Harmony by goldieasj

.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me again, Scott. Sorry.” Johnny Lancer sat down heavily in the chair recently vacated by his father. “Just don’t say, ‘Is this guy the best you can do, Murdoch?’, or I’ll have to shoot you!” Johnny laughed briefly. Scott Lancer didn’t laugh, and the joke fell flat. Johnny was silent for a moment, then he looked down and whispered, “I hope you know I’d never do that.” He ventured a look at his brother. “Yeah, you do.”

Johnny leaned back in the chair in a half-hearted attempt to get comfortable. He sighed for the hundredth time that day. The first few times he had sighed, it was involuntary. But he figured out that the deep sighing, from way down in his lungs, helped to dispel some of his emotion. It made sense to him because he knew the lungs were near the heart, the source of love in the body. After that discovery, he used the technique whenever he felt bad, which was a lot since the accident.

More and more, it seemed.

He intended to glance quickly at his brother again but instead his gaze lingered. Those fine even features with which he was so familiar seemed more gaunt than usual. There was of course a reason for this, Johnny knew, which only intensified the angst he felt. He studied the thin nose and high cheekbones that helped make his brother a favorite with the local ladies. Johnny thought of those light-colored eyes, usually so bright and full of life, that he could not see now beneath the closed lids. Knowing there was no one around to witness, he idly ran the back of his hand along his brother’s face. He fervently wished Scott would open his eyes.

But Scott did not open his eyes. Or move at all. Johnny noticed a strand of his brother’s hair had fallen across his forehead, so, good brother that he was, Johnny brushed it back into place. He allowed his hand to linger another moment, marveling that this small contact managed to assuage some of his anguish, then he once again sat back in his chair. And sighed.

“You’re going to have to wake up soon, Boston,” Johnny said softly. “The doc said so. It’s been too long. It’s not good . . .” Scott said nothing, of course, and Johnny resisted touching his face again. “You should know better,” he gently reprimanded his brother. At this, Johnny leaned over and inspected the wound on the other side of Scott’s head. He knew his father had checked it only a short time ago, but it made him feel better to be doing something to help his brother. The wound looked like it was healing properly. Satisfied, Johnny sat back again.

“What’s it going to take to get you to wake up, Boston? Anything I can do?” Johnny had an idea. “Will you laugh for me? Remember how you laughed when I ran after that dumb goose of Jelly’s and honked like a goose?” Johnny smiled at the silly memory. His voice tone softened. “I knew what you were up to that day, you know. I heard you betting Jelly I wouldn’t do it. I felt like a dumb ass, but I made sure Jelly won!” Johnny chuckled a little. “Guess I owe you two bits, Scott.”

Johnny Madrid would never have honked like a goose for anyone, for any reason. But Johnny Lancer – he was more human. All too human, in fact, and times like this only served to remind him sharply.

Right now Johnny Lancer was helpless.

And he did not like feeling helpless. But could he really help his brother? In another minute, he stood up and walked over to the open window. In the yard, he saw the normal daily routine of a working ranch, including Murdoch’s ward Teresa hanging wash on the clotheslines off to the side, and a couple of the ranch hands in the corral working to break the greenest horses from bucking. Life goes on, he thought glumly. Then he saw Jelly, whose temperament was grumpy on the best of days, trying mostly unsuccessfully to lead a very cantankerous mule out of the barn. Jelly was calling the beast all kinds of names.

Johnny smiled at the comical sight. “Hey. Scott, come here! You gotta see this!” Johnny called to his brother.

But Scott did not respond.

Johnny’s momentary giddy mood crashed heavily as he remembered the reason his brother did not join him at the window.

Johnny turned his back to the window and leaned against it. “Why don’t you wake up? Ask for those two bits now, huh?” He sighed again. Slowly he made his way back to the chair, barely aware of walking. He sat wearily and hung his head. “Scott, we’ve got a lot of things to do, you and me. You can’t give out on me now, brother.” The ache in his heart was strong and he fought against it. Sam the doctor had said talking to Scott might help ease him out of his concussion, help him to know someone he cared about was nearby. Johnny figured another reason for talking was to help himself feel better. Ever since the accident, he hadn’t really slept and had eaten very little. The physical fatigue was almost as strong as the heartache, but he would not let himself relax. Every minute that Scott was still alive was another minute Johnny could spend with his beloved brother. But if Scott never woke up . . . Johnny slumped a little in his chair. “Sing to me, Boston,” he whispered. “Like you learned at that singing club at Harvard. The Happy Club. Make me happy and sing to me.” But Scott did not sing.

Happy wasn’t part of their lives right now. Both Johnny and Murdoch had spent most of the last two days in Scott’s room. At first hope ran high, but Scott was unresponsive and it wasn’t long before desperation replaced hope. The bleakness of Scott’s condition pressed heavily on the hearts of the people who loved him. When Murdoch said he was going to his room to take a quick nap, Johnny suspected it was for another reason. He felt the same way himself.

In an attempt to defuse some of the emotion, he let his mind wander. After a while, a new thought occurred to him and slowly he looked up. He stared out the window at nothing as he mused. “You asked me once what it was like to be a gunhawk. Back then . . . well, I didn’t know you well enough to talk about it with you. Back then I sure didn’t trust anybody.

“I was a gunfighter, Scott. One thing it means is that you move around a lot because you have to. And you sell yourself . . . because that’s all you have to sell . . . to the highest bidder. And then you hope that you made the right choice and picked the best side. Or the side that’s going to win, anyhow. And if you didn’t? . . . well, I guess it wouldn’t really matter. When you’re a gunfighter, the only thing that matters is survival. Everything you do is to survive to do the same thing the next day. You make a lot of money, at least I did anyhow, and you spend it on luxuries that you have for one minute, and then the next minute they’re gone. And what have you got to show for it? A hand-made shirt. A good saddle. Hearing your name whispered as you ride into each dirtwater town. They fear you. Or envy or respect you maybe, but never do you hear anyone tell you how glad they are to see you. Or ask you to stay, unless they have a paying job for you. A killing job. And I never once in my life heard anyone tell me they loved me!” Johnny’s speech had started out as barely a whisper, but the memory agitated him and by the time he had reached the last sentence, he was speaking loudly. He didn’t want to disturb Murdoch. And he didn’t want anyone to know his innermost feelings. So he ran his hands over his face and forced himself to calm down.

He was getting emotional again, he. knew. Not like himself, or at least not like the persona he showed the world. Had Scott been listening he doubted very much if he would have spoken in this manner. But . . . he might have, he conceded, since Scott had never given him any reason to hide his real feelings. Scott had always only shown him trust and affection. And Scott could be trusted. And Scott cared about him . . .

Once again Johnny stared out the window, lost in thought. “It was a trade-off,” he said eventually. “I traded the kind of life everyone I knew had, for what I thought I wanted. My mama didn’t care much about . . . about me, I guess . . . and all my friends were dirt-poor, hungry half the time. I didn’t want that. So I chose the only other thing I could think of – selling my skill. Selling myself. My mama abandoned me . . . in a lot of ways . . . it was just the next step, I guess. Had to feed myself. Had to make money . . . “ He sighed and closed his eyes.

It was a long moment before Johnny spoke again. “I made the money. Traveled to every job, met a lot of people, both good and bad. Got a reputation as a fast gun. Fast and accurate meant you could eat regular. And buy things you figure you should have. There were lots of things, Scott, that I figured were my due. Respect. Money. Good tequila, bad women.” Johnny smiled a little and lowered his voice as he looked at his brother. “There’s your answer. That’s what it means to be a gunfighter: getting the things you figure you deserve.” After a moment, he reached over and adjusted his brother’s blanket. “But the things you deeply want, the things you need . . . that’s different,” he whispered.

He leaned back in his chair again and stared out the window. “I was still pretty young when I figured that out one night. But it was too late. I’d made my life, called my own tune, and I couldn’t back out. It was night in some border town and it was raining after a dry spell. I’d tracked my man, another young gun hired by a rancher, to this town and I’d called him out. It rained on us in the street, but you don’t think about things like that. But when I looked in his eyes . . . and he was even younger than me! . . . all I could see was hate. No longing, no hunger, no need. Certainly no loyalty. Just hate. And a lot of things went through my mind all at once. I figured I was going to kill him – which I did – and I figured he knew it too. But I didn’t see fear in his eyes, just hate for whoever and whatever had made him what he was. He hated his employer or himself or maybe both. And it hit me that maybe that’s what he saw in my eyes too. I couldn’t let myself think about it just then because I had a job to do. But after . . . after I killed him and I saw this kid lying dead in the mud with the rain coming down all around him and no one to cry over him . . . Scott, it was a fair fight but . . . I ran. I didn’t want to talk to anyone and I didn’t want anyone to see me. I ran to an alley behind the main street where there was no light and I threw up. I didn’t understand what was happening to me; I had killed before, a lot, and I had the reputation that came with it. I thought I was hardened to all that. But I was wrong, because I cried. I cried hard, sitting in the mud, with the rain coming down on me like the tears of God. And that was when I knew it wasn’t that kid I was crying for. It was me.”

Johnny paused for a minute to compose himself. The memory was intense for him, more intense than he could possibly describe to his brother, and he did not want to dwell on it any longer. He was glad his brother couldn’t hear him. He sighed and looked down. “Life wasn’t fair! Here’s this poor kid – I never even knew his real name – lying facedown in the mud and he could easily have been me. I figured he probably came to that life the same way I did. And that’s when I forced myself to think about why I became what I did. There’s lots of reasons, Scott, probably more than I know about. But I do know one thing – my friends growing up didn’t become gunfighters. Just me. So why me? Because they had mamas and papas who loved them! Just then, just then I guess I figured that had to be the reason. I had never really thought my mama cared much for me and she told me my papa hated me . . .

“I was proud of being a gunfighter but if she had cared about me . . . if she had ever told me she loved me . . . or if she had let me live with my papa . . . maybe he would have cared about me . . . but none of this happened.

“And so it went on. I pulled myself out of the mud and put everything to the back of my mind and walked proudly back out to the street, where people from the town patted me on the back and bought me drinks and food and a woman named . . . I don’t remember now . . . took me to her room and gave me a bath and a long sweet night. And I held her tight, hoping she was the one thing I was really needing but knowing she wasn’t. I wanted things to even out for me, to be fair, but this was the closest I could ever come. And after that night . . . I knew it.

“I never found it, what I was longing for. And when the day came that Murdoch’s man rescued me from a firing squad, I was forced to start thinking about it again. My mama had told me that Murdoch never wanted me, but here he was – willing to give me money to come see him. My mama lied to me a lot, so I guess in the back of my heart I was always willing to give Murdoch the benefit of the doubt. And when I got here, he was tough. Tougher than I would have liked, but I saw a lot of me in him, so I stuck it out. The things we had in common were not the things I was proud of, like stubbornness. But, deep in my heart, I figured we had other things in common. Turns out I was right.
“I never told you, Scott, but I figure staying here at Lancer was the best thing I ever did. For only one reason. There are people here who care about me.” He looked down, slightly embarrassed. “I guess I’m talking about you. You and Murdoch. Both of you . . . never judging me, taking me for what I am. Not caring about my past. But . . . caring about me. Me! This worthless Mexican pistolero. Oh, Scott! Murdoch and you . . . you saved me!” He ventured a look at Scott. “Thank you, brother,” he whispered. “I love you, too.”

Overcome by emotion, Johnny looked away again quickly. It was a moment before he felt he could safely speak. He hoped changing the subject would help. “Those ladies . . . the ones in the wagon . . . they came out here yesterday to see how you were. Murdoch let them see you but they started crying so he took them back downstairs. I have to say they seemed pretty upset. I could hear them talking to him. They said you had stopped to help them get their wagon out of the mud. One of the horses spooked and knocked you down and you hit your head. Sam said it was a freak accident. One of those ladies didn’t stop crying, no matter what Murdoch said to her. They kept saying it wasn’t fair, that you were just trying to help.”

Johnny looked back over at his brother. “She’s right, it’s not fair,” he whispered.

Scott looked as if he was sleeping quietly. Johnny liked looking at his brother. There was something peaceful and reassuring about his fine even features and his laughing eyes, eyes that hadn’t laughed for two days now. Johnny shook his head sadly. He would have given just about anything to see Scott wake up and start joking with him. He loved teasing his brother and watching Scott roll his eyes and then saying some snappy words that Johnny didn’t understand. But this hadn’t happened for two days and Scott looked like he could keep sleeping like that forever. “If I could change places with you, I would. I’m sorry you’re going through this, Boston.”

Boston. A nickname with which Johnny used to tease his brother. Scott tolerated it early on and even seemed to enjoy it. So many good memories with his brother. But not enough. Not nearly. Johnny once again looked out the window, deeply in thought.

With half-closed eyes, he started speaking again. “At first, I used to wonder why we got on so well, you and me. I heard Murdoch say that, too. But you never said anything. I guess you knew. Deep down, you must have known. You and me . . . we were just two different forms of the same person. I was the Mex version and you were the Boston version. Imagine that! Poor Teresa – having to put up with two of me! Or worse yet – two of you!” Johnny chuckled for a moment, then spoke softly. “It was nice, though. It was nice to be around someone who understood me. Boston, I think you were the first person who ever really understood me. And still liked me!” Johnny thought about laughing again, but the laugh never came. “Get better,” he whispered so softly he wasn’t even sure he said it. Please . . .

Johnny stood suddenly in an attempt to snap himself out of his maudlin mood. He went to the open doorway and leaned against it. Looking back at Scott, Johnny said, “If you don’t start talking to me, I’ll think you’re mad at me.” He tried to laugh but couldn’t. His breathing was ragged and he knew he was close to crying, which he did not want to do. No, no, Johnny told himself. He ran his hands over his face again and took some deep breaths before slowly resuming his place at his brother’s bedside. Venturing a look at Scott, he noticed that his features had changed. He looked to be less in pain, more at peace. Johnny took this as a good sign. He noticed Scott’s forehead was damp. “It’s hot in here, I know,” Johnny said softly. There was a towel on the bedside table, so Johnny dipped it in the water pitcher and ran it across his brother’s brow. He imagined – or was he imagining? – Scott gently smiling at the care. Johnny managed a smile back and dabbed the cool cloth all over his brother’s face and neck. Scott may have been unaware he was being cared for, but the simple act made Johnny feel much better. He spent several minutes gently wiping his brother’s face with the cloth, over and over. Johnny Lancer was lost in thought, remembering – trying to remember exactly – the time when someone had lovingly cared for him in the same manner. He could remember bits and pieces, but nothing specific. Someone had cared for him once just like this, had run a comforting cloth over his fevered head. Maybe he had been sick, or maybe it was a gunshot wound, or maybe he was unconscious like Scott. He wished he could remember but was unable to. But he still appreciated the thought that someone had cared enough for him at one time to do this simple beautiful thing for him.

In a moment, he realized he had been softly singing in Spanish to Scott. Embarrassed at first, he set down the towel. He thought about the few precious times he and Scott had sung together. It seemed like a lifetime ago to Johnny. He looked at his brother, who almost seemed to be smiling. He smiled, too, and looked out the window. “I knew it was called a Glee Club, not a Happy Club. Sure did like teasing you about that name, though. And then you taught me to sing. You said I was singing all wrong. No one ever complained before – I guess they don’t if you’re a gunfighter. All wrong, you said,” he whispered. “And then you showed me how to sing like you used to sing back when you were in that club. I sang a song and you sang the same words but different notes.” Johnny leaned back into his chair, closing his eyes to enjoy the pleasant memory. “Sorry I gave you such a hard time about it, Boston. Really, I liked it. It sounded pretty to me when we sang together like that. I hope you knew that.” Trying hard not to allow sentimentality to overtake him again, Johnny wanted to sing, the way his brother had taught him. Softly at first, gingerly, because his brother could not guide him now. “Alas, my lo -ove, you do me wro -ong . . .” He stopped. It was a sad song, and it provided an unexpectedly powerful memory of one of the joys of being with his brother. He was sure now that he was likely to break down and cry, just like that night he had killed that young gunfighter. Only this time he would not be crying for himself, but for his brother. His wonderful brother, who he had only just gotten to know, who loved and accepted him. His very special brother, who was strong and perfect and funny and taught him how to sing harmony. His brother, whose life was unfairly teetering near death. His brother . . . who he loved dearly.

Johnny was ashamed and couldn’t look at Scott. He waited a moment but his voice still cracked as he softly said, “’Greensleeves.’ You called it ‘Greensleeves.’ It was . . . better . . . when we sang it together.” He took a deep breath, resolutely intending to sing the song to his brother. Before breaking down. He started in again, almost breathlessly. “. . . To cast me off . . . dis . . .” His voice cracked and he choked back a sob. “ . . . dis -court – e – ous – ly . . .” Johnny couldn’t go on. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Why did you stop?” asked a very weak voice from the bed.

Johnny knew immediately what he had heard. He had heard a miracle.

He looked toward Scott, who had turned his head to watch him. Scott was still very pale and the perspiration had appeared on his forehead again. And he was watching Johnny through half-closed eyes. But he was watching Johnny! He was awake! Scott was going to live!
More than anything, Johnny wanted to reach out to his brother, to grab him or hug him or squeeze his hand. He wanted to tell him how much he loved him and how much it meant to just be with him. But knowing his brother was going to live was enough for right now. So instead Johnny just took an uneven breath to calm himself. He answered softly, “Because I needed you to sing the other part.”

He rejoiced as a smile came over Scott’s face. And then – another miracle! Scott sang. Weakly, barely audibly, but Johnny thought it was just about the sweetest sound he had ever heard. Johnny tried to sing along, but his breath caught in his throat at first. Scott gave him a nod of reassurance, and then Johnny joined in and the brothers sang harmoniously together: “ . . . for I have loved you . . . well and long . . . de-li – ight – ing in your com – pa – ny.”

Scott attempted the next note but it was a high one and he started coughing. Quickly Johnny held a glass to Scott’s lips, glad to see his brother sip the water and calm down. Johnny adjusted the pillow so his brother could be more comfortable. Scott smiled at him. “That’s called harmony,” he said softly.

Johnny leaned back on his own chair, able to relax for the first time in two days. He never took his eyes off Scott.

“Harmony,” Johnny agreed.

=====================

The harmony seemed to help Scott recover quickly. His loving family helped as well.

Johnny smiled a little every time he thought about Scott singing “Greensleeves” with him, right after awakening. It was one of the happiest moments of his life. It had been in his mind to hurry and tell Murdoch that Scott was going to be all right, and he had felt guilty about savoring the moment for himself instead. But Murdoch had heard them singing and had been so relieved to see Scott awake again that he waved off Johnny’s apology. Johnny was sure he had seen tears in his father’s eyes as he tenderly reached out to his son. Scott meant so much to both of them.

In a day or so Scott was allowed to venture outside with limited activity. Johnny walked with him and helped him to the bench, where he could watch the ranch activities. Johnny sat near him, partly in case he was needed, but mostly because . . . because Scott was alive! And then Scott said, “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Startled, Johnny was going to ask what his brother meant, but as he thought about it, he knew. In fact, he knew exactly what his brother meant. Johnny just shook his head ‘no’ and looked down in order to hide the onrush of emotion he felt. It felt so good to be cared about, and it was so foreign to him, that sometimes he was almost overwhelmed.

Without looking up, he asked, “Could you hear me talking to you?”

“I heard your voice.” Scott smiled.

And Johnny smiled back at his brother.

Scott looked thoughtfully off at the clouds. “When we were fighting Pardee, and you got shot, it took you a while to wake up, too.” He smiled and hesitated a moment. “I ran a cool cloth over your forehead. Hoping it would help you to wake up. As I recall, it did.”

Johnny chuckled a little. “I did the same thing for you. Guess it helped you, too.”

“Yes, I know.”

They stayed like that, Scott with a peaceful smile on his face and Johnny watching him intently. They could have stayed like that forever.

Johnny suddenly remembered something and reached in his pocket.

Still studying the clouds, Scott said, “You don’t really have to pay me.”

Johnny pulled a quarter out of his pocket. “Pay you what? By the way, here’s the two . . . “

“Two bits, I know. What are brothers for, if not to lose bets to?”

Stunned, Johnny just stared at his brother at first. Then all that this simple statement implied dawned on him.

.

~ end ~
goldieasj 6/2020

.

.

PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT
Thank you for reading! The authors listed on this site spend many hours writing stories for your enjoyment, and their only reward is the feedback you leave. So please take a moment to leave a comment. Even the simplest ‘I liked this!” can make all the difference to an author and encourage them to keep writing and posting their stories here. You can comment in the ‘reply’ box below or email goldieasj directly.

.