MIDNIGHT GATES:
Richard Corwin
Copyright Richard Corwin 2007
Published at Smashwords
CONTENTS
Introduction
Last to Leave
A Deadly Sunday
Bull shot
Alone
Crowd Pleaser
The Great T.W. Milfred
The Twins
Class of 69
Gladys and Bruno
Greed Indeed
It’s the Little Things
Movin’ On
Something to Look Forward To
Dragging Bottom
A Breed Apart
Innocent Prisoner
The Magnifi cent Eco-Pod
Sewer Rats
First Class Plumbing
No Stone Removed
Carlos
Out of Passions Frame
The Collector
Oil slick 8
I began this collection of short stories, several years ago, to serve as a platform for capturing the curious and peculiar dreams that came to me in the middle of the night. Many, or rather most, found their inspiration from true events. The challenge was being able to remember them well enough, the following day, to write them down; an extremely tiring but satisfying exercise.
Many of the stories remained unwritten as they floated around in my head night after night, depriving me of priceless sleep; passing through the gateway of my sleeping mind, from whence they came, that opened after midnight. Their recurring visits made me pursue writing as an outlet in the hopes they would finally leave me alone once committed to paper. At times the same persistent guests would drop by every night for weeks; acting out their destructive, confusing, chaotic, and often abstract scenes with bizarre, unpredictable endings. With their assorted antics they were fun to mix into true life experiences then manipulated into interesting stories and finally into book form.
To improve my writing I joined the Chesapeake Bay Writers Club who inspired and encouraged me to develop and write a short story every two weeks. Each was designed to have a certain amount of mystery, a little humor and all with an element of surprise. All story lines are inspired by true experiences; some personal or from news accounts. It is not my intention to reveal, or apologize, for the ones which have more truth than others, or those that may be complete fabrications of an overactive imagination. It’s more fun for the reader to make those distinctions, if they feel it necessary, and decide what truth is in each story. Richard Corwin 2011
Deserts everywhere can be deceivingly beautiful but ruthless; hostile, hot, arid and dangerous for those daring enough to venture onto its treacherous, barren and dusty flat lands. By day the heat is relentless; swirling dust devils skip and dance over the heated sand and waves of rising heat distort the arid landscape with hallucinations of standing water. For those not familiar with desert living and survival, or are inexperienced in desert travel, it can be deadly. Food and water are scarce; as evidenced by the white bones of those who failed scattered over its sandy expanse. At night the cooler air offers welcome relief to nocturnal hunters who find the daytime heat oppressive and short on prey. Day or night, the desert is hostile; not a place to venture into without careful planning and extreme vigilance. Tonight will be the first time to leave the safety of his house and it makes him very tense. He had seen others perish quickly, violently; leaving him alone and uneasy. Night is coming and the sun will soon disappear; cactus shadows are already beginning to lengthen. Their dark gray silhouettes appear, like tall silent referees, waiting patiently to give the victor of the night a well deserved trophy of survival. The darkness of night will ignite his natural instincts for survival; his alertness will be at its highest point for the subtle night time sounds of deadly threats; a test of endurance will soon be played out in this harsh, arid and bleak sandy stadium. Time passes quickly. The remaining splinter of red desert sun descends rapidly below the horizon leaving long shadows which are quickly absorbed into the gloom; last vestiges of daylight pass and the air and earth begin to cool. The house becomes dark, but with a somber yellow glow from a few windows, then it, too, becomes another odd shape in the desert night. All too soon now his resilience will be tested. It’s time to hunt. He was born in this sun-bleached, weather beaten house he called home, as were generations of his family. They had all been raised and lived comfortably within its warm safe walls; struggling nocturnal survivors in the high country desert. He was the youngest and he led a solitary life in the safety of the old house. None of his family remained. All had left long ago, when they grew older, for a better place and many perished trying. He refused to give up; refused to give in to his loneliness. He knew no other place except this home where he was raised and he felt secure.
Time in the desert had no meaning; only night and day mattered. He would eat when he was hungry; sleep when tired. His life was very complex in its simplicity. He had eaten the last of the food. There was no more in the house. Hunger was now a new threat forcing him outside into his first treacherous night-time hunt; time when all desert living things came to life, in the desert’s cool air, to also hunt for food. It was now time to leave the safety of the darkened home. He crept near the opened door and stared into the darkness. There was a weak slice of moon washing everything in a ghostly color of blue gray. The shadows fell over the sand creating odd shapes; his eyes shifted rapidly from side to side searching for danger. He felt a deep dread but it soon gave way to his determination to feed his hunger. He cautiously slipped from the safety of the house, raced across the wide porch then slowly down the steps and quickly over the sand into the shadows. He positioned himself quietly in the darkness beneath a tall saguaro cactus. His movements stilled, so as not to betray his presence, he waited. He paused to listen then breathed again. He could hear nothing but the deserts’ cool breeze when it whispered over the sand and through the dry weeds brushing them over the ground. He lay quietly; motionless and listened. The hours passed with only the desert sand as his companion. Daylight would soon arrive. The relentless ache from hunger grew but he would wait until the last bit of shadow succumbed to daylight.
Despite his torment and failure to find badly needed food, he knew it was time to return. Cautiously he scurried back to the porch; his home and safety. It was still early but the desert heat would be unbearable as soon as the sun rose. He stood in the open doorway, turned and looked back nervously. The horizon was tinted with pink revealing the early dawn. His first night of hunting in search of food was not only unsuccessful it would also be his last. His final memory was a loud bang; his last sensation a fleeting numbness. “Hey mom,” the young boy yelled from the doorway, “I just killed another one of those damn scorpions.”
A Deadly Sunday. David shifted uneasily in the old recliner, sadly staring out of his living room window at the empty, quiet front yard. He couldn’t help but notice the yard looked pretty bad; he had not cut the grass for a couple of weeks. Saturday was his least favorite day of the week and this one was especially dreadful because it was one month to the day since he, and his wife Theresa, had separated. Usually, he mowed the yard on Saturday, but not today. Mowing the lawn was the last thing on his mind. He thought back to when they were married just three years ago and, as their anniversary neared, the marriage was nearing an end. Theresa had run home to her mother with a broken heart. It was his fault and he admitted it. But he didn’t think it was such a big deal; just a simple, stupid mistake in judgment. Tomorrow she would return to their small rented house to get more of her things and, for added annoyance, take the cat, too. But the most humiliating thing would be this happening in front of all the neighbors and her attorney. She wouldn’t do this on a week day, while everyone was working, and he wondered who else would come with her, so she could add insult to injury. He wished he could go to work as usual tomorrow and forget about what was going to happen; ignore it like a bad dream and let her take whatever she wanted.
But he had been subpoenaed and had to be there. Sunday was a busy day at work but he would have to forfeit what little pay he would have made and stay home. And, if not bad enough, he would have the embarrassment of watching helplessly while she collected anything, everything she wanted. He anxiously paced the floor looking for a way out of his predicament. One came to mind. It was risky but he would take the chance; better than losing everything. David and Theresa began dating shortly after they met while attending a social economics night class at Cleveland’s Fenn College. The college was convenient because it was in the city, not far from Tabor Brothers Department store where they worked, allowing them to attend night school without interfering with their work. Both were surprised to discover they worked in the same downtown store but on different floors. He told her he worked in the first floor ladies shoe department and admitted he was not a particularly good shoe salesman; seldom meeting his required weekly sales and never making anything but his base salary of fifty-five dollars a week.
He had yet to make a commission in the three years he had been working there. But the manager liked him anyway, admiring the fact he was in school at night trying to better himself and he was reliable. Theresa told him she worked as a fitter in the second floor ladies lingerie department. Besides selling sexy lingerie she devoted a lot of time fitting clients with undergarments to shore up their sagging anatomies, or fit them with either garments with added padding for those embarrassingly less-than-full anatomies. They both laughed at images of what a poor groom would think as he watched parts being removed on his honeymoon night. David and Theresa scheduled their dates when they had time between classes and work. Both agreed it was best, for the time being, their dating be kept secret because store policy discouraged employees from going out with co-workers.
Then, after nearly a year of secretly dating, they were ceremoniously married and settled into a routine of work and school as two very happy people. Their employer was more tolerant of married employees because they tended to be more reliable, responsible, and supportive of each other at work while being dedicated to the store. David’s sales began to show marked improvements and he was promoted to assistant manager in charge of the children’s shoe department on the second floor next to the woman’s lingerie department. It wasn’t long before he discovered selling second floor children’s shoes was not a profession which fully occupied his time or his mind nor did it inspire him to pursue a full time career as a manager of the children’s shoe department. What he did discover, however, was the lingerie department was on the other side of the department’s stock room wall. Theresa was just around the corner where they could see each other, between customers or when times allowed during the day, and have moments of marital bliss in the lingerie department’s fitting rooms. He also found there were fewer kids looking for shoes than women; kids were louder and difficult to control; the shoes were cheaper and this caused him to hustle in order to sell twice as many shoes as in the women’s shoe department, just to make his weekly sales target. Sometimes he would bring a book to read when not in a dressing room with Theresa and boredom forced him to look for something else to pass the time. It seemed only natural to make a game of rearranging shoe boxes in the stock room; shuffling them from shelf to shelf to simplify taking inventory and making it easier to find different shoe styles and sizes.
He would shuffle them from display case to display racks; to the show-room floor and then back to the stock room. He was always looking for the perfect balance, between the displays and stock room. Shoe box shuffling became his game to curb boredom. David arranged his coin collection, his father’s gold watch, two hundred eighteen dollars in cash, and other prized possessions, in a special basement hiding place. It seemed like a good idea to keep his few treasures a secret from Theresa’s visit. Maybe she wouldn’t find them or, better yet, forget he had them. As he went about hiding his modest fortune he thought about his job. He thought about how boring it had been; how it all went to hell in a hand basket in one afternoon and how, despite being monotonous, he would like to have his old job back.
When he was satisfied his valuables were safe, he returned to the living room, removed a newly purchased gun from the desk, went to the kitchen, loaded the pistol and placed it on the kitchen counter beneath a dish towel. Here he planned to surprise Theresa when she least expected it; grinned when he imagined the surprised look on her face when he pulled the trigger. It would really shock her.
The store’s second floor ceilings were twenty feet high and the children’s tiny shoes filled the stock room shelves. The wall of little boxes was almost ten feet high with two feet of shoe boxes piled on the top of the highest shelf. This formed a barrier looking like a perfectly laid brick wall between the lingerie department fitting rooms and shoe department. The six foot stock room ladder was just tall enough to allow David to retrieve the upper most shoe boxes without too much trouble. It wasn’t long; however, before he discovered that a ladies fitting room, where Theresa worked, was on the other side of the uniformly stacked tiny shoe boxes.
Standing on the top most rung of the ladder he carefully adjusted the rows of small boxes to give him a clear look at the unsuspecting, scantily clad, and sometimes naked, women in the fitting room. Long boring days, in the children’s shoe department, soon turned into days filled with exciting glances at scantily dressed ladies painfully struggling into their new figures; into lingerie almost inappropriate for human anatomy. The view was more entertaining because of four mirrors around the dressing room walls. All angles of the feminine anatomy could be seen as they twisted, turned, groaned and grunted into new shapes.
But it was the more attractive, naturally endowed customers who boosted his spirits and testosterone. As Sunday passed he thought of how much he still loved Theresa; how he wished he could turn the clock back to the split second at work that changed everything. He deeply regretted the moment when he lost his balance standing on the very top of the stock room ladder then falling amid a hail of baby shoes and boxes. Landing head first into the ladies dressing room, he found himself at the feet of a mystified and shocked bare breasted young woman. She was being helped into exotic nightgowns, brassieres, and corsets by an equally bewildered Theresa. It wasn’t just any customer; it was Theresa’s sister being fitted for her wedding and honeymoon wardrobe.
David wormed his way out of any reprimands, or losing his job, by explaining he had no idea there was a ladies dressing room behind those shoe boxes. Worming his way out of a tight spot with his wife would be a whole different matter, though. Despite all the hassles, he couldn’t get the sight of Theresa’s nearly naked sister out of his mind. She was almost as beautiful as Theresa but her breasts were a little large.
David’s manager re-assigned him to the harmless bargain basement men’s wear until a full investigation could be completed and a new stock room ceiling constructed. He felt like he was in a Goodwill drop-off store room. The piles and smell of out-dated, musty, overstocked and returned merchandise, and rowdy customers, depressed him. Now he had to sell three times what he sold before to make his draw. He fell back into deficit sales and into deep depression.
Through all his begging Theresa didn’t believe him and, after a few tearful nights and accusations of being unfaithful, she left him. Now she was coming back to take more things she claimed to have forgotten in her hasty departure. He would show her that she couldn’t get away with thinking about divorcing him; leaving him broken hearted and broke. He wouldn’t beg anymore. Saturday was gone.
Before turning in for the night David nervously paced the kitchen floor, returned to where he hid the loaded gun and looked under the napkin to make sure it was still there. He picked it up again, checked the trigger; checked to be sure it was fully loaded and ready to fire. When he finished he carefully covered it again with the dish towel. He turned out the lights, went upstairs and went to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come easily so he read from his favorite book, “Getting Even.” After a few minutes his eyes tired, he laid the book to one side, sobbed a few times thinking of his love for his estranged wife and her sister’s full breasts, and then fell asleep.
The following morning he called the bargain basement floor manager and explained he would not be in until later. Then he showered, dressed and drove to McDonalds for an egg biscuit and coffee. He returned home to wait for Theresa and whoever else she felt necessary to bring with her; maybe her sister. He went to the kitchen, picked up the corner of the dish towel, looked at the gun again then sat down nervously in the living room, ate the egg biscuit, sipped on the hot coffee and waited; the back of his neck and hands were wet with perspiration. As he was finishing his last sip of coffee he heard the distinctive sound of her sports car.
He stood, peered through the closed blinds and watched as Theresa’s small green car stopped in the driveway. He hoped she would be alone and waited for a few minutes to see if she had been followed. He saw no other car. For effect he would go to the kitchen, look sad and wait. Theresa was beautiful and he regretfully watched her as she walked slowly and deliberately up the sidewalk to the house. She was bra-less and as she walked her breasts bounced just enough to excite him and he couldn’t help but wonder if her sister’s breasts would bounce, too.
Watching her made him remember the good days and mutual lust- filled nights. He was relieved to see she was alone. He didn’t need any complications. Apparently, she didn’t think she needed anyone with her. He was relieved because it really simplified things. He rushed through the last of his coffee, threw the empty container across the room into the trash can next to the desk, went to the kitchen and stood near the towel. He felt lucky. There would be no witnesses. He put on a sad face. Then he splashed cold water in his eyes to make them red. The door bell rang and he calmly waited a few seconds before he yelled for her to come in. He didn’t want her to think he had been watching her. When she opened the door she saw him in the kitchen standing near the sink with his back to her. David turned his head slightly and asked her not to say anything; told her it would only make matters worse and he made sure she saw his gloomy face and reddened eyes. Then he turned around to face her and motioned her into the kitchen saying nothing.
Theresa closed the front door softly and went into the kitchen. God, she’s so beautiful; I wish I didn’t love her so much. Those were his thoughts as he yanked the gun from under the dish towel quickly and raised it level with her chest. The first shot was well aimed; just above her left nipple as planned. Before she could say anything or scream, the second shot hit her right one; dead center. She gasped in astonishment; tried to yell at him to stop but he continued to shoot. The gun was finally empty and her “T” shirt was fully soaked exposing both breasts through the flimsy cotton material. Shocked she struggled for breath.
He ran to her, put his hand over her mouth and she fell into his arms. He threw her over his shoulder, quickly carried her upstairs to the bedroom, undressed her, and threw her onto the unmade bed, ripped off his own clothes then rolled on top of her. They both laughed uncontrollably; the water pistol had done its job.
Bull shot.
While sitting on the porch of the old ranch house, in the early evening dusk, a red cattle truck slowly approached then parked down the road leading past the 1,200-acre ranch I was looking after while the owners were away for a couple of weeks. A light rain had just started in advance of an approaching storm. I could see there were two men in the truck who made no move to get out. They seemed to be waiting for something with the rear of the truck close to the pasture gate. My first thought was they must have known the owners were away and intended to steal a few fat steers from the ranch. I didn’t think they saw me because they made no move to leave; probably waiting for the safety of darkness. I went inside, slipped on my rubber boots, grabbed the ancient 410 shotgun used for hunting quail, from above the fireplace, loaded it then put a few extra shells in my pocket just in case.
I went out the back door to the barn and called the old collie, useless as a watchdog, then walked around the house and down the long driveway to the main road. In case they saw me they would see I was armed and with a dog (from a distance the old rain-soaked dog looked more ferocious than he really was). My heart raced not knowing what to expect; what to do. Were they armed? They didn’t move. Maybe they hadn’t seen me yet. It was 1947. I was eighteen, just out of high school.
The city had been my choice of places to live because I really wasn’t cut out for living and working on the family farm. The owners of the neighboring farm were friends of the family and it was promised I would tend to things while they were gone. Had I known of the approaching events, I would certainly have begged to stay home. But it sounded like fun for a couple of weeks and I agreed. Now I wished I hadn’t. I had never been in a situation like this. I was shaking in my rubber boots. If anything happened, I would be entirely on my own. Even if the phone worked, nobody could reach me in time to help. The ranch was at least twenty miles from town, and the nearest neighbor was ten miles away. A severe thunderstorm was quickly approaching. Thunderstorms in western Oklahoma usually left roads impassable, telephones and power out, and streams swollen. A brief storm the night before killed the phone but spared the electricity. Ranches such as this were entirely cut off from outside help for several days, sometimes weeks, after such storms.
Then it struck with little warning. Sudden high winds roared through the shuddering trees followed with torrents of blowing, cold rain; the sky darkened to a deep grey; gloom covered the farm. Blinding lightning and thunder, like kettle-drums, was nearly continuous; filling the black emptiness; adding to my deepening despair. Everything shook, including me. I could hear the windows, doors and kitchen dishes rattle. Then the farmhouse lights went out completing my sense of absolute misery. I was left standing in the middle of the driveway without a lantern or flashlight, desperate to rely on the bright flashes of lightning for watching the intruders.
Shadows of the dog and I flickered here and there with each angry outburst of lightning and then we would melt into the darkness. Then during a brief flash from a nearby lightning strike, I noticed the men had moved the truck farther away to the intersection of the driveway and the main road. Outside the truck a couple of shaky lights, I guessed were flashlights, were flickering between the pasture and the truck. I wiped the rain from my face and stopped long enough to get my eyes accustomed to the darkness again.
More lightening revealed they had lowered the loading ramp at the back of the truck and were pulling and pushing one of the prize steers up the slippery ramp. He was twisting his head and bellowing loud enough that I could hear him over the thunder. It was time for me to do something, but what? The rain drenched old collie had had enough excitement and ran back to the house leaving me alone in the muddy driveway. I thought the least I should do was to get down close enough to see them; maybe shoot the gun then run like hell. Maybe the blast would discourage them; maybe scare them off.
Between flashes of lightning, while it was dark, I crept down the narrow road trying to keep my footing in the slippery mud. When I got within about fifty feet of where they were struggling with the bull, my feet slipped out of my boots, which had become stuck deep in the mud, and when I fell the gun went off. With the ringing in my ears, from the shotgun blast, I barely heard a painful cry, “I’m hit,” from the man who had been pushing the steer as he fell out of the truck and into the mud. If they hadn’t seen me before now, they were certainly as surprised as I was when the gun went off.
The steer, also frightened by the shotgun blast, immediately hooked his horns in the seat of the man who had been pulling from the front, tossed him over the side, turned quickly and dashed down the ramp. With the rope trailing behind he began to gore the wounded man on the ground as the other frightened thief ran up the slippery, muddy road to escape the enraged animal. The startled bull soon lost interest in his mud and blood soaked victim who had recovered enough to hastily crawl up the road to his friend. Both men were cursing and the agitated bull stood his ground looking at them. As near as I could make out they were stranded because the road was washed out from the rising water with the bull between them and the safety of their truck now being threatened by the swelling tide of storm water.
I managed to get up, gun still in hand, and as fast as I could run in the mud, without my boots, returned to the house out of breath, shaking, wet and muddy. Groping blindly in the darkened house I found a lantern and dry matches then cleaned up as best I could. The storm subsided slightly and then I began to worry. I needed to get the steer back in the pasture before he ran away but in the rain filled night there was no possibility of it happening. Besides, by now I had no idea where the bull or the two men were and the men could be armed. I went to the living room, still holding onto the old shotgun and lantern, and lay on the sofa near the window worried about what the rest of the night would bring. The men couldn’t go far until the flooded streams went down. Maybe they would come back to get the steer or maybe get even with me for spoiling their thieving plans. I spent a tense, sleepless night, listening to the howling wind rattle every loose thing in and outside the house. The loud creaking of the big barn door especially worried me, as it swung open in the strong gusts of wind and then slammed shut with a loud bang. Could it be the men or the wind?
I decided I wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. If I got home after this, I was going to enter college and stay away from farm life. The next morning the outside world looked less threatening but heavy clouds still darkened the sky. It was too muddy outside to walk anywhere safely. When I looked out the window down the driveway, my jaw dropped in amazement. The truck, the men and the steer were gone. Some steers had wandered into the driveway, but most were still in the pasture. I knew I had to go looking for the missing bull. My intense fear and anxiety of the night before returned and knotted my stomach; like someone had punched me. Sometime during the day the phone was the first thing to work so I immediately called the sheriff’s office and reported the events of the night before.
Because the bridges had been washed out, he would have to drive into the next county to get to the farm. It would probably be a couple of days before he could get there and then only if the weather improved and at the moment weather forecasts were not promising. But he would try. I was anxious to find the bull and truck and solve the mystery of their disappearance. I tried but was unable to reach the owners who were away buying sheep in Arkansas. Maybe, I hoped, the bad weather would delay them long enough so I could get everything cleared up and returned to normal before they returned. When the rains finally stopped, after a morning of light drizzle, I found another pair of rubber boots (mine were still stuck in the muddy driveway) and went outside to survey the damage. As well as the truck and bull those two rustlers should have known better than try to put a bull into a red truck the fence was gone and the road had vanished. Everything had changed.
Only mounds of mud, where the front yard ended and the corn field used to be, were between the house and the far-off woods. The small stream and fish pond near the barn had disappeared and in their place was a river of rushing brown water dividing the farm nearly in half. I knew it would be days before I could leave; before anyone could get here. Then I thought of neighbors Raphael and Alisa who lived on a small farm several miles distant. I hoped they were ok and survived the unseasonably heavy rains. Ten miles was quite a hike and impossible on the flooded roads in this kind of weather. I promised myself to check on them as soon as the rain stopped.
Raphael and Alisa were young newly weds from a small Central American community; devout Catholics, unemployed, childless and living on a small 2-acre farm a few miles South of where I was farm sitting. Raphael had been working as a part-time, free-lance, farm hand and Alisa took in laundry to make ends meet. At times I had asked them to help me around the farm to give them a little extra cash. As farming suffered from recent foul weather, Raphael found jobs scarce. The little money Alisa made washing and ironing was not enough to keep food on the table. Every so often I would stop by with some steaks from the freezer but they refused offers of money, unless they worked for it, saying God would answer their prayers; God would provide for them, but thanks for the steaks anyway.
Their home was a lonely two room, ancient weathered log cabin perched atop a small knoll in the middle of their farm. Nearby they kept a few chickens in a crudely constructed chicken coop, one cow that was free to pasture inside their fenced yard and a few ducks wandering aimlessly from stream to pond. The barn had collapsed years before but was usefully providing firewood when needed. Inside their modest home kerosene was the only source of light and cooking. A fireplace provided heat but was often used for cooking when there was little or no money for kerosene.
Inside the cabin were several places where candles were burning on a couple of small tree stumps. One such wax covered pedestal was placed in front of a sap-stained wall they declared to be a miraculous vision of Jesus praying on the Sermon Mount; a heavenly message, they declared. Another candled stump was placed near an old dirty handkerchief, Alisa rescued from a laundry basket, and carefully suspended between two nails. It was adorned with a smudge in the image of the Virgin Mary. Several lesser Prophets appeared in various venerated pieces of wood, rust stained tools, and an old glass mirror.
Each day these two dedicated Christians would kneel before the holy images, in prayer, asking for heavenly intervention; begged to be rescued from their troubles and saved from the Devil’s work. The less intercession they received the more passionate their prayers became. They prayed day and night for help; for work; for anything to make their lives more livable. Now the rains came; it was the work of Satan, they said. He had put a death grip on the weather. He was going to squeeze it until all the violent rain and screaming wind destroyed everything.
First the chickens stopped laying eggs from fright caused by the relentless thunder, lightening and heavy rains. Then the terrified cow dried up; stopped giving milk and lay unmoving in the mud. Now their farm was washing away with the ducks. They were getting desperate. The weather situation worsened. Raphael and Alisa lit more candles; prayed until their knees were red from kneeling and the candle wax covered the stumps. And the sap-stain images seemed to become more defined; more alive in response to their pleas; the handkerchief’s smudged figure became more distinct and the Prophets whispered encouragements; signs, they would swear, God, although he was busy in such a storm, was listening to their petitions.
But the two-acre farm flooded around them and the frightened chickens disappeared along with parts of the farm and ducks, but the terror-stricken cow stayed close to the cabin. The cabin shook; shingles fluttered away like frightened birds and disappeared into the dark gray sky. Rain drops sang like chimes as they fell into buckets placed around the cabin, and the wind, like a church organ, bellowed and growled. Desperately they prostrated themselves to pray and light more candles. Nights of prayer without sleep. Hopelessness seemed to be their final reward and they begged for a sign of hope but the storm raged on. The two-acre farm became a small muddy island with the leaky cabin perched on top; surrounded by rising brown waters. As they prayed, they watched the flood waters tear at the land, washing away the small, carefully planted garden. Corn, beans, squash, potatoes and carrots all washed away.
And then, God finally answered. I thought about the couple and decided to take the rugged overland but shorter route to their house in case they were in real trouble. But it was a couple of days before the flood waters had subsided enough to get out and hike the ten miles. When I finally got there, I was relieved to see the cabin was intact but the river remained. A few hundred feet from the door of their cabin was the new river and a muddy red pickup truck buried up to its axle.
As we were discussing the events of the last few days Raphael said he hoped to one day build a small fish camp called, “The Mud River Miracle Fish Camp,” if the river stayed. Their lives seemed to have taken a turn for the better, after the storm, and despite the damage their farm looked pretty good. They couldn’t wait to tell me how they survived the terrifying storm and, “the miracle.”
When God finally answered their prayers, the terrible storm ended and, as he and Alisa were kneeling in prayer, they saw out of the broken window in the middle of the newly created river an old, storm battered red pick-up truck bouncing and floating towards them. But the most curious thing, which happened, was along the muddy embankment. The biggest bull they had ever seen was chasing two men towards their muddy cabin; one man had a pretty bad limp and the other had no pants. As they neared the cabin they hurled themselves into the river to escape the charging bull and then disappeared into the fast moving muddy waters. Seeing their frightened cow, the bull jumped over the sagging fence, ran over to her, as if to protect her, the weather-beaten truck came to rest on what remained of their muddy yard and the chickens and ducks returned.
As for the two guys, they were never seen again and no one returned to claim the truck. I didn’t tell them about my harrowing experience or how I figured the missing truck and bull ended up in their yard. It was their miracle.
Epilogue.
Raphael is now able to get more jobs, using his miracle truck to haul firewood and other things for neighbors, and Alisa takes in a more select laundry. The cow has produced a happy calf and a very contented bull. The owners returned soon after with a truck load of sheep and were happy to see their farm had survived the storm; giving me a bonus for saving it. They never asked and I never told them about the missing bull, the two would-be rustlers or Raphael and Alisa’s good fortune. As for the sap stain, soiled handkerchief and other icons, they now have proper alters and scented candles; the river continues to flow with a population of trout and Raphael’s “Mud River Miracle Fish Camp,” is prospering. And I was happy to be in college, far away from such a place. Life is good.
Alone.
Leonard was afraid; dazed, as he lay perfectly still in the dark. He could smell the sweat and blood of battle. His blood and sweat. And he could taste the dust on his clothes, collected from months of constant wear. The cool brass buttons on his coat, which had been rolled into a pillow and placed under his head, pressed comfortably on the back of his neck. For a bit of familiarity, he was grateful. Everything else seemed oddly strange.
He could only remember bits and pieces of his accident. Images of bloody battles, the smell of gunpowder, and screams of the dying; cries of the living jolted him awake into uncontrolled spasms. His insides were shaking. He felt a cold sweat over him; unable to move his legs and arms or escape the dreams or the loneliness he felt. Leonard was afraid. He could only lie there alone in the darkness. He could not move to escape the pain racking his body. But he was confident he would eventually overcome his injuries to fight again.
Repeatedly he tried in desperation to move his fingers, arms, legs and feet checking for injuries feeling very little except the constant painful throbbing. He lay there quietly; eyes closed. He was very aware of his head and neck wounds and he searched in vain for other undamaged nerves revealing life in the rest of his body. His chest hurt, too. He was thankful but worried where he found no pain. His eyes were swollen shut and it felt like a great thunder storm was approaching behind his eyes. That was the worst feeling. The darkness, though, was peaceful. Through his fear and pain he welcomed the peace and quiet. Thinking about other things calmed his anxieties but the throbbing soreness in his body was a reminder of the accident.
The clammy gloom crept over him again and with it came relief. He slept soundly. Leonard awoke accompanied by hazy images of his life flickering across his swollen eye lids. Not quite awake he watched the vivid images; seeing his mother send him to school with his lunch pail; school yard fights; his beautiful wife Harriet on their wedding day; his adventurous days as a seaman in the Caribbean. He imagined he could hear the thundering sounds of ship’s cannons firing and smell the acrid, spent gun powder when he fought privateers before the war. He could almost feel and smell the salt spray of the ocean while sailing in a sudden squall. It all seemed so real and so close.
Then a smile creased his parched lips when he remembered meeting Harriet while on shore leave in Philadelphia. It seemed like yesterday when he fell in love and proposed to her. When she bashfully agreed, like some school girl, to be his wife, it was the happiest moment of his life. She convinced him to give up sailing and he agreed with her, maybe farming wouldn’t be so bad. Leonard was happy to become a Pennsylvania farmer. It was something he often thought about during those lonely nights at sea. They were both happy but their happiness was destined to last but a few short years. Inflamed war cries rose throughout the country like the temperature in summer. Uncontrollable political and social hatred boiled over and plunged the country into war. Friends, families, neighbors became enemies, went to battle and many died or disappeared. Leonard wanted to fight with his father, brother and friends.
Despite his mother’s pleadings, and Harriet’s protests, he marched away from the safety of his farm, love of his family and into the mad death-trap of war. It wasn’t long before he was in battle and it wasn’t what he thought it was going to be. Fight gallantly, defeat the enemy in gray and come home a hero. Maybe get a medal or two. Instead he watched in terror as crimson- stained gray and blue bodies fell, some intact, some torn apart like victims of a crazed butcher; uniforms and remains covered with hungry flies at day’s end; ground soaked with each others’ blood. No matter what color the uniform, the blood looked the same.
This war was different than he expected. In spite of his years fighting sea battles, he was unprepared for this carnage. Ships were different. Sea water washed away the blood and bodies from ship’s decks. In his years of fighting sea battles he had never before seen this many dead. Nothing could possibly compare to this war. He never thought about it before but death was the same no matter where you were, what battle was being fought, what Jesus you asked forgiveness from, or whose side you were on. The end was the same God or no God.
Now in the distance he thought he could hear the rumblings of cannon fire; feel the earth shake. He was getting tired again. The painful throbbing was easing up in much of his body. A sort of numbness was making sleep come easier. While drifting into a shallow sleep he thought back to the wonderful days at sea with a lonely sort of sadness. He remembered how he was comforted, especially at night, listening to the ship’s rigging groan under the strain of full sails. He could almost feel the ship’s rising and falling over the large rolling ocean swells; gently rolling as he stood on the deck. He remembered watching the clusters of phosphorous creatures following in the ship’s wake; blending into the stars on the horizon. He sensed the soothing cool Caribbean breezes, smelled the damp, stuffy, salt-air of the ocean’s humidity and, like a cradle, the soft rise and fall of the ship.
Then a tear rolled down his cheek from his swollen eyelids when a different image appeared. It was his mother’s grief. He had not been there to comfort her when she got news his father was killed at Shiloh. He thought about his brother who enlisted after he did; wondered where he was and if he was alive and well. News was difficult to get in these days of war. He would see him soon and they would return victorious from war together. His parched smile returned and he fell into a deeper and more peaceful slumber. He felt good. Everything would work out and be good again. He slept. Leonard slowly awakened to the unusual peace and comfort he felt in the darkness.
He became encouraged when his fingers seemed to tingle as he tried to move them. A good sign, he thought. Remembering how the reigns were tight around his hands, before the accident, and remembering the awful pain, as he was dragged off the wagon, brought about more memories of the accident. The supply wagon he was driving was racing out of control, as his company was in fast retreat from the advancing enemy, when the cross tree broke sending the wagon in one direction, he and the horses in another. His hands were entangled in the reigns.
He couldn’t remember everything but he did remember that someone riding beside him tried cutting the reigns; tried to free him from the frightened animals. He remembered a lot but then nothing more. His head and neck injury, he thought, was where the horses probably kicked him when he fell. Then it grew darker and quieter. Strangely, he thought, it seemed each time he awakened it was dark. He found the stillness puzzling. There should be screams and shouts of grief and pain; the smell of death and dying, and the prayers of gratitude of the survivors. Maybe it was night time; everyone sedated, asleep or passed out from exhaustion. Except for the distant thunder of cannons, it seemed too quiet.
He knew the war had ended for him, with the accident, but something was wrong. He didn’t remember if the doctor had been by to see him and he wanted to find out how bad his injuries were. Maybe one of them was still here. He tried to call out but his mouth and throat were parched and hurt from lack of water. He tried to swallow but there was no spit. He bit his tongue in hopes it would draw some moisture. It didn’t. His legs were still numb; not a good sign. His arms ached terribly but he couldn’t move them. Maybe they were broken from being dragged before he was cut free from the run-away horses.
He lay there trying to find a way to get someone’s attention but his efforts only tired him more. Despite the pain, Leonard was happy to be alive. He was aware of dampness and a musty odor in the air mixing with the ugly stench of war. Mugginess filled his sinuses until they ached but the throbbing around his eyes and head began to disappear gradually. Distant thundering sounds made him slightly nervous but they too, began to fade with his pain. He slipped into unconsciousness as the far-off thunder rolled, rumbled and echoed through the war torn valley.
Outside, lightning could be seen splitting the sky beyond the tree covered hills and a gentle, cleansing summer rain fell to wash away the blood of battle; maybe give life, while he slept, to the mounds of bare earth covering rows of shallow, hastily dug battle-field graves.
Crowd Pleaser.
It’s always been man’s nature to subjugate; to have dominion over his environment. A fevered pursuit with the belief it’s man’s manifest destiny to vanquish. Stories of these great wars are found everywhere. They’re depicted as glyphs in caves, on papyrus, sheepskin, and paper; inscribed in clay, walls of tombs and public memorials that testify to man’s relentless struggle to conquer, to command and to possess. Conquerors come in assorted sizes and are found in as many different arenas of public combat and whatever genre imagination develops. Some warriors are borne from political issues; social or economical irregularities.
Then there are those competitors who fight for the emotional excitement found in a wide assortment of popular physical sports. These sports are choreographed to keep our interest by propelling us into a frenzy separating us into camps of pro and con—bad guy versus good guy—into colonies of fanatics where we applaud the winner and, sometimes, worship the loser.
The pain is blinding; intolerable as blood spews from the nose and mouth leaving a red trail behind. Why did this happen? How did it happen? Walk slowly, against the wall where it’s safe. Think. Think of how this happened. After vigorous training, to be the biggest, fastest and meanest, it should never have happened. But carelessness allowed this pain. Somehow the difficult training wasn’t enough. Not today. There had been many days, many periods of working out; training; trained to enter with head high, muscles flexing. Then enter with quick moves because there would always be some new and surprising challenges. Be prepared for anything but fear nothing. There is nothing to fear.
The red trail began to thicken and darken. Flies hummed and buzzed and followed him. The pain was overwhelming. Flies made it worse. Walking now slowed. Exhaustion caused legs to weaken. Don’t give up. The mind can’t accept defeat. Winning was the game. The crowds stood and cheered. Remember how they always stood and clapped loudly, shouted their approval when there was victory; the men providing rich rewards for superior performances and remember how great it was to be famous and popular. What happened? More blood and more pain.
The crowd clapped and roared approval. There seems to be no reason. It seemed odd they should be happy seeing so much agony; so much blood. There was never pain or blood before. Look down at the blood. See how it has stained the flowers they threw into the arena. Roses are red. How could it be? Training had been hard and long. To be the best, the biggest and toughest but now there’s this suffering. The red, green and white ribbon, wear proudly, is testimony to greatness. It causes the crowds to come alive when they see it. It was put on before the game. The man walking nearby is responsible for the injuries. The crowd yells louder; they stand and clap longer. More blood sprays from the nose and mouth staining the flowers. The onlooker’s shouts become louder. No more walking; rest now. Legs quivering with weakness. Shallow coughing; shallow breathing; blood gushes from nose and mouth dripping down neck and chest. Too weak to go on. Can’t understand what’s happening.
The pain is almost gone but the blood keeps flowing. The red trail begins and ends. Once more around the stadium. Weakness makes it difficult to continue. Look first at the fly covered blood then at the standing crowd then at the man who had been walking alongside stops to speak softly; almost regretfully. Now on knees the pain is almost gone. Look up at the crowd. Hear only muffled praises for such a good show. Eyes dimming and becoming heavy. It will feel good to just lie down and rest. Head slumps to the ground; legs tremble and then shallow but rapid breathing. A warrior’s passing thought. Get up; must win.
The sounds of the crowd fades into a low, muffled rumble. Where is the man who defeated him? How was it he could have inflicted so much pain? The man had been the teacher of this great student, who had learned the trade well; well enough to be the best; well enough to fight the best. But something happened that wasn’t quite familiar; wasn’t quite right. There’s the smell of blood as it pools. It smells sickening; sweet. Maybe this is the prize for being the best. This was the final performance of the greatest. This man, the teacher, was also the greatest and maybe this was the teacher’s reward; to be the conqueror of the best.
Perhaps it was their greatness, which created this noisy crowd. The teacher was dressed differently today. More brilliantly than before; he glitters in the sunlight. Eyes slowly closed shutting out the shimmering figure standing in front and dimming the bright sunlight. This was, indeed, a wonderful performance. A loud bang and breathing stopped.
The crowd stood up and roared and clapped. The matador walked over to the fence, handed his bloody sword to his assistant, strutted around the stadium, holding high over his head the bull’s colored ribbon, and the crowds cheered and threw in more flowers. This was without a doubt a dangerous, well trained and respected bull. He was a real crowd pleaser. As men raked sand over the bloody trail the matador collected flowers, waved his hat to the ladies and a new bull was made ready.
The Great T.W. Milfred.
Thornton Wallace Milfred’s life began as normally as anyone would expect of a child growing up in a small farming neighborhood where everyone knew each other; what they were doing and with whom; where there were fund raising spaghetti dinners at the local schools, church bake sales and county fairs with plenty of Four-H crafts and blue ribbons to go around. The Milfreds’ were the first to settle here after rafting down the Ohio River from Pennsylvania in 1786. George Milfred had been given this tract of land, in the new territory, for his military service during the American Revolution. He and his family found their way to their new home near the banks of a small valley creek that emptied into the Ohio River; a spectacular frontier feat of which Thornton was rightfully proud. The old homestead, where the first Milfred, Benjamin, was born in 1787, was not far from where the family now lived.
River floods had exiled the settlers, several generations before, to higher grounds. The Milfred’s were respected in their small community because their ancestors were the first settlers in the valley and they shared their heritage, time and help with grateful neighbors. There was nothing during Thornton’s early childhood development that revealed any spectacular hidden talents; his schoolwork was just average; he didn’t excel in sports nor were there any clues to what his destiny might be; what kept his interest long enough to pursue as a career. He was small and frail, as a young boy, and, with an arm load of books, always looking for a quiet place to read. When he was born his parents agreed he should carry on the family names and have the first names of each of his grandfathers; Thornton from his father and Wilder from his mother; a combination of names Thornton would find a burden to live with as he grew older.
Thornton’s father, Bud, was raised as a Southern Baptist who believed work was the natural state of man and pretty much managed the operation of the farm without Thornton’s help. To make ends meet he worked part time as a mechanic in the local school bus garage; taking care of farm matters as time allowed; the days physically long and tiring. Bud tried but wasn’t accepted by the Army when the Second World War began because of his weight and flat feet, so he devoted his life to family and farm with occasional ceremonies to remember those who were fighting.
His mother, Kate, was a dedicated Catholic who ruled the home with Vatican-like passion and was grateful Bud didn’t march off to war. She was seldom out of the kitchen, except to take care of her small garden or collect eggs from the hen house; tasks she happily shared with her daughters. In the evenings, she was usually in the cramped sewing room, either making dresses, mending school clothes, repairing split seams or replacing missing buttons, especially on Bud’s cover-alls. Because of his small, delicate size, and disinterest in the farm, Thornton was of no help with the chores and seldom around when needed to help with house work.
With only the girls and Thornton, the farm never quite became as large or self sustaining as Bud had hoped after his son was born. Even though Thornton didn’t have an interest, in farming, his father was proud anyway because he made up for it by being a remarkable student. Family arguments were rare except when hardheaded Baptist and traditional Catholic ideology couldn’t agree but only on Sunday. After Church, school or when he was in trouble, Thornton fled to his hiding place at the creek.
While growing up, Thornton learned to become a master at dodging his sisters when they tried to involve him in something that didn’t quite agree with him, like washing or drying dishes or when they blamed him for something they did or didn’t do. Since he was the youngest, his wants and need for attention, were sometimes overlooked because the girls demanded a lot more from Bud and Kate. Many times he was happy to be overlooked; left alone to do his own thing; go fishing at the creek and to wrap himself in solitude. Other times he walked away disappointed when he didn’t get an answer to a question inspired by a book he was reading. His question was sometimes ignored or went unanswered.
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