Come Monday Mornin'

PRAISE FOR COME MONDAY MORNIN’:

Chris Loken takes his world and his story very seriously. He writes with a lean, hard, hungry style. Such writers are dangerous; somebody better shoot him quick.

- DON PEARCE, author of COOL HAND LUKE

COME MONDAY MORNIN' by Chris Loken is...an UNDER THE VOLCANO for Middle Americans.

- KIRKUS REVIEWS, NEW YORK, N.Y.

Readers with any serious interest in fiction will want to look into COME MONDAY MORNIN' by Chris Loken.

- LIBRARY JOURNAL, NEW YORK, N.Y.

Every so often a reviewer receives a book that makes all others seem like drivel spewed from the mouths of near idiots. COME MONDAY MORNIN' by Chris Loken is such a book. It lets you know that all is not chicanery, all is not lost, there are still people in the world, soiled as it may be, who care about reality and truth and maturity. Such a book makes you glad that you have eyes to read the printed page.

- BART LANIER STAFFORD III, EL PASO TIMES, TEXAS

COME MONDAY MORNIN' ... is a gut level novel about a middle American, hurt and confused by a changing society, who has watched his dream vanish. You'll be left stunned by its amazing conclusion.

- THE OREGON JOURNAL

COME MONDAY MORNIN' is...a slice of our time at a level of realism few authors ever approach...including Mailer and Updike.

- ROY SAGARIN, THE CHATHAM COURIER, CHATHAM, NEW YORK

Come

Monday

Mornin'

by Chris Loken

/&

M. EVANS & COMPANY, INC.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK

Published by Chris Loken

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 1974 by Chris Loken

All rights reserved under International and

Pan American Copyright Conventions

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 73-87702

ISBN 9781310370182

Design by Paula Wiener

98765432 1

Table of Contents:

Friday

Saturday

Sunday

Monday Mornin’

Friday

He could feel it coming on all week. His mouth was wet but his throat was dry no matter how much he swallowed. It was hard to get enough air, ever once'n awhile he stopped doing whatever he was doing and tried. Toward evening the dull hurt was there over his heart and running around down under his left armpit, just like he'd been worked over pretty good right there by a big lineman's forearm. The pressure was there too inside his head, pushing away on the back side of his eyeballs, making them go right by what he was trying to look at, pressure humming away inside his ears so he couldn't hear very well what they was saying an' when he did he didn't even wanna.

Instead the crazy hot feeling would come flaring an' he wanted to smash somebody.

Anybody.

Maybe like Cathy. If she didn't get her ass home pretty soon cook the friggin' supper.

Maybe like the kid if he didn't stop that whining through his nose he called singing.

Better watch himself tonight. Hang on. Play it cool. Get outta the house before something happened.

Just stir the friggin' stew.

So what's the big deal about stirring stew? What the hell should he be standing here squeezin' the spoon like it's somebody's neck for? Hell, he didn't mind cooking all that much. Sometimes he even kinda liked it, particularly when she was there an' he didn't really have to, they was laughing an' joking around having just one drink or two, he was whippin' up some number he learned from the cook when he had kitchen duty back on the County Farm. Those days he knew he could stop after just one drink or two.

Maybe even five or six. Maybe even get a little mellow, send the kid up to bed early, they'd eat when they got around to it, for dessert he'd take her right there on the living room couch, get up in the morning feeling good, not guilty.

But today wasn't that kind of day. Today was that other kind of day. She claiming she had to stay late for one'a those stupid teachers' meetings, so he had to come in, feed the kid, stop tryin' to fix the tractor he broke tryin' like a horse's ass to buck through that big drift by the barn with the manure spreader on behind. He knew he'd loaded her too heavy too, sounded like the reduction gear in the right rear wheel, cost like a sum'bitch too, probably have to send to Albany for one if Tommie couldn't weld it. Still hadn't paid him for the work he did on the chopper last fall, have to ask him though, got to get that load'a shit off the spreader 'fore the whole damn works froze up tighter'n a nun's cunt--

Cut that singin'!

I'm not singing, Papa.

Well, cut that . . . whatever you're doin'.

I'm humming.

Yeah, he'd have to watch hisself tonight. He'd grabbed up the pot, maybe he was going to smash the stove with it or maybe he wasn't, but he had grabbed up the pot so now he set it back down on the burner again real careful like. The kid hadn't even noticed, he was still coloring away makin' little hissing sounds tryin' to whistle but he hadn't learned how yet.

Like a lotta things he hadn't learned how yet.

Russ laid down the spoon an' stood there watching him. He couldn't see much of his face, he was bent over too far, just the top of his head, his hair long an' curly like she liked it. Like a girl's for chrissake, not like the way they kept his when he was a boy, burred down tight, the white showing through; hell this kid couldn't even catch a football, didn't even care.

He was a good enough kid though even though he'd rather go to Mrs. Bartalottas dance class. Now he was all hot about learning to play the guitar Cathy'd picked up second hand. It didn't look like he'd ever learn to catch a pass no matter how many times Russ showed him how to hold his hands, hell he couldn't even get that straight.

Man, he sure wouldn't wanna hurt him though. Go off half-cocked an' throw something at him. Like he did that time he couldn't get him to hold his hands right. He started beggin' to quit, cryin' like a snotnose girl, so he threw the football. Hit him. Didn't mean to though honest scared the hell outta him when he went down on the ground, stayed there . . . quite a while too.

S'pose the kid still held it against him? It had been over a year now an' he still never seemed to wanna look Russ straight in the eye--'course maybe that was all just in his mind like Cathy said it was. Yeah, he was friendly enough an' all . . . but still ... it didn't quite seem the same no more. Christ, he should never have gone an' done it. What the hell gets into him sometimes anyway . . . ?

Like today. Standing here bitin' his teeth like the dentist said he shouldn't, belly sucked in against his backbone, barely breathing, something wild buildin' buildin' . . . just warming up a little stew.

Just warming up a little stew, listening to the kid tryin' to whistle; hell he didn't even have to cook it, Cathy had done all that this morning before she left for work. Christ knows it's easy enough, she sure worked hard to help him out, least he could do was give her a hand once'n awhile when she had to stay late for a meeting. Sure seemed like she had enough meetings lately though. Even when she didn't it seemed lately like she never got home on time--hell, it was only a ten-minute drive fifteen at the most an' she never got here before six--always claiming she had those friggin' meetings after school, stickin' him with the cooking like he ain't got nothin' to do runnin' the farm when she's probably down at Dobchek's right this minute suckin' up one'a her fancy drinks with that faggot English teacher--

Thinks she's too good to cook!

Who, Papa?

Cathy. Now that's she's teachin' school . . . ah, nothin'.

You really think so, Papa?

Think what?

Cathy thinks she's too good to cook now that--

Nah . . . !

Hell, she couldn't even drink if she wanted to--two drinks an' she'd had it, talkin' little-girl talk, back cheerleading at Iola High, singin' along with the jukebox Those Were Day's, My Friend.

When he was the one luggin' the ball ever' other play, she over there on the sidelines cheerin' for him, between plays he'd glance over there just to make sure she was still there cheerin' for him.

She always was. Cheerin' like crazy, jumpin' up an' down sis-boom-bah, showing her trim little ass under the short little skirt like all the girls wear nowdays even when they ain't cheerleading, cartwheelin' right out there where everybody could see--

Dirty little show-off maybe she had stopped at Dobchek's! Maybe she's sittin' down there right this minute suckin' up drinks! Him stirrin' stew! Singin' along with the jukebox! Listenin' to the kid tryin' to whistle! Singin' Those Were the Days, My Friend with the faggot--

Nah! She wouldn't do that. Not Cathy. Leastways, not without callin' him first--Jesus H. Christ, he was getting so goofy he couldn't even think straight!

When's Cathy coming home?

Pretty soon now.

When?

Pretty soon.

But when . . . ?

How should I know?!

You're the Papa, aren't you?

Yeah, s'posed to be.

Well . . . ?

What'a ya want her for?

I need something.

I'm here, ain't I?

You're not supposed to say 'ain't'.

Hell, she is down at Dobcheks! It's Last Friday, payday she an' the girls always stopped to cash their checks. They had to, the bank was closed by the time school let out.

Last Friday. Payday. Now he'd have to go into town tonight whether he wanted to or not pay up some bills . . . 'course just to pay up some bills.

The crazy wild something came again this time different.

This time that sweet little ache starting down deep an' low, tingling through his balls, spreading warm through his belly, thumping away inside his chest, choking his throat, his face blushin', for chrissakes blushin', the little prickles going up his neck runnin' around all over his head.

Nah, he better not.

'Course he still had to go into town. He'd promised Wiff he'd be in next Last Friday to pay some on the feed bill. Better do it too, Ole Man Wiff could barely look him in the eye last time, that means he was just about ready to cut him off.

He should see about the tractor too. Maybe even pay Tommie a little on his bill. Kinda hard to get him to work on it on a weekend though, he'd be out boozin' it up too . . . no, he wouldn't, but Tommie probably would be, did damn near every weekend, how the hell could he get away with it, he must be makin' plenty, 'course he ain't farmin' neither.

Maybe if he covered the shit with straw threw the big tarp over the whole spreader she could sit to Monday . . . 'course he'd have to go ask Tommie first thing come Monday mornin'.

Maybe he'd even run into Tommie over the weekend--'course that wasn't likely, even if he did Tommie wasn't the kind to call for a bill when he met a guy out drinkin', more likely to slap him on the back offer to buy one . . . still, just in case, he'd best have a little something in his pocket . . . yeah it'd be all right so long's he had a little something in his pocket.

Shit, things weren't all that bad.

Maybe he could sneak a couple.

He tried whistlin' a little too. The kid looked up kinda funny like.

Hey, when'd you learn to whistle?

'Bout twenty years ago.

Russ swung into Those Were the Days, hittin' it hard an' fast, throwin' in a few fancy licks here'n there just to show the kid what whistling was all about.

Hey, that's neat!

Russ built the ending up, snapped it off at the top just like the jukebox did. The kid was looking up at him like he hadn't since he hit him with the football.

Man, you're sure some whistler . . !

Russ felt like reaching out an' rubbin' him on the head but he didn't, just turned an' started dishin' him up a bowl'a stew.

Boy, you jus' better believe it . . . you jus' better believe it.

Usually she was home by this time though. Maybe they were having one.

He finished dishin' up the bowl'a stew slid it over under the kid's nose. He was back to coloring now so he just grunted, didn't even miss a stroke.

Man, that was another thing--the kid never had been taught to snap-to like he had to back on the Farm. 'Course you couldn't really blame the kid he'd never had a hand laid on him 'cept for those couple'a times his jumped out there 'fore he could call it back. Barely nicked him but listen to her scream you'd think he'd tore half his head off. That's what comes following along after that Doctor Speck. Even her own mother said so only time she ever agreed with him.

Funny thing ever' once'n awhile he even caught himself wondering if he much cared for the kid--'course he had to hell he was the father wasn't he? Who ever heard of a father didn't even like his own kid?

Shit yeah he liked him all right.

Eat your stew.

When's Cathy getting home?

Should be any minute now.

How come she's always late, Papa?

She ain't--isn't . . . always late.

That's what you say--

Eat your soup.

It's stew.

The kid laid down his color, took a couple'a picks at the stew, his face screwing up when he tasted it like Russ had just forked his plate full off the spreader.

S'pose that ain't good enough for you.

There's that 'ain't' again, Papa.

He said it in that laughing way Cathy used when she corrected him. Man if he ever blew 'an laid it on him, it'd make the football deal seem like a pat on the back.

She must be late. You know how I can tell?

Eat.

Your face is getting red, that's ho--

Shut up!!!

The kid's face dropped when the word slapped him, his lower lip working pretty good, a clump of hair dangling in the stew. Russ couldn't figger out whether to cry or give him a hand. Finally took the dishrag, wiped out the gravy, let his hand stay on the kid's head a little longer'n he really had to; the kid kinda, not really, but almost shrugged his hand off.

Russ moved away. Set down in the chair by the stove looked out the kitchen window at the side of the old shed. Funny thing--he did feel like cryin'.

What was so bad about that, Papa?

Nothin', baby . . . nothin'.

Maybe he better have hisself a little shot now before he ended up doing something goofy. Just one to ease him down a little. Sure be a helluva lot better'n the way he was. There was nothin' in the house, she'd made sure'a that after the last one, but he had his just-in-case bottle under the truck seat . . . 'course she could always smell it the minute she walked in, she had a nose like Simmy's beagle. Then she'd sneak that quick little look at his eyes where she claimed it always showed.

Hell, how could one quick one show--?

Maybe not today though! Maybe not today if she's havin' one herself, maybe even two; they say if two people are drinkin' one can't smell the other. Must be true too, he never smelled the ones around him down at Dobchek's.

Hell yes she must be havin' plenty! No way she shouldn't be here by now--

Then he thought'a something else. This one hit him so hard right under where the dull hurt was for a second there he thought he was maybe havin' a heart attack. He sat back down on the chair there by the stove, went to lookin' out the window at the side'a the old shed again, waiting for his grip to come back.

What is she was dead?

He glanced around to see if the kid looked any different ... he had given up on the stew again was just sitting there coloring an' singing. . .

. . . those were the days my friend we thought they'd never end we'd sing an' dance forever an' a day those were the days my friend we thought they'd never end we'd sing an' dance forever an' a day those were the days--

''Baby, please . . . please don't sing anymore."

What's the matter, Papa?

Nothin'. Just . . . eat your soup.

This time the kid just went ahead an' did it. Laid down his color started eating, chewing with his mouth open with that little smutting sound he made when he wasn't thinkin' to keep his mouth shut or Cathy wasn't around to tell him.

What if she never would be? What if she had stopped with the girls to cash her check had a whiskey sour or two strong as they make 'em at Dobchek's . . . she can't handle 'em anyway . . . she got in her car started out was turning out on 9H forgot to look both ways one'a those big Grand Union semis came roaring down over the hill totaled her--?!

"Want me to rub the back of your neck, Papa?''

What . . . ?

Want me to rub the back of your neck, Papa?

It's all right, baby.

He hadn't noticed the kid get up come over to stand alongside his chair. Russ lifted his head opened his eyes to see him. The kid took that for the invite, wormed his body up under Russ's arms up on his lap laid his head back against Russ's chest shut his eyes started that little rocking motion with his body . . . first time since the football deal.

Want me to sing you a sad song, Papa? You know, the kind you like?

Ah . . . yeah. Yeah, sure.

You start rocking first.

Russ started rockin' his body like he always did makin' like they was in a rocking chair, the kid started singing the soft slow sad way he always did when they was doing this together making up the words as he went along not doing bad either for a ten-year-old. Something about little boys walking along under sad skies hoping to see a rainbow the same words over'n over Russ squeezin' him a little tighter not too tight all the while listenin' to the other song singin' in his head. . . .

. . . those were the days my friend we thought they'd never end we'd sing an' dance forever an' a day--

What if she was? What would happen to him? Probably lose the farm. If he had to be honest . . . hadn't been for her goin' out an' gettin' the job . . . probably would'a lost it long time ago. 'Course maybe he would'a done things different then . . . nah! That's why she had to take the job in the first place. Still . . . things didn't seem so bad then--sure they was bad but . . . different bad! Jus' . . . money bad--hell, what difference had it made, they never seemed to have nothin' neither way . . . 'course lotta that was his fault.

Yeah, he wasn't stoppin' tonight. No way he was stoppin' tonight. That ole red truck was gonna roll right by Dobchek's wasn't stoppin' till it hit the loading platform at the feed mill.

Maybe he wouldn't be goin' anywhere though if . . . something had happened to her. 'Cept maybe down to the morgue to say it was really her like you see on TV--wouldn't have to do that around here, ever'body'd know it was her they could tell by the car . . . what would a man have to do around here?

Would he get hung up with another woman? One'a those big-tit young ones just getting outta high school startin' to hang around Dobchek's more'n more nowdays? Andy says they'd put out if any'a you married guys had guts enough to take 'em.

More likely he'd end up with somebody like Carol Gore. Least she knew enough to keep her mouth shut, didn't play any'a those greasy kid games, all you had to do with her was point at the door she'd be waitin' out in the truck. 'Course he wouldn't even have to do that if there was no Cathy. If there was no Cathy Carol or any of 'em could sit right there at the bar with him big as you please boozin' it up together pressin' their legs against each other holdin' hands like he an' Cathy used to--

He jumped up off the chair so fast the kid almost fell off on the floor . . . he'd forgotten all about the kid sittin' there on his lap singin' his sad song all the while.

Hey, Papa . . . my song's not over yet!

Be right back--I gotta make a phone call.

Man, he didn't want to be sittin' at the bar right out there in the open doin' those things to Carol or any of 'em. He'd rather be doin' them to Cathy . . . what if she was dead?!

For the first time he was almost startin' to believe it. Christ she was always here by now! Half-past six! She'd never been this late! For a minute there he couldn't even remember the number, when he could his fingers were so shaky he couldn't dial straight, had to do it again.

Christ weren't they ever going to answer! Maybe the place was burnin'! Ever'body trapped inside--

Dobchek's. You open?!

He had jumped right in on top the voice comin' from the other end, sounded like Andy: Course were open, it ain't Tuesday, is it?

Andy, this is Russ--Russ Simpson, Jr.

How you doin,' Russ?

"Good--say, Andy, is