Young Offender, Part 55:
"Junior! Did you finish mending the fence?"
He looked up from the corral over towards where Jed Cody stood on the front porch of the bunk house. Junior removed his hat and wiped his arm across his sweaty forehead. "Not yet. Need more nails," he called back.
The man disappeared to the barn and came out with a bucket full of them a few moments later. He sat the bucket down beside Junior. He reached in the bucket for more nails as Jed got his own hammer from his overalls. They proceeded to finish fixing two rails and straightening out a crooked post.
"I swear, I'm selling that crazy mustang! I'm tired of fixing this dad-blamed fence every time he gets a notion to run off."
"He's not a bad horse. Just young," Junior softly explained, having the most time trying to break the young horse.
"He about broke your neck along with this fence! Good thing you're a big feller and could take that fall. You're one of the best hands I got! I ain't losing you because Thunder gets agitated."
Junior didn't reply. The man wasn't very laid back, but his anger usually blew over quickly. Finally, they finished repairing the fence. The old man stretched to the sky and slapped Junior on the shoulder.
"Time for some grub. Martha made an apple pie this morning. Your favorite, Junior, and she won't take no for an answer."
Junior didn't like to turn down a dinner invitation from his boss. Martha, Jed's wife, was a great cook and also from the same tribe as Junior: Navajo. Jed was a mix of different European ancestry, but he frequently hired Navajos to work on his expansive ranch. Enjoyable work was hard to find for an eighteen year old Navajo that had only had an opportunity for an eighth grade education. Especially, a type of work where he could savor traditional Navajo food occasionally.
Junior picked up the bucket and followed his boss. They put up the tools and washed up at a water pump in the front yard of the cream colored farmhouse with a few clucking chickens by the porch. Right on time, Martha Cody came out to the front pouch and waved at them.
"That smells great!" Jed called out.
"Mutton and hominy," she called back. They went into the small house and sat at table. Jed blessed the food and invited Junior to dig in. "So Junior, did you hear about that new show? That... carnival show?!"
He glanced up to see Martha's face had a disapproving scowl. Jed chimed in, "It's that no good, snake, Two-Feathers Yazzie. He's been stirring things up for years. He thinks creating an old-fashioned Wild West show will bring him tons of cash, but it ain't so! One hundred years too late. This is 1974, dad-nabb-it! All it does is disrespect the Navajo and robs people of their dignity! He's selling out his own people! You mark my words, anyone who joins is going to lose their pride."
"He's using peoples' desperation. So many Navajo are out of work, and he's offering them a lot of money," Martha explained softly. Junior could tell they were both upset, but her frail health required more calm. Junior wished his boss wouldn't get so loud around Martha any more.
"Maybe I should go talk to them. Chief Overturff?" Jed mused.
"He won't listen. He's just as desperate," Junior pointed out.
Jed let out a loud sigh. "Well, you won't go running off to that Wild West show, at least. Even if you had no job here, you wouldn't go?"
"No, sir. It's offensive and disrespectful. I wouldn't mind sharing our culture, but not selling it out for money."
"Well, good for you, Junior," Martha said. "I'll get you some pie."
Chang Ko examined the elaborate food he'd prepared for several officials from Chairman Mao's cabinet. His dishes had earned him certain fame at the young age of thirty-three among the Party's elite, and he enjoyed more privileges than most in the lean times happing throughout China. Of course, those weren't discussed, just observed.
He placed the steaming dishes on a cart. He glanced over towards the back door that thumped open with a loud bang. He wiped his hands seeing it was Wing Li. "Where have you been?" Chang demanded, irritated his brand new sous chef had disappeared.
"Old Mister Yang showed up. He's furious with you! Still!"
"Old Mister Yang should have thought about his job as my sous chef before running off and getting drunk every time I needed him," Chang explained. "Besides, I don't have time to deal with him. Chairman Mao's cabinet is here. If they're impressed, they'll recommend me to Chairman Mao himself. Now, get the kitchen clean while I go serve."
With that order and a sense of pride swelling in his chest, Chang shoved the cart towards the dinning room. He kept his eyes lowered to the banquet table, but lifted them when he heard Yang's voice, little above a whisper. The man who Yang whispered to was an official of Chairman Mao's, and his face was growing more unpleasant.
The official stood, glaring at Chang; Yang wore a triumphant expression. "You have insulted our dear leader. This man has told me what you've said behind closed doors."
"Older Mister Yang was dismissed for drunkenness, a crime against the People," Chang explained, wondering what lies Yang told about him.
"Seize them both! We'll get to the bottom of this at the police station," the official bellowed. Before Chang knew it, two bodyguards of Mao's officials had him by the arms and were dragging him from his restaurant.
He counted himself lucky by that night. He was being shipped out to the country for "re-education" on a farm. Yang never made it out of the police station.
"Cheers to you, Great Britain! Your performance was beyond all expectations," the director of London's most popular play called out. He stood at the head of the large banquet table and lofted his wine glass towards the actor at the other end of the table. Applause around the table broke out and GB got to his feet. After giving a slight bow to his director, he lofted his scotch glass and flashed him a brilliant smile.
"This is going to be a good, long run. Coriolanius is quite a challenge, one I'm throughly enjoying. This vehicle will propel me to American shores; hopefully, Hollywood soon."
"Here, here!" shouts when up from the crowded table. GB took a big swig from his glass, enjoying the slight buzz. He looked over towards his right at the empty chair. He bit down his annoyance at his girlfriend, Sophie, and flopped back into his own chair.
Conversations broke out around him, many admirers vied for his attention. Most were young ladies and he didn't fail to give them proper attention. It took his mind off of his cooling relationship with Sofie for a few hours.
Several glasses of scotch later, he wandered to his apartment, not really wanting to arrive. He fumbled around for his keys in his pocket, a little too tipsy to keep hold of them. He swore at them after they hit the ground in front of his door. As he bent over to retrieve them, his head swirling, the door swung open. He looked up, but had to catch himself against the door jamb from falling over. It was Sofie standing there, looking worried.
GB straightened up and fixed her with a hostile glare. "Where have you been? Didn't you remember the dinner tonight? For the opening of Coriolanius?"
"Come in! You'll wake the neighbors up," she hissed, blushing brightly. GB stumbled in and plopped down on the sofa. It was new, along with the wallpaper. Now that he was becoming more famous, he could afford some of the nicer things.
Sofie pulled up an overstuffed ottoman and proceeded to remove GB's dress shoes. He asked sharply, "Where were you anyway? You weren't at the performance, either?" She finished tugging off his shoes, but paused for a very long moment.
"I had an appointment this afternoon I had to keep. I had some thinking to do tonight," she said, standing up. She headed to the kitchen and came back with tea and cookies. "There's something I have to tell you."
GB suppressed his irritation and took a sip of his tea. "Well, go on. I'm listening," he prompted when she seemed to freeze up.
"I'm pregnant," she blurted out. Her face was joyful, but he could tell she was nervous by her trembling shoulders. His pleasant buzz drifted away. He felt as if he had been punched in the gut when his alcohol soaked brain processed the meaning of her words.
He set aside his tea on the coffee table and glared at her. "I thought we had an agreement. About birth control and stuff."
"We did, but I guess things didn't go as planned. Besides, you're thirty-eight. Isn't it time we settled down, anyway? A baby is a good reason."
Irritation flared to the surface. "I haven't met my goals of getting to Hollywood, yet! You knew that was the plan: Hollywood first, then we'd see about a wedding and a baby. This really puts my plans in a bind."
"No, you see, you can still work as an actor. I'll take in some more seamstress work. We'll manage. You'll see, it'll turn out fine," she said.
GB crossed his arms and snorted. "We'll be broke again, Sofie! I can't afford to take care of a child."
"Please, just sleep on it, love. I know the idea will grow on you," Sofie said, before bustling out of the room. Panic started to set in after she left the room. GB knew if Sofie would have his child, his acting career would be finished. Actors only became family men after they'd made it big. Also, he knew Sofie would stop tolerating his occasional philandering, and his constant tavern crawling would be cut off.
He gave a light kick to the coffee table and mulled over what to do. He still wasn't married to Sofie. There was no contract, so he could quietly break up with her. She might get him on paternity, but he could leave and get away to American after Coriolanius came to a close.
He sighed and leaned forward, elbows resting on knees. His mind thought back to that first picnic date with Sofie by the riverside. The memory of her lovely eyes pricked his conscious. No, he'd have to find a way to keep his career on fire and take care of a new family. A child would mean the world to her, and he knew it. He clenched his fists and vowed to find a way, for Sofie's sake, since she had sacrifice so much for him.
Pyunma's youngest sister, Anan, finished mending their father's khaki shirt and held it up for inspection in the dawn light. He smiled at the girl and took the shirt from her. "I'll take this to father. Why don't you go help mother with the breakfast?"
"Okay, but don't take too much time. Mother gets irritated," Anan warned before scampering off towards their lodge on the other side of the encampment. Pyunma picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder before going over the warriors' lodge towards the west. He pushed aside the brightly patterned cloth covering the doorway and let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
"Pyunma! There you are," his father, Kwabena, stood with some of the older men from their tribe. There was a high tension in the room. Voices were quiet, but angry. Everywhere Pyunma looked there was nothing but scowls, even on his father face.
He handed the shirt to his father. His father took the shirt and put it on. "I want you to go back to your mother's lodge and wait for me."
"But, Father, you promised I could go with you this time," Pyunma reminded him.
"Hush, boy. Do as I say."
"I'm sixteen. I'm a man now and should be allowed to be in the hunting party," Pyunma insisted softly with averted eyes. He wanted to show his father respect, but he was the oldest teen in his tribe not included on a regular bases in the hunting parties. He spotted two others who were only fourteen gearing up for the hunt.
His father's face turned stormy. He yanked Pyunma with him to the outdoors. He shook Pyunma slightly and got into son's face. "I told you, our enemies are out there, hunting, too. You need to stay home and guard your mother and sisters."
"That's why I want to go! How am I to maintain my fight skills if I'm left behind to watch after the women?"
"It's important, Pyunma. You're one of the best warriors I've ever seen. I'm proud of you, but you need to stay behind to protect what we come home to. Of the young warriors, you're the best. You are the only one I trust to do this without help. "
"Father, please let me go with you."
Kwabena's face softened and he put his hand's on Pyunma's shoulders. "I understand, but we need a skilled warrior to stay and raise up new warriors if we lose to our enemies. Someone needs to stay and carry on the traditions of our ancestors. You are that person. You're the most trustworthy and respectful. I have faith in you. That's why you must remain behind."
"I understand," he said invigorated, after steadying his emotions and feeling a surge of pride at his father's trust. "I will never let you down!"
"Good. Now get going."
Pyunma almost turned to leave after his father went back into the lodge. Instead, he crept around to the side and listened through the wood planks. There were angry grumbles and talk of murdering the rival tribe to the north, encroaching deeper into their hunting lands. Tensions were escalating, and no peace was in sight.
Pyunma ran off toward home, knowing now his father went to make war, not hunt. Anger flared in Pyunma's heart; he was good, and he could be of real use to his father if he were going to provoke a fight. He shook off his anger and ran faster towards his mother's lodge. His father was right to leave him behind, if the rival tribe decided to retaliate, there would be too many vulnerable people.
Francoise gripped her hands tighter, eyes riveted to Ivan's inert body on the operating table in the upper laboratory of the Sicilian villa. Gilmore took out the last tube from Ivan's arm; he then gave him a shot in the arm. Gilmore stepped aside and smiled.
"Don't worry, 003. He'll wake soon, good as new."
"He looks so odd," she mumbled.
"I told you, my formula can only be used up to a point. Pushing him towards an adult body just wasn't going to work, no matter what I tried," Dressler said. "I think it was the cancer. I know he looks very frail, but I would count on on him regaining his strength."
"When will he wake up?" Albert asked.
"Should be..." Kozumi started, but Ivan stirred on the table.
"Now!" Kaminari finished with glee.
Ivan took a large gasp of air. His hand moved lazily towards his mouth. His eyes fluttered open. Francoise noticed both his eyes were mismatched still. He said something weakly, his eyes drooped close.
"What did you say? Ivan?" she asked.
"He said it was nice to see you again, and he's very hungry," Gilmore translated from Russian. Ease and delight filled Francoise. She jogged downstairs to make Ivan a hearty breakfast.
To be continued