Blood, Dreams, and Olive Drab (Pride & Promise) Page 14

  "What?" he said with curious hesitation.

  She glanced over at her brother and looked deeply into his face. The stubble of his beard disappeared and the wrinkles that etched the corner of his eyes vanished. Suddenly all she could see was the boy that stumbled around the house as her little brother. He was once again just a scared and foolish child. She found her little brother in his troubled and wounded eyes, the shells of his innocence.

  "Paul is in jail!" She instantly felt a sense of urgency filling her soul and she pressed forward, "Sheriff said he can’t be released to me, but I need someone to vouch for him, to almost be his guardian. Sheriff does not trust me because I lied to him, too, until this evening. He wants someone to come forward and almost be like . . . like a custodian."

  "You want me to what?" His face scrunching together with disbelief, Johnny squinted as he looked at Angela.

  "Johnny," Angela’s voice turned to a desperate whisper, "you may not believe this, but we need Paul. I can’t take care of three girls and make a living and still be able to function. I can’t. I need him to help. You may not think so but he does help--and you know he loves those kids. You know he does."

  "Loves them enough to cripple them," Johnny uttered under his surly breath.

  They sat motionless in a harsh silence for minutes and they could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock on the far wall of the room. Each clicking of the pendulum began to echo through the silence.

  "Please, Johnny," Angela begged, "don’t do it for him. Do it for me and the kids! Please!" She reached out and let her trembling fingers grasp Johnny’s sleeve.

  "What do you need me to do?" Johnny sighed with both worry and doubt in his troubled breath.

  .....

  With heavy worrisome steps, Johnny walked into the quietude of the jailhouse. He stopped in the midst of the darkness as his large frame created a dense shadow over the entrance. The Sheriff cleared his throat but did not look up from his desk. The small lamp cast a scant light over the papers, books, and items that sat scattered about him and the Sheriff knew who had entered his jailhouse.

  "Come, sit down," Sheriff said with a dry tone to his voice.

  Johnny moved slowly across the floor until he came to the lone chair stationed before the Sheriff’s desk. He gently lowered himself into the chair, trying to gather his wits, and Sheriff could feel the awkwardness in the modest man.

  "I . . . ," Johnny started as his voice had a bit of yip to it and his mind swirled about with his thoughts.

  "I know why you’re here, Johnny." The Sheriff raised his head and took his glasses off his face and placed the arm of his glasses in the corner of his mouth. Deep hard thoughts wrinkled his brow as a frown faded over his face. He sat back in his chair and his face nearly left the light so Johnny could only see the outline of his face in the misty black of the room. Just outside the windows the birds of the morning were beginning to chirp and rustle about. It had been a long restless night for all.

  "I . . . ," Johnny sighed and the tight coil of his shoulders, hands, and body began to unravel as he was stupefied about what to say to the sheriff, "I could sit here and lie to you, Sheriff, and tell you Paul O’Grady is a good man--the type of man you want your sister to be married to and that you would want as your own kin, but I’m not about to waste our time. And we’ve both had enough for tonight." Johnny rolled his thick hands over each other till they resembled two pale rocks tumbling over one another, and as Johnny’s candor slipped from his lips, the Sheriff narrowed his staring at him. His face had a tiny grin which was hidden by the frame of his glasses and the darkness of the jailhouse.

  "Go ahead," the Sheriff encouraged.

  "Sheriff," Johnny could feel something symbiotic between himself and the Sheriff, "I’m not asking you to release this man for me, and I’m not asking you to release the man that injured his neighbor and cast his little girl into a wheelchair, but I’m asking you to release the father of three girls and the husband of a good kind woman. That woman just happens to be my sister and she came to me and begged that I sit in front of you and ask these things. I’m just a man, a simple man."

  Johnny could not look up at the Sheriff but had to keep his head down and his eyes focused on the floor about his feet. "I cut meat for a living and try to do right by people and save as many pennies that come across my counter. I don’t know much about the world. I’ve never climbed a mountain or seen the ocean and I’ve only been in the company of a woman a few times. But I do know one thing! My sister is just about as good a person as you will find on God’s green earth. For her to beg me for anything, well, I guess it must mean enough to her that a prideful woman would put aside her honor and beg. I don’t have anything in this world I would beg for, not one."

  As Johnny’s sentiments poured forth from his bowed head, Sheriff leaned forward in his chair and looked upon the broad shoulders of this man as Johnny made himself as small and plain as an honest man could. "But she believes she has many, if not three or four things. So being just an average Joe, well, I’ve had no choice but to come here and help her as much as I could."

  For an instant the birds chirping in the breeze, Johnny’s chaffed hands curling about one another, and the blare of a deafening silence were the only sounds as the sun clipped the horizon and its benevolent rays came slipping across the dusty floorboards of the jailhouse.

  The Sheriff moaned and the closest things to a diminutive chuckle nearly slipped from his lips. He leaned further into the light of his desk lamp as the misty purple shadows of dawn began to fill the room like a gas. He had a large face and wide sweeping jaw but only part of his countenance was visible in the meager glow of the lamp.

  "You are willing to stand up for, or be held accountable for, Paul O’Grady’s actions? Is that what I am hearing, Johnny?" the Sheriff said with a strong sense of amazement to his voice. The grumble had left his tone to be replaced by the high tone of surprise.

  Johnny paused for a second and then glanced sideways, feeling as if they were not alone. He could feel the prying eyes of a child, but it was the tormented eyes of Paul O’Grady as his face was pressed up against the bars of his cell.

  "Yes, Sheriff," Johnny said.

  "All right," Sheriff announced and shook his head as he began to stand up. Johnny looked up with a hint of disbelief on his tired face.

  The golden fingers of the morning sun were splitting the room, pushing the darkness back into the corners as Sheriff ambled back to the hallway. The clicking of the keys, the sliding of the lock, and hard cracking of the cell door filled the jailhouse. Paul O’Grady came shuffling out from the hallway. Paul’s face was dark and his head hung low like a dying sunflower.

  Johnny got up and just nodded his head at the Sheriff and the Sheriff returned with a similar and emotionless look upon his angular jaw. Johnny took Paul by the elbow and directed him towards the door and walked with him out of the jailhouse. Angela stood in the cool shade of a cluster of trees just beyond the street. Johnny stood with his fingers tightening around Paul’s elbow.

  "Paul," Johnny sneered, trying to keep his face void of emotion as Angela stared at them from across the street. Her face was warped with a collage of tempered joy and vexation.

  "I know, Johnny," Paul muttered with a similar bland mask that was fixed upon Johnny’s face. "I’m done drinkin', I’m gonna change," he pledged. Johnny held onto Paul’s arm for another few seconds and then he released him.

  Paul stepped down off the boardwalk and started slowly across the divide towards his wife. He tried to embrace Angela, but their hug was uncomfortable. Angela barely wrapped her arms about her husband. They turned to look at Johnny and both gave strange waves. Their faces were stained with their own pensiveness as the town began to come to life in the light of morning. Horses snorted, cars jumped and hissed, and people moseyed about the stores and businesses as Paul and Angela began to walk unsteadily off into the rising sun with their arms around each other.

  After a short distan
ce, their arms fell to their sides and they walked near one another as if they were almost strangers.

  8

  Paul ambled through the feed store, shuffling his feet as he picked bags of grain off the shelf and carefully placed them on the faded blue metal cart. He kept his head down and his eyes on the floor. There was a strange menacing silence in the store at that moment. There was no chatter in the aisles, no jocularity at the counter, not even a whisper. Paul could feel all eyes staring coldly at him, penetrating his skin like the ominous chilling night when Bernice had crashed to the ground. Dozens of men stared at him. Their large bovine faces were fixed with narrow eyes and their lips were thin lines across their jaws. The deep wrinkles in their tanned weathered cheeks flowed across their hateful faces like ripples of disgust.

  Sarah walked a few steps behind her father like a wounded animal, tucking her head down until her chin rested against her collarbone. She could feel her anger pelting her father like a hard stinging driving rain, pushing, stabbing, and ramming into him. It was her father, but also it was Paul, the man who slammed her sister into the ground, forcing her into a life sentence of awkward stares in public, lonely nights, and agonizingly frustrating days.

  He had taken her life away! Paul grunted as he loaded a few more heavy bags, sending a light cloud of dust from the cart. He circled around the cart and pushed it forward towards the counter. A few men stood in his way with their hulking shoulders pushed back and their faces as expressionless as the dark night. They stood side by side and barricaded the row. Paul struggled to turn the cart slightly, pushing it around them. He never even glanced at their faces.

  "Just like to pay for these bags of feed, Gus," Paul said meekly. His voice cracked as he tried to speak.

  "Yah," Gus grunted. The cash register started to cluck as he ran his stubby fingers over the numbers. "Ve’d like to zee less of ya around here, Mr. O’Grady," Gus said blandly. His thick Swedish accent twisted into his throaty English dialect.

  "But, Gus," Paul whined.

  "You heard me!" Gus barked. His loud voice cleared out his accent and all that was left was a strong tone. He lowered his glare as his big round cheeks doubled into his neck rolls.

  "Look," Paul started. He stood up taller and could feel the room closing in on him as the other customers started to gather around in an angry mob. Sarah stepped closer to Paul. "I need the feed for the farm," Paul whispered urgently through his clenched jaw.

  "Vell," Gus began chewing the side of his mouth, smacking his tongue, "you chould of tought of tat before." He glanced down at Sarah and acknowledged her.

  "Okay. Okay," Paul dug into his back pocket and pulled out his billfold. The crowd encircled a bit closer as if he was pulling out a gun. His hands shook as he pulled a few bills out of his lean billfold. "Thank you," Paul managed to say.

  Mr. Carlson looked at him with no empathy in his raging eyes. Paul pushed the cart out the large open bay doors. The sunlight stretched across the floors, falling on the feet of the swarming mob of men. They closed in on them like flowing water. Sarah stayed close to her father. The men molded around Paul as if he was the lone rock in the center of dry creek bed. They stood behind him, walked along the side of him, and barely parted the way in front of him as he tried to walk to his wagon.

  Paul brought the rolling cart to a stop near the bed of his wagon. The old plow mules jerked their heads violently as a few flies buzzed around their twitching ears. He could feel the heat of the staring crowd and he was now aware of his palpitating heart. Sweat poured down his back, darkening his denim shirt.

  "Paul," a deep heavy voice announced. He felt a hefty hand clap onto his shoulder. He could feel the meaty fingers squeezing his skin.

  "Johnny," he squeaked with a friendly voice, momentarily forgetting the dreadful circumstance. "John," he said, correcting himself blandly, his voice weak and weary, "what are you doin' here?"

  "I was just wandering by and saw the crowd gathering. We need to talk," Uncle Johnny said. He squinted his eyes slightly, closing them as if he was staring into a noonday sun.

  "Okay," Paul gulped. He could feel the pit of his stomach rising in his throat as if he was going to vomit.

  "I heard what happen out at the farm," Johnny said. He bent down and plucked one of the feedbags off the cart and slung it onto his shoulder as if it was a scarf.

  "Yes," Paul said with great humility, his jaw dropping open a bit. He ran his fingers over the stubble of his shaggy beard. Sarah stepped back and leaned against the cart. Often she didn’t know what to think of her father. There was the man with the kind heart and soft hands. Then there was the evil dictator who shoveled hatred, slamming his iron fist into the preverbal soft cheeks of his own family.

  "Do you think you have it in you to be a good man?" Johnny said tersely. He flopped the bag onto the back of the wagon.

  "Well, of course, I do . . . ," Paul yelped and then thought better of his words. "I mean, at least I think I do," Paul mumbled. He lugged a bag off the cart and struggled to carry it to his wagon. He sat it on his knee, kicking his leg up to get the heavy sack onto the bed.

  "I know you, Paul. I mean I really know you, not just as my brother-in-law, but as a man. I know how you feel. I know how you think. I know all about you." Johnny tossed a couple more bags into the bed, his back muscles flexing and bulging from inside his long white butcher’s coat. Paul walked a little slower, stopping to watch Johnny work.

  "I don’t know if Angela ever told you this, or if you even knew, but our Daddy was a drinking man. Johnny stopped for a second, wiping the sleeve of his coat across his reddening forehead. "Daddy enjoyed himself a beer now and then, and it just seemed like it was always now." Johnny managed a bewildering chuckle, shaking his head in a disgusted irony. "Well, when I was a young man, not much older than Bernice is now, I used to fall asleep to that man just whaling away on my mother. I could hear the sound of an open palm against tender skin. The next day Mama would have welts on her face and bruises under her eyes. That woman always looked as if she was going to cry even when she was laughing."

  Johnny stopped and placed his hands on his hips, breathing deeply as he looked at the ground. "Crying laughing eyes she had. I know that sounds funny, but she had ‘em." Johnny looked up and cocked his head to the side, squinting one eye as a bead of sweat trickled into his eye. "You know what I mean?" He peered intensely into Paul’s fractured eyes. Paul just nodded.

  "Each night I went to sleep, I thought to myself as I lay in bed whimpering, When I get old enough, I’ll beat the tar out of him, like he does to Mama. I bided my time and each day, each week, every year, I got bigger and bigger. I could feel my chest pounding each time I heard Mama cry as he slapped her. Do you know what I did? Do ya?" Johnny said vehemently, his eyes blazing. Paul numbly let his head shake.

  "I was walking home from school one day and as I passed the old barn, I could hear screams coming from inside our house. I couldn’t have been any older than Sarah’s age . . . high school." He motioned to Sarah. She was frozen, still next to the wagon. She had never seen her uncle rave like this. "I threw down my books and ran to the front porch. The closer I got, the louder the beating became in my ears until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I dashed into the house . . . and there was my father standing over my mother. He had stripped off his belt and lopped it around his hand to make a whip out of it. There were deep raw grooves across her back. Pieces of flesh clung to the buckle of the belt like meat from a lion’s teeth."

  "When he saw me, he shouted at me to, ‘Get out!’ At first I turned towards the door. I looked outside and could hear my mother faintly gasping for breath. I turned just in time to see my father raise his hand into the air and his shadow stretch over her. She had her hands over her face trying to block his onslaught. Just as he tried to pry my mother’s hands from her cheeks--so he could hit her directly in the face--something went off inside me." Johnny stepped closer to Paul with heavy, threatening steps. "I don’t know what it was, but I co
uldn’t control it. I just kept hitting him and hitting him. Then my fist got sore so I started kicking him. It felt good to hear him cry like a baby. He begged me to stop. I could hear his ribs cracking like kindling. I booted him out of the door, off the porch, and into the street. We never saw him again, never!"

  Johnny was nose to nose with Paul. Paul could feel his brother-in-law’s large frame dwarfing him in the stale air of the quietude. He looked from one to the other of Johnny’s lifeless eyes, almost a cavernous blank stare. Then Johnny stepped past Paul, slamming his shoulder into Paul’s quaking chest.

  "Sarah," Johnny said, "I’ll be out soon to see Bernice." He took his hand and held Sarah’s delicate jaw, "Real soon." He looked back at Paul threateningly. Uncle Johnny stomped off, each stride slapping loudly on the street and echoing in Paul’s flustered mind.

  "Let’s go, Sarah," Paul muttered. His back was to Sarah, but she could see him shaking. His grip slid down the handrail as he tried to climb into the wagon because his hands were so drenched with sweat. He picked up the reins, snapping them lightly. The team of mules obeyed and lumbered away from the feed mill. Sarah had her head down as they passed the crowd of men which stood on the dock of the mill. Not one of the men had any expression on his face. Paul looked straight ahead, hoping he could make it home.

  A few birds made black dots against the blue marbleized sky, calmly swooping and gliding on the sultry winds. The beating rays of the sun were harshly warm on Paul’s troubled face.

  .....

  Angela and Sarah walked from the bright glow of the hot summer’s day through the front door of the Happy Days Saloon and into the musty darkness of the room that was as black as a closet in the night. A dim white light shown down on a shadowy figure that sat alone on the low stage. Their eyes adjusted to the darkness and they could make out the tables, chairs, and walls of the dingy establishment. They weaved slowly around the tables and made their way to the stage.