Dark Plan by Philip Larson

Every step she took on the bare wood floor echoed through the old building. I sat noiseless as a ghost and waited for the woman to approach.

It started because she put me down when my hunger drove me to scrabble for food discards in garbage cans. She lurked in her back door, watching me, arms crossed tightly across her breasts. Above lips sealed in a scrunched line her eyes glared.

I knew her type. If I asked what she wanted, she’d deny paying any attention to me. She’d snort and ask why I would think she’d spy on me. “What’s the matter with you?” she’d say with a sneer. As if I were some sort of lowlife, worthy only of contempt.

She yelled at me to get out of her back yard and go away. The minister came up behind her, and I heard him ask what was going on. “It’s a filthy drunken bum. He’s pawing through our trash cans in the alley,” she said. “He’ll leave a mess behind. It’s disgusting. Those people can’t even feed themselves.”

“Wait a minute,” he called. “Are you hungry?”

What the hell did he think, I was grubbing through trash to pass the time? “Yes,” I answered. “I haven’t had food for days.”

“Here,” he said, “come up to the back door. I’ll give you a couple bucks for Harry’s Cafe downtown. They’ll feed you a good meal. Sorry that’s all I can do for you. Listen, what’s your name?”

“You can call me Bob,” I told him. I thanked him, said I appreciated it.

“Oh sure”, I heard her harsh voice from inside. “He’ll appreciate it as far as the Howdy Bar. You’re wasting our money. You can’t help people like that. If he had any self respect he wouldn’t be digging through garbage. Those people could help themselves, but they don’t want to. I don’t know why you won’t ever listen to me, Warren.”

Maybe the preacher was hungry enough once to know what it feels like, I thought. But her, she’d kick you when you were down and feel good about doing it with every blow. She didn’t care what brought me to this point in my life, what had happened that wasn’t in my control. She only blamed me. I could see the hate in her eyes. Oh, the good people in her church wouldn’t believe me — but she’s a soul killer. I’ve seen that look lots of times, in other places.

* * *

I was new in town, had hopped off a train going from Minneapolis to Seattle. I told the minister the truth: I hadn’t eaten all those long miles we clacked across the prairies. I didn’t know a thing about this town of Benteen, except I was too hungry to stay any longer in a cold boxcar.

So I bummed round the little burg, and yes, I found more than a few drinks. Other ministers were good for a bit of dough, and I survived.

Every other place I’d given up and hit the rails after a couple days. But the way that woman stared at me stuck in my craw. Sour hatred for her raked my stomach with bile every time I remembered. I had enough of being treated by people like her as if I were some kind of bug to be squashed under their feet. I wanted food and I wanted revenge. So I had to figure out something fast.

On the third morning I woke with a starting point clear as a bell in my head. That woman’s husband mightn’t have a clue about what kind of person she was. But he sure didn’t mind going around her to try and make good against her meanness. That’s it, I thought. I’ll get me a job cleaning the church. He can tell himself what a good joe he is by paying me a pittance for hard work.

* * *

Well my plan worked. I cleaned myself up real good the next day. The night before I didn’t touch a drink. That part was hard, but I knew better than to chance any smell of liquor on my breath.

Preacher man didn’t hear me walk across the packed dirt lot behind him as he unlocked the back door to his church office. He jumped when I gave him a “good morning” and dropped his keys. When he stood up his face was red. “I didn’t expect to see you around town still,” he said. I gave him this song and dance about how I was on the way to Seattle to visit my elderly mother. Hah. The woman who might have been my mother drank herself to death years ago. Stupid bitch only called me “son” when she was hard up, and wanted to wheedle a few bucks out of me.

He swallowed my story like a fish on the hook. I told him a few weeks work would let me clean up. Then I’d be able to buy a cheap ticket on the train, instead of riding the boxcars.

The missus whined that he’d been suckered into ‘trying me out’ for a few days when she came to his office later. I heard her harsh voice out in the empty church. Oh, I was hard at work dusting under the pews. She snuck one eye around the corner to stare at me. I pretended not to see her, but I knew she was there.

Took me a while to figure out the rest of the plan. The woman kept coming over from the house at odd times. Hoped to catch me sloughing off on the job, of course. As if that would ever happen. Takes someone a whale of a lot smarter than her to get the best of old Bob. But what I really liked was when I found she sometimes snuck over after dark. She knew I had to turn the boiler on Saturday night, to get that big old barn warm enough for Sunday church. I watched as she did her rounds. She never turned on the lights, only took her little flashlight. Her sneaking around like that gave me my idea.

See, that old building had lots of wood floors, and they were dried out and scuffed up. I had taken to soaking them with linseed oil, pouring it out and practically mopping the floors to spread it around. Now, usually I did this during the daytime, and put up ropes with little signs warning people not to walk in the area where the wood was slick with oil. Then I came back and wiped up the excess oil with old rags, leaving the floor looking like new.

But tonight was different. A spot at the top of the steep steps to the basement had been the last dry area I’d left to work on. Oh, I put warnings up all day long, so anyone coming through would know the usual precautions had been taken. Right at the edge of the wet area I set the brightly painted oil can as an extra marker. Then I came back after dusk, poured a puddle of oil, but removed the ropes and stashed the can.

I hid in a nearby closet with the door open just a crack, overlooking the stairs to the basement. Her little circle of light flickered fitfully through the dark building. It was too dim to show the danger ahead. I listened to her hard-soled shoes tap down the center aisle and around the corner into the lobby.

It was over before she knew what happened. One foot slipped in the pool of oil and she went tumbling ass over teakettle down the whole flight of stairs to the bottom. The flashlight bounced a couple times and ended up halfway down, throwing a weak yellowed glow on the wall.

Enough light reflected to show her crumpled on the floor, her head twisted at an unnatural angle from her scrawny neck. I didn’t even need to go down and check; she was dead. I tipped over the big tin of linseed oil, so even more spread at the top and spilled down the first three or four wood steps. Made it look real natural, like someone had accidentally knocked the can over. Oh, she kicked the bucket, all right.

I sauntered down to Main Street, shadowed by the giant cottonwood trunks along the sidewalk. The only area of danger was crossing to the railroad cars, but the streets were deserted.

Next train heading west sat idle on the siding, as they loaded up down at the station. I was soon snuggled in a corner of an empty boxcar. Even if they’re suspicious because I’m gone, they’ll never catch me. I’ll be a long way down the tracks before that woman is discovered. Besides, case you haven’t figured it yet — my name’s not Bob.

* * *