The
Road to Apology
Author: Kevin Prochaska
Price:
$13.50 paperback
 About
the Book
Perhaps you thought you’d heard all there was to tell about
my little Iowa town when you read A Shot Heard ‘Round. Well,
so did I, but I do believe we missed a few good tales, so I’m
telling them here.
As you might recall, Apology is a town of five hundred souls, located
in southern Corwith County. Its citizens are generally good folks,
and they won’t hesitate to tell you that if you have a mind
to ask. They’re God-loving people, and come in a wide assortment
of both size and peculiarities. The town is just a hair over a mile
long, and people are especially proud of the business district.
There’s Merle’s Grocery Store, Shilling’s Barbershop,
Rutland’s General Store, Anita’s Cafe, the Post Office,
and Duffy’s Tavern, all conveniently located right on Main
Street in the middle of town. St. John’s Church sits on the
north side of Main Street up at the east end, just across the street
from the water tower, and the big grain elevator is located just
north of the downtown, looking down over Fremont Lumber and Supply.
Mayor Owen Fuller runs the town, and Sheriff Everett Hiram, a
bit of a rogue, is perfectly content to let Owen live under that
illusion. Old Duke McCalley, Everett’s use-only-when-desperate
deputy, keeps the sheriff’s days interesting with his often-zany
antics. And then there’s town busybody fat Viola Vanderhoff,
farmer Irk Hickenlooper, saintly Father John Coleman, avid fisherman
Flem Frederickson, gentle giant Tiny Fremont, ace auto mechanic
Plit Butler, skyward-sprawling Tall George Himmel, meek killer Olaf
Clancy, deadly pistoleers Deke and Durham Petler, slightly chubby
cafe owner Anita Biningham, retired pest exterminator Phil Granger,
veterinarian Taylor Cantrell, grocer Merle Oaken, and scowling Grumpy
Donahue. And there are many more folks in town, all with stories
to tell.
The Road to Apology is a collection of ten short stories, beginning
with an unusual chance encounter between two strangers on a lonely
dirt road in Tall Man Riding. Just what is Sheriff Everett Hiram
searching for in A Flash in the Darkness? What is deadly shot Durham
Petler aiming at in A View over the Gun Barrel? What’s hanging
from the ears of all those cattle in Radar on the Range? Who is
that with Lenny Bowman Doing the One-Step? What was the world was
Doris Donahue thinking when she came up with The Thirty-five Dollar
Decision? Who was A Knight in Shining Armor? Where did Olaf Clancy
and Old Duke McCalley take their late night winter ride in Go-Cart
Christmas? These delightful tales are guaranteed to warm the heart
of any reader.
Excerpt:
“Well, who exactly is coming to my farm?”
Irk asked.
“I can’t say,” the man replied, “for security
reasons. But I can tell you he’s very high up in the government.
Very high.”
Irk’s eyes fell upon his scrapbook of newspaper clippings
of Eisenhower.
“Just how high is high?” he asked.
Irk opened the scrapbook, his eyes falling on Ike’s bald pate.
“Like I said, I can’t say,” the man repeated.
“For security reasons.”
Irk thought quickly, trying to figure a way to con some information
from the man.
“Well,” Irk said, “these Iowa nights are getting
kinda chilly heading toward fall– especially for someone short
on hair. Make sure your high official brings a warm hat and gloves.”
There was a moment of silence over the phone line.
“I’ll pass that information along to him,” the
grinning voice replied. “Tomorrow then, Mr. Hickenlooper.
At two o’clock sharp.”
The phone clicked dead, leaving Irk astonished by what he’d
just heard.
“By God,” he muttered. “He took the bait. Ike’s
coming to my farm. President Dwight D. Eisenhower is coming to my
farm. I’ll be go to hell.”
He shook his head, stunned.
“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”
He reached for the phone, but as he did, it rang. He picked up.
“Irk,” an excited voice said, “this is Jacob Witt.
Guess what?”
“I already know,” Irk replied.
“How’d you know about my paint job?”
“Your paint job?” Irk asked. “What paint job?”
“That silly box I built,” Jacob explained. “I
just got a call from that Cleveland guy who came here the other
day. Said the government would give me two hundred and fifty dollars
if I painted that box before tomorrow. Are you hearing me, Irk?
Two hundred and fifty dollars for a half hour’s work! God,
I love this country. God, I love this government!”
“What’s he wanted that old box painted for?” Irk
asked.
“Don’t know,” Jacob replied. “But he said
to ask you. You’d know.”
“Well, I do know, Mr. Let’s-Pull-Something-On-Taylor-Cantrell,”
Irk replied. “Just take a wild guess at who’s coming
over here tomorrow at two o’clock and watching us demonstrate
our wonderful cow radar for him.”
“I dunno,” Jacob joked, “the governor?”
“Don’t get too funny,” Irk warned. “Let
me give you a hint. He’s bald and head of a big, powerful
country. And I mean he’s thee top dog.”
Irk let his words sink in.
“No!” Jacob shouted. “You’re kidding me!
Not Eisenhower!”
“Ike himself.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why in the hell would they pay anyone two hundred and fifty
bucks to paint a box then? To be finished by tomorrow, if not to
impress someone like that?”
Jacob panicked.
“What are we gonna do, Irk? We can’t be fooling the
President of the United States. Ike will have our heads if we embarrass
him like this. And the press will have a field day.”
“Well, it was your idea, Jacob. Now we’re stuck. They’re
coming out here and there’s nothing we can do about it. We
sure can’t call in sick. By the way, just to satisfy my own
curiosity, what color are you going to paint that box, anyhow?”
“Green,” Jacob answered. “Army green. Just like
they told me.”
Jacob did as he was instructed, carefully applying with a brand
new paintbrush a coat of fresh Army green to the outside of the
box that had a few days prior been Neva Hickenlooper’s countertop.
Feeling a bit guilty over the immense profit he was making from
government money, Jacob went ahead and added a second coat just
to ease the burden on his conscience. And by noon the following
day, the Army green box sat on the picnic table in Irk’s backyard,
the smell of newly dried oil paint wafting into the September air.
Irk waited until early that morning to tell Neva who was coming
to visit the farm, hoping that her late entry into the elite circle
of those in the know would stave off any unnecessary transfer of
the secret to the people of Apology. Neva, faithful wife and devoted
Republican, set about baking pies for Ike, much to the satisfaction
of Irk, who knew that rolling out pie crusts on her new Formica
countertop would keep Neva occupied and out of harm’s way.
The fact that strange dark cars began arriving in his yard only
confirmed in Irk’s mind exactly who was coming to his farm.
Serious-looking men in black searched the house and farm buildings,
and at one-thirty the road in front of Irk’s farm was closed
to all traffic. One of the men in black even borrowed a garden hose,
and began watering down a large open area of the driveway west of
the house. Luckily for Irk, both Olaf Clancy and Jacob Witt had
arrived early, before the road was sealed off. Olaf had been sent
upstairs, where he hid in Irk and Neva’s bedroom, chucking
a few ears of corn through the window as insurance that the herd
would be paying attention when the time came. Irk wore his best
denim coveralls and a plaid shirt for the occasion, but was nervous
about how exactly this was all going to play itself out. Taylor
Cantrell arrived just as the road was being sealed, grinning like
a cat.
“How about this?” he said. “A lot of excitement
over what we’re doing out here.”
Taylor was still out of the loop, thinking that the reason his friend
Jim Cleveland, had phoned and invited him out to the Hickenlooper
farm was to expound on the results of the special corn mix. Taylor
carried with him all sorts of papers and hand-drawn graphs, giving
the breakdown of the ingredients, beginning weights of the cattle,
and information about the Dinklaw herd a few miles away. So Taylor
was a bit surprised to find Jacob and Irk standing in the back yard
next to a strange Army green box sitting on the picnic table, the
smell of fresh paint ripe in the air.
“What the hell is that, Irk?” Taylor asked. “Something
the Army brought over?”
Taylor looked over at the cow pen.
“And what the hell are all those wires doing hanging around
my ear tags? Who’s been messing with those cows?”
“Well, Taylor,” Irk said hesitantly, “let me just
explain about that.”
About the time Irk was beginning whatever explanation he was going
to relate to Taylor, a strange sound came to their ears, as if someone
were slapping their hands hard against their chest. The slapping
was faint at first, growing louder.
“What the heck is that?” Jacob asked.
The men looked over to an open area west of the house, where the
driveway widened into the work area of the farm, and to where one
of the men in black had recently sprinkled water on the dusty surface.
A group of black clad men assembled, looking toward the sky.
“Would you look at that?” Taylor said, pointing toward
the treetops.
As the men looked up they spotted two green helicopters approaching,
dropping slowly from the sky as they neared the farm. On the outside
of each helicopter was stenciled the words “United States
Army.”
“Damn!” Irk shouted, turning his head toward the house.
“He’s here, Neva! Ike’s here!”
As the big machines descended and the wheels touched the ground,
Neva opened the back door, freshly baked high top apple pie in hand.
She began walking toward the chopper, proudly holding her warm dessert
as a gift to Ike, but was immediately blocked by a wall of men in
black. One of the men plunged a rounded chrome metal shaft through
the top of the pie, vigorously stroking the rod up and down through
the apple filling to check for explosives.
“Stop that!” Neva demanded, slapping the man’s
hand. “You’re ruining my crust!”
The blades of the chopper slowed and the engines shut down, the
huge aircraft vibrating to a stop. The side door opened on the first
helicopter and a young Army corporal got out, placing a small step
outside the door. He stood away from the exit, blocking the door
open with his body. A second uniformed man exited, followed by a
third man, also in uniform, but different in design from the second
man. It was evident by their ornate uniforms that they were men
of high rank.
“Hey look,” Irk said excitedly, pointing to the inside
of the chopper. “See that bald head. I’d recognize it
anywhere. That’s Ike, sure as shooting. I told you he was
coming.”
Taylor turned to Jacob and Irk.
“Funny you should mention shooting, Irk. Like in firing squad.
That’s what we’re all gonna get when they find out about
whatever it is you guys have cooked up here.”
The door on the second helicopter opened, disgorging five more men
in black who fanned out around the farmhouse, sternly looking things
over.
“Those two guys sure look important,” Irk said, watching
the two uniformed men waiting by the corporal who held the door
open. “They look like generals.”
“Hey,” Jacob said excitedly, “Ike’s getting
out.”
As the bald man got out, a look of amazement formed on their faces
as men in black formed a shield around the visitor.
“Oh my God,” Irk said, stunned.
“Oh my God,” Jacob whispered.
“We’re dead,” Taylor muttered. “Dead, dead,
dead.”
|
