Cole Dust Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

“No trouble at all. Maybe Georgia can give me a cooking lesson.”

  It was agreed they would come on Wednesday and stay over, leaving in the early afternoon Thursday. Cole stayed another two hours. Lottie showed him her roses in back of the house and Georgia showed him a scrapbook of her writings. He decided that the first visit was a success and wanted to leave before the conversation began to fade. So, with Lottie begging him to stay a little longer and an understood nod for Georgia, Cole took his leave.

  Before he could get away though, Lottie insisted Georgia pack him a snack for the trip home. The snack nearly filled a shopping bag and could have fed a carload of people.

  “I’m afraid you’ll need to pick up a soda or something to drink,” Georgia said apologetically.

  “I really appreciate this. But it will take me three days to put away this much food!” Cole laughed.

  “Then we’ll be just in time to fix you some more.” Georgia gave Cole a quick peck on the cheek and moved behind her mother like a shy school girl.

  “You drive careful. Call us when you get home so we’ll know you’re OK.”

  “Yes, Auntie.” The words came from Cole’s lips before he realized he had spoken.

  Lottie reached up and laid her hand on Cole’s cheek. “Family feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does,” Cole said, bending forward to kiss Lottie’s forehead. “It surely does.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It took a little over four hours for Cole to get back to Orvin. He stopped along the way for sodas, toilets, rest stops to stretch his legs, and to sample the food Georgia sent with him. As he pulled into the drive he tried to picture the place the way it would have been when Lottie was born, but the image was shattered when he noticed a flapping piece of paper stuck to the front door. As he got out of the car he gathered the cups and Diet Coke cans and the bag from Georgia.

  He set the bag down and unlocked the front door. Cole pulled the piece of paper from the door trim. A business card fell from the note and fluttered to the porch. “I heard you were thinking of selling! I would sure like to find you a buyer! Give me a call! Tina McCoy” The handwriting was so perky it almost made Cole shudder. Cole shook his head, the little heart above the “i” in Tina was certainly a holdover from the eighth-grade and was definitely not the kind of signature he wanted on the documents he would be signing on the sale of this property. I have a better idea, Cole thought to himself and kicked the door closed behind him.

  Several times on the way home Cole thought of calling Kelly, but one thing or another either distracted or dissuaded him from trying to get his cell phone from his pocket. He stuck the whole bag of food in the refrigerator and checked the clock. It was seven-twenty, five-twenty in California. He scrolled down to Kelly’s number and hit send.

  “Did they love you?”

  Conversations with Kelly always started in the middle. No “Hello”, no “Hi, how are you”, just cut to the meat of the matter. Cole shook his head, he was used to her phone style but it always took him by surprise.

  “It was rough going at first. My cousin Georgia is not what you would call a trusting woman. Thought I was up to something.”

  “You do have a pretty devious look to you.”

  “They are coming on Wednesday to see the house.” Cole began, “Lottie wants to see where she was born.”

  “What’s it feel like, Cole? I mean, to meet people who are your own flesh and blood and all these years you never knew they existed?”

  “You mean besides my own daughter?” Cole laughed. “I’m getting to be a leading authority on the subject.”

  “Boy, was that stupid, but you know what I mean. Do you like them? Is there a family resemblance?” Kelly fired back not missing a beat.

  “Yes in both cases. Lottie is as sweet as can be. Georgia is a lot like me. She started out to be a writer, can you believe it? Lottie has the same overlapping front teeth my dad had.” Cole paused. “It’s weird though. Georgia is very dark and very much African-American, Lottie is much fairer, but they both have eyes that are all Indian. I saw a picture of Mattie and she looked very Indian. Kelly, she was absolutely beautiful. No wonder George fell for her.”

  “Love is more than beauty,” Kelly said softly.

  “What are you trying to say?” Cole teased.

  “Five days left huh?” Kelly ignored his teasing and headed another direction.

  “Today was six.”

  “Today’s over.”

  “That it is. I sure miss you.” Cole’s tone showed how much he meant it.

  “You too.” Kelly’s voice softened.

  “Kelly, I have an idea I want to bounce off you.” Now Cole turned the conversation in a new direction.

  “Backboard Mitchell at your service.”

  For nearly a half hour Cole and Kelly batted ideas back and forth. Each took the role of devil’s advocate several times. Kelly finally said, “You had your mind made up before you asked my opinion, didn’t you?”

  “I think so, but I love the way you think.”

  “Especially when I am thinking like you!” Kelly responded.

  “Especially then.” Cole laughed.

  When they finished their call Cole went to the front porch. The cool breeze of evening soothed and refreshed his road weary, air conditioned spirit. He reflected on the day, its outcome and his call to Kelly. His stay in Orvin was nothing like he expected. He expected to be bored, hot, and at loose ends for thirty days. There were only a few days before he would return home and he found himself torn between the life he knew in California and the life he found in Oklahoma. The slow pace fit him far better than he would ever have imagined.

  On the drive back he played with numbers in his head. With no rent or mortgage, how much would he need to live comfortably in the old farm house? He would have a little income from the office building he inherited, and he could always do freelance writing. He could make it just fine.

  There were just three things keeping him from just staying put; Kelly, Erin and Jenny. Four, if you counted Ben. The pull of family was strong. He knew his delight in Kelly’s companionship was turning into something much stronger than friendship. Her visit showed him that. Staying was just a pipe dream, a passing fancy and quite selfish really, but just thinking of the possibilities felt so good. Cole smiled and went inside.

  In the living room, the last two notebooks laid on the arm of the sofa, just where he left them the night before. As he picked them up a strange wave of melancholy swept over him. The journey was nearing its end. The story was reaching a conclusion and with it the end of a life. Cole flipped the pages at the corner of one of the notebooks. He knew what was to happen, but not how. He opened the notebook dated 1953 - 56.

  February 2, 1953

  Went back to work today. I would have gone back sooner but the boss insisted I take some time off. The cows didn’t seem to notice my absence. The Bettencourt boys were friendly but kind of sheepish around me. Finally I told them, “My wife died, not me. Stop acting like I’m not here.” Later in the day one of them played a joke on me and we all laughed. After that things got pretty much back to normal.

  The hard part came when I got home. I was alone when Alma was in the hospital, but this is different. The house is silent. I can hear the frigerator turn off and on. The window in the sitting room makes a clicking sound when the wind blows. I don’t know how to turn on the oven. Alma used a match somehow but I can’t figure it out. I have a fridge that still has food from the funeral and I don’t know how to turn on the oven. I would hate to have to ask somebody.

  I need to box up Alma’s stuff. The closet and bedroom still has her smell. It makes me lonesome.

  February 9, 1953

  I stepped on a nail today. A fence board had got knocked off and I didn’t see it for all the hay lying around and stepped on it. The nail went up through my boot. Hurt like crazy.

  February 13, 1953

  Tony Bettencourt drove me to the doctor. My foot is all swell
ed up. He said the red streak up my leg was blood poison. The doctor said it was bad infected. He scraped it all out and put some purple crap in the hole. I screamed it hurt so bad. Said to keep checking for kernels in my groin. If I feel any I’m to come right in. He gave me some pills and a shot and said to stay off my foot for at least a week. I tried to argue about being off work and he asked if he “should just cut it off now.”

  So here I sit.

  June 11, 1955

  Found this book today. I swear I don’t know why I wrote in so many of these little notebooks. I read through a lot of them lately. Hell of a life. There are big chunks of memories that I have lost. Reading all this has brought back knowledge of the events but not the feelings. Memory is a strange thing. Without the feeling, the knowledge of events and places is like a story about someone else.

  If I get around to it I might take it up again. Not much to tell anymore. I feed the cows, I clean the corrals, I hose things down and help the boys take the cows in to be milked. Sundays I go to church. I watch TV while I eat my supper. That pretty much is the story of my life.

  July 4, 1955

  I went to the Fourth of July picnic the church set up in the park. Visited with lots of nice folks and ate as much as I could. I hate my cooking and can’t afford to eat at the café all the time so it was a real treat to eat somebody else’s cooking. I especially like the tuna casserole with the potato chips on top. I think I ate nearly the whole pan.

  I played horseshoes with some of the fellows and then we had dessert. I kept going back for more cherry pie. Big mistake. The lady who made it is a widow, I believe her name is Vera, and I think she has taken a shine to me. Came and offered me more pie and more coffee half a dozen times. Nice looking gal but a little too fat for me.

  August 12, 1955

  The heat is getting to me. I blacked out a couple of times at work. I finally walked over and jumped, clothes and all, into the canal. Helped for a while. So hot it makes you sick to eat. Walter at the café said it was a hundred and fifteen today. Six days in a row over a hundred and ten.

  Vera Johnson brought me by a peach pie. She owns a peach ranch. Some say she’s rich. I am too old for any of that. I’ll just stay put. Nice lady, but I think she’s up to something. I’m not marrying her or nobody else so she better not get her mind set on that.

  September 19, 1955

  Got a new job last week. Out of the blue, the janitor at the elementary school died. He was a friend of Walter’s. When the principal at the school came in the café Walter told him that I would be a good replacement. Walter told me to go in and talk to him and lo and behold I got the job.

  I enjoy being around the children and the teachers are all pretty nice so long as I keep their floors swept and clean their chalk boards. I am off by 6:00 and the pay is better than the dairy.

  I just might buy a new television set.

  October 13, 1955

  A little stray dog has been hanging around the school yard. Kind of a mutt. The school secretary Mrs. Connors said she was going to call the pound. I told her not to bother, I would take it home with me.

  So here I sit with a flop eared mutt of a dog lying at my feet. I gave it a bath in some of Alma’s old shampoo under the bathroom sink so it doesn’t smell half bad. In fact, it kind of reminds me of Alma. It’s a male though, so I can’t call it Alma like I wanted so I’ll call him Elmer instead. Close enough.

  Halloween 1955

  I gave out candies to the children tonight, little devils, ghosts and even an angel or two. A lot of them would cry out “Mr. Sage!” when I would open the door so I knew they were from the school.

  Little Elmer would bark and go crazy every time somebody would knock on the door. He is still pacing the floor.

  I still got some licorice and a few chocolate drops left. Those will go good with watching television.

  Thanksgiving, 1956

  Looks like this is turning into my holiday diary. Truth be told it slipped down inside the back of the sofa. I forgot all about it. I was scrounging for change to get gas to drive to Vera’s. I spent all my cash on a couple of pies yesterday and the bank is closed today. I found eighty-three cents and a pocketknife and this notebook. I’ll buy a couple of gallons of gas and head on over.

  I have been thinking pretty strong about asking Vera to marry me. It sounds silly for a broke down janitor to ask a rich widow for her hand but we get along real good. Her kids don’t seem to mind me. Maybe tonight.

  November 23, 1956

  Thanksgiving was real nice this year. We had a big dinner, and after, we all sang around the piano. Vera was as sweet as can be. Her kids treated me nice and respectful. I left around nine-thirty. I couldn’t get up the gumption to ask Vera to marry me.

  We were sitting on the sofa drinking coffee and having a piece of pie. The kids had all gone home. I think she was expecting it, but I just couldn’t do it. She is a fine woman and deserves better than me, though that isn’t the real reason.

  I have been feeling poorly of late. Last week my hand went numb. I wouldn’t want to die on her. It wouldn’t be fair.

  Cole flipped over the last few pages in the notebook, they were blank. He looked down at the last notebook. It looked like new. The black cloth binding was crisp and the edges were sharp. The script on the cover was steady and simply said 1957.

  March 18, 1957

  If ever I wondered if there was a God or not I don’t anymore. I went to the mailbox today and there was a letter from my Lottie. I cried like a baby when I read it. She is doing real well. Her life has turned out just as I would have hoped.

  There were three different forwarding stamps on the envelope. It was postmarked December 23, 1956. It is a miracle that it found me. I will write her in the morning and maybe I can arrange to go see her this summer when school is out. There are so many things I would like to tell her about her mother. I feel my memory is all well. I’m sure she has a thousand questions.

  March 31, 1957

  I have written and burned four letters to Lottie. I can’t seem to find anything good to say about my life. I read and re-read her letter and she has a wonderful life. What am I going to tell her? Your daddy is a broken down janitor in a town that is less than a fly speck on the map. I’m a dried out old drunk and your sister is dead. Where is the good in any of that?

  I will try again when I feel a little better about things. I cherish her letter. If nothing else I will write and tell her that.

  April 16, 1957

  I’m not too sure how I’m going to like getting old. I have been in the hospital for six days. Seems I have what the doctor called extremely high blood pressure. Something in my head popped and they say I have had a mild stroke. If that was mild I’d hate to see the real thing. Too many years of drinking and Bull Durham roll-your-owns, the doctor said. No more smoking, I already give up drinking and I pretty much lost my chance chasing women, or at least Vera anyway. I’d be on rocking chair duty except I don’t have one.

  I was sweeping out Room 10 when it was like a Fourth of July skyrocket went off in my head and then everything went black. Woke up in the hospital, one leg dead as a stump and my mouth kind of drooping funny on one side. I can still work though, at least that’s what they say, but I have to take another week off.

  Somebody called Georgie and told him what happened. He was going to race up here but I told him to hold off. “I ain’t dead yet!” I told him and he said he’d been wanting to come see me anyway. So he said he had a training session in San Francisco next month and he would come up a couple days early and see me.

  He put Cole on the phone and we, that is I, talked a little bit. He was shy, and I probably sounded goofy, my mouth being paralyzed and all. I told him his grandpa loved him and someday we would go fishing. Since I don’t fish and he probably won’t remember, the lie won’t hurt much I guess. I just needed something to offer.

  April 21, 1957, Easter Sunday

  Went to church. Hadn’t been in quite a while. Vera
Johnson came and sat by me. She said she didn’t know I had been sick. I said, “Who says I been sick?” She said, “You didn’t used to drag one leg.” Now isn’t that a hell of a thing to tell a man in church?

  Vera took me out to Sunday dinner. I told her I was sorry for hurting her feelings. She said she had only one question, “Why didn’t I want to marry her?” She said she knew, that I knew she was willing.

  I told her that one husband had the bad manners to die on her and I didn’t want to be the second. Turns out I was right! I got one leg draggin’ in the dirt already. I laughed and tried to make sport of my game leg but she cried and said she would love me with no legs.

  So I did it right then and there in the restaurant. I got down on my good knee and asked her to marry me. She said she would. She said she wanted to be a June bride the first time around and couldn’t so she would do it right this time. So, the second Sunday of June, we will marry.

  This time I will marry for love.

  April 25, 1957

  Went for my check-up today. The doc says I have arterial something or other, “hardening of the arteries” he says is the common name. He wants me to eat less salt and fat, says I’m 57 going on 70.

  “Mr. Sage,” he said, “you have taken the body the Good Lord gave you and abused it mightily. If you were a car the junkyard would find few takers for your scrap.”

  No more bacon, I guess. Vera went with me, said she was “checking up on her investment.” She told the doctor she would make sure I was on the straight and narrow from now on.

  Do I really want to get married again?