She looked out the window for the third time in the last five minutes. The rain continued on, unrelenting. The wind drove it against the wavy glass of the window pane. She shivered. Stepping away from the window, she moved to the stove. The beef in the pan was drying again. She pumped the handle and a splash of water spurted into the porcelain of the sink. She scooped some up with her tin coffee cup and poured it into the cast iron skillet. The pan hissed and steam rose.
She glanced out the window again. Stop it old lady, she thought to herself. He's been out this late before. Lightning flashed and she could see the yard. Rivulets of water streamed through the yard, small creeks forming between the house and the barn.
Thunder boomed. The windows rattled and the house shook. Darkness shoved in when the light faded.
She stirred the pot of beans, looked at the beef, and moved to the table. She moved the lamp closer to her seat and flipped idly through the catalog. The dresses looked nice this year, but two dollars seemed awfully dear for them. She smoothed the faded blue gingham of her worn dress. It would last till next harvest, she reckoned. Her good dress hung on its peg in the bedroom. When she bought her new dress, that one would become her day-to-day dress. That's the way things worked.
Things were better now. The boys had moved out, the youngest going only two years ago. They missed the help with the crops and critters, though. Pap wasn't getting any younger, and the work was starting to take its toll. He'd sold some of the cows, and they were down to just two pigs. They had enough for the two of them. Money was still tight, and they couldn't barter without goods. That's why Pap had taken the job over the mountain. The quarry was always hiring, and Pap could work a shovel. He'd been promoted once already this year, going from working the iron ore in the pit to unloading the hoppers onto the carts. He was hoping he'd get to run one of the wagons from the Grove down to Petersburg come spring. That would help his back out considerable.
Thunder rolled again. She shoved back from the table. The lamp was dimming a bit, so she turned up the wick a bit. She knew she ought to blow it out. Oil was too dear now days, but she hated the dark. The stove didn't throw any light at all, and the fireplaces had been banked to save on wood. Without the lamp, the room would be too gloomy. She was already in a funk, what with Pap being so late. She didn't want to sit around in the dark.
She opened the door. Ice was starting to ping off the tin roof of the porch now. Some had already accumulated on the edge of the porch. That trail from the Grove would be tricky. Pap knew it well though. He'd trekked it and hunted it many a time, fetching grub either rifle or by foot.
She looked up the mountain, hoping to see his lantern light shining on the trail at the top.
Nothing yet.
She turned and went back inside, and blew out the lamp. He'd be alright. Sixty wasn't all that old, she thought. He was a good man, a tough man. Things had to get pretty rough for him to not make it. He'd come over that mountain through the blizzard of '15, hauling staples on the toboggan all the way.
He'd be along, soon enough.
She just knew he would.
She added more water to the beef, stirred the pot of beans, and poked around at the fire. She gave in and tossed some split oak onto it. She tapped the poker on the logs, watching the sparks shoot up the chimney. Maybe Pap would see them, as he come over the mountain top.
She opened the door again and looked toward the mountain.
She smiled when she saw the small pinprick of light at the top.
All was well, she thought, as she went inside. They'd be eatin' supper in less than half an hour. Pap would need it after walking those seven miles.
July 23, 2011
June 21, 2011
Catfish
Bobby dumped one of the bags of ice into the bottom of the cooler. The cubes bouncing off the metal sounded like the bells at the start of school. He smiled and pulled the six packs loose from one of the cases sitting in the truck bed. He nestled them down into the ice, poured in more, and grabbed beer from the second case. Then he covered the whole stack in ice and slammed the lid. He flipped the latch and shoved the heavy cooler into the corner of the truck bed so they could reach it from the sliding rear window of the cab.
“Let’s go guys, it’s getting dark!” he yelled to the group of boys sitting on the tailgates of the blue pick up parked in Roy’s driveway. They waved and hopped down, digging their fishing rods, hats, lanterns and bags of junk food out of the bed as they did so.
Roy was in the lead. His gray tee shirt, cut off above his belly, was already soaked with sweat. Bobby grimaced. Roy always sweated like a freaking pig,and didn’t smell much better. Roy tossed his gear in the back of Bobby’s Ford. The other two boys followed suit. Brothers, Willy and Ben looked nothing alike. Willy was lanky and blond, tall like his momma. Ben was like his dad, a fireplug with black hair and arms that hung past his knees. Both had smokes dangling from the corners of their mouths, smoke curling up under the brim of their greasy ball caps advertising some faded tractor brand.
“They should be biting tonight,” Roy spoke up. “Been so dang hot, they should be hungry.”
Willy nodded agreement.
“I do love me summer. Too bad the girls couldn’t come with us.”
Bobby looked at Roy and shook his head. Poor Willy, they thought together. He always dreamed that some girl, any girl, would tag along with them. The closest that had ever come to happen was when Roy’s sister had needed a ride to town with them last year. Willy had tried to cop a feel and gotten a beer poured his head for his trouble.
“Whatever you say man. Get in. Who’s riding up front?”
Roy answered by opening the door and jumping into the shotgun seat. The brothers shrugged and climbed over the tailgate, wedging themselves into the front corners of the bed. Ben opened the cooler.
“Man, wait until we get off the main road. You know better than that,” Bobby told him as he got behind the wheel. Willy slammed the lid on Ben’s hand.
“Damn you Willy! Knock it off.”
The other three boys laughed. Bobby shoved in the clutch, pumped the gas pedal three times, and turned the key. The Ford V-8 roared to life, rumbling out of the straight pipes that exited in front of the rear wheels. He gassed it a couple of times, pulled the shift lever down on the column into first and popped the clutch. Gravel spun out from under the tires and Willy and Ben grabbed the bed rails to keep from rolling to the tailgate. Roy let out a whoop and they shot out the driveway on onto the blacktop, tires squealing.
Roy reached into the pouch in the front of the saddle blanket seat covers and pulled out a handful of 8 track tapes. He read the titles, and shoved them back until he got one he liked. He shoved it into the tape deck and TRAIN TRAIN by Blackfoot started in the middle of the song.
“When you going to get a cassette player,man?” he asked Bobby.
“I hate those things. 8 tracks will be around forever anyway. ‘Sides, cassettes are too expensive.”
“Whatever.” Roy cranked the volume know up, and played with the equalizer hanging under the metal dash. The bass from the speakers under the seat vibrated the whole cab.
An opening appeared ahead, and Bobby down shifted into second. He cranked the wheel left and the truck jumped sideways on the blacktop, pointing toward the gravel road that lead through the woods. He popped the clutch and hit the gas and the truck straightened out and flew into the woods. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw Ben crawling back up to the front of the truck.
“Turn that thing down!” Bobby yelled over the tape deck’s noise. Roy knocked the volume down enough that Bobby no longer worried about his ears bleeding.
“Grab us some beers,” he said. Ben already had one in his hand. He popped the pull tab off and flipped it over the rail.
“Hey! Save them man!” Bobby shouted, pointing at the chain of pull tabs hanging from his rear view mirror, sparkling between the feathered roach clips.
“Sorry!” came the response. Willy handed two cans through window. Cold water ran down Bobby’s arm as he took his. He pulled the tab and handed it to Roy, who bent it onto the chain.
The beer was cold and tasted good, fighting back the heat of the day. The sun was going down as the truck bounced its way to the pull off at the edge of the creek. Bobby killed the engine and drifted it off the road. He jammed on the parking brake and the Ford slid to a stop, dust enveloping the boys and obscuring the trees. When it cleared the brothers were already over the tailgate and pulling gear from the truck.
Between the four of them, they got all the gear to the edge of the slow moving water in one trip. Soring out their own kits, they each found a forked stick, which they shoved into the soft dirt. They unlimbered the rods and checked the hook and huge lead weights dangling from the three-way swivel. Then they looked to Willy, who held a plastic Tupperware dish in his hands. He’d filched it from his mother’s pantry. He’d also stolen the chicken liver that she had been collecting for Sunday supper from her ‘fridge. He’d done that last Saturday, put them in the container and buried it in the backyard, letting it stew all week.
He peeled back the lid and retched. Bobby took a step back and gagged. He pulled a Marlboro out and lit it to fight back the stench. He swore he could see fumes rising from the container.
“These will bring them ‘cats in!” Willy said. He fished one out and it spurted from his fingers. He picked it up and threaded it on the treble hook. He wound up and tossed it thirty feet from shore into a swirling eddy near the far bank, propped the rod up in the fork of the branch and flopped onto the dirt.
The others bravely followed suit, the bloody chicken livers staining their fingers. The rods propped up, cigarettes were lit and more beer opened.
“Did you see Suzy today?” Willy asked. Bobby rolled his eyes. “She had on that red halter top of hers. Girl’s boobs were dancing around like my dogs after a coon.” Ben punched Willy’s arm.
“Shut up Willy. Suzy’s a good girl.”
“You’re sweet on her is all, or you’d know she’s just a slut.”
Ben picked up a rock and threw it at his brother. Willy ducked and the rock hit Roy. Roy looked at them both.
“Knock if off assholes. I’m fishing here.”
They both mumbled sorry.
Bobby watched his rod tip. It was slightly bumping up and down. The line started to feed off the reel, slowly at first.
“Got a nibbler,” he said. The other boys reached for their rods, closed the bails on the reels and wound in their lines. Bobby carefully picked up his rod. The line was feeding off the reel faster now. He flipped the bail closed and pointed the rod tip toward the line which was now heading downstream. As it got tight, he reared back hard, whipping the rod up and setting the hook. The reel screamed and the drag engaged and line smoked off of it.
“Oh boy, it’s a good one!” he shouted. The others could see that for themselves. The line peeled off the reel as the catfish took off upstream. Fifty feet of line whipped off before Bobby slowed it down. He turned the cat back downstream,and wound furiously to get the line back that the cat had pulled loose.
Fifteen minutes of back and forth, and Bobby was finally winning. The dark shape of the fish was near the bank. Roy got close as Bobby lead it toward him. He reached down and grabbed, slipping his hand into the fishes gill. He pulled back and two feet of catfish flopped out of the water and onto land.
“Whoa daddy! He’s a nice on alright.”
The boys gathered near the fish. It’s mouth worked, open, shut, open, shut. Bobby, as worn as the fish, also gasped for breath.
“Get him back in the water Roy, ‘fore he croaks,” he said.
“Ah, he ain’t gonna die. Daddy had some little ones he caught up to the ponds last year in a bucket, and they was still living the next day!” Willy said.
Roy ignored him and pulled a set of pliers from his gear. He twisted the big hook out of the fish’s mouth, keeping clear of the spines. He stood up and shoved the cat back into the water, where is slowly sunk back into the depths like some small submarine.
“This calls for a drink,” he said. He stooped and pulled a bottle from the bag of his kit. Amber liquid shone in the light of the lanterns they’d lit to keep back the darkness.
“What you got there Roy? Looks like a bottle of your Pap’s home brew.”
Roy smiled, pulled the cork and sipped at the bottle. He shook his head and handed the bottle to Bobby, who took his own swill.
The boys baited back up and got back to the series work of fishing. The bottle made the rounds again and Roy sat it next to his rod.
The next hour saw a few small fish landed, but nothing of the size of Bobby’s first one. The pyramid of beer cans grew in front of each lad, threatening to fall over.
The crunch of tires on gravel could be heard, though no headlights were seen. They boys looked at each other and became still. Then in a flurry of feet and hands, the pile of cans were collected and stuffed into the cooler. The approaching engine shut off and they slammed the lid. They could hear two doors open and shut, and Bobby drug the cooler out of the light and under the thorns of a blackberry bush near the water. He sat back down as the sound of brush breaking reached their ears. A flashlight beam played down the trail leading from the parking pull of to the creek. They boys tried to concentrate on their rods.
A voice called out. “Hey ya boys. Any luck?” A tall man in a green uniform stepped into the light of the lanterns. Moths attracted by his flashlight floated in front of him. He was followed by a second man, who remained in the shadows.
“We got a few small ones,” Ben answered for the group. The others mumbled their ascent.
“I see. You all got your licenses on?”
Each boy pointed the license pinned to their hat. The man nodded.
“Alrighty then. Had a complaint of some boys up here fishing and drinking. You boys ain’t drinking, are you?”
They shook their heads. “No sir,” Roy spoke up. “Why, we’re underage. We sure wouldn’t do such a thing.”
Willy snickered and the Game Warden looked at him. Willy stopped smiling.
“Uh huh. I see. Just out here having a good ole time.”
Bobby said, “Yes sir. That’s it alright. We’re just out here enjoying the fine night.”
The Warden looked them over, his eyes lingering on each of them. He got to Roy and his eyes stopped.
“What’s that bottle by your tackle boy?” he asked.
Roy swallowed and looked at the bottle of bourbon.
“That’s scent. For the bait. Really.”
“Yeah. Hand it here.” He took a step forward.
Roy stood up and kicked the bottle over the bank. Everyone stopped as it splashed into the water. The Warden’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re a smart ass, ain’t you boy?”
Roy grinned. “No sir, just a klutz. Sure didn’t mean for that old bottle to wind up in the creek.”
The Warden smiled. Roy’s grin disappeared.
“That’s okay son. Really. Littering a waterway is against the law, too.” He reached out to grab Roy’s arm.
“Not so fast Warden.”
They all looked at Willy. Willy was holding a pistol, old and rusty, in his hand. He pointed it unsteadily at the Warden.
“Put that thing done boy,” the Warden said. Roy backed up slowly. From the shadows where the Warden’s forgotten companion waited, the sound of a shotgun action being worked came to them. The man’s voice came to them, ghost like.
“Do what he said son. Now.” The lantern light gleamed off the shotgun barrel protruding from the dark.
“MOVE!” Bobby yelled. He kicked over the lantern, breaking the fragile mantles and plunging them all into blackness.
The shotgun roared, a three foot flame leaping from the barrel. The pistol cracked an answer. A whimper and a cry were followed by the sound of feet on the trail.
“Let’s go guys, it’s getting dark!” he yelled to the group of boys sitting on the tailgates of the blue pick up parked in Roy’s driveway. They waved and hopped down, digging their fishing rods, hats, lanterns and bags of junk food out of the bed as they did so.
Roy was in the lead. His gray tee shirt, cut off above his belly, was already soaked with sweat. Bobby grimaced. Roy always sweated like a freaking pig,and didn’t smell much better. Roy tossed his gear in the back of Bobby’s Ford. The other two boys followed suit. Brothers, Willy and Ben looked nothing alike. Willy was lanky and blond, tall like his momma. Ben was like his dad, a fireplug with black hair and arms that hung past his knees. Both had smokes dangling from the corners of their mouths, smoke curling up under the brim of their greasy ball caps advertising some faded tractor brand.
“They should be biting tonight,” Roy spoke up. “Been so dang hot, they should be hungry.”
Willy nodded agreement.
“I do love me summer. Too bad the girls couldn’t come with us.”
Bobby looked at Roy and shook his head. Poor Willy, they thought together. He always dreamed that some girl, any girl, would tag along with them. The closest that had ever come to happen was when Roy’s sister had needed a ride to town with them last year. Willy had tried to cop a feel and gotten a beer poured his head for his trouble.
“Whatever you say man. Get in. Who’s riding up front?”
Roy answered by opening the door and jumping into the shotgun seat. The brothers shrugged and climbed over the tailgate, wedging themselves into the front corners of the bed. Ben opened the cooler.
“Man, wait until we get off the main road. You know better than that,” Bobby told him as he got behind the wheel. Willy slammed the lid on Ben’s hand.
“Damn you Willy! Knock it off.”
The other three boys laughed. Bobby shoved in the clutch, pumped the gas pedal three times, and turned the key. The Ford V-8 roared to life, rumbling out of the straight pipes that exited in front of the rear wheels. He gassed it a couple of times, pulled the shift lever down on the column into first and popped the clutch. Gravel spun out from under the tires and Willy and Ben grabbed the bed rails to keep from rolling to the tailgate. Roy let out a whoop and they shot out the driveway on onto the blacktop, tires squealing.
Roy reached into the pouch in the front of the saddle blanket seat covers and pulled out a handful of 8 track tapes. He read the titles, and shoved them back until he got one he liked. He shoved it into the tape deck and TRAIN TRAIN by Blackfoot started in the middle of the song.
“When you going to get a cassette player,man?” he asked Bobby.
“I hate those things. 8 tracks will be around forever anyway. ‘Sides, cassettes are too expensive.”
“Whatever.” Roy cranked the volume know up, and played with the equalizer hanging under the metal dash. The bass from the speakers under the seat vibrated the whole cab.
An opening appeared ahead, and Bobby down shifted into second. He cranked the wheel left and the truck jumped sideways on the blacktop, pointing toward the gravel road that lead through the woods. He popped the clutch and hit the gas and the truck straightened out and flew into the woods. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw Ben crawling back up to the front of the truck.
“Turn that thing down!” Bobby yelled over the tape deck’s noise. Roy knocked the volume down enough that Bobby no longer worried about his ears bleeding.
“Grab us some beers,” he said. Ben already had one in his hand. He popped the pull tab off and flipped it over the rail.
“Hey! Save them man!” Bobby shouted, pointing at the chain of pull tabs hanging from his rear view mirror, sparkling between the feathered roach clips.
“Sorry!” came the response. Willy handed two cans through window. Cold water ran down Bobby’s arm as he took his. He pulled the tab and handed it to Roy, who bent it onto the chain.
The beer was cold and tasted good, fighting back the heat of the day. The sun was going down as the truck bounced its way to the pull off at the edge of the creek. Bobby killed the engine and drifted it off the road. He jammed on the parking brake and the Ford slid to a stop, dust enveloping the boys and obscuring the trees. When it cleared the brothers were already over the tailgate and pulling gear from the truck.
Between the four of them, they got all the gear to the edge of the slow moving water in one trip. Soring out their own kits, they each found a forked stick, which they shoved into the soft dirt. They unlimbered the rods and checked the hook and huge lead weights dangling from the three-way swivel. Then they looked to Willy, who held a plastic Tupperware dish in his hands. He’d filched it from his mother’s pantry. He’d also stolen the chicken liver that she had been collecting for Sunday supper from her ‘fridge. He’d done that last Saturday, put them in the container and buried it in the backyard, letting it stew all week.
He peeled back the lid and retched. Bobby took a step back and gagged. He pulled a Marlboro out and lit it to fight back the stench. He swore he could see fumes rising from the container.
“These will bring them ‘cats in!” Willy said. He fished one out and it spurted from his fingers. He picked it up and threaded it on the treble hook. He wound up and tossed it thirty feet from shore into a swirling eddy near the far bank, propped the rod up in the fork of the branch and flopped onto the dirt.
The others bravely followed suit, the bloody chicken livers staining their fingers. The rods propped up, cigarettes were lit and more beer opened.
“Did you see Suzy today?” Willy asked. Bobby rolled his eyes. “She had on that red halter top of hers. Girl’s boobs were dancing around like my dogs after a coon.” Ben punched Willy’s arm.
“Shut up Willy. Suzy’s a good girl.”
“You’re sweet on her is all, or you’d know she’s just a slut.”
Ben picked up a rock and threw it at his brother. Willy ducked and the rock hit Roy. Roy looked at them both.
“Knock if off assholes. I’m fishing here.”
They both mumbled sorry.
Bobby watched his rod tip. It was slightly bumping up and down. The line started to feed off the reel, slowly at first.
“Got a nibbler,” he said. The other boys reached for their rods, closed the bails on the reels and wound in their lines. Bobby carefully picked up his rod. The line was feeding off the reel faster now. He flipped the bail closed and pointed the rod tip toward the line which was now heading downstream. As it got tight, he reared back hard, whipping the rod up and setting the hook. The reel screamed and the drag engaged and line smoked off of it.
“Oh boy, it’s a good one!” he shouted. The others could see that for themselves. The line peeled off the reel as the catfish took off upstream. Fifty feet of line whipped off before Bobby slowed it down. He turned the cat back downstream,and wound furiously to get the line back that the cat had pulled loose.
Fifteen minutes of back and forth, and Bobby was finally winning. The dark shape of the fish was near the bank. Roy got close as Bobby lead it toward him. He reached down and grabbed, slipping his hand into the fishes gill. He pulled back and two feet of catfish flopped out of the water and onto land.
“Whoa daddy! He’s a nice on alright.”
The boys gathered near the fish. It’s mouth worked, open, shut, open, shut. Bobby, as worn as the fish, also gasped for breath.
“Get him back in the water Roy, ‘fore he croaks,” he said.
“Ah, he ain’t gonna die. Daddy had some little ones he caught up to the ponds last year in a bucket, and they was still living the next day!” Willy said.
Roy ignored him and pulled a set of pliers from his gear. He twisted the big hook out of the fish’s mouth, keeping clear of the spines. He stood up and shoved the cat back into the water, where is slowly sunk back into the depths like some small submarine.
“This calls for a drink,” he said. He stooped and pulled a bottle from the bag of his kit. Amber liquid shone in the light of the lanterns they’d lit to keep back the darkness.
“What you got there Roy? Looks like a bottle of your Pap’s home brew.”
Roy smiled, pulled the cork and sipped at the bottle. He shook his head and handed the bottle to Bobby, who took his own swill.
The boys baited back up and got back to the series work of fishing. The bottle made the rounds again and Roy sat it next to his rod.
The next hour saw a few small fish landed, but nothing of the size of Bobby’s first one. The pyramid of beer cans grew in front of each lad, threatening to fall over.
The crunch of tires on gravel could be heard, though no headlights were seen. They boys looked at each other and became still. Then in a flurry of feet and hands, the pile of cans were collected and stuffed into the cooler. The approaching engine shut off and they slammed the lid. They could hear two doors open and shut, and Bobby drug the cooler out of the light and under the thorns of a blackberry bush near the water. He sat back down as the sound of brush breaking reached their ears. A flashlight beam played down the trail leading from the parking pull of to the creek. They boys tried to concentrate on their rods.
A voice called out. “Hey ya boys. Any luck?” A tall man in a green uniform stepped into the light of the lanterns. Moths attracted by his flashlight floated in front of him. He was followed by a second man, who remained in the shadows.
“We got a few small ones,” Ben answered for the group. The others mumbled their ascent.
“I see. You all got your licenses on?”
Each boy pointed the license pinned to their hat. The man nodded.
“Alrighty then. Had a complaint of some boys up here fishing and drinking. You boys ain’t drinking, are you?”
They shook their heads. “No sir,” Roy spoke up. “Why, we’re underage. We sure wouldn’t do such a thing.”
Willy snickered and the Game Warden looked at him. Willy stopped smiling.
“Uh huh. I see. Just out here having a good ole time.”
Bobby said, “Yes sir. That’s it alright. We’re just out here enjoying the fine night.”
The Warden looked them over, his eyes lingering on each of them. He got to Roy and his eyes stopped.
“What’s that bottle by your tackle boy?” he asked.
Roy swallowed and looked at the bottle of bourbon.
“That’s scent. For the bait. Really.”
“Yeah. Hand it here.” He took a step forward.
Roy stood up and kicked the bottle over the bank. Everyone stopped as it splashed into the water. The Warden’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re a smart ass, ain’t you boy?”
Roy grinned. “No sir, just a klutz. Sure didn’t mean for that old bottle to wind up in the creek.”
The Warden smiled. Roy’s grin disappeared.
“That’s okay son. Really. Littering a waterway is against the law, too.” He reached out to grab Roy’s arm.
“Not so fast Warden.”
They all looked at Willy. Willy was holding a pistol, old and rusty, in his hand. He pointed it unsteadily at the Warden.
“Put that thing done boy,” the Warden said. Roy backed up slowly. From the shadows where the Warden’s forgotten companion waited, the sound of a shotgun action being worked came to them. The man’s voice came to them, ghost like.
“Do what he said son. Now.” The lantern light gleamed off the shotgun barrel protruding from the dark.
“MOVE!” Bobby yelled. He kicked over the lantern, breaking the fragile mantles and plunging them all into blackness.
The shotgun roared, a three foot flame leaping from the barrel. The pistol cracked an answer. A whimper and a cry were followed by the sound of feet on the trail.
June 8, 2011
The Tracks
Ike sat on the black tombstone. Bored, he passed the time by drumming his heels against the stone. The steady thock! thock! thock! of his Keds kept time with the Cicadas buzzing from the tree line.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked toward the distant row of houses.
Finally, he thought. He could see Lew in the distance. He was an apparition appearing from the heat waves shimmering on the half baked cornfield, fading in and out of view. Lew's form solidified, and he saw him duck into the row of trees once he was out of sight of the houses. Ike grinned, knowing what he was up to. Lew reappeared and sauntered slowly between the line of trees and the cornfield. He arrived to stand before Ike, a bit out of breath, the wetness of his tee shirt making it stick the his hairless chest. He grinned.
“Wanna smoke?” he asked, fishing a pack of smashed Kools from his hip pocket. This is what he’d snuck into the trees for. Ike knew he’d lifted them off of his old man, and that the poor things had been hidden in a hole in one of the trees for almost three weeks.
“Ah, man. Ain’t those things too stale to smoke by now? I’ll pass, thanks.” He said.
Lew shook out a smoke. The paper was yellow instead of white. The morning dew had soaked the pack, leaching the nicotine from the shredded leaves.
“They’re fine,” Lew said, flicking the wheel of the Zippo lighter he had likewise stolen from his dad. He touched the flame to the tip, inhaled, and coughed out a lungful of smoke.
“Nothing wrong with ‘em at all.” He grinned his lopsided grin at Ike.
Ike shook his head and jumped down from the headstone.
“Let’s go man, it’s too hot to sit here.”
Lew followed his friend as they made their way out of the graveyard. They crossed the edge of the timothy field, freshly cut. Grasshoppers flitted away from them as their worn sneakers kicked the stubble. Lew caught one in his hand. It spit brown juice on his palm. He crushed it and tossed its body at Ike.
“Knock it off you dummy,” Ike retorted.
They found the path beside the trees that overlooked the railroad cut. Farm vehicle, enduro bikes, and Jeeps had worn a track into the hard clay. Dust rose up and covered their black shoes. The white rubber tips of them turned red from the clay.
Crossing the trail, Ike pushed through the heavy green growth of saplings and raspberry bushes. Red berries promised a crop in a few weeks. For now, they were an impediment, tearing at the boys and snagging their shirts. The thin material did nothing to prevent the thorns from digging into their skin. They ignored them except for the occasional oath as the boys practiced their cursing.
They arrived at the top of the cut. Here the enduro riders had created dangerous cycle trails over the edge, angling down a bit to prevent rolling their rides. Forty feet below lay the twin pairs of tracks, hot in the summer sun. Heat, trapped by the walls of the cut, billowed upward into their faces.
“C’mon. Let’s go down,” Ike started to say. He was cut off by the whistle of the train as it approached Butler Street, a mile away.
“Uh, I’m going to wait,” Lew said. His ever present grin grew wider. He scuffed his feet to clear the underbrush. Bending, he picked up a dirt encrusted rock the size of his fist.
He hefted it in his hand, looking pointedly at Ike. Ike grinned in turn, and proceeded to mimic his friend. Both boys kicked and dug furiously, the sound of the train wheels clicking on the rails growing closer.
It approached from the east. It was a long one, as five locomotives lead the way. The boys stood back from the edge, boyhood fear at being seen overriding the fact that they couldn’t be seen from such an extreme depth. Both held rocks in each hand. As the engines passed, there followed box cars, red and gray, with exotic sounding names lettered on their sides. Santa Fe. B&O. Northwest. Pacific Fleet. They watched and wondered where they came from. Suddenly, the carrier cars appeared. Loaded with the best of Detroit’s Big Three, triple rows of gleaming automobiles began to flash by.
Ike threw his right hand rock, bouncing it from the support post of one of the rail cars. Lew’s passed between them, WHAPPING into the door of a green Chevrolet Malibu. He hooted and jumped up and down.
“Got that one!” he yelled.
Ike shifted the rock from his left hand to his right and fired again. It bounced off a cross member, up and down, CRACK into the windshield of a blue Ford pick up.
“WooHoo!!” he shouted.
Rocks rained down from the heights as the boys exhausted the piles they had dug out of the earth. Tired and hot, the plopped onto the ground, laughter battling the sounds of the train to be heard,
The train passed, the red caboose bringing up the rear. A white haired gent was standing on the rear deck, looking backward, as if he could see his departed years in the heat wave behind the train. Then it too was gone, around the bend and chugging west.
Ike stood and walked to the edge, starting down the enduro trail. Lew hung back a bit.
“Looks steep,” he said, hesitating at the edge. Lew didn’t like heights.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, come on you pussy.” Ike said as he leaned back and started down.
It was steep, he thought. How do them bike riders get up and down with out falling over? He looked back at Lew, who was shuffling slowly down behind him.
They made their way to the bottom, a shower of dirt and stoned tumbling before them.
Soaked by the trapped heat, they stopped and stooped, panting for air.
With no real purpose, they started to walk the tracks. Ike picked up a blue insulator fallen from the poles lining the tracks. He tossed it to Lew, who dashed it to pieces on the rail. He liked the sound it made, bell like as it burst. Numerous spikes, covered in rust, lay where they had worked out from the creosote soaked ties. They picked some up and carried them with them, treasure to show their parents. Soon though, the weight of the steel grew to be too much, and they dropped them in a pile.
Something white glimmered between the tracks. Ike, having given up on walking the un-even ties, was balancing on the rail when Lew pointed it out.
“What’t that?” he asked. It was the size of a small watermelon, the white a stark contrast against the black of the ballast stones and the brown ties.
“Dunno.” Ike shot back. He didn’t increase his pace, intent on balancing himself.
As they drew closer, his curiosity won out and he hopped from the rail, walking faster.
“It’s a skull!” he yelled, starting to jog. Lew kept pace a few steps back.
They arrived and stood on either side of it. Tatters of skin, green flesh covered with strands of brown and black, hung from the whiteness of the bone. Teeth, long and mean looking glared out between black lips. The one eye socket was empty, except for some black beetles crawling in and out of it, like some insect amusement park.
“It’s a dog,” Lew stated.
“I can see that, dummy,” Ike replied.
He kicked at it with his shoe, rolling it over. They eye on the other side was a yellow mass of puss, bubbling with life. Lew felt his breakfast rise.
“That’s gross man.
“Yeah, and it stinks, too.” Ike glanced up the tracks. He could see something beside the rails a hundred yards or so ahead. “C’mon,” he said, jogging in that direction.
Lew struggled to keep up, slipping on the ballast stones. Ike arrived seconds before him, and was standing over the object.
It was partially covered in the same fur as the skull. What wasn’t fur was green, and blue, and red. White maggots crawled in and out of the putrid flesh. They could see where something had been chewing at the corpse. Bird droppings, big ones, covered the ground beside it.
“Wow,” said Lew. “Old dog done lost his head.” He snickered.
Ike looked at the headless body reflectively.
“I think that’s old man McGwen’s Shepherd.”
“Maybe. I ain’t seen it around for a month or so. Musta run off and got his self hit. How could a dog not hear a train?”
“Dunno. They’re sure loud enough.” Ike toed the corpse. Blue-black flies streamed out from under the puffed skin. He backed up a step and swatted them away from his face.
“Ain’t THAT something.” He backed up some more.
Lew had seen enough.
“Let’s roll, man.” He fished out another cigarette and lit it. The smoke kept some of the flies away from his face. He wiped sweat from his forehead and flicked it at the dog’s body. His glasses were starting to steam up.
“Yeah, let’s make like a sheep and get the flock out of here, “ Ike laughed.
They hopped onto a silver rail and tried to trot as far as they could. Ike won. Ike always won. Lew knew this, and hated his friend a little for it. Ike was always doing things better than he was. Baseball, fishing, grades – didn’t matter. The girls even seemed to like him better, even with his missing teeth and the big scar on his face.
A whistle, far and lonesome came to them up the cut. From the west, on the other set of tracks.
The boys scampered from the rail bed and stood on the side of the cut.
“Dare you to see how close you can get.” Ike said.
Lew looked at him.
“Uh uh. I hear the train goes by so fast, it’ll suck you under it!”
“Bull. If that was true, how all them hobos jump in the box cars? Don’t you watch movies you dummy?”
Lew blushed. Then he grinned.
“You first,” he said.
“Okay, but… stand close, just in case. If I start to get sucked in, you grab me.”
They stood there, two tiny figures in the shadows of the cut. The train barreled toward them, the big diesel locomotive blowing smoke in a thick gray stream. The engineer saw the boys, and blew the horn, long and loud. They backed up a step. It didn’t matter. A train can’t stop that fast. If they’d been on the track, they’d be just as dead as that dog yonder.
The engines roared by. Hot dust blew around them, their hair blowing back. Lew almost lost his glasses, but clamped them to his nose with his left hand. Six engines passed, then the box cars. Ike shuffled his feet in the black ballast edging closer. He reached out his hand, as if to balance himself.
”Going to get closer than you Lew!” he yelled. “Make sure you got my back!”
Lew grinned, beaten again, and put his hand between Ike’s shoulder blades.
“Oh, I got you buddy! I got you!”
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked toward the distant row of houses.
Finally, he thought. He could see Lew in the distance. He was an apparition appearing from the heat waves shimmering on the half baked cornfield, fading in and out of view. Lew's form solidified, and he saw him duck into the row of trees once he was out of sight of the houses. Ike grinned, knowing what he was up to. Lew reappeared and sauntered slowly between the line of trees and the cornfield. He arrived to stand before Ike, a bit out of breath, the wetness of his tee shirt making it stick the his hairless chest. He grinned.
“Wanna smoke?” he asked, fishing a pack of smashed Kools from his hip pocket. This is what he’d snuck into the trees for. Ike knew he’d lifted them off of his old man, and that the poor things had been hidden in a hole in one of the trees for almost three weeks.
“Ah, man. Ain’t those things too stale to smoke by now? I’ll pass, thanks.” He said.
Lew shook out a smoke. The paper was yellow instead of white. The morning dew had soaked the pack, leaching the nicotine from the shredded leaves.
“They’re fine,” Lew said, flicking the wheel of the Zippo lighter he had likewise stolen from his dad. He touched the flame to the tip, inhaled, and coughed out a lungful of smoke.
“Nothing wrong with ‘em at all.” He grinned his lopsided grin at Ike.
Ike shook his head and jumped down from the headstone.
“Let’s go man, it’s too hot to sit here.”
Lew followed his friend as they made their way out of the graveyard. They crossed the edge of the timothy field, freshly cut. Grasshoppers flitted away from them as their worn sneakers kicked the stubble. Lew caught one in his hand. It spit brown juice on his palm. He crushed it and tossed its body at Ike.
“Knock it off you dummy,” Ike retorted.
They found the path beside the trees that overlooked the railroad cut. Farm vehicle, enduro bikes, and Jeeps had worn a track into the hard clay. Dust rose up and covered their black shoes. The white rubber tips of them turned red from the clay.
Crossing the trail, Ike pushed through the heavy green growth of saplings and raspberry bushes. Red berries promised a crop in a few weeks. For now, they were an impediment, tearing at the boys and snagging their shirts. The thin material did nothing to prevent the thorns from digging into their skin. They ignored them except for the occasional oath as the boys practiced their cursing.
They arrived at the top of the cut. Here the enduro riders had created dangerous cycle trails over the edge, angling down a bit to prevent rolling their rides. Forty feet below lay the twin pairs of tracks, hot in the summer sun. Heat, trapped by the walls of the cut, billowed upward into their faces.
“C’mon. Let’s go down,” Ike started to say. He was cut off by the whistle of the train as it approached Butler Street, a mile away.
“Uh, I’m going to wait,” Lew said. His ever present grin grew wider. He scuffed his feet to clear the underbrush. Bending, he picked up a dirt encrusted rock the size of his fist.
He hefted it in his hand, looking pointedly at Ike. Ike grinned in turn, and proceeded to mimic his friend. Both boys kicked and dug furiously, the sound of the train wheels clicking on the rails growing closer.
It approached from the east. It was a long one, as five locomotives lead the way. The boys stood back from the edge, boyhood fear at being seen overriding the fact that they couldn’t be seen from such an extreme depth. Both held rocks in each hand. As the engines passed, there followed box cars, red and gray, with exotic sounding names lettered on their sides. Santa Fe. B&O. Northwest. Pacific Fleet. They watched and wondered where they came from. Suddenly, the carrier cars appeared. Loaded with the best of Detroit’s Big Three, triple rows of gleaming automobiles began to flash by.
Ike threw his right hand rock, bouncing it from the support post of one of the rail cars. Lew’s passed between them, WHAPPING into the door of a green Chevrolet Malibu. He hooted and jumped up and down.
“Got that one!” he yelled.
Ike shifted the rock from his left hand to his right and fired again. It bounced off a cross member, up and down, CRACK into the windshield of a blue Ford pick up.
“WooHoo!!” he shouted.
Rocks rained down from the heights as the boys exhausted the piles they had dug out of the earth. Tired and hot, the plopped onto the ground, laughter battling the sounds of the train to be heard,
The train passed, the red caboose bringing up the rear. A white haired gent was standing on the rear deck, looking backward, as if he could see his departed years in the heat wave behind the train. Then it too was gone, around the bend and chugging west.
Ike stood and walked to the edge, starting down the enduro trail. Lew hung back a bit.
“Looks steep,” he said, hesitating at the edge. Lew didn’t like heights.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, come on you pussy.” Ike said as he leaned back and started down.
It was steep, he thought. How do them bike riders get up and down with out falling over? He looked back at Lew, who was shuffling slowly down behind him.
They made their way to the bottom, a shower of dirt and stoned tumbling before them.
Soaked by the trapped heat, they stopped and stooped, panting for air.
With no real purpose, they started to walk the tracks. Ike picked up a blue insulator fallen from the poles lining the tracks. He tossed it to Lew, who dashed it to pieces on the rail. He liked the sound it made, bell like as it burst. Numerous spikes, covered in rust, lay where they had worked out from the creosote soaked ties. They picked some up and carried them with them, treasure to show their parents. Soon though, the weight of the steel grew to be too much, and they dropped them in a pile.
Something white glimmered between the tracks. Ike, having given up on walking the un-even ties, was balancing on the rail when Lew pointed it out.
“What’t that?” he asked. It was the size of a small watermelon, the white a stark contrast against the black of the ballast stones and the brown ties.
“Dunno.” Ike shot back. He didn’t increase his pace, intent on balancing himself.
As they drew closer, his curiosity won out and he hopped from the rail, walking faster.
“It’s a skull!” he yelled, starting to jog. Lew kept pace a few steps back.
They arrived and stood on either side of it. Tatters of skin, green flesh covered with strands of brown and black, hung from the whiteness of the bone. Teeth, long and mean looking glared out between black lips. The one eye socket was empty, except for some black beetles crawling in and out of it, like some insect amusement park.
“It’s a dog,” Lew stated.
“I can see that, dummy,” Ike replied.
He kicked at it with his shoe, rolling it over. They eye on the other side was a yellow mass of puss, bubbling with life. Lew felt his breakfast rise.
“That’s gross man.
“Yeah, and it stinks, too.” Ike glanced up the tracks. He could see something beside the rails a hundred yards or so ahead. “C’mon,” he said, jogging in that direction.
Lew struggled to keep up, slipping on the ballast stones. Ike arrived seconds before him, and was standing over the object.
It was partially covered in the same fur as the skull. What wasn’t fur was green, and blue, and red. White maggots crawled in and out of the putrid flesh. They could see where something had been chewing at the corpse. Bird droppings, big ones, covered the ground beside it.
“Wow,” said Lew. “Old dog done lost his head.” He snickered.
Ike looked at the headless body reflectively.
“I think that’s old man McGwen’s Shepherd.”
“Maybe. I ain’t seen it around for a month or so. Musta run off and got his self hit. How could a dog not hear a train?”
“Dunno. They’re sure loud enough.” Ike toed the corpse. Blue-black flies streamed out from under the puffed skin. He backed up a step and swatted them away from his face.
“Ain’t THAT something.” He backed up some more.
Lew had seen enough.
“Let’s roll, man.” He fished out another cigarette and lit it. The smoke kept some of the flies away from his face. He wiped sweat from his forehead and flicked it at the dog’s body. His glasses were starting to steam up.
“Yeah, let’s make like a sheep and get the flock out of here, “ Ike laughed.
They hopped onto a silver rail and tried to trot as far as they could. Ike won. Ike always won. Lew knew this, and hated his friend a little for it. Ike was always doing things better than he was. Baseball, fishing, grades – didn’t matter. The girls even seemed to like him better, even with his missing teeth and the big scar on his face.
A whistle, far and lonesome came to them up the cut. From the west, on the other set of tracks.
The boys scampered from the rail bed and stood on the side of the cut.
“Dare you to see how close you can get.” Ike said.
Lew looked at him.
“Uh uh. I hear the train goes by so fast, it’ll suck you under it!”
“Bull. If that was true, how all them hobos jump in the box cars? Don’t you watch movies you dummy?”
Lew blushed. Then he grinned.
“You first,” he said.
“Okay, but… stand close, just in case. If I start to get sucked in, you grab me.”
They stood there, two tiny figures in the shadows of the cut. The train barreled toward them, the big diesel locomotive blowing smoke in a thick gray stream. The engineer saw the boys, and blew the horn, long and loud. They backed up a step. It didn’t matter. A train can’t stop that fast. If they’d been on the track, they’d be just as dead as that dog yonder.
The engines roared by. Hot dust blew around them, their hair blowing back. Lew almost lost his glasses, but clamped them to his nose with his left hand. Six engines passed, then the box cars. Ike shuffled his feet in the black ballast edging closer. He reached out his hand, as if to balance himself.
”Going to get closer than you Lew!” he yelled. “Make sure you got my back!”
Lew grinned, beaten again, and put his hand between Ike’s shoulder blades.
“Oh, I got you buddy! I got you!”
May 4, 2011
CHOICES
Buses have never been my favorite mode of travel. They're loud and dirty. They smell bad, as do many of the passengers. The seats are uncomfortable, the ride too bouncy, and the bathroom is always occupied by someone who gets sick riding buses.
In this instance though, it was my best choice. My car, never overly dependable, was sitting in my driveway coloring it green with antifreeze seeping from a
cracked block. I was new in the city. Making friends was not one of my skills, so I had no one to borrow a car from. My destination was too far to take a taxi,
too close to take a plane, and too far from any train station.
The bus was it.
Darkness was falling as I sat alone in the terminal. It was a shared terminal for both the train and the bus companies. I assume that at one time, passengers
would debark from one and get on the other to complete there journey. The heyday of each was long past. My only companions were the janitor and the
woman stationed at the counter, listlessly watching television on her laptop computer.
The bus pulled in, blowing dirt and food wrappers from underneath it as the air brakes engaged. I grabbed my worn leather satchel and was ready when the
driver opened the door.
He took my ticket, nodded and said, "Have a seat, if you can find one."
He laughed at his own joke. There were only three other passengers.
One was an older gent, dressed to the nines. Black top coat, with scarf. The coat was open to show what was obviously an expensive black suit, with slight
white pinstripes. He held both gloves, and wonder of wonder, a cane in his hands. His black oxford shoes were so polished they reflected the overhead light
from the bus's interior. I was slightly surprised not to see a top hat sitting on the seat next to him. Instead, a small black attaché case was there, gold claps
matching the glimpse of cuff links I caught from the shirt sleeves peeking out from his jackets. He had taken a seat about mid-bus, on the side opposite the
driver.
The other passengers sat a few seats in front of him, on the driver's side. They sat beside each other. I could guess that they were related, though a good
many years separated them. Grandmother and grandson was my guess. She was bundled in a shapeless green jacket. A red scarf covered her hair. She
clutched a paperback book in her hands. She wasn't reading it, since her eyes were closed and her head bobbed up and down. She was snoring.The boy was snuggled against her like a cat. He too was asleep. A worn grey blanket with the bus company's logo on it covered all but his face. His eyes were also closed. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth to the sleeve of his grandmother's green jacket.
I lifted my bag to clear the seats and made my way to the extreme back of the bus. I nodded to the silver haired man in the the suit as I passed, gaining me a smile. Arriving at my chosen seat, I tossed the bag down in the seat by the aisle and sat by the window.
The driver closed the door and exited the terminal. He was better than most, not jerking the bus as he did so.
I settled into my seat, took my cue from the slumbering patrons and dozed off.
I awoke with a start. I could feel eyes on me. A throw back to our days in the caves, a person could still tell when they were being watched. I lifted my eyes and saw that the sharp dressed man had moved to the seat in front of me. He sat, turned in his aisle seat so he was facing me. a wry smile was on his face.
I cleared my throat.
"Can I help you?"
His smile widened, making him look ten years younger. He gestured to the seat which contained my over night bag.
"May I," he asked.
I hesitated. As I said, I don't make friends easily. That's because I honestly don't care for people. Small talk bores me. I'd much rather dig into my books (one of which was in the very bag the Fred Astaire want-to-be was gesturing at) than chit chat. On the other hand, the lighting in the bus was terrible, and I had neglected to pack my book light.
I nodded, taking my bag from the seat.
"I trust you won't mind," he said, rising elegantly and moving into the seat. He still held his gloves and cane, but the case remained beside his original seat.
"I do so enjoy talking to others. I like to hear their stories, their views on things."
"Well sir," I said to him. "I'm not much of a conversationalist, but it's a long ride from good old PA to New York."
He laughed, a sound like diamonds falling on crystal, clear and sweet.
"Indeed! Miles to go before we sleep, as it were." He paused. "So sir, are you from here?" he asked, gesturing outside the bus.
"My name is Glen," I told him. "And in a way, yes. I live in Harrisburg now, moved here from Canton."
"Ah. I am traveling from a small town in Virginia. My name is Luke, by the way."
He held out his hand. I noticed for the first time the exquisite ring on his right hand, the red of the ruby glinting in the meager light. I took his hand, and was surprised at how cold it was. He smiled, pumped my hand once and released his grip. My hand tingled a bit, like it had fallen asleep. It probably had, while I dozed.
"What brings to you Pennsylvania from Ohio, Master Glen? A woman, perhaps?"
Now it was my turn to laugh.
"Not hardly sir. Not hardly. I came for a job. The way the economy is these days, I had to take it where it came, you know?"
"I do indeed. Our current administration certainly is not bringing about the change they promised now, are they? But then, none of them ever do. Liars, the lot of them." He shook his head. "What line of work are you in?"
"I am a counselor at the psychiatric hospital. They had a job posted on one of the internet job boards. I applied, did my interview via Skype, and they hired me. Came out six months ago."
"A counselor," Luke stated. "An admirable position. I trust you went to college to get such a job?"
I nodded. "Yes sir. Majored in psychology, with a minor in ethics study."
He smiled again, revealing even white teeth. I wondered if they were capped? They were so white, they almost glowed.
"Ethics? Wonderful. I always enjoyed ethics. Human beings are often put into situations that require the use of ethics, but rarely do they think about it. Do you agree Glen?"
"My professor would agree, but I'm not sure what your point is?" I was still a bit woozy from sleeping, you see.
"Why, for instance, if you put a man in a solitary office, with no boss monitoring him, what is to prevent him from, how do they say it? 'Crusing the internet'? Yes, that. What is to stop him from doing that instead of working? Looking at that porn stuff instead of tallying his rows and columns? Ethics, that's what."
"Well, yes. That's one way to look at it," I replied.
"Or the age old quote from the generals in war time," he continued. "Better that one die so many can live, or some such drivel. Do you agree with that, after your studies Glen?"
He moved a bit closer to me.
I blinked. His eyes were the deepest gray I had ever seen, clear and bright, wide and staring into mine.
"I guess so Luke. Ethics was my minor," I said lamely.
He turned suddenly and pointed to the sleeping family members across the way.
"Like those two. One so young, his whole future in front of him. The other old, near the end of her life. What if you had to choose, Glen? Between them?"
Confused, I looked at him, then at the slumbering two.
"What? I don't follow."
"What if you had to choose one of them to die Glen? Which would you choose, after studying ethics? What do your books and professor's teaching tell you to do?"
I was beginning not to like Luke. His breath smelled a bit when he spoke.
"I don't think I like this conversation Luke. I'd like to go back to sleep, if you don't mind."
"Oh, but I DO mind Glen. I do, indeed. Tell you though, you tell me which one you would choose, and I'll leave you. I'll let you sleep."
He smiled again, but his teeth didn't look as white this time. Stained, too much coffee and tobacco maybe.
"Why? What kind of question is this, anyway?"
"An ethical one. If one had to die, so that others may live? Which would you choose?"
I answered, just to get him to leave. "The old lady."
"Why Glen? Why her? Don't you like her Glen? She reminds you of your mother, maybe? The one that beat you and touched you where she wasn't supposed to?"
I flinched. The description of dear old mom was a bit too close to home.
"No. My mother wasn't like that. It's just.." I trailed off.
"She wasn't, eh? Sure Glen. We're ALL liars, in the end. Why then? She's so close to dying anyway?"
"Yeah, that's it. She's old. The boy has his whole life before him."
"Life? What kind of life? What if the old lady is his only family? They'll put him in a foster home. He'll go from home to home, no love anywhere. Just people who want him for the money the state gives them. Just adults who want him to be their little plaything. Ones that come into his room at night, whiskey on their breath and bad deeds on their mind. He'll grow up unable to make friends. He'll hate women, thanks to his mother and all the other 'mommies'. His scars will be on the inside, sure, but he'll have them on the outside, too. Scars where they used him for an ashtray, where they beat him with the belt, where they tied him to the bed till he did what they wanted. Yeah Glen, he'll have a life alright. What about HIM?"
I rubbed by wrists, feeling the burn of the ropes that were not there. I looked from the boy to the woman as sweat poured from my brow. I knuckled it from my eyes. I flicked the damp hair out of my face and looked at Luke. His eyes had grown wider while he gave his little rant. They looked odd, yellow almost, like dull flames were burning behind them. His overcoat looked different, too, shabbier, threadbare and dirty. His shirt didn't have cuff-links, but twisted paper clips holding the sleeves shut. His shoes were in reality plastic Subway bags, tied with twine at his ankles. He stank. He scared me. He was so close to me now that I could see the rot of his teeth.
I moved away, against the window, the cold of the outside seeping into the sweat soaked back of my jacket. I could feel the cold, but the cold in front of me was deeper. I think I sobbed a bit.
"I don't want to live, mommy," I whimpered. I blinked.
And all was as it was. Luke looked as he had when I boarded the bus. Suave, dapper even. Ready for the ballroom.
He smiled. "The boy then?"
I just nodded.
He rose and returned to his seat. I continued to cower while the bus plodded on it's merry way to New York. Sleep overtook me once again.
Forty-five minutes later, the bus pulled into a Turnpike service plaza. I woke up, groggy. I looked about for Luke, and did not see him. I assumed he was sleeping, hunched down in his seat. The old woman sat up and shook the child. The boy did not stir. She shook him harder.
"Leon, wake up. It's time to eat."
Leon was white, and cold, and would not stir again. The woman screamed and the bus driver rushed to her aid. I stood up and scanned the rest of the empty bus. There was no Luke. There were just we four, the driver, the woman and myself.
And the cold body of a child.
April 15, 2011
The Shot
He was still alive when I got to him. He wouldn't be for long though. I could see the white gleam of his spine through the gaping hole the bullet had torn through his belly. I'd under compensated for the distance and hit him too low. The bullet had ripped into his back, gouging through the spine, expanding, and leaving a hole the size of a basketball in his stomach.
His face was white. His eyes were still the intense blue I remembered from the one time I had met him. His brow was furrowed against the pain. His hands opened and closed spasmodically, as if trying to find life's purchase as it slipped from him. He fixed his wasted gaze on me as I approached. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a bubble of frothy blood came forth.
I squatted down in front of him and rested my rifle across my knees. I cocked my head and looked into his face. I wanted him to know it was me. I wanted him to see me before he died. I wanted the bastard to know he'd not gotten away with it. I wanted to see the recognition come over him as he realized who it was who had killed him.
He started to twitch a bit, but his eyes stared steadily into mine. Oh, he knew alright. I could see his lids open a bit further as it came to him. His lips worked, trying to form words again. Instead, another trickle of blood came, flowing over his lower lip like a baby when it pukes.
I'm sure I smiled.
"Yeah, it's me you son of a bitch," I said. His right hand flopped around on the ground. He managed to pull it into his lap, such as it was. His legs were splayed sideways. He looked uncomfortable. I laughed out loud as I thought this.
"You're suit's a mess," I told him, and laughed again. "Guess you should have spent money on a bullet proof vest and not on some Italian suit." I chuckled again at my own wit. He didn't laugh, only lay propped against the wall wheezing.
His hand fluttered again. I looked down at it, and gave a start. The old bastard had his middle finger extended. The ass was flipping me off!
My face tightened. I got to my feet, flicked the rifle's safety off. I put the muzzle between his eyes. He looked past the muzzle and into my eyes, never flinching. I smiled and pulled the trigger.
His face was white. His eyes were still the intense blue I remembered from the one time I had met him. His brow was furrowed against the pain. His hands opened and closed spasmodically, as if trying to find life's purchase as it slipped from him. He fixed his wasted gaze on me as I approached. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a bubble of frothy blood came forth.
I squatted down in front of him and rested my rifle across my knees. I cocked my head and looked into his face. I wanted him to know it was me. I wanted him to see me before he died. I wanted the bastard to know he'd not gotten away with it. I wanted to see the recognition come over him as he realized who it was who had killed him.
He started to twitch a bit, but his eyes stared steadily into mine. Oh, he knew alright. I could see his lids open a bit further as it came to him. His lips worked, trying to form words again. Instead, another trickle of blood came, flowing over his lower lip like a baby when it pukes.
I'm sure I smiled.
"Yeah, it's me you son of a bitch," I said. His right hand flopped around on the ground. He managed to pull it into his lap, such as it was. His legs were splayed sideways. He looked uncomfortable. I laughed out loud as I thought this.
"You're suit's a mess," I told him, and laughed again. "Guess you should have spent money on a bullet proof vest and not on some Italian suit." I chuckled again at my own wit. He didn't laugh, only lay propped against the wall wheezing.
His hand fluttered again. I looked down at it, and gave a start. The old bastard had his middle finger extended. The ass was flipping me off!
My face tightened. I got to my feet, flicked the rifle's safety off. I put the muzzle between his eyes. He looked past the muzzle and into my eyes, never flinching. I smiled and pulled the trigger.
March 17, 2011
Ax
The human gag reflex is strong, and triggered quit easily. Jeb thought of this lesson from last semester's science class while laying in the wet manure of the hog sty. Mr. Barnett would be pleased that one of his more laid back students remembered anything from his class, especially the misfit Jeb.
Jeb retched again and shoved his mouth into the crook of his elbow. It really didn't help much. He had rolled around to coat himself quite liberally with the dark brown, rank leavings in the sty, the better to blend in to his surroundings. The liquid oozed through his shirt and jeans, soaking him to the skin. The stench invaded his nostrils, making his head swim as his eyes watered, cutting furrows down the muck on his face.
A rustling at his feet made him jump. He turned his head slowly so he could look behind him, fearing the worst. He was relieved to see a round snout the same color as his clothing sniffing inches from his left foot. Thank God, just one of the hogs, he thought.
He turned his attention to the scene between the house and the fence behind which he was concealed. Long shadows were beginning to creep away from the East side of the house, and would soon reach the fence. His greatest hope at that moment was that the light would fade quickly and plunge his hiding spot into darkness before.. well, just before.
The house would be dark inside, he knew, but no lights snapped on to make the windows glow. Smoke curled from the chimney, tell tale sign that a fire was warming the home. The thought of the fireplace made him shiver. The mud was cold.
He scanned the shrubbery beside the house, and checked the trees. Nothing stirred, yet he knew it was only a matter of time. The man would not be long in discovering that he was not still inside. Running further was out of the question, he knew that. His left leg had stopped bleeding, but the makeshift bandage formed from his dirty bandanna wouldn't hold if he got up and ran. Besides, he was pretty sure it was probably broken to go along with the cut. The man wasn't small, and even though he had hardly swung a backhand swipe at him, he'd met his mark. He'd tumbled butt over tea kettle, right out the back door and down the steps. The swing had cut his leg, while the steps had done the breaking. From there, he'd managed to scramble around the house, across the grass and behind the horse stable. There he had assessed the damage to his leg and done the best he could with what he had to stem the flow of blood. He'd stayed in the shadow of the barn but briefly, knowing that would be the first place the man would look for him. Knowing that most people were averse to hogs and their smell, he had hit upon the idea of hiding in the sty. Lowering himself to the ground, he'd snaked across the paddock, through the mounds of dung, under the three rail fence and across the gravel lane to the hog pen. Under the lowest board and there he was, immersed in crap, water and God only knew what else.
It sure beat the alternative though. by now the man had regained his strength, and the next swing of that ax sure wouldn't be a glancing blow.
It would take of his head, Jeb thought, like it had so many chickens.
He scanned the yard again, but saw nothing of the man. He sighed, a mistake, as the in rush of air again filled his nose and mouth with the putrid air of the hog pen and choked back another retch.
Pain shot up his thigh, sudden, blinding pain. He stifled a scream, shoving his face into the mud of the pen. He whipped his head up and back, knuckling the crud from his eyes.
The hog had Jeb's leg in his mouth, his tusks sunk onto his calf where the ax blade had cleaved it. Mouthing it like a toothless man would an ear of corn, the hog worked his jaws back and forth. Jeb kicked at the hogs head with his right foot, glancing off the beasts head.
The porcine beast didn't even acknowledge that he had been kicked. He repaid Jeb by chewing a bit more into the morsel that was his leg.
Jeb squirmed onto his back, twisting his torso as only a boy can do. He sat up halfway and grabbed the pig by his ear. Twisting it, he pulled back. The hog let loose of his afternoon snack and turned to face Jeb. He smacked his red lips and pulled back, away from the pain. Jeb held on, straightening up to a full sitting position. He pulled his wounded left leg away from imminent danger.
Then he saw the rock, a nicely rounded, slime coated, fist sized rock, right there just begging to be picked up.
Jeb obliged, cupping the rock in his right hand, while his left kept its tenacious grip on the pig's ear.
Jeb had played baseball in the dusty lot that was the VFW field, so he knew how to throw a baseball. He arm pivoted back till it touched the ground, then looped back up. He didn't throw the rock, but kept it in his hand as he swung with all he had.
Hogs have extremely hard skulls. The rock cracked in Jeb's hand and fell in two pieces into the mud.
The effect was satisfactory however, as the hog issued a startled squeal, threw itself backward, wheeled and sprinted through the mud across the pen to the other side.
Jeb
He was correct in his assumption.
The man's short shadow lengthened at the North end of the house as he came around the corner. He came slowly, his wounds slowing him, but he came. Jeb hadn't realized how badly the man had been hurt until he saw him now. Blood covered the man's left side from his armpit to his knee. His face was battered and bloody also, his left eye swollen shut. Snot ran from his nose and hung from his mustaches, swinging to and fro as the man staggered across the rear sidewalk and toward the hog pen.
Jeb forgot his wounded leg, freely bleeding again, and pushed himself away from the fence. He swapped positions and crawled along the fence line toward the hog house, trusting darkness of dusk and his muddy clothes to shield him from the man.
"I know you're out here you little bastard," the man tried to yell. It came across the yard as a whispered epitaph. "I'm going to kill you. Gonna kill you and feed you to the hogs."
Jeb thought that ironic, after all. At least one of the hogs had a taste for Leg O' Jeb.
He suppressed the surprising urge to laugh, and crawled through the open door of the hog shed..
Startled pigs, mercifully quiet, scattered ad he made his way into the gloom. He noted that the floor in the pen was filthier than outside, and the stench even worse. By now though he was pretty much immune to it.
He rose up on his knees, his leg giving a shout of objection, and crossed the floor to the far side. There, he pushed against the screen covering the ventilation opening.
It didn't move. He shoved harder, panic beginning to form. His stomach did a flip as he thought of being trapped inside the shed, easy pickings for the man.
An easy mark for the ax. There was plenty of room to swing one in here.
The screen held fast, stubborn in its indolence. Jeb had a fleeting thought of how strong a hog was, and that it was some heavy duty stuff to withstand them. He sobbed a little, frustration overtaking reason. He pounded the wire with both hands, cutting and shredding them. He didn't feel the pain, felt nothing but the fear, the sure knowledge that he was going to die in the stink and gloom and crap of a stupid HOG shed, for God's sake.
His hand brushed something in the dark. He stopped his frantic swinging and peered closer.
It was a latch! A whimper escaped his throat. He turned the latch with his bloodied hand and the small ventilation door swung outward.
He had no idea why a latch was there, and not being one to surrender a gift, he shoved his way out the suddenly formed window.
He landed in the relative softness of the grass outside the shed. Behind him, from the pen itself, he heard the sound of feet being pulled free from the sucking of mud and pig crap.
"Gonna kill you. Kill you bad. Cut you up and kill you," he heard.
He scrambled to his feet, his left leg giving out at once. The night had been too much for it, that's it, I quit, he thought, tumbling to his knees. So be it. He crawled on his hands and knees across the yard, now fully in shadows, and made his way toward the cow barn. He scuttled crablike across the concrete and into the stalls. The smell of straw and manure was actually a welcome change to the stench of hogs. He knew however that he was no safer here than he would have been in the stable. The man, hurt was he was, could still make better time that poor Jeb could with his bum leg.
Jeb glanced at the steps leading to the upper floor. It held bales of hay and straw, he knew, but also had a door leading down the tractor ramp to the fields out back.
Fields with plenty of places to hide, he thought. He hated to leave, hated to run. He felt like he had to finish things here, but understood that staying would likely mean dying. He just wasn't really ready for that.
He forced his way toward the stairs, and heard banging as the man came through the front door.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are, you little brat!" the man yelled. This time there was no whisper, it came from the man's blasted lips full force and full of venom.
Jeb pulled himself quickly up the stairs, leaving a trail of blood on the wood. he turned across the landing at the top and into the softness of the spilled hay on the floor. Dust rose in clouds into his eyes and nose, and he sneezed before he could stop himself.
"Ha! I got you now, you're ass is mine," he heard coming from the bottom of the stairs. The door to his escape lay before him, the latch too high for him to reach. He groped around on the floor, looking for anything long enough to flip the hook out of the eye holding the door shut. He heard the clump of work boots ascending the stairs, slowly, one step at a time. A sob burst out of his lips, no need to hide it now, the man knew exactly where he was. He turned and made his way across the floor, stirring up more dust as the man gained the top of the stairs.
"There you are, boy. There you are. Just wait right there, I got something special. Just. For. You."
No sir, Jeb thought, you want me, you come and get me. He got to the far wall, where the light from the dusk to dawn on the outside pole shone through the cracks of the door.
Door? Jeb thought, excitedly. Indeed, a small door, hinged, and slightly ajar. A door the size of a boy, the size of a hay bale or two, used to bring the hay and straw upstairs. Jeb shoved it open and looked down onto the hard clay of the back pasture.
"Here I come sonny, you just wait for me now," he heard over the shuffling behind him.
He shoved his way out, and down.
The fall didn't last long, not nearly long enough Jeb thought. He struck the ground on his left side, hip first, then his head bounced off the hard clay. Stars burst like white fireworks behind his eyes, and he bit his tongue. He tasted blood, and pieces of tooth in his mouth. The pain from his already abused leg was like a line of fire up to his chest. His belly constricted and he retched up most of his early supper, leaving a pile of steaming veggies in front of his face. He couldn't breath, he couldn't move, and above him he heard an animal scream. Only it wasn't an animal, just animal rage.
"You BASTARD! You little CRACKER! I am SO going to cut off your freaking HEAD!" More words, incoherent, came fadingly from the upper loft. The man was leaving, coming back down the stairs, or out the back door, and here he lay, in a puddle of puke and blood, tears running down his face like a baby. Just waiting to be killed, to die where steers had probably died before him.
He got his hands under him and heaved, trying to get to his knees. he as too weak. It had been too much, and his body, young as it was, couldn't take this much abuse.
He heard the upper door slam into the wood siding of the barn, and snarls of anger from out back. He reached out, trying to grab grass, rocks, anything he could, just to pull himself forward. There was nothing. His nails dug into the dirt, tearing them, ripping them back. He sobbed, and pulled, slowly inching forward. He could hear footsteps behind him now, no talking, just grunts. He rolled onto his back and saw the man, the ax swinging from his hand, his back hunched as he lurched toward him. Jeb pushed himself backward with his right leg, pain, oh such pain, coming from the left. His back hit the barn wall, and he stopped.
The man came on, and stopped at Jeb's feet.
"Dead, you worthless bastard. You are DEAD now," the man raggedly spewed between hoarse intakes of breath.
He raised the ax halfway. Jeb shifted to the right, and his hand landed on a piece of wood. He glanced to his side, closed his hands on the shaft, and looked back up.
The man stepped forward, ready to cleave Jeb's head from his neck, and as he did, Jeb jabbed upward with the pitchfork, so conveniently laying beside the stall door.
The man's forward motion drove the four crud infested tines into his belly and out his back. He screamed, the ax tumbling from his hands. He wrapped his hands around the handle and staggered back, pulling the wooden shaft from Jeb's own hands. The man tripped and sat down with an UMPH! Blood poured from his mouth.
"Bathtard," he got out, then rolled onto his side and lay still.
Jeb began to cry, slowly and softly.
The man out by the barn, with the pitchfork stuck in him, had bled out like a fall hog, laying in a pool of blood.
There was no sign of the murder weapon.
The ME came out and down the stairs, stripping off his gloves. He nodded an Branson, who in turn nodded to the two men beside him.
"Bag them up guys," he instructed.
He turned to the ME.
"Well?"
"Ax, looks like. Didn't find one though?"
Branson shook his head. Odd.
His team by the barn had found blood leading toward the driveway. Tracks in the dust across the field from the drive looked like someone had driven off.
"Anybody know the family?" he asked.
The ME nodded.
"Bill, the ambulance driver did. Said there were six, all told. Mom, Pop, and two each for the kids. boys and girls. Did you find the other boy?"
Branson shook his head again. No, he thought. Had the kid taken the truck, gone for help?
The ME's cell phone rang. He answered, his face going pale. "You sure that's what she said? Uh huh. Okay Bill, thanks."
He looked at Branson.
"Bill said the girl came to on the way. She told Bill who had cut her..."
Branson looked at him, made a come on motion.
"It was the boy, Jeb."
Jeb retched again and shoved his mouth into the crook of his elbow. It really didn't help much. He had rolled around to coat himself quite liberally with the dark brown, rank leavings in the sty, the better to blend in to his surroundings. The liquid oozed through his shirt and jeans, soaking him to the skin. The stench invaded his nostrils, making his head swim as his eyes watered, cutting furrows down the muck on his face.
A rustling at his feet made him jump. He turned his head slowly so he could look behind him, fearing the worst. He was relieved to see a round snout the same color as his clothing sniffing inches from his left foot. Thank God, just one of the hogs, he thought.
He turned his attention to the scene between the house and the fence behind which he was concealed. Long shadows were beginning to creep away from the East side of the house, and would soon reach the fence. His greatest hope at that moment was that the light would fade quickly and plunge his hiding spot into darkness before.. well, just before.
The house would be dark inside, he knew, but no lights snapped on to make the windows glow. Smoke curled from the chimney, tell tale sign that a fire was warming the home. The thought of the fireplace made him shiver. The mud was cold.
He scanned the shrubbery beside the house, and checked the trees. Nothing stirred, yet he knew it was only a matter of time. The man would not be long in discovering that he was not still inside. Running further was out of the question, he knew that. His left leg had stopped bleeding, but the makeshift bandage formed from his dirty bandanna wouldn't hold if he got up and ran. Besides, he was pretty sure it was probably broken to go along with the cut. The man wasn't small, and even though he had hardly swung a backhand swipe at him, he'd met his mark. He'd tumbled butt over tea kettle, right out the back door and down the steps. The swing had cut his leg, while the steps had done the breaking. From there, he'd managed to scramble around the house, across the grass and behind the horse stable. There he had assessed the damage to his leg and done the best he could with what he had to stem the flow of blood. He'd stayed in the shadow of the barn but briefly, knowing that would be the first place the man would look for him. Knowing that most people were averse to hogs and their smell, he had hit upon the idea of hiding in the sty. Lowering himself to the ground, he'd snaked across the paddock, through the mounds of dung, under the three rail fence and across the gravel lane to the hog pen. Under the lowest board and there he was, immersed in crap, water and God only knew what else.
It sure beat the alternative though. by now the man had regained his strength, and the next swing of that ax sure wouldn't be a glancing blow.
It would take of his head, Jeb thought, like it had so many chickens.
He scanned the yard again, but saw nothing of the man. He sighed, a mistake, as the in rush of air again filled his nose and mouth with the putrid air of the hog pen and choked back another retch.
Pain shot up his thigh, sudden, blinding pain. He stifled a scream, shoving his face into the mud of the pen. He whipped his head up and back, knuckling the crud from his eyes.
The hog had Jeb's leg in his mouth, his tusks sunk onto his calf where the ax blade had cleaved it. Mouthing it like a toothless man would an ear of corn, the hog worked his jaws back and forth. Jeb kicked at the hogs head with his right foot, glancing off the beasts head.
The porcine beast didn't even acknowledge that he had been kicked. He repaid Jeb by chewing a bit more into the morsel that was his leg.
Jeb squirmed onto his back, twisting his torso as only a boy can do. He sat up halfway and grabbed the pig by his ear. Twisting it, he pulled back. The hog let loose of his afternoon snack and turned to face Jeb. He smacked his red lips and pulled back, away from the pain. Jeb held on, straightening up to a full sitting position. He pulled his wounded left leg away from imminent danger.
Then he saw the rock, a nicely rounded, slime coated, fist sized rock, right there just begging to be picked up.
Jeb obliged, cupping the rock in his right hand, while his left kept its tenacious grip on the pig's ear.
Jeb had played baseball in the dusty lot that was the VFW field, so he knew how to throw a baseball. He arm pivoted back till it touched the ground, then looped back up. He didn't throw the rock, but kept it in his hand as he swung with all he had.
Hogs have extremely hard skulls. The rock cracked in Jeb's hand and fell in two pieces into the mud.
The effect was satisfactory however, as the hog issued a startled squeal, threw itself backward, wheeled and sprinted through the mud across the pen to the other side.
Jeb
He was correct in his assumption.
The man's short shadow lengthened at the North end of the house as he came around the corner. He came slowly, his wounds slowing him, but he came. Jeb hadn't realized how badly the man had been hurt until he saw him now. Blood covered the man's left side from his armpit to his knee. His face was battered and bloody also, his left eye swollen shut. Snot ran from his nose and hung from his mustaches, swinging to and fro as the man staggered across the rear sidewalk and toward the hog pen.
Jeb forgot his wounded leg, freely bleeding again, and pushed himself away from the fence. He swapped positions and crawled along the fence line toward the hog house, trusting darkness of dusk and his muddy clothes to shield him from the man.
"I know you're out here you little bastard," the man tried to yell. It came across the yard as a whispered epitaph. "I'm going to kill you. Gonna kill you and feed you to the hogs."
Jeb thought that ironic, after all. At least one of the hogs had a taste for Leg O' Jeb.
He suppressed the surprising urge to laugh, and crawled through the open door of the hog shed..
Startled pigs, mercifully quiet, scattered ad he made his way into the gloom. He noted that the floor in the pen was filthier than outside, and the stench even worse. By now though he was pretty much immune to it.
He rose up on his knees, his leg giving a shout of objection, and crossed the floor to the far side. There, he pushed against the screen covering the ventilation opening.
It didn't move. He shoved harder, panic beginning to form. His stomach did a flip as he thought of being trapped inside the shed, easy pickings for the man.
An easy mark for the ax. There was plenty of room to swing one in here.
The screen held fast, stubborn in its indolence. Jeb had a fleeting thought of how strong a hog was, and that it was some heavy duty stuff to withstand them. He sobbed a little, frustration overtaking reason. He pounded the wire with both hands, cutting and shredding them. He didn't feel the pain, felt nothing but the fear, the sure knowledge that he was going to die in the stink and gloom and crap of a stupid HOG shed, for God's sake.
His hand brushed something in the dark. He stopped his frantic swinging and peered closer.
It was a latch! A whimper escaped his throat. He turned the latch with his bloodied hand and the small ventilation door swung outward.
He had no idea why a latch was there, and not being one to surrender a gift, he shoved his way out the suddenly formed window.
He landed in the relative softness of the grass outside the shed. Behind him, from the pen itself, he heard the sound of feet being pulled free from the sucking of mud and pig crap.
"Gonna kill you. Kill you bad. Cut you up and kill you," he heard.
He scrambled to his feet, his left leg giving out at once. The night had been too much for it, that's it, I quit, he thought, tumbling to his knees. So be it. He crawled on his hands and knees across the yard, now fully in shadows, and made his way toward the cow barn. He scuttled crablike across the concrete and into the stalls. The smell of straw and manure was actually a welcome change to the stench of hogs. He knew however that he was no safer here than he would have been in the stable. The man, hurt was he was, could still make better time that poor Jeb could with his bum leg.
Jeb glanced at the steps leading to the upper floor. It held bales of hay and straw, he knew, but also had a door leading down the tractor ramp to the fields out back.
Fields with plenty of places to hide, he thought. He hated to leave, hated to run. He felt like he had to finish things here, but understood that staying would likely mean dying. He just wasn't really ready for that.
He forced his way toward the stairs, and heard banging as the man came through the front door.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are, you little brat!" the man yelled. This time there was no whisper, it came from the man's blasted lips full force and full of venom.
Jeb pulled himself quickly up the stairs, leaving a trail of blood on the wood. he turned across the landing at the top and into the softness of the spilled hay on the floor. Dust rose in clouds into his eyes and nose, and he sneezed before he could stop himself.
"Ha! I got you now, you're ass is mine," he heard coming from the bottom of the stairs. The door to his escape lay before him, the latch too high for him to reach. He groped around on the floor, looking for anything long enough to flip the hook out of the eye holding the door shut. He heard the clump of work boots ascending the stairs, slowly, one step at a time. A sob burst out of his lips, no need to hide it now, the man knew exactly where he was. He turned and made his way across the floor, stirring up more dust as the man gained the top of the stairs.
"There you are, boy. There you are. Just wait right there, I got something special. Just. For. You."
No sir, Jeb thought, you want me, you come and get me. He got to the far wall, where the light from the dusk to dawn on the outside pole shone through the cracks of the door.
Door? Jeb thought, excitedly. Indeed, a small door, hinged, and slightly ajar. A door the size of a boy, the size of a hay bale or two, used to bring the hay and straw upstairs. Jeb shoved it open and looked down onto the hard clay of the back pasture.
"Here I come sonny, you just wait for me now," he heard over the shuffling behind him.
He shoved his way out, and down.
The fall didn't last long, not nearly long enough Jeb thought. He struck the ground on his left side, hip first, then his head bounced off the hard clay. Stars burst like white fireworks behind his eyes, and he bit his tongue. He tasted blood, and pieces of tooth in his mouth. The pain from his already abused leg was like a line of fire up to his chest. His belly constricted and he retched up most of his early supper, leaving a pile of steaming veggies in front of his face. He couldn't breath, he couldn't move, and above him he heard an animal scream. Only it wasn't an animal, just animal rage.
"You BASTARD! You little CRACKER! I am SO going to cut off your freaking HEAD!" More words, incoherent, came fadingly from the upper loft. The man was leaving, coming back down the stairs, or out the back door, and here he lay, in a puddle of puke and blood, tears running down his face like a baby. Just waiting to be killed, to die where steers had probably died before him.
He got his hands under him and heaved, trying to get to his knees. he as too weak. It had been too much, and his body, young as it was, couldn't take this much abuse.
He heard the upper door slam into the wood siding of the barn, and snarls of anger from out back. He reached out, trying to grab grass, rocks, anything he could, just to pull himself forward. There was nothing. His nails dug into the dirt, tearing them, ripping them back. He sobbed, and pulled, slowly inching forward. He could hear footsteps behind him now, no talking, just grunts. He rolled onto his back and saw the man, the ax swinging from his hand, his back hunched as he lurched toward him. Jeb pushed himself backward with his right leg, pain, oh such pain, coming from the left. His back hit the barn wall, and he stopped.
The man came on, and stopped at Jeb's feet.
"Dead, you worthless bastard. You are DEAD now," the man raggedly spewed between hoarse intakes of breath.
He raised the ax halfway. Jeb shifted to the right, and his hand landed on a piece of wood. He glanced to his side, closed his hands on the shaft, and looked back up.
The man stepped forward, ready to cleave Jeb's head from his neck, and as he did, Jeb jabbed upward with the pitchfork, so conveniently laying beside the stall door.
The man's forward motion drove the four crud infested tines into his belly and out his back. He screamed, the ax tumbling from his hands. He wrapped his hands around the handle and staggered back, pulling the wooden shaft from Jeb's own hands. The man tripped and sat down with an UMPH! Blood poured from his mouth.
"Bathtard," he got out, then rolled onto his side and lay still.
Jeb began to cry, slowly and softly.
~~~###~~~
The detective stood by the squad car, waiting for the medical examiner to finish up with the bodies inside the farmhouse. His crime scene people were done by the barn, the ME already making his notes and declaring that body ready to load. The ambulance with the one girl they'd found still alive had speed away an hour ago. Detective Branson had no idea how the girl had lived, being cut like that, but she had. The other two kids, a boy and girl hadn't been so lucky. Neither had the woman, for that matter, all three of them found upstairs, cut up like so much kindling.The man out by the barn, with the pitchfork stuck in him, had bled out like a fall hog, laying in a pool of blood.
There was no sign of the murder weapon.
The ME came out and down the stairs, stripping off his gloves. He nodded an Branson, who in turn nodded to the two men beside him.
"Bag them up guys," he instructed.
He turned to the ME.
"Well?"
"Ax, looks like. Didn't find one though?"
Branson shook his head. Odd.
His team by the barn had found blood leading toward the driveway. Tracks in the dust across the field from the drive looked like someone had driven off.
"Anybody know the family?" he asked.
The ME nodded.
"Bill, the ambulance driver did. Said there were six, all told. Mom, Pop, and two each for the kids. boys and girls. Did you find the other boy?"
Branson shook his head again. No, he thought. Had the kid taken the truck, gone for help?
The ME's cell phone rang. He answered, his face going pale. "You sure that's what she said? Uh huh. Okay Bill, thanks."
He looked at Branson.
"Bill said the girl came to on the way. She told Bill who had cut her..."
Branson looked at him, made a come on motion.
"It was the boy, Jeb."