They were gathered tightly above him. Some of the faces were familiar. Others were strangers to him. One of the soldiers was waving people back, urging the others to give John some air, as if air could undo the mortal damage done to his body, as if air could stop the crimson blood flowing freely from John’s body into the warm Iowa soil.
The rain had moved off. A thunderhead grew in the distance. John watched it grow along an axis, spreading across the eastern sky, Like floating white-capped mountains. It was like another world that he could well imagine among the folds, the contours and plunging canyons. He imagined towns and roads and farms where love and life were idyllic. Not like this one, burdened with sin and guilt and pain.
Someone wiped sweat and dirt from his face. He could no longer feel it, much as he could no longer hear the voices, the birds fluttering in the yard or the Myron Himmel weeping nearby. Life was falling away, darkening at the edges. It was losing focus, everything but that distant thunderhead, which felt like a destination. It felt like home, and like home broke his heart and gave him hope just the same.
Anna pushed through the circle of faces around him. Kneeling cradled his head, her expression somewhere between a forgiving smile and unfathomable grief. For John seeing her was the ultimate destination. Whatever awaited him beyond the threshold of this life, it was her face that would see him through. There was nothing more. There was no sadness, no guilt, no sense that he was leaving the world too early. Worries and recriminations are the fantasies of romantics and novelists. In the end it all comes to nothing, sweet beautiful nothing. Death comes. Death comes.
Showing posts with label economy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label economy. Show all posts
Monday, April 5, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Emmetsburg: Sixty-two
Golden. It was shame that drove him west out of Vermillion. Not that John had much of an idea where he was headed, just as he had no real interest in where he ended up. So he went west, because it was as good a direction as any. He drove west across the dust choked emptiness of South Dakota.
The road was hardly more than a dirt track, running off into the distance, towards the indiscernible horizon, where perhaps a new fate awaited to replace the one he sought to escape in Emmetsburg. He drew to a stop at a crossroads. The earth and sky were blended, as if they were the base colors on a great canvas, the world and details to be supplied later. It was a continuum, as if the two were kin. All that could be seen were a line of telegraph poles, a single black wire connecting them until they were swollowed in the dust and haze of the plain. John weigh his options and decided to continue with the telegraph line.
He couldn't say how long he'd been driving. Not for sure anyway. He had an idea. He'd left Vermillion sometime before dawn, and he'd watched the sun march across the sky. John figured it was late afternoon, especially when he pulled up on the tiny little town, the shadows of the half dozen or some small buildings stretching across the road.
It was a stretch to call the place a town. To one side there was an old barn, that looked like it might have just been there forever. An old Indian leaned from a chair against the barn. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers. He was tall, his ochre skin stretched tightly over a slender frame. Beside the barn was a water pump. The barn faced a general store doubling as the town hall. There was a single Sunoco gasoline pump out front. Further along was a house, and a small Baptist Church.
John drew to a stop in front of the barn and climbed out, brushing the dust f rom his trousers and shoulders. The Indian didn't budge a muscle. His eyes were closed, but the precarious nature of his balancing act on the two back legs of that old chair made it clear he wasn't.
“Mind if I help myself to your water pump?” John said from the road. The toes of his boots met the edge of the barn's shadow. He remained there, as if that line marked some boundary.
“Don't cost nothing.” said the Indian, without hardly moving a muscle.
“Much obliged.”
Thank the good Lord.”
John stepped into the cool of the shadow. His eyes kept going to the Indian, even as he quenched his thirst and cooled his neck and face from the icy cold water from the well. John stood, the front of his shirt soaked and heavy from water. In the shadow of the barn it almost gave him a chill.
“Ask you a question?” he said.
“Those are free too.”
“Where is this place?”
“That depends,” said the Indian.
“On what?”
“On where you want to be.”
The road was hardly more than a dirt track, running off into the distance, towards the indiscernible horizon, where perhaps a new fate awaited to replace the one he sought to escape in Emmetsburg. He drew to a stop at a crossroads. The earth and sky were blended, as if they were the base colors on a great canvas, the world and details to be supplied later. It was a continuum, as if the two were kin. All that could be seen were a line of telegraph poles, a single black wire connecting them until they were swollowed in the dust and haze of the plain. John weigh his options and decided to continue with the telegraph line.
He couldn't say how long he'd been driving. Not for sure anyway. He had an idea. He'd left Vermillion sometime before dawn, and he'd watched the sun march across the sky. John figured it was late afternoon, especially when he pulled up on the tiny little town, the shadows of the half dozen or some small buildings stretching across the road.
It was a stretch to call the place a town. To one side there was an old barn, that looked like it might have just been there forever. An old Indian leaned from a chair against the barn. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers. He was tall, his ochre skin stretched tightly over a slender frame. Beside the barn was a water pump. The barn faced a general store doubling as the town hall. There was a single Sunoco gasoline pump out front. Further along was a house, and a small Baptist Church.
John drew to a stop in front of the barn and climbed out, brushing the dust f rom his trousers and shoulders. The Indian didn't budge a muscle. His eyes were closed, but the precarious nature of his balancing act on the two back legs of that old chair made it clear he wasn't.
“Mind if I help myself to your water pump?” John said from the road. The toes of his boots met the edge of the barn's shadow. He remained there, as if that line marked some boundary.
“Don't cost nothing.” said the Indian, without hardly moving a muscle.
“Much obliged.”
Thank the good Lord.”
John stepped into the cool of the shadow. His eyes kept going to the Indian, even as he quenched his thirst and cooled his neck and face from the icy cold water from the well. John stood, the front of his shirt soaked and heavy from water. In the shadow of the barn it almost gave him a chill.
“Ask you a question?” he said.
“Those are free too.”
“Where is this place?”
“That depends,” said the Indian.
“On what?”
“On where you want to be.”
Friday, March 19, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-seven
John headed south out of town. Not far, but towards a dark line of trees that marked the vermillian river. He could make out the tangerine glow of a dozen or more fires, widely scattered among the trees. Most likely, John guessed, it was folks coming up out of Oklahoma and Kansas ahead of the hard times. He figured he could just as easily content himself among souls as lost as he felt.
The day had faded when John pulled the truck up to the nearest fire. It was farthest from the others and much smaller by comparison. It illuminated a tiny shack with bits of wood, pieces of fabric in the crudest fashion The roof was an old olive drab army tent strung between the shack and an even older Model T. A simple three-drawer bureau, small cot, wash basin and metal post bed were almost lost to the shadow of the tent and open end of the shack. Dining chairs and a table were arranged beneath the stunning canopy of stars on a round handmade bed. Banks of gray-white wood smoke held to the branches and leaves above the makeshift camp. Close by the fire crackled in an odd rhythm to crickets and the flickering dance of countless fireflies.
Behind this ramshackle transient home a line of laundry was strung between two trees. Stockings, under garments, a woman's blue blouse and some old gray rags hungs haphazard from the line. It hung precisely where the bank dipped towards the river. The laundry was still wet in places, and was wrinkle where it had been twisted and wrung dry by hand.
There was an elderly couple on a pair of wood stools in front of the shack. The woman's stool was a good deal shorter than his, as if there was some sort of pauper's heirarchy. She was in a long browm dress with white and gols little flowers. A hand-knitted men's sweater convered her disillusioned shoulders. The collar of the dress was turned up, over the collar of the sweater. She was small and frail, facing away from him, at the edge of her stool, as though she might suddenly bolt into the black night and disappear forever. He was seated almost unnaturally straight, as if he was posing for a photograph. His neat white button shirt was stretch across a slight belly, but loose across his straight and narrow shoulders. The light of the fire played upon the contours and interescting valleys of their faces. Those shadows hid the murdered pride of a man who’d done good honest work his whole life and now had nothing to show for it. He sat like a statue to a pauper king, with one arm laid across his lap. The other held an empty pipe at one knee. Behind them the river whispered steadily. Neither reacted as John leaned part way out the window.
“If its just the same,” he said, “I could use a spell beside your fire. Just to rest a bit and then I’ll move along.”
The old man nodded slowly without looking directly at John. When he spoke his voice was rich and deep. It carried a faded German accent heavily layered with an Oklahoma drawl. The words slurred a bit, enough that John thought it odd.
“Fire’s free.” The old man looked to the night sky.
John climbed from the truck. The grass was thin and dry beneath his boots. It crunched softly with each step. He went over to where the couple sat, looking back towards town and rocking on his heels.
“Obliged,” he said, respectfully.
“Afraid we don’t have much else to offer, stranger,” said the man.
“Times being what they are,” said John
“My apologies.”
“The fire just looked inviting. Got a bed roll in the truck. I’ll be moving on soon enough.”
“Suit yerself.”
The man’s wife looked up at that moment. It was the first John had seen her move. It was like she’d just come to life, out of a trance or a deep thought. “Suppose there’s a bit of coffee left.”
Her husband didn’t react, though john was certain the fellow’s brow furled just a little. John smiled, recalling how when things got tight at home he was the one who pulled back, who held tight to every crumb, while Anna would trade her soul over any insinuation of an inhospitable nature.
“Don't want to bother.”
“No bother,” she replied, without moving from the stool. Her eyes moved just a bit, noting the slightest frown from her husband.
A woman appeared through the laundry, coming up from the river. She came up like a breeze, a long green printed dress flowing after her. The dress had slipped off one shoulder, baring part of one breast. The color of her long hair was lost to the night, but the fire caught her eyes and burned deeply there. Her sudden appearance, the rhythm of her smooth movements was so harmonious John was left wondering if it wasn’t some sort of sign. He wondered if the sudden lingering meeting of their eyes did not foretell or promise something more.
The day had faded when John pulled the truck up to the nearest fire. It was farthest from the others and much smaller by comparison. It illuminated a tiny shack with bits of wood, pieces of fabric in the crudest fashion The roof was an old olive drab army tent strung between the shack and an even older Model T. A simple three-drawer bureau, small cot, wash basin and metal post bed were almost lost to the shadow of the tent and open end of the shack. Dining chairs and a table were arranged beneath the stunning canopy of stars on a round handmade bed. Banks of gray-white wood smoke held to the branches and leaves above the makeshift camp. Close by the fire crackled in an odd rhythm to crickets and the flickering dance of countless fireflies.
Behind this ramshackle transient home a line of laundry was strung between two trees. Stockings, under garments, a woman's blue blouse and some old gray rags hungs haphazard from the line. It hung precisely where the bank dipped towards the river. The laundry was still wet in places, and was wrinkle where it had been twisted and wrung dry by hand.
There was an elderly couple on a pair of wood stools in front of the shack. The woman's stool was a good deal shorter than his, as if there was some sort of pauper's heirarchy. She was in a long browm dress with white and gols little flowers. A hand-knitted men's sweater convered her disillusioned shoulders. The collar of the dress was turned up, over the collar of the sweater. She was small and frail, facing away from him, at the edge of her stool, as though she might suddenly bolt into the black night and disappear forever. He was seated almost unnaturally straight, as if he was posing for a photograph. His neat white button shirt was stretch across a slight belly, but loose across his straight and narrow shoulders. The light of the fire played upon the contours and interescting valleys of their faces. Those shadows hid the murdered pride of a man who’d done good honest work his whole life and now had nothing to show for it. He sat like a statue to a pauper king, with one arm laid across his lap. The other held an empty pipe at one knee. Behind them the river whispered steadily. Neither reacted as John leaned part way out the window.
“If its just the same,” he said, “I could use a spell beside your fire. Just to rest a bit and then I’ll move along.”
The old man nodded slowly without looking directly at John. When he spoke his voice was rich and deep. It carried a faded German accent heavily layered with an Oklahoma drawl. The words slurred a bit, enough that John thought it odd.
“Fire’s free.” The old man looked to the night sky.
John climbed from the truck. The grass was thin and dry beneath his boots. It crunched softly with each step. He went over to where the couple sat, looking back towards town and rocking on his heels.
“Obliged,” he said, respectfully.
“Afraid we don’t have much else to offer, stranger,” said the man.
“Times being what they are,” said John
“My apologies.”
“The fire just looked inviting. Got a bed roll in the truck. I’ll be moving on soon enough.”
“Suit yerself.”
The man’s wife looked up at that moment. It was the first John had seen her move. It was like she’d just come to life, out of a trance or a deep thought. “Suppose there’s a bit of coffee left.”
Her husband didn’t react, though john was certain the fellow’s brow furled just a little. John smiled, recalling how when things got tight at home he was the one who pulled back, who held tight to every crumb, while Anna would trade her soul over any insinuation of an inhospitable nature.
“Don't want to bother.”
“No bother,” she replied, without moving from the stool. Her eyes moved just a bit, noting the slightest frown from her husband.
A woman appeared through the laundry, coming up from the river. She came up like a breeze, a long green printed dress flowing after her. The dress had slipped off one shoulder, baring part of one breast. The color of her long hair was lost to the night, but the fire caught her eyes and burned deeply there. Her sudden appearance, the rhythm of her smooth movements was so harmonious John was left wondering if it wasn’t some sort of sign. He wondered if the sudden lingering meeting of their eyes did not foretell or promise something more.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-One
George opened the door and immediately perceived the change in atmosphere. Even in the stale still air of the front office it tasted decidedly less oppressive than the jail cells. Bremer noticed the blood on john's arm and looked at him alarmingly. He pushed past John and went directly to Louis' cell. He was back in the cot, fully surrendered to a deep sleep, as if nothing had happened.
“Everything all right, John?” George's tone was leading, suspecting something out of sorts. John waved his hand in the air. It was warm and pulsing with dull pain, and almost felt dead.
“Healing slowly,” he said unconvincingly. “Don't take much to open her up.”
“George frowned, and looked back at Louis. He didn’t believe him for a moment. “Hope you made your peace. Best you be going now.”
John had made his peace. He felt free of Louis. More than that, he felt he could adequately find the proper perspective for the doubts and questions he'd conjured from all this. He crossed the park, each step lifted by a renewed vigor. He'd never mention word of this to Anna. What a fool he had been to doubt her even for a moment, and if there was one thing he could take from this it would be to cherish her as long as breath remained in his body. There could be no accounting for eternity, but he could account for the quality of his love for her in this life. What else was there? What else could a man hope for?
“Everything all right, John?” George's tone was leading, suspecting something out of sorts. John waved his hand in the air. It was warm and pulsing with dull pain, and almost felt dead.
“Healing slowly,” he said unconvincingly. “Don't take much to open her up.”
“George frowned, and looked back at Louis. He didn’t believe him for a moment. “Hope you made your peace. Best you be going now.”
John had made his peace. He felt free of Louis. More than that, he felt he could adequately find the proper perspective for the doubts and questions he'd conjured from all this. He crossed the park, each step lifted by a renewed vigor. He'd never mention word of this to Anna. What a fool he had been to doubt her even for a moment, and if there was one thing he could take from this it would be to cherish her as long as breath remained in his body. There could be no accounting for eternity, but he could account for the quality of his love for her in this life. What else was there? What else could a man hope for?
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