“Don’t let this tool for the American government fill your head with propaganda and lies!” The man smiled cordially, as if it was simply a joke, though not entirely. His accent was clearly Middle Eastern, though he could have passed easily at a glance for a Caucasian on any small town street in America. His hand fell warmly upon Doug’s shoulder. Doug looked him up and down and couldn’t contain his reaction.
“Ah, I see the Iranian delegation to Shosa industries has arrived as inconspicuous as ever.”
“Laugh, my friend,” the Iranian shot back, motioning to Doug’s Soviet get-up, “America will soon join the other failed relics of the Twentieth Century on the junk heap.”
“Molly, may I introduce my favorite Iranian spy, Ahmed Fallahi. Molly is with the federal Government.” Doug offered a thoroughly sarcastic grin and winked. “You two should talk!”
Fallahi was clearly surprised at the introduction, but didn’t miss a beat. “And all along I thought you were just a nice innocent Turkish girl.”
“Turkish by heritage. American by birth,” she replied, as he offered her his hand with a polite bow. “And I am indeed very nice and very innocent.”
Fallahi gave a cocktail party laugh. “You should really keep better company, my dear. Your friend here loves to invent stories for his readers, and for you, it seems. It is far too boring for him that I am simply with the diplomatic service.” He smirked in Doug’s direction. “Not his fault really. The product of America’s shameful education system, I’m afraid.”
“Interesting that a diplomat would be at a party for an arms dealer,” Doug shot back. “Buying or selling these days?”
“There you see,” Fallahi said to Molly. “The American Press, always for drama over substance.”
“I happen to think Doug is an amazing writer,” Molly defended, sipping her drink.
“Oh, I fully agree,” he replied. “Like your Stephen King or Sydney Sheldon; pure fiction!”
“You’re terrible!” said Molly, touching Doug’s arm reassuringly. She let it linger there, only drawing away when it seemed to make him uncomfortable.
Fallahi relented a bit. “You are right. Actually my good friend here is well respected in my country for his depth and fairness, despite the handicap of his nationality.”
“In that regard,” Doug capitalized fully upon the moment, “care to respond to reports that Iran is aiding the Iraqi insurgency?”
Fallahi frowned at the question, and weighed his answer carefully. “All I can say is what I read in the Western papers, and perhaps some rumors, but I think you will also find American soldiers illegally acting within our territory. Your President has invaded countries to either side of us.”
“So reports of armor piercing Improvised Explosives, reportedly made in Iran, and Iranian operatives in Iraq you would consider retaliation or self defense?”
Doug knew he was bating Fallahi, and was please to provoke the tension building in his brow. Molly could see it as well, and recognized the signs of a person who is trapped. She’d see it in interrogations a hundred times. Fallahi pursed his lips, then forced a smile.
“My country has been exceedingly restrained for these illegal incursions, but every tolerance has its limits.”
“And the operatives working with the insurgency?”
“I am only a diplomat, my friend, but we can also have a significant interest on what happens with our neighbors.”
“Clearly Iraq and Afghanistan were problems that needed to be addressed, and after September Eleventh, well...” said Molly.
“”We in Iran were as shocked and disgusted by the attacks as you, Miss Karaman, and we are no friends to the Taliban or Al Qaeda. It is well known that Mister bin Laden is an enemy of the Iranian State. But imagine if China invaded Mexico with an army of occupation. How would America feel for that, uh?”
Molly nearly took the bait. It would have been nothing to unleash a litany of Iranian violations against the International community, as well as numerous other accusations regurgitated by the Press daily. She might have argued from a point of American exceptionalism, that the United States, by fate or providence had become a force for good in the world. Who was Fallahi to Molly really? Her blood warmed steadily towards a boil, until she noticed the smirk on Doug’s face.
“Oh, you two are terrible!”
Fallahi laughed and excused himself. Doug and Molly watched as he made his way to Shosa, who greeted him as if he and Fallahi were old and dear friends.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Friday, July 2, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Nineteen
October 2001. Unending was the only way to describe this place. The grief and tragedy seemed to go on and on without end. The suddenness and cruelty of that warm abd bright September morning had faded to dull and obstinate pain. And the nation, instead of seeking some meaning or healing, turned inward, trading virtual and wisdom for bitterness and paranoia.
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Friday, May 28, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty
Someone else might have said it was because he loved her that Jazz refused to give up. Might have been because, in this whole crazy universe, the stars and planets and billions of years of history had conspired to bring Kate and Jazz to this moment. It was as if to confirm that they were meant to be with one another. That they were destined not to perish on that doomed planet, and that the power of love could overcome any obstacle. Truth was, he was looking at her rack, and the thought of never seeing those cha-chas again was too much to bear.
Katy looked over, her face painted with terror. It wasn’t a look Jazz recalled ever seeing there. It said that she was nearly out of hope. She strained to hold on. Skull boy was a burden she just couldn’t bear any longer.
“Stop looking at my boobs,” she snapped. “This might be a good time to come up with a plan!”
The ship skidded along the riverbed, bouncing and banging off various obstacles. Boulders and debris crashed all around. Any one of them could easily smash the ship, or the bridge for that matter. Even if they didn’t it was apparent the ship would tumble past out of reach. Jazz looked wildly around. He was running out of time in more ways than he could count.
A large beam angled away over the river. It was flat on one side and if he could swing his body enough there was a better than even chance he could reach it. On the down side, there wasn’t a whole lot to hold onto, and if he missed, well, best not to think of the negatives.
Jazz swung back and forth for a little extra momentum. He let go and for a moment was airborne. It didn’t last long. Jazz landed hard, catching the beam in the gut and knocking the breath out of him. Hauling him self up Jazz half jogged, half skidded along the beam. He’d only gone a couple of yards before one of those boulders crashed into the bridge flipping him into the air.
At that moment the ship appeared directly beneath him. Jazz yelled and knew he’d hit hard. He slammed onto the rear of the craft and nearly bounced free. At the last instant he held tight to one of the stabilizers. He was getting too damn old for this crap, he thought, scrambling over the fuselage to the cockpit. He climbed in and pressed the ignition and nothing happened.
“You son of a …!” he hit the button again and this time the engines roared to life, and not a moment too soon.
Katy looked over, her face painted with terror. It wasn’t a look Jazz recalled ever seeing there. It said that she was nearly out of hope. She strained to hold on. Skull boy was a burden she just couldn’t bear any longer.
“Stop looking at my boobs,” she snapped. “This might be a good time to come up with a plan!”
The ship skidded along the riverbed, bouncing and banging off various obstacles. Boulders and debris crashed all around. Any one of them could easily smash the ship, or the bridge for that matter. Even if they didn’t it was apparent the ship would tumble past out of reach. Jazz looked wildly around. He was running out of time in more ways than he could count.
A large beam angled away over the river. It was flat on one side and if he could swing his body enough there was a better than even chance he could reach it. On the down side, there wasn’t a whole lot to hold onto, and if he missed, well, best not to think of the negatives.
Jazz swung back and forth for a little extra momentum. He let go and for a moment was airborne. It didn’t last long. Jazz landed hard, catching the beam in the gut and knocking the breath out of him. Hauling him self up Jazz half jogged, half skidded along the beam. He’d only gone a couple of yards before one of those boulders crashed into the bridge flipping him into the air.
At that moment the ship appeared directly beneath him. Jazz yelled and knew he’d hit hard. He slammed onto the rear of the craft and nearly bounced free. At the last instant he held tight to one of the stabilizers. He was getting too damn old for this crap, he thought, scrambling over the fuselage to the cockpit. He climbed in and pressed the ignition and nothing happened.
“You son of a …!” he hit the button again and this time the engines roared to life, and not a moment too soon.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Angry Jasper: Thirty-four
Maury’s sleek and polished weapon moved slowly into position high above the planet. The sun, just rising above the long curbed limb of the planet shimmered across the weapon's long cylindrical form. Reports from the weapon were that they were well ahead of schedule. It would be a matter of hours not days as had originally been planned. Even now technicians were running the final series of tests. Maury was pleased with himself. His thoughts ran through all sorts of scenarios, all of which would secure for him a position of supreme power within the Corporation.
“Thing of beauty,” Maury beamed.
Two finely dressed men stood behind Maury. They were pencil thin engineering clones, known as Identicals, because they were absolutely indistinguishable from one another. Their mahogany features were chiseled, their jet black hair combed away from those oversized foreheads in harsh straight lines. The two men shared an odd look. Maury caught it instantly.
“Let me guess, this is where you tell me there’s a problem right?” he grumbled
“There is a problem.”
“I can’t wait,” said Maury. “Okay. Out with it.”
“Well, we sort of…about the weapon, it hasn’t been tested yet.”
“I am to bore a hole right through the crust of that ashtray of a planet and roast all those little rats alive.”
“Well, therein lies the issue,” said one of the Identicals.
“So we went through all of this and the damn think might not…”
“No, it will work.”
“What he’s saying is, it might work too good.”
“The two of you are seriously pissing me off. What do you mean too good?”
“There’s a chance it could, well, blow the planet apart.”
Maury turned back towards the gold and blue ball of Planet Earth drifting in space. At this distance the planet was a magnificent sight. He imagined the earth dissolving into a million pieces. Maury snickered. It turned into a chuckle and then an uproarious laugh. He laughed so damn hard that tears were quickly tumbling down his engorged cheeks, and a little bit of pee stained his trousers. He nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Well, shit, I thought it was going to be something bad!” he turned, squinting at the Identicals. “I want the rebels eradicated. I could care less about the damned planet. Besides, it will be easier to mine in pieces.” He turned back to the planet. His expression was stark and resolute. “Proceed with the operation.”
“Governor,” said the short man, “it would be advisable to move the wheel to a safer distance should the unthinkable…”
Maury swiveled sharply, staring accusingly at the two men. “And how long would that take?”
“We could be at a respectably safe distance in a week to ten days.”
“Ha!” Maury scoffed. “Ten days? The longer that thing sits about the planet the greater chance the rebellion will discover and neutralize it. Out of the question!”
“But Governor…” one of them protested.
“Is this a mutiny, gentlemen?” asked Maury, quite indignant.
“No, no, your honor,” they stammered nervously.
“In that case you have your orders.”
The men started to leave. They paused. “Governor, one more small detail. Our spy on the planet...”
Maury could have cared less about the fellow. This was a war, after all, and war meant casualties. At long last he was close to annihilating the rebellion, and the payoff on that was far greater than the loss of one man.
“His sacrifice will be long remembered,” said Maury, with not the slightest remorse.
When the Identicals had gone Maury fondled himself while pondering the fate of the planet. He almost lamented his lack of sympathy that the Earth might soon be reduced to dust, erasing for all time humanity's first assertions towards the endless universe. Then again, why should he care? He hadn’t been born there. His parents, nor even his grandparents had been born there. He was a child of the stars. So what did he care if the Earth was gone. Would men in the Twenty-first century have lamented if the Olduvai Gorge was bulldozed, strip-mined or covered over simply because some fossil had crawled from that sun-baked ditch? Mankind had always been progressing, pulling away from a planet that was of little consequence any longer, but for its mineral wealth and a throw-back rebellion whose time was at hand. Good riddance, he thought and didn’t give it another thought.
“Thing of beauty,” Maury beamed.
Two finely dressed men stood behind Maury. They were pencil thin engineering clones, known as Identicals, because they were absolutely indistinguishable from one another. Their mahogany features were chiseled, their jet black hair combed away from those oversized foreheads in harsh straight lines. The two men shared an odd look. Maury caught it instantly.
“Let me guess, this is where you tell me there’s a problem right?” he grumbled
“There is a problem.”
“I can’t wait,” said Maury. “Okay. Out with it.”
“Well, we sort of…about the weapon, it hasn’t been tested yet.”
“I am to bore a hole right through the crust of that ashtray of a planet and roast all those little rats alive.”
“Well, therein lies the issue,” said one of the Identicals.
“So we went through all of this and the damn think might not…”
“No, it will work.”
“What he’s saying is, it might work too good.”
“The two of you are seriously pissing me off. What do you mean too good?”
“There’s a chance it could, well, blow the planet apart.”
Maury turned back towards the gold and blue ball of Planet Earth drifting in space. At this distance the planet was a magnificent sight. He imagined the earth dissolving into a million pieces. Maury snickered. It turned into a chuckle and then an uproarious laugh. He laughed so damn hard that tears were quickly tumbling down his engorged cheeks, and a little bit of pee stained his trousers. He nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Well, shit, I thought it was going to be something bad!” he turned, squinting at the Identicals. “I want the rebels eradicated. I could care less about the damned planet. Besides, it will be easier to mine in pieces.” He turned back to the planet. His expression was stark and resolute. “Proceed with the operation.”
“Governor,” said the short man, “it would be advisable to move the wheel to a safer distance should the unthinkable…”
Maury swiveled sharply, staring accusingly at the two men. “And how long would that take?”
“We could be at a respectably safe distance in a week to ten days.”
“Ha!” Maury scoffed. “Ten days? The longer that thing sits about the planet the greater chance the rebellion will discover and neutralize it. Out of the question!”
“But Governor…” one of them protested.
“Is this a mutiny, gentlemen?” asked Maury, quite indignant.
“No, no, your honor,” they stammered nervously.
“In that case you have your orders.”
The men started to leave. They paused. “Governor, one more small detail. Our spy on the planet...”
Maury could have cared less about the fellow. This was a war, after all, and war meant casualties. At long last he was close to annihilating the rebellion, and the payoff on that was far greater than the loss of one man.
“His sacrifice will be long remembered,” said Maury, with not the slightest remorse.
When the Identicals had gone Maury fondled himself while pondering the fate of the planet. He almost lamented his lack of sympathy that the Earth might soon be reduced to dust, erasing for all time humanity's first assertions towards the endless universe. Then again, why should he care? He hadn’t been born there. His parents, nor even his grandparents had been born there. He was a child of the stars. So what did he care if the Earth was gone. Would men in the Twenty-first century have lamented if the Olduvai Gorge was bulldozed, strip-mined or covered over simply because some fossil had crawled from that sun-baked ditch? Mankind had always been progressing, pulling away from a planet that was of little consequence any longer, but for its mineral wealth and a throw-back rebellion whose time was at hand. Good riddance, he thought and didn’t give it another thought.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Angry Jasper: Thirty-two
Katy was in such a pissy mood. Buzz hated being around when she was that way. Not that she was afraid of her, though she had a tendency for smashing stuff when she was like this. Kate had never harmed a bolt on his head, but the threat was always there, as if she would lose complete control in a moment. It was just the tension that threatened to overloaded his circuits. Kate’s mood made it so much harder for his other functions to operate. He groaned, and could already feel the circuits falling off one by one in these jittery and illogical (human) sort of quirks and mistakes.
He might have easily blown her off. After all, he’d seen more than his share of Kate's emotional mine fields. This one was different though. Not anything specific he could necessarily put his alloy finger on. This was one was of a much darker character, like she was being trapped or blackmailed into something from which she could see no escape. Kate wasn’t the kind of gal who could be forced or cajoled into anything, and she wasn't the sort to hide her thoughts. Too often Buzz couldn't shut her up. Bur this time she was beyond silent. It was beyond brooding. It was, well...hopeless.
Kate walked right past him and sort of groaned as she sat heavily on the small bed in the corner. Eager to turn her mood somehow, Buzz pulled out a small vibrator. He affixed it to the top of his head and saddled up beside her with this dumb hey-baby-can-I satisfy-you sort of smirk. He tried to sell it with a wink, but the mechanical eyelid caught mid way and buzzed until he wacked his head and it rolled back into place. When she didn’t acknowledge him Buzz gave the vibrator a little rev, and sort of leaned over, trying to force her gaze. He revved the vibrator twice more quickly.
“Not in the mood, Buzz,” she sighed, glumly
“Just trying to help.” There were all this little hairs all over her clothes. Thomas’ no doubt, and it was kind of revolting, Buzz thought, imagining the creepy fellow all over her.
“You can’t.”
“What happened with Thomas?” he asked.
Buzz pulled the vibrator off and stowed it away. He sat beside her. She was staring into space. Kate let out a long, mournful groan.
“Things are really eff-ed-up, pal,” she said.
Buzz scoffed. “All hail queen of the obvious.”
She looked sharply at him. “I need to know all there is about Thomas.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“You do?” she replied, with the quality of a drowning soul.
“The guy creeps me out for some reason.”
She stood and paced the room, figuring. She turned suddenly. “I want you to find something on him.”
“Like what?” Buzz asked, indignant.
“I don’t know, anything.”
“The magic word would be nice,” he said.
“What?’
“Please, would be…”
She cut him off. “Just do it! You’re a damned robot. Do as you are told!”
Buzz was taken aback by the venom of her outburst. Sure, he was a robot, a cyber-being, a machine, but he still had feelings, for Pete’s sake. He didn’t have to take that kind of abuse.
“That’s right,” Buzz fired back, “a robot, not your damned slave, you cranky old skank.”
Kate raged to heaven. “Please, god, give me the strength to send this one back to the recycle heap!”
“If you wanted a machine that would jump whenever you wanted, cut two slots in my back and make he a toaster!”
“At least a toaster would do its friggin’ job!”
“That’s it!” Buzz exclaimed. He'd had enough and could feel his circuitry overheating. The mechanic after his last overhaul warned that he had a tendency towards high core pressure. Too much strain and he ran the risk of serious, and maybe even fatal flare out. “Don’t take this crap out on me. I thought we were friends, partners…”
Buzz saw immediately that he had gotten to her. Just in time too. He damn near busted a seam on that one. She turned towards the door and hung her head.
“I’m not gonna apologize,” she said quietly. She never apologized, at least not in so many words. “You, uh, you are the best partner I’ve ever had, at least out of the sack.”
“Well…”
“You know what I mean.”
She turned, her eyes pleading. “Buzz, I really need your help.”
“First of all, change clothes,” he suggested. “There’s hair all over you, and I just can’t look at it any longer.”
“Hair?” she exclaimed. Kate hadn’t noticed it before. “Buzz, that’s it. Let’s run a DNA test with his hair and run it against the rebel databases and see who it matches. All his ancestors might have bought it at Branson, but their DNA lives on in him.”
Buzz carefully lifted several strands from her clothing. He was more than curious too. Problem was, he had never actually run a DNA program before. Sure, the procedure was programmed into his hard drive, but that was different from actually performing it, and he told Kate as much.
“You have to try,” she urged. “And please do it fast.”
Time was running out, and both of them knew it, but in ways they could never have guessed. Time was running out for everyone, for the earth, the alliance and the Corporation. Little could Kate have guessed what fate still held in store for her, throwing her headlong into a fight that would determine the very existence of all mankind.
He might have easily blown her off. After all, he’d seen more than his share of Kate's emotional mine fields. This one was different though. Not anything specific he could necessarily put his alloy finger on. This was one was of a much darker character, like she was being trapped or blackmailed into something from which she could see no escape. Kate wasn’t the kind of gal who could be forced or cajoled into anything, and she wasn't the sort to hide her thoughts. Too often Buzz couldn't shut her up. Bur this time she was beyond silent. It was beyond brooding. It was, well...hopeless.
Kate walked right past him and sort of groaned as she sat heavily on the small bed in the corner. Eager to turn her mood somehow, Buzz pulled out a small vibrator. He affixed it to the top of his head and saddled up beside her with this dumb hey-baby-can-I satisfy-you sort of smirk. He tried to sell it with a wink, but the mechanical eyelid caught mid way and buzzed until he wacked his head and it rolled back into place. When she didn’t acknowledge him Buzz gave the vibrator a little rev, and sort of leaned over, trying to force her gaze. He revved the vibrator twice more quickly.
“Not in the mood, Buzz,” she sighed, glumly
“Just trying to help.” There were all this little hairs all over her clothes. Thomas’ no doubt, and it was kind of revolting, Buzz thought, imagining the creepy fellow all over her.
“You can’t.”
“What happened with Thomas?” he asked.
Buzz pulled the vibrator off and stowed it away. He sat beside her. She was staring into space. Kate let out a long, mournful groan.
“Things are really eff-ed-up, pal,” she said.
Buzz scoffed. “All hail queen of the obvious.”
She looked sharply at him. “I need to know all there is about Thomas.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“You do?” she replied, with the quality of a drowning soul.
“The guy creeps me out for some reason.”
She stood and paced the room, figuring. She turned suddenly. “I want you to find something on him.”
“Like what?” Buzz asked, indignant.
“I don’t know, anything.”
“The magic word would be nice,” he said.
“What?’
“Please, would be…”
She cut him off. “Just do it! You’re a damned robot. Do as you are told!”
Buzz was taken aback by the venom of her outburst. Sure, he was a robot, a cyber-being, a machine, but he still had feelings, for Pete’s sake. He didn’t have to take that kind of abuse.
“That’s right,” Buzz fired back, “a robot, not your damned slave, you cranky old skank.”
Kate raged to heaven. “Please, god, give me the strength to send this one back to the recycle heap!”
“If you wanted a machine that would jump whenever you wanted, cut two slots in my back and make he a toaster!”
“At least a toaster would do its friggin’ job!”
“That’s it!” Buzz exclaimed. He'd had enough and could feel his circuitry overheating. The mechanic after his last overhaul warned that he had a tendency towards high core pressure. Too much strain and he ran the risk of serious, and maybe even fatal flare out. “Don’t take this crap out on me. I thought we were friends, partners…”
Buzz saw immediately that he had gotten to her. Just in time too. He damn near busted a seam on that one. She turned towards the door and hung her head.
“I’m not gonna apologize,” she said quietly. She never apologized, at least not in so many words. “You, uh, you are the best partner I’ve ever had, at least out of the sack.”
“Well…”
“You know what I mean.”
She turned, her eyes pleading. “Buzz, I really need your help.”
“First of all, change clothes,” he suggested. “There’s hair all over you, and I just can’t look at it any longer.”
“Hair?” she exclaimed. Kate hadn’t noticed it before. “Buzz, that’s it. Let’s run a DNA test with his hair and run it against the rebel databases and see who it matches. All his ancestors might have bought it at Branson, but their DNA lives on in him.”
Buzz carefully lifted several strands from her clothing. He was more than curious too. Problem was, he had never actually run a DNA program before. Sure, the procedure was programmed into his hard drive, but that was different from actually performing it, and he told Kate as much.
“You have to try,” she urged. “And please do it fast.”
Time was running out, and both of them knew it, but in ways they could never have guessed. Time was running out for everyone, for the earth, the alliance and the Corporation. Little could Kate have guessed what fate still held in store for her, throwing her headlong into a fight that would determine the very existence of all mankind.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Angry Jasper: Twenty-eight
Thomas called for one of his lieutenants, screaming, as if his emotions were unrestrained, or as if he had no control over them. She winced at the sound and thought Thomas would unhinge his jaw. One of those mysterious black uniformed men appeared in an instant. Like the leader, he appeared like something stuffed a bit uncomfortably into someone else’s flesh. Not that he wasn’t an attractive man, but his eyes were ringed dark and were dull black and Zombie-like.
“Commander,” he saluted dutifully.
“Lieutenant, where is the bounty hunter?”
“Awaiting execution with the other Corporation prisoners.”
“Take him to another cell.”
“I want to see him,” said Katy.
“Of course you do.” Thomas’ voice was filled with condescension. “See that no harm comes to him Lieutenant. He will be released at a more convenient opportunity.”
“Commander?” the lieutenant asked, as if he had not understood clearly. It seemed artificial to Kate, as if the two men shared thoughts, or some detailed unspoken language.
“Do not question my orders!” Thomas bellowed. He took the man by the arm and led him away from Katy. The two men stopped near the door, far enough that Kate could hear nothing of what they were saying.
“Take her to him, and then make sure he disappears completely.” He turned back to Katy and smiled broadly. “So sorry, but I do hate to admonish subordinates in public. I’ll be here when you come back, and we will discuss our arrangement more fully.”
“Right, fully,” she said, not trusting Thomas at all.
She went with the young lieutenant from the chamber. Katy could hardly take her eyes off the young man, and those strong shoulders and chest she could sink her teeth into. He reminded her of Jazz when they first met all those years ago. With that came a torrent of memories and broken dreams. It broke her heart that she and Jazz might have settled down to a quiet and peaceful life. Maybe they would have had kids, and living in some pretty little quad on Enceladus, looking out over Saturn’s golden rings. The Rebellion would be a distant thing, a hollow news story, just so much background noise as the family sat down to supper.
The young Lieutenant’s expression was severe. His brow fixed and bent, much more than discomfort at being ordered to release Jazz. Suddenly Katy realized why and stopped him. She turned him to her.
“Ma’am?” he inquired.
“You’re supposed to kill him aren’t you?” she asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, averting his gaze.
“Don’t take me for a fool, Lieutenant. It would prove a terrible mistake.”
The young man thought a moment. Katy was an imposing figure when she wished to be. He looked to dust falling from the ceiling, and the pounding of the enemy bombardment. It was uncomfortably close.
“Do you hear that?’ he asked. “They enemy doesn’t know where we are. A great deal of blood, sweat and effort has gone into concealing this place. Your friend might not be the enemy, but he could unwittingly betray us to the enemy. You must understand. Our species is here, living like rats. The future of this planet. It’s a risk no one of us can afford.”
Katy nodded, noting the odd use of the word species. He was right of course. It was much bigger than she or Jazz, but she didn’t want him to be put down like some common Corporate conscript.
“Very well,” she conceded. “Take me to see him.”
“Commander,” he saluted dutifully.
“Lieutenant, where is the bounty hunter?”
“Awaiting execution with the other Corporation prisoners.”
“Take him to another cell.”
“I want to see him,” said Katy.
“Of course you do.” Thomas’ voice was filled with condescension. “See that no harm comes to him Lieutenant. He will be released at a more convenient opportunity.”
“Commander?” the lieutenant asked, as if he had not understood clearly. It seemed artificial to Kate, as if the two men shared thoughts, or some detailed unspoken language.
“Do not question my orders!” Thomas bellowed. He took the man by the arm and led him away from Katy. The two men stopped near the door, far enough that Kate could hear nothing of what they were saying.
“Take her to him, and then make sure he disappears completely.” He turned back to Katy and smiled broadly. “So sorry, but I do hate to admonish subordinates in public. I’ll be here when you come back, and we will discuss our arrangement more fully.”
“Right, fully,” she said, not trusting Thomas at all.
She went with the young lieutenant from the chamber. Katy could hardly take her eyes off the young man, and those strong shoulders and chest she could sink her teeth into. He reminded her of Jazz when they first met all those years ago. With that came a torrent of memories and broken dreams. It broke her heart that she and Jazz might have settled down to a quiet and peaceful life. Maybe they would have had kids, and living in some pretty little quad on Enceladus, looking out over Saturn’s golden rings. The Rebellion would be a distant thing, a hollow news story, just so much background noise as the family sat down to supper.
The young Lieutenant’s expression was severe. His brow fixed and bent, much more than discomfort at being ordered to release Jazz. Suddenly Katy realized why and stopped him. She turned him to her.
“Ma’am?” he inquired.
“You’re supposed to kill him aren’t you?” she asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, averting his gaze.
“Don’t take me for a fool, Lieutenant. It would prove a terrible mistake.”
The young man thought a moment. Katy was an imposing figure when she wished to be. He looked to dust falling from the ceiling, and the pounding of the enemy bombardment. It was uncomfortably close.
“Do you hear that?’ he asked. “They enemy doesn’t know where we are. A great deal of blood, sweat and effort has gone into concealing this place. Your friend might not be the enemy, but he could unwittingly betray us to the enemy. You must understand. Our species is here, living like rats. The future of this planet. It’s a risk no one of us can afford.”
Katy nodded, noting the odd use of the word species. He was right of course. It was much bigger than she or Jazz, but she didn’t want him to be put down like some common Corporate conscript.
“Very well,” she conceded. “Take me to see him.”
Friday, April 23, 2010
Angry Jasper-Nineteen
CHAPTER TWO
LIFE’S A BITCH, AND THEN YOU DIE.
When Kate came to she was shackled to a chair in Maury’s office. Well, that’s what he called it. The unmade bed was to one side, and his desk to the other. The world was still little more than a blur of unresolved images and motion. Her jaw ached, but not as badly as her tongue, which she had bitten hard after being clobbered. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth and throat. She could feel it dried upon her lips. A burning headache spit fiery waves of hideous pain all the way down to her toes, no doubt from the rattling her brain had taken.
Kate struggled weakly against the binds, but they held her wrists and ankles fast. Aside from all that she didn’t seem any the worse for wear. Her clothes were still intact, and she was quite relieved to find she hadn’t been molested while incapacitated. At least there were small blessings still to be found. Several hybrid-looking guards stood to either side, holding ARPs at the ready. Obviously Maury wasn't taking any chances with Kate.
She spit out a mouthful of blood at one of the guard's teeth, delighting that it provoked a disgusted grimace. “Make you hot, huh?”
“Back among the living, I see.” It was Maury’s putrid little voice. It took a moment for her eyes to find their focus.
“That’s debatable,” she groaned, glancing knowingly at the hybrid guards.
He was dressed in a cheap looking shining leather coat and jeans, like some east European cop of old, or some creepy lout that frequented strip clubs and called the dancers his “lady friends.” His greasy hair was swept back in straight lines from that drooping dreary face. She could almost imagine him skulking around the gray rain-swept streets of some backwater Communist-era dump like Brno or Kiev or Belgrade harrassing Gypsies, bullying dissidents or taking advantage of nubile runaways. He was holding her credit pod, as well as that of the murdered rebel spy from the market. The rebel kid’s pod was scorched and partially melted from the glancing blow of a mercury round. Maury smiled. It was a snide, victorious gap-toothed smile.
“Guess you screwed me more ways than the usual, eh Kate?”
Kate was indignant. “Mind your own business instead of mine. I have a lot of clients, and some of them don’t like questions asked. I don’t ask questions. I’m just in it for the credits.”
“Ah, yes the money. And how much did you make on that transaction, huh?”
“I don’t have to answ…”
He cut her off quickly. “We tracked your account.”
“What right…?”
“I’m the Governor, remember? Don’t play the fool, Kate, we know you transferred the balance to your rebel contact.”
She swore under her breath. There was no use fighting it now, That was just more of the stupid game she had been playing for the better part of her life.
“So what are you gonna do, kill me?” she stood straight and defiant. “Do it in stead of playing at something you’re not, Maury.”
“And what would that be?” he asked without thinking.
“A man.”
“Touché,” he frowned. “Walked right into that one.”
The Governor moved slowly around her, breathing her in with those piggish, wheezing breaths. “Waste of energy and time torturing you for information. You wouldn’t give up any information anyway.”
“You know me too well.”
“Too well, indeed!” He rubbed his fat belly and looked over her body one last time. Maury grinned proudly. “Know every inch of you, inside and out.”
“Thought I felt something. Hard to tell with the little things.”
Maury chafed, but held his temper. “Had some good times. I know you did, by the sounds you were making.”
“I was thinking of taking up acting.”
His fat face turned bright red. For a second she almost thought he’d have a coronary right there. The governor caught himself again and forced a smile.
“I’m going to miss our moments together,” he said.
“Right,” she shot back, “a moment is how long I remember you lasting.”
“Have a laugh,” he said.
“Should have just killed me at the market.”
“And miss this snappy repartee? It was a consideration, but plans change, eh? It’s your lucky day Kate. One of our ships was shot down with some rather high value citizens on board. I’m going to send you back to Earth as part of a prisoner exchange.”
“You aren’t afraid I’ll blab about your nuclear penis extension?” she asked.
“Go ahead. Fat amount of good it will do.”
Kate wondered what Maury had up his sleeve. It was too simple that he would simply exchange her for some fat Corporate client or other. They were a dime a dozen, and most often anyone foolhardy enough to venture close to Earth was involved in something nefarious or just plain dumb. She felt around the inside of her mouth for a tracking patch, and burped hoping to taste the metallic flavor of one, thinking that Maury might have force fed her one. There was no way she would allow herself to lead Maury to the rebel base. She’d rather die than to betray the cause.
“I'd prefer death,” she said.
“So would I, dearest, but neither of us will get that lucky today at least.” With a nod he motioned to the guards.”Be careful with this one and make sure she gets to where she's going safely or you'll be pulling dredging duty in old China.”
Maury turned and went at the glass looking down at the wheel as Katy-did was led away. No woman would ever get the best of him. He’d see to that, and to the end of the rebellion. In seventy-two hours Kate and her rebel friends would all be history.
LIFE’S A BITCH, AND THEN YOU DIE.
When Kate came to she was shackled to a chair in Maury’s office. Well, that’s what he called it. The unmade bed was to one side, and his desk to the other. The world was still little more than a blur of unresolved images and motion. Her jaw ached, but not as badly as her tongue, which she had bitten hard after being clobbered. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth and throat. She could feel it dried upon her lips. A burning headache spit fiery waves of hideous pain all the way down to her toes, no doubt from the rattling her brain had taken.
Kate struggled weakly against the binds, but they held her wrists and ankles fast. Aside from all that she didn’t seem any the worse for wear. Her clothes were still intact, and she was quite relieved to find she hadn’t been molested while incapacitated. At least there were small blessings still to be found. Several hybrid-looking guards stood to either side, holding ARPs at the ready. Obviously Maury wasn't taking any chances with Kate.
She spit out a mouthful of blood at one of the guard's teeth, delighting that it provoked a disgusted grimace. “Make you hot, huh?”
“Back among the living, I see.” It was Maury’s putrid little voice. It took a moment for her eyes to find their focus.
“That’s debatable,” she groaned, glancing knowingly at the hybrid guards.
He was dressed in a cheap looking shining leather coat and jeans, like some east European cop of old, or some creepy lout that frequented strip clubs and called the dancers his “lady friends.” His greasy hair was swept back in straight lines from that drooping dreary face. She could almost imagine him skulking around the gray rain-swept streets of some backwater Communist-era dump like Brno or Kiev or Belgrade harrassing Gypsies, bullying dissidents or taking advantage of nubile runaways. He was holding her credit pod, as well as that of the murdered rebel spy from the market. The rebel kid’s pod was scorched and partially melted from the glancing blow of a mercury round. Maury smiled. It was a snide, victorious gap-toothed smile.
“Guess you screwed me more ways than the usual, eh Kate?”
Kate was indignant. “Mind your own business instead of mine. I have a lot of clients, and some of them don’t like questions asked. I don’t ask questions. I’m just in it for the credits.”
“Ah, yes the money. And how much did you make on that transaction, huh?”
“I don’t have to answ…”
He cut her off quickly. “We tracked your account.”
“What right…?”
“I’m the Governor, remember? Don’t play the fool, Kate, we know you transferred the balance to your rebel contact.”
She swore under her breath. There was no use fighting it now, That was just more of the stupid game she had been playing for the better part of her life.
“So what are you gonna do, kill me?” she stood straight and defiant. “Do it in stead of playing at something you’re not, Maury.”
“And what would that be?” he asked without thinking.
“A man.”
“Touché,” he frowned. “Walked right into that one.”
The Governor moved slowly around her, breathing her in with those piggish, wheezing breaths. “Waste of energy and time torturing you for information. You wouldn’t give up any information anyway.”
“You know me too well.”
“Too well, indeed!” He rubbed his fat belly and looked over her body one last time. Maury grinned proudly. “Know every inch of you, inside and out.”
“Thought I felt something. Hard to tell with the little things.”
Maury chafed, but held his temper. “Had some good times. I know you did, by the sounds you were making.”
“I was thinking of taking up acting.”
His fat face turned bright red. For a second she almost thought he’d have a coronary right there. The governor caught himself again and forced a smile.
“I’m going to miss our moments together,” he said.
“Right,” she shot back, “a moment is how long I remember you lasting.”
“Have a laugh,” he said.
“Should have just killed me at the market.”
“And miss this snappy repartee? It was a consideration, but plans change, eh? It’s your lucky day Kate. One of our ships was shot down with some rather high value citizens on board. I’m going to send you back to Earth as part of a prisoner exchange.”
“You aren’t afraid I’ll blab about your nuclear penis extension?” she asked.
“Go ahead. Fat amount of good it will do.”
Kate wondered what Maury had up his sleeve. It was too simple that he would simply exchange her for some fat Corporate client or other. They were a dime a dozen, and most often anyone foolhardy enough to venture close to Earth was involved in something nefarious or just plain dumb. She felt around the inside of her mouth for a tracking patch, and burped hoping to taste the metallic flavor of one, thinking that Maury might have force fed her one. There was no way she would allow herself to lead Maury to the rebel base. She’d rather die than to betray the cause.
“I'd prefer death,” she said.
“So would I, dearest, but neither of us will get that lucky today at least.” With a nod he motioned to the guards.”Be careful with this one and make sure she gets to where she's going safely or you'll be pulling dredging duty in old China.”
Maury turned and went at the glass looking down at the wheel as Katy-did was led away. No woman would ever get the best of him. He’d see to that, and to the end of the rebellion. In seventy-two hours Kate and her rebel friends would all be history.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Angry Jasper-Eight
The Earth-first rebels were a hodge-podge band, the offspring of fools and the destitute, the proud ancestors of those who might have believed the Earth was flat, or that God gave a rat’s ass what happened on that derelict planet. Never mind that Earth’s destiny was to one day, billions of years from now, to be consumed by our dying sun.
The original seed of the revolution was, of course, the fugitives who had opposed the ascendancy of the Corporation. Those men and women were Europeans, Americans, Chinese, Indian, Arab and African, fully a representation of the world’s amazing diversity. But war, and suspicion, corruption and the centuries had reformed the revolution just as surely as the elements had reduced the once proud Egyptian pyramids to mounds of sand and broken stone. The rebellion succumbed from within to the same petty squabbles, power grabs and ignorance it eschewed in their Corporation foes.
Over centuries of near constant warfare, the rebels had been reduced, or chased, into a vast, if disconnected network of subterranean refuges. It hadn’t always been that way, and for a time before retreating underground (literally) it almost appeared the rebels might prevail, at least enough to sue for something approaching peace. Indeed, the wholesale stripping and pillaging of the planet’s resources by the Corporation had all but ceased following a hand full of successive victories against the Corporation. But revolutions are odd creatures, and never what their pie-in-the-sky conjurers intended. Scattered, antagonistic and contemptuous of one another, the rebels lacked the unity to repel the Corporations exploitation of their factionalism.
One might believe this would be a proper time to quote some long dead philosopher, something about how absolute power corrupts absolutely. Perhaps Defoe’s words of wisdom about how every man would be a tyrant if he could. Maybe the religious angle, something on how power and money are the roots of evil, or maybe things are best when they’re left simple. Let’s just say that the offspring of those original good and true fugitives did not follow in their forefather’s footsteps, and that power turns every man into a pimp and a schmuck!
The original seed of the revolution was, of course, the fugitives who had opposed the ascendancy of the Corporation. Those men and women were Europeans, Americans, Chinese, Indian, Arab and African, fully a representation of the world’s amazing diversity. But war, and suspicion, corruption and the centuries had reformed the revolution just as surely as the elements had reduced the once proud Egyptian pyramids to mounds of sand and broken stone. The rebellion succumbed from within to the same petty squabbles, power grabs and ignorance it eschewed in their Corporation foes.
Over centuries of near constant warfare, the rebels had been reduced, or chased, into a vast, if disconnected network of subterranean refuges. It hadn’t always been that way, and for a time before retreating underground (literally) it almost appeared the rebels might prevail, at least enough to sue for something approaching peace. Indeed, the wholesale stripping and pillaging of the planet’s resources by the Corporation had all but ceased following a hand full of successive victories against the Corporation. But revolutions are odd creatures, and never what their pie-in-the-sky conjurers intended. Scattered, antagonistic and contemptuous of one another, the rebels lacked the unity to repel the Corporations exploitation of their factionalism.
One might believe this would be a proper time to quote some long dead philosopher, something about how absolute power corrupts absolutely. Perhaps Defoe’s words of wisdom about how every man would be a tyrant if he could. Maybe the religious angle, something on how power and money are the roots of evil, or maybe things are best when they’re left simple. Let’s just say that the offspring of those original good and true fugitives did not follow in their forefather’s footsteps, and that power turns every man into a pimp and a schmuck!
Monday, March 1, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-six
“George,” John nodded.
The deputies stopped behind, and just to either side of Bremer, like over-protective sons than public employees.Both of them were young and baby-faced.. At least that's how they appeared to John, serving only to make him feel a bit ancient. One of them was tall and well built, the other short and a little on the doughy side.His name was Ray. His parents ran a tailor shop downtown. None of the men were armed. Ray held a set of wrist irons. He nervously shifted them from hand to hand. George nodded respectfully and motioned to John's wound.
“John. How's that hand?”
“Help you fellas?”
“Hope you'll forgive the intrusion, but we've come for him.”
John scrtached the back of his head trying to figure why Louis didn't seem immediately surprised. Then all at once his expression changed, as if it was manufactured or contrived.
“John, I swear I don't...” Louis began before Bremer cut him off.
“Best you not say another word,son.”
“What's this all about, George?” asked John.
Bremer went over and laid a hand gently upon Louis' shoulder.. “I think your guest knows.” His eyes met Louis with a judicious quality. He patted the man's shoulder almost sympatheically. “My deputies here trust you won't be any trouble.”
The deputies were patient as John pulled Bremer aside. They had known each other for almost their whole lives. George Bremer was the first person John had seen the day he stepped off the Milwaukee line from the war. John led him over to the cellar door.
“What's this all about, George?'
Bremer kept his voice low. His brow was tortured. The words fell heavily. “A wrecker pulled his car out of the creek. John, there was a body inside, a white woman.”
“George, I was all over that car, if there'd been...”
“She was in the rear compartment. Her hands and feet were bound. There was a rope around her neck.”
Both men looked over at Louis. John felt a shiver of dread that he had left Louis alone with Anna. He felt betrayed by Louis. It raged red hot in his veins.
“You're sure?”
“Afraid so.”
“Who was she?”
“Don't know.”
“He says his name is Louis, Louis Stanton.” John hesitated. “About all I've been able to get out of him.Like they both fell out of the sky.”
“Folks just don't fall out of the sky.”
.
The deputies stopped behind, and just to either side of Bremer, like over-protective sons than public employees.Both of them were young and baby-faced.. At least that's how they appeared to John, serving only to make him feel a bit ancient. One of them was tall and well built, the other short and a little on the doughy side.His name was Ray. His parents ran a tailor shop downtown. None of the men were armed. Ray held a set of wrist irons. He nervously shifted them from hand to hand. George nodded respectfully and motioned to John's wound.
“John. How's that hand?”
“Help you fellas?”
“Hope you'll forgive the intrusion, but we've come for him.”
John scrtached the back of his head trying to figure why Louis didn't seem immediately surprised. Then all at once his expression changed, as if it was manufactured or contrived.
“John, I swear I don't...” Louis began before Bremer cut him off.
“Best you not say another word,son.”
“What's this all about, George?” asked John.
Bremer went over and laid a hand gently upon Louis' shoulder.. “I think your guest knows.” His eyes met Louis with a judicious quality. He patted the man's shoulder almost sympatheically. “My deputies here trust you won't be any trouble.”
The deputies were patient as John pulled Bremer aside. They had known each other for almost their whole lives. George Bremer was the first person John had seen the day he stepped off the Milwaukee line from the war. John led him over to the cellar door.
“What's this all about, George?'
Bremer kept his voice low. His brow was tortured. The words fell heavily. “A wrecker pulled his car out of the creek. John, there was a body inside, a white woman.”
“George, I was all over that car, if there'd been...”
“She was in the rear compartment. Her hands and feet were bound. There was a rope around her neck.”
Both men looked over at Louis. John felt a shiver of dread that he had left Louis alone with Anna. He felt betrayed by Louis. It raged red hot in his veins.
“You're sure?”
“Afraid so.”
“Who was she?”
“Don't know.”
“He says his name is Louis, Louis Stanton.” John hesitated. “About all I've been able to get out of him.Like they both fell out of the sky.”
“Folks just don't fall out of the sky.”
.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-four
“How's the wife?” asked Bremer, following C.W. around to the back of the coupe. The heat of the day made him sluggish and distracted. He fought for focus on the grim task before him, concentrating on the dead girl’s family. There was nothing to be done for her. It was the family who would cry for justice and vengeance. Theirs would be the burden of the living. Justice is never for the dead.
“She runs good,” C.W. winked with a grin. He laid a hand in the trunk. “Ready for this?”
George drew a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose and mouth, to little effect. “Sure is a stinker.”
“That she is, poor thing.”
“Welp,” Bremer rallied himself. “open her up, let's have a look.”
The latch had broken in the crash. C.W had to lean on the trunk with his full weight and pull at the edges at the same time. It opened grudgingly, creaking loudly. Bremer's brow crumbled. He turned his head aside, then shook it slowly. He gave a weighted sigh and spit into the ditch.
“Haven't called the State Police just yet,” said C.W. “Wanted to run all this by you first.”
“Close her up.”
George went around the side. C.W followed. He could see it in George's face. He could see George knew something more.
“Got an idea you know who did this?”
“State Police will just come in and make a circus of things, claim credit and get folks all riled up.”
“I'm listening.”
“Keep this quiet a bit,” said Bremer. “I'll take her over to Brennan's funeral home, get her cleaned up a bit.”
“Got an idea who might have done this.”
George waved over the tow truck driver. He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and squinted against the bright sunlight at C.W. He'd heard of the stranger up at John Perkin's place. Putting two and two together was about as simple as things get in the Sheriff-ing business. He'd have a chat with the tow truck driver and ask Joe Brennan to keep this quiet for a while. No need to give folks a reason to worry, have them locking their doors at night and getting all out of sorts for no reason. He nodded slowly.
“Got an idea.”
“She runs good,” C.W. winked with a grin. He laid a hand in the trunk. “Ready for this?”
George drew a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose and mouth, to little effect. “Sure is a stinker.”
“That she is, poor thing.”
“Welp,” Bremer rallied himself. “open her up, let's have a look.”
The latch had broken in the crash. C.W had to lean on the trunk with his full weight and pull at the edges at the same time. It opened grudgingly, creaking loudly. Bremer's brow crumbled. He turned his head aside, then shook it slowly. He gave a weighted sigh and spit into the ditch.
“Haven't called the State Police just yet,” said C.W. “Wanted to run all this by you first.”
“Close her up.”
George went around the side. C.W followed. He could see it in George's face. He could see George knew something more.
“Got an idea you know who did this?”
“State Police will just come in and make a circus of things, claim credit and get folks all riled up.”
“I'm listening.”
“Keep this quiet a bit,” said Bremer. “I'll take her over to Brennan's funeral home, get her cleaned up a bit.”
“Got an idea who might have done this.”
George waved over the tow truck driver. He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and squinted against the bright sunlight at C.W. He'd heard of the stranger up at John Perkin's place. Putting two and two together was about as simple as things get in the Sheriff-ing business. He'd have a chat with the tow truck driver and ask Joe Brennan to keep this quiet for a while. No need to give folks a reason to worry, have them locking their doors at night and getting all out of sorts for no reason. He nodded slowly.
“Got an idea.”
Emmetsburg: Forty-three
I, searching
I, absurd
Am, the wind
Am, contradiction
You, the world
You, salvation
Are, absurd
Are, searching
C.W. settled down on the running board of the Twenty-eight black Chevy wrecker. The cool shade of the square two seater cab fell across his shoulders, in stark contrast as C.W. tilted his face to the warm morning sun. He gave a burdened sigh, unable to escape the image of the woman in the trunk of the car on the hook at the back of the Wrecker. He thought about her life, about her death and about the man who might have killed her. The thought left him far colder than the sun could possibly warm him.
There was only so much he could tell about the woman. She’d been dead about a week, as near as he could tell. There was a fair amount of guessing in that estimate. Time, the creek nd the elements had seen to whatever beauty she possessed. In such a state it was difficult to surmise her age to any safe degree. By the tone of her slender calve C.W. thought she was in her Twenties, but anything beyond that was pure speculation.
In the still humid air the sickly-sweetness of decomposition was inescapable. It was evident right from the start, chasing the owner of the tow truck up the road a ways, leaving C.W. alone to discover the body. Her hands and ankles had been tied with long strips of cloth. A robe was wrapped tightly around the woman’s throat, enough that her blackened, swollen tongue protruded grotesquely from her lips. The eyes, now dark plastic pools were open wide.
It was difficult to remember the last time anyone had seen a murder around in Emmetsburg, or the county. Murder was something that happened far away. It was the product of a frustrated soul who could see no other way. It was the product of a weakened and selfish soul who lacked the will of muscling through and the culture of getting by. Murder was, in the end, a lack of commitment to God and the community for the believers, and humanity and civilization for the non-believer. It was a rare thing for folks in these parts to fail at a commitment. Like bad harvests, cruel winters and broken hearts, they somehow found the strength to weather through the toughest times.
A car approached from Emmetsburg. C.W. looked up, recognizing George Bremer’s dark Ford instantly. It cleared a rise, bouncing almost comically as it came down the other side. Inside Bremer’s elbows, the hands wrapped tightly around the wheel, flapped like clipped wings on a goose. C.W. stood, removing his hat and fanning himself with it. Bremer pulled to a stop across from the Wrecker, partly off the road. Climbing out, George managed a respectful smile. He met C.W. in the road with a handshake, the smell of death drawing his attention instantly.
“Came as quick as I could,” said Bremer.
“Wish it was under better circumstances.”
The two met in the middle of the road with a warm handshake. Still holding firmly to C.W.,s strong calloused hand, George looked back along the road to the tow truck driver. George knew him from St. Mary’s, knew him to be a good family man with two small girls. He seemed terribly upset by all this. Wasn’t a regular thing for a murder to happen here. He was standing up a ways, far enough to keep away from that awful smell. A cigarette burned away in the man’s trembling fingers. He nodded sharply to George and looked off across the fields.
“He find the body?” asked George.
“Said he knew something was amiss the moment he got out of his truck. He hauled the car out of the creek, but I found the body.”
“Looks pretty shook up.”
“I’d say so,” C.W. agreed.
Bremer laid a hand on C.W.’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You holding up okay? Heard about that mess at Bert Himmel’s place.”
C.W. thought a moment, squinted through the bright sunlight. “Trying to be mindful of folks through these inspections. Tell ya, George, got my own misgivings about those tests.”
“Can see that. Think a lot of folks do.”
“Getting out of hand, though. Think this’ll get worse before it gets better.”
“Can’t have a bunch of rabble-rousers putting you off your sworn appointments either. The law is the law. Pay a lot of smarter people than us to make ‘em.”
“Trying not to start a war here, George.”
Bremer agreed, twisting his mouth trying to figure all the permutations. “If it was me, I’d stop this cold, C.W.”
“How so?”
“Bring up a bunch of State police bruisers, and if this keeps up, give ‘em what for.”
“Violence.”
“I’ll bet there’s a couple stirring things up, like this fella, Avery Lysander, who was stoking things in town the other night.”
“Pegged old Avery right.”
“Maybe someone ought to go havea look at his place.”
“Reckon?”
“Show of overwhelming force and most of ‘em will run from Lysander,” said Bremer. “Then you put the fear of god into him.”
“Coming your way next with these inspections.”
Bremer nodded agreeably, “I’ve already been on the phone with the governor. He talked to Hoover himself, n they’re both inclined to send down the National Guard.”
I, absurd
Am, the wind
Am, contradiction
You, the world
You, salvation
Are, absurd
Are, searching
C.W. settled down on the running board of the Twenty-eight black Chevy wrecker. The cool shade of the square two seater cab fell across his shoulders, in stark contrast as C.W. tilted his face to the warm morning sun. He gave a burdened sigh, unable to escape the image of the woman in the trunk of the car on the hook at the back of the Wrecker. He thought about her life, about her death and about the man who might have killed her. The thought left him far colder than the sun could possibly warm him.
There was only so much he could tell about the woman. She’d been dead about a week, as near as he could tell. There was a fair amount of guessing in that estimate. Time, the creek nd the elements had seen to whatever beauty she possessed. In such a state it was difficult to surmise her age to any safe degree. By the tone of her slender calve C.W. thought she was in her Twenties, but anything beyond that was pure speculation.
In the still humid air the sickly-sweetness of decomposition was inescapable. It was evident right from the start, chasing the owner of the tow truck up the road a ways, leaving C.W. alone to discover the body. Her hands and ankles had been tied with long strips of cloth. A robe was wrapped tightly around the woman’s throat, enough that her blackened, swollen tongue protruded grotesquely from her lips. The eyes, now dark plastic pools were open wide.
It was difficult to remember the last time anyone had seen a murder around in Emmetsburg, or the county. Murder was something that happened far away. It was the product of a frustrated soul who could see no other way. It was the product of a weakened and selfish soul who lacked the will of muscling through and the culture of getting by. Murder was, in the end, a lack of commitment to God and the community for the believers, and humanity and civilization for the non-believer. It was a rare thing for folks in these parts to fail at a commitment. Like bad harvests, cruel winters and broken hearts, they somehow found the strength to weather through the toughest times.
A car approached from Emmetsburg. C.W. looked up, recognizing George Bremer’s dark Ford instantly. It cleared a rise, bouncing almost comically as it came down the other side. Inside Bremer’s elbows, the hands wrapped tightly around the wheel, flapped like clipped wings on a goose. C.W. stood, removing his hat and fanning himself with it. Bremer pulled to a stop across from the Wrecker, partly off the road. Climbing out, George managed a respectful smile. He met C.W. in the road with a handshake, the smell of death drawing his attention instantly.
“Came as quick as I could,” said Bremer.
“Wish it was under better circumstances.”
The two met in the middle of the road with a warm handshake. Still holding firmly to C.W.,s strong calloused hand, George looked back along the road to the tow truck driver. George knew him from St. Mary’s, knew him to be a good family man with two small girls. He seemed terribly upset by all this. Wasn’t a regular thing for a murder to happen here. He was standing up a ways, far enough to keep away from that awful smell. A cigarette burned away in the man’s trembling fingers. He nodded sharply to George and looked off across the fields.
“He find the body?” asked George.
“Said he knew something was amiss the moment he got out of his truck. He hauled the car out of the creek, but I found the body.”
“Looks pretty shook up.”
“I’d say so,” C.W. agreed.
Bremer laid a hand on C.W.’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You holding up okay? Heard about that mess at Bert Himmel’s place.”
C.W. thought a moment, squinted through the bright sunlight. “Trying to be mindful of folks through these inspections. Tell ya, George, got my own misgivings about those tests.”
“Can see that. Think a lot of folks do.”
“Getting out of hand, though. Think this’ll get worse before it gets better.”
“Can’t have a bunch of rabble-rousers putting you off your sworn appointments either. The law is the law. Pay a lot of smarter people than us to make ‘em.”
“Trying not to start a war here, George.”
Bremer agreed, twisting his mouth trying to figure all the permutations. “If it was me, I’d stop this cold, C.W.”
“How so?”
“Bring up a bunch of State police bruisers, and if this keeps up, give ‘em what for.”
“Violence.”
“I’ll bet there’s a couple stirring things up, like this fella, Avery Lysander, who was stoking things in town the other night.”
“Pegged old Avery right.”
“Maybe someone ought to go havea look at his place.”
“Reckon?”
“Show of overwhelming force and most of ‘em will run from Lysander,” said Bremer. “Then you put the fear of god into him.”
“Coming your way next with these inspections.”
Bremer nodded agreeably, “I’ve already been on the phone with the governor. He talked to Hoover himself, n they’re both inclined to send down the National Guard.”
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.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-eight
Green. Sins. These sins that echo constantly in the soul, like a whisper in the night. How many lifetimes would it take to outlast those echoes? Are they a fair burden, the price exacted for pain and treachery inflicted upon others? They accumulate like locusts on the wind, eventually devouring everything good and redeemable. These sins, small and large, the negotiations with ravenous egos piloting the soul to ruin.
And is religion and the permutations of fleeting morality, bled through the prism of ramshackle ethics, the means of escaping these sins? Not as an absolution by God, but as merely a cloak spread upon that blighted ground. The ground beneath remains ravaged and blighted, but must it remain that way forever? Is there any redemption, any return to the beauty and purity (if it was ever pure) of that original heart? Was God the redeemer, was choice, or is it death(or insanity)?
John weighed that question as he stood at the top of the trench, hidden from snipers by the glare of the setting sun. He looked back across the no man's land. He wasn't sick or exhausted or in pain any more. He was numb and empty. His brow was a ragged line, his eyes fixed upon movement in the distance, a figure moving near the German lines. The German stumbled towards his trench cradling that injured arm. At the edge he turned and looked back for John before disappeared forever.
Were sins something that could be weighed in the balance? For instance, what was a life worth? He hadn't killed the German, though it would have been an easy thing to do. No man would have judged him. War erases all pretentions of humanity and crumbles any construction of civilization. But a man's life was not his to take. It wasn't anyone's to take, which perhaps defined murder as a sin. In that regard, no sin could be undone. The only thing remaining was atonement. As John climbed back into the trench there was much he needed to atone for.
And is religion and the permutations of fleeting morality, bled through the prism of ramshackle ethics, the means of escaping these sins? Not as an absolution by God, but as merely a cloak spread upon that blighted ground. The ground beneath remains ravaged and blighted, but must it remain that way forever? Is there any redemption, any return to the beauty and purity (if it was ever pure) of that original heart? Was God the redeemer, was choice, or is it death(or insanity)?
John weighed that question as he stood at the top of the trench, hidden from snipers by the glare of the setting sun. He looked back across the no man's land. He wasn't sick or exhausted or in pain any more. He was numb and empty. His brow was a ragged line, his eyes fixed upon movement in the distance, a figure moving near the German lines. The German stumbled towards his trench cradling that injured arm. At the edge he turned and looked back for John before disappeared forever.
Were sins something that could be weighed in the balance? For instance, what was a life worth? He hadn't killed the German, though it would have been an easy thing to do. No man would have judged him. War erases all pretentions of humanity and crumbles any construction of civilization. But a man's life was not his to take. It wasn't anyone's to take, which perhaps defined murder as a sin. In that regard, no sin could be undone. The only thing remaining was atonement. As John climbed back into the trench there was much he needed to atone for.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Emmetsburg: Twenty-seven
John knew the spot. It was small place at the back of the cemetery set off quite obviously from the other graves. There all the stillborn and infant children were buried. It was as if they bore a separate caste from those who had lived and loved and dreamed. Their tiny plots and inconsequential gravestones were quietly succumbing to encroaching grass. A few had been recently adorned with toys and trinkets and candles. There were dried flowers on another. The rest were forgotten.
John didn't pull in all the way. It seemed more appropriate to get out and walk the rest of the way rather than to disturb the peace and quite of this place, as though there was a necessary reflection awaiting. As though there was something whose value was measured in unhurried steps and silence.
There are moments beyond word and description. Moments that pull the body to earth with an undeniable weight, like the roots of a great oak holding it firmly to earth. What words, after all, could appropriately describe the loss of child. When at last they came to that place, the inscription on the flat limestone marker was all that needed to be said.
DANIEL PATRICK PERKINS
born JUNE 11, 1929
died JUNE 12, 1929
John looked skyward and felt the fullness of the emotion, like a stone in his chest. Little Daniel had been born breach, strangled by the umbilical cord. He'd lived through the night, his final breaths fading like echoes across the sea.
How does a soul live only for one day, thought John? What god could conceive of so fundamental an injustice? Could not the universe exist and allow for the life of a child? It all called to mind for John the purpose and the very existence of the soul. It seemed to him that the very purpose of the soul was to live, and if nature eschewed waste, at least in theory, wasn’t the waste of a child’s soul the greatest of god’s hypocrisies? He looked to Anna for some explanation, but her expression was as heavy and distant as he had ever know.
She could feel his expectant gaze, but Anna was somewhere a man could never go. She felt herself pulled into the grave, filtered thru the grass and poured down to soak through the soil until she filled the small casket beside her child. And he was there, sleeping deeply as Anna pulled the boy to her breast. And there in that quiet place she cried out loud, her voice absorbed by the heavy earth so that not another soul in the world would hear.
John stood for longer than he thought he could bear. He stood for Anna, but remained unsure when she turned and quietly walked back up to the road. He followed, keeping a step or two behind her. Her gate was smooth and measured. She looked skyward and all around, as though contemplating the moment. She was so strong, he thought, but then it all fell to pieces.
Anna stopped without turning back. Her mouth fell open in a silent lament, and Anna gave a shuddering breath but held back tears. With that she thrust out an arm, grasping for some anchor, as though grief might sweep her from the earth and fling her out into space and freeze her in that moment forever. John rushed to her. He took her by the arm and led her up to the truck.
John didn't pull in all the way. It seemed more appropriate to get out and walk the rest of the way rather than to disturb the peace and quite of this place, as though there was a necessary reflection awaiting. As though there was something whose value was measured in unhurried steps and silence.
There are moments beyond word and description. Moments that pull the body to earth with an undeniable weight, like the roots of a great oak holding it firmly to earth. What words, after all, could appropriately describe the loss of child. When at last they came to that place, the inscription on the flat limestone marker was all that needed to be said.
DANIEL PATRICK PERKINS
born JUNE 11, 1929
died JUNE 12, 1929
John looked skyward and felt the fullness of the emotion, like a stone in his chest. Little Daniel had been born breach, strangled by the umbilical cord. He'd lived through the night, his final breaths fading like echoes across the sea.
How does a soul live only for one day, thought John? What god could conceive of so fundamental an injustice? Could not the universe exist and allow for the life of a child? It all called to mind for John the purpose and the very existence of the soul. It seemed to him that the very purpose of the soul was to live, and if nature eschewed waste, at least in theory, wasn’t the waste of a child’s soul the greatest of god’s hypocrisies? He looked to Anna for some explanation, but her expression was as heavy and distant as he had ever know.
She could feel his expectant gaze, but Anna was somewhere a man could never go. She felt herself pulled into the grave, filtered thru the grass and poured down to soak through the soil until she filled the small casket beside her child. And he was there, sleeping deeply as Anna pulled the boy to her breast. And there in that quiet place she cried out loud, her voice absorbed by the heavy earth so that not another soul in the world would hear.
John stood for longer than he thought he could bear. He stood for Anna, but remained unsure when she turned and quietly walked back up to the road. He followed, keeping a step or two behind her. Her gate was smooth and measured. She looked skyward and all around, as though contemplating the moment. She was so strong, he thought, but then it all fell to pieces.
Anna stopped without turning back. Her mouth fell open in a silent lament, and Anna gave a shuddering breath but held back tears. With that she thrust out an arm, grasping for some anchor, as though grief might sweep her from the earth and fling her out into space and freeze her in that moment forever. John rushed to her. He took her by the arm and led her up to the truck.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Thirteen
Back outside the silvery sun overwhelmed a light breeze off the fields. The breeze was fat with the mineral scent of the previous night’s rain. The Sheriff was doing his best to wave off the fight. He retreated to his car with the farmers in tow.
Ernie Vogel grabbed the door before the Sheriff could close it and held it fast. The argument had devolved terribly for the short spell John was in the store. It had taken on a decidedly bitter tone. Ernie, who was usually a bit on the reserved side, looked at the edge of madness, as if he might attack C.W. at any moment. The others looked the same, like a nest of cottonmouth’s ready to lash out in blind and desperate rage. The two men wrestled slightly a moment with the door.
“I’ll defend my property if that’s what it comes to!” Ernie snapped.
C.W. leaned out, his furled brow painted with beading sweat that ran in dirty cascades down his rough cut face. “Fellas, how are you gonna feel if some poor soul gets sick off bad meat because you don’t trust the test?”
“The test ain’t no good and you know it!”
“What you’re asking will be the ruin of our livelihoods and families,” Jesse Laughten's tone was urgent and almost pleading.
“What I'm saying is that we're all in the same boat,” said C.W. “They could come for my cattle just the same as any of you.”
“Then you ought be on our side,” said Vogel, gripping C.W.'s arm. C.W. grabbed the Ernie's forearm and held it firmly, staring directly into the man's eyes.
“I'm on the side of the law. I expect you fellas will be too.”
“Or what?”
“Or there'll be hell to pay.”
John watched all of this while leaning on the hood of his truck. C.W. Let go of Ernie Vogel's arm and sped away without another word. Avery Lysander, who had been standing off from an observing distance, like a hawk or a skulking coyote, spit and looked up at John. There was murder in Avery's eyes, of a calculated and scheming kind. He'd seen that fire before. It was a fatal determination. It was the look he'd seen in men's eyes as they threw themselves out of trenches into the blazing death of German machine guns. It was in the eyes of a young German soldier charging at John with an upraised trench shovel, knowing full well he stood no chance as John leveled his weapon.
“C.W. sure left in a huff,” said John.
“Says there'll be hell to pay,”
“Figure?”
Both men looked after the billowing cloud of dust rising behind C.W.'s Ford Coupe. As it topped the far hill the automobile appeared like a square little beetle chased by that dust. Avery slapped John on the shoulder and headed for his truck.
“Might find the bill comes due at his own doorstep,” said Avery. The words left John cold and fearful.
Ernie Vogel grabbed the door before the Sheriff could close it and held it fast. The argument had devolved terribly for the short spell John was in the store. It had taken on a decidedly bitter tone. Ernie, who was usually a bit on the reserved side, looked at the edge of madness, as if he might attack C.W. at any moment. The others looked the same, like a nest of cottonmouth’s ready to lash out in blind and desperate rage. The two men wrestled slightly a moment with the door.
“I’ll defend my property if that’s what it comes to!” Ernie snapped.
C.W. leaned out, his furled brow painted with beading sweat that ran in dirty cascades down his rough cut face. “Fellas, how are you gonna feel if some poor soul gets sick off bad meat because you don’t trust the test?”
“The test ain’t no good and you know it!”
“What you’re asking will be the ruin of our livelihoods and families,” Jesse Laughten's tone was urgent and almost pleading.
“What I'm saying is that we're all in the same boat,” said C.W. “They could come for my cattle just the same as any of you.”
“Then you ought be on our side,” said Vogel, gripping C.W.'s arm. C.W. grabbed the Ernie's forearm and held it firmly, staring directly into the man's eyes.
“I'm on the side of the law. I expect you fellas will be too.”
“Or what?”
“Or there'll be hell to pay.”
John watched all of this while leaning on the hood of his truck. C.W. Let go of Ernie Vogel's arm and sped away without another word. Avery Lysander, who had been standing off from an observing distance, like a hawk or a skulking coyote, spit and looked up at John. There was murder in Avery's eyes, of a calculated and scheming kind. He'd seen that fire before. It was a fatal determination. It was the look he'd seen in men's eyes as they threw themselves out of trenches into the blazing death of German machine guns. It was in the eyes of a young German soldier charging at John with an upraised trench shovel, knowing full well he stood no chance as John leveled his weapon.
“C.W. sure left in a huff,” said John.
“Says there'll be hell to pay,”
“Figure?”
Both men looked after the billowing cloud of dust rising behind C.W.'s Ford Coupe. As it topped the far hill the automobile appeared like a square little beetle chased by that dust. Avery slapped John on the shoulder and headed for his truck.
“Might find the bill comes due at his own doorstep,” said Avery. The words left John cold and fearful.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Twelve
“Wish they’d take that mess down the road a piece,” Bert grumbled before his eyes met John’s. He paused like he’d been caught at something, and half smiled a bit sheepishly for it. “Put up a sign that says social center and new village hall!”
Burt was a shade taller than his boy and a good deal huskier now that the years were creeping up on him steadily. He had icy white hair that had receded a tad. The sweaty ends were matted to his forehead and temples. Smelled of cigars, sweat and engine grease. His powerful arms were stained with grease and oil clear to the elbows, where it stained the rolled up sleeves of a blue denim shirt. Bert scooted around the counter and stood next to Myron. Was like a looking glass that showed the future. Burt was fighting to catch his breath. He was leaning on the counter, his chest heaving a little too hard. His chubby dirt-streaked face was red as a beet. Bert smiled weakly and grabbed his boy’s arm. The gesture had the quality of a plea.
“Fetch me a cup of water,” he said. Myron was away in an instant. He looked to John, who trying his best not to appear overly concerned at Bert's rough condition. “Hell getting old.”
“Do my best to avoid it.”
“Wasn’t but about a block I run. Damned if I can’t catch my breath.” He chuckled, and coughed. “Was a time I could outrun any lug in the county.”
Myron returned with a tin cup of water from the pump out back. John had taken a drink from that well many a hot day. he could smell the soft mineral scent of the water and could almost feel its coldness as Bert Himmel chugged it down. Ample amounts dripped onto the fat man's blue shirt. Bert let the cup bang against the counter. He finally seemed to catch his breath.
“Where are my manners,” he said. “What can I do for you, John?”
“Mister Perkins was inquiring about another roll of tar paper, Pop,” said Myron.
“Run on it this morning, with the storm and all. Heard it might have been a twister.”
“That right?” said John
“How much do you need?”
“Seven Dollars worth?’
“Cover the whole neighborhood?” Bert coughed mid laugh.
“Hoping to pick up a job or two.”
“Real blessing, strong back and shoulders.”
“Bout all I got these days,” John nodded. “That and my wits, for whatever they’re worth.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“Figure two days up on the roof. Before it rains again, I suppose.”
“See what I can do,” Bert came around and laid a hand heavily on John's shoulder, as much for support as neighborliness.
John started for the door. He turned back to Bert and Myron. Bert was already behind the counter, collapsed in a chair and fanning himself.
“Could use a hand, if you can spare your boy a day or two,” said John. Myron looked eagerly to his father.
Bert sort of leaned back over the chair, looking a bit like a rag doll someone had tossed there. Both men could see the excitement in the boy's face.“Interested?”
“Gee, could I, Pop?”
“Couldn't pay but about two bits,” said John. “Promise a couple good home-cooked meals.”
“I'd do it just for Mrs. Perkin's cooking!”
“You'll take the two bits as well,” said John.
Burt was a shade taller than his boy and a good deal huskier now that the years were creeping up on him steadily. He had icy white hair that had receded a tad. The sweaty ends were matted to his forehead and temples. Smelled of cigars, sweat and engine grease. His powerful arms were stained with grease and oil clear to the elbows, where it stained the rolled up sleeves of a blue denim shirt. Bert scooted around the counter and stood next to Myron. Was like a looking glass that showed the future. Burt was fighting to catch his breath. He was leaning on the counter, his chest heaving a little too hard. His chubby dirt-streaked face was red as a beet. Bert smiled weakly and grabbed his boy’s arm. The gesture had the quality of a plea.
“Fetch me a cup of water,” he said. Myron was away in an instant. He looked to John, who trying his best not to appear overly concerned at Bert's rough condition. “Hell getting old.”
“Do my best to avoid it.”
“Wasn’t but about a block I run. Damned if I can’t catch my breath.” He chuckled, and coughed. “Was a time I could outrun any lug in the county.”
Myron returned with a tin cup of water from the pump out back. John had taken a drink from that well many a hot day. he could smell the soft mineral scent of the water and could almost feel its coldness as Bert Himmel chugged it down. Ample amounts dripped onto the fat man's blue shirt. Bert let the cup bang against the counter. He finally seemed to catch his breath.
“Where are my manners,” he said. “What can I do for you, John?”
“Mister Perkins was inquiring about another roll of tar paper, Pop,” said Myron.
“Run on it this morning, with the storm and all. Heard it might have been a twister.”
“That right?” said John
“How much do you need?”
“Seven Dollars worth?’
“Cover the whole neighborhood?” Bert coughed mid laugh.
“Hoping to pick up a job or two.”
“Real blessing, strong back and shoulders.”
“Bout all I got these days,” John nodded. “That and my wits, for whatever they’re worth.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“Figure two days up on the roof. Before it rains again, I suppose.”
“See what I can do,” Bert came around and laid a hand heavily on John's shoulder, as much for support as neighborliness.
John started for the door. He turned back to Bert and Myron. Bert was already behind the counter, collapsed in a chair and fanning himself.
“Could use a hand, if you can spare your boy a day or two,” said John. Myron looked eagerly to his father.
Bert sort of leaned back over the chair, looking a bit like a rag doll someone had tossed there. Both men could see the excitement in the boy's face.“Interested?”
“Gee, could I, Pop?”
“Couldn't pay but about two bits,” said John. “Promise a couple good home-cooked meals.”
“I'd do it just for Mrs. Perkin's cooking!”
“You'll take the two bits as well,” said John.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
THE LAST MAN: Part Forty-two
I climb slowly to my feet. As I draw Desiree up, still shielding her with my body, it seems impossible we are still alive. Desiree is already pulling me towards the sewer, knowing full well this could be our last chance for escape. At the entrance to the alley I spot movement among the dead. I pull away from Desiree. Her fingers linger at the end of our touch. Her face fully reflects the urgency of this moment, but I have to go.
“Please, I beg you,” she pleads.
“One moment is all I ask.”
I take her in my arms and look purposefully into her tortured eyes. We both look to gunfire out in the street. The sound comes nearer with each passing heartbeat. Her fingers grip the sleeves of my tunic tightly, as if she might drag me away if all else fails.
“If something happens,” I tell her, “follow the sewer to the coast. You will find…”
“I won’t, not without you!”
“You must,” I say, pulling away. It takes every ounce of strength and courage I can muster her. We may only have this one chance, but I have to go.
I follow the wall to the top of the alley. In the street, a few yards away the Man from the Corporation lies bleeding. Bullets have pierced his body crossways from hip to shoulder. I am amazed he is still alive. Seeing me he musters the strength for an ironic smile. At the end of the street, in the direction of the Reclamation Center, Section Twenty-one troops loyal to him are fighting a losing battle against the Minister’s forces. Bullets rip at the air overhead and skip at the street close by.
Ignoring the fighting I kneel beside him. Gently I lay my hand upon his shoulder. It is cold to the touch. Already I can feel the life fleeing from his body.
“Seems as though I am the one eager to say goodbye now,” he says weakly.
A cross the street a man stumbles from the fight and collapses against the wall. The street battle reaches its climax. The man from the Corporation looks past me to the ultramarine sky, and the torn layers of smoke and dust.
“Does it hurt terribly?”
His eyes find mine. “I did not believe I would see you again. Don’t ascribe any purposefulness in saving you, if that is in fact what I’ve done.”
“Still, I owe you a debt, my friend.”
The word seems to catch him a moment. It seems to rescue him from the finality of the moment, more than he rescued Desiree and me from the Minister’s bullet.
“It is I who owe you a debt.” I said. “In the atrium you said something I did not understand. You said that a man alone is always defeated, but that a man alone has nothing to lose but his dignity, and that he will defend to the last.”
“I did.”
“But not all men. It takes an uncommon character.”
“Or a common man in an uncommon situation.”
“Perhaps if that were truer we would live in a very different world. I believe you are the last man…my friend”
Only a hand full of his loyal men remain now. They have retreated to doorways around us. At the top of the street, seeming to rise from the lingering smoke and haze from the Reclamation Center, an armored troop carrier creeps forward spitting fire around the street.
“Anything I can do for you?” I ask.
He looks to Desiree. There is a lonesome look to his eyes, as though he realizes something he has always missed but only now discovered. With his final breaths he reaches up and touches my face.
“She is waiting for you,” he says, breathing heavier and more erratic now. “See how she looks at you? That better world awaits if the two of you can find it.”
With that he is gone. As I close his eyes I know he meant less of the physical world than of something more. I am coming to a definition of love in Desiree. Implied in that word is the hope of a different world, if we can find it.
“Please, I beg you,” she pleads.
“One moment is all I ask.”
I take her in my arms and look purposefully into her tortured eyes. We both look to gunfire out in the street. The sound comes nearer with each passing heartbeat. Her fingers grip the sleeves of my tunic tightly, as if she might drag me away if all else fails.
“If something happens,” I tell her, “follow the sewer to the coast. You will find…”
“I won’t, not without you!”
“You must,” I say, pulling away. It takes every ounce of strength and courage I can muster her. We may only have this one chance, but I have to go.
I follow the wall to the top of the alley. In the street, a few yards away the Man from the Corporation lies bleeding. Bullets have pierced his body crossways from hip to shoulder. I am amazed he is still alive. Seeing me he musters the strength for an ironic smile. At the end of the street, in the direction of the Reclamation Center, Section Twenty-one troops loyal to him are fighting a losing battle against the Minister’s forces. Bullets rip at the air overhead and skip at the street close by.
Ignoring the fighting I kneel beside him. Gently I lay my hand upon his shoulder. It is cold to the touch. Already I can feel the life fleeing from his body.
“Seems as though I am the one eager to say goodbye now,” he says weakly.
A cross the street a man stumbles from the fight and collapses against the wall. The street battle reaches its climax. The man from the Corporation looks past me to the ultramarine sky, and the torn layers of smoke and dust.
“Does it hurt terribly?”
His eyes find mine. “I did not believe I would see you again. Don’t ascribe any purposefulness in saving you, if that is in fact what I’ve done.”
“Still, I owe you a debt, my friend.”
The word seems to catch him a moment. It seems to rescue him from the finality of the moment, more than he rescued Desiree and me from the Minister’s bullet.
“It is I who owe you a debt.” I said. “In the atrium you said something I did not understand. You said that a man alone is always defeated, but that a man alone has nothing to lose but his dignity, and that he will defend to the last.”
“I did.”
“But not all men. It takes an uncommon character.”
“Or a common man in an uncommon situation.”
“Perhaps if that were truer we would live in a very different world. I believe you are the last man…my friend”
Only a hand full of his loyal men remain now. They have retreated to doorways around us. At the top of the street, seeming to rise from the lingering smoke and haze from the Reclamation Center, an armored troop carrier creeps forward spitting fire around the street.
“Anything I can do for you?” I ask.
He looks to Desiree. There is a lonesome look to his eyes, as though he realizes something he has always missed but only now discovered. With his final breaths he reaches up and touches my face.
“She is waiting for you,” he says, breathing heavier and more erratic now. “See how she looks at you? That better world awaits if the two of you can find it.”
With that he is gone. As I close his eyes I know he meant less of the physical world than of something more. I am coming to a definition of love in Desiree. Implied in that word is the hope of a different world, if we can find it.
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