Home Street

by Brianna M. Hoyle

Somewheres in Tennessee, or what I know of Tennessee, is a town called Colemill. It was a nice town, decent in size with plenty of buildings and banks and saloons and all the stuff that interests people. That’s where I lived when I was a kid. There are a lot of buildings that have more than one story, some mills and warehouses, wide streets with plenty of room for several horse-drawn carriages to travel side by side. Whatever street you go down, you’ll find something interesting and pretty to that era’s standards.

Colemill saw a lot of visitors of every kind. Some friendly and interested in the architecture, since some people said the town had been there since the days of the Revolutionary War, except it was a lot smaller at the time. But it had a certain charm to it that made folks want to come, explore, stay a while, then go home and brag to their friends and family that they had been to Colemill over in Tryhard County, smack dab in the center of Tennessee.

Then there were the not so friendly visitors who only had interest in certain types of buildings, mainly those with a heap of money kept safe behind their doors. The sheriff of Colemill was a smart fellow, not necessarily full of himself, but perhaps just a tad bit more confident than he ought to have been considering how many times his town had nearly been robbed of its funds and financial stability.

Straight down the main street of Colemill, which is the street you’ve gotta take if you’re coming from the east, you’ll find the town center. Right there standing on the steps is the mayor. Yep, that round man with the top hat and cane, trying to look productive in the eyes of his citizens. Not a super important fellow when it comes to how protected this city is, but I suppose concerning politics he’s got himself a name. For the life of me, I honestly can’t remember what his name was. That’s how small of a role he played in seeing that Colemill lasted as long as it did.

Colemill still stands today as a matter of fact, moving with the times and blending in with what’s modern and all that. But back then, when I was growing up, it seemed a whole different world than the peaceful place it is now. We don’t hardly get as many attempted robberies as we did when the streets were still made of the dust that blew in from the prairie. But when they were, and when the horses nearly outnumbered the buildings, the amount of successful robberies was still just as low as it is today.

And that’s not because of the sheriff. Like I said, he could do with dropping down a peg. A good apple as far as the batch goes, but lacking real humility that should come with a position like his. He knew his way around the barrel of his six gun, but didn’t have enough brains to know when to put the gun down and talk it out.

And I don’t mean talk it out with the people doing the robbing and stealing and vandalizing. Nah, I’d never say that. That’s not who he should be talking with. In fact, the day he ever wanted to try talking to them would be the day that town would start looking for them a new sheriff. You don’t bargain with the people who don’t respect your property and life.

But anyway, I keep trying to make a point here. Because while most streets of Colemill looked neat, clean, and downright purdy as far as them visitors are concerned, there’s a little street that leads to an alleyway with buildings lining either side that don’t stand up to the other buildings in looks and architecture. From the outside, they look like they’re about to collapse onto themselves. A hazard, a lot of folks say.

More than once, on those rare occasions when I was allowed to head into town by myself, I overheard a conversation, usually between two old ladies, or them fellows who stand around in their dapper suits, smoking them great big cigars that I would be hung up by my trousers if I was ever caught holding. It often followed along the lines of, “Home Street is ruining the good looks of this town.” “We ought to have that alleyway torn down.” “Home Street is a danger to the young children if I ever saw one!”

It’s funny how folks like to jaw on and on about a matter they don’t know about any better than the person they’re talking to, yet they both go on like they got all the knowledge in the world on that matter. Because Home Street weren’t no hazard. It was exactly what the title indicated. A home. A home for the lesser privileged. A sanctuary for those who don’t have a purdy house to live in and a job to keep them fed. It was where the less fortunate made a bed for themselves and their families. But it was also where the people who really kept this town together lived. It’s where the people lived who the sheriff ought to be talking to and not pointing a gun at.

There’s a huge warehouse on Home Street. Kinda hard to miss it. Well, if you’re standing on the main street, you won’t see nothing of it other than the tin roof. But once you start heading down the alley and hit Home Street, it’s the first building on your left. Huge, and empty of anything it used to store. At one point, I’m sure it held sacks of flour, barrels of grain, and whatever else a town would put in a warehouse. But since they built that fancy warehouse on another street, probably St. Mark, because everything industrial is built on St. Mark Street, it hasn’t seen hide nor hair of anything like them big produce crates.

We call it the House. It’s where I spent the best nineteen years of my life. There ain’t no separated rooms for all the different people who live in there, and quite a few people occupied the place. It was big enough for an army to bunk in. Seven people lived there, including myself. Being only ten years old, I ranked the youngest in that outfit. I didn’t have a gun, but I knew how to duck and hide and listen, so I considered myself fairly useful. I was a scrawny little thing back then. A mess a hair that matched the straw I used to lay my head down on every night. That’s right, my pillow was a bale of hay. I didn’t mind. I liked it. I had never known anything better, so I didn’t know I could have had better. At that age, the world just seems so perfect and content, so I appreciated my hay bale pillow.

Whenever I went to sleep, I could always hear the disgruntled snoring of Axle. Now, I ain’t never known my folks, the ones who gave birth to me and gave me the name Timothy. Someone told me they died of some sickness and left me on Home Street, and that Axle decided to take care of me. So, I ended up with the name Timothy Axle, since I didn’t have no other name.

All the while I was living on Home Street, I never really considered Axle to be my Pa. He was a hunched man, never really stood up straight, and always shifting his eyes to look at you before his head turned with them. I always remember him with gray hair, even though he wasn’t all that old. Made me think he was born with a head of thick gray strands, as coarse as wire, and just as unruly. He never talked very loud, and sometimes he’d fall asleep standing up. But when he did have his eyes open and wasn’t staring off into space for no reason, he was making sure his kids was taken care of.

Now, I don’t mean his real kids, as in blood relations. As far as I know, Axle never did marry. But by kids, I mean the others that lived in the House. They was all older than me, but for some reason, I don’t recall being treated any different. I don’t think any of us knew how to really raise a kid, so I never got treated like one, except for when it got dangerous. And, boy, did it get dangerous mighty quick in Colemill. Which is why it was so important that Axle kept one eye on the world and the other on us.

He loved his kids. He never did tell us that to our faces too often, but we knew. And we made up for it by telling him whenever we could that we appreciated him. All of us had lost our family somehow, and without even trying to, Axle gave us a home. And we became a family. I didn’t understand until I was older how blessed I was, and more than once I found myself going to the old man and thanking him for everything. I never saw him as my Pa. He was just Axle. He was Axle to all of us, and we all became Axles. Once we were his, he kept an eye on us and did his best to provide us with something that could be called a home.

The only one who really didn’t need too much looking after was Teddy. He was the first to call himself Teddy Axle, and after that, we all went ahead and attached that name to us. Now he was big. Real big. When he filled a doorway, he filled a doorway. There wasn’t no getting around him when he did that. Kind of quiet, but took an interest in new things. If Axle wasn’t around to look after us, Teddy would. Teddy liked being protective and reassuring people. Most assumed him to be rather shy, but that was far from the truth. He liked meeting new people, it’s just people didn’t seem to like meeting him. Axle was always telling him that the world already looked down on us for being nobodies. He didn’t need to let it bother him that folks got scared by his looks. So Teddy shrugged it off and went with it, enjoying life in silence. Sometimes he would sit outside just to be out there at night, watching the stars and wondering if he could reach them one day.

His hair was dark and kinda curly, so it always looked like he never combed it, even though he did, because hygiene was real important to him. It meant something to be clean every day. It didn’t matter how old your clothes were, as long as they were clean, that’s all that mattered to him. He sorta was our Ma, but none of us ever called him that. He was just Teddy, a reassuring presence and always at Axles side. He had a six gun that was a little weird. It was pretty big, since he had to get one that fit his hands. He was a good shot with it, but we usually kept him for backup when it came to shoot outs. Axle had the least worries for how Teddy would turn out.

The one who probably caused the most trouble was Red. He’s the one who you would see marching all over the place, doing every job that anyone asked him to do and complaining about it as loudly as possible all the while. Most folks who have red hair, I’ve noticed it’s rather unkempt or curly. That wasn’t the case with Red. He had the straightest hair that I’ve ever seen on a carrot top, and an even straighter nose. He was tall and broad shoulders, and had a gun that we say matched his nose, because the barrel was longer than it is on most revolvers.

The first thing you’ll notice about Red is his mouth. You usually hear him before you see him, because he can’t go a day without grumbling and griping. But he’s a hard worker. Hardest worker I’d ever seen in my life. Many of us said that the only reason we could tolerate Red is because his hands worked just as hard as his mouth. But he was more than a complainer. Red was the first one to speak up, the first to notice a flaw in a plan and the first one to fill a gap. He picked up the slack where someone else couldn’t stay standing, even though he’d chew you out for it.

According to Axle, Red’s folks never treated him right. Red was the only one who still had parents, but I once told Axle I’d rather have parents I’d never known than be aware that I had parents who didn’t want me. Red struggled with being enough, because in spite of whining whenever the chance arose, he was always trying to make sure he helped somebody. I think he was afraid of people thinking of him as useless. So he did his very best, but to keep from seeming like an overachiever, he made sure to complain as often as possible.

I always thought Red had it handled, but I still remember the day I walked in on the boy clinging to Axle like his life depended on it, crying about why his Pa didn’t want him. I never looked at Red the same again. His whining and complaining stopped bothering me and I made sure to say thank you when he helped me with a job that was too big for my skinny arms.

Most likely only in existence to balance out Red’s overworking and over talkative demeanor, there was Feather. It always seemed unfair that a gal like her should end up an orphan. But she was. Her voice, which was often found singing a soft lullaby that she had made up in the middle of the night one time, was soothing on the ears in comparison to Red’s constant grind. Even though she was agile and light footed, I’m thinking that it was her singing that got her the name Feather. Her silhouette was always discerned by short cut dark blonde hair that sported a headband with a long feather sticking out of it.

And sure, she can sing your heart into a thousand tunes and put you to sleep in four notes, but I wouldn’t want to be facing the wrong end of her sixgun, because her aim is right on point with her ability to hit every minor and major key in the book. Not that it’s easy to make her mad. She has a good attitude about nearly every situation and can laugh off anything in a matter of moments. She will be the first to offer an optimistic view, but even if things do go wrong, she’ll do her best to set it right. So it takes some serious skill to ruffle her feathers.

Axle didn’t have to worry about her too much, but he still couldn’t let her be like Teddy. At least, not at first. She lived on her own for a good long while, so had the habit of doing her own thing without telling nobody, and the first time that happened, it nearly put the rest of us kids in danger. Axle did not like us being in danger. I’d never heard him raise his voice, but he had that look that let you know he disapproved of your actions. And it was a look that would certainly make you feel lower than dirt. Feather hated it at first. She preferred to only be responsible for herself. But with Axle still keeping her on rather than kicking her out, her real kindness shown through and she became part of the family. She learned what family was. The first time she sang me a lullaby when I was sick was all it took for me to trust her. A gal with a voice that soft and gentle couldn’t be too terrible. She’s the optimistic one of the family, always looking on the bright side of things and not at all quick to get riled up.

But if Red catches you tryna make her mad, there will be a lot more to pay than just an earful of complaining. It’s almost funny how they work together. With Red looking down his nose at the world and Feather grinning up at the sky, you’d think they get on each other’s nerves. But when I step back and take them in, they work better when you pair them up for a job than they would on their own. I asked Axle why folks who are so different can get along so well, and he told me that different people have room for each other. Folks who are too similar already have whatever the other person can give. It sort of made sense to me at the time. But now I understand it even better.

Feather was not the only girl who stayed at the House. There was also Cliff. An odd name. Her parents were odd. They died in an accident and Cliff was supposed to be married off to some rich fella. But she didn’t want to so she ran off and ended up at Home Street. She was not exactly the most feminine girl you would ever meet, but she wouldn’t let you say that to her face. She remembered her parents the clearest and told me of how kind they were, just a little bit off sometimes. I learned from her what it was like growing up under a real family, and that’s when I decided that the family I had now was none too different from a blood related family.

Cliff’s father was once an outlaw, she always said. You would notice her in a crowd by the fact that she never went anywhere without her rifle strapped to her back, a rifle her Pa gave her before he died. But she didn’t work out in the open. Nah, if one of her bullets lands near you, it doesn’t mean she missed. It was a warning. There was the slimmest of chances that you would ever see Cliff during a shoot out, but you’d see her skill. If someone who was not exactly standing in the most exposed position is trying to mow you down and he suddenly drops dead, don’t worry about thanking your stars for living to breathe in another moment. Later on, once it’s all over, you can thank Cliff.

When it comes to marksmanship, she has the entire House beat. Even Axle. And she knows it. But thankfully for everyone else, she isn’t like Red, in that she won’t flaunt it. She keeps it to herself, since she has to save her breath for every single bit of dry humor that you’ll hear from her in a day. She can crack a joke that has the whole room rolling without ever looking in the slightest bit amused. When Cliff does smile, that means she either is playing her fiddle, or is about to watch someone get a taste of her perfect aim.

I always did wonder how she stays hidden so well when her black hair is pulled up in a high ponytail that still cascades pretty far down her back. Her face is framed by her bangs, and she says that helps her features stay hidden better in the shadows. Being of a narrower build than Feather, because we all know Feather eats more than she probably should, Cliff can slip in and out of one hiding place to the next and take out three different targets in a matter of minutes.

Axle says she’s the most stubborn. And I have to agree. It takes some time for her to admit that she’s wrong in an area, and probably won’t admit it out loud until she’s pondered it for several more days. But she will eventually accept the fact that she is still learning. She was the most hard headed when it came to injuries, would always claim that she could still be out there in the thick of it since she was hidden better than everyone else. Took all six of us to convince her to stay behind when she had broke an arm and an ankle falling from a roof when she nearly got shot.

Her charm comes in when you need a listener. Because she will sit there and let you pour your soul out without a judging word or anything. It comes from a sense of understanding on her part, knowing that sometimes you just need someone who will listen and not debate with you on your mistake, or your situation, or whatever the case may be. I recall many a time I found myself going over to her little corner on the roof where she sat cleaning her gun or practicing a row of chords on her fiddle and just explaining why I was feeling so down. It did a body good to do that every once in a while. She said her Ma would do the same for her and she wanted to be that for her new family. We always did tease her about how the name Cliff Axle sounded. It was funny and ridiculous, but she wore it proudly.

She was easy going and tolerable of anything most of the time, but if there was anyone who could get under Cliff’s skin faster than she could shoot both of your eyes out, it would be Tony Giovanni, the only member of the House who actually knew his real name. Unless he made it up, which none of us would be surprised by. He was a talker, a diplomat, and probably the best negotiator in the town of Colemill. He was the only one out of our group who acted like he had class. But he insisted it wasn’t an act. Apparently, he was born that way. For someone so small, he sure did talk a big game. He owned a gun, but it was tiny, and worn in a holster under his arm. He rarely ever used it, since he always did say that Tony Giovanni was a lover, not a fighter. And by lover, he meant a con artist.

Somehow, though he was just as dirt poor as the rest of us, he always looked like he just stepped out of one of those high end business meetings where people go to talk about how much land they own. He had brown hair that was the only thing about him that was not meticulously styled, since it seemed to always go against whatever he wanted it to do, so he compensated for the fact by wearing a hat. It was a nice hat, a fedora, with a light green band that was always clean and crisp. He wore a gold watch in his pocket that didn’t even work anymore, but he kept it because it added to his class.

If we needed a distraction, or perhaps just needed someone convinced that tearing down the buildings that lined Home Street was a bad idea, he was our man. And don’t try betting him on a game of marbles. No matter where he was, Tony always seemed to produce a few marbles out of thin air and shake them in his hand, just taunting anyone to try and beat him at ‘em. Axle banned betting in the House after a while, but that didn’t stop Tony from playing marbles and betting imaginary money on his wins. If we played for real, all of us would have owed him enough money for him to settle down and get that huge farm to raise racehorses on that he always talks about.

Tony dreams big, and encourages everyone else to do the same. In spite of his mouth that can run away from him even faster than Red’s, we all know he’s got a sweet side. Especially when it comes to Cliff getting hurt because one of his deals went sour. Whenever he goes to negotiate with someone, Cliff sits somewhere on a roof with her crosshairs lined up with the guy Tony is working on. If he doesn’t agree to the terms, he gets a warning shot. If he still doesn’t…. Well, they rarely ever stand their ground after that.

But sometimes, just sometimes, they fire back, and Cliff refuses to move from her position until Tony is out of harm’s way. After all, he’s a lover, not a fighter. Which makes it a good thing he is also the group surgeon and cook. He usually makes it up to Cliff somehow. Axle seems the most annoyed by Tony, and I reckon everyone’s got that one friend that you wonder why you tolerate them. He’s a different kind of talkative from red, much more confident, and likes pushing the limits just to rile people up. But he makes us all feel alive. Axle says Tony makes him feel young again.

That’s us in a nutshell. On the other side of Home Street, there are more buildings, occupied by those who don’t have the money to live anywhere else. Doctors, blacksmiths, cooks, tailors, they’re all over there. We protect them. We protect our town. We own Colemill. Not the mayor, not the sheriff, and certainly not the rough gangs that try to snitch from our banks. It’s because of us that Colemill stood proud for as long as it did.

I’ll never forget the day Axle handed me my first shotgun. I couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, but he decided it was high time I join the club. And with them, I stuck to it in keeping my town clean. Sure, some of us worked better paired off, but we were at our best when Tony went out and laid the groundwork. Then Red would get to it in setting up the plans and finding positions. Feather would call out the first shot. Teddy and Cliff held back up positions, picking them off one at a time. Axle was in the middle of the fray, ducking behind water troughs and firing back at those lunatics who wanted to steal what we took pride in protecting. And soon, I would crouch beside him, loading my shotgun, and rolling into the open to get a shot off at them lousy thieves.

Feather would encourage Red, telling him that we needed him and that he could keep going. Teddy would make certain the team didn’t get too far away from each other. Tony would sit back with Cliff and point out targets that looked like the most fun to take out. Axle would occasionally toss me one of his rare, “Good shot, boy.” And I always treasured those.

Sometimes I wonder if we let Colemill get as successful as it did because we loved the town, or we loved the idea of protecting it from the shadows. I guess it don’t matter one way or the other. Fact is, we didn’t see Colemill as our home. Colemill was our kingdom.

Home Street was home. And it always will be. Those are the best years of my life. Those were the days I spent with my family. I never knew my real one, but I’ll be an Axle as long as I live. And I’ve lived a long time now. I found a place of my own to settle down. Started my own family, remembering everything I learned from my Home Street family. I passed down to my kids a willingness to work. I loved my wife the way Cliff and Tony loved each other and had each other’s backs. I had my kids’ back when they were falling apart. I sung them to sleep. I made sure I wasn’t too busy to where my wife didn’t have no one to talk to, because I knew the value of just a good long talk. I learned all these things from a family that wasn’t anymore related to me than Adam. But they were family, and I’ll never let what they taught me slip away. Though the warehouse is falling apart now, and the buildings across from it have long been empty. If I stand in the middle of the street and close my eyes, I can still hear all those sounds, the sounds that were the sounds of my home.

There’s Red, complaining about having to wash all the dishes that Tony used to cook breakfast that morning.

The scraping of a blade against wood as Teddy whittles something he saw from memory into a piece of wood.

A soft song, floating along the dusty, dry wind of the afternoon as Feather serenades her little world.

Glass marbles against a hardwood floor as Tony continues to keep his flicking wrist in shape.

Cliff polishing her beloved rifle for the millionth time that day and blowing on the barrel until she can see her reflection in the curved metal.

And Axle, laying on the bale of hay that we call our bed, whistling in his sleep the anthem of Tennessee.

I can hear them. The sounds I grew up with. The sounds I’ll never forget. Lay me in a coffin, but I’ll still hear those sounds.

The End