Just Go Now

The sound woke Horace up, though he didn’t quite know it. It felt more like something very large had been dropped on him from very high up. He laid in bed feeling like his whole chest had just been crushed. He lay with his eyes wide open, the small cabin room coming to him blue in the darkness. It was a cold night, even though it was mid spring, which wouldn’t be good for the newly planted wheat crops. A scarce crop meant scarce work for a miller, which he was. But he wasn’t thinking about the wheat crops. He was thinking about the sound that woke him up. Was it a sound? He put his feet on the cold wood floor, and quietly sat up. Next to him his wife slept soundly. He stood, and lifted his rifle from where it hung on the wall, just high enough that the boys couldn’t get it until they were old enough to use it-- which, when they were, he’d be sure they did. Good boys both of them. And though they were still young, 11 and 9, he taught them to work. They worked beside him in the mill, fetching things for him, and watching him crush the wheat with his millstone. He taught them too. Showed them the smoothness of the millstone. Taught them precision and tried to imbue them with a sense of pride in the work of their hands. They worked plenty around the yard and house too. They helped plant and tend the large gardens and fed animals. They ran themselves ragged fetching water from the spring to the house and cleaning barns and stables. Augie, almost 12 now, was getting close to that age where he should start learning how to chop wood and use a gun. But he was such a thin boy and so shaky-handed that when he’d put the axe or the gun in his hand, it sent Augie’s knees to shaking, and his arms quivered and bowed all over. So he’d taken them back quickly and let the boy go on to do his chores and play in the barn and along the endless open land that spread around their farm. Nathaniel on the other hand, was only 9, but strong as a bull. He had a thick body on him since he was a baby. He had a bull’s head too, unswayable if he put his will to a task. He’d get in his head that he wanted to carry two buckets of water from the spring to the house like dad and he’d drag and drag them up the grassy hill, sweat beading all over his soft face. His wispy blond hair would get thick and wet and stick to his forehead.
They were good boys and he found a joy in them that he hadn’t found in any others he’d ever worked with, or known, not even their mother. He’d found a different joy in her. A joy that seemed to change year to year, season to season, day to day as they changed. A change so gradual and so natural that he didn’t see it, only felt it. The way that they’d come into each other and had stood next to each other and held each other up through work and storms and long days and short nights and cold and hot and the peak of sorrow twice, as two babies were born still. That woman who he’d held as she wept over their tiny bodies that he’d put in the ground up the hill, which had become a holy place. The woman who had held him, worked next to him and laughed with him in that wide-open empty land. His help-meet, her help-meet. The wonder and weirdness of creating three out of two, and then a fourth--children, and the weirdness and wonder of growing all of them up together in this place.
With his legs under him he felt the fatigue of the previous day. He rocked a moment with the cold stock of the gun in his hand. Then he looked at his wife sleeping without a care one more time, still feeling that slice of panic in his guts. He opened their bedroom door, and walked quietly on bare feet over cold wood out into the great room where they ate and sat at night. The fire was cold in its place. It was late. Over to one side was the kitchen, with its cold black stove. Off to the other side was the door to the boys’ room. He walked quiet as he could over the creaking boards. The house of his labor that he’d built himself seemed uneasy around him in the dark blue of the night. His arms felt heavy but as he stepped and stepped again he began to relax. Nothing here, nothing out here so far away from anyone else. I just had a bad dream he told himself. I’ll just step outside to make sure, so I’ll be able to sleep easy again. So he went to the door at the front of the house, and pushed it open with the nose of his gun. It swung easy. The latch wasn’t latched. The panic in his stomach came back, like a brick of ice in his belly, melting and steaming. Did he forget to latch it? Maybe the wind took it and that’s what woke him. He poked his head out the door looking into the moonlit night. His springhouse stood dark just down the hill, and his mill sat just beyond. The cool wind pushed against the door and he let go of his gun with one hand to hold it open.
A hand came from behind, crashing down on the hand still holding the gun, sending it to the floor with a thud. Another arm, wrapped around his neck from behind, and the dull moon-glint from the blade of a knife caught his eye. He swung a hand up in time to deflect the knife in time, and dropped to the ground, spinning and rearing his legs up ready to kick. The man with the knife jumped back.
For a long moment, one that seemed to last forever, Horace didn’t know what to do. The man was tall, thin and wiry. He had long arms and tousled dark hair. His face was dark in the night, but Horace could see it was dirty and the man had a patchy beard. The man’s eyes were large dark coals that glowed white-almost in the sickly moonlight. Horace slowly stood, rolling onto his feet in a squat and then raising up. The man with the knife stood still, perched like a cat ready to spring, expressionless. Before Horace could say anything, the man moved forward again--slowly, toward the gun. The man’s eyes flitted toward the boys’ door. The ice and steam and all of his twisted up insides lurched when Horace saw those dark eyes move, even briefly, toward that door. He saw in those eyes danger and knowledge. He saw in those eyes two more mounds at the top of that hill. Fear and rage burned in his head, and tears blurred his eyes.
Horace pounced toward the gun, but he didn’t bend down for it. Instead he went for the man, using his bare foot to stomp at his arm as it extended down to pick up the gun. The man dropped the knife, yelping and clutching his stomped on arm. Before the man could finish the cry Horace had him around the head, holding his strong hand over the stranger’s mouth. His other arm hooked around the stranger’s back, and up toward his neck. Horace could see his fingers digging into the stranger’s face, and pushed harder, and harder trying to hold this man’s mouth so he couldn’t bite down. The man’s eyes bulged from his face, and he flailed in Horace’s grip, beating against his back, and shoulders; kicking Horace in the shins with his boots. Fear and rage burned in Horace like a bellows. He pushed the man to the floor pounding his head on ground. The man’s eyes lolled and he went limp for a moment in a daze. Horace loosened his grip—his stomach hurt so bad. When he let up, the man wriggled and slipped out from under him like a snake sliding sideways. And now the panic in the man’s eyes was replaced by murderous rage. And he came in every direction at Horace with booted feet kicking at him and his white clenched hands shivering and stabbing. The man’s mouth was open wide and his tongue curled inside. Horace saw his teeth like fence posts in shallow soft ground, leaning into each other. He got his arms up, and rolled to his back as the man got to him. He curled up his naked legs and tried to find purchase on the stranger’s stomach or chest to push him away, but the stranger was too quick and slender. His fists beat Horace in the face and arms, and the man’s boots found his hips and ribs. Horace rolled away. The man was crazy, and continued to pummel at him. The stranger lolled at him while he rolled and bit into Horace’s back, just under his left shoulder blade. It didn’t sink deep, but it sent a shot of panic into him.
He rolled over onto his back and caught them man by the arm. You just git, he said to the man quietly. You just git on out of here and we’ll have nothing else to do with each other. The man twitched a bit--thinking maybe. But then Horace saw him pull the knife up. They must have tussled over toward it, and the man smiled. Horace grabbed his wrist and pushed up with his naked feet. The man flew up in the air, but being held by the wrists, he came right back down on Horace, leading with his knee into Horace’s belly. The wind rushed from his lungs and his vision went for a moment. He didn’t know anything except that he had to hold tight, and he tightened his grip till he felt something give.
Horace came back to himself a moment later lying on the floor. The stranger’s knife was lying next to him, but the stranger was up on his feet backing slowly toward the boys’ door. Horace’s throat caught. I’ll tell you one more time he said, you go now and we’ll have no more business. You just go now. But the man said nothing, and backed up slowly toward the door, one arm stretched toward Horace, hand open, the other hand moving back behind him. Horace knew he couldn’t wait any more. He couldn’t let the man move another inch toward that door. The ice melted away and the last burning steam seemed to fill him up. He felt the knot inside him shift and the power of that shift lifted him off the floor. His eyes burned with rage and tears. And in no time he was to the man, pulling him with a hard tug by the shirtfront away from the door. He didn’t say it out loud, but he said to himself, you just go now. You just git and we’ll have no more business. The man squirmed, and loosed his joints and tightened his muscles and flailed like a tent in a gale. But Horace gripped him so tight he felt his fingers become detached from his hands, popped right from their sockets. And He felt them close around the stranger’s throat and he felt them pulse with his racing heart as he squeezed and squeezed, all the while saying behind his teeth you just go now, you just go now. He felt a pop. Not his knuckles, but outside himself. He was on the floor, kneeling on the stranger. He felt the man pop in his throat and then lay limp. His twizzling limbs thumped to the wood of the floor, and he lay still. Horace tried to let go, but his muscles couldn’t loosen up. His tears dropped onto the man’s filthy shirt, and still he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let go of the man. He couldn’t breath he was so tight all over, until finally he got a breath into his body. A spasm deep down in the instinct part of him that yelled BREATHE you fool. And he filled his lungs and finally let go of the man.
He slumped to the side, onto his backside, and huddled over his knees. Exhaustion, and stupidness made him feel like he’d fallen outside of the world somehow. He sat huddled there forever, the rest of eternity, for a moment. Then the cold air finally brought him back to himself. His hands ached, and his legs were jelly, but he pulled himself up, gripped the stranger by the collar and pulled his body outside the house, out onto the porch. Pulled him down the hill and put his body in the millhouse. Then he went back up the hill, almost crawling from his tiredness. He shut the door behind him, and leaned against it.
There in the boys’ door, stood Augie. Fright pulsed through Horace for a second. No, it’s just Augie. It’s just Augie he said to himself. What’s the matter Pa, the boy asked. Horace said nothing, but walked toward the boy as straight and tall as he could until he was next to him. Even as a boy who was about to become a man, Augie seemed so small to him at that moment. So thin, and Horace cupped his head in his aching hand, and ushered the boy back into his room. You hush up or you wake your brother, he whispered gently. The boy climbed back up into his bed. What’s the matter pa he asked again. Horace knelt down by his bed. Nothing he said. Everything’s just fine ok? I just had to check on some work I forgot. All is well, you just go on back to sleep. There will be no slacking tomorrow just because you was up late you hear? I thought I heard you tussling out there. No, said Horace. I just stubbed my toe and was jumping about trying to get the smart out of it. The boy was quiet a minute, and Horace was quiet too, just looking into his son’s eyes. He fought the tremble that threatened to rend him and expose his lies. But then Augie smiled a small shallow smile, and put his hand on his dad’s shoulder. Ok, he said, and rolled over, pulling his blankets up over his shoulders. Horace lingered a minute trying to find the strength to stand. I killed a man tonight he thought. I killed a man and hid his body. I hid him behind my millstone because I was ashamed. Just go now, he thought. Just go now.