Excerpt: Old Tom's childhood.

Copyright © 2011 Bob R Bogle



A new passage from the novel.

He remembered his mother's wedding.  It was his earliest memory because she had dressed the three of them up in nice new clothes.  He didn't know where she got the clothes, but they had not fit quite right.  His collar was tight and itchy, and he was barefoot in the soft grass.  Tom remembered the green grass and a tall, funny-looking man in a long, black coat standing under a big tree with a Bible.  He thought the funny man had a splotchy red face, but maybe he'd made up that part.  And he remembered that he was holding little Mary's hand.  He never forgot that, or how the skies were dark and it started to rain and they had to run.  That was all he remembered, just that little picture in his mind.  He didn't even remember seeing his mother or soon-to-be stepfather that day.

He knew why he was holding Mary's hand.  His mother never told him to do it.  He knew to do it.  It was because Francis was close by, surely smirking.  He was always making faces, but there was never any sparkle in his eyes.  Frank's eyes always seemed flat to Tom.  Dead, like a snake's eyes.  They were the same age, but Francis was bigger, taller and fatter.  A big boy, his stepfather said.  Fat, Tom always thought.  Frank was a bad boy.  Tom didn't like him.  He was always poking at Tom and Mary, and Tom always tried to protect his little sister.

"Be nice to Frank, Tom," his mother always said in the years afterward.  "He's your brother."

They weren't brothers, though.  They would never be brothers.  And when something bad happened, who was it who got in trouble?  Tom, not Frank.

"Come here, Tom," his stepfather said, "and bring the switch."  And behind him stood Frank, smirking with his dull snake eyes.

They lived in Maryville, but it wasn't long before they moved to Iowa.  He knew it wasn't very long because he couldn't remember much about it and Mary never remembered it at all.  In Iowa they had the little farm.  Those were the best days.  His stepfather worked the farm and they had their chores.  There was always Frank to look out for, but they had a pony and they used to play and go fishing, every day it seemed.  By then there were two more little ones for his mother to watch out for, so they were on their own a lot.  And then baby Susan, always colicky and crying.

His stepfather, whom Tom thought of as Old Man Brown, was a grim, gaunt man, about twice as old as his mother.  He smelled like sweat and dirt, and his face was sunburnt with dirt on his neck and under his yellow fingernails.  His dark hair was always spiky and his beard was rough and uneven.  He spent his days in the fields but his rows were never very straight and he couldn't keep ahead of the weeds.  He never made a good crop and he cursed Tom for being too lazy and too small to help.  But usually he didn't speak to his family and was quick to fetch the switch when the children were close at hand.  You could see easily that he was Frank's father.  Sometimes when it was especially hot, or late in the evening when the sun had gone down and he couldn't see to work anymore, Old Man Brown would meet his shifty neighbor, Clogan, at Clogan's barn, which wasn't much of a barn but only some old gray boards hobnobbed together.  If you were careful you could sneak up on them behind some bushes and listen to them cussing and chewing tobacco and drinking from Clogan's jars.  Tom's mother did not like Clogan and said he was white trash, and Tom thought so, too.

When Tom was ten or eleven Old Man Brown decided to make a go of it in the West.  No one had told the children.  Tom didn't think Old Man Brown had told Clogan that they were going.  They loaded up the rickety wagon very late one night.  Tiny Susan, wrapped tight in rags, was whimpering and his mother pulled her very close to keep her as quiet and warm as possible.  It was a small wagon and they had to leave most of their things behind.  The old man was angry and tense, and he was shushing them to keep very quiet as the two horses pulled the heavy wagon out from the little farm house shack.  They didn't look back.  The night they left was very cold.  Frank sat up front between them and Tom was in the back with the smaller children shoved in among their belongings.  Though his breath puffing from the rags wrapped across his face he could see the frozen, silent stars very high above.

It was impossible to stay awake when it was so dark and cold, but in the morning when the sun came up it was exciting.  Tom had never been on such a long trip before.  Frank and he were also excited because everybody knew about the Indians.  His mother did not seem very happy about it and she pulled the baby very close whenever anyone talked about going to Nebraska.  In the morning daylight Frank ran around the wagon as it rolled along, hooting and trying to scalp everybody.

It took a few days to get there.  They came down to Missouri and through Rock Port and crossed the Brownville ferry.  Tom had never seen a river so big before, all churning thick red-brown with mud with great trees tumbling through it over and over, and he stared in amazement as the ferry went across.  "I wish we could take a steamer down this river!" he said.

"This is the river that swallowed up your Daddy," his mother said.  Susan started to cry again.

Tom kept staring at the brown churning water as the ferry moved slowly across.  He didn't speak.

At his side, Frank whispered:  "The river that swallowed up your Daddy," in a mocking baby voice, with his dull snake eyes lightless, poking Tom in the stomach.