Crimson. John’s truck roared around the bend, straight at the wall of townsfolk who were still unaware and fully focused on the soldiers and police ahead of them. The rain and rumbling thunder masked the rattle and bang of the old truck. It bore down seemingly intent, despite john’s better intentions, upon smashing directly through those unsuspecting souls.
The effort to move at all became a gargantuan task. His body was charging from life as much as his spirit fought desperately for every remaining moment-if only to see Anna once more or to prove some purpose for all this, and that there was still justice in the world instead of a blind lottery folks alternately succumb to or gorge upon.
Nothing was working for him. This damned body seemed all but out of his control any longer, as if some long denied separation between the body and will was now undeniable. His eyes were liquid, drifting, heavy and unfocused. He swung his head wildly and shook it again and again in a waning attempt to keep them open a little longer. John moaned in an attempt to rally body and spirit once more.
“Anna!” he cried, not knowing for sure if he’d actually spoken the word. But it allowed him the strength to jam his hand down upon the horn at the final instant. People dove from the truck as it cut a swath through the crowd. It was all the effort he had left. John’s head tipped back and his arms fell away limp.
The truck careened hard to one side. The group of soldiers about to fire on the crowd suddenly reeled back, fearing the truck might swing their way. Instead it cut hard across the road, fully separating Myron Himmel and Avery Lysander from the rest of the protesters. They were still struggling for the gun when the truck sped past and slammed into the embankment with a terrific bang, nearly flipping end over end. The sound startled Myron enough for Avery to wrest control of the gun, just as it went off.
It was the gunshot that riveted everyone’s attention, more that the crash, at least at first. The bullet had grazed Myron’s cheek, chopping away a bit of his ear. Blood poured in a torrent, making the wound appear for worse to the stunned onlookers than it actually was. He stood apart from Avery, now alone in the gap between the crowd and the government men, in his hand the smoking gun was now the final tombstone for his schemes and crimes.
Showing posts with label law. Show all posts
Showing posts with label law. Show all posts
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Emmetsburg: Sixty-one
Pale. It was a larger than usual rabble in front of Himmel's General store in Mallard. There was a tension to the tight clusters of men. It was the weight and the ominous uncertainty born from men's convictions. It was, in a very real sense, a war council.
The day was overcast and humid. An unseasonably cool wind came out of Canada, bringing a weight to the day that gave some the sense of impending calamity, and others the feeling of a funeral, like the injustice of a child's burial in which there are no decent resolutions.
In the distance, a muddled pillar of smoke rose to meet those shrouded gray clouds. Now and then the men collected in front of Himmel's would look to that smoke with something approaching resignation, but more akin to guilt. They knew. If they hadn't known then, they all knew now, and by being here shared in that common action. Invariably, when they looked, their eyes drew a line to what they knew were the smoldering remains of C.W. Saunder's home.
Myron Himmel knew as well. He knew more than the others and felt doomed for his part in the crime. Standing in the road, in the shadow of the church across the road, Myron wondered if the path to redemption was in throwing himself upon the alter and confessing his crimes before Jesus Christ, or whether seeing this through was the surer path.
It wasn't simple enough to choose sides. The sides had been chosen for him. It wasn't simple enough to paint one side good and the other evil. Each side was right and wrong in equal proportions. It was just that as each side dug in their heals harder and harder, each side abandoning the foolish notion of compromise, the fight became more about ego and past transgressions than about a mutually beneficial resolution. Each side demonized the other in ever darkening degrees so that now all that remained was to vanquish and destroy the other side. All this for the words of fools and the specter of fear in men’s hearts.
Avery came up and stood beside Myron. Neither acknowledged the other right off. Their gaze was fixed upon the smoke rolling lazily skyward from C.W.'s house. An hour ago that smoke had been black and boiling. It was a softer gray now, just a bit darker than the clouds that consumed it ultimately. Avery looked over at Myron, trying to figure what was going through his mind. It didn't take a lot of figuring.
“It's a hard thing,” said Avery
Myron didn't answer right away. Avery could see that the boy was tearing himself to pieces, which was dangerous at a moment like this.
“Took a big step today,” said Avery. He looked up the road again. “They have to know that we are serious.”
“Don't know, Mister Lysander.”
“What would your father have done?”
Again, Myron didn't answer right off. He'd come upon a single thought in answer to Avery's question. It was the clearest and steadiest he'd had since his father'd passed. The boy looked to the ground, changed deeply by the morning's events. If he had looked over at Avery that moment he would have seen the man for what he truly was. He might have, but Myron never looked over.
“Don't think my dad would have gone for all this.” Myron could almost hear his father's voice.
“Knew your dad a lot of years, boy,' said Avery, with a scolding quality. He wasn't about to allow any of this to unravel. “One thing he wouldn't stand for was bad men taking advantage of poor hardworking folks. He wouldn't let some bureaucrat destroy lives with the stroke of a pen. Am I right? I am, ain't I?”
Myron squinted, still struggling. He replied, but certainly unconvinced. “Suppose.”
“Alot of us took a big risk coming out to stop those inspectors from ruining everything your father worked and sweated his whole life to build. We didn't have to do that. Not one of us asked anything in return, but that don't mean you don't have some responsibility here too.”
Myron chewed his lip, more confused and conflicted than ever. He looked over at Avery, his head still hung heavily. “Heard the Governor might call out the National Guard. They say maybe Hoover himself might get involved.”
“They don't dare.”
“After this morning?”
“They brought this on themselves,” said Avery. His hand slid along the boy's shoulder to hold him by the back of the neck. It wasn't enough to hurt him much, but enough to hold the boy's undivided attention. Avery leaned close. From the corner of his eye he could see Big Bill Connolly headed his way.
“Remember this, if you don't remember nothing else,” Avery's voice was filled with venom. “You are in this with the rest of us up to your neck. You best remember that if one of us goes down we're all gonna swing by the neck if it comes to a real fight.”
The day was overcast and humid. An unseasonably cool wind came out of Canada, bringing a weight to the day that gave some the sense of impending calamity, and others the feeling of a funeral, like the injustice of a child's burial in which there are no decent resolutions.
In the distance, a muddled pillar of smoke rose to meet those shrouded gray clouds. Now and then the men collected in front of Himmel's would look to that smoke with something approaching resignation, but more akin to guilt. They knew. If they hadn't known then, they all knew now, and by being here shared in that common action. Invariably, when they looked, their eyes drew a line to what they knew were the smoldering remains of C.W. Saunder's home.
Myron Himmel knew as well. He knew more than the others and felt doomed for his part in the crime. Standing in the road, in the shadow of the church across the road, Myron wondered if the path to redemption was in throwing himself upon the alter and confessing his crimes before Jesus Christ, or whether seeing this through was the surer path.
It wasn't simple enough to choose sides. The sides had been chosen for him. It wasn't simple enough to paint one side good and the other evil. Each side was right and wrong in equal proportions. It was just that as each side dug in their heals harder and harder, each side abandoning the foolish notion of compromise, the fight became more about ego and past transgressions than about a mutually beneficial resolution. Each side demonized the other in ever darkening degrees so that now all that remained was to vanquish and destroy the other side. All this for the words of fools and the specter of fear in men’s hearts.
Avery came up and stood beside Myron. Neither acknowledged the other right off. Their gaze was fixed upon the smoke rolling lazily skyward from C.W.'s house. An hour ago that smoke had been black and boiling. It was a softer gray now, just a bit darker than the clouds that consumed it ultimately. Avery looked over at Myron, trying to figure what was going through his mind. It didn't take a lot of figuring.
“It's a hard thing,” said Avery
Myron didn't answer right away. Avery could see that the boy was tearing himself to pieces, which was dangerous at a moment like this.
“Took a big step today,” said Avery. He looked up the road again. “They have to know that we are serious.”
“Don't know, Mister Lysander.”
“What would your father have done?”
Again, Myron didn't answer right off. He'd come upon a single thought in answer to Avery's question. It was the clearest and steadiest he'd had since his father'd passed. The boy looked to the ground, changed deeply by the morning's events. If he had looked over at Avery that moment he would have seen the man for what he truly was. He might have, but Myron never looked over.
“Don't think my dad would have gone for all this.” Myron could almost hear his father's voice.
“Knew your dad a lot of years, boy,' said Avery, with a scolding quality. He wasn't about to allow any of this to unravel. “One thing he wouldn't stand for was bad men taking advantage of poor hardworking folks. He wouldn't let some bureaucrat destroy lives with the stroke of a pen. Am I right? I am, ain't I?”
Myron squinted, still struggling. He replied, but certainly unconvinced. “Suppose.”
“Alot of us took a big risk coming out to stop those inspectors from ruining everything your father worked and sweated his whole life to build. We didn't have to do that. Not one of us asked anything in return, but that don't mean you don't have some responsibility here too.”
Myron chewed his lip, more confused and conflicted than ever. He looked over at Avery, his head still hung heavily. “Heard the Governor might call out the National Guard. They say maybe Hoover himself might get involved.”
“They don't dare.”
“After this morning?”
“They brought this on themselves,” said Avery. His hand slid along the boy's shoulder to hold him by the back of the neck. It wasn't enough to hurt him much, but enough to hold the boy's undivided attention. Avery leaned close. From the corner of his eye he could see Big Bill Connolly headed his way.
“Remember this, if you don't remember nothing else,” Avery's voice was filled with venom. “You are in this with the rest of us up to your neck. You best remember that if one of us goes down we're all gonna swing by the neck if it comes to a real fight.”
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-six
Vermillion rose from the umber haze and lavender dusk, like a ghost, like a destination; a concoction of umber shadows, like tombstones set against the dying horizon. Not that the town was John’s intended destination necessarily. Not that it wasn’t either. Outrunning fate, he figured, could entail the smallest of actions as well as the boldest. A body is always a heartbeat away from a thousand different fates.
There was nothing much to distinguish tiny Vermillion, save for the church, the college, a feed store and pale wood frame houses that almost appeared organic, as if they had grown from the table flat plain on their own, and were now being slowly consumed by the land once more. Some were refined, in a Victorian sort of way. Others appeared cobbled together. A few leaned precariously, or settled poorly, as if they were melting into their foundations. The town stood at the edge of time, still clinging to that other century as the new one struggled for purpose.
Side streets were unpaved and deeply rutted, and as still as a graveyard. Candlelight glowed faint from a handful of windows, but otherwise the place might have been deserted. An ivory moon grew from the eastern horizon, fat and squat. That moon only added to the emptiness of the place, and made it seem as if it was frozen in time, like a perpetual memory.
John went slowly through the town. The truck found uncomfortable paths among the criss-crossing ruts, or dipped and slid into muddy holes that might easily snap an axle, bust a spoke or shatter a tire. The rattling old truck and the engine’s pained assertions as it climbed over holes brought yelps and howls from a couple of dogs somewhere. It made him feel like more of an interloper, like an unwanted thread through the simple weave of the town. A mangy gray cat scuttled across the road, hissed at the truck then disappeared down an alley.
John stopped in the center of town, at something of a cross street. Like the dust coming to settle around the truck Johns rampaging emotions, which had carried him here, fell around him. They filled the cabin of that tiny truck, and gave a terrific weight to the warm evening air. To the west the day died quiet as a sliver of crimson, fading to a legacy and a promise to the coming day. Stars blanketed the sky, interrupted here and there by lazy pale yellow clouds still holding desperately to that last bit of daylight. Night deepened at the edges of town.
Grief and regret tore his heart in two. John gripped the wheel tight in both hands and pushed himself hard against the seat. A long low groan escaped him as the realization of what he had done became apparent. He’d left her. How could he have left her? John covered his face and pressed his dirt and sweat streaked forehead to the wheel, still warm from his hands. Would pride and the great wall of shame ever allow him peace for that grievous act?
All of this, Louis, the storm, Burt Himmel and Anna, they all whipped like a cyclone in John’s thoughts. Made all the worse in his despair and physical exhaustion. All of it had whipped like a cyclone in his mind for days. It was made all the worse for his exhaustion. John knew full well there wasn’t enough gas to get back home, even if he’d been in a place to make that decision. Nor was there enough money in his pocket, even if he’d wished. John had painted himself into something of a corner. For better or for worse any decision would have to wait till morning when he was better rested and could see more clearly. There would be a chance then to make a better accounting of things.
There was nothing much to distinguish tiny Vermillion, save for the church, the college, a feed store and pale wood frame houses that almost appeared organic, as if they had grown from the table flat plain on their own, and were now being slowly consumed by the land once more. Some were refined, in a Victorian sort of way. Others appeared cobbled together. A few leaned precariously, or settled poorly, as if they were melting into their foundations. The town stood at the edge of time, still clinging to that other century as the new one struggled for purpose.
Side streets were unpaved and deeply rutted, and as still as a graveyard. Candlelight glowed faint from a handful of windows, but otherwise the place might have been deserted. An ivory moon grew from the eastern horizon, fat and squat. That moon only added to the emptiness of the place, and made it seem as if it was frozen in time, like a perpetual memory.
John went slowly through the town. The truck found uncomfortable paths among the criss-crossing ruts, or dipped and slid into muddy holes that might easily snap an axle, bust a spoke or shatter a tire. The rattling old truck and the engine’s pained assertions as it climbed over holes brought yelps and howls from a couple of dogs somewhere. It made him feel like more of an interloper, like an unwanted thread through the simple weave of the town. A mangy gray cat scuttled across the road, hissed at the truck then disappeared down an alley.
John stopped in the center of town, at something of a cross street. Like the dust coming to settle around the truck Johns rampaging emotions, which had carried him here, fell around him. They filled the cabin of that tiny truck, and gave a terrific weight to the warm evening air. To the west the day died quiet as a sliver of crimson, fading to a legacy and a promise to the coming day. Stars blanketed the sky, interrupted here and there by lazy pale yellow clouds still holding desperately to that last bit of daylight. Night deepened at the edges of town.
Grief and regret tore his heart in two. John gripped the wheel tight in both hands and pushed himself hard against the seat. A long low groan escaped him as the realization of what he had done became apparent. He’d left her. How could he have left her? John covered his face and pressed his dirt and sweat streaked forehead to the wheel, still warm from his hands. Would pride and the great wall of shame ever allow him peace for that grievous act?
All of this, Louis, the storm, Burt Himmel and Anna, they all whipped like a cyclone in John’s thoughts. Made all the worse in his despair and physical exhaustion. All of it had whipped like a cyclone in his mind for days. It was made all the worse for his exhaustion. John knew full well there wasn’t enough gas to get back home, even if he’d been in a place to make that decision. Nor was there enough money in his pocket, even if he’d wished. John had painted himself into something of a corner. For better or for worse any decision would have to wait till morning when he was better rested and could see more clearly. There would be a chance then to make a better accounting of things.
Emmetsburg: Fifty-five
Black. Men contrive. They contrive to exalt their own deeds and conceal their misdeeds. It eventually occurs to a man, as he negotiates a path through a life that he does much more of the latter. It makes those contrivances less about some Biblical concept of evil than about the weakness and weariness of men's hearts when faced with the process of the world. A man will champion those sins to the grave, cocooned in a fundamental angst that he alone plays the fool in a universal lottery. And he’ll stay that course as long as it pays, or until those sins betray him.
It was no different for Avery Lysander. He wasn't an evil man. Was he weaker than most? Perhaps, but better than other men. As he stood before eight thousand farmers beneath the golden dome of the state capitol Avery knew full well his sins, and contrived fully to cloak them no man's land between freedom and the law. He would not be the fool, though he knew deep in his own heart that he was (not understanding that wisdom and humility are the surest paths from foolishness). That night, before a tense and agitated crowd he bandaged that fool’s heart in patriotism and the skewed permutations of liberty, despite that patriotism is a favorite hat and liberty is like capturing the sky in one’s hands.
He raged at them, in the face of a driving downpour. Avery beat the air with his fist and strained red-faced in order to set their souls on fire. Avery invoked God Almighty, charging that the government would come for each of them as a wolf in the night soon enough. Charges of Bolshevism and Communism were window dressing to the hole his words drove like a knife into each of their hearts. Men not easily swayed otherwise were driven to fear and consumed by it. Women prayed to God and Avery Lysander to see them through, like some modern day Moses come to deliver them to the promised land.
Thunder exploded, joining the stinging rain. It did little to dampen the spirits of the protesters, who dwarfed the nervous line of police guarding the gold-domed capitol building. All that held them back from overrunning the police and setting the place to flame was the thinnest veneer of civilization straining at the seams. Men contrive, but a frightened man is more than dangerous.
Communists! Bolsheviks! Avery's voice broke with emotion. The crowd rose along with him, rising up to the stormy sky to challenge the lightening and dethrone the thunder. Radicals! Subverting the constitution! He could feel them, that wild and angry and fearful crowd sweeping around him like a hurricane. Dear God, it was better than sex or any drug! It was more than power, as power is fleeting. Power are the walls of a besieged city. This, this was control. No, it was symbiosis. Their bodies were joined, merging cell to cell. Their souls were wedded in a wild orgy passion for every word Avery spoke.
Avery thought to turn them against the police. He would teach the government a lesson by tearing down the capitol. He'd fashion them into disciples, not soldiers, for ultimately a soldier wishes one day to return home. But Avery's disciples would fill the nation, sweeping aside dissent and anyone who might have the slightest suspicion of Avery's original sin.
Anyway, that's what Avery was thinking as he stood silent and nameless among the crowd. There were other speakers, men far more eloquent than he could ever hope. Before the governor and all the politicians in their tailor-made suits, their chamber maids and expensive brandy these men promised nothing short of revolution if the government continued down its treacherous path. It was a threat none of those manicured men with their crafted words and couched speech took lightly
When the rally ended Avery Lysander climbed back into his truck and started for home, content the tide was turning against the government, and that no one would discover his cattle were sick. He get them off to slaughter, feed his family and no one would be the wiser. Behind him the storm crept slow across the Iowa farmland. Ahead of him the day was drawing to an end.
It was no different for Avery Lysander. He wasn't an evil man. Was he weaker than most? Perhaps, but better than other men. As he stood before eight thousand farmers beneath the golden dome of the state capitol Avery knew full well his sins, and contrived fully to cloak them no man's land between freedom and the law. He would not be the fool, though he knew deep in his own heart that he was (not understanding that wisdom and humility are the surest paths from foolishness). That night, before a tense and agitated crowd he bandaged that fool’s heart in patriotism and the skewed permutations of liberty, despite that patriotism is a favorite hat and liberty is like capturing the sky in one’s hands.
He raged at them, in the face of a driving downpour. Avery beat the air with his fist and strained red-faced in order to set their souls on fire. Avery invoked God Almighty, charging that the government would come for each of them as a wolf in the night soon enough. Charges of Bolshevism and Communism were window dressing to the hole his words drove like a knife into each of their hearts. Men not easily swayed otherwise were driven to fear and consumed by it. Women prayed to God and Avery Lysander to see them through, like some modern day Moses come to deliver them to the promised land.
Thunder exploded, joining the stinging rain. It did little to dampen the spirits of the protesters, who dwarfed the nervous line of police guarding the gold-domed capitol building. All that held them back from overrunning the police and setting the place to flame was the thinnest veneer of civilization straining at the seams. Men contrive, but a frightened man is more than dangerous.
Communists! Bolsheviks! Avery's voice broke with emotion. The crowd rose along with him, rising up to the stormy sky to challenge the lightening and dethrone the thunder. Radicals! Subverting the constitution! He could feel them, that wild and angry and fearful crowd sweeping around him like a hurricane. Dear God, it was better than sex or any drug! It was more than power, as power is fleeting. Power are the walls of a besieged city. This, this was control. No, it was symbiosis. Their bodies were joined, merging cell to cell. Their souls were wedded in a wild orgy passion for every word Avery spoke.
Avery thought to turn them against the police. He would teach the government a lesson by tearing down the capitol. He'd fashion them into disciples, not soldiers, for ultimately a soldier wishes one day to return home. But Avery's disciples would fill the nation, sweeping aside dissent and anyone who might have the slightest suspicion of Avery's original sin.
Anyway, that's what Avery was thinking as he stood silent and nameless among the crowd. There were other speakers, men far more eloquent than he could ever hope. Before the governor and all the politicians in their tailor-made suits, their chamber maids and expensive brandy these men promised nothing short of revolution if the government continued down its treacherous path. It was a threat none of those manicured men with their crafted words and couched speech took lightly
When the rally ended Avery Lysander climbed back into his truck and started for home, content the tide was turning against the government, and that no one would discover his cattle were sick. He get them off to slaughter, feed his family and no one would be the wiser. Behind him the storm crept slow across the Iowa farmland. Ahead of him the day was drawing to an end.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty
George Bremer's office was just up the stairs. With each step John was tearing this moment apart. He wondered what George would say, or if he would think John a fool. By the time he reached the top of the stairs John wasn't certain himself. When he reached the Sheriff's door John was convinced that he was indeed. Despite himself John's hand went out and knocked without confidence on the door. Without awaiting a reply John turned the brass knob and pushed his head through the gap.
The room was a fog of bitter cream-white cigar smoke, carrying herbal chill. It hung as strands and nebulous banks, scattering sunlight [pouring through half open blinds in a rhythm of shadow and light. George sat in the far corner of the room upon a small wooden chair, away from his desk and almost lost to dingy shadow.
The cigar was a mere stub between George's teeth, where it was more chewed than smoked any longer. With the thumb and forefinger George pulled the stub from his teeth. He gave a casual nod and gestured John into the room. John obliged, sweeping a hand before his face and disturbing filaments of smoke there.
“Best close the door, John.” he said with a whimsical quality. “Mildred hates the smell. Like having two wives. Don't imagine how them Arab fellas do it. Got enough on my plate with just one, and Mildred.”
John managed a smile. “Something again air, George?”
“Not as long as I can see it!”
“Don't know, George,” said John, waving at the smoke again. Not that it really bothered him all that much.
George leaned forward in the chair and stretched to tap a butt from the open window. “Wife won't let me smoke at home.”
“Can't imagine why.”
“Never had a taste for the smoke, eh?”
“Never cared for it personally.”
“Cigarettes,” George began, thoughtfully, “are for young boys, the nervous and the condemned, but a cigar, John, a cigar is for the thinking man.”
“That so,” said John.
George popped the cigar back into his mouth, moving it from one side to the other between his teeth. “But you didn't come here to talk about cigars, now did you. What can I do ya for?”
“Need to see Stanton.” John felt as if he had forced the words out, like spitting out something vile and distasteful.
George was immediately against the idea, shaking his head strongly from side to side. “John, I'm...”
“I'm asking this one favor,” John said quickly, almost pleading, at least as much as his ego and soul would allow.
George leaned back, tipping back in the chair and chewing the end of his cigar, as though it helped him to think.
“What's your business with this fella?”
“Can't say.”
“Something that might concern the law, John?”
“Nothing like that.” John looked him square in the eye. “Business between him and me.”
“Nothing to do with that girl?” George asked.
“Nope.”
George studied the cigar in his fingers and pursed his lips. He rubbed his bent brow roughly with a thumb and forefinger.
“Put me in an awful spot, John, anyone should hear of this.”
“Five minutes is all I'm asking.”
Man could get in a lot of trouble in five minutes.” George took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze hovered near the floor a moment. Tapping out a butt, he threw the cigar back between his teeth and looked up at John. “I'll give you two.”
John nodded his appreciation. “Two'll do just fine.”
The room was a fog of bitter cream-white cigar smoke, carrying herbal chill. It hung as strands and nebulous banks, scattering sunlight [pouring through half open blinds in a rhythm of shadow and light. George sat in the far corner of the room upon a small wooden chair, away from his desk and almost lost to dingy shadow.
The cigar was a mere stub between George's teeth, where it was more chewed than smoked any longer. With the thumb and forefinger George pulled the stub from his teeth. He gave a casual nod and gestured John into the room. John obliged, sweeping a hand before his face and disturbing filaments of smoke there.
“Best close the door, John.” he said with a whimsical quality. “Mildred hates the smell. Like having two wives. Don't imagine how them Arab fellas do it. Got enough on my plate with just one, and Mildred.”
John managed a smile. “Something again air, George?”
“Not as long as I can see it!”
“Don't know, George,” said John, waving at the smoke again. Not that it really bothered him all that much.
George leaned forward in the chair and stretched to tap a butt from the open window. “Wife won't let me smoke at home.”
“Can't imagine why.”
“Never had a taste for the smoke, eh?”
“Never cared for it personally.”
“Cigarettes,” George began, thoughtfully, “are for young boys, the nervous and the condemned, but a cigar, John, a cigar is for the thinking man.”
“That so,” said John.
George popped the cigar back into his mouth, moving it from one side to the other between his teeth. “But you didn't come here to talk about cigars, now did you. What can I do ya for?”
“Need to see Stanton.” John felt as if he had forced the words out, like spitting out something vile and distasteful.
George was immediately against the idea, shaking his head strongly from side to side. “John, I'm...”
“I'm asking this one favor,” John said quickly, almost pleading, at least as much as his ego and soul would allow.
George leaned back, tipping back in the chair and chewing the end of his cigar, as though it helped him to think.
“What's your business with this fella?”
“Can't say.”
“Something that might concern the law, John?”
“Nothing like that.” John looked him square in the eye. “Business between him and me.”
“Nothing to do with that girl?” George asked.
“Nope.”
George studied the cigar in his fingers and pursed his lips. He rubbed his bent brow roughly with a thumb and forefinger.
“Put me in an awful spot, John, anyone should hear of this.”
“Five minutes is all I'm asking.”
Man could get in a lot of trouble in five minutes.” George took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze hovered near the floor a moment. Tapping out a butt, he threw the cigar back between his teeth and looked up at John. “I'll give you two.”
John nodded his appreciation. “Two'll do just fine.”
Friday, February 26, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-five
John set out one of the dining chairs beneath the willow for Louis. The air was cool and gentle there. John hooked a thumb in a belt loop of Louis' trousers. His arm was slung across John's shoulders. It proved a fair test of that hurt hand as he helped Louis downstairs and out into the yard. He could feel the bifurcated flesh moving independent of one another. John pursed his lips and felt tears fill his eyes. Didn't help that Louis' legs were about as firm as wet spaghetti. Felt like no small milestone when at last they reached the back step.
“Step down,” said John, wanting to scream from pain. Instead he clenched his teeth and gave hardly more than a stifled groan.
“Just a little farther,” he said.
John was already dreading the idea of getting Louis back up the stairs. If it was a warm enough night, he mused, he'd just as soon leave Louis under the tree. Throw a blanket over him and that would be that. Or maybe set him out on the curb with a bushel of apples that Louis could sell at 2 cents a pound to help earn his keep. The thought made John smile, tempering the pain in his hand just enough.
It was a near perfect day. There was hardly a cloud in the sky. Now and again small puffy-white clouds glided eastward, carried on a silken breeze that washed through the yard with the lemon-pepper scent of fresh cut grass somewhere. John breathed it in deeply, carried bck to his childhood for a moment, and the perfectness of rolling in freshly cut wet grass. The breeze headed off across the yard to the tree line and small creek. Beyond the line of trees a pair of burly brown horses pulled a plow across the hillside.
“Feel like an invalid,” said Louis as John deposited him in the chair.
“Far cry from last night.” There was fresh blood in the bandages. John held the hand to his chest. “Suppose you don’t recall running across the yard like your pants were on fire?”
“Not a thing.”
That so?” John gave Louis a long suspect look. “Screaming to the stars. Suppose you don’t remember none of that either?”
Louis cocked his head, as if he didn't or couldn't understand what John was saying. Just then a car pulled up out front. Three doors opened and shut quickly. On that quiet little street such a thing was enough to draw John's attention immediately.
It wasn’t a moment before George Bremer rounded the corner of the house with two young deputies in tow. Their expressions were artificially austere, as if any affront to the law was a personal assault. By contrast Old George was serious but aloof, as though this was nothing more than a task, akin to washing the dishes or tending some meddlesome repair. John stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Louis and the lawmen.
“Step down,” said John, wanting to scream from pain. Instead he clenched his teeth and gave hardly more than a stifled groan.
“Just a little farther,” he said.
John was already dreading the idea of getting Louis back up the stairs. If it was a warm enough night, he mused, he'd just as soon leave Louis under the tree. Throw a blanket over him and that would be that. Or maybe set him out on the curb with a bushel of apples that Louis could sell at 2 cents a pound to help earn his keep. The thought made John smile, tempering the pain in his hand just enough.
It was a near perfect day. There was hardly a cloud in the sky. Now and again small puffy-white clouds glided eastward, carried on a silken breeze that washed through the yard with the lemon-pepper scent of fresh cut grass somewhere. John breathed it in deeply, carried bck to his childhood for a moment, and the perfectness of rolling in freshly cut wet grass. The breeze headed off across the yard to the tree line and small creek. Beyond the line of trees a pair of burly brown horses pulled a plow across the hillside.
“Feel like an invalid,” said Louis as John deposited him in the chair.
“Far cry from last night.” There was fresh blood in the bandages. John held the hand to his chest. “Suppose you don’t recall running across the yard like your pants were on fire?”
“Not a thing.”
That so?” John gave Louis a long suspect look. “Screaming to the stars. Suppose you don’t remember none of that either?”
Louis cocked his head, as if he didn't or couldn't understand what John was saying. Just then a car pulled up out front. Three doors opened and shut quickly. On that quiet little street such a thing was enough to draw John's attention immediately.
It wasn’t a moment before George Bremer rounded the corner of the house with two young deputies in tow. Their expressions were artificially austere, as if any affront to the law was a personal assault. By contrast Old George was serious but aloof, as though this was nothing more than a task, akin to washing the dishes or tending some meddlesome repair. John stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Louis and the lawmen.
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