He knelt down and tucked his arms under his wife’s shuddering legs. He picked her up. Angela turned towards Paul’s chest and wrapped her arms around his neck, collapsing like a child into the crib of his arms and feeling the musk of his sweat against her cheeks. Sarah dragged behind them as they walked out of the light and into the bleak darkness of the narrow corridor. Paul rested his head against the crown of Angela’s head. He could still hear the coughing whimper of Mr. Davidson.
But Mr. O’Grady had not yet finished with Mr. Davidson.
13
Paul drove the plow horses through the outskirts of town. Even these several days later his mind was numb. He couldn’t shake the image of the smug, dazed look on Mr. Davidson’s face. It ate at him when he finally fell asleep, it drove him to work under the beating rays of the sun, and even as he sat staring at his dinner, it played cruel tricks on his mind. He loved and adored Angela but when he looked at her, all he saw were the clumsy little hands of Mr. Davidson pawing at her breast and rubbing her thighs. He knew she was a mere pawn in Mr. Davidson’s game, but it still revolted him.
He glanced down off the side of the wagon and saw a pile of things stacked just off the road in the front lawn of a stately antebellum home. He stopped the team and hopped down off the wagon. An idea struck his mind as he looked over the discarded items: a sturdy wooden chair with arms, several throw cushions, two tricycles, a folding card table, and a collection of fine knives. He looked about and started hurriedly tossing the things into the back of the wagon.
"You can take the whole lot if you want, young man," came a soft deep voice. Paul looked up quickly as if he’d been caught.
"Don’t worry, lad," his distinctive English accent carved around the words. A tall man who was thick around the waist stood running his thumbs under his black suspenders, letting his hands drift down to his sides and fall into the pockets of the trousers that were partially hidden by the girth of his stomach. "My wife has been after me to throw those things out for years. Take all you want." His silver handlebar moustache that curled up like a pig's tail twitched as he spoke and the pearls of his teeth showed slightly as he grinned.
"Okay," Paul stammered, "thank you."
"Sure," the gentleman nodded. He walked back through the gap in the manicured hedgerow. Paul could hear the heels of his shoes clicking off the brick semi-circle driveway. Paul feverishly stacked the things into the wagon, hopping back into the driver’s seat. He snapped the reins. The horses rather seemed to like breaking into a slow trot maybe because it was boring to always lumber along in a walk. A breeze caught their manes and their heads were up high, their necks were back, and smiles looked to be on their long faces.
Paul pulled the team alongside the raggedy barn, jumping down from his perch before the team came to a complete halt. He stumbled quickly into the barn, grabbing a few things from his scattered workbench: a few blocks of wood, a hammer, a wrench, several different screwdrivers, a fist full of long nails, and several lengths of twine. He snatched the chair down from the wagon, flipping it onto its top.
He took the blocks of wood and pounded a few nails through them, attaching them to the bottom of the chair legs. He poked a hole through the corners of the pillows and ran the twine through them, fastening them to the seat of the chair. For a moment his heart was light and he had a passion for something. At this moment the world wasn’t about alcohol, hatred, or even revenge, but about meeting a common goal. He was a content man. He thought his loneliness would soon be over. He fought quickly to try and find his forgotten happiness.
He guided the wrenches over the wheels of the tricycles, loosening the bolts as fast as his hands could go, scraping his knuckles across the metal forks, not feeling a thing except a much-needed relief to his thoughts. The wheels fell from the forks of the tricycle. Paul sat the little bike off to the side, tilting it towards the wagon like an old man with a bad leg. He then took a few of the nails and delicately pounded them through the center of the wheels to join them to the blocks, putting the small wheels near the front and the larger wheels on the back legs of the chair.
He flipped the chair on its side, letting it rest on the arms. He breathed deep and spun the large back wheels. The chrome spokes sparkled like running water in the sunlight. Paul smiled widely. He breathed heavily a deep thankful sigh. Then he flipped the chair over and started to push it up the path. It wobbled and pitched on each large rock but the wheels were fastened tightly and it rolled over the stones with ease.
"Bernice?" he called as he stuck his head in the crack of her door. All the girls were sitting around their sister chatting but they became quiet as they heard Paul’s voice. He wheeled the chair into the room, smiling lowly like a slave. His face was unsure and he spoke softly, "I thought you might want to go to the stream with your sisters."
"Papa!" Bernice gasped. She struggled to sit up in bed.
"It’s not the greatest in the world," Paul said modestly, "but . . . ."
"Papa," Bernice broke in, "it’s beautiful. I love it!" she cried.
"Do ya? Do ya really?" Paul lifted his face and looked his little girl in the eye for the first time in months, which felt like ages.
Angela looked at Paul with a wounded amazed grin. She often wondered if she even knew this man at all. One moment she wanted to just flee and run away from him and the next day he was the salt of the earth, saving her from her fears and making her cry. She shook her head slightly as she watched him shuffle his feet nervously like a child with an itch on his toes. His gangly arms hung at his sides as his head swung low with bashful eyes.
Paul walked out of the room and into the hallway. His feet didn’t seem as heavy.
"Papa," Bernice called-out.
"Yeah?"
"Do you want to come with us?" Bernice asked graciously.
"Sure I do," Paul grinned. "You girls get loaded up and I’ll meet you out in the front yard. I need to do a few things in the barn." He moved purposefully down the hallway. He could hear the girls’ delight as they helped Bernice out of the bed and into the new chair.
Paul bounded off the porch, practically running. He gathered the knives out of the cart and took them into the barn. He laid them out across the knotted boards of the workbench, then he shuffled through a few things and pulled out a leather satchel. He unfolded the satchel and neatly placed the knives across the oily leather. He folded it around the shimmering blades like the flap of an envelope. Carefully, he tucked the knives into the pocket, delicately rolling the satchel up tightly with everything except for one piece of the cutlery set--the cleaver.
He took the cleaver by the handle, tossing it in his palm to feel the weight the way a marksman would a new gun. As Paul rotated the cleaver and admired the hard elegant curve of the blade, the sunlight filtered through the dust-covered window, sending a rainbow-colored glare dancing across the walls. The silver face of the cleaver was almost mesmerizing as he looked lustfully at the contour of the blade.
"Pa," Sarah shouted from the front porch, "come help us!"
"Comin’!" Paul bellowed back. He glanced anxiously around the shadow-filled barn looking for a place to stash the cleaver. He looked for a place where the children or Angela wouldn’t find it, a place where it could be hidden until he needed its services. He took a tattered shirt that was nothing more than a rag and wrapped it around the cleaver. He leaned out the axe, hoe, and rake and stuck it behind them. It vanished into the shadows as he let the tools rest back against the wall.
"Comin’!" He grinned slightly as he turned and skipped out of the barn. "Ready?" he shouted. He saw Sarah and Clarene trying to maneuver the chair down the steps of the porch so he jogged over and helped them lower the chair. Sarah and Clarene took turns pushing the chair down the path.
Angela walked over to Paul and subtly wrapped her arm around his waist, glancing seductively into his eyes. His heart jumped as they wandered down the path towards the slowly trickling brook.
14
Slowly b
ringing them to a halt, Paul pulled the horses up in front of the butcher’s shop. He jumped down from the wagon, trying to sedate his excitement. He grabbed the leather satchel from his seat and circled the wagon.
"Johnny?" he called out. Patiently, he waited for the bell over the door to stop ringing as he held the front door partially open. His face just barely peeked through the crack in the open door.
"Yes?" Johnny inquired cheerfully until he saw Paul’s face. "What is it, Paul?" Johnny uttered almost painfully.
"Could you step outside? I’d like to talk to you about somethin’," Paul said with a low gentle voice.
"All right," Johnny grumbled. Uncle Johnny rested his broom against the wall and untied his apron from his portly waist. He walked towards the door, looking down to inspect his clean floor as he walked, hanging his apron on the coat rack as he flung open the door.
"What is it, Paul?" Johnny said harshly. "You know I’m busy."
"I came across these," Paul laid the satchel across the bed of the cart and started unraveling it. "I thought you might want them. I don’t know what they’re worth, but I thought you would give me a fair price for em’." The faces of the cutlery set started to gleam as the leather was folded away. They lay flat like a surgeon’s tools, glistening as if they were newly found silver under the clear water of a mountain stream.
"Paul," Johnny gasped, "these are wonderful." He picked up one of the steak knives, letting the blade rest against the back of his forearm, flipping them hither and thither. "I never took you for a thief, Paul," Johnny said with a lathered disgust.
"Oh, no, no," Paul shot, "I didn’t steal them! One of those haughty snobs over off Highland Avenue was throwing a bunch of stuff out. I got these and also made Bernice a wheel chair," Paul said semi-proudly, not wanting to seem a braggart in front of Johnny.
"You did?" Johnny said with a strong sense of doubt in his voice.
"Yes. Yes, I did," Paul stammered.
"Paul," Johnny said sternly as he took another knife from the set, running his thumb along the length of the blade, "I know if I give you money for these, you’ll just go over to Happy Days and get drunk."
"Oh, I will not be doin’ that. Trust me." Paul’s jaw became rigid as he gritted his teeth.
"Then why do you want the money?" Johnny set the knife gently back down onto the satchel. He took the knives and spread them out evenly over the leather, letting them all have their spaces. He looked at them like they were his children.
"Angela has wanted to go see that new Montgomery Clift flick over at the Bijoux for some time now. I thought I would treat her and the kids to a show. As you know, we’ve had a rough go of it lately and I think they deserve somethin’. This won’t cure anything, mind you, but maybe one night of fun might help." Paul stared at the ground as he spoke. "I don’t know what these are worth, but anything you can offer I would greatly appreciate it," Paul mumbled with a humble Irish drawl.
"Huh," Johnny grunted. "I’m not sure about this, but let’s see what we can do. These are very expensive knives."
"Whatever you think is fair is fine with me, Johnny. I thought maybe five dollars," Paul suggested. He scraped his feet back and forth over a few rocks in the street. A couple elderly men walked by and nodded at Paul and Johnny as they walked slowly down the road.
"Paul, these are worth far more than that. I can’t pay you what they’re worth, but let’s say . . . ten dollars," Johnny stated, jutting out his chin as he believed that was a fair offer.
"That’s far too much, Johnny. Let’s say . . . seven fifty?" Paul countered.
"Well," Johnny chuckled, "you sure are a terrible businessman, but an amazingly honest one . . . maybe to a fault. But I guess that’s not too bad a thing," Johnny relented. Paul looked up for a second grinning, but it soon faded from his sullen face. "Let me run inside and grab the money. You wait here." Johnny trudged back up the steps. The fat of his inner thighs rubbed together, making a swishing sound as he waddled. Paul breathed a sigh of relief.
A thick cloud of dust was churned up like a sandstorm as a car whizzed by. Paul could taste the graininess of the dust on his dry tongue as he turned away from the cloud, tucking his head near his body trying to avoid getting it in his eyes. The car spun to a stop near Happy Days Bar. Mr. Davidson snuck out of his car and scurried like a rodent up to the front door. He fumbled with his keys, all the while feeling Paul’s heavy hateful stare across his back like an impending falling boulder. He tossed open the door and bolted inside.
"Paul . . . PAUL!" Johnny repeated, raising his voice slightly.
"Oh, sorry," Paul said.
"Here’s your money," Johnny said and gave the bills to Paul.
"Thank you," Paul sighed, still a bit preoccupied at the sight of Mr. Davidson.
"You okay, Paul?" Johnny asked. He started to take the knives off the leather satchel, holding them in a bunch between his two hands like a large candle.
"I’m fine, I’m fine," Paul said nonchalantly.
"Okay. Make sure Bernice gets plenty of butter on her corn. She sure likes her butter," Johnny chuckled.
"Sure does," Paul returned as a slight withdrawn smile came over his face. Paul folded the money, sticking it into the breast pocket of his bib overalls. He climbed into the driver’s seat.
"Hey, Paul," Johnny beckoned.
"Yeah?"
"One thing. A nice set of knives like that usually comes with a cleaver. Was there a cleaver?"
"No. Can’t say as I saw one," Paul said rather curtly.
"That’s too bad, those are handy for a lot of things. Nice tools, those cleavers," Johnny nodded as a disappointed grimace crested his face.
"They are good for many things. We’ll see ya now." Paul snapped the reins of the team and they started to pull away.
"Bye now. Tell Angela I said . . . ," were the last words Paul heard as he drove past Happy Days, turning his attention towards the windows of the bar. The drapes were closed and it was dark inside.
"Cleavers are good for many things," Paul growled to himself as he peered heinously into the ebony windows. He could feel the sniveling little eyes of Mr. Davidson darting around him as he drove past. "Many," he repeated with a menacing snarl.
15
Paul struggled to walk into the house. His shoulders were slouched. His face was downtrodden, playing coy all the time. He shuffled through the living room, sighing mightily as he went, making sure all in the house could hear his heartache.
"Papa, what’s the matter?" Clarene asked. When she ran to his side and hugged his leg, he let his leg drag behind himself like an anchored rope as Clarene rode his shin across the room.
"Mother, it seems I have an issue," Paul frowned, but a glimmer was in his eye.
"Paul Connor O’Grady," Angela smiled. She only called him by his full name when he was in trouble and when he was acting like a goof. For the first time in quite a while, the situation was the latter.
"Why don’t you take the kids into town and see a show. I hear the new Montgomery Clift flick is playing," Paul suggested as he shrugged his shoulders.
"Sure," Angela mocked, "and after that I’ll invite us over to the Vanderbilt’s for a spot of tea and crumpets, dear sir." She feigned a glib curtsy. The children covered their faces and giggled at her most unnatural pomposity.
"Well," Paul curled his lips, "that’s where we come across my dilemma. You see," Paul paused as he dug into his breast pocket, "I just happen to have a few extrey dollars." He finished with a flourish as he fished a fistful of dollars from his overalls.
"Paul, where in the world did you get that?" Angela gasped with a sense of worry, her eyes stretching open.
"Now," Paul began to extinguish the fire in her pessimistic mind, "don’t you fear none. Where I got that chair and other items, I also got a few knives and there just happens to be a pretty friendly butcher in town. Let’s just say he made me a good offer and I took it. Now," Paul strode boldly over to Angela and looked her in the eyes, "take
this money and go into town with the kids and see a show. Get them some ice cream."
The children exploded with a hooray as those words entered the room. "And I’ve been instructed by someone’s Uncle . . . ," Paul leaned down, tickling Bernice behind the ear. She curled her head towards her shoulder and laughed. "To make sure she gets plenty of butter on her corn. Does that sound good, Bernice?" Bernice nodded her head ecstatically. "It’s settled then. Take the wagon. It will be dark and it will be easier to get back."
"But, Paul," Angela started.
"There is no discussing this. Load up the kids and go!" Paul snapped his fingers and pointed towards the door.
The kids darted for the door. Their pigtails flopped, faces gleamed, and poor little Bernice tried to get her chair rolling.
"Hey," Bernice shouted as a slow whimper came to her angry face, "what about me?"
"Oh," Sarah croaked, "we wouldn’t forget little ole you. Calm down," Sarah grinned, even though she had forgotten her.
"Wait a minute, wait, what about dear old Pa, the guy who gave you the money to go?" Paul stammered. He held out his arms. The children glanced at each other, momentarily stunned by his show of charity and emotion. Bernice wheeled herself to her father’s legs and held out her small arms. Paul leaned down, pulling her close to him, squeezing her tight enough that she let out a little squealing breath. Sarah and Clarene gathered around, roping their arms around their Papa. He lifted his arms and brought them into the circle, embracing them tightly.
"I love you little rascals. I always have and I always will," he sniffled.
Angela watched this moment from the other side of the room. A pleasant ray of the setting sun was washing over them as if they were being blessed and watched by The Almighty with a calm forgiving hand resting thoughtfully upon them.
Blood, Dreams, and Olive Drab (Pride & Promise) Page 17