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Abilene Writers Guild
Abilene, Texas, U.S.A. "Not failure, but low aim, is crime." (Lowell) P.O. Box 2562—Abilene, Texas 79604 Monthly meetings are the fourth Thursday at 7:00 P.M. Meeting at the Center for Contemporary Arts, 220 Cypress St. |
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The land lay torpid in the heat, parched by the August sun. Cracks skittered in every direction like a jigsaw puzzle. The wind shifted slowly to the west, bringing in dirt from the unfurrowed regions of Logan county. It roiled and billowed in the mid-day sun, sweeping into a sky now tinged with vermilion.
Henry Clemmons struggled with the hood of the old John Deere and peered at the rusty engine. Patched hoses fastened with bailing wire lay like obscene worms among the charred wiring. Sighing, he raised his eyes and scanned the barren landscape. Ravens dipped and swayed in the darkening sky. Miller's Pied Piper Elevator and Grain Storage loomed on the horizon, a sleeping monster, waiting as it had always done, to gobble up the grain, sweat and profits of farmers like himself.
"Well, little grain and profit you'll get this year, Freddy B." Henry addressed the spectre in the dust. He looked about him at the grain, parched and yellowing, drooping in the furrows. As he watched, insects attacked the struggling plants. Silently he cursed the tractor, then cursed the rapacious insects with their ceaseless hunger. He cursed the circling birds that seemed to ignore the laws of nature. Balance was the criterion. It was all a matter of balance. Henry wanted to curse God because there was no rain, but someone in the Bible had cursed God and died. Who was it? Job? Henry didn't know. He only knew he had to curse someone. He lifted his face into the wind, the dirt stinging like a thousand needles. His eyes closed against the assault. "God-damn you, Marthy! God-damn you fer leavin'!" Henry laid his head on the tractor and wept. When Martha had been alive he could overcome any obstacle. No problem was insurmountable when she had been here to help him "A new tractor, Henry, someday you'll have a new tractor," she'd said many times. "We'll make do, don't you worry."
"But, I do worry, Marthy. I do worry," Henry whispered. "An' you ain't here to help me. Did'ya have t'die?
"Pa?"
Henry straightened and drew a hand across his face leaving smudges of dirt and tears. "Sarey?"
He peered through the curtain of dust separating them. "What're y'doin' out in this mess?"
"I knew the old tractor must'a quit again when you didn't come home for lunch." Sarah peered through the red haze. "I came to take you home. You can't work in this."
Henry closed his eyes. He didn't have to struggle to see Sarah through the swirling dust. He could always see Sarah in his mind, gentle eyes, gray as dove wings, always seeking, caring. Dark hair fell about her shoulders, warm and soothing--like Martha's had been.
"C'mon, Pa." Sarah took Henry's arm and led him to the battered old truck. "You can finish up in the morning."
She ran around the truck and slid behind the wheel. Henry sat as she'd left him, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
Henry hunched over his plate, eating without tasting the lunch Sarah had put before him. He glanced at the empty chair at the end of the table.
"Where's Gracie?"
Gracie's not feeling well, Pa..." Sarah began, glancing at the closed door at the end of the hallway.
"Our new mama has one of her," Carol Ann paused for effect, "headaches, which will be miraculously cured when you buy her that new car she wants."
Henry slowly chewed and swallowed, then forced himself to look toward the window where his younger daughter sat rocking. The sprawled figure with lank, greasy hair made him want to turn away in disgust, but the sullen green gaze held his. Defiantly Carol Ann ran her hands slowly, almost caressingly, over her distended belly.
"You've no shame at all, have you?" Henry dropped his knife with a clatter.
"Why should I?" The long, green eyes slitted as though suppressing laughter.
"You play the whore, bring yer immoral get into this house and feel no shame?"
"Immoral get? Really, Pa, how biblical."
"Daughter--don't you dare make light of the scriptures! Your ma must be turning in her grave!"
"No, Pa. If Mama's turning in her grave, it's 'cause you brought home a whore to sleep in her bed."
Henry leapt to his feet, arm outstretched to strike the hateful face.
"No, Pa, you can't hit Carol Ann!" Sarah clung to his arm, her gray eyes soft and pleading. "You'll hurt her."
"Yeah, Pa, and Johnny wouldn't like it if you hurt me'n our baby." Carol Ann drew insolently upon the cigarette that dangled from her lips.
Henry sank back into his chair willing himself not to look at the puffy, once pretty face. He slowly stirred sugar into his coffee.
"Why'nt Johnny come and get you'n yer bastard then?"
"He will, soon's he gets his divorce, which won't be any too soon for me." Carol Ann rose, stretched to emphasize her pregnancy, and sauntered toward the doorway.
"Pa?"
Henry stirred his coffee and said nothing.
"Young Doc said you need to pay something toward the hospital bill. He wants it all beforehand."
Henry nursed the old pickup into a parking space in front of the Farmers and Merchants National Bank. For a long moment he sat, silently observing the near empty streets. Only fools like himself would venture out in such heat. The encroaching dirt had already begun to stain the horizon. Soon the full fury of another sand storm would be upon them. He loosened the wire that held the door of the old truck closed.
Shaking his head wearily, he stepped out, slammed the door and wired it shut again. Old clunker needed replacing. Perhaps Leland could see his way clear to okaying a new truck as well as a tractor. Perhaps the land back of the creek could serve as collateral. It was all he had left to mortgage. It was good land, even if the flowing creek was now only a memory. It had once ran clear and bank full, and it would again when the drought broke. Henry just couldn't wait that long.
He pushed open the flyspecked doors and approached the cubicle assigned to Bettie Kathrine Newman, who acted as receptionist to the three Bank officials.
"Hey, B.K."
"Hey, Mr. Clemmons. What can I do for you today?" B.K. glanced nervously at the office behind her. Mr. Clinton had given her a run down on business only this morning and Henry Clemmons name had come up.
"I need to see Leland, B.K. Business."
"Well," Bettie Katherine stalled, "I'll see if he can see you."
Henry folded himself onto the straight-back chair to wait. He picked up an old copy of Western Horseman and riffled the pages unseeingly. Fragments of his conversations with Carol Ann came unbidden to his mind. He supposed she had been right about Gracie. He supposed Martha was spinning in her grave now that Gracie was in his bed. Henry's thoughts turned to Gracie in wonder. How had he, with his gaunt ugliness, managed to capture a creature like Gracie? Gracie, with her high piled strawberry curls, blue-shadowed eyes and a red smear of a Joan Crawford mouth.
I was lonely, Marthy, he implored silently. I was so lonely--and you left me.
"Mr. Clemmons?"
The voice persisted, breaking into his litany. "Henry?"
Henry looked up apologetically. "I'm sorry, B.K. What'd say?"
"I said Mr. Clinton will see you now." B.K. lowered her gaze, as if she knew the outcome of the visit.
Henry pushed aside the small gates leading into Leland Clinton's office.
"Hey, Henry!" False joviality ricocheted in the silence.
"Hey, Leland." Henry sank into the chair beside the desk.
"What can we do for you, Henry?" The banker pawed nervously through the thick file before him.
"The first thing you can do, Leland, is cut the crap." Henry pinned him with a steely glance. "When you're friendly, I worry, 'cause when you're friendly, you usually screw somebody."
"What d'ya mean, Henry?" Leland tugged at the stained tie around his neck. "Who'd I ever screw?"
"Never mind, Leland. I ain't got all day, and that's how long it'd take. I came in about a loan."
"Another loan?"
"Yep. Another'n. I need a new tractor, and while I'm at it, I need a new truck. The old'un is held together with prayer and balin' wire."
"Did Sarah tell you I called this morning?"
"Yep. She told me."
"Tell you why?"
"Nope. Didn't need to. Ain't women's business."
"Should'a listened to her. Would'a saved you a trip in. Truth is, Henry, I've gone about as far as I can with you."
Henry carefully constructed a pyramid of his fingers. "I need a loan, Leland. I need a new truck." He studied the banker's face through his fingers. "And, I need a new tractor."
Leland Clinton squirmed uneasily. "Your note is past due, Henry."
"Yep, I know."
"I don't know what you expect of me, Henry. I can only do so much."
"Well, I hoped you'd give me an extension, and cut another note for the tractor and truck."
"I can't, Henry. I'd like to but--"
"But, what?" Henry waited.
"Well, you know, Henry, you did sign that note."
"I know I did. But, I thought the drought would break by now."
"Well, it ain't, Henry, and the note is past due. You had ample notice."
"I been late before, Leland, so what?"
"So what? It's become another matter--a matter of buying up notes. Lots of notes been bought up lately."
Henry sprang to his feet. "Are ya tellin' me you sold me out?"
"Not exactly," Leland cast about for an explanation.
"What'd you mean 'not exactly'? Henry leaned over the desk, bristling. "Did you sell my note or not?"
"Yep," Leland assented. He bowed his head against the expected verbal assault. "J.D. bought it--along with several others."
"J.D. bought up my note?" Henry sank back into the chair.
"Yep."
"But, why, damn it? Why'd you let it go? And to J.D. of all people!"
"'Cause. It's common practice in the bankin' bidness and you defaulted on your payments."
"So, you play God now, do you, Leland? You decide who'll survive and who won't. You know how long old J.D. Trotter's been wantin' my land!"
The banker's eyes glittered coldly. "Don't blame me for your mistakes, Henry. You never should'a taken out that loan for rebuilding that old house for Gracie, what with times the way they are. I only approved the loan as a favor to you--new wife'n all."
Henry got up to leave, dejection etching even deeper lines in his face.
"I did you another favor this morning, Henry. Sarah could'a told you if you'd have listened. I didn't approve the loan for Gracie's new car, either."
"Yer all heart, Leland, but everyone knows that whore's have hearts of gold. You sit here in yer daddy's bank, in his old chair, whorin' for old J.D.--just like he did."
"You should know 'bout whores, Henry. You got'em living under your roof--what with Gracie and that knocked up kid of yours. Sixteen, ain't she?"
Henry, having no answer, pushed through the little gates. "Bye, B.K."
"Bye, Mr. Clemmons. Tell Sarah I said hey."
Henry sat unmoving behind the wheel of the old truck, his gaze drawn to the office across the street. It appeared closed. Blinds were drawn against the approaching storm, but in his mind's eye, Henry could see the old attorney hunched over his typewriter.
"Well, you finally done it, J.D. You finally stole the land." He could almost feel the greed emanating from the false-front building. He cranked the engine and eased out into the swirling dust, wondering why he felt no anger. He only thought of the red yarn Sarah had asked him to bring home. Sarah was such a good girl. So like her ma.
Henry turned onto Old Lake Road, passing the Pied Piper Tavern. The usual cars and pickups nosed like suckling pigs around the front door. For a moment Henry considered going in and ordering a drink. Whiskey. Wouldn't the good old boys be surprised? Yessireebob! Old straight-laced Henry Clemmons would be the talk of the town tomorrow.
He drove the truck over the dried mud almost to the old train trestle that bisected the lake. He'd never seen the water so low before. He peered through the dust at the abandoned track. When he was a boy, he'd believed the rails led to faraway, exciting places. Sometimes he and Skinny Maberry would hang the caboose and ride to Sylverton, pretending the train was taking them to Calais, Morrocco--places of adventure and intrigue. He no longer believed this. Like himself, the track led nowhere.
Henry studied the toes of his boots. Only a few scratches showed on the toes. He eased them off. Old Mr. Bob could use them. Sarey'd see to it. Removing the shirt that she'd ironed so neatly, he placed it on the boots. He added his watch, eyeglasses and the red yarn carefully atop the pile.
Unwiring the door of the truck he stepped out. Mud, dried and curled, crackled beneath his feet as he walked to the water's edge. The brown water felt hot and seemed to cling to his ankles as he waded toward the channel. The red storm sent clawing fingers, seeking, welcoming.
It was an ugly day to die.
Jo Anne Horn aka Samantha, still doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up. She's been wife, mother, horse trader, secretary, assembly line worker and legal stenographer. In her mid-forties, not knowing how to knit or crochet, she decided to add writing to her list of things to do. She and her husband, Flip, enrolled at the University of Texas at San Antonio, he to finish his degree in Political Science, she to kibitz in fun courses, Creative Writing, etc. He graduated with honors. She is still kibitzing. They moved to Lake Brownwood in 1989, where she added Emergency Medical Technician to her list of varied occupations. She maintained the certification and position with their volunteer fire department for twelve years. Because she heard that getting screenplays produced was much more difficult than getting novels published, she turned to writing scripts, perhaps for the challenge or she's simply a masochist at heart. Her screenplay, She Who Remembers, adapted from the New York -Times best-selling novel, by Linda Lay Shuler, has been optioned twice. Her favorite rejection letter came from Walter Matthau, written in purple ink on his personal stationery. While attending UTSA, she worked on the campus magazine, CACTUS ALLEY, and had numerous stories published. Two poems, "Apache Tears" and "The Old Woman," are published in RED CLAY, a literary magazine. One poem, The Old Woman, was nominated for the Pushcart Award in 1994. See more of The Piper Stories at JoAnneHorn.com.
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