WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) (65 page)

Dad had taken him to a knee doctor for a check-up after his knee replacement surgery a year or so ago.
It was there and back, a short drive.  But in Papa Hart’s eyes—or distorted vision, it was an entirely different story. 
From his point of view, dad drove like a lunatic down HWY 41 before Papa Hart could get inside the cab of the truck. Just sped off like a speed demon, while he hung onto the door for dear life, halfway out and halfway in, his leg hobbled and scudded across the concrete pavement like a dragged rag doll. According to Papa Hart,
that’s how his knee ended up in the shape it was in.  He never had knee surgery, not at all.  And t
he more his knee hurt, the more fabricated the story got. He wasn't shy about telling the story
to anyone with a listening ear either. 
It’s a wonder dad wasn’t arrested for elderly abuse. Sure, dad is a radical mad hatter of the driving world, but
he’d never do anything to hurt his father.  Dad had tears in his eyes every time Papa Hart mentioned the story.  Then it turned to anger and dad had to leave to maintain control.  He knew his father wasn’t in his right mind and didn’t know any better, but it didn’t change the way it made him feel. 

“I just got in the truck and before I could sit down and close the door…” Papa Hart said pointing to his knee. “A.J. Goddamned Foyt floored it like some banshee Indian. He went plum crazy, driving off, me hanging on, and yelling and him just driving on like I wasn’t there.” He’d rub his knee for full effect believing every word he said. “He dragged me a mile down the road, my leg justa dangling out the door. He wouldn’t slow down.” He’d look up and shake his head. “Nope. Almost kilt me. He’s crazy, I tell ya, just crazy.”

In listening to the story I’d catch a glimpse of the old Papa Hart, his eyes and how they'd sparkle when he’d start to tell us one of th
ose great stories on the porch but it was rare and fading. 

“You still working down there at that grocery store?”
He said rocking in his chair. 

Grocery store?
 I have never worked at a grocery store.
Does he even know who I am?
 My heart
wrung in knots with the thought. 

“I work at the bank, remember? In the loan department.” I said loudly since he was deaf. The thought of my own grandfather not knowing me broke my heart.

“Is that your truck?” He said pointing out the window.

“That’s dad’s truck. He’s in the garden picking the tomatoes. Remember?”

“Do what?” He leaned forward cupping his ears.

“I RODE WITH DAD.” I said in my megaphone voice. He stopped rocking. His face went wild. It was a trigger. 

“You rode with 
him
?” His eyes got big and went to spinning. He went to rocking back and forth till the sound was nerve wracking. “I’ll tell ya right now, you better watch that Gavin ’cause by damn, he dragged me clean up the road, you see this knee?” He dangled his knee like a puppet. 
Here we go again.

“See how it’s crooked and I can’t bend it.” He looked to me for sympathy. I sat like a bump on a log, unable to comprehend the man in front of me. He looked like my grandfather but didn’t act like my grandfather. “He don’t need to drive a tricycle.” He sai
d flustered. 
He faded away and walked the road no one else can travel. 
No one but him.
 He stared out the window as if he was processing things in his head, in his vision. Sorting, sifting. I held back tears and bit the inside of my lips until they bled.

I
arrived home a few hours later.  I
had just sat my keys on the counter when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Now why did you go and take my phone book?” Papa Hart said. 
What? 
I had to pause because it was so ridiculous I thought it might be a joke.

“Papa Hart...what do you mean?”

“You heard me. Why did you take my phone book?” His voice was mean spirited, adamant and demanding. I had never heard Papa Hart like this.

“I—I don’t know what you mean, I haven’t taken your phone book Papa Hart, do you mean you lost it?”

“No. Now by damn, you were here and you took it.” He rambled off May Wearington's number, something about Don Cappolla from Galveston and
other stuff I didn’t understand. 

“Wait…wait. Stop. Why would I take your phone book, Papa Hart? I have one already. Besides, they are free from the phone company. Now did you just misplace it or something?”

He huffed and cursed on the other end. I was on the verge of tears. The man on the phone was not the man I knew. It took me five minutes of constant conversation to convince him that I didn’t take his phone book and I still didn’t succeed. I cried myself to sl
eep that night mourning the loss of my grandfather who wasn’t even dead yet. 

The next week the home nurse reported him AWOL. Dad rushed over and found him in the blackberry bush, plopped inside the tangled thorny vines like a fallen scarecrow. His legs sprawled straight in front of him, his glasses crooked, and he was scratched tip to toe and bleeding from every pore. No telling how long he’d been there, unable to get himself up.

“What are you doing Pops?” Dad said when he found him.

“I’m getting a goddamned suntan, what does it look like.” Dad was the bad guy again, but at least
Papa Hart hadn’t lost his sense of humor.  It didn’t last long however.  Dad helped him up and brushed him off.  Pa
pa Hart pushed his arms away.

“If you weren’t stealing me blind of my berries I wouldn’t have to pick them every day.”

Dad just walked away.  There was nothing he could say that was going to change his father’s mind. 
Trying to reason was pointless. The next day he went missing again. Dad rushed over once more and this time, he found him in the garden, between a row of peas and potatoes. He had fell and knocked his glasses off. His legs too weak to get up and his vision was blurry as mud, so all he could do was crawl around. The garden looked like a racing dirt track. There were trails and deep trenches in the dirt that were made from his hands and knees. Dad found his glasses under a tomato plant.

“How long you been here dad?”

“Long enough to get cottonmouth.” He said licking his dry, cracked lips. Dad left it at that. At least this time he wasn’t the bad guy. 

A slammed car door brought me back to reality.  I turned towards the noise to see the strangers backing out.  Dad was holding a skyscraper of food trays. 

“Why don’t people bring liquor?” The voice said. It was gentle and familiar in my gifted ears.
 
Papa Hart?
“Seems a better fit and all, don’t you think?” I spin around to face him but see his hammock instead, empty and distraught, gently swaying in the wind and making
a mesh-mesh sound. 
The Hammock hung between two shade trees and Papa Hart napped in it every day after he retired.

“Yeah, well…” I say out loud to Papa Hart's spirit. “You’re going to need a shot of corn whiskey when you find out how much it cost you to die.”

The w
ind soars through the tree tops as I look up. 
I hear his deep belly laugh
in my ears and it’s like I’m a child again, still on the porch, listening to him.  In
seconds, I find myself standing on the porch planks and I don't remember walking, as if I was whisked by a quickened breath. The silence is
different than all the times before.  It’s eerie and makes my heart swell. 
Papa Hart built this porch by hand after the war. Today, the nails and boards mourn their maker.
I can hear it in the creaks and moans. 
My legs are heavy and weak, so I sit down on the concrete steps. A familiar scent assaults me. Wild onion flowers sprout around the edges of the porch giving off their pungent scent, taking me back, way back to the well-worn road of my past, my time and place, my life with him. Growing up
beside my grandparents and great grandparents was a blessing. 
I start thinking about the funeral, the visitation and all the grief that will be stuffed into one room.

One things certain. Papa Hart wouldn’t
want to attend his own funeral if given the chance. 
His sister died a few years after Dell and he
refused to attend. 
Lord. That got Pine Log talking.
Tessy Pearson ate that up.  I reckon she was a bloated as a bullfrog. 
He didn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thought about it neither. Honestly, I think Dell’s funeral was all Papa Hart could take.

A surge of uncomfortable feelings lodge in my chest. A few feet in front of me, the mimosa tree stands tall and vibrant, its branches scarred and wimpy from constant swinging, climbing, and hanging. “Don't break my limbs.” My mind unravels images left and right. The past mingles with the present. I internalize the words, the meanings drawing pictures in my mind. I capture the sounds, the voices I’ve heard on the porch along with the stories, so that I will never forget the lands I only dreamed of, places beyond my imagination, beyond myself, of heroes and legends, of princes and villains, of soldiers and wars, of magic and mystery, of Cowboys and outlaws.

One rule. Two purposes. 
Storytelling or silence. On or the other. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Ekk—eekk. The swing squeals out as if it needed consoling. In my mind, I see us sitting there. Swinging. Chatting. Storytelling and silence. A box of malted milk balls. Crunching. Content and happy. Eck—eek went the swing. Chomp—chomp went our teeth. Smack—smack went our mouths. Swish—swish went the wind. Squeak—squeak went the rusty chain. Squall—squall went the porch slats. Pinch—pinch went the soles of his Redwing boots. 
It was glorious. It was grand. It was our porch silence.
Hot stinging tears are running down my face.

“Straight up Willodean. Straight up!” His voice whispe
rs sweet nothings into my ears, the hope of tomorrow, the promise of another life. 
The porch sti
ngs with an unbearable silence my ears can barely take.  They long to hear ancient voices, a word, the telling of a story,
a porch tale, my laughter, his laughter, the creak of the swing, the squeal of the rusty chain, the pinch of his old boots
.  Just a sound, something besides the
despairing void of nothingness that fills the gaps of my sorrowed soul. The emotions are making me a mess.
I feel the stirring of the little girl inside me. 

I miss him. I miss her. I miss them both.
 
I feel as if she died with him.  The child I was.  We are both gone, all gone. 
All that's left of me is dead bones, a crackle shell of something mad. The porch cracks, pops and leans as if it wants to crumble, no longer serving its purpose, so it’s void and empty. The sounds break me,
eeking, swooshing, creaking.  This porch is a lot like its master
. It knows its purpose. 
Storytelling or silence.
 And since it can do neither...it will not say goodbye.

Capital C

Snot and tears run down my cheeks and create a blubbery icky mess.
He was dead. 
I did not understanding the magnitude of this moment. The mere sight of him sent a rumble of emotions through me. Mag was crushed beyond heartache. Death was ma
king its mark, blow after blow in my family. 
Just months ago, we buried Dell and that was enough to finish us all off, but now…

I was out of sorts, a bottle rocket shot into the sky, then diving,
thudding to the ground to fizzle out. 
Somebody—help—me—breathe. I need air. Air from a dirt dancer, air from the divine…help.
 
Squeaky pains rattled from my bones.  Dea
th
pulled at me, and strangled me in its grip.  Poor Mag.  Her cry is the worst.  Death disturbed both of us to a point we were sub-human in our emotions.  I
t didn't matter if the death was human, canine, feline, butte
rfly, ant, or creepy crawly bug, our weeping was the same. 

It started when Maw Sue went to the mailbox and found a pile of snow in the middle of the road. Only it wasn't snow, it was Casper, our pet cat. Blood dribbled down his fluffy white coat and his head was almost flat on one side. His pink ears were as stiff as mom’s leather handbag. Mag was beside herself; tears pushing past the thick film of dirt on her face
making a mudslide. 
She shook and jerked in tiny pulses as if she was being electrocuted. Her hair was matted with a dozen sticker briars from falling
face first into the grass, bawling like a dying animal and making those primal, awful sounds that makes me hold my ears. 
She pressed her face in the grass, and her mouth made a distinct whistling wind sound, followed by a low sucking moan. Suddenly, she'd rise up in shock and wild eyed staring into nothingness and then fall back to the grass burrs. This repeated itself for a good five minutes,
until she went to word crying.  This is the worse than bawling. 
Word crying is incoherent blabber, mixed with loud
wails. 
It's comparable to a screeching owl and a seized rabbit, along with Scooby Do and Shaggy, all together,
in the same cage, all shouting at one time.  It will scare the pants off a person, no doubt.   Makes my skin crawl.