Willow Wood Road: Lavender and Sage

by Micah Sherwood

  Micah awoke standing upright facing streaks of orange sunrays draping the eastern hills, his switchblade open in his hand. Cory was next to him. Haze was prancing behind them in the Krigsman yard.

  “Stay here,” Micah ordered as he slipped the knife into his pocket and then stealthily moved toward the decrepit stucco three doors down—the home of Harry’s family. He crept over the fallen chain-link fence. The house was dark; but behind the dilapidated shed, a dark maroon Dodge was parked; it had Louisiana plates; its tires were flat. Micah was certain that the weapon used to pop the tires resided in his pocket, though he had no memory of the act. He returned to Cory, and the two boys hightailed it back to the Dorsey barn and into the kitchen, where Tom had breakfast ready and waiting. Famished, the boys jumped mouth first into the food. Tom had placed a banana next to their plates as directed by the nutritionist. They ate and then went to do their chores.

  Micah was in the midst of sweeping the stables when his gut told him to return the knife to Tom’s desk. He went back into the house. Mr. Dorsey was showering as the boy open the lower drawer and shoved the knife under some paperwork where Tom had put it last March. Then he returned to his job.

  A half-hour later, a sheriff’s car pulled into the drive. A deputy got out, and Micah recognized him as one who came to the Dorsey house previously. The deputy saw the boys at the barn door and went over to them. Micah had no use for the sheriff’s department and considered them incompetent and irresponsible. He did not try to hide his feelings.

  “Son, where is Mr. Dorsey?”

  Micah head pointed toward the house.

  “You mind telling me where you were last night?” The deputy asked.

  Micah was on alert and feeling belligerent. “Yeah, I do mind. If you want to talk to me, get Mr. Dorsey first.”

  “I’ll do that,” the officer responded and went to the back door and started banging.

  Tom immediately opened the screen and let the young man in. Ten minutes later, Tom called Micah into the house.

  “Micah, this man seems to think that you did some vandalism last night. Tell him where you were,” Tom requested.

  “After we got home from Dallas, we put the horses up and went on a run to the playa. We were back probably about 11:00 and went to bed.” Cory had followed them into the kitchen, and he shook his head in agreement. “What was I supposed to have done?”

  “Slit some tires and the owner said he saw you do it,” the deputy’s eyes gazed at Micah.

  “Would that person be Harry Benoit?” Micah asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The same Harry Benoit you said was in New Orleans? He said he saw me? What else did he see?”

  The deputy thought for a moment before responding. “You’re a little confused. You’re answering my questions, son. Not the other-way-around.”

  Micah became infuriated but controlled himself. “I was with Cory all day yesterday and this morning. He’s my alibi.” Micah glared at the officer. “Are we finished?”

  “A brother is not much of an alibi.” The deputy assumed the two were siblings.

  Tom stepped in at this point. “It’s a good enough alibi. You boys go back to your chores.”

  As Micah and Cory walked across the yard, they could hear Mr. Dorsey light into the deputy. Micah was so angry that he was shaking, but he kept it under control. Soon the officer left, and a few minutes after that, Mr. Dorsey came into the barn.

  “Okay boys…,” Tom was interrupted by Micah.

  “You want to know if I lied,” Micah spoke. “When have I ever lied to you? Unless I did it in my sleep, I spoke the truth. But let me tell you that given the opportunity I would slit Harry’s throat, not his tires.”

  Both Cory and Tom stood stunned and wide-eyed at the ferocity of Micah’s response, and they watched as he left them heading toward Willow Wood.

  “I need to explain something,” Cory turned toward the old man. “We found Raggéd last night dead. He buried him out near the pipeline. He is hurting too much to talk about it; I reckon you and that deputy are a recipient of his pain. Give him a while to work things out.” Cory’s pain and sorrow was agonizing.

  Tom ached inside. “Thanky for letting me know,” he mumbled and went into the house, where he sat at his desk, opening the drawer to ensure that the switchblade was where he left it. He picked it up and then deposited it in a wall safe.

  Cory finished the chores. Meanwhile, Micah went up the hill toward Mr. Von’s place and worked on his yard slowly and methodically. By 10:00 he was crisscrossing his own yard at Willow Wood creating a diamond pattern in the grassy green canvass. The sky was leaden, the heat oppressive, and he tossed his sweat soaked shirt on the large brick planter. The clouds were thickening, so he rushed to get the quarter acre lot clipped and clean. He finished just as a fine drizzle started falling, hardly enough to make the concrete driveway damp. The garden terrace was in full bloom. The squash and cucumbers were filled with yellow blossoms and finger size vegetables. Purple vine weed flowers decorated the retaining wall his father had built the previous summer, their lanky filaments climbing and covering the cinderblock wall next to where the boy sat enjoying the quiet surroundings. He looked toward Lindy’s house; the family was gone on vacation and wouldn’t be back until next week, and that saddened him because he needed his girl’s touch.

  Micah pushed the mower to the front yard and into the garage. A new neighbor had moved in across the street the previous month. She sat on her front porch watching him; she had been observing him since he started working on the lawn and it made him sort of edgy. And this wasn’t the first time she had taken an interest in him. It seemed like every time he mowed the lawn, she would be there, her eyes following his every move. He sort of wanted to go ask what her problem was, but she frightened him. As he opened the garage door, he looked across the street toward her house, and she was up and heading in his direction. He wanted to run. Every cell of his body told him to get the hell out of there. She was nice looking, late twenties and dark, maybe Hispanic. He was struggling to read her flicker; it was like the flames of a red hot fire. Her emotions were those of someone starving but not for food. As she drew closer, her hunger became his hunger, an unwanted incursion that the boy could not evade and was the source of his alarm.

  “Hello, I am Maria Sewell. I was wondering if you have time to do some mowing for me.”

  Micah looked toward her house. “Sure, but it doesn’t really need it. I can check back in a couple of days when it’s longer.”

  “No, please, I need you today. My husband said to get it mowed, and he can be a bastard. So please help me.”

  Micah shrugged his shoulders and pushed his lawnmower across the street and trimmed the grass. Once finished, he went through the gate into the backyard. It was all dirt: no grass, no weeds, nothing but caliche.

  Mrs. Sewell opened the French doors. “Nothing here to mow, so come in for some lemonade and cool off.”

  Micah wanted out of there. Something was volatile about the lady, something both a little off and a little intriguing; but he couldn’t put his finger on it; rather, he was afraid to put his finger on it because he didn’t want to know.

  “Naw, I better get going.”

  “Oh please, I’ve already got it made.”

  The boy headed toward the door. He was uncomfortable. His shoulders were wet from the fine drizzle as he stepped into her den, and she immediately had a towel drying him off.

  “Here, I can do that,” he was uncomfortable with a stranger touching him, and he grabbed for the cloth.

  “Don’t be silly,” and she continued dabbing the rag against his skin. When finished, she pressed a tumbler into his hand.

  Micah took the glass but momentarily stared into a wall mirror hanging over the bar. The Shade looked back at him, his metallic eyes superimposed on his. He turned as he took a drink and choked. There was more bourbon in the glass than lemonade. Mrs. Sewell laughed.

  “How old are you?” The lad
y queried.

  “Old enough,” Micah wanted to sound evasive but it came out as something totally different.

  She laughed, “I’m sure you are.” She spoke as she sat on the couch, patting the cushion and inviting Micah to join her.

  The boy downed almost the entire glass of hard lemonade and then just stood, glaring at the lady, unsure of what to do. His inclination was to run like a rabbit, but a part of him wanted to stay. He was feeling urges that, though not new to him, were certainly more potent than any he felt before. He walked across the room and took the spot next to Mrs. Sewell.

  “You never told me your name.”

  “David, I am David,” be was barely audible.

  “Davey, you are so stressed. I can help you with that.” She spoke with deep intensity as her hands gently grabbed and squeezed his shoulders then forcing him toward her.

  Forty-five minutes later, Micah was pulling his lawnmower across the street to Willow Wood with a twenty dollar bill in his pocket. His mind was blank and he was feeling fine. For forty-five minutes he had forgotten about Raggéd and Harry (and that’s what he needed). He threw open the garage and stepped in as Tandy ran up to him from behind.

  “You got a new lawn mowing client?” his friend asked.

  Micah smiled as he replied, “Yeap, every Tuesday afternoon.

  ~

  Jimmy John took the boys to boxing practice and returned them to the Dorsey place. Dane stayed while Tandy took off for home and Cory rode to Bluebonnet with JJ. Tom met them at the back door. He wanted to say something, but he could not force himself to talk. Micah knew that Raggéd’s death was weighing on him. He told Dane that he would meet him in the barn and then went into the house with his guardian.

  “I’m okay. You don’t have to say anything. Don’t worry.” He spoke while his soul was filled with hurt.

  The old man hugged the boy. “I wish that I could stop your pain, make you happy.”

  “We make our own happiness.” Micah sat at the kitchen table. “We make our own misery too. There is always a purpose for what happens. There’s chance also, but primarily we just act out a specific role. Raggéd’s no different that Guy. They both walked offstage just like the playwright’s script prescribed. Just like I will someday. So I am fine. I will handle things.”

  Tom opened the freezer, reached in and grabbed a Popsicle and tossed it to Micah. “It’s past my bed time. Be safe,” and he left the boy alone.

  An hour later, Micah and Dane sat on a branch of a cottonwood that stood on the periphery of the creek. The barn was behind them, and they surveyed the strip of prairie, a tentacle of grassland that separated them from the house where Harry lived. Dane followed Micah like a puppy, never asking questions but willing to do whatever Micah did just because.

  Everyone knew about Raggéd’s demise, but only the boys knew the gruesome nature of his death. Cory shielded Tom from this because it would not bode well for his health or for Micah’s freedom. (They all imagined that Micah would get sent to Seneca if the old man knew the facts, and none of them wanted that to happen.)

  The maroon Dodge had not moved since the morning; its tires looked like pancakes. On its hood, Harry lay against the windshield while gazing in their general direction (they were hidden by tree limbs, but the distance alone was enough to conceal them). He had an odd flicker, glowing black, red and brown—unhealthy and malefic. Micah hated that man, but his soul also wept for him: his tortured mind, unending pain; his self-made agony. Harry was fingering a knife; his passions were debased and gutterish.

  The coyotes loped up the creek toward the tree from where the boys were observing. They surrounded the cottonwood quietly and guardingly. After another forty-five minutes, the boys descended and started running, but not toward the playa; rather, eastward across the old hospital grounds, across Dane’s family property and toward Mr. Dorsey’s new house. Within forty-five minutes they were talking to Henry in his room at the big stables. He had already started packing and getting ready to relocate for his new assignment in Paducah, and next week Micah and the boys would be sleeping in this room as caretakers while Tom Dorsey was away.

  They ran back toward the creek, and as they passed Willow Wood, Micah noticed that Millie’s car sat in the driveway of the dark house. Micah had not spoken to his mother since leaving for Norway, and he had only talked on the phone to his dad once all summer. “That’s the way it is,” mumbling to himself, and the two continued sprinting toward the night shrouded arroyo. Across from them, still lying on the old Dodge, Harry fingered his knife.

  Micah crawled through the barbed wire at the school. It was near noon, and he had an errand to do alone. Dane, Tandy and Cory were back at the barn getting their horses ready, and Micah would meet them at the dry lake. But at this moment, he was stepping out of his comfort zone to do something that was not quite kosher. He walked up Tamarind Street and stopped in front of a house whose yard was a cesspit of garbage and dog droppings. This was Sammy’s house; Sammy who was taken away by the county and sent to live with his grandparents in Illinois—Sammy his thuggish friend.

  Micah walked up the steps to the front door, ringing the bell and then banging when no one answered. The door cracked a smidgen. “What?” a male voice yelled.

  “Is this where Sammy lived?”

  “Fuck yourself!” and the door slammed.

  Micah pounded again, and the door opened, but Micah spoke before the boy on the other side could open his mouth. “Sammy said you could help me before he left. I need something and I think you can get it for me. I got money.”

  The door flung open and the teenager pulled Micah through the entrance; the yard outside was cleaner than the house inside. The boy was close to twenty years old, lean and lank and filthy. A girl, who reclined on the couch naked and uncaring, watched him through a drug induced filter.

  “Well what do you want?” The boy growled.

  “A switchblade and a box of 22 caliber ammo for a Ruger revolver,” Micah held himself upright, strong and demanding. The room stunk; a smell that was a mixture of garbage, vomit and sex. “Can you get it for me or not?”

  “Sure, it will cost you $50, and if you want some Mary Jane I can get that for you cheap too.”

  “Just the knife and the bullets.” Micah continued to study the environs. “When?”

  Sammy’s brother tossed his dirty long blonde hair to the side. “Now if you got the money?”

  “Show me the stuff.” Micah pressed.

  The boy left the room but returned within a couple of minutes carrying a box of shells and the switchblade, which he placed on a dinette.

  “I know how much the bullets cost. Here’s $25,” Micah pronounced and tossed the money on the table and then picked up the knife.

  “I’m Larry. Anytime you need something, this is the place, but next time you need to come to the backdoor.” He grinned as Micah looked toward the nude and drug addled girl. “You want some of that, stud? Ain’t much to look at but it’s free.” Larry laughed.

  The thought of touching the girl in any way was revolting, and Micah frowned. “I don’t think so.” He unpackaged the switchblade. It had a bone-handle and made with high grade steel. “Beautiful,” he snapped the blade out and then folded it back before sliding it into the secret glove sewn in his boot.

  “You know how to use that?” Larry sneered.

  “Yeap,” Micah responded by reaching at lightning speed into his boot for the knife, flicking it open as he seized a fist full of Larry’s oily hair with his right hand and pressing the tip of the blade against the addict’s jugular with the other. “What do you think?”

  “Calm it.” Larry said as he pulled away. He reached into a pocket, grabbing a small pouch and tossing it to his customer. “Here’s a little something extra for a new friend, and I can get more. Anything you want, I can get. Anything!”

  The bag contained an ounce of marijuana. Micah shoved the weed into his back pocket. “Gracias,” and he left that sewer of a ho
use as quickly as possible.”

  A murkiness enveloped Micah; he felt it, tasted it. It shaded his entire world, but it did not scare him. He walked toward Harry’s place and stood at the back fence staring at the bare yard. Within a minute, Harry came out, and the two exchanged long and loaded glances. Micah put out his hand formed into a gun with the thumb up representing the open hammer. He lowered the thumb and said, “Bang, you’re dead,” just loud enough for Harry to hear, and the man stepped back through the door. Micah turned and slowly walked across the prairie. What he had done disturbed Harry, and the boy relished that.

  Back in his room, he stowed the marijuana in the cabinet after retrieving the Ruger. He placed it, the ammo and some targets into his saddlebags, grabbed Styx and trotted to the playa.

  Micah centered himself, holding the gun in his left hand and aiming at the target. The boys stood behind him, watching as he fired. The handgun had an unexpected recoil, and it took Micah a moment to get his sightings back, and he shot three more times. The gaggle of youths went to inspect the results. He had hit the target all four times, all landing toward the right of center by a few inches. Micah reloaded and shot four more rounds. These were high and far left, and he loaded again and fired over and over until he was able to hit the center consistently. Micah blew-out three targets and spent three-quarters of a box of shells practicing.

  His friends never questioned where the gun came from or spoke about any of their other concerns; and Micah was not going to volunteer any information. This was his mission and no one else’s. And the boys understood this intuitively.

  Chapter 23: Ich Habe Angst

  The Shade gazed back at him from the bathroom mirror. Micah’s reflection was a timid outline almost hidden by the bold reflection of the eerie specter. He stepped into the shower for a moment to wash off the dirt left from his chores before drifting up to Willow Wood to ride with his mother to shop for school clothes and supplies. He stepped out and dried off, pulling on his yellow western shirt. His hair curled onto his neck and formed ringlets on his forehead. As he buttoned-up his jeans, Mr. Dorsey came into the room. “Have a good day with your mother. You need me to run you up the hill?”