| General Fiction posted December 26, 2021 | Chapters: |
...6 7 -8- 9... 
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Lee meets Dawn at the cross roads.
A chapter in the book Concertina
Ruined Embroidery
by Yardier
| Background Lee Morason is a Vietnam veteran with the aftereffects of combat clouding his view of life. He avoids the symptoms and denies he is heading to a psychological and spiritual break down. |
Brother Archer had finished stretching out the garden hose when he heard the wailing of an ambulance in the distance. By the time he had the hose neatly coiled at the base of the faucet, the bold white ambulance with a brilliant crimson cross had come to a dusty skidding stop in front of his church.
"Did you call?" the driver asked urgently.
"No, it might be from the pipe plant down at the end of the road." Brother Archer pointed to the corrugated tin building near the dead eucalyptus tree.
As the ambulance sped off spitting gravel from the rear wheels, Brother Archer turned his face from the dust and said a quick prayer for those who might be injured. He hoped it was not Lee.
"Did you call?" the driver asked urgently.
"No, it might be from the pipe plant down at the end of the road." Brother Archer pointed to the corrugated tin building near the dead eucalyptus tree.
As the ambulance sped off spitting gravel from the rear wheels, Brother Archer turned his face from the dust and said a quick prayer for those who might be injured. He hoped it was not Lee.
~~~~
"Wha… what happened?" Lee blinked at the brightness of the day.
Kneeling beside Lee, Fritz looked up at the bewildered laborers and knew they thought something strange had occurred. Then, tipping a water bottle to Lee's lips, Fritz said, "You… passed out, Lee."
Lee coughed and sputtered. "What am I doing out here…?"
"We thought you were looking for a part or something." Fritz gave a warning look to the laborers. "It's been a sweltering day Lee… for all of us. I think we should just call it, and everybody head home."
Lee took another sip of water and tried to sit up.
"Easy," Fritz said while pouring water on Lee's head and chest.
Lee noticed the ambulance parked at the rear of the grinders shop. "Is that for me?"
"Only if you think you need it," Fritz said.
Lee sat up and took the bottle of water with shaky hands and drank it half empty while gazing at the chain-link fence. He thought it odd he had not noticed how much trash had gathered at its base before today.
Fritz helped Lee to his feet and said, "I'll drive you home in your truck, Lee. Trevor, you rode out here today with Chris, right? Tell him you're going to follow us to Lee's house in my car."
Lee took another drink of water and wondered why it felt like ants had bitten his ankle. "What's Jesse gonna think about you calling the shots?"
Fritz nodded in the direction of the ambulance. "He's got other things on his mind right now."
Kneeling beside Lee, Fritz looked up at the bewildered laborers and knew they thought something strange had occurred. Then, tipping a water bottle to Lee's lips, Fritz said, "You… passed out, Lee."
Lee coughed and sputtered. "What am I doing out here…?"
"We thought you were looking for a part or something." Fritz gave a warning look to the laborers. "It's been a sweltering day Lee… for all of us. I think we should just call it, and everybody head home."
Lee took another sip of water and tried to sit up.
"Easy," Fritz said while pouring water on Lee's head and chest.
Lee noticed the ambulance parked at the rear of the grinders shop. "Is that for me?"
"Only if you think you need it," Fritz said.
Lee sat up and took the bottle of water with shaky hands and drank it half empty while gazing at the chain-link fence. He thought it odd he had not noticed how much trash had gathered at its base before today.
Fritz helped Lee to his feet and said, "I'll drive you home in your truck, Lee. Trevor, you rode out here today with Chris, right? Tell him you're going to follow us to Lee's house in my car."
Lee took another drink of water and wondered why it felt like ants had bitten his ankle. "What's Jesse gonna think about you calling the shots?"
Fritz nodded in the direction of the ambulance. "He's got other things on his mind right now."
~~~~
"Yes, I understand. Thank you," Dawn Morason said as she placed the telephone handset quietly onto its cradle as if by doing so, the message she heard would not worsen. She sat at her desk for a moment, trying to understand how this surprising change might both be good and bad at the same time.
The Weedpatch Farm Workers Museum was warm, warmer than most days, but not surprising given the period-correct, single-pane windows of the small, historic building and the broiling outside temperature. Dawn stood and strolled around the white-washed room and gazed at the black and white photographs of the massive immigration of Okies, Arkies, and other displaced persons trying to scratch out a living in the South San Joaquin Valley during the Great Depression. She adjusted museum pamphlets in their wall boxes gently as if they were small birds in their nests, then stood for a moment staring across the empty gravel parking lot where her gaze drifted across the highway to a single palm tree. Over the years, she watched it bend in the wind. She also watched it reach seventy-some feet upward without anyone watering it. Today though, she mused how a seed took root in the dry, hardpan dirt. How did that seed get here? Wherever it came from, it arrived with resilience, something she wished she had.
Her eyes began to water.
No tears, yes tears.
Bawl your heart out.
No!
She gritted her teeth and wiped her eyes.
She took a breath.
She was not particularly surprised by the phone call. She admitted misplaced hope had clouded her horizon. It had been apparent for some time, that, except for the occasional high school field trip or a friend of an illegal immigrant seeking housing information, not many people came to the museum anymore. She was not naïve. She knew Kern County Politics were more powerful than her loyalty to historical truth and accuracy. Rumors had been circling about a Federal Grant having been awarded to rebuild the Weedpatch labor camp to reflect better the 'overall' balanced picture of the farmworker's struggle.
The Grant did not provide for the position of Volunteer Docent.
Even so, she hoped the powers that be, might keep her on with a small salary. That would not occur. However, the Grant did provide for a Manager, Assistant Manager, four staff members, and two groundskeepers. It also provided a new pickup truck, tractor, and drive home vehicles for the Manager and Assistant Manager.
Reluctantly, she realized the phone call not only offered her a new career option but also brought the hard truth of the power of politics into the open. She and the Okies and Arkies were out, and in a strange turn of county politics, John Steinbeck and Cesar Chavez were in.
She walked to her desk and retrieved a single framed photograph of herself and Lee as newlyweds sitting nervously on a large granite boulder with the mighty Kern River rushing behind them. She sighed, placed the photograph in her purse, turned the lights and swamp cooler off, then locked the door behind her as she stepped into the relentless heat to her car.
As she pulled away from the weathered building, Dawn realized the small carrot offered to her insulted her but also gave her a little relief. She knew the position as a Librarian Attendant in Bakersfield did not pay much, but the extra money would help relieve some of her and Lee's financial pressure if he didn't drink it away.
She came to a stop at the edge of the county highway and bit her lip. Fighting the urge to floor the accelerator and blast across the highway without looking, she sat in silence with the engine idling. She wondered how life could turn out so different from what she had planned. Finally, tired beyond tired, she admitted there was only so much a person could do, and then it seemed as if another force took over to limit options and directions.
Annoyed and nervous, she looked both ways up and down the highway and did not see a single vehicle or person for miles. But she did see the palm tree, the big stoic, solid palm tree reaching up into a hazy sky. She closed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel with determination and took her foot off the brake to slam the throttle to the floor when a blast of wind buffeted the car. Startled, she placed her foot back on the brake and watched waves of hot sand race across the highway obscuring the base of the palm tree. Finally, she took the car out of gear and looked up through the pitted windshield and saw the upper third of the palm tree.
It was bending with the wind.
She spoke aloud, "Not today, buddy, not today."
She put the car back into gear and drove onto the sand-covered highway with caution. Driving slowly through the thinning sandstorm toward home, the rippling heat waves distorted Dawn's view of the distant horizon as if the highway offered a cool ribbon of relief some distance ahead.
The Weedpatch Farm Workers Museum was warm, warmer than most days, but not surprising given the period-correct, single-pane windows of the small, historic building and the broiling outside temperature. Dawn stood and strolled around the white-washed room and gazed at the black and white photographs of the massive immigration of Okies, Arkies, and other displaced persons trying to scratch out a living in the South San Joaquin Valley during the Great Depression. She adjusted museum pamphlets in their wall boxes gently as if they were small birds in their nests, then stood for a moment staring across the empty gravel parking lot where her gaze drifted across the highway to a single palm tree. Over the years, she watched it bend in the wind. She also watched it reach seventy-some feet upward without anyone watering it. Today though, she mused how a seed took root in the dry, hardpan dirt. How did that seed get here? Wherever it came from, it arrived with resilience, something she wished she had.
Her eyes began to water.
No tears, yes tears.
Bawl your heart out.
No!
She gritted her teeth and wiped her eyes.
She took a breath.
She was not particularly surprised by the phone call. She admitted misplaced hope had clouded her horizon. It had been apparent for some time, that, except for the occasional high school field trip or a friend of an illegal immigrant seeking housing information, not many people came to the museum anymore. She was not naïve. She knew Kern County Politics were more powerful than her loyalty to historical truth and accuracy. Rumors had been circling about a Federal Grant having been awarded to rebuild the Weedpatch labor camp to reflect better the 'overall' balanced picture of the farmworker's struggle.
The Grant did not provide for the position of Volunteer Docent.
Even so, she hoped the powers that be, might keep her on with a small salary. That would not occur. However, the Grant did provide for a Manager, Assistant Manager, four staff members, and two groundskeepers. It also provided a new pickup truck, tractor, and drive home vehicles for the Manager and Assistant Manager.
Reluctantly, she realized the phone call not only offered her a new career option but also brought the hard truth of the power of politics into the open. She and the Okies and Arkies were out, and in a strange turn of county politics, John Steinbeck and Cesar Chavez were in.
She walked to her desk and retrieved a single framed photograph of herself and Lee as newlyweds sitting nervously on a large granite boulder with the mighty Kern River rushing behind them. She sighed, placed the photograph in her purse, turned the lights and swamp cooler off, then locked the door behind her as she stepped into the relentless heat to her car.
As she pulled away from the weathered building, Dawn realized the small carrot offered to her insulted her but also gave her a little relief. She knew the position as a Librarian Attendant in Bakersfield did not pay much, but the extra money would help relieve some of her and Lee's financial pressure if he didn't drink it away.
She came to a stop at the edge of the county highway and bit her lip. Fighting the urge to floor the accelerator and blast across the highway without looking, she sat in silence with the engine idling. She wondered how life could turn out so different from what she had planned. Finally, tired beyond tired, she admitted there was only so much a person could do, and then it seemed as if another force took over to limit options and directions.
Annoyed and nervous, she looked both ways up and down the highway and did not see a single vehicle or person for miles. But she did see the palm tree, the big stoic, solid palm tree reaching up into a hazy sky. She closed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel with determination and took her foot off the brake to slam the throttle to the floor when a blast of wind buffeted the car. Startled, she placed her foot back on the brake and watched waves of hot sand race across the highway obscuring the base of the palm tree. Finally, she took the car out of gear and looked up through the pitted windshield and saw the upper third of the palm tree.
It was bending with the wind.
She spoke aloud, "Not today, buddy, not today."
She put the car back into gear and drove onto the sand-covered highway with caution. Driving slowly through the thinning sandstorm toward home, the rippling heat waves distorted Dawn's view of the distant horizon as if the highway offered a cool ribbon of relief some distance ahead.
~~~~
"Lee!" Dawn shouted.
Startled, Lee spun around.
Dawn slammed the front door closed and marched into the kitchen, "Why is your truck parked in the driveway? You know it leaks oil, and, and…." Suddenly, Dawn saw Lee standing at the breakfast nook with a pistol in his hand and an M-16 rifle on the countertop next to a beer. "What are you doing home so early?" She could not take her eyes off the pistol.
Lee, placed the pistol onto a cleaning mat next to an old green ammo can, picked up the beer, and took a long swig.
"Did you get fired?"
"Nope." Lee stifled a small belch with a closed fist. "At least I don't think so…."
Dawn put her purse on the kitchen table and walked slowly to the wall-phone by the refrigerator. "Are you drunk?"
"Not yet," Lee said as he picked up the M-16 by the pistol grip and aimed it through the kitchen window at an unknown target in the backyard.
Dawn sidestepped to the phone. "That's not loaded, is it?"
Lee grinned and pulled the trigger.
Dawn jumped at the sound of the firing pin snapping forward into the empty chamber. "Oh God, Lee, what's wrong with you. You don't look well."
Lee placed the M-16 carefully into a padded rifle case on the counter and zipped it closed reverently. "There was an accident at the shop… they think I had a heat stroke or something." Lee began to ramble. "Fritz drove me home… I didn't park the truck on the driveway... I'm gonna sell the guns."
Her fear of personal harm somewhat diminished, Dawn stepped toward Lee to get a better look at his wellbeing or lack of it. "I had to walk from the curb to the house in this heat, Lee. You know how I dislike the heat. Is it too much to ask you to be considerate?"
Ignoring her question, Lee cocked his head and closed his eyes in thought and struggled with the concept of time. "What… what are you doing home so early?"
"They're closing the museum, and I didn't think there was any reason to stick around. It's not like anybody is going to visit in this heat the day before the 4th." Dawn stole a glance at Lee's red-rimmed eyelids.
"Well, it's not like they're going to dock your pay or anything," Lee said as he wiped the excess oil off the pistol with one of Dawn's fine embroidered kitchen towels. "I mean, how many years have you worked out there without pay?" Lee pulled the slide back on the pistol and inspected the empty chamber and magazine well.
Dawn looked at the loaded magazine lying next to the oil-stained towel with its delicate embroidery now ruined. "They gave me gas money… once in a while… and lunch too… on occasion."
"Wonderful," Lee said with a distance in his voice. "Just wonderful." Lee picked up the loaded magazine with his empty hand. "Tires…?"
"Tires?" Dawn repeated.
"Ya, tires and oil changes and insurance and registration and all the other things that keep a car running." Suddenly, Lee disengaged the pistol slide-lock, freeing the slide to slam closed on the empty chamber. Then, like an angry madman, he wadded the ruined kitchen towel furiously around the pistol and loaded magazine, then stuffed it all into the ammo can and slammed the lid shut with force. "Ya, tires."
Relieved Lee had put the weapons away, Dawn became concerned Lee's appearance reflected an illness; his eyes were yellow and dull, and his skin pale and chalky. The pungent odor of beer and metallic sweat and oilfield grease surrounding him stung her nose. Cautious, she asked, “Why are you wearing your work clothes in the kitchen, and… why are you selling your guns?" She surprised herself with her concern. Lee had acted oddly before, but now he seemed to be changing into someone else and going somewhere else. She was not sure who he was and was beginning to think he did not know either.
Lee reached over and picked up his beer carefully and finished it with exaggerated good manners, then crunched the can with one hand and walked over and dropped it into the trash receptacle with a delicate motion. "I need money to buy a plane ticket."
"Where do you think you're going?" A different kind of fear began to alarm Dawn.
Lee stepped to the opposite side of the breakfast nook that separated him from Dawn. He looked at the ammo can and rifle case. "Ya know… these weapons kept me alive a long time ago…. I never thought I would get rid of them." Then with profound sadness in his eyes that begged a question he could not ask, he looked at Dawn. His shoulders slumped with fatigue as he took a slow, tired breath and then, with a grand sweeping gesture of his arms and hands, made a mocking introduction to a perfectly painted kitchen with matching appliances and flooring. "Let's face it; there's not going to be any gooks in the wire around here anytime soon..."
Dawn cringed at the word, gooks. "Lee, you're not making any sense. Put those guns away. I'm taking you to the doctor."
"I'm going back to Vietnam," Lee said with finality.
"You're not going anywhere until you see the doctor."
"I might have fathered a child."
"You stop this nonsense right now, Lee. You haven't fathered anybody in Vietnam." Dawn pointed to the floor with growing anger. "Or even here! You need to forget about Vietnam and think about US!"
Lee shook his head and chuckled. "It's funny, Dawn, how when we were first married, you blabbed to your friends all the time about me being in Vietnam."
"I was proud of you. You said you were in Special Forces."
"I said I was a Specialist in a special unit that was not well known." Lee found it odd to be defending the truth in his own home.
"You made it sound like you were some kind of commando with your Black Beret," Dawn said sarcastically like a suburban assassin twisting the knife in a little deeper for good measure.
"No, you did. That's what you told everyone." Lee's words shot out like hot rivets. "You couldn't accept I was a Specialist 4th class that operated a gunboat. It wasn't sexy enough for you. You were embarrassed that I held the same rank as a Corporal, a lowly E-4. You needed something to hang your hat on besides being an Okie expert."
Dawn's face flushed red. "You're a specialist, alright – a specialist at being drunk and losing jobs." Dawn cringed at her own words and immediately regretted saying them.
Lee stiffened. "Ya, you're right… you're always right… but I'm not going to sit here in your gilded cage without knowing whether or not I'm a father."
"SHUT UP!" Dawn shouted as she grabbed her purse and keys. "Just shut up and get in the car. I'm taking you to the doctor."
Startled, Lee spun around.
Dawn slammed the front door closed and marched into the kitchen, "Why is your truck parked in the driveway? You know it leaks oil, and, and…." Suddenly, Dawn saw Lee standing at the breakfast nook with a pistol in his hand and an M-16 rifle on the countertop next to a beer. "What are you doing home so early?" She could not take her eyes off the pistol.
Lee, placed the pistol onto a cleaning mat next to an old green ammo can, picked up the beer, and took a long swig.
"Did you get fired?"
"Nope." Lee stifled a small belch with a closed fist. "At least I don't think so…."
Dawn put her purse on the kitchen table and walked slowly to the wall-phone by the refrigerator. "Are you drunk?"
"Not yet," Lee said as he picked up the M-16 by the pistol grip and aimed it through the kitchen window at an unknown target in the backyard.
Dawn sidestepped to the phone. "That's not loaded, is it?"
Lee grinned and pulled the trigger.
Dawn jumped at the sound of the firing pin snapping forward into the empty chamber. "Oh God, Lee, what's wrong with you. You don't look well."
Lee placed the M-16 carefully into a padded rifle case on the counter and zipped it closed reverently. "There was an accident at the shop… they think I had a heat stroke or something." Lee began to ramble. "Fritz drove me home… I didn't park the truck on the driveway... I'm gonna sell the guns."
Her fear of personal harm somewhat diminished, Dawn stepped toward Lee to get a better look at his wellbeing or lack of it. "I had to walk from the curb to the house in this heat, Lee. You know how I dislike the heat. Is it too much to ask you to be considerate?"
Ignoring her question, Lee cocked his head and closed his eyes in thought and struggled with the concept of time. "What… what are you doing home so early?"
"They're closing the museum, and I didn't think there was any reason to stick around. It's not like anybody is going to visit in this heat the day before the 4th." Dawn stole a glance at Lee's red-rimmed eyelids.
"Well, it's not like they're going to dock your pay or anything," Lee said as he wiped the excess oil off the pistol with one of Dawn's fine embroidered kitchen towels. "I mean, how many years have you worked out there without pay?" Lee pulled the slide back on the pistol and inspected the empty chamber and magazine well.
Dawn looked at the loaded magazine lying next to the oil-stained towel with its delicate embroidery now ruined. "They gave me gas money… once in a while… and lunch too… on occasion."
"Wonderful," Lee said with a distance in his voice. "Just wonderful." Lee picked up the loaded magazine with his empty hand. "Tires…?"
"Tires?" Dawn repeated.
"Ya, tires and oil changes and insurance and registration and all the other things that keep a car running." Suddenly, Lee disengaged the pistol slide-lock, freeing the slide to slam closed on the empty chamber. Then, like an angry madman, he wadded the ruined kitchen towel furiously around the pistol and loaded magazine, then stuffed it all into the ammo can and slammed the lid shut with force. "Ya, tires."
Relieved Lee had put the weapons away, Dawn became concerned Lee's appearance reflected an illness; his eyes were yellow and dull, and his skin pale and chalky. The pungent odor of beer and metallic sweat and oilfield grease surrounding him stung her nose. Cautious, she asked, “Why are you wearing your work clothes in the kitchen, and… why are you selling your guns?" She surprised herself with her concern. Lee had acted oddly before, but now he seemed to be changing into someone else and going somewhere else. She was not sure who he was and was beginning to think he did not know either.
Lee reached over and picked up his beer carefully and finished it with exaggerated good manners, then crunched the can with one hand and walked over and dropped it into the trash receptacle with a delicate motion. "I need money to buy a plane ticket."
"Where do you think you're going?" A different kind of fear began to alarm Dawn.
Lee stepped to the opposite side of the breakfast nook that separated him from Dawn. He looked at the ammo can and rifle case. "Ya know… these weapons kept me alive a long time ago…. I never thought I would get rid of them." Then with profound sadness in his eyes that begged a question he could not ask, he looked at Dawn. His shoulders slumped with fatigue as he took a slow, tired breath and then, with a grand sweeping gesture of his arms and hands, made a mocking introduction to a perfectly painted kitchen with matching appliances and flooring. "Let's face it; there's not going to be any gooks in the wire around here anytime soon..."
Dawn cringed at the word, gooks. "Lee, you're not making any sense. Put those guns away. I'm taking you to the doctor."
"I'm going back to Vietnam," Lee said with finality.
"You're not going anywhere until you see the doctor."
"I might have fathered a child."
"You stop this nonsense right now, Lee. You haven't fathered anybody in Vietnam." Dawn pointed to the floor with growing anger. "Or even here! You need to forget about Vietnam and think about US!"
Lee shook his head and chuckled. "It's funny, Dawn, how when we were first married, you blabbed to your friends all the time about me being in Vietnam."
"I was proud of you. You said you were in Special Forces."
"I said I was a Specialist in a special unit that was not well known." Lee found it odd to be defending the truth in his own home.
"You made it sound like you were some kind of commando with your Black Beret," Dawn said sarcastically like a suburban assassin twisting the knife in a little deeper for good measure.
"No, you did. That's what you told everyone." Lee's words shot out like hot rivets. "You couldn't accept I was a Specialist 4th class that operated a gunboat. It wasn't sexy enough for you. You were embarrassed that I held the same rank as a Corporal, a lowly E-4. You needed something to hang your hat on besides being an Okie expert."
Dawn's face flushed red. "You're a specialist, alright – a specialist at being drunk and losing jobs." Dawn cringed at her own words and immediately regretted saying them.
Lee stiffened. "Ya, you're right… you're always right… but I'm not going to sit here in your gilded cage without knowing whether or not I'm a father."
"SHUT UP!" Dawn shouted as she grabbed her purse and keys. "Just shut up and get in the car. I'm taking you to the doctor."
~~~~
Book of the Month contest entry
 Recognized |
The title Concertina refers to razor wire used to secure a combat perimeter. It is also used on prison walls. It is designed with barbs and razor type hooks intended to snag a person from entering or attempting to escape a secure area.
Concertina, in the context of this novella refers to psychological and spiritual entanglement. Specifically, it refers to a Vietnam combat veteran who is ensnared by the deepest and darkest fetters of torment and denial. Those fetters consist of alcohol abuse, guilt, and resentment.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Concertina, in the context of this novella refers to psychological and spiritual entanglement. Specifically, it refers to a Vietnam combat veteran who is ensnared by the deepest and darkest fetters of torment and denial. Those fetters consist of alcohol abuse, guilt, and resentment.
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