The True Father

by Steven Anderson Law

  “When did you first meet my mom?”

  She turned to me and laughed. “How about grade school?”

  “You knew her as a child?”

  “We went to a little country school between here and Sallisaw. Your Grandpa and Grandma and my folks, and Jeremiah and your daddy's folks were all close friends.”

  “Wow.”

  “Even as a young girl, your mom was one of those that always had to be the center of attention or she wasn't happy. She didn't care what other people wanted; all she cared about was whether or not she got what she wanted. She was that way from day one and never changed.”

  “So did you like her?”

  “I liked her, Trevor, but with her personality it was hard to get close to her. It didn't matter what anyone said, when Bonnie wanted something, it was either her way or no way.

  “Rodeo was all Jettie ever wanted to do but she fought it like it was some sort of sickness. After you were born, Jettie was offered a job at a factory over in Sallisaw. Driving a forklift and it paid ten dollars an hour. Good money back then. It would have required him to work weekends so he wouldn't have been able to participate in rodeo events. It was when he turned down that job that your mom took you and left.”

  “Do you think she loved Jettie?”

  “Possibly, in her own way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, haven't you ever been in love?”

  This was a weird question, one I wasn't prepared for. “I don't really know.”

  “If you had, you'd know. It's like Jeremiah and I. When we fell in love there was no greater feeling. But then there comes the part when you have to share your lives. For the most part it's give and take—understanding for that person's needs. That's a level that your mom and Jettie never reached.”

  “So you're saying that Jettie needed the rodeo to be a complete person, and mom didn't love him enough to let him have it?”

  “Sort of. I think she just loved herself more.”

  This all made sense. All my life Mom pursued men that she could control, and she wanted them to have money so she could maintain a certain image she had committed herself to. When the men would come forward, they'd flaunt their riches, but when it came to getting serious, they'd jump back and eventually clear out, not willing to succumb to Mom's desired reign.

  Regardless of my understanding of Mom, from Jettie's point of view this was all difficult for me to understand. I didn't know what it was like to feel such a loss, to have a son, or to love a woman that couldn't provide me with all my needs. This made me think about Amber, and how little we ever shared in regard to intimacy. If she said goodbye to me tomorrow, I wouldn't be upset if she had a good reason for it. And Amber didn't do anything unless she had a good reason.

  I handed the picture back to Jodie and she put it back in its place on the mantle. I looked over the many other photographs crowded together, some professional portraits, others snap shots. I noticed one in particular, of Jettie with a young dark-complected woman. She stood next to him smiling as he held a gold oval belt buckle and posed for the picture.

  “Who is that?” I said, pointing at the young woman.

  “Bella Sonoma. She was your dad's girlfriend the past few years.”

  “She's pretty. And she looks a lot younger.”

  “Yeah, she's a looker. Not much older than you, I think.”

  “Wow, that's interesting.”

  “Yeah, but she wanted more than Jettie was able to give. I don't think he ever quit loving your mom, and Bella kept trying to take that away.”

  “Really? Why wouldn't he ever let it go?”

  “There's just some things that people can't explain. I'm not sure Jettie even knew. And Bella did everything she could to try and change him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Spoiled him rotten, for one thing. She'd clean his house, cook for him, travel with him to the rodeos and pamper him like a baby. The point was, he never asked for any of it.”

  “I bet she's taking his death pretty hard.”

  “She was there at the hospital when they pronounced him dead. She ran from the room and no one has seen her since. She didn't even come to the visitation last night.”

  I studied the picture closer, the way they smiled, the way he held the buckle up in front of him, and the way she held his arm as he stood for the picture. Her love for him was evident, as was his resistance.

  “Does she live around here?” I asked.

  “She used to live somewhere down around the Choctaw Nations. The preacher over at the church went looking for her but never found her.”

  “I'd like to meet her.”

  “We’ll see what we can do. I'm sure she'd be interested in meeting you, too.”

  Seven

  I sat with the family in a section of reserved pews normally occupied by the church choir, away from the main pews and to the side of the lectern. Of the three rows that made up the segregated section, we only utilized the front two. Jeremiah had insisted I sit with him and Jodie in the front row, and that Grandpa and Grandma sit behind us. I didn't argue, and neither did my grandparents, though I did feel a bit uncomfortable as people came into the sanctuary and gazed up at me with curiosity.

  By the time the funeral started, the small sanctuary of the Methodist church completely filled, with a few people standing at the back. Besides Grandpa, I was one of the only men wearing a suit. Jeremiah wore jeans and a western shirt, the bolo tie he kept in the glove box of his GMC, and a tan corduroy sports jacket with suede patches on the elbows that Jodie made him wear. There were a few other men who wore neckties, but very few, and none I could see who wore a suit jacket of any kind. A man who stood in the back wore blue bib overalls and held a John Deere cap in his hands. But most of the women wore dresses of various styles and colors. Grandma wore the same light blue dress she wore at my graduation, and Jodie wore a half-sleeved, knee length navy blue dress that fit loosely over her slender figure.

  Organ music began to play—a soft and dismal tune I didn't recognize. The double doors at the front of the sanctuary swung open, and eventually two men came through the doorway wheeling a silvery-blue metallic looking casket. They wheeled it down the center isle, and when they reached the front of the sanctuary they turned the casket sideways, parallel to the front pews and just below the pulpit. A large spray of red, pink and white flowers lay draped over the center of the casket, and one of the men placed a framed photograph next to the flowers, inducing a few whimpers and sniffles among the crowd. The photo was turned away from me and I couldn't see what it was, but could only assume it was a portrait of “Cowboy Jettie Hodge”, for whom we all came to pay our last respects.

  A door opened behind the lectern and out walked an older man in a suit and tie bearing the Holy Bible. As soon as he arrived at the podium the organ stopped and he asked everyone to bow their heads and pray. Most everyone did and I followed. The preacher was loud and articulate, and the words he spoke called out to God and His son Jesus to be with us and fill our hearts and minds with strength during this time of tragedy and sorrow. As he continued to pray one of the double doors swung open again and I raised my head slightly and peeked in that direction. A young woman with black hair and sunglasses entered the sanctuary. She wore a sleeveless black dress that stopped just above the knee, a black purse hung over her shoulder, and her arms and legs were tanned like her face. Her sunglasses were also black rimmed, and her hair was pulled tight and when she turned to close the door I saw that it was long and straight and tied in a ponytail. She continued to stand by the doors, crossed her arms and didn't bow her head.

  After the prayer the preacher read a scripture from the bible, a verse which he said was in the book of John, and spoke of everlasting life for those who believed in Jesus. Then he read from a prepared speech, which started with the obituary, then a few words of his own about the man he and the community had known, whose spirit now walked with the Lord.

  I glanced again at the
young woman at the door, who stood almost like a mannequin, but finally dug a tissue out of her purse and dabbed it on her cheeks and under her nose.

  Jeremiah nudged me with his elbow then whispered in my ear. “Bella Sonoma.”

  Ah, yes, I thought. Jettie's, companion. The one that no one could find.

  At the cemetery, sitting under a tent while the preacher said his final words, I was able to see the front of the casket, a full view of the colorful spray, and the photograph. Two long red ribbons hung down from the center of the arrangement, with words in silver foil stuck to them. One read “Brother” and another read “Father”. And the photograph was a snapshot of Jettie in a cowboy hat, looking back over his shoulder while he carried a saddle. My guess was that they chose the photo because it best represented the man he was.

  When the preacher began to read again from the bible, I caught a glimpse of Bella again at the back of the crowd. She stood as she did at the church—still and mysterious behind all black attire. When I noticed her start to walk away, I skipped the reading and went after her. As she was about to get inside a red Ford Mustang, I called her name. She turned and looked at me through her dark, black-rimmed sunglasses, remaining silent as I approached.

  “Can I have a minute?”

  She continued to stare silently, her sunglasses hiding whatever reaction she had to my presence.

  “I'm sorry to bother you, but I'd like to talk to you.”

  “Who are you?”

  Her voice was stout and authoritative.

  “I'm Trevor Hodge. I believe you knew my father.”

  There was a brief silence, and then she removed her sunglasses and stared at me with doleful, bloodshot eyes, as if in awe.

  “I hope I'm not upsetting you,” I said.

  “How did you find out?”

  “Jeremiah.”

  She leaned back against her car, folded the sunglasses and put them in her purse, then retrieved a pack of Marlboro Lights cigarettes and a clear plastic lighter. She lit the cigarette and took a healthy drag, then exhaled thick streams of smoke through her nose.

  “So how are you doing?” I asked.

  “I smoke a lot.”

  “Well, for what it's worth, I'm sorry.”

  She looked at me, as if she were studying my sincerity. “Thank you,” she said, a little more at ease.

  “I understand you and Jettie were pretty close?”

  This made her laugh sarcastically, and then she took another drag from the cigarette. She nodded as she exhaled and looked away toward the cemetery. “Yeah, I guess we were.”

  “I wish I had more time to talk to you. I'll be going back home this afternoon.”

  “Where's home?”

  “Kansas City.”

  “So what do you do in Kansas City?”

  “Well, I just graduated college. I start work as an accountant tomorrow.”

  This also made her laugh. “College? Accountant? Maybe that's what it is.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There's something about you that don't fit. No one would ever know you was Jettie's boy.”

  “So I'm told.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Well, I never knew him. I just want to know what he was like. That is, if it's not too hard for you to talk about.”

  She looked toward the crowd then nodded toward the cemetery. “Let's take a walk.”

  “Sure.”

  We walked across freshly mowed grass and between rows of headstones. It was almost noon and the air was feeling humid. I loosened my tie and took off my suit coat and carried it over my shoulder.

  “So how long did you know him?” I asked.

  “We met about six years ago, at the Fort Smith rodeo. I was leading my horse back in the stock area and carrying a bucket of oats when something spooked my horse. It reared and I fell backward and dumped the whole bucket of oats on top of me. I was mad, cussing up a storm, and Jettie was right there when it all happened. He helped me up and while I was complaining about being all dirty, he offered to get more oats and take care of my horse while I cleaned myself up. He was so calm and gentle. I went back to my camper and changed, and when I came back he'd put my horse in a stall, taken off the saddle and put fresh oats in the feeder. Never in my life had a man been so nice to me.”

  “That seems like a simple favor.”

  “You don't know my life.”

  I felt as though we were entering a sensitive area, so I tried not to get off the subject.

  “So he was a nice guy?”

  She glanced at me, as though disappointed with my next question. “The nicest I ever knew.”

  “I guess you started dating?”

  “If you call it that. We saw each other at all the local rodeos. One time I asked him if he wanted to go riding with me. He did and that's when we exchanged phone numbers.”

  “You're a rodeo person, too?”

  “Barrel racer.”

  “I see. So you had a lot in common.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you both took part in the rodeo.”

  “Yes, but that's about all we had in common.”

  “So you two were never serious?”

  She stopped walking, dropped the cigarette on the ground and put it out with her shoe, then crossed her arms and gazed out over the cemetery. A single tear ran down her cheek.

  “I was, but he wasn't.”

  “Do you know why?”

  She turned her head sharply toward me; her black eyes welled with tears. “Yes, I do. And that's what hurts so much.”

  She found a used tissue in her purse and dabbed at her eyes.

  “It's okay if you can't tell me about it.”

  “I don't think I can today.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Don't be. Maybe I can call you sometime—at a later date. I'd really like to talk to you again.”

  Along with her tearful eyes she offered a faint smile, then dug in her purse and pulled out a wrinkled business card and handed it to me.

  “I'm a horse trainer on the side. Late evenings are the best time to catch me.”

  “Great.”

  “I'm sorry I can't tell you more.”

  “No, you did great. And I look forward to talking to you again.”

  She kept looking at me. “You know, I can see the resemblance now.” She eventually smiled and shook my hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

  Eight

  When the burial service was over Jodie gave me a rose from the spray along with the photograph that stood on top the casket. She gave me a hug and told me how glad she was that I came, and to finally meet me after all these years. Jeremiah shook my hand firmly. His eyes were glassy, but for the most part any emotions he had he kept to himself.

  “Nephew, you being here means a lot.”

  “I'm glad I came.”

  “I see that you got to meet Bella.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How is she holding up?”

  “I can tell it's hard for her.”

  “That's understandable.”

  We walked out into the crowd and Jeremiah introduced me to several people. Most were friends and fans from the community, some associates from the world of rodeo, all offering their sympathy. One man in particular, who wore a gray felt cowboy hat and a long-sleeved white western shirt and bolo tie, seemed like an interesting character.

  “This is Denny Rose,” Jeremiah said, “a rodeo announcer who lives up in Checotah. He and Jettie were friends for years.”

  Denny shook my hand with a firm grip and spoke in a vibrant, baritone voice. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I thought a lot of your old man. One of the best bull riders I ever laid eyes on.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise, son. If you're ever down this way again, look me up and we'll have a cup of coffee, or maybe something a little stronger.” He chuckled and patted my arm with his other hand.


  “I'd like that.”

  “Any time, son.”

  After sharing a bottle with Jeremiah, I quickly wondered if I'd made a mistake agreeing to drink liquor with this man.

  Another man approached and shook Jeremiah's hand. His lower jaw quivered and his eyes were red. He was a lanky older man with a wrinkled face and steel gray hair, wearing a short-sleeved plaid western shirt and blue jeans.

  “You doing all right?” he said to Jeremiah.

  “It'll take a while. How about you?”

  “I'm gonna miss that old rip.”

  “Me, too.”

  Jeremiah turned to me. “Trevor, this is Buddy Wells. He used to be a rodeo clown and was one of Jettie's best pals.”

  We shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Buddy,” Jeremiah said, “This is Jettie's boy.”

  The old man found a smile beneath all his sorrow. “I'll be damned. Jettie's boy?”

  “That's what they tell me,” I said.

  “I've sure heard a lot about you,” Buddy said.

  “You have?”

  “Man oh man. Come and see me some time. I'll show you Jettie's favorite fishin' hole.”

  “That would be fun.”

  He turned and walked away, shaking hands with several people as he made his way through the crowd.

  What a day, I thought. Jettie Hodge, the nicest man Bella ever knew. The best bull rider Denny Rose ever saw. And me, Jettie's boy, who Buddy Wells had heard a lot about.

  After lunch, Jeremiah and I slipped away from the post-funeral gathering at his house and drove to a law office on Spiro's Main Street. The attorney invited us in to his office—a plush and stylish room, with the vintage remains of natural oak woodwork stripped and refinished, and on every wall, burgundy and gray velvet flocked wallpaper above wainscoting that matched the trim. We sat near his desk in overstuffed black leather chairs. A matching black leather sofa resided against a wall across from us.

  The door to the office opened and the attorney invited the visitor in. “Come on in, Bella.”