Fiery Rivers

by Daefyd Williams

  Leona woke up in bed alone. “That’s strange,” she thought. “Lem’s always come home.” She pulled the bedroom drapes aside and looked out the window and saw his station wagon in the driveway. “His car’s here. Where is he?” She put on her housecoat and slippers and went out to the garage. She opened the side door and found the garage dark. She flipped on the light and found it empty. “Lem?” she called out. Nothing. Worry furrowed her brow. “Where can he be?” She glanced into the backyard on her way back into the house and saw nothing but the crab apple tree.

  She opened the front door and looked out into the yard and saw him. He was lying under the oak tree near the tire swing on his side with his back toward the house. “What in thunder?” she thought. She walked up to him and nudged his back with her foot. “Lem! Lem! Wake up! Why’djou sleep out here?” She reached down and grabbed him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back. And screamed. His eyes were wide open, his lips were blue, and his face was ashen. The line of fire ants exiting his right nostril swarmed over his face at the sudden disruption of their trail to the colony beneath the oak tree. “Oh, my God!” she whispered. “RENNIE! RENNIE!” she yelled back to the open front door. “CALL AN AMBULANCE! HURRY! HURRY!” She dropped to her knees beside him and feverishly began brushing the ants off his face.

  Rennie came to the screen door sleepy-eyed in his pajamas. “Whatsa matter?” he asked.

  She turned and looked at him. “CALL AN AMBULANCE QUICK! I THINK YOUR FATHER’S DEAD!!”

  “Wha . . . what?” Rennie stammered, wide awake.

  “I THINK YOUR FATHER’S DEAD! CALL AN AMBULANCE RIGHT NOW!”

  He went back inside and grabbed the telephone off the table in the living room and dropped it. He picked it back up and managed to dial the operator and give her their address and tell her that his mother thought his father was dead. He went back outside and let the screen door slam. “The ambulance is on its way!” he yelled to his mother.

  “Just stay there!” she ordered. “Don’t come any closer, and make sure if Angie wakes up she stays by you!”

  “OK,” he replied, a stricken look on his face. He stood there silently with his arms by his side and watched his mother continue to brush something off his father’s face.

  Angela, now a young lady of sixteen, came out, her long, blond hair framing her beautiful unblemished face, full mouth, and retroussé nose. She looked into the yard and saw her mother kneeling over her father under the oak tree. She looked up questioningly at Rennie, who signed that their father was sick, he had called an ambulance, and Mother wanted them to stay where they were. She was wearing dark blue pajamas covered with frolicking cats. Rennie put his arm around her waist and they stood there, helpless.

  Lemuel had spent the evening in Smitty’s bar. All day as he worked, he had wrestled with the doppelgänger in his head, trying to persuade him that he was not attracted to Derek. He had not been able to quash the niggling suspicion that he was a queer by the end of the work day and, after disconsolately downing fifteen boilermakers and finding them ineffectual, he had decided to give up and drive home.

  He did not remember driving. Suddenly, he found himself sitting in his driveway under the oak tree, removing the keys from the ignition. “How’d I get here?” he thought. “Somebod’ musta drove me.” He opened the car door and stumbled around the front of the car, holding on to steady himself. “So tired.” He looked at the oak tree as he held on to the right front fender. It was a darker silhouette against the black background of the night. “Thin’ I’ll jus’ lay down unner tree an’ take a li’l nap ‘fore I go in.” He took one step toward the tree and fell flat on his face. “Summa bitch! Who trip me?” He got up to his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way to the tree, where he flopped down onto his right side. “Aaaahhh! Nice!” He dropped into a dreamless oblivion.

  While he lay there, the insatiable thirst that had burned in his gut like a raging fire, demanding daily to be quenched with alcohol, gradually died down to glowing embers and then went out. His breathing and his heart slowed, and finally stopped. Another drink would never cross his lips. The struggle with the doppelgänger that was attracted to Derek was finally over. He was dead at fifty-four of acute alcohol poisoning.

  Jonnie came into the house through the side door and called out. He did not smell any food. “May! May! Yo gots muh suppuh own?” There was no answer. He placed the bucket of corn that he had just picked from the garden on the kitchen table and walked into the living room. The television was on as usual, and May, his mother who was really his aunt, was sitting in her old brown leather recliner in front of the TV with her feet raised, as usual. He called from the kitchen doorway, “May, why ain’tchou got no food a cookin’?” She did not answer. He shuffled over to where she was sitting and interposed himself between her and the TV, which he knew irritated her. “May, why ain’tchou cookin’ no food?” he asked again.

  She turned her head, which was tilted to the left, slightly toward him and mumbled, “They nar a drah stitch.” The left side of her mouth drooped down toward her left breast and a small puddle of spittle had accumulated there atop her flowery housecoat.

  “Wha? Ah cain’t unnuhstan’ nuffin’ dat yo sayin’. What stitch yo talkin’ ‘bout?”

  She tried to raise her head from its left tilt, but only managed to bobble her head back and forth slightly. She struggled to raise her right hand and pointed her bony forefinger to the telephone beside the TV. “Call doghouse.”

  “Call doghouse? Why yo talkin’ crazy foe? We ain’t got us no dog.”

  She pointed again to the telephone. “Call doghouse.”

  Jonnie began to get scared. “Stop talkin’ crazy now an’ git up offen yo chayuh an’ fix us some vittles.”

  She grasped the arm of the chair with her right hand and tried to pull herself up, but fell back weakly. “Call doghouse,” she repeated, her eyes imploring him to understand.

  Jonnie finally understood that she was asking him to call someone. “Yo wantin’ me to call someone! Is dat it? Is yo sick?”

  She nodded her head slightly.

  “OK. Yo jus’ sets rat theyah, now. Jonnie gonna git yo some hep.” He picked up the telephone and dialed “O.”

  The phone rang four times and a female voice asked, “Number, please?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “Ah doan want no numbuh. Muh mudduh, who rilly muh ant, needs some hep. She ain’t bein’ lack huhsef.”

  “Does she need an ambulance?” the operator asked.

  Jonnie’s face lit up. “Yassuh, dat zackly whut she needs, a amb’lance.”

  “What’s your address, please?”

  “Muh dress?”

  “Yes, your address.”

  “Ummm, gimme a mint. Ah knows it foe show, but Ah cain’t brang it to mand. Lemme thank.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Ah hah! Ah gots it! It’s nan eight foe Mahsla Dribe, Franken, Oheye.”

  “Is that 984 Marcella Drive, Franklin?”

  “Dat’s it! Foe show yo gots it rat.”

  “OK, honey. I’m calling the ambulance right now and they’ll be there shortly.”

  “Bless yo haht, honey. Yo done make Jonnie a proud man.”

  “May I have your last name, please?”

  “Muh las’ name?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Jonnie Hawkins. May is muh mudduh who is rilly muh ant.”

  “Thank you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Jonnie shook his head. “No. Ah sees yo when yo gits heeah.”

  “I’m not coming. An ambulance is coming. Bye, honey.”

  Jonnie shook his head and put the receiver back on the phone. He turned to May. “Duh amb’lance is on its way rat now. Jus’ yo ress, now.”

  It took ten minutes for the ambulance to leave the Franklin firehouse and climb Pennyroyal hill. The siren was shut off as the ambulance came to a stop in the driveway. There was a knock on the door. Jonnie opened it
. A young white man in his twenties and a middle-aged black man with a slight paunch stood holding a gurney between them. The young white man asked, “Are you Jonnie Hawkins?”

  “Yassuh, dat’s rat. C’mon in. Dat’s muh mudduh who is rilly muh ant ovuh yonduh in huh lazy chayuh. She ain’t a actin’ rat.”

  “What’s your mother’s name?” the black man asked.

  “Name’s May. She rilly muh ant.”

  The two paramedics walked over to her chair. “Hi, May. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” the white man asked. He knelt beside her and placed two fingers on the inside of her wrist and looked at his watch. The black man leaned over and placed a stethoscope on her chest.

  May turned her eyes toward them but could not turn her head, which was still tilted left. Jonnie stood behind the two men, nervously biting his lower lip. “Muh . . . muh . . . muh,” she stuttered.

  “Huh name’s May,” Jonnie added helpfully.

  “How old is she?” the white man asked.

  Jonnie wrinkled his brow. “Um. She seven an’ nan.” He shook his head. “Dat’s rat. Seven an’ nan.”

  “May, we’re gonna transport you to Middletown Hospital so they can examine you. Is that OK with you?” the black man asked. May said nothing. He turned to Jonnie. “Does she have some identification?”

  “Iden?” Jonnie questioned.

  “Something that will tell the hospital who she is and how old she is.”

  “Oh,” Jonnie said. “Iden-fation. Show ‘nuff. It be in huh puhss in huh bedroom.”

  “Will you get it for us, please? Just bring the whole purse.”

  “Yassuh, be rat back. Don’tchou be gwine nowayuh ‘thout me now.” Jonnie headed to the bedroom.

  “We won’t,” the black man assured him as he left.

  When he returned with the purse, the young white man was taking May’s blood pressure. “One forty over ninety,” he said. The two men lifted her from the recliner onto the gurney. They carried her down the front steps and placed the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Jonnie followed them all the way, carrying the purse. When they had secured the gurney, the black man turned to Jonnie and stated, “Jonnie, you can sit right here.” He patted a blue cushion to the right of the gurney.

  “Yassuh, dat’s fan. Dat’s fan.” He clambered into the ambulance and sat down.

  The white man, who had climbed into the driver’s seat, radioed the hospital and said, “Base, this is Franklin forty-three. Commencing transport of a seventy-nine-year-old white female, possible stroke. ETA approximately twenty minutes.”

  “Ten four,” the hospital responded.

  While the black man monitored May, he asked Jonnie where he was from.

  Jonnie was thrilled to be inside a vehicle with its siren on. He took his attention off the siren and responded, “Me an’ May growed up in Scooba, Mizpee, till she wuh thuhty an’ muh rill mudduh done die. Den we comes noaf to heeah.”

  “So you lived in Mississippi until you were how old?”

  “Gimme a mint an’ lemme figguh it now. Iffen May be thuhty, dat makes me ten. Yassuh, Ah b’liebes dat’s duh troof. Ah’s ten when we comes noaf.”

  “Who did you live with before you came north?”

  “We lives wit dis black family dat wuh shay croppin’ on Missuh Ray’s propuhty.”

  “Oh, I see,” the black man responded. “That explains the way you talk,” he thought.

  The ambulance pulled under the porte cochère of the emergency room entrance and stopped, and the siren died. Jonnie was disappointed at the sudden silence. “Is we heeah?” he asked.

  “Yeah, we are,” the black man answered. He leaned over and pulled down the handle on the door and pushed it open. “You get out first,” he told Jonnie.

  “Yassuh, dat’s fan,” he answered. He turned his back to the opening, held on to a handle on the side of the ambulance, eased his left leg down onto the driveway and then his right. “Dese ol’ bones doan moob lack dey used to,” he explained.

  “Take your time,” the black man stated. He stepped out once Jonnie had exited, pushed the other door open, grabbed the gurney and pulled it out horizontally, the white driver doing the same on the other side. They rushed the gurney toward the emergency room door. “Follow us,” the black man said over his shoulder to Jonnie.

  “Yassuh, I’s followin’ rat behine yo foots.”

  The black man told Jonnie to sit down in the waiting area and wait for someone to come and talk to him.

  “Ah cain’t go wif y’all?” Jonnie asked, agitated.

  “No. The doctors are gonna examine her now. You have to wait here until someone comes out and talks to you, OK?”

  “Well, all rat den, if dat’s duh way yo does it heeah, but me an’ May nevuh been ‘paht. She be all rat ‘thout me?”

  “She’ll be fine. You sit right there and wait, OK?”

  “All rat den.” He sat down on a white plastic chair, stretched out his legs and looked around the room as the paramedics took May away. Not having eaten his supper and being a diabetic, he fell asleep and started snoring.

  Someone touched him lightly on the shoulder, a tall, distinguished man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and gray hair in a white coat. “Mr. Hawkins?” he asked.

  “Yassuh, dat’s me. Musta doze off ‘cause Ah din have muh suppuh.”

  “Will you follow me to my office, please?”

  “Show ‘nuff. Is dere sump’n’ wrong wit May?” He stood up.

  “We’ll talk about that in my office.” He led Jonnie down a shiny, gray-tiled corridor with white walls and fluorescent lighting. He opened a door on the left and motioned to a leather chair opposite a large brown desk. “You may sit there.”

  “Why, thankee kindly, suh.” Jonnie sat down on the edge of the chair. “Tell me ‘bout May.”

  The doctor sat down behind the desk. He cleared his throat. “This never gets any easier,” he thought. “Mr. Hawkins, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your mother . . .”

  “She rilly muh ant,” Jonnie corrected him.

  “Your mother, um, aunt suffered a massive hemorrhagic stroke, bleeding in the brain, which affected her autonomic system and depressed her cardiopulmonary functions. We did everything we could to resuscitate her, but I’m afraid your mother passed away.”

  Jonnie’s face suddenly drained of all color and he slumped back in the chair. “No!” he whispered. “Dat cain’t be rat.”

  “I’m afraid it is. I’m sorry.”

  Jonnie’s heart was beating hard and fast. “Me an’ May ain’t nebbuh been ‘paht. She been muh mudduh long’s Ah can ‘membuh. She cain’t be gone.”

  “I’m afraid she is. We’ll arrange for a taxi to take you home.”

  Jonnie shook his head. “No, yo doan unnuhstan’. If May be gone, who gonna cook foe me? Who gonna wash duh dishes, clean muh clothes, an’ sweep duh house?”

  “I’m sure she’s left a will and made provisions for someone to take care of you.”

  Jonnie shook his head. “No, no! Yo gots to brang huh back. Ah be loss ‘thout huh.” Large tears began rolling down his lined cheeks.

  The doctor rose from his chair and approached Jonnie, extending his hands to him. “I’m sure everything will work out. Let’s get you home.”

  Jonnie took the doctor’s hands, and the doctor pulled him to his feet. “Ah jus’ doeknow what Ah gonna do ‘thout May. What Ah gonna do? What Ah gonna do?” he whined. He had a haunted look in his eyes.

  “I’m sure everything will work out,” the doctor repeated, trying to comfort him. He put his arm around Jonnie’s shoulders and walked him to the porte cochère, where he summoned a taxi.

  Three days after May’s funeral, there was a knock on Jonnie’s door. Getting no response, the tall man in the black suit came around to the garden, where Jonnie was kneeling in the dirt and pulling weeds from a row of green beans. “Mr. Hawkins?” the man asked as he approached with an extended right hand.

  Jonnie straightened up. “Yass
uh, yo finds me, show ‘nuff.” He wiped his hand on the front of his bib overalls and shook the man’s hand.

  “Mr. Hawkins, my name’s Darin Phelps. I’m from the Warren County social services department. May we go inside and talk?”

  “Yassuh, jus’ folluh me an’ Ah leads yo rat in dere.”

  “Alright. Lead the way.”

  Stepping inside the kitchen, the man instantly noticed the dishes stacked high in the sink and the table strewn with dirty plates and uneaten food. Jonnie led him into the living room and sat down on the sofa, motioning for the man to sit in May’s recliner. The man sat and took out a beige folder from a leather briefcase. “Mr. Hawkins, your mother’s will has been read and . . .”

  “She rilly muh ant,” Jonnie interrupted.

  “Your aunt’s will has been read and a copy of it sent to us, the social services department. I’m here to discuss the contents with you.”

  Jonnie looked at the man, perplexed and blinking. “May didden have no tents.”

  The man shook his head. “No, Mr. Hawkins, the contents means what the will says.”

  “Oh.”

  “She has stipulated in her will that this property is to be sold, and that you are to be sent to the Dayton State Hospital or similar institution until a more appropriate placement, such as a group home, can be found for you.”

  “Beg pahdon?” Jonnie said, blinking rapidly.

  “This house is going to be sold, and you’re going to be placed in the Dayton State Hospital or a similar institution until we can find a better place for you.”

  “No,” Jonnie whispered, sinking back against the sofa. “Dis heeah’s muh home. Ah been heeah mos’ muh life. Ah cain’t go nowayuh ess. Yo muss be mistake.”

  “There’s no mistake, Mr. Hawkins, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to. It’s in your aunt’s will.”

  “May woulden do dat to me!” Jonnie said, his voice rising angrily. “She woulden! We lub each udduh.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hawkins. A social worker will come to the house tomorrow morning at ten to pick you up and take you to the institution. Please pack a suitcase with things that you’ll need, enough for at least a week.” He stood up, crossed to the front door and stated, “Remember, be ready at ten with a packed suitcase with enough clothing and toiletries to last at least a week. Do you understand?”