Hold the Light Page 9

  Each time Betsy sent news she asked him to move into the old family house in Boston with her and her family, but Randy always refused, knowing his need to search for whatever it was that would stop the ache in his belly. There were just too many pains from the past to settle somewhere yet.

  However, this letter brought bad news and it wasn't from Betsy - it was from her husband. He ripped open the letter and read.

  'Randy, you must come immediately to Betsy's

  side, she is not well. The doctors are skeptical

  about her recovery and she has been calling your

  name, awake and in her sleep, day and night.

  Please come and ease her, and our troubled minds.'

  After finishing the last line, he started running. Everything Randy owned jangled in his pockets. Tears swelled in his eyes and the pitch-black night swam around his vision, but he buried his fears and pains. He was determined to be with her.

  He instinctively ran to the train tracks. Fortunately, a long freight train was slowly lugging itself eastbound. An actual stroke of luck hit him. One of the cars had a cargo door open and Randy sprinted for it. He grabbed onto a handhold and swung himself into the car. He was getting good at hopping trains.

  Randy leaned against the doorway and watched for hours as Middle America gradually grew into the eastern seaboard. He managed only a few hours sleep between his worried thoughts before he reached his destination.

  Chapter 16

  In a field in the outskirts of Boston, Randy leapt from the train as it slowed, dusted himself off, and began to walk to the rest of the way. His thoughts had made him weary and his legs were rubber, but not a single pain penetrated his mind.

  He walked, lost in his mind for hours and didn't hear, from the distance behind him, a pick-up truck come rumbling down the dirt road, kicking up dust and feathers from the bed full of chickens. Squawks arose and filled the dawn air. Randy finally heard and stepped off to the side of the path, flagging down the driver. The truck slowed to a stop. The door clanked open and the barrel of a shotgun marched out followed by a short, stocky man. The driver was dressed in overalls with a bandana tied around his head and a mischievous smile smeared across his face.

  "Whatcha want here?" his toad of a man croaked.

  "Looking for a lift. Could you help?" Randy answered.

  "How do I know you ain't some nut, huh? Dar's been folks wanderin' about these parts lookin fer work on account der aint none much udder places," the squat untrusting man spat.

  "Look, I got a letter ..." Randy reached into his pocket.

  "Hold it right dar, mister."

  The shotgun leveled at Randy's head with a sweaty short finger on the trigger, raring to get a shot off.

  "It's just a letter. My sister needs me, I've got to see her and it's not far." Randy reached down further in his pocket and started to pull the letter out.

  "No one gets the best of me or my property!" The shotgun whipped around and the wooden butt crashed down on Randy's brow, opening a deep wound between his eyes. Randy plummeted into a patch of sharp weeds. Struggling to stay awake, head swimming in circles, his eyes couldn't focus beyond the swirling darkness. Randy felt a patting and rummaging through his pockets as the driver fondled Randy's possessions, taking a few things and placing them in his own pocket. The man climbed back into his truck and started it with a loud grumble and tore down the road.

  Coughing and spitting as he leaned up, Randy put his hand to his forehead. Blood stung and pooled in the corners of his eyes, clumped on his lashes. Randy reached into his pockets for his sweat rag, but as he dug he found nothing but the bottom.

  Cursing, he braced himself with one hand and ripped at his sleeve, awkwardly tearing off a strip off his tattered old shirt. His eyes couldn't focus and his head pounded as he folded the fabric into a bandage. He carefully tightened it around his skull, but it dangled nevertheless, slightly covering the tops of his eyes. Awkwardly climbing to his feet, he stumbled around the side of the road searching for something to use as a cane. His knee began to ache so much that walking became difficult. After finding a broken tree limb, Randy hobbled on top of it and cursed, following the fresh tire treads over the horizon toward the town on the outskirts of Boston.

  The tire treads ended on the cobblestone streets of the small town square that looped around a gazebo. The entire center was flourishing with life and flowers. The lawn in the center of the square was crowded with chickens and surrounded by small quaint shops that lined this bustling emporium. Trucks and horses stood restlessly before the shops. A few citizens lumbered about in overalls with their wives at their sides in ratty dresses, but the vast majority of people were copiously adorned with suits and jewelry, purses bulging with wealth they didn't care to hide. Randy never knew this to exist. This strange trading post exempt from time had money that wasn't lost in '29, and they flaunted it. People strolled about as if the nation outside this cobblestone cage wasn't destitute.

  A couple passed by Randy and sneered, then continued around the square, happily carrying themselves like debutantes to a ball. He looked over himself, crusted in blood and sweat, ashamed of his appearance, but then remembered why he was there.

  Randy forged forward through the morning heat, blood and sweat stinging his eyes as his makeshift bandage sagged. The heat beat down on his head and he grew woozy. He limped on his cane to the gazebo at the center. Randy's ears pounded as more chatter filled the air. His heart steadily pumped hatred that poisoned his bloodstream as his eyes darted around and cut through the atmosphere to see the short toad man in overalls with his shotgun. Surprisingly, he was tough to find in a crowd of suits and gowns, but Randy could follow the sweaty smell the short man emitted and found him busy rummaging in the passenger side of the cab of his truck as Randy strolled up.

  "Sonvabitch, what I'd do wid ..."The fat man pulled his head up to see Randy glaring through bloodied eyes at him.

  Leaning against the truck casually, Randy lifted his crooked branch level to the brow of the man who robbed him.

  "Give me back what's mine," Randy stated coldly.

  "Jeeesus, you sonvabitch," the man yelled out, falling backwards and landing on the ground.

  Randy stood over the man, his cane's point just inches from his head.

  "Give it all back," Randy snapped and dug the bottom of the branch into the man's forehead,

  "Or I'll take it back."

  "Alright. Fine." The toad man said, looking at Randy and seeing his true size now that he lay without the enlarging spell of his shotgun.

  The man pulled out what wasn't his and handed it to Randy. "It ...it's all in the envelope with your letter."

  "I don't know who the hell you think you are," Randy started as he checked for his feeble amount of money, "But you're not so tough without your gun."

  Randy slipped the envelope into his pocket and walked away, but the rage still pumped in his veins. He raged for payback. His emotions took hold of him and he turned around quickly. Randy whipped the cane across the short man's face, digging a red cut across his forehead. It only seemed fair. An eye for an eye.

  The toad man fell to the ground cradling his head in his hands. Randy limped away satisfied.

  Stepping off the grass and onto the sidewalk, he looked beyond the square with the hope of seeing Betsy soon, when the man yelled out in a broken voice, "That bastard robbed me!"

  Randy turned his head and saw a crowd of people standing around the toad in overalls, gawking. Several ran to get the police; the rest huddled behind the short man, as he hobbled heavily up to Randy with his shotgun again.

  "You wanna know who I am? You wanna know?!" He barked as he lifted his gun in the air.

  "I'm the wrong fella to mess wid you sonvabitch!"

  Randy was poised to retaliate when he was grabbed from behind. He struggled against many hands gripping his shirt, while others latched onto his arms. Randy's eyes bulged and rage burst from his veins, foaming throughout his entire body. H
e kicked his legs and heaved his arms, pushing his chest forward to pull free, but almost a dozen men had him pinned. And with a kick to the back of Randy's bad knee, he squarely crashed down to the grass.

  The toad man lumbered up to Randy and rummaged through his pockets again, smiling a dirty grin until his sticky paws found the letter from Betsy. Pulling it out and gazing at it like it was a golden egg from a goose he stole, he triumphantly held it out over Randy's head.

  "Boy, yar no one. Ya know that?" The man said as he rested his shotgun against his leg, pulling a lighter from his pocket. The lighter flipped open and the clanking metal rang in Randy's ears as a ball of flame leapt onto his letter, scorching his only link to his family.

  Randy lashed out in a blind rage, but the only blow landed was the butt of the shotgun slamming on his head again. His wound split open even further and knocked him unconscious.

  Chapter 17

  Randy's head swam in black for some time. Slowly prying his eyes open, a piebald haze speckled around him as he tried to get up off an unfamiliar yet comfortable mattress, but he hadn't the strength to rise.

  Every feature on his face pounded. He caressed his brow while his eyes looked past the dancing spots and he found himself crumpled on a prison bed.

  He hadn't the slightest idea how long he had been there, but he knew his will had been drained. Betsy's image swam in his mind and begged him to stay and rest. He wanted to jump up and go save her, but she wouldn't let him and his body was too weak and bruised. He would fight his imprisonment, but never her. He figured that at least he wouldn't be scrounging around the outside for food or standing in bread lines.

  His first night was a sleepless nightmare. Inmates blurted out slurs and taunts, betting on his survival. Their chatter rose to shouts as they all pounded on the iron bars screaming 'little fish, little fish.'

  "You've got too pretty of an ass to be sitting on it, new fish!"

  Shouts surrounded his head and bounced between his ears like every convict in the prison was in his head, pounding his skull. The grime of harsh reality painted its first layer over Randy his first night. It was like being covered in pure fear, and every time Randy tried to wipe it away, it soaked deeper, pushing him closer to his breaking point. But he couldn't crumble. He had to see Betsy, and he still had his pride.

  That pride brought him to his first caged morning and many more to follow, bringing with it idle time. He read the Bible and Herman Melville, keeping his mind occupied and away from the plagued world outside. He kept his thoughts with his sister. He whiled away the hours doing push-ups and reading.

  His trial was a joke and he became like a fixture more than a man and forgotten just as easily, save for the men responsible for it. Weeks passed him by as the prison population dropped by half. More and more men that Randy got to know were released before him. As more time lugged on, he turned into a watch bird. Stuffed in the first cell of the prison, he conversed with just about everyone that came and went, assimilating information to trade to guards for information about Betsy. But he never heard a thing about her.

  One late summer night, three months after he arrived, the routine Randy had grown accustomed to shattered, and from what he ascertained, the town outside suffered a similar blow. It was raining hard as the lightning snuggled up close to his cell window. Randy peered out the barred porthole at the lands and watched the puddles run towards the jail. The light bulbs flickered into a strobe, barely illuminating the dingy corners of his cell as the wind cut through him, chilling him to the bone. The familiar muggy air vanished and was replaced by dead calm.

  Flashes of the tornado destroying his family popped into his memory. Chatter rose from the long row of prison cells, slowly growing in volume as the lightning came closer. From outside, nature hollered, and, from inside, every inmate roared as they all watched a half dozen guards wrestle a man into the prison. A man Randy would never forget.

  A few more guards piled on the heap of uniformed bodies and Randy noticed the prisoner wasn't even struggling. The barrage of officers tried to move him but he had planted roots deep into the floor. One officer came from the back of the pile and stood before Randy's cell, wrestling with his keys as he tried to open the door.

  "What ...why here? There's an open cell in the middle of the row," Randy complained as he rose from his cot.

  "Does it look like we can get him that far? Shaddup and stay there!" The guard panted in his thick accent.

  The mob moved in front of the cell and the convict they dragged emerged from the shadows, for they were the only thing long enough to hide his height. The pile of officers stood behind the colossal yet placid man and on the count of three, heaved him with all their combined might into the cell. The convict stumbled a few steps forward. Keys jingled and the guards scurried like rats to close the door, leaving Randy alone with the mammoth man. Randy stood dumbfounded and the only thing he could was assess the convict's hulking mass. Everything about him was square and angular. Box-like muscles protruded quietly from beneath his decayed long black coat. It and the shirt beneath looked older and more worn than time. This convict's hard shoulders, angular jaw, and towering height were frightening. His massive hands were the size of Randy's head. His whole body seemed powerfully angled in right degrees, everything, was sharp and menacing except for his eyes. With wan complexion and round stone eyes, the convict glowed white in the bleak cell. His eyes sat limply in his skull, bulging without a blink, staring through the wall of the cell. Randy turned to see what the colossus was staring at, half expecting to see small burn holes in the cement.

  "Not much for talking?" Randy asked in a trembling voice.

  The man uprooted and stomped his way to the opposite bunk. The sudden movement made Randy flinch. His new cellmate stretched out and lay down on his back with his hands locked together.

  Not a sound was uttered, even the wind stopped. No malicious taunts were slung at the new fish, just silence, as everyone in the prison held his breath. Slowly and carefully, Randy backed up and fell onto his cot, keeping a peeled eye on his cellmate, not sleeping a wink.

  Morning slowly broke after stretching on for an eternity, and the guards yelled down the corridor for roll call. Randy sluggishly turned out of bed after scrutinizing every twitch his companion made and stood outside his cell. All the other inmates lined up outside their cells, except for the new convict. The guards rushed in to see him standing next to his cot, staring off into oblivion, with his round eyes jittering and his body twitching. Wasting no time, the guards pounded on every square inch of his nearly seven-foot body, but he didn't even wince, he just convulsed. The guards swiftly tired, so one of them had the idea to strike a hard blow to the back of the convict's knees, stealing his balance.

  His collapse was immense and Randy swore he felt the cement shake outside his cell as the giant landed. The convict convulsions lessened and he was as still as a chalk outline.

  The rest of the day continued as normal until more new fish arrived. Watching the parade of buses barrel down the dirt road to the prison gates, the inmates linked to the fence, shouting their taunts and bets. Body odor and stale breath filled the air around Randy.

  "Dat's da most I've ever seen."

  "Shit, dat's half a years worth."

  "Der's not dat much room in here."

  "It's getting worse."

  Randy absorbed the banal prattle and agreed. It was like a levee of criminals broke.

  "Hey Randy, what da newy like? Seems hard."

  "He just sits there. Strange fella. I'd swear he's a statue if I couldn't hear his breathing."

  Randy strolled away from the fence and over to a guard.

  "What's going on, Ken?" Randy asked, "How long is the statue stuck with me?"

  "You've seen the pile-up we're now getting and things are only getting worse, so you'll only be stuck with him for a day or so more." The guard straightened his posture. "He slipped through the cracks. His execution might be as early as tomorrow night. I don't
know how, so don't ask, just be thankful."

  "Why be thankful?" Randy asked.

  "They found him with a group of murdered kids, eating popcorn. Rumor has it that there's been countless more. Hey, remember that I'm only telling you this for your own good. Just keep an eye open like normal. You may even get out of here."

  Randy lit up but the guard only continued.

  67

  "He's a nasty case so he'll be gone as soon as possible. We'll oblige. It's easy, too. They're takin' advantage of the situation while the public's got their jobs to worry about."

  "Thanks, Kenny." Randy slipped him some cigarettes, "Anything on Betsy?"

  The guard shook his head.

  Chapter 18