nevereallyready

She will rise early enough to watch the slow ascent of the sun, brewing two pots of coffee, one to drink, the other for the thermos to sustain her. She has counted the money she has saved for the occasion too many times; just enough for a few tanks of gas, an occasional small bottle of cheap whiskey to chase her loneliness. She will leave her books, her music, her pictures, perhaps allowing a few favorite snapshots of her adult children. A small bag with an extra pair of Levi’s, a few exchanges of underwear and t-shirts, her make-up, and her earrings to shimmer under her dark hair; she knows a pretty woman receives much more consideration, and she will need the job. She will, lastly, take plenty of good pens, pencils and paper so she can view her mind and question the peace she expects but will never believe she deserves, as she always has, as she knows she always must. She has practiced the paring of words, the paring of things, the paring of persons; now she is left with the parcel that she can carry and toss in the empty passenger seat of her worn and grey pickup, on top of the tear in the seat cover.

She will roll the windows down and turn the radio up and drive, alternating between new rock and old country, the direction to be determined by the toss of a coin or the wind’s direction on departure. She will sing loudly and shed a few quiet tears for her babies, no longer babies, hoping they will never have to understand just how far desolation and disappointment can drive and drive and drive, until the gas is gone, until the money is gone, until she can’t take the hunger anymore.

The road will end, or the car will die, near some roadside diner, where the locals look at outsiders with questions that the new arrival will never answer, surrounding each other with curiosity and mistrust, sliced thinly on an irregular basis while they all learn to move together in the loaf of air that barely breathes as she dons a dirty tan dress with her name displayed just above her left breast, proffering the coffee and the evening meatloaf to the other souls left alone in the dust and the sunset, the pockets of oil on the asphalt shimmering in the distance.

I was about seven that year. We were at Grandma and Grandpa Laird’s old house in Woodville. I don’t remember what occasion it was, but we were all there, including Aunt Yvonne and Uncle Bill. Aunt Yvonne is my mother’s oldest sister, and I always thought she was really funny, but my mother and her sisters were always laughing, and I thought they were all funny. Aunt ‘Von’s husband was my Uncle Bill. I was always a little bit afraid of him, but looking back, being afraid of men has always been an issue with me. I love them, I just don’t understand them.

Anyway, my adult memory (that means all the explanations adults try to pawn on you over the years plus the remaining visual) is that Rodney lost his glasses. Aunt ‘Von had nine children. 5 were hers, 4 adopted. One of my Uncle Bill’s sisters was killed in a car accident, and then, within 3 months, her husband died in a fishing accident. All my uncle’s relatives wanted to pick and choose; my aunt would have none of it. Said we’ll take all of them dammit. But Aunt ‘Von is my only aunt (I have 3) that I have never “stayed with”. Meaning a month in the summer, or Easter Vacation. I just knew that everybody was having fun up there, my sister always did, but I was afraid. It is only now that we know a bit of the carnival of horrors that my cousins endured. Those stories, those tales, are not mine to tell.

What I remember? The part I can still see? No sound. None whatsoever. I can see this circle of men’s legs, from the belt buckle down. I was always tall, so damn, I’m not sure just how young I was. This circle of men’s legs, and dust flying, lots of dust. Rodney is 2 or 3 years older then me, and I always just adored him. Such a brave heart, in a lovely dark package, and an even more ready laugh. He’s still pretty hot, actually. All “you know you’re a redneck” joking aside, technically, he’s my adopted cousin , so this is a legal fantasy.

Dense silence, slightly less dense dust flying between me and the circle of legs and belt buckles. Uncle Bill has his belt off, whipping Rodney around and around as he tries to get away. Uncle Bill, though, has a firm grip on his arm. So Rodney and Uncle Bill are running in these concentric circles. I can’t hear Rodney cry, but I can see the terror on his face, how much it is hurting him. I can’t hear Uncle Bill cursing him, but I can still see and feel this hatred, manifested in the rivulets of sweat dripping off his arms and face. He even took his glasses off to express his rage unhampered. That’s the only adult face I saw, and it was momentary. All my Uncles, my Grandfather. . .nobody else is moving.

My mother tells me that my Uncle LeRoy finally stepped in. But I don’t remember that. I only remember the horror of the reality that nobody did. How could they not have? Even though I have always been afraid? I think that’s the day I lost my childhood.

Cbeth

Been flying a little bit lowly,

peuliarities embarking upon me,

bizarre hilarities abound, you see;

unbinding me, reminding me. . .

Lady Luck lies over our vanities.

I’m not running away, though,

(that’s just what you think);

just flying more slowly,

a little bit more lowly,

for me.

cbeth