Streams Of Yesterday Read online

STREAMS OF YESTERDAY

  A NOVEL

  BY

  W.H. HARROD

  Copyright © 2011 by W.H. Harrod

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN-13:978-1466401907

  ISBN-10:1466401907

  For all those people whose acceptance and support of the opinions, rights, and aspirations of their fellow human beings taught me there is a better way

  Chapter One

  “It’s the truth that frightens people the most. Don’t you know that by now?”

  My blunt trauma impaired brain detected an underlying tone of incredulity in the exasperated speaker’s words as I tried to orient myself to the unfamiliar surroundings.

  “That just might be the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard a grown man say. Didn’t you, even for a second, stop to think where you were and whom you were talking to? Why if I hadn’t been sittin’ less than five feet away, Preacher Roy would probably be in jail right this minute. For murder no less!”

  My memory started coming back to me. As it did, I became aware of an excruciating pain as if someone was trying to pound a hole through my skull from the inside. A melting bag of ice atop my head leaked cold water onto the collar of my blue denim work shirt. Why does my head hurt, and why am I holding this melting bag of ice? And who the hell is this guy that’s calling me stupid?

  Unable to provide answers to these questions, I listened in anticipation of another barrage of insults. “I ain’t never seen a guy get knocked out with a half-frozen five pound roll of beef sausage before. It’s a good thing Preacher Roy cut a big chunk out of that thing or else you might never have woke up.”

  The indignant individual challenging my intellectual credentials looked somewhat familiar to me. He was a late middle-aged ordinary looking white male, except for a persistent scowl, wearing the same type khaki uniform customarily associated with law enforcement officers everywhere. A shiny badge pinned on his shirt and a silver plated pistol safely secured in a holster on his hip gave him away.

  I’m riding in a police car. That’s as much information as my addled brain chose to give me for the time being, so I pressed the dripping ice bag to my aching head and awaited another salvo. My survival instincts told me that a guy sounding this angry stood nowhere close to being done with ripping apart the person’s ass he was so angry with, which at the moment looked to be mine.

  “I thought you and Preacher Roy were friends,” said the uniformed individual confirming my suspicion. “Why every time he came into town for supplies he bragged on how fine a person you are. How he could count on you to come back every year to help him harvest his wheat crop. Then you go and say what you did in front of all his parishioners. Why for a moment there, I thought he might just out right explode— he swole up and turned as red as a ripe tomato. I don’t recollect ever seeing a guy get so mad, so quick, especially, a preacher.”

  The hot July afternoon sun shown bright through the driver’s side window of the police car in which we traveled. Fields of wheat— some awaiting harvest and others having earlier given up their yearly bounty— stretched as far as the eye could see on both sides of the two-lane highway. The rolling Kansas wheat fields during harvest time are a beautiful sight to behold. That’s why I always made an effort to coordinate my travels for the summer to coincide with the harvest season. I looked forward to spending a couple of weeks at Preacher Roy’s farm on my annual trek north. So why am I riding through the countryside in a police car holding a leaking bag of ice to my aching head wondering why Preacher Roy hit me with a roll of frozen sausage?

  “I know something about your background,” said the officer. “You’re a well-educated former professional man. You’re a decorated war veteran, and you don’t use alcohol or drugs, at least you never have around here. You’ve got money in your wallet. Your driver’s license lists a south Texas address. You’ve been showing up around here during harvest for some years now. Preacher Roy once told me he thought you were just another lost soul searching for something, or someplace, to believe in. Well, I guess you’re going to have to search someplace else from here on. I suspect Preacher Roy won’t take it kindly if you ever show up at his door again after what happened today. I’m going to go back and charge him with disturbing the peace and let him spend a few hours sittin’ by my desk at the jail. I don’t intend for this ever to come before a judge so that’s why I’m getting you out of the county. And it goes without saying, I don’t ever expect to see you in my county again.”

  “Sheriff Slaybaugh,” I said, remembering my driver’s name.

  “What?” he answered surprised at hearing his name spoken aloud.

  “You’re Sheriff Slaybaugh. I know you. Where are we? What happened?” Confused, I waited for his reply.

  The Sheriff shook his head as he realized I was still without my wits. “He really did knock the dog shit out of you. You probably don’t even recall what happened, do you?”

  The Sheriff laughed as he guided the patrol car along the deserted rural Kansas highway. I awaited an explanation for my current predicament. What little sense I possessed at the moment told me something strange must have transpired regarding my ability to coexist peacefully with my fellow humans. Unless this irritated peace officer chauffeuring me along a rural Kansas highway became inclined to bring me up to speed on the events leading up to this ass chewing, I expected to remain in the dark as the confused mass residing in the top of my scull was determined to do nothing other than scream in agony.

  More of my brain cells came back on-line as I listened to the Sheriff recite parts of my life’s résumé. I filled in some of the gaps as he drove along. Like the fact that my name is Wilson W. Clayton, a fifty-eight year old white male of sound mind and body— although the part about the sound mind has been a matter of contention amongst my family and former friends for sometime now. I recollected having been considered an even-tempered and non-violent, though severely self-absorbed individual, which was somewhat confusing in light of the Sheriff’s accusations of my inciting a preacher to violence. Additional personal attributes, along with a few liabilities of slight significance, also came to mind.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked. As the question rolled across my lips I admitted to myself that finding out where we were going made about as much sense as anything. I waited for an answer.

  The Sheriff took his time as if he were rethinking his plan. Finally, he turned to me and, in a tone of voice leaving no room for discussion, informed me he aimed to take me along with my few belongings stuffed into my old army duffle bag to the west county line. He planned to deposit me and my possessions unceremoniously under a black oak tree at a roadside stop located less than one hundred yards beyond the county boundary. From there, I could hitch a ride to wherever I wanted to go as long as I didn’t come back into his jurisdiction.

  As my mind became clearer, a number of thoughts occurred to me. I recalled intending to head north when I left the Preacher’s farm, and the Preacher owed me two weeks pay.

  Most important of all, what the hell happened? What did I do, or say, that caused an avowed man of God to beat me on the head with an oversized hunk of frozen meat in front of his parishioners? It’s true I’m not a religious person, but I don’t recall harboring abiding desires to openly argue my personal prejudices regarding the whole pantheon of common sense defying religious dogmas presently being foisted upon a gullible and, otherwise, all too willing public. Long ago I resolved to keep my mouth shut relating to such matters as long as people, in turn, left me alone. Preacher Roy always had. That’s why I enjoyed
staying with him during harvest. He asked few questions and gave me plenty of hard work to do. He also gave me a fair day’s wage and kept me well fed. At this point in my life, I neither asked nor expected anything more.

  “What—” I started to ask as the Sheriff cut me off.

  “I got the money the Preacher owes you right here in my pocket if you’re worried about that. He acted like he wasn’t going to pay up. But I told him straight out he was about to get into serious trouble as it was, and he needed to get this deal closed out ASAP. So here’s your eight hundred dollars in cash.”

  The Sheriff handed me an envelope and instructed me to count the money. I did as instructed and verified eight one hundred dollar bills were present. That left only the single issue of what the hell happened to be resolved before I got deposited alongside a deserted rural highway to fend for myself. Once more, the Sheriff beat me to the punch.

  “Just so you won’t have a lingering curiosity as to what caused this mess, I’m going to do my best to recall the whole affair for you in the next ten minutes— the time it will take us to reach the county line.”

  “Do you recall how down right giddy the Preacher acted during the church-sponsored lunch? He was having himself a gay old time, for sure, and I know for a fact, it wasn’t the Holy Spirit alone that caused his especially good mood. Most folks don’t know this but the Preacher has been known to throw back a few from time to time. This was one of those times. As I drove into the church parking lot, I noticed him out along side his truck taking a big swig from the bottle of vodka he keeps locked in his glove box for special occasions. Later, I observed him make a couple more trips back to his truck. You might say the Preacher had the benefit of more than one spirit lifting his soul this afternoon. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t got no problem with preachers taking a drink now and then. Hell! We’re all human! At times a good pull on a bottle of happy juice does us all some good.”

  The Sheriff halted his story before continuing, “I know the guy’s been under a lot of stress this past year. Apart from all the problems the farmers around here are having with the hail damage and the high costs of production along with the falling grain prices and so on, he also had to deal with all his parishioners’ difficulties. In his small flock alone, there have been deaths, divorces, and bankruptcies. You name it, and he had to deal with it. So he’s deserving of a good long pull on a bottle, if you ask me. But that still don’t justify what he did.”

  This time the Sheriff’s hiatus lasted longer than before. I wasn’t about to interrupt his thinking. All in all, his general mood seemed to be tilting to one of neutrality. Until I got the entire story I felt it best not to interrupt him with a dumb question. So I waited and watched as the sea of golden wheat fields passed by.

  “I don’t ever recall hearing the Preacher come right out and ask a person to join the church and be saved,” said the Sheriff as he restarted his tale. “For all the years I’ve known him, folks came to him and asked to become a part of the church. There must have been some reason why he up and asked you to ‘come to Jesus’ right there in front of his flock. I know I about choked on a bite of my barbeque sandwich, and I wasn’t the only one there to take notice of his unusual offer.”

  A bad feeling came over me as I heard him say this. I’m usually a tolerant person about religion, but I’ve been known to take offense whenever another person’s belief system is imposed upon me. I can become an unforgiving individual on those occasions. This may have been one of those times. I stiffened my spine awaiting the worst.

  “‘Give yourself to Jesus, son. He’s the only one you can believe in.’ is what the Preacher said to you right there in front of the world. He must have thought highly of you to make that request of you in front of his flock. To the Preacher, you were something special.”

  As expected, the Sheriff once again halted his story. By now I felt torn between wondering why in the hell he didn’t go on and finish the damn story and feeling fearful of finding out that my combative nature caused me to respond to the Preacher’s request with some ill-conceived and spiteful remark.

  “Preacher Roy, I’m sure you know, is a simple man. He’s not as educated like you. He never went to college or graduate school or got out of the country to get exposed to different cultures, religions, or whatever. Pretty much everything he knows, he learned within fifty miles of where we are right now. You probably know all about the world and people’s outdated and often violently conflicting religious prejudices. You started asking questions long ago, and you have gotten few if any intelligent answers in return. You know that things just don’t add up. They never have, and they never will. You bear the burden of enlightenment in a noble fashion. You don’t go around flaunting your superior knowledge or intellect. You let the common folks live with their foolish superstitions and their dreams of ultimate justice in a better place. That is unless they make the big mistake of insulting your superior intellect by asking you to join them in their foolishness. If they ever make that mistake, you make them pay dearly.”

  This did not sound good. I had a bad feeling about what lay ahead. The thought also occurred to me that the man did have a gun. We were way out in the middle of nowhere, and I expected few people in the county cared little about what happened to me after what I did, whatever that happened to be.

  “Do you know what you did to that simple man by telling him the truth? Your truth!” The Sheriff’s voice raised one octave as he delivered this last statement. “You took away everything the man had. You left him standing there holding nothing but the crap that life loads a workingman down with— hard dirty work from dawn to dusk. Death, violence, poverty, sickness, greed, and prejudice is what the man was left with after you put him in his place for insulting your intelligence. But you forgot one thing, Mr. Smart Guy. When some people are left with no way out, they get desperate, and when they get desperate, they lash out at those things that threaten them. In this instance, you became the threat, and you were lucky it was just a roll of sausage he held in his hand.”

  The Sheriff stopped talking and turned his attention back towards the highway stretching far off into the horizon. At least he hadn’t pulled out his pistol, and if he intended to cause me to feel like an asshole, he had succeeded. Chalk up one more failed relationship due to not being able to control my big mouth. It might help if I thought I had learned a lesson, but history told me chances of that were slim. It’s not like I hadn’t fought this problem for most of my life.

  We approached the county line by this time, and I could see the rest stop up ahead on the side of the road. A lone black oak tree sitting a ways off the road stood ready to provide ample shade for weary travelers halting their journey under its stout limbs. The Sheriff pulled the police cruiser to a stop under the oak tree out of the hot sun and turned off the engine. My fate is in his hands, so be it. My sudden fatalistic attitude surprised me. I realized I’d sunk even further down into my own isolated little world of blatant cynicism and general disinterest. Yet at the moment, I knew I really didn’t give a big rat’s ass what happened next.

  After making a show of taking his Stetson hat off and laying it gently on the back seat, the Sheriff used both of his large hands to rub the weariness from his eyes. “You know pardoner, you and I are probably fairly close to being the same age. And I expect we’ve covered much of the same territory during our lives. I remember trying to make some sense out of that Vietnam fiasco which I fought in, too, by the way. I have to admit that I witnessed things over there that I’ll never be able to forget nor make sense of. I, too, as a young man witnessed ignorant public officials beating citizens of color simply trying to exercise their rights as free men and women. I, also, as they say, experimented with some of that marijuana stuff and even joined in on a couple of anti-war marches after I got back home. I imagine you know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you? Yeah, you do.”

  I’d have to admit I expected anything but this from the man. I sat there holding the drippin
g wet bag of ice to my head staring at the Sheriff. He saw he’d struck a cord.

  “But after some time, the notion came to me,” continued the Sheriff, “that I was acting like that crazy Spanish guy in the book who rode around on that old nag of a horse charging at windmills thinking they’re giants. I couldn’t see that I was accomplishing much at all. Those evil giants I was fighting didn’t really exist either. What did exist were organizations made up of people. Some of those people were a lot like me. I decided then and there I wasn’t going to go around looking for giants any longer. Instead, I became determined to try another approach on a much smaller scale. I would find me a place to make my stand, and I would dig in and defend it— not by surrounding it with cynicism and barbed wire but by getting involved and building lasting friendships with fair- minded people in the community. I would let my actions be the true indication of my character. I believe most of the people in this area know what I stand for, and I can’t ever recollect giving a speech or standing toe-to-toe arguing with anyone during my entire thirty years of service to the public. One more thing before I let you go. It’s my opinion, based on years of observation, folks who are the most defensive and quick tempered about their beliefs whether Christian, Atheist, Republican, Democrat, or whatever are also the ones who are the least certain about what they supposedly do or do not believe in. The people who are confident in their beliefs don’t feel threatened when challenged, and they don’t find it necessary to respond to every yahoo who calls them out. It’s easy to see that the Preacher has some doubts, but what about you? You didn’t get up and take a swing at your attacker, but you sure as hell felt threatened enough to cut him to his soul with your words. Think about it.”

  Having finished his talk, the Sheriff retrieved his hat. Placing it securely on his head, he reached for the door handle.

  “What was it I said?” I asked him.

  The Sheriff thought for a few seconds. “You said, ‘This so-called savior promised his followers he would return before their generation passed away. Yet he didn’t come back for them. Why would I be dumb enough to believe he will come back for me two thousand years later?’ That’s what you said.”

  Chapter Two