Yankee Determinism
By Patrice Stanton
copyright 2013 Patrice Stanton
Cover design & glyphs also copyright Patrice Stanton
Thank you for choosing this ebook. Although it is free, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. The exception being short quotes used in reviews (though no alteration is allowed). If you enjoyed this story, please encourage your friends to download their own free copy and visit the the About-page, linked below, for more.
Your support of the author, as well as your respect for her property, is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any similarities within it to other persons (living, dead, or fictional), businesses (public, private, non-profit, or fictional), places (actual or fictional), or events (current, historical, or fictional) are purely coincidental. The work (and therefore all elements it consists of) are products of the author’s imagination, so are used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Section 1 - The patriarch
Section 2 - The town catch was a royal “bass”
Section 3 - Try, try, again
Section 4 - To fight another day
Section 5 - Night games
Section 6 - Departure: imminent
Section 7 - Opposite of “operational silence”
Section 8 - No hostiles
Section 9 - Wyoming or Texas?
About the Author
1 – The patriarch
Morning had long gone. Dappled sunlight shone directly on the south facing window panes of the front storm door to the main house.
Hilltop Farm’s patriarch, old man Walters, checked his watch. Fresh out of patience, he charged back towards the house and whipped the doors open. In the driveway behind him the usual rural quiet was filled with the determined sputtering of his old gas-powered truck. The air began filling with its smoky exhaust.
Where is she?
Dudley-do-right, a golden lab of about a year-and-a-half, rushed from the depths of the kitchen to greet him with a “Woof.” He trotted back, past his empty food bowl; parked in front of the closed cellar door.
Walters had to smile. The creature’d probably eaten his original owners out of house and home. Since the overgrown puppy wandered onto the 140-acre property, shortly after three teenaged grandkids had been similarly dropped, the animal had yet to succeed in denting his larder. But not for lack of trying.
He shouted up the nearby stairway for the eldest teen, all business now, “Alta! Let’s go.” Before any human reply came a muffled concussion from beneath his feet rattled the few remaining knickknacks on the Shaker hall table. The few framed photos dangling on the walls wobbled.
A baby-faced 18 year-old boy, Gil, rushed in from the formal dining room, spoon still in hand, “What the H-E--”
The old man locked eyes with Gil, didn’t know which of the three was most immature, but like a traffic cop, he raised a powerful arm, then simply, “Eliza?”
The dog barked as if eager to help.
The kid’s glare was merely confirmation.
Walters’ once handsome face hardened; creases deepened. Two decades spent working outside, away from well-appointed and climate-controlled offices, well-maintained runways and hangers, and five-figure paystubs would do that to a man. Twenty years hard labor had taken its toll – even in his own fields, make-shift garage workshops, and aviation lean-tos alongside grass-paths.
Good luck getting him to complain aloud, though.
Wearily, he softened as he considered the source of the miniature blast. His youngest charge, 14 year-old Eliza, was “playing” in the basement instead of the shed. Again.
At least there’s no smoke busting out the cellar door this time, he thought, I don’t smell much of anything except – he turned toward the truck and wrinkled his nose at the blue-white exhaust cloud. – Except for that damn “gasoline” ruining the truck a little more with every stroke.
“Alta,” he shouted again for the 19-year-old.
A gangly female, wearing way too much makeup and way too few clothes, burst forth into the upstairs hallway. Her heavy, clomping, descent turned “quick-time.” She kept up the theatrical advance as if she thought intensity might impress sufficiently to make up for tardiness.
“Poppa,” she gasped breathlessly and tried to step around Dudley, “Git you smelly thing,” she wrinkled her nose up at the dog’s attempted greeting, “Poppa, you’ve got to stop her! She’s been doing that all morning…she’s going to kill us all – or at least bring this old place down on top of us.” She put, then kept, her hands in the air, to keep the happy dog from slobbering all over them.
“No more than your stomping,” Poppa said, “Come mere, you…” he slapped his thigh and Dudley trotted to him. Grudgingly he knew he’d have to give Alta’s sister an ultimatum. Her ‘experiments’ had gone beyond risky. Dear little “Roof,” what am I going to do with her? He’d known she was trouble with a capital-T six years ago. She’d first proved her determination to become a pilot-like-you-Poppa by leaping from the roof of the barn.
A muffled, “Sorry, Poppa!” came up through the thankfully still intact mid-1800’s oak flooring as if she’d read his mind.
Years before his other set of grandkids had called him ‘Grandpop,’ these three’d settled on Poppa. Sadly the rapidly changing times, with its dicey communications and dicier travel, meant the patriarch of their shrinking family knew nothing of where those oldest two grandkids or their parents were, or even if they “were.”
He glanced back along the once House Beautiful hallway. Only the chandelier had been rattled by either of the girls. The dog, once again, sat at relaxed-attention by the cellar door, awaiting his mistress.
He pushed the door open for Alta with renewed purpose, “We’re late; it’s already noon. The lines will be down the street already.”
The girl mumbled reflexively, “Sorry.”
2 – The town catch was a royal “bass”
As Walters exited the hardware store, he noted how the line out its door had grown since entering a long, frustrating hour earlier. He’d purchased all he could, though it’d hardly been worth the wait – or the fuel to come into town. He shook his head. Now people stretched to the shop next door – a boarded-up real estate office.
He scanned the main street. More than half of the town’s eclectic array of businesses had been long closed, all within the span of one 10-year presidential-election cycle. Gone were both jewelry stores, the hobby shop, the quick print-slash-movie rental, and the mostly clothing and artsy- boutiques. The latter dying since the weekenders could no longer legally maintain two residences - and chose not to day-trip “up” from the City in protest.
Still open were a small grocery store, an even smaller “dry goods” store, a bakery, and one Mexican diner. A single-chair beauty salon-cum-barbershop had increased trade by incorporating a few feminine “novelties.” They never failed to appeal to Alta; the lure of a bargain-bazaar made it hard to keep her focused on her own errands, like today.
He frowned, though not at the heartbreak of the closures – he was long over that…it was a newer, personal heartbreak at the moment. Alta had not followed his explicit directions. Hadn’t returned to, then stayed in, their battered pickup.
She stood well away from “the embarrassing, rusted hulk,” in front of the diner, facing the hardware store, though certainly not seeing him. She seemed uncharacteristically silent as Rex, the town “catch” – and its sheriff’s only son - expertly-flattered her.
“Alta,” the old man’s deep voice resonated off the plate glass windows for several feet around. Why didn’t I
bring Roof instead? She’d have told the punk to get lost long before now.
The smile fell off Alta’s face as she fearfully focused on the old man, who made a swift hand signal, “cut,” towards her, circling his fingers around midair towards the truck. She mumbled something to Rex, who turned around, but too slow to be nonchalant.
He went all wide-eyed, belying much more concern than likely intended. He looked Walters oh-so-briefly in the eye; took a couple of steps away from Alta. As an afterthought he threw a grin and a, “Good Evening, Mr. Walters,” towards the old man, touched fingertips to his eyebrow in a mocking salute.
The patriarch of the Walters’ clan threw back a, “Punk,” under his breath accompanied by an exaggerated raised-eyebrow scowl - one only a curmudgeonly grandfather could pull off.
3 – Try, try, again
A week later Walters again wasted hours in line on his Authorized Weekly “R-Z” Commerce Day, all thanks to rationing. Course the Feds didn’t call it that. The new term was “planned-equity,” as in D.C.’s Planned-Equity Administration.
A couple of years earlier his biggest hassle had been the ever-narrowing brand-choices. Today, he was lucky to find anything close to what he needed, luckier still to get it past the widely varying discretion of certain merchants. Or the new electronic systems.
This time he left Alta home “working,” so Gil, had come to help, and to ride shotgun – to sound the alarm if anyone messed with the purchases. Dudley rode and stayed in the truck bed, as the boy’s backup.
The kids had arrived the year before, like poor misguided City-mice. Gil, especially, had come a long way in that time, under Walters’ wing. Benefited as much from a man’s discipline as from homeschooling. In day-to-day struggles out in “the country,” with a grandfather much less privileged than their parents or “single” mom had ever been, the three got a priceless education and real-world advantages. They’d made it to, or through, high school having never heard of ‘statism.” Now living it, daily, crystallized at least some of what their Poppa had always famously bemoaned.
“Steer clear of the law…slowly,” had been lesson #1, then ad nauseum, for all the kids. Sadly Alta was growing deaf.
“Equity” forced Walters to shop the hardware store nearly every week. Finally to the checkout, he bellowed, “What do you mean that’s my limit?” as the clerk swept a great deal of the items to the side.
She wouldn’t even look at him so he went on, “…I need to finish fencing in my...” He stopped. He didn’t have to explain anything to this mousy broad. Then he focused his gaze on her.
Especially a new hire.
The clerk was attractive, as most youngish females are. Probably just hired from the latest group of confused and un-handy urban-refugees. City mice. They were like that for a while. But this one confused herself with the two jumbles she’d created.
Latches and a box of wood screws in one, hinges and a second smaller box of shorter screws in the other.
Surprisingly she hadn’t yet uttered the, “I’m only following - the satellite-linked register’s - orders.”
A manager rushed over. “Mr. Walters, the inventory-tracker clearly indicates you’ve had your fair share,” the old man just glared at the kid, barely older than Gil. “You’re being…cut off…If you’d like to, to step out of, of line,” under Walters’ unrelenting gaze the kid was losing his steely command. “I’m sure we, uh, I, uh, can help you find something else.” The kid gulped and looked around.
For Superman, probably.
“Since when is hardware ‘rationed’?” the old man shot back. Everyone in line behind him began shifting uneasily, mumbling, “some people…” “wasting everybody’s time” or similar.
Another older manager rushed over, she began, “Mr. Walters, you’re upsetting the other customers, I’m going to have to ask you to come back when you’ve calmed down.”
“Calm down and come back? Ha! After spending…” he looked at the clunky old aviator’s watch that had been a part of his left wrist for the last forty years, “an hour and a quarter waiting, for this, this handful? No way…”
“You leave me no choice,” she said, “I’ll have to…”
Walters cut her off, “Sell me what I need?”
She grabbed for the phone at the register. “No, I’ll have to call Sheriff…” But before she could finish naming the “peace-keeper” the old man’s much larger, calloused hand slapped down on the phone’s base with a loud thud…a stifled “Ding!” came out of the ancient machine’s innards, along with a mock howl of pain from the completely untouched manager.
“That won’t be necessary,” Walters said through clenched teeth. “I’ll find somebody else to trade with from now on,” and he turned slowly away from the store’s two employees, acknowledging the tired middle-aged woman in line behind him with a sincere sounding, “Ma’am” plus his customary gallant touch of his hat brim on his way out, head characteristically high, shoulders likewise squared.
Once he was away from the counter the fuming female taunted, “Not for long you won’t,” then added louder, “Mr. Hilltop Community Farm,” as he shoved the door open two-handed. He shook his head. As a rich, “substantial” landowner, Walters was used to snide comments and jeers but the rumors of further land confiscation? That made him feel sick.
Dudley was barking.
Damn it! Now what?
They’d already stolen or “communitized” half his acreage, forced him to give up his crops outright. Taking any more would mean he wouldn’t break even; have to sacrifice to food crops the space where he grew his cigar wrappers – hard as it was to believe smoking was still legal. Perhaps getting rid of that was their real plan. Or maybe just starving the four of them out.
“Great,” he mumbled, seeing ‘Deputy Rex’ at the same time the kid saw him.
Alta’s heartthrob probably just put a bug on the truck.
Now he shouted, “Dudley…get quiet!” and the animal did. Gil stood outside the truck holding an envelope or similar. It seemed to pain him.
“Well,” Rex said brusquely to the old man, and loud enough for everyone on the block to hear, “He can’t say he wasn’t given fair and adequate warning.” With a nod to both generations of Walters the “deputy” was off, striding down the sidewalk, leaving Gil looking bewildered and his grandfather confused.
“Where’s the painting stuff?” The old man looked from dog in the otherwise empty truck bed to Gil, before yanking the door open.
Gil thrust an envelope towards him and stared at the ground, “They wouldn’t sell me any, and…”
The old man slammed his hand down on the roof so hard a newer model surely would have been cratered. Severely. The few remaining heads that hadn’t followed the old man out the hardware store, most likely now looked.
Walters’ face flushed with rage and his hand vice-gripped the doorframe as he fought the urge to duck within, rip open the special compartment, grab his oldest service 1911, and run after the second generation so-called law, so-called man.
“That’s, that’s why they called Rex, I mean, Officer Badger…”
“Yeah. I know. We’ve already bought our ‘fair share.’” Walters reached for the envelope, “Give me that.” He ripped it from the boy; tore into official town stationary; opened a form letter.
To Whom It May Concern…You (a blank filled in longhand with his and the grandkids’ names) will be escorted off these premises (“Hilltop Farm” plus its address and geographic coordinates) between midnight and dawn on the…
The date that was hand printed larger, even more neatly, and highlighted orange. No missing it. Less than three weeks away… That didn’t give him long to decide, or to prepare.
He’d known deep down it would come to this some day. Had hoped he’d be six-feet-under and very cold by then, though.
He’d seen only two choices then and didn’t expect any heavenly revelation in the upcoming days. It’d have to be an all-out last stand, or a complete and ut
ter surrender.
Either way, sooner or later, the kids would become wards of a rapidly metastasizing, dangerously all-controlling, “State.”
4 – To fight another day
Alta jumped up from the kitchen table. “Where are you going?” the old man demanded, as she headed towards the stairs.
“To get my file, I broke a nail.”
Now the boy scraped his car back as well.
“Alta? Stop! Gil, sit. This emergency meeting is for everyone – which includes you both. Get back here and get settled. Now!” he barely paused, “And where, pray tell is Eliza? I told her what time to be here.” He looked at his watch and scowled. She’s been out of the house as much as I have these last few weeks. The only thing good about it is neither she nor the shop has been blown to bits.
“I don’t need to be here,” Alta said sarcastically. She scuffed back to the table in slow motion, “‘Family meetings?’ We always end up doing whatever you want; I just don’t want to pretend anymore.”
Looking her straight in the eyes as she remained standing, he asked, “So, you want to crawl into a bodybag right now?” Her eyes grew wide as the meaning finally sunk in, though she remained quiet. “No? Good. I hope to God none of my offspring ever would. So sit down and listen to what I have planned.”
“You know, Poppa,” said Gil, “you can talk about fighting city hall, but I’m not really a, well, a believer in, you know, violence, just so you know,” and again he started to get up.
Walters put his hand on the back of the chair. Applied sufficient resistance, “Unfortunately,” the old man said quietly, “I realize that. I’ve made arrangements, accordingly.” Finally he had the two older siblings’ attention. Gil even looked up from staring at the table.
Just then the kitchen door opened. The dog squeezed by Eliza, ran to double check his dishes.