The standoff at the Himmel farm swept through the countryside like an autumn frost, seeming to materialize out of the air and paint everything. Like a frost there was a beauty to the news, like a victory had been won by the common folk; a certain refreshing, to reference the good Thomas Jefferson, of the freedoms paid for in the blood of generations of common folk. Power, privilage and exploitation had been knocked back on its heels.
It was a time to rejoice and reflect, but there was a much danger as well, as it threatened to unleash the forces of chaos and anarchy. It threatened the age of might and the bully, and of schemers behind the bully. For nothing in that world was bound by the law and of mutual compromise and community, but by of ego and gluttony and division.
Up town, an angry crowd of farmers, church folk and a certain class of folk more akin to scavenging dogs gathered in front of the courthouse. They carried signs and marched up and down. They roared and yelled, as though they were going to war, over inflammatory words by a baptist Minister from Cedar Rapids. They were outraged and in full agreement with Avery Lysander, and brought almost to tears by a hand full of furtive, stammering words from Myron Himmel.
Sherriff Bremer, in a big tan ten gallon hat, and a couple deeply conflicted deputies watched all this from the jailhouse. They let the crowd do just about as they pleased, hoping they would get the worst of all this, the wild and unchecked emotion burn away. Bremer nodded respectfully, folding his arms and rocking on the heels of his dusty black ranch boots when they paraded past the jail. And when they shouted and demanded to know where he stood on the issue Bremer had no wish to be pigeon-holed by either side. With an ironic smirk and a shake of his head he only waved and disappeared with his men into the jail.
How folks came to all this drew the battle lines rather than discourse, and only succeeded in dragging Emmetsburg and surrounding counties into ranks. Up to now it had hardly proved more than a distraction for most, except the agitators and those directly involved. It was a curious and uncomfortable topic of conversation. It grew as the night on the horizon, refusing to be ignored. No one, most especially John perkins, could escape the night.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-one
Churning clouds of dust grew in the distance, rising into the pale blue to erase all distinction between earth and sky. In the still and stagnate air the men heard the vehicles some time before they came into view. There were three long dark sedans. The first everyone recognized immediately as C.W.'s hunk of junk. It was followed closely by two big beige '25 Broughams. They were moving quickly, covering the mile and a half from the county road in no time. Fifty or so yards from the blockade they drew to a stop beside the road.
C.W. Climbed out and stretched a pain in his back. He twisted, still stretching, and motioned for the government men to remain behind. In tan trousers and a clean white button shirt he appeared to have materialized from the landscape, like some monotone watercolor in which lines blended and merged. He slapped a bit of dust off his brown cap and placed it carefully on his head.
C.W. was in no hurry to span the gap between the inspectors and the others. He was anxious, squinting through sweat that poured into his eyes. His steps were heavy with a consciously managed confidence, one that he had to manufacture anew. He half wished he hadn't left his revolver in the automobile. C.W. scooped the cap from his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead and pulled the cap back on.
He took his time making his way over, figuring if the moment was weighing this heavily on him then it should weigh as heavily on this rabble as well. They were set in a ragged but closely held line across the road. The sheriff paused a moment to inspect a bent bender on Ernie Vogel's Essex coupe. C.W. ran his fingers over the dent and shook his head with slightly exaggerated concern. He found Ernie's eyes for a moment before the man looked shamefully away.
The Sheriff waded into the men with all the confidence he could muster. He'd known most of them his whole life and had, at least until now, nothing to fear from them. He also knew that Avery was behind most of this, that he had whipped up these men in to a frenzy and set them apart from the law and good order.
C.W. moved along the line, looking purposely into each man's eyes. Some glared angrily. Others refused to meet his gaze, or seemed deeply betrayed by all this. C.W. took heart that at least a few men nodded respectfully, which gave him hope into appealing to their better reason. He took heart that Avery Lysander’s rule over these men was anything but absolute.
Myron Himmel stood at Avery’s side, somewhere between boyhood and grief. There was a look in his eyes, which seemed wholly unnatural, but fully explosive. C.W.s heart went out to the boy, and he felt deeply for the loss of his father. C.W. also knew full well what this inspection might mean for the family, but as a lawman it was the weight of all this that had to be considered. C.W. glanced back at the government inspectors and then again at the line of men, as if seeing those opposing weights, as if deciding where he truly belonged. It was then he realized how utterly alone he was.
Avery's eyes fixed most purposely upon him. They had been from the moment C.W. Stepped from his car, studying him with the keenness and detail of a scientist, or the way a surgeon might carefully discern healthy tissue from diseased with an eye to excising it from the body. Avery's mood was altogether different from the others. His was a direct challenge, and assertion that he and he alone was the master of this moment and these men. C.W. was still working on just the right words when Avery got there first.
“Deeply disappointed you couldn't see your way to our side, C.W.”
He might have responded directly to Avery, but his power and danger lay fully with the men. C.W. signed and looked along the line.
“That what you all think?” he asked. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Don't split ranks here, C.W.” said Avery. “Divide and conquer, eh? Stand fast, boys!
“That how you feel, Ernie?” C.W. ignored Avery altogether. “Big Jim? Laughton?”
Avery asserted his position, moving between the Sheriff and the other men, all the while keeping Myron close by his side. “If you want to cross this line, Sheriff, you're gonna need a whole lot more men.”
It was more than C.W, could stand. Those massively powerful hands snapped out and twisted Avery's arm behind his back, wrenching it high enough that Avery cried out in pain. His free hand grabbed the back of Avery's neck and forced him to the road onto his knees. Myron bolted through the line of men as C.W. wrestled for control of Avery.
“Started enough damn trouble, Aver…” he began.
There was a blur of motion to one side, followed by the telltale metallic click as the hammer of a weapon clicked back and locked into place. C.W. found himself staring down the twin barrels of a twelve gauge shotgun. His heart skipped a beat as Myron reaffirmed a grip on the worn gray wooden stock.
“Leave him be,” cried the boy, “and get off my property!”
Tears threatened in the boy's eyes. C.W. Knew this wasn't him. He knew that the boy wasn't thinking right, but Myron felt himself cornered and there was no limit to what a cornered man is capable of. Still, C.W. was the sheriff, and that was a non-negotiable issue.
“You're at a crossroads here, son,” he said as coolly and certainly as he could under the circumstances. Avery was silent, as were the others, not a few of whom were shocked the turn of events. “I've been to dinner at your house, Myron. What do you think your papa would say to all this?”
“He'd want me to do right by the family. To...to...protect them.” His voice was low and trembling, but he held the shotgun steady enough, his finger covering the trigger.
“Son, I'm not going to talk you like a child. You're a man now. You proved that well enough. But a man also knows there's consequences for his actions. Maybe you pull that trigger, but that won't put an end to things. Shoot me and a hundred law men will come back here and you'll go to the electric chair for sure. Want to bring that shame to your family and forever stain the memory of your father; my friend?”
There was along terribly uncertain moment. It was a moment so light and delicate that it might have turned unexpectedly with an unguarded breath, or with the turn of the wind. Myron steadied the shotgun in his hands, his gaze solidly fixed upon C.W. They all felt frozen in time, as though everything had stopped all at once, breaths, hearts, the turning of the world.
“Let Mister Lysander go.” Myron's voice was unequivical, but calmer.
C.W. nodded slightly to the boy without breaking their gaze. “Then I'm going back up that road and get those government fellas. They'll do their test and then we'll be on our way.”
But C.W. knew that he had lost. He ran through a dozen outcomes in his mind, all of them ending the same. Once he released Avery those men would never allow the inspectors to pass. He'd have to come with the State Police the next time and make an example. It made the walk back to the car a long and arduous one.
C.W. Climbed out and stretched a pain in his back. He twisted, still stretching, and motioned for the government men to remain behind. In tan trousers and a clean white button shirt he appeared to have materialized from the landscape, like some monotone watercolor in which lines blended and merged. He slapped a bit of dust off his brown cap and placed it carefully on his head.
C.W. was in no hurry to span the gap between the inspectors and the others. He was anxious, squinting through sweat that poured into his eyes. His steps were heavy with a consciously managed confidence, one that he had to manufacture anew. He half wished he hadn't left his revolver in the automobile. C.W. scooped the cap from his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead and pulled the cap back on.
He took his time making his way over, figuring if the moment was weighing this heavily on him then it should weigh as heavily on this rabble as well. They were set in a ragged but closely held line across the road. The sheriff paused a moment to inspect a bent bender on Ernie Vogel's Essex coupe. C.W. ran his fingers over the dent and shook his head with slightly exaggerated concern. He found Ernie's eyes for a moment before the man looked shamefully away.
The Sheriff waded into the men with all the confidence he could muster. He'd known most of them his whole life and had, at least until now, nothing to fear from them. He also knew that Avery was behind most of this, that he had whipped up these men in to a frenzy and set them apart from the law and good order.
C.W. moved along the line, looking purposely into each man's eyes. Some glared angrily. Others refused to meet his gaze, or seemed deeply betrayed by all this. C.W. took heart that at least a few men nodded respectfully, which gave him hope into appealing to their better reason. He took heart that Avery Lysander’s rule over these men was anything but absolute.
Myron Himmel stood at Avery’s side, somewhere between boyhood and grief. There was a look in his eyes, which seemed wholly unnatural, but fully explosive. C.W.s heart went out to the boy, and he felt deeply for the loss of his father. C.W. also knew full well what this inspection might mean for the family, but as a lawman it was the weight of all this that had to be considered. C.W. glanced back at the government inspectors and then again at the line of men, as if seeing those opposing weights, as if deciding where he truly belonged. It was then he realized how utterly alone he was.
Avery's eyes fixed most purposely upon him. They had been from the moment C.W. Stepped from his car, studying him with the keenness and detail of a scientist, or the way a surgeon might carefully discern healthy tissue from diseased with an eye to excising it from the body. Avery's mood was altogether different from the others. His was a direct challenge, and assertion that he and he alone was the master of this moment and these men. C.W. was still working on just the right words when Avery got there first.
“Deeply disappointed you couldn't see your way to our side, C.W.”
He might have responded directly to Avery, but his power and danger lay fully with the men. C.W. signed and looked along the line.
“That what you all think?” he asked. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Don't split ranks here, C.W.” said Avery. “Divide and conquer, eh? Stand fast, boys!
“That how you feel, Ernie?” C.W. ignored Avery altogether. “Big Jim? Laughton?”
Avery asserted his position, moving between the Sheriff and the other men, all the while keeping Myron close by his side. “If you want to cross this line, Sheriff, you're gonna need a whole lot more men.”
It was more than C.W, could stand. Those massively powerful hands snapped out and twisted Avery's arm behind his back, wrenching it high enough that Avery cried out in pain. His free hand grabbed the back of Avery's neck and forced him to the road onto his knees. Myron bolted through the line of men as C.W. wrestled for control of Avery.
“Started enough damn trouble, Aver…” he began.
There was a blur of motion to one side, followed by the telltale metallic click as the hammer of a weapon clicked back and locked into place. C.W. found himself staring down the twin barrels of a twelve gauge shotgun. His heart skipped a beat as Myron reaffirmed a grip on the worn gray wooden stock.
“Leave him be,” cried the boy, “and get off my property!”
Tears threatened in the boy's eyes. C.W. Knew this wasn't him. He knew that the boy wasn't thinking right, but Myron felt himself cornered and there was no limit to what a cornered man is capable of. Still, C.W. was the sheriff, and that was a non-negotiable issue.
“You're at a crossroads here, son,” he said as coolly and certainly as he could under the circumstances. Avery was silent, as were the others, not a few of whom were shocked the turn of events. “I've been to dinner at your house, Myron. What do you think your papa would say to all this?”
“He'd want me to do right by the family. To...to...protect them.” His voice was low and trembling, but he held the shotgun steady enough, his finger covering the trigger.
“Son, I'm not going to talk you like a child. You're a man now. You proved that well enough. But a man also knows there's consequences for his actions. Maybe you pull that trigger, but that won't put an end to things. Shoot me and a hundred law men will come back here and you'll go to the electric chair for sure. Want to bring that shame to your family and forever stain the memory of your father; my friend?”
There was along terribly uncertain moment. It was a moment so light and delicate that it might have turned unexpectedly with an unguarded breath, or with the turn of the wind. Myron steadied the shotgun in his hands, his gaze solidly fixed upon C.W. They all felt frozen in time, as though everything had stopped all at once, breaths, hearts, the turning of the world.
“Let Mister Lysander go.” Myron's voice was unequivical, but calmer.
C.W. nodded slightly to the boy without breaking their gaze. “Then I'm going back up that road and get those government fellas. They'll do their test and then we'll be on our way.”
But C.W. knew that he had lost. He ran through a dozen outcomes in his mind, all of them ending the same. Once he released Avery those men would never allow the inspectors to pass. He'd have to come with the State Police the next time and make an example. It made the walk back to the car a long and arduous one.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty
Gold. Burt Himmel's house stood at the end of a long straight dirt track that ran downhill for the better part of its course. The track was little more than two well worn ruts, separated by a ribbon of deepening green grass. The house, small green barn and smaller chicken coop were centered in a small bowl. It made the farm look so much farther than it truly was. On the post at the top of the drive an official notice of inspection was nailed.
The house, like the yard and chicken coop was well tended. The rectangular coop had recently been painted and stood out sharply in the morning sun. The low roor slanted sharply on one side towards the barn. The barn was sorely in need of repair, with patches of yellowing moss on the roof. Pieces of the roof had rotted or fallen away, making it appear as though the moss was some sort of infection slowly consuming the structure. Beside the barn, upon the slope of a hill a half dozen black and brown cows grazed lazily.
The two story wood-frame house was tall with wood shingles and clean white shutters. A fat oak stood as an exclamation in front of the house. A tire swing hung from the sturdiest branch above a bare spot of ground, nearly lost to an island of midnight shade. Beside the tree, in the cool of the shade, Burt's old Black Labrador, Lincoln, watched laconically the commotion at the top of the road.
A dozen or so vehicles and horse-drawn wagons were arrayed haphazardly to either side of the road so that anyone wishing to pass would have to inch by slowly, snaking slowly through the ramshackle blockade. Ten or fifteen men were gathered in a tight group in front of the blockade. Central among them was Avery Lysander, his arm around the shoulder of young Myron Himmel.
This should have been a time of mourning for the boy. It should have been a time for memories and family and reflection. Instead Myron steeled himself for an epic fight whipped up by Avery and some of the other more boisterous nd energized farmers. The moment felt immense to the boy. As he saw things his family's life and future depended fully upon the outcome. His proper place of course was with them, instead of the men on that road, to whom he offered himself fully and without question. He gave himself fully to men like Avery Lysander who used the boy's tragedy and gullible nature as a means to an end.
The air was still and stale. Even at this early hour the heat seemed to rise from the earth, moistening necks and foreheads and backs. Myron swept the sweat from his face and rubbed it across the leg of his trousers where it left a stain. He looked around at the stern and determined faces around him. He felt at once stifled and saved by those faces.
Avery was saying something. Myron's thoughts were a jumble and so the man's fevered words didn't register. He wasn't so much paying attention as using the murderous energy of the men as a crutch that kept him from crumbling and weeping with grief. Avery shook him and said something. Myron looked dumbly into the man's face, half hidden beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“What say you, son,” Avery shook him again, pausing from his emotional but carefully calculated tirade.
“Me, sir?”
“We're all here for you and your family. We're here for the memory of your father, who all of us cared deeply for. And we're here for each other, for the time those government inspectors come calling to our door.” Avery pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sons-'a-bitches! Fall prey on a man's family when he ain't even fresh in the grave.”
Myron didn't know quite what to say. His chin quivered as he straddled the line between childhood and being a man, for whatever that meant. He was hanging out in space, overwhelmed and baffled at the passing of his father, spun and outraged by the government inspectors, seduced and blinded by Avery Lysander.
“Worried for my mom.”
“Course you are,” said Avery. “Course you are.” He hugged the boy closer to his side. “Damned if I'll let those inspectors set one foot on this boy's land!”
There were nods and agreeable rumblings from the other men. Encouraged and riled by Avery, they had drawn a line at Bert Himmel's farm.
“Go to my grave,” Avery continued, “before I let that happen.”
Myron looked up at Avery. Like his papa, Myron never much cared for the man. He always seemed a little on the sneaky and disingenuous side, like he was figuring all the angles. Now, with the loss of his father, Myron was lost in a blizzard, stumbling blind into an unknown abyss, and desperate for any shelter. That desperation required abandoning conventions he might have otherwise fought hard to maintain.
The house, like the yard and chicken coop was well tended. The rectangular coop had recently been painted and stood out sharply in the morning sun. The low roor slanted sharply on one side towards the barn. The barn was sorely in need of repair, with patches of yellowing moss on the roof. Pieces of the roof had rotted or fallen away, making it appear as though the moss was some sort of infection slowly consuming the structure. Beside the barn, upon the slope of a hill a half dozen black and brown cows grazed lazily.
The two story wood-frame house was tall with wood shingles and clean white shutters. A fat oak stood as an exclamation in front of the house. A tire swing hung from the sturdiest branch above a bare spot of ground, nearly lost to an island of midnight shade. Beside the tree, in the cool of the shade, Burt's old Black Labrador, Lincoln, watched laconically the commotion at the top of the road.
A dozen or so vehicles and horse-drawn wagons were arrayed haphazardly to either side of the road so that anyone wishing to pass would have to inch by slowly, snaking slowly through the ramshackle blockade. Ten or fifteen men were gathered in a tight group in front of the blockade. Central among them was Avery Lysander, his arm around the shoulder of young Myron Himmel.
This should have been a time of mourning for the boy. It should have been a time for memories and family and reflection. Instead Myron steeled himself for an epic fight whipped up by Avery and some of the other more boisterous nd energized farmers. The moment felt immense to the boy. As he saw things his family's life and future depended fully upon the outcome. His proper place of course was with them, instead of the men on that road, to whom he offered himself fully and without question. He gave himself fully to men like Avery Lysander who used the boy's tragedy and gullible nature as a means to an end.
The air was still and stale. Even at this early hour the heat seemed to rise from the earth, moistening necks and foreheads and backs. Myron swept the sweat from his face and rubbed it across the leg of his trousers where it left a stain. He looked around at the stern and determined faces around him. He felt at once stifled and saved by those faces.
Avery was saying something. Myron's thoughts were a jumble and so the man's fevered words didn't register. He wasn't so much paying attention as using the murderous energy of the men as a crutch that kept him from crumbling and weeping with grief. Avery shook him and said something. Myron looked dumbly into the man's face, half hidden beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“What say you, son,” Avery shook him again, pausing from his emotional but carefully calculated tirade.
“Me, sir?”
“We're all here for you and your family. We're here for the memory of your father, who all of us cared deeply for. And we're here for each other, for the time those government inspectors come calling to our door.” Avery pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sons-'a-bitches! Fall prey on a man's family when he ain't even fresh in the grave.”
Myron didn't know quite what to say. His chin quivered as he straddled the line between childhood and being a man, for whatever that meant. He was hanging out in space, overwhelmed and baffled at the passing of his father, spun and outraged by the government inspectors, seduced and blinded by Avery Lysander.
“Worried for my mom.”
“Course you are,” said Avery. “Course you are.” He hugged the boy closer to his side. “Damned if I'll let those inspectors set one foot on this boy's land!”
There were nods and agreeable rumblings from the other men. Encouraged and riled by Avery, they had drawn a line at Bert Himmel's farm.
“Go to my grave,” Avery continued, “before I let that happen.”
Myron looked up at Avery. Like his papa, Myron never much cared for the man. He always seemed a little on the sneaky and disingenuous side, like he was figuring all the angles. Now, with the loss of his father, Myron was lost in a blizzard, stumbling blind into an unknown abyss, and desperate for any shelter. That desperation required abandoning conventions he might have otherwise fought hard to maintain.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Emmetsburg: Twenty-nine
Louis Stanton came around a little that evening when Anna went up to look in on him. It wasn’t much, but enough to take a bit of her chicken soup. He sort of looked at her through half closed eyes, as though she was an angel. She was quiet, cradling his head gently as she lifted the soup to his lips. He took a few spoonfuls and laid his head back on the pillow. His brow faltered with obvious pain.
The light from a small kerosene lamp on the shelf was soft, filling the room with the color of warm molasses. The small orange flame danced ever so slightly, throwing competing shadows against the sloping wall. Anna and Louis seemed suspended and eternal in the glow of the lamp, like subjects from a painting by Vermeer.
John was behind her at the top of the stairs. She’d heard him come up. She’d heard the old wood stairs creaking and groaning under his weight. Anna stood, still holding the bowl in both hands. She was radiant.
Anna turned away from Louis and met John at the top of the stairs. Her eyes met John’s, finding an emerging weariness for life; the collective shame, heartache and uncertainty that accumulates with a life. She also found not a small amount of trepidation about their love making the other night. It was, she recognized, a reticence to cause her any further pain. In the end a man is bound by his fears, and each man’s toleration is entirely his own.
John gently cupped her soft warm cheek. Their eyes held for a moment. She kissed his hand then carried the bowl down to the kitchen. John waited until she was gone before going to Louis.
Louis was already asleep again. John sat in the chair beside the bed and leaned back, draping an arm across the back of the chair. He sat there long after Anna had gone to bed. The room was dark, lit only by the pale blue-white light of a crescent moon. The most magnificent breeze came through the open window. The world felt at peace, and John basked fully in that sublime moment.
He breathed deeply and studied Louis’ face carefully. Stanton had drifted off to deep, deep sleep. His face was to the window. His breaths were slow and rhythmic. John folded his arms and felt his tired eyes brow heavy. He fought it as best he could, and kept telling himself he should get down to bed. Sleep won the argument a moment later.
John awakened with a jolt believing for an instant that he was tipping from the chair. He grabbed for the seat with both hands, the bisected halves of his injured palm tearing against the stitches. He groaned in pain. The groan was abruptly cut short when he noticed Louis. Startled, he retreated from the bed, tipping over the chair and stumbling backwards before catching himself against the book shelf.
“Jesus!” he laughed, chagrined. “Frightened me, Louis.”
But Louis’ gaze was far away. His eyes were wild staring past John. He was holding tightly to the edges of the bed, his body and head rising off the bed, hinting at an unnatural strength John felt utterly impossible to believe.
“Louis?” said John, inching forward when there was no reply. He’d seen men at the end of their lives refusing to concede to that dark and mysterious destination. He’d seen them do impossible things, seen them display amazing feats of strength in those final defiant moments, but nothing like this. John reached to him, stopping short of the bed.
“World is bigger than us, John,” said Louis with the same strange voice from the night before. John started for the bed, his face twisted as he struggled to understand Louis’ meaning.
Louis continued. “Day is fast approaching, John Perkins, you'll meet your maker.”
The words washed over John like an icy cold shower. He'd heard them, there could be no doubt. Louis suddenly threw his arms towards the ceiling, his fingers outstretched and rigid. He raised himself higher into a semi-sitting position, seeming to degy gravity. Tremors shook him, as if energy flowed through his whole body.
“Ain't the end of the world,” said Louis. “Anna will get by. All for the good, John, all for the good.”
It took a moment before John could collect himself. It all seemed like something from a nightmare, yet John felt sure he was very much awake.
“What about Anna?' John demanded. “Tell me waht's going to happen to Anna!”
Louis' eyes remained wide and unblinking, staring far off into another dimension where time and another world overlapped with this one.
“Sun rises and it’s a new day,” said Louis, “and all those who went before are dead and forgotten.”
John'd had enough and grabbed Louis by the collar, pulling him closer. Anger crumbled before rage until john was almost blind and capable of anything. He shook Louis hard, if though it might rattle him from this trance. He looked to the window and thought he might finish things for good. It would easy enough to explain. John could tell how Louis went mad from his injury and threw himself out the window.
“Enough of your damned riddles!”
“Be all right, John Perkins. Its all for the good.”
“What good?” John shook him once more. He growled through gritted teeth. “What the hell are you saying!”
“You got to die, John. Its the only way.”
“Only way?”
“You die to save Bert Himmel's boy,” said Louis. “Anna be all right. Find herself a good man and give him a son. Life goes on, John. Sun rises, it’s a new day.”
John let go of Louis and backed away from the bed. He rubbed the tension and confusion from the forehead, pacing the room a moment. He stopped and turned to Louis again, taking a moment to find words.
“How do you...I don't understand.”
“Ain’t for you to understand, John. For you to go to your fate…”
“My death,” John interrupted.
“Your fate knowing it’ll all work out just fine.”
The light from a small kerosene lamp on the shelf was soft, filling the room with the color of warm molasses. The small orange flame danced ever so slightly, throwing competing shadows against the sloping wall. Anna and Louis seemed suspended and eternal in the glow of the lamp, like subjects from a painting by Vermeer.
John was behind her at the top of the stairs. She’d heard him come up. She’d heard the old wood stairs creaking and groaning under his weight. Anna stood, still holding the bowl in both hands. She was radiant.
Anna turned away from Louis and met John at the top of the stairs. Her eyes met John’s, finding an emerging weariness for life; the collective shame, heartache and uncertainty that accumulates with a life. She also found not a small amount of trepidation about their love making the other night. It was, she recognized, a reticence to cause her any further pain. In the end a man is bound by his fears, and each man’s toleration is entirely his own.
John gently cupped her soft warm cheek. Their eyes held for a moment. She kissed his hand then carried the bowl down to the kitchen. John waited until she was gone before going to Louis.
Louis was already asleep again. John sat in the chair beside the bed and leaned back, draping an arm across the back of the chair. He sat there long after Anna had gone to bed. The room was dark, lit only by the pale blue-white light of a crescent moon. The most magnificent breeze came through the open window. The world felt at peace, and John basked fully in that sublime moment.
He breathed deeply and studied Louis’ face carefully. Stanton had drifted off to deep, deep sleep. His face was to the window. His breaths were slow and rhythmic. John folded his arms and felt his tired eyes brow heavy. He fought it as best he could, and kept telling himself he should get down to bed. Sleep won the argument a moment later.
John awakened with a jolt believing for an instant that he was tipping from the chair. He grabbed for the seat with both hands, the bisected halves of his injured palm tearing against the stitches. He groaned in pain. The groan was abruptly cut short when he noticed Louis. Startled, he retreated from the bed, tipping over the chair and stumbling backwards before catching himself against the book shelf.
“Jesus!” he laughed, chagrined. “Frightened me, Louis.”
But Louis’ gaze was far away. His eyes were wild staring past John. He was holding tightly to the edges of the bed, his body and head rising off the bed, hinting at an unnatural strength John felt utterly impossible to believe.
“Louis?” said John, inching forward when there was no reply. He’d seen men at the end of their lives refusing to concede to that dark and mysterious destination. He’d seen them do impossible things, seen them display amazing feats of strength in those final defiant moments, but nothing like this. John reached to him, stopping short of the bed.
“World is bigger than us, John,” said Louis with the same strange voice from the night before. John started for the bed, his face twisted as he struggled to understand Louis’ meaning.
Louis continued. “Day is fast approaching, John Perkins, you'll meet your maker.”
The words washed over John like an icy cold shower. He'd heard them, there could be no doubt. Louis suddenly threw his arms towards the ceiling, his fingers outstretched and rigid. He raised himself higher into a semi-sitting position, seeming to degy gravity. Tremors shook him, as if energy flowed through his whole body.
“Ain't the end of the world,” said Louis. “Anna will get by. All for the good, John, all for the good.”
It took a moment before John could collect himself. It all seemed like something from a nightmare, yet John felt sure he was very much awake.
“What about Anna?' John demanded. “Tell me waht's going to happen to Anna!”
Louis' eyes remained wide and unblinking, staring far off into another dimension where time and another world overlapped with this one.
“Sun rises and it’s a new day,” said Louis, “and all those who went before are dead and forgotten.”
John'd had enough and grabbed Louis by the collar, pulling him closer. Anger crumbled before rage until john was almost blind and capable of anything. He shook Louis hard, if though it might rattle him from this trance. He looked to the window and thought he might finish things for good. It would easy enough to explain. John could tell how Louis went mad from his injury and threw himself out the window.
“Enough of your damned riddles!”
“Be all right, John Perkins. Its all for the good.”
“What good?” John shook him once more. He growled through gritted teeth. “What the hell are you saying!”
“You got to die, John. Its the only way.”
“Only way?”
“You die to save Bert Himmel's boy,” said Louis. “Anna be all right. Find herself a good man and give him a son. Life goes on, John. Sun rises, it’s a new day.”
John let go of Louis and backed away from the bed. He rubbed the tension and confusion from the forehead, pacing the room a moment. He stopped and turned to Louis again, taking a moment to find words.
“How do you...I don't understand.”
“Ain’t for you to understand, John. For you to go to your fate…”
“My death,” John interrupted.
“Your fate knowing it’ll all work out just fine.”
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Emmetsburg: Twenty-eight
John and Anna were quiet all the way to Mallard. Each remained left to his or her own thoughts. Each let the chill and heaviness of the cemetery evaporate away in that silence and the morning air. Anna noted the anguished expression painting John’s face. She laid her hand gently on his leg and smiled, relieved to see his expression melt away.
There was a crowd gathered outside Bert Himmel’s store, but it was on a different character than the day before. John steered the truck off the road. It skidded to a stop, crunching upon loose gravel. The store was closed, which was unusual. John immediately felt his gut tighten as he recalled Louis Stanton’s apocryphal words the night before. As if in a trance John slid from the truck and went up to the door. He peered through the dirty window into the dark store and checked the knob.
Avery and a half dozen of other locals were gathered in the lot. There was Ernie Vogel, Bog Bill Connolly, Jesse Laughton and a few others whose names John could not recall right off. They stood in a loose circle. The men were in an intense discussion, though from a distance John couldn't hear what they were saying. He went over. Avery took note of John’s bandaged hand.
“Avery, what’s going on?”
“Didn't ya hear?” said Avery replied. “Old Bert passed on last night.”
The words hit John like a sucker punch. Enough that he wasn't sure he'd heard right. He spied young Myron, being looked after by a couple of the fellas a short distance away.
“How's that?” asked John.
“Closed up early yesterday, complaining he wasn't feeling right. Laid down for a nap and never woke up.”
“Doc said it was his heart,” said Ernie Vogel.
It took a moment for the news to sink in, like it was a foreign language that needed to be deciphered. He thought of Stanton and thought it was all just too far-fetched.
“Was a good man,” said John.
“Yep.” Avery removed a cap and swept perspiration from his forehead. Both men just sort of labored in the moment. John nodded thoughtfully.
“How’s the boy taking things?” John nodded towards Myron.
“Hard thing for a boy to face. We’ll look after him.” Avery sighed, rocking on his heels. Both men looked off along the road as an old black jalopy crested the far hill, trailing golden dust against the watercolor blue sky. “Worst of all, C.W. was out yesterday to deliver a notice of inspection for his herd. Left it at the gate where his wife found it this morning. Don’t think he ever saw it.”
“When it rains it pours.”
“His boy came to us this morning wanting to know what we could do to stop the inspection.”
John nodded and kicked at a stone. Avery’s intentions went beyond the humanitarian. He was stirring up a fight, and using Myron Himmel and his grieving family for kindling to light that fire.
“Mind if I speak to him?” John asked.
“Best you don’t right now,” said Avery.
John might have insisted, but there was something strange in Avery’s tone, a dangerous insinuation that caused John to think better of pressing too hard. Not that he had anything physically to fear from Avery. But Avery Lysander was a man who negotiated with his own morality as matter of course, and John had learned to deal cautiously with such men.
“Guess I’ll be going then,” he said with a quick handshake. He turned, shaking his head at all this. He was better than half way to the truck when Avery caught him alone in the road.
“Say, John,” Avery began. John sort of squinted as though trying to see through Avery to some deeper hidden intention. “Some of the fellas and me are gonna head out to meet these government inspectors tomorrow. They’re going out to Bert’s place. Damned if we’ll let them take advantage of a widow with mouths to feed.”
John knew what he was asking, and had his fill of such things long ago.
“Want no part in any trouble, Avery.”
“No trouble.” He gave a dark and sinister wink. “Unless they start it first.”
“What then? Besides, what good will I be with a bum hand?”
“Just want them government people to know we all stand together.”
There was danger behind those words. There was action ruminating and growing in the shadows, away from the prying eyes of the law and of less forthright folks. There was evil in that intention because it wasn’t going to be an honest fight. Instead it would be conniving, like being tricked into a dark room before getting pummeled from every side.
John could feel Avery’s eyes at his back. It added a definite weight to John’s steps as he crossed to the truck. Anna watched him through the small dusty window of the cab and could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d seen his mood quite so dark. One was the night his mother died, the day her father passed, and the stock market crash of Twenty-nine, when it seemed the whole world might come apart. The last was the day little Daniel passed on. John went around to her door and leaned at the window.
He took a breath and let it out slowly, and kicked at some stones. A shiver ran through him. John found her eyes at last and half a mind to tell her about what Stanton had told him the night before. Seemed foolish to bother her with something he might have imagined, misunderstood or concocted from the delirious ramblings of an unconscious man.
“Bert Himmel passed away.”
Anna didn’t really know him that well but knew how John always spoke well of him. She touched John’s face. Her heart went out to rescue him.
“Are you all right?”
“Guess he went in his sleep.” John breathed heavily, mulling over everything and nothing. “Government inspectors are going out to Bert’s tomorrow and check his cattle for tuberculosis.”
“How can they after…?”
John shrugged, and studied the closed sign in the window. The word seemed so lonely and final now.
“Some of the fellas are going over there to make a show.”
“That what you were talking about over there?” Anna asked. John didn’t answer. “John Perkins, those boys mean trouble.”
“Told him I wanted no part of it.”
“I know you better than that.”
He looked past her, through the truck, following the ribbon of road disappearing in the distance. He sort of smiled.
“Maybe better than I know myself.”
There was a crowd gathered outside Bert Himmel’s store, but it was on a different character than the day before. John steered the truck off the road. It skidded to a stop, crunching upon loose gravel. The store was closed, which was unusual. John immediately felt his gut tighten as he recalled Louis Stanton’s apocryphal words the night before. As if in a trance John slid from the truck and went up to the door. He peered through the dirty window into the dark store and checked the knob.
Avery and a half dozen of other locals were gathered in the lot. There was Ernie Vogel, Bog Bill Connolly, Jesse Laughton and a few others whose names John could not recall right off. They stood in a loose circle. The men were in an intense discussion, though from a distance John couldn't hear what they were saying. He went over. Avery took note of John’s bandaged hand.
“Avery, what’s going on?”
“Didn't ya hear?” said Avery replied. “Old Bert passed on last night.”
The words hit John like a sucker punch. Enough that he wasn't sure he'd heard right. He spied young Myron, being looked after by a couple of the fellas a short distance away.
“How's that?” asked John.
“Closed up early yesterday, complaining he wasn't feeling right. Laid down for a nap and never woke up.”
“Doc said it was his heart,” said Ernie Vogel.
It took a moment for the news to sink in, like it was a foreign language that needed to be deciphered. He thought of Stanton and thought it was all just too far-fetched.
“Was a good man,” said John.
“Yep.” Avery removed a cap and swept perspiration from his forehead. Both men just sort of labored in the moment. John nodded thoughtfully.
“How’s the boy taking things?” John nodded towards Myron.
“Hard thing for a boy to face. We’ll look after him.” Avery sighed, rocking on his heels. Both men looked off along the road as an old black jalopy crested the far hill, trailing golden dust against the watercolor blue sky. “Worst of all, C.W. was out yesterday to deliver a notice of inspection for his herd. Left it at the gate where his wife found it this morning. Don’t think he ever saw it.”
“When it rains it pours.”
“His boy came to us this morning wanting to know what we could do to stop the inspection.”
John nodded and kicked at a stone. Avery’s intentions went beyond the humanitarian. He was stirring up a fight, and using Myron Himmel and his grieving family for kindling to light that fire.
“Mind if I speak to him?” John asked.
“Best you don’t right now,” said Avery.
John might have insisted, but there was something strange in Avery’s tone, a dangerous insinuation that caused John to think better of pressing too hard. Not that he had anything physically to fear from Avery. But Avery Lysander was a man who negotiated with his own morality as matter of course, and John had learned to deal cautiously with such men.
“Guess I’ll be going then,” he said with a quick handshake. He turned, shaking his head at all this. He was better than half way to the truck when Avery caught him alone in the road.
“Say, John,” Avery began. John sort of squinted as though trying to see through Avery to some deeper hidden intention. “Some of the fellas and me are gonna head out to meet these government inspectors tomorrow. They’re going out to Bert’s place. Damned if we’ll let them take advantage of a widow with mouths to feed.”
John knew what he was asking, and had his fill of such things long ago.
“Want no part in any trouble, Avery.”
“No trouble.” He gave a dark and sinister wink. “Unless they start it first.”
“What then? Besides, what good will I be with a bum hand?”
“Just want them government people to know we all stand together.”
There was danger behind those words. There was action ruminating and growing in the shadows, away from the prying eyes of the law and of less forthright folks. There was evil in that intention because it wasn’t going to be an honest fight. Instead it would be conniving, like being tricked into a dark room before getting pummeled from every side.
John could feel Avery’s eyes at his back. It added a definite weight to John’s steps as he crossed to the truck. Anna watched him through the small dusty window of the cab and could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d seen his mood quite so dark. One was the night his mother died, the day her father passed, and the stock market crash of Twenty-nine, when it seemed the whole world might come apart. The last was the day little Daniel passed on. John went around to her door and leaned at the window.
He took a breath and let it out slowly, and kicked at some stones. A shiver ran through him. John found her eyes at last and half a mind to tell her about what Stanton had told him the night before. Seemed foolish to bother her with something he might have imagined, misunderstood or concocted from the delirious ramblings of an unconscious man.
“Bert Himmel passed away.”
Anna didn’t really know him that well but knew how John always spoke well of him. She touched John’s face. Her heart went out to rescue him.
“Are you all right?”
“Guess he went in his sleep.” John breathed heavily, mulling over everything and nothing. “Government inspectors are going out to Bert’s tomorrow and check his cattle for tuberculosis.”
“How can they after…?”
John shrugged, and studied the closed sign in the window. The word seemed so lonely and final now.
“Some of the fellas are going over there to make a show.”
“That what you were talking about over there?” Anna asked. John didn’t answer. “John Perkins, those boys mean trouble.”
“Told him I wanted no part of it.”
“I know you better than that.”
He looked past her, through the truck, following the ribbon of road disappearing in the distance. He sort of smiled.
“Maybe better than I know myself.”
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.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Emmetsburg: Twenty-six
John pulled to a stop dead center of the crossroads at the edge of town. Leaning across the wheel he squinted east towards Cylinder. A golden morning sun hovered above the hills and fields to the east. It was fat and round, the heat, already becoming a presence. The sun was suspended, held aloft by arms of ochre dust rising from parched fields. A sweltering south wind painted a fine layer of sweat upon John and Anna's faces. John took a long breath and let it out dramatically through his nose. Anna knew immediately what he was thinking and touched his leg.
“Think maybe we ought to stop,” she said.
John was tortured at the thought and peered into the distance.
“Don't know.” he said simply.
“John,” she touched him again, firmer and more adamant this time. His gaze remained among the fields, lost there. Anna persisted. “John?”
“Maybe sometimes best just to let things be,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes best to put things to rest.”
John pursed his lips and felt the full weight of the moment.
“Just been so long, and the other night and all. Don't know if I want to risk that, Anna.”
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. She breathed him in. He looked at her. figuring.
“I took that as a sign,” she said. “Time to say goodbye and get on with things, John Perkins. Start new.”
He conceded and yanked the truck into gear. Not a mile out of town St Mary's cemetery blanketed a rectangular patch of ground beside the road. It was a pretty little of green earth, such as it was, a solemn island bounded on three sides by unplowed fields. Nine tall firs separated that island from the world. Their mottled shade blanketed most of the cemetery, falling over ranks of neatly arranged stones. There was no fence or boundary. Instead it was as if those who resided there had reached some agreement with Iowa's endless farmland, or as if the land had given ground to those who lived and sacrificed and died here.
John guided the truck up to the gravel entrance and pulled to stop. They had not been here since the funeral. He leaned on the wheel and chewed his lip. There was a time when this place felt like a destination for John and Anna. Like a traveler might feel looking off along empty tracks leading to some unknown yet certain home. He looked at Anna, and pulled the truck forward when she gave a slight nod.
“Think maybe we ought to stop,” she said.
John was tortured at the thought and peered into the distance.
“Don't know.” he said simply.
“John,” she touched him again, firmer and more adamant this time. His gaze remained among the fields, lost there. Anna persisted. “John?”
“Maybe sometimes best just to let things be,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes best to put things to rest.”
John pursed his lips and felt the full weight of the moment.
“Just been so long, and the other night and all. Don't know if I want to risk that, Anna.”
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. She breathed him in. He looked at her. figuring.
“I took that as a sign,” she said. “Time to say goodbye and get on with things, John Perkins. Start new.”
He conceded and yanked the truck into gear. Not a mile out of town St Mary's cemetery blanketed a rectangular patch of ground beside the road. It was a pretty little of green earth, such as it was, a solemn island bounded on three sides by unplowed fields. Nine tall firs separated that island from the world. Their mottled shade blanketed most of the cemetery, falling over ranks of neatly arranged stones. There was no fence or boundary. Instead it was as if those who resided there had reached some agreement with Iowa's endless farmland, or as if the land had given ground to those who lived and sacrificed and died here.
John guided the truck up to the gravel entrance and pulled to stop. They had not been here since the funeral. He leaned on the wheel and chewed his lip. There was a time when this place felt like a destination for John and Anna. Like a traveler might feel looking off along empty tracks leading to some unknown yet certain home. He looked at Anna, and pulled the truck forward when she gave a slight nod.
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