Chapter 25

The paint can in Nathan’s hand was half full of Sherwin Williams eggshell white, mixed with a number three oil base. It weighed, at that moment in time, about five and a quarter pounds. It was swung by an arm that was virtually overflowing with adrenaline, a substance Nathan had been tested on in school, and knew the qualities of well, though he wasn’t thinking about that at that moment. The can struck Harvey Wilson’s head exactly two inches above his right eye, vertically speaking, and one inch to the right of that eye, horizontally speaking, where the forehead changes from front to side. Had the bottom rim of the can struck him there, it would have crushed his skull like the eggshells the paint was named after.

Fortunately, depending, of course on your point of view, what struck Harvey’s head was the side of the can, which was about three thirty-seconds of an inch thick, and quite flexible, under these conditions. Figuring the exact foot pounds of pressure that was applied to Harvey’s head is beyond the math skills of this writer. The can bent, and it gets all complicated. Let’s just estimate it was a whole bunch of foot pounds.

For sure, it caused Harvey’s skull to move, while his brain tried to stay perfectly still. They call that a coup injury in the medical field, where the moving skull bruises the brain. Harvey then fell sideways at a rapid pace, aided by all those foot-pounds, whereupon his skull struck the dirt floor and stopped. By then, his brain was moving pretty rapidly, and tried to keep on moving. It slapped up against his skull, which didn’t give, and bruised on that side too. They call that a contracoup injury, just in case you’re wondering.

Harvey Wilson, with two bruises on rougly opposite sides of his brain, became instantly and thoroughly unconscious. He would remain that way for two or three hours, depending on what outside forces intervened.

Nathan didn’t care, at the moment, whether his father was alive or dead. The paint can had burst open upon impact, and as the side of the can compressed on Harvey’s skull, the paint that was displaced shot out of the opening. Nathan was covered with paint.

He was aware of that on a shallow level, primarily because he had to wipe his eyes clear to see. His primary concern was for Flossie, though. He dropped the can, swiped his eyes clear, and knelt, hovering over her. She was splattered with paint too, and was sobbing and hugging herself.

Great heartrending sobs poured out of her in an unending stream. She didn’t react in any way, shape, or form as Nathan pulled her up and cradled her in his arms. He was shushing her, using all the words and tones Annie had used on him when he cried, but nothing helped. He kept asking if she was all right. His father had hit her hard, and he was afraid something was broken inside her. He didn’t want to leave her on the floor, and let go of her to pick her up. She had paint all over her, now, some of it from contact with him. Everywhere he had touched her, she was white with smears of paint. It was in her hair, on her face, all over her naked torso. Only what was left of her pants was free of paint, and when he carried her, that got painted too.

He started to lay her on the bed, and saw the beautiful quilt. He knew he’d ruin it. He tried to get her to help him, to pull at the quilt, but she only sobbed and lay limp in is arms. He finally put her in an old overstuffed chair, back in the living room. He didn’t have anything to cover her, and his hands were a mess. He went back into her room, looking on the shelves, and saw a sheet folded up. He took that and wrapped it around her.

He was calming down a little now, and finally he checked his father. He was breathing. He couldn’t leave his father here. If he woke up, he’d kill Flossie for sure. But Nathan knew he couldn’t carry his father’s bulk the six blocks back home. He remembered an old wheelbarrow, with a metal spoked wheel. It was around the side of the house, by the fish cleaning station. It had a flat bed on it, with an upright wall at the front. Running to get it, he parked it outside her door and dragged his father outside by his heels. When Harvey’s head bumped over the threshold, Nathan didn’t care.

It took all his strength to get his father’s bulk up onto the wheelbarrow, lying on his back with his head between the handles and his lower legs hanging over the upright in the front. His arms flopped loosely beside the wheelbarrow. Nathan ran back inside. Flossie’s sobs were softer now, and she was hiccuping. Now she looked up at him, her eyes bright with tears. The whole left side of her face was swollen where Harvey had slapped her, and that eye wouldn’t open completely. The stretching of her face as she bawled had reopened the lip, which was bleeding freely again.

“D-d-d-d-don’t g-g-g-go,” she stuttered, rocking in the chair.

“I have to go get help,” he whispered. “I’ll come back, but I have to go get help.”

Her sobs of terror as he left wrenched at his heart, and he almost turned back. But getting his father away from there was more important. And help. He had to find someone to help.

It wasn’t full dark yet. Nathan, straining to lift the wheelbarrow, half ran, until he was exhausted. The adrenaline had fled, leaving him feeling like he hadn’t slept in a week. He was still two blocks from home when he had to set the wheelbarrow down to rest, dragging in agonized gasps. He wanted to sit down, but knew that if he did he wouldn’t be able to get back up. He picked up the handles and staggered on. When he got to his front door he left his father there and crashed inside.

Marian had the television on, though she wasn’t watching it. She was watching the front door, waiting for whatever Harvey was doing to be over so she could find out what was wrong. The girls had gotten up and looked out the window when he left. There was some whispering, and Bernadette’s shouting whisper of “NO!” Marian had questioned them, but they didn’t seem to know what was going on either. They finally sat back down, books in hand, but they didn’t do much reading. When a large, strange and wild looking person with paint all over him suddenly burst in through the door, Marian screamed. Then the apparition spoke with Nathan’s voice as the shaggy white-spattered face turned toward her daughters.

“Get down to Miss Flossie’s now! She’s hurt and she needs help!”

The girls shot out of their chairs, and without a how-do-you-do they dashed for the front door.

“Wait!“ called Marian. “What’s going on?!“

The ghostly person with Nathan’s voice turned to her. “Daddy attacked Miss Flossie. He beat her. Then he tore her clothes off and said he was going to fuck her, and that I had to fuck her too.”

He delivered the devastating information as if he were telling her that a neighbor had bought a new car and, while driving it home, had bumped into a fire plug. His voice, other than the panting, was steady and almost normal. But his almost casual use of the word “fuck” made it clear to his mother that he was almost out of control.

“Nathan Patrick Wilson! What kind of nonsense are you spouting!?” said his mother, standing up. “Where is your father?”

“Out front. I brought him home. I think he’s alive. He was breathing when I left Miss Flossie’s. I hit him with a can of paint while he was raping Miss Flossie.” Again, it was delivered like it was no big deal ... just information she might be interested in having.

“Rape?” The word stuck in Marina’s throat. “Did you say rape?”

“Yes Ma’am, except that I’m not sure he actually raped her. He was trying to when I hit him.”

“Where is he, Nathan?” Marian’s voice was steady and calm now. She had kicked into competent Southern Wife mode. She might fall apart later, but right now she could deal with any contingency.

“I brought him home on her wheelbarrow,” said Nathan. “I’ll show you.”

He hadn’t re-dressed his father. Harvey’s pants were down around his calves, and his boxers were still keeping his knees more or less together. His penis wasn’t stiff any more. His head lolled to one side, almost falling off the floor of the wheelbarrow. His chest was rising and falling.

Marian looked at him, and then at Nathan. “Help me get him inside. Then we’ll have a little talk about what happened.”

“I have to go back,” said Nathan stubbornly. “He hurt her bad, Mamma. She might need a doctor.”

“Help me get him out of the public view, and I’ll go back down there with you,” said his mother.

She muttered about the paint all over everything, and Nathan explained about hitting him to knock him off Miss Flossie. She pulled the whole sordid story out of him, bit by bit, making him tell her everything he could remember about what Harvey did and said. He was like a recording machine. Marian could hear her husband’s voice in Nathan’s as he repeated all the horrible things he claimed were said. Once they had manhandled Harvey into bed, she examined his head, feeling for soft spots, and pulling his lips back to examine his teeth. He was out cold, but he didn’t seem to have any serious external injuries. She’d have to call the doctor if he didn’t wake up soon.

She stood up. Nathan was dancing in his impatience to leave and go back to that woman’s house. Marian, feeling dread deep in her bones, told him to take her there. She left her husband lying, still half dressed, on top of the bed. He was breathing, and that was enough for now.

Flossie was still sitting in the chair, still wrapped in the sheet when they got there. She was moaning and rocking as Bernadette and Hilda Mae hovered over her.

“She won’t say anything!” said Hilda Mae, relief flooding her face when she saw her mother.

Marian looked around. She was horrified by the conditions this woman lived in. Her eyes went to Flossie’s blank stare and swollen face. Her jaw, where he had fisted her, was swollen three inches. That whole side of her face bulged as if something were trying to get out from under the skin.

“Make some coffee!” she snapped to her daughters. “Or tea if you can find it.”

The girls darted to the kitchen and Bernadette opened a simple board, hung on hinges, that covered a cubby hole. She reached for a box and pulled it down. Hilda Sue, meanwhile had gone to the stove and gotten a battered teapot and was putting water in it. Both girls obviously were familiar with this place. Marian noted that, but filed it in the back of her mind for later evaluation.

“There’s no fire in the stove,” said Hilda Mae, lifting an iron plate with a wire-wrapped handle on it and looking inside.

“Use the gas stove!” said Marian as she stepped toward the moaning woman.

“She doesn’t have one,” said Hilda Mae, looking helpless.

Nathan moved to the kitchen and, with practiced movements, got kindling and some small branches from a box and built a fire in the fire box of the stove. It smoked a little until he fiddled with the damper and got the draft going. Marian filed that little bit of information away too. She had no idea her son knew how to fire up an old stove like that.

“Does she have an ice box?” asked Marian, getting down on her knees in front of Flossie.

When they answered that she did, she asked for ice, wrapped in a towel. She heard them pulling the handle of the ice cube trays and the cracking of the cubes as the metal grid they were in moved. Bernadette brought her a bundle of ice in a dish towel.

“I’m going to need a clean rag soaked in hot water too,” she said to Bernadette. “Bring it to me as soon as it’s almost too hot to touch.”

She began to talk to the woman.

“Flossie? Is it Flossie? You’re going to be all right now, dear. No one will hurt you again. Flossie? I need you to talk to me sweetheart.” She cooed and laid her hands on the arms of the chair. She didn’t touch the woman yet, but she put her face right in front of her. She kept talking softly, saying Flossie’s name, but getting no response. One of the girls handed her a steaming rag. It was dripping, and Marian almost snarled. She took a breath and wrung the rag out. “Bring me a cup of that hot water before you make tea,” she said, not looking up.