Lickety-Split: A Novel from Nebraska

By J. Gordon Schrempp

Licketyn-Split I A Novel From Nebraska.

By J. Gordon Schrempp.

Sometimes fictions appeal is its ability to carry us to worlds known and unknown giving us an escape from the boredom or pressures of daily life. At other times, fiction is at its very best when it takes us to territories we know intimately. It provides us with a mirror, giving us insight into our own lives and takes us back to our own past and uncovers deeply buried conflicts and desires long forgotten. This is what Dean Arnold the main character of Lickety-Split does for the reader. It is through his character that the reader can connect with his past. Through a brilliant character portrayal, Schrempp a first time author, manages to illuminate our own past and take us to areas long buried in our consciousness. Areas many of us would like to relive or in some cases hope to forget.

Dean Arnold lives on a farm in Northeastern Nebraska with his parents and two brothers. Although the setting of this character driven novel is in the early 50s the story is timeless. Dean spends a great deal of time and nervous energy coping with a dominating alcoholic father, the fear of a depraved school bully, and the baffling experience of a blossoming first love. The latter, resides mostly in his imagination.

To escape reality Dean finds solace in a giant sycamore tree on highway 20 where he watches traffic heading east to Chicago and west to California. It is here where his imagination sores and all his conflicts dissolve temporarily. The passing humanity on Highway 20 gives him hope and a vision for a better existence.

When his whiskey-drinking father decides to sell the farm to buy Beckers Bar in Wynot, his world is driven deeper into chaos. The bizarre characters he meets in the Bar alter his attitude and give him experiences with the seamy side of life. Here, in a strange way, he finds the relief he desires. He learns that alcohol can give him temporary relief but he only falls deeper into trouble. Salvation comes from a boxer turned priest at the local Catholic Church where Dean is a mass server. Father Logue takes him under his wing and begins to teach him basic lessons in boxing to give him a sense of self-esteem that he hopes will build the confidence he lacks and a belief that happiness and pride come from within ones self.

Just as Deans confidence begins to build he accidentally discovers a dark and heinous secret in the priest, the one man he was just beginning to trust. This discovery comes just about the time his younger brother Ernie dies of leukemia. Although leukemia was the disease that killed him it was pneumonia that brought it on. Two weeks prior to his death, Dean had taken Ernie on a motorcycle ride in the cool morning air. His mother, Elizabeth, out of sadness at the loss of her beautiful son blames part of his death on Dean. This final disgrace is the last straw for Dean.

When school gets out for the summer Dean feels he needs to escape. His dad is consumed with keeping the bar business going (with the death of her beloved son his wife stopped cooking meals for customers) and the death of Ernie. These circumstances give Dean the power he needs to make some plans.

A visit to his sycamore tree gives him a solution. He knows what he has to do.

Schrempp allows his readers, through Dean to explore what can happen when desperation in its darkest form gives way to solutions that can be lived with and once found give us hope and a measure of joy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 14, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469105093

J. Gordon Schrempp

J. Gordon Schrempp is originally from Nebraska, the setting of his trilogy, Lickey-Split. He graduated from De Paul University with a BA in Philosophy and a Masters in Communication from NIU. The writing bug came to him while teaching in Addison, Illinois. To stimulate the student’s imagination he invented his own stories for them to read and then tried to switch them into reading standard material. One story let to another and formed the basis for his writing adventure. Mr. Schrempp lives in Fountain Hills AZ. with his wife, Joan. All comments and corrections are welcomed at [e-mail].

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Copyright © 2005 by J. Gordon Schrempp.

Front cover art by Jolene Steffen

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Acknowledgments

I’m deeply grateful for the generous help I have received from the following people who took time to read and comment on Lickety-Split: Bill Ahlers, Doris Dale, Mary Cruger, Maryann Ellinger, Elaine Kirkman, Bill Muehlhauser, Marilyn Primus, and John and Phylis Smart.

Special mention goes to two great editors, Kristi Hein and Joy Johannessen.

I want to pay a special tribute to the final editor, Joan Frances Schrempp, who read the entire work out loud, helped me struggle through the computer challenges, and gave her keen insight into making changes that made my words sound much better.

Prologue

Michigan Avenue, on the far east side of Chicago, runs north and south through the city, paralleling Lake Michigan for many prestigious miles. In the heart of the Loop, it crosses Lake Street, which heads past the north side of the Greyhound bus station, over the Chicago River, and through the city’s west side. In the western suburbs, it becomes Highway 20, once a pioneer trail. It nips Galena, Illinois, crosses the Mississippi at Dubuque, rambles through the flatlands of Midwest Iowa, and the low hills just south of Ft. Dodge, and passes through the heart of Sioux City. It continues through the Midwestern states, over the expanse of Wyoming and the rugged Cascade Range, and ends at Newport, Oregon, on the shores of the Pacific Ocean.

A few miles west of Sioux City, Highway 20 crosses 12, which heads north to Wynot, Nebraska. At that junction, the branches of a majestic sycamore flare into the sky. The sycamore dwarfs all other trees in the valley and surrounding hills of this grand Nebraska territory. Neighbors in the area speculate about how it developed to such tremendous height and girth. Some say a stream running underneath it nourished it during the dry Depression years. It was struck by lightning and survived, and it was spared by the highway department when a tornado in the summer of ’42 ripped off some branches and dropped them in the middle of the road.

On summer days, the sycamore is a feast of radiance for travelers passing by. Drivers coming over the top of the hill from the east have been known to swerve at the sight of it. Patrick Reilly, a trucker from Moline carrying John Deeres to Yankton, stopped his eighteen-wheeler on the spot and wrote a poem, Angel Leaves of the Sycamore on Route 12. He gave it to Judy Donovan, a waitress at a truck stop in O’Neill, Nebraska, and she taped it inside the glass candy counter for everyone to read.

What Patrick Reilly might have seen in the sycamore, if he’d stayed long enough and looked hard enough, was a flash of salmon-colored hair, skinny arms and legs, and a boy in bib overalls hanging upside down from a branch, studying the leaves.

Chapter 1

Faith is the bird that feels the light and

sings when the dawn is still dark.

– R. Tagore

On a bleak Friday morning late in February 1952, a week after his fifteenth birthday, Dean Arnold lay cuddled under heavy blankets against the cold gloom of a Nebraska winter. His head was buried in a down pillow, and his arms hugged a second pillow to his chest.

Dean, time to get up! Come on, get dressed, have something to eat, his mother warbled.

Elizabeth Arnold, a woman in her middle forties, stood at the base of the stairs, her frizzy gray hair slanting backward from early morning brushing. Pale blue eyes pierced the upstairs hallway, as if pushing her words along. Rosy cheeks highlighted an oval face beaming with Germanic energy. She leaned forward, tapping her left foot on the first step, then pulled her plain gray cotton dress up a little, and placed a pudgy hand on her knee. Her posture suggested a force to make things happen.

She stretched her thick neck upward, like a rooster ready to crow. You’re a year older now, she sang. I don’t want to have to beg you to get up.

Dean loved his mother dearly, but he could hardly bare her daily 5:00 a.m. serenade. He prayed that he was just having a nightmare, that he wouldn’t have to move from his protective cocoon; but within a minute the same song hit the air, and he knew that nothing would put it to rest but the usual noises and movements.

The heat from the woodstove downstairs had not yet penetrated the small sparsely furnished bedroom Dean shared with his younger brother, Ernie. When his feet hit the frigid floor, he winced and his toes curled for protection. His only desire was to get to the kitchen and warmth.

Dean skipped across the room for his work shirt and overalls and skipped back to the bed, twisting into his socks. In untied shoes, he clopped to the small washbasin, splashed water on his hands, and ran them through his ruddy hair. As an afterthought, he dabbed his face, wiped his hands on his pants, and lurched downstairs.

Did you wash your face and put on those warm stockings? his mother scrutinized his face as she set a plate and utensils in front of him. Her dark eyebrows bunched together, checking for telltale signs as she brushed his unruly hair through her fingers.

Yeah, Dean said, tilting away.

Remember how cold it was yesterday? Well, it’s a lot colder today. When the dogs sleep in the barn and not under the porch, you know it’s cold. She placed a large glass of milk beside him.

And you know, with Troy gone and Ernie visiting Uncle Franz, you have to do the morning chores yourself. Your dad doesn’t feel very good this morning. He has a headache.

Dean muttered under his breath, Hangoverache.

He didn’t have to be reminded about Troy, his older brother by four years, and he didn’t mind the extra work, but he did miss him more than he cared to admit. He missed the way he was constantly on the move, packed with curiosity and energy. An outsider might not recognize them as brothers. While Dean was a gangly five foot nine, Troy was short and stocky. Strong as a bull, his mother said. His hair, the color of a ripe peach, curled above a round face. His beady dark eyes were closely spaced and always searching. He could repair anything. If the milk separator broke down, he fixed it. If the car wouldn’t start, he tinkered until he found the problem. He tackled everything as though engaged in a creative act which had nothing to do with work.

What Dean did not miss were the heated confrontations Troy had with Henry that got close to physical combat. The constant clashes became intolerable, and after one big blowout, Troy threw some clothes in a suitcase, stormed out of the house, and hired out on Al Roulfus’s farm five miles east.

Ernie, five years younger than Dean, was visiting Uncle Franz to help celebrate first cousin Randy’s ninth birthday. Ernie was about the same age but seemed much younger. He had cream-soft skin and lavish honey-colored curls that his dad forced his mother to cut before kindergarten. When he failed third grade, it was an embarrassment for the family, but more like a badge of honor for Ernie. Just think, I’ll be able to hear Miss Susan read all those exciting stories again, help her put the books away and hold her hand, he said. His eyes, the lightest hue found on a blue jay’s feather, had a quietness that often prompted his mother to ask what he was thinking about. His teachers thought him shy. Dean loved him.

As two eggs, fried potatoes, and blood sausage glided to Dean’s plate, his system slid into resignation. He loathed the slime that covered the yellow part of the egg, but he knew what would follow if he refused to eat. He stabbed the yellow and watched it ooze into the potatoes and blood sausage and began to force the mixture down, chewing only enough so that he could swallow quickly. With proper maneuvering, he was able to bypass most of his taste buds.

Breakfast finished, Dean pushed back his chair and made for the corner of the kitchen that held the family’s winter clothes. He buckled the clips on his Sears overshoes, buttoned the bulky brown army overcoat, and stretched a brown stocking cap over his head.

The fresh Nebraska dawn slowed his heartbeat. He stopped just on the edge of the porch and surveyed the huge oak where many a hog had hung after being slaughtered. It wasn’t as big as his sycamore, but it towered over the front yard. Beyond the yard to the right, rows of apple and plum trees graced the lower slopes of high rolling hills that surrounded half the farm. From the top of the highest one he could see the town of Wynot.

The wooden porch where he stood was well preserved, as was the two-story house painted pale moon white with lime shutters. It had been built in the early part of the century and maintained with care. The brick chimney that went from ground level to well above the pitched roof had a recent tuck point and stood straight and tall.

A hundred feet to the right of the oak was an immense faded red barn that leaned southward, bent by decades of punishing weather. Above the main entrance, the hayloft door sagged pitifully on bent runners. A rusted red Farmall with ribbed flat tires squatted along the north side. The barn housed the horses, cows, grain, and hay that belonged to the Arnold family. The buildings and hundred and sixty acres were rented from Joe Promes, a neighbor about ten miles east.

Off to his left was the dilapidated pig barn, its roof bowed, sideboards hung at odd angles, its color faded to bare wood. In the center of a fenced enclosure, an enormous ancient tractor squatted with its huge iron-lugged wheels embedded into the earth like some prehistoric monument.

The chicken coop, just west of the pig barn, in better shape than any of the buildings, was Dean’s first stop. After he spread a gallon of shelled corn, he watched as the chickens tilted their heads as they studied him. Even though they were all Leghorns, each had a certain personality – shy, aggressive, fearful, and inquisitive. The coop with its ammonia stench made Dean’s nose twitch.

When he entered the horse barn, he was greeted with bobbing necks, flared nostrils, and eager whining. The cows turned their heads and stopped swaying their jaws momentarily, and then went back to their meditative mode. Dean did his regular walk and talk around the horses. They strained their necks to take in his every move, acknowledging Dean’s light conversation with snorts, nods, and hoof scrapes.

You have a good night, Beauty? Hey, Thunder, you been a good boy? How’s that leg, Diamond? Been able to run on it any better? He stroked their manes, gazed wistfully into their huge chestnut eyes, and inhaled their special aroma.

They watched him as he climbed the ladder to the hayloft. Standing in summer-mowed hay, he breathed in the earthy fragrance, then moved to the center of the huge stack and fell stiffly into the fluff, spreading his arms like hawk wings. Here were the smells of summer. Time stopped.

His thoughts glided to Rhonda, the beautiful head cheerleader of Wynot High. She was wearing her blazing red sweater and white shorts. He watched her lovely movements as she ambled among her friends, her honey silk hair undulating to the rhythm of her stride. Brown eyes, sparkling with wit and energy, were always smiling at someone. Her scarlet lips parted, then closed, forming soft dimples on her cheeks. He licked his own lips, thinking how soft hers would be if –

Dean? Where are you? What are you doing?

His mother’s voice sliced into his reverie. In an instant he was on his feet, grabbing the pitchfork and dumping the first load of hay over the side of the loft.

I’m feeding the horses, Mom. Be down in a minute.

His mom shook her head slowly as she patted Thunder’s shining black flank and murmured softly into his ear and gave Diamond a quick hug. Her movements communicated lightness at odds with her figure and her years.

Don’t forget the corn. They need more when it gets colder. Her voice faded as she went out the door.

Dean picked up his pace, and hay parachuted down in billowing clumps. He took the ladder two steps at a time and swirled among the horses like a bullfighter, spreading the hay into the large wooden troughs. He added several buckets of grain, made a few last-minute adjustments, and said goodbye. Next, he ran to the pig barn for the final phase of his morning chores where loud grunting proclaimed hunger that needed instant satisfaction. They pushed and shoved their way through the slim space to be first at the trough. The porkers would be sold in the spring, and Dean was under strict orders to see to it that they were properly fattened for market. As he left the barn, he glanced back momentarily, wondering which one would be butchered shortly. The thought brought a sickening lump to his throat.

Walking the two miles to school never bothered Dean much since it gave him time to think. When he got to the sign that read Wynot Pop. 416, he knew that in five minutes he would be at school. Coming off the gravel road that ran perpendicular to Wynot’s main street, he turned left and there it was. The school buildings and playground covered an entire block and housed grades one through twelve. It was a three-story red stone building, one of the 116,000 built by the WPA during the Depression. The elementary school took the basement and first story while the high school occupied the second and third. The playground contained a small fenced baseball diamond.

This school served the surrounding farming community’s youth after the outlying schools were closed. State educators felt one large structure offering the latest in equipment and pedagogy would enhance the quality of learning. Wynot High School was a hub of progressive education.

Dean was wondering about Rhonda as he hung his coat in his locker. He readjusted his Batman cutout, pressing his thumb on the worn scotch tape, and stared at the powerful forearms and shoulders of the Caped Crusader. The slim waist tapered to narrow hips that sloped to leg muscles like molded steel. The eyes radiated confidence.

When the locker door cracked on his elbow, it sent white-hot lightning through his arm. He grabbed his wound and saw Harold Hankel standing in front of him, flanked by two buddies.

Hey, Floyd, did you kick that door against little Manure Shoes? Harold sneered.

Me? No way. I never touched it.

Jake, how about you?

I didn’t do nothing. I’m too scared for anything like that.

Well then, I must have hit it accidentally. Sure wouldn’t want to upset this bundle of bones. Why, he might want to fight me after school. Harold Hankel’s dark eyebrows drew closer over his black eyes, forming little ridges in the milky skin of his forehead. All five feet four scrawny inches of him stood defiant between Floyd and Jake.

Nah, no problem, Harold. He’s a scaredy-cat that hightails it home as soon as his last class is over.

Chicken-shits never can hide for long. Sooner or later they have to come out because their mamas can’t protect them forever. Harold bent down, wiped his black cowboy boots with a white handkerchief, and walked away.

Harold Hankel, being the way he was, began developing barbaric tendencies at an early age and refined them as he matured. He was the youngest of a brood of six and the only boy in the family. Bill Hankel’s daughters together never matched the grief Harold supplied which began in the first grade when he bit girls. Bill’s simple solution was a beating with a belt and a reminder that none of his sisters had ever bitten anyone. In second grade, he peed on Glendora Beckman’s lunch, and by fifth grade he had perfected his art to the point that he could lift girls’ dresses and yank their panties before they knew what was happening. When Jeanne Ginkens, a first-year teacher, attempted to stop him, he succeeded in getting her bloomers down to her knees. By the time he got to high school, his exploits were legendary.

Dean grabbed his books, shuffled to the restroom and locked himself in a stall and blew softly on the shining dark lump that had popped on his elbow. When the homeroom buzzer sounded, he sprinted to room 208 without anyone seeing him except Lorraine Bradford, who gave him a concerned glance. Dean waved to her with his good arm and she waved back.

Fortunately, Mrs. Hanns was writing on the blackboard and he was able to get to his seat before roll call. He barely heard the morning announcements as shame began its devastating route, seeping like gangrene into the open wound of his adolescent soul.

Will they be waiting for me at lunch or in the hallway?

He knew he would not go to the washroom between classes. He had been there once when they cornered an unsuspecting freshman. He still saw the fright in the poor kid’s eyes as Floyd and Jake held him and Harold whacked away.

He’d heard the word coward and it slithered like a snake through the dark side of his imagination. Or was it yellowbelly that someone had whispered in the hallway or the library, or was it in the locker room? Conviction roamed his mind as he massaged his bruise.

I’ll just get to my locker earlier, skip the bathroom during passing time, and take shortcuts to my next class.

While he was changing books after third period, Dean heard Danny Lecker and Jimmy Ketter talking in excited low tones, two lockers away to his left.

I saw Mr. Decker come out of the boy’s can and he had Hankel by the arm. He said he was going to call his dad at work and tell him what happened. He said everyone knew about the no-smoking rule.

Man, I’m glad it’s him and not me, Jimmy said. That’s an automatic three-day suspension.

Dean let out a sigh of relief. Now he could pee when he wanted. He could focus his thinking on important matters: Rhonda.

During passing time at seventh period, he saw her coming out of English class. She had her full smile activated and was moving toward him when Tom Anderson, a tall blond senior, slid his arm around her waist. He watched his hand move to her hip and saw the fingers spread. He thought for a second that if he had that position, he wouldn’t ask for anything more, ever. He positioned his books on his left hip, practicing the hold, giving his spiral a squeeze. At that instant, a fist punched the spiral he was embracing and all his books went crashing to the floor, spreading in every direction.

Gotcha.

It was Jake. Floyd came in from the other side.

Harold knows you squealed on him. He’s got plans for you when he comes back.

Before Dean could answer, they were gone. He gathered his books amid the laughter of surrounding students and trudged to the last class of the day. He was glad it was Friday. Maybe by Monday everything would be forgotten.

On his walk home, he detoured a good half mile to the south of town to stop by his tree. Only a few leaves remained. He put his gloved hand on the trunk and wished that some of the firmness he felt might be transferred to him. He looked up through the branches and longed for summer again. How far away it seemed.

His mind jumped like a grasshopper from one discouraging thought to another. As he soothed his elbow, he felt the skinny bone, reminding him how wretched he looked. His frame pleaded for more meat. The straps of his Lee overalls hung loosely over his shoulders, and the bib flopped around when he walked. He could never wear short-sleeved shirts.

What would girls think if they saw my arms?

Stepping back from the tree, Dean looked up along the main trunk and remembered the first time he’d climbed it. High in his tree, he’d looked north to Wynot High and then southwest toward home, wondering how he could avoid both. Some days he just sat against the enormous trunk to think. Today, in the frigid winter afternoon, he could almost feel the gentle breezes wafting through the leaves, forming a sort of music he had not heard anywhere else. He dropped his bag, reached for the first low branch, and angled his way to his favorite bough. Leaning against the stout trunk, he snuggled into his heavy coat and drifted immediately into tranquility. It all came back to him now, how after the first few visits he had felt as if he’d found a second home among the leaves and twittering birds. At first the birds had taken flight the second they spotted him, but Dean’s easy manner had given them little to fear and soon they had accepted him as a permanent part of the scene.

Although he was never quite sure they were the same birds or whether male or female, he had named them: Henrietta, Pauline, Josephine, Stephanie – names that could be changed once he was able to find out their gender. He had checked bird books in the school library and had discovered that birds with the brighter feathers were usually males; so Pauline became Paul, and Stephanie, Steven.

His conversations with the birds did not reach any depth. A Good afternoon to Steven or a You have a nice day, Pauline was about as far as it went.

He watched cars, trucks, buses, tractors, and an occasional Harley-Davidson speed past. In summer, the passing people on Route 12 could not see him because of the leaves. Now, in February, he was exposed; but if someone saw him, why should he care?

He laughed to himself, remembering that when he first climbed to the top he had searched the eastern horizon for a skyscraper. Once, a trucker whose rig broke down just a few feet from the sycamore told him that 12 would take him to Route 20, and that would take him to the heart of Chicago.

Yep, goes all the way across Iowa and Illinois. When it gets to Chicago it becomes Lake Street and crosses State Street – you know, the one Sinatra sings about.

Sometimes Dean opened mail in his second home. He didn’t receive any real letters, just product information he’d sent for from magazines in the school library. Seeing his name, Mr. Dean Arnold, on a letter made him feel like somebody. Thank you for your interest in our product. We are happy to send you a sample . . . It was always more fun to open mail in the tree; at home, his dad would try to get at it.

After a while he felt anxious, knowing his mother was expecting him. He moved down to the base, pressed both hands into the trunk for a long time, and made his way home.

Chapter 2

Saturday morning after breakfast, Dean went directly to the horse barn where the animals’ special smell, along with summer hay mingling with dung, produced a fragrance that settled his troubled soul.

Hey, Beauty, how’s it going this morning? Thunder, you getting hungry? How about some fresh hay for breakfast, he said as he climbed up the ladder to the hayloft. Get ready, it’s snack time.

The hay’s soft mounds sidetracked him again. Crawling to the highest hump, he dug out a comfortable nest, sighed, and squirmed into position like a tourist anticipating an enjoyable journey. He cupped his head in his entwined fingers and closed his eyes until Rhonda’s face appeared. Alone, he felt his conversation sparkled with wit.

Rhonda, did you know that when you smile your lips make me feel like my feet aren’t even touching the ground? he whispered. And when you walk down the street, everything around you stands still.

Why, Dean, you say the nicest things. I’m really flattered. No one has ever said that to me.

Listen, if you’re not doing anything Saturday night, I’d like to take you to a movie. And afterward, we could have a bite to eat at the café.

Saturday night? I would love that.

Rhonda spotted a speck of lint on his shoulder. Her exquisite cream-soft fingers with blazing red nails picked it away. Dean could almost feel her touch, and his breath came faster. He remembered her rose red lips and saw her tongue slide over them, leaving a glaze that reminded him of dewdrops on cherries. She seemed so close that he could feel the puff of her breath.

He squirmed deeper into the hay. Just as he was about to move to the next scene, he heard the barn door open and close sharply. Footsteps came up the ladder, strong and measured, and his father’s beefy face appeared above the floor, blood-shot eyes glaring.

What the hell are you doing? I’ve been looking all over for you. Don’t you know what day this is? How many times do I have to tell you the same damn thing over and over and over? It’s butchering time and what do I find you doing? Every time it’s the same story. I have to tell you what to do . . . how to do it . . . and when to do it!

Dean gawked into his father’s flame red face and dark veined eyes, bulging with wrath.

Troy’s not here, damnit. Just got him so he could do the job and then he hires out. Ernie’s at Uncle Franz’s till tomorrow. He wouldn’t be any help anyway. So that leaves you, Ma, and me. Get moving!

Dean stared at the mouth with tobacco-stained teeth. As quickly as the face had appeared, it disappeared.

Dean wiggled over to the base of the loft, peeped down, and watched him leave. He jumped up, grabbed the pitchfork, and tossed hay with frantic lunges, completing the rest of his chores with the same frenzy.

He was finishing with the chickens when the butchering maneuvers began. He watched his father pry an ax from a cut log under the oak and move toward the pig yard. The first signal for the attack had been given. He felt his throat tighten.

The clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen let him know that his mother was well into operations to back up the assault. She had already placed the necessary spoons, pans, and ladles on a clean white sheet at the base of the huge tree. When she came out to poke the logs under the scalding barrel, she called in her melodious singsong voice, Come on, Dean, we need to get going or we won’t have anything to eat this winter.

Dean cringed at the sound. No exit. The time had come. He took a tin pan and a ladle from his mother’s outstretched hand and moved to the pig yard where his father was hoisting his leg over the fence. Straddling it, he hissed, Now listen to me. Have everything ready. Wait till I call, watch, and follow behind as close as you can. His eyes pierced into Dean’s, chiseling the message deep inside his skull. A layer of fine spittle sprayed the air as he spoke. You got that?

The pig yard held about twenty-five porkers of varying sizes. All were partially covered in caked mud mixed with straw, excrement, rotting corncobs, and urine. The yard had not frozen completely because the pigs had stomped and mashed it into a smelly ooze.

Ax in hand, Dean’s father started toward a corner of the pen, his overshoes squishing in the slime. The pigs gathered in small anxious groups, aware that this was not going to be a feeding proposition. They stared at Dean, at his father, then at each other, and began a restless sprint from one area to another, their hooves kneading the ooze. A few hid behind the iron wheels of the ancient tractor. Animal instinct signaled danger.

Henry Arnold moved with the keenness of an Indian scout. As the herd swayed around the yard, he moved like a stalker who knows he will have his victim. It was only a matter of time.

The animals’ grunts and squeals pierced the air, and in less than thirty seconds, Henry had isolated the selected boar. Like a boxer pulling back his arm for the knockout punch, he raised the ax, blunt end forward, and brought it down on the pig’s skull with a thud that slammed into Dean’s gut.

NOW! Henry yelled.

Within a second, Dean was at his father’s side. Henry had his knee buried just behind the boar’s shoulder. It was lying on its side, with all four feet pawing as if escape were still within its grasp. With the ladle in his right hand, the pan in his left, Dean dropped to his knees in the slush.

His father dropped the ax and deftly reached into his belt to snap out a razor-sharp knife. Simultaneously, his left hand grabbed the boar’s snout and shoved it into cold slime. The blade made its passage through the jugular so swiftly that Dean only saw the blood spurt. The pan was in the right place to catch the steamy liquid that jumped with each dwindling beat of the victim’s heart.

Dean stirred the blood vigorously, its steam rising into his eyes and ears, permeating his cap and hair. Even though the smell nauseated him, he kept stirring, watching the spurts diminish. The blood stopped squirting almost as quickly as it had started. The deed was done. The animal was limp. Only a few weak jerks of the legs claimed any semblance of life.

Hey, boy, how does that grab you? His dad stood victoriously looking down at his son, his right fist still holding the dripping blade.

Dean stared at his knees buried in slush and into the slimy bowl.

I told yuh. All you do is stun with that first blow. Kill ’em and the heart stops beating too fast and you can’t get all the blood. Not a bad job. Next year you should be able to do it. Now keep stirring till you get to the kitchen. Don’t let it curdle. If it curdles it won’t be worth a damn. This will make the best blood sausage you’ll ever sink your teeth into. Bring the wheelbarrow back so we can haul this porker over to the tree and hang it. Snap it up. We don’t want to make a whole day of this.

Dean set the bowl of red liquid by the dripping jugular and got up. His knees were wet and cold, and his gloves damp where the blood had seeped in. The smell of the yard coupled with the fresh steaming blood jiggled his breakfast, getting his stomach ready to regurgitate. He swallowed hard. He wanted to drop everything and run. Instead, he stooped down, carefully picked up the rounded bowl, and began his walk back to the house with the blood sloshing from one side to the other. He moved like an acrobat balancing on an imaginary line that led straight to the kitchen. After every five steps he stopped, stirred the contents, and continued his high-wire act.

When Dean deposited the steamy liquid on the kitchen table, his mother chimed her recognition. Thank you, honey, you are so much help. I don’t know how we could do this without you. With that, she wrapped her arms around him. I just got to give you a big hug and kiss.

Mom, I got to go, pleaded Dean, holding his face sideways.

Okay, okay, okay.

She released the hold on her son and attended the bowl of blood. As she stirred she sang her favorite melody. Romonaaa . . . I hear those vision bells of love . . . I press you . . . caress you, from the day you taught me to care. Laa . . . Laaaaa . . . Laa . . . La . . . Laaaaaaa . . .

By the time Dean got back to the pigpen, Henry had the limp carcass halfway on the wheelbarrow, its pinkish belly facing the sky. Henry was grunting and jerking the dead animal’s hind legs to get it all the way on. The boar’s enormous stomach undulated like a pinkish bowl of Jell-O with neat rows of teats.

For christ’s sake, grab those front legs and help me with the damn thing. Can’t you see that it keeps sliding off? Why do I have to tell you everything? Grab and pull! Lift it up, you dummy. Henry panted between each sentence as though he was running a foot race.

Dean took his eyes off the animal and glared at his dad, sucking in a sharp breath. Then, as a long second passed, a circuit breaker kicked in, and he grabbed the boar’s front hoofs and pulled with all his strength.

After two vigorous heaves, the leaden load lay on the cart. Before it had a chance to settle, his dad was already pushing the cargo toward the oak tree. From one of the oak’s branches hung a rope pulley with a wagon’s singletree swaying from it gently like an ancient voodoo charm.

Henry sliced the skin just behind the back hoofs and snapped the singletree into the Achilles tendon. The boar was now spread-eagled on the wheelbarrow.

Hey, boy! What do I smell? What is it? Henry exclaimed as he was about to hoist the animal. Where is it coming from? I think I have the scent. I believe it’s coming from the horse barn. By god, I believe it is. I’m going to have a look.

Henry pointed his nose to the sky, sniffed like a dog looking for a place to pee, and trotted to the horse barn, disappearing into the dark interior.

Thirty seconds later, a shrill oooowwweeee like that of a wounded wolf pierced the air. From the corner of his eyes, Dean watched his father shuffling out and holding a pint of whiskey with a grin on his face as though he had found a secret potion.

I’d know that smell anywhere. Nothing is sweeter than the smell of Four Roses. A whiskey made in heaven. Hey, boy, you want a little snort to warm up your gut before we start to cut up the pork?

No, thanks, whispered Dean, keeping his gaze on the dirt and snow between his feet. Let’s just get the job finished. I’ve got my schoolwork to do.

Schoolwork. Ha! You call that work! That’s the only work that makes any sense, he pointed his hand that held the whiskey toward the bulk in the wheelbarrow. What do you have left when you learn that crap in school? Can you put it in the bank? Is it something you can eat or drink? What’s it good for? Get smart. Join the real world, boy. Grow up. Look at me. I got to the fourth grade and got the hell out.

Dean knew conversation was useless once the liquor had seeped into the steering mechanism that would influence everything his father did from now on. All Dean could do was to keep his distance until the drug ran its course.

Henry put the pint of Four Roses at the base of the tree, pulled off his heavy outer jacket, and tossed it over the pint.

Deano, make sure that water is heating up. Put more wood under the barrel and get ready for the scalding. I’ll sharpen the knives and make sure we have enough wax paper to wrap the parts once they are cut.

The water tank, an old fifty-gallon Phillips 66 oil barrel, was placed on cement blocks with enough space underneath for chopped wood. The fire was burning too slowly.

Dean stirred the glowing embers, shoved the burning logs toward the center, then added some oak and elm. He bent his knees closer, placing his wet gloves on the barrel. The heat felt good. When he turned around to warm his rear, his eyes fell on the spread-eagled carcass of the boar.

How long had he taken care of this animal? Now, after its short passage in time, he who had nurtured it would devour it. Had Mother Nature made pigs to be eaten by humans? What other purpose could they have? They were one of nature’s most sordid brutes. Dean had watched them down rotten eggs, devour decaying chickens with maggots crawling out, and wolf down cow dung and anything that was dumped in front of them. The Arnold family was about to eat every inch of a walking septic tank. He wondered why people shied from the idea of eating horsemeat. Horses were not carnivorous animals. They ate sweet corn, fresh hay, and alfalfa all of Mother Nature’s blessed food. Yet humans looked down on horsemeat and relished the idea of barbecued pork roast. Weren’t animals what they ate? Wouldn’t humans be eating recycled sewage through pigs?

Hey, boy! Why are you standing there? You shit in your pants? Is that water hot enough for scalding? If not, throw on some of that kindling and let’s get the show on the road.

Dean put more wood on the fire. Steam was rising from the water now and it wouldn’t be much longer.

In the meantime, Henry picked up the pint of Four Roses, unscrewed the cap, and lifted the bottle to the sky like a priest displaying a host to his congregation. He mimicked the sign of the cross three times, closed his eyes in deep meditation, and droned.

Past the lips, over the tongue, and down the gullet. Look out, stomach, here it comes. The stem of the whiskey bottle came up; two huge swallows slid down.

"Oowwweee."

Dean circled to the opposite side of the barrel and kicked the logs closer to the center. He knew what would happen; the whiskey would decide the turn of events for the rest of the day and night.

Henry tucked the pint under his jacket, placed his hands on his hips, and declared that it was time for the next phase of the operation.

Gimme the end of the rope. The water’s hot enough.

Dean handed it to him and he snatched it away, stepped back, and began to hoist the carcass.

Okay, get the wheelbarrow out of the way.

Now the boar hung above the steaming water, its snout already partially submerged, swaying back and forth, as though trying to find the right place to plunge.

Henry lowered the carcass and water hissed over the barrel’s side, sending up white steam and smoke as it hit the logs. After the hog was completely submerged for a bit, he pulled it out and let it hang, the cold air meeting with the hot flesh gave it a ghostly glow. It was submerged once more then raised, and the rope tied around the trunk of the tree held it in position.

That’s it, Henry said, standing back, his fisted hands on his hips. Get that corn shovel over by the barn, Deano. I’ll dump the water and you get rid of the logs.

Henry tipped the barrel, sending the water steaming over the frozen earth, and took another drink.

Bring me that big knife.

The white sheet at the base of the tree held the knives and silver pans, decked out as if a nurse had prepared them for surgery. Dean picked up the large knife and handed it over.

Henry began to scrape the carcass in long angling strokes. Each swift movement left a clean path, and within minutes, the boar’s bristling hair had been sheared.

Not a bad job, huh, boy? he said, gently twisting the singletree to inspect his work. You’ll be doing this next year. He swiped a few spots he missed, wiped the knife on his pants, returned it, and exchanged it for a small curved one. Grabbing the left ear, he sliced if off with one quick motion and did the same with the other. He pretended to toss them to Dean, who jerked backward.

Wake up, boy! Hold up that big pan.

Dean obeyed and Henry tossed them in. Then he circled the neck with a wrestler’s hold and cut the snout off.

Now, hold the mouth open.

Dean pried the jaws apart and Henry sliced the tongue off.

By golly now, I believe this calls for a short break, he said. He picked up the pint and held it to the sky, checking to see how much was left, then took a swallow, and stepped over to the singletree. Steadying it with his left hand, he brought the knife to the anal stricture and sliced down the middle of the belly between the neat line of teats. As the knife continued its slow path, the skin parted in a V, revealing the bulging intestines.

About a quarter of the way down, he stopped and glared at Dean. Well, what are you going to do next, dummy? Stand there until the spring thaw comes? Get the washtub and put it under the head for christ’s sake. Why do I have to keep telling you what to do every damn time? Can’t you see that the guts are going to fall out?

Dean scurried over to the tree trunk and brought the tub back. His dad adjusted it slightly and continued the cutting. The bowel began to exit and flow over into the washtub. Henry slid his left hand inside the pig and guided the remaining bowel, lungs, and various other organs into the tub. With a few deft cuts, the rest of the hesitant particles dropped. The pig’s insides had left their home forever.

Together they carried the tub over to the pig yard. Clean the crap out of the bowel. Make sure you get it all. Call me when you finish and we’ll take everything to the house. Hurry up. I’m getting tired and hungry, Henry said. He turned on his heel and went to cut the carcass into parts.

Dean stared at the tub of misting, motionless innards. He saw parts of the stomach, liver, heart, and intestines in slightly different hues. The liver was the darkest. At the sound of fluttering wings, he lifted his head.

A flock of turtledoves had taken flight from the barn. They swooped low in a gentle wave just above the ground, then made a direct half-moon climb to the right, banked hesitantly, dove again, coming so close to Dean that he could almost reach out and touch them. He felt himself being lifted along in their graceful flight.

His eyes followed their winged departure into the endless, cold blue sky.

He stood