“Nothin’s wrong with me. I just happen to know where that hand of yours has been.”
She raced out front of me and stopped me, putting her hands on my chest.
“Why, Tucker Gaines, are you jealous?”
“Jealous? Of Son? Hell, no. Son Settles doesn’t have anything for me to be jealous of.”
“That’s true, Tucker. He doesn’t.”
This time when she grabbed my hand, I let her hold on to it.
“Son grabbed hold of my hand and it surprised me. I didn’t pull away because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
I shrugged, but my heart was lifted.
“The only reason I even went with him in the first place is because I was bored. You were off doing something with Charlie and Son saw me jumping rope in my driveway by myself. He asked if I wanted to go for a walk down the tracks. Said he had something he wanted to show me.”
“What did he show you?”
“Nothing really. He showed me that he’s got a little crush on me, I suppose. Kind of gave me the creeps to tell you the truth.”
We walked back to Katie’s house and talked until her mom called her in for dinner. As I was leaving, I saw Son Settles leaning up against a tree across the street. He spit on the ground in front of him and gave me a smile that was an insult to smiles everywhere.
He walked across the street so slowly that it confused me into not running away.
“I sure hope you ain’t got designs on Katie. You see, I kinda set my sights on her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Son. But it seems to me that Katie can make up her own mind about things.”
He slugged me in the gut. I doubled over and fell to the ground as quietly as I could, not wanting Katie to see me getting my ass kicked.
“Reckon you’re right, Pecker. We can all make up our own minds. You made up your mind to smart mouth me and I made up my mind to punch ya for it.”
Walking away, he said, “I surely hope that Katie is better at making up her mind about things than you are, Pecker. Bad decisions have consequences, don’t they?”
I would have given him a smart-ass answer in reply, but I hadn’t caught my breath yet. Which was an answer unto itself.
I spend the better part of the day painting those sun porch stairs. Chipping away old dead flakes, brushing everything clean, and applying a thick first coat of barn-red. It’s a full day’s work, but with my choking dream looming, I’m not anxious to sleep again. So after dinner I walk down to Mustang’s Bar & Grill for a nightcap.
Tonight, there are three patrons inside Mustang’s. Two sit next to each other on the far right side and one sits alone in the center—the seat closest to the taps. There are small flickering TVs at either end of the bar and a third one above a booth in the far corner of the room. I settle into the barstool that’s closest to the door.
“So what are we drinking tonight, Pecker?”
I don’t recognize the voice, but I recognize the “pecker.” I lift my eyes to see an older version of a face I once knew. A sparse, light-colored handlebar mustache frames the small, pursed mouth. Chewing tobacco packed tight under the lower lip, a tattered LA Dodgers baseball cap on his head. Part Yankee, all rebel, both shining bright in those intense gray-blue eyes of Son Settles.
I offer my best olive-branch smile and say, “Hey, Son. That’s not the same cap, is it?”
This gets a laugh out of him. At least I think it’s a laugh. It sounds a little like “Shut your white-collared, book-learning mouth, Pecker.”
“No. Not the same hat.”
A big fat silence follows, during which Son stands tall behind the bar, hands on hips and looks at me hard. I look back at him even harder, though I can see where to Son it might look as though I’m just staring at my feet and squirming on my stool.
“Well,” I say, lifting my head again, “I am sorry about that hat, Son. Probably should have said that a long time ago.”
“No worries,” he says. “Pecker.”
“Vodka tonic, please.”
If Son Settles had ever been a friend of mine, it was just barely. I carry some of the fault for that. Things might have been different with Son and me had I not thrown his LA Dodger cap in the toilet the first time we met. Charlie Skinner had brought Son over to my house that summer afternoon, and despite the fact that he was two years older than me, I was not intimidated by Son in the least. We talked baseball, and when we started debating—“my team can beat up your team”—I told him I was going to take his Dodger cap off his head and flush it down the toilet. When he dared me to do it, do it I did.
Looking back on this, I see something in myself that has always been there: I hated the notion that someone might find me predictable.
When Son pulled his Dodger’s cap out of the toilet and shook it dry, he had a look of utter astonishment on his sun-browned face. Beneath that was another look, a sort of calm-before-the-storm expression that I would come to see time and again in the years to follow—usually right before a random ass-kicking. I guess being unpredictable was important to Son, too.
We talk a little bit that night, Son and I. It isn’t a bygones-be-bygones conversation, but it’s nostalgic and it’s nice and we laugh a time or two. It occurs to me that Son and I had indeed been friends. Just friends who didn’t like each other much. It’s hard to have enemies in a town like Willow Grove. You couldn’t afford to.
Late in that night, I have the choking dream again. Except it’s different this time. This time, there’s an actual nightmare and I remember it. It’s one of those mind-working-overtime dreams where separate realities fuse together. Where the sleeping intellect tries to make sense where sense has not been found.
Tammy is crying in agony. Her cries are coming from a room at the end of a darkened corridor. I’m in a hospital, and our child is in danger. I sprint down the hallway, but the floor is icy slick, and I can’t keep my balance. I slip and slide, tumble and fall, rise and run again. Except now the corridor rotates slowly like I’m inside a cement mixer. Tammy’s cries continue to pour out from that distant room as I inch forward. I realize then that her guttural wails are coming from the room at the end of the corridor and darkness shines from that room. Like the light at the end of the tunnel, except the exact opposite.
Tammy’s voice grows louder, shrill screams piercing. “Stay away from him! Keep your hands off my son!”
I turn the corner of the room, and the first thing I see is myself sitting in a rocking chair in the corner. Like some child’s toy left in a disturbingly awkward pose. A mannequin with a face of exaggerated features carved on petrified wood. Bright red cheeks, bulging eyes with long lashes and thick frowning brows. Mouth and lips carved into a frozen wicked sneer. Suddenly, mannequin-me jerks his head toward real-me and locks his eyes on mine. I find contempt in his eyes.
I turn and see Tammy on a gurney; a man in doctor’s scrubs stands on the other side of the cart, bent over her torso. At first, it looks as though the man has no arms, but then I realize both of his arms are wriggling deep inside of Tammy’s stomach, as though trying to reverse the sleeves of an inside-out sweater. His arms fish through the insides of her abdomen and she writhes in spasms, but there’s no blood. Then, with a violent jerk, he pulls both hands out. Tammy deflates before my eyes, and the man stands bolt upright. Arms extended, he holds a silent child out in front of him.
For the first time, the man looks at me, and I recognize him but cannot make out the face. I know him; I don’t know him. Both hands are around Ethan’s neck and the man turns him so that I might see Ethan’s face. Except that it’s not Ethan’s face, but rather it was the face of Katie Cooper. And then the man with the face I do and do not know smiles a razor blade smile and winks.
My background mind has been quietly obsessing on something that the rest of me can’t put my finger on. I try to walk it out of me and find my feet leading me to the playground. Swinging Girl is not here today. I take my place on the bench and behold t
he world of Willow Grove. There was a time when I thought this place was the world.
“Hey.”
Somehow Swinging Girl has managed to sneak onto her swing without me noticing. She blows a big pink bubble that nearly conceals her entire face.
“Hello,” I say. “You sure must like swinging.”
“Yep. Don’t you?”
I think about the porch swing at Grandma’s. “Yes. I do like swinging.”
The chains on her swing clang in a rhythm that gives tempo to our conversation.
“Then swing.” She nods to one of the empty swings.
“Maybe next time.”
“You’re just going to sit there again, aren’t you?”
“I’ve got more thinking to do.”
“Have you figured out what you’re even thinking about yet?”
She swings a little faster and the tempo between us picks up.
“Well, sort of. I mean, I know what I’m thinking about,” I lie. “It’s just … it’s complicated.”
“UGH!” she says, as though she has just stepped out of a Peanuts comic strip. “I hate how grown-ups are always talking about how complicated everything is.”
I have no defense for that. She swings higher, faster, harder, and my heart goes with her.
“You know what’s not complicated?” she asks.
“Swinging?”
She smiles and extends her legs, the tempo slowed, and for the first time, I take a real good look at her. She can’t more than eleven or twelve years old—maybe younger. Freckles around her nose dot her light complexion and long lashes frame green eyes that are so light they almost look yellow. When she blinks, it conjures an image of blooming daisies in my mind.
“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers? There are dangerous people in the world.”
“Are you dangerous?”
“No, I’m not dangerous. But nobody is going to tell you they’re dangerous.”
“Well, duh.”
“I’m just saying, I could be dangerous. You don’t know.”
“I know you’re not dangerous.”
“How can you tell?”
“I just can. You’re too sad to be dangerous.”
“Listen … just humor me, ok. Tell me you don’t make a habit of this.”
“I don’t. In fact, you are the only stranger I have ever even seen on this playground. So consider yourself humored.”
I settle into the swing on the opposite end from hers. I walk it backwards, then lift my legs and glide forward. I pump until my legs stretch nearly as high as hers did, and we swing together like that, side-by-side. Not talking, not thinking, just swinging and occasionally dragging my feet to remind myself of dirt and rock and things that can be touched. After some minutes, we stop. Here we sit, twisting in our swings. The only sounds in the entire world come from the chains clanging above our heads and the gravel crunching beneath our feet. I feel her turn my way. She looks up at me with those daisies and stares hard, flower eyes dancing across my face left to right to left again, as if literally reading my face.
“Now, see, isn’t that better than just sitting there?”
“Yes. It really is.”
“Thought so. It’s always better to do something.”
Doing Something
Grandpa and Grandma are napping, though Grandpa may have been aided in the effort by a liquid sedative. I sit by myself, reading the Daily Chronicle. When I open the obituaries, which I have recently taken an interest in, my eyes are drawn to the obituary of a little girl who has recently passed.
Laura Jane Benton, 3, rural Willow Grove, died April 12th after battling a brain tumor for more than two years. She learned to walk three different times because medical battles interrupted her development, and when surgery took away her voice, she used sign language and other means to communicate. She was granted a Make-A-Wish trip to Florida where she met her favorite TV friend, Barney. Survivors include her parents Paul and Beatrice (Hart) Benton, of Willow Grove; 2 sisters, Genie and Tanya, Willow Grove; paternal Grandparents, Nicholas and Clarice Benton, Winterhaven, FL; maternal grandmother, Helen Hart, Willow Grove; maternal great grandmother, Anna Hart; 3 uncles; 1 aunt. She was predeceased by her maternal great grandfather Edmund Hart. Funeral arrangements by Anderson Funeral Home, Glidden, where memorials are established for The National Children’s Cancer Society and Pediatric Brain Tumor Foundation.
Beatrice Hart had been a classmate of mine through all my school years in Willow Grove, and she’d had a crush on me through most of them. Probably because I was a little less cruel to her than most kids. Because of this, Beatrice was always giving me things—bubble gum, candy bars, even money sometimes.
As most of us grew older, Beatrice seemed to regress and withdraw. She kept to herself so much that it felt as if it literally pained her to be seen or spoken to. She looked like someone who wanted to not be noticed. When she stood, she cowered. When she spoke, her voice was muffled and the words came out garbled, as though they didn’t come from her at all but rather from some smaller someone deep inside of her that strained to push the words through the barely parted lips. When she moved, it was with small steps, head tilted down so that the long, scraggly, gray-brown hair curtained her face. Nobody ever saw the eyes of Beatrice Hart.
One time in P.E., Beatrice and I had been assigned to be square-dancing partners. Her hands were clammy and as we began to dance, she was clearly nervous. After awhile, though, she did loosen up and almost seemed to be enjoying herself. I was swinging my partner round and round when my partner smiled and laughed a little bit. Then she lifted her eyes cautiously, slipping a toe into waters that were always cold for her. I yanked my hands out of hers, wiped them on my pants vigorously, and for the rest of the class we danced without touching. Without smiling. Beatrice Hart gave me a smile and I responded with a cruelty that chased it away. It should have changed me, that smile.
I wish I hadn’t been so cruel. Life, I guessed, was cruel enough for Beatrice Hart.
I put down the newspaper, grab a pen and notebook, and go to the kitchen table where I write Beatrice Hart Benton a letter of apology for every cruel thing that had ever happened to her. I apologize for how unkind life had been to her and promise her my prayers. I tell her how beautiful her daughter’s obituary was and how much it has moved me. How it has changed me.
I have a new hero and it is Laura Jane Benton, who demonstrated more strength and courage in her three years than most of us show in a lifetime. I promise you this, Beatrice. I will carry Laura Jane’s life story with me every day for the rest of my life. It is folded up now and in my wallet.
Whenever I feel overwhelmed by life’s challenges, I will read about the little girl who learned how to walk three different times. Whenever I feel weak and defeated, I will remember the little girl who learned to speak with her hands when she couldn’t with her voice. Whenever I feel sorry for myself, I will pull out Laura Jane’s obituary, and I will remind myself how blessed I truly I am. Whenever I feel life has been unfair to me, I will think of Laura Jane Benton who did not live to see her fourth birthday. I will also think of you, Beatrice, for life has asked more of you than it should have. And it has taken more than it has given.
I promise that I will remember you and your daughter forever. I hope it provides you some comfort to know that this world is a better place because Beatrice Hart Benton is in it. And because Laura Jane was.
I don’t sign the letter and I don’t mail it. Instead, I put it in an envelope and carry it to the cemetery. The Willow Grove cemetery is small and it only takes a couple minutes to locate the small patch of dirt that Laura Jane is buried beneath. I leave the letter under the angel figurine that stands where Laura Jane’s headstone will soon be.
Some days later, I am back at the cemetery and see a different envelope sticking out from under the angel figurine, and I know it’s meant for me.
I have a new friend, and it’s Whoever You Are, who demonstrated more e
mpathy and compassion than even my own family. Thank you for your letter and the promises you made. Please keep them. I do not know who you are, so I will pretend you are an angel.
Maybe I can be an angel for someone else someday. I will try to be.
With Love,
Beatrice
That hole inside me begins to fill, and it occurs to me that perhaps the baby girl in my dream wasn’t Katie Cooper, but rather Laura Jane. Now that I know the meaning of my dream, hopefully it will go away.
It does not. My dreams choke me awake again that very night.
When I can’t get back to sleep, I go downstairs to the kitchen. I am sticky with sweat, and where my heart should be, a fist tries to punch its way out of me. Or it’s pounding on something inside of me that doesn’t belong there.
I pull down the bottle of Scotch that Grandpa Gaines keeps above the refrigerator.
“Make it two,” I hear from behind me as I pull a glass out of the cupboard.
I turn around to see Grandpa standing in the doorway. His hands are in the pockets of a gray tattered housecoat, which hang over flannel pajamas and a potbelly. I never understood how those skinny little bird legs of his could support such a heavy upper frame. It always scared me when Grandma told me how much I looked like Grandpa had when he was a younger man, because as an older man he looks like a damn ostrich.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I thought I was being pretty quiet.”
“Oh, you didn’t wake me. I was up.”
When I raise my eyebrows in question, he says, “We’ve all got our demons that keep us awake, Tuck.”
He gives me a conspirator’s wink. I pull down another glass and pour.
“To demons,” I say, handing the glass to Grandpa.
“To demons,” he returns with another wink.
We take the bottle and our empty glasses to the table and sit. I pour two more shots.
“You know,” he says, “I myself never did see anything wrong with dousing one’s demons with some holy spirits now and again. At the very least, you’ll confuse them a little. Disorient them and get them back on their heels. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll drown them altogether.” He slams down his shot as though he has a fire inside him to put out. “Here’s the thing, Tuck. One way or the other, demons will change you. They can change you for the worse or they can change you for the better. You could look at the bad that’s happened and try to make some good out of it. Or you could look at it and start thinking that the world owes you something, like you’ve got some sort of free pass.”
Where the Broken Lie Page 3
