Against the Glare

Beckham tapped the box of cigarettes rhythmically against his hand as his footsteps trimmed the edge of the road. This pack was his last; he made this carton last the three months since he'd gotten out. It was the first crime he committed after being released —steal a carton of cigs. He promised himself that he wouldn’t break any more laws. He hadn't planned on going back; he was getting too old. A mid-westerner needs to stretch his legs. And he was no boy anymore; he was etching out 62 years like old, wooden school-desk graffiti. When he had gotten out, he packed an old army backpack and took to the road. Hiking. Camping. Sometimes eating.

Beckham surveyed the expanse, cupping his hands around cigarette and lighter. His leathery face, neatly creased by the sun and wind, defiantly reflected the brightness. A resolute August sun baked the surrounding fields. The earth was laid out like coffee-colored corduroy. He sat upon his backpack looking through the waves of heat that whimpered upward from the asphalt, distorting the scenery. All the trees cowered around farmhouses and rivers, stingy with their shade, refusing to soldier up to road edges.

Beckham breathed out, trying to keep sweat off his cigarette. Squinting against the glare, his slitted gaze landed on a distant farmhouse, swarming with trees, RVs and cars. He knew he was getting out of farmland and nearer a town because the road was no longer dirt, but asphalt. You don’t follow a river anymore to get to town. You follow paved roads.

'Praise the Lord for trusting, country folk.' a huff-of-air laugh with very little throat reverberation pushed through the cigarette clenched between his thin, tan lips.

No one noticed him walking through the field. People notice things close to themselves; he was but a speck in the dusty distance. He could make it to the clump of evergreens invisible.

A crescendo of laughter percolated through a neat row of large juniper bushes which Beckham used as a dressing screen. Running his kerchief over his face, Beckham slipped on a dry shirt and his cleanest pair of Wrangler jeans, graced by a large, shiny belt buckle; it was his sole treasure –a rodeo trophy won by his grandfather. It was the one thing he refused to hock. Dusting off his cowboy hat and boots, he composed himself for his entrance. He needed water and food. ‘Just water and food’ he repeated to himself. ‘Just water and food.’

‘And some shade. It wouldn’t hurt to come away with more. No. No. Just water and food. And shade.’ Finding the least populated area of the family gathering, he sat to observe and listen.

The flock of lawn chairs in which Beckham hid had another occupant. They sat quietly for nearly an hour. The young man broke the silence, "Good time for a beer. You need one?"

"Beer? Is there a bad time for a beer?" He didn't actually want a beer, he needed water or iced tea.

“Bad time for beer? Yeah, when the beer’s warm.” The boy motioned to follow.

Reaching into the icy water of a cooler he pulled forth a lite beer. 'Well, that's close to water." He gave a shrug. Beckham offered his hand, "Name's Beckham."

Hesitating, the boy took his hand, "Dakota."

As they filled some paper plates with food, Beckham eyed the modest house and felt skeptical that it coveted anything pawn-worthy. He was hungry, thirsty, hot, and broke. He gestured to the house, "Say, is there a...uhm...bathroom in there?"

"Hell no." Dakota laughed, "Uncle brought in port-a-potties. House is locked-up."

‘That’s a good sign; something is worth locking up. No, no. Just food and water. Food and water.’ Intense sunlight, like camera flashes, glinted from between tall elm trees just beyond a small chicken coop. "What's out behind those trees?"

Dakota turned his head, "The pond. More like a mud puddle, but bigger.”

Beckham ate slowly; he knew that if he ate too fast after running on empty for so long, he would be hurting. Pushing his food around his plate, he examined the door of the house, ‘Maybe a coin collection, comic books, antiques?’

Beckham motioned towards the elm trees, “Uh. I think I’m going to take a walk down to the pond.”

Dakota stuffed another forkful into his mouth and gave a thumbs up.

Wading through the tall grass, Beckham stepped down through the thicket and stopped at a gangly tree at the pond’s edge. Two boys were dunking each other underwater. Leaning against the tree, he pulled forth a small black notebook. The leather was softened and gently curved by a back pocket. With a stub of a pencil, Beckham began sketching the pond with the rowdy boys rippling the scene. He’d always had a knack for drawing. When he was in prison, he didn’t always have a notebook and would beg, borrow and steal to get paper. The water was murky, not clear; it looked more like gravy than water.

‘I’m not getting into that house. And there ain’t much else to hang around here for.’ One boy was swimming out to a collection of half-submerged branches jutting from the water as if they were the ribcage of a giant beast laid dead long ago. Beckham squinted. ‘Huh. A turtle.’ The boy waded slowly making certain not to wrinkle the water surface. Unable to touch the bottom, he doggy paddled softly towards the turtle. Weaving his way between boney branches, head barely above water, he stretched out for the sunning turtle. Beckham genuinely felt excitement at the prospect of the boy catching the turtle; his pencil froze as he watched. Something of Beckham’s childhood summers bubbled up. Then, the spell broke as the boy’s head slipped underwater and the turtle made a fast retreat.

The boy began splashing. No, the boy was thrashing. Struggling against something. The boy went under again and came up reaching for the branches and slipping off again. ‘Just like a small gnat.’ One sultry night in prison while splashing water on his face, Beckham looked down to find a small gnat struggling against the sticky wet sink. He considered offering a small piece of paper to assist the small creature’s escape. Would he be interfering with how things should be? Was it more merciful to wash the gnat down the drain? Should he squash it and hasten a merciful death. The boy attempted a yell for help, but the thick, dirty water swallowed his cry. With one swift motion, he unbuckled his prized belt, pulling it through the pant loops. Stuffing the little black notebook into a boot, he quickly took long-legged steps, traversing the water until he was up to his chest. Reaching down where he remembered the boy to be, he pulled him up out of the bric-a-brac of tree limbs.

A woman came running as Beckham lay the boy on the ground, “Call 911.” She began to give the boy mouth-to-mouth. Beckham backed away as a swarm of people circled the boy.

‘No one notices me. Good.” He tried to think of a way to slip away.

“What happened?” A man saddled up next to Beckham, sipping on his beer and holding a piece of cornbread as if watching a circus act.

“Went after a turtle in the pond.” Beckham slicked back his wet hair. “Somethin’ caught him underwater and he was strugglin’.”

The woman who had given the boy resuscitation motioned with her arms as the boy coughed and sputtered. Then, her eyes landed on the man standing next to Beckham, “Terry – go git a towel or blanket!”

“C’mon with me. You’ll just get drowned in thank-yous and hugs.”

‘Well, this is as close to an escape as I’m going to get.’ Beckham took Terry’s offer, following him into the house. ‘I’ll be damn. All I had to do is save a life and I’m inside the house.’

Terry opened the fridge, “I’ll bet yur the one that Glenda talks about. She had hoped ya’ would come. Honestly, I don’t like big parties and crowds like this. Cold Beer?”

“Sure.” Beckham smiled.‘Why did everyone keep offering him beers? He really wanted a tall glass of iced tea.’

Raising the can Terry offered a toast, “Here’s to us – the ones that don’t wanna be seen.” Sputtering into his drink, he blurted, “Oh, crap! Gotta git a towel to Glenda!” Terry disappeared down a hallway, returning with a towel and running out the door, “Back ‘n a minute.”

‘Damn. All alone in the house and nothing of value.’ He poured out his beer in the sink and filled the can with cold water from the faucet. He surveyed the room.‘It’s a museum of useless crap. Good. Just need water, food, and shade.’ His eyes floated from one area to the next. There were themes. In one shadow box, tiny dog statues were kenneled. A corner cabinet encased realistic-looking dolls. Dozens of glass paperweights held down a coffee table. ‘Okay, that’s just weird. Paperweights without paper.’ Beckham picked up one, examining a scorpion trapped inside the clear glass. Then, something familiar caught his eyes...and nose. Stacked in two towers at one end of the sofa were cigar boxes. It smelled like his grandfather’s garage. That’s where grandma would allow him to smoke. Beckham squatted next to them, running his fingers down the side of the boxes, reading the names. His hand stopped at a bright red box. Cosechero. There were one, two, three, four...

Terry’s return interrupted the count, “Hey! My wife’s a big, uhm, collector as you can see. You like cigars?”

Beckham didn’t know what to say. He had smoked a few. “Sure.” But really it was the feeling somehow of being closer to his grandfather the few times he lit a cigar.

“Well, you’d be doin’ me a favor if you took them.”

Beckham looked at Terry as if he had told him a joke he didn’t get. “What? No, no, no. I couldn’t.” he stood up.

“Sure you can. My wife would be pleased. I started collecting them at flea markets and garage sales to occupy myself while my wife collected all this.” He waved his hand around the room. “But, then, she made me give up smoking. So, take the darn things. Last set I bought, I never even broke into.” Terry dusted off the top boxes and began loading Beckham’s arms. “She’ll be doubly pleased since yur her hero.” He gave Beckham an affirming pat on the arm. “I gotta get more ice for the beer.”

Beckham cradled a dozen cigar boxes in his arms. He stood stunned for a few minutes then walked like a zombie out to the juniper bushes to gather his things. Laying the boxes next to his backpack, he selected one and lifted it to his nose. Opening the bright red box, he stared at them for a moment and shrugged, ‘Food, water, shade...and cigars? Well, isn’t that a fine howdy-do.’ Pulling out his pocket knife he clumsily cut a wedge in the end of one. Turning the tip of the cigar slowly above his lighter’s flame he anticipated the memory of this grandfather to curl into his nose. A chemical and paper smell pushed him back. “What the heck?!” He cut and lit another. Then another from a different box. Same sick smell. ‘Great. I just inherited boxes of crap.’ Finally, he found one. He took a small puff and held the memory in his mouth. Grandpa. He opened his eyes, glancing down at all the dud cigars littered at his feet, he began to collect them. He turned one in his fingers. What a strange tobacco color. He began unrolling the cigar. Several $100 dollar bills unfurled in his hand nested in tobacco leaves. Astonished at the find, he quickly sifted through the boxes. ‘Huh. Water. Food. Shade. Cigars. Grandpa...and $20,000.’