THE TOWER CURTAIN

     John Tower is in town. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about him since Miss Albertson had broken the news in the staff canteen at lunchtime.

     His gaze wandered over his Grade Five class as he smiled beatifically. Twenty-four heads were bowed over furiously scribbling hands, blissfully unaware that a living part of American history was in their town at that moment. John Tower excited him, personally and professionally, and now he had an opportunity to communicate that excitement to a new generation.

     His teaching was unfocussed as he waited out the long afternoon. The final bell rang, triggering a cacophony of chair scraping, desk lid slamming and voices released from silence. He was out of the classroom before the children.

     He was on his way to the car park, feeling like a hobbled horse as knots of children swirled around his legs, when someone called his name.

     "Morton, wait up a minute."

     Jean Lamont ran across the grass towards him. "What's the rush, Morton? Dinner isn’t 'til eight," she said breathlessly.

     He slapped his palm against the side of his head. "Oh no!  Jean, I 'm sorry. I plain forgot."

     Jean was affronted. "You sure know how to make a girl feel special."

     "No, no, please, Jean, don't be upset. I heard such amazing news at lunchtime that I haven't been able to think of anything else."

     "What news can be so important that you forgot our dinner date?"

     "The famous John Tower is right here in our sleepy, little berg.”

     Jean's puzzled stare derailed his enthusiasm and made her next question superfluous. "Who is John Tower?"

     "John Tower is a genuine hero of the old West.  I'm surprised that you, as a teacher, have never heard of the man after whom the 'Tower Curtain' is named."

     "I teach many disciplines, but history is not one of my strengths."

     "John Tower was a sheriff who started his illustrious career in Wyoming. Then, as his fame spread, many lawless outposts of the Wild West vied for his services.”

     Jean smiled wryly. "I thought he might have been a famous draper."

     "Oh, very droll," said Morton peevishly. "The 'Tower Curtain' was a feat of marksmanship unequalled in the West. Being a man of high moral standards, John Tower avoided killing whenever possible.  Bank robbers and other undesirables fleeing the scene of their crimes would find their progress impeded by a circle of bullets sprayed around their feet. They usually surrendered pronto after witnessing this display of unerring accuracy."

     "I appreciate the history lesson, Morton, but I fail to see what it has to do with our dinner date."

     "I may be a little late for our dinner date. John Tower may never pass this way again and I must find him and ask him to address my pupils."

     "How can I deny you the excitement of meeting your boyhood hero?  But please, no later than nine."

     "I won't.  I promise."  He gave her cheek an affectionate peck. "Thanks, Jean, you're a honey. 'Bye."

     "See you at nine," she called as he dashed to his car.

     There weren't many places for a visitor to stay in town, but if you wanted to cut straight to the heart of the matter there was only one person to ask: Seth Farrington.

     Seth was stocking shelves when Morton walked into the general store. Seth looked down from his ladder, peering over the rims of his glasses. "Hello there, Morton, what can I do for you?"

     Morton craned his neck. Wearing wire-rimmed glasses, a card player's peak and a leather apron, Seth looked not far removed from the old West himself. Even his white, ruffled shirt and black bowtie were reminiscent of Wyatt Earp.

     Seth started to descend, but Morton said, "Don't bother yourself coming down, Seth. I don't want to buy anything, but I would appreciate some information."

     Seth grinned mischievously. "Information goes down a whole lot sweeter with a dollop of ice cream."

     "Well, now that you mention it, I guess we are heading into ice cream weather."

     Morton left with a blueberry delight and the knowledge of John Tower’s whereabouts. He was pleased that Tower was staying at the Thomas Jefferson Inn because some establishments were mighty toey about giving out information about their guests, but Clarke Widhorn, the proprietor, was a long-time hunting and fishing buddy.

     The 'T.J.’, as it was known locally, was a magnificent building of disputed vintage located on the northern outskirts of town. Its grounds owed their visual opulence half to nature and half to the tireless work and imagination of Clarke's wife, Carol.  A creek ran through the grounds that Clarke had stocked with catfish.

     Carol was pruning roses near the entrance when Morton drove up.

     "Howdy, Morton, where've you been hiding?"

     "Don't you know that a teacher's life is one of constant toil?"

     Carol laughed. "I hear you've been toiling real hard with Miss Jean Lamont."

     "Seems tongues wag mighty hard in this town.”

     "If you and Jean are fixin' to get hitched there ain't a finer place for your reception than the T.J."

     "I'll remember that, Carol. Right now, marriage doesn't figure heavily in my plans."

     "You men like your fun, but you don't like facing your responsibilities.”

     "Speaking of men, where's that rogue you call a husband?"

     "Clarke's doing accounts at the reception desk. Don't you go dragging him off shootin' or fishin' afore his work's done, you hear."

     Morton grinned broadly. "I'd never cross a lady with pruning shears in her hand," he said as he pushed open the front door.

     Clarke looked up from his paperwork.  "Howdy, Morton."

     Clarke started to rise, but Morton motioned him to resume his seat. "Don't abandon that work, old buddy, or your wife will skin me.  I only came to enquire about one of your guests."

     "John Tower?"

     "So Seth was right."

     "Is he ever wrong?"

     "How'd you know I'd be looking for John Tower?"

     "We've been friends a mighty long time, Morton."

     Morton grinned foolishly, recalling their many hours whiled away in duck hides as he regaled Clarke with stories of the old West.

     "So what room is he in?"

     "Sorry, Morton, I have to protect my guests' privacy. But, last night he read the newspaper in the lounge before going to supper. You're welcome to wait in there if you want to talk to him."

     "How will I recognise him? I've only ever seen one picture of him in a book and that must have been taken nearly forty years ago."

     "I can see who goes into the lounge from here so if he goes in I'll hustle in right after with some magazines or something."

     "Sounds good.  What time's supper?”

     "Supper starts at six and he was punctual last night." Clarke looked at his watch.  "It's ten after five so you shouldn't have long to wait."

     "Thanks, Clarke."  Morton made for the lounge then turned back to Clarke. "What's he like?"

     Clarke shrugged. "Dunno, seems like any other man to me. He’s no spring chicken you know."

     "I know," said Morton vaguely.

     As Morton leafed through a magazine, Clarke's last comment echoed through his mind. He had brushed it aside, preferring his image of a young hero with lightning reflexes, but it was 1921 and John Tower would have to be in his sixties. Still, this did not diminish his status or the importance of Morton's self-appointed mission.

     At five-thirty, Morton heard the stairs creaking and his heart leapt at each descending footfall. A man came in, nodded a greeting and sat down in a chair opposite. He unfolded the newspaper he was carrying and smoothed it out on his knees before putting on his spectacles and scanning the headlines. His movements still suggested the innate grace of a legendary gunfighter.

     Clarke came in and placed a stack of magazines on the table.  He winked surreptitiously at Morton then walked out, saying to the man, "Howdy, Mr Tower."

     "Evenin’, son," replied John Tower in a crackly, baritone voice.

     When Clarke had gone, Morton pounced.

     "Excuse me, are you John Tower?"

     Aware of the shadow that had fallen over his newspaper, John Tower looked up. "Mebbe, kinda depends who's askin’."

     "You don't know me, sir, but I'm a great admirer of yours."

     "Well, in that case I am John Tower. And who might you be, young fella?"

     Morton extended his hand. "My name's Morton Threadwell, sir, and I teach at the local elementary school."

     John Tower's handshake was firm and his gaze direct. His eyes were a warm, honest blue. Despite being slightly watery with age, they were still his strongest feature.

     "Pleased to meet you, Morton."

     "And I'm overjoyed to meet you, John. May I call you John?"

     "Why not? My Mammy did," John Tower said, smiling broadly.

     "Well, John, I have a favour to ask."

     "I hope it ain't a big one. We've only been friends five minutes."

     "That's for you to decide. Like I say, I've admired you since I was a small boy. I was weaned on the exploits of people like you, Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson and Jesse James. I think it’s a cryin' shame that today's young 'uns are losing touch with that part of American history. I would be indebted to you if you would consent to take time out of your busy schedule to come and speak to my class."

     John Tower stood up. He was a big man and age had not stooped him. A physical life had kept him lean and muscular. Morton was pleased and proud that age had not diminished his hero. John Tower was so moved by Morton's words that his hand trembled with emotion as he clapped it on Morton's shoulder.

     "Son, I'd be honoured to speak to your class. Truth is, I don't have a busy schedule. No one has much time for an old gunfighter, not even Al Capone. I'm only here to visit my sister's boy and his family."

     "All I can say is they're all fools for ignoring a living part of our heritage. Would tomorrow be too soon for you?"

     "Hell, no. My nephew's tied up at his job all day so I don't go over there until the evenin's. My days are free."

     "Good. How'd it be if I picked you up at ten?"

     "That'd be fine, Martin."

     "Morton, sir."

     "Sorry, the ol' memory slips its cogs now and then at my age."

     "Don't worry, it happens to me too."

     John Tower looked at his fob watch. "Nearly time for supper."  He noticed Morton admiring the watch. "Like this watch?"

     “It's beautiful. My Grandaddy got one like that when he retired from the railroad."

     "Pure gold, this watch. Mayor of Abilene gave it to me for services rendered."

     "Well," said Morton, "I mustn't keep you from your supper. I know what a fine cook Carol Widhorn is."

     John Tower laughed, stroking the area into which the fob watch had disappeared. "A man could get beefy with a woman who cooks like that. You a bachelor, son?"

     “Yes, sir."

     "I thought so." He laughed again. "Us bachelors always have that lean and hungry look."

     Morton laughed. "I'll see you at ten tomorrow, John."

     "Alright, son. I'll even have a surprise for you.”

     Morton cleared his scheme with the Principal who agreed to supervise his class while he picked up John Tower.

     John Tower was soaking up the spring sunshine and admiring Carol's handiwork at the front of the 'T.J.’ when Morton arrived.

     Morton got out of his car and waved. John Tower rose and walked towards him. He had a black leather case tucked under one arm. Morton opened the passenger door for him and noticed John was shaking as he got in. Must be nervous or excited or both, Morton thought.

     "Fine mornin’, ain't it?" inquired John as Morton got back in the car.

     "Yes, indeed," replied Morton, "I hope you slept well."

     "Oh, I tossed and turned a little bit. I'm a tad nervous about speechifying."

     "You'll be fine. Their mouths will go slack with amazement when they hear about all your run-ins with outlaws."

     "Sure hope so. Reckon my surprise will impress 'em."

     Morton looked down at the lovingly polished, black leather case. The gold monogram, J.R.T., sparkled as the morning sunlight played on the case's lustrous surface.

     "What's in the case, John?"

     John Tower's blue eyes crinkled with joy.  "You'll have to wait and see, Morton, same as your young 'uns."

     They walked in silence from the car to the classroom. Morton hoped his class would be as thrilled as he was by John Tower's visit. He speculated about the contents of the case, certain he had the answer. John Tower walked erect and proud except for his curious mannerism of scuffing his right foot.

     John Tower was praying fervently that his affliction would not mar his moment of glory. It was a bitter irony that he had survived countless gun battles only to fall victim to Parkinson's disease.  He clutched his case tighter, willing his body to be steady.

     When introduced to the Principal, John was gratified by his request to be included in the audience.

     Morton called for silence.

     "Class, please welcome Mr John Tower. John is a famous sheriff from the days of the Wild West. Who has heard of the 'Tower Curtain'?"

     One boy put up his hand.

     "Williams, remind me to give you an A in history."

     The class laughed.

     "Well, you're all going to hear about it. Boys and girls, a big hand for Mr Tower."

     John Tower started nervously, but, as the children became enthralled, his confidence grew and he warmed to his task. After half an hour, he said, "I guess we're running out of time so the rest of my stories will have to keep until next we meet. With your teacher's permission, I'd like to take you outside to show you a surprise. Would that be alright, Morton?"

     "Certainly."

     Morton led them out to the football field.

     John Tower laid the case on the ground and opened it. Inside, mounted on red velvet, were two Colt .45's that gleamed immaculately. Inscribed on the pearl handles were the initials, J.R.T.

     "Why, John, they're magnificent," enthused Morton.

     "They're my pride and joy." He picked up the guns, lovingly weighing them in his hands.

    The children crowded around, squealing with delight.

    "I'd just like to check the sighting if I may," said John Tower.

     "Stand back, children," Morton instructed.

     The children were awed as John Tower raised each gun in turn and sighted along the barrel. His hands shook.

     John Tower turned to Williams, the boy who had raised his hand in class. "Could you fetch me two old cans, son?"

     Williams ran off, reappearing a few minutes later with two cans.

     "Thanks, son. Can you put them down over there about twenty yards away and about two feet apart?"

     "Yes, sir."

     When Williams had done this, John Tower said, "I'm going to fire these guns now so it'd be a good idea to put your fingers in your ears."

     His hands shook as he raised the guns and fired. The cans remained where they stood.

     John Tower smiled weakly. "Bit rusty. Besides, I'm better with moving targets."

     The children stood silently, their eyes never leaving his hands.

     "Any volunteers to help me demonstrate the 'Tower Curtain'?"  John Tower asked with strained cheeriness.

     The children tensed and tightened like a bunch of grapes unwilling to be plucked.

     Seeing John’s anguish, Morton ignored his better judgement and said, "I'll be your volunteer, John."

     John Tower bowed his head. When he looked up, tears were streaming down his cheeks. "That won't be necessary, son. It was kind of you to invite me here today, but I think I should be going now."

     He put the guns back in their case, snapping it shut with an air of finality. Clutching the case to his chest, he ambled off across the football field, stooping now.