There was a wagon parked in the road, hitched to a weathered brown mare. The mare looked every bit as old and wise as the owner. A simple silent language passed between them as the farmer struggled a bit into the wagon. The horse watched and waited patiently before starting up the road almost before the famer had a steady hold on the reigns. They were a poem together, each part integrally and intimately in precise sync with the other.
John followed the farmer up the road, where they turned into a small driveway. It felt like entering another world. It was a small sheltered yard. The little wood-frame house was nearly hidden beneath the branches of full trees. There was a tool shed and long chicken coop out back. A Model T and small tractor were parked together between the house and coop. Through a gap in the trees, upon a hillcrest perhaps a quarter mile away, a weathered red barn was silhouetted against the building storm.
John climbed from the truck and stretched his back with a groan. The farmer unhitched the mare and patted her hip. She sauntered over to deepening grass in the yard,dipping her head and nibbling until she found the tastiest spot.
“Hell of a place to sleep,” said the farmer coming around the front of the truck.
“That it is,” John agreed twisting and stretching the knots and ghost pains from his body..
They went inside through the back door, into the kitchen. The place was neat and had been well kept. There was a tiredness to that neatness, as if the farmer’s care was starting to fray at the edges. Early morning light charging through the windows warmed and brightened the room, giving life to the wooden floor and the oval red rug in front of the basin and counter.
John sat at a small blond wooden table. In the center, hanging neatly off one end was a pretty white lace doillie. It was inlaid with with green and red flowers. The craftwork was flawless, and reminded John of his grandmother’s work, despite a few stains discoloring the fabric here and there. Those stains were set into the weave as though they had been there for years, or had been drawn into the design from the beginning.. In the center of the table, beside a vase of fresh bright and blue wild flowers was a small oriental tea cup partly filled with salt and a teaspoon.
The farmer built a fire in the belly of the black iron stove. The umber scent of soft wood catching flame warmed the room. There was a heavy iron skillet on the stove top. The old man scooped a spoon full of thick pale white grease from a ceramic pot and pushed it around the inside of the skillet until it melted clear. From the ice box he took a couple cooked pork shops and set them on the counter. The kitchen suddenly filled with their pepper and herb smell.
A cool comfortable breeze moved through from the front of the house. It carried with it a certain emptiness, as though reminding those in the house of someone’s absence.. It carried the scent of timeless memories, and of a lifetime John could scarcely fathom. He watched the old man grind coffee beans, fascinated, as though he had known him forever.
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
Friday, March 26, 2010
Emmetsburg: Sixty-five
Pale-green. Two hours out of Emmetsburg John curled himself tightly on the seat, and pulled the shirt over his shoulders. It wasn’t a good sleep, by any stretch. He had to turn into the seat against the heavy scent of oil and engine grease. He was outrunning that storm just building from clear blue sky most of the evening. When he pulled aside it was still behind him, but coming up steadily.
Just around dawn when he was awakened by an insistent tapping at the window. His eyes opened grudgingly to the face of an old farmer. The fellow had a long narrow face dominated by a red round nose and full gray eyelashes like long wispy reeds of grass. Furled, they cut dangerously deep lines in his broad forehead. Not in an alarming way, but with a wistful sort of scolding of a patient grandparent. Behind him an old gray mare was hitched to a small covered carriage.
“Down on your luck?” said the old timer through the window.
John sat up and pinched his nose, pulling sleep from his eyes. It took a moment to answer. Not that the fellow seemed in all that much of a hurry. John rolled down the window and replied before his eyes could fully focus.
“Headed home.”
“Ain’t in some kind of trouble?”
“Not with the law or the lord,” said John.
The old farmer almost smiled and looked up the road. It seemed to rise into the dark blue storm clouds to the east. The storm had passed to the north a bit, marching steadily southward in proportion.
“Leaves only money and family.” The man smiled warmly. “Reckon I’ll take my chances with the Lord.”
“Expect I should be getting off your land.”
The farmer shrugged. “Weren’t harming anything. Didn’t mean to startle you. Just trying to be neighborly.”
“Much obliged.”
“Where’s home, if you don’t mind me asking?’
“Emmetsburg.”
The farmer nodded thoughtfully. His mouth twisted as he mulled a thought. “Big doings up there today.”
“You don’t say,” John yawned, stretching the sleep from his arms and fingers.
“Army moved in overnight. Hoover’s finest.” The man’s sarcasm was drier than a desert. “Heard through the grapevine some fellas might be up to some sort of insurrection of sorts. Show these federals a thing or two about messing with good hard working Iowa folks.”
“Sure hope your wrong about that.”
“Suppose we'll see. Welcome to come up to the house for some breakfast.”
“Could use a bite,” said John with a slight nod. “Don’t want to intrude.”
“Can’t speak to the quality. The wife was the real cook in the house. Since she passed I’m just pretending.”
Just around dawn when he was awakened by an insistent tapping at the window. His eyes opened grudgingly to the face of an old farmer. The fellow had a long narrow face dominated by a red round nose and full gray eyelashes like long wispy reeds of grass. Furled, they cut dangerously deep lines in his broad forehead. Not in an alarming way, but with a wistful sort of scolding of a patient grandparent. Behind him an old gray mare was hitched to a small covered carriage.
“Down on your luck?” said the old timer through the window.
John sat up and pinched his nose, pulling sleep from his eyes. It took a moment to answer. Not that the fellow seemed in all that much of a hurry. John rolled down the window and replied before his eyes could fully focus.
“Headed home.”
“Ain’t in some kind of trouble?”
“Not with the law or the lord,” said John.
The old farmer almost smiled and looked up the road. It seemed to rise into the dark blue storm clouds to the east. The storm had passed to the north a bit, marching steadily southward in proportion.
“Leaves only money and family.” The man smiled warmly. “Reckon I’ll take my chances with the Lord.”
“Expect I should be getting off your land.”
The farmer shrugged. “Weren’t harming anything. Didn’t mean to startle you. Just trying to be neighborly.”
“Much obliged.”
“Where’s home, if you don’t mind me asking?’
“Emmetsburg.”
The farmer nodded thoughtfully. His mouth twisted as he mulled a thought. “Big doings up there today.”
“You don’t say,” John yawned, stretching the sleep from his arms and fingers.
“Army moved in overnight. Hoover’s finest.” The man’s sarcasm was drier than a desert. “Heard through the grapevine some fellas might be up to some sort of insurrection of sorts. Show these federals a thing or two about messing with good hard working Iowa folks.”
“Sure hope your wrong about that.”
“Suppose we'll see. Welcome to come up to the house for some breakfast.”
“Could use a bite,” said John with a slight nod. “Don’t want to intrude.”
“Can’t speak to the quality. The wife was the real cook in the house. Since she passed I’m just pretending.”
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Emmetsburg: Sixty-four
Blue. The wind picked up, coming straight out of the north. It was a cool wind, kicking up dust and made the deepening shade of the barn almost uncomfortable. A string of little white clouds grew as a breath along a front across that previously unblemished sky out beyond the lonesomeness of the General Store. It’d be raining by morning, adding a certain urgency to all this. Perhaps it was that urgency that helped wrestle loose the question John had been mulling for some time now.
“What do you figure this is all about?” he asked, his gaze drifting along the distant horizon.
“Nothin,’” The Indian’s reply was unequivocal.
“Nothing?”
“Grand scheme? Nothin’ but what you wish it to be about.”
John thought to reply. He almost said something smart, more because of the absolute sense of emptiness that whole idea carried. He almost said something, but the idea was just too much to dismiss or react too quickly to. Instead he let the moment slip away in solemn silence. Strange, he thought, that the idea that life really amounted to nothing in the end was both disconcerting and liberating all at once. He looked up at the old Indian.
“And fate?’
“Told you, it’s all about perspective. Want to have any say in your fate, got to change your perspective, that’s all.”
John nodded thoughtfully and climbed to his feet. His shirt had just about dried by now. His belly groaned. John remembered he hadn’t eaten since the day before. He reached into his pocket and found two bits there. He figured it’d be enough for a gas and a cup of coffee. John rubbed the back of his neck.
“One more question.”
“Told ya when you sat down, questions don’t cost nothing.’”
“Let’s say a fella knows the time and place of his own death, and he knows that something good will come of his death, but if he didn’t die those good things wouldn’t happen. If that was you, just speculating here, would you go to that fate.”
Without hesitation the man opened his eyes and looked up at John. His eyes were the most amazing green, like some sort of polished stone. His reply almost made John feel foolish for its simplicity, and selfish for its immediacy, as if John had completely overlooked something fundamental and unquestionable.
“Wouldn’t you?’
“What do you figure this is all about?” he asked, his gaze drifting along the distant horizon.
“Nothin,’” The Indian’s reply was unequivocal.
“Nothing?”
“Grand scheme? Nothin’ but what you wish it to be about.”
John thought to reply. He almost said something smart, more because of the absolute sense of emptiness that whole idea carried. He almost said something, but the idea was just too much to dismiss or react too quickly to. Instead he let the moment slip away in solemn silence. Strange, he thought, that the idea that life really amounted to nothing in the end was both disconcerting and liberating all at once. He looked up at the old Indian.
“And fate?’
“Told you, it’s all about perspective. Want to have any say in your fate, got to change your perspective, that’s all.”
John nodded thoughtfully and climbed to his feet. His shirt had just about dried by now. His belly groaned. John remembered he hadn’t eaten since the day before. He reached into his pocket and found two bits there. He figured it’d be enough for a gas and a cup of coffee. John rubbed the back of his neck.
“One more question.”
“Told ya when you sat down, questions don’t cost nothing.’”
“Let’s say a fella knows the time and place of his own death, and he knows that something good will come of his death, but if he didn’t die those good things wouldn’t happen. If that was you, just speculating here, would you go to that fate.”
Without hesitation the man opened his eyes and looked up at John. His eyes were the most amazing green, like some sort of polished stone. His reply almost made John feel foolish for its simplicity, and selfish for its immediacy, as if John had completely overlooked something fundamental and unquestionable.
“Wouldn’t you?’
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Emmetsburg: Sixty-two
Golden. It was shame that drove him west out of Vermillion. Not that John had much of an idea where he was headed, just as he had no real interest in where he ended up. So he went west, because it was as good a direction as any. He drove west across the dust choked emptiness of South Dakota.
The road was hardly more than a dirt track, running off into the distance, towards the indiscernible horizon, where perhaps a new fate awaited to replace the one he sought to escape in Emmetsburg. He drew to a stop at a crossroads. The earth and sky were blended, as if they were the base colors on a great canvas, the world and details to be supplied later. It was a continuum, as if the two were kin. All that could be seen were a line of telegraph poles, a single black wire connecting them until they were swollowed in the dust and haze of the plain. John weigh his options and decided to continue with the telegraph line.
He couldn't say how long he'd been driving. Not for sure anyway. He had an idea. He'd left Vermillion sometime before dawn, and he'd watched the sun march across the sky. John figured it was late afternoon, especially when he pulled up on the tiny little town, the shadows of the half dozen or some small buildings stretching across the road.
It was a stretch to call the place a town. To one side there was an old barn, that looked like it might have just been there forever. An old Indian leaned from a chair against the barn. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers. He was tall, his ochre skin stretched tightly over a slender frame. Beside the barn was a water pump. The barn faced a general store doubling as the town hall. There was a single Sunoco gasoline pump out front. Further along was a house, and a small Baptist Church.
John drew to a stop in front of the barn and climbed out, brushing the dust f rom his trousers and shoulders. The Indian didn't budge a muscle. His eyes were closed, but the precarious nature of his balancing act on the two back legs of that old chair made it clear he wasn't.
“Mind if I help myself to your water pump?” John said from the road. The toes of his boots met the edge of the barn's shadow. He remained there, as if that line marked some boundary.
“Don't cost nothing.” said the Indian, without hardly moving a muscle.
“Much obliged.”
Thank the good Lord.”
John stepped into the cool of the shadow. His eyes kept going to the Indian, even as he quenched his thirst and cooled his neck and face from the icy cold water from the well. John stood, the front of his shirt soaked and heavy from water. In the shadow of the barn it almost gave him a chill.
“Ask you a question?” he said.
“Those are free too.”
“Where is this place?”
“That depends,” said the Indian.
“On what?”
“On where you want to be.”
The road was hardly more than a dirt track, running off into the distance, towards the indiscernible horizon, where perhaps a new fate awaited to replace the one he sought to escape in Emmetsburg. He drew to a stop at a crossroads. The earth and sky were blended, as if they were the base colors on a great canvas, the world and details to be supplied later. It was a continuum, as if the two were kin. All that could be seen were a line of telegraph poles, a single black wire connecting them until they were swollowed in the dust and haze of the plain. John weigh his options and decided to continue with the telegraph line.
He couldn't say how long he'd been driving. Not for sure anyway. He had an idea. He'd left Vermillion sometime before dawn, and he'd watched the sun march across the sky. John figured it was late afternoon, especially when he pulled up on the tiny little town, the shadows of the half dozen or some small buildings stretching across the road.
It was a stretch to call the place a town. To one side there was an old barn, that looked like it might have just been there forever. An old Indian leaned from a chair against the barn. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers. He was tall, his ochre skin stretched tightly over a slender frame. Beside the barn was a water pump. The barn faced a general store doubling as the town hall. There was a single Sunoco gasoline pump out front. Further along was a house, and a small Baptist Church.
John drew to a stop in front of the barn and climbed out, brushing the dust f rom his trousers and shoulders. The Indian didn't budge a muscle. His eyes were closed, but the precarious nature of his balancing act on the two back legs of that old chair made it clear he wasn't.
“Mind if I help myself to your water pump?” John said from the road. The toes of his boots met the edge of the barn's shadow. He remained there, as if that line marked some boundary.
“Don't cost nothing.” said the Indian, without hardly moving a muscle.
“Much obliged.”
Thank the good Lord.”
John stepped into the cool of the shadow. His eyes kept going to the Indian, even as he quenched his thirst and cooled his neck and face from the icy cold water from the well. John stood, the front of his shirt soaked and heavy from water. In the shadow of the barn it almost gave him a chill.
“Ask you a question?” he said.
“Those are free too.”
“Where is this place?”
“That depends,” said the Indian.
“On what?”
“On where you want to be.”
Monday, March 22, 2010
Emmetsburg:Sixty
Emily drew the waist of the dress into her hands and hesitated a moment. She lifted away the dress and let it fall to a small bush behind her. John looked at her. Not with lust, but with admiration. Starlight fell across her breasts, shone upon the smooth slope of her belly to where it lost in the tangled triangle of dark pubic hair. She swam nd luxuriated in his gaze.
“Married.” she said, almost as a disappointed sigh.
“Matter?”
“Just if you’re running from…”
“Just as soon leave it be,” he said, then tempered the words. “If that’s all right.”
“Don’t mean to pry.”
“Just wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Fair enough.”
“And you?”
Emily sort of laughed darkly to herself. She played with her hair a moment before tying it back. “Wouldn’t have called it a marriage. At least not in the biblical sense.”
“Where is he now?”
In hell, if there is any justice in the world, she thought to say. Instead she shrugged and sat and leaned back on her elbows, as if she and John had been lovers forever. The conversation stirred memories Emily would just as soon have buried for good.
Was there any real justice in the world, she wondered, or were such things illusions for gullible hearts that still clung to ideas like god and fate and love? She wasn’t enough of a hypocrite to abandon such things. No still beating heart rightly could. But she didn’t entertain those thoughts either.
As for love, she saw it not as a goal or a treasure to be cherished. Rather it was more a weakness, a flaw of the heart that allowed the unscrupulous to delude the needing heart against the stubborn human mind that it was capable of anything purer. Still, in quieter moments Emily understood that her hypocrisy was complete. The conflicting thoughts brought a sudden wave of emotion. Tears threatened her eyes.
“I love looking at the stars,” she said, hoping to divert her thoughts. Something in their eternity settled her a bit.
“That so?” he replied. He was thinking of Anna. It tore at his heart what she must be thinking at this moment, wondering where he had gone off to
“Makes the problems in the world seem so small.”
“I reckon.”
“Ask you a question?”
“Might cost you,” John smiled.
“Take wooden nickels?” she teased.
The rising moon scattered across the flowing waters. Her gaze fixed upon that scattered light, as if some wisdom could be gleaned from its study, or that it might wrestle free deeper thoughts she was incapable of reaching on her own. John was thinking the same thing.
“What do you figure this is all about?” he asked.
“Ain’t a proper question,” she answered.
“Don’t follow.”
“I ain’t seeing the world through your eyes, and you can’t see through mine.”
He nodded at her reply, a bit disappointed he couldn’t come to it himself. It only seemed to confirm the words.
“That’s a curse, I suppose.”
“Don’t know,” she said. Her voice was almost lost to the crickets and the river. She looked away. There were campfires among a bank of trees a ways off. “Works out about the same either way.”
“Think?”
“Maybe. Who knows?”
“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. She didn't hear. Didn't seem like there was much else to say. The moment fell away from them to hang heavy in the growing humidity. There were bigger thoughts here that neither was in the mood to pursue much, at least not with someone else. Emily chuckled, breaking the moment.
“Didn't figure on pondering the heavens when I came down here with you, John.”
John smiled a little sadly. Not quite meeting her eyes, but more looking past her. “Hot night.”
Emily stood without replying and pondered the river. She went to the edge. Her toes sank in the cool silky mud. The water rushed in around her feet chasing the heat of the night from her body. John closed his eyes.
“You asked what this all means,” Emily swept a foot through the water before her.
“Uh huh.”
“I'm looking at this here river,” she said. Her voice felt distant, even to her. “Been running forever. Be running after I'm dead and gone.”
Doesn't frighten you?”
“The word or forever?”
“Take your pick.”
The answer was simple. It was perfect. Emily swept a foot back and forth in the water.
“Think I'll go for that swim,” she said.
John nodded in a nondescript manner. Emily took a long cleansing breath and released it. She waded into the river waist deep. John watched as she slid forward and pushed gently into the dark river. Caught by the current she slipped from view and was gone.
John stood and walked slowly up to the truck, pausing to study the contours of a leaf for a moment. Emily's mom and pop were seated precisely where he had found them earlier. John gave a polite nod. The old man looked away and spat into the dust. His wife remained a statue to the injustices of her life. She was a lifetime away, playing at the world the little girl in her dreamed once.
“Married.” she said, almost as a disappointed sigh.
“Matter?”
“Just if you’re running from…”
“Just as soon leave it be,” he said, then tempered the words. “If that’s all right.”
“Don’t mean to pry.”
“Just wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Fair enough.”
“And you?”
Emily sort of laughed darkly to herself. She played with her hair a moment before tying it back. “Wouldn’t have called it a marriage. At least not in the biblical sense.”
“Where is he now?”
In hell, if there is any justice in the world, she thought to say. Instead she shrugged and sat and leaned back on her elbows, as if she and John had been lovers forever. The conversation stirred memories Emily would just as soon have buried for good.
Was there any real justice in the world, she wondered, or were such things illusions for gullible hearts that still clung to ideas like god and fate and love? She wasn’t enough of a hypocrite to abandon such things. No still beating heart rightly could. But she didn’t entertain those thoughts either.
As for love, she saw it not as a goal or a treasure to be cherished. Rather it was more a weakness, a flaw of the heart that allowed the unscrupulous to delude the needing heart against the stubborn human mind that it was capable of anything purer. Still, in quieter moments Emily understood that her hypocrisy was complete. The conflicting thoughts brought a sudden wave of emotion. Tears threatened her eyes.
“I love looking at the stars,” she said, hoping to divert her thoughts. Something in their eternity settled her a bit.
“That so?” he replied. He was thinking of Anna. It tore at his heart what she must be thinking at this moment, wondering where he had gone off to
“Makes the problems in the world seem so small.”
“I reckon.”
“Ask you a question?”
“Might cost you,” John smiled.
“Take wooden nickels?” she teased.
The rising moon scattered across the flowing waters. Her gaze fixed upon that scattered light, as if some wisdom could be gleaned from its study, or that it might wrestle free deeper thoughts she was incapable of reaching on her own. John was thinking the same thing.
“What do you figure this is all about?” he asked.
“Ain’t a proper question,” she answered.
“Don’t follow.”
“I ain’t seeing the world through your eyes, and you can’t see through mine.”
He nodded at her reply, a bit disappointed he couldn’t come to it himself. It only seemed to confirm the words.
“That’s a curse, I suppose.”
“Don’t know,” she said. Her voice was almost lost to the crickets and the river. She looked away. There were campfires among a bank of trees a ways off. “Works out about the same either way.”
“Think?”
“Maybe. Who knows?”
“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. She didn't hear. Didn't seem like there was much else to say. The moment fell away from them to hang heavy in the growing humidity. There were bigger thoughts here that neither was in the mood to pursue much, at least not with someone else. Emily chuckled, breaking the moment.
“Didn't figure on pondering the heavens when I came down here with you, John.”
John smiled a little sadly. Not quite meeting her eyes, but more looking past her. “Hot night.”
Emily stood without replying and pondered the river. She went to the edge. Her toes sank in the cool silky mud. The water rushed in around her feet chasing the heat of the night from her body. John closed his eyes.
“You asked what this all means,” Emily swept a foot through the water before her.
“Uh huh.”
“I'm looking at this here river,” she said. Her voice felt distant, even to her. “Been running forever. Be running after I'm dead and gone.”
Doesn't frighten you?”
“The word or forever?”
“Take your pick.”
The answer was simple. It was perfect. Emily swept a foot back and forth in the water.
“Think I'll go for that swim,” she said.
John nodded in a nondescript manner. Emily took a long cleansing breath and released it. She waded into the river waist deep. John watched as she slid forward and pushed gently into the dark river. Caught by the current she slipped from view and was gone.
John stood and walked slowly up to the truck, pausing to study the contours of a leaf for a moment. Emily's mom and pop were seated precisely where he had found them earlier. John gave a polite nod. The old man looked away and spat into the dust. His wife remained a statue to the injustices of her life. She was a lifetime away, playing at the world the little girl in her dreamed once.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-four
Golden pillars of morning light poured in through the tall stained glass windows inside St. Mary’s Church. They drifted and moved, transforming the congregation, the alter and the crowded rows of blond pews into curtains of light and shadow. The blended voices of the choir gave life to those shadows and light, as if those melodious tones were instead a quality to the sunlight, as if the light had been sent by God with a quality and power altogether different from mere daylight.
John was lost in them, feeling suddenly like a castaway from the world. He felt choked by the collar of his white Sunday shirt, and by the knot of his black bow tie. He was sweating under the collar, despite a pleasant breeze through the open doors at the back of the church. John turned and twisted his head and fought a growing sense of panic and desperation. He might have run outside, but that wouldn’t save him either.
Ana was beside him, but felt farther away from John than ever. Not even in the war, an ocean away, sending off a letter and waiting weeks for a reply, hoping it wouldn’t be a note saying he had been killed. She looked at him, wishing to know what was tearing at him so. He wished to tell her, to tell her everything, including his misgivings about their life and their love.
Where would John even begin? He found himself negotiating with fate, without knowing if such a thing was even possible. What was it? Was fate unchangeable and petty human choice the illusion that allowed us distance and insulation from the coldness of our ultimate fates? Perhaps it was indeed malleable and changeable. But what about Anna and her fate? Could she, as Louis foretold (given that it was impossible for him to know about Bert Himmel and the Spirit Lake fire) find someone else and have the child she wished to have? And what about Myron Himmel? Knowing his fate, and knowing that his death would alter their lives for the better, did John have a responsibility to their fates? John felt trapped by those thoughts, and grasped for the only decision he could see.
He'd run. John'd go off and repair his soul. He'd drown it in liquor, or bury it in lust and another woman. As for Anna, if would be a far sight easier for her to get on with things if he'd gone off and left her. Far easier, he figured, to digest betrayal than suffer mourning. There. There was the pit in the armor of Louis's predictions.
He was quiet all day, and didn't let on when she left to take care of Mrs. Conlon. At dusk, before Anna returned home, and without so much as a letter of explanation, John climbed into the truck and drove west out of Emmetsburg. He drove west into the twilight of his bitterness. He drove west into a rust red sun setting among the dusty purple haze of the darkening Iowa landscape.
John was lost in them, feeling suddenly like a castaway from the world. He felt choked by the collar of his white Sunday shirt, and by the knot of his black bow tie. He was sweating under the collar, despite a pleasant breeze through the open doors at the back of the church. John turned and twisted his head and fought a growing sense of panic and desperation. He might have run outside, but that wouldn’t save him either.
Ana was beside him, but felt farther away from John than ever. Not even in the war, an ocean away, sending off a letter and waiting weeks for a reply, hoping it wouldn’t be a note saying he had been killed. She looked at him, wishing to know what was tearing at him so. He wished to tell her, to tell her everything, including his misgivings about their life and their love.
Where would John even begin? He found himself negotiating with fate, without knowing if such a thing was even possible. What was it? Was fate unchangeable and petty human choice the illusion that allowed us distance and insulation from the coldness of our ultimate fates? Perhaps it was indeed malleable and changeable. But what about Anna and her fate? Could she, as Louis foretold (given that it was impossible for him to know about Bert Himmel and the Spirit Lake fire) find someone else and have the child she wished to have? And what about Myron Himmel? Knowing his fate, and knowing that his death would alter their lives for the better, did John have a responsibility to their fates? John felt trapped by those thoughts, and grasped for the only decision he could see.
He'd run. John'd go off and repair his soul. He'd drown it in liquor, or bury it in lust and another woman. As for Anna, if would be a far sight easier for her to get on with things if he'd gone off and left her. Far easier, he figured, to digest betrayal than suffer mourning. There. There was the pit in the armor of Louis's predictions.
He was quiet all day, and didn't let on when she left to take care of Mrs. Conlon. At dusk, before Anna returned home, and without so much as a letter of explanation, John climbed into the truck and drove west out of Emmetsburg. He drove west into the twilight of his bitterness. He drove west into a rust red sun setting among the dusty purple haze of the darkening Iowa landscape.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-three
John sat on a stool beside the cellar door, wondering if he ought to be saying goodbye to the world. A storm was moving in, though the stars were bright and bold. The wind had picked up, carrying the mineral scent of approaching rain. The wind washed through the willow behind the house, tugging at its long flowing branches. There were flashes of lightening, reflected in houses and trees, but it was accompanied by a silence that told John the storm was the better part of an hour away.
The wind chased the off the heat of the day and kept the fire flies to the low branches of trees or among the tall grass at the back of the yard. More than that, the wind settled the storms in his heart that had tossed him madly the last few days. It didn’t resolve anything, and certainly gave him no peace of mind, but it offered a moment’s reprise from which he could collect the shattered pieces of his thoughts a bit.
Anna was already in bed, waiting for him. John felt that tug, the pattern and familiarity of being beside her the better part of his life, it was just that he couldn’t be near her right now. Too many thoughts and feelings besieged him, and too many doubts assailed him. It weakened him. It weakened his tongue and allowed those un-tempered misgivings free reign to charge Anna with things she might well be innocent of, at least as much as John’s heart was concerned. It was better he remain there in the yard where the solitude and quiet asserted themselves as the proper prescriptions for his tormented heart.
John pulled at the bandage. The act drew his mind from the sudden appearance of darker thoughts about Anna, their love and eternity, as if those thoughts had collected themselves from the broken pieces of his thoughts. The end of the bandage came loose, and if it was some sort of puzzle, something hiding a mystery, he began to unwrap it from his hand. He focused on it, forcing away though thoughts, wrestling them to the ground. The effort was fully respected in his face. John’s lips tightened, eyes narrowing and his brow sinking deeply. He pulled the wrappings away more quickly, more forcefully as the task to stop those thoughts became herculean. They fought back, allied with his selfish heart until he was helpless to hold them back any longer. They overran him, turning him from Anna, indicting and vilifying her for manufactured crimes and the hearsay foolishness of a madman.
The bandages lay in a pile at his feet. John held out the hand before him and studied the jagged scar, running from his index finger, through the center at his wrist where it almost reached his wrist. It was dark against the flesh of his palm, reminding him of trenches scarring the rolling farmland of France. He opened his hand, stretching his fingers as much as the pain and sutures would allow. He could feel the pull of the flesh, a tension that threatened to burst and gush warm dark blood.
“John?” Anna appeared at the back door. Her voice was sleepy and concerned. She noticed the bandages at his feet and came down the back step, the wind tugging at her thin white gown. “What have you done?”
“Cutting off the circulation,” he said, his voice held a sulking quality. She knelt before him, resting a hand on his knee. The other gently cradled the underside of his injured hand.
“Are you all right?” she tried in vain to find his eyes. “You’re just not yourself.”
“Fine,” he replied. “Just need to sort out a few things.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
It was as if these thoughts were a sin, a crime that he wished to hide. It was easier to be cruel to Anna than unburden himself. The words came out colder than he could ever recall speaking to her. It was as though someone else was speaking them.
“Can I keep a single thought to myself?” he told her. “Sometimes a man has to sort things out for himself. Now go on to bed.”
Anna stood and backed away, as if she no longer understood the man sitting on that stump. The words stabbed at her, and caused a cascade of reasons for his cruelty. Clearly it wasn’t John. She thought better of a response. She breathed heavily and shook her head.
“When you get things good and sorted out, John Perkins, come to bed.” She pulled open the screen and looked back at him once more. John was looking into the palm of his hand, picking at the stitches and dried blood. She let the door bang closed and went back to bed leaving him be.
The wind chased the off the heat of the day and kept the fire flies to the low branches of trees or among the tall grass at the back of the yard. More than that, the wind settled the storms in his heart that had tossed him madly the last few days. It didn’t resolve anything, and certainly gave him no peace of mind, but it offered a moment’s reprise from which he could collect the shattered pieces of his thoughts a bit.
Anna was already in bed, waiting for him. John felt that tug, the pattern and familiarity of being beside her the better part of his life, it was just that he couldn’t be near her right now. Too many thoughts and feelings besieged him, and too many doubts assailed him. It weakened him. It weakened his tongue and allowed those un-tempered misgivings free reign to charge Anna with things she might well be innocent of, at least as much as John’s heart was concerned. It was better he remain there in the yard where the solitude and quiet asserted themselves as the proper prescriptions for his tormented heart.
John pulled at the bandage. The act drew his mind from the sudden appearance of darker thoughts about Anna, their love and eternity, as if those thoughts had collected themselves from the broken pieces of his thoughts. The end of the bandage came loose, and if it was some sort of puzzle, something hiding a mystery, he began to unwrap it from his hand. He focused on it, forcing away though thoughts, wrestling them to the ground. The effort was fully respected in his face. John’s lips tightened, eyes narrowing and his brow sinking deeply. He pulled the wrappings away more quickly, more forcefully as the task to stop those thoughts became herculean. They fought back, allied with his selfish heart until he was helpless to hold them back any longer. They overran him, turning him from Anna, indicting and vilifying her for manufactured crimes and the hearsay foolishness of a madman.
The bandages lay in a pile at his feet. John held out the hand before him and studied the jagged scar, running from his index finger, through the center at his wrist where it almost reached his wrist. It was dark against the flesh of his palm, reminding him of trenches scarring the rolling farmland of France. He opened his hand, stretching his fingers as much as the pain and sutures would allow. He could feel the pull of the flesh, a tension that threatened to burst and gush warm dark blood.
“John?” Anna appeared at the back door. Her voice was sleepy and concerned. She noticed the bandages at his feet and came down the back step, the wind tugging at her thin white gown. “What have you done?”
“Cutting off the circulation,” he said, his voice held a sulking quality. She knelt before him, resting a hand on his knee. The other gently cradled the underside of his injured hand.
“Are you all right?” she tried in vain to find his eyes. “You’re just not yourself.”
“Fine,” he replied. “Just need to sort out a few things.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
It was as if these thoughts were a sin, a crime that he wished to hide. It was easier to be cruel to Anna than unburden himself. The words came out colder than he could ever recall speaking to her. It was as though someone else was speaking them.
“Can I keep a single thought to myself?” he told her. “Sometimes a man has to sort things out for himself. Now go on to bed.”
Anna stood and backed away, as if she no longer understood the man sitting on that stump. The words stabbed at her, and caused a cascade of reasons for his cruelty. Clearly it wasn’t John. She thought better of a response. She breathed heavily and shook her head.
“When you get things good and sorted out, John Perkins, come to bed.” She pulled open the screen and looked back at him once more. John was looking into the palm of his hand, picking at the stitches and dried blood. She let the door bang closed and went back to bed leaving him be.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Emmetsburg: Fifty-One
George opened the door and immediately perceived the change in atmosphere. Even in the stale still air of the front office it tasted decidedly less oppressive than the jail cells. Bremer noticed the blood on john's arm and looked at him alarmingly. He pushed past John and went directly to Louis' cell. He was back in the cot, fully surrendered to a deep sleep, as if nothing had happened.
“Everything all right, John?” George's tone was leading, suspecting something out of sorts. John waved his hand in the air. It was warm and pulsing with dull pain, and almost felt dead.
“Healing slowly,” he said unconvincingly. “Don't take much to open her up.”
“George frowned, and looked back at Louis. He didn’t believe him for a moment. “Hope you made your peace. Best you be going now.”
John had made his peace. He felt free of Louis. More than that, he felt he could adequately find the proper perspective for the doubts and questions he'd conjured from all this. He crossed the park, each step lifted by a renewed vigor. He'd never mention word of this to Anna. What a fool he had been to doubt her even for a moment, and if there was one thing he could take from this it would be to cherish her as long as breath remained in his body. There could be no accounting for eternity, but he could account for the quality of his love for her in this life. What else was there? What else could a man hope for?
“Everything all right, John?” George's tone was leading, suspecting something out of sorts. John waved his hand in the air. It was warm and pulsing with dull pain, and almost felt dead.
“Healing slowly,” he said unconvincingly. “Don't take much to open her up.”
“George frowned, and looked back at Louis. He didn’t believe him for a moment. “Hope you made your peace. Best you be going now.”
John had made his peace. He felt free of Louis. More than that, he felt he could adequately find the proper perspective for the doubts and questions he'd conjured from all this. He crossed the park, each step lifted by a renewed vigor. He'd never mention word of this to Anna. What a fool he had been to doubt her even for a moment, and if there was one thing he could take from this it would be to cherish her as long as breath remained in his body. There could be no accounting for eternity, but he could account for the quality of his love for her in this life. What else was there? What else could a man hope for?
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.”
Emmetsburg: Forty-nine
Umber. John hesitated at the steps to the jail across from the courthouse in Emmetsburg. It might have been better to leave well enough alone. A weaker part of him felt as though he'd been given a reprieve from the fate Louis described. The better part of him felt sure it was nothing more than the ramblings of a criminally insane man. But if all that was true, why did the questions persist in haunting him so?
How did Louis know about Bert Himmel? That little mystery added an undeniable weight to his ramblings, and had served to call into question so much that he took as unassailable. It plagued and shadowed damn near every thought and action that he might be living his final days, and that Anna would go off and find another love whom she might be just as happy or happier than with him. That specter made every breath and every moment agonizing. More, it caused him to question Anna and the very foundations of a love he prayed was eternal and exalted by God Himself. But if any of that were true, why did Louis not predict his own fate?
It wasn't much of a jail. The dull brown brick building was small, and partly painted in the mottled shade of a crooked oak. There were three cells at the back of the building, with old fashioned bars, straight out of some old Western movie. Most days they went unused, but for the occasional bar brawl, a drunk or two and vagrants coming in on out of town trains. Next to Louis Stanton the most dangerous criminals ever to grace Emmetsburg's jail were a couple out of towner's who, after attempting to blow up the bank at Cylinder, became so lost among tall August corn that they surrendered to the first farmer they came across. John found himself at the top of the step, almost without realizing, as if he was moving in a dream, as if he was a spectator in a foreign body.
John had questions. He had questions about Bert Himmel and how he knew old Bert would pass away that night. What was hardest for John to figure was, if Louis could see the future, why hadn't he predicted his own arrest? And what did that mean for John's fate, at least the one Louis predicted? Was it all the ramblings of a fool, or a con man who could read folks like some back alley Parisian Gypsy?
John went through the heavy wooden door, immediately assailed by the thin stale air within. It felt to him like a crypt, as it the air had not been let out in years, as if it was old and tired but whimsically melancholic. It was warmer inside than out on the street. The windows were up, but it did little for the heat. What it did do was let in the sounds off the street wheich, in that dulcid space, blended to a pale hollow din. On the back wall there were three eight by ten black and white portraits, hung vertically. President Hoover occupied the top spot. Below that was a porttrait of a pompous Vice President Curtis. Last was that of Govenor Daniel Turner. The walls were a faded shade of pale blue. Three heavy metal desks occupied the room, arranged neatly behind the receptionist's desk. All were a soft pea green, each with a pair of cherry-stained chairs set neatly before them. An American flag with dingy gold tassels hung limp on a pole in the far corner beside the stairs leading to George Bremer's second floor office.
Mildred O'connor, the receptionist. looked up from the Underwood typewriter. A report she was working on was being typed in triplicate, each page curling away and separated by thin reused black.sheets of fragile carbon paper.
Mildred had lost her husband the winter before last. Hank O;connor worked a lifetime with the railroad as a signalman. John knew Hank from Hamilton's diner and soda fountain's around the corner, which served the best and cheapest made-rite sandwiches in town. He went quietly in his sleep one night, a heartattack the doctor's said. But grief and the years had done little to diminish a natural beauty, nor an unmistakable enthusiasm that the good Lord put in her body. There wasn't a Sunday John could recall that Mildred wasn't leading the chior at St.Mary's.
Mildred smiled warmly, and invitation to return the gesture John found impossible to refuse. Her sharp blue eyes lit up the moment, further evidence of an uncommon beauty and warmth, neither of which had diminished greatly through the years. The expression darkened to a sympathetic smile, in Mildred's overly dramatic style, when she noticed the bandage on his hand.
“Oh dear,” she gasped. For anyone else such gushing emotion would see fake or condescending. “Looks just awful!. Must hurt something terrible.”
John reached out and gently squeezed her small frail hand. “In the way more than anything, “Miss O'conner.”
“Trust Misses Perkins is taking good care of you?”
He let go of her hand. “Never better.”
“Ah, she's a good soul, just like my Henry was.”
“Th at she is,” he agreed readily.
“You cherish every minute with that girl,” said Mildred.
John nodded smartly. “I do.”
“Gosh,” she beamed cutely, “remember when the two of you were a couple kids. I would say to Henry, now there's a couple meant for each other!”
“Expect Anna would be pleased to hear that.”
“Don't life just go by so fast?” Mildred waxed.
“That is does, Misses O'connor,” said John with a smart nod. “George back in his office?”
“Expect that's what you came in for,” She waved a hand in the air and turned sharply back to her reports. “Look at me, the lonely old widow, babbling on and on.”
“Not at all, hon,” said John. “Always a pleasure.”
How did Louis know about Bert Himmel? That little mystery added an undeniable weight to his ramblings, and had served to call into question so much that he took as unassailable. It plagued and shadowed damn near every thought and action that he might be living his final days, and that Anna would go off and find another love whom she might be just as happy or happier than with him. That specter made every breath and every moment agonizing. More, it caused him to question Anna and the very foundations of a love he prayed was eternal and exalted by God Himself. But if any of that were true, why did Louis not predict his own fate?
It wasn't much of a jail. The dull brown brick building was small, and partly painted in the mottled shade of a crooked oak. There were three cells at the back of the building, with old fashioned bars, straight out of some old Western movie. Most days they went unused, but for the occasional bar brawl, a drunk or two and vagrants coming in on out of town trains. Next to Louis Stanton the most dangerous criminals ever to grace Emmetsburg's jail were a couple out of towner's who, after attempting to blow up the bank at Cylinder, became so lost among tall August corn that they surrendered to the first farmer they came across. John found himself at the top of the step, almost without realizing, as if he was moving in a dream, as if he was a spectator in a foreign body.
John had questions. He had questions about Bert Himmel and how he knew old Bert would pass away that night. What was hardest for John to figure was, if Louis could see the future, why hadn't he predicted his own arrest? And what did that mean for John's fate, at least the one Louis predicted? Was it all the ramblings of a fool, or a con man who could read folks like some back alley Parisian Gypsy?
John went through the heavy wooden door, immediately assailed by the thin stale air within. It felt to him like a crypt, as it the air had not been let out in years, as if it was old and tired but whimsically melancholic. It was warmer inside than out on the street. The windows were up, but it did little for the heat. What it did do was let in the sounds off the street wheich, in that dulcid space, blended to a pale hollow din. On the back wall there were three eight by ten black and white portraits, hung vertically. President Hoover occupied the top spot. Below that was a porttrait of a pompous Vice President Curtis. Last was that of Govenor Daniel Turner. The walls were a faded shade of pale blue. Three heavy metal desks occupied the room, arranged neatly behind the receptionist's desk. All were a soft pea green, each with a pair of cherry-stained chairs set neatly before them. An American flag with dingy gold tassels hung limp on a pole in the far corner beside the stairs leading to George Bremer's second floor office.
Mildred O'connor, the receptionist. looked up from the Underwood typewriter. A report she was working on was being typed in triplicate, each page curling away and separated by thin reused black.sheets of fragile carbon paper.
Mildred had lost her husband the winter before last. Hank O;connor worked a lifetime with the railroad as a signalman. John knew Hank from Hamilton's diner and soda fountain's around the corner, which served the best and cheapest made-rite sandwiches in town. He went quietly in his sleep one night, a heartattack the doctor's said. But grief and the years had done little to diminish a natural beauty, nor an unmistakable enthusiasm that the good Lord put in her body. There wasn't a Sunday John could recall that Mildred wasn't leading the chior at St.Mary's.
Mildred smiled warmly, and invitation to return the gesture John found impossible to refuse. Her sharp blue eyes lit up the moment, further evidence of an uncommon beauty and warmth, neither of which had diminished greatly through the years. The expression darkened to a sympathetic smile, in Mildred's overly dramatic style, when she noticed the bandage on his hand.
“Oh dear,” she gasped. For anyone else such gushing emotion would see fake or condescending. “Looks just awful!. Must hurt something terrible.”
John reached out and gently squeezed her small frail hand. “In the way more than anything, “Miss O'conner.”
“Trust Misses Perkins is taking good care of you?”
He let go of her hand. “Never better.”
“Ah, she's a good soul, just like my Henry was.”
“Th at she is,” he agreed readily.
“You cherish every minute with that girl,” said Mildred.
John nodded smartly. “I do.”
“Gosh,” she beamed cutely, “remember when the two of you were a couple kids. I would say to Henry, now there's a couple meant for each other!”
“Expect Anna would be pleased to hear that.”
“Don't life just go by so fast?” Mildred waxed.
“That is does, Misses O'connor,” said John with a smart nod. “George back in his office?”
“Expect that's what you came in for,” She waved a hand in the air and turned sharply back to her reports. “Look at me, the lonely old widow, babbling on and on.”
“Not at all, hon,” said John. “Always a pleasure.”
Monday, March 1, 2010
Emmetsburg: Forty-six
“George,” John nodded.
The deputies stopped behind, and just to either side of Bremer, like over-protective sons than public employees.Both of them were young and baby-faced.. At least that's how they appeared to John, serving only to make him feel a bit ancient. One of them was tall and well built, the other short and a little on the doughy side.His name was Ray. His parents ran a tailor shop downtown. None of the men were armed. Ray held a set of wrist irons. He nervously shifted them from hand to hand. George nodded respectfully and motioned to John's wound.
“John. How's that hand?”
“Help you fellas?”
“Hope you'll forgive the intrusion, but we've come for him.”
John scrtached the back of his head trying to figure why Louis didn't seem immediately surprised. Then all at once his expression changed, as if it was manufactured or contrived.
“John, I swear I don't...” Louis began before Bremer cut him off.
“Best you not say another word,son.”
“What's this all about, George?” asked John.
Bremer went over and laid a hand gently upon Louis' shoulder.. “I think your guest knows.” His eyes met Louis with a judicious quality. He patted the man's shoulder almost sympatheically. “My deputies here trust you won't be any trouble.”
The deputies were patient as John pulled Bremer aside. They had known each other for almost their whole lives. George Bremer was the first person John had seen the day he stepped off the Milwaukee line from the war. John led him over to the cellar door.
“What's this all about, George?'
Bremer kept his voice low. His brow was tortured. The words fell heavily. “A wrecker pulled his car out of the creek. John, there was a body inside, a white woman.”
“George, I was all over that car, if there'd been...”
“She was in the rear compartment. Her hands and feet were bound. There was a rope around her neck.”
Both men looked over at Louis. John felt a shiver of dread that he had left Louis alone with Anna. He felt betrayed by Louis. It raged red hot in his veins.
“You're sure?”
“Afraid so.”
“Who was she?”
“Don't know.”
“He says his name is Louis, Louis Stanton.” John hesitated. “About all I've been able to get out of him.Like they both fell out of the sky.”
“Folks just don't fall out of the sky.”
.
The deputies stopped behind, and just to either side of Bremer, like over-protective sons than public employees.Both of them were young and baby-faced.. At least that's how they appeared to John, serving only to make him feel a bit ancient. One of them was tall and well built, the other short and a little on the doughy side.His name was Ray. His parents ran a tailor shop downtown. None of the men were armed. Ray held a set of wrist irons. He nervously shifted them from hand to hand. George nodded respectfully and motioned to John's wound.
“John. How's that hand?”
“Help you fellas?”
“Hope you'll forgive the intrusion, but we've come for him.”
John scrtached the back of his head trying to figure why Louis didn't seem immediately surprised. Then all at once his expression changed, as if it was manufactured or contrived.
“John, I swear I don't...” Louis began before Bremer cut him off.
“Best you not say another word,son.”
“What's this all about, George?” asked John.
Bremer went over and laid a hand gently upon Louis' shoulder.. “I think your guest knows.” His eyes met Louis with a judicious quality. He patted the man's shoulder almost sympatheically. “My deputies here trust you won't be any trouble.”
The deputies were patient as John pulled Bremer aside. They had known each other for almost their whole lives. George Bremer was the first person John had seen the day he stepped off the Milwaukee line from the war. John led him over to the cellar door.
“What's this all about, George?'
Bremer kept his voice low. His brow was tortured. The words fell heavily. “A wrecker pulled his car out of the creek. John, there was a body inside, a white woman.”
“George, I was all over that car, if there'd been...”
“She was in the rear compartment. Her hands and feet were bound. There was a rope around her neck.”
Both men looked over at Louis. John felt a shiver of dread that he had left Louis alone with Anna. He felt betrayed by Louis. It raged red hot in his veins.
“You're sure?”
“Afraid so.”
“Who was she?”
“Don't know.”
“He says his name is Louis, Louis Stanton.” John hesitated. “About all I've been able to get out of him.Like they both fell out of the sky.”
“Folks just don't fall out of the sky.”
.
Friday, November 27, 2009
THE LAST MAN: Part Twenty-nine
In short order everyone is on the move. I am not bound, rather by oversight or otherwise. Not that it matters. The woman who guards me holds a captured Section Twenty-one rifle at the ready. She is young, with attractive Asian features, but the seriousness of her expression and the confidence with which she carries the weapon leaves little doubt about her determination.
I am better now. I know the sewers better than before, not much better but well enough to have an idea the direction we are moving. The Low City rebel leader now commands a force of more than a hundred strung single file through the sewers. The water and filth has deepened, rising nearly to our knees at times. It runs cold and swift, the chaotic currents underneath those black waters making our progress all the more treacherous. I cannot move my thoughts from the ruins, and the belief that, at the end of all this, I will never reach them. Indeed, in this place, I feel farther away from the world, let alone the ruins. That realization is worth than death.
At every junction I weigh my chances at escape. The guard ahead of me is more concerned of a surprise attack or an ambush by Section Twenty-one than for me. Behind me the guard helps a comrade with a heavy bundle of supplies. They have fallen back quite a distance. In the darkness they are barely visible at all. I could slip away down one of the many intersecting passages, but they are even smaller and narrower. I am outclassed, untested and out of place here. They would recapture or kill me before I managed to get very far. Still my mind races, palms tingle and my heart swells for even the slightest opportunity.
I can smell the Reclamation Center now. I can tasting the burning of bodies and feel the thundering calamity of the furnaces reverberating through the walls and into my soul. Time is running away from me with every step, running away from me like a pugnacious child. The reluctant clock hand drags me through each excruciating moment despite my failing will. I am fighting it at every step, and come grudgingly to the understanding that I am the final agent of the hope I seek.
At a junction I spot a portal to the city above. Gray light falls in a heavy shaft, illuminating a circular patch of churning brown water. There is something more, the blue glow of a Sentinel. It is high and out of sight, but there is no mistaking that light. I recall John Brown, the dog carcass and the rats, and realize this might prove my last opportunity.
Footing is hardly a certainty. There are hidden straps and obstacles with nearly every sloshing step. I can only guess at my chances for reaching the portal, but I know full well my chances if I fail an attempt. In an instant I am splashing, slipping and clawing towards that pale shaft of daylight.
I can hear others behind me, giving chase. Bethune’s fighters, move easier through the muck and refuse. Foolish to chance a look backwards, but the flash of a knife blade drives me forward. I know now that I will die here, my body left to rot and be consumed in this sewer. I am not sad for that realization. I have chosen this path, however, and I am determined to see it through to the end.
I reach the light first, standing tall and straight. The guards stop short, backing away from the light and Sentinel, as if I am standing at the center of a flame. I turn to face them, my arms outstretched in some mechanical gesture that I am unarmed. They could kill me yet. By their expressions and the way they hold their weapons that it still undecided. But they know. They know it is too late, and killing me now would be little more than an act of revenge. Sentinel has already read my thoughts fully. The Corporation knows everything now. It knows of the attack on the Reclamation Center, and it knows Bethune’s true identity.
I am better now. I know the sewers better than before, not much better but well enough to have an idea the direction we are moving. The Low City rebel leader now commands a force of more than a hundred strung single file through the sewers. The water and filth has deepened, rising nearly to our knees at times. It runs cold and swift, the chaotic currents underneath those black waters making our progress all the more treacherous. I cannot move my thoughts from the ruins, and the belief that, at the end of all this, I will never reach them. Indeed, in this place, I feel farther away from the world, let alone the ruins. That realization is worth than death.
At every junction I weigh my chances at escape. The guard ahead of me is more concerned of a surprise attack or an ambush by Section Twenty-one than for me. Behind me the guard helps a comrade with a heavy bundle of supplies. They have fallen back quite a distance. In the darkness they are barely visible at all. I could slip away down one of the many intersecting passages, but they are even smaller and narrower. I am outclassed, untested and out of place here. They would recapture or kill me before I managed to get very far. Still my mind races, palms tingle and my heart swells for even the slightest opportunity.
I can smell the Reclamation Center now. I can tasting the burning of bodies and feel the thundering calamity of the furnaces reverberating through the walls and into my soul. Time is running away from me with every step, running away from me like a pugnacious child. The reluctant clock hand drags me through each excruciating moment despite my failing will. I am fighting it at every step, and come grudgingly to the understanding that I am the final agent of the hope I seek.
At a junction I spot a portal to the city above. Gray light falls in a heavy shaft, illuminating a circular patch of churning brown water. There is something more, the blue glow of a Sentinel. It is high and out of sight, but there is no mistaking that light. I recall John Brown, the dog carcass and the rats, and realize this might prove my last opportunity.
Footing is hardly a certainty. There are hidden straps and obstacles with nearly every sloshing step. I can only guess at my chances for reaching the portal, but I know full well my chances if I fail an attempt. In an instant I am splashing, slipping and clawing towards that pale shaft of daylight.
I can hear others behind me, giving chase. Bethune’s fighters, move easier through the muck and refuse. Foolish to chance a look backwards, but the flash of a knife blade drives me forward. I know now that I will die here, my body left to rot and be consumed in this sewer. I am not sad for that realization. I have chosen this path, however, and I am determined to see it through to the end.
I reach the light first, standing tall and straight. The guards stop short, backing away from the light and Sentinel, as if I am standing at the center of a flame. I turn to face them, my arms outstretched in some mechanical gesture that I am unarmed. They could kill me yet. By their expressions and the way they hold their weapons that it still undecided. But they know. They know it is too late, and killing me now would be little more than an act of revenge. Sentinel has already read my thoughts fully. The Corporation knows everything now. It knows of the attack on the Reclamation Center, and it knows Bethune’s true identity.
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