Pedestals of Ash

by Joe Nobody

  He was sitting in the Manor’s gardens one evening when a long forgotten conversation with his grandfather suddenly popped into his head. A retired foot cop, Pete’s granddad lived in a modest south Philly bungalow surrounded by black and white pictures of policemen sporting their handlebar mustaches and nightsticks. Pete had just noticed his first facial hair, when the old man had broached the topic of Pete’s future. A child of the ‘60s – Pete was immersed in a time when challenging authority was as common as free love and communes. A slightly rebellious adolescent, he remarked that he wasn’t sure he wanted to follow in the family tradition of becoming a policeman. Not one for long soliloquies, the old man pondered the teen’s response before observing, “There are only two things where we Irish excel – being a cop or running a bar. Make up your mind soon, young man.”

  Meraton was the kind of town where you could throw a rock from end to end. And as he sat in the restaurant that night, Pete admitted he was tired of driving. This isolated part of Texas seemed just perfect for him, and the town didn’t even have a bar. A month later, he signed the papers at the Big West Title Company’s office in Alpha. The real estate agent handed Pete the keys to the small, unoccupied building on Main Street and a new business was born.

  Despite cigarettes no longer being manufactured or sold, the faint smell of stale tobacco smoke hung in the air. Pete went to the oversized windows looking out onto Main and began to crank them open, hoping for a slight breeze. The sun had climbed completely over the horizon, and it promised to be another cloudless day. He was almost finished opening the window when two gunshots rang out. “Shit,” he thought, “what now?”

  Pete rushed behind the bar and retrieved the MP5 sub-machine gun he had bartered from Terri. He slammed a magazine into the short weapon, while heading out the front door. There were already a few people up and about, and his first instinct was to check on Betty down at the Manor. He always worried about her being down there all alone. Betty was on the front steps of the hotel and looked more annoyed than scared. He noted she was holding a shotgun at her side. He hurried her way, half-mounted the first concrete step leading to the Manor’s front door and asked, “Any idea where those shots came from?”

  “Well, not exactly. I was out here beating the rugs when I heard a sound that seemed to come from that direction.” She pointed toward the south, and Pete decided to walk that way to see what was happening.

  It’s probably something innocent. Somebody probably found a coyote by the hen house this morning and was scaring it off, he thought. Pete hadn’t walked two blocks when he was joined by two other men from the town. They were curious about the shooting as well and both were members of the town’s volunteer posse. The trio soon met a crowd of people standing around and gesturing toward a nearby home. The center of attention was old man Parker’s place.

  Pete knew Mr. Parker as a customer at the bar. The old timer basically kept to himself, sharing the occasional story of his son and grandson who had both been star football players at Alpha State University. Mr. Benedict Jefferson Parker had lived in Meraton for as long as anyone could remember and was mainly known to be a reclusive, quiet man. Pete seemed to recall someone saying Parker was a retired railroad worker, but couldn’t be sure.

  The assembly gathered in the middle of the street was a mixture of both men and women. Several of the bystanders had apparently been rousted out of bed by the disturbance, as they were still dressed in nightclothes and pajamas. One of the women turned to see the town’s volunteer lawmen approaching. She took a step toward Pete and raised her voice. “That man is crazy, Pete. He’s gonna git somebody killed. He scared the shit out of my kids this morning. Somebody’s gotta do something about him.”

  Another man turned and added his frustration. “I let my dogs out this morning like usual. That old fool Parker shot at my animals, and they weren’t even on his place. It’s a damn good thing his ass is half-blind, and he missed. There’s an accounting for a man shooting another man’s dogs.”

  Several members of the crowd nodded their agreement. Another man stepped forward, “You know, last week I met him out here on the street. He was nice as could be. Two hours later, I caught him aiming that shotgun of his at my kids! I yelled, and he stopped. But I’m sure as shit he was gonna shoot at my kids, Pete. We’ve got to do something about that freaked out old fool.”

  Pete looked at the two men with him and then back at the crowd. “All right, all right. I’ll go up and talk to him. Ya’all can go back to your business. I’m sure everyone has better things to do than stand out here in the street and wait to be shot at.”

  Some of the townsfolk nodded and left, but quite a few stayed, waiting to hear the outcome. Pete took a deep breath and moved the sub-machine gun to his back as he strode toward the Parker residence.

  Pete hesitated at the mailbox, taking mental note of his surroundings. The single story home was in obvious disrepair. The yard consisted of about one-half acre of dirt, peppered with weeds, surrounded by a waist high chain link fence. About the only noticeable green growth was along the fence line, where knee high nettles and dandelions flourished. The driveway had managed to sprout its share of unwelcome vegetation as well. Two dusty vehicles with flat tires sat in front of the garage door. Paint was peeling from several different spots on the house and garage. Two frayed rope ends hung from the single, large elm tree in the front yard, strong evidence that a swing had once hung on the sturdy limb.

  There wasn’t any movement in or around the house as far as Pete could see. He decided to announce himself. “Mr. Parker! Mr. Parker! It’s Pete from the bar. Anybody home?”

  His greeting must have been heard, because Pete could see movement inside of the house. A shadow appeared behind the screened front door, and Parker’s voice answered back. “Pete, damnit, I told ya I would pay my bar bill as soon as my social security check comes in the mail. You just wasted your time coming out here this morning. I’m tapped.”

  Pete would have normally laughed at the response, but Parker didn’t have a bar tab, and there hadn’t been any mail in months. Maybe Ben Parker had misunderstood or didn’t hear well, he thought.

  “Ben, I need to talk to you. I’m coming up.”

  Pete hesitated for a moment, waiting for the old man’s protest, but none came. Pete kept his eyes on the front door and began walking up the sidewalk. When he reached the front stoop, he again waited for a moment. “Ben, where are ya? I need to talk to you.”

  “Come on in Pete. It’s been a while since I had company. Now I know I have some chocolate chip cookies around here somewhere. They’re just the packaged kind, but they’ll hit the spot,” came the response from beyond the darkened doorway.

  Pete climbed the two brick steps and onto the porch. He really didn’t want to go inside, but also didn’t want to be rude. He glanced over his shoulder and saw several of the town’s residents still gathered a few blocks away. If Parker sees them down there gawking, it’s not going to help,” he thought.

  Pete brought his weapon around to the front, but kept the barrel pointed downward. He flicked off the safety and reached for the screen door.

  The first thing he noticed about the home was the smell. It reminded him of the odor of the nursing home where his own Aunt Edna stayed before she passed. This place was ripe with whatever caused that particular aroma. Pete repressed the urge to storm the place and raise all the windows simply to invite in the fresh air. He poked around the living room and was surprised to see stacks and stacks of newspapers and magazines. The floor was littered with old, yellowed copies of The Alpha Tribune as well as an ample assortment of magazines covering everything from fly-fishing to gardening. Some of the stacks reached almost to the ceiling. Pete had seen this sort of thing before. His years of experience and training as a cop sent his senses on full alert – Ben was not mentally stable.

  Pete didn’t know what the real medical term was for this condition. The average person referred to it as “being a pack rat.” Hoar
ding by itself was not a sure sign of danger – hoarding and losing touch with the real world and using a firearm was cause for concern.

  About then, Ben appeared from the kitchen and caught Pete staring at the mess in the living room. Pete braced for the worst, but Mr. Parker merely shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’ve been meaning to go through and clean out some of that stuff. Never seems to be enough time. Come on in, Pete. There’s room to sit in the kitchen.”

  Pete didn’t want to go into the kitchen, but again his training kicked in. It was always best not to insult or agitate someone who was unstable. Calm, regular tones should be used, and the best way to handle a person on edge is humor. “Keep them laughing,” had been the advice of one instructor, “Humor doesn’t stop at the boundary of sanity or self-control.”

  Pete couldn’t think of anything funny to say at the moment, but did comment on the stacks of paper. “Any of that you don’t want Ben, just let me know. I could use the kindling and would be glad to take it off your hands.”

  Pete passed through the threshold into the kitchen. This room looked similar to the living room; its countertops piled high with all manner of literature and sprinkled with piles of old mail. He followed the slight path that wound between the stacks of newspapers to the small galley. Pete was surprised to find that the sink was perfectly clean, probably more so than his own at the moment. The second wonder was the dining table where Ben stood, pointing to a chair for his guest. The table was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. Ornately carved, with detailed inlays on the surface, Pete couldn’t help but stare. Ben noticed his gaze, and inquired, “Do you like my table, Pete? I made it for my wife years ago. She passed away in ‘98…or was it ‘99? Anyway, I worked on it in the shop for weeks. I used 13 different types of wood in all.”

  There was a small family room off the kitchen, and Pete could see various carvings and other handmade pieces scattered around the room. “Was that what you did, Ben – make furniture?”

  The older man shook his head, “Oh my heavens, no. It was a hobby. I worked for the Union Pacific Railroad for 31 years before I retired.”

  Pete didn’t take the indicated chair, but glanced back at the kitchen. Something else had caught his eye. There, beside the faucet, sat three prescription medicine bottles. The caps were off and they all appeared to be empty. “Ben, have you been to see the doc? We have a pretty good one in town now, ya know.”

  The question seemed to aggravate Mr. Parker. Pete noticed the older fellow came up on the balls of his feet and rocked back and forth a few times before he answered. “Hell no, I ain’t been to see no sawbones. I feel fine. I’ve been out of my pills for a bit, but I’m doing okay. I’ve been waiting for that damn mailman to deliver my social security and pension checks. I’m so broke, they shut down my telephone and electric. There’s no way I can come up with enough money to call my grandson to drive me into Alpha and get those prescriptions filled.”

  Pete walked over and picked up one of the bottles, and caught himself before he whistled out loud. While he couldn’t pronounce the name on the bottle, he knew enough to recognize it was a psych drug. The other two bottles were labeled with similar medications, and the dosages seemed quite large.

  Over the next 15 minutes, Pete sat and talked with Mr. Parker. The conversation revealed enough information for Pete to realize what was going on. Ben Parker had lost his only son and wife in the same car accident. A drunk driver had killed his family as they were returning from visiting relatives back east. The experience had caused something to snap inside. Pete had been on maintenance doses of some pretty strong antidepressants ever since.

  There was no way to know if Ben Parker were a time bomb or would live out the rest of his life as a slightly eccentric, benign fellow. While the gentleman sitting across from him was both rational and entertaining at the moment, all of that could change in a heartbeat.

  Pete needed to get back to the bar. He looked Mr. Parker in the eye and said, “Ben, I heard some shooting going on down here this morning. I’ve been told it was you. Do me a favor, my friend, and leave that shotgun right where it is by the front door. If someone comes onto your land, then you have every right to defend yourself. But if you shoot one of these neighborhood kids by accident, their families will hang you from that tree out front, and nothing will stop them.”

  “I was just scaring off some dogs, Pete. I’m afraid they are after my laying hens. Until I get that check in the mail, their eggs are the only food I have, and I can’t afford to lose one of them.”

  Pete nodded his understanding. “I didn’t think a good man like you would do something stupid, Ben. But you are concerning your neighbors – tone it down it bit, would you, sir?”

  Ben agreed. On his way out the door, Pete spied Parker’s supply of shotgun shells. An open box sat on a small table next to the front door. He suddenly had an idea, and when his host wasn’t looking, he reached down and picked up a loose shell and dropped it in his pocket. The idea was a little crazy, but it might defuse a bad situation.

  A few minutes later, he strode out of the Parker house and up the street toward the still gathered neighbors. Pete announced, “I talked to him, and he agreed to leave everyone alone if they didn’t come onto his place. I have to warn you folks, he is very old, and I think a little dementia has set in. I would give him a wide berth if I were you.”

  The man who had accused Mr. Parker of aiming at his kids stepped forward, clearly upset. “And what are we supposed to do, Pete? Wait until he shoots one of our children or our wives?”

  Pete snapped back, “What do you want to do? Lynch him? We don’t have a jail, mental health system or even a doctor who can help him. Should I just go back and shoot him? Is that what you all want?”

  The man didn’t back down, “Well, if I see him even looking at my kids, I’m going to put his ass six feet under.”

  Pete took a step toward the man and poked him in the chest with his finger. “You shoot someone around here that doesn’t deserve it, and you’ll answer to me.” Pete then looked around the crowd and made sure everyone understood the dilemma. “Society has gone to hell, people. I have no idea how folks used to handle these situations, but right now, I don’t have any answer to this. Protect your families, but don’t….I repeat DON’T go over the line.” Pete spread his arms wide and turned in a slow circular motion, addressing no one and everyone, “If you harm that man without cause, you’re no better than he is.”

  Pete left without another word and headed back toward Main. He knew deep down inside the situation was a powder keg, but didn’t have a solution. He could only hope everyone kept their cool.

  It had been so long since she had driven any sort of car, the sensation felt a little odd at first. It wasn’t long before the feeling of motion and the freedom of the open road returned, and she actually managed a smile for the first time in days.

  Deacon Diana Brown was experiencing her joy ride in an older pickup truck while driving down the smooth, deserted Texas highway. She had left her besieged compound in Alpha only fifteen minutes before. Her first few moments of freedom were complicated by the need for careful navigation around the debris littering her thoroughfare, but nothing was in front of her now except the wide, open road.

  It had been years since she had driven to Meraton. Her career in the Navy had kept her on the ocean and far away from the deserts of Texas. After her return, there just hadn’t been time. She had visited the famous gardens at the Manor many times before, and she had envisioned a quiet, peaceful getaway with Atlas some Saturday. Now, her son was dead, and this visit was anything but a relaxing day trip.

  As she drove along, Diana tried to visualize how the meeting would take place. The stranger called Bishop had proven to be both honest and capable. Diana tried to recall every little tidbit of information learned during their brief time together. In the lunchroom, Bishop had told her that he was married, and his wife was with child. She had also heard him mention something about “
the market” to David, the younger man who accompanied him. That was really about all she knew.

  She continued to mull over the last statement he had made before leaving the church grounds – “Reach out to the people of Meraton.” His eyes had been so serious and full of good intent. She, at the time, couldn’t imagine any scenario that would require her to contact the neighboring town. Now, all that had changed.

  As the desert miles passed by, the wind blowing into the open window felt liberating. It had been months since she had been away from the church’s compound, and the open spaces and bright sunshine felt good despite the lack of air conditioning in the old truck. Diana didn’t even notice, as she hadn’t felt cooled air since the collapse. Her mind was occupied, rehearsing the speech she planned for Bishop. He understood their dilemma, and she was, after all, simply following his advice. The retired navy captain sighed and decided to be honest with herself. She wasn’t normally the one asking for help – she was the one who provided assistance, and she simply wasn’t comfortable asking anyone for anything.

  She was so focused on how to word the conversation with Bishop that she failed to notice another vehicle had caught up to her. Its engine noise suddenly flooded the cabin as the farm truck passed her on the otherwise empty roadway. The old man driving the truck waved as he went around, and she noticed two tethered goats in the back.

  Diana was struck by that simple image. She realized there were still people in this world who were going about “normal” tasks. While she didn’t know where the rancher was heading with his livestock, he clearly had some agenda for loading his animals on that truck. Why else use precious gasoline? Whatever his destination or reason for travel, she smiled at the thought of people doing routine, productive things. Over the next few miles, Deacon Brown reminisced about what life without the constant fear of death, kidnapping, or murder had been like, and longed for that kind of secure existence again. Most assuredly, she would sleep better at night without wondering if she had just ordered some father to his death on a patrol. What would it be like to savor a meal without first wondering if the perimeter were well prepared?