A House Where Nobody Lives

The Dawes arrived just before 6PM and were joined by upwards of 150 other folks for a chicken pot pie dinner with all the fixings. Billy Mitchell's band was setting up during dinner and once they finished they all grabbed a plate as the diners relaxed with a bit of gossip and after- dinner smokes.

By 8PM things started to kick off and numerous other people had started to join the festivities including Wendell Acker and a couple young girls from out to town. John noticed him right off the bat and nodded at Melvin Clay and Tim Stone. There was no need for words. John took his wife out onto the dance floor and ensured she had a good time.

It was around 11PM when he walked down the steps into the granite lined basement. The only light in the room was the glow of the fire seen through the glass in the cast iron door to the furnace. Melvin and Tim stood over the breeder man's bound body with several folds of rough burlap wrapped around his mouth and eyes. John Dawes bent down and peered into Wendell's terrified face and said nothing.

Knowingly, the two accomplices lifted the captive and carried him into the storage cellar room behind the furnace. Later, after the midnight revelry they would move him again...

There was only a sliver of a waning moon casting a pall of darkness over the snowy surface of the lake. The mercury was sitting at 20 below as the truck backed up to the ice shanty sitting by itself a couple hundred yards from the log road used by the woodsmen shuttling loads across the lake on a regular workday. John grabbed hold of the heavy iron link sitting at the back of the truck and pulled ten feet of log chain onto the frozen surface. Tim seized a hold on the other end and they dragged the chain across the snow to the shanty door.

Melvin had taken a crosscut saw and cut a fresh hole in the ice that even with the coal stove trying to keep the chill off was trying to freeze over only minutes after being cleared. He looked up at the two men as they entered the shack and said nothing. The three of them warmed their hands on the hot stove and when they were ready with acknowledged looks at each other, they went back out to the truck.

Wendell Acker had lost his cap somewhere and all that was seen of him when they pulled the bound man off was the shock of red hair on top of his head. They dragged him to the shack, each man having a hand in bringing him there and when he was prone on the ground John reached down and removed the burlap off his face.

The breeder man gasped the fresh air into his lungs and assaulted his captors with all he had left, his empty words.

"You'll never get away with this. People know I'm here. They'll come looking." He expunged the words from his fear struck throat.

The three men said nothing as they laid his bound body with his ankles over the end of the chain and proceeded to roll him up in it until all that was left was his head. The three stout men then lifted their captive, chains and all, and carried him into the ice shack before setting him down next to the fresh hole with its dark, icy waters.

"You know this will cost us a good chain, John?" Melvin said.

John nodded with just a slight smile on the corner of his lips. He brought himself down to Wendell's face and stared him right in the eyes.

"You know why we're killing you, don't you breeder man?"

Wendell turned to stone in fear of the determined man in front of him and couldn't answer.

"That's OK, we know why we're killing your sorry ass and that's all that's really important."

Melvin and Tim were behind him and as they started maneuvering him toward the dark water swirling in the hole at his feet, Wendell starting crying like a baby. It didn't deter the men at all. In the next instant his feet hit the water and sheer terror occupied Wendell's brilliant blue eyes. Melvin saw the seed of Mrs. Clay's twins. Tim saw the progeny in his wife's blue eyed daughter. John saw anger and hatred, nothing else.

John pushed the back of Melvin's bound body and the mass of iron links and burlap wrapped human flesh plunged into the icy slush of dark water before them. There was 120 feet of black cold water between here and the bottom with 120 lbs. of chain to hasten the descent.

A moment later the backwash of the wake splashed into the shack and the steel leader line that followed the package into the water snapped taut. The three of them pulled and tugged the line lifting the wet, nearly drowned package back onto the cold ice floor of the shack. Wendell was sputtering cold lake water out of his lungs and laying in shock.

The captive was unbundled and Tim threw a full set of dry clothes at him and told him to change. It might have been 20 below outside but it was 30 above inside.

"Wendell Acker, you aren't just going to leave the county, you are going to leave the state of Maine for good. If you ever come back, you'll go in that hole again on some dark night and you won't come out of it." John said to the ghost of a man.

"Understand that. You leave tonight and you don't stop for nothing until you get to Portsmouth. We each have a dozen witnesses putting us somewhere else tonight until morning. You don't get another chance."

John turned away at that point and stepped outside. He could hear the beating and knew it was vicious. Tim and Wendell wanted to actually kill him and while John might have found satisfaction in the act he knew the guilt later would kill them all.

He had used a winch chain trick his father taught him years ago that held tight when horizontal but let go when lifted up vertically. As soon as Wendell hit the water the chains were sliding off but the momentum would have carried him down with them had it not been for the steel leader Melvin fastened to the strap keeping him wrapped.

It was a risk; the breeder man could have snapped the leader and continued on down to the bottom. It was a risk they willingly endured.

Later in the wee hours of the morning a scared and utterly broken man was dropped off at the Four Corners Grange Hall and poured into his father's truck, pointed on the road to Bangor. He didn't need another warning. As far as anybody knew Wendell Acker was never again seen in the State of Maine.

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Dawn on the second morning brought a brilliant profusion of sunlight filtering into the camp through the 10 pane storm windows on the southeastern side. Getting through the night required adding a couple more loads into the stove to keep the bone chilling cold at bay. Long johns, a couple quilts and being quick on the feet when the socks hit the floor were a necessity for both health and comfort.

With three sticks of dried oak popping in the firebox John glanced at the fury of birds hustling for perch space on the chunk of suet on the porch post. The Jays were always the greedy fellows but the small chicks were adept at sneaking in for their quick snack.

When the heavens cleared the previous evening a snarling invisible lick of artic cold descended upon the entire northeast. With just a bit of wind it could be a deadly combination if a man failed to have a place of comfort to retreat to. As a child John used to venture into the woods in the midst of the most challenging storms and shelter himself with fir and spruce boughs cut and stacked to create a snug evergreen abode half buried in banks of snow. It was such memories that always fueled his love for the woods and a driving need to escape to this simplistic place. Folks could never seem to understand why he retreated into his hermit like existence at times. John himself could never fully explain it. To his plain speaking mind it never needed explanation.

An old crow far above sitting in the top of an old white pine announced his decision to take flight with a loud squawk as John shoveled an opening into the old sap house. The loose door pulled open to permit a tight squeeze to the cluttered workspace within. Piled along the side wall were stacks of old 2 gallon pails that were once used to lug sap to the trough feeding the long slide to the boil pans inside the house.

On the backside wall was a collection of old auto license plates going back to 1928 with an assortment of colors and sizes, each one of them holding some memory for the old man. The dark green Dirigo plate M-6452 brought him to a stop...

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"It's a 'H' pattern, Sylvia. Think of it as an H. 1st is the top of the H. 2nd is the bottom of the H away from you and 3rd is the top of the H away from you. Reverse is the bottom of the H closest to you. Now keep the clutch pressed all the way down and practice for me... 1-2-3-reverse and back to 1"

Sylvia struggled with it for a while but after a few tries John felt she was ready for the road or at least the back pasture for her first few tries. She was sitting on the bench seat of the recently acquired 1936 Chevrolet pickup truck using an embroidered pillow to help her see well out the windshield.

The truck was four years old with hardly any miles on it since the widow's husband passed on just a few months after buying it. They were family friends of Sylvia's parents and it was just collecting dust in the garage. John picked it up for a steal at $200. It was easy to say a steal but it nearly took that kind of effort to come up with the money. The widow let them buy it on time and in a couple years they would have it paid off.

"I'm doing it! I'm driving!" Sylvia exclaimed loudly as the truck traversed the grassy knoll bringing her into the upper field."

John just looked over at his wife with a grin on his face and patted her thigh for encouragement. It was the summer of 1940, a slow lazy time in mid- August after the hay season and before fall harvest kicked in.

The Malaise or Hoover's Depression had started to subside some and the spool mill out to town had picked up a bit along with the furniture factory her father was a manager in. Pulpwood prices had started to rise. All things considered the times were beginning to look a bit brighter than they had in some time.

The Dawes marriage had healed some too over the past couple of years. It had taken John a bit of effort but when the new year in 1938 kicked in Sylvia noted the change; a more assertive husband and more aggressive too. They became more inquisitive in bed and they both learned to explore the other's desires. Even still there was just the hint of a soft grey tint over the landscape of their relationship. They each did their best to hide and ignore it and with each passing month it faded further into past reaches.

Sylvia's mother had been spending a greater amount of time with her daughter doing whatever she could to keep the young woman from sliding back into depression. She pulled John aside one afternoon and over hot coffee sitting on a couple of stumps in the back pasture she bared her soul for the benefit of her daughter.

"John Dawes, you are a good man. All of us can see that. A lesser man would have gone bad real quick with all that has happened since you and Sylvia moved out here. You made it through Hoover's Depression in one piece and the two of you stayed together through it all."

John glanced up at her and nodded letting the steam of his cup fill his nostrils with the aroma of fresh coffee.

"She should have come to you after that first time, we all know that but she didn't and it got worse. She hasn't told you much about it, has she?"

"Ma'am, I know you mean well but I'm going to be frank here. I know all I need to know about it. I dealt with it and we've put it behind us."

Sylvia's mother just shook her head. "No, John, you don't know what really happened, especially the last time."

There was a long pause as the two looked at each other before his mother-in-law continued.

"The last time he showed up with two other men, supposedly to help him with the animals. All she could clearly remember was drinking a glass of lemonade and not long after that all three men had her in the bed. They abused her throughout the night. In the morning they forced themselves again. You were running pulp down from Greenville that week and they were long gone before you returned. He drugged her every time; it was the only way she could endure it."

The pent up fury rose like bile in John's throat.

"Does she know who they were, the other two?"

"No, she had never seen them before... John, I'm telling you this because it's eating her alive. She wanted to kill herself."

John took the woman's hand in his and looked into her teary eyes. He really had taken this to the alter and left it there but he also didn't know she had been gang raped in his absence. If he had Wendell Acker would be sitting 120 feet below the surface of the lake that very moment. He might have strangled him with his bare hands before he pushed his carcass into the cold depth.

"Mother, I forgave her everything and I meant it. It wasn't easy and sometimes I regret it but forgiveness is forever. She knows that. We hear it nearly every Sunday and believe it. I'll have a talk with her."

The two of them returned to the farmhouse as Sylvia was readying the prep for dinner. She saw her mother's reddened eyes and a bit of sadness in her husband's but he just greeted her with a kiss on her forehead and excused himself to wash up.

It took a while but a couple months after her mother's talk with John, Sylvia had a long soul wrenching talk with her husband and the two of them came back into the house a man and wife with the air cleared.

Life along Howell's Bend Road continued much as it had; new babies came, a couple kids went off to school somewhere and then the war broke out. John tried to enlist but an old woods injury prevented him from joining; he had lost his left big toe and another when a chain let go and ripped his boot off. He was disappointed for a while especially when he saw a couple of the younger men in the neighborhood going off but he turned his attentions to the farm and his wife.

"John, I'm going to pick a mess of peas for dinner tonight and if you want we'll slice up some of that ham we got cured downstairs." Sylvia called out to John as she cleaned up their lunch dishes.

He gave her a hug and a kiss. "That works just fine for me, dear, maybe biscuits as well."

He headed back out to the barn and watched admiringly as his wife walked toward the garden. Her raven hair was pulled back and tied with a blue ribbon and she waved at him as she entered the gate...

...There had been a light rain earlier in the morning but when the procession of neighbors and family made it to the cemetery across from the community church the skies had cleared and the sunlight filtered down through the birches and fir along the rock walled edge of her final resting place.

Sylvia's mother and father stood with John Dawes as the preacher said his few words and with a stoic gait John reached down and grasped a handful of rich soil before sprinkling it over the dark casket containing his wife of ten years. Each of the neighbors and family did the same until only a caretaker and his helper were left to tend to the actual burial.

Sylvia never came out of the garden. John returned from the barn and caught a glimpse of his wife's gingham dress and the blue ribbon. When he reached her she had already passed on and he held his wife in his arms until the sun began to set behind the trees.

Doc Bradson said it was most likely an aneurism, a bad stroke and Sylvia's mother mentioned that her aunt had passed on from the same malady. It wasn't of any comfort to John other than to know she likely didn't suffer in death.

When all the eating and comforting was over, John turned the 1936 Chevrolet into the drive to the white frame farmhouse on Howells Bend Road. The dark green Dirigo license plate M-6452 stayed visible to passers- by, unmoved, until the chill of fall returned to the highlands of that Maine county...

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The sap house always had a dusty old smell to it, almost perfume to John's nose. In the spring time the fire bed under the evaporators would keep cozy warmth in the place and the three brothers would toast shots of applejack until late at night even though they knew better with morning coming fast.

On this morning there wasn't a fire in the bed and the bitter cold outside was tempered only by the strong board walls between the workspace and the deep snows beyond. John opened the flask on the bench before him and poured a stiff shot into the enameled cup in his hand. It had been a few years since he cooked up a batch of apple liquor. He acquired his stash from one of Melvin Clay's sons down the road.

Melvin and Tim Stone had somehow gotten on with their lives from the events of so long ago. Melvin had died almost 20 years earlier and Mabel was pushing almost 94 years old now. She had outlived one of her kids and another one of them, one of the red heads was fighting emphysema from smoking cigarettes all his life.

Tim Stone and his wife found the peace they needed to live together. She ended up having three more children and the two of them were still living in the farmhouse down to the other end of the road. John kicked at the scruff material at his feet thinking of his old friends. A lot of people had come and go over the years and as he sat there thinking back on it all he realized that it all remains the pretty much the same over the years...

The old crow was back on his perch atop the white pine bellowing out his occasional squawk. John sat there whittling on a piece of dry kindling between sips out of the old enameled cup. He was probably lost in his thoughts when she came up on the sap house after not finding him in the camp.

"John, are you in there?" She yelled out hoping for an answer.

The sound of her voice broke his train of thought and he turned toward the opened doorway to find her standing there smiling as always.

"Yes, dear, I've been in here for the past hour or so. It's cold as a witch's tit out there."

She just giggled and stepped into the shelter of the workspace.

"What do you know about witches, John? I'd hazard a guess not a thing since you've been around an angel as long as I've known you."

"I can't argue about that." He said as he embraced his wife.

"It was a good long walk out here and I've brought a pot of stew and some fresh yeast rolls for us to enjoy this evening."

She took her husband's arm and the two of them made their way back to the camp where she had previously stoked the fire and put a fresh pot of coffee on the stove. Sarah Dawes hung their clothes up on the racks as she had done for years earlier.

Sarah had retired from teaching school out to town after a 40 year career just three years ago and since then she had spent as much time with her husband as he could stand. His proclivity toward solitude was well known and she always respected those boundaries. She also knew when he had been gone past a day or so she'd be welcome under any circumstance.

As the day drew to a close, the two of them cuddled together next to the stove and waited for their mouse friend to make his appearance...

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I drove up to the old white frame farmhouse built in 1917 and lived in by my father from 1934 and my mother from 1946 until each of their deaths. It was still straight as a pin and the barn, while a bit weathered beyond good measure, could be spruced up with a few new boards; the sills were still solid and straight.

There were a lot of stories in the old house, some not so nice and others cherished. I was born in one of the upstairs bedrooms in 1948. I'd like to think it was on a dark and stormy night for the drama but it was actually in the middle of the afternoon on a warm August day.