Fallen Myrtle - Nez

As kids in Lyman, we knew the town had “outcasts,” people or families who somehow didn’t fit in. That “somehow” being mostly arbitrary. Several were not so deserving of that label and yet were treated as such. Several outcasts were treated horribly, and yet others were not. And since most non-outcasts were “church people” imagine how the outcasts were selected. Chatting with my sister recently, she asked if I had written an “outcast” story yet. Here is one.

Myrtle Daves

In Lyman Tavern with a brown paper sack, cradled like a baby in her arms, Myrtle Daves should have already headed home. Bundled up in her black winter coat and gloves, she’s not wearing a hat or boots or galoshes. Myrtle doesn’t drive. It’s cold, windy and snowing outside and she has about three-fourths of a mile to walk in heels and stockings. Now hours past noon she’s drunk and wobbly. Declining an offer of coffee, she steadies herself, tucks the paper bag under her arm, and shuffles toward the exit.

Myrtle dresses her best whenever she goes uptown, which for her is really, really rare. In her younger days, with her short slender build and cold black hair Myrtle had been quite attractive. You wouldn’t know it now. Years of booze and abuse have robbed her of many things, as well as her looks. Now at middle-aged she is haggard looking with a permanent scowl, though her hair is still black. Myrtle is a recluse, who only leaves home when she is out of liquor (her medicine) and there’s no one else home to get it for her. Her husband, or one of her two sons, usually keeps her supplied, but they’ve gone to work and she ran out of “medicine” at breakfast. So, she got herself dressed up and made her way to town. It wasn’t snowing when she arrived at the tavern’s front door before it opened at ten. It’s almost three as she finally leaves the notorious establishment. She wants to be home before dark, which is a little after four.

Through snow, wind and cold Myrtle makes her way down across the tracks, crosses over to the sidewalk and trudges up past the Mobil station where the terrain levels and on past the Baptist Church. Nearing the intersection with her dead-end gravel street, of which she lives at the very end, she approaches the end of the sidewalk. At the drop off from the sidewalk down to the gravel street, she gingerly steps onto the short slippery embankment, loses her footing, slips and falls backward. She lies there with her upper body on the sidewalk and her legs splayed out on the sloped ground. The fall must have been painful as Myrtle doesn’t seem to move. Finally rising up on one elbow she realizes her bottle broke during her fall when it hit the sidewalk. The contents of her brown paper bag are soaking the inside of her coat and dress. She sobs and swears, and vomits, and realizes that she might have hurt her back during her fall. Crying she hoarsely calls out for help.

The Dietz kids in their yard up ahead are watching her. She sees them and cries out to them for help, but the they ignore her cry. Instead, they ridicule her. They point and laugh while singing, “Myrtle the turtle, Myrtle the turtle, fell and broke her bottle.” “Myrtle the turtle, Myrtle the turtle, fell and broke her bottle.” This brings Mrs. Dietz, a “devout Baptist” lady out onto her porch to see what the commotion is about. She spies the fallen drunk. Myrtle, sobbing, again cries out for help, but Mrs. Dietz simply ushers her kids inside, steps in and closes her door.

Because of where she’s fallen Myrtle is having difficulty getting her legs under her so she can rise up onto her feet. The house that she has fallen in front of, ironically, is the Baptist Church Parsonage. Even though some of the preacher’s kids are watching her from a window they don’t intend to come to her aid, nor do they make any attempt to get the pastor or his wife to help. They only see Myrtle as a fallen-down drunk. To be pitied, yes. To be helped, no.

Myrtle time and again struggles as she attempts to get to her feet. Finally, she manages to wriggle her way from the sidewalk into the yard of the Parsonage where she eventually rises to her feet after losing her balance three more times and vomiting again. Sobbing, cold and wet and now without her medicine she musters up the little pride she has left, straightens herself up, smooths her dress and coat as best she can, and painfully hobbles out to her gravel road and hobbles on toward home in her high heels, torn stockings and bruises. Muttering to herself, she curses those kids and Mrs. Dietz.

Epilogue

Myrtle Daves and her family were among the “outcasts” in the Lyman area. As far as anybody knew they didn’t have friends or relatives nearby, yet they had been in Lyman several years. And since arriving in Lyman none of the family had ever participated or contributed to the community. They didn’t attend church and were not known to help others. In addition, both Myrtle and her husband, Berle, were heavy drinkers. And Berle was often seen beating Myrtle or one of their sons in their front yard. Thus, the Daves were deemed “outcasts” by most of the town. We all avoided them.

Yet, there were others in town who were as bad as the Daves, maybe worse, but if they were community participants and/or contributors with friends or relatives they were deemed “acceptable”. The difference being who they were, who they knew, and in whose closet their skeletons resided.