The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 8

James only had moments to enjoy Angie’s show of attention to him. However. Some few seconds after Angie had laid her head on his shoulder, he felt a sharp sting as something clipped the back of his left ear. He jumped slightly when it hit, enough to make Angie raise up.

“What’s the matter?” She asked.

James said nothing, but turned, instinctively holding the back of his ear, and squinted at the group of people seated behind them. The theater was about half full and in the light of the flickering movie screen, James saw many faces he knew. He saw none, though, who looked as if they were guilty of what he thought had occurred. Then the screen suddenly got brighter, and James spotted the culprit sitting on the very back row near the door on the left.

Marshall was beaming a Cheshire-cat grin and his right hand was up in a wide, slow, five-fingered wave his left hand holding the paper straw he had used launch the spit wad. Gerald was with him and while he was smiling, he knew better than to show the mirthful grin Marshall exhibited.

As James stared at his brother, he had to admit that Marshall had made quite a shot. There was no doubt in his mind, what-so-ever, that his brother had been aiming exactly at his ear and had hit it just as planned. He had seen him do it too many times before to know it wasn’t mere luck.

The distance was the most impressive thing, though. His brother was at least thirty feet away so the trajectory needed for such a “kill-shot” had to have been over 15%. But impressive or not, any admiration he might have had for Marshall’s marksmanship wasn’t enough to abate James’ sudden rage.

“James,” Angie asked as her date rose from his seat. “What’re ya doing? What’s the matter?”

“Stay here,” James turned and looked at her. She could see that his eyes were flared open in anger. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Angie watched as James climbed over a couple of people to get to the end of the row, one of them spitting out, “hey boy, watch yer feet.”

James ignored the man, his eyes on his just barely visible brother as he got to the open isle and instantly charged up the slight slope of the theater floor toward his brother.

Marshall watched James’ silhouette as he got to the isle and started toward him.

“Here he comes,” He said, nudging Gerald in the side, all the while never letting his eyes stray from his brother. “Told ya I could get’m riled.”

Gerald expected Marshall to stand, at least, so he could take on James in an even position. He had seen Marshall whip his older brother before and knew that James was no match for his friend. Even in his brother’s current state of rage, Marshall would still have no problem warding off James. But Gerald had to admit that to remain seated while a near-man raced toward you like an enraged bull bent on saving face before the woman he loved seemed rather foolhardy.

Even through the tears welling in his eyes, James could see that Marshall hadn’t moved. He was still staring and waving and grinning, seemingly unperturbed by the threat of his brother coming at him. If James had been thinking, he would have slowed his charge to fully assess the situation. But he wasn’t thinking and even as he swung his first clumsy roundhouse at his seated adversary, Marshall continued grinning.

Marshall’s grin turned into laughter as his brother’s first blow swept by his face missing by at least a foot. One of the ways he had always been able to “get his brother’s goat,” as he put it, was to tell him, “You fight like a girl.” This fact had never been more evident than now as James attempted his retaliation. In reality, rather than looking menacing, the older Bentwood brother looked like nothing more than a panicky White Leghorn hen trying to protect its brood from a hungry fox.

And like the hen, regardless of the rage, James was no match for this fox. He kept swinging blindly, mindlessly, ineffectively, and Marshall kept either dodging or fending off the blows with his hands and arms. It didn’t help, of course, that his younger brother was laughing all the time James was trying do defend his honor before his date. This just made him flail away at his brother with even more passion, but he was simply no match for Marshall.

Finally, mercilessly, a light suddenly bathed James face and shoulders as an usher entered the fray.

“Hey, ya’ll,” Larry McMaster stage whispered as he reached out to push James away from Marshall while holding his flashlight with the other hand. “Quit it! Break it up.”

McMaster, who was only a year older than James, was working in the theater to earn money for a year of college. He wasn’t smart enough or athletic enough to get a scholarship so working was the only way he was ever going to make it. He knew, though, that if he couldn’t quell this row between the Bentwood brothers, he might have to find another way of gaining his “school money.”

Unfortunately, McMaster didn’t have reflexes as fast as Marshall and when he entered the melee between the brothers, one of James’ blows clipped his chin with enough force to knock the usher’s glasses to the theater’s carpet. Instantly, even through his rage, James realized what he had done and stopped his blows.

“Larry,” James said with a mixture of apology and surprise. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Ya ok?”

“Just don’t move,” McMaster said already aiming the flashlight down at the floor searching for his glasses. “Ya might step on my specks. There they are.”

The glasses had fallen behind Marshall’s seat. McMaster reached down, got them and wrapped the silver rims back behind his ears and he could once more see. Just as he finished Estelle Washington, the ticket taker and manager of the theater burst through the curtains dividing the lobby from the theater. She came through at the other opening, though and McMaster’s still shining flashlight caught her attention. It caused her to snap her head around in their direction looking much like a hawk which had just spotted a mouse.

Without saying a word, she pointed as boney a finger as God had ever created toward the boys, snapped her thumb and middle finger twice then swung her arm to the right pointing toward the lobby. The flickering of the movie made the gesture even more ominous. The message was crystal clear…..get out to the lobby now.

“Now you’ve done it,” McMaster whispered to the brothers through gritted teeth. “She’ll fire me sure as anything.”

“Aw, don’t worry about ole George,” Marshall was unconvincing with his bravado, using the nickname hundreds of teenagers before him had used to refer to the tall, hawk-nosed, never-married, fiftyish Washington. “She’ll just kick the three of us out. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

McMaster just shook his head, not at all convinced Marshall had any idea of what he was talking about. As the four went through the curtain, James looked back at Angie. She had turned in her seat and was craning her neck to see her date. There was a mixture of concern and disappointment spread across her face. All James could do was throw his hands up and shrug, then he disappeared into the theater’s lobby.

“Marshall Bentwood!” Washington said without preamble as the four assembled in front of her. She had a distinct Yankee accent she had brought with her from Chicago when she moved to Wynne some 15 years before. No one knew why she had come there of all places and her general attitude was such that no one had ever asked.

Speculation about the matter ran the gamut of typical small-town type rumor from her being a jilted lover trying to escape the memory, to her being on the run after committing some Lizzie Bordenish type murders. The one rumor all the teens of the town seemed determined to perpetuate, however, possibly because it was the kind of rumor which was the most titillating to small-town kids, was the tale of how she had been a paramour of one of Al Capone’s underlings, and had even had a fling with Capone himself.

The rumor went on to reveal that Capone had been so taken with the decidedly un-lovely Washington for some unknown reason (although there was speculation about that as well), that he had had killed Washington’s lover with a baseball bat to the head to have her for himself. She had different thoughts, though, and had fled in the middle of the night, traveling south, eventually ending up in the small Arkansas town.

Part of the irony of the rumor was that Capone, in reality, frequently came through Wynne on his way to the resort city of Hot Springs which in many ways, Capone notwithstanding, had become and was occasionally called “Little Chicago.” The train he was riding would make a regular stop at Wynne to take on water and occasionally “Scarface” would get out and stretch his legs, all the while never realizing how close he was to “his one true love.” Capone, of course, had now been in prison for six years, so at least for the time being, “George” was safe from the mobster.

Washington, of course, knew of the rumors. Rather than squelch them, though, she let them fly knowing the awe they produced in the town’s kids could prove useful in situations just like the one she was faced with on that night.

“Bentwood!” She repeated. “You won’t be coming back to my show until you learn to behave. I told you the last time what would happen if you caused any more trouble. I want you out of here now and don’t you dare come back for at least six months.”

Marshall started to argue with the woman as he had done on several occasions, but saw McMaster looking horrified at the whole situation and simply said, “Yes, ma'am.”

His answer to her ultimatum momentarily threw her off and she narrowed her eyes at him waiting for the expected sassy remark, but there was none. She stared at him a moment more then gave a curt nod and turned to Gerald.

“Gerald Borden, you were raised better than this.”

Her implication that his own upbringing had been something less than his friends almost brought a retort from Marshall, but he held his tongue for a moment longer.

“And James, I’m surprised at you.” She said this while shaking her head sounding for all the world as if James had made her lose all faith in mankind itself. “How could you let your brother get you into something like this? I know he’s the one who instigated this whole thing.”

“It was just as much my fault as Marsh’s, Miss Washington,” James’ fury had been replaced by his more natural attitude of brotherly concern. “I went back where he was sittin’ and jumped on him, He didn’t…..”

“Aw, shut up, James,” Marshall said and took a step toward his brother. “I don’t need ya stickin’ up for me, so just shut up.”

He started to say something else but seemed satisfied when James shied away from him slightly. So, he pushed past McMaster and went down the steps of the raised lobby to the door, grabbed his cap off the rack and looked back at his friend.

“You comin’?”

Gerald nodded then turned to Washington.

“Sorry, Mz Washington,” He said as he started down the steps. “Won’t happen again. Promise!”

“Borden, I don’t want to see you for a month,” Washington said as she followed Gerald’s retreat. Then she turned back to James. “James, I can’t just let this go. You and your brother were fighting and at least some of it was your fault, so you’ll have to stay away from the show for a week.”

“Yes, ma'am.” James almost whispered.

“I know you came in here with Mary Mitchell’s daughter,” Washington went on. “She didn’t do anything so she can stay if she wants to, but you need to leave now.”

“Can I go and tell Angie; she rode with me?”

Washington thought a minute then nodded her head.

“Just hurry,” She added.

James went back through the curtains, went quickly to Angie and whispered the situation to her.

“I’ll just go with you,” Angie smiled, then she stood, and the couple left the theater under the watchful eye of Washington.

“I’m so sorry,” James said once they were outside. “I’m sure you were enjoying the movie and I just messed it up for you. I’ll make it up to you, but Miss Washington said I couldn’t come back for a week.”

“That’s ok,” Angie said, laying her hand on James arm. “We can just go somewhere and talk.”

James smiled, took the cue, and wrapped his arm around Angie’s as they walked to the car.

“You want to go to Manning’s?” James asked as he opened the door for his date. Manning’s Drug Store had the best shakes and malts in the small town and was a favorite with the teenagers. And as with most of the town’s merchants, they were open late on Saturday night to take advantage of the weekend crowd.

“Sure,” Angie nodded, stepping into the car. “I love their frosted Cokes.”

To Be Continued........