Deep Waters

Once I had a job in the U.S. Navy driving a boat from where our ship was moored five miles up the Cooper River out into Charleston Harbor. Our mooring was a low, mosquito-infested lowland and was surrounded by earthen mounds holding buried nuclear missiles and torpedoes. The place produced no joy. We had to account for that ourselves, each in our own way.

I generally sought mine with much reading and mass quantities of alchohol.

Leaving the place on a mission was also a joy. I would watch the prop of my gig churning the muddy water of the Cooper as I followed the winding river toward the sea. After crossing under the two ancient bridges spanning the river, there was a point at which the prop quit churning mud and started churning foam. We had reached the sea.

Charleston harbor wasn’t clear, but it was much better than the rancid Cooper at ebb tide. When our ship sailed out of the harbor we met the clean, clear ocean. If we altered course to starboard, the seas became bluer the farther south we sailed until we came to the majestic blue, deep water of the Caribbean. The bright sparkling waters seemed to invigorate one’s soul.

Life is a bit like that. Stuck in our own self-imposed moorings, we get overwhelmed by lowland worries, concerns, and discomfiture. In all likelihood, that accounts for much of the reason we get stuck scrolling Facebook to find people that hate the same people we do. I’ve been thinking about that all morning.

As a result, I think I’m going to leave the mental lowlands and sail for the deep blue waters of life.

New Friends

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gideon Nelson has taken in a boarder, but first spends some time with his other new friend.

            Tina blinked her eyes and then opened them wide. “You did what?”

            “I took in a house guest.”

            “Who? I mean why?”

            “He is in trouble and needs help.”

            “Gideon Nelson, you are the strangest duck in a whole pond of them. Do you know this man?”

            “As well as I know you.”

            They were at the local micro-brewery at its Thursday evening opening. The usual crowd hadn’t shown yet and the place was quiet. Tina Barrow drank her beer and thought for a moment. Setting it down, she said, “But you haven’t invited me into your house.”

            “Not yet, anyway,” he said. “Besides, you have a home. Charlie is a homeless veteran. A real one, not one of those men set loose from an institution, who gets off his meds, and claims to be a vet. The public loves those,” He stopped and drank, “except when they have to care for them.”

            “Gideon Nelson,” Tina said, “when he murders you in your sleep. I’ll tell the police I tried to warn you.” She tapped the top of her mug with a fingernail. “So dragging me home and ravaging me tonight is out of the question, I suppose.”

            “Maybe,” he said. “Would you like that?”

            She retreated immediately. “Too soon, but allow your hope to spring eternal.”

            “It always has,” he said. “So not, as you say, ‘inevitable’”?

            “Maybe,” she said. “Would you like that?”

            “How were classes today?”

            “I forget,” she said, giving him a playful fist to the chin. “You can be a real jerk. Know that?”

            “You have no idea,” he said.

            “So what did you do in the Navy?” She felt one of his bulging muscles. “I know that you were one of those bad asses. What do they call them? Sea Lions?”

            “Actually, I played piccolo in the Navy Band,” he said.

            “Asshole,” she said, then smiling, “Want to go for a drive? I’ll show you where I live.”

            “A short one,” he said. “I promised Charlie I would be home by ten.”

            “Christ,” she said, “are you married already?”

            He laughed and they finished their beers. Outside, it was dark and the street lights were sparkling through naked tree branches. Her car, a new hybrid, was parked across the street and they crossed together. Nelson folded himself into the passenger seat and they moved through the tall buildings of downtown Little Rock. She eased the car through early evening traffic, and they were soon moving west along Cantrell Avenue in an area, as she was explaining, that was once called “Carpetbagger Hill.”

            “When you Yankees invaded our state, rich men from the north came here to run things,” she said. “They built mansions near the railroad station,” pointing south toward the site. “That was the place to be in those days. Then they made us name this section of street after Abraham Lincoln.” We finally got rid of them and they left us some fine old homes.” They came within view of the river. “A little good comes from every disaster,” she said.

            “Think that might prove true of the disaster in Connorville?” he said.

            She thought as they continued west. “Now that you mention it, those people who live in that place are the modern carpetbaggers.” She made a soft right turn. “The place may just need a cleansing.”

            He said, “A sort of sociological purging, maybe?”

            “Hey,” she said, “you’re talking like a scholar already.” She proceeded down a narrow street. “I’ll show you our Big Dam Bridge,” she said. “Maybe someday you can walk me across it.”

            “What bridge did you say?”

            “Big Dam Bridge,” she said, “as in: the big bridge next to the dam.” The river now glistened to their right. “It’s a nice little play on words, though. It was built for pedestrians and bicyclists. Connects the cities of Little Rock and North Little Rock, places that enjoy a warm love-suspicion relationship.”

            “Like us?” he said.

            “Maybe,” she said.

            They drove along in silence through a linear park. The smell of willows permeated the car through half-opened windows and night sounds began to increase in volume. There were no other cars on the road.

            “You’re quiet,” Tina said. “Share.”

            “Just thinking about a place where I used to live,” he said.

            “With someone?”

            “No someone. Just me alone.”

            “Congratulations for a correct answer. I hear so few of those.”

            They had reached the end of the road now and Tina pulled the car into a parking lot and they quietly enjoyed the view of two structures crossing the river. One was a solid steel and concrete thing, a dam that muscled its way across the roiling water. The other was a soaring, spidery affair that shot across the expanse with a bare hint of intrusion.

            “It’s my favorite spot in the city,” she said. “I’ve never shared it with anyone else.”

            Nelson took it in. “I can see why …” he started to say, but her arm had shot across his shoulder and she drew his head to hers, delivering a long and hungry kiss. He didn’t resist.

            She broke her lips from his and kissed both cheeks. “Damn you,” she said.

            He stroked her cheek and brushed the hair from her face.

            “Damn you,” she said again.

            He said, “Maybe you should take me back.”

            “Maybe,” she said.

            The way she drove him back took them through a section of Little Rock known simply as Hillcrest. It was a wild collection of every type home imaginable served by a central commercial corridor of shops, restaurants, and offices. It is one of those hugely adored neighborhoods that simply appear as if by some grand design but wouldn’t be allowed to be built from scratch in any city in America. Turning down a street lined with small, beautifully kept homes, she pointed to a striking craftsman-era white house and identified it as hers. Then they slowly wound their way back thorough downtown and toward the bar.

            “Where did you park?,” She had slowed near the front of the bar.

            “I walked,” he said, pointing east. “Turn at the next street.”

            “Don’t you know that walking to a bar is considered evil and subversive in modern America?” she said.

            “So sue me,” he said as he pointed to his house.

            She stopped in front. “So now we each know where the other lives,” she said. “What does that mean?”

            “It is not a huge city,” he said, “so I imagine it was inevitable.”

            “Asshole,” she said as she allowed him a quick goodbye kiss.

            Nelson walked into the living room in time to see Charlie retreating from the front window with a soft drink in hand. “Hello,” Nelson said, eyeing the other as if about to ask a question.

            “I thought you walked over,” Charlie said quickly. “I heard sounds outside and thought it might have been someone else. Catch a ride home?”

            Nelson said, “You weren’t by any chance in Military Intelligence, were you?”

            “Artillery,” Charlie said. “They don’t let Officer Candidate School chaps from a small college into MI.”

            “So now you know my secret. I have a personal taxi service so I don’t risk a WWI.”

            “A what?”

            “Walking while intoxicated.” Nelson walked to the refrigerator and retrieved a beer. He waved it at Charlie. “Want something stronger.”

            “Teetotaler, “Charlie said. “This is fine.”

            “A homeless vet who doesn’t drink,” Nelson said. “Don’t you risk being persecuted by ‘Stereotypers Anonymous?’”

            “I’ll risk it,” Charlie said. “I promised my mom after she had come get me out of jail the last time I imbibed.”

            “So how did you spend your evening?”

            “Trying out the new clothes and neat things you bought me.”

            “Everything fit?”

            “It will as soon as I regain my health,” he stopped. Raising his drink in mock salute, he said, “Thanks man.”

            “Forget it,” Nelson said. “Sit.” He motioned toward the couch.

            The two sat in silence for a few moments. Then Nelson broke it. “So tell me how it came to be that your wife controls your disability checks.”

            “Guile, guys, and government,” Charlie said. “She is one crafty bitch.”

            “And?”

Charlie waved his soft drink, “The government puts a lot of credence into sob stories from spouses of vets. You can imagine.”

            “I can,” Nelson said. “Go on.”

            “She has this new guy, a big bad son of a bitch that also protects her interests. I have the cracked ribs to prove it.”

            “So the result is?”

            “The result is that the checks are deposited into some bank that I know nothing about. She has the only access, and the government has been damned slow about helping me with it.”

            “I see,” Nelson said. “Is that it?”

            “Isn’t that enough?”

            “I think we can fix that.”

            Charlie regarded him with suspicion. “You some kind of ‘fixer’ or something? What exactly are you?”

            “Tonight someone called me an ‘asshole’ and I suppose I am—just a tired asshole that wants to go to college and relax for the first extended time in forever.”

            “I suppose people like me keep interrupting it.” Charlie lowered his eyes.

            “And Abbey Stubblefield.”

            “Who?”

            Nelson told him the entire story, at least as far as he knew the facts. Charlie listened intently, nodding his head and smiling as Nelson related the incident with the cook at the diner. Nelson did omit most of the part concerning Special Agent Benson, simply saying that a friend “in the know” had told him that the Connorville Police was questioning his department’s responsibility since it was obviously a Little Rock matter.

            Charlie interrupted at this point. “Sort of a case where we can’t have a black killing in our city ‘cause we don’t allow no blacks in our city,” he said.

            “I don’t think he phrased it quite that way,” Nelson said, “but yes … that must have been the general gist of it.”

            “So the poor girl’s body ‘lies a-molding in the grave,’ and nobody gives a shit,” Charlie said.

            “Her friend and schoolmate Martin Barker does,” Nelson said. “And her parents do. And I do. Now, maybe you do too.”

            “I think I do,” Charlie said, “and that makes five more than would have given a shit about me if those two thugs had killed me instead of just slugging me and taking my jacket.” He stared into space. “That’s assuming you would have.”

            “I would have,” Nelson said. “Now, are you in this with me?”

            “How could I not be,” Charlie said. “But how can a shot-up artillery officer, who can’t even buy his own clothes, help?”

            “I don’t think you have to pay for brains,” Nelson said, “and there have been times when I thought pretty highly of the ‘smarts’ that you cannon-shooters have.”

            “Just give me some coordinates,” Charley said. “Tell me the target.”

            “Zero in on Connorville,” Nelson said. “This friend of yours there, would he help us?”

            “He hates being there like drunk hates a dry county,” Charlie said. “If it wasn’t for his business, he’d be gone tomorrow. As long as you don’t mention his name around town, I imagine he will tell you anything he knows.”

            “And you will call him tomorrow?”

            “As soon as I have made you breakfast.”

            “Maybe we can drive up and see him afterwards.”

            Charlie said, “I’m sure we can if he has time.”

            “Then we can see what he might tell us.”

            “We can,” Charlie said, “and assuming we learn something worthwhile, what do you say we do then?” He emphasized ever so slightly the word “we.”

            Nelson raised his drink in salute. “Then, I say we …,” also emphasizing the word, “fire for effect.”

           

           

Fiction Friday: Gideon Nelson goes to school.

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER NINE

Nelson rose early on Monday. Rain had moved in during the night and had turned into a light dusting of snow by morning. He completed his run before daylight and by ten he was motoring west on Interstate 630, headed for the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. Traffic was moving well in his direction although commuter traffic had stopped moving into the downtown area due to a traffic accident. He glanced at an open notebook and slowed as he neared the exit for Fair Park Boulevard.

Soon he was traveling south through a pleasant neighborhood of small houses and old-growth vegetation. The size and unique character of the homes hearkened to an era of varied taste but common aspirations. Most of the homes demonstrated care and love but some had taken on that look of indifference and neglect unique to long-rented properties. Nelson slowed to the stated speed limit as an anxious student crowded him in the belief he could cause Nelson to drive faster. He ignored the youth and enjoyed his drive.

He glanced at the notepad again before turning right then left, then right again into a parking deck on the edge of the campus. Easing upward, he entered the first available space and exited his truck, carrying the notepad with him. He glanced at a crude map he had drawn on the facing page, descended the stairs and entered the campus proper.

It was late morning by now and students scurried between the student union, library, and multi-story classroom buildings. Most talked or texted on cell phones. Had Nelson been dressed in a white robe with a halo shimmering above his head, he would have attracted little attention.

His map led him to a pleasant building of six stories. He took an elevator to the fifth floor, exited, and took a long hallway to a door entering a group of offices. Before he reached the entrance, Tina Barrow walked from an office behind a clearly agitated student. When the student turned to talk Tina interrupted her with, “I’m totally unconcerned what your excuse is and how badly you need to graduate this semester. So scoot.” The student glared at Nelson as she walked by and out of his vision.

Tina said, “Hello sailor. Can’t say I’m stalking you now since you drove all the way out here to see me.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Nelson said. “Am I early?”

“Right on time,” Tina said, “that’s ten minutes before our appointed moment.” She smiled. “Did you have a nice Saturday after our breakfast?” She was ushering him into her office as she spoke.

“I read all afternoon,” he said. “Guess you could say I had an attack of inertia.”

“Inertia is good for the digestion,” Tina said, motioning him toward a chair. “That’s why so many of the students here are overweight.”

Her office had its own door but was hardly more than a cubicle. Bookshelves lined with scholarly appearing volumes covered the entire wall behind her. A large laptop computer sat opened on her desk. She checked the screen and then closed it. “Sorry you had to see my bad side.”

“I guess students all have good excuses, right?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never listen to them.” She retrieved her purse from a desk drawer. “You ready to go see Dr. Bartholomew?”

Nelson cocked his head to one side in thought, then returned his attention to Tina. “Ready,” he said.

They left her building and started across the campus. Tina turned to him. “You didn’t go to the pub Saturday night.”

“No,” Nelson said. “as I said, I read. But you must have.”

 “Just for one beer.” She turned to him and smiled. “I wanted to see if I might catch you hitting on some sleazy woman.”

This time Nelson smiled. “So you are stalking me.”

“Can’t say yet,” she said. “Here we go.” She pointed to a gray, stark building dominating the center of the campus. The exterior of the building was exposed concrete, unfinished with the marks of plywood forms still visible. It would have looked more appropriate on a prison, rather than a college, campus. “Please pardon our greatest architectural shame,” she said. “Too ugly to stand, but too remarkable in its grandeur to tear down.” She led him into an elevator. “I’m sure it was designed to make a statement. I’m just not sure what the statement was.”

“At least you are person who has opinions,” Nelson said.

“Yes,” she said. “And be mindful of the fact that I may be forming one of you.”

Before he could respond, they reached their floor. The elevator door opened and she let Nelson up a ramp to the north side building and along an exterior walk. Reaching a door, she looked through its glass panel and tapped loudly. A student peered from an open door and Tina motioned for him to let them in. He hastened to them and obeyed.

They entered and proceeded along the corridor until they reached an office marked “Jackson Bartholomew,” PhD. Tina knocked. They heard a shuffling from inside and the door was opened by a tall African-American man wearing fitted white shirt, tie, dark trousers and off-white shoes. “Tina,” he said.

“Jackson, this is the prospective student I told you about.” She half-turned to Nelson. “Meet Gideon Nelson, naval hero.”

The man laughed and extended his hand. “Jackson Bartholomew,” he said. They shook. “Come in,” and he motioned the two of them into his office.

“Not me,” Tina said. ”I have errands. But,” she said, looking at Nelson, “I expect you to meet me in front of the Cooper Fountain at noon, sharp.”

“Noon sharp, aye,” Nelson said, making a mock salute.

“Good to see you Jackson,” she said. “Have anyone who needs an elective, you know where to send them.”

Bartholomew laughed, “The last one I sent wound up in ‘the hood’ taking a survey of housing occupancies.”

“He lived through it,” she said. “Remember what Nietzsche said.”

“I am sure the child feels all the stronger for it,” Bartholomew said. “Now begone with you ere you frighten this prospect away.”

“Somehow I don’t think he frightens easily,” she said. “But give it your best shot.” With that, she was gone.

Bartholomew moved behind his desk and motioned for Nelson to sit opposite him. “Tina tells me you are interested in attending our university.”

“Very much so.”

“Surely not English as a major.”

“Afraid so.”

Bartholomew took a deep breath. “So they are still being born, although not every minute as in the late Mr. Barnum’s time.”

“I suppose so,” Nelson said.

“Have you attended college before?”

“Some,” Nelson said. “I took some basic courses in English and literature at night at San Diego State while I was stationed at Coronado Island for a couple of years.”

“So why? Why English?”

Nelson shrugged. “I like to read,” he said. “Besides, I have nothing better to do.”

“Ah,” Bartholomew said. “You have passed the first test of entry.”

Nelson laughed. “Is there a second test?”

“Favorite author?”

“Probably Charles Dickens. I’m working my through his entire body of work.”

“Oh dear,” Bartholomew said, “I’m afraid you just passed the second test. Poetry?”

Nelson frowned. “I’m afraid I have a deaf ear mostly, except for a few poets like Dylan Thomas, T.S. Eliot, and … oh yes, Tennyson.”

Bartholomew nodded. “We can work with you on that. Congratulations, you have passed and gained provisional entry. Tina says you were a sailor of some sort—real ‘hush-hush’ type—according to her, so you are probably what I call a ‘romantic realist.’” He laughed.

Nelson said. “Why do you say that?”

“I heard of a fellow over in Armistead, a friend of my uncle, who was in the Navy. That’s how I describe him. He tends to dream, but keeps to realistic ones.”

Nelson leaned forward. “Wait,” he said. “You have an uncle in Armistead?”

“Uncle Millard,” Jackson Bartholomew said. “the family weirdo.”

“I know him,” Nelson said. “I spent some time in Armistead a year or so ago.”

This time it was Bartholomew who leaned forward. “Wait just a second,” he said. He looked Nelson over slowly. “You’re not that strange sailor from out of nowhere that unraveled the little murder thing for the locals, are you? Elvis Barker’s buddy?”

“I’m a friend of Elvis Barker’s,” Nelson said. “And I know your Uncle Millard. How is he?”

“Never better,” Bartholomew said. “He and the Judge are on a cruise now. The Caribbean will never be the same. In fact, I search the papers daily for a report of some major scandal.”

“He is still working for the Judge?”

“Oh no,” he said. “He’s a substitute teacher and the Judge’s adopted son, more or less. Claims he is writing a book, but I haven’t seen it.”

“Well gunnels awash,” Nelson said, almost to himself as he looked out the window.”

“What?”

Nelson snapped his head back to face Bartholomew. “Oh,” he said. “It’s a navy saying. I forgot where I was for a second.”

Bartholomew laughed. “So do you hear anything from Armistead County these days?”

“Matter of fact, I do. You know Elvis’ son Martin, I suppose?”

“The genius? I do.”

“Seems he has had a personal tragedy. A friend of his was murdered, a girl he refuses to call his girlfriend.”

“Abbey Stubblefield,” Bartholomew said.

“You know about her?’

Bartholomew looked toward the door and lowered his voice. “The entire African-American community of Arkansas knows about her. I actually met her once a year or so ago when Martin brought her to Armistead. A beautiful young woman. She would have broken more than one heart had she lived.”

Nelson nodded and said, “What do you know about the town of Connorville?”

“I know you don’t want to have anything to do with those folks.”

“That’s what I hear,” Nelson said. “I don’t suppose you’ve spent a lot of time there.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No,” Nelson said. “I’ve heard it has become, what do you call it … a sundown city?”

Bartholomew laughed. “Whatchew mean ‘has become?’”

“You mean it’s been that way?”

“Used to a joke of a place,” Bartholomew said. “At tops it was 1,500 population or so. That’s before folks realized that the schools were all white.”

“And then?”

“Whoosh,” Bartholomew said, making a gesture suggesting an eruption. “Know what my granddaddy told me once?”

“No, what?”

“His brother Fred had a mule he wanted to sell. ‘Old Slick’ was his name. A white man from Connorville came and bought him. Tied him behind a wagon and took him to Connorville.”

“And”

“Old Slick was back at Uncle Fred’s place before dark.”

“Really?”

“They always said that even colored mules wouldn’t stay in that town after the sun went down.” He laughed. Nelson joined him.

Then Bartholomew became serious. “More recently though,” he said. “They showed their asses big time.”

“How was that?”

“Remember when President Obama made the nationally televised address to the all the public schools in the country? The one that was piped into the classrooms?”

“I seem to remember that.”

“Guess what school system was the only one in the state, maybe the country for all I know, that refused to allow it shown?”

“I’m guessing Connorville’s.”

“You’re pretty sharp,” Bartholomew said. “I think you will do fine as a student.”

“Do you know anything else?” Nelson said.

“About Connorville? Or literature?”

“About Abbey Stubblefield and how she got killed.”

“Everything you have probably heard is bullshit,” Bartholomew said. “What do you want to know?”

Voices

Something wonderful happened to me yesterday, something that even the current president of United States of America, with all this money, can never experience. It made me smile, laugh, cry, and lean my head back in wonder, all in that order. I went to bed smiling.

It was Sunday afternoon as you know, I came in from a trip to the farm and sat down to rest. I checked messages on my cell phone. An odd one popped into view, having been forwarded from a number I hadn’t used in several years. Only a screen of sound waves offered a hint. I clicked on them.

A strong but unknown voice came from the phone, “Hi, my name is Carl Ferguson and, …”

Carl Ferguson? Oh goodness. It was a name I’ve thought of hundreds of times over the years. Those of you who’ve not served in uniform will never understand.

He’s a shipmate from a vessel long ago turned to scrap metal, from a time when I was young and had my whole life ahead of me. I hadn’t seen him since the day I left the USS Hunley, the ship we had manned together for almost two years.

Carl Ferguson? I remembered him as a smiling comrade with reddish hair and an outlook that told the world to look out, for he was coming. I can’t recall ever seeing him angry.

I had requested East Coast duty when leaving Vietnam and they, the Navy, had granted my wish. The Hunley was stationed five miles up the Cooper River from Charleston, South Carolina. By the time I’d finished my tour, I was coxswain of the Fleet Admiral’s Barge, and Ferguson was coxswain of the Captain’s Gig. We were the “elite” of the ship’s forces, answering only to the top brass. We spend our days on finger-piers tending our crafts, sneaking wine and beer aboard, and generally living it up as we waited for it all to end.

All I had to do was to, now and then, take the Admiral out to meet a sub coming in or take his wife and her friends out to see Fort Sumter. Ferguson had to motor up to the main base at Charleston and pick the Captain up each morning went the tide or weather wasn’t too rough. The rest of the time, we directed our crews and swapped lies.

Carl Ferguson? He was married and stayed “on the beach” when not called to duty. We shared many a time, including a storm at sea and the patrolling of a nuclear submarine run aground in Charleston Harbor. The Navy refused to find the incident funny at all. We found it a little amusing to see the “Bubbleheads” sweat anchor links. Before I gained the Admiral’s barge slot, Ferguson taught me to coxswain “Mike” boats, the kind they landed troops in at Normandy. We didn’t invade beaches with them, we hauled personnel and highly classified weapons.

You can make those Mike boats “walk” sideways and we spent many an hour seeing how small a berth we could move them into without a scrape. It was like being paid to become a kid again.

Although we didn’t know it at the time, it was the rip-roaringess, goddammest, no-sweat time of our lives. It would be the last time for me, and maybe for him, that we would get paid for fulfilling childhood fantasies. We just didn’t know it at the time. Here’s to the memories. That’s about all we have left now.

Carl Ferguson? Hell, it just don’t get any better than that. Here we were, young, dumb, and full of life. Here he is now, with his granddaughters.

Fiction Friday

Sundown in Zion

Chapter Five

Our hero just finished visiting with a young friend and reading a note from an old friend. It's early and adventure awaits.

After Nelson had cleaned the dining table, he picked a book from a box and sat down to read. He examined the title of the book and the inside cover. Then he turned to the first chapter. As he read, he began to smile. In the narrative, a young child was talking about his parents’ tombstone.

            Nelson read, “The shape of the letters on my father's, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, ‘Also Georgiana Wife of the Above,’ I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly.”

            Nelson lowered the book to his lap. “Also Georgiana, wife of the above,” he said aloud. He closed his eyes drew a deep breath. “Also Georgiana,” he repeated. He put the book aside and stood. He went to the front door and walked onto his porch. The night offered one of those mid-March evenings of balmy weather with a freshening breeze from the north-northwest. Nelson sat for a while in a porch-lounger and watched the street where the truck had parked earlier. Then he checked his watch. It was still early in the evening so he rose and went back into the house. He grabbed light jacket from a rack and secured the house. After checking both ways, he turned north toward Ninth Street, his hands stuck deep in his pockets and his jacket zipped against the night breeze.

            A few blocks from his home, Nelson entered a neighborhood micro-brewery. Although it was early, the place had started to fill. Nelson purchased a house special and took a seat at the last empty table, a small two-seater located in a quiet corner. He sipped his beer and watched the young and lively crowd.

            Nelson appeared deep in thought when a strong feminine voice from beside him intruded.

            “Join you?” it said. Nelson looked around. A tall woman, probably in her early-thirties stared down at him. She had dark auburn hair that fell softly to her shoulders and then curled upward. He skin was flawless and her dark eyes danced for him. She wore a long-sleeved sweater-top of a muted color with crocheted ruffles around the neckline and down the front. It emphasized generous breasts that seemed both proud and comfortable. A dark gray knit skirt extended to mid-thighs of long shapely legs. A small pendant hung from a thin gold chain around her neck. She placed a hand on a hip and smiled.

            “Don’t mean to be forward,” she said. “I’ve just been on my feet all day and I’m bushed.” She looked at the empty chair. “Are you expecting someone?”

            “No,” Nelson said, and he motioned for her to take the chair. She sat her beer on the table and slid into the empty chair, extending a hand. “Tina Barrow,” she said. “No relation to Clyde.”

            He shook her hand. “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “No relation to Baby Face.”

            They both laughed. Tina wrapped both hands around her beer and leaned forward. “Haven’t seen you here before.” She said it as a fact but apparently intended it as a question. She waited for an answer.

            “Just a couple of times,” Nelson said. He took a short drink from his mug.

            Tina said, “Nice place. It’s what passes for a neighborhood bar in Little Rock.

            He nodded. She leaned back and observed the room. “Mostly the young crowd,” she said. “I like it though. I meet some of my students here from time to time.”

            “You’re a teacher?”

            “Sociology,” she said. “UALR.”

            “The University of Arkansas at Little Rock,” he said.

            “That’s the one. You new around here?”

            “Been in the area for a year and a half or so. Just moved to the city.”

            She leaned back toward him. “Now you know what I do. Want to tell me what you do?”

            He smiled. “I recuperate,” he said.

            She looked for a smile but saw none, started to speak but stopped, then nodded. “Don’t we all.”

            They both settled back and regarded the crowd for a few minutes. A young couple entered the bar and the man spotted Tina and waved. She returned it and the two walked to where she sat.

            The man said, “Hey Dr. Barrow. Out slumming?”

            She smiled. “Keeping tabs, Mr. Osterman,” she said, “caring for your sheep is a Biblical injunction don’t you know?”

            “It’s Friday night,” the man said. “Students are allowed to howl on Friday night or life ain’t worth living.” The girl with him giggled.

            “Granted,” Tina said, raising her mug in mock salute. She waved it toward Nelson. “Meet Gideon Nelson, a recovering American.”

            The three shook hands all around the couple wandered toward the bar. Tina leaned in close to Nelson, and laughed. “Making students nervous and curious makes it all seem worthwhile. My life’s dream is to catch one doing something truly untoward and cause them to wet their pants.”

            Nelson laughed. Tina raised her mug in salute and he touched it with his. He said, “Here’s hoping you achieve all your dreams.”

            “Now that I’ve shared one,” she said, “do you have any? Secret dreams that is?”

            Nelson thought. “To tell you the truth, I would like to have a college degree someday. Fact is, I’m looking into your university to maybe take a course or two.”

            “Not sociology, I hope.”

            “You don’t like older students?”

            “I love them,” she said. “They actually want to learn.” She took a sip of beer. “But sociology, I’m afraid, isn’t all that valuable in the marketplace. Someone once described it the study of it as ‘an elephant giving birth to ant’ and I find it increasingly difficult to dispute that description.”

            Nelson eyed her carefully. “But,” he said, “you chose it.”

            “I was idealistic. It was the 1990s and things in America were good, probably for the last time. The field wasn’t crowded and besides, my husband was going to make loads of money and I wouldn’t have to worry about supporting myself.”

            Nelson said, “What does he do, your husband?”

            She drank and sat down the mug. She looked at Nelson as if to say something but changed her mind. She looked away and then back at him. “He currently occupies a small patch of ground in a large cemetery on the east side of town.” She sighed. “It’s marked by one of thousands of little white tombstones.”

            “Military.” He said.

            “He owed the army a tour for putting him through med school,” she said. “We had almost finished it stateside when that little prick of a president we had decided to invade Iraq.” She pointed to the diamond pendant on her chest. “This is all I have left of him. It’s from our first anniversary.”

            Nelson drew a deep breath then exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he said.

            “Oh don’t be,” she said. “After all, I will get to march in the ‘Widows of Freedom Fighters’ Parade, if they ever decide to have one.”

            Nelson didn’t react. He waited for her to continue.

            She smiled. “It’s been awhile,” she said. “It comes and goes now—the bitterness.”

            He nodded in a show of understanding.

            “You ever serve in the military?” she said.

            Nelson thought for a few seconds. He seemed to be considering alternate replies. Finally, he looked into her eyes and said, “That’s what I’m recuperating from.”

            She dropped her chin onto her chest. “You men.” She raised her gaze to his. “They say he would still be alive if he had minded his own business.”

            “I imagine they could say that about a lot of folks,” Nelson said.

            She brightened, “Hey,” she said, “I didn’t intrude on your privacy to bring in a black cloud. To freedom fighters.” She raised her mug again and clanked it against his.

            Nelson eased the conversation to a starboard tack. “Are you from around here?”

            “A little postcard of a town a few hours away. Ever heard of Eureka Springs?”

            He thought. “The tourist town?”

            “That’s the one. Ever been there?”

            “It’s on my ‘thinking about things to think about doing list,’” he said. “I have a couple of friends who I think would like it, from what I’ve heard.”

            “Well gather them up some weekend and I’ll take you on the grand tour.”

            “They live in Austin, Texas,” he said. “Maybe next time they are here.”

            “Maybe so.” Now it was her time to change the tack. “Do you like it here? In Little Rock, I mean.”

            “I’m beginning to,” he said. She smiled. He smiled in return. “Let me ask you something,” he said.

            “Maybe a bit soon for my phone number,” she said, “how about my email address?”

            He laughed. “More of an information-seeking question,” he said. “Are you familiar with this place called Connorville?”

            “Connerville?” she said in surprise. “The town up north of here?”

            “That’s the one.”

            “Don’t be going up there,” she said.

            “Why?”

            “Bad actors,” she said. “Are you familiar with the Latin term ‘anus mundi’ by any chance?”

            He thought and the thought produced a smile. “I think so.”

            “That’s the place. It is a throwback to what folks in our state used to call a ‘sundown town’ and those who live there now couldn’t be prouder of the title.”

            “Sundown town,” he said. “What is that?”

            She looked at him closely. “You really don’t know?”

            “I don’t.”

            “Where are you from?”

            “The northwest.”

            She drained her mug and started to rise. “Can I buy you a beer?”

            “Let me buy you one,” he said. “Payment for information about to be received.”

            “Hey,” she said, handing him the mug, “a girl’s gotta live.”

            When he became obscured by the crowd at the bar. She reached for her purse, opened it, and withdrew a small compact. Opening it, she regarded herself in the mirror. She straightened a strand of hair, and smoothed the makeup under her eyes. The she pursed he lips twice and slid the upper one against the other. Leaning back, she regarded herself again before placing the compact back in the purse and lowering it to the floor. When he returned with fresh beers, she took hers and smiled at him with a kind expression. “Merci,” she said.

            “Now,” he said, “tell me what a ‘sundown town’ is.”

Home Again

I may have posted this before, but it's my favorite. Not fiction as much as autobiography with garnish.

Home

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            Love Field, in Dallas, Texas was a lonely place at four o’clock in the morning but the man didn’t mind. He was home, or at least close to home. The terminal was nearly deserted when he awoke. The ticket counters had closed and only a few passengers, stranded as was he, waited for some flight at some time to take them somewhere to do something. He straightened the white Navy hat on his head and looked around. Most in the area were dozing. A mother held a baby to her chest and rocked softly, humming. A young couple leaned against one another and slept, holding hands. A bearded man studied a paperback book. “Just waiting,” the man thought, “waiting for something.”

            He smiled. He was the lucky one. He reached down pulled his sea bag closer, and then leaned back to continue his wait. The terminal gave forth a soft hum that seemed to sing peace. He was safe and it felt good.

            His wait had begun ten hours sooner. On deplaning from his flight into Dallas, he learned that service to his home state was sporadic, that the next flight with available seats wouldn’t leave for 24 hours. “No,” the agent had said, “you can’t check your bag now.” He’d have to wait, she had told him, until later to see how full the flight would be with regular passengers before they could gauge his chances of flying standby. No problem, he would wait and purchase a ticket later. Waiting was easy. He had made a career of it for the last 12 months. He could wait another day, or more if need be.

            Then, from a pay phone, he had called home with the news. Disappointment sounded in his mother’s voice but only slightly. Nothing could spoil her joy at hearing his voice at a place so nearly home. Then she had devised a plan. “Your brother is off work for a long weekend. What if we drove to Dallas and picked you up? We could have you home before that flight got here, and that’s if you even got a seat.”

            “That’s a lot of driving,” he said.

            “Son,” she said, “don’t you remember that morning you left?”

            “Yes,” he said. “I remember it well.”

            “Well then know that ever day since then, any time I heard the telephone ring I just drawed up in a knot. I thought December of 1968 wouldn’t never get here. It has, and ridin’ that far in a car to get my boy don’t mean shit to me.”

            He laughed. “You haven’t changed,” he said.

            “No,” she said. I ain’t changed and I hope you ain’t either.”

            “I haven’t,” he said. “Just don’t make me stand in line for a meal when I get home. Promise?”

            “I promise. Now you call back in 30 minutes and I’ll tell you if we worked it out and when we might get there. Then all you have to do is wait. Okay?”

            “Okay,” he said, and so he waited. Half an hour later, he made the second call. The deal was on. They discussed directions and estimated times. Then he returned the phone to its holder and returned to his seat.

Night came and the terminal emptied. He read a book had chosen from a bookstore in the California terminal with the odd-sounding title, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, written by a man named Thomas Wolfe. It kept him amused until sleep intervened. He slept until an unpleasant dream awakened him. “No,” he said to himself. “you’re back now.” Awake, he began to read it again.

            He had seen the sun rise so many times during the last year that, even with the difference in time zones, he sensed its arrival. With it, the sounds of the terminal increased and the temperature rose as mechanical systems awoke and lumbered into action. He removed his heavy pea coat and laid it lengthwise on his sea bag. The terminal began to fill with people and the ticket counters opened one by one. The man creased the edge of a page and placed his book on his lap, taking a deep breath and exhaling. It had been more than two days now, including the trans-Pacific flight, but he still wasn’t used to a smell that wasn’t Vietnam. He was watching the bustle of the terminal when a voice to his right said, “Mind if I join you?”

            A man past middle age, with graying hair, said, “Name’s Bottoms, Seabees, World War Two. Always enjoy talking to a fellow swabbie.” He extended a hand.

            The other shook it. “Hinson,” he said. “Tim Hinson. Have a seat.”

            Bottoms was wearing a camelhair overcoat, which, when removed, revealed a well-tailored blue suit with vest and school tie. He draped the overcoat over a seat, placed a briefcase on it, and sat beside Hinson. “Trying to get to a meeting in San Antonio,” he said. “They say someday there will be more than one flight a day headed there.”

            Hinson nodded. “I’m trying to get home to Arkansas. Maybe they’ll have more than one flight every two days there by that time.”

            Bottoms laughed. “Maybe,” he said. “I see those ribbons. Guess you’ve been overseas. My neighbor’s son came back from his tour in Vietnam wearing some of the same ones. You have an extra one, though.” He pointed at a fourth ribbon.

            “It’s a unit citation,” he said. “For the Naval Support Activity.”

            “Did you support?”

            “I guarded those who supported,” Hinson said. “Naval security.”

            “What rating is that?”

            “No rating, just something they thought up and made me do for a year.”

            “The Navy can think up stuff,” can’t it?”

            “They can indeed,” Hinson said. “You said Seabees. Were you in construction before the war?”

            “Hell no,” Bottoms said. “I was a newspaper man. But I was too old for the other services. The Seabees took older men so that’s where a bunch of us ended up.”

            “Where did you serve?”

            “In the South Pacific,” Bottoms said. “So many little islands I can’t remember the name of them. How about you?”

            “Da Nang,” Hinson said, “in the I-Corps area.”

            “We never made it that far,” Bottoms said. “We were rebuilding at Okinawa when they dropped the bombs. It wasn’t long after that our outfit started shipping out for home.”

            “Bet those were happy days.”

            “Mostly,” Bottoms said, “except for one awful thing.”

            Hinson didn’t respond. Bottoms, however, wanted to continue. “They used to drink something called “torpedo juice,” he said. “The guys off the submarines made it from stuff they packed torpedoes in. It was the only way to get drunk on those islands sometimes.”

            Hinson listened. Bottoms stopped, composed himself, and continued. “We had this guy in our unit named Carl Luchenstein, a husband and father, who never drank nor smoked, just did his job and sent his pay home to his family. On the night after Japan signed the surrender papers, he agreed to take one drink to celebrate the end of the war.” He stopped.

            Hinson said nothing, simply waited for the unfolding. Bottoms continued. “Turns out that toward the end of the war, they changed the ingredients, and the torpedo juice came to be poisonous. Some say they did it on purpose, so it would make the sailors who drank it get sick—so the practice would stop.”

            “So this man got sick?”

            “No,” Bottoms said. “He was a small man and wasn’t used to alcohol in any form. Carl died, some 12 hours after the war ended.”

            Neither man spoke for a time. Then Bottoms brightened. “Hey,” he said, “I didn’t come over to bring you down. Let me tell you about one of the good times.”

            Hinson nodded, and Bottoms said, “We came back on a Cruiser and docked in San Francisco. Know what the folks there did? We all went out on deck coming through The Golden Gate, and over on the hills in Marin County, they had hauled big rocks in and painted them white. They spelled out ‘Welcome Home Boys’ in huge white letters. Sure made us feel good.”

            Bottoms immediately caught himself when Hinson lowered his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “They don’t do that for you guys, do they?”

            “No sir, they don’t,” Hinson said.

            “Was there any welcome home for you?”

            ‘No sir,” Hinson said. “There are war protestors that routinely meet the planes coming in from Vietnam, and they don’t want any ruckuses. They briefed us on how to get by them without incident.”

            Bottoms didn’t respond for a moment, the said, “Shitty deal, if you ask me.” The two sat in silence. Finally Bottoms spoke, “It’s a different world now.” He looked at his watch and said, “Hey, got to go. I think they’ve opened my ticket window. Godspeed.” He rose, shook Hinson’s hand again, picked up his overcoat and briefcase, and walked away.

            Hinson stared at his hands for a moment, and picked up his book. He had started to open it when a loud crash and commotion caught his attention. Across the terminal from where Hinson sat, a businessman’s briefcase flew across the terminal floor, scattering pages in all directions. He had collided with a runner who slammed into another man who then stumbled into a companion. People began to jump aside to avoid the runner. Hinson stared.

            The source of the disturbance was a small woman no more than five feet tall and weighing probably less than a hundred pounds. She wore a white blouse with a red scarf flowing behind it. A blue skirt rode up to reveal thin legs that seemed to churn like pistons. A loud shriek pierced the air as all eyes in the terminal turned toward her. Hinson broke into a smile. It was his mother. He stood and faced her.

            When she was three feet away, she leaped. He almost lost his balance as she slammed into him and draped her arms and legs around his body. “Son, son, son,” she cried. For nearly a moment, neither moved. Then she slowly slid from him and stood on solid ground. Tears had smeared makeup and her glasses had fogged. “Oh lord,” was all she said.

At that moment, a slight young man in his early twenties walked up. He looked Hinson over. “Hey brother,” he said. They shook hands.

From far away, in the corner of the terminal, a person began to clap, a sharp and lonely sound in the huge area. It was Bottoms. A person not far away joined, then another, and another. The entire terminal exploded with applause. It lasted several minutes filling the building and spreading beyond its walls into the morning. His mother turned and acknowledged the crowd. Hinson smiled and nodded. His brother studied the floor until the noise subsided and people returned to their own business.

She held his hand with one of hers and wiped away tears with the other. They looked at one another without speaking. He raised an arm and wiped each side of her face with a sleeve of his blouse. “You look great,” he said.

She smiled, raised her eyes to his, and found her voice. “Let’s go home, son,” she said.

Not the real scene, but close, very close.