Blind Hope Read online

  “Bastard! If you were still alive, I would shoot you again and watch you suffer,” he mumbled as he started his truck and drove into the small town of Rocheport. The town offered eight places to eat and nary a one with supplies to fix a shitter. He took a parking spot in front of a small diner, wandering inside and looking for an old timer. Over the years on the job, he’d learned if you buy an old man a cup of coffee then ask them one question, they will tell you anything you need to know and some things you didn’t. Squinting his eyes, he looked about the place for such a body. Bingo! Target acquired, he sat next to the old man on a stool at the counter.

  “Coffee, sausage and egg sandwich on toast to go, please,” Cotter told the girl behind the counter. “Morning Old Timer.”

  The watery ancient eyes that were blue at one point in the old man’s life, but now just glazed over in cataracts, looked at him. “Who you calling Old Timer?”

  “No disrespect, but I was looking for a place to snag some groceries and building materials,” he said. “Got a little place up the road a bit, and it is colder here than a Georgia boy is used to, need some firewood and to patch a hole in my roof.”

  “You want a real grocery store or a make-do?”

  “A make-do will help, but if I can do one trip to get the food, supplies, and firewood, it could save me a heck of a lot of energy that I’m gonna need to patch that roof and unfreeze my well,” he said with honesty. “Can’t go cooking in the pot without any water to wash down the potatoes.”

  The waitress brought over his sandwich and the cup of coffee to go. His stomach growled like a bear poked during hibernation since he didn’t eat supper. Cotter took a big bite out of the sandwich, chewing quickly to ease the pain in his gut.

  “Backwards or forwards, it’s the same distance to Boonville or Columbia. Both are about 15 minutes from here,” he said. “Columbia is a better bet, got themselves a Walmart over yonder plus the ABC supply store to get everything you need to fix the roof, well, and toilet.”

  “Thanks, you’ve been a big help,” he said to the old man and placed a 20 on the counter.

  “Mister, you don’t want to wait for your change?” the waitress called out.

  “No, that’s for my stuff and his breakfast as well,” he said, holding the cup of black coffee up to the old man. The man gave Cotter a nod, and Cotter made his way back to his truck. Sipping on the hot black coffee, he thought about the skinny boy and the sick woman as he gulped down the rest of his breakfast. Obeying the speed limits in Rocheport, he gave the truck some gas when he reached the outskirts of town. His anger spurring him on to the interstate and he merged into traffic towards Columbia.

  The shopping took the better part of two hours, but he got everything he needed, including electric heat tape to unfreeze the heads of the well pump. Growing up in Minnesota, he knew a great deal about cold weather, which is why he had moved to Georgia. He hated the cold more than anything he could think of, and being in Missouri in the dead of December only pissed him off more.

  In the bed of his truck was a load of firewood, wood to repair the roof and enough groceries to last two weeks. He’d purchased stew meats, a couple of whole chickens, and 12 bags of different types of dried beans along with yeast, flour, sugar, cornmeal, eggs and milk. A couple of containers of frozen concentrated juices, peanut butter, oatmeal and jam would do the trick to get the woman on her feet and some fat on the kid. His mother, God rest her soul, could make a meal out of the most basic items which kept him, his sister, and his brother with full bellies even in the scarcest of times. It was in his adult years at college when he first ate fast food. Never caring for the taste of processed easy gut fillers, he tended to veer away from it, but the brightly lit golden arches made him stop at the drive through for a kid’s meal with extra fries and ketchup for the boy.

  “Sucker,” he mumbled to himself as he drove back to the homestead from hell. In the daylight, it looked worse than it did at night. The living roof, which is supposed to be covered in vegetation that Caleb boasted about was a bunch of dead plants stuck in mud on top of the house. The whole purpose of the roof was to provide insulation and drain off the rainwater. Between the weight of the dirt and the snow, he understood why the roof gave way in both rooms. “Today, just repair the holes, get the well going, and get fluids and food into them.”

  Johnnie was at the door when he drove up. The jeans he wore were too short and as cold as it was, the boy only had on a pair of socks riddled with holes. “Boy, put on a coat and some boots and come bring some of this firewood into the house,” he said in a loud voice.

  “My shoes are too small and I don’t have a coat,” he said. “Well I do, but it’s too little.”

  “Get the shoes on and borrow your Mother’s coat,” Cotter said.

  “Yes sir!” the boy said, closing the door. Moments later he was outside, the coat dragging the ground as he walked. The unruly head of curly hair hung from under the skull cap as he made his way to the truck, damned near tiptoeing in the boots that were too small for his feet. The small gloved hands reached into the bed of the truck, carrying as many cuts of wood as he could, placing a few in the fireplace right away. Others, he added to the stove, returning to unload the food and anything else his hands could carry.

  Satisfied that he’d helped, Cotter handed him the kid’s meal with the cup of orange pop. “For me?” Johnnie said in delight.

  “Eat up. We have work to do,” he said to the boy. Looking at Judy, he spoke softly, “How you feeling?”

  “Found my fight,” she said.

  “Good enough,” he told her, washing his hands with the bottle of water and spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread. “Try to eat this.”

  Her scant meal was accompanied by a cup of hot tea that she held between both hands.

  “Gotta unfreeze the well, repair the roof, and warm up that bedroom so I can put you in bed. If I can get the power back on today, I will, but not making any promises,” he said.

  “I appreciate all of this,” she whispered.

  “Again, no promises,” he cautioned. He hefted a five-gallon jug of water onto his shoulders and took it into the bathroom. He refused to lift the toilet seat, but added water to the reservoir, filling the tank enough to give the toilet a flush. Loving the sound of the greedy toilet gurgling down the contents, he added more water.

  On the back porch, he located a large tub where he loaded in the bags of ice he’d purchased and dropped in the meat. Calling for the boy through the back door, he told him, “Johnnie, when you’re done eating, I need you to put clean snow on top of that meat, then set the gallon of milk on top of the snow. Understand?”

  “Yes sir,” the boy said, stuffing a french fry into his mouth.

  Tamping down the snow on the tub, Cotter made his way inside the house to the kitchen where he opened a bag of pinto beans, placing the beans in a bowl and covering the dry beans with water. He’d let that soak for the rest of the day and into the night, and tomorrow, he’d put them on to slow cook all day. Sighing loudly, he made his way back outside and secured his toolbelt from the truck and then he strode off to locate a ladder, shovel, and rope. Tying the rope around the roof, he let the free end drop to the ground to wrap around the wood he’d use to repair the hole. He’d come back to that after he located the well, which wasn’t difficult to find.

  On his knees in the snow, he removed the wellhead cover, using the heating tape, wrapping it, and covering it with insulation. That would take a while to defrost, so he went to work on the roof. He patched, hammered, nailed, and put new shingles over the wood. Using the shovel, he scraped off the densest portions of dirt and snow to prevent another cave in. Standing on the roof, he looked over the land. The frozen creek ran behind the house a ways down the property, and sure enough, if his eyes could believe it, was the solar array Caleb had mentioned. Cotter made his way off the roof and down the ladder. His tool belt hanging loosely about his hips, he went to the solar array.

  He c
hecked the connecting lines to the pivoting panels, tracing the cords through the snow until he found the break in the line. “Asshole didn’t bother to bury the cables,” he grunted, pushing away snow. He cleared the lines all the way to the house and located the battery assembly. Disconnecting all of the batteries, Cotter went back to the break. Using his snipping tools, he cut away the frayed edges, stripping back the plastic coverings on the lines, and spliced the wires. Using black mechanical tape, he wrapped the wires and dug a hole in the frozen ground to bury the new splice.

  “I sure hope that was the problem,” he said, getting to his feet. Back at the battery assembly, the cables reconnected, he saw the spark and heard the motor of the solar array. It rotated, towards the late evening sun dumping off the accumulated snow. If they had power tonight it would be a blessing, but he wasn’t sure there was enough sunlight left or enough stores left in the batteries to give them light for the night, which meant he needed to get dinner going.

  Putting away his tools, he checked on the well pump, satisfied with his work before heading inside the house. In the kitchen, he turned on the tap and a slow trickle of water began to run.

  “Yay!” Johnnie yelled.

  “Yeah, big whoop,” he replied, trying to give the boy an encouraging smile. His smile faded when he went into the bedroom to change out of his wet clothing and realized the bed had been soaked with snow. “Can I catch a fucking break with this shit?”

  Snatching the bed covers off the bed, he dragged the mattress to the kitchen, placing it on the floor by the stove. He added a few more logs, hoping the heat would dry the mattress. Luck seemed to favor him as he opened the second bedroom door and Johnnie’s bed, thankfully, had not been under the hole. Johnnie’s bed was dry but the room was a mess. A light flickered in the kitchen and the power was coming back on.

  “At least there’s that,” he mumbled, closing the door to keep the heat contained in the living room. Thinking better of it, he opened it up to let the room get warm. At least the boy would have a bed to sleep in tonight.

  Cotter’s stomach rumbled and he needed food. The stew meat was in the kitchen sink. Moving it to the side, he washed his hands before cleaning the meat and starting the stew. The smell of the browning beef in the pot made Judy’s mouth water.

  “I’m not even hungry again, but that sure smells good, Mister,” Johnnie said.

  “Cotter,” he told the boy. “My name is Cotter Wihlborg.”

  “Mr. Wihlborg, I said a prayer today thanking Jesus for Daddy sending you to help us,” Johnnie said. “Another man came here looking for Daddy too, but he didn’t stay to help. He did say he would be back to get something he was looking for, but I don’t know what that is.”

  Cotter stopped dicing carrots and his eyes went to Judy. Her lips pressed closed together and her eyes teared. Johnnie filled him in on what Judy was unwilling to say in front of the child.

  “Mama said he was a bad man, and that if he ever came back that I needed to hide,” Johnnie said, picking up a carrot chunk and biting into it.

  “If he comes back, I’ll be here and ready for him,” Cotter said, still looking at Judy. “Did he happen to say what he was looking for, Mrs. Morrow?”

  She shook her head no, but her eyes said otherwise. This was no time to play games with him. Cotter squinted his eyes.

  “Mrs. Morrow, if you know what he is a looking for or if you have it, I need to know what I am dealing with,” Cotter said.

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “Caleb owed a lot of people, who sometimes came here looking for him. Usually, we could hear them coming down 440, since there’s not a lot of traffic back here, and hide, but that last one knew all of our tricks. He was waiting for us, with a gun.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “New Jersey thug type, dark hair, scar over his left cheek, beady eyes,” she said.

  “Hmmpf,” was all Cotter added, going back to his task of making the stew. He knew the man and who the man worked for, which meant Caleb had been in more trouble than just running from him. He was also running from some bad men. His thoughts went to the box in his truck. Adding two and two, he came up with four more levels of hatred for Caleb Morrow.

  He sent a box of death to his wife and kid. Whatever was inside, bad men wanted it back. Even if she returned what was inside, the men wouldn’t let her or the kid live. The lights popped on and in the background a kid’s song began to play.

  Ring around the Rosie, a pocket full of posies, one, two three, we all fall down.

  It was an omen. She needed to get on her feet and fast. He’d sent The Company confirmation of job completion. Word would soon spread that Caleb was dead. If she had an insurance policy on the dunderhead, those men would want it and the box. Damn you, Caleb. Damn you to an eternal hell.

  Judy saw the look on his face and understood that this man knew. He didn’t know all of it, but as soon as she got on her feet, she needed to tell him the truth. An ugly truth that she still had yet to face herself.

  Chapter Three – Moving & Shaking

  In the wee hours of the morning, as the blackness of night touched the arrival of the awakening morning, Princess Morgan tiptoed into her daughter’s bedroom, sitting on the side of her bed. Gentle hands shook the child awake as she placed a finger over her daughter’s lips to silence the child.

  “Ssssh Judy, I need you to get up and get dressed, really quiet okay,” Princess said to the 10-year-old girl.

  At the tender age of 10, Judy Morgan knew the routine. Her Mama was leaving the current boyfriend, a round-bellied man named Otis, who always asked Judy to sit on his lap when her Mama wasn’t home. Having been trained by the best grifter in the land, Princess had taught her daughter the right words to tell her boyfriends should they ever ask to take such a liberty with her.

  “I’m too old to sit on your lap,” Judy told old Otis.

  “You are never too old to sit on your Daddy’s lap. Just think of it like talking to Santa,” Otis said, giving the girl a tobacco-stained smile.

  “I’m too old to believe in Santa and you ain’t my Daddy,” Judy said, watching his face. She knew the next tactic, one of anger, fear and intimidation.

  “Get your little ass over her girl and do as I say, or I will throw you and your Mama out on the street,” Otis said with a sneer.

  “And if you do then I’ll call the police. I’m going to tell them you came in my room last night and put your finger inside of me,” she said. “Mama said when men do that, they go to prison, and the other men in prison turn them into their bitch. Mr. Otis, I don’t want you to be a man’s bitch, so please, just don’t touch me, okay?”

  He didn’t much care for the girl – she was a smart one. His eyes were wide in shock as he stared at the pretty ebony skinned little girl. She was too scrawny for his taste, but in a pinch, a warm tight hole was a warm tight hole.

  “Fuck you and your crazy ass Mama,” Otis declared, struggling out of his big chair onto the wide, smelly flat feet. “I want both of you out by the time I get home from work tonight. Let you Mama know I said so.”

  “Tell her yourself,” Judy said, watching the man take a step towards her. She held her chin high, almost daring him to strike the angelic face, but he only pushed her by the shoulder out of his way.

  They didn’t leave that night. It wasn’t Princess’ way. She needed at least two days to access Otis’ bank accounts, clear the contents, and make off with the man’s money. Well, that’s the way she’d done the last man, Henry. Before that, it was Judy’s father, Eugene Morgan, who eventually caught up with them, but his money was gone and Princess was then playing house with Henry.

  Henry, she stole his entire wallet, maxed out the credit cards, and reported him for attempted sexual assault on her 8-year-old daughter. Judy didn’t like the way Princess did things. Henry had been a nice man. He was the last nice one they lived with as the Foxy Brown, Cleopatra Jones look that Princess was known for began to fade. Her a
bility to pull the men with good money eroded along with the perky breasts she showcased as conversation starters. However, she made sure they always had a roof over their heads and ate well.

  Fast forward to two years later and a bus ride from Portland, Oregon to Denver, Colorado because there was only enough money in Otis’ account to get them that far and a fleabag hotel room for two nights. That’s how long it usually took Princess to find a new mark. As a lounge singer with a voice of legend, all it took was a walk-on in a pricey casino to sing a few songs, and the men flocked to her. She was smart. Princess never really chose the smart or bright men to give them a good life. Her Mama had a knack for picking the loser, just on the left side of shady, who might want to try a thing or two, or might not. For Judy, she didn’t like the way her mother played with her life.

  In Denver, a partially blind man named Herbert who enjoyed sucking soup through a straw was her next mark. At 12 years old, Judy truly understood her mother wasn’t a good person by the things she did to old Herbert. That ride could have gone on forever, but Herbert’s son didn’t like Princess. Herbert’s son did like a 12-year-old Judy, a bit too much for Princess’ liking and again in the middle of the night, they were on the way to New Orleans.

  At 14, Judy learned to pick pockets during Mardi Gras and roll drunks in back alleys for money. A jazz musician, aptly named Miles, taught the young woman how to watch out for bad men. He also taught her how to count cards, cook, and actually clean a house. Princess wasn’t a whiz in the kitchen. Inappropriately, one morning, Miles explained to a 14-year-old Judy, that, “Man, you mama can’t cook worth a damn! I guess that’s why she has porn star abilities in the bed.”