We come to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly - Sam Keen*


PART 1

Just after I turned eighteen—just before I left my home—I killed a man. I told myself it was an accident, but no one in town would have believed me—not with my reputation, nor his.

There was no way I was going to hang for his death, so I chucked the lantern down the hallway toward the back of the house and it exploded against the wall. The blue yellow flames raged across the wooden floor and climbed the walls. At the time, the whole thing made perfect sense. I was figuring that before anyone would notice the fire, gather help, and haul in water, there would be nothing left but a heap of ashes and smoke, and I’d be long gone.

If you were to ask me to pinpoint the day my life changed, it was my tenth birthday, August of 1918, the same day my father died.
Eight years later, I buried my mother; the darkness taking her like the wind carries off the flicker of a candle. She loved me, perhaps too much, if there is such a thing.

The only thing mother had left me was a tin box full of lies and a whole lot of nothing left to lose. I gathered what little I had and walked through the front door as the flames began to spread through the small house.
I have discovered; lies, even ones you tell to yourself, hide nothing. And, if you lie long enough, the deceit becomes the truth that you will carry within your heart until it kills you. Death however, is sometimes the perfect substitute for life.

I could go on about the other crap; voices through thin walls, over the shoulder looks, deceit from someone you should be able to trust, or the conflict she held within her heart that killed her faster than any cancer, but I’ll save that for later. I have covered most of my life in the journals on my desk. They are yours, as well as everything I have built up, bought up, or used up over the years. It’s a sure thing that you are confused, so it’s my hope you will see how we all ended up in this particular place. The last thing I expected after all these years, was to find my son.

. . . .
. . . . . . . .

I read the letter, once again, and placed it between the pages of the journal. My family and I had arrived Brantôme, an idyllic village in the southwest area of France, just north of Perigueux, on the banks of the River Dronne to visit my father once again. We would come often and enjoy the area where he and Savannah had retired. On this trip, I did not come here to bury my father, but as Lucas Colby would tell you, life does not always cooperate.

As I laid in bed on this morning, the hearth fire at the far end of the bedroom created a ginger glow across the elaborate ceiling as shadows danced above my bed entertaining my tired eyes. A soft radiance, in an otherwise dark room, reflected the surroundings as sleep escaped me. I examined the intricate artwork and thought of the gift found within the hands of the aging master; skills lost through the ages along with the art, hope, and the romance. These thoughts crossed my mind on this morning as I am restless and with a slight headache—wine does this to me sometimes.

My wife slept and I watched, and thought of how fortunate I was to have found my love so easily when some men try all of their lives searching for the perfect love. She clutched the bed sheet in her slender hand, and pulled it closer to her chin. I slid my cover down and lifted from bed.

At the window, I stood and raised the sash hoping to relieve the stale air in the warm room. A light breeze drifted across a marbled sill and silk curtains billowed as cool air chattered the wooden blinds. Looking through the black of morning, I closed my eyes and inhaled the taste of morning dew. Darkness has a scent all its own.

Night faded as the sun peeked over distant hilltops, and I watched as the sky transitioned from starry black to shades of red, orange, yellow, blending to a cerulean heaven.

My attention focused toward the sound of rushing water beyond the surrounding stonewall. The river, out of view, splashed against the water wheel and delivered a souvenir memory reminding me of perhaps, how life itself works; lifting, pulling, turning while the ever changing tide of the river ebbs without thought to patience or circumstance.

Turning away from the window I thought, he was always the first to rise. The hinges of the oak door creaked as I pulled it open and my wife shuffled, pulling the sheet closer to her face.

In the quiet of dawn, I passed the library and thought of the endless joy and laughter created from his engaging stories that always ran deep into the twilight hours as we sat near the warmth of the fireplace. Time would always advance quickly and without notice as it does when one is enjoying occasions occupying mind and spirit.

The aroma of fresh coffee, which welcomed me each morning, was absent. A cold pot sat alone in a kitchen lit only by sunlight streaming through the paned window.
Normally I would find him sitting on the portico overlooking the banks of the River Dronne, as if in anticipation of a guest long overdue from a journey. I started the coffee and returned upstairs, peeked in on my wife, still sleeping soundly.
I walked to his room and entered as I recalled our last conversation.

He leaned against large pillows propped against an immense headboard, his hands folded across his stomach. He opened his eyes as I approached, and turned his head.

"Running a bit late this morning, are we?" I asked.

"A bit. I’m a little more tired than usual."

"Well, we have no plans for the day so just rest and when you are ready, ring me downstairs. I’ll bring you coffee." I stood, and his hand touched mine.

"We had a good time last night, didn’t we?"

"Yes. It was a lovely evening and the children enjoyed it as well."

"Do you have a moment?" he said, and I knew there was only one answer.

"Of course. What is it you would like?"

"I want to tell you a story."

"You’ve told us many stories," I said. "Yet, there is still another?"

His expression changed and his eyes wandered to a place in the past, beyond my view.

"I had a dream last night . . . about Savannah. She reminded me, there is one thing
I haven’t told you. Not that I haven’t wanted to, it’s just that . . ."

"I can’t imagine what it would be," I said. "You have shared so many stories."

"True, but this story is different. It’s the story you don’t know; how all of this ends." The lines on his face, like a map of life, told a tale few have lived. "Take this advice with you, if I teach you nothing else," he said. "Never let deceit stay within your heart and allow a lie to come between you and the one you love. What you hold inside your heart will define you. It will define your life." His eyes glistened, like emeralds in a treasured life, showing happiness and yet, some regret as he continued, "I have lived my life believing everything I did had a purpose. Before those times, before I met Savannah, the world bowed to me. I had wealth, power, and everything a man could want. I was that man before Savannah. Now, I am not. What the world saw in me was only the shell of the man. Savannah saw the man I was to be. Still, I broke rules, I made my own, and I treated people that loved me, without compassion. I have paid for those deeds many times."

I realized this was his confession, truths from a man believing his time would soon pass. I felt a tinge of discomfort knowing of secrets not shared, but understood. Perception is a funny thing. As you grow up you believe so many things as truths only to discover things are not as they seem.

My mother and I shared many talks; her love for Lucas was evident. Together, the gazes shared between them, something in their eyes one rarely sees in a relationship, told of a secret only they knew. Now, I was beginning to understand.
"There is no reason why you should share this with me Lucas," I said to him.

"There are many reasons," he said. "Some of which you know nothing of." He continued as if this conversation must persist without close. "Over the past few years we have talked of a great many things and yet there is still so much you don’t know about my life, Savannah, and even your mother."

Trying to evade the unavoidable conclusion to our conversation I said, "We have time. We have today, tomorrow, and even next week before we leave."

"It’s nice to think so, but I am an old man, and afraid tomorrow may not come." He paused for a moment and then said, "I have mostly finished my journal, and I would like for you to have it."

He raised his arm and pointed to five brown leather notebooks neatly stacked on the corner of his desk. I stepped across the room to look over the books.

"Sit down," he said. "No need to stand."

His chair held me like embracing arms, as if coming home from a long passage. I felt oddly at ease, as if I belonged behind this desk. My eyes scanned the mahogany desktop covered with mementos; traveled recollections of his life. His typewriter at my right, the keys worn and faded, a picture of Savannah capturing her spectacular beauty, a picture of Lucas and my mother from more recent times, and a hand carved wooden tray holding a Conway Stewart pen.

"Your mother bought that pen for me," he said.

"It’s beautiful."

"I’ve written a few stories with it."

"I bet you have." I placed the pen back into the tray.

"When she gave me the pen, she had placed a note in the box, it simply said, ‘Lucas, Write your story.’ So I did, and the results are the journals before you. All my sins, all my confessions, and all you need to know about our lives together and how we ended up in this particular place."

I turned the pages of the first journal; it reflects a life not experienced by many. I understood this was to be his gift of eternity.

"This is your life?"

"You could say that."

I read the first few pages of his journal and looked up to see my wife, Maryann, standing in the doorway.

"Good morning men," she said, as she entered the room. "Am I interrupting?"

Lucas smiled and said, "Good morning Maryann. No. No interruptions. I was just giving Luke something to read."

She walked to the desk, and stood behind me. "What are you reading?"

"Lucas wrote these journals," I said, as she scanned the pages.

"This is wonderful Lucas," she said after a few minutes of reading over my shoulder.
"Will this be your next novel?"

I felt the warmth of her hand on my shoulder and heard the casting tone of her voice as she broke the silence whispering my name. I looked up to see the glisten in her eyes telling me the end of another story, with the last chapter breaking my heart.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

In a quirk of fate (which seemed to define my father’s life) beginning somewhere around 1903. Martha, my grandmother, from whom my father inherited his writing curiosities, wrote in a letter I found, saying that "staying in Thurmond, West Virginia would’ve spelled an early death," and yet, she and my grandfather died before the age of forty.

Recent from shaking off the innocence of youth, William Colby, my grandfather, expressed determination to make a new life, resolute in his conviction to be a good father to carry the family name to a better future.

Martha’s letters said, for over a century the Colby clan made Thurmond home, and everyone knew there were only two ways to survive the hills of West Virginia. The honest way, carving an existence from the coalmines—the families joked of your first toy; a chunk of black gold dug from deep within Capital Mountain—or the dishonest, but lucrative, making of moonshine.

William didn’t want their children to follow the death walk of a coalminer’s life or the unlawful dangers of running white lightning on moonlit nights through the Appalachian mountainside. He and Martha shared dreams and long talks while planning their future as the evening sun fell beneath the tall ridge leaving a hint of twilight for hours.

"I hear Ohio is full of land that’s rich with crops of corn, hay, and barley. It would be good work Martha, and safe," William said.

"I’d like that, but what about our kinfolk here?"

"Them that ain’t dead is making shine in the hills. Coalmining is dangerous, but that stuff’ll kill you. And if the law gets you, that there’s a whole bigger trouble
yet."

Moving to a better place offered the chance to find a better life not consumed by the darkness and dust of a coal miner’s existence. More important, Martha could see the dangers of moonshine and the effect on the families of Thurmond. She just didn’t know those problems would follow them to Ohio.

I’ve never met any of my relatives. Both great-grandfathers died in the Red Ash Mine collapse along with forty-six other miners, all of them friends or relatives. Not much later, there were six more mining accidents—the last one killing many relatives, and then death knocked once again taking my great-grandmother.

William made his own way while working the mines. Smart, strong, and tall, he worked hard and saved his money. With the last days of winter closing in, the snow melted from the lower elevations father hitched a small covered spring wagon to the back of the family mule, gathered Martha, and the few possessions they owned, heading north toward Ohio.

Martha said the narrow mountain trails of West Virginia cut along the steep sides of the gorge. Deep ruts formed in the hard packed ground making for a rough ride and the steepness of the mountain trails proved a challenge to the old mule. During weeks of travel, my grandfather would stop and find work along the way.

Each morning the rutted path continued. In the distance of grassy fields, stumps from timber long since felled looked like sentinels guarding their path. Back home, their field of vision blocked by high mountains and thickets of forest, was unlike the open land stretching across a quiet countryside with small hills, and narrow valleys. Their path turned west pointing them toward Anstead.

Growing weary of the long days, Martha asked, "Will this never end?"
William, sensitive to the needs of an expecting wife, held her close, keeping a hand on the reins. His mind not filled with Martha’s scripture; he comforted her fears and said, "Soon, my good wife. Soon we will reach our destination."

The journey ahead seemed without end, until they came upon the small town of Mapleton.

William guided the small wagon through the town’s narrow street. They smiled and waved politely at the local folks walking the paths outside the small stores. They passed a small dress shop, a church, a barber, and a blacksmith shop. William stopped the wagon and tied the mule to a post outside a small supply store.
Pushing the door open, the bell hanging from the door jam chattered. The proprietor—a small man with large sideburns and an even larger mustache—stood in the back of the store. William could see him balanced on a small stool, his clothes covered with a long apron.

Busy stocking shelves with bagged goods he glanced over his shoulder and said,
"Howdy stranger. What can I do for you?"

William smiled, and said, "Need some supplies, a place to stay for a bit, and hopefully some work. I hear there is plenty work on the farms around these parts for a man willing to put his back into it."

"I see," said the owner as he approached and extended a friendly hand. "Name’s Jenkins." William noticed the grip was strong and his hands calloused. "That your wife in the wagon?" Jenkins said, while looking over William’s shoulders and through the front window of the store. "Looks like she’s in a way."

"In a way?" Lucas asked puzzled. "She’s having a baby, if that’s what you’re sayin. Due in a few months we think."

"In that case sir, your travel should be limited."

"Yessir, I agree, but I need to find some work before we can settle in."

"Not a problem young man. Just so happens, I can put you to work right here if you like. Ain’t much, but it will get you by until the little one comes."

"That’ll work, I suppose and we could use some time off that wagon."

"Well then, welcome! This is a really nice town and, if you like, I have a small room available above the store."

"That sure is nice of you, thanks."

"Nothing to brag about son; I can use a hand around here, if you’re much to working the retail trade," Jenkins said.

"Can’t see why not, and I think Martha would appreciate us stopping for a while and stretching our legs."

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

My grandparents found that life in the small town promising. Martha spent her time helping when she could, and in the evening, they enjoyed time with the folks living in town. Sometimes, during the day while William worked, Mrs. Jenkins and Martha would knit under the porch of the store.

"Are you two looking for a boy or a girl?" Mrs. Jenkins asked.

Martha smiled and rubbed her swelling belly and said, "Doesn’t matter, but I think William would love to have a son."

Mrs. Jenkins agreed and said, "By the way you’re carrying, looks to me like he will get his wish."

Martha shifted in her seat, trying to be comfortable. "I hope he gets his wish soon.
I don’t know how much longer I can handle all this hot weather."

Within the week, Martha and William were finished waiting. A new son was born, Lucas Colby, healthy, and full of life.

A few weeks had passed as Theodius Finley rode into town with a need to replenish his supply wagons. He and his crew were returning from a long haul delivering his corn to the neighboring towns.

He stepped onto the porch of the store; Martha sat on a rocking chair with Lucas bundled in her arms. He tipped his hat as he passed and she smiled.

As he entered the store, he eyed William working behind the counter.
"Damn Jenkins. They build ‘em big in Mapleton," he declared.

"Not from here," Jenkins replied without looking up from his account books.

"That so," said Finley. He sauntered over to where William stocked the shelves with the canned goods, and stuck his thumbs in the upper armpit of his vest. He rocked back on his heels, and affirmed in his booming voice, as if he expected the world to bow before him, "I’m Theo Finley." William smiled at Finley while keeping on task.

Finley directed his conversation—to no one in particular—and boasted of his land holdings across Ohio. "I am the largest land owner in this part of the State. So much in fact, the Governor wanted to name the town after me, but I told ‘em no. I am but a humble servant of this glorious State not in need of special treatment or honor."

William rolled his eyes and continued working while listening to Finley’s rhetoric and from time to time, Jenkins looked up and shook his head in wonder at the arrogant chattering.

Finley approached William once again and said, "Listen up son. I own some land, a big farm, up in Independence and I’m looking for someone like you to help me manage my men in the fields."

"Do you now, Mr. Finley," William said.

"Sure do, and it’s a big one. Not too far from here, as a matter of fact. Anyhow,
I’m looking for someone that could help with running my boys. There a good group, but need some direction. Do you have any experience in handling crews?"

William stood and glanced over to his boss, and Jenkins gave a look of approval. "I ran some crews back home in the mines," he said.

Finley, interested, asked if William if he would move west and work on his farm.
William agreed it could be what he was looking for, and he promised Finley he would give it some serious thought.

"Good, good," Finley said. "How about I expect you at my farm in two weeks. That enough time for you Jenkins?"

William ended the day speaking with Jenkins about Finley’s offer. Jenkins said, "He’s a boastful man but he will make good on his promise. Besides, he can give you more than I will ever be able to offer you."

The following morning, William hitched the wagon, and readied their supplies for travel. He filled the back of the wagon with two sacks of cornmeal, three pounds of salted beef, flour, and a bag of dried beans.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

The journey was not as treacherous as the mountain trails of West Virginia, and the well-worn trail was smooth and level. William estimated their travel would last seven days.

It was an odd world to William and Martha—accustomed to the high mountains and deep hollers of West Virginia—the landscape of Ohio was rolling of hills and open, allowing one to gaze for miles without obstruction. Martha missed the soft cast of the Blue Ridge, the gentle haze covering the morning dew, the soft smell of the surrounding woods, and their family. She took comfort in their journey by quoting scripture from her Bible as they traveled.

Days passing, their journey brought them to a split rail cedar fence along the side of the carriage path. Extending as far as the eye could see the fence followed the sloping elevation of the land. Rows of corn and rolling acres filled with wheat and barley lined the path. As the sun crested at midday and the heat shimmered across the fields, William slowed their wagon as they arrived at an open gate marked with a sign stating, FINLEY FARMS.

William directed his wagon off the main road and onto the property. A tree lined path of oaks and maples shadowed the ground beneath them as they traveled the pathway toward the house. As the main house came into sight, William stopped the wagon. A multi floored mansion stood in his view.

Six fluted columns stood sentry stretching toward the sky supporting a second story balcony. A cross-patterned trellis bonded each column and a low-lying neatly trimmed golden rod hedge with bright yellow flowers lined the front of the house.
William moved closer to the front of the home and stepped off the wagon, slapped his hands against his clothing to remove the loose dust, removed his hat, and smoothed his hair. He walked up the five red brick steps leading to the porch extending the length of the house and another ten strides to stand below a large solitary lantern hanging above his head marking the two massive black doors. He knocked, turned looked at Martha and she smiled. After a few moments, a small man with a slight build answered the door.

"I am here to see Mr. Finley," William said.

The man, dressed in fancy clothes, William took as a butler, said, "I gather you are
William Colby?"

William smiled and the man asked him into the house. Stepping through the doorway, he stood on polished dark wood floors before dual staircases—one left and one right—with intricate hand carved balusters followed the curved walls leading to rooms on the next level. Looking up, he saw what he believed to be the largest chandelier in the world hanging high from the ceiling, sparkling like the sun. Ahead in his view, two brass figures of horses facing each other while reared on their haunches. To his left, a room extended to a bay window overlooking a garden. Hand painted art work lined the walls, the furniture—elaborate and detailed—showed the comfort of wealth and position. He looked to his right and saw a library full of books neatly shelved ceiling to floor, a large desk with hand carved figures and inlaid ivory sat stately in front of a window that reached to the ceiling. Theodius Finley sat in a large high backed leather chair in his library smoking a large cigar. He stood at William’s introduction.

"Glad to see you made it," he said, extending his hand.

"I hope you didn’t have much trouble finding the place."

"No, it was just as you said, Mr. Finley."

"Well good. I have set up one of the houses for you and Mrs. Colby. You will find it just down the main road a bit—about a mile and a half."

"Thanks. We appreciate it."

"Not a problem. You will find the house in order, as well as the furnishings. I think you will be comfortable. Why don’t you head on down there, and rest for the evening. Be back here at six in the morning, and we will get you working."

The two chatted for a while longer, and William thanked Finley once again for the job and the hospitality.

They arrived at their new house and saw an uncluttered home painted white with green shutters, a front porch, and a barn. The property was large and a big oak tree stood shadowing the front porch extending across the front of the small home. A small barn erected on the right of the property, they decided, would be perfect for their wagon and a cow for milk.

"There’s plenty of room for a garden, and chickens," Martha said.

"Sure is, and you can be sure you and your garden will be the talk of the town,"
William told her.

William opened the door and stepped inside. Martha followed close with Lucas in her arms. She could see the layers of dust settled on the furniture but she knew this home was ready for a family. Down the hall were two bedrooms, and a large kitchen located on the right as they walked in.

"It has a beautiful brick fireplace, William."

"Yes it does," William said, while walking toward the back of the house.

Martha stepped into the kitchen and from the window, she could see the barn, and most of the yard where Lucas would play. She sat at the oak table inside the kitchen and said a prayer of thanks. Though she whispered reverently, William could hear her from the other room.

"Oh Father in heaven. Thank you for your guidance and bringing us to the safe haven of goodness. . ."

The following morning came early and William was ready for a new beginning. Standing at the front door of their new home, he kissed Martha, and rubbed the head of young Lucas.

"I’ll be back home as soon as I can," he told Martha.

"Do try and be home on time William."

"I will, but you know it’s my first day so there’s no telling what will come up."

"Yes, I know, but don’t forget, we have Bible study tonight."

"I know. I will be here with you and Lucas."

William stepped onto the front porch and noticed a wagon headed toward the house. Finley held the reins.

"Good morning," Finley said as the wagon rolled to a stop.

"Good morning." William, with his southern upbringing was quick to introduce his wife, "This is Mr. Finley. Mr. Finley, this is my wife, Martha."

Finley climbed down from the wagon, and took her slender hand, lifting it to his lips. He touched his lips to her pale skin and said, "It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"We are glad to be here, and thankful for your kind consideration," Martha said.
"William speaks of you with high regard."

William could see Finley interest in Martha’s beauty but he’d seen this before with other men. Martha smiled as Finley stared, eyes frozen to hers. He said, "I am happy to see both of you’re here, and if you need anything at all, be sure to see me personally."

He turned to William and suggested they move along and get to the farm. "I’ll need to introduce you to the crew, and get you situated with the foreman. His name is Ethan Moss. He’s a good man, trustworthy. I think you’ll like him."

They climbed into the buck wagon and headed toward the main road. Turning out toward the farm, Finley said, "Lovely wife you have there Colby."

"Thank you sir."

"Yep. She’s a pretty thing. I would keep a close eye on her."

William smiled. "Thanks for the advice Mr. Finley, but I think she’ll be okay. She’s a good Christian woman, strong, and has a mind of her own. She is not easily swayed."
William, uneasy with the comments from Finley, wished the words of his new boss would stop running through his head, but they repeated as they rode in silence to the farm. Competition from others was easy, but William could see determination in
Finley’s eyes.

As they approached the buildings, a large group of men gathered just outside the barn area. Pulling up, Finley yelled out, "You boys better get your asses moving.
The day’s not long and dark will be here before you know it."

Ethan Moss walked from the barn and wiped his hands with a red cloth handkerchief meeting them at the wagon. He smiled at William with a large grin and a friendly weather worn face.

"Ethan. Meet William Colby. He’s the one I been telling you about."

Ethan extended his hand and welcomed to Finley Farms. "We have a lot of work here, so let me get you with the men."

William’s determination and hard work moved him up the chain of command and before the season was out, he managed his own farm crew as they toiled in the bright sun bucking hay, corn, barley, and other crops grown.

As the year moved on, Theodius Finley became a common sight around the Colby residence, ensuring his presence was known to Martha. Finley provided small gifts, always with the intent of enjoyment by all. He assigned men to clean the yard and tend the gardens. "We need to be sure your man is working, and not being bothered by things around the house," he always told Martha.

Finley also ensured William’s absence assigning the task of delivery for the crops pulled from the fertile land.

It was a three-day trip from the farm to the Cleveland, and time away from family does things to a man. With the fields cleared and the work done, Theodius Finley allowed the men certain pleasures. Celebrations at the end of the week became common, as did games of chance, and stilled whiskey.

William enjoyed his new life, and he discovered Friday night with the boys was more fun than staying home with Martha’s partiality for Bible study. As time moved forward, William moved away from family life, and further into the arms of another.
This harlot of the night did not arrive in the shape of a beautiful woman. She arrived in the shape of a bottle filled with fun, and a chance to escape the realities of his world.

PART 2


In August of 1918, my tenth birthday, Mother had promised me a special breakfast.
It had been a bad crop and a dry summer, with most folks moving from town to town in search of work and a better life. There wasn’t much to offer anyone and I can tell you, we were barely surviving. I’d always speculated as to why God hadn’t done something to improve these conditions considering the amount of time she’d pray each day. But then again, as a ten year old, my thoughts wandered quite often between the wonders of God and then off to some other irrelevant activity. Mother believed the spirit of God occupied every living soul and it was His hand guiding her and me, and the rest of this damned world through life. On this morning, He, according to her beliefs, gave us a sky of orange blush spreading across wilting corn stalks in the fields surrounding our house.

I stood at my bedroom window and looked through holes of a tattered hand sewn curtain, while my mother walked through the yard, which was nothing but powdered dirt. She stopped to pick up the morning paper, and something caught her attention. I didn’t know it then, but soon we would share in her discovery of the headline story, the body of a man found inside the Finley Emporium during the night. These simple words where to become the impetus of change in her life, setting into motion my undeniable future.

Dark clouds hung low in the distance and began to hide the morning sunrise, promising a coming storm. The distant thunder rumbled across the sky as she raised her head and realized her time was short.

Although this was the dead of August, a cooler wind brushed my face, and the smell the rain was in the air. She paused for a moment, and then bowed her head, and I can only imagine, she prayed for God to bring water to our thirsty land.
When she was done, she tucked the paper under her arm in a fold, and hurried toward the hen house to gather eggs for breakfast.

She hustled back across the property returning to the steps leading to the porch. The screened door slammed shut as she came into the kitchen and called to me. Grabbing my overalls from the bedpost, I pulled them over my skinny ass and dashed down the hallway as fast as my gangly legs could carry me. I wrapped my arms around her legs, and buried my face in her dress.

"Good morning Lucas," she said. "You’re awful chipper this morning. Is there something going on I should know about?"

She spoke with a teasing voice, as if joking, and she knew I knew something was up. I played along just to hear her talk; Words, as thick and sweet as pure honey, ending with each expression lifting as if they were the wisp of a soft white cloud twisting up toward the sky on a summer wind. I could listen to her for hours.
She rubbed her slender hands across my head, smoothed my tousled curls, and leaned over. Her hair, black as a raven’s wing, covered me like a warm blanket and she kissed my forehead with lips as soft as cotton.

"Happy birthday baby," she said. "You’re growing up so fast."

I knew she loved me, and she believed this would be a day of celebration in a life of quiet solitude within the confines of a home with little laughter.

Standing as tall as my toes would allow, I peered over the stovetop and asked, "Is them pancakes?"

"Sure are sweetie," she said. "Now you just go and sit. I’ll be bringing you your breakfast shortly."

I took my seat at the kitchen table and licked my lips in grand anticipation of my favorite breakfast while viewing every detail before me. At the center, a small pitcher of maple syrup the color of rich amber, next to my hand, a glass of fresh milk, a fork, and a knife atop a neatly folded napkin. The morning newspaper sat on the corner of the table just within my reach. Mother considered every detail on this morning and she knew the headline of the paper would be cause for my attention.

She gave me a sideways glance, viewing me out of the corner of her eye as mothers did when they don’t want you to know they are watching. I paid little mind to her in that my stomach called louder than the newspaper. With the napkin tucked into my collar, sunlight streaked through the open window and across the table landing directly on the newspaper as if guided by spiritual hands. Looking back, I’m sure her self-righteous thoughts brought her to believe God’s hand delivered this beacon of light at the precise moment in order to change my point of focus.

As if poked with a stick, I reached for the paper and asked, "What happened?"

"A man went and broke into Mr. Finley’s store during the night," she said, as if she didn’t expect me to see the headline.

Her practiced response was set to reflect her intolerance of the deed. It wasn’t unusual for her to set things up as stories to teach me a lesson, parables she called them. She would say, "That’s how Jesus taught His disciples."

Of course, with my impeccable manners, taught respectfully through hours of Bible study as dictated from a mother with expectations no less than perfect, I asked,
"May I read the story?"

"You ain’t gonna know much of the words but go right ahead, baby," she said.

She knew I was too young to understand everything. Nonetheless, this news, however unfortunate, would become her courier—a gift, so she could teach me once again of the demons facing me if I chose to wander from the straight path of life.

"Ma, Mr. Finley says here in the paper this man was all liquored up. What’s that mean?"

She took my hand, and said, "What this means, this story, is the damn fool was drunk from the whiskey he found in the store."

I giggled under my breath, trying to hide my grin as she immediately caught herself using a word of drastic nature. Embarrassed at her outburst, she apologized, and begged God’s forgiveness, as I paid little mind to her flailing request reading more of the story.

"It says he shot himself Ma!"

Now more content than ever, knowing she could make her point answered, she said, "Mr. Finley kept a shotgun tucked under the counter and this man found it. This is why you should stay away from drinking, Lucas. Liquor is the devil’s drink, and this fool was so drunk his eyes was crossed."

Satisfied with her pronouncement, she boasted to herself in glory, her point proven without doubt.

"That’s enough," she said, as she removed the newspaper from my grip. "Your breakfast is ready."

Reluctantly, I released the paper as she slid a large plate of hot pancakes before me.

I was curious, as any young boy would be and wanted to know more, but she seemed
replete with satisfaction.

"Drinking is the work of the devil," she would recur, as a constant reminder of the sins and temptations ahead of me.

My thoughts relegated to the large stack of pancakes standing like a tower before me with the story, and the lesson, quickly became a faded reflection. Mother refocused her thoughts as if on a mission and, as if looking through a mirror, seeing the legacy of the father reflected in me in so many ways. "You’re so much like him," she said as her mood changed while sitting across from me. "You carry his handsome face, his lanky walk, his intelligence, and charm." Then she stopped talking and bowed her head as I’d seen a hundred times, and prayed.

As I finished my breakfast, a loud knock shook the front door. From my chair in the kitchen, I saw Theodius Finley dressed as if for a Sunday morning blocking the sunlight with his large frame. His mustache hid his lips, and the wide brim of his hat threw a dark circle across the room. Wide lapels defined his broad chest and his boots, highly polished, came to a point. Mother jumped from the table upon hearing the knock, leaving me more curious.

He would come by often and visit with her, but he was not expected on this morning, and never this early. The expression on his face was solemn, and it was apparent he’d arrived with intent.

"Good Morning Mr. Finley," she said stepping onto the porch.

"Morning, Mrs. Colby." A golden chain hanging from his vest pocket glistened in the sunlight as he stepped off the porch and into the morning sun.

Standing quietly in the hallway leading to the front door, I strained to hear the hushed and somber utterances taking place in the yard just beyond the doorway. I could only hear parts of the words of their conversation, "Finley’s" and "Sorry."
Bits of their talking drifted across the porch and into the kitchen where I waited
for her return.

She sat on the front step, a vacant expression on her face; her head down, eyes staring at the ground beneath her. Tears in her eyes reflected emptiness caused from a conversation held on this day of supposed celebration. Finley handed her a white handkerchief, and then, with his hat in his hand, motioned toward the house. Her hands tightly clasped between her legs, she shifted her body, and glanced back at the doorway. She softly shook her head and responded, "No."

I heard them say goodbyes, and Finley offering his services as mother stepped back into the house trying to appear as if nothing happened. Her face gave way to truth; her eyelids pink from tears shed, and her high-cheeked face downcast and pallid.

"Ma, you okay?" I asked.

"Yes honey, I’ll be fine." She folded onto the worn couch in the sitting room, emotionally exhausted from the morning events and called for me to join her. She extended her slender arm and rubbed the cushion beside her. "We need to talk," she said.

I sat next to her, like many times before while reading scripture on Sunday afternoons. She was hiding something but I couldn’t imagine what it could be and decided to take things at face value.

She brushed my hair away from my forehead, and looked deeply into my eyes. "Emerald green, like your father, and your hair is so brown and wavy. You remind me so much of him," she said.

She pulled me close, praying under her breath. She then pushed me away placing her hands squarely on my shoulders, and looked straight into my eyes.

"Mr. Finley came by with some bad news," she said.

I could see the monogram of "TF" sewn into the corner of the handkerchief she held to her slender nose.

"What happened?" I had the feeling of impending doom brought on by her solemn expression.

"It’s your father, baby," she said, trying to regain her composure. "Mr. Finley stopped by to tell me your father won’t be coming home. He got himself killed."

"But Ma," I cried out. "You said he was supposed to be coming home, and be with us."

I had honestly believed, as any young boy would, my father would arrive one day in celebration of his being a war hero—of that, I held no doubt. In my mind, there was the school band playing, marching to show their pride, proud of my father’s heroism as a soldier fighting the wrongs of the world. I imagined flags and fireworks, and banners hung from the tallest buildings. I would sit on my father’s shoulders, showing everyone how proud I was as we sat a top the back seat of a beautiful shiny automobile on a bright and clear morning. The crowd would cheer and clap as we passed and my father and I would wave and smile and I would be happy on that morning and we would be a family again.

I felt the tears well up in my eyes, my lips curling down, and my nose warm, heat rising in my face. She pulled me close to her bosom, gently rubbing my head with her long slender hand.

To be honest, looking back, I don’t know what bothered me most—my father not coming home, or not being in the parade.

"I know baby, I know," she said. "But, I’m telling you what’s so. Your father is in heaven now, and God will watch over him and see he is taken care of. They will celebrate his return and he will watch over us from heavens high above."

She prayed for the soul of her husband, asking God to let him enter the Kingdom of Heaven. "I know he didn’t do right all the time Lord," she said. "But the fault did not lie within him."

Sitting on the couch with her as she prayed I didn’t know what I should feel. I knew my father by name only, along with the sparse array of pictures set carefully on the fireplace mantel. To me, my father was a man told by my mother, but never held in my recollection. I felt sad for her, but the emotions were no more for my father than for the man in the newspaper — a curious disposition, but not one of love or affection. Still, I could see her pain, and I held her hand as we sat on the couch and she wept.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

In stark contrast against a cerulean sky, squared in a cleared patch of dirt and brown grass, amidst fields of corn, at the end of a long dusty road, Independence Baptist church served as home to the Sunday gatherings of undeserving town’s people. The white clapboard building had a steep roof, topped by a pointed column that stretched toward the heavens as if showing the only way to salvation.
Three days passing my birthday celebration, I watched my father arrive without the fanfare expected toward a war hero. I stood alone in front of the church, dry grass beneath my feet, and watched two men sitting in the cab of a faded black flatbed truck drive toward the church.

One man on the bed of the truck leaned against the back of the cab. His hat pulled down tight and his arms rested on bent up knees. His head bobbed rhythmically as the truck maneuvered the dips in the road. The truck carried an object covered by black tarp, tied to the bed rails. The sun baked earth and the tandem wheels left a clouded trail of gray dust as evidence of travel.

The engine grumbled and brakes screeched as the truck came to a stop near the back door of the church. The dust from the road covered the tires and the inside the wheel wells and settled along the flat surfaces and in the crevices around the body of the truck.

The driver reached his burly arm through the open window and slapped his meaty hand on the top of the truck cab. The man sitting on the open bed looked up as the driver motioned toward the church.

The driver remained inside the cab, and the man sitting on the bed of the truck stood showing a tall, thin build. He adjusted his hat, hopped off the tailgate onto the ground, and walked to the church disappearing through the side doors and into the darkness.

Preacher Dan returned with the tall man from the back of the truck after a few moments and the driver opened the door and stepped out.

The driver wiped his right hand on his pants and offered it to Preacher Dan. After exchanged words, the driver and the tall man removed the canvas tarp revealing a casket. Other men, from the church with dour expressions approached and helped remove the casket, then carried it inside the church. I watched, dry-eyed and without compassion, my mind holding a yearning curiosity, while sorting ambiguous thoughts. I knew my father died alone on a battlefield, but I didn’t understand why—as the silent box passed me—the feelings within my heart were as dry as the heat rising from the earth.

The men stepped from the church and I watched the driver hand Preacher Dan some papers. The preacher signed them, and returned them to the driver. They shook hands, and talked while exchanging watchful glances toward me. The driver walked to the flatbed, started the engine and blue smoke billowed from the tail pipe. The tall man climbed onto the bed, and the driver pushed the truck into gear with a grinding sound and drove the dusty road leading back to the long main road in front of the church.

The leaves and branches on the trees lining the property caught the gray dust left stirred and abandoned by the passing truck as quiet settled on the church grounds as the truck became a small dot on the horizon of the long road.

Inside the church, the preacher’s wife pounded the ivory keys of the church piano with the hands of a farmer’s wife. Poorly tuned notes wafted through the thick summer heat as Abigail Peterson crooned a hymnal in preparation of Sunday services, drawing my attention away from the diminishing speck on the horizon. I considered the sharp tone of my classmate’s voice carried a tone more reminiscent of screeching owls rather than the voice of an angel’s saving grace. To my pleasure, the practiced recital soon stopped and Abigail Peterson, complete with a pigtails, a flowered dress, knee high socks and white shoes, bounced down the steps of the church stopping only long enough to stick her tongue out at me.

I responded in kind, and then walked to a large oak tree standing on the property line of the church grounds next to the field of corn standing five feet high, barely reaching the top of my head sat against the massive trunk, my arms outstretched over raised knees. I didn’t miss my father, and the thought weighed heavy on my mind.
The caretaker for the church approached from across the grounds. I saw him coming, and stood to greet him. John Watson kneeled on one knee matching my height.

"Hey Lucas, you doin okay?"

I stepped from the tree, stuck my hands deep inside my pockets, and said, "I guess so Mr. Watson. I was just out here wonderin’ about stuff."

"Thinking about your father I suppose."

I shuffled at the dirt beneath my feet for a moment and said, "Should I be sad? I mean, with my father’n all that."

John Watson looked out over the fields surrounding the church, took off his hat, and wiped his sweaty brow with a bandana from the back pocket of his overalls. "I would think it would be a personal choice Lucas. I’m guessing you don’t remember much about your father, so you feeling sad for someone you’ve never known probably wouldn’t feel just right."

"I only know what Ma told me," I said, "and we have pictures, but I don’t ever remember him at our house. She said he died a long way from here, and I should be proud of him. Suppose I am, but I still don’t miss him so much."
Mr. Watson said, "Guess you can’t miss something you never had."

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

Late during the night before the funeral, mother placed my only dress clothes on the chair in my bedroom while I slept. Early in the next morning, she sat at my bedside watching me sleep. I opened my eyes and she was smiling.

"Good morning baby. It’s time to get up."

I yawned, stretched my arms, and said, "It’s still early."

"Yes it is," she agreed. "I made you some breakfast, and we need head on to the church soon."

I rose from bed still tired, and ate a small breakfast while sitting at the table in silence. After breakfast, I dressed wearing my best white shirt and a pair of black pants.

It was a short walk from the house of Colby to the final resting place of my father and although it was early, the sun heated the day through a cloudless sky. She held her Bible under her arm, and with her other hand, she touched me on my shoulder.
Preacher Dan stood at the front door of the church as we walked up the dusty road. After polite greetings, we stepped inside the church and stood in the foyer.

Mother motioned toward a chair and said, "Sit here for a moment baby?" She and the preacher went into his office.

I looked around the room, curious. A picture of Jesus hung above a small table with an empty basket sitting askew. Someone had placed a bouquet of flowers on another table near the sanctuary and the door was open far enough for me to see inside. I stepped inside then stood, bathed only in the light from side windows. The pews lined a path to the front of the church, and there I saw the casket.

I stepped toward the plain wooden box, and never seeing a casket before, and wondered of many things: the color of his hair, the shape of his eyes, the feel of his hands, and the sound of his voice. I touched the wood and walked the length of the casket stopping near the end, and then I sat on the long bench and didn’t know what to do. Mother called out and I walked back to the front of the church.

"You okay baby?" she asked as if I were lost, or into something I shouldn’t have been, which was probably more likely. I said, "Yes. I’m okay."

Why don’t you sit in my office, Lucas?" asked the preacher. "I have a nice book you can look at until we are ready."

I sat on a couch in the preacher’s office and looked out the window. Soon, a small assembly of people gathered quietly inside the church sitting on the long wooden pews. One of the men came into the office of the preacher and took me to the pew where my mother sat.

There were soft murmurs outside her earshot. Sanctimonious eyes darted through the gathering of townspeople as they shared the gossip, secrets held by those knowing the truths unstated to the ears of an innocent child.

Inside the walls of the sanctuary, the sealed box presented the only testament to the existence of William Colby. She told me there wasn’t enough of my father to bring back from wherever he was when he died.

Placed within a simple wooden frame, a photograph of my father sat on the casket. I looked at this picture and thought it must have been from happier times. He was smiling.

Preacher Dan stood elevated on the stage, most of his portly stature hidden behind a podium, vocalizing my father’s life. His jowls shook as his voice echoed from faded church walls while speaking of death and resurrection, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. . ."

I listened to the rhetoric with the boredom of a young child, as my thoughts wandered to the late nights of constant Bible study with mother, and how she would tell me of the sins of man and how no one was worthy in the eyes of God. I thought about the hours spent on knees in prayer and the constant reminder from mother of how sin could creep into my life and destroy me.

I watched my mother and held her hand while sitting quietly in the front row staring at the box before me. She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes with a white handkerchief and I felt her body tremble as she inhaled the stale air of the church.

Preacher Dan prayed once more, and then stepped down. He approached us, and whispered words near her ear while holding her hand. She thanked him, and nodded her head in agreement. Four men stood to carry my father to his final destination on the grounds of the church. We followed without words.

In the pounding heat, the earth’s scent rose through the air bringing the smell of fresh dry dirt as the morning sun approached its apex. A light breeze touched the leaves of the large oak tree, its branches creating a canopy over the congregation providing dappled shadows over the black hole where my father would rest for eternity.

My hair stuck to my forehead, and I felt the beads of sweat slip down my back. I licked my lips wishing to quench my thirst on this summer day.

I watched men and women dressed in shades of black stood surely wishing this would end, as the speckled sunlight reflected off their faces, the shade providing a coolness few deserved. And I wondered, as I stood there among them, if they only kept these clothes for occasions such as this.

During our walk home from church, mother explained the pine box from Uncle Sam was all we could afford. I didn’t know an Uncle Sam, but thought he must have been a kind man to help us. It seemed there were uncles at my house, but I never knew one named Sam.

As the months passed, Martha, seemed to prefer the solitude of her own thoughts, and didn’t speak often of her husband. She continued to draw further and further away, reluctant to speak of the past. I believed, in the end, my father was afraid, as most men would be when finding there was no hope for tomorrow, and no time left for goodbye. I also believed my mother held hope in her heart and I believed, without hope, there isn’t much to live for.

I would have preferred to have a father, and I believed mother would have rather had a husband. She would tell me, sometimes fate controls what you want, but God will give you what you need if you take the time to listen for His voice.

Some nights I’d hear her voice, muffled through thin walls, as I tried to sleep. She would talk as if my father was in the room with her. I prayed each night asking God to stop her pain. Each morning I would sit at the kitchen table waiting for her to rise until I would hear her footsteps shuffling toward the kitchen and she would stand in the doorway and rest on the frame, catching her breath.

I asked, "You okay?"

She always responded, "Yes baby, I will be fine." She would never let me see the pain she was in, but I knew by the look in her eyes, and the way her shoulders slumped. Her reiterated answer echoed the loneliness in her voice as she balanced her thinning frame against the support of the doorway. I could see the pain consuming her, eyes swollen, distant stares looking nowhere in particular.

"Ma, did he love us?" I asked.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

Finley continued to visit us a few times each week. Some days I would awake and he would already be there, drinking coffee with my mother at the kitchen table. Other days, he would arrive in the afternoon and he and my mother would walk the long road running along the front of the house, other times they would sit on the front porch and talk about things adults speak of when children shouldn’t listen. I never paid much mind to their exchange of adult talk until one afternoon I was sitting in the kitchen and I listened to one of their conversations without their knowing.

"Why don’t you and the boy come live in my house Martha?"

"I would never consider that type of arrangement. Besides, Lucas and I do fine right here."

I watched from around the corner as she stood and leaned against the railing surrounding the porch. Looking across the dry grass and the sprouting corn stalks adjacent to the house, she continued, "I can’t imagine what the people of this town would say if they knew about all this."

"They would say that old man Finley ain’t so bad after all with helping that Colby widow and all that."

"Is that how you think of me? That Colby widow?"

"No Martha. I don’t. I just want to take care of you and the boy."

"You’re not serious Theo."
"If I asked you to marry, would you think me serious?"

She turned toward Finley. "Marry?"

"Yes Martha. Marry me and let me make you an honest woman."

"I think you need to change the subject."

"Martha. Please. You’re not doing so good here, and it seems to me having all of us together would be so much easier."

"You know I can’t marry you Theo. You know I won’t do that."

"What are you going to do then? Working at the hospital just brings bad memories, and besides, it don’t pay enough to keep you two in good health."

"We will be fine, Theo. Besides, you know, as well as I do, Lucas won’t leave here and he certainly won’t live in your house with you thinking you’re his father. This is the only house he has ever lived in. We’ll be fine. Don’t worry."

As their conversation continued into the darkness of the evening, I walked out the back door and into the barn. I rested on the pile of hay and stared up thinking how I couldn’t imagine Theo Finley marrying mother, and I could less imagine living in his house. I wish I’d been smart enough then to understand the ways a man thinks when he wants a woman. So many things would have been different.

Even then, as a child, something gnawed at my gut about Finley. There was no trusting him, and my gut said he was up to something.

Soon, I heard the car start and pull onto the road. Mother called to me, telling of supper.

* * *

As the years passed, what little memory I held of my father became a simple recollection of thought. Other than the pain seen within mother’s eyes, I seldom reflected about how it could have been, and I never missed him as I thought I would.
As her motion became predictable, and her shoulders slumped, her walk became tired.
I was now nearly sixteen years old and the man of the house. I had to rely on my own judgment as her health dwindled and she became old before her time. Each afternoon before the sunset and supper, we sat and she read scripture from her Bible of rugged pages and a cover worn from her grip.

She prayed each night for God to show me the straight path, instill a sense of goodness in my soul, but unknowingly, I chose a path closer to my father’s lessons.

As I discovered the effect that liquor had on a man, I honed my skills with a woman in the back of a hay wagon on those moonless nights in Ohio. My restless soul and sinful ways pushed the limits of my mother’s sanity, and created pain and sorrow as she watched me arrive in the early morning hours, unable to deter my crooked path.
It was a harsh and forbidding life as a child became a man, left alone and without the control of a father. A boy needs a man to kick his ass and show him his direction. I grew up having my way, and believed a woman just couldn't control a man.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

Mother worked at Northeastern Sanitarium; a small state hospital on the edge of town near our house. The castellated gothic citadel with massive towers and buttresses stood alone like a sentinel on a hillside overwhelming the sky as it posed ominously overlooking the town below. Soaring windows, like empty black eyes reflected the iniquity of the souls locked away and forgotten, eyes looking down in shame toward the town and the people. I recall days of roaming the endless lengths of the corridors, witnessing the desolation presented by faded walls, peeling paint, and pipes running overhead that would moan and creak; unavailing silhouettes of human frailty set upon indolent expressions peering through locked and barred windows. Mother’s job as a nurses aid was tiresome and hard with long hours; her pay hardly enough to cover food for the table.

The hospital, home to the invalid, the insane, and the afflicted held nothing more than sadness for her heart and the guilt of her secrets lying just beyond her reach. She worked late most everyday and would arrive home tired from serving patients demanding more assistance than she could provide.

By the time I finished school, her health had declined to where she couldn’t do much more than stay in bed. At her young age, her raven colored hair had grayed the color of a sullen winter day just before the snowfalls, withering from luxurious waves of attraction to nothing more than thin strands without life. Her frame was thin and frail against translucent skin and her dresses, once filled by a beautiful full woman, now hung on her shoulders like worn drapery shading the sunlight from a closed window.

Visits from the doctor became more commonplace and visits from Finley became a rare sight, and she spent more time in pain than out. Morning became night, and the darkness fell onto another day without remark as I sat with her at her bedside. Holding my hand, she whispered a Bible verse I’d heard so many times.
"But there is nothing covered up that will not be revealed, and hidden that will not be known," she said, her eyes hollow.

I ignored her ramblings as paranoia, ramblings caused from the morphine injected by Doc Phillips. I didn’t understand the pain she suffered, or why this should be happening, but she said I would understand one day.

Looking back, perhaps she thought this punishment for her deceit, the lies of her life causing this sickness.

Throughout the night, I listened to her confused thoughts, as she tossed and turned. I placed cold compresses on her forehead and she prayed in her sleep quoting scripture. "Whoever is naive, let him turn in here," she said while reaching into the air as if to touch the sky. Her eyes open, staring beyond me; she grabbed me by the arm looking at me as a stranger would look upon someone suspicious.

In the darkness of a fallen moon, her voice barely above a whisper quoted scripture once again through the heavy air, she said, "Stolen water is sweet; and bread eaten in secret is pleasant." The hours passed as she mumbled of days past, calling out to her husband.

In lucid moments, she’d begin to tell me of my father, but would then fall quiet and look away. Each day her pain grew worse as I watched over her, while sitting in the chair by her bed.

Powerless, I watched her labored breathing as her emaciated chest heaved up and down, her eyes looking as if sinking into her head, dark and empty, and her hair wispy, falling over her forehead. Her complexion, once radiate and full, now pallid and thin – her cheekbones protruding as if they would soon tear through her ashen skin.

In late September as I dozed in the chair next to her bed, she arched her back and cried out once more, the pain seizing her withered body. Startled, I jumped toward her and clasped her hand within mine. I brushed my other hand across her forehead. Deep from within, with eyes staring through me, she whispered, "Lucas, I’m so sorry."

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

A September sky peeked through muddled ribbons of gray blur suspended above the church steeple on Sunday morning. I sat on the back steps of the church gazing toward the distance and into the heavens, solemn and dreary. I was thinking about what was to become of my life now that everything I’d loved was gone.

My friend, John Watson stood at the doorway, giving me a moment to gather my thoughts. "Seems like all the folks that’s comin have arrived. We better get started," he said.

I stood, dried my eyes, straightened my coat and tie, then climbed the steps to the church; the same church, the same seat, and the same soft murmurs waited outside my earshot. The eyes of the self-righteous followed my moves, watching me, and holding secrets yet known, at least to me.

Together they sat as one in judgment, all too quick to cast damnation toward a life of struggle, of things unsaid and unknown, and of complications not understood by simple minds.

Preacher Dan, still the symbol of strength for the small town, spoke the words only he could speak. Words of kindness and sorrow for a young man left on the precipice of a life unsettled, facing an uncertainty I had not realized.

Only Abigail Peterson held enough kindness in her heart to stop, hold my hand, speak a kind word, and give me hope for tomorrow.

Four men carried my mother’s casket to the oak tree standing next to where my father lay. I looked upon my father’s grave with little remembrance as each person passed me with few words. I watched in silence as her casket lowered to the obscurity of earth ending a life of pain, and then stood alone as each person walked away leaving me to my own thoughts.

I tossed a hand full of dirt into the darkness and said goodbye for the last time.

My walk back to the house was slow and quiet giving me time to think of the future but the only thought I had was of sorting out the few belongings I could call my own and hoping to find something of remembrance, something to hold onto. I knew of nothing left to keep me on the farm, and the town held nothing for me other than a cold limestone marking the remnants of a past no longer mine.

As night fell, I consumed a half bottle of whiskey I had kept hidden in my room, and then laid back, allowing the demons to consume me. I sat alone in a drunken stupor and thought of my future knowing this day would come. Still, I didn’t have a plan. I had considered staying on, finding work, and perhaps living with my past as it was.

Without family, without love, there wasn’t much to hold on to, I thought, no reason to stay. I blew across the flame on the small lantern, watched the casting smoke of the wick curl up, and then dissipate into vapor. Sleep would do me well.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

The morning sun brought little relief from a night spent in restless thought and indecision. My head hurt from too much whiskey; still, I pulled back my bed covers, repeating a ritual practiced each morning of my life. This day held little for my comfort; coffee did not boil on the stove, and my mother did not call to remind me of school or chores, or the events ahead of me on this day. I passed through the house, room by room, finding nothing of significance. At the end of the hallway, I approached my mother’s doorway and I noticed my heart beating against my chest reliving the recent events. I stopped, my hand holding the glass doorknob, uncertain of any need to enter.

With a twist of curiosity more than requirement, I pressed forward. To this day, I regret that decision.

The sunlight streamed between curtains drawn against the window frame. The stale air pulled at my throat as I searched for dampness to swallow. Her room stood simple and unadorned, pale walls holding a single crucifix above her headboard, her Bible on a nightstand, her last struggle evidenced from disheveled bed sheets. The room in disorder, her bed in skewed position, left as it was from the morning she died. A solitary chair pushed into a corner.

I stood in the doorway and rethought the last moments of her life. I recalled her rambling of scripture ". . . nothing covered up that will not be revealed . . ."
Mother had always used her scripture to teach me the lessons of life, and it was at that moment I knew she meant to tell me something before she died; it was the reason for her rambling.

I crossed the room and sat on the chair across from her bed as if she had called to me from the heavens. My head hung low toward the floor, my arms relaxed and held atop my legs. In my view, a small tin box peeked from beneath the covers of the bed.
I assumed that, at one time, she had pushed the box far under her bed. Now exposing its secrets, and revealed to my eyes as if her hand pushed it forward. I leaned over, grasped the rusted box and opened it while kneeling on floor at the side of the bed. I thought nothing at first; old photos of my parents, love letters from before their marriage; a note from my father to my mother. I reached into the tin box once again and found another letter wrapped within a newspaper clipping.
Unfolding the brittle paper, it revealed the secrets hidden for all these years. My eyes fell on faded print; memories of a day long ago flooded my mind. I stared at the words, as my surrounding view became dark and unfocused not clearly understanding what I held in my hands. My mind raced, my breath shortened, and I felt dizzy as the mystery of unanswered questions unfolded before me.

Memories filled my mind, as tears filled my eyes. I brushed my fingers across the aged words in this letter as if the action would explain the slander in my possession.

Addressed to my mother, I discovered a letter from the hospital concerning my father, William James Colby. The letter stated my father’s condition was delusional and he suffered from paranoid schizophrenia. The doctors concluded the overuse of liquor was the cause of an unstable mental condition. In light of this disposition, the court agreed that he should remain in the custody of the facility for additional psychological evaluations. The recommended treatment would consist of sedatives, antipsychotic medication and shock therapy.

I continued to sift through the contents of the tin box, thoughts and memories racing through my mind, as I felt my heart pounding in my ears, blood rushing through my veins. I found more papers—more truth. I pulled other papers—a newspaper clipping. The headline read; "MAN FOUND DEAD". I looked at the date—August 1918—and
I remembered, with vivid detail, this story on my tenth birthday.

Sitting there on the floor next to my mother’s bed, I recalled the knock on the screen door on that morning we were to celebrate my birthday. I clearly remembered Theo Finley blocking the sunlight, standing on our front porch, the conversation, and my mother’s face as he spoke.

I pulled another official document from the box. This time, a death certificate from the county morgue completed the story telling of my father’s death by his own hand. The official cause of death listed as suicide.

My thoughts wandered back while trying to make sense of past events beginning to come into focus; late night conversations I heard drifting through the walls from her room; the emptiness in her soul, the loneliness in her eyes; sad eyes without love or hope and the lies she held in her heart. I could not understand why my mother would carry such lies to her grave. Too many unanswered questions. Too many lies posted throughout my life. "Life ain’t worth living without somebody to love," she had always said. The truth was cancer didn’t kill Martha Colby. Loneliness and lies scared her heart—something I could not stop.

Alone, I pondered the words and lies my mother had hidden from me all these years. I thought back over all things said and began to understand what I had denied myself for so long. It had been obvious, plain, and always there. I came to understand what she meant while she muttered in her sleep; confessions of a mind left on its own without fear of prosecution—affirmation before judgment—forgiveness before death. I finally understood how she survived and more important, how she afforded our house, my clothes, and the things belonging to us. It was not that we had a lot, but we had more than one could expect on her pay as a nurse. The secrets held within my mother’s heart had become clear and I understood the muffled voices through thin walls, along with the self-righteous looks from the people that would pass me on the streets in town. Finley had set it up and he was behind all of this. My father was just the pawn and Finley was the King that had setup everything. Just as King David had committed adultery with Bathsheba after sending Uriah to war, Finley sent my father away and took advantage of his weakness for liquor using that failing to destroy his life. Then, after having my father locked away, he pretended to come to her rescue. Soon he tired of having my father in the background, my mother having hope of his recovery, believing one day he would be cured and we would be a family.
So Finley let him escape, knowing the first thing he would do is hunt Finley down and demand retribution. But Finley had set it up and was waiting for him on that night. He murdered my father and, in my mother's grief, he became her comfort and then took my mother for himself. I believe she must have had her suspicions so she made up the war story wanting me to believe my father was a hero. The guilt she carried had to have been tremendous. In her innocence, she didn’t understand this man, and the bastard never revealed himself as the cheat and liar he was. Rather, he became the benefactor, her protector. The only sin my mother had ever committed was she trusted people. She believed everyone was inherently good. But I knew better. People will always lie to you and people always have secrets. I knew Finley had secrets and I knew he had murdered my father.


The passing weeks did not bring closure as each day flowed into the next, ending without direction as if a thick fog settled across the plains, refusing to move on.
Each night I tossed and turned in my bed as inveterate scripture echoed in my thoughts as if my mother reached out from her grave repeating scripture foretelling my future. My mother’s dutiful reminders pounding in my mind like distant drums. In my heart, I knew she wanted the best for her only child. I understood, in her heart, she carried the weight of the world while trying to protect me. I recalled my days spent at the hospital, waiting as my mother worked, my father’s hope held abandoned behind the spiritless walls kept silent by steel doors.

Soon after I buried mother, one afternoon, Abigail Peterson's mother stopped by. Mother worked with her at the asylum, and even though she knew of my father all these years, she confessed that my mother had asked her to hold the secret between them and to keep it hidden from me. It seemed the entire town knew about my father, my mother, and Finley. Still, she said my mother would sit with my father each afternoon before coming home, which gave me some comfort knowing she still loved him.
"Not that he would have known her from the window he stared through each day," she said. "Them medicines the doctors gave kept his mind empty as that field he stared across."

I believed this was my mother's time of confession and her asking my father to
forgive her. With what I discovered after her death, it was the only reasonable explanation.

As difficult as it must have been for her, she found time to sit with him, to talk, tell him of his only son. Sadly, she believed that Finley was taking care of my father’s health and working with the doctor’s. She never realized my father’s mind worked fine, and it was the medication blocking his path to salvation.

I also suppose I should consider some of what I found in that old tin box as fortune although the other news was not. I have treasured those letters over the years being they are the only things left from my past. Mother meticulously wrote our history, our lives, and everything she could tell me while she was here. Those memories gave me hope.

PART 3

Lucas Colby’s life, considering the turbulence he experienced, began in relative obscurity. After he had buried my grandmother, found the letters and clippings, he concluded; Theo Finley had started the downhill spiral leading him to the inevitable meeting between them. He'd poetically described the morning of the tragic and fateful event beginning with, "the sun crept across the horizon." My father, even as a young man showed the talent of a fine writer. In his journal, he wrote:

"Finley pounded on my front door, which jolted me from bed, and I wondered what urgent situation created such an early arrival on a Sunday morning. Two weeks had passed since my mother’s death and after I discovered the letters, I had not slept well."

"Good Morning, Lucas," he said, as I opened the door. "Looks like I woke you up on this cold morning."

"Yeah, looks like. What do you want, Finley?"

"Mind if I come in and sit while we talk?"

"Don’t make no mind to me. You can do as you wish. This is, I suppose, your house and I don’t know what else you can do to screw up my life."

Finley owned most the land around these parts. He also owned this house, so I figured that’s why he came by—to collect rent.

He stomped his boots on the porch floor, removed his hat, and stepped across the threshold. I shut the door.

Without invitation, he sat in a large quilt covered chair near the fireplace. This aggravated me all the more, since that’s where my mother loved to sit; by the fireplace, as she read from her Bible.

I sat on the couch across from him and watched as he unintentionally displayed the air of presumption reserved only for those having the affluence to sustain their attitudes. I didn’t have the money of a beggar, and that would be on a good day.
I figured, if he was collecting, he’d be leaving empty handed—not that I cared one way of the other, as long as he left.

He smoothed his mustache with his fingers, and then he cleared his throat. "You know. Your mother was a good woman," he said.

I didn’t know what to expect of this unsought visitation but thought about how I could make him pay for he’d done to my family. His word was law in this town, and I knew men like him believed they could do as they wished.

Mother was dead, I didn’t have anyone else, and it was his house. Still, I wasn’t about to take any crap from him. I let him speak for a bit, until I tired of his rhetoric and then I interrupted the conversation.

"Is there a reason why you are telling me all of this, Finley?"

"Well, I just wanted to let you know, even though you don’t have any family here, you’re welcome to stay on. I could always use an extra hand around the fields, and seeing you haven’t anyone to take care of you, you’re going to need to support yourself somehow."

"An extra hand? I don’t think I need your kind of help."

"You think so, boy? Appears you’re already living hand to mouth."

"That’s not what I meant, and you know it," I said.

"Let’s not be difficult, boy. You know. You’re mother always told me you were
stubborn, but she said I needed to take care of you if she died. I have no problem with having you work on my farm."

I couldn’t have imagined working for Finley, not after what he’d done to my life. Mother had no idea as to what this man had done. He’d hoodwinked her for years, and still she trusted him. I knew different, and I wished I’d known about everything before she died. I would’ve told her, although she probably wouldn’t have believed me. Funny thing about folks and lying—seems they have a hard time believing anyone else telling the truth. Still, even though it wouldn’t have benefited me in anyway, here was my chance at least, to make him uncomfortable.

"What, exactly, would you have me do?" I said.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do—to him, that is. I had found the box of letters my mother kept hidden under her bed. Mother had tried to protect me, and raised me to believe my father died a war hero—that was just one of the lies. I can tell you, growing up with all this, and then seeing those letters, I put it all together. I knew what happened. Proving it to a point where everyone would’ve believed me however, would be something else altogether.

He rambled on about all kind of nonsense, finally got to the point, and said, "I think you could do just about anything you set your mind to young man. I can start you over in dairy, and then move on from there. Come to think of it. That’s how your father started."

"Why would you do this for me?"

"No reason, I suppose," Finley answered. "I just thought you could use some help.
That’s all."

I figured it was about time to test the waters. He didn’t know what I knew, but I did and I was about to drop it on his head.

"Maybe it’s because you want to keep me close? Perhaps, keep me quiet?"

Well, that made an impression with him. He lower one eyebrow, cocked his head and pursed his lips. I guess he was acting as if he didn’t have a clue as to my reference, because he said, "I have no idea what you mean. I’m just offering help."

I thought that was weak and decided to challenge him some more. "Like you helped my mother? Like you helped put my father away? Is that how you kept her quiet all these years Finley? Making sure she was taken care of?"

I think, at this point in the conversation, he thought I was beginning to figure out I knew what he did to my father. How he tricked my mother, and then played the hero.
It wasn’t hard to figure out. He held a fondness toward my mother, ever since the first day they met. My father knew and I think he did everything he could to stop any of Finley’s advances, but Finley was smart and played on my dad’s weakness with liquor—I knew about that from her letters—and then he paid off the doctor’s and locked my father up in the sanitarium. It was all there, if you just paid attention.
And he knew I had him, because he started with all these excuses. Granted, I was bigger, younger, and faster than him, still, you didn’t cross a man like Finley, and if I could get him out of my life, the sooner the better. I figured I’d pack up the few things I had and would just leave this town and never look back. I was ready to drop it, I had had enough, but he just kept talking and pressing my nerve; every one of his words cutting through my brain like a plow cutting through the earth. I held my hand up letting him now I’d had enough.

I guess he figured he talked himself to innocence, because then he uncrossed his legs and sat up in the chair, adjusted his bolo tie, smoothed his collar, and said, "Son, you have to understand. I had nothing to do with your father. Your mother couldn’t handle his drinking, and he was just out of hand. He needed medical attention, and she couldn’t do it herself."

It was as if he thought these actions would exonerate him for what he’d done, but the more he talked, the more anger built inside of me. I tried to control my temper, and did my best to contain the rage burning inside of me.

I sat up onto the edge of the couch, and he could see I was getting agitated. I said, "You gave him work to keep him away. You made sure he wasn’t around to be a father or a husband. You worked him hard, just to keep him away from home. You gave your men liquor, telling them to have some fun since they were far from home. You set it all up so perfectly, didn’t you Finley?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"That’s not the truth. I gave your father a job, but I didn’t put that bottle in his hands. I didn’t lock him away."

I knew men like Finley believed if they paid someone else to do the dirty work, their hands would be clean, their conscience clear. I also knew he was becoming more uncomfortable so I said, "I see. You just made sure he wasn’t around."

He paused for a moment and reflected. I could see his attitude change, and I knew either he was going leave, or he just might be thinking about killing me. He could have. He could’ve killed me right there and no one would’ve known. He could’ve left me dead on the floor for the rats or worse. Sure wasn’t anyone else coming after me, looking around to see if I was still there. He knew I didn’t have anyone, so who would miss me? I began to think I might have just bit off more than I could chew.
Then I saw his mood change and that arrogant attitude of his returned.

"Well. There ain’t a whole lot you can do about it now. Is there, boy?"

I couldn’t believe he confessed right there, and without one cent of remorse. Here I was standing in front of the man that destroyed my life, killed my father, and surely had a hand in my mother’s pain. My mind reeled with what I wanted to do to him, but in my heart, I knew there was nothing left. I thought that was it, and I was about to open the front door and tell him to just get the hell out, and then I would leave, until he said, "But you have to understand something Lucas. Your mother
and I had a special relationship."

I took a deep breath and I could feel my fist curling but I knew I needed to control my temper.

"A special relationship?" I repeated. To think of this man holding my mother made my skin crawl. I knew that anything she’d done, she did for me, or at least she thought
it was the best thing for me. Sure. She lied about things, but she had to, I would suppose. He could’ve have been a gentleman and lied to me too, but that wasn’t Finley. I knew the guilt she carried knowing her only option was to succumb to the demands of this pig so she could eek a simple life for me was enough to drive her crazy. I understand, now, she tried to protect me. Without a father, without a man in those days, a woman’s choices had limitations, and Finley was there with open arms. Desperate people do desperate things, and my mother, as strong as she was, was so weak in many ways.

Sadly, she believed my father died at his own hand, driven there by demons and wrongdoing, as she called it. It’s probably better that way. Finley had kept his deeds hidden from her heart, but not from me. I knew what this man was capable of doing, and I knew what he did to my life.

I leaned over, placing my face close to his, and I could feel his breath. "You bastard!" I said. "You fooled her all these years, but you’re not going to fool me."

"One day, when you’re a man, you’ll see. You’ll understand."

He spoke as if it were his right to ruin our lives, his privilege. He owned everything in the county, so why not my family as well?

"You made sure you were here to take care of things—your special relationship, as you call it. The truth is, my father was looking for you on the night he went to your store, isn’t it Finley."

"I told you what happened."

"Yes you did, you set it up Finley," I yelled. "You allowed his escape. You let him know, somehow, you would be at your store waiting for him. And you waited, and you blew his head off with your shotgun. You, Finley. You murdered my father. And if I had my way, I’d see you hang for what you did to my father and mother."

"Lucas," he said. "Sometimes you need to just let things go. Realize it’s beyond your control."

He knew I understood I couldn’t kill him. That would be too easy, and besides, I’d never get away with it. I knew he was afraid of me. I could tell from his eyes. He was like most men. They puff their chests, and pound their fists, but when it comes down to it, they’re afraid. I know my father had to be afraid on that night in Finley’s store. Any man would be afraid knowing tomorrow may not come.

"What are you going to do Finley? Kill me, too?"

"I don’t want no trouble boy, but I am prepared to defend myself."

I could hear the fear coming from his voice; that shake you get when your heart is beating so hard you can hear it in your words. He was scared and he was losing control. It made me feel good.

I turned my back to him, daring him mostly, but prepared for whatever would come next; death would’ve been welcomed at this point in my life.
As I thought he would, Finley reached into his vest pocket, pulled his derringer and pointed it toward me. I heard the click as he pulled the hammer into position.

"Now what, boy?" he bellowed.

The old man didn’t understand. There was no fear of dying. I knew the truths behind the lies of my youth and understood what surviving meant. I had no one to love, to live for, or to care for. Everything I knew, or had known over my short eighteen years, was a lie. Everyone was dead and I was the only one left. Where would I go?

What I did understand, after all this time, was what my father learned, and the reason he went after Finley. You can’t take everything from a man, strip him of his dignity, and then expect him to let you walk away. My father understood this sometime during his incarceration at the asylum, somewhere between the haze of the drugs and lucid moments. Sure. He escaped, but his mind was in no condition to challenge anyone. But now, as fate would have it, it was my turn and my opportunity to revenge my parents, my stolen childhood, my life.

"Now what?" I said, without looking back. "I’m not afraid of you, or your little pistol Finley."

I could only imagine his mind spinning with the situation as to what to do. He was used to being in charge, and now I was in control. I felt the heat rise in my body.
I wished he’d come at me and I would kill him where he stood, in retribution of my father’s death and my mother’s pain. That’s what I hoped for; shoot him with his own gun and watch him suffer in pain. It would be slow; a shot to his knee first and watch him fall as if begging. He would beg for sure, beg for his sorry life. Weak men always beg.

Then, I thought of my mother. "Forgive him. Let him be," she would’ve said. It didn’t matter. He just stood there pointing that stupid gun at the back of my head as if it meant something.

I spun around, catching him off guard, and my fist hit him square on the jaw. I could tell by the look on his face he didn’t expect me to do that. He stumbled back and I guess I must have hit him harder than I had planned. His arms fell limp at his side, his knees buckled and he slammed against the corner of fireplace mantle. He slumped to the floor and I stared at his head as thick dark blood, the color of night, oozed from beneath his head.

Like I said, I didn’t mean to kill him, not that I hadn’t thought about it, but it was his own fault. I believe a man prepares his own destiny, each living to his own consequence, and so went the life of Theo Finley.

I walked to the front window and stood there watching the snow falling. Everything was quiet and I could see a dull circle of sun behind a grayed opaque horizon. I looked back at what had just happened, understanding—realizing—no one would believe me. My words against the most powerful man in the county would certainly have spelled a noose around my neck.

There was nothing left, nowhere to turn, and I was alone in a house holding too many secrets, surrounded by a town where I didn’t fit. All that I once believed was now lost, buried, or locked within the borders of my heart. The lies became my truth, fitting neatly into a small tin box.

In a calmness never felt in all of my years, I pulled the lantern from the mantle, struck a match, and lit the wick.

I walked through the dark hallway and I returned to my bedroom, gathered the few belongings I could call my own: a pair of pants, two shirts, and a Swiss Army Knife given to me many years before by John Watson, the caretaker for the church. For a moment, the memory rose in my head and I thought, with kind reminiscence, of the only decent man in my life. I placed the knife in my pants pocket and dressed warm for the cold winter day ahead, long underwear under my pants, a thick shirt of cotton, calf high boots, and a heavy leather coat lined with the coarse hair of shorn sheep.

I walked each room of the house as if expecting to find something left for my own but nothing of value remained.

In the kitchen, I pulled a small bag of corn meal, a salted ham, and a bag of dried beans from the mostly barren cupboards, a small pan that hung on the wall, placed them within my bindle, and wrapped my only possessions tight with a length of rope.
I felt my pants pocket once again for the outline of my knife, then flipped the bindle across my shoulder, placed my hat squarely on my head, and pulled the collar of my coat around my neck.

I took one last look at Finley, crumpled in front of the fireplace, and that’s when
I chucked the lantern down the hallway like an overthrown horseshoe.

I pushed through the front doorway, passed under the winter stripped oak tree and onto the gravel road. I could hear the glass from the windows explode behind me, the roar of the fire as it stretched through the openings, and then the crack of the dry wood as the fire burned through the supports of the house and the roof began to give way.

The bitter wind slapped my face, and stung my cheeks as I moved toward an unknown future and realized, as I passed the cemetery holding the backwash of my indoctrination:

Some people tell lies like the truth—with the best of intent—but a lie held within your heart will never save you.

PART 4

The unblemished trail pointed northeast. Left over pumpkins from the fall harvest were sheltered under a soft white blanket as crested tops of fence posts told the boundaries of the path beneath his boots. The bare branches of towering oaks and maples running the border of the wide path outstretched across the sky like jagged black lightning.

Lucas pulled his woolen hat tight over his head and dug his reddened hands deep into his pockets searching for warmth, but the winters in Ohio are brutal and uncaring, like most of the people he knew as a child.

Soon, the snow turned to small flurries and danced on lighter winds, although the cold of this day still cut through his coat like the sharpened edge of a butcher’s knife. The steady rhythm of his boots crunched the frozen snow beneath the ever-increasing wetness of his socks and became his solitary companion. Walking alone a man’s mind tends to wander and it seemed to him that he had plenty of time to think of how he had ended up in this particular place.

The first thought to float across his head was old man Finley, which made him think of the house, which then he recalled the flames as they shot through the windows as the walls began to crumble.

Soon, the wind changed direction, blowing from the north, and snow began to fall in large heavy flakes. He heard the muffled sounds of a truck as it approached from behind. With reluctance but little choice, given the freezing temperature, he pulled one hand from his pocket and lifted his arm, raising his thumb in hope of kindness.

A flatbed truck, filled with the last of fall harvest, drove beyond Lucas and pulled to the side of the road. He quickened his pace and approached the passenger side.
The driver, a man of happy disposition, and the crooked grin of a jack o’ lantern, sat behind the large steering wheel of a flat bed truck. He was aged and with a large white haired beard covering most of his barreled chest. His hands were large and calloused from years of heavy work on farms across the northeast.

"Where you headed boy?" the driver yelled, above the clacking noise of the truck engine.

"Anywhere but here," Lucas said.

Lucas opened the door of the truck, threw his bindle onto the floorboard, and climbed onto the front seat. The cab of the truck was warm and felt better than the snow covered road ahead. The driver pulled back onto the road and each shift of the gearbox took Lucas further from his past.

The old man shifted the truck into third gear breaking the silence, and said, "Name’s Bardy. Tom Bardy. I’m heading back to Cleveland. You plan on going that far?"

"Cleveland is fine, and as good a place as any to get a new start I suppose," he said to Tom Bardy. He paused for a moment, and said, "My name is Lucas Colby."

Lucas replayed the words of Bardy in his head. He hadn’t thought about where he was going—only that he was leaving—leaving the only home he had ever known.

As the sun crossed over the buried lies of his life, those words, left home, sounded
odd to his ears. The truth, he concluded, was there never was a home.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

"You know how to drive a truck, Lucas Colby?"

"I have lived my entire life on a farm. I can drive anything."

"Good. We can share the driving, if you don’t mind, and we’ll make fine time as long as this old truck holds out and we can drive through the night."

"Sounds fine with me," Lucas said.

"Did you happen to see the house on fire back there?" Bardy asked. "I wanted to stop, but I got a schedule to keep and it looked like some fellers were there already trying to put it out."

"Yeah. Saw the fire. Nobody lives there. Not anymore." Trying to avoid any conversation concerning the detail of his life, or the fight he’d had with Theo
Finley on this morning, Lucas asked, "What are you carrying in the back? It ain’t a casket is it?" He couldn’t remove the image of Finley’s bleeding head jammed against the foot of the fireplace, or how all he’d done was react to Finley’s pulling out that stupid little derringer and waving it in his face.

Bardy looked over at Lucas and said, "Nope. Just Pumpkins. Dead pumpkins I suppose you could say. It’s the last crop for the season, and I’m bringing up to Cleveland for the Halloween crowd. Them city kids love to carve ‘em up and stick ‘em on the stoop."

Bardy hummed an old hymnal while he stared at the road ahead, a melody familiar to Lucas. After a few miles he said, "Hey listen. Seeing you’re not headed anywhere in particular, how’d you like to work with me a while? I could use some help with winter coming on like it is."

Lucas thought about Bardy’s offer for a moment, and thought again that his belly would be as empty as his pockets if he said no. "Sure. I can help for a bit, but
I’ll have to be moving on soon." He also knew he could stay where he wanted, as long as he wanted, and nothing held him; not man, not family, not heart.

As the day progressed, the drive became long and tiresome. Night fell, and Lucas took the wheel while Bardy dozed, his head leaned forward and swayed to the potholes in the road. Dawn peeked through the clouds as they turned into their final road and arrived outside of Cleveland at the Farmer’s Market.

"Looks like we beat ‘em all here," Bardy said.

"Can’t imagine anyone being here this early," Lucas said. "I think I’ll doze a bit before they get here."

"Yup. Go ahead. I’ll check the office to make sure all is good."
Bardy stepped out of the truck, and walked up the steps to the office. There was no one around so he sat on the ledge of the dock to wait. An hour passed, and a man arrived. Bardy walked over to meet him. Lucas watched as they shook hands and Bardy motioned for Lucas.

"Let’s put ‘em right here," Bardy said.

Lucas helped unload the truck and afterwards they drove into the city.

"I know a place in town that puts up boarders. We can stay there for the night," Bardy said.

He directed drove the truck to the junction of Harrison Street and Cleveland Avenue.
He looked upon the large brick buildings and storefronts as a foreign land to his eyes and unlike the simple life he knew. Tall buildings, paved roads, cars, and trucks lined the avenue along side of horse and buggies. Within a block, Lucas could see more stores than he could ever use; a tailor, a dressmaker, a dime store, a place called White Way Drug Store advertising tonics to resolve most any ache or pain that might ail you.

A large Victorian house stood just off the main street. Bardy pointed over and said,
"This is it."

The house, ragged and torn, appeared abandoned. The weathered stairs moaned under the weight of the men. Bardy knocked on the door and stepped back. After a few moments, the door opened with a creaking sound and an old woman stood before them.
She smiled a toothless smile when she saw Bardy standing on the porch and said,
"Can’t believe you’re still making the trip Tom. Ain’t seen ya in three months.
Figerd ya up ‘n died." The old woman looked over at Lucas. "Looks like you brought some company, a handsome one. Y’all come on in the parlor."

Bardy stepped across the threshold and Lucas followed. They sat in a parlor just off the main hallway, left of the stairway leading to the rooms.

"Just made some tea," the old woman announced. "How ‘bout I pour ya some?"
Bardy smiled and said, "That sounds good. How about you Lucas?" Lucas smiled and politely declined.

Bardy helped the old woman place the tray containing the teapot and cups on the small table in front of the couch.

"This here is Lucas. We met a ways up the road." Lucas stood and the old woman extended her hand. Bardy said, "Lucas. This is my sister, Eloise."

After some conversation, she led the men to their rooms.

Lucas tossed his bindle onto the bed, and then looked out the window. He decided to look around the town. Walking through the hallway, he stopped and knocked on Bardy’s door. There was no answer and Lucas figured he was asleep. As he passed the parlor, he heard Eloise humming a tune and working in the kitchen. Outside, he crossed the street and walked passed Cyrus Lowery’s Curio Depot. He stopped and looked at the array of curious looking stuffed alligators, turtles, and a couple of real dogs. The people standing around smiled at him as he passed.

He knew jobs were scarce and he didn’t have a need to stay in Ohio. He looked down the street and noticed a placard sign on the walkway reading: "See the World. Join the Army" and he thought of his father. The Armed Services Recruiting Office stood before him, and with that, he believed, his future.

He walked into the building and saw a procession of young boys standing along the back wall wearing nothing but their underwear while waiting for their exams and the chance to pick up a rifle and fight. They were quiet and orderly, shifting their weight from one bare foot to the other while they waited to hear their named called.
The stale air, hot and without circulation, smelled of men. He stepped up to a desk, the color of gunmetal. The man behind the desk, dressed in an Army uniform appeared haggard and without patience. He was busy talking on the telephone, his neck arched over with the phone stuck between his head and shoulder while his hands where shuffling papers and folders of paper about the desk. He raised his eyes and looked up at Lucas without stopping. Lucas announced, "My name is Lucas Colby and I want to join up."

Without hesitation, he handed Lucas a clipboard with a form attached, and a pen. He said, "Fill this out. Strip down to your skivvies, throw your clothes in a locker, and get in line with the rest of them over there. You’ll get your turn."

Lucas followed the sign and walked through a small passageway. He saw a row of lockers painted a dull green and opened the doors until he found an empty one. He stood in his underwear and stuffed his clothes into the small locker. He returned to the line of young boys and took up his place behind the last one. With his height, he could see over the tops of the heads of most the recruits, and the line was long. He watched as they impatiently waited for their chance. A nurse made her way down the line asking each boy for the form attached to the clipboard.

During the physical, the doctor ran Lucas through basic tests. Lucas never needed a doctor for himself, and the only Doc familiar to him was Doc Phillips. After the first exam, Lucas sat alone in a dreary room with faded green walls, few windows, and no window covering. He watched the snowfall and believed it was going to be a cold winter. A small table held instruments of trade, and there was a well-worn chair in the corner. The nurse arrived, and ordered Lucas to follow her to another room. She pointed to a steel table in the middle of the room. With fewer windows, and facing another building, Lucas could not see the ground outside.

She said, in a firm voice, "I need you to lie down on the table so the doctor can run some tests."

Lucas thought, as she attached a series of wires and suction cups to his chest, the metal table was as cold as her demeanor. He stared at the gray ceiling above him. A single light hung from a frayed cord. In the corners of the walls, high in the ceiling, he could see old cobwebs wafting from the breeze caused by a four bladed fan hanging from the ceiling. The large fan wobbled and squeaked as it slowly spun around stirring the stale air. He turned his eyes to the nurse and he could see her name, "Katie Johnson, RN" from her nameplate, perfectly pinned to the right side of her spotless white uniform.

Lucas could tell by the tone of her voice she was a professional, and knew what she was doing. She reached across him, and said, "Your being alone and without parents to consent for you, and confirm your medical history, the doctor will need to make sure you’re healthy."

Lucas, tried to break through her ascetic disposition and said, "Trust me! I’m the healthiest buck in this joint! I’m strong as an ox, can drink all-night, and be up at dawn and ready to go again!"

She responded, as if the blood in the veins of her slender arms was about to freeze. "Shut up cowboy, and be still."

The wires crossed his chest like a map of a highway. Lucas asked, this time a little less foolhardy, "So you think I’ll pass this test?"

She smiled and said, "You look like you can handle most anything, you know, a man your size and all." With her long painted fingernails, she tapped on his chest and said, "But you’ll need to behave yourself!"

Not one to give up, he asked, "Tell me Katie, how would you like to go dancing with me tonight?"

She crossed her arms in front of her and looked at Lucas. "You don’t give up do you?"

He could see he touched a nerve. "I know what I like," he said.

She leaned over and whispered close to his ear, "The Doc is my husband, so you need to be quiet." She then glanced around the room, and said, "He works late all the time, but I'll be out of here by five o’clock."

Smug in his conquest, Lucas smiled, and placed his hands behind his head as she walked away.

Moments later, the doctor arrived. He was a tall thin man of serious deportment. His receding hairline exposed his wrinkled brow, and his skin, limpid and bare. He began pushing buttons on a machine next to the table.

"What are you doing Doc?" Lucas asked.

"It’s just a test to see if your heart is working young man. The other doctor thought he heard something during your examination. It is probably nothing to worry about, mind you. Just be quiet for a minute while the test runs, and I can then read the results."

The doctor pushed a button on the machine and it made a slight humming sound. A long slip of paper with marks on it came out of the small opening. The doctor reached over, pulled the strip of paper from the machine, and held it up toward the ceiling as if reading a scroll found hidden long ago.

"What does it say?" Lucas asked as he sat up on the table.

The doctor pulled his stethoscope from around his neck and placed the cold silver end on the muscular chest of Lucas. He said, "Inhale deep, and then let it out slow."

Each time Lucas would exhale, the doctor would move the cold metal piece to a new area of his chest. After a few moves around the front and back of Lucas, the doctor stepped back with a worried look on his face and said, "Sorry kid, I wish I had better news."

"What do you mean by better news, Doc?"

"You have what is called a murmur in your heart," the doctor told Lucas.

"A murmur?"

"It’s an extra or unusual sound heard during your heartbeat. It could be serious, or it could be nothing and you may grow out of it. You are still a young man so I don’t think you need to start planning for a funeral right away."

Lucas sat up and said, "I don’t understand Doc. I feel fine! I am as strong as a bull and I have always worked hard. I grew up on a farm! I milked cows, fed chickens, and even worked the fields. How can I have a bad heart?"

The doctor leaned against the metal table and said, "It’s not that you have a bad heart. It is a heart murmur, which means you could have a problem later on. You could, and probably will be just fine, but the Army can’t take a chance of your having a problem while at war in the middle of some foreign land."

"Die at war? In some foreign land?" Lucas said, releasing a loud laugh. "Now that would be something Doc!"

Without response, the doctor told Lucas he could get up and get dressed. "Good luck with your future son. Don’t let this bother you. I am sure you will be just fine."

As the doctor wrote some notes on the paper, he said, "You’re probably not going to die soon, and you could live to be a hundred years old. It all depends on how you choose to live. Right now, the Army wants healthy men, and your health isn’t
perfect."

It seemed each time Lucas knew what he wanted to do something would block his way.
He was again at a crossroad, and the only thing he knew was, he was broke, and alone. Before leaving Independence, Lucas scraped up some money by selling everything he could get his hands on; even that wasn’t enough for a decent meal.

Lucas returned to the boarding house. In his room, he stretched out across the mattress and stared at the ceiling. He knew this was not what he wanted. He pulled a small flask from his bindle and took a swig of whiskey. It burned his throat. He wrapped his belongings once again, and walked down the streets of Cleveland. He sat on the curb of this godforsaken town with his face buried in his hands.

In the distance, he heard a whistle as a train approached the Cleveland Union Terminal. As if someone shouted in his ear telling him to run as fast as he could, he jumped from the curb and ran toward the sounding shrill. His heart felt as if it where going to jump through his chest as saw the train moving down the tracks. He managed to catch the last car, and tossed his bindle through the open cargo door as he reached for the handrail. He grabbed the rail on the side of the boxcar and hoisted himself up onto the floor. Covered with a layer of hay, it smelled of cattle and urine.

Without knowing his destination, Lucas settled into the boxcar, leaned against the back wall and curled into a ball, making himself small. His chest heaved in short gasps for air, his heart pounded in his ears.

The gentle sway of the train became a rhythmic pattern, slowly rocking back and forth. Lucas fell back on the scratchy brown hay as the train sped through an uncertain night. He believed the train headed north and into his future—a future of uncertainty, but his future nonetheless. This would be a future, Lucas believed, he would control.

The cold evening air blew in through the open door. Lucas could see the landscape change from brick and mortar to small hills. Within a short time, open land came into view and Lucas watched the sun as it fell beneath the horizon, the clouds like ragged gray cloths against the orange sky. Everything dim, faded, and losing shape as darkness came. The train wheels sounded their ta-tok, ta-tok, ta-tok along the tracks, and he fell asleep. He dreamt about his mother, how his life could have been if his father had lived, how they could have been a family.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

The blaring reverberation of the train horn announced the arrival, heralding a new beginning. Lucas, jolted awake, stuck his head out the door as the train slowed. He saw a sign posted on the side of the red-bricked building as the wheels squealed against the cold metal tracks entering the station. Before the train stopped, he jumped, and hit the ground hard.

Lucas walked into the city and found his way without direction from others he passed. The buildings were tall, and there were so many people, he thought. It seemed the paved roads and cars went on forever, and everyone walked as if they were late getting to some place. The afternoon moved into evening as he came upon Washington Square Park and in the twilight, he saw a large archway. The shelter would offer little comfort from the cold night wind, but it was all Lucas would have. Sleep was slow in coming and it was not a restful night.

Morning came early as the traffic around him began to stir. The noise of the city was not like the quiet of the country. He stood up, his body stiff from sleeping on the hard ground, tied his bindle, and walked away. Looking back, he could see the archway was a monument to George Washington. Lucas read the inscription aloud, "Let us raise a standard to which the wise and honest can repair. The event is in the hand of God." He thought it ironic he found this particular place.

Lucas traversed northward through the park. He passed McDougal Street and continued across Comelia and Jones. He stopped and asked for work at each open door, but found no offers. With a long day ahead, he could see it would be full of misgiving. He worked his path down the busy streets carrying nothing more than small change in the pocket of well-worn pants and hope within his wearied heart. He watched for any business with an open door, finding the same rejecting answer. Any work would have been fine, but every turn brought another refusal. Perhaps this was a mistake, he thought, when something caught his attention. As if someone called his name, he glanced up. Ahead of him he saw a street sign—Barrow Street. It was just a feeling.

At the corner, he turned left and followed his beckoned path across Bleeker Street. He continued to ask for work at every door, finding the same answer. He was beginning to lose all hope. Tired, his stomach empty, he sat on the curb at Bedford Avenue and reviewed his options. As he pondered, two police officers approached.

"Hey buddy. Let’s move it along."

Lucas stood and said, "Will be doing just that, sirs."

"Make it quick. We don’t like vagrants around here."

"I’m looking for work sir. I’m not a vagrant."

"Yeah, well we’ll be back by here soon, and if catch sight of you, you’ll have a nice place to stay tonight."

As Lucas explained, he looked beyond his view, over the shoulders of the police officers, and noticed a narrow alley, and a foot worn stone pathway. Lucas believed this was his destination. He couldn’t explain it in his mind, but somehow he knew this is where his search would end. The wind flapped a small handwritten sign tacked onto the arched doorway leading to the stark building. He ran across the street, yanked the sign off the door, and could not believe good fortune found its way to him as he read the note—Need a Job? - See Charlie Inside.

In his heart, he knew this would be his final query. With new confidence, he pulled open the large door and walked into the building. The door slammed behind him giving him a start. It was warm inside and the lighting was dim in the old building. Making his way through the room, across a dance floor, the stale aroma of old liquor, cheap perfume, and cigarette smoke invaded his nostrils as the smells floated heavy across the room. His eyes adjusted to the empty darkness, and he wondered if anyone ever put a mop to the floor. A man sat at a table in the corner, the tip of the cigarette he smoked glowed in the darkened room.

Lucas said, in his strongest voice, "I’m looking for Charlie."

"Over here kid, I’m Charlie. You lookin’ for a job?" The voice was gruff and startled Lucas. He moved cautiously toward the table.

Unlike the men Lucas had seen on the street, dressed in fancy clothes with tight necked collars and ties wearing fancy hats, Charles Leland wore a floppy hat, an open shirt, and a loose tie around his thin neck.

"What’s your name kid?" he asked.

"Lucas Colby, sir."

He peered at Lucas over the top of his eyeglasses, "You’re a big one Lucas Colby, have a seat, let’s talk."

Charlie lit another cigarette, crossed his legs and leaned back on his chair. "You know what this place is?" he said, with a wave of his hand.

Lucas looked around and saw an open area of the floor, a small stage with musical instruments, chairs and a small piano, there were pictures on the walls; some of women in provocative pose, and countryside scenery done in oil paints, lamps hung low across tables scattered across the room.

"It looks like a place to dance," Lucas responded, quite unsure of the purpose of the building.

"Yeah. That’s it. A dance hall and that’s all," Charlie told him and he laughed like someone getting one up on someone else. "Lookie here. It’s starting to get busy around here, so I need some to help clean the place up, bring in ice, and do the dishes, stuff like that. You can do this?"

"Yeah. I can do the work. No problem," Lucas answered.

"I used to work the Wild West Show in my younger days in the last of the Old West," Charlie said, as he shifted in his seat. "I then moved to Chicago and waited tables. You ever worked in the union, kid?"

"Uh, no sir. Never have."

"Yeah, well that’s okay. I used to be part of the American Workers Union in Chicago, but it got so tough I had to split town. As a matter of fact, the authorities started arresting all the big cheeses, so I hightailed it and ended up here."

"So how did you end up with this place?"

"That was crazy, let me tell you. When I got here, prohibition was in full swing—still is, the dumb bastards. Anyhow, New York is full of these gangsters, goons, bootleggers, and crooked cops, but what I saw was opportunity. This business is tough, but it pays well so I knew it would be a good deal. I bought this old building and cleaned it up. Upfront, it looks like any old dance hall, but if you know your way to the back, well . . . that’s something we’ll talk about later.
Anyhow, once the word spread, which don’t take long around here, it was business as usual." Charlie pushed his hat above his forehead and with a firm look from cynical eyes he said, "Think you can make it here, kid?"

Lucas told him, "Sure I can—and I can take care of this place like you want."

Charlie leaned back on the chair and asked, "You married kid?

"I don’t even have a girlfriend."

"Hell! I’m on my third!" Charlie said. "My first wife died on me, my second wife never came home after an argument we had one night. I haven’t heard from her in the past two years. Then I found number three, Harriet. She’s a tough one, and I think she’ll be around awhile."

Lucas watched as Charlie took a long drag off his Lucky. He released the smoke, blowing it through his nose and said, "Over the years I have been busted by the cops, shot twice, and robbed once. I’ve been in a few fights, which you can’t help with, being in this business." He laughed and rubbed his tobacco-stained finger across his crooked nose and said, "That’s how I got this!"

He stood, told Lucas to follow him, and said, "No matter what happened to me, I always came out on top." Charlie motioned to Lucas, "Let’s take a walk, kid."
Lucas followed Charlie up a flight of stairs leading to rooms. Charlie stopped at one the doorways and explained, "This room is for my AW brotherhood so they could get together and discuss business. The other rooms are for overnight guests or what have you." They turned and walked down the stairs and toward the back of the building. "This," Charlie said, as they walked up to the bar, "is where the action is." Charlie walked further to the rear of the building, showed Lucas a trick staircase, and said, "I use this to trip up the cops. I also made the bar entrance look like picture walls, and here is a trapdoor to hide the booze." Charlie smiled at Lucas as if he was a proud papa gloating over his children.

Charlie stopped and looked at Lucas from head to toe, "How old are you kid?"
Lucas lied and said, "I’m twenty years old."

"Yeah, well you’ll look a lot older after working here a while."

Charlie pointed across the room and said, "Most of my customers come in the front door, you know, like they’re looking to dance. Some of the customers know the back door."

Lucas asked, "What do we do if we get raided?"

Charlie said, "I’ll get to it in a minute." Lucas decided it was best to keep his mouth shut and his eyes opened as Charlie continued talking. "The girls working at night are here to get these chumps to buy more drinks and dance and then buy more drinks. Got that?"

"Yeah, got that, Charlie."

"Anyways, they sit up front here and escort the gentlemen to the back so they can buy the booze . . . or they go upstairs to them rooms I showed you."

Lucas nodded his head, and decided to keep quiet. He expected a city filled with new and different things, but this wasn’t on his list.

"We get a fair share of dames coming in from time to time as well," Charlie added,
"so don’t expect all guys. Some of the girls are chippies, and the men like that, but you need to watch yourself. They come here for the men, and the men coming in here have money. A kid like you ain’t got no reason to be paying for it and if ya keep ya nose clean and show me you can handle the place; you might have a future. Hell, you might make it to twenty one."

Lucas puzzled, didn’t understand Charlie’s references, however thought it best to leave it alone for the time being. Charlie continued, "Anyhow. My point is that nice girls don’t usually hang around bars unless they have something on their minds."
Lucas was more confused by the minute and finally said, "I have to ask you. What are Chippies?"

Charlie grinned at Lucas and said, "You ain’t never heard that word, eh kid?" He removed his hat, rubbed his hand across his forehead, and thought for a moment. "Let me say this. Sometimes a woman needs to support herself because there ain’t no steady man in her life. There could be lotsa reasons why, but the fact is, they got something and lotsa men are willing pay for it—and besides, they need to eat like the rest of us. There ain’t nothing wrong with that, and I have the place to make it happen. Also, it makes for a tidy profit for ol’ Charlie here. That making sense to you kid?"

Lucas thought for a moment and responded, "Gotcha Charlie."

"Anyhow. Let’s talk about the cops that come in here trying to bust up the joint," Charlie continued. "I can tell you this, I ain’t gonna give the bastards my hard earned money for nothing. So here it is. Occasionally, they bust in and act as if they were going to close the place down, but they never do. Crooked as snakes I tell ya!"

Charlie and Lucas walked back to the front and sat at a table. "Hell, some of them are my best customers—I plays along, they bust in, I know they’re coming. Everybody runs out the back, and the cops have the place to themselves."

Lucas looked around with nervous anticipation. This place was a long way from the small country life he knew—then he thought—probably not far enough away. Of all the abilities he held within his emotional arsenal, there was one in particular that served him well—the ability to read people—an instinct he learned early in life—an instinct that would serve him well in the days to come. He could see beneath Charlie’s crusty portrayal and malevolent persona. He knew Charlie Leland could be trusted.

"So here’s how it works," Charlie said. "I need someone to work behind the bartender, and most of the time it would be me. You put the ice up here from the back, clean the dishes, and make sure you keep the place clean. This ain’t a place for the faint of heart and there will be some tough days, but judging by your size and attitude, a tough guy like you should be able to handle this place," Charlie paused and lit another Lucky. "So, ya want the job kid?"

Lucas tried to control his excitement, "Hell yeah… I mean, yes sir."

Charlie laughed and said, "Okay kid. Be back here at six o’clock sharp." He pulled a couple of dollars from his pocket, folded them into the large hand of Lucas, and said, "Consider this an advance on your pay, and grab yourself something to eat kid."

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

"Put this on and I’ll get you started kid." Charlie said, as he stepped behind the bar. "You know kid. I was thinking. You told me you just got into town. Do you got family?"

"No," Lucas replied. "You could say I’m on my own."

"You ain’t running from nothing are you?" Charlie asked.

"Nope. Just trying to live my life the best I know how."

"You have a place to stay?"

"I really haven’t thought about it." Lucas felt dumb saying this, but it was true.
His excitement overtook his good sense. "I guess I’d better find a place to live."

"You’re greener than I thought kid. Tell you what. I got an extra room downstairs,
in the back of the building. You can stay there until you get situated."

The old man then turned and walked toward the back of the building where the bar was located. "The first thing you need to know is the code," he said over his shoulder.

"The code?" So much happened during his interview Lucas didn’t recall the earlier conversation.

"Yeah! Like I told ya. I refuse to give them cops or anybody else any of my money or my good booze. You know what I mean? And I don’t want my customers hurt."

"So how does it work, Mr. Leland?"

"Jumping jesus kid! I see we need to go over the rules."

Lucas took a step back, lowered his head, and stared at the floor. "Sorry sir," he said quietly.

Charlie raised his hands in exasperation and said, "Okay. Rule number one; Name’s
Charlie. You call me Charlie, or Boss. Number two; take a stand and show me you got hoodspa. Number three; do what I tell you, when I tell you. Number four; see the phone over there under the bar? When the phone rings, you answer it. If someone on the other end says. Is this 86 and Bedfort? You hit the bell hanging above the bar and tell everyone to get the hell out through the backdoor over there. You then make sure you hide all the booze under the trapdoor I showed you." He pointed his finger at Lucas and said, "Got it?"

"Sure boss! I got it! But I thought you said there were spies or something looking
out so there shouldn’t be a problem."

Charlie looked over at Lucas, took a long drag off his Lucky, and said, "It’s the something you got to worry about kid and that’s how it goes. And yeah. I got spies all over. Who do you think is calling?" Charlie poked Lucas’ chest and said, "Learn this if nothing else. You can’t trust nobody, so for chrissake, make sure you keep your eyes open, and no screwing around!"

Charlie walked off, and then stopped. "You look like you got a question."
Lucas, embarrassed said, "Yeah boss. I do."

"Spit it out kid."

"Rule number two. What’s hoots pah?

Charlie laughed once again and said, "I forget you’re a country boy. Here, I’ll spell it, c-h-u-t-z-p-a-h. I say it like hoodspa, which is how most people say it.
It means gall, brazen nerve, incredible guts, and maybe some arrogance thrown in. In other words kid, you gotta have stones to make it in this business. You understand stones, right?" Charlie handed Lucas a mop and a bucket. "Clean up the floor in here, and when you’re done, start on the dance floor. After you’re done with mopping, grab the other bucket, bring some ice in from the back, and then wipe down the counter. Don’t screw around though. We’ll probably have company shortly."

By the time Lucas was done, the water was as black as the night sky. Before he could finish all of the work Charlie asked him to do, two men wearing dark business suits came in through the back door.

One of them was large and the other was short but fat. Both had solemn looks on their faces and Lucas thought they didn’t look like they wanted to dance. They took one look at Lucas, and stopped.

The short one said, "Who the hell are you?"

A voice from a darkened corner of the bar said, "Relax fellas. He’s my new employee." Charlie stepped up and introduced Lucas.

"This is Joey and Vinnie. Two of my regulars," Charlie said.

"Nice to meet you," said Lucas.

Vinnie chuckled, looked over at Charlie, and said, "You got yourself a green one don’t ya Charlie.

Charlie handled the men in stride, responding, "Lucas, pull the bottle with the red label from under the bar and give me three glasses. I think the boys need a drink."

That night, Lucas learned the purpose of a speakeasy.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

At the end of his first month at the bar with Charlie, Lucas locked up for the night and climbed the stairs to his room. He stretched out on his bed, and reached for his flask of whiskey on the night stand. His mind, haunted by his past, kept him awake as the sun crested the horizon. He stood and walked to the window of his small room and looked out at the street below. The street, busy with people walking, stores opening, and horns blowing, he thought about how far he’d come. The view was nothing like that of Independence and he was glad. After a few months, a few raids, and some good times, Lucas found he liked working at Charlie’s. There were the regular customers, and then a couple of new ones now and again. When the cops raided the place, Charlie would set them up with the chippies, and give them all the cheap booze they wanted. With that, Charlie was free to do as he pleased.

As Lucas and Charlie cleaned up after the night’s entertainment, Charlie asked Lucas what he wanted to do with his life. "You know, the bar business ain’t no good for a smart kid like you."

"Yeah, I’ve been thinking about the future Charlie, but I like it here. You know, working with you and all that."

Charlie wiped his brow, tossed the towel over his shoulder, and said, "Listen up kid. You got what they call potential. I think you need to come up with something that will take advantage of your ability. Look at it this way. If I was to tell you to pick anything in the world, you wanted to do, what would you say? Don’t worry about money, success, and all that stuff. Just tell me what you want to do?"

Lucas thought for a moment. He considered all the things his mother taught him. Of all the things Martha was to Lucas, she was his mother, and she loved him despite of her deceptions. She had always said, "You’re a smart boy and one day you are going to make a difference." She knew life would be hard for a boy without a father and she knew wouldn’t live forever and Lucas needed to grow up strong.

"So, what do you want to do with your life kid?" Charlie edged.

Lucas looked at Charlie and said, "Ya know Charlie. I’ve been thinking about just that. Ma wanted me to go to college. She said I could make it and I should go. She said I should be a writer because I was always making notes about something and then reading them back to her. I think that's one of the things I learned from her, the writing part. She always wrote things; letters, notes in a journal I found after she died. I told her, more schooling would be great, but I couldn't see how we could afford any of it. We barely had money to live on and after her dying; there wasn’t much I could do."

"College?" Charlie responded. "I didn’t expect you would say college. I mean, not that there is anything wrong with college, and honestly, I think it would do you good."

Lucas smiled and said, "My mother always said I had the gift of words."

Charlie chuckled and said, "She was right about the words kid. I never met anyone like you before. You can talk your way in or out of about anything. Actually, that’s what will make you a good bartender."

Lucas smiled and said, "You know Charlie. Right now I think I’ll just keep working here and see how it goes."

"I have an idea, Lucas," Charlie said. "How about you look into what it takes to get in the college here, and I’ll help you out."

"You would do that for me?"

"Well. I would do it for you and me. My way of thinking is if you got a college education, we might be able to take this place somewheres."

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

As the economy dropped, it seemed more men found out about Charlie's place. Fortunately, for Charlie, many were the type that weren't affect by the challenging times facing most people. Liquor was there escape, and a good time with a beautiful woman fit right into the formula. By now, Lucas was a bartender and was doing well financially. Bonnie Walker, the favorite chippie, sat at the bar. Her legs crossed, the split in her dress showed plenty of leg. She pulled a cigarette from a package in front of her, and a man sitting next to her was quick with a match. She smiled
and held the man’s hand while blowing the flame out.

Lucas watched, as she would work the room with the other men. When things were quiet, she would sit near Lucas and talk about the night, the men, and her future.

"You know it’s going to be slow tonight," she said.

"Maybe it will pick up," Lucas answered

"Not tonight. I got a feeling about it."

Bonnie carried a special talent, not only picking men and getting them to spend their money, but she always seem to know how the night would end before it started and she knew tonight would bring nothing but conversation.

"Where you from Lucas?"

"Ohio."

"That’s a long way from home."

"If you want to call it that."

"A long way?" she said.

"No," he said, "I meant home."


Charlie came in from the street, and called to Lucas interrupting the conversation.

"I need to see you for a minute."

Lucas followed Charlie into the back office.

"Listen kid. I need you to go out to my car and bring in the box that’s in the trunk. Bring it in here. But don’t stop and talk with anyone."

"Okay Charlie."

"Now listen. The box is heavy so I need you to lift it careful like. Understand?"

"Yeah. I got it Charlie."

"Come right back in here, don’t talk to nobody."

Lucas took the car keys, walked into the back alley, and opened the trunk. There he saw a large cardboard box. He carried it inside, and it was heavy.

"Put it over there." Charlie said. He pointed to a long table as Lucas entered the room.

"What the hell is in here, Charlie?"

"What I been talking to you about kid. It’s what makes us men."

Charlie took a knife and slid the blade along the taped edges. Lucas couldn’t believe what he saw.

"Jesus Charlie! How much is in there?"

"Quiet kid. Don’t let the whole world know."

"Yeah. Sorry. But Charlie I’ve never seen this much money."

Charlie smiled. "I’ll betcha haven’t. Listen, sometimes I do some business outside with the booze. It brings me some good cash to run the place. But we need to keep these things on the quiet, and that’s sorta what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Sure Charlie. Whatever you want."

"Okay. Here it is. I got a feeling the government can’t keep us from selling booze forever. My gut tells me there’s change coming. But, until they make booze legal, we can make a lot of money. You keep your nose on the lookout, run the chippies, and keep the men buying and gambling and this stuff will keep rolling in. And you can be sure that I’ll take care of you."

"Don’t worry Charlie. I got your back."

"Good. Next week I want to look at hiring some more girls, and maybe expand the rooms upstairs with some more tables. This way we can keep the cash flowing."

"Okay Charlie. Got it."

"One more thing kid. I saw you talking with Bonnie."

"Yeah. It’s okay. We’re just talking because it’s slow."

"Ain’t nothing going on?"

"No Charlie. Not with me and her. You told me long ago to leave the chippies alone, and that’s what I do. I talk to them, you know, to make sure things is okay. Besides, there’s plenty of women coming around this place without me having to take a whore."

"Yeah. Well, you just watch yourself. I like Bonnie, but she ain’t one to mess with."

A couple of years passed as Lucas and Charlie grew the business and it came to bring in more money than they thought possible. Lucas was now in the backroom, running the bar, the chippies, and the money continued to flow in. He found this wasn’t a job for the faint of heart, but he grew up big, standing six foot three with broad shoulders, a nasty attitude and tougher than most men. He knew how to take care of himself, bad heart or not.

Lucas also found the company of women wasn’t bad either. He didn’t know if it was the bad guy image, the speakeasy or just every girl in town wanted to be with the bartender on a late lonely night. There were nights when he would go home with a handful of napkins stashed in his pocket after lonely women would write their phone number. By the end of some of those nights, Lucas would end up with one of them at his place, too drunk to find their way home but easily into his arms. Like trophies, he kept the napkins piled high on his dresser. "You can never tell when you might need the company of a warm and tender body on a cold night," he would say to Charlie.

. . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

In 1933, Charlie found out he was right about the bar business; the government decided liquor was legal and the speakeasy became the new hang out. Charlie and Lucas enjoyed great success and built a new bar up front, replaced all the furniture, and hired more people. To celebrate, each afternoon Charlie and Lucas would drink a beer with a couple of shots in the quiet afternoon before the crowd arrived.

"You’re a good kid Lucas and you done a great job running this place," Charlie said.

"Thanks for giving me a job, Charlie. I think the truth of it is if it hadn’t been for this, I don’t know where I would be."

"We’ve had some good times and some tough ones, eh Lucas?"

"Well, you said it would be tough. You said I needed guts to be in this business."

"How’s college, kid?"

"It’s good Charlie. Hard, but good."

"Have you found a girlfriend yet?"

"No. Not me. I have no plans on settling down Charlie. Not any time soon. What do I
need a regular girl for anyhow? Because of this place, and you, I have more money than I need, and a nice place, a great car, nice clothes, and women anytime I want."

"I know. But don’t let this business go to your head. Women can be dangerous and they can take you for everything you worked for. I know it ain’t easy finding the right girl. Lord knows, it took me three tries, but Harriet is a good woman. You should keep your choices open and find yourself a good woman to watch over you."

Lucas laughed and reflected on how he’d avoided relationships of any type. He knew he had left all those feelings of love behind him. He didn’t forget the lies and he wasn’t going to get hurt. Over the years, he’d built a wall around his heart shielding him from any emotional commitment and Lucas held no interest in having a steady relationship with any woman. He considered his past for a moment, and said,
"No Charlie. I don’t need anyone. I’m fine the way I am. I like my life and I am in control of it."

"You’re in control of it?" Charlie said.

"Sure! I come and go as I please, and I don’t have to answer to no one about what I’m doing."

"If you say so kid. But one day some woman is going to walk through that door and knock you flat on your ass, and when it happens, you’ll see what I mean. I can see it know; you be standing behind the bar and bam—there she’ll be. You won’t even know what hit you."

"I don’t think that’s gonna happen Charlie. That’s just not me."
Lucas wasn’t going to give his heart to anyone. He didn’t want the pain.

They moved over to one of the booths and Charlie lit up a Lucky. Taking a long drag off his cigarette, he looked at Lucas through the smoke while pushing the brim of his floppy hat up with his finger and said, "Yeah, you done good kid, and you’ve come a long way. I appreciate your helping me with fixing up the joint."
Lucas smiled at his friend and said, "Thanks for the chance Charlie, and thanks for helping me make something out of my life."

They sat and talked about the future, what they would do as the business grew, and how they could one day travel after all the hard work. Charlie leaned back and relaxed while blowing smoke rings. Lucas slid from the bench and said, "I’ll get us another beer."

Charlie said to Lucas as he walked away, "You need to find yourself a good woman to watch over you. You need to settle down and find someone to love. You can’t go on like this forever."

Lucas smiled at his friend as he walked behind the new bar and grabbed two clean mugs. As he stuck the mugs under the tap, he said, "Did I tell you? I finished my college credits next week. With that, I will have my degree in journalism. Just like you said Charlie—follow your dreams. Can you believe it? I’m not leaving though. I am your man until you tell me to go away."

Lucas walked back to the booth and slid the mug across the table. Charlie sat with his eyes closed and Lucas could see there was no expression on his face. His chin rested on his left palm with his elbow on the tabletop. In his right hand, his Lucky burned into his skin. Lucas knocked the cigarette out of Charlie’s hand.

On a cold Sunday in 1934, Lucas sat in a church while a preacher spoke of an old friend. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…" the sound trailed off bringing back memories of when he buried his father. He held Harriet’s hand as she wept—as they all wept.
Lucas and five burly men carried Charlie Leland to the hearse waiting to take his body to the cemetery. As they left the church, gray skies floated endless overhead as the snow dusted the shoulders of their coats. The route of the procession took them passed the bar. The hearse paused for a moment as if to salute the old building and to give Charlie one last look at the legacy he created. Lucas buried the only man he knew as a true friend that afternoon in a cemetery just outside the city.


***
For more information please contact the author.

CONTACT AUTHOR:L'Abri

**Permission to use quote is graciously provided by Sam Keen