Silver. The rain picked up again, but the clouds had lightened polishing the world, redefining it in simple patterns of light and dark. The rain rustled like fine tinsel. It poured from eaves and weighted leaves. Everywhere the world seemed to shimmer and change with each passing moment.
John stopped at the top of the jailhouse steps. Louis was just ahead of him. John grabbed the back of his shirt, nearly pulling Louis off his feet. The pistol was tucked in the waist of John’s trousers. His injured hand covered it. He resolved to use it if need be, while praying to god it wouldn’t come to that. The soldiers at the corner were huddled around a single cigarette beneath a red and white striped shop awning. John spied them carefully then pushed Louis down the last steps and across to the truck. He opened the driver’s side door and motioned with a nod for Louis to get inside.
“No, John, I won’t go.”
“I ain’t asking you twice,” she said through gritted teeth, glancing over to the soldiers once more.
“What do you think you’ll accomplish?”
“Testing fate, my friend.”
Thunder rumbled distantly. It was low and hollow. Not as something apart from the world, but as if the whole earth, the trees and houses, the oceans, souls and creatures had joined together in a collective moan.
“John, this is madness!” Louis whined, crestfallen and confused.
A pistol shot exploded. A bullet slapped into the truck beside Louis’ head. Two more shots followed in quick succession. John wheeled and leveled the gun without thinking. Homer stood at the door to the jail, holding the pistol unsteadily in both hands. His face was pale, almost if he might be sick from the act of trying his damnedest to kill someone. He fired again and Louis slid to the ground with a gasp.
John fired twice. His aim was careful and calculated. He was back in the war again, and just as steady. As intended both bullets found their mark precisely. The wooden door frame to either side of Homer splintered and came apart in bits and pieces. An hour before he might have coward or fled. Instead, fearing the humiliation and shame he would face, Homer fell to one knee and took aim once more.
Hearing all this, the soldiers at the corner were already charging up the street, their rifles and bayonets at the ready. John turned to face them, scattering the men with two shots that went high. John knew he was outgunned. A sudden sinking feeling in his gut told him just how terrible a miscalculation he had made. The searing hot punch of a bullet to the side slammed him against the truck. Warm silk-red blood poured down his side. John knew instantly he probably would never see Anna again. Fighting for breath, John took aim and put a round neatly through Homer’s shooting arm. The boy spun backwards, the pistol skidding away from him.
The soldiers had taken up positions and unleashed a fusillade against the truck. Untested and inexperienced, their shots came in groups of three, each preceded by a pause as they worked the bolt of their Enfields and took fresh aim. One of the men stood, exposing himself as he moved to a better firing position. John put the last round at his feet, chasing the man back. Out of bullets John flung the pistol away and looked down at Louis.
A bullet had pierced Louis’ chest. John could tell right off it was a grievous wound. Blood soaked his shirt and spread across the pavement beneath him, spattering with the rain. With each hollow and excruciating breath the blood gurgled and bubbled from the wound. Louis’s eyes rolled back and the other-worldly expression returned to him. He gripped the leg of John’s trousers and coughed through a spray of blood.
Showing posts with label Great Depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Great Depression. Show all posts
Thursday, April 1, 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.
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.
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.”
Monday, March 1, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-seven
“Between a rock and a hard place, ain’t that what they call it, C.W.?” Stan Pickett stood alone in the dusty dirt road with the Sheriff near the gate to his farm. They were like two pauper chieftains negotiating terms between two opposing armies. Except these two armies could find no terms, and instead seemed poised, even eager for battle.
Just down the road a line of thirty-some State troopers in blue stood ready near where an old Maple beside Stan’s big red barn bent her shade over the road and a cluster of vehicles. They were thirty of the biggest, meanest, hardest looking men the governor knew, picking ech man personally. They faced a bigger number of farmers gathered tensely to the entrance to Stan’s farm, a small drive across a weedy drainage ditch. Behind them Stan’s wife stood on the wrap-around porch of their white-washed two story home with their three children. A number of the other wives joined her there, some eager or more eager than their husbands to join the fight.
C.W. and Stan stood at the fulcrum of this moment, hands in their pockets, talking calm and low, as if they might discuss the rising heat of the day or Wes Ferrell’s no hitter against the St. Louis browns, Chaplin’s new movie or Hoover’s ineptitude. Neither was fooled by the gravity of all this. They knew only too well that what gentlemanly agreement they might come to in the middle of that road would dissolve in the face of inevitable history and raging emotion.
Forty men stood at the entrance of Stan Pickett’s farm. They stood in the road, running in a ragged line down across the ditch and halfway across Stan’s yard. Forty men had filled their hands with clubs and shovels, some of them. Others rolled up their sleeves, and spit into their hands, prepared to send those troopers back to Des Moines and the governor as a lesson. Backed into a corner there was nothing else they could do as men but stand and fight.
“That what they call it, Stan?” C.W. rubbed the moist back of his neck. “Rock and a hard place?”
“It’s something.” Stan tugged a rag from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his face. He looked at the men in his yard and back at C.W. Both man regarded the troopers or a long worrisome moment.
“It’s something all right.”
“Like Sittin’ Bull and Custer out here,” Stan smiled weakly.
“Both know how that turned out.”
“Question is, which of us is Custer and…” his words trailed away Stan pushed the rag back into his pocket.
“Good question.”
Stan looked C.W. squarely in the eye. His expression suddenly stark and grave. “Know I can’t let them inspector near my cattle.”
C.W. groaned. He’d played checkers with Stan Pickett and half the others a thousand times out front of Bert Himmel’s place over the years. He recalled the night his wife had complications delivering their third child, the small boy hovering t his mom’s apron on the porch. He raced Stan and his wife to Emmetsburg in the back of his truck. When the boy was born healthy later the next day he and old Stan celebrated by getting good and lit at a local watering hole.
“And you know I've got to uphold the law, Stan.”
Stan scratched the top of his head and shrugged, resigned to the events rolling across his farm like an avalanche. “Different ways of looking at the law.”
“Don't have that luxury.”
C.W. stared coldly at Stan, whose gaze was away across the fields and his herb dotting the yellow green hillside opposite. He tried to imagine himself in Stan's place, and wondered if he wouldn't react the same. The moment evaporated. Stan nodded sharply and pursed his lips.
“Expect I should be getting back.”
C.W. Nodded fatally and frowned. “God help us, Stan.”
Just down the road a line of thirty-some State troopers in blue stood ready near where an old Maple beside Stan’s big red barn bent her shade over the road and a cluster of vehicles. They were thirty of the biggest, meanest, hardest looking men the governor knew, picking ech man personally. They faced a bigger number of farmers gathered tensely to the entrance to Stan’s farm, a small drive across a weedy drainage ditch. Behind them Stan’s wife stood on the wrap-around porch of their white-washed two story home with their three children. A number of the other wives joined her there, some eager or more eager than their husbands to join the fight.
C.W. and Stan stood at the fulcrum of this moment, hands in their pockets, talking calm and low, as if they might discuss the rising heat of the day or Wes Ferrell’s no hitter against the St. Louis browns, Chaplin’s new movie or Hoover’s ineptitude. Neither was fooled by the gravity of all this. They knew only too well that what gentlemanly agreement they might come to in the middle of that road would dissolve in the face of inevitable history and raging emotion.
Forty men stood at the entrance of Stan Pickett’s farm. They stood in the road, running in a ragged line down across the ditch and halfway across Stan’s yard. Forty men had filled their hands with clubs and shovels, some of them. Others rolled up their sleeves, and spit into their hands, prepared to send those troopers back to Des Moines and the governor as a lesson. Backed into a corner there was nothing else they could do as men but stand and fight.
“That what they call it, Stan?” C.W. rubbed the moist back of his neck. “Rock and a hard place?”
“It’s something.” Stan tugged a rag from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his face. He looked at the men in his yard and back at C.W. Both man regarded the troopers or a long worrisome moment.
“It’s something all right.”
“Like Sittin’ Bull and Custer out here,” Stan smiled weakly.
“Both know how that turned out.”
“Question is, which of us is Custer and…” his words trailed away Stan pushed the rag back into his pocket.
“Good question.”
Stan looked C.W. squarely in the eye. His expression suddenly stark and grave. “Know I can’t let them inspector near my cattle.”
C.W. groaned. He’d played checkers with Stan Pickett and half the others a thousand times out front of Bert Himmel’s place over the years. He recalled the night his wife had complications delivering their third child, the small boy hovering t his mom’s apron on the porch. He raced Stan and his wife to Emmetsburg in the back of his truck. When the boy was born healthy later the next day he and old Stan celebrated by getting good and lit at a local watering hole.
“And you know I've got to uphold the law, Stan.”
Stan scratched the top of his head and shrugged, resigned to the events rolling across his farm like an avalanche. “Different ways of looking at the law.”
“Don't have that luxury.”
C.W. stared coldly at Stan, whose gaze was away across the fields and his herb dotting the yellow green hillside opposite. He tried to imagine himself in Stan's place, and wondered if he wouldn't react the same. The moment evaporated. Stan nodded sharply and pursed his lips.
“Expect I should be getting back.”
C.W. Nodded fatally and frowned. “God help us, Stan.”
Friday, February 26, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-five
John set out one of the dining chairs beneath the willow for Louis. The air was cool and gentle there. John hooked a thumb in a belt loop of Louis' trousers. His arm was slung across John's shoulders. It proved a fair test of that hurt hand as he helped Louis downstairs and out into the yard. He could feel the bifurcated flesh moving independent of one another. John pursed his lips and felt tears fill his eyes. Didn't help that Louis' legs were about as firm as wet spaghetti. Felt like no small milestone when at last they reached the back step.
“Step down,” said John, wanting to scream from pain. Instead he clenched his teeth and gave hardly more than a stifled groan.
“Just a little farther,” he said.
John was already dreading the idea of getting Louis back up the stairs. If it was a warm enough night, he mused, he'd just as soon leave Louis under the tree. Throw a blanket over him and that would be that. Or maybe set him out on the curb with a bushel of apples that Louis could sell at 2 cents a pound to help earn his keep. The thought made John smile, tempering the pain in his hand just enough.
It was a near perfect day. There was hardly a cloud in the sky. Now and again small puffy-white clouds glided eastward, carried on a silken breeze that washed through the yard with the lemon-pepper scent of fresh cut grass somewhere. John breathed it in deeply, carried bck to his childhood for a moment, and the perfectness of rolling in freshly cut wet grass. The breeze headed off across the yard to the tree line and small creek. Beyond the line of trees a pair of burly brown horses pulled a plow across the hillside.
“Feel like an invalid,” said Louis as John deposited him in the chair.
“Far cry from last night.” There was fresh blood in the bandages. John held the hand to his chest. “Suppose you don’t recall running across the yard like your pants were on fire?”
“Not a thing.”
That so?” John gave Louis a long suspect look. “Screaming to the stars. Suppose you don’t remember none of that either?”
Louis cocked his head, as if he didn't or couldn't understand what John was saying. Just then a car pulled up out front. Three doors opened and shut quickly. On that quiet little street such a thing was enough to draw John's attention immediately.
It wasn’t a moment before George Bremer rounded the corner of the house with two young deputies in tow. Their expressions were artificially austere, as if any affront to the law was a personal assault. By contrast Old George was serious but aloof, as though this was nothing more than a task, akin to washing the dishes or tending some meddlesome repair. John stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Louis and the lawmen.
“Step down,” said John, wanting to scream from pain. Instead he clenched his teeth and gave hardly more than a stifled groan.
“Just a little farther,” he said.
John was already dreading the idea of getting Louis back up the stairs. If it was a warm enough night, he mused, he'd just as soon leave Louis under the tree. Throw a blanket over him and that would be that. Or maybe set him out on the curb with a bushel of apples that Louis could sell at 2 cents a pound to help earn his keep. The thought made John smile, tempering the pain in his hand just enough.
It was a near perfect day. There was hardly a cloud in the sky. Now and again small puffy-white clouds glided eastward, carried on a silken breeze that washed through the yard with the lemon-pepper scent of fresh cut grass somewhere. John breathed it in deeply, carried bck to his childhood for a moment, and the perfectness of rolling in freshly cut wet grass. The breeze headed off across the yard to the tree line and small creek. Beyond the line of trees a pair of burly brown horses pulled a plow across the hillside.
“Feel like an invalid,” said Louis as John deposited him in the chair.
“Far cry from last night.” There was fresh blood in the bandages. John held the hand to his chest. “Suppose you don’t recall running across the yard like your pants were on fire?”
“Not a thing.”
That so?” John gave Louis a long suspect look. “Screaming to the stars. Suppose you don’t remember none of that either?”
Louis cocked his head, as if he didn't or couldn't understand what John was saying. Just then a car pulled up out front. Three doors opened and shut quickly. On that quiet little street such a thing was enough to draw John's attention immediately.
It wasn’t a moment before George Bremer rounded the corner of the house with two young deputies in tow. Their expressions were artificially austere, as if any affront to the law was a personal assault. By contrast Old George was serious but aloof, as though this was nothing more than a task, akin to washing the dishes or tending some meddlesome repair. John stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Louis and the lawmen.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-one
John lay in bed, still clothed, staring at the ceiling. Anna was sitting beside him, her legs curled under her buttocks. The long hair fell down across one shoulder and over the breast. Leaning on one hand, she gently stroked his stomach. John frowned out of frustration of not knowing where to begin, and feeling the fool for ever considering any aspect of all this. He finally looked over, feeling even more foolish for her sympathetic smile.
“You must think I’m losing my mind,” he said.
“I think maybe we should call someone.”
“Whom?”
“Someone who can better care for Louis,” she replied. “It’s all too much for us, with your hand, and God forbid he hurts himself or someone else.”
John’s brow furled in thought. He took a deep breath and looked to the ceiling again. He was quiet, struggling with a thought, and then struggling with the words.
“If,” he paused again, “if something happened to me, what would you…”
She cut him off quickly, quite upset at even the suggestion.. “John, I won’t hear another word.”
John’s eyes moved wildly, searching the air, fighting thoughts and emotions not easily framed by mere words. He tried to think of Anna without him, and he tried not to think of such things. Both threatened to tear the heart from his chest. His mouth fell open in a silent lament. He took a deep breath and forced tears back, then looked to Anna again.
“I would want you to be happy if…”
“John, where is all this coming from?” She stroked his chest reassuringly. It tortured her to see him this way. “John, I intend to grow very old with you, whether you like it or not. We can’t predict what will happen today or tomorrow or five years from now, but I love you and while we are together on this earth that isn’t going to change.”
He nodded, though hardly satisfied with the answer. John chose not to press it any further. It only made him feel more foolish at believing any of this. As Anna laid her head upon his chest a single tear escaped. It ran from the corner of one eye, cool and slick, and into his hair. John closed his eyes tight, glad she couldn’t see any of this. He stroked her back and shoulders and gave a long deep sigh that drained away his heartache. Anna was already asleep against him. John held her close and kissed her hair, breathing her in as if his very life depended upon it.
“You must think I’m losing my mind,” he said.
“I think maybe we should call someone.”
“Whom?”
“Someone who can better care for Louis,” she replied. “It’s all too much for us, with your hand, and God forbid he hurts himself or someone else.”
John’s brow furled in thought. He took a deep breath and looked to the ceiling again. He was quiet, struggling with a thought, and then struggling with the words.
“If,” he paused again, “if something happened to me, what would you…”
She cut him off quickly, quite upset at even the suggestion.. “John, I won’t hear another word.”
John’s eyes moved wildly, searching the air, fighting thoughts and emotions not easily framed by mere words. He tried to think of Anna without him, and he tried not to think of such things. Both threatened to tear the heart from his chest. His mouth fell open in a silent lament. He took a deep breath and forced tears back, then looked to Anna again.
“I would want you to be happy if…”
“John, where is all this coming from?” She stroked his chest reassuringly. It tortured her to see him this way. “John, I intend to grow very old with you, whether you like it or not. We can’t predict what will happen today or tomorrow or five years from now, but I love you and while we are together on this earth that isn’t going to change.”
He nodded, though hardly satisfied with the answer. John chose not to press it any further. It only made him feel more foolish at believing any of this. As Anna laid her head upon his chest a single tear escaped. It ran from the corner of one eye, cool and slick, and into his hair. John closed his eyes tight, glad she couldn’t see any of this. He stroked her back and shoulders and gave a long deep sigh that drained away his heartache. Anna was already asleep against him. John held her close and kissed her hair, breathing her in as if his very life depended upon it.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty
“Jesus!” John exclaimed. Anna recoiled, finding, for just a moment, the strangest expression she'd ever seen in John. It was the way he looked at her, as though he hardly recognized her. Believing she had imagined the whole thing Anna reach to him again, but John threw up a hand, as if protecting himself.
“John?” she said. He seemed to snap out of the moment. Instead of coming to her he sat in the grass, washing a hand through his hair.
“I'm sorry,” she shook his head. His thoughts spun wildly. He recalled Louis' words, that Anna would get along without him, that she would find another love and marry again. John knew it was all foolish, but couldn't help himself.
“John, are you...?”
“I'm...its just...” he looked up at her, almost in judgment. Suddenly he felt so foolish and ashamed for it. “You'll help me get Louis back to bed?”
“John, what's going on. I'm getting scared?” she fell to his side, stroking his hair.
He searched her eyes, finding the world and eternity in them. More than that he found truth and love. He reached for her cheek feeling like a child before her decency and beauty. He supreme commodity of that moment, that simple touch rushed through him like warm electricity. The precious nature of that moment, one that would not again be repeated in all eternity filled him with a sudden sense of light and loss all at once.
“I'll explain everything inside,” he said. He could not keep any of this to himself any longer, yet he had no clue to what he might say to Anna.
Anna lifted Louis to a sitting position. He was limp and peaceful, as though he was in a very deep sleep. John knelt beside him and stretched one of Louis’ arms across his shoulders. With a slight groan John hauled the man across his back and stood. They went into the house and up the stairs. The crickets returned in their wake, filling the noght with their eternal song of summer.
“John?” she said. He seemed to snap out of the moment. Instead of coming to her he sat in the grass, washing a hand through his hair.
“I'm sorry,” she shook his head. His thoughts spun wildly. He recalled Louis' words, that Anna would get along without him, that she would find another love and marry again. John knew it was all foolish, but couldn't help himself.
“John, are you...?”
“I'm...its just...” he looked up at her, almost in judgment. Suddenly he felt so foolish and ashamed for it. “You'll help me get Louis back to bed?”
“John, what's going on. I'm getting scared?” she fell to his side, stroking his hair.
He searched her eyes, finding the world and eternity in them. More than that he found truth and love. He reached for her cheek feeling like a child before her decency and beauty. He supreme commodity of that moment, that simple touch rushed through him like warm electricity. The precious nature of that moment, one that would not again be repeated in all eternity filled him with a sudden sense of light and loss all at once.
“I'll explain everything inside,” he said. He could not keep any of this to himself any longer, yet he had no clue to what he might say to Anna.
Anna lifted Louis to a sitting position. He was limp and peaceful, as though he was in a very deep sleep. John knelt beside him and stretched one of Louis’ arms across his shoulders. With a slight groan John hauled the man across his back and stood. They went into the house and up the stairs. The crickets returned in their wake, filling the noght with their eternal song of summer.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-six
Pearl-white. The fog fled the no man’s land quickly now. With the lifting fog came the obsessive German guns, chasing the rest of the squad back across the no man's land. Bullets chopped at the rim of the crater and at the body of the German boy. They tumbled the body backwards, where it slid limp and lifeless and shattered. The bullets were like stones into a murky puddle. John laid across Roddy and contented himself that the shooting wouldn't last forever. He knew, though, that what would come would be far worse.
It was unlikely the Germans knew he and Roddy were there. The fire swept a broad stretch of ground. Even as it chopped the air overhead John wasted little time. He set to work, covering Roddy and them himself with dark French mud from head to toe. That done he quickly piled and packed mud into a small barrier to one side of the crater should a German grenade come flying. It wasn't much, hardly more than a yard long and a foot or so high. John hoped that it would offer a modest bit of protection, which was about as much as he could hope for.
When the barrier was done John hauled Roddy behind it, careful not to poke his head above the edge of the crater. From a laying position John turned the man on his stomach. So that he might appear dead John moved Roddy’s arm and leg away from the body. The effort, from this position and in his weakened state left John utterly and almost catastrophically exhausted.
He paused a moment and looked to heaven, each breath burning in his chest. Black smoke drifted lazily overhead. The German fire had all but ended now. John said a small prayer and began to cross himself, pausing when he noticed a small silver crucifix around the dead German boy's neck.
John crawled a few feet away and lay on one side, facing the German lines. The Enfield lay nearby, with the long bayonet attached and ready. Under his body John clutched a revolver and trench knife. There was nothing more to do now but feign death(which was more than death itself) and wait. With luck they would survive till dark, when John would have a better chance to get them back to friendly lines.
The heat of the day rose quickly. It was a steaming, stifling heat that choked the sweat and life from John. With it rose the stagnate rot of the crater, like a sewer or morgue. John's throat burned with thirst, the sun baking him beneath the heavy steel helmet. Flies buzzed and swarmed, over the German boy and flitted upon the pool of water reflecting the clear blue sky.
John stared into the pool trying in vain to see Anna's face. What else was there to do but go mad? It was as if she had never been real and his whole life had been a mirage. That he could not see her, or adequately recall anything of his life beyond that corrupted crater seemed to betray that it had all been an illusion.
How he longed to run his fingers through Anna's buttery-soft sunset-red hair. He would have given all eternity just to hear her peacefully warm voice once more. He prayed to god for nothing more than to see her once more, even if it was a fleeting glimpse as his soul fled this world. And if he should survive? John resolved that each day beside her would be a blessing, and he would give thanks for as long as breath filled his lungs.
Another voice contradicted that hopeful and contrite voice. It told John he would not survive, and that he would die in that ignominious hole. It only served to remind him that predicting tomorrow was a fool's exercise. It was arrogant to expect anything of tomorrow. He squeezed back tears threatening his eyes. John's heart was so heavy that it almost compelled him to cry out.
It was unlikely the Germans knew he and Roddy were there. The fire swept a broad stretch of ground. Even as it chopped the air overhead John wasted little time. He set to work, covering Roddy and them himself with dark French mud from head to toe. That done he quickly piled and packed mud into a small barrier to one side of the crater should a German grenade come flying. It wasn't much, hardly more than a yard long and a foot or so high. John hoped that it would offer a modest bit of protection, which was about as much as he could hope for.
When the barrier was done John hauled Roddy behind it, careful not to poke his head above the edge of the crater. From a laying position John turned the man on his stomach. So that he might appear dead John moved Roddy’s arm and leg away from the body. The effort, from this position and in his weakened state left John utterly and almost catastrophically exhausted.
He paused a moment and looked to heaven, each breath burning in his chest. Black smoke drifted lazily overhead. The German fire had all but ended now. John said a small prayer and began to cross himself, pausing when he noticed a small silver crucifix around the dead German boy's neck.
John crawled a few feet away and lay on one side, facing the German lines. The Enfield lay nearby, with the long bayonet attached and ready. Under his body John clutched a revolver and trench knife. There was nothing more to do now but feign death(which was more than death itself) and wait. With luck they would survive till dark, when John would have a better chance to get them back to friendly lines.
The heat of the day rose quickly. It was a steaming, stifling heat that choked the sweat and life from John. With it rose the stagnate rot of the crater, like a sewer or morgue. John's throat burned with thirst, the sun baking him beneath the heavy steel helmet. Flies buzzed and swarmed, over the German boy and flitted upon the pool of water reflecting the clear blue sky.
John stared into the pool trying in vain to see Anna's face. What else was there to do but go mad? It was as if she had never been real and his whole life had been a mirage. That he could not see her, or adequately recall anything of his life beyond that corrupted crater seemed to betray that it had all been an illusion.
How he longed to run his fingers through Anna's buttery-soft sunset-red hair. He would have given all eternity just to hear her peacefully warm voice once more. He prayed to god for nothing more than to see her once more, even if it was a fleeting glimpse as his soul fled this world. And if he should survive? John resolved that each day beside her would be a blessing, and he would give thanks for as long as breath filled his lungs.
Another voice contradicted that hopeful and contrite voice. It told John he would not survive, and that he would die in that ignominious hole. It only served to remind him that predicting tomorrow was a fool's exercise. It was arrogant to expect anything of tomorrow. He squeezed back tears threatening his eyes. John's heart was so heavy that it almost compelled him to cry out.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-two
The standoff at the Himmel farm swept through the countryside like an autumn frost, seeming to materialize out of the air and paint everything. Like a frost there was a beauty to the news, like a victory had been won by the common folk; a certain refreshing, to reference the good Thomas Jefferson, of the freedoms paid for in the blood of generations of common folk. Power, privilage and exploitation had been knocked back on its heels.
It was a time to rejoice and reflect, but there was a much danger as well, as it threatened to unleash the forces of chaos and anarchy. It threatened the age of might and the bully, and of schemers behind the bully. For nothing in that world was bound by the law and of mutual compromise and community, but by of ego and gluttony and division.
Up town, an angry crowd of farmers, church folk and a certain class of folk more akin to scavenging dogs gathered in front of the courthouse. They carried signs and marched up and down. They roared and yelled, as though they were going to war, over inflammatory words by a baptist Minister from Cedar Rapids. They were outraged and in full agreement with Avery Lysander, and brought almost to tears by a hand full of furtive, stammering words from Myron Himmel.
Sherriff Bremer, in a big tan ten gallon hat, and a couple deeply conflicted deputies watched all this from the jailhouse. They let the crowd do just about as they pleased, hoping they would get the worst of all this, the wild and unchecked emotion burn away. Bremer nodded respectfully, folding his arms and rocking on the heels of his dusty black ranch boots when they paraded past the jail. And when they shouted and demanded to know where he stood on the issue Bremer had no wish to be pigeon-holed by either side. With an ironic smirk and a shake of his head he only waved and disappeared with his men into the jail.
How folks came to all this drew the battle lines rather than discourse, and only succeeded in dragging Emmetsburg and surrounding counties into ranks. Up to now it had hardly proved more than a distraction for most, except the agitators and those directly involved. It was a curious and uncomfortable topic of conversation. It grew as the night on the horizon, refusing to be ignored. No one, most especially John perkins, could escape the night.
It was a time to rejoice and reflect, but there was a much danger as well, as it threatened to unleash the forces of chaos and anarchy. It threatened the age of might and the bully, and of schemers behind the bully. For nothing in that world was bound by the law and of mutual compromise and community, but by of ego and gluttony and division.
Up town, an angry crowd of farmers, church folk and a certain class of folk more akin to scavenging dogs gathered in front of the courthouse. They carried signs and marched up and down. They roared and yelled, as though they were going to war, over inflammatory words by a baptist Minister from Cedar Rapids. They were outraged and in full agreement with Avery Lysander, and brought almost to tears by a hand full of furtive, stammering words from Myron Himmel.
Sherriff Bremer, in a big tan ten gallon hat, and a couple deeply conflicted deputies watched all this from the jailhouse. They let the crowd do just about as they pleased, hoping they would get the worst of all this, the wild and unchecked emotion burn away. Bremer nodded respectfully, folding his arms and rocking on the heels of his dusty black ranch boots when they paraded past the jail. And when they shouted and demanded to know where he stood on the issue Bremer had no wish to be pigeon-holed by either side. With an ironic smirk and a shake of his head he only waved and disappeared with his men into the jail.
How folks came to all this drew the battle lines rather than discourse, and only succeeded in dragging Emmetsburg and surrounding counties into ranks. Up to now it had hardly proved more than a distraction for most, except the agitators and those directly involved. It was a curious and uncomfortable topic of conversation. It grew as the night on the horizon, refusing to be ignored. No one, most especially John perkins, could escape the night.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty
Gold. Burt Himmel's house stood at the end of a long straight dirt track that ran downhill for the better part of its course. The track was little more than two well worn ruts, separated by a ribbon of deepening green grass. The house, small green barn and smaller chicken coop were centered in a small bowl. It made the farm look so much farther than it truly was. On the post at the top of the drive an official notice of inspection was nailed.
The house, like the yard and chicken coop was well tended. The rectangular coop had recently been painted and stood out sharply in the morning sun. The low roor slanted sharply on one side towards the barn. The barn was sorely in need of repair, with patches of yellowing moss on the roof. Pieces of the roof had rotted or fallen away, making it appear as though the moss was some sort of infection slowly consuming the structure. Beside the barn, upon the slope of a hill a half dozen black and brown cows grazed lazily.
The two story wood-frame house was tall with wood shingles and clean white shutters. A fat oak stood as an exclamation in front of the house. A tire swing hung from the sturdiest branch above a bare spot of ground, nearly lost to an island of midnight shade. Beside the tree, in the cool of the shade, Burt's old Black Labrador, Lincoln, watched laconically the commotion at the top of the road.
A dozen or so vehicles and horse-drawn wagons were arrayed haphazardly to either side of the road so that anyone wishing to pass would have to inch by slowly, snaking slowly through the ramshackle blockade. Ten or fifteen men were gathered in a tight group in front of the blockade. Central among them was Avery Lysander, his arm around the shoulder of young Myron Himmel.
This should have been a time of mourning for the boy. It should have been a time for memories and family and reflection. Instead Myron steeled himself for an epic fight whipped up by Avery and some of the other more boisterous nd energized farmers. The moment felt immense to the boy. As he saw things his family's life and future depended fully upon the outcome. His proper place of course was with them, instead of the men on that road, to whom he offered himself fully and without question. He gave himself fully to men like Avery Lysander who used the boy's tragedy and gullible nature as a means to an end.
The air was still and stale. Even at this early hour the heat seemed to rise from the earth, moistening necks and foreheads and backs. Myron swept the sweat from his face and rubbed it across the leg of his trousers where it left a stain. He looked around at the stern and determined faces around him. He felt at once stifled and saved by those faces.
Avery was saying something. Myron's thoughts were a jumble and so the man's fevered words didn't register. He wasn't so much paying attention as using the murderous energy of the men as a crutch that kept him from crumbling and weeping with grief. Avery shook him and said something. Myron looked dumbly into the man's face, half hidden beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“What say you, son,” Avery shook him again, pausing from his emotional but carefully calculated tirade.
“Me, sir?”
“We're all here for you and your family. We're here for the memory of your father, who all of us cared deeply for. And we're here for each other, for the time those government inspectors come calling to our door.” Avery pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sons-'a-bitches! Fall prey on a man's family when he ain't even fresh in the grave.”
Myron didn't know quite what to say. His chin quivered as he straddled the line between childhood and being a man, for whatever that meant. He was hanging out in space, overwhelmed and baffled at the passing of his father, spun and outraged by the government inspectors, seduced and blinded by Avery Lysander.
“Worried for my mom.”
“Course you are,” said Avery. “Course you are.” He hugged the boy closer to his side. “Damned if I'll let those inspectors set one foot on this boy's land!”
There were nods and agreeable rumblings from the other men. Encouraged and riled by Avery, they had drawn a line at Bert Himmel's farm.
“Go to my grave,” Avery continued, “before I let that happen.”
Myron looked up at Avery. Like his papa, Myron never much cared for the man. He always seemed a little on the sneaky and disingenuous side, like he was figuring all the angles. Now, with the loss of his father, Myron was lost in a blizzard, stumbling blind into an unknown abyss, and desperate for any shelter. That desperation required abandoning conventions he might have otherwise fought hard to maintain.
The house, like the yard and chicken coop was well tended. The rectangular coop had recently been painted and stood out sharply in the morning sun. The low roor slanted sharply on one side towards the barn. The barn was sorely in need of repair, with patches of yellowing moss on the roof. Pieces of the roof had rotted or fallen away, making it appear as though the moss was some sort of infection slowly consuming the structure. Beside the barn, upon the slope of a hill a half dozen black and brown cows grazed lazily.
The two story wood-frame house was tall with wood shingles and clean white shutters. A fat oak stood as an exclamation in front of the house. A tire swing hung from the sturdiest branch above a bare spot of ground, nearly lost to an island of midnight shade. Beside the tree, in the cool of the shade, Burt's old Black Labrador, Lincoln, watched laconically the commotion at the top of the road.
A dozen or so vehicles and horse-drawn wagons were arrayed haphazardly to either side of the road so that anyone wishing to pass would have to inch by slowly, snaking slowly through the ramshackle blockade. Ten or fifteen men were gathered in a tight group in front of the blockade. Central among them was Avery Lysander, his arm around the shoulder of young Myron Himmel.
This should have been a time of mourning for the boy. It should have been a time for memories and family and reflection. Instead Myron steeled himself for an epic fight whipped up by Avery and some of the other more boisterous nd energized farmers. The moment felt immense to the boy. As he saw things his family's life and future depended fully upon the outcome. His proper place of course was with them, instead of the men on that road, to whom he offered himself fully and without question. He gave himself fully to men like Avery Lysander who used the boy's tragedy and gullible nature as a means to an end.
The air was still and stale. Even at this early hour the heat seemed to rise from the earth, moistening necks and foreheads and backs. Myron swept the sweat from his face and rubbed it across the leg of his trousers where it left a stain. He looked around at the stern and determined faces around him. He felt at once stifled and saved by those faces.
Avery was saying something. Myron's thoughts were a jumble and so the man's fevered words didn't register. He wasn't so much paying attention as using the murderous energy of the men as a crutch that kept him from crumbling and weeping with grief. Avery shook him and said something. Myron looked dumbly into the man's face, half hidden beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“What say you, son,” Avery shook him again, pausing from his emotional but carefully calculated tirade.
“Me, sir?”
“We're all here for you and your family. We're here for the memory of your father, who all of us cared deeply for. And we're here for each other, for the time those government inspectors come calling to our door.” Avery pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sons-'a-bitches! Fall prey on a man's family when he ain't even fresh in the grave.”
Myron didn't know quite what to say. His chin quivered as he straddled the line between childhood and being a man, for whatever that meant. He was hanging out in space, overwhelmed and baffled at the passing of his father, spun and outraged by the government inspectors, seduced and blinded by Avery Lysander.
“Worried for my mom.”
“Course you are,” said Avery. “Course you are.” He hugged the boy closer to his side. “Damned if I'll let those inspectors set one foot on this boy's land!”
There were nods and agreeable rumblings from the other men. Encouraged and riled by Avery, they had drawn a line at Bert Himmel's farm.
“Go to my grave,” Avery continued, “before I let that happen.”
Myron looked up at Avery. Like his papa, Myron never much cared for the man. He always seemed a little on the sneaky and disingenuous side, like he was figuring all the angles. Now, with the loss of his father, Myron was lost in a blizzard, stumbling blind into an unknown abyss, and desperate for any shelter. That desperation required abandoning conventions he might have otherwise fought hard to maintain.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Emmetsburg: Twenty-six
John pulled to a stop dead center of the crossroads at the edge of town. Leaning across the wheel he squinted east towards Cylinder. A golden morning sun hovered above the hills and fields to the east. It was fat and round, the heat, already becoming a presence. The sun was suspended, held aloft by arms of ochre dust rising from parched fields. A sweltering south wind painted a fine layer of sweat upon John and Anna's faces. John took a long breath and let it out dramatically through his nose. Anna knew immediately what he was thinking and touched his leg.
“Think maybe we ought to stop,” she said.
John was tortured at the thought and peered into the distance.
“Don't know.” he said simply.
“John,” she touched him again, firmer and more adamant this time. His gaze remained among the fields, lost there. Anna persisted. “John?”
“Maybe sometimes best just to let things be,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes best to put things to rest.”
John pursed his lips and felt the full weight of the moment.
“Just been so long, and the other night and all. Don't know if I want to risk that, Anna.”
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. She breathed him in. He looked at her. figuring.
“I took that as a sign,” she said. “Time to say goodbye and get on with things, John Perkins. Start new.”
He conceded and yanked the truck into gear. Not a mile out of town St Mary's cemetery blanketed a rectangular patch of ground beside the road. It was a pretty little of green earth, such as it was, a solemn island bounded on three sides by unplowed fields. Nine tall firs separated that island from the world. Their mottled shade blanketed most of the cemetery, falling over ranks of neatly arranged stones. There was no fence or boundary. Instead it was as if those who resided there had reached some agreement with Iowa's endless farmland, or as if the land had given ground to those who lived and sacrificed and died here.
John guided the truck up to the gravel entrance and pulled to stop. They had not been here since the funeral. He leaned on the wheel and chewed his lip. There was a time when this place felt like a destination for John and Anna. Like a traveler might feel looking off along empty tracks leading to some unknown yet certain home. He looked at Anna, and pulled the truck forward when she gave a slight nod.
“Think maybe we ought to stop,” she said.
John was tortured at the thought and peered into the distance.
“Don't know.” he said simply.
“John,” she touched him again, firmer and more adamant this time. His gaze remained among the fields, lost there. Anna persisted. “John?”
“Maybe sometimes best just to let things be,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes best to put things to rest.”
John pursed his lips and felt the full weight of the moment.
“Just been so long, and the other night and all. Don't know if I want to risk that, Anna.”
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. She breathed him in. He looked at her. figuring.
“I took that as a sign,” she said. “Time to say goodbye and get on with things, John Perkins. Start new.”
He conceded and yanked the truck into gear. Not a mile out of town St Mary's cemetery blanketed a rectangular patch of ground beside the road. It was a pretty little of green earth, such as it was, a solemn island bounded on three sides by unplowed fields. Nine tall firs separated that island from the world. Their mottled shade blanketed most of the cemetery, falling over ranks of neatly arranged stones. There was no fence or boundary. Instead it was as if those who resided there had reached some agreement with Iowa's endless farmland, or as if the land had given ground to those who lived and sacrificed and died here.
John guided the truck up to the gravel entrance and pulled to stop. They had not been here since the funeral. He leaned on the wheel and chewed his lip. There was a time when this place felt like a destination for John and Anna. Like a traveler might feel looking off along empty tracks leading to some unknown yet certain home. He looked at Anna, and pulled the truck forward when she gave a slight nod.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Twenty-five
Lavender. John awoke morning with a start, as if sleep had been a hypnotist's trick broken with a snap of the fingers or a secret word. It was as if no time passed at all. As if he simply closed his eyes, and when he opened them again it was morning. For a moment his injured hand was numb, laying beside him as though it was made of lead.
He languished in that odd moment before the pain returned as an avalanche. It came like a shock, as though powerful hands dug into the healthy flesh of his palm and was now tearing his hand in two. John nearly shouted, but feared waking Anna, still sleeping soundly beside him. He twisted and strained until the muscles in his shoulders cramped, until the pain drove him from bed onto the hard floor.
His mind spun from pain such as he had never known before, thoughts muddled as an opal. Then, just as sudden and terrible as it came, the pain abated. John knelt and let his head fall back. He gave a long heavy sigh and felt fully spent for the pain. There were tears in his eyes and upon his cheeks.
He grabbed a pair of brown slacks from the basket near the door and staggered out into the dining room. There was a sound from the bedroom. John turned as Anna mumbled something in her sleep and turned away to the window. Morning light filtered through the lace curtains, painting Anna and the room in quiet lavender hues. John lay the trousers on the floor and stepped into them. He pulled them up careful not to use his injured hand.
John went quietly up the stairs. A swift breeze rushed through the window beside the stranger, lifting the curtains and holding them in a bowl above the bed. The air tasted of dust and morning dew and carried the layer scents of hay and wood smoke. John sat in the chair beside the bed and studied the man for a time, as if he was some interesting and mysterious new species.
The stranger was on his back, turned slightly from the window. His brow was furled, but more as if he was suffering a terrible nightmare or burdened by something than from physical pain. One arm was hidden beneath the blanket. The other was across his chest, gripping the blanket tightly.
The stranger stirred slightly, then threw his head back in a silent moan. It caught John by surprise, but he reached out and laid a hand on the man’s arm and chest. He turned his face to John. His eyes opened grudgingly, straining to focus.
“Relax,” said John, affirming a hold on the stranger’s arm, fearing a repeat of the night before. “Can you hear me?”
The man nodded slightly. His eyes darted around a room that was still only vague and indiscernible shapes.
“Everything’s fine. Had a bad accident.”
“Don’t recall,” said the man, staring at the ceiling as though struggling to comprehend.
“Took a bad hit to the head and ended up in a creek. Took three of us to pull you free.”
“My automobile?”
“Wrecked. Afraid she’s gone.”
“She?” He looked at John’s hand upon his chest.
”Smashed up.” John let go of the man’s arm and patted it reassuringly. “Main thing is getting you on your feet again.”
“Can’t pay you.”
“Don’t recall asking.” John held his injured hand as he moved a bit on the chair. “Name’s John Perkins.”
“Louis,” the man replied, as if it had just occurred to him. “Louis Stanton.”
“Where you from, Louis?”
He was clearly perplexed by the question, and troubled at not remembering. Louis looked to the window and then back to John. “Can’t say for sure.”
“It’ll come you,” John rubbed the man’s shoulder and stood. “The wife and I have to run an errand. You best stay in bed. Misses Perkins will cook you something when we get back.
“Could use a bite.”
John started to ask him something, but didn’t know quite how to frame the question, or whether he should ask it at all. He started for the stairs then turned.
“You, uh, you said something last night.”
“Did I?” Stanton replied. John wasn’t sure he was telling the truth. “Can’t recall.”
“Nothing?” asked John, almost accusingly.
“Last I recall I was making my way through the storm next thing I know I wake up just now.”
John wasn’t convinced. “Ever met a fella named Bert Himmel.”
“Never heard that name before.”
“John nodded and decided not to press the issue further, at least not for now. “Well, get some rest. We won’t be gone long.”
John began down the stairs. He paused to study a step that seemed to give a tad too much. Louis spoke once more, but it sounded different somehow, as though his voice was far away and more a quality of the wind through the window.
“You’re a good soul, John Perkins.”
When John turned back Stanton was sound asleep, leaving John to wonder if this wasn’t some sort of trick. He had a mind to shake the man, if only there was something to accuse him of. He was lost in the many permutations of that thought when Anna appeared at the bottom of the steps, startling him.
He languished in that odd moment before the pain returned as an avalanche. It came like a shock, as though powerful hands dug into the healthy flesh of his palm and was now tearing his hand in two. John nearly shouted, but feared waking Anna, still sleeping soundly beside him. He twisted and strained until the muscles in his shoulders cramped, until the pain drove him from bed onto the hard floor.
His mind spun from pain such as he had never known before, thoughts muddled as an opal. Then, just as sudden and terrible as it came, the pain abated. John knelt and let his head fall back. He gave a long heavy sigh and felt fully spent for the pain. There were tears in his eyes and upon his cheeks.
He grabbed a pair of brown slacks from the basket near the door and staggered out into the dining room. There was a sound from the bedroom. John turned as Anna mumbled something in her sleep and turned away to the window. Morning light filtered through the lace curtains, painting Anna and the room in quiet lavender hues. John lay the trousers on the floor and stepped into them. He pulled them up careful not to use his injured hand.
John went quietly up the stairs. A swift breeze rushed through the window beside the stranger, lifting the curtains and holding them in a bowl above the bed. The air tasted of dust and morning dew and carried the layer scents of hay and wood smoke. John sat in the chair beside the bed and studied the man for a time, as if he was some interesting and mysterious new species.
The stranger was on his back, turned slightly from the window. His brow was furled, but more as if he was suffering a terrible nightmare or burdened by something than from physical pain. One arm was hidden beneath the blanket. The other was across his chest, gripping the blanket tightly.
The stranger stirred slightly, then threw his head back in a silent moan. It caught John by surprise, but he reached out and laid a hand on the man’s arm and chest. He turned his face to John. His eyes opened grudgingly, straining to focus.
“Relax,” said John, affirming a hold on the stranger’s arm, fearing a repeat of the night before. “Can you hear me?”
The man nodded slightly. His eyes darted around a room that was still only vague and indiscernible shapes.
“Everything’s fine. Had a bad accident.”
“Don’t recall,” said the man, staring at the ceiling as though struggling to comprehend.
“Took a bad hit to the head and ended up in a creek. Took three of us to pull you free.”
“My automobile?”
“Wrecked. Afraid she’s gone.”
“She?” He looked at John’s hand upon his chest.
”Smashed up.” John let go of the man’s arm and patted it reassuringly. “Main thing is getting you on your feet again.”
“Can’t pay you.”
“Don’t recall asking.” John held his injured hand as he moved a bit on the chair. “Name’s John Perkins.”
“Louis,” the man replied, as if it had just occurred to him. “Louis Stanton.”
“Where you from, Louis?”
He was clearly perplexed by the question, and troubled at not remembering. Louis looked to the window and then back to John. “Can’t say for sure.”
“It’ll come you,” John rubbed the man’s shoulder and stood. “The wife and I have to run an errand. You best stay in bed. Misses Perkins will cook you something when we get back.
“Could use a bite.”
John started to ask him something, but didn’t know quite how to frame the question, or whether he should ask it at all. He started for the stairs then turned.
“You, uh, you said something last night.”
“Did I?” Stanton replied. John wasn’t sure he was telling the truth. “Can’t recall.”
“Nothing?” asked John, almost accusingly.
“Last I recall I was making my way through the storm next thing I know I wake up just now.”
John wasn’t convinced. “Ever met a fella named Bert Himmel.”
“Never heard that name before.”
“John nodded and decided not to press the issue further, at least not for now. “Well, get some rest. We won’t be gone long.”
John began down the stairs. He paused to study a step that seemed to give a tad too much. Louis spoke once more, but it sounded different somehow, as though his voice was far away and more a quality of the wind through the window.
“You’re a good soul, John Perkins.”
When John turned back Stanton was sound asleep, leaving John to wonder if this wasn’t some sort of trick. He had a mind to shake the man, if only there was something to accuse him of. He was lost in the many permutations of that thought when Anna appeared at the bottom of the steps, startling him.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Twenty-three
John went lightly up the creaky old wood steps. They were narrow and angled sharply to the left. He paused a half dozen or so steps from the top, where he could just make out the stranger quiet and asleep on the small cot below the front window. Whatever Anna had heard earlier, the man was quiet now. John climbed to the top of the stairs and crossed the room, sort of making a long slow arc around to the end of the bed. As he did John watched the man's still face the whole time trying to glean some small clue to who he was and what he was doing in Emmetsburg.
“Are you an angel or a devil?” John said quietly, the words escaping him with him fully realizing. It was almost as if someone else spoke them.
John picked up a King James Bible Anna left on a small stool beside the bed. He sat and held the book to his chest as though it was a shield, as the prettiest breeze washed through Anna's hand-sewn lace curtains. A night chorus of crickets found him with the breeze. John lay the Bible in his lap and pulled it open, flipping expertly to a favored passage. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud in a quiet steady voice. He almost knew the words by heart.
“... And the LORD said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him on earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil? Then satan answered the LORD, and said, Doth Job fear God for nounght? Hast thou made an hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? Thou hast blessed the works of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land...”
The man stirred slightly. He grimaced, and for the first time John truly took note of the terrible nature of the man' injury. John recalled a stray dog he'd whacked in the head with a stick as a boy when it growled at him. The dog came up dead the next day, laying in the street near the place where John had encountered it. He'd always believed the poor creature had died from that hit to the head. Then there was a member of his platoon in France who was hit in the head by a sniper's bullet. He'd stood up to take a piss when the bullet banged off the man's helmet, knocking him cold for a spell. He waved off the medics and insisted everything was fine. That night on watch he dozed off and never woke.
John reached across to adjust the man's blanket. Suddenly he reached up and gripped John's arm. His eyes flashed open, but the gaze was distant, off in some other world. He looked quickly to John, but more through him than at him.
“In God's hands!” he exclaimed. “In God's hands now.”
John fought to pull away, startled as he was, but the man's grip was far too strong. Indeed, it was impossible strong. More than that, the man's eyes were wild and filled with fire. John tried to pull away gain, but the stranger held him fast, john looked back at the stairs wanting to cry out. He thought of the gun and felt curse for it. It took John a moment to collect himself.
“Gods hands,” said the stranger, quieter this time, turning his eyes to the ceiling. “He's gone with the Lord.”
It was obvious he wasn't going to break the man's hold on his wrist. The more he tried the tighter the grip, until his fingers were almost numb. With his full weight John laid his forearm and back of his injured hand on the man's chest and pushed him back onto the cot.
“Who's with the Lord?” John asked.
“Why, Bert Himmel that's who,” the man's crazy eyes found John's again.
“Bert Himmel?” John inquired. “How do you know Bert Himmel?”
But the man's hold on John suddenly relaxed and the hand fell away limply. He gave a sigh as his eyes closed, his head turning to the window and the breeze. John stood and backed away from the bed, not believing any of it had really happened. Loss of blood he figured, the pain of the product of a long and exhausting day.
“Are you an angel or a devil?” John said quietly, the words escaping him with him fully realizing. It was almost as if someone else spoke them.
John picked up a King James Bible Anna left on a small stool beside the bed. He sat and held the book to his chest as though it was a shield, as the prettiest breeze washed through Anna's hand-sewn lace curtains. A night chorus of crickets found him with the breeze. John lay the Bible in his lap and pulled it open, flipping expertly to a favored passage. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud in a quiet steady voice. He almost knew the words by heart.
“... And the LORD said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him on earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil? Then satan answered the LORD, and said, Doth Job fear God for nounght? Hast thou made an hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? Thou hast blessed the works of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land...”
The man stirred slightly. He grimaced, and for the first time John truly took note of the terrible nature of the man' injury. John recalled a stray dog he'd whacked in the head with a stick as a boy when it growled at him. The dog came up dead the next day, laying in the street near the place where John had encountered it. He'd always believed the poor creature had died from that hit to the head. Then there was a member of his platoon in France who was hit in the head by a sniper's bullet. He'd stood up to take a piss when the bullet banged off the man's helmet, knocking him cold for a spell. He waved off the medics and insisted everything was fine. That night on watch he dozed off and never woke.
John reached across to adjust the man's blanket. Suddenly he reached up and gripped John's arm. His eyes flashed open, but the gaze was distant, off in some other world. He looked quickly to John, but more through him than at him.
“In God's hands!” he exclaimed. “In God's hands now.”
John fought to pull away, startled as he was, but the man's grip was far too strong. Indeed, it was impossible strong. More than that, the man's eyes were wild and filled with fire. John tried to pull away gain, but the stranger held him fast, john looked back at the stairs wanting to cry out. He thought of the gun and felt curse for it. It took John a moment to collect himself.
“Gods hands,” said the stranger, quieter this time, turning his eyes to the ceiling. “He's gone with the Lord.”
It was obvious he wasn't going to break the man's hold on his wrist. The more he tried the tighter the grip, until his fingers were almost numb. With his full weight John laid his forearm and back of his injured hand on the man's chest and pushed him back onto the cot.
“Who's with the Lord?” John asked.
“Why, Bert Himmel that's who,” the man's crazy eyes found John's again.
“Bert Himmel?” John inquired. “How do you know Bert Himmel?”
But the man's hold on John suddenly relaxed and the hand fell away limply. He gave a sigh as his eyes closed, his head turning to the window and the breeze. John stood and backed away from the bed, not believing any of it had really happened. Loss of blood he figured, the pain of the product of a long and exhausting day.
EMMETSBURG: Twenty-two
John pulled the box from the shelf, panicking a fat brown wolf spider whose web collapsed as the box ripped it apart. John mused as it drew is body and legs tightly into the silky-white web cone between the shelf and the foundation wall. John momentarily weighed his own existence between the creatures before returning to the box. He set the box on the bench and carefully peeled open the old green rag covering it. The box was dusty and dulled from the years. John opened it with his finger tips, wincing slightly as that tiny bit of pressure tugged at his sutured flesh.
Inside the pistol appeared pristine and new, a testament to the meticulous and reverent care of the former owner. Within the box lay his grandfather's six shot forthy-four caliber 1847 Colt Walker pistol. The barrel was long, with a polished brass trigger guard and a deep brown walnut grip. The trigger guard bore a deep dent, the consequence of a rebel musket ball at the battle of Cold Harbor. John lifted the pistol gently and weighed its full four and a half pounds in his good hand.
There was a history to the Colt. His grandfather had carried it as a cavalryman with the Sixth Iowa in the War Between the States. He returned home to Emmetsburg the day Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox. It was the elder Perkins who laid the pistol in that box, intending to put it away forever. It passed to John's father in Eighty-eight, and then to John when his father passed in twenty-two.
It was the first weapon John had ever fired, back when he was barely able to hold it steady with both hands. He could plainly recall his father behind him, helping to steady the pistol that threatened to tip a small and wiry boy onto his face. And he could plainly recall how frightened he became as the bullet exploded from the barrel.
John pushed out the cylinder and looked through the six empty chambers. He snapped it back into place and scooped out four heavy lead bullets from the box. Quickly, like a child downing some disagreeable medicine, John shoved the bullets into his pocket. He returned the pistol to the box and closed the lid.
Awful things, these, John thought. They were brutish and un-elegant, the same way a hammer served a function but held no true beauty. They were utilitarian, a kind word that described a tool invented for the singular function of killing. John said a silent prayer and crossed himself quickly before tucking the box under his wounded arm.
The evening air was noticeably cooler when John climbed from the cellar. It wasn't really colder. It was that he felt a bit colder for the gun and for the thoughts that accompanied the gun. A part of John felt stunted or dumbed simply for possessing the thing, as though any modicum of wisdom and wit had abandoned him for the implied power and ready violence. His faculties and wisdom seemed suddenly a burden, and flimsy. The gun allowed him the power to react without thought, and gave license to squander negotiation and reason for animal impulse.
John startled Anna at the bottom of the stairs, Just as she was coming down from seeing to the stranger. She slipped on the last step. As John reached to steady her the box crashed to the floor, and out tumbled the pistol. Anna's eyes widened, and she looked to John with alarm.
“Didn't mean to startled you,” he scooped the pistol back into the box as quickly as he could, feeling suddenly awkward and foolish.
“Oh, my god, John!” Anna gasped.
“Just for tonight.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“I'll put it someplace safe.”
She nodded reluctantly. John started for the bedroom. Anna caught his arm. She searched his Irish green eyes a moment.
“Are we terrible?” she asked, with fearful and anxious eyes begging to be rescued.
John's expression held the weight of a mathematical equation. “I'm bound to see him get better, but I have to think of you too.”
She nodded and stroked his arm. Anna understood well enough. Not happily, but she understood well enough.
“How is he?”Asked John.
“Goes in and out,” she replied. “Something, gibberish. Makes no sense.”
“Best I look in on him then,” said John.
Inside the pistol appeared pristine and new, a testament to the meticulous and reverent care of the former owner. Within the box lay his grandfather's six shot forthy-four caliber 1847 Colt Walker pistol. The barrel was long, with a polished brass trigger guard and a deep brown walnut grip. The trigger guard bore a deep dent, the consequence of a rebel musket ball at the battle of Cold Harbor. John lifted the pistol gently and weighed its full four and a half pounds in his good hand.
There was a history to the Colt. His grandfather had carried it as a cavalryman with the Sixth Iowa in the War Between the States. He returned home to Emmetsburg the day Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox. It was the elder Perkins who laid the pistol in that box, intending to put it away forever. It passed to John's father in Eighty-eight, and then to John when his father passed in twenty-two.
It was the first weapon John had ever fired, back when he was barely able to hold it steady with both hands. He could plainly recall his father behind him, helping to steady the pistol that threatened to tip a small and wiry boy onto his face. And he could plainly recall how frightened he became as the bullet exploded from the barrel.
John pushed out the cylinder and looked through the six empty chambers. He snapped it back into place and scooped out four heavy lead bullets from the box. Quickly, like a child downing some disagreeable medicine, John shoved the bullets into his pocket. He returned the pistol to the box and closed the lid.
Awful things, these, John thought. They were brutish and un-elegant, the same way a hammer served a function but held no true beauty. They were utilitarian, a kind word that described a tool invented for the singular function of killing. John said a silent prayer and crossed himself quickly before tucking the box under his wounded arm.
The evening air was noticeably cooler when John climbed from the cellar. It wasn't really colder. It was that he felt a bit colder for the gun and for the thoughts that accompanied the gun. A part of John felt stunted or dumbed simply for possessing the thing, as though any modicum of wisdom and wit had abandoned him for the implied power and ready violence. His faculties and wisdom seemed suddenly a burden, and flimsy. The gun allowed him the power to react without thought, and gave license to squander negotiation and reason for animal impulse.
John startled Anna at the bottom of the stairs, Just as she was coming down from seeing to the stranger. She slipped on the last step. As John reached to steady her the box crashed to the floor, and out tumbled the pistol. Anna's eyes widened, and she looked to John with alarm.
“Didn't mean to startled you,” he scooped the pistol back into the box as quickly as he could, feeling suddenly awkward and foolish.
“Oh, my god, John!” Anna gasped.
“Just for tonight.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“I'll put it someplace safe.”
She nodded reluctantly. John started for the bedroom. Anna caught his arm. She searched his Irish green eyes a moment.
“Are we terrible?” she asked, with fearful and anxious eyes begging to be rescued.
John's expression held the weight of a mathematical equation. “I'm bound to see him get better, but I have to think of you too.”
She nodded and stroked his arm. Anna understood well enough. Not happily, but she understood well enough.
“How is he?”Asked John.
“Goes in and out,” she replied. “Something, gibberish. Makes no sense.”
“Best I look in on him then,” said John.
Monday, January 18, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Twenty-one
“Heavens, John!” she gasped, at barely a whisper, so as not to wake Mrs. Conlon. She went to him and reached out for his hand without actually touching it.
“Been quite a day,” he said, looking past her to the bedroom door. “Maybe we should...”
“What happened?”
“Not as bad as it looks,” he couldn't quite look her in the face. John forced a smile through a surge of pain, not wishing to alarm her. He knew full well, however, that she could see through his pretend bravado and plastic male ego. “Some unlucky soul put his auto into the creek on the way to Mallard.”
“Dear!” she gasped. John waved his hand in the air between them.
“Took some to get him out,” he said.
“Oh. John,” she touched her breast, her face now as pale as fresh laundry, “you'll be the death of me.”
They went down to the kitchen where Anna still had a few chores to finish. John slid a small wooden stool over by the door with his foot and sat down. The light was fading quickly now. Anna was all but lost in shadow at the other end of the long and narrow kitchen. The back door was open. A heavenly breeze carried the sounds of the first crickets.
John reached up and turned the light switch by the door. It took a moment before the heavy copper filament in the clear bulb on the ceiling began to glow. Its feeble light painted the kitchen in bright and dark patches of Amaretto hues. The filament flickered gently, giving motion and life to the shadows. That flickering grew the pans and utensils hanging from the ceiling into strange and abstract shapes.
Anna ladled the last of some chicken soup she'd made for Misses Conlon into a small bowl. She scrubbed the cooking pot clean and set it aside to dry. That done she fished out a clean spoon from the cupboard in the corner and knelt on the floor in front of John. Anna rested the soup bowl upon John's knee.
“You'll tell me everything,” she said, turning the spoon in lazy circles through the clear golden soup. It was more stock than soup. Bits of pale white chicken, orange carrot, together with green pieces of parsley and rosemary floated in the translucent golden mixture. Flat oblong drops of clear chicken fat lay upon the surface, supporting touches of white salt and black pepper.
Anna could see that the whole thing had shaken John terribly. She always knew, despite his best and bravest efforts to conceal any evidence of weakness of misgiving. With a sigh she brushed the bottom of the soup against the rim of the white ceramic bowl and waited for a drop of soup to fall. She lifted it carefully to his lips. John slurped up the mixture, fresh with the perfumed chill of rosemary.
“Now don't you worry,” she reassured. Anna knew he was already worrying over money and bills.
“Reckon we'll get by,” he conceded.
“We'll do fine.” She fed him another spoonful of soup. “Most important thing is to get you healthy.”
“Looks worse than it actually is,” he lifted the hand. As it was, that simple act brought a sickly sour pain, as though if not for the bandages one side of his hand might simply fall away.
“What'd the doctor say?”
“Said I was luck I didn't lose it altogether.”
She shook her head scoldingly. “I figured as much.”
“Anyway,” he downed another spoonful, “seems some boys got hurt last night at the mill.”
“Jesse and Mabel Soper's oldest, I hear.”
“Sister Dougherty said they came up short for beds and asked if we could look after this fella for a couple days, till he's back on his feet.”
“I trust your decision.”
“I'm glad,” he replied. “They brought him to the house already.”
“He's there now?” There was a hint of alarm in her voice.
“He took a bad whack to the head,” said John. “He'll be out for a while. Don't worry. It'll all work out just fine.”
They took forever walking home. The sun had already set behind the homes and trees to the west. The crickets came out in full chorus, filling the evening with their song. Anna was holding tight to his good arm, holding it as though it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
A shooting star spanned the darkening sky to the east. Anna missed it. John didn't say word, instead he made a wish that all of these hard times were merely a dream, as if that could save him, as though he might learn something of all this after awakening. He wished all that had happened with Anna, all the pain and mourning, the ultimate disappointment might never have happened, and that they would go on about there lives happily. He wished, he wished, and then went inside to get cleaned up.
.
“Been quite a day,” he said, looking past her to the bedroom door. “Maybe we should...”
“What happened?”
“Not as bad as it looks,” he couldn't quite look her in the face. John forced a smile through a surge of pain, not wishing to alarm her. He knew full well, however, that she could see through his pretend bravado and plastic male ego. “Some unlucky soul put his auto into the creek on the way to Mallard.”
“Dear!” she gasped. John waved his hand in the air between them.
“Took some to get him out,” he said.
“Oh. John,” she touched her breast, her face now as pale as fresh laundry, “you'll be the death of me.”
They went down to the kitchen where Anna still had a few chores to finish. John slid a small wooden stool over by the door with his foot and sat down. The light was fading quickly now. Anna was all but lost in shadow at the other end of the long and narrow kitchen. The back door was open. A heavenly breeze carried the sounds of the first crickets.
John reached up and turned the light switch by the door. It took a moment before the heavy copper filament in the clear bulb on the ceiling began to glow. Its feeble light painted the kitchen in bright and dark patches of Amaretto hues. The filament flickered gently, giving motion and life to the shadows. That flickering grew the pans and utensils hanging from the ceiling into strange and abstract shapes.
Anna ladled the last of some chicken soup she'd made for Misses Conlon into a small bowl. She scrubbed the cooking pot clean and set it aside to dry. That done she fished out a clean spoon from the cupboard in the corner and knelt on the floor in front of John. Anna rested the soup bowl upon John's knee.
“You'll tell me everything,” she said, turning the spoon in lazy circles through the clear golden soup. It was more stock than soup. Bits of pale white chicken, orange carrot, together with green pieces of parsley and rosemary floated in the translucent golden mixture. Flat oblong drops of clear chicken fat lay upon the surface, supporting touches of white salt and black pepper.
Anna could see that the whole thing had shaken John terribly. She always knew, despite his best and bravest efforts to conceal any evidence of weakness of misgiving. With a sigh she brushed the bottom of the soup against the rim of the white ceramic bowl and waited for a drop of soup to fall. She lifted it carefully to his lips. John slurped up the mixture, fresh with the perfumed chill of rosemary.
“Now don't you worry,” she reassured. Anna knew he was already worrying over money and bills.
“Reckon we'll get by,” he conceded.
“We'll do fine.” She fed him another spoonful of soup. “Most important thing is to get you healthy.”
“Looks worse than it actually is,” he lifted the hand. As it was, that simple act brought a sickly sour pain, as though if not for the bandages one side of his hand might simply fall away.
“What'd the doctor say?”
“Said I was luck I didn't lose it altogether.”
She shook her head scoldingly. “I figured as much.”
“Anyway,” he downed another spoonful, “seems some boys got hurt last night at the mill.”
“Jesse and Mabel Soper's oldest, I hear.”
“Sister Dougherty said they came up short for beds and asked if we could look after this fella for a couple days, till he's back on his feet.”
“I trust your decision.”
“I'm glad,” he replied. “They brought him to the house already.”
“He's there now?” There was a hint of alarm in her voice.
“He took a bad whack to the head,” said John. “He'll be out for a while. Don't worry. It'll all work out just fine.”
They took forever walking home. The sun had already set behind the homes and trees to the west. The crickets came out in full chorus, filling the evening with their song. Anna was holding tight to his good arm, holding it as though it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
A shooting star spanned the darkening sky to the east. Anna missed it. John didn't say word, instead he made a wish that all of these hard times were merely a dream, as if that could save him, as though he might learn something of all this after awakening. He wished all that had happened with Anna, all the pain and mourning, the ultimate disappointment might never have happened, and that they would go on about there lives happily. He wished, he wished, and then went inside to get cleaned up.
.
Friday, January 15, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Twenty
John stood in the rutted dirt street in front of the house. He was still in his dirty and blood-stained clothes. He’d washed a bit, but still looked a sight. His hair was wild and askew, and John felt about as tired as he could recall. There wasn’t a bone in his body that didn’t ache, either from the battle at the creek or from utter and complete exhaustion.
The late afternoon sun silhouetted his little wood frame house against a darkening eastern sky so that the place shone like polished ivory. Indeed, the house seemed almost comically small before the big old Willow in the back yard. A fat brown rooster sat on the sun-warmed sidewalk beside the house, keeping a watchful eye over several snow-white hens pecking at the grass nearby.
The front door was open so that it was possible to look directly through to the back door and out into the yard. To the left of the door was the small window of the bedroom where John and Anna had made love the night before. Sheer lace curtains that Anna had sewn by hand hung over the window. To the right was the sitting room window, which was half obscured by a small green bush. John had neglected it a bit and the bush had grown wild. Above the sitting room, the second floor window was covered by more of those same drapes Anna had made.
John stared into the window of that upstairs room for the longest time. A thousand thoughts seemed to flow from that window, finding him alone and terribly conflicted. Amid that forest of thoughts logic and morality tested one another, teased and hunted by John’s latent fears. Everything had transpired so quickly, giving him little opportunity for bearings. He was reacting, moving blindly in a moment that seemed fraught with uncertainty and perhaps danger.
A fresh wave of thick liquid pain tore his attention from the window. John closed his eyes and pursed his lips impotently against the worst of it. He extended the arm in a pale attempt to mitigate that pain. But it was a force, like some new element, like the boiling sea pouring in to fill the halves of a continent suddenly ripped in two. John dropped his head and cradled his arm tightly until the worst had passed.
Anna was up the street, where she helped most days to care for the Widow Conlon, who'd lost her husband a few winters back to the influenza. The Conlon place was at the end of the street, and was far bigger than John and Anna's place, by comparison. The house was long and painted a fading pale yellow, that paint now peeling in places. With a row of windows along one side the place always reminded John of a boat, like vagabond version of Noah’s great ship. Widow Conlon’s roses were in full bloom along the side of the house as splashes of fiery red amid wild tentacles of deep green.
The Widow and the late Mr. Conlon had been blessed with a large family, but they had all moved off to lives and families of their own. Not that they neglected Mrs. Conlon, by any means, but they certainly appreciated Anna's help, paying her decently for her blessing, at least in regards to what they could afford these days.
The pain had subsided a bit by the time he reached the house. John went quietly up the old wooden steps and paused at the warped screen door. He reached up and glided his fingers through his hair, sweeping it to one side. John patted down the back and sides, as though that might make him appear less shocking and pitiful when Anna saw him.
He opened the door to the enclosed front porch. It was cooler inside. Not by much, but enough to notice. It was dark and quiet, the air filled with scent of decay and neglect, of old wood and dust, and of stale air that seemed to have been trapped in that house for many years. Strongest of all was the peppery warm scent of Anna's homemade chicken soup, still warm on the stove. Layered and infused upon those smells were decades of meals prepared in the kitchen, of children and the sweat Mr. Conlon earned each day from more than forty years at the mill.
He could hear Anna's muffled voice upstairs in Mrs. Conlon's room. His footsteps creaked upon the uneven wood floor. He paused at the stairs and listened for a moment. The sound of her voice seemed as powerful as any medicine he might have taken to quell the pain in his hand. She was reading a Bible passage. He might have believed it was being spoken by an angel.
“… came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood. And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son. And the angel of the LORD called unto him out of heaven, and said, Abraham, Abraham: and he said, Here am I. And he said, Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me. And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and… “
He went quietly up the long straight stairs to Mrs. Conlon's room. The room was at the back of the house. The light through yellow flowered curtains at either end of the long hall was shallow and pale. He stopped short of the door and listened as she finished the passage. By the way her words trailed and softened he guessed the widow was asleep. With that Anna blew out the candle beside her bed, placed the Bible on the nightstand and went quietly into the hall. Simply the sight of his bandaged hand sucked the air quickly from her lungs
The late afternoon sun silhouetted his little wood frame house against a darkening eastern sky so that the place shone like polished ivory. Indeed, the house seemed almost comically small before the big old Willow in the back yard. A fat brown rooster sat on the sun-warmed sidewalk beside the house, keeping a watchful eye over several snow-white hens pecking at the grass nearby.
The front door was open so that it was possible to look directly through to the back door and out into the yard. To the left of the door was the small window of the bedroom where John and Anna had made love the night before. Sheer lace curtains that Anna had sewn by hand hung over the window. To the right was the sitting room window, which was half obscured by a small green bush. John had neglected it a bit and the bush had grown wild. Above the sitting room, the second floor window was covered by more of those same drapes Anna had made.
John stared into the window of that upstairs room for the longest time. A thousand thoughts seemed to flow from that window, finding him alone and terribly conflicted. Amid that forest of thoughts logic and morality tested one another, teased and hunted by John’s latent fears. Everything had transpired so quickly, giving him little opportunity for bearings. He was reacting, moving blindly in a moment that seemed fraught with uncertainty and perhaps danger.
A fresh wave of thick liquid pain tore his attention from the window. John closed his eyes and pursed his lips impotently against the worst of it. He extended the arm in a pale attempt to mitigate that pain. But it was a force, like some new element, like the boiling sea pouring in to fill the halves of a continent suddenly ripped in two. John dropped his head and cradled his arm tightly until the worst had passed.
Anna was up the street, where she helped most days to care for the Widow Conlon, who'd lost her husband a few winters back to the influenza. The Conlon place was at the end of the street, and was far bigger than John and Anna's place, by comparison. The house was long and painted a fading pale yellow, that paint now peeling in places. With a row of windows along one side the place always reminded John of a boat, like vagabond version of Noah’s great ship. Widow Conlon’s roses were in full bloom along the side of the house as splashes of fiery red amid wild tentacles of deep green.
The Widow and the late Mr. Conlon had been blessed with a large family, but they had all moved off to lives and families of their own. Not that they neglected Mrs. Conlon, by any means, but they certainly appreciated Anna's help, paying her decently for her blessing, at least in regards to what they could afford these days.
The pain had subsided a bit by the time he reached the house. John went quietly up the old wooden steps and paused at the warped screen door. He reached up and glided his fingers through his hair, sweeping it to one side. John patted down the back and sides, as though that might make him appear less shocking and pitiful when Anna saw him.
He opened the door to the enclosed front porch. It was cooler inside. Not by much, but enough to notice. It was dark and quiet, the air filled with scent of decay and neglect, of old wood and dust, and of stale air that seemed to have been trapped in that house for many years. Strongest of all was the peppery warm scent of Anna's homemade chicken soup, still warm on the stove. Layered and infused upon those smells were decades of meals prepared in the kitchen, of children and the sweat Mr. Conlon earned each day from more than forty years at the mill.
He could hear Anna's muffled voice upstairs in Mrs. Conlon's room. His footsteps creaked upon the uneven wood floor. He paused at the stairs and listened for a moment. The sound of her voice seemed as powerful as any medicine he might have taken to quell the pain in his hand. She was reading a Bible passage. He might have believed it was being spoken by an angel.
“… came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood. And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son. And the angel of the LORD called unto him out of heaven, and said, Abraham, Abraham: and he said, Here am I. And he said, Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me. And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and… “
He went quietly up the long straight stairs to Mrs. Conlon's room. The room was at the back of the house. The light through yellow flowered curtains at either end of the long hall was shallow and pale. He stopped short of the door and listened as she finished the passage. By the way her words trailed and softened he guessed the widow was asleep. With that Anna blew out the candle beside her bed, placed the Bible on the nightstand and went quietly into the hall. Simply the sight of his bandaged hand sucked the air quickly from her lungs
Thursday, January 14, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Nineteen
John stood in the cool and quiet of the dark lobby. He was alone, but for Sister Dougherty at the desk near the door. He studied her there for a moment, lost in a Bible passage. She was the first girl John had ever seen naked. Not like a womanly, arousing naked, but that awkward and confusing naked of pre-pubescence. She’d always been sweet and sensitive, but with a captive wildness behind her fiery Irish green eyes. One might have guess she might have given into that wildness and run off to the big city or some farther and more adventurous horizon but it wasn't long after her father passed in a long and wasting illness that she gave herself to the Lord. Now there she was chaste and pure and a Nun. Funny how the rivers of life flow, he thought. She looked up from the Bible and smiled warmly at John, as if the same thought had come to her.
“Best take it easy with that hand,” she said. Her voice echoed slightly in the emptiness of the lobby.
He sort of shrugged and picked at the edges of the bandage, biting a little into his wrist.
“Any news on that fella?” he asked without looking at her. He was lingering. The loss of blood had made him queasy, and John in no particular hurry to be in the harsh sunlight washing the street outside into oblivion.
“You did a real good thing, John, helping that boy out the way you did.”
He raised his bandaged hand and frowned. “Got a souvenir.”
“Your reward will be in heaven.”
John shook his head. “Won't fix my roof.”
“The Lord provides.”
“How is he with a hammer and nails?”
“He was a carpenter,” Sister Dougherty quipped, quickly changing the subject. “Doctor says he took a pretty good wallop, that fella. He'll be shaky a while, but the best place for him is at home in bed.”
“Questions is, how does a fella like that end up wrecked in a creek way out in the middle of godforsaken Iowa.”
Sister Dougherty came around the desk and took John by the arm. She led him slowly across to a bench and together they sat. It had all the hallmarks of scoldings he'd gotten from Sisters back in grade school. It was silly, but John couldn't help from feeling that way. He looked at the floor and out into the street, anywhere but in Maribel Dougherty’s eyes. She still held his arm, gently stroking it with her fingers.
“Lot's of lost folks in the country these days,” she said. “Times like these get folks all mixed up.”
That's when he knew this was something more. John looked up into her eyes at last. “Except you didn't sit me down for a Civics lesson, now did you?”
“John Perkins, we been friends just about our whole life.”
“Reckon we have.”
“Doc Gross wanted me to ask a favor of you.” Sister paused, forming the words properly. John knew in an instant what she was about to ask of him. He was already weighing all of it, though his answer was already assured. He thought of Anna and what he would say to her.
“Best take it easy with that hand,” she said. Her voice echoed slightly in the emptiness of the lobby.
He sort of shrugged and picked at the edges of the bandage, biting a little into his wrist.
“Any news on that fella?” he asked without looking at her. He was lingering. The loss of blood had made him queasy, and John in no particular hurry to be in the harsh sunlight washing the street outside into oblivion.
“You did a real good thing, John, helping that boy out the way you did.”
He raised his bandaged hand and frowned. “Got a souvenir.”
“Your reward will be in heaven.”
John shook his head. “Won't fix my roof.”
“The Lord provides.”
“How is he with a hammer and nails?”
“He was a carpenter,” Sister Dougherty quipped, quickly changing the subject. “Doctor says he took a pretty good wallop, that fella. He'll be shaky a while, but the best place for him is at home in bed.”
“Questions is, how does a fella like that end up wrecked in a creek way out in the middle of godforsaken Iowa.”
Sister Dougherty came around the desk and took John by the arm. She led him slowly across to a bench and together they sat. It had all the hallmarks of scoldings he'd gotten from Sisters back in grade school. It was silly, but John couldn't help from feeling that way. He looked at the floor and out into the street, anywhere but in Maribel Dougherty’s eyes. She still held his arm, gently stroking it with her fingers.
“Lot's of lost folks in the country these days,” she said. “Times like these get folks all mixed up.”
That's when he knew this was something more. John looked up into her eyes at last. “Except you didn't sit me down for a Civics lesson, now did you?”
“John Perkins, we been friends just about our whole life.”
“Reckon we have.”
“Doc Gross wanted me to ask a favor of you.” Sister paused, forming the words properly. John knew in an instant what she was about to ask of him. He was already weighing all of it, though his answer was already assured. He thought of Anna and what he would say to her.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Seventeen
The hospital was downtown on Broadway, just past the sparkling marquis of the Iowa Theater. The hospital wasn’t much to look at. The hospital was a simple rust-red brick building built after the war to replace the older smaller obsolete clinic. The new building was modest in size, with around 20 beds, and a modern surgical theater.
A hand full of overworked nurses and doctors supported by nuns from St. Mary’s staffed the hospital. They were even more beleaguered for the half dozen men hurt at the mill during the storm the night before. A powerful bolt of lightning struck the grain silo beside the railroad tracks just as the men dodged inside to escape the rain. The lightening ignited grain dust setting off an explosion that blew the men clear across the tracks. But they were alive, and, after such a calamity, the town could take a blessing from that.
John swung the truck onto Broadway, cutting off a wagon, and skidded to a stop in front of the hospital. He slid from the truck still cradling his wounded hand. The loss of blood made him lightheaded, but John failed to realize until he tried to stand. His legs obliged grudgingly. For a moment he swooned and staggered like a drunk before steadying himself against the truck. John slid around to the back of the truck and laid a hand on the man’s chest, relieved to find him still breathing.
Feverish white sunlight fell oblique through glass doors just inside the hospital’s dark lobby. John burst through the door, leaning precariously against it, and startling those inside. He was met instantly by Sister Maribel Dougherty, one of the nuns from Saint Mary’s. John had known her much of their lives. She rushed over to steady him, leaning to find him with fiery Irish brown eyes. the black and white habit pulled tight to her face only served to exaggerate the captive wildness of her eyes.
Sister Dougherty tried to steady him as best she could, though he was better than half again her size. There was a momentarily stab of dread should he suddenly give out and fall on her. John was soaked to the bone and covered from head to toe with mud. The brown stains on John’s face and hands were punctuated by bits of crimson from a dozen scrapes and small gashes. The front of his coveralls and shirt was so covered with blood that she first feared he had been wounded to the chest or belly. It was with only minor relief when he held out his badly injured hand.
“Dear God, John!” she exclaimed in a hushed manner. She cradled his hand, and could feel his silken warm blood flowing over her fingers.
“Bit of an accident, Sister,” he winced. “Got somebody in my truck who’s hurt awfully bad.”
The bleeding had slowed but not stopped. It fell in fat dark-red crops, patting on the speckled marble floor. Sister waved over a young nurse, who had appeared in the hall just at that moment and told her to tend to John right away . John pulled away and led them outside to the truck, where one of the old men was madly rubbing the mystery man's hand as the other looked on.
“Out cold,” said the old man as the nurse came around and peered over the side of the truck. The nurse was pretty and untested, with an innocence that bordered on ignorance; the two being cousins. Her auburn hair was all but modestly hidden beneath the nurses cap of her pristine white uniform. She was new to town, is all John new of her, from somewhere out East, and he didn't know enough to form any sort of opinion just yet.
.
Sister Dougherty came up an instant later, struggling to see, short as she was. The nurse peered over the edge of the truck and gasped, backing away frightfully, as if she was surprised by a cobra coiled there.
“He’s a negro!” it was more an outburst of surprise than of bigotry, or anything else. One could almost see the embarrassment in her expression instantly.
Sister Dougherty pursed her lips and scolded, “Get your tail over here!”
By now the spectacle had attracted something of a crowd. They pressed in around the back of John’s truck. Old Doc Gross fought his way through to the truck, hobbling against a bad hip.
“Let me pass!” he shouted, pulling himself through the deepening mass of gawkers. “Give me some room here, Doctor coming through!”
He was big round man of some years, with wispy snow-white hair. His smock was a dingy gray, and opened to reveal a well-worn and wrinkled blue suit that might have seen better days during the Coolidge administration! A pair of wire rimmed bifocals teetered on his forehead. A stethoscope was stuffed haphazardly in the pocket of his smock.
Several of the bigger men from the crowd had already climbed onto the truck and were handing the man down to a couple of stretcher bearers. John followed, throwing his good hand on the shoulder of one of the men. As they passed Doc gross grabbed John’s injured hand and twisted it abruptly skyward. Pulling the eyeglasses down to his nose he leaned for a closer look at John's wound.
“Best come in side where I can look after that hand,” said the Doctor.
“Terrible wreck,” John ignored the doctor, straining to see as the unconscious stranger was carried quickly inside, followed by a curious throng. “Lucky to alive.”
A hand full of overworked nurses and doctors supported by nuns from St. Mary’s staffed the hospital. They were even more beleaguered for the half dozen men hurt at the mill during the storm the night before. A powerful bolt of lightning struck the grain silo beside the railroad tracks just as the men dodged inside to escape the rain. The lightening ignited grain dust setting off an explosion that blew the men clear across the tracks. But they were alive, and, after such a calamity, the town could take a blessing from that.
John swung the truck onto Broadway, cutting off a wagon, and skidded to a stop in front of the hospital. He slid from the truck still cradling his wounded hand. The loss of blood made him lightheaded, but John failed to realize until he tried to stand. His legs obliged grudgingly. For a moment he swooned and staggered like a drunk before steadying himself against the truck. John slid around to the back of the truck and laid a hand on the man’s chest, relieved to find him still breathing.
Feverish white sunlight fell oblique through glass doors just inside the hospital’s dark lobby. John burst through the door, leaning precariously against it, and startling those inside. He was met instantly by Sister Maribel Dougherty, one of the nuns from Saint Mary’s. John had known her much of their lives. She rushed over to steady him, leaning to find him with fiery Irish brown eyes. the black and white habit pulled tight to her face only served to exaggerate the captive wildness of her eyes.
Sister Dougherty tried to steady him as best she could, though he was better than half again her size. There was a momentarily stab of dread should he suddenly give out and fall on her. John was soaked to the bone and covered from head to toe with mud. The brown stains on John’s face and hands were punctuated by bits of crimson from a dozen scrapes and small gashes. The front of his coveralls and shirt was so covered with blood that she first feared he had been wounded to the chest or belly. It was with only minor relief when he held out his badly injured hand.
“Dear God, John!” she exclaimed in a hushed manner. She cradled his hand, and could feel his silken warm blood flowing over her fingers.
“Bit of an accident, Sister,” he winced. “Got somebody in my truck who’s hurt awfully bad.”
The bleeding had slowed but not stopped. It fell in fat dark-red crops, patting on the speckled marble floor. Sister waved over a young nurse, who had appeared in the hall just at that moment and told her to tend to John right away . John pulled away and led them outside to the truck, where one of the old men was madly rubbing the mystery man's hand as the other looked on.
“Out cold,” said the old man as the nurse came around and peered over the side of the truck. The nurse was pretty and untested, with an innocence that bordered on ignorance; the two being cousins. Her auburn hair was all but modestly hidden beneath the nurses cap of her pristine white uniform. She was new to town, is all John new of her, from somewhere out East, and he didn't know enough to form any sort of opinion just yet.
.
Sister Dougherty came up an instant later, struggling to see, short as she was. The nurse peered over the edge of the truck and gasped, backing away frightfully, as if she was surprised by a cobra coiled there.
“He’s a negro!” it was more an outburst of surprise than of bigotry, or anything else. One could almost see the embarrassment in her expression instantly.
Sister Dougherty pursed her lips and scolded, “Get your tail over here!”
By now the spectacle had attracted something of a crowd. They pressed in around the back of John’s truck. Old Doc Gross fought his way through to the truck, hobbling against a bad hip.
“Let me pass!” he shouted, pulling himself through the deepening mass of gawkers. “Give me some room here, Doctor coming through!”
He was big round man of some years, with wispy snow-white hair. His smock was a dingy gray, and opened to reveal a well-worn and wrinkled blue suit that might have seen better days during the Coolidge administration! A pair of wire rimmed bifocals teetered on his forehead. A stethoscope was stuffed haphazardly in the pocket of his smock.
Several of the bigger men from the crowd had already climbed onto the truck and were handing the man down to a couple of stretcher bearers. John followed, throwing his good hand on the shoulder of one of the men. As they passed Doc gross grabbed John’s injured hand and twisted it abruptly skyward. Pulling the eyeglasses down to his nose he leaned for a closer look at John's wound.
“Best come in side where I can look after that hand,” said the Doctor.
“Terrible wreck,” John ignored the doctor, straining to see as the unconscious stranger was carried quickly inside, followed by a curious throng. “Lucky to alive.”
Monday, January 11, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Sixteen
The water rolled him over the car's submerged hood. At the last instant, before being flung down river John shot out his arm and grabbed for anything that would save him. His hand found a part of the shattered windshield. The jagged glass sliced diagonally through the center of his palm clean to the bone. The pain was immediate, John’s cry stifled by a wave that momentarily covered him. A torrent of satin red blood gushed forth instantly, sweeping away in spiraling eddies in the rushing waters.
The creek unleashed its full force on him now, as if the two were mortal enemies, as if the creek held some vendetta against him. Despite the pain John held firm to the window, and with a cry of determination that thundered among the trees, hauled himself out of the current.
With his good hand John reached up and grabbed a hold of the driver’s door and hauled himself over. His wounded hand gushed even more now. He pulled his fingers in towards the palm, hoping to stem the flow and felt one of the fingers sink into the squishy wet mix of exposed muscle, fat and bone.
He looked to the bank, hardly more than a couple feet away. It might have been distant land, an impossible land, he thought, draping his battered and exhausted body over the low flat roof. His head dangled over the front. It was then that John spotted the body inside the vehicle.
It was a colored man dressed in a pin-striped brown suit. His head and one shoulder bobbed just above the rampaging waters. He might have been unconscious, or dead for all John could tell. He was seated on the floor with his back to the car door. His head was back, pulling his mouth open. A bright red welt glowed from above his left eye, running down nearly to the jaw line between the ear and chin.
John had half a mind to swear. He looked back at the bank and thought of going for help. The creek swelled suddenly, tugging the front end of the Roadster sideways a bit before settling again. John had little doubt that another swell would drag the auto deeper and with it the poor soul inside.
His feet fought in the slick mud. He hooked the arm of his bad hand inside the car door and reached out with his good hand. John managed a hold on the man’s jacket but couldn’t muster the strength to haul him up but just a little. The dead weight and water was just too much, and John was already exhausted from his own fight with the creek.
John tried once more, growling and shouting at the strain, but just couldn’t budge the poor soul. Just then two old timers pulled up, and came scrambling down from the road. John was already losing his grip on the man and thanked God help had come.
“Lend me a hand here boys!” he cried.
“Somebody hurt down there?”
“Got a fella in a bad way here!”
One of the old timers climbed onto the car with surprising ease, while the other went back to his truck for rope. The pair were small men, but with hands and strength forged from lifetimes of back breaking labor. They made short work of John, hauling him up onto the dry bank. That done they went back down to the car.
With a length of heavy rope they lashed the car to a sturdy tree higher on the bank. With the car held firmly in place one of the men crawled inside and cinched another length beneath the colored fella’s arms and lifted him carefully out of the wreck road. They carried him up to the road. John, cradling his bleeding hand, followed close behind.
“Careful, boys,” said John, “see if he’s got anything broken.”
“Is he breathing?” said one of the men.
“Just barely,” said the other.
“Can’t see that anything’s broken,” said the first. “Sure is a beauty of a welt though.”
For the first time John got a good look at the man. This was the closest John had ever come to a black man, save for the porters on the troop ship out of New York, and a few African faces in Paris. The man's skin was soft and smooth as buttered chocolate. His face was long and thin, with barely a hint of stubble near the jaw. John thought he had a rather honest face. Indeed, it was almost angelic and other-worldly. It was a quality John found almost haunting.
His fine black hair was neatly trimmed and straight, combed and greased tightly from his brow. John doubted the guy was much beyond his twenties. He glanced back at the roadster and wondered what he was doing way out here, here black folks just weren't known much.
The man was dressed in a finely tailored brown silk suit. The buttons were gold. The white shirt was open at the collar, one of the ivory buttons missing, as though it had been opened in great haste. John doubted it was from the accident. The ends of a silk purple and red striped tie hung from one pocket. One of the man's dark brown alligator shoes was missing. Colored or not, he was certainly a man of wealth and class..
“What’s a sort like this doin' out here, dressed to the nines in a big expensive car?” asked the other.
“Some sort of gangster, or fugitive, I’d bet,” said the other.
His partner spit and said with a sort of smirk. “Now aren’t you one to go making up stories.” He noticed John’s hand, now staining the front of his coveralls red. “Best get you to the hospital too, son.”
“I’ll live,” said John. “Give me a hand getting him in the back of my truck.”
The creek unleashed its full force on him now, as if the two were mortal enemies, as if the creek held some vendetta against him. Despite the pain John held firm to the window, and with a cry of determination that thundered among the trees, hauled himself out of the current.
With his good hand John reached up and grabbed a hold of the driver’s door and hauled himself over. His wounded hand gushed even more now. He pulled his fingers in towards the palm, hoping to stem the flow and felt one of the fingers sink into the squishy wet mix of exposed muscle, fat and bone.
He looked to the bank, hardly more than a couple feet away. It might have been distant land, an impossible land, he thought, draping his battered and exhausted body over the low flat roof. His head dangled over the front. It was then that John spotted the body inside the vehicle.
It was a colored man dressed in a pin-striped brown suit. His head and one shoulder bobbed just above the rampaging waters. He might have been unconscious, or dead for all John could tell. He was seated on the floor with his back to the car door. His head was back, pulling his mouth open. A bright red welt glowed from above his left eye, running down nearly to the jaw line between the ear and chin.
John had half a mind to swear. He looked back at the bank and thought of going for help. The creek swelled suddenly, tugging the front end of the Roadster sideways a bit before settling again. John had little doubt that another swell would drag the auto deeper and with it the poor soul inside.
His feet fought in the slick mud. He hooked the arm of his bad hand inside the car door and reached out with his good hand. John managed a hold on the man’s jacket but couldn’t muster the strength to haul him up but just a little. The dead weight and water was just too much, and John was already exhausted from his own fight with the creek.
John tried once more, growling and shouting at the strain, but just couldn’t budge the poor soul. Just then two old timers pulled up, and came scrambling down from the road. John was already losing his grip on the man and thanked God help had come.
“Lend me a hand here boys!” he cried.
“Somebody hurt down there?”
“Got a fella in a bad way here!”
One of the old timers climbed onto the car with surprising ease, while the other went back to his truck for rope. The pair were small men, but with hands and strength forged from lifetimes of back breaking labor. They made short work of John, hauling him up onto the dry bank. That done they went back down to the car.
With a length of heavy rope they lashed the car to a sturdy tree higher on the bank. With the car held firmly in place one of the men crawled inside and cinched another length beneath the colored fella’s arms and lifted him carefully out of the wreck road. They carried him up to the road. John, cradling his bleeding hand, followed close behind.
“Careful, boys,” said John, “see if he’s got anything broken.”
“Is he breathing?” said one of the men.
“Just barely,” said the other.
“Can’t see that anything’s broken,” said the first. “Sure is a beauty of a welt though.”
For the first time John got a good look at the man. This was the closest John had ever come to a black man, save for the porters on the troop ship out of New York, and a few African faces in Paris. The man's skin was soft and smooth as buttered chocolate. His face was long and thin, with barely a hint of stubble near the jaw. John thought he had a rather honest face. Indeed, it was almost angelic and other-worldly. It was a quality John found almost haunting.
His fine black hair was neatly trimmed and straight, combed and greased tightly from his brow. John doubted the guy was much beyond his twenties. He glanced back at the roadster and wondered what he was doing way out here, here black folks just weren't known much.
The man was dressed in a finely tailored brown silk suit. The buttons were gold. The white shirt was open at the collar, one of the ivory buttons missing, as though it had been opened in great haste. John doubted it was from the accident. The ends of a silk purple and red striped tie hung from one pocket. One of the man's dark brown alligator shoes was missing. Colored or not, he was certainly a man of wealth and class..
“What’s a sort like this doin' out here, dressed to the nines in a big expensive car?” asked the other.
“Some sort of gangster, or fugitive, I’d bet,” said the other.
His partner spit and said with a sort of smirk. “Now aren’t you one to go making up stories.” He noticed John’s hand, now staining the front of his coveralls red. “Best get you to the hospital too, son.”
“I’ll live,” said John. “Give me a hand getting him in the back of my truck.”
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