A Centinnial Moment

[Lubliner]

Hoping to bring some light humor into our dark times, I am publishing this short fiction story for everybody's enjoyment, here on civilwartalk.com
I hope the readers will enjoy the moment.

By Lubliner.

Parley Pellapey Eighmey was an intelligent fellow. He still is as a matter of fact, but not everyone believes it. You see, sometime ago Parley was given a set of home tutorials on writing. He thought some of the ideas sounded brilliant; so without further guide nor instruction, he proceeded to 'monkeysee-monkeydo'. A report soon began to circulate about the social circles and one clandestine involvement in the local Town Crier some time later. Everybody was pointing at Parley Eighmey, saying he was the one.

"That's him," they did say. "He's been the one spying on us. Just look at him, he is always taking notes. Remember!?"

They surely had that fact right. Parley had read, that when the ides struck him, write them down immediately. Into the pocket goes the notepad and pen, and out goes Eighmey. He even slept with them by his bedside, and time for a shower? There would be the pad and pen on top the toilet seat, just in case. As a matter of fact, he couldn't make it through town without stopping by on the wayside, just to write something down. Parley had a lot of ideas, and apparently nothing better to do.

"We know now, sure we do. Who else could it be? He is the one always to himself, sitting down amidst our dining times, listening in on us."

The local ladies' circle was most alive with the buzz. They had entertained themselves for months with luncheons, social card games, even Bingo. And here was Parley Eighmey almost like a tag-along. It just coincided with the perfect time for him to arrive, and take a seat nearby; and Parley always stayed aloof. Let me not just describe one incident out of many, many episodes; but months upon months of such activity. He had become a perfect shadow; the perfect blend.

Pasco de Ville's was the place in Des Moines where this happened; the month was May, I think. It really wasn't that long ago. It just so happened to be about the time when the young calves would come forth breaking wind. We all know the sound. Anyway the ladies had gathered for some tea and other scrumptious sundries, and Agnes had brought the weekly issue of the Town Crier in. There was Mabel and Mildred, and of course Doris and Denise; two sets of sisters, and then Agnes. She had a brother named Enosh Raffe, and he worked at the Black Diamond Coal Mine with Donny Brisbois, who had a sister named Maidell Lynne.

Enosh was courting Maidell, and had been for sometime past; at least since last summer, and that was about the time Parley had taken to his own ideas. All this time P. P. Eighmey went unnoticed, but then so was the couple's courtship. Enosh and Maidell were keeping it a secret, and nobody in the circle had wanted it to become a Town Crier flyer, at least not too soon. It just wouldn't look right if something bad happened, and Maidell Lynne had to seek another man. They had all been keeping it close, and the five ladies were the only others besides Donny that knew of the affair. They were sworn to secrecy, all of them.

In fact even on Sunday at the New Resurrection Church, when the full congregation would meet en masse, particular pains were taken to conceal the situation. Parley was also one of the regular goers there too. The whole town gathered to pay respect every Sunday, and the eight would claim their own pew, and always grabbed the first couple of visitors.

"Sit down here with us; we are the friendliest folks. So happy to meet you."

"Oh the Preacher is so good! You will love him."

"Sure, we have plenty of room, scoot on down, sis; we have some company/"

I'm not saying everyone was this zealous for the gathering, but only just a few; and Parley wasn't one of them. He was habitually late every Sunday, and made it a point to arrive after the beginning, just so he could sneak into the very back row. Half the congregation probably never knew he belonged there, and the other half knew the roster-roll, and had seen the name a dozen times, but would have difficulty if asked who he was.

"Yes he is, that sly dog. Now the news is out. Why were we so blind? Does Maidell know?"

"Oh I am sure she is going to flip her pop when we tell her."

Of course this was near the same day that Parley had decided enough was enough with so many notes. He possibly even got a bit tired of it all, and his interests had probably turned to more worthy subjects, regarding writing. For whatever his reason, he was no longer sitting there in his usual seat at Pasco de Ville's, and the ladies soon felt his present absence, if that were at all possible. Maybe he had by now taken to the hills and the valleys; no one could tell for sure about Parley.

"Where is he? He ought to be hanged."

"I can't stand that sneaky devil."

" He has his coming to him now, we can prove it! Just wait and you'll see! He's going to be served his own dessert. This town isn't so big he can get away with this."

It wasn't before too long the circle broke up; chairs scraping wood floors. Vitriolic whispers could be heard with the maddened rush of skirts and heels. They disappeared out the door and onto the sidewalk. It was surprising they made it through the door, since every one of them wanted to be first back with the news. Or maybe there was some other reason in the hustle, being such that common societal civility had been left at the table, and it stood there now, empty. There were plenty of others to put their vehemence to, but they neglected all else, and choose the one suit that fit the shoes... Parley!

Having witnessed all the commotion stirred up by this event, I could have sworn Ole Abe Lincoln had survived that awful play, on that fateful Good Friday, back some years ago. Need I recall for you the drastic reaction experienced when he would publish some anonymously sinister letter into the newspapers? Des Moines has experienced a similar stirring up of unrest, and nobody yet has asked whether Lincoln's son, Robert, picked up on his father's art with the barbed pen?

"Hang the devil."

"How dare his goat chew up our laundry like that."

"He has grown horns that need trimming, I agree."

The ladies had become so flustered over this one incident that the men in town all began to act suspiciously, darting about into the shadows, as though afraid of the light. This had really unsettled the rest of the population too, though they hadn't yet been targeted. But this didn't bring anything near like consolation to their breasts, for everyone had their secrets, and nobody wanted them told upon. It had all brought a self-imposed martial law to the town, and nobody was willing to step beyond. It would take months for all the raucous to die down, maybe, and all were staying close and watching, just waiting.

It was like the town was on a full lock-down regulation. Even strangers and wayfarers, upon arrival were warned by subtle hints;

"Be careful what you do here."

"Why is that?"

"Just listen to me. I give you sound advice."

"Is that an ominous threat, or am I being railed to for nothing?"

"No. We are all friends here but the walls have ears, and the newspapers give voice. I just warned you in advance."

"Surely you must know who?"

And at that point all would be silent again, for nobody really knew anything. Parley was no longer in town to point the finger at. He had become a ghost of a presence, and only the haunting memory of a shadowy sort of man could be recalled of him. Even the local artist was called in to provide a sketch so a town flyer could be posted as "Missing", but all anyone could remember about Parley was a black pair of eyeglasses, a silent tread, and a soft voice; not much for a sketch artist to represent.

 

[Lubliner]

Everyone has their questions, and I guess I could also say everyone has their answers, though I wasn't near any sort of satisfaction on the answer part. I didn't think Parley could be near as guilty as what all the ladies were suspecting him to be. Now I really hadn't discovered at all what Parley was writing about, but still couldn't believe he would publish what they were claiming he had. I guess I could hang the devil myself if I were so obliged, but now I was more intrigued by Parley's habits, and suddenly I saw an opportunity to advance myself out of obscurity in a way that wasn't obvious before the town was bestirred.

First I had to find Parley before some fool with a rope found him; figuring he and the fool were totally unaware. You may take for granted this dilemma was utmost on my mind, as I discreetly enquired at the local hotels, looking for some signed register and forwarding address. This wasn't too difficult in a town of ten thousand souls when you figure in the women and children. The process of elimination stood strongly in my favor, and soon I found his name at one of them. So I then broke the silent bond and had to ask; "You know where he may have, ah, gone? Did he say?"

Of course the clerk just shook his head in utter dejection, brushed off the page and turned the book back around, "No."

"Was he traveling light?"

"One carpetbag. He headed south. Check Lovejoy's down the street; maybe the Stage Post Office."

So bidding adieu, I left a small token for his time and left the premises, walking back-out into the sunlight of mid-June. Oh what a beautiful day it was; hardly a cloud in the sky, and enough wind to keep the flys busy on the horse droppings in the street. Even they dislike the overwhelming scent when the sun is hot and the wind is still. Heck, you walk by on a day like that and every fly in town shares its kiss with you. Ever notice that?

So the breeze had worked its magic as I walked on down the sidewalk, and of good note all the ladies appeared congenial as we passed one another. Of course they had their own breezemakers, by God, for they were not to be fooled by the wind! Many of the men carried their riding crops and of course I need not say too much more on that speculation. They could knock the mole off a witch'es snout and bat it twice before it hit the ground. How else do you think Bat Masterson earned his name of fame? He is that quick.

Business was brisk here in Des Moines; much more than usual. The people were either in a hurry or just come to a full halt, to stand and talk or sit and gawk just like town people do. We had only been a city for a few years, and the new times were quicker than old habits. Picking my way through all this chatter and clatter, carefully avoiding the street, pleasant greetings were shared among us, just as typical Iowans do. We all tended to our own affairs, just as I did mine, all with a pleasant indifference to danger and no worries while away from home.

Sure enough I soon picked up on Parley's trail, but unlucky for me Parley had bought a horse. He had also made some notable bargain buys; line, tackle and tent, lantern and groceries. With this information I knew where I ought to go so I went, even being a week behind him. I figured he would put down close, see, not only because he had credit left on the town books, but we were planning a big bash for the coming Fourth.

Afterward I learned while I was making my search some of our good good citizens began whispering about how and why Laurell Ott was looking for P. P. Eighmey. Well need I say again how news gets spread around in this town? Such as this question put to old Hoyt Sherman;

"Did he take a rope?"

"You know them dragoons carry their own supplies, lady. He didn't buy one from me."

The whole scene really could bring a tight chill to the spine, as though this place needed another wind chime airing out here in the breeze, flies or no flies. It was their attitude of unconcern and no apprehension whatsoever that struck discordantly toward the steeple bells. I hadn't figured so far ahead that maybe a vigilante group instead of one fool could be after Parley. Don't mistake my intent; no reason to be hanging a man over so simple a thing as letting go an innocent thing or two in the news.

Heading south toward the point I passed the kissing bridge and headed out toward the oxbow in Raccoon River, hoping I would come upon an idyllic situation instead of some ugly spot of shame. This place was like a paradise, and it wasn't long before I walked into the encampment of Parley Pellapey Eighmey.

Oh, it was a rustic place of beauty for sure; not a single scrap page of litter anywhere around. Though Parley wasn't at first visible I knew it was his. Here were all his writing utensils and notepads, and the bosom companion of home tutorials as his gospel guide, not to give any sleight toward his horse, grazing nearby. Parley sure did want to become a writer, and this was the perfect spot. Wonderful seclusion with all the privacy a man could want, away from any real activity unless some lovers missed the bridge, or the river rose. Well, I moved on past and finally stumbled up on Parley, sitting there making his dreams real. Whatever demands of quiet and peace this occupation of writing entailed, all focused at this very spot so much so that he was oblivious to the fact I was even standing there. Parley was busy scribbling away at some fleeting shadows and passages running through his mind, while his line ran down into the river, stretched taut and moving like a spring with a weighted hook, fish and all.

 

[Lubliner]

I have never been one to let a good fish get away, and not this time either! Parley had hooked himself a big channel bass, and acted like it was some bygone event. Not the slightest worry of mind did he set to the fish swimming away, hook, line, pole and bait. I had to do something fast or Parley would lose his catch.

"You going to pull that thing in, or am I going to have to do it for you?"

Parley looked up from behind those black-rimmed glasses with such a quizzical expression that it almost made me guffaw. If I had asked him for a slice of beef from some slain calf in my own imagination I couldn't have given him more doubt. So I had to point.

"That line you got there in the water has a fish wanting to be cooked on it. What say either you or me pull it in so we can have a look?"

At that prompting Parley looked over at his line and saw what I had been watching the whole time. I started placing wagers on which fumble would be first; the pen and pad, or the hook and line; but Parley didn't fumble at all. So I lost that bet. He simply regained his composure, looked at me meekly and said, "Go ahead."

It wasn't long before I had that fish scaled, gutted and skewered without a head or tail. Of course I chummed the river and reset the line, never one to invite a fly. I hoped by the time any scent carried afar with the notice of fresh kill I could have a good smoky fire going strong. Parley had sat and continued what he had been doing, but I could feel the presence of his attention turning on me every so often. You know that spooky feeling when someone looks at your back? I finally came up from the river's edge, and smiled real big.

"You hungry?" I held out the fish so he could take a closer look.

"You cook?" He didn't grimace or flinch; second wager lost.

"Hot-dig-ity-dog!" I immediately went to scrounging up some good hardwood, and a bit of pine, whatever I could find loose on the ground. It didn't take long at all, and soon Parley and I had retreated to his campsite.

"That horse have a name?"

Parley again stopped the whole show and thought, looking first at the horse and then me, as though he didn't know which of us I spoke about.

"That's Fitz-Roy."

He just didn't ever seem to speak more than two words at a time. This got me thinking about his penmanship, and first chance I got to get a closer look, "You just learning your a, b, c's there or are you writing a book?"

I said it with a kind of a laugh, thinking he would feel more free, but he looked at me without answering for a moment.

"You read?" asked Parley.

"Of course I do, ha!"

Well now Parley had got that one over good on me, so I figured I would stop dancing about the pole and get to the fuzz of it all. I reached over and picked up his notebook. and flipped quickly through a couple of pages. Parley never lost sight by a blink. He just stood and stared. You know that uncanny feeling you get when someone looks at you off to the side, and; well, I just went ahead and put that notebook back down.

"That sure is neat and clean. I hope I didn't get any fish guts on it. Sorry."

Parley still stood there until I guess he got tired of standing and finally walked over to his tent and pulled out another campstool.

I was now too busy tending to the firepit and fire and hoofing up some water from the river, and felt like he was just going to leave that last comment blank, which he did. No sense in wasting good conversation on a double or nothing return. Besides if Parley was keeping his secrets, no sense in me revealing mine. I knew what I knew, and if he wanted to learn anything, he could watch.

"Where you from?" I had to ask, because, you see Parley had pulled another faster one on me. That whole notebook was filled with foreign writing.

"Council Bluffs."

Again two words, and I just sort of grinned to myself, and thought, Gee. He was pleasant though, and unless he stared a bit at me, I never got any creeps or bad feelings from him. He finally sat down and introduced himself.

"I am Parley Eighmey, and I am first generation here. My parents were born in France. They immigrated in the early 40's. My dad fought for the Union."

"You pick up a gun too?"

"No, I was only fifteen at the end of it all. I tended the farm."

"Rancher?"

"Sort of. I didn't like it. Too much time to think. Nothing to do with the thoughts unless you carried conversation on with the animals. I wanted to go to school, get an education, and teach."

"Those animals learn quicker than most humans, they do!"

Parley smiled at that one, but stopped his talk and pulled himself up and dug out a coffee pot from the tent, walked to the river, drew some more water, then carried it to the fire and set it down. I guess he had finished introducing himself and saw fit to make himself useful. Out comes a pan and some coffee beans and soon they were roasting up nicely, while the water came to a boil. I was surprised at his dexterity and smoothness. I really don't know why I thought he would be a stumble-butt?

"You can't be teaching dragonflies and bumble bees out here. I don't see much of nothing else to teach. Too late for that fish."

Parley laughed at that, easing whatever tension had risen up. I guess I forgot to place a wager on the comment this time, so I lost again. Instead he asked, "You ever just enjoy yourself, or are you always in a hustle and bustle?"

His question brought me up full in my seat. I hadn't expected that, and I looked over to see if he was serious. Yes, he was, so I sort of self-conscious like peered down at my arms, and lifted each one a bit, and back down again, and shrugged.

"Didn't realize I was going too fast for you there, Parley. My apology."

I extended my hand for a shake, hoping he would. "My name's Larry; Larry Ott. How do you do."

Surprising he had rough hands, nothing effeminate here or there. I relaxed a bit more.

"I am with a Company of Dragoons. We are on the outskirts up north of town. We will be here for God knows how long. Ever since Custer got sent out again, we haven't had much relief. All that Indian fighting; I think the Indians may flee to Canada. That is where they belong."

"You ever been out there?" Parley sort of raised his arm out and over toward the west, motioning where the sun was sitting in the sky.

"A time or two, mainly guarding caravans, and mail runs, or getting supplies out to a fort. Riverboats are our main fare, being infantry. You ever gamble?"

"No, no sense in learning how to cheat. That would be the wrong lesson to learn for passing on. Do you like shot-houses?"

"Not too much, but some friends I have do. They come back bloodied up almost every time. I figure I should stick to fighting Indians. Some ten years down the road, now, and they still want to fight brother against brother. No sense in that either."

Of course while keeping up with this conversation I let go, of all the fixings and doings we had begun for supper, we had the coffee beans ground and boiled and the fish filleted and almost all eaten, and the sun was a bit lower in the sky. The crickets were just beginning to chirp loud and all around, and we hadn't had a pesky fly bite the whole time. Fitz-Roy was off grazing about thirty feet away, with his tail steadily swishing side to side, and the whole scene seemed as though it had frozen in time, like a photograph.

THE END

Thank you.
Lubliner.

 

[Ethan S.]

Very good! I applaud the amount of time it must have taken to write all of this.

 

[Pat Answer]

Great writing!

Nothing is as it quite appears at first. And that's as fine a reflection on life as any...

 

[Lubliner]

@Ethan S., thank you, and it was fun to write. Reflects the mood I was in that length of spell-binding imagination, as I wandered through the actual artifacts of historical Iowa in 1876, documents etc. Sort of felt like uplifting the spirit within.
And @Pat Answer, that alone is in of itself a huge compliment. Thank you.
Lubliner.