Character Study: Lyle Morgan and Arthur Morgan
Their little house, which is usually filled with the sound of Arthur yelling about and Beatrice singing to herself was dead silent. Maybe he shouldn’t describe it as much, too literal. Lyle had never been a man to fear death, for himself anyway, he worked in the mines till he met his wife, then moved on to being a carriage escort, both came with their fair share of threats. Beatrice always kissed him like it’s the last time she’ll ever do so, and now he does the same. The room is dull despite the dark ebony color of the wooden walls, Arthur is sitting at the foot of her bed, face mask covering his mouth and nose, but Lyle can still imagine his pout underneath.
Beatrice holds Lyle’s hand, as tight as her weak body can manage, but he doesn’t care, the gentle touch is all he can risk. Her hand is cold, in contrast to her forehead which, with a gentle press of his palm, feels too hot, her fever worsening. She smiles up at him, eyes watery but still their beautiful green-blue color, filled with admirable gentleness, something that Lyle found at times odd. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” She whispers, voice hoarse and far away from her usual soothing one, her throat battered from too many coughs and skin pale from too little food.
He squeezes her hand and her gaze drops to Arthur, who’s barely a child, gazes at his mother with tear filled eyes. “Come on, pumpkin,” She encourages, “Go on and play with daddy’s horse,”
“No!” Arthur refuses, crossing his arms and scooting closer to her, “Timtim doesn’t even like me, I want to stay here!” he says as he looks up at Lyle. Beatrice sighs, coughing harshly and Arthur moves back as Lyle quickly shuffles towards the morphine bottle and the newly bought syringe. It won’t do anything for her, health-wise, pneumonia had passed whatever stage the doctor may find curable, and the only advice they had was to let her rest and to stay safe, bleaching their clothing and washing their hands regularly, disinfecting the room after she inevitably passes.
It wasn’t pretty to hear, Lyle had almost torn his hair out while Beatrice just accepted it, caught his hand and forced him to accept the fact. She’d rewritten her will, told him to sell all they want, to get away from the house that was now infected, take their boy and go, never to look back on the slice of heaven they had had. But he flat out refused, she wanted him to dump her in a sanatorium? to let her rot and die alone? he could never, she had given him enough happiness and bliss and love and safety, stayed beside him through bankruptcy and homelessness, loved him all the same, give him a son and a home, and she expects him to leave her in her final days?
The night was always the hardest, the coldness and harsh winds rattling their windows and sending shivers down her spine. Arthur would start a fire in the fireplace, poke it while his mother coughed and coughed all while his father helplessly rubbed her back and gave her dose after dose of morphine. It’s the only thing that puts her to sleep these days. On the good days, she’d be able to sleep till the dawn, on normal days, she’d barely stay asleep for an hour or two. Today, her coughs had woken them at midnight, Arthur’s footsteps had echoed as he went to fetch a glass of water while Lyle pulled her hair away from her face, whispering hollow reassurance as she wheezed and cried from the pain. Arthur would help her drink her water, would sit on the floor beside Lyle’s feet and roll the small horse toy he’d had since he was but a babe.
Her face was getting paler by the day, and she refuses to eat anything beyond the soup Lyle had taught himself to make. Her days have become less and less in number, and he had given up on sleep, too afraid to wake up and find her gone. Deep down, behind his sorrow, he knows he wishes she’d be gone soon. Hopes when she does go with the angles, it’d be in her sleep. She had suffered enough, every cough that pierces her lungs set a knife deep in Lyle’s heart and he thinks, guiltily, that she deserves the peace of death. Better than the type of living she’s in now, bedridden and half dead. But he doesn’t say it, whether because it feels like a betrayal, or because Arthur is always around, or even his fear of his darling taking it the wrong way, he can’t decide.
One night, Beatrice is too tired to drink on her own, and a heavy stone lodges itself in Lyle’s throat as he watches Arthur tip the water into her mouth, babbling like his daddy always did when he was helping his momma. It would be a wonder if she survived the night. In the late evening, Lyle resolves to sit by her as she sleeps. Her breath is rattled, wheezing on every other exhale. She’d fallen asleep somewhere around noon, and Arthur had almost fallen over hurrying to his father, eyes worried and soup-bowl half full. She hadn’t woken since, and Lyle had forced Arthur to go and play with Timtim for a while.
He was changing the towels on her head when he’d heard it, the final rattle on an inhale before she stopped breathing entirely. He had paused, waited for her to wake up coughing as she so often does. But nothing happened, and the room remained still, and Beatrice hadn’t taken another breath in.
Arthur threw another stick in the fireplace, hair still wild from his days work. Lyle watched him from the table, a whiskey bottle in his hand, seems more likely than not these days. Arthur had taken a job at a nearby newspaper stand after Lyle had fallen into the bottle and hadn’t gone back up. It set a deep thread of shame in him, but what little Arthur got paid kept the food in the house. And the liquor.
Lyle sighed, pouring himself another shot as Arthur took a seat beside him, snow melting on his coat as he rubs his little hands together. Only two months. It had taken two months for Lyle to fall apart, fall into a pit of despair as he tries to move on from her death. Arthur had taken it well, cried for a whole week but that seems better than the month Lyle had cried. She had no family, none that wanted to associate with her anyway, but a few neighbors who knew the gentle soul she was had attended the funeral.
He had stopped working in early January, and Arthur had automatically gone to seek out money. It would’ve set pride in his chest if he weren’t so absorbed in his grief, and if he wasn’t always four shots deep in his whiskey and bourbon. Arthur was only seven, but he had a solemn face already, doesn’t smile as much, doesn’t play like he used to. He doesn’t speak, neither, save for the few words that would announce his presence. A quiet bye when he’s leaving, early in the morning dressed in a rundown shirt and pants, a quieter and tired hello when he comes back. At seven years of age, Arthur’s diet was bought crackers and apples, of the ten dollars he gets every week, eight of them go to Lyle. He hadn’t even asked, but Arthur gave him the money anyway, filling himself with whatever was cheap so his run-down daddy could drink what’s left of his soul away.
Arthur sets two apples on the table, rolling one towards Lyle without looking at him, eyes trained on his fingers.
Guilt, he decides, is the worst feeling when you’re drunk.
Arthur is sick, too sick to go to work. He’s coughing and sniffling and burning with fever. The winter hasn’t been kind, and Arthur wasn’t eating well. His clothes had grown big on him, all while Lyle stood and watched as his kid, a child, worked himself close to death. There was no money for food and medicine, and so Lyle took matters into his own hands. He’d tried to work, really he did, he brought out his rifle, cleaned it, went and offered his services. Failed when he missed two shots and the driver beside him caught a bullet in the eye, came home dressed in blood and shame and found Arthur looking at a picture of the three of them. He had just been born, Arthur was a chubby baby full of laughter, Beatrice was smiling wide despite the photographer telling them otherwise, Lyle was staring down at the small happy bundle of a baby he could call a son.
And now he stares at the saddened and wasting away son he’d ruined.
He grabbed a bottle and went outside.
He wasn’t getting any better, his drinking habits had grown worse, and Arthur worked two jobs to give him the ability to buy his drinks. Now a newspaper boy and a hand at a stable nearby, the one that Garfield owned. It paid well enough, and Arthur had come back with a good twenty-five dollars, kept ten to himself and gave the rest to Lyle. Now he comes back covered in hay and horse fur, but he talks more, talks about the horses he helps feed and groom. He’d told Lyle that he stands on a pedestal so he can reach the horse’s mane, but there had been one horse that always laid down so he’d be able to reach her without dragging the heavy box around.
Lyle listened, drunk already and too tired to tell Arthur off. Arthur kept talking and talking, and even when he’d fallen asleep on the table. Lyle had left him there and passed out himself on the couch, and in the morning, Arthur had cracked two freshly bought eggs and tried to cook them. He’d started to talk again, this time about the stable-hands, how they were all older than him and how one of them had a missing eye. Lyle listened as the stories spin in his mind, Arthur’s mini-adventure when a kid had tried to steal the money he’d worked for and he had to run for a long while till a lawman caught the boy and returned the money. Arthur smiled, only a bit, as he talked about the funny looking man that had given him a candy bar and said he was too frail for his age.
He served the eggs, half of it burnt, and the smell hurt his head, burnt his nostrils. Maybe if he wasn’t so talkative, then he wouldn’t have burnt the food, and Lyle wouldn’t have had more pain to deal with.
Arthur continues to speak, and Lyle snaps.
The anniversary of Her Death had come and passed. Arthur had celebrated his eighth birthday by spending three dollars on a proper meal, Lyle had yelled at him for it. Arthur had still worked himself to the bone, working his mornings at the stables, noon as a newspaper boy and going back for another shift at the stables at night, for eight extra dollars. He didn’t try anymore, stayed at home and snapped at Arthur whenever he’d see him around. Small commands, sometime, but mostly for him to get him more money, and to tell him he isn’t doing enough. He had bypassed sadness, plummeted straight into anger and resentment, let it all out on his used-to-be-happy kid.
Arthur wakes up hours before Lyle, and it’s a miracle Lyle still wakes up in the mornings. Arthur would usually be getting ready to head out, pants he’d saved up for worn and hat he’d invested a good sum of money on fit against his head. He would ignore Lyle, keeping his distance and only getting close to hand him his breakfast. On this morning, Arthur was a bit late, stumbling around the house in a frenzy trying to comb his hair, button his shirt and prepare breakfast for Lyle all at the same time. Lyle had woken up to his footsteps, and in a still-drunk haze, he’d followed the sound and found Arthur balancing two plates in his hand, a spatula in his other scraping the eggs and vegetables off the pan. Lyle had shouted at him, and Arthur flinched, hard enough that one plate escaped his grasp and shattered onto the wooden floor.
Arthur froze, staring in shock at the shattered plate then back up at Lyle, who felt anger bubble at his throat. “You stupid, stupid useless boy!”
“Sorry, I-I’ll buy another one!” Arthur replied hurriedly, eyes brimming with tears already, reminding Lyle that he’s only Eight, he’s a child.
But it didn’t seem to matter at that point.
Lyle stepped closer, looking at the plate in Arthur’s hand, then at Arthur himself. When he was first born, Beatrice had been delighted to see that Arthur had inherited her grandpa’s eyes, a deep blue that she’d stare at happily. As he grew up, his eyes grew more and more bright, and at age three, Arthur’s eyes stayed on a beautiful blue-green, just like his mother’s.
He hadn’t inherited much from Lyle, face wise, he had his mothers nose, her eyes, and mouth. He had his grandpa’s ears, the color of his grandma’s hair (from Lyle’s side). It didn’t bother him, never really gave it a second thought. But now, in all the light and brightness of day, Lyle sees too much of her in his son. Wide eyes staring at him with shame, fear even. mouth pulled in a pout as he holds back his tears. She’s all over his face.
Arthur doesn’t expect it when Lyle swings at him.
Lyle had been stealing for a little over a year now, Arthur had been fired from both jobs when Lyle got caught one time. So, as a second step, Lyle taught Arthur how to steal. It was an easier life, by no means honest but it put food on the table and whiskey in his belly. Arthur was good at stealing too, hands feather light as they wrap around a hanging pocket watch or as it dropped into a passerby’s pockets.
Their thefts started getting more organized, more ambitious too. Too ambitious.
Lyle had been caught, and he couldn’t shake the lawmen on his tail. Arthur was on the back of their horse, a scrawny but fast little thing they found after Timtim passed, Arthur named him Luan.
They’re escaping, stuffing what they can into a bag and leaving their house behind. Arthur hadn’t spoken since the first gunshot, his questions falling silent as he holds onto the bag tightly with one hand, the other fisted around Lyle’s coat.
They run until they pass the border, leaving Texas behind.
Arthur hadn’t spoken for weeks now, at first, Lyle guessed it was his bruised jaw hurting that caused the sudden mute but as the bruises healed and Arthur’s rib became better; Lyle realized Arthur simply didn’t want to speak.
They’re somewhere in the middle of nowhere, a makeshift camp was now their home, a flat rock their pillow and the trees as their cover. Arthur didn’t know how to fire a rifle, getting blown back by the force when Lyle tried to teach him, almost broke his arm but managed to only knock himself out. Lyle was furious after that, at what, he didn’t know, but he took it out on Arthur after he woke up.
His nose didn’t look much like his mother’s anymore, once straight and narrow now crooked after a particularly hard punch. His eyes never looked at Lyle, his lips always held a frown, something Beatrice was rare to do. Somewhere in his mind, he feels satisfied, another feels sad that he’d ruined the resemblance.
The law caught him. Again. This time he had no work partner to bust him out.
Arthur was on the other side of town, probably working the saloon for some valuables. The officer was voting to hang him, the others didn’t seem inclined to disagree.
All his regrets seem to resurface.
Arthur stood between the crowd, watching at Lyle got escorted to the gallows. Lyle had looked at him while they spoke his rights and his awful deeds, some Arthur knew, others he didn’t. Larceny, theft, robbery, he knew. Rape, murder, arson, he didn’t. It felt wrong to see his pa swinging, his heart had lodged in his throat when the lever was pulled and the floor fell from under his feet. Lyle hadn’t closed his eyes, had stared at Arthur the entire time, a warning in his eyes.
He still had the bruise on his neck from when Lyle got angry a few days back, but he still dragged the body when the crowd dispersed. He still strained his shoulder to throw him over the horse, dug a grave in the middle of nowhere, where Lyle can hurt no one again, stuck a log with his initials and buried his belongings in a hole nearby. His clothes, his pipe, his weaponized belt. Sold his guns to the gunsmith and only kept a pistol on him, sold the pocket watch and rings he’d worn and refused to sell no matter how starved they were.
Kept his hat, kept it throughout the years. Fought men who tried to steal it. He kept it as he slowly lost his way and ended up as a street urchin, horse stolen and only a few belongings left on him. A picture of his mother, a picture of his father…
Kept it as he met Hosea Matthews, and then later Dutch Van Der Linde. Kept it when Susan Grimshaw gave him money to buy something new for himself. And as he carried his little Isaac. Kept it on his head as he mourned him, and Eliza. Hid his face behind it when he cried because of Mary. Kept it as he played with Copper, taught a young John how to fire a rifle.
Even when he got close to death, when his shoulder reeked of infection and he couldn’t see straight. He fit it over his head and escaped with it.
And when he got told he’ll die, that he has tuberculosis, he tucked it against his forehead and rode on.
Took it off when he was saying goodbye, only when he was saying goodbye. Gave it to John, with a lot more satisfaction than he had when he first took it from Lyle’s head. It had a better history now, or, as good as Arthur could be. The traces of Lyle Morgan were erased from it, replaced with Arthur Morgan, all the good he could manage.
Arthur handed it to John, smiled at him like his Pa never did at him. He was going to die soon, and he was going to meet his Pa in hell. But he would have at least done more good than Lyle ever did.
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