(Read Luke
18:1-8.)
Harold Cruse had never angle-parked
in his life. So, he left his battered
pickup—the exterior of the driver’s side door had numerous coats of tobacco
juice—across three parking spaces in front of the Dairy Bar. No one said anything except, “Howdy, Harold,”
as he rode his three-hundred-and-fifty pounds into the establishment.
Inside, Fred Coppedge and Donny
Engle were sitting at a table. Harold
bought a Coke and sat down with the two men.
Fred and Donny knew what Harold was there for.
“ ! I finally caught up with you two.”
“Howdy, Harold,” Donny said.
“All right, now what are ya’ll gonna
do about that fence?”
“Well, Harold, it looks like to me
that no one can prove whose cattle tore it down,” Fred began.
“You better believe I can prove
it. I got Black Angus, and there ain’t
no Black Angus hairs on that fence.”
“Well, is there any Hereford
hairs? I didn’t see anything, except
twenty of your steers on our land,” Donny shot back.
“Yeah, well, you better watch what
you’re trying to say. Cause I aim to
call Sidney over at the law office if you two don’t get that fence fixed soon. Sidney said I ain’t got a thing to worry
about.”
Fred and Donny stared at the
table. It always ended this way with
Harold. You just did what Harold
wanted. That’s all there was to it. The two of them had rehearsed what they would
say. But they knew Harold would threaten
legal action. They knew they would never
win.
Harold threw some of the ice in his
Coke cup back on his tongue and leaned back in his chair. Fred and Donny picked up their cups and
left. “See ya, Harold,” Donny said.
Harold told Tammy, the girl behind
the counter, to bring him a chocolate sundae.
Tammy went around the counter and brought the sundae out to him. He was about to flirt with her when he saw
the face in the front window.
“Oh, !” Harold groused and did not even notice his
sundae. Tammy glanced over her
shoulder. Standing out front was Anna
Norton. She did not look like a patron
of the Dairy Bar. Gray hair was parted
straight down the middle and gathered in the back. The green cotton dress was simple and modest. The strap of an ancient purse was slung over
her shoulder. She had cupped both hands
around her face and leaned against the window.
Her wide blue eyes caught sight of Harold’s mountainous figure.
Once she recognized Harold, Anna
instantly did a left-face, marched to the door, pulled it open, and strode
straight to Harold.
Harold had been sitting with his
chair-arm parallel to the table, his right arm resting on the table, his legs
splayed across the floor. When he saw
Anna, he made a violent turn of the chair to the right so that he faced the
table. One leg of the chair dragged with
a screech through the concrete floor, scratching the floor and bending the
leg. Harold leaned on both elbows,
cradling the chocolate sundae between enormous hands, his sweaty, dirty hat
forming an awning over his face.
Anna positioned herself resolutely
before his table, opposite his chair.
“Mr. Cruse, I need to speak to you.”
“Yes, Anna.” Harold’s voice was tired.
“Well, I think you know quite well
what it is that I am here for. I have
spoken to you no less than once a week for the last six months. But, I shall speak again. I need an easement across Tom Brock’s land so
that my nephew can build his house on that quarter of a section which I would
dearly love to give to him. He is a fine
young man and is willing to farm the land as his uncle—my beloved
husband—did. But, as you very well know,
Mr. Brock refuses to give him an easement.
And you and I both know that your land is right there behind mine. If I gave you an easement, then you could
force him to give you an easement on to the county road.”
Harold sat through this discourse
staring at his chocolate sundae. He was
really wanting to eat it. But, to eat a
chocolate sundae while Anna was speaking to him—well, he just did not want to
live with her reaction to that. (“Harold
Cruse, are you listening to me? You at
least owe me the courtesy of listening to me.
I shepherded you through twelfth-grade English, you know.”)
But Harold was not in a hurry to
jump on Tom Brock. Brock was easy. He knew that he could scare him into an
easement. He had shoved Tom’s brother
into selling a bunch of cattle when the market got shaky two years ago. But Tom Brock had gained some power down at
the courthouse. Harold could use Tom someday. Why push him for this little old woman?
“I’ll see if I can do anything.” Harold did not move. Anna said nothing. She turned and walked out. Harold could finally get to his chocolate
sundae.
The spoon worked methodically
between bowl and mouth, shoveling the creamy mountain with its luxuriant mantle
of black gold over into Harold’s mountain range of fat and muscle. Harold was bent over the tiny bowl, working
from habit. But his mind was on Anna
Norton. Anna had been the talk of the
older kids when he was an underclassman:
old “Santa Anna” led the charge on every senior’s attempt at sliding
through his last year at Wisdom High.
Harold just laughed at the self-designated clowns who could imitate to
perfection her serious and prim manner.
Then, he became a senior. Harold
had charmed and cheated and slept his way through high school. But Santa Anna was on to him. The woman would never give him a break. She handed papers back to him for rewrites. She forced him to spend afternoons in
tutorial sessions. She kept him in
during the noon hour doing the research for his senior theme. He hated and feared the old biddy. The fear came from the fact that Anna would
not hesitate to call his dad about his latest grade. Anna and Mack Cruse went back to high school
days. So Harold sweated it out for nine
months and finally went through the line and got a “dummy” diploma. That diploma would not be official until he
had corrected all the errors on his senior theme.
The following Monday after
graduation, Harold sat in a school desk he had outgrown three years
before. Anna Norton sat at the teacher’s
desk. The windows were open, allowing a
slight stirring of air through the room.
Harold wrote as neatly as his enormous right hand would allow, copying his
theme, pausing at each red mark and trying to figure out what he had done wrong
this time. And Anna would never tell him
straight out. She would make him look up
every spelling error in the dictionary, every grammar error in the Plain English Handbook. It was 4:30 that afternoon before he was
finally done. Then, she and he went down
to the Principal’s office. Anna put a
“C” on his grade card. The Principal
handed him his diploma, and Harold Cruse was done with school and Anna Norton
forever.
Now she comes to bug him about Tom
Brock. It was Senior English all over
again. Harold scraped the bowl clean of
ice cream and chocolate syrup. He shoved
back from the table and felt the leg of the chair give way. He rescued himself from falling over backwards
by thrusting forcefully with his feet.
The chair clanged over onto its back.
Harold did not look back as he made his way out to his pickup.
Exactly one week later, Harold sat
down to watch a little TV. His shoes
were off, his thinning brown hair was still wet from a shower. The living room of his house—kept spotless by
a maid—showed strong evidence of his presence:
clothes, towels, mail, and supper were strewn about. Harold felt good, even though his hand hurt a
little. It had been a while since he had
had a good fight, until that afternoon at the Dairy Bar. The kid had to learn a little lesson about
messing with Harold Cruse. He now could
watch TV until sleepiness came and then throw himself into bed. He popped a beer can open and took a sip. The phone rang.
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Cruse, this is Anna Norton.”
“Yes, Anna.” Harold tried to concentrate on the TV show.
“Mr. Cruse, it is not my belief that
you have seen if you can do anything.”
“Huh?”
“Those were your words: ‘I’ll see if I can do anything.’ That is what you told me last week when we
spoke together at the Dairy Bar.”
“Oh, well, Anna, I’ve been awful
busy.”
“Well, if you call rising at 9:00 AM
and driving around town and brawling being busy, then you have a strange idea
of business.”
“Now, Anna…OK, look. You have been on my case for six months. Look, I’m going to see Brock tonight and get
this settled. Will that make you happy,
Anna?”
“That would be most helpful. I shall call him tomorrow at 1:30 PM to see
how you have fared. Thank you, Mr.
Cruse.”
“All right, good night, Anna.”
Harold hung up. He drank down the beer in two swallows and
crushed the can. He went to his bedroom
and dressed hurriedly.
He drove
along the gravel roads of the county—roads he had run up and down all of his
life, to drive farm equipment, to haul cattle, to check on hired men, to hunt
down other cruising party animals in the middle of the night. Tonight, he took the direct route to Brock’s
house instinctually. He pulled into the
midst of a complex of buildings—granaries, sheds, barns, and the fine brick
ranch-style house. He didn’t bother to
close the door of his pickup. In six
strides he was on the porch and pounding on the door.
Brock swung
open the door. “What the are you doing here, Harold?”
“You give
Anna that easement.”
“What if I
don’t?”
“Brock,
don’t give me no lip. I’ll jerk you out
of that robe and throw you over in that ditch.
You take care of this tomorrow. I
don’t want to hear about it no more.”
Tom was a
little shaken. “Harold, you be
careful. I’ll call the law.”
Harold
didn’t bother to open the screen door.
His hand went right through screen and grasped Tom’s robe. “I said you take care of it in the
morning. I don’t want to hear about it
no more.”
“OK! OK!
Right! I’ll get my lawyer to draw
something up. No need for that. Please, Harold, my wife’s inside.”
Harold had
to jerk the screen loose from his hand as he withdrew it. His fingers, the back of his hand, his
forearm were streaked with bloody scratches.
He turned and took the six strides back to his pickup.
The next
afternoon, Harold heard a message on his answering machine that Anna would give
him an easement through her land now that Brock had given her the easement she
needed for her nephew. Harold shrugged
as he hung up the phone and stared absently at the scratches on his hand and
arm: “Well, maybe that’s the end of
Anna for a while.”
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