THE FARMER’S BOY

 

THE FARMER’S BOY

Fiction by strzeka (09/24)

 

Arnie Webster planted a kiss on his diminutive mother’s upturned face and took his lunch from her hands. She watched him cross the porch and step down to the yard. A mass of curly blond hair, broad shoulders and a fine manly stride, the long muscular limb alternating with the peg. He glanced back to see her watching and raised his hand. He had guessed the day might turn out like this. He and his pa were planning on ploughing the top ten acres and getting the ground ready for a new harvest of alfalfa. But as so often in the past few years, his pa had let time get away from him playing poker or shooting the breeze with Ike Fennimore and Brigham Mendez and the old man was still semi‑conscious with a wicked hangover.

 

Arnie had wanted his pa to help with connectng the plough to the back of the old John Ford tractor. It was heavy to lift onto the tow hook. If he backed the tractor closer, he would make his life easier. If the dang thing would start. It was becoming mighty temperamental these days. He stashed his lunch under the seat and hauled himself up enough for his peg to catch on the first footrest. He settled himself on the broad metal seat, peg pointing the way ahead and went through the complicated mechanical process of starting the tractor, accompanied by prayers to heaven and profane incantations to everywhere else. Eight tries, nine—on the tenth attempt, the red‑rusted machine farted into life and billowed acrid fumes into the barn. Arnie fought with the clutch and gear stick. He twisted around to guide the tractor closer to the plough. He engaged the hand brake and slipped down to plan his next move.

 

Luckily, the connector would reach the tractor by simply pushing on the right‑side wheel. Arnie put his back into it and stepped closer to judge the effort needed to link the pair. He needed to plant himself in the best spot to both lift the plough and heave the connectors together. He chose his position and stretched his peg away from him. He would put all his effort in with his solitary leg, cautious not to put too much weight on his peg. He had broken more than one trying to lift things too heavy for the maplewood to withstand. But this time there was no problem. He put his back into it and let gravity do the rest. The plough needed chaining and locking to the tractor before he could start the day’s work.

 

Their old John Ford was a trusty beast once coaxed into action. It blasted black exhaust every moment it was in motion but within three hours, Arnie had turned the soil on the ten acres. The furrows were straight and deep and the fresh earth was dark, a sure sign that there was moisture enough for planting. Arnie remembered his lunch and drove slowly back to the yard and stopped near the well. He raised a bucket of cold fresh water and drank his fill. The sandwiches were grilled chicken with home‑made mayo and nothing could have tasted more perfect on such a beautiful May midday. He savoured the last mouthful and folded the greaseproof paper into a smaller square which he put into his bib pocket.

 

Arnie returned the plough to the barn and detached it.  He glanced at the sky in the way of farmers and judged that there was time to level the sod. He hauled himself back onto the John Ford and manoeuvred it in front of the tiller. It was a lighter piece of equipment. The mechanism was simply a series of rotating blades, sharp enough and sturdy enough to break the soil apart leaving the ground suitable for planting. It was easy enough to attach to the tractor, powered by the tractor’s main axle train and linked with a universal joint. It made an unholy racket on top of that of the John Ford, clicking and squealing except when it was cutting sod. Arnie made himself comfortable on the tractor’s seat and powered the tiller onto the first furlough. The tractor’s rear wheel exploded with a tremendous noise, throwing Arnie from his seat into the gap between the tractor and the tiller with the tractor’s engine still grinding away and increasing in speed as the loss of a wheel decreased friction. Without understanding where he was or what had happened, Arnie spread his arms to right himself. His hands were caught by the tiller and the mechanism pulled his forearms further into itself. The explosion alerted both his mother and father, who rushed outside where Arnie’s screams were audible above the mechanical cacophony. With strength belying her stature, his mother pushed her husband to one side and spoke to him sharply.

            – Get the truck, Joe. Now!

He was startled by the urgency in her voice. His boy was under a piece of machinery, not for the first time. He tried to remember where he had parked up after returning from Ike’s place and, not seeing it in the yard, reckoned it must be behind the house.

 

The driver’s door was open, the keys in the ignition. For once, his slovenly forgetfulness had proved advantageous. He fired their dusty old Ford into life and reversed towards the yard, raising dust which slowly drifted away on the breeze. His wife was on her knees pulling Arnie away from the screeching tiller blades.

            – Get some rope, Joe. We gonna need to bind this boy’s arms. Stay still son. Ya gonna be fine. We’ll soon getcha outta there.

 

It was like summer 1941 all over again. Seven year old Arnie had insisted on helping his pa get the harvest in. It had never been finalised how exactly the accident had happened but whether Arnie had jumped or simply fallen from the back of the tractor was never made clear. The result was the machine crushed and pulped Arnie’s leg. That demanded the first visit to the hospital in Kansas City followed by a hefty bill for the amputation of the boy’s left leg. He made a quick recovery but the family spent a decade in penury while they paid off the medical bill, a dollar or two every week. Good money which could have gone for food or new clothes.

 

Ma tied a cord around her boy’s arms as tight as possible. Arnie’s eyes were glassy and he was white from shock and blood loss.

            – Stay still son. Ya gonna be fine.

As often as she repeated it, it had no effect on her own mind. The boy’s hands were shredded and his arms bore deep gashes, almost black with dirt. The rusty old truck stopped right in front of the barn. Pa jumped out and helped ma drag Arnie away from the tiller. Pa killed the engine. Silence broke over the scene, ruined only by Arnie’s keening and sobbing. Pa carried him to the truck. Ma pulled herself up beside him and kneeled on the uneven truck bed so Arnie’s head would rest in her lap. Pa fired the old engine and headed down the road for the forty mile trek to the hospital.

 

Arnie was accepted as a patient after a quick check of the records showed that there were no outstanding debts. Arnie was placed on a gurney by two young men who wheeled him through swing doors towards whatever fate had for him. Ma and pa were hurriedly assured that everything would be done and politely requested to leave hospital premises. Goddam hill billies and their lethal farming equipment. These days it was like a farmer had to boast at least one stump as a badge of honour.

 

They returned to the farm at a more slowly pace. The meat which ma had been carving was smothered in noisy bluebottles. She carried it outside to the mulch pit and threw it in. They both claimed they did not feel much of an appetite and when evening fell, they went to bed with empty bellies, worried about whatever would they do with a boy with no hands. And one leg. Ma’s tears for her boy were tempered by thoughts of more medical bills.

 

The small surgical team at St Luke’s Hospital were divided in their opinions about whether to try saving Arnie’s shredded hands. He had lost several fingers and the wrists were damaged beyond repair. His forearms bore deep gashes from which the bones glistened white.

            – If we amputate now, we can probably save a smidgen of the kid’s forearms. I guess he’s eligible for the veteran’s program for aftercare, ain’t he?

            – I guess so. OK, I agree. Double amputations. He’ll have a coupla inches stump, ya reckon?

            – That’s what I’d be aiming for.

Arnie’s ruined forearms were removed and incinerated before he regained consciousness from the operations. His surgeon had succeeded in producing padded stumps which extended three inches below Arnie’s elbows. Only the right stump still bore any sign of the trauma, a deep slash which had been thoroughly disinfected and stitched. It should heal along with the stumps.

 

Arnie recovered on a small ward with beds for four patients, only one of which was occupied by a white‑bearded sun‑beaten man whose right leg had been amputated after an accident involving a dung spreader. The man had tarried about tending to his injury, calling the doctor out only when the flesh turned putrid. The doctor berated his patient for his bullheadedness and drove him to St Luke’s himself, where the stinking limb was amputated high above the knee. The man had become a triple amputee, having lost his hands in the First World War. He had functioned as a bilateral hook user almost from the day they were invented. He had married his childhood sweetheart and had raised a fine family of four adult children which he had supported through the depression years. He had little memory of ever having had hands. He was taken aback by Arnie’s arrival. Another triple. What were the chances? Arnie was no company for the first two or three days, first too befuddled by pain medication and then too confused by his situation.

 

The old man followed Arnie’s recovery. Arnie’s stumps were inspected every day, the dressings changed until they had healed well enough not to need bandages. Arnie and the old man, Russell Green, chatted for a few days with only one subject in mind. Arnie assured the old man that it was child’s play to get around on a peg leg, assuming he had enough stump. He described how he had made his own peg legs since he was old enough to understand how, crafting a new one every six months or so throughout his teenage years as he grew. He favoured the type he was wearing when he arrived at the hospital—a rigid peg with a bridge on which his knee rested. He had only a couple of inches of stump which was useless for wearing a standard artificial leg. Over the years he had perfected the shape of his peg and never gave it a thought, although he knew his peers and girls especially stared at him when he visited the dance hall in town, if he could borrow the truck from his pa. He had been driving since he was sixteen and took his peg off in the cab.

 

Old man Green told him about the days just before his hands were blown off. They were helping the French troops in a place called Soissons. Before they had even caught sight of them, the Jerries launched shells which killed two commanders and demolished the field kitchen. Everyone panicked and scrambled in every direction. Corporal Green scrambled in the wrong direction and was caught in another blast.

            – I reckon a shell hit me. Sliced mah hands clean off. One minute I had ’em and the next I had stumps. Boy oh boy, that was a surprise, let me tell you. The Jerries let up with their shells and a medic wrapped me up and the next thing I knew, I was in a field hospital and all I had left of my arms was these.

He demonstrated his arm stumps for a moment or two and tugged the blanket higher over his chest. Patients were not allowed to wear artificial limbs on the ward.

            – Then back home, I got me a pair of hooks and I been usin’ ’em ever since. Nothin’ to it, kid. You’ll get the hang in no time and be back in the swing o’ things, no problem.

            – Where’m I gonna get money for hooks, Russ? That’s what I need to know.

            – They got a program goin’ on at the VA. They was gonna cut it ’til this Korea business started up and the amputees started comin’ in again. They got a scheme so workin’ folk like you and me can get hooks an’ stuff at real bargain prices. You make sure to get in touch with the VA when you get outta here and they’ll see you right. They’re the real experts. Boy, I’ll tell you one thing. There ain’t nothin’ like a war for makin’ amputees. An’ the govermint wants to see ’em all back at work payin’ their taxes making the politicians rich. They can afford a few pairs a hooks is what I’m thinkin’.

            – I’ll do that. Thanks, Russ.

 

Arnie talked about his schooldays as the only disabled kid in the class. His classmates had been fascinated to see him return to school with a wooden peg leg which his pa had conjured for him. It was more or less a two by four whittled down to shape. His amputated leg was bent at the knee and he knelt on a block of wood attached to the peg. And the whole thing was held on with leather belts. He wore it only for a few weeks. His pa was still contrite about the accident and was concerned for his boy. The pair of them designed a new peg which had better balance and was shaped more like a proper peg leg. From then on, Arnie had made his own pegs as his height changed. He learned that two prongs, one each side of his thigh, were better than only one, that the bridge was more comfortable if it was concave and his ma made him cushioned pads from sack cloth stuffed with chicken feathers. Old man Green listened carefully, interjecting a few questions now and then, trying to imagine how he would go about replicating Arnie’s newest version of a peg leg for himself. But his stump was different. Arnie thought a longer peg which reached to his waist might do the job. He could tie a belt around the strut and another around his stump. The old man doubted that a home‑made peg leg would be good enough. Maybe the VA would come up with something. In the meantime, the old man suspected he would be hobbling around on a pair of crutches and hoped his hooks would be up to it. Maybe he could get by with just one crutch.

 

One morning, the doctor brought a group of young medical students with him on his rounds. Arnie was subjected to performing the lead rôle in a detailed description of his injuries and the surgical treatment he had subsequently received. His stumps were inspected thoroughly but respectfully by the students.

            – Are there any questions?

            – What about the patient’s future, sir? How is care organised for the new amputee after he leaves the hospital?

            – We ensure the patient has some addresses of manufacturers of artificial limbs on departure. It’s up to the patient to organise prosthetic care in accordance with his needs. This is a surgical hospital, not a center for rehabilitation.

            – I understand, sir.

Arnie also understood. It was his main worry. Regardless of how many times Russell claimed that learning to use a pair of hooks would be child’s play, he was more concerned with the practicalities of getting his first pair. He had no idea where the closest maker of artificial limbs was, although there might be one in Kansas City. How was he going to function in the weeks before he was kitted out with new hands, new hooks?

 

The medical team moved across the room to subject Russ to similar treatment. The fresh stump was displayed and the surgeon indicated various aspects of it with a pen. Russ’s arm stumps were ignored. They were incidental, nothing to do with St Luke’s. The surgeon wished his patients a good morning and the troupe left to descend on another ward.

 

            – Russell, do you reckon the nurse would bring your hooks for a while? See, I wanna take a look at ’em.

            – I reckon she might if I use mah charms. You wanna try ’em on, doncha? That’s fine. I’m guessing they won’t fit ya, though. Thass why they have to make every pair separate like.

            – I wanna see how they work. I wanna know what I’ve got ahead of me when I get my own pair.

            – OK, I’ll ask the nurse to bring ’em so you can look ’em over.

 

Russell waited until after the lunch things had been cleared away. It was the quietest period of the day and additional requests were more likely to be honoured. A nurse delivered Russ’s prostheses directly to Arnie and helped him sit more upright. The artificial arms lay parallel in the space where Arnie’s left leg should have been. Arnie was both impressed by and leery of the complicated tangle of straps and cables. The odd flesh‑toned sockets were scuffed, scratched and discoloured from years of use by a man used to wearing and trusting in his prostheses. Arnie leant forward to lift one towards him for closer inspection. His naked short stumps were approaching their maximum utility as they healed. Arnie would learn to use them together in a pincer movement but his arm stumps would never allow him to do many of the things which other bilateral amputees took for granted. Arnie never learned to dress himself without hooks nor could he drive a car or truck, although he was a careful and thoughtful driver when outfitted with his artificial arms. Staring at the beat‑up sockets obviously intended for a man with longer stumps, Arnie had no idea of his future capabilities. He assumed that such impressive equipment would automatically return all his old abilities. He wanted to slip a stump into one of the sockets to get an impression of his future self but the cuffs were tangled and he made do with his imagination.

 

Russell’s prosthetic care was guaranteed by the veterans’ administration, which by presidential decree, was also accepting all new amputees who might benefit from a prosthesis or two. As always, the bureaucracy was formidable but Russell had some experience with the VA and succeeded in having his young companion accepted as a patient with similar rights and entitlements of disabled military men. The nearest VA clinic was right there in Kansas City, ready to either treat or triage patients. Specialist prosthetic work was delegated to a collection of expert prosthetists around the state but regular artificial limbs were made on site in a rusting Quonset hut resurrected from the Pacific War. Retired prosthetists who still had access to familiar old equipment were invited back into employment to provide new limbs for the flood of young amputees returning from Korea via Okinawa, Guam, Midway, names which still had the power to incite fear into American hearts. For the returning amputees, each hated name represented a step closer to home and salvation.

 

The hospital staff bore the close emotional relationship between Arnie and Russell in mind when organising their simultaneous discharges with similar prescriptions for prosthetic care at the local VA. Russell insisted that he was capable of handling a pair of axillary crutches with his artificial arms and departed taking tentative steps towards the highway, where a bus was due within the hour. Arnie strode alongside him, rucksack slung over his back, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose his short stumps and enjoying the sensation of exercising his stump after so many weeks. He was proud to show off his prowess on his peg leg which Russell saw now for the first time. Russell regarded Arnie as a younger version of himself with the same challenging voyage of discovery ahead of him. He was content with his own new challenge—that of learning to walk on a standard military issue artificial leg. The army still had a goodly amount of battleship grey paint in stock and these days was mixing it in with the flesh‑tone pink. The tin legs issued to the Korean conflict amputees looked like experimental military equipment, aluminium sockets perforated with holes, slathered with paint the colour of dead flesh and augmented with pigskin leather straps, thick and a grotesque colour. Russell and Arnie carefully lowered themselves from the city bus and headed for the VA centre on the outskirts of town, constructed in six weeks on the most barren plot of land available.

 

Their reception was no picnic. They were treated as officiously as any military men. Their application papers were appraised to the letter before the bearer was addressed. Arnie faced an official whose uniform looked like it was freshly made of cardboard. The official chewed a wad of tobacco, some juice of which had dripped down his chin.

            – This sayuz you hayuv two bahlatral upper liyumb ampootations. Is thayut correyuct, sir?

            – Yes sir.

Arnie had heard about the army’s ways but it was still amazing to experience it in the real world. Russell was required to explain why, as a bahlatral upper liyumb amputee he was applying for an artificial leg. Eventually the official used his own eyes and verified that what the applicants claimed was in fact true and he allocated two bunks in Section G, from which the previous occupants had been evacuated to St Louis by jeep only ninety minutes previously. G was reserved for non‑military amputees but was often filled with returnees from Korea. In stark contrast to every other military barracks, the Quonset had single instead of double bunks. Fresh amputees were not initially expected to be able to negotiate the climb to an upper bunk. It was the only reassurance which patients had that they were still in a sane world.

 

Whether by plan or by chance, Russell’s leg stump was cast the same morning as Arnie’s arm stumps. No time was wasted, especially not on these civilians who had lucked out on the president’s decree. Factories in Santa Cruz, Little Rock and Red Lodge churned out hundreds, then thousands, of standardised artificial limbs. The US Army had designed a limb which could be manufactured in its thousands and customised with the simple addition of leather stump sockets. Once cured, the sockets were attached to tin legs and arms and grateful amputees were sent on their way to discover how to use their artificial limbs in their own private time. Arnie was especially knowledgeable about the process, expecting to have his first fitting as soon as his stump sockets had hardened. His arms were waiting somewhere in a box stencilled with their dimensions. His prosthetist would rivet the leather sockets to the tin arms and join the arms to a harness. He would have reached his final configuration. A good‑looking young triple amputee guy on a peg leg with two hooks.

 

One of the military staff saw Arnie making his way to his first fitting and approached him. He was intrigued by the young man’s wooden peg leg. The army did not provide such primitive prostheses and he was curious to know where the boy had got it. He had his own private interests at heart. He intended to leave army life behind him as soon as possible and found his own exclusive prosthetic clinic in a city like Chicago, which not only had more than its share of new amputee residents but was also a hub for half the country. The enlisted prosthetist, Private Jim Lee, touched Arnie’s shoulder and simply enquired which ward Arnie was on.

            – I have a proposal for you if you’re interested.

 

The peg leg had initially caught Lee’s attention but the nonchalant way Arnie bore his arm stumps was as eye catching. Ideally, Lee wanted a quadruple amputee as a business partner, someone who had lost all four limbs but in such a way that artificial limbs would still be useful. But no suitable quadruple amputees came his way. The quads he occasionally saw were too disabled to benefit from prosthetic limbs. Lee wanted an associate with as few limbs as possible but who could still function like an ordinary worker. Someone with a decent set of stumps.

 

Arnie was in two minds about his brand new arms. His prosthetist had returned the completed limbs to their original box of recycled cardboard which he placed before Arnie. Arnie tried opening the lid with his stumps without success. The prosthetist lifted the lid to reveal Arnie’s first artificial arms and hooks. They were a nondescript grey and strongly resembled the barrel of a gun with muzzle brakes. Canvas strapping of olive green formed the harness and a semi‑cylindrical length of pigskin leather boasted brass fittings to direct control cables along the stumps. The immediate impression was of an untidy collection of army surplus equipment. The prosthetist reached over Arnie’s shoulder and swung the equipment out of the box by the central ring. He lowered it onto the table top, trying to prevent the straps from tangling further. He took a pair of cotton stump socks from his apron pocket and asked Arnie to push his stumps into them.

 

            – You’ll always need socks for your stumps. Don’t wear your arms without some protection, do you understand?

 

The prosthetist demonstrated the correct way to don the prosthetic arms and pointed out the most common pitfalls new amputees often encountered with the harness. For the first time, Arnie experienced the unfamiliar weight of his aluminium prostheses on his stumps, supported securely by buckled straps around his upper arm cuffs. The hooks were attached to the flat steel wrist mechanisms but the cables were as yet unattached. The prosthetist told Arnie to stand and circled him, judging which adjustments would be necessary. Fortunately the patient was a bilateral with identical mirror image stumps. Finalising the prostheses should be easy in his case. Fifteen minutes later, the prosthetist stood back from his work, twisted Arnie’s hooks to point inwards towards each other and congratulated him. Arnie stretched his battleship grey gun barrel arms in front of him and tried to reconcile himself that his hooks at least looked impressive.

 

Russell fared no better. His grey tin leg even creaked right out of the box. The leather stump socket was a good comfortable fit, rivetted securely to the metal upper leg which in turn was held by a broad leather belt around Russell’s waist. The lower leg was conical without any attempt to mimic nature and the wooden foot was apparently removable to compensate for various shoes and boots. The knee mechanism was an improved version of those provided to amputees immediately after the Pacific War, sturdier and less likely to collapse unexpectedly. Russell had arrived with only one shoe and needed to buy a pair before he could sport the new leg in public but the wooden foot proved its worth as he crutched back to Ward G, his hooks slipping and sliding on the smooth wooden crossbars.

 

Jim Lee kept an eye out for the men’s return. He could see the entrance to the barracks which housed Ward G and often entertained himself by comparing the attitude of the amputees as they left and as they returned. The aesthetics of the current batch of artificial limbs left much to be desired but they were sturdy and reliable pieces of kit for youngsters to wear on their return to their families. The more adventurous DAKs practised walking on two tin legs with a cane or two, daring each other to ever more demanding feats of prosthetic skill but most legless men became inured to the idea of becoming wheelchair users. Confined to a wheelchair, that was what people said. Several completely legless veterans who had also lost their genitals demanded leather sheaths into which they could slide their torso stumps and walk by swinging their legless bodies between their hands. It looked alarming at first but everyone who had requested such equipment appreciated how much more gratifying it was to be mobile under one’s own muscle power rather than in a wheelchair. There were those without hands whose stumps were adapted into peg arms. Instead of hands, they boasted thick rubber blocks.

 

Lee noticed Arnie’s return. Arnie was wearing his new artificial arms and hooks in the telltale fashion of a freshly fitted amputee—elbows held at a ninety degree angle, hooks pointing forward. The metal grey arms were their own camouflage and from a distance did not attract undue attention. The guy’s gait was the thing that grabbed the eye. Lee would let Arnie settle for a few minutes before crossing the yard to confront him. He had a growing conviction that the triple amp was ideal for what he had in mind. A few more months would pass but when Lee started his private prosthetic laboratory and clinic, Arnie was the guy he wanted working alongside him, wearing new arm prostheses designed and made in the new facilities. More than that, Lee needed Arnie to take care of things like mail and customers’ enquiries. The reason was simple enough. Jim Lee was illiterate. He could understand numbers but not write them himself. Lee was ashamed of his deficiency. Many of his teachers had made special efforts to help him to read but it was no use. The lines and squiggles simply never acquired meaning. But he was good with his hands and had found his oeuvre completely by accident in the military. He could take one look at a recently disabled man and not only design a suitable custom‑made prosthesis, he could also manufacture it, even from the second rate materials available after the war. He was highly rated by his employer and patients alike. Regardless of their disabilities, Lee assured the newly limbless that things would turn out just fine. They had not lost part of themselves—they had gained stumps and had the opportunity to show off new‑found skills with artificial limbs, to show their chums and girlfriends what they were truly made of.

 

Arnie and Russell were sitting on their beds chatting when Lee knocked on the open door.

            – Hi! Have ya got a few minutes to talk business, pal? Like I said, I have a proposal.

            – Do you want me to make myself scarce?

            – No sir. We can go outside for what I need to say.

Arnie looked at Lee’s expression. He was around thirty and he was balding which maybe made him look older than he really was. He placed his hooks carefully on each side of his hips and pushed himself erect, adjusting the trajectory of his peg leg on its way down so it was ready to step on. Lee took hold Arnie’s upper arm and guided him back out the door into the sun‑bleached parade ground.

            – I’m sorry to seem so mysterious. I dare say you’re wonderin’ what this is all about. It’s simple really. I need a healthy young assistant to help me start my own factory for makin’ artificial limbs. And I been watchin’ you an’ your progress and I reckon you an’ me could make real good partners, you bein’ a genuine amputee an’ all. I’m thinkin’ our clients will appreciate talkin’ to a man who understands what they’re goin’ through.

            – Wow! That’s quite somethin’. I never expected anythin’ like that.

            – But are ya interested?

            – Sure I’m interested! Man, I’ve been worryin’ myself sick about how I’m gonna find work with these.

Arnie lifted his hooks and stared at them as if for the first time. They really were as basic as such things could be. They were lightweight, efficient and looked utterly soulless. The forearm sockets were cylindrical, or slightly conical. They were glossy mid grey. The fittings were steel, as were the cables.

            – Don’t worry about that. After a few weeks you’ll be using ’em like your own hands. Wait an’ see. I seen it hundreds a times.

            – Are there really so many guys with hooks?

            – You better believe it. Plenty a men missin’ both arms right up to their shoulders. You’re lucky. You still got elbows. Makes things a lot easier, let me tell ya. So whaddaya say? You interested in joinin’ me to make artificial limbs for fellow amputees?

            – Sure am. Where is this factory?

            – Well, I ain’t picked it yet but it’s gonna be in Chicago. Somewhere near the railroad station maybe, so men with no legs can reach us without too much hassle. We don’t need a lot of space to start with. It ain’t gonna be no hospital with rooms an’ beds an’ such. No siree. Jus’ my workshop and your office and a place out front where the amputees can sit an’ wait for their appointments.

            – Like at the dentist? Readin’ ol’ Sears catalogues?

            – Yup! So are ya in?

Arnie appraised the man. Crewcut, smiling eyes with laughter crowsfeet, smartly dressed in pressed beige shirt bearing his name and matching cargo trousers with desert boots. Arnie supposed he was still in the army and was waiting for his final discharge before striking out on his own. One thing was certain. There was gonna be a call for whatever they made for many years to come even without further wars.

            – I’m gonna have to settle matters with my folks first but I’m in.

 

_ _ _ _ _ ­­­­­

 

The Greyhound bus detoured off the highway and dropped Arnie at the end of the road which led, four miles away, to the family farmstead. A VA jeep had ferried him and Russell with four more new invalids to the bus station in Chicago. After waiting five hours for his connection to depart on its bouncy cross‑country trek, and another three on an increasingly hot bus which smelt incongruously of doughnuts and Brylcreem, Arnie jumped down and swung his backpack over his shoulders. He had asked a nurse where he could maybe buy a long‑sleeved shirt. The orderly made a few enquiries and returned with some discarded battle wear, laundered and ready to be redistributed. Arnie strode along the dusty road looking very much like a returning wounded warrior in khaki trousers and matching shirt which concealed his ugly artificial arms. He had been away ten weeks. Ma and pa had no inkling to expect their boy to return this day. Arnie hoped he would be able to explain that his return was only temporary. He had been offered a job in Chicago with one of the guys from the VA. He did not feel capable of returning to the farm to continue where he left off. It was a lie but one his folks would believe well enough. One look at the severe military grade equipment which replaced his handsome muscular arms was enough to convince most people.

 

He could see a tractor in the distance, probably his pa out clearing up after the harvest. There was a smudge of smoke drifting up from the chimney. Maybe his ma was baking bread or grits. He slowed down, unsure how to finally greet his own mother for the first time in his new guise. He would go in and say Hi ma! I’m home.

 

The sound of his footsteps on the porch alerted his mother. She was not expecting to see Arnie, reasoning that his brother Luke had been sent by his father on some errand. She glanced up from preparing food for lunch and saw Arnie’s short blond hair before noticing the steel hooks in place of the stumps of his ruined arms. He stopped for a moment to read her expression and skirted the table to take her to him in his mechanical arms. He wanted to caress her face and lift her chin with a finger so he could plant an affectionate kiss on her smiling face. But he could only sense the weight of metal hanging from his empty elbows. He could not see ma’s face but she stood motionless waiting for the metal arms to release her.

            – Are ya home for good now, son? They sent ya home with them metal arms.

            – I need to think about it, ma. It’s not the same wearing these here hooks as havin’ my own hands like I never had the accident. I reckon it’ll take some time before I know what I’ll be able to help with around the farm.

            – I’m thinking these are things you need to talk to your pa of. And Luke. Luke’s back.

            – Oh! Where is he?

            – Out with pa. Luke came back when he heard you was hurt. I guess he’d like to know how long he’ll be workin’ out on the fields.

            – I guess so. I’m gonna take a look.

 

Arnie spun on his peg and strode across the porch. He hopped down the familiar steps and pegged across to the well for a drink of cold water. The old iron cup chattered in his hooks. He was sweaty after the long walk from the highway. He struggled out of his army surplus shirt and hung it to dry over the porch railing. Now his artificial arms were fully visible, emphasised by his white undershirt which guys had begun to wear without a dress shirt. The grey paint on his sockets caught the sun as if to announce their presence. Arnie shrugged and spread his shoulders to settle the canvas harness closer and set off in the direction of the tractor which he could barely hear. He skirted the edge of the field, wary of stepping into a gopher hole with his peg. Now he was out of sight of his ma, he was more confident about his appearance. He was proud of his military style artificial arms, and guessed that he would be mistaken for an army vet wherever he went. He could accept the undeserved respect and admiration or correct people by telling them he lost his hands under his pa’s old tractor right in their own yard. Maybe he would keep his silence.

 

Luke spotted his brother’s unmistakable figure slowly approaching along the edge of the field they were hoeing. He leaned across to shout into his pa’s ear.

            – Arnie’s back, pa! Cut the engine!

Pa looked up and changed down a gear or two. Nothing would make him cut the engine unnecessarily, not with it being so cantankerous to restart. He held onto the steering wheel with both hands and watched Luke dash across to where Arnie stood, leg and peg stretched wide in his familiar stance. The sun flashed on his arms.

 

He grinned at his brother bounding towards him. Luke was eighteen months older and had left home for job in town a couple of years ago. Now he was back, taking up where Arnie had left off. He stood two feet from Arnie, taking in the crewcut, the smart white singlet with the khaki army pants and boots. But most of all he stared at Arnie’s hooks. The steel hooks looked perfect together. Luke had seen other amputees in town but they had all lost only one hand and had only one hook. That looked real swanky too but two of ’em together! Man, that was really something.

            – Sure weren’t expectin’ to see you today, Shrimp. They kick you out already? You home for good now?

            – I don’t know, Luke. Depends how well I can use these, I guess.

            – They sure look special, don’t they? Can you use ’em?

            – I can open an’ close ’em, if that’s what you mean.

            – They sure look good on ya, Arnie. I mean that. With ya peg leg an’ all. They really make you look… special. Like a real man’s man.

Arnie had not heard the expression before but thought it sounded positive. He had not been especially close to Luke growing up. He had older brothers who were more likely to play with the young ’un. One by one they left the farm life in favour of a family of their own. Now they lived all over the country, scattered by the chaos of war. Luke had not gotten so far. He gave up an attic room in a schoolfriend’s home and his job in retail in order to answer his parent’s call for help following Arnie’s maiming. None of them had expected Arnie to make a recovery to the point where he would inherit the farm, as pa had decided years ago. Arnie was by far the smartest of his five sons, and he preferred that one of the boys take on the farm rather than one of his five daughters. Pa remained seated on the tractor chugging noisily under him, using fuel. Wasting money.

            – Luke! Let’s get on. There’s work to be done.

            – Oh oh. Better get back. Glad you’re home, Shrimp.

Luke cuffed Arnie’s upper arm in a gesture of brotherly love and hit the thick pigskin cuff. It felt so alien. He squirmed awkwardly to hide his erection and walked quickly back to resume work with his pa. He had always liked seeing Shrimp’s peg leg when they were growing up, watching the way Arnie had to kick it around, but he was used to seeing it and it did not interest him now like it did before. But the hooks were something completely new and fascinating. Luke had never seen anyone wearing two artificial arms and now Shrimp had exactly that. They looked like the barrels of tank guns. It was too incredible to be true. Luke wanted to learn everything about the new arms.

 

Ma’s evening meal for three easily stretched to four. Arnie had enjoyed a quick shower in cold water and his ma found him some of his clothes which she had packed away to give Luke some closet space. Arnie was wearing a short sleeved denim shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. They were clean but the material over Arnie’s natural knee had been repaired so many times there was no space left for a needle. When ma said that when they were younger, the littl’uns were glad that they wouldn’t be getting it as a hand‑me‑down. The family gave thanks for their food and health to the good lord, before the thankful twenty year old triple amputee and his cancer‑ridden father tucked into the beef gruel and grits which served as a midweek meal.

 

Pa was as abrupt as ever. He wanted to know one thing and one thing only. Was Arnie going to be able to take on the responsibility for running the farm which had been in the family since the forefathers came west over a century before? With what he had now for hands which no man should have to deal with? And where was a man in Arnie’s situation going to find a wife for himself? None of the local farmers girls was wanting to walk down the aisle with a man limping on a peg leg, hand in hand with a metal hook. Ma protested pa was being cruel but pa insisted that facts were facts.

            – Look at the boy! He can’t even hold a knife and fork.

 

Arnie had been feeding himself using only his hooks to lift food to his mouth. He could do it neatly and inconspicuously. He tried using a knife and fork out of respect for the family’s standards and traditions but felt insulted by his father. He extended both stumps dropping the cutlery onto his plate, rose and went noisily upstairs stomping his peg on every step. His father found the noise irritating, as it was a reminder of what he had caused to his youngest boy at an age when he should have been with his mother.

 

The rest of the family ate in silence. Luke helped his mother clean up, knowing that it too annoyed his father who regarded kitchen work as below a man’s dignity. But it gave mother and son a chance to talk without his father hearing and Luke loved his wiry, hard‑as‑nails ma as much as all her other children.

            – Shall I take something up for Shrimp, ma? Can ya make him a sammitch?

            – I’ll do that, son.

            – Ma, I wanna ask ya somethin’. What happens if Arnie can’t do it, ma? If he’s always gonna need help with everything or to run the machinery? I can’t see it maself.

            – I don’t know, Luke. You been a good help to your pa and me since Arnie was gone and I sure do appreciate it. For what it’s worth, I’m of a mind to leave you the farm if you’ll have it. I know pa is thinkin’ about it. An’ we don’t have much time. Your pa is dyin’. What we all need here is for someone to step forward to take over the farm, someone with all their han’s and legs, forgive me lord for sayin’ so, and I reckon it’s gonna come to you, Luke. Whaddaya think? Or would ya rather be back in town?

            – I’d rather be here, ma. On the family farm.

            – That’s what I hoped to hear, son. Let me talk to your pa.

 

With the consent of the four family members most closely concerned, Arnie’s name was replaced with Luke’s in pa’s will. Driving into town and back to visit the old lawyer who had seen to the family’s legal affairs for forty years and more was the last time pa left the farm. Shortly after, his illness forced him to slow down. Week by week he became weaker and was rarely seen outside his and ma’s bedroom towards the end. No‑one remarked on it but Arnie became more skilful and powerful with his basic artificial arms in tandem with his father losing his ability. The simple fact of Arnie being a one‑legged man held him back from being as agile and active as Luke, although there was really nothing on the farm which Arnie had been unable to manage before he lost his hands. Luke kept a close eye on his brother while they tended to the annual chores required before putting the farm to rest for a month or two after Thanksgiving. Part of his interest was in checking that Arnie was OK, but the rest was something he understood enough about to know the shame associated with it. The simple fact was that Luke had always fetishised his younger brother’s leg stump. He had seen it often enough when they were kids and ma bathed them together. He loved the long smooth stump with the rounded tip. In his teenage years, he understood the phallic symbolism although he did not know the words. Now his little brother had come back from Chicago with two new stumps, short things like an eggplant chopped in half. One half on each arm. The short stumps were hidden from view when Arnie was wearing the hooks but Luke thought about them when he felt horny and tried to imagine what it would feel like to play with himself using little stumps like Arnie had. When he thought about it during the day, he tried to think of something else if he was in company but at night, when he was alone in bed, he tried gripping his heavy cock between his wrists or his forearms to try to experience what Arnie must feel, before he gave up in frustration and jerked off the normal way. The truth of the matter was that Arnie’s stumps were too short to allow him to touch his genitals. It was the greatest relief when he finally took possession of his prostheses, regardless of how utilitarian they looked. At least he could take a leak on his own again and maybe do the other things he used to do. But he soon knew his hooks well enough to know he was unlikely to regain all his old habits.

 

Pa passed away, not from the cancer which was eating him alive but from a blood clot to the brain. The doctor told them it was as if the blood clot had turned off the switch to pa’s brain while he was asleep. He never would have known anything about it. Passed away in his sleep like the good lord intended for him and now he was in heaven reunited with his kids who had passed before him. The pastor had a speech defect and a tumour on his vocal cords, but the rhythm of the incantations were enough to know what he was saying. Arnie was the only one of those assembled at the graveside who did not throw a sod onto the plain pine coffin. His older sisters saw him for the first time as a triple amputee and looked away. A few of his unfamiliar nephews on the brink of adulthood caught sight of the guy standing across from the grave in a black double‑breasted suit with two silver hooks glinting inside the sleeves. And when they went slowly towards the car park, they could see the tip of the guy’s peg leg. Who was he and what had happened to him? Why had they not known that the uncle who had a peg leg also had two hooks? Their mothers tried to quieten their curiosity and mainly succeeded but Webster senior’s funeral would remain in memory because of the presence of Arnie, the first time the entire family had seen him for several years. Arnie despised his middle‑aged suburban sisters with their confusing collections of unruly kids in equal measure. Coupled with the knowledge that the farm would pass to Luke in the near future and that his older siblings held no respect for him as a useless cripple, Arnie determined to change his circumstances as soon as possible. He wrote a letter to Jim Lee explaining his circumstances and asking about Lee’s future plans, hoping that Lee had not only been shooting the breeze about starting his own company.

 

On the contrary, Lee had been very busy. He had found the ideal workshop and apartment in the same building inside the Chicago Loop. The only disadvantage was the noise from the trains screeching against the rails two storeys below and the fact that the retail premises never had any sunshine. In the spirit of the times, Lee turned the disadvantages into plusses. The rent was cheap because of the El and the cool street level premises were ideal to store leather, which Lee had decided would be the distinguishing characteristic of his prostheses. He had formed a chain of suppliers which led from cattle rancher to slaughterhouse to leather processor. Lee stated he needed a reliable supply of thick dyed leather, of jet black and burgundy red and mid‑yellow beige. When Arnie’s letter arrived via his out‑of‑town poste restante, Lee was almost ready. He had spent enough on preparations. Now it was time to start earning. He wrote to Arnie’s post box address and continued forging commercial links with suppliers and fellow entrepreneurs. One neighbouring enterprise suggested that instead of competing directly, they should send certain prospective patients to the other for more expert treatment. With the imminent arrival of Arnie, boasting a pair of artificial arms, Lee suggested he concentrate on upper limb amputees and the other new business should specialise for leg amputees. It was a good decision too as regards inventory. They need hold only half the stock. Gradually, the sunlight‑starved block in the Loop became the specialist place for artificial limbs for anyone needing one in the mid‑west.

 

From the outset, and despite difficulties in communication, Jim Lee placed advertising in the classifieds, making his services known far and wide. The first ads were wordy and expensive but as more competitors and co‑operators took advantage of the new community, a shorthand code developed. Lee was proud of his capabilities with leather and always emphasised his guaranteed comfortable sockets. Arnie arrived late one Thursday afternoon in January, carrying his worldly possessions in an army rucksack and wearing his army surplus clothes. He had sliced off the pants leg halfway down to expose his wooden peg leg. It looked smarter than when his peg was stuffed into a trouser leg. Lee was waiting for him inside the shop, which had not yet opened to paying customers. Lee needed Arnie before that. Asking others to assist him with reading and writing was no longer practical.

 

Arnie knew that he would be able to stay with Jim until he found his own apartment. Before he had money for rent, he would need to work a while in the shop. Jim had shown him the stock of prosthetic mechanisms and sheets of leather from which customers’ replacement limbs could be conjured. There was also a low pile of opened and unopened letters and other mail which Jim indicated with a half smile.

            – It’s time I came clean with you, Arnie. Apart from needing you to help run the shop, I need you to take care of all the letters and things people send. See, I can’t read.

            – Oh! I didn’t know. Is there something wrong with your eyes?

            – No, nothing like that. I just never learned to read. I don’t seem to get my head around it. I know the letters are like numbers and I can understand them OK but when they’re all together, I just can’t make no sense of it. I’m sorry, Arnie. I should have maybe told you before.

            – So you want me to read all the mail and answer it, right?

            – Yeah. If that’s OK.

            – Of course it is. No problem.

            – An’ I’ll pay you for it. Sixty bucks a week. How does that sound?

            – That’s more than I expected.

            – That’s great. You hungry? I know a real cool joint where we can get a burger and a beer if you like. Come on, Arnie. My treat.

Arnie left his rucksack on the floor. Jim lived in the same building. They had to return this way. Jim pointed towards a steel staircase leading up to the overhead railway. Step by step, Arnie reached the top and Jim explained how to buy a ticket for the El. They rode three stops including a torturous turn around a corner. The wheels screeched and the noise hurt Arnie’s ears. He instinctively tried to put his fingers in his ears, dislodging his artificial arms from their resting place and causing them to clash together. He closed his eyes against the discomfort and prepared to rise, following Jim’s signal. It was more difficult for him to rise from a low seated position after he lost his hands but the car was equipped with handles along the seats and metal poles to grab onto. He pulled himself up and used his closed hooks to swing against the movement of the train. Apart from the noise, it was quite good fun. He could peer out the window to see autos and couples strolling along arm in arm along the street below him, illuminated by the lights from department store windows and burger joints. He glanced at Jim to see if he was as impressed but Jim was used to Chicago transit and watched how his amputee colleague was coping. The train shuddered to a stop, its steel doors flew open and the smell of ozone dissipated across the wooden platform. Arnie’s peg beat a steady rhythm along it. He hopped down two or three steps keeping his peg leg in front of him until he reasoned that it was a long way to fall. He allowed his right hook to slide along the bannister and went downstairs a step at a time. Jim studied Arnie’s gait, his mind computing the mechanism needed to offer Arnie a working, reliable artificial knee which would work on Chicago’s El.

 

The diner was hot and steamy. There was room to sit in a leather‑seated booth and the general level of noise encouraged conversation. Lee had much to discuss with Arnie, from Arnie’s accommodation, hours of work, what he might need in way of stationery, how much was a fair wage and more personal matters relating to Arnie’s rôle as a model for the types of prostheses which Jim Lee intended specialising in. Despite Lee’s unseen disability, his illiteracy, he had a sharp mind for prosthetic devices and the dextrous skill to manufacture them. His leatherwork was superb and he knew it. He wanted to make a name for himself as a prosthetist who specialised in handsome leather sockets. There was no reason the stump of an arm should be hidden away in shame. As the two men sat facing each other waiting for their order, Lee considered the basic military issue arm prostheses which Arnie rested on the tabletop.

 

            – I’d like to make a new pair of arms for you, Arnie. A pair you could wear at work, unless you like ’em enough to wear all the time. They’d be leather, see? The sort of thing I wanna make for the clients. My thinkin’ is to have a basic steel frame with elbow hinges and leather cuffs and leather sockets. That way, the only challenge we have with each client is making the socket. It would rivet on to the frame and the arm would be ready.

            – So the socket wouldn’t extend as far as the hook, you mean? There’d be a gap between the end of the socket and where the hook is?

            – Yup. That’s what I was thinkin’. An’ the gap could be anything from one inch to ten.

            – Yeah. My sockets would be short.

            – I could still give you long sockets, though. I never seen your stumps, Arnie.

            – Oh. Just a sec.

Without waiting for further comment, Arnie shrugged his prostheses and extracted his minimal stumps for Lee’s perusal. He had stopped asking his brother Luke to cinch the two straps on each cuff which held the prostheses firmly to his upper arms. It was good to shuck the hooks during the day when he got sweaty or when they were uncomfortable. Sometimes it was easier to use his naked stumps for something rather than his steel hooks. And shortly after, he could slide his stumps back into the metal forearms which hung at his side.

            – I never guessed they was so short, Arnie.

 

Lee was excited to see Arnie’s meagre stumps. They offered a much greater variety of experimental sockets which Lee wanted to try out on a willing volunteer. Arnie would be the guinea pig for all Lee’s new designs—and he should not overlook the man’s original leg stump. That might also lend itself to some interesting experimentation, although it was far less likely to be on display outside the workshop. It was one thing to wear a beat‑up wooden peg leg with cut off pants on the farm, quite another in Chicago where the idea was to advertise excellence in their handicraft. Their hamburgers arrived and Arnie shrugged to resettle his prostheses into a responsive position. His hooks had four rubber bands on them and their force almost sliced the burgers in half.

 

The grand opening day was the following Monday. Lee did his best to ensure the premises looked occupied if not immediately inviting. Arnie would act as the receptionist, working on his other duties between times. A large heavy black office typewriter stood to one side. Lee had got it from a journalist friend who asked Lee if he needed a typewriter or two. The newspaper had recently invested in new machines and the old ones were proving to be problematic to shift. They were ideal for use with Arnie’s hooks which could not slip off the old‑style indented keys. A black telephone trailed its cord to Arnie’s left.

 

Lee’s workshop was similarly sparse but already contained everything he needed to manufacture at least ten prosthetic arms. As agreed with his neighbours, clients requiring lower limb prostheses would be referred elsewhere. The mutually beneficial co‑operation between the local limb makers could ensure a regular supply of clients for everybody.

 

Jim spent much of Monday morning pacing the floor, hoping for a customer. It was far too early in their relationship to insist that Arnie change his prostheses, although Jim would have preferred to see Arnie wearing a more conventional artificial leg. He had a design in mind which he intended suggesting but it would have to wait until business was regular enough for him to afford the time and materials to produce a limb for basically advertising purposes. Arnie rearranged his desk to suit his range of movement and dragged the heavy black typewriter closer to him. He had never used one before and spent an hour discovering what the various buttons and levers were for. He laughed in amazement when he accidentally discovered how to get capital letters. It was difficult to insert sheets of paper into the machine. He had to stand to one side of the machine due to the poor range of motion he had with his hooks. He typed his first genuine reply to a prospective customer that morning, using an old commercial letter as a template. At first it was frustrating seeking out the letters but Arnie was a quick learner and was soon hampered more by his lack of hands than by unfamiliarity with the machine.

 

Their first customer arrived that afternoon, directed by another prosthetist five doors down who had his hands full. The man was an ex‑serviceman and required a prosthetic right arm to replace his own, shot off in Inchon. He and Arnie exchanged a few words of hope and reassurance while Arnie took down the client’s personal details before Jim set to casting the stump. The client preferred his socket to extend in its entirety to the circular wrist mechanism bearing a hook. It would be a similar shape to Arnie’s right prosthesis but the leather would be flesh toned. It would soon take on its own patina, making it a personalised item as intimate as his own natural limb. Jim worked diligently and interrupted his work processes to tend to new clients. By the end of their first week, there were seven prostheses on order and four of them were already in production. Arnie assisted Jim with labelling the clients’ prostheses and otherwise took an interest in the work processes involved in fitting an artificial arm. He would never be able to make plaster casts of the clients’ stumps. That called for supple hands and strong fingers on pliable wrists. The prongs of Arnie’s hooks on his immovable wrists were not up to the job.

 

Jim waited for Arnie to finish his correspondence on Friday afternoon. The sun had set long ago and the sidewalk was smattered with snow. They had agreed to meet up with Chet Perkins who owned the joint five doors down and who had sent Jim his first customer. Jim had placed a call the previous day and invited the man to join him and his associate for burgers on Friday evening, around six thirty. Perkins willingly agreed.

 

Arnie placed a stump into Jim’s crooked arm for support as they made their way to the El. The icy sidewalks were treacherous and it was unclear whether Arnie gained support from Jim or vice versa. Jim and Chet had run into each other in the bank during the week and had a short conversation about Arnie. Chet was interested to know more about Arnie’s primitive peg leg. He had been toying with the idea of offering suitable clients a basic peg as an alternative to a below‑knee prosthesis, something which was inexpensive but easy to use and reliable to walk on. He wanted to learn from a real expert. In return, Chet offered to lend his own expertise to Jim when the time came to manufacture a new leg for Arnie. It was a matter of the greatest urgency in Jim’s mind. As much as he admired Arnie’s aptitude on his wooden peg, it was hardly representative of the merchandise Jim wanted to sell and he hoped the two professionals might persuade Arnie this evening to have an artificial leg made which he would wear at least during working hours.

 

Arnie was quite willing to let Chet Perkins examine his leg stump and the peg leg. He would answer any questions the man had. Arnie thought it was ironic that a professional limb maker would be making wooden peg legs instead of expensive mechanical prosthetic limbs but he knew how much his homemade peg legs could be trusted and how comfortable they were to wear from morning till night.

            – That’s mighty generous of you, Arnie. There’s one other matter we should talk about. I sure don’t want to offend you in any way but we been thinking that maybe you should have a proper artificial leg while you’re working as a representative of a prosthetic limb company. Whaddaya say? Would ya like a proper artificial leg?

            – Sure I would but I can’t afford one and there’s nothing wrong with this peg.

            – We’ve talked about this, Arnie, remember? I’d like you to have an artificial leg while you’re in the shop and maybe show it off to clients.

            – How would they know I have an artificial leg? Am I supposed to sit there with my cut‑off pants and the new leg? It’s one thing to have short leg pants and a peg leg, quite another to show off an artificial leg. As far as I can make out, they’re not intended to be displayed.

 

Arnie envisioned a standard tin leg, painted with pink gloss enamel and looking obviously artificial. The others agreed it would be incongruous for a receptionist to display his artificial leg when the raison d’être of the enterprise was to help disabled men disguise their limblessness, not flaunt it. Jim thought about his options for the time it took to empty a stein of beer. Chet rose to fetch some refills from the bar.

            – Would you wear an artificial leg which terminated in a peg?

            – I’m not sure what you mean, Jim.

            – Let’s wait till Chet gets back and ask him.

 

Chet had seen artificial legs of the type Jim mentioned although he had never manufactured one himself. The legs were constructed around bracing intended for general orthotic use with drop locks at the knee joints to hold the brace rigid. Arnie tried to picture the device which both Chet and Jim were describing and finally added his own flair.

            – If the lower leg looks like a leg with calf muscles but comes to a circular tip say three inches across, I’ll wear it.

            – It would look like a cross between an artificial leg and a peg leg.

            – Yup. I’d wear that sittin’ at my desk with my pants leg at half mast so’s everyone can see it. I reckon there’d be more than one or two guys interested in having a leg like that.

 

Despite the growing and lucrative demands of paying customers, Chet and Jim collaborated over the next weeks to produce a unique artificial limb for Arnie. Chet provided the steel hardware, Jim casted Arnie’s stump and made both the thigh cuff and lower limb from thick cow hide dyed black. Chet provided steel bracing polished to a mirror shine. The tip of the leg was an inch thick disc of rubber welded to the base of the prosthesis and finished off with a steel ring around the leg to hide the join. It looked stunning. The thigh cuff was time consuming to cinch tight onto his thigh each morning. Jim had added knotted loops to the lacing to make Arnie’s life a little easier. It took a few days for Arnie to adjust to having a broader surface to stand on and the loss of support immediately under his knee but the new limb was comfortable enough and as rigid as his wooden peg. He could raise the drop locks with his hooks to allow the lower leg to bend. The drop locks fell into place as soon as he stood, making his leg as secure as the peg leg.

 

Jim was pleased and relieved that Arnie presented a far more representative figure now at the front of his shop. He knew that customers got on well with the amputee they found serving them, taking their details with a pencil held firmly in a hook. They sometimes saw Arnie making a phone call, dialling the number with a hook, a more perfect tool than a finger for the task. The next stage in Arnie’s transformation would be to persuade him to accept a new set of artificial arms. Jim believed he had an idea which Arnie would not be able to refuse. The new arms would be muscular leather facsimiles of a boxer’s arms, terminating in flat wrists to hold the steel hooks. The arms would look phenomenal.

 

There were other new adaptations to the arms which Jim seemed so determined to force upon him. The cuffs which were supposed to be cinched firmly to his upper arms would merely rest against them to direct the control cables. The arms would be held on his stumps securely by freely swinging hinges on the inner and outer sides of each elbow. They would attach to the upper cuffs which in turn were firmly laced onto his harness. With an arm stretched to its fullest extent, Arnie would be able to grip it with his knees and pull his short stump out of the socket and if he wanted, it would be possible to adjust the harness so that it was easy to simply shrug his stumps out of the sockets. Arnie had become familiar enough with his metal arms to know that using bare stumps on occasion was sometimes preferable. Jim listened carefully to Arnie’s ideas, imagining the various work processes necessary to produce the finished product. It was Arnie’s last suggestion which surprised him the most.

 

            – And I want my arms to be the same black leather as my peg.

            – What? Are you serious? You want black arms?

            – I want my new arms and new peg to be one of a kind. My peg looks very shapely, for which I thank you kindly. I know you can make my new arms beefy and manly too and I reckon black’ll look better than the flesh colour you like to use for arms.

 

Jim could see the logic in Arnie’s suggestion. It was quite true that the three prostheses would look much more coordinated if they were all made of the same materials. That was obvious. But it was unheard of for a white man to choose brown or black leather for an artificial limb. After a few minute’s further conversation, Jim was certain that his associate knew his mind and was determined to wield a pair of unusually butch black leather sockets. Once again, Arnie was satisfied with his flat wrists. He had become used to twisting one hook with the other to get it into the correct position for use. The sound of Arnie dashing his hooks together was familiar in the office. Jim had showed him the other new alternative mechanisms becoming available which would let him spin his hook around with the push of a button or make his hook bend much closer to his body for things like shaving. But Arnie was content with his rigid arms and his skill in rotating his hooks the way he liked.

 

Co‑operation between Jim Lee and his neighbour Chet Perkins was proving to be mutually advantageous to both parties. Most often it was Chet who directed a double amputee to Jim’s services after providing a sturdy artificial leg. There were many Korean vets who had been injured in vehicles. Bombs had taken both limbs on the same side. Jim was able to teach his clients the bare basics of how to manipulate a long prosthesis for an above elbow amputation but suspected that someone with genuine experience would be a better teacher. He asked Arnie if he would be interested in rehabilitating their clients. With their current level of business, someone else could take care of the front of the shop. Another young vet, perhaps, who would be grateful for employment against all the odds.

 

Jim wanted Arnie to teach amputees how to use their new custom made prostheses. Arnie was well aware of the physical restrictions which Jim’s prostheses entailed. His first pair of arms from the army had let him move his prostheses around and activate the hooks from any angle. His second pair, which he preferred for their masculine appearance and design, were encumbered by the double hinges at his elbows which prevented him rotating his lower arms. Arnie was perverse enough to actually enjoy the restriction but had spoken with enough arm amputees to know that most found the sturdy hinges to be more of a hindrance. For a man with such short stumps, there was little choice. Arnie was not a vindictive man but recommended Jim’s hinges to men whose stumps were quite long enough not to need the additional security and whose range of movement would otherwise be superior. Arnie had been with Jim long enough to know which side his bread was buttered. It had been timely to persuade Jim to make his second set of arms from black leather when he did. No light‑skinned client had since had prostheses of a colour darker than their own natural skin tone.

 

Arnie thought about things he might teach both Jim’s and their friend’s Chet’s clients. His footless artificial leg was ideal for demonstrating the movements necessary to operate an artificial leg with a short below knee stump and, with ever-increasing familiarity and co‑operation, the trio decided to pool their strengths and found a new company which would combine their strengths as providers for both upper and lower limb prostheses. Arnie’s rôle was simple enough. He would be the coach, re‑educating the amputees in how to walk, how to write, how to live again with artificial limbs. It was not the end of the world. It was the start of a new life which would be challenging but never disappointing. There was only one thing which Arnie had no experience in but which he intuited immediately when Jim mentioned it.

            – We need someone with experience of above elbow amputations. I have an idea and you can refuse it, no problem.

            – That’s good to know. Tell me more.

            – OK. This is how it is. You have short stumps below your elbows, right?

            – Right.

            – And you can use your elbows with your below elbow sockets, am I right?

            – Yeah. So what?

            – So I’m thinkin’, if you want to teach guys without their elbows how to use their new arms, it could be real advantageous if you had some experience of usin’ limbs without elbows.

            – What the heck? How’s that even possible, Jim?

            – It’s easy. I’m gonna cast ya stumps so’s you’re holdin’ your arms straight out ahead. Then I’m gonna make sockets so ya stumps are held inside the upper socket, geddit? Then I’m gonna give ya lower arms and hooks which are just like the arms for the guys who have above elbow amputations. Do ya geddit?

            – So all my arms would be inside the top half of the artificial arms? And I’d not be able to move my elbows at all or use ’em?

            – Nope. You’d be just like the guys who’ve lost both arms above the elbow or with just a bit of stump at the shoulder.

            – Holy moly. Let me think about this, Jim. You want me wearing arms like that, doncha?

            – Sure I do. Wear ’em for as long as it takes ya to do everythin’ ya can do now. Get used to ’em good enough so you can teach our clients. By the bye, me and Chet are thinking about joinin’ an’ makin’ a new company. You interested? Ya want in? We’re thinkin’ teachin’ the clients with their new artificial limbs will be your responsibility. An’ that’s why we want you to know how to use the long artificial arms I was talkin’ of. Whaddaya say, Arnie? D’ya wanna join Chet and me and get yerself some new arms into the bargain?

 

Arnie was intrigued by being additionally disabled by disabling his elbows and agreed even before he had thought about it. It made no difference. Jim and Chet both respected Arnie and appreciated his value. His future with them was assured. He already wore a handsome pair of black leather arms which attracted attention wherever he wore just a fashionable new white T‑shirt, not to mention his muscular black leather leg which ended without a foot. It was an arresting sight. Arnie was proud of his triple amputee status. Helping newer, younger amputees come to terms with their stumps and showing them that life with a hook or a peg was just fine.

 

Jim casted Arnie’s arms while he held them straight. The sockets would be only about two inches longer. It should be possible to make a pair of arms for Arnie which would not appear especially long. Maybe the forearms could be a little shorter. But Arnie would be newly disabled because he would have to relearn how to operate both his hooks and his elbows with his shoulders.

 

Chet hired a lawyer to oversee the amalgamation. Chet knew of Jim’s disability and took on responsibility for the company’s accounts and official business with Arnie’s willing assistance. The company needed a name which a sign painter could decorate both front windows with. They met over beers and burgers one evening with the sole purpose of finding a name for the company. They had already exhausted combinations of Webster, Perkins and Lee. Adding the words Prosthetics or Artificial Limbs to the name made it seem ungainly. Arnie remembered the providence of his first arms and suggested M1, in honour of the weapon. The company’s new name was M1 Artificial Incorporated, M1A Inc, short and sweet and to the point. Artificial what, people would ask. Oh, dear lord, artificial limbs! Maybe they would remember the name. Arnie imagined the letters M1A INC stencilled along his metal sockets. It would make them even more militaristic. He should wear them more often. His leather arms were great but he sometimes missed being able to swing his stumps around as freely as his army arms had allowed.

 

Chet and Jim collaborated on redecorating their premises to match and bought new matching furniture. Arnie was now seated behind a proper reception desk and his peg leg was concealed behind a modesty panel. His hooks were invisible until a client approached and leaned on the counter. But if what Jim had spoken about was true, he would be spending much more time with the clients, teaching them how to use their artificial limbs. But there was something he had to master first—his new artificial arms, with artificially long stumps for artificially severe disability. It was becoming apparent that Jim had a slightly sadistic streak in him. Although he was an excellent prosthetist and could work with wood, aluminium, steel and leather, he insisted his patients adopt tight but comfortable leather stump sockets attached to an unforgiving metal frame bearing a hook or a wooden foot, as the case may be. Wooden legs became a rare sight at M1 Artificial (Arms), Inc. Chet manufactured prostheses at  M1 Artificial (Legs), Inc and sent upper limb amputees five doors along to Jim, who in turn directed leg amputees to Chet’s premises. The arrangement worked well enough for a couple of months until redirecting bemused amputees became to seem unprofessional and they decided joint premises would not only be more practical, but also more logical and more financially sensible. They would no longer be paying business taxes to Chicago for two premises, regardless of how cheap the joints were under the El in the Loop.

 

Thanks to the increase in business during the Korean conflict, new clients poured in expecting their stumps to be reconfigured with a fake arm or a wooden leg. Jim was kept so busy with crafting newly fashionable black leather sockets that completing Arnie’s set of over‑long arms was relegated to the back burner until a young ex‑marine with a streak of scar tissue across his face and an empty eye socket arrived accompanied by his father.

            – The boy needs hooks.

            – Ah, yessir. I jus’ need ya names and details.

The father supplied them. The handless son’s eye perused the place and took in everything going on. He had led a troupe of marines into a shelter from which it was possible to take down a good number of the enemy. Except the place had been booby‑trapped. Half the marines were killed, the rest maimed. It was the last such event in the war. The following month, both sides agreed to a compromise and the fighting ended.

 

The boy’s arms had been amputated by army surgeons who were more interested in saving lives than providing well‑formed, practical stumps which would enable the successful fitting of artificial limbs. His forearms had been shattered and an inch or so of flesh remained below the elbows, enough to close the wound. The boy was left with his elbows and an inch of forearm stump. It was a useless combination. Jim had Arnie arrange an appointment for the first fitting. After the client and his father had left, Jim called Arnie back for a brief talk.

            – That guy’s gonna have the same prosthetics I been makin’ for you, Arnie. He ain’t gonna learn to swing a hook with a stump as short as that. I’m gonna give the boy a long upper arm stump like I done for you, if I can ever get it finished. An’ now’s the time. That kid’s gonna need some expert help after he gets a new pair of arms is my thinkin’ and I reckon you’re the man to show him how. So I’m fixin’ to get your arms ready and you can learn to use ’em first an’ then teach that boy. Y’understand?

            – Sure. I been waiting on ya for ’em. Ya keep talkin’ about ’em an’ I never get ’em.

 

Jim used a genuine delay in the delivery of five square yards of chestnut brown cowhide to finish work on Arnie’s disabling artificial arms. The upper sockets, thick black leather as was becoming M1A’s most distinctive feature, still fit after nearly a year since the casts were made. It was easy enough to attach the sockets to the chrome steel frame which held the hooks. Jim had only the fake beefy arms to make. Then an idea hit him. With his stumps encased in the black leather sockets, Arnie had no need for an artfully moulded forearm. The steel frame which would hold the socket in place on both sides of the socket was all that was needed to hold the wrist and the hook. Even the wrist was unnecessary if he could tap a half inch hole in the bottom of the frame. From the socket hiding the stump to the tip of the hook could be empty air. Jim called Arnie into the workshop and expounded his idea. Arnie was intrigued and enthusiastic.

            – I been waitin’ for a year for these here arms an’ now ya tell me y’aren’t gonna give me arms anyways.

Jim pushed Arnie’s next set of artificial arms towards him and folded his arms.

            – Learn to use these and you’ll be just great at teaching the kids.

Arnie himself was only twenty‑three. He did not regard his fellow amputees as kids. Despite that, he could imagine that having a pair of deviant artificial arms like Jim suggested might give some hope to handless kids in despair. Within thirty‑six hours, Arnie was wearing a pair of artificial arms which denied him use of his negligible below elbow stumps. His entire arms were encased inside long leather sockets, from which steel struts hinged at elbow height extended to his hooks. The control cable travelled inside three steel loops.

 

The arms were twice as difficult to control as anything he had worn before. Despite their ugly appearance, his army arms were the superior version. His manly leather arms looked great but were restrictive. Despite that, he had learned how to make the prostheses function in order to do what he had learned with his previous arms. The third pair were something else.

 

Arnie was no stranger to seeing his body image altered. But the new arms were completely different. His stumps were black leather and his hands were hooks on steel struts. Jim had borrowed equipment from Chet to drill and tap a hole to accept the hook. A rubber washer between hook and frame provided the facility to twist and hold the hook at different angles. Not using a proprietary wrist mechanism was a thirty dollar saving per arm.

 

The pair of arms destined for the one‑eyed boy took longer to make because Jim made naturally shaped forearms terminating in flat wrists. Steel bracing ran from the upper arm sockets to terminate an inch or so above the wrist. Jim took more care with the hinge mechanisms to ensure that when activated, the elbows caused each forearm to move towards a central point. Arnie’s hinges allowed him only to raise and lower his hooks directly ahead of his elbows. His arms were not intended to replace his other prostheses. They were to give Arnie some experience of operating a pair of arms without natural elbows.

 

Unexpectedly, Arnie appreciated the long hard cool interiors of his long stump sockets and the resulting phallic appearance of his leather‑covered stumps. The rectangular steel frames bearing his hooks looked spectacular—exclusive, beautifully polished mirror steel and Jim had given him a pair of farmer’s hooks, convoluted serrated fingers interlocking in a versatile manner to be as practical as possible. Knowing that he could return to either of his previous sets of hooks at any time, he regarded the challenging process of learning to select between operating his hooks or his mechanical elbows almost as some kind of game. The selector mechanism itself was near the base of his sockets and required a distinct unique action to switch from one function to the other. Arnie had seen practised amputees using above‑elbow prostheses with ease, having learned to combine the jerky action with the natural movement of their hooks. Arnie savoured the sensation of having temporarily lost his elbows, shrugged the harness into a more comfortable position and continued his day with his challenging arms. Despite being a seasoned hook user already, he found pleasure in discovering new disabilities. Even when he operated his elbows correctly, there was still the problem of angling his body sufficiently so he could position his hooks how he wanted. He spread his legs for better balance when he used his new arms. He looked magnificent, moving his body in tandem with his leather stumps, his sole natural limb doing all the work to align himself. The black peg stretched to one side lending its support.

 

The one‑eyed boy was the first client to collect his prostheses from the new premises. They were in a converted music hall, subdivided into lucrative new business space by the landlords who had an eye on the future. The main entrance was through the spectacular original art deco doors at the front or, for legless men in a wheelchair, via the rear where a refurbished cargo elevator plied its route between the ground floor and the new business area three floors above. M1 Artificial, Incorporated, had half of the first floor, the cheaper half facing the El tracks. All day, every day, the screeching steel wagons trundled by outside, sometimes stopping, giving passengers the chance to glimpse limbless clients collecting their new artificial limbs. Today the venetian blinds were lowered as Jim placed the pristine set of artificial arms before their new owner and his father. Arnie stood to one side watching the expression on the boy’s marred face. The older man removed his son’s jacket to reveal the boy’s stumps, the tips of which twitched in an effort to gather the prostheses to him for a closer inspection. Arnie stepped forward and the older man made room for him. Arnie’s deviant arms, with the extra long phallic sockets and the naked steel frames holding the hooks were too shocking for him and he moved aside.

 

            – I guess you wanna try them on, right?

            – Sure. Are you plannin’ on showin’ me how to use ‘em?

            – Yup. My colleague will help you put them on. Sir, this is something you may like to learn too as a way to help your son if the need arises.

The father grunted and shifted position so he could watch Jim hold the artificial arms in front of his son so the boy could press his stumps into the flesh‑coloured sockets. The boy lifted his new arms high above his head and forced the canvas strapping, the harness, over his back and between his shoulders. Jim checked everything looked in order and handed over to Arnie.

 

            – How does it feel? Are the tips of your stumps comfortable? The sockets aren’t pressing against them too hard?

            – They’re fine.

The boy swung himself a little in an attempt to get a better look at the arms and their odd mechanisms.

            – OK. If you’re ready, I’ll explain how to use ’em. See, guys like us without elbows have to work our hooks with what we have left. And that’s our shoulders. There’s two cables each side leading down to your arms. One tugs on the elbow and pulls the forearm up and the other cable tugs on the hook and opens it. It closes by itself, see? Because of the rubber bands. Now first of all I want you to lift your right elbow and lock your arm so it’s pointin’ right ahead of you.

 

Arnie went through the motions of how to activate the elbow and then the hook and then the elbow again. He exaggerated his own movements to emphasise each point and the boy did his best to copy them. After a few minutes, the boy began to trust Arnie and his mind felt pleasure in working in unison with someone almost his own age. Arnie was a patient man. The client was not doing anything wrong. Every correct move was commended and encouraged. The boy shortly felt capable of jerking and swinging his leather forearms into place. His hooks looked mighty fine, robust and manly. For the second half of the hour, Arnie explained how they worked, how to twist them around to pick up a bottle or a magazine, how to use the left hook to help the right. Arnie mentioned several times that it was difficult but not impossible to do a certain task. It just needed patience and practice. The boy nodded that he understood and smiled with an expression approaching love. His empty eye socket spoiled the effect but Arnie felt like hugging the boy to reassure him that everything was going to be fine. But his prostheses were not capable of constriction and his hooks hung by his side as he escorted the client back to his father, who found it considerably more demanding to put his son’s jacket back on over the artificial arms. The boy’s eye gleamed at his father. He swung his arms one by one and locked them at a slight angle. Arnie had told him that it looked better than if he allowed his hooks to simply hang by his side. Arnie gave him another tip.

            – Get yourself an eye patch and learn how to put it on with your hooks.

The boy was surprised that anyone would be interested in his appearance. His girl had left him months ago, and his friends had stopped calling after they saw his new face and the stumps of his arms. Arnie gave him some confidence to make a new effort to find new friends, people who had only known him as a double amputee with a great looking set of arms. He just needed to learn how to use them and he would be set for life.

 

Business improved after the owners of M1 combined their efforts in their own shared premises. Several of their customers had visited one or the other to have a new leg made or an artificial arm, as the case might be, not knowing that they could have their other stump treated by a close affiliate. Now they could be fitted with arms, legs, hooks, pegs—anything and everything. Chet offered limbs in a variety of guises but Jim first restricted himself to one kind and then proclaimed that he specialised in it. His leather sockets moulded to the shape of muscular limbs were popular with his clients and admired by their friends and colleagues. He frequently asked Arnie to wear his leather arms, the first set of prostheses he had made with the articulating elbows. Customers arriving to be fitted for artificial arms would appreciate seeing Arnie using a similar design to what Jim intended to manufacture. But Arnie enjoyed wearing the arms which negated his natural elbows. He had learned to manipulate the arms and enjoyed the additional disability which they presented. Jim made a suggestion which Arnie thought about for a day or two and agreed to forgo his arms until Jim had fitted them with shapely new leather forearms terminating in flat circular steel wrists with farmer’s hooks. The forearms would still be restricted in their motion. They could move up and down but not from side to side. Arnie had long since learned to compensate for the deficiency. In fact, it was exactly this characteristic which attracted most attention to Arnie, even more than his footless peg leg. Arnie was a good‑looking guy with features which fit the times. He kept his hair fashionable, easy to do in the neighbourhood where he had a fine friendship with a one‑legged barber who cut and styled Arnie’s hair every fortnight at half price.

 

There was more to their relationship. Both had long known of their attraction to other men. Arnie was conscious of it when mentoring the company’s clients. He often sensed something approaching love during a long session with an amputee, a mixture of admiration, respect and gratitude. The experience was often mutual. You could sense it in a longer than usual eye‑contact or an out‑of‑place friendly word. There was a love between men but speaking about it was taboo and acting upon it was unthinkable. Nevertheless the two peg leggers found themselves in a downtown bar late one night, a little the worse for drink, and thanks to a torrential downpour, the pair of them retreated hurriedly to the barber’s apartment, two floors above his shop. It was the first time for both of them. Arnie shucked his artificial limbs and allowed the barber, who admired stumps and the men who bore them more than anything else, free reign to explore his body and stumps. Arnie lost his virginity that night. His arm stumps hammered against his lover’s mattress as his non‑existent hands flailed uselessly for something to grasp. Arnie’s outlook on life changed and took a new direction, even more profound than his acceptance of his stumps and preference for unsophisticated prostheses. He found what he had been missing and his relief was tinged only with regret at having lost so much time, so many opportunities. Most of all he regretted losing the one‑eyed boy who he knew had loved him.

 

THE FARMER’S BOY