The Brush of the Dove's Wings

The boy lifted his face to the sky as he walked the road in front of his family's farm. The warmth of the sun brought a measure of comfort to his troubled soul. He tried to focus his mind on baseball. He'd recently turned eleven and was eligible to play on the town of LaFontaine's team. Although it was near season's end, the coach had agreed to let him join in as they finished their remaining scheduled games. He was a good runner and could catch better than most. But his passion was pitching. When he woke on that September Saturday morning, he'd felt the promise of a good day. He'd hoped to talk his brother into helping him practice by catching to his pitching. Morning chores went smoothly. But about half an hour after he'd finished the milking, it started. He was adept at recognizing the symptoms. Pressure in his head followed by a sense of restlessness—then the dreaded urge. He hated it when the feelings came. He didn't understand them, was embarrassed, and felt helpless to stop their overwhelming power over his body. He'd tried to resist by slipping away from the farm to take a long walk. A mile down the road the tension and anxiety increased. He reached up and pressed the palms of his hands against his temples. “Stop, stop. Why can't these thoughts go away?” No one was near to hear. He broke into a run, his feet kicked up dust and debris. Dirt particles stung at his eyes and brought tears that ran willy-nilly down his cheeks. Parker's Dry Goods, located on Branson Street—the main thoroughfare in LaFontaine, Indiana, was integral to the quaint town. While the store still carried a modest stock of hardware items, it had long since ceased to be the community's sole source. As the business's name implied, its specialty was dry goods. On the main floor, shoppers could visit the millinery corner where personalized orders were accepted on Wednesdays and Saturdays, the milliner, Penelope Jones's days in the shop. Adjacent to that area, stairs provided access to a second level balcony where boots and shoes were on display. Main floor, center store, had large tables holding stacks of men's shirts, trousers, long johns, and bib overalls. Samuel Parker, a skilled tailor, accepted custom orders and provided alterations for gentlemen. Long tables holding various hardware items were right of center providing a separation from the lady's area. Those shopping for fabric yardage, notions, or fashion accessories could step up to a counter managed by Laura Parker, Samuel's wife. Unmentionables were kept under the counter and discreetly brought out upon request. Setting on the counter was a four-drawered wooden case containing sewing notions. The top two drawers were large and shallow. The first had the brand name Clarks in black lettering embossed in gold written on the face of it. The second, with like lettering, read, Cotton Thread. Underneath it, were two half-sized drawers. One labeled Buttons and the other Needles. The thread drawer was open displaying a palette of colors. Local farmer's wife, Earnestine Brown, with her customary scrunched up, sour expression, held a spool next to yardage that lay on the counter. “Is this the only shade of blue you have?” “Yes. If you don't think it will work, you might consider using black,” Laura Parker said holding a spool of black thread next to the navy and white gingham. The boy had been watching as the two women held their discussion. Why would anyone choose black when they could have red? The palm of his hand had started itching when he entered the store. Now the skin around his ears was hot and burning. He reached up and rubbed his right lobe. His breathing became rapid and shallow, and he felt aroused. Why, thread? I've no need of thread. Why does this happen to me? The wooden spool made a loud tap when Earnestine forcefully plunked it down. “You haven't provided me with much of a choice. I'll take the black.” The disgruntled woman followed Mrs. Parker to the cash register. After easing from behind a stack of galvanized buckets the boy went to the thread case. When he was sure that no one was watching, he reached into the open drawer, snatched up the red spool and slipped it in his pants pocket. The thrill was so intense he thought he might wet himself. He scurried back behind the bucket display where he took deep breaths. He'd stay there until he felt calm.