Blood, Dreams, and Olive Drab (Pride & Promise)

by Michael Meissner

"Now go have fun," Paul urged lovingly. He stood up and dried a few tears from his eyes.

  "Are you okay, Papa?" Clarene asked. She rested her little hand on his. He folded his fingers around her hand and shook it gently.

  "I’m wonderful. Go on!" he nudged her. "Go have fun!"

  He watched them tromp outside pulling Bernice backwards out the door and down the stoop. Clarene and Sarah hoisted her into the back of the wagon and set a couple blocks under the back of her wheels. They sat with large smiles across their faces, frivolously chatting as they pinched and prodded each other. Paul stepped into the mild yellow mist of dusk and leaned against the frame of the door.

  "Thank you, Paul," Angela whispered. She walked up behind him and touched his shoulder. He turned around quickly. His body was fidgeting with excitement.

  "You have fun, too!" he exclaimed.

  "I will," she grinned knowingly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. The children howled with catcalls of smacking lips, whistles, and cheers. Paul picked Angela up and spun her around, setting her down on the edge of the stoop. She let her lips fall way from his. He let go of her and she started to walk off the porch. Their hands slowly drifted apart like cobwebs in a delicate breeze.

  "Goodbye," he grinned painfully.

  "Good . . .bye,’ Angela mouthed. She ran to the wagon and hopped into the driver’s seat. She grabbed at the reins as if they were bothersome flies. She snapped them, glancing over her shoulder at the father of her children, her husband, and her lover. He had his arm raised over his head, waving slowly as the shadow of his hand fell across his face. She watched him until he became a shapeless black figure behind them. He was still waving goodbye.

  And she knew she would never see him again.

  .....

  Paul rummaged through his things, placing them into a gunnysack. He didn’t own much, so packing was almost a formality. A straight razor, a coffee mug, a package of saltine crackers, a can opener, a few toothpicks, and his belt with two extra notches poked in the end (he never could gain weight), and a small black Bible. He doubled the sack up and walked out of the house to the barn.

  He walked into the corner, kicking some of the dirt around the floor as he searched for something. The long shadows were starting to lurk around the barn floor, cloaking everything with darkness. He stubbed his toe against a rock and knelt down on the ground. He tugged at the edge of the football-sized stone, wedging it from the suction of the hole beneath it. He rolled it off to the side and reached into the hole.

  He pulled out a paper bag, then shifted the rock back over the hole, after which he placed his hands on the rock and hunched his shoulders, pressing the rock back. He hurriedly crawled across the floor of the barn. Sweat was beginning to pour down his face. Some was from the heat, but most formed because of the rapid beating of his heart. He leaned the few tools away from the wall and reached behind them. He felt the softness of the cotton shirt and pulled it out. The face of the blade caught the last of the dying sunlight.

  Paul staggered to his feet, carefully holding both items cradled in his arms. He slowly contemplated his actions as he walked to the workbench. He lay the shirt down on the warped wooden planks and then set the bag down with a dull thud. He unraveled the top of the bag and peeled it down off the contents.

  A glass Mason jar contained a clear, sloshing liquid. He unscrewed the top and raised the jar to his lips and paused, hearing the voices of his better nature deep in his soul. However, his dispassionate emotions ruled his mind now. He closed his eyes and gulped the liquor. It felt like fire on his throat and he could instantly feel his fingers going numb. He took another swig.

  Shaking his head, he felt his mind becoming hazy. He took a bucket off the workbench, flipping it upside down on the ground to sit on. Carefully, he took the thin sheath off the cleaver, letting the shirt fall to the ground in a ragged heap. As he clenched the handle of the cleaver tightly in his hand, the muscles of his forearm tightened. A thick blue vein snaked down the inside of his forearm as he squeezed the handle tighter and tighter. He could hear his knuckles cracking. Then he took another deep drink of liquor.

  The questions that had been roaming in his moral thoughts were now drowning in a sea of alcoholic rage. The softness of the yellow light was just beyond his scuffed boots. His entire body was surrounded by the dank shadows of the barn and the quickly closing twilight. He looked up, waiting for night to come as the whites of his eyes were disappearing.

  His pupils were growing larger in the dark. They were as black and lifeless as coal.

  16

  A few kids galloped around the Dairy Isle ice cream place, playing, laughing, and jesting. Several little boys charged around with red and white handkerchiefs tied around their necks, mockingly aiming their index fingers at each other, settling the West from their own little corner of an Ohio town. A few girls sat and giggled to each other, smirking and sticking their tongues out in utter distain for the boys who were ignoring their not-so-obvious childish advances. The girls flaunted their prepubescent shapes, which were as narrow as their minds and innocent as their thoughts. Chocolate circled the boys’ lips and dotted their noses, which was as charming to a little girl as diamonds were to their older sisters.

  "Now, girls. Now, girls," Angela said, trying to gather her clan to the window of the Dairy Isle. Clarene wheeled Bernice to the edge of the counter. Bernice tried to sit up in her chair and see into the window at the tubs of icy treats. She could feel a soft cool breeze drifting out the window as a young girl working behind the counter slid open the pane.

  "I want rocky road, two scoops!" Bernice snapped. She glanced quickly at her mother for approval about the quantity. Angela’s mind was elsewhere, so Bernice took advantage. "Make that three scoops!" she yelped hurriedly.

  "Okay, okay! Clarene, it’s your turn." Angela rushed them along, looking around nervously. Bernice’s face glowed with glee.

  "I’ll have a scoop of vanilla in a cup, please," Clarene smiled contentedly. Many things in Clarene’s life were vanilla; it just matched her personality. She was stable, not flashy, and liked things to be average. It was easier when things were average. No one expected her to conquer the world, yet they knew she certainly wasn’t a dolt. Average was good, average was sufficient, and average was nice. Clarene liked nice.

  "Sarah," Angela looked about desperately as if she were urgently trying to catch her breath. Sarah was a few feet away, timidly twirling her hair around her fingers. Her face was a bit flushed. She glanced with diffidence at the ground. She twisted the tip of her shoe into the dirt, raising her heel off the ground. Her thin, shapely calves curved delicately into her dainty ankles. A few older boys were gawking at her, dumbstruck by her beauty. Angela sighed.

  "Sarah!" she called a bit louder.

  "Sorry, Mama." Sarah jumped as she skipped over to the window. Angela gave her a disappointing grimace. "I'm sorry, Mama. Are you getting butterscotch?" Sarah tried to change the subject and climb out of the hot water.

  "Yes," Angela nodded ineffectually, knowing this was not the first, nor the last time Sarah would be gazed upon. She placed her hand on Sarah’s back, rubbing affectionately. "Yes, I’m getting butterscotch."

  "That’s what I’ll have, too!" Sarah proclaimed. She tried to glance over her shoulder at the boys like a twitchy dog would at a passing cat. Sarah saw her mother watching her and Sarah grinned passively, looking back into the window.

  "Make that two butterscotches," Angela said.

  The young girl brought back a towering cone with three scoops of ice cream that stood about as straight as the Tower of Pisa. Bernice’s eyes grew large, staring excitedly at the monstrosity of chocolate, marshmallow, and nuts swirling over each other like thunder and lightning inside of a raging dark cloud.

  "Bernice," Angela gasped, "who said you could have that?"

  "You did, Mama." Bernice fixed her face with her best sad mug, letting her bottom lip fatten and sprout from her mouth. She bli
nked several times, letting her eyelashes flutter like the wings of the monarch for extra effect.

  "Okay," Angela chuckled as the girl handed Bernice the cone. Bernice tried her best to lean in the direction the scoops were swaying, like a snake charmer.

  "Vanilla in a cup and two butterscotches," the girl said as she slid the items through the open window.

  "We better get going. The movie will start soon," Clarene coaxed. Her anal sense of punctuality did come in handy sometimes.

  "Okay," Angela said. She paid the girl and roped her arm through Sarah’s, pulling her as they walked. Angela wanted to keep her eye on Sarah as the boys lurked like vandals, calculating and drooling over her daughter. "Clarene, can you make it?"

  "I’ll be fine." She pushed Bernice’s chair as she rested her cup against the child’s back. Bernice ran her tongue madly over the ice cream tower, not letting even a drip trickle down the cone. Her eyes were bright and clear as she watched the ice cream shrink and disappear into her mouth.

  The neon lights of the theater could be seen for blocks: vibrant purples, glowing red, and neon oranges. They were a kaleidoscope of colors for the heart and mind to breath in, captivating people almost as much as the shows. A small sniveling man sat inside the ticket booth. He sneered at Angela and the kids, looking them up and down, his lips pursed in disapproval.

  Angela and the girls stuck out like sore thumbs in a handful of fingers. They all had worn holes in their ragged and fraying tea dresses. The cotton of their smocks was thin enough that they were almost sheer. Their shoes had holes along the bottoms of the soles, save for Sarah who had on the only decent dress of the group. Even that wasn’t exactly up to snuff, though.

  "I would like four tickets for the movie, please," Angela said humbly. She took a crumbled wad of bills from her shabby purse.

  "I’m sorry, sold out." And the weasel shushed them out of the way. "Please step aside."

  A young well-dressed couple approached the ticket box and inquired about tickets for the same show. "Well, sure," the weasel broke open with a cheery face and gathered in their money as if it were the last hand of poker for the night. As the couple walked away, he went back to counting his green with his greedy little fingers, licking his thumb each time he peeled off another dollar from his stack.

  "Hey, wait a minute!" Bernice called out.

  The little weasel sat up in his chair, looking down over the edge of the counter and into Bernice’s face. "What?" he barked.

  "Don’t you what me!" Bernice cried out. It was hard to take her too seriously. Half of her face was a chocolate smudge but she damned the torpedoes and went straight ahead. "I thought there was no more tickets!" Bernice bellowed.

  Angela and Sarah leaned against one another and grinned happily. Bernice hadn’t been herself for quite a long while. Clarene took a couple steps back, tucking herself right behind her mother and sisters. She never was much for confrontation.

  "Well, there’s not," the weasel coughed. He wasn’t too sure how to handle an argument with a ten-year-old girl, let alone one who was in a wheelchair.

  "Then how did they get in?" Bernice squinted her eyes.

  "They . . . ," the weasel started.

  "They—nothing!" Bernice growled. "Pay the man, Mama. I’ll go get us some seats!" And Bernice started rolling her chair across the ground towards the doors.

  "But you . . . I mean . . . ," the weasel croaked.

  "You heard her. Let’s go," Angela laid the money on the counter, leaving a few extra cents. "You can keep the change, fella!" Clarene rushed around Bernice’s chair and opened the swinging door. Quickly, they all scurried in.

  Inside the theater yellow beams of light shot from the sconces that were high on the wall. It illuminated the mural across the ceiling depicting the blues of the heavens and the wispy clouds of a calm sky. Plush wool carpet under their feet led down the aisle. The walls were clad in shimmering red felt and a thick carved molding edged the walls, wrapped the ceiling, slanted down the corners, and regally encased the room.

  The house lights suddenly became soft as the darkness filled the vast room. Amidst the blackness the O’Grady family stumbled down the aisle and found a set of seats. The tick, tick, ticking of the projector began to sound as a single beam of white light shot down to the far pale wall, and soon a roar of sound made the room seem like a canyon. The whispers went silent, wry smiles faded, and all faces were blank with amazement, instantly enraptured with the show and glued to the screen. Only the sound of gnashing on popcorn and the occasional tearing of a candy carton could be heard.

  Sarah glanced around out of the corner of her eye. From the pearly light of the movie she could see tears streaming down her mother’s face. Back when they left the house in the mild silence of the impending night and her sisters were busy smiling about going to the movies, Sarah had looked at her mother. She saw the hurt, the regret, and the emptiness in her mother’s wounded stare as they pulled away from the house.

  She looked back at her father and his eyes were haunting. In some way she understood the man at that moment like she never had before. The last image Paul would ever have of his wife and kids was smiling faces. His wife was sad he was leaving. They were finally a family. He saw them joyous together and all he needed to know was that they could, and would, survive without him.

  "What’s wrong, Mama?" Sarah inquired with a worried and soft tone, placing her hand on her mother’s knee. Angela looked over at her with damp, swollen eyes, but she grinned, letting a few tears dribble onto her lips.

  "Nothing, dear, nothing." Angela squeezed Sarah’s hand and laid her head on Sarah’s shoulder. Angela shifted slightly but never truly found a comfortable spot.

  17

  Paul staggered down the country road trying to concentrate on walking a straight line. A car full of young hooligans flashed by. They were hanging out the windows, shouting obscenities at Paul as he ambled down the road. Although drunk, he tried to conceal the cleaver against his side.

  "I need to try and walk better," he said aloud to himself, his consciousness blurring as he trudged down the road. His feet tangled in the tall weeds along the berm of the road. Constantly, he rubbed his fingers over the hard cold steel. The blade felt good and the handle fit his hand perfectly. Conforming to his grip, the subtle curve in the middle of the handle tucked neatly into the nook of his palm as he wrapped his fingers around it.

  But he was having a hard time deciphering the fine line of reality in his drunkenness. The cleaver was beginning to remind him of the days when he was a boy and he hunted and trapped with his brothers. He could still see the muskrat traps they set down by the dam, smell the pungent smell of blood when he split open their bellies, and feel the warm entrails as they seeped out onto his hands. He could envision the proud smiles of his brothers as he was elbow deep in blood. In a daze, Paul grinned.

  "How’s that, Danny?" he mumbled under his breath. "Did I do it right, Patrick?" He looked off to the side of the road and talked to the grave darkness. His eyes saw the thick black night but his mind remembered the sight of his older brother’s smiling faces. Pride swells in a man; it’s a feeling that once he has felt it, he wants more of, to feel his heart fill with its sweet air.

  Paul took another long gulp of the moonshine. It didn’t burn his throat anymore. In fact, it slid down his tongue like ice cream. It was cool and light, and with each swig his eyes watered and his mind wandered from sanity.

  "Oh, hello, Mr. Davidson," Paul said mockingly. A ruthless snarl crawled upon his tempered jaw as he imagined the scenario of their fatal meeting.

  "How nice to see you, too, Mr. Davidson," Paul cackled, squeezing the handle of the cleaver even firmer. He could almost feel the tendons of his wrist becoming part of the weapon.

  "Oh, I’ve been fine, thank you pleasantly for askin’." The Irish in Paul was blazing gloriously with each heavy syllable.

  Then the kindness in Paul’s face drained out like water from a downspout. His eyes grew
dense and black like a starless night. He could see the hazy lights of the town in the distance. He stomped up the hill, taking the last swallow from the Mason jar, then hurled it at a tree just off the road. It smashed into a flurry of broken glass, landing like raindrops across the grass and dirt road.

  He walked over the pieces, crunching them with the heels of his boots. He was at the top of the hill, looking down into the fertile valley below. As a boy he had stood there and only the shallow light of the full moon lit the rich valley at night. During the day the pine trees stretched over the distant hills as far as the eye could see like choppy green tides rolling away from shore. Now, these many years later, even as the fog of the cooling night drifted in, hundreds of blurry white lights, like thin cotton balls, dotted the low country.

  From his vantage point, he could even see the dismal sheen of the lights atop the Happy Days Bar. He sneered and wiped his hand across his slobbering mouth. He sloshed down the hill, barely keeping his feet under himself as he lurched to and fro. At the bottom of the slope he stopped and tried to get his bearings. Just as he glanced around, a car went shooting by. He took a few stumbling steps backwards, plastering himself against a shadow-covered wall. Paul’s eyes focused slightly and he could see it was Mr. Davidson in the car. His heart started to pound. Suddenly he didn’t feel as drunk as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

  He peeked around the corner. Mr. Davidson was parked under the tall sycamore tree that edged his property, sitting with the headlights shining brightly against the drab cement blocks of his establishment. Lester Davidson, his nemesis, wasn’t that far away, but Paul needed to squint through his drunkenness to see him. Mr. Davidson’s head was bobbing as if he was nodding off to sleep. He tried to hold it up, but then it drooped down until his chin rested on his bony breastplate. Paul crept across the street. The lights in all the local stores were on and lit the quiet street with a soft white glow which stretched over the brick sidewalks and onto the newly paved road.