White Squirres & Other Monsters

By Gerry Harlan Brown

Kin Patterson is One Sorry Individual.

He sorry he is the last Patterson; sorry that at 27 years of age all he has to show for his life is failure; sorry that the best part of any day is getting plastered with the other pitiful excuses he calls friends.

It's no wonder his wife left him. It's no wonder he's facing bankruptcy.

So, when word comes that a 90-year-old great-uncle he has never met wishes to meet with his sole heir, it's no wonder that Kin imagines a fat inheritance that will be the answer to all his woes.

He immediately travels to the old family home in Bowling Green, Kentucky. To Kin's deep disappointment, he discovers Uncle Woody is not near death, nor is he senile or feeble. He is still sharp, and as Kin painfully discovers, still able to work his BB gun, for Woody shoots him at first sight.

Having dealt with his own ration of strife, Woody doesn't care to cut Kin any slack. Neither does Moby, a white squirrel that declares war on both men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WordCrafts Press
• Release date: Apr 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393986737

Book preview

White Squirrels

& Other Monsters

by

Gerry Harlan Brown

WordCrafts Press

Copyright © 2020 Gerry Harlan Brown

Cover Concept and Design by David Warren

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To the grandbabies: Brandon, Bristin, Jackson, Grayson.

For Stephen, who believed

Contents

Chapter 1 – Friendly Fire

Chapter 2 - A Plate and a Bowl

Chapter 3 - Addentures of the Deep

Chapter 4 - A Vacant Seat

Chapter 5 - X Marks the Spot

Chapter 6 - A Real Peach

Chapter 7 - Providence

Chapter 8 - Making Waves

Chapter 9 - Breaking Ground

Chapter 10 - Called to Judgment

Chapter 11 - Family Trees

Chapter 12 - All Yours

Chapter 13 - Moon Pie

Chapter 14 - Nail of a Time

Chapter 15 - A Case of Arson

Chapter 16 - Lost River

Chapter 17 - Revelations

Chapter 18 - Coming Home

Chapter 19 - The Last Scrap

Chapter 20 - Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

1

Friendly Fire

W hat’s the matter, Lord? Run out of lightning?

The words came out on their own, and why not? From where I sat, stopped between the gateposts to the long drive, Papa’s boyhood home—the Patterson homestead—looked one hard wind from falling over flat. For two cents I would have headed straight back to Louisville, leaving Bowling Green in my wake. Besides, I was already in a state. My head was pounding like black thunder. I probably should have laid off bourbon the night before, and tequila, maybe got more than an hour’s sleep, but I thought I had reason to celebrate. That was before I got a look at what I expected to inherit.

Only a day earlier I had received a letter from an attorney. I was the sole surviving relative of one Woodrow Patterson, she said. That was news. I hadn’t known I had a great-uncle—or any relatives for that matter. I had believed, and felt, that I was an orphan. As if her letter was not bombshell enough, a note was attached: I’m dying. Come quick. W. P.

The lawyer said that was an exaggeration. Mr. Patterson appeared to be in fair health, considering his years. My uncle merely wanted to make certain he caught my attention. Really? That made me wonder if this joker still possessed all his marbles. The man was 90, however, the lawyer added, and prudence dictated that we address any legal matters before nature took its inevitable course. That part made sense.

Discovering I had a living relative got me excited at first. To be truthful, however, not quite as excited as the prospect of an inheritance. Business had not been good the last few months. I needed the money. Bankruptcy would be rearing its ugly head if something didn’t give real soon. Still, setting my financial worries aside, the idea of having a family, even if there were just two of us, was kind of thrilling.

Of course, there had been someone. Only weeks before Brunhilde and I had marked our fourth anniversary. Then, straight out of the blue, nearly, she got all bent out of shape over my drinking. Hey! Could I help it if the gang at the Bent Elbow threw a party for my 27th? What was the big deal about me having a few drinks? Didn’t I stop by the bar every day? And didn’t I call her at midnight and invite her to come join the festivities? She did seem a little short with her answer. Guess I woke her up. Even so, my dear, sweet wife caught me off guard when she hopped on her broom and went flying back north, leaving me, God’s gift to the planet, alone.

So much for her, the traitor. At that moment I had a long-lost great uncle to locate. I shifted into Drive and began to ease along the lane toward that pile of boards below.

My grandparents’ house certainly wasn’t how I remembered it. The pictures in my mind came from a long time ago, however. It had been over 20 years since I had set foot on the place. I was just a little squirt back then, so my perspective was definitely different. Everything had been much neater. That memory was certain. And the house had been in good repair, shining white and fresh from its spot in a grove of shade trees.

Seeing their home also aroused memories of my grandparents, yet time’s fading light had dimmed these recollections, too. I could recall each of them individually, though it was like looking through old glass. Only a few sharp details appeared.

With my grandfather it was his hands. They were mottled with brown age spots and black-blood bruises, battle marked with scars. I could see him seated on the front-porch step, an open pocketknife clutched in one great fist, whittling on a piece of wood. My back pressed to his chest, he placed the knife in my tiny fist, his hand covering mine, confident, guiding. A curled shaving floated down to our feet. For an instant, just a breath, I again tasted the pleasant, mingled scents of pipe tobacco and fresh-cut cedar.

Then there was grandmother’s hand, warm, comforting, not much larger than my child-size hand, our fingers intertwined as the two of us walked down this drive toward the house. Perhaps we were returning from a trip to the mailbox, which I vaguely remembered was always quite a big deal for me. We stopped to look at her flowers. One rosebush was covered in yellow. She bent down, cupped her free hand around a solitary bloom and pulled it near. Her eyes fluttered shut as she drew in its sweetness.

The drive bent in a sweeping left turn in front of the house. A stretch of sidewalk ran from the porch over to the pavement’s edge. I stopped by the end of the walk, shut off the motor, and stepped out into the simmering cauldron of a Kentucky summer day.

Everything about the place screamed deserted! The lawn was overgrown and ragged. Racks of dead branches lay scattered like shed antlers amid the purple stalks of poke and clumps of wearied, yellow broom sedge. A smattering of deliberate plantings survived. There were a couple of wild-looking shrubs beside the porch, a tall, scraggly lilac down past the first window, and a dozen or so rosebushes scattered willy-nilly about, all more dead than alive if their blackened stems and sparse leaves meant anything.

The house was modest, hardly more than a cottage. Half of the front was taken up by a porch. Right of the porch a couple of tall, narrow windows looked out on the lawn. Now that I was close, I saw how rough the place truly was. Dozens of shingles were gone. Windows were missing so much glazing their panes could only be holding in place by habit. Siding boards were loose and sagging. A bed of maple seedlings rose out of the gutter. Their roots protruded through rust-rimmed holes in tangled veils, yielding a Spanish moss effect, which was nice, if you like that kind of thing.

The porch was a wreck within a wreck. Spaced along its front were square columns of upright boards set on brickwork bases, with a railing mounted on a balustrade filling the gaps between. A few of the balusters were missing, like teeth knocked out. Slim holes yawned black where trim pieces had disappeared or joints had split. A glassless storm door that wouldn’t turn the breeze from a fat lady’s church fan stood ajar before the front entrance. Guarding the opening where the door’s bottom glass should have been was a yellow and black spider the size of a pie plate. That made up my mind. Any closer inspection of the porch was unnecessary.

With an inheritance like this.... The idea, so pleasantly entertained on the trip down, that I would only have to hire a Realtor was nowhere near reality. There was no windfall here to be reaped when the sad day came, and my old uncle passed on. All I saw was damage and rot. That meant big money for repairs—money I did not have.

Resuming my inspection, I made my way slowly around the left side of the house. I noticed how the driveway continued beyond until it ended at an even more dilapidated one-car garage. The garage was open. An ancient vehicle was visible. A Studebaker?

A dogwood tree stood in the strip of side-yard, overshadowing my path. One limb ahead was so low I had to bend double to go under. That allowed me a glimpse into the backyard, to where the grass was unexpectedly clipped short and neat. A little distance further I could see the tidy rows of a small vegetable garden. What in the world?

A step ahead another limb arched across my path. Just as I started to tilt forward, a burst of white flashed in my peripheral vision. It shot along the branch’s length, right to left, streaking mere inches from my face. Before I could turn and follow it there was a low phunt sound. Instantly the right side of my head exploded in pain. My hand reflexively flew to my ear, the center-point of whatever grave injury I had just received.

The clock slowed to a crawl. After awhile I became aware of a wave of sound arising in the far distance. It grew nearer, became louder. All at once I felt sickened, recognition having struck me like a punch in the pit of my stomach. It was the high-pitched wail of a child in terrible anguish. Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!

Who can sit still when such a cry arises? That pitiful shrieking penetrated to my very core, made my every nerve quiver so wildly my body began to shake in turn. Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!! To listen to it a breath longer would surely split my skull apart; yet it continued unabated, as if it must rend the air forever. Finally, the second hand ticked forward. Understanding returned. It was my own voice screaming bloody murder.

I found myself on a flagstone walkway—a connection between the back of the house and the garage—a few paces beyond the dogwood tree. How I had traveled to that spot was a mystery. Other than a distant, hazy recollection of having been in frantic motion, the slate was pretty much blank. The distress arising from the injury had apparently been so great it blocked out my brain’s ability to register detail.

What I did know is that when my senses came back I was on that walkway, and I was dancing that manic, hard-stomping dance that Tennesseans do when their spirits have been seized by the strains of Rocky Top. Strangely, I could not cut that particular jig prior to the wounding, nor have I been able to replicate the feat at any time since. Nevertheless, I stuck the landing right there on the flagstones like I knew what I was doing. The performance left me dizzy and disoriented for the next few moments.

As equilibrium began to take hold again, I focused my attention on the wound. Surprisingly, it turned out that the injury was not located upon the side of my head, but rather out on the periphery; on the lobe of my right ear, to be precise. The spot was throbbing in time with my heart. I touched it ever so gently. It was tender as a rising and damp. I glanced at my fingertips and saw blood!

I just about hit the ground! The sight of blood doesn’t generally bother me—other people’s blood. Seeing my own is a different matter, altogether. The initial sight never fails to shock. With an effort, I willed my legs to cease their wobbling. Then I just stood there, relieved to still be upright, the rhythmic thumping in my earlobe the only sound.

The peace was short-lived. Problem was, I could not resist the impulse to touch the injured area. Being cautious to the extreme, I ever so gently clasped the damaged appendage between the tips of thumb and forefinger so that the hole, the point of penetration, was sealed. My pain level went up. I applied just a hint of pressure to stay any further blood loss. The pain grew more, but it still wasn’t at the breathtaking, gotta-go-right-now level of earlier. Then thumbtip and fingertip shifted ever so slightly, shifted the way they might have had they been pinching a marble between them and the marble suddenly rolled half a turn. That hurt! Good Lord! Did it ever! There was something in there. There was definitely something inside my earlobe and it was as big as a marble. Bigger. Then here came that awful, wrenching sound again, that child’s pitiful wailing, loud as ever.

Aiiiiiiiiiii!!

Hush!

I did, too—stopped in mid-wail.

Gonna wake the dead!

It was a man’s voice, deep and commanding. Where it came from I couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to have boomed from off to the right, in the direction of the house. I did my best to keep holding my tongue in check. My emotions were so high, though, there was bound to be some leakage. I snubbed a little, catching my breath in short snatches the way a child does when he’s ordered to quit blubbering, but he can’t quite get the faucet closed.

Never heard the like.

Okay. That time he didn’t seem quite so demanding, so put out. It was more a simple stating of fact. That was a good sign, especially since I hadn’t nailed down his exact location. I relaxed slightly and bucked up enough to shut off my tear ducts. I allowed my eyes to follow the flagstones toward the house. The walk ran alongside a screened-in porch. The voice seemed to have come from somewhere in that area.

It was difficult to see inside. At this shallow angle the wooden uprights framing the screen interrupted my line of sight, so that only slivers of the spaces between were visible. In addition, the wire had been painted black, which on its own helped mask what lay on the other side; but it also appeared to have been a haphazard job that left many of the tiny pores in the mesh clogged with a film of paint. The clogs formed little squares or rectangles or flights of stair steps. A final element was the presence of a great number of other small squares and rectangles. These were a uniform washed-out gray, maybe 2 inches by 2 or 4 or 6 inches, seemingly scattered at random upon the inner surface of the wire.

Looking from an area of bright sun into a darker space is always tough. I couldn’t tell which end was up at first. As my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light within the porch, however, I began to make out various items: a tall, potted plant; an oversize chair; what might have been a metal glider—the kind with a deep, sofa-like bench where a couple of people can sit and swing—and him!

He was at the end nearest me. The room was squared off there, stopping several feet short of the corner of the house. He appeared as a leaden-colored, squarish blob, identifiable as a person only by the outline of his head jutting up from the greater mass. It dawned on me that he was seated. Actually, I deduced that—rather brilliantly I would say—by his height; or, more accurately, by his lack of height.

The screen was still quite effective at masking the particulars of what lay beyond. Even though we were no more than 20 feet apart, I could not make out his features. Of course, I quit trying the instant I noticed there was something protruding through a hole in the wire—the something having captured my full attention. At first I thought this cylindrical object was a section of small pipe. Then I noticed a little point on top. For a moment I puzzled on what that might be. I suddenly realized it was a sight. That gray lump was holding a rifle! It was a small bore, probably a .22 caliber. A good foot of barrel was on my side of the screen. Without warning, it shifted to point straight at me. Now I understood.

You shot me!

Subtlety has never been one of my strong suits.

Say what? His immediate reply conveyed surprise.

You shot me! I said it louder that time, shouted it, actually, angered that he would feign shock over his crime.

And why shouldn’t I have been upset? I might not have been a firearms expert, but it wasn’t like I needed to be. No great knowledge in the field was required to render a ruling. The indisputable evidence was there. He had a rifle; what felt like a marble lodged in my earlobe was in reality a bullet; and the sound, that phunt noise, why he must have used a silencer. That was it. A silencer. Diabolical.

Did not! he suddenly shouted.

Did too! I shouted back.

Did not!

Did too!

Oh, yeah? he snapped.

Yeah! I yelled in reply.

Cork it, or I’ll pop you again! With that the gun barrel shifted ever so slightly, settled, seemed to have found alignment with the spot between my eyebrows.

His sharp order, and the gun’s realignment, had a remarkably calming effect upon yours truly. I had been shot, he had done it, and there was no denying the fact. Heck! He had just admitted his guilt by threatening to pop me again! That issue was laid to rest. Besides, enough of a painful throbbing remained in my earlobe to take all the fun out of a second wounding. A cooling off period wasn’t such a bad idea, I figured, so I followed his suggestion and put a cork in it.

Seconds rolled by without a word between us, began to pile up until a full minute was stacked. A cardinal chip-chipped from somewhere close-by. In the distance a train’s horn blared a signal: two longs, two shorts. The neighborhood bugs continued with their ongoing efforts to all get on the same page of the hymnal and continued to fail, so that their songs and squeals and squeaks swirled in and out in irregular waves from every direction.

The two-minute mark approached. I stood there on the walkway, sweating like my check for bail had just bounced, gingerly exploring the wounded area with my fingertips once more. The would-be assassin remained frozen in place on the porch, far as I could tell, though the tip of the rifle barrel did seem as if it had been lowered that slightest bit. He’d probably zeroed in on my heart.

I wasn’t aiming at you.

The sudden admission cracked the air. I didn’t jump, but only because I caught myself at the last instant. No sense giving him an excuse to squeeze the trigger again. I was so intent on keeping track of where that rifle was pointed that the obvious question didn’t even occur to me: Then what were you aiming at?

I didn’t believe he had made a mistake, though. No, sir! I didn’t buy that stuff for a New York second. That’s what the guilty always say: It was an accident. My finger slipped. Unhuh. Sure. What was I to do, however? He was holding me at gunpoint, and that was no accident! Obviously, I was in no spot to argue.

That didn’t mean that I didn’t get upset. Fact is, I got mad. I got very mad. It was frustrating not being able to respond. I studied on several possible things to say, casting about for something that would zing him a little without getting me blasted again.

Couldn’t prove it by me, I said at last, which sounded so feeble I wished I had just kept my mouth shut.

Well, I wasn’t. He didn’t exactly seem brimming over with remorse.

You could have killed me! I fired back.

Doubt it.

Wonder you didn’t, I insisted. Several moments passed without a reply. Burns like blue blazes, I finally added.

Oh, you’re not hurt bad.

Easy for you to say.

Yeah, it is, but you’re still not hurt bad.

Wouldn’t think so if it was your ear! I snapped

Quit whining. What you get, jumping out like that.

Jumping out! That’s crazy.

Go slipping ’round a man’s house, ought to expect to get shot. Try to rob me, I’ll ventilate you.

Why, I—

I’ve got the floor, boy!

He paused, and I kept quiet this time, my gaze locked on the gun barrel, while I waited for his next silly claim to come flying out. I didn’t have to wait but a couple of seconds.

Now, he resumed, his tone mild, controlled, it’s high time you owned up to what you’re doing sneaking around here. And don’t say selling insurance. I’d just as soon draw down on an insurance peddler as I had Hitler! Not much difference between the two, truth be told.

I held up a minute. He was making me angrier each time he opened his mouth—other than for the insurance salesman part, which I happened to agree with—but he did have a point. I could see where it might look like I was slipping around the place. Also, it had at last begun to dawn on me that maybe I had found who I was looking for. This shooter was probably my long-lost great-uncle. I couldn’t be certain yet, what with the way our, uh, conversation had been going, but he had possession of the house, which had to mean something. It was time to get to the bottom of things.

I got a letter a couple of days ago, I began, a letter from a lawyer.

Don’t care for lawyers.

Me, neither, I agreed quickly, half for protection and half because, like with the insurance salesman crack, we were of the same mind.

His lumpiness sat silent.

Didn’t look like anyone lived here, I said, starting over. Everything is so, uh... disorganized.

Nothing.

I wasn’t trying to slip up on you, or break in, or anything like that.

Huh, he said. I waited half a minute for more. Nothing came.

This is my family’s old home place, I guess you could call it; my grandparents’ house.

No reply. This was starting to get ridiculous. The sun was beating down on my bare head. The heat rising from the flagstones was making it difficult to stand still in one spot. My ear was throbbing like crazy, too. Maybe I wasn’t in danger of bleeding to death, but I was beginning to feel kind of woozy again. All I needed was to go bottom’s up in a faint and crack my skull on the sidewalk. Then he’d probably shoot me full of holes, ventilate me like he’d threatened, while I lay there, helpless. A particularly electric spasm knifed its way through my earlobe. In response, I reached up to the wounded area and once again felt the projectile lodged there.

Look, I began, the reminder bringing out my exasperation, I came here, like the letter said for me to, thinking I’d find my uncle. Maybe that’s you and maybe it isn’t, but I can’t stand around here any longer talking to a fence post, trying to figure out if it’s kin to me. I’ve got to find an emergency room so I can get this bullet cut out of my ear.

A loud cackle blew out from the porch.

Glad you think it’s funny, I snapped back.

With that remark the gate swung wide open. He was laughing like I’d just said the funniest thing he had ever heard. He kept on, too, until I could feel the skin on my face begin to smolder from anger. There was nothing I could do