The Rebellious Ones

The Great Hanged Man

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A lazy wind blew down the square on a May morning in Newark, Ohio, playing with the signs hung out from shop fronts. Tree branches full of green leaves sway as it travels down the street, past the homes. The jail appears littered with railroad ties and a ladder on its trip. Slowly the cooling breeze heads to the courthouse. The wind forces a rope on an electrical post to swing on its way. Brown puddles lay below it, slowly running down the gutters. Then, finding refound energy, the current moves upwards to the courthouse dome, making the American flag flap around as the town comes to life. Finally, the sunrises and smoke from the factories start to make clouds in the sky, like every morning.
A young woman flips the open sign with flour-covered hands inside a white and green trimmed storefront wedged between the Darwin Tool Store and Cornell Dress and Suit Shop. The shop had three little tables and a booth for customers to sit on as they ate their pastries near the storefront. An old piano-held residence near the hallway leading to the kitchen. And to the left side, there was the counter she spent most of the day. At the dark oak counter, a glass window displayed pastries and candies. While behind her was a wall full of spices, teas in different sized cans, fresh-baked bread, canvas bags of coffee beans, and a bright color display of cigarettes. Therein her usual spot stood the owner, Cora McQuaid, a woman who stood at an average height and had eyes as green as spring grass.  

A smile dawns on her face as the shiny brass bell above the door dings for the first time that morning. The joy of giving another piece of heaven to another was what drove her.

In steps, one of her regulars, Jack Glady, an owner of a speakeasy and a common criminal. Jack was a typical man in Newark, but he was considered the King of Booze in the Irish community's eyes. However, to Cora, he would always be the lad that used to help her sell stuff on the street while their fathers worked in the factories. Jack had dark brown hair that only shone like a polished stone when the sun hit it just right and seemed to feather his head when gel wasn't running through it. It was typical that he came in every day, made his order, and left as quickly as he had come, but it was even unusual that he started a conversation that morning.

"McQuaid, have you heard what happened on the square last night?"

She tilted her head in confusion, her blonde bob obeying gravity swaying to the left, "No. What happened? I haven't read the paper yet? Was there another fire?" It was usual for some fire to occur when someone got too drunk or tried to receive insurance money. Several years ago, the square's north side was rebuilt after a man tried to burn his shop for insurance money. Pulling out a small brown sack, Cora places a plain donut inside and grabs a pack of Lucky Strikes. Pulling out the receipt book, she jots down his order.

"This guy, you see, was trying to rat out all of the speakeasies in town. But we caught onto him. So then around 10 last night, the lad was hung on the square after shooting Neil," he leans on the counter, his voice hushed as  Cora stares at him in terror.

Putting down the receipt book, she gives him a questioning look, "Now, there had to be a reason behind Neil being shot. He was a good man, came here every Saturday for donuts for the family."

"I guess Neil was beating up the lad," Jack shrugs his shoulders as he continues to lean towards Cora, "and the lad decided it was smart to pull out his gun," Jack makes a shooting motion with his hands, "Guess Neil kicked the bucket a few hours after he got shot. Then once they heard of his death, they broke the lad out of the jailhouse and lynched him," She hands him his bag of pastries and pack of cigarettes as he gives her a few coins.