Fiction Friday

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER THREE

Welcome back: Our hero, while waiting on a medical appointment at the VA hospital in Little Rock from a young friend with a problem. Finished with the doctor, Gideon Nelson reconnects.

            Nelson waited until he was in his truck before calling Martin. The phone only rang once. When Martin answered, he sounded concerned.

            “I thought you had forgotten me.”

            “No,” Nelson said. “The Doctor wanted to talk.”

            “About what?”

            Nelson laughed. “You are your father’s son, aren’t you?”

            Martin said, “How?”

            “Inquisitive, but never mind,” Nelson said. “You about ready to leave Hot Springs?”

            “Packed for the weekend,” Martin said. “Just waiting for your call. I called Dad and told him I was stopping to see you.” He paused. “He said to tell you ‘Ship Ahoy’ for him.”

            “You tell him I said ‘Hello’ when you see him. Now,” he said, “when you get to Little Rock, it’s simple. You know where the Ninth Street exit is?”

            “Yessir.”

            “Get off there, turn left, and go four blocks west.” Nelson finished giving him directions and the two signed off.

            Nelson wound his way through the maze of parking lots around the medical campus and turned north to reach Third Street. Heading toward the downtown area, he stopped at a convenience store and purchased soft drinks and chips. Then he headed east and passed through the central business district before reaching his house.

            It was a small Queen Anne cottage nestled between two larger homes on a quiet, tree-lined street. He turned his truck into the drive and inched in as far as it would go before stopping. He opened the door, looked both ways, stepped out, and moved toward the house. Before entering, he once again looked around before inserting a key into the front door.

            He entered a well-furnished living room. The interior was well preserved and presented that unique smell of old homes—a combination of the acidity of old age and the sweet warm scent of prolonged human contact. Two unopened boxes lay on the floor by a couch. A pile of books covered a small coffee table. Nelson flipped a switch and light bathed the room in a soft glow. He walked into the kitchen and put away the items he had purchased. Then he walked back into the living room and pushed one of the unopened boxes to a spot in front of the couch. Taking a knife from his pocket, he slit the packing tape and opened the box.

            Inside the box were more books and articles of clothing, including a pair of plain black dress shoes. He pulled them from the box, laid them aside, and examined the other items. One was a folded American flag in a plastic container. Nelson held it in front of him and spent a minute staring at it. A piece of trash had worked its way into the container and Nelson opened it. He removed the flag, brushed the dust away, and studied the flag again. As he began to reinsert it into its cover, an object dropped from the folds of the flag, a folded sheet of paper filled with spidery handwriting. It fell to the floor and Nelson retrieved it. He held it before him and read.

            “Gideon: If you are reading this, it means that I have passed from this mortal stage. If I am right, I am now in a better place. If you are right, I simply suffer no more pain. Either way, I hope this finds you at peace. Please take Timmie’s flag with my love. He would be happy, I think, to know you have it. I know that I am. I hope it reminds you not of strife, but of the many happy and peaceful moments that you and I spent in conversation. You once told me about the value of a good sailor’s knot, that it must not only hold as needed for the job, but also must be capable of being loosened easily when its work is done. I hope that your personal knots still hold firm. But more, I hope that you will be able to loosen them at that time when they are no longer needed. That is my wish for you, offered with my thanks for helping to make the last days of an old lady bearable. I can only pray that God’s breath will always fill your sails and that you will someday find yourself safely home from wherever the seas of life might take you”

It was signed simply, “Edith Hartwell.”

            Nelson reread the note and held it for a full minute. He then cocked his head and looked away. As the sky outside began to darken, he folded the page and inserted it back into the flag. He put the flag into its pouch, then took it to a bedroom and laid it on the shelf of a closet. He returned to the living room and sat in a large, overstuffed chair with his hand under his chin as the day turned into evening.

            Nelson had dozed when the knock came at the door. He awoke, then rose, walked over and opened it. There stood an African-American youth of at least six feet in height, with a broad smile on his face. He carried a small backpack. “Mr. Nelson,” he said, extending his hand.

            Nelson gawked. “Martin?”

            “It’s me sir,” the lad said. “Thank you for seeing me.”

            Nelson motioned him in. He said, “I wouldn’t have recognized you if I met you on the street,” he said. “You’ve grown. How long has it been since I saw you last?”

            “Only six months,” Martin said. “Dad says us Barkers tend to grow in spurts.”

            “I believe him,” Nelson said. He led Martin into the kitchen and sat him at the table. “Wait one,” he said, as Martin placed the backpack against a leg of his chair. Nelson retrieved two glasses from a cabinet and filled them with ice from the refrigerator. He sat one in front of Martin and one in front of the opposite chair. He handed Martin a can of soda, turned back to the cabinet and returned with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Martin eyed the whiskey and then looked at his soda.

            “Forget it,” Nelson said. “You’re driving. You’re underage. And you mother could whip both our asses with one hand tied behind her back.”

            Martin laughed. “You got that right,” he said. He poured the soda into his glass and took a sip. He leaned back in his chair and waited.

            Nelson poured himself a finger of whiskey. He took a sip, then laid the glass aside and said, “So tell me about your troubles.”

Martin paused, seeking the right words. He looked at the ceiling, bit his lower lip, and then stared Nelson directly in the eyes. “My best friend was murdered. They say she was beaten and shot.”

            “Your best friend,” Nelson said, “as in girl friend?”

            “She was a girl,” Martin said, “and she was my friend, a student with me at the Math and Sciences School.”

So, she was your girlfriend.” Nelson smiled.

Martin sipped his soda and chose his words carefully. “In time we might have viewed it that way,” he said. “But we both had dreams.” He swallowed. “Well I still do.”

“Dreams?”

“She wanted to become a marine biologist,” Martin said. “She was already pretty much accepted into the University of Miami. I’m thinking of the University of Texas then, hopefully, Cal Tech.”

Nelson nodded. “I see. A ‘boyfriend-girlfriend thing’ wasn’t part of your curriculum.”

            “She was a serious student,” Martin said.     

            “So she was killed in Hot Springs?”

            “No sir,” Martin said. “They found her body in Connorville.”

            “Connerville?”

            “Connerville,” Martin said. It’s a town not far from here, just off the freeway. It is in Armistead County too, the far northern corner.”

            “Seems I have heard of it,” Nelson said. “Is that where she was from?”

            “Oh no sir,” Martin said. “They don’t have any folks of her color there.”

            Nelson leaned back. “So she was …”

            “Blacker than me,” Martin said. “That’s why it was so odd that she was found in Connerville.”

            Nelson let out his breath. He started to say something, stopped and looked away. A few seconds later, he looked back at Martin and said, “Maybe you should start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

Wake Up Call

“My Sainted Mother used to wake us up with a loud shrill, “Wake up Jacob! Day’s a’breaking,” It was one of the few occasions during which I thought ill of her. I’m sure she learned the practice deep in the woods of Cleveland County, Arkansas. It was particularly annoying of a Monday morning. Indeed, on a school day it produced thoughts of revenge. I would envision informing the world about the package of Kool cigarettes that she kept hidden in a jacket in her closet, accessible when we kids were all away.

My father had a less annoying but even more efficacious manner of getting us up and moving. “I ain’t sayin’ it again.” That caused three sets of feet to hit the cold floor.

These days our foster puppy, Daisy the Demon Dog, communicates her wakeup announcement telepathically, something along the lines of, “You can’t begin to imagine what a mess I can make if you don’t get in here and get some din-din ready.” It works. After morning ablutions, she loves to initiate the entertainment portion of the day with a game she calls, “Tug on the fat man’s robe.” That often results in incarceration, a punishment devoutly deplored.

A careful reader can see why I have put so much thought into how to awaken my sleeping spouse of a morning. Here’s what I try.

First, I make sure that she does not cradle her little friend, “Mr, Louisville,” but, rather, it is safely out of reach under the bed.

Next, I approach softly, still out of reach of harm’s way. “Missy,” I start. “All the other pretty little girls are up already.” 

This generally brings forth a series of oaths that would have made Captain Lucky Jack Aubrey take notes.

Then I try, “I think Matthew McConaughey has dropped by to see you. He brought the guys from ZZ Top with him.” That brings only a smile.

Then it is decision time. If I see a hand reach down and under the bed, I initiate a strategic withdrawal. Same-same if there is a hard cover book within her reach.

As I reach the bedroom door, my courage generally returns. I’ll wheel with the resolute courage of a young Audie Murphy, and emit my next invite.

“I think maybe it’s time for you to think about getting up. The light over yon horizon is breaking.” Like mother, like son.

Thereupon I flee. That final exoneration has produced flying objects weighing in excess of ten pounds. I close the bedroom door softly with a final challenge, “There’s a good, hot, fresh pot of coffee waiting for you when you get up.”

That’s how you stay married for 47 years, young fellers.

Early on, I learned
to avoid this look.

Earning

Off earning in Searcy today. It's cold. That's all I have to say. How cold is it? It's so cold that men's nipples are showing through their jackets.

Cold and Wet

I never got Veteran’s Day off when I was working full-time. They didn’t start giving free meals away until a new and different group of veterans started coming home. So, I’m not that used to making plans. To top it all off yesterday, my beloved roommate was trying to fly back here from Houston, TX. Don’t ask. Let me just say it involved Brad Paisley, Joe Walsh, Sheryl Crow, the Doobie Brothers, Jason Isbell, and (most of all) ZZ Top.

So I was stuck hanging around waiting to see how the weather in Chicago affected the flights in Houston. Called a good friend and fellow vet. We started reminiscing and guess what the conversation centered on before we knew it? Yep. How some of the coldest most miserable times we ever spent were in Southeast Asia.

Southeast Asia? You’ve heard it was hot there? It was.

Except.

Except for four hours into a six-hour midwatch. That’s four bells plus one for those who were wondering.

They had these things called “the monsoons” in Southeast Asia. That’s when it rains for forty days and forty nights without stopping and the South China Sea doesn’t rise except during the flood tide. Noah must have prevaricated as un-vetted leaders often do.

Anyway. Since it was always hot in Southeast Asia, our beloved military issued us nothing to prepare for sitting in a pouring rain for hours in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, except one poncho. No matter how one arranged a poncho, or multiple ponchos if he subscribed to the black market, about three hours into a watch, one drop of water would find a circuitous path to raw skin. It would signal others, and like a line of ants who have found food, they would deliver a stream of cold water to a hostile body. A total soaking lay only minutes away.

Let me tell you: cold, wet, miserable, and scared ain’t no way to go through life.

But, yesterday I had a better treat. Figuring I needed nourishment for the waiting that lay ahead, I stopped in one of my favorite Little Rock establishments, E.J.’s at Sixth and Center, and had a “Soprano” sandwich. It was a dandy, representing at least five of the seven deadly sins. I figured, “What the hell?” I ordered a Stella to balance the Jalapeno chips.

The waitperson came over as I finished and, noticing the hat I had worn to protect me from the rain outside, asked me if I was a veteran? On receiving the correct answer, she informed me that I was eligible for a 20 percent discount and a free piece of something called “butternut cheesecake.”

She lied to me. It wasn’t a “piece.” It was a quarter or so of a whole pie. But it was pouring outside, the flights were delayed, and I remembered how cold rain can get. I ate the whole damn thing and left happy. You'll never guess what I was singing as I walked out and the rain hit me.

Veterans Day

On returning from your last trip to sea, US Navy tradition had it that you were supposed to write down all the ports where you had been stationed on your best hat. Then, as you sailed into port, you would sail it into the ocean. The Navy, of course, forbade it. That made it even more fun.

As the venerable old USS Hunley, AS 31, sailed under the two old (long-since demolished) bridges spanning the Cooper River in Charleston, SC, a white snowfall of rolled-up “Dixie Cup Hats” fill the air, settling in the blue waters NNW of Fort Sumter. I remember it well. My military career ended so close to where the Civil War started.

They, the Navy, had sent me to Charleston, and aboard the Hunley, when I returned from SE Asia and that all-expenses-paid trip of tropical sun and fresh sea breezes. I had requested to get as far away from WESTPAC as I could get.

A few weeks later, I was motoring to Arkansas on my way back to San Francisco where I was living when the Draft Board caught up with me. Everyone knows the story by now of how I got stuck in Little Rock working for a couple of young guys who had started an urban planning firm. Oh yes, you all know how I got snared by the most beautiful woman that had ever sashayed by me with no prior warning.

What most of you don’t know is how much I hated the fact that the military service had cost me four years of my life spent doing godawful things while my peers were luxuriating in successful careers.

What most of you don’t know is how I didn’t even tell some folks about that military career for dread of that suspicious look I still receive at time so many years later.

What most of you don’t know is how much I cherished memory of the time our ship put in at Fort Lauderdale, FL and had to move up a canal to our berth. As we passed rows of condos, word seemed to spread like a desert wildfire. Flags went out on balconies. People came out and waved. Some of the old men saluted us.

It was the first and only time the public thanked me during my four years in uniform.

What many of you don’t know is how my attitude about my military service changed with time. Take, for instance, the time a shipmate from Vietnam, living as a retired Cincinnati police officer found me on the internet and we ended up swapping yearly visits with our families.

What you may not have noticed, but I did, how veterans who had served came home and pursued successful careers and enjoyed the blessing of family life.

What you’ll never understand, is how sad it made us feel when the public allowed the media and movies to portray us, (they still do although we’re getting a little long in the tooth to be successful sociopaths) as drug-crazed loonies. Turns out the examples they used, the ones hanging out in faded military jackets, dirty with long beards, had mostly never served a moment in a real uniform. The ones who had lasted only a couple months or so. But, as a Jimmy Stewart character once said, “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”                    

What you don’t know is how I finally decided to hell with the public, I had my brothers and sisters who had served in uniform and understood.

I wish them the very best on this special day. May any nightmares turn to peaceful, loving memories.

Wait. Wasn't I supposed
to sail the open seas?

Theology Time

One of the first things the Galilean does in the Sermon on the Mount is to define what we might call the righteous disciple. One can only wonder why he chose this introduction. The characteristics he defines were undoubtedly in great contrast to those of those who obviously didn’t meet his view of righteousness. If he had expressed them in negative terminology, a style so popular in today’s so-called leaders, the Beatitudes might have been more understandable to today’s audiences.

To heck with the poor in spirit:  they must be drug-tested. 

To heck with those that mourn: they just can’t take it.

To heck with the meek: they’ll vote for you anyway.

To heck with those who hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they are libtards.

To heck with the merciful: for they are losers.

To heck with the pure in heart: for they are too demanding and judgemental.

To heck with the peacemakers: for they don’t produce profits.

To heck with those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: send them back where they came from.

When we see the Galilean’s words in this manner, we can, at last, understand why today’s version of the Galilean’s opponents—the hypocrites—can call evil holy and get away with it.

Confession

May I make a confession? Danke. This has troubled me for years. You see, I traveled up to Eureka Springs via the sensible way this past week. That’s of course through Conway, Clinton, Damascus, (sorry the famous “waving lady” passed away some years ago) Marshall, Harrison, etc. I think GPS systems take you through Oklahoma City from Little Rock. You’ll appreciate my map reading skills when the floods come and the power goes off.

Back to the trip: of course I crossed one of Arkansas’s true treasures, the Buffalo River.

That made me think about way back in history when the Corps of Engineers became offended that there was a free-flowing stream in America and they took out after the Buffalo River, survey-transits a’blazing.

A wonderful cartoonist for a wonderful newspaper, George Fisher (8 April 1923 – 15 December 2003) of the Arkansas Gazette and a group of dedicated environmentalists thwarted those plans. The group called itself, if memory serves, the “Save the Buffalo River Society.”

The time was mid-sixties or so and I was a draft-evader at the University of Arkansas. I joined the Save the Buffalo Society shortly after they formed it. I’ve bragged about that to everyone who would listen. I even bragged about it to those I dated, English Majors mostly. Mister environmentally sensitive: that’s what you could call me.

This self-aggrandizing claim served me well for over 50 years.

Now, after seeing the beauty of that river again, I feel compelled to make a confession, clear my conscience, cleanse my soul, and seek righteousness.

It’s like this. I joined the Save the Buffalo Society because of a girl. She was an art major and a year older than I. Yes, I should have known better than to shift majors. Oh, I wasn’t an English major. I simply dated them. English majors are good folks who know the dangers of a dangling participle. Even B Cole was teaching Language when I met her, and I figured that was close enough.

But an Art major? What was I thinking? Well it wasn’t a case of moral clarity or love of unfettered nature, unfettered things maybe, but nature, no. Anyway, she wanted to save the river from becoming a lake, and I wanted to save her from becoming a lonely Art major. Being the adaptive sort, I signed on to saving the great outdoors. As you might have guessed, such subterfuge didn’t work.

Not only did I fail to impress her, (a pattern that was to exist for years until a superior type of woman picked me out on a parking lot) it got worse. Imagine my shock when I discovered my true value to her. She was using me as a shield to cover up an affair with a married Art professor. Does humiliation never cease? The horror! The horror!

Oh, I did receive one blessing, an “A” in Intro To the Arts. As Swinburn said, “Even the weariest river, winds somewhere safe to sea.”

And I did learn a valuable lesson: English Lit. That’s where the action is.