DEATH OF A SCOUT

DEATH OF A SCOUT

(From Sins of the Sons)

By

Larry Eugene Meredith

Wilmillar has two Scout Troops, but at the time Frank March turned eleven Troop 82 had not been formed. He had been a Cub Scout with a full compliment of patches; Wolf, Bear, Lion, Silver Arrow, Gold Arrow, Webelo, yet he let nearly a year past before deciding to continue in scouting, and then only when his friend, Rubin Rayzel insisted they join together. Ruben had also been through Cub Scouting, although not in Frank’s Den; in fact, not even in Frank’s Pack. Ruben had attended meetings in Coldsdale where his synagogue sponsored a den. Now just turned twelve, been bar mitzvahed, Ruben asserted his ordained manhood to insist on activities within the boundaries of Wilmillar with his friends, goyim or not. Having spent an evening with Will Overfield, who was leaving for a Camporee in Colorado as one of four representatives of Wilmillar Troop One, Ruben immediately got Scout fever.

To be the lone Tenderfoot did not appeal as strongly as overall membership did, so Ruben began working on Frank to enter the adventure with him. Frank was not against Scouting, but he heard stories about Troop One. There were rumors circulating that Eastsiders were not overly welcome. Fire Engine House No. 2 was troop sponsor and meetings were at its West Side location. Troop members were Westside toughs, who were rowdy at Camporees and took the Scout Oath with a great grain of salt and saluted with two fingers crossed.

Even more disturbing was talk about Duke Morrison, the Scoutmaster of Troop One, pictured as part martinet; part overgrown juvenile delinquent. He ran meetings like a Marine D.I. with gout, yet turned his head about some of his charges unscout like activities on trips. He viewed some vandalism and certain rowdiness as the high-spirited activity of growing boys. Especially gruesome were whispers of the troops initiation, a ritual not found in the Scouting Manual and left to the senior members of the troop. Initiation was totally secret. Even Duke Morrison and his Assistant Scoutmasters left the room for its duration.

“Rumors are only rumors,” said Ruben.

Frank nodded that this was true. Adults told them, “Don’t believe rumors, don’t listen to tattletales”. He agreed to join Troop One with Ruben. The Troop met every Sunday night. Their initiation was on July 19, 1953.

There was nothing impressive about Troop One headquarters, a plain cement-floored room behind the engine garage. The lighting was dim and voices in the room echoed off the concrete walls. There were folding chairs to one side facing front toward an American flag, a Scouting flag and a battered music stand substituting as the dais. Frank and Ruben stood near the folding chairs with a half-dozen other nervous boys dressed in dungarees and striped T-shirts. They watched the uniformed Scouts drill. In their hands they held their information sheets passed to them as they entered.

Duke Morrison stood on the opposite side of the room. He was a short man with a hard round face, very thin red hair and a decided paunch above his official Scout belt. He barked out the drills in a high frantic voice. “Left, hup, left, hup, ‘Bout face, hup, hup, hup. Right face, hup, hup, left, hup.” He paraded his Troops for a quarter hour. Finally he called, “Halt, at ease.” Now he casually strolled in review, his hands behind his back, talking quietly and quickly as he moved.

“Well, men, we got some raw recruits tonight who think they can be Scouts. They have a lot to learn,” he glanced their way, “a lot. Pass some tests. Take some oaths. But before that day comes they have to prove worthy of Troop One Wilmillar. Tonight they come to show their worthiness. Initiation night. I’m certain you’ll treat them kindly and all will have a good laugh.

“Ralph.”

A tall stocky blond boy stepped forward. He had a Life Heart on his blouse and a Junior Assistant Scoutmaster insignia on his sleeve.

“Take over, Ralph,” said Duke Morrison.

“Yes, sir,” snapped the boy. Frank thought he heard him click his heels.

Duke Morrison and his two adult assistants left. The blond boy, Ralph McCarthy, took charge. The other Scouts formed a circle around the room. Two Patrol leaders escorted Ruben and Frank and the other newbies to a small room off the main chamber. The room was dark except for a single candle lit by one of the escorts. In the dim light Frank noticed they were in a kitchen. They could not hear anything outside.

They waited several seconds. There was a knock on the closed door. An escort opened in a crack. They heard a strange noise. It sounded like a sheep’s bleat.

“Send out the first,” said a stern voice.

The escort nodded and pointed to one boy. They blindfolded the boy and shoved him out the door. It closed behind him. They could hear nothing inside the kitchen except once a muffled scream of terror, pain, laughter they could not discern. Frank was sweating. They shushed him when he whispered to Ruben.

Then came the knock on the door.

Frank was it.

It was strange to walk blindly across the big room. No one offered an arm to help and guide. He moved in dark surrounded by silence, each step carefully taken. He swished his arms about in front of his face. In the silence were islands of giggling and snickers and finally, “Stop!” roared out of the sea. He stopped instantly.

The voice, deep, booming, continued, “Benjamin Franklin March?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Yes, sir,” the voice ordered.

“Yes, sir,” he repeated.

“You wish to join Troop One?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We will determine if you are worthy. Bring in Buttsky.”

Frank heard a shuffling and a very loud “Baa” that sheep sound again, this time very close.

“Before you stands Buttsky, our mascot goat. To prove you’re worthy of Troop One you must ride Buttsky. Be prepared to mount. Be careful, he bites.”

Hands took his arms and guided him. He heard the baa very near. Suddenly, there was a loud snap near his face, like the sound of a mousetrap. The gripping hands roughly yanked him backward.

“That was close,” he heard one say.

“Buttsky nearly got ‘em that time,” said another.

Someone took hold of his leg. The next thing he knew he sat upon something round and hairy. Whatever it was, it was not still. It bounced violently.

“Better grab hold,” he heard.

He grabbed the very stiff hair or fur upon its back. He gripped it with all his might as the beast bucked and pitched, until a great lurch proved more than he could take. As he flew off a dozen hands caught him and placed him safely on his feet.

There was much activity around him. A few moments passed. Someone snatched off his blindfold. Blinking his eyes, he walked over to where the first novice stood. The boy had a great grin on his face. There was no sign of Buttsky.

“Where’s the goat?” he asked.

“Wait. You’ll see.

Meanwhile, the kitchen door received another rap, opened briefly to present another youngster to the assembly. Frank watched the blindfolded figure stumble forward. The baa sounded. Instead of seeing a goat, Frank saw only a scout tooting a small horn.

The approaching boy paused. They pushed the boy forward and Frank saw Buttsky, a barrel suspended by ropes and covered by a motley shag rug. The snapping teeth were not a mousetrap, but simply two blocks of wood slapped together by a Scout.

How frightful Buttsky seemed under the influence of blindness. Frank found himself enjoying the stunt and laughing at the poor victim’s plight. Perhaps Troop One was not so bad as he had heard. There was certainly no real harm in this fun.

When the latest ride ended, the kitchen again opened. The next boy and the next and so on, all to the exact humorous fate. The last time it was Ruben who stumbled out. Frank grinned in anticipation of how Ruben would react; yet he was aware of a difference around him. Instead of stifled titters and giggles, a serious hush settled about the room. Frank felt coolness about his kidneys that shivered up to the hairs of his neck.

Ruben edged uncertainly to room center. The sound effects man tooted his horn. Ralph McCarthy yelled, “Stop!” Ruben froze on his lest step.

Ruben Michael Stanfeld Rayzel…” said Ralph.

“Michel,” corrected Ruben.

“Well, pardon me, Michel” sneered Ralph. Do you wish to join Troop One?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We will determine if you are worthy. Bring Buttsky.”

They raised the barrel and tooted the horn.

“This is Buttsky, our mascot goat. You must ride him – naked. Please strip.”

Frank blinked. Why this difference? Naked? Ruben was overweight and shy about his body. He never even took his shirt off in the summertime.

Ruben hesitated, tried to refuse, but was quickly grabbed by several Scouts who began undressing him. They flung a shoe here, a sock there. His shirt went eastward, his pants westward until Ruben stood naked before the circle. He struggled to cover himself with his hands, but the others restrained him. His arms were tugged behind his back and with a few swift Scout knots were bound to his sides. They spun him, bleating the horn near his ear. The block slapper slapped them inches from his crotch.

“Be careful,” warned Ralph, “Buttsky bites.”

Ruben went in confused circles. The block snapper pinched his buttocks with the wood. Ruben screamed and turned blindly toward his tormentor.

“Better watch it, Jewboy. You might get a second circumcision.”

“It looks like the Rabbi snipped off too much the first time,” said Ralph.

“Look out, tubby, here comes Buttsky.”

The blocks pinched Ruben’s side, near the front. Ruben yelled, “Stop it, stop it,” in a high, strangled, jungle voice. Hands grabbed him and flung him upon the rug-covered barrel. The bucking was vicious. With his hands tied he had trouble getting a grasp. They jerked the ropes taunt. The jolt threw Ruben off, but no hands outstretched to save him. Frank tripped as he lurched forward and fell. Someone sat down on his back as he tried to rise.

Ruben had thudded to the floor and lay moaning.

Verbal panic filled the air. “The goat, the goat. He‘s loose. Catch him! Get him!”

The blocks were slapped, then used to pinch Ruben, nibbling at his abdomen. Ruben kicked, screamed, cried. They yanked off his blindfold and ropes, laughing as reality replaced terror on Ruben’s tear-streaked face. They dropped his clothes atop him.

Ralph stood over him. “If you can’t take a little kiddin’, you better get your Hebe butt outta here.”

Frank pulled Ruben to his feet and helped him outside. Ruben dressed in the bushes along the building. One sock and his underpants had disappeared, but they weren’t going inside to search for them. They ran all the way home.

They never went back. Frank wept in bed that night.

-30-

DAILY RHAPSODY

Click on the title to read the story

CONTENT

Runner in the Storm

A Beautiful Star-Filled Night

One Miserable Night

Our Weekend Trip

                                         with Stuart R. Meisel

Beach Boy

Christmas Last

Papier Mache

Walk

Coronach for Eve

Station on Your Way

Most Admired Man in Rounke's Bar

Fat Gal

Sometimes at night, I see their faces

I feel the traces they’ve left on my soul

But those are the memories that make me a wealthy soul…

Travelin’ Man

                                          -- Bob Seger

RUNNER IN THE STORM

(From Daily Rhapsody)

By

Larry. Eugene Meredith

Once upon a time there was an ominous warning in the dawn clouds. Snow was going to come and ruin many weekend plans. Such was that winter’s pattern with snow every Friday, slicking roads and cancelling events. It was an annoyance. It was a problem.

It was especially so for the residents of Governor Mifflin Village, enviably housed in the cozy wooded environs of suburbia, the roads climbed steeply and difficulty of access developed after any snow – large or small. Governor Mifflin Village built on the steepest of steep hills, was a well kept grouping of modest Cape Cods spread over several acres up the scenic side. Many people avoided such an arrangement, but Giles and Mary Margaret Ivor would not have lived elsewhere. They loved living at the top of the county in their little house, enjoying the high morning air and the far-ranging view from their picture window. They willingly accepted the disadvantage of the steep and winding roads in the worst wintry weather.

Giles Ivor was tall and broad. He took child-like delight in displaying his strength and stamina. He was not dull. In many ways he was an amazing man. When a child he had been crippled by disease and read a lot. He developed a hunger to know things and stuffed his head with diverse subjects. He knew how to read a person’s future in the ridges of their fingernails; the distance to the star Beta Centauri and that Judas Iscariot’s father’s name was Simon. Some people said he was a know-it-all and showed off too much, but that is just how some people are.

He worked in an office high in a building in the city of Formton, but he hated his job and the tiring train rides back and forth each day. It did not challenge his mind or the body he had built in overcoming his childhood disease. It certainly did not provide the adventurous life he longed for. Still he continued to work there. Every day he arose at six o’clock, did all the things most people do upon getting up, and unceremoniously went to work. He drove five miles of back road to the Bayclover station to catch the main line train to the city. From eight-thirty to five he worked at his desk, a simple component in a perfectly straight row of identical gray desks. At fifteen past five he caught the main line train back to Bayclover and drove the five miles of back roads to his home on the hill.

His home was pale green, the middle house on the top most street of Governor Mifflin Village. The house next door and the one opposite were new constructions and as yet unsold. Governor Mifflin Village was nearing completion and Giles Ivor’s street was the last in the development.

This Friday his house was white like all the others. The most recent snow still stuck to everything, enclosing the homes, shrubbery and trees in a glassy crust. When Giles came down from bed, his wife was looking out the window at the sky and she knew even more snow was coming.

“Honey,” she whined, “must you go to work today?”

“Certainly. I haven’t missed a day in my life and I’m not starting now. When I leave that darn office someday I’m taking a perfect record with me.” He gulped the last of his coffee.

His wife rubbed her hands together, twiddling her fingertips. “But the roads are already slippery. And it’s suppose to snow again…”

Giles shook his head. “Bad roads are why I best get going if I don’t wanna miss my train.”

He stood, kissed his wife, and slipped on his coat. He never wore a hat. He considered himself too hardy for a hat, and besides, he believed wearing a hat made a man prematurely bald.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take it easy.”

He left and his wife listened with a heavy heart to the car start and leave.

It was another seven hours before new snow started falling, but it came fast and brutally. Soon it was a whirling fury, which quickly recoated the plowed roads with a deep sheet and then a playful wind built drifts to defy the county snowplows. Every radio traffic report and several television spot announcements warned with grave melancholy against driving, grimly reminding the public to expect the worse; warning people (the broadcaster frantic with emotion) that a fierce blizzard was upon them, the worst blizzard in two decades, maybe of a lifetime.

When the train pulled into Bayclover that evening there was a blinding rage blowing in greeting. It was obvious to everybody who had driven that it would be wiser to leave their buried cars in the station lot and find lodging somewhere nearby. This is what most commuters did, those who had not already stayed behind in the city. But it is not what Giles Ivor did. He squinted into the white blur of flakes swirling about his bare head and turned his face toward home.

He was approached by a friend, “Where you headed, Giles?”

“Home.”

“Wouldn’t try it. Tell you what. Come up the street to my place and stay overnight. We got plenty of room.”

“Forget it, Harry. I can make it home okay.”

“Don’t be so stubborn. You’ll get stuck and freeze your ears off out there.”

“I’m going home. I’m not afraid of any darn snowflakes.”

“Suit yourself, Gilly, but don’t be afraid to knock on my door if you change your mind. Good luck.”

“Yeah, thanks, but don’t wait up for me. I won’t be turning back.”

Harry waved and trudged down the street with no doubt that his friend had strength and good wind, but when Giles refused his invitation he had to wonder about the man’s good sense. Giles’s home, no matter how jolly and warm, was five miles away, a pleasant drive on a balmy spring day, but probably a death trap in a blizzard. Harry was certain only a madman would attempt the trip.

Giles Ivor reacted to challenge his usual way. He had bitter memories of being a weakling in a world where the weak suffered. The other children never understood it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t run, couldn’t play rough and tumble games, couldn’t go outside in the snow and sled. They had taunted him, threatened him and finally, ignored him altogether. It had been painful then and the memory was painful now. But today he could run and play roughly. He had overcome it. A miracle, the doctor said. He had shed the braces, exercised and grown strong. Disease failed to lick him or claim him. It had only held him back for a while. He could go out in the snow if he wanted. He had no doubts about his stamina, the results of all his hard workouts. He would make it home.

He almost regained his senses before getting any further then the parking lot. He began to see the foolishness of such a trek when already his ears hurt and his ungloved hands turned numb and red, but seeing the streets of town newly scraped, although rapidly being reburied, he continued to the parking lot. The streets of Governor Mifflin Village were always the first plowed. If his car started, certainly he could drive home.

But he couldn’t.

He was unlucky. Two miles out of town his car bogged down in a drift. His efforts to rock out only forced him deeper until the wheels spun uselessly on the underlying ice.

Giles got out of the car. Driving was hopeless. He would have to get home on foot. He could still do it if he kept moving. He would cut across the open fields and shave off distance. There would be no problem. He had stamina. He would run.

The snow was deceitful. It made the landscape appear smooth; the open fields appear flat; the ground appear solid, but beneath the crust of the first field he crossed were corn stalks, broken and crushed from the last harvest. Giles had not run far when his toe snagged on a bent stalk and he fell. To protect his ungloved hands he had been running awkwardly with his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, so when he tripped could not get them out or arms up to catch himself. He fell hard onto his chest. Only the padding of the old stalks cushioned the impact and prevented injury, but snow slid down the coat neck and squeezed up the sleeves. It packed into his left ear. When he got up he was shivering and his face and hands burned with cold.

He dug the snow from his ear with a little finger he could no longer feel. His ear tingled sorely to the touch. With a deep breath, he looked across the remaining field toward the woods beyond. He knew the way. He had jogged the route for exercise many times. It cut a mile off the road route. He was no Olympic threat, but he had jogged these two miles in under fifteen minutes, granted it had been fair weather, he could see the ground, the corn had been growing and he could run between the stalk rows, but still, he had strength and stamina and would be home in another half hour.

He ran, but could not make speed in the deepening snow and the mushy fodder crushed beneath it. He slowed to a walk. He knew on reaching the woods the ground would harden and he could run again. Slowing to a walk, he became aware of the numbness in his feet. They felt shot through with Novocain. He felt nothing.

Reaching the woods and the harder ground, he began to feel his feet again. It was a strange sensation; as if rubber bands tightly wrapped them that vibrated and stung each time the soles touched the ground. His face didn’t sting as much with trees protecting from the wind, but the wet branches dipped low. His energy depleted as he bobbed and weaved around these dark whips.

After the woods were hills. He had to climb most of the way home from here. It was a mile now perhaps. The walking was uphill, gradual at first, and a steady incline ending with the steep hill of his own street. His legs ached, reminding him of when they had been weak stems held upright by metal braces. His shoes were soaked and heavy, hard to lift. Accidentally kicking a rock sent pain clear up to his teeth.

For the first time, he wondered if he could make it. The countryside was dark. He couldn’t even see the snow, only feel it when it lashed the bare flesh of his face. Every tree passed seemed the same tree brushed a moment before and he was aware he could easily become lost in the hills.

Time was lost. He had no sense of it anymore. He stopped and looked at the phosphorous dial of his watch. He had been on foot nearly an hour. He shouldn’t be far from Governor Mifflin Village, unless he was lost. It had to be over the next rise, if he could go that far. It was an effort to get moving again.

The side stitch began beneath his left ribs and kept him leaning that way, one hand pressed against his waist. He could not walk fast at all against the driving storm. He couldn’t see; yet, he felt he was near the development. He could hear a dog barking. He followed the sound until it stopped.

He slipped and fell. His face hit the snow. He wasn’t going to be able to get up. The snow would bury him where he lay. Suddenly Giles cried out, “How old are you?’ How old are you?” He got his arms underneath and pushed. He struggled to his feet and staggered down the side of this hill to the next. “How old are you?” echoed slightly behind him before being swallowed by the wind.

He saw a wisp of illumination. He clumped forward and could make out a lot of lights through the dark. The sight of the development gave him a second wind, enough to carry him to the door of his house he was sure.

There was road surface beneath him, a street. He went up, up the big hill, up to the top. His breathing turned to gasping when he fell over the edge of the stoop. Standing on his knees, he pounded the door of the house. He grew weak and he pounded and pounded and pounded and pounded and received no answer. Perhaps, he thought wearily, Mary Margaret had gone to stay at Millie’s place.

He was tired. He searched in his coat pockets for his keys. They weren’t there. He patted himself down. Nothing. He must have lost them one of the times he fell. The back door was probably unlocked. He struggled back to his feet. Swaying, holding himself upright against the house, he edged around the side. He turned from the building and struck a sign in the yard. He knocked it over and fell atop it. He could see the words ‘For Sale’.

He would never get up this time. He would never stagger the last few feet from this empty house to his own. He was going to freeze to death in the side yard next door. What a fool, what a fool. How far was he from warmth, from food, from life? He wasn’t even certain he was on the right side of the street. All the houses looked alike, all the same shape, all white with snow.

He was so tired.

He began calling for somebody, he wasn’t sure whom. He called names he hadn’t used since his boyhood, when he had determined to depend entirely upon himself. He didn’t know if he was yelling out loud or simply in his head.

He rubbed snow on his face and struggled to his heavy feet. His legs seemed stretched, like over-used elastic; they shook and itched. He began running and didn’t know where he was running. He ran toward a target of black and white, which grew smaller toward the center and whirled dizzily downward. He reached out his arms for help and fell forward, falling and falling. He struck bottom with a bang.

Once upon a time there had been a runner in the storm. Then for a few days there had been nothing. People thought he would die. Nobody could believe he hadn’t with his body temperature so low. But he had stamina. He had a will to live. When he was well enough to sit in bed and talk, the doctor came and said he was lucky having only lost some toes to frostbite. “Could have been your fingers and your ears,” the doctor said.

When the doctor left, Giles called his wife into the bedroom. He held her hand for many minutes before speaking. For once he was having a hard time expressing himself. He told her he didn’t know how he got home. He didn’t think he had. He told her the storm brought back many memories of his childhood. It brought back all the pain and then erased it. Giles pulled Mary Margaret close and kissed her. He said he learned something from the storm, but he didn’t know how to describe it.

But the first thing he did after recovering was buy a hat.

- 30 -

A BEAUTIFUL STAR-FILLED NIGHT

A BEAUTIFUL STAR-FILLED NIGHT

 (From Daily Rhapsody)

by

Larry Eugene Meredith

The water was cold. She felt pain in her gums drinking it and the ice cubes bumping her upper-lip was annoying. She set the glass on the nightstand, dipped two fingers and dabbed the chilly drops on her forehead. They slid down the sides of her nose into her eyes. She blinked.

 She inched across the width of the bed and by stretching both body and one arm was able to raise the window shade. The sky was now a framed picture in the wall. She held the pull loop tightly, squeezing until the slicing pain in her side eased and then she let it go and fell back against her pillow. She was exhausted.

Her pillow was hot. Her short hair twisted and prickled her neck. The room was like an oven. She wished the window were open or even the door.

Yellow light shown through the crack at the bottom of the closed door and voices seeped through from the room beyond. The muffled voices made it impossible to understand the words. The tone was discernible and by it she could tell the speaker. Her husband’s voice was controlled, but weary with a touch of anger.

She wished their neighbors would go. They came out of kindness inquiring to her feelings, but they refused to leave and she found that cruel. They had paid their social debt why didn’t that satisfy them?

There was a change in tone. Her husband had stopped talking. Maggie Braum took up the conversation. She was shrill and high-pitched. Maggie was probably rehashing the facts, making certain she had the story from beginning to end, memorizing her talking points for tomorrow’s round of koffeeklatches. What would Maggie tell?

Tell them about Dr. Lewis, please, she thought. She dragged the sheet halfway over her face. Just tell them about him.

She recognized her name being spoken by her husband, but couldn’t make out anything else. The voices were moving away. Did that mean they are leaving? The sounds dwindled across the living room toward the front door. She listened focusing all her attention on the sound. Her husband stopped speaking. There was a long silence. She listened, biting the sheet. The silence scared her. She would scream if it continued.

Then there was a hollow booming voice. This was George Braum. The conversation went on. Why wouldn’t they leave?

Pain jolted her diaphragm. She smelled blood again for a moment. It clung to her, that dreadful odor and the stain would not wash out. She had attempted to clean herself, but was weak and couldn’t scrub hard enough. The scent was filling the room. She whimpered. Her stomach rolled and she swallowed.

She turned to the window. The sky was black velvet studded with red and sparkling white stars, like an ad she’d seen in a woman’s magazine for diamond jewelry. How the stars blazed, out of her reach, as had the diamonds in the advertisement. It didn’t matter. She had never wanted bright shining playthings. She wanted other things more substantive than glimmer and trim, something beyond even the star-filled night.

She suddenly began twisting upon the bed. The sheet wrapped around her restricted her movement. It clung to her moist skin, binding her with the terrible aching and the heat. She pressed her fingers on her abdomen, pushing against the rounded flesh, trying to deliver the pain.

It went as unexpectedly as it had come. She held still. George Braun still droned; his voice washed over her like a constant wave.

“Oh, go home,” she said in a subdued shout, “please just leave.”

They did not leave. She rolled on her side discovering the position uncomfortable. She turned onto her stomach, but this was unbearably painful. She could only lie on her back.

She stared out the window.

Do the stars go on infinitely or come to an end? Was there a great brick wall holding space imprisoned? She tried to imagine some giant fence bordering the sky with its stars. Things end, she thought, except my neighbor’s visit.

She stiffened. The talking had stopped. She feared turning her gaze from the window; afraid in the slightest movement she would miss the front door opening. Her rigidity brought pain back into her body, but she ignored it. She heard a snap, a click, a door opening. The voices began again, but this time were brief, goodbyes she supposed, she hoped. The door closed with a soft thud. She heard the night latch turned.

They were gone.

Her husband was walking through the living room snapping lights off. He entered the bedroom.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“You all right?”

She tried a smile and didn’t know if she succeeded. “I thought they’d never leave.”

“Neither did I,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Shall I turn on the light?”

“Leave it off,” she said, and then , “Ohh!”

“You’re not all right.”

“Yes, I am. Just an ache now and then, that’s all. It’s to be expected.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I am now that you’re with me.”

“I’m here,” and he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Yes. Don’t leave me, please.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know how much I feared you might.”

“Why would I? I love you.”

“Even after this?”

“More than ever.”

“I worry about it,” she said.

He took her hand. “Don’t worry. What did the doctor tell you?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. It began to ache.

“He didn’t tell me anything either. He simply asked if I had heard and left. He didn’t look much like a doctor. He looked like a plumber.”

She began to sniffle. “He wouldn’t believe me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I called as soon as the pain started. I knew what it was ‘cause it was just like the last time. But he wouldn’t believe me. It was all in my head, he told me, and said people don’t have miscarriages in the fifth month. He told me to forget it, but call his service tonight if it persisted.

“The second time I called, maybe an hour later, he was angry. He said I was being hysterical and he would have the drugstore deliver some medicine to ease my anxiety. He refused to come. He said it was gas.

“I knew this doctor was wrong back when he told me I could even go horseback riding. Why would he say that to a person whose already lost two pregnancies? It was happening again, the baby was coming. I knew it and he wouldn’t believe me.

“I just made it into the bathroom…it was just after…just after I laid him in a pan on the toilet…just after that when the boy from the drugstore rang the bell. I had to go to the door. There was blood running down my legs.” She was sobbing.

“The doctor didn’t say go to the hospital or anything when he was in here?”

“No,” she said, “he didn’t tell me anything.”

She turned her head away to look out at the sky again.

“What are you looking at, Jeannette?”

“The stars. Aren’t they beautiful? I was wondering what was beyond space.”

“Oh.”

“Do you think there’s a big brick wall someplace?”

“To hit our heads against?”

“Yes,” she half laughed, “something like that.”

“What’s behind the wall?” he asked.”

“Huh?” She puzzled. “I don’t know if there’s anything beyond the wall.”

“Then why are we banging our heads against it?” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Come on,” he said, “we’re still young. We have lots of time.”

He got up from the bed. She still stared out the window.

“Doctor Lewis did tell me something,” he said.

“What?” She turned to look at him.

“I asked him what should we do with the baby.”

“What did he say?”

“Anything we wanted,” he said. “Then he said, ‘You can toss it out with the garbage for all I care’.”

“My God!”

“I wanted to punch him.”

“Today was so ugly,” she said.

“Yeah, but it’s over,” he said. “Look, it’s a beautiful star-filled night. The sun will be out tomorrow.”

“Yes, like a golden pendant,” she said. “You know, Frank, I never wanted jewels. Am I strange? I read these women’s magazines and in them that is what women want, pretty stones to look at and wear. But I don’t.”

“Honey?”

“So am I strange?” she asked. “I mean about space and the brick wall?”

“Anybody would feel strange after what happened.”

“Frank, what’s behind the wall?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Let’s try to find out.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s do that someday.”

-30-

ONE MISERABLE NIGHT

(From Daily Rhapsody)

By

Larry Eugene Meredith

Toward the front the old man’s head bobbled with the swaying of the train. Mort and the old man were the only passengers in the stuffy coach.

Mort’s eyes kept closing. It was useless trying to read. Every time he refocused he skimmed the same sentence again. He gave up and shut the paperback stuffing it into a jacket pocket. A corner of the cover caught in the cloth and put another crease across the book’s battered face.

Mort rested his head upon the prickly seat cover. It pushed his nape hair forward creating a crawling bugs sensation He brushed at his neck and watched the rolling of the old man’s bald head.

The book disappeared from his thoughts. It was a detective story. He had read the plot a dozen times before, although the titles were different and the main characters were tougher or gentler, smarter or dumber.

Mort sighed.

He listened to the clicking train wheels and startled briefly at a coupling’s shrill scrape.

Mort used a sleeve to wipe the greasy steam from the window. It made a stain, but he didn’t care. He watched a thick drop of water roll languidly down the glass and spread at the bottom along the frame. His face stared back, reflected in the glass. The eyelids drooped. Long loose hairs slipped around the forehead like dusty cobwebs. The crown was thinning. The mouth curved into a frown. The wrinkles grew deeper. The five o’clock shadow of his beard hid the sag beneath the chin.

Bang!

The forward door opened. The trainman stuck his ruddy face into the coach from the damnably dark area between cars. Stale smoke weaved around his head as it escaped into the frosty night air.

“Bay-cloO-ver,” bawled the trainman, as if calling in a pasture of lethargic cows for milking. “Bay-clover. Allll change!”

The old man blinked and grunted. Mort watched him prepare to debark. The man moaned softly and snorted. The soft flesh of his neck rolled. His cheeks puffed out as he heaved his body to a standing position. Once standing he shook his shoulders, scratched his neck and ran a hand over the bare baldhead while walking to the door. He snatched up a newspaper and stuffed it under one arm. It rustled slightly. He held onto iron grips by the door with both hands. His body jerked back and forth as the train came to a rough stop. He moved forward dangerously balanced, easing down the three metal steps to the platform, flipping an index finger along side his head as a goodnight to the trainman. On aching knees the old man ascended the warped wooden steps.

It never varied.

Mort stepped from the train. A drop of cold rain splattered him. He watched the old man’s laborious climb up the steps and followed. A blue and white taxi waited at the top and the old man climbed in to be whisked away. Different cabs waited differed nights, some were black with white lettering on the side; others were painted yellow. That was the only variation in this routine.

Mort went to the parking lot. Along the way his arm brushed against a hedge soaking the jacket sleeve. The rain was getting worse. Water dripped through his hair, turning it to string. Streetlights were shadows in the haze.

He parked his car in the lower lot not the main one. It was farther from the station, but this made getting in the place during morning rush hour easier. Now it was long past evening rush hour and his car was almost alone in the lots.

 Mort walked down the hill beyond the bridge across the rails. He tripped on the irregular lay of the pavement blocks. His eyes, strained from the long day of paper work, squinted to penetrate the fog bouncing his vision back at him. The normal world was lost in the rain, the night a thick gray. The work he left was only half done. The misty whirl of half-thoughts was now – half-thought.

Some younger people walked ahead, chattering insanely in a strange language, their English twisted by occupational terms and technological phrases until no longer recognizable.

God, had it been so many years?

He came into the world crying for his needs. He had to learn to do more for himself. Walking and talking and reading and learning, each step or word prodded from him. There had been delights, dancing with a warm body that smelled of gardens pressed against his. There were marriage and bedroom odors, moments shot through with color, drained energy and lingering hunger. There was a long sheet of years, of tiny columns, figures and receiving cards saying taxes and deductions. There are nights in frigid rooms. And always the old man ahead of him like a living vision.

Mort crossed the damp macadam road to the nearly empty lower lot. His clothes were wet and uncomfortable. He shivered. He expected to find a flat tire on his car.

The parking lot glistened with oil and rainwater. He pictured himself kneeling in a puddle, fighting a tire lug, his cold hands painful and dirty with the effort. When he arrived at his battered old Ford, the tires were round and plump.

Mort got into the car. The motor whined in pain as he twisted the key. It hurt coming to life. He drove from the space, crossing the spikes at the exit. The sign warned not to back up. The rain wrapped about him, the headlights crawled beneath like yellow worms. The town was dark, closed. The traffic lights all blinked amber.

Mort stopped. He shifted into reverse.

- 30 -

OUR WEEKEND TRIP

OUR WEEKEND TRIP

(From Daily Rhapsody)

By

Larry Eugene Meredith

with

Stuart R. Meisel

I went to the shore the past weekend with a bunch of buddies. Three of us drove down in Sam’s old Ford. We headed down Friday after work. Big Tim sat in the back brooding. He had tried to back out at the last minute, but we wouldn’t let him. This whole weekend trip was for his benefit. We wanted to get him over the funk since the accident.

His mother and he were driving in the country. His mother liked to get those fresh spring strawberries and vegetables sold by the growers at roadside stands. They had a tailgater. Big Tim kept telling his mom to slow down and the guy would back off, but she sped up instead. The bozo stayed on her bumper.

Traffic was pretty steady coming the other way and there wasn’t a big enough gap for passing. His mother kept increasing her speed to no available. She became uncomfortable, though, and began slowing. The tailgater pulled by her on the right shoulder. Big Tim looked over and the driver flipped them the bird and then cut in front. His mother turned sharply left to avoid a fender-bender. They went across the other lane, scraped the guardrail and ricocheted back to the right. An oncoming SUV broadsided them on the driver’s side.

Big Tim was banged up bad. He was a month in the hospital from his injuries. He wasn’t even able to attend his mother’s funeral. Since coming back to work he’s been different, moody and depressed. We thought getting him away, maybe getting him drunk, would help. We had four fifths of good whiskey in the trunk.

We didn’t have a lot of luck to start. The rear tire blew halfway there and Sam, he was driving, didn’t have a spare. There we sat while Sam set off with the busted tire to find a garage to patch it up. He was gone two hours so we didn’t get down to the beach until late night.

We parked in the first open lot and set out on foot looking for a place to stay. Everyplace gets full damn fast over the weekend. You don’t have a reservation you have to take your chances, and I do mean chances. Man, we walked and walked. I figure if we walked much further we’d be in the next town.

Big Tim kept griping, “Why did we drive down without a reservation?”

“How the hell were we to know it’d be this bad?”

“Should have known. Damn, you leave late you know everybody will beat you here. Hot as it is, you know everyone’ll be comin’.  Should have turned right around and driven back. We should have known we’d have to walk this far out to find anything.”

“Hey, what’d’ya want to do? Go back and get the car?”

“Oh hell, we’re here now.”

“So clam up, will ya?”

We were getting to a run down area. It was below the Boardwalk and there wasn’t much street lighting. The place looked like cannery row. Every building needed paint. You could see that even in the dark. This place was bad enough in shadow you could imagine what it looked like in sunlight. The air smelled of fish.

There was a building ahead with a half burned out neon sign blinking on and off saying, “To Let”?

“Let’s try here,” I said.

“I don’t know,” said Big Tim.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“It looks like it’ll wash out to sea by morning.”

“Damn, we ain’t gonna find nothin’ better tonight,” Said Sam. It’s a roof anyway.”

Sam went inside to inquire. He was gone for a quarter hour.

“Hell,” said Big Tim, “what’s keeping’ ‘em?”

Sam came out and headed toward us. We picked up the bag with the whiskey and our duffel and met him part way. We expected him to tell us it was a no go and there weren’t any rooms.

Instead he said, “Come on,” and we followed him down the sandy street to the place.

“One thing,” Sam said.

“What?”

“Things are kinda full…”

“So?”

“And this way is cheaper, you know.”

“What?” snapped Big Tim.

“What’s cheaper?” I asked. “Did’ja get a room or not?”

“Partly.”

“Partly?” said Big Tim. “What the hell you mean partly?”

“We’re sharing a room.”

“I thought we would be anyway,” I said.

“Not just us.” Said Sam. “We gotta bunk up with other guys.”

“Why?”

“Cause things are filled up. It’s a busy weekend.”

“Oh crap,” said Big Tim, “let’s go someplace else.”

“Ev’ryplace else is filled. It ain’t gonna kill us. They put in some extra cots and gave us a cut rate.”

“They should,” I said.

Big Tim grabbed the duffel and I picked up the bag of whiskey. We followed Sam. The desk clerk took our dough and told us the room number.

“Damn! Room 13,” says Big Tim. “Don’t it figure.”

The clerk handed the key to Sam.

“What if these guys don’t let us in?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Said Big Tim, “how they gonna know we belong? Hell, I wouldn’t open the door to strangers just cause they knock and say, ‘Hey, this is our room too’.”

“Oh, these people won’t squawk,” said the desk clerk.

“I don’t know, mister,” said Sam. “Maybe you better come along and introduce us.”

“Oh, very well.”

The clerk comes out from behind the counter and we followed him up a flight of steps to the second floor. The hallway was narrow and had a dead smell. There were papers and dust balls clustered in the corners. There was the sound of TVs playing or people screwing behind the closed doors. He led us all the way to the back of the building. Finally the clerk stopped at a door. Loud music came through it.

The clerk pointed to an exit sign down the hall. “That takes you down to the beach,” he said and then he rapped on the door. It opened a crack after a moment. A man peeked out, his head surrounded by smoke.

“Que?” the guy said.

“These are some fellows that will share your room tonight,” said the clerk.

“Sí, hombre, está bien. Cuantos más, mejor. Ven en ella y hágase en casa,” said the man.

“Christ, don’t they speak English?” said Big Tim.

“He said, ‘Yeah, man, it’s fine. More the merrier. Come in and make yourself at home,” said the room clerk.

“An’ jes, hablo Inglés,” said the man. “Y mi nombre es Jesús, don’ take it en vain,” and he laughed.

The clerk gave us a smug smirk, shrugged his shoulders and stuck his hand out. Sam fumbled some cash out of a pocket and tipped him, and he left. Jesús threw the door wide and we trailed him into a dimly lit room cloudy with thick smoke.

“Cripes,” said Big Tim, “awful smellin’ stuff.”

We stood in the room letting our eyes grow use to the dim light. There were several cots along the walls, some occupied. People lay flat upon them smoking cigarettes.

“Take…ah…which you choose,” said Jesús. Then he sweeps his hand toward a table in the center piled with little bags and other paraphernalia. “Y ayudar…um…help yourself…a lo que…whatever.” He walked away and sat down on a cot. “Compartimos aquí,” he said, “um..share here.”

We looked at each other. Sam looked at the bag of whiskey and jerked his head at the table.

I sighed and placed the bag on the table.

“Anything to eat?” said Big Tim to Jesús

Jesús pointed to a door at the rear. “Kitchen,” he said.

“Go on, man,” said Sam. “I’m beat.” Sam went over and flopped on an empty cot.

“Well, I’m hungry,” snapped Big Tim. “Let’s eat,” he said to me.

I shook my head, but he grabbed my sleeve and tugged me toward the kitchen.

In the kitchen Big Tim went about making a sandwich. “Listen,” he said in a whisper. I had to stick close to hear as he moved about finding ingredients. “I don’t trust these guys.” I noticed he had brought the duffel with him. “We better stay awake.”

“Hell, I’m bushed. I don’t think I can.”

“Okay, here’s what. I’ll stay awake. If I get where I start driftin’ off, I’ll wake you to take over.”

I woke with sunlight streaming across my eyes from a window to a room full of snoring. I glanced at the table and one and a half fifths of our whiskey was drunk. The empty bottle lay on its side upon the floor.

Sam was up and in his swimsuit.

“Wake Tim up,” he said, “and let’s hit the beach.”

Big Tim was asleep sitting up with his back against the wall.

Sam looked over. “Found him like that with his arm draped over the duffel. He didn’t even wake when I pulled it away to get my suit.”

“Some guard,” I mumbled.

We woke Big Tim and headed out to the beach. Big Tim shoved all our clothes back in the duffel and carried it along. We went through the back exit and down a narrow stairwell. There was no door at the bottom of these steps. We came out on sand and surveyed the beach behind this flophouse.

There was litter, broken glass and old shells strewn about in the sand. No way we were sunbathing here. We walked up the boardwalk about a mile to where the beach was clean and scattered groups of people were lounging.

We walked across the sand until Sam said, “Here.”

Big Tim dropped the duffel and Sam dug an old blanket out and spread it. We sat down.

“Great view,” said Sam. He smiled. They were a bevy of young women to our left. They had a net up and some were batting a volleyball back and forth. None wore very much.

Big Tim didn’t glance at the girls. He sat resting his chin on his knees staring out to sea. I was worried. What was he thinking? I wondered if he was considering swimming out until he couldn’t swim any further.

Two of the women were running toward the ocean. Sam stood. “I’m goin’ in,” he said, “you guys comin’?”

I knew what Sam thought. One of the two wore a white suit. He was hoping it would go transparent when wet.

“Go ahead,” I said and Sam ran after his prey.

“What’s wrong?” I said. “Are you sulking ‘cause you fell asleep? Nothing happened.”

He crawled over near me. “Listen,” he said. “I saw something.”

What?”

“Muerte a los opresores.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I have no idea. But at the accident, when that creep gave me the finger, he had those words tattooed down his arm.”

“So?”

“So when Jesús went to sleep last night he pulled off his clothes.”

“And?”

“He got that tattoo on his arm That’s him, that’s the guy killed my mom.”

“Man! What do we do? Go to the police?”

“Hell no. I have a plan.”

He leaned in close and told me. Right after he finished Sam returned.

“You guys missed it. I guessed right. Woo-eee!”

“Sit down,” I said.

The sun had all ready dried him. He picked up his shirt and pulled it on. “Naw,” he said, “I’m gonna walk around and find us a better room. Might be some vacancies this morning.”

“No,” said Big Tim.

“No? You want to go home?”

“No,” said Big Tim.

“You don’t wanna spend another night in that dump, do you?”

“Sit down, Sam,” I said.

Big Tim told Sam what he told me including his plan.

“But what if he wakes up?” said Sam.

“He ain’t gonna freakin’ wake up,” said Big Tim. “I don’t know what all those guys were snortin’ or sniffin’ or shootin’ last night, but combined with our whiskey they were out like clams. Nobody’s gonna wake up ‘cept us. You in?”

Sam looked about to say no, but he nodded and we left the beach to have lunch.

Big Tim was right. Nobody stirred, not even Jesús when we yanked the covers off him.

“Oh damn,” whispered Sam, “he’s naked.”

“All the better,” said Big Tim.

We picked Jesús up and staggered down the back stairs with him. He revived a bit once we were outside, which made things easier. He began to move his feet and staggered along between Big Tim and Sam, but didn’t fully awake. We guided him across the littered beach to the lip of the ocean. It was fairly dark. There was only a quarter moon. Big Tim took Jesus from Sam and walked him into the water. He pulled him further out into the waves and pushed him under.

Jesús woke at that point and struggled, but it was too little too late. His arms stopped flailing and Big Tim let Jesús loose. The weak neap tide kept pushing the body back and forth as Big Tim and we left the beach.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Sam said. “The current ain’t takin’ him out. They’ll find the body.”

“It don’t matter,” said Big Tim, with all those drugs and alcohol in his blood they’ll conclude he decided to go skinny-dipping and drowned. Case closed.”

“Fine,” said Sam. “Now let’s get the car and get the hell outta here.”

“No,” said Big Tim.

“What’d’ya mean no?” Sam looked at me. “Oh Christ, did you leave the duffel back at that place?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“We ain’t leavin’ yet,” said Big Tim.

“What?” said Sam.

“We can’t. It’d look funny, suspicious. We’re gotta be there in the mornin’ like nothing ever happened when those other guys come to. Then we’ll brush our teeth, bid them a fond adieu and leave. If anyone ever asks us about Jesús, which nobody ever will, we’ll say he was there when we fell asleep.”

Sam didn’t looked convinced, but the three of us went back up the stairs to the room.

Sam grabbed Big Tim’s arm at the door. “Wait a minute. What if they’re awake?”

“They ain’t gonna be awake. They didn’t wake when we took him out and they ain’t gonna be awake when we walk in.” With that Big Tim opened the door.

The other guys were across the room with their backs to us and their hands on the wall. There were several people in the room wearing vests with FBI and ICE on the back.

“Who the hell are you,” everybody shouted at once.

A Man pointed a handgun at us. “Up against the wall,” he said.

We obeyed. He walked over and stood behind us. “Where’s Jesús,” he said.

“Who’s Jesús?” said Big Tim.

“The guy I’ve been chasin’ down for a year, that’s who,” said the man behind us. “He’s a murderer and a dealer and how’s about you tellin’ us where he might be.”

“He’s out on the beach dead,” Sam blurted. He was crying. “Big Tim drowned him.”

I looked away from Sam and peered at Big Tim. He gave me a smile. We came down to get Big Tim out of his sulk, I guess we succeeded and that is how our weekend trip ended.

-30-