Print-Keeper

Once, ruthless rays had wrought their scorch down upon the ghostly mourners who frequented the graveyard. The trees—which shielded the headstones from sun-bleaching—now had the former Sheriff Veron to thank for their respected locations.

Fashioned from stone, an angel guarded the site of the grave; one which had been in the past crafted from a simple cross of wood by Veron’s own two hands. He had ensured to ameliorate the place once he’d been able to afford it, paying Vincent for his artistry despite the man’s protest.

His hands gently caressed the etchings of the monument, his rough palms degloved against the cool surface. A handful of quivering daisies made their way from his pocket onto the stone. The mourner attempted to calm his shaking fingers, mind weary at the turmoil’s manifestation. He glanced up at the angel whose wings were speckled with the sunlight which managed to penetrate the defenses of the willow leaves. A silver rosary sparkled in the sun, flashing a pang of guilt into his bosom. He swallowed his sorrow.

“I’m taking care of things still, Willie,” he spoke softly. “Just keep having yourself good days up there.”

Church bells began to ring as he pulled himself to his feet. Their greatness filled the air, ringing true of the hope in which Veron had wished to rebuild. His hands trailed the alabaster building as he sauntered away from the dead and back once more to the living. His boots tapped against the stairs. He pushed open the massive wooden doors, heavy as the weight on his back.

The Savior hung across the holy hall, gripping Veron’s very soul as he pondered it. The tremendous stained-glass windows behind the cross and altar cast a glow of perpetual sunset; a mosaic of red to orange and of pink to yellow spattered the floors and pews. The patterns enveloped Veron as he wandered beneath the presence of the wooden God-Son. Candles burned alongside incense, the air filled with the scent of faith and worship, casting the light into gorgeous rays. He wished to appreciate them, though the doubt in his heart made the light seem dim.

He stood in the shadow of the Savior, alone in the great chapel. His hat was off, held within his hands as his neck careened upwards to face the wooden Son of Adam. The figure’s tanned skin was battered with painted stripes from his flogging. His dark hair hung long and sweaty, chiseled of tree. The thorns upon his brow were quite real, and the way they dug into his flesh and bones seemed just as real. The eyes were set deep, swollen and full of hand-carved pain. It was quite clear that man had carved this God-figure from the likes of his own soul.

“To suffer is to be loved,” Veron whispered. “To be loved is to suffer.” He bowed his head solemnly and prayed; a rare sight for the man in black. “I hope you’re really with her. I want to feel it in my bones. Even if I never see her again, I hope she isn’t rotting in the ground.”

The hat returned to Veron’s lonesome and heavy head.

When Veron arrived to the Romero Printing Press establishment, his clothes were once again warmed by the broiling sun. He removed his hat, swiped his long black hair from his face, and called out for his mother. She rounded the corner, stepping into the room wearing a smile.

Mae’s hands were stained with ink; her face, pale and pure. “Veron!” She cried. “Oh, Lord! I cannot believe those dastardly MacLooneys keep on trying to cause you trouble!” She squeezed her son tightly, nearly lifting him from his feet momentarily. “I am writing all about it! Every detail I can find!” She released him. “I am so proud of you and your brother, and Roscoe, of course, for keeping us all safe. Goodness! I’m afraid one bad move may take my boys away from me.” She kissed him on the forehead as though he were still a small boy.

Veron patted her back, his head filling with love. “It’s alright, Ma. We’ve got this all handled. Had them running with their tails tucked between their legs.”

“That’s what I’ve heard! I talked to Thomas and Dustin. Said you all went to the Blackwoods. How is poor miss Bury?” Mae retrieved her pad and dip pen as she spoke. “Do tell me! Sit! We must keep record.” She sat in a chair, gesturing once more for him to sit.

He obeyed, relaxing as he tenderly revered his mother. Her eyes were the same warm blue as Clifton’s. Her hair was as black as his own. Reading glasses perched atop the bridge of her nose. A rosary with silver matching the frames of her glasses hung along her neck, overtop her dress. Josiah Romero had crafted the necklace lovingly for her. Veron wished he’d been able to give Willie the rosary he’d made for her.

A long sigh escaped his lips. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Vincent and Bury were understandably upset I didn’t bring them any bodies today. They wanted Johnny. He was there when Creed tried to take her.” He paused. “She mentioned her gratitude for Kilmer, as well as the rest of us.” He contemplated for a second, judging deeply into his mother’s eyes. She would listen, understand. “And now, don’t tell anyone, but I promised her I’d kill them next time they disgrace my eyes.”

“You would say that,” Mae breathed.

“What do you mean by that?” Veron’s tone came out confused, though deep down a frustration nipped at his gut.

“Nothing!”

Veron shrugged, pushing away the emotion, continued. “Turns out those twins had been camped out by Deadwood. Bury had gone there to search for bones and herbs. She did this all the time alone, she said. They’d noticed her, though. Hid from her. Ambushed her like cowardly bastards.” His nose crinkled up, dark eyes growing cold with anger. “Cornered her with their guns. Creed pinned her down, started lifting up her skirt.”

“Oh! Poor girl!” Mae’s eyes filled with dismay as she looked from her notepad and to her son.

His shoulders were tense. He could feel sweat bead on his forehead. “Would you be so kind to fetch me water? I think the heat’s getting to me.”

Mae immediately stood to retrieve the pitcher of water alongside a glass.

Veron’s face had turned a moonglow pale upon her return. His eyes were as wide and unmoving as river stones. His breath caught in his throat near the noose-scar. His mind was distant, back on that hot day. The printshop had turned black as ink, skittering as though it were crawling with spiders.

“You don’t have to continue,” Mae said, placing the pitcher and glass down. She poured.

“I’ll be alright,” Veron finally said, eyes following the rays of light which broke through the mass of spiders. “Thank you. I’m just a little hot is all.”

He drank away the rest of the inky blackness, sending it back into his insides. After, Mae placed her small pale hand atop his, causing him to feel as a child again.

“It’s really alright,” Mae spoke softly. Her hand went to his chin, lifting his face up towards hers as she looked at the scar tucked under his neck-scarf. Her face was filled with the tenderness only a mother knew. “I understand if you can’t.”

“I have to,” Veron said. “I have to say it.”

Mae returned to her seat.

“It ended well,” he continued. “Kilmer was on his patrol, spotted the crime, dragged that son of a bitch away from her by the hair. Cuffed him, fired at Johnny but he started running. I’m sure you’ve spoken to him by now?”

“I have,” Mae answered. “Thank God for creating brave men like Kilmer! I may speak to Bury if she’ll accept it. I won’t publish a paper on her accounts, of course. But if she needs someone to talk to, I’ll be there for her.”

“Did you see us send Creed off?” Veron asked.

Mae shook her head. “Only from afar.”

“His nose was nearly nonexistent,” Veron chuckled darkly.

“How dreadful! Of course, not that I have any sorrow for that brute.”

Veron sipped from his glass, shaking his head. “He deserved every drop of pain.” He sat up, his thoughts were the color of blood. “I would’ve done him in worse.” He could picture the bullet entering that empty eye socket, turning the back of that bastard’s head into an explosion of brains and bone. He could smell it. “The next time I see the whites of their eyes will be the last.” His fingers fuddled with the revolver within its right holster; the welcoming ebony handle was as familiar to him as the body of his lover.

“I plan on publishing a paper by morning, dear,” Mae said.

His fingers left the handle, his attention refocusing upon his mother. “Good. Let the people know they have the right to defend themselves. Draw evil blood before innocent blood is spilt. Tell them the Sheriff said so.”

Mae wrote her notes down, eying him afterwards. “Clifton said so?”

“I said so.” Veron nodded his head, peering deep into his life-giver’s eyes. “If war starts because of it, I am ready to ride at the first shot. I will not lose any of my people, I will fight for them.”

Mae breathed soundly and Veron could sense that she was searching him further. He was ready for blood. They would not take a thing away from him, not this time. The MacLooneys were, in fact, afraid of him. At least the ones he’d seen around were. They had every right to run. They were curs, but he was a wolf.

A cough sounded deep in Mae’s bosom, startling Veron. Watching to make sure she was alright, he slid his glass to her. “Drink,” he said.

“I’m sorry!” Mae said as she drank in the air before lifting the glass to partake. “I’m alright! Didn’t mean to scare you!”

“No, no, are you alright? That sounded awful,” Veron asked.

Dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief, Mae caught her breath. “It’s quite alright! Dry air; it always gets to me! Quite dreadful time of the year, really.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

The concern in Veron’s body pricked at his neck, tickling his skin right up against the bone. He shuddered, swatting at the sensation. He felt it move across his neckline, round the scar on his throat. Mae squealed, and Veron swatted again. He could see it now: the massive black spider crawling down his shirt. He brushed it off onto the table, its legs moved wildly. He was more fascinated by it, staring at it as he had with the one Bury had handled. Before he could say a word, Mae’s notebook slammed down onto the table, her hands pressing it firmly against the creature. Veron’s eyes widened, startled once more by the suddenness of it all. The disgusting crunch-pop sent his heart to his stomach.

Mother and son shared glances with one another, nose wrinkled; hers with disgust and Veron’s with sympathy. Mae raised the notepad. The arachnid had burst like a balloon beneath the pad, was now a bubbling inkblot. Its devilish legs had curled up, twitching out its final death rattles. Mae let out a grown of disgust.

“The spiders have been massive this year,” Veron said. “Saw one at the Blackwoods’ place. Bury held it as though it were a butterfly.”

“She does love the unloved, doesn’t she?” Mae answered. “Oh, I feel worse for killing it than I would for killing any of the MacLooneys.”

Veron tilted his head. “Why does God allow such horrid things to crawl upon the earth?”

“Veron! Don’t say such a thing! Spiders are quite useful, you know? They eat pests!”

He could feel her scorn a s it burned his skin. “I was talking about the MacLooneys.” He’d meant it.

“Oh. Well, I suppose it’s to show how good conquers evil,” Mae answered. “To give good men a mission to prove their goodness.”

Veron forced a smile onto his face. “I suppose you’re right.” He wished not to displease her, feeling as his stomach twisted in himself. Good men. Bad men. Good men could do bad things. Could bad men do good things? The smell of blood returned to his nostrils. Visions of crimson infiltrated his ponderings. Is it all just a test?

“You’re a good man, Veron. Even though you make mistakes. All good men and women do,” Mae said. “You’ve changed. I see it in you. You make your father and I so proud.”

Veron’s smile melted into a real one. “I try. I do try.”

“You do more than try.” Mae’s smile reminded him of the glow of the stained-glass window, the light now exchanging its dimness for an ethereal glow.

“For you, I’ll always try.” He stood up, glancing around the shop. He saw more parchment lined up; a manuscript. “Is this your novel?” He walked to the pages and skimmed them.

“It is!” Mae said, scurrying over. She picked up a stack of the pages. “I was actually hoping that you would read them for me!”

“Oh, well of course! I’ve been waiting for the day you’d ask,” Verian smiled. “How many chapters have you gotten done?”

“Twenty-five. There will probably be about another ten more,” Mae answered. “I’d like for you to take this draft, tell me what you think, dear.”

Vernon smiled, took the pages up. He kissed his mother on the cheek and hugged her. “Well, thank you. I think I’ll read these to Rose.”

She smiled. “I love you, my boy. You’ll always be my boy.”

“I’ll always love you, Ma.”