“Well, Trev, I ain't going to tell you what to do. But it's unfortunate that you never got to know your pa, and I think it would be good for you to go down there and see what he was all about. Go down before they give all his belongings to Good Will, and what's left gets blown away in one of them Oklahoma twisters.”
“But what about my job?”
“The death of your pa isn't a good enough excuse to get some time off?”
“I guess it is. But I never knew him as my dad.”
“Good God, kid, they don't have to know that.”
“I guess they don't.”
This time he slapped me on the knee. “Sure they don't. In fact, if I can talk your grandma into it, we can fire up the Winnebago and go down tomorrow, and you can ride with us.”
“You don't have to go to no trouble, Grandpa.”
“No trouble, Trev. In fact, I'm kind of looking forward to seeing some old country and old kin.”
Amber returned with our drinks and Grandpa stood to give her back her chair. He teased and flirted with her like he did all the young women, then went back to his conversation with Uncle Todd.
“You doing okay?” Amber asked as she sat back down.
“Yeah. Had a nice talk with Grandpa.”
“He's a neat old guy. I especially like his taste in clothing.”
I laughed at her joke then looked at the patio floor. I kept thinking about Jeremiah, the funeral, and now Grandpa's offer. What would my new boss think if I didn't show up the first day? Was it worth the risk if he didn't approve? All I knew is that I couldn't stop thinking about Spiro, Oklahoma, a place that in just a few hours had more magnetism than a job I had worked four years to get.
Three
I was anxious to get away from the party crowd so I talked Amber into a Saturday night movie, then a couple beers at a bar and grill, and later to her apartment where I spent the night. For Amber and I, nights like these didn't come very often. It took a special mood, our minds had to be far away from school or anything related to our career goals. This night happened to be one of those nights, when all I could think about was an upcoming funeral and the decision I needed to make by morning. Luckily Amber was there for me.
I sat up in the bed, my back against the headboard and sheet up to my waist. Conditioned air blew from a vent above the bed and felt good on my bare chest. I looked down at her as she slept on her side, her hands cradled over her breasts as she took in the breaths of sleep. I envied her ability to rest so peacefully.
I looked out the window and into the parking lot where the moonlight reflected off the windshields of cars. Though I couldn't see the moon, I could visualize it in my mind—an object so distant but powerful, with the ability to reflect the sun's light to the earth. It made me think of my father, and a family I never knew, and like the moon their images hovered in a distant space and drew me with an intoxicating force.
Amber and I had talked a lot about my decision, my sudden feelings, and the guilt I felt for not having these feelings before now. If not for her, I may have wallowed in self-pity the entire night, but she was just the pragmatic type not to allow that to happen. Now more than ever, I was grateful for her friendship, knowing that I could never have confided in Ernie with such a dilemma. He and I were best friends, but our common bond was more college buddy and a line seemed to be drawn there and never crossed. Another sign that the party days were over and the real life had begun.
I rose from the bed, put my clothes on and leaned over and kissed Amber on the forehead. I didn’t want to wake her, but I couldn't possibly leave without leaving a little gracious affection. She squirmed a bit, but continued on in her quiet slumber.
I drove my car to the Plaza, parked and walked to where large fountains spewed under blurring streetlights. The night faded as a hint of coral light teased the eastern sky. I stood by the statue of Seville lights, where water poured from the mouths of theatrical faces, then to the fountain of the Greek god, Bacchus, and then my favorite, the three Heroic Horsemen. Though the horses reared and the horsemen raised their arms in battle, there was something serene about their presence—a freeze-framed image of a great defense, along with water that flowed around the horse’s feet, sprayed into the air, and created a cool mist that went aloft and trickled on my face. I grabbed some loose change out of my jeans pocket, found a quarter and threw it in the fountain pool, joining it with the many other coins that rested in the basin. I didn't know what to wish for, but in a way I knew I needed strength to carry on my decision.
* * *
I wasn't sure how Kyle Bennett would respond to me calling him at his home early on a Sunday morning, but he was very sympathetic and told me to take all the time I needed, that the job would be there when I returned. He did, however, ask for a letter of verification from the funeral director. He said he’d need it for my personnel file. A bit odd, I thought, but like my grandpa often said, these days a man’s word is virtually worthless.
I opened my closet door and looked at the half-dozen new suits that Mom bought for me at Saks Fifth Avenue. They were a graduation gift that she put on her Saks credit card. She wanted to be certain that her son looked his best, and no matter the cost, fit in with the downtown crowd. After I had tried on at least twenty suits, we settled on six conservative, perfect for accountant ensembles. There were two grays, one a solid charcoal and another a lighter shade with a faint pin stripe, a navy blue windowpane plaid, a khaki tan, and a dark three-button olive. Then there was my favorite, a black on gray glen plaid, the “banker’s suit”, I called it, which I’d planned to wear on the first day of the new job. But for the time being, I only needed one appropriate for a funeral. I knew it had to be between the charcoal and the navy, and finally selected the charcoal. It was dark and simple.
I lay it on the bed, and also from the closet grabbed a white pinpoint oxford dress shirt still in plastic from the one-hour laundry. Now came the tough part. Selecting the tie. The task at Saks never ended at just selecting the suits. The shirt selecting was easy—all white, but I was definitely a novice at matching ties. The salesperson was a pro at it, and he had given good advice. But I had nearly panicked.
“How am I suppose to be able to do this matching in the morning before work,” I had said.
“Simple,” he had said. “Burgundies and reds are a great contrast with any navy, gray, or olive suit.”
So with his crash lesson in mind, I found a tie with a dark burgundy background and small black and white diamonds throughout. I lay it on the charcoal suit and became instantly impressed with my selection.
I wrapped the tie around the suit hanger and along with the shirt placed them inside a zipper garment bag. And inside a black duffel bag, I stuffed a pair of black dress shoes, black socks, and two days worth of casual attire for the evening after the funeral and the drive back to Kansas City the next day.
As I zipped the duffel bag I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I looked up to find Mom standing in the doorway watching me.
“Hi,” I said.
“So you're really going to do this?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Trevor, you are risking your new job and all you've worked for, for something you know nothing about.”
“Yes, and I've been wondering about that.”
“About what?”
“Why I know so little about my father.”
“There's not much worth knowing.”
“You say that, and all through my life I've believed that. In fact, I was raised not knowing the difference between having a father and not having one.”
“Then what good will it do to go down there now? He's dead, Trevor.”
“And what a tragedy that is. Now I may never know who my father really was.”
“Why this sudden interest? Did your Grandpa put you up to this?”
“No. Something tells me I need to go.”
“I see.”
“Y
ou know, you could help me a little.”
“How?”
“I've never known what happened between you and him.”
“You wouldn't understand.”
“Try me. I'm not a child anymore, Mom.”
“But why now?”
“Why not? Are you trying to hide something from me?”
“No, Trevor. Just consider the consequences of what you're doing. What possible good could all this knowledge of the past do for you?”
“Answer some questions. Explain some feelings.”
“Like what?
“Well, for instance, what my dad was like.”
“He was a loser. Does that help?”
“To you he was a loser, but lately I've heard nothing but good things about him.”
“Believe me, Trevor, nobody was closer to your father than I was. All he cared about was that damned rodeo. He let a good job at a factory go just so he could go out there and get bucked off those stupid bulls. And wouldn't you know, it finally killed him.”
“Oh, I get it. So he threw away a job for the rodeo and you think that I'm going to go down there and do the same.”
“Well, I will certainly pray that you don't.”
“I'm not going to lose my job, Mom.”
She stared silently at my garment and duffel bags, then at me and let out a lengthy exhale. “Just don't believe everything those Okies tell you,” she said.
“How bad could it be?”
“Nobody ever understood why I left Jettie. Many of them hated me for doing it.”
Suddenly I felt less confrontational and a little sympathetic. I gave her a hug. “You know I'll never hate you, Mom.”
She hugged me back and kissed my cheek. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at me and rubbed my cheek with her hand.
“Be careful down there, okay?”
“Please, just respect my decision.”
“I guess I'll have to.”
Four
The day was sunny and bright, but a gale from the west had Grandpa cursing and struggling to keep the Winnebago on the highway. I sat in the passenger seat while Grandma sat far to the back and read a romance novel. I imagined that she sought out a spot that was not only comfortable, but as far away from Grandpa as she could get. He enjoyed retelling stories of his cattleman days, the rich land along highway 71 where his ranching operation once thrived, with an occasional interjection of “…damn that wind…” or “…that gust was a son of a bitch!” He was in his usual form, jumpsuit included, only today he wore one made of denim. I was amazed to learn those things came in a variety of colors and fabrics.
The drive south had lasted two hours before we stopped at Judy's Cafe, a truck stop in a little town called Jasper, Missouri. It was only ten in the morning and my sausage and egg McMuffin hadn't even digested yet. But Grandpa insisted that we couldn't go by Jasper without stopping at Judy's famous truck stop. Hungry or not, I had to admit I'd never had a better piece of apple pie in my life. It was fresh and homemade, and I learned firsthand what made Judy's famous. Nevertheless, I also had never eaten so much food before noon and it made me feel sluggish. Back in the Winnebago I reclined the seat, and while listening to another ranching story, I drifted off to sleep.
Next I knew I was sitting in an office cubical, punching numbers into a ten-key calculator. I was wearing my favorite suit, the glen plaid, and next to the calculator stood a picture of Mom and I at the graduation. Suddenly someone entered my cubical and tossed a piece of paper into an in-basket on my desk. I expected to see a copy of a spreadsheet, with more numbers for me to manage, but I picked up the glossy paper, turned it over to find a photo of a cowboy riding a bull in a rodeo arena. Frightened, I turned quickly to look behind me but saw no one. I looked again at the picture then someone else entered my office and threw another photo into my in-basket. I turned to find a clown smiling down at me. He wasn't an ordinary clown, like one at a circus. He had the painted face and the red nose, but he wore a ball-cap, cut-off bib overalls, black and white striped socks, and Nike athletic shoes.
He left the cubical, then another clown entered, this one wearing a cowboy hat, a yellow T-shirt, wide rainbow-colored suspenders, and torn and ragged oversized denim shorts. Rather than put a photo in my basket, he handed me a trophy. It had a long wooden base, and on top a golden statuette of a man riding a bull. I grabbed the other photo in my basket. It was of me with a man in a cowboy hat who stood with his arm around me. We were both smiling, but I didn't know the man.
I stood from my chair and walked out of the cubicle. I came to an abrupt halt as a crowd of people started cheering and clapping at me. There were the two clowns, and several men in cowboy hats and jeans. Then I saw Jeremiah, my grandpa, Amber, Ernie, and my mom, who wasn't applauding, but standing with her arms crossed. I tried to walk toward them but I couldn't move, and suddenly I felt a sharp punch on my arm. I turned to find Walter smiling at me. “Hey, Champ,” he said. “Did you finish those reports I asked for?”
I didn't answer him, so he hit me in the arm again, harder this time.
I rose quickly from the seat of the Winnebago to find Grandpa slapping my arm. “Mother Mary, Trev! Wake up and look at that view!”
I rubbed my eyes and gazed out at a scene of rolling mountains, covered with green, plush looking trees.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Arkansas. The Boston Mountains. Pretty, huh?”
The view was breathtaking and having just woken from a very weird dream, I wondered if I wasn’t in some sort of a freak paradise.
I grabbed a plastic bottle of spring water I had bought at Judy's Truck Stop and squeezed several streams into my mouth. The water wasn't very cold, but it was wet and soothed my dry, cottony mouth.
We continued to wind down the interstate through the mountains until we came to a spacious river valley. Eventually the mountains faded behind us and we turned right and headed west, crossed the Arkansas River, drove through the town of Fort Smith, Arkansas, and on across the border to Oklahoma. The scenery was much like what we had left in Missouri; flat farmland with cattle and horses, but with a distinct difference in the color of the soil—a red-orange rather than black. And to the south, a hazy image of a lone mountain peaked up on the horizon.
Within minutes we came to a bridge that stretched over a small lake. Just before the bridge stood a sign that read “SPIRO BEACH,” and next to the beach, a campground.
“That's where we'll park the RV,” Grandpa said. “But first I'll drive you through my old stomping grounds.”
The tiny town lay just on the other side of the bridge. A sports complex with several baseball fields and a rodeo arena marked the burgh's entrance.
“Right there's where it all started,” Grandpa said.
“What started?”
“Rodeo—and the life of the Hodge boys.”
The arena was nothing spectacular to look at. Similar to a high school football stadium, it had a section of bleachers on one side and a press box for the announcer. The press box was a small, wooden structure with weathered white siding, shaped similar to an old outhouse Grandpa had pointed out on a farm back in Missouri. A fence made of metal pipe, painted white and rusty in places, stretched completely around the oval arena. And on one end were several gates with fenced areas behind them—that Grandpa called chutes.
Grandpa continued. “First it was calf roping and bulldogging. Then they started bronc riding; both saddle and bare back. Then it was bulls. Nothing but bulls.”
“Why bulls?”
Grandpa laughed at this question. “At first I thought it was peer pressure. Boys around the rodeo like making dares. But I soon learned that it was a natural thirst for competition that drove the Hodge boys. Man against beast. Your pa and Jeremiah both thrived on drawing the toughest bulls.”
“Is there good money in rodeo, or bull riding?”
This also made Grandpa chuckle. “Only if you're real good. Most people these days work a day job during
the week and run the circuit on weekends. Only the best make a living at it.”
“But I understand that Dad—Jettie—made a living at it.”
“Yes, but barely.”
“Why barely? Was he good?”
“Trev, your pa had the talent to be one of the best.”
“Then why wasn't he?”
“I doubt anyone knows that answer. I'm sure your pa didn't even know. It just seemed that he couldn't put it all together.”
“What about Jeremiah? Was he good, too?”
“Not as good as Jettie. Jeremiah was Jettie's biggest fan. But he got frustrated over the years. Got tired of waiting for Jettie to make that big break.”
“So what does Jeremiah do?” “Stock contractor. Provides animals for the rodeos. Around here, nobody knows rodeo or rodeo stock better than Jeremiah.”
We turned off of the highway onto Main Street. It was a typical scene of a once thriving little town, now shut down by large discount outlets and convenience stores, and replaced by local ma and pa craft shops, hair and tanning salons, or buildings torn down into vacant lots. It resembled a scene in a documentary I once saw called The Death of Main Street, and what one of my college professors called “ … part of the evolution of free enterprise”. I had never taken the time to draw my own opinion, but my first impression was that Main Street in Spiro struggled for signs of life.
Main Street ended at a railroad track and came to a T. A train approached and sounded its horn. I was amazed to see that the large gray engines were labeled “KCS” which I knew stood for Kansas City Southern, a railroad company based in Kansas City, and their office was in the same building downtown where I was to start my new job. How small of a world could it be, I thought.
Grandpa swung the Winnebago wide and turned right at the T. Though the business district of Spiro seemed run down and dying, the residential areas seemed alive and peaceful. Most of the houses were small, one-story structures, with either brick or wood siding. A few yards were mowed and tidy, where others were decorated with old rusty cars or broken down appliances and tall weeds growing up around them. At one of the homes an elderly man sat on his front porch in a lawn chair. He wore a red cap and striped bib overalls, and his eyeglasses had thick lenses making his eyes seem large and blurry. He held a fly swatter in one hand, and what looked like a glass of iced tea in the other. Grandpa waved at him, but rather than wave back, the old man swung the flyswatter at something on the porch rail.
The True Father Page 2