In the Forest of Light and Dark
Mark Kasniak
It was four years ago, the summer of 2010. Late June was approaching, and I had been just one week into my summer vacation. I had also just finished my junior year at Saraland High in my hometown of Saraland, Alabama—Go Spartans!—when my life was about to change forever.
Looking back on that day that would kick off a chain-of-events that would, ultimately, and irreversibly, turn my life upside-down, I guess you could say had started out like any other. After arriving back home from an afternoon of sunbathing down by the Gulf with a couple of friends of mine, Lettie Sheppard and Gerralyn Hanks. I had entered our house through the kitchen, whereupon I heard my parents arguing in their bedroom located near the rear of our home. That wasn’t at all unusual, though. The two of them bickering behind closed doors had been something they’d always done when they had matters to discuss that they clearly didn’t want me knowing. So, I guess that’s where my story begins. It’s as good of a place as any.
My name is Cera Singer and like I’d said, I had just finished the eleventh grade at Saraland High. Yes, I know. I’m Cera from Saraland. I get the gist. Maybe, that’s why my mama had decided to spell my name so differently from Sara or Sarah, so that I could avoid all the jokes that I would later have to inure when kids grew old enough to become mean. So why don’t we just get them out-of-the-way now, okay.
Anyways, moving on, so normally when you come home to find your parents arguing behind the confines of closed doors, it’s usually about things like money, or a letter from the school that had arrived in the mail informing them that you’re failing in math, or they’d just found out that another mouth to feed is on the way. These are all pretty much normal topics of conversation for squabbling where I come from. I mean… Its par for the course. It’s what parents do, right? They’re married to one another; it would be pretty weird if they didn’t fight all the time.
So, coming home to find my parents fighting again wasn’t the problem. The problem was… By the time I had gotten home that afternoon from sunbathing and submitting a few applications to some of the local eateries—I had been looking for a summer job as a waitress so I can earn the money I would need to buy a car, or at least buy the parts needed to fix up the ‘86 Pontiac Trans Am that sat abandoned in our garage. My Step Daddy Cade had said that if I put forth the effort into finding myself a job and earning the money myself for the new tires and catalytic converter it required, then he would put forth the work in fixing it up for me. Not a bad deal at all if you ask me. And, it was a pretty bitching set of wheels, cobalt blue with grey trim and leather bucket seats.—my parents had already been in their bedroom arguing for some time and that meant only one thing. Something bad in the Singer household had probably just happened, and that was never good.
As I stood in the kitchen listening to their muffled argument coming through the walls. It had reminded me of the time when I was ten and had come home from school to find them going at it in their bedroom much like they were now. My mama, her face still puffy, pink, and streaked with tears, had emerged from their room after having heard me come home. She then kissed me on the top of my head, asked me how my day was, and proceeded to make me a PB&J—which was something I had every day when I’d came home.
As soon as she had finished making me my sandwich and having made sure to cut the crust off. I watched as she went back into her bedroom to continue arguing with my Step Daddy Cade. The heated discussion ended up lasting another couple of hours, in which time I was left to fend for myself as my mama only emerged periodically to check in on me.
At the time I had no clue as to what they were fighting over, but I had known they’d been going at it often lately over my Step Daddy Cade’s drinking.
You see, growing up where I’m from. Old Grand Dad isn’t just some loving, fatherly male relative who lived with you in your house’s spare bedroom, and Wild Turkey wasn’t just a free-range fowl that likes to run around on the outskirts of your property. They’re a serious problem where I come from, and the cause of far too many family breakups.
A few hours later though when my parents had finally emerged from their bedroom they gingerly sat me down at the kitchen table informing me that they would be “taking a break” for a while as my mama had put it. But, all I knew was that, after that, my Step Daddy Cade had left home and he didn’t return for four months. At the time I had honestly thought he was never going to come home again.
That’s how things usually worked out around here in Saraland. Well, I should actually say, that’s how things always seemed to work out here in Saraland. Dads’ or boyfriends’ leaving after a fight never to be heard from again or showing back up several months later, after having knocked up some huzzy they’d hooked-up with after a late night of drinking. Then the wonderful news would be delivered to you of there being a new addition to the family, and how you’ll soon be getting a new roommate.
Luckily for me there was no baby on the way, but I’m sure there was probably a huzzy or two while my step daddy was away.
But that wasn’t even the worst of what can happen when my parents end up fighting. There was this other time last year when I had walked in on them arguing. (Again, I had been with my friend Lettie Sheppard, but we had been at her house not down by the Gulf. We’d spent the morning playing spin-the-bottle with a couple of local boys Tucker Calhoun and Eron Durfee. They had tried desperately to get us girls to make out with each other every time one of us spun the bottle and it ended up pointing at another one of us girls, but we weren’t having any of that. My friend Gerralyn did however show them her tits though, just to keep them happy. Boys are so simple and stupid—you’d be surprised at just how much you could get them to do for you just by showing a little boob.)
But anyways, I’m getting off topic again. Where was I… Oh, yeah? So, I had come home from Lettie’s house to grab a change of clothes and a few other things I needed for the weekend. Lettie’s parents had gone away for the weekend to visit Lettie’s aunt Carla in Montgomery, and Lettie had told them that she was going to stay the weekend out on the Gulf at the summer cottage of another one of our friends, Gerralyn Hanks. Gerralyn had told her parents that she would be with me, Lettie, and Lettie’s parents for the weekend visiting Lettie’s aunt and uncle who lived out on a ranch in Montgomery, and then the next day we’d all be visiting the Montgomery Zoo.
This little scheme we’d concocted had fooled our parents several times in the past, giving us free weekends to party. But we can’t take all the credit for it. It was the same scam those boys in that movie Stand by Me did when they went on their trek to see that dead-kid’s body. In fact, that’s where we got the idea from.
So, like I’d said—when I had stopped off at home that afternoon to pick up a change of clothes, my parents must have heard me come into the house because they immediately came out of their bedroom to greet me. I had taken one look at their sullen faces and instantly I’m thinking, oh, crap, what now? Because I could tell that my mama had been crying evidenced by her still ashen and puffy face, along with her eyes that were still imbued and leaking moisture. Not to mention the freely flowing trail of snot that was still pouring out of her Rudolf-red nose like a sieve. That one was a dead giveaway.
But my parents say, “Cera, hold up a second. We need to talk to you.” then they sit me down and guess what they tell me? My fucking dog is dead! Yeah, my dog and best friend Maddy is gone.
Apparently, my mama had taken her out for a walk, and when Maddy had seen a couple of squirrels, she bolted for them because that’s what a good hunting dog does. In the act of doing so, she ended up yanking the leash right out of my mama’s hand—heading st
raight for the roadway.
Maddy had never even seen the damn pickup truck coming towards her as its driver came barreling down the road like a lunatic. She had crossed the road diagonally chasing those goddamn day rats and ran smack dab right into the truck’s bumper like a scud missile. The truck striking her straight atop of her head and crushing her skull as if it were an eggshell, before pushing her down under its wheels.
My mama had told me she couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. That she had to stand there, completely powerless and watching in horror as the scene played out before her in slow motion. At least that’s what she said, “I couldn’t have done anything to prevent it.”
How about holding on to the fucking leash, Mama! That would’ve been a good start at preventing it.
And, the guy who hit my poor Maddy… This hillbilly named, Billy-Jo Hinkly—yeah, that’s his real fucking name—my mama said he just babbled on-and-on about how it wasn’t his fault either, that he was in no way responsible for what had happened. Even though my mama told me he had smelled of bourbon and it was only just a few minutes past noon when the accident had taken place.
Then, the hick even had the balls to offer my mama one of his mutt puppies that his bitch of a dog had given birth to two weeks earlier under their front porch, as if that was going to replace my Maddy.
But for now, let’s get back to the issue at hand. So, there I was eavesdropping on the other side of my parent’s bedroom door trying to figure out just what-the-hell had happened this time, and hoping-to-God that they hadn’t found and were discussing the cigar box that I had hidden away up behind the insulation in the crawl space which entrance was in my bedroom’s closet’s ceiling.
The cigar box I had filled with a few of my personal items such as my running-away money, which was my insurance for if things ever got so awful around here that I just couldn’t take it anymore and had to bail. Or, I guess you could call it an investment, an investment in my future that is if I ever worked up enough nerve to just leave this Podunk town never to return. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was enough for a fresh start to a better life if I ever needed it.
I suppose the money could’ve also doubled as abortion money if I ever needed that, which hopefully I never will. It’s just that, you could say it’s kind of commonplace around here that every girl in Saraland had a roll of twenties stashed away somewhere as a plan B if it ever came down to that.
But the money wasn’t the only thing in the box I didn’t want my parents knowing about. There were also some condoms stashed in there—now I don’t want you thinking that I’m some kind of slut here, because I’m not. Truthfully, I’m still a virgin. I just had them for the simple fact that they’d be there if I ever did need them. My friend Lettie Sheppard though, now there’s a slut for you. She could suck start a leaf blower, but I’ll leave the stories of her antics for another time. Besides, the way I see it, it’s just smart being prepared because teenage pregnancy is so widespread around here, and I really don’t need some screaming brat ruining my future and given me sore, saggy tits.
There was also a dime bag of schwag weed in the box, and a half a pack of Winston’s, along with four pills of Oxycontin which I had gotten from my friend Amanda after they’d been prescribed to her after she’d given birth to her son Jeremy. She’d had problems with the delivery on account that she was so small, and during the botched labor the doctor had to do an emergency caesarean on her to get him out. The procedure had torn her up something awful, so the doctor had prescribed the pills so she could manage the pain while she healed. But Amanda had told me that she couldn’t take them on account that they made her drowsy enough to pass out and she wouldn’t have been able to hear her baby crying. So, she had no choice but to suffer through the pain, the poor girl.
Anyways, back to the matters at hand. After a while, I had given up on my efforts to decipher the muffled voices that were coming through my parent’s bedroom door. So, I had decided to just grab my change of clothes along with my overnight things that I had originally stopped home for and then just slip back out the back door from which I came. I was virtually gone too, but having made one last quick stop at the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water delayed me just long enough for my parents to be able to catch me when they came walking up from the rear of the house.
Shit, I thought when I heard my mama say to me, “Hang on a second, Cera, honey. Don’t go anywhere, just yet.”
So, with having been stuck, I had no choice but to hear them out and accept any punishment I had coming to me if indeed their discussion had been regarding me. But, either way, it wasn’t going to be good, it never was, and it was probably going to end up ruining my weekend.
My mama had been crying again, which, like I had said before, was never a good sign. So, I sat down, taking a seat on one of the stools that I’d pulled out from underneath the kitchen counter, just the same as I had always done ever since I was a little girl and my parents had terrible news to break to me.
But for some reason this time had felt different somehow. I could tell right away by the look on their faces that this time—whatever it was—it wasn’t about me. And, Thank God! I thought breathing a silent sigh of relief.
I was sure it wasn’t about me because my mama wouldn’t have been crying that much if it had been about something I had done. She’d definitely would have been pissed-off, perhaps disappointed, and maybe even shedding a tear or two thinking it was somehow her fault, but definitely not this distraught. And, without any doubt, my Step Daddy Cade would’ve had that smirk on his face that he’d always get whenever I did something wrong. His lips would curl up around the corners of his mouth as he desperately tried to hide his grin. Knowing full-well that if he had ever let on to my mama that he thought my antics were funny to him, she’d turn her frustrations she’d had with me out on him just as soon as she’d finished dealing with my sorry butt.
But for once though, they didn’t beat around the bush as they tried figuring out a way of gently breaking to me whatever it was they had to tell me.
I had always hated that shit. Dragging out the inevitable and making me wait in anxious anticipation for them to inform me that something horrible has happened or was going to happen. As if waiting and dragging things out was going to lessen the sting of whatever it was they were going to say. That’s like pulling off a band-aid slowly—it’s just plain torture. For as long as I could remember I had always thought that whenever my parents had treated me with kid’s gloves, it was nothing but bullshit, and cowardly to bout. I had wished that they’d just man up, grow a pair already and spit it out. I have things to do today.
“Your Grandmother died.” My mama said to me sorrowfully after taking a long moment to work up the nerve to say the words, and my first thoughts were, Oh, shit no… Not Grandma Singer. I love Grandma Singer. Then, suddenly I felt as if I had a thousand pound weight bearing down on my chest—as if a force was trying to burrow its way deep inside of me eager to rip out my heart.
(A little about my Grandma Singer. She’s the coolest, toughest; four-foot six-inch old broad you’ll ever meet. She loves to gamble, smoke, drink, swear, hunt, fish, race cars, make moonshine, and she cooks with tons-and-tons of butter. And I swear… given the chance, she’d be a Madam running her own burlesque house. My Grandma Singer is everything I inspire to be one day.)
The news of Grandma Singer dying had hit me like a punch to the gut and I quickly became so wrought up that I hadn’t even noticed when my mama began consoling me when she’d wrapped her arms tightly around me. At that moment it was as if I was a million miles away and all I could feel was this impenetrable wall of sadness welling up inside of me. Looking back at that moment, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more abject in my entire life than I did right then, curled up in my mama’s arms crying like a baby. But then my mama had said something to my step daddy that had changed everything, she said, “So, what do you think is going to happen with her house up in New York now?”
WHAT? Was all I can remember that was going through my mind the instant my mama had finished speaking that sentence.
You see, Grandma Singer was my Step Daddy Cade’s mama. My step daddy had been born and raised right here in Alabama along with the rest of his family. He had never even left the state except for a brief time when he had attended college in New Orleans. And, from what I had heard of that, I guess college hadn’t worked out all-too-well for him. (You could say my Step Daddy Cade isn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. In fact, I’d say he’s so dim-witted that he couldn’t pour water out of a boot with instructions printed on the bottom.)
Well, during my step daddy’s brief time in school books had quickly and thoroughly kicked his ass, so he had spent most of his time getting high and drunk down in the French Quarter before eventually returning home.
But, what I was getting at was, Grandma Singer didn’t have a house in New York. She had always lived right here in Saraland with us. So, of course, I was a bit confused.
After having wiped away my tears with the palms of my hands, I’d asked my mama, “What do you mean? You said Grandma Singer is dead.” I say this to her as my chest continues to hitch and I do my best at keeping another sob from creeping up into my throat. At the time I remembered having felt a little embarrassed over my sobbing. Not that it wasn’t okay to cry when somebody dies, of course. It’s just that… I’m no wimp, and I have never liked letting people see me cry, not even my parents.
“No, Cera.” my mama, then says to me in a soft tone. “Grandma Singer’s just fine. It’s my mother, your Grandma Barrett, who has died.”
Now, I don’t want to sound like I’m coming off as a cold-hearted bitch here, but Wahoo! Grandma Barrett… Who-the-hell cares, I had never even met the old buzzard. I had only seen one wallet-sized picture of her, and the photo’s quality was sketchy at best. As far as I’d been concerned, this wasn’t even going to put the slightest of dents in my weekend plans at all.
In the Forest of Light and Dark Page 1
