Going To Find Out On Christmas Morning

Late Christmas morning, Nick slid from his crumpled bed. His head was afire, his cider-filled brain shouting and pounding like an aching old tooth. He sat with his feet barely touching the floor and scratched his belly. He wondered if he was going to puke, and then decided against it. “Always too much,” he thought. It was always this way. Downstairs in the kitchen, he could hear his wife frantically preparing hot pots of coffee, working up “the perfect breakfast feast” just to please him and the guests. He stood and tottered to the window. A carved coo-coo clock ticked loudly next to him on the wall, its monotonous tocking hammering a spike through his swollen brain. His eyes, thin as dimes stayed locked on the horizon as he raised one large craggy hand and with a full powerful grasp, crushed the clock to dust. “That… will be… enough… of that,” he growled.

A white fog had settled over the barren snow-covered fields, leaving them flat like white canvas awaiting lines to be drawn. Below, the trees in the yard hung heavy with snow and ice, their branches bent, about to break. “They will break,” he said softly. “Everything breaks. Eventually.’ Last night during all the festivities, he had seen many broken things: hearts, dreams, homes, bodies, promises. Yes, promises. Every year it was the same. It wore him down and there would be a steep price to pay.

As he rubbed his head, he caught his reflection in the pane. It painted him a ghost, almost transparent, his white hair exploding up, his long johns pewter gray and as thin as his thoughts. His weathered face was heavily lined with what his wife called ‘smile’ lines. “Not for long,” he scowled and turned away quickly, grabbing for his boots. “Take care of the dear ones first,” he muttered, his body aching, his back cracking as he straightened up.

On a bench in the kitchen near the cellar door, a group of elfin figures much like young boys huddled and waited nervously. Through a window, they watched Nick stomp past on his way to the shed carrying two buckets, one of fresh hot gruel, the other warm flavored milk, the way the reindeer liked it. The ground under his boots crunched loud and firm like crisp cornflakes. The missus was busy cutting up loaves of bread for her guests. She hummed a familiar Christmas jingle, “he knows when you are sleeping… he knows when you’re awake… he knows when you’ve been bad or good… lada-deeda-lada-dee!” One of the elves leaned and whispered. “I watched old Nick last night…he had that list again… longer than last years. He took his time going over it. He checked it twice.” His small voice shook and cracked. “He’ll show no mercy. He never does.”
Then the kitchen door flew open and Old Nick was upon them, flying past, bellowing:
“OHH I KNOW WHO’S BEEN NAUGHTY!… OH YES I DO!!!”
His face was a red blaze and he swung a heavy switch in his trembling hand as he roared like a fire down into the cellar.

Along the frozen basement floor, thousands of burlap sacks tied with heavy rope writhed and squirmed like boiling serpents. From within, soft moans and child-like pleading hung suspended, frozen in the frigid air. Old Nick glowered over them, his dark switch racking stiff against his knee. “So many promises broken. Now a price to pay.” He moved slowly among them tapping his switch along the bags. “Everything breaks eventually,” he said lovingly. “Everything.”

Missing The Talk

Tito ‘The Talk’ Moncuso keeps all of his secrets buried under his house, out of sight where nobody will know. That’s really funny because Tito’s never been the secretive sort. Matter of fact, he’s known as a big mouth, which in our business ain’t such a good thing.

Tito wants to move up. That’s okay, a lot of guys do. Just do it the right way I say, that’s all - - the way that don’t draw too much attention if you know what I mean. Show the right temperament and have a little patience. From what I’ve seen, Tito don’t have neither. Tommy ‘Two Tunes’ has talked to him but Tito keeps missing the point. See - - everything about Tito is loud. He’s always had a nose for seeking the limelight, dressing loud and flamboyant-like, shootin’ his mouth off about stuff he shouldn’t be shootin’. Like when we was kids, he’d steal from the till at old Marco’s market stand, then hang with Marco’s kid Frankie and spout off about it. No shame. No tack. You gotta know to keep some things under wraps. Private. Secret. Tito’s not like that.

Tito and me and Vinny ‘Van Go’ Flowers used to take care of business for friends and family if they needed it. We called it a ‘cleaning’ business… you know, tidying up messes and loose ends, getting rid of problems in a discreet manner. Unfortunately, Tito weren’t too discreet. The cops started listening in on his big talkin’ mouth, though they couldn’t quite prove nothin’. Tommy ‘Two Tunes’ thought it’d be a good idea to send Tito out to Biloxi to quiet down for a while with instructions to lay low. But guys like Tito don’t have a nickname like ‘the talk’ for nothing. He got bored and started gambling too much, then hooked up with some high roller old fuck at the tables - - a Mr. Bromley - - that really took a shine to Tito. He was a real piece of work, another big mouth conversationalist like Tito with money, rings and cigars, lots of gold and chain that dazzled the pants off Tito, if you know what I mean. I don’t condone that sort of thing but it’s none of my business. When Tito started talking about personal stuff to Bromley, well it became my business. Turns out, old Bromley there was retired FBI and Tito didn’t have a clue about it.

It’s all been taken care of though. Vinny Flowers and me have gone out to Biloxi to help Tito relocate again and do a little tidying up. It seems Mr. Bromley has gone missing. It’s okay. He’ll show up again… in the morgue… the recipient of an apparent heart attack. Tito’s missin’ too. The feds would love to talk to ‘the talk’ but that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. Like I said, Tito keeps his secrets buried under his house and the only talk he’s gonna have are with the bugs and the worms crammed down his big talkin’ mouth.

Black Candles

I saw the building from across the street as I was waiting in line for a bed at the shelter. It wasn’t hard to miss with its castle-like structure looming ominously over the street like a gray stone angel. The drunk in front of me said it was a holy place, a church. I knew that already. He suggested I go and take a look inside. ‘Migh’ even get somethin’ ‘spiri’ual’ out of it’, he added dreamily. And it was free to visit, warm too and nobody really bothered you, at least until closing time when they kicked you out.

I gave him a half dozen smokes to hold my place in line along with a hard stare that told him he’d best not fuck with me and still be there when I got back.

I needed to find out. I needed to know if anything had really changed.

The sun was beginning to set as I darted across the street, up the large flat steps that led to two large wooden doors. Entering the vestibule, I was overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia. The air was pungent, the smell of burning incense, candles. It brought back memories from when I was a child; back to a different church my parents took me to regularly. I hadn’t thought of that place until recently… not since I’d gone off the meds.

‘That’s all in the past,’ I told myself. But the transition had been difficult. Years of therapy had shed some light on understanding it rationally. The meds had blocked out the events that had happened there. Ending up on the street though… I wondered how far I had really progressed? They still lurked, just beneath the surface like flashing snapshots at the crime scene: the candles and dark shapes, the rituals, the black-candled underground room, the unholy sacrifices. What they made me do to that girl.

I eased along a recessed wall, passed veiled statues and carved pictures and I quickly turned away. I slipped quietly onto a bench near the center of the church. This place was different from what I had attended as a child. It was open and serene; its brightly colored glass with Madonna and child, the saintly faces gazing down, shining through in the dimming light. Long wooden benches stretched in front of a large ornate altar, crisp and white as if glowing in a hushed transcendent light. A few people sat silently in front of me and for once in a very long time, I felt at peace.

I closed my eyes and centered myself into a calm trance-like state. My mind slowly began to wander… up to the magnificent altar with its golden candles and shrouded tabernacle… up the giant wooden cross to the luminous vaulted ceiling… back across to the choir loft. Casually floating down, I entered… into a darkened corner.

There were rows of red glass along the sidewall, glowing with dots of candlelight that shook and shuddered as a slumped shadow knelt in front to offer up secret, whispered words. Oh yes, the whispered words. Secrets. I shifted in my seat and tried to refocus. The darkened corner seemed to brighten. Then it quickly slammed shut. Ink black. I froze. There was nothing, only a dark hole in the earth and I fell into the abyss. I could hear the voices now in my head and I tried to silence them but they were loud, rising up, garbled like someone turning the dial on a radio quickly, round and round, round and round, round and round. I shut my eyes tighter and my mind ran, escaping back down along the shadowed recessed walls. I stopped dead in my tracks. Hung along the wall were the carved pictures I’d seen earlier when I’d entered, a row of pictures that stirred something deep, so deep within me - - carvings with depictions of torture and agony, blood and nails, crucifixion and death, of whispered words and secrets.

* * *

The voices haven’t said anything just yet. They’re unclear and I pray sitting here silent in the gloom on this wooden bench will make them stop. Perhaps it would help if someone turned a few more lights on because it is getting darker out. And the light may be the only thing that can save me… me and that innocent girl sitting in the next row.

Beware of Darkness

I’ve got it most squared away, just in case. James Pilkerton filled out the appropriate papers for me, all my worth - - horse and gun - - most all a man like me really has left. I’ll let him do with it what he wants if need be, him being the mayor and all. I too made arrangements with old Marteen the coffin maker and undertaker for a simple box and burial. I didn’t come into this life with no fanfare and I don’t expect to go out with any either. The people here came out of the woodwork when they heard the news. Town meeting brought plenty of concerned folks and plenty of men ready to show what they got. “We’re here with you, Sheriff Drewry,” they spat. “We got guns. Let ‘em come!” They hooted and hollered mostly for the benefit of the women standing there but I saw it in their eyes, that shifty sideways glance, uncertainty running fast under the surface like critters from a prairie fire. They were missing it… the part inside necessary for this kind of thing. That edge. They all wanted to run. They were waiting for me to let them off the hook, tell them to go on home and take care of their families. And I did. I promised I’d take care of it. Do the job they were paying me for. I can guarantee they won’t be around when the trouble here starts.

* * * * *

The boy is coming out of Kansas with a couple of like riders. He is a name I recognize, sixteen years old. That is hard to believe counting the number of men he’s killed. They say he is the fastest anyone has ever seen, in these parts least wise. They’ll be here in the morning. There’s not much time but I’ll wait and think on them coming. Think about Josephine too.

* * * * *

I still have a picture of her from years back. I keep it stuffed in my shirt pocket. There was much about her that made me want to stick around even after the baby was born. She was a hard woman but she held a steadiness rooted in the earth that drew me to her. I should have stayed and tried to make a go of it but I knew better; knew myself better. A few years later, by pure chance, our paths crossed again in San Maria. She told me of our son, told me he was trouble from the start. No man around to set him right she said. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He began killing things early, when he was eight years old, maybe even younger, unsuspecting creatures that he trapped then tortured. He would show her what he’d done. He was unashamed she said, describing every hunt, the setting of his traps, all the terrible detail, searching for her approval. She never gave none. She said she prayed on it to make him stop. He would sit and stare at her, his mind elsewhere. She said he was missing something, something God had forgotten to form in his being. She didn’t know what to do. When he was nine, she sent him away with a preacher who came through the town. The boy showed no emotion when he left, only gave a look that shook her. There was a ‘hunger’ there, sitting behind his dead eyes she said. She told me she heard the boy began a different kind of killing then. Word came he’d murdered the preacher and his two young children while they slept, girls barely older than he at the time. He left the preacher’s wife alive. She’d have been better off if he hadn’t she said. He left a note etched across the charred skin of her stomach. ‘Momma’, it read.

* * * * *

Traveling up near San Maria last year, I heard news of Josephine’s passing. It was then I made a promise to her and myself that I would make things right. Just like I’ve promised this town. I will take care of it. I will go out early and meet them on the edge of town near the bluffs, just me and them. My edge? Josephine’s words and this: I know the boy is exactly like me… exactly like me… and I have already set the trap.

Along the Battlement

We gather in our makeshift camp, a scrub of branch, log and bush hidden near the eastern end of the bay. We - - myself, William Cobb and Robert Forrester - - study X’s and O’s linked by dotted lines that cover a crudely drawn map. Two brothers, Henry and James Connor lay prone nearby, on cool grass next to a fallen tree and attend to muddied rifles, worn and bent. The days have been long and lazy, this summer the hottest that we can remember in our short time here. We have spent many hours scouting and planning and it has paid off with the taking of Red Rock and the capture of the northern Ridge. And now the plan for the attack on the fort has taken shape. Cobb has organized daily explorations of the terrain, sketching these quick maps and discussing plausible scenarios for our attack. He has an eye for this, a talent for taking on and conquering the vast world around him. He has become our group’s quiet leader and my best friend. The fort will be a challenge though. It sits atop a hill, with high limestone walls on all sides protected by a surrounding moat perhaps thirty feet deep. The bay cups the south and west corners, the north and east sides open and steep, the ground barren, no trees or rock for camouflage or cover. Cobb encourages us. “A piece of cake,” he says. “A piece of cake.”

Forrester believes there may be a way into the fort, a tunnel on the west side. We head out in search and after sloughing through the thicket along the west water’s edge find a drainage tunnel leaking out between an avalanche of cascading rock. Its opening is only a yard or so across at best and it smells of heavy raw sewage.
“We ‘aint goin’ in there,” James says. “It’s too small anyway.”
“Alright,” Cobb says with a cough. “Here’s the plan. We’ll make a surprise attack from the north then. They won’t expect that.”

We creep the hill, flat on our bellies through yellowed grass and stone, black dirt grimed on our bright faces like powdered war paint. We are sitting ducks as we approach, out in the open like this but Cobb believes no one will be watching this side; it is so exposed. We believe him. Henry Connor is to my left with his younger brother at his hip. They now move in a low, slow crouch, ready to spring upon command. Up ahead is Forrester, the youngest of our group, acting as lead scout. To my right is Cobb. I stare at his shadowed face as he surveys the hilltop. He will not live to see the coming fall.

Our rifles lead the way, pointed at the ready, aimed at the quiet ramparts staring down at us. The day is getting late and there is a sense to hurry. “GO!” Cobb grunts and we pick ourselves up and charge the hill.

POW! POW! POWPOW!

There is the fierce sound of voices yelling and hooting as we race up toward the moat’s edge, firing at will, firing over the long black cannons that nose out along the battlement, silently commanding the northern horizon.

POW! POW! POWPOW!

I turn and see that Cobb has stopped running. He is sitting with his back to me, facing the darkening skyline.
“Wait!” I call to the others and rush back down.
“William. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says quietly. “Just a little winded. I feel kind of weak.”
Henry and James come sliding along side us.
“What? What’s going on?”
“Let’s head back to camp,” I say, taking William by the arm, waving Forrester back from the moat’s edge. He ambles down, joining our slow retreat.

* * * * *

There are no more campaigns for us. The fort remains occupied. The cannons watch silent out over the bay as the ghosts of our youth perform revolving plays of forceless attacks. We return to the world, to thoughts of the not-so-distant new school year and to a different battle looming, a confounding fight led by worrying adults who will struggle to understand William’s incurable illness. I will wonder what part a ten-year-old boy is supposed to play and I will struggle hard to carry on the following summer’s campaign without him.