Rise and Converge

Gracy retrieved the gun and put it back in his belt. “How do you know Pa?”

The woman appeared from the hallway holding a baby. The infant wore a white nightgown as if dressed for a christening. The cloth hung almost to the woman’s knees, and she held a finger to the infant’s smiling face. Gracy studied the child. The baby’s smile widened, and the head lolled to and fro as the woman spoke in a reassuring, high pitch. As the large head turned, the baby looked at Gracy and almost began to laugh. Then, leaning forward, the baby lightly landed toward the comfort of the woman. Montgomery looked on.

“Mother spoils the child.”

“Nonsense,” the woman said, her eyes still focused on the infant in her lap. “You can’t spoil a baby.”

Montgomery took another drink. “Probably true. I don’t expect he’ll go to sleep anytime soon, now that he’s napped near dawn.”

The woman seemed elated and her eyes were intense as she cooed at the baby. “He’ll go down late and sleep late. Won’t you, Little Man?” The baby whinnied in response. A clear sheen of slobber shined on his chin as the large baldhead turned and smiled at Gracy. Gracy couldn’t help but smile back in response. Montgomery observed this with a quiet reserve before breaking the reverie.

“It had to been summer of ’18. When I first left. Is that what you’d say, Mother?”

She kissed the gargantuan head and nodded. “I’d say so.”

He drank and smoked and stuck his belly forward as his eyes traced the ceiling beams. “I was in France and I swear there were 10,000 soldiers being sent there everyday. If you think I was surprised at the number of troops, you can imagine what the Germans thought. For a few months I was sent all over the map, but it wasn’t until I was floating in the middle of the English Channel that I turned and saw a young man looked about as cold as I was. I gave him a cigarette and he hacked like all get out, but at least it warmed him up. That was Logan.”

“Pa didn’t smoke.”

“I’m not surprised. After we halted the Germans there they turned and made like hell toward Paris. Instead of being ordered to the Second Battle of the Marne, your daddy and I were sent to Ireland where we played cards and were generally up to no good.” Montgomery raised one eyebrow. “Your daddy could still play some poker, couldn’t he?”

Gracy nodded. “Like the devil.”

“Did he teach you?”

“He tried. I don’t think it took as well to me as him.”

“The man could bluff, and he always got the cards. You can’t teach those two things. You either got it or you don’t.”

“Well,” the woman broke in, “Father, if you’d hold Jonathan I can get the food on the table so we don’t all sit here and starve.”

Montgomery placed the pipe on a clay ashtray and held his hands to his sides. “Bring the Little Man over yonder.” She did and the man held the baby so it faced Gracy. The woman entered the nearby kitchen and then returned, placing the liver on the table followed by biscuits and green beans. Last she placed a thin gravy near the liver, and then Montgomery blessed the food.

Gracy tried to eat as slowly as possible until the pangs of hunger subsided. He felt his father’s pistol pressed tightly against his hip.

“How’d he get the gun from there to here? A gun like this wouldn’t be found near the English Channel or Ireland.”

Montgomery held the baby with one arm as he ate. It’s eyes fought sleep. “It was unlikely, but it was there.” He chewed and spoke between bites. “There was a game on and your daddy was about to take the shirt off a man’s back when the man slapped that there gun on the table and was all in. Logan called his bluff and the gun was his.”

He handed the baby to his wife and she walked back toward the hallway, leaving the two alone once again.

“But the story doesn’t end there. The man was a British soldier, no telling how he got the gun, and he pulled a knife from his boot and said Logan was cheating. Well, Logan sprung back, and as the blade sliced through the air back and forth an oldboy from our division flew out of nowhere like the Dickens and smashed a bottle over the Brit’s head. That was that.”

Gracy sat silently for a while. “So you two just lost touch once the war was over?”

Montgomery laid his fork down and repacked his pipe and began smoking again. He looked off toward some unseen place as if the answer to the question lie there waiting to reveal itself.

“That’s about the size of it. But that’s life, son. I had my children as soon as I got home, and your daddy he waited a while.” He motioned off to where his wife had departed. “Now we’re raising our baby’s baby.” He eyed Gracy. “You’re no more than sixteen.”

“Seventeen.”

Montgomery continued studying him. He spoke softly so as not to be heard outside the confines of the dining area.

“My daughter was already pregnant at seventeen, and Jonathan is my son’s progeny. I don’t know where my son is now. I don’t have the foggiest.”

Gracy laid down his fork and placed his hands on either side of the plate.

“They both won’t have nothing to do with us, and I can’t even say why.” Montgomery blinked rapidly as he spoke. Gracy noticed the rain had begun to subside. “Hell, I was better than my daddy. I don’t blame him though.” Montgomery readjusted his position in his seat and almost smiled. “I see youth before me and I hear rumors of our great nation heading into another war and I think of my own son and my mind goes to mush.”

“I appreciate what you said about my father.”

Montgomery looked at his pipe and watched the smoke. For the time being he had forgotten about his glass.

“That’s good, son. I knew you’d appreciate it. You wouldn’t be doing what you’re doing if you didn’t.”

“Did you open the box?”

“No, I didn’t need to. It looks like a coffin.”

“I suppose.”

“I have a tarpaulin out back I’ll wrap over the top of the cart. That’ll keep the water from seeping in if God sees fit to let it rain again. But, if that happens you may need an ark more so than a horse.”

Gracy took another sip from the glass in front of him and didn’t try to hide the grimace as his throat felt the burn. He gave his head a little shake.

“I don’t know why I’m going through with this.”

“Because he asked you to?”

“Yeah. I reckon that’s it.”

“But that’s not all it is.”

Gracy spun the glass in one hand and eyed it as if threatening to take another sip.

“Maybe not.”

“I know not. It’s a ritual, son. A gesture—you taking your daddy to Harbor.”

Gracy took the sip. “Yeah, well, I don’t know what the gesture means.”

The man waved his pipe around and sat forward, eyeing the boy with a new intensity.

“Sometimes the gesture is the meaning, and anything else I might say about it will make it less understandable. I remember when my son was young, he loved watching baptisms. He didn’t understand what the ritual meant, he just got it. Maybe through some different logic. As he got older, he moved away from all that, but it doesn’t make it any less real. I tried teaching him meaning behind baptism and communion, but he wouldn’t have any of it.” He sat back again, lowering his voice once more and looking again at that far off place. “The meaning of what you’re doing resonates deeper than any words you or I could say. It seeps down deeper than any words. I could try to tell you how dangerous Harbor is, but when I realized your daddy was in that cart I knew right off that it doesn’t matter. What you’re doing needs to be done.”

Gracy was quiet for a long while. Finally he took another sip and set the glass down lightly on the table. The burn was less severe.

“Yessir.”

They sat. The woman looked at Gracy, her eyes curious as if studying a train’s schedule. Her back was erect, and the boy slouched under the blanket. He placed his hat on the hearth where it dripped and formed a dark pool on the stone. Strands of his hair pressed wet across his pale forehead. The rest of his face was tan and grim.

It seemed to Gracy there were a few moments when the woman was about to speak. She stopped herself each time. He looked at her and attempted to smile and failed and stared back toward the fire.

A cry sounded—sharp and piercing. Gracy started and sat forward. At first he believed it was Swift, but he quickly realized it was too loud to be from outside. The wails traveled from down the hall.

“Oh dear,” the woman said, gripping her white apron and standing. She looked down the hallway and then at the boy. “If you’ll excuse me, Gracy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She passed quickly and turned a tight corner to some unseen dark part of the house. Gracy stood as she left and then sat back down. He pulled the blanket tight across his shoulders and allowed his eyes to break free from the fireplace. They landed on a peg pounded into the wall with such force, hairline cracks spread out from the impact. A leather-tooled holster hung there attached to a worn cartridge belt with .45 loops showing dimly from the nearby kerosene light. For all its wear the cartridges fit snugly, as did the revolver. A seven point star shape was clasped to the buckle as if placed there as an afterthought.

The dry hinges screeched as the backdoor opened and then closed. Gracy heard boots squeal on the floorboards. Montgomery walked around the corner and stood near the holster. The man’s long gray hair hung limp. He looked to his left and eyed the weapon or badge and rubbed his wet, bearded chin with one hand.

“Where’s my better half?”

Gracy nodded toward the hallway. “A baby was crying.”

“Heaven almighty.” He stood there dripping and raised an ear to the back of the house and upon hearing nothing puckered his lips and twirled his fingers. “We won’t eat without her, but we can get warmed up. Come on now.”

“Yessir.”

The boy stood and draped the blanket on the floor near his hat and walked to the table. Montgomery retrieved an opaque bottle by the neck and motioned to where Gracy sat himself. The man poured into his glass and handed it to Gracy. Then he walked to the cupboards and removed another glass and table setting. He placed the plate and utensils in front of Gracy and then poured from the bottle into the empty glass for himself.  It was a brownish liquid. The boy eyed the tawny drink suspiciously and then drained it.

“Whoa, son. Don’t go fallin out of your chair.  I make it strong.”

Gracy’s eyes watered. He ran the back of his hand across his mouth and took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair.

“What do you have there?”

Gracy looked around. “I don’t have anything.”

The man reached inside his coat and brought out an old steampunk pipe and a soft pouch. He pinched out the tobacco and packed it tightly with a stained thumb. “Yes you do.” He motioned with his busy hands. “What’s that hangin from your belt like a slab of meat?”

Gracy’s eyes dropped to his waist. “I reckon that’s my father’s gun.”

“Okay.” Montgomery lit the pipe and smoked and then took a sip from his glass and placed the glass in the same position from which it was raised. He tapped the smoothed wood with one bony finger. “Why in God’s green earth would you be carrying around a gun?”

“Protection.”

Montgomery took another sip. The smoke from the pipe wafted toward the ceiling. “Protection.” He smiled to himself. “Well, that’s smart—going to Harbor and whathaveyou.” He eyed the weapon more carefully as Gracy began positioning it further underneath his belt. He held out his free hand. “If you don’t mind, can I take a looksy?”

Gracy glanced at the peg with the hanging gun. He looked at his own and pulled it out and placed it on the table near the man. Montgomery reached forward and picked the gun up as if it were some holy relic. He lowered his pipe to the table and examined the gun from every angle. Then he opened the cylinder and spun it and flipped his wrist so that it snapped shut. He placed it on the table and let it sit there as he brought the pipe back up to his mouth and inhaled.

“I’ve seen this gun before,” he said, smoke billowing forth.

Gracy eyed the gun but let it rest on the table. “You’ve seen a .38 special before?”

“No, son. I’ve seen that gun sitting right there before.”

The whole sky became slate as soundless lightning crinkled across the expanse as if split along parallel cleavage planes. The wind did not abate and Gracy kept his chin behind his stiff collar. He could feel his warm breath rush down his neck and uppermost chest. He watched Swift’s slow breaths roll into the sharp cold, coiling and then vanishing as she trudged onward under the marbled firmament.

Hours passed before he stopped under an old barren oak. When his feet hit the ground he slowly torqued his waist with his arms upraised and then bent over and grasped the pointed ends of his worn boots. He reached into the cart and retrieved a jug of water and took a drink. The light drops of rain that continually threatened to fall with greater force struck the brim of his hat as he walked chunks of dried meat under the oak and sat cross-legged. He chewed and watched the gradual decline of the road into a shallow valley. Clustered groups of rainfall scattered the area like gray smudges on an artist’s canvas. They moved silently as darker clouds loomed on the horizon.

Gracy finished the meat and caught a glance of a nail stuck in the sole of one boot. He worked at it awhile with his fingers and then took the back of the hammer to it until the nail slid out stubbornly like a sliver. He tossed the bent metal on the ground by where he sat and then continued on down the road toward what lay before him.

Soon the hard rain did reach him and he held onto his hat and dipped his head as the torrents swept the land. Swift pressed onward, but the sodden ground was becoming difficult to traverse and the wheels of the cart turned slowly. Gracy looked back at the casket and watched the deluge fall upon it. He faced forward and nudged Swift with his heel.

Hours later the turgid glow of a window shone out in the twilight. Gracy could feel the rivulets running down his legs and filling his boots with rainwater. His hat became some misshapen thing that rested heavily upon his head. Swift’s legs were sleek with mud and the cart’s wheels looked bloated with the clumps of earth falling with each revolution.

When Gracy finally dismounted he was shivering and hugging his torso tightly. He walked to the front door of the home and knocked loudly to be heard over the storm. Not long passed before a woman’s face looked through the glowing window from behind floral curtains. When her eyes landed on the boy the curtains dropped and a tall man opened the door. The man looked down at Gracy as if he were some wounded animal and then peered further out toward where Swift stood, head bowed against the rain.

“Who travels in such fury as the Lord has set upon us?” he asked.

Gracy took his hat off and ran a hand through his soaked hair.

“My name’s Gracy Logan. I’m traveling to the town of Harbor when this storm hit.”

“Harbor? Who in his right mind would travel to Harbor, even if blessed with a cloudless sky?” Before Gracy could answer the man quickly asked, “What’s your daddy’s name, son?”

“Wesley,” Gracy said, looking up at the man and then down at the wood porch. “Wesley Logan.”

The man’s eyes widened and he reached out as if prodded from behind.

“C’mon, son,” he said. “Come inside. I’ll fetch your horse and pull it around yonder into the stable. Here—” he pointed toward the floor. “Kick off your boots and leave them by the door.” He then took Gracy’s arm and led him inside before rushing out into the shower that almost fell horizontally. He grabbled Swift by the reins and led her to the back of the house.

Gracy was about to place his boots where the man told him, but the woman who had peered out the window took them from his hand and placed them by the fire. She then fetched a blanket and laid it around Gracy’s shoulder and bid him sit in a wooden chair next to the flames.

“We were just about to eat,” she said, studying him with soft eyes. “You’ll join us.”

He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. I greatly appreciate it.”

She placed her hands folded in her lap and nodded back. “We’ll start as soon as Montgomery returns from the stable.”

Gracy followed his mother into the house, and soon they were back in the room with his father. Their heels sounded loudly on the wood as she took her place by the feet and Gracy at the head. He had placed a loop of course rope on each side of the casket—head and feet—for handles, and it was these they both took hold of.

“You back up and I’ll follow,” she said.

“Ma, I can run and get Mason to help with this.”

She stayed bent—poised for heavy lifting.

“I’ll do it.”

He looked down at his father.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Gracy counted and they lifted at once, his mother struggling and strained in the face but holding with vigor. She wobbled behind as he led through the house and out the door back into the light. The clouds continued their trajectory and cast long shadows across the land. They placed the casket under a tree and Gracy left to fetch Swift.

The horse had found a new patch of grass not far from the shed. Gracy mounted it and led it slowly back to where his mother stood. He watched her scan the horizon. She shaded her eyes and studied what was before her as if it were new. Gracy’s eyes fell to his father and back to her as they had done many times, and he was almost waiting for the man to sit up and put his arm around the grieving woman.

Gracy pulled on the reins and Swift stopped. He dismounted and walked to the back of the house. When he returned he held a piece of plywood fixed with two-by-fours and four metal loops. He placed it next to the casket and then retrieved two pieces of cut rope from the bucket in the cart. He stopped by his mother’s side and joined her as she now stared silently at his father. She held one hand to her mouth. Gracy placed the rope on the ground and put his arm around her sharp shoulders.

“I have no words,” she said.

Gracy kept his eyes locked on his father’s face.  He waited quietly until she bent slowly and placed her hand on the man’s chest. She lowered her mouth to his ear and whispered something and Gracy looked away toward a red-tailed hawk flying with purpose to some other place. She wept and then stood and turned to her son.

“Where’s the Bible?”

He started and pointed to the cart as soon as he remembered where he placed it. “Right there.” She nodded and dabbed at her eyes with one of his father’s handkerchiefs.

“Go inside and grab your bag. Did you pack your bag yet?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Go grab your bag.”

He walked to his room and lifted the bag and two folded blankets. Then he met his mother back at the cart and found her once again staring into the casket.

“I’ll go retrieve the food and water.” She raised her eyes to her son. “You can close it up now.”

She left and he placed the items in the cart. He picked the lid off the ground and slid it carefully on the top of the wood. He was about to pause and look at the face one more time, but he didn’t. He leveled the edges of the plywood. The ropes lay where he dropped them.

She walked back out as he secured the first rope through the handles and tightly wrapped it across the top of the casket, through the metal loop, and performed a knot. She placed a box of canned beans, dried beef, and tortillas near the back of the cart along with two canteens brought back by her husband from the war to end all wars. She watched Gracy finish knotting the second rope. He stood and walked to her.

“That’ll hold until I nail the lid down.”

“You have a hammer and nails?”

“Yes, ma’am. Over in that bucket.”

She nodded and stared off.

“I put the food in the car and some water. It should be enough for there and back.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

She nodded and looked down at the closed casket.

“Let’s get it up on the cart.”

He followed her and they lifted as before. He put his edge down first on the cart and then rushed to her side and slid the casket to the end where the bucket and food rested. He then grabbed more rope out of the bucket and tied four pieces from the handles to the corners of the cart. When he was done he walked to his mother.

“Is the map in your bag?”

“Yes, I put it in there last night.”

She nodded. “It’s time to go then and take Pa home.”

He hugged her and she tightened her arms around him and told him to be safe and he said he would. Then she let go and he mounted Swift and pushed his hat down low in the front. He tipped it to her and she smiled tightly as Swift lumbered forward and moved toward the gate.

Gracy turned once more when Swift’s hooves touched the road. His mother stood in her almost blue dress, strands of gray hair blowing in a gust of wind that sent with it spits of rain. Gracy popped his collar and buttoned his jacket as the breeze picked up around him and the clouds grew darker.

Mason’s property line came and went. Soon the sun would be completely covered, concealed just as the only home he had ever known was now concealed by the rugged land.