Willow Wood Road: Lavender and Sage

by Micah Sherwood

  “A successful ass,” Micah joked.

  “Only by your definition, no one else’s.” Cory was resting on his elbows looking at Micah.

  “You don’t wear jealousy very well.” Micah announced to his friend. Then there was quiet. They both were sensing the other’s mood, their insecurities. And they touched upon the love they shared for one another, a subject they could not discuss because boys never talk demonstratively about that connection, but they recognized it and appreciated it.

  “Want to run with me to get Puckers?” Micah asked.

  “Naw,” Cory replied. “I’m going to bed.”

  Micah sprinted toward the northern pasture but cut westward across the Petit ranch toward Willow Wood, a three mile run. He hopped the fence behind Maria Sewell’s house and stood beside her back gate. She enchanted Micah and made his body ache, his mind confused. He turned and ran down the alley and back over the barbed-wire toward the creek, across the pipeline and to the tree that faced the decrepit stucco bungalow where Harry stayed. The place was dark, and there were no cars and no visible trace of the old foreman. But Micah was not comfortable; something was wrong but he couldn’t figure out what.

  He let the environment overtake him. The night was still, no wind and no noise except for the crickets singing their chaotic chorus; and behind their boisterous refrain, the Shadow Choir’s melody flowed through the prairies. The moon was almost full as it floated beneath the luminescence of the Milky Way, while the smoke from the smelter reflected the light of the city, drifting in the quiet darkness and forming arms that seemed to wrap the moon in a black clasp. But the surroundings did not calm Micah. The feelings of wrongness and déjà vu were persistent…then movement. A tall figure approached from the direction of the pipeline; his flicker was as dark as the night with shades of red pulsating within its core.

  Danger, he held something glittering, a knife or gun, and now Harry was even with him but on the opposite side of the creek. Micah did not breathe. After a few moments, the man disappeared as he scurried toward the old barn.

  Micah jumped from the tree and crossed over the arroyo following the man. He stayed off of the path and trailed him from within the undergrowth. Harry stood at the same spot he did on that stormy night weeks earlier. If Micah had his rifle, he would not have hesitated this time in blowing the old foreman’s head off.

  Harry leaned against the building, pulling a pint of whiskey out of his jacket and guzzled the fiery liquid down, tossing the bottle aside as he leaned against the barn. The crazy man was drunk, which gave him the courage to complete his task.

  Micah tuned into the man, and he sucked in Harry’s hate and hunger making those passions his own, and he became ill and turned his head away. Then he heard a shot followed by oblivion.

  The boys jerked awake with the clock alarm ringing, disoriented until realizing they were in the foreman’s room in the new barn. It was 4:00 in the morning, and they had chores to do. It was going to be a busy day. Micah had his first day of football practice and two of his three friends were scheduled for their sports physicals with Dr. Reeves. Puckers stood next to the barn in a pool of muddy water and draped in a blanket. Micah scratched his head trying to remember bringing Puckers to the new place. He led the donkey to a clean stall, and then the boys rushed into the house to eat breakfast. A fine drizzle was falling as they latched a flatbed to the truck and headed to the northern pasture. As they pulled next to the byre to load the trailer with hay, both boys noticed that the burn barrel was smoking, and this puzzled them because they did not light it. Micah looked inside and smelled the faint fumes of gasoline and finding only ashes, some small metal rivets and lumps of rubber or plastic material. Confused, he and Cory dumped the remains into the ash pile.

  It was Cory’s turn to drive. The drizzle had stopped and the sun peeked through the low-lying clouds. Micah lifted the split bales of alfalfa and tossed them from the trailer bed every ten feet or so. The temperature was in the low sixties as the work commenced, but it only took half an hour before Micah had his shirt off with his body glistening from sweat. He enjoyed the strain on his muscles; it made him feel alive. Micah would rather toss the bales than drive the pickup; exertion was a form of meditation. It had been ages since he had felt so good, like all his fears had evaporated. He smelled jasmine and roses; he prayed softly to the wind, “Thank you.”

  He felt a pinch and rubbed a good sized nodule on his neck almost unconsciously, an irritation from a bug bite.

  By 8:45 the boys were back at the barn; Dane waited in the foreman’s office, while Cory and Micah went into the bedroom suite to dress in clean clothes. Micah searched for his old running shoes, but they were nowhere to be found. He opened his duffle and pulled out the new runners his mom had bought him. Soon Mrs. Krigsman pulled up; Dane and Cory scrambled to the car and rode off to the doctor’s office. As they pulled away, Coach Britt turned into the driveway.

  “Nervous about practice?” The coach looked over at the boy as he hopped into the cab.

  “No sir. I’ll either make the team or I won’t. It’s not important in the scheme of things.” He spoke as he slinked down in the seat and rested his knees on the dashboard of the truck. His neck was tender and he picked at it.

  “That doesn’t sound like the boy I know; the boy I know would be all anxious. You’ve come a long way, good for you.” Coach smiled as his passenger grinned. “That’s quite a mosquito bite you got there.” Micah only shrugged his shoulders. It didn’t take long to get to the school. “Get into your uniform and cleats. I’ll see you on field.”

  Micah jumped out of the truck and sprinted toward the gym. He threw on his practice gear and clacked out the door. Kevin joined him and they stood under a goal post with the other boys. The coaches came out and started the boys with calisthenics and warm-ups. Then they were divided into two groups by size and build. One group went with Coach Patchen and the other with Coach Britt.

  Coach Britt’s group congregated at the northern goalpost. Micah stood next to Kevin and listened as the instructor spoke. “We’ve split you up to better evaluate your speed, strength and aptitude for the game. I am going to coach the offensive players and the other group will be defensive. Some of you may play both. There will be first string players and second string players. Not all of you will get to play every game.”

  “I want to see your throwing and catching abilities today. Micah, you and your friend come here,” Britt tossed Kevin the ball. “Micah, I want you to run as fast as you can, and when you get to the 20 yard line, be ready to catch the ball. Kevin will throw it to you. If you catch it, throw the ball back to Kevin and return. Then do it all over again, but add another five yards to the distance. If you miss the ball, you two will exchange places. Go!”

  Micah took off, and as he approached the 20 yard line, he looked back and the ball was already on its way; he had to jump into the air to catch it; then he threw it back and rejoined his friend.

  “Perfect! Now you other boys break into pairs, spread out along the goal line and start practice.” Coach watched the boys as they threw and received. After about 90 minutes, the coach brought the boys together again. Good job, I have an idea who has the strongest and most accurate arm, and who can see the ball and can catch it. Now I need to know about speed. We are going to do some running.” I need each of you to run as fast as you can to the other goal line, hit the ground in a tumble and then run back. You will be timed.”

  Cory and Dane showed up at the start of the running. They stood, listened and watched. The other boys lined up for their runs. By the time they were finished, it was approaching 2:00.

  “Gentlemen, be here Wednesday at 10:00. We may make a few changes, some of you will be moved to Coach Patchen and defense, and a couple of those guys may come over here. Be sure to eat thirty minutes before practice. We will be doing a lot of running.”

  The boys scrambled to the gym. Micah stripped and headed into the common shower room. He felt good; he had fun. If
he had to choose at that moment between academics and sports, sports would win hands down. He figured that athletics was more a microcosm of life. It was hard like a chunk of granite, while the intellect was a compilation of many things and its results were often some variant of gray. Sports are black and white with rarely any in-between: you catch the ball or you don’t; you come in 1st, 2nd 3rd, or last; and there was never any question.

  Micah was lost in his musings when he noticed some red running down his shoulder. He got out of the shower and looked in a mirror. There was a touch of blood oozing from the bug bite on his neck. Not a lot but it was still a little disturbing. He felt a little pinching pain, nothing great. As he was studying himself, Coach Britt walked past and stopped.

  “Let me take a look at that,” he spoke and poked the cut with his little finger. “My God Micah, this is a pretty nasty puncture. What did you do?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t hurt. It’s a bug bite, right?”

  “Come to my office,” and the Coach spent some time looking at it, and then he put mecuricome on the wound with some gauze and tape. Who’s your doctor?”

  “Dr. Reeves.”

  “Get dressed and then come back.”

  He was pulling on his jeans and tried to listen as the Coach spoke quietly on the phone. Micah could discern nothing of the conversation except that Coach Britt appeared upset.

  Micah returned to the office, but before he could take a seat, the Coach was up and leading Micah to his truck. They met Cory on the way out. “Tell your mom that we’re on the way to St. Anthony’s. She can meet us there.

  Cory looked surprised and then took off toward the parking lot.

  “I don’t need the hospital. I’m fine. It’s just a little thing, and you’ve already fixed it.” Micah was not very happy. Everything had been going so well, and now he was going back to that “fucking” emergency room.

  The coach was speeding along 24th heading toward Highway 287, running stop lights on the way. The gauze on Micah’s neck was becoming soaked with blood. They screeched to a stop next to the emergency entrance. An orderly with a wheel chair was waiting, and he would not let Micah walk in on his own.

  Two orderlies lifted him onto a table, where a doctor had him on his side and sticking a big cotton-ended stick into his neck, pulling the skin apart and looking with a scope into the perforation.

  “Do not move your head. Stay still. You have no pain?” The doctor asked.

  “I do now after you poked it.” Micah started feeling some panic.

  The physician looked at the coach and Mrs. Krigsman, who had just entered the room. “Are either one of you his kin?”

  “I have signed authorization by his guardian. I’m his coach.”

  “Come with me, we need to get this fixed now.” The two men left.

  At that point, Micah was becoming more upset just from the fear of not knowing what was going on. “It must be serious,” he thought, but he did not understand how or why.

  A nun came in, and Micah softly spoke to her, “Sister Bernadette please,” and she left. Five minutes later, the sister was holding his hand and telling him that everything was going to be okay.

  “Ich habe Angst,” Micah spoke to her.

  And she responded in German, “Of course you’re afraid, but I’m here now.”

  A nurse came in with a syringe. “This is going to help you relax. When you wake up, everything will be so much better.”

  Micah opened his eyes in the recovery room. His mother sat by his side asleep in a chair. His neck was bandaged, and he was taking fluids intravenously. The moon sparkled through the window. He looked around, and there were a few people in beds surrounding him. He again looked over at his mother and then went back to sleep.

  When he once again awakened, he was in an old green room on the 4th floor of the hospital. The sun was up, but he did not know the time. He was alone, and he watched nurses go up and down the hallway; sometimes kids in pajamas or gowns would stroll by. A food tray was sitting on a table. He pulled it over. I’m starving,” he mumbled out loud and started eating.

  He finished the meal and pushed the table away. About this time, a policeman came into his room. “Micah Sherwood,” Officer Mason spoke in a whisper.

  Micah shook his head, “Yeap, that’s me.”

  “I need to speak to you if you’re feeling up to it?”

  “I think I need a parent or guardian here before I can talk.” Micah smiled.

  “I heard that Commissioner Dorsey is your guardian, so I figured I’d be speaking to a young attorney.” He returned his smile. “How you feeling, quite a trauma isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. No one’s told me why I’m here or what in the hell happened. One moment I was showering after football practice, and then I was on my way to the hospital and into surgery. I’m guessing surgery, but I’m not sure even of that. Can you tell me?” Micah’s anger was surfacing.

  “You were shot. You didn’t know you had a bullet in your neck?”

  Micah was stunned. “No, that’s not possible. I think I would know if I were shot—naw, not possible.”

  “I’m afraid so. The doctor took a 22 caliber bullet out of your neck. You were lucky. The bullet was right next to a major artery. Any closer and it would have severed the vein and you’d have bled-out. Sometimes when you have an injury, you don’t feel it because it is such a shock to the system, or maybe it severed the nerves. I can’t say ‘cause I’m no doctor.”

  “I’ve already spoken to your coach and your friend. The doctor said the bullet could have been in there for a while, and that your football practice managed to wedge it against the vein. Can you tell me what you did last night? If you want, we can wait for your mother or Mr. Dorsey.”

  “I’ll talk,” Micah grinned. “Cory and I tossed the football back and forth yesterday evening. Then I went on a run to Willow Wood and the old barn to get my donkey, Puckers, and then back to the new place. This morning we hauled hay to the cattle, and then I cleaned up and went to football practice. That’s it, nothing special.”

  “You didn’t see any blood before practice?”

  “Nope, but I wasn’t looking for it so there may have been some. Look on my pillow and see if there’s any there.”

  “Already have, and there was a drop or two, so we know you were shot before you went to sleep. Cory is taking me running along your path in a little while. We’ll look for some evidence of where you may have been injured. It’s very peculiar.”

  “Since it didn’t go very deep, the shot must have been from some distance away, right?” Micah asked. “Whoever shot me may not even know they hit someone.”

  “Distance may have been a factor, but it was a low velocity bullet to begin with. Any higher and we wouldn’t be talking right now. I’m thinking that this may have been an accident, but we need to check all possibilities. I got to get going to meet up with your friend. I’m sure we’ll be talking again. You get feeling better buddy.”

  By afternoon, Micah was in his bed at the old barn. Mr. Dorsey and Tandy were on their way from Paducah; and Poppi was coming home from Kansas. His mother was in the house fixing him a snack. The door to the creek was open, and he watched the cottonwood trees sway in the wind. Even with a hole in his neck, he felt good and unburdened.

  By 4:00, Mr. Dorsey was sitting on his bed talking to his ward, pale and ill looking. “I am sorry I wasn’t here for you. I should have been.”

  “Would that have made a difference?” Course not. You have your own life to live, and I have mine. Stop blaming yourself. That’s crazy. I feel great, and so should you. Maybe I need to take you to the hospital. You look sicker than me.”

  Mr. Dorsey was about to say something when Cory and the policeman came into the room.

  “Mr. Dorsey, can I have a word with you?” The policeman had an anxious look on his face.

  “No,” Micah almost yelled. “This is about me, and I want to hear.”

  “Yes,” Tom agreed, “
Micah is adult enough to hear whatever you have to say.

  Cory left the room.

  “Your friend showed me the path you ran last night.” The policeman looked at Micah. “When we got to the railroad tracks that run near the Juvenile Detention Center, we found a late model Dodge, maroon colored, parked next to Hillcrest Road. Do you know anyone with a vehicle like that?” The policeman was cool, controlled, and there was something very bad on his mind.

  “Harry Benoit, my old foreman, had a car that color.” Mr. Dorsey turned even more ashen.

  The officer looked at the old man. “And you had a restraining order against him; in fact, you reported a couple of times that he had broken the order. Is that true?”

  Micah spoke up in anger. “Yeah, that’s true and the fucking sheriff’s department called us liars…”

  “Enough! You need to shut up or the officer and I will have our conversation elsewhere.” Tom turned toward Officer Mason. “Yes, that is true. Can we get to the point?” Mr. Dorsey was getting into his lawyer role.

  “You sure you want the boy to hear this?” The policeman looked toward Micah.

  “Of course, please get-on with it.”

  “The car had been reported by the railroad and was stickered as abandoned earlier yesterday morning. The doors were unlocked; one was open. It appears that your foreman had been living in the car for some time. It was located perhaps an eighth of a mile south from where Micah crossed the tracks during his run. North of the crossing we found a body. We presume it to be Mr. Benoit, but the corpse was badly mutilated; the train had run across his carcass. But the wallet we found had his driver’s license in it. We found a 22 pistol beside the tracks and also an empty bottle of bourbon. There were two rounds missing in the gun. Micah was shot with a 22 caliber pistol; the bullet types match.” You know Mr. Dorsey, Micah was lucky that this was a 22 caliber and nothing bigger.”

  Tom almost broke down at the officers words. “I know. Oh my God I know!”

  “I figure that your foreman knew the kid’s running habits and waited in ambush. He got off a couple of volleys, and one of them hit Micah, but since it was shot from a distance with a low velocity round, it probably felt like a big bug bite and obviously did not stop Micah, and he kept running. A 22 doesn’t have much of a recoil, but it was probably enough in Benoit’s drunkenness to make him unsteady, and he likely fell on the track and banged his head on the rails. The 6:00 a.m. train hit him and dragged him a ways from where we found the bottle and pistol, but he was probably already dead from the fall. Of course, this is all speculation, but it makes sense.”