Southern Legitimacy Statement: Having been raised up in the South in general and North Carolina in particular, I am forced to believe that ghosts and monsters surround us, seen and unseen and sometimes the living ones are more frightening than the ones lingering in the darkness, as, for example, all power-crazed Republican members of the North Carolina legislature that are without doubt determined to return us to the 1950s, with maybe a dash of the 1890s. A curse on them each and every one.
Things of the Heart
Mama never knew why daddy went crazy, or at least she never told any of us, even after all these years. Sure, there were hints of bourbon and beer and pills from the VA to try and counteract the slight tilt off center he’d had since he came back from Vietnam in ‘73. But those came from other people, never from mama. She honored his memory by staying quiet about him, except to maybe say he was a good man who tried hard. At the viewing and funeral, she was stoic, taking hands, accepting quick hugs and listening to words well-meant, but likely lost on her at that moment and later unremembered.
As the oldest, guess I was maybe twelve, I stood next to her in the graveyard while the preacher, a young fellow new to the church who’d never known daddy, worked hard to summon up a good stream of Baptist invective that recalled a man he didn’t know, but conveniently used as a symbol of where sinning would get you. He even had the righteous nerve to claim he knew what daddy would want at that moment, which was for anyone who hadn’t accepted Jesus as savior to let him into his or her heart, and for anyone who was already saved to reaffirm their faith. I think I might have mumbled something sarcastic under my breath because mama gave me the look that had always been enough to put the fear into you.
But she knew as well as I did that while daddy did on occasion—mainly special ones like weddings and funerals—darken the door of the church, he was a supreme doubter. That’s not to say he wasn’t pretty devout in his younger days, according to Uncle Preston, daddy’s older brother. He told me there was even a time when daddy had made noises about maybe becoming a preacher. Uncle Preston wasn’t certain exactly what happened except that daddy got drafted when he was eighteen and, as he put it, “seen some things over there that pretty much tore religion right out of him.”
Daddy never said much to any of us about Vietnam, not even about being in the army, which was pretty big stuff in those days when a man was expected to do his duty, no questions asked. I heard there was one kid in town back then who had claimed he was a conscientious objector because he didn’t believe in killing because that’s what the Bible said. Apparently that set off a few folks who wrote letters to the draft board saying if their boys had to go, this one should have to as well. His mama, who was a widow, felt the scorn around town and was deeply hurt by it, especially since her husband had been maimed pretty bad in WWII and died disabled. But there wasn’t much she could do, and it sounded like she was relieved when the boy went off to college and never came back, not until years later when things were a little less raw. I do remember daddy saying one time to a buddy that he thought the boy had a lot of guts to do what he did.
But daddy went on over there just like he was supposed to. I don’t remember any of that time since I was born six months after he got to Vietnam, me being the result of his last leave before going overseas. Mama never talks about that time either, but my Aunt Helen confessed to me one night for some reason that it was a hard, hard time for mama, between daddy being on the other side of the world in some jungle and her with a new baby, and just eighteen herself. My grandmama and aunts and cousins kind of took over looking after her during those days, making sure she was doing fine.
Aunt Helen said the saddest thing she’d ever seen, then and now, was mama walking out to the mailbox with me in her arms to see if there was a letter from daddy. Apparently he didn’t write much and, when he did, there wasn’t a lot there except that he was doing okay, missed her and home, and was counting the days. One time, Aunt Helen said he sent a photo of him and some of his buddies, shirts off and beers in their hands, standing on a beach and grinning. Mama told Aunt Helen it sure was good to see him, looking all fit and fine, except she couldn’t quite figure out why he was grinning like that. She said she’d never seen him look like that, and right then it’s my theory she had an inkling something had gone wrong with daddy. Because even he always said no one knew him like she did, not even his own mama, and that she always seemed to be able to know exactly what was going on inside of him.
But then that makes me wonder at what point she stopped knowing because I’m sure if she’d known he was going crazy that day she’d have tried to stop him. Instead she watched him get into that fire-engine red Chevy that he loved like one of his kids, give her a grin and a wave, and gun it down the street. I was fourteen by then, so I had some ideas on how things worked and kind of knew what was going on, even if I didn’t understand all the details. That day I remember daddy had been in a good mood, and he wasn’t drinking as far as I could tell. He was just whistling out in the yard, fiddling with the car like he always did.
I was hanging over the fender, watching him use a screwdriver to adjust the carburetor. He would tilt his head and listen real close to the engine, and then he’d use one finger to push down the throttle, running up the revs until he liked what he heard.
“There won’t ever be a machine that can replace your ears when it comes to keeping a motor running right,” he said, giving me a wink. “Now, put that air cleaner back on and let’s see what we got.”
Feeling like pretty hot stuff at being allowed to help with this kind of work, I made damn sure that wing nut on top was screwed down good and tight. If it was like usual, I knew he’d probably take the car out for a spin to test it out and, as he put it, “blow the soot out of it.” I was hoping I’d be invited to go along since there was nothing I liked better than sitting up front with him when he’d open up that four-barrel and make it moan, the air rushing in the windows and slapping your head as the speed mounted. He’d usually let the speedometer needle touch a hundred before he backed off, a satisfied smile on his face.
But today he didn’t say anything about me coming along, even though I hung close as he got into the Chevy. That’s when he gave mama that grin, waved at us and backed out. Once on the pavement, he gunned it enough to make the tires squeal just a little, but then slowed down because old man Jenkins down the road complained if anybody went too fast by his house since his ancient hound was sometimes slow getting out of the way.
That’s the last time I saw daddy because a few minutes later I guess he went crazy, or so they said. He aimed out of town and hit Highway 64 heading toward the beach, and somewhere along the way, opened up the Chevy, centered the white line and drove flat out, running other cars off both sides of the road. At some point, a highway patrolman got behind him but couldn’t catch him or pass him. He just followed until daddy got to the bridge over the sound and watched the Chevy fly over the rail and walk its nose across the water. It landed on its roof and took just a few seconds to sink.
A boat got there a couple of minutes later, but nothing floated up except a Boys’ Life magazine I’d left in the backseat the day before. They got the car up a few hours later, but daddy never was found. It was like he went into that water and disappeared. They said it was likely a deep current got him and took him down the sound and out into the ocean. Always seemed to me like he would have washed up somewhere eventually, but that didn’t seem to be the case.
So that coffin was empty when those soldiers fired their rifles seven times three, and when a stone-faced sergeant handed mama that folded-up flag. She didn’t clutch it or cry on it or anything like they usually do in the movies, but held it like it was weightless. Then we went home where folks had brought lots of stuff to eat and gathered to comfort each other.
I didn’t feel very comforted and was glad when they all finally left. Mama was still up, wiping the counter in the kitchen, when I went up to my room with intentions of going to bed, after making sure the little kids were asleep. I was feeling really drained right then as if the truth was really sinking in that daddy wasn’t coming home. For a couple of days, I’d found myself thinking there’d be some miracle and daddy would be found along the shore, banged up but still alive, a sensation for sure. In fact, now that I think about it, that’s a dream I still have from time to time, even after all these years.
I was standing at my window, looking down at the yard, when I heard mama go out the back door. She was walking quick and went straight to the edge of the field that was just dirt clods and old stalks, having been plowed the week before after all the corn was in. I couldn’t tell what she was doing until I caught sight of a flicker and then a flame. As it flared up, I realized mama had doused that folded-up flag with gas and thrown a match on it. It didn’t take long to catch and I could see her face in the flame, grim and I think mad. She just stood there for a moment, and then walked back toward the house.
If it had been a movie, she would have looked up and seen me in the window. Our eyes would have met, and we both would have understood what was happening. Truth is that didn’t happen–we never spoke of it and to this day I don’t know why she did it. Just like I don’t know why daddy went crazy. I thought about asking many times and regret it now that mama’s not here. But then there are things of the heart that deserve to just be left alone.
