by Glen Krisch
The last traces of night slipped away; the somber silence and leaden air became a riot of chirping birds. Teetering Road picked up a quarter mile outside town, heading in a north-south direction. The Fowler's farmhouse was a mile south, and a couple farms farther down was the Banyon's one-room shack.
He blinked away the fatigue, trying to stay alert. He didn't want to bring up how they weren't exactly safe walking alone. Whoever killed George--probably some drunk nigger wandering in from Lewiston--was probably still around, could actually be hiding behind any of the countless tree trunks lining the road. His mom wasn't up for being careful, wasn't up for anything more than getting home and collapsing in bed. He'd be a fool not to be watchful.
Teetering Road curved east, and as it straightened again, he could see the double wheel ruts of their driveway. When they walked past the gray Ford Pickup, his mom chuckled weakly. He knew just what she was thinking. All that walking and they had a truck sitting at home, unused. The day before, they began their frantic search on foot since Jimmy had been on foot. They'd followed his trail through their pasture behind the house, but the bent grass had ended at the narrow creek just east of their property. They couldn't find his trail on either side of the creek. He could've gone just about anywhere from there. In retrospect, maybe they should've gone over to the Banyon place right away, but Jimmy was always going out at all hours, oftentimes by himself, chasing some new adventure.
"We're home." Jacob opened the front door. He walked his mom back to her bedroom at the far side of the house. Standing near the door, he made sure she safely made it to her bed.
"Thanks, Jacob. You're a good boy. You're going to be a good man. I can tell by your eyes. Just like your father's. I just need some sleep. I'll wake you with breakfast before we head out again."
"Sure, Mom. We'll find him straight away."
She gave him a brief smile that turned into a yawn. He closed the door, and didn't hear another sound from her room.
10.
After Jacob closed her bedroom door, Jane sat on the edge of her bed. Her limbs humming with fatigue, she gave in and let herself cry silently. She didn't know what she would do. It seemed like they'd searched for Jimmy all over the county, yet he was still missing. But the worst part was finding George Banyon dead. Such a sweet boy. The boys had been best friends for so long. In some ways, Jane had wanted George to rub off some on Jimmy, calm him down a little. Get him to focus his attentions. Maybe she should have alerted the townsfolk right away about Jimmy's disappearance. At the time, it had crossed her mind, but seeking help would've reinforced the town's belief that she couldn't raise her boys on her own. Most people thought she needed a man in her life to keep her safe, to provide for her family. They had always looked at her differently than other mothers. If she weren't so goddamned foolish. And stubborn. She could only hope that whatever had gotten to George… that her Jimmy…
She felt so helpless.
She fell to her side, tears spilling across her cheek. She saw her wedding photo on the nightstand. She missed Dwight terribly. Ever since he passed, the feeling of missing him would come unbidden and unexpected. It wasn't the emotion itself that would surprise her, but the sudden strength of the emotion. She could be setting the dinner table, her mind on some mundane task, but then the empty chair would be a cruel reminder. For some reason the first snowfall brought on the worst possible heartache. The pure whiteness, gently falling, touching the autumn brown grass, melting against its diminished warmth.
Dwight returned from the war emaciated and sick, irreparably damaged from exposure to mustard gas. His mind had been left even weaker than his frail body. His blue eyes had once glimmered like jewels, but during his time crawling through those God awful trenches, ducking mortal volleys and machine gun fire, they had steeled to the somber blue of a cold winter's day. Jacob was born ten months after his return, and then Dwight was gone not long after, just that quickly. Too soon. She was too young to have two children and no husband. It would always be too soon.
11.
Jacob wanted to sleep, craved it like a starving man fantasizing a banquet spread, but his mind raced. He considered his empty bedroom, but to feel closer to his brother, he went to Jimmy's room instead. He picked up his baseball glove and slipped it on. Jimmy didn't like baseball anymore--his passion for it left him years ago, replaced by his interest in girls--but he still took time to play catch with him. He would do anything to play catch with Jimmy again. One more time, just so he could let the big oaf tease him, pretend his palm hurt from him throwing too hard, and when they finished, having him ruffle his hair as they walked back to the house.
He took off the glove, tossed it on the bed. There wasn't much to the room. Dirty, holey socks littered the floor. The heavy coat he wore on chilly mornings in the fields hung on a bedpost. Jimmy's only indulgence was a short pile of new comics, flashy Tarzans, grim Dick Tracys, all neatly stacked on the dresser. It felt like Jimmy would never return home to wear his work coat, or finish reading those silly comic books.
Jimmy could be dead right now, his body thrown away like a sack of trash. Just like George Banyon.
Tears formed in his eyes. His mom had no one to keep her strong, no one to look out for her with Jimmy missing and possibly dead. He'd always been her rock, always there for her whenever the world was too rough and unkind to a young widow. Jacob didn't know if he could do the same. He wasn't as strong as Jimmy. He fell on the bed and buried his face in the pillow.
His mind drifted and sleep swept in. He slept dreamlessly until he woke with an aching back from the unfamiliar mattress, his eyes crusted with dried tears.
He rubbed his eyes awake as he stood. Judging the sun, he hadn't slept more than a couple hours. He felt guilty for his tears. He couldn't act this way, couldn't let his mom see him crying like a little kid.
Besides, Jimmy might not be dead. There was no sense in crying, not when he could walk through the front door at any moment.
Jacob picked up the first comic from the stack on the dresser. It was a Tarzan. Of course. Jimmy's favorite. His brother would often do stunts to show how he was as acrobatic and strong as his hero. Jumping from the top beam of the corncrib as the neighbor kids watched, landing in the scratchy-tassled corn. Climbing to the highest peak of the tallest tree in the woods near where old Greta lived. Not panicking as the branch he clung to bent to his weight, swinging to lower branches until he landed on the ground. Bowing to his awed audience. Brazenly presenting his audacity to the world.
While there were other comics, westerns and superheroes aplenty, Tarzan dominated. Reaching the bottom of the stack, he came across a thin composition notebook. Jimmy had never been studious--beyond his comics, all he ever read was the occasional sports column in the newspaper. Once school was out, he never held onto anything to remind him of the drudgery he had to endure for the better part of the year. Finding the notebook in his pile of prized possessions only heightened Jacob's curiosity.
He flipped it open and started to read, uncovering a side to his brother he didn't know existed. It was a dated journal. He skimmed the initial entry dated almost a year ago--a rambling jaunt stating his dreams of someday marrying Louise Bradshaw--and then flipped to the last entry, dated two nights ago. After finishing the entry, he shot up from the bed, rushing out to wake his mom. He thought he knew his brother, but after reading from his journal, Jimmy seemed like a complete stranger.
12.
Jacob sat in the chair at the foot of his mom's bed, listening to her read aloud from Jimmy's journal:
I'm not sure what I should do. I know what I want to do. Just leave home, leave Coal Hollow and just keep walking. But Louise needs me. If we're going to have a baby, she needs me to be here for her. But what can I do to support a family? I can't think any way out of this mess besides joining the army. They don't pay much, but at least I can hope for a steady income. I guess I'll look into that right away. It's not like I can put it off, not with Louise--
A
knock at the front door cut off her reading. They shared a questioning look, and then Jacob hastened to the door. Of course Jimmy wouldn't knock, but maybe someone brought news.
"Jacob?" his mom stopped him before he reached the door. "Let's keep this journal to ourselves for the time being. I don't want to jump to any conclusions until I can speak with Louise."
"Okay."
When Jacob opened the door, Dr. Thomson stood on the landing, looking like he hadn't slept.
"Morning, Jacob."
"Oh, hi Dr. Thompson. Ellie."
The girl looked worn through. She stood meekly to one side, brown bags under her eyes, acting every bit the doctor's wilted shadow. From what he saw of her lowered eyes, she'd been crying quite a bit. He supposed it was better than her glazed-over expression or hysterical cries from last night.
"Your mother awake?"
"I'm here, Dr. Thompson. Come on in." As Ellie entered, his mom put a hand on her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. "Can I get you some coffee?" she asked the doctor.
"That sounds not only good, but necessary."
They sat at the kitchen table as his mom prepared the coffee on the stove. She lit the burner and placed the pot on to boil. She took mugs from a cabinet, waiting for the water to heat up. "Have you eaten? Can I get you anything?"
"No, I served up brunch before we came over. It wasn't gourmet cuisine, but we won't starve. Ellie had pancakes and eggs. Isn't that right, Ellie?"
The girl nodded, but didn't speak.
In a hushed tone that still seemed to fill the room, his mom asked, "No word on Charles?"
"Afraid not."
Jacob felt uneasy sitting next to Ellie when he still had hope for his own brother. George had always been kind, including him in games when most older kids wouldn't give him the time of day. Jacob couldn't help imagining him packed in straw inside the Calder's icehouse, waiting to be dumped into a fresh grave. He tried avoiding Ellie's gaze, but didn't need to worry. She didn't look up from her clasped hands resting on the table.
As his mom brought out coffee, including a cup for Jacob which she normally didn't abide, Dr. Thompson explained how he'd stopped at the empty Banyon house, how nothing appeared upturned or out of place. Just empty, seeming abandoned. He asked Jacob to bring in Ellie's bag from the trunk of his car. While at the Banyon's, he'd gathered a couple night's worth of clothes and her rag doll. When Jacob returned with Ellie's bag, the adults were talking about resuming the search for Jimmy.
"I appreciate your help, Dr. Thompson, but before we go wandering all over the county again, I think we should consider going about this in a different way."
"What are you thinking, Janie?"
"First off, I'd like to go talk to Jimmy's friends. He was popular--just about everybody knew him in one way or another. First on that list, I'd like to talk to Louise Bradshaw."
"That's right," the doctor said, surprised. "They've been courting, haven't they? Would you like a lift?"
"No, that's kind of you. We were heading out when you pulled up. I'd like to talk to Louise in private. I think she might speak openly if it's on a woman to woman basis."
"Is Ellie all right staying with you?"
"Ellie can stay as long as she wants."
13.
Thinking back to yesterday, Betty Harris realized how easily and instantly a child could change. Change not just in mood, but in a single moment become a different child down to their core.
Junior had come skipping up from the rear of the farm from parts unknown, covered in fresh scrapes and mud, a writhing garter snake slithering free from his pocket. In that snapshot moment, he looked every bit a Mark Twain character. As he came to an exaggerated halt near the garden, his teeth gleamed a white streak across his mud-speckled face. Judging his carefree temperament, it must have been quite an adventure-filled day.
Betty hefted one side of a produce-laden basket while their mother lifted the other. They brought it waist high before shifting it to the wagon bed. The sun was creeping behind the trees, a lurking pumpkin ready for slumber. The wagon would be ready for their mom to take to Calder's come morning.
Before Junior's arrival, they had worked out the details of their story. Or rather, Betty listened as her mother explained how things had to play out. After letting her in on secrets only certain adults of Coal Hollow shared, they had begun preparing for Junior's return home.
Wrangling the snake back into his pocket, even as young as he was, Junior sensed something was amiss.
Betty helped their mom cover the three produce baskets with a canvas tarp against the elements. Once the chore was finished, there was no avoiding Junior.
Before he could ask what'd got their goat, their mom had blurted, "Your dad's gone. He died in his sleep. He's gone."
In that instant, like a babe opening his eyes for the first time, Junior changed. The happy, youthful energy slid from his limbs. His eyes tensed as he searched for meaning in their mom's words. With doubtful eyes, he turned to Betty, but she looked to the ground, to Junior's bare feet. The garter snake flopped free, slithering to safety without Junior noticing.
Their dad had been sick with blacklung for so long, everyone in the family assumed it would eventually take him. Junior had never known his father to be well, to be youthful, without infirmity.
"We buried him just after sunup," Betty lied, speaking her mom's words, still unable to meet Junior's gaze.
"Daddy's gone?"
"You'll go by Gerald now, son. You're the man of the house."
Junior didn't cry, at least not in front of Betty. He walked away, dismayed, as if he'd just heard that tomorrow it'd rain buckets and he'd have to spend the day inside. He took a few steps down the trail leading to Aunt Paulette's house, but backtracked quickly when he realized his dad was buried at the end of the path. Still not saying a word, he went to the barn, to the comfort of his gray foal, Iggy. He slid the door closed behind him. The horse whinnied in greeting, and then the barn was quiet. Junior didn't come out until Betty was in bed, and then, he merely slinked into his own bed. A boy changed instantly, never to return to who he was.
Her mom had been right. Junior hadn't questioned the illogic of the swift burial. He was still too young.
Noontime was sunny and their mom had yet to return from her trip to town. She'd come home with a paltry credit slip instead of real money. Her dad always prided himself on making something of that small garden plot. Betty didn't care about the credit and didn't understand his glowing pride whenever someone lauded his green thumb. Instead, she dreamed of going to those fancy shops in Peoria and picking out a new dress and bringing it to the check out girl without even looking for a price tag. But no. All of that toil and sweat in the garden would get them store credit for ice or flour or some other trivial purchase.
Betty leaned her temple against the window frame and watched Junior sitting Indian-style next to the empty grave. It was too far away for her to see the headstone, for which she was grateful. Seeing Junior's messy blond hair shifting in the breeze, his slumped shoulders and downward gaze, she felt terribly guilty for lying to him.
He'd gone out there after breakfast, still having not said much of anything. Since then, she'd kept an eye on him, worried. His only movement was to snag a fresh blade of grass to chew on before returning his hands to his lap. He was broken. Like a shattered piece of pottery. Seeing him like that made her feel fragile herself, as if she too could shatter under the weight of an uncertain world.
Junior startled Betty by standing. His blond head popped up quick as a frog jumping from a lily pad, but his expression didn't match his energy. She still hadn't seen him shed a tear, but his eyes were bloodshot. When he reached the rear of the house, he stormed up the three steps to the door, came in and swept past Betty.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"No." He didn't slow down. He marched right back to their bedroom.
"I can make us some sandwiches. Tomatoes and cheese."
"I s
aid no."
His curtness made her flash with anger. She wanted to spill the secret, let him know their dad was still alive. But she didn't. He slammed the door. In a way, she was grateful for Junior's sadness. Otherwise, she might've spilled the beans. She couldn't do such a thing to her brother.
Distraction was a powerful thing. She thought about the tomato and cheese sandwich she tried to ply Junior with, and decided to make one for herself.
Gotta keep busy. Gotta get on with things. Because nothing bad really happened.
Her daddy was nearby and alive, and by now his illness would be healed as if by magic. He would never again cough up blood, his face flushed with purple blotches from the effort. Yes, he was alive, and even if he'd never walk her down the aisle at her wedding, or bounce a grandchild on his knee, he was alive.
She sliced the tomato and bread and cheese, slapping together her sandwich. She bit into it, the tomato gushing and cold against her teeth.
If he was unharmed--better than unharmed, actually healed of his sickness--why did she feel so empty?
Her appetite disappeared. She set aside the sandwich and walked down the hall. The cellar door was off to the right, but she avoided it, ignored its very existence, instead, she pressed her ear to her bedroom door. Junior's mewling cry sounded like a smothered kitten. She imagined his head under his pillow, both seething with pain and fighting to control his emotions. She was glad he was crying. Crying meant he'd get over it and move on. All for the better. She still felt guilty.
The screen door screeched open, then slammed shut. Betty jumped away from the bedroom, embarrassed for having listened to Junior when all he wanted was to mourn in private.
