William L. Domme's Blog, page 3

The Confluence (Chapter 1)

Godwin Merritt held a deeply oiled, brown leather
satchel filled with cash and silver totaling five thousand dollars at the
doorstep of his neighbor’s little house waiting for the old man to answer the
door that evening. Echo Cliff, the granite wall with its craggy face, loomed
above the tree line high up the pass where Godwin rode down from, his own ranch
sprawling a hundred feet higher up than his penniless neighbor’s parcel. Godwin
looked up at the smoke wafting out the chimney, ascending the still air that late
summer evening. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and sweat peeked out beneath the
dark hair on his forearms. The old man
better sell. He heaved a breath. The door swung open and the stooped
curmudgeon waved him in. “Evening, Merritt,” Danforth Smith said.

“Lieutenant Smith, good to speak to you again.
Fine summer evening.” Godwin stretched a
borrowed grin.

The old man nodded. “I appreciate you sending your
boy down Monday to call on me and set up a chat. And the pie your Frieda sent
down with him didn’t sit long uneaten.”

“I’ll pass the word along to her. I think it’s
good we stay in touch. Many things going on around the mountains we’d be wise
to discuss to keep things as neighborly as they’ve been, Lieutenant Smith.”

“Yes. I see. Come in and sit with me. I don’t
stand too long these days.” Danforth led
his neighbor inside. “I suppose the day won’t be too long off that standing up
will be just a memory, like being a young soldier fighting the big war.”

By god, the
war’s been over twenty-some years, Johnny Reb. Godwin gritted his teeth and
nearly bit his tongue at the mention of the big war. There wasn’t a
conversation the two of them had that didn’t include his mention of fighting in
the Civil War. And, one of those conversations just happened to occur when some
of Smith’s kin were up visiting. A great-nephew pulled Godwin aside on that
occasion and informed him that the extent of his dear, great uncle’s war time
soldiering had been spent guarding some western Missouri outpost that saw not a
single bullet fly in engagement with the Union forces. The only shot, his great
nephew confirmed, was fired by a forty-three year old conscripted drunkard who
tried to shoot the cock off a weathervane during one of the poor sot’s more
exuberant outings with the bottle. And yes, Godwin did wish his neighbor to be
in good health. He just wished that he would kindly do it elsewhere. “I hope it
isn’t so. I hope you get to be up and around years to come,” he said.

“I suppose we have some more serious matters to
tend than just the chitter chatter of pleasant folk as my blessed mother used
to say it. So, come. Tell me what’s itching the birds in your tree,” Danforth
said.

“You’re a smart man. I won’t try to bullshit you.
Neither of us are built for that. I’d like to purchase your property and
combine it with my own. I’m ready to give you a fair price for the value of
your wonderful land.” Godwin patted the
bulky satchel beside him and said, “As a matter of fact, I’m prepared to give
you payment here and now if that’s what it takes.”

“My lord, what do you have in your carrying bag,
son?” Twinkles struck Danforth’s eyes like sunlight on a pile of silver
dollars. “That is a sharp looking son of a gun.”

“You know Red Eagle?”

“Sure, Red Eagle Raw Hides up McCormick from Dr.
Spuss.”

“Well, he made this here for me. Hell of a process
really. You familiar?”

“I think I am. He doesn’t do it the regular way.”

“That’s right. He doesn’t.”

“I forget what he called it though, the process.”

“Brain tanning.”

“Right. Morose feller, ain’t he?”

“I think it’s his spiritual side. He said it keeps
the act sacred, allowing the mind and body of the animal to stay interlocked.” Godwin made a motion with his fingers
overlaying themselves.

“Suppose I can see that,” Danforth said.

“He said something else that’s stuck with me ever
since he made this particular satchel years
ago. He was kind enough to let me sit in while he made it. Watched the whole
process from kill to finish. Just about the time he handled the wolf’s brain,
mashed it in a bowl, and worked it over with a smooth stone, he commented, ‘Every animal has enough brain to tan its own hide.’”

Danforth chewed on that for a long moment. “Some
truth to that.”

“There is, I believe. Yet, it’s one of those
things so philosophical that I actually have a hard time pinning down just
precisely what it means.”

“I understand you, Merritt, it’s got a depth that
isn’t visible. Like fog on a pond.”

“Anyway, I like to share that. I guess maybe if I
say it aloud enough times the true depth of it might be revealed some day.”

“Well, so what’s in the beautiful bag old Red
Eagle crafted for you, Mr. Merritt?”

“I have enough silver certificates bearing the
image of one Stephen Decatur and a few solid silver coins to account for every
pine needle and river pebble on your property should you choose to part ways
and relocate.”

Danforth Smith sat with a blank stare while he
chewed a phantom lemon behind his considerable white moustache. Godwin checked
the calluses on his own palms. He gently pressed the top of his leather vest as
if to smooth out a crease. He would have politely done that for an hour if it
took the old dog that long to respond to his proposition.

Finally, Danforth spoke. “Would you like a drink?
I have some tepid coffee. It wouldn’t take long to heat beside the fire. I also
have a bottle of whisky you might enjoy.”

The thought of getting drunk crossed his mind but
he failed to find the virtue in being roped into an hours long palaver full of
secondhand war stories. “Coffee is fine, Lieutenant Smith.”

The old man made a motion to get up.

“No. Let me. You rest a minute,” Godwin said. He
pointed to the metal pitcher on the big table, “This the coffee, here?” Godwin
stood at the big table for only a couple of seconds and noticed an aged letter
creased in two folds obviously intended to be delivered once upon a time. It
appeared to be just two pages and on the first, he saw it addressed in a
clearly personal manner to some man named Farragut. The last page had writing
halfway down and was signed “Danforth Smith.” Godwin was surprised it did not
include Smith’s rank, proud as he was of his service in the Confederacy. “I’ll
just set the coffee near the fire a moment.” Godwin’s shirt was already stuck
to his back from the heat in the old man’s shack. “Actually, I don’t mind my
coffee lukewarm or even cool. Sometimes that can be just as refreshing.”

“I prefer mine piping, Mr. Merritt. If you would,
please?” Danforth pointed to the fire.

With his back turned, Godwin slowly closed his
eyes and wished the old man ill. He silently mouthed, “Sorry, Frieda,” knowing
she would disapprove of such thinking and had on more than one occasion
admonished him for harboring contempt in his soul. She worried immensely that
his brute manner and quick judgments of others would eat him inside out.

“Godwin, you’re no spring chicken yourself, now.
If you don’t mind my stating quite the obvious,” Danforth said. Godwin, sitting
across from him now, just flashed a quick grin. “What would you want with all
that land, yours and now mine?”

“I would like to leave my children with enough
land to split and live near each other when the time comes for me and my wife.
Many years from now, god willing. I know your plat runs quite a ways out from
the banks of our stream so with my ranch and acreage up and down the other
side…”

“That’s fine and well. But, what about your
business hauling silver out of the mountains? Don’t suppose I’m sitting up here
sippin’ cheap coffee and eating wrinkled potatoes on top of a silver throne?”

“I don’t think that’s the case, unfortunately. All
the veins we’re pursuing down in the mines are running south, southwest. We got
one branch jumping off northwest but it appears to be drying up, in a manner,
Lieutenant Smith.”

“That is unfortunate, for me.” Danforth glanced
over to the coffee, Godwin took the hint and poured him a piping cup. The front
of Godwin’s shirt stuck to his stomach now and the thought of hot coffee nearly
made him ill as he sat back down across from his neighbor.

“Is the coffee hot now?”

Danforth nodded. “What say I call down on the
Sheriff in Butte and have him rustle up the assayer to get the numbers coming
out from your mine? Would he be inclined to tell me the same? That all your
excavating is running away and not toward any property this lonely old soldier
holds?”

“I can’t speak for the good Sheriff down in Butte,
but if he looked at the deeds and permits I would be surprised if he came to
any conclusion contrary to what I’ve told you. I can wait if that’s something
you want to do.” Godwin said.

“Tell you what. It’s getting on in the evening and
I need to retire soon. Could you get my whisky and plunk a few gulps of it into
my coffee?”

“I would but I don’t see where you have it
stored.”

“It’s just in the other room beside the wash basin
where the pots are drying.”

Godwin went to the other room. The bottle stood on
the countertop like a big, bright knife in the back. No mistaking the label on
the thing. Did the old man in the other room really not understand its
significance? Godwin put his palms on the countertop and screamed silently with
his jaw flexed open. He could have ripped the whole countertop off the wall.

“Could you find it, Merritt?” he hollered over his
shoulder.

“Yes, sir.” Godwin picked up the bottle and
juggled it with one hand while he considered its label. Stamped lettering with
“BRR” in bold black ink stung him and a headache ripped apart his mind. Black
Rock Runners. It wasn’t whisky. It was Mantabawa River hooch cooked from
notorious Mattocks family stills. A sound he hadn’t heard in decades burst
forth, the memory rose vividly in his mind—the steam saw he operated as a
sawyer’s apprentice back home, spinning wild
with Mattocks’ blood. He heard the whap-whapping of long belts that circuited
the pins and gears. He winced at the sound of the blade screeching to a stop as
it jammed into a log it didn’t have enough power to cut. He tore just short of
a march into the room where his neighbor sat.

“Ahh, good. This whisky is just what we need to
cap off our discussion,” Danforth said and twisted the cork from its neck.

“I really think I must get back. I’ve said what I
came to speak of and Frieda will be getting anxious if I don’t return soon,”
Godwin said. “You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”

“When a lady’s concern is front and center a
gentleman cannot refuse.”

“A gentleman and a good soldier.”

“Indeed. Thank you, Mr. Merritt. It’s been a
pleasure having you here. If you don’t mind, I will take you up on that offer
and inquire into the mine with the sheriff down in Butte.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less than a thorough
investigation into the matter. Good evening, Lieutenant Smith. Thank you for
your hospitality,” Godwin said and made his way to the door.

“A handshake? For the continuation of prosperous
dealings between neighbors?” Danforth said.

“My manners. I apologize. Once my wife gets into
my mind I find it hard to focus sometimes,” Godwin returned with his hand stuck
out like an oar.

“The confounded nature of a beautiful woman in a
man’s life. No need to apologize, neighbor.”

Godwin couldn’t help thinking the word neighbor
had come out as an assurance that they would always be so and that his angling
for Danforth’s property would be nothing less than futile. “Just one other
thing,” Godwin said. “The whisky. Where did you get it? I didn’t drink any but
I took a sniff when I retrieved it. It had an intoxicating aroma.”

“Well, I suppose no harm telling you now. A couple
of weeks ago some gentleman and his bride came to call. They were looking to do
precisely what you’re asking to do?”

“They want to purchase your land?” Godwin bit his
tongue but kept himself from cursing aloud. He could taste the blood that
leaked from the puncture his tooth made.

“Indeed,” Danforth said and finally grasped
Godwin’s outstretched hand. He shook it with the slow, firm movement of a man
who wished to convey more than good tidings. “Now, I have to ask myself and it
will be something I turn over many times tonight as I sip from the whisky they
left me as a gift, ‘what is so special about the land I’ve been living on for
nineteen, twenty years that all of a sudden has become the object of desire for
multiple parties?’ Any thoughts, at all, Merritt?”

Their hands stopped shaking yet remained locked
together; Godwin’s slick with perspiration and Danforth’s clammy with a shadow
of the grave. Godwin imagined the old sot, all twisted up in his Confederate
grays, three sheets stinking of gin, stumbling around his post trying to shoot
the cock off a weathervane in western Missouri. He’d give him one thing though,
he still had enough wits to know there was something valuable about the chunk
of property he landed on after the Union victory scattered the threads of the
‘stars and bars’ in the wind.

*   *   *

That evening, when the boys had fallen asleep and
Godwin had a chance to finally rest his mind a moment from the worry of how
things were going to shake out with his neighbor, Frieda sat down beside him at
the long table in the kitchen. The wood stove was cooling finally and the
blonde Labrador sat at the open door letting the breeze soothe him to sleep.

“How was Danforth?” she asked.

Godwin fought to keep his eyes open as he studied
a spot on the table. She put a hand on his forearm and waited for a response.
“He’s got suspicions,” he said.

“What happened?”

“Some folk came to call on him and see about
buying his property.”

“Out of nowhere they stumble on his land and think
that’s the spot they want to make a home?”

“He didn’t say where they were from. Sounded like
flatlanders looking for adventure, I suppose.”

“Something’s not right. People don’t just stumble
onto Echo Cliff out of nowhere.”

Not out of
nowhere. “We have any ale?” he asked.

Frieda went to the pantry off the back of the
kitchen and poured him a stein from their barrel. It trickled to a stop, only
filling the stein a little over half way. She was able to rock the barrel in
its stand. Empty.

“That’s it for the barrel.” She set the stein in
front of him. “The others will be brewed up soon enough.”

The stein was nearly cold in Godwin’s hands and he
held it without drinking for a while. The dog farted and the breeze carried it
up to their noses. “Must have got a hold of a shithouse rat outside today,” he
said. “Or did he sneak into the garden and eat all our lettuce again?”

“He’s been sluggish lately. Hopefully he’s over whatever
it is soon. I need an aspirin. You?”

He waved it off. “I don’t know what to make of the
other offer on Danforth’s property. I’ll have to get down to Butte in the
morning and talk with the lawyer.”

“God, do you trust him? Do you trust Mr.
Jefferson?”

“I would say I do. He’s done right by me and Cut
Creek Pass.”

“The mine brings a lot of money. I mean to say,
bad guys don’t always wear masks when they set out to rob.”

“No. That’s true. But, why wait so long to try to
swindle me? He’d had plenty of opportunity over the years if that’s the
predicament you think I’m in.”

“Who’s to say? He’s the one that came to you with
the information about the mine and the entrance at the pass not being square on
Merritt land. My question is, how did he find that out? From whom?” Frieda
said.

“Are you staying up?” Godwin asked.

“I have to lie down. This headache is killing me.”

“Is that the aspirin Dr. Spuss give you?”

“It is. I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s
working anymore. I’d hate to take more than he said but it seems that when I do
the headaches dull again.”

Godwin motioned her to come to him. Their embrace
was true and warm. She kissed him on his clean-shaven cheek. “Goodnight, God.”

“I love you, Frieda.”

He chewed on the notions the day brought him. The
ale was gone in a gulp. Mattocks in town again. A lawyer who might be looking
for a big payday. A neighbor just sober enough to ask questions. The issues
stung his brain and when his clenched teeth shifted and ground across
themselves he sought his wife’s aspirin. The bottle Dr. Spuss gave her on a
regular visit to the ranch had a plain brown label with red ink that read,
“Albany Drug: Cocaine.” Beneath the large type was a billowed banner, “For the
afflicted brain.” He took one pill and went to the porch to smoke from his
pipe. Every time he closed his eyes to inhale the smoke, he saw the blood on
the big saw blade and smelled the sawdust piled in heaps around the old steam
saw in the mill beside Sawyerskill. The sky was clear and he counted stars to
distract himself.

The old man
better sell.

PART 2.

Two days’ ride by coach from his jurisdiction, the
Lake County Sheriff sat on the cushioned bench with his boot up on his knee. A
folded copy of The Rocky was in his hand and a scrawl of ink on its top margin
read, “Helmut Mattocks, 8:40 to Fort Collins.” Sheriff Smith sat still and
rested his forearm so as not to disturb the laceration he received in a knife
fight inside the Copperhead Saloon in Butte two nights before. His head ached
from the blows he took in the fracas and maybe a little more from having to
shoot a man in the belly who tried to help him break up the fight between two
miners down from Cut Creek Pass, the silver mine Godwin Merritt owned just up
the trail from the little town which had gone bust when the gold ran out but
boomed once more when Merritt came to town and happened upon a silver vein so
long and true the locals nearly made him a king when he got to work setting up
a fully operational mine. The locomotive chugged to a crawl with its wheels squealing
to a stop. The whistle blew wide open and filled Poudre Canyon.

Helmut leaned forward to duck the roof of the
train car. He towered over the rest of the riders walking the platform to the
depot and Sheriff Smith watched as he ducked through the doorway into the dim
depot. Helmut looked for the face he hadn’t seen in years. As Sheriff Smith
approached, he recognized him and his curious moustache straight away.

“What’s the news on that son of a bitch, Merritt?”
Helmut said. His knuckles were white around the handle of his suitcase, an old
beat up thing that smelled of old smoke and cinnamon from where the sheriff
stood.

“Helmut, how was the ride?”

“Rough. Thought the new railway here would have
some updated equipment. Seems to me they’re using rails and wheels they found
at the bottom of a gorge beneath a busted wreck of trestle work.”

“Things are building up faster than you can
imagine out here, Helmut. Soon, we’ll have all the conveniences you have back
east. What’s new on the Mantabawa River? Anyone take to the great beyond I
should know about?”

“Been a quiet season. The Bog Bay Devils are
keeping to themselves and the Merritt’s on Sawyerskill are quiet as a possum
that accidently walked in front of a feral hog. Shall we find a better place to
talk?”

“There’s a good hotel with big steaks where we can
sit however long we need. I’ve got a horse for you.”

“I’m going to hit the outhouse first,” Helmut
said.

The marble bar in the front of The Ashley Hotel
was long and high. Their boots hit hard on the dark oak floors that gleamed
with the reflection of the sunlight off varnish so thick it could probably stop
the coffin-handled bowie knife Helmut wore on his hip. The swing door to the
kitchen popped open frequently and the sounds of pots and glasses banged and
jostled through the cavernous dining room. Along with that came the smell of
carrion and fresh bread that turned Helmut’s already hungry belly into a
thoroughbred chomping and stamping at the gate. They sat to eat at a table near
the window. The dining room was loud with the jocular talk of Ft. Collins’
hustlers and politicians.

“Lively place, huh? Old Collins is being shaken up
by new Collins. The future of this city is at stake.” Sheriff Smith drank his
coffee, waited to see if Helmut was interested in the wide-open possibility of
setting up a franchise out west.

“Butte’s about a day away on horseback, right?”

“A little over.”

“So in two days’ time you should be able to set up
the purchase of that land next to Merritt’s and execute the whole deal by the
end of the week and telegram the confirmation to Gunther before I even get back
home?”

“Sounds simple.”

“Then you can do it?”

Sheriff Smith nodded with a mouthful of peanuts
from the dish the waiter brought them.

“Good. If the answer was no, I’d have to ride down
there and kill the old bastard that sits on that land. I don’t want to do that.
Surely, you can convince your older brother it’s in his interest to move on to
greener pastures. I’m giving him the opportunity to be on top of those pastures
instead of below them.”

“He’s a tough drunk but I know he’s not an idiot.
We’ll get you that land and the entrance to Cut Creek.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. I’m staying in Fort Collins
for the week. I’ll be in contact with Gunther, so if things aren’t on schedule in
a week’s time, I’ll be headed down to Echo Cliff. Your brother’s body will be
taken up to Merritt’s ranch and he’ll be arrested for murder.”

“By who?”

“You’re the sheriff.”

The lump in the sheriff’s throat made it hard for
him to swallow the steak he gnawed. He wanted nothing more than to spit the
fatty blob of grey meat across the table and ride to his brother’s house. Sure,
Madame V., illustrious proprietor of Wichita’s, that flourishing gentlemen’s
house in the center of Butte, would front him the money to convince his old
brother the sale of his land was legitimate and honorable, but what would he
owe her then as sheriff? Even through the river of whisky that flowed through
Lt. Danforth Smith’s body, he’d be able to sniff out the transaction for what it
was—a boomtown hustle by a cadre of misfits trying to get in good with
outsiders that came to town looking to hang the supposed savior of Butte by his
neck for crimes committed decades ago and hundreds of mile away.

*   *   *

The door was open when Sheriff Smith arrived at
his brother’s little house east of Echo Cliff and the shadow of the Merritt
Ranch. It was just before eight by his pocket watch—the one he swiped from the
miner during the brawl in the Copperhead. The morning air was crisp. Fall settled
in and it would be no time before the path to his brother’s would be
unnavigable beneath the many feet of snow sure to come. Sheriff Smith went
inside with a hand on his pistol and the other carrying a bag of money.

He found his brother curled up on the knotty
planks beside the woodstove. The sheriff put the bag down on the chair. He
knelt down and shook his brother.

When Danforth opened his eyes, the nausea overtook
him and he vomited on the floor.

“Goddamn, brother.”

“What are you doing here? What time is it?”

“I’ve come to wake you up,” Sheriff Smith said and
picked up the whisky bottle on the table. This stuff must be stronger than your blithe spirit is used to.”

“You bring a bag of money too? I knew you would.
I’ve already shooed off two honeymooners and big Godwin Merritt.”

“Here, drink this.” He handed his brother a cup of
coffee.

“I ain’t drinking no cold coffee,” Danforth said.
“What time is it?” His voice quivered now with effort.

“I forgot you like it hot. Sorry.” He set the cup
on the stove and loaded some wood into the fire. “We need to talk about your
future. It ain’t here, not on this mountain no more. I’ve got all the money you
could need to get on and settle up somewhere else. Maybe in town or up in
Denver if you need something more thrilling. Plenty of drunks up there to keep
you company.”

“I don’t see the trouble with an old man living
and dying on the land of his choosing. This is the land of the damn free still,
isn’t it?”

“It’s not about principles anymore, Danforth. This
is about you staying alive.”

A serpentine curve crossed Danforth’s brow.

Sheriff Smith picked up the bottle of BRR. “It’s
these folks. Black Rock Runners. They’re after Godwin Merritt and they want
your land. They don’t want you.”

“So those honeymooners…”

Sheriff Smith tilted the bottle at him.

“Well, I’m not moving. They can come and try and
take it from me.”

“That’s what they’re doing. Just take the money
and move on, Lieutenant.”

The serpentine eyebrow appeared again. “Let me see
the money.”

Sheriff Smith handed his brother the bag. “It’s
$100 coin notes.”

“This is differenter than the money Merritt
brought down.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“He looks young.”

“Who?”

“Commander Farragut. Admiral now, I suppose. What
time is it?”

“Are you okay, Danforth?”

“I just need to get to Butte today. What time is
it?” Danforth looked into the portrait on the coin note again, “Gosh, he looks
strong.”

“Did you know him?”

“When I was on the U.S.S. Saratoga he was my
commander.” Danforth put his hand on his heart. “He made a name for himself
protecting the Liberians and American merchant interests off the west coast of
Africa in the 20’s.”

“1820’s? You weren’t serving then.”

“No, I know. I was aboard 1847. We were sent out
during the Mexican American war in the Gulf of Mexico. That expedition was
doomed from the start. I enjoyed a shitty outbreak of yellow fever while
stationed off Tuxpan. That’s Mexico. Gulf Coast. What time is it?”

“15 to 9.”

He examined the coin note again. “Time is a
merciless bastard. Admiral Farragut is dead now. I read it in The Rocky years
ago and drank myself silly that week recalling the bad boys of Farragut’s sloop
of war. And, how the Union Navy stabbed me in the back with a medical discharge
in Pensacola, Florida. It was just a slight cold. I could’ve served for years
and made Admiral too.”

“Yellow fever isn’t a slight cold, Danforth.”

“It was for me. A couple of sailors died before we
arrived in Florida but mine was nothing but some sniffles and a cough.”

“Farragut. He was a tough one.”

“You’re not going to budge one inch, are you?”

Danforth shook his head.

“Well, how about a shot?” Sheriff Smith uncorked
the bottle. He tipped the BRR way back and took a hard pull. He handed it over
to his brother. Danforth tipped the bottom straight up and sucked down what was
left. He was gulping hard on the whisky with his eyes closed tight like in
prayer. Sheriff Smith shot him in the chest point blank and the bottle fell to
the floor to shatter in pieces. His brother died instantly but his eyes stayed
open and Sheriff Smith couldn’t stand to look at him any longer. He took to the
porch and pulled the cigar from his coat, a dirty wool jacket with patches on
the elbow where the knife had sliced through in the saloon. He leaned on the post
and looked up to the high wall of Echo Cliff while he puffed little round smoke
signals from his cigar.

Two riders approached out of the woods and rode
across the bridge that separated the land Godwin Merritt owned from the land he
wanted. One pulled up alongside Sheriff Smith’s horse with his hand raised up.
“Dick Mattocks.”

“Christ.” Sheriff Smith jammed his cigar down on
the post. He waited for the other rider to say his name.

“Glenn Mattocks. You the sheriff?”

“Yes sir. I was told you men wouldn’t be necessary
should this matter resolve itself in due time.”

“Well, Sheriff Smith, the plans have changed. Now,
we know this is still fresh and you’re likely a little sensitive to outsiders
at the moment but we have a job to do. You don’t need to be here any longer
unless you just find yourself to be the helpful sort. Either way, that corpse
in there is going up to Merritt’s ranch.”

“Let me gather a couple of things inside and I’ll
leave you to it. I’m not interested in helping any more than I have to.”

Dick waved him on. He hollered after him, “He’s
fine now. No pain.”

Sheriff Smith rummaged the house for some papers,
anything to identify the property. It was no use. His brother had nothing but
empty bottles and regrets.

“We need to get a move on, Sheriff.” Dick spit a
gob of wet tobacco toward the porch.

“Take it easy. Man’s got a right to say his peace
to the dead.”

Dick and Glenn, the brothers Mattocks, spit
simultaneously.

Sheriff Smith rode the trail into the woods that
led back down to Butte and tried to plan his next move, arresting Godwin
Merritt.

The Other Side of the Tracks

This is the terminal where ghosts are born. He sees his proposal
to her on the platform over and over because he is forced to jump in front of
the train eternally. Imprisoned by his suicide. Trapped on the 3rd street
platform. He watches the memory play like syndicated reruns. Eventually, in one
moment, he recognizes the man on his knees as himself and the next, the jump
that sets him free.

#

And then the suspected ufo that haunted the city airspace. Rumors,
“My cousin saw it last weekend, said it was a city block long and faster
than hell.” He and his wife have bedtime conversations about the ufo
sporadically along with the magazine awards coming in for their examination of
American politics. Along with the increasing number of threats coming
anonymously for denigrating the country. Along with more idle chatter about the
ufo. The skyquake events growing stronger though no evidence of a cause; were
first reported as “microbursts” in the early days of Racquelle and Cole’s
relationship.

Cole sees the ufo in the sky or so he dreams with his wasted head
rocking against the train window riding out of the city one morning. He
imagines it as if real but knows it can’t be. Always considering the idea of a
ufo as something like a four-leaf clover. Maybe they exist but he’ll never
know. At the end of the book he witnesses, possibly from tv, the footage of the
skyquake. Isn’t that how it is now? He thinks. Tool’s Vicarious lyrics running
riot in his head.

#

I
stand alone on the subway platform four days after Racquel’s burial, unshaven,
and cigarette burns in the cuffs of the crumpled silver button-down shirt I put
on the morning of her funeral. I toss my phone down into the tracks and check
to see if the lights are making the corner down the tunnel. My destination isn’t
on the color-coded map stretched along the wall on the other side of the
tracks.

*

Last
week we were about five hundred miles apart. Even though we’d been married
eleven years I still struggled with the distance. She was so funny. I needed
her to make me laugh constantly. Our vows were like a prescription with
unlimited refills, she’d make me laugh and I’d stop having anxiety attacks. I
couldn’t wait for her to return from her conference. Now that she’s gone she
might as well be on Jupiter. The ocean between us is much too wide to swim
across in my body. So, shucking it off is the only way to close the gap and
reunite with her, my Racquel.

She
was in Philadelphia for a convention. I think it was all comedy magazines and
journals and she was a keynote speaker and panelist for a few different topics
that week. I called her every night before I went to work at the warehouse.
She’d be ending her day or getting ready to join some folks at the bar and I’d
be setting out in the snow and cold off the shores of Lake Eerie to work sixteen-hour
days. Sometimes at work that week, I’d tweet at her knowing she wouldn’t
respond until morning but it made me feel like we were talking. She told me I
spent too much time on twitter and maybe she was right because when she died not
once did one of my 2500+ followers tweet a condolence or so much as a sad
emoji. Granted, I didn’t tweet anything about her death until that moment on
the subway platform but I thought maybe one of my followers would chance upon
the news and extend a little

Cherry Blossom

The lines on her patient’s face and the purple,
obsidian bruises under paper bag skin were behind a fog and Cherry couldn’t
tell if she were at work or home. A million footprints brought this meeting to
room 155, hers and his. It was her job to see him through and send him on his
way, better than he was when he arrived. She’ll never forget her first.  

Whatever I see or hear in the lives of my
patients, whether in connection with my professional practice or not, which
ought not to be spoken of outside, I will keep secret, as considering all such
things to be private. —the Oath

“I’ve been holding this in for decades,” he said.
He didn’t feel the needle dive subcutaneous. He closed his eyes and the black
behind his eyelids gave way to the memory. He forced his eyes open again and
looked at the hem of her sleeve then the unmarked skin of her upper arm where
it met her nurse’s smock.

“What’s that, Bobby?” She slowly pulled the needle
back and put the cotton and tape over the hole the better to stop the bleeding.
Blood traveled faster at his age and rushed holes not meant to be there.

“Nothing. 
Just a regret that I can’t unload.”

“Ah. I’m sure whatever it is you’ve more than made
up for it over the years. You’ve got a wonderful family.”

His eyes met the window halfway and the flickering
shadows from the leaves in the wind played havoc with his anxiety. “Nurse
Koora?”

“Yeah, friend. I’m right here.” She looked over
her shoulder to see what he might be looking at. Nothing but window, the sun
through trees near the window setting orange way back in the horizon. She used
to be a doctor. It wasn’t that many years ago but now that time felt about as
far away as the sun.

It was a nightingale in the leaves that she
overlooked. For his part, he tried to recall what he knew of the bird. He named
it then without a word. That, he committed to take to the grave even as his
worst regret began to flutter to his lips. For now, he said, “Never mind.”

“Okay, Bobby. Why don’t you try to sleep a little?
The series is on again tonight.”

“What’s the score again?”

“Kansas City leads it two to one. Game four starts
at 7:30.”

“Who’s singing the anthem tonight?”

“That I don’t know. Want me to close the shades?”

“Just about halfway, please. Thanks.”

Nurse Koora left the room. The door clicked behind
her like a vault.

Above all, I must not play at God. —the Oath

Sally Koora plugged info about Bobby into the
computer behind the nurse’s desk. A few patients loitered in the hallways
without anything to do, maybe asleep. 
Maybe not.

“How’s your boy?” Trucella asked.

“Good. Going to college in fall.”

“Good to hear. He doing okay after the thing?”

Sally didn’t hear her. She studied Bobby’s info. Spouse’s
name. Children’s name. Date of birth. Trucella looked at Sally. Maybe shouldn’t
have asked about her son. Long day though.

“Could you call maintenance and have them fix the
exit sign down the south wing?”

“Is it out?”

“Flickering. About to go out again.” Sally heard
her pick up the phone and make the call. Must have been Jimmy on the other end.
Her voice got soft and flirty. Wonder if her husband knows, Sally thought. She
rolled her mind’s eye while her face remained placid.

“Did you say the north end, Sal?”

“South,” she said, wanted to finish with, and stop
calling me Sal. Jimmy ain’t impressed. Or was he? Maybe she had it all wrong.
Maybe not.

She had a dream once.

The director yelled, “Cut!”

FADE IN: 

Eternity University hallway. The loitering crowd
waiting for the cast list. All life’s “poor players” eager to “strut and fret.”
The cast she tended with the connection of a propmaster backstage with the
objects. When the director yelled cut it was her that closed the scene. Her
face, the last one seen before the poor player slipped into their dream. 

FADE OUT.

Jimmy came down the hall with a stepstool and his
tools. A grin for Trucella and a nod for Sally. If she hadn’t been distracted
by the stepstool banging against his toolbox, she wouldn’t have seen Robert’s
wife round the corner behind him. They made no eye contact. Sally saw the
manila folder tucked at Mrs. Weaver’s elbow triggering her imagination. A will?
A contract? Some form for a fond farewell? She wrapped up her data entry and
grabbed a coffee back in the little get away room as the nurse’s called it.

“Ramona, I don’t want to leave her this way.”

“It’s what she wants, Bobby. I know it has to
hurt. But if we think of it as giving her the gift she actually wants instead
of the one we thinks she needs,” tears hung from the cliff face of the corners
of her eyes. Don’t look down.

“But, we are her parents. We are supposed to do
what we think she needs. I can’t sign it. If you want to forge my name when I’m
gone, well, there’s not much I can do about that.” Night beyond the window
looked cold and he couldn’t help thinking that’s what the grave would look
like. It wasn’t until later that the concept of absolute nothing, even the
inability to know darkness, penetrated his understanding.

He pushed his little red button with the white
plus sign raised in relief.

Sally saw her pager. Room 155 buzzing. On her way
to the room she spun a wheel of misfortune to come up with some pretext to find
out what Robert’s regret could be. Mrs. Weaver wasn’t cold to her but she
wasn’t given to gush with information either. Why would she be?

“Mr. Weaver,” Sally said. Then she broke through
her own trepidation, “Bobby W, what can we do for you?”

Mrs. Weaver chuckled and smiled down at Bobby.

“Nurse Koora, I need to use the toilet.”

He was down about 70 pounds from what he weighed a
year ago. It allowed her to get him in the wheelchair with no assistance but it
was still a dance of leverage and determination.

In the bathroom, she got him set on the toilet and
saw his eyes watery and asked if he was okay. A sniffle and a wave. She exited
and waited for him to call her.

“Thank you. I’m not strong enough, thin as he is
now.”

“That’s what we’re here for, Mrs. Weaver.” She
paused barely a second. “Is he okay? He’s crying a bit.”

“Just some family stuff. One of his daughters is
upset.”

“It happens at times like these.”

Mrs. Weaver looked at her a moment. “This started
years ago, afraid to say.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Koora,” he called, dropping the formality.

“Alright, Bobby W, do you want to stay in the
chair or back in bed?”

“Here for now. Thanks. Are you on duty all night?”
He laughed a little and then repeated his joke, “On doodie?” She laughed a
little, too. Mrs. Weaver’s head dropped and she shook her head.

“Yeah, BW, I’m here through the night.”  

 I will
remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my
fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm. —the
Oath

There was a gang of nurses in the hospice center worked together to reduce the load of material possessions wards in their charge came into their realm with. And they could smell one of their own. The proper family would be so noticeably concerned with the health of their loved ones that a cut-rate magician’s skill of misdirection would suffice in making sure the slip of a ring, the lift of a document went unseen through their grief.

So that on an autumn morning when the daughter of
the patient in 242 walked in as Nurse 1 and Nurse 2 were dressing the patient,
“Patiently waiting while we pinch this locket,” 1 said to 2; they saw
immediately one cut from the same cloth. A near matriarchal deference in their
half-executed genuflection occurred so involuntarily 1 and 2 blushed.

But they were all no match for Nurse Koora. Papers
would call her Cherry Blossom as the trial took on a national scope, not only
because of the heinous audacity, but the literal miles connecting dots from
Elliott Bay to Biscayne Bay. Port to port and multiple posts in-between. And
all of it worn on her sleeve. The collective imagination of the country would
find itself rapt and grasping to understand; but comprehension in such matters
is rarely easy or quick.

1 and 2 hastily put a ring and the locket under
the patient’s pillow as the daughter, facing the rain jeweled window, wrote and
email to the Honorable Judge Dunbar.

Sometime ago, in this wing of the center, a
patient since passed, struck upon the idea of calling Nurse Koora “Cherry
Blossom.” She was wiping his bottom at this Eureka! moment. The grimace on her
face wasn’t simply fatigue, but this name. This name would appear in affadavits
and judge’s minutes beside, “AKA.” This name would spill blood-like from the
lips and pens of the media and wind its way into pop culture; paintings, movies,
books, blogs, matching tats, and music. The song “Nightingale” would spend 28
weeks at the top of the charts with lyrics, “When my cherry blossoms it will
sing you to sleep. Unclick the cap on my lip stick and let the needle slip. Let
me skip town and skip the record. Needle Dee and Needle Dum. Needle Dee Needle
Dum. Your heart beat’s under my thumb.”

Up and down the road and the branches of her sleeve from her shoulder to her forearm the petals shivered. She knew one day it would end and probably how; but now she knew the alias the media would give to pop culture, “Cherry Blossom.” Petals, snow white, that fall to the earth and rest like a pall as winter turns to spring. The Revealer of All Things exposing winter’s fragility and its own mortality.

Nurse 1 overheard one day this patient call her by
this nickname and during a smoke session on the patio during the monthly pot
luck let slip across her tongue, “Cherry Blossom.”

I will remember that there is art to medicine
as well as science… —the Oath

To the artist she said, “I need to add one petal
to this branch.”

“Just the one?”

“One.” Sally removed her smock.

“Long day?”

“Tomorrow will be better; one less thing to worry
about.”

“I hear ya.”

Doubt it, she thought.

With the fingers of his left hand splayed on her
upper bicep to still the surface, the ink gun drew the outline of a Cherry
Blossom petal.

Later at home she thought of 155. Back in
Washington state it was easier to leave than stay. With all this time and the
sakura maturing on her arm, it was easier to get set in her own ways. “I don’t
recall.” Occasionally she caught herself in the middle of one thought
rehearsing her lines for a trial that would surely find her one day. “I don’t
recall.” Like an eraser across the long chalkboard without a thorough follow-up
cleaning the words, at least some of them, remain visible. Exhibit one. She
fantasized that first one would be the hardest to get through. After, the rest
of the exhibits would just wash over her like a dream. She figured pounding
heartbeats of anxiety and tremoring hands were something a weaker mind would
endure. She would sit, she figured, as stoic as the day was long.

But she shook that off and returned to the screen
reading about 155, Robert Weaver. Years ago, as he chewed on his regret and
edited his confession over and over in the hopes that by making it clear it
would seem logically inevitable to any listener, Sally began researching his
family and friends. He was young for his condition and it left many witnesses
to be interrogated She started with social media. It was a hands-off intrusion
that would go unnoticed by nearly everyone. She saw his daughter’s wedding
pics. His grandson’s baby pics. A snapshot of Mr. Weaver in uniform at a
welcome home event out at the airbase; which turned into a rabbit hole all its
own during a two-bottle night down the River Merlot. But she always came back
to his other daughter’s social media. One page. One picture. No details. Corinne
Weaver. Never came to visit him in the hospice. Never called. Never sent a note
or a flower.

Bobby W., she started calling him near the end,
never said a word about Corinne. Sally overheard conversations here and there
between his other daughter and his wife but not enough to really understand the
relationship. Or lack of.

What she supposed was there was some violation of parental trust or neglect of responsibility that kept her away. Hell, once she set adrift on the River Merlot there was really any number of theories that could have led Bobby W. to a place where one of his offspring wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Nights like that, his regret was her regret. Consumed her like a gullet full of wine.

END

Find more fiction from William L. Domme to buy here.

Reading Room

Take a jog over to the Reading Room to catch free stories that have been published elsewhere or sometimes nowhere but here.

The Return

Thank you for visiting this site featuring the works of William L. Domme. Soon there will be work available to read on this site and the “Library” tab will have links to buy books by the author. Look around. Enjoy.

The Confluence Book Tour Summer 2016 (Part 2)

June 17, 2016, or thereabouts. It was a dark and stormy night…but it didn’t start that way. I hit the road from Topeka, KS and pointed the car toward Hays, KS on the rather straight stretch of I-70 that has the ability to hypnotize if you don’t steel your mind and seek the detail in the beauty of the plains that are visible from the interstate. The land is not as flat as rumored as the Flint Hills rolls by. Past historic Fort Riley a more recent crop of giant windmills has grown to stretch as far as the eye can see in all directions. The weather was great, the windmills danced gently in their energy generating ballet, and the music on the radio, Pearl Jam at Benaroya Hall in 2003, made for a relaxing almost meditative drive across the plains. Kansas is a beautiful, if hot and muggy, place in the middle of June.

I arrived in Hays as a thunderstorm sparked like flickers from a striking flint. Local painter, Matthew Miller, greeted me from his front steps and offered me a stout beer to celebrate the Summer Art Walk in Hays, KS. I hadn’t seen him in a few years and was overwhelmed by the inventory of paintings he’d completed in the intervening years. The paintings leaned against the walls, some 4 or 5 paintings deep. He’d been busy and the genius of some of the work was undeniable. You know it when you see it. And if I had the money, I’d have loaded up my vehicle for the return trip. Matthew Miller’s art features on the cover of two of my books, Eight and The Rejected Works Vol. I.

We set up for the art walk in a rather casual manner considering the thunderstorm that kept building and rolled slowly our way, much out of character I discovered in talking to some local friends of my friend. The painter hammered nails on the wall in his rolling gallery, a tiny house he’d built himself and christened, The Buffalo House. I set up my table beneath a slightly disabled camping canopy twisted by the wind in a thunderstorm the previous year. As the wind picked up in Hays, the canopy betrayed its Achilles’ heel and struggled to remain upright at all. (note to self: get a new canopy frame)

And then the rain. It rained like it hadn’t rained in months, my new friends in Hays said. It sounded like pennies falling on the canopy and we hastily placed cinder blocks and bricks as weights to hold the tie-down ropes and keep the canopy from lifting off like a hot air balloon. The hour of the art walk was upon us and had been for nearly 20 minutes when we decided to take shelter in The Buffalo House to consider dismantling the canopy and moving all bookselling operations into the corner of the rolling art gallery. The wind proved too harsh and the radar on our phones suggested this storm would be settling in for the night. We dismantled the book tent and loaded most of the stuff into my vehicle and took the books into the warm belly of The Buffalo House.

Kudos to the people of Hays. The storm did not keep everyone from the walk. At turns the capacity of the Buffalo House’s belly was stretched and distended to hold more than it was likely intended for. It made 10 people appear to be 100. Everyone was electrified by the art on the walls and maybe a little by the storm. We’d be alright as long as the storm didn’t drop a twister on us for as you may have guessed, there’s no basement at The Buffalo House.

It was a great night full of fun conversation and interesting people, many of them artists in their own right. I was able to connect with new people and sell more books than the weather would have let on. My friend was able to sell some of his paintings as well and the dark and stormy night was truly a great setting for a good story.

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The Confluence Book Tour Summer 2016

William Domme, the writer whose work you’ve found here, stumbled into an impromptu book tour during the summer of 2016. It seems that he has been spotted in Kansas City, MO at that horror festival known as Crypticon KC. In his own words:

I settled in for the hour drive with friend and custom action figure creator, Daniel Barnes, who operates under his banner, Tankster Innovations. We checked in and were greeted with great enthusiasm by the organizers of the event led by the amazing and prolific, Chazz DeMoss. I will be forever in his debt for the opportunity to set up a booth and work alongside some of the most creative and talented people in the horror culture. I shared a table with Tankster Innovations and we spent the whole weekend across the aisle from the legendary, Piper Laurie, of horror cinema such as “Carrie” and “The Faculty.” It was a wild weekend and I’m excited to report all three books were well received by patrons making their way through the labyrinth of terrifying delights. There were many celebrities waiting to greet fans, many cosplay characters mingling through the crowd, and many artists showing off their talents with items for sale.

It was my first Crypticon and I cannot wait to go back next year! Enjoy these scenes from the event including; an encounter with Deadpool, an amazing shot to meet David Della Rocco and Sean Patrick Flannery of “Boondock Saints,” and me and my table-mate, Tankster Innovations.

 

Frontier Tales Magazine Readers’ Choice Winner: The Confluence

Frontier Tales Magazine recently featured an excerpt from The Confluence in its May 2016 issue. They feature a half dozen stories each month and allow readers to vote for their favorite tale. I am grateful not only for the opportunity to have my work feature there along with other great writers but for the appreciation the readers showed by voting for my work and making it the winner of the May contest!

 

On-Air Reading and Interview with KJHK

Hi there. Thanks for stopping by. Here’s the audio of a reading and interview I was able to do with KJHK which is the radio station broadcasting from the University of Kansas. The whole segment is about 15 minutes and I encourage you to travel to their site afterward and have a listen to all of the other episodes of their Reading Series full of entertaining and thoughtful discussions and readings by other writers.

So, enjoy this excerpt from The Confluence, a fitting read for the coming winter. Happy Halloween!

 

The Sound Alternative: College Radio

I’ve lived around these parts for most of my life and regrettably have only just recently been turned on to the work KJHK has been doing for 40 years now. They just had their 40th birthday recently. Happy Birthday, KJHK!

A few weeks ago I had the good fortune to receive an invitation to visit their studio in The University of Kansas Union, a beautiful setting with panoramic views of Lawrence, Kansas and surrounding countryside.

 

They air a program devoted to literature created by writers with Kansas connections called The Sunflower Reading Series which runs on Monday’s at 7 p.m. on FM 90.7. KJHK is streamed live on their website for those who may be out of broadcast range. 

I had the pleasure of sitting down with hosts, Jacqueline and Cam, in their studio on Mount Oread. The piece to air on an upcoming broadcast features an excerpted reading from The Confluence followed by a solid interview.

I’ll post the link to the program after its air date once it’s archived on their webpage. Hope you have a chance to listen to it “live” on October 26, 2015. Remember, they stream the broadcast on their website. And if you’re in the Lawrence, KS area there are paperbacks of The Confluence in stock at The Raven Bookstore on 7th Street in downtown Lawrence.

Rock Chalk!