Porch Swings and Family Graves
As the sun started to wane towards the horizon on the
mid-August day, Robert Faulkner turned up the long lane that led to the
farmhouse that overlooked the village of Bancroft, Nebraska, to the west
and the Logan Valley to the east.
On the west side the first thing that a person saw
from the farm was the old red brick schoolhouse that sat at the center
of the village. Robert had gone to school there and perhaps someday his
son, Zack, would go there as well.
His four year old son sat in he front passenger
seat next to him. The tow headed boy was tired, threatening to nod off
at any moment. It had been a long, active day for Zack.
On the east side of the farm a person could see,
while looking down into the valley, fields of green alfalfa that came up
to the edge of the house lawn and swayed with the gentle evening breeze.
During the winter a person could take a toboggan to the steps of the east
porch of the house, climb on and ride all the way down the sloping hill
to the highway below. Robert could remember those high- speed rides, the
toboggan bouncing madly over the rough field with the white spray of snow
flying into his face, the shriek of children's' screams of exhilaration
in his ears.
Perhaps someday Zack would be taking those heart-racing
trips down the east hill.
Dana, Robert's wife, was in Wayne for the weekend
visiting her sister, Melinda, as she went through her divorce from the
burly sleeze of a husband who drove a cattle truck and had been keeping
a mistress in Kansas for the past two years.
Robert had been put in charge of looking after Zack
during the weekend and in truth Robert was glad of it. He had been able
to spend a lot more time with his son during this one weekend than he had
been able to in recent months. The IBP meat packing plant over in West
Point had been in near continuous overtime for some weeks now and as a
foreman Robert had to put in even more time than did the men he supervised.
Being a foreman had its perks as well as he was
able to negotiate a few days of vacation time while his wife was out of
town. He had spent the last two days with his son and now had the time
to take care of some nagging business.
The farm house and buildings sat on the very edge
of the village limits, the lane leading to it being within the village
itself and even some of the farmland extended into the village. As Robert
drove into the farm yard, scattering both cats and rabbits, he looked to
the south and could see the cattle yards out beyond Highway 51. The straight
highway provided not only the south boundary lines of the Sentor farmland,
but of Bancroft as well.
When the wind was out of the south the stink of
cow manure would waft over the little village. When it rained the smell
became eye-watering.
Surrounding the light pole that marked the center
of the farm were the corn crib and the two old chicken coops on the west,
the crib no longer held any corn and the coops were now empty and all but
bereft of their shingles and paint. The coops had been standing quiet and
alone for years now, ever since Jeb Sentor had sold off the last of the
chickens.
To the southeast stood the largest of the red barns
which served as machine shed, hay loft and horse stalls. The old tools
were covered in dust now, the hay was many times older than Zack and there
hadn't been horses in the stalls for decades, the aging saddles and bits
hanging on wall pegs where they had stayed for longer than Robert had been
alive.
Then there was the white, two car garage on the
east side that Robert had helped build ten years ago when he was in his
junior year of high school. To the east of the garage itself was the old
hog barn, nearly decayed into absolute ruin. Age was a harsh, unforgiving
thing.
Finally, to the north of the light pole was the
New England style farmhouse that had been built back in the eighteen hundreds
by Sentors who had migrated from Conneticut and which was easily larger
than any of the barns, being two stories high with an attic, from which
a person could see all the way to US Highway 77 five miles to the east.
All of Bancroft could be seen from the attic perch
as well and watching the sunset from there was a breath-taker. The house
also had a kitchen/dining room addition that stuck out from the box frame
of the original house. Porches lined the east and west sides of the house
with delicately worked hand-carved trimming running along the edge of the
porch eaves.
As Robert parked and shut off the car, Zack opened
his door and stumbled out. Robert got out as well and reached back to the
rear seat for the folded blue blanket that had been a present for Zack's
birth from Emma Sentor. Robert turned towards the yard and saw Zack standing
still as a statue (a rare thing for four years olds to do) as he watched
the birds in the bird bath that sat beneath the limbs of the silver maple
tree whose leaves shaded the kitchen addition of the house from the morning
and mid-day sun. Zack attempted to tip toe closer to the frolicking birds.
The wrens that splashed in the bath ignored him until he drew too close
and then they took flight, leaving Zack looking up after them in delight.
"'Lo, Zack," called the voice of Emma Sentor from
the east porch. Robert looked up and she gave a cheerful, "'Lo, Bob."
Robert waved and smiled at the old lady who sat
on the porch swing that faced south. She was old, already in her mid-eighties.
The thin hair crowning her head was a dyed white that blended into the
paint of the house. Her face was deeply creased and permanently tanned
from years of hard work. Her old, sparse frame was clothed in a home made
house dress and her feet were set in a pair of school marm black, orthopedic
shoes. In her hand she held a half-pint bottle of Michelob beer. The small
bottles were a rare thing to find these days but could still be found at
the Duck Inn bar downtown.
Zack started towards the porch but found himself
airborne instead as Robert picked him up and carried him to the porch,
saving the boy the trouble of having to climb up.
"Hi, Auntie Emma," Zack said in his young voice.
He looked at her hand and the small beer bottle.
"Just a sip," Emma chided as she handed him the
bottle. He held it firmly in both hands and took a sip of the beer before
handing the bottle back to his auntie.
"How ya doin'?" Robert asked as he made the step
up onto the side of the porch.
"Fine," Emma replied cordially. Robert unfolded
the blue blanket a few times, leaving a few layers of thickness, and spread
it on the porch next to the swing.
"Just sitting in the evenin' cool this fine August
day. Enjoying a few sips of beer so's I can sleep tonight. How about you?"
"Fine as well," Robert replied as he took the proffered
seat on the swing next to Emma. "Thought I'd stop by and have a chat before
heading home and getting Zack to bed." Since he was not in bed, Zack accepted
the second best thing by lying down on the blanket. It took only moments
for his eyes to close and his breathing to slow as he fell asleep.
"Knew the beer would put him to sleep," Emma said.
She grasped Robert's hand with her own arthritic and worn one and gave
a sympathetic squeeze. "A man's responsibilities can be a niggardly thing,"
Emma said, shaking her head slowly back and forth.
"Except in this town," Robert replied, gently returning
the squeeze.
"And ya can't never leave," she spat, taking back
her hand. "I been waiting for you, Robert Faulkner. Ever since you married
and got a job at IBP in West Point I knew that you'd get the mark. I always
hoped you'd leave after high school and go to college. You were always
a good boy, at least in my Sunday School class, and bright. I'd wished
you'd left."
"Like you said, can't never leave," Robert replied,
folding his hands in his lap. "Even going to college doesn't do any good.
You still come back. Will your grandson in Lincoln inherit the family curse?"
Emma shook her had resolutely. "Nope. Our town motto
may be that we can never leave, but that ain't true exactly. He's wrestled
with the devil in his own way and escaped and I don't think he'll ever
be coming back here again. Though I think I shall miss my great-grandson
quite horribly..." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes hard
for a moment. Then she let it out and pushed the swing back into
motion.
"He'll be something special one of these days. 'Sides,
I've lost enough in this life. Will dead in that car accident in '68. Byron
and his wife killed in that house fire the other year. Jeb's been gone
for eight years and I hope God's merciful and takes me, too, real soon."
"I remember Will's death," Robert said. "And Byron's."
Robert didn't have any family ties with the Sentors but what blood lacked
was often not an issue in a small community like this where everyone knew
each other and ties that were as strong as blood were forged.
"Will's death stank of the Dark Man," Emma said,
her voice growing bitter. "Got two for the price of one, Will and that
Lemke boy who was driving."
"All for milk, wheat and honey," Robert whispered.
He looked at Zack as his son twitched in his sleep. Emma haukered, leaned
forward and spat to the ground.
"Milk, wheat and honey. Is that all our village
fathers could ask for when they signed that contract with the Dark Man?
Never said nothin' about good meat. But then sometimes I can't stand the
idea of eating meat with all those cattle over there shittin' up a stink
like to make you retch." She waved in the direction of the cattle yards
to the south.
"Is it just me, or is the mark coming up more often
than it used to?" Robert asked.
Emma took a sip of her beer and nodded. "Yeah, it
is. Used to be once a generation. Now it seems like every few years instead.
I know girls these days are putting buns in the oven even before they're
out of high school, but putting out the mark this often-- It just ain't
right."
Robert was quiet for a minute, losing himself in
the sway of the porch swing. On the blue blanket Zack mumbled something
from his dreams.
"Who'll inherit the place?" Robert asked when his
voice came back to him.
"Oh," Emma hawed thoughtfully. "I got some nephew
up in New England, one of Jeb's blood. It'll go to him."
"The family heritage as well?"
"Not so sure about that. Gets harder and harder
to see things clearly. But I know he'll be affected by it."
"Wish it was me who was bound for the grave soon."
"Stop that talk, Bob Faulkner!" Emma snapped, turning
to face him. "There been plenty of men who done worse than you and been
able to go on with their lives. Even gone on to Heaven in the end. Don't
know if I'll go to Heaven when I die, but if I don't then I'll spit in
the Dark Man's face before he pitches me in the fires."
One of the old mama cats, her belly and teats distended
by litters of kittens over the years, jumped up onto the porch swing and
rubbed herself against Robert.
"Scat, you old flea bag," Emma said as she shoved
the cat off of both the wing and the porch. Nonplused, the cat started
sniffing through one of the nearby flower beds. "You'd think she could
do something useful, like catch the rabbits what eat my tomato plants.
But these cats got it too easy. Won't even chase a rabbit, less'n I've
already shot off its rear legs for the lazy furballs."
Emma sighed as she finished the little bottle of
beer and aimlessly tossed it at the mama cat in the flower bed. The shot
was not close and the cat only flinched, then sniffed the bottle out of
curiosity.
"Times are I wish I'd never married Jebodiah Sentor,
never become a member of this cursed family or town. I'm from Beemer, case
you didn't know. But other times I look back and I think that my days with
Jeb, the boys and the people of Bancroft been some of the best. Every cloud's
got a silver lining after all, I guess."
"All for milk, wheat and honey," Robert whispered
again.
Emma sighed again and nodded her head. "Past eight-thirty
as it is, ain't much light left, so you'd better be about your business
and then I'll see you in church Sunday." Emma handed Robert an object wrapped
in blue scrap cloth. The cloth was blue because it was only meant for the
male, that was part of the deal the first settlers of Bancroft had struck
all those years ago.
"Need a ride Sunday?" Robert asked, his tongue thick
in his mouth. He took the bundle into his hand and squeezed his fingers
shut around it as he fought not to look down at it. Emma shook her head.
"Been walking to St. Paul's Lutheran ever since
Jeb died and I gave the car to my grandson, I can't drive anyways. If'n
I need a ride I'll get it from one of the ladies on the Altar Guild. Now
get about your business, Robert Faulkner. You've held up this line long
enough and it's twilight now. Time for my bath before the news comes on."
Robert rose from the swing and jumped down off the
porch. He wrapped the ends of the blue blanket around Zack and took the
bundled child in his arms, crading his son to his chest. The boy stirred
with the movement and cracked open his eyes.
"Bye, Auntie Emma," Zack mumbled in his sleepy voice.
"Bye, Zack," Emma called back, waving to Zack.
Robert, with his son in his arms, walked to the
north, across the yard and away from his car. In his hand was the bundle
of blue scrap cloth and the bone-handled knife wrapped within. Beyond the
grove of trees that marked the north boundary of the yard was a clearing
where the original town graveyard had been. Most of the bodies and stones
had been moved to the new graveyard south of town years ago. Now only the
Sentors were buried here. Every year Emma cleaned the graveyard, cutting
away vines and raking out dead grass and brush, burning branches and dead
timber that fell during the year.
In the late 1800's when the village of Bancroft,
Nebraska, was young, a blistering drought fell over the area. When the
Dark Man, with his large, leatherbound book walked into town offering salvation
from the drought and a promise that the people of the village would always
have milk, wheat and honey, the village fathers had eagerly signed their
names to the book.
Clarence Sentor's name was the first one, written
in at the top of the page and he was the first to use the bone-handled
knife to give his son to the devil. It was a perverse reenactment of the
story of Abraham offering his son Isaac to the Lord. Except in this version
of the story there was no angel sent from on high to stay the father's
hand. The contract stated that once every generation a man would receive
the mark which instructed him to offer his son in return for the gifts
bestowed in the contract.
In the recent years the mark seemed to come sooner
and sooner with more and more boys dying ever younger. It had only been
six years ago that the last mark had been received and a boy put into the
hands of the devil.
Robert Faulkner had received the mark and he stopped
now at the old marble altar in the middle of the graveyard. It was the
same altar upon which the village fathers had signed their names to the
Dark Man's book and it was here that Clarence Sentor gave his first son
to the devil.
Zack had fallen back to sleep and Robert lowered
him onto the altar, placing him down gently, the blue blanket still wrapped
snugly around him. The people of Bancroft were mostly all good Germans
who were God-fearing Lutherans, Presbyterians and Catholics. Robert wondered,
not for the first time, what would happen if he refused the mark.
Would God provide in the Dark Man's stead or would
the village be doomed? And what of the souls of all the sons who had been
sacrificed and of the fathers who had given their sons freely to the devil?
How many of the good people of Bancroft burned in Hell because of an agreement
that had been signed out of desperation?
Robert Faulkner's resolve was born out of generations
of conditioning and acceptance of the old town curse, a dark and dirty
secret that no one dared question. Though he balked and doubted, still
his hands unwrapped the bundle of blue scrap cloth. Robert touched his
son's hair and marveled at the angelic qualities of the boy's face.
What perfect innocence in the sleeping child. He
took the knife in his right hand and committed his sins against God and
his own flesh.
Emma Sentor sat in the twilight shadow of the living
room and let go of the tears that had been stinging her eyes as the cries
of an anguished man rang out over the countryside. She had had enough of
this life and enough of the sins she had committed during her time on Earth.
She recalled Zack's tow head and smiling face as well as the faces of all
the other children that had been brought to the farm over the years, never
to leave again.
This would be a good day for me to die, too, she
thought to herself as she rose stiffly and made her shuffling way to bed.
Emma said her prayers and crawled under the covers, thinking she might
not be around to hear the sermon on Sunday.
"Porch Swings and Family Graves" is Copyright
© 1997 Jason A. Beineke and the Jabberwocky Studios
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