by Skip Horack
It only takes a few minutes for Ryan and me to stuff his clothes and medical stuff into a couple of paper shopping bags. I see him throw in a battery-powered rubber something that looks like a baby’s arm, and my stomach gives a quick roller-coaster bounce. The whole time Ryan’s steady asking me where we’re going, but I won’t let on. “The excitement,” I tell him, “is in the wondering.”
We go outside, and I open the door on the side of the RV. Silver steps drop down, then Ryan sheds his jacket and rolls closer. His wheels hit up against the Winnebago, and he leans forward, grabs hold of the rail that runs alongside the magic stairway. I hurry over to help him, but he waves me away. “No,” he says. “I can do this.”
I take a step back and give him his space. Both his hands are still gripping the rail. He pulls himself out of the chair, and his body sort of falls and spins all at once. He’s lying sideways on those dirty stairs, and so again I rush to him. ”Come on and let me help you,” I tell him.
“Stop it,” he says.
So I do nothing. Ryan slides himself up into the RV, then elbow-crawls like a soldier all the way to the front—me following right behind in case he decides that he needs me after all. He situates himself in the shotgun captain chair, and I see that his T-shirt is all stretched out and dirty now. He’s breathing heavy from the effort, and there’s sweat collecting along the scar on the back of his pale neck. “See?” he says.
I duck back outside and collect his things. The wheelchair is sitting there empty and I fold it up flat. The sun is setting when I ease onto I-59, and finally I let Ryan know where it is that we’re headed. He rolls his eyes when I tell him that we’re going to see Rock City.
“You’ve been there?” I ask.
“Naw.”
“How’s that possible? Everybody’s been there.”
“Not my family,” he says. “We didn’t go places.”
We stop for dinner north of Fort Payne, just a few miles after crossing the Georgia line. Andy rings my cell phone just as I’m pulling into the parking lot of a bar, this sprawled-out roadhouse claiming to serve food. I step outside to take the call, leave Ryan sitting there in the captain chair while I talk to my husband.
I already know from the radio that Alabama won—stayed undefeated—and Andy sounds drunk as the night we met Snake Stabler in the Flora-Bama. “Where you at?” he asks me. “I done tried the house twice already.”
I tell him that I’m out running a few errands, and he doesn’t press.
“Well, I’m just checking in,” says Andy. “We’ll be heading back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Take your time. No rush.”
I hear some laughter in the background and imagine a party that’s probably not so different from the one Andy and the boys are really at. In my head I see women who are still only girls sitting two to an ice chest and teasing my shy sons. They have pretty brown legs and crimson ribbons in their hair. I picture them sipping big plastic cups of gin and tonic poured over lots and lots of crushed ice and cut lime. Good luck to you girls. Enjoy yourselves now. I mean it. I really, really do. We say our half-assed I-love-yous, and then I shut off the phone.
What’s a plain old Saturday evening to you and me is Steak Night to the folks at the Carousel Bar and Grill. A teenage waitress shows us to our table, just a couple of steps from this little circular stage that’s revolving three-sixty, spinning round so slow that I barely notice it moving. No band’s in sight—thank God—but there’s a card table set up on the stage. Four men are playing what looks to be poker, that all-in hold’em you see on TV. They sit still as statues, their faces hidden behind wraparound sunglasses and these veils of camouflage mesh.
I glance over at Ryan. “What the hell?”
“Facemasks,” he says. “For turkey hunting.”
“But why?”
“To keep from giving away their tells.”
“It’s okay for them to be gambling in here?”
Ryan shrugs and we order drinks, sign on for two specials, done medium. In a few minutes our waitress returns with a cold bottle of low-carb beer for me, a straight glass of Absolut for Ryan. He likes beer plenty, but it’s a hassle for him, as fluids lead to pissing—call for things that he doesn’t want to mess with here tonight, things like catheters and leg bags. He sips his vodka, and I sip my beer. Waiting for our food, watching those slow-spinning men play illegal cards above us, I can’t help thinking about how much they look like wraiths. Absolute fucking wraiths.
I turn my attention back to Ryan and see that he has torn a cardboard coaster into a dozen small pieces. He told me once how it happened. I wonder sometimes when I’m driving what that must be like, to be rolling down the road and have your whole world explode in a flash of red.
After six or seven rounds I close out, and a sleeveless bouncer gives us permission to camp in the parking lot overnight. If it was a struggle getting Ryan up into the RV before, it’s high comedy now. This time he even lets me help him, but, even still, we’re not getting anywhere fast. Thank God a cowboy is passing by. He’s stumbling a little himself, but between the three of us we’re able to move Ryan into the tiny closet of a bathroom so that he can do his business before bed. The cowboy turns out to be a vet, a Marine like Ryan. Always faithful, those Marines. They exchange slurred semper fis, then he leaves us for that haunted card game.
Ryan’s slumped on the toilet with his clothes on, and I go fetch his things so that he can empty himself out for the night. I come back carrying a big Ziploc full of catheters and latex gloves, lubes and suppositories. Even though I know that he’ll refuse, I ask if he needs my help at all. “I’m a nurse,” I tell him. “Remember?” Ryan shakes his head, then pushes the door shut.
He’s in there for almost an hour. Twice I check on him, and both times he says, Hold on, I’ll be out in a bit. I go outside and look at the stars, come back and fiddle with the radio. I’m listening to light country when at last the bathroom door opens and Ryan comes crawling out. I clear everything out of his way and wait for him on the bed in the cabin. When he climbs up there with me I realize that he’s still a whole lot drunker than I am. He’s in a dark, vodka place—and though I think maybe I want to fool around, he’s not really responding, just wants to sleep. He starts snoring low, and I pull off his shoes, unbuckle his belt, and take down his pants. It’s freezing in the RV, and of course the heater’s broken. I gather up all the bedding that I can find, pile blankets and pillows on top of him, and slide naked into our nest.
I wake early in the half-light of dawn, Ryan twitching beside me. I think maybe he’s having one of his nightmares until my thigh bumps up against his hard-on. I study his face, see that his mouth is set in a tight smile and decide that this is no nightmare. Ryan’s making love to somebody in this dream. We’ve tried plenty but have never been able to do that together. Not once. I lie there watching, and for a while that’s enough. I’m happy just to see him happy. But then something begins to stir, and, looking at him, I can’t bear to be on the sidelines anymore.
Moving real quiet, careful not to wake him, I straddle those thin hips, slip that phantom erection inside of me, and slide across him in slow steady waves, waves that break and recede without ever touching that healthy part of him that might feel me and end this good dream he’s having, this good dream we’re both having. I bite the back of my hand to keep from moaning but don’t quite come before the shame hits and I’m brought to my senses. I roll off him and start to cry. Somehow this of all things is what wakes the boy up. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Were you dreaming?”
“What?”
“Before you woke up,” I say. “Were you dreaming?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I like old movies, pictures like Casablanca and whatnot. I laugh and try to be funny. “Of all the hospitals in all the towns in all the world,” I say.
&nbs
p; It’s eight o’clock in the morning when we pull into the RV lot at Rock City Gardens. Retiree gypsies are up and making breakfast on their Colemans. An old couple stands studying a big map they have spread out across a picnic table; mugs of coffee are steaming in their hands. They look up as we rumble past and wave happily. I wave back, then holler to Ryan, tell him that we’re finally here. He’s in the bathroom again, has been since we left the Carousel an hour ago. He yells something to me that I can’t understand.
I park the Winnebago at a far, empty corner of the lot where no one will bother us. The ticket office opens in a half-hour, and I’m ready to go. This morning while Ryan slept I took a shower, changed into clean underwear and clean clothes. I’m wearing corduroys and a pretty pink fleece, comfortable shoes for walking. I go outside. It’s sweet-aired and chilly. I set Ryan’s wheelchair up at the bottom of the steps, then duck back into the RV to check on him. I figure we’ve got two hours before we have to leave if I want to beat Andy and the boys home from Starkville. I’m not sure I even care about that anymore, but, still, time’s a-wasting.
Inside, the door to the bathroom opens, and I see Ryan sitting there wet-haired and naked. “Can you get me some clothes?” he asks.
“Of course, baby, of course.” I go into the cabin and return with a flannel button-down and a pair of socks, fresh boxers and his Levi’s. Ryan lays himself down on the floor, and we get him dressed without too much effort. He puts on his field jacket, and I tie his shoes, pull a knit watch cap over his head so that his ears won’t get cold. “All set?” I ask.
“All set.”
Ryan moves himself down the stairs feet first, shimmying his ass carefully from step to step like a slow-falling Slinky toy. When he reaches the bottom, I bring over the wheelchair and help him onboard. I look over and see that a dozen retirees are staring at us. I can hear them without hearing them. Bless his heart, they’re saying. That poor young man.
I lock up the Winnebago, and we get moving. I ask Ryan if it would be okay if I push him, and he says sure, go ahead. The asphalt parking lot is as level as a board, and we roll easily along.
I can already see the stone buildings that mark the entrance. Out front a big-eared velvet gnome is shaking hands with a child. He’s wearing curled red slippers and something like a Santa hat. Ryan points at him. “What the hell is that?”
“That’s the mascot,” I tell him. “Rocko, Rocky, I can’t remember which.”
“Jesus” says Ryan. “His nose looks like a dick”
The mascot comes wobbling toward us, but I wave him away.
Rock City Gardens is only partially handicapped accessible. That’s what the cute girl tells us at the ticket counter. Goddamn it to hell. Don’t you cry, Karen. Don’t you fucking cry. We’re shuffled off to the side and promised the escorted VIP tour, round-trip distance just one half mile. Ryan must see that I’m upset. “It’s okay,” he says. “We’ll make the best of it”
And so we go. We follow the Georgia Peach up an employee trail, and along the way we pass off-duty Rockys and chain-smoking taffy vendors. We’re missing out on everything that I remember about this place—sights like the Deer Park and Mushroom Rock, Goblin’s Underpass and the Swing-A-Long Bridge. “But don’t y’all worry,” our guide tells us. She pulls a videotape from her backpack and hands it to Ryan. “Our VIPs are given the Rock City Adventure video of the entire gardens. You’ll just love it” Ryan says great, but I stay quiet. The girl keeps talking, says, “I like to think of this place as the Good Lord’s rock garden.” She tells us how it’s a shame that we just missed out on Rocktoberfest—and then there’s the Christmas lights, we’re two weeks early for those.
Finally we reach the end of our trail, and I push Ryan’s wheelchair to the overlook at Lover’s Leap. So now here we are—me sitting on his lap, him holding the adventure video. Behind us the banners of the Seven States Flag Court pop and crack in the wind. I have to lean close for Ryan to hear me. I pull his head to my chest, peel up his watch cap, and speak into his ear. I point in the direction of Chattanooga. There’s a row of high hills far to the east of the city, and I tell him that’s my home, the place where I was raised.
And then comes the moment that I’ve been practicing for in my dreams. I tell Ryan about the murdered Chickasaw and the Cherokee suicide, Sautee and his lover, Nacoochee. It’s a new story to him, and he smiles—then almost gives Miss Georgia a heart attack when he pretends to throw his adventure video off the cliff. I laugh, and he hands me the tape like he knows it means more to me than him, like he knows that I might actually want to sit down and watch it one day, see all those ridiculous sights that we missed seeing together.
Our guide points at a bare patch of land in the valley below us. “There was a cornfield there until a few days ago,” she says. “That’s where we have the Enchanted Maze.”
“Please,” I say to her. “Let us enjoy this.”
The girl walks off in sort of a huff, and Ryan and I stay there on Lover’s Leap for a long time, holding each other, savoring the view of the autumn mountains. The hardwoods are splashed orange and yellow and red, and I wonder what states we’re looking at, whether you can really see far-off places like Virginia, Kentucky, the Carolinas. For some reason I doubt it, don’t believe that’s possible. We’re sitting in Georgia, and I can recognize the hazy hilltops of Tennessee. Other than that, all I know for certain is that Ryan looks just like a young goddamn Andy, and I can see Alabama.
Alabama, ‘Bama, always ‘Bama.
Little Man
The black bear shows up in our bee yard just as I’m starting to fix breakfast for the old man. It’s one of Daddy’s bad mornings—one of those wipe-his-ass-for-him mornings when he doesn’t know me at all—so I’m already in a sour mood when I look out the kitchen window and see the bear at the far end of the pasture, maybe two hundred yards off. She’s hardly feeding, just taking apart our hives one at a time and being real destructive about it.
I brought the last of the hives back down from Georgia yesterday—pretty much everything I own in the world sits in the buzzing corner of that field. I curse and go for the .308 that I keep by the door. It pays to keep a rifle handy during deer season. You never know when a buck might show up. Coyotes too.
Now a bear, that’s different. Bears are way off-limits, even in the Panhandle. But I don’t know of any law against shooting near a bear, and besides, there’s not a whole lot you can’t get away with this far back in the pinewoods, living at the blind end of three miles of gravel.
I open the kitchen door and sit down on the concrete steps. The rifle is a youth-model Savage that my short ass never really grew out of. I chamber a round and find the bear in the scope, figure that I’ll aim good and high, put a warning shot in the soft trunk of a pine tree growing at the edge of the field. I rest my elbows on my knees and let loose a slow, steady breath as I squeeze off.
The explosion rattles the house, and behind me I hear Daddy give a surprised yelp. I look up and see the honey-crazed bear hasn’t even flinched. She’s still got her face buried in a toppled hive, and between that and the sound of my daddy crying maybe I lose it just a bit. The bear stands up on her hind legs and I chamber another round, put the cross hairs right on her chest. The second shot catches her square and she stumbles back like a man, biting at the wound as if she just got stung by the mother of all bees. The bear dances round for a couple of seconds, then drops to all fours, does a couple of half jumps before collapsing for good.
So now what. I set the rifle down and go inside to my father. He’s spilled corn flakes on the floor, so I clean up real quick. “Everything’s fine,” I tell him. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He nods without looking my way.
My brother lives alone in a trailer next to the house, and I guess he heard me shoot. I’m walking to the bee yard when Randall comes riding over on his four-wheeler. He stops next to the bear and kills the engine. “Damn,” he says. “They’ll put you under the jail for that, Jake.” Still
, I can tell that he’s pleased. Where most people see trouble, Randall’s likely to see an opportunity. He hops off the four-wheeler and kicks at the dead bear. “Well,” he says, “let’s get this girl inside before somebody wanders up on us.”
“What do I want with a bear?” I ask. “Come on and help me bury her.”
“Oh no, no, no,” says Randall. “I can get you good money for that bear.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember when I used to work Sparky’s boat with all those Chinks?”
“Sure,” I say. “So?”
“So one night me and that deck hand Quan shot a cub raiding the dumpster behind Callio’s.” Randall does a quick drumroll on his jeans with the flats of his hands. “Bears are like magic to those people. His grandfather gave us a thousand bucks for it.”
“You never told me that.”
Randall smiles wide like a prom king. “We all got secrets, little man.”
I’m thinking about selling out to Glen Morgan. That’s my secret. I bumped into him the other day at the bank, and one thing led to another. We talked about how lucky we were to have missed out on both Katrina and Rita, then I got to complaining about the honey business. I could see Morgan’s ears perk up. He farms bees himself, is always looking to expand.
My livelihood is honey. I clear fifty, sixty grand a year, and that’s not bad for around here, not bad at all. But I know that I’ll never do much better, and there’s always the danger that I’ll do a lot worse. There’s a ceiling but no real floor, so to speak. Just the other day I was reading up in a trade magazine about this new crisis spreading through Europe, this phenomenon where overnight all of the adult bees will abandon their hive and their queen for no apparent reason. I expect that’ll be coming our way sooner or later. If it’s not one thing it’s another.
