Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance

by Chris Coppernoll

  His departure left my sister, Ruth Ann, and me alone with our mom in a three-bedroom country home in Overton, Iowa—the only home we’d ever known. I’d spent the last eighteen years of my life there.

  Bright and early in the morning, my best friend, Mitch McDaniels, would pilot his navy blue Cutlass Ciera up our long gravel driveway, past the bountiful, sweet-smelling farms. I’d load two bags into the trunk, and we’d fly over the Cloverlane bridge, leaving Overton for college.

  For good.

  I’d waited eight years to blast off from Overton, to leave for college or anywhere else. On nights like this when the bad dreams came, I’d learned to close my eyes and remember the good times. And there were good times, like the last vacation we’d all taken together as a family. But remembering them had gotten harder over the past few years.

  Ruth Ann died when I was sixteen. She was killed by a drunk driver only a few miles from our house. That driver was her best friend, Patricia Dunwoody. Patricia had been sitting behind the wheel of her dad’s 1980 Chevy Caprice, with Ruth Ann buckled in next to her. The two eighteen-year-olds were driving around Overton enjoying some postgraduation fun when Patricia missed the turn at Archer’s Farm and plowed into a hundred-year-old oak tree. Patricia received a cut across her forehead just below the hairline. Ruthie died instantly.

  There are some things in life we just have to deal with. If we don’t, then those things get stuffed inside like laundry in a canvas bag with the cords pulled tight. Ruth Ann had been accepted at Providence College in Indiana, a school I’d never heard of at the time. A good student, she’d been awarded their prestigious Hensley-Drumons Science Scholarship at Overton High School’s honors banquet during graduation week.

  I saw my dad for the last time at Ruthie’s funeral. Two years before I would head out on my own. Two years before the door would finally close on that tragic era. Two years before I’d leave my mother standing in the yard, wondering how we’d become such total strangers.

  In the years following Ruthie’s death, Marianne and I lived in relative silence. We’d gotten used to the steps of three dancers when Dad left, but with only the two of us left, we didn’t know how to move. We lost the rhythm.

  During the fall of my senior year, I got it in my head that I wanted to go to college, and not just to any college, but to Providence College, where Ruthie had been accepted. Standing with Mitchell at our lockers between classes, I tried to convince him we should both go to Providence, though months earlier he’d applied to the University of Iowa. After weeks of persuasion, he finally caved in and applied to Providence.

  Our last season in Overton was a whirlwind. It was 1985, the summer of Live Aid; “We Are the World” was still playing on the radio. That time was as much about celebrating our freedom as saying good-bye to childhood. I had an unshakable confidence that things could only get better at a place called Providence College. It became for me a shimmering oasis far from the barren desert Overton had become.

  There was another low rumble of thunder, this one followed by a strong breeze that chilled the room and shook the trees outside my bedroom window. I rolled over in the twin bed I’d outgrown years before and told myself to think about the good times just around the corner. I was certain, as sure as I’d been of anything up to that point in my life, that Providence College would mend all the broken pieces inside me. It just had to be so.

  Marianne woke me at eight o’clock with a shout from the foot of the stairs. The radio alarm clock had already gone off. Like so many other mornings that summer, I’d slept through it without hearing so much as a riff from 92 K-Rock.

  “Honey, you’ve got to get up. It’s already past eight!”

  I could hear the music now, and it was the perfect sound track for my day—“I Ran” by A Flock of Seagulls. My eyes opened to posters of rock stars: John Cougar Mellencamp, Journey, the Blasters.

  “I ran so far away …”

  And then the reality hit me.

  I was leaving home for good. My exit would be less devastating than my dad’s, less catastrophic than Ruthie’s, but it would complete the final chapter in my family’s personal book of exodus. George Bailey may have stayed in Bedford Falls to save the old building and loan, but not me; I was leaving. I showered and dressed, then transported my already-packed bags downstairs.

  The screen door opened to a perfect August day. I glanced out hoping to see Mitchell’s car—the promise of a quick exit and avoidance of a long good-bye—but there was no Mitchell. Only the sun and sky and two acres of freshly cut green grass between our front porch and West Baxter Road.

  “Jack, breakfast is ready.”

  Marianne’s voice and the smells of a country breakfast and brewing coffee drew me to the kitchen, where eggs and bacon sizzled in a large pan. Two glasses of orange juice sat on the table. A stack of buttered toast rested on a plate. I looked to Marianne for an explanation, but she stood with her back to me, cooking at her post in front of the stove.

  “Coffee?” she offered.

  “Yes, thanks.” I settled in at the table. She poured me a cup and placed a carton of half-and-half on the table.

  “I spoke with your Aunt Nancy last night.”

  “Really?”

  “She wanted me to tell you how proud she is … you going off to college and everything. She says you’re getting the kind of education she always wanted.”

  I poured the cream into my coffee, watching it marble and tumble in the black pool. “That’s nice. Tell her I said thanks.”

  Marianne set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. Then she shut off the burners on the stove and leaned against it.

  “Are you excited, Jack? I know how you’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “I think so,” I said, uncomfortable with the thought of the conversation shifting to anything remotely emotional.

  She remained there against the stove, her slight frame and sandy hair painting a picture of someone I used to know well—someone I used to call “Mom.”

  “Did you get everything packed?”

  “Packed up yesterday before Mitch and I made the rounds,” I said between bites of bacon. I hoped Mitchell would show up soon.

  “Who’d you say good-bye to?”

  “Scotty,” I said. “Bruce Tinsdale’s already left for Iowa State. Eric and William won’t be around much longer either. We said good-bye to those guys and stopped by some of the old haunts. I saw Frank Willis in town. Saved me a trip to his farm.”

  “You’ve had some good friends here, Jack.” She laughed. “I can still remember all you boys camping out in the woods behind the house. All the mosquito bites … And wasn’t someone covered in leeches from swimming in the pond?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Those were the days.”

  The clock above the stove read 8:45. “It’s hard to imagine where all the time’s gone.”

  She was right about that. Mitchell would dock the Cutlass no later than nine o’clock. I had just fifteen minutes remaining before takeoff. Marianne and I were already running low on conversation. We hadn’t been like the typical mother and son for years—all of us Claytons divorced our traditional roles years before.

  “Jack, have you got enough for everything … for school, I mean?”

  I nearly choked, but I bit my tongue instead. It was nice of her to ask, but a little late to be playing the part of the involved, concerned parent.

  I thought about money. Working for Bubba’s Subs through the school year. How Frank Willis had asked me to work summers at his farm that first year after Ruthie’s death. Every dollar I made on the Willis farm I saved—every penny, too.

  “You gonna put all that money in a Firebird, Jack?” Frank would tease me, passing my paycheck across his work desk in the mudroom every other Friday. I’d just smile back, making jokes of my own and folding that gold paper into my pocket. For two years I walked those checks down to the bank. He didn’t know what I planned to do with the money, but I think even Frank might have fa
llen off his chair if he’d known just how much my nest egg had grown.

  While I casually sipped my orange juice that morning, I was resting in the knowledge that I had more than $24,000 sitting in the Iowa State Federal Bank awaiting transfer. Hard work had taught me the value of hard dollars. Still, her question touched a nerve that was hard to conceal. Maybe it had something to do with growing up too fast, or remembering the four of us together on our last vacation. Mom, Dad, Ruthie, and me eating in the restaurant at the Weststar Hotel in Virginia Beach, innocent of all that lay ahead.

  “Yes,” I said at last. “I think I’ve got enough.”

  We heard Mitchell’s car pulling up the long gravel drive. I wiped my mouth and hurried from the table, heading to the screen door where I’d dropped my duffel bags. I picked them up and used one to push through the door. Marianne laid her hand on my shoulder from behind, and I turned around. She looked as if she wanted to say something but remained silent. All except her eyes. I leaned into the door, again hearing it smack against the side of the house.

  Marianne trailed me beyond the cover of the aluminum awning and into the hot morning sun.

  Mitchell cut the engine and stepped out of the Cutlass. “You look like you could use a four-year education. G’mornin’, Mrs. C.”

  “Good morning, Mitchell.”

  Tall and athletic, wearing cropped brown hair and dark sunglasses, Mitchell looked like he was headed for Top Gun flight school, not Providence College. It was no wonder he’d had girlfriends to spare since the seventh grade.

  “Mitchell, you’re a Swiss train,” I said. “It’s nine o’clock on the nose.”

  “I would’ve been here earlier, but you know Hank and Blanch,” Mitch said, rolling his eyes, acting excessively put out by his perfect parents. “First it was ‘Did you make sure to get the oil changed?’ Then it was ‘Are you sure you have the directions to Providence?’ I’m lucky I got here at all.”

  Mitch walked over to open the trunk.

  “I haven’t had much of a chance to catch up with you this summer, Mitchell,” Marianne said. “How are your folks doing?”

  “They’re good. They still wish I was going to the University of Iowa, but I think overall they’re excited to get me out of the house.” Mitchell grinned. “They’re happy I’m not sticking around here for Jack’s old job at Bubba’s.”

  Marianne laughed. She loved Mitchell, had always been at ease with him. I tossed my things into the trunk and walked to the passenger door. Marianne stood a few feet away talking with Mitch, her arms locked across her chest like there was a chill in the air.

  Maybe there was. I wondered if part of her was wishing she could come along on our adventure, or at least have one of her own.

  “Mitchell, I’ve got a hot breakfast inside if you’re interested,” She tempted him.

  “I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” I interrupted, drawing looks from Mitchell and Marianne. There was every chance Mitch would take Marianne up on her offer, and I couldn’t risk it. Closure loomed so close now, it hummed like electricity in the air between us.

  “We’ll catch something on the road,” Mitchell said, covering for my curt response.

  “Hey,” Marianne said, “Let me get a picture of you guys!” She headed back toward the house.

  “There isn’t time,” I called out, a little too abruptly.

  Marianne turned. “Jack, I’m not going to paint your portrait.”

  She disappeared into the house. I gazed at Mitchell to check his demeanor. He was in excellent spirits.

  “Good morning, Mr. College Man,” he said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cutlass,” I replied, greeting him in that adolescent style exclusive to friends of a certain age. Eighteen seems a lot younger now.

  Marianne must have planned this photo op because she returned in a flash with her camera, ready to pose Mitch and me. She had us stand next to each other in front of the passenger door of the navy blue car. My arm around his shoulder, his around mine, Marianne snapped the photo I still keep on the bookshelf in my office.

  “We’re leaving now,” I said seconds after the shutter clicked, as if all manner of business was closed. “We’ll call you when we get there. Daylight’s burning, and we’ve got a lot of traveling to do.”

  I pulled on the door handle, but Marianne reached out as fast as a ninja. She took hold of my sleeve, preventing me from getting in the car. We stared silently at each other on the gravel driveway next to the house where we’d both grown up fast and far apart.

  “So that’s it, Jack? You’re just going to leave? You don’t want to say good-bye? You don’t want to hug me?”

  I should have embraced her, but immaturity got the best of me. “That’s the picture I have,” I said.

  Marianne’s face fell. I wished I could take the words back, but words can’t be reeled in again. Her face became transparent. Suddenly it was crystal clear to her what a total stranger I was. The breakfast, the questions, the camera—all an attempt to make an impression that despite everything we’d been through, Marianne still cared.

  I get that now, but on that day, I wasn’t even close to getting it. I tried backpedaling. “Mom, you know we’ve got to get going if we’re gonna be on time.”

  “Oh, right, Jack. I don’t want you to not be on time.” Her face pulled tight and red. Her eyes were puffy.

  “What do you want me to say, Mom? It’s been nice seeing you come in from your shift while I go out on mine? It’s not your fault, but I don’t want to do this anymore. All I want is to get in this car.”

  Tears fell from her eyes. Marianne began to slowly step backward, stiffening her backbone as the physical space between us grew to match our emotional chasm.

  “Then good-bye, Jack.” She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes.

  A distance had cropped up between us like weeds in the front yard that neither of us had skill enough to pull. She would offer no more hugs. No good-bye kisses, or any “Call me when you get there.” She walked back up the porch steps and went inside, watching us through the screen door.

  I climbed inside the car, my eyes never leaving Marianne’s, and Mitchell started up the engine. The car rolled backward, cutting into the grass, then he shifted into first gear and rolled back onto the drive. In the rearview mirror I watched the house, the porch, and Marianne get smaller and smaller, until we turned onto West Baxter Road and all was gone.

  Mitchell and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Minutes later we were climbing the Hamilton Overpass. I looked out the window at Overton, Iowa. The first chapter of my life had ended, its hard grip already weakening. I was emerging from a two-year ache. I felt the winds of change as tangibly as the thick summer breeze whipping through my fingers outside the car window.

  There would be no more tractors to drive, no more turkey subs to microwave. No more walking past Ruthie’s empty room. My past and my future were being separated like the parting of Siamese twins.

  The Cutlass tilted suddenly sideways as we accelerated through the wide curve that merged with the highway. Mitchell pushed a cassette into the car stereo. “How ’bout a little music?”

  Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” thundered over the noise from the open windows. Every digit that turned on the odometer represented one less degree of hold the past had on me. Its grip loosened, melting like pieces of a snowman on a hot spring day. We sped onto the highway. Mitchell reached over to boost Bruce’s volume. The highway was already jammed with broken heroes, and Overton was giving up two of its own. I closed my eyes.

  The thrill of escape was ecstasy, super-powered by four hundred horsepower and the revving guitars of the E Street Band. On a hill overlooking the highway, a sign in the window of Bubba’s Sub Shop said it all: CLOSED.

  ~ FOUR ~

  When some cold tomorrow finds you

  When some sad old dream reminds you

  How the endless road unwinds you.

  —Steve Winwood

  “W
hile You See a Chance”

  Tuesday morning I awoke to the smell of bacon and immediately thought back to what I’d written the night before. As I lay in bed upstairs, feeling a surprising sense of peace and comfort, I finally shook off the cobwebs enough to realize that Mrs. Hernandez had let herself in. In my groggy state, having stayed awake writing until three, I’d thought at first it was Marianne.

  Mrs. Hernandez comes by a couple of times a week to cook and clean. It’s a ritual she’s repeated now for eight years. A proud first-generation Mexican American, Mrs. H has three grown children and five grandchildren all living outside Providence. Long before I was earning the kind of money that comes to best-selling authors, Mrs. Hernandez was helping a bungling bachelor run his household. The thought of a single man cooking and cleaning for himself was totally unacceptable to her. We’d met through the church and soon adopted each other. She’s been a blessing ever since.

  I heard her downstairs singing in Spanish. I put on my robe and made my way to the kitchen. “Buenos días, Mrs. Hernandez,” I said, squeezing her shoulders.

  “Buenos días, Jack. I thought this might wake you.”

  “Woke me to a dream. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a hot breakfast,” I said and grabbed a strip of bacon.

  “You are up late again last night?”

  “Yes, writing again.”

  “Oh, that’s good, and so you have an appetite this morning?”

  “I’m starved,” I said, in the mood for some of Mrs. H’s homemade food.