"Sheep in the Fog" (A Shannon O'Day Novelette)

“…you have been designated Godfather of the… of the National Newspaper of Peru (“The Voice of the People… is the Voice of God”)… in merit to your fine virtues and profession of service that you have shown throughout your exemplary life that everybody appreciates, admires, and exalts.

Director, Apolinario Mayta Inga & Manager Rivera Flores, October 7, 2009



A Shannon O’Day Story

Sheep in the Fog


(A Novelette)




Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Andean Scholar, and Three Times Poet Laureate


Parts in English and Spanish

A Prelude


The Porch
(Fall, 1978)


“Otis, come on into the house with me, it’s getting cold on this here porch.” The grass was buzzing with insects, and the moon was turning bright, and the night darker. “Come away from there, Otis, people still get a talking, even in 1978, like they used to back in ‘49 when they see a black man with a white woman in the moonlight.”
“Yessum, I guess they does. Gits them all mad I reckon.”
It was 10:00 p.m., now, Mabel put an arm around Otis, to help him over the main step up to the kitchen (a hump), and hushed, and held her dress up an inch or two, not to get it snagged on the wooden porch. “You goin’ to let me stay the night?” he asked, “or should I go onto town, I gots an apartment there, the same one Shannon used to have.”
“No, no.” Mabel said. “No need to, I’m tired of all those recollections I’ve been having this evening, it is best we both just get onto bed.”
“Me too,” said Otis (they had both been daydreaming).







A Shannon O’Day Story

“Fool About a
Cow!”

(A story that takes place in the fall of 1949,
Told in the fall of 1978 by Mabel O’Day and the Author)


Part One/Chapter One
Of Two


The Dinner—Thursday
Thanksgiving Day—1949


Through the cornfields, between the stocks and the towering leafy and spread out branches, twisted spaces, I could see them drinking. They were coming towards me by where the creek was as I went walking along its side. Otis was with Shannon, drinking in the high corn stocks too. They were carrying each a jug of whiskey, hitting each other as if they were dogs playing rough—as if biting each other. Then they put their jugs down along their sides and they met me at the creek’s edge, and he hit Shannon, and Shannon hit Otis, and Otis hit Shannon, both laughing drunk. Shannon came away from the corn stocks and we went along the creek’s rim and we stopped at the farmhouse while Otis was left to himself in the field.
“Here, Shannon.” I said. Then I opened the door for him, I held it open and watched him drag himself to the kitchen table, where Gus was, and were we were ready to have dinner.
“Look at you, now!” Gus said. “Aint you a sight, forty-nine years old, a World War One war hero, and drunk as a skunk. I done went all the way to town to buy this pork roast for Thanks Giving Dinner, I suppose you can’t help it, after dinner you can sleep it off up in your old room.”
I saw Otis walking a little ways out, across the field to the road. I went out to the front fence to ask if he wanted a meal, tried to flag him down, but he was so drunk, he never saw me.
“Come on,” Gus yelled, said, “let that nigger get his own food in town!” I looked everywhichway for Otis, but he done hightail it out someplace. Yes, I remember that, Gus never did take a liking for Otis, I reckon.
Anyhow, we went outdoors after dinner. The sun was still out a bit, not bright, but twilight was nearing.
“Where you headed for?” I asked Shannon.
“You don’t think I’m going to stay here when you didn’t feed Otis, do yaw?”
“You don’t think you’re going to walk to town, do yaw, it’s near twenty miles?” Gus said. Then Shannon walked out of the house, down the steps in a hurry, the gate was stuck, but finally he opened it, and onto the dirt road, then he yelled something towards Otis—whom was off in the far distance, and I yelled towards Shannon: “You better keep your hands in your pockets, you’ll freeze them off, cuz, come around twilight, it’s goin’ to get colder!” And then Gus yelled: “Why not just wait for me Shannon; I’ll give you a ride to town, and pick up that nigger if you insist!” and Gus’ throat got sore, his lungs deflated, and he had to rest against the pole alongside the outside stairway.
I saw him put his hands in his pocket, thank goodness, and he had earmuffs, under that hat of his, and he pulled them out and down over his ears, I could hear him babbling to himself as he walked down the road. I could smell the cold coming on. And when I went to shut the gate, the metal parts were hot-cold as the devil’s hands are. Shannon was walking, then started running, his jug swigging alongside him and Otis, he was still in way front of him.
“Hay Otis, wait up!” Shannon yelled.
Otis slowed down I could see, and came to a stop. I remember smiling some because of that; he was always Shannon’s favorite drinking partner.
I told him to keep his hands warm in his pockets and he tried, but that jug got in his way some, Otis left his in the field that day, I found it there, the summer yet to be.
“What is it? What you tryin’ to do?” Otis, asked Shannon, and he was smiling like a happy hog, near asleep from all that there whiskey they done drank. So Otis, I recall had told me somewhere along life’s line.
“I just came to meet you, walk you back to the city!” Shannon said. And I was just hoping he didn’t freeze his hands that day, or his ears and he hadn’t. I told him, even yelled at him from afar, to stay warm. And he ran up to Otis, and he gave him the jug, and they went on walking down that there road some, and then Gus and I picked them up, brought them into the city; couldn’t keep him from falling asleep though; he kept on sleeping until we got right straight into the city, looking for his apartment, down there on Wabasha Street. He told me “…it was sure a good Thanks Giving Meal.”
“Is that what I told you?” Shannon said to me when he woke up, he done forgot what he had said.
I had to help Otis and Gus carry him out of Gus’ car, into the shadowy chill, and up those fourteen stairs, step by step, and he called up Gertrude, on the phone, said,
“I’m staying at my apartment again, so my drinking doesn’t bother you none, so go with Gus and Mabel, they got some leftover turkey—no, I think it’s pork…” he said. And I think she said, “I’ll go with him when he comes over to pick me up,” because that’s exactly what we did do.
I took his overcoat and put it on him in his apartment, “How many times do I have to tell you to keep warm (he was undressing),” so I told him, and I left his overshoes on.
“Wait, Otis. Can’t you stay longer, where you goin’.” He wanted Otis to stay with him.
—if you recall— I think I said, “I think you both better stay together, stay indoors, it’s November and it’s going to be cold tonight.” Gus, his brother, said “He’s been out enough tonight.”

“Let him go, Mabel.” Gertrude said to me after dinner. “Please, you know he’ll just drink himself to death, don’t bother with him anymore, I’m with child, and he still keeps on drinking like a fish—he just don’t give a-damn.”
“Then why did you marry him,” I mentioned to her at the table. Gus said: “Why did you come over here, to give me some excuse to worry about my brother, or perhaps to persuade me to disown him because of his drinking problem? I think you better be more concerned or quiet about my brother or I think you’d better leave.”
“Let her say what she wants,” I told Gus. Gertrude said: “A little less sympathy, and a little cold weather isn’t goin’ to hurt him, he’s used to it.”
“I know,” Gus said. “Nobody knows how I worry about Shannon’s drinking. I am not one of those guys that write a brother off just because he likes booze a little too much. Perhaps he can’t stand life the way it is, after the war, he picked up his drinking, and seldom stopped for a break, the tax payers who sent him off to war helped it along you know.”
“I have to do the best I can and not worry myself to death about him; I got to worry about this child in my stomach.” Gertrude commented, then added “Yes, Gus …Come on, give me a ride home, thanks for the pork dinner.” She then put on her overcoat, buttoned it up, and opened the door, and went towards the car.
“Be careful walking with that baby inside of you, you don’t want to get him sick…or her!” I told Gertrude, as Gus slammed the door behind her (upset but not real upset).
“I haven’t forgotten,” she yelled back.
I had walked to the screened-in door, and then walked back to the table, and Gus stomped outside to take Gertrude home, “Come back and give me a kiss, Gus,” I told him, and he just kept on walking, he was upset more than Gertrude, but silent about it.
I remember when Gus came back, I was crying, my face in my hands sitting in the easy chair in the living room, and for once he came to my side, and he pulled me up off of the chair, and hugged me, “My poor dear,” he said. “Please let me go,” I whimpered, and he did, he sit me back down into the chair, “I know you try hard to take care of Shannon when you can, dear, but sometimes he just don’t respond to good care.”
“Yes...” I cried, trying to think of what else to say, but couldn’t. He was going to go into the other room, he didn’t like seeing me cry, but I told him, “You needn’t go, Gus. I’ll keep myself from crying if it bothers you.”
“Okay,” he said, adding: “I aint goin’ out no more tonight in that cold, unless it’s for Shannon.” He then went down into the basement, and I knew what for, his 140-proof Vodka. When he came back up those stairs, he was snake-eyed, and bright faced, against mine. He smelled—reeked, like embalming solution.
“You’re not a drunk, are you? Are you, or not? You’ve got me. Haven’t you got a good wife?”
“Can’t you be quiet for one night, I’m not slobbering drunk,” Gus told me. “You should be ashamed of yourself making all these conclusions.” I guess I was thinking about Shannon, and putting Gus into the same category or status Shannon was in—that we all put him in, and knowing Gus and him liked to drink and did drink quite a lot together, it was just that Gus could stop, and Shannon never seemed to have that shutoff valve.
My mother called us up from down in Fayetteville, North Carolina, that night, “I hear it’s getting cold up there,” she said. “Mabel,” she said, “I don’t see what Gus has got to have this party line for, nothing is private, and you can only make forty-calls a month, we’ve always got to call you!”
Mother was mad because Gus nearly never uses the phone and it was a way to keeping me from using the phone also.
“Where’s Gus?” She asked.
“He went back down in the cellar for some quiet, and a little of his homemade vodka.” I told her. “I hope he doesn’t drive tonight,” mother said.
“I’m afraid also,” I told mother, but as long as Shannon didn’t call, I knew he’d not leave.
“It would seem to me you all could give me a call on Christmas. It is little enough I ask, Lord knows, and I know how cheap your husband can be.”
“You know I do every year, if you don’t call first,” I told ma.
“How’s Gertrude and Shannon doing?” mother asked (as if she didn’t know, and she did…), then added before I could say a word, “A man as big as Shannon should be doing more for his wife and child to be, aint he ashamed of himself, you know Gertrude calls me! She says, ‘Martha, now you listen up, what would you do if you had a husband like Shannon?”’
And I asked mother, what would she do, and she said, “Don’t start no projecting with me, you hear me. You sound like Gertrude, if-in the man don’t suit you, then that’s jes’ the way it is, you got to live with it, you married it, made your bed with him, now you got to sleep with it…” (then there was a long pause and mother added:) “Of course I’m different!”
“You, Mother,” I said “of course you are.”
“I got to go,” Mother said. “I’m afraid this phone bill will be as high as your electric and gas bill.” And she hung up.


The Visitors


“I’m hungry,” Shannon said. He rolled off his bed; Otis was sleeping on the floor, with a blanket over him. Shannon got out of bed and picked Otis up. He was coming out of a light sleep, slow. He must had been a dark blur to Shannon, he squinted his eyes several times, then rubbed them.
“Oh.” Otis said. Light drifted through the white window curtains, on both of them. “Youall cant never move to quick to catch yourself awake, still half drunk in the morning as I is,” said Otis to Shannon. And then they both went to wash up, and Shannon threw water on Otis, and Otis threw water on Shannon, and then both at the same time threw water on each other as if to wake our person’s body up, but it was more mischievous play than serious washing. Then they sat back down in the living room, and waited.
“What for, what we waiting for?” asked Otis.
“We just waiting,” said Shannon, “not for anything special, we just waiting for nothin’.” Then all of a sudden there was a knock on the door, Gus and Mabel had come over, and Shannon said, “You can come with us over to the Dickey’s Diner and we’ll all have breakfast on me, okay Gus?” And they all walked outside, and the sun came rolling up those steps as they came walking down them, and I looked down at Shannon and Gus and Mabel, and Gus turned towards the steps (it was 7:00 a.m.,) “We must be quiet, though, not to wake up everyone.” he said.
“Why?” Shannon asked, “Aint nobody around here anyhow.”
“Okay,” Gus replied. Then some old lady looked out her door, said “Hush.” And they all hushed, and Gus said, “I told you so.” And Shannon said, “I guess you did.” Mabel was the one that said nothing, she knew, perhaps as everyone knew, who knew Gus and Otis, that Gus didn’t like Otis, thought he was poison for Shannon. And then they all stepped down the three steps, and off the little porch onto Wabasha Street, and went into the Diner, just up the block, on Seventh Street.



The Diner

Friday, the Day after Thanksgiving



Old Josh the cook was there (at the diner), I knew him, he was there long after Shannon and Gus died, and was there as far back I think as the forties I do believe. I remember he had a yellow apron on, and it was steaming hot inside that old 1933-caboose, made into a café.
“You mind Shannon, now.” Gus said. And he was pulling out some dollars from his pocket when he said that.
“Yes, Gus,” Shannon said. And Gus put his dollars back into his pocket, and Shannon pulled out his last five dollar bill. I leaned my face over the counter where Josh was, it steamed up my face.
“Youall goin’ to have to sit at the counter,” Josh said, “the booths are filled.”
“Yes, sir,” Shannon said, and we all had folks move over to the right and left of us, to make room for all four us, and Gus didn’t like Shannon calling old Josh, ‘sir,’ cuz he was a nigger, and Gus didn’t like sitting in the middle to the side of Otis, cuz he was also nigger.
“There.” Shannon said. We were all nicely fitted behind the counter. “Now order whatever you want Gus,” Shannon said, and Otis, Shannon and I, we just had eggs, toast and coffee—a dollar each, and Gus’ was two-dollars. He knew that I knew he had only around five dollars for four breakfasts and he wanted his brother to have the best, and we all knew this.
Miss Peggy, don’t recall her last name, I had only seen her there a few times waitressing, brought my plate of eggs and toast first. The heat from the food steamed up my face, pleased it a bit.
“It’s Friday,” Shannon said. “What are we going to do today, Otis?”
“Shhhhhh…” I said, “Lets jes’ eat!”
After when we stopped eating we looked at each other, in a near silent way, if not a mystic quietness, and then we heard some rock n roll over those small music box machines, each of the booths had in them: “Jailhouse Rock,” by Elvis, and something by Pat Boone, “Peace in the Valley,” I believe. And the café wasn’t quiet anymore. Peggy put her hand on Shannon’s hand, and I watched and I ate the last morsel of food on my plate, then Shannon got up right then and there, and danced with Peggy, he had a way with the ladies.
“You sit right down,” Josh told Shannon, “Peggy’s got work to do, and you’re a married man, and got to get done eating.”
Peggy was mumbling something, I recall. And I overheard Josh mumbling, “It’s not a party in here.” And then Josh looked at me said, with a surprised look, “You done et all that, that quick? You want another egg on the house?” Josh asked me.
“I dont want anymore,” I told Josh. “But thanks all the same.”
“Martha called last night,” Gus told Shannon, “was wondering how you and Gertrude were doing.”
“Tell her next time, don’t come pestering you, about me, she gets all her information from Gertrude anyhow, she don’t need anymore.” Shannon said. “She’s got to get all the gossip for her supper club table and all those folks down south she feeds, in that B and B she has.”
After a while longer, Shannon was finished drinking his coffee, and so was Gus, and Otis and myself, then we just sat there, and we began to talk some more.
“Now you got to slow down on the drinking, brother, before you kill yourself!” said Gus, in a serious tone.
He was drinking every night, ever since he came back from the Great War, that was pert near thirty-years ago. And I knew he never really got sick and he slept only a few hours.
“I’m going to tell you,” Shannon said to Gus, “You’ve already told me this before, there’s not anything else you can tell me, is there now?” Then Shannon wiped his face with a napkin.
“It’s too early to fight,” said Gus.
“We don’t ever have to fight Gus, if you just mind your own business!”
“Yes, I’ll mind my own business and you mind yours and no one has to do like the other person says.”
“I should call Gertrude, with the baby coming on; I suppose she’s not feeling well.”
“Youall go on with what you gots to do, I need to fetch some more sleep,” Otis told both Gus and Shannon. Then Gus said for us three to walk a little, get some fresh air. “Come on.” Gus opened the door and we went out of the café, and down to the Mississippi River, a few blocks away, and walked across the Robert Street Bridge. And we even went down the steps to look at the high cliffs.


Sunday

The Farm and the Barn



The next time I saw Shannon, was when he was sitting on our steps, he had come down to visit Gus that Sunday, following Thanksgiving. Gus and Shannon had done some pheasant hunting if I recall, he was bushed, tired out. There was a fire going on, I think Gus was burning up some fall leaves, pushing them into a mound, and it looked like a blaze, I love the smell of burning leaves. And then I joined Shannon on the steps, and Otis, he was singing and I began to hum whatever that song was, and he stopped, perhaps because Gus might have thought wrong.
I know Gus told Shannon to keep Otis away from the house, and Shannon said to Gus, “Where do you want us to go, around yonder?”
Mrs. Stanley, our neighbor, she was milking the cow that Sunday, and Shannon was throwing rocks at some birds, one came flying at him, it was a crow I think. It was a lazy day. And Judge Finley came over to see Gus, and brought a jug of whiskey along with him. And then Otis left because Judge Finley hated him more than Gus hated him—Finley just didn’t like niggers plain and simple, Gus was selective. And Finley and Gus and Shannon I think were hoping I’d go to bed, but I didn’t. I sat around outside by the fire as if in a trance. And when they started to drink, Gus asked Shannon in front of Finley, “I suppose you’re goin’ to drink, Shannon?”
“It doesn’t hurt any of your folks does it?” Shannon said, and Gus’ arthritis acted up, and I think that was the last time he questioned his drinking, I think he just gave up.
“Now you two brothers, don’t fight, I got enough for all three of us.” said Finley.
“Going to be one more,” I told the judge, and he looked at me strange, and I said, “me.”
“And you Mrs. O’Day are four,” said the judge, in his owl like voice.
Then I got thinking, dying of alcoholism maybe isn’t much different than dying of any other disease, and every time someone tries to stop Shannon, someone else tries to lessen the pain by starting him back up again. I mean, even Gus with his 140-proof Vodka is perhaps a hypocrite to Shannon, and now the judge, and even Otis. So you see there just wasn’t any luck on this trying to stop Shannon. I think I saw this at first, when we all tried to check him to stop drinking, but it was as if I had seen the sign—go, more than the sign stop.
We finished eating lunch, and then started on the jug of whiskey, Finley brought with him. And Gus went down to the cellar and brought up his vodka, and they all ended up playing horseshoes in the front yard. And then I had the runs, I drank too much, and I was wobbling all about, and I cried, and I don’t even know what for.
“Hush up,” said Gus, “Finley and Shannon will think I’m a bad husband!... Hush I tell you!”
“She needs a whipping,” the judge said facetiously. And everybody laughed, even me. And we were drunker than four skunks walking a tightrope.
“Come on here,” said Shannon. And I came to him, and Gus was watching, sitting on a wooden box, the fire dwindling down. And Shannon kissed me, and started dancing with me. And then I pulled aside, and said “I’m too dizzy, no more—please.”
“What’s a matter with her now,” Gus said. He liked it when Shannon played with me, and poked fun at him. I guess we liked him more drunk than sober, in that we knew him better, but we were willing to give that up for a sober Shannon, maybe we felt guilty, but that all ended that Sunday evening.
“You have to keep her dancing,” Gus told Shannon.
“Go see if we can get some of that unpasteurized milk from Mrs. Stanley’s cow,” said Shannon to Gus.
“I got a better idea,” said Gus, “let’s milk the cow dry, and they aint going to have any milk for tomorrow.”
“Where’s the cow?” asked the judge.
“Just around the corner,” said Gus.
And I was singing again, I remember, and thought they were all talking foolishly.
“Come on,” Shannon whispered. “Let’s go get the cow drunk and, come on!”
Two dogs were playing in the dirt in front of the barn, Mrs. Stanley’s barn, rolling around and falling over one another. You could see through the second floor window, the shades down, Mr. and Mrs. Stanley were getting ready for bed, and then the light went out.
“Let’s go,” said Gus to me (Shannon and Finley were already waiting at the barn).
“I’m coming just hold your horses.” I told him.
“Hush,” said the judge. “Do you want to get these dogs yelling?”
“Don’t you worry about the dogs judge,” said Gus, “they both know me better than my wife.” He called them by their names, Tobaccos, and Tabasco. And I told Shannon, right then and there, “How can he remember their names, he can’t even remember where he put his jug of vodka half the time,” and we all started to laugh again, the judge holding his belly, and then we saw the lights go on, in the Stanley bedroom, and we all ducked down, and waited for them to get turned off.
“If those dogs could talk, dear,” Gus said playfully, “they could tell you a lot of what goes on around here.” But it was all loose talk, whisky talk and vodka talk, there was never much going on around our farmhouse or cornfields, back in those days.
The dogs were quiet but they were moaning, then the doors opened up, and we all stopped, and Shannon stopped and looked inside the barn.
“Gus, get those hounds out of here, they’ll just cause commotion in the barn.” And I ended up staying with the dogs, keeping them company, watching the three men go into barn. But the dogs were so tired; they just laid there as if they were dead. And twilight came, and the moonlight came, all in a matter of minutes.

It all smelled like cow manure, and in the corners of the barn it was dark, but I could see near everything through the opened door. I squatted down onto my knees, patted the dogs some—saw Gus feeding the cow some vodka; she was licking it off his hand.
“What are you doing,” asked Finley to Shannon.
“Nothing, yet,” Shannon said.
The cow came out of the corner stall, now, with the help of Gus, he had unlatched the stall door.
“What are you chewing,” asked Gus to Shannon.
“Nothing,” said Shannon, “just moving my mouth, a nervous tick.”
“Come here cow,” said Shannon, He threw his hands out to the cow. Shannon’s eyes were puffed, for lack of sleep, and perhaps bloated with too much water in his system. Finley’s head was looking over Shannon’s shoulder. And Finley handed him a stool, a short stool to sit on.
“Cows can be down right dangerous, if you get a cranky one,” said Gus to Shannon. Gus held the cow still, as he tied him to a post by where Shannon was sitting. I couldn’t see everything, but I saw his hands move.
“Here you are…” said Gus, handing Shannon a clean rag to clean the teats, “don’t irritate the teats.”
“I’m going to drain this cow dry,” Shannon whispered, “all ten-gallons of her milk. Judge, place the bucket underneath her udder.” And the judge did.
“Look what I got,” said Shannon. He showed it to everybody. I moved closer to the door, they knew they couldn’t keep me out. “What you doing in the barn?” asked Gus.
“I thought you might need me, I’m tired of hiding out in the barnyard with those stupid dogs.”
“Come on over here then, so you can see Shannon milk a cow, he used to when he was a kid, remember?”
“Just let them teats start milking; we can’t fool around here all night.” I told Gus and hoped Shannon would have listened.
“Shannon,” I said in a low whisper, “they are like missiles, you got to handle them teats with care, squat in a position so you can move away quickly if the cow becomes uncooperative.”
“Oh leave him alone,” Gus told me.
“I don’t care to sleep in the barn all night.” I said. And Finley went and shut the barn door, and sat cross-legged by Shannon and watched. “I’m feeling sick,” I told Gus.
“Hush now.” Gus said. And so I did. And then Shannon put his hands around two of the four teats; squeezed the base of the teat, squeezed down and hard. The cow panicked. Took a step forward, and Shannon stopped for a moment, and the cow started to get impatient, and fidgety.
“You better get into the cow milking.” I said. “You’ll be making him more irritable if you don’t.”
We all heard the door swing open and the cow moved again, slowly, the dogs came in. Gus stood by the cow’s side to assure her, he was there. “Squeeze like it’s a tube of toothpaste, Shannon, don’t jerk her teat, and use your right hand then left hand, alternate until the udder is deflated.” But Shannon was so drunk; he continued to milk the cow yanking the teats, unknowingly. I told myself: I already told him. And Gus was looking at me like a mad wolf. And my mind told me, ‘See what you got by trying to help.’
Then I was going to say something, and Gus knew I was, and said, “Hush. And if you can’t go to the house and go to sleep.”
The door opened back up, except this time it was because of the wind. Then the door banged shut. Gus said, “She’s lifting her back leg…” and then she kicked the bucket, and it moved and the milk fell all over Shannon.
So I stayed hushed. I could see what was going to happen next. I could hear the cow moan. I stepped back. The cow looked at me, then Shannon and Finley, then she come as if to kiss Shannon and the cow kicked hard, knocked Shannon’s front teeth right out of his head as he fell backwards, and gave him a near concussion, and stepped on the toes—of Finley, all one-thousand pounds of him.
“No,” said Gus to the cow.
I went to the door, looked at the bedroom window of the Stanley’s and her light was on. Then the dark came back, and Shannon, Finley and Gus stood by the dark wooden farm door, half opened. Gus held Shannon, he was dizzy, and Finley was hobbling on one leg, had Shannon’s other arm, and I could smell manure all over him. And then I could see the windows, where the wind was hitting, lively at our house. Then as we walked away from the barn back to our house, the dark began to swallow us, like it always did out in the country, even when I was half asleep in bed it crept in and pulled me into its tranquility, but this night was different in that, it wasn’t an ordinary night, and it was pulling me into its disarray.


Monday Morning


“It tickles me, my nose and eyes and throat,” Shannon said to Gus and I, the 140-proof vodka went down him fast, burning his throat I thought, it burnt mine, and so it was my guess it did his, but he didn’t feel a thing, when we was brought into the house, so he perhaps couldn’t feel the vodka going down his throat either. He evidently wasn’t pretending.
“You aint goin’ to drink anymore are yaw?” Gus asked Shannon.
“All right, if you don’t want me to, but I could really use some now! Matter-of-fact, I suggest you go make another jug full, right quick, I maybe getting into some server pain, as soon as this booze wears off.”
“Youall be quiet now and I’ll pour you all some,” I told all three men. We were all cold from being in the barn, and the vodka warmed us up, I even had a shot, two shots, oh heck, I had several I think. “You’re going to be sick all day tomorrow now,” Gus told me.
“I know that, but you’ll be too!”
The wind was blowing on the windows.
I drank the vodka just like the boys did, and it made me feel like squash inside. And then I put some ginger ale, with it, and it went down a little easier.
Everyone passed out on the table, and Shannon had pushed the jug nearly off the table, funny it didn’t crash. Shannon had fallen off his chair during the night, and I heard him laughing, and he must had gotten back up, and onto it again, cuz he was sleeping on his forearms, as if they were pillows, on the table as he had been before, and he was situated back into the chair last I saw him. In the morning he said to me (I had been on the couch),
“I scared yaw didn’t I, last night?”
“You sure did…” I told him, and had to hold back my laugh, so he’d didn’t think his falling, that I thought was funny, was funny.
“Wake Gus up for me Shannon, he gets mad when I do.”
“All right,” he said, and he went and pushed and pulled Gus up into a sitting position.
“What you doin’ brother,” Gus moaned.
“Wake up.” Shannon said.
He then pulled Gus’ arm some.
“Come on, let’s drink some more,” Gus said.
“You better make one more batch of vodka or we aint goin’ to be drinking anything soon, we done drank the whole jug last night.” And he added to that, “We can say Mabel helped us.”
“You know what I wish,” said Judge Finley. “I wish a doctor would walk in that front door, and give me a shot to sober me up, take this headache away from me.”
“Give me that empty jug,” said Shannon to me, “maybe there’s a spit in the eye worth of booze left in it,” and I gave it to him, and there was just that amount, and he drank it.
Finley fell down, when he got up off his chair. We began to laugh, and he tried to make it to the door. “Hush up, you all,” he said, trying to find his keys to the car “Lord, I hope they don’t get wind of this down at the courthouse.” He was trashing about his pockets for the keys, and laughing and I walked over to him and helped him out the door to his car, and he took off like a bat out of hell.


The Stanley’s


As I started to clean up the house, Gus was behind me saying “Hush up, hush up.” And I wasn’t saying a word. He was holding his head, then Shannon outside in the front yard, he was trying to get some fresh air, was falling into the flower beds, laughing, and I ran out into the yard to help him up, when he smiled the front of his head looked empty, with his two front teeth missing. And I stopped trying to help him get up; he was making this funny sound with his tongue and teeth missing, a hissing sound. I began to cry. And Shannon was pulling on me to help him up, he was like a drunken joker, I mean one of those jesters, oh; I suppose maybe we all were that, last night of this long weekend. I fell down on top of him, laughing, and he with his funny mouth now, with those two teeth missing, kept on making the sound of a snake, and he put his arms round me, and I could smell that manure, and I began to cry and laugh at the same time, and then I looked behind me, and there was Mrs. Stanley.
“Mabel,” Mrs. Stanley said, “Mabel,” I pulled my arms from around Shannon and stood up, “What is it, Isabel.” I said.
“Whose hat does this belong to? Do you know, I found it in the barn this morning, and our cow only gave five gallons of milk so far, I thought I heard someone in the barn last night, but I had a notion I was just dreaming.” Then she looked at Shannon, but he wouldn’t smile, “Something wrong with you Shannon?” asked Mrs. Stanley.
“It’s an expensive hat, I think I’ll give it to Herb,” she commented, her husband. And she left.
“Shannon,” I said, “isn’t that the judge’s hat?” And as Mrs. Stanley, looked around—over her shoulder, I doubted she heard me, completely heard me, but she made something out of it, and I heard her say, “You’d think they’d act grown up, dont you,” and then she chuckled. And Shannon nodded his head yes, that it was the judge’s. “Keep your mouth shut, until you get some false teeth, especially around Mrs. Stanley, she’ll know.” I said to Shannon.
Then I kind of stood there and got thinking.
“What is it, Mabel,” asked Shannon. “Tell me! Or try.”
“Shannon,” I said.
“Stop teasing me; just say what’s on your mind.” Shannon stood there, his lying a cloth on his forehead, holding it.
“What is the matter now?” Shannon said. “I must have done something wrong. Why wont you tell me, so I can have some peace.”
I put my arm around him; his blue eyes glinted and sparkled in the morning sun. Then I heard the door open and slam shut at Mrs. Stanley’s house, and I began to ask him, “Shannon, come closer,” as we walked to the steps of the front door, “Is there anything in this world, or person, that would stop you from drinking? I’m simply curious if even you know what the answer might be, if at all there is one?”
I helped him walk up the stairs, watched him closely, he was still hurting from the cow’s irritation, “I mean, I sometimes think you’re ill Shannon. Please don’t get mad at me….”
“Mabel,” he said, Gus walking towards the screened-in door, “Give me something better and I’ll stop!”
It was as simple as that, he knew, I mean he really knew it was as if he had the answer tucked away for such an occasion right in his hip pocket. It was me who had no answer. I couldn’t hear my mind coming up with anything worthwhile, and he looked at me, “Well,” he said, “did you find one?” I said “You smell like manure” that was all I could think of, something bad, and he was looking for something better, not worse, I mean now that I think of it, he was getting a Christmas present every time he drank, why stop. He looked at me and I said, “I can’t find one, sorry.” And I wanted to cry, and he said, “See here, you mustn’t cry.”
He took a bath that morning, and I took a bottle of that sweet smelling stuff Gus bought me the Christmas before last, I was saving it for a special occasion, and this seemed fit enough, and I came right into the bathroom and poured it over his head. “Good.” I said. And Gus saw me do it, and he laughed. He really loved and trusted Shannon. And I went to my bedroom and I hushed as Gus often told me to, because I cried a lot in those days, and he came in and he put his arms around me, “So that is it,” he said, “you just worry yourself to death. You wanted to cure him, but you couldn’t, could you?”
“Just wait until I dress,” I told him, I wanted to put some clean cloths on, and then we met in the kitchen.
“Your mother called,” he said, “and that Otis Wilde Mather, for Shannon.”
“Well I’ll declare,” I said, when Shannon walked into the kitchen at that very moment, he smelled like a bottle of perfume. “Just look here, Gus.” I said. He smells finer than the pine trees in our backyard.
“Come on, now,” said Gus, “I’ll take us all down to the Country Café,” which was down the road a bit, “and we’ll get you two a big breakfast with the country folks. No drinking today for me!”
And then as we walked out the door, Gus asked, “You want to know what your mother said?”
“No, it’s mostly gossip, us girls like a lot of that, I can wait and let it build up some, it makes it more interesting when if floods your brain, you get a high off it.”
“How about you Shannon, Otis called?”
“No, I know what he wants, and I got to sober up first before I get started again,” and we all started laughing.

In the Barn


“Dear, shut the door behind you,” said Isabel Stanley standing outside her backdoor, to Herb, “I want to show you something in the barn.”
“I’m coming,” he said (he was sixty-seven years old, Isabel, sixty-three).
She had heard the cow moan from the barn.
“Listen to the cow,” she told him.
He couldn’t hear the cow, he was half deaf, he had worked on the railroad for thirty-years, and the sounds of the engines deadened his ears to near half.
“Why,” Isabel.” said Herb. She looked at him, and put his armpit over her shoulder, to help him balance his walk.
“Something wrong with Elsa the Cow…” he mumbled near unvoiced.
She went into the barn, sat down on the milking stool, pulled Elsa’s back leg up to examine her left hoof.
“Why, Isabel. What is it.” he asked.
“See here,” she said. She took up the hoof, talked to Elsa in a calm voice, and took out something white—two items, held it to her nose, Herb bent over also to check them out.
“Sweet Lord, its teeth.” And she held each tooth in her one hand—finger and index finger holding them, looking at Herb.
“Oh, yes.” he said, “That’s what it is—teeth.”
“Of course,” Isabel said, “that’s why Shannon didn’t smile, he always smiles, he wanted to but he couldn’t.”
“Just wait tell I…” but before she could finish her sentence, Herb said, “Isabel,” and she said “What?” and he said, “I think justice has been carried out for trying to take Elsa’s milk, but I can’t figure out what he done with five-gallons of milk?”
“Well I’ll declare.” Isabel said, adding, “You’d think he was thirteen-years old again. But how could he afford a hat like the one he left behind?”
“It’s big enough for me, I’ll wear it to Church on Sundays, we’ll just call it even-up, for the milk he took, or drank, or whatever he did with it.”
“Well,” said Isabel, “it’s better than shooting the scoundrel,” and they both shook their heads—right to left, knowing Shannon drank too much, and perhaps got a little funny in the night. “We’ll just say nothing,” said Herb, “we can take a joke, and I hope he can.” He was thinking about the felt hat when he said that. “You might just as well sit right there and milk Elsa.” And Isabel said, “Elsa got ambushed, but she also got even,” and she started to laugh.
“Of course I feel sorry for Shannon, he’s invaluable to the Liquor Stores and bars and breweries, but I wouldn’t swap his life for mine, and do you know why, Isabel?”
“No, sir,” Isabel replied.
“Because I like the way we make hay!” Herb said with a chuckle.
“There, there,” said Isabel, “you men never get too old for that.” And Herb said, “I was just joking.” And Isabel said, “It’s no joke!” And Herb’s health was bad, so Isabel took him back into the house, and Herb sat in his chair looking out the side window. “Hush, now!” said Herb, “so I can go to sleep.” And as he sat in his rocker by the window, the world drifted away, and Isabel hushed, and the room came back to him, and he was looking at his wife on the sofa, knitting, and he said to himself, inside his busy mind, ‘I was just like Shannon before I met her, if-in there be anything better than booze, it’s got to be God and a good woman.’ And then he told his second self, his mind, to ‘hush,’ and he could hear his wife in the distance, afar saying, “Now dear, here I am,” and he knew he’d be gone in a minute. And what little light was left inside of him went out, and he fell into a dead sleep.
“All right,” Isabel whispered, her ear close to his chest to insure he was breathing all right, fixing a pillow behind his head. “Goodnight, Herb.” And she went back to her sofa, and she could smell the pines outside her window, and could hear the birds singing, as she looked up into the trees.
“Shhhhhh…” she told the birds, as if they could hear and understand. And she recalled when Shannon had come to live on Gus’ farm as a boy—Gus was ten years older than Shannon, and he’d tell him not to climb her trees. And Gus would come looking into her trees for his brother. And he’d shake the branches until he come out of them, or fell out from under them.
“Come down from there,” Gus would yell, “Be quiet,” he’d say, “Mrs. Stanley will hear you.” And when she came walking, or when Shannon saw her legs or arms, or torso coming closer to the tree, he’d jump and run off. For the most part, Gus couldn’t do much with him. And these memories started to flood her cerebellum, slipping out behind her minds eye, knowing it was past her nap time. ‘Shhhh, Isabel,’ a voice said inside her mind, ‘don’t think so loud. We’ve got to be quiet.’
“You hush your mouth…” she told that voice, ‘Where’s Shannon?’
The room turned dark, the trees were dim outside in the sky now. Josephus, her cat came waddling out from under the coach and chewed at her ankle a bit and then went out into the kitchen where her milk was and drank what was on hand as Isabel drifted off into the moon.


Afterthought


And I don’t know for sure, who thought what about what, but it appeared to me, looking at this long-winded weekend, that all the folks around Shannon O’Day, appreciated each others thoughtfulness, especially the loved ones—the relatives that is—after all (as it has been said), isn’t it the thought that really counts? And yes, I saw—for the most part—an appreciative and thankful spirit, attitude, that of course promises more blessing in time to be—and there were those forthcoming blessings—and they did come in various forms, to one and each. And in the long run, in the scheme of things that is, I do believe they did it with heart and soul, and found that happiness that makes life, all that worth living…





A Shannon O’Day Story

“The Mishap!”


(A story that takes place in the summer of 1965,
Told in the fall of 1978 by Otis Wilde Mather and the Author)


Part Two/Chapter Two
Of Two



When the shadow of Cantina’s blouse appeared though the window of Shannon’s second floor apartment, reflecting in the wall mirror—the curtains pulled back and tied to their sides, it was between five and six o’clock and then I was, and I saw Shannon was checking out his gold watch. It was his Grandfather’s (so he told everyone), and cherished it as if it was part of his Grandfather’s tomb or crypt, he had been waiting for his daughter (Catherine O’Day; nicknamed, Cantina).
“I give it to you Cantina,” he told her—she, now standing in his apartment, “not that you need to remember what time it is of the day, but that you might remember me, now and then, when you got a free moment, after I’m gone, instead of trying to change the world. And I think we all think we can at one time or another, or would like to. And to our dismay, we only find out how much of a pretense or illusion we live in, our so called philosophers and some clergy and most of our politicians, how they’ve force-fed us garbage all these years. The dead haunt the earth you know, and the living got to live with the dead.”
I was leaning against the small television set, in back of the kitchen wall; he had his television on that there small kitchen table, where he watched it. I don’t rightly think common folk try to outright listen to another’s conversation, not deliberately that is, but it was obvious, and he was listening to his watch tick, and he didn’t have to be obvious for too long, and he gave it to her, and as you’d expect, that life long unbroken line of the golden watch—which went from Grandfather to grandson, to daughter, with the light-sun rays reflecting its polished gold, became her family jewels for her to hand down to whomever, somewhere down the line.

It all seems to me, most always those—near, unexpected, idle habits you acquire—one on top of the other—that they are the ones that cause the most itching, and that you most likely will regret somewhere along the line. It is what wears a man down, a father that is—likened to Christ crucified, by and by, it wasn’t the cross that got to him I do believe, that killed him so quick, nope, it was those beatings he done took, Yessum, they done beat the life out of him, little by little, day by day. And so as soon as I heard Cantina say it, I began to wonder how long it would take to wear Shannon down to near nothin’.
“Father,” she said. And I saw she was starting to sweat. And I was thinking, ‘All right, get to it, and say it—girl. Go on and stop thinkin’ ‘bout sayin’ it and jest say it.’ And she said it, “I’m Pregnant!” Thinking it might have been a thousand other things, but not that, not at fifteen-years old anyhow.
The voice that gave her life was stunned.
“Mother thinks I committed incest with you!” was the second whopper of the evening, I done heard.
“Your mother can be cunning, and composed, both at the same time, she wants to know who did it so she blames me so you say, no…it’s, whoever it is,” said Shannon.
“Mother said, ‘let your father have it!”’ Cantina exclaimed.
Shannon stood in the middle of the window looking down on Wabasha Street, fixing his collar, her shiny rosy cheeks had a little stream of water on them, each connecting to each other at her chin. He wiped them dry with the cuff of his white shirt.
“You cutting out of school next year?” he asked.
“If I don’t have to, I wont!” she replied. “Do you want to know who it is?” she asked her father.
He looked at his watch, the gold watch she was now holding. “In one minute, it will have a chime; it was manufactured in August of 1910. I didn’t know it was that old until I had a clock smith check it out. Incidentally, I know who it is, it’s that Bolton Bmes, right?” He didn’t look up at her; he was still looking at the watch, his mouth shapeless. She put the watch into her purse, and I quietly sat down on one of the wooden chairs in the kitchen.
Shannon moved about, as I listened through the open doorway in the kitchen. The door to the hallway was open, and he walked towards it.
“Bolton’s parents sent him to California, I think until this matter is settled, and they went with him,” said Cantina.
Shannon went out into the hallway. The door closed. I could hear him walking down the stairs. I moved to the side, and saw him through the kitchen window—drew back the curtains. I reckon I done told myself at that moment, if the boy wants to be a slut, let him be. But I think she felt ashamed to have to tell her paw she was no longer a virgin. Men, dont think of it that way I know, but somewhere along the line, we invented virginity, and its value attached to it. And I didn’t know what to do or say, and she was in a state of which only her paw could make heads or tails out of it. And I said to myself back then: why couldn’t it have been something else. Why didn’t she have better sense, and I called the boy a dirty slut again. And after about fifteen-minutes, Shannon came upstairs with a big bag of White Castle Hamburgers, from that there café up the block— that looked like a white castle, unhurried.
Then I came into the living room, sat down with the two. First he watched me with one eye, and then it went over to Cantina, his heart pumping fast, and his pulse rapid—I could sense it. This frigate quietness, stayed in the air for another thirty-minutes. And then he started to talk, and it was as if all the bells in all the churches in all of St. Paul, Minnesota started ringing at once, “You needn’t explain to your mother you haven’t committed incest, she knows better. However this works out, she will be there and I will be there, whenever you need us. If we just could have done something beforehand that would have been better, but we people cannot do anything that dreadful as to kill the child, no abortions please: remember tomorrow will come, and what seemed dreadful today will pass.” And I said to Cantina, “Your father’s right.” The next minute, she was looking out the window, eating a hamburger.
It all became quiet again; and I could hear the watch in her purse tick on. “Otis,” Shannon said to me. “If Cantina decides to move in my apartment, and not stay at home, you’ll have to find another place to camp out.” And then she left.

I bathed and shaved, and the water made my fingers look like sponges, and I had my underwear and socks and shirt laid out on the sofa, and I looked at the clock, it was a quarter after seven. I stopped and listened to what Shannon was saying, talking aloud, to him-self, I expect. Then I put my new shirt on. And I said to Shannon, “Well, you didn’t…say the wrong thing, not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse for Cantina though.”
“I couldn’t say it any other way,” he said.
“What’s the matter, abortions are the thing nowadays!” I commented.
“I wasn’t thinking along those lines, I’m no saint, but I’m no killer, perhaps too proud at times.”
“I’m going out to get drunk, you coming along?” I asked Shannon.
I stepped in front of the window, everything was shadowy now. “There now, just look, what if she decides to get an abortion? You know her mother’s going to talk her into it.”
“Yes, perhaps so,” he said.
“And all those social workers, parade around as if it’s a right nowadays and they don’t let you into the clinics if they think you’re going to talk the kid out of it. I mean you can support the kid, but nowadays the kid has rights, and they’ll even pay for the abortion; then what you goin’ to do?” I asked.
I looked in back of me, I didn’t see Shannon anywhere, he was on the phone, talking to an abortion clinic, and then he came to me, “You’re right, her mother can allow it without my consent, that’s Minnesota for yaw!”


A Month Later


Shannon had found out his daughter was going to have an abortion, the clinic had called him up, told him, they had to notify him by law, and therefore, their duty was complete, other than letting him know the abortion would take place at 1:00 p.m., sharp today; acting as if it was an execution, of which it was for Shannon.
“Let me talk to my daughter,” asked Shannon, knowing the clock was ticking. But she refused. And Otis, he was by Shannon’s side inside his apartment. And Otis thought about how a person’s body at times wants to shut down, hide, the muscles in the legs weaken, and the head on the neck gets heavy, too heavy to hold up—and he sensed Shannon was in that state, and he could almost hear that gold watch ticking, he gave his daughter, and I suppose all the sounds in the world were for that moment, shut away. They wouldn’t even tell him what clinic it was, and they had called him, one hour before the execution. It was like a big clock in his head. He looked out his window; his eye saw Otis as a blur sitting on his sofa.
“Would you mind, telling me when it’s one o’clock?” asked Shannon.
“Why, all right,” Otis said.
“No, don’t tell me,” he said, “please, just let me know…” then he looked at the clock, and it was one minute past, then looked at me again, and said, “Well, it’s not the unpardonable sin, thank God!”









About the Story


“Fool about a Cow,” is told in the voices of Mabel O’Day (and occasionally the author). Here is three relatives’ obsession with Shannon O’Day’s drinking: Gus (Shannon’s older brother), Mabel O’Day (Shannon’s sister in law, who is also Gus’ wife) and Shannon’s wife…Gertrude O’Day. The time is, Thanksgiving weekend, 1949, and Gertrude is with child. As the weekend progresses, however, there is not much hope in persuading Shannon to give up his first love--drinking, whereupon, they all get drunk together, now all self-absorbed in doing something stupid, at Shannon’s suggestion—which is, to milk the neighbor’s cow dry as a joke (Mrs. Stanley). But as life would have it, it turns out to be much more than that.

Here we see the thoughts, voices and memories, of the story tellers, telling the story in 1978 (looking backwards), of what took place one long-winded weekend in 1949. Sitting on the porch, is Mabel and Otis, at her farmhouse, twenty miles outside of St. Paul, Minnesota, both reminiscing, in a daydreaming mode, both of different time periods.

((Of Light Humor) (The author’s last story written in 2009, and half on the first day of 2010))