Owen
Chapter twenty-four
By Roy Reinikainen
Doctor Daniel Johnson stuffed the key to his office in the front pocket of his tight jeans. It was a warm, late winter day, one of the first where he could leave his light winter jacket behind and depend only on his flannel plaid shirt for warmth. He looked across the adjacent park and inhaled the first smell of damp earth and growing things, and smiled. 'I love it here,' he thought, wishing more of the town's young people thought as he did, and would stay, rather than leaving as soon as they were able.
Bea Carver, and her daughters, Abigail and Opie, rounded the corner of the bank building across the town's narrow main street. Bea was holding both girls' hands, as they strolled in the balmy sunshine. Opie saw him first and waved a cheery greeting, seemingly unaware of her mother's gaunt appearance. As always, Abigail and Opie were well dressed. Bea, on the other hand, though well dressed, had lost weight since he had seen her last. 'She can't continue like this,' he thought, grimly. Beatrice had been the town beauty when Daniel came to Riverton to practice medicine, just as Jonathan, her husband, had been envied by all the town's men when he and Bea married.
He returned Opie's wave, then crossed the street, wearing a pleasant smile. "Hello, Mrs. Carver," he smiled, nodding to each of the girls in turn, and to Art, the barber, who was standing in the doorway to his nearby shop. "I don't often get to see three beautiful young women so early in the morning," he teased, pleased with the small smile he'd been able to coax out of Beatrice. Opie giggled, covering her mouth in pleasure. Abigail blushed, and turned to her sister.
"C'mon, Opie," Abigail said, taking her sister's hand. "Let's go over to the park and swing. I'll push you."
"I can swing myself." Opie's complaint hung on the air, as the two girls ran across the street, heading for the swings near the band-shell in the park. They waved a greeting to a couple other young people who joined them.
"Oh, Bea," Daniel murmured, unsure whether the woman was going to be able to stand without her daughters' support. She shared a wan smile with both the doctor and Art. With a small movement of his head, unseen by Beatrice, Art invited the doctor and her into his shop . . . away from eyes which had no business wondering why the doctor and Mrs. Carver would be wanting to speak with one another.
"C'mon in Bea," Art said, concern coloring his voice. "You look dead on your feet. He held one of the faded red leather chairs for her; then pulled another chair close, for the doctor. You two sit down for a bit and let me get you a cup of coffee, or soft drink, or something." Bea nodded her thanks, slowly lowering herself into one of the antique red leather chairs, with a sigh, and attempted to smile at the doctor, who studied her with a grim expression. If she admitted to herself that she looked as bad as the doctor's expression hinted, she wouldn't know what to do.
'I'm being eaten away from the inside out,' she thought. 'Daniel's seein' only the shell of what I once was.' She sighed. 'I'm so tired of trying to be a good mother and wife. I don't know how much of me there is left to give.' While Art busied himself in the back of the shop, and Daniel sat watching her in silence, she glanced around the shop, remembering how Owen would sometimes, as a child, lay sprawled on the floor, reading some of the magazines Art kept for his customers.
'The only place he could get something to read,' she thought to herself before turning her attention to the doctor, who gently took her hand.
'His hands are so warm,' she thought, 'and gentle.' She looked from his hands to his face and worried expression. 'I can't feel the way I do about this man,' she shouted a warning to herself. 'But,' she thought, as Daniel gently rubbed a thumb over the palm of her hand. 'Oh . . . the gentleness of him.'
"This can't go on," Daniel murmured. "You're nothing but skin and bones."
Bea glanced toward the back of the barbershop, where all activity seemed to have ceased then turned back to the doctor. "Daniel," she murmured, "Jonathan has convinced himself that Owen and Jonah are not his sons. He has accused me of making him support another man's children." She ignored Daniel's indrawn hiss of breath, brushing away a strand of hair from her face with her free hand.
The doctor leaned forward and tightened the grasp of her hand. "Is there anything I can do . . . anyway I might be able to help?"
She huffed a soft snort. "If you could spirit me off to . . . anyplace . . . I'd ask you to do it in a moment." She tried to smile. "You know?" She shook her head, as if unsure whether she should voice her thoughts. "I probably shouldn't be saying this, but . . ." she shrugged. "I've often dreamt of what my life would be like if I'd met you, all those years ago, instead of Jonathan. I have no doubt I would be a happy woman today." Her wistful smile faded. "Of course, I wouldn't have the children I love more than life itself." Another shrug. "But . . . I wouldn't know any different . . . and . . . I would be happy." Her mouth twisted into a crooked grin. "I was just thinkin' that I'm nothing but a shell of a woman, with a name attached. I've tried to do what's best, for the children . . . and Jonathan." She sighed. "Maybe I should be thinkin' about myself a little.' She rested her free hand on top of the doctor's. 'That's what I'm doing when I dream of my different life."
The doctor gave her an embarrassed look. "I think we would have made a good couple." Bea's wan smile turned rueful, and she tenderly traced a finger over Daniel's cheek, as her voice lowered.
"Oh, Daniel," she murmured, as her forefinger tenderly brushed across his lower lip. "I could love you so easily."
She let her arm drop to her lap. "I shouldn't go on so. I'm being unfaithful to Jonathan by dreaming the dreams I have, and for enjoying the warmth and strength of your hand." She glanced at his hand, so easily engulfing hers. The man's forearms and hands spoke of strength, yet the feel of her hand in his spoke of nothing but tenderness. She sighed.
"Those dreams of you . . . and me . . . and being happy . . . have kept me sane, Daniel. I could love you for nothing more than those dreams."
She suddenly seemed to realize how far she'd taken their casual friendship, as she looked away, cleared her throat, and stood, a flush brightening her cheeks.
"You take care of yourself, Bea," Daniel murmured, once again reaching for her hand and bringing it to his lips. Bea caught her breath as his lips touched her skin. It was almost as if his soft lips left scorch marks, the sensation was so intense. She caught her breath, and drew her hand back, her eyes filling with unshed tears, both at the sudden intense feeling coursing through her body, and the sad look on the doctor's face.
She glanced over her shoulder, toward the park. "I'd . . . I'd better go collect the girls," she murmured, suddenly flustered, glancing toward the doctor, then her hand. "Thank you, doctor." She hesitated. "Daniel." A moment later, she stepped out into the sunshine and called the girls to her.
"A sad situation," Art said, walking from the back room with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Daniel, who sank into the seat recently occupied by Bea Carver. He could still fill her warmth on the leather upholstery. "Bea's situation, I mean," Art concluded, sitting opposite the doctor and raising his coffee cup to his lips.
"Do whatever you can for her, doctor. She needs someone like you on her side." Daniel looked up, surprised by Art's words.
"I've known her since she was a girl," Art explained. "She was the town beauty, always laughing, bright sparkling eyes, and blonde hair which seemed to have a life of its own, it was so thick. Now . . ." Art shook his head. "Things have changed, though, somehow, I still see that laughing girl whenever I look at Bea. She's hidden inside, Daniel. All she needs is the right person, to be the girl I remember, once again."
"I would love to be that person, Art, but I don't know what I can do. After all, she's a married woman." Daniel sighed. "I'm afraid she may have waited too long to do something. She knows what the problem is, but, somehow, she seems unable to do what is necessary to free herself."
Art shook his head, smiling. "No, doctor. I don't think she has waited too long. Bea is a survivor. She's had to be to continue all these years. She'll survive everything she's going through, and it's then that you can help her learn to laugh once more."
Art sighed, stretching out and supporting his head with linked fingers behind his head. "Y'know. It's been a long time since this town has had a good wedding." He turned to face Daniel and winked.
"I wish," Daniel smiled, wistfully. "I doubt I'll have such luck."
"Doctor," Art continued, sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Luck is nothing more than preparing for all consequences, and being at the right place at the right time. You're a bright man. You can plan for those contingencies, and be prepared to lend whatever assistance you may, whenever it's needed.
"When something happens over at the Carver household, I imagine it'll happen quickly. Be prepared, Doctor. Beatrice's happiness, and yours, depends on it."
"Bea!" The shout was full of hatred, anger, and . . . scalding venom, causing Abigail, Opie, and their mother to flinch with the intensity. "Get in here now!" Jonathan bellowed at the top of his lungs. Opie's lips began to tremble as she glanced from her mother to her older sister.
"Abigail," Bea murmured, standing, and gathering her two daughters to her for a brief hug. "You both run and get the doctor and whoever else you can find and bring them back here." There was another bellow. "Be quick about it," she urged, watching her daughters run at break-neck speed toward town, a couple blocks away. She had to grin as Opie pumped her arms and legs, as hard as possible to keep up with her older sister.
As she approached the buildings of Main Street, Abigail began screaming and waving her arms. "Doctor!" she shrieked, rounding the corner of the doctor's apartment, fumbling with the door, trying to open it. "Doctor! She howled in frustration, as the door refused to open, tears running down her cheeks as Opie finally caught up, giving her sister a breathless irritated look, then glancing around at those who had left their shops, alarmed at the sound of Abigail's hysterical shouts.
Abigail fell into the doctor's arms as Daniel threw open the door to his office, while Art trotted across the street, resting a comforting hand on Opie's shoulders while Abigail gasped for breath.
"Doctor, Abigail clung to him. "Come quick. Pops is gonna try and kill Mama." Art caught the doctor's expression.
"Girls," Art said, gathering Abigail to him as Daniel dashed down the center of the street, his long legs carrying him to the Carver house. In only moments, he had rounded the far end of the street and disappeared from sight. "C'mon," Art said to Abigail and Opie. "You stay here with me while the doctor helps out your mama. If you're there, your mama would be lookin' out for you instead of tending to her own business. Besides," he said, trying not to convey his fears to the young ladies. "Besides, I've got a telephone call to make.
"Millie," he shouted to the woman in the shop next to his. Millie bustled around the counter and out onto the sidewalk, the sound of Art's voice carrying a world of meaning. "Get these young ladies a soda, and sit with 'em for a bit, will you? I'm calling over to Evanston and getting some help for the doctor?"
"Sure, Art." Millie took the girls in hand and led them to her shop, closing the door, and flipping the open-for-business sign to read, closed, behind her.
"Will Mama be okay?" Opie asked, looking from Abigail to Millie.
"Sure she will, sweetheart," Millie murmured, enveloping Opie in her ample bosom. The doctor will make sure she's taken care of." She urged the girls to sit at one of the tables where her customers often gathered for a cup of coffee while waiting for an order to be filled. "The doctor and Art'll see that everything's okay," Millie soothed, setting a cold soft drink in front of each girl, while glancing worriedly over Abigail's head toward the door to her shop, wondering if the doctor could, indeed, handle everything, as she claimed.
"What is all this?" Jonathan screamed holding up some of the contents from Bea's secret hiding place. They were simple treasures, mementos of her children's growing up; but to Jonathan, they were evidence she'd been betraying him, hiding things from him. In his current state of mind, she wondered what else he might think she'd been hiding. 'Maybe,' he thought, "Maxine, was right. Bea had been unfaithful. If she'd hide these things from him, what else might she be hiding?'
Bea reached out, then followed the container with her eyes as Jonathan threw it across the room, its contents scattering as it hit the far wall and shattered. Owen's yellow and green ashtray lay in splintered fragments on the linoleum floor. That sad lump of clay had been one of Owen's most cherished possessions. He presented it to her with an air of great consequence, and she'd treasured it since. It was heartbreaking to see it smashed, like so many of her dreams. When she turned back, Jonathan was standing before her, his hand raised to strike.
The first blow knocked her into the dining room. She caught herself on one of the dining chairs and tried to straighten up.
"You've been defying me, woman!" Jonathan bellowed, slamming her with all his strength, against the wall. He slapped her across the face. She attempted to knee him in the groin, but he was able to hold her at arm's length, laughing at her attempts to protect herself. There was another slap, this time on the opposite side of the face. She aimed a fist at his nose, hoping to break it, but her arms weren't long enough. Besides, she was dazed by the blows.
"Does hitting me make you feel good, Jonathan?" Bea hissed, fighting back in the only way she could . . . with her voice. "Does it make you feel like a real man? Ha!" she taunted, spitting away blood from a split lip and a bloody nose. "That's just like you, isn't it? If someone doesn't do what you want, beat them into submission. Well . . . Jonathan," she added, her voice rich with her own venom. 'Maybe if I confuse him, someone will show up to help,' she thought.
"Well," she repeated, gathering her husband's attention, "you've stepped over the line, this time. I'll see you rot in hell before I lift my finger to wait on you, one more time. Your days of lording it over everyone are over." She took a shuddering breath. "I hate you. The children hate you. Everyone in town hates you. Even your own family hates you. So . . . Jonathan," she sneered. "Where does that leave you? A bitter old man, who's hated by the whole world."
"You stupid bitch!" Jonathan, punched Bea in the stomach, knocking the breath from her, then released her, allowing her to drop to the floor, where she tried to crawl away as her husband paced to the far side of the dining room, where he picked up a vase and tossed it against the wall, only inches from his wife. She flinched as the shards of glass rained down. "You've always thought you were better'n me . . . you'n those bastard boys of yours, always going round with your noses in the air, putting down everyone, laughing behind my back, taking food I worked hard to buy, when you had no right! I'd be a success if it hadn't been for you and them! It's all your fault!" Jonathan's head twitched, his fingers opened and closed and he blinked his eyes, as if seeing the devastation he'd wrought for the first time.
'Wha . . .?' He gulped a breath, glancing at his bruised and bleeding knuckles. 'Blood?' He shook his head. 'What's going on?'
"You're delusional, Jonathan," Bea shouted. "You're also mad."
The black cloud descended. "Of course, I'm mad!"
Bea shook her head in exhausted resignation. "I meant, 'mad,' as in crazy, needing to be locked away, type of mad, not angry."
"Oh yes! You like making fun of me, don't you, woman?" Jonathan crossed the room and raised a hand for another strike, but blinked uncertainly, seemed to change his mind at the last minute. "You'n those bastard boys, sitting on the porch at night plotting against me, figurin' out ways to take the farm from me, laughing behind my back, callin' me names n' stuff."
Bea shook her head, and pushed herself to her knees, trying to avoid the broken glass. She braced herself on the seat of a dining room chair, hoping she had enough strength to stand. In the background, she heard the sound of running footsteps on the wooden floor of the home's porch; then a mad shriek of rusty hinges as the screen door seemed to be torn from its mountings.
"Well, I won't have it!" Jonathan shouted over the sounds of the newcomers, kicking the supporting chair from beneath her, causing her to fall to her side. When she failed to catch herself, she rolled away, and barely caught a glimpse of someone flying through the air with a blood curdling shout and catching Jonathan in a full body slam which sent both men scooting across the top of the dining table to land on the far side of the room, sending the chairs flying.
Jonathan screamed, and the other person . . . the doctor, Bea wondered . . . bellowed a response. There was the dull sound of a fist making contact with a body, the sound of expelled breath, then another punch, followed by a groan.
"You bastard," Daniel shouted, from where he straddled her husband. Beatrice rolled to her side and managed to open one swollen eyelid in time to see Daniel strike again. A foggy sense of otherworldliness cloaked the scene before her, made unreal by her reeling senses and the pain she felt in all the places her husband had struck her.
'Princesses in fairy tales,' she thought, grimacing, 'never experience pain. When they suffer at all, they are always dressed in their best clothing, invariably something silky and white, and lay, artfully arranged, on an antique piece of furniture in a room with a marble floor and a large window in a tower, with sheer draperies, overlooking a scene of green fields. Their disability never affects their milky-white complexion, their perfectly arranged hair, or involves losing bladder control.' She swallowed, the bitter taste of bile heavy on her tongue, feeling as if she were about to faint from the pain. There was another ear-splitting shout from Daniel. "My white knight," she mumbled, running a tongue over her swollen, split lip. Then, even though she hurt terribly, she giggled.
'It's finally over,' she thought to herself. 'Surely, it can't go on.'
Jonathan, in a mad attempt to escape, kicked out, twisting away from the doctor and pulled himself to a kneeling position as the doctor did likewise. The two men stared at one another, each heaving for breath. Jonathan had a bloody nose, Daniel's shirt was ripped open, exposing his hairy chest.
Daniel struggled to his feet, and momentarily turned to see if Bea was okay. Jonathan saw the opening and launched himself at the doctor, who attempted to twist away. As he turned, he backed into an overturned dining room chair and fell backward onto another chair which already lay on its side. Daniel landed with a massive thud, wedged between the sofa and a low table, groaning with the pain of a broken arm.
Jonathan struggled to his feat, howled, and raised his arms in triumph, ready to pounce, but was distracted by a dinner plate Bea threw at him. She'd barely managed to stand, bracing herself against the dining table. When she saw Daniel lying injured, and her husband poised to attack, she flung the pate through the air, just as she'd taught the boys to fling a toy Frisbee. Her aim was excellent. The plate bounced off her husband's shoulder then crashed to the floor, at the same moment the townsmen, alerted by Art, barged into the house and grabbed Jonathan before he could make good his attack on the injured doctor.
"Ooooh lovely," Bea sighed, as she sagged against the wall, and slid sideways to the floor, lying in a fetal position, a terrible exhaustion overtaking her. "It's finally over." A salty tear stung as it left a silvery streak over the bruises which were already darkening.
In the background, Jonathan continued to struggle. Bea heard someone ask the doctor if he was okay, but she hadn't the strength to move, and didn't hear the answer, because her husband chose that moment to scream and renew his struggle, as the entire three-man Evanston police force arrived in a spray of gravel, blaring sirens, and flashing lights.
The already-abused screen door screeched in protest, as the officers ran into the house and conducted a quick survey of the disaster scene they faced. The room's furniture was scattered in disarray, or lying in forlorn heaps of broken wood. Three men were holding a struggling fourth against a wall. Another person was leaning over yet another man who was lying on his back. The final man was holding onto a woman who, from the looks of her, had been beaten within an inch of her life. One of the officers dashed across the room, kicked a dining room chair out of his way, and grabbed Bea's neighbor, Scott McKenzie, as he attempted to help Bea sit up.
"Not me, you idiot!" Scott turned to face the officer and shouted over the din, refusing to release Bea. He nodded toward Jonathan, and the townsmen who were holding him securely against the dining room wall. "It's him you're after. He's the man responsible for this woman's injuries." The police officer quickly backed off, holding his hands up, as if surrendering, then turned to help his fellow officers.
"The doctor?" Bea asked, as Scott knelt at her side. "Is Daniel okay? He saved me. Is he okay?" She tried to open her swollen eyelids, but the pain was close to overwhelming.
"Bea?" Daniel called from across the room, in a voice that carried over the continuing sounds of struggle. "Are you badly injured?"
"Shhh," Scott murmured. "You both need medical attention." He raised his voice as the police officers, with the assistance of a couple volunteers, hauled the now restrained Jonathan to the squad car. "She'll be fine, Doctor. Both of you need attention. You stay where you are. You don't need to be moving, with your arm broken like that. Bea'll be okay. She's not gonna move either!" he shouted, as he eased Bea onto a righted chair. Scott patted her shoulder and smiled encouragingly, before disappearing into the kitchen, where he wet a towel and brought it back to her to hold over her bruised and battered face.
"The girls?"she asked, grabbing his arm as Scott picked splinters of glass off her clothing and dabbed at her cuts with a second wet towel.
"At Art's," Daniel said, around a groan. "Officer," he managed, calling to the remaining officer. "If they've already taken Mister Carver away, d'you think you could take both Bea and me to the hospital? When the adrenaline wears off in a few minutes, we're both gonna be in pretty bad shape."
"Your arm?" the officer asked, kneeling by the doctor's side.
"Broken in a couple places. S'gonna be a bitch to set," Daniel groaned around a grimace. "Already hurts like hell."
"Jonah!" Sam ran out of the back door onto the small porch. "Jonah," he screamed, to the man in the field who looked up, resting his fists on his hands. Sam ran toward him, cursing the soil which seemed intent on hindering his every moment.
"Abigail just called from Art's. She says your father was trying to kill your mother! They're at home!"
"What?" Jonah dropped his hoe and headed in the direction of his parents' house, cutting across the fields, taking the shortest route, followed closely by Sam.
"He better not have laid a hand on her or I'll . . ." Jonah snarled, almost in tears, as he pumped his legs, demanding they carry him faster. He and Sam ran into the gravel area in front of the house, as Scott McKenzie stepped off the porch.
"Scott!" Jonah shouted, skidding to a stop. "Where's Mama? Is she okay?" Jonah frantically looked around the clearing, as if his mother might be hiding behind one of the tree trunks.
Scott McKenzie steadied Jonah, who seemed to be at his wit's end. Sam stood opposite Scott, lending his support to Jonah with an arm around his waist. Neither of the two young men noticed Scott's quick look of comprehension, before he answered. "One of the police officers is taking both her and the doctor to Evanston to have his arm and her face tended to."
"Arm? Face?" Jonah looked around frantically, hoping to find answers to his questions. Everything looked so peaceful; it was difficult to imagine his father had been hauled away for attacking his mother, and his mother and the doctor were both injured.
Scott tried to reassure the young man by gently squeezing his shoulder. "The doctor broke his arm bad, and your Mama was slapped around quite a bit before the doctor was able to get here. She's got two black eyes and lots of bruises, plus lots of cuts from the broken glass. I imagine she'll be feeling pretty bad for a couple days, till her muscles recover from the beating ol' Jonathan gave her."
"Bruises? Cuts?" Jonah's voice rose in disbelief, as he turned to Sam for support. "Glass? Wha . . .? Where?"
"Beating?" Sam added, trying to steady Jonah.
"She's gonna be okay though, right?" Jonah asked, suddenly turning away from Sam and grabbing Scott's arm. "She's not gonna die or anything, is she? The doctor'll see she's taken care of. Won't he?" Jonah cried in a plaintive voice, perilously close to hyperventilating.
"She'll be fine, Jonah. She was knocked around though, and I don't think she really realizes how badly she might be hurt. They'll tend to her over in Evanston. I'm sure the doctor will make sure they take good care of her. She'll do the same with him.
Everyone looked up as Art's car skidded to a stop, disgorging Abigail and Opie.
"Where's Mama?" Abigail shouted, running to Jonah and holding on to him. Sam took Opie's hand as she stared wide-eyed at all the people, and the closed house.
Scott McKenzie explained everything, yet again.
"Abigail and Opie will stay with Jonah and me," Sam told Art, as everyone was finally assured everything that could possibly done for Bea and the doctor, would be. Jonah was still shaking with suppressed emotion, but he was no longer frantic. Instead, he was pacing, with crossed arms, muttering to himself, four steps in one direction, four in the opposite. "We'll call Owen and let him know what has happened," Sam added, casting a worried glance in Jonah's direction.
"Do you think he'll come home, Sam?" Art asked, in a low voice, as he watched the muttering young man who continued to pace.
"If he can find a way, I'm sure he will," Sam responded. "I only wish he'd come home to stay," he murmured, barely loud enough for Art to hear.
"As do I, Sam. As do I."
~ to be continued ~
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I always welcome your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts. If you would like me to send you a pic of the character(s), please ask.
Roy Reinikainen roynm@mac.com