by Leroy Clark
CHAPTER 27
A FAMILY OUTING
Later that day Slate decided to tell Jeanne about George on their way to visit his parents in Hutchinson. He knew she loved him, but how she would react he didn’t know, but he felt deep inside he could trust her. He stopped at Walmart and found some crazy glue. His mother asked him to bring some and fix his father’s sneaker. Finally on their way out of Wichita, Jeanne made conversation, telling him about what was happening at school. She had a strong case of senioritis and was counting the days until graduation. She also discussed her boyfriend Josh and his parents, noting both her general positive feelings about them and also their quirks which drove her crazy. Josh, it seemed, was always cracking his knuckles and she hated the sound of it.
Once they got on the open road, Slate said he had something important to tell her, and jumped in. “I have also started a relationship, it seems. Well, there’s not really an ‘it seems’ to it. I’ve started a relationship. Simple as that.”
He looked at her. She said, “Uh huh,” and seemed non-committal. He went on, “I assumed that it would feel like some monumental event for me when I crossed this bridge since I’ve avoided crossing it for a long time, but it just makes utter sense to me.” He paused, and again looked at her.
“It’s all right, Dad.” She smiled. “Mom got remarried right away.”
“And that’s probably why I’ve ‘allowed’ it to happen. Not because of your mother, but because it feels right to me.” He took a deep breath. “It’s with a guy, which I also figured, despite my open-air views to that whole gender hoo-ha, would be a terrifying proposition to me, but it isn’t.” He watched her as she assimilated what he had just said. Her face registered surprise but not disgust or distaste.
“As I said, it just makes sense to me. And yet, why it makes sense to me I really couldn’t tell you. He’s from Miami. He moved here when he went to college and just stayed. Though he’d like to move back to Miami someday to be closer to his family.
And while neither of us is kidding ourselves about the fact that we have a lot of adjustments to make, the point is we’re not committing to anything beyond what’s happening right now—today. But I think both of us have a sense that this is right, for whatever reason and for whatever it is supposed to be.”
He finally stopped talking. Jeanne, said, “Wow. I never expected it.”
“Neither did I,” Slate admitted. “It’s been somewhat of a surprise for me too. Whatever feelings I’ve had in the past, any kind of attraction to another man, I just denied. I boxed up all my feelings and just set them aside, because I couldn’t deal with ‘em. Then I met George.”
“That’s good. Being alone sucks.” Jeanne responded.
“I don’t know where it’s going. I don’t have any answers. I mean, it’s all up in the air, I think. I’m not ready to move to Vermont with him. I guess I’m gay, or certainly bisexual. So far, neither of us has tried to define what our relationship is. And yet, we are both utterly committed to allowing it to define itself and I think we feel positive that it will, somehow—whatever that means.”
“I think it’s good, Dad. You know, it’s gonna take me a while to get used to it, but hell, I’ve preached enough to other people about being tolerant, I’m damn sure not suddenly going to disown you. I have gay friends. It doesn’t matter to me.”
Tears came to Slate eyes, but he blinked them away. He reached over and took her hand and squeezed it. The gesture itself was all they needed to tell each other it was okay.
Slate continued,” For me it’s quite bizarre—since—well—the idea of a relationship with anyone has just not appealed to me. Why this should seem so very easy and peaceful to me, especially considering all of the uncertainties involved, I have no idea. But I feel no particular need to question it. None. It isn’t that I ever hoped or wished or pined for it. And yet, when the idea presented itself, it didn’t even strike me as particularly odd. Just kind of an, ‘Oh, of course.’”
Jeanne nodded, but didn’t say anything.
Slate continued, “Anyway, so that’s enough analysis of that I guess. Especially since I don’t really feel there’s much to analyze. But I thought I needed to share it with you before—“Slate stopped, not knowing how to go on.
Jeanne laughed, finishing the thought for him. “Before I saw you two in bed together.”
“Well, maybe, something like that.”
“Or heard it from someone else.”
“Yeah. And just to be honest—because I love you.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you too.”
“I feel good about it, Jeanne. I know it’s weird but life just continues to be a fascination, doesn’t it? And just when you think you might have seen all there is to see—bang!”
“Yeah, this is a bang all right. I mean—It’s fine, but it does come as a surprise.”
“I’m very happy with my decision about this—you know—to let it happen. I feel, if anything, just more certain about George and I. However, don’t say anything—“
“To Grammy or Gramps.” Jeanne finished. “Don’t worry. I won’t mention anything to anyone, not even Josh, until you say it’s all right.”
“I don’t plan to say anything at work either—at least not for a while.” Slate added. “They find out, I’m gonna be the bait for more jokes than Martha Stewart.”
When they got to his parents’ house, Slate was surprised to see the yard. The usual junk around the garage was gone. There had been an old camper in the yard, a Dodge Charger, a boat trailer, and various other items. His mother said she had sold them and had paid a neighborhood kid twenty dollars to mow the grass.
His mother seemed better than when he’d last seen her. She’d had been to a hair dresser and had a permanent so her short gray hair was curled in an attractive style. Her legs and arms still revealed the ravages of the disease, however. Her skin was covered with dark purplish bruises and scabs and spots that looked like blood had leaked just under the skin. Slate gave her a gentle hug as did Jeanne.
His mother was in the middle of looking through her purse, searching every pocket, every nook and cranny. “I’ve been wanting to go over to that cemetery—I don’t know what I did with the address. I called up—I can get it over at the town office, but—I know the number of the lots but I don’t know if that will help. I went to the bank,” she said, “I had it in my safety deposit box--and I got the name of the—the person at the cemetery—the caretaker—and the plot numbers. I wrote them on a piece of paper and now I can’t find them to save my soul. I think his name was Danny Jones—Danny—
Danny something—Green, that was it, Danny Green. I’ll see if I can find his number in the book. I think the plots were 28 and 29, but I don’t know if that’s enough. I can’t remember anything else.”
“Why do you need to find those now?” Slate asked.
“I just thought since you were going to be here, it would be a good time to show you. I bought them last year. I just wanna see where they are.” She muttered, still searching. “Oh, I need one of those. It’s a battery for my hearing aid.” She held up a something small and waved it in the air a moment before putting it back in her purse. “God, I can’t remember anything longer than my nose,” she laughed.
“Oh, well, let me see if I can find his number.” She got the phone book and began hunting for Danny Green. “Would you go with me? I also want to go look at stones—monuments—whatever they’re called. I want to see how expensive they are.” She rambled on in a matter of fact way.
“Mom, isn’t this a bit morbid?”
“No, I want everything in place—everything decided.” She gave him a look. “Oh, here it is. She dialed the number. “Is this Danny? This is Mrs. Slater. Would you tell me again where our plots are?” She wrote on a piece of paper as she listened. “Second drive in, the last two plots after the angel. No, I just wanted to show my son where they are. Thank you.”
His father was asleep in his wheelchair, his head back, his
mouth open. He was snoring. Slate touched his shoulder, “Dad.” His father woke with a start, looking confused for a moment. Slowly a smile registered on his face as he recognized his son. “Having a nap, are you?” Slate asked.
His father mumbled, “Yeah.”
“I brought some crazy glue. Mom asked me to fix your shoe.” His father stuck his foot up in the air a little bit. Slate could see a black tab on the toe of the sneaker that had ripped open. He took his father sneaker off, got out the crazy glue, a tiny tube in a plastic container with a green stick pin. He stuck the pin into the top of the tube and spread the glue all around under the black tab and held it for a few moments. When he took his finger off, the tab stayed in place. “There good as new,” he said and helped his mother slide the shoe back on his father’s foot.
“I bought him some new ones,” she said, shaking her head. “Those are three years old. He’s been wearing the new ones, but he said it’s hard for him to walk in them. He tells me this after he wore ‘em for two weeks. I can’t take ‘em back.”
“These are fine,” his father grumbled.
“How you doing, Gramps?” Jeanne said, coming closer to him.
“Okay,” his father smiled. Slate could tell that his father really liked Jeanne. She had lived with them for a year and had gotten to know his parents really well. His father had developed a real soft spot for Jeanne.
“I was—I was—“ His father tried to speak, but he forgot what he was going to say. “No, no—goddamnit—gone.” He mumbled. He looked at Jeanne and smiled. “Forgot.” He said.
“I’ll be graduating this year, Gramps,” she said. “I’m in the top ten per cent of my class too.”
“Good—good,” his father said.
“She a smart one,” Slate added.
“Just like you,” his father said.
Slate smiled. He was glad that somewhere in the year or so, they had made peace. It hadn’t been a big event. It wasn’t even the result of a long series of conversations. It had just happened gradually over a series of visits, small talk about his job, and visits with his daughters. Somewhere, somehow during that period of time, his father had decided he was okay.
“Dad told me when you were young how you used to kick the muffler loose on an old Ford you had,” Jeanne interjected, “and you would roar around town until the police came after you.”
“Yup.” His father laughed, remembering. “I did.” His laugh turned into a coughing fit. He coughed and spit into a paper towel on his lap.
“He was a hell raiser,” Slate’s mother added. “He had that car all souped up. When the police came after him, he would floor it and take off. They couldn’t catch him.”
“No more,” his father smiled. His speech was labored, blurred. “This morning I—I—this morn—today—goddamn it—all I can do—roll around—in this.” Slate couldn’t understand what he said.
His mother repeated it, “All he can do now is roll around in his wheelchair.”
“I wanna go—to—the farm.”
His mother sighed. “You can’t go to the farm.”
“Goddamn it—you—you—” his father muttered.
“There is no farm anymore. That was years ago. It’s not there anymore. It was torn down years ago.”
He keeps wanted to go to the farm where his parents lived. He gets time all mixed up.” She said to Slate.
His father put his finger to his temple as though it were a gun. “S’what I should do.”
“Well, you will not,” his mother answered.
“I don’t—I don’t—“his father’s words trailed off. Then he said with great intensity. “I’ll burn the place down.”
“Now stop it.”
His father banged on the table with his good hand. “I won’t stop it goddamn it.” His father suddenly thrust himself away from the table and turned his wheelchair away and sat sulking.
“Would you like to go for a ride?” His mother asked.
His father’s face lit up. “Sure,” he said.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
“Better.”
His father wheeled himself to the bathroom. The door was too narrow to get the chair inside, but the toilet was next to the door. He helped his father stand up. His father held on to the doorframe.
“Get that right foot out,” His mother said.
His father slowly moved his right foot, and eventually took a step with his left foot so that he was standing in front of the toilet. His mother unzipped his pants and pulled out his father’s penis. Slate didn’t look. He felt embarrassed by this intimacy, but it didn’t seem to faze either of his parents. They were used to it.
They finally got his father loaded in the front seat of the car and buckled in. His mother and Jeanne got in the back seat. Slate drove up the highway about a mile and turned right on to the crossroad. He could remember when the road was still gravel. Now it had been widened and covered with blacktop. More houses had been built along it. After about a mile after crossing the Hudson Road, they came to the cemetery. It was small, surrounded by a wrought iron fence with four gates for four gravel lanes that divided it.”
“Turn in to the second one,” his mother said. He had heard the conversation and knew where he was going, but he said nothing. His mother was always giving directions. He stopped the car just past the angel.
“So that’s where they are,” she said. “It’s all taken care of.”
“It’s nice,” Slate said, “very peaceful.”
“Well, let’s go down and see about those stones,” his mother said. “It’s right on Broadway, right at the top of the hill.” Slate drove the car to the end of the lane, then along the back, and drove back toward the highway, exiting through the third gate.
Slate drove back to the Hudson Road and turned left. As he looked at the landscape and the houses going by, he remembered various snatches from his youth. He used to ride to school on the bus which traveled up and down the Hudson Road. He remembered where some of the other kids had lived, but he couldn’t remember their names.
He turned left on to Broadway and within a few minutes he had pulled into the yard of an old white farmhouse. It had a huge barn that was in bad shape. In front of the barn were rows of monuments. He and his mother went up on the porch and knocked at the door. A moment later, a tall middle-aged man came out. “We’d like to look at the stones,” his mother said.
The man gestured to the monuments and led the way. They looked at various sizes and shapes. They finally selected a salmon colored polished granite stone that was tall enough to engrave both his parent’s names. The man explained that the cost included the delivery and the engraving and the base. His mother wrote the man a check. Soon they were back on the road. Slate wondered what his father was thinking. No one said anything until they got home.
Once they had gotten him from the car to the steps his father started cursing. “Goddamit,”
“Grab that handle,” his mother said. “Watch his right foot. He has trouble lifting it.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ woman,” he mumbled as he grabbed the long white handle which had been bolted to the door frame and pulled himself up the two steps to the stoop.
Slate helped steady his father while Jeanne got the wheelchair. Once they had him back in the house in his chair, they all sat for a few moments at the table resting. His mother pulled the receipt for the stone out of her purse, looked at it, and put it back, muttering, “I’m glad that’s finally done.” No one spoke. Finally Slate said, “I’ll be happy to cook supper. Are you hungry, Dad?”
“Yup,” his father nodded.
“Good, I was hoping you would. I’m so tired,” his mother said. I haven’t been cooking. If the girl isn’t here to cook, I just warm up them frozen dinners—Smart Ones. I have to lay down all the time. No energy.”
“Well, I’ll cook and Jeanne will wash the dishes.”
“How about if we both cook,” Jeanne offered, “and we both do the dishes.” Slate laugh
ed and put his arm around her, hugging her shoulders. “Sure,” he said.
“I bought some chicken,” his mother said. “And there’s some sliced ham. It was on sale last week. I bought a ham and had them slice it.”
“Chicken’s fine,” Slate said. “What would you like with it?”
“Whatever you want,” she answered. “It don’t matter. We’ll eat anything.”
“Jeanne and I will figure out something,” he smiled.
Once Slate and Jeanne had prepared the food, his mother took some chicken and put it in the blender and ground it up, explaining that his father couldn’t eat anything unless it was ground up. “He chokes.” She said. “I also have to put this thickener in his drinks.” She added a tablespoon of a powdery substance to a glass of milk. She mashed his potatoes and the carrots.
After supper, Slate helped get his father to the bathroom, then into his pajamas and into bed. Once they had settled into the living-room, his mother said, “I’m putting him in the Veteran’s Home this week. I just can’t manage him anymore.”
“He is a handful,” Slate acknowledged.
“I think he’s a lot worse,” Jeanne said. “He can’t communicate much now.”
“I can’t understand him half the time,” Slate mother acknowledged.
“I couldn’t today,” Slate said.
“He doesn’t wanna go,” his mother said, “but he has to. I can’t take care of him. I just can’t. His legs are worse. He loses his balance, and I can’t hold him. I don’t have the strength. He fell last week. He didn’t hurt himself, just banged his arm and his chin, but I had to call the neighbors to help me get him up. I can’t lift him.” Slate could see the tears well up in her eyes.
“It’s the best thing for him at this point,” Slate said, trying to reassure her.
“I have to take him to the hospital on Monday. Dr. Wadude arranged it all. They’ll give him a complete check up. After that they’ll move him to the Veteran’s Home.”
Slate was astonished to see his father in this state. He had been so strong, so commanding, so very alive until the strokes. Now he was angry and depressed and unable to take care of himself. That night Slate slept fitfully in his old room, the nightmares of his teenage years haunting him again.