Beyond The Peat Marsh Road

By Joe Zelicskovics

Beyond the Peat Marsh Road centers on the main character, Steven (Fekete) Black, a successful architect in Toronto who wishes to sell the family farm that his reclusive mother, Maria Fekete refuses to concede to the powerful industrialist, Don Williams. Mysteriously a sudden interest emerges by land speculators for properties surrounding the polluted Fekete farm. Black’s second mission is to revenge all the old hurts suffered from bullying discrimination in his school years and the interference with his first love, Laura Dawson from his antagonists Lloyd Dudley, now the mayor, and Keith Majors, a prosperous contractor. Black resolves to discredit his enemies and gain a profitable advantage over the manipulative Don Williams, the owner of Williams Steel. A classic story of the meek triumphing over the strong!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Books for Pleasure
• Release date: Sep 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781553491217

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

STONEBRIDGE, SUNDAY, MAY 17, 1964

The overcast sky was tinged a light orange by the throbbing furnaces from Williams Steel. It was, for the middle of May, a warm day and very humid. Nearby the cherry trees with their budding leaves seemed to be fighting the grey dust for their very survival. Smoke seeped to the roots of the strangled vegetation, and then swirled on towards the old farmhouse a short distance from the factory’s rear fence.

The serpentine smoke entwined itself around Maria Fekete’s old farmhouse. The tiny, two storied clapboard dwelling was speckled like snakeskin from the pollution. It stood lonely and isolated on its weed-covered slope, as isolated as its owner. She had been informed that her one hundred acres were destined to be a marshaling yard for the seething black mill. She was determined to halt the uneasy giant that waited to move its gargantuan feet over her land.

As she made her way with difficulty across the unpainted, uneven, wooden floor of her porch, she did not see Eddie Connors and his two teenaged buddies crouched behind a clump of brown, scrawny bushes, waiting for her to appear.

Her ankle length dress was black, as were her stockings and shoes. Even the kerchief that framed her face in perpetual shadow was black. She appeared as mysterious as her house.

Maria headed slowly and painfully for her old rocking chair. Her sixty-five-year- old body was plagued with arthritis, and as she moved, she used her shiny stainless steel cane to assist her. As she surveyed her brown property, she shook her head in disbelief as twists of smoke like curls of sly fog misted the barren landscape.

Suddenly she felt a tiny gust of that hated wind. She wondered: why does the wind have to blow this way? I remember when the factory was so tiny, and so far away. But look at it now, right next to my property. It killed all my pretty flowers. It’s been so many years since I had any flowers. How kind my Mihai was, after working the land he always found time to help me with flower beds, even when he was tired. He was such a good man. Why, even the boys would help...my poor boys...even when they were young they would help. My poor boys….

As a tear trickled down her pale wrinkled cheeks she lifted her head as if to shake away sad memories, but it was difficult because there was a memory etched in every dying tree, and even in the polluted stream. She stared at the dark brown water as thick as soup with its orange speckles leaving greasy black streaks on the dead brown bulrushes. She sighed as she remembered. We used to keep our fat, white geese in that stream. Now not even a starling will land there.

She gazed sorrowfully at the unkempt, dying cherry orchard. Springtime used to be such a beautiful time she thought. Now look—the blossoms are withered before they have a chance to fully bloom. But one of these days we’ll have the picnics we once had. Many of our friends and relatives will come out and have a bacon roast with hot bread and fresh vegetables. How my sons loved the roasts.

But the boys were gone now.

Steve and his children should come for a picnic. Even his English wife, Valerie. But they don’t. How strange it is now that he has changed his name from Fekete to Black. Steven Black now.

Josi, the older boy, had been drafted near the end of the Second World War. His dad became frantic. You’re only eighteen years old, he shouted. Maybe you’ll shoot your cousin who looks like you. You will be punished by God for doing that. He produced a yellow snapshot of his relatives. Look, he repeated as he pointed with his stubby thick fingers. Look at your cousin!

Maybe my cousin will shoot me. Will he be punished by God? asked Josi.

He’s in the war because he has to go. You do not have to go. Hungarians never had a great love for Germans.

He had to go and so do I, stated Josi.

You don’t have to go. You don’t have to go. Do you think that the English will like you? You tell me stories of how you are treated, some calling you names even when you have signed to go overseas. Ain’t that the truth?

Yes! shouted Josi. But I’m going because I want that to change. And it will. I want Steve to have a fair shake. Can’t you understand?

Do you think that will change? Never! I don’t want my son dead so the rich Williams’ son stays at home to become richer. When this war is finished, that factory will be here. Williams will be here, and Josi Fekete won’t be here—you won’t be here—my first born son. Please, Josi, please! I’ve got to take that chance for Steve, replied Josi as he looked at his feet, rather than staring his father in the eyes.

Go ahead, big shot. We will still not be equal to them.

When Josi’s death was reported, Mihai was drunk for a week. He stayed in the wine cellar drinking and cursing. Then Steve came home from school sobbing, with his hands swollen and bleeding. All he said was he hated war and Lloyd Dudley.

When Father Szabo came to pay his condolences and to bring the clipping from the local newspaper, it made the situation even more terrible. They had spelled Josi’s last name wrong. The priest talked some sense into Mihai, but he was never the same again. Being emotional and Hungarian, his eyes would fill with tears, and then at night he would wander among the cherry trees, with his bottle of red wine, lamenting the past in his deep baritone voice. Singing all the sad songs he knew.

He drank too much, and then quit attending church. He worked like a madman making as big a profit as possible – even selling produce on the black market. He would repeat over and over again, They couldn’t even spell my son’s name right.

A sudden weariness overcame Maria as if the remembering caused her remaining spirit to ebb away. She leaned back into her worn rocker and then raised her eyes to the murky sky. She mourned that it had been so long since relatives came to visit.

The men from the factory who visited her had seemed nice company for a while, even giving her the cane. But they tried to take her land – offering her money. They didn’t understand that she couldn’t leave. She hoped Steve would come back with his children and make the place beautiful again.

Steve, however, wanted her to go into an old people’s home. The disgrace of it! No Hungarian ever went there. Only the poor people – people with no family. Steve just didn’t understand: this was Mihai’s home.

She wrung her hands in despair and then raised her knuckles to her mouth; sobbing silently, mute, suffering. She mourned her dead husband, Mihai, her dead son Josi, and her living son Steve. As tears flowed slowly down her dry cheeks, she realized life was like the smoke which surrounded her. Now only her wasteland gave her comfort, and even that with its tormented and strangled trees was a chaos of unreality – a dream which recurred every day, and even at night. Her only grasp to reality was her beloved cat, Fekete Muchka – Black Cat.

Suddenly she turned in the rocker and called out, Muchka, Muchka… In a few seconds the rusty screen door was slowly pushed open as a long, raven-black cat slunk out of the musty confines of the house, sliding up to the chair, slowly circling between her feet. Maria leaned over, and with some effort placed the animal on her lap. The cat curled up, yawned, and with its rough moist tongue licked her dry, blue-veined knuckles as she stroked its silky back. You’re all I have with me now, she said quietly, Don’t you leave me!

The cat looked up as if he understood his mistress and then slowly let his head sink into her lap and descended into an uneasy sleep with a comforting purr.

Then it happened. The swish and smack of a hard lump of mud hit the wall behind her, splattering her head and shoulders with bits of hard dirt. Startled, she strained to see the origin of the missile as her heart beat violently. She thought: it’s some of those factory town hoodlums again. She was very frightened. Her face became dead white as she focused on the three youths that slowly ambled toward the house.

Why don’t they stay in their town? she muttered softly to Muchka.

Muchka was now erect and straining forward. Maria jabbed the animal with her knuckles. It jumped to the floor and hid behind the rocking chair as she turned her panic-stricken attention to the three boys.

What you boys wanting? she demanded. She was very frightened of youngsters. Others had come and it always ended in anger because they just tormented her. They were too unpredictable.

The three youths cautiously approached the crooked porch steps and then stood coolly examining her. Suddenly, a sly smile blossomed on Eddie Connor’s face, and he mocked her: What’s your trouble old lady? Don’t you like visitors?

No! she answered hating the tremble in her voice. I wanting you boys should leaving me alone.

Note the accent guys. He turned back to her and sneered. Why don’t you speak English?

Get out.

Sure. Sure. Hey, old woman, which way? asked Eddie as he pointed his finger at her. That way? He pointed to the ground and stooped over slowly imitating the walk of the aged, then he shook grotesquely turning his head side to side like someone developmentally challenged.

Dumb thing, she called out contemptuously.

Now, now, Grandma, don’t lose your teeth. Hey guys, guess what – she’s got some teeth! Eddie started to laugh hysterically. He was joined instantly by a chorus from his two friends.

Get from mine property.

Make us, you old bitch, sneered Eddie, his eyes glinting.

I will! I will! she cried out waving her cane frantically at her tormentors. Mine son will get you, she called in desperation.

Why don’t you call him you old witch? returned Eddie with a knowing smile. Go get your son.

Maria froze. Her mind wandered to her son. She became momentarily lost to the world of reality. He had come home from Toronto where he was working in an architectural firm and pompously announced that he was getting married. No amount of discussion with his parents would change his mind, and they would not attend his wedding because he was to be married in a Protestant church.

Mihai had summed up their disappointment. You went to college, then you didn’t come home in the summer. We sent you money, but that was all we were supposed to do. You are not our son. You are ashamed. You belong to another world. When you graduated, you hid us from everyone at the university. You think we are stupid and we don’t know you are ashamed of us, he turned his back to Steve to hide the tears filling his eyes. We will not make you ashamed. We are not going to the wedding and you are not coming back here no more. Get out of my house, you stupid….

Suddenly, reality returned as Maria heard, You’re a bitch witch, you dumb old foreigner.

The other two boys, hearing the word witch easily moved into a slow ceremonial kind of dance as they repeated witch over and over as they slithered in a circle.

Whatcha brewing in the shack? A potion? asked one of them. Then he crazily waved his hands over his head as if placing a deadly spell upon the house and opened his mouth wide and let his tongue droop out making gurgling sounds.

Who ya putting a curse on now, witch? leered the other.

Maria sat stunned, unable to comprehend. What were these misty creatures moving before her?

The three boys increased the tempo of their dance as the apprehension that had held them earlier vanished. She was just another old woman. They knew now that she couldn’t retaliate in any way. They picked up tiny bits of mud and lobbed them at her.

Suddenly Eddie stopped. He was bored. The other two slowed and ended the ritual. They were getting no reaction.

Eddie ambled up the rotting stairs followed closely by his subordinates. At the top they stopped, swept the long hair from their eyes, placed their thumbs in the wide belts straining their tight trousers as they leaned over and stuck their tongues out at Maria, sucking and spitting.

Maria strained forward pressing against the rocker in fear and trying to focus on the terrible images in front of her. What were these misty dark things, she wondered? They must be devils. I have led a good life. Why are they tormenting me? She closed her eyes tightly and then opened them and gasped. The sneering faces materialized inches from her own.

Leaving me alone, she cried out, leaving me alone.

Eddie Connors once again stuck out his tongue and lobbed a large piece of dried mud onto her lap.

Then once again the slow ritual started, and once again the taunts started as they circled and stretched their shaggy heads towards her, their tongues darting in and out like serpents. Eddie Connors then raised a short stick and began to direct it at her as if he were fencing.

Maria, now paralyzed with fear, whispered, The devil – the devil – why the devil? I’ve been good. The three illusions slowly waved before her like black flames. Oh mine God help me. Help me! Her fingers searched frantically for the blue stone Madonna on a gold necklace. When she finally grasped it and let out a cry of anguish, the flames seemed to grow larger. You won’t get me, she sobbed. She threw her cane at the advancing specters.

The cane rattled at Eddie Connors’ feet. He picked it up and stared at Maria with amusement.

Fekete Muchka, the cat, had been hidden in the shadows behind the rocker. Because he was accustomed to total freedom and silence, he was semi wild. Peering from his hiding place, he spat at the lumbering Eddie who was advancing toward Maria waving the cane over his head.

Hey fellas, she’s a witch. She’s got a black cat. Hey, what do they do to witches in Hunkyland?

They burn them, said one of his followers.

Ya, they burn them, parroted the other.

Eddie Connors closed in on the cat. In instinctive self preservation, Muchka stepped out, arched his back, hissed, then clawed and bit Eddie Connors on the calf, tearing his trousers.

Eddie Connors smashed the defenseless animal across the back with the cane.

Fekete Muchka let out a high scream as the sickening crack crumpled the animal. Momentarily he revived, and began darting about in circles, dragging his paralyzed hindquarters. Then, with a final whimper, he slid under the rocker.

Muchka, Fekete Muchka, sobbed the old woman; the devil has taken you from me.

The trio was now halfway down the path as the animal’s dying screams unnerved them. They fled to their hidden bikes as fast as their legs would carry them. And all the while, Maria’s agonized laments followed them.

As they furiously pedaled their bikes down the dusty road, the youngest ashamedly said, You shouldn’t have done that, Eddie.

Why the hell not? If you guys hadn’t chickened out on me, we could’ve had a lot more fun.

But what if your old man finds out?

Oh, he won’t care, replied Eddie Connors, I heard him say his boss wants to get the old bitch off the property at any cost.

CHAPTER TWO

SUNDAY NIGHT, MAY 17, 1964

Sunday evening, as Steven Black directed his black air conditioned Lincoln Continental on the Queen Elizabeth Highway just outside of Toronto towards Stonebridge, he gripped the soft steering wheel resolutely for he knew that his conference with Kevin Connors was destined to be painful and final. No more playing games.

His absorption on the upcoming confrontation produced pricks of irritation on his back. Deals, he thought, I hate deals where I have no control. In my profession discreet manipulation is power and I’m capable of applying that talent anytime, even with my employers Doane, Taylor, and Hawkes, even though it has to be in the spirit of gentility. They still think that they’re the Family Compact. But who do they dispatch when an operation is fouled up? Me. They send out the enforcer so that they can apologize for my demanding behavior for completing what Doane, Taylor and Hawkes want accomplished in the first place. I’m their tool...so far! I get things done. Along with being their best designer, I’m the prick that they need. But I’m not the profile that they want to propagate in their senior executive levels. As yet. He tightened his grip on the wheel, angry because he was being played with by Doane just as he was playing with them. He was now being placed into a position where he had his career goals in jeopardy.

Steve suddenly felt the uncomfortable perspiration on his soft green Italian shirt, as he pondered his dilemma. I have to satisfy my employer but – to do that – I have to force my mother from her land and cause her pain. If I leave her on her land and delay implementation, I hurt my chances of promotion, but financially in the long run it will be profitable for her, but not in her best interest health wise. I find the situation difficult, if not impossible. I can’t do both. It’s too personal. Too futile. If I were dealing with someone else and not my mother who is living back in her memories of thirty years ago it would not be as difficult. There is no way I can convince her to reverse her decision not to stay there. Nor can I persuade that hick Kevin Connors to be patient until she comes to her senses. Or hopefully not lose them.

Why in hell did I have to be saddled with this problem? Steve slowly sucked in his lower lip. He knew he would have to be more than cool and would have to arrest his temper that he only showed occasionally. Those were the times that he made mistakes.

He thought bitterly of his situation. He was a successful architect earning more money than he ever thought possible; being slowly accepted into the inner circles of the establishment; having at his finger tips all the material things he ever wanted, from belonging to the Royal Canadian Yacht Club to the Granite Club. How many thirty three year-olds have accomplished as much as I have? Not too goddamn many! But what do I have to do? I have to make a real estate deal for my mother who spit in my face the last time I was there in that rotten town. Spit in my face! If only she would realize that her happy years are only a memory, a fantasy. That’s for kids only. She knows that I’ll never return to that damn desolate acreage but I’m the only one that she’ll communicate with.

He angrily speculated. They will not humiliate me in Stonebridge. If Williams wants a deal I’ll give him and his group more than he bargained for. There is a hell of a lot of unsettled scores waiting to be evened. In particular, His Honour Lord Mayor of Stonebridge, Lloyd Dudley and his gang.

As Steven pondered the coming events, he tapped his free foot nervously cursing the fates that would not give him peace. He knew having his mother placed in a home was for her own good. She could not exist out there all alone much longer. And worst of all, her friends and relatives are looking down their bent noses on me because they believe that I don’t help her. He thought if they only knew the circumstances. She wouldn’t listen to me. Neither one of them would ever listen to me. She and dad always knew better. They never had