I asked Aunt Sue if we could watch another movie.
“I think not,” she said. “I’ve rotted your minds enough for one night.”
Josh let out with a whiny, “Ah, Aunt Sue.”
She held her ground. “We need to get over to Grandma Walls’ house early tomorrow. She wants to eat at eleven.”
“Eleven?” asked Josh and I at the same time. “Why so early?” Tradition dictated Thanksgiving dinner be precisely at one.
“Grandma Walls doesn’t want to miss any of the late football game on TV. You know how she is about her team. Besides, you want to get there in time to watch Grandma Walls kill the turkey, don’t you?” Every bit as morbid as it sounds and truly a spectacle to behold.
Sue made up the daybed in her back bedroom for Josh and loaded me up with bedding for the couch in the den. She rummaged through a drawer in her coffee table and pulled out a gizmo that looked a little like an oversize MP3 player.
“Here,” she said as she handed it to me. “Shhhh! Don’t tell Josh, but you can use these remote headphones to listen to the TV.” She fiddled with something on the shelf below the TV and then turned it on. Cool.
The TV sound came through the headphones instead of the regular speakers. Aunt Sue patted me on the head and said not to hesitate to wake her if I needed anything.
That was my Aunt Sue. Not only was she super cool, she was crazy. She had been just about everywhere and done tons of cool stuff. In her late teens and early twenties she had been a professional jockey, riding in races all up and down the east coast. She’d been hiking in the Himalayas, waterskiing in Israel, spelunking in Turkey, and her second husband was a professional weightlifter named Karl Strong. His real name. Can you believe it? She may have only been five feet tall, but she had a big voice and a voracious appetite for life.
Last summer, she caused quite a stir when she wore a bikini to the family reunion. It was primo. Here were all these pious and prudish men making a big deal out of turning their heads as she walked by, but then sneaking a peek when they thought no one was looking. She went back to her car and put on a beach cover-up, but only after she had walked the full length of the reunion pavilion—twice.
“If you’re going to have a picnic at a riverside park,” she told Dad, “you ought to expect people to come in swimwear.”
Dad was incensed.
Mom was amused.
Josh and Cousin Greg stood motionless with jaws agape.
Grandmother Nelson, Dad’s mom, hid her face and kept to herself all day, too embarrassed to visit or eat. Great-Grandma Wall, with her failing eyesight, didn’t recognize Aunt Sue, and couldn’t see what she was or wasn’t wearing.
Dad shot me a dirty look, but I couldn’t stop laughing. It wasn’t that Aunt Sue looked funny. For her age, she looked exceptional. Sue was in her mid-thirties and still had a nice figure. The idea of her strutting around half-naked in the middle of the rest of Dad’s uptight, humorless, holier-than-thou family struck me as hilarious. Just remembering the incident brought a much-needed smile to my lips.
Aunt Sue sent Dad a note of apology the next week, and he responded with a five-page sermon, complete with scriptural references. She and Dad next saw each other at Josh’s birthday party in the middle of October, and by the time she went home, she and Dad were hugging and laughing. All forgiven.
I was glad. Life just wouldn’t be the same without her.
»»•««
Mom was still in the hospital on Thanksgiving, but she insisted Dad, Josh, and I spend the day with Dad’s family. That morning, we all piled into Dad’s car for the fifteen-minute drive to Granny Wall’s house.
On the way over, Dad was sullen and silent. The whole time we had been in Houston at Aunt Sue’s, he never mentioned me lying to him and staying at home alone when he said not to.
Josh was quiet too. I guess he was worried about what I was going to do about his felonies and misdemeanors. I wasn’t too keen on talk either.
Aunt Sue didn’t need an excuse to talk. To her, it came naturally. One time when Mom didn’t know I was listening, she jokingly told Dad, “That woman talks so much, if she were paid a penny a word, she could afford a sixty-room, solid-gold palace with diamond windows and an emerald lawn.” Funny, but so un-Mom-like.
Sue chattered on as we drove, saying how silly it was that all the women in the family held her in contempt for not making her desserts herself. “The bread pudding from Babbin’s Restaurant is better than anything I could make. Better than what any of them could make either.” She did an air drum roll followed by an air cymbal hit.
Granny Wall was my dad’s mother’s mother and the coolest eighty-four-year-old ever. As we pulled into the long gravel driveway at her house in one of the oldest and least developed neighborhoods of Houston, an airborne white tom turkey, only slightly smaller than a commercial airliner, careened around the corner of the house, flapping his clipped wings for all he was worth. He lit in the front yard, not ten feet from the car, bounced once, and began running across the lawn, his wings again churning the air in a panic. Half a blink later Granny came scampering around the same corner in hot pursuit, a hatchet in one hand and a length of yellow nylon rope in the other.
I learned two things that day. First, even a turkey with clipped wings is capable of at least limited flight, and second, Granny Wall was still capable of making a textbook open-field tackle. Once she had one of the bird’s legs in her left hand and his neck firmly grasped in her right, she lay across her squawking prey like a pro wrestler pinning his opponent.
Dad got out of the car shouting, “Gram! Gram! You’re going to break a hip or something.”
She craned her neck toward him and said, “Douglas, either give me a hand or let me be.” She nodded toward the nylon rope. “Fetch me that rope.”
Dad mumbled something under his breath but complied. He reached for the turkey, but Granny stared him off.
“I’ve been raising and killing my own Thanksgiving turkeys for sixty-five years. I guess I know how to do it without killing myself.”
Dad let his chin drop limply to his chest. He whispered a prayer. “Lord, protect her please, and make her stop taking such foolish chances.”
Josh and I watched in fascination as Granny trussed the turkey’s legs, retrieved the hatchet, slung the huge bird over her shoulder, and marched triumphantly across the yard. With the turkey still flapping and squawking, she disappeared around the far corner. Josh went running after her. He seemed more than anxious to witness his first turkey execution. I followed but with a bit less enthusiasm.
Dad brushed turkey feathers from his slacks and commented that he was afraid Granny was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He said, “Not only is she running around like a crazy person with that hatchet, she doesn’t even remember how long it takes to roast a turkey. A big bird like that will take three hours to roast, maybe more.”
Aunt Carrie, Dad’s older brother’s wife, met us at the front door. She was wearing one of Granny’s handmade aprons. The apron had a large reddish-brown stain on the bib. Strands of her hair hung down in her eyes as beads of sweat ran down both cheeks. I guess she heard Dad’s comments because she said, “Don’t worry about how long it takes to roast a turkey, Granny plans to deep-fry this one. Mr. Knepper has the fryer all ready.”
Dad looked puzzled. “Who, pray tell, is Mr. Knepper?”
Aunt Carrie grinned and said, “Mr. Knepper is Granny’s new boyfriend.”
Dad’s face puffed up. He turned to Aunt Sue. “Did you know about this?”
From her coy expression, we knew she did.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It didn’t come up. Besides, I don’t think it’s anything serious. I think their relationship is purely physical.”
Yuck, yuck, and double yuck. Now I was about to blow chunks.
Dad, as usual, was not amused, but Aunt Sue had a good laugh.
Chapter Eight
It was nice to have a normal day,
one where I could lose myself in food, family, and familiarities. We sat down to a fantastic feast, all my favorites: candied yams with gooey melted marshmallows on top, Grandma Nelson’s cornbread dressing, and my first taste of deep-fried turkey that Mr. Knepper had injected with a sweet orange and cranberry marinade.
I also enjoyed spending some time with Lee Ann and Drake, my two favorite cousins. They were twins—fraternal, not identical.
Lee Ann, Drake, and I spent a lot of time together when we were younger. Our birthdays were three weeks apart. From the time we started elementary school until the eighth grade, we lived next door to each other in Jackson, Mississippi. Dad, his youngest brother, David, and David’s wife, Nancy, all worked for my Uncle Mike, Dad’s oldest brother. Back then, Uncle Mike was a big-time radio and TV evangelist who was on more than a hundred stations all across the US and three foreign countries.
Dad was president of All States College and Seminary, an online and by-mail Christian correspondence school Uncle Mike started. Dad made a healthy piece of change working for Uncle Mike. We had a nice house, and Mom didn’t have to work. Times were good. Until, that is, Dad caught Uncle Mike pocketing donations earmarked for student scholarships. Only then did Aunt Carrie confide to the ministry’s board of directors that pious Uncle Mike wasn’t so pious in the fidelity department, either. He’d had at least two prolonged affairs and numerous one-nighters. The ministry and the college plummeted faster than a Teflon bobsled down Snot Mountain, and Uncle Mike disappeared with what was left of the ministry’s cash.
The Nelson clan was devastated, but they rallied around Aunt Carrie as if she were the blood relative instead of Uncle Mike. Dad wrote Uncle Mike a couple of letters in care of a TV station out in Los Angeles where reruns of his old program were airing, but he never answered.
Dad took a job with a junior college in Houston, and Uncle David moved his family to Tennessee, where he became assistant pastor to a man fourteen years his junior.
Even with all the grief and embarrassment Uncle Mike caused the family, I have no doubt that should the prodigal brother return and ask forgiveness, Dad and Uncle David would both welcome him back into the family fold. As for Lee Ann, Drake, and me—not so much.
In the middle of the Atlanta-Chicago game, Ashley called Granny’s house. I’d brought her to our Thanksgiving dinner there last year, but had no idea how she found the number. Granny Wall called me to the phone, and I knew better than to ask her to say I wasn’t there. My cousin Darrell did that one time. Granny told the caller that he’d asked her to say he wasn’t there, but he was actually standing next to her.
I took the phone in hand and breathed in a deep breath before saying, “Hello.”
“Are you over being mad?” she asked straight out.
“I was never mad.” I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“Then why the nasty text?” Her voice cracked.
“It wasn’t nasty. It was straightforward and to the point,” I said. “You wanted to break up, and I wanted you to know that I agreed.”
“After all this time and after all we meant to each other, you send me a text like that? That’s the most insensitive thing you’ve ever done.”
“It wasn’t mean. You just took it that way.” I wasn’t about to apologize. I knew she wanted the breakup. I guess my ego was a little bruised, but with all life was dumping on me at that moment, I didn’t have the energy or the compulsion to be the bigger man…er, person.
She hung up. In my mind’s eye, I saw her repeatedly pounding the End key on her phone with her index finger.
Drama, drama, and more drama. I was better off without her…for the moment anyway.
“Who was that?” asked Dad.
I said, “Ashley,” and let it go at that. I didn’t want to discuss the matter further.
“You know, Son”—Dad put his hand on my shoulder—“long-distance relationships never seem to work out, especially when you are as young as you two.”
“You’re probably right, Dad. I guess things can get awkward. Maybe she and I ought to break it off.”
Dad and Uncle David were both snoring by the game’s fourth quarter, but I couldn’t much blame them. It wasn’t much of a contest, Atlanta was ahead 17-3 at the half and won 38-10. Secretly, I was glad a southern team won. I guess Yankee-Rebel rivalry runs deep. Law once said, “Most folks around here consider Damn Yankee to be one word instead of two.” I know he was kidding, but I’m guessing with most people in Branard, he wasn’t all that far from the truth. The Dallas game was next, but I wasn’t in the mood for more football.
After Dad roused from his nap, he asked Josh and me to come out to the back patio for a minute. The glare Josh gave me said he was sure I had ratted him out, but I hadn’t. Yet.
Josh and I sat on one side of a redwood picnic table, and Dad sat on the other. “Boys,” he said, “your mother is real sick. The doctors think the cancer is spreading, and it is affecting her spine and more. The doctors warned us this could happen, remember?”
I lost it. “He said it could come back, and it could spread.” We—or at least I—didn’t believe that would ever happen. This was Mom. Kind, devout, God-fearing Mom. A just and loving God would never let her suffer the pain and anguish of another bout with cancer.
Josh asked what I couldn’t. “Is Mom going to die?”
Suddenly, he was the innocent, scared little brother I remembered from only a couple of years before. Gone was the larcenous preteen with the sarcastic defiant attitude.
“I don’t know.”
Those words enraged me even more. I wanted to jump up from my seat, reach across the table, and grab Dad by the collar and scream, “Liar!” I gripped the edge of the wooden bench as hard as I could, afraid if I let go, I might actually strangle him, right then and there. He always preached about a good and caring God. Where was that merciful God now?
Rage engulfed my whole body. My face was on fire, and my head was about to explode. It was a crazy reaction, but I was more angry than I was scared.
“What’s next?” I snarled as I half gathered my wits.
“They can’t do radiation, and they can’t give her more chemo because her liver is failing. If God doesn’t intervene, I’m afraid we will lose her.” Dad spoke in a low, flat manner, as though he had rehearsed the lines a hundred times.
“Mom can’t die,” I said. “She’s…she’s…well, she’s Mom. If anyone ever deserved to be healed, it’s her. Isn’t it, Dad? Isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer right away, which in itself was my answer.
“Why would God let someone as nice and kindhearted as Mom die before her time? Why would He do that?” I heard myself shout.
“It doesn’t always work like that. God is sovereign, and his ways are perfect, even when we can’t understand his reasoning. If He does take her—”
“Noooo!” I screamed as I lunged across the table and took a handful of Dad’s jacket in each hand, pulling his torso across the table and his feet off the ground.
“Todd, no!” screamed Josh. “Leave him alone. Don’t hurt him.”
I let him go, fully expecting a stern lecture followed by some appropriate severe punishment, but he didn’t say anything. He pulled on the bottom of his jacket to straighten out the wrinkles my fists had left on his lapels.
I circled the table and sat on the bench beside him. “Dad, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” I credited the explosion of intense rage to my inner dark monster.
Dad took my hands in his and held them tight. I wanted him to tell me everything would be all right, but he lowered his eyes and stood silent.
I said. “You preached a whole series of sermons on how God is love.” I was beginning to tear up. “Jesus heals people, doesn’t he? Isn’t that true?”
“We need to pray for God’s will to be accomplished through this, Son. God knows all, and He knows best. We must—”
I interrupted. “But how can it be best for Mom to die? What possible
good could ever come from that?”
“Son, God sees the end from the beginning, and the beginning from the end. We don’t.”
From that point on all I heard was, “We don’t know…blah blah blah…we make assumptions…blah…blah…blah…bring glory to God…blah…blah…blah.”
Nothing makes sense. If God is love, and He’s our heavenly father, how could he let Mom suffer and die? How could a father let his child die?
I said, “You know, Dad, I’m starting to wonder if God cares what happens to us.”
“Of course, He does. He—”
I stood, spun a one-eighty, and tromped off. I needed some time to myself. As I turned the corner of the house, I collided with Drake. He was picking figs from one of the five trees Granny had in the side yard, one for each of her children.
“Where ya goin’ in such a rush? What happened? Did your hotsy-totsy girlfriend call and order you to come spend the holidays with her?”
“Go to hell.”
He stared at me, his eyes wide and his jaw agape. He didn’t deserve that. It was the monster inside me.
“I’ve gotta get out of here for a bit,” I said.
Drake hesitated, then asked, “Want some company?”
“Not really.”
“No biggie. But later, if you like, we can go drown some worms in Lake Todralee.”
Todralee was a half-acre pond at the far end of Granny Wall’s property. Todralee was a word we cousins made up by combining our three names.
Granny and Great-Grandpa Wall had bought the house, an old rusty metal barn, and ten acres eight miles from Houston’s city limits fifty years ago. Now, the property was well inside the city and worth half a million dollars. A fact Uncle Mike used to point out every chance he got.
Even before his great fall, he never came to Granny’s Thanksgivings. He always had a television taping to do, or a three-night revival in Fort Dodge, Iowa, or somewhere. He would complain, “What does one old lady need with all that land anyway? She ought to sell off the extra property. She’s getting too old to keep up such a big place.” Everyone knew Uncle Mike’s concern was more for the money than Granny. She loved her home and every inch of the property. I think she’d rather sell off one of us great-grandkids than a single square foot of her land.
Half the Distance Page 6
