The Loving Wrath of Eldon Quint by Chase Pletts

Author:Chase Pletts
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkshares
Published: 2021-04-02T17:00:47+00:00

TWENTY-TWO

He lay in the sod cabin of his youth, Daddy at the

foot of his bed, light glistening off his wet skull. His scalp was peeled back, the flap of flesh and hair rolled into a scroll and tied with beads that coiled in a pool of black blood on the floor. He begged for Daddy’s opinion. Did he still think him evil just for being born? The light behind Daddy brightened, until all was blistered white. When the light faded, Shane stood in Daddy’s stead, holding a dinner plate. A white owl was perched on his shoulder. It dipped its head from side to side as it eyed a skinned hare on the plate. Shane lifted the plate and the owl plucked a string of meat with his beak. The hare screeched, half alive, and the screech became the skirl of a steam whistle.

He felt the train buck and rattle. Spring brakes took hold, countersteam valves chuffed. They were slowing down. Jack sat up in a sun-warmed seat, gaunt and disheveled, still shaking loose of the nightmare. He looked out, the factories and ocher warehouses haunted by a sunburned mist. His reflection in the dust-glared window—a beard down to the middle of his chest. Greasy hair curled over his shoulders.

The locomotive jostled up to the platform, coming to a sudden stop. He looked out at the people racing by. Hardly ever did he worry about being recognized, but Kansas City was where Jack Foss was forged. That was twenty years ago, and besides, not a soul on earth would mistake the ragged creature in the window for Minnesota Jack.

His body crept with sweat as he sat waiting for the car to empty out. He reached into his coat for his flask and felt a creased piece of paper. He pulled it out and unfolded it in the light. The charcoal had smudged, creating a dark ring around the rendering of his face. But the eyes were intact. The sad gaze raised his hackles even more than the first time he’d seen it.

A spot of blood in the lower right corner of the drawing unnerved him. Whose blood? He scraped it clean with his thumbnail. It reminded him of Eldon somehow. The image of a thumb dipped in water came to his mind. In the wavy reflection, two boys circled with raised fists while Daddy reclined, drinking rum, watching them scrap for the privilege of supper. And Daddy would hoot when the brutal strike came, felling one of the boys. The victor would stand over the vanquished, fists balled, sun tracing him in flame, ready to kill.

It was an act.

Put on for an audience of one. The moment Daddy succumbed to his drink, Eldon would rush his brother down to the river and clean his wounds. Wetting his thumb in the cool water, he would scrub the blood from his mouth and the inside of his nostrils.

That was their routine. A beating, and then kindness. Beating then kindness. Beating, kindness. Until he could no longer distinguish one from the other.

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