by Steve Vernon
Table of Contents
A FINE SACRIFICE
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A FINE SACRIFICE
A Tale of Redneck Noir
by
Steve Vernon
STARK RAVEN PRESS
August 2016
A Fine Sacrifice
By Steve Vernon
Sam could see the two older men, Will and Artie, standing together on Will’s front porch like a pair of well-trained watch dogs. Their two boys played catch with a battered baseball out in Will’s field.
It’s a good field, thought Sam. Will really ought to plant something in it.
Sam knew Will’s reasons for letting the field run to fallow. Still, it was an awfully good field; deep and fertile and far from the public eye. Will’s grandfather had won the land in a poker game and had closed the deal in the knife fight that ensued afterwards. The original owner, drunk on too much stump liquor, had pulled a hunting knife from his belt and demanded his deed back. Will’s grandfather, or so the story is told, broke the man’s arm and took the knife from him and promptly gave the knife back to the man, blade first.
Will had told Sam the tale one night while roaring drunk. The evening stood out in Sam’s memory not only for the story but for the fact that Will was drunk enough to tell it, for though Will often drank like a fish he rarely allowed himself to get good and tanked. Will didn’t care much for losing control.
Will had gone so far as to show Sam the actual deed. It was still stained with its original owner’s blood. When Sam asked him why he never planted anything in the field, Will looked straight at him, suddenly sober.
“You really want to plant something else out there, Sam?” Will clapped him on the shoulder. “I think we’ve planted more than enough out there for now, don’t you?”
Sam had shut up. He knew Will was right. Will was always right.
“Can I go play, Dad?” Asked Samuel.
Sam startled from his memory and smiled at his son who had glided up behind him so quietly Sam hadn’t even heard his approach.
“Sure, run and be a kid,” Said Sam. “Let your old man worry about being a grown up.”
Young Samuel ran off towards the other two boys, only too eager to leave the oppressive pall of his father’s shadow. Sam heaved a sigh after him, then turned and continued towards Will’s front porch.
He’s going to ask me, Will thought. My Jesus, I just know that he is going to ask me.
The porch looked like a ransacked locker room with at least a half dozen baseballs and bats scattered about. Both the men wore baseball caps and if Sam hadn’t known better he’d have sworn that the darkest thing the two had to think about was whether or not their favorite team would win the World Series.
Will leaned heavily upon his own favorite bat. It was a Louisville Slugger, weighted heavy for most men but in Will’s hands it swung as light as a willow wand. He was a big stocky man but it wasn’t just his size that impressed people. It was his air of absolute capability. Will looked like the kind of a man who could build a house, fix a car, plant a field, hunt a bear and sleep with just about any woman he chose. Will was an alpha male. A man’s man and he carried himself like he knew it.
Artie was more Sam’s size and looked like the accountant he was. He stood in Will’s shadow, back by the beer cooler. Both men had bottles in their hands. As Sam drew nearer Will nodded and said something to Artie, who without warning scooped up a ball and drilled it in Sam’s direction. Sam wasn’t wearing a glove, but he caught the hard-chucked ball just the same. It was expected of him.
He managed to grin against the stinging pain.
“Is that the best you can do?” Sam asked gamely.
Will took a swallow of beer, his eyes never leaving Sam’s.
“That’s the best that he can do,” Will answered, nodding derisively towards Artie.
Artie just shrugged. He was technically the better pitcher of the pack of them but it was an honest fact that he couldn’t match Will for sheer power.
Will stared up at the sun as if it were a clock.
“You’re late,” He said in Sam’s direction.
Sam looked up at the sun. It just looked like a big-assed ball of burning gas to him. He wondered if Will could really tell the time by the sun or if it were all for show. With Will you never quite knew for sure. That was part of his magic.
Will grinned and it made him look mean. He had a face like a ring-seasoned boxer. His eyes looked like hard narrow gun sights. He always reminded Sam of a surly Robert Mitchum. Will claimed to have been a Navy Seal as a young man and although both Sam and Artie couldn’t swim a stroke, neither dared to say differently.
You just never could tell with Will.
Artie looked up at the sun and nodded but Sam wasn’t fooled. He knew Artie was just following Will’s lead.
“Want a beer?” Artie asked, glancing at Will to see if it was okay, even though it was probably Artie who had paid for the beer.
Will nodded his head so slightly that Sam almost didn’t see it move, just a notch or two that could be caught only if you were watching closely.
“Sure,” Sam said.
Artie knelt and retrieved a beer from the cooler. He passed it to Will who handed it to Sam.
“Here you go,” Will said.
Sam reached for the beer.
Will wouldn’t let go.
“How come you were late?” Will asked. “She keep you?”
Sam shrugged.
“Snooze alarm kept begging to be hit,” Sam said.
Will snorted derisively.
“You still using that damned clock radio of hers?” He asked.
Artie tried to intercede.
“Sam likes to wake up to his baseball, don’t you Sam?” Artie said.
“That’s a fact, I do.” Sam said. “A day without horse hide is like a day without sunshine.”
Will nodded, another half notch or so and let Sam have his bottle.
“Probably slept through the first inning, thanks to that damn snooze button,” Will said. “You ought to get yourself a good old fashioned alarm clock like me. I got a big old brass bastard, goes off like a fire alarm and I’m out of bed at five every morning, sharp as steel nails.”
Will slammed the head of the bat down against the pine floor boards for emphasis.
Don’t flinch, Sam told himself.
It was too late for that. Both he and Artie jumped slightly at the sound of the impact.
Sam swallowed slowly.
“You’re right, Will. I ought to get myself a good old fashioned alarm clock, by God.”
“I’ve got one I can give you,” Artie said with a nervous laugh. “Bastard keeps going off, five sharp every morning. I’d like to slam it with a baseball bat some day.”
Sam laughed but Will didn’t think it was all that funny. He swiveled his gaze towards Artie and nailed him with a look as hard as a ball peen hammer.
“Somebody ought to slam you with a baseball bat, Artie.”
Will raised the bat and let it drop within his grip, bouncing it three or four times against the floor boards.
Artie choked on a swallow of beer.
Sam watched the two men closely. The morning sun had just begun to climb towards noon and it beat down mercilessly upon Sam’s bare head. The other two men wore ball caps but Sam worried too much about his receding hairline to risk a cap. Will bounced the bat again and it sounded easier, like he was getting ready to relax.
“Any of you girls see the game last night?” Will asked.
Artie grinned, glad to be let off the hook.
“Cardinal
s kicked ass,” Artie said.
“Yankee’s ass begged to be kicked,” Will corrected. “Yankee’s ass has been begging to be kicked ever since they let that damned Puerto Rican faggot take over as team manager.”
Sam spoke up without thinking.
“It isn’t always the manager’s fault,” He said, and then suddenly wished he hadn’t.
Will turned to him coldly.
“It’s always the manager’s fault.” Will said.
He grinned fiercely.
“A damned fine sacrifice brought two men in,” Will observed.
And then, without looking towards Sam he asked, “You finished with Susan yet, Sam?”
Damn it, thought Sam.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
Sam stayed silent.
Artie finished his beer and leaned over carefully to place the empty bottle between his feet.
Sam could feel the sun burning into his scalp. He tried not to look away. He wanted to dig his toe into the ground, like a small boy who’s been found out at some mischief.
“Not yet,” He said finally.
Will nodded as if he’d been expecting that answer.
“Have to be soon,” Will said, nodding towards the boys playing in the field. “Soon, before she makes too much more of an impression on the boy.”
Sam closed his eyes wearily.
“She’s his mother, damn it.”
Will remained obstinate.
“Don’t matter. You know it’s got to be done,” Will said. “It’s for the boy’s own good.”
Again, another nod towards the distant boys.
“We’ve talked about it enough,” Will said. “You girls sit here, while I go teach your boys how to swing a bat.”
He jogged out towards the field without looking back.
Artie bent and picked up his empty beer bottle. For a moment it looked as if he were about to fling it at Will’s back.
Then he quietly replaced the beer bottle, without saying a word.
The two men watched Will in the field, already shouting instructions at their sons.
“It won’t be easy, letting go of her,” Artie noted.
But I’ll have to, Sam thought. That’s what you’re really saying. I’ve got to, because he says so.
They stood quietly for a while.
“Little Artie dreamed of his mother last night,” Artie said in a half embarrassed tone.
Sam wasn’t listening.
“He does that sometime, although I don’t think he really remembers her.”
Sam nodded absently.
“I don’t think he remembers his sister at all,” Artie went on.
He looked down nervously at his shoes, like he’d suddenly noticed something dirty on them and then he stared out towards the field.
“Don’t tell Will, okay?” He asked.
Sam nodded, only half listening.
“About the dream, okay?
Sam nodded again.
The silence simmered between them.
Sam heaved a heavy sigh.
“Damn it, what about Samuel?” Sam snapped.
He looked out towards the boys but he couldn’t make out one from the others in all the running confusion.
“He’s a big boy,” Artie said. “He can take it. He’ll grow out of it. Hell, he’ll probably grow because of it. You know what Will says. Take the woman out of the boy and the boy’ll become a man.”
Sam nodded slowly.
More silence.
They watched Will clouting out pop flies and the boys hooting with joy.
“What if he grows away from me?” Sam suddenly asked. “What if he grows towards him?”
Artie didn’t have an answer.
The two men stood there in silence, staring out at Will and their sons.
“I’m not going to do it,” Sam said quietly.
“Artie looked at Sam.
“You…you can’t back out now,” Artie said. “You’re in too deep.”
He paused, stealing another look at his shoes.
“We both are,” He added.
Sam looked out at Will.
“I’m not afraid of him,” Sam said.
As if he’d heard Sam’s quiet declaration, Will turned to look towards the porch. There was something in that slow and dangerous turn of Will’s head that reminded Sam of a tank turret.
Will started in from the field, advancing on the two men. The three boys were at his heels, begging for a chance at the bat but he held it high on his shoulder, too high for any of them to reach. As he got closer Sam bent and picked up a baseball. He threw it at Will, as hard as he could.
He was aiming for Will’s head.
It missed. The boys ran off after it, bent on retrieving it. By the time they’d caught up with the ball they had already forgotten the men standing on the porch.
If Will noticed the throw, he showed no sign.
He tipped his hand up in a beer drinking gesture at Artie.
Artie hadn’t waited. He was already kneeling by the cooler in the shadow of Will’s porch.
Will carried the beer towards Sam.
“You made up your mind?” He asked.
Sam nodded defiantly.
“I’m not doing it Will. I’ve made up my mind. You can’t make me do it.”
Will nodded like he’d been expecting it. He tipped the beer up and drained the bottle in one long measured methodical chug.
Then all at once he brought the emptied beer bottle down like a blackjack against the back of Sam’s neck.
Sam dropped to his knees. He tried to rise but Will was too damn big and fast, slamming the butt of the bottle again and again against Sam’s head, neck and back.
From behind, Sam felt Artie joining in, using his own beer bottle on Sam’s defenseless back. Some inside part of his vision saw his own son running towards the porch but the other two boys caught the boy in mid flight.
“Samuel!” Sam shouted fearfully from out of the cloud of his own agony, the blood in his mouth slurring his words.
Will stopped the beating just as suddenly as he’d begun it.
He turned towards the boys.
“Little Sam!” Will called out. “Don’t worry about your father. We’re just playing a grown up game, is all.”
Then he turned back to Sam.
“Tell him you’re okay,” He growled. “Tell him you’re okay or I’ll sic the other two boys on him.”
Sam shook the pain off.
“Daddy’s okay, Samuel,” Sam said hastily.
“Call him Little Sam,” Will added.
“Daddy’s okay, little Sam,” Sam reiterated.
“Little Will! Little Artie! Little Sam! You three go on back to your playing.”
The two older boys coerced little Sam reluctantly back into the game.
Will stepped back from Sam.
“Stand up,” He ordered.
Sam stood up, trying to hide his pain in case his son was still watching.
“Get him a bat,” Will ordered Artie.
Artie picked up a bat from behind the beer cooler and handed it to Sam.
Sam looked at the bat, dangling limply from his hand. He thought about using it on Will.
“Try it, and your boy will pay,” Will said as if he could read Sam’s mind.
Sam dutifully shouldered the bat.
He stared dully at Will, awaiting his orders.
“You go and do what I’ve told you to do. What we agreed you’d do. You go ahead and deal with Susan, once and for all. You defy me and we’ll bury your boy out there with all the others. We’ll bury you and we’ll bury Susan but we’ll bury the boy first.”
Sam thought of the three quiet wooden crosses huddled together in the far part of the field, next to the back woods where nobody would find them. The two wives and Artie’s unfortunate daughter.
He nodded, painfully.
He’d made his choice.
Will dug a baseball cap from out of his hip pocket. He carefully placed
it on Sam’s head.
“There,” He said. “You’re a man, now.”
Sam didn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear a thing. He shouldered the baseball bat like a soldier marching off to war and walked slowly back towards his home.
The two older men stood on the porch, watching him leave.
“He’s a good man,” Artie said. “He’ll do what he has to do.”
Will took a couple of practice swings with his own bat, aiming roughly at head level.
“He’d better,” he said.
After Sam was out of earshot, Will called the three boys in.
“You boys get shovels. We’re going to play pirate.”
The three boys stared up at him like a litter of puppies staring up at their chosen sire and then ran eagerly off to fetch the shovels.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steve Vernon is a storyteller. The man was born with a campfire burning at his feet. The word “boring” just does not exist in this man’s vocabulary - unless he’s maybe talking about termites or ice augers.
That’s all that Steve Vernon will say about himself – on account of Steve Vernon abso-freaking HATES talking about himself in the third person.
But I’ll tell you what.
If you LIKED the book that you just read drop me a Tweet on Twitter – @StephenVernon - and yes, old farts like me ACTUALLY do know how to twitter – and let me know how you liked the book and I’d be truly grateful.
If you feel strongly enough to write a review, well that’s fine too. Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated but I know that not all of you folks are into writing big long funky old reviews so just shout the book out just any way that you can because I can use ALL the help I can get.
A Fine Sacrifice
Author: Steve Vernon
Originally published in November 1999 by Ottawa’s BAD MOON BOOKS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No umpires were injured in the writing of this story.
e-book edition published August 2016 by STARK RAVEN PRESS
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