That particular day, the lot of purchasing the ‘heat’ apparently had fallen on Burley Davis, who lived with his wife and three children in what was literally a two-room shack beside the tracks several blocks south of us. His son, Jerry, and I had played together since we were children. Still, merely the fact Burley lived in the neighborhood concerned Mother. On multiple occasions, she’d said, “On one of his drunken binges, he could walk up that railroad track and right in my back door.” She had expressed a similar concern relative to her late evening walk home from work. “You mark it down that someday during that walk I’ll encounter Burley Davis,” she had said.
Although no woman had ever reported such an incident, Mother was concerned simply with being in his presence. “It’s certainly not appreciation in his eyes that dresses down a woman.”
Observing the sizable brown bag that Burley carried, Joe said, “He’s hit up a lot of people to get enough together to buy that size bag of ‘heat.’”
“And that’s not even considering how many others they hit up for the cash to buy the ‘light bread’ to strain the stuff,” Dad added.
“Never did understand that process,” Joe replied as we watched Burley straggle up the sidewalk in the direction of the river bridge.
At the house, Dad decided we should start on opposite ends of the west wall and converge at the chimney. Unique to the house were two small windows high on the wall at each side of the chimney. They were so high that only a taller man could see out the windows from inside the living room.
By the time we had lunch, scraped away peeling paint, and puttied windowpanes, it was approaching mid-afternoon. By late afternoon, we had painted only to the bottoms of the two small windows high on the wall. Dad worked nights at the theater, and since it was getting late and we planned to start early the next morning, he decided to leave the ladders leaning against the exterior walls.
Typically in the summer, the post-supper evening activities entailed Granny studying her bible, Mother calling her sisters and my practicing piano. To close the evening I would watch TV or listen to records.
Shortly after 11:00 p.m. that evening, Mother was in the typical ‘close down’ mode, preparing the light snack for Dad’s arrival home around 11:30 p.m. Her voice came from the kitchen. “Time to turn off the record player and get ready for bed.”
I had all but fallen asleep on the living room sofa while listening to the 45-rpm record player that sat on a table against the west wall of the living room. I turned it off and again collapsed on the sofa. In the absence of the music, the loud rumble outside the window next to the chimney was unmistakable. Still half asleep, I really didn’t think much about it until Mom hurried into the living room.
“What was that noise?” she asked.
I looked up to find a dishtowel firmly gripped in her hand and watched her upgrade the expression on her face from concern to alarm. Something was wrong.
Granny looked up from her Bible. “That rumble came from outside the window next to the fireplace.”
Mom instantly left the room, returning quickly with the hand-hewn wooden stepper Grandpa had made for her. Being only five feet tall, even in her shoes, the stepper enabled her to reach the higher shelves of the cabinets that extended almost to the ceiling. Her sudden pull opening the window curtain validated her earlier fears. Staring at her through the windowpane was a face.
“My God, it’s Burley Davis! Get the gun, Liza,” mother ordered.
“Now Kathryn, you know how I feel about guns,” Granny replied.
“I’ll get it, Mom,” I said, now wide awake, indeed shocked at seeing the face of Burley Davis glaring through the window.
“Son, don’t be silly,” Granny said. “The doors and windows are locked, so no one’s going to get in this house.”
Granny’s words didn’t seem to console Mom, who was now in full panic mode. “I knew this was going to happen. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! What are we going to do?” She suddenly stopped her tirade and shouted, “Someone get the gun.”
The words had hardly left her mouth when I heard the rumble of another sound, even above the pandemonium of the moment. While it was the simple sound of Dad’s car pulling onto the gravel drive, it turned the feelings of a fearfully cold chill into a warm sense of assurance and deliverance. Rather than running to the bedroom for the gun, I ran to the front door to greet Dad.
“Don’t you dare go out there,” Mom commanded.
But I’d already unlocked the door and was running onto the porch. With my Dad’s arrival, my bravery swelled, and I jumped off the porch to view the window. Burley Davis was still on the ladder, but not like I’d expected to find him. Apparently scared by Mom seeing him, he’d panicked and nearly fell. His overalls had caught on the ladder, all but ripping out the butt end. He tried to hold onto the ladder with one hand, while trying to recover his overalls with the other.
I laughed as I ran toward Dad. “You’re never gonna believe what happened,” I said, completely out of breath both from running and laughing.
Dad had exited the ’51 Chevy truck, his green metal lunch box in his hand. “Hey. Slow down, Son. What’s all the excitement about?”
“It’s Burley Davis. On the ladder.”
To Dad, the rapid rat-a-tat-tat, machinegun fire of my sentence, while intelligible, made no sense because every beat of my heart only infused my body with more adrenalin. “What about Burley Davis?”
I attempted to answer, but my lungs had been depleted of air sufficient to operate my vocal chords.
“Son, you’re hyperventilating.” He placed his lunch box on the hood of the truck, opened it, unfolded a brown paper bag, placed it over my nose and mouth and said, “Breathe into the bag until I tell you to stop.”
While the human brain can act on adrenalin, it cannot ‘think’ on adrenalin, thus I didn’t understand but did as I was told. After several seconds, Dad continued, “Now, calmly tell me about Burley Davis.”
When my voice came to me, the volume was not from my lungs, but from the tension in my diaphragm. Even so, I’m sure the harried look in my eyes signaled the urgency of the situation even more than my voice.
Dad straightened his back and laughed as he calmly placed the bag back in the lunch box and closed it. He walked around the truck, opened the passenger door and the glove compartment, and pulled out the shiny, aluminum flashlight kept there for emergencies. After gracefully hopping over the three-foot brick retainer wall to the lower level of the yard, he turned on the flashlight, its revealing light gradually finding its way up the ladder at the left side of the chimney. Nearing the bottom of the window, sure enough, the light found Burley Davis, drunk out of his mind.
“Hello there,” Burley stuttered, weaving back from the ladder, again almost losing his grip. “Not a bad evenin’ at all outside is it?”
“Burley, I may be wrong, but for some reason, at this particular moment the weather somehow doesn’t appear to be an appropriate topic of discussion. What do you think?” Dad asked.
By this time, although heavy with irony, the calm in Dad’s voice had eased even my nerves, and I was anxious to learn where this conversation would go next.
Meanwhile, Granny had made her way onto the porch, but Mom hadn’t followed.
“If my recollections are accurate, this is the second time that we’ve had an unsolicited visit from you. I recall that at the last visit, I let you walk down the steps of the back porch, but only after receiving a promise that this would never happen again. Am I right?”
“Well, seems like that would be correct,” Burley said, leaning back, attempting to step down the ladder. But his foot slipped, and so did one hand, leaving him holding on with a single hand.
“Whoa, watch it there, Burley. You stay where you are. Failure to keep your promise from your other visit means that this time, though it’s a
ladder and not steps, you’re not coming down the same way you went up.”
As Dad leaned over, placing his hands on the foot of the ladder, Mom arrived on the porch. “No, Bill. Don’t,” she said, panic lacing her words. “Don’t make him fall. He could die or worse.”
I was unaware of the previous incident Dad had spoken of, which made me wonder what kind, and how many other criminal activities had gone on that I hadn’t known about.
Momentarily, Dad abandoned his original intent, straightening his back, giving his full attention to Mom’s request. “Myrtle, a breach of principle’s involved here.” He laughed before he continued. “Besides, you know you can’t hurt a drunk, only damage his ego. And even that’s doubtful because drunks have no shame.”
Burley chimed in, almost belching his words. “She’s right. A fall like this could hurt a fella.”
One of Burley’s feet slipped yet again, bringing a gasp from Mom, destroying any calm that might have begun to settle on the situation.
“Burley Davis, when it comes to my home, you’ve peeped in the wrong window, and for your last time. I’m jerking you off this ladder, and if that doesn’t kill you, I might just shoot you.” Dad again reached for the foot of the ladder.
Granny rejoined the conversation, her comment calm but poignant. “Son, this is not the Christian way to resolve this.”
“Mom, I understand, but this is more than tom foolery. Even Jesus wouldn’t stand for this. I should’ve put a stop to it the very first time it happened.”
“Please, Bill, wait,” Mom said, interrupting. “I called Helen, and she said Joe was on his way even as we spoke.”
Now I knew why Mom had been delayed in following Granny onto the porch.
“Please,” Mom pleaded, the tension in her voice drained like a deflated balloon.
Dad braced himself, giving a gutty growl as he picked up the foot of the ladder with Burly still swaying at its top. Dad had always been a reasonable man, leaving me surprised he’d ignored Mom’s plea. More surprising was his having ignored Granny, whose wisdom he’d always recognized and heeded. By the same token, when Dad was convinced he was right about something, he rarely changed his mind.
“Whoa . . .” Burley called from the top of the ladder, trying to control its precarious sway.
Suddenly the ladder shifted, the scene resembling that of a circus act: a man on the ground supporting a ladder, another, whose comedic gyrations on the ladder tempted the dual threats of the unforgiving forces of both gravity and motion. To me, comedy became terror when Dad unexpectedly took two quick steps backward.
Mother turned her head, locking herself in Granny’s arms. Granny’s words were caught in her gasp, “God have mercy on him.”
At that point everything seemed to go into slow motion: the creaking voice of the twisting, falling ladder, and Burley’s vocalized fear synchronized with the wild flail of his arms as his body yielded to the gravity pulling him toward earth. While I couldn’t see his eyes, I’m sure they were in the grips of a far greater fear than mine, witnessing what was to be the epic event in my young life. The ladder slapped the ground, followed by the splintering crackle of the wood, but most disconcerting was the slam of Burley’s body.
While the sound could be described as a thud, it bore no resemblance to the sound of an inanimate object striking the earth. It was that unmistakable, sickening dull thump, when a human body with life and feelings encounters a cold, inanimate earth with no life and no feelings. The desperate, dry, grunting sound to regain the breath slammed from Burley’s lungs was beyond frightful. But even more amazing was that he was obviously still alive.
“You’ve broken my back; I’m ruined forever,” he said.
“I don’t think so.” Dad laughed. “Stand up Burley, or I’ll jerk you to your feet with nothing but the hair of your head.”
“I can’t get up. It’s my back. I think it’s broke.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out, Burley.” Dad stepped across the ladder, grabbing the other man by the collar of his dirty, tattered shirt. “You’re so filthy I hate to even touch you.” Dad looked at me. “Son, this is no man. This is a coward, a sluggard, a drunk, a common peeping tom. His kind is the reason we know there’s a hell to shun and a heaven to gain.”
With his strong arms, Dad hauled Burley up and shook him as if he was no heavier than a fifty-pound sack of potatoes. “I ought to snap your neck, you weasel. I’m not a man to question God, but when I know a low-life like you exists and the demands required of the righteousness of God, I sometimes wonder about his reasoning in the creation of something like you.”
With that, Dad turned Burley around and let him stand. Looking toward the porch, Dad said. “See, Myrtle? There’s no broken back, no broken bones, just a drunken embarrassment to the human race.”
I identified with the pain and agony of Burley’s body, but even more, the ultimate insult to what little integrity the man had left. After all, he was a husband and father of three children, one of them a playmate and friend I’d known all my life.
Like mother, I too cried, but on the inside.
Dad began shoving Burley toward the ditch that marked our property line, kicking him in the seat of his ripped pants as he went, Burley barking like a dog with every kick.
Granny again entered the conversation, but as was her way, with limited words and in complete calm. “Son, don’t be cruel to the man.”
Dad hesitated, looking back over his shoulder. When moms spoke, or for that matter dads as well, we Southerners listened. She had stood through the entire commotion with her arms crossed, almost emotionless.
“That’s enough,” Mom said curtly. “The man’s suffered the consequences of his deeds.”
Dad let go of Burley’s collar, and he collapsed in the ditch. “I should let Will get my gun and just shoot you right here. That would put you out of your misery and save the community any further embarrassment.”
I finally garnered the courage to move close to the two men, looking down into Burley’s face. It was at that moment the question rushed into my mind that, knowing Granny’s absolute devotion to faith, mercy, and benevolence, why she hadn’t objected to Dad’s suggestion that he should just shoot him? That could only be for one reason. Just as Dad respected Granny’s rebuke, she knew her son could never shoot anyone for anything other than self-defense.
Suddenly Dad again jerked Burley up by his arm.
“My arm . . . my arm . . .” Burley cried.
Dad kicked Burley in the seat of the pants one more time, turned him around and pointed a finger in his face. “It’s a sad case when people like you exist who aren’t worth killing, and worse, require the sympathy of a woman to save their sorry lives. I will make you a promise, Burley Davis, if you ever step foot on my property again, you’ll be taking your life into your own hands. Understood?”
The approach of Chief Joe’s police cruiser, without sirens or flashing lights, interrupted the scene. Only a slight skid of the tires in the graveled drive suggested any urgency. Fortunately, none of the neighbors had been awakened or noted anything out of order, which explained Chief Joe’s restraint. He obviously did not want to raise any unnecessary alarm.
Once out of his car, Chief Joe passed the porch and tipped his hat, saying, “Miss Liza, Myrtle.” He greeted me as well with a slap on the back. “Will.”
“Evenin’, Joe,” Dad greeted.
“Evenin’, Bill. My guess is what’s gone on here tonight needs little explanation beyond what is visible?”
“That’s right. Mr. Davis’ unannounced visit scared the daylights out of my family. Will and I worked late this afternoon, and I didn’t have time to put the ladders up. Don’t ask me why our ‘visitor’ here would have chosen to climb a ladder when he could’ve just peeped in the windows on the porch.”
Joe sc
ooted his police cap back off his forehead as if that somehow helped him in resolving the dilemma of Burley’s choice. “Well, when you have people determined to numb their mind and body with booze, and who have no concern for the pain and suffering it inflicts on their families and the community, don’t go tryin’ to reason their other decision-making processes. Sometimes my brain literally hurts just from trying to reason the mind of such people; it’s a crazy world, Bill.”
“Amen to that.”
Joe looked around, his eyes examining the area. “Is there any other property damage?” His visual search stopped with the splintered ladder, and he laughed. “Other than the obvious, that is?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Dad replied.
Joe turned his attention to Granny and Mom, who had remained on the porch. “Any pain and suffering anyone can’t recover from?”
Mom gave a non-verbal reply with a negative shake of her head. Granny simply said, “Sin’s been committed and the sin recompensed.”
Then Joe looked to Dad, who shook his head as well.
Lastly Joe addressed Burley. “Burley Davis, despite any crime you committed here, because of your own stupidity you’re lucky to be alive. You would have probably not survived the fall had you been sober. At least that appears to be what happened. And, since Bill is apparently not pressing charges, luck has fallen on your side in both instances. Therefore, I would go gentle-like into what is left of the good night. Be thankful you can return to your family, and seal it with a personal promise to yourself to never repeat this kind of thing again.”
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