Harvest of Thorns

by Paul E. Wootten

  Particularly the attention of Melody Parham.

  Petite, auburn-haired Melody Parham had arrived during the second semester of tenth grade. Her daddy was Reverend Parham, pastor of the Presbyterian Church. She and Mutt had Algebra II and Miss Bertie’s World Literature class together. They shared a love for Greek tragedies and a reverence for Miss Bertie.

  Melody hadn’t known him before, back when things seemed hopeless.

  She wasn’t put off by his crooked teeth or old clothes.

  And tonight, after the game, they were going to Drake’s Drive-In.

  ###

  Adair High won by forty, with Mutt dominating both sides of the line, making tackles, scoring touchdowns, and playing the game of his life.

  For Melody Parham.

  His teammates presented him with the game ball. The local radio station interviewed him. The Mizzou coach made a point to say hello and tell him they were interested in him coming to Columbia. A half-hour after the final horn sounded, Mutt made it back to the locker room. He showered quickly and put on his best jeans and white shirt. He was the last person to leave, and when he emerged into the cool evening breeze, she was there.

  Melody Parham had waited.

  He opened the passenger door of his run-down Ford Taurus and marveled at how gracefully she got in, unaware that just a few hours earlier the car was caked with Mississippi River mud and cow manure.

  Drake’s was the favorite hang-out. Even kids from Sainte Genevieve and Perryville showed up on weekends. It was out on the old highway, three miles from town, which made it easier for kids to act up without worrying about being caught. Even though he had lived in Saxon County most of his life, Mutt had never been to Drake’s. It wasn’t a place someone went alone, and he had never been close enough to anyone to go with them. He was particularly excited that he would be escorting Melody.

  “People are going to be so happy to see you,” she gushed as they drove through the dark countryside. “Everyone saw how the college coaches were watching you.”

  The brightly-lit parking lot was jammed with cars of all makes and colors. Country music poured from speakers on the drive-in’s roof. Mutt peeked over and saw Melody scanning the crowd.

  “There’s Joyce and Eve,” she said pointing toward the entrance. Mutt found an open parking space and they made their way through rows of cars. Summoning up every ounce of courage he had, Mutt put his hand on Melody’s elbow and was thrilled she didn’t pull it away. The softness of her arm made him quiver. He was lost in the moment.

  So lost, he let his guard down.

  The heat inside hit like a blast furnace. Most of the football team were sitting in booths or standing along the back wall. Melody moved ahead of him, heading toward a table her friends had snagged near the back. She was oblivious to the change sweeping over the drive-in.

  Mutt wasn’t.

  Conversations and laughter ceased. All eyes were on him. Mutt knew immediately it was a mistake to come here, but was powerless to do anything other than follow Melody to the table. They squeezed into the booth with her friends.

  “I didn’t know you were coming with Mutt,” Eve said icily.

  “I told you I had a date,” Melody said.

  Fortunately, the moment passed. Most kids went back to their conversations. A few, however, continued to eye him. Four guys sitting near the jukebox were paying particularly close attention. They were older guys, mid-twenties, likely hoping to make time with high school girls. Two were still wearing work shirts with their names on the pockets. All were smoking. Mutt ignored them, hoping for the best.

  The conversation was muted, but Melody still didn’t notice. Joyce and Eve had never been particularly friendly to Mutt, though he couldn’t recall them ever being unkind. Like the majority of kids at Adair High School, they treated him like he didn’t exist, except for those times he was performing on the football field. It wasn’t an ideal environment, but it was better than junior high when he was beaten up regularly. Over the last two years, he had grown too big and strong for that to continue. It took a few fights before the message was received. Mutt Manning was no longer someone to mess with.

  Apparently, some hadn’t heard.

  The music changed from country to a slow tune that pulled a dozen couples onto the small dance floor near the kitchen.

  “I can’t believe nobody’s taken our order yet,” Melody said, trying unsuccessfully to flag down a passing waitress. A queasiness in Chan’s gut told him to prepare for the other shoe to drop.

  And drop it did. A short balding man emerged from the kitchen and waddled to their table. The smell of deep fried food and sweat clung to him.

  “We don’t serve coloreds. You need to leave.”

  Except for the jukebox, the entire restaurant became quiet.

  Mutt stared at the man, biding his time while deciding what to do. He heard Melody gasp, and felt her stiffen. While Mutt and the man held each other’s stare, the four older boys came up behind him.

  “Sounds like you gotta leave, boy,” one of them said. Chan recognized him as Ricky Smoot. His father, Richard owned a lot of prime Saxon County land. The family’s West End house was the biggest around.

  “Yeah boy,” said another, a stocky blonde with ‘Leon’ monogrammed on his shirt. “This ain’t no Woolworths and you sure ain’t no Martin Luther King.”

  “You can’t kick somebody out of here because of their skin color.” Melody’s tone was indignant, cutting through the boys’ laughter. “This isn’t the 1950’s.”

  “It’s my business, sweetheart,” the short man said. “I can serve who I want and turn away who I don’t.”

  Mutt scanned the room, hoping a teammate or two would come to his defense. Most looked away. Unlike on the football field, he was on his own.

  As Ricky and his cronies closed in, Mutt slid out of the booth and got to his feet, forcing the sweaty cook to take several steps back. Mutt towered over him and the four toughs. They remained locked in a stare-down, nobody saying anything. Mutt glanced back at Melody. The reality of the moment seemed to have sapped the courage she’d exhibited moments before.

  Chan elbowed past and made his way to the door, ignoring as best he could their slurs. He was almost there when a kick to the small of his back drove him hard against the wall. His head hit the corner of a pay phone and he felt the trickle of blood on his cheek. He turned around to face down the culprit, but the coward had faded back among his friends.

  “Who did that?” He kept his voice level. No emotion.

  When none of the toughs responded, Chan looked to his teammates scattered around the drive-in.

  “Who kicked me?”

  Silence.

  Mutt waded into the middle of the four combatants, fists flying. By the time the police were called two of them were on the floor, another had escaped into the night. Ricky Smoot was against the wall, begging Mutt not to inflict further damage. The cook had disappeared, as had a few of the spectators. Others looked with horror at the carnage. Some were crying. Blood pooled and smeared across the diner’s white floor. None of it was Mutt’s

  Mutt blinked, took a final look around, and spotted her.

  Melody Parham.

  Beautiful Melody Parham.

  There were tears in her eyes. Mutt motioned to the parking lot, but she shook her head and remained seated.

  He walked out, got in his car, and headed to Grebey Island.

  Never again would he go inside Drake’s Drive-In.

  And never again would he step onto a football field.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  The maroon robe was heavy and sticky, like the air in the gym. Graduation day had arrived with a spate of thunderstorms that lingered into the evening ceremony. The lights went out twice, leaving the seventy-three graduates and their families in darkness punctuated by the occasional flash of lightening through windows high up on the walls.

  Mutt listened absently as Principal Lowell Surratt droned on, remembering the day years
earlier when the man now speaking of scholarship, service, and brotherhood called him retarded before exiling him to two years in the Grebey Island schoolhouse. He glanced around at his classmates. Most had spent recent days reveling in memories of FFA conventions, epic road trips to St. Louis, and keg parties on Mississippi River sandbars. A few were overheard confiding their anxiety about leaving Saxon County for the outside world. For most that world wouldn’t stretch further than Cape Girardeau or Carbondale.

  Mutt didn’t share in their reverie. That was impossible, as the part of him that might have cared for his classmates was shut away long ago.

  Still, he searched their faces, hopeful of one connection he could take with him when he walked out of Adair High School for the last time. Scattered about were his teammates from the football team. They had cheered for him as he excelled beyond anything seen in these parts, then treated him like a stranger when he needed them most.

  Melody Parham was sitting two rows ahead. She’d arrived in Adair two winters ago like a sweet breeze. For a short time they were inseparable. Being close to Melody had made him feel that things could be better for him in Saxon County.

  It had turned out they couldn’t. That hurt for a while, but the ache dissolved into an empty despair that even the sullen faces of Marcus Twinby and Dallas Devereaux couldn’t change. Once a year ahead of him in school, both failed ninth grade and were now his classmates. The terror they had brought to his life in junior high was little more than a memory dulled by time and the revenge he had exacted from them.

  Fighting hadn’t helped the deplorable image many had of him. He couldn’t remember the number of times over the past three years that he used his fists to settle confrontations he previously ran from. At first it felt good, being the avenger, the victor. After a while the experiences left him empty. He could whip anyone he took on, but had no more friends than before.

  Daddy didn’t show up for the ceremony; the only person in attendance close to being family was Miss Bertie. Mutt spotted her sitting with the other dignitaries on stage behind Lowell Surratt. She caught his glance and smiled. He felt for the envelope she had slipped him, now tucked in his pants pocket. Her note was simple, her sentiment touching. Start college with a beautiful smile! The envelope contained several hundred dollars and the name of a Kentucky dentist who had agreed to fix the uneven, jagged teeth that added to his misery. She signed the card, ‘Miss Bertie and Mr. Edgar,’ even though Mr. Edgar had been gone for more than a year.

  His name wasn’t called when awards were handed out. Despite graduating with a B average, he was overlooked, as was the full-ride baseball scholarship to Western Kentucky University.

  He didn’t care.

  He had accepted the scholarship sight unseen. Any place would be better than Saxon County. Then, two days before graduation one of the Western Kentucky coaches called to offer a summer job on campus. He had until Monday to decide.

  Filing toward the stage with the other graduates, Mutt saw Miss Bertie beaming at him. It was a smile few students received. They knew her as old, tough-as-a-cob Miss Bertie. Mutt knew better. He saw how Mr. Edgar’s passing sapped away some of her spark. It hit Mutt hard too. Mr. Edgar had encouraged him to keep playing baseball on the Sainte Genevieve American Legion team, usually chauffeuring him to games. Mutt knew it was Mr. Edgar’s way of sticking it to rednecks like Coach Duncan. The times he spent with Mr. Edgar and Miss Bertie were the best of his life.

  As he ascended to the stage, the whoops and hollers that greeted other graduates stilled. Following instructions received in practice, Mutt reached for his diploma with his left hand while extending his right for a handshake with Superintendent Surratt. Snubbing protocol, the little man transferred the diploma from his left hand to his right, holding it at arm’s length like a smelly rag. Mutt grabbed the diploma and kept walking. Surratt neither looked at him nor spoke. There was snickering in the gym. The slight was noticed.

  One final act of humiliation.

  Leaving the stage, the line of graduates snaked to the left and back to their seats. To the right, concealed by a curtain, was an exit. Mutt considered its proximity, took a final look around, and turned right.

  Tears of rage filled his eyes as he strode through the deserted hallways. Couldn’t they let it go this one time?

  Pushing through the outside exit, he shucked off the gown and threw the cap against a wall. There was a lull in the storms, but the night air remained heavy and foreboding. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Scanning the parking lot for his car, he missed their approach.

  “I never thought I’d see a half-breed get an Adair High School diploma.”

  Spinning around, he came face-to-face with Adair Police Officer Bump Cannon. Saxon County Deputy Stan Slaven was close behind. Cannon glanced at Chan’s diploma and shook his head.

  “Stan, you’re a graduate of this fine school. How do you feel about this Grebey Island son of a nigra woman having a diploma just like yours?”

  Both men erupted in laughter at Slaven’s curse-filled response.

  Sizing up the situation, Mutt felt it was to his advantage to leave quietly and live to fight another day. He returned his attention to the packed parking lot, trying to remember where he left his car. As he pulled the keys from his pocket, he was shoved heavily from behind, stumbling forward before steadying himself against a trashcan. He remained motionless for a moment, eyes glued on his aggressors as he considered his next move. Cannon and Slaven snickered.

  A quiet exit seemed unlikely.

  Cannon was short and pudgy, the result of too much time spent at desks and dinner tables. Slaven was closer to Mutt’s size. Cannon was armed. Slaven wasn’t. Cannon had been a thorn in Mutt’s side the last couple years. Slaven, not so much.

  “Gimme that diploma, Mutt,” Cannon said flatly.

  Oh how he hated that name. For most of his life there had been no choice but to quietly endure it. As he’d matured into a six-five, two-hundred and fifty-pound man, he could choose to respond or not. Tonight, he would respond.

  Slowly he turned and faced them, holding the diploma in front of him. When Cannon grabbed for it, Mutt tucked it into his pocket. Graduation was still in progress. They were the only ones in the gloomy parking lot.

  He knew what had to be done.

  He took a step forward, propelling his fist into Slaven’s midsection. Caught by surprise, the deputy let loose an explosion of air as he doubled over. Mutt seized the opportunity, sending his knee into the deputy’s face. The feel of cartilage giving way and the spurt of blood told him all he needed to know. Slaven was done. It didn’t take three seconds.

  Cannon’s reaction was as Mutt anticipated. Mouth agape, momentarily unable to move as he watched his buddy get taken down, Cannon was slow to grab for his gun. Mutt gripped the officer’s wrist in mid-air, holding it firm. Cannon’s whimpering and the feel of breaking bones brought no small amount of satisfaction. He removed the gun from Cannon’s holster and threw it across the sea of cars, hearing it skitter to a stop somewhere in the distance. He moved in closer, towering over the small fleshy man. Cannon cradled his broken wrist, his face shrouded in fear. His eyes darted back and forth. Deputy Slaven, still hunched over in shock, hands covering his bloody face, would not be saving him.

  It was a moment Mutt had wished for since he was ten years old. Cannon had been a constant presence in his life over the years, leaving his jurisdiction to head to Grebey Island with accusing questions about unsolved burglaries or other petty crimes in Adair. Cannon seemed to groove on his tough-guy status. In truth he was a small-town bigot who delighted in bringing misery into their lives. Daddy was terrified of him. Mutt had watched him cower in the deputy’s presence, just like he cowered to Lowell Surratt years earlier.

  There would be no cowering tonight.

  “Run,” he said quietly.

  “Wha... What?”

  “Run.”

  Cannon started to hyperventilate. “Run... where?”

&nbs
p; “Far. And don’t stop, because I’m coming after you. When I catch you I might take you to Grebey Island, since you like it so much. Maybe throw you into the river, see how far your fat carcass floats before somebody finds it.”

  Cannon remained frozen, sweat soaking through his uniform.

  “You’re wasting time.”

  Cannon turned and stumbled a few steps, trying to get his footing on the wet pavement.

  “Not fast enough.” Mutt grabbed him by the shirt collar and shoved him hard against the front entrance to the high school, watching with satisfaction as Cannon fell heavily onto an outside rug emblazoned with, ‘Welcome to Adair High School.’

  “Get up.”

  Cannon looked up at him. “Mutt, you-you-you’re making a b-b-b-big m-m-m-mis...”

  Mutt gripped him by the broken wrist and yanked him to his feet.

  “And you made a big mistake terrorizing my Daddy all those years. You know we never did anything wrong... until now.”

  He grasped a handful of Cannon’s bad haircut and used it to propel his face into the glass door. The resulting crack broke Cannon’s glasses and raised a goose egg on his forehead. His shrill whine gave way to sobs. The second impact broke his cheekbone and nose. The third caused a crack in the window and knocked him out cold. Mutt let go. Cannon fell in a heap.

  Moving toward the parking lot, Mutt glanced back at Slaven. The deputy, still slumped over, was looking at him. They held each other’s gaze.

  Mutt’s voice was eerily calm.

  “Deputy Slaven, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person.”

  Slaven seemed bewildered.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Mutt continued, stepping closer to the deputy. Slaven flinched but didn’t take his eyes off him.