Chapter
Fallen Sparrow
Coming down the stairs, the table was set up right nice. Beautiful smells drifted through the air.
Tom was leant back in his throne with one arm slung over his back sitting like a king rather than the servant of this fine display.
He was watching Joe.
His cheeks heated as he felt the scrutiny in Tom's gaze. Obediently, he took his seat not wanting to give Tom anything to jump on.
"What took you so long?"
"I had to change." He responded after a gulp. "I was in my night ware." He spoke honestly.
"You weren't sleeping this entire time. I heard you playing. Why weren't you dressed?"
"I forgot."
"Of course you forgot, because it doesn't suit you. No. Your first thought when you wake up is how to satisfy your own whims. I let you sleep. I give you that time. Is that enough? Did you get up and dress for the day ready to do for others? No. Because that doesn't suit you. Instead you wait for my time. Now all of a sudden you remember your responsibilities. The simple task of dressing yourself you've managed to turn into a to do. This was not something I felt like I would ever have to say but I might have known that of all people I'd ever known, you'd be the one to make me. When you wake up, you get dressed, promptly. Get yourself ready to work for the day."
"Yes sir."
He stared at the boy in agonizing moments. Joe, crawling in his skin, startled, when Tom propped up after a swipe of his upper lip.
Lifting the lids from the steamy dishes, he served up Scotty; squash, rice and a cut of beef and then himself. Joe, with a desperate appetite, was served from a fourth dish. He was greeted with no more than a cut of bread and gifted with water to wash it down. When Tom sat back, he knew that was all he would get. He curbed his regret well aware of how keenly Tom was watching him for any adverse reaction.
Across the table from him, Scotty had that same appearance of remorse for what Joe had been through; for what his father was putting him through. He regretted his own fine meal being used as a means to punish his friend. He didn't want his meal if Joe couldn't indulge in the same but he knew better than to challenge his pa. Joe hinted with a nod to let his younger companion know it was alright, their silent communication enough to appease the younger boy. With how keenly Tom was watching Joe, this interaction between them, however subtle, did not go unnoticed.
To show the Master that he would not be a problem Joe reached for his portion but was cut off with a snap.
"Augh!" He withdrew as if he'd been warned from fire. "Hands in your lap. You don't eat until you're told." He did as ordered. "Sit upright. You're slouching." The boy fixed himself waiting for the permission the man was now requiring.
Nobody moved. Nobody ate. Tom just stared him down. The table was stifling, the boy not knowing what they were waiting on. Joe got the impression that Tom was searching for how to hurt him next. This was humbling and humiliating but if this was as bad as it got he could handle it. If he did what he had to do this was as bad as it would get.
"Say it Joe." He glanced up at the pater searching him for what he was meant to say. "I want to hear you say it." Tom didn't have a normal routine of praying before meals, unlike most folks in these parts, so what he was waiting on was unclear. "I am a rotten kid. I need to be cut out." Joe flushed and clenched his eyes. "SAY IT!" He snapped him back. "Say it or you're going back in." Joe glanced at the young boy who had frightened.
The chair screeched and Joe blurted.
"I'm rotten." The table stilled.
"And?"
"I need to be cut out."
"Do you agree?"
"Yes." Satisfied with his work the pater resettled himself.
"Eat. Work up your strength."
Joe took small bites in an attempt to savor what was there.
Tom spent this time to explain to Joe that this was to be the start of his lessons. His first lesson, was being grateful for what you had. His second being, if you wanted more, you had to be willing to work for it.
~.~
He was watching the little fledgling as he slept, breathing rhythmically under the heavy weight of slumber. Just a few hours earlier he was noting how sweet the boy was. There really was a lot of life left in him. What a sad boy he was though. Joe didn't want to be like that.
He laid back and stared out the window, visualizing his pa out there in the open sky. He must be in Arizona by now. Soon. He'll be headed back soon. He's got to be coming back and when he does he'll tell him everything. Everything that Tom's been doing to them. Oh he'll be in trouble then. There's no way his pa would have allowed this. Not if he knew. As he thought this there was a small seed of doubt telling him that wasn't the way it was. That his pa really had left him here precisely for the purpose of straightening him out. Could his family really hate him as bad as all that to want him to be like Scotty?
Hoss's words reflected in his head, 'you could stand to do a little less talking yourself'. Hoss had said this in response to Joe noting how Scotty didn't talk. What he thought before to be gentle jousting, because that's what they did, they jousted each other. Now all the times his older brothers had degraded him or called him on his poor behavior unfolded before him, one after the other, like the great scroll of life unravelling.
He saw the frustration in them each time. They really were ashamed of him.
~.~
This is how the latter half of the fifth week had carried on.
To train someone properly much care and attentiveness by necessity is required. With this single focus in mind, Tom had devoted these following days to this. He had spent a lot less time in the shed, nearly abandoning his shoes, and more time looking after Joe.
Tom had really piled on the work for Joe. Aside from taking care of nearly all of the regular household responsibilities, which we'll break down in a moment, the task master had gotten it into his head that now would be a good time to tap a closer line to the trees. He'd chosen the high side of the hill, with the intention that the water would flow down with the help of trenches.
They wouldn't get started on this until the hottest part of the afternoons though. Joe had a list of other things he was expected to finish before then.
This is how his days looked.
Joe had taken on the role of bathing Scotty, then washing the linen and hanging it to dry, not trying to hide it like he did before.
This didn't mean Tom wouldn't come in and beat Scotty or tie him to the bedpost or find some way to humiliate him or degrade him; or any combination of the three depending on how much time and effort he wanted to devote to his boy that morning. Sometimes it seemed to Joe that he was only doing it to test him. See if he would involve himself. Joe only stood and watched.
When Tom would tire, Joe would come in and scoop the crying child up. He'd carry him downstairs and wash him up, doing what he could to wash his spirits. He'd clean himself, dry off and take up the boy to dress him for the day.
They'd go downstairs to a hot breakfast. Of all the dishes that would be set before them, it was always a question, of which, Joe would be allowed to partake. He'd be made to recite what Tom wanted to hear and then they would eat. Tom never being a big breakfast eater himself would usually bite on toast and sip his coffee while he ran down a list of what was expected of Joe for the day.
Joe would clean the table, wash the dishes, then go out and care for the laundry, of which, if you remember, consisted of that for the entire house.
He'd take the freshly washed clothes to the line and pull off the ones from the day prior and replace them. He'd fold up the dry ones and secured them in their proper places and make up the bed with fresh sheets. He then had to go down and alternate between cleaning out the wash basin or Mules water basin and refilling it.
Most of these tasks would be carried out with Tom was standing over his shoulder, looking down upon him and degrading him all the while. It's easy to screw up under such conditions and each iniquity would be promptly dealt with.
Mule wouldn't get his meal until after all this had been done. Then the trees would get their watering.
He'd sweep the floor which always seamed to get dirty. Of course it does when the front door gets left open. The muddy earth next to the basin seemed to be a magnet for feet and though Tom was partial to an open door, he despised the dirt, and so Joe despised the dirt. He'd sweep and scrub the floors and the walls and the windows. He'd put away the dishes and make sure the kitchen was in order before starting lunch.
Tom was okay with a sandwich every day. This wasn't a particularly difficult task, not easy to screw up, unless he was late in getting it to him. Tom would join them and run down the list of what Joe had done to this point and the task still before them.
He'd clean the table and then the kitchen under Tom's watch.
Then, when the sun was at it's highest, it was time to work on the new line.
Tom put his focus in on the drilling portion, telling Joe it was his job to dig the trenches. Then would gripe on Joe for having the easier job and still screwing it up, but if he didn't pull him away every five minutes to help him with this or that then maybe he could focus on his own job and get it done right. But he never said what he was feeling. He bid down his resentment and did what was being asked of him in the moment.
It was always, "It's not straight, It's not deep enough. Look at this shoddy work. Do it again." "Get over here. I need your help." Then he'd go on with, "I'm out here to make your job easier. Why you have me doing this instead of working on my shoes." Like it was Joe's fault he decided to do this in the first place. They'd spend a few hours on this until Tom's frustration would boil over. Then he'd escape back into his own work while expecting Joe to start supper.
Unlike lunch, this, Joe actually had to work at. This was might's easier to screw up.
He was constantly degraded for over cooked or under cooked meals. For food being cold by the time he came in. For burning something, adding too much salt or too little. But he wasn't given the time to plan the meals like he did before and he was always beat exhausted by the time he'd start on it.
In fact, any task he set his mind to would end in degradation. For sheets that came out still smelling or clothes still stained or not folded correctly. For the plants that didn't seem to be recovering. The lack in care that Mule was getting.
Joe was "dumb", "stupid", couldn't do nothing right. He was slapped, kicked, punched. His hair was pulled more times than he could count; each time making him regret all the more having hair long enough to grab.
And throughout all this at random times throughout the day Tom would stop and make Joe recite what he wanted him to.
They would go to bed and Joe would long for his family. Each night Joe added a new scratch into the wood. One day closer. He'd close his eyes knowing that when he were to open them again, he had to be ready to start the routine over.
~.~
As if all that I have mentioned have not been enough on young Joe, two other things stood out in the boy's mind during this period in time which had profound affect. One is an event that I will tell next.
Joe's punishments, as harsh as they were, felt unfair each time they would happen. Looking back upon them, he could see the fault in his own actions, however small the crime, if he tried hard enough to see it, he could. For whatever he had been blamed for, even those stupid trees he knew he could take at least partial responsibility over what was happening to him. That was until the bird. What happened that day was completely unfair. If for but only the skewed image that Tom had developed of him through all his past misdeeds. To think him capable of something like that. Unlike those other times, what they had gotten in trouble for that day was completely unfair.
It was on the third day of his 'training' and Tom had made a big deal of the time he had lost on his shoes by keeping after Joe. He left their morning chores to the boys without the oversight, the first breathing room the boy had had in days, but was very clear that he would double check their work and they were to tell him the moment they'd finished so they could get started on the other task that Tom had determined for them that day.
Joe was anxious to not disappoint, so when he was down to the second of the last row of trees and had spotted Scotty who had skipped on ahead and started the last row on his own, stopped in place and staring down at the ground, Joe was alerted.
"What are you looking at?" He asked setting down his load and coming over.
A small bird lay featherless, eyes fogged over indicating its infancy, frozen and stiff. It had been dead for only a short while now. The ants had yet to find it. "Looks like it might have fallen from the tree up there." He said looking up at the Asp behind them. Peering in amongst the chirping that swelled the atmosphere was the worrisome cry of a mother bird as she fluttered about her ragtag nest. "Don't touch it." Joe warned as he felt Scotty kneel next to him. Scotty wasn't intending to. He was the kid that left it to Joe to make all the moves. He just wanted a closer look. Joe picked up a stick and poked at it looking for any sort of reaction to indicate it had life to it. It was as stiff as it had appeared to be.
"What are you doing? What are you messing with there?" They startled at the call which came from the shed.
"It's a bird. Looks like it fell from the tree." Tomlinson came forward eyeing the high branches.
"Did you knock it down?" He said looking back at Joe.
"No." Cartwright scowled indignantly.
"Come on. Tell me the truth."
"We found it like this." His distrust was written on his face. "We didn't knock it down. I swear. It was already dead."
"You actually expect me to believe that? That you just happened along and found it like that?"
"It's the truth." He yanked back Joe's hair.
"Don't you lie to me boy."
"I'm not." But this wasn't enough.
"Get in the shed."
The boys spent the next few hours on their knees before Tomlinson who was busy with his shoes. Towards midafternoon on this particularly warm day Joe was beginning to feel off kilter and weak. He found that it was becoming increasingly more difficult to catch a good breath of air. Sweat dripped from his face. His back was sore. Somehow he thought he wasn't getting the blood he needed to his head and whether consciously or unconsciously it was affecting his breathing. Scotty who's had years of experience doing this had built up the stamina needed not to move. All Joe wanted to do was collapse down. He knew what would happen if he did though. The moment he would do so, he knew he'd be whipped for it.
Joe ached from the pain. It was a lot hotter out here now than the first time Tom had made them do this. They were full-fledged into August and that shed heated up right nice. Joe felt weak and he struggled for breath a little bit. He looked over at Scotty whose own face was beat red. Whatever this kid's secret was he definitely wore his pains better. Joe stayed, if for no other reason than because he was not about to be outdone by a kid.
He tried not to focus on the strength of the younger boy. It only made him feel weak. He looked away and bid out the slow passing minutes.
He forced himself away from this moment. He thought of his family and how he longed for them. Different memories he had with them. After clawing for a few, he realized these weren't helping him. They were only making him miss them the more. And only bringing him back to right where he was.
One memory did take forefront. It was while he was thinking of his mother and her sweet tender kisses, another woman came to mind. One he's never officially met but the memory of her, one that he had almost let slip, came back to him now. This woman appeared in his life when he was eight. His mother had been dead a few years now. He was with his pa and brothers at the time when he saw her. Other than them being present, this memory wasn't really about them at all. It was about her.
This memory, perhaps because his family wasn't the forefront was easier to escape into. It was a performance he saw a few years ago. Of all places, the setting was a tavern. An run down shack of a place. His family had stopped to eat there, after picking up supplies in Carson City, before making the journey back home. She sang in a style Joe had never before heard. Lacking any cowboy twang or rhythm, her notes instead were slow and long.
"That's opera." His elder brother leaned into his ear perceptive of his staring on.
This was nothing of opera that he'd ever heard before. Enthralling, and so out of place in a dive such as this. He only saw her just the one time. Adam explained later that she was probably trying to earn some money to make her way back east. That's where talents such as hers could really be appreciated. Adam would know more about that than he. Joe was just caught up in the wild sincerity of her voice. The voice was young and rare. Sweet. Like the call of nightingale. It weren't just he whom she captured. This whole room of gruff men, after a hard days labor, were each silent as they listened on. She had captivated them all.
It happened as Joe floated on these notes which carried him skyward.
The falling downwards which caught his eye and brought him back to where he was.
Scotty hadn't wobbled first. He'd just crumpled forward. Without warning or indication. He was plain out. His eyes were closed, his cheeks flush against pale skin. Drenched in sweat just like Joe was.
"Scotty!" He crawled to him, fearing the worst. "He's out." But when Tomlinson came charging over Joe fell over his body.
"Get out of the way boy."
"No. He's sick." He cried out, fearing Tom would strike his boy like he had him for falling down. He tried to get him to understand. It's not that this kid was weak or faking it, he was out. "You've got to get this kid to a doctor."
"Get out of the way!" Tom shoved Joe aside and lifted Scotty into his arms carrying him outside. When he was over the basin he dunked Scotty in.
"You're gonna kill him!" Joe shouted, afraid that he'd start drowning the boy in his sleep. The boy woke in a startle and started sputtering water at the shock of the rude awakening. Fighting to scramble out, not understanding why he was there and knowing water was a place of torment. Tomlinson didn't so much as fight his boy this time to keep him in. More like he was watching his boy to witness his recovery.
The boy worked himself sick and puked out his torment. Tomlinson wiping the little spew that gotten on his hand away. His son, getting a hold of himself, set himself to fits of crying.
Joe had spent the entire time watching on. Ready to charge in if Tomlinson were to hit his boy in this time of distress. But he didn't. Instead he remained in this state, neither coaxing his son into health and calmness, nor abusing or degrading him. He had just watched with a strange quietude.
Finally, when Tom felt the urgency had passed he turned his attention to Joe, who stepped back as he approached. One back hand brought him down. The young Cartwright palmed his heated cheek and stared up from his fallen position wondering why he'd been attacked.
He couldn't take his aggression out on a dying child so he hit him instead, he adduced; but then, Tom gave his answer.
"I told you to get out of my way." and now, he understood.
"When I tell you to get out of my way, you don't fight, you don't argue. You get out of my way."
