Littlejohn

Howard Owen
Littlejohn

Howard Owen was born and raised in Fayetteville, North Carolina. He is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and is the sports editor of the
Richmond Times-Dispatch
. He lives in Midlothian, Virginia, with his wife, Karen.

S
omebody I know but can’t make out is leading me down the old pine-straw-matted road to the millpond. The pine straw is slick as glass, and I keep slipping and falling in the hot sand. I hear that somebody keep saying, “Hurry up, Littlejohn, or you’ll be late,” but I can’t get my legs to work right. I’m half crawling, half running toward the pond, and pin oak and pine branches keep hitting me upside the head.

Finally, I come to where the road runs out, and there’s Lafe, waiting for me at the edge of the water, laying at that same old pine tree where it happened, except the tree looks like it’s two hundred feet tall and six feet across, and this time, Lafe opens his eyes. There’s a scar on his forehead, over his right eye, but he ain’t dead.

Lafe don’t say a solid word, just stands up, smiling that lopsided smile of his and brushing pine needles off his backside. He motions for me to follow him across the water, which don’t seem peculiar. It’s like them dreams where you can fly and all.

I always seem like I’m about fifty yards behind Lafe, and the water ain’t getting any deeper as we walk out. Where, in real life, the millpond is maybe twelve feet deep in the middle, with nothing but boggy muck at the bottom of water dark as tea, we seem like we’re just skimming across the surface now like two slick, flat river rocks.

And there, up ahead, is Momma and Daddy and them, all smiling and waving at me to beat the band. I can see Sara and Angora and Rose, not gone anymore. It looks like they’re right smack in the middle of Maxwell’s Millpond, which is at least half a mile across. I someway know, then, that they know about everything, all my secrets, and that everything is all right, that there ain’t no shame in heaven.

But when I try to hurry across the water to meet them, my legs start getting heavy again, and I start to sinking. I look down, and underneath the surface of the water, it’s turned to fire. Lafe is holding out his right hand, showing that same cockeyed grin, but I can’t reach him, hard as I try. I’m going down in flames, and it’s like one of them dreams where you
know it’s a dream even while you’re in it. I’m trying to scream and watching myself trying to scream at the same time. For some reason, the fire ain’t burning me, and off in the distance, I can hear this voice. It keeps getting louder, so that finally I can make it out …

T
ake me now, Jesus.

Georgia and Justin have packed up her blue Honda hatchback, we’ve talked about whether the tires have enough air and when was the last time she checked the oil, and I know they’re ready to put miles between them and here. To tell you the truth, I’m ready to get the good-byes over with, too.
I love them both to death, but I am wore out. And besides, I got things to do.

I hug Georgia, amazed all over again at how bony she is, at how much sharper she feels than when she was married and Justin was little. She tells me to take care of myself, and to do what Dr. McNair says, then lowers herself into the driver’s seat. I walk around to the other side, feeling the sand that bunches up in the middle of the driveway give underneath my feet, and hug Justin, even though he’d probably rather of shook hands. The scars on his face have healed up real good. I remember that I didn’t give them the beans I picked this morning, before it faired off and turned hot again, but they tell me to keep them. Georgia starts up the car on the third try, and I know the look of relief on her face is from not having to go through all the good-byes again, not because she can’t wait to see her daddy’s ugly face in the rearview mirror.

They back down the drive and head out the old rut road, trails of dust behind them almost covering their little car. Then they go over the top of the sandhill and dip down the other side, toward the paved highway, their brake lights coming on just before they disappear.

I turn around to go inside before they can come into sight again, headed north. Never have been able to watch people leave.

Back up the brick steps to the screen porch now, taking it real slow. Don’t want any broken hips today. Weatherman said it would be 98 degrees after the sun came out, so to be sure it’ll be over 100 where I’m headed. Maybe a lot more than that. Least I haven’t lost my sense of humor.

The screen door sings as it bangs shut behind me, and I go into the kitchen to get the truck keys. But they ain’t on the counter, nor on the porch table, nor in the overalls I had on yesterday. Then I remember the extra set Georgia had made for me, with the magnet on them so they could be stuck to the underside of the truck, after I’d lost a couple of pair.

When I get to the truck, though, there’s the keys I was looking for, right there in the ignition from when I went to the store yesterday.

I crank up the old pickup, same one I’ve had since 1965. The odometer says 39997.4. If I took the paved road today, we’d crack 40,000. The seat’s so hot I can’t hardly sit, and it burns my hand to crank the window down.

I turn left, away from the paved road, at the end of the circle driveway, past the knobby old crepe myrtles me and Lafe planted so long ago. It’s hard to keep it in the ruts, wrestling this old powerless steering wheel in and out of the sand as we go past the bleached-out barns on the right and the rented hayfields and Kenny’s little garden on the left. The sun is just beating down; must be about one o’clock. When it reflects off this white sand, it makes it even harder to see. I think about the cataract operation I hope I won’t have to have now.