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Short Stories & Tall Tales
A Good Man
Kristen Lynch
It was the unexpected sight of that dead coyote that caused a great amount of shock, even to us, who lived out here in Wyoming and could proudly profess a rather impervious armor acquired by a lifetime of sandstorms, bitter snowdrifts and the constant threat of piercing arrowheads. But, for us to come across something so offensively dead or in this case, intentionally killed, produced a profound quandary among the eighteen of us students (make that seventeen, for we were short one student that day). We, the students, had been the first ones in the schoolhouse on what we thought was a typical Monday morning and instead of finding Mr. Stratham at the blackboard writing out the lessons for the day ahead or in his seated position at the head of the class, correcting assignments at his desk, there was something else in his place. A riotous, sweet stink of death, swallowed up in a cadaverous silence save for the frenetic buzz of bumbling black flies, who propelled themselves out of the putrefying hide and sought escape by continually bumping into the glass window panes. Whoever committed the atrocious act didn’t seem satisfied with merely butchering the animal, for they appeared to want to take things one step further. We noticed that the perpetrator had added a rather ominous object; for jutting out at a rather rakish angle from the creature’s mouth was a large wooden pipe. At least the guilty party didn’t have the audacity to don the carcass with one of Mr. Stratham’s most personal items, his spectacles. I would have been devastated at that. For I never saw the man without them. But each and everyone one of us stood there enormously perplexed by this oddity. What on earth could this mean?
I liked Mr. Stratham very much, but apparently someone else must have had other opinions of the man. Though we, even as children, knew our town of South Pass had been borne out of turbulent times, when gold strikes and excessive drink could transform even the most meekest of men into raging and mindless alcohol-soaked beasts, certainly acts of terrible violence were not uncommon or unheard of in those earlier, lawless days. The good citizens of South Pass had tried hard to put that wild reputation behind us, evolving into much more refined, literate and urbane population. What else could be said of a state that allowed those of the lesser sex the right to vote? Mr. Stratham had seen to that, he and his wife, Jennie were adamant supporters of equality and suffrages. He taught all of us (girls included) Latin, philosophy, poetry and such. Some of the boys didn’t have the same opinions as us girls, especially one boy in particular who was the bane of my existence and who was coincidentally nowhere to be found on that fateful day. But I wasn’t concerned about Seth Winter’s whereabouts. The fact that he was gone could only mean good things for me.
You couldn’t escape the talk of it. It leaked around town like a noxious gas, hushed words spoken under breath, eyes suspiciously blinking right and left under every eave and porch, odd observations, speculations. Oh, the rumor mill had its fill, tales of debauchery, of another unknown side to the man. Had he run off? The ridiculous thought of it could hardly form in my mind, was it even remotely conceivable that a man of his moral constitution and caliber would abandon his wife and two young daughters? Impossible! But what did I know of that curious world of adults? Could this be some kind of message from Mr. Stratham himself, that we were just an un-teachable mass of ignoramuses, our manners no greater than the lowly coyote, or was there something more sinister at work here? And what of that dead animal, with a wooden pipe shoved in between its bared teeth? At church, we filed in that next Sunday, the subject of Mr. Stratham’s odd disappearance hanging like a ghost below our cathedral ceiling’s wooden beams and rows of wary congregants. What answers could Pastor Galvin provide to put our fearful minds (and fretful souls) at rest? I personally think our normally outspoken clergyman was also at a profound loss of words and could only manage a quote from Proverbs, as perhaps a calming salve, “Whoever is righteous has regard for the life of his beast, but the mercy of the wicked is cruel.” Well, I could have told the whole town that! Whoever would have done such a thing was no doubt cruel, even to the most bothersome of beasts, but if you wanted my opinion, I believed we were looking for a killer among us.
****
School did resume and for the next six weeks it was planned to be taught under the careful tutelage of Mr. Young, our local newspaper editor, but he fell miserably short when it came to the swift and precise methods of our beloved teacher. I should know, he decided to change our seating and I had to sit in front of that awful Seth Winters. It was bad enough to have Mr. Stratham mysteriously vanish, but why add additional punishment by having me in such close proximity to the devil’s incarnate?
“Sadie, Sadie is no lady
Smells like a hog and
Acts like a baby”
On and on it went, all recess long. Now, Seth had taught his clever little rhyme to all the boys in class. Even the girls giggled. At times like this, I closed my eyes prayed to the All-mighty for strength, to be a good Christian like Pastor Galvin always said, to be forgivingespecially of our enemies. I did try to remember that Seth often came to school with eyes-blackened from his father, his clothes ragged and filthy, shoes that never fit, but my even my prayers must have sensed my intense hatred. It was no use. I hated, hated, hated Seth Winters! Every single part of him, from his nasty, snaggly teeth and his devilish freckles (angel kissesHa! No angel would place their pristine lips upon something so unholy!) down to his rotting, smelly toes that stuck out of his tattered shoes like a cloven beast. And now our new teacher had placed me in front of that loathsome creature.
“Oh, Sadie,” Seth whispered to the back of my head during our history lesson, “Why, whatever could that be on your blouse?”
Hate crept upon my shoulders, tapping its talon-like fingers to get my attention, but I ignored. I scooted forward, opening my ears as wide as I could, trying hard to listen as Mr. Young explained our assignment.
Seth tried again. “Sadie, there’s somethin on it, you just got to look!”
Not getting the response he wanted, he tried another tactic. And of course, this time he succeeded, “Sadie, Sadie is no lady….”
Out of patience, I spun around to hush his horrible mouth but it was then that I realized Seth had dunked one of my braids in his inkwell and as I turned ink spilled all around me. I felt the hot blink of tears in my eyes when I looked down and saw the splotches of black splattered upon my white shirt.
“Mr. Young!” I stood up. “Look!”
I pointed to the mess on my shirt amidst the stifled laughter, mostly from the boys. “Look what Seth did.”
Mr. Young sighed at this interruption, put down his pointing stick and stepped over to investigate.
“Mr. Winter, you have bought yourself an afternoon in the corner. Now…up front.” Mr. Young led the way and as Seth passed by he directed a healthy bout of snorts in my direction.
“Fine by me…got tired of being near that smelly pigpen anyway.” Seth sauntered over to the corner, smirking and loving all the attention.
Today, I acknowledge my failure of following my Christian duties, for I am most positive, even Jesus would have difficulties turning the other cheek when it came to Seth Winters.
****
“Mama? What do you think happened to Mr. Stratham?” I was in bed and mama was tucking in all my cozy blankets around me. She leaned over to blow out the oil lamp which once the wick was flameless, plunged us both into darkness.
“Sadie Louise, now, don’t you fret one minute about him. No matter what, Mr. Stratham was a good man. A very good man. And whatever happened is in God’s hands.” I felt mama’s soft lips upon my forehead. “You say your prayers and a special one to Jennie Stratham and for those sweet little girls, now, good night.”
I thought about Mr. Stratham. And then I pictured his wife, now by herself, tucking her own little girls in bed and probably saying their own prayer’s right now. I added mine to theirs and lay in bed awake for a long time.
****
Papa is the town doctor. And he works many hours, day and night. Mama and I don’t often see him too much in the evening or when I head to bed. Night time around here can sometimes be the busiest time of the day. Many an evening is interrupted by the knock on our door by a rather apologetic Sheriff Dougherty about papa needing to stitch up someone after a fierce disagreement gone very awry or a mining accident far off in the mountains. Even kids around town get his visits from papa like the time when he had to set Jonny Meyer’s arm when he fell off his father’s mule. It doesn’t matter, the time of day and type of injury, papa was there, always.
Papa got his training in a baptism by fire during the War of the States. To this day, mama told me that those days when they still lived in Missouri are still too difficult a subject to discuss. I hadn’t even been a gleam in my parent’s eyes back then, for they shared a house with my paternal grandparents, hiding food from renegade soldiers and sleeping very lightly during those awful times. As it was Papa’s reputation as a fine surgeon was well-known and one night, a Confederate soldier broke in and put a gun up to papa’s head demanding that papa save his arm. Papa didn’t fret, not one bit. And while the man sweated out his injury, grabbing his arm in pain, papa coaxed his own mother away and promptly cleaned the man up as he would any other soldier. The man cried and carried on so much, profoundly grateful for papa’s kind act, that it changed papa forever. From that moment on it didn’t matter to him who you were or what side you were on; if you were injured, papa would help.
That’s why when I saw papa the next morning, drinking coffee and talking quietly to mama, I was a bit surprised. Normally, he is sleeping when I get up. I leaned over to kiss his bristled cheek. The skin hung loose under his eyes and he looked exhausted.
“Good morning, my sweetness.” Papa bestowed his greeting on me, his smile appeared forced and barely curved above a shadow of whiskers. “You’ve got school this morning, no dilly-dallying around.”
“Oh, papa, you know I won’t.” I chided him lightly.
For no one needed to get me ready for school. I had been up early, face and hands washed, brushed and braided my hair and dressed for school. Mama had a biscuit and a cup of milk for breakfast. “But, how come you’re up?”
I watched as my parent’s exchanged uneasy glances, my curiosity now piqued as I tore my biscuit apart to add a spoonful of mama’s homemade strawberry preserves.
“You’ll be hearing about it soon enough, I suppose,” Papa exhaled deeply, “I received a late night visit from the sheriff last night. Some issues over at the Winter’s place.” Papa was watching my face for any reaction. And of course, I did feel a jolt of something, maybe excitement. I’ll admit, there was a fleeting bout of relief at the thought of Seth being gone from my life, forever.
“Was it the parents or one of the kids?” I asked, my biscuit sat untouched.
There were far too many in that Winter household. For the devil likes to spread his seeds as thick as he can. And those particular products of the devil’s spawn were no exception, there was a reason no other children dared to visit anywhere near that ramshackle cabin.
“It was their father, Neville. Cut, badly. Seth, too. Appears a scuffle occurred and now that Seth’s a bit bigger, he took certain matters into his own hands.”
“Like what, papa?”
“Sheriff Dougherty arrested Seth Winters last night. For killing his own father.”
Oh, Lord. What had the devil gone and done?
****
Did I feel some guilt? I suppose I did. Even though for as long as I could remember, I hated the very sight of that boy. And hate is un-Christian to its core. This notion wrestled long and hard in my mind. What kind of Christian was I? At church on Sunday, was it just me or did Pastor Galvin’s eyes appear especially dark and flashing with sparks of hell-fire and glinting brimstone. I tried to hide from those all-seeing eyes of his, sinking myself beneath mama’s shoulder as I leaned in to the comfort of it. For it appeared to me the pastor was looking for a culprit and I felt the brunt of his wrath.
“Who among us can cast that first stone? Are we not all guilty of turning a blind eye to someone in need, a child brought up under questionable conditions, one who finally breaks from the years and years of abuse?” Pastor Galvin stared down at us, at me. Me. Was it possible he knew of all those prayers I myself had asked God to perform? How many nights had I personally begged the Good Lord to take Seth Winters at any cost? I slunk lower.
“Let the children come to me.” The pastor spoke, “But who was there for this child?”
I couldn’t breathe. Pastor Galvin stood at his pulpit eyeing the very silent congregation. I shut my eyes to try to quell the spring of tears. Our clergyman knew the truth. I had prayed for Seth to go away. I just wanted him gone. And maybe, truly, I did want him to die.
****
Hanging a boy of thirteen was the last thing any of the men of town wanted. Mark Blakely offered his legal services to defend the incarcerated boy, for the Winter’s family would undoubtedly have no funds for such a predicament. Seth had removed the only source of income for all of them. Although, what Mr. Winter’s did for a living was a constant source of speculation around town anyway. Nevertheless, the trial would certainly be a well-attended venue, becoming a right popular place to witness the human drama unfold. Of course, mama forbade me to attend. But I heard everything.
Papa was called in to testify. He had been the one to stitch Seth up that fateful night and watched as the boy sat stock still when Sheriff Dougherty told him his father was dead. Not a tear could be found in either eye. He looked up at the sheriff and told him, “He was nuthin but a big bag of air, he was, and now I popped him good!” Proud and smug he sat there wondering out loud if there was dinner served at the jail. To this day I don’t think papa was ever able to get over that snaggly-toothed smile, either.
After placing his hand upon the bible, papa fought the conflicting battle in his own mind, for he knew he would have to tell the judge and juryas well as the whole of South Pass Citythat the young boy in question had stabbed his father no less than twenty-seven times.
****
The Winter trial was in every conversation around town, we couldn’t escape it, the news appeared upon the lips of every passing man, woman and child. Compelling testimony, reluctant witnesses, we craved it, reviled in it. Clucked tongues and shaking heads, it even surpassed any talk of Mr. Stratham’s mysterious disappearance. None of us could ever forget it. How could we? Let us not forget our own complicity, our very hands had been equally soaked in Neville Winter’s pool of blood and in every sordid detail that emerged. The endless beatings, the alcohol-infused rage the father inflicted upon the mother and children, day after day. Did we really not know what was going on? Hardly. We knew. Everyone of us.
The school session had ended, not that Seth really cared about missing school. I believed the only reason he ever attended was to perhaps get a break from his father and of course, to get my goat whenever possible. But what do you do with a boy murderer? Why, you sentence him to time served and released upon his own recognizance. And in our case that sentence involved sending that impressionable lad back east to some distant, and in my opinion, most unfortunate relations.
I believe God had forgiven me by now. I had seen the evidence in the fact that he had shown mercy upon Seth. Not killing him as many in town may have feared, or maybe like myself, secretly hoped. I was over the guilt, too. I watched as Sheriff Dougherty escorted Seth into one of the stagecoaches bound to the nearest transcontinental railway station, when Seth stopped and bestowed me with one more snaggle-toothed smile. After stepping inside, Seth parted the dusty curtains, stuck his revolting head out and recited an all too familiar rhyme.
“Sadie, Sadie is no lady….”
Oh, yes. Even after all of this, I had forgiven him, too.
Life went on in South Pass. Perhaps, a little quieter than usual, which at this point, no one set up any complaints. We ended up moving away not long after the whole Winter incident. For when the next spring arrived, papa took a new job in Idaho and I was more than happy to put South Pass behind me. But it wouldn’t be until years later, the most curious part of the whole incident came to a new light from a conversation I overheard. Papa had been up talking to mama one late night about something that had always bothered him, something I’m sure that had crept in to his already guilt-stricken mind and pestered his every waking thought. For I heard papa say that two months after Seth left, the remaining Winter clan picked up and departed South Pass for parts unknown. It was then that Sheriff Dougherty informed him, perhaps driven out of some compelling need to satisfy a driven lawman, that the sheriff went and searched and searched that squalid home until he finally found what he had been looking for; a broken pair of spectacles tucked under Seth Winter’s stained pillow.
Yes, indeed. What was it we had really pardoned and unleashed all those years ago?
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