery green leaves were tugged by the swift current. John tested his weight on the branch, keeping a hand against the side of the car for balance. The branch kept John clear of the water, but on the high side of the wreck making it impossible to see inside. He took hold of the tire and gave it a good hard shake. The front end was wedged into the creek bed and pinned against a tree. John stretched, going up on his toes in a vain attempt to see inside.

Suddenly the branch snapped. It gave a sharp clapping sound, like lightening close by. John twisted, flailing and toppled forward into the icy cold water clear to his chest. At the last instant he managed to grab hold of the running board, but it was tentative hold and not at all sure. His feet kicked madly, failing to find bottom.

He hung there for what seemed an eternity, his fingers burning for the strain as they held him from being swept away. The water was an immense force and John seemingly intent on dragging him under. He kicked hard one last time with a mighty cry, hoping to haul himself up onto the running board.

The river surged, slamming him against the car. One arm swung wildly, but now the force of the river was sapping his strength rapidly. John breathed deeply to rally his strength and focus and started to drag himself from the rushing waters, his feet digging at the mud and refuse at the bottom of the creek. John failed to notice the log tumbling at him until it was too late.

He cried out and braced for a collision that struck his back like a hammer on the right side of his chest, smashing the air from his body. His hands slipped from the running board. In an instant John was swallowed by those brown waters and carried under.

EMMETSBURG: Thirteen

Back outside the silvery sun overwhelmed a light breeze off the fields. The breeze was fat with the mineral scent of the previous night’s rain. The Sheriff was doing his best to wave off the fight. He retreated to his car with the farmers in tow.

Ernie Vogel grabbed the door before the Sheriff could close it and held it fast. The argument had devolved terribly for the short spell John was in the store. It had taken on a decidedly bitter tone. Ernie, who was usually a bit on the reserved side, looked at the edge of madness, as if he might attack C.W. at any moment. The others looked the same, like a nest of cottonmouth’s ready to lash out in blind and desperate rage. The two men wrestled slightly a moment with the door.

“I’ll defend my property if that’s what it comes to!” Ernie snapped.

C.W. leaned out, his furled brow painted with beading sweat that ran in dirty cascades down his rough cut face. “Fellas, how are you gonna feel if some poor soul gets sick off bad meat because you don’t trust the test?”

“The test ain’t no good and you know it!”

“What you’re asking will be the ruin of our livelihoods and families,” Jesse Laughten's tone was urgent and almost pleading.

“What I'm saying is that we're all in the same boat,” said C.W. “They could come for my cattle just the same as any of you.”

“Then you ought be on our side,” said Vogel, gripping C.W.'s arm. C.W. grabbed the Ernie's forearm and held it firmly, staring directly into the man's eyes.

“I'm on the side of the law. I expect you fellas will be too.”

“Or what?”

“Or there'll be hell to pay.”

John watched all of this while leaning on the hood of his truck. C.W. Let go of Ernie Vogel's arm and sped away without another word. Avery Lysander, who had been standing off from an observing distance, like a hawk or a skulking coyote, spit and looked up at John. There was murder in Avery's eyes, of a calculated and scheming kind. He'd seen that fire before. It was a fatal determination. It was the look he'd seen in men's eyes as they threw themselves out of trenches into the blazing death of German machine guns. It was in the eyes of a young German soldier charging at John with an upraised trench shovel, knowing full well he stood no chance as John leveled his weapon.

“C.W. sure left in a huff,” said John.

“Says there'll be hell to pay,”

“Figure?”

Both men looked after the billowing cloud of dust rising behind C.W.'s Ford Coupe. As it topped the far hill the automobile appeared like a square little beetle chased by that dust. Avery slapped John on the shoulder and headed for his truck.

“Might find the bill comes due at his own doorstep,” said Avery. The words left John cold and fearful.

EMMETSBURG: Twelve

“Wish they’d take that mess down the road a piece,” Bert grumbled before his eyes met John’s. He paused like he’d been caught at something, and half smiled a bit sheepishly for it. “Put up a sign that says social center and new village hall!”

Burt was a shade taller than his boy and a good deal huskier now that the years were creeping up on him steadily. He had icy white hair that had receded a tad. The sweaty ends were matted to his forehead and temples. Smelled of cigars, sweat and engine grease. His powerful arms were stained with grease and oil clear to the elbows, where it stained the rolled up sleeves of a blue denim shirt. Bert scooted around the counter and stood next to Myron. Was like a looking glass that showed the future. Burt was fighting to catch his breath. He was leaning on the counter, his chest heaving a little too hard. His chubby dirt-streaked face was red as a beet. Bert smiled weakly and grabbed his boy’s arm. The gesture had the quality of a plea.

“Fetch me a cup of water,” he said. Myron was away in an instant. He looked to John, who trying his best not to appear overly concerned at Bert's rough condition. “Hell getting old.”

“Do my best to avoid it.”

“Wasn’t but about a block I run. Damned if I can’t catch my breath.” He chuckled, and coughed. “Was a time I could outrun any lug in the county.”

Myron returned with a tin cup of water from the pump out back. John had taken a drink from that well many a hot day. he could smell the soft mineral scent of the water and could almost feel its coldness as Bert Himmel chugged it down. Ample amounts dripped onto the fat man's blue shirt. Bert let the cup bang against the counter. He finally seemed to catch his breath.

“Where are my manners,” he said. “What can I do for you, John?”

“Mister Perkins was inquiring about another roll of tar paper, Pop,” said Myron.

“Run on it this morning, with the storm and all. Heard it might have been a twister.”

“That right?” said John

“How much do you need?”

“Seven Dollars worth?’

“Cover the whole neighborhood?” Bert coughed mid laugh.

“Hoping to pick up a job or two.”

“Real blessing, strong back and shoulders.”

“Bout all I got these days,” John nodded. “That and my wits, for whatever they’re worth.”

“How soon do you need it?”

“Figure two days up on the roof. Before it rains again, I suppose.”

“See what I can do,” Bert came around and laid a hand heavily on John's shoulder, as much for support as neighborliness.

John started for the door. He turned back to Bert and Myron. Bert was already behind the counter, collapsed in a chair and fanning himself.

“Could use a hand, if you can spare your boy a day or two,” said John. Myron looked eagerly to his father.

Bert sort of leaned back over the chair, looking a bit like a rag doll someone had tossed there. Both men could see the excitement in the boy's face.“Interested?”

“Gee, could I, Pop?”

“Couldn't pay but about two bits,” said John. “Promise a couple good home-cooked meals.”

“I'd do it just for Mrs. Perkin's cooking!”

“You'll take the two bits as well,” said John.

EMMETSBURG: Eleven

John was in no humor for any of this mess. He brushed past the group. His hand fell on Avery’s bony shoulder and gave it a friendly little pat. Avery nodded with a tip of his cap and winked knowingly at John.

“Come for the show?” Avery said. His hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of a pair of old brown suit pants with gold stripes. His tee shirt was thread-bare and creased across his slight belly by a crease stain.

“That what it is?” John remarked.

“Cheaper than the picture show,” said Avery.

“Reckon we’ll see,” said John. The words seemed to come out of nowhere, like they weren’t his. He brushed through the crowd and went inside.

It was musty and cool inside the store. It was dark inside, but for light filtering through dusty windows and all sorts of goods and tools situated chaotically in front of them. It took John’s eyes a moment to adjust. There was music playing behind the counter. It was low and tinny and barely discernable as a song, more so as the torn speaker buzzed and distorted badly. Burt Himmel’s eldest boy, Myron was stacking squat red tins of wash soap in a pyramid at one end of the counter.

The boy was lean and tall for his age, and the spitting image of his father. His hair was golden blond, and set to light by shocking blue eyes. John wasn’t quite sure but thought Myron had just turned 15, an enviable and lamentable age at the same time. It was an age where the innocence of childhood was being swept aside by the spectacle of awakening manhood.

He would grow into a stunningly handsome man, something already noticed by local girls. Evenings after school, or in the summer when chores were done, girls seemed to flock around the store just to get a peak or to flirt a bit with Myron. John smiled wistfully, running his fingers over the sharp teeth of a new saw hanging on the wall. He had never been burdened with such an affliction.

John knew the boy as eager and excitable, and not a little bit gullible. Not in a foolish way, but with a trusting and open hearted way. That dopiness helped him concentrate on chores and school rather than getting lost in his admirer’s eager affections. It was a quality fully inherited from loving Christian parents, good neighbors and a hospitable nature.

John liked Myron Himmel, and envied his youthful grace. He was the future and John’s own innocent past all at once. The boy was a specter as well, reminding John of every misstep, every lapse in judgment and mistake.

“Morning, Mister Perkins,” Myron looked back over one shoulder without stopping his work. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Pop around?”

“He’ll be right back. Something I can help you with?”

“Any more rolls of that tar paper around. I could use a length.”

“Storm last night tear you up a little?” the boy remarked.

“A little.”

“Whew, she was a good one.”

“That she was,” said John.

“How’s things up in Emmetsburg?”

“About the same, I reckon.”

“Misses Perkins is well, I pray.”

John gave a nod. “She’d appreciate the prayers.”

“Gave us all quite a scare,” said the boy. “Expect it did you too.”

“Expect it did.”

The moment fell like a weight around their necks. Myron pursed his lips and looked around the store. It was a relief to them both when his father walked in, pressing through the riled bunch at the door. Shaking his head, Bert Himmel wiped a good bit of sweat from his forehead with the old red rag from his back pocket.