Читать книгу Waiting with Elmer - Deanna K. Klingel - Страница 10

Chapter Three

When daylight broke, the rain kept falling. The air was brisk, the breeze chilly, and Willy knew summer was riding out of town on these rain clouds. Lying on the ground under the picnic table, Willy was muddy on one side. He tried not to move so his other side stayed clean. He kept his eyes focused on the street. After the night of rain, Willy shivered. He tried to cover up in his loneliness, which felt as heavy as one of Grandma’s old quilts.

He walked, head down, up the street, letting the rain wash off the mud. He walked to the end of the street, looking for his dad’s truck. He walked to the end on the other side. He went behind the stores and walked down that deserted gravel road, looking at the cars and trucks parked there next to the city limit sign. A slow-moving green and black police car sloshed down the muddy road, and Willy moved over.

“What you doing here, boy?” the officer asked.

“Looking for my dad’s truck.”

“Oh, yeah? What makes you think it’s back here?”

“I don’t know it. I’m just looking.”

At that moment, a tinny alarm jangled in the store that Willy had just passed. The sheriff jumped out of his car and pushed a surprised Willy to the ground. Willy opened his mouth in protest, but the policeman’s knee in the middle of Willy’s back knocked the wind out of him, and cold metal pinched his wrists. Willy lay on the ground, stunned. Another police car pulled up. The lighted sign on the green roof of the car was blinking on and off, “POLICE.” Willy squeezed his eyes shut tight.

“You got him?” the law man yelled as he hopped out of his car.

“Got him. Go on inside.”

The policeman yanked Willy to a stand and ran his hands roughly all over his body pausing over the bulge in Willy’s pocket.

“Just what I thought,” he said and pushed Willy into the car. The other policeman ran back out the door and grabbed the radio from his car. “Operator? Marilyn? Call the ambulance right now. Raymond’s Dry Good Store. Hurry up!” The policeman ran over to Willy sitting in the car and slapped him hard across the face.

The sting burned and crawled from his face to his stomach, where old memories began to roil and mix with this new pain.

“Old man Raymond never hurt a soul. He dies, you’re dead, kid.”

Willy looked up at the man’s hard face, through his watering eyes.

“I wasn’t in that store, sir.” The man slapped him on the other side. Willy’s ear rang.

“Don’t you lie to me, kid.”

“I…”

They slammed the car doors, turned on the siren and sped down the wet gravel road splashing mud onto the sidewalks, heading north. Through the windshield wipers, Willy watched for trucks passing by, hoping for the rusty yellow one he wanted to see.

Wet and muddy, Willy was dragged into the police station, even though he was capable of walking. It was for effect; he’d seen this done in other towns. They ripped open his shirt, buttons popped off, and they yanked his pants down. They ripped the seam of the pocket.

“It’s in here. Imagine. Shoot somebody for some cheap jewelry. Here, this is it.” The policeman held up Willy’s marble bag. “You’d kill a man for this?”

Willy scowled, puzzled, and confused.

“No, sir. That’s always been mine.”

The policeman dumped the marble bag onto the desk. The marbles rolled out and fell onto the floor, spinning around like a busted-up gumball machine, glass cats’ eyes and aggies bouncing onto the floor.

The policeman’s eyebrows shot up over wide eyes. He chewed his toothpick, his surprise turning to anger. “What is that?” He pointed.

“They’re my marbles, sir.”

“Get out. Get out of here. Get out of town. Go on, git. We don’t need your kind in this county.” The policeman yanked off the handcuffs and shoved Willy to the door.

Willy snagged his empty marble bag and bent down to retrieve his marbles. He didn’t see the boot coming.

“I said get out. I meant now!”

Willy stuffed the empty marble bag in his pocket and shook the stars free from his eyes. He struggled to stand up, stared at the policeman, and tried to focus. The room spun around, and he staggered. He wiped the dripping blood from his nose and careened out the door. Trying to reorient himself back to the town, he searched the sky for the big cross over the Union Mission. He heard the wail of the distant train whistle and started off in that direction, hoping it would be the right way back to the south side of town.

The sun peeked out from behind the rain clouds just in time to set behind the stores, painting the sky a dozen shades of bruise. Willy stumbled off in the direction of the drug store. His vision blurring, he turned up the alley to find Rake and the Union Mission. His drenched body trembled, his head throbbed. He licked the blood off his lips. He twisted his empty marble bag in his fingers.

He paused at the orange ramp in front of the Mission and looked down to read the hand-painted words on the sidewalk: “Behold, how good it is, and how pleasant, where brethren dwell as one! Psalm 133.”

“Grandma read psalms,” Willy said to no one there. He swallowed, making his head pound. Grandma. He stared at the psalm and the space around him tumbled in disarray. He caught himself falling.

He was startled to hear a voice.

“Afternoon, young fella. You looking for somebody?”

His eyes scanned the porch. “Yes, sir, I’m looking for Mr. Rake.”

“Mister Rake? Oh, oh, I know who you mean. Come on in.” The old man pushed off the porch swing on unsteady legs and opened the screen door for Willy. “Go on, go on in. We’ll find you Rake, and some grub. Maybe you’d like to wash up a bit?” Willy started to nod a yes, but instead his head dropped forward, and his body crumbled into a heap on the floor.

***

He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but he was dry, warm, and tucked into a bed. He could hear voices whispering around him about concussions. He blinked and opened his eyes, slowly taking in his surroundings.

“Where… am I?”

Willy appreciated the pork and beans and the chicken leg they handed him on a tin plate, and he devoured every bite. A man with a bandana on his head smiled and turned over a bony brown hand holding a hot cornbread muffin.

“Go good with supper. Eat it.”

“Thanks,” Willy said and put the muffin on his plate. He touched his eyebrow and felt a wad of gauze and tape. He touched his swollen nose and winced. He ran his tongue over a split in his lip.

“So, Rake, this here’s your young friend that plays chess?” a fat, red-haired man asked, and then laughed loudly.

“He has potential,” Rake said, scraping his plate clean. “Real potential. Elmer and I are seeing to it.”

“Well, then, I’d say he’s got a fair chance at life.” All the men guffawed, like it was a private joke.

Talking like I’m not even here.

When Willy had finished his meal, Rake collected his plate, dropped it into the dishpan, and tossed his spoon into another dishpan in the sink.

“How you feelin’ now, Willy?” Rake didn’t wait for Willy to answer but moved toward the bunk bed and rested his elbows on it, looking directly at Willy.

“Looks like you had a bit of bad luck. I hear you met the county po-lice outside town? I’m sorry for that. But looky here now, you got your own safe space right here, and we’re happy to have you. Nobody goin’ to bother a friend of Elmer’s and a guest at the Mission. Your own safe place, right here.” Rake spread his arms as if he were indicating a whole new world. But it was only a bunk bed in the corner, with blankets pinned to a rope to make a privacy screen, now pulled open to include the others. Stacked wooden orange crates stood bare beside each of the beds. Willy was on the top bunk, lying on a mattress zipped into a rubber case that smelled like Lysol disinfectant. It crinkled when he moved.

“We can put a nail in the wall for you to hang your marble bag. I know you’ll want to take care of that. When a man doesn’t have much, what he does have takes on an importance. We all know that; we respect that,” said the fat, red-haired man. “I’ll fetch a hammer.”

“Don’t have marbles,” Willy said, as the memory returned to haunt him. He fingered the bandage on his head.

“No marbles? What did you do? Did you lose them?” Rake sounded surprised.

“No.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.” Willy knew Rake was looking at him.

“Men who live at the Union Mission learn to know when not to ask about somebody’s private business. It’s a matter of respect. I imagine this might be one of those times.” He saw Rake nod at the other men in the room, who slowly made their way out of the room.

“We’ll be meeting up with Elmer in the morning right after church,” Rake offered, changing the subject.

Willy stretched out on the top bunk.

Where are my wet muddy clothes? What are these dry ones I have on?

He looked down at the shirt he was wearing: faded, but with all the buttons; the pants, worn army khakis, rolled up. A fancy belt with new holes punched in puckered the khakis around his thin ribs.

Who changed my clothes?

He stared at the blanket walls, appreciated the privacy, but blushed, nonetheless.

Someone hollered “Lights out.”

A voice answered, “Praise God.”

Darkness filled the empty space around Willy, and he closed his eyes.