The unmistakable sound of groaning springs being stretched to their limit and the smack of wood kissing wood came from the kitchen. Memories from his childhood revolved around the sound of that very kitchen door. Good or bad, that door was an integral part of the Woodson house. Accompanied by glorious arrivals, furious departures and everything in between; that door had seen it all. He strained to listen but heard only soft rustling coming from the kitchen.
“Hungry, fella?” Brenden snapped him out of his brief bout of nostalgia.
Startled, he took a step back and almost tripped over the coffee table. He looked up to see his brother leaning in the doorway, twirling a spatula like a drumstick. He smiled and waved him into the kitchen. Kori did not have to be asked twice.
Not a word was spoken until Kori downed his third grilled cheese and second bowl of tomato soup. Their father sat in silence with a copy of the Press Citizen spread out before him. He slowly spooned cherry nut ice cream straight from the carton into his mouth. Brenden rinsed his plate in the sink and lifted the remaining soup from the stove top. He waved it over the newspaper and asked their father if he wanted it. Joe Woodson only grunted and shook his head, his eyes never leaving the sports section. Brenden shrugged and poured the leftovers down the drain.
Kori leaned back in his chair and muffled a burp with the back of his hand. He watched his father intently. The old man looked different somehow. He was of course older than the last time he had seen him, but it was more than that. He looked healthier, despite the fact that he was literally eating an entire half gallon of ice cream and washing it down with a diet Mountain Dew. Seeing him in such a way conflicted with Kori's past recollections. This was not the same man who he rarely remembered being sober.
“Kid sure was hungry. I guess they don't make grilled cheese much in Cyclone country, huh?” Brenden pulled up a chair and sat down. He nudged the old man playfully with his elbow as he worked the cap from his bottle of Dew.
Joe flipped the paper to the back page and neatly folded it down the middle. He mumbled a barely audible “Mhmm” and took a long drink from the bottle. Kori nearly choked when he noticed the small yellow pill that was stuck to the bottom. It clung there, trapped between the nubs of green plastic and half dissolved by condensation. He shot a nervous glance to his brother, who had apparently noticed as well. They watched as the remainder of the errant pill rode down the sweat on the plastic bottle and hung up between the crevices. The rest of it was little more than an opaque yellow blob on the table.
Brenden just shrugged. “Easy come, easy go. At least it's on the bottle and not in it. Right, Dad?”
Joe muttered another “Mhmm.”
Brenden fished a set of keys from his pocket and looked at his brother. Kori sighed and stood up. He was not in the mood for another car ride, especially after the two that he had endured the day before. However, he was also not up for spending any alone time with his father. In his own way he had missed the old man greatly during their separation. He was just not sure how to act around him yet. From the way they had interacted at the table it did not seem like anyone else in the house knew how to act around each other either.
“Come on. There's someone that I want you to meet.” Brenden slapped his father playfully on the back as he exited the kitchen. “Later, Dad.”
Kori stood up to follow his brother out. Joe unexpectedly grabbed him by the arm as he passed by. He looked up from his nearly empty ice cream carton and met Kori's eyes with his own. Eyes as bright as the sky that contrasted with his sun weathered complexion. Tears welled up but he never broke his gaze. “Glad to have you home, son.” He held on to Kori's arm for a moment longer and then went back to spooning ice cream into his mouth.
“Thanks.” It was all that he could think to say before he hurried outside. The screen door sounded off, bidding him farewell. He ran to catch up with his brother who waited impatiently in the cab of a large pickup truck. The back of the truck was loaded down with rolls of wire fencing.
“Who's truck, yours?”
“Nah.” Brenden fiddled with the radio. “My boss's.”
“So, where are we going?”
“Not far.” Brenden smiled, backing out of the driveway and onto the road that led them out of Cedar Ridge.
On the way Kori asked a question that had been weighing on him all morning. “He doesn't drink any more, does he?”
“Nope. Hasn't touched a drop since she left,” Brenden replied. “He is up to about two gallons of ice cream a day though.”
In less than five minutes they pulled into a long gravel lane, leading up to an old farmhouse. Beyond the house several barns and outbuildings were scattered across a wide rocky lot. In the background was a picturesque spread of rolling pastures. Tractors and farm implements were lined up neatly in and around the large metal building closest to the house. Brenden parked the truck beside a yellow end loader and killed the engine. Without a word he got out and started toward the opened door of the building. Kori got out and assessed the place while his brother disappeared inside.
It had the usual attributes of a farmstead. The sweet smell of fresh cut hay and the faint tinge of cattle manure hung in the breeze. More abrasive odors of old motor oil, diesel fuel and the harsh chemical smell of fertilizer came from the building. Cows mulled complacently around a feed bunk, swatting their tails in a futile effort to ward off flies. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking.
Then it hit him.
“This is Clayton's place, isn't it?” he yelled toward the building's open door.
“Not any more it isn't,” a softly accented voice came from behind the truck. He jumped and turned to face a frail looking wisp of a man. He was dressed in a pair of blue coveralls that hung loosely on his tiny frame. On his feet he wore a pair of knee length rubber boots that were covered in dry cow dung. He seemed to float as he approached, swimming in his oversized clothes. “Jens Aarons.” He quickly unsheathed a gloved hand and offered it out. “You must be Kori.”
“Yeah.” Kori shook the man's hand and nodded. The thick German accent did not match the smiling face. Although his hands were small and soft, his handshake was quite firm. The old man returned the glove to his hand and walked around to the side of the truck. He reached in the bed and grabbed a roll of fencing. Without so much as a grunt he lifted the roll and carried it to the end loader, gently placing it in the bucket.
Kori followed suit and tried to pull out a roll. Damn, he thought to himself. These things weigh as much as he does. It was all he could do to lift out the roll and carry it the short distance to the bucket. The old man continued to smile. He opened the truck door and reached behind the seat. He produced a worn pair of gloves and handed them to Kori.
“Your brother says that you are in need of a job.”
“I am... er, he did?” Kori took the gloves and stared at them.
“I see you've met Jens,” Brenden said as he stepped out of the shed. He reached into the truck and grabbed the two remaining rolls at once. When he got within five feet of the end loader he flung them shot put style one at a time. They landed in the bucket with a loud crash. He walked back to the truck and started pulling out the rest of the gear. “You want to help me with this or are you two gonna stand there all day and make eyes at each other?”
By the end of the afternoon Kori learned several things. One, he was now employed for the second time in his life. He was not sure how he felt about that. His first attempt at legitimate work had ended in the disaster, which ultimately landed him back in Cedar Ridge. He also learned more than he ever wanted to know about fence construction.
That first day was a killer. He had never done any sort of manual labor in his life. He had been brought up to believe that this was something to be proud of. Despite the dull pain that had set up shop in his weary muscles, he felt a sense of accomplishment. Something that, until that day, was completely foreign to him. It was hard work, but he sincerely enjoyed it.
He was beginning to de
velop a deep admiration for the brother that he barely knew. Brenden was a trooper. He pulled and lifted things twice his body weight with ease. He had no fear and possessed an amazing tolerance for pain. Everything Brenden did was flawlessly executed with precision and grace. Years of hearing his mother speak so negatively about his older brother started to make less and less sense.
From a hydrant near the corner of the barn, Kori washed away as much of the day's dirt and sweat as he could. The water was ice cold and left goose bumps as it ran down his arms. He watched his brother and Jens chatting near the truck. They seemed to share a bond that went beyond a working relationship. Even their body language exuded a feeling of closeness as they leaned against the tailgate and laughed. Seeing this just compounded the way he felt about his brother.
His interest was piqued when he saw Brenden pull a large stack of cash from his pocket and hand it to the old man. Jens simply nodded, not bothering to count the bills, and walked toward the house. He waved goodbye to Kori and disappeared through his front door.
Brenden took the hose and directed the flow over the back of his down turned head. He quickly snapped upright, sending a rooster tail spray of water against the side of the barn. The water stained the sun baked wood in dark trailing fingers.
“What's the deal? You have to pay Jens to work for him?” Kori asked, jokingly. He wiped droplets of water from his face with the front of his soiled shirt. The sweat soaked fabric made the corners of his eyes sting.
“Huh?” Brenden looked up. He held the hose between his knees and scrubbed his hands together beneath the flowing water. “Oh, that. No, I was just paying the mortgage. My half anyway.”
“Your half? You own Clayton's old farm?”
“No. I own half of it. At least half of the part the bank still don't own,” Brenden replied.
“How did that come about, you and Jens getting Clayton's place?”
Brenden gave him an agitated look. “How do you think it came about, dumb ass? We bought it.” He snapped the handle of the hydrant shut and frowned. “And quit calling it Clayton's place. There ain't anything here that belongs to that sonofabitch now.”
Brenden gave him the Reader's Digest condensed version. He started by surprising Kori with the fact that Clayton had been over four months behind on the mortgage when he skipped town with him and their mother in tow. It was as if he already knew the end was near. Then again, most self-proclaimed prophets do.
Jens, a retired obstetrician at the U of I, had spent his entire career delivering human babies. It was a fulfilling occupation, but all he had ever dreamed of was to be working his own farm. It was a dream that he shared with few people. John Norton, his good friend and manager of the First National Bank in town, was one of those privileged few. When John had mentioned that the Cole farm coming up for possible foreclosure over coffee one morning, Jens was intrigued. He made an offer that included covering Clayton's back payments in exchange for the farm, the equipment and the livestock.
Clayton jumped at the offer. Not only did it save him the burden of a property that could potentially sit on the market for months, but the deal also got him out of hock with the bank. His only vacillation came when Jens inquired about his hired hand. He scoffed at the notion that anyone would want to keep Brenden on as an employee. Jens countered by asking him why he had kept him for so long. At this Clayton left John Norton's office in a huff and muttered, “Do what you want, old man. I'm done here.”
Well Jens did just that. He offered Brenden a job, which he gladly accepted. Months after the family had split up, Brenden was still searching for the best way of giving Clayton the big 'fuck you'. He presented Jens with the idea of an even partnership. Split the costs and the profits right down the middle. No one had to know that he was anything more than a hired hand. No one except them, John at the bank and of course Uncle Sam.
“Long story short, I needed him and he needed me. We'll have the bank note paid off in by the end of the year. Then I'm done rolling dope heads for profit. I'm gonna settle my ass down and live the good life, just me and my boy Jens. When the farm is free and clear I'm gonna mail a copy of the deed to that cocksucker, Clayton. He'll shit when he sees my name on it.” A dark smile spread across Brenden's lips. “What? Let me guess. That's not the way Clayton's version of the story plays out.”
Kori stared down at his grungy tennis shoes. If this keeps up I'm gonna have to get me a pair of boots, he thought to himself. He knew there was bad blood between his brother and Clayton. No need to bring it to a boil again. It was true that Clayton's version was a lot different than the one he had just heard. He had to admit that this one made much more sense.
“I don't know. He never talked about that stuff,” he lied. He looked up at his brother, hoping that he would leave it at that. “The past is the past, right? Nothing we can do about that now.”
“Alright little brother,” Brenden nudged his shoulder gently, letting him off the hook. “You look whipped. Let's get you home.”
Chapter 12
Deputy Scheck parked in front of his trailer just before sunset. He sat in his truck and watched in amusement as his neighbors scurried into their tin can homes. The ones who were either on parole or probation got up from their lawn chairs, palmed their beers or intoxicants of choice and headed indoors. The rest kept their heads down and tried to become invisible. Even in his personal vehicle, the mere sight of his uniform made the residents of Creekside Mobile Home Village a little edgy.
It would be hours after he settled in before the most brazen of them dared to show their faces outside again. Even on his days off, when he was wearing civilian clothing, he could feel the cold stares burning into his back as he walked around the park. He was forever dubbed “the cop next door”.
Most of the trailer park children did not share the same disdain for him as the adults did. They chased after his truck on bike and on foot, gathering into a small mob in his postage stamp sized yard. The older kids shoved the smaller ones to the background, jockeying for position to greet him. The scrappier little ones pushed and clawed their way back to the forefront. All commotion ceased when he stepped out of his truck, as if their aggressive behavior might be a violation of some unknown law.
“Hey, Dale!” one of the younger ones yelled, a little girl about nine years old with stringy blond hair. She was perched on a beat up bicycle that was too small for her. She wore a pair of pink cut off sweats that revealed knees covered in scabs, presumably from spills on the undersized bike. She sported a Hawkeye jersey that hung down almost to the bottom of her shorts.
“Hey, Clara,” Dale replied. He was on a first name basis with most of the Creekside youth. In fact, he knew all of their parents by their first names as well. Just for different reasons.
“Hey, Dale!” the rest of the mob cried out in unison, not to be outdone by Clara.
“How many bad guys did you catch today?” Clara's little brother asked. He stuffed his dirty little hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaned forward. All the while his eyes were fixed on the holstered sidearm in Dale's service belt.
Dale leaned forward, mimicking the boy. “All of 'em, Jamie.”
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, a curtain parting from a nearby trailer. Between the gaps in the fabric a pair of eyes watched his welcoming party with great interest. It was Kyle Collins, who happened to be a cousin to the cop-beating Collins brothers. He stood upright and turned to the direction of the spying eyes. The curtains closed instantly and the light behind them shut off. Dale felt the hair on the back of his neck raise up. He forced a smile and turned his attention back to the kids.
“Well almost all of them, pal.” He pulled his duffel bag from the passenger seat and locked the door before closing it.
“Cool,” Jamie said, approvingly.
“I'm ready for some downtime now, guys.” This was met with groans of disappointment from the mob. “Come on now. Even deputies need their sleep. Can't expect me to catch all those
bad guys without it.” He rubbed the scruff of hair on Jamie's head. It was like petting the fur of a wet dog. “Besides, I think your daddy is looking for you.”
The siblings looked in the direction of their trailer at the same time. It pained Dale's heart to see the look of dread on their faces. Those faces spoke a thousand words. It took everything that Dale had not to march across the driveway, pull Kyle Collins from his rat nest of a home and beat him senseless.
As if on cue, Collins opened his door and stuck his head out. It was hard to tell in the fading light, but he looked to be well on his way to a good drunk. He was shirtless and his bare torso glistened with sweat, although it was only in the upper sixties.
“There a problem, officer?” His speech was slurred.
“Not unless you want there to be, Kyle.”
Collins was a fairly large man with a reputation for having an equally large temper. He stepped out of his doorway and onto the rickety metal steps. He puffed his chest and stared down Dale with a pair of swollen eyes. Those vacant soulless eyes gave Dale the creeps. His hand instinctively rested on the butt of his service Glock. He suddenly regretted his popularity with the children. There was no way he was going to draw on the big man in front of his own kids or anyone else's, even if it would have been the best thing for all of them.
The staring match only lasted a few seconds. Collins ended it with a smirk and a dismissive grunt. He pointed a pair of thick fingers at his children. “You two, get your asses in the house now.” He shifted his eyes back to Dale. “Stay away from my kids, boy. Got no business talkin' to them.” He held the door open with an outstretched arm. Clara and Jamie scurried up the steps, ducking under it and disappearing inside the trailer. “You want to talk to somebody, you talk to me.”
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