Chapter Text
Closer Than A Brother
by Jarren. S. Mikiels
As I drove toward Dean's house, the early morning sun was gradually climbing out of its bed of orange and yellow clouds, which were mixed with a few bluish-gray ones. Later, they would either disappear or turn white once the sun had completely risen.
Dean and his wife had bought the medium-sized two story house and twenty acres of land a little over five months before. The wraparound porch provided a convenient place for Dean's little boy to play, for people to sit on hot days, and to just relax and visit. My house was located almost four miles from his place. It was only a two-bedroom house, but that was adequate for any single man. Since then, Dean and I had ridden to work together. That was just peachy keen with us-real aces, as Dean said, his lips parting in a happy grin.
As I continued to drive, I smiled as I remembered helping him with some of the needed repairs before he and his family had moved in. They all had been so excited to finally be buying their own home, even if they had do some work on it. His little boy, Dean Michael, Junior, had tried to help with everything, but his biggest talent had been getting in the way. He had turned six the day before, and had thought he was quite grown up. Finally, his mother had called him to come and help her and his cousin, Hector, who was two years older, put hay in the nests in the hen house and get them out of the coops and into the henhouse. To my relief, that had kept little Michael occupied for the rest of the afternoon.
Those had been really grand times. About three months before they bought their new house, Dean's wife had become pregnant with their second child. At first, Hannah had been so sick that even I, who sometimes wished Dean were single like me so we could spend all of our time together, had felt sorry for her. However, about three months into the pregnancy, she had begun to feel better.
As soon as I pulled into the driveway, Dean usually bounded out the front door and down the front steps. His own car was parked under the shed, which was located on the left side of the house.
This morning, however, there were several cars parked in the yard. I recognized Reverend Schuster's car. Parked just to the right of his car was Dr. Bishop's. My heart rose in my throat; my stomach twisted. Something was disastrously amiss.
I got out and closed the truck door, then walked briskly toward the house. When I was within a few feet of the porch steps, the front door opened. Dean's little boy bolted out. "No! I won't! I can't! I just can't!" he sobbed hysterically as he raced along the porch.
A dour lady with her gray hair pulled back into a bun emerged, looking around. "You come back here, young man!" she snapped. "You do as I say this instant!"
The little boy ran past the North corner of the house, then turned and fled down the side, almost to the back of the house. A large porch swing was suspended from the porch ceiling by two chains. Little Michael climbed into the swing. There, he sat and folded his arms over his knees. He put his head down.
A moment later, Dean appeared in the doorway. He was usually dressed in his prison guard uniform, but this morning, he wore a blue long-sleeved work shirt and blue jeans. "I'll handle this, Morda," he told her. "Go on back in."
"My son would never talk back to a grownup that way!" the red face in front of the gray bun ranted at him. "You need to wear the fire out of him but good!"
Dean walked toward me. I caught a glimpse of his drawn features and unnaturally red eyes and mouth. "I've called in. Hannah tripped and fell on the back steps this morning when she was going out to get the eggs. She started bleeding and having pains."
"Damn! I hate that," I told him. I had heard about several cases where women had died because of falls during pregnancy.
Dean turned and walked in the direction his son had taken. His little boy, although a live wire, was usually very mannerly and well-behaved. This was the first time I had ever heard him defy an adult, especially in such a tone of voice. No wonder he was so upset.
My gut twisted with dread. I walked up the steps and slowly approached Dean and his son, pausing a few feet away.
Dean sat down beside the little boy and took the child in his arms. "Michael," he said softly, "what in the Sam Hill has gotten into you?" His voice was quiet, but firm.
"Aunt Morda told me I had to go on to school today," sobbed Michael. "But I can't. I'm scared Mama's gonna die and the new baby won't get born. I want to stay home and pray for them to be all right. I've got to stay here and help Mama and pray for her to get better. Then, my baby brother or sister can get born," said Michael, wiping his eyes with his hands.
"Shhh, now. You don't want people to see you crying like a little baby," Dean chided gently. "Brother Schuster and Doc Bishop both have kids that go to school with you. They might say something to their kids. Their kids might mention it at school and some of the other kids would make fun of you and call you a sissy. You don't want that now, do you?" Dean hugged the little boy to him and kissed him on top of his reddish hair.
"But you cried, Pa," sobbed Michael. "I know you're not a sissy."
"What do you mean?" asked Dean. "When I woke you up and told you Mama fell and the fall had made her real sick, I wasn't crying," Dean told him. I could hear a slight tremor in his voice.
"But you looked so sad. Your eyes were real wet-looking and red." Michael paused. "But I saw you go out on the back porch. I followed you. You were there, talking to God, and you were crying so hard. You were telling Him that if Mama died, you didn't know what you'd do. You said that if the baby died, it'd kill Mama. And I'm so scared, Pa. If I lost Mama and you both, then who would feed me and love me and take care of me?"
My chest and throat muscles constricted as tears filled my eyes. I quickly withdrew my handkerchief and wiped them. God! Why in the hell don't I just turn and walk away? I don't think about the past much anymore. Why don't I just leave things be?
I already knew the answer: Because I love Dean, that's why. If something happened to Dean, it happened to me, too. No matter how great the pain it would cause me, I'd stand by him. It had been that way before-well, before that fateful night we had gone camping, just the two of us. After that night, those events had completed fusing us together at the soul level.
I've seen Dean in crisis situations before. He always kept his head and handled himself better than most men do. I'm sure he'd rather be standing in the middle of a full prison riot than what he was going through here. Frankly, so would I.
At that moment, Morda stomped onto the porch. "Michael Dean Stanton, Junior, you head for school right now," she roared, her voice carrying in the morning air.
I inhaled, conscious of a raggedness in it. Memories came rushing back. I can't change the past, but I'll be damned if I just watch while it repeats itself, especially with Dean's little boy, I vowed. I drew myself to my full height, crossing my arms over my chest. Widening my stance, I leaned forward slightly. "Little Michael stays home," I stated, my voice low and-thankfully -steady.
"What?" Morda's jaw dropped; her eyes narrowed.
"I said, the boy will stay home," I repeated. "It won't hurt if he misses school this one day. His family is in a crisis. His place is here, with his family."
Morda's eyes widened as she backed up a couple of steps. Her jaw suddenly closed. She whirled on her heel and strode away. A few seconds later, I heard the front door slam shut.
Little Michael clung to Dean, continuing to cry for several moments.
As he did so, the floodgates holding back the memories opened. This time, nothing would stop them from pouring through.
**
The cool dampness in the air made me snuggle even deeper into my blanket and the quilt that Ma had made for me. A steady rain drummed on the roof. Since Pa and I had repaired the leak several weeks ago, the roof did not leak this time.
Ma had started feeling really bad after supper the night before. Pa had left to tell several of his and Ma's sisters, who had soon arrived at our house late the preceding evening; so had both my grandmothers. All the adults were sitting around the kitchen table, despite the early hour. Pa sat in the chair beside Ma, who was pale and rubbing her swollen stomach. A cup of coffee sat in front of her.
I entered the kitchen very quietly.
"Drink some of it," Jenice, her oldest sister ordered, pointing to the coffee cup. "It'll help you feel better. Maybe you can go ahead and push that baby out." Suddenly, she saw me and clapped her hand over her mouth.
"Go back to bed," Aunt Victoria had ordered, looking back at me. "What are you doing up at this hour?" she demanded.
"I couldn't sleep. I was worried about Ma," I told her.
My younger brother, Marcus, walked in. Soon, my sister, Julia, joined us. The two youngest, Porcia and Anthony, who were three and four, had been sent to a neighbor's house.
"What's the matter, Ma? I asked. There was something about the way she looked. Her brown eyes stood out against the paleness of her skin. Her lips, instead of bright pink and seeming on the verge of her usual smile, had changed to a bluish hue and were drawn down at the corners. To this day, I'm not quite sure what it was, but I was suddenly afraid for her-and for my brothers and sisters. There was something different about Pa, too.
Suddenly, Ma gasped and moaned a little. We kids clustered around Ma, wanting to help her; trying to comfort her. I just happened to glance down. I gasped. The lower part of her gown was stained red!
"The kids should go back to bed," said Jenice, getting up to pour more coffee from a pot on the wood stove.
"It's okay," Ma told her sister, her voice barely above a whisper.
"But this isn't a fitting time for children to be around," Jenice persisted.
"I suppose you'd best go back to bed," Pa said, his voice lacking the usual vigor.
"But--. But--." I started to protest, but was cut off by Pa and Jenice.
"You kids mind me now," Pa snapped, an uncharacteristic anger in his voice.
I hugged Ma, then left for my room and climbed back into bed. Eventually, I fell into an uneasy sleep.
It was almost time for us to go to school when I heard Ma scream. It came from Ma's and Pa's bedroom. "Oh, dear Jesus, help her!" wailed Jenice from the same direction.
"I'll go after Doc," I heard Pa say, his voice shaky. He emerged from the bedroom, pulling on his coat as he headed for the front door. "You children mind your Aunt Jenice until I can get back with the Doc," he ordered as he walked toward the door.
"Pa, we'd like to stay home today with Ma," I said.
"No, you kids will go on to school as usual," stated Aunt Jenice. "Isn't that right, Zachary?" She looked at Pa.
"I guess that might be the best thing," Pa said as he walked out the door.
The frantic clip-clop of a horse soon told me he had ridden in the direction of town.
"You kids go and get ready for school," Jenice ordered.
I thought about refusing, but since Pa had said so, I thought we had best go on to school. How wrong could one twelve-year-old boy be!
More memories, long buried, came rushing back. Walking home from school. Reaching the house. Several horses and buggies hitched to the porch railings or tied to trees. Doctor Ken Shelton's dark brown horse was tied to the thick branch of a huge oak tree. On the other side, the reins of Brother Timothy Echolls' buggy were tethered.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Hey, we have company," Marcus said, a smile crossing his face. He always loved for other kids to come over. That was what all the extra people meant to him and the littler kids.
But I was twelve, and knew that it could have a far different meaning.
Suddenly, I stood there, unable to move. I could not pull air into my lungs.
Brother Echolls' wife, Jane, came from the house. She paused, then walked up to us. In her hand was a white lace hanky with which she blotted her eyes. "Your pa wants to see you when you get in the house," she said gently. Her voice trembled a bit, but she did not break down.
I walked through the door first. Pa was sitting on a chair in the far living room corner, hunched forward. Brother Echolls was sitting in front and to Pa's left. Dr. Shelton sat to Pa's right. All three men spoke in hushed tones. The women walked softly about, but did not talk at all; just kept their faces on their chores.
Pa motioned to us to come to him. I led the way as we joined him, the Doc, and the Reverend.
For a long time, no one said anything. Then, Pa cleared his throat. "Your ma--," he began, his voice breaking. He waited, then began again as a tear spilled down each cheek.
"Was the new baby a brother or a sister?" asked Julia. She had just turned six the day before school started.
Pa sadly shook his head as he drew in a trembling breath. "Ma died before she could have the baby," Pa said.
I suddenly felt shivery, as if I had been doused with a bucket of ice water. "But why?" I demanded. "Ma's had babies before." I was twelve years old, but I had learned years before that no stork brought babies. We lived on a farm, where we raised lots of horses, goats, sheep, cows, chickens and pigs, as well as row crops. It didn't take long to learn the facts of life when you saw the male animal mate with the female animal; the female animal would begin to swell in the belly. In due time, babies would be born. It stood to reason that Pa mated with Ma somehow. All that stork talk was just a story made up by adults because discussing some things made them squirm like they were sitting on hungry ants.
Dr. Shelton spoke. Although his voice was steady, his tone and eyes were sad. "This was the biggest one yet. The others gave her trouble. They were all a rough row for her to hoe, but she managed to pull through. This time, well, it was just too much for her."
Brother Echolls laid his hand on my shoulder, but looked at each of us as he spoke. "The Lord has His reasons. We must not question Him," he said in an attempt to comfort us. "He doesn't make mistakes."
That evening, as I lay in bed, I heard my Grandmother Howell talking to the other women. "The Howell men have always made big babies. That's just the way they are," I heard her say. "The Doc finally managed to get the baby out of Lona after she died. He was twelve pounds and ten ounces. Would have been a strapping young man if she could have brought him into the world."
So I would have had another brother. Eventually, I cried myself to sleep, careful not to let anyone hear me. After all, I was twelve-practically a man-and I'd be damned if anyone would say I was a sissy boy.
My thoughts jumped ahead several years. Pa had remarried twice before I left home. Both his second and third wives died in childbirth.
That should have been a lesson for me, but love and desire can blind a man to reason. When I was twenty, I married Amelia Caston. On what was supposed to have been our first anniversary, I laid her to her eternal rest, our baby still inside her. At twenty-four, I met and married Abigail Bolton. Two years later, she delivered a stillborn daughter. Within an hour, she suddenly bled to death.
"Something tore inside her," was all Dr. Shelton could give me for an explanation.
My two brothers married and had lots of kids. Their wives never did have any trouble having their babies. Yes, most of those kids were big.
I had stopped bemoaning the unfairness of it many years before. Some things were not meant for us to understand, not on this side of life, anyway. Now, though, I wondered how my life might have been with a wife and children of my own.
But damn! Watching Dean going through this was just as bad in its way as when I had gone through it, myself.
TBC
E-mail address for feedback: jsmikiels@cei.net