With a Little Help: Tales from the Eastern Shore, #4

By Warren Adams-Ockrassa

Donny didn't meet Jake under the best of all possible circumstances — he'd been trying to kill himself at the time — but that momentary bout of madness just might have been the best thing that ever happened to him.

Taking refuge and plying a trade in the one-horse town of Burlingham, Donny finds in Jake more than friendship, more than affection, more, even, than a lover; and with the help of their mutual friend Maggie, he discovers things about himself he never knew.

But as a thunderhead begins to swell above Halter Lake and loom over the people Donny has grown to love, his history is about to rediscover him, with fury burning in its heart and hatred curdling its soul.

Set in the 1960's, "With a Little Help" is a story of a unique young man, an unusual town, and the redemptive power of love. Come, now, and visit Burlingham. You'll be glad you did.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warren Adams-Ockrassa
• Release date: Sep 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386903710

Book preview

Gemini

The Chariot; or, the Boy in the Lake

When your last memory is of dark cold water rushing into your lungs, your next memory should not be of afternoon light and a half dozen trim, muscular, naked young men gathered around you, one of whom is kissing you. That was the sequence that Donny remembered, though, for quite a while; that, and the certainty that he was in fact dead and had somehow ended up in a paradise he’d never guessed existed.

After the kiss, water burbled up his throat. The naked young man sat back and turned Donny’s head to the side, so the lakewater wouldn’t end up going back into the wrong pipe. This gave Donny a wonderful view of the young man’s young manhood, which was large, uncut and, for some reason, clean-shaven. Donny wanted to thank him for the kiss and the view, but he coughed, and then — because God had never liked him much — he chucked up all over the naked young man’s kneecaps. The young man rolled Donny over on his side, to keep him from aspirating his own hork.

The others laughed, but not the first young man; his voice was low and soothing when he said, That’s all right. It happens. You’ll be okay now. He looked up at one of the other young men. Go on and get into town now, Andy. We’ll bring him along in Rog’s wagon. Let them know we’ll need Doc Ryan. You’ll probably want to get Ray Travers, too.

Ray? You really think so?

Yeah. The naked young man looked out across the lake, from which the trunk of a 1947 DeSoto ragtop was still protruding. I do. This wasn’t an accident. He looked down at Donny again. Was it?

Donny closed his eyes.

Justice; or, Bullshit

So tell me, Donny Wilson, what you were doing roaring down Brooker Street in an unlicensed and unregistered car five years older than yourself, sailing on through Burlingham, then driving right off the top of Suffock Bluff.

I told you, Donny said. I don’t remember. It was a day since his accident; he’d been unconscious or sleeping for all of yesterday afternoon and last night, and was more than a little spooked when he woke up in a jail cell. The local doctor, Jem Ryan, had examined him yesterday — something Donny barely remembered — and said things could’ve been a lot worse; on balance he was in very good health, obvious physical and probable nervous exhaustion aside. Ray Travers, the constable, had given him some breakfast (coffee and a Danish) when he saw Donny was awake, and was now trying to question him. Donny was trying to be uncooperative like the tough guys he saw sometimes on TV. It wasn’t selling very well, and he knew it. Maybe it was because of all the cream and sugar he put in the coffee, but he doubted it. I must’ve fallen asleep or something.

Fallen asleep, in the middle of the day, while driving at fifty miles per hour.

I guess I have narcolepsy.

And no license to drive.

I … must’ve been sleepwalking before I was sleepdriving, and got in the car then.

And sometime after that, one supposes you performed a neat trick of sleep-hotwiring.

Donny blinked at the constable. Well … yes.

Ray leaned back and sucked his teeth. The little badge he wore on his overalls glittered. He was the only law enforcement within a hundred miles, and wasn’t all that much older than the boys who’d pulled Donny out of the lake. He’d gone to school with all of them.

The kid talked a good game, but Ray knew it was bluster; Donny was scared and hiding something, but he wasn’t a criminal. Well, not really. He was also a bit of a reed; at five-eight, Ray figured he couldn’t weigh more than ninety-five, soaking wet. Kid wasn’t weak, though; what little muscle there was on his body was wiry and sound. He was built like a runner, lean and toned. He was good-looking, too, with an olive complexion and dark brown eyes to go with his raven tresses. He had a sweet, slightly sad smile, and vaguely androgynous features that reminded Ray of Raquel Welch. His hair was a little on the long side, but not to the degree that it would get a second glance. All in all, a well-groomed handsome young man, whom Ray was sure girls were sighing over somewhere.

Ray was what they called a strapping lad, tall and well-built, good robust farmers’ stock. He had an accent Donny couldn’t quite place, a hint of a classic drawl, modulated with diction and something vaguely northeastern, lengthening and twanging the vowels. His solid frame came with a head that sported an active brain, as well as short-cut brown hair and eyes that seemed to take in everything without attaching undue judgment to anything. Those eyes were on Donny now, and Donny could see the word turning over in them: Bullshit.

Well, Donny Wilson, despite your reticence, I know a few things already, thanks to the plasticized school ID card I retrieved from your soaking wallet. I know you are from a bit and a piece away, Cliveston, to be specific; I know you are fifteen years of age as of two months ago, and I know that your home address indicates your father is a man named Harold Wilson. Travers leaned forward, and Donny caught a whiff of aftershave on him, Old Spice, not Brut. It was rather nice. What I don’t know yet is why, when I called him, he denied ever having a son. That is in addition to my earlier question.

I— Donny swallowed. He said that?

He did. I am sorry, Donny.

Donny fetched a deep sigh. Don’t be. Sounds just like him.

It’ll keep for now. Travers reached out and put a hand on Donny’s shoulder. It was gentle, warm, but firm; Donny could feel the strength there. Doc Ryan says you need rest more than anything else, and I suppose here is one of the best places you’ll be able to find it. Here was the single cell at the county hall in Burlingham, the little one-horse he’d blown through on his date with oblivion. I apologize for the accommodations. They are a bit Spartan, but I understand Carolyn is already working to rectify that. You’ll be undisturbed here, I believe, as the truth is that you’re the first guest I’ve had in, oh, three months.

When can I leave?

The hand, callus-hardened after years spent wrangling farm equipment, squeezed Donny a little more firmly. You’re not a prisoner, and I’ll not lock you in, but Doc says it might be a good idea for me to keep an eye on you for a while longer yet, and given the means by which your advent occurred, I am inclined to agree. My desk, as you know, is over there. I’ll be right nearby if you need anything. Having neatly avoided answering Donny’s question, he stood and smiled down at him. The smile was soft and almost motherly, wildly out of place on a face masculine and handsome enough to give Paul Newman a run for his money. I’m guessing it looked pretty bad for a while. Well, maybe it won’t be so bad in a little while longer.

Bad, Donny thought. He laid back on the bunk. You have no idea, and if you did, I bet those naked dudes would be first in line to make it a lot worse. He turned his face to the wall, a blank expanse of cream-colored firebrick, and quietly hated life, the world, God, his father, and most of all himself.

The Empress; or, Compassion and Lost Bearings

Carolyn was Carolyn Sanders, the mother of the boy who had given Donny artificial respiration. The boy, Jake, was seventeen years old, and the oldest of the group that had pulled him out of the car. Apparently they were on a local swim team of some sort, and he was their captain. They’d been practicing when they saw Donny drive off the edge of the bluff, headed straight down into Halter Lake. Andy, the boy who’d ridden his bike pell-mell into town to let everyone know some damnfool kid had tried to kill himself, was sixteen. Rog, the one whose classic ’37 Ford woody wagon had been used as an ambulance, was sixteen as well. The others were Donny’s age or younger.

Jake, he learned, had been the one to watch over him last night and into the morning hours before Ray came in to work. Someone had needed to be nearby, in case Donny had (in Ray’s words) some kind of relapse. Meaning, of course, in case Donny tried to kill himself again. There had been no danger of that. He didn’t remember anyone being there the night before; he didn’t remember the night before at all. He’d been completely out of it.

Carolyn showed up around noon, a few hours after Ray Travers had conducted his aw-shucks interrogation. She brought sheets, a hand-knitted comforter, a fat goosedown pillow, and a covered plate which revealed itself to hold three pieces of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and white gravy, and peas drowning in butter.

Until that moment Donny wasn’t sure he was hungry, but his stomach made haste to clarify matters. As he tore into the meal, Carolyn pulled out several sets of clothes, old ones that no longer fit her son. She had a good eye and judged they’d fit Donny, who had been left with little more than a donated tank, shorts, and a towel after his adventure at the lake. Everything else was still damp, and reeked of black lakebottom mud. She primly turned her back while he tried the clothes on, but he was a little unnerved to see that Ray Travers was still keeping an eye on him, as though he might decide to do himself harm with a butter knife. The clothes fit well enough, at least. Thank you, Miz Sanders, he said when she’d turned back to face him.

Carolyn, she said with a smile that just about melted Donny’s heart. She could easily have passed for Barbara Billingsley, except she was in color, and Donny suspected she wasn’t playing a role.

All right, Carolyn, Donny said. Tell Jake I said thanks for the loaners.

Oh honey, you can tell him yourself, Carolyn said. He’s coming by later to see how you’re doing.

Oh, that’s … he doesn’t…

Carolyn waved his objections aside and collected her plate. All that remained of the meal was a few bones. She produced, somehow, a slice of berry pie, which Donny intended to make last more than the sixty seconds it ended up surviving after his first taste. Apparently his stomach had adopted a no-prisoners policy regarding Carolyn Sanders’s cooking. She beamed thanks at his unalloyed expressions of praise. I’ll just be heading home now. I’ll tell Jake to drop by, oh…?

Half an hour, maybe, Ray Travers said.

Carolyn smiled. All right, half an hour. She kissed Donny’s cheek, then smoothed back his hair. You get to feeling better soon, honey. I’ve heard there are already three or four girls asking about you.

Um. Uh. All right. Thanks again for the clothes, and … really, Carolyn, about the best food I’ve ever eaten.

You are quite welcome, honey. She patted his cheek, cast an eye on Ray, and left.

Donny eyed Ray too, but not in the same way. The man brought his swivel chair over to the cell door — which was still open, and had never actually been closed and locked while Donny was there — and said, Mind if I sit with you a while?

Donny shrugged. I … well, I guess you’re … uh.

Ray nodded and sat, then reached into a pocket in his overalls. I am. And I have to, Donny, you understand. Attempting to kill yourself isn’t exactly illegal, but you’ve driven a car into Halter Lake, and that means at the very least I’ve got you for littering. Speeding, too, if I’m of a mind. He drew forth a pouch and sheaf of rolling papers. Zig-Zag. I buy these from Maggie at the Hot Pot. No one believes I’m using them for something as pedestrian as tobacco. Would you like one?

I’m fifteen, Donny said.

I know.

Thanks, I … no, I don’t smoke.

Ray nodded, loading his paper. Good habit not to start.

I know, Donny said quietly.

Ray rolled the paper, passed it briefly along his tongue, and smoothed the cylinder. I’d say we got off to a poor start, Donny, but I think you’re already approaching your life from that point of view, so it would not be an insightful observation for me to make. He eyed his cigarette critically, pulled a single shred of leaf from one end, then put it between his lips and popped open a Zippo. The acrid tang of lighter fluid wafted past Donny, followed a cloud of sweet vanilla smoke. Pipe tobacco, Ray said while he pocketed his works. I don’t inhale it. I just like the smell. Maggie believes I’m the reincarnation of an incense burner. What kind of trouble are you in, Donny?

Donny sighed. You wouldn’t understand.

Ray drew a thoughtful puff. "I might not. But I definitely can not if you won’t divulge anything. I realize the badge represents The Man, and that you have no idea who I am. I realize that asking you to extend even a modicum of trust is probably more than you feel able to do now. He reached over to his desk and picked up an ashtray, and flicked a grey cone into it. But I am asking you, Donny, to ignore the badge and trust the person whom you know nothing about.

You’re a good boy. There is no report of any prior police contact. Your school records are good. You’re respectful and polite, as befits the Boy Scout I know you to be, and you have not caused trouble since you were pulled out of the lake by Jake and his crew. Yet your father refuses to acknowledge your existence, and that does not make sense to me. He put the hand with the cigarette on one side of himself, and the hand with the ashtray on the other. I cannot balance the good boy, here, against the rancor of the father, there. He puffed again, then tapped more ash into his ashtray. Now I will ask again, Donny, and do understand that I would like to have this question answered, sooner rather than later. What kind of trouble are you in?

It’s … a family problem, Donny said.

Ray nodded. I had presumed as much. He raised his eyebrows.

My dad … he … we don’t exactly see eye-to-eye.

I don’t always with my old man either. That does not make me drive my car into a lake. Ray stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward. Speaking of the car: Not yours. Donny shook his head. Your father’s? Donny shook his head again. Ray leaned back. I thought not, since he didn’t report it missing. Whose is it, then?

It … was my mother’s, Donny said.

Was?

Donny sighed, and his throat tightened. She … she’s dead. She died when I was eleven. He put it in storage then. He put all her things in storage then. Everything.

Ah, said Ray. And his heart as well?

Donny sighed again and looked into Ray’s eyes. I don’t think I ever had that to begin with.

Ray was quiet for a few moments. That’s hard, he said, and pulled out his works again. This lighter, here. He held it up for Donny to see. My dad gave it to me when I became Constable. He tossed it over to Donny, who caught it a little clumsily. It was warm, made of brass, and had an inscription on the side. To my son, you do your old man proud. I love you.

Donny passed his fingers lightly over the words. It’s … nice.

It is, Ray agreed. "My guess