Absolution River Read online

  Byron sold all that he had left in order to buy into one of these illegal games; the tractor, the truck, and anything in the house that wasn’t bolted down. All in all he came away with a couple hundred dollars. The night where every good thing in his life came to an end was a rainy one. The water came into the shack and landed in large tin buckets strewn about the floor. Byron opened the creaky rusted-hinged door and entered, wearing his best suit and hat. The clothes were torn and tattered and didn’t fit very well, but this was a big night for Byron and he needed all the luck he could get. Sometimes when you wear something nice, you feel differently. Like the world is going to treat you like the person you’re wearing and not the person beneath. He walked over to the only table in the building and took a seat. They knew he was coming and they knew he was desperate. The games were fair, but the players, cutthroat. Each member of the table was in the same position as Byron, and their futures were just as at stake as his. You see crop prices affect the whole county, and without the money from the farming all were left to fend for themselves.

  He placed his two hundred dollars, his last two hundred dollars, on the table and exchanged it for chips. This is for you, Jack. The chips were not many and it was sad to see all that money turned into only a few blue chips. So that was what lay before him, his entire life in a few round discs, his fate at the hand of chance. Over the course of the first couple of hours, Byron was doing well, extremely well. He needed ten thousand dollars to cover as collateral for the fifty thousand dollar loan, and he was nearly there. Only a few thousand more and he could walk out of there knowing the future for him and his boy were secure. He played conservatively and made incremental gains, at times only a couple of dollars here and there, but he was playing safe. Near the third hour the only other person on the table with chips challenged him. He had a good hand and felt confident in playing this one hard. He was called. On the table were three aces. His heart sunk. He had bet it all. There was nothing left. If he held onto the cards, then it would seem as if the action were incomplete and he could continue to pretend that everything was all right. He laid his hand down. Two pair kings and queens. He was never a great card player, but he thought he could win. The devastation and realization of that moment was evident in his face as a look of horror could be defined by his expression. As the other player stretched his arms out wide to sweep all of Byron’s chips to his side, he grabbed their arm. Stopping them, there was no way they could take everything of his. One of the bouncers put his hand on Byron’s shoulders and squeezed. Byron released his hand on the man and turned to the bouncer.

  “You gotta give me another chance,” Byron pleaded.

  “You had your chance, pal.”

  “I’ll do anything, just a thousand from house.”

  The bouncer turned to look at his boss who was in the corner in a fine suit smoking a cigar, wearing dark tinted glasses. They each understood the look, and a nod from the boss was all that was required. The bouncer returned his gaze to Byron and said, “Okay, but you know the conditions, right?”

  “I do, I do. Thank you.”

  “We get fifty percent of the winnings plus the principle.”

  “Yes, okay, anything.” Byron said desperately, holding his hands together as if praying to the man.

  The bouncer walked over to the back room and pulled out a thousand dollars in chips and returned to set them in front of Byron. He continued to gamble into the night and through the early hours of the morning. He was doing well but not as well as he had before. At four grand he was nowhere near where he had to be to pay back his debt as well as get enough for the collateral. Before the sunlight burst through the cracks of the planks of aged wood that ran along the walls of the building, his money was gone. His face went down on his arms as the exhaustion from the night caught up with him, as well as the realization that his life was over. A moment later he felt once again the pressure on his shoulder of the bouncer, “tomorrow, we need the money by tomorrow.”

  There was no response from Byron. He gathered himself and stumbled out the front of the shack and returned home. Jack had yet to awaken and he was glad for it. Going to his room, he sat on the edge of his bed and placed his hand where his wife used to sleep. His head went down and he cried. The guilt and shame overwhelmed him as the thoughts of how he treated her and his boy flooded his memory. There was nothing good that he brought to them and it was his fault that she had died. Maybe if he spent more time worrying about her rather than how much beer was in the fridge, then perhaps there was a chance he could have noticed something that would have saved her. Jack, oh his poor Jack. There would be nothing left for him once the men came to collect a debt that he could never repay. The torment was unbearable, and he pulled out whatever clothes he grabbed first and threw them into an old suitcase he pulled from his closet. Still wearing the suit, he pulled the chair out of his desk and sat to write a note. The last thing he would ever say to Jack.

  As he walked out the front door he dropped the letter onto the dinner table so Jack could find it. A moment later he was gone.

  …

  Jack awoke that morning and went to the kitchen to fix breakfast. His father was usually awake by then but he could not find him. On the table where he set the milk he found the note. He could not believe what he had read nor could he understand it. The anger he felt towards his father for leaving overpowered any love that may have been in it. His mother left him and his father did too, it was about time he did the leaving.

  Jack packed a bag, didn’t tell a soul, and walked down the driveway, never to be seen again. He stole some cars, slept out in the Montana wilderness and became quite good at taking care of himself. At nineteen he emerged from isolation and joined the Army in the hopes that when he died in Vietnam that it would at least mean something.

  His six years in the Army, three of which were spent in Vietnam, went by in a blur. The combat didn’t bother him and he kept mainly to himself. No one bothered him because he was a decent shot and did what he was told. Due to his proficiency in combat they asked him to stay and join a special unit whose main occupation was to kill, everything. He stayed an additional two years and they told him he had to go home because of a regulation mandating a limited number of years to be spent in the country by a single soldier. He asked if he could remain, as there was nowhere for him to go. He was forced out and he found himself back in the states, discharged and alone.

  The war did not affect him like it affected others. He did not enjoy it but it was a distraction from reality. He roamed around the country taking odd jobs, getting just enough money to move onto the next town, and eventually he got himself landed in jail. It was the first time he had decided to get involved in the real world and it landed him in solitary confinement for the entirety of his eight years in prison. He didn’t want to think about it right now and he zoned out on the road.

  Several hours into the drive he became very hungry and pulled over on the deserted country road somewhere around Big Fork. He stopped and stared up at the sun and closed his eyes feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. He took a deep breath and exhaled. He had always loved nature and the bounty that it provided him. It was quiet and he always felt at peace. His time in solitary, though he enjoyed its peace and quiet, was difficult because it kept him from this place.

  Turning the truck off he took his pack out of the bed. He had not bathed in several days and decided to walk into the wilderness for a while to find some cool water and perhaps trap some food. Parking the truck on a dirt side path just off the main county road, he slammed the old rusted door and left it behind.

  After walking for maybe two hours he found a creek and stripped down. As he was always a cautious man he hid his pack and clothes behind a thick row of bushes. He sat down in the ice-cold water and washed himself. He sat in the small circular part of the creek and closed his eyes. Thinking of the past and giving no thought to the future. In his experience people spent too much time focusing on where they were going and n
ot where they were.

  He put his dirty clothes back on and began to set some snare traps throughout the forest. He returned and started a fire. The bedroll was thin and provided little comfort, but it was better than nothing. Laying down on it, he looked up into the trees and felt the warm breeze on his clean skin. The trees swayed back and forth and he began to breathe in rhythm with their movement. The drifter could sit for hours, days, and weeks without saying a word and being content in that fact. With his silence he could hear something in the woods and knew he would eat tonight.

  He cooked the small squirrel on the fire he had prepared and shortly after the sun went down he fell into a deep sleep.

  The next morning he gathered his things and began his walk back to the truck. He wasn’t sure where he was going but desired to see where the road would lead him. Throwing his pack into the truck bed he got into the driver’s seat. The key turned and produced no result. The battery was dead and he knew there would be no way to get it jumped. He put his head on the steering wheel and decided that fate had already chosen his path.

  He once again grabbed his pack, threw it over his shoulders, and walked back into the wilderness. At this point he decided he wasn’t going to walk back out.

  VI

  There are many remote places in America. In these places you will find men who look for solitude and peace. Most of these men were damaged and broken by the life given to them. They look for solace in the nowhere place. Most do not find it, tormented by the past and the unachievable contentment. A man often looks to those around him for support and counsel but there are a select few who must find desolate parts of their world to resolve their own guilt and sadness.

  Eli Franklin Marshall was one of these men. Alone out in the wilderness since some forty years ago when he went in the search for his salvation. It had been a long struggle for Eli before he threw his pack on his back and walked out of the city streets of Kalispell with no particular place to go but away.

  Eli and his wife Margaret along with their two girls were the picturesque couple. They were married young and had children young. Eli worked in the mill and Margaret stayed at home to watch over the girls. Every day was paradise for Eli and he could not have asked for more. On his way home, much like any other day, he parked the car in the driveway of their split-level home just five minutes from the mill. Just returning from the local watering hole for a beer with the guys, he was famished and ready for the great meal that his wife always prepared, as was the custom in those days.

  The house was unusually quiet, as he was used to his children running out of the front door in their beautiful sundresses, each hugging daddy’s legs. Peculiar, he thought, but his wife must have had the children doing their homework.

  As he entered the front door it was apparent that it had been broken open and he immediately was on guard. Eli was an infantryman who had stormed the beaches of Normandy. When he sensed that there was something wrong, his demeanor would turn on a dime and he would thrust himself into the role he played all those years ago. This was what he had done as he moved through the house noticing the bookshelves turned over and the furniture in disarray.

  In the distance he could hear movement. Shuffling and moaning was heard near the patio sliding glass door off the kitchen. He went slowly, knowing what he would see and having the knowledge he would not be able to cope. At that moment he realized that he had so much to lose. Crawling through the patio glass door, as it was opened, was his wife. She fell there bloodied and broken between the inside of the house and the out. He went out of his body at that moment, not knowing what to do, and his eyes instantly revealed his worst nightmare coming alive. His stare growing dark and sad, as it forever would be. He knelt down and he noticed her dress had been ripped and blood had soaked most of her abdomen and legs. From this he knew she had been raped.

  “Oh baby no!” Eli cried in a soft whimper as he grabbed her head and held it close to his chest. He sat there, stroked her head softly, and looked into her eyes. She had already accepted her fate, and the sadness she had was for her husband, that he would have to live with what had happened.

  She began to say something in short, throaty noises, and she began to seize up. Tears flowed down his face, he saw her life leave her body, and he began to convulse slightly, not knowing how to deal with losing his most prized possession. She was kind and caring, and she always had the right answer even if it were difficult to hear. She was their moral compass and a lighthouse for the world around them. When her light went out and he could see her pass on, the room seemed to get darker. The clouds moved in around him and he felt an uncontrollable sense of disorientation and grief. As he held her he looked up and his eyes were overflowing with tears. He screamed louder than he ever had, even in the blaze of gunfire during his breach of the German frontline.

  He sat there for a few minutes and laid her head down on the ground and placed her arms on her chest. He was being so careful. He then put his rough carpenter hands over her eyes and closed them for the final time. He got up, now with a blank stare, realizing he didn’t know where his children were.

  Wondering why his wife had been trying to get to the backyard, he moved there in a frenzy to see if his girls were okay. They had to be okay, how would he handle losing them too? As he ran to the yard he saw his girls on the seesaw that he had made. One girl was on one side and one girl on the other. He was about fifty feet away but they did not look right. He stood there foreseeing the outcome and something broke within him. As if his spirit could not accept the tragedy and the world that he thought he knew no longer existed. He ran up to his girls who looked like they had been put there as stage props. His hands went to his head and his wails resounded through the neighborhood. Going to his knees he wept uncontrollably. Who could have done this? What could have done this? He couldn’t bear to feel the coldness of their skin. He went inside and sat on the front porch for hours just staring at the big tree in the front yard.

  After all of the funeral services had concluded and the dead end investigations closed, he tried to return to what was left of his life. At work his friends would notice him staring out into the mountains during every break and lunch. He didn’t say much anymore to his friends and when he went home he would pour himself a big drink of whiskey and drink until the heaviness of his eyes outweighed his grief, and like usual, pass out on the dining room table. Even the thought of lying in his bed without his wife was a possibility his mind could not comprehend. He could not protect her so he did not deserve comfort.

  One day Eli simply stopped showing up to work. The house had been sold and all of his possessions had been donated. His friends stopped by and were in awe, though not shocked at what had happened to their friend. If they had been paying attention and looked off into the distance they would look at Eli taking one last look at his home from the edge of the wilderness. Eli looked for a few seconds because it would be the last he would see it, and so he turned into the forest, never to return.

  Some forty years later Eli sat down on an old stump in the woods near the cabin he built. He was waiting for some traps, sitting quietly among the old trees, listening and hoping for a good meal that night. Over time Eli had become very good at living alone out in the woods. He was beginning to tire as the sun began to come down under the mountains and decided to call it a day. As he rose from the stump he noticed orange flags marking what seemed like a grid. He thought he must have been getting old, because he knew everything that happened within at least a hundred acres of his property. He immediately knew what the flags were for, but it was for another day and his mind wandered too easily to be concerned about these matters presently.

  He had sort of a limp from an accident quite a few years back and with no medical attention anywhere in sight, a small injury can become a lasting one. Eli wasn’t in any hurry, as he had nowhere to go and no one to meet. After walking along a trail he could traverse blind, a cabin came into view. It was small but it suited him just fine. A large firep
lace dominated the single room building and the fire was still smoldering from this morning. He grabbed a few logs on his way in, as the fall nights were beginning to get chilly. Inside of the home he had furniture made of the wood from out his front door, and it was all done by hand and with precision. Some from the city might pay a handsome price for furniture Eli built out of necessity. There was a bookshelf full to the brim, a small kitchenette, and a dinner table with one chair. The fireplace was the centerpiece and covered nearly the entire back half of the cabin. Along the mantle were photos of his old life, friends from the war long gone, and one of his father. The photos were worn and only he could see what they displayed. There were no pictures of his wife and children because that would be a pain he need not be reminded of.

  He had also constructed a large comfortable chair made of spruce and animal skins in which he spent most of his time sitting in front of the fire. He rarely spent time in the cabin but the winters were harsh in this part of the country and many of those cold nights were spent there. He placed the logs on the fire, and they should’ve lasted through at least part of the night, when he would have to wake from shivers and place a few more onto the ash. He took a seat, pulled out some beef jerky he had been storing for winter, took a few bites, and washed it down with some whiskey he also stored in large quantities. Not long after he sat he was fast asleep.

  VII

  Arch came home from the mill, where he stopped by once a week to ensure operations were going smoothly. Normally he spent his time out with the timber and his men to make sure they weren’t cutting corners and costing him money. He got into the by-the-hour motel he was staying around eleven at night.