Short Story by Dan
Beams
1924
The first week of July saw temperatures
soar to a hundred sizzling degrees and stubbornly remain there
for six consecutive days. Mamma suggested my father's strange
behavior could be attributed to the stifling heat. As a young
boy who loved his mother intensely, I believed her. Rationalizing
things seemed to bring about serenity for her, and even as a
young pup I knew how valuable peace of mind could be. Pop used
to get upset at her attempts to put a label and cause to all
things. 'Can't some things just be, Mona?' he would scold my
bewildered mother. She loved all things and all people, especially
pop. She told us the whiskey had distorted his voice and that
he didn't actually mean the hurtful comments. Pop's pure intentions
were not obvious to me. His often harsh words seem to shred momma's
peaceable world and I hated he done that.
August came with no noticeable changes
in the weather pattern. Pop spent most days in a faded rocking
chair on the porch. Momma said he stayed in the chair mostly
to avoid having to confront the harsh reality the heat and lack
of rain induced. Even from the isolation of the rocking chair
the sad reminders haunted him. In the fields surrounding our
home the shriveled corn plants bowed their heads. One after one
they surrendered their souls to the gods of heat and oppression.
It seemed pop was more in tune with hearing their screams and
identifying with their pain. Each of the plant's death cries
seemed to send him further away from us. Pop didn't have a mind
to speak to us kids much anymore and momma said it would be best
if we left him alone with his thoughts. So we did.
My younger brother, Jake, and I would sneak
off to the fishin' hole most afternoons. Momma didn't mind at
all, in fact most days she suggested we go. I attempted to explain
to Jake that the fish didn't cotton to the heat either and their
only means of protest lie in ignoring the juicy worms dangling
from our hooks. It seemed to me this terrible heat had thrown
all things out of kilter, nature and beast. I couldn't make the
fish bite any more than I could make pop talk to us.
Fifteen minutes of swatting at mosquitoes
and mopping our brows usually led to a refreshing dip in the
pond. Jake, the more modest and timid of us, would hide in the
bushes until I covered my eyes. This ritual repeated itself each
time we swam. Reluctantly I put my hands to my face, reminding
him constantly I had nothing to gain by seeing his little whacker.
Sometimes I secretly peeked between my fingers, with both hands
overlapping his business parts he would scamper quickly to the
safety of the dingy water. Only two years separated us, but it
seemed like much more. I could never image having been that naïve
and sheltered at ten or any other age.
The memories of my younger brother at that
time and in that state are priceless. Today I still bear a measure
of guilt for having contributed to the untimely demise of his
innocence and it all began with our conversation by the pond.
"So Jake, what is it you want to be
when you grow up?"
Posing such an innocuous question as a
future occupation seemed safe. The circumstances of our home
life were deteriorating, but I hoped once the heat and this farming
season were history our lives would be back to normal.
"Hank, you know my answer, it's the
same every time; a fireman in the big city, of course."
Typically he went on about a four-alarm
fire and climbing the ladder twenty stories high to rescue a
mother and her baby, but not this day.
"Hank, did you see momma's black eye
this morning?"
I only nodded my head, hoping if I remained
silent he would continue his fireman story.
"She told me she run into the door,
do you think that's really what happened?"
I kept silent for several seconds, hesitant
to reveal the explanation she had given me, but he pressed me
again, over and over until I blurted out my confession.
"Jake, she told me she bumped her
head on the stove as she reached in the oven."
He looked me oddly and tilted his head
from side to side like a curious dog, waiting for me to explain
things I could not.
"Hank, which one of us is she lyin'
to?"
"I suspect all three of us, both us
boys and mostly to herself."
We gathered up our clothes and put them
on with urgency. This time Jake didn't insist on standing back-to-back
while we dressed. His young impressionable face and most notably
his pale blue eyes filled with worry and concern. While I hadn't
directly told him what I supposed had happened to momma's eye,
somehow he knew. I regretted that he did.
The sun sat low on the horizon as we approached
the farm. The large clouds hovering overhead seemed to indicate
an unlikely chance of rain. Although they were fluffy and white,
the fringes were discolored and dark, like the circle around
our momma's eye. Even though several hundred yards separated
us from the house I could see the empty rocker moving in the
breeze. Perhaps pop had seen the rain clouds and he and momma
were sharing a glass of wine in celebration. Now we could put
all this craziness behind us.
Pop met us at the door and the tone of
his voice as he spoke indicated he had actually missed us while
we were gone. His slicked back hair and clean-shaven face indicated
progress. The occasion called for a change of clothes as well,
and he looked handsome in a clean set of bibs. It did my heart
good to see pop had returned to himself and I knew it would please
momma.
I prefer to remember our family just like
that. Pop standing on the porch, welcoming us home with a smile
we had sorely missed, and my brother and I returning from a fishing
expedition. The only one missing from that indelible image engrained
in my mind on August 26th, 1924 was momma.
Aunt Kate's youngest child had contracted
diphtheria and momma left for California to help out. Pop did
his best to sound convincing, but perhaps a full measure of momma's
inquisitive and curious nature had settled too deeply in her
firstborn to be easily rooted out. Momma leaving to assist her
younger sister did not come as a surprise; however it seemed
quite out of character for her to have left in such a hurry as
not to say goodbye. With all my heart I wanted to believe his
words and maybe if I had been a better son I could have. Had
my trust in him been complete and without question, I would not
have been in the barn that night and a great many regrettable
things could have been avoided.
Momma's body hid there tucked beneath the
straw. The vivid detail of her bruised and swollen face still
lingers with me at night. Although painful, I stayed by her side
knowing how desperately she desired my company. The conversation
with her lasted more than an hour as there were many things to
discuss. Multiple attempts to put a smile on her face were unsuccessful.
My selfish yearning, no matter the degree of sincerity, proved
no match for rigor mortis. The horrible gash on the left side
of her face began several inches into her hairline continuing
across her high cheekbone until it met with the corner of her
mouth. Judging from the pool beside her the flow of warm blood
had exhausted its source some time ago. Considering the circumstances
the only proper thing seemed to be holding her in my arms as
I hummed her favorite song.
Our peaceful time together came to an abrupt
and eerie end as the rage of a thousand demons burst open the
barn doors. His sentences were fragmented and difficult to comprehend,
but his intentions could not be mistaken. Pop stumbled toward
me swinging a corn knife high above his head. The horrible shock
of such a sight sent me scrambling to the darkest corner of a
stall.
Incomplete and incoherent thoughts raced
through my mind in a circular fashion as he closed the distance
towards my dark corner of refuge. An overwhelming sense of helplessness
came over me, perhaps much like momma had experienced. This feeling
of vulnerability gave my weak and shaking knees the strength
needed to stand. Perfectly timing the slashes of the machete,
with teeth clinched, I lunged forward into him. Instinctively
I continued to push forward for what seemed like an eternity,
until abruptly the tines of the pitchfork sank deep into the
wall of the barn.
Often I sit with Jake in the courtyard
contemplating those few horrible hours. One might think my wretched
soul should be haunted with taking my own father's life, and
perhaps it should, but it is poor Jake's image that plagues me
far more frequently. I'd have preferred this story crumble only
three lives, but unfortunately due to my error in judgment it
claimed a fourth. If only I had been slightly stronger, capable
of disposing pop's body on my own, but both Jake and I struggled
to load him into the car and drag him far enough into the hills
not to be easily discovered. Even then the rising sun found us
shoveling feverishly to cover the remains.
Had I known the profound consequences this
action would have upon my younger brother I would have found
another means. Most days the consequences of getting caught and
spending my life in prison seem preferable. Instead, the guilty
remain free and the innocent are only allowed to be visited once
a week at Pine Oaks Asylum.
top
Dan Beams is a 40-year-old
self-described simple man. He lives in a small town in central
Illinois, with his wife, Beth, and two children, Allie 15, and
Jacob 12. By a strange twist of fate, the loss of his job last
year, led to his love of writing. Although this new passion is
less than a year old Dan has established a great connection to
the intrinsic power of the written word. Writing has again impressed
upon him the fact that the key to a successful life is to possess,
in great abundance, those things not easily measured.
You can read more of Dan's
poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/
Send Dan a message either directly or using
the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Dan visit the
Word Catalyst archives or his online
home.
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