A Storm Within

A Storm Within


"Git yer ass down them steps boy!" came the angry voice of his father behind him. Matty moved as fast as he could down the stone steps that led into the darkness of the cellar. His mother had Bud, his little brother, clutched tight in her arms as she quickly lead the way. Bud buried his face in her shoulder, his tiny arms around her neck. Before long they would disappear into the blackness.

Thunder rolled across the plains and echoed back from distant valleys as shards of fragile rain fell and shattered on the ground. Lightning streaked downward from the sky in jagged spikes making brief and violently beautiful patterns against a backdrop of darkened sky. Matty thought for a moment, as the wind whipped past the opening above, that he heard it whisper something.

"Git that lantern lit, Matty, you good fer nuthin'...." The last of his father's words swept away in a sudden gust of wind. Matty knew what his father was saying from the look on his face and the way his lips slid across grimy, smoke-stained teeth.

They would wait out the weather like they always did, but this time Matty couldn't shake the feeling there was something different about this storm. It came without warning. Rolling in from the west like a fast moving train along oiled tracks. It interrupted one of his parents' nightly arguments. They fought about whether to get the twelve year old pick up truck they bought when Matty was born fixed or to put it off another year while it gained more rust and decay. The latter would be a fitting choice given the forest of decaying farm equipment and out-buildings that surrounded their weather-beaten two story house.

Matty fumbled for the lantern he knew hung a foot above his head. A wave of red hot panic washed over him as he realized the lantern was not there. In desperation, he looked back to see if his father had entered the cellar.

"Dammit, Boy!" Matty's father shouted. The old man was already a few steps behind. He clambered down the first few steps and reached over his head to tug at the cellar door. He belted, "You sure ain't worth a damn boy! Git that lantern lit so I can see what I'm doin'!" He turned back to the door and slid a metal bar he carried with him into two brackets. He pulled on the partially rotted door and guided the bar toward a rusty clasp on the wall.

A small shard of light pierced the darkness and quickly grew to fill the tiny cellar. Matty's Mother shoved the lit lantern at him as she stowed a box of wooden matches into the front pocket of her apron. He shot her a smile and she winked at him as she knelt to grab Bud around the waist and hoist him onto her hip.

Matty spun around to see his father still fumbling with the bar.

"It's about dern time, Matty," His old man shouted.

The cellar door nearly buckled as a strong gust of wind threatened to tear it off it's hinges and carry his Father away with it. Matty felt a tinge of guilt as he dared to utter, "I wouldn't be so lucky."

"What the hell you babblin' about, boy?" Matty's father said as he gave the bar a jerk. "Dammit, never mind that, git up 'ere and give me a hand locking this door."

Matty hung the lantern on a hook above his head. The light it projected danced along the damp walls as it swung. The oil sloshing around in the well of the lantern reminded Matty of his father when he swigged whiskey from the flask he kept in the back pocket of his dirt-stained overalls.

Matty reached up to steady the lantern. He lurched at the sound of his father's voice. "You listening to me, boy!? I had me a huntin' dog smarter than you fer crying out loud. Now git up 'ere and help me git this damn door locked!"

Matty shot up the steps beside his father, who reeked of oily rags and stale whiskey. He could hardly stand to be near his father when he was drunk, which was a pretty common occurrence.

Matty had no choice this time. He had to get close to his father to reach the bar in the man's grubby fist. He had to get there fast or that fist would be up side his head. His father would blame him if the door blew off.

His old man's arms bulged as he pulled hard. Matty could remember a time when those arms were used to tote a plow or toss bales of hay into the barn loft. He admired his father then, even looked up to him, wanted to be like him. Now those arms had become all but idle. A few hard years of drought and insect plagues had done his father in. His old man had allowed the farm to become destitute despite the urgings of his mother to get help from their neighbors or family. Matty did all he could, spurred on by the tender support of his mother. She realized along the way their situation had become hopeless. The blame for what became of their life was not solely his father's, but Matty knew the farm could be saved. His father chose to seek answers at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey and refused to ask for help.

The clasp squeaked and the bar fell into place. Not expecting the sudden give, Matty fell against the wall. The air in his lungs was forced out and a sharp ache shot up his back.

"Damn, boy," Matty's father managed between bouts of laughter. "You ain't worth a shit. You ain't got a lick of sense neither." He was overcome by wheezing coughs from the depths of his smoke charred lungs. When he could manage it, he breathed deeply and spat a glob of phlegm as he exhaled.

Matty's pride suffered the brunt of the damage. He hated for his father to see him crumpled on the floor and nearly in tears. He reached out to his father to beg his help in getting up from the cold steps, but thought better of it and withdrew his hand. His father pulled the flask of whiskey from his pocket, and popped off the lid. He swished the liquid around. "Git up, boy," he said, and took a gulp of whiskey.

Matty loathed the man for what he had become. This was the same man that let Matty drive the tractor his father was so proud of. More blood and sweat went into that tractor than anything else that belonged on the farm. His father would hoist Matty into his lap and hold him close. They would drive up the path, pretending they were pilot and co-pilot flying low over the flat, fertile farmland. "Boy, this is gonna all be yours someday," his father would say. "Learn to love the land and it will love you back." The day the bank took that tractor away was the same day Matty's father took his first drink in ten years. It would be the first of too many.


The cellar door rattled and shook violently. Matty laboriously hoisted himself up. The old man drug his sleeve across his mouth to soak up whiskey from his bottom lip. He stared at the cellar door. His look belied a fear of something familiar.

Matty slid past his father to where his mother and Bud sat on a canvas tarp. Bud had his thumb in his mouth and he clung to their mother. There was something strange about the way his mother looked back at him. It was the look of a mother who had seen far too many years of trying to remain strong in the face of hopelessness. A wooden cross that Matty made hung on a leather cord around her neck. It stood out in the grayness that surrounded her, as if it emanated with pale light. His mother smiled at him and he put his arms around her and Bud.

"What the hell kind of damn fool shit is this?" Matty's father half shouted. "There's a tornado up there 'bout to blow our house to kingdom come and you three is down here playin' huggy face." The look he shot Matty was icy and unforgiving.

His father's glare drifted from Matty to Bud who buried his face in his mother's armpit. If he could , Bud would climb right inside his mother's skin. She used to protect him from his father; now she cowered and hid her face. Matty's father not only destroyed himself, he was hell bent on destroying the entire family. There was no standing up to the man. He resorted to defending himself the only way he knew how. He filled himself full of liquid rage and fury. Their collective hatred of him manifested itself as fear and loathing for the man. He was not blind to their hatred and his way of coping was to subdue them with abuse. They were left with dark bruises, reminders of the man's drunken outbursts.

"Git yer ass over 'ere Bud!" the words slithered through clenched teeth. He lifted the flask, taking a swig of the evil inside. The dark liquid slid down his throat, becoming fuel for a furnace of rage in his gut. Bud looked up at his father. Tears streaked down the boy's cheeks leaving clean trails through layers of dirt. He shook his head at the old man.

"Dammit, Bud. I said git over 'ere," he hissed and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "Your mama ain't gonna keep you from gittin' yours so you better just git over 'ere and take yer licks. You ain't gonna sit there and pretend you don't know what I'm talkin' about. I told you you was gonna have to answer to leavin' the back door open last night so the damn dog can git out and galavant in the road."

Matty's father was so drunk sometimes that he didn't have the composure to get up off the couch to get his wooden paddle. He drilled holes in a piece of flat hickory and whittled one end of it to fit in his hand. He called it 'The Intimator'. He had no idea his version of the word intimidator was a gross butchering of the true pronunciation. But that was beside the point. It did the job just the same. Matty and Bud feared 'The Intimator' and that's all that mattered. It served its purpose, however wrong and dark.

Bud felt the sting of the paddle last night. He left the kitchen door wide open when he came in to wash up for dinner. Croaky snuck out into the yard. The dumb dog took off on a journey that had no real destination. That journey ended in disaster when Croaky ventured onto the county line road. He was struck by a semi-truck and still lay dead on the road. Matty took a shovel to scoop Croaky up to bury him, but his father forbid it. It was a reminder to never leave the kitchen door open again.

Bud's tiny, subdued voice cracked, "I won't do it no more Papa." It was not enough for their father. He glared at Bud through narrow, hate filled eyes. He had obviously forgotten he served a severe beating to Bud last night. The boy lay awake most of the night, eyes filled with tears because it hurt to lie down.

"I'm gonna count to three and if you ain't over 'ere by the time I git done you are gonna wish you was old Croaky layin' out their on the county line road," the old man said through clenched teeth. He glared through those narrow eyes at Bud and began to count. "ONE........ TWO.......," The sound of the door being ripped from it hinges tore through the silence of the pause. Cold air whipped into the cellar. Swirls of rain rushed in like a cavalry charge. Another gust sent the lantern crashing into a corner to be extinguished by waves of rain. A flash of lightning interrupted the darkness. Matty saw his father's face gripped with fear. His mother wrapped her apron around Bud in a futile effort to protect him. A clap of thunder shook the floor.

Matty grabbed his mother and guided her and Bud back into a corner. He turned and saw that the wind and rain no longer encroached on the cellar. His Father stood at the bottom of the steps. His flask of whiskey lay at his feet. The dark liquid slowly seeped out to be consumed by the damp earth.

"Papa," Matty said.

"Shut up, boy." His father glared at him. Matty knew his father meant business. He slunk back into the shadows to join Bud and his mother.

The sound of the storm was a whisper now. No light entered the cellar. Something eerie loomed above. Something dark and insidious. It hovered there, taunting his father.

Matty stole the courage to stand behind his old man. He watched his father's back heave in lazy motions. He pictured the man's chest rising and falling, his eyes blank and thoughtless.

"Matty, come on up 'ere boy," his father whispered, "There's Somethin' at the top of them steps. Git on up there and see what It wants." He turned and put his hand on Matty's shoulder. Billowy grey clouds swept by as they were caught in veins of swift wind. A low rumble of thunder echoed back from far off. Matty felt fear rise inside him. He could not dismiss the feeling of certainty that Something was up there. In an instant he knew It came for him. He didn't know how, but he knew It came to punish him for some transgression. Maybe It was angry at him for not trying harder to save the farm in the absence of his father. That was it. He had failed his family and he had to pay.

"Go on boy." The voice drew him out of the trance he had fallen into. The old man was afraid, Matty knew. This was not foreign to him. His father knew this might someday happen.

"Matty you don't have to go up there if you don't want to," His mother's words made it all come together.

****************
He heard those words before when he was not even as old as Bud was now. He sat on the edge of a gaping hole about where he stood right now. His father shoveled dirt into a pile across the wide opening from where Matty sat. His mother knelt on a canvas tarp, chucking corn into a large woven basket. She hummed softly to herself. His father talked about how they almost lost the farm. Money wasn't stretching as far as it was before Matty was born.

"We had to do somethin'," he remembered his father saying, "One day this is all gonna be yours boy. You can never let this place fall into ruin.You'll have to give back a little of what you take from this land too. If you don't there'll be hell to pay. You understand me Boy!?" There was a mixture of fear and tact in his Father's hardened features. His gaze drove the point deep, and Matty would always remember it.

"Yes Papa," Matty nodded his head vigorously. He aimed to please his old man.

His father grabbed Matty by the waist and pulled him into the hole. Matty grabbed a clump of grass and hung on. "No Papa," He wailed, "Don't make me go in that hole. I'm afraid."

"Oh Matty," his mother said softly. She reached out to touch his hands. His knuckles were white as he strained to pull himself away from his father. "You don't have to go in there if you don't want to."

His Mother pulled him close and his father let go. She wiped the tears from his cheek with the corner of her apron. "You be sure and do as your father says, ok Matty?"

"Uh huh, Mama," the boy muttered and nodded to be sure his mother knew he understood.

"That's a good boy Matty. You just remember that when times get hard you have to keep on going as if your life depends on it. Like your father told you this land ain't cheap. We had to take on some serious matters to keep this land and it ain't all up to us no more whether we get to keep it or not. I don't just mean the banks either, Matty. You just make sure that you listen to your father, that's all."

Later that year a drought threatened the crops on every farm in the county. Times got hard and Matty's father struggled to keep the family's head above water. Crops died at an alarming rate. The Johnson farm on the other side of the county was hit hard. Their crops were stripped clean by an insect plague in a matter of days. Try as the family might, there was no recovery from the disaster. That was the same year a vicious twister hit the county. It ripped through the valley and drove hard across the Johnson farm, leaving a swath of decimated farmland. It laid waste to the family's home and tore the barn asunder. The family sought shelter in their basement. Mr. Johnson was swept away by the twister. Rumors spread that he made a pact with the devil and reneged on his side of the bargain by letting the farm go to pot.

That's all the county could talk about for months. Matty asked his father one day if the rumors were true. "That's a damn fool thing for people to be spreadin'," his father had said, "don't you go believin' that horse shit, Matty." There was no solace in his father's words that day.

****************


Matty knew if he faced whatever came to claim him, things might change. His father would see that he was tearing the family apart. This was all his fault and he bargained with his son's life. Matty loved his father once and knew he could again if the old man let him.

"Dammit, woman, you shut up," his father hissed. With all the resolve he could muster, Matty stepped in front of his father. He thought to blame his father for what happened to the farm, but he knew it would serve no purpose. It was time to tell his father how he felt.

"I'm gonna do like you said Papa, but you have to set things right." A tear ran down Matty's cheek, "You have to take care of Bud and Mama. They ain't done nothing wrong and they will love you again. I promise Papa."

His father looked at Matty. He was stuck in the moment. Matty never spoke up to the old man, who was frozen by his son's courage. Matty's words rung so true. Memories of things past flashed in his father's mind. He saw Matty standing in his lap, trusting that he'd never let the boy fall as they raced along a dirt path on their tractor. Nothing stood between a father and his son then. But all that changed when Matty's father decided he wanted more than he was willing to work for.

Matty had never seen his father cry. Not even the day they took his tractor away. But today was different. All the years of pent up rage and self pity came washing out. He slowly went to his knees, and reached out to draw his son close. He hugged him so tightly that the boy struggled to breath. He could hold it no longer. The tears flowed, unclouded by hateful thoughts.

Matty hugged his father back and stroked the man's head. If he was going to do this, it had to be now. "It's time Papa," he said as he beckoned his father to release him. "You have to let go now."

The old man clung to his son. Matty pulled away, and his father crumpled on the cold, earthen floor and wept. It was too much for him to bear to see his son pay for a mistake he made so many years ago. Regret and anguish overwhelmed him.

Matty looked up at the swirling clouds in the sky. He was mesmerized by the beautiful patterns they made as they were swept along by currents of wind. He shrugged himself out of the dream-like state he was in. Sheathed in the armor of his own conviction, he started up the steps. He didn't know what waited for him at the top and he was overcome with awesome, gripping fear. As he climbed the steps he was stopped abruptly by his father who pulled him back, one step at a time.

"No, Boy," the old man whispered, "It don't want you." He motioned for his son to get behind him and looked at Bud who still clung to his mother. He managed a smile. He turned to his wife. A longing for forgiveness worked its way onto the man's face. He mouthed the words I love you and turned to climb the steps. As he neared the top he spun around, this time looking at Matty. He winked at the boy, "Matty, you remember what I said. You learn to love this land and it will love you back." Those were the last words he ever said to anyone as he passed beyond the opening at the top of the steps.