Ten Worldly Tales

By Erik “Kriger” Carlsen

The locales within this diverse and eclectic volume reach from rural Oklahoma and sophisticated Manhattan neighborhoods to Southeast Asia and wartime Europe. If there is a common thread running through the collection of short stories, it is the unexpected turns of events made credible through graphic imagery. Carlsen does not have a message; his goal is simply to spin yarns, which, he hopes, will entertain his readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493196067

Erik “Kriger” Carlsen

Erik “Kriger” Carlsen is the pen name of an American writer who lived for many years in Europe and Southeast Asia. Following two years in the Navy during World War II, he earned a degree from the University of Chicago, where he married fellow student Barbara Evans. They moved to Denmark where he pursued graduate Nordic studies at the University of Copenhagen. Barbara died in 2010 after 61 years of a marriage filled with studying, raising a family, and traveling throughout the world.

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Copyright © 2014 by Erik Kriger Carlsen.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014906341

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-9607-4

   Softcover      978-1-4931-9608-1

   eBook            978-1-4931-9606-7

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.

Rev. date: 04/16/2014

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CONTENTS

Cleanliness, Oklahoma

The Finns

The Agonies of Paul Guy

At the Lake (A Vignette)

Next of Kin

A Desert Mystery

Perilous Assignment

Just One of Those Things

The Dinghy (A Vignette)

The House on Lemches Road

In memory of Mark Van Doren

CLEANLINESS, OKLAHOMA

I had pulled off the dirt road with a flat tire when the old man appeared out of nowhere and offered to help me wrestle the spare from the trunk; it was buried under half-finished canvases, boxes of paints and brushes, an easel, my Rollei and the Hasselblad and their paraphernalia, all held down safely by the large duffel containing the bulk of my worldly goods.

I reckon Freedom, along the Cimarron, is the closest spot to get that tire fixed. Then it’s a short way north to the highway and you can be back on your way, supposin’, that is, that you was lookin’ to get on National Road 64 when you got lost.

Actually, I wasn’t really lost. I had deliberately left the main roads to poke around in this sparse area, hoping to find some unusual dwellings or, better yet, interesting faces to photograph as models for the series of paintings of rural America I was working on. National Geographic and a leading art publisher had both expressed an interest. If I could wrangle a big enough advance from either of them, it would keep me alive for the year it would take to finish the paintings. I explained my mission in as few words as possible, and that’s what started him talking about the Nesses of Cleanliness, Oklahoma.

Among its seven citizens, the town… He paused as if to gather his thoughts, then continued. It was really only a settlement that sprouted up early in the 1900s with as many as eighty or ninety residents, split-offs from some religious sect, small farmers, sharecroppers, a schoolmarm. Most of them headed west in the ’30s, like the Joads in that book—but not the Nesses; they stayed on. Anyway, among the seven folks of the town of Cleanliness lived the three Ness brothers: Obadiah, Jonah, and Zechariah. They ate, slept, and prayed in the single, echoing room of the Ness dwelling… more like a small barn than a home for decent Christians. The old man went on to explain that their younger sister, Hazel, who cooked and did what little housekeeping the brothers required, slept in the nearby woodshed, separated from the house by a rundown chicken coop. Her cot, a small table and a stool were screened off from the piles of sawed firewood and gardening tools by a tattered gray quilt hung on nails from the rough beam that spanned the shed overhead. All very interesting lore, I thought, but I didn’t see its relevance until he added a final sentence.

That little spread would have been something to paint a picture of.

I leaned forward to better hear the frail voice. Yep, he repeated, scarcely audible, that would have been something to paint.

You must have known them very well, I suggested, to be so well acquainted, so intimate, with their situation.

"Don’t say intimate! he protested vehemently. Yes, I know’d their situation well, ’cause I come near to building me and Gladys a little house down the road. Got to know them all when I was diggin’ the foundation. The brothers used to come watch me workin’ like a slave, not sayin’ anything. Just watchin’ with interest… not that any of them offered to help. The other family in Cleanliness, the Scotts—Paul and Esther and their thirty-year-old son Caleb, whose brain stopped growing when he was eight or so—they were all right, never gave no trouble, but they weren’t worth taking no photographs or painting a picture of. They stayed clear of the Ness brothers, and old Paul Scott, friendly-like, advised me to do the same."

As if a spark had fallen on tinder, my interest in the Nesses of Cleanliness began to smolder. Is it still there? Do the Nesses and the Scotts still live there? And where is Cleanliness? Is it far from here?

Hold on there, brother, I can only answer one question at a time. Well, after Gladdy died, that’s four years ago, I gave up on the house and moved in with my sister by Eagle Chief Creek, near Avard. Then Ellie died, too. Now I just walk around in the time I have left. I keep her vegetable garden up; eat lots of vegetables until winter. Then I figure all the beets and beans and berries and sauerkraut and rabbit stew Ellie put up will last longer than I do.

By now I had mounted the spare and tossed the flat tire in the trunk. He hadn’t answered any of my questions, and I wasn’t about to give up. But Cleanliness? Tell me more about it. Where is it? And how did it get its name?

Well, as to that, there’s the Ness story, which is balderdash, and the real story that goes back to the 1800s. See, there used to be a settlement of some sect from the east who put down stakes about a mile from the old trail. They were very devout and strict and all, and they called their place Godliness. Seems there was an argument among the elders, and a few of them broke off and settled down the road a piece. Out of spite, I guess, since they were next to Godliness, they chose the name. Turns out they had better water and were right on the road to the market town, so they prospered while Godliness eventually dried up and the folks pushed on.

What was the Nesses’ story?

They wanted to take credit for founding the settlement, so they made up this crock of manure that the town was founded by their ancestor Ken Lee. Ken Lee Ness—get it? No one believed them, so they skulked and turned their backs on their neighbors. Guess they’ve kept to themselves ever since.

Are they still there, the Nesses?

Far as I know. I haven’t been back.

But you knew so much about them, how they lived and all.

Well, Gladdy tried to make friends with them. We called on them, uninvited, a few times, got inside the door, could look around. Met Hazel, a quiet, pretty fourteen-year-old with not much chance of a happy life of her own. I wanted to do something to bring a little joy into her life.

How old would Hazel be now?

Oh, eighteen or nineteen, I guess, if she’s still around. Talk was she’d been thrown out after she got with child.

Hazel? She had a child?

Yup.

Who… you know… did that? I mean, do you know who made her pregnant?

Some folks said it was one of the brothers. Others thought all three of them had had their way with her, so it didn’t really make no difference which one’s seed took root. Then there was talk that it was Caleb, the retarded son of the Scotts.

Which theory do you believe?

I figure it ain’t none of my business.

God! What a bizarre story!

Yup.

I’d like to see that place. See the Nesses.

Well, you’re free to do whatever you like, but I’d stay away if I was you. That posed a challenge I couldn’t resist.

Will you tell me how to get there?

If you’re darn fool enough to want to truck with them folks, all you have to do is turn back about a mile until the road forks off into a grass-covered tow path. Follow that a few hundred yards to the gravel road. Take a left and go till you see the Ness barn and shed about a hundred yards off the road. There’s a foot path from the road, but I wouldn’t drive my car on it… if I had a car.

Thanks! Can I drop you off somewhere?

Reckon I’ll just keep walkin’ for a spell. Nice chattin’ with you. Be wary, and God bless. He turned and walked back in the direction I had been headed. I backed and filled and got the Chevy turned around to go look for an unnoticed tow path about a mile back that I must have passed earlier. And that should lead me to the Nesses of Cleanliness.

Looking back now, I wonder: what if I had never met the old man—never had any desire to encounter the Nesses? But, at the time, it seemed the natural thing to do. I was carefree, unattached, and curious by nature. So, I pushed on, found the tow path and the gravel road, and had no problem identifying the two dilapidated buildings that had to be the Ness domain. I parked on the side of the road and strolled toward the barn, more casually than I felt, for I approached it with some trepidation. About halfway along, a menacing giant of a man in overalls came out of the barn with a gun under his arm, either a shotgun or rifle—at that distance I couldn’t tell which. Anyway, the distinction didn’t seem relevant. He was holding a chain to restrain the large, mean-looking hound that snarled and barked and tugged at the leash. I was momentarily frozen on the spot but decided to keep going. After all, I posed no threat and this is a free country, right? But I advanced slowly. Finally, I raised my arm in a kind of greeting and called out, Howdy! It was ignored. The dog acted as if nothing would please it more than to be loosed so it could sink its fangs into my neck. My trepidation now turned to fear for my skin.

It was with some relief that the man called to me. What’s yer business here? Wolf and me, we don’t cotton to strangers.

Sorry to trouble you, I shouted in response, quickly inventing a reason for being there. I had a flat tire, and hoped I might borrow a wrench to tighten the lug nuts.

Don’t have no wrench, so get out!

I would have been happy to have done so, and was on the brink of retreating to my car when out of the smaller shed beyond a chicken coop emerged a young woman. I had no doubt that it must be Hazel.

What’s he want, Zech?

Ain’t none o’ yer business, Hazel. Git back to where you was!

He ain’t hurtin’ nothin’, Zech. What’s he want?

Wants a wrench. I told him we ain’t got one.

"You’ve got wrenches, Zech. Why not let him borry one?’

I told you to mind yer own business! Then, turning to me, he repeated his demand, Get out, stranger!

I cast a sympathetic look at the young woman and started back to the road. Just before reaching my car, I heard running footsteps and first feared that the dog had been let loose. But in a moment, the breathless young woman was at my side.

Don’t pay any attention to Zech. What do you need a wrench for? I can get you one.

Having heard the substandard English she exchanged with her brother, I was surprised by her locution, which sounded perfectly normal. Oh, thanks. But it’s not all that important. The wheel nuts are probably tight enough. You’re Hazel, aren’t you?

How come you know my name?

Well, I met an old man a couple of miles down the road when I got a flat tire. He told me something about Cleanliness and the Nesses.

That’ll be Daddy Claude. What else did he tell you?

Oh, not much. I got the impression that he didn’t feel welcome around here.

The boys don’t cotton to him, but don’t hold anything against him. How’d he look? In good health?

He seemed mighty hale for a man his age, I said, a little surprised to find myself adopting the rural vernacular.

Look, mister, would you give me a ride in your car? Me and my daughter?

Sure, if it won’t get either of us in trouble with Zech.

He won’t know. If you’ll drive by on the road just after six o’clock, they’ll be eating supper. I’ll be standing out here and you can pick us up.

You sure it’s okay? I mean, I don’t want to get you in trouble.

Just then a voice from the barn shouted for her to come back, and she turned to go. Just be there, she said over her shoulder, as she ran back.

More bewildered than ever, I climbed in the Chevy and drove off. I had no idea what I would do until six o’clock, but I knew I’d come back at the appointed time. So I drove on, fortunate that there was no traffic, because my mind wasn’t on watching the road. Finally I pulled off to the side, turned on the radio to the only station I could receive, and listened to a fire and brimstone preacher telling me how to go about seeking forgiveness for my sins. I got out, stretched my legs, and rummaged in the back seat for one of the apples from the bag I bought the day before in Tulsa. This might have to serve for dinner, I thought.

A little before six, I cruised toward my destination. Through the early dusk I recognized the two figures I knew to be Hazel and daughter. What I first thought might be a small dog or cat turned out to be a valise. Hazel tossed this in the back seat as soon as I came to a stop, then pushed the little girl into the front and climbed in after her. Let’s go! she commanded. Almost drowning in a sea of unanswered questions, I stomped on the accelerator and we lurched off, throwing gravel behind. I didn’t have many of the answers, but I knew enough to put some miles between us and Zechariah Ness.

Hazel muttered reassuring words to her little girl, and I wondered if the three- or four-year-old child had ever ridden in an automobile before. Eventually I gathered my thoughts enough to open the conversation that, I hoped, would answer some questions.

Your daughter is a very pretty young lady, I ventured. What’s she called?

Her name’s Claudia. Claudia, say hello to the nice man! The little girl acknowledged my existence with a bashful smile. This is mister… then turning to me, she said, I don’t even know your name, mister.

Oh, sorry! It’s Reynolds. William Hunter Reynolds in full, but people call me Bill. I’m a photographer and I, uh, I also paint pictures.

You’re an artist? Wow! That’s cool, Mr. Reynolds! I had not expected the trendy expression coming from this sequestered young woman, but I considered that she must have had access to a radio, maybe television—perhaps had even picked up the jargon among less isolated contemporaries. But where? Had she ever gone to school? I had to know more, but other questions were more pressing.

Hazel, where do you want me to drive you? Are we just going for a ride, or, as your suitcase implies, am I to deliver you somewhere?

We’ll go wherever you’ll take us, she answered. All I want is to get Claudia and me out of there.

Well, I guess we’ve done that. But I can’t simply take you away. In the first place, I could be accused of kidnapping you both. And, well, I’m pretty sure there are laws against transporting young women across state lines, because the assumption is that it’s for salacious, you know, indecent, purposes. Anyway, I have my work to do.

I thought you said you were an artist.

Well, yes, I’m a painter. Maybe you don’t think that’s work, but believe me, it isn’t like just dabbling with colors for fun.

Would you paint a picture of me? And maybe take a photograph of the two of us together, Claudia and me? I’ve only had one picture taken, when I graduated from high school.

Well, there’s one question answered, I thought.

Sure, someday I’ll take your picture, at least. Painting a portrait takes getting acquainted with the subject and spending lots of time together.

I’ve got lots of time, she told me.

"Yes, but I don’t. See, I