Abiding Memory

My mother lived in the present. The past ceased to exist the moment the clock’s hands inched forward. She seldom mentioned her Ozark childhood or her nine siblings. One story she did share was about Dan, her favorite brother. He’d died in a Colorado silver mine accident.

            My dad and mom and her eldest brother retrieved Dan’s body. In their early twenties and poor, they had no money for a decent casket. So they put his body in a rickety wooden box. It’s top was a couple of slats hastily nailed together.

            The three of them drove a battered truck with worn-out tires down U.S. Route 71 toward the Ozarks, the makeshift casket thumping up and down on the truck bed.

            Some place on 71 they encountered the mother of all potholes. The box took wing. It thudded to the bottom of a rock-strewn gully and splintered into shrapnel that littered a nearby field. Dan’s lifeless body flew forth into the humid Ozark air. Encountering a fence, it flopped onto the drought-cracked ground. 

            Why of all the stories Mom could have told me was that the one she remembered? Her favorite brother dead. His casket in pieces. His body crumpled against barbed wire.

            She didn’t tell me how much farther they had to go to get to the Anderson cemetery. Or if she got in the back of the truck and held his body close, his head resting against her breast.

            Did he smell? She didn’t mention that either.

            But the memory abided, locked firm in that heart of hers which had known and came to know so much deep sorrow.

Strobe Panic

I’ve never driven with confidence. Honked at by an impatient tailgater, I panic. A queue of revving cars behind me—panic. Can’t think what to do. What comes to mind is inane. Momentary idiocy.

            This was never truer than in Stillwater one evening at dusk when I’d been to the Dairy Queen. I’m headed home, licking a cone, taking my eyes off the residential streets to capture its drips. I know I’m weaving, but I just can’t eat and drive at the same time.

            Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I see the pulsing blue and white lights of a police car. I turn the corner, hopeful he’ll go straight.

            He turns.            

            The panic button goes into overdrive.

            I pull over and turn off the ignition.

            I look at the ice-cream cone. Dripping on my shorts. Sure to be seen.

            I shove it into my purse.

            I stare straight ahead. Maybe the policeman is just stopping to eat a sandwich. I hear a tap on the glass. There he is. Staring. Somber. He motions a roll-down of the window. I fumble, but finally get it all the way down.

            “So Ma’am,” he says. “What’s happening?”

            “I’m going home. To the cats.” Flustered, my words slur.

            “Ma’am, have you been drinking?”           

            “I’m allergic.”

            “Please get out of the car.”

            “I can’t! The cats are waiting for me.”

            “Out of the car, Ma’am.”

            I glance over at my purse. The ice cream’s melting. Oozing onto the car seat.

            “What’s that, Ma’am?” he asks, leaning in to get a better view.

            “My ice cream cone.”

            “You carry it in your purse?”

            “It was the only place to hide it.”

            “Why?”

            “I didn’t want to be caught eating and driving.”

            “It’s drinking and driving that’s bad, Ma’am.”

            Oh.

            “Where do you live?”

            I give him my address, two blocks away.

            “Ma’am, turn on your ignition and drive home. Straight home. Eat your cone there.” As he turns back toward his patrol car, I hear him mutter, “If there’s any left.”

            He follows me home, stops his patrol car, and watches as I unlock the front door. I turn to wave at him. He blinks his lights. Pulls away from the curb. We never meet again.