Charlie's Land

By Gary Welsh

Charlie, a young Marine, has come home from WWII and is visited by a representative of the State Governor offering money for an easement through the land he has inherited from his parents. He refuses to sell and the same day three hoodlums attack him and destroy the interior of his house. Having been trained to kill as a Marine in Special Forces, Charlie brutally kills the three of them. The families of the hoodlums want revenge, and Charlie s life becomes hell on earth. His lifelong friend, Roland, awakens to the news that his parents home and business have been torched, killing his parents and sister. Charlie and Roland discover the connection between the two incidents and join forces to stop the Governors endeavors to acquire land.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543463453

Gary Welsh

Gary Welsh is a retired business owner residing in Peoria, AZ. Writing was not taken seriously until his wife encouraged him to put into print The Reynolds Lot. Since then he has written and published four more books. Book number six is still in manuscript form and book number seven is in note form. He and his wife, Barbara, who does his editing, have been married 51 years and have four children and six grandchildren.

Book preview

Chapter 1

You need to get up, boy! Deputy Beau said as he nudged him. C’mon, Get up! You’ve got problems in town! He kicked the bed hard enough to jar the boy awake.

Twenty-two-year-old Roland O’Grady raised up on one elbow and peered at the deputy standing over him with legs widespread and thumbs hooked into his gun belt.

What’re you talkin’ about? he asked, trying to clear his head from sleep. What’re you doin’ here?

I’ve come to tell you your pa’s house and livery stable has burned down. You need to get your black ass down there.

Roland, naked as a newborn, got out of bed, quickly put on his briefs, blue work shirt, gray striped overalls and badly worn work shoes.

I’ll take you to town, the deputy said, following him out of the house.

Roland said nothing while seated in the back of the patrol car. His heart was heavy. He stared out the window, not seeing the fences, brush, telephone poles and embankments passing. He could only imagine the terror and devastation his parents must be feeling.

Just after his high school graduation he had moved away from the livery stable to work as a live-in caretaker at the Thornton farm, with the promise that he could have the place should old Walter Thornton die. It came to pass a month ago. Even though the bank’s president had witnessed Walter Thornton’s signature on the transfer of deed, the Farmers’ Bank was reluctant to honor such an agreement. He moved into the house without removing anything belonging to Mr. Thornton.

Roland smelled the smoke before he saw the black cloud hovering over the south end of town. Trying to see around the deputy and through the windshield, he sat forward on the edge of the seat. People were grouped at the beginning of Main Street, a blacktop that ran from Osceola through Blytheville to the state line.

The deputy inched the car through the crowd to the charred remains of the two buildings.

The livery stable was gone, as well as the house behind it. The townspeople were exhausted, dirty, confused, worried and silent. One could see the weariness in their eyes as they stood at a distance watching the black smoke drift over the downtown area, clouding the early morning light.

Standing at the rear of what was once the livery stable and in front of what had been the house of Gus O’Grady stood a family of black people consoling one another, crying, shaking their heads and moaning as they called on the name of Jesus for consolation.

Roland got out of the patrol car and stood stunned, looking at the burned remains. His throat tightened as if he were going to strangle. As he started to walk away from the car in search of his parents, a black man wearing a white clerical collar emerged from the crowd, placed his hands on Roland’s shoulders and, looking him straight in the eye, said,

I’m sorry, Roland. I’m truly sorry. Your mother, your father, your sister…they couldn’t be saved.

Roland felt his legs going out from under him. The clergyman caught him by the arms and held on to him.

There was an explosion, Pastor George said. They never had a chance.

Roland wanted to vomit. He closed his eyes and held his breath, hoping it would be his last. He awakened in the bedroom of The Bethany Methodist rectory…Pastor George Brunson sitting nearby.

Where am I?

Lie still, George said, laying his hand upon Roland’s shoulder. You are in my bed at the rectory. This has been a terrible shock for you. Just lie still, son. I’ll answer your questions as best I can.

Is it true? They’re all dead? Roland asked, his voice cracking, his throat choking with tears.

Yes. Three firemen pulled your father, your mother and sister from the ashes. The flames were so hot…they couldn’t rescue them.

How?

It was an accident. The fire department thinks there was an electrical wiring problem from the livery stable to the house. The livery stable had lots of loose hay in the mow…, you know…, your pappy never kept a sloppy stable, but, well…, it must have happened so very fast. Your family had no idea until it was too late. The fire was so hot. After the propane gas line exploded…, so very hot. No one could get close to it.

Where’s my family?

At the mortuary.

I wanna’ see them.

Roland, it would do you no good.

Roland got up from the bed and walked out of the room, leaving the minister sitting in silence. He was going to see the bodies of his family, make arrangements for their funeral, then find out what in the hell really happened. He had just lost his family in what was going to be regarded as an accident. He knew better.

He had watched the town treat his pa with respect for his work and his business, but knew that the business meetings of the town never included Gus O’Grady. His family knew their place…most southern blacks did. You didn’t associate with the white folks…only serve them. How many times had he witnessed his pa tell a white bastard it was okay when he didn’t want to pay him for a welding job, or an iron gate he had mended. It didn’t matter that you owned your own business. You were providing a service in the same way the shoe shine boy did at the barber shop.

School had been a challenge for him, though not academically. Being an above average student in all twelve grades made very little difference with his fellow white students. He was black. Black was not equal.

He had one true friend from the first grade to the eleventh…Charlie Ryan, a white boy who was raised on a pig farm east of town. Charlie was not there to graduate with him from Blytheville High in ’43, nor was he here today when needed the most.

He entered the mortuary, setting off chimes playing In the Garden, and waited in the rose carpeted hallway. He felt weak in the knees as he looked around at all the wreaths surrounding several caskets in a dimly lit room.

Good morning, said a short, bald man in a gray suit, entering from behind a maroon curtain. My name is Boston; how may I help you?

I’d like to see my family.

The little man was quick to see that the family had to be the three people brought in earlier on stretchers. There was no way he was going to allow anyone to see the charred bodies…he didn’t care who was asking.

I’m sorry, but the bodies are not presentable.

I want to see my family.

Mr. Boston understood the grief emanating from the young man. He walked up to him, laid his hand on the tall man’s arm, and with the saddest eyes he could muster, said,

You don’t want to remember your family this way. Believe me. I can assure you of who they are, but do not put yourself in a position you’ll regret. Remember them as you loved them. They would want that of you.

Roland was feeling sick. The sight of the caskets and flowers and pictures of Jesus hanging on a cross, along with the smell of lilies, was just about all he could take.

The short man could see he needed to sit down before he fell down, and led him to a soft, cushioned chair placed in front of a gleaming, cherry wood desk.

Sit down here for a moment, Mr. O’Grady. You have had a terrible shock.

He sat down and, holding his head up erect, said,

I need to make funeral arrangements.

Of course, Sir, Boston said as he sat down behind the desk. With what church was your family affiliated?

Bethany Methodist.

Of course. All of you people belong to…, I mean, all of your family belonged there, didn’t they?

Roland, being well taught, overlooked the slip and waited for the next question.

Would you like for me to make the arrangements with the pastor? You know, the day and time for the funeral, the grave site and all. Do you have a family plot?

Knowing my father, he would have purchased plots. He kept all his papers in a safety deposit box.

Really! Most black peo…, well, your father was a good businessman. The bank will release everything to you. You can let me know later.

Boston stood, walked over to one of the caskets and, laying his hand upon a walnut stained, wooden casket said,

Now, this is an inexpensive casket. I happen to have three of them on hand. They are lined beautifully and have four brass handles on each side.

Plain wooden coffins will be all that’s needed, Roland said as he stood and walked to the door. I’ll return tomorrow with the plot numbers.

As he walked across the street to the sheriff’s office, his attention went immediately to the blackened remains of his parents’ home and shop. He wanted to go home. He wanted to erase all of this…go back to bed and reawaken…not to this.

Can you take me home? he asked the deputy standing at the front door.

Sure can, boy. Hop into that car out there. Just let me telephone the sheriff as to where I’m goin’.

Roland got into the back seat, knowing that was where he would be expected to ride, and waited. Five minutes passed, then ten. He got out of the car and walked back to the sheriff’s office.

I’m sorry, boy, but you’re goin’ to have to find another way home, the deputy said. Sheriff Baker says that we did you a service pickin’ you up and bringin’ you into town, but you’re goin’ to have to find another way home…taxpayers’ money, you know.

Roland nodded. He knew, alright. He’d been raised to know. He set out afoot down the blacktop for his eight mile walk to the dirt road that led to the Thornton farm…his farm. He had walked it before when he didn’t have any transportation, never accepting old Walter Thornton’s offer of driving the ’41 dark green Chevy pickup, which was now his.

A new black Dodge pickup came toward him and passed by only to stop, make a u-turn and drive up behind him. The truck honked. He stepped to the right as far he could, walking in the ditch without looking back. The truck honked again. He turned and saw a man in an army uniform get out of the truck and walk toward him…Charlie Ryan.

With giant steps the two men quickly closed the gap between them and clasped arms…laughing, shouting each other’s names and slapping at the heads. It took a good minute for them to settle down and look straight into one another’s eyes.

Where you headed?

Home.

Home? I thought you lived in town?

Got a place of my own.

Want a ride?

Thought you’d never ask.

With their arms about one another’s shoulders they walked to the truck, got in and slowly drove to Roland’s farm.

Chapter 2

They sat in silence. Roland had sobbed his heartache and grief to Charlie on the way home. Now, they simply sat in the truck and stared out the windshield at the horizon of cotton plants surrounding the farm…two best friends sharing a moment of grief in the only way they knew…in silence, as a red-tailed hawk circled low above the implement shed and a gray squirrel hightailed it to the nearest brush pile. Life was continuing as life would.

You wanna’ come in? Roland asked as he opened the truck’s door and stepped out.

Yeah. Might as well.

Have you been home yet?

Nope. There’s no hurry.

They entered the small one-bedroom house, and Roland jerked back the curtains on the two living room windows, allowing light to reveal dishes in the sink, dirty dishes on the kitchen table, clothes strewn over a chair by the back door, and a view of an unmade bed in the next room.

It ain’t much, but it’s mine, Roland said.

It’s great! How’d you come by it?

Old man Thornton left the farm to me. I worked his cotton ever since high school.

He lifted some clothes from one of the chairs and motioned for Charlie to sit down.

I loved the old man, and I think he felt the same about me.

I’d reckon, Charlie said, as he turned the chair backwards and sat down with his arms planted on the back of it. Looks as though we both were loved.

Yeah. I attended your folks’ funeral.

Thanks. I got your letter four months later.

I figured.

I was in Normandy when they were killed.

You know, Charlie, I really would like to talk to you about that…, something was not right about the way your folks died.

Charlie straightened himself in the chair, cocked his head to one side and stared at Roland.

I told you in the letter that your mom and dad were killed in an auto accident beyond Heath’s Corner. And that’s true. But…, Benjamin, who works there at the service station, said that after your parents stopped, bought gas, and pulled out of the driveway, a large flatbed truck with three men in it rounded the corner and followed them. The sheriff’s deputy said that your parents had driven their ’39 Chrysler off in a ditch and overturned. What was strange is that Benjamin told me he saw the same flatbed truck returning some moments afterward.

What’s your point?

That truck had been reported stolen from the cement plant in Kennett, Missouri.

Roland went to the kitchen cupboard.

Coffee?

Charlie stood and said, Yeah, that’s fine.

He stretched, walked to the front door, opened it and stood in the doorway. His mind was suddenly searching for a picture of what Roland had just told him. Was the state highway patrol involved, or just the county sheriff? He would have to check with the county. He wanted to go to the grave site, but not right away. Roland needed him.

Didn’t mean to load you up with a lot of crap, Buddy, Roland said. But a lot’s been going on since you’ve been away.

Charlie turned to him.

Like what?

Well…, in 1943 we elected ourselves a new governor…, a Mister John Baker from Pine Bluff. He’s been shakin’ a lot of things up.

Like what?

Like, for one, increasin’ the size of the State National Guard to keep blacks from movin’ in, and another, increasin’ trade ports along the Mississippi River. He’s carrying a lot of weight, Charlie. Most of the people ’round here think he’s some sort of Jesus."

Yeah…, well, maybe he is. All I want to do is get home and see about tending the farm.

Roland answered the whistling tea kettle, poured the hot water over the basket of coffee and got two cups down from the cupboard. He realized that Charlie was there for him. He didn’t want him to leave, but knew how anxious he must be to get home.

You use sugar? he asked, handing him a steaming cup.

No. Want me to help you make arrangements for the funeral?

I need to go to the bank and get pa’s certificate for the burial plots, take them to the funeral home and set a date. I’ll let you know when the funeral is.

Cup in hand, Charlie walked back to the open door and, as he looked out over the driveway at the cotton field, said,

Were you suggesting that mom and dad were killed on purpose? Murdered?

Yep.

Why? Charlie turned to look at him. What makes you think that?

For two years your folks were pestered by the Governor’s office to sell a tract of land that would allow a road to go from Blytheville straight to the Mississippi River. Your pappy wouldn’t have any part of it. I know, ’cause Pa told me about it.

He sat down at the kitchen table with his coffee and looked up at Charlie.

Pa said the town was talkin’ about how awful bullheaded your pappy was bein’, and as how progress was being held up ’cause of it.

So…, you think maybe the driver of that flatbed truck crowded my parents off the road on purpose?

Roland didn’t answer, but sipped his coffee and studied Charlie.

Why? What would that accomplish? Charlie asked.

I don’t know. Could’ve been paid to do it.

Charlie shook his head and walked back and forth from the door to the kitchen table.

You can bet I’m going to find out, he said, as he set his cup down on the table. You going to be alright?

Yeah, Roland said. "Why don’t you go on home.

You’ve got a lot of catchin’ up to do. I’ll let you know about the funeral date, and…, hey, Charlie?"

What?

My pa bought a small piece of property on the banks of the Mississippi just east of here. Two months ago he was offered two thousand dollars for it. Twice what he paid for it. Pa said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I bought that piece of land for my family’s entertainment.’ He wanted us all to build a little cabin there and make weekend fishing trips.

Charlie stared at Roland, eyes squinted in study and then said, Was the offer from the same people that were after my dad’s property?

Roland stood and said, I don’t know, but it’s something to think about.

So it is, old friend. So it is.

Something else…, count on me for anything you might need.

Charlie smiled.

I know that. And the same goes for you.

Roland held out his hand.

Charlie grabbed the hand and pulled Roland into a bear hug. They stood like that for a moment, then Charlie turned and left.

Roland watched the black Dodge pickup disappear down the drive. He was weary. The shock of the morning had already evolved into questions about the death of his own parents. He wondered if someone had cause to set fire to the stable and house. Blacks being burned out was not anything new.

He sat back down at the table, laid his head in his folded arms and slept.

Chapter 3

He had mixed feelings when learning his dad had left the land to him. For six months after returning to the states from WWII he had done nothing but hang around New York City, drinking beer, playing pool and trying to understand the New York accents. He didn’t want to go home. Mom and Dad were not there anymore. He didn’t want to face that fact.

Not until he awakened from a drunken stupor in a cheap back street apartment, belonging to a girl he met at a bar, did he take stock of himself and make a decision to do something a little more intelligent.

With nearly all the money he had saved from his four years in the army Charlie purchased the new 1946 Dodge pickup and headed for home, where 400 acres of wild brush, scraggly woods and neglected farmland awaited him.

The closer he got to Blytheville, Arkansas, the more hyped he became. The 22-year-old lanky, dark haired, sunburned son of a long string of Irishmen knew exactly what he was going to do.

He was not interested in farming or raising animals as his dad had done. Born and raised on the same farm, he had dutifully worked by his father’s side until he reached the age of 17, then dropped out of school after 11th grade and joined the army to get away from the smell of pigs and the never-ending work.

He would turn his 400 acres of timber into an industry by purchasing more land, raising more trees, contacting lumber mills, builders, carpenters, land developers and warehouses. He would do more with this land than his father and his father’s father had ever dreamed of doing. He would turn the land into a heavily wooded, well-planned timberland of birch and pine.

And he would forget about Janice, the high school sweetheart who had promised to wait for him…that was a long time ago. He actually cried aboard ship when he received the newspaper clipping showing a picture of her, dressed in white, standing next to a man he didn’t even know. No more crying. Not ever again.

He drove past the house and up the steep grade that led to the tall pines. Standing on the truck’s running board, he looked down on the house and barn. There was so much to do. The unpainted, unfinished wooden fence his mother insisted must surround the house was broken and splintered here and there. Like the house, the barn needed to be whitewashed and the faded Red Man Tobacco sign on the roof needed to be painted over, and one of the doors was hanging by a hinge. The yard needed mowing and weeding, and the hedge around the outer edge of the drive had grown to a ridiculous height. He drove to the rear of the house, parked and entered the back door. The string that had always dangled over the door as you entered was still dangling, with his mother’s door key attached. He stood for a long moment, thinking about the day the Red Cross informed him of his parents’ death, the letter he had received from Roland months later, and the suspicion that Roland had voiced just an hour ago.

He needed to go to the cemetery, but not before he reacquainted himself with the rooms and belongings as he remembered them.

In his own bedroom was a neatly made bed, surrounded by memorabilia of the St. Louis Cardinals’ baseball team. His room had never been so neat. A picture of him in his army dress uniform sat on the night stand. He opened the closet and smiled at his two pairs of blue jeans and four white shirts, overalls and work shirts. A pair of faded blue overalls and blue work shirt hung on a nail behind the door over his brown, hook-top shoes. He took off his uniform and put on the clean, starched blue work shirt, the Lee’s and his work shoes.

He sat down on his bed and stared out the window, trying to get himself under control before he went into his parents’ bedroom. He stood and deliberately walked across the living room floor to their bedroom. He swallowed hard and stared at his mother’s dressing table. His father’s picture sat at one corner, a small cedar box holding her jewelry was in front of the mirror, and her brush, comb and hand mirror occupied the other end. A tall chest of drawers supporting only a pocket knife and a package of shoestrings stood in the far corner of the room. He walked to the closet and opened the door to his own heart as he looked at their clothes hanging above shoes lined on the floor. His eyes could not fight back the tears. He turned away to look out the window and caught a glimpse of the nightstand with their wedding picture…it was all he could take. He sat down on the edge of the bed, buried his head in his hands and cried.

The distant sound of a vehicle stirred him from the bedroom to the front door where he saw the brownish white dust cutting a path through the trees that lined the half-mile, private road.

Duane Stevenson was fascinated by the umbrella of trees covering the road. There seemed to be no end to the dark green, shadowed road, until he rounded a turn and broke into an opening with a circle drive in front of an unpainted house surrounded by a partial fence. He slowed to a stop in front of the one-storied, weather beaten house, sat for a few moments studying the grounds, then got out of his maroon 1946 Buick and stood at the gate. There appeared to be no one at home. Shades covered the three windows at the front, and a tattered screen covered a closed door.

Hello the house!

After some seconds passed, he started to enter the yard just as the screen door opened and Charlie stepped out on the porch.

Hello! My name is Duane Stevenson. Are you Mr. Ryan?

Yes.

I represent Governor John Baker.

Charlie stepped down on the white, rocky path sprouting weeds and met him to shake hands.

What can I do for you?

Stevenson put on his best smile and said, It’s what I can do for you, Mr. Ryan. I’ve been waiting to visit with you for some time about a project I’m promoting that will benefit you, the townspeople of Blytheville and future industry.

Charlie leaned against the fence, folded his arms and