The last days of summer vacation were closing in on the lives of Kevin and Leonard. They felt each tick of the second hand as it hastily chiseled away at their freedom with each passing of its hand across the faces of the watches they each now wore. These new wristwatches were another reminder that life was changing and they were becoming young men with responsibilities. There were appointments to keep, deadlines that must be met, schedules. As the summer began to melt into a new school year and a new season, the time they spent together now was like gold. They instinctively understood the power of the second hand. Even though they still had a little more than three weeks before school started up again, the dread of boarding the school bus each day and being caged up in a room, while the sun shined and the fish jumped, weighed heavily upon their thoughts. One more day of carrying a tackle box instead of a book bag would enable them to store one more memory in their young minds to cherish for a lifetime.
This Saturday was bright as always, but the air was unseasonably cool, the temperature hovering around seventy-eight degrees. Planning a full day of fishing at the sand mine, Kevin and Leonard decided to swing by the barn first to see if Bo wanted to go with them. If not, they would happily walk the three-mile trail through the forest and pastures to fish on the abandoned beach together.
Before they’d made it off of Kevin’s back porch, they ran into his father, who was sitting on the stoop, lacing up his work boots. He didn’t usually work on Saturdays, but today was an exception. “Are you sure you boys can carry that icebox all the way to the back of the ranch?” Allen asked, looking at the cooler the boys had dropped at his side. “I can take you to the back fence on the other side of Clear Creek on my way in this morning, if you’d like. It would cut down the walk by a good two miles or so.”
“That’s okay, Dad. We’re going to go by the barn on our way and see if Mr. Kelso wants to go with us for a little while. If he does, he will take us there,” Kevin explained as he closed the lid on a thirty-two-quart Igloo cooler.
Allen reopened it. Inside there was enough food to feed a whole troop of hungry Boy Scouts. They had rescued every Tupperware container full of leftovers that was soon destined for the compost heap or the dog bowl. These leftovers were jammed randomly into the cooler along with Dr. Pepper bottles and a half jug of sweet tea.
“Is this your mama’s chicken gumbo that we had last night?” Allen asked as he rummaged around inside the cooler.
“Not all of it, Dad,” Kevin explained.
“Well, it sure does look like a whole lot of it, and I like your mama’s chicken gumbo.”
“It’s okay, Dad. Mom told me to take all I wanted because she’s cooking a fresh pot of shrimp gumbo tonight.”
“Well, in that case, I can’t see any reason why I should fight you boys for it. I’ll see you when I get home this afternoon. Y’all have a good time and stay out of trouble.” He punctuated that with a slap of his hands on his thighs. He then stood up and made his way in the early morning light to his truck.
Kevin and Leonard tucked their fishing rods under their arms and their tackle boxes in one hand, and carried the big cooler between them. They entered the pasture through the barbed wire fence as always, bringing their supplies with them.
It didn’t take them long to realize they were overloaded with far too much equipment. When they stopped by the barn, Leonard suggested they should borrow a wheelbarrow to put all the items in and return it when they came back. Grateful for the hope of some relief from the weight, Kevin agreed wholeheartedly. When they arrived at the barn, they saw Clint, alone with his small transistor radio, which he hung on a nail on the wall. These were the sounds of “pure country gold,” Clint had told them when they’d first started working here. Someone was singing a cowboy song, which neither of the boys could identify.
Clint had already finished the feeding and upkeep on the one side of the barn as the horses on the other side waited their turns. Upon seeing the two boys enter the other end of the barn, the horses started to whinny in their direction, knowing that they would soon be fed now that the reinforcements had arrived.
“Who is that?” Leonard asked, referring to the singer on the radio.
“Well, if you were truly a cowboy, you would know who that was singing,” Clint replied with a gentle smile, taking in the sight of these two spindly boys struggling to carry all of their fishing equipment and an enormous cooler. “Looks like the two of you need a wheelbarrow.”
“Yes. We’ll bring it back when were done. We are going to the old sand mine and spend the whole day fishing. It’s a perfect day for it,” Leonard said.
“We were wondering if Mr. Kelso would like to go with us this morning,” Kevin said.
“Well, you’re running a little late. Mr. Kelso and Whisky headed out before the sun was even up. Just so you know, boys . . . today is the anniversary of his wife’s passing. I’m sure he’s going up to spend time at the graveyard. You’ll be passing right by him, so you can invite him fishing when you see him.” Clint leaned into his office door. “Here, you better take this with you.” He emerged from his office holding a rod and reel that they’d bought a few days ago as a belated gift to Bo, a trophy for the enormous bass he’d let go. Clint smiled as the boys added it to the growing pile of gear.
They retrieved a wheelbarrow and put the icebox and both tackle boxes in it. They tucked the rods in with the tips facing to the front, thanking Clint before running toward the bridge.
Clint touched the brim of his hat and grinned as the bobbers bounced up and down with every bump of the wheelbarrow. He watched the boys making their hasty way down the dirt road to the bridge. He felt like he was with them in spirit. He shouted, “Good luck!” just before they rounded the corner. Kevin turned and waved back in Clint’s direction as Leonard soldiered forward with the wheelbarrow.
The two of them made good time, taking turns with the wheelbarrow through the pastures along the rim of Clear Creek. The dew on the grass soaked their tennis shoes and made the wheel of the wheelbarrow glisten a shimmering black, flinging droplets of water all along the bottom.
Upon clearing the thicket and a corner of tall pines and magnificent oaks, they came upon a picnic area covered in buttercups and bluebonnets. The colors stretched from the edge of the thicket, far across to the graveyard, and all the way down to Clear Creek.
Off to their left, not more than a stone’s throw short of the graveyard fence, they saw Whisky. He stood there alone, saddled, his bridle reins hanging down into the tall grass and the wildflowers, most of which were knee-high on the boys. Though the horse seemed calm enough, the boys sensed something was up.
Without a word of discussion, they dropped everything and ran to Whisky. Kevin got there first, and that’s when he saw Bo, stretched out on the grass. His face looked pained, and he was holding his chest. Seconds later, Leonard stopped short at Kevin’s side.
“Hello, boys,” Bo said as he gasped for breath.
“Did you fall off your horse?” Kevin asked.
“Do you need us to get help?” Leonard asked.
“What happened, Mr. Kelso?
“Are you hurt?”
The questions came faster than Bo would ever be able to answer them, and their voices began to run together. “You could say I fell off my horse,” he replied, then changed the subject. “I see you boys are on your way to go fishing.”
Their friend was in obvious discomfort, his face a gray color, his lips slightly blue. He did not look good. Kevin turned to Leonard and told him to run fast and get some help. Something was wrong. Leonard turned to start a fast trek back to Clint, when Bo stopped him, summoned him back.
“Hold up, boy. I’m going to be fine. You just come back here for a minute because I have something I need to tell you, but I need to tell you together.”
Kevin and Leonard were confused and a little scared. It was obvious to them that Bo needed help, but they dared not disobey their mentor and friend.
Still, they begged permission. “Mr. Kelso, you look like you need some help,” Leonard said. “Let me take Whisky and ride back to the barn and tell Clint.”
“No, boy. I need the two of you to stay with me because you must do something for me,” Bo said in a weary voice. “Besides, Whisky won’t leave me here. He probably thinks it’s his fault I fell off him. Fact is, boys, I’m going to die this time. I can feel it. This ain’t the first time I have had one of these spells, but this time, I am ready to go. And there’s no place I’d rather do that than here,” he said, pulling one of his legs up in an attempt to ease his pain.
“Then we need to go get help for you right away!” Leonard’s pitch rose as he fought back the urge to cry, to yell, to disobey, to run for help.
“I appreciate that, son, but there is nothing you can do to stop what is going to happen. It’s extremely important to me that the two of you hear what I have to say, and then I’ll let you go get help, okay?” Bo scanned their frightened eyes and held their hands as they kneeled next to him in an attempt to calm them down. “I have watched you boys grow up together over the short summer that we shared. You have learned so much, and I am so impressed with the two of you. You are from fine stock and that in itself is truly a blessing. I’m sorry I don’t have the time to teach you boys more about being a cowboy. But I’m going to tell you a story that I hope you understand, and then I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”
Bo struggled with his words. He directed the boys to remove his saddlebags from Whisky and place them under his head so he could see the waters of Clear Creek.
“Be careful now, boy, there’s a loaded pistol in that saddle bag. You just leave it where it is,” Bo warned as Kevin retrieved the saddlebag.
Whisky gently nuzzled the side of Bo’s face, and he in turn reached up and rubbed his loyal steed from ears to jawbone, trying to reassure the horse as much as the boys.
“Boys, one of the true facts of life is we only have to do two things with it: we have to believe in something in order to live our lives, and we have to die, a price we pay for the joy of living. Everything else in between is what we do to supplement our souls while we’re living. I have lived a wonderful life, and I’ve believed in things that kept me alive and gave me pleasure. I have done good things, and I have done some things I’m not proud of. Along the way, I have paid for and corrected those mistakes, save one.”
Kevin and Leonard said not a word, but listened with grave faces.
“Now you boys just listen to what I have to tell you. I have an appointment to keep, and what you do with what I tell you has a great bearing on that meeting. Even if you don’t do what I ask of you, just you listening will do me a world of good. You boys aren’t Catholic, are you?” he asked in a joking manner.
“No sir!” the boys said in unison, “we’re Baptist.” The joke went sailing over their heads into the pasture yonder.
Even in his most dire hour, Bo found a way to diffuse the finality of the moment. He asked them to remove a diary from the saddlebag. As Kevin pulled the diary from it, a small paper bag with a half-sliced apple fell to the ground—Whisky’s treat. Then Bo began to narrate the story of the tractor he’d bought in 1942.
From his father and grandfather, he had learned of prejudice. His family had been cruel to the sharecroppers who walked many miles to provide backbreaking labor at the ranch in return for meager pennies in wages. As Bo grew, so did his discomfort with these injustices. He swore to himself that when he took over the farm, he would not be like them. Things would be different.
There was a day when Bo had to leave town to sell cattle at an auction in San Antonio. The majority of the ranch hands were gone because most of the livestock had been shipped off to San Antonio for the auction. Only a few hands were left to tend to the remaining livestock. The only black hand at the time was a man he had recently hired, a strong, twenty-year-old black man with eyes of blue. He had only been working on the ranch for a few days and kept to himself mostly. He was not overly welcomed by the rest of the crew.
That weekend in July 1942, the weather forecast was steady rain from Friday morning to Monday afternoon. Before Bo left for San Antonio, he parked his new tractor under a small pole barn that held several wagons and two other tractors. The pole barn had a tin roof that would shelter the equipment from the weather. After returning home and the storms had passed, the pole barn stood, but the tractor was gone. And there was only one man to blame, in Bo’s opinion.
In 1983, a fierce storm rose up from the Gulf of Mexico and marched across the farmlands, drenching it with enormous amounts of rain. The rain overflowed the banks of Clear Creek. The creek usually was no more than two feet deep, maybe ten feet wide. The edges of the creek had a steep grade that dropped off more than twenty-five feet to the bottom. Still, during this storm, the creek overflowed its banks, turning the meandering waterway into a torrent, wider than one hundred yards and as deep as fifty feet in some places. The swelling waters twisted and turned as it washed away the banks and cut into the land. It also cut into a small pond that was no more than fifty yards from the pole barn. The old pole barn, now just a shelter for the cattle to escape the blistering rays of the summer Texas sun, fell over in submission to the gale-force winds. It was reduced to a pile of twisted tin and partially broken, leaning creosote posts.
That pond had been dug so the cattle could drink without venturing down the treacherous slopes of Clear Creek in order to quench their thirst. When the storm passed and the water level started to fall, it cut through the property and crossed the small pond. The incredible flow of water cut a ravine deep enough to connect the small pond to Clear Creek and drained the pond. The pond, now void of water, exposed a Farmall tractor sitting right in the middle of it. It had been there more than forty-two years, submerged and holding on to the truth.
Bo had then pondered the evidence, figuring he had not applied the brake after parking it that summer in 1942. It must have rolled backward into the pond some time during that storm. All the heavy rain that weekend had washed away any tracks or signs that would reveal his mistake. As he had spent four decades assuming the rain had washed away tracks of the thief, the rain had actually washed away the traces of his own forgetfulness.
“I swore up and down that Mr. Elijah Waters stole that tractor,” Bo gasped as sorrowful tears filled his eyes. “I had the law arrest him. They were cruel and beat him in order to make him confess, but he never did. They beat that man so severely that it opened a gash as wide as my thumb on the left side of his head. They had him handcuffed and shackled to a heavy steel chair. The deputies left him like that for almost two days. I went to the sheriff’s office on the third day to check and see if they found my tractor. One of the deputies looked up at me and said, ‘He’s one stubborn nigger. We’ve tried everything short of cutting his throat, but nothing seems to work.’
“The deputy then led me into the room, flipping on a single overhead bulb to illuminate where Elijah had been for two days, chained to a chair. His pants were soiled, and the room smelled worse than a pigsty. They had shoved him into the far corner of the cinderblock room face down on the floor with the chair legs sticking up in the air. He was lying there unconscious, chained to a chair in the darkness.
“That deputy hollered, ‘Rise and shine, boy. It’s time to go at it again.’ When Elijah did not respond, the lawman grabbed the chair and dragged it across the room, scraping Elijah’s face on the concrete. The cuts on his face that had finally dried shut now tore open again, and fresh blood oozed from his face. Then another deputy came into the room, and they sat the chair up on its legs. Elijah’s limp body slumped over; his chin touched his knees.
“They dragged a small, square table with steel legs over in front of him, and one of the deputies sat on top of it, crossed one leg over the other and his hands over his crossed knees. The ten-by-ten block room with no windows and only one way in and out was crowded with the four of us, and the stench invaded our nostrils. The first deputy reached up and grabbed Elijah’s hair, then pulled him up in the chair to reveal the crusted dried blood from his forehead down to his T-shirt.
“Boys, Elijah had endured cruelty that I set into motion. I left the room, knowing that they’d started in on him again. As I walk down the hallway to the front office, I could hear them pounding their fists on him.”
Bo started to cough violently, doubling over in pain. He drew up his knees and then relaxed back onto the saddle bag. However, the pain he was feeling was not as much from his chest as it was from his memories. “I didn’t feel the impact of those thuds for more than forty-two years. I didn’t see the blood on his face or feel the pain he endured . . . because I was a heartless bastard. When I found that tractor at the bottom of the cattle tank, all the emotions I should’ve felt years ago caught up with me in a flash.
“All I’d cared about was that damn tractor. A pile of metal perched on top of rubber tires. I valued that over the flesh and soul of an innocent man.” Bo choked, tears drizzling down the sides of his face like rain—like the rain that had washed away the tractor and the rain that had allowed it to resurface those so many years ago.
“The entire colored community tried to convince me otherwise about Elijah, but I would hear none of it. I had thoroughly convinced myself that he’d done it. My reasoning? Because he hadn’t shown up for work when I got back from San Antonio. Well, when they kicked down the door to his house in Clover Town, he was holding his newborn daughter in his arms. He had been up for thirty-six hours straight delivering her. His family told me the baby’d almost died during the delivery. That’s why he hadn’t shown up for work. But I didn’t care. I carried the sins of my fathers with me, convinced that Elijah had stolen that tractor, and he did it because he was black and poor. No other reason than that.”
Bo paused to reach out for a bundle of wildflowers that he’d dropped during his fall to the ground. They were a mixture of blue, red, and yellow, and buttercups, which he’d bound together with a hair ribbon from Mary Beth’s vanity. He’d picked them on his way to the graveyard he never reached.
“It took every dime his friends and family had to hire a good white lawyer and keep him out of jail. Thank God, there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him. They found him not guilty. After the trial, he joined the Navy. I never saw him or his family again after that. I’d spent forty-two years hating a man because of what I foolishly thought he did, because he was colored and poor. The prejudice poked through my skin like a thorn on a briar, and I used it to harm another. I had become what I swore I would never be. When I saw that tractor sitting at the bottom of the tank, I knew what I was and how sorry a man I really had been all these years.
“When I saw the tractor that morning, I was determined to drag it out of there myself. I took a chain from the back of my truck, crawled out onto the lake bed on my hands and knees on account of the mud being so thick. My boots got stuck my first two steps and came off. Once I secured the chain to the front axle of the rusted-out old tractor, I pulled myself back up to the bank one hand over the other, grasping the chain for dear life. I lay on my back covered in mud, gasping for breath. My heart was pounding like a hammer on an anvil, so badly that I thought my chest would explode and my heart would fall back into the tank. But I was so ashamed of myself that I refused to die right there and be caught red-handed with the evidence of my prejudiced ways.
“The mud was so thick on my hands and clothes—thick as the shame I felt in my heart now that I knew the truth. It covered my body and crippled me to the point where I could not use my hands in order to get my keys out of my pocket. I had to rinse myself off in the creek bed in order to get them out. I sat there on the bank of the creek, crying as I felt the mud, still on my face, dry and tighten my skin. I still taste the mixture of mud and tears in my mouth every time I think about that morning.
“I returned later that afternoon, after I caught my breath and I used the big tractor from the hay barn to drag the old Farmall out of the tank bed. The wheels were rusted solid and gouged ruts into the road and pasture all the way to the ravine where I hid it yonder.” Bo raised his arm and pointed to the edge of the thicket. There was a deep ravine where they’d been dumping old parts and implements for as far back as the Civil War.
“The scars that tractor made on the land, when I dragged it, healed up after a few weeks worth of rain and the livestock traipsing across the road, but my scars—they never healed. I covered it up with the tin roof from the shelter that fell down in a pitiful attempt to hide my shame.
“The following day, after tossing and turning all night, I vowed to track down Elijah and make a grand apology to him and his family, and that’s when I learned something else.” Bo closed his eyes and was still, but only momentarily. He abruptly began to shake, the tears breaking the boundaries of his eyelids and lashes. “I am a coward; I haven’t yet been able to bring myself to do it.”
Kevin turned and looked at Leonard, who was crying without restraint. He realized they’d just heard a confession, and even at their young age, they had been charged with a great task.
Bo’s skin was now an ash gray and his lips much bluer. This time Leonard did not ask as he turned and sped back to the barn.
Bo handed the small, black journal to Kevin, explaining that everything he needed to know in order to find Elijah Waters was in the book. He assured Kevin that his sons in Houston would provide them with the money necessary to find Elijah. He said that tucked within those pages were also notes for his sons and his grandchildren, which he had written months ago after his first heart attack. Therein, he had given instructions for his sons to help Kevin and Leonard find Elijah, in the event that he died before he got the chance to do it himself. He wrote that he had chosen the boys to be his messengers because he looked upon them as being flawless and genuinely without prejudice.
“Now, you take this book and give it to my son, and he will help you find Elijah. When you meet, you will know it’s him because his eyes are as blue as the skies above us and the waters of the deepest lake. He has the eyes of an honest man. Tell him how sorry I am for what I’ve done to him, and be sure you look into his blue eyes when you deliver that message.”
Whisky’s muzzle was never more than a few inches away from Bo during this conversation, as if sensing his friend was in peril and needed his support. Kevin also sat at Bo’s side, long enough to watch the color of his skin fade to a pale white. He asked him repeatedly if he was okay, if there was something he could do to ease his pain, but Bo only shook his head slightly. His breath became shallower, until it eventually faded into nothing. Kevin leaned over and placed his ear to Bo’s mouth and nose. He then put his fingers to Bo’s neck. He could not find a pulse or breath going in or out.
Everything was so peaceful there by the gravesite. Barely a sound could be heard, save for the song of a mockingbird as it perched on a limb of a dogwood tree. Nothing more can be done now, Kevin thought. It’s what Mr. Kelso wanted. He waited for Leonard and wondered why he hadn’t yet shed a tear of his own.
Kevin started questioning his emotions. Why hadn’t he cried yet, like Leonard? Why was he so calm during a situation that most people, young or adult, would panic over? He reasoned that perhaps it was because he knew it was what Mr. Kelso wanted and that the old man found comfort in that decision. Even if he could have saved Mr. Kelso, he doubted he could have overcome his resolve. This was Mr. Kelso’s choice to make, and this was the place he wanted to be when his time came.
Kevin retrieved a beach towel from the wheelbarrow and covered covered Bo’s face and upper torso with it. He then picked up the paper bag, removed the apple slice, and held it in his hand palm up for Whisky, who sniffed it, pulled it into his lips, then held it for a few seconds without chewing. For the first time since the boys had gotten there, Whisky turned away from his cowboy and finished eating.
Leonard was the first to return, well ahead of the others that had to take the long way around the creek by truck in order to reach the wildflower patch. He was short of breath when he fell to his knees next to Bo. He looked at Kevin, who held his gaze as he slowly shook his head back and forth.
Leonard whispered, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure. When will help be here?”
“Clint called for an ambulance and he also called Mr. Kelso’s sons, Clay and Jeb. He is behind me in the truck. He should be here in a few minutes.
Leonard lifted the towel just high enough to look at Bo’s face, and Kevin looked too; it was even whiter now than when Kevin had first placed the towel over it. Neither of the boys had ever seen a dead person before and was not sure how to react. As Leonard replaced the towel, Kevin noticed a small drop of water fall from the sky, making a perfect circle on the fabric, then another and another. The raindrops fell into a tight group and faded into one expanding spot. Kevin’s stare fixed on the gathering droplets, mesmerized at the thought of rain falling on one concentrated area.
“How could it be raining in just one place and not on me. I don’t feel the rain on my neck,” Kevin said, swiping at his neck, staring at the spot. Then he knew. Leonard’s composure had exploded, and he now sobbed loudly, sorrowful and without shame. The raindrops that Kevin had witness had come from his best friend’s heart.
Within a few minutes, the peaceful field was filled with people and trucks. The ambulance drivers loaded Bo onto a stretcher and strapped him down. The EMTs removed a clean white sheet from a shiny metal cabinet in the van. Kevin noticed the smell of fresh linen, which was so strong that it overpowered the floral fragrance as they snapped the sheet open and placed it over the body, on top of the beach towel. The folded lines of the sheet were sharp and maintained their square shape in a symmetrical form from Bo Kelso’s head to his boots.
The sons arrived—Jeb first, then Clay a short time later. Soon the tears were dropping like rain again, wetting the earth that Bo so loved.
Clint removed his hat as he struggled to one knee in order to lean down close to his friend’s ear. He whispered, “Nutmeg, Bo. It was nutmeg that made her coffee taste so good. I would have told you sooner, but I’d made Mary Beth a promise. I guess it doesn’t matter so much now, but at the time, that secret helped lure you out of the house. But of course you know that now, don’t you, old man?”
Clint returned the sheet to cover Bo’s face. He then picked up Whisky’s reins, quietly leading the horse away.
“He is with her now. He will be fine,” Clint whispered in a cracking voice to Clay and Jeb as he walked past them. He replaced the hat on his head, and he did not cry.
Clay rode in the ambulance with his father, and Jeb stayed behind to handle immediate concerns at the ranch.
“Come on, Kevin, Clint is going to give us a ride back to our houses in his truck,” Leonard said.
“That’s okay. I’ll help you load the stuff up in the truck, but I’m going to walk home,” Kevin said. He bent down and picked up the bundle of flowers that Bo had picked for Mary Beth’s grave.
Jeb followed behind Kevin as he made his way to the graveyard. He trailed back just far enough to allow Kevin some privacy as he stepped through the iron gates and walked up to Mary Beth’s gravestone. He bent down at the waist and placed the flowers on top of her headstone. The tears finally came for Kevin. Without a word, Jeb sat down on the concrete bench just outside of the archway and patiently waited for Kevin to have this moment.
“I’ll give you a ride home, if you’d like,” Jeb said as he stood and greeted Kevin just outside the gate.
“That’s okay. It’s not too far to my house, and I’d rather walk.”
Jeb held out Bo’s journal to Kevin. He said, “My brother and I have been reading this since we got here, and it seems like my father has one last task to complete. The only problem is, now he’ll need you and Leonard to do it for him.”
“I know. He told us all about it before he died. I’m not sure if I can do what he wants me to do,” Kevin said as he hung his head down and stared at the sea of wildflowers at his feet.
Jeb let a second pass and then said, “Well, one thing I feel certain is that you are indeed the man for the job. My daddy wouldn’t have said so if it weren’t true. If you’ll allow me to take you home, I could speak to your parents about it . . . is that okay with you?”
Kevin looked up into Jeb’s eyes and nodded.