by Lou Bradshaw
I told him that I didn’t think he’d noticed that I’d left, or even been there, then I went on to say, “I met up with Peggy Whatsername, you know the girl you brought up to the cabin, a little while back. We left Mona’s and went into Springfield for breakfast. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind.” He said, more as a statement than a question, “I got no claim on her. We just went out a couple of times, she’s too brainy for me, and she’s way too brainy for you, Sport. By the way her name is Peggy Maxwell – be my guest.”
“Well, I didn’t want to take any leftovers until I was sure you were through with them.” I knew all along that would be his attitude, but I wanted to make sure just in case she had dumped him and he was broken hearted. Although, he didn’t look too broken hearted at Mona’s tonight.
“Na,” he said, “we didn’t click that’s all. You need her number? I got it here in my wallet – I don’t need it.” He dug through his wallet and pulled out a scrap of paper, looked at it by Zippo light, and passed it over to me.
“Thanks.” I said, “That’ll save me from having to look it up tomorrow.” He didn’t need to know that he just saved me a lot of time and effort trying to come up with a name and a phone number. If he’d thought that I didn’t have the number or a way to get it, he would have put me through hell before finally giving it to me. That was okay though I’d have done the same to him. And, I did say thanks.
* * *
The sun was barely up when I heard an outrageous racket out in the street. I looked out and saw Mr. McCord and Cletus, one of the weekend cops, banging on the aunt’s car and yellin’ at him to wake up. Liz’s dad was calling him a bum, a pervert, and saying stuff like hoods belong in jail.
Cletus finally opened the car door, and Lloyd fell about half way out bonking his head on the gravel. Cletus drug him all the way out, and Lloyd had to scramble to keep from falling. He was awake then and was doing some yellin’ of his own. Poor old Cletus was having a hell of a time trying to get him into the police car. It was like trying to push a chain; you can’t do it; you have to pull a chain. He finally figured that out and got in first, then pulled Lloyd in.
They left, and I went back to bed, but the entertainment value was well worth the interruption of sleep. My sleep wasn’t too badly interrupted because I went right back to it. Somewhere around 9 o’clock, there was a racy dream involving Peggy, her frank open faced friend, myself, and a giant jar of mustard – you dream what you dream. I woke up with a terrific hunger for hotdogs, but I settled for pancakes and maple syrup as only Mom could make them – slightly burnt. That’s the way I like them.
After breakfast, I took Nan down to the station where she had started working on Saturdays as a cashier, but mostly she bossed everybody around. While I was there I washed my car and generally fussed over it. When I finished, I called Junior to tell him about Lloyd tailing me last night and staking out my house overnight. He cracked up when I told him about poor old Cletus trying to get him into the squad car at 6 o’clock in the morning.
“It sounds like this little Cretan has not only taken the bait, but he’s running with it.” I made a mental note to look up Cretan. It sounded like something I could use on Mickey.
“Yeah,” I said, “he’s running alright – running me nuts. I’ve seen more of that little jerk in the last 3 days than I have in the last 3 years.” For some reason ‘jerk’ didn’t have near the punch to it that ‘Cretan’ did, and I didn’t even know what it meant.
“Well, just go easy, don’t confront him, let him come to you, and keep up the dum-dum act. If the local police question you about him camping out in front of your house tell them to talk to their chief.”
“How much does the chief know?”
“Not much. He thinks you’re a potential witness in a Federal case, and that it’s all very hush-hush.”
“There could be a problem if he connects me to Lloyd.”
“How so?”
“He’s kinda been Lloyd’s…what’s the right word…sponsor, ever since Lloyd came to town about 6 or 8 years ago. Kinda like a guardian Angel or something.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll look into it. One more thing, Brickey, don’t take any chances with this guy. He sounds like all the bolts aren’t torqued down real tight, and you never know with a guy like that.”
“Don’t worry Ju…. Eh…Trooper.”
“Just call me Ted, okay? But never and I mean never ever call me Junior – got that?”
“Right…Ted. Anyway, I know exactly how goofy that squirrel is. I got to run into Springfield for a little bit and then I’ll be up at the cabin till Monday morning.”
When I hung up the phone, I went out to the counter and pinched Nan’s arm. She yelled and smacked me in the head, so I called her a brat, and she called me a snot. I told her, “I won because everybody knows that it takes 2 snots to equal 1 brat. Nyaaa!”
“Alright you two play nice or I’ll have to spank the both of you – right here.” Brick said as he came in from the grease bay.
“Yeah, you’d have to get Mom to help you.” I shot back.
“I can still take care of the light work.” he said, pumping up a bicep.
“He started it,” Nan whined, “Spank him. Look at my arm; it’s all red where he pinched me.”
“Tell your sister you’re sorry.” Brick commanded.
“Never! I’d rather drink buzzard puke!”
“Eeeww’! God! Make him stop, Daddy!
“Lee, quit! Nancy, watch how you talk… buzzard puke? Where’d you get that?”
“Watch how I talk!” said the indignant Miss Brickey, “Watch MY language? What about HIM? He cusses like a sailor.”
“That’s different,” Brick told her, “he’s a boy, and besides, he don’t know no better.”
“Ooooh!” She groaned – rolling her eyes, “You’re both hopeless.”
About that time, a fella pulled up, got out, and came in. He was a big guy, over 6’, about 230 lbs., close cropped light colored hair, and about 40 years old. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’m looking for the person in charge.”
“Well that would be me, I’m Brick. What can I do for you?”
The man looked a little bewildered and said, “Actually I was looking for a younger man – late teen – maybe 20.”
“Oh, you must want my son, Lee Roy.” Brick said, pointing his thumb in my direction.
“Yeah,” he said, “you’re about the right age.”
“That’s what my draft board says. What can I help you with?”
“I just want to shake your hand and buy you a soda if you were here on a Saturday night in early July.” He thought for a second, then he said, “That would have been the second of July to be specific.”
“That depends,” I said, as he nearly pulled my arm out of its socket, “on why you want to know. Are you a lawyer or a cop?” I was wary because that was when the fat lady hit the fan.
“No, just a grateful brother-in-law. My wife’s sister came through here that particular evening, and had a problem with some firecrackers, as I understand it. She was on her way home to Wichita, and planned to stay through the 4th at our place in Joplin. But she was so mad and out of sorts, that she left for home the next morning. I can’t thank you enough, Lee Roy.”
“That woman is just plain mean, vile, nasty, downright irritating; and those are her good points. As for that kid, he’s snake mean and rat sneaky.”
“Well, I’m just glad I could help, but they brought it on themselves, her and that kid.”
He bought a round of sodas for the 4 of us, and I told my story from my point of view – not the story he probably heard from her. He would rare back and roar every few seconds as the story unfolded, there were tears rolling down his cheeks, and a couple of times he almost choked on his drink. Of course, I had had some practice with the telling of it so it, was getting better and better. I left out the part about the cruddy water, just in case he really was a lawyer.
> “I don’t think you’ll be seeing anymore of her.” he said, when he was able to catch his breath.
“I sure hope not.” I told him, “I made a police report the next day – charging her with assault. She kept whackin’ me with that purse or suitcase or whatever it was.”
That started him laughing all over again. “In other words she’s…she’s a fugitive.” That set him off again. That guy was getting sick laughing at the fat lady, he must have really disliked her - I know I did.
He finally got himself under control after a bit, we all did. When one person is having such a good time, it seems like everybody gets some of it. He shook my hand again and thanked me again and was heading for the door when I asked, “I’ll bet she didn’t tell you that she shit on the walls, did she?”
“Huh?” That stopped him cold.
“Lee!” Nan yelled.
“We didn’t discover it till after she went sloshin’ down the highway. She sure messed up the ladies room. The only way that I could figure that, she done it was to have hiked her skirt, dropped her drawers and let it fly. It was the most amazing thing I ever saw.”
“Lee, for God’s sake – shut up!” Nan again, “You’re disgusting! Daddy!”
Nan wasn’t getting any help from Brick. He was too busy choking on his RC Cola. That Joplin guy was sitting on a tire display all doubled over. I was afraid that I might have overdid it; what with Brick choking, Joplin guy having a seizure, and Nan busting a gut trying to be mad.
We finally got Joplin on the road, but not before he thanked me 6 more times and thanked me for a couple of other brothers-in-law who were going to hear the story. He told us that the fat lady’s husband just walked away one day and never came back – just sends her a money order every month.
I was having so much fun that I forgot what I was planning to go into Springfield for, so I just loaded up some grub, soda, and beer, and took off for the cabin – to lay low.
* * *
Saturday went well No one came out, and I was able to do some sketching and mess with some watercolors. Just some stuff that I liked to do but didn’t often get a chance to do. In general Saturday was cool.
Mack came out about 4:00 for a swim and just to hang out for a while. He brought his guitar and played a little. His voice wasn’t going to win him any fame and fortune, but he was a pretty good picker and a fair strummer. He was getting into Folk Music in a big way, but I wasn’t sure what the difference was between Folk and Country, so I just hummed along and harmonized the parts that I knew. We thought we were a regular Kingston Duo.
I began to see signs that Mack was going political on me. He had started following the progress of this fella Kennedy from Massachusetts or New York or New Mexico, hell, for all I knew he could have been from Macedonia. I told him that it didn’t matter because we wouldn’t be able to vote for another 3 years, unless of course we lived in Chicago, but I think you had to be dead there. He didn’t think I was being serious enough and said, “For God’s sake, Brickey, wake up. The world is crashing down around our ears, and you’re crackin’ jokes.”
“I do take it seriously, Mack, but I don’t know enough about these guys to even form an opinion. Nixon has been riding along with Ike for 8 years, and the only thing we know about him is that he looks like a crabby weasel. And this Kennedy guy, we know even less about. What is he? He’s a rich, good lookin guy with a Cracker Jack wife, and he says he’s lookin out for the working man.”
“Now you tell me when did a rich guy really give a damn about the working man? He’s too rich to be in it for the money, so what’s he after – power. If he can swing getting elected with good hair and a funny accent then that’s just fine, but I’m not going out tootin horns for some guy who just wants power. End of speech.”
“Okay.” was all he said.
“That’s it, okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s okay that you don’t get on anybody’s bandwagon, as long as you’re aware of the tune the band is playing.”
“Okay.” I said.
We kicked around politics, women, and music for a while, then he left to get ready for a night out. He tried to get me to go to Rockies with him, but I passed stating that I was just worn out. Of course, he had no way of knowing what was going on in my life below the surface, the part that wasn’t open for public viewing. Between the FBI’s bullying and Lloyd Dickey’s stupidity, I was getting pretty stressed. He just thought that I was working too hard, and that’s all I wanted him to know. I was doing my best trying not to think about what was going to happen when the bad boys got tired of dealing through Lloyd, and approached me directly.
Saturday night was spent reading Mike Hammer by coal oil lamp light after a dinner of hotdogs and pork and beans. I was such a gourmet.
* * *
Sunday morning was cool and foggy with mist hanging all over the place. It was a good time to just walk around and look at stuff in different light and under different conditions.
It reminded me of a time in art class during my junior year. Mrs. Becker arranged for an artist to come and address the class. I don’t even remember his name, but he was pretty good. One of the girls told him that he was really lucky to be able to draw and paint so well. He told her, “Yes, luck has a lot to do with it. You have the fortune or misfortune to have some degree of talent. But, you have to nurture that talent and turn it into a skill. You have to practice your art, whether it’s painting or piano. You have to work at it to make it work for you.”
“You have to sacrifice for your art. You have to earn the finished product. You’ll find yourself walking in the woods at 6 o’clock in the morning to see what a drop of dew looks like on a pine needle or what the first rays of the sun looks like coming through the early mist. Only when you’ve paid your dues can you be satisfied with what you’ve produced, whether or not it’s ever appreciated by any other living person.”
At the time, I didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying, in fact, I was probably trying to look down a blouse while he was talking. But there I was in the mist recalling every word verbatim, and at the same time seeing what a dewdrop looked like on an oak leaf – ain’t the human mind a marvel.
* * *
Sunday morning passed without event. Except for the spiritual experience that a person can have without the aid of a preacher doing his best to scare the living hell out of him. Unfortunately, I think there are a lot of preachers out there spending a lot of time scaring folks out of hell instead of coaxing them into heaven. To my way of thinking, that adds up to a lot of negativity. It makes sense to me, but I doubt if I could explain it.
Anyway, I could sit on that bluff, and understand that there must be some kind of God, and a pretty good one at that. I just couldn’t understand how this whole universe could be put together without some superior help. I also thought that God must have a pretty good sense of humor because right smack in the middle of all this natural beauty He created man. I suppose that God needed a good laugh after 5 days of hard work, so He must have said, “Bring in the clowns.”
As I was sitting there on that bluff, I was watching a gang of blackbirds chasing off a hawk. They were harassing that hawk without mercy. They had him outnumbered 6 to 1, and he was grabbing air. Higher and higher they went, and those blackbirds were dropping off and going back to their nests or worms or whatever they had waiting. One blackbird wouldn’t quit he just didn’t realize that his pals were gone. That hawk was a real high flyer, and when he got up there about a thousand feet, the blackbird started losing ground. The hawk kept gaining separation until it was clear that the chase was over, and then he turned and dove – bye-bye blackbird.
I didn’t know what the moral was to that little episode, but it should have been something like, “Don’t fly with the hawks if you ain’t got the stuff.” I wondered if I was flying with hawks. There wasn’t much I could do about it except keep flying, and hoping, I had enough stuff.
Chapter 24
Mack showed up abo
ut noon with a six-pack and no female companion, then a little later William and Sarah came out, wearing of all things, shorts. They didn’t have any beer, but they had some of the finest fried chicken that I ever put a tooth to. I had high hopes for those two…shorts?
I took them up to the cabin to show them around, and to get William’s (or Will as I had started calling him) opinion on whether or not it could ever be fixed up to live in. He poked around a bit checking things like window frames and rafters. Most folks think of the Amish as natural craftsmen, but Will assured me that you’re not born with it; you have to learn it. He said that most Amish will use an electric saw, but if it comes unplugged then they will wait for someone to plug it in even if it took hours.
“It’s not in too bad a shape,” he told me, “The roof needs some work and so does the floor, but some insulation and drywall would do wonders.” That was one of the longest speeches I’d ever heard him make. He was really loosening up.
“But what are you going to do about electricity and phone?” Sarah asked. She was starting to think in terms of the 20th century. There was hope for her yet, and by God she was learning to smile.
“Or you could always go Amish and do without.” Will joked and then laughed. “Seriously, you could fix it up real nice for less than a thousand dollars. Are you thinking about it?”
“Only thinking right now,” I answered, “it doesn’t even belong to me - it’s Brick’s. I’d buy it if I could, but right now I just playing a game in my head. We never used it except during deer season, until this summer when I started coming up. Now it’s busy almost every weekend.”
Busy was the key word because a horn started honking, I looked out to see 4 people getting out of a ’55 Ford down at the river. The 2 girls were easily identified as Nan and Liz, but I couldn’t make out the 2 guys with them. They were too busy going over my car with a magnifying glass. One guy had the hood up and the other was practically crawling through the window.