Playing With Fire In the City of Dixon

Playing With Fire In the City of Dixon

               By Henry David LaBelle

I buried Pa this mornin. He tol me that it was gunna be awright. It don’t feel that way. Mighta felt bedder if he wasn’t shot the way he was. Don’t egzactly know what to do. I seen the man shot im. I seen his face. Pa told me revenge is a damned thing said it was evil and a damned thing and it made more evil when you did it. You remember im sayin that?

Im thinkin bout revenge this morning.

I know the man who shot pa. I seen im after he did it. I seen im at the feed store. I seen im get there fore sunrise. Start getting things goin there early. I’m gonna go an get him a visit. I’m gonna go an get the Colt from the cubberd. Come home sometime and see me Darley.

Darlene sat the letter down carefully on her night table. She’d read it fifteen times already, and tears had formed in her pale blue eyes, and she wiped them away as they fell, big and round, and hit the old hardwood below. Her brother John was always very strange. She recalled him as a child, simple, flat, dead honest and strong as a bull. He was sweet, kind at heart, and had a temper that’d run like hot iron, and only Pa could calm him down once he started glowing. He’d kneel down next to him and pat him on the shoulders, and say, ``“Son, it’s gonna be awright.” 

She’d long wondered what John would do once Pa was gone, and she knew it was only a matter of time. Pa was an old man, and if he hadn’t been shot, he would’ve gone some other way. She wasn’t surprised at the news, as the policeman on the telephone had expected her to be, for she was accustomed to Pa’s fiery ways, and was just thankful he’d made it as long as he did. She always thought someone would shoot him or stab him, or burn their house down as they slept. Pa had the sharpest tongue in the county, and he kept it running all the time. He never held back from saying what he was thinking, and that was a blessing and a burden. Ma had heard enough from him for two or three lifetimes. After the first year of their marriage she stopped asking if he’d liked what she made for dinner. She’d sit a casserole down on the dinner table and say nothing more than, “Here’s dinner.” And Pa would look at her with his trickster’s eyes and get her to smile. 

He would not have lasted in marriage or in life had it not been for his devilish charm and determined ethic, there was something about him that nearly everyone respected. 

The policeman who’d called Darlene had expected a shrill cry and a gasp, and at least a little sobbing from the daughter of the newly headless man. To his surprise she asked only for the details of the murder and politely thanked him for calling, before evenly bidding him goodbye.

She sat down on her bed and wondered what to do. She was two hundred miles away from Dixon. Two hundred miles is a long way when you have to take a train or hitch a ride. Darlene didn’t have a car, and her husband George had to use his for work in the city. She thought about what might have already happened with the man from the feed store, but pushed the thought away, and went to bed.

The sun was sleeping as Tyson opened the big pine doors, and found the light chain. He smelled the alfalfa hay, and breathed the pleasant scent deep into his lungs. He yawned and scratched his backside as he looked around the place. The feed store was a large barn, with feed and fertilizers on one side, and groceries on the other, then the register stood in front, with the candies for the children below it in neat little rows. Tyson admired his new watch and held it up to his good ear, listening to the tick, tick, tick, of the seconds passing by. He chuckled to himself, and got to work hauling bags of feed onto the metal shelves. 

John finished writing his letter and tucked it into the back pocket of his blue jeans. 

He wore blue jeans every day, and a white tee shirt tucked into them, with no belt. He was clean shaven, strong in face and brow, and his eyes shone as blue as the ocean. He was nearly handsome, strong in his body, and kept himself clean, though with a closer look or a short conversation people could tell that something was missing in him. He walked heavily to an oak cupboard and looked through the warped glass at a 1919 Colt revolver. He opened the glass doors and felt the gun. The steel was cold against his calloused skin. He looked around, then reminded himself that Pa was dead, and he was the man of the house now. He picked up the revolver and flipped the cylinder open. In the drawer below he found a box of .45 Automatic, and loaded the pistol, then tucked it into his front pocket. Spirit, the twelve year old Jack Russel, now second in command of the Groves house, looked on from his burlap bed.

John went outside and faced his first big decision of the day. Leaning up against the little house was John’s red bicycle, the same one he’d ridden since he was eleven. Parked in the dirt driveway was his father’s beaten Buick, stained inside despite John's best efforts to clean out the death. He’d only driven the Buick with his father in the passenger seat, but confidence surged through him and he retrieved the key, then remembered Spirit, and whistled for him to come along. The old dog looked disapprovingly at John, and then let out a grunt as he jumped into the passenger seat. 

John drove the Buick the five miles into town, its weak headlights working hard to bore holes in the dense fog. He stopped three times as opossums crossed the road while Spirit barked half-heartedly, and once for a deer that lay in the weeds. He parked the car, and walked over to the animal. It was a young male deer, freshly hit by some driver, and its life was slowly leaking out into the tall grass. The deer moved its sleek head towards John as he approached. It breathed rapidly, still in shock. He sighed with pity and spoke to the young buck.

“It’s alright there feller, it’s alright.”

John returned to the vehicle, retrieved the Colt from the glove box, and walked again to the dying creature. He stroked its back with his right hand and held the pistol up to its skull with his left. He kept his eyes open as he killed the deer. Then, he picked it up, assessing the damage done to the meat, and placed it in the backseat of the Buick. Spirit sniffed it curiously before returning to his post.

Tyson had finished stocking the store, and sat out on a stump on the front porch, smoking a loosely rolled cigarette. He took a little mirror from his pocket and looked at his hair. He'd greased it that morning before leaving home, but it hung to one side a little, so he took out a comb from his shirt pocket and watched himself as he combed it flat. Tyson Bickford wasn’t a simple man, not in the same sense that John was, but he made impulsive decisions, which often left him in hot water. He read every newspaper he could find, and cut out clippings that told of Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker, Fred Burke, and other outlaws that roamed the country freely, beholden to no man, taking what they wanted and when they wanted it. He fancied himself an outlaw, and he was beginning to build up a portfolio to match his desire.

A year prior to the shooting of John Groves Sr., he’d knocked off a traveling salesman, leaving him unconscious in a ditch with his wares unaccounted for. Unfortunately for Tyson, all he could steal was a box of fruity smelling soap and two dollars, and to his surprise he was so overwhelmed by guilt that he paid three dollars to have the soap shipped all the way back to the company that’d made it with a note that read, 

“Sorry I robbed all this soap. I hope that salesman feller sold lots more.”

Then, a few months after that he’d started a fire in the back of the church building, and when the people in the pews smelled the smoke, they plead with God for mercy and ran out, leaving their belongings behind. Tyson put the fire out, and took what he could find, this time scoring three dollars from the purses of the ladies, and six dollars from the collection plate. The preacher had reminded everyone of this event, using it to revive a new sense of piety in his congregation.

“The lord sent a fire to warn you all,” He shouted zealously. “May this be a warning to all of Gawd’s children, that they need not be burnt by the eternal fires of hell, if only they will do as he has told them!” Amens rang out like firecrackers.

Tyson hadn’t intended on killing anyone, but a small sin led to a greater one before he knew what had happened. It began as covetousness. He lusted after Pa’s watch the first day he wore it into the feed store. He noticed its shine, the sleek beauty of its craftsmanship, and the sound it made as the long hand passed around. He became obsessed, and couldn’t get the sound out of his head. All night he’d lay awake stroking the metal in his mind. He had no plan to take it: It was fate which provided him with the opportunity. He was driving into town one morning when he noticed an old Buick parked on the side of the road next to a little patch of forest. He drove by slowly, and saw Pa’s face in the driver’s seat, and the watch on his wrist as his arm hung down from the open window. He drove ahead out of sight, and turned around. 

A few minutes before, John and Pa had been driving, when John had asked Pa to pull over so he could pee. When he opened the door, Spirit ran out and chased a rabbit into the timber. John relieved himself, and waited a while, whistling for Spirit. After a few minutes Pa told him to give chase. John sauntered into the trees after the terrier, leaving Pa on the road. 

Bickford pulled his car up in front of Pa’s, preventing him from driving away. He leapt from the vehicle, his squirrely head covered in a burlap sack, and a twelve gauge shotgun in his hands. He loudly demanded that Pa hand over his watch.

“Gimme that watch mister, and any money ye got in there. Yer lucky I don’t shoochya and take yer veehickle too.”

Pa just laughed.

“Ye think I’m playin? I’m no amater, I mean bizniss.” He shook the twelve gauge in Pa’s direction, though managed to do so without any element of intimidation. John was a hundred yards into the forest when he heard the faint voices. He’d found Spirit and picked up the small dog, stowing him underneath his right arm, and slowly headed back towards the car, listening for danger.

“Tyson Bickford you sonofabitch. You’re gonna have to kill me for this here watch, it was my grandaddy’s, and anyhows I ain’t never been robbed and I ain’t never gonna be robbed. I’m an old man, and I got nothing to lose no more. You don’t think everyone in these hills knows what you’ve been up to? You figger yerself an outlaw. Well go ahead and shoot me and get yerself in the paper why dontcha.”

Tyson turned red under his sack, and finding it hard to breathe, pawed at it and threw it aside, cursing as he did. He spit a wad of tobacco juice on the ground. 

“How’d ye know it was me under here?” He asked Pa with wonder. 

“Well first of it, yer whining voice gave ye away. Then there’s the way ye walk, and then there’s that old Ford you drive around.”

Tyson shuffled from side to side, trying to find his words. He found none, and his face flushed darker with embarrassment. He was waving the shotgun at Pa when it went off, and the load hit Pa square between the eyes. His head instantly exploded, and bits of brain and skull splattered over the backseat and windows. John heard the shot as he neared the road, and he ran to the treeline to observe. 

Tyson gazed in wonder at the shotgun and then at Pa. He gasped for air, and doubled over, vomiting in the middle of the dirt road. Fear quickly grasped him, and he looked around manically for witnesses. Finding none, he gathered himself and then remembered the watch. He reached through the window and unclasped it from Pa’s limp arm, then frantically took off back into town. John left his cover, and found his father dead. He sat for some time, gently crying at his father's side, before driving to the station.

Darlene had begged George to let her take his car to Dixon, and only after his initial refusal and her big tears did he finally concede. He agreed to find a ride into the city as he stroked her soft hair. Soon she left George, and hit the road, stopping only for gas and food as she made her way to John.

John arrived at the feed store just before sunrise, and noticed the light escaping from the open backdoor. He shut off the Buick and found the Colt. He walked along the side of the building, placing his feet carefully, trying not to make a sound. The leaves had begun to fall, and he avoided them, stepping instead on the small sections of packed red earth. As he neared the back of the barn, he heard whistling. 

He rounded the corner and saw Bickford sweeping the floor inside. 

Tyson noticed him as he awkwardly entered the store, tip-toeing as if to surprise him.

“The hell are you doin?” Tyson asked sharply, tobacco juice dripping from his lip.

John was silent. He stared straight ahead, his eyes focused on Tyson’s forehead.

Tyson wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve. “D’you hear me? The hell are you up to? We don open for a half hour yet.”

John took a step towards the little man. 

“Are you simple in the head or sumn? I’m gonna beat you!” 

John pulled the Colt out of his pocket and cocked the hammer, then pointed it at Tyson.

“What in the hell-” Tyson’s eyes darted to the back of the register, where his twelve gauge was stowed. He scurried over to the counter, barely reaching the front side when John fired a round into his right shin. He yelped in pain and leapt back away from the counter, brushing the candy shelf with his elbow, knocking a neat row of chocolate bars onto the floor around him.

He rolled on the hardwood planks, holding his wounded leg gingerly.

John took another step, closing the gap between himself and the amateur outlaw. The distance was now only six feet or so.

“You kilt my Pa.” John said flatly. “You played wit fire.” He stepped forward again, and hovered over Tyson’s small and twisted frame.

Bickford looked up at John with the eyes of a mouse held down by a cat’s claws. 

He quickly devised a plan to escape. He would have to trick the simple man. 

“I didn’t kill yer Pa. That was my twin brothe-”

The bullet found his skull, and blew out the back of his squirrely head. A pool of blood quickly filled the gaps in the flooring beneath his body. John looked down at the dead man with eyes emotionless and empty, and nodded his head.

Darlene rolled into Dixon near midnight. She drove past the mill, past the big barns that sat on the Johnson farm, and over the creek that led into town. She found the familiar road that led to her childhood home, reminiscing as she made her way through the town and into the forest. The smell of pine filled the air as she pulled into the driveway. 

When she walked into the house she found John sitting on the same couch that he’d sat on when he was a boy. Spirit sat next to him, but leapt from his comfort when he noticed Darlene, and ran to her, wagging his tail and whining with joy. John was contemplatively observing his picture books, filled with various creatures. He was studying the face of an orangutan when he looked up and noticed Darlene. He whooped with joy and laughed as he ran to her and picked her up, swinging her around in circles.

“Alright John, that’s enough, yer makin me go dizzy now” She was laughing as he sat her down.

“You came to see me.” 

Darlene paused for a moment.

“I got your letter.”

John’s laughter dried up and his face grew sober. His eyes became distant, and he sat down on the floor, resting his heavy head in his calloused hands.

“I kilt im Darley,” He confessed.

Darlene sighed. She knelt next to her little brother and softly cried.

He looked at her with eyes of innocence.

“Are you mad at me?”

She put her hands on his shoulders.

“No Johnny, I’m not mad atchya, it’s gonna be awright. It’s gonna be jus fine.”

The End