Fiery Rivers

Fiery Rivers

Daefyd Williams

To Carol, who knows why

Fiery Rivers

Daefyd Williams

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 Daefyd Williams

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

ISBN: 9781370441365

Chapter 1

1960

On the dusty road, a whirlwind rose near the west end of the steel bridge that spanned the Great Miami River, shuddered, and died down, only to rise again, a six-foot swirl of concentric dust swaying like a drunk in the hot afternoon sunlight. On the opposite side of the bridge, another whirlwind, already formed, taller and more powerful than the first, staggered out onto the bridge. The smaller whirlwind, timidly but inexorably, was pulled toward the larger one. It slowly approached, was thrust away by the powerful centrifugal force of the other, then pulled closer, pushed away again, in a slow dance of dust. Finally, they met at the center of the span, commingled, became one large swirling brown mass and abruptly fell to the floor of the bridge, splaying sand and pebbles over the sides, making ridges of dirt on the roadway.

Three miles east of the bridge, fronting the dusty macadam road, sat a dilapidated clapboard house, its white paint peeling and cracked from decades of neglect. Pale green shutters were similarly neglected; one on the right side of a front window had fallen away from the window frame and hung against the clapboards by a single hinge at the bottom. The buzz of locusts filled the air.

In the front yard sat a young girl with blond hair in a tire swing, slightly swinging back and forth as she made circles in the dust beneath the swing with her big toes. Clumps of grass, intermingled with dandelions and weeds, appeared haphazardly throughout the yard. A brown beagle, splotched with black and white, alternately watched the girl and licked his genitals. It was a languorous August afternoon, the type of afternoon in Ohio when being in the shade provides little respite from the sweltering humidity. Beads of sweat rolled down the girl’s forehead, which she occasionally brushed off with the back of a smudged right hand. Small puffs of white clouds hung in the humid haze. Every so often, a slight breeze would stir the dusty leaves of the oak tree from which the swing hung, rustling the leaves ever so gently, but the girl did not hear it.

A rusted brown and white Ford station wagon roared into the dirt driveway, careened past the girl and came to an abrupt halt inches from the left side of the house. Waves of brown dust roiled on both sides of the driveway and poured through the screened windows into the house. A hand pulled aside the drab green drapes inside the house and a woman’s face appeared. She pursed her lips and let the curtain fall back. The car door opened, and a paunchy man in blue bib overalls and a dirty white tee shirt stumbled out of the car. The girl ran to him with open arms, and the man swung her up into his arms, smiled widely and exclaimed, Angie! How’s muh lil’ Angel t’day?  Smiling, the girl kicked her legs and stroked his upper arm with her dirty hand. He bent towards her and kissed her soft cheek, his beard scraping her face, his breath reeking of whiskey and chewing tobacco.

The front door opened, and a wiry woman in a white apron and a blue dress with yellow flowers on it stepped out onto the cement blocks that functioned as the front porch and said flatly, You been drinkin’ again, ain’tchou, Lem?

I treated mysel’ to a coupla short ones at Smitty’s after work. I only had a couple. Ish Friday. Ain’t nothin’ wrong wi’ dat, is dere? the man said defensively.

No, if it had only been a couple. But you and I both know it was more than a couple. You’re stinkin’ drunk. The woman signed for Angela to go wash and get ready for supper, and Lemuel gingerly lowered her to the ground. He patted her on the head. She hugged his leg and ran into the house. Oh, I almos’ forgot. I brought you sump’n’. Lemuel opened the car door and picked up a dozen wilted red roses off the front seat. He thrust them at Leona. Happy anniversary, honey.

Leona’s anger melted like an ice cube on the cement blocks. Oh, Lem, she smiled, is this really a gift for me, or a way to make up for you drinkin’? She clutched them to her bosom and looked up expectantly into his bloodshot eyes. A tear rolled down one of her cheeks.

Why, they’s for you, o’ course. Why else would I o’ bought ‘em?

She stood on her toes and pecked him on the cheek. The rank smell of whiskey, tobacco juice, and sweat filled her nostrils. Thank you, darlin’. You go in an’ wash up for supper now. The chicken’s almost done.

Does ‘at mean I’m forgiven? he asked hopefully. He reached for his crotch and adjusted his underwear to get both testicles back into place.

No, she replied, but it’s a step in the right direction. We’ll talk about it after supper. Go on now.

Alright. Where’s that boy o’ mine?

Why, he’s with those Hensley boys. Where else? Seems to me like he pretty much lives over there. I guess there ain’t no harm in it, though, long’s they stay outa trouble.

I reckon not, he agreed. He followed her through the screen door into the house. While he washed his hands in the bathroom in the hallway, she began setting bowls of food on the table—mashed potatoes, flour gravy, green beans, and corn on the cob. As Lemuel entered the kitchen and took his place at the head of the table near the back door, she removed pieces of fried chicken with a fork from a black skillet on the stovetop and put them on a large serving plate, which she placed on a potholder in the middle of the table. Then she opened the oven door and removed an aluminum tray of biscuits, which she emptied into a large yellow bowl and placed beside the chicken. Finally, she opened the refrigerator across the table from Lemuel and took out a clear plastic pitcher of lemonade, which immediately began to bead with moisture as she set it on the table. She sat down at the table across from Lemuel, remembered the flowers, got up and took them out of the sink where she had left them, cut off the stems with a pair of scissors, ran some water into a ceramic pitcher with red roosters on its sides, and placed the roses into the pitcher, arranging the flowers so that they were splayed evenly around the lip of the pitcher.

Leona, I’m hungry, Lemuel whined.

Alright, I’m just finished, she said, as she handed the bowl of biscuits to him to make room for the flowers. Ain’t that pretty, now?

Lemuel put two biscuits on his plate and one on Angela’s plate, who was sitting to his right and smiling. Yeah, they’re mighty nice, I reckon. He placed the bowl on Rennie’s plate, who had still not come, and sat back down.

Angela asked by signing what the flowers were for, and Leona signed that it was Mommy and Daddy’s anniversary, the day that they had gotten married sixteen years ago. She asked if she was getting any presents, and Leona laughed and signed, No, honey, this is just Mommy and Daddy’s party. She asked if she could have some ice cream, and Leona signed, Of course you can.

Leona! Lemuel implored.

Leona sat down and bowed her head. Angela bowed her head and closed her eyes. Lemuel bowed his head but kept his eyes open.

Dear Lord, thank you for this bounty we are about to receive, thank you for our health, thank you for the sixteen years you have given me an’ Lem, an’ thank you for our two beautiful children you have so richly blessed us with, an’ may you move in Lemuel’s heart to become one with thee. Amen.  She raised her head and touched Angela on the arm to indicate that the prayer was over. Lemuel reached for the chicken. The back screen door behind him creaked open and Rennie timidly entered. He had a fine aquiline nose and full lips, brown hair cut in a butch, and was wearing a white tee shirt and blue jeans.

Lemuel half-turned to him and demanded, Where you been, boy? Supper’s gettin’ cold. You know you’re s’pose to be here before Mom puts it on the table.

I know, Daddy. I’m sorry. My go-kart ran outa gas an’ I had to push it home.

Ran outa gas? Didn’t I tell you to check it about every half hour?

I was. But me an’ Del were ridin’ it most o’ the afternoon, an’ after a while the gas can was empty, an’ I had to come home. I thought I had enough to make it, but I guess I was wrong, Rennie explained.

I guess you were. Go an’ wash an’ then sit down an’ eat.

OK, Rennie said. He shuffled off to the bathroom.

And pick those feet up! Lemuel shouted at the back of his head.

Yes, Daddy, Rennie replied.

Lem, Leona said, you don’t need to raise your voice. He can hear you.

At least one o’ my young’uns can, he replied.

Lem, she’s sittin’ right here, Leona reminded him.

She ain’t lookin’ at me, or I would’na said it, he retorted.

Angela was making a smiling face by placing kernels of corn atop her mashed potatoes with her fingers. Leona signed for her to stop playing and eat, and she did.

Is she so good at readin’ lips now that she woulda known what I was sayin’? he asked.

Well, she’s been in that school for five years now. I guess there ain’t much that gets past her anymore, she answered.

Huh, Lemuel snorted.

Rennie sat down across from Angela, placed the bowl of biscuits on a corner of the table, and began spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate.

Did you wash with soap, boy? Lemuel inquired.

Yes, Daddy, I did, Rennie replied.

Behind Angela’s chair was the doorway to Rennie’s room. There were model airplanes hanging everywhere from the ceiling. He was immensely proud of them. There were World War I biplanes, World War II Fokkers and Messerschmitts, the Wright brothers’ first plane, and his newest, a B-52, hanging below the light globe in the center of the room. He was a perfectionist, and there was not a blemish of glue or a mispainted part on any of the planes. He always followed exactly the instructions that came with each plane, so that each model was a perfect miniaturized version of the real thing. His dream was to be an Air Force pilot when he grew up. To him, nothing could be as fine as piloting his own plane, free of the earth, soaring miles above the troubles of the world below, happy to be his own man at last.

Rennie, his mother said, breaking into his reverie, did you eat lunch at Devon an’ Del’s?

Yes, ma’am, we had ham salad sandwiches an’ potato chips. We helped Miss Hensley make the ham salad. I never knew ham salad was made from baloney. I thought it was ham.

No, honey, I always make it from baloney. Did you chop up everything, or does Marie have a grinder?

She just got a new grinder an’ wanted to try it out. That’s why we made the ham salad. We also had some A an’ Dubya root beer. They buy gallon jugs of it at the drive-through in Fairborn by the cement plant. Miss Hensley says they buy a gallon a week. Can we buy some sometime?

Ain’t gonna do no such, grumbled Lemuel. I work too hard for my money to spend it on trifles like pop. He mopped up the last bit of gravy from his plate with a biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth. Then he drained his glass of the last bit of lemonade and let one ice cube slide into his mouth, where he began chewing on it.  Well, I guess I’ll go out to the garage an’ get some work done.

Leona jumped to her feet. Oh wait, honey. I got a surprise for you, too, since it’s our special day. She took a cake plate with a pink plastic dome from atop the refrigerator. She removed the plastic dome to reveal a German chocolate cake, Lemuel’s favorite. Happy anniversary, honey, she beamed. May we have six times sixteen more years together.

You plannin’ on livin’ a hundred an’ thirty years? Lemuel asked dryly.

Ah, it’s just a sayin’. Gimme your plate.

He handed her his plate, and she placed the cake on the counter beside the sink and cut a six-inch piece for him and put it onto his plate. There you are, she said proudly, as she returned the plate to him and pecked him on the cheek. I’ll have you know I baked this cake from scratch an’ I worked most o’ the day on it. Ain’t no box cake good enough for my man.

Thank you, honey, Lemuel muttered grudgingly. You know I can’t turn down your German chocolate. He cut into the cake with his fork and savored the blend of coconut, pecans, and chocolate as he slowly chewed. Lemonade ain’t exactly a match made in heaven for this kinda treat. We got any milk?

Why, of course, honey, we got milk. She removed a half-gallon bottle of milk from the refrigerator and filled a plastic tumbler to the top and handed it to Lemuel. Here y’are.

Thanks, Lemuel mumbled as he chewed.

Leona asked Angela if she would like a piece of cake, and she signed no. She wanted ice cream. Leona removed a gallon container of Neapolitan ice cream from the freezer compartment above the refrigerator and ladled out two scoops of vanilla and chocolate into a small, pink plastic bowl. Angela did not like strawberry. As she handed it to her, she smiled broadly and clapped her palms together. It was her way of showing appreciation for things that were done for her. Although she had no knowledge that clapping makes a sound, she could feel the vibrations in her forearms, and they felt good.

She carefully separated the chocolate from the vanilla with her spoon and placed the chocolate on one side of the bowl and the vanilla on the other. She began slowly eating the chocolate first, moaning softly and rocking back and forth as she ate.

She sure does love her ice cream, Leona commented. I just wish she loved other food as well. Look. She held up a chicken drumstick. Only two bites outa this chicken an’ didn’t touch her potatoes an’ corn except to make a face with the corn. I swear I don’t know how she stays alive eatin’ mostly ice cream. I don’t know what she would eat if they stopped makin’ it.

That’s about as likely as the sun not risin’, Lemuel added. Long as people love it like she does they’re gonna keep on makin’ it, an’ keep on rakin’ in the dough. Some people got soft beds in life. Their kids prob’ly won’t have to work a day in their lives, lucky sumbitches.

Lem, can we please have one day without swearin’ in this house? Please give me one more present, one day of me not havin’ to hear you spewin’ out those foul words, Leona implored.

Lemuel belched loudly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Yeah, I reckon I can do that for one day for ya. I’m goin’ out to the fuckin’ garage and get some work done. Rennie, help your mom do the dishes. He went out the back screen door and let the door slam.

Leona got up and quickly turned to the sink and began scraping off the vestiges of chicken skin adhering to the bottom of the black skillet with a spatula. Her eyes filled with tears and her hands trembled as she scraped. I’m not gonna cry, she thought. I’m not gonna cry.

Rennie stood up and wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist and laid his head on her shoulder. She smelled of flour, chicken grease, coconut, and sweat. It’s OK, Mom. He didn’t mean it. He’s just drunk.

Leona turned around and faced him and wrapped her arms around him. She placed her cheek against his chest, sighed, and began sobbing. I’m so glad . . . I got you an’ Angie. I don’t know if I . . . could make it . . . if I didn’t have you, she managed to eke out between sobs.

You know he always gets like this when he’s drinkin’. He’ll be better tomorrow. He squeezed her and kissed her on the top of the head.

She stepped away from him and wiped her tears away with a dish towel, then wiped the sweat off her forehead. You’d think I’d have a thicker skin after all these years. But it always hurts when he does somethin’ like that. An’ you’re right. He’ll be better tomorrow. He always is. You go on an’ play now. You don’t hafta help me with the dishes.

No, I wanta help. You wash an’ I’ll rinse. Besides, Daddy told me to. He took the ice cream bowl away from Angela, who was holding the bowl up to her face and licking it. She pouted, but Rennie signed that there was no more and to go and play. She resignedly pushed her chair away from the table and walked down the hallway into the living room.

You’re a good son, Rennie, Leona complimented him. You’re gonna make somebody a happy lady when you grow up an’ get married.

Aaahhh, I don’t know that I’ll ever get married. That’s a long way away.

It’s closer’n you think. An’ I can understand why you wouldn’t wanta get married. We ain’t exactly been the best examples.

You been fine. I didn’t understand much of what was goin’ on when I was Angie’s age, but now I understand. I’d be proud to marry a girl if I could find someone as pretty an’ strong as you, Rennie remarked.

Why, ain’tchou sweet. Leona stopped washing a plate and turned to him. I think you’ve done become a man right before my eyes. When did this happen?

I don’t know, Rennie replied sheepishly. "It’s just that now that I’m gonna be in the eighth grade I’ve started to see things that I never saw before.  You bein’ strong is somethin’ I been noticin’ for the past few months. I always thought you were pretty."

Leona smiled and placed her left hand on her hip. Why, listen to you sugarin’ me up. You aimin’ to ask for somethin’?

Rennie shook his head. No, ma’am. I don’t need nothin’. I’m just tellin’ you what I think. He placed a plate in the dish rack and pulled a red towel from the door of the refrigerator. He wiped his face with it. Man, it sure is hot.

You go on now an’ do what you wanta do. You’ve helped me enough. An’ I think you deserve a break for sayin’ those nice things. You’re becomin’ a man quick as a wink. If you don’t go off an’ do somethin’, I might turn around from the table an’ you’d be full-grown. And where would Angie be with you gone an’ married an’ havin’ young’uns?

That ain’t gonna happen anytime soon, but I’ll go an’ work on my models if you really don’t want me to help.

Sure, you go on now. I just got a few more pots an’ pans an’ I’ll be finished anyway. Go on, now.

Alright. If you insist.

I do. Go.

Rennie threaded the red towel back through the chrome handle of the refrigerator, walked into his room and closed the door. He turned on the small fan atop the chest of drawers, went to the closet and retrieved the most recent Superman comic book that he had not finished reading. He removed the sales receipt that he used as a bookmark. He did not like to turn down the pages to mark his place. He wanted to keep the comic in as good a condition as possible because he believed that in a few years he would be able to sell his collection and get rich. He believed this to be true even though he knew no one who collected comic books to resell at a profit. He knew he was the only one who had thought of it. He was always a little bit ahead of the crowd, as evidenced by his being the only boy in the neighborhood who owned his own go-kart. All the other boys rode bikes. Although, he had to admit, his father had built the go-kart for him after Rennie had pleaded with him for weeks to build one for him after he had seen a nifty go-kart kit in Popular Mechanics magazine.

Once he had built the go-kart for him, his father had found the building of it so easy that he had begun buying parts from the junkyard and building go-karts to sell as a way of generating extra income for the family. At least that is what he had told Leona. Rennie knew that it was really so that his father could afford to get a better quality of whiskey at Smitty’s. No more havin’ to settle for that house crap, his father had confided to him after the go-karts had begun to sell. It’s Jack on the rocks from now on.

Rennie stopped thinking about his father and became engrossed in the story. Lex Luthor had lured Superman to a cave where he had imprisoned Lois Lane in a cell, the bars of which Luthor had made with kryptonite, the deadly mineral from Superman’s native world, the only substance that could weaken him. When Superman had pulled the bars apart, he was too weak to free Lois from the shackles which bound her legs, arms, and neck to the wall of the cave. Lex Luthor emerged from the shadows . . .

In the garage, which stood on the west side of a backyard blighted like the front with clumps of grass, dandelions, and weeds, Lemuel, fueled by anger for his wife, who had had the impudence to tell him not to swear, was determined to build an entire go-kart from the ground up, no matter how long it took. That’ll show ‘er. He would stay out all night in the garage, hammering and welding. But the effects of the alcohol and meal he had just eaten had enervated him, and after tightening the lug nuts of a tire on the right front wheel of a chassis, he slumped into a metal chair beside the work bench. On second thought, maybe not, he said to the vise atop the workbench. The black bulbous handle of the bench vise had not fallen back and was sticking up at a forty-five degree angle. Ah, thass a better idea.

He stood up and turned the deadbolt on the side door, the sole entrance into the garage except for the garage door. He pulled a pouch of Red Man chewing tobacco from a front pocket of his overalls, extracted a wad and placed it between his left cheek and lower gum and then pulled a grey metal box from a shelf below the bench, which he unlocked. He withdrew a couple of glossy magazines, some pages of which had separated from the binding and were protruding from the sides. He turned on the lamp beside the vise and picked up a jar of Goop hand cleanser from the workbench. Then he turned the chair around so that when he sat down the light would fall over his left shoulder. He directed the air flow from the floor fan towards the chair.

He unscrewed the top from the cleanser, which he placed on the floor to the right of the chair. When he looked at the covers of the magazines he had taken from the box, he moved the tobacco from his cheek to his mouth and started to chew. On the cover of the first magazine, Wet Lips, was a glossy photo of a black woman, her full lips more pronounced because of the shiny red lipstick she was wearing, fellating a white penis, her cheeks concave from the vacuum she had created. The penis bifurcated her large breasts, the protruding nipples erect. He could see she was immensely enjoying herself. On the cover of the other magazine, Naughty Nurses, was a buxom black woman in a white nurse’s uniform fellating a white man. Her eyes were half-lidded with lust, a look that he wished he could see just once more before he died.

He placed the magazines on the floor to the left of the chair and took off his overalls, folded them, and placed them as a pad on the seat of the metal chair. That would prevent his posterior from sticking to the chair. He took off his tee shirt and underwear and draped them over the back of the chair. He sat down, picked up Wet Lips, scooped out a gob of hand cleanser and massaged it all over his penis, which had become half-erect when he had looked at the cover pictures. The hand cleanser liquefied from the heat. He chewed the tobacco in tandem with his hand movements as he slowly turned each page with his left hand. On every page was a picture of a black woman fellating a white man in various positions. After he turned a page, he would spit a stream of dark tobacco juice into a coffee can to his left. He spent ten to fifteen minutes on each page.

From an early age, he had learned to manipulate himself almost to the point of orgasm and then to back off to continue as long as he wished. Sometimes, he would masturbate for four or five hours if he was undisturbed. Leona and the children always thought he was hard at work building go-karts. Yeah, I’m hard at work alright, he chuckled. Brrrtt! He spat a frothy mixture of tobacco juice and saliva at the can, which hit the edge and oozed slowly down the side. That’d be real pretty if it was one o’ these bitches’ faces, he thought. He turned the page.

Inside the house, Leona had moved the fan from the kitchen window to the living room and was sitting on a threadbare yellow sofa crocheting a white antimacassar. Near the front door, Angela sat on the carpet and flipped through The Saturday Evening Post and Life, looking for pictures of cats or kittens. When she found one, she took a pair of scissors with red rubber handles and cut out the picture, being careful to leave no part of the surrounding page adhering to the cat. When she was content that nothing but the picture of the cat remained, she dabbed small amounts of school glue on the back with a small wooden stick and carefully positioned the cat into a scrapbook, alongside other pictures of cats and kittens that she had already pasted.  She patted the cat with satisfaction after she had affixed it to the page and then turned back to the magazines to find another picture. Inside her bedroom were dozens of scrapbooks filled with pictures of cats and kittens, for which Lemuel had constructed makeshift bookshelves of cedar planks supported by bricks. The walls of the bedroom were covered with pictures of cats and kittens from the same magazines, for which Lemuel had made frames and hung the pictures on the walls for her.

Angela had been born deaf seven years ago. After the initial shock, grief, and guilt which had afflicted Leona, she had come to accept her daughter as a true blessing from God. Now she thought of her Angela as her true angel, her waist-length blond hair and cherubic face the perfection of beauty and angelic grace. Rennie, as the firstborn, had brought her happiness, but Angela had brought her bliss. Angela hummed to herself and rocked her body back and forth as she thumbed through the magazine pages. Leona had once asked her through signing why she hummed, and she had replied that she liked to make her heart happy. She closed The Saturday Evening Post and opened Life.

Leona knitted to occupy her hands, but her mind fretted over the behavior of her husband. He had remembered their anniversary and brought her roses, but then he had stopped at Smitty’s and gotten drunk, of which he knew she disapproved. He was always sending mixed messages like that. When she looked back at their relationship, however, she realized that he had always sent her conflicting messages. Even during their long engagement he had bought her things in which she had expressed an interest, and yet he had never been comfortable telling her that he loved her. She wondered now if he had ever loved her. When he used to come to her house to pick her up for a date, she had never seen pleasure on his face. Her heart had always soared when she saw him, but she had a niggling doubt that his thoughts were elsewhere, that she was not his true love and he was just dating her because she was better than nothing. She had married him anyway because he had been, simply, the most handsome boy in high school and the quarterback of the football team. She also had enjoyed the fact that all the other girls were jealous and couldn’t understand why he would settle for a plain Jane like her. She had hoped that he would come to love her as she loved him after they were married, but it had never happened. She could not leave now that she had two children.

She made her antimacassars for the Methodist church bazaar which was held once a month. Sometimes she would sell everything she made, but some months she would bring most of the items home. The whims of the marketplace, her father used to say. She wished Lemuel would not spend so much time in the garage and come into the house and be with her and the kids, together as a family. After Angela had been born, he had begun to spend more and more time in the garage building go-karts, and now he rarely ever spent any time with them after dinner. He would watch football games on TV, but he insisted on absolute silence while he was watching, so he might as well have been in the garage. His interest in sports, praise the Lord, was limited exclusively to the football season.

She knew some wives who might as well be widows as often as their husbands watched all kinds of sports on TV. Colleen once said, A man’s idea of heaven is to have a beer in one hand and a cheeseburger in the other, watchin’ a football game on TV while he’s gettin’ a blowjob. Leona had cringed at the vulgarity of the remark coming out of the mouth of a deacon’s wife, but she had to admit there was truth in the statement. She herself was not inclined to indulge in such perverse behavior, but she knew that there were women in the world like Colleen who did. Lemuel had asked her a few times if she would stimulate him with her mouth, but she made it perfectly clear where she stood. Such perversities as stimulation with the mouth or, heaven forbid, anal intercourse (which Lemuel had once not too subtly suggested they do) would have no place in a home that worshipped the Lord, as this one did. They would make love as God intended, face-to-face, with the man on top, lying fully against her, with her arms wrapped around him in a loving embrace.

Lemuel had once attempted to make love to her by placing her heels atop his shoulders, but she quickly quashed that by telling him that if he made love to her that way, there was no love in it; he was just using her to masturbate. He never tried it again.

The garage was like a moist, warm womb. Sweat ran in rivulets down Lemuel’s face and chest. The oscillating fan