by Tom Hansen
After Abby found out that she was pregnant, she and Tyrus had moved into a one-bedroom rusty trailer that had been used as a fish camp south of town on Taylor Creek, just a stone’s throw, if you could get it over the dike, from Lake Okeechobee. Every now and then a speckled perch scale would flake up from the faded orange shag carpet, but for the most part, the fishy smell had been removed with the help of gallons of Lysol and open windows.
As soon as Tyrus left the hospital parking lot, he realized that he hadn’t told his little brother, Otis, about the baby yet. It was almost time for supper, so Tyrus decided to detour to his old neighborhood and fry up some catfish for Otis and himself as a way to celebrate the good news. He would write his letter to Willy while at the house so that way he could drop it in a mailbox before going home.
Otis had been living with Willy together in the family house ever since Mama Banks passed the night of Willy’s high school graduation. Mama Banks wasn’t the best manager of her own blood glucose and skipping an insulin shot in the tummy was a frequent occurrence. Before President Johnson signed into law the act that created Medicaid a year earlier, Mama had no way to pay for the expensive drug. But once she began receiving it for free, the daily painful shots were easy for her to ignore. She made it to the graduation ceremony and cheered as Willy crossed the stage to receive his diploma. When the students tossed their caps into the air and hugs and kisses were rampant, Mama Banks’ blood vessels gave out. She died before even reaching the ambulance.
Only Tyrus remembered his daddy. He was five years old when Papa Banks ran away with Clover Bane, a waitress at Marvin’s Southern Barbecue where Papa Banks worked as a dish washer. Rumor had it that Papa and Clover were both doing twenty-five years to life for armed robbery up in Virginia somewhere.
Tyrus smothered the catfish in an egg and cornmeal coating, then fried it in used bacon grease that was left on the stove since yesterday’s breakfast. Otis didn’t have any Mazola lying around, but he figured that grease and oil were basically the same thing when it came to gourmet cooking. And who could eat catfish without sipping on a few Budweiser’s, right? Otis raised a toast to his big brother, ate a couple pounds of catfish, and then moved on over to the couch to digest his dinner and watch Gunsmoke on his thirteen-inch black and white TV with twenty-inch rabbit ears. Some day he would marry Miss Kitty, he dreamed. Otis burped a few times and was snoring by the time Chester met up with Matt Dillon over at the Long Branch Saloon.
By the telephone, Tyrus found a notepad and a pencil that had been sharpened down to a length of about a half inch. There was a pocket knife next to the pad, and Tyrus figured that Otis whittled away on the pencil to get to the lead. The eraser was worn down and leveled equally with the top of its tin holder. Otis was well-known for making mistakes and here was irrefutable evidence!
Just like his younger brothers, Tyrus wasn’t much for letter writing, so the lack of pencil lead served as a good excuse for keeping his communications short and sweet. One long sentence should be good enough for a baby announcement, he thought: “bro, yur an uncle and baby name is Tyrone and now yur uncle willy and abby is good and they come home tomoro.” Tyrus passed his English courses in high school because he got extra credit for clapping the chalk dust out of the black felt erasers.
Airmail from the US was sent only once a week by military transport from the nearest Army Post Office in Miami. However, after leaving Miami, it stopped to pick up mail in San Francisco and Seattle before flying on to Vietnam. The flight plan included a holding and refueling stop in Tokyo, where the plane would wait for clearance to proceed into Indochina airspace. Ho Chi Minh would like nothing better than to gun down a US aircraft full of good tidings and cheerful family pictures for the enemy soldiers on the ground. Once the aircraft landed in Vietnam, the mail was held in Saigon until the soldiers could be located and a dangerous delivery through Viet Cong guerilla positions could be made. Tyrus knew that Willy probably wouldn’t find out about his new nephew for a couple of months.
Tyrus had taken an instant color photograph of baby Tyrone using a Polaroid Land camera that Gregorson Hospital purchased for those happy occasions in the maternity ward. He put the picture in an envelope along with his note and sealed it. Tyrus couldn’t find a stamp anywhere in the house, so he thought he would run over to Yardly’s house and see if Bo’s mama had one that he could borrow. It was eight o’clock and the sun was setting, so most likely the Yardly’s were done eating and Tyrus wouldn’t be interrupting their dinner. Otis was sound asleep on the couch, so Tyrus didn’t bother to tell him where he was going.
* * * * *
“Cute kid. Pretty girl.”
Tyrus flinched on his way over to Yardly’s house. Did he hear something? He looked around but couldn’t see anyone. The sun had set just a few minutes earlier and only a handful of streetlights were working. The others had been used as rock-throwing targets, and fragments of glass that had fallen to the street were sparkling in the moonlight. Tyrus paused a moment, then shook his head and walked on.
“I be talking to you, boy.”
Tyrus recoiled, then quickly turned around. From behind two palmetto trees that served as Al Franklin’s only front yard landscaping, appeared a crew cut, vast-stomached white dude. “Did he call me boy?” thought Tyrus.
Tyrus had a good mind to march right up to the unknown man and smack him for using a derogatory racial slur right to his face. White folks should know better than to call a black man boy, especially on his own turf. But Tyrus held back. The white dude had a gun aimed at Tyrus’ head.
“Please don’t shoot, man. I got fourteen dollars and some change. It’s all yours, you can have it!” Tyrus was afraid. The Civil Rights movement was supposed to be creating equal rights for all people, but instead it was creating more hatred in the Deep South. A white man in this neighborhood at night could only mean one thing – another lesson to be delivered to those blamed for ending the Confederacy. When would it end? Would it ever?
The man walked right up to Tyrus and placed the barrel of the pistol on his nose. He cocked the hammer back and began to squeeze the trigger. Tyrus froze. Would he be a daddy for less than a day?
“I don’t need your money, boy. I have a job for you to do. It involves leaving this here country, and you will never return,” the man said bluntly as he pushed the weapon harder into the cartilage of Tyrus’ nose.
“Please, man, I got a newborn son and soon a new wife.” Tyrus was pleading with not only his lips, but with his eyes. A teardrop fell onto the man’s gun.
“Yes, I know that. I already told you they were cute.” The man smiled and winked. “And if you want them to live a long life, you’ll come with me.”
“What you saying, man?” Tyrus’ fear turned to shear panic. How did this guy know about Abby and Tyrone? He called them cute. Had he been to the hospital? Had he actually seen them?
“Listen boy, you’re coming with me. If you decide otherwise, there will be three dead bodies in Seminole Bend. Two of them in the maternity ward at Gregorson Hospital.”
“Okay, man. I come with you, but can I sees them one more time? Only a minute or two at the hospital, please, man!”
“You don’t seem to get it, do you boy?” The man pushed Tyrus back a few feet with the barrel of his pistol. “It’s over, you’re done being a family man. You come with me, everyone lives. You give me any problems, three die. Simple, understand? Now lie down on the ground, face first, and put your hands behind your back!”
Tyrus did as he was told. The man kneeled on Tyrus’ back. He was a big guy, 250 pounds, at least, Tyrus thought. With his left hand, the man took out a pair of handcuffs and slapped them on Tyrus’ wrists. He then stood up and yanked Tyrus back on his feet. A car started up a block away, turned on its lights and drove up to the man and Tyrus. It was a black Chrysler New Yorker, brand new. The driver got out and opened the back door. The man shoved Tyrus face first into the luxurious white leather seat, then shut the door.
&
nbsp; “Get him out of here fast,” the man shouted at the driver.
The driver promptly returned to the front seat and slammed the pedal. A cloud of dust rose up as the New Yorker sped away. Tyrus moved his handcuffed hands towards the back pocket of his blue jeans. With the tips of his fingers, he felt the envelope that contained a note for his brother, but more importantly, a picture of his newborn son. He may never see Abelina Charles again, but he was determined never to let the picture of Tyrone Banks and his mama become separated from his body.
Meanwhile, just a few feet from the two palmetto trees, Roy Jackson slipped his pistol back into a small holster attached to his belt and walked away into the darkness.
Tyrus Banks was never seen or heard from again.
CHAPTER 10
July 2, 1966
A bby and baby Tyrone stayed in the hospital for a week. When Tyrus didn’t come back the next morning to pick them up and take them home, Abby was bewildered and distressed. Doc Stanley, who delivered Tyrone, decided it was best for Abby to stay in the hospital until she could physically and mentally take care of Tyrone by herself. Abby’s mother was not willing to take her daughter and grandson in with her family, a stubborn result of Abby getting pregnant during what her mama called a “one-night stand.” But she was willing to call the sheriff’s office to report Tyrus as missing.
Four sheriff’s deputies checked his trailer and talked to neighbors and determined that no foul play was detected. Otis confirmed that Tyrus stopped by for catfish and a few beers after leaving Gregorson, but he fell asleep and figured that Tyrus went home. Abby was crushed. She presumed that Tyrus got cold feet after leaving the hospital thinking about his new parental responsibilities, and decided to bolt.
The following week, Abby wrote a letter to Willy, letting him know about the birth of his first nephew and the perplexing vanishing act of his older brother. Willy finally received Abby's letter in September of 1966 while recuperating at the Eighth Field Hospital in Nha Trang. Willy had been completing his third tour of duty in Vietnam, the last two voluntary, and it would be his grand finale. At the end of his last mission, Willy was one of eight tired soldiers that remained from his platoon, and they were trudging through the rain-soaked bush on their way back to Ninh Hoa from Xa Ninh Sim where helicopters would transport them back to Saigon. They knew Viet Cong guerillas were lurking all around, but they couldn’t see them. While crossing a rice field during a torrential downfall, the platoon was ambushed from their northern flank. Being outnumbered by twenty-five men, the American soldiers tried to run south into the cover of the wilderness. All were gunned down, leaving a crimson tint in the flooded paddy field.
Willy took two 7.62 millimeter bullets from a Soviet-made AK47 to his muscular torso, one lodging in his right shoulder and the other in his left shoulder, both finding bone and tissues between the scapula and clavicle of each arm. His face splashed directly in the groundwater and he lied there dazed for a moment. Upon hearing screams of pain behind him, he noticed two fellow soldiers both wounded and lying face up in the rice paddy. Willy ignored the searing pain in his upper body and crawled the twenty feet back to his buddies as the Viet Cong began to move in his direction. With enormous adrenaline pumping through his system, Willy took a squat position in front of the wounded men and power-lifted both soldiers onto his broad, severely injured shoulders. But could he get all three of them safely to the rainforest about a hundred yards away? He had no choice. Willy lumbered the best anyone could with nearly 400 pounds on his bullet-shredded back.
The soldiers were only five yards from the edge of the bush when shots rang out and Willy was hit by two more bullets, both hitting flesh and tissue on the right side of his body, but missing the internal organs of his abdominal cavity. Although bleeding profusely, Willy managed to dive headfirst into the thick forest with his human cargo in tow. However, Lieutenant Connelly was already dead. His skull was shattered from a projectile that hit him directly on top of the cranium during his transport on Willy’s back.
Willy’s other passenger, Private Buck Scott, was unconscious from loss of blood. Although it was too late to help Lieutenant Connelly, Willy was determined to get Buck to safety. With his strength beginning to wither from his own blood loss, Willy managed to drag Buck into a hole, and then covered both of them in decaying leaves fallen from the jungle canopy. He remembered seeing a Burmese python in a similar hole a few days earlier, and he hoped that if he and Buck were lodgers in some Pythonidae’s home, the reptile would be a gracious host!
Buck had been hit in the lower back and Willy couldn’t tell if he had ruptured any internal organs. Willy untied his boot and took off a sock, then squeezed the water out hoping to remove any loose dirt. He ignored his own pain and blood loss, and held the sock firmly on Buck’s wound trying to stop the bleeding. At this point, he had no idea how they were going to escape. It was then that Willy heard the chopping sound of several Bell UH-1 Iroquois helicopters advancing towards the rice paddy, and a few moments later the sweet sound of ammunition peppering the field from the M60D door guns attached to the Huey.
With difficulty, Willy crawled out of his hiding space in time to see the last of the Viet Cong guerillas gunned down next to the fallen men of his own platoon. He limped out into the open waving his arms, praying that his fellow comrades in the air recognized his American uniform. They did, and both Willy Banks and Buck Scott were evacuated to the Eighth Field Hospital. Willy miraculously endured the ordeal with no permanent disability, other than bullet hole scars in four locations on his back. Buck lived to tell his story, but did so in a wheelchair as he became a paraplegic survivor that war protesters back home would use for propaganda, then soon forget.
While recuperating in the hospital, Willy opened an officially sealed congratulatory letter from General William Westmoreland that indicated he would be receiving the Purple Heart from President Johnson after returning to the States. The letter also indicated he was being considered for the Medal of Honor for his acts of valor that resulted in saving the life of Private Buck Scott. Heroics really didn’t excite Willy. He was just thankful that he could lengthen Private Scott’s existence here on earth, but terribly saddened he couldn’t have done the same for Lieutenant Connelly. Willy put the letter down on the bedside table and picked up another one. He noticed it had been postmarked July 9th, a little over two months earlier. The return address read: Abby Charles, Seminole Bend, Florida, USA.
CHAPTER 11
October 27, 1966
N ear the end of October in 1966, the medical staff at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington D.C. wrote a letter to Army Chief of Staff, General Harold Johnson, recommending that Corporal Willy Banks be assigned light duty activities for the remainder of his enlistment period. By then, Willy had been promoted to the rank of corporal and presented with both a Purple Heart and Medal of Honor, and was well known and respected among officers and enlisted men throughout all branches of the armed forces. However, he refused to speak to television, radio or newspaper reporters who wanted to let the world know about his bravery. In his own mind, he was simply a random GI doing his part to protect freedom and democracy for the country he loved.
On November 2, 1966, Willy was honorably discharged from active service and would finish the terms of his enlistment in the Army reserves based in Orlando. As corporal, he would train new recruits and ensure that orders from high ranking officers were implemented.
Orlando was only a couple of hours from Seminole Bend, and soon he would take over the responsibilities of raising Tyrone Banks . . . the same responsibilities that his older brother had mysteriously absconded.
CHAPTER 12
Fifteen Years and Nine Months Later
Monday, February 8, 1982
10:30 p.m.
W illy Banks had suspected for some time that Roy Jackson’s mammoth income wasn’t completely made by peddling milk, butter and cheese curds. A couple of months ago, while patrolling the north end of the county, Willy
and his partner on the night shift, Sam McCormick, witnessed several Piper Cubs flying suspiciously low over the vast Jackson estate. It looked as though they were going to land somewhere in a field on the other side of the mounds of hay bales piled high near the distant swamp. Or maybe they were actually putting down right on the swamp itself with some sort of seaplane. The aircraft were too far in the distance to see if floats were attached to the frames. They would sink below the horizon, then rise again like hawks hunting for field mice.
Willy believed that the swamp served as a moat filled with gators and poisonous snakes to keep intruders away from the Jackson property. The ominous, shallow black water prevented anyone from entering the wealthy man’s home from the rear, at least with all his limbs attached.
Phil Bennett owned Bennett’s Airboat Palace, which was about as much like a palace as nearby Belle Glade was like Beverly Hills. Old Phil must’ve been dreaming he was a king or emperor or something when he called it a palace, and those dreams were mighty far-fetched! Anyway, the airboats, new and used, were kept in a run-down shack on Bennett’s lot that ran adjacent to Lake Okeechobee’s rim canal, about six miles southeast of Taylor Creek. The driveway leading into his property was plain old white sand with cracked miniature seashells, not exactly the kind of entryway that would lead up to a monarch’s castle. Fortunately, his prices were fit more for a peasant than an emperor, and Sam and Willy decided to rent one with cash out of their own pockets so they could cruise down and check out Roy Jackson’s enigmatic backyard.
The deputies didn’t use police allocated taxpayer money to rent the airboat because Sheriff Al Bonty told them to stay away from Roy’s place. In fact, Bonty advised all his deputies to simply “ignore” Roy Jackson’s transgressions, or face dismissal from the sheriff’s department. When asked why, Sheriff Bonty claimed that he had orders from the FBI. However, as far as Willy was concerned, Roy’s world of total disregard for the law ended last Saturday when Willy clocked him doing 107 in a 55 zone. Willy was met by threats and intimidation as he approached Roy’s car, but because of Bonty’s orders, Willy didn’t give Roy a ticket. Nonetheless, as Roy hammered down the pedal and fishtailed back on the road, kicking up gravel and chipping the windshield on the squad car, Willy swore that someday he would ensure that Roy Jackson faced justice, the legal kind . . . or otherwise.