Deep in the Heart of Me, page 1
Deep in the Heart of Me
a boy falls in love
in the time of gangsters
By
Diane Munier
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2016 Diane Munier
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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www.dianemunier.com
Introduction
One day my aged father and I drove past one of the many neighboring farms en route to his doctor. “There was a boy lived on that farm back there. One day, they came and got him from school, and he became the man in his family. He was thirteen, and he never returned to complete his education.” Dad filled in a few choice details and in some way those incidentals, though an entirely different story, became this book. As I walked the edges of that farm and drove the backroads all the way to the river, Tonio started to speak and tell me his adventures. There is a reason we won World War II. Those boys were forged in places like Tonio’s farm, his school, those long, laborious, glorious hours of work and run and tragedy…and fun. For all of those who wonder about the hearts of those whose lot it would be to march across Europe and level a dictator, this is for you.
Deep in the Heart of Me
Summary: Opens in 1934. Tonio is oldest of nine. He is a farm boy. Sobe is the new lawman's daughter. She shows up at Tonio's school. What seems inevitable quickly becomes impossible. Did I say impossible? Remains to be seen.
Introduction
Chapter 1
Tonio, Fall - 1934
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
It all goes wrong
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
A Turn
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Tonio
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Sobe
Chapter 77
Tonio
Chapter 78
New Day - 1935
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
May 1936
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Spring 1937
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Spring 1938
Chapter 101
Spring 1940
Other Books by Diane Munier
About the Author
Contact Information
Can I Ask A Favour?
Chapter 1
Tonio, Fall - 1934
There are enough of us Clannans to fill a whole pew at church. I go in first, then the rest ending with Granma, then Mom and Dad. That's twelve of us.
I want to sit in the back with the grown boys, but Dad says I can't before fifteen. So when the long services are finally over we boys congregate behind the building and smoke or have fights, mostly with the Smiths from Dewberry because they are always up for a punch.
Yesterday after service Jim claimed he had a postcard his father carried back from the war. A French woman and she didn't have clothes on.
We all said he was a liar, that he'd not seen such a thing. Jim said he would prove he had it. He'd bring it to school on Monday. For us older boys who'd been working the harvest, Monday was our first day of school. Everyone else had been at it for a month.
Jim would be expelled if such a thing as that picture was found on him. But he was that kind of fool.
So I'd argued with myself about it all night if I'd take a look or not.
Thing is, if I look, my brothers will too, cause James has a big fat mouth. He'd even take a punch just to be important enough to say, "Tonio looked."
And I don't want them to—look. Especially if I'm not going to. They shouldn't see that—before I do.
And if my sisters get a flash—I'll kill Jim. And I can't say to put it away if I am gawking too, now can I?
Here I am thirteen, almost a man Dad said. He knew a kid in The Great War same as me, doing a man's job. He was a Brit just thirteen. And maybe I'd like to look at that card--just me so I could know. But I have the gaggle and herd to consider and never a minute private unless I go so far into the woods they can't find me. Dad says, "You are your brothers' keeper, and your sisters' too."
So I'm thinking about all of this as we walk the mile from the farm to school. Ours is the first farm outside of town, and our lane is named for us, Clannan Lane because that's all there is on that lane and any other around—Clannan land.
My brothers walk ahead, and that's the herd, and my sisters fall behind, and that's the gaggle.
We're nearly to town when Joseph and Ebbie break into a run. Jim waits up ahead on the tracks, and two or three others are already there, and they are hooting and calling out.
"Get back here," I say stern to my brothers, and they slow a little, Joseph does at least and looks back.
"Ain't you coming?" he says.
Ebbie barely looks, and he's running again.
I turn away. An automobile is coming from behind, and it's getting closer. "Get out of the road," I call to my sisters because they can't talk as much as they do and keep up so I have to look front and back like I'm bringing in cattle.
The girls break apart and walk single file. And that car keeps coming, and I can already see it's a black Ford. There are gangsters here about, well in Indiana and up near Chicago, but I've got my eye out cause you never know.
That Ford passes the girls and they wave and coo even though they hate the dust. I watch it approach me, and two are in it. It's not a car I know, and I'm looking. The hat is lawman--we got us a new one. The other is a girl. She looks at me, and I almost wave like we do around here but my hand stops there, and her hand goes up, and she gives a little smile.
I look ahead, and my brothers are standing in that group around Jim, and I hear Ebbie above the rest, and now they've seen that picture, and I'm so mad I could punch somebody.
But my sisters are running toward me carrying on. Oh, the new sheriff has a daughter. A new girl at school. You'd think Claudette Colbert just rode by. This is why I call them the gaggle. That's what they are.
Five little sisters in all. Five little canaries. That's what people say when they sing at church. I call them do-re-mi-fa-so-what.
They look sweet on Sundays standing up front near the pulpit wearing matching flour-sack dresses, each dyed a different color. They sound sweet too, like angels, that's if you don't know them.
And then we have Pee-Wee, youngest of all. Born too early is what happened. He is the runt, and they called him that though Dad didn't like it and made them say, Peter—my brothers, not me. But Pee-Wee is still too young for school. He's barely out of dresses.
So I come on Jim, he can't stand still one foot to another, holding his card against his shirt so I can't see it and all of the looks on their faces.
He has no self-control. Dad says there were men in the army without it too, and they were the first to spread fear. Dad says a man with self-control loves his woman and his family, and
Dad says the fool has a loud voice, and he calls out and tries to lead you astray.
"Tonio, are you looking or not?" Jim says.
Someone makes the sound a hen makes, a broody chicken.
My sisters are catching up from behind. There's only a short walk to school now. They mustn't be late.
"Her name is Sobe," Elsie says to me.
I don't know how she knows that. It's got my interest. More than anything.
"Hurry up," I say to my brothers, and they break from that pack of jackasses and straggle after.
"Ain't you going to look?" Jim calls out. But it's no good. They're in a group now, the gaggle and the herd. I'm eager to look, all right. But it's not what they think.
Her name is Sobe. I've never heard such a name. And unless it is some trick of the sun on the glass in the window of her father's car, I've never seen such a girl.
"Class this is Soph…," Miss Charlotte says.
"Sobe," her dad, Lawman, interrupts.
"Sobe," Miss Charlotte says careful to make the vowels long like we are all deaf.
I picture myself walking up to her and saying something clever like, "What's that other name?" and I get hot in the ears thinking it cause I have baling wire holding the flap of my sole onto the front of my boot. I'd been meaning to fix it but we've been damn busy, and there wasn't a reason to care before.
So I have to hear it from my sister on the walk home. "She's Sophia," Elsie says.
She just got to town this morning. She spent the night with her father at Roger's farm over in Dannenburg. Now she's going to live in town in Daniel's old house. That's how they go on—my sisters--and now it's useful.
I felt her in the room today. Miss Charlotte gave her the desk one row over and two up from me. She wore a calico dress with little pink flowers, and I think I could smell such a sweetness. Even in our classroom the sun seemed to shine on her dark hair, and she crossed her ankles, and she has a form…slim but she's…she's round in the hip. And she moves like she's graceful.
Is she a saint? Pretty as anything I'd ever seen, new calf, fawn wobbling behind its mother, a new colt, puppies, kittens….
I have to laugh at myself.
I was straining to see and hear and trying to look like I wasn't doing either.
I've done my best to ignore her. I sat in back with the grown boys, boys newly come to school with harvest done. I am the tallest, not the biggest, but tall like Dad.
I am strong and not shy as a rule. I don't moon or mope, and there's work a-plenty to catch up on.
But I noticed her, and my eyes followed her rightly curious, and the others made a beeline for her during recess, but not me. I played ball and told the others what to do cause they have no organization, and they were passing around that dumb card, the older boys, ones grown like me, then talking to the older girls, the ones that sway back and forth and giggle.
After school, her father came, and she hurried to meet him and get in the car.
And I walk way out ahead of the herd. I tell them to stay away from me, and I don't want to talk, and if they try to I'll kick the shit out of either one of them, so they let me get ahead. I want to be by myself. The gaggle is further up. There is work waiting at home. I welcome it cause in my head are so many thoughts to turn over.
I want to think. I want to think about the girl with two names.
Chapter 2
Dad reads us the Bible every night before bed. I like some of the stories, the ones about war. But my favorite is about Joseph. Not my brother, but the guy in Scripture. He has eleven brothers, and they are so angry at him because he's the dad's favorite and a snitch on top of it. So one day they see the dad has given Joseph a new coat, and they are so jealous they figure they'll kill him and blame a wild animal. The oldest brother doesn't want to face the old man so he says let's throw Joseph in a hole instead so they do.
Here's the point though—they end up selling him into slavery to get rid of him. But he does really well once he gets to Egypt and ends up being the vice-president. One day his brothers show up because they are starving and Joseph has all this food so he gives them some and strings them along and finally reveals who he is because they don't recognize him.
And they think they're going to get it, but they don't because Joseph says something like he knows they wanted to hurt him but God meant it for good.
So that's it. He lets them off.
And see I wouldn't. I would have thrown them each in a hole at least and seen how they liked it.
But Dad says God was using every bad thing in Joseph's life to work a greater good for everybody.
Sounds unfair.
See, a greater good is something that is bigger than your idea of what needs to happen. So it can be really bad, but it's actually not as bad as you think.
It makes me sort of mad. Really mad.
Another thing, I don't think I'd ever want to put a baby in my wife if I really loved her. But I'd want sons. Maybe a daughter, for my wife to have help with baking and all, but I could live without that chatter.
But I try to think of what it would be like to join with a wife, or even share my bed, and her body would be mine to touch and…see.
The young married guys, they always look like men after the wedding. Even the awkward ones. It does something for them, to take a wife. But women can die having a baby.
I don't know why I'm lying awake for the second night thinking about girls. First, it was that postcard I didn't even see, then it's a real girl. Sobe.
Earlier, as we'd prepared for bed, Ebbie and Joseph mention both, the postcard lady and the real girl Sobe. Ebbie says the postcard is pretty worn out, but you can see her paps and hair where her legs meet. I should of known about it because I have that too, not the paps, but the hair and of course she would.
"Who is she, that's what I want to know," Ebbie says meaning the naked lady.
"That's dumb," I say. It's so dumb I'm exhausted just thinking of how many words I'd have to come up with to list all of the reasons why it's so dumb.
Ebbie looks ashamed. I don't want to shame him, but he needs to think before he opens his mouth. That woman is probably dead anyway. Or a granma for all we know. And I don't want to think about naked and granma. I don't.
Far as Sobe goes, I already know who Ebbie favors, but Joseph keeps things in like me, more than me even. He says, "Sobe is pretty."
I have to use all of my self-control to pretend I don't care. He knows me well. I'm often surprised by what he says like he reads my thoughts sometimes.
But I am so careful to show nothing. "What about her?" I say, and that after acting like I don't know the name.
"She's pretty," he repeats.
I want to punch him. Pretty? He doesn't know beautiful then. I knew she was beautiful when I first saw her. But bringing her back to my mind, as I've done all evening, even when filling the wagon with manure, it's like I can study her without interruption, and I am right. She's beautiful.
And then my brother's voice and his thoughts on this same girl….he does that all the time digs into my brain and says the very thing I'm thinking of. Sobe. Pretty? Stupido.
I say, "Go to sleep."
This morning I finish my part of the milking so quickly, and I lead some of the cows to pasture, and I'm back in time to eat my mush and drink some coffee, and I check my hair once in the mirror and smooth it off my forehead. It's long on top, but I like it so. Thank God I've got clean overalls to strap over my shirt because there's such a stain from where I dripped glue when I fixed my boot. And the polish darkened the leather some, but my fingertips too, though I've scrubbed at them.
I think I might be handsome. Granma says, well it is commonly said and girls, they stare at me and so I must be all right.
Dad says I won't break the mirror. I know I favor him, but then I have the dark skin like my mother, well dark from the fields, but I don't burn like Joseph, I go brown. Mom said she had an uncle, and Granma's nephew, the one I'm sort of named for, Anthony. He died young so thanks a lot, womenfolk. But Mom says I am his image.
