Month: September 2024

The Memento

September 27, 2024 / The Beverwyck Review / 1 Comment

By James Gonda.

Historical note: General Marquis de Lafayette’s tour of America in 1824-1825 was a grand and emotional journey, celebrating his role in the American Revolution and the enduring bond between France and the United States. Invited by President James Monroe, Lafayette returned to the country he had helped free nearly 50 years earlier. Over 13 months, he visited all 24 states, receiving a hero’s welcome at every stop. The tour culminated in a farewell dinner at the White House with President John Quincy Adams, creating a renewed sense of national pride and historical connection.

June 11, 1825

THE CARRIAGE RUMBLED to a stop in front of a stone farmhouse. Its wheels crunched over the gravel drive. General Marquis de Lafayette, in his late sixties now, stepped down. Gray streaked through his once-auburn hair, and his movements, albeit slower, still retained the grace of a nobleman. He surveyed the simple yet well-kept surroundings. A split rail fence bordered the property. Chickens pecked at the ground. A dog lounged on the porch.

He had visited many grand homes and bustling cities on his tour across America, but it was in places like this, Rotterdam Junction, where he felt the true spirit of the nation. This was where the Revolution had left its deepest mark: in the hearts of ordinary people who had risked everything for the chance of freedom.

The front door opened, and a middle-aged woman stepped out. She wiped her hands on her apron. “General Lafayette!” she greeted. “It’s an honor to have you here.”

“The honor is all mine, Mrs. Mabee,” he replied, his French accent still thick. He bowed slightly. “I am grateful for your hospitality. And please forgive my tardiness.”

Mrs. Mabee gestured for him to follow her inside. He obliged, mindful of his head as he passed through the low doorway. The interior was simple but cozy. Wooden beams spanned overhead, and a fire crackled in the Dutch hearth. Bread, cheese, and a pot of steaming stew occupied a large table in the room’s center.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Mrs. Mabee said. She motioned to a chair. “My husband will be in soon. He’s finishing up outside.”

Lafayette nodded and took a seat at the table. He glanced around the room. His eyes landed on the fireplace mantel. There, among a few books and a pair of candlesticks, was a small, tarnished metal box. Before long the door creaked open and a solid, broad-shouldered man entered.

“General Lafayette!” Mr. Mabee exclaimed. He wiped sweat from his brow and hurried over. He broke into a wide grin. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

Lafayette stood and extended his hand, which Mr. Mabee shook vigorously. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mabee. I hope I’m not imposing.”

“No, sir! We’re thrilled to have you.” Mr. Mabee motioned for Lafayette to sit again. “Please . . . we’ve prepared a little something.”

As they settled at the table, Mrs. Mabee doled out the stew, ladling portions into each bowl. The conversation was lively and warm, filled with stories of the farm, the village, and the couple’s grown children who had moved to Schenectady. Lafayette found himself at ease. “I must say,” he said, “your written invitation was one of the most stirring on this tour. It hinted at something deeper . . . .”

Mr. Mabee shifted in his chair. “We weren’t sure you’d even read it, General. We thought with all the big receptions, you might not have time for folks like us.”

Lafayette shook his head. “It’s families like yours that remind me what we fought for. I could not pass through without meeting you.”

As the dinner wound down, Mr. Mabee’s expression grew more serious. He cleared his throat. His gaze shifted to the small metal box on the mantel. “There’s something we want to give you, General,” he said. “It’s not much, but it means a lot to us.”

Mrs. Mabee rose from her chair, retrieved the box, and brought it to the table. She placed it in front of their guest. He studied it for a short time before lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in a scrap of velvet, was a pewter button—a military uniform button, discolored but still recognizable, embossed with 1BP. Lafayette picked it up. “This is from the Continental Army,” he said. “1BP is the First Pennsylvania Battalion.”

Mr. Mabee nodded. “It belonged to my Uncle Dirck. His branch of the family lives near Chadds Ford. He fought at the Battle of Brandywine, with you.”

Memories came flooding back to the General. He had fought beside countless men during the war, but some faces—some names—stood out more than others. Dirck Mabee had been one of them—a young man, full of courage and determination. But Dirck had not survived; he had given his life for American independence.

“I do remember your uncle,” Lafayette mused. “He was a brave soldier, and a good man.”

Mr. Mabee added, “We’re told he spoke highly of you, as an inspiration to him and the other men. His widow—my aunt—gave us this button. He died before they had children. She said it’s a reminder of who he was and what he fought for.”

Lafayette swallowed hard, his heart heavy with the weight of their loss. He had been honored with medals and accolades, but this small, simple token—a button from a soldier’s uniform—meant more than any of those grand gestures.

“I am deeply moved by this gift,” Lafayette said. “Your uncle’s sacrifice, and the sacrifices of all who fought, are not forgotten. This button . . . as your aunt said, is a tangible piece of the Revolution. His gaze lingered on the button. “But I cannot accept it.” He returned it to the box, closed the lid, and pushed it back toward Mr. Mabee. “This item belongs to your family, it’s part of your history. I am honored to hold it for a moment but cannot take it from you.”

Mr. Mabee’s expression hardened with determination. He slid the box back toward Lafayette. “General, with all due respect, it’s because of men like you that we have a history to honor. This button . . . is more than a piece of our family’s past. It’s a symbol of what you helped achieve. Please, take it. It would mean more to us, knowing it’s with you.”

“I understand your sentiment, truly I do,” he said. “But this button is all you have of your uncle. It’s a keepsake. I cannot, in good conscience, take it away.” Mrs. Mabee stepped forward. “General, we want you to have it,” she said softly. “Uncle Dirck gave his life for this country. We want you to carry his memory. It’s our way of saying thank you, for everything.”

Lafayette saw the resolve in their faces, the sincerity in their eyes, and realized then the button was a shared bond, forged in the fires of war and tempered by the passage of time. With a deep breath, he nodded. “I will treasure it always,” he said. He carefully tucked the button into his pocket. The Mabees managed a smile, and a profound silence filled the room.

AS LAFAYETTE CLIMBED into his carriage to leave, the air felt sharper, the landscape more vivid, infused with the same promise that once spurred a young soldier from across the seas. He turned one last time and offered a salute to the couple who had entrusted him with a family heirloom. He would carry it with the same pride and duty that drew him to America all those years ago.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

September 22, 2024 / The Beverwyck Review / 2 Comments

By Richard Rose.

John, after getting out of the Army was an LTL (Less than Truck Load) driver, meaning that he drove during the day, short haul trips. He was home every evening about the same time and life with his wife had settled into a rhythm where they were getting by but not getting ahead. Strangely, in the Army, John was a Transportation Logistics Specialist, the fancy Army way of saying truck driver, so he had experience on and licenses for all types of wheeled vehicles. It was early May when things went sideways. John’s second run of the day was cancelled, and he was home about four hours early. He was excited about having the extra time, but when he pulled up to his house a different car was in the driveway. He quietly made his way through the garage and into the house, where he suspiciously listened to the sounds. He recognized his wife’s voice and that of a co-worker of hers Justin Clark. John moved towards the bedroom door and with it slightly ajar, he slid in his phone and took a video. Having his worst fears confirmed, John left the house and drove back to work. Arriving at work, he asked his boss for a couple of days off and then he would take some of the coast-to-coast full truck shipments for the rest of the month. His boss was pleased to have John jump on these difficult runs and said OK. John then had a talk with his dad and told him everything, saying that he just needed to get away for a while. Over the next two days John took his dad’s advice, setting up a new bank account and moving half of the money and his direct deposit into it, canceling the joint credit cards, and seeing a divorce lawyer who was his father’s old school friend. John told his wife that he had to make a few longer truck runs, and she smiled telling him it was OK because they paid so much more.

Sitting in the driver’s lounge eating lunch at the truck stop outside of Tulsa, he knew that about that time the process server would be serving his wife with the divorce papers based upon adultery, with the video as evidence. He had turned off his phone and had left instructions that all communications should be through his attorney. John’s life was unravelling, and it seemed that maybe it could be seen on his face. As he sat there a young woman in her late 20’s sat down across from him and asked what the problem was.

“Nothing” said John.

She then asked if he was going west and if so, could she get a ride.

“Sure,” he said.

“Wow, you don’t talk much” she replied, and with that they went to the truck.

As John drove, Janice, as she introduced herself, talked about anything and everything. This was probably the best therapy for John, and he let the miles grind past. When night came, John offered Janice the sleeper portion of the truck and he slept in the seat. When Janice asked why he didn’t try to make a move, John just responded, “That would be disrespectful.” Janice gave him a strange look and went to sleep. Such was the drive across the country.

About in Albuquerque on I-40, she finally asked why he was so quiet. John finally opened up about his wife, the divorce, and how shattered the betrayal had made him. He told her that he took the cross-country run just to have time to clear his head. With that Janice asked him more probing questions about the man his wife had the affair with, and what his plan was after the divorce. John answered and added he had no real plan other than to keep driving. Arriving in Long Beach, he unloaded and thanked Janice for the company. When he reloaded for the return trip, he noticed that Janice had bought some snacks and was sitting in the passenger seat.

“What are you doing here?” John asked.

She replied, “We had such a good time driving out here, and honestly I don’t have to be anywhere.”

With a slight smile, John said, “Welcome aboard.”

Their route took them up to Denver on I-15 and then on I-70 eventually back to John’s home in St. Louis after he dropped off the load in Indianapolis. Their trip continued like before with Janice in the sleeper and John in the seat. While not comfortable, it seemed fair enough because John really enjoyed Janice’s company. She kept his mind occupied, while talking about nothing of substance. About Lawrence, Kansas, he finally realized that other than her name, he knew nothing about her life except her age, 28, where she was from, Chicago, and that she didn’t have any family. She was a true free spirit and John thought less and less about the divorce and his wife’s betrayal.

Coming into St. Louis, Janice asked that he drop her off because she wanted to go back to Chicago. When Janice stepped out, she gave John a kiss and said that he was a great guy and thanked him for the adventure across the country. John was sad to see her go, after losing his ability to trust, he felt like the last two weeks with Janice had restored him. He hoped that he would run into her again, something she reciprocated.

As he pulled in the terminal and was having the truck unloaded with the items he picked up in Indianapolis, his boss asked that he step in the office. There were two men in dark suits in the office and they asked for John’s driver logbook. John was told to sit. Eventually they started asking him about his trip and the stops he made. He went through the entire itinerary and each overnight, showing them on his log. Everything was legal and he couldn’t figure out what they wanted. They then asked him if he was alone. Saying no, he said that he had picked up passenger who rode along with him the entire trip from Tulsa back to St. Louis, dropping her at the St. Louis West Travel Center in Foristell. They showed him a picture and asked if this was her.

“Yes,” John said, “Janice had been with him the whole time.

The one of two federal agents, as they identified themselves, said, “Frankly, we’re surprised to find you alive.”

John sat incredulous as they described Janice as a multi-state murderer who preyed on long haul truck drivers. The M.O. was she would lure the driver into the sleeper and then kill him in the middle of the night. John said that he always let her have the sleeper and slept in the seat. He remembered saying that it was “respectful.” John went through the finalization of the divorce, Missouri state laws and adultery did not favor his wife, and it was over quickly. Without a reason to have a home, John sold the house and put his stuff in storage at his dad’s and after splitting the proceeds with his ex, he went back on the road. It seemed that the life of the long-haul trucker was his best option. He made a couple more west coast runs and then coming back to St. Louis, he was once again met by the two federal agents. They asked if he had seen Janice.

“No.” John said. “Did she kill another trucker?”

“Not this time” one replied, “This time it was a guy named Justin Clark, who lived right there in St. Louis.” John could prove that he had been outside Denver when Clark had been killed, and so they couldn’t charge him. John chuckled to himself as he left.

About a week later, John was at the truck stop in Tulsa, having his lunch when a woman sat down across from him. It was Janice.

She said, “Heading west?”

John said, “Yes.”

She responded, “Can I get a ride?”

John smiled and said, “Sure.” As they pulled out, John told her about the federal agents and asked about the death of Justin Clark.

Janice, just said, “He didn’t respect you.”

“What about me?” John asked.

Janice responded, “I feel like you are a man I can respect.”

As they pulled over in a rest stop outside Lubbock, Texas, Janice said “Why don’t you spend the night in the sleeper with me? I promise to never let anything happen to you.”

Harvest Season

September 18, 2024 / The Beverwyck Review / 2 Comments

By John Hargraves.

He was tall, tanned, lean and in his sixties. His wife drove him up from their farm just north of Binghamton. He had become weak, short of breath and could not keep up with his chores. It was harvest season and time could not be wasted. Yet he walked unaided into the hospital and climbed onto the gurney.

My pager went off that Sunday evening. I was on my 36 hour shift at the VA. Unable to discern his ailment, I called for backup assistance. His heart was beating fast, urine output was low and he was frightened. Attending physicians were scarce on weekends. The farmer’s wife decided to head back, confident that he was in good hands. The combine they hired was coming the next morning for the corn.

This intern was in luck. Two cardiology fellows were available and interested in my conundrum. Making little urine was likely from dehydration or heart failure. The treatment would be either pushing fluids or giving diuretics. An incorrect choice would make things worse. The fellows would clarify the decision with a Swan-Ganz catheter. It would be inserted into the right jugular vein, threaded through the right side of the heart and floated into a pulmonary arteriole to obtain a pulmonary wedge pressure. If low, we’d turn up the IV and run more fluid to open up his kidneys. If high, we’d get rid of excess fluid with drugs and reduce the workload on his heart. I explained it all and he signed the informed consent. His mind was on the corn.

The fellows arrived late that night and took charge. His neck was swabbed with iodine and draped. “You’re gonna feel a prick” one said, as the line was inserted. He arrested as the catheter entered and irritated the walls of his heart. The junior fellow grabbed the paddles as I began CPR. My gloved hands were bathed in the warm crimson fluid that pooled around his neck from the withdrawn catheter. “All clear!” Zap! He was back with a beating heart, awake and screaming. I sighed, fighting my human instincts to decline further participation in what might transpire. Reassured, he calmed down as the fellows prepared to reinsert the Swan-Ganz. We never did get the wedge pressure. The second killing finished him. The fellows packed up and told me to be sure to ask for the autopsy permission. My forearms were steeped in blood after the second CPR as I gazed at the reaper’s still Face.

Around 2 am the hospital operator was able to reach his wife. Hearing myself, I felt the shame warm and haunt me. The harvest was in.

The Purr of the City

September 9, 2024 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By James Gonda.

AMONG OTHER THINGS, I have a knack for poetry. The humans have labeled me a stray, but that’s another way of saying I’m a discoverer. Yet, throughout my nine lives, I have never scratched a single line of verse into the dirt. If I had, my specialty would have been sonnets to cities. I have studied cities the way cats scrutinize their reflections or kittens disassemble a ball of yarn. For me, a metropolis is more than towering walls and endless alleys filled with four-legged creatures. It’s a living entity with its own unique scent and character.

Chicago, for example, descended upon me with the brashness of a Persian, promising a feast of fish heads and cream. But I would awaken to the cold reality of empty cans and stale bread crusts.

Cleveland struck me like a performance of “Cats” meowed in Hungarian at a fish market by scruffy felines. Yet, this city was generous, unpretentious, and warm-hearted.

Savannah glanced down at me from a balcony, her whiskers twitching in the moonlight. I could see her thoughtful, starry eyes and catch a glimpse of her flicking tail, and that was all.

ONE DAY, I DECIDED TO CONQUER MANHATTAN. She was the grandest city of them all, and I desired to understand her place in the world; to taste her essence, evaluate her rhythm, classify her moods, and comprehend her, as I had done with other places.

I disembarked from a ferry and padded into Midtown with the grace of a feline who had seen it all. I played the part of an “unidentified tom.” No territory, breed, litter, or circle of alley cats could claim me. Then with the fervor of a cat searching for a cache of treats, I ventured forth. My tail twitched as I strolled down the sidewalks; my ears perked to catch every whisper of the bustling concrete jungle.

By late afternoon, I emerged from the grid with a look of dumbfounded terror in my eyes. I was defeated, perplexed, disconcerted, and frightened. Other cities had been easy prey, like catching barn mice. But here was a metropolis as unattainable as a silver fish in a tank. Despite my poetic nature, I found it impossible to encapsulate this vibrant mega city into the purrs and meows of my thoughts. Its buildings loomed like endless fortresses, guarded and impenetrable. And what troubled my poetic imagination the most was the overwhelming sense of egotism that permeated its populace. Each human I observed had lost their warmth. Frozen, cruel, unyielding, they moved like motionless figures brought to life. A feline poet is a delicate soul; I soon wilted under the icy indifference of this mysterious place. Its chilly and unnatural demeanor left me despondent and confused. Did it lack a heart? I longed for the comfort of a sunlit patch on a wooden fence, the scolding of mature tabbies, and the playful confrontations with neighborhood dogs. Anything but this lack of interest. Summoning my courage, I meowed for attention. The crowd passed without a glimmer of acknowledgment. It was then I concluded that Manhattan was devoid of a soul.

I stepped into the street, trembling. Without warning, there was a deafening explosion, followed by a roar, a hiss, and a crash as something slammed into me and sent me tumbling six yards from where I stood. The world around me blurred into fragments of a dream. When I finally opened my eyes, I was greeted by the scent of spring blossoms. Then a paw brushed against my fur; leaning over me was a molly, her eyes moist with feline compassion. Beneath my head lay the softest of silks. From a nearby café rushed a burly Maine Coon with a saucer of cream. “Sip this, buddy,” he said. He tilted the little plate to my lips with the steadiness of a seasoned mouser.

Within moments, a crowd of cats had gathered. Their whiskers twitched with concern. Two imposing gingers pushed through to create space. An old Siamese yowled about the benefits of catnip. A brisk young cat was interviewing witnesses, his tail twitching with the thrill of a story. Then a bell rang, and an ambulance carved a path through the clowder. A dignified Russian Blue—a feline physician—joined the scene, his eyes sharp and focused. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I feel great,” I said.

I had finally stumbled upon the heart of this city, the pulse beneath its cold exterior.

THREE DAYS LATER, I was permitted to leave my nook in the hospital’s convalescent ward. But within an hour, there was a scuffle. Upon investigation, they found me engaged in a heated altercation with another patient: a disgruntled tom patched up after a run-in with a train in Grand Central.

“What’s going on here?” the head nurse wanted to know.

“He’s disrespecting my city,” I said. I motioned to the offender with a bend of my tail.

“Which city?” she asked.

Bristling with pride, I said, “New York.”

A Very Particular Set of Skills

September 4, 2024 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By Richard Rose.

John laughed to himself, remembering the line used by Liam Neeson in the movie “Taken”. Neeson says, “. . . what I do have is a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you.” John had been scrolling through the channels and started watching an episode of “Unsolved Mysteries”, a show about cold case crimes. This episode was particularly interesting.

It made him think back to almost 35 years ago. John, at the time was a second-year graduate student, dating a fifth-year senior, in fact, after dating for seven months, they had just moved in together, and he thought things were headed towards a wonderful future. John had received a leave from the Army to pursue a master’s degree in international relations and was making the most of it. His girlfriend, Valerie, was in communications with aspirations to be an on-air personality on radio or television. They had met in a class on computer systems modeling, that Valerie had thought was something else entirely. After realizing her mistake, it was not possible to change her schedule, and she had to try to pass. She reached out to the shy introverted guy in the back row and asked for help. This was the start of their relationship.

John had joined the Army after college and served four years before getting this opportunity to go back to school, so he was a few years older that Valerie. Most of the time Army officers serve as ROTC instructors while in grad school, but John’s service in Special Forces, especially in the Grey Fox unit, had enabled him to get this perk. He had told Valerie that he was a maintenance officer, and she found that boring and didn’t ask any questions. John wasn’t the huge muscular type and her seeing him as a paperwork geek seemed to work. She knew that he was obligated to go back on active duty once he graduated, but she either hoped that he could get out of it, or that she could work locally and stay put while he was deployed. John existed in blissful ignorance not knowing that his world would change.

They had gone out for her 22^nd birthday, the last Friday of April, to a nice restaurant and moved on to a dance club. After a few dances, Valerie said that she wanted to talk about their relationship. Eager to hear her plans, John was attentive through the music of the club. Valerie told him that she was glad that they moved in together because it really cut her expenses, then dropped the bombshell. She said that in May when he went back into the Army that she wanted to keep the apartment so that he could have a “home base” when he was in town. John didn’t know that this meant and asked. Valerie said that it made sense that he could keep paying for the apartment for the year lease and that he could come by if he was back in town. John felt puzzled and asked why she wasn’t coming with him. Weren’t they getting married? Valerie just giggled and said that wasn’t her plan. Since he wasn’t getting out of the Army, she would just stay there for the remainder of the year. She then said that she already had another guy that could move in, but he didn’t have money for the rent. So, in her mind, John could just pay it for her. John, shocked, said no way was he paying for someone else to live with her. “Are you crazy?” he shouted, drawing attention to their table.

With that, a guy, Mike, came up behind him and said, “I told you he wouldn’t agree”. He added with a smile that he would make sure that the pencil pusher agreed, and that Valerie could just stay at his place until it was fixed. What John didn’t see were the three friends Mike had with him. Calling John names, Valerie started to cry, and she left with Mike. As John tried to rise, the three friends, all ranging about 6’4” and 250 lbs. grabbed his arms and practically dragged him out the back of the club. There by the light of the back door, two held him, while the third guy said that John was going to pay the rent and be a “good boy” or they would finish what they were starting tonight. With that, they beat him senseless. While two held him the third pounded him in the face, body, and then kicked him in the ribs. John was a mess. At some point he lost consciousness, and the next thing he remembered was being tossed out of a car door in front of his apartment building. As he crawled into the lobby and into the elevator to the third floor, he began to remember where he had seen Mike before. He had seen him go into a ground floor apartment in a cheap building near the gym not far from campus.

As John made it into his apartment, he assessed his injuries: cuts, bruises, concussion, either bruised or cracked ribs, and maybe even internal bleeding. He was a mess, and he was mad. As he went to the bathroom to get painkillers, he formulated a plan. John carefully took off his clothes and laid then on the couch. Getting a black long-sleeved shirt and a pair of dark sweatpants, he found his full foot water shoes and gloves, and went to his “go” bag and pulled out his combat knife and a length of rope. Finding it difficult to breathe, as injured as he was, he knew that he couldn’t let this go.

Knowing that his apartment building had surveillance cameras on each floor at the elevator and stairwells and at the entrance, he chose to go out the bathroom window and rappel down the back wall. It was dark and no one was about. His neighbor, who was out of town, kept his bike by the back garage, and John knew the combination and was soon off. The pain showed as flashes of light in his eyes as he rode in the shadows on side streets to where he thought Mike lived. It is amazing what your mind can and will your body to accomplish. Arriving in the bushes near the building, John cautiously looked through the window and saw Mike and Valerie in the midst of their celebratory activities on the couch. John took a garbage can and tossed it at the front door. Swearing, Mike angrily came to the door and looked about, seeing garbage all over. He yelled to Valerie that some kids had tipped over his garbage can and that he would be right back. With that, John came behind him and quietly and swiftly cut his throat. John lowered the body to the ground allowing the blood to pour into the pile of garbage, saying softly, “Just where you belong, with the garbage.” With that, John was back in the shadows and on the bike. As he rode away, he heard a scream far behind him from the doorway. Quickly but painfully, he was up the back wall, and in the apartment.

He took off his clothes and put them in the wash. He took his gloves, water shoes, and knife and put them in the dishwasher, starting the cycle. The rope was coiled and put back into the bag, and then he redressed in his clothes from the club. Noticing the rain starting, he was glad that the bike was locked up outside and both it and the building wall were getting soaked. He then made a 911 call indicating that he had been beaten up and needed help. Unlocking the front door, he sat back on the couch waiting for the paramedics and police. On the way to the hospital, he laid out the beating and his being dropped off at the apartment. He said that he had lost consciousness and when he awoke, he called 911. The officer assigned to the case, Sgt. Ogawa had told him that they would get the camera footage from the back of the club, and the apartment building to identify the assailants. As the Sgt. stood there, a doctor came in and told John the extent of his injuries. He had been right in his assessment: cuts, bruises, cracked ribs, concussion, and even bleeding in the liver. The doctor said it was no wonder John had passed out, and that he would be admitted and depending upon the extent of the bleeding they may need to operate. Thus, the next few days passed in the hospital.

On the third day, John was lying in the hospital bed, being told that he would soon be released, when Sgt. Ogawa and another detective came in. The other detective asked if John knew Valerie, and he said that he did, that she was his girlfriend. With that the detective asked where John had been Friday night. John relayed the events, giving the same story he had told Sgt. Ogawa. With that Ogawa spoke up saying that John’s story checked out, he had been in the club, that Valerie and Mike had left together, that John was beaten by three men (now in custody), had been dropped off at his apartment building, crawled inside, and not left until the EMS arrived. The CCTV footage confirmed it all. Ogawa also related the extent of the injuries, and that John was in bad shape on Friday night. The other detective said that Mike had been almost decapitated, and that Valerie had discovered the body. She was hysterical and claimed that she didn’t see anything but was covered in his blood. He said that forensics proved that they had a relationship. Ogawa, quietly asked, “What have you got?” and the other detective said, “Nothing, not a damn thing!” John sat acting stunned, saying that until that evening, he had no idea she had a thing with Mike. John looked like the dejected boyfriend while the detective said that apparently it had been going on for quite a while, but that Mike was in the process of being evicted from his apartment and trying to muscle a new place to live.

John was released from the hospital, went home and made sure that all of Valerie’s things were packed and delivered to one of her friends. He asked the apartment manager to change the front door lock to prevent her from coming back and tried to rest the last few weeks finishing his graduate degree and getting back into shape. The three friends had been convicted of assault and battery and received short custodial sentences based upon the video evidence. Valerie had been admitted to a residential psychiatric program based upon her mental breakdown. The case remained open, but it was very cold.

Mentally returning to the present, John casually shook his head, as he changed channels, after all he knew the rest of the story. Graduation with honors, deployment first to the Horn of Africa, then to Central Asia, then Central America, as he left the relationship turmoil behind. He smiled, happy to have received his Army retirement direct deposit in the mail, again turned to a different channel, popped a beer and said to himself, “I do have a very particular set of skills.”

Chickens (quack)

September 1, 2024 / The Beverwyck Review / 0 Comments

By John Hargraves.

When I was six, I wanted baby chicks for Easter. It was a happy surprise that my father thought this was a great idea. Soon enough he brought home a brood of beauties. Yellowy-white tufted peepers with orange legs and feet grew almost overnight. I watched them with pleasure and curiosity as they pecked away at my tossed handfuls of grain.

That summer my father watched with pride as I learned to water and feed the birds that were kept in our empty basement coal bin. He had earned an associate degree in poultry science at SUNY Cobleskill. Working on farms in the Schoharie Valley before the war, he knew everything about chickens. He had even raised some in my grandfather’s backyard in Niskayuna on Palmer Avenue and sold eggs up and down the street. After the war he raised more chickens with my older siblings before I was born. There were pictures taken and I recall not understanding my brother’s sad face.

My father loved everything about chickens. Every year he took us to the fairs – Altamont, Cobleskill, Ballston Spa and even once to Syracuse. He held court in the poultry barns, expounding on the Rhode Island Reds, Plymouth Rocks and Leghorns. I thought he was amazing as he explained the incubators and how to hold an egg up to the light. We watched hatchlings peck through the walls of their shells.

My father brought home white Leghorns that Easter and said they were wonderful prolific birds. With joy I watched them fluff and preen themselves all summer long and the old man smiled along with me. He pointed out how they liked to scratch in their bedding and roost in the bin, craning their necks as they swizzled drinks from the watering pan.

Fall approached and my father smiled even more. My chickens were getting plump and mature. He explained how good they would taste and something about being freshly taken. This really didn’t make much sense to me at the time.

Soon enough my father made ready and had me gather my feathered friends, one at a time and bring them to the backyard. He planted a stake and tied one of their legs with a generous amount of string to let them wander without getting away. They seemed to enjoy exploring the grass and dandelions as they snatched insects from the soil. How beautiful they had become. The old man pointed out the importance of the high flat stump nearby and retrieved his hatchet from the garage. I had never seen him use it before and remained unsure of its actual purpose. Soon enough he demonstrated his technique.

He grabbed the first leghorn by its hackles and splayed it deftly across the stump. I still recall my chicken’s cherry comb and wattles as its head parted at the neck. My father released the bird. Its decapitated body stood upright and became a red fountain. It ran in circles, fluttering without eyes, staining the green grass before it collapsed. The old man then reached for another bird. I was seized in and by the Faces* of my chickens.

My father explained every detail in the kitchen after dousing their bodies in boiling water and plucking them clean. With a sharp knife he revealed the gizzards, cloacas, and sweet meats hidden beneath their goose-bumped flesh. From a disarticulated orange leg, he demonstrated the grasping action of claws by pulling on a sinewy flexor tendon. Following my lessons, he quartered the birds and rinsed them in the sink.

I was not able to eat chicken for the rest of the year. Later I found photos my mother snapped, revealing another sad-faced boy.

Postscript: Two years later my father granted me a single duckling for Easter. I insisted he make promises this time. She grew to full size with a rich yellow beak and white plumes. She thrived in the coal bin for nearly two years laying large eggs several times per week and was gentle to the touch. She quacked and we grew close. The old man enjoyed eggs for breakfast often despite his high cholesterol. His promises and her luck ran out when her production faltered. I did not watch that time. Duck has never been my menu preference.

* Per Emmanuel Levinas (1906–1995), a 20th-century French philosopher, the Face refers to the profound ethical responsibility we have towards others, as symbolized by their faces, which represent their intrinsic and infinite value. The Face is a call to acknowledge and respond to the humanity of the Other, forming the basis of Levinas’ ethical and spiritual philosophy.

Month: September 2024

The Memento

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Harvest Season

The Purr of the City

A Very Particular Set of Skills

Chickens (quack)

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