Joey Ripley (standard:fantasy, 3039 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Dec 15 2005	Views/Reads: 3352/2306	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A meeting with a boy who's father was murdered. Such a boy. (A rewrite) I'd really appreciate hard, critical feedback.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

feel a shiver pass through me, as if the dripping icy chill running off 
the branches just ran down my back. Graves make me cry when I know 
who's in them. I look at the inscription chiseled into the headstone. 

‘Jack Ripley. Died of gunshot wounds. February 13. 1856.' 

“This is your dad?” My face is etched with confusion. 

“Yep, that's my dad, mister.” He says quietly, turning his shoulders,
removing one hand from a ‘dog-eared' pocket, and points again, this 
time very directly.  “Jake Springer is over there.” 

“Do you want to show me?” 

“Sure,” he mutters. 

He starts to walk away. I follow him. Such a boy, I think, living his
own private fantasy? Perhaps his friends are behind the trees, watching 
as he makes a fool of me, but the gravestone?  The look on his face, 
and the way his arm points; for there's a sad way to point at 
something; the limp, heavy arm; the kind of pointing that doesn't 
really point to anything. I follow on. 

We don't speak as we walk, but I do keep looking round to see if I can
catch another face, or several faces, poking out from behind a tree.  
He stops and stands at the foot of a grave, overgrown, ruined, its 
headstone shattered. He points again. This time his arm is direct, 
straight, and his index finger sharp out from his hand. I stand there 
with him, not speaking. After a moment or two he kicks dirt over the 
grave. 

“Bye, mister,” he says, turns and walks away. I want him to say stay,
but he won't, not here. 

Pulling a flap of my overcoat over one knee, I kneel amid the crumpled
pile of stone. I have to know what it says. Perhaps it will say ‘Here 
lies a murderer, hanged at noon, 1846' or something similar. I think 
about the boy as I search for broken pieces of rock to assemble. He's 
vanished. In meticulous fashion, and with a love for jigsaws, I roughly 
fashion its completeness. There's no denying the clarity of the 
inscription. 

‘Jake Springer. Shot to death. February 1856. Lie in hell.' 

I stare at it for a while wondering why Springer wasn't hanged for the
murder of the boy's father, and, God forgive me, I kick the stones into 
a heap. As I begin the walk back to town, still in a daze, the quickly 
ascending sun warms my balding scalp. 

Of course the boy cannot be the son of Jack Ripley. His father was shot
to death in 1856. This is 2005. Walking from the cemetery I have the 
feeling I'm daydreaming again. I say again because I'm so good at this. 
My friends all remark about my ‘head in the clouds appearance' or my 
sudden burst of asking...‘what if...' at the corner of every new 
street. 

Ambling back down the hill I pause at the school gate. The notice
informs visitors that this school built in 1850, its construction of 
sun-dried bricks marking the first of its kind in Columbia, ten years 
after the start of the gold rush. It's an oblong building; two stories 
high, ten windows on each side, two rows of five, with steps leading to 
a porch entrance. Driven by my insatiable curiosity I enter the grounds 
and climb the steps. The room is exactly as it must have been when it 
was built. At the far end of the schoolroom is another door, one the 
older children would enter through to climb to the classrooms on the 
second floor. I recall my own school days in England. There isn't that 
much difference, desks lined up in rows, with the teacher's desk at the 
head of the room, next to a blackboard sitting on the two wooden pegs 
of an easel. 

It must have been fun to be up so high, looking out over the rolling
hills, hearing the creek running, and the pots and pans banging against 
the sides of the mules as the miners leave town to stake their claim on 
the land. As if somehow commanded the town bell rings out and I imagine 
how the children must have waited for that sound all day. Just as I 
did, blasting out like a spring flower. 

Descending the stairs I see him, the boy from the cemetery. I stand for
a moment, watching him twirl a lasso above his head, which he launches 
with great accuracy over a stick jutting out of the ground, and wonder 
how many people he has told his story to?  Perhaps I should have given 
him a couple of dollars for his entertainment, but what about those 
eyes? Those were not the eyes of a boy having fun. I walk slowly toward 
him, and, in time honored tradition say, “Howdy”. 

“Howdy, mister, you been lookin' in the old school?” He asks, not
stopping the twirling of the rope. 

“Sure have, reminds me of when I went to school.” 

“Wher'd that be, mister?” 

“That'd be in England, lad. A long time ago.” 

“I heard about England in school, mister, that's a long ways off right?”


“That's right.” 

“Sin Leng, he came from England on a boat, but he's Chinese.” 

“Sin Leng?” I ask, wondering what tale I'm about to be treated to next. 

“He went to school here. His parents, they did a laundry. You could get
your shirts real nice, but we never did that. My ma, she did the 
washin'. I'd help sometimes, when I wasn't at school. Some days it was 
so hard I wished I'd gone to school anyhow.” 

He continues to throw the rope, reel it in, and throw it again, never
once missing the stick. 

“Did you skip school much?” I ask, “you know...you saying you didn't
like it and all.” 

“Whenever I could, mister, whenever I could...you?” 

“Yeh, me, too.” 

I feel a smile blossom on my face, being totally at ease with him now. 

“Do you mind if I sit a spell?” 

“Won't bother me none, mister. Folks don't normally stay around me, but
you're welcome.” 

“You're pretty good with that rope.” I remark casually. 

“Sure thing, Pa taught me to rope, I'm the best in class, and no
mistake.” 

“That's right, your Pa had the livery yard, I remember. What do they
call you?” 

“Joey Ripley.” 

He stops roping the stick, steps a few feet closer to me, and shoves out
his hand. It feels almost unreal; his small, but firm grip touches my 
heart. 

“Daniel Clark, pleased to meet you, Joey.” 

There's a hint of a smile, just the warmth of something that once was.
Even so, his eyes never properly light up. Such blue eyes, I try not to 
look. 

“Folks don't normally sit next to me, Daniel. They shy's away from me
when I tell'em my pa's in the grave.” 

“Do you tell everyone, Joey?” 

“Only them that stops close.” 

“Joey, I got a sandwich here, would you like half?” I ask, reaching into
my pocket for something I bought yesterday. 

“Thanks, I've not eaten in awhile.” 

“How long, Joey?” 

“I died in 1858. Ma, she did everythin' she could. The doc, he said I
got some pneumonia thing, I'd been coughin' for a long time.” 

He bit into the sandwich with gusto, tearing the bread apart as though
what he said were true. We sit together on the trunk of a fallen tree, 
sharing a closeness. 

While he chomps on the sandwich I think, is this it for me? is this how
I started out? telling lies and making them so believable you couldn't 
not believe. Didn't I want to be loved and telling stories was the way 
I could make people love me. Those lies have become more and more 
adventurous, more complicated, until today my lies are packed away in 
suitcases, or handed to my children to read. Books and books of lies, 
but all told with love, all told to show something of another life, 
another way. Now here is Joey Ripley treating me to some of my own 
medicine. 

“Then you'll be dead! Right, Joey?” 

“Yep!' Saturday morning at twelve noon. Ma cried real bad.” 

It doesn't even disturb him, he just lets the lie fall from his mouth.
What a great talent. It could be me. 

“So you'll have a place up in the cemetery, right?” 

“They never put me in the cemetery. I never knew why that was.” He says,
with no emotion. 

“Heck, you thought they would have lay you next to your pa, right?” 

“Don't matter none, cos I gets to go see him every Saturday anyways.” 

“Course you do, Joey. Here, look, I can't manage this half of my
sandwich; you want to finish it?” 

I hold it out toward him. 

“That's mighty kinda you, mister.” And he takes it eagerly. “I got to go
now, it's time. Thanks for spending a time with me.” 

He stands and collects up his rope, twirling it round his head and
throwing the loop dead center over the stick.  He looks back and holds 
up his arm. 

“Bye, Daniel.” 

I feel a surge in my heart the way he says it. Is this is it? No end to
the joke? He's going to leave me like this? I watch him walk away, 
remembering him in the cemetery, that walk, the listlessness of his 
life. He disappears out the gate, turning right toward the cemetery. 

I know I'm intruding on the boys lie, but I won't let on. I'll just
smile and walk away; pleased that he'd shared his fantasy with me. 

As I enter the cemetery I hear the sound of laughter. It's coming down
from the trees. It rings around the graves, picks up the leaves with 
its joy, and I feel the most sudden and desperate need to run toward 
this laughter, but it's all around, it's above and below me, and at 
every turn I'm no closer. I feel a heart panic, as though I might miss 
the greatest joke ever told. 

High above, the tops of trees sway in a wind that comes from nowhere. It
whistles around the stones, clearing leaves in its path. Such joy I 
never heard, such laughter that only clowns can command, and yet it 
hangs in the air. I stop still, but the laughter comes round the corner 
and knocks me down. Such fun, such joy that I never heard since I was a 
kid. I start to run but know not in what direction. I run like the wind 
itself and I, too, am laughing. I just have to run. I'm living the lie, 
this is the greatest joke ever told. Joey Ripley I love you for all the 
fun you are, and I run and run and run, until, quite suddenly, I found 
myself standing at the gate to the school. 

There's a sound of laughter, I can suddenly see it, there it is, where
its always been, captured in a boys heart.  I move forward, legs 
trembling, and as I pass the edge of the school building, passed the 
steps, I see a man holding a small boy on his shoulders and the 
laughter is coming from the boy... and that boy is Joey. All the 
laughter floating among the trees, hanging down from branches, sweeping 
up leaves, has scurried to find its rightful place inside this boy. 

Even from where I stand I can see the light in the Joey's eyes, a
life-light that sparkles, shines, and brightens his face. I stand, 
frozen by the beauty of the moment. 

I know the man is Jack Ripley, that the boy on his shoulders was Joey
Ripley, and the woman carrying the basket, fronted in a blue and white 
gingham apron, is the mother that has wept so hard for her son. Three 
figures in daylight. 

I feel as if I cannot be seen; that Joey has said, “It's okay, Dad”. 

It's twelve, noon. The sun is as high as it will be. I watch for hours,
then, as shadows grow long, Jack picks up his son and all three walk 
toward the stick that juts from the ground. Carefully Jack lays Joey in 
the grass, Ma and Pa kneeling by his side, stroke his head before 
walking away hand in hand. Joey doesn't move again. He is motionless, 
with the rope by his side. I feel a darkness descend. 

Between elation and a forlorn I walk back to town. 

The old Fire Station houses much of the town's history, and I'm
attracted to it by the oil lamps flickering in the entrance. I wander 
in, unaware of a man standing in the corner, dressed in a waistcoat and 
on this is a silver star. I was still trying to make sense of it all 
when I came upon an old picture, almost hidden under dust. 

“We get a lot of tourists you know.....” he says. I was still in a
stunned state of mind, paying the stranger no mind at first. 

The electric shock of seeing the boys face in the photograph jolts me
like a punch to the stomach. I look round for someone to answer my 
question. Sure enough the old man stands by the door. 

“Sir...sir...do you recognize this boy?” 

“Yep, surely. That lad is Joey Ripley,” he says with great respect, “his
father ran the livery stable right across the street.” He points out 
the door. “Joey's father was murdered by Jake Springer, and he's buried 
next to his wife in the cemetery. The story goes that Joey, just a kid, 
took a gun from home and went looking for Jake, found him in the bar, 
and shot him dead. Joey never spoke much to anyone after that.” He told 
me. 

“Is that why the arrow points to him?” I ask, still trembling at the
thought of this young boy shooting his father's murderer. 

“No, no, the reason is Joey was the school champion with the lasso. The
year he died, he died of pneumonia, he hit the target one hundred times 
without a miss, never been done since, not by anyone. The lad is buried 
in the school yard, exactly where he became champion. You can find it 
still; it's hard now, grown over with grass. They never put a proper 
headstone in that place, his mother didn't want it, she said it would 
confine him.  It's a tragic story.” 

I ran like a man crazed and entered the schoolyard, looking for the
place where Joey is buried. Beneath the grass, just visible, I see a 
flat stone. 

On the stone is an inscription. 

‘Here lies Joey Ripley, proud son of Jack Ripley and loving son of
Katherine. Let Laughter live in your soul, son.' 


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