Prairie Lovers

By Paul Brothe

In a small town on the Colorado prairie, Marty, a young boy, meets Hank when Hank saves him from catastrophy. They grow up in different worlds, but meet again years later. They discover their love for one another, but sadly fate intervenes. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Brothe
• Release date: Mar 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393120445

Book preview

Prairie Lovers

Chapter One

T wenty-Four years ago , I was handed a blood-stained note by a sheriff. This is how I learned my son Marty was gay, Emma said, as she looked out at the tables of well-dressed people in the ballroom, all waiting expectantly for her to tell her story. Behind her was a large screen projecting the image of her son Marty.

She thought back to the day before, why can’t I just be home instead?

The day before she had sat in her living room.  A gentle spring breeze billowed the sheer curtains of the open windows. Back and forth they moved gracefully, the undulating folds mesmerizing, with an ever changing play of light and fabric.  It was a Spring morning and Emma sat entranced by her living room curtains watching them as they glided in the breeze like dancers in a Viennese Waltz – back and forth - flouncing and fluttering, keeping time not to the rhythm of music but to the rhythm of the air. The air carried a fresh scent of newly plowed earth and prairie grass warmed by the rising sun.  Emma felt the spring air and thought - the softness of Spring is like the softness of a youth, silky and expectant, eager and yet unsure of what it wants and what awaits.  The other seasons carry their hardships of heat, storms, unbridled growth and cold.  Spring air is not tested or touched by calamity, it is fertile and impetuous. The unseen, yet ever present, air. How much of life is all around us and we never take the time to just acknowledge it is there. We go through life always expecting the future and generally take the present for granted. What if there is no future? What if the present is as good as it gets? Rather than try to know the future, why not imbibe every precious moment of the here and now. Emma wondered if she had completely and utterly absorbed the experiences of her life.  The stillness and reflection of old age had descended upon her like a sheet covering a piece of furniture from dust – the piece of furniture was valued enough to be protected, but it was not seen, admired or used – it just existed.

Emma was aware of only one sound, even though a radio was on in the kitchen.  Emma listened to a clock, as though she was listening to her own heartbeat. The pendulum of the old clock swung back and forth, punctuating each passing minute with a loud tic-tock.  The passage of time can be a forlorn sound, and the case of the old wooden clock was designed to emphasize the sound of the minute made by the pendulum. There was no promise in the tic-tock sound, no expectation, only the recognition another minute had past.  Out in Emma’s small garden, at the edge of the lawn, the sundial was accented with the words; I count only sunny hours, while the clock inside the house had no such limitation and marked the passage of time – all time, Emma’s sunny hours, cloudy hours, and dark hours.

Just like the sound from inside the clock, time itself could be hollow. This hollowness of time was something Emma knew well. It was the same hollowness she felt in her heart.

The clock was on top of an old china cabinet in Emma’s living room, where Emma sat looking at the billowing curtains.  It was the same china cabinet where her mother had placed her wedding china and Emma had used it to display gifts she had received at her wedding.  It was the kind of living room where the odd piece of more contemporary furniture occupied space beside an antique piece of furniture or knick-knack fashionable 100 years earlier.  This placement of furniture and objects was not by design.  There was no careful placement of articles to show them to their best effect, no color coordination, or selection of just the right wood to compliment the other pieces.  This was a prairie house, and everything in the room, like everything in Emma’s life, had been arranged out of practicality and necessity.  The couch was on the south wall because the south wall was the longest.  The china cabinet was between the entry into the living room and the entry into the dining room, because it fit perfectly in the space and there wasn’t enough room in the dining room. Emma’s rocking chair tilted slowly back and forth as she sat lazily in the chair gently and unconsciously rocking herself.  Like the pieces of furniture, forever frozen in an assigned place, Emma occupied her usual chair. It was a ritual to sit alone, rocking in this room; a ritual in which Emma took little pleasure or solace each day. She never expected to live out her final years alone. She had followed the path her mother and grandmother had taken. Probably countless generations had followed the same path – marriage and children. She wasn’t bitter, just bewildered by the passing years.

Emma had too much time to think and to remember.  Each minute seemed to last a long time, yet at the end of the day she could not recount much of what she had done with her time.  She pondered the meaning of a minute.  Of course, she reasoned, a minute was the same to everyone, but why did a minute in her life now seem so long, was it just because she was lonely?  Was it because the only life worth living was the one she remembered from her past?  Was the minute for someone on death-row faster or slower as the decreed time approached?  Time to a youth seems never ending, and it is this thought Emma concentrated upon.  She thought her life would always carry on as normal, after all she had done all the right things.  There was no reason for Emma to have expected a change and when it did come she not only lost all sense of time, but also the need for time.  She had no desire to do anything except relive the happiness she had known. 

Emma had the radio on in the kitchen only to hear voices. An attempt to populate her house with imaginary people, much like a child makes up invisible friends. The people on the radio were Emma’s invisible friends.  The sound was too low to contribute to the atmosphere in the living room.  It was merely a sound in the background, fainter than the clock.  An announcer said. "Coming up, Tim McGraw singing, Some Things Never Change, our choice for this year’s country music song of the year 2000." The song began to play in a melancholy way.

In Emma’s lap she held a scrapbook, the black pages had faded to a dark gray as a result of the light exposure from the many hours she had spent looking through the book.  Emma and the book had grown old together – not to a decrepit age, but to an age of a past and seemingly obsolete generation. The edges of the pages were slightly worn, but the reverence Emma had for the book meant they were in better condition than might have been expected, considering how many times she had gently turned the pages. 

Her finger came to rest on a photo that always held her attention more than any photo in the scrapbook.  Underneath the photograph was written: April 23, 1976.  John, Marty and Hank.  John was Emma’s husband, Marty her son and Hank was a family friend.  It was a candid photograph taken with her Polaroid camera. Marty was in the middle of the photograph. He was sitting at the dining room table in front of his birthday cake, the seventeen candles glowing on his birthday cake.  John was not completely seen in the photo, just his shoulder behind Marty, on the left.  Hank, on the other hand, featured prominently in the photo on Marty’s right.  Emma often studied this particular photo and wondered if she could have foreseen the tragedy that would strike only a month later?  Emma weakly smiled as she vividly remembered that birthday. 

It had been a warm spring day, not unlike the one she was now experiencing,

I hope you boys won’t be planting late.  Emma said appreciatively. I’ve made Martin’s favorite chocolate cake for his birthday.  Martin smiled and turned a little red at the mention of his birthday.  You are staying for supper aren’t you Hank?

Yes Ma’am.  I wouldn’t miss it.  Hank called back from where he and Marty were filling the grain drill with seed.  Hank winked at Martin as he called out his reply.  John sat on the tractor, ready to take it back out to the field. 

You boys have been a big help today, John said. I’ve never seen you work harder Martin.  We might make you a farmer yet.

Thanks Dad.  I don’t mind helping, but you know I will NEVER be a farmer.  Martin answered a little perturbed.  I will be a writer some day.  Besides, having Hank here makes the work easier. 

Martin and Hank smiled at each other.  They could be mistaken for brothers, instead of friends.  There was an unspoken bond between the two of them that ran deeper than their wholesome prairie appearances. 

You shouldn’t say NEVER Martin.  Hank said laughing.  We don’t know what is in store for us.  If you had to be farmer you could do it and still write.  Martin listened, but just shook his head.  He didn’t want to disagree with Hank. 

I need to get a wrench to tighten this loose bolt. Hank said. You keep filling Martin and I will be right back

There is one in the red tool box in the shed.  John called out.

Martin lifted a bag of seed up to the long trough of the old grain drill.  The bag started to slip and the seed began to spill on the ground. 

John jumped down from the tractor and quickly steadied the bag.  I wish you would pay more attention to what you are doing.  You are always day-dreaming, John said with an irritated voice.  His manner had changed abruptly to impatience within just a few moments, a type of impatience Martin always perceived in his father, at least Martin felt this when he listened to his father.  Hank can fill this without spilling the seed.  You should be able too as well.

Martin blushed and sheepishly said.  Sorry Dad, the bag was heavy and I was trying to balance it against the trough.  I didn’t see the seed falling out over the side.  Martin hung his head, staring at the conical pile of seed, noting the symmetry.  Well, we don’t have seed to waste.  It doesn’t do any good for it to be in a pile on the ground.

I’ll go get a shovel to pick this up. Martin interjected before his father could say anything more to him.

Walking to the barn, Martin and Hank passed each other. 

I spilled the seed again.  Martin admitted in an embarrassed tone. 

It’s ok.  It probably wasn’t a lot, Hank sympathetically replied. 

Yes, but if you had been doing it then it would not have happened.  At least that is how my father sees it.

Don’t worry, it happens.  When I was your age my father didn’t think I could do anything right. 

Hank walked back to the drill and tightened the bolt while John continued to empty the bag into the trough.  Martin returned to carefully scoop up the spilled seed, being careful to not get too much dirt mixed in with the seed.  Although he wondered if it really mattered as it would just be mixed with the soil when it was planted.   

Hank climbed up onto the seat of the grain drill.  I’ll ride this time Martin. It’s your birthday and I know you could use a break. 

John climbed up on the tractor and looked back at Hank.  He was more confident with Hank operating the drill.  Hank and John exchanged a thumbs up sign and John started the tractor in the direction of the freshly plowed field. 

Martin watched as the tractor moved slowly down the lane.  It made a putt-putt sound as it went along.  Martin was soon distracted by the sight of a hawk flying over the far side of the plowed field. 

With the seed planting over and the equipment stowed the trio shuffled into the kitchen, sniffing the air to smell the aroma of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy.  It was a hearty robust meal and they ate it with appreciation, licking their fingers after eating the chicken. After dinner, Emma asked John to carry the cake into the dining room.  They did not often take photographs, but today Emma had the camera waiting on the sideboard.  They sang happy birthday as John lit the candles.

Now blow out the candles and make a wish, Emma said happily. Martin’s faced glowed in the candlelight as he brought his lips together to blow out the candles.  Hank’s face glowed as well, as he leaned in and pretended he would blow out the candles.  Martin was playfully pushing Hank out of the way when Emma pressed the button and the flashbulb lit up the room. Together Martin and Hank filled the picture, two handsome young men, enjoying themselves.  

Now don’t tell us what you wished for, but I hope it comes true, Emma exclaimed.

I hope I don’t spill any more seed, laughed Martin. 

Now don’t worry about that any more, Hank replied.  John nodded in agreement. 

I was just kidding, Martin said.  I’m not going to say what I was really wishing for.  It’s my secret.

The clock struck the hour and Emma was jolted back to the present.  She now knew that Martin had secrets.  Was the wish he had made on that birthday related to his secret?  Martin’s secret was something that occupied her mind every time she looked at the picture.  Should I get up and make some tea? Emma wondered. But, she didn’t get up.  Her mind was drifting through a minefield of memories - exploding with furor and emotions - no matter how many times she relived them the memories were powerful and all-consuming to her mind and spirit. 

The calmness of Emma’s actual world was undisturbed by her continual reminiscing. To her life only existed in her mind. She looked around the room and thought about her surroundings.  The living room windows looked out onto the main street of the town of Reliance. Even though it was the beginning of the 21st century, the town looked much as it had in the 1920s or 1930s.  The wooden houses, clustered on a small grid of dirt roads, predictably aligned with the compass points of north, south, east and west, were placed like a child’s toy village on the wide-open plains. Reliance wasn’t and would never be more than a few houses scattered on a hand full of streets in the middle of nowhere. Time for the town had been hollow too.  Emma remembered her father talking about a time when the town thought it would be a stop along the railroad, but this never came to pass.  Instead, time had taken a toll on Reliance.   Emma knew her house, like all the other houses in the town, needed painting and could use some fixing up, but she didn’t bother.  The desolate Colorado plains gave Emma a feeling of isolation, the condition of her house and the other houses didn’t matter to anyone. The nearest town was 20 miles away.  She pictured the sea of waving wheat fields surrounding the town. When she was younger she had delighted in the way the wheat swayed, the way it smelled after a rain. The way it smelled when it was harvested. Like all farm related smells there was a goodness Emma could not verbally describe, a connectedness with the land and the heartbeat of life. The wheat fields were not always about life as she quickly recalled the bleakness of winter, when the fields were covered in snow and the town was cut off from the rest of civilization and seemingly devoid of life.  Reliance was home and Emma knew she would spend the rest of her life in the town and would know no other rhythm than what she had experienced in Reliance.  The unchanging nature of the town, her rootedness and daily routine settled on Emma like a weighted blanket – capable of generating warmth while providing a reminder it is there and not easily sliding off.  Sometimes she felt buried alive, her memories of the past suffocating her.

She sighed as she looked out the window at the bright, late spring day.  She saw glimpses of the front yard when the curtains moved apart and relished in the breeze that happens in spring when the sun is warm, while the air is cool and refreshing.  The dull pain throbbing in Emma’s head seemed to lessen whenever she sat rocking in her chair, held the book and remembered.  Despite the power of her memories to evoke painful and bittersweet feelings, her memories were like sedatives to her, much more powerful than anything the doctor could prescribe.   

She felt the weight of the scrapbook in her hand and reflected that each time she looked at the book, it seemed to be heavier.  Was it a result of her increasing frailty or the weight of the memories – one year seemingly lying on top of the other – forming pages of her life?  She heard a car drive slowly by, the sound of the tires on the dirt road making a crunching sound.  In the distance, the train gave off its whistle to signal that it was coming through, but would not stop.  That must mean it was the 10:30 morning train.  The train would be making its way to the next town, where it would make a stop. 

The vibration of the train, as it roared through town, could be felt by a slight vibration that shook all the buildings in the town and could be heard through the tinkling sound of the glassware in the china cabinet. Emma usually ignored these sounds. To her the sounds were only something in the background, like the tic-tock of the clock. She had no need to pay attention.  She wasn’t going anywhere and could be lost in her thoughts. For some reason today was different. Today, she heard distinctly the ticking of the clock, the tinkling of the glass and especially the roar of the train.

Hear that sound. Emma’s father used to say, the rumbling sound of the train is hard work turning into money. 

He would often add, guess I need to work harder and earn us some more money.  Then he would laugh and pick up his young daughter, Emma, and look at her and say, but who needs money when I have the most precious baby in the world.  He would kiss her many times as she giggled and clung to his neck, squealing in delighted protest.  Emma deeply loved her father and her mother.

Just after the train rumbled past, Emma thought she heard laughter.  Maybe it was a television down the street, or maybe it was just her imagination.  There were no boys in the neighborhood and there hadn’t been any in many years.  Nevertheless, she thought she heard the sound of young boys laughing outside. 

As the breeze parted the living room curtains, she stared out the window at the front lawn. The sound of the laughter in her mind transported her back 35 years to remember Martin - Marty as she called him, playing on the front lawn.  Marty had been her precious baby. The miracle of a child every loving mother feels upon giving birth. Marty was a happy child.  He was shy around other people, especially other children.  Emma knew this was a result of his growing up with no other siblings in a small town with few children around.  Marty was often heard laughing - not at anything in particular, just laughing because he enjoyed the carefree life of a child.  The neighbor boy from next door, Dwight, had come to play. Emma looked out on the two boys.  Marty was five and Dwight was seven years old. Emma saw them rolling around on the grass. 

From the kitchen the music from the radio was trailing off as the announcer said, that was Cinderella After Midnight by Bobby Bruntz and the Polka Kings, last year’s most requested song and our number one pick for the top of the 1964 charts. At noon we will have the farm report.  You are listening to K-O-R-N.

Emma called through the screen door. Now you boys behave yourselves, I don’t want any rough housing.  One of you might get hurt or you will tear your clothes.

We are just playing, Marty called back and then giggled as Dwight began to take advantage of Emma’s distraction by grabbing Marty and tickling him. 

Emma smiled as she thought about Marty and Dwight.  They were inseparable and did everything together.  Marty was slight of build, but the right height for his young age.  He had beautiful blond hair and delightful blue eyes, which sparkled in the way only young, vibrant eyes sparkle.  Dwight could have been his older brother.  Although slightly bigger, they shared the same features, like many of the families in these remote towns, settled by northern European immigrants.

Marty came quietly into the house and walked over to where Emma was darning a hole in John’s sock.  Mommy, can I be a cowboy? Marty asked. 

Emma had made Marty a vest and chaps out of gunny sack cloth.  Marty had seen a picture of a costume like this