Chapter Eight
Duster and a Gun: Reaper
Gregory Blackman
Invitation Not Refused
Austin was a safe place full of good memories. There wasn’t another place in the world like it, I thought, but at the age of ten I hadn’t exactly been many other places. I lived there with my mother and father, not a care in the world and living in the moment. Maybe that was the problem, cause when fate came knocking we were caught completely unprepared.
We lived on a farm, a few miles from the city, just on the outskirts. It was a small place where we grew fields of the most delicious corn you ever had. The house was a long running bungalow with dark cherry painting and matching bay windows. Fields of grass swayed in the wind and hinted at the adventures over each hillcrest. At the edge of our property a white fence ran down to a rickety old barn where we housed all the equipment.
My father was a decent man, hardworking and honest. He always treated my mother well and never once laid a hand on me, and around these parts that was pretty uncommon. I’d see kids at school black and blue from the beatings they’d receive from their dads. He didn’t have much time for me, but we enjoyed the times we did have together.
My pa employed half dozen farm hands, working the land and fixing the machinery who kept the farm going during the tough times. Dad said that was all that mattered.
“Ya always gotta keep truckin’,” he would tell me. “Even when things look like they can’t get any worse, ya gotta make do with what ya got in front of ya.”
He was kind to the colored folk; he always hired a couple of them. Good people, given a hard time cause the color of their skin. Sure they were free, but even the most basic necessities were barely afforded to them.
One of the men’s kids was my best friend and we hung out just about every chance we could. His name was Isum Bailey, a heavyset boy with wooly hair and a smart mouth.
We were hanging out just like any other day in the barn when fate came calling. It was quarter past noon and we could hear my dad arguing with my mom in the yard, something real fierce, too, with hollering and hands waving all over the place. He never lost his cool like this, and both Isum and I rushed to get as close as possible.
“Quit yer shoving’,” Isum whispered as he pressed up against the inside wall of the barn. “I can barely breathe.”
My father, Malcolm McKidrict, was a strong man, lived his life on the farm and never made excuses when hard work needed to be done. The stress took its toll on him, however, and in his late thirties his hair was going grey. Sure, it was still thick and down to his shoulders, and a constant source of amusement for my mother and me. It wasn’t his looks that my mother loved in him, it was his mind. He was as wise as the day is long and a gentle soul to all those around.
And my mother, warm and loving, sharp as a whip and hip to all my boyhood schemes. She was a pretty Scottish lass, my father would always say, Edna McKidrict, maiden name Ritchie. My mother was the rock on which our home was built, always making sure things were running and my chores had been completed. It was hard work for a kid my size, but she’d always reward me with freshly made pie and suddenly the work had been worth it.
“I don’t give a damn what any holy man says!” my father shouted. “He’s my boy and I’m fit to raise him as I bloody well like!”
“It’s the order, Mal,” my mother said. “Yeh wanna take ‘em all on, is that it?”
“It’s not like that,” he said. “I… I knew that priest takin’ all that interest in him wasn’t a good idea.”
“I don’t like this, not one bit,” my father continued. “My boy’s gonna grow up workin’ the farm, just like his daddy; an’ if he doesn’t wanna do that, then he’ll be some fancy doctor or lawyer. What he won’t be is some goddamn weapon of mass destruction! I’ve read what they do to those boys… it’s not right, Edna! It’s a monstrosity, unnatural and perverse… I won’t have it for my boy… not my boy!”
“Maybe we can buy ‘im off,” she replied. “I don’t care if we have ta sell off half the farm ta do it. If they take my baby I expect my heart ta burst.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he hollered, “Willie; I need to talk to ya!”
Isum’s pa was a loyal guy, been around for longer than I had. He opened the barn door and poked his head in to get a look. I had to pull Isum back to keep him for seeing us, but he didn’t mutter a word if he had.
“Don’t do this,” my mother pleaded. “Please, Mal, yeh’ve gotta listen ta reason.”
“I’ve never been a violent man, love,” he said, “but there are some things even a man like me can’t let happen.”
“Willie!” he said. “Get my gun an’ make sure it’s loaded!”
“Yeh bloomin’ idiot!” my mother cried. “Yeh kill ‘im and we’re gonna have to pack up and leave… our lives will never be the same… his life will never be the same. Please… there’s gotta be another way… there’s just gotta.”
“I pray that yer right, Edna,” he said with regret.
“What’re they talkin’ ‘bout?” Isum asked. “Is someone comin’ to yer house?”
“I wish I knew, Isum,” I replied as I opened the door a crack. “Wait a minute… I think I see someone.”
“I don’t see a thin’,” he said as he poked his head out just a bit further. “Where ‘bouts you seein’ this feller?”
“Right there,” I said, “between my parents, a quarter mile down the road.”
The man was dressed head to toe in black robes, at least that’s what it appeared like from this distance. He must be the order, my mother said, but what did it mean?
“What’re we gonna do?” Isum asked.
“I wish I knew, Isum,” I repeated. “I don’t think nothin’ good’s comin’ outta these here events.”
“Oh ya?” he inquired.
“I can feel it. Deep down in my bones… somethin’ ain’t right, Isum… ain’t right, at all.”