Freddie Owens - Then Like the Blind Man - Orbie's Story

I got down on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. The mattress made a belly toward the floor. The carpet smelled like cigar ashes and spilled moonshine. There was a card table lying flat under there with a folding chair. Victor’s tan suitcase was there too along with his smiling alligator shoes.

I stood up. The bed was now between me and the door. Victor’s head lay directly in front of me — almost at the edge — his face red and shiny with heat. I could see the chicken yard fence through the door. Beyond it was the chicken house, weather-blackened and baking in the sun.

Victor moved his head. He placed a hand on his chest and yawned. The yawn turned into a groan. I pressed myself back against the wall. Victor closed his hands into fists and stretched them over his head. They were almost touching me. I felt beads of sweat pop out across my forehead. All at once Victor sat straight up on the bed.

“Christ Almighty, it’s hot,” he whispered to the open door.

All he had to do to see me was turn around. I looked along on the floor up to the little table where the clock sat. There underneath the table lay the knife. I held my breath.

Again, he made fists, stretching them this time toward the ceiling. I thought for sure he was going to turn around, but then it was like all the air went out of him and he dropped back on the bed. I waited for the longest time, not daring to move or hardly even to breathe until I again heard the sound of his snoring. The big hand on the clock had gone down to the three.

I edged along the wall to the little table, reached down under there and got the knife. When I got back to Victor, I stopped. His eyeglasses had fallen onto the floor.

I could kill him now if I wanted. I could stab him in the neck. Punch a hole in one of his big veins there .

I lifted the knife, the straightened-out-point pointing directly at Victor’s head.

We wouldn’t have to worry about him, ever again. We would be free .

The thought seemed simple enough, sensible even, but somehow I knew the truth of it wouldn’t be. The truth would be bloody, the truth would be real — something I could never take back.

I let the knife go down by my side, trembling, remembering now the little boy of my vision, his horse-faced mother and the three sniggering factory workers, remembering the question I asked Granpaw about the Rain Skull and the contrary power — ‘Too late for what Granpaw?’ I had asked — and his answer coming back strong and clear — ‘To save what you was wanting to destroy, by grabs.’

I wanted to destroy Victor, not the boy. How was that possible?

There came a loud banging noise from outside — loud enough I thought it might wake Victor. I raised the knife, holding it as before directly over his head. The noise came again, louder this time. Still, Victor went on sleeping. I carefully tiptoed around the bed and out the door; pulled on my tennis shoes and looked out across the chicken yard. A dust bomb exploded out the chicken house door, chickens flying every which a way, running, bumping into each other, squawking, cackling over the yard. I thought maybe a fox had gotten in there.

I hid the knife in some weeds by the fence and climbed over. Another noise came from inside the chicken house, wings flapping, the sound of something metal like a bucket banging across the floor. I found a good rock and ran toward the chicken house door, filled now with a bomb-cloud of smoky black dust. There was a smell of chicken poop and rotten feathers. A great big bird body flew out of the bombcloud, whooshing, flapping its wings, squawking over my head. It landed next to the water trough — Geronimo The Rooster — his green and black butt feathers shivered in the hot air.

“Come out of there you old fox!” I shouted.

Somebody inside the dust hollered back, “City boy? That you? You best get out away from here!” It was Old Man Harlan’s bad-tempered voice.

I let the rock go down by my side. There were more squawks, more wings — another bucket-sound. Old Man Harlan hollered again. “I hope to God you two is worth the trouble! Thick as pitch in here!” He came in the doorway then, red eyed, almost no hair on his head at all. A black hankie covered his nose and mouth, making a little point below his chin like a bank robber’s mask. He had a hold of Elvis and Johnny, holding them upside down by their legs, one in each of his long bony hands. He stepped sideways over a busted plank, reached up the hand that held Elvis and pulled the hankie from his mouth, fixing his red blistery eyes on me.

I wanted to say something but for the moment had lost my voice. Everything — my eyesight, the smell of chicken poop, the feel of the rock in my hand — became super sharp. I could even hear the dust settling in the doorway behind Old Man Harlan’s feet.

“What are you doing with those chickens, Mr. Harlan?” I was finally able to say.

“That ain’t none of your beeswax; now is it?” came Old Man Harlan’s reply.

Johnny tried to reach up to peck Old Man Harlan but fell back, flapping her wings and squawking against his pant leg. Elvis hung quietly, her white wings open and still.

“Those are my chickens, Mr. Harlan.”

Old Man Harlan’s face seemed to gather up about his nose. “Who said they was?”

“I been taking care of them. For Granny. I been getting them ready for the beauty contest. At the fair. That one there’s name is Johnny, and that one is Elvis.”

“Beauty contest?” Old Man Harlan snorted. “We eat chickens down here son.”

Johnny had stopped struggling, her wings fanning out now like Elvis’s, open and still.

“Please don’t hurt Johnny and Elvis, Mr. Harlan. I’ve been training them. They’re my pets. You can eat those other chickens can’t you?”

Old Man Harlan said nothing, stood there with a blank look pasted over his features.

I tried again. “I said you can eat those others can’t you?”

“I can eat these,” Old Man Harlan said.

All the air went out of me then. I didn’t know what to do. I had the rock, which felt rough and dangerous, but I didn’t dare throw it at Old Man Harlan.

He set the chickens down one at a time. They stayed right beside him, looking around at the yard. “Holding them upside down like that calms them,” Old Man Harlan said.

I got an idea then and hauled off with the rock, throwing it over Old Man Harlan’s head. It came down with a loud bang on top the tin roof of the chicken house.

“Run Johnny! Run Elvis!” I yelled, but they just stood there like fools. I stomped my feet at them. “Run, you stupid ass chickens!” Johnny turned her head sideways, trying to remember. The sunlight had changed her comb into a bright red saw-blade. “Run goddamn you!”

Old Man Harlan grinned. “You want to see’em run?”

Before I could find the breath to answer, he grabbed hold of Johnny and Elvis by their necks, both of them, jerking them up off the ground, their white wings flapping in a panic. He held them like that. “Watch here now,” he said and then he just twirled them — like you would the ends of a jump rope around and around until their snow-white bodies leaped away from his hands. They hit the ground running. I thought at first they had gotten away and for that brief moment I was glad. But then I saw what had happened, that blood was spurting everywhere.

One bumped up against me and I tried to grab it, thinking crazily that if I could take hold of it, I could pet it, make it all better. It tore through my hands and made a wide looping dash neck first into the water trough. The other had run almost all the way out to the gate. It lay there on its side in a white bloody heap, one wing flapping.