A Fine Kettle of Fish

by Lou Bradshaw

  “Well, won’t they just make you two get married?” I asked, trying to put his situation into my cultural experience.

  “Her father would never consent to her marrying me. He would turn his back on her and consider her dead rather than allow her to marry into my family. My family has the same opinion of them. Our families hate each other.”

  “You mean like an old time feud between families with snipin’ and killin’?”

  “That’s right, only no one gets killed, just shunned, or like tonight gets a beating.”

  I was curious and kept after him. “What started it?” I asked, thinking that if they could get the families together then maybe something could be worked out.

  “I’m not sure, but I think it started with a Bible interpretation several generations back. My great grandfather saw the scripture one way, and Sarah’s great grandfather saw it another way. They were both deacons and both stubborn. No one with any authority would make a decision in favor of either one or the other. It just went on and on. Each time a member of one of the families makes a moral mistake, like tonight, the other family cries out for punishment.”

  “Why don’t you just take that girl and head for Arkansas? Pull out and say the hell with them.”

  He said that he had thought about it, but that I should understand that he lived in a highly controlled group. A man or woman could run away but only if the others did not try to stop them. Running away would be difficult, and with a young girl, it would be nearly impossible.

  “I’m missing something here, William. Why would it be so difficult? You’re only 30 miles from Arkansas as the crow flies. That’s less than an hour even on the back roads; of course you could have a problem traveling with an underage girl if you got stopped by the law. But hell, ain’t it worth the risk?”

  “LeeRoy, I don’t have a car, and I couldn’t drive one if I did. We would have to walk to Arkansas. They would catch up to us within 5 miles.”

  That brought the whole situation home to me like a sledgehammer across the noggin. I hadn’t thought of that. I was dealing with a completely alien culture. One I thought I knew, one I saw beside me nearly every day, but one I really knew nothing about. We laughed about these people and made jokes about them, but we simply didn’t know them. Hell, I was just starting to learn about my own culture.

  We walked along for a couple of hundred yards not saying anything; both of us were thinking our own thoughts. Finally he said, “LeeRoy?”

  “Why don’t you call me Lee,” I said, “it sets better with me than LeeRoy.”

  “Very well, Lee, the hardest part of all of this is not what’s going to happen to me, but it is what’s going to happen to Sarah that has me worried. Her father will beat, her of course, but that is to be expected, and we knew the risk we were taking. But I won’t have anyway to get a message to her or she to me. Not knowing can be terrifying.”

  I thought about that for a few minutes, damned few, and then like the fool that I am, I got myself right in the middle of it. “Is there some place we could have a mail drop?”

  “I don’t understand.” he said.

  “You know, you leave a message somewhere, and I get it to her at school, and vice versa. She will still be in school won’t she?”

  “Yes,” he replied, “until the end of the term. She will turn 16 right after school is out, and she isn’t supposed to go back next fall…even if she is still here.” I thought I heard a tiny sob at the end of that sentence, but I acted like I didn’t notice.

  We worked out the details for the drop as we walked on. At last we reached the point where we would each go a different direction. He headed toward his home place, and I headed toward town. As we started to separate he stopped me and said, “LeeRoy, Lee, this is a good thing you are doing. I would not expect this much from my own brother, and you being a worldly man and all…I don’t have the right words to say thank you.”

  He stuck out a huge paw for me to shake. I took it and was embarrassed because this wasn’t any kind of noble thing – it was just something that needed to be done.

  Later that night after walking back to town and getting home with no further incidents, I actually got some homework done because it wasn’t all that late. As I was getting ready for bed, I made my obligatory check on Liz’s window and noted that the light was on but no sign of Liz so I went to bed.

  I lay there in the dark for what seemed like forever thinking about William’s problems, which made my own problems seem pretty scrawny by comparison. Then I spoke to the ceiling saying, “What the hell have I gotten myself into this time? I can’t be acting as a go between for these people. I hardly know them, and furthermore, I won’t even be able to get close to Sarah. Those blackbirds travel in flocks, you see one – you see a gaggle.” I sat up in bed just staring out the window when I saw movement in Liz’s window. Up came the binoculars, pre-focused, just in time to see the light go out. “Damn it!”

  Then a light went on in my head.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning was about 3 weeks long. I can’t remember a time when I was less interested in what was going on in class. Oh, I was semi prepared with my assignments being semi done, so I wasn’t in danger of going down in flames or anything. I was just anxious to talk to Liz.

  If it hadn’t been for English class and good old Virgil Meder, I never would have made it till noon. English class – because of a particularly dumb assignment, and Virgil simply because he was Virgil. The assignment was to write a poem, recite it in class, and take all kinds of crap from the poetry critics in the class. But, the good part was that you got to dish out a lot of crap when some other poor poet was up there baring his soul to the class. One thing I learned a long time ago is – don’t write anything like poetry late at night because it sounds pretty stupid in the daylight. Anyway, being able to dish out some well aimed criticism made the whole exercise worthwhile.

  None of the poetry was any good; the girls all did stuff about flowers, love, stars, and such. All of them except for old black haired, black eyed, and very black spirited Melba Short. That would be Melba of the dreadful and gloomy Shorts. She read a poem about death and evil, which nobody understood, but nobody gave her any crap – it wasn’t worth the risk of having a curse laid on you.

  I had two stanzas of grease guns and oilcans in Iambic Pentameter. It wasn’t much good but it rhymed – sort of. Mickey copied something from somewhere. I figured it was copied because it was way too polished to come out of Mickey’s muddled mind. Mrs. Schneider must have had her doubts as well because she said, “That’s very good, Robert (his real name). Did you write it yourself or did someone help you?”

  “Yes mam, I made it up by myself. I been working on it for weeks”

  One of the fat Peller twins, I think it was Pam, I couldn’t tell them apart except that Paul is a little bit shorter said. “Mrs. Schneider, I think that was written by Adam Freidreichs about the turn of the century.” Now how in the hell would she know that – and why?

  Mickey puffed up like an indignant balloon and blasted, “What! That guy’s trying to steal my poem!” Nice defense Mick.

  Poor Mrs. Schneider, she just rolled her eyes. She did that a lot in our class. I fear that if she had us for another semester her eyes might become forever lodged up there in her skull somewhere. Anyway, that’s the way things were going in class up to that point, but Virgil’s turn was yet to come.

  Virgil Meder, not your typical shiniest apple in the barrel, but he was far from stupid. He could work out the toughest math problem in his head, or recite the chemical table forward, backward, and upside down. But Virgil couldn’t tell you what he was having for lunch – while he was eating it. Virgil related to some things better than others.

  Virgil’s parents were both dead. He had been one of those late in life babies, and he was being raised by 2 older brothers on the family farm. John, the oldest, was about 40 and all hard work and business. Bobby was a little younger and had a wicked sense of humo
r, especially when he could lay a zinger on his little brother. Virgil thought Bobby could walk on water (Bobby gave him the attention he needed).

  Once when we were in the 8th grade math class, Virgil was next to me, and I noticed that he was staring out the window at the highway. The teacher was going on and on and on about something that I didn’t understand, and Virgil kept watching the highway. Being lost and bored I decided that Virgil was more interesting than math so I whispered, “Virgil, what are ya doin’?”

  “Counting Chevy trucks with 6 or more wheels,” he answered.

  “How many so far?” I asked.

  “12 in the first half hour, but only 3 in the last 20 minutes.”

  “Can you give us the answer Virgil?” Asked the teacher.

  I thought we were both in for the famous, ‘Mr. Clifford, PAY ATTENTION lecture, and was ready to blame it all on Mickey who wasn’t even in the class when Virgil replied, “y = 40, Mr. Clifford.” That’s the way he was in math and science, but just about everything else was a struggle. He just didn’t relate to everyday life …he missed a lot.

  When it came his turn to read his poem he stood there in front of the class with a sheet of paper in his hands. He stood up straight, looked at the class, closed is eyes, and started.

  “I got a gal in Kansas City (Oh God I knew that one – he wouldn’t)

  Two cork legs and a rubber titty

  She can dance and she can prance

  She’s got a mustache in her pants.”

  Silence was the loudest sound in the room. Then I lost it and so did every other guy in the class. The girls sat there in stunned red-eared silence, but they wanted to crack up too. It was killing them.

  Mickey yelled over the commotion, “ Watch out for that Fredriks guy Virge. He’ll try to steal your poem.”

  Poor dumb Virgil. He just stood there smiling, as proud as a peacock. Mrs. Schneider sat at her desk looking down shaking her head from side to side. “Did you write that by yourself, Virgil?” she asked without looking up.

  “No, not really. My brother Bobby helped a little…maybe a lot. Is that okay?”

  “In this case, yes it is Virgil. Leave your paper. Class dismissed.” she said, still shaking head back and forth, and still staring at something on her desk. As we filed out of the room she had her head propped up in her hands with her elbows on the desk. All you could see was the top of her head, and I was pretty sure she was trying to get her eyeballs unstuck and back into their sockets.

  * * *

  Noon finally came; I grabbed my lunch and headed for Smokers Woods. It was a little grove in the park across from school where some juniors and seniors go to wolf down sandwiches and grab a couple of puffs, usually simultaneously. With a half eaten baloney on white in one hand and a Lucky Strike and warm Coke in the other I was going from group to group looking for Liz. When I found her she was at a picnic table with 4 other senior girls, having a lunch very much like mine.

  As I came toward them she looked up and said, “Well look who’s here, it’s Little Brick.” The problem was it came out sounding like, Little Prick, which was what I had feared for the last couple of years. This slip of the tongue didn’t escape the rest of that bunch and set off a roar of laughter, which I had to endure.

  I came back with, “So far you’re the only one who’s complained about it.” That set off a chorus of Oooooohs!

  Liz pinned me with those brown eyes and said, “Not in your wildest and wettest dreams big boy.”

  “Okay, okay!” I said, “I’m not going to duel with you when I’m unarmed. But, I’m going on record right now, my friends will call me Lee, and all others can call me Mr. Brickey, or anything they want except Little Brick. Little Brick is dead – let’s burry the bastard.” They could tell that I was dead serious, so I gave them my patented little boy grin and said, “Okay?”

  In return I got a smattering of: Okay; He’s dead; Sure, Lee; Mr. Brickey; Burry the bastard. Then I asked Liz if I could have a private word with her, which also brought on a chorus of Oooooohs! Those girls were starved for entertainment.

  As we walked around the Smoker’s Woods eating and puffing, I explained what had happened out in Amish Country. To my surprise she said that she would help out, I didn’t even have to grovel or promise anything. She said she knew Sarah (Hussmann), and they had gym class together, which would be perfect because she could be separated from the flock, and contact could be much more casual. She also said that Sarah wasn’t in school today.

  That had me worried. Maybe they had pulled her out of school early, or maybe she was already on her way to Indiana. I left a message to that effect for William, and that Liz was part of the team.

  Sarah was back in school the following Monday. Liz made initial contact, and we were off on a deep covert mission. Liz and I were on an adventure; playing spy and passing secret messages between star crossed lovers. We were making an effort to break down barriers, not between the free world and the Communist Block, but generations old barriers between families. Not that we cared much about the families, but we cared for a couple of round pegs in a square world.

  Liz told me that she had often heard Brick refer to Mack and me as Tom and Huck, but never knew who was Tom and who was Huck. She said, “You must be Tom Sawyer because Huck Finn would never have dreamed up a scheme like this.” I figured that being a former crook and all had given me a creative edge.

  * * *

  While all this business of being an undercover agent and foiling the forces of evil in the nation of Amish was taking place, a few things were taking place at my own kitchen table. Of course, I knew little about it because my table time was spent shoving as much food into my mouth as possible and swallowing it as quickly as I could.

  Fortunately, Brick gave me the short and one-sided version when we were working together at the station. I knew that several years ago mom had inherited a good-sized dairy farm in central Missouri near Sedalia. A tenant farmer who lived on the place and worked on shares managed the farm. He was doing all of the work, but only getting a portion of the proceeds. By the same token, he was getting an income, housing, and whatever else he could garner from garden and private livestock, with no investment.

  There were slight undercurrents of something not being quite right on the farm, so consequently, there were many discussions about what to do about it. The suggestions went everywhere from sell the place, move onto the place, have Curtis audit the books, and lynch the bastard. The last suggestion was mine, and I got three menacing stares.

  The upshot of all this was the folks had to make several trips to Sedalia to see the farmer, the banker, and the lawyer. These were generally – go up on Friday and come back on Saturday, or go up on Saturday and come back on Sunday. Either way it screwed up my weekends, because I had to stick close to the station, and now, I had Nan on my hands. Since I was so grown up and responsible now they figured it would be okay for Nan not to make those hurried and boring trips – lucky me!

  * * *

  Nancy Ann Brickey: Just turned fifteen; five foot two inches tall; about one hundred and ten pounds; high IQ – naturally; sandy blonde hair; blue eyes (both); cute for a sister; starting to get a nice figure (not that any of these hillbilly heathens had better notice); also a world class pain in the behind.

  Nan had a little weasel-faced boyfriend, Lester Henson. I’m sure Lester was a very fine chap (I always wanted to say that), but I could never get past the fact that he looked like a rodent. It was as much his manner as it was his physical appearance, although, the fact that he had a maximum of nose and a minimum of chin didn’t help. Anyway, Lester was sparkin my sister, and I felt pretty comfortable about it because I didn’t think Lester would know what was going on if it was going on in his shirt pocket. And if he ever did figure it out, then I’d just have to beat the crap out of him.

  Did you ever notice how brothers are the staunchest guardians of their sister’s virtue, and all the while they’re working on someone else’s sister?
It was lucky for me that Cynthia didn’t have any brothers, but she sure had a mean eyed old daddy.

  Nan didn’t seem to be too serious about ol’ Lester. She was always the first to criticize him, but let someone else take a shot at him and look out. As an example, the other night I made some crack about Weasel Boy, and she punched me in the stomach so hard I nearly lost my breath. Then she turned up her nose and said, “Lester carries a straight A average, Mr. Big Mouth, let’s see you top that.”

  Well, for one thing you can’t top an A average, you can only match it, and considering that homework only consumed about 30 minutes of my day, I wouldn’t have even tried. I couldn’t quite figure out why she should be impressed with an A average, when she had never stooped to the lowly level of a B+ in her life. Mom saved the situation by telling her not to punch her brother in the stomach, it wasn’t lady like, and besides I spit half a doughnut across the room. I don’t know if mom was more worried about my stomach, Nan’s manners, or her wallpaper.

  * * *

  The folks left for Sedalia on that Saturday morning in April, and I was stuck with the station and the sister. Mom gave Nan specific instructions regarding her Saturday night date; she had an eleven o’clock curfew and she was not to leave Doubling.

  Brick gave me even more specific instructions about Nan’s date. I had to know exactly where she was at all times, and make sure that she was never alone with Weasel Boy at any time. I was not to be her chaperone or her boss, but I was 100% responsible. Swell!

  Cynthia was upset – no Cynthia was steamed. There was a dance in Springfield with a live Rock and Roll band, and we weren’t going because I had other obligations. At least I wasn’t going. The last thing I heard from her was not to come around looking for her because she wouldn’t be there.

  So, Saturday night in Doubling…Yipee! I drove from one end of town and back to the other. That took about 4 ½ minutes, including a complete stop at the stop sign. This is probably a good place to fill you in on the geographic, socioeconomic, and historic features of the fair but small city of Doubling, Missouri.