The Crooked Path
Al & Lucy met like a sentence conjunction
at the local dance hall.
They complemented each other
well enough.
Being middle-aged, there was
a hurriedness to their courtship.
The usual nervousness & awkwardness
in getting to know someone
was substituted by more practical things:
living arrangements, shared bills
& Lucy’s teenage son.
Al had a couple kids, but they
had long since moved out.
So Lucy & her son brought
their things to Al’s log cabin.
If this were a Disney, kid-friendly flic
about divorced couples finding
second chances w/ love, there’d be
no hang-ups, no arguments,
no residual problems from
previous relationships.
No re-adjustment period.
Just instant happiness.
Well, life doesn’t fit into that square.
Al had issues over his first wife—
a cute Pocahontas that left him
for the school Math teacher,
a squat, undercooked dumpling
named Ms. Hanna—
& Lucy’s ex was a tough felon
about to be released for an
armed robbery stretch.
The date for the felon’s release
was hastily circled—like a tornado
touchdown—in red magic marker,
on the calendar.
The teenage boy had done this.
He barely remembered his ol man.
So the day came & passed w/ out incident.
Al exhaled bales of worry.
He knew the felon from
their old school days.
Even then the felon was tough.
Killer Kowalski tough.
The felon had busted an
English teacher’s nose
& was immediately expelled.
Life continued w/ few interruptions
for Al, Lucy & the boy.
Until one night the felon pulled
his Chevy truck into Al’s driveway
& stepped out—like Bob Mitchum in
The Night of the Hunter, a ghoul,
an anxiety personified.
There was a light fog, of course, &
the felon intentionally left his
truck beams on to blind Al.
Al had a Davy Crockett courage in him
& came out to meet the felon,
w/ his shotgun in hand.
Lucy & the boy watched
from the open door, like jurors.
There were words, naturally.
There always are.
The minutes passed like
rattlesnakes hatching, then the felon
made a grab for the gun.
There was a serious fight for it—
an ancient wilderness brawl.
The felon got the shotgun
out of Al’s hands, but Al pinned
the felon on the ground
& began to pummel the felon’s face
w/ hard fists.
Al asked Lucy & the boy to
call the cops & grab the gun.
The felon grunted love & sorrow.
The felon also asked for help.
The boy is his boy, he said.
The woman, his woman.
The boy grabbed the gun &
hit Al on the head—
like an axe to a tree.
The family left w/ the felon.
Al was left bleeding—the wound now,
the scar later, a crooked plow line through
hard dirt—on the ground.
The blood accumulated around Al’s head,
in the gravel driveway, like little ponds—
ponds where fish families live in peace.
Jason Floyd Williams' first book, Inheritance Tax, does not focus on his recent belief that all those drawings of gray-skinned, round-headed aliens that kidnap wayfaring humans really resemble the Star Wars Cantina band members. This, naturally, begs the question: Are abducted folks being forced to play in some Benny Goodman-ish, extraterrestrial Big Band?