Remnants

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER SEVEN

           

 (Our hero does his morning exercise and makes new acquaintances)

On Sunday morning, Nelson began his run early. He reached the place where he practiced his kicks and moves as the sun had begun casting its long shadows across the park grounds. As he spun and kicked, he would emit a soft but sharp “kihap,” adding force and violence to his movements. Nothing this morning interrupted his exercise, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. He finished his routine and uttered “shiuh” into the morning stillness. He bowed to an imaginary opponent and turned toward the river.

            It was then that he saw a face peering from behind the row of vegetation bordering the river. He snapped into a defensive posture and quickly glanced to his right and to his left. He then turned his attention to the face and prepared for action.

            “Hey, hey,” a voice said from behind the vegetation. “No sweat. Just me. Old homeless bum me. Not a problem.”

            When Nelson didn’t respond, a man rose from behind the growth. He was a thin, brown-haired man with a stubble of dark beard, wearing a faded windbreaker and jeans. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just watching you move,” he said. “No harm intended.”

            Nelson relaxed from his crouching position and stood. “Who are you?”

            “Just old Charlie,” he said. “Can I come out?”

            “Sure,” Nelson said. “What are you doing here?”

            “I live here,” the man said as he walked forward.

            “Here? In the park?”

            “Right here,” Charlie said, coming closer. “Down there,” he pointed to the river, “on the bank, out of sight. They say it’s okay. Bill Clinton himself told me ‘Charlie I want you live right here and keep an eye on things for me.’ So I do.” Part of this he said in perfect imitation of the voice of President Clinton. Nelson laughed.

            “So you are the grounds custodian?”

            “Might say I am,” Charlie said. “Might say I am.” He was standing with Nelson now and studied him carefully. “Who the hell are you? You look familiar.”

            “Nelson. Gideon Nelson. You look a little familiar yourself. Ever been in the Navy?”

            “Hell no,” Charlie said, “Marines,” then “I got it. You were at the VA Hospital.”

            Nelson looked at him with renewed interest. “By god, you’re right,” he said. “We swapped lies out in front of the building. At least some of us did. You just stood there.”

            “Howdy brother,” Charlie said, extending his hand. Nelson shook it.

            “You weren’t the one with all the wives,” he said.

            “No,” Charlie said. “That was some other feller. I’ve just had two.”

            “Two?”

            “One died,” Charlie said, “the other kicked my ass out of the house two months ago.”

            “What for? Drinking?”

            “Hell no,” Charlie said. “She was making room.”

            “Making room for what?”

            “Someone who could service her.” He took on a somber look. “She moved herself a younger man in.”

            Nelson didn’t speak for a moment. “You don’t look that old to me.”

            “Just turned 40.”

            “She thought that was old?”

            Charlie looked off and then back at Nelson with sadness on his face. “It was more than that.”

            “So you live here now?”

            “Temporarily, I hope.”

            “Doesn’t the VA have somewhere you could stay?”

            “I can’t get help other than medical ‘cause I ‘m still married and she has an income. I mean a job, in addition to my disability pay that she gets, and, which is why she won’t file for divorce.” He spat. “Says she needs the money.”

            “You must have really pissed her off.”

            “That last bullet pissed her off.”

            “What last bullet?”

            “The last one I got in Iraq. Doctors say it clipped something, some nerve or gland something, and it just got more and more, you know … difficult to perform on demand, maybe the stress from being commanded to do something that you should volunteer for.”

            Nelson took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Jesus,” he said.

            “Yeah,” Charlie said. “Jesus”

            “Family?”

            “Folks both dead. I do have a brother but he lives in New York and teaches at Columbia. He hasn’t spoken to me since I joined the Marines.”

            Nelson shifted the topic. “Are you from around here?”

            “South of here. City of Pine Bluff.”

            “Are you familiar with this town called Connorville?”

            The other man looked at him and frowned. “Don’t mix me up with those folks,” he said. “That’s one badass bunch.”

            “That seems to be the general consensus,” Nelson said.

            “Don’t know about that,” Charlie said. “But stay the hell away from there, if you want my opinion.”

            “I hear they don’t like black folks.”

            “They don’t like anybody who is not like them,” Charlie said, “but they really hate blacks.” He thought. “Gays too.” He paused. “Jews and Catholics … liberals of course …Democrats on principle.” He pursed his lips. “But blacks are their favorites, I guess.”

            “Not in a good way, though?”

            “No, not in a good way.”

            “Do you ever go there?”

            Charlie said, “I used to, when I had a car. I have an old military buddy who lives there. I am a former Marine but he was Army. Runs a ‘concealed carry’ school. Does well. I used to go help him every once in a while. I didn’t stick around any longer than I needed to, though.”

            “How long were you in the Marines before you got hurt?”

            “Hurt the last time?”

            “Yes.”

            “Fifteen years. Went in when I was 22.”

            “A little late in life, wasn’t it?”

            “Went to OCS after college.”

            “So you were an officer.”

            “Until my body gave out on me, I was and officer and a gentleman. After that I was just a freeloading bum sponging off the taxpayers.”

            “With a college degree, you can’t get a job?”

            “That goddam bullet again.”

            “How?”

            “I have seizures. Not good for job security.”

            Nelson hung his head. He reached into a pocket and retrieved a bill. It was a ten spot. “Here,” he said. “It’s all I have but it might help.”

            Charlie looked the bill and then at Nelson but didn’t move to take it. “One vet to another,” Nelson said.

            The bill hung suspended for several seconds. At last, Charlie took in and closed his hand around it. “Thanks,” he said. “A man can fall a good ways in life if he doesn’t watch out where he puts his feet.”

            “Semper Fi” was all Nelson said as he jogged away.

            He skipped his coffee break and was back home and showered by ten o’clock. He put on a sweatshirt, fresh jeans and and his running shoes. After he had secured the house, he got into his truck and headed north. A few miles from town, he left the freeway and followed the old highway. It led him through and area marked by substantial homes on large lots interspersed with smaller homes and house trailers, some in deplorable condition. When development gave way to pastures, he continued until he came to a sign announcing that Connorville was five miles away.

            Before he reached the city, scattered development began to appear with increasing density until he reached the city limits. Slowing, he entered the city and observed it with interest. The highway corridor was devoid of any development pattern. Homes and metal commercial buildings appeared side by side. Most of the homes facing the highway were older ones, many in advanced stages of decline. One, adjacent to a strip commercial center, was graced with sign stating that it was for sale and was zoned commercial. The commercial development became more dominant as Nelson drove further north. The highway veered to his left and ran adjacent to a major rail line. The corridor then intersected with another highway fronted by more commercial development. Just when a visitor might expect to find downtown, the commercial development began to disappear and the highway became flanked by new subdivisions.

            Nelson drove along a non-ending collection of subdivisions, all containing homes of similar design. Most of the developments were served by one entrance but an occasional one would sport a second access. There was little diversity of design and the area took on the appearance of a desert of dark-toned rooftops and grey bricks. When he came to a church, he turned into the packed parking lot, circled it, and re-entered the highway headed in the opposite direction. When he reached the main intersection, he turned right.

            This was apparently the primary commercial corridor of the city. Businesses were packed haphazardly along it and, even on a Sunday morning, traffic was intense. The highway comprised four lanes of traffic and a center turn lane, all occupied by the furious and anxious residents of Connorville. Each business enjoyed a minimum of two entrance drives and for some, curbs were nonexistent for their entire frontage, allowing access at any point. This caused Nelson to concentrate on his driving and he saw little of the garish befuddlement that characterized the corridor. He did notice a diner ahead to his right and he turned into its lot. He drove to the rear of the building where he parked. Stepping from his truck, he surveyed his surroundings before locking it and walking toward the entrance.

            It as a concrete block structure advertising itself as “Betty and Bob’s Place” and promising fine home cooking. It sat back a ways from the street with parking in the front, the side, and the rear. With the exception of Nelson’s truck and a late-model car, all the other vehicles were parked in front.

            Nelson entered the diner, looked around, and settled for a seat at a long counter. Behind it, a stocky woman with frosted hair and a ruddy complexion moved toward him. “Coffee?” she said. Nelson nodded and she moved off briskly.

            The customers sat mostly without moving, comprising the “pre-church” crowd who appreciated the quiet before the rush. When the waitress returned with his coffee, Nelson ordered ham and eggs. She took his order and he began to drink his coffee and regard his surroundings. The place was neither new nor old, just one of those age-defying places that evoke no particular era. The fixtures were not new, but well maintained. There was a window midway the length of the bar through which the waitress yelled his order. A large man repeated it and the place became quiet again.

            When the woman refilled his coffee, Nelson said, “Are you Betty?”

            She looked surprised. “No,” she said. “Why do you want to know?”

            “No reason,” Nelson said. “I just saw the name and wondered if you were the owners.”

            “Betty and Bob are both dead,” she said, and walked off. In a moment, she returned with his order. “Two eggs over easy with ham,” she said, placing the plate in front of him. She asked if he needed anything else. When he shook his head, she turned away again.

            Nelson ate in silence but when he was half through, an elderly man dressed in khaki work clothes came in and sat beside him. “Morning stranger,” he said.

            “Good morning,” Nelson said.

            “Ain’t seen you in here before,” the man said.

            “Just passing through town.”

            “Pass through fast,” he man said. He yelled to the waitress, “Charlene … coffee.” She waved an acknowledgement and he spoke to Nelson again. “Not the best place for a stranger.”

            “You’re not from here?” Nelson said.

            “Born and raised,” he said. “A rare specimen.”

            Nelson smiled and studied the man. His eyes danced in a face burned by years of defiance of the sun. Once red hair was losing the battle with gray and his hand were freckled and scarred. Nelson said, “A specimen of what?”

            “Someone who was born here and lived here before the assholes came.” He laughed. “A real specimen.”

            The waitress walked up with his coffee. “You eatin’ anything Clifton?”

            “Just coffee.” She walked away.

            Nelson continued eating. When he was nearly finished, he turned to the man. “Did you know about the young girl whose body was found here in town?”

            “Hell,” the man said. “Everbody knows about that.”

            “Do you know where her body was found?”

            “No, but he does,” the man said, turning and pointing to a man seated at a nearby table. “Hey Joe,” he said, “come here a minute.”

            A middle-aged man in overalls rose and walked to where the two sat. “This here man,” Clifton said pointing to Nelson. He stopped, “What did you say your name was?”

            “Gideon Nelson.”

            “Mr. Nelson here wants to know where they found that little colored girl’s body.”

            “On Cardinal Lane,” the man said. “A block from Calvary Baptist Church, same side of the street. In the ditch.” He looked and saw the waitress coming. “Hey,” he said, “I ain’t lookin’ to get involved in this.” He returned to his table.

            The waitress appeared in front of them. “Clifton,” she said, “drink your coffee. Mr.,” she said, turning to Nelson, “you’re upsetting our customers. We would appreciate it if you would finish up and leave.”

            “I suspect you would,” he said. Then, ignoring her, he turned to Clifton. “Thanks for the information,” he said. “Can I pay for your coffee?”

            “Hell yes,” Clifton said. “Hey Charlene,” he said. “Mine on his.”

            The waitress glared at them, spun around, and walked through a swinging door into the kitchen. In a moment, the cook came to the order window and gave Nelson a hard look. Nelson turned to Clifton. “A warm and friendly town,” he said.

            “Stay the hell away from here,” Clifton said, drinking his coffee.

            Nelson paid for his meal to a silent hostess and, waving to Clifton, left the diner. He walked to the rear of the building and was about to get into his truck when he heard a door open and close behind him. He turned to see the cook standing a few feet away with a baseball bat in a huge hand. His face flamed with rage and it formed a snarl as he raised the bat to eye level.

            “Mr,” he said. “I’m about to give you a lesson in minding your own business.”