The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (9 page)

As Granny now had the e
xcitement she needed to occupy her for the next month, Porter turned to find his father.  After their initial embrace, Nathan had kept a guarded distance and removed himself to the house's upper deck overlooking the family's pond. Attempting to bridge the gulf of betrayal and abandonment he knew his father was certainly feeling, Porter said, "Dad, I want you to know that your words have stayed with me all these years."

"Is that right
?" asked Nathan.  "And what words were they?"

"Remember who you are."

"Son, those aren't my words," Nathan responded, his coldness still present.  "Grampy gave me that wisdom, as his father did for him.  As far as I know, that started when the Joyces first arrived here from Ireland.  Kind of a 'don't forget that your real home is Ireland', but it morphed into having you remember the example of your family, the pride they have for you, and the character you have to have as your own.  It's a great family tradition. I hope you will continue with your family."

"You have my word
, Dad.  My word."

"And if it's not too much to ask, I'd like to know that family.
"

Porter
could not respond verbally but fell again into his father's arms, sobbing at the pain he now knew he had created.  "I am so sorry."

Nathan pulled back to see his son's eyes.  "Glenn, you are my son and
nothing will change that.  And though we all make mistakes, some have a much bigger effect on others.  You running away hurt me something awful.  But I never stopped loving you.  Besides, you were just a kid of 14.  For the first five years after you were gone I looked down our driveway every single day hoping to see you appear.  But you didn't.  Then I gave you up.  I assumed you were either dead or in a better place for you.  And for what it's worth, I never believed that letter you wrote me."  Raising his hand to stifle Porter's response, Nathan added, "And I don't want to know what your real reason was for leaving.  But I've gotta know now that you won't ever leave again.  Nobody can take that pain again, especially me."

"
I promise," said Porter.

After the newness of Glenn's return and the gossip surrounding Mit
ch's life and death had eased, Thanksgiving dinner was relaxed and entertaining.  Jennifer, the family comedian, rolled jokes from her mouth like those of a seasoned stand-up comic.  Granny complained her food was not very good; a yearly ritual which elicited praise from the family for her culinary work.  Grampy sat quietly at the head of the table drinking coffee and only eating dessert, while Nathan forced himself to not stare at the son he no longer recognized.

The
remaining time of their reunion was simple and sincere.  Porter had much to learn of their lives since he left, and they hung on every detail of his survival and prosperity in Chicago.  Yet, no one broached the topic of why he left.  None were ready to open that wound.

As the day wore on,
countless stories of a past he had never experienced and life details of people he barely remembered were revisited.  The weight of guilt he felt for leaving his family began to suffocate him and Porter was done.

“Well," he said
abruptly, “I’d better get going.  I have a long drive back to Chicago.”

Sensing his need to go,
no one but Granny offered any objection who quickly relented after Porter caught a quick glance between she and Nathan.  “Ok, Glenn," she said.  "I’m so glad you made it home.”  Slowly and sincerely embracing Nathan, Jennifer, and Grampy, Porter saved his final touch for Granny.  With a tenderness he had known as the true measure of female love, Granny hugged him around the waist once again.   Standing six inches above her, his face was full of her permed, grey hair.  Her scent would stay in his nostrils for days.

Chapter 9

High End
Honky Tonk

November 2011

Porter e
xtended his ten hour return trip to Chicago by four days.  Instead of heading northwest through Ohio and Indiana, he chose a southerly route to Red Boiling Springs, Tennessee, on the off-chance his face or vehicle were of interest to law enforcement officials and they had somehow tied him to his Illinois home.  Having never visited the sleepy southern town that half his mother's side had called home since Andrew Jackson was President, Porter welcomed the detour.

As he exited
Interstate 40 at Cookeville, Porter began the rolling trek into the hills north on Route 53.  Turning right on Defeated Creek Highway, Porter used his GPS to guide him to a hill's peak where he could see for miles.  100 yards from the edge, he placed the car in drive and steered towards the Cumberland River.  At 75 yards away, Porter lowered the windows, dropped his backpack out the driver's side, and set the cruise control on 30 mph.  With only 15 yards until launch, Porter opened his door and rolled out.  He quickly collected himself and ran to the cliff’s edge to see the final few feet of the car’s 800 foot plunge into the river where it quickly disappeared.

Collecting h
is backpack, Porter began the 15-mile hike to his family’s home place.  The noon sun warmed him as he strolled through the hills and valleys that generations of his family had enjoyed.  The confluence of Defeated Creek Road onto Difficult Road made Porter chuckle at the irony of the path he was following.  Those names were certainly given pre-Civil War and most likely by his forefathers. 
How fitting
, he thought.

Deciding not
to rush his walk so he could soak in the views his ancestors had, Porter was still three miles from the Red Boiling Springs center at 5:00 p.m.  Needing a mode of transportation but certain the used car lots would be closed by the time he arrived, Porter called the number listed on the for sale sign of a Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle parked at the end of a gravel road.  Five minutes later, the country-friendly owner, Cleston Smith, accepted Porter’s $1,000 cash with a smile.

“You any kin to Estes Smith
?” asked Porter in his best country accent as he handed him the payment.

“Sure I am.  He’s my great-great-
granddad,” replied Cleston.  “We have a family reunion at the place in the hills where the revenuers ran him and the family out in the middle of the night back in 1925.”

“Is that right
?” said Porter, already very familiar with the story as it was a source of pride for his mother's family that their patriarch was a bootlegger.

“
Yeah, Grandpa Estes’s lookouts told him the revenuers were coming, and all he had time to do was grab the family and high-tail it out of town.  And that's what he did.  And he didn’t stop until he was up in Temperance, Michigan.  How’s that for...” his voice trailed off as he searched for the right word.

“Irony
,” Porter added.

“That’s it. 
Irony.” Cleston agreed.  “You know the Smiths?”

“
Just old friends of my family,” Porter lied. His grandfather was the eldest son of Estes and Adeline Smith.  “That’s a neat story about your grandpa.  I’ll have to remember it and tell my folks.”

“Oh, if they knew Estes, I’m sure they already know it
,” added Cleston. 

"I'm sure they do
," said Porter.  "I'm sure they do."

After a few
minutes more of small talk, Porter bid Cleston farewell and rode the final few miles into Red Boiling Springs. 

The
only restaurant in this town of 600 was the Red Rooster and it was spilling over with locals when Porter arrived.  As the heads turned and conversation stopped to observe this stranger with a three day old beard, Porter bellied up to the bar and ordered a Bad Penny.

“Honey, we
ain’t got that here," the waitress said.  "How’s about a Bud?”

“That’ll be fine, ma’am
,” replied Porter.

Two Buds and a hamburger
platter later, Porter asked for his coffee to-go.   As the server was bringing him the hot liquid in a Styrofoam cup, a couple of locals sidled up on either side of him.  Porter had noticed the pair of mid-twenty year old men eyeing him from the moment he arrived.

“So you’re new in
town, huh?” asked the burly, bearded man to his right.

“Yes
,” was Porter’s only response, as he gently tilted the plastic lid, allowing the coffee to cool.

“
Kinda tight-lipped, aren’t ya?” asked the smaller man on Porter’s left, whose words were a little more drawn out as if he had been in the hooch well before dinner.

Porter
had no time to respond as the larger one asked, “Hey Bud, who wears riding gloves at supper?  Whatcha got underneath?” 

“Soft, faggot hands
,” answered his friend, as both men let out a loud laugh. 

Porter
reminded himself he had just promised Connie he would avoid the petty conflicts and remain focused on his true mission.  There were occasions where that was not possible.  He presumed tonight would be one of them...and was looking forward to it.

“Hey g
uys, I don’t want any trouble," Porter said in a tone he hoped would convey weakness.

“Then you should move your ass on outta here
,” said the leader. 

“
No problem,” said Porter as he stepped behind his bar stool and prepared to pay his $12 tab.  “Oh, Miss,” said Porter trying to get the attention of the waitress. As she approached him from the other side of the bar, Porter said “This is for you,” and laid a $100 bill on the counter between the two men.  Without breaking eye contact with his waitress who was now beaming with joy, Porter added one last dig.  “Let’s see if these two homos can match my generosity.”

Their
outrage was immediate.  Before either could stand, Porter uncapped his coffee lid and tossed the contents in the face of the smaller goon on his left.  As he pivoted right, he instinctively ducked, assuming a hard right cross would be coming from the other one.  As the man’s arm swung over top of him, Porter lurched upward bringing his left elbow into teeth-shattering contact with the man’s chin.  Blood, bits of teeth, and saliva exploded from the man’s face.  A whimpering sound of agony came from deep inside the man’s throat as he slumped over the bar stool.

Assured that the
more aggressive of the two was decommissioned, Porter rotated 180 degrees to assess the damage his coffee had done to the weaker one.  Although the temporary shock of the scalding beverage was diminishing, the man was reluctant to engage this stranger after seeing the destructive shot he had just delivered to the toughest man in town.  Not taking on this stranger, however, would be an act of cowardice in the eyes of the townies and one he would never live down. 

“Look
,” started Porter, “you don’t have to be a hero.   All I wanted was a quick dinner and then I was leaving.  So unless you want a fate worse than your friend here, let me leave in peace.”

Glanc
ing around the diner, the thin piece of white trash knew he should let it go, but could already hear the gossip about his failure to "man up" and take on this out-of-towner. 

“Eat shit
,” was his response as he advanced toward Porter. 

“I’m warning you
,” said Porter as he backed up, keeping both men in front of him. 

“Fuck your warning
,” retorted the man, who moved aggressively towards Porter. 

Allowing the man’s momentum to put his center of gravity over his knees, P
orter slid to the right.  As the man stumbled forward, Porter cocked his leg and drove it hard into the side of the man’s left knee. He shrieked as he fell to the floor in agony.

T
he silent patrons looked at this stranger, many displaying slight grins under their shocked appearances. “Sorry, fellas,” said Porter to the two now writhing in pain.  As he looked around the diner for some support, Porter continued, “These good folks know that I tried to get out of here with no trouble.  So stay down and just let me be on my way.” 

“The hell
I will.  You broke my top teeth out you sunuva bitch,” muttered the larger one who had now regained enough of himself to be furious.  His right hand reached inside his jacket and towards his belt where Porter knew only one type of weapon resided. 

Without hesitation, Porter threw himself at the man, knocking him to the ground. Another two blows to the man’s head rendered the redneck unable to consciously understand wh
y his hand was on his pistol.  Porter deftly reached to the man’s side and tossed the gun clear.  Taking one step toward the nearest booth filled with two elderly couples, Porter grabbed a steak knife from the man’s plate.  “I gave you a chance,” Porter said to his victim in disgust. 

With cobra-
like quickness and precision, Porter pinned the man’s left leg to the floor.  With his right hand tightly grasping the knife, he placed the blade under the man’s lower leg and severed his Achilles tendon. 

Amidst the
man’s screams, Porter emptied the bullets from the pistol’s clip onto the floor, removed the chambered bullet and dropped the gun into the kitchen's deep fryer.  Walking past the stunned guests, he placed another $100 bill on the counter.  “Sorry for the mess.  Their tabs are on me,” Porter said as he calmly walked out the door.

*****

The night ride west quickly reminded Porter how much the wind affects the stability of the motorcycle, as well as the temperature of the rider.  As I-40 West intersected I-65 North in Nashville, Porter looked for a place to warm his frigid body.  His selection of the five star Loews Nashville hotel was in stark contrast to the half-star dive he had called home while in West Virginia.  Using his Oregon license under the name John Christian, Porter checked into room 512.  After a shower, shave, and a 45-minute nap, Porter headed down to the bar to find the trouble he knew was waiting; even if he had promised Connie otherwise.

For a quick fix, h
igh-end bars were Porter’s favorite targets.  The male patrons were smug, self-absorbed, and firm in their belief that they were the masters of their universe.  Little concern was given for anything that did not advance their career, place in society, wealth, or chances with the super models who frequented the establishments looking for a sugar daddy.  For Porter, there could not be a softer mark.

He bellied up to the last stool
at the far end of the mahogany bar.  9:00p.m. on the holiday weekend would soon welcome the entrance of the Vanderbilt society girls, the businessmen ready to party, and all manner of social climbers.  Evan, the mop-haired, 24 year old bartender greeted Porter warmly and was pleased to tap two pints of Bad Penny for his new customer.

“Think it’s going to be a busy night in he
re?” Porter asked Evan.

“
Yeah, it should be,” said Evan.

"Hell
, yeah it will be!" interrupted a well-dressed gentleman to Porter's right.  “Everybody’s been tied up with family for Thanksgiving and then shopping Friday.  Tonight will be the first night they can come out and let their hair down.”

“You a
regular in here?” Porter asked.

“Oh
, yeah,” he offered through an alcohol fueled smirk.  “Just about every Saturday.  There’s a whole crowd of us who come in here to harvest the latest crop of just graduated sorority girls looking for their golden ticket."

“Is that right
?” asked Porter with both an expression of disbelief and a tone of interest.  Evan rolled his eyes in disgust and moved down the bar to provide liquid confidence to his other customers.

“
Yeah, you wouldn’t believe what the hottest women you’ve ever seen will let you do to them if they think you're their ride to easy street,” said this well-heeled man in his $5,000 ensemble.

Porter curled his lips in a serpentine like smile.  He had chosen the right mark.

“Let me buy the next round,” said Porter.

“Cool. Thanks
,” he said as he offered his hand, “Rick, by the way.”

“John
,” said Porter, certain neither offered their given names.  After two more rounds, Rick was spilling the lurid details of the heinous acts he and his friends, Forest and Paul, had committed against numerous high society sluts.

“
Are your buddies going to join you tonight?” asked Porter.

“No doubt
.  They’re going to get three rooms so we can pair off.  They’ll probably get here by 10:30 p.m.  You’ll definitely know them when you see them,” said Rick, in apparent awe of his comrades.

Rick was right. 
At quarter ‘til 11:00 p.m., his posse arrived.  The one hundred or so patrons encircling the bar paid their respects to the pair who, like generals inspecting their troops, assessed the forms of the would-be recruits and their likelihood for deviant behavior.

Paul wore a dark blue suit ensemble that was ripped from the pages of G
Q.  Forest was the only hipster in the building and proud of it.  After a few moments of jovial back slaps and healthy laughs, the two settled in with a gin and tonic which Evan provided without request.