THE MAN ON THE PARK BENCH
And Twelve More Tales of Intrigue
By
Don McNair
Smashwords Edition
Copyright© 2012 by Don McNair
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.
THE MAN ON THE PARK BENCH
And Twelve Other Tales of Intrigue
Professional writer and editor Don McNair spent forty years writing for others, but at night he wrote fiction and non-fiction books for pleasure. This book presents his favorite short stories, never before published.
Contents
What were the dark secrets from his past? And his future?
Beulah’s Glow-in-the-Dark Jesus:
He was such a nice boy, educated and all. And Beauregard was gone…
Jack’s big brother had just gotten out of prison and the police were already hounding him. If someone didn’t help him, he’d go right back.
A parade wasn’t even scheduled. But there it was, and only she and Margaret could see it.
Carl Nichols might be in his nineties, but maybe he could still save his parents.
Farmer Ben O’Malley finally visited the ritzy sister who’d abandoned him and their father years ago. But he sure wasn’t expecting this.
Where do old sayings come from? This retiring “old sayings” professional is ready to explain it all to his new apprentice.
That dress was sure purty and all. But would it do what it was supposed to?
Richard Smith was ready for a midlife fling. Or was he?
If Don had earned that merit badge fifty years ago, his life would probably have turned out a whole lot different.
The Old Furniture Polish Warehouse:
When Stacey Jenkins’ mother ran away with the chemical salesman thirty years ago, she didn’t get far.
1770’s pioneer Aaron Reeder thought he knew what love for his young daughter was, until he ran into problems going west on the Tennessee River flotilla to settle the land.
If God wouldn’t save him, he’d have to do it himself.
Man on the Park Bench
What were the dark secrets from his past? And his future?
Jim Morton tapped an idle rhythm on the park bench's iron arm as he looked up Christopher Street toward the town's center. The only people in sight were two old men talking together with hands clasped behind them. A cold breeze rustled red and yellow leaves, fallen from the trees lining the street.
He shifted his thin body and looked south at third rate houses with wrinkled asphalt roofs and gray plastic weatherboard, flanked with decrepit cars and junkyard bicycles. The day he'd left this town for good he could still see the river, but now those trees and little Monopoly houses blocked the view.
Maybe Betty lived in one of those houses. She didn't say where she lived, and he didn't think to look at the address in the telephone book when he called her not an hour before. But maybe she married well and lived uptown in one of them condos he'd heard about. Maybe she did.
He turned toward his bench partner, a black man wearing a tweed jacket under a London Fog overcoat. "I ain't seen her for more'n twenty five years,” he said. “Think I'll recognize her?"
"You might, man. You just might. How old was she then?"
Morton's thick eyebrows bunched up. "Hell, I won't recognize her. She was only five."
"You might. Family resemblance, that type of thing."
"Yeah, I guess."
If pigs could fly. He tucked her into bed one December night, took off, and here it was twenty five, thirty years later. A lot of water had gone over that dam.
"Remember what she looked like then?"
The black man seemed bound and determined to keep it going. He turned toward Morton, who was hunched down in his khaki overcoat and wrinkled dungarees. Thick gray hair peeked from under his baseball cap. He was only in his fifties, but on days like this, when the wind gusted and the air smelled of snow, he felt old.
"She was pretty as hell, just like a picture book. But I couldn't pick her out now, even if she did handstands."
Something moved in the park. His eyes focused on a woman in a faded blue cloth coat and high rubber boots. She took quick steps toward them, head down against the wind. She looked up with squinted eyes and saw them, stopped, then took a cautious step.
"That's her," Morton whispered, sitting up. "God, don't ask me how I know, but that's her."
"Right. Well, you don't need me here. I'm moving on."
The black man walked north, whistling a soulful tune through his teeth. Morton stood and pulled the cap from his head, felt the wind's bitterness, and put it back on. She walked across the street toward him, head down, turned away from the wind, and stopped by the bench.
"You Jim Morton? I mean—my daddy?"
He took his hat off again, wadding it with busy fingers, then shivered and pulled it back over his ears to lock out the cold.
"Yes ma'am, I am. Didn't take long for you to get here."
"I just live over there in the apartment buildings, behind them houses," she said, pointing across the park. "I'd'a been here sooner, but John drove the car to work."
For several seconds they stood there, both looking down, not saying anything.
"Look, why don't you come over to the apartment? It ain't much, but it's warmer there. You have time to do that, don't you?"
"No, I… I really don't. I gotta move on in a minute. Gotta catch my ride."
"Well, let's sit down, then. How you been?"
They both sat. "Tolerable. Nothing to brag about, but tolerable. You doin' all right?"
"I guess.”
“Well, it’s good seeing you again.”
Daddy, why did you leave us?"
Just like that. He looked at his dirty knuckles, then toward the park. "One of them things, I guess. Your Momma and me, we just didn't get on."
"She said you beat her up."
"Well, yes, and I'm sorry for that." He tried to think of something, anything, to change the subject. "What's happened to you since then?"
"I'm married, got three kids. Guess you already knew that."
"I didn't know about the 'three kids' part. Knowed you was married, though. I found that out."
She shivered and pulled her coat collar up around her ears, partially covering her bleached, dirty looking blonde hair. She did have the family look. Slit like eyes, a broad nose, high cheekbones, even the dimple. He rubbed his own thin chin absently, watching her. Was it the light, or did she have a black eye? He reached up to touch it.
"An accident," she said, pushing his hand away. "I had an accident."
"Looks like somebody beat you up. Your old man treatin' you all right?"
"He—he hit me there," she said. "He don't mean to. But sometimes he's been drinkin', and I say something he don't like. I guess it's as much my fault as his."
"Mebbe so."
He used to hit her mother, too, like she said. Sometimes she'd leave him, and then he'd cry and promise not to do it again, and she'd come back. He'd beat her up pretty bad that last time. She called the cops, and he just walked out and left her. Left with only a dollar in his pocket. He'd hitchhiked west, got as far as Kansas City before he robbed that convenience store to get something to eat. He blinked, trying to make the picture go away. The frightened clerk, her screaming sobs, the popping noise the Coke bottle made when he hit her to shut her up. It made headlines the next day, about her being nearly dead. He'd hid for three days before hitchhiking out of town.
"Three kids, you say."
"Two girls and a boy. The oldest's fourteen. She's got a mind of her own, I'll tell you. She's pregnant, too, don't know who the father is. I know'd who her father was, but he wouldn't marry me. One of them snooty people, know what I mean?"
"Yep, sure do," he said. "Enough of them in the world."
"My boy's eleven. Sharp as a tack. Wants to be an astronaut or a policeman or some such thing. Seems like it changes every day. But he'll probably wind up like his daddy and me, working at the tractor factory."
He nodded. "I worked there once. You know they've been there since before World War I? Made tanks for Uncle Sam, I think. Long time, ain't it?" He looked at his wristwatch, then up at her. "Well, I better get goin'." He shuffled his feet, as if to get up.
She stood and adjusted her wrinkled coat. "When you goin' to be back through here again?"
"You cain't never tell. I'm goin' out to California, now. Probably spend the rest of my life there."
"Well, if you come back, you can stay at our place. We'll make room."
"Mebbe I will." He looked at his watch again. "Well, I'll be seein' you."
"I can stay and wait with you," she said. "If you want me to."
He touched her arm. "I thank you, I really do. But you know, I'd like to remember how you look when you walk away. So I can see you all at once."
She looked puzzled, then nodded. "Okay, Daddy, if you want me to. Well, goodbye."
She hugged him awkwardly, brushing her lips on his cheek. Then with the same quick steps, her rubber boots crushing the fallen leaves, she was gone.
Morton leaned back and watched the spot where she'd disappeared. He wiped tears away with a dirty finger and looked toward town. The black man was coming back. He stopped by the bench and reached into his jacket pocket.
"Well, how was it, man? She like you thought she'd be?"
"Guess so. But I don't really know what I was expecting, Ron."
Ron fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a key. He knelt and inserted it into the leg iron that anchored Morton's left ankle to the bench leg and turned it until it clicked. Morton rubbed his ankle.
"You tell her you killed your old woman, an' was on your way to prison?"
Morton shook his head. "Didn't seem like a good time. She's got her own problems."
"Don't we all. Here, stick your arms behind your back."
Morton did. He cringed as the handcuffs snapped on his wrists.
"You know we broke the rules here. They find out, they'd probably fire me. Keep your mouth shut, understand?"
"Sure, no problem."
"Don't think I'm getting soft. I even hear you breathe wrong, I'll stomp you with both feet."
"Okay, Ron. I hear you, man."
"Well, let's go. The van's right around the corner."
They walked up the block and turned the corner. A guard stood there, a hand resting on his holstered pistol. Morton stared back across the park, now saw tops of grayed apartment buildings above the little houses. No, he'd never see her again. Life in prison was forever, but at least he was alive. He'd survive. He hoped Betty would survive her prison, too.
He turned, and they walked toward the van.
Beulah’s Glow-in-the-Dark Jesus
He was such a nice boy, educated and all.
And Beauregard was gone…
Homer Clopton balanced the partially eaten cookie on his left knee and held his saucered teacup out for a refill.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, watching Beulah Schuck pour. He was stretched ramrod straight on her worn overstuffed couch’s front edge. A hole in his white right sock peeked over a scuffed heel, then hid again as he tucked both feet closer to his sample case.
"It is very nice of you to offer me tea, I am sure." He paused a moment, then added, "The cookie is good, too."
"Oh, my goodness, don't think nothing of it, Mr. Clopton! Or can I call you Homer? That's such a purty name."
Beulah refilled her own cup and set the teapot on the coffee table between them. She, too, sat on the edge of her seat, a white wicker rocker inherited from her mother with the rest of the house fifteen years before. But she did so out of necessity. The last time she'd tried to force her ample body back between its arms she'd almost become stuck.
"Yes, ma'am, please do call me Homer." He sipped the hot liquid. "And what was yore name again?"
"Schuck. Beulah Schuck. It was quite a well known name around here when Father was alive, and we owned all that land. But that's been so long ago. Where did you say you was from?"
"Born and raised over near Pebble Springs," he said. "But I spent the last six months up in Bowling Green. At the Everlasting Love Seminary."
"I see." She sipped her tea and set the cup on the coffee table. She was short, about fifty years old, with salt and pepper hair, rimless bifocals, and three chins. She clasped her fat hands in front of her and looked up again at her visitor.
"You're on your own now, are you?"
"Yes ma'am." His huge Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Ever since I joined the Redeeming Faith Bible and Plastic Wares Company back in March. I’ve been traveling for them for more'n a month, now."
"Ah, I knowed you was an educated man!" she said, beaming. "I could just tell it in the way you talked. You use such—such proper English and big words an' all. And now you're a career man, too!"
"Yes ma'am. And I thank you for the compliment."
He appeared to Beulah to be about nineteen years old, barely out of high school, if indeed he had graduated. Unruly red hair bounced across his eyes each time he moved his head. A receding chin and jug handle ears helped the hair frame his shallow face and thin nose. His toothpick like body was dressed in shiny kneed work trousers and a brown plaid sports jacket.
He gulped some tea, set his cup and saucer down, and rummaged through his sample case.
"If I may, ma'am, I'd like to show you our new line. May I first compliment you on your lovely home?"
"Why, thank you, Homer. It's only two bedrooms, but it's certainly big enough for me. More than enough, I might add."
"This here is the newest bible we have." He pulled the heavy tome out and laid it on the table next to their teacups, opened to its center. "All of Jesus' words are printed in red. And look here at the illustrations. It's pro—profusely illustrated."
"Well, so it is. Isn't that the purtiest thing you ever seen!" She reached over and touched it.
"But that's not all! Lookit here, at how strong it is."
He held two pages together and used them as a handle to lift the heavy book.
"Lordy me! Ain't that somethin', now?"
"It's strong, sure enough." He jiggled the book to prove his point. "Them pages won't come out. I mean, they're in there for good."
Beulah sat back in amazement. "Ain't that something! I can just see me readin' that when the rapture comes."
"Oh, do you believe in the rapture? I don't know if I do or not. I figure that when Christ comes he'll prob'ly take everybody and not just a chosen few. If you've been saved, that is."
"Oh, no. He'll get a handful of us true believers first," Beulah said, frowning. "And—and what else do you have?"
"Well, let's see…" He rummaged through his sample case again. "Now here's a nice little item. I would think it would be perfect for your home."
She clasped her hands together again in anticipation, and he brought out a twelve inch long white plastic replica of Christ on the cross.
"It's our glow in the dark Jesus. You can use it for a night light, if you wanted to."
"Now that is truly amazing! You know, sometimes I get turned around when I get up at night? If I hung that by my bedroom door, why—why, Jesus could be leading me on the correct path to the bathroom!"
"That's right," he said, caught up in her excitement. "That's a good way a doin' it. He'd be the light of your life, day and night. But if you think that's something, wait'll you see this."
He reached back into his box of miracles and pulled out a flat cardboard package, slightly larger than a piece of typing paper and perhaps an inch thick. He removed the lid and turned the open box up for her to see.
"It's our very latest product. It's a 3 D Christ at the Last Supper. It's been—" he stopped a moment, then read from the lid. "It’s been 'vac—vaccu formed for lasting three dimensional beauty and inspiration.'"
She gasped at the sheer technology that promised to bring her closer to God.
"Let me see that." She heaved herself up out of the rocker and took the object reverently from him, waddled over to the front wall, and held it against the tattered wallpaper with both hands. The skin of her arms hung down like furled sails on a ship's mast.
"How does this look?" she asked over her shoulder.
"Why, that looks—delightful."
As he approached her so he could admire it with her, he stepped on a rubber ball and his foot flew out from under him. He caught himself on the couch’s arm.
"Are you all right? That was one of Beauregard's toys. Here, let me get that up."
She handed him the Last Supper and reached down to retrieve the ball from under the coffee table. "I thought I'd already picked up all his little things. Every day I find somethin' else to put away. You know, you'd better start believing in the rapture real fast. You don't know when an accident like that will bring you face to face with Jesus. Or when the end is a goin' to come anyhow."
"I certainly will think about it. Is—is Beauregard a child, or a—"
"He was my little dog." She sat down again. "Poor thing. I had him ever since Mama passed away. Got him just the week after."
Homer looked around the cluttered room.
"Oh, he's not here now. The poor thing died of old age just last week. He was such a dear thing to me, and—now, where was we?"
"We was looking at the lovely three dimensional Last Supper," he said, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Can I put you down for one of them?"
"Oh, heavens yes. I'm sure it will be such an inspiration. And let me have one of those— those—"
"Our glow in the dark Jesus. That has been a very nice item for us, and I'm sure you will be blessed by it for many years."
Beulah disappeared into her bedroom and moments later came out with her purse in hand. She sat on the rocker's edge and carefully counted out her money, most of it in nickels, dimes and quarters.
"And where will you be staying tonight?" she asked. "Nearby?"
"Wherever the Lord leads me. Last night I stayed in the parking lot behind the IGA in Cooper's Ledge. I had a lovely view of the woods across the creek."
She nodded and frowned in deep thought. She looked toward the second bedroom, which had not been used for those fifteen years since her mother passed away, except by Beauregard. It was still furnished with a made up bed, the dresser, and even blankets in the closet. Beauregard's small bed was still in one corner, filled with the toys she had accumulated for him over the years, and which she had gathered with loving care after his recent demise.
Homer closed his case and started to rise.
"Uh—just a minute, Mr. Clopton. I wonder if you would do me a great favor? If you wouldn't mind."
He sat back down again. "I would be very happy to do anything that you ask," he said. "Anything at all. Just name it."
"Well… I've been thinking a long time about starting a—a Bed and Breakfast thing. You know, that's where people stay at night, and you feed them and all the next day?"
"Yes ma'am?"
"I don't know if I'd really like it. I think it's something you've just got to try out once and see. Don't you agree?"
"Well, I—I guess so. I never give it much thought, one way or 'nother."
She rushed on. "Well, I wonder if you'd do me the favor of helping me to find out. Would you stay here tonight? Then in the morning I could fix you a breakfast and maybe a lunch, too. That way I'd get me some practice and see if I liked it."
He thought a moment. "Well, Ma'am, I wouldn't want to put you out none."
"Oh, you wouldn't be putting me out atall. You'd actually be doing me a big favor."
"Really? Well, in that case, I don't see why not. If it'd help you out."
She pushed herself up from her chair. "Oh, I'm so pleased. Come in and see the room. Bring your sample case if you want. There's a closet you can put it in."
He stood. "Well, I'd better get in a couple more calls before the day is over. But I surely will come back. Is that the room over there? That looks like a nice room, all right."
He stepped over and peered into it, and smiled. "It looks somethin' like the room I lived in over to home. But there was three of us sharing that one. Just think—all that room to myself!"
He said his goodbyes and went out to his dilapidated car and drove off down the dirt road, and Beulah stood watching him until the car disappeared in its trail of dust. She walked around to the back of her little cottage, past the broken well pump and a stack of decaying fence posts, and stopped at a bare earthen mound next to her small vegetable garden. She looked at it for several moments, arms crossed, and wiped away a tear.
"He won't be a replacing you, Beauregard, honey," she said. "Nobody can do that. But it do get lonely out here."
She knelt and smoothed the mound with a chubby hand. A tear landed on the dirt and seeped in. Maybe next year she would plant some gladiolus here. She always did like gladiolus. Especially the yellow kind.
She stood and walked slowly to the house. She'd go in and put Beauregard's things up in the attic and clean out the dresser drawers. Then she'd fix Homer her rhubarb surprise for dessert tonight. Surely, he would agree to stay on. Maybe for a long, long time. There wasn't much money left from her daddy's land, but there should be enough to support them for a good while. Especially if Homer could sell a 3 D Last Supper every now and then.
She reached the back door and turned to look back toward the grave. She closed her eyes in a brief prayer, then went inside, a smile on her face. She'd get him to believe in the rapture soon enough. It looked like her new glow in the dark Jesus was already starting to work.
Brotherly Love
Jack’s big brother had just gotten out of prison
and the police were already hounding him.
If someone didn’t help him, he’d go right back.
Maude Travis stepped onto the porch, hobbled to the swing, and groaned as she sat next to her son. She smoothed the lap of her print dress and began peeling the potatoes she’d brought with her in an aluminum pot.
"It's just like him to be a day late," she said, looking at Jack. She pushed gray bangs away from her face with the back of her wrist. "I've never knowed one time he wasn't late."
The swing’s coiled springs squeaked as they swung slowly. It was only mid morning, but it was already getting hot. Jack unbuttoned his shirt and exposed his smooth white chest to what little breeze there was. Small sweat beads had formed on his high cheeks and the long bridge of his nose. He hitched up slightly from his slouched position and turned toward her.
"Maybe they had to keep him over a day or something," he said. "You know, paperwork, stuff like that."
"No, three years is three years," she said. "They could'a kept him locked up 'til Monday night, I guess, and he'd have come home on Tuesday. But this here is Wednesday already."
Jack couldn't refute that logic. He looked down the potholed street the direction his brother Ray would probably come, from the gas station where the Greyhound bus stopped six blocks away. There was no sign of him. Garbage pickup wasn't until the next day, but he noticed overflowing containers in front of several houses, all sitting forward on their postage stamp lots and presenting peeled painted fronts and an occasional ceramic dwarf or reindeer or waterless birdbath to the street.
As he looked, a blue police squad car approached. It slowed as it passed the Travis house, then sped up again.
"That's the second time they've been by this morning," Jack said.
"My God. Why can't they just leave him alone? He's done his time. Remember, that's the way they did back when he was here. They just hounded him and hounded him until they got him on that gas station holdup. I still think he was innocent."
"Ma, he said he did it," Jack said.
"Yes, well, that's what he said. He probably said it just to shut them up. I wouldn't doubt it."
She turned to look at him. "Don't you start acting like him, too." She dropped a peeled potato into her pan and picked up a new one. "Ray started running around when he was younger'n you are, and look at what it got him. Speaking of which, just where was you last night?"
"I was with Bob," he said. "We were just hanging around."
"Well, watch who you do this hanging around with. You could do better than Bob Martin. You better watch it, or you'll wind up no good."
She paused with her peeling and squinted up the street through the top of her bifocals. "Is that somebody walking this way?"
Jack looked and nodded. "I think it's him. Yep, it's him all right."
"My goodness, he's here." She stood and adjusted her dress and stepped to the porch railing. "That's him, all right. I'd know that walk anywhere."
She took the wooden steps sideways, one at a time, in deference to arthritis brought on by too many years of scrubbing floors at the Federal Insurance Building downtown. Jack reached out to offer her help.
"I can walk by myself," she said. "He looks a little taller, don't he?"
"Yes, Ma." Jack took her arm anyhow, and they walked toward Ray. He looked up and saw them.
"I'm home, Ma. Hiya, Jack, how's things?" He hugged his mother and winked at his younger brother.
"Where have you been?" she asked. "My goodness. You've been out of prison for two days, and you just now come dragging in."
He kissed her on the cheek. "I'm sorry, Ma. I spent the night with Mike. We had a lot of old times to talk about."
"Well, you should'a come home and seen your momma first, Ray. Help me up the steps here, and let's sit a minute."
Her sons, one on each arm, helped her negotiate the steep steps. She sat in the swing and picked up her potatoes, and Ray sat on the railing. Jack sat on the swing, too, and watched his brother. He did seem taller, and heavier built. He was a man now at twenty-one, and had a dark, two day old beard. They sat for several seconds, watching their mother peeling with utmost concentration.
"I got me a job, Ma," Ray said. "One of the guys that got out earlier told them about me."
"Well, that's good, Ray. What kind'a job?"
"It's being a sewing machine repairman at the StarTex pants factory up in Waverly. They said I could learn on the job."
"Why, that's nice, Ray. You always did like to fix up cars and such."
"I did maintenance up at State, too. They want me to start right away. Monday, they said."
"Oh. That soon?" Jack watched his mother's face and saw her eyes glisten. She pushed the hair back again and quickly wiped her eyes. "Well, then I guess you'd better be there when they want you. When do you have to leave?"
"I ought to leave by Friday," he said. "So I can find a place to stay and all. Ma, I'm going to make somethin' out of myself up there. That jail bit is no good. I don't think I could'a stood another day there. Not one more day."
"That's good. I—I better get these on the stove." She stood quickly and turned away. The back of her wrist went back to her eyes again. "You want to get that door for me?"
"Sure."
Ray held the screen door open and followed his mother inside, talking. Jack started to get up and follow, but thought better of it. They probably had a lot to talk about. Besides, he didn't really know how to act around his brother.
Jack sat back down in the swing, and soon the rhythmic squeaks of the springs set his mind free. Isolated snatches from the past swam by. His first day of middle school when he got to go to his brother's building. His brother's arrest and trial, his mother crying in her bedroom next to his.
A sound in the street caught his attention and the police cruiser pulled up to the front of the house. The policeman on the passenger side, shorter and heavier set than the driver, rolled his window down and motioned toward Jack. He got up and walked slowly down the steps.
"Isn't Ray home yet?" the policeman asked.
"Nope. He ain't here."
"We know for a fact he came in on the bus yesterday. We checked."
"What you want him for?" Jack asked. "He’s already done his time."
"You sure he's not here? You lie to us, you're in big trouble."
"He ain't here. What do you want him for?"
"Somebody broke into Mason's hardware store last night," the policeman said. "We just want to talk to him about it, that's all."
"Well, he didn't do it. I know that."
"And just how the hell do you know that? You said you haven't even seen him yet."
“I just know it."
"Well, we'll be back. When he comes you tell him to stay here."
The policeman rolled the window back up and the car pulled away. Jack stood motionless for a second, unsure. He looked back at the house, then the police car. Suddenly he lunged at it and banged on the trunk. It screeched to a halt and the passenger side door opened.
"I know he didn't do it," Jack yelled. "I know it because I did it!"
***
The cruiser arrived at the police station in under ten minutes. The two policemen escorted Ray and Mrs. Travis up the worn concrete steps and deposited them in a waiting room, made dark with dirty windows and half drawn shades. The heavy set one guided Jack down a long hall into an interrogation room. "Wait here," he said. He left, locking the door after him. Jack looked around and wondered if the small mirror on one side was a two way window, like he’d seen many times on TV.
What did his mother think of him now? She was crying in the squad car, with jerking sobs he had not heard from her before. Ray had tried to comfort her but said nothing to Jack about what was happening.
Jack leaned forward at the scarred conference table, his feet entwined around his chair's rungs, and made slow, invisible circles on the tabletop with an index finger. He’d never really known his brother. He was, after all, only twelve years old when Ray went to the penitentiary. Before then he had caught only glimpses of him when he entered or left the house.
No, that wasn't quite true. During the past three years, while lying in bed, he’d often thought of Ray's little kindnesses to him. The times he carried him on his shoulders through the snow to school, for example, because his worn shoes let water seep in. Or in the summertime when he played catch with him, because "Dad would have done it if he was here."
He heard a key rattle in the door lock, and a different policeman came in. He was older and had a mustache that stopped just short of having handlebars. He sat at the table, rifled through a stack of papers, and looked up.
"I understand you broke into Mason's Hardware last night," he said.
"Yes sir."
The policeman wrote something on his note pad. "What did you take?"
"Well…" Jack thought a moment. "Just things, I guess. I don't remember what it all was."
"Do you remember the electric tire pump and the shotgun? And a dozen knives?"
"Yeah, I remember them now. There were some other things, too."
The policeman appeared to take more notes on his notepad. Then he took his reading glasses off and put them in his shirt pocket.
"You're full of it," he said.
"I'm sorry?" Jack said. "What do you mean?"
"You didn't rob that hardware store any more than the man in the moon. How come you're lying?"
"I did, too! I just don't have a very good memory, that's all."
"You're fuller of it than a Christmas turkey," the man said. "You didn't break in there. No way."
"Did too." Jack glared at the man, then looked down at the table. His finger started making invisible circles again.
The policeman stood. He smiled as he gathered his papers and put his pen in his pocket. "We caught a guy a few minutes ago who had all the hardware store things in his car," he said. "He’s in the next room right now, spilling his guts. Now you get on out of here."
Jack ran down the hall ahead of the policeman, into the waiting room. He ran to his mother, sitting on a hard wooden chair and hugged her with such fierceness that her glasses almost fell from her nose.
"What on earth?" she said. "What's got into you?"
The old policeman caught up and stood watching. "Damned if I know. All I know is that your boys didn't do that burglary. Neither one."
She squeezed her sons to her, then wiped her eyes. "Well can't you help an old woman up?” she said. “How am I supposed to get dinner on the table if we waste our time sittin’ here?"
Heroes on Parade
A parade wasn’t even scheduled. But there it was,
and only she and Margaret could see it.
Helen O'Brien paused in front of her small frame house, looked west across Jessamine Avenue, and smiled. Margaret was right on time. Her friend checked for traffic and crossed the street.
"Good morning," Margaret said. "Another lousy workday, huh?"
"Oh, it's a lovely day." Helen patted her graying hair into place and glanced at Margaret's plastic grocery sack. "What's that?"
"This? Oh, it's a yellow bow for Dunkel's door. Just like yours."
Helen nodded. She knew Margaret had admired the bow she'd placed on the drugstore door to honor her son Ray and the other soldiers serving in Afghanistan. Margaret squeezed her arm in a "we're in this together" gesture, and they walked to Main Street and turned left.
The neat Victorian houses on Helen's street abruptly gave way to one and two story commercial buildings facing each other across a wide brick street. Helen peered towards Olson's store, three blocks beyond, and sighed. Maybe it was a lousy day, but she did rather enjoy talking with the customers.
"How many years have we made this walk together?" Margaret seemed to have read her mind. She was heavier and shorter than Helen and wore her hair in an old fashioned knot. "Seems like centuries."
"Six years, I guess. I started right after Ray got to high school, and you started the next spring."
"That's right. It seems like… Oh, my goodness!" Margaret stopped and stared into the street. "My goodness, will you look at that!"
"What on earth's wrong?"
"I didn't know there was a parade today."
"What are you talking about? What parade?"
Helen looked up and down the street and saw normal morning traffic. A young couple came down the courthouse steps, but Margaret didn't appear to be looking at them. She seemed focused on something in the street itself.
"Look how handsome they are! All in their uniforms…" Margaret stepped toward the street and looked left. "Excuse me," she said, as if someone was there. "Excuse me, I want to get a better look, and… listen to the music!"
"Margaret!" Helen touched her friend's shoulder.
"Look at them, Helen. Don't you see—" Margaret stepped to the curb and looked both ways, twice. She frowned. "Where—where did they go?"
"Margaret! Do you feel well? Do you want me to walk you back home?"
"I don't understand. No, I'll be okay, Helen. For a minute, I was sure that…"
Helen gently led her friend back to the sidewalk. They walked in silence, past the Shell service station and then the cleaners. "Maybe you've been watching CNN too much. Or maybe it's something you ate."
"I don't know what it was, Helen. Lord, I’m too young for Alzheimer’s. My mother had that, you know."
"I'm sure you're fine, Margaret. Just fine. We'd best keep moving now. I've got to open this morning."
They reached the Olson Drugstore corner and parted company. As Helen got the cash box from the stock room, she thought back to what happened. They'd been best friends all their lives, had long ago found many unique ties. Yes, it had been a long time, and she treasured every minute of it. And in all that time, Margaret had never acted so… so peculiar.
The next morning they met at the same corner. When Margaret talked fast about little things and avoided eye contact, Helen realized she was embarrassed. They turned the corner at Main Street and walked past the Cutey Pie Bakery and the insurance agency. When they reached where Margaret had seen the parade, Margaret stopped.
"Oh, God." She touched her chin and looked into the street. Her eyes teared.
"Margaret? Are you okay?" Helen put a comforting hand on her plump arm. Margaret pushed her glasses up, wiped her eyes, and looked back into the street.
"They're here again! Look! Can't you see them?"
"Margaret, please…"
"My Lord, there's people in blue uniforms, and green, and—and up there, there's gray, and… wait, I recognize that soldier!"
Margaret walked, dazed, toward the traffic, sidestepping unseen obstacles.
"Margaret, stop!"
"That's my father! Don't you see him? It's Daddy! And look at those others!"
Helen grabbed her friend and pulled her back to the sidewalk. "Why don't we just stand right here?" she said. "We'll watch the parade from here until it's over."
Margaret's expression changed from ecstasy to sadness. Her shoulders slumped as she turned to Helen. "Honest, I saw them. They're gone now, but they were there as plain as day, Helen. You saw them, didn't you? Didn't you?"
"Well, maybe I did get a glimpse," Helen said. "But you'd better go home and rest now. I'll tell Mr. Dunkel you won't be in. Come on, now."
Helen walked Margaret home and called her daughter, who promised to go over and stay with her for the day. Twice Helen slipped back into the little office behind the drugstore shelves and called to see how Margaret was. That night she prayed, something she hadn't done for a long time.
The following morning Helen stood on Jessamine Avenue looking west toward her friend's house. Margaret approached carrying a digital camera. She crossed the street and stared defiantly at Helen.
"There was too a parade. Here, I want to show you something."
Margaret rummaged through her oversize purse and pulled out a small picture, the kind that used to sell three for a quarter in bus and train station booths. She thrust it into Helen's face.
"That's my Daddy. He took this picture at Pensacola in 1942, the day he shipped out. Helen. He looked exactly like that in the parade!"
She pulled an old Morganville High annual from the purse, found the page she wanted, and turned the book toward Helen.
"That's Daddy in high school. See those two boys next to him? They died in the war, too. In Germany. And they were marching with Daddy yesterday as pretty as you please!"
"Now Margaret, are—are you sure?"
"Do you know what this means, Helen? It means I really saw a parade. A parade out of the past!"
"Margaret, you'd better go back home." Helen put her arms around her friend as they turned left on Main Street. "Do you have a fever or anything?"
"No way. I saw what I saw, and today I'm going to take a picture of that parade for proof." She stiffened and turned toward the street.
"They're here again! I don't see Daddy yet… Oh, I’ll bet he's with those soldiers up there, the ones with the olive colored uniforms. See those in front of us? They have two toned brown uniforms like you see on CNN."
"Margaret, come with me!" Helen pulled on her friend's arm. "Let's go home and rest."
"Look. Look! Oh, I can't believe my eyes! Oh, Helen, take a picture. Hurry!”
"Now, Margaret!" Helen released her and held the camera up. "Margaret, this…"
"Hurry, take it!"
Margaret ran into the street just as Helen snapped the picture. The driver had no warning at all. His truck hit her before his foot could even touch the brake. A circle of people gathered around her lifeless form, and soon a siren sounded from up the street.
A police cruiser stopped in front of Helen's house an hour later, and one of the two policemen walked her up to the porch. She let herself in and laid her purse, the camera, and the high school annual on the hall table. She didn't know why, but she'd clutched them throughout the ambulance ride to the hospital and the ride just now to her home. They seemed even more important now that Margaret was dead.
Helen's heart ached, and she rubbed her dry, red eyes. She was cried out but still felt the deep pain of her friend's death.
She went into the bedroom to lie down, and remembered the picture she'd snapped. Oh, God! Did it show the accident? Or did she take it just before it happened? She couldn't remember. She tried to convince herself to throw the camera into the trash without looking at it, but instead she held it up. She pressed the “monitor” button and peered at the little screen.
There was Margaret, looking back at her as she dashed into the street. Her right arm was up, waving.
But there was more. There was a parade there! The camera had frozen row upon row of soldiers in colorful uniforms, all in lockstep, as they marched smartly up the street! She looked again, squinting. The three closest soldiers were smiling at her. She leaned against the wall, slid down it to sit upon the bare oak floor.
When the doorbell rang an hour later, Helen knew who was there. She eased herself up from the hall floor and walked, robot like, to answer it. The embarrassed looking army lieutenant informed her, as she knew he would, that her son had been killed in action in Afghanistan. She thanked him and quietly closed the door.
She would frame the picture with Ray in it. Anyone else seeing it would think it was only a picture of Margaret. They wouldn't be able to see anything else.
But she could see her son in it, anytime she wanted. Marching proudly, happy to serve his country, happy in fact, to give his life for what he believed in.
The parade wasn't simply one from the past as Margaret had thought. Helen knew now it was made up of local war heroes, killed in action. Margaret's father, his two friends, her own son Ray—there could be no other explanation. The soldiers in gray were Morganville men who had died in the Civil War.
Helen looked at the picture closely now, and recognized the two smiling soldiers next to Ray. She sighed. That young lieutenant will visit Phyllis Bonner and Janet Stevens this morning, too.
She took the picture into her bedroom and leaned it against her bedside lamp, then laid back on her bed and willed her mind to emptiness.
Home in Time
Carl Nichols might be in his nineties,
but maybe he could still save his parents.
Carl Nichols eased his tired legs out the taxi's back door.
"Take it easy, old timer." The driver grabbed his arm and helped him out. He removed his green Bettr Way Feeds cap and scratched his head. "Sure this is it? Just an abandoned house here and a lot of country."
The stooped old man eyed the two story gray house.
"Used to live here. Born here, in fact. Ninety-two years ago."
The old place mostly looked the same. A dented oil tank showed the wood burning furnace had been converted, though, and a rusted 1950s Chevrolet pickup chassis lay in the side yard. Weeds covered everything, even the once worn paths to the outbuildings.
Nichols pointed back behind the house. "If you could—could just help me to that there fence? I'd be grateful."
"Sure thing."
The old man put a gnarled hand on the other man's shoulder, and they slowly flattened a curved path through the goose grass and foxtails. Nichols took halting steps with feet more used to shuffling on a nursing home's tiled floor.
"You sure this is where you want to be? Standing here by this old fence?"
Nichols looked across it, over a fresh plowed field. "Well, I figured I could climb it. Where I really want to be is—over there. By that big oak tree. Out in the middle there."
Bushy white eyebrows tented under his bald forehead. He looked up at John—John something, the taxi license had said—something foreign looking.
"If you could just help me through this bob-wire fence and—and maybe across that plowed land. Don't know if I could make it on my own."
The taxi driver put a booted foot on the bottom wire and jerked hard on the next one, popping staples out of the rotting posts. He spread the wires apart and Nichols stooped and half walked, half crawled through. John followed, noting the distance and the rough ridged furrows. He smiled.
"Carryin's easier'n leadin'," he said. He picked the old man up like a stack of firewood. "You're not very heavy, you know. Not at all."
***
Carl Nichols stood alone under the oak tree on a small island of unplowed land. John Something would return later to drive him back to the Greyhound bus station in time to get back to Lonesome Pines before the staff missed him.
He knelt by the tree and pulled moss and dead, matted grass off a fallen tombstone with his leathery, wrinkled right hand. He stroked it lovingly, feeling the now faint letters and numbers. He slid his reading glasses from his sweater pocket and made out the words: Jesse and Bertha Nichols… April 23, 1914. He removed rocks from the weed covered mound, and for several minutes just sat there silently and motionlessly. He touched the tombstone again.
"Hi, Daddy. I'm sorry I stayed out all day hunting when that—that terrible thing happened to you and Momma. When I come back, you were already dead. I'm sorry I took so long to come home."
A whisper of wind rattled dead leaves along the distant fence line and set the weeds before him to nodding.
"Momma, I'm sorry I took so long. I always wished I’d come home in time because things would have been different. I just know it. Can you forgive me?"
The wind gusted, and leaves around the gravesite rustled. He felt its coldness through his thin clothing.
"Bout time you got back, Carl.”
It was his mother’s voice.
“Your father's just sittin' down to the table. Where were you?"
"In the woods. I got two squirrels."
"Don't bring that gun in here! Well, wash your hands and come in and eat. But comb your hair ‘cause we got company."
Fifteen year old Carl Nichols took his 22 rifle into the mud room. He ran into the kitchen and worked the pump handle several times, splashed gushing water onto his long, tanned face. He rubbed his hands together under the dwindling water stream and dried them on the feed cloth dishrag. He took his accustomed place at the dining table, with his father at the right end, his mother at the left. The stranger sat across from him.
His father, a thin man with dark hair and a bent nose, frowned at him and continued talking to the stranger. Mrs. Nichols heaped Carl's plate with mashed potatoes, fried salt pork, and beans canned the season before.
"We do have a nice farm here," Jesse Nichols said. "Ninety-two acres, part of it good bottomland."
"Looked awful good to me," the stranger said. "I seen your plow horses outside. Looked like a good team."
Jesse Nichols nodded. He chewed on a piece of pork and glanced at Carl.
"This here's Peter." He pointed at the man with his fork. "He come looking for work. Just passing through, you say?"
"That's right."
Suspenders stretched over a bulging, tattered plaid shirt, to hold his wrinkled pants. His dirty gray union suit peeped out the holes and at the neck and cuffs, and where the shirt buttons stretched too tight. Yellowed, broken teeth showed through a rough black beard as they tore off a piece of bread.
Jesse Nichols took another bite. "Well, sorry you made the trip for nothing. We got everything well in hand."
The stranger stopped chewing. "But I thought I already had the job."
"Well, sorry you thought that. But the plowing's done, an' me and Carl here can handle the plantin' fine."
"Now that ain't right," the man said, louder. He pushed away from the table, his dirty fingers gripping its edge. "You make me sit here while you brag about your goddamned farm, then tell me I ain't even hired? I ain't some lackey you can treat like dirt!"
Bertha Nichols' hand went to her throat. "Goodness, we were just sharing the Lord's bounty with you. As the Lord said, 'What you do unto others, you do unto me,' and—"
"Don't give me no goddamned Sunday school talk!" The stranger jumped up, almost spilling his milk. "I need a job and some money. If you ain't goin' to give me the job, you're sure as hell goin' to come up with the money."
He stomped over to Jesse Nichols and smashed his right fist into his face. The old man's chair slammed back and his head crunched against the wall before he hit the floor. His body lay still in the overturned chair, its bloody head bent at a grotesque angle.
Bertha screamed and jumped up. The stranger touched the dead man's body with his toe. "It's your own damned fault." He turned to Bertha. "And you stop that screaming!"
"You've—you've killed him! Oh, my Lord—"
Carl jumped up and stared down at his dead father, and vomit erupted to choke him. The stranger stormed around the table to his mother.
"Stop that goddamned caterwauling!" He backhanded her with his right fist, and she slammed into the wall and slid down it. She screamed and covered her eyes.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" the stranger yelled. Each time he said it, he kicked her face. Carl heard crunches, saw blood and tissue explode onto the floor and wall. He vomited again as he crawfished back toward the door. The stranger, face flushed dark red, spun around. "You stay there!"
Carl ran into the kitchen, and the mashed potatoes bowl crashed against the wall by his head. He ran into the mud room, grabbed his rifle leaning against the jam, and sprang out the door toward the freshly plowed field. The earth shook as the man got closer.
Carl tripped in the plowed furrows and fell onto the cold earth. He rolled sideways as the stranger lunged at him and fell face first into the soil beside him. The man grunted, looked dazed.
Carl jumped up and ran across the mushy fresh earth toward the trees where he'd earlier shot the squirrels. He worked a 22 long bullet from his shirt pocket and fumbled to open the rifle's breach. The panting behind him grew closer and louder. Carl tripped again in the furrow where the plowed field stopped. He rolled onto the unplowed ground and forced the bullet into the tight chamber. The stranger picked up a large rock in both hands and arced it down toward Carl's face with all the force of his heavy body. The rifle made a small spitting noise.
The farm was silent.
*****
Taxi driver John Zablonski stared down at the old man. Beside him were a police detective and two coroner assistants dressed in antiseptic white.
"Just like I found him," John said. "Laying here with his head busted to bits, holdin' onto that gun for dear life."
The swarthy detective looked down, a digital camera dangling from his neck. He scratched his stubble beard.
"Gorier n' hell," he said. "That there rock was the murder weapon. Look at all the hair and blood on it. Gorier n' hell."
He stood back and took several pictures.
"I don't understand about that gun, though," John said. "Looks brand spankin' new to me. But it's an old model, you can tell."
The detective worked his mouth. "Sure he didn't have it with him? How could he have gotten it, unless he brought it with him?"
"Damned if I know. But I carried him part way. I'd know if he had a rifle."
"Yeah, well—let's get him out of here. It's gettin' dark."
The detective gently pried the old man's fingers from the gun and smelled the barrel's end. "Been fired," he said, to no one in particular. He searched the area for a few more minutes and asked John more questions. The coroner's assistants rolled Nichols onto a chrome and canvas litter and carried him across the uneven field. John Zablonski and the detective followed.
John stopped and looked back, zipping up his jacket against the rising wind. "Go figure," he said, finally. He turned and followed the others.
The wind rustled the leaves, and some blew back over the gravestone. Moss formed again on the stone, and grass sprouted and grew around and over it, and died. By the time the taxi and ambulance disappeared over the hill toward town the stone was completely covered. Then the last leaf fell in place, the wind died down, and all was quiet.
Carl Nichols had made it home in time. .
The Chipmunk Sign
Farmer Ben O’Malley finally visited the ritzy sister
who’d abandoned him and their father years ago.
But he sure wasn’t expecting this.
Ben O'Malley shifted into second gear, and the 1992 Ford truck whined down to a crawl. He leaned out the window and searched for numbers on the houses that set back on manicured lawns. A large Chrysler honked and squealed around him and up the street.
Damn. Why couldn't they have mailboxes with names on them like back home? He pulled a wrinkled Christmas card envelope from his bib overalls and reread its return address. The Arthur Tremonts, Eleven Forty Two Morning Glory Lane, Birmingham. A cutesy street name in a ritzy neighborhood, and for all he knew his sister didn't even live here anymore. She'd sent exactly three Christmas cards since storming off the farm fifteen years ago, each from a different city. No notes, just a one size fits all card with "Carole" scrawled inside.
Eleven thirty eight, eleven forty—Ben turned into the next drive and stopped behind three late model cars. "Eleven forty two" was written out on the puke blue split level house, stuck under live oaks among shrubs almost trimmed to death. He slammed the truck door shut and wiped his shoes on the grass and walked slowly along a narrow concrete walk toward the house. He passed a small "Caution: Chipmunk Crossing" sign, went up two steps to the front door, and pressed the doorbell. Nothing. He banged the flying eagle door knocker, and the door opened.
"Hello?"
A teenage girl stood there, smiling. There was no question. This was Jennifer, the niece he'd never seen. She had the O'Malley nose, the same blue eyes and red hair his dad had in the old pictures.
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