Obligated Consequences

By Gary Curlew

In 1972 the culture in the rural South was changing. There's always a human desire to keep things as they are and have been. There is also a necessity to move on. This is a story about people caught up in this struggle. Two beat-up people unlikely to ever meet do meet. Sex was the motivator that brought them together. Things looked good for a while. Then the past catches up with them. Things change fast. Just getting control of the situation seems impossible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465367969

Gary Curlew

This is my first novel. Until now all my writing has been practical writing. I wrote machinery manuals and technical articles. I also wrote essays about my research. After retirement one day I said I think I will write a novel I soon found writing short to the point articles is one thing. Writing an interesting 75,000 word novel is quite another thing. I soon found out what Hemingway meant when he said. “Just sit in front of a typewriter and bleed.”

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Life Can Change Fast

GEORGE WELRUC WAS saying to himself, Henry is right. I got to pick it up. Got to pull myself together and get back to work. First I have to find a place to stay. Removing a North Carolina map from the top drawer of his desk, he found the coordinates for Blufton G-12, locating it eighteen miles east of Fayetteville. Fayetteville. No, that would not do. I need a quiet place to get things back in order.

Eleven miles farther east was Sawyerville. Yes, he thought, just what Mother Henry ordered. A call to North Carolina information finally got him connected to the operator that served that area. She asked what number he was looking for, to which he replied, Any motel. She chuckled and did come back with a name and number. A woman answered the phone.

Motel Dixie.

Do you have any vacancies?

Yes, how many in your party?

Just one.

And for how long will you be staying?

Three, four weeks, maybe forever—who knows.

What?

OK, let’s make it for four weeks.

Will you be arriving by six?

I don’t think so. My American Express number is 7604-377902-4298, expiration date 02/75.

We close the office at six. Your room will be number 7. It will be unlocked. The key will be on the dresser.

George thought, It is hard to pack when it might be forever. He took a last look around at what had been his home for the past four years. His mind suddenly shifted as if to put the idea of leaving for good out of it. For Christ’s sake, a fucking motel with the door unlocked and shut down tighter than a drum at six o’clock. Yes, this is just what Henry had in mind.

He threw his stuff in the area behind the seat of the Corvette and headed east on Interstate 20 toward Florence, South Carolina. From Florence he would pick up Interstate 95 north to Fayetteville, North Carolina. From Fayetteville state Highway 24, east through Blufton, then to Sawyerville. He stopped at the first exit on I-20 for gas and to call Henry to say he was on his way. The receptionist answered on the second ring.

Stancoat Engineering Field service.

Yeah, this is George I need to talk to Henry.

Henry Sentiki.

Henry, I’m on my way to Blufton.

Are you OK?

Yeah.

Are you on the interstates?

Yep.

OK, be careful. The interstates can be boring, and you really don’t need to be there until Wednesday. Stop if you want or need to.

Yeah, OK. By the way, I’ll be staying at the Motel Dixie in Sawyerville. They close down at six, and I would just as soon nobody know where I am staying. The number there is 910-677-4567.

Henry was a good guy to work for. He was kind of a worrywart. However, he did care about his people. He would also give them all the slack they needed. Henry was also right, which was not unusual. The interstates were boring. Nothing to do but drive and think. George used to like the long thinking drives back and forth from Atlanta to the brick plants in North Carolina. The time would fly by. This trip was going to be a long one with nothing on his mind except the events of the past three weeks.

What went wrong? he had been asking the same question over and over. He came home early unannounced, and Doris, his wife of fifteen years, was not there. It was Thursday, and she always went shopping after work. It was nine thirty. Surely she would be home in a little while, but he had a gut feeling something was not right. At eleven thirty, he knew something was wrong.

She arrived home at one thirty and was noticeably upset to find him home. The row started then. Finally, around dawn, she admitted to an affair for over two years.

She was lying on the bed, bleeding and crying. The sight of her face covered in blood stopped George cold. Everything now seemed to be in slow motion. It was 5:00 a.m., blood all over the bed, and he was still filled with rage, but things seemed to stop.

What the fuck to do? Who do I call? Think, George, think. Out of desperation and panic, he called his old friend, the reverend. Rev. Richard Bullard was a minister who owned an airplane with George.

(The reverend was the pastor of a large Methodist church in the Atlanta area. About a year ago, the reverend was transferred to Augusta, Georgia. When the reverend moved, George told him to take the plane with him since he was so busy with the brick plants that all he did was travel back and forth to North Carolina. George told him he would pick it up when he had some time and needed it.)

The phone was ringing.

Hello. It was Mary Alice, the reverend’s wife.

George sounded distraught. Is… is Richard there?

Who is this?

George Welruc.

My god, George, what’s wrong?

It’s Doris.

Richard, Richard, it’s George.

Hey,—yawning—what’s wrong?

It’s Doris. She has been having an affair. I found out about it tonight.

There was a slight pause on the reverend’s end.

She is pretty bloody, George said.

Damn, how bad is she?

I don’t know! I don’t know.

"George, get hold of yourself. Think, man, think. Remember when I first started flying with you. You always said, ‘Think, think, don’t lose your head. Think.’ People only get into trouble when they lose their heads. You are not thinking, man. Tell you what, get out of there. Get out of there now! I can’t help you if you kill her."

She… she needs medical attention.

I know, I know. I will handle that as soon as you leave. Trust me, I’ll handle it. Have a drink and come over here now.

Get her help, please.

It’s on its way, get out of there.

OK.

Get out of there, the reverend turned to Mary Alice and said, Doris has been having an affair. He is taking it badly. I never saw him like this. You could not have had a steadier hand in the cockpit. He is not thinking, just acting. It’s not like him. I’m worried.

George poured a water-glass full from the first bottle he found in the liquor cabinet. He had taken it with him in the car when he headed for Augusta. He drank about half of it before he realized it was bourbon. What the hell, bourbon? Where did that come from? She probably had it for her lover. Shit, I hate bourbon.

He wound down the window and threw it out, glass and all. The sun was coming up and was beginning to be a nuisance as he was driving into it. Another fucking day, he thought, what a mess. George wasn’t a man to leave untidy ends to anything. He always finished what he started.

At the Greensboro exit, the interstate ended. The route detoured through Washington, Sparta, and Martinez just west of Augusta. He pulled off the interstate and into a gas station. He got a large black coffee and meandered to the pay phone, sipping on the hot coffee and looking at the phone. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he made a call.

Rev, I’m halfway to Augusta, but I have been thinking. I am turning around and heading back to do what I have to.

She is in Piedmont Hospital. They are going to operate this afternoon to put her nose back together. What the hell did you hit her with?

Well, she got in the way when I threw the sewing machine through the wall. She caught it on the backswing as I was winding up. If she had gotten it head on, it would have killed her.

You are lucky you didn’t kill her or hurt her worse. I have things under control for now. Stay away from the hospital, do you hear?

OK.

It is going to take awhile for me to work things out. I have a friend over there in Atlanta who will be contacting you.

OK, and thanks, thanks!

Hey, maybe next week you can come over and take the plane out. You know where it is, and a key is still in the wing handhole.

Yeah. OK, we’ll see. Thanks again.

George got the operator back and called Henry. Henry, as usual, understood. George always thought Henry would not get excited if he was on fire. He said, Take a couple of weeks off. We have the Blufton installation at the end of the month.

For Christ’s sake, Henry, my wife is having an affair. I’ve about torn her nose off her fucking face. I don’t know what to do, and you have a fucking job for me to go on.

George, in a couple of weeks things will look different and some work will be what you will need. I am penciling you in for it.

Yeah. OK. George hung up and muttered, Pencil in shit if you want to.

The reverend’s friend, another minister, came around that evening and talked. Doris’s lover had to be notified. The minister had visited her at the hospital. She had given up the guy’s name and number. The reverend’s friend had offered to make the call. He had told the lover the situation and had strongly suggested that the guy stay away.

Doris got home from the hospital and pretty much stayed in the bedroom. George mostly sat on the patio staring into space, with moods ranging from hate for her, to feeling sorry for himself, to love for her, to hurt—mostly hurt. After two and one half weeks, there had hardly been fifteen words spoken between them. She said she was going back to work Monday.

George replied, Yeah, OK. Henry has a job for me too.

Here he was again, heading east on Interstate 20. Just thinking, thinking about her and what the future was to bring. The endless ribbon of white concrete passed under the Corvette; the barrier strip of brown grass with only the exit signs whizzed by. Beyond the strip were pine trees, with an occasional gas station sign sticking up above them.

There was the Greensboro exit. He turned off and headed toward Washington. Every mile now was a mile farther than the last time he was here and a mile closer to healing.

George pulled off Interstate 95 and into a Hardee’s. He ordered a burger, fries, and a shake from the drive-through. Not healthy, like it makes a big difference, he thought. He paid, took the sack of food, and headed east on North Carolina Highway 24 toward Sawyerville. He finished his meal as Blufton came into view.

It looks like not much more than an intersection, he thought. The brick plant was on the right side of the highway. Well, at least I won’t have to look for it tomorrow. No sense stopping tonight, I’ll know all about it soon enough.

It was getting late. There were supplies to get before he went to the unlocked motel room. The supplies were easy to find—just as he entered town, there was a State Liquor Store. He purchased a quart of Mr. Boston Gin. Next was a stop at the convenience store for two cans of Fresca and directions. Mission accomplished: got the gin, Fresca, and directions to the Motel Dixie.

The motel looked like many other Southern small-town motels. It had an office close to where you drove in. It was locked and dark, of course, as it was eight o’clock. It had a single story with the rooms to the left—two doors together: 1 and 2, 3 and4, etc. It looked like there were about fifteen rooms. Four cars were parked in front of the rooms between number 7 and the office. Doesn’t look like this place will be much of a distraction, he thought as he parked in front of number 7. Not exactly a swinging place. Of course, all the doors could be unlocked, and the swingers could still be on their way.

Rather unlikely, he thought, probably the only guests are their regular group of roadies or salesmen out on their routes peddling their wares. Some would be staying a couple of days, and others would be arriving each night and departing before breakfast until Friday. Friday was when the peddlers headed for home. He had seen it hundreds of times all over the South. All a guy on the road wanted was a clean bed, a bucket of ice, and being left alone. That’s what these mom-and-pop motels offered.

The room smelled of some flowery spray-can scent. A feeble attempt to cover the musty, closed-up smell all these places had. A double bed, a newer TV, and the rest of the standard motel room furniture. This lot looked like old holiday-inn stuff. As expected the ice machine was next to the office and full. The bed was clean, and there was not much of a chance he would be bothered.

He got unpacked, poured about three inches of Mr. Boston over some ice, and topped it off with a little Fresca. He took a shower and went to bed. It was beginning to seem like old times. He had always made a phone call home about now. There was a temptation, but he was fighting it. Got to hang tough and at least get through tonight without calling. He finally fell asleep.

The sun was shining when he awoke. He was feeling good after the first full night’s sleep in weeks. He got dressed and set out to find some coffee and breakfast.

He found the breakfast in a small cafe around the corner from the motel. With a full stomach and feeling better than he had felt in weeks, he headed for the brick plant thinking, Henry was right. I need this job.

CHAPTER 2

Back to Work

THE PLANT LOOKED like all the others. A long metal building with cubes of bricks stored outside on one end. This one was a little newer, with a brand-new extension on the end with the stored brick cubes. Basically, they all were pretty much the same, staffed with the same type personalities.

The brick manufacturing process was a simple operation. They extrude damp clay into a long rectangular slab measuring four inches by two and a quarter inches. As the slab extends from the extruder, it is cut into eight-inch lengths. This produces a damp clay brick eight inches long by four inches wide by two and a quarter inches high. These are called green bricks. The green bricks are stacked onto a kiln car. The kiln cars with the green bricks are pulled through a long kiln like a small train. The temperature inside the kiln is two thousand degrees Fahrenheit. It takes thirty hours for a car to travel through the kiln.

Stancoat Machinery Company, George’s employer, was involved with packaging the finished bricks. They were working with a company from the mountains of North Carolina, Production Machinery Incorporated. Together they had manufactured machinery to package the fired bricks from the kiln to a cube that contained five hundred bricks. This cube could easily be transported and stacked for storage. Previously these cubes had been assembled by hand. That had been very labor intensive and costly.

They had five systems installed and running around the state. George had installed them all along with Bill, an erector, and Sid, an electrician from Production Machinery.

George spotted Bill’s truck and parked the ‘Vette next to it. George walked over to Bill who was looking at the mass of green chucks of steel scattered about the area. This mass of steel would be the cause of some lost jobs when it was assembled and running. Bill looked up when he saw George. He walked over to greet him. They shook hands, and Bill said, Damn, it’s good to see you. I heard you were off a few weeks, and they did not know if you were going to make it.

Yeah. I had some personal things to deal with, but you know me. I didn’t want you to have all the fun the next few weeks.

This brought a little laugh from Bill. He then asked, Where are you staying? We have some rooms in Fayetteville. It looks like a jumping place. Do you want us to get you one?

No, I am staying around here. I have been off, and I am way behind in my paperwork. I need to stay where I am for a while and get caught up.

Sid will not be here all the time, and we are keeping his room. If you want to come over for a night, it will be available.

We’ll see, answered George, wondering just how much Bill and everyone else knew about his situation.

They went to work directing a forklift, picking up pieces of the green iron scattered around like a giant steel jigsaw puzzle. By noon, some of the larger pieces were in place and some local millwrights were bolting them together. They went to the Hardee’s back toward Fayetteville for lunch.

George was settling into his standard routine. Start around seven, take an hour for lunch when it was convenient, then knock off around 4:00 p.m. He would digest the day for a while, take a few notes, and plan the next day. Then he would head for the barn, as they say in this part of the country. He would stop at the convenience store on the way and pick up two cans of Fresca.

When he got to the motel room, he would mix the Mr. Boston in a glass with a little Fresca and some ice. He would relax awhile and then take a shower. After the shower he would lie on the bed, usually naked, until he finished his drink. He would then call home. Depending on how he felt, he would go out to dinner or stay there and munch on snacks. This had always been his routine. It still was, except that not calling home seemed strange. But he decided to hang tough and give things time to work out.

Wednesday was better than Tuesday; he was settling in. Thursday was different. Around noon, Bill said, This is steak night at the foreman’s club, and we are invited. Bill was a PR man and enjoyed the socializing. George didn’t care for either; he was predictable and did not like change to his routine

Aw shit, I don’t feel much like socializing tonight.

You have to go.

What time is it starting?

Right after work.

I’ll go for a while.

After work, there was a caravan of cars and trucks heading down behind the plant. George waited until the end. He wanted to be the last car so he would not be blocked in. He knew for sure he would be the first to leave. This crap wasn’t his thing. They arrived at what looked like an abandoned quarry. Off to one side there was an old structure. It looked like it may have been an office at one time. This is the foreman’s club? George wondered. Alongside the structure there were several fifty-gallon barrels cut in half horizontally and attached to legs. Some had ice; the others had charcoal fires smoldering in them. The smoldering ones were attended by some fellows George had seen at the plant. They were cooking great chunks of beef while others were roasting potatoes.

Interesting, thought George, these guys are not all foremen. Some, he was sure, didn’t even work there. There were two policemen milling about. From their uniforms, one looked like a sheriff, the other some sort of city cop. George also noticed that all the participants did have one thing in common. They were all white.

Someone came up and said, Hey, Yank, get yourself a drink. We got hard stuff inside and beer in them ice barrels. Yank, thought George, they like me. George had a very distinctive Northern accent. Experience had shown him that if they called him Yank, he was OK. If they just stared at him and said nothing, there was usually going to be trouble.

Inside they had a TV with a VCR playing an XXX pornographic tape. Being as they did not have any Mr. Boston, he figured they probably had no Fresca either. So he went outside and picked a Bud out of an ice barrel. He noticed some of the crowd was just looking at him, including the policemen. Some bad vibes here, he thought, got to stay away from those people.

All in all, it was a pretty good feed. The participants were getting drunker and louder. Someone yelled, I want to smell gunpowder. There was a mad rush to their trucks and cars for firearms.

As they passed George, one stopped and asked, You got a gun, Yank?

Nope?

You shooting?

Nope.

You ain’t got no gun?

Nope?

Why the hell not?

Too dangerous, people can get hurt with them.

Well hell, I guess so. That’s why you need one for protection.

This didn’t make a lot of sense to George. Actually, George had his Colt .45 in the car. It was in a little compartment under the floor he had built to conceal it. He always figured it was better that nobody know it was there. Bill didn’t even know he had it.

George went back inside. An elderly man was sitting on an old sofa looking at the TV. He introduced himself as Robert Bonnett. He said he was the contractor that built the new addition where they were installing the machinery. He said he was also staying at the Dixie. His daughter was worried about him as all his crew had returned home. He was alone down here and had