CONTINUED: Battle For The Marshall Islands

by Kevin Schmitt

 On the coast, Dad had to wait for an overseas assignment along with Jamie and a guy named T.L.Cole. It was the only time in Dad’s life when he became the equivalent of a straight A student. He just loved guns, big and small. The training wouldn’t do him much good in civilian life, but he didn’t care. He was having a great time at the expense of the taxpayers.

 He and his friends ended up at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard where ships were being refitted. He wasn’t there for very long, but he did have one experience that was worth passing on to me. In the neighboring city of Bremerton, sometimes drunken servicemen got a bit out of hand. The shore patrolmen would get paired up with ordinary sailors and patrol the bar areas at night.. I believe I mentioned that Dad was a heavy weight, so he didn’t mind it when he got a chance to play “cop.”

 That changed forever when he followed an S.P. into a bar where a drunken marine was most definitely the center of attention. First thing Dad noticed was the man’s club. It was a crutch. The marine had half a leg missing and obviously the guy was having a bit of trouble accepting his misfortune. He kept swinging that crutch at anyone who came near him, and two service men were already on the floor.

 Dad looked at the S.P. and asked, “So---do you think we could use a table as a shield?”

 The S.P. ignored Dad and drew his Colt .45 service automatic. He gave the marine one chance to drop the crutch, and the marine told him to---well---you can fill in the blank. Then the S.O.B.S.P. actually went and did it. He shot the marine in his good leg.

 It was at that point in his life when two very important components came together for my dad: Revulsion, and helplessness. Those were the pieces of bread that would hold the shit that would get served up over and over again. The world outside of Shakopee Minnesota could get really ugly, and young Dennis Schmitt had only taken a few steps into that world so far.

 Dad wasn’t trained to be a “yard bird,” but at that stage of the game, he would do any work that didn’t expose him to lunatics. He helped re-arm battle damaged ships until he was assigned to a destroyer, and was pleased to discover that Jamie and T.L. Cole were still with him. Only one thing happened on that “tin can” that was worth relating. The destroyer sailed through a pretty bad storm that scared the crap out of Dad.

 I suppose all you well educated people know who John Newton was; the man who composed the hymn “Amazing Grace.” Well, Dad felt a little like that when a mischievous sailor grinned and said, “Guess what boys, we just became a submarine.”

 Unfortunately my father can’t remember the name of the ship. He told me the name about thirty years ago, and now I can’t remember it either. Anyway, he and his buddies became part of something called “Task Force 51,” which was sent to capture the Marshall Islands at the start of 1944. That Island group is over 1000 miles long and located halfway between Hawaii and Australia. The Islands of Majuro and Kwajaline had airstrips built by the Japanese so those were primary targets.

 Dad rode shotgun on a landing craft called a L.C.I. It was 160 ft. long and about 23 feet wide. They carried 200 men and could sail between 600 and 900 miles depending on their speed and prevailing currents. Majuro was where they would land, and while it wasn’t as bad as Omaha beach, that wouldn’t make any difference to the dead and wounded.

 Dad didn’t give me any details, he just said that once the beach was secured, they spent a long time transporting wounded men to a hospital ship. That went on until the airstrip was secured. Then Dad was given the job of bore sighting machine guns in the wings of fighter planes as they were brought in. It was hot work and everything had to be done “yesterday,” but it was a damn sight better than watching guys bleed to death.

 I remember Dad once saying, “If a guy is yelling bloody murder, he has lots of time. But if he’s being real quiet and peaceful like---keep an eye on him.”

 Yea, that makes sense.

 Anyway, eventually it was time to get served another shit sandwich, so Dad, Jamie and T.L got on another LCI and headed for the Island of Kwajalein. The invasion was over, but like Majuro, there were still many things for a gunner’s mate to do. But first they had to get there. So they put together a small fleet of a dozen landing craft, a few P.T. boats, and a corvette that broke it’s own trail.

 The plan was to land at Kwajalein at daybreak, but the Japanese sort of messed that up. You see, those boys were really sore losers. When they would lose an Island or a shipping lane between Islands, they would leave just a few mines behind, to keep the Allies nervous. At about 0230 hrs Dad’s LCI hit one of those mines. Fortunately it was a small one that had probably been dropped by an aircraft. It tore open the bow and turned the landing craft into a crash diving submarine.

 About two-thirds of the men went under. Dad, his buddies, and about fifty others floated clear of it. Somehow they call grouped together and concluded that no one was hurt bad. The water was warm and everyone had a life jacket, so all they had to do was wait until daybreak to get picked up.

 Piece of cake.

 Then someone felt something bump up against them. Next time it happened the sailor probed with his hand and felt something that was like sandpaper. That was not a good thing. But the main problem was ignorance. Those Midwest farm boys wouldn’t learn anything from Jacques Cousteau for another thirty years so they were plenty scared of any kind of shark. In fact most sharks are like vultures. They won’t bite you unless you’re dead. But there have been many exceptions to that rule, as we all know.

 I recall the scene in “Jaws” when Robert Shaw says, “I’ll never put on a life jacket again.”

  

 You’re in pitch black water up to your shoulders, and there’s nothing under you except the fear of teeth. 

 Jamie said, “Wonder if them fish know the difference between white meat and dark.”

 Anyway, the dawn always comes, and when it came that morning, all arms and legs were still where they belonged. They got picked up by the corvette and once on Kwajalein, they received some thrilling news. They would be working with the Seabees. (Construction Battalion) That meant that they would learn skills that would carry over into civilian life. Gunner’s Mates were wanted because they had some training with explosives, and the main job would be to break up the now useless Japanese bomb shelters.

 Dad didn’t know it, but it was time for another shit sandwich.

 You see, those bunkers were not empty. Do you know what happens when you fill a bomb shelter with men, then kill them, then let them rot for a few days in tropical temperatures? You grab an arm or a leg and it comes right off. You can’t blow the bunkers while the bodies are still in them so you gotta get them out the hard way. They gave Dad a gas mask but after puking in it a few times he decided that he really didn’t want it.

 For three days Dad went without eating. (A miracle for him.) Then things started getting squared away. But that only meant that Dad would be moving again. This time to an Island called Ebeye, which had been a Japanese sea plane base, and would also serve the U.S. Navy in that capacity. The Navy Brass would soon make this small Island their home because a PBY Catalina (flying boat) is a great way to Island hop if you are an admiral.

 Now the trouble with admirals is that they make junior officers kind of nervous. It’s no fun working under a J.G. who’s nervous, especially when it’s 100 degrees in the shade. You gotta learn how to conserve energy in the tropics. Everyone one learned that except Jamie. The kid from Georgia was an eternal optimist in the sense that he was always looking around for a samurai sword that some careless Jap officer might have dropped.

 Well, eventually he did find something that the enemy had left behind. He stepped on a land mine and it took every bit of meat off one femur bone. Dad and a few other guys called for the officer in charge but got no answer. That’s when a decision had to be made. There was an open boat on the beach, and an auxiliary hospital ship just a few miles away. So they put Jamie on the floor of the boat and Dad sat on the wound. As far as they could determine at the time, there was no way to apply a tourniquet . Dad was the heaviest guy there, and it just seemed like the only thing to do. 

 Half the guys took Jamie out, the other half went looking for the lieutenant. Jamie died on the boat, and Dad and the others got a lecture from the lieutenant, but no punishment. The thing my dad needed to remember was that there was no way to save Jamie by keeping him on that Island, and there were no seaplanes ready to take off at that time.

 After that Dad just cleaned and replaced gun parts until a B-29 known as Enola Gay took off from Kwajalein with a secret weapon. Dad had been told at one point after the historic bombing mission that a very important container was being stored in the Ebeye ammunition magazine. (Which was kind of like a basement with a lot of insulation on top of it.) I’m thinking that the mysterious container might have been the bomb they tested on Bikini.

 Anyway, the day they celebrated the end of the war, Dad got one more chance to end or at least ruin a portion of his life. Everyone was shooting off guns and going crazy. Well, Dad decided he could do them all one better. He knew about this Japanese anti-aircraft gun that was about the size of a German 88mm. The action had been taken out of it so there was just the barrel and the breach block. Dad got his hands on some explosives and packed it into the rear end. Then he muzzle loaded the front with ten pounds of pipe nipples.

 Pipe nipples are little metal tubes and they make a shrieking sound if launched into the air with sufficient force. Dad calculated that he could get them over the Island and they would then fall harmlessly into the water on the other side. Well----his shot went a bit low. There was this officer’s tent on the far beach you see. In fact the lieutenant who gave Dad crap about Jamie was one of the occupants.

 Thank God no one was in the tent when the pipe nipples hit it. All the same, there were a few less smiles after that. You know, everyone understands that nuking Hiroshima and Nagasaki saved a lot of American lives, but it also saved the sorry rear end of Dennis Schmitt. The guys who could have burned Dad had only one thing on their minds: going home. So Dad lucked out one last time.

 Final Note: Dennis Schmitt and T.L. Cole went to Georgia a few months after returning home. They were house guests of the Jameson family and learned a little more about the world that Jamie had been brought up in. It wasn’t all pretty, but a great deal of it was.

CONTINUED: For The Love of Kathy

by Frank Beresheim

       

   I thought that was then and this is now.  I started drinking heavier, thinking about our break up, and that I was the cause of our split.  I tried to order a drink and the bartender said no, and I said why.  He looked at me and said “why don’t you ask you friend”.   Apparently me friend Joey was behind my telling him no.  I was very angry, and almost hit Joey.  I stormed out of there, out on the street.  The cool air hit me, and I could feel my blood pressure rising.  I knew there was another bar a couple of blocks away, and my friend Joey followed me.   I tried to hail a taxi, but it was a police car, and then it was good Joey was there, he told them I had a mental disorder and I had to wave at people in blue cars.  Lucky for me they bought it.  Joey said let’s take my car and we can hit that oyster bar on Flat St. and Grove.  I said you mean Vincent’s Oyster house, and he said yeah.  We got in his car, an old car with primitive features and went to bar.

The bar had a huge oyster as a doorway and was just as dark as the other place.  I went up and order my usual Gin and Tonic, and loved that bitter taste.  Joey said why don’t we get a table, and order some oysters.  I said ok.  I started thinking about Kathy again, and how many times I came here with her when I was polluted.  I just couldn’t stay there, and started walking out to the car.  Joey came out, and said what's up man.  I said I just didn’t like the vibe there.   Joey said come on man you have been in there hundreds of times.  I said I know, but it ain’t working tonight.  We got back in his car, and I felt something in my pocket, it was an M80, I lit it threw it in the back, to a big bang.  Joey said what did you do man?  I told him and he told me to get out of his car.  He also said the he was tired of my shit and not to call him anymore.  So I was out on the streets again. 

           I was hungry, and saw the light on in the Baker’s window.  I went over, but the door was locked.  So I banged on the window.  He said come back at Six, I am making the donuts now.  I said please and he said six, come back at six.  So I walked away, looking for another place to go.  I just didn’t want to be alone, feeling like this with Kathy on my mind.  I walked down the street to the Fifty Grand Club, and could hear the music down the street.    I went down the street to go to the other club.

          I went in and my friend’s band was playing, The Strange Ones.  I used to be in the band, but I didn’t like playing live as much as they did, so I left.  As soon as I sat down, the band took a brake and they came down to see me.  IT was good seeing my friends, we all had cool knick names, I was Bush dog, the drummer was Molasses, because he took too long in the bathroom, Kow was the keyboard player, his name was Cal, the bass player was called the Rock because his lines were as powerful as rocks falling, the lead guitarist was Slick, because everything about him was slick.  I know you wanted to know why I was called Bush dog, it is because I had a Large Poodle, with the same black hair as me.  My friends saw me walking with my dog Ace, someone yelled look a bush dog, and the name stuck.  My friends convinced me to play, and they had an extra guitar.  I went up to the stage and almost fell because I was pretty toasted, I strapped on the guitar, tuned it up, and I was going to rock.  I did pretty well with the first two songs, but on the third song I was a line behind, and the forth song, I was noticeably out of key.  I was very embarrassed and before the 5^th song I said I am bailing, put the guitar in the stand, they didn’t seem to mind, actually and appeared relieved.  I went out to the parking lot, and threw up on this guy’s white car, I bet he will be happy when he sees that.

          I met my friend Tom’s girlfriend in the parking lot, and she was crying.  They apparently had a big fight over his wanting to see other people and still wanting a relationship.  I held her as she was crying, and felt so strong to be there for her even though I was drunk.  She began telling me that she had suspected that he was cheating on her, because he would say he be at Charlie’s bar, but wasn’t there.  She said she went to his house and he wasn’t home.  She said she called his cell, and it went straight to mail, which meant he shut his phone off.   She said when she asked him he stated he met some friends, and that he shut phone off earlier in the day at the office, followed by ”what’s a girl to think”.  She started saying I will show him what it means to be cheated on, and brought me to her car.  The next thing I knew she was taking her clothes off, and I was the first guy she cheated on Tom with.  Afterwards we just lying together on her back seat, and she burst out crying, saying I am glad it was with you, but I still don’t feel right.  I told her I had to go out to take a leak, put my clothes on, and went to the bushes at the end of the parking lot.  I heard some noise behind me, and I saw her driving away.  I was back on foot again.

          Around this time I was feeling pretty thirsty, and I found an all night Bodega, went to back where the beer was, and got me a six.  I found my car, my beautiful car, my Caddy, and it felt like I found my way home.  I quickly drank up the six and was starting feel drowsy, but I started the car up anyway.  I was driving near my house nodded off, and woke to the rattling of my car hitting other cars on the street, and when I tried to steer away, I drove right into a telephone pole.   The next thing I knew was that the police were issuing me a wad of tickets and was put in a squad car.  They read me the Miranda warning, “ You have the right to”, and all the words seem to blur  followed by “ With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”.  I quickly said no. They then asked if I would do a breathalyzer, which I also said no to.   They read off my charges.  It was just like TV, hearing all this, but it was happening to me.  They said they would take me to lock up and when I got to the precinct.   I took a deep breath,  I opened my eyes looked all around my room, realizing it was a dream.   Before I could get my first a cigarette lit, the phone rang and I heard a familiar voice, it was Kathy.  She said do you miss me?  I said “not a moment goes by without me thinking of you.”  She said I miss you too.  She said “Baby if you want to be with me you have to take care of yourself”, and I said “what do you mean”, She said “You need to clean up”  I said you mean go to detox?” and she said “yeah, my friend told me about this place she went to and it helped her.”  For a moment I fought it, and thought about it, remembering my dream, and I said yes.  She said I’ll be over to get you, and take you there.  I told her “It finally feels like I am doing something right for a change.”  When I saw Kathy, our eyes locked, she was like a dream come true.  She told me, it wasn’t a friend that went through the programs but it was she who went though the program herself.  I began thinking she didn’t really drink, and if she was an alcoholic, what was I?  I can’t be an alcoholic, but I would do anything to have her by my side.  We got to the hospital, she saw me through the paperwork, and I was starting to shake.  When they took me to detox, and they closed the door it was like when I was a child on the first day of school, and everything I loved was on the other side of the door.  I still think of the dream, my love for Kathy, and that there is a reason for everything.  I am happily married to Kathy 17 years, and 18 years sober.

copyright 2013, Frank Beresheim

 

Finger Painting With Words

continued from main page, "Finger Painting With Words"

by Moe O'Brien

According to my older sister, I had to stay inside the lines when I put crayon to paper. The nuns told me that I had to modify the verb with the adverb and the noun with the adjective. At the time I remember thinking, who gives a damm, but the diagramming of endless sentences in sixth grade proved me wrong. Well maybe it wasn’t so much the diagrams as much as it was the red marks on my test papers. My parents harped constantly about the polite manner in which to respond to my elders. It was ‘‘Yes Sir and Yes Maam.’ I grew up then, working my butt off, to avoid making mistakes.

I am now seventy-two years old and I’m here to tell you that I want to be honorable and I definitely wish to be more useful. I now realize that being afraid of making a mistake has kept me from doing. So my first step in this new freedom ride is finger painting. There are no rules here and I am loving it. One simply dips a finger or a whole hand if you want (who gives a damm?) into the delicious oozy paint and smear it on to a wall or paper or floor or a piece of furniture. I would advise that you don’t try it on your pet. All you have to do then is freely and flamboyantly, with rhythm and joy, wave your instrument around and see what happens. Whatever happens is sheer fun. It may not be correct according to someone else, but it is right for you. 

 

Please try it out. I’ve got my fingers in red paint right now and I bet you think I’m painting a heart. Of course, why wouldn’t you think that? I mean red means love and it means a heart and it means Valentine’s Day. For me right now, it means freedom. And I don’t feel the need to add blue and white. I am free.

Treasure (continued)

continued from main blog, The More Stories Place

 

 

 More than two decades later such thoughts provided me a bittersweet  reverie as I sat deep in the seat of the railroad car and stared out the window at those same mountains.  The setting sun gilded their peaks with golden light and evoked a haunting beauty as it shined through the hemlocks and oaks and cascaded down to the river.  But the beautiful scene held an unwelcome truth. It heralded the dying of the day.  The sun would desert the mountains as they disappeared into the evening gloom, a reminder that nothing lasts forever.  Everything grows cold.  

These somber thoughts were interrupted when an older man came up to me soon after we left Manhattan and asked if he could take the vacant window seat next to me.  I always sat by the aisle so I could stretch my legs.  I turned sideways and the man squeezed by me.  He had a full head of white hair and a narrow, patrician face.  He sat down and introduced himself.  His name was Daniel and he immediately launched into one story after another that at first concerned his exploits in business as a young man.  Although many of his yarns were not entirely believable, they did entertain me.  Now in his mid eighties, he said, his sense of humor was infectious but incessant, like a song that loses its frisson when played over and over.   His voice was cultured and urbane, and it  matched his good looks.  He spoke with an odd cadence, but the effect was pleasant and summoned to my mind movie heroes from the 1940s and 50s.

When he wasn’t telling me how he became the president of his company by age 30 or how he met the king of a Tanzanian principality during an African Safari, Daniel wove his narratives around the only thread most rail passengers had in common,  the daily stories flooding the  newspapers, many exhibiting the unfortunate trend toward an emphasis on celebrity rather than real news.  The evening headlines mentioned a young man who married a rich woman for her fame and fortune, with tragic results. 

“Marrying for money is never a good idea,” Daniel said, the smile leaving his face.

I laughed. “I wouldn’t know, but I always imagined it would be a great way to pay the bills.”

“That is certainly a consideration,” he said.

“When I was a youngster,” I said, following Daniel’s example of exaggeration,  “all of us boys wanted to grow up and marry a billionaire widow or a young woman of wealth.”

“But you were too young to appreciate the complexities of such an arrangement,” he said.

“Maybe so,” I said and laughed again.  “But we were serious about our futures. We sat on the steps of the neighborhood grocery store and sucked root beers up our noses through straws and discussed who we wanted to have conjugal relations with.”

“That brings back memories,” he said, and smiled.

“ Most often on our lips were the names of famous actresses,” I continued, “and just about any neighborhood girl with boobs. And I can truthfully say ‘billionairess’ would have caught our attention.”

“And so did you marry a woman of great wealth?” he asked.

“No,” I confessed.  “I didn’t marry money.  I  married the first girl who laughed at my jokes.”

“I hope it was successful,” he said.

“Well … we’re still married, but …” I replied.

“But?” he inquired.

“We seem to argue an awful lot,” I said.

“Ah,” he said.  “Perhaps, the thrill is gone?”

“I sincerely hope not,” I said,  and my voice trailed off with a degree of resignation.  I shifted my gaze out the window.

The sun was down.  The mountains were left in the dark.  I could barely see their outline.  When the sky soon turned black, I saw nothing, but knew they were there.  I wondered why we humans lacked a facility deep inside to tell us when our eyes lied and something immense stood just beyond our awareness.  Across the river or across a room.  

“I knew a young man in high school who married an heiress,” said Daniel, interrupting my thoughts.  We were not far from my station.

 “Gee,” I said, afraid I’d have to sit through another tale from the old man, “my stop is up ahead and I have to get off.  I should get my coat and –“

“He was a very quiet boy,” said Daniel, who didn’t acknowledge my mild disinterest in hearing one more story.  “A few of the students thought he might be a deaf-mute and tried sign language to communicate with him.” He gave a quiet laugh.

“And he married well?” I said, trying to move the story along.

“He had a rather curious relationship with his French teacher,” he continued.

“Curious?”  I said.

“She was quite young,” Daniel said.  “He asked her to his Senior Prom.  Of course, she refused, but helped find him a date.”

“Why did you say ‘curious,’” I asked.

“Well, you know … he loved her,” he said.

“When I was fifteen,” I said, “I was in love with a woman on my paper route who made great meat balls, but I never thought it was all that ‘curious.’”

“They met after school in her classroom for extra lessons,” said Daniel.  “She was French and very pretty. So sweet and so very friendly.

 “But if he couldn’t speak –”  I said.

“Oh, he could write,” said Daniel.  “He sometimes did so in his classes.”

 “And after school?”  I said.

Daniel looked at me and smiled.  “Ah hah,” he said with mischief in his voice.  “The boy asked her for lessons, and he didn’t mean the French language.”

“I hope she refused,” I said. 

“No,” said Daniel, “she didn’t. There was more going on than most of the students realized.”

The conductor announced my station.   I had to leave, but Daniel had captured my attention.

 “So what happened?”  I asked as I gathered up my newspaper, magazine and umbrella.

   “Yes, well what do you think happened?”  said an almost leering Daniel.

“I don’t know,” I replied, tired of this game.

“The boy won the door prize at the Prom,” the old fellow continued without answering his own question. “As he walked to the microphone to claim his prize, everyone was embarrassed for him and they wondered what a person who couldn’t speak would possibly have to say.”

“Not much, probably,” I said.

“But for the first time in anyone’s memory, he piped up and spoke! Everyone said he had a warm and deep voice, and sounded just like the actor, Charles Boyer. Every girl in the gym immediately fell in love with him.”

“Wait a minute, Daniel,” I said. “Charles Boyer had a French accent.”

“That’s right!” said Daniel. “She had been teaching him English.”

“Oh, c’mon,” I said. 

Daniel laughed at my reaction. “He was a war orphan from France.” he said. “And was just learning English. That’s what he asked her to teach him after school.” 

“But someone in the school must have –”  I began.

Daniel interrupted and rushed on with his story.  “When he spoke into the mike that night, he became an immediate hit with the young women at school.”

The lights of my station came into view and I reached up for my coat on the overhead rack.  I had taken it off because the train was so warm.

 “The young man ended his senior year in a blaze of romance and glory,” Daniel said.  “His entire high school social life took place after at the Senior Prom, from May 18 to June 22, 1947.  Movies and cokes and milkshakes with 34 girls in our senior class.”

I laughed at yet another tall story.

“OK, I said, “But wasn’t he in love with –” 

“You try refusing 34 girls,” said Daniel. 

I smiled.  It was time to go.

 “Please tell me he married the great love of his young life, his French teacher,” I said.  I held my coat and umbrella, ready to hop off the train.

“His English teacher, as it turned out,” he said.  “But no, she wouldn’t have him.  Instead she married the principal of the school.”

“Well, that ruins a good story,” I said.

Daniel’s smile faltered.

“OK,  sorry,” I said, “what happened to the boy?  And when did he meet the heiress?”

“He had no money,” said Daniel, “but a college scholarship took him to New Hampshire where he met and married the daughter of a lumber merchant who was as rich as Croesus.”

“As a consolation prize,” I said, “money isn’t all bad.”

“Money can be a terrible consolation,” he said.

The conductor called out the name of my station, the city of Hudson.  I stood up and stepped into the aisle.  I turned to say goodbye to Daniel.  He stood and gathered up his newspaper and a small valise.

“You’re getting off here?”  I said.

“Juliette is here,” he said.

We stepped off the train on to the platform as a brisk wind blew up from the river, my damp shirt chilling me after the warm interior of the railroad car.  So many years ago a cold breeze often caused the girl to pull herself closer to me.  She would whisper in a husky voice, “Keep me warm,”  and I’d reach my arm around her and sweep her to me.

With the few passengers leaving the train, Daniel and I walked down the platform and through the station out to the small apron of sidewalk.  We stopped at the edge of a circular driveway and were soon alone as the others got in their cars and headed home to their firesides.  My impatience to do the same had evaporated.  I was concerned for Daniel and wondered if at his advanced age he was  senile and roaming around the countryside following people home.

“I live a few miles from here,” I said.  “Do you live here in Hudson?”

“Not in a long time,” he said.

We stood like two gentlemen waiting for our carriage.   I wondered if  Juliette was the French teacher and if she really lived here with the man she married, if he was still alive. 

“I can see the city has changed dramatically over the years,” Daniel said, as he gazed up the hill at a mixture of new and old buildings, their faces lit by streetlights in the downtown area.

“It probably didn’t look like much in 1947,” I said, wondering how he would respond.

“It was a far better sight than the bombed out buildings on the Rue St. Pierre,” he said.

“Are you the French orphan?” I asked.

“Mon Dieu, vous es un bon détective!,” he said.

“Your English has no accent,” I said, but I now realized why his speech had sounded a bit odd.

“Not easy to rid myself of it,” he said with a chuckle.” “It was a hit with the girls in my class, but a handicap when doing serious business in this country.”

 “I guess Juliette is late,” I said.

“Juliette is not coming,” he said. “I’m the one who is late.”

As he spoke, a black limousine bounced into the circle from the street and pulled up in front of us.  A middle aged man in a white shirt and black tie jumped out and came around to us on the passenger side of the car.

“May I offer you a ride?” Daniel said to me.

“Are you Mister Droulette?” the driver said to the empty space between Daniel and myself.

Daniel indicated the rear door with a slight wave of his hand and the man quickly stepped to open it.  I moved out of the way.

“I have my car here,” I said, “but Thank You.”

The old man carefully folded himself into the back seat of the limo and put a frail hand out to stop the driver from closing the door. He looked up at me.

“I lost my heiress three years ago,” he said.  “It was not a happy marriage for either of us.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“And Juliette,” he continued.  “Now I’ve lost the opportunity to speak with her one last time.  I always meant to call or write her.  Her funeral is here tomorrow.”

“I’m very sorry,” I said.

“Neither of the loves in my life worked out very well,” Daniel continued.  “Perhaps I should have looked for someone who laughed at my jokes.  She would be a treasure.” 

Daniel smiled up at me and nodded to the driver.  The man closed the door. The limo carried Daniel off to the funeral of a woman to whom he could never again speak of his love.  A funeral can be a regrettable end to an unfinished conversation.

I turned from the driveway and found a public telephone in the station.

“I saw the mountains,” I said into the phone.  “Across the river …”

She said nothing.

“I can meet you at the restaurant you like in the village,”  I said.

I heard her breathe, nothing more.

“When did we stop sitting together on the same side of the booth?”  I asked. 

She began to cry.

“I still want us to spend the rest of our lives together,” I said.  “I want to keep you warm.”

copyright 2013 by David Griffin

Saturday Afternoon Company

Continued from Main Blog ....

The daughter sucked in her breath as the man came out of the trees. She could see now that he was a lanky full growed nigger man, wearing tattered denim work pants and little else. His left arm hung limp at his side and there was an odd tilt to the way he carried his neck and head. He raised his right hand, shielding his eyes from the sun, then broke into a lop sided trot. Descending down the ridge, he disappeared again behind a thick stand of mulberry trees that grew flourshing in a heap of back country detritus: Broken down bed steads, an upended cast iron cook stove, ancient rain washed plank wood, and the rusted out skeleton of a model A car; all beset upon by a tangled mass of vines and ringed by busted up bottles and flattened tin cans of sizes various and sundry.

The daughter opened her mouth to speak but the mother cut her off. She spat a long arc of tobacco juice over the porch rail. "Damm fool town folk. It ain't rained for two months of a Sunday", she said, shifting her weight on the couch. "Gettin' stiff" she postulated and then: "Heard that a fella over in Mose...or could be Gunby... took an ax to his milk cow last week. Axed her just because she couldn't give milk. Udder's just dried up was all. Folks gets crazy in this heat, I swear."

The daughter turned way. She was hoping the company wasn't just a dream - joke, and when she saw the man again, he was still half hidden by the trees. "Takin a piss," she said to herself. "Same's as any what come's callin. Pee and spit like they's tryin to grow spit bushes or somethin." She leaned over and jabbed the mother in the ribs with her elbow. "Nigger man comin in tirectly!" she cried out, her voice rising into a high, cracked falsetto.

The mother sat bolt upright on the couch. "Damm you gal! You got me right in my misery. Right smack in the middle of my misery.!" She rubbed the spot with her hand. " I knowed he was there afore you said it. Nigger's got a certain kind a smell. Say we ain't got no work and send him on his way."

"Say... how'd you know it again?", asked daughter, lazily swinging her right foot in a wide arc.

"Gal, you ain't got no more sense in your head than a bursted pumpkin." The mother dumped the beans into the bucket. " Caint you see he ain't for us? Ain't our kind. It ain't right, even that."

Annie wagged her tongue at the mother. " I got more sense in my head than you'll ever have in a month a Sundays, old woman. Good Saturday afternoon company ain't even out of the bushes yet and you already down and showin' all you got.!"

Gripping the edge of the couch, the mother yanked herself to her feet. " Say it gal. Say we ain't got no work and send him on his way!"

"Why can't you say it?" countered the daughter and she pitched a large bean into the bucket. The older woman glared down at the younger. "Gal, you ain't nuthin' but a lint head. Call him up here and you'll be workin them cotton mill spools, I swear it. The mother slapped her hands together. "Say we ain't got no work or I'll box yer ears till yer deaf!"

The daughter jumped back. "Damm you old woman. Damm you to Hell. He's all the company we got and you got to go and do me like this. Now, you just stop yer gabbin, old woman. I got somethin in mind just for him. He can trot right back to town and fetch us some nice cold Co-Cola's and we can have ourselfes a little do." Annie ran her fingers through her hair, tightening and twisting her top knot. "Purty is as purty does, what I say."

The mother spat tobacco juice at her feet, then turned to the screen door. "You comin' in ain't you?"

"No. No I ain't. I ain't goin no where fore I gets us them two cold Co-Cola's."

"Suit yerself" said the mother and she let the screen door slam behind her.

The daughter squinted her good eye at the man, still standing where he was half hidden by the Mulberry trees. Those Co-Cola's would be fine right now if she could somehow trick that old Nigger man into fetching them. She rolled the thought in her mind like someone playing with a seed on their tounge. Going to the edge of the steps she made a friendly gesture. " You can come on up here.", she hollered. "We got us a whole world a work up here. Just come on up and we'll get you started on it right quick!"

Several long moments of silence followed, when the daughter could hear the mother moving about the kitchen, then the man stepped out from behind the trees. Circling the mounds of trash, he began weaving his way towards the house, his gait a half limp, half trot. Dust coated his bare feet, trousers, chest as he loped forwards. Then he stopped. He just stopped short of a big China berry tree, gazing at the girl with sunken dark eyes that were set like raisins above his mottled and swollen cheek bones.

The daughter went down the rickety steps and stood in the sun dappled shade, intently studying the man. Now it was clear to her why he hadn't come right up. Why, he was just ashamed to come callin lookin like he did with his face all lumpy and purple and his arm hanging down like it was bursted. For a few seconds she was sorry that she wanted to trick the man, but then, after all, he had come here on his own and good Saturday afternoon company never came empty handed.

"Hey Boy", she said, "Where you runnin too? North? This here's East - West. Ain't no North round here for a hundred miles."
The man shifted his weight unsteadily from leg to leg. The dust was gathering like a living thing around his ankles, till he was standing in a deep pool of it. A light breeze came up, stirring the leaves of the Chin Berry; it carried the smell of pine resin and turpentine, rank sweat and the distinct odour of something fried.

"Now, lissen here, Boy. I'm speakin at you." She said impatiently. " I ain't got all day. I needs me some Co-Cola's from town. You got any money or ain't you?"

The man crumpled down into a small child squatting position. Laying his head on his knees he rocked slowly back and forth.

"Well, you ain't got to cry about it. I aint goin to force myself on you. I got too much good in me for that." She sucked at her teeth, a loud sharp sound.

The man crumpled down, rolling flat out onto his back, staring open eyed at the darkening sky. A cooler breeze stirred the heated land and high above the ridge scudding black clouds brought the sharp sweet smell of rain. The daughter paused, then plowed straight ahead as her idea broke through in full force.

"Lissen here, Boy. I'll cut you a deal. You just get up and trot into town and fetch me and ma them two nice ice cold Co-Cola's and I won't go to my own telly phone and call the Sherriff and tell him I got me a stray and dangerous Nigger right here on my own property. Runnin from somewheres, way you look."

Closing his eyes, the man made a wounded animal sound a way down in his throat, his legs twitched and then, were still.

She edged closer balancing herself againt a sudden gust of wind that whipped her hair about her face in long greasy strands. She peered down into the man's swollen face which was the color of dark ash. He seemed to be shrinking away, drawing up into himself, getting smaller and smaller as she watched. She poked the man in the shoulder with her foot. "Hey Boy, I'm still talkin at you. It's fixin to rain an I got to get back, You got money or ain't you?"

The man's mouth fell open revealed cracked broken teeth and just a black scab of something.

"Why, if you aint a sight for sore eyes"! she exclaimed, hands flying to her mouth in surprise. Thunder boomed and rolled overhead, fat cool rain drops hit her face and arms. Turning, she ran back to the house. She had to get there fast. She had taken extra care with her hair this morning and didn't want to get caught in the rain.

The mother was standing at the screen door. Chewing on a scrap of corn cake, her mouth worked rhythmically from side to side. "Bout how long you figure that ol Nigger mans going to lay out there?" she saked beteween swallows.

"Bouts long as he wants to, what I figger." said the daughter, pushing past the mother. "I'm done talkin at him. Why he aint got no more sense in his head that a bursted pumpkin."


copyright 2013, Fiona M. O'Downey

Fiona was born in Utica NY in the East end, in a house that her great grandparents purchased in 1905. There were never-ending stories told around the kitchen table, the dining room table, any table. Reading well by the age of four, she commenced  to enhance her literary knowledge by stealing books from the library. Her favorites were fat tomes with lots of pictures, although these were difficult to hide under a coat.  Fiona somehow managed her capers until the librarians called Mom, who was unaware a treasure of literary works was abuilding beneath Fiona's bed, where no one had cleaned in ages.   A trip to the local parish church for the sacrament of confession ended the whole sordid affair when Fiona was edicted by a representative of God here on earth to cease and desist.  That's the last time she took an order from anyone in authority.

Use your back button to return to the MoreStories Place blog.  Please make comments abouit the story on that blog rather than here.

Here you'll find continuations from stories that start at

The MoreStories Place

morestoriesplace.blogspot.com