The folks at fictionwriting.about.com continue to issue their monthly writing challenges. In November, the challenge was to pick one of our favorite classics, observe the initial setting, then reset the scene. The trick was to consider a drastically different setting and see how it changed our characters. My submission with short preface is below . . .
In chapter one of Huckleberry Finn, Twain paints his setting less through description and more through inner dialogue and conflict. But what we principally understand is that Huck’s current setting is NOT where he wants to be. We learn that he and Tom are two suddenly-rich kids rebelling against a life they did not want. We are given one brief section where Huck describes the scene outside his window, a setting he truly desires. As he ventures out into this setting (in response to Tom’s call) he experiences a very bad omen and worries what will happen next.
I tried out a very different setting, making necessary adjustments for certain characters and events. But I also tried to mirror the chapter as closely as possible.
Adjusting
The name is Huckleberry. And unless you process parking tickets for the Department of Motor Vehicles, you’ve probably never heard of me. You may know my friend, Tom, especially if you’re female. But you’re more likely to have seen our commercials. You know the ones for Clemens Jewelers? “Gold. Make her heart bling!” Yep. That was our line. It was the single largest campaign in Thatcher Advertising’s history. Tom and I signed it, shaped it, and turned it into a household phenomenon. It’s what we do. We’re the best, and I don’t lie about things like that. Well, mostly I don’t. I AM in advertising.
We banked some serious cash on the Clemens account. Back in the day, we would have celebrated by renting a yacht, heading south, and blowing the whole thing on margaritas, senoritas, and any other kind of “itas” that looked like fun. But those days are history since we both decided to act like adults (for once) and put a little bling on the ring fingers of two special ladies. Now, we spend each day staring into our deep fried lunches, counting the days until our lives will change forever, and trying to remember exactly what we were thinking.
Not that I’m unhappy. It’s just a matter of . . . adjusting. I fell in love with Wendy Douglas the first time I saw her. Well, it was actually the second time. I was drunk the first time, and I don’t remember much about that. But since that second time, I was smitten. Within months, she had a ring, and I had a future. And that’s when the problems started. Apparently, beer is not only habit forming – shock – but also full of carbohydrates. And who wants a fat husband? This explains why all of my favorite fried foods are also now contraband. Cigarettes are disgusting carcinogens that I’m no longer allowed to have – even in my own apartment. And today I find out she’s plotting to buy a minivan which she no doubt hopes to drive to a quaint little suburban prison cell with brick on all four sides. This is of course where she’ll serve me and our two point five children wheat-grass and acai berries every night for dinner. Like I said, I’m adjusting.
And to make matters worse, she has this sister. What a mistake her parents made when they conceived that human being. The woman hates me. And the feeling is mutual.
Thank God I have the city. It’s the one place I still understand. The smell of hot dog stands, the symphony of noisy cars, the pulse of millions of people pounding the pavement, it’s like a drug. When Wendy and her Sister from the Crypt start digging my grave, this is where I find peace.
I swivel around in the chair and grab my trusty Nurf basketball. Seven years I’ve been in this office. Seven years I’ve been getting nothing but net from the tiny hoop behind my door. Just when I think maybe I’m losing it, maybe the edge is getting dull, I put up two points and smile, because I know that everything’s gonna be alright.
Today, I could use some reassurance. So I aim, I shoot, I . . . miss? Are you kidding me? The ball rebounds off the door and rolls over to my feet. But I barely notice. I just stare at a net I didn’t even reach. This is bad, really bad. I never miss. I know some people don’t believe in omens and superstition. But this can’t be good. I’m less than thirty days away from the rest of my life as Ward Clever and I MISS? I light a cigarette and sit still like death, contemplating the potential for catastrophe.
“Mr. Finn?” The intercom beckons. “Mr. Sawyer is here to see you.” I don’t answer. “Mr. Finn?” Finally, the voice brings me back to Earth.
“Oh, hey Becky. Yeah, sure. Send him in.”
The door swings open, concealing the empty hoop behind it. But I still stare at it. Tom looks at me, then to the door, then back at me.
“Dude, you look like you just saw a ghost.” Tom closes the door behind him. The hoop returns. “Hey, snap out of it. We’ve got just a few weeks left to live the rest of our lives. So check it out.” Tom drops a stack of paper on my desk. “I’ve been doing a little research online. Man, have I got a plan for you.”
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A really short story, actually more of a soliloquy, this is just a brief look at the silly justifications each of us make about our fears and shortcomings. How often do we pick that one thing about ourselves that we hate and pin all our failures on it? We say, “If I could just change this one thing, everything else would be different.”
Well, meet Purvis, the guy who’s name says it all.
What’s In A Name
This place is pretty well packed tonight. The lights are low, and the music is loud, which is good. Loud music means less talking. Talking is bad, because it requires introductions. And introductions mean I have to say it. “Hi, my name is Purvis.”
Yep, Purvis. I know what you’re thinking. “What kind of name is that?” I know, right? The first thing people use to size you up, the way they remember you, the key to the very door into your soul, and my parents choose Purvis. Really?
I guess I could understand it if I were named for some legendary ancestor like a General Purvis Augustus, leader of Allied Forces on some beach in Normandy. Or maybe a Reverend Purvis Leonidas, fearless missionary taking God to naked natives up and down the Amazon. But alas, there are no such heroes in my family tree.
I used to wonder if maybe I was named for that FBI guy who nabbed Dillinger. Turns out Purvis was actually the name of the gardener who worked for my grandmother. He sculpted topiaries of Bible characters. Apparently, his juniper Jesus was so lifelike that people would come from miles around to pray to it. And here I am, a testament to his horticultural moxy.
Hey, there’s that group of girls from HR down the hall. They already know my name, I think. I could just skip the whole introduction part. Oh wait. There’s those guys from Sales. OK, never mind. I’ll let them have a chance. They probably all have really cool names anyway. Some of them probably even have great nicknames too. I always envied guys with great nicknames. My friend Nathan Canasta played football. His number was 50. So “Five Oh” became his name for the rest of high school. Richard Barefoot was Native American, the only Native American we knew. So we called him “Chief.”
So why couldn’t I get one of those names? I was cool. Right? I knew things. I did stuff. But nothing ever stuck. I used to write names on my notebooks to try them out. I wrote “Big Show” and then “Full House,” but I’m just over five feet tall and 120 pounds with my Sunday shoes on. I also considered “Lefty” and “John Deere,” but I’m right handed, and I’ve never actually seen a tractor in real life. In the end, I’m just a tragically vanilla, homogeneous human being with absolutely no distinguishing characteristics save one . . . the name “Purvis.”
Look who just sat down at the other end of the bar. That’s the girl I saw last week, the one with the curly hair. I can’t tell in here, but I think she might be hot. Then again, it’s really dark. I might chance it and walk over. But what would I say?
“Excuse me, would you like some nuts?” No, that won’t work.
“From over there you looked pretty, so I just wanted to come over and make sure you weren’t really ugly close up.” No, better let that one go too.
If I only had a name like Fred or Ralph or something. Then I could just say “Hi, I’m Fred or Ralph or something.”
I guess I could use my middle name, Arthur. Or maybe just Art. But then again, art is what you hang on a wall or make in preschool with macaroni and Elmer’s Glue. And I certainly can’t shorten my first name. “Purv.” Nope, I don’t think so. One time I considered combining a short version of my first and middle names. But then I thought it through. “Purv Art.” Are you kidding me? Mom, Dad, how much do you hate me?
“What’ll it be tonight, kid?” That’s the bartender. I think his name is Stan, or maybe Dan.
“O’Dules.”
“Right.”
Dan’s a nice guy. He works a lot. Always here when I come in.
“Hey Dan, you got a nickname?”
“Yeah. It’s Stan.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
Hey, when did Jackson come in? “Hey! Jackson, my man! What’s up? Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Well, I’ll just be over here. Keep it real, man.”
Jackson runs the sandwich cart on the corner by the office. Now Jackson, that’s a real name. Like “action,” only Jackson. That guy’s gonna go places with a name like that.
But not me. I’m just gonna sit here at this bar and watch all these well-named individuals go about their happy lives while I waste away in the intoxicating wash of Near Beer. Just me, the Purv-meister. The Purvinator. Potent. Powerful. Purvilicious.
I’ve got to get a new name.
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Posted on Nov 1, 2010 in Short Stories | 1 comment
About.com hosts a monthly writing challenge. The moderator publishes a prompt, then writers submit their variations on whatever theme is proposed. Stories are to be kept under 600 words.
For October, ghost stories were predictably solicited. The writing prompt was taken from Lord Halifax’s Ghost Book. Each story must begin with the words, “After dinner, our host, who was then renting the place, told us that the house was said to be . . .”
Below is the introduction to my submission, which you can read in full here. If you like it (or if you don’t) there is a link at the bottom of the story to make comments.
A Tremendous Investment
After dinner, our host, who was then renting the place, told us that the house was both conceived and constructed entirely by the hands of its original owner.
I listened with intrigue, not so much for his architectural insight, but rather because these were the first words the man had uttered all night. Since our arrival, conversation had been scarce. What little had been said was limited to the obligatory greetings and few brief discourses between my fiancé and the fragile apparition who introduced herself as Mrs. Clairmont.
Read the rest of the story . . .
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Pardon the diversion from the Maxwell book. But I really wanted to share my new story with you first. I’ve included an excerpt below with a link to download the full story in PDF format.
Altar Ego, an excerpt
(Download the complete story)
“So you’re not going to tell her?” asked Bentley. Vernon was studying himself in the mirror. He pressed the top of his head from different angles, tilting his face from side to side.
“Bentley,” he began, “I’ve thought about it long and hard.” He looked away from the mirror and into the eyes of his co-conspirator. A thick index finger emphasized his point. “She’s stopped me before. But she won’t stop me this time.”
Bentley sighed. “What time does she leave?”
“First thing Friday morning,” said Vernon. “My appointment’s at ten, so I plan on getting her up early and out the door. The sooner she’s out of the way, the better.”
“How long will she be gone?”
“Till sometime on Tuesday, plenty of time.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want her to know?” Bentley pressed. “This is kind of a big step. Do you really think it’s necessary?”
Without answering, Reverend Vernon Vanderwalker returned his attention to the mirror. Not bad for 54. A little beefy around the edges. But that wasn’t what bothered him. His biggest problem, the proverbial “thorn in his side,” was the barren patch of wasteland where his hair used to live. Maybe it was because of age or stress. Maybe it was due to some tragic case of heredity. Either way, Vernon’s head was as slick as a baby’s butt. He thought of the Old Testament, when the sins of the fathers were visited upon the future generations. “What kind of mess did my Daddy get himself into?” he wondered.
The problem had begun innocently enough above his forehead with a mild receding hairline. But over the years, time revealed its dastardly plan as Vernon’s youth eventually eroded to the fuzz on his neck. The process left nothing behind but a badland of desolation that stretched from ear to shining ear, bordered only by a few ghostly threads that simply forgot to die.
“It’s necessary,” he declared.
For years, he had hidden the problem artificially. But he grew tired of the hair by day, gone by night routine. He longed to wash his hair, not dry clean it. He was convinced this was the answer. This was how it had to be. Maybe it was a big step. But it would be worth it, especially when his wife came home from her sister’s to find a fresh-headed hunk of burning love to meet her at the door.
“Sarah hates that wig,” Vernon admitted. “And I simply refuse to stand behind the pulpit while those lights make pretty little shapes on the ceiling from the reflections off my head.”
Bentley studied the brochure Vernon had given him. It was full of the clinic’s most recent “success” stories. Flipping it onto the couch, he pondered how best to address his concerns. Finally, he decided on a delicate, tactful approach.
“Vernon, all those guys look like Chia-Pets.”
“Chia what?” Vernon picked up the brochure searching for his answer.
“Chia-Pets. . . . you know those things you. . . well, you add the water and . . .” Bentley saw this was going nowhere. Perhaps it was best to just be supportive. “Oh, never mind. Tell you what. If this is important to you, it’s important to me. So, who’s lined up to preach for you on Sunday?”
Vernon peered over the top of his glasses. Bentley was at least 5 years his senior yet had enough hair to bust a ball cap. As a pastor, Vernon had learned to lean on the counsel of his Deacon Chairman. In the last ten years, the two had seen tremendous growth in the once-dying congregation. With membership at an all-time high, their small country church was now growing at an unprecedented rate. But more than that, Vernon knew Bentley was a straight shooter, a man he could trust.
“What do you mean ‘preach for me’?” Vernon questioned. “What can’t I preach for me?”
Bentley’s worst fears had just been confirmed. He loved his pastor but also felt the need to protect him. For all the wonderful gifts God had given the man, common sense was not among them. It stood to reason in Bentley’s mind that aerating and seeding one’s scalp might require a brief time of recuperation. This thought had clearly not occurred to the man who’s head was soon to become a moving sod farm.
“Now Brother Vernon, I know it’s been a long time since you’ve missed a Sunday at this church.”
“Going on five years now!” Vernon interrupted. “And that’s a streak I don’t intend to break! I don’t care what you say.” Vernon stomped to his desk and sank into the large leather chair. As Bentley stood from the couch, Vernon marveled at how the man could sit for any length of time and not get wrinkles in his pants.
“Preacher,” Bentley began. With the utterance of the word, Vernon felt sick. The last time Bentley Bunch began a sentence with “Preacher,” it was to announce that Burl Simpson’s Billie goat had eaten the blanket right off of a live baby Jesus in the middle of last year’s nativity. This was of course very frightening for Jesus’ mother, who was refilling a small butane heater near the stable. She screamed loud enough to wake half the church cemetery, which was unfortunate because the poor goat was nervous and instantly fell over dead. It was never clear, however, if this death was due to the shock of the scream or from choking on the blanket.
In her haste to save her child, the woman broke the butane pipe’s connection, allowing gas to spill into the air. Of course in all the commotion, no one managed to notice the growing stench of gas, nor did they worry what might happen if that gas came in contact with an errant ember from the nearby bond fire. When the smoke finally cleared, the stable was a pile of ash. Two of the wise men were missing eyebrows, and Burl Simpson was out ten bales of hay, three chickens, and one nervous goat. Whatever Bentley had to say now would no doubt ruin Vernon’s day.
“Preacher, did the doctor explain to you exactly what you might expect from this procedure?”
“Yes,” Vernon shot back. “More hair.”
“No, I mean in terms of recovery.”
Vernon considered this. He seemed to recall the mention of “some general discomfort” and perhaps the need to “take it easy for a few days.” But that was it. At least, this was all he could remember. Bentley retrieved his glasses from the thick brown pouch wedged in his shirt pocket. He put them on and held the brochure at arm’s length before reading aloud:
“Some patients will experience moderate to severe discomfort in the days immediately following this procedure. Scalp will be extremely tender, as well as red and swollen. Patients should plan on limited to no activity for no less than four days.”
Vernon did the math. Not good. In earlier years, he would have run his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“What am I going to do?” he wondered aloud. “If I can’t preach Sunday, my cover is blown.” Then after a short pause, “No pun intended.” Bentley smiled, but more out of courtesy than amusement. Vernon began to absently flip the onion-skinned corner of a King James with his thumb. Bentley walked to the window and watched a squirrel find a nut.
“Vernon, I just think you’re going to have to fess up on this one. It ain’t like we’ve got two of you.” Suddenly, the flipping fell silent.
“What did you say?” Vernon demanded.
Thinking that hair might not be the only thing his pastor had lost, Bentley repeated louder, “I said you’re gonna have to fess up.”
“No, no. Not that. The other thing.”
“I said we ain’t got two of you.” Bentley turned to face Vernon, who leaped to his feet and began rummaging through his top desk drawer.
“That’s it! Man alive, Bentley Bunch. You beat all! You know that? There are two of me!” Bentley had the sudden urge to pray for the mental health of his pastor. He watched in disbelief as Vernon ripped through books and folders searching for something that was apparently as valuable as the holy grail itself – and just as elusive. “Got it!” Vernon finally thrust a slip of paper above his head in triumph.
“Got what?” Bentley wasn’t even sure he wanted to know.
“Bentley, sit back down. There’s something I need to tell you.” After ten minutes of revelation, Bentley Bunch sat stunned.
“Wait just a minute. You’re telling me that you have a twin brother?”
Vernon nodded yes.
“And he lives not three hours from this church?”
Again, yes.
“And you two look just alike?”
“Well, hang on there.” Vernon felt compelled to clarify. “I wouldn’t say that. Virgil doesn’t exactly carry my . . . ” He worked to find the appropriate word. “Presence.”
“But he looks like you?”
“You could say that. Yes.”
“And he sounds like you?”
“When he tries, he can sound more like me than I can.”
“And he’s a preacher too?”
“Unless he’s been excommunicated.”
Bentley took a moment to digest this information. It was all so much so fast. Questions began to spill out of his mouth. “But how come we’ve never seen him? How come we didn’t even know he existed? You’ve been here ten years, and you’ve never mentioned a twin brother?”
Vernon knew this wouldn’t be easy to explain. There was no great reason why he never mentioned his brother. It just never came up.
“Virgil is . . . ” Again, Vernon thought carefully about how best to describe his twin. “Virgil is just different. He and I have never been what you might call close.”
Bentley asked the next obvious question. “So what makes you think he’ll even come, then?” At this, Vernon seemed to drift back to some distant memory.
“See, when God handed out self confidence, I’m afraid I got the lion’s share. Poor Virgil was always kind of like a stow-away on the USS Vernon. It’s been like that ever since we were kids. When I played ball, Virgil played ball. When I went to work at Lutrell Hardware, Virgil went to work at Lutrell Hardware. When I became a minister . . .”
Bentley finished the statement. “Virgil became a minister.”
“Exactly.” Vernon snapped his fingers.
“OK. So let’s say he’ll do it. Do you honestly believe he could pretend to be you on Sunday morning and just go back home without anyone knowing?”
“Beautiful, isn’t it? Think about it, Bentley. Sarah’s gone to her sister’s. The only time I have to be anywhere between Friday and Tuesday is at that pulpit Sunday morning, a good 20 feet from the first pew. If Virgil can still do ‘me’ like he used to, most folks will never suspect a thing.”
“I don’t know, Vernon. This all just sounds like a bad idea to me.” In reality, it was undoubtedly the dumbest idea Bentley had ever heard.
“Oh, hogwash, Bentley! It’ll work. I’ll write the sermon. Virgil will preach it. It’s fool proof.”
The phrase “famous last words” came to Bentley’s mind. But in the end, he agreed to be a part of the “fool proof” plan, if for no other reason than out of morbid curiosity.
For more, download the complete story . . .
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Below is one of my more recent short stories. Before you read it, please allow me this brief prologue:
To my friends who may find this story less than tasteful, my apologies.
To my friend upon who’s experience this story is loosely based, you are my hero.
To other readers (all 6 of you), I hope this story reminds you (as it did me) of the following . . .
We are who we are. And that is that. So loosen up, learn to laugh, and live a little.
Wait Till You Hear This
I was in pain. This I remember well. I also remember the cold vinyl of the chair and the peculiar smell that always seemed to accompany such places. I opened the only periodical left on a nearby table, an out-dated issue of “Gastroenterology Digest.” Desperate to occupy my mind, I searched the magazine with the truly tragic title for anything of interest. Unfortunately, the publication’s personality ended just beyond the cover, and so I turned my attention to the other patrons along the walls.
Many of the patients were elderly, a fact I had anticipated. Yet at 40, I was learning that my condition was far less exceptional for men my age than I might have imagined. Far less exceptional perhaps, but no less embarrassing.
I am a discreet individual. Matters of this nature have always been treated in my family with certain furtiveness. Bodies being what they are, some things can’t be helped. However even the most unmentionable of bodily functions should be treated with dignity, if for no other reason than out of respect for those around you. My condition, however, had grown so problematic as to prevent this kind of discretion and thus had begun to hinder not only my physical, but also my social well-being.
My wait was growing more painful by the second, and I was never more relieved (a poor choice of words, I admit) when a nurse called my name. With no small amount of effort, I inched my way toward the door praying for an uneventful journey. I considered it a personal triumph to have made it past the nurse. I considered it a true miracle to have made it to the privacy of the small examining room.
Once secluded, I could stand it no longer. Almost immediately upon the nurse’s departure and the subsequent closing of the door, I relaxed my body and allowed my condition to fill the silent room. The physical relief was second only to the knowledge that I was saved from the embarrassment of an audience.
“Good one,” a voice boomed from behind. I whipped around to discover a doctor emerging from a previously concealed supply closet. I was instantly horrified, a fact which my face apparently made no secret.
“Oh, relax,” the doctor said. “You think you’re the only man to ever have gas?”
His manner was disconcertingly familiar. I would not have thought a topic as sensitive as this would have been treated with such informality, especially by a physician. This man, however, was unlike any physician I had ever patronized.
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At a time in my life when I am discovering what “father” really means, I find myself working harder than ever to reconcile who I am with who I hope to be . . . as a dad, as a husband, as a man. The following is a short story about a young man who’s childhood memories serve as constant life lessons, lessons that pay tribute to the wisdom and strength of his father. I don’t know too many men who wouldn’t want to be remembered in this way.
I Remember This Tree
By Brandon Abbott
I remember this tree.
It stood way up all by itself on top of Harper’s Hill, right in the center of Knox Creek. That tree was huge. Bigger than life itself. It had strong, thick branches that started low and spread out wide. You could climb it, hide up in it, sleep under it. It was perfect for just about anything. I reckon everybody in Knox Creek knew that tree. People’d come and picnic under it, play around it, lean on it. Yes sir, that was a good ole’ tree.
We used to pass that tree some Saturdays when me and Daddy would drive out to Ule Craddok’s place to do some fishing. Ule lived just outside Knox Creek, about 10 miles before you get to Station City. He owned what I figured was the biggest catfish pond in the whole dadgum county. Best part was, he wouldn’t let nobody fish it ‘cept us.
Daddy said Ule fought in the War, which was why he limped around like he did. To hear Ule tell it, he signed up for a site-seeing tour of Europe and all he brought back was a great big pain in the ass. But he liked Daddy. And Daddy liked him. So, ‘bout every other week, me and Daddy would get up early and drive out 71 to see about wettin’ the line with our buddy Ule.
On our way, sometimes we’d stop by at the Kwik Sack to get us some groceries. I’d always go for an RC Cola and a moon pie (or two if I could get away with it.) But Daddy, well he’d get him a Pepsi and a pack of salty peanuts. Now, I don’t know what ever gave him the notion to try this, but Daddy would pour them peanuts down that bottle of Pepsi cola and drink it all down at once. I always screwed my face up and shivered like it gave me the heebie-jeebies. It didn’t bother me near like I let on, but it made Daddy laugh, so I did it anyway.
‘Course, we’d always get a couple of cold drinks for Ule, too. RC’s mainly. We used to get him a six pack of beer, ‘cause he likes it so much. But after a while, Daddy stopped taking it to him. Said Ule wasn’t that kind of thirsty no more. Back then I didn’t think much of it. Just figured Daddy knew best ‘bout what Ule wanted. Looking back, I reckon it was more about what Ule needed than what he wanted.
To get to the pond, we’d usually take the shortcut at Solley’s crossroads, turn right, and follow the signs for “Troy’s Taxidermy.” Troy Hollis went to school with Daddy, but I don’t think he ever finished. I’ll tell you what, though. You kill somethin’; you take it to Troy. He’ll mount that sucker so that you’ll swear it was still breathin’.
Daddy always said Troy never got along too well with the living, so it made good sense he’d take up company with the dead, animals or otherwise. I guess animals just cause Knox Creek already had a funeral home director, and Troy didn’t own a tie or suit or nothing like that anyway. But folks around here was always catchin’ fish and killin’ deer and drivin’ all the way into Station City to get ‘em stuffed. So Troy figured he’d sit a sign out on 71 and send people down the shortcut past his place and stop ‘em before they ever get to town.
‘Course, even with all the fine hunting and fishing in Knox Creek, it was still pretty normal to pass by and see Troy sittin’ on the porch doing just about nothing. Well, nothin’ ‘cept talkin’ to old Beulah, childhood friend, companion, and guard dog. Troy’d wave. Beulah’d raise her head just enough to let us all know she wasn’t dead . . . yet.
About the only time she ever moved at all was when Ernie Wells came around. Ernie started delivering mail on Rural Route 2 about three years back. And for some reason Daddy and I ain’t never quite figured out, he managed somewhere along the way to make a lifelong enemy of Beulah, the sometimes vicious yet otherwise lethargic guardian of everything posed and stuffed.
Why, Ernie’d no sooner turn the corner of the dirt driveway what Beulah wouldn’t go near rabid trying to get at him. Ernie swore Troy trained her that way. Troy said he’d never bury that dog. He’d just stuff her and mount her up by the mail box just to see ole’ Ernie piss his pants every time he tried to deliver the Publisher’s clearing house.
I don’t blame Ernie much. Beulah was a lot like our buddy Ule. She had people she liked and people she didn’t. I never got too close to her, but Daddy did alright with her. Course, Daddy did alright with just about everybody. Folks looked up to him, I guess. They was all the time coming to him for help or advice or whatnot. He kind of had this way of just knowing the right thing to do.
This one time Doc Hollis (no relation to Troy) was off at a medical convention down in Birmingham. ‘Bout middle of the week, Buck Caldwell’s little girl, Emma, got terrible sick with fever. Now, I guess folks just can’t hardly think right when they’re all worried about their kids, but that man was flat beside himself with panic when he called the house. To this day Mr. Caldwell will tell you if it weren’t for Daddy coming over and getting him settled down enough to think and tend to things, it might have been the end for both him and Emma.
I reckon, though, I never will forget this one night. I woke up and heard crying in the living room. I got up and crept real quiet down the hall to see what was going on. I remember Jenny Brewster sitting on our couch with her three kids. They was, well shoot, they was all younger than me. I’d say the oldest was probably five or six. Anyway, Miss Jenny was the one doing all the crying. Mama was trying to tend to the kids and stay busy in the kitchen.
Daddy was watching out the window, which I remember thinking was kind of odd. But I reckon he knew what was coming, cause a few seconds later, he walked out in the yard and closed the door behind him. I raced around the corner to the window in the hall. It was dark, and I stubbed my toe. It hurt like the dickens, but I didn’t make no sound.
When I got to the window, I saw Daddy and Charlie Brewster in the yard. Charlie had his shotgun with him, and he was mad, stomping around and shoutin’ all crazy like. Daddy didn’t have no gun with him. I was a little worried, cause everybody new Charlie had a bad temper. I knew it cause his own kids was scared of him. And there he was in my yard, pointin’ a 12 gauge at the front door. The only thing standing in his way was my Daddy in his pajamas.
We had this yeller porch light on a count of all the bugs. Daddy must of turned it on so he could see Charlie comin’. From the window it was makin’ Charlie look like some kind of demon with his pale face all puffed up and his eyes all wild looking. In the glow of the hazy night air, you could just see the heat and the hate coming right off of him, like he was smolderin’ or something. Right then and there, I saw just why his kids was so scared of him.
From his shoutin’ I could hear the liquor on his breath. I thought for just a second he’d pass right out there by the mailbox. But I was wrong. Next thing I knew, he had the barrel of that shotgun stickin’ right in my daddy’s face. I wished like everything I could’ve climbed out that window and helped Daddy. I thought of Mama and Miss Jenny in the living room with her kids. Man, I had to do something.
Daddy saw me though, out of the corner of his eye. It was kind of dark, but I reckon he knew it was me. I never will forget it. He didn’t look scared. He just smiled at me and nodded, like everything was gonna be alright. So I stood there and watched.
Now, I couldn’t hear what Daddy said to him, but after about ten of the longest seconds of my life, Charlie lowered his gun and his head. He wasn’t shoutin’ no more. He just looked toward the front door, spit, and walked away.
I asked Daddy once when we passed the big tree what he said to Charlie that night. He wouldn’t tell me. Said that was between him and Charlie. But just then he slowed down the car and pulled over to the side. Then he pointed to the tree.
“Son, you think that tree ever moved?”
I shook my head, trying to understand. I looked at the tree again, standing up there like it was guardin’ the whole town. The sun was setting behind it, and its shadow was right on top of us.
“No,” I said. “It ain’t never moved.”
“That’s right. We’ve had some mighty strong winds here from time to time haven’t we?”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“But that tree’s still standing right where it always was.”
“Yes sir.” I waited for him to keep going. He looked back at the tree, then back at me.
“You pick your hill, son,” he said. “You plant yourself there, and you don’t move. Not for nothing.”
I never will forget that tree.
The End
(c) 2006 Brandon Abbott
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