Freedomville--Ch. 1, 2, 3

The lives of three newcomers--Peter Redwine, a drifter running from his past; Kevin Marigold, a traveling minstrel; and Melinda Tarrigon, a freelance photographer searching for love--intersect when they befriend Henry Duncan, a local black man and Vietnam war hero. Haunted by its demons and prejudice, this Civil War border town balances the well ordered and illogical against random uncertainty in a story of friendhip, betrayal, love, and redemption.

"Man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up in the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments."
(from The Grapes of Wrath)

FREEDOMVILLE

1

/ A River Town /

"This town ain't what it used to be," Merle said, taking a swig of moonshine and fiddling with his ear. "Betcha won't be long 'fore the coloreds take over."

"Bullshit," Noodles said, eyeballing the jar. "Just 'cause some little darkie swam the river and they put up a plaque?"

Merle raised his hand. "The way I see it, they're tryin' to turn Freedomville into a damn tourist attraction. My own brother's thinkin' 'bout votin' for . . . whatever the hell it is. All 'cause some damn abo-li-tion-ists lived here," he spit out, tripping over the word and his feet simultaneously. His floppy ear was the only obvious distinction between the two men. Both had long, dull faces and smoked cigarettes one after another.

"Time to hit the hay," Merle grunted, downing the last swig.

"Only 'cause you're out of Shine," Noodles said.

"I'll tell ya one thing for a fact," Merle ranted. "Henry Duncan has smarted off to me for his last time. That's right. I tell ya that for a fact, his last time."

Noodles cocked his head and spit tobacco juice. "Ya know Henry Duncan's a war hero."

Merle sneered, "There was a day--his kind woulda never been allowed in the Boathouse. Thinks he's somethin' with that fancy new boat, like's he's better than me. His last time, I'll tell ya that right now."

The two men collapsed in a small camper by the river inlet; their table fan performed against the heat as well as an umbrella in a hurricane.



The locals claimed that air-conditioning barely put a dent in the humidity this time of year. Next morning, five blocks from the inlet, a mechanical failure had denied even that for the most important man in town.

"Doris, did you call the air-conditioning man or not?"

"Yes sir Mr. Freeman. You know they're swamped with this . . . "

"Yes--OK. I don't want to be disturbed for any reason. I'm expecting Harold Barndollar at ten o'clock."

"Yes sir, not a soul."

Walter Freeman Jr. closed the door that separated his office from the small reception area. Two diplomas occupied the wall behind his cluttered desk: a BA from the University of Cincinnati and a Law Degree from Chase Law School, the only institution to accept his application. It took Junior four times to pass the bar examination. His father, an attorney and a former judge in Liberty County, like his father before him, possessed high expectations for Junior. His great grandfather, Clarence, had been the town's founding father and the origin of Freedomville's namesake. Decorated for bravery in the Revolutionary War, Colonel Freeman received a large tract of land in the Ohio Valley for his service, and in 1815, the rustic village of Freedomville was born.

Junior rolled up the sleeves on his starched, white shirt; perspiration spots already forming under his long arms. He opened the window that overlooked the Ohio River and the rolling hills of Kentucky. R-r-ring, R-r-ring, R-r-ring . . . bumping his bushy head and fumbling about the desk, he located the phone. " Freeman here . . . You tell him not to do a thing until he hears from me--got it!" Junior slammed down the receiver and grabbed a Budweiser from a portable refrigerator. He popped the top, wondering if his speedboat would ever see water again and where the years had gone. At fifty-five years old, with an expanding waistline, he was a far cry from the striking figure that impressed the girls in high school. The all-star baseball pitcher had led the Freedomville Falcons to a state championship, a pretty big deal around these parts as he remembered.

Tap, tap, tap... "Mr. Barndollar is here."

"Harold, come on in. How the hell are ya?"

"Burning up. It's uncanny, that's what it is."

Junior grinned. "It's hot enough to make a fella think about gettin' religion. Want a cold one?"

"Little early," his friend replied, noticing the dark bags under Junior's blood-shot eyes.

"Old buddy, tell me something good for a change. What's the verdict?"

"Truth is," Harold said reluctantly, "looks deadlocked at five to five."

"Damn it, buddy. I thought you had some grease with the counsel."

"This is the 21st century, Junior--four of the members weren't even born here. Reverend Bartow is threatening to get some black coalition involved. And to beat all, the good Reverend informed me yesterday that the building could be approved as an historical landmark. We might have to cut our losses."

"This development deal is our ticket, you know that," Junior snapped back. "This damn Abolitionist Village is nonsense. It might bring in a busload of tourists, but it damn sure won't build my place in Clearwater, or buy that yacht you're after."

"I know. Only five percent of the population is black. What's that, hundred and fifty people?"

"It's not just the blacks," Junior asserted. "It's the yuppie do-gooders. And they don't have a clue. I wish this so-called Underground Railroad had just skipped our little burg. My people built this town. I won't stand for a buncha outsiders taking over."

Harold Barndollar's head bounced up and down in agreement, wobbling on his turkey neck. He had succumbed to the good ol' boy philosophy long ago. Even though he hungered to be his own man, Harold was a follower. Inheriting the family lumber business enabled him to financially rise above the bullies he grew up with, but years of emulating their narrow-minded ways had taken its toll.

"I'll do what I can," Harold said. "Joe Woodruff is the only one I'm not sure of. He wasn't born in Freedomville, but he's lived here most his life. The man sucks everybody's ass."

"Ya got that right," Junior said. "He's sure different than his baby brother. Did you hear Merle almost tangled with Henry Duncan?"

"You're kidding."

"Two nights ago at the Boathouse."

"That woulda been a fight."

"I'd pay to see Duncan go down," Junior said. "That cocky son-of-a-bitch is always sticking his nose where it doesn't belong."

Bob, bob, bob, bob--Harold's head gained momentum. "Merle's a handful all right. Those biker boys almost ripped his ear off that time, and he whipped them. Still, even money at best. They say Duncan goes ballistic, like he's back in the jungle or something."

Junior barked, "This isn't Vietnam. Son, I'll take those odds any day. I've always said Merle could take anybody in town."

"Forget Merle. It's his brother's vote we need to worry about."

"Uh huh," Junior mumbled, with a knowing grin that escaped Harold. "Isn't Joe planning on remodeling the funeral parlor?"

"He was talking about it last spring, seems like. Listen, I gotta get out of here--it's cool at my place. Tell Betsy I said hi."

Harold Barndollar's air-conditioned Dodge Ram was parked out front. Junior Freeman watched from the window and could plainly see Adam's Plaque on River Street. It may have been the 21st century, but Junior's antiquated state of mind differed little from his counterparts who lived in 1835. That's the year an eight-year-old slave boy swam the icy Ohio River to freedom.

**********

A stranger arrived in Freedomville that summer and it was hot enough to make some folk wonder what hell was like. Not him, he had already been there. A sleepy river town, dotted with tidy homes and well kept vegetable gardens, seemed like the perfect place for a new beginning. The calm waterway and unhurried lifestyle invoked a sense of wellness and absence of malice. In all actuality, the unique combination of the town's history and location had created a dangerous undertow not easily detected by an outsider. Peter Redwine would experience a force capable of overwhelming the hardiest of individuals, subtly and surely as a winter's thaw.

The citizens of Freedomville were slow moving and self-reliant, with a flair for remembering everyone and everything back to the Great Flood of 1937. One such family lived on a homemade shantyboat and narrowly survived the disaster. They settled on a rugged piece of land in the foothills of town, where their little girl, then only two years old, matured into a short, sturdy woman with boundless energy and a confrontational reputation. She never forgot those hard times her kinfolk weathered holding on to the property. Mowing grass and renting house-trailers kept her body agile and her wit keen. That's how they came to meet. Sixty-five years after the Great Flood, on the old homeplace, Peter Redwine rented one of Miss Higgins' trailers.

"I cleaned her out right good and shampooed the carpet," Miss Higgins said, throwing her shoulders back. "S'pose ya want to move right in?" Peter Redwine signaled his agreement; exuberance magnified the old woman's bright blue eyes. "The furniture is old, but suitable. The washer and dryer work."

"It's just what I'm looking for," Peter responded in a raspy voice.

"It'll be dark soon," she said. "If ya need anything, I'm just a holler away. I live alone . . . but keep a shotgun right by the door."

The trailer was as old as the locust trees that lined the ridge. Peter Redwine was impressed with the way she had maintained the place, a rarity compared to the rentals where he normally stayed. The sweet smell of locust blossoms and a handshake sealed the deal, no security deposit required. Miss Higgins laid down the law: no wild parties, unruly goings-on, or shenanigans of any kind. He assured his new landlady that the rules would be obeyed--then watched her poke along to the big house, which sat at the back of the property surrounded by vine arbors, flowerbeds, and decorative windmills.

Before unloading his camper (a recently converted ice-cream truck), Peter gazed across the expanse at the river inlet and the village below. He wiped the dust off the truck's mirror, hoping this town would be the end of his vagabound existence. Ten years of unsuccessful attempts stared him in the face, invariably lowering his expectations. After living in numerous states, and more places than he cared to remember, necessity had taught Peter the importance of discretion and forged him into a jack-of-all-trades.

The living room décor--a floral patterned sofa and matching chair, burnt-orange, shag carpeting, and cylinder lampshades hanging from the ceiling--reminded Peter of the seventies, a time of voluminous joy and possibilities. He paced from room to room memorizing every nook and cranny, while running his fingers through his reddish brown hair. It was cut short to avoid unwanted scrutiny. This time, I won't interfere in anyone's business, he promised himself, meticulously sorting through his belongings. He picked up an autographed copy of The Grapes of Wrath. The first edition was a lucky find from a secondhand store in California. He thumbed to the back of the book and read the ending, like hundreds of times before. Peter Redwine didn't own much of value--a few tools, cookware, and a mahogany Buddha, whose big smile and fat belly provided a certain amount of solace for a transient existence.

Peter's rough hands were a stark contrast to the Buddha's smooth belly; likewise, his chest and arms were defined from years of manual labor--the dirty, back-braking, menial work that no one else wants. Years of life-draining regret had hardened Peter and fashioned a calculating loner. Plotting every move--like a tightrope performer working without a safety net--couldn't erase the past or bring him any joy. The controlled lifestyle served only as a reminder of all that he had lost. He closed Steinbeck's novel and laid out his bedroll, wondering if this town would be any different

The sound of a riding lawnmower introduced Peter Redwine to Saturday morning on the old homeplace. He peered out the back door and saw Miss Higgins humming along in all her glory. She waved like it was Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. There was a time when she pushed the entire five acres; the shiny green mower was her pride and joy. Having a home is what makes her feel that way, Peter reasoned, returning the gesture, before his attention was diverted by the panoramic view. Tin rooftops reflected the morning sun, forming red and green patterns in the distance. The noisy, gasoline engine gradually faded, seductively replaced by two swank blue jays fussing over their territory. For a moment, the cottonwood fluff seemed like snowflakes searching for a place to land and Peter's defenses waned, almost allowing him to hope.

"How's your first night?" Miss Higgins clamored, stopping her pride and joy in front of Peter.

His rough voice crackled. "Perfect. All I need is a job and a good place to eat."

"I heard the Boathouse was looking for a handyman. It's a floatin' restaurant and dock, right on River Street. They serve the best chicken in town," Miss Higgins said, giving him a reassuring nod. "First one to the table gets the extra biscuit." With that she was off, back in the groove with a singleness of mind. Not a blade of grass would end up out of place.

2

/ A New Beginning /

In addition to an assortment of hotrod cars, pleasure boats, mobile homes, and modest frame and brick houses, Peter Redwine counted twelve cats (five kittens, four tabbies, and three adult toms) as well as two barking dogs on his way to town that morning. Each new location presented an infinite amount of information that he deemed necessary to assimilate. Approximately, a thousand yards from the old homeplace, Peter stopped to read the inscription on a monument that towered above the smaller markers in the cemetery: TO THE BRAVE UNION SOLDIERS AND SAILORS WHO FOUGHT IN THE CIVIL WAR. Peter closed his eyes and slumped to the ground. He felt the huge hands that had pressed against his throat years earlier, crushing his windpipe. Three men had brutally beaten him senseless, damaging his vocal cords.

"This ain't no game, this is war! You listen and you listen carefully--you pay the tribute, you obey the rules, and you might live to see your wife. There's nothing we don't know--And no one we can't get to!" A powerful thrust to the stomach, a knee to the groin, and a blow to the back of the head leaves Peter unconscious, lying in blood and vomit.

A groundskeeper touched his shoulder. "Whatcha doin'?"

Peter flinched--on his feet, heart pounding. "Leave me alone!"

"Sure," the groundskeeper said, backpedaling. "Just looked like ya was thinkin' real deep or somethin'."

Suddenly aware of his surroundings, Peter's intensity eased. "You got me. What's your name?"

"People call me Graveyard, on account of me workin' in the graveyard. Get it? I ain't stupid, just slow."

"Do you like working here?"

"I reckon everybody needs a place to be."

"You're a lucky man, Graveyard."

"I ain't ever been accused of that." The caretaker was slender, in his late twenties, and wore patched overalls. A timid smile revealed missing teeth and a lower lip filled with tobacco. His country cadence fell pleasantly on Peter's ears. "Youda new fella a rentin' offa Miss Higgins?"

"Got me again," Peter said in answer to his question. The caretaker's thin face looked puzzled; he removed a dirty baseball cap and wiped his forehead.

"She sure won't take to no funny business or trespassing, sure won't."

"Suits me, friend," Peter said, shaking Graveyard's hand. "This looks like a big job."

"I'm here near all the time," the caretaker eagerly agreed, grinning more than he had in years. Graveyard was happy for two reasons: he had a new weed-eater, and, sadly enough, it was unusual for anyone to shake his hand.

Peter Redwine continued along the quaint street, past a schoolhouse, out to the main drag. A short walk brought him to the bridge at the river inlet. A strand of cattails sat perfectly still. While studying the mannerisms of two men stirring around a campsite, Peter noticed the placement of six vessels: three pontoons, two houseboats, and one green skiff.

Peter's heartbeat stabilized; he realized the air was absent of even the slightest breeze. His thoughts traveled to where his future had once looked so promising, the windy Southside of Chicago.

"These are powerful and vicious men," Sally said. "They've controlled the county for generations. Peter, you can't go through with this."

"Listen, baby. What if it were our son? Wouldn't you want someone to come forward?"

"It's not our son. We don't have a son! Please, don't do this. Don't put our future in jeopardy." Unlike Peter, Sally was a third generation Chicagoan. She remembered her grandfather's stories of Capone's gangsters paying off the police and politicians. As a buyer in the garment district, Sally routinely witnessed crooked deals and the threat of violence. The lawyers and gangsters were indistinguishable; they all wore the same suits and shoes.

In spite of his wife's efforts, Peter couldn't allow the miscarriage of justice. He volunteered the information that confirmed a man's alibi on trial for rape. A rival faction was attempting to railroad the innocent man for political reasons. Peter assured Sally that everything would be all right, unaware how dangerous it would be to interfere in the affairs of a corrupt Chicago politician. Peter was subsequently framed and convicted for having sex with one of his eighth-grade, science students. The five-year incarceration revoked Peter's teaching certificate and sentenced him to a lifetime of struggle.

He learned the first law in prison, quickly and painfully: only the strong survive. Fighting for his life made him extremely capable, and tough as angle iron. The second law--overcoming loss--was of equal importance and life altering as well. For some, Peter included, the second law was far more complicated than the first. Shortly after his incarceration, Sally died of an overdose of anti-depressants, pregnant with their first child. Peter's decision to go against his wife's wishes never ceased to be an albatross around his neck.

Peter took a deep breath and moved away from the inlet, troubled as always, questioning the pros and cons of his existence. He turned on Liberty Street, where a honking automobile refocused his attention. A retired, pipe-smoking boilermaker, who still wore his overalls and welding cap everyday, waved from his old pickup truck. Reminded of northern winters, Peter solicited two antique shops, an old-fashioned pharmacy, and a furniture store for inside employment. After his unsuccessful attempts, he stopped at the war memorial that overlooked the public boat dock. A boy fishing at the water's edge caught Peter's attention. The wake from a coal barge stirred the youngster's red and white bobber and his face beamed with anticipation. That could've been our son, Peter sadly reasoned.

Two blocks east put Peter inside the Boathouse campground. The floating restaurant was stationed at the far end of the property, near the inlet, connected to the bank by a wooden walkway with metal handrails. Umbrella tables, shading a sparse Saturday crowd, occupied the outside of the barge, which led to a double-sided boat dock. A couple that couldn't care less about the heat, or hell for that matter, was busy enjoying the upper sundeck. Peter stepped inside a large room, arranged with freestanding tables and a counter bar. The weight of the obvious stares and muffled voices--"Check this, never seen him before, he's not from 'round here,"--triggered the imaginary C-clamp that tightened in Peter's stomach in stressful situations.

Large windows provided a view of the river, and Peter noticed a fishing boat landing at the gas pump. He quickly sized up the employees and directed his inquiry to a scruffy, robust man spouting off orders in the back doorway.

"Excuse me, I heard this place was looking for a handyman."

"Now who told ya that?" the big man said, whimsically.

Peter replied without expression. "My landlady, Miss Higgins."

"So you're the old wind bag's new tenant."

"News travels fast," Peter said flatly. "Are you needing help or was that just someone blowing wind?" The regulars waited to see how the Captain would handle the stranger.

"Able fella aren't ya?" the Captain mocked, to a round of snickering in the background. "Yeah, I need help. I'm looking for a gofer--somebody to run errands, wash dishes, take out the trash, swab the deck, do minor repairs, and be here when the rivers up. Pays five dollars, interested?"

Peter spoke with a tone of indifference. "When do I start?"

"Hell yeah," someone shouted. Taken off guard, the Captain glanced around the room and growled, "Right now. Pumping gas is another one of your chores. You got a customer, gofer."

Peter went out the back door without saying a word. Sheer poetry, he thought, watching the efficiency of the man's movements in the boat. His nimble, muscular body, with its low center of gravity, was perfectly suited for stability, tying off ropes, and transferring provisions.

"Can I help you?"

"Maybe," the man said, continuing to rearrange his supplies. "Do you know a rich, horny widow in need of a fisherman?"

Amidst spontaneous laughter, Peter barely got out, "Can't say that I do. That's funny."

"It wasn't that damn funny. Who the hell are ya?"

"Peter Redwine. The big guy just made me his gofer."

"Sorry 'bout your luck. Are ya a drinker?"

"Not really."

"Better start," the fisherman said, making a hand motion like a magician. "Beer is the world's most treasured commodity and the remedy for all that ails ya-- True medicine! Been the cure since the beginning of time, can't do without it myself. Did I mention I give drinking lessons? We could start today."

"Thanks anyway, " Peter said, enjoying the man's dapper style and conversation.

"You're gonna need all the medicine you can get, Redwine. That old pirate who hired you is meaner than a snake."

"I appreciate the advice."

"Advice is free--gas isn't." He handed Peter a fifty-dollar bill. "Name's Henry
Duncan and I pump my own. Some don't, you'll learn mate."

Peter smiled and watched the shiny, twenty-four foot vessel make way, realizing his education of the town and the river had just begun. By the day's end, he had made thirty dollars and devoured a free chicken dinner.

Not bad, didn't even have to fill out an application, Peter thought on his trek home. There was a bounce in his step and he envisioned planting a garden behind the trailer. He arrived to find Miss Higgins throwing cut grass over the bank. She approached him carrying a weed eater and a load of satisfaction.

"Well, what did you get done?"

"Miss Higgins--I got the biscuit."

"If that don't beat all," she said, dropping the machine and looking out over the property. The sun was in her eyes and the shadows lengthened behind her. "Looks like we got a head start on winter. Mind ya, there'll all hard at my age, but none like '37, the year of the Great Flood." She sat down on the back porch and her voice softened. "I was only two years old, but Papa told me ever'thing. It was like the end of the world for the folks in town. The muddy water rose to the rooftops of two-story buildings, and no water and electricity. First they rescued families, then friends, and finally neighbors. But we were strangers and had very little money. Mind ya, it didn't spare the rich. The current was so strong, small boats weren't allowed on River Street. They lost almost ever'thing. The water rose so quick the Trust Bank on Liberty didn't have time to seal the vault. That's where the rich folk kept their valuables in the safety deposit boxes and such."

Peter hung on every word.

"Wooden houses built in the 1800's were swept right off foundations down river, along with dead horses and cows. The National Guard got called out for fear the fuel tanks would bust and cause explosions." She hesitated and cleared her voice, as if deciding on whether or not to continue." She shook her head and pointed toward the inlet. "On January twenty-sixth, the river crested at almost eighty feet. Papa said it was a calamity worse than the depression.

"Our shantyboat was tied off right down there. We spent the winter right down there. Me, Mama, Papa, and my two older brothers." Her voice quivered. "We almost starved to death. All we had was some canned goods and the fish my brothers snared. Being winter there wasn't any gardens, and Papa couldn't afford ammo for the rifle. One foggy mornin', he went up in the hills and slit a deer's throat while it was sleepin' in the cold."

Miss Higgins squinted one eye and tilted her head to bolster her next mouthful.

"I declare it's true, sure as we all got to meet the undertaker one day. Papa wasn't a religious man, but they say he never used the Lord's name in vain after that . . . not 'til Mama died. She caught the fever that winter." Peter noticed Miss Higgins appeared disoriented and touched her hand. "Listen to me go on," she said, jerking away and rolling her eyes. "I got things to do and wasted enough time bending your ear. I got clippings out the Freedomville Flyer if you'd like to see 'em." She rose slowly, her piercing blue eyes focused and the sharp edge of her voice returning. "Watch yourself--hear? The river doesn't care where you come from or who your mother is."

Peter concluded that Miss Higgins arrived in Freedomville the same way he had, reduced to the lowest common denominator. He believed the point of her story was simply this: the river was no respecter of persons, it's awesome power absolute but fair, and certainly not like the crooked justice system that ruined his life.

3

/ The Unwanted Hero /

Three months later . . .

The town square bustled with people dressed in their Sunday best. Women and children waved miniature American flags and men ducked in and out of noisy saloons. Henry Duncan stood tall in his crisp, marine uniform at the first-year memorial service for 9/11. Firemen and other dignitaries stood shoulder-to-shoulder, adjacent to the war monument, as Henry's many citations and medals were acknowledged. Peter Redwine overheard two men complaining about the length of time the Master of Ceremonies spent on the hero's decorated past. This wasn't the first occasion on which Peter had heard negative comments, and he wondered what offense commanded such impatience. Eventually, the final politician gave the stump a good beating and the crowd dispersed.

"Well lookee here," Henry said, loosening his top collar button, approaching Peter. "If it's not Freedomville's newest mystery man."

Peter knew that a friendly handshake disarmed most people, no small thing for a drifter with a past to conceal. His reluctance to reveal personal information hadn't hindered Henry's efforts at friendship. The two had had many prior conversations at the Boathouse gas pump.

"Just learning the river," Peter said, offering his hand.

"That's the first step, but you can't be a true river rat until ya know how to drink. No more excuses. I'd say it's high time you took me up on that lesson."

Henry stayed neatly groomed and well dressed. A slight hesitating gait--the work of a Vietnamese sniper--was his only visible flaw. He had that classic look women found seductive: a Roman nose, strong chin, broad shoulders, and a thin waist. His features were more Anglo than Afro, and if you looked at the right moment uneasiness could be detected behind his big, brown eyes.

They walked up Liberty Street to Henry's favorite watering hole. The saloon was aptly named I'm On My Way and owned by Maggie Feathers. If you called her at home she was always on the way to the bar, but there was no telling when she might arrive. Maggie looked like Miss Kitty on Gunsmoke, but with her own personality twist.

"Well, what do we have here?" Maggie teased, as Henry and Peter wrangled two stools.

"Looked like you barflies could handle two more," Henry said. "Beer for me and my friend, Redwine." Henry liked the sound of Redwine and never called Peter by his first name. Maggie leaned over the bar, her breasts front and center.

"You know you're traveling with a man who has won more medals than General George Patton."

"Enough of that," Henry said. "We're here for medicine, and real gossip."

"Listen to this," Maggie said, doing a little dance as she served the beer. She had a shapely figure for a woman in her fifties, and knew it. "Yesterday, this guy came in with a guitar and had a couple whiskeys. We got to shootin' the breeze and he played me a few tunes. The guy was for r-real. I offered him a gig and it's not going to cost me an arm and a leg either." She hesitated like everyone should applaud. "A few well-poured drinks sealed the deal for tomorrow night." No one spoke and she modulated the tone of her voice. "Hey, he was just passing through and I know a bargain when I see one."

Cletus Fields spoke up. "I don't know why ya let those longhaired hippies in here."

"You never stay to hear the music," Henry said.

"That's right. But ya shoulda seen how this character was dressed."

Maggie cut in, "You want another beer, Cletus?"

"Naw. Gotta get to the house and feed the dogs."

Ta-dump, click--ta-dump, click. His new cowboy boots made a distinct noise as he left the bar. Cletus fancied himself a sharp dresser, although everyone thought the flashy boots, designer jeans, and oversized belt buckle looked ridiculous on him.

Henry whispered to Peter. "The height requirement kept Cletus out of the Service."

"Something he doesn't like to talk about," Maggie added. "Serving your country is a big deal in Freedomville."

I'm Proud To Be An American played for the third time on the jukebox. The festivities brought in a brisk crowd, and Maggie's hips swerved to the beat. The air was thick with smoke and drunken thoughts.

"Here's to all the veterans," a young man shouted, raising his glass to a rumble of rowdy cheers and salutes. Two barge workers (straight off a fourteen-day hitch) were consuming large amounts of whiskey, and the smelly pair's conversation neared the red line on the racially insensitive meter. Peter noticed Henry buffing the toe of his shoe on his trousers.

Peter motioned to Maggie. "What time does that singer start tomorrow night?" Maggie showed off a dance step that highlighted her derriere.

"I think you'll like him, sweetie, nine o'clock sharp. Another drink?"

"No thanks, time for me to go."

"Me too," Henry said, eyeballing the barge workers. "I've had enough excitement for one day." Peter was intrigued with Henry Duncan, but pursuing a friendship was the last thing on Peter's mind.


The next night Maggie's place filled up earlier than usual. Neon signs over the stage gave off a bussing sound, like cicadas waking up from a seventeen-year snooze. An old circulator fan, clicking on each revolution, joined in and provided an eclectic rhythm. All four taverns on Liberty Street competed for the same business, and the regulars jockeyed for the best seats.

"Henry, you ready?"

"I been waiting for you all my life," he said, crushing an empty can. Henry was sitting where he could see the stage and the clientele coming in the front door.

The barmaid grinned at Henry. "You are gonna dance with me tonight, right?"

"If this fella can carry a beat, we're on. Where's Maggie?"

"Said she was on her way an hour ago." The busty barmaid's T-shirt and jeans were too tight, and she was past due for a dye job. Lisa Boone's brown roots were as obvious as her motives. She winked at Henry and then tested her female charms on a muscle-bound ironworker, who'd been playing pool and drinking beer and tequila shots all afternoon.

Peter Redwine appeared in the doorway. "Redwiiine," Henry bellowed. "I knew ya wouldn't give up. Tonight will be your first test."

"Will it be scientific?" Peter remarked coolly, securing a seat next to Henry. Curiosity had obviously won over Peter's vacillation.

Henry laughed. "See that well-endowed, bleach blonde? That's all the chemistry we'll need."

Peter acknowledged the barmaid and checked his watch. "It's almost nine o' clock."

"Mate, here comes the party now." Maggie Feathers came through the door wearing maroon short shorts, matching lipstick, and a low-cut blouse. She tossed her red, curly hair and shook her bosom.

"Listen up," she yelled, smacking herself on the rump. "If you don't want to party take your dull ass home." Catcalls and an increased noise level followed, along with a young man carrying a guitar. Kevin Marigold had shoulder-length, blonde hair, a three-day beard, and wore a sleeveless shirt, dungaree trousers, and a pair of old-fashion, ankle-high, leather shoes. Maggie led him to the stage and turned on the sound system.

"Boooooo! He ain't no George Jones," someone shouted.

"Don't mind him," Maggie said.

"No problem," Marigold returned with a wink. "Turn off the jukebox when you're ready for me to start." He regulated the microphone and tuned his guitar while Maggie made her rounds.

Peter nodded towards the back of the room. "Henry, isn't that the two smelly devils from yesterday?"

"They're harmless, mate. I've seen all the mind-boggling degrees of prejudice you can imagine--I was born and raised here. Those ol' boys aren't evil, just can't handle their liquor. It's mostly the cats in power ya got to keep an eyeball on."

The thought unexpectedly overwhelmed Henry: the rule of the silent code. The satisfied expressions in the eyes of the code keepers had left permanent scars on his childhood consciousness. The vivid memories of white students amassing their various accolades--while the black students were forced to be content with learning their proper place--never left him. Years later after receiving less than an enthusiastic homecoming from Vietnam Henry struggled for some semblance of respect from Freedomville's leaders. His efforts were in vain.

"Look who's falling under the old philosopher's spell," Maggie joked, tickling the back of Peter's neck. "Better watch out for his love lessons."

"Don't worry about me," Peter said. "I'm not in the market."

"Mate, that's where we part ways, I'm shopping 24/7."

Maggie fluttered her fake eyelashes and looked over the crowd. "Yeah, but most of the time he goes home hungry." Henry gave her a menacing look. A few minutes later the jukebox stopped and all eyes turned toward to the stage.

"Hey Mister that's me upon the jukebox, I'm the one singing that sad song. Well it hurts every time, that ya slip in one more dime, and let the boy sing the sad one, one more time."

Kevin Marigold played his own material, as well as covering songs from James Taylor to Hank Williams. The crooner's soothing melodies were poignant, insightful, and filled with the plight of those living through hard times. The medicine flowed and the cash register jingled.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . A piercing sound vibrated throughout the building; the subsequent facial contortions mimicked a virgin drinker gulping down his first shot of hard liquor. The pool shooting rod-buster, with too much tequila in his belly, had knocked over a microphone attempting to get on stage. Maggie's new troubadour brought the song to a close and tried to sit the belligerent man down. Without warning, Henry Duncan yanked the drunkard off the platform.

"This ain't karaoke pal," Henry said with a snarl. "You try singing Free Bird again; I'll throw ya outta here quicker than you can say Lynyrd Skynyrd. Got it!"

"OK man--no probleemo, I'm fine, I'm fine." Henry gave one more intimidating glare and started to turn. The aspiring singer threw a haymaker. Henry saw it coming out of the corner of his eye and instinctively blocked it. He elbowed the man in the face, quickly wrestled him to the floor, and grabbed his Adam's apple. The big man's desire to fight gave way to struggling for air. Henry had muscular arms and dragged the brute to the door and tossed him out on the sidewalk.

"You show up here again, I'll hurt ya." Henry coolly stepped back inside and bought the house a round. The crowd saw a fight in self-defense, but the rage that bolstered Henry's skills didn't escape Peter Redwine's detection. It was the same destructive force that he had seen in prison, which usually resulted in solitary confinement, a trip to the infirmary, or worse.

"Who was that guy?"

"Just a troublemaker who can't hold his liquor," Henry said, as if nothing had happened. "I've thumped a lotta heads in here."

"So you're the bouncer?" Peter asked loudly, feeling the effects of the brew.

"No. I just help Maggie out. Her husband works nights, Jesse been good to me. You got a problem with a boat motor, he's your man. Ain't nothin' Jesse Feathers don't know about marine engines, regular Michelangelo with a wrench. Ya know, you never did say what you worked at before coming here."

Peter fidgeted on the stool. "I'm good with my hands, carpentry and such."

"Ever married?" Henry asked. The C-clamp turned in Peter's stomach.

"I don't really like talking about it. How about you?"

"No sir, never was," Henry answered. "But I was in love once; planned on gettin' married. Prettiest girl I ever laid eyes on. Joan had wavy brown hair and big eyes. She was my high-school sweetheart and tender as a four-o'clock in the afternoon. Said I changed after Nam and she up and left town--just like that." Henry moved his index finger, like he was pulling the trigger of a gun. "Mate, it happened that quick. I got a metallic souvenir in the back and a hole in my heart."

Peter learned, between long periods of silence, that Henry collected disability and worked odd jobs when he wasn't fishing. Nothing happened in town, or along the river for that matter, that he didn't know about. It was obvious to Peter that Henry Duncan was a force to be reckoned with. The deep sound of Marigold's Kalamazoo guitar filled the barroom, and his words penetrated the hearts of those that listened.

"I've heard my share of ideas, but here's one that just won't fly. When ya see someone down on their luck, and ya think ya know the reason why."

Maggie Feathers bellowed last call for the third time; she was after every penny. Peter thought about his wife, and the man beside him offering friendship. The very thing Peter needed and been avoiding for years. His emotions were stirred by the way Henry wore his heart on his sleeve. But Peter was leery. He didn't want to be like a new "fish" and unwittingly befriend the wrong man in the prison yard.

ID: 1379646   (Rated: 18+) Freedomville--Ch. 4,5, 6, 7  Just Business. Red Sky at Night. Can of Worms. Attemtion to Detail. by Coolhand