1
When Harry
got up that morning, he had no idea that it would be the worst day of his life.
His only thought was to wonder how much time there was before he could pick up
his son.
Little
Charlie was one of the few reasons he continued to live. At ten years of age
and already five-nine, he was the light of Harry’s dark life. Well, he supposed
his life hadn’t been all that dark; he had been born to parents who were pretty
well off, he had gone to good schools, he had won awards for his athleticism in
college. He had even been working at a good job. It’s just that recently, his
life was a dark moat crawling with tragic ordeals.
Everything
started going bad when Harry’s parents and brother, who had been on their way
to a wedding., had gotten into a car crash. His mother and brother died
instantly, but his father, minus both arms and legs, managed to hold on for a
day longer. Harry started going with his older brother, Max, to bars, where
they would spend their nights getting drunk and remembering their childhood.
When Max
finally got his grief out of his system, he moved on, leaving Harry to drink
alone. Harry, not one to go drinking in public alone, gave up the bars and
started bringing bottles of whiskey home. He usually sat in his study, drinking
at least a fifth a night.
Eventually
he lost his job because the quality of his work went down. Some days he even
came to work drunk. Other days he didn’t bother to show up at all. His wife Carla
covered for him for a while, calling him in sick, but when he lost his job, she
started losing sympathy for her husband. She started confronting him about his
illness, quoting books she read on alcoholism.
Harry
shrugged it all off, but one night Carla told him that he was setting a bad
example for Charlie. For some reason (he could never figure out why despite the
sleepless nights he spent thinking about it), that angered him more than the
rest of Carla’s babbling, and he did something he never thought he’d do. He
struck his wife with not an open hand but a fist. She reeled back, her cheek
puffy and red, and he instantly regretted what he had done. But no matter how
many pleas and I’m-sorrys that spewed from his mouth, Carla remained adamant in
taking Charlie and leaving.
A week later
she filed for divorce. Harry signed all the papers willingly, but he cried the
whole time. And it wasn’t just because Carla got the house, the new car, and
just about everything else (including Charlie), but also because all of it was
his fault. It could have been avoided if he had just listened to his wife, but
oh no. He was too busy with his close friend, Jack. Or Jim, if money was tight.
Harry
“vacated the premises” (which was how Carla’s lawyer referred to Harry’s exit)
and rented an apartment. He started going to AA, one of the stipulations of the
visitation rights granted by the judge.
Now he
managed to get another job (not as much pay as before, but it was still enough
to get by), and he hadn’t had a drink in three months. The pain from his dead
parents and brother was as dulled as it would get, and for the first time in a
long time he felt optimistic.
There was
nothing that he loved to do more than spend a Saturday with Charlie.
When he
arrived at his wife’s house, Harry was greeted at the door by Bob, Carla’s
boyfriend.
“How you
doing, Bob?” Harry asked.
“Fine,
fine,” Bob said, running a hand over his perfectly sculpted Ken-doll hair.
“I’ll get Charlie.”
Harry waited
on the porch that once was his. He never entered the house anymore. Too many
memories. Besides, he was content to look at the potted plants by either side
of the door.
“Daddy!”
Harry looked
into the foyer as Charlie bounded toward him. They embraced, and Harry thought
back to the old days, when Charlie used to jump into his arms. Now Charlie was
getting too big (not to mention Harry was getting too old) for that type of
thing. Harry was only six feet himself, and he knew that in a few years,
Charlie would be taller than his old man.
“How ya’ doin’
there, li’l pilgrim?” Harry drawled in his best John Wayne imitation. Charlie,
who had just recently discovered the Duke, was ecstatic. They released each
other.
“Are we
gonna’ watch a John Wayne movie tonight?” Charlie asked.
“Maybe
later,” Harry said. “For now, I got an even better treat.”
“What?”
“You’ll
see.” Harry winked.
“Where are
you two going today?”
Harry looked
around Charlie and saw Carla standing between the plants, her arms crossed.
Harry didn’t think Carla would ever forgive him, and he knew Bob would never
accept him, so he usually hurried to get out of there.
He leaned in
close to Carla, who backed up slightly. He was going to whisper in her ear so
Charlie couldn’t hear, but he decided that might not be a good idea. “I’m
taking him to the Wild West Show,” he said.
Charlie
cheered and ran inside the house, whooping like a drunken cowhand.
“Where’s
that?” Carla asked.
“It’s maybe
an hour west,” Harry said. “Out by Loester.”
“That far?”
“Yeah, but
Charlie’ll love it. I know I did, when I was his age.”
“Just make
sure he doesn’t eat too much,” she said.
Harry
nodded, and Charlie reappeared, still whooping, but now he was dressed like a
cowboy, complete with plastic spurs, a white hat, and a holster with two cap
guns in it.
“You ready?”
Harry asked.
“Yet bet!”
Charlie let loose with a “YEE-HAWWWWWWW!”
“Did you eat
yet?”
“No, he
didn’t,” Carla said.
“We’ll stop
at McDonald’s first, okay?”
As Charlie
nodded with vigorous approval, Harry reached into his shirt pocket and took out
the child support check. She handed it to Carla, who examined it before
pocketing it.
“Say goodbye
to your mother,” Harry said.
“Goodbye to
your mother!” Charlie chirped and laughed.
2
They stopped
at McDonald’s, where Charlie had a cheeseburger Happy Meal, and Harry had a Big
Mac. Harry asked Charlie about school, a subject the fifth-grader wasn’t too
keen on. He did well (straight B’s with the occasional A or C), but he didn’t
make many friends. His fellow students made fun of his tall, gaunt shape. Not
that he was fed poorly. Charlie reminded Harry of Jughead from the Archie
comics; he could eat like a king and still remain thin as a pauper. Carla’s
mother was fond of saying he should eat more and “put some meat on those
scrawny bones.” Charlie didn’t mind, though. He thought he looked like John
Carradine in Stagecoach.
The day
before, however, Charlie got in trouble for trying to recreate the mud fight in
McClintock!, which wounded two third
graders and ruined about fifteen sets of clothes, one of which belonged to the
principal.
Harry gave
the usual reprimands (“you should be more careful,” “that was a stupid thing to
do,” and, of course, the classic, “promise me you’ll never do that again”), but
he found himself trying not to laugh during Charlie’s description. Besides, it
was not all that different from something Harry had tried himself when he was
Charlie’s age. He had taken his father’s archery set to school, and dressed as
a Native American, he shot a bunch of arrows in the gymnasium, howling like
what his gym teacher called “a Injun.”
Aside from
getting in trouble, Charlie was also supposed to do a state project, meaning he
had to pick a state and do a report on it. When Harry asked which state,
Charlie said, “Vermont, because the guy who wrote those Soup books lives there.”
When they
were finished eating, they hit the road to the Wild West Show, listening to the
radio and talking about Westerns. An hour and a half later, they were pulling
into the Wild West Show’s parking lot.
“It looks
like a town in the West,” Charlie said reverently as he took off his seat belt
and slid out of the car. Harry joined him, and they headed for the gate, where
Harry coughed up ten dollars for admission.
The day went
rather smoothly, Harry thought, until the pony ride. The first thing they did
was go through a gift shop, where Charlie begged for Harry to buy him a vast
number of things. While Harry nixed the pleas for replica guns, Western
clothes, and the like, he did give in on buying a marshal’s badge, a couple of
wooden nickels (“Didn’t yer pappy never tell ya not ta’ take no wooden
nickels?” the clerk asked when he rang them up), a piece of petrified wood, and
a packet of replica Confederate money. After that, Charlie took roping lessons
from a guy dressed up like a cowboy. The same guy also tried to give Charlie
hatchet-throwing lessons, at which he failed miserably, eliciting a series of
horsey laughs from Charlie.
Then they
went for a ride on a miniature train, after which they stopped in a saloon for
a couple of Cokes. Then it was on to Charlie’s favorite part: the shootout.
Five actors took guns that fired stage blanks and ran about, acting out a
ten-minute play. Before they began, the actor that played the marshal gave a
speech about how you should always be careful with guns, even ones loaded with
blanks. He illustrated this last point by shooting at a soda can from close
range with a blank. The can ended up with a small hole in one side and a
frighteningly big hole on the other.
After the
show came the pony ride, where the nice day went to hell. Charlie stood in a
line of children, all smaller than he. When it got to be his turn, the cowgirl
eyed him carefully.
“Yer too
tall fer this ride,” she said. “Sorry, pilgrim.”
“But I
wanna’ ride the pony,” Charlie said, his voice raising an octave.
“Sorry,” the
cowgirl said again. “Yer too tall.”
Charlie
looked to his father, his lips quivering. Harry said, “He’s only ten years
old.”
The cowgirl
didn’t look like she believed him, but she said, “That may be, but he’s still
too tall.”
Harry
sighed. “Come on, Charlie. Let’s go pan for gold.”
Charlie
started crying, and Harry put an arm around his son’s shoulder, leading him
away so the next in line could have his turn.
“It’s all
right, Charlie. Let’s go get some fool’s gold.”
Still,
Charlie cried on. Then, out of the Marshal’s Office ambled a tall (maybe
six-three or -four), well-built man with a more than passing resemblance to Sam
Elliott. He wore a tin star and the usual cowboy attire. As soon as Marshal Sam
saw Charlie, he stopped in front of the boy.
“What’s
ailin’ the li’l pilgrim?” he drawled.
“They
wouldn’t let him on the pony,” Harry said.
The marshal
(not the same one from the shootout) put his hands on his knees and lowered
himself slightly so he could look Charlie in the eyes. “Ya know, we don’t allow
cryin’ in my town,” he said with a gentle smile. “Dry those eyes, li’l pilgrim,
‘fore some lynch mob sees ya.”
Charlie
sniffed. “Lynch mob? Like in Young Guns 2?”
“Yep,” the
marshal said.
“I don’t see
no lynch mobs.”
The marshal
straightened up. “Then I guess I’ll have ta’ take ya myself.” His hand drifted
down to the butt of his gun.
Charlie’s
face broke out into a smile, and he imitated the marshal’s hand. “Make your
move, lawman.”
Harry would
have worried about the marshal’s gun, except he remembered the other marshal
talking about how the guns everyone wore outside the shootout stage couldn’t
fire at all, not even blanks.
The marshal
pulled his gun, but Charlie was faster. He fired off a bunch of caps before the
marshal could even clear his holster. The marshal grimaced, grabbed his chest,
and fell down. Charlie laughed as he twirled his cap gun on his finger, then
holstered it.
“Ya . . . no
good . . . varmint!” the marshal gasped from on the ground. He lifted his gun,
pointing it at Charlie.
Charlie went
for his gun again, but this time the marshal pulled his trigger first. There
was a loud crack, and Harry jerked, his heart rabid in his chest. It was too
loud to be a cap, so at first he thought the marshal had fired a blank. When he
saw his son collapse with blood squirting out of his head as if he was a water
fountain, Harry thought, No way. This is
a dream. A damn nightmare.
The marshal
fired twice more, and Charlie’s body jumped with each shot. That struck it
home. Harry knew this was real.
“Charlie!”
he screamed, and he ran to his son. Harry knelt down next to Charlie and pulled
him into his arms, turning him over to see his face. He looked into his son’s
eyes, but it was like examining a pair of blank television screens. There was a
third eye in his forehead, like something out of a sci-fi movie, except this
eye was red, and it was crying.
“No,” Harry
croaked. “Please no. God no. Wake up, Charlie. Please wake up.”
A shadow
fell over Charlie’s body like a shroud, and Harry knew without looking up that
it was the marshal. “Quick pilgrim,” he said. “Not all that smart, though.”
Each word
stabbed into Harry’s heart, burned his eyes, flayed his mind. He heard
something crunching in his head and realized he was grinding his teeth.
He killed Charlie. He killed Charlie.
Hekilledcharlie!
The mobius
thought charged through his mind as he gently placed Charlie’s head down and
looked at the marshal, who was looking down at the corpse of his victim with a
gaze akin to one trying to figure out whether a painting was art or not.
Harry roared
and jumped at the marshal, tackling him to the ground. His hands went for the
marshal’s throat, and he began to squeeze as hard as he could, which wasn’t
much. His stint as an alcoholic had taken much of his strength away.
The marshal
struggled under him, but all Harry cared about was squeezing the fetid black
soul from this murderer’s body. He felt his fingers sinking into flesh like
dough, not even aware of the yell pouring from his own mouth in a perpetual
biblical flood.
He felt
something press against his belly, but he paid it no mind; he was too busy with
the pulsing skin in his palms.
There was a
crack, and he felt pain, but he would never relinquish his grasp on the
marshal’s throat. Not if he could help it.
He heard two
more shots, and he began to worry that he might not be able to hold on long
enough. The world was lopsided and fading. His hands no longer felt strong, and
the next thing he knew the world vanished into darkness.
3
Charles
Harold Fleming was pronounced dead at 4:30 pm by a paramedic. The ambulance
packed Harry in the back and headed for the hospital, where the bleeding was
stopped. Harry was stitched up, but the doctors knew he would never walk again.
Still, they said, Harry was lucky. He did, after all, survive.
Harry didn’t
look at it that way. Upon waking up, he remembered that Charlie was dead,
gunned down by a maniac dressed as an Old West marshal. The news that he was
paralyzed from the waist down didn’t help matters, either.
The worst
part, though, was when Carla and Bob came into his room. Carla was bawling her
eyes out, and Bob was playing the role of the comforting boyfriend. The first
thing out of her mouth wasn’t hello. It wasn’t how-are-you-I’m-really-sorry. It
was:
“How could
you let our son die?!”
Bob gently
tried to shush her, but it was no use. She just kept on shouting curses and
questions at Harry, who could do nothing buy cry.
The
detective that took his statement told him that the marshal was really a man
called Wesley William Johnson, and he didn’t even work at the Wild West Show.
Johnson had been a patient at a mental institution who thought he was living a
Western. Unfortunately, he had no insurance, and the shrinks had to let him go.
Besides, they thought he was harmless.
Johnson
ended up killing a couple more people (one of them being the real marshal from
the shootout play) before he was gunned down by the police.
Carla’s lawyer was busily preparing a case against the institution, the Wild West Show, and Harry Fleming, but Harry didn’t pay much attention.
He was too
drunk for that.
