First. I thought it was just some ketchup stain or
tomato sauce, but soon I realized he was spitting up
blood occasionally. I saw it on tissues. and I saw it on
his cloth handkerchief. He did his best to hide it from
me, even though I had taken on the responsibility of
doing our laundry. We had a small washing machine
in the motor home, but often we took the time to stop
at a Laundromat and do a larger washing.
The second thing I noticed that put alarm in me
was his trembling. I watched him practicing his
sleight-of-hand tricks one afternoon and saw that he
was dropping things, confusing things. His hands
were trembling. The only way he seemed to be able to
stop it was to take another drink. It was developing
into a mad, destructive cycle, and I was standing by
watching helplessly.
Once, when I saw he had put half a bottle of
bourbon back into the closet. I took advantage of an
opportunity when he was out and emptied half of that,
filling it with water back to where it was. I held my
breath when he drank from it. He didn't seem to notice
anything at first, but then he just drank it all faster and
went to a new bottle.
Perhaps worrying about him was a reason for my losing weight even faster, but one day. I suddenly noticed I looked taller and thinner. I tried on the sequin suit and saw it fit much better and actually looked flattering. Perhaps if I told him I was ready to join him onstage, he would change his behavior. I thought. When he stepped back into the motor home. I
was still dressed in the suit and showed him how it fit. Instead of making him happy and encouraged,
he grew sad before my eyes.
"Seeing that costume brings back some happy
memories, some happy lost memories," he said, and
went to the bedroom.
Ironically, what I had hoped would bring him
out of the darkness had simply driven him down
deeper into it. That night, he didn't even start our
drive. He went right to his drinking. He was asleep on
the sofa when I woke in the morning, his bottles
emptied. I woke him, but he stumbled into the
bathroom. where I heard him vomit, Later, I found he
had spit up more blood. When he came out, he went
directly to the bedroom and closed the door. I realized we were not going to make it to our
next show if we didn't start out immediately. I pleaded
with him to come out and start the drive, but all I
heard was some sobbing and muffled speech. I had watched him drive the motor home enough to know how to do it and decided to start us on our way myself. I was nervous. A few times. I annoyed some drivers behind us. but I managed to get us onto the right highways and move us along far enough so that when he did come out, we were within striking distance of the next theater. He was surprised, and he wasn't as angry as I'd imagined he might be. He blamed himself and told me Destiny had chastised him. He claimed he was making a promise to both of
us to reform himself.
Somehow, despite his condition and despite his
fumbling and tired, weary appearance, he managed to
get through the show. When we returned to the motor
home, he did not, as was his habit, immediately begin
to drink. He said he would drive a little and get some
sleep. I made him something to eat, a scrambled egg
sandwich, and he ate and drank some coffee. Feeling
hopeful. I went to sleep myself. Perhaps this near
professional disaster indeed had woken him up to
what was happening. I thought.
However, when I rose in the morning. I found
him like always, sprawled on the sofa, his arms
twisted and his leg dangling, the emptied bottle of
whiskey on the table. We had one hundred seventyfive miles or so to drive, which wasn't all that much
considering show time, but he was just as incapable of
driving this day as he had been the day before. Once
again, he went into the bathroom and vomited.
Afterward, he stumbled back to the bedroom. I cried to myself and waited, hoping he would
rise, shower, dress, and drive, hoping he would
somehow restore himself as he had miraculously done
before. When he didn't come out. I reluctantly went to
the driver's seat and started up the vehicle, hoping the
sound of the engine and the movement of the motor
home would raise him and bring him to his senses, but
he didn't emerge from the bedroom.
I was following the map we had but realized
about a half hour into the trip that I had missed an
important turn and had actually gone a good forty
miles out of our way. I pulled the van over and
studied the map, searching for the best way to repair
the itinerary. It meant taking a side road through what
looked like farmland and the beginning of the
vineyards. The road wasn't as wide as the main one,
and the macadam was broken and full of areas where
rain had washed out sections. The motor home
bounced so much at times that I was sure he would
emerge to see what was happening, but he didn't. I drove as slowly as I could, but the time was worrying me. If I got lost again or broke down, he would be
enraged for sure.
I came to another crossroad and pulled over to
study the map more closely and be sure I'd made the
right decision. As it turned out. I hadn't. The road I
chose was even worse than the road I had been on,
and after ten miles. I saw a sign that indicated it was
not a through road. Panic seized me, and I stopped.
There was no place nearby to turn around. I was afraid
that if I attempted a broken U-turn. I might get the
motor home stuck in what looked like a soft road
shoulder.
It's no use, I thought. I have to wake him and
tell hire What's happened. I left the engine running
and went back to the bedroom door, knocking and
calling to him. He did not respond. I knocked harder
and listened. It was silent. He wasn't even playing his
tapes. I tried the doorknob but found the door was
locked.
"Uncle Palaver, please wake up. I'm afraid
we're lost," I called, waited, listened, and knocked so
hard I was really pounding.
Still, there was no response.
I turned and twisted the doorknob and pushed and rapped on the door. Finally, the tiny lock that held it shut gave way, and the door flew open, with me stumbling awkwardly forward and into the room. I caught myself on the edge of the bed and looked at Uncle Palaver lying with his leg twisted over the Destiny doll, his eyes slightly opened, a stream of dried blood streaking down his chin from the corner
of his mouth.
His fingers were locked on the transmitter we
used in the show, and the doll's head was moving
slightly from side to side as if it were saying, No, no,
no.
I screamed, but he did not awaken.
Panic submerged me in a pool of ice. For a few
moments. I couldn't move, couldn't get my arms or
legs to do anything. Then I reached out to shake him.
His body shook, but his eyes didn't change. They were
so glassy they resembled the Destiny doll's eyes.
Slowly. I brought my fingers to his face. Whe
n I felt
the coldness in his skin, it was as if I had swallowed a
ball of fire that immediately exploded around my
heart.
"Uncle Palaver!" I shouted.
And then I did the strangest thing I thought
possible. I actually turned to the Destiny doll, as if I believed it could somehow help me. The head
continued to move, but slower and slower,
The batteries were running down, I thought. It
might have been triggered hours and hours ago. I
pried the transmitter out of Uncle Palaver's frozentight, hard fingers, and the doll's head stopped
moving.
I didn't know what to do. I just stood there
stupidly looking at my uncle and his life-size doll entwined on the bed like two lovers who had made a
suicide pact and carried it through. The realization of
what had happened sank into me, or rather. I felt as
though I were sinking into it, reality climbing up my
stunned body until it reached my chest and clamped
itself around my torso, making it hard for me to
breathe.
I stumbled back and ran out of the room, falling
to the floor by the sofa. The motor home's engine was
still running. I felt my stomach twist, and suddenly,
almost without any warning at all. I began to heave. I
crumbled on my side and lay there, nearly traumatized
by my own hysteria. Finally, it eased. and I pulled
myself to my feet, hovering and trembling. I cleaned
up my mess quickly and then drank a cold glass of
water.
This can't be happening It just can't be
happening I chanted to myself, but the only sound
being the sound of the engine brought home the
reality of the dead who don't speak. Uncle Palaver
was gone. I was not only alone. I was lost, lost in so
many ways.
I took deep breaths, wiped my face with a cold
wash cloth, and returned to the driver's seat. For a
while, I just sat there staring out at the fields, the
brush, and the trees on both sides of the broken road. I
was still afraid of attempting to turn the motor home
around. It was tricky with my car hitched behind it. so
I started forward. I hadn't noticed, but the clouds that
had been blending and turning darker had changed the
sky to completely overcast. Rain was coming, and
soon. I was nervous enough driving this big vehicle in
good weather.
I drove at least another two miles, and still there
was no place to make an easy turn, Then I came
around a long, winding curve and saw what looked
like a very old but very big farmhouse off to my left.
As I drew closer, my heart sank, because the three-star
building, although very elaborate, with a triplewindow high tower, double-door front entry, large
full- width side porch, and what looked like two-story bay windows in front, appeared deserted. The wood cladding was a very dull gray in desperate need of painting. The grounds were overgrown, and the statuary all looked unwashed, stained, and forgotten. Weeds invaded the gazebo like green parasites smelling death. This property was a shadow of what it
once was. I thought.
The long, straight driveway that led up to the
house was as cracked and pitted as the road I was on. I
was going to continue and almost did accelerate
before I caught sight of a pickup truck parked at the
side of the house. It looked relatively new. Someone
was there. I thought. I slowed down and turned into
the driveway. The motor home bounced and swayed
so much as I made my way up that I was afraid my car
would break loose. I saw no one at first, but as I drew
closer. I could see that the windows were draped, and
there was some light coming from within.
Encouraged. I continued until I could park in front.
Then I shut off the engine, took a deep breath, and
stepped out of the motor home,
Before I reached the half dozen steps that led
up to the portico, a tall, stout black man with silvery
gray hair came around the corner of the building. He
was carrying a shovel and a hoe over his right shoulder and wore a pair of high rubber boots. When he saw me, he paused and wiped his forehead and his
eyes as if he couldn't believe his sight.
"I need help!" I cried.
"Don't we all," he replied, and walked toward
me.
As he approached. I saw he had gray stubble
over his chin and patches of it over his jawline and
cheeks. Although his hair indicated he was along in
age, his face was smooth, his eyes bright and friendly,
like the eyes of someone much younger and more
innocent trapped in an older body.
"What's the trouble?" he asked. He wore only a
flannel shirt open at the collar. The sleeves were
frayed. His jeans were mud-stained and worn through
at the knees. He wore no watch, just a silver chain
with what looked like a silver heart.
"It's my uncle. Something terrible has happened
to him," I said.
He looked up at the motor home. "Like what?" "I don't know," I said, now unable to hold back
my tears.
He looked at the motor home again as if it were
somehow forbidden territory. Then he dropped the
tools, scratched the top of his head, and slowly approached the motor home door. Just as he did, the front door of the house opened, and an elderly lady in a faded blue housecoat stepped out. Her gray hair was whiter than his but brushed and combed neatly into a bun. She had a dark brown walking stick with a pearl handle. Her thick-lensed glasses slipped down over
the bridge of her nose as she peered out at me. "What's gain' on. Trevor?" she called, and took
a few more steps forward. She was wearing what
looked like a pair of fluffy white slippers.
"This girl says she's in trouble. Mrs.
Westington."
"What sort of trouble?"
"She says her uncle is in a bad way inside here.
I was just going to look."
"Well, we don't need no more trouble here." she
muttered loudly enough for me to hear.
"Yes, ma'am. I know that." Trevor said, glanced
at me. And then entered the motor home.
I stood outside. The elderly lady remained firrn,
frozen, leaning on her cane and staring hard at me. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm lost."
"Yeah." she said, nodding. "No one comes up
here anymore less they are,"
When Trevor came out, he looked shocked. "Well?" Mrs. Westington demanded
immediately. She approached the top step.
"There's a man dead in there, all right, and he's
lying beside a giant doll."
"What?" she asked. recoiling. "What kind of a
nonsense story is that?"
"I swear. Mrs, Westington," Trevor said, raising
his hand.
I continued to sob and embrace myself. "My
uncle's a... performer... and... the doll is part of our
act," I explained breathlessly.
"How'd he kick the bucket?" Mrs. Westington
asked Trevor.
"Don't know as I could say. Mrs. Westington.
Must've been pretty sick. Looks to me like he spat up
some blood," he added, looking my way.
"He drank," I mumbled.
"What's that?" she asked,
"My uncle was an alcoholic," I admitted. "Oh. Well. I know a little about that. My
husband drank himself to hell. It ain't no pretty kettle
of fish. Well, don't stand there. It's going to rain cats
and dogs shortly. We'll make the proper phone call.
Leave that vehicle door open. Trevor. Air it out." "Yes. ma'am."
She tapped her cane hard on the portico wood
floor. "Come along. We ain't got all day," she said
turning.
I looked back at Trevor.
"It's best to do what she says," he told me. I
followed Mrs. Westington into her house.
I didn't know it then, but it wouldn't be all that
long before it became mine as well.
10 Desperate for Love
. Inside, the house looked as if it had been frozen in time, the owner stubbornly refusing to throw anything away. Whether it was a worn rug, a frayed sofa, a broken vase, or a cracked figurine on a ricketylooking pedestal, everything was obviously still cherished. The wide entryway had a mahogany coat stand and hat rack with garments on them looking as though they had been placed there fifty years ago and never touched since.
Up close, Mrs. Westington resembled her possessions. Her pale alabaster complexion had patches of tiny, spidery veins close to the surface, making her resemble a life-size cracked porcelain doll. There were some futile attempts at cosmetics, patches of face makeup applied too thickly in spots and completely absent from other areas. Her lipstick was thicker on her bottom lip for some reason than it was on her top lip.
However, in spite of her fragile appearance, her bony shoulders, long thin-fingered hands, and reliance on the walking stick, she had an air of firmness and grit about her, especially discernible in her dark gray but vet bright eyes.
"Close the door!" she shouted at Trevor, who was just behind me.
"It's closed. Mrs. Westington," he said.
She turned and looked as if she didn't trust a word he uttered, and then nodded. "House is coming apart at the seams. Wind blows right through these days."
"Yes, ma'am," Trevor said. "I patched up that window frame on the pantry."
"Um," she said. She pointed at the sofa with her cane. "You sit there, girl," she told me. "Trevor, you go to the phone and call the highway patrol. The number's on the board by the phone.'
She was obviously used to giving orders. I sat, and she stared at me a moment and then went to the window to open the drapes. The grandfather clock in the corner groaned instead of bonging the hour. She looked at her watch and shook her head.
"Don't know where the time goes," she muttered, more to herself than to me. "Okay," she said. "Now, tell me what you're doing on this road, driving that big thing with your uncle dead inside."
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