Take me in your arms, lover.
Let me feel the love flow from you.
The hero that stanđs before you is a frauđ.
I, alone know the lies only others suspect.
I, alone desire the soft salvation of your breast,
And feel the love that flows from you.
Take me in your arms, lover.
Take me in your arms, Lover.
This love that steals me from ruin.
You are a warm sun-drenched field of cool green grass.
I am lost to the wilderness, forever searching for respite.
It is only your song this blind fool goes,
Still the winds of ego seek to tear me away,
Take me in your arms, lover.
Take me in your soul, sweetheart.
Not as a selfish sanctuary from besieging cold.
I am the sinking ship that defines the sheltered harbor.
I am the weary traveler that gives the blanket meaning.
You are warmth and peace to my guilty heart's privilege,
Take me in you, in your...lover.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-four
Golden pillars of morning light poured in through the tall stained glass windows inside St. Mary’s Church. They drifted and moved, transforming the congregation, the alter and the crowded rows of blond pews into curtains of light and shadow. The blended voices of the choir gave life to those shadows and light, as if those melodious tones were instead a quality to the sunlight, as if the light had been sent by God with a quality and power altogether different from mere daylight.
John was lost in them, feeling suddenly like a castaway from the world. He felt choked by the collar of his white Sunday shirt, and by the knot of his black bow tie. He was sweating under the collar, despite a pleasant breeze through the open doors at the back of the church. John turned and twisted his head and fought a growing sense of panic and desperation. He might have run outside, but that wouldn’t save him either.
Ana was beside him, but felt farther away from John than ever. Not even in the war, an ocean away, sending off a letter and waiting weeks for a reply, hoping it wouldn’t be a note saying he had been killed. She looked at him, wishing to know what was tearing at him so. He wished to tell her, to tell her everything, including his misgivings about their life and their love.
Where would John even begin? He found himself negotiating with fate, without knowing if such a thing was even possible. What was it? Was fate unchangeable and petty human choice the illusion that allowed us distance and insulation from the coldness of our ultimate fates? Perhaps it was indeed malleable and changeable. But what about Anna and her fate? Could she, as Louis foretold (given that it was impossible for him to know about Bert Himmel and the Spirit Lake fire) find someone else and have the child she wished to have? And what about Myron Himmel? Knowing his fate, and knowing that his death would alter their lives for the better, did John have a responsibility to their fates? John felt trapped by those thoughts, and grasped for the only decision he could see.
He'd run. John'd go off and repair his soul. He'd drown it in liquor, or bury it in lust and another woman. As for Anna, if would be a far sight easier for her to get on with things if he'd gone off and left her. Far easier, he figured, to digest betrayal than suffer mourning. There. There was the pit in the armor of Louis's predictions.
He was quiet all day, and didn't let on when she left to take care of Mrs. Conlon. At dusk, before Anna returned home, and without so much as a letter of explanation, John climbed into the truck and drove west out of Emmetsburg. He drove west into the twilight of his bitterness. He drove west into a rust red sun setting among the dusty purple haze of the darkening Iowa landscape.
John was lost in them, feeling suddenly like a castaway from the world. He felt choked by the collar of his white Sunday shirt, and by the knot of his black bow tie. He was sweating under the collar, despite a pleasant breeze through the open doors at the back of the church. John turned and twisted his head and fought a growing sense of panic and desperation. He might have run outside, but that wouldn’t save him either.
Ana was beside him, but felt farther away from John than ever. Not even in the war, an ocean away, sending off a letter and waiting weeks for a reply, hoping it wouldn’t be a note saying he had been killed. She looked at him, wishing to know what was tearing at him so. He wished to tell her, to tell her everything, including his misgivings about their life and their love.
Where would John even begin? He found himself negotiating with fate, without knowing if such a thing was even possible. What was it? Was fate unchangeable and petty human choice the illusion that allowed us distance and insulation from the coldness of our ultimate fates? Perhaps it was indeed malleable and changeable. But what about Anna and her fate? Could she, as Louis foretold (given that it was impossible for him to know about Bert Himmel and the Spirit Lake fire) find someone else and have the child she wished to have? And what about Myron Himmel? Knowing his fate, and knowing that his death would alter their lives for the better, did John have a responsibility to their fates? John felt trapped by those thoughts, and grasped for the only decision he could see.
He'd run. John'd go off and repair his soul. He'd drown it in liquor, or bury it in lust and another woman. As for Anna, if would be a far sight easier for her to get on with things if he'd gone off and left her. Far easier, he figured, to digest betrayal than suffer mourning. There. There was the pit in the armor of Louis's predictions.
He was quiet all day, and didn't let on when she left to take care of Mrs. Conlon. At dusk, before Anna returned home, and without so much as a letter of explanation, John climbed into the truck and drove west out of Emmetsburg. He drove west into the twilight of his bitterness. He drove west into a rust red sun setting among the dusty purple haze of the darkening Iowa landscape.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-three
John sat on a stool beside the cellar door, wondering if he ought to be saying goodbye to the world. A storm was moving in, though the stars were bright and bold. The wind had picked up, carrying the mineral scent of approaching rain. The wind washed through the willow behind the house, tugging at its long flowing branches. There were flashes of lightening, reflected in houses and trees, but it was accompanied by a silence that told John the storm was the better part of an hour away.
The wind chased the off the heat of the day and kept the fire flies to the low branches of trees or among the tall grass at the back of the yard. More than that, the wind settled the storms in his heart that had tossed him madly the last few days. It didn’t resolve anything, and certainly gave him no peace of mind, but it offered a moment’s reprise from which he could collect the shattered pieces of his thoughts a bit.
Anna was already in bed, waiting for him. John felt that tug, the pattern and familiarity of being beside her the better part of his life, it was just that he couldn’t be near her right now. Too many thoughts and feelings besieged him, and too many doubts assailed him. It weakened him. It weakened his tongue and allowed those un-tempered misgivings free reign to charge Anna with things she might well be innocent of, at least as much as John’s heart was concerned. It was better he remain there in the yard where the solitude and quiet asserted themselves as the proper prescriptions for his tormented heart.
John pulled at the bandage. The act drew his mind from the sudden appearance of darker thoughts about Anna, their love and eternity, as if those thoughts had collected themselves from the broken pieces of his thoughts. The end of the bandage came loose, and if it was some sort of puzzle, something hiding a mystery, he began to unwrap it from his hand. He focused on it, forcing away though thoughts, wrestling them to the ground. The effort was fully respected in his face. John’s lips tightened, eyes narrowing and his brow sinking deeply. He pulled the wrappings away more quickly, more forcefully as the task to stop those thoughts became herculean. They fought back, allied with his selfish heart until he was helpless to hold them back any longer. They overran him, turning him from Anna, indicting and vilifying her for manufactured crimes and the hearsay foolishness of a madman.
The bandages lay in a pile at his feet. John held out the hand before him and studied the jagged scar, running from his index finger, through the center at his wrist where it almost reached his wrist. It was dark against the flesh of his palm, reminding him of trenches scarring the rolling farmland of France. He opened his hand, stretching his fingers as much as the pain and sutures would allow. He could feel the pull of the flesh, a tension that threatened to burst and gush warm dark blood.
“John?” Anna appeared at the back door. Her voice was sleepy and concerned. She noticed the bandages at his feet and came down the back step, the wind tugging at her thin white gown. “What have you done?”
“Cutting off the circulation,” he said, his voice held a sulking quality. She knelt before him, resting a hand on his knee. The other gently cradled the underside of his injured hand.
“Are you all right?” she tried in vain to find his eyes. “You’re just not yourself.”
“Fine,” he replied. “Just need to sort out a few things.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
It was as if these thoughts were a sin, a crime that he wished to hide. It was easier to be cruel to Anna than unburden himself. The words came out colder than he could ever recall speaking to her. It was as though someone else was speaking them.
“Can I keep a single thought to myself?” he told her. “Sometimes a man has to sort things out for himself. Now go on to bed.”
Anna stood and backed away, as if she no longer understood the man sitting on that stump. The words stabbed at her, and caused a cascade of reasons for his cruelty. Clearly it wasn’t John. She thought better of a response. She breathed heavily and shook her head.
“When you get things good and sorted out, John Perkins, come to bed.” She pulled open the screen and looked back at him once more. John was looking into the palm of his hand, picking at the stitches and dried blood. She let the door bang closed and went back to bed leaving him be.
The wind chased the off the heat of the day and kept the fire flies to the low branches of trees or among the tall grass at the back of the yard. More than that, the wind settled the storms in his heart that had tossed him madly the last few days. It didn’t resolve anything, and certainly gave him no peace of mind, but it offered a moment’s reprise from which he could collect the shattered pieces of his thoughts a bit.
Anna was already in bed, waiting for him. John felt that tug, the pattern and familiarity of being beside her the better part of his life, it was just that he couldn’t be near her right now. Too many thoughts and feelings besieged him, and too many doubts assailed him. It weakened him. It weakened his tongue and allowed those un-tempered misgivings free reign to charge Anna with things she might well be innocent of, at least as much as John’s heart was concerned. It was better he remain there in the yard where the solitude and quiet asserted themselves as the proper prescriptions for his tormented heart.
John pulled at the bandage. The act drew his mind from the sudden appearance of darker thoughts about Anna, their love and eternity, as if those thoughts had collected themselves from the broken pieces of his thoughts. The end of the bandage came loose, and if it was some sort of puzzle, something hiding a mystery, he began to unwrap it from his hand. He focused on it, forcing away though thoughts, wrestling them to the ground. The effort was fully respected in his face. John’s lips tightened, eyes narrowing and his brow sinking deeply. He pulled the wrappings away more quickly, more forcefully as the task to stop those thoughts became herculean. They fought back, allied with his selfish heart until he was helpless to hold them back any longer. They overran him, turning him from Anna, indicting and vilifying her for manufactured crimes and the hearsay foolishness of a madman.
The bandages lay in a pile at his feet. John held out the hand before him and studied the jagged scar, running from his index finger, through the center at his wrist where it almost reached his wrist. It was dark against the flesh of his palm, reminding him of trenches scarring the rolling farmland of France. He opened his hand, stretching his fingers as much as the pain and sutures would allow. He could feel the pull of the flesh, a tension that threatened to burst and gush warm dark blood.
“John?” Anna appeared at the back door. Her voice was sleepy and concerned. She noticed the bandages at his feet and came down the back step, the wind tugging at her thin white gown. “What have you done?”
“Cutting off the circulation,” he said, his voice held a sulking quality. She knelt before him, resting a hand on his knee. The other gently cradled the underside of his injured hand.
“Are you all right?” she tried in vain to find his eyes. “You’re just not yourself.”
“Fine,” he replied. “Just need to sort out a few things.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
It was as if these thoughts were a sin, a crime that he wished to hide. It was easier to be cruel to Anna than unburden himself. The words came out colder than he could ever recall speaking to her. It was as though someone else was speaking them.
“Can I keep a single thought to myself?” he told her. “Sometimes a man has to sort things out for himself. Now go on to bed.”
Anna stood and backed away, as if she no longer understood the man sitting on that stump. The words stabbed at her, and caused a cascade of reasons for his cruelty. Clearly it wasn’t John. She thought better of a response. She breathed heavily and shook her head.
“When you get things good and sorted out, John Perkins, come to bed.” She pulled open the screen and looked back at him once more. John was looking into the palm of his hand, picking at the stitches and dried blood. She let the door bang closed and went back to bed leaving him be.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-two
The morning paper screamed at him from the yellow Newspaper box in front of the town hall. Behind him Main Street was busy with traffic. The street bent downhill through a tunnel of summer-green maples, to where the sun played across the blue-green waters of the lake. The headline sucked the air from John's lungs. He felt the blood run cold from his face, tumbling icily through his body. It rebounded as a quiet gasp. It was just what Louis had foreseen.
THREE GIRLS DIE IN SPIRIT LAKE FIRE
the world seemed to tilt and twist away beneath his feet. One of the oldtimers on the bench nearby caught him at the last minute. Big powerful farm-hewn hands held John fast.
“Hey there, fella,” he said, quite concerned. “Having a spell, son?”
“Lost my balance,” John grinned dumbly, then hurried off along the street.
At the corner he lifted his hand skyward and let the sun filter through his fingers. So it was true, he realized. Everything that Louis had predicted had come true. And if that was the case, then what was to say that the rest would not come true as well? There was no reason to believe what he had said about Anna, and about John's death. That said, was there nothing he could do. Was fate a mighty river running inexorably to so unpredictable, but all too certain fate? Was it as small as a flower unfolding in spring or as large as the whole universe? In either case was he a king or a fool to that fate?
A truck turned the corner past the diner. John decided at that moment it was high time to put the issue of fate and Louis to the ultimate test. The truck coughed and lurched through its aging gears. It roared, belching black exhausted and charged up the street in John's direction.
John decided that thinking about it would only complicate things. It was a reflexive action, as he had learned to do in the war. Best not to think about what amounted to organized mass suicide, but rather just throw one's self into the gap once that whistle blew. John took a breath and stepped off the curb at the precise instant when it would be impossible for the truck to stop. He felt hollow and resigned, but more than that, fully at the helm of his own fate, which may or may not have been an illusion. John turned to face the onrushing truck directly and closed his eyes.
There was a rush of wind and the heat of the truck's engine. Tires screeched and a woman across the street screamed. John remained frozen, his eyes still closed. Not tightly closed, but closed. The woman, the birds in the maple trees and the burping exhaust as the truck's motor stalled were distant.
John opened his eyes to the billowy white clouds and summer blue sky. He was vaguely aware of someone shouting, even if he couldn't make them out at first or even cared. He was alone, sealed off and protected from the world. It took a moment before it all came rushing back in on him.
“Damned crazy fool!” shouted the truck driver, shaking his fist in rage. The burly, square-jawed fellow was red faced. Relief and surprise and fury competed alternately upon that red face. “Ought to have your head examined!”
John looked at him for a long moment, as though the driver was an alien creature, and that all of this was an observation or an experiment of some sort. He glanced over at the newspaper box again before turning up the street towards home.
THREE GIRLS DIE IN SPIRIT LAKE FIRE
the world seemed to tilt and twist away beneath his feet. One of the oldtimers on the bench nearby caught him at the last minute. Big powerful farm-hewn hands held John fast.
“Hey there, fella,” he said, quite concerned. “Having a spell, son?”
“Lost my balance,” John grinned dumbly, then hurried off along the street.
At the corner he lifted his hand skyward and let the sun filter through his fingers. So it was true, he realized. Everything that Louis had predicted had come true. And if that was the case, then what was to say that the rest would not come true as well? There was no reason to believe what he had said about Anna, and about John's death. That said, was there nothing he could do. Was fate a mighty river running inexorably to so unpredictable, but all too certain fate? Was it as small as a flower unfolding in spring or as large as the whole universe? In either case was he a king or a fool to that fate?
A truck turned the corner past the diner. John decided at that moment it was high time to put the issue of fate and Louis to the ultimate test. The truck coughed and lurched through its aging gears. It roared, belching black exhausted and charged up the street in John's direction.
John decided that thinking about it would only complicate things. It was a reflexive action, as he had learned to do in the war. Best not to think about what amounted to organized mass suicide, but rather just throw one's self into the gap once that whistle blew. John took a breath and stepped off the curb at the precise instant when it would be impossible for the truck to stop. He felt hollow and resigned, but more than that, fully at the helm of his own fate, which may or may not have been an illusion. John turned to face the onrushing truck directly and closed his eyes.
There was a rush of wind and the heat of the truck's engine. Tires screeched and a woman across the street screamed. John remained frozen, his eyes still closed. Not tightly closed, but closed. The woman, the birds in the maple trees and the burping exhaust as the truck's motor stalled were distant.
John opened his eyes to the billowy white clouds and summer blue sky. He was vaguely aware of someone shouting, even if he couldn't make them out at first or even cared. He was alone, sealed off and protected from the world. It took a moment before it all came rushing back in on him.
“Damned crazy fool!” shouted the truck driver, shaking his fist in rage. The burly, square-jawed fellow was red faced. Relief and surprise and fury competed alternately upon that red face. “Ought to have your head examined!”
John looked at him for a long moment, as though the driver was an alien creature, and that all of this was an observation or an experiment of some sort. He glanced over at the newspaper box again before turning up the street towards home.
Emmetsburg: Fifty-One
George opened the door and immediately perceived the change in atmosphere. Even in the stale still air of the front office it tasted decidedly less oppressive than the jail cells. Bremer noticed the blood on john's arm and looked at him alarmingly. He pushed past John and went directly to Louis' cell. He was back in the cot, fully surrendered to a deep sleep, as if nothing had happened.
“Everything all right, John?” George's tone was leading, suspecting something out of sorts. John waved his hand in the air. It was warm and pulsing with dull pain, and almost felt dead.
“Healing slowly,” he said unconvincingly. “Don't take much to open her up.”
“George frowned, and looked back at Louis. He didn’t believe him for a moment. “Hope you made your peace. Best you be going now.”
John had made his peace. He felt free of Louis. More than that, he felt he could adequately find the proper perspective for the doubts and questions he'd conjured from all this. He crossed the park, each step lifted by a renewed vigor. He'd never mention word of this to Anna. What a fool he had been to doubt her even for a moment, and if there was one thing he could take from this it would be to cherish her as long as breath remained in his body. There could be no accounting for eternity, but he could account for the quality of his love for her in this life. What else was there? What else could a man hope for?
“Everything all right, John?” George's tone was leading, suspecting something out of sorts. John waved his hand in the air. It was warm and pulsing with dull pain, and almost felt dead.
“Healing slowly,” he said unconvincingly. “Don't take much to open her up.”
“George frowned, and looked back at Louis. He didn’t believe him for a moment. “Hope you made your peace. Best you be going now.”
John had made his peace. He felt free of Louis. More than that, he felt he could adequately find the proper perspective for the doubts and questions he'd conjured from all this. He crossed the park, each step lifted by a renewed vigor. He'd never mention word of this to Anna. What a fool he had been to doubt her even for a moment, and if there was one thing he could take from this it would be to cherish her as long as breath remained in his body. There could be no accounting for eternity, but he could account for the quality of his love for her in this life. What else was there? What else could a man hope for?
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty
George Bremer's office was just up the stairs. With each step John was tearing this moment apart. He wondered what George would say, or if he would think John a fool. By the time he reached the top of the stairs John wasn't certain himself. When he reached the Sheriff's door John was convinced that he was indeed. Despite himself John's hand went out and knocked without confidence on the door. Without awaiting a reply John turned the brass knob and pushed his head through the gap.
The room was a fog of bitter cream-white cigar smoke, carrying herbal chill. It hung as strands and nebulous banks, scattering sunlight [pouring through half open blinds in a rhythm of shadow and light. George sat in the far corner of the room upon a small wooden chair, away from his desk and almost lost to dingy shadow.
The cigar was a mere stub between George's teeth, where it was more chewed than smoked any longer. With the thumb and forefinger George pulled the stub from his teeth. He gave a casual nod and gestured John into the room. John obliged, sweeping a hand before his face and disturbing filaments of smoke there.
“Best close the door, John.” he said with a whimsical quality. “Mildred hates the smell. Like having two wives. Don't imagine how them Arab fellas do it. Got enough on my plate with just one, and Mildred.”
John managed a smile. “Something again air, George?”
“Not as long as I can see it!”
“Don't know, George,” said John, waving at the smoke again. Not that it really bothered him all that much.
George leaned forward in the chair and stretched to tap a butt from the open window. “Wife won't let me smoke at home.”
“Can't imagine why.”
“Never had a taste for the smoke, eh?”
“Never cared for it personally.”
“Cigarettes,” George began, thoughtfully, “are for young boys, the nervous and the condemned, but a cigar, John, a cigar is for the thinking man.”
“That so,” said John.
George popped the cigar back into his mouth, moving it from one side to the other between his teeth. “But you didn't come here to talk about cigars, now did you. What can I do ya for?”
“Need to see Stanton.” John felt as if he had forced the words out, like spitting out something vile and distasteful.
George was immediately against the idea, shaking his head strongly from side to side. “John, I'm...”
“I'm asking this one favor,” John said quickly, almost pleading, at least as much as his ego and soul would allow.
George leaned back, tipping back in the chair and chewing the end of his cigar, as though it helped him to think.
“What's your business with this fella?”
“Can't say.”
“Something that might concern the law, John?”
“Nothing like that.” John looked him square in the eye. “Business between him and me.”
“Nothing to do with that girl?” George asked.
“Nope.”
George studied the cigar in his fingers and pursed his lips. He rubbed his bent brow roughly with a thumb and forefinger.
“Put me in an awful spot, John, anyone should hear of this.”
“Five minutes is all I'm asking.”
Man could get in a lot of trouble in five minutes.” George took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze hovered near the floor a moment. Tapping out a butt, he threw the cigar back between his teeth and looked up at John. “I'll give you two.”
John nodded his appreciation. “Two'll do just fine.”
The room was a fog of bitter cream-white cigar smoke, carrying herbal chill. It hung as strands and nebulous banks, scattering sunlight [pouring through half open blinds in a rhythm of shadow and light. George sat in the far corner of the room upon a small wooden chair, away from his desk and almost lost to dingy shadow.
The cigar was a mere stub between George's teeth, where it was more chewed than smoked any longer. With the thumb and forefinger George pulled the stub from his teeth. He gave a casual nod and gestured John into the room. John obliged, sweeping a hand before his face and disturbing filaments of smoke there.
“Best close the door, John.” he said with a whimsical quality. “Mildred hates the smell. Like having two wives. Don't imagine how them Arab fellas do it. Got enough on my plate with just one, and Mildred.”
John managed a smile. “Something again air, George?”
“Not as long as I can see it!”
“Don't know, George,” said John, waving at the smoke again. Not that it really bothered him all that much.
George leaned forward in the chair and stretched to tap a butt from the open window. “Wife won't let me smoke at home.”
“Can't imagine why.”
“Never had a taste for the smoke, eh?”
“Never cared for it personally.”
“Cigarettes,” George began, thoughtfully, “are for young boys, the nervous and the condemned, but a cigar, John, a cigar is for the thinking man.”
“That so,” said John.
George popped the cigar back into his mouth, moving it from one side to the other between his teeth. “But you didn't come here to talk about cigars, now did you. What can I do ya for?”
“Need to see Stanton.” John felt as if he had forced the words out, like spitting out something vile and distasteful.
George was immediately against the idea, shaking his head strongly from side to side. “John, I'm...”
“I'm asking this one favor,” John said quickly, almost pleading, at least as much as his ego and soul would allow.
George leaned back, tipping back in the chair and chewing the end of his cigar, as though it helped him to think.
“What's your business with this fella?”
“Can't say.”
“Something that might concern the law, John?”
“Nothing like that.” John looked him square in the eye. “Business between him and me.”
“Nothing to do with that girl?” George asked.
“Nope.”
George studied the cigar in his fingers and pursed his lips. He rubbed his bent brow roughly with a thumb and forefinger.
“Put me in an awful spot, John, anyone should hear of this.”
“Five minutes is all I'm asking.”
Man could get in a lot of trouble in five minutes.” George took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze hovered near the floor a moment. Tapping out a butt, he threw the cigar back between his teeth and looked up at John. “I'll give you two.”
John nodded his appreciation. “Two'll do just fine.”
Emmetsburg: Forty-nine
Umber. John hesitated at the steps to the jail across from the courthouse in Emmetsburg. It might have been better to leave well enough alone. A weaker part of him felt as though he'd been given a reprieve from the fate Louis described. The better part of him felt sure it was nothing more than the ramblings of a criminally insane man. But if all that was true, why did the questions persist in haunting him so?
How did Louis know about Bert Himmel? That little mystery added an undeniable weight to his ramblings, and had served to call into question so much that he took as unassailable. It plagued and shadowed damn near every thought and action that he might be living his final days, and that Anna would go off and find another love whom she might be just as happy or happier than with him. That specter made every breath and every moment agonizing. More, it caused him to question Anna and the very foundations of a love he prayed was eternal and exalted by God Himself. But if any of that were true, why did Louis not predict his own fate?
It wasn't much of a jail. The dull brown brick building was small, and partly painted in the mottled shade of a crooked oak. There were three cells at the back of the building, with old fashioned bars, straight out of some old Western movie. Most days they went unused, but for the occasional bar brawl, a drunk or two and vagrants coming in on out of town trains. Next to Louis Stanton the most dangerous criminals ever to grace Emmetsburg's jail were a couple out of towner's who, after attempting to blow up the bank at Cylinder, became so lost among tall August corn that they surrendered to the first farmer they came across. John found himself at the top of the step, almost without realizing, as if he was moving in a dream, as if he was a spectator in a foreign body.
John had questions. He had questions about Bert Himmel and how he knew old Bert would pass away that night. What was hardest for John to figure was, if Louis could see the future, why hadn't he predicted his own arrest? And what did that mean for John's fate, at least the one Louis predicted? Was it all the ramblings of a fool, or a con man who could read folks like some back alley Parisian Gypsy?
John went through the heavy wooden door, immediately assailed by the thin stale air within. It felt to him like a crypt, as it the air had not been let out in years, as if it was old and tired but whimsically melancholic. It was warmer inside than out on the street. The windows were up, but it did little for the heat. What it did do was let in the sounds off the street wheich, in that dulcid space, blended to a pale hollow din. On the back wall there were three eight by ten black and white portraits, hung vertically. President Hoover occupied the top spot. Below that was a porttrait of a pompous Vice President Curtis. Last was that of Govenor Daniel Turner. The walls were a faded shade of pale blue. Three heavy metal desks occupied the room, arranged neatly behind the receptionist's desk. All were a soft pea green, each with a pair of cherry-stained chairs set neatly before them. An American flag with dingy gold tassels hung limp on a pole in the far corner beside the stairs leading to George Bremer's second floor office.
Mildred O'connor, the receptionist. looked up from the Underwood typewriter. A report she was working on was being typed in triplicate, each page curling away and separated by thin reused black.sheets of fragile carbon paper.
Mildred had lost her husband the winter before last. Hank O;connor worked a lifetime with the railroad as a signalman. John knew Hank from Hamilton's diner and soda fountain's around the corner, which served the best and cheapest made-rite sandwiches in town. He went quietly in his sleep one night, a heartattack the doctor's said. But grief and the years had done little to diminish a natural beauty, nor an unmistakable enthusiasm that the good Lord put in her body. There wasn't a Sunday John could recall that Mildred wasn't leading the chior at St.Mary's.
Mildred smiled warmly, and invitation to return the gesture John found impossible to refuse. Her sharp blue eyes lit up the moment, further evidence of an uncommon beauty and warmth, neither of which had diminished greatly through the years. The expression darkened to a sympathetic smile, in Mildred's overly dramatic style, when she noticed the bandage on his hand.
“Oh dear,” she gasped. For anyone else such gushing emotion would see fake or condescending. “Looks just awful!. Must hurt something terrible.”
John reached out and gently squeezed her small frail hand. “In the way more than anything, “Miss O'conner.”
“Trust Misses Perkins is taking good care of you?”
He let go of her hand. “Never better.”
“Ah, she's a good soul, just like my Henry was.”
“Th at she is,” he agreed readily.
“You cherish every minute with that girl,” said Mildred.
John nodded smartly. “I do.”
“Gosh,” she beamed cutely, “remember when the two of you were a couple kids. I would say to Henry, now there's a couple meant for each other!”
“Expect Anna would be pleased to hear that.”
“Don't life just go by so fast?” Mildred waxed.
“That is does, Misses O'connor,” said John with a smart nod. “George back in his office?”
“Expect that's what you came in for,” She waved a hand in the air and turned sharply back to her reports. “Look at me, the lonely old widow, babbling on and on.”
“Not at all, hon,” said John. “Always a pleasure.”
How did Louis know about Bert Himmel? That little mystery added an undeniable weight to his ramblings, and had served to call into question so much that he took as unassailable. It plagued and shadowed damn near every thought and action that he might be living his final days, and that Anna would go off and find another love whom she might be just as happy or happier than with him. That specter made every breath and every moment agonizing. More, it caused him to question Anna and the very foundations of a love he prayed was eternal and exalted by God Himself. But if any of that were true, why did Louis not predict his own fate?
It wasn't much of a jail. The dull brown brick building was small, and partly painted in the mottled shade of a crooked oak. There were three cells at the back of the building, with old fashioned bars, straight out of some old Western movie. Most days they went unused, but for the occasional bar brawl, a drunk or two and vagrants coming in on out of town trains. Next to Louis Stanton the most dangerous criminals ever to grace Emmetsburg's jail were a couple out of towner's who, after attempting to blow up the bank at Cylinder, became so lost among tall August corn that they surrendered to the first farmer they came across. John found himself at the top of the step, almost without realizing, as if he was moving in a dream, as if he was a spectator in a foreign body.
John had questions. He had questions about Bert Himmel and how he knew old Bert would pass away that night. What was hardest for John to figure was, if Louis could see the future, why hadn't he predicted his own arrest? And what did that mean for John's fate, at least the one Louis predicted? Was it all the ramblings of a fool, or a con man who could read folks like some back alley Parisian Gypsy?
John went through the heavy wooden door, immediately assailed by the thin stale air within. It felt to him like a crypt, as it the air had not been let out in years, as if it was old and tired but whimsically melancholic. It was warmer inside than out on the street. The windows were up, but it did little for the heat. What it did do was let in the sounds off the street wheich, in that dulcid space, blended to a pale hollow din. On the back wall there were three eight by ten black and white portraits, hung vertically. President Hoover occupied the top spot. Below that was a porttrait of a pompous Vice President Curtis. Last was that of Govenor Daniel Turner. The walls were a faded shade of pale blue. Three heavy metal desks occupied the room, arranged neatly behind the receptionist's desk. All were a soft pea green, each with a pair of cherry-stained chairs set neatly before them. An American flag with dingy gold tassels hung limp on a pole in the far corner beside the stairs leading to George Bremer's second floor office.
Mildred O'connor, the receptionist. looked up from the Underwood typewriter. A report she was working on was being typed in triplicate, each page curling away and separated by thin reused black.sheets of fragile carbon paper.
Mildred had lost her husband the winter before last. Hank O;connor worked a lifetime with the railroad as a signalman. John knew Hank from Hamilton's diner and soda fountain's around the corner, which served the best and cheapest made-rite sandwiches in town. He went quietly in his sleep one night, a heartattack the doctor's said. But grief and the years had done little to diminish a natural beauty, nor an unmistakable enthusiasm that the good Lord put in her body. There wasn't a Sunday John could recall that Mildred wasn't leading the chior at St.Mary's.
Mildred smiled warmly, and invitation to return the gesture John found impossible to refuse. Her sharp blue eyes lit up the moment, further evidence of an uncommon beauty and warmth, neither of which had diminished greatly through the years. The expression darkened to a sympathetic smile, in Mildred's overly dramatic style, when she noticed the bandage on his hand.
“Oh dear,” she gasped. For anyone else such gushing emotion would see fake or condescending. “Looks just awful!. Must hurt something terrible.”
John reached out and gently squeezed her small frail hand. “In the way more than anything, “Miss O'conner.”
“Trust Misses Perkins is taking good care of you?”
He let go of her hand. “Never better.”
“Ah, she's a good soul, just like my Henry was.”
“Th at she is,” he agreed readily.
“You cherish every minute with that girl,” said Mildred.
John nodded smartly. “I do.”
“Gosh,” she beamed cutely, “remember when the two of you were a couple kids. I would say to Henry, now there's a couple meant for each other!”
“Expect Anna would be pleased to hear that.”
“Don't life just go by so fast?” Mildred waxed.
“That is does, Misses O'connor,” said John with a smart nod. “George back in his office?”
“Expect that's what you came in for,” She waved a hand in the air and turned sharply back to her reports. “Look at me, the lonely old widow, babbling on and on.”
“Not at all, hon,” said John. “Always a pleasure.”
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