DEACON WELLS Part
I
“The
Undenied”
A
Novel By Quinn Heder
Prologue
Cole Lambert waited on trembling knees,
watching the soot colored
Ozark dust list stubbornly in the stale
midday air. Somewhere beyond the
trailing cloud, his hatchet, the thing he prized most in the whole world was
racing away, buried in the leg of the man responsible for the grizzled scene
stretched out in front of him. Thirty
paces away, his mother, Rose Marie Lambert, frantically worried over his beaten
father, trying desperately to clear the bloody mud caked in his battered nose
and mouth.
“Cole!” she
pleaded, “…please! …I need your help!” To
Cole, the sound of her voice was little more than a distant rumbling, and
turning away oblivious to her desperate cries, he walked slowly over to the
crumpled form lying nearby. The
continuing cries of his mother made hollow echos in his windswept mind, howling
near and then far away again as the truth began to register. In black mud made from his own blood, the man
he had killed only moments earlier, lay lifeless his open eyes still glazed in death’s
surprise.
Suddenly reality’s
unmaskable details so graphically displayed before him became too much, and not
even shock could stem its stifling gravity.
He had killed a man, a sin which according to the good book would surely
damn his soul. Fighting a cocktail of
emotions no fourteen year old could possibly overcome, his youthful mind
ravaged by confusion finally closed the
windows to his soul, letting unconsciousness provide blessed salvation from a
world too dark to go on living in.
“I wanna go home Ma,” he later cried
repeatedly, when consciousness finally returned and the grim realization that
he was still alive became too much to bear, “…let me go back to Uncle Deak,
…please Ma? Everything’d be better if
only he was here.”
“Your father
needs us here sweetheart,” she pleaded, torn between her love for her son and
loyalty to her well meaning, yet fragile husband, …he’s really bad off.”
“He ain’t my
father Ma! …he ain’t never been, not really.
Can we go back please, …I don’t wanna be here no more.”
“Shhh Cole,
…please don’t speak that way, he is your father! …and I insist you give him a
chance.” Defiantly, Cole shook his
head.
“No Ma,
…Uncle Deak’s my real pa, ‘n I wanna go back to livin’ the way we used to, …back
with Grama ‘n Grampa. You heard that man,
…he’s comin’ back’n we gotta leave!”
Chapter One
“Orphaned”
“Stop! Stawwwwp Daddy please?” little Deacon
squealed, his five year old body contorting in spastic movements trying to
evade his father’s long probing fingers, “…I’m gonna die!” Again he squealed in tortured delight, his
high pitched voice filling the small, one room apartment deep in the heart of
the Buffalo New York. Sundays were always
the best days for Deacon and his sister Rose Marie, filled with fun and family
closeness, despite the glaring absence of life’s finer things. To Ira and Hanna Wells’ two children, money
and things, or the lack there of, never even entered their eager minds. There was nothing lacking in life as long as
their father was home to greet them when they woke each Saturday morning.
“Ira honey,”
Hanna coaxed, “…don’t you think it’s time to let the children be and come to
bed?”
“Ah Ma!”
Deacon protested, “…please don’t make’im come home, we planned a sleep
over!” Hanna shook her cocked head,
meeting the pleading, almost desperate look on her five year old’s face with a
war face of her own, and for a long moment, a fierce standoff ensued. Ira sat frozen with mounting anticipation between
his children, while on the opposite wall, in a larger bed of blankets, his wife
of eight years kneeled stubbornly, her determined eyes fixed and
unblinking. It was moments like these
that made his long trek home at the end of each week worth every step. Never a matter of if, mother and son would
wage their weekly stare down, the question was when, and once it began, it
nearly always ended up the highlight of his weekend. Deacon usually won, but this particular
battle would determine whether or not Hanna would spend the night wrapped in the
arms of her husband, and she was more determined than ever to win. With only a few feet of bare floor between
them, Deacon and his mother set their expressions, waiting for the moment when
the other would break. Hanna was a
strong woman, and far from a rookie when it came to a battle of wills, but as
the minutes wore on, she found she was no match for her little boy’s large,
watering, and oh so desperate eyes.
Summoning real tears to compliment his convincing expression, he somehow
held out allowing his lower lids to well just at the edge of bursting and then
he let them slowly blink, squeezing bucket size tears onto his perfect cheeks.
“Oh come
on!” his mother exclaimed, “…you can’t do that, it’s not fair!” With happy tears running down his face,
Deacon shot his father and sister a satisfied look and crawled over to kiss his
defeated mother goodnight.
“You wanna
sleep over too Ma?” he asked, “…just bring your blanky, we got room.” Taking up a blanket, Hanna let him lead her
the few steps across the room where he showed her to the outside edge just
beside him.
“Here Ma,
you can have this spot,” he said, patting the bare wooden floor with his little
hand.”
Ira smiled
at his wife, and grinning wide, kissed her before laying down in his usual
spot, sandwiched between the two children.
“Some day
you’re going to have to come home to our place to sleep, you know,” she said
coyly, batting her eyes and looking as alluring as she could manage in her full
length cotton night gown, “…unless you’re happy not having me as a bed
companion any longer.” Ira rolled his
eyes and countered…,
“Like you’ve
ever been able resist me.”
The next
morning, like every Monday morning, Ira Wells was clearing the outskirts of
Buffalo by the time Deacon and Rose Marie opened their sleepy eyes to greet a
new week. Although miles from home,
having left before midnight, he was just nearing the halfway mark of his walk
into the rolling hills of upstate New York by the time the stars began to fade
in the twilight sky. Mr. Cordell would
be anxious to be returning home, after spending a week in the hospital, but he
found himself hoping the crotchety old man was somehow not well enough to
travel. It wasn’t that he really
disliked his wealthy benefactor, but after spending the previous week without the
aging miser looking over his shoulder, he couldn’t help wanting a few more days
enjoying the tranquility of his beautiful work place alone. For the past nine years, he had walked to and
from the sprawling Cordell Estate, where he worked himself to the bone trying
to satisfy his eccentric employer. Not a
day went by that he didn’t secretly pray for the day when God would let him
pursue his first choice in professions, …that of a preacher. Oh how he wished for his own church, a
friendly and willing congregation, and all the time in the world to devote to ministering,
but the chilled breeze blowing in from the north served as a stark reminder
that for the time being, it was only a pipe dream, and his business lay another
twelve miles ahead.
To Ira Wells,
this morning felt like nearly every other Monday he could remember, the sweet
taste of Hanna’s lips still on his, and the scent of Deacon and Rose Marie
lingering on his senses as he walked steadily on, but he couldn’t know the
tangled wiles that a few hours later would change the lives of he and his
family forever.
The
following Saturday arrived right on time, but without the usual Wells reunion,
and when Ira failed to return after a second week to pay the rent, Hanna and
the children were put out in the street.
“But why
can’t the man just wait for Daddy?” Deacon protested, his searching eyes probing
his mother’s weary face. Noting the
exasperated look in her eyes, Rose Marie, a few weeks beyond her eighth
birthday, quickly took his hand and cheerfully whisked him a few doors down the
alley to where several of their friends were playing marbles on the hard dirt.
“Momma needs
to think right now Deacon,” she explained, “…lets see if Toby will let us in
the game.”
“Wull how
long’s she gunna be thinkin’?”
“For a
little while is all, but don’t worry, she’ll call when she’s finished.”
The Wells children played for nearly two
hours with the other alley kids, before Hanna called for them.
“Children,
…we’re going on an adventure!” she announced, looking as convincingly cheerful
as her downtrodden spirit would allow, “…Papa will return soon I’m sure, and
when he does, he’ll have money so we can go home again, but until then, we’re
going to be staying in a shanty!”
A shanty?
…what’s that?” Deacon immediately questioned.
“It’s a hut
darling, like the ones you and Rose Marie build out of crates and blankets,
…only bigger!” Beaming with excitement,
Deacon clapped his little hands, jumping up and down on his toes and yelling at
the top of his lungs,
“Hey
everybody, …I get to live in a shanty! I
get to live in a shanty!” Pulling him
tight to her, Hanna picked up her innocent child and held him close so he
couldn’t see her tears as she carried the several city blocks to a narrow alley
squeezed between two rows of towering buildings.
“This is our
shanty,” she announced as she let Deacon slide to the ground.
“Marie!” he
squealed, darting under the leaning tin roof supported by thin wooden panels on
three sides, “…can you believe it, we got our very own shanty!
Do we really getta live her Mamma?
…sleep’n, eat’n, an’ everything?”
“Yes
darling, really do,” she sighed, eyeing the heaping pile of garbage and debris
mounded up against the tall wall at the alley’s end less than a stone’s throw
away. Large rats scurried in and out, busily
searching for food.
“I’ll be
fine as long as I don’t have to feed the children one of those,” she thought,
shivering with disgust, all the while knowing deep inside that if Ira didn’t
return soon, …eating such things, and worse, would likely become a reality.
Months
passed, as did the changing of seasons, yet no word from Ira Wells ever reached
the small shanty. Hanna visited the
owner of their old apartment frequently, to see if word of his welfare or
whereabouts had arrived, but it was always the same. Then one day, as she opened the door to enter
the tiny clerk’s office, she ran smack into a large man in a pin stripped suit.
“Mrs. Wells!”
the man behind the tiny desk said, “…what good fortune you are here! These men were just asking about you and the
children, …they have news of your husband.”
Hanna searched the eyes of the
two men before her as the one she had collided with extended his hand.
“I’m Danial
Nulac Mrs. Wells,” he greeted. He was
smooth, yet in the farthest back sounds of his voice was a hint of unsettled
hollowness. Hanna took his hand, but
only for a brief moment before an inexplicable impulse compelled her to retract
it.
“What do you
know about my husband gentlemen?”
“We do have
news,” Nulac returned, “however, I would feel more comfortable if you would
accompany us to a place more suitable for our business. Allow me Ma’am,” he said, reaching beyond her
to swing the door open in front of her, “…I have an associate just a few blocks
away that will lend us the use of his office if you’ll accompany us there.”
“You said
you have news Mr. Nulac, …yet you insist on referring to it as some sort of
business.”
“Oh how
clumsy of me,” Nulac apologized, “…I am an attourney representing the dispersal
of Mr. Cordell, your husband’s late employer’s’ estate.”
“Pardon me
Mr. Nulac, …did you say late employer?
But Ira’s been gone for six months!”
“Yes Ma’am,
…and that is why we are here to see you.
You are interested in claiming what Mr. Cordell left you and the
children, …aren’t you? I would think
finding a way to better care for your little ones would be the most important
thing on your mind.” Hanna nodded, and gestured
that he lead on, however when he took her into a filthy warehouse, she felt
suddenly ill.
“Is this
your friend’s office?” she asked skeptically.
“Well Ma’am,
…in truth, I don’t have any associates in Buffalo, I just need to get you to a
place where we could talk privately.”
Turning abruptly, Hanna started back out into the street, but before she
could clear the door, a large hand caught her wrist, yanking her back inside.”
“Un hand me
you brute, or I’ll…”
“Or you’ll
what?” Nulac laughed. He stood several
paces farther into the spacious room, while his partner, confident he could
control her with just his grip, carelessly attempted to pull her by him. No stranger to rough men, having grown up an only
child in a man’s world, Hanna had, more than a few times taken it upon herself
to teach one bully or another a lesson in manners. Drawing even with her captor, she brought her
pointed shoe up hard, burying the toe deep in his groin. The result was predictable, and while he
doubled over in pain, she made her escape.
Nulac tried to follow, but quickly found himself no match for her foot
speed and gave up, shouting after her with a profanity laced tirade, including
threats and cursings that didn’t end until well after he had reentered the
warehouse .
With her back to the tattered canvas door of their
tiny shanty home, Hanna Wells listened with worry to the dismal sounds of the
blustering winter storm. Deacon lay
sandwiched between she and Rose Marie, tucked up inside her heavy wool dress for
warmth, with his head nestled just beneath her chin. For two weeks straight, the night time
temperatures had continued to dip so low that she feared they would freeze in
their sleep. Like the swirling wind,
heavy emotions came and went in her mind, worry being the most prevalent, for
her husband along with longing thoughts of the last night spent with him, sharing
a bed with the children. How she longed
to have things as they once were. Nearly
a year had passed and all the dreaded possibilities she had once feared most,
were now her everyday life, from scavenging through garbage, to eating mice and
rats in order to survive.
“How much more?” she asked softly, letting her words
trail away on the howling wind.
Swallowing, she winced at the sharp tearing sensation that along with a worsening
cough, had been weighing heavily on her troubled mind since waking after the
first cold night. What would become of her children if she was no longer able to take
care of them? In recent days, three
other of their alley neighbors had succumbed to the elements and been carted
away by the grim looking men who’s job it was to collect the dead bodies of
those who fell prey to the bitter cold. Would she be next? With that thought in her mind, she braced
against the rising cough, unable to squelch it any longer, and silently
screamed as her head, throat and chest became racked with unbearable pain. For hours she lay tormented, in both spirit
and body until finally, the winds ebbed to a frigid stillness, and she
reluctantly gave in to her exhausted eyes.
“Mommy mommy!” five year old Deacon burst out early
the next morning, when with his cheek frozen to his mothers frigid breast, he
woke from troubled sleep. Forgetting he
was trapped inside her dress, he writhed about wildly, startling Rose Marie,
who at the sight of her mother’s ice masked face, grabbed her little brother’s
feet and pulled him kicking and screaming out into the frosty air.
“No Marie!” he screamed in heart wrenching protest. Tearing free he rushed back into the shanty
and began shaking Hanna’s lifeless form,
“…Come on Marie? …we gotta wake her up!”
Ducking beneath the low hanging roof, Rose Marie caught his arm, and again
began to pull, but Deacon had his fingers so tightly clamped onto the tattered
dress that by the time she managed to pry them off, her own fingernails were
separated and bleeding.
“We can't Deacon!” she pleaded, her whole body shaking
as she sobbed right along with him, “…Mama’s gone, and we can’t bring her
back!”
“No she ain’t Marie, …she’s right there! All’s we gotta do is wake’r up!”
Once away from the shanty, Rose Marie tried over and
over to reach his five year old understanding, but death was just too much for
him to comprehend. Consequently, he
continued to fight, surrendering only after all of his strength gave out and he fell asleep.
All through the
day and night that followed, Rose Marie held her little brother, while together
they kept watch from beneath a nearby pile of rubble, finally, the men in gray
jumpsuits came and Hanna’s body was tossed into a cart heaped with other frozen
bodies, and carried it away.
Night after night, the two children struggled to keep
from freezing in their, scanty, motherless shelter. Weeks passed with nothing on their minds but food
and warmth, yet only a few city blocks away, holiday sights and sounds abounded
nearly everywhere. But those things
weren’t meant for them, …no, they, nor any other of the City’s retched
refuse.
Rose
Marie shook her head sadly, and guided Deacon away from the
jubilant sounds, silently apologizing to her mother
with each retreating step. She had tried
begging, but people were cruel, and her several attempts had yielded nothing
but abuse. Looking down at her sniffling
little brother, she instinctively slapped the finger just leaving his nose away
before it reached his mouth.
“Deacon!” she scolded, “…what have I told you at least a
million
times?” Jerking
free of her, he ran several steps away, all the while making
sure that every bit of disgusting slime on his finger
was gone before she could catch up.
“That’s
so disgusting,” she muttered, shaking her head, her face drawn and serious,
“…Mama would be fit to be tied!”
“I’m
hungry Marie, …an’ besides, I like em’.”
“It’s not right,” Rose Marie sighed, trudging over to
where he waited, “…nobody should ever be so hungry.” Putting her arm around him, she pulled him to
her and together they walked on in search of something to eat.
“…they’re sugary you know,” Deacon said out of the blue.
“Eeuuugh…” she returned, stopping to glare
incredulously into his large, innocent eyes, “…you couldn’t have just said
that!”
“I shore’nuff did, an’ I meant it, …boogers’re
better’n a lot’a stuff we eat, an’ I always got some. Seems almighty wrong to waist em’.” Rose Marie was speechless, her face white
with disbelief, and all she could do was shake her head.
“Y’ aughta try em’, ya know?” he added a few seconds
later, unable to rid his thoughts of the unsavory subject, “…I know you got em’
too.” Rose Marie’s jaw dropped, and
without a word turned away and quickly walked ahead, leaving him running to
catch up and looking lost and confused.
“Marie? …wait up!” he called, but even when he caught
her, she continued on in silence, skipping the usual route and turning
immediately in the direction of their alley home.
“What’s the matter Marie?” he pleaded, “…come on, don’t
be sore bout my booger eatin’, …you ain’t gotta try em’ if ya don’t wanna!” Still, …the blank stare on his sister’s face
remained unchanged and she said nothing until well after dark when they were huddled
together in their shanty.
“They’re not sugary…”
“What?” Deacon asked confused as he woke from his half
sleep.
“Boogers, …they’re salty, not sugary.” Deacon scrambled bleary eyed up from her lap
to face her, but in the dark only the outline of her head was visible, keeping
him from seeing her smile, but he was sure it was there all the same.
“Wait,” he said coyly, “…how do you know?”
“Never mind,” she replied, “…come on, let’s go find
something to eat before I get so hungry I, …well never mind, come on, let’s go.”
During daylight hours, it was the rats scurrying about
the refuse pile that were the object of the Wells Children’s attention, but
when night came, they took to the streets for the chance of finding food scraps
discarded in trash cans behind restaurant kitchens. Late one afternoon after leaving the shanty,
they hadn’t gone far before Rose Marie drew up sharply pulling Deacon quickly
over against the rough brick and mortar wall rising up above them.
“What?” Deacon protested loudly, but slapping her hand
over his mouth, Rose Marie stifled any further outburst, glaring sternly into
his surprised eyes.
“It’s them, shhhh!” Rose Marie warned, making sure he
would stay, mum before removing her hand, “…it’s the men Mamma warned us about!” A couple hundred feet down the alley, two men
in official looking suits and hats, had a their friend Toby pressed into a
corner less than fifty feet from the one room apartment that had once been
their home.
“What do they want Marie?” Deacon whispered, peaking
around the folds of her skirt.”
“I don’t know, but they’re bad, and we can’t let them
see us! Come on, let’s go the other
way.” Slowly, they backed away, hugging
the rough wall until reaching the corner.
After running several city blocks, fate kindly offered their most
bounteous meal in days, by way of table scraps thrown into the alley from the
back entry of a Restaurant.
“Marie, …Marie,” Deacon’s little voice whimpered, as
he squirmed and rooted about trying to force himself between his nine year old
sister’s frightfully thin body and the ground, “…I’m cold Marie, …too
cold.”
“Here,” she sighed sleepily, “…do you want to crawl up
inside my dress like you used to with Ma.”
“Eeuuugh, that’d be sick! …you’re a girl, I could
never do that!” Fully aware that it was
no joking matter, Rose Marie resisted the urge to tease, and immediately tried
another, less offensive approach.
“I’m not really a girl, …I’m your sister, and that’s
just like a mommy.”
“No,” he objected, “…mommies got soft bodies, and
pillows. You ain’t got neither. ”
“I’m only boney because we haven’t had enough to eat,
…and I’m too young to have pillows like Mamma.
If you don’t believe me, …well then I guess you’ll have to just do with
being cold.” For several minutes, Deacon
shivered, trying his best not to utter any further complaint, but when he
couldn’t take it any longer, he whimpered,
“You sure you ain’t no girl Marie?”
“Not to you Deacon, ...when it’s cold, you can just
pretend I’m a blanket with arms, Ok?”
“Ok,” he replied, rooting down until he could slide up
inside her thick, wool dress. Finally,
after much wiggling, he felt her chin against the top of his head, and settled
in, soaking up the warmth of her chest on his cold cheeks.
“Oh!” she gasped, stiffening as his ice sickle like
fingers touched her stomach, “ …oh my gosh Deacon!”
“What?” he began to cry, mistaking her shock for
anger, “…I’m sorry, …wha’d I do Marie?”
“No no, come here, …it’s Ok,” she soothed, ignoring
the shooting cold pains coursing through her entire body, “…you didn’t do
anything, I just didn’t expect your fingers to be that cold, is all, but they
don’t feel cold to me anymore, so you just rest easy, …and go to sleep.” She was lying, but that was nothing new to
her, …at least not since the death of their mother. There were a lot of things about their
station in life that needed embellishing in order to make sense to a heart broken,
six year old boy. She wondered about her
father, …where was he? Had he really done the unthinkable and…
“No!” she scolded herself angrily, “…he wouldn’t,
…couldn’t have done that.” But what was she supposed to tell
Deacon? What if their father had died somehow,
and never did come back like she’d been promising him?
Although to them it seemed like winter would last
forever, warm days of spring finally did bring relief to the Wells children,
followed quickly by the sweltering heat of summer, but just like that the
warmth seemed to vanish. All of six
years old, and well on his way to seven, Deacon was growing out of his skin,
and with it came an appetite to match.
“We gotta find a better way to get food Marie,” he
muttered, as three mean looking boys made their way out of the darkness toward
them as they huddled eating scraps put out for the cats.
“You’re eatin’ our supper,” the larger of the
newcomers warned, his eyes leaping hungrily across the distance at the tantalizing
plate of dinner scraps.
“Nu, uh,” Deacon returned with attitude, “…I looked,
and there weren’t no name on it, so it’s ours.”
Stuffing a half eaten biscuit in his mouth, he stood up to face them.
“Come on Deacon,” Rose Marie warned, “…we’ll find more
somewhere else.”
“Nope, …ain’t no way we’re leavin’,” Deacon returned
stubbornly, “…they ain’t takin’ our food.”
“But there’s three of them! …you can’t possibly fight
them.”
“Don’t much care, …they ain’t takin’ what’s
ours.” Stooping down, he grabbed several
rocks before walking out into the moonlit street.
“Leave us be or I’ll plug you’n I ain’t funnin’ one
bit.” Unsure just what to make of the
threat, the three boys halted and jeered back, laughing, but with an uncertain
hollowness in their voices.
“We’ll beat the dog snot outa ya kid, …don’t ya know you
ain’t got a chance against three of us?”
“Wanna bet?”
Deacon took two steps, skipped and threw, drawing a croaking gasp from the
ringleader who reeling backward several steps, crumpled to his knees from the
rock striking him square in the throat. Surprised,
the two other boys, leaped back, but their hungry bellies, wouldn’t allow a
full retreat, and well accustomed to having their way, they quickly regained their
courage and bull rushed him, yippng like savages with every step. Deacon’s second rock found its mark in the
solar plexus of the closest boy, doubling him over, and suddenly the “would be”
alley bandits found themselves the attacked rather than the other way
around. With the last stone gripped
tightly in his closed fist, Deacon raced past the two thwarted attackers and
straight into their leader who was struggling back to his feet. Driving his stone loaded fist straight into
the bigger boy’s nose, he wheeled and drove his loaded right into the belly of
the incoming third assailant, who was following close behind him. Air wooshed from the smaller boys mouth, and
unable to inhale again, he dropped to his knees, opening and closing his mouth
as tears squeezed out of his tightly shut eye lids and trickled down his
tortured face.
Ready for more, Deacon eyed the other two, but with no
fight left in them, they simply helped the third boy up and without any parting
words, disappeared into the darkness.
“Are you crazy?” Rose Marie’s frantic voice sounded
just behind him, “…what if you had missed? …then what?”
“I wouldn’t, …all I ever do is pitch rocks at rats,
…ain’t no way I’d miss them big lurpy kids?”
“Still, you can’t just haul off and go at people like
that, …sometimes it’s better to be sensible, …I learned that from Ma.”
“Yeah, but Ma died, …and probably cause she was
sensible, …or whatever it was you said. Tarnations
Marie, …sometimes I just can’t cipher the stuff you’re sayin’ Marie, …what I can figure
though, is how dang hungry I am right now! …and, no matter what you say, at
least I got somethin’ to eat.”
“All I’m saying Deacon, is that you should think about
what might happen before you go to fighting like that.”
“We shouldn’t have to fight though,” he mumbled,
gleaned the scanty clinging strings of chicken off a bone. Leaving the empty tin on the porch, they
crossed the street and entered an alley behind a long row of tall buildings
where a pile of broken furniture offered an inviting place to rest.
“Seems like to me, that since we ain’t got nobody,
folks that can, aughta be lookin’ after us some, …ya know?” Deacon continued,
once they were settled beneath an old tattered couch, “…maybe give their throw-outs
to us stead of the cats, …or pigs.
“You can’t blame folks for not thinking about us,” Rose
Marie sighed sadly, “…they have their own troubles.”
“Not even an apple core? …or bad part of an onion?” he
protested, “…what’s so hard about tossin’ em our way? It’s like they don’t know we’re here like we
was nothin’! We ain’t nothin’ Marie, …We’re
somethin’, …whether they think so or not.”
“They don’t,” Rose Marie returned in almost a whisper.”
“Don’t what?” Deacon questioned.
“See us as bein’ more than rats, …they know we’re here
alright, but it’s up to us to give them a reason to care.”
“That don’t make no sense, Marie, …see rats? …see
us? Make em’ care? What does that even mean? …besides, thanks to
my rock pitchin’, we pretty much ate all the rats in the alley.”
“What I’m trying to explain is,” Rose Marie began
again, “…that in their eyes, we’re not really people, so they don’t wonder or
even think about whether or not we’re hungry, …sick, …or, cold, …no more than
they would worry about rats.”
“She’s right,” a voice came from somewhere in the
darkness a few feet away. Deacon moved
quickly between the stranger and his sister.
“Who are you, and wha’d’ya want?” he challenged.
“Just a tired old man Son,” the voice from the
darkness returned, “…sorry to meddle, …I meant no offense by it, it’s just that
the young lady is right about them people out there.”
“What? …you mean about us bein’ rats or worse in their
eyes?”
“Sort of, but more about it being on us to give them reason
to acknowledge us as people too. You
ever hear the saying, “Love me or hate me as you wish, but in the end, you’re
gonna respect me”?
“No, …can’t say as I have. We don’t get around proper people much.”
“All the same, …think about it and tell me what you
think it means.”
“Is it saying we can’t make people like us, but we
have some say in whether they respect us or not?” Rose Marie asked.
“Pretty close young lady, …pretty close,” the
invisible stranger returned, “…you see, …love and hate are emotions people can
choose to have, but respect? Nobody
chooses to respect another human being, it’s an involuntary virtue that can’t
be commanded by them that give it.
Unlike voluntary emotions, like love, or patience, respect is
involuntary, ordered only by the actions of the respected, not the respecter. Make something of yourself, and people will
be powerless to ignore you, and they will respect you.” A long silence followed as the two Wells siblings
thought about what they had just heard.
“You hungry?” Deacon finally asked into the
darkness. Taking a bone still laden with
ample scraps of meat and sinew, he held it out, until unseen fingers took it
from him.
“You’ll do well boy,” the voice said, …I seen plenty
in my day, and you’ll do just fine.
Bless you, and thank you Jesus for this bounteous feast, thanks to this
kindness of these kids, now I can come knocking at your gate with a full
belly.”
The following morning, Deacon looked for the man
belonging to the voice in the night, but he was nowhere to be found.
“You think that old man made out okay last night
Marie?”
“He didn’t sound too worried about it, one or the
other,” Rose Marie returned, …it kind of sounded to me like he was on his way
to see Jesus.”
“Wish I could be like that, …’n not worry. I’m starved, and can’t help but wonder how
I’m gonna fill my belly after givin’ him my breakfast.”
“Don’t worry little brother,” Rose Marie soothed, “…I
have a feeling you’ll be more than paid back for your kindness.”
With growling stomachs, the charitable duo, determined
to take matters into their own hands and leaving their shelter, headed straight
for the heart of the city. All day they
searched in vain, but then, just as the sun was about to disappear for another
night, they approached dining hall filled with wealthy patrons who carried on
so quietly that it was hard to believe it was really a restaurant. Not one of their usual targets, the
restaurant was well away from the familiar security of their alley home, but
undeterred, Deacon and Rose Marie followed the tantalizing smells all the way to
the back alley door, which had swung partially open. Since the passing of their mother, they had
maintained the moral code she has taught them, never so much as even thinking
of taking something that didn’t belong to them.
But, on this night, hunger drove them beyond the reach of conscience, and with gluttonous eyes, they
stared longingly at the bounty laid out on a counter just inside the door.
“You ever seen anythin’ like that plate ‘a food,
Marie?”
“No,” she answered slowly, almost tasting the savory delicacies
heaped high on a large platter near the end of the counter.
“It wouldn’t really be stealing,” she heard herself
whisper, “…not when it’s just leftovers, …would it?” The justification sounded good, but in her
stomach, Rose Marie couldn’t deny the thrill sensation telling that stealing
was exactly what they were planning to do.
“We’ll never get it,” he whispered back to her, “…best
not even try.” Rose Marie laughed.
“We’ve made do missing supper before Deacon, …plenty
of times?”
“Yeah, …but I ain’t ate since a whole day ago an’ I’m
about done in!”
“Still, they’re all standing too close,” Rose Marie
argued, “…we’ll get caught!” Just then, one
of the cooks carelessly splashed grease from his large frying pan onto the
stove, causing instant flames that exploded upward from the red hot
surface.
“I got it!” she whispered with a mischievous grin,
…stay here, I’ll be right back.”
Unaccustomed to being the voice of reason, Deacon
shook his head as he watched her disappear around the front of the building, not
at all happy with the unsettled feeling surging up from his stomach.
“C’mon Marie, …this is stupid,” he muttered to himself,
one eye glued to the tantalizing platter less than a dozen feet away, while the
other watched watching the street ahead for Rose Marie to re-appear. When she did, an even bigger smile than
before had completely taken over her face.
“This is going to work perfectly,” she said rifling
through the nearby garbage until she found what she was looking for.
“What’cha gonna’do with that?” Deacon asked, eyeing
the wad of packing paper she had collected.
“You’ll see,” she said, opening the door just enough
retrieve the grease pan unnoticed from just inside the short hallway. Once fully in the alley with her pan full of
greasy paste, she began working her wad of paper into brownish goo until it was
no longer recognizable.
“Okay,
…start counting as you make your way around to the front door, and when you reach
thirty, run inside and start screaming fire till they
all start running out.
Once they do, …don’t wait, just get back here as fast as you can and I’ll
do the rest."
With doubt written all over his face, Deacon started toward
the street, counting slowly while, with the long handled pan containing her
soaked wad stretched out in front of her, Rose Marie slipped inside and scooted
silently toward the open oven. Chuckling
inside, and surprisingly giddy about what she planned to do, she eyed the two
cooks on either side of the oven, so occupied rushing their food orders, that
they didn’t even notice the pan extending across the open space between
them. Instantly the hungry oven belched
flames, eagerly attacked the grease soaked paper ball, and just as Rose Marie
pulled it out onto the floor, Deacon’s high pitched alarm pierced the air. So shocked were the cooks, that they dropped
their utensils and raced for the doors without even looking to see what had
caused the blaze. three chose the front door, while the fourth, caught on the
wrong side of the fire, nearly stepped on Rose Marie without even noticing her,
as he rushed out the back.
Huddled low on the floor, Rose Marie filled her lungs
with the clean air and hurried to the counter where cradling the heaping
platter she raced out to meet Deacon.
Having regained his wits, the cook was about to step back inside when
Rose Marie came barreling out of the smoke filled hallway and plowed him over,
sending her precious cargo flying while they both went sprawling into the dirt.
Arriving just in time to see the
collision, Deacon began scooping everything he could into his oversized shirt
before running on, but as soon as he realized Rose Marie wasn’t with him, he
turned back to see her still standing where he’d left her, paralyzed in horror
of what she had caused. Flames boiled
from the windows, and inside leaped hungrily along the walls gobbling up curtains
and furnishings with demonic fury.
“Hurry Marie!”
Deacon cried, his heavy laden shirt protruding in front of him like a maternal
belly. Not far away, the lone cook had
turned and was walking toward Rose Marie with a meat cleaver gripped tightly in
his hand.
“Come on Marie!” Deacon cried again in desperation,
letting his treasure fall as the apron clad cook raised his threatening hand. Rose Marie’s eyes nearly popped out of their
sockets in panic, as her attention turned from the fire to the menacing little
man who seemed intent on chopping her into bits.
Suddenly, an apple splattered against the cook’s head,
knocking him sideways and almost down.
“You better back off her mister,” Deacon warned from
the darkness, still fifty feet away. Stepping into the flickering light cast by the
growing fire, he picked up a rock half the size of the apple he’d just thrown,
“…I’ll bust you again, and this here rock’ll do a nasty business on ya.” Wiping the soggy goo off his head, the angry
man spewed a string of guttural sounds and raising his cleaver, turned to face
his attacker. Deacon’s rock struck him
square in the forehead before he had finished his threatening, and shrieking
like a tortured witch, he dropped to his knees, his face dipping dangerously
close to the dirt before he caught himself.
Starting up again, he nearly reached his feet, but stumbled and went
down hard again. Again and again he tried
to rise, but each try was met with the same result as he stumbled and flopped
all the way out to the street.
Hurrying back, Deacon helped Rose Marie along until
her paralysis had eased, and reaching his pile of kitchen spoils, he gathered
it back up and led the way to an abandoned shed on a bluff overlooking the city. Rose Marie was sick, so much so that she
couldn’t eat even a bite of the bounteous feast she had stolen from the
restaurant. Instead, her eyes were fixed
on the distant red-orange flames shooting angrily into the night sky, quickly
engulfing the entire building.
“It
ain’t your fault ch’know,” Deacon said, stuffing another chicken leg into his
already full mouth, “…that they was so stupid an’ run off stead’a putin’ it out
your piddly fire.”
“It is
my fault Deacon,” she returned angrily, guilty tears filling her eyes, “…I saw
all that food and just went crazy...”
She glared at Deacon who continued to gorge himself, seemingly devoid of
conscience. “Don’t you feel even a
little bad?” she demanded harshly, “…how can you eat when practically the whole
city is about to burn down?”
“What’d
I do?” he asked, his mouth so full she could barely understand him.
“Nothing
Deacon, …I’m sorry. I’m going to the
police though, and turn myself in.”
“Huh?”
Deacon choked, spitting his precious food out so he could properly protest, “…no
you ain’t, cause I ain’t goin’! …and you gotta take care’a me, …it’s your job!”
“But I
have to do something,” she replied, “…I can’t live with myself knowing what
I’ve done to those poor people.”
“Poor
people? …they ain’t poor Marie, they’re rich, and plumb mean about it ta’boot. This wouldn’t a happened if they’d just give
their scraps to us kids stead’a the pigs, …the way I figure, they had it
comin’.” Rose Marie bowed her head and trudged dejectedly back, plopping to the
ground next to him.
“I can’t
help it though, I still feel terrible!
Still, …I know you’re right.”
“Bout em’ bein’ mean and deservin’ it?”
“No, …about it being my job to watch after you, so I
guess I’ll have to live with being an outlaw.
If we get caught though, …it’ll be off with our heads!” Deacon’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping open
so wide some of the food he’d just stuffed back in his mouth spilled onto his
lap.
“Yup,”
she said, nodding in dead seriousness, “…if the police catch us now, they’ll
hang us sure, or worse, and order our heads chopped off.” Swallowing hard, Deacon thought for a second,
but after wrapping his mind around what she’d said, he grabbed a turkey leg and
started eating again.
“Fine
with me,” he said as he chewed, “…but I ain’t goin’ quiet. If they try’n lay a hand on you or me, I’ll
play hell, …you can bet on it.
Rose
Marie smiled to herself as she reached over and took a wedge of sharp cheddar
off the platter, …pleased that at the very least she had attempted to teach her
brother a lesson on choice and consequence.
“I’ll
just have to make up for what I did when I’m grown up and have enough money to
pay for the damage I caused,” she sighed, “…yeah, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Can I
help?” Deacon asked excitedly.
“You’d
better,” Rose Marie answered sternly, “…you’ve got all that food you just ate
to pay them back for too.”
“Is
that a lot? …of money I mean?” Rose
Marie chuckled in side, loving her little brother’s simple, unspoiled mind, and
how much fun it was to mess with it.
“Yeah…,”
she said slowly, “…judging by the size of that thing an how much you ate, I’d
say it’ll be almost as much as the building, …maybe more.”
“Nu..uh!”
he gasped, “…there ain’t no way!”
“I’m afraid
so little brother, …but don’t worry, I’ll pitch in, since it was my idea in the
first place. Besides, I am eating this
cheese.” Satisfied, Deacon went back to
eating, but from that moment on, visions of police chasing him and trying to
chop off he and Rose Marie’s heads haunted his dreams as well as idle waking
hours when his mind was free to wander.
“We’re not just
thieves now you know,” Rose Marie said as they lay staring up at the gaps
between the ceiling boards over their heads, “…we’re outlaws, criminals,
…scum.”
“Fine with me,” Deacon returned, “…least ways we ain’t
rats. And,” he added, “…we’re gonna have
full bellies for days ta boot.”
“Mamma would die if she knew…”
“You always talk bout her like that, Marie, …n’ I
don’t rightly get it. We both seen her
and she was all the way dead, froze up’n hard, …so why do you always talk like
she’s alive’n watchin’ us?”
“That’s because I feel her inside me, just where she
said she would be when I needed her, …so I don’t think of her as being all the
way gone like you said. I even talk to
her, …and sometimes, when I listen really careful, …I think I hear her voice.”
“That’s impossible, …dead people can’t talk, …can
they?”
“It’s not like how you’re thinking Deacon, …I don’t
really know how to explain it, just that it makes me feel better.”
“What about Pa, …do ya hear him too?” Rose Marie shook her head thoughtfully,
“No, …can’t say as I’ve ever felt anything from him.”
“Z’that mean he ain’t dead then? …since he don’t talk
ta’your insides?”
“Deacon! …don’t talk about him like that, of course
he’s not dead.”
“Ok, now I’m real mixed up. Live folks who can talk, don’t cause they
ain’t dead, while dead ones like Ma who can’t really talk, somehow do? And if Pa ain’t dead, an’ he’s good clean
through like you say, …why ain’t he come lookin’ for us?” Rose Marie looked at her inquisitive brother
with sorrowful eyes and shook her head, unable to hide the doubt.
“I don’t know, …I really don’t, but every day, I just
keep hoping he’ll come sweeping in and snatch us out of this horrible life.”
“He’ll come,” Deacon sighed, “…if he’s like you say,
…someday, he’ll come."
“Come on you leettle rat!” the gruff voice growled as
a massive hand clamped around Deacon’s ankle.
Lashed out with his free foot, Deacon grabbed a hold of the back support
post of the shanty, and unleashed holy hell on the big hairy arm and hand.
“Stop fighting me keed, or I beat you like cracy!” Deacon’s unwelcome assailant may as well have
been putting out a barn fire with just his spit, because there was no way his
little captive was going anywhere without a fight. With one last mighty kick, Deacon dug his
heal into the thick fingers, and feeling them relax he scooted away just as the
flimsy shelter came crashing down.
“You ain’t takin’ me alive!” he screamed, squirming
from beneath the fallen debris, “…you ain’t never gonna get me!” In an instant, he was racing away, his little
legs churning up alley dust with every step.
“Oh no you don’t,” he heard from behind his ear, just before
vice like fingers grabbed a fistful of his moppy hair, lifting him off his feet
and sending him flying through the air.
With every bit of seven years of life behind him, Deacon was a long way
from surrendering, and like an alley cat, hit the alley floor running like his
pants were on fire. Once again, the
longer legs of his pursuer prevailed, however, but at the precise moment the
hairy hand was about to grab him again, Rose Marie came flying in from out of nowhere,
landing on the burly man’s back, and with her legs locked around his waist, she
sent her claw like fingers savagely digging for eyes and cheeks.
“Run Deacon!” she screamed, “…run and don’t look
back!” Deacon did as he was told,
scrambling quickly up the mountainous garbage pile and beyond to the crumbling
brick wall, catching the top with his hooking fingers, and pulling his body up
over the lip like he had done at least a thousand times before. Happy to have escaped, he started to swing
his leg over and drop to freedom, but Marie’s cry caused him to look back in
time to see the two men throw her into the back of their enclosed wagon
box. The wooden doors slammed shut,
evoking screams of terror from the other children trapped inside, but no amount
of noise could deafen the terrible steel clunking sound as the long key turned
in the massive lock. Turning away from
the cart, the two men eyed Deacon up on his perch, the smaller one even starting
up the alley toward him, but at the sound of his partner’s voice behind him, he
stopped.
“Come on Voldo,” the larger of the two called in a gruff
Russian, accent “…he’s too much trouble, and Frawnk vill never pay for um.”
“Marie!” Deacon called after the departing cart, tears
streaming from his eyes, and a grapefruit sized ball swelling in his
throat. Sliding off the wall and ran
after the quickly disappearing trail of dust left by the heavy wagon
wheels.
“I’m coming Marie!” he
choked, the tracks of tears streaking down his dirty face and pains of panic burning in his parched throat,
clear down to his racing heart. “What if I never catch up?” he thought, his little mind churning with
anxiety as the distance between he and the wagon quickly grew.
"My little DanyElle is almost six, and Andrew is nine." Alicia had a wonderful way about her, and as we talked about our families, and individual publishing experiences, I had the distinct feeling that purchasing her book was going to win me a whole lot of Christmas bonus points with Marianne. When I arrived home, I shared the book with Marianne, who immediately began to read it, but having a backlog of work waiting for me in the office, I excused myself, thinking I would hear it for the first time when we read it to the kids. I suppose it was ten or fifteen minutes before she came into the office, exclaiming with great excitement her feelings about Kirby Puckernut and his story.
Without giving the story of Kirby Puckernut away, let me just say, that I have never seen such excitement in kids over anything, ...they're nice to each other, they won't do anything to jeopardize having Kirby return, and they every morning between 6 and 6:30am they are at our bedside announcing that he's gone again! Having no interest in the success of this book, other than hoping Alicia Richardson's continued success will somehow add new wonder to the rich and magical adventure our family is enjoying this Christmas season. I strongly suggest that if you have small children or grand children, and like me have felt the terrible void where thrilling Christmas excitement used to be when you were a child, please don't wait to visit www.KirbyPuckernut.com Start your own Christmas Elf tradition today, ...I promise you'll thank me. Thank you Alicia, this has been the best Christmas for me in more years than I can count, and we're only a week in. You are my hero, and I wish you all the best in your writing pursuits. 