Hawkshaw: Chapter 1

An unimaginable secret haunts our town. My name is Jaxson Tanner. I am the only one who knows the truth.

I pirouetted onto the screened-in porch on the tips of my toes. As they say, no shoes, no socks, no problems. Through my youthful exuberance, I almost knocked Mom's prized, seated, cross-legged Chinaman lamp, with its cone-shaped rice paddy hat, off the table. The one she'd bought while she was in the Army stationed in Okinawa, Japan before I was born. The illuminator was her only memento of a fourteen year military career.

My life flashed before my eyes. It'd been a while since I'd gotten a lick, but so did Dad's doubled-over leather belt. All I could see was smithereens. Grounded City here I come. Permanent resident! I gasped and snatched the keepsake before it nosedived to the floor. My heart stopped in my chest.

I drew a sigh of relief, steadied my nerves, and said, "Whew! That was way too close!"

Outside, the hounds tussled over a rawhide bone in a fine tug-of-war. The afternoon blazed as I performed a barefooted jig upon the fresh-mowed lawn. Dad had broken out the old John Deere earlier.
An aromatic green scent wafted through the air. I hated wearing shoes and only did so when forced.

Nights took a long while coming to Brubaker. When evenings arrived they brought a welcomed comfort from the oppressive heat and humidity that blanketed the days.

Carver Lake stood on the far side of town, straight down the dirt road known as Miranda Boulevard, from our house. Providing syrupy sap, delicious shagbarks that turned brown when they ripened, and hard wood, one respectable knotted hickory tree overlooked the deep water. Fisticuffs often occurred there. So did swimming and tournament bass fishing.

One day while running numbers for chump change, I heard two inebriated boozers talking in the Piccadilly Pub. The dive became famous for cheap drinks, its dingy smoky atmosphere, flashing neon sign with a couple letters in the word "beer" missing so the word read "b r," and assortment of quirky local characters. Flamboyant, nosy, and infatuated with others' distresses, I paused in the doorway to listen.

"Is that old doctor's log cabin still down at the lake?" Jim Creighton wondered.

Although he'd been gone from town a few years, I recognized him under his shaggy, dirty, red beard. Some people never changed.

"You mean Old Man Johannson?" Asked the second one. I didn't know him, but he proceeded in return, "Ain't he the one who's wife took up with a fever, and a full-bodied stranger, while the good Pediatrician went out and delivered the McNamara twins? That's what I heard anyway."

"That's how she met her demise," Creighton replied. He popped a handful of salted peanuts in his mouth from a bowl, Lance, the patch-eyed bartender, sat in front of them and slurred some of his words when he elaborated, "Something to do with a pitchfork and a burlap bag. Folks around here said the quack-a-doddle-do-do wound up in the steel jungle."

"I'll drink to that," the stranger responded with a laugh. He raised his frosty mug high then took a huge swallow, "What I'd really like is a good poke from a worthy female companion. Know any good whores in these parts?"

My imagination ran wild as I tossed my empty Coke bottle in the garbage can and scurried out the door.

Occasionally, you knew something was wrong but lacked the experience, or didn't have the knowledge, to resolve the problem on your own. Contemplating, I scratched my blond hair. No, I did not have dandruff.

I reflected back and remembered what my Dad told me, "You're fifteen now. If you want a scene style go for it."

Eager, I called the salon on Kirkland and waited for an answer on the other end.

Three rings later they responded with a friendly, "RG Hair Salon!"

"Ronnie, this is your favorite customer. How you doing?" I cheerfully asked.

"I'm fine," she replied with a question of her own, "how's school going? You ace that geometry test you had the other day?"

"Heck no!" I remarked, "I hate math. Can I make an appointment for Saturday?"

"Sure. Let me check my calendar and see what I have available," she told me. A short silent pause later Ronnie asked, "How's ten? You going to be out of bed by then?"

I did like to sleep in later on the weekends. After all, a growing boy needed his beauty rest. I promised Ronnie, "I'll be there," then said, "my Dad told me I could get a scene style. So, I'm gonna. Okay?"

"That's fine. We'll see you later," Ronnie assured me.

The appointment kept, soon thereafter a quick glance in the mirror revealed heavy layers and side-swoop, teased out bangs. A year later, I still hadn't graduated to dyes yet.

If you asked many of Brubaker's finest citizens they would tell you in a heartbeat a more worthless dot on a state road map never existed. The village only arose after Albrecht Brubaker, a German homesteader from the Ruhr Valley, found Carver Lake and settled his eleven rawboned kids there. For several generations, spineless nomads soon followed in their prairie schooners.

A hundred miles west of town laid the fertile lands of the Llano Estacado, or Staked Plains, of Northwest Texas. One of America's largest mesas. Round here we call the place both. Getting back to the early settlers of this area, that would have been cookies and ice cream. But, they couldn't be bothered.

(TO BE CONTINUED:)