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

by Michael Meissner

  Paul, in his haste, stumbled over the curb and tumbled over the sidewalk and as he did, the hidden cleaver cut a gash into his own side. He quickly leaped to his feet and sagged into the timid darkness near Townsend’s Bakery, which was one of the only shops closed at night. Paul reached inside his shirt and could feel the blood soaking the material. He pulled his shirt away from his skin but his shirt stuck to the wound like wet wallpaper. It wasn’t deep, but it gushed with blood. He knew with all the alcohol in his blood it wouldn’t clot easily.

  "Paul O’Grady," a soft voice said warmly, "how the devil are you?"

  "Oh, oh . . . , hello, Mrs. Tannenbaum," Paul gasped. He snapped his head up and looked into the large brown eyes of his mother’s old friend.

  "Lord, sakes alive," Mrs. Tannenbaum smiled widely. "I haven’t seen you in years," she said graciously. She held her small handbag in both her hands, folding them daintily across her thin midriff.

  "It’s been a while." Paul grinned nervously as he tried to glance around the corner. His heart was pounding viciously within his caged chest as sweat began to bead upon his tender brow. Paul tried to lighten the hate that shaded his face, but just then he began to almost convulse with a bitter brooding glare.

  "Are you okay, dear boy?" Mrs. Tannenbaum inquired. She looked rather suspiciously at Paul, cocking her head and trying to get a better look at him.

  "I’m fine, just fine, Mrs. Tannenbaum. Just a little stomach ache is all. He patted his side in assurance, wincing a bit as he did.

  "I hope so. How are the children?" Mrs. Tannenbaum was settling in for the long haul. She tilted her weight onto her side and was fixing to get comfortable and chat for a while.

  "You will excuse me?" Paul murmured as he saw Mr. Davidson getting out of his car. Paul twisted away from her and stepped out of the shadows of the alley. He walked patiently, stalking under the awning of the bakery.

  "Well, I guess!" Mrs. Tannenbaum answered rather snootily. She stuck her chin into the air, striding away abruptly.

  "Come on, you little bastard!" Paul hissed vehemently to himself, waiting for Mr. Davidson to walk out of the light into the meager shadows. Finally, Mr. Davidson stepped out of his car and turned quickly, slamming his door closed. He could barely see over the roof of the car but he glimpsed something moving within the shadows. Paul took a few steps back into the darkness.

  "Who’s there?" Mr. Davidson called out. His drunken words were harsh and strong like a scared dog’s bark. Paul pressed himself against the large plate glass of the bakery window, feeling the coolness of the night on the window, accidentally tapping the cleaver against the glass. "Come on out, you lily-livered little chicken," Mr. Davidson cried out as he slurred his words together.

  Paul was breathing heavy. His whole body was tense, hard with anger and fury. The alcohol still coursed through his veins, but it was no match for the hatred that surged through his limbs and mind, creating a sharp and needful bloodlust that focused his being.

  "Don’t come over here," Paul O’Grady whispered to himself, begging the little bastard--for his own good--to stay away. He could feel his heart beating faster. "Don’t come over here," he muttered, again. "Please, please, stay away."

  "You yellow-belly!" Mr. Davidson railed. He walked out of the milky light and into the clouding darkness. He shimmied up his pants and pushed his sleeves up his forearms, letting them settle in the crook of his scrawny elbows.

  "Please, please, don’t make me do this. Please!" Paul seethed, his jaw clenched tightly around his words. He tried desperately to convince himself to turn and walk away and go back to his family but the alcohol swirled in his head. He felt a sickness in his gut. His hands were shaking and the cleaver was making a louder tapping noise against the window. He brought it up, holding it across his chest, patting the steel of the blade with his off hand.

  "O’Grady!" Mr. Davidson chuckled evilly. "What is it about your family? Just can’t stay away from me, can ya?" He walked into the shadow of the awning Paul was standing under. "You know, you’re nothing but a loser. You always were, you always are--you always will be!"

  He strutted over to Paul, looking up into his great quivering eyes. In Mr. Davidson’s own drunken haze he could feel a sense of power rise up within his frail body. Paul choked back the tears of anger. He bit down hard enough on his lip to draw blood. He could taste the saltiness seeping onto his tongue.

  "Don’t do this," Paul sobbed.

  "Do what? Who are you talking to? I’ll do whatever I want . . . to YOU!" Mr. Davidson poked Paul in the chest, just barely missing the edge of the cleaver with his index finger. "AND TO YOUR WIFE! Hell, you bring that little cripple around and I’ll give her a whirl, too. I’ll make her do a whole lot more than walk. I’ll make her beg!"

  Mr. Davidson’s face sagged in a drunken belligerent mask and then he winked at Paul before reaching down to his crotch. He cupped it in his hands and raised his eyebrows suggestively, and then Davidson broke into a boisterous laugh. Somehow in Mr. Davidson’s alcohol-induced stupor he forgot the beast of man he was dealing with. A false sense of security burned within his mistaken courage. He staggered back over to his car and leaned against it, placing his right hand on the rear fender.

  Paul could feel his heart slamming into the walls of his chest. His brain was throbbing inside his head. Just then the dim light of the moon shown down through the still leaves of the sycamore onto Mr. Davidson’s hand, framing it and slicing pale and flat across the bones.

  Paul took the cleaver away from his chest and holding it next to his face, he laid it flush across his cheek. He looked upon the steel and it instantly became part of him. Paul O’Grady felt its strength, needed its power, and loved it--all in that moment. He took two slow questioning steps and then he ran off the sidewalk and jumped off the curb. He brought the sharp hideous face of the blade down across Mr. Davidson’s wrist, chopping without mercy straight through!

  Mr. Davidson slowly, calmly stood up and turned. A smirk of indifference was painted over his disbelieving face. He raised his right arm up in front of his face and gazed with disjointed eyes onto the stump of his right hand. Blood spurted from the raw nub. A few white specs of bone were cut cleanly around the bleeding limb.

  He glanced over at the fender of his car where his hand still rested, as though for an instant suspended in time. It was a fresh clean cut and the hand was perfect, nearly wax-like in its ghostly appearance and then, like rain off a glossy leaf, it slid down the curve of the fender, dropping like a wet glove onto the ground.

  Lester Davidson looked with stunned bewilderment upon his perfectly severed hand--and then up into Paul’s face. Davidson was in complete shock. His face was as blank as a new sheet of paper, but then it started to crinkle. Life and realism surged gravely into his mind and onto his face. He shrieked in utter terror, his face as white as the moonlight that drifted upon the ground. He took a few steps back and fell onto the seat of his pants, screaming as he leaned against the tire of his car.

  "YOU WILL NEVER LAY A HAND ON MY FAMILY AGAIN!" Paul fumed as an ugly wiggling grin slithered across his proud repugnant face.

  Mr. Davison’s eyes glazed over and his screams became small moans as he drifted toward unconsciousness. Just as Lester Davidson’s eyes were closing and he could feel the blood pulsating to where his hand used to be, Paul’s all-powerful figure walked over to his twisting and writhing body. Paul knelt down beside him and leaned over to his ear.

  "NEVER!" Paul growled. In the cruel and conquering hell that was his mind, Paul’s ultimate triumph churned. His words could barely be heard through his grinding teeth and clenched jaw. His face quivered with flowing rage as he spoke.

  A few people started to gather on the other side of the street, gawking and pointing. Paul stayed low to the ground and darted away like a gorilla into the jungle. He was now only a black figure ambling through the night like a churning cloud, disappearing into the mystery of the seedy darkness.

  18

&
nbsp; The house lights of the theater gradually began to rise, spreading a mild yellow sheet across the red walls to make the colors of the ceiling come alive. The screen shrank into a black and white fog, crackling as the movie came to a close. The clicking of the projector stopped. Whispers filled the room as people funneled out the aisle, striding towards the lone exit. The red leather doors swung open, letting the lights of the lobby temporarily blind the patrons. The usher stepped to the side, showing his wafer thin profile as people milled through the lobby.

  "Wasn’t that wonderful!" Sarah gushed. "I just adore love stories."

  "But do they have to do so much kissing?" Clarene asked.

  "Well, kissing is a part of love," Sarah said nonchalantly, as if she knew all about that. She strutted a couple steps ahead as they walked out of the theater into the calming lights of the marquee.

  "Excuse me, young lady?" Angela said with the angry doubting tones of a parent.

  "I mean, I guess it does." Sarah slowed her gait, walking a few steps behind her mother, lowering her head primly.

  "Yeah, they're good lookin’," a voice, sounded out from behind them as the group strolled inattentively down the boulevard.

  "Uncle Johnny!" Bernice cried out. She struggled to turn her chair around, ripping the handles out of Clarene’s hands.

  "Hey, kiddo!" Johnny knelt down, wrapping his oafish arms around Bernice’s neck. He bit his lip each time he saw her in that chair and the hairs on his neck raised-up with sorrow when he hugged her.

  "We went to the movies!" Clarene said excitedly. The rosy hue of her cheeks grew as her face stretched with a great smile.

  "You did, huh?" Johnny lowered his head, shaking it as he smiled with warmness in his heart. "Guess he wasn’t lying," Johnny said under his breath.

  "It was a love story," Sarah added. "It was grand," she swooned. Her face sagged with a pleasant frown, the kind a lover feels as she watches her beau walk away.

  "You calm down with all that love talk, you hear?" Johnny retorted. His knees cracked as he stood up and he looked down into Sarah’s delicate eyes. "You better watch this one." Johnny shot a worried glance in Angela’s direction.

  "I can’t watch too much, Johnny. She is a woman," Angela sighed, giving Sarah a slight smile.

  Just then a yell broke through the night, freezing everyone momentarily. Then another sent chills down their spines. They looked at one another with bulbous frightened eyes. Their mouths opened slightly, afraid of what to say and apprehensive of what to think. Their hearts started to pump faster. Then the shrill scream of woman’s voice crawled up their necks, making their skin tighter. A crowd was starting to gather down at the far end of the street.

  "Stay here, I’ll be right back," Johnny said. His voice was flustered and his face was flush as a bead of sweat formed and dripped down his forehead.

  "Can I go?" Bernice yelped.

  "No!" Angela grimaced. "I’m sorry, Bernice, but let your Uncle Johnny go." Angela knew the sound of terror and her mind was in a state of dread. She could only imagine what might have happened. Her stomach instantly felt queasy.

  Johnny trotted down the street, his long jacket flapping behind him like a sheet on a clothesline. He got to the crowd just as they were all surging tentatively towards the sound of low moaning. He broke through the crowd and pushed desperately to the front.

  He came around the side of Lester Davidson’s car and found him propped-up against the back tire. Mr. Davidson had his back to him but Johnny could see a thick black pool of blood spreading out around his hunched body, looking like spilled oil in the purple shadows of the darkness. The blood was seeping towards his hand, which resembled a wrinkled claw in the flickering light.

  "Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!" Johnny uttered as he traced a cross over his face and chest. He looked away as he felt a rush of sickness churning up his throat. He was a butcher, but human blood always made him sick. He stepped to the side and bent over, leaning against the fender of a neighboring car. His eye was caught by the sharp glare off a piece of metal. He glanced under the car and could see a silver cleaver peeking out from behind a tire. The crowd was closing in on the commotion, zeroing in on Mr. Davidson’s muffled groans.

  Johnny quickly scraped his hand under the car, dragging the cleaver out from behind the tire. He touched the instrument and felt a warm thick liquid oozing down the blade. He pulled his hand out from under the car, gazing at his fingers in the hazy mist of the moon’s glow. Blood dripped down into his palm and wrapped around to his wrist.

  He snatched the cleaver off the ground and quickly shoved it under his coat as he rose hurriedly to his feet. He stepped over Mr. Davidson’s outstretched leg and onto the sidewalk. He walked quickly down the sidewalk, around the back of his own store, and into his utility shed.

  His hands were shaking as he rifled through his tools: a rake, a saw, a hatchet, a pick, an axe-- finally, a shovel. He dashed back out, stopping momentarily to scan the street for anyone watching him. His mind was dull as his thoughts raced. He ran around the side of the shed, dragging the shovel behind him, scratching a jagged trail behind him.

  His heart was pounding. His throat was burning. He was a big man and he wasn’t used to running and he could barely catch his breath. He raced back to the edge of the woods, dropping the knife into the dirt. He thrust the tip of the diamond-faced shovel into the hard earth, planting the sole of his boot onto the top of the shovel. He jumped on it, driving it into the hardpan. He pulled down on the handle and the haggard soil cracked open. He dug further, feeling the harsh soil moisten, becoming soft.

  He felt around in the darkness for the cleaver. He felt the smooth steel of the handle and tossed it into the hole like a dying match that was burning close to his fingers. He flipped the shovel over, scraping the dirt back over the hole. He fell to his knees, collecting the clumps with his hands, breaking it back into fine pieces. He patted it down and stood up, snapping his head around.

  He looked with paranoid eyes. There was no one around. An owl hooted in a nearby tree and he spun around, feeling his heart jump into his dry throat. For the first time Johnny realized he was panting. His breath was short and raspy and he was drenched with sweat. He looked down and his jacket had fallen open. The pale light fell across his shirt where crimson was smeared across it.

  He pulled his coat shut and shuffled away, feeling like a trespasser on his own land. He rolled his collar around his neck and dug his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the grittiness of the drying blood on the tips. As his feet stumbled over the flat ground, he staggered slightly to the right. His legs were rubbery and his knees knocked together.

  "Why did I do that? What am I doing?" Johnny mumbled to himself in pure disbelief. He suddenly felt nauseous as he struggled to walk. There was a lump in his throat and as much as he tried to swallow, it never moved. He was having trouble breathing.

  19

  Angela felt her heart growing weak as the horses clopped over the hill. Over the slope of the hill the familiar peak of their house came into view. The lone beacon of the porch light was warm and yellow against the white facade of the house, carved out by the shadows of the lonely night.

  "We went to the movies, we went to the movies, we went to the movies!" the girls sang in a merry voice as they ran inside.

  Angela sat on the wagon, holding the reins in her fists. She was afraid to get down and go inside. She knew what she would find, the thing that frightened her most. An empty house.

  She stared at the runner boards that skirted the side of the wagon, never blinking. The slits of her eyes were barely open. She begged for strength for she knew the next hours would be long ones. She would climb down from the wagon in another moment, walk calmly into the house, and tell the girls that their dear complicated father, who loved them even more than he had hurt them, was never coming back. She would tell them they would be all right and she believed they would be.

  But would she? Angela hesit
ated and then stepped down from the wagon.

  .....

  Somewhere out there under that deep ebony-blue tranquil sky Paul O’Grady loomed like a specter. He was scared and lonely and hurting but with a strange contented grin.

  SARAH AND HENRY

  The Beginning

  1

  The ship slowly rocked on the lapping waves that carried Henry into the harbor. Buildings soared over the horizon and stood guard as Lady Liberty watched the boats surge by. The soft tranquil sounds of the waves were soon drowned out by the beeping of horns and shouts of anger and rebellion in the streets of New York City.

  The ticker tape was long gone, the parades had all ceased, and all that was left were a couple of nods and possibly the occasional handshake for the hundreds of soldiers that were just now making their way back to their native soil. Henry departed the ship and walked down the span. There was nothing more lonely than the thoughts that had somewhat been pushed to the back of his mind--a place where he hid his fears and buried his waking emotions, the emptiness he felt as he took the last steps off the boat and onto dry ground. He was a civilian, again, and he wondered if he knew how to be a simple man.

  The second leg of Henry’s journey, the train ride to Pittsburgh, was nice. The Coca Cola was cold and all the people on the train were smiling except a single grumpy old curmudgeon a few rows behind him. The man snapped the binding of the newspaper and held it before his face but Henry could feel his tension, and each time he lowered his paper, his face was as red as raw meat. Henry would have never even noticed the man except he kept grunting and growling under his breath. He had just enough breath to make a tiny commotion every couple seconds.

  Henry just looked at the man with complete and total awe. What possibly could this man have to complain about? He was well dressed, had nice shoes, and was impeccably groomed, of course, except for his tubby stomach that seemed to protrude from his buttoned vest. Henry just looked out the window and watched as the trees, boulders, and mountains rushed by, a virtual kaleidoscope of colors and sizes melting into another world.