An Hour Before Noon

Nels Hanson

…..Behold a pale horse!
…..The white stallion was running across the fields, crazy, breaking down vineyards, trailing long snags of stakes and tangled wire, felling orchards, crashing through windows and walls of houses, dragging clotheslines with red shirts and dresses still pinned to the plastic-covered cable, the metal T’s collapsing and dancing along.
…..The horse—was it Dancer?—grew bigger and bigger as it galloped, as if it ate what it destroyed, now heading for the blue gums that suddenly appeared as grass around its knees.
…..Its great hooves and teeth flashed white as it tried to escape the barn it pulled on the rope, the barn’s unlatched door swinging open and shut.
…..A hawk with wings like a rainbow, bright blue and green and yellow and red, with rose and then violet, deep lavender at the tips, the pinions, circled overhead, waiting its chance as Delmus raised the gun to shoot the horse.
…..Bang!
…..I smelled gun smoke, my eyes and throat burned.
…..But the hawk was a kite, made of paper, like the cloth butterfly on my embroidery wheel. The string broke and it flew straight up, to the moon that was full, red, the color of blood.
…..Or was it the sun? Was this the Last Day?
…..And the horse trotted off, Delmus hadn’t shot it, only the rope, a perfect aim.
…..The hawk was what the horse was running from, not the barn, the barn had become the hawk, it had been all along—
…..I had awakened with my heart pounding. It had been three by the clock on the night table. Delmus hadn’t come to bed. Where was he? I’d lain back, listening to the silence of the house, waiting for his steps in the hall. Listening for rain. I hadn’t got back to sleep until nearly six.
…..Now I stood with the refrigerator door opened, cold air chilling my face. Hopalong Cassidy’s white horse Topper gleamed in the light bulb’s glow.
…..I stared at the horse, not taking the carton to add milk to my coffee. On its other side were pictures of kidnapped children.
…..I shut the refrigerator door and like a blind woman retraced my steps, past the strange, dewy boot prints on the linoleum. Two different men.
…..The Sunday Bee was spread out on the kitchen table, next to the little gold butterfly on the chain.
…..I sat down, looked again with amazement at the headlines:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY—FERRARO BITES BIG APPLE!

ANGELS IN FIRST!

MILLION ANCHOVIES FLOOD SANTA CRUZ BEACH

L.A. HILLS BURN IN ARSON FIRE

RECORD STREAK ENDS; NORTHERN AIR COOLS SCORCHED VALLEY

SUSPECT QUESTIONED IN STANDPIPE MURDERS

…..And again, the banner headline:

FRESNO PREACHER CHARGED IN BUS KIDNAP

…..My world had changed between the time I’d gone out to the road to get the paper and when I’d finally sat down at the table to read it.
…..Now my kitchen looked odd—as if its real owner had died or slipped into another room, as if out front my car had run out of gas and I’d walked up the driveway and climbed the steps and when no one answered I’d entered someone else’s silent house.
…..Again, I began the lead story:
…..The map was crowded with arrows and X’s, a question mark for the unidentified farm where the kidnapper had stopped to call the church camp, not the hospital in Reedley.
…..He’d driven up into the Sierras, sure the power of prayer would heal the little girl, Sherry Longwood, 11, who only had a stomachache.
…..“It’s just green apples,” Hobbs said to Sherry.
…..The whole way up the sheer-cliffed pass he had led the terrified children in prayer.
…..“I thought he was crazy, he was going to kill us,” Linda Johnson, 8, stated. “He yelled, like sometimes in Sunday School. He got all upset.”
…..“He waved his arms while he drove around the curves. We thought we might wreck,” an unnamed child reported.
…..A few children had tried to flag down passing cars, but the motorists had smiled, waving back at them.
…..“He was angry, real mean. He said he would hit us if we didn’t pray for Sherry,” said Gregory Monroe, 9. “We were all crying.”
…..At the Sierra Bible Camp, just east of Kings Canyon, Frankie Peters, 12, had broken away and found a ranger.
…..A helicopter from Auberry was radioed, and in half an hour Hobbs was taken into custody by sheriff’s deputies.
…..A rescue team flew the girl to Fresno, where doctors performed an emergency appendectomy at St. Agnes. Her conditioned had been upgraded to “fair.” In the picture her parents leaned above her bed, wearing surgical masks and holding up her favorite doll.
…..Sherry wasn’t smiling. She looked groggy, afraid, a tube bandaged to her nose.
…..The adjoining photos above the map showed the old school bus with crime tape wrapped around it, then Reverend Randy Hobbs in handcuffs, in the shirt he wore yesterday when he’d pulled the orange bus into the yard, same Reagan button and crucifix tie tack. His head was down, like a caught mobster—the caption gave his statement:
…..“He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not.”
…..A whole list of Fresno ministers gave their opinions. The D.A. announced an investigation of Hobbs’ church, Dear Jesus by the Waters. That was the name written across the orange bus.
…..The last two years several older members of the congregation had died under suspicious circumstances—Hobbs ran his own “Meals-On-Wheels” for his church’s senior citizens and bodies were about to be exhumed. Reverend Hobbs was the heir in several wills, including the last testament of a woman who died yesterday.
…..The paper trembled in my hands.
…..Mrs. Everett Lawrence, 78, 4344 Brown Street, Fresno
…..It was true, it was Mrs. Lawrence—Hobbs had poisoned her!
…..And yet I felt calm, almost relieved. Behind me the refrigerator made its little humming sound.
…..That name and address had been written on a little card pinned to the front of my white dress the first week at school when I’d moved in with the Lawrences.
…..I had known for a while my mother was taking me to their house in Fresno but I cried as Dolly drove up the 99.
…..Each time another highway sign came up, I thought this time the 99 would change to 100, but it never did. I stared at the flowering oleanders that divided the road, remembering they were poison, that if you ate the blossoms you’d die.
…..But when Dolly was ready to leave I was the one who had to comfort her.
…..“Here, here now,” Mrs. Lawrence insisted, trying to separate us at the curb. “It’s all for the best.”
…..Mrs. Lawrence took my arm and walked me up the line of rosebushes to the stoop, then through the half-open door. The air was stale; I smelled the dusty gloom of pulled curtains.
…..The Lawrences were always leaving one church, finding another, then leaving it, none of them quite right, quite holy enough, always the wrong preacher. Now they’d found the last one, their old deacon’s Big D, Death and the Devil. At least they’d never denied me medical attention.
…..Or had they? Is that why I’d become a nurse?
…..In shock at his wife’s death, Mr. Everett Lawrence, 84, suffered a stroke and was admitted in critical condition to Intensive Care at Fresno Community.
…..I should go see him, but I wouldn’t.
…..It would be on the news, but I didn’t want to know any more.
…..Out of a thousand farms, why had Hobbs stopped here, at the home of his victims’ foster daughter?
…..Last night, after the rain-delayed Angels game was over, the Four Horsemen had suddenly filled the TV screen:
…..Galloping, hooded, the skeleton rider was in front, swinging his scythe through an endless terror-stricken crowd who fell in swaths like cut wheat. Hoof beats echoed loud as thunder, the film crackled in scratchy black and white, a documentary, a picture of something that had happened before.
…..A man in a suit appeared, instantly, without introduction, in what looked like a carpeted, dimly lit classroom.
…..Precise, scientific, with a pointer and a map, he explained how very soon the world would end, in earthquakes, eruptions, hail and fiery rain, plague, famine, locusts and frogs. He gestured to the shadowed, wheeled blackboard, where the word was spelled in large perfect red lettering—

APOCALYPSE

…..And below it, in white:

777

…..“Seven angels, seven trumps, seven seals,” he intoned, staring, frowning with thought.
…..Then, swiveling, like a busy general, back to the map—
…..“The final battle will be here, at Armageddon, on the plain of Megiddo due north of Jerusalem, where the Russian hordes and the American armies converge. Hath not our own President, the Commander and Chief of these United States, prophesied that the USSR is the Evil Empire?”
…..He tapped sharply, three times, with his stick.
…..“Near Golgotha, the Place of the Skull, in the shadow of the Cross, on ground above Adam’s bones, the bed of Eve’s Sin below the Serpent’s branch, the Beast will be defeated. He has a mark on his forehead, the number 666. This is also his name, encoded. The Hammer and Sickle are the Great Whore’s devices, her banner and colors blood-red with the vitals of the martyred Saints.
…..“After untold carnage, Satan’s forces will be destroyed, the dead will rise, the Lamb will rule from his Earthly throne.”
…..He paused, closing his eyes and taking a breath, as if hesitant, unnerved by the next point of his presentation.
…..“Only 144,000 souls will be saved . . . .”
…..That was half of Fresno.
…..Wearing a curly blonde toupee and a pink shirt and gold and silver tie, his vest protruding in a gray quarter moon, he set his pointer down smartly beside the black enormous Bible on the lectern, and turned back to the camera, slowly, his eyes shining.
…..“It hath been said that no man knoweth the day or the hour, only the Father knoweth. But I say, can this be far off, is it far rather than near? ‘He will come like a thief in the night,’ scripture tells us.
…..“Be vigilant, my friends, my brethren,” he said now, menacingly, smiling with compassion and concern. “Don’t you be caught asleep when the Master tries to wake your household.”
…..Abruptly the station went off the air, the screen filled with buzzing snow as if the signal were broken and War had begun . . . .
…..My leg hurt. I looked at it.
…..The back of the calf was swollen, the horseshoe bruises starting to color.
…..When I’d gone to get the paper, one of Mrs. Watkins’ dogs had darted across the pavement, leaping at me, snarling. I struck the larger one with the rolled-up newspaper. But the smaller dog had come up behind me and snapped at my leg.
…..The Dobermans worked as a team, one getting my attention while the other charged in for the kill, the way they’d chase and trap a rabbit. Then a gun went off in the barnyard and the dogs veered away, racing back across the road.
…..I’d lifted my hem and looked at the bite—no skin broken, just a bloodless double U, the impression of two rows of teeth. I was sick of Mrs. Watkins.
…..Baylor’s truck had been parked in Mrs. Watkins’ driveway, its tailgate and bumper plastered with stickers:

U.S. OUT OF U.N. IMPEACH ROSE BIRD       REAGAN ’84

SCREW IRAN God Bless John Wayne           Make My Day!

When Guns Are Outlawed, Only Outlaws Will Have Guns!

…..Baylor and Mrs. Watkins were probably planning strategy on the Rushmore petition, getting Reagan’s head carved in stone, taking up where they’d left off at campaign headquarters in town. Or putting the finishing touches on Baylor’s column about Dolly Mable. “The Way It Was.”
…..And there’d been another truck in Mrs. Watkins’ yard, with a placard on its driver’s door:

Wilson Chevron
East and Alma
Acacia, CA 93721
579-4533

…..It had backed out, then pulled into our driveway.
…..“Dolly Mable live here?” the man asked from his window.
…..He was about Delmus’ age, with bushy black eyebrows, a gold tooth, heavy oil-stained hands on the wheel.
…..“No,” I said. “Who said she did?”
…..“The woman across the street. Mrs. Watkins. She said Dolly was your mother.”
…..“She’s wrong,” I said.
…..He looked past my shoulder at the house.
…..“I’m looking for her. And Eddie Dodge. I followed him from Acacia but I lost him.”
…..“Eddie Dodge?”
…..“He didn’t show up for work this morning.” He reached for the door handle, to get out of the truck. “Dolly inside?”
…..“Nobody by that name lives here.” I began to walk away. “I’m going to call my husband.”
…..Another shot rang out.
…..“No, don’t do that,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m upset. He’s not taking care of Dolly’s car right—”
…..He rubbed his forehead.
…..“Can you give her this for me?”
…..He bent his head, taking a gold chain from his neck.
…..“I don’t want it. You’ve got the wrong person—”
…..“No, go ahead. Take it. I know she’s here.”
…..He held it out the window.
…..A gold charm, a little butterfly, dangled at the end, shining.
…..“Dolly should have it. Tell her—”
…..He hesitated, choked with emotion.
…..“Tell her Hack sends his love.”
…..I took the necklace, careful not to touch his oily fingers.
…..Was Wilson the Standpipe Strangler?
…..“She knows how to reach me.”
…..He shifted, grinding gears and drove off, gravel flying from the spinning tires.
…..Back in the kitchen I heard the rifle firing again. How many shots did it take to kill a pig?
…..I had unfolded the paper, seen the map, Reverend Hobbs and the bus, the little girl. I hadn’t known yet Mrs. Lawrence was dead, Mr. Lawrence near death. Then the phone had begun to ring. The police? Reporters?
…..It was Baylor, shouting at me.
…..“No one shot her dog,” I said loudly. “It attacked me. I’m the one who should be angry!”
…..“Goddamn it,” Baylor said. “I don’t care!”
…..Maybe he could hear after all.
…..“I want to talk to Delmus. You tell Delmus I’m coming over.”
…..“Fine,” I said. “He wants to talk to you.”
…..“I’m going to write a story!” Baylor shouted. “About your mother. She’s Dolly Mable, she’s famous, she’s a whoor! Delmus is going to divorce you! You’ll never see a dime of my money!”
…..“I’ll sue you,” I said. “For libel.”
…..But the phone was dead in my hand. I slammed it down.
…..Baylor Buford Clark. 666.
…..I went out to tell Delmus—
…..Now I heard yelling. I stood up from the table, looking out the kitchen window.
…..Kate’s horse galloped through the yard, ears back flat, brown eye white-rimmed with fear, Delmus and the other men chasing it, Delmus swinging a rope.
…..A fat man I didn’t recognize stood in the flowerbed next to the Hollywood plum. He had a big stone in his hand.
…..I turned, then heard someone talking just beyond the window, close to the house.
…..“Below Mt. Whitney, up in Independence, some days you look up and there’s Fresno, people walking down the streets. Clear as day, right there in the clouds.”
…..It sounded like Aaron Winters. I loved his voice, its gentleness. Delmus had said Aaron was coming.
…..“What! What’d you say!”
…..It was Baylor, yelling like a foghorn.
…..“A mirage!” Aaron said loudly. “I’m talking about an optical illusion.”
…..“What about the oil?” Baylor sounded out of breath. “I heard you found oil!”
…..“Where’d you hear that?”
…..“Wait right here! I got to talk to Delmus!”
…..A white car drove in.
…..I stepped out onto the porch.
…..Skinny Earl Green was holding Kate’s horse by a rope, while Delmus slipped a halter over its head. Earl had a fatuous smile on his face, as if he’d caught the horse by himself, as if the horse were somehow his marriage, his wife, he’d finally fixed something. He looked like Ed Norton, Art Carney, in “The Honeymooners.”
…..Delmus was talking to Frank Silva.
…..“I told him he could,” Frank said. “He said he was a cowboy, in Mexico. It’s my fault.”
…..“Forget it,” Delmus said, fastening a buckle. “I know how it is to want to ride. Let me put on the saddle, he can ride all he wants. Just tell him to stay clear of the blue gums. And across the street, the neighbor’s got dogs.”
…..A bell sounded, close, deafening, startling the horse again.
…..The man with the stone had hit the old gong.
…..“Cut it out!” Delmus yelled. “You’ll spook ’er again!”
…..Baylor ran up, pulling at the sleeve of Delmus’ blue denim shirt. Delmus hadn’t showered or changed his clothes. Where had he slept? His cap was gone.
…..“You shot her dog, goddamn it! And that’s not all!”
…..“Get away from me!”
…..Delmus was trying to shake Baylor off. In his little high-heeled boots and tall black Stetson, cowboy shirt with pearl buttons and string tie, Baylor kept at Delmus like a terrier, nipping at his ankles.
…..The horse was rearing. Earl Green let go, but now Delmus had the rope.
…..Baylor turned and ran back to Aaron who stood on the lawn.
…..“Oil!” Baylor cried, his mouth opening in an “O” to show his gold-capped teeth. “You and Delmus are holding out on me!”
…..Aaron looked older, frailer, a beardless Gabby Hayes to Delmus’ Roy Rogers. But he was smiling, even at Baylor.
…..Four men stood around Delmus. It was their car that had pulled in, with the Texas plates and the silver horse on the hood. They were the ones who had drunk beer under the walnut tree yesterday—
…..Frank Silva translated. The man with the mustache pointed up at an upstairs window. Delmus held the horse by the halter, with his other hand rubbing its forehead.
…..Silva shook his head.
…..“No—No hay mujeres aquí.” Silva laughed. “They think you’ve got women upstairs,” he said to Delmus.
…..“What?”
…..“Women. He says he saw a woman at the window yesterday. She waved for him to come up.”
…..Silva giggled.
…..“Give ’em a beer, anything, get rid of them—” Delmus headed for the barn, leading the nervous horse.
…..Silva got cans of beer from the washtub of ice inside the barn’s door and the four men walked over to the grinder under the catalpa. They looked over at the screened porch, then up at the second story.
…..They were angry and hurt, it was all right for the other men to be here. The driver said something, glaring at me, and they went back to the white car. It pulled down the driveway, slowly, the silver horse glinting on the hood.
…..“Tell me about the oil,” Baylor said, “or I’ll tell everyone here!”
…..“Shut up,” Aaron said softly. “Or I’ll kill you—”
…..I went back into the kitchen. I sat down, staring at the headlines. They were like black bars.
…..I turned to the horoscopes.

…..VIRGO: You’re juggling a dozen colored balls while you balance on a tightrope between two mountain peaks. But have no fear! Hard times are over! Finally, your ship comes in. The future is yours.

…..Dolly and Kate were Virgos too.
…..I looked at Delmus’ Scorpio. Then at Aries, the Ram, Baylor’s sign. Pisces. Cancer. Capricorn. There’d been a mistake, a printer’s error. They all said the same thing.
…..I turned back to the front page.
…..The headlines were the real horoscopes. Every letter and word hid some other meaning, like my mother’s Spill and Spell. What was it?

BIRTHDAY  APPLE  ANGELS

FLOOD  FIRE  KIDNAP

MURDERS

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The End

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→VOLUME 12