Ch. 2 post 3

Ever the riddle, Momma loved the name. It relieved her of her duty. Duty is a merciless place. Cousin Ellard said so.

I turned back to his letter: There’s a grief alive in me. A solid wretched grief. I see where your sister lit her passion. From this grief. To be honest with you her visits make me nervous. Growing up, she seemed separate from our side of the family. Remember when she took us to church, and I begged you to let me go back for a week? Her singing sounded out of this world. Imagine that, Pa, your boy seduced, however minutely, by the lord. Here I am, less than a hundred feet from you, and I’m writing a letter to you that I’m gonna send to someone else. That’s not exactly healthy communication.

There it was, plain as daylight. Ellard intended for me to read the letter, and though I was taken by a strange sense of guilt, I read on: This world isn’t the one either of us dreamed of or hoped for. And if it were, I’m not so sure we’d be any closer to each other. I drank the wine, I sang the songs the other boys sang. Time sped up. Like I said, this is no one’s fault. I been reading them books Momma got you. And in between pages, I’ll put them down, and watch the starlings through the window. And you know what? There’s something to it, connecting the birds and the mythologies, the whole world to you and a me. There’s a dictionary in here too. Auguries. Auspices. A sign. Understand the sign, you’ll know the world. Not the future, but the world. What put the gun in my hands? It was more than a youthful predilection for rebellion, that’s for damn sure.

Now I knew how Daddy felt when Momma quoted scripture. Ellard’s incarceration, up to that point, reminded me of the smallness of our town. Our dust filled briar patch populated more by vegetation than people. Green in the summer, and washed out white in the winter. I starved for conversation. Ellard provided that. But by making me an unwitting collaborator he sucked the juice right out of the thing.

What’d ol’ Ellard have to say for himself this week, Daddy said, as he went to the fridge.

He’d have an idea about this rotten deal. What’s for dinner tonight, he asked. As soon as he said it my mood sank into the spare pine floorboards. I grumbled,  threw up my hands, and walked out on him. Hey, he half hollered, in a jokey tone, I’ll even do the dishes tonight.

Cub Koda sat under the Persimmon tree, dragging a stick across its roots. He watched me, then glanced back at the roots. I ignored him, and walked out back past the broken down machinery. And I laid down in the long weeds, and stared up into the drifting abacus of clouds. I thought how Momma had a special way of saying things, it seemed like the whole world waited, and would continue to do so until she finished. Cub had yet to be swayed by the delicacy of Momma’s education. His mind surveyed a host of misunderstandings. Daddy cared little for words. His language was sweat, and he employed an entire vernacular of grunts. The blue curve of sky above the clouds? She called it celestial, not heavenly, celestial.

A storm was in the making. The clouds bore gray streaks, and collapsed together into spectral thunderheads that spit jagged lightning and claps of air that jolted like freight trains colliding. A few minutes later the first drops of rain fell. I stayed put, sopping the rain with my bare feet. I heard Daddy for both of us. Then, just for me. I got up and ran toward the house, and made it to the porch as the rain became a torrent. He had a can of tobacco out, and he rolled some into a cigarette. He rapped his fist spot beside him on the glider. I sat. This ain’t how I want it either, he said, and he pulled me to him. Next time your ma calls to check in, you to talk to her. This was a set up, and I knew it, but I didn’t mind. He had his arm around me. Alright, I can do that, I told him proudly. She loves telling me what to do.

We were silent, and the rain let off some, as he smoked, and stretched his boots out so the water went onto them. I couldn’t resist. What’s for dinner? His arm stiffened. Then his moon face slacked, and he nodded into the smoke suffering about his head. Dinner’s on the table. Remember, though, I’m not a maid, you hear? I’m beholden to the land, not the oven.