Ring - The Boy Born Dead

It must have played a thousand times in the theater of my mind, probably fueled by too many old western flicks on late-night television.

The bank tellers hands thrust into the air. The outlaws words, muffled by the faded red kerchief covering his mouth. Just fill the bag, old-timer, and nobody gets hurt!

With no more than a furtive glance at the wild eyes of the desperado, the teller begins to stuff bills into the sack. He knows its a moment hell never forget, a half-face to haunt his dreams through the rest of his old age. The light gleams off the Colt Army Model 1860 revolver in the bandits hand.

I have the outlaws backstory memorized. He took that gun from the bloody corpse of A. V. E. Johnson, Union major, during the Centralia Massacre of the late unpleasantness also known as the Civil War. He rode with Confederate guerrillas, a band of thugs really, as they brought terror to the countryside.

In my imaginary western, the gang rides away with the loot. The Clay County Savings Association has been bled all but dry, and the robbers have pulled off the first daylight armed bank robbery in the United States during peacetime.

I grew up with the tale. Everybody in Liberty, Missouri, did. These outlawsthe James brothers, Frank and Jessehave a certain place in American lore, but in Liberty theyre bigger than life. Sooner or later, you hear the stories, you watch a film or two, and then you want the true narrative.

The history books tell you that the James brothers were actually the sons of a preacher, one Robert S. James. Along with launching two bloodthirsty offspring, he also helped launch a fine institution of learning, William Jewell Collegea mixed legacy to be sure. The bank and the school stood in the same town, looting and learning brought together. The good reverend himself moved on, heading west with a vision of ministering to those caught up in the fever of the Gold Rush. And there he died of some other fever entirely.

Liberty had not grown to become another Montgomery or Memphis. It was a quieter town, located about twenty miles outside of Kansas City, near the geographical center of the continental United States.

The heart of the town rested upon three hilltops. The most westward hill was home to Liberty High School. Each year, the homecoming parade would start at the high school and lead down through a valley and back up to the centermost hilltop. The roadside would be littered with remnants of the fun. Crinkled tissue paper that had come unglued from the homecoming floats. Single flower petals unlatched from the blooms that donned the many corsages and boutonnieres of the young couples. That center hill was topped by the town square, which included the courthouse and other old buildings. It was on the steps of the courthouse that the homecoming queen would be announced.

The third and easternmost hill contained the campus of William Jewell College. During the Civil War, the Union army took over some of the buildings, using them as their hospitals and burying their dead on campus. I know it sounds morbid, but I always loved the idea that dead men were buried somewhere under that hill. No one could see them, but they were there. Reminders that blood and history and the hearts of our forefathers were never far away. They may have been unseen, but they were still a part of us, even if only six feet beneath our daily walk.

By the time I was a teenager, Liberty was a prototypical Midwestern American town. We spent summer days partaking of the soda fountain, a surefire relief from the blistering heat. Soda was the antidote for sweat, even though it made us thirstier. It was one of those childhood mysteries that rocked the boat of the laws of the universe and never apologized for doing so. We had our own cosmos, and among those stars it was a fact that sugar, syrup, and bubbly water produced a certain heavenly nectar.

But the sweetest things were those we took for granted.

Things like childhood. Long summer days exploring old Mr. Maxwells woods. Throwing rocks at the window shutters of the abandoned farmhouse out on Rodes Streeta funny name for a street, I always thought. They could have called it Rodes Road, but duller heads prevailed.

That house was completely dilapidated. My dad told me that it had once belonged to an old man who had ridden with Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders down in Texas. He bought the land and built the house with his bare hands. But he never married. Too cantankerous to live with. Stubborn and loud. He would often discharge his rifle at lightning bugsfrom his front porch. Im not sure he ever hit one, but he was the kind of guy youd never visit unannounced. Unless you were driving a tank.

When he died, no one came forward as his next of kin, so the land and house just sat empty for years. Our game was to see who could hit the shutters the most times in a row without missing. Hitting the old wood siding meant no points. But if you ever heard glass break, you automatically won because most of the glass had been gone for yearsevidence of all the young adventurers who had thrown rocks before us.