A Particular Madness, page 15
“Jacob Roland. I live here. Is he going to be OK?”
“How should I know?” he said.
“That’s my uncle, Duny Franklin.”
The cop hooked his hand over his sidearm. “There isn’t a law officer in the country doesn’t know Duny. He’s the one called for an ambulance. These rides don’t come free, you know.”
I looked down at Uncle Duny, whose face had the pallor of milk, and he was wet with sweat. He was groaning and mumbling something, but I couldn’t make it out.
The attendant said, “He looks like shit, boys. We better get him in.”
“I’ll follow,” I said.
The cop moved past me. He turned and pointed his finger at me. “Don’t mean you can break the law so stay back clear, you understand.”
My foot jumped on the clutch as I pulled in behind the ambulance. The siren went off, shriveling my stomach. I followed as best I could. Pulling into the hospital parking lot, I headed for the emergency room, and I could hear Duny screaming, screaming something dreadful as they unloaded him from the ambulance.
The emergency room doors swung open, and they wheeled him in, his screams filling the hospital and the hearts of everyone who heard them. Only I knew that in those screams was all the rejection and fear that Duny had suffered throughout his life.
My eyes brimmed, and my throat closed. I covered my mouth and leaned into the wall. And when the screaming stopped, so did my hope.
I sat alone in the waiting room. People came and went. A baseball game played out on the television that sat in the corner. Finally, a doctor came, a big man with a farmer’s hands. He sat across from me and told me that Uncle Duny had suffered an abdominal aortic aneurysm, that, in short, his aorta had blown out like a retread tire. I searched for my handkerchief to blow my nose, and when I looked up, the doctor was watching the ball game over my shoulder.
I didn’t go back to the room that night but drove home instead. I’d have to tell Mom and the others what had happened. Uncle Duny had had his faults and was always full of complaints, but whatever they were, they were silent now.
Chapter 29
My mother grew quiet and turned her head away when I told her that Uncle Duny had died. The kids stood at her side, twisting back and forth. While they knew Duny, they knew him in a different way than me and Mom. Dad listened from the kitchen and then went out to finish his chores. In the end, Duny’s death didn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone, I suppose. Things had been going downhill for a long time, and we all knew it.
Arrangements were made with the local funeral home for his burial on Casket Hill, a simple casket and a single spray of flowers. He’d left nothing behind, save for a grocery bag full of paperback westerns and his old military uniform. I didn’t tell anyone how he died, the details, the way his aorta had blown out and how he’d screamed that awful way. Some things were just best left to eternity.
Turned out that there wasn’t a preacher in the county willing to preach Duny’s funeral. He’d lived his life pretty rough and had left little doubt about his skepticism of religion in general. For a while, it looked like he’d have to be buried without the assistance of clergy, that is, until Uncle Ward knocked on our door. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he stood there with his hands in his pockets.
He said to Mom, “I’d like to preach Duny’s funeral, Vega.”
Mom looked at Dad and then at me. “I don’t know, Ward,” she said.
“It was a misunderstanding between us,” he said. “I’d like to make it up. I’ve been called as a proper servant of God, and I could send him off right.”
“What do you think, Abbott?” Mom asked.
Dad shrugged. “He’s your brother, Vega.”
She looked at Uncle Ward. “I’d expect scripture read and maybe a song.”
“ Therefore we were buried with Him through baptism into death,” he said.
“Well, I guess we’ll figure on it,” Mom said. “There’s not much in the way of pay what with the place payment.”
“This being family, we’ll make do,” he said. “Casket Hill?”
She nodded. “You got a suit, Ward?”
“Burned up in Duny’s fire.”
“Jacob, go get your dad’s suit.”
“That’s my only suit,” Dad said.
“You can stand in the back, Abbott, but the preacher’s got to be up front. Bring it back here when you’re done with it, Ward. Abbott’s figuring on being buried in it himself.”
That night after supper, Mom and I went out on the front porch. Dad went on to bed, being tired as he was from building fence. She fixed a pallet for me, and then we sat in the swing. The night was clear as glass, and the stars were sprinkled out in the blackness.
“We got that letter from the college,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
“What happened?”
“I was never much for coming up from behind,” I said.
“We could fix up the separator house,” she said. “You could get a job fence building with your dad.”
“I shouldn’t be moving back home at this age,” I said. “I’ll look for a job in town.”
“No one figured on a second family, Jacob, and your dad losing his railroad job. No one figured on Gea dying like that and then me coming up pregnant at my age. It’s not all your fault, you see.”
“I just got to thinking I was something I’m not,” I said. “But it was like riding a mule in a horse race. This new job’s going to get me through, so you aren’t to worry. I’m relieved to be out from under all that college nonsense anyway.”
“Well,” she said, “I better get on to bed. Duny’s viewing is tomorrow.”
“Looking on the dead is a hard thing to ask of folks,” I said. “I wish there was another way.”
She walked to the door and paused. “Just look at his hands, Jacob. Everything you want to remember is there.”
We buried Uncle Duny on a clear and fine day. The Cimarron sprawled out beneath the mesa like a silk braid, and the air smelled of sunflowers and sage. Locusts sounded out from the grass like a string orchestra.
The undertaker arranged Duny’s casket over the open grave, having no pallbearers as such. Uncle Ward stood next to it, Bible in hand, looking a bit saggy in Dad’s suit. Dad stood in the back, wearing a white shirt and tie and managing the kids.
Uncle Ward took a moment to survey the surroundings and gather up his thoughts. Adjusting the knot on his tie, he said, “We have come here this day to bury Duny Franklin on Casket Hill. Let it be duly noted that he’s on the Franklins’ side, though there is an empty Roland slot not that far away.
“Most of us know that Duny lived his life as he saw fit. While I can’t tell you he was a godly man, I can tell you that he was baptized by my own hand, which should reassure any doubters of his intentions. But of course judgment ain’t ours altogether. It could be a hard case to be made for Duny, given his building of that saloon and hiring up a pole dancer, not to mention the destruction of my own rolling cross. Whether he gets in or sent elsewhere is a matter settled between him and God, who might be more forgiving than some of us humans.
“Now, Duny’s dear sister Vega has asked me to read some scripture. While we all know that Duny had his faults, who among us does not? Some called him stubborn. I prefer to think of him as a strong and determined man whose natural tendency for goodness was destroyed by drink.
“With that in mind, I have chosen Isaiah 5, verses 11–12.” He cleared his throat. “Woe to those who rise early in the morning, that they may run after strong drink, who tarry late into the evening as wine inflames them! They have lyre and harp, tambourine and flute and wine at their feasts, but they do not regard the deeds of the Lord, or see the work of his hands.”
Uncle Ward closed his Bible. “Now shall we sing ‘Blessed Assurance’?”
Ward’s voice rose high and confident above everyone else’s, a haunting rendition of the hymn, and a cloud drifted over, casting its shadow on the mesa. I could see Duny’s Mortem up on the cap rock, watching over the dead as was his duty. And then I spotted Danny, too, standing next to him. He had his hat in his hand, just like that day we buried Gea.
Uncle Ward finished his song and stepped back from the grave to wait for the casket to be lowered into the ground. He said a quick prayer, and we all turned to go to the car. Mom took me by the arm. “I’ll be along shortly,” she said. I waited a bit to make sure she was all right. She approached Ward, and I overheard her say, “Get that suit back liked you promised, Ward. And never darken my doorway again.”
Chapter 30
I drove back to my room that night, mostly to pick up my things and try to make some important decisions. I found Uncle Duny’s last check in the mailbox and signed his name to it. He wouldn’t have minded, and it was enough to pay up the rent and give me some thinking time.
I laid my latest notes out across the bed in the order they’d been written. I cut sections out with scissors and arranged them in such a way they might be understood more or less as a whole. Those pages represented a lot of hours, wasted hours, I suppose, scribblings that in the end no one cared about but me.
I barely slept that night or for several nights thereafter. I let the words consume me, take me back to places that I could just remember. I can’t be certain why I did it. I just needed to, I suppose. Sometimes I fell asleep on the floor, papers stacked all around me, only to awaken in the night and begin again. Now and then Danny would show up, looking on from the doorway with his hands in his pockets, saying nothing the whole time. I think he was mad at me, because if I asked him anything, he would just shrug and walk away.
Maybe things got away from me a little during that time, I mean what with Duny’s death and me getting kicked out of college. That twitch came back into my nose with a vengeance, and I developed this sort of shuffling walk, like I had one leg shorter than the other, like an old peg-leg pirate, and I couldn’t make it right.
The days passed, but it wasn’t long before I ran out of food and money. I was on my way to the store to spend the last of it when I decided to stop in at the station again. The owner was sitting on an old school bus seat that had been bolted to the floor.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s open still. I’ll be needing a part-time lube man. You got experience?”
“I grew up around machinery,” I said.
He took the ring of keys that was fastened to a retractable chain fastened to his belt and opened the pop machine, pulling out an Orange Crush. He took a swig, set the bottle down on the seat, and crossed his legs. The hair on his leg had been worn away by the top of his boot.
“My name’s Clyde,” he said.
“Jacob,” I said. “Jacob Roland.”
“You a college boy?”
“Farm kid, mostly,” I said.
“Last boy I had in here left the oil plug loose on a Chevy pickup. Cost me a month’s income. The little son of a bitch is lucky to still be alive.”
“You’d have to be pretty damn stupid to do that,” I said.
He looked me over. “I need a man here from three to closing time, Mondays through Fridays. Sometimes you’ll have lube jobs. Other times it’s filling up gas and washing windshields. When you ain’t doing neither one of those, you can sit on your ass and listen to the radio.”
“Sounds like my kind of work,” I said.
“The one thing I won’t truck is stealing. I catch you stealing, it’s all over. Understood?”
“I ain’t a thief.”
“You look a tad frail for the work, but I’m willing to give you a try.”
“When do I start?”
“Tomorrow, and see if you can’t stop that goddang twitching. I don’t want you scaring off no customers.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Tomorrow at three.”
I was down to tomato soup and soda crackers before I got my first check. But I figured out right away how to jimmy the vending machine at the filling station for candy bars and peanuts. Cleaning the bathroom was ever as bad as the courthouse bathroom, but late in the evening things usually quieted down, giving me a little time on my own.
So, one Monday morning, I went to the college bookstore, picked up the required reading list for English majors, and headed for the library. Having gotten considerably faster at doing lube jobs and cleaning restrooms, I managed to squeeze in several hours of reading time right there on the job.
Two months later, I’d read every book for every introductory class for English majors. Not only did I manage a substantial reading schedule but I was able to maintain my notes with some regularity.
What I hadn’t managed was my physical downhill slide. My sleep was sporadic at best, and my weight dropped almost weekly. My left leg went numb to the point that I sometimes had to drag it along behind me. People watched me, especially children, who would stop and stare and stick their fingers up their noses. Sometimes I would lunge at them or make loud noises just to watch them jump. One mother turned me in to the store manager, who threatened to call the police.
I started taking long walks late at night, going nowhere really. I’d walk until exhausted but would still struggle to sleep. I wrote long letters to Rachael, who had nearly stopped responding. But with each letter I received, hope returned, and I’d flood her with more letters.
I found bathing to be time consuming and tedious. My boss threatened me, saying as how his customers were complaining that I smelled. So I started bathing again but quit shaving to compensate for the loss of time I spent bathing. My boss just shook his head, saying as how I looked like a goddang serial killer.
Sometimes my words didn’t come out right, or I couldn’t find the right one without thinking for a long time. People would look at me funny and walk away. On those days, I would hit bottom, convinced that my life was not worth living, and I would return to my notes. There was something about the process that I needed.
The welcome back sign was set up on the campus lawn and a new year began. With increasing anxiety, I watched the students return. They came by the station with their backpacks and their books and their excited chatter. At some point, my courage returned, I suppose, or my fear receded enough that it no longer blinded me.
I needed to talk. I needed to talk to someone who understood. I thought about Rachael first, of course, but she was busy with her own classes. If only Danny were around. He could call me goofball, and everything would suddenly fall into place.
And so on a Friday morning, I took a bath, shaved the beard, and went to the bursar to see if I could enroll. The answer was no, not until I talked to an advisor. I was sent to another building and assigned a number that would be called at the first available opening. I waited for an hour. The twitch in my nose returned, and my palms sweat. I stood to leave, and they called my name.
“Cubicle three,” the secretary said. “Ms. Kate Hilton will see you, and take this folder with you.”
Ms. Kate Hilton was tall and slender and stood to shake my hand. She had long auburn hair that she’d pulled back over her shoulder. She smiled, and her eyes lit, affirming the smile as authentic.
“Mr. Roland?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Jacob Roland.”
“Please sit. May I have your file?”
I handed her my file and waited as she glanced through it. I could smell her perfume, a light citrus smell, and she wore a small cross on a gold chain around her neck.
“You’re an English major?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been on academic suspension?”
My ears heated, and I nodded. “Yes,” I said.
“And now you are wanting to re-enroll?”
“Yes.”
She finished reading my folder and closed it, placing her hands on top. “I’m only a graduate assistant to Dr. Foss, the department chairperson, Mr. Roland, and do not have the authority to grant your request one way or the other. However, Dr. Foss does take my recommendations seriously. Now, would you care to tell me why you think this semester will be different?”
I sat there for some time looking at my hands. “I don’t know that it will be. I mean, I can’t know for sure.”
“You understand that there are limits to the number of suspensions you can have before you’re permanently restricted from enrollment?”
“Yes,” I said. “I have read all the books this time.”
“Pardon me?”
“I’ve read all the required intro books that were listed for the major.”
“All of them?”
“As far as I know.”
“That’s quite remarkable.”
“My background is pretty limited,” I said. “I thought it might give me a head start.”
“Your previous grades will have to be averaged in. It takes a long time to raise them. You do understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And you hold a job as well?”
“Part time,” I said.
“And no other financial assistance?”
I shook my head. “I live pretty close to the bone,” I said.
She stood, opened the filing cabinet behind her, and placed my file inside. She sat down and pushed her hair back with her fingers.
“I’m going to recommend to Dr. Foss to give you another chance, Mr. Roland. I’d suggest you limit your credit hours to half time.”
I started to object, but she held up her hand. “It’s only a suggestion, but it’s for your own good. Classes begin in two weeks. Come back in a week, and I’ll tell you what Dr. Foss has decided.”
“Half time?” I said.
She nodded. “If she approves your application, you will have to maintain at least a 2.5 grade point average with no failing grade. Are we clear?”
