Good afternoon, Gents!
“Hi, you’ve reached Darius. Leave a message at the beep.”...
“Hi, you’ve reached Darius. Leave a message at the beep.”...
“Hi, you’ve reached Darius. Leave a message at the beep.”...
“I’m sorry, the line you have reached is unavailable and cannot be reached.”
Michael Polite sat in his wheelchair, contemplating the situation; flipping the phone open and closed simultaneously. This same contemplation posture he currently held he had become accustomed to for decades now. This same posture is how he sat before a many a sermons he had preached years ago. Today’s posture was different. It was as though a permanent chill was sustained in his spine all day, ever since he decided to pick up the cell phone Francois had left for him to use. Then was the question of why Francois had been around his house at this hour of the night in the first place? Finally, he flipped the phone open and made a call he hadn’t made for months.
“Hey, Reece. My many apologies for waking you. Can you make the long drive to my place right now? It’s important.”
Just as Michael flipped the phone closed, his door crashed open. In the doorway stood one man, draped in trench coat material. In the trench coated man’s arms lay another man’s unconscious figure.
“Hutchison,” gasped Michael.
“You have anything I can lay him down on? We need to get an IV in him immediately,” stated the trench coat figure.
“I don’t even know who you are! You expect me to just let you into my home, here and now?” asked Michael.
“Uh, you do want Steven to live don’t you?”
“Fair enough,” Michael replied as he wheeled from his window, across the room, and motioned the stranger into the backroom. “You’ll find all the medical equipment you need in that closet over there. Now, can I get a name?”
“Yeah, it’s Brassington. Jonathan Brassington.”
*****
“Back in the 1890’s when trains of the Santa Fe Railroad first began to run in the vicinity of Ardmore, Oklahoma, one was held up by bandits seven miles from town where the tracks crossed Caddo Creek. Afterwards the robbers retired to an old house, where they divided and quarrelled over the spoils. One robber was shot and killed. It is a tradition that part or all of the booty was hidden for a time in or about the house. People soon began to say that the ghost of the murdered bandit walked about the place trying to find where the money was hidden and for many years nobody was willing to live there."
"However, about seven years ago, a family named Lynch moved into the deserted building. One afternoon, in the summer, Mrs. Lynch left her two oldest children at home and crossed the fields to visit some neighbors. An hour later, she heard her children screaming and ran out with her friends to learn the cause. Almost in hysterics, the youngsters came flying along shouting that someone was tearing the kitchen to pieces and that the tea-kettle was laughing and singing. Mrs. Lynch and others went to investigate. They found the tea-kettle steaming in the middle of the kitchen floor. A fire was burning in the cook stove, though none had been burning in it when Mrs. Lynch left home. The mystification of the onlookers was changed to horror when they observed that drops of blood were sprinkled about. The next day, the Lynches moved out and no family has lived in the building since...until about a couple of years ago, when I moved in,” stated Michael.
As the tea kettle resided to a scream or pitiful yelp, Jonathan remarked, “Is that the same tea kettle from the Lynch era?”
“Wouldn’t that be somthin? No, I found this old thing at a yard sale a year ago.” Michael wheeled over to stoke the newly acquired fire Jonathan had started to warm himself up. That’s when Michael thought it “polite” to throw some water in the ‘ole kettle. As Michael shakily poured the water into two tea cups, spilling here and there, Jonathan took notice.
“Here, allow me.” Jonathan proceeded to steady the kettle as Michael continued to pour.
“How’s your family?” Michael asked. Noticing the blank reaction, Michael understood the inappropriate question and therefore knew to become comfortable with the awkward silence of an answer.
As a couple of hours evaporated and many sips had been taken from the steamed mugs, words finally drifted into conversation.
“You know that I never asked to be a part of this business,” Jonathan muttered. Clearing his throat, “I know that we go back a long ways but it is no excuse. I counted on you to be there years ago and because you failed to show, here we are. In this situation, Steven laying in a coma. And for what? All because you left the game years ago. Am I bitter? Of course, but that’s just how life is I suppose.”
Jonathan stood up. “I suppose I should get back out there. You can keep Steven safe, yes?”
The wrinkles in Mr. Polite’s forehead became sympathetic to Jonathan’s statements. He proceeded to nod his head to Jonathan’s question regarding Steven’s care.
Just then there was a knock at the door. “That must be Reece,” Michael said as his wrinkled frown turned into a wrinkled grin. Just as Jonathan walked over to open the door, the heavy wood snapped from the hinges as the door slammed into Jonathan’s body. Crushed under the door in a heap, now in the same boat of unconsciousness as Steven, lay Jonathan.
Anger flooded into Michael Polite’s face, turning the wrinkles into fierce fear icicles; stabbing the air for answers as to why two of his friends lay unconscious, individual lives laying in unbalance. As the familiar muzzle flashed into the room, so did a familiar phone’s blue light fly across the room to crash into the wall. “I believe this belongs to you,” stated the second stranger of the chilled night.
As Michael squinted, again his face turned pale. As his lips quivered, he finally put together enough vocal strength to murmur the name.
“Austin Gilbreath?”
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