Blood, Dreams, and Olive Drab (Pride & Promise) Page 9

  "Okay, Mama," Sarah obeyed. She patted her sisters gently on their behinds until they stood up. They skirted around her, holding tightly to her legs as if they were ropes.

  "Angela!" their father shouted. His voice was harsh and garbled from the alcohol. "Get your butt in here. I’m not done talking at you!"

  Sarah looked back and saw the strength fade from her mother’s eyes as the door slammed shut. She hustled the girls out the front door and onto the flimsy porch. They walked down off the steps and into the dry yellow grass and far enough out into the meadow that they couldn’t hear the screams anymore. Then Sarah made them walk just a few steps more.

  "Sarah," Bernice, her youngest sister, started, "why do Mama and Papa fight so much?" Bernice’s dainty face warped with confusion. She let her hands loosen from around Sarah’s leg and she walked on her own. Clarene continued to strangle Sarah’s thigh.

  "I don’t know," Sarah answered. She had all the wisdom of a teenager.

  "When I get older and get married, I’ll never fight," Bernice promised. She nodded her head, pursing her lips together proudly.

  "Me, either!" Sarah could only smile at her little sister’s zeal. "What about you, Clarene? Will you fight when you get married?"

  "I just won’t get married," Clarene said earnestly. She gazed up at Sarah’s face with a doe-eyed naiveté.

  "Okay," Sarah chuckled. Clarene let her arms fall off Sarah’s legs and the three walked hand-in-hand down the pasture. The cows were lowing on the far hillside as hideous clouds rumbled towards the farm. Coolness was heavy in the air and the sweet smell of fresh spring rain was lurking in the distant sky. The girls found a large boulder that was jutting out from the side of the hill and sat down for a spell. Clarene sat close to Sarah while Bernice, being of her own perfect mind and defiant maturity, sat a few feet away.

  "I like when it rains," Bernice remarked. She stared off into the churning clouds that were like ink across the blue of the sky. "I really like when it storms." Bernice smiled delightfully at the thought of the impending cloudburst.

  "I don’t!" said Clarene as she cuddled closer to Sarah. "I like sunshine. It feels good and warm on my face." She turned her head into Sarah’s side.

  "It’s okay. The storm won’t hurt you," Sarah comforted. Sitting her upon her lap, she struggled to pull Clarene’s hands from her sweater. She mirthfully bounced her knee until a sad hiding smile curled up Clarene’s cheeks.

  The rolling spinning clouds glided overhead until their great shadows stole across the flat land. A crack of thunder roamed over the hills, clawing and dipping into the valleys and surging over the land like a stampede. Bernice smiled with glowing vibrant eyes. A drop landed cool across Clarene’s cheek, then dotted Bernice’s bare thighs, and soon the shower was beating its way across the prairie. They jumped up and ran across the field for the cover of the forest. They slipped under a few short branches and darted under the umbrella of limbs. The rain sounded like pelting water against windowpanes as the clouds opened up fully.

  Watching the rain drifting across the horizon like a giant barge, Bernice stood at the mouth of the forest. Raindrops plopped off her forehead and pasted her bangs to her brow. She never stopped smiling. Sarah watched her and admired her. She was the brave one, fearless when it came to anything. When things got tough or she got hurt, she gritted her teeth, sticking out her tongue to the side of her mouth, chewing on it like Wrigley’s.

  Even when her father scolded her with his most liquored voice, she sassed right back to him. The only person she respected was their mother. She knew their mother meant well, even when she was wrong. Bernice was smart, probably too smart for her own good. At least that’s what Daddy always thought.

  He thought women should just be subservient and dumb, well-kept but not too pretty since they might look too much like harlots. Daddy always said there was a fine line between madam and ma’am and he made damn sure their mother didn’t cross it.

  But little Bernice was as clever as they come. She could read a lot better than Daddy and he knew it. And it made him awful mad. She would correct him when he read and he would get the most dangerous look in his eyes. Bernice would just shake her head in pure disgust for his attempt to bully her. She surely would not be bullied by anyone, especially not her father.

  "It’s getting dark. We better head home," Sarah suggested. "The rain’s almost stopped."

  Bernice stuck her head out and gawked up at the sky. A drop landed in her eye and she giggled. "Well, almost," she mumbled. She wiped her palm across her face and dried her eye.

  "Are you sure?" Clarene whimpered.

  "Come on," Bernice coaxed. She started tromping across the soaked golden grass. The moist blades folded down flat under her feet as they turned from flaxen to a dull brown. They walked with reproach towards the bright yellow light which seeped from their little house that sat like a lonely speck on the horizon.

  .....

  The blazing sun beat down hard on his pink scalp, turning it a few shades of red and even purple. His eyes were bright and vibrant as sweat poured down his forehead, which crinkled as he raised his brow. He had a kindly warm face when he wasn’t drinking, but if you caught him after four o’clock on a weekday and two o’clock on a weekend, he could be found with a bottle of some sort in his hand. He was a proud and sturdy Irishman with gnarled hands and he was fond of simple pleasures. He burst with a hardy boisterous laugh and grinned at his children. But his pleasant demeanor wilted away like a dying flower when he drank and life became a drudge for all.

  "Sarah," Paul said abruptly, "why don’t you come with me. I’m going to go saw that tree that fell the other night in the storm. I could use a little help from those tiny hands," he grinned convincingly.

  "Okay, Pa," Sarah begrudged. It was hot out and she was getting to the age when dresses replaced overalls. She frowned on the grunginess of a farmhand.

  "Let’s go!" Paul strode down off the stoop of the house and Sarah followed him into the overgrown thicket. As they walked along the solitude of the grassland, grasshoppers jumped about as if they were on fire and a few toads hopped across their path, trying desperately to make it to the stream. Father and daughter came upon a clearing where the tree had fallen, crushing a few smaller trees and flattening the dry grass into a matted blond carpet. Paul had already rolled the fallen tree on top of a few smaller stumps and driven a couple wooden wedges into the top of the stumps to hold the large tree in place to allow sawing. A long flimsy metal blade lay in the short grass and the sunlight playing across it made it glimmer like a wide smiling mouth.

  "Sarah, grab the other end of the saw and steady it until I get started," Paul said as he bent down and grabbed one handle of the saw, waiting for Sarah to scurry over and grab the other. He smirked with a slight bit of impatience for his daughter’s suddenly delicate ways. In his fatherly eyes she had turned too suddenly from tomboy to debutante. One day she had on a flannel shirt with a long piece of grass hanging from her lips, and now she was always wearing dresses and her lips were covered with lipstick. Women, he thought with reproach, are terrible workers when they’re all gussied-up. What a shame. Sarah gingerly picked up the end of the saw, not wanting to get her hands dirty. At first the saw bowed and sagged as they moved it over the top of the log. Then they slid it back and forth a few times until the teeth started to dig into the bark to create a groove for the blade.

  "That’s good. I can take it from here. We don’t want you getting too dirty," Paul teased. He sneered at her with a playful contempt. Sheepishly, her cheeks blushed as she stepped back. Paul gripped his two hands on the long handle of the saw and started pushing it back and forth, moving faster and harder with each stroke. The sawdust drifted to the ground and gathered in a pile like a pyramid of sand while the chips of wood flew like sparks from a welder. Soon his face was covered with a fine film of wood dust and his bushy red eyebrows were cloaked. Since the sun had no mercy for his milky Irish skin, freckles popped out on his forearm
s like little brown dots emerging on paper. The meaty muscles of his back stretched and flexed with each pull and thrust of the saw. Slowly, the blade carved its way down the massive barrel of the log, hissing and slicing with each daunting moment. He neared the bottom. Finally, the log fell to the ground with a hollow thud.

  "Whoa," Paul grunted as he stood tall. Balling up his fist, he ground it into the small of his back, stretching out the tired muscles. "I’m an old man," he stated.

  Sarah watched her father push back his shoulder blades, flaring out his lean muscular chest like a proud bird as it flaps its wings.

  "I used to be able to work from dawn till dusk cutting wood, putting up fencing, and then plowing the fields, but now . . . ," he paused as he grinned with images of his youth dancing in his shifting memory, ". . . now I’m lucky to get half the things done I need to."

  "Maybe you just have more to do?" Sarah suggested. She sat down on the ground, careful to fold her dress around her and away from damp grass. The coolness of the grass in the shade felt good on her skin.

  "How’s that, lass?" Paul asked. He had to concentrate on his English or his tongue would revert back to a thick Gaelic dialect, and then his words would roll like the very peat of the Irish hillsides.

  "Well, Papa," Sarah thought for a second, "when you were young, all you had to do was your chores-- chopping, plowing . . . you know, farm work. But now you have all of us to take care of, too. That’s why you don’t have the time to do all the things in a day. It’s not because you’re getting older and slower, you just have more to do. And there are only so many hours in a day, Papa." A gentle smile grew across his eldest daughter’s face. Her lively blue eyes sparkled as she talked.

  "You’re a smart one, you are," Paul smiled broadly. He watched Sarah turn her head in a slight bit of embarrassment and fluff her hand-me-down dress around her. She was a lovely picture. Glistening like a mountain stream in the sunlight as it filtered through the foliage, her long auburn hair flowed over her shoulders. His little girl had grown up in the wink of an eye. He wished he could buy her a new dress, but they just didn’t have the money. As he thought about it, he felt an anger burning in his chest.

  "Let’s go back up to the house. Maybe your mother will have some lunch for us," Paul sighed. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and ran it over his head. He took the corners, folding them into knots, and made a makeshift hat. He sat it on his head, trying to block out the sunlight from his bald head. Sarah giggled.

  "What? You don’t like my new hat?" Paul said jovially. He cocked his head slightly to the side and the handkerchief shifted on his head, moving over his brow, covering one of his eyes.

  "Stop it, Papa," Sarah chuckled, "you’re just the strangest thing."

  "Come on," he tried to put his arm around Sarah’s shoulder.

  "Papa, don’t get me all sweaty," she warned as she ducked out from under his arm.

  "Oh, you’re not so prissy you won’t let your papa hug you, are you? Come here." He gently roped his arm around her as if she was an antique. They walked back through the woods towards the house and could just barely see the white facade through the jigsaw of tree limbs.

  Half a pitcher of lemonade sat on a little table on the porch. A few lemon rinds swirled about the sweet liquid with the pulp clinging to the rim. A few crusts of bread alongside it on a plate were the only remnants of a quickly-devoured meal. The sun hovered directly overhead spying with its great orange eye over the O’Grady stead.

  "That was a fine lunch, Angela," Paul said graciously, rubbing his hands over his stomach. He smacked his lips together, sucking any morsels out of the corners of his teeth. The heat of the day was still rising.

  Beatrice frolicked in the sunlight, running in circles until she fell down. She gasped for breath and when her wind returned, she would start running all over, again. Clarene sat serenely in the shade of the trees while Angela lounged contently with her hands folded over her belly. The sunlight splashed across her cheeks. She closed her eyes and felt the oozing warmth of the sun on her face.

  Paul reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a dark brown glass bottle that was curved and looked like it might have held medicine at some point. He put the cork of the small bottle between his teeth and bit down. A hollow popping sound reverberated from the small opening as the cork squeaked out.

  "Ahhhh," Paul sighed with pleasure. He ran the bottle under his nose and breathed in deeply then poured the clear looking booze into his lemonade and stirred the concoction with his index finger. He placed his finger in his mouth and sucked off the tart juices. He stretched his legs out from under the shade of the porch and into the timorous sunlight. He crossed his feet and raised the glass to his lips like a man stumbling upon an oasis, gulping down his drink. His Adam’s apple bobbed as his eyes grew large and bright.

  "Ooooo whoooo," Paul cooed as his chest heaved. "Man alive, that’s good," he noted. His eyes were still lively, dancing in his head.

  "Paul," Angela sounded shaky, "isn’t it too early to drink. You’ve still got--"

  "Don’t tell me my business, woman!" Paul hollered. His soft content eyes were now charged with anger.

  "Well . . . ," Angel said, and presently thought different.

  "I said DON’T," Paul raged. He leaned forward, slamming and shattering the glass down on the arm of the chair. Shards of glass flew across the warped gray boards of the porch. A few ice cubes slid across the boards and lay melting in the sunlight.

  "Papa," Sarah mumbled.

  "What do you want?" he shouted. He turned and shot a nasty eye at her.

  "You’re bleeding," Sarah observed. She sat nervously on the stoop, hunching over and leaning away from him like a sagging tree branch.

  "Damn glass! Why do you buy these cheap glasses?" Paul roared. He whipped another glass in Angela’s general direction. The glass bounced off a curved board and sliced across her calf, leaving a gash in her skin. A trickle of blood immediately seeped from the cut.

  "Mama!" Sarah cried.

  "Shut-up!" Paul yelled into his daughter’s face. Sarah flinched, cowering into a little ball. "You’re fine," Paul said plainly to Angela, "just go wash it off."

  "Pa," Bernice’s little voice scolded. She stood at the foot of the porch and scowled at him.

  "You shut up, too, Bernice!" Paul bellowed at her. He took out his bottle and helped himself to another long hateful swallow. He stood up and staggered momentarily. All at once, Bernice jumped onto the porch and ran at him, flailing her stout arms.

  "Leave Mama alone," she demanded. Her little fists were pounding on his stomach and thighs like little fleshy pistons.

  "Bernice!" Paul grunted as he took another drink. His eyes were quickly glassing over. "Get off me!" He grabbed her arm and tossed her to the side as if she were a misbehaving dog. She rolled towards her mother like tumbleweed, coming to rest next to her mother’s legs. Angela took her hand off her gash and grabbed Bernice, holding her back in case she tried to run at him again.

  Paul gathered himself up and strutted off the porch. Sarah curled away from him but he mockingly brushed his foot against her as he walked by. She turned her face away. She couldn’t bear to look at him when he was in this loathsome state. The second his foot hit the dirt of the yard, Sarah snuck over to Angela’s side, helping to hold Bernice back.

  Paul walked through the front yard, sipping from his bottle as he walked. His legs were uncertain and he tilted a bit to the right like a crooked painting. Clarene was now hiding behind a tree, poking her head out to see what was happening.

  Paul stumbled by the tree she was fixed behind and then he turned and screamed belligerently in her direction. He laughed maliciously as she ran around the side of the tree and scurried to the porch. He trudged through the high grasses, disappearing like a drunken lout into the woods and fields. His maniacal laugh reverberated off the trees and echoed through the forest. Then there was calm.

  Sarah was now aware of her racing heart. Watching
as if a train would come barreling through the trees to bear down on them, her eyes bored a hole into the spot where her father had entered the woods. Quickly she looked back at her mother. Angela was brushing her fingers through Clarene’s hair and shushing her as she sobbed. Her other hand was still around Bernice’s arm. She had stopped struggling and was sitting still with a lamenting frown and a tear or two rolling down her face. Her eyes were as dark and abhorrent as Sarah had ever seen.

  Sarah snapped out of her haze and jumped up to run into the house. She came back out with a pail of water and a few clean rags. She sat down at her mother’s feet and dipped the cloths into the water until they were soggy, then she delicately ran them over her mother’s skin. Angela jumped at first when the coolness startled her already-frayed nerves. Then she smiled down at Sarah with a loving merciful kindness. Her strong eyes were sad and low and Sarah could feel the sorrow in her mother’s face. Angela was almost apologizing for her husband, their father, but deep in her face was the evidence she still loved the bastard.

  "Do you all want to walk into town?" Angela suggested with a remorseful flare to her voice. She tried to sound excited.

  "Are you sure, Mama?" Sarah asked.

  "Sure." Angela smiled convincingly for the smaller children, but Sarah heard the pessimism in her tone.

  "Okay." Clarene seemed to come to life. Her eyes dried quickly. Sliding down from Angela’s lap, she walked out into the yard and turned quickly with a ready face.

  "Mama," Sarah said with a motherly tone.

  "Let’s go, Sarah. It will do us some good to get out of here for a bit," Angela offered. She stood up, grimacing and hobbling as she took her first step on the leg with the gash. Sarah reached for her arm while Angela steadied herself on the porch and grinned reassuringly.

  "I’ll help, Mama," Bernice offered. She walked to Angela’s side, wrapping her impish arms around Angela’s thigh.

  "Thank you," Angela said with a clogged throat. She ran her hand over Bernice’s head, mussing her hair slightly.