Hindsight

by Rhonda Taylor Madge

  The heartbreak of losing a first love seemed unbearable at the age of seventeen. I believed he was the man I would marry. What had happened? Who was this girl?

  Questions and doubts filled my mind as I cried myself to sleep night after night with Mama trying to console me.

  “You don’t understand. I loved him! I thought we would get married and now it’s over.”

  What’s wrong with me? Was she prettier or smarter? Maybe Paul thinks I’m not good enough to be his wife.

  I wasn’t sure when this pain would ever go away. Unbeknownst to me, the sting of heartbreak paled in comparison to the calamity that was about to crash headlong into my little world.

  **********

  The previous three years I had gone to church with Paul, but as Sunday drew near, I questioned whether I should go. How in the world could I bear to step foot back into the place we had gone together every Sunday? Well, I guess I can just stay home with Mama and Daddy. Why do I have to go to church? If they don’t go, why should I?

  Not going only made matters worse. I laid around all day feeling sorry for myself. Mama finally said, “You have got to pull yourself together. Don’t you know that there are a lot of other young men who would love to go out on a date with you?”

  I needed to hear that. I got up and decided that I was going to walk into school the next day and get the word out that Paul and I were done. Mama was right.

  It didn’t take long, either.

  Bruce Jones, a senior with a contagious laugh, walked up to me at my locker. “Hey, I heard you and Paul broke up. Would you like to go out to eat with me on Saturday night?”

  I looked into those dark brown eyes and gladly accepted.

  Saturday came and I was a basket of jimjams, which replaced the heartache quite nicely.

  At the sound of a knock, Big Ole Boyd Taylor answered the door and found Bruce stammering, “I’m here to pick up Rhonda, if that’s okay.”

  Daddy told him to come on in. It was obvious we were both quite excited and anxious to get out of there. I’m not sure who was grinning the most. Mama said to make sure I was home by 11:30 and not a minute later.

  We hopped in his shiny black car and headed to the Dairy Dip in Dover, where most everyone went to hang out. I couldn’t remember laughing so much in a long time.

  “Bruce, you are one of the funniest people I have ever met.” I wasn’t the only one to think so. He had a gift of making everyone around him have a good time.

  We pulled up at my house right at 11:30. As I walked to the door, I felt butterflies stirring inside me that had been dormant for some time. As Bruce reached for my hand to draw me near, I thought I would pass out. He leaned in for a kiss, but he didn’t have to lean far. I did my part, too. Is there anything as wonderful as a first kiss?

  The next morning Mama let me sleep in later than usual. I didn’t mind missing church again. It looked as though I might need my beauty rest after all.

  Monday could not come fast enough. Of course, I had to play it cool with Bruce. I couldn’t let him know just yet that I thought he was adorable. There was also a meeting after school I had to attend that I was really excited about. I was the state secretary of the Future Homemakers of America, and on this particular day we were holding a state meeting in Clarksville, about an hour away. Mrs. Brigham, my home economics teacher, was also going.

  Bruce and I met at the lockers a couple of times during the day and he asked what I was doing the following weekend. My ponytail flipped more than usual. The mourning period was over, or so I thought.

  Mrs. Brigham and I arrived at the meeting. I had no idea what to expect because it was my first state meeting. As secretary, I was asked to go to the chalkboard to take notes. Suddenly, a strange numbness came over me. I was unable to write the simplest of words on the board.

  “Rhonda, are you feeling all right?” Mrs. Brigham asked.

  “Um, yes, ma’am.” My discomfort was obvious, as indicated by Mrs. Brigham’s concern.

  Throughout the event, an overwhelming stirring in my soul told me something was wrong. I could not focus, and to make matters worse, I was standing in front of the entire group, unable to write.

  One of the girls from another school snickered that I must be stupid or something. I fought back tears. Finally, the meeting adjourned and I was able to drive home, embarrassed and ashamed. I knew I had let Mrs. Brigham down, too.

  I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t be state secretary.

  I approached the big curve right before my house and slowed my car to a complete stop. What I saw didn’t make any sense; nearly twenty-five cars lined both sides of the road. Something was definitely wrong. The numbness turned to nausea.

  I opened the car door and sat motionless as two men walked in my direction. I realized it was Paul and my Uncle Henry.

  Strange.

  As they drew closer, I could see they were both crying. Shaking, I got out of the car. Paul was obviously distraught. Incomplete and irrational questions began to whirl around in my head.

  Is something wrong with Mama?

  I knew it couldn’t be my daddy. He was too strong. Stout. He was Big Ole Boyd Tay—I couldn’t finish my thought.

  Paul was the first to speak. “Rhonda, it’s your daddy.”

  Gulping for air, I tried to breathe.

  “He’s been killed.”

  I felt myself slowly falling to my knees in the middle of the road. “No! Please, no! Not my daddy!” I screamed from the depth of my soul. A hush fell through the valley.

  Somehow, Paul and Uncle Henry guided my inert body into the house. I stumbled my way into the family room. Mama was sitting on the couch with a few neighbors, who were trying to offer comfort.

  Time stopped as our eyes met. I ran to her and fell across her lap.

  “Mama. Oh, Mama, please tell me it isn’t true!”

  “Yes, my baby, it is. Amos Ingle shot your daddy.”

  I gasped. I must not have heard her correctly. “What, Mama? What did you say?”

  “Rhonda, Amos shot your daddy.”

  I stood, covered my face with my hands, turned, and walked out the back door, the door my daddy had walked out of so many times as he left our home. I could hear the ringing of his burly laugh in my ears.

  It was just the previous night when I’d pinned him to the floor in an all-out tickle war. This strong, powerful man, with just a tiny tickle behind his knee, became putty in my hands. Roars of laughter filled the house, and when he just couldn’t take it anymore he resorted to spitting in my hair. Our tickle fight developed into a back-and-forth spittle fiasco with Mama standing in the doorway, shaking her head. Tears of laughter filled our eyes as we lay breathless on our backs, wiping away both spit and tears. Oh, Daddy.

  Was that to be my last memory with my father? My mind quickly came back to reality. From the back porch, I looked up to the heavens and screamed, “Why, God? Why?” Over and over I yelled, “Why did You take my daddy from me? You could have prevented this from happening!” How can I trust You, God? I invited You in my heart and You let this happen? How can I ever trust You again?

  I’m not even sure how I made it back in the house. People filled our home just like they did when Papa Chill died twelve years prior. I laid down on my bed, surrounded by friends. Delirious thoughts flooded my mind.

  He won’t be at my graduation.

  He won’t walk me down the aisle at my wedding.

  He will never meet his grandchildren.

  Why, God?

  I found myself tormented by the thought, “What if something happens to Mother?” The fear consumed me. What would I do if I were left all alone? Life will never be the same.

  Dr. Lee walked into my room. I felt the prick of a needle in my arm. The room went dark and so did my world as I knew it.

  FOUR

  “I am weary with my sighing; Every night I make my bed swim. I dissolve my couch with tears.”

  Psalm 6:6

  Murder. The word alone is grim
and inspires heinous thoughts. It’s difficult for me to even utter the insidious word aloud. I do not believe I’ll ever grow accustomed to telling others how my father died. Most people don’t even know how to respond.

  But it happened. Amos Ingle murdered my father.

  As far back as I can remember, Amos was always in need of money. He would come to Daddy looking for work, and my big-hearted father would find him a job on our tobacco farm. He worked for Daddy for a number of years, and on the days when there wasn’t any work to be done Daddy just let him borrow what he needed.

  Amos was a lanky, somewhat gangly man in his sixties. He usually looked as though he needed to shower and shave, or at least change clothes more often. I never truly felt comfortable around him and that rusty, old red truck of his. There was just something unsettling about him. Mama told me never to be alone around him so I knew she didn’t trust him, either.

  Thinking back, in the fall of ’75, about the same time I accepted Jesus in my heart, Daddy had an entire barn of tobacco burn to the ground. I remember the day well because it was the second time I had ever seen my daddy cry; the other was when Papa Chill died.

  I had come home from school and found him lying on the couch.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

  “Baby, my entire crop of tobacco burned today. The barn caught fire. All that hard work was for nothing since I don’t have insurance. We needed that money real bad. We may not be able to make ends meet.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so we sat in silence.

  At the time, Amos Ingle owed Daddy $75.00, yet continued to ask for more. Because of the loss from the fire, Daddy could not loan him any more money; there just wasn’t any more to give. As a result, Daddy went out of his way to avoid Amos Ingle for about eight months.

  And for those eight months, Amos Ingle festered—until he snapped.

  **********

  On April 19, 1976, right before the sun crept over the low Tennessee hills, my parents were preparing for their usual long day of work as I still lay sleeping. Amos Ingle entered our home unannounced, catching Daddy off guard. Daddy said, “Amos, you are never to enter our home without knocking. Do you understand?” Amos said he was sorry and left. The day continued as normal for us anyway. Amos Ingle, on the other hand, planned out the events that would change our lives forever.

  Later that afternoon, while I was at the state FHA meeting, Daddy was driving home from his job at the highway department. A young man, Allen, rode home with him because he lived just up the road a bit. Allen later explained to us that life seemed good as the cool spring breeze blew across their faces while George Jones sang one of their favorite tunes. However, a loud honk of a horn behind them interrupted their ride. It was Amos.

  Allen said Daddy pulled his new, white Chevy pickup over in front of a small church on the side of the road and Amos pulled up parallel to him.

  Amos yelled angrily from inside his truck, “Boyd, you owe me an apology!”

  Daddy answered, “I’m not sure what you are talking about, Amos.”

  Before Daddy could even finish his sentence, Amos Ingle raised a shotgun from the seat of his truck.

  I can’t imagine what Daddy must have been thinking as he looked down the double barrel of that gun. Did you have time to think about Mama and me? Did you cry out to God, Daddy?

  I’m sure it seemed like things moved in slow motion. According to Allen, Daddy pushed him to the floor of the truck and hit the gears.

  Daddy, why didn’t you fall to the floor of the truck, too?

  It was too late. Allen said just as Daddy put the truck in drive, Amos placed his finger upon that trigger and pulled. Click. The ringing of the shot echoed through the valley. Daddy slumped over the steering wheel, riddled with buckshot. The pellets also hit Allen’s glasses; shattered pieces of glass lodged in his eyes. He could smell the lingering gunpowder in the air. Overcome with fear, he did not move or breathe.

  Allen heard Amos get out of his truck and walk over to Daddy’s lifeless body and say, “Why, Boyd? Why?” Allen said instinct told him not to move as he heard the rocks shifting under Amos’s shoes. Lying covered in blood and pieces of glass, Allen pretended to be dead. Amos leaned over him. Allen said he could feel the warmth of his breath upon his neck. Moments seemed like hours. With strained ears, Allen heard Amos walking back to his truck. The engine started. Allen had lain still until he heard the old, red pickup drive away.

  Unable to see from the glass in his eyes, Allen called out to my daddy. “Boyd? Can you hear me, Boyd?” No reply. Allen managed to crawl out of the truck and walk to a nearby home.

  What Allen didn’t know was that Amos had left the scene and driven straight to the police department. He turned himself in, stating he had just accidentally killed his best friend.

  Imagine the surprise on Amos’s face when the news came in from Allen Page that Amos Ingle had murdered Boyd Taylor.

  **********

  I tried to open my eyes the next morning, but I felt drugged and could barely move. I wanted to wake up because I’d had a horrible dream and I was afraid to go back to sleep. It was a dream, wasn’t it? Maybe it would be better to go back to sleep rather than face the truth.

  My daddy was gone. He was just forty years old. How could that be? God took him. Amos Ingle shot him. God could have stopped him. Why didn’t He? I felt like I was going crazy.

  I didn’t want to face the day, but I came to quickly understand there were things with which I had to help Mama.

  “Rhonda, we have to go to the funeral home to make arrangements,” Mama said.

  My heart sank and I felt sick. I didn’t want to go back to the place with the familiar smell of plastic flowers and death. I was a seventeen-year-old thrown into an adult world way too quickly. Was it really just a few days ago when I’d been giggling on a date with Bruce?

  There had been too much death in my life already, but nothing could prepare me for a time such as this. I watched Mama make choices of caskets, vaults, and flowers. We decided that Daddy would be viewed and buried in a new gray leisure suit he had only worn one time.

  I remember the day he walked in to one of my basketball games, all decked out in his new suit and burgundy shirt. He was grinning from ear to ear, making the dimple in his chin more pronounced. All of us girls whistled, “You are looking good, Boyd Taylor!” He took a little bow. Oh, Daddy.

  He was the only man my mother had ever kissed. Daddy, at the age of nineteen, asked her to marry him when she was fifteen. Twenty-one years of a marriage that was not always easy. One might say that they grew up together. In my bitter selfishness, I didn’t stop to think how scared she must have been.

  Then there was Mama Dora, who had to face losing one of her sons. Daddy was one of eight children. All his siblings tried to console their sweet mother with the right words. Before this time, I had questioned before why people say, “I’m so sorry.” I came to realize it’s because there simply isn’t anything else to say.

  The moment came when we all entered the funeral home together. I heard someone say to Mama that the casket was beautiful and the yellow roses draped over him were lovely. I didn’t notice and I didn’t care. There was only one thing my eyes lingered upon.

  Once again, I stared death in the face.

  Over two thousand people came to that funeral home to tell us how much Daddy meant to them.

  A neighbor said, “He was a good man.”

  “He worked so hard,” said another.

  “He would have given you the last penny in his pocket.”

  I loved hearing all these things about Daddy because I knew they were true.

  I was quite shocked when Bruce and Paul both showed up at the funeral home at the same time. Paul was overwrought with pain. I knew he loved my father. We hugged. It’s funny that the pain of losing him was a distant memory compared to the ongoing torment I was now experiencing.

  Bruce didn’t say much; his presence was enough.

  However,
it was a conversation I overheard Mama Dora having with Daddy’s sisters that I didn’t understand.

  She said, “He looks so peaceful and at rest.”

  “What in the world are you talking about? What do you mean, Mama Dora?” I asked.

  She began to tell me a story that I had never heard before. She said when Daddy was twenty years old, he’d attended a revival and walked down the aisle to accept Jesus into his heart. Daddy’s mother and sisters were holding on to the hope that even though he never went to church, that he was still saved.

  “Are you telling me there is a possibility that my daddy might not be in heaven?”

  Doubts. Fear. Anger.

  If he isn’t in heaven, are you telling me he is in hell? I’m so confused. I can’t understand why God would allow my father to be shot and then send him to hell if He is supposed to be a loving God. God can’t be trusted.

  FIVE

  “Whoever commits murder shall be liable to the court.”

  Matthew 5:21

  The days following were so confusing. Daddy died on a Monday, and the following Saturday I was supposed to be in the Miss Stewart County Beauty Pageant. I wasn’t sure how in the world I could possibly compete. But all of my relatives, even the ones who lived in other states, said they would stay after the funeral if I would go ahead with the competition.

  I sat in front of the mirror that Saturday morning as Mother rolled my hair. She kept saying, “Rhonda, you can do this. Your daddy would be so proud of you.”

  “I will do my best, Mama.”

  That night I walked out on the stage as the packed auditorium exploded with applause. Surreal. The corners of my lip quivered.

  I made it into the top ten. I wanted to be happy, but I felt guilty. How could I be happy? I felt so beautiful in the solid white dress Mama had bought me to wear. She had paid forty-five dollars just for the slip to wear underneath, plus a special bra that cost more than that. She said I needed that bra to give me a little extra. She had made me promise I would never tell Daddy.