D BedellAbout 1000 words

7649 Nottinghill Sky Drive

Apollo Beach, FL 33572









No Heroes Wanted





Bobby Stackwood came home from the war and hospitals to nothing in Nishnabotna County–just as he had left it and just as his father had come home from his war. Both had gone and returned as Otoe fish camp boys from Squaw Creek, unwanted, unknown, and unnecessary to the meanness of the place that did for them. It was a frozen death on the Missouri River bank after a pint of ‘shine and too many barren years for his father. He was found holding his deer rifle at port arms and his medals earned from Normandy to Berlin scattered in the yellow snow where he had pissed on them. It was the silence of wings in Angel Holler that nearly killed Bobby.

Not everyone heard wings:  The Ioway and Otoe believed those who did were graced with omens and it was custom to take children to listen, hoping for acceptance. Bobby heard them with his father and took his place as one who might see, cautioned not to fall prey to himself by speaking too much, but, instead, to watch and wait quietly.

Word had reached the camp and the people welcomed him in their cautious way. Remembering their own wars, they left him to make what way he would as long as he did no harm. The three room tar papered house of his father near the camp edge still stood with a battered old jon boat, a gift from the camp, laying upside down along the side. Doleful, the outhouse with harness leather door hinges also remained.

Inside the house the worn linoleum floor had been swept and the windows opened to air the still strong musty odor. A pound can of coffee and a tin pot were on the kitchen table,  appreciated gifts. The rifle was leaning in a corner with an open half box of ammunition on the floor beside it. Bobby used the hand pump to fill the pot, opened the can with his John Wayne, and the two burner gas stove lit on the first try. He sat drinking coffee and smoking on the kitchen chair until twilight and then walked to the river to watch the night begin. “Tomorrow,” he thought, “I will go to Angel Holler.”

He caught a ride with one of the men making a whisky run to Angel City and walked from there to the brick ruins deep in the holler. Damp leaves marked the old spring and the water was cool to the taste. He scraped tinder from dead wood and gathered cedar for a small fire, the smoke an invitation to the sky and whatever was there. Once the fire was made with his flints, he took coffee, pot, mess kit, cup, and cigarettes from his canvas boonies bag. He smoked while the coffee boiled.

The Corn Moon waxed over the bluffs and into Angel Holler with light pale as wing bone, the stillness seen. Bobby watched his fire fade to fragrant wisps of smoke and wondered if his own embers would follow that path. He closed his eyes to listen and wait against the brick. Nightness creeped as he slept.

The sun came with coffee, cigarettes, and aches for the next three days of his seeing fast. On the fourth day, he walked back to camp buying some small supplies in Angel City on the way. The camp stayed silent, already knowing his disappointment. Even the river ceased its murmur as he stood on the bank not yet dissuaded from the quest. He decided to care for the camp.

Food was an issue for the people despite available fish and game. Their small gardens diminished as they grew older and most were growing older. Bobby wove fish traps from willow branches, setting them in the river from the jon boat. He fashioned a paddle from a piece of pallet wood, attached it to a sapling, and used it to move the boat like a raft. At first, he shared only fresh catch but slowly began to smoke surplus on makeshift racks he set on a sandbar. It would help with winter when ice formed in the river.

Subsistence hunting was allowed for individuals and families and Bobby stretched the rule to include everyone in camp. He had a good rifle and fresh venison was in supply. Surplus smoked on the sandbar amid a growing cache of tanned hides for whoever wanted them and demand was high. It was still a silent camp, but the people began to prosper a little in their confinement with a smile now and then. The men took turns buying staples in Angel City with the rest of Bobby’s discharge money. He was grateful for the coffee and cigarettes they brought. The wings remained silent when he went during the Cold Moon and the Dogwood Moon:  He began to doubt that he could see anything beyond the camp.

As the weather warmed, word came from White Cloud that morels were up on Indian Island. Bobby paddled and poled the boat there to look for the camp delicacy to roll in cornmeal and fry in lard. He took a gunny sack hoping for a harvest and was rewarded with a clearing thick with his prey. He smiled a little to himself.

His sack was half full when he heard something. Looking up, he saw a woman, Ioway by her look, wearing only a frayed flannel shirt. She had to be from White Cloud, another mushroom hunter most likely.

“You are Bobby Stackwood ” she said, slipping the shirt from her shoulders. He blinked  in the glimmering susurration of her unfolding wings and could see.