Up the Devil's Belly

by Rhett DeVane

  Piddie sighed. “Ever’thing’s fallin’ into place, I reckon. Evelyn seems to be blossomin’ with her clothin’ design business. And, Joe, bless his heart, is takin’ over the cookin’. He even mentioned to me not too long back; he was entertainin’ the notion of openin’ a little breakfast and lunch diner uptown. Can you imagine that?”

  Piddie paused and took a deep breath. “As to that gang at the Triple C, I know Elvina will keep them in line. They’ve been like family to me, and I know Elvina will need them as much as they’ll need her.”

  Piddie cleared her throat. “Now, this is serious, so lissen up. I want you all to keep a close watch over that Hank Henderson. He’s bad seed. I just feel it deep in my bones. I hoodwinked him, I’ll confess it to you, let on I knew somethin’ ’bout his affairs that’d ruin him in town. I do hope the Good Lord will forgive me that little sin. I only did it to help Jake. Hank was causin’ a problem with the city commission over the rezonin’ for the mansion. I just couldn’t sit on the porch and watch that blowed-up so ’n’ so throw his weight around. Jake and Mandy had their hearts set on openin’ the Triple C, and it wasn’t fair what Hank was tryin’ to pull. That man has a load of hate festerin’ inside him, and I pity the poor soul that gets caught in his crosshairs. Y’all haf to take up where I left off.”

  Piddie’s voice grew soft. “My little Chinaberry…it hurts my heart to think of leavin’ her behind. But that’s the way of nature. The babies come in, and us oldsters take our leave. Sarah and Josh saved Evelyn’s sanity; I tee-totally believe that. Byron’s boys are too far off up there in Ohio, and pretty much grown up. But, I’m here to tell you, I beheld a change in Evelyn when Josh was born. Then, you brought Sarah home. Evelyn’s finally settled herself on the fact that Karen’s gone from us, as a relative, anyways. Both them young’uns are a blessin’.

  “I ain’t leavin’ much of value behind. Never was one, much, for jewels or finery. I’ve been rich in ways you can’t buy from a store. So, I’d like to tell you some stories — recount my life for you — to save for Sarah and Josh in case they want to know what their old aunt was like, since the memories of my life are all I got left to pass on to y’all…”

  The remainder of the first tape and the entire second tape were filled with Aunt Piddie’s life story, starting with her first recollections as a poor country child in rural south Alabama. Often, her voice would crack with emotion and the strain of weariness.

  “Whew! Well, I reckon I’ve pretty much rambled on and on for a good while now. I know I’ve left stuff out. Evelyn and Joe can fill in the blank spots for you. I love you, Hattie gal. You’ll have a guardian angel watchin’ over you and yours all the days of your life, if I have my way ’bout it.”

  The hiss of silence followed her last words. A wave of gratitude for my great fortune of family washed over me. God was in his heaven. At least for the moment, everything was as it should be.

  A woman tends to marry the likeness of her father, so the saying goes. Mr. D’s knack for invention and tinkering were mirrored in Holston’s writing ability. He could take a report on leaf mold and create a page-turner. Like my father, Holston had a knack with children. He understood Sarah on a level I couldn’t comprehend. They spent hours simply hanging out together. Though she greeted me with enthusiasm and affection, it was clear she was quickly becoming a daddy’s girl.

  Another trait common to the important men in my life surfaced on the beach trip. Holston hated sand in the bed and didn’t much care for it on his person. I’d awakened several times to a frantic overhaul of the sheets, fits of frenzied brushing and linen shaking. This would satisfy him for a few hours until some of my sand grains somehow migrated to his side of the bed for a sneak attack, and another wave of sheet shaking would ensue.

  Though I had become a regular beach bum as soon as I could legally drive, I could recall only one occasion when my family had visited the coast. On the see-Florida educational tour, a requirement for both Bobby and me, the family stayed briefly in a small beachside motel on Daytona Beach. No one slept a lot that night, with my father’s sheet shaking and muttered curses. I suppose that’s the reason my mother looked forward to the yearly mountain trip. The Carolinas provided a cool escape from the spirit-breaking heat of north Florida, and the mountain dirt had no effect on the family’s sleep.

  Before returning to the cottage, I perched on a small dune fringed by sea oats and gazed out over the calm ocean. A pod of porpoise dipped and dived parallel to shore in the deep water just shy of the first sandbar. Lines of pelicans sailed by on their way to feed on schools of minnows churning in the shallow water. Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply of the misty salt air. The gentle lap of waves provided a meditation mantra. I remained for several minutes before the need for caffeine sent me toward the Hadler House. The aroma of freshly-brewed coffee greeted me.

  “Mornin’, hon,” Holston called out from the kitchen table.

  “Loo-lah!” Sarah said. She was busy wearing breakfast. I’m pretty sure the inspiration for oatmeal facial masks originated from a mother watching her child try to eat with a spoon.

  I smiled. “Sorry I left you guys for so long.”

  “We got your note.” He motioned to the tape player in my hand. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Better than ever.”

  Beach 99.3 Oldies Station carried us across the twin bridges to the mainland. Two things I love most about marriage: I can pass gas and belch out loud if I need to, and I can sing without being in the shower. Holston’s tone deaf, anyway. He thinks I sound fantastic. Piddie’s words floated into my inner ear as he bleated out his rendition of an old Beach Boys song: Poor man. He’s handsome and sweet as the day is long, but he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket!

  “When you been on this earth long as I have, you think you’ve just about heard tell of every hard thing one person can do to another. But, all it takes is tunin’ into the nightly news to find out some poor fool’s come up with some new way to inflict sufferin’. Some days, I think if I was the Good Lord, I’d be rid of the whole lot of us.”

  Piddie Davis Longman

  Chapter Twenty-two

  September 11, 2001

  The Hill: Hattie

  Life settled back in to the semblance of normal routine in the days following the Lewis family beach trip. Though I missed Aunt Piddie terribly, my interest in family and the daily dramas spicing small town existence buoyed me from the quagmire of sadness. Elvina shouldered the weighty responsibility of being town chief informant, keeping the second phone line at the Triple C zinging with updates on current affairs. Each morning around nine o’clock, she called the Hill to briefly check in before making phone rounds to her list of contacts.

  As I schlepped my way through my forties, I grasped the wisdom of Piddie’s words: if something doesn’t hurt when I wake up in the mornin’, I figure I’m dead. I shuffled into the brightly-lit kitchen, shielding my eyes from the glare of reflected morning light. Passing the dining table, I delivered drive-by kisses to Holston and Sarah and headed to the front porch with a mug of inspiration. Luckily, I could ease into the day at a leisurely pace with strong black coffee at my favorite spot: my father’s old wood-framed woven oak-split-backed rocking chair.

  The porch resembled a seasonal plant sale at Tallahassee’s Native Nurseries. Pots of yellow and rust-colored chrysanthemums rested at the base of each support column. Ten hanging Boston ferns successfully blocked the majority of the view of the yard, and a newly planted butterfly garden partially obscured the bird feeders.

  The plant-populated porch treatment had been compliments of Jake and Jon. Inspired by an overnight trip to Georgia’s Callaway Gardens the previous week, Jake had gone hog-wild ordering flowering fall plants. Not only was the day spa overrun with the cheerful ambassadors of the cooler weather, Piddie’s little house on Morgan Avenue and the farmhouse had suffered the overflow. Jon had dubbed Jake the town’s mum fairy.

  The worn split oak seat of Daddy’s rocker cre
aked as it cradled my body. Spackle wagged good morning, licked my hand once, and flopped down on the floorboards beside the chair. Since he’d moved past the lick-the-human-till-she-drips-slobber puppy stage of his young life, he had become a welcome morning companion.

  The solitude was interrupted by the squeak of screen door hinges. “Hattie, hon? You’d better come inside and watch the news.” Holston’s voice was tinged with shock.

  Network news is no compliment to coffee or breakfast, and I normally avoided the daily recount of the worlds’ woes and evils. Something in Holston’s tone prompted me to leave the peace of the porch and follow him inside.

  “An airplane just hit one of the World Trade Center towers,” he said as we watched one side of the building boil with thick, dark smoke.

  “What’s that plane doing?” Barely had the question left my lips when the jet disappeared from view. A ball of flame erupted from the second tower.

  Coffee spilled from the mug in my hands. “Oh, my God! It hit the other building!”

  The ring of the phone made both of us jump.

  “Hattie! Hattie! Turn on the TV!” Elvina yelled when I answered.

  I held the headset away from my ears. “Whoa! Hey! Don’t talk so loud, Elvina.”

  “I’m sorry, Hattie. Oh, God A’mighty! It’s the Armageddon! We’re bein’ attacked!”

  “Elvina…”

  “Lord help us all!”

  “El-vee-na?”

  “Jesus…Son of God, Save us!”

  “EL-VEE-NAAA!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Try to calm down. We don’t know yet what’s really happening.”

  “I gotta go call some folks!” Dead air followed the hang-up click.

  I stared at the phone like it held some clue to world affairs, then threw it onto the couch. “Holston, it just occurred to me. Don’t you have friends who work in one of those buildings?”

  Holston’s face was ashen. He nodded. “89th floor of the North tower.”

  Sensing our frantic mood, Sarah started to whimper. Holston removed her from the highchair and cooed comforting words into her ear. We sat, huddled on the couch, requiring the warmth of human contact.

  “This just in,” Dan Rather, CBS commentator, reported, “at approximately 9:48 AM the Pentagon was hit by a jet airliner.”

  Holston frowned. “What the…?”

  The news broadcast continued. “FAA has ordered the immediate grounding of all domestic flights…”

  As we watched, numb and frightened, the tragic drama continued to unfold. The damaged South tower collapsed at 9:55. Shortly afterwards, the news of a downed flight eighty miles southeast of Pittsburgh interrupted the stream of information. At 10:29, the North tower collapsed in a billowing cloud of smoke and rubble. A video stream of trapped employees jumping from the doomed buildings and scores of ash-covered refugees fleeing to safety reduced me to tears. Sarah wailed in Holston’s arms.

  “It’s like watching a Steven Spielberg movie,” Holston said softly. “It just doesn’t seem like it could be happening.” His eyes shut against the terrible images. “This time of day, there must be hundreds of people in there, just starting to work…”

  The first time I witnessed my husband in tears was immediately following my cancer surgery. For the second time since I’d met him, Holston Lewis broke down and sobbed. With Sarah sandwiched between us, we held each other and rocked back and forth until the love we shared brought a degree of calm.

  Hank Henderson stood beside the king-sized bed with his crossed arms propped on his distended belly. Two large Pullman suitcases lay opened on the burgundy comforter.

  “This time tomorrow, counselor,” he announced to the silence of the tomb-like bedchamber, “you’ll be strolling down Miami Beach.”

  No more Chattahoochee with its small town politics. No more obligatory social functions, mind-numbing church services, or dip-shit secretaries with beans for brains. No more Daniel H. Henderson, attorney at law.

  Hank allowed himself to slip into the well-rehearsed daydream. His tanned, lean body cushioned in a chaise lounge beside a kidney-shaped pool. Tropical plants dripping with exotic blooms. Young, fresh-faced, well-paid servants catering to his every need. He stroked his chin. Perhaps, he’d grow a beard to accentuate his face.

  Hank smiled. Truly, money could open any door. The years of planning and scheming, now all coming together. The time had finally arrived, better than any Christmas morning he had ever dreamed of when he was a kid. He could put aside the shady business contacts and child-fondling perverts who grappled like vultures for his homemade videos. He could ditch the gut-wrenching worry over his idiot cousin’s inept philandering.

  Tomorrow morning, September 12, 2001, would be a day he’d stamp in his memory as the date of his official rebirth. He’d leave the office for a routine business meeting, never to return. Hank chuckled to himself as he chunked a stack of underwear into one of the suitcases. Wouldn’t that get them all going in this town? Did you hear? Hank Henderson just up and disappeared! By the time the authorities started to search, he’d be on his way to his new home, deep in the tropical jungle paradise of Costa Rica.

  The man leaving Miami airport would no longer answer to Hank.

  “Stanton Brett Johnson, Jr.” Hank repeated his new name. “Originally from Birmingham, Alabama. Made good in the tech stock revolution of the nineteen eighties before the economy went sour. Relocated to Costa Rica. Retired to a life of leisure and scholarly contemplation.”

  Professionally forged documentation for Stanton Johnson—birth certificate, credit cards, driver’s license, and passport—was carefully tucked in a manila envelope inside the leather briefcase. The thought of leaving the house his father built stirred no emotion. Other than a few pictures of his mother, little of the family homeplace was tagged for inclusion in his new life. With the exception of the antique dueling pistols, one Glock, and his new SigSauer, the cherished gun collection would remain behind, locked in the trunk of the Mercedes.

  The automobile’s new owner, the same business associate who’d procured his documentation, had transferred funds for the sale of the guns and Mercedes into one of Hank’s off shore bank accounts. The fine German sedan would disappear from its designated spot in long-term parking within an hour of Hank’s departure. Because of its inherent value, the vehicle would be spared the violence of being reduced to parts at a distant chop shop. Hank felt a slight twinge of remorse when he thought of his car in the hands of some prestigious south Florida drug lord.

  No matter. The new Mercedes waited for him at the docks in Miami like an expectant lover. Following his inspection and approval, the sedan would be shipped to its final destination. Stanton Brett Johnson, Jr., after all, was known for his taste in fine automobiles.

  Hank tried his new name on his tongue. “Stanton? Stan? No, Stanton. Stan sounds too much like faggot middle class.”

  The portable phone on the bedside trilled. “Yes?”

  Maxie’s voice was barely audible. “Mr. Henderson?”

  Hank sighed deeply. “Maxie, I told you yesterday, you can take the morning off today. I won’t be in ’till after lunch.”

  “Yes, sir. I know… I mean…”

  “Why are you calling me, then? I’m in the middle of some very important business!”

  “Umm…sir? I thought I’d check to see if you’re watching the news this mornin’.”

  Irritation knotted inside of him, and he felt the familiar burn in the pit of his stomach. “Noooo…I’ve been a little too busy to watch television.”

  “You might want to turn it on. We’re under attack!”

  Without bothering to formally end the conversation, Hank threw the headset on the bed and reached for the remote control. As he watched the replay and aftermath of the terrorist attacks aired in continuous video from the Cable News Network, the impact of the nation’s crisis upon his personal plans settled in.

  “Well, I’ll be got-damned!”

  �
�It’s easy as pie to let yourself fall into despair. There’s plenty enough goin’ on in this old world to warrant sadness, that’s for dog-gone sure. But, myself, I like a challenge. Try my level best to keep a cheerful outlook about me. Keep findin’ things to be happy about. I don’t have to look very far to find a blessing.”

  Piddie Davis Longman

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Hattie

  The initial shock waned, and the American people struggled to return to a wobbly sense of normality. Go back to work was the new media-endorsed battle cry. Routine activities provided a sense of focus at a time when everything seemed off center and blurry around the edges.

  Though I would have gladly canceled my annual follow-up visit to Dr. Lucas Thomas’s office in Tallahassee, I did the patriotic thing and kept my nine o’clock appointment for the sigmoidoscopy. One must make certain sacrifices. Any cancer survivor can attest to this fact; once a doctor facilitates your cure, he welcomes you into the medical family with open arms as if he’s reluctant to see you go your own way. Following the colon cancer surgery, I had become familiar with my physician and his staff, to the point of calling them all by their first names and inquiring about their families.

  After the procedure, I bid a fond farewell to the area surrounding the hospital and picked my way through midmorning traffic on North Monroe Street. The congestion was the aspect of city dwelling I missed least. A rush hour jam in Chattahoochee consisted of less than ten cars lined up at the signal light in front of the mental hospital after shift change. Luckily, I’d have time to grab lunch and beat it out of town before the deluge of food-seeking drivers hit the streets.

  The woman in the car behind me was dancing in her seat, hands tapping out the beat on the steering wheel. When her lips began to move, I realized we were singing along to the same song on the local oldie stations. For three blocks before she turned onto a side street, we sang a duet — two middle-aged strangers living separate lives.