Seven Days of the Dog

By Vernon Schmid

Written over a period of ten years by the poet, journalist, educator and clergyman, Vernon Schmid, Seven Days of the Dog centers around the John Lee Parker, a poet and journalist, called home in the summer dog days of Kansas for the funeral of his lifelong mentor and friend Blind Tom Harper.

The author is a native of the region he writes about so he brings to the novel a feeling for the period, the climate, and the humanity. Within the seven days in which the novel takes place John Lee is confronted by the surprising news that the woman he loved as a teenager is now married to a violent, fundamentalist deputy sheriff. He is also surprised to learn that he is heir to Blind Toms forty acre farm on the outskirts of the village.

His struggle to readapt himself to the community after years away in college and work as a journalist in Baltimore, Maryland, is made even more challenging by a series of revelations about his own Native American heritage, the peeling away of the superficiality hiding violence and hatred in the community, and the continuing mystical reappearance of Blind Tom.

The oppressive heat, the news that Blind Tom was killed by a hit and run driver, his mothers strong and resilient presence in the midst of a community on the edge of disintegration, and the anchoring presence of Blind Toms spirit creates an atmosphere that is filled with humor, tension, passion, violence and murder.

Anchoring much of the story are four old men, storytellers who recite the history and reality of the community with humor and the wisdom of ancient priests. They also involve themselves in the action of the story resulting in humor and arrest.

The surprising turn of events as the week passes creates tension and laughter in the reader with an unexpected twist that culminates in a bloody and revelatory ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 26, 2003
• ISBN: 9781477163962

Vernon Schmid

Vernon Schmid is a native of the west. He has been a ranch hand, horse trainer, trail guide, wrangler, rough stock rodeo rider, disc jockey, radio and newspaper journalist. A prize winning poet and syndicated columnist, he is a retired pastor whose published work includes the novels Showdown at Chalk Creek and Seven Days of the Dog and a dozen poetry collections including Kissing Moctezuma’s Serpent. His work has appeared in nearly a hundred periodicals. He and his wife, Susan, live in rural northeast Maryland where they spend time with their horses and he teaches at Cecil Community College.

Book preview

SEVEN DAYS

OF THE DOG

______________________________

Vernon Schmid

Copyright © 2003 by Vernon Schmid.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

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

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

17892

CONTENTS

THE FIRST DAY

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

THE SECOND DAY

8

9

10

11

12

THE THIRD DAY

13

14

15

THE FOURTH DAY

16

17

18

19

THE FIFTH DAY

20

21

22

23

24

THE SIXTH DAY

25

26

27

THE SEVENTH DAY

28

29

With the exception of historical figures and incidents, the characters and events portrayed in this novel are the creations of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

He who tells the prairie mystery must wear the mystery in his heart.

—William Alfred Quayle

THE FIRST DAY

And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.

—Genesis 1:5b

1

Chloe Dutcher was naked. She stood on a flat rock that jutted out over the edge of the dark waters of Labette Creek. Her blonde head held high, chin tilted slightly upward, she gazed at the full moon hanging low on an invisible cord in the western sky. Then, lifting her arms, she placed her palms together like an ancient priestess honoring the summer solstice and in one graceful movement tipped her body forward and dove deep into the water.

John Lee Parker watched her tan, teenage body split the murky surface where shadows laced the dark waters with reflections of overhanging cottonwood trees. He caught and held his breath until she emerged halfway across the creek. His throat was tight. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he watched her swim to the far moonlit shore. Wondering about the moon and the water he remembered someone once wrote that the moon and the water had a certain pull that had been implanted in pre-human nature.

He was still thinking about this when he saw her arms moving gracefully through the water pulling her body toward him and the shore. Her kicking feet left a gentle trail of flutter ripples behind her. Licking his dry, cracked lips he watched her reach the bank. She climbed out of the water to stand naked in the moon’s shadowy light with rivulets cascading down her shoulders, over her young full breasts, taut stomach and lean thighs. She smoothed her wet, blonde hair back from her face with one hand and walked to the spot where her clothes were piled on a frayed, old army blanket. Watching her, John Lee was certain he would choke to death from lack of oxygen. Then he realized he had been holding his breath for a long time and he gasped a quick little suck of air.

Upon reaching the blanket, she knelt. Her muscles rippled as she reached for the towel and began to rub her hair dry. John Lee was motionless. He knew every curve, valley and mound of her body. He had seen them often from his hiding place behind the old weeping willow tree. He knew why there were no tan lines. He started when she spoke.

Don’t you think it’s about time you quit hiding out there behind that old willow tree, John Lee? She said rubbing her body briskly with the towel.

John Lee remained motionless. His breath once again caught in his bursting lungs. His heart pounded. He could not and did not speak.

John Lee, she said half-scolding. Just come out of that silly hiding place and join me. After all, you’ve been hiding there for the last three summers watching me. It is about time you stopped the games, don’t you think?

Immobilized by the shock that he had been found out, John Lee tried to hunker down even lower. Now, he thought, it is certainly time to die.

If you don’t come out, right now, I’m telling daddy that you have been spying on me.

She was smiling as she said it and John Lee flinched at the thought of having to face her father. He drew in a deep breath of hot, heavy, humid midnight air, stood up and began to move slowly from behind the low hanging limbs of the tree.

Now, isn’t that better? she said patting the blanket beside her. Come on over here and sit down.

As he moved toward her he noticed she made no effort to conceal her nakedness. Finally, he stood beside the blanket looking down at her. His face felt as if it were on fire. His throat was wedged shut with embarrassment.

Well, she said, don’t just stand there gawking, sit down.

He slowly lowered himself to the blanket. As his knee touched the soft earth she held out her arms and took him into them. He could feel the dampness of her skin and smell the creek water in her hair as she pulled him close. Then her lips found his. He felt as if he would explode. And suddenly, she screamed in his ear.

John Lee! John Lee! Time to get up!

In his confusion he grasped at her body.

It’s ten o’clock in the morning, she shouted. Are you going to sleep all day?

Brilliant light flooded his face and he twisted away from it. His first thought was that her father had caught them. Then he realized that it was not Chloe’s voice he had heard shouting at him. It was his mother trying to awaken him as she pulled opened the bedroom curtains and raised the blinds.

Outside the brilliant summer sunshine had already begun to oppress the rich bottomlands that lay along Labette Creek in southeast Kansas. Aging elm trees bent beneath the weight of their late summer leaves and even the cottonwoods along the creek seemed thirsty as they shoved their roots deeper and deeper in search of water. Each time a car or truck passed by the Parker farm on the graveled county road leading into Spring Hill clouds of dust boiled up and drifted over into the pastures and fields covering every plant.

Time to get up, sleepy head, his mother, Emma Parker, said as the full impact of the August morning sun invaded the room.

I’ll be down in a minute, he said in a dazed voice.

Emma left the room and he could hear her banging pans in the kitchen. He knew exactly what she was doing. The old black cast iron skillet was being placed on the burner of the aging gas cook stove. In it she cooked bacon, saving the grease with which to fry his two basted sunny side up eggs. He could smell fresh baked bread.

John Lee Parker was six feet tall. At thirty he had retained a lean, youthful body and what remained of boyhood freckles lay lightly scattered across the bridge of his nose and shoulders. A shock of dark hair with a touch of gray hung over his forehead. He smiled and swung his legs out of bed. Placing both feet firmly on the floor, he reached for a faded pair of Levi blue jeans his mother had washed, starched and ironed for him. Slipping them on, he noticed the sharp creases down the front of the legs and shook his head in amusement. That was how he had preferred his jeans before he had left for college over a decade ago. She never forgets, he thought.

He would not tell her that he no longer wore them like that. Buttoning his blue jeans, he slipped a hand carved leather belt through the loops and buckled the silver Mexican buckle before pulling on a worn pair of rough out cowboy boots. After slipping a white T-shirt on over his head, he went down the hall to the bathroom. In the bathroom, he urinated, washed his face and hands and combed his hair taking time to notice in the faded mirror that his close-cropped beard was also showing flecks of gray.

As he entered the kitchen, he heard the eggs frying in hot bacon grease. On the table was a plate of bacon, a large bowl of fresh churned butter, a pitcher of milk, slabs of fresh baked bread, and a jar of gooseberry jam all waiting to be joined by the two fresh eggs.

Can’t find breakfast like this in the city, Mom, he said as he pulled up a chair to the table.

I suppose not, she said. A smile of pride filled her face.

Everything just looks great!

Ain’t much.

Looks pretty good to me, he said. Better than what I usually eat.

I expect so, she said as she placed the plate of eggs in front of him.

He watched her putter in the kitchen while he ate. Barely five feet tall, she was slim and her hair pulled up into a bun at the back of her neck concealed the few gray streaks that had begun to appear in her dark hair. She had a few freckles scattered over her cheeks and the bridge of her pug nose and her teeth gleamed white when she smiled. He remembered when he was a boy how she always got angry when his father teased her about her nose, calling it a whiskey nose.

It is not a whiskey nose, she would argue in her more righteous tone. My father had a nose just like this one and he never took a drink in his life.

Not so’s you could tell, his father would say and then smile as she took off on an angry tirade. It was a game they played out time and again through the years he was growing up.

Going to the viewing? She asked.

Sure, John Lee said.

Just wondered, she said. Your daddy never liked viewings much, or for that matter funerals.

Or, he added, weddings, baptisms, or anything else that took place in the church house.

He liked the dinners.

That he did.

He was always uncomfortable in church, she said. Said he felt like the preachers were always talking right at him.

Maybe they were, he laughed.

Humph! She was bustling about the kitchen preparing a number of pies for the oven.

He was good man, Mom, John Lee patted her shoulder and headed for the door.

I know, she smiled at him.

I’m going into town. You want to come?

No, she sighed. I promised the ladies at Shiloh that I would bring six pies for the dinner after the funeral tomorrow.

Well, I’ll be back in time for lunch.

You mean dinner, don’t you?

Yeah, Mom, dinner.

After he kissed her on her cheek, John Lee went out the old battered screen door letting it slam behind him.

When John Lee Parker got into his black 1953 Chevrolet Bel Aire convertible he sat for a moment on the hot red leather seats and looked out across the yard toward the barn. It had been carefully kept when he was a boy. Now the red paint was peeling and the exposed board siding was beginning to weather. He waited for a moment before starting the engine. Reaching over to push the button to lower the top, he thought he finally understood Thomas Wolfe’s proclamation that you can’t go home again. Things are never what memory tells you they were. The automatic top raised, slipped back, and stored itself in the compartment behind the rear seat and John Lee backed out of the yard and turned down the dusty road toward town.

As he drove the dust rose from the road and settled on the fields he passed. He tasted it as it drifted into the car. It was the taste of the same dog days he remembered from his childhood.

On each side of the road, fields of corn too long without rain stood browning in the sun. The ditches were filled with dust-covered milkweed, myrtle, sunflowers, and tall grasses. John Lee had forgotten how forlorn the countryside looked in August. And as he drove he remembered how his people had arrived in this rich land so long ago.

2

A hundred years ago Wilhelm Mueller, John Lee Parker’s maternal great-grandfather, had ridden a $40 knock-kneed bay mare across the Wakarusa River south of where a small community of New England settlers were building a town they named Lawrence. He headed the mare south with no clear idea of what the future held for him.

There were Indians, of course. But the stories he had heard about the dark, rich soil of the southeast region of the Kansas Territory drew him like a magnet. Germany no longer held him. Poverty, forced military service and political instability had proven too much for him and thousands of others. The family story was that he only looked back twice. Once when he boarded the ship in Bremen and once when he crossed the Wakarusa.

On his journey south he was relieved to learn the Osages were no longer warring against white intruders. They had even asked the Saint Louis Jesuits to start a school on the Neosho River.

The Osages, like all Native Americans, were victims of the constant westward push of white settlers seeking free or inexpensive land on which to build a future. It had been so in the east and when that land was filled the barrier of Appalachian Mountains proved to be only temporary. Soon whites crossed into the Ohio Valley and Kentucky as well as other regions. The settlers spread like the tentacles of a giant spider moving ever west. Wars and elements caused them to stumble now and then, but in the end the move west continued.

The Osages moved westward, as well. They never understood how anyone could own the land they called Grandmother. But the whites seemed to have an insatiable appetite and spurred by greed they sought out the best land. The Osages prayed the white hunger would be satisfied eventually and they and their Grandmother would be left in peace. That, of course, was wishful thinking. The pressure on tribes to the east created pressure on tribes to the west and the Osages and others continued moving every few generations.

Early French explorers, priests, traders and trappers encountered the Siouan-speaking Mandans, Hidatsas, Missouris, Kansas, Otos, Omahas, Iowas, Poncas, and Osages in a wide area west of the Mississippi River. These people who were linguistically connected were generally thoughtful, and rational, although the Osages were known as fierce warriors.

They lived in villages. The women grew corn, beans, and squash. Men grew the sacred plant, tobacco. They used pottery and in their village life reflected an eastern influence coupled with the ancient Hopewellian Culture that existed in the Plains Woodlands era from about BC 500 to AD 1000, while the whites were still roaming the wilds of Europe without any sense of civilization.

Now the place where the Osages would live for so many generations was the place geologists would one day name the Osage Questas.

In this