by Daniel Smith
I bring down the file cabinet and show it to Claire. Quickly flipping through some of the materials, she vaguely remembers some of it. “I think Robert told me about this stuff he wrote when we first got together,” she says, no longer very interested, “but since he never kept up the writing, I assumed this was something private from the long ago past and so I never bothered to look at it. You should have it, Brian.” I am very happy to have discovered this unknown expressive world of my father—a man of few words and even fewer emotions—so I take it back to my room and put it in my backpack.
While we’re still rummaging around the house for belongings Dad might want us to have, Reverend Carl Fletcher, the Methodist minister, arrives with a plate of pastries. A middle-aged, balding man with a worried look on his face (or is that the standard “I’m here for your grief” ministerial demeanor?), Fletcher gives Claire a supportive hug and immediately expresses his sympathy and concern. Claire’s expression upon seeing the good Reverend is a revealing mixture of general pleasure that he showed up and obvious worry about what he might say. Sure enough, after Claire introduces me and Jeff to Reverend Fletcher, he doesn’t waste time cutting to the chase: “Claire, I hear you are not planning on a church service for Dr. Fenton.”
“That’s right, Reverend. We’ll just do the graveside service. But we’d like you to officiate.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll do it, but I’d like to strongly recommend the church. Your husband and you have a lot of friends there and our sanctuary, as you know, can accommodate the very sizeable crowd from Juniper that’s likely to want to come.”
“A memorial service, as you know, is a very personal thing, and Robert and I did talk about this, Reverend, so this is probably something you should just accept,” Claire says tersely but with her trademark friendly smile.
Panicked, the Reverend turns to me and Jeff as if looking for some dissenting opinion. “Well said, Claire,” I offer quickly, giving Fletcher a long, firm glance.
“How about some coffee?” Claire asks to change the mood and she and Fletcher head off into the kitchen.
Before the minister and Claire sit down to coffee the front door bell rings and I go answer it. Waiting outside is a large black woman in her 70s dressed in her Sunday best. “Hello, I’m Essie Bee Robinson. You remember me?”
I think hard and look at her closely but nothing registers.
“I use to yell at you boys for running through the hospital,” she says with a mischievous smile.
“Oh, wait! Essie Bee! Of course! Dad’s favorite cook—well, except for Claire.”
“That’s right.” I give her a hug which seems to take her aback at first. “I heard about Doc Fenton passing and I wanted to come pay my respects,” she says revealing a plate of something wrapped in foil. “It’s my famous cornbread,” she says with pride.
“Thanks so much, Essie. I remember that cornbread! Please, come on in.”
“Well, I’m not sure I should . . . you have family and guests.”
“I insist. Claire would love to see you.”
Reluctantly, Essie enters. Jeff remembers her, it seems, and takes her plate of cornbread.
“Why, Essie,” Claire says, getting up to greet her, “how kind of you to come by.” They hug briefly. “I was just visiting with Reverend Fletcher.”
Essie nods pleasantly at the minister who smiles but seems put out that he has momentarily lost Claire’s attention to this black woman. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am that Doc Fenton is gone.”
“Thank you, Essie,” Claire comments. “He really liked you.”
“Well, maybe my food,” Essie observes. “You know, Doc Fenton wasn’t always an easy man to get along with, but if he told you something, he meant it. And if he liked you, he stuck with you.” She proceeds to tell a story about what Dad did when Essie informed him that one of his favorite nurses, Sonja Johnson, was stealing drugs from the clinic. “He really liked that girl. She worked hard and was loyal to Doc Fenton. So when I told him what she was doing, at first he said no way. Guess he thought I was making stuff up or something. But when he saw the evidence himself, he told Sonja she had to go. And she left, crying and saying how sorry she was. Few weeks later, she was back at work. I couldn’t believe it. ‘Why you back here, Sonja?’ I said. ‘Doc said I could come back to work if I worked for two weeks without any pay. If I’d do that, he’d forgive me. So here I am.’ And she worked there for several more years, no more problems. Doc Fenton wasn’t everybody’s friend, but if he liked you, he was mighty good. God bless you, Mrs. Fenton, in your grieving time.” She shakes Claire’s hand and mine, and she goes out the door.
Essie’s story makes me want to go dive into the treasure trove of letters and journals I happened upon today, but the floodgates of visitors are now open. For the next couple of hours, a steady stream of friends and townspeople, nearly all bringing food, start pouring into the house. They bring pies, cakes, sandwiches, and lasagna, enough for a week or more of eating.
“Who are all these people?” I ask Claire. “I didn’t realize Dad had so many good friends.”
“Well, you know, Robert made a big impact on this town. So that’s why some of them come out. But they also come out of respect for death. They know it’s coming their way, everybody’s way—maybe when they least expect it—and when it does, suddenly you’re just out of the world. I think they come because they respect that power, that mystery.”
What she’s calling “power” and “mystery,” I’m thinking is sheer terror. I figure I think about death nearly every day, constantly wondering what it will feel like when I draw my last breath. And, of course, petrified by the fear of what will happen to me after I pass from this life. Since Mother died, I’ve wondered where she is, what is she thinking—IS she thinking?—is she in a “place” of comfort and love, which she dearly deserves, or simply in an endlessly unconscious, sleep-like state? (I refuse to believe it’s possible that she’s in any sort of purgatory or hell-like world.)
Finally, someone from Claire’s family arrives—her sister, Francine. A subdued, quiet woman in her late 70s, Francine drove up from Houston where she lives with her second husband, a retired banker. Francine lost her first husband many years ago to pancreatic cancer, so I suspect she’ll be good company to Claire.
Thankfully, there’s now a bit of a lull in the visitor arrivals, and Jeff, having completed his moose head and picture removal, is starting to greet people at the door. So I head for the bedroom where I can start digging into the letters and journals of this new mysterious man of words I’ve just encountered, Robert Fenton.
“Dear Louise, I trust you’re safe and lonely down in Norman, Oklahoma” my dad’s letter to Mother from June 1944 begins. “Better to be in Norman than Norman-dy, if you get my meaning. The Navy has taught me to fly but they’ve got me making maps down here in Pensacola instead of making war in France. Not sure if that’s good luck or bad. Besides thinking of you at all hours, I’ve been wondering what I’ll do once this terrible war comes to an end—and, God willing, it’ll be soon! Maybe go to medical school and become a doctor? What do you think? My dad carries the mail in backwoods Missouri. That doesn’t seem like much of a future. But if I can’t help us beat the Nazis maybe I can heal our broken boys when they get back home. I’m no do-gooder, Louise—you know that by now—but I want to make something of myself. And maybe make you proud as well.”
I look outside the bedroom window. Dusk is starting to settle in. What happened to my father after the war? Getting married, going to med school, and having us kids—all that must have drained so much hope and innocence out of him. And then hunkering down and somehow making a life here in this podunk little north Texas town may have hardened and embittered him. He was part of the “greatest generation”: I often wonder: what exactly made them great? Maybe it was more than enduring the obvious sacrifice and loss of the war; maybe they earned their greatness as well after the war—in their relentless persevering, doing their best,
making sure their kids didn’t have it as rough as they did. And maybe it was in accepting the loss of hope and innocence as simply the price of the ticket for surviving.
“Mr. Wonderful.” Maybe Claire is right.
14 | danny
Hearing that Grandpa passed just really sucks. I know he’s old but I sure wanted to pay him a visit before he just up and died. Which is why Dawn and me are packing up for a big Road Trip! We’ll be heading for Juniper, sort of the Boaz of Texas—except with no Shithead or bad memories down there. As usual, Mom’s going in style—flying down later today—but we’re driving down in my old car, letting Mom take Dawn’s junky little Honda to leave at the airport for her and Dad when they return. So for any other Arkansas rednecks trying to find evidence of us up here in St. Louis—good luck, assholes!
We get up at the butt crack of dawn, throw our bags in the car, and hit the road. In preparing our playlist, I’ve chosen a medley of tunes that nicely capture the groove: We’ve got everything from The Clash’s “Death is a Star” and Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven,” to Dave Matthews doing “Lie in Our Graves” and Steve Earle’s “Over Yonder.” And then one Grandpa himself would appreciate: Sinatra’s “My Way.” But the prime cut is Johnny Cash’s killer tune, “The Man Comes Around.” I love the way it starts “There’s a man going ‘round taking names; and he decides who to free and who to blame; Everybody won’t be treated all the same; There’ll be a golden ladder reaching down. . . When the man comes around.” To make things perfect, Dawn is wearing her all-black Johnny Cash outfit, for this trip to Grief Town. Yeah, we’re going to give Grandpa a damn good send-off.
I’m hoping Dawn isn’t bummed out by all the sad faces she’s gonna see in little Juniper. I mean, she hasn’t met any of the Fentons or their friends. But maybe that’s a good thing. Sometimes, death can be real special when it comes to bringing people together. Might even work wonders for me and Dawn, trying to figure out our own little future. Dawn doesn’t say a lot along the way, except to wonder as we zoom along the Indian Nation Turnpike near Tulsa if it weren’t for the casinos what would be the purpose of Oklahoma?
After a good while of listening to our “get ready for the funeral play list,” Dawn’s cell rings. This can’t be good, I’m thinking. Nobody we want to talk to knows her number. She looks at her cell, glances at me while shaking her head, then clicks on the phone. “What do you want, Calvin?” she says. She rolls her eyes while he’s spouting off, then: “I do what I want. So does Danny. That’s all you need to know.” She clicks off her phone.
“Well? What’d Shithead have to say?”
“He says we’re gonna have to come back to Arkansas to answer for what we’ve done.”
“He’s not the boss of me.”
“Yeah, but he was the boss of me. He’s going to sue you for the damage you did to his precious car. And then there’s Raymond”—
“Shithead’s drug connection.”
“Yeah, well, I know him too. And Calvin’s told him a pack of lies about who owes what. So he’s after me.”
“You owe that guy money? Jesus, Dawn!”
“Look, whatever I owe him was because of Calvin. The man loves coke. But you know what happens when you break up with someone: Calvin’s sure as hell not covering my debts or even telling the truth anymore. So I don’t know if we should show up down there or not.”
“Fucking great. Where the hell are we supposed to live? All my stuff’s down there. So is yours. We gotta go back there!”
“Yeah, well, once we figure out a plan.”
“A plan.” Maybe there’ll be a golden ladder reaching down for us.
When we finally pull into Juniper, I can’t help but think, “my God, what alien force crash-landed here and left this little burg in ruins?” I’ve only been here once or twice before—and that was when I was a little kid—but the place looks way different and really sad to me now. To think that my father has to call this his hometown, well, that’s just cruel. I notice Dawn’s not so freaked out by the place. “A cobblestone main street,” she says with a smile. “How cute.”
Once we get out of the car at Grandpa’s house, which is at least a decent-looking home, unlike nearly all of the gone-to-seed places in Juniper, I nearly stop in my tracks: sticking out of the trunk of somebody’s car is a big-ass moose head! What the hell? As Dawn and I stare into its eyes, out comes Uncle Jeff with a couple of paintings.
“Hey, Uncle Jeff!”
“Danny, is that you?” he asks, as he stuffs the paintings in his car.
I give him a quick hug. “Yeah, been a while, huh? Oh, this is my squeeze, Dawn Robinson.” They shake hands.
“Your first time here in lovely Juniper?” Jeff asks.
“First time in Texas,” Dawn responds.
“Well, you’ll survive, I suspect.”
I can’t take my eyes off the stuffed animal in the trunk. “What’s up with the moose, Unc?”
“Well, Claire said we could take a few things that Dad would want us to keep. So I went for the moose.”
“Didn’t know you were a big game hunter.”
“I’m not. I took it, I don’t know, as a way to remember Dad. Come on inside.”
Inside it looks like a major catering operation is underway. Food of all kinds—cakes, pies, pastries, sandwiches, boiled eggs, salads—covers the dining table and practically every kitchen counter. Dawn immediately grabs a couple of cinnamon rolls. I spot Claire talking to some old woman in the kitchen and go over and give her a surprise hug from behind.
“Guess who’s here?”
“Well, if it isn’t Danny!” she says, turning around with a big smile. She gives me a hug and I point out Dawn still sampling food in the dining room. “Is that your new girlfriend?”
“Well, not that new, but yeah. That’s Dawn.”
“She’s mighty cute.”
“Mighty cute and a real hoot.”
Dawn enters the kitchen and comes over to me and Claire.
“Grandma Claire, meet Dawn. Dawn, Claire.”
Dawn reaches out her hand but Claire insists on a big hug.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Ma’am.”
“Thank you, Dawn. I appreciate you and Danny driving all the way down here.”
“It’s the least we can do. You know, pay our respects,” Dawn says.
“Wish you could’ve met Grandpa, sweetheart,” I say. “He was something else. Like a force of nature.”
“Robert lived a good life,” Claire points out. “Something to celebrate.”
“And look at all this food, all these people here,” Dawn responds. I swear she looks like she’s going to cry she’s so worked up. “I feel such love in this house.”
“That’s great, Dawn,” I whisper to her, “but you don’t really know anybody here, so”—
“Love belongs to us all, not just specific people you may or may not know.” Claire nods, although I’m not sure she’s really following Dawn’s line of thinking, whatever it is. “And I’m telling you, it’s all around us.” I don’t think Dawn’s been around families much that actually get along or care about one another.
“That’s very kind of you, Dawn. And you live in Arkansas, with Danny, is that right?”
“I have been. But I, we may be moving.”
“Oh, really?” Claire asks, giving me a look.
“Yeah, well, everything’s kind of up for grabs right now,” I say, throwing Dawn a “please shut the fuck up” look. “So where’s Dad?”
“You know, I’m not sure. He may be on his phone or taking a nap. It’s been a long day. By the way, your room is at the very back. And I told the boys they could pick a few things Robert would want them to have. If there’s something of your grandfather’s that really speaks to you, Danny, you may have it.”
“How thoughtful! I’ll look around. I sure miss Grandpa.”
“I know,” Claire says with a smile as she walks out of the kitchen to greet yet another guest.
“�
�How thoughtful’? Really, Danny?” Dawn asks once we’re alone. “Please tell me you’re not going to be grabbing stuff off the walls.”
“Doesn’t hurt to look around.”
“Do you really think this is the time to be sucking up to your grandmother? She’s going through a tough time. And here you are with your nose in the money bowl.”
“Oh, what about you and all the ‘love’ you feel in this house?”
“It’s true, Danny. Look around,” she observes as we move out of the kitchen and make our way around a dozen or more strangers.
“I’m going to put our stuff away.” I grab our suitcases and head down the hallway toward the bedrooms. I can’t believe these little bedrooms my dad and Uncle Jeff had. And despite all the money Grandpa and Claire have made they clearly decided not to sink it into fixing up the old homestead. Oh well, you get rich, you do what you want. After stashing our stuff in this kiddie back bedroom, I go across the hall to what used to be the master bedroom, open the door, and there’s Pops working away at some makeshift desk.
“Pops, what up?”
“Hey, Danny. Didn’t know you guys arrived. Good drive down?”
“Wasn’t exactly scenic, but we made good time.”
“So Dawn came with you?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t she?”
“Well, I thought those issues she’s dealing with back in Arkansas would, you know, command her attention.”
“We’re sort of working on them together.” I can see he’s been going through some old binders and letters or something. “What’s all this?”
“Oh. Unbelievable stuff. I found an unknown filing cabinet full of letters and journals your grandpa kept back when he was younger. Really revealing materials. I just keep being surprised.”
