Tin & Spit

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Thursday, August 09, 2007

Arrowhead



Arrowhead


by Sam Ford




It was 1957 and Charlie Dyle was 11 years-old. His light brown hair was tightened up in a crew-cut, and his hazel eyes narrowed as he took in the sun. Springtime had landed on Cormitt County, taken nature’s hand and made love to it. The air was clean as a baptism and winter’s cape had given way to color and sound.

Charlie was sitting in the middle of a field, whittling the bark off a long branch. An audience of wildflowers surrounded him, as though he were a lone gladiator in a coliseum. He was shirtless, and his torso had various scrapes and burns from youth’s calling. His Levi’s had been cut into shorts which fell right above the knee and revealed more scab and boo-boo action up and down his pale legs.

A brown thrasher sang the blues in D and Charlie tried to spot him. He heard a stirring in the brush about five yards from him, and the bird took off and out across the horizon. Charlie watched as the little fella faded from sight. His mind wandered momentarily; a quiet, almost melancholy look eased across his face. Then he snapped back into himself, found his pocketknife and went back to work.

Charlie had with him a small Regency pocket radio that was tuned to the local country station. He had stolen it from his Feedler’s house when they were away at church. It was the day he had lied to his grandma so he didn’t have to go himself. Normally she would’ve thrown nothing but skepticism at his belly-aching, but not on a Sunday. God came first. God was the one thing she took for herself and she wasn’t about to miss a session. Charlie had crawled into the house threw the doggy-door. It was almost too easy. Sinning on Sunday. Charlie wondered if hell had different departments.

Lefty Frizzell came in over the airwaves. Charlie sang “Always Late (With Your Kisses)” as he picked through a cluster of rocks and stones he’d come across. He found one he liked, spit on it, rubbed it clean on his denim. He held it up to the sun and watched the beams of light reflect off the mica. He tossed the stone away and kept searching.

The arrowhead he discovered was made of flint and still sharp. He held it up in front of his eyes and felt its ghosts move through him. Charlie stood up and looked around. He wanted someone to show it to. His mouth opened and a small, stifled grunt came out. Out on Highway 14 Charlie saw a red Fairlane float by, its big 312 humming like a drum-roll. He wiped his nose with the back of his wrist. Flakes of crust came loose.

Charlie didn’t have many friends. And he didn’t have any interest in imagining any. He put his arrowhead in his pocket. The sun was slowly starting to spill down across the horizon. Charlie heard a crow cackle from the wires. He started walking.

***

He could feel the arrowhead in his shorts as walked. The tip dug gently into his thigh and he liked the way it stung as he strode forward. Main Street was alive with early evening traffic. Men were shuffling in and out of Maysie’s. Some had already put the day away and some were just getting started. Charlie could smell the smoke as he walked by. He could hear the dogs laughing, glass hitting old wood, the jukebox coughing out Ray Price. As he walked past the alley next to Maysie’s, he spotted a four piece band moving they’re gear through the side entrance. One of the members was leaning on the hood of a Bel Air smoking a Lucky Strike. His hair was greased back and his gabardine shirt was pink with vertical black stripes. He winked at Charlie. Charlie didn’t know how to wink so he moved off.

Charlie passed the barber shop, the general store, the candy store. A woman patted him on the head as he shuffled by her on the sidewalk. She knew his name but he didn’t recognize her. She was heavyset and wore a tight cream colored dress which clung to her like a mouth on a nipple. The fellow she was had his arm locked around her waist. He had a pencil thin mustache and his black Leddy boots clomped along the pavement. For a moment Charlie wondered if they were his parents.

At Main and Grove he stopped and stared into the windows of the Sip N’ Shake. He felt like having a large strawberry malt and a double cheeseburger and french fries. He’d only been there once when his uncle came in from Branson to visit his grandma. Uncle Jerry Lloyd Dyle. He drove a Plymouth and smelled like horseshit. When he smiled at Charlie, a dirty gold tooth revealed itself. They sat at the counter side by side. “Try the french fryers, Charlie,” he said, gazing at the waitress, snorting and licking his lips.

The Sip N’ Shake was crowded with teenagers, loud and loose with the impending summer. They scared Charlie with their new and uncertain bodies, their driver’s licenses, their curse words. Especially the boys. Charlie saw how their eyes changed over time. How they got mouse quiet or jackal loud whenever a female crossed their path. Fighting with each other, fighting with themselves. The fat ones talked about guns. The skinny ones tried to get bigger. The ones in the middle did their best to stay there. Charlie wanted to be a country singer. That way he wouldn’t have to worry about any of it.

Through the window of the Sip N’ Shake Charlie saw Katie Jay Lawson. She was sitting at a small booth, her hair a long deep gold that poured down her back. She was wearing a light blue cotton dress, the straps tied in bows at the shoulder. She was sipping a fountain drink, letting her legs swing under the tabletop. She was ten. Charlie knew because everybody knew everything about the Lawson’s. They were one of the wealthiest families in the county. Generations strong.

Katie Jay was sitting across from Betty Henderson, the Lawson’s black housemaid. Betty was tired looking but sturdy in the shoulders and hands. Her eyes were narrowed with work, dark and even. Her hair was pulled back tight, her face gently made up. She watched Katie Jay drink, watched her thin lips pursed around a red and yellow striped straw. The occasional sideways glance landed on the black woman and the little white girl. Most everyone knew the relationship and accepted it with little more than a frown.

Charlie crossed Main and moved toward the window. He’d forgotten he was shirtless and suddenly felt like he should be a little more covered. He glanced down at his chest and stomach. His skin was milk white and the bones of his ribcage pushed out from under it like fists. He felt smaller than he ever had.

Katie Jay turned and looked out the window at him. Their eyes embraced. Katie Jay put her cup down and smiled at him, true as the sun. Charlie’s face flushed red, he felt his heart swell and his stomach tighten. On instinct, he put up his hand and held it next to his cheek. Katie Jay did the same. They stayed like that for a good while.

A mosquito landed on Charlie’s shin. He bent down and swatted it flat against his leg. When he came back up Katie Jay and Betty were gathering themselves to leave. He watched Betty take Katie Jay’s hand and lead her out of the Sip N’ Shake. He followed their exit from the outside of the place, peering from window to window. Katie Jay looked back over her shoulder, just catching a glimpse of Charlie’s face through the glass. Charlie saw them get into a long black Cadillac Fleetwood. He watched it pull out and rumble off down the end of Main Street and onto Cedar Lane. He turned his head to the sky. The day wasn't quite done.

***

The Lawson property sat on 12 acres just off Hudson Road and out toward the Ten Belly Lake. The family house was a huge chalk colored structure that stood atop a lone hill overlooking the entire county. It was surrounded by well-plowed fields and sparse woods. It had once been a plantation house and the slave’s quarters still sat about 200 yards off to the edge of the hill. A winding snake of a driveway stretched from the base of the hill, passing a huge old barn on its way to the top.

The sky had slipped into a smoky orange glow. Crickets were starting to sing. A mild breeze sailed through the grass and chilled the air just slightly. The lights of the Lawson house were on. The Fleetwood was parked in front of a three-car covered garage. Betty was sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette, stretching her legs out.

Charlie had walked three miles to Hudson Road. He stopped at the bottom of the hill and stared up toward the house. It was so quiet this far outside of town that even from where he stood he could hear the sound of conversation, forks hitting dishes, the general rumblings of a family around a dinner table. Charlie never understood the idea of devoting a significant portion of the day or night to sitting around and simply eating. He believed eating was secondary to whatever the day brought. He wiped his nose and started up the hill.

About three quarters of the way he moved off to the side and hid out of sight from the house. He squatted down and waited. Night was coming fast. Betty mashed her cigarette in an ashtray and slowly stood. The screen door shut behind her as she entered the house. Charlie wondered when he’d start smoking. He heard a dog bark from inside the house and a female voice cry out, “Oh, Rosco, hush…”

Charlie waited there. He took the arrowhead from his pocket and ran his thumb over its grooves and angles. When he was seven he had had one friend, Beeler, who’d eventually moved away with his family to Bakersfield, California. Beeler was extra small in size and voice. Somewhat of a pipsqueak. He pronounced his r’s as w’s and would introduce Charlie as his “fwend Charlie.” They had played cowboys and Indians together in the neighborhood and Charlie would always find a way to be the cowboy. But holding the arrowhead in his hand he realized how fun it might’ve been to be an Indian at least once.

A light came on from a second floor room and Charlie could make out Katie Jay’s silhouette. She was brushing that long river of hair from what Charlie could see. His stomach tumbled again and he moved toward the house.

The front door flung open and John Earl Lawson stepped out, cigar in hand. He took a hungry pull and his exhale stung the air with Cuban tobacco. Rosco the dog was sitting by his feet. Rosco was pure German Shepard. His tongue hung out of his mouth like a limp dick and his panting was loud enough to cut through the quiet.

Charlie ducked away, stepping on a few twigs as he did so. Rosco’s ears jumped up like soldiers and his bark was a ferocious crashing of vocal chords. Lawson tugged at Rosco’s collar and held him back.

“What is it, boy?” he asked, disinterested. Rosco kept barking.

Charlie found himself laying behind a tree stump, out of sight from the house. He waited and waited until he heard the screen door shut. Then he took a breath and looked toward the house. There was no one on the porch. Fewer lights were on now. Charlie moved closer.

Katie Jay’s window was shut, the light to her room off. Charlie stared up at it. The moon was bright and shining. It cast the essence of Charlie's shadow against the white shingles of the house. Charlie searched for small rocks at his feet. He found two amidst the dirt and grass.

Charlie didn’t have much of an arm. His first throw sailed over the entire house and landed on the other side of the roof. Charlie’s little frame shook as a quick wind shot through the dusk. He threw the other rock. It hit Katie Jay’s window and he was grateful for little miracles. He waited. Not a stir from the room. Charlie hunted for more rocks and found nothing. It was getting too dark to see anything without pawing for it first.

From the pocket of his Levi’s, Charlie pulled the arrowhead out. He inhaled, exhaled, and hurled it toward Katie Jay’s window. It struck the glass with a loud clap, nearly breaking right through. A light flooded the room and Charlie saw a figure move in there. He’d never been so purely excited in his whole life. Two small hands raised the window and peered out. Katie Jay was there. She looked out into the night. It took her a moment to see Charlie. When she finally did, a look of shock turned from to confusion to joy in a matter of moments. She moved off and Charlie stood there in the belly of the night. He scratched his collarbone. He waited.

The front door squeaked open and Katie Jay was there in a cotton nightgown with hearts on it. She glanced over her shoulder back into the house. Then she stepped carefully toward Charlie. They stood before each other. Charlie was eleven years-old. Katie Jay was ten. He took her hand and led her down the driveway.

In front of the barn, Charlie took her other hand. Not a word was said. They stood frozen and uncertain as their lips met. Charlie moved his hands to her waist. They kissed a while longer.

Charlie knelt down and pulled a wildflower from the earth. He handed it to Katie Jay. Her eyes lit up and Charlie swore he’d never forget the smile that bloomed across her face. She ran back up the driveway toward her house. Charlie watched her till she vanished in the dark. He couldn’t hear the screen door. He knew she was being careful not to wake anyone.

Charlie couldn’t read. He could ride a bike. Once he made and sold lemonade. He felt lucky as he started walking. He saw the lights of town in the distance. They were all he needed to find his way.








for C.F.


NYC, NY (8/10/07)