Road Trips and War Stories

On the day we met Whiskey Two Shoes, the apple blossoms were in full bloom and The Valley was ablaze with color and sunshine.

Ruthie and I had borrowed Hubie's rattletrap, convertible Volkswagon for the trip and it was glorious to wheeze and wind our way toward Annapolis. The very real possibility of car trouble only added spice to the journey, I'd assured Nana that morning, not to worry, we were among friends. She hadn't been convinced but she'd reluctantly given in.

Call when you get there, she'd insisted and we'd carelessly agreed then in the sheer joy of the drive, promptly forgot until we were well past the Digby town limits. Ruthie thought she remembered a tiny store somewhere around Bear River, one of those dusty, dim little places that sold two for a nickel cigarettes and chewin' tobacco. Its homemade shelves would be cluttered with mouse traps and chocolate bars, fishin' hooks and little tins of aspirin, dulse for the tourists and cellophane wrapped stale bread. There'd be an old sittin' bench on the front porch and a scarred up cooler of icy water for the pop, maybe an unpainted picnic table and a roughened bench or two - if it were prosperous - but mostly just a shack on the side of the road with its back to the ocean. If it had a name at all, it'd be called Mac's or Curt's or some such and it might or might not have a old, hand cranked telephone mounted on the back wall.

The one Ruthie remembered was called Saulnier's (underneath the rusted license plate type sign hanging crookedly over the door, someone had added “Sundrys, Bait, Cold Drinks” in sloppy block black paint) and it was almost exactly as we'd expected.  It was a weatherbeaten, old relic of a place, the kind people throw together to have somewhere to go and pass the time rather than make a profit. Instead of a picnic table, there was a sideways cable spool and a couple of upended barrels off to one side. One one barrel, a scrawny, sleepy eyed black cat sat grooming his whiskers and giving us a disdainful look. On the other, sat an Indian, an exceptionally tall and slim figure in boots, worn jeans and a dark, denim vest. He was playing solitaire. His gray hair was in braids past his shoulders and his brown skin was leather smooth, the color of maple syrup. He might've been not yet forty or goin' on sixty, I thought. When Ruthie called out to ask if there were a 'phone inside, he didn't get up, exactly, he unfolded hisself, gathered up the playin' cards and the cat in one easy gesture, slipped the deck into his pocket and set the cat on his shoulder.

Nickel a call, he said and nodded the little store, Help yourself.

Lord a'mighty, Ruthie whispered as she slid past me, He's near tall as a damn tree.

The cat twined around the Indian's neck and settled itself like horseshoe. There was no need of claws to hold on, I saw, despite his height, the man's steps were as sure, light, and silent as snow falling and the cat was clearly at ease. We followed them inside, paid our nickel and made the call to Nana, enduring a brief but really only half hearted scolding for being so late. The cat and the Indian seemed to have forgotten we were there. That done, it was time to get on the road again. Ruthie dug up a quarter from her jeans for a bar of toffee for herself and a Jersey Milk for me and we headed outside and climbed back into the little Volkswagon. She was about to turn the key in the ignition when we heard the screen door open and close and the Indian called to us to hold up. We watched as he lifted the cooler lid and reached into the near freezing water, pulled out two bottles of Orange Crush, snapped off their caps one handed, and walked to the car.

'Preciate you comin' by, he said in that sippin' whiskey smooth voice and handed each of us a dripping bottle, Stop by on your way back.  Cat don't mind havin' company.

It might've just been the shadows but for a half second I had the not very reasonable idea that I knew the man from somewhere. There was a hint of something that might've been the start of a smile in that ageless face and the idea was heading toward a faint memory when the dusty little car coughed and sputtered to life. Ruthie capably shifted gears and we roared off in a cloud of dust and gravel.  

When we told Nana about him, she smiled in a faraway kind of way.

Whiskey Two Shoes, my grandmother said thoughtfully, I declare I ain't thought of that ol' halfbreed in a dog's age.  Why, if I'd knowed that was where you was, I reckon I'd have saved myself the worry.  He fought with your daddy in France, you know, and Ruth, your mama was right there with'em.  'Fore she met yer daddy, acourse.

The idea that I knew him took a sudden, sharp downturn into an long forgotten war story about France and three friends, a soldier, a Canadian Armed Forces nurse and an Indian persuaded to fight by the promise of whiskey and a pair of new shoes. Ruthie knew the story same as I did but we'd only ever halfway believed it. They'd fought and survived but there just wasn't much romance to it, so we thought, war wasn't in our experience and France was a world away. Yet here on a soft summer day with the apple blossoms all in bloom, here it was and the mystery only deepened when we carried the message home. My daddy, fence-mending in the back pasture of the farm, listened patiently and then gave us his trademark give-nothing-away smile. Over the counter as she counted out penny candy for one of the Albright children, Aunt Jenny blushed prettily and got such a faraway look in her eyes that she lost track and had to start all over again.  As far as we could tell, even Nana thought she'd said too much and scolded us for asking too many questions.

Whiskey Two Shoes is a friend and a good man, she told us shortly, And that's 'bout all you need to know.  

Ruthie and I pondered this.  She suggested they'd been heroes or black marketeers, maybe even spies or doomed lovers like in "Casablanca" but in the end it was something we were never to know.

There's no end of mystery in this poor, old mortal world and maybe it's better that way.  

The Course of True Love

Before I've even reached the front door, the noise coming from the sunroom tells me I have a very unhappy dog. The little dachshund is crying and the sound is not just loud but pitiful. When I come around the corner and open the gate, he rushes past me and all I see is a dappled blur.

Seconds later he rushes back, carrying his stuffed lamb, and careens past me and out of sight under the corner table beside the loveseat. There's a flurry of celebratory squeaks – and a low throated growl when the kitten gets too curious – but he won't be coaxed out and when I peer around the loveseat, all I get is a thoroughly baleful look. Clearly, it's my fault he's been separated from his beloved Lambchop all day. No good will come of my pointing out that Lambschop is his toy, ergo, his responsibility. I decide to take the high road.

When I finally convince him to go outside, he takes Lambchop.

When I put down his supper dish, he puts Lambchop down right next to it and eats sparingly, keeping a watchful eye not on his food but on his toy.

After supper and another quick run around the yard – again, with Lambchop – he settles back into his corner niche and falls asleep with Lambchop neatly tucked between his paws. Now and again I hear a muffled squeak and when next I look, he's sleeping with his head resting on the lamb like a pillow and one paw protectively stretched over it.

Before I leave the next morning, I make dead sure that Lambchop is on the right side of the gate.

You should never get in the way of true love.

The Company of Drunks

The guitar player comes stumbling and weaving into the bar, braying obscenity riddled greetings like a constipated mule and finally crashing into a chair and falling flat on his face. Before he hauls himself up, I quietly pick up my camera and move to a different table. When it comes to the company of drunks, I'm in favor of distance. The farther away I am, the better I like it.

There's no getting away from his obnoxiousness though. Someone buys him a beer and he launches into a loud tale of the night before when, in his own words, he was “wasted like a white boy”. This is said with high pride and met with humor – tinged brightly with envy – and a sort of grudging admiration and it sets the stage for the next round of drinks and several competing stories. I'm put off by people who brag about getting drunk and sloppy and stupid and though it's relatively early, I decide to call it a night. Someone puts a hand on my arm and asks me to stay long enough to hear the drunk sing.

He's real good, I'm told.

One song, I agree and reluctantly pull my trusty Nikon back out.

It goes about as I expected. He staggers on stage then can't quite find the key or the microphone, drops the pic, forgets the lyrics, changes songs in midtream. He finds it uproariously funny. I find it too painful to watch.

I suspect it'll just make one more good drunk story tomorrow but I don't want to be around for the ending.  Everyone's attention is on him and I slip out unnoticed.

Winnie & the Whisperers

After two years in a techincal college in St. John, Winnie Tibert graduated with honors and came home for good. There was, her startled parents saw, almost no trace of the girl they had sent away and to the absolute delight of most of the boys her age - and the abject horror of most of their mothers - Winnie had become a full fledged, certified and astonishing capable grease monkey.

Gone were the long skirts and Peter Pan collars, gone the gawky shyness, gone the sad resignation that she would never marry. The new Winnie, taller and filled out, had a sparkle in her eyes. She wore grimy overalls over plain white tee shirts and kept a pack of Export A's in her hip pocket. Her hair was short and touseled, slicked back over her ears, often carelessly stuffed under a baseball cap or tied with a colorful bandanna. Nonie liked to faint dead away the first time she heard her child cuss.

Winifred Eugenia! she gasped, holding one hand to her heart, I never! Where did you learn such language?

In school, Mama, Winnie said serenely, Carburetor class, I think, but it mighta been in driveshaft, I disremember.

Well, you keep that kinda talk to yourself, child, Nonie shuddered, and don't let your daddy know you know them words, he'll strap you sure as you breathe.

Yes, Mama, Winnie said cheerfully, Reckon I won't tell if'n you won't, and ducked her head back under the tractor engine.

Unsettling as the idea of a girl mechanic was to some in our tiny village, Winnie wasn't one to give up or give in to what some of the old timers liked to call "the natural order of things".  To the dismay of the Ladies Auxillary, she wouldn't conform to the wife and mother role, refused to learn to knit or mend or cook.  She defiantly wore blue jeans and a feed cap to church and quite scandalized Nana's quilting circle by laughing so hard she broke into tears at the suggestion that she wear stockings and proper hat.  She could light a kitchen match with one rough flick of a coarse fingernail, chain smoke indelicately, drink like a fish and cuss like a sailor.  Most shocking of all, while she drew the car crazy boys like moths to a flame, she showed no interest in finding a husband.  For the village women, some practically honor bound to marry her off, this was the most worrisome thing of all.  They planned and plotted and match-made, and when it all failed, they began to whisper.

It weren't long before the whispers reached my Aunt Vi and that was when, not to put too fine a point on it, things went to hell in a handbasket.  My soft spoken, fluttery and ever accommodating Aunt Vi who looked for the good and kind in everyone and kept her thoughts to herself became unafraid.  She'd defended Winnie before but only in the relative safety and privacy of Nana's sunporch.  No one was prepared for her to storm into church on a clear, warm Sunday morning and deliver an angry and quite fierce lecture on gossip, personal choice and loving thy neighbor.

I'll not name names, she warned a shocked and slack jawed congregation, Not this time, but you know who you are and you ought to be flat 'shamed of yourselves.  This be one of our children and I ain't gonna stand by and listen to you judgin' what you don't understand!  Ain't nobody without sin in this house, ain't nobody so good they couldn't be better and fer damn sure, ain't nobody got the right to be throwin' stones!

You could have cut the silence with a knife.  

Aunt Vi stepped off the dais and defiantly walked the length of the aisle and out the church doors, her shaken husband at her side.  They were small, slight figures - not in the least remarkable - but they walked proudly.  

Aunt Pearl, in her Sunday best flowered dress and dainty veiled hat, was the first to stand, slip out of the crowded pew and follow.  Then Aunt Jenny.  Then Miz Hilda, Miz McIntyre, Miz Clara, Wilfred and Nonie and finally, my grandmother all rose and followed suit.  I had no clear idea of what had just happened but I dutifully trailed after them, painfully self conscious that most eyes were on us, guiltily wishing that a hole would open up and swallow me with each step, but suspecting that even if one did, I was likely to step around it.

It wasn't much of an uprising but it was enough to put a stop to the whispers about Winnie and although there was some spotty speculation about what Aunt Vi might be adding to her morning coffee, it didn't come to much.  Later that summer, having conquered all the mechanical worlds the island had to offer, Winnie was offered a job at a small but select small engine repair shop in Bear River.  She packed up her newly rebuilt pick up truck, tossed a battered suitcase into the back and jumped at it.   To no one's real surprise, she was a partner in five years and a full owner in ten. 

Each year on her birthday, Aunt Vi sent her a new jumpsuit from the Spiegel catalogue with her name neatly embroidered above the pocket.  And not a soul whispered about it.

Something You Tell Yourself

My grandfather - a blustery, domineering and quick tempered beast of a man who scared the wits out of me more often than not – was roaring. The toast was burned, the dogs were underfoot, the coffee was cold and the kids were loud.

ALICE! I heard him bellow like a bull moose, ALICE! CAN'T A MAN EAT IN PEACE?

Nana hurriedly chased the dogs outside and scuttled to salvage the toast and bring fresh coffee.

Ain't no need to shout or throw a tantrum, CB, she told him mildly, Sit back down and calm yourself.

Damnable house is like a circus! he snapped, Dogs and kids everywhere and not a goddam decent meal to be had! And my goddam good for nothing daughter still asleep! They're her dogs and her kids and I'm paying for it!  Ought to send all their asses packing!

Settle down, CB, she advised him cooly, remember your blood pressure. Ain't nothin' gon' be fixed by you yellin' yourself silly over burned toast.

It was good advice but unfortunately not my grandfather's stock in trade. He was a man who favored top-of-your-voice tirades, usually laced with obscenities or profanities. I wasn't sure I knew the difference - the point was that he was loud and often abusive – and he got his way by threats and bullying and the occasional back of his hand. No one but my grandmother seemed able to handle him and when he got liquored up, which was frequently and thoroughly, even she washed her hands of him, relying on my daddy to come and drag his sodden body home and to bed. My mother, I used to reflect, at least came by her own alcoholism honestly.

I was helping Nana wash the breakfast dishes when my grandfather finished. He lit a Camel and announced he was going to take a walk, giving me a healthy slap on my backside as he passed through the kitchen. I nearly jumped out of my skin but he just laughed, gave me a laviscious wink and slammed the screen door so hard it made my grandmother wince.

Never mind, she told me quietly although I noticed that she didn't meet my eyes when she said it, He don't mean anythin'. His bark is jist worse'n his bite.

I didn't think so and deep down, I didn't think that she did either.  It was just something you tell yourself.

Point of Honor

I drew the line at chess.

I'd learned gin rummy and cribbage, made a stab at pinochle, and suffered through several agonizing and unsuccessful sessions of my daddy trying to teach me bridge, but I drew the line at chess.

No, I said stubbornly, I'd rather have a tooth pulled.

It's not as hard as you think, he assured me, let me explain it.

I shook my head, bound and determined to ignore his disappointed look and hold the line. I'd have done most anything to please him but chess.....it made my blood run cold.

I don't have the mind for it, I said.

Of course you do, he countered, You're letting it intimidate you.

I sighed, shook off the accusation, said no again. More firmly.

He frowned, the corners of his mouth turning down almost severely, his eyes slightly sad. Then he shrugged, packed up the chess set impatiently and put it away without another word. He might've been just disappointed but it was hard not to think he wasn't also just a little bit angry.

I choked down the urge to apologize and returned to my crossword puzzle. He didn't exactly pretend I wasn't there for the rest of the afternoon but he didn't initiate anything with me either. I struggled – feeling guilty one minute and manipulated the next – but I didn't change my mind. It was silly and prideful, I suppose, but somehow it had become a point of honor.

Growing up is hard, love, otherwise everyone would do it – Kim Harrison

Poolside

My friend Michael unpacks the plastic kiddie pool and begins the lengthy process of filling it with water.

Well, he announces as it begins to take shape, It's official.

What's that? I ask, fending off the old pit bull who suspects I have treats in my pocket and soothing the little chihuahua as he gets too close.

Michael looks around at the uncut grass and the half finished flower beds and back to the plastic pool with the colorful array of sea creatures painted on the sides. It really is one of the tackiest things I've seen in a long while and even though I'd made the original suggestion that a pool would help the dogs cool off, I hadn't been serious, had never dreamed he would actually spend money on one, never mind set it up in the side yard for all the world to see.

We're officially poor white trash, he sighs, Lord help us all when Mama sees this.

It isn't as bad as all that, I tell him, though of course it is. The grand old house has seen better days. The roof needs repair, the paint is peeling, some of the shutters are hanging on by a thread. There's an upstairs door that would be carried away in a strong wind and a downstairs one that's hanging on by broken hinges and the grace of God. The once elegant interior with it's antique furniture and oriental rugs has fallen prey to neglect – and of course, dogs – the floor buckles in several places, the wall to wall is torn up clear to the matting, the pristine crown molding is badly chipped and flaking. The old air conditioning units are operating on a wing and a prayer, the stove hasn't worked in years, the windows are painted shut and none of the doors close properly. The financial crisis of several years ago was not kind and the business has never fully recovered. The glory days are gone and the old Michael with them.

The pool fills and fulls out and the puppy inspects it briefly then climbs over the side and dives in headfirst. Michael, in his ancient madras shorts and blue button down shirt, unshaven and looking like an unmade bed, steps in after him.

In many ways, I like this new Michael better.

Vocabulary Lesson

Cocksucker! I heard my brother scream loud enough to shatter glass and rattle me awake, I'll fix you!

The dogs sat up in alarm and began growling, there was a crash and something hit the other side of the wall so hard it set the mirror over the chest of drawers to vibrating and then I heard my mother's footsteps on the stairs. I suppose it was a reflex but I jumped out of a bed like a scared rabbit and jammed a hardback chair under the doorknob, as if I could keep whatever chaos was about to break out on the other side, then crawled hastily back into bed and pulled the covers over my head. Listening to the fight sounds and the footsteps thundering past my door gave me butterflies and I found myself wishing desperately that my daddy hadn't left the day before. My brother's violent streak had a way of mowing down anyone who got in his way. I'd never forgotten his pushing me down the cellar stairs at home or the time he stripped naked and ran across the front lawn through the snow just because he didn't want to go to bed. I was young but not so young that I didn't recognize some hazy form of mental illness though at the time I just called it evil.

There was a second crash and then the sound of a door slamming into something equally solid. I envisioned shattered, splintery wood and was thinking there'd be hell to pay for that little bit of mischief when things went deadly quiet just before erupting all over again.

I'll get you cocksuckers for this! my brother screamed, I'll get you both!

My other brother was now wailing, my mother was yelling, and it all became incomprehensible.

The screaming brother let loose a flood of curses and then fled. When I heard him stumble and nearly fall down the stairs, I imagined/hoped his dragon-like breathing would trigger an asthma attack and he might die- no such luck - then it was quiet again.

It turned out that the fight had been over a shiny, silver cap pistol, a nasty little toy that Nana

had forbidden in the house, and that one brother had accidentally broken then hidden under his pillow where the other found it. In a family where sharing was pretty much a foreign concept, it was more than enough to set off a violent confrontation. The pistol itself came to a bad end – Nana hammered it into pieces when she got home – and both boys forfeited a week of allowance and were summarily grounded. It meant a week of relative peace. When I asked my grandmother what cocksucker meant, she generously offered to wash my mouth out with soap. I decided to let it drop.  There were, after all, dictionaries for such things.