The Struggles of Johnny Cannon

by Isaiah Campbell

  “Is it a birthday?”

  I shook my head.

  “August 27, 1954. That’s the day the doctors in Havana unplugged all my ma’s machines that was breathing for her and feeding her. The last day she ever had breath in her lungs.” I rubbed the scar on my cheek, without really thinking about it. “Today’s the day she officially died.”

  She didn’t say nothing else, but she left her hand on my shoulder, which I was fine with.

  We parked outside the cemetery and I got out.

  “You going to come?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Maybe another time. This seems . . . private.”

  “She’d probably like to meet you.”

  “Another time.”

  I nodded and headed through the gate. Mount Vernon Cemetery was one of the oldest cemeteries in Cullman County, and it wasn’t all that popular with living folks ’cause they said it was awful run-down, but it was just the sort of graveyard you’d hope to be in if you was dead. It was surrounded by real tall trees that cast good ghost-hiding shadows no matter what time of day it was. There was also plenty of spiders and beetles in every nook and cranny to keep lonely spirits company, along with a few small animals like rabbits and squirrels and such that they’d enjoy haunting and scaring half to death. And there was a few rocks and downed tree trunks that was perfectly situated to make even the smallest breeze sound like a howl from the depths of hell. So, you know, it was nice.

  I made my way through the gravestones, trying my best not to think of all them ghosts that was just itching to haunt my soul for eternity, and I got to the corner that was set up for the Cannon family. Grandma was out there, along with most all of the Cannons that had ever been in Cullman. Tommy’s stone was there too, though his body was still in Castro’s basement in Cuba, thanks to him crash-landing during the Bay of Pigs invasion. Something about that made his stone seem even lonelier.

  Ma’s grave was over in the corner of our section that I’d visited the least, which is just another illustration of how messed up the whole idea of happy endings is. ’Cause for most of my life, thanks to me being in the accident that killed Ma, my brain couldn’t remember a darn thing from when she was alive. People’d tell me stories, but they was just that. Stories. Like when we studied Hannibal crossing the Alps with his pet elephants. And visiting her grave didn’t hurt one bit. It didn’t mean anything at all, really. So I never did it.

  But then I got my memories back and folks claimed it was a happy ending to the story. These was the same folks who had already grieved for my ma and done mourned her death. But now I was just getting started. And I was having to do it all on my own.

  Anyway, I got over to Ma’s grave and I put them weeds on her gravestone. I sure hoped she thought they was flowers. I didn’t know how good you could see from six feet under, so I tried to position them to where she might not tell. Then I knelt down in front of her stone and tried to think of what to say. Actually, that ain’t exactly true. I had plenty to say. Plenty more to cry about, if I wanted to. But I didn’t want to. So I had to find something to talk about that wouldn’t get me to blubbering. And that was hard to do.

  “How’s it going, Ma?” I asked, then I cussed. You ain’t supposed to ask a dead person how it’s going, ’cause if they haven’t noticed that they’re dead and decomposing under the dirt, it ain’t polite to draw their attention to it. They might just think all them worms and such is pets. Or that they’re aiming to go fishing. But once they realize they’re dead, then they’ll figure out what them worms is really there for. And that just ain’t right.

  “What I mean is, how’s the weather been?” Nope, that was stupid too. She didn’t have no idea of rain or wind or nothing from where she was lying. Dang, this was a hard conversation. It always was.

  “I reckon you know what today is. Well, I actually hope you don’t. I sort of hope you don’t remember none just like how I didn’t.” I thought about that for a second. “Except that might mean you don’t remember me none. And that wouldn’t be no good.”

  I got a lump in my throat, which meant if things didn’t change, I’d be sobbing like the time I broke my model car back when I was eight. I said a quick prayer that something would distract me.

  I heard what sounded like another car pull up down at the gate to the cemetery. It shook the lump out of my throat for a bit.

  “Anyway, if you do or don’t remember, it don’t much matter. This here’s the day you and me got taken from each other. That’s why I wanted to make sure I dropped by. So you wouldn’t be alone.” That darn lump came back.

  Martha started talking to somebody a ways off. Finally, a decent distraction.

  “Do you hear that? Maybe you can’t from down there, but that’s Martha, the girl I told you about. She sort of reminds me of you. I think.”

  I heard footsteps coming through the cemetery and I reckoned maybe Martha’d changed her mind about meeting Ma.

  “I think she’s coming, actually. She’s a mite bit soaked and muddy, but I swear it’s my fault. Don’t go judging her none.”

  I stood up and turned to call Martha over, but it wasn’t her. Well, it was her, but she wasn’t alone.

  There was a Chinese girl with her. And, by the looks of it, she had a baby Chinaman in her belly.

  Martha pointed her over to where Tommy’s gravestone was and then came by me.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “What’s she doing here?” I asked.

  The girl was looking at them gravestones one by one, all around where Tommy’s was.

  “She said she was looking for your brother,” she said.

  “Did she say why?” I asked. Martha shook her head.

  The Chinese girl found Tommy’s gravestone, and she fell down onto the grass in front of it and started crying.

  “What in tarnation—” I said. Martha shrugged.

  I wouldn’t normally get involved with foreigners, but since she was at Tommy’s stone, I figured the only polite thing to do was to at least check on her. Plus I wouldn’t want her going into labor or something. That’d make for a real bad place to birth a baby. I went over and knelt down next to her.

  “Hey, listen, I don’t speak no Chinese or nothing,” I started.

  “I’m Korean,” she said with snot coming out her nose. She was covering her face and sobbing like there wasn’t no tomorrow, so I didn’t reckon I’d point out to her that it didn’t much matter which one she was, since she apparently spoke English. Martha came over and joined us.

  “Is everything okay?” Martha asked.

  “Not sure,” I said. “Is it?”

  “It’s just . . . ,” the Korean girl said. “I was hoping it wasn’t true. Hoping . . .” She started sobbing again. “Hoping he was still alive.”

  “Tommy?” I asked. “You’re this ate up over Tommy?”

  She nodded, then she wiped her nose and I finally got a good look at her face. She was pretty, for a Korean. Her hair was as black as a crow’s back, her eyes sparkled even though they didn’t have no color, and her face was shaped the way them models in magazines’ faces are shaped, only she wasn’t white, so it didn’t look quite the same. If I’d had to guess, I’d have said she was the same age as Tommy. Maybe.

  “I’m sorry, I’m being so rude.” She held her hand out to shake mine. “My name is Sora Sa.”

  I went ahead and shook her hand and tried to not puke at how slick and snotty it was. I wouldn’t want to be rude.

  “Well, my name’s Johnny,” I said. “And this here’s—”

  “You’re his brother? You’re Johnny?” she asked, then she grabbed me and hugged on my neck. “He said you’d be here! Oh, it’s so good to finally meet my baby’s uncle.”

  I was at an awkward angle in the hug, ’cause she’d pulled me over her belly like a chicken on the chopping block. Then her belly punched me in the throat. I jerked away.

  “Wait, what do you mean by that?”

  “Are you saying . . . ,” Martha said, and
her eyes got real big. “Are you saying that your baby is Tommy’s?”

  Sora nodded and Martha gasped like she’d done seen a Martian come waltzing across the yard or something. And it was a surprise for me, too. But I reckon it wasn’t too big of one. Half my life had been spent watching Tommy come home sauced with some girl he’d met at a bar. As soon as I found out storks didn’t bring babies, I was waiting for one of his girls to announce that she was.

  Still, she wasn’t exactly like one of them girls he used to mess around with. Besides the fact that she wasn’t white, she also seemed higher class than them. Probably couldn’t dance on a table or cuss me out over her cigarettes and waffles if she tried.

  I liked her already.

  It had been five seconds since anybody had said anything, and Martha’s eyes was practically floating in midair as she stared at Sora, so Sora cleared her throat.

  “And you are?” she asked. Martha blinked a few times and stuck out her hand.

  “Martha Macker.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard about you!” Sora said, and she smiled at me. “So you two finally—”

  “Finally became friends, yup,” I said. “Tommy told you about that?”

  Sora glanced at Martha and then nodded.

  “He told me all about you, and about Cullman, and everything else.”

  “Wish I could say the same,” I said. Martha kicked me. “I mean, Tommy didn’t say a darn thing about you.” Another kick. “I mean, it’s nice to meet you, too.”

  Sora laughed.

  “Tommy always said you were funny.”

  He always told me I was a moron. Maybe that’s along the same lines as funny.

  “Um, where are you staying?” Martha asked.

  Sora brushed her finger down Tommy’s gravestone and traced along the dates that was under his name. She sighed.

  “Nowhere,” she said. “Not yet. I just got here from Mobile. My luggage is still in the car.”

  I looked over at the gate, expecting to see a yellow taxicab or something. Instead it was a gold Buick LeSabre. And a fella was leaning on the hood, wearing a slick blue suit and a white fedora, smoking a cigarette.

  “I’m sure Mr. Cannon would want you to stay with him and Johnny,” Martha said. I almost kicked her back, but I reckoned that would be detrimental to Operation Happy Ending. It wasn’t that I was being inhospitable or anything. It was just that me and Pa was private folk. Partially ’cause we was both a little shy. And also partially ’cause of the work Pa did for Mr. Thomassen. But I couldn’t go and tell about all that, so I just nodded instead.

  Sora grabbed me and hugged on me again. Just about threw my back out contorting like that. Then that baby in her belly socked me in the gut. Dang, it was definitely Tommy’s baby. It punched just like him.

  Martha went to help Sora up.

  “So, the car, is that a friend, or—”

  “No,” Sora said, real quick. “No, he’s just someone that offered me a ride.”

  “Well, you can send him away now,” Martha said. “We’ll drive you up to the house. Let’s go get your luggage.”

  They both headed back to the entrance. Martha looked at me over her shoulder and moved her head like she wanted me to come with them. I looked over at Ma’s gravestone. I wasn’t done with the conversation yet.

  Oh well, I reckoned I could come back later. Say what you want about the dead, but they’re the most patient folks you’ll ever meet. Actually, don’t say what you want about the dead. They’re patient, but they hold a grudge like nobody else. Just ask my great-uncle Tom. He’s been haunting the newspaper ever since they canceled his subscription back in ’22.

  Them girls got to the car before me and Martha told the driver that we was taking Sora’s luggage. He got a funny expression on his face and looked at Sora, but then she nodded and so he went around and started pulling her bags out of his trunk. It was like a magic trick, I didn’t reckon it was possible for all them bags to come out of one car. I half expected to see him pull out a dove or something like that. And maybe a clown or two. There was so many bags, I went ahead and untied the boat off the truck. I’d have to come back for it.

  After we got the luggage all loaded up, the fella called me over.

  “So, you’re the kid she’s looking for?” he asked. He had a real strong wintergreen-smelling aftershave.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You take good care of her,” he said. “And that baby of hers.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I reckon it’s my nephew or something like that.”

  He nodded, looked like he wanted to say something else, but then went and got into his car instead.

  He drove off and then we all got into the truck to head to my house. Sora slid in right next to me and I was actually sort of surprised at how skinny her legs and butt was, considering her belly was as big as a well-fed pig. Still, that belly was blocking the gearshift. I hoped Tommy’s kid knew how to shift into reverse.

  Martha got in and closed the door and we headed on up the hill.

  “So, when are you due?” Martha asked.

  “Sometime in October,” Sora said.

  “Due where?” I asked. “You got someplace else to be? Is it really safe to be going somewhere when you’re about to have a baby?”

  “Johnny,” Martha said, and her voice sounded like it had when she slapped me earlier, “shut up and drive.”

  We drove along the road and I did my best to ignore all the times my niece or nephew was hitting me in the ribs like I was a piñata. I hated to disappoint them, but I didn’t reckon no candy was going to come out. I’d been trying to cut back.

  We finally made it to our house, the two-story gray home that the Cannon family first built right after the Civil War. There was an American flag waving off the antenna poking out from the backyard where Pa had rebuilt his radio shack. That was where he did his work for Mr. Thomassen.

  “As you can see,” Martha said, “there are no women living in this house.” Sora nodded in agreement.

  I looked at the place again and couldn’t see what they was talking about. I mean, sure, we didn’t have no flowers or nothing, or curtains on our windows, or a porch that looked pretty. And sure, there was tools in the driveway that had been there for a week and the grass had gotten to growing longer than it should have. And, sure, we had some squirrels and rabbits hanging on the front porch ’cause I still had to skin them. But really, what about all that made it unfit for a woman?

  There was several cars parked in our yard, which didn’t cause me no stir ’cause they was just Mr. Thomassen’s white Cadillac and Carlos Martí’s blue Chevy pickup. Carlos had been Mr. Thomassen’s bandleader back in Havana, and he and I had escaped from Castro’s clutches together. That’s another long story. Now Carlos worked for Mr. Thomassen same as Pa, only Carlos did a lot of running around while Pa stayed put.

  I parked next to the Cadillac and hurried to get inside before the girls. I was kind of hoping to prepare Pa for meeting his grandchild. He wasn’t the healthiest fella in the world, mainly ’cause he only had half a lung and a quarter of his intestines thanks to the war. He also told me quite often that he had half a mind, but that was usually in context of him yelling at me, so I didn’t think he was serious about that.

  When I stepped in the door, I forgot what I was aiming to do, ’cause there was somebody there that I wasn’t expecting. Sitting there with Pa, Mr. Thomassen, and Carlos in our living room was a fella that still scared the bejeezus out of me.

  It was Short-Guy, the CIA agent.

  They was all deep in a conversation, but Carlos elbowed Pa when he saw that I’d come in. Pa looked over at me.

  “Oh, hey, son. How’d the fishing go? Did you catch anything?”

  Right then the screen door behind me slammed open and Martha and Sora came in.

  “Yeah, I reckon I caught a big one,” I said. “This here’s—”

  “Sora Sa,” Sora said.

  All four of them men stood to their f
eet, ’cause that’s what you do in Alabama when a lady has done entered the room. Pa cleared his throat and wiped his hands off on his shirt.

  “Pete Cannon, Johnny’s pa. It’s nice to meet you, miss,” Pa said. “What brings you—”

  That’s when Sora stepped out from behind me to show off that beach ball of a belly she had.

  “Well,” Pa said. “Congratulations on the baby.”

  Sora smiled and bowed her head.

  “Thank you,” she said, then she glanced at me. “It’s your son’s.”

  All of them fellas’ eyes practically popped out of their sockets and looked at me, though I couldn’t figure out what for. Pa’s face turned as red as a fire engine and he started breathing the way he did when he forgot he couldn’t breathe so good. Then they all started hollering at once.

  “What in the name of all that is good and holy—?”

  “You aren’t even old enough yet!”

  “¡No tienes dos dedos de frente! What were you thinking?”

  “Hold the dadgum telephone!” I yelled. “It ain’t mine, for crying out loud, it’s Tommy’s.”

  Talk about throwing a bucket of water on a bonfire. Pa went from being as mad as the devil to as giddy as a naked angel baby. He hurried and got up next to Sora and walked her over to the couch, the whole time grinning like a possum with an ice cream cone and babbling sounds that didn’t none of them make sense strung together.

  He fluffed up a pillow for her to sit on, then sat down right next to her.

  “Ain’t that just like Tommy,” he said. “Going off and getting married without telling nobody.”

  Come to think of it, no, it wasn’t like him at all.

  “Well, we didn’t ever actually—” she started, a little embarrassed. “What I mean is, we planned to take care of that when he came back.”

  Yeah, that sounded more like him.

  Pa’s face showed his shock again, but I reckon the happiness from finding out he was a grandpa took over and he just started smiling again.

  “Oh well, water under the bridge,” he said, then he patted her on the leg. “And this just proves that the Good Book is true. ‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’ Here I am, doing the work I’m doing, and in return the Lord brings a happy addition to my own family.”