I cherished these moments because it belonged to us. No one else. Our porch silence.
Papa Hart said a porch is to be useful for two things, and two things only. Storytelling or silence. No arguing, no lies, no crying, no gossip. Storytelling or silence. That’s it. Papa Hart told many a story on that old porch while Mag and I listened intently, learning about family trees, our in particular, since it was full of interesting characters, along with a few outlaws. Mag was convinced and embarrassed at the same time. She thought for sure her reputation would be ruined if anyone found out we were kin to outlaws like Bonnie and Clyde or Jesse James. Papa Hart said we wasn’t but it didn’t change Mag’s mind.
We heard stories of side spitting, gun toting, bullet brazen renegades, always one step ahead of the law, a finger on the trigger and sleeping with one eye open. There were gunfights, bootlegging, murders, womanizing, cheating, knife slicing, fist fighting, poker playing, dice throwing hucksters on every single tree branch. I even heard that cousins married cousins way back when and that freaked me plum out. My ears burned at the mere thought of marrying my first cousin Murdoc Hart. I’d just as soon be hanged. This insight into my family tree only further convinced me that our family broke off from one of the Amalekites tribes. Preacher Lester said that every single family was either from one of two tribes, the tribe of Jacob or the tribe of Esau. A thousand years ago, two brothers didn’t see eye to eye, an argument ensued about a bowl of beans and a namesake and things have been turned upside down ever since. I heard the Hart family fights started on less and lasted longer, except for those that were alcohol related. Alcohol makes you forget what you were fighting about so no one can discuss it the next day. I pretty sure that’s why dad buys Lena MD 20/20 so she won’t discover his speeding tickets. I’m not sure it’s working—either that or Lena is immune to alcohol.
I discovered a lot of farmers and bootleggers in our tree, whom Papa Hart called business professionals. The most highly prized possession was not corn, beans or potatoes, it was corn whiskey, no less, which was cleverly hidden and properly disguised behind the corn patch. It was then, I learned about the highly sought after art of manufacturing. He explained how to make a steel to brew the liquid gold, measurements, temperatures, mechanical ups and downs, all right down to the last precise detail. He assured me I could be successful if all other business adventures fail. Papa Hart said “It was a great contribution to society.”
“But isn’t it illegal and can’t you go to jail?” I was taking mental notes and didn't see myself looking good in stripes so I had to be sure, down to the last detail.
“Well then, don’t get caught.” He said laughing. Our conversation went back to the tribal fathers, where one bowl of beans produced generations of heathens. Maw Sue said the Amalekites are still around today causing havoc, the labeled ones, Hellenistic who drink, curse, gamble or associate with the likes of women named Jezebel. People doomed to eternal hell and damnation in the lake of fire according to pulpit preachers. Their tribe produced offspring that was cursed forever which in turn, always lead to famine, tent living, catfish eating and forced tribal marriage to cousins. The only redemption left for these heathen tribal renegades is a water ritual. One must be purged by being dunked under water. Around Pine Log, back in the day, a lot of baptisms were done upstream at the river’s edge where the water is rushing downstream, right towards the Saw Flats community. This is also the white trash of Pine Log. A large, impoverished village, barely there shanty shacks, no plumbing, men with no teeth, shirtless with no job and living off welfare. They sit in lawn chairs on porches holding rifles. Half dressed women stand behind them with an inflated belly and a child on each hip and a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. Malt liquor cans pelt the landscape like hail stones. Being a community right on the river, these poor people have no choice but to swim in the sins of Pine Log's finest.
If Papa Hart isn’t telling a tale of some sorts, it is quite plausible that you’ll find us stuffing our guts with something sweet while we listen to the sounds of porch silence. Our silence.
“If you have a story to tell, then tell it. If not, then shut up and listen to someone else.” He'd say. Papa Hart believed you could learn a lot more with a shut mouth. “Time and place.” He’d say, “Time and place.” I thought he was the wisest man on earth. He’d been to war and survived. Through the great depression and survived. Bootlegging outlaws and survived. Maw Sue’s rants and survived. The porch was simply a passing of time wrapped with love, simplicity and contentment. An inner peace between jaw crunches. Storytelling or silence.
While we sat in our silence, someone would honk. We’d wave. Swing. Crunch. At other times, Papa Hart would get deep in thought, caught up walking a road in the mind, thinking about this or that, who knows. I watched him real curious, wishing I could travel with him, but our mind roads are places only we can travel. Maybe he was thinking about war, or times spent with Dell. I’d get lonely, so I’d start walking down my own road, in mind, in memory, in travels. At other times, my head would be spinning with questions, so I’d have to talk to keep from going crazy inside, inside the house that doesn’t exist. I couldn’t help it, I just blurted out a question that had gnawed at me for months. Especially since Dell left.
“Papa Hart. Where you going when you die?”
He never looked up. He didn’t stop the swing from swinging. He didn’t pause or think. Without hesitation, life kept moving on the porch. The answer rolled off his tongue like slobber dripping from a dog’s mouth in the hot afternoon sun. Expected. Normal. Routine. In one swift motion his chin jutted upwards towards the sky, and his forefinger pointed towards a cloud.
“Straight up…Willodean.” He said. “Straight up.” He had a glow about him as if he saw things I couldn’t. Something in me shifted. I lost focus of all surroundings. The rift left me transcended in time. With his boots, he lifted the swing back and then let it rush forward. For a split second, I felt the energetic hand of connection, the divine powers that be, and the dirt dancer. Papa Hart swung higher and higher. I grabbed hold of the chain to hold on. My stomach did a flip-flop and we rushed backwards again, then forward pressing the air with our cheeks.
“I’m just waiting on my escort, Willodean.” Papa Hart glanced towards the horizon.
Escort? I dove into my library room of information inside the house. Did I miss something? What in the world is an escort?
“Willodean, everyone has an angel to lead us home. An escort to come get us and take us to our eternal home. A place where we belong.”
“What? Really?” I said a little delighted but also puzzled. “Are they like the angles Maw Sue talks about? The Rectors? Is it the same thing?” I grabbed some whoopers out of the carton and ate a few, my chomping growing loud in my ears.
“Rectors?” He sighed and looked at me strange. Kinda like he does Maw Sue. “I tell you what, that woman, I swear…” I couldn’t imagine Papa Hart having to deal with the fact that Dell was dead but her mother was still alive, and pestering him to death. The anger in each of them was fluidly felt by all. It had gotten worse, way worse than all the back and forth banter everyone was used to.
“Rectors? What in tarnation is a Rector? What kind of hogwash is she telling?”
“Ummm, the old stories.” I said. I wasn’t sure how much I should share considering it was our secret. “According to Maw Sue, Rectors are angels.”
“Well, then I guess it’s the same thing…escorts, rectors, angels…hell, I guess it doesn’t matter none as long as you get there.”
Papa Hart didn’t fully agree or disagree because that would mean getting on her good side, which wasn’t going to happen. From my view of things, both of them are hard headed and more alike than they are different.
“I don’t like to say goodbye.” Papa Hart said out of nowhere. It was unexpected. My heart stung. The swing eek’d a shrill. His face turned and his eyes shifted.
“What do you mean Papa Hart?” My heart was beating in my
ears waiting on him to answer. All our talks were like this—him talking, my ears excited to hear him, listening and then asking questions.
“Everybody says go in.” He said motioning with his hands. Go in? What is he talking about?
“Go on…go on in there, they say.” His hand pointed to nothing again. “Go ahead, say your goodbyes, speak your last words. Stand at the coffin, say goodbye. Done. That’s it. Why do they say that? Who started this goodbye thing?” I fell into a hush listening to his tone of voice, dark and disturbed unlike his stories before.
“I just ain’t gone do it.” He said bluntly shaking his head. “There IS no goodbye.” His vowels were ripe and sharp. “There ain’t. Why should I say goodbye when there ain’t one…just ‘cause people say you should.” His fingers fanned the air. “Where did that nonsense come from anyhow? There is no Goodbye Willodean. No goodbye.” The fluidity of his words had me spellbound. I sat deep in thought for a minute or so, soaking in the reality of his words, feeling them burn in my chest.
“I feel the same way.” I said. And it was true. Now that I thought about it, we were alike in many ways. “Maybe I get that from you, huh?”
“Maybe so.” He said. “Dell leaving—well…” He sighed real long and emptied until I was sure I lost him. It was easy to lose himself thinking about Dell.
“I don’t know how to live without her Willodean. It seems my whole life existed around her, didn’t exist without her. It changed me is what it done. A piece of me was encased inside that casket, just like those biscuits. She took it with her…and some of me too. Maybe that’s why I did the biscuit thing, in a way, you know, as a token. Cause the other half of my soul was attached to hers, someway, somehow and there just wasn’t any separating that. Sometimes, it’s strange ‘cause I feel it in my gut, that feeling that she is just waiting. Waiting on me to join her. That’s why I refuse to say goodbye. ‘Cause Willodean.” He nudged me on the leg. “There is no goodbye, only reunions, and until then, just waiting. Waiting on my escort.”
He pressed his back against the plank boards and pushed off with his feet. It sent the swing rushing forward. “Straight up Willodean.” He said pointing upwards. “Straight up.”
The swing whooshed forward then back again. I hung on for dear life. The divine dirt dancer made an appearance in my mind, inside the house, stirring up wind and storms and debris. His breath filled me with immeasurable intensity.
“When the time comes, I’m going straight up!” Papa Hart’s voice fell into a soft misery. A spark of his eyes longed for the grave and then he began walking the lonely road of his past, the well-worn road of his memory, where everyone was and everyone is, as they always were—and no one says goodbye. It was a minute or so later, and I was on the last of the whoppers when I felt him poke me in my tickle spot.
“Don’t worry yourself so much.” He said.
“Heeeyyyyyyy!” I squirmed and fought his tangled fingers. I laughed till I had no breathe.
“It ain’t time for my escort yet, missy. I ain’t dying anytime soon. Why all the seriousness? This porch ain‘t gone be silent if I have anything to do with it. Not yet anyway.”He got up and stretched. “Lord. I got work to do. Don’t you have a tree to climb?” He turned and swatted me on the leg. “And don’t break my limbs.”
He disappeared inside and I went back to my tree climbing, pondering life and death, Escorts and Rectors. How will I die I wondered? What will it feel like? Did we float in the sky like a balloon or fly like a bird? Do we vanish and go poof? Eek, eek. The swing let out a violent squeal I didn’t care to imply what it meant. Death warrants rambled through my head as if God himself was handing out tickets.
CRAWFISHING
Mag is my true blue, no imagination sister. Just bling and dollar signs. She did exactly what she wanted as a child, to grow up and get the hell out of this town. She centers her life in material things, social status and money and left us southern sap squatters behind. She got a degree and spends every dime she has to look and play the part. She may fool a lot of people but I see right through her shiny diamond disguise. Besides, she’s only twenty miles over in the next town, it’s not like another country or something. I liked her best when she was a Greek goddess of destruction creating storms when least expected. At least she was true to herself. Her childhood self. I wonder what happened to Mag? Sometimes, on rare occasions, across the room we lock eyes, blue to blue and I see it—the lost empty shell of Mag and I want to ask her. Do you feel it too? The empty void? Are you trying to touch the fingers of God like me? If she is—she hides it well and handles it a lot better than I do. I’ll give her that much.
Lena never worries about Mag. She never looked at her in the way she looked at me. Sometimes, I am jealous and I shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t care really, but I do. I have an inkling to go climb the wondering tree right now. It’s right outside the door. It would be easy to do. And I could take Mag with me. Would she go? Or is she too good, too grown up for that now. I wonder about these things without the wondering tree. I hear Lena in her element, her kitchen lair, rattling dishes and cabinets.
Mag and I are sitting in the living room, cross legged on the old rug. The same rug we made pallets, watched roller derby, midnight special, cartoons, and played with dolls. Mag dumps an old cedar box full of pictures on the floor. We prepare to engage in the death ritual. It’s what all families do when someone is taken from them. When they are left behind, numb and have to fill in the void with whatever pieces they can. I can barely accept what it means. To participate means he’s gone. To look at each picture means he’s dead. My heart is beating in my ears, growing hot. Scattered remnants, blocks of paper, people pieces lay on the rug. Canvas faces, days, minutes, hours of life captured in a single moment, forever held on a 4x6 print. Each one stings me. All these years I longed to die, to be put out of my mindless misery and yet, death leaves me alive, and instead takes the ones I love. Twelve words. Three lines. Knife to the heart. Bitter crumbs.
As of three days ago, my life was moving in a steady forward motion, for the first time, unstuck, one tick-tock at a time, chugging along in grueling therapy sessions, room to room, horror to horror, confrontations, examinations, a host of wallpaper Branson’s to confront, magnifying contents, listening to recordings, journaling blood to ink, magic to mayhem, curses to blessing and more. And then it unraveled like an old sweater. Life came undone. Papa Hart took his last breath—and I lost mine. I still can’t breathe. I'm blue and colorless and stiff, not really here at all. Not really anywhere. My heart continues to believe he’ll shuffle through that door any minute. Here I go again, the hoping for hope Willodean.
“Too bad, so sad.” The shadows mock, whisper and use my affliction against me. I hear a noise outside. I quickly glance up at the front door. He’s coming back. It's him. This is all a bad dream. He’ll walk through the door any minute now and plop down in dad’s ugly green recliner and say in his gruff voice, “Girls, did I tell you the story about…” and then the world would return to normal, our normal.
Mag and I would be kids sitting at his feet, on the porch, for hours on end listening to his stories, traveling across time and space, to colder, icy climates. In the mountains of Italy, while fighting a gruesome war, waiting out enemies in foxholes while ice forms in the tree limbs and when it turned pitch of dark, they’d snap off and sound like gunfire. He'd jump up from half-sleep, not seeing, not knowing—just prayer for daylight and survival. “Survive another day” he’d say. Then we’d travel to the sandy beaches of the Redland riverbank with a cane pole drowning some minnows and waiting on the fish to bite. He’d show us how to perfect our casting skills and how to feel a fish on the other end and set the hook. By nightfall, we’d sit at a campfire and study the stars and the constellation of the black sky and learn how those three wise men found Jesus. We were in awe of his stories. Then we’d go back to war and learn the proper skills of survival. The war did that to Papa Hart, make him think the world was one step away f
rom annihilation. He said the past often repeated itself and it worried him, but he hoped he was flat out wrong. He lingered long and hard on the depression era when he was a kid being born in 1920. His family always had food, little of it, but when others stood in soup lines they produced a garden and worked for their food, chickens, cows, pigs, and wild hunting. “Survive another day.” He’d say. Then he’d teach us gardening skills for this very reason. He said when the shit hit the fan, his grandkids, by God, would know how to survive, plant crops and avoid the soup lines and government handouts. But his favorite topic was the wherewithal and gumption to make a whiskey steel practically from nothing. He prided himself on this. “You just never know when that snake of prohibition might rear its ugly head.” He’s say right after he took a big ‘ole swig of the stuff. I couldn’t help but think if it happened today, in the outskirts of Pine Log, they’d be a rebellion, an uprising like none other. People like their liquor, that’s for sure.
He taught us the art of concealment, how to hide that sucker behind a corn patch, ‘cause the government was blood suckers and they'd try to take away a man's rights to drink or do whatever the hell he wanted. Fermentation was thereby a process of the Lord’s doing, grapes, barley, corn and various other products. It was good common sense for what ails a man, no matter the predicaments of life, come what may or something like that. He’d end his speech with, “Good things grow in the dark girls. Remember that. Survive another day.” Then he’d take a swig of his Holy juice and say, “Whoowee, this must have been in the dark a long time.” He’d laugh a hearty chuckle, light his tobacco pipe with a sweeter than sweet smell and pull out a box of malted milk balls for us to munch on.
“To bad, so sad. He’s gone.” The shadows say, drifting inside the living room and piercing my ears with their evil heckles. A gut punch. The sounds, the memories, so sweet, so bitter—I may never recover. I will never hear his voice again, no stories, no laughter, no sweet smell of his tobacco pipe, no more traveling, no more malt balls, no more. How will I survive another day? The silence we shared—gone. The thought renders me mad. No one shared what we had. It was ours. Our silence. It made me feel special. It was our thing. Was there something he forgot to tell me? Did he miss a story along the way? Will I survive if the awful, dreadful ever happens? I feel a big whole in my heart, replaced with panic and desperation. The air sifts through the empty spaces inside me, wind through a crackle shell. Mag dumps the second box of ‘their all dead and you’re next’ 4x6 paper blocks out on the rug. People pieces. Generations of folks that remind me of the grave, that life is short and what we leave behind, we need to get it done. Right now, before it’s too late.
WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) Page 39
