Martin, Crook, & Bill

by Donna Nitz Muller

  The tears stung Martin’s sensitive cheeks, his nose ran, and on his forehead, the sweat band dripped. Through his raw throat, he mumbled again, “Why?” His head dropped to his chest. It was as it was. At that particular moment his body, mind, and heart were consumed with one thing. He would finally beat Joe at one game of HORSE.

  All the hot summer drought made the grass brown in July, and we did not need to mow. Hot, dry and dusty until that day in August when the sky split open and rain poured out all day long. Joe with his long, handsome face, straight hair in his eyes, standing under the hoop, the rebound off the rim in his long fingers, walked away.

  I ran over, crazy with anger and shame, to push you with all my strength. But you said, “Next time you’ll get me. You are getting that good.”

  You said those words and I stopped. I stopped right here. The floor was damp. It was damp and slippery by the hole and you sang, “But not yet, but not yet,” and danced, your stupid version of a moonwalk. You slipped and disappeared down that hole.

  You stumbled and you fell through the hole in the floor. We knew that hole was there. We pitched hay down that hole into the cattle-stanchions below every day of our lives. We knew that hole. We played around that hole and stepped around that hole in the floor everyday. Why did you fall through that hole? Did I push you?

  “Come on, Joe, are you too tough to yell? Did you break a finger on your left shooting hand? Come on, Joe, why aren’t you yelling? Oh, my God!”

  Martin screamed. He did not climb down the ladder, he jumped. He ran for the house. He ran for help. He ran up and down the driveway, soaking wet, screaming for the ambulance. And then he forgot.

  Until this very moment, he did not remember what he saw when he looked down that hole in the hay-mound floor. The memory brought him to his knees.

  Martin leaned like a rag doll on the far, sloping wall of the hay-mound. He wished for his coat because chills shook his shoulders. Sobs sliced his throat. He wished he had not forced this memory. He wished he had allowed the darkness.

  “Joe,” Martin’s voice raw and whispering, “Dad told you to put that pitch fork away. Dad told you to put it away. Why didn’t you? How many times did Dad have to tell you to put that damn pitchfork away?”

  Suddenly Martin felt warmth on his shoulders as Crook laid a blanket across him, and he heard Crook’s voice. “That is enough for today, man,” Crook said. “You are one brave crazy. Come back to the house now.”

  “Have you seen my coat?” Martin asked as he followed Crook down the ladder.

  “Yes,” Crook said.

  The two men leaned on the pump jack. “It wasn’t as bad as I feared,” Martin told Crook, his voice still raw.

  “You have to be kidding,” Crook answered. “I’ve never seen anything worse, and I’ve seen a lot.”

  The two men stood, leaning their weight against the pump, breathing quietly and looking toward the pasture to the west, recovering. Crook leaned so as not to bump the baby he carried in a sling.

  Kirby looked at Martin with big eyes from the pouch that Tillie brought over. The pouch was too tight to fit Martin, but it fit Crook perfectly. Crook had the habit of carrying Kirby around with him all day long.

  Martin said, “Kirby will never learn to crawl if his legs are bunched in that pouch all day.” He reached to lift Kirby. His arms felt weak and trembling, but he lifted Kirby all the same. The three of them started for the house. Martin felt the sun hot through the blanket, and it felt good.

  “I tell you, Crook,” Martin spoke over his shoulder, “It is not as bad as I expected, or I should say feared. I thought I killed my brother on purpose. I did want to push him, but he danced away. We played with such passion. The game was everything.”

  Martin had never known such pain as though it happened yesterday.

  “It looked bad to me,” Crook answered, following the path in Martin’s footsteps.

  “You could see it,” Martin asked, amazed.

  “Not it, but I could see you,” Crook said.

  “I did not push him. I would rather be dead myself and that is the truth. I did not push Joe. I planned to push Joe, but I did not. I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Martin repeated filled with wonder at the strange relief, light-headed relief that mixed inside with grief like mixing paint colors. He wondered if his legs would work for the remaining steps to the house.

  Martin continued to talk. He stopped and turned and talked. For several minutes he talked about Joe, but knew he could not convey the person of Joe or the meaning of Joe. Still, he told what he could, told what happened, told about basketball. He tasted salt on his lips.

  Crook did not interfere and he did not say a word. When, at last, they reached the house and Martin was quiet, Crook mumbled, “First the man wouldn’t talk, and then he wouldn’t quit.” He smiled.

  Once inside the kitchen, Martin put Kirby on the floor.

  “Floor’s cold,” Crook said. He moved Kirby to the blanket. “It takes him twelve minutes to wiggle off it.”

  “I know at noon it is my day to watch Kirby, but I can’t today,” Martin said. Then, as usual, he took the back stairs up to the hallway. He lay on his bed and went immediately to sleep.

  Not until the light was softly fading from Martin’s bedroom did the sound of Crook’s pounding on his door bring consciousness. Martin felt tired and wobbly. He thought he should eat. Finally he answered the insistent sound at his door.

  “What?” he said, but could not muster real strength to his voice.

  “Time to eat,” Crook said through the wood, “and we have company.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Martin heard the voices in the kitchen as he descended the stairs slowly and carefully. He heard Tillie’s laugh and Bill’s quiet voice. Sandra, too! Maureen’s voice drifted up the stairs and Martin was happy to hear his sister. He could tell her about Joe. Crook’s voice did not carry and he was not one to talk much. Kirby rarely cried, but of course, he was in the kitchen, too.

  Martin grieved for Joe. As he stood at the door, his hand on the knob, he tried to smile and could not. He opened the door and everyone stopped talking or moving. Maureen came first and hugged him. “I’m sorry you had to see what happened to Joe,” she whispered. Martin’s throat tightened and tears slid down his cheeks.

  He looked up and saw that Crook and Kirby had decorated. They had balloons along the walls and fresh flowers from town.

  Martin said, “Crook loves Visitor Day.”

  “We all helped,” Maureen said. “I thought it was too much for what is actually for you a wake. But everyone else thought it was a great victory for you and we should celebrate that. What do you think?”

  “I think I am happy to see you,” Martin said. He raised his voice and repeated, “Thank you, thank you for coming.”

  Martin moved to the chair of honor and sat down. Not surprised by the electric energy in Crook as he motioned to the chair, Martin said, “A visitor for you this time, Crook.”

  “First time,” Crook answered.

  Martin nodded. Saying more would not be appreciated by Crook who busied himself lining cookies in a perfect row on white paper on the table. Crook was not a talker. He was a listener. Martin saw him turn now to listen to Sandra. Martin said to Sandra, “Please take Kirby out of that pouch.” She did not lift Kirby so Tillie handed the little boy to Martin.

  Martin thought Sandra favored her right arm. He would ask her about it later. Then Martin saw a look pass between Sandra and Crook. The expression on Sandra’s face startled him. She looked triumphant. Martin thought, What have they done? They murdered Hauk.

  He did not know if that solved a problem or started a new, equally terrifying one. He would have to prepare for Carl.

  Crook did not have a split personality, but he did have compartments. When he needed to use one compartment or the other, he opened that door and stepped in. Still, one thing ran the width and length of his personality, and that was a magnetic presence. Tonight his small, agi
le frame vibrated with life and good will. Killing Hauk did not change that.

  Martin sat, smiling and nodding. He had no appetite but took a coffee. Bill pulled up a chair beside him. Bill watched Crook with confusion in his eyes. Finally, without looking at Martin but keeping his eyes forward, Bill said quietly, “I must be wrong.”

  Understanding what Bill meant, Martin said, “I think you are not wrong. I think he did it. You will never see it in him.”

  “What is his story?” Bill asked.

  “Don’t know,” Martin said. “He is whatever he has to be. He is bald as an egg and vain in his clothes. His mouth changes shapes and we want him as a friend. He can look like a garden gnome or a cold-blooded killer, whatever the day requires.”

  Right now the day required beer on ice. Everyone held a beverage. The smell of Tillie’s rooster full of chicken began to waft through the room. The six adults pulled up chairs in a loose circle and looked at one another. It was not exactly carefree. Martin saw that murder weighed them down.

  He said, “Maureen have you been introduced to Sandra?”

  “Hello,” Sandra said, trying a smile.

  Martin felt a quick, thick tension. He saw the question in Maureen’s eyes. She would not say, “Who is this girl in her jeans and sweatshirt?” But Martin felt the question as if she had spoken aloud.

  Martin said, “We have secrets from the hospital that you do not want to know. She plays basketball and I help her with that. She is a part of our,” he paused, not wanting to say the word ‘revenge.’ He said, “Group.”

  “How have you been?” Martin turned to Sandra and when he did she was immediately his total focus. When Martin and Sandra talked together, no one else existed and much of what they said was without words. Sandra looked wonderful. Her hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail which highlighted her strong features and deep brown eyes and flawless skin.

  The strain of her past year showed in the lines around her mouth and under her eyes. He also saw relief, a release from a burden. Hauk was dead. Was she beginning to see that Hauk’s death would not turn back time? He took her hand and held it loosely. How guilty was she? She did not look to have guilt in her heart. “How did you hurt your arm?” Martin said.

  “I’m fine,” she answered, “but the question of the day is how YOU are?” She reached to touch his face, feeling with her fingertips. She smiled at him, her eyes wet. She whispered, “You are the man, Martin.”

  The late September air held a chill and Crook closed the porch door to stop the draft from reaching Kirby. Martin again looked about at his friends. They had no weak link. They would hold together. Martin again turned to his sister. He felt irresistibly drawn to her company. “I did not push Joe,” he said.

  Maureen smiled. She had recovered or she covered her confusion regarding a teenager holding Martin’s hand. She said, “I can not tell you how relieved I am to know that. I was never sure.”

  Maureen wore jeans and a white blouse tucked inside her jeans and a gold link belt. Her shoulders, neck and head were straight and graceful, her hair curled around her pale freckled cheeks. When she smiled at Martin, he saw her as lovely. Stunning. He said, “I am so sorry.”

  “Everyone loved Joe, Martin, but you were connected to him in a way no one else could ever touch. I am so sorry.” She put her hands to her face. The room was silent.

  Martin said, “Wearing out the tires on your car?”

  “I am on vacation, much deserved,” she smiled at his light tease. “I’m staying with Tillie for a few days. I just couldn’t resist coming back to see you guys, and the house, too.”

  “Good,” Martin answered. He felt his face loosen. His skin did not feel like a mask.

  “Gang’s all here,” Crook announced. “Let’s eat.”

  Bill raised his glass, and everyone stood. “A toast to Martin. Today Martin went to the barn.”

  Everyone cheered, each person hugged him, and Sandra kept his hand in hers. Martin saw the set of Maureen’s chin in a disapproving line. He couldn’t help that Maureen disapproved. Maureen didn’t know. He thought Tillie should prepare for Maureen’s questions. It would be okay. Tillie could tell Maureen about Sandra, about Hauk and about Kirby. Maureen should know. He looked at Sandra. It was her secret and, yet, Maureen should know.

  He said to Sandra, “We will need Maureen to help.”

  Sandra looked confused. “Help with what?”

  “You and Crook cannot carry this alone. It is not just you. You cannot just keep on keeping on.”

  Sandra looked shocked and bewildered. She said with agitation, “I am keeping on just fine.”

  “You think you are,” Martin said. “Later Tillie can explain to Maureen about Hauk and what he did so that she knows what is at stake. But only if you agree.”

  “When the whole f’n world knows, I can just shoot myself,” Sandra said. Again the room was so intensely silent that Sandra’s voice almost echoed.

  Martin said quietly, “Only the people in this room will know the whole story. There is no weak link.”

  “No one can ever know the whole story,” Sandra said, her face so hard she looked like stone. Martin had no answer for that. It was true.

  The woman and the girl stared at each other for some seconds in a hushed room. Then Maureen extended her hand and Sandra took it. “I will get the scoop from Tillie,” she whispered. “Let’s not talk any more right now.”

  Bill said into the silence, “Our problems should be solved but they don’t feel solved. I, for one, am scared. However, what is the old saying, ‘Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we may die.’ And I’m hungry.”

  When everyone gaped at him, he added, “I’m happy for Martin’s improved condition and Crook’s new social life but I’m worried now what the price tag is gonna be, that’s all. Stop looking at me.”

  Indulging in his renewed habit of smoking, Bill leaned toward the open window above the sink. He sat the chair legs down hard onto the floor.

  Crook set his chair by Maureen. Kirby moved to Crook’s lap and then moved to different laps and finally to his seat with a bottle. Tillie sat beside Bill and Martin and Sandra sat along the windows. When the words came, they would talk. When no words came, being together was enough.

  “Well, Martin,” Tillie’s voice floated in the circle. “You have been getting mixed reviews in town.”

  “What is there to say about me?” Martin asked. He considered his arrival as well as Crook and Kirby to be of no great interest or concern to anyone.

  “To begin,--” Tillie leaned forward and took upon herself the confidential air of sharing gossip, “--some people are appalled at your behavior in getting somebody pregnant other than your wife, of course. But there is a growing group who can’t help but admire your willingness to give up your whole life just to keep the baby. And, trust me, no one could help but be impressed when you walked into church carrying Kirby without the slightest hint of any embarrassment.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” said Maureen’s astounded voice. “You carried Kirby into church! Good for you. How did anyone even pretend not to notice?”

  “I had to carry him, he can’t walk,” Martin answered, picking up and enjoying the nuance and innuendo that even one day ago was beyond his comprehension. However, talking about Kirby put a weight on his heart. Would Carl come to take Kirby? What would he do?

  Bill entered the conversation with his story from the poolhall. The general consensus saw little wonder in Martin’s condition, what with losing his marriage and his job. They decided it was still better than being addicted to some drug which was the previous diagnosis. And there was some sympathy for Martin in the death of the baby’s mother and some admiration in keeping the baby. Sandra again slid her hand into Martin’s without a trace of self-consciousness.

  “How did you come to name him Kirby Pucket?” Maureen asked.

  Martin leaned on his knees, his one hand dangling between his legs and the other lightly holding Missy’s fingers. “It
just popped out. The radio announcer always says, ‘touch ‘em all,” when one of the Twins hit a home run. ‘Touch ‘em all, Brian Harper’ or Touch ‘em all, Kent Hrbeck’ but the best one is the way he says, ‘Touch ‘em all, Kirby Pucket!’ It has a ring to it.”

  “Did you hear that, Kirby,” Tillie leaned toward the infant in his seat, “you could have been named ‘Touch Em All’.” She lightly pinched the tiny fingers. “Well, touch them all, Kirby Pucket Webster.”

  Maureen said, “Martin, I have to tell you how much better you look. I know you are sad, but that soft, puffy edge along your cheeks and chin is gone. You don’t look slack any more.”

  “The sliver is out,” Martin said.

  Crook said, “It was not easy. That old barn is haunted.”

  “Yes, it is,” Martin agreed. “Tearing it down is officially on the list.”

  “Tuesday night is our first game,” Sandra said.

  “Are you ready?” Immediate interest lifted Martin’s voice and put a lively spark in his eyes. “How does the team look? I have a great fake for the bucket to teach you.

  “I am personally not ready. Everyone thinks I am recovering from a camping accident, you know. I missed the first week of practice. I’m out of shape and behind schedule, but the team looks outstanding. We have a chance at State, I think.” Her voice, as always, mesmerized him.

  Then he asked what he asked every time he saw her, but this time he understood her answer. “How is school?” he asked. “How are your parents?”

  “School is moving along. I’m living on reputation. I actually miss how it used to be with my mom and dad, but Mom especially. They hover and they wait for me to speak.”

  Martin could see her tough exterior soften slightly when she talked to him. “You have to stop trying to regain your past. It will never be the same,” Martin said, his voice near her ear.

  “I want my old life back.” Sandra said. Everyone looked at her. Like Martin, they all took a drink or a bite and looked away.

  After a few minutes, Martin asked her, “Are you going to tell me about Hauk?”