EMMETSBURG: Seventeen

The hospital was downtown on Broadway, just past the sparkling marquis of the Iowa Theater. The hospital wasn’t much to look at. The hospital was a simple rust-red brick building built after the war to replace the older smaller obsolete clinic. The new building was modest in size, with around 20 beds, and a modern surgical theater.

A hand full of overworked nurses and doctors supported by nuns from St. Mary’s staffed the hospital. They were even more beleaguered for the half dozen men hurt at the mill during the storm the night before. A powerful bolt of lightning struck the grain silo beside the railroad tracks just as the men dodged inside to escape the rain. The lightening ignited grain dust setting off an explosion that blew the men clear across the tracks. But they were alive, and, after such a calamity, the town could take a blessing from that.

John swung the truck onto Broadway, cutting off a wagon, and skidded to a stop in front of the hospital. He slid from the truck still cradling his wounded hand. The loss of blood made him lightheaded, but John failed to realize until he tried to stand. His legs obliged grudgingly. For a moment he swooned and staggered like a drunk before steadying himself against the truck. John slid around to the back of the truck and laid a hand on the man’s chest, relieved to find him still breathing.

Feverish white sunlight fell oblique through glass doors just inside the hospital’s dark lobby. John burst through the door, leaning precariously against it, and startling those inside. He was met instantly by Sister Maribel Dougherty, one of the nuns from Saint Mary’s. John had known her much of their lives. She rushed over to steady him, leaning to find him with fiery Irish brown eyes. the black and white habit pulled tight to her face only served to exaggerate the captive wildness of her eyes.

Sister Dougherty tried to steady him as best she could, though he was better than half again her size. There was a momentarily stab of dread should he suddenly give out and fall on her. John was soaked to the bone and covered from head to toe with mud. The brown stains on John’s face and hands were punctuated by bits of crimson from a dozen scrapes and small gashes. The front of his coveralls and shirt was so covered with blood that she first feared he had been wounded to the chest or belly. It was with only minor relief when he held out his badly injured hand.

“Dear God, John!” she exclaimed in a hushed manner. She cradled his hand, and could feel his silken warm blood flowing over her fingers.

“Bit of an accident, Sister,” he winced. “Got somebody in my truck who’s hurt awfully bad.”

The bleeding had slowed but not stopped. It fell in fat dark-red crops, patting on the speckled marble floor. Sister waved over a young nurse, who had appeared in the hall just at that moment and told her to tend to John right away . John pulled away and led them outside to the truck, where one of the old men was madly rubbing the mystery man's hand as the other looked on.

“Out cold,” said the old man as the nurse came around and peered over the side of the truck. The nurse was pretty and untested, with an innocence that bordered on ignorance; the two being cousins. Her auburn hair was all but modestly hidden beneath the nurses cap of her pristine white uniform. She was new to town, is all John new of her, from somewhere out East, and he didn't know enough to form any sort of opinion just yet.
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Sister Dougherty came up an instant later, struggling to see, short as she was. The nurse peered over the edge of the truck and gasped, backing away frightfully, as if she was surprised by a cobra coiled there.

“He’s a negro!” it was more an outburst of surprise than of bigotry, or anything else. One could almost see the embarrassment in her expression instantly.

Sister Dougherty pursed her lips and scolded, “Get your tail over here!”

By now the spectacle had attracted something of a crowd. They pressed in around the back of John’s truck. Old Doc Gross fought his way through to the truck, hobbling against a bad hip.

“Let me pass!” he shouted, pulling himself through the deepening mass of gawkers. “Give me some room here, Doctor coming through!”

He was big round man of some years, with wispy snow-white hair. His smock was a dingy gray, and opened to reveal a well-worn and wrinkled blue suit that might have seen better days during the Coolidge administration! A pair of wire rimmed bifocals teetered on his forehead. A stethoscope was stuffed haphazardly in the pocket of his smock.

Several of the bigger men from the crowd had already climbed onto the truck and were handing the man down to a couple of stretcher bearers. John followed, throwing his good hand on the shoulder of one of the men. As they passed Doc gross grabbed John’s injured hand and twisted it abruptly skyward. Pulling the eyeglasses down to his nose he leaned for a closer look at John's wound.

“Best come in side where I can look after that hand,” said the Doctor.

“Terrible wreck,” John ignored the doctor, straining to see as the unconscious stranger was carried quickly inside, followed by a curious throng. “Lucky to alive.”

EMMETSBURG: Sixteen

The water rolled him over the car's submerged hood. At the last instant, before being flung down river John shot out his arm and grabbed for anything that would save him. His hand found a part of the shattered windshield. The jagged glass sliced diagonally through the center of his palm clean to the bone. The pain was immediate, John’s cry stifled by a wave that momentarily covered him. A torrent of satin red blood gushed forth instantly, sweeping away in spiraling eddies in the rushing waters.

The creek unleashed its full force on him now, as if the two were mortal enemies, as if the creek held some vendetta against him. Despite the pain John held firm to the window, and with a cry of determination that thundered among the trees, hauled himself out of the current.

With his good hand John reached up and grabbed a hold of the driver’s door and hauled himself over. His wounded hand gushed even more now. He pulled his fingers in towards the palm, hoping to stem the flow and felt one of the fingers sink into the squishy wet mix of exposed muscle, fat and bone.

He looked to the bank, hardly more than a couple feet away. It might have been distant land, an impossible land, he thought, draping his battered and exhausted body over the low flat roof. His head dangled over the front. It was then that John spotted the body inside the vehicle.

It was a colored man dressed in a pin-striped brown suit. His head and one shoulder bobbed just above the rampaging waters. He might have been unconscious, or dead for all John could tell. He was seated on the floor with his back to the car door. His head was back, pulling his mouth open. A bright red welt glowed from above his left eye, running down nearly to the jaw line between the ear and chin.

John had half a mind to swear. He looked back at the bank and thought of going for help. The creek swelled suddenly, tugging the front end of the Roadster sideways a bit before settling again. John had little doubt that another swell would drag the auto deeper and with it the poor soul inside.

His feet fought in the slick mud. He hooked the arm of his bad hand inside the car door and reached out with his good hand. John managed a hold on the man’s jacket but couldn’t muster the strength to haul him up but just a little. The dead weight and water was just too much, and John was already exhausted from his own fight with the creek.

John tried once more, growling and shouting at the strain, but just couldn’t budge the poor soul. Just then two old timers pulled up, and came scrambling down from the road. John was already losing his grip on the man and thanked God help had come.

“Lend me a hand here boys!” he cried.

“Somebody hurt down there?”

“Got a fella in a bad way here!”

One of the old timers climbed onto the car with surprising ease, while the other went back to his truck for rope. The pair were small men, but with hands and strength forged from lifetimes of back breaking labor. They made short work of John, hauling him up onto the dry bank. That done they went back down to the car.

With a length of heavy rope they lashed the car to a sturdy tree higher on the bank. With the car held firmly in place one of the men crawled inside and cinched another length beneath the colored fella’s arms and lifted him carefully out of the wreck road. They carried him up to the road. John, cradling his bleeding hand, followed close behind.

“Careful, boys,” said John, “see if he’s got anything broken.”

“Is he breathing?” said one of the men.

“Just barely,” said the other.

“Can’t see that anything’s broken,” said the first. “Sure is a beauty of a welt though.”

For the first time John got a good look at the man. This was the closest John had ever come to a black man, save for the porters on the troop ship out of New York, and a few African faces in Paris. The man's skin was soft and smooth as buttered chocolate. His face was long and thin, with barely a hint of stubble near the jaw. John thought he had a rather honest face. Indeed, it was almost angelic and other-worldly. It was a quality John found almost haunting.

His fine black hair was neatly trimmed and straight, combed and greased tightly from his brow. John doubted the guy was much beyond his twenties. He glanced back at the roadster and wondered what he was doing way out here, here black folks just weren't known much.

The man was dressed in a finely tailored brown silk suit. The buttons were gold. The white shirt was open at the collar, one of the ivory buttons missing, as though it had been opened in great haste. John doubted it was from the accident. The ends of a silk purple and red striped tie hung from one pocket. One of the man's dark brown alligator shoes was missing. Colored or not, he was certainly a man of wealth and class..

“What’s a sort like this doin' out here, dressed to the nines in a big expensive car?” asked the other.

“Some sort of gangster, or fugitive, I’d bet,” said the other.

His partner spit and said with a sort of smirk. “Now aren’t you one to go making up stories.” He noticed John’s hand, now staining the front of his coveralls red. “Best get you to the hospital too, son.”

“I’ll live,” said John. “Give me a hand getting him in the back of my truck.”

EMMETSBURG: Fifteen

The current dragged him down, and spun him wildly as he banged and bounced painfully against all manner of things. Mud and debris obscured any light at all making it impossible to be sure if he was reaching for air or driving himself deeper into the creek, and towards certain death. In an instant he was sucked and tumbled beneath the front axle of the car.

John was caught, bent with his head towards the slick bank, and his back wedged up against the bottom of the auto. His legs kicked uselessly, and his fingers dug madly at a muddy back that came away in cloudy chunks through his fingers. They dissolved raging current, pelting his face like a thousand angry insects.

He fought harder, his cheeks puffed, eyes pressed tight in a vain attempt to hold back the air wanting to explode from his lungs. Something deeper inside came upon him. It was a stillness compelling not to fight any longer. He had seen it in dying men’s eyes during the war, and in the face of a young German boy as John plunged a bayonet into his chest in a fetid French crater. It was a voice that compelled a body more gently from this world. At the end of that voice was Anna's face. He could see her there, standing over his grave.

He could not. He could not bring that grief upon her again, and not so soon. He cried out, mud and water rushing into fill his mouth as quickly as the air left him. He knew he was losing the battle. Without air the creek would quickly overwhelm him. John twisted his body sideways, enough to get his legs around and push off the right front tire. His powerful legs propelled him out and into the torrent once more.

For an instant he was up, his face out of the water, gasping for air before being dragged down again. In that final instant before going under he spied the great roiling mass debris crushed up along the bottom of the bridge, and knew if he was carried into that he hadn't a chance.

EMMETSBURG: Fourteen

Rust red, the roof of the cab was now like the top of a furnace as the afternoon sun’s full fury bore down. Halfway to Emmetsburg John had more or less forgot about all the hubbub at Himmel's place. Tensions and emotions were running high these days, John convinced himself, but the bond between neighbors was stronger for the same reasons that drove those wilder emotions.

The creek was just ahead. He’d be home soon. With a bit of luck he could get up on the roof and patch a few places. Anna would be down at the Conlon place. He meet her there and take him time walking her home. John was lost in the perfect nature of that thought as the truck bumped and bounced along.The shade of the tree line was splashed across the road. John would be happy for the shade's cool respite, if only for a moment.

Sweat poured into his eyes and burned there. He reached up and swept it away with his fingers. He flicked it away, the drops falling fat and wet upon the dash and floorboards. From the corner of his eye John caught sight of something just off the road. Half hidden among the trees, tipped down into the rushing creek was the back of a car. It was cocked at an odd angle. The left rear tire was off the ground and cleaved by a ray of golden sunlight slicing the trees.

John ground to a stop beside the bridge. The engine was still sputtering as he leapt out and ran across the road. He stopped short of the steep and grassy bank. One slip and we might tumble into the creek and be carried under by the churning brown waters, where he risked getting caught beneath the auto or swept under the bridge and drowned. There was no sense in risking life and limb if the driver was finished or had abandoned the wreck and was already back in town. Of course there was no way to know for sure without getting down into the water.

The car had taken down a small tree. One branch jutted from beneath the auto where its feathery green leaves were tugged by the swift current. John tested his weight on the branch, keeping a hand against the side of the car for balance. The branch kept John clear of the water, but on the high side of the wreck making it impossible to see inside. He took hold of the tire and gave it a good hard shake. The front end was wedged into the creek bed and pinned against a tree. John stretched, going up on his toes in a vain attempt to see inside.

Suddenly the branch snapped. It gave a sharp clapping sound, like lightening close by. John twisted, flailing and toppled forward into the icy cold water clear to his chest. At the last instant he managed to grab hold of the running board, but it was tentative hold and not at all sure. His feet kicked madly, failing to find bottom.

He hung there for what seemed an eternity, his fingers burning for the strain as they held him from being swept away. The water was an immense force and John seemingly intent on dragging him under. He kicked hard one last time with a mighty cry, hoping to haul himself up onto the running board.

The river surged, slamming him against the car. One arm swung wildly, but now the force of the river was sapping his strength rapidly. John breathed deeply to rally his strength and focus and started to drag himself from the rushing waters, his feet digging at the mud and refuse at the bottom of the creek. John failed to notice the log tumbling at him until it was too late.

He cried out and braced for a collision that struck his back like a hammer on the right side of his chest, smashing the air from his body. His hands slipped from the running board. In an instant John was swallowed by those brown waters and carried under.

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.

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.

EMMETSBURG: Eleven

John was in no humor for any of this mess. He brushed past the group. His hand fell on Avery’s bony shoulder and gave it a friendly little pat. Avery nodded with a tip of his cap and winked knowingly at John.

“Come for the show?” Avery said. His hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of a pair of old brown suit pants with gold stripes. His tee shirt was thread-bare and creased across his slight belly by a crease stain.

“That what it is?” John remarked.

“Cheaper than the picture show,” said Avery.

“Reckon we’ll see,” said John. The words seemed to come out of nowhere, like they weren’t his. He brushed through the crowd and went inside.

It was musty and cool inside the store. It was dark inside, but for light filtering through dusty windows and all sorts of goods and tools situated chaotically in front of them. It took John’s eyes a moment to adjust. There was music playing behind the counter. It was low and tinny and barely discernable as a song, more so as the torn speaker buzzed and distorted badly. Burt Himmel’s eldest boy, Myron was stacking squat red tins of wash soap in a pyramid at one end of the counter.

The boy was lean and tall for his age, and the spitting image of his father. His hair was golden blond, and set to light by shocking blue eyes. John wasn’t quite sure but thought Myron had just turned 15, an enviable and lamentable age at the same time. It was an age where the innocence of childhood was being swept aside by the spectacle of awakening manhood.

He would grow into a stunningly handsome man, something already noticed by local girls. Evenings after school, or in the summer when chores were done, girls seemed to flock around the store just to get a peak or to flirt a bit with Myron. John smiled wistfully, running his fingers over the sharp teeth of a new saw hanging on the wall. He had never been burdened with such an affliction.

John knew the boy as eager and excitable, and not a little bit gullible. Not in a foolish way, but with a trusting and open hearted way. That dopiness helped him concentrate on chores and school rather than getting lost in his admirer’s eager affections. It was a quality fully inherited from loving Christian parents, good neighbors and a hospitable nature.

John liked Myron Himmel, and envied his youthful grace. He was the future and John’s own innocent past all at once. The boy was a specter as well, reminding John of every misstep, every lapse in judgment and mistake.

“Morning, Mister Perkins,” Myron looked back over one shoulder without stopping his work. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Pop around?”

“He’ll be right back. Something I can help you with?”

“Any more rolls of that tar paper around. I could use a length.”

“Storm last night tear you up a little?” the boy remarked.

“A little.”

“Whew, she was a good one.”

“That she was,” said John.

“How’s things up in Emmetsburg?”

“About the same, I reckon.”

“Misses Perkins is well, I pray.”

John gave a nod. “She’d appreciate the prayers.”

“Gave us all quite a scare,” said the boy. “Expect it did you too.”

“Expect it did.”

The moment fell like a weight around their necks. Myron pursed his lips and looked around the store. It was a relief to them both when his father walked in, pressing through the riled bunch at the door. Shaking his head, Bert Himmel wiped a good bit of sweat from his forehead with the old red rag from his back pocket.