The father’s breathing sounded like marbles rolling on a hardwood floor. The boy had heard this comparison used to describe the death rattle before. The old people always said this, like people on the news always said that a tornado sounded like a freight train. The boy had heard tornados that sounded like trains and now he heard death that sounded like marbles.
The nurse said this sound rarely lasted for more than a few hours. She saw death almost daily. She was a clean and pretty lady, an expert in human exits. She said this at 5pm. It was now 3am. She also said that this rattle caused no pain, but those who might confirm this never did. It sounded like it hurt.
The mother slept on the couch, soundly, not ten feet from the rattle while the boy moved from seat to seat, the foot of the father’s bed, and kitchen chairs, and even the floor.
The boy thought of the last few days, and then the last few months. He thought of the father’s questions about what sins Jesus might forgive and which ones might preclude pardon. The boy quoted the relevant red passages from memory. The father admired the scriptures and the boy who memorized them. The boy knew them all, but believed only a few. The father liked believing in the boy and the reassurance he gave, and the boy liked giving the reassurance he himself would never receive. It was a small lie, he thought, smaller than those the dying father and sleeping mother told.
Then the boy thought mostly about promises. The father made those he didn’t keep, but the boy always believed he would have kept them if he could, and he always believed he might keep the next one. It was here that he saw his faith disappear like wisps of holocaust smoke, every future lie reflecting an original one.
The boy also thought about his own promise. The father feared suffering more than retribution and made the boy promise that he would end his suffering when the time came. Believing in mercy, the boy had agreed, though he knew others had begged the father for mercy he never gave. The boy sat for two long hours, his back against the kitchen wall. The rattle never changed in tone or volume. Then the boy nodded asleep and dreamed, or remembered, the father putting his pistol to the head of the boy’s dog, his back broken, his hips twisted topsy-turvy by the car’s impact.
The sound of the shot awakened him, and something inside him.
The boy walked to the father’s bed. He placed his palm against the father’s scalp. It was cool to the touch, like the hood of a car left sitting in the shade, its engine having been shut off for hours. Cool, and yet the rattle continued.
The boy unfolded a damp cloth and wiped the father’s face one last time. He lay the cloth over the father’s face, covering his eyes. He clasped the father’s nose between his left thumb and forefinger and pressed his palm over the mouth. The process reminded him of a child forming a snowball from cold white powder.
The boy loved the father and hated that he loved him.
But, most of all, he hated the sound of the marbles, and then there was nothing left to hate.
Alan Caldwell hs been teaching for 29 years, but only began submitting my writings last May. He has been published in almost two dozen journals and magazines since.
A great resumé. Law review editor. Opinion writer for the state Attorney General. Chief counsel for the state legal ethics board. Assistant counsel for the state highway commission. Senior assistant then Chief of Staff to the Attorney General. Married. Two children.
Then a death. An off-year election. And now, Attorney General in his own right with marble-walled offices and parquet floors on the second floor state capitol building.
Political debts incurred were repaid with subtlety-slanted findings and fresh staff. Young, bright, connected, tempting.
One stood out. Given an office with an empty desk. Accompanied him on trips. Accommodating.
Restaurants. Baroque hotels in neighboring states. Reservations under assumed names lasting days longer that the scheduled meetings. Poolside. Sunglasses. Shadows.
One newspaper.
One front page.
One resignation.
One divorce.
One damn photograph.
Thomas Elson’s stories appear in numerous venues, including Blink-Ink, Ellipsis, Better Than Starbucks, Bull, Cabinet of Heed, Flash Frontier, Ginosko, Short Édition, North Dakota Quarterly, Litro,Journal of Expressive Writing, Dead Mule School, Selkie, New Ulster, Lampeter, and Adelaide. He divides his time between Northern California and Western Kansas.
In the space between heartbeats, Lacy Bonner decided to run away. As she gripped a cup of dark roast, all fifteen years of her life, lived in a Holtsville, New Hampshire trailer park, nestled mountainside near route 93, itched like coffee grinds in her throat. She coughed, listening as Paul asked her to go to Rhode Island.
Sitting in his old Chevy Silverado, parked in front of Moby’s Diner, she sucked in the cold February air, feeling it leave a sliver of frost in her lungs.
“Chuck Densen found a job for me at a paint depot in Warwick,” Paul said, waiting for her answer. His dark hair was pulled into a ponytail; it almost touched his shoulder. His eyes reminded her of Shoal Pond in winter; the blue water always visible beneath the ice, as if an internal heat source kept it from freezing over.
She huffed on her hands to warm them. Paul bashed the heater with his fist and it moaned back to life. He turned up the radio, and Eddie Vedder’s voice filled the cab. Lacey felt the lyrics like beacons aimed at her soul: I know that I was born and I know that I’ll die. The in between is mine…I am Mine.
A cold wetness nudged the back of her neck. She turned to pat Joe, her chocolate Lab. “Don’t worry,” she said, “You can come too.” Joe had been her shadow ever since she led him from her mother’s grave two months earlier.
Marilyn had died during a fireball of fever. She had been getting noticeably better; after a long stay in the hospital, and two more weeks of taking care of her at home, Lacey was hopeful her mother had finally turned a corner. Her cough had subsided, she was able to keep food down. Still weak, but she had gotten up that morning and taken a slow walk with Lacey to the mailboxes near the entrance to the park, to post a birthday card to a friend. Lacey had bundled her into two coats and even wrapped a wool scarf around her face so that the cold air wouldn’t trigger the cough. Marilyn’s bright eyes peered out from behind the wrap like a mummy suddenly waking from a thousand-year sleep. She pointed to the mountain range to the east, rising above the vast Pemigewasset wilderness. “Bondcliff,” she sighed.
“You’ll hike it again, Mom. You just need to get your strength back.” Lacey felt a surge of hope. If Marilyn had a goal for the future, something to look forward to, it meant she had a desire to fight her way back to health. But it would be a tough road back. Her lungs had taken it hard. If they got to that point, though, Bondcliff’s trail was wide, and straight, and they could follow the old railroad bed, and camp out overnight to break up the more rugged section of the hike into two days.
But that night, things took a sudden, terrible turn. Lacey woke to Joe’s nervous whining and her mother’s relentless coughing. She went to her bedroom, saw Buzz piling on extra blankets; Marilyn was shaking beneath the pile, her teeth chattering out a percussion solo.
“Can’t warm her up,” Buzzy said, wearing a frightened look that Lacey had never seen there before. He called 911 as Lacey drew a hot bath; she poured in a heavy dose of Epsom salts. Together, she and Buzz undressed Marilyn and lifted her into the bath; she was so alarmingly thin, so light, Lacey knew she could have lifted her by herself.
“Try to breathe in the steam, Mom. It will help.”
Marilyn’s face was beet red and shiny. After a while, her shaking subsided and she went still. She tried to smile at Lacey. She wanted to say something. She was so weak. Lacey moved closer. “You’re my sweet baby girl, don’t ever forget it,” Marilyn whispered. Joe whimpered at the bathroom door. Buzzy went to the front door to wait for the ambulance.
Lacey gripped the edge of the porcelain tub as the light in her mother’s eyes suddenly went out. That light never returned, not after all the CPR Lacey did, not even after the paramedics arrived and took over.
Joe wouldn’t leave Marilyn’s grave. Waiting and watching, a lone sentry, he stayed there in the snow, day and night, refusing food, stubbornly refusing to be led home. “That dog’s not right in the head,” Buzzy said, but Lacey knew otherwise. Seeing Joe’s body starting to waste like her mother’s, Lacey took action. She walked to the cemetery, carrying a bulky sleeping bag, bottled water and several cold hamburgers.
She found Joe asleep on a bed of frozen flowers. Lacy unrolled her ground pad, then her sleeping bag, and lay beside him, curling her body around his. He was stiff with cold, but soon warmed in her embrace. In the morning, she awoke to find Joe licking her upturned palm. Two of the burgers were eaten, even the wrappers. She stayed with Joe that whole morning, her arm around his back, talking softly to him, explaining that Marilyn had gone away but she would always be near them. She would watch over them. She really wasn’t all that far away.
By the afternoon, he followed Lacey home.
#
Paul raised his voice above the music. “What about Buzz?”
Lacey shrugged, knowing that he would be relieved if she left. Buzzy was almost a stranger anyway, engaged to Marilyn for less than a year before her death. He was nice enough and everything, he was a kind man, he had loved her mother, but she felt the weight of the growing awkwardness between them; she was like a visitor who had outstayed her welcome. Marilyn sold their trailer when she met Buzz, and he owned this one. And Lacey wasn’t his kin. People would talk. She didn’t really care if they did. But there was something else. Just yesterday, he’d opened the bathroom door accidentally when Lacey was inserting a tampon. She saw his face pucker and fold in on itself, and she yelped and jumped back, yanking out the tampon as if caught in a sinful act.
She only hoped he wouldn’t think she was leaving because of that.
Work was so scarce these days. Most places were shut down because of the pandemic. Paul had been unemployed since the shoe factory closed. Buzzy was good at fixing things, so he still worked as a handyman, doing cash jobs whenever he could. There would always be work out there for Buzz. He would survive. People trusted him.
Lacey’s school was all online now, but she had missed a lot of it when she took care of Marilyn. Their satellite Internet was slow and unreliable. And when it did work, Lacey would stare at her Zoom-face and wonder if that was really her. She didn’t like that face. She looked so different than in the mirror, so hollowed-out and strange.
“Is Pearl coming?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. Paul nodded, exhaling smoke through his nose. Pearl was the only complication; the one thing that stood between Lacey and Paul. Maybe their six-year age difference did too, but she never worried about that. Pearl was almost nineteen; a tall, willowy blonde with a great body and a sweet singing voice. Lacey envied her for all of it. Weeks ago, when Lacey was visiting her mother in the hospital, she also visited Pearl.
A doctor explained to Lacey that Pearl was “pregnant with cancer.” Lacey stared at the swelling in Pearl’s belly, thinking he meant there was a tumor growing in there instead of a baby. But later that afternoon, Paul came in and cupped both his hands around the mound, his caress seductive and his eyes leaking love.
The doctors tore out a chunk of Pearl’s left breast and stared at it under microscopes. Then they told her to swallow a cocktail of pills that made her heave and puke up her insides. Her beautiful hair snapped off like brittle stalks of wheat, her skin grayed and flaked like snow.
But Paul still loved her.
Lacey brushed her own straight chestnut-brown hair until it shown, applied a heavy amount of eye liner, swung her hips when she walked, and bit her lips to make them swell. But Paul never seemed to notice any of it. She was still his little elf, and Pearl his goddess.
#
They left that night, the back of Paul’s truck piled with suitcases and coolers. Lacey decided to tell Buzzy at the very last minute, so he wouldn’t worry about her. She was surprised by the stunned look on his face. He had tears in his eyes. It made Lacey feel guilty. Even Joe was leaving him. He would be all alone now. She hadn’t really thought about it until then. She hugged Buzzy’s right arm for a second or two, told him she would call. She had tears too. She blinked them back and closed the door behind her.
When they finally got onto the highway, Pearl quickly overheated in the cramped cab and asked Lacey to roll down the window. The wind stung like an icy slap. Pearl opened a bag full of pill bottles and flung them out – Lacey watched the pills spin like candy in the wind. “Fly away,” Pearl said, and fell into a drooling sleep against Lacey’s shoulder. Her warm belly pressed into her side. Joe snored at her feet. Paul followed the yellow lines on the road, and Lacey watched him drive.
When they arrived at Chuck’s motel right at dawn, Lacey already missed New Hampshire. She missed the pink light reflected on the snowy mountain, the comfort of wood smoke curling into the morning sky. It was at least ten degrees warmer down here; the ground covered with just a torn sheet of snow.
The motel was low and flat and painted gray. A squirrel skittered across the gravel. A dumpster overflowed with empty beer cans. There were a few other pickups and vans in the parking lot. Paul got out of the Silverado, stretched his long limbs and walked to the office. A curtain parted, and a fat man with a masked face stared out at them. Pearl stirred, flicked open her wide eyes and dry heaved a few times. She pulled a wool cap down over her ears. Her blonde hair blew around her face, and when she smiled, Lacey saw how beautiful she was.
Lacey watched Paul go inside, then took Joe out to do his business. He sniffed the edges of the building, lifted his leg against a fence post. He caught sight of the squirrel and stiffened, but Lacey grabbed his collar just in time.
It seemed like an hour went by before Paul came out. He walked over, his eyes lowered. “Change of plans.” Paul stuffed his hands into his pockets. Pearl scratched at her wool cap with a fingernail. Joe leaned into Lacey’s legs, and she bent down to hug him. “The job at the depot…well, it’s not available anymore.” Paul lit a cigarette and punched out the smoke.
“But he promised!” Lacey cried, and she hated the sound of it.
Paul sucked in a long drag, pondering their next step, his next words. “We can stay. There’s work here for you girls. And Chuck will give us the room next to laundry.”
Pearl’s shoulders relaxed, but Lacey was still on guard. There was something more. She could feel it. She kept her eyes trained on Paul, trying to read the truth in his face. “What is it?”
Paul ground the burning butt into the snow. “No pets allowed.”
Lacey felt herself fill with rage. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t right! They had come all this way to start a new life. She stormed over to the office door, yanked it open and gave Chuck Densen a piece of her mind. She didn’t like him one bit. He wasn’t a nice person. She knew it the second she saw him. He lurked behind the counter, sweating, watching her with little rat eyes as she yelled at him about his dirty, rotten betrayal. He wasn’t used to being screamed at, especially by a girl, she could tell he was mad about it, he was shocked, in fact, he pulled his mask down to get some air. She wanted to leap over the counter and dig her fingernails into his jowls, and she probably would have — she was already pressed against the counter and lifting herself over it, when Paul rushed in and grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Hey, hey, Lacey, calm down, shit, it’s okay,” and then she heard him saying something to Chuck, a rushing train of words, “not her fault, look, she just lost her mother, really, this isn’t her, she’s not like this, I’ve known her my whole life,” and Chuck screaming get her out of here, y’all get out of here right now or I’ll call the police, I don’t need no fucking lunatics in my motel!
But somehow, Paul smoothed things over. He made Lacey apologize to Chuck, and she did, but it made her nauseous and she kept her eyes downcast. Paul told Chuck that Lacey was a great cook. That was how he clinched the deal. Joe could stay in the room with them at night, and Lacey would make home-cooked meals. During the daytime, she’d keep Joe outside and away from all the guests. It was a strict no-pet policy, so Chuck was doing them a huge favor by making this exception. And Lacey really wasn’t a great cook, but she knew how to make a few things. She had started cooking when her mother got sick. Buzzy never complained about anything she made; he seemed thankful that she made the effort.
Their motel room was small and had one window. Above them, a tiny skylight leaked long ribbons of water stains. The air was heavy with mildew and stale cigarettes. Paul pushed together the two single beds, then rolled a cot in. Lacey felt a sting of happiness in her heart. They had a place to stay, Joe was safe, and everything was going to work out.
The next day, Pearl started working in the office. She wedged her belly behind a mountain of neglected paperwork. Paul drove off in the truck to find a job, taking Joe with him. Lacey had to clean all ten motel rooms, because the other cleaners had quit after getting Covid. She took to it with remarkable energy, determined to make everything sparkle. By three, though, she began to tire, and she still had to make Chuck’s dinner. The thought of food made her stomach growl. She stored her cleaning supplies in a bucket and walked to over to his room. She saw his car was gone. She turned the knob and the door opened.
His refrigerator was filthy. What little food remained was covered in mold. Gagging, she returned to the office. Pearl was asleep with her head on a pillow of receipts. Lacey padded around the room, searching for a cash box. When she knocked into the desk accidentally, Pearl lifted an eyelid.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Got any money? We need to get food.”
Pearl wrestled a wrinkled twenty out of her jeans pocket. She winced as she handed it to Lacey. “What is it? The baby?”
“No…my boob. It hurts.” She lifted her oversized sweater, and pointed to the left one. “Is it bleeding?” Lacey stared at the puckered flesh, so black and blue it looked like pulp. A gauze bandage was stuck to it, and a trickle of pus leaked out around the edges.
“No. But we need to get you to the hospital.”
“Nope. Never going back there. We can fix it; it’s not that bad,” Pearl said, looking at it with her phone, clenching her teeth and peeling away some of gauze. Lacey ran to the bathroom, rifled through a cluttered drawer. She found some clean bandages, tiny scissors and a pair of tweezers. She rinsed them in scalding water. Hands shaking, she returned to Pearl’s side. She took a deep breath, and snipped away the remaining gauze. Most of the stitches looked okay. There was just one leaky, swollen spot on the incision. She dabbed at the pus with hydrogen peroxide and watched it bubble up. “I think it needs to drain,” Lacey said.
Pearl reached up and squeezed the bruised fruit.
Later, Pearl smiled, her face relaxed. “You’re so lucky,” she sighed at Lacey, “yours are still perfect.” Lacey glanced down at her flat chest and shrugged. Paul was pulling into the parking lot; Lacey gazed out the office window and watched him approach, a hint of a smile on his face, Joe wagging by his side.
“No,” Lacey said, “you’re the lucky one.”
Paul drove Lacey to Wal-Mart. She put on a clean mask, went in, and stuffed the cart with groceries. By suppertime, she’d made a respectable beef stew. Chuck grunted and took his meal back to his room. Lacey made a mental list of all the meals she knew how to make: beef stew, spaghetti and meatballs, and macaroni and cheese. Oh, and she could fry hamburgers and steak. Maybe that was enough. And there was decent Internet here at the motel. She could find plenty of new recipes online.
Things were looking up. A few days later, Paul found full-time work at a factory over in Cranston. That night, they shared a giant chocolate bar for dessert and Paul cracked open a six-pack. Lacey didn’t like the taste of beer; she drank it anyway, because she wanted to be grown up, and they were celebrating. Pearl took a small sip, then switched to orange juice because of the baby. Joe was curled up on her cot, in a deep, twitching sleep. Lacey looked out the window, at the snow blowing like lace curtains. It made her long for home. She wondered if Buzz was doing okay by himself.
The fresh blanket of snow beckoned them. They wandered outside and gazed at the dark sky. Paul popped open another beer and danced around in the parking lot. Pearl sang an old lullaby, her voice so pure and sweet. Soon the three of them were holding hands, moving in a circle, giggling and sticking their tongues out to catch the snowflakes. They ventured behind the motel, climbed a small knoll. Lacey flung herself into the snow, arms outstretched, scissoring her limbs into snow angels. Paul and Pearl soon followed, rolling around like drunken children, laughing and making out. Pearl’s cap fell off, and the snow frosted her hair like a sugar kiss.
It was a near-perfect moment; she only wished they had brought Joe with them, so he could leap and bark and catch snowballs in the moonlight. Just as she held that image, she heard Joe barking. They rushed back to the motel, where Chuck was standing in front of their room, arms crossed, jowls flapping. “Stay here,” Paul warned. Pearl and Lacey held back, as Chuck waved a fist at Paul.
“That god-damn dog shit all over the room,” he yelled. Lacey ran over; seeing their door half-way open, her heart froze.
She reared back at Chuck. “You must have scared him!”
“Fuckin mutt!”
As Paul tried to reason with him, Lacey frantically searched the parking lot, calling Joe’s name. Finally, by the dumpster, she heard a whimper. “Joe!” There he was, cowering behind some boxes. She coaxed him to her, wrapped her arms around him and soaked him with her tears.
After cleaning up the mess, she decided to stay in the truck with Joe for the night. Paul said they’d be too cold out there, but she insisted. They couldn’t risk any more trouble with Chuck tonight. The temperature soon plummeted; they shivered in the cab. The full moon rose, huge and bald. Joe lapped at the frost on the window.
“Take a walk?” Joe thumped his tail against the dashboard. Lacey pushed the blankets into a heap. She’d been using her mother’s tattered cashmere coat as an extra blanket, but now she decided to wear it.
They hiked behind the motel, moving past the knoll and into the woods, following a moonlit trail. The snow was crisp and clean and crunched underfoot. They walked until the sound of trucks on the highway faded into a distant whine, and a soft hush of mist rose over a wide pond.
Lacey smelled pine and frost. Joe burrowed his snout into promising mounds, searching for rabbits and squirrels. They trekked on, the moon lifted its face, and Lacey thought how lucky they were to be together, sharing this special moment.
Then — a snap of branches – a startle of wings. Lacey turned and saw a Canada goose flap into the air.
Joe saw it, too.
He slingshot across the pond.
“Joe! No!” Joe slowed, turned, then slipped on the ice and splayed out on all fours, sliding to the center of the pond. Lacey did the terrible math: Joe was seventy pounds; the ice not nearly as thick here as it was in New Hampshire.
“Joe! Come!” He scampered to his feet, and for a moment Lacey thought he was going to make it back to her. But the pond cracked open like a silver mouth and grabbed Joe in its teeth. He whimpered as he sank, chopping at the ice with panicked paws.
Instinctively, Lacey threw off her coat and boots and tested the edge of the ice. It held her, so she got on her belly and slid forward, her arms and legs tracing reverse snow angels on the surface. “Hold on, Joe! I’m coming!” She slid ever closer to him, so close, almost there.
The ice hissed under her weight.
Near the lip of the dark hole, adrenaline exploding in her veins, she reached out her right arm, grabbed a hold of Joe’s neck and got pulled down into the icy black.
She surfaced to the shock of cold, anchored Joe against her body. She pushed him up and onto the ice. He slid for a few yards, scrabbled to his feet and raced to the edge, barking furiously. He howled and barked as she tried to get out, but her hands were so numb she couldn’t push herself up. She heard him barking as he crashed down the trail, and for a while, Lacey held onto hope, held onto a wide tongue of ice.
Lacey! The moon wore her mother’s face. She felt her heart slow like a tired watch. Her elbows began to slide, and suddenly there was nothing left to grasp onto. She kicked her legs, pushed herself forward and got her torso wedged against the ice. She pushed forward, getting both arms out of the water before she started to slide again. She thought of Joe, and how he’d sit on her coat and wait for her, and that he’d be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. She wondered how long he would wait for her. She didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t want to leave Paul or Pearl, either. They were her family now.
She needed to change Pearl’s dressing tomorrow. She wanted to hold Pearl’s baby. She wanted to see Paul’s handsome face again.
She wanted to live! But — it was so cold. She thought she heard someone screaming her name from far away. Lacey!
Lacey couldn’t believe how much it hurt. She tried to pray, but even her thoughts were frozen. She could see the words of her prayers hanging like letters on a sign. Then the letters fell away and she heard someone whisper in her ear the wind blows where it w-w-will…and her numb lips mouthed the words but you c-cannot s-see from where it comes or where it is g-going…The wind stirred the mist into a tinkle of glass flutes. You’re my sweet baby girl, don’t ever forget it. In the distance, a deep rumbling like gathering drums, a percussion of rising voices. Lacey! Lacey! Joe’s barking was getting louder. Lacey forced herself to kick her legs. Lacey! I’m coming! At the moon’s command, the barking reached a crescendo, and then the trees joined in, lifting their branches to an orchestra of shattering ice.
Kate Bergquist has an MA in Writing and Literature from Rivier University in New Hampshire. Insurance agent by day, dark fiction writer by night, her short fiction has appeared in The Chamber Magazine and other periodicals. She finds inspiration along the Maine coast, where she lives with her husband and several old rescue dogs.
What follows is a statement written by Enoch H. Bock, former resident of Valley Junction, Iowa. He recounts certain events which took place in Valley Junction (now known as West Des Moines) during 1898. Retrieved from a time capsule opened in 1998, this unedited document, is part of the Local History Collection of West Des Moines Public Library.
Some experiences are remembered because they are enjoyable. Others, because they are not. This story falls into the, not, category.
In the early spring of 1898, I graduated from the Iowa State College of Agricultural and Mechanic Arts. Returning home to Valley Junction, Iowa, I went to work in my uncle’s general store. The job allowed time for me to read the law in preparation to take the bar exam. My family was proud that I had a college degree and was studying to be a lawyer.
Before sitting for the bar exam, I met Sadie Stageman, a young lady from Granger, Iowa. Reverend Philip Coles, pastor of the Body of Christ Apostolic Church, introduced us at the Valley Junction Spring Social.
When I first saw her, I stopped in my tracks. With long brown hair and a shining personality, she was the apple of every young man’s eye at the event. I was smitten, but I wasn’t the only one with a bead on that beauty.
Del Hyer, one of the most personable people in our town, was thunderstruck by Sadie Stageman. That evening, when Del and I took turns dancing with her, we fell under her spell.
Given the feeling I could not live without her, I determined, then and there, to win her heart and make her my wife. As such, the contest for her hand, was on. While Del seemed to have the inside track. I resolved that the outcome would go my way.
Since Sadie lived in Granger, getting to visit her was no easy matter. A trip to that town was a time consuming journey. Granger was reachable from Valley Junction by rail, on foot, horseback or a horse drawn wagon. The distance between the towns was about sixteen miles by road.
The rail line was the faster route. It was a straight shot north, eleven miles, until it reached the outskirts of that town. The line then turned northwest, for a mile. The depot was one block from Sadie’s house.
Because of the cost of train tickets, I preferred taking the road to Granger. Others suitors visited Sadie from time to time. I would see them on the road and knew where they were going, but didn’t feel they had much chance at gaining Sadie’s hand. My main competitor was Del.
Of all the young women I met, up to that time, Sadie proved to be the most enterprising. Given the number of suitors she attracted, to see who most wanted her hand in marriage, she devised a contest.
On the Fourth of July, at the Granger Summerfest, Sadie announced that on August 25, she would entertain a proposal of marriage. The flyer advertising the contest read, in part,
. . . She would consider the first proposal of marriage presented. She had the final say on whether it was acceptable. Any proposal would take place on her front porch. No potential suitor could arrive at her home before eleven a.m. on that date. The contest would close when the clock struck noon . . .
Sadie set up a committee to control the arrival of suitors that she expected in Granger on that date. She did not want a pile up of young men on her porch. To maintain order, there was a contest signup sheet. Entries closed one week before August 25.
Sadie set up a welcoming committee. It split into two groups. One located where the road from Valley Junction entered Granger, another at the train depot. Any would-be suitors would have their names checked against a sign up list. As it turned out, only Del and I put our names on the signup sheet. At the time, I didn’t know we were the only ones. I figured the list to be long.
With the rules in place, the contest commenced. People in both towns had their favorites and placed bets on who they thought would win. This whole affair was turning into great sport. Anyway, Del and I made our separate preparations to get to Granger on the appointed day. Given the stakes, neither of us wished the other well.
I was up early on August 25 when I ran into Reverend Coles. He greeted me with, “I saw Del Hyer, in the last hour, heading out of town toward Granger. He has no horse and is trying to cover the sixteen miles on foot.”
Surprised by that news, I was also relieved. As it turns out, the night before, my horse came up lame. I wasn’t worried, though, all I had to do was rent a horse from Bill Cookson’s stable. Hurrying over there, I encountered a sign, Closed for illness. I thought, “That must be why Del’s on foot. He can’t get a horse either.” Crestfallen, I now had to find another means to get to Granger.
Then it occurred to me, I could get my Uncle Ike’s buckboard from the general store. I ran to the store’s loading dock. It was sitting there. Seeing him, I said, “I need that buckboard to get to Granger before noon.”
Uncle Ike knew why and was sympathetic, but replied, “Sorry nephew, I have to make a delivery this morning to the County Home. I wish I could help. Good luck.”
I was miserable. Del was going to get to Sadie first. He had too much of a head start for me to make up on foot walking on the road.
Hoping there was an early train to Granger, I hurried to our town’s depot but the train had already departed. As I stood there, wondering what to do, Charlie DuBois, a friend of Del’s, approached me.
People around town, called him, Damn Charlie. An incessant talker, Charlie did something every day to scare or worry the townsfolk. He would sneak up behind some unsuspecting victim. Then, either, make a loud noise or claim there was some sort of varmint about to take a chunk out of their ankle. He was quite impressed with how funny he thought his sneak attacks were. Every time he pulled one of his stunts, the object of his unwanted attention said, “Damn Charlie”. The nickname stuck.
I knew he was going to be a pest and was not in the mood to deal with any of his shenanigans. To my surprise, though, he came up with a reasonable suggestion to help me out of my conundrum.
“Why don’t you walk on the train tracks? It’s four miles shorter than the road to Granger and it’s almost a straight shot. I can go with you.” Damn Charlie was the last person I wanted with me on this journey. Still, his idea was a good one.
I was confident that I could walk over three miles per hour for that distance. At that rate, I could make the trip to Granger in under four hours, even on the tracks. I figured it would take Del more than five hours to go sixteen miles even with a head start. I looked at my watch, it was a little after seven a.m. Del’s head start would make this a close race.
Walking the tracks would not be easy, especially as fast as I had to move. If there had been another means of getting to Granger before Del, I would have taken it, but there wasn’t any other way.
Checking my pocket to be sure I had the engagement ring, I stepped onto the train tracks and headed north. When Damn Charlie started to follow me I turned and said, “I prefer you don’t come along.” Pressed for time and looking at my watch, I resumed walking down the tracks. At first, he seemed to heed my request because I didn’t notice him following.
Soon, I heard the sounds of footsteps behind me. It was Damn Charlie. I didn’t want him tagging along but I didn’t have time to stop and argue with him. Since I could not prevent him from following me, I tried to ignore him.
We were on tracks laid across the flat Iowa prairie. As I looked ahead, the rails seem to stretch into infinity. A barbed wire fence, set fifty feet on each side from the center of the track bed, lined our route. The only breaks in the fence were for occasional road crossings. What remained was open prairie, thick with tall grasses, or farm fields full of corn or soybeans.
To me, it all looked the same as I pressed down the line. The only man-made features were the barbed wire fence lining the track bed and a few, randomly placed, signal marker poles indicating when an engineer should blow his whistle as crossing were approached. There were no distance or direction markers along the tracks.
Damn Charlie was still keeping pace with me. Up to this point, he had been pretty quiet, then I heard him say, “So you’re taking the bar exam, huh? That’s gotta be hard. Shouldn’t you be home studying instead of doing this? Even money says you fail that exam.”
I could see why people thought he was annoying. His irritating comment distracted me from keeping watch of my feet. I had to be careful as I placed my feet on the ties between the rails so as not to trip, but Damn Charlie kept talking.
“You’re gonna get to Granger with an hour to spare, why don’t you slow down? You’re gonna be too tuckered out to make a proposal.” Ignoring his comments, I kept walking as fast as I could go, concentrating on what I would do when I got to Granger.
I knew how important it was to be the first suitor to arrive. I had little doubt I would be the winner. I could picture myself making a successful offer of marriage when my concentration was again interrupted by Damn Charlie’s voice.
“Remember, I’ve known you all my life. I don’t think you’re smart enough to be a lawyer.”
I let that comment pass because I knew I was about halfway to Granger and needed to keep going. I had to stop paying attention to Damn Charlie but he was aggravating, not going away and he wouldn’t shut up.
It was then his voice changed tone, it became more urgent, downright dire. All I heard was, “Watch out for that bull snake by your foot.”
I’m afraid of any type of snake. Knowing bull snakes can deliver a nasty bite, I jumped in the air hoping not to step on that earthly representative of the Devil. Landing, my left foot caught a gap between one of the ties and the crushed limestone filler. I twisted around, causing me to stumble and fall.
I don’t recall much of the next few minutes. Given the lump growing on the side of my head, I must have bumped it on one of the track rails. I wasn’t down long, but when I got up, Damn Charlie was running, as fast as he could, ahead of me, down the tracks. He was getting farther away from where I was standing.
I thought, “There was no snake. It’s another of Damn Charlie’s tricks. That fool must think he can propose to Sadie if he gets to Granger first. I’m not letting that happen.”
I was still a little dizzy. I didn’t want to run, but figuring it would get me to Granger even quicker, I took off after Damn Charlie. I raced down the tracks trying to catch him.
With effort, I overtook him and started to pull away. I was happy to be leaving Damn Charlie and his tricks behind. After some more time passed, I could see the town ahead. I was pretty sure I was arriving ahead of Del.
As I approached the train depot there was a crowd waiting. It had to be the welcoming committee. Excited that I got to Granger first, with raised voice, I said, “I made it. I’m here.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the new, shiny diamond engagement ring. I started waiving it and was yelling, “Get me to Sadie’s house right away.”
The eyes of the crowd focused on me. To my surprise, Reverend Coles, stepped forward out of the assembled gaggle of people. With a curious look on his face, he asked, “Son, why did you come back? Why aren’t you in Granger?”
Confused, I looked around, then felt sick. I recognized every building and most of the people. It was then I realized the terrible truth, I was back in Valley Junction. Damn Charlie tricked me into turning around. Del must have sent him to keep me from getting to Granger first.
As I stood there, I thought, “Right now, Del is probably on one knee proposing to Sadie.” Standing in the crowd at the Valley Junction depot, I must have looked like someone stole my horse.
From across the street, standing on the steps of the Frontier House Hotel, I could hear the late arriving, Damn Charlie DuBois laughing. He played his role well.
###
Not long after, Sadie and Del’s engagement announcement hit the papers. It was then I began to think about marriage to other eligible young women in the county.
I had taken and passed the bar exam in September and had set up a law office in Valley Junction. Considered an eligible bachelor and quite a catch by the townsfolk, I thought finding a new girl would be easy. It was then I remembered Sadie had a younger sister of marrying age, Bessie. I thought her attractive and would make a good wife.
One fall day, while contemplating whether to ask Bessie to a church social, I saw an article in The Granger Gazette. The headline read, “The Wedding of Miss Sadie Stageman and Mr. Del Hyer.” The paper described it as “the social event of the year.”
According to the paper, “Miss Stageman, now Mrs. Del Hyer, wore a flowing white gown with a garland of baby red roses. Mr. Hyer, wearing a black top hat, gray, double breasted vest and a black tailed tuxedo, cast an adoring gaze at his new wife.”
The paper went on to report that, “Mr. Charles DuBois of Valley Junction was the best man. Miss Bessie Stageman, sister of the bride, was the maid of honor. Each looked resplendent in support of the newly minted husband and wife.” The Gazette even mentioned that Mr. DuBois and Miss Stageman hit it off so well “there are rumors he has started sparking her.”
Upon finishing reading that news item, all I could say to myself was, “Damn Charlie.”
Enoch H. Bock
Valley Junction, Iowa
November 14, 1898
End Note: Damn Charlie is an adaptation by Edward N. McConnell from the original story by Ambrose Bierce, Mr. Swiddler’s Flip-Flap, first published in “Fun” (London), August 15, 1874; Reprinted as by “B” in “The Wasp” (San Francisco), July 7, 1882. The works of Ambrose Bierce are now in the public domain. See also, “Index of the Project Gutenberg-Works of Ambrose Bierce”, Compiled by David Widger, Release date, February 1, 2019. gutenberg.org
Edward N. McConnell and his wife, Cindy, own McConnell Publishing, LLC. Their first project was to publish a short story anthology, Where Harry’s Buried and Other Short Stories, now available on Amazon Books. In addition, to date his work has appeared in Literally Stories, Terror House Magazine, Mad Swirl, Down in the Dirt, Rural Fiction Magazine, The Corner Bar Magazine, Masticadores India, Drunk Monkeys, The Milk House and Refuge Online Literary Journal. He lives in West Des Moines, Iowa with Cindy.
Odours hover low in the arena, pungent with nervous urine; horse, cattle, sheep, any beast that can realize a profit. The auctioneer’s repetitious phrasing rings shamelessly to those listening and tedious to those who are not. His timing neither falters nor retires. He cannot allow himself to appear uncertain; not to his earnest buyers he can’t. That is the nature of his task.
The auctioneer might well have been pitching caskets to corpses as far as I am concerned. I am neither earnest nor a buyer and his ‘oo’ll gi me 40, 40, 40’ sounds like an engine missing far down the road. Today I am consumed by misfortune. That’s why I came to the sale barns. I didn’t want to bear the weight alone.
The same work bent bodies are here today as with every sale, some to buy, some to neighbor and sip coffee. Men and women that bend their bones with beasts’ work, can feel legitimately idle for a couple of hours. They lean the rail with their forearms, fingers laced, heads stooped from familiarity with strain; mighty workers clad in farm garb.
I was leaning. I was leaning next to a neighbor whose great bent hands and work worn frame declared his right to be leaning as well. The Guthrie’s persevered as a cow/calf operation in spite of owning good bottom land, north of the assumed limits of good Ontario farmland. He and his wife Violla were stockmen not land tillers. He stood pushing his finger at the tear hole of his cup. I expect he had seen the worry in my face and needed a detour for his eyes. He could see that I had been bit by our neighbor’s trouble.
“See anything you like, Elmer?” I ask to let him off the hook.
“Sellin; not buyin.” He says and he draws involuntary circles on the lid. We stand awkwardly for what seems too long, knowing that there is a question that needs asking.
“You heard?” He asks. I sense he hopes I have not.
I acknowledge his question with a nod but have a gnawing one of my own. Why I am so spooked by this tragedy. This isn’t the first-time injured beasts had to be put down. Every guy here probably had to do it himself at one time or another. But that business. That was the saddest waste of animal flesh I had ever known. Those poor horses. Ran full out, probably for the first time; ran until they perished. I had gone over every possible reason why and not one of them offered any comfort. The reason I had suspected was hard to swallow.
Guthrie twisted himself so he was facing me full on. He was still fingering that cup.
“You were there?” He asked it and raised his eyes till they were fused on mine, retiring yet persistent.
“No. Not me. You?”
“No. Walker told me.”
I scanned the men abreast of Guthrie, searching for Walker, as if that was going to settle anything. I watched Guthrie study me.
“Hell of a thing…” I said. “…just to bolt like that, full out.”
Guthrie made a spitting noise. “It would have only taken one of them to start.”
I listened to Guthrie’s explanation. I could see he had made his sense of it.
“Just bolted.” I repeated. “Ran clear to the swamp.”
Guthrie reached to an inside pocket. His hand emerged holding a small bottle. Under the cover of his coat, he tipped the bottle into his cup. He made a gesture. I waved the offer away.
“Those animals never saw anything like open spaces before…” Guthrie’s tone was looking for blame. “not in the years I knew Able to own them. They were either hitched and working or corralled in that shoebox paddock.”
Guthrie was probably right, but still, Able hadn’t been in the ground long. A dead man can’t answer to insinuations.
“You ever keep horses?” Guthrie asked. He was implying, that if I had, I’d know.
“I’ve never taken a notion to want a horse.”
He looked to me as if there should be more.
“No need of horses.” I answered. “As a pet maybe but I wouldn’t want to find myself here selling a friend. Would you?”
Guthrie sniffed a brief laugh at my logic.
A big strawberry roan mare got led out into the ring. She looked like somebody flung red paint at her white body through a sieve. Striking. She held herself proud and bobbed and shook her head in protest. The auctioneer began his trill and I could read the worry in that animal’s lines just as Guthrie had seen it in mine.
Able’s team had spent a lifetime in the company of soulless drudgery, no indulgences, no pasture land to kick up and play. They bolted out of the sheer joy of it; an opportunity they’d never known. That’s what I convinced myself happened. That’s what made it unpalatable. It’d be like watching fledglings getting picked off by predators on their first flight. Turn a guys’ guts just thinking about it.
Every day Able would hitch his team and they’d draw whatever he had been hired to haul and when he was done cooling them down, they’d be confined to that small paddock, only spitting distance from the comings and goings of the road. Those poor beasts could only witness the world’s disposition: passing dog fights, lightning storms, kids playing on the road. Imagine it; them cut loose for the first time. They probably hit full gallop in three strides. Rash enthusiasm ended up a very ugly thing indeed.
It took Guthrie and I less than an hour to learn the authentic details of what happened to that team: When Able Cromptom passed from the ailments that had plagued him, his team had needed care and feeding. Able was a bachelor. Gossip had it that he had been orphaned although no one knew that for sure. That was before my time. It was agreed within the community that his team should be pastured by his neighbors until the estate was settled. It was intended to be a charitable undertaking. We look after our own.
Mr. Angus Brown agreed to be the temporary recipient of the team. He offered the pasture fronting on the Mallard quarter line. They were loaded in a trailer and transported. A crowd of helpers showed up, mostly for the laughing and telling of stories, unaware that they were to become witnesses. Upon being unloaded both horses became hard to handle. The gelding reared and snorted and the mare resisted the men as they removed her halter. Those horses knew something was up. Both immediately bolted. Neighbors shouted, encouraging the team to freedom. The animals took separate trails for the first time in their lives like they were rebelling against years of pointless toil. They eventually both broke the rise that led to low ground and descended out of sight. The first sign that something had gone wrong came to the crowd on the wind. It was a dreadful sound, “Panicked whinnies.” That was how it was described. That sound got everyone running.
Some said they had bolted because of being skittish of the unfamiliar ground. Little Jenny Brown thought the same as me. She swore she saw raw impatience in their trusting faces. Both animals were dead within thirty minutes of their release. The mare ran head on into a leaning dead tamarack and broke her neck. The gelding broke a leg in the swamp muck. There was no decision to be made over the animals’ future. It took half of that thirty minutes to fetch a rifle.
Guthrie left the auction barns forgetting to collect his earnings from the sale. Me; I thought to offer the guy who bought the strawberry mare more than he had paid. I let that thought pass.
From a body of work that includes thirty short stories Steve has placed two pieces: ‘Hardly Worth the Telling’ with DASH, English dept., California State University, and ‘Burying Jacob Muscrat’ with the now defunct Danforth Review.
