September 1, 2016

Fiction by DC Diamondopolous: "Taps"

DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story and flash fiction writer published worldwide. DC’s short stories have appeared in online literary magazines: Antioch University’s Lunch Ticket, Fiction on the Web, Eskimo Pie, Five on the Fifth, Five 2 One and many more. DC’s stories are also in print anthologies: Crab Fat Lit, Blue Crow and Scarborough Fair. DC won second place in the University of Toronto’s Literary Contest for 2016 for the short story, Taps, and won two Soul Making-Keats honorary mentions in 2014 for the short stories, The Bell Tower and Taps. 

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Photo Submitted by Chris McCown


Peter crouched in front of the attic window and gazed down on old man Mueller’s cornfield. The plow, unhitched beyond the stalks, turned north like he meant to continue but got interrupted. Peter looked toward the barn, no sign of Mueller’s horse and buggy. The Amish and Mennonite neighbors, with their peculiar ways kept to themselves. Mueller only talked to his pa when he accused Rufus of killing his chickens, or a year ago, the day his brother’s mind broke when Gabe went screaming from the veranda twisting his ears as he ran into Muller’s cornfield. That day Mueller shot out of the house, the top of his unsnapped overalls flapping as he sprinted after Gabe, Mueller’s wife and five children dashed onto the porch, the boys still in their pajamas.
     After that day, Gabe was never the same, and neither was Peter.
     At fourteen, he felt all grownup. His childhood ended when his brother and best friend came down with a cold inside his brain. Ma said he’d get better. They just had to pray harder. Pa wanted to send him somewhere, to a place where they removed part of the brain or shocked it into normal. Peter listened as they argued back and forth, Ma blaming herself and Pa’s eyes wet with tears, as they tried to decide what was best for their eldest son; feelings of helplessness sat like a centerpiece on the dining room table.
     “How come I don’t hear the voices, Ma?”
     “Thank the good Lord you don’t, son.”
     Gabe’s trumpet playing now sailed out of his window across the beauty of the corn and wheat fields, the notes drifting as new ones began over the vast cloudless skies of Lancaster County. Gabe played Taps, Taps in the morning, Taps in the afternoon, and Taps at night. Peter thought it must have to do with the sadness inside him, but once in a while Gabe scratched the air with a different kind of song; it would sail smooth, cut off, spiral and dip. In those moments, he thought his brother had talent, enough to make Peter enjoy the fantasies they provoked. He coaxed Gabe to take lessons, maybe play at the church, learn Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing, so people would like him—that part he left out. Gabe had scowled, and Peter fell quiet, afraid he’d make his brother go to that place where a chorus of devils shuffled his mind.
     Peter learned to rake words the way he did leaves. Words like sure, and all right calmed him, but others like before, and used to, could bring on a fit.  
       The kitchen screen door slammed as Gabe came out of the house and stood on the veranda. He brought the trumpet to his lips and began to play. Peter bounded to his feet. Gabe had never taken the trumpet outside or played it in front of others. Peter hoped this meant he’d been healed, that his parents’ prayers and his own were finally answered. Excited, he ran down the stairs wanting his parents to see. He passed the room he once shared with his brother until his pa separated them cause of the sickness. He jumped onto the landing and rode the banister sidesaddle down to the living room.  
     “Ma? Pa?”
     Peter ran through the kitchen where his mother’s cornbread sat on the stove. He caught a whiff of its warm, sweet smell and realized his brother had stopped playing.
     He pushed the screen door open, but Gabe wasn’t there.
     “Rufus, come here boy!” he shouted from the porch. “Pa?” Where was everyone? His eyes darted from the tether ball, to the lawnmower, to the Troyer’s house. The late September day was as still as the sun. It was Saturday. Life always had something going on. It didn’t just stop.
     Peter found it strange that his father’s hammer, pliers, and screwdriver lay on the porch swing. Although his brother wouldn’t hurt a gnat, he’d often hurt himself. And, his pa made sure to keep his guns and tools locked up.  
     Peter leaped off the steps and ran around the brick house they had moved into three years ago. The front yard looked no different from any other time, the ‘47 Buick station wagon parked in the driveway, nothing out of place, except the absence of his folks and Rufus.
     Maybe they went to the Kerr’s or the Troyers’ cause someone got sick. But Rufus’ disappearance downright confused him. That dog always came when called.
     He’d better tend to Gabe.
     Peter ran to the backyard and saw a swath cut in the cornfield. The Amish and Mennonites were acquainted with Gabe’s screams, his running away and hiding in their barns. And the time he sprinted all the way to the feed store and climbed into a grain sack to get away from the voices. Six months ago, Peter and his pa found Gabe in a dumpster. His pa picked him up by his armpits and dragged his crumpled body over the edge and placed him on the ground. Peter felt like something died that day; a corner of his heart just fell off. His pa helped Gabe get to his feet, put an arm around his shoulders and told him: It's gonna be okay. Peter wanted to believe. Later that day his father told him: You’re the older one now, son. Tend to him like a pup.
     He followed Gabe’s tracks, swatting through the rustling stalks, and batting away flies. “Gabe?” He felt trickles of sweat form on his brow as the smothering shoots closed behind him. “Where are you?”
     “Go away.”
     “Where’s our folks and Rufus?”
     “I don’t know. Leave me alone.”
     Peter took careful steps so not to upset his brother. He wanted to make sure Gabe was all right and not doing weird things like banging his head against the ground, or clawing his ears until they turned purple blue.
     Peter brushed his dark bangs out of his eyes and parted the stalks. Gabe sat cradling the trumpet, rocking back and forth.
     “You seen Rufus?”  
     “Heard you playing outside.” Peter parted the shoots to give them more room. He stepped around his brother. “What’s that on your shirt?”
     “Somethin’. Looks like blood.” He reached to touch the shirt. Gabe shoved his hand away.
     “Leave me be.”
     “You tell me how you got blood on your shirt and I’ll leave you be.”
     “It’s not blood. It’s ketchup.”
     Peter took hold of his brother’s shoulders and gripped them as he leaned down and smelled the shirt. “It’s blood.” He ripped it open and saw slash marks on Gabe’s chest. “Jesus Gabriel.”
     “I’m cold.”
     “Where’s the knife?”
     “You tore my shirt.”
     “Here put mine on.”  
     Gabe did and started to blubber as he mismatched the buttons with the holes.
     “Gimme the knife.”
     “Mueller has it.”
     “You’re saying Mueller did this to you?”
     Gabe nodded.
     He couldn’t trust a darn thing that came out of Gabe’s mouth.
     Peter leaped on top of his brother and tried to roll him over, but Gabe fought back
swinging his fists and grazed the side of his head. “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble,” Peter said as he straddled Gabe’s legs and ran his hands along his brother’s pockets. “Where’d you throw it?” He rolled Gabe’s shirt into a ball, stood, and picked up the trumpet.
     “Don’t have it.”
     Peter glanced about. It could be anywhere. “Let’s go find Rufus.”      
     Gabe grabbed onto the stalks and pulled himself up. “Mueller killed him with the knife.”
     Peter swung around. He dropped the shirt and trumpet and lunged at his brother knocking him to the ground. “You’re lyin’.” He looked down at Gabe not feeling a bit sorry for him. “You can talk crazy all you want, but not about my dog.” Peter felt a rush of trembles coming on. The kind he had as a kid when he’d wake up in his own piss. Sometimes his brother was just too much responsibility. Peter picked up the shirt and handed the trumpet to Gabe. “I’m goin’ home.”
     Gabe followed.       
     Old man Mueller would never use a knife. He might shoot Rufus if he killed his chicks, but he’d never use a knife. And, when it came to hurting his brother, well sir, that just didn’t make sense. It bugged Peter that Gabe could get to him like that, after all, his mind was sharp. He could grasp a situation and pluck its essence clean out.
      When they reached the porch, his father’s tools were still lying about. He’d put them
away once he cleaned Gabe’s wounds and got rid of the shirt, no sense telling his parents. It would upset them, and they would send Gabe away.
     The screen door slammed as the brothers went into the kitchen. “Take off my shirt. I’ll clean those wounds,” Peter said as he took the dishrag from the washbasin and soaked it in warm water. “Put the trumpet down.” He reached into the cupboard and pulled out his pa’s whiskey. “Come here.” He poured a little onto the rag—his pa wouldn’t notice—and wiped his brother’s chest.
     “Ouch! That’s for drinkin’.”
     “It’ll clean the wounds. Seen Pa?”   
     Gabe slowly moved his head to the left and the right, reminding Peter of an elephant he saw at the carnival in Hershypark.
     Peter took the bloody shirt and put it in the sink. He lifted the lid of his nanaw’s bronze striker that hung on the wall, took out a wooden match and struck it, lighting the shirt on fire. When the flames licked it to ash, Peter ran the water. “Let’s go upstairs. We gotta hide those wounds.”
     Gabe started to laugh. Peter saw the madness in his brother’s eyes as if his mind hooked a corner and kept spinning unable to right itself. No amount of shaking, coaxing, or yelling could bring Gabe around. Peter remembered that same laugh Memorial Day when the Kerr’s invited them to a picnic in their backyard. They all sat at the long wooden table eating ham, onions, coleslaw and pudding. Gabe scarfed down a slice of watermelon when he started to laugh. Course everyone wanted to know what was so funny. His laughter grew to hysterics. Let us in on the joke, Lester said. But Gabe kept laughing like it was his own private thing, even as the juice ran out his nose and into his mouth. The look in his eyes when Lester persisted, come on, what’s so funny, was dark and ugly.
     Peter would never forget the look on Gretchen’s face, the girl with hair the color of wheat, and eyes as dark as the Blue Ridge Mountains. He wanted Gretchen for his girl the moment he saw her in the church choir. But on the day that Gabe snapped, and she brought her finger up to the side of her head and made fast circles laughing at his brother’s torment, his feelings for her died.  
     Did he hear Rufus? Peter raced to the screen door and opened it. He stepped onto the veranda. “Rufus!” He took the stairs when he felt something strike the back of his head. The force was so great he toppled forward. He struggled to get away as he pulled himself along the ground. Crawling in his own blood, he was sure he heard his dog.
     Rufus sprinted up to his master and barked. “Hey, boy,” Peter moaned.
     “Oh my God, Gabriel!”
     The distant wail of his mother’s voice reminded him of the way Gabe faded the final notes of Taps.  
     “Put that hammer down. Now Gabriel!” The fear he heard in his pa’s voice scared him. Peter struggled to get up.
     He felt a searing explosion and lost consciousness.  

~DC Diamondopolous

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