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- 12/04/2011
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
2011 - Winter - Aftermath Entry
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
2011 - Winter - Aftermath Entry
A Valentine in November - 1. Chapter 1
A Valentine in November
By bugeye
Like most days… it was a good day and a bad day… if you were of a philosophical mind. Sometimes, I wonder if I have one. A mind that is. The ground beyond was almost orange, covered in a carpet of leaves. The tall hardwoods, half bare and bark gray against the brilliant blue sky, swaying. The graceful procession of palladian windows framed life as the beautiful miracle we were supposed to believe it to be. Well, at least the view was. The vaulted ceiling echoed the sky, but with a calmer, lighter hue. I was surprised that this old black suit still fit, it had been years since I had worn it. Maybe it didn’t look too out of date. Maybe I didn’t look too old. I knew why I was concerned about my appearance today. Maybe I am not being a fool. I probably looked like one of the undertakers. And like always I was thinking too much and not very clearly.
Death is a money maker.
Linda Parkwood was dead. Former Miss Georgia, Former First Runner-Up to Miss America. Daughter. Sister. Wife. Mother. Friend. Volunteer. Social Activist. Politician. A life full of things. I guess that is one reason why I am here at her funeral. I was one of those things, sitting on the back row of the largest church in Sandy Springs at the private memorial service. A mahogany coffin with bronze fittings, almost completely hidden under countless roses and orchids, was quietly resting at the far end of the center aisle. The altar and side aisles were also jumbled with the exuberance of cut flowers. Last night at the visitation, I felt like a stranger, so many people I didn’t know. I nodded at a few people, signed the register, took a last look at Linda’s body and left. Yet, I was sure no one knew Linda like I did outside of her family. But it was not Linda’s life I was recalling so much as it was my own. Anyway, what could the minister say… that I didn’t already know.
I remember the giant elm trees that lined the streets when I was little. The sound of the leaves rustling in the wind. It’s a sound you can’t hear anymore. All the elms are gone now, Dutch Elm Disease. The older sidewalks were paved with bricks and in the newer sections (comparatively) with concrete blocks the shape of octagons. The walk with my mother and sisters seemed to take forever. My mother held my hand.
Homepark Elementary was a very old building even in the 1950’s. It had been built originally in the 1880’s along with the large Victoria homes constructed in the local area. Like a fortress it set in the middle of a designed rural community on the outskirts of Atlanta called, what else but Homepark also. The new community streets were extra wide and made from poured concrete, instead of being cobbled like the older streets. And down the middle of State Street and Tenth Street were the iron tracks of the horse drawn Trolley cars. But even my grandparents weren’t alive then to see any of that. I didn’t really see Homepark Elementary until I watched my older sisters enter school. I thought it was a castle; a grand pile of gray stone as tall as the tallest trees and in the middle was this looming, arched doorway with steps that went up and up. The old country neighborhood, itself, was now an in town neighborhood surrounded with an ever spreading and growing city. That first day of school was a big event.
I met Linda Parkwood there inside this castle, on the first day of Kindergarten. I was certain she was the Princess that lived in the castle. I learned later I was wrong. Linda lived in one of the Victorian mansions that still lined Tenth Street. I lived on State Street where most of the older mansions had been demolished for more practical homes with smaller lots. But even these houses had been built in the 1920’s.
Linda was exactly my size, not big like my sisters. She had black hair tied up with a blue ribbon that matched her big eyes. And she was wearing a fancy dress. I soon realized that Linda worn a fancy dress everyday. I was wearing elastic-band blue jeans and a striped t-shirt and scuffed up leather shoes that were already too small for my feet. And my hair was black too, but a mess of crazy cowlicks sticking in every direction. My eyes were green, the most beautiful eyes in the world cause my grandmother always said so. The world up to this point was my home and my yard and my grandparents small farm, that we went to every Sunday afternoon. Sunday morning meant my mother’s home made biscuits and gravy and maybe a cantaloupe and fresh squeezed orange juice, along with the eggs and bacon. It also meant getting dressed up and going to church and learning about places like heaven. But I already went to heaven every Sunday. My grandparents farm.
The farm set at the intersection of two country roads in the heart of Sandy Springs. The old house set right in the corner with my grandmother’s rose garden out in front. There was a circular gravel drive lined with elm trees. On either side of the house were vegetable gardens. Behind the house were terraced fields for corn and beans. Down across the back, the drive continued to all the barns and out buildings. There were apple trees everywhere. Not these little dwarf trees they plant now, but full huge trees. Peach trees lined the terraces. There was a pecan grove. There were two mules and two cows and chickens running loose. There was Snowball, their dog, and their cat, Mittens.
The white house was surrounded by four giant oaks. A porch ran all the way across the front. Another porch ran all the way across the back. It was two story and had a towering, pointed roof made of tin. There was naturally all kinds of treasure up in the old attic. Every room inside had a fireplace. A hallway ran from the front door all the way thru the house to the back door. The walls were not made of plaster like my parents house, they were made of wooden planks that had been painted over and over. It was the biggest house I had ever been in. The ceilings were very high and the rooms were endless and the floor squeaked with every tip toe.
Sitting here now so many years distant, feeling nostalgic and believing that knowing and understanding as an adult with a long life should grant some insight; and, giving myself more credit than deserved, I look back and think my grandparents had a seemingly perfect life. How did they manage to pull that off? Even my parents managed a very good life. Maybe an extraordinary one. What happened to me then?
Billy Bayou sat up front of course in the pews reserved for the Parkwood family and close kin. Next to him was his son, Billy Jr., and his daughter-in-law, Kate. The grandchildren were next and then Old Mrs. Parkwood herself, Linda‘s mother. Rumor was she still ate nails for breakfast, the old battleaxe. Billy and Linda had been divorced for many years, but somehow once you were Linda’s… you remained Linda’s. After all here I sit too.
I met Billy Bayou at the beginning of the fifth grade. The year I experienced the first calamity of my life. Of course at the time I didn’t know my life would be delineated in those terms. From disaster to disaster. From kindergarten up, Linda and I were inseparable best friends. Talking, having lunch, sharing secrets, just walking together. Playing games, being silly. Every year I was the first person she invited to her big birthday party.
Idyllic, I guess is how it could be described. Shortly after fifth grade started, a new kid arrived. Billy Bayou. It’s corny to think it and even more so to say it, but it was magic when he walked into that class room. He had big brown eyes, that were looking at everyone as he smiled. I think he filled the room with puppy love. I couldn’t stop looking at him. Neither could anyone else. I couldn’t wait until lunch to say hi to him. I wasn’t shy about talking to anyone. I could tell Linda had the same idea. Usually, Linda and I sat with Brenda and Johnny at a table for four. But that day I broke that custom. My mother packed my lunch almost everyday. So I sat at my usual place and waited. As soon as I saw Billy approaching from the lunch line I stood and waved at him pointing to my table and he came over carrying his tray. “Thanks” he said. He barely got that word out because I was talking a mile a minute about nothing I guess because I don’t recall what I said. Following shortly behind him came Linda and Brenda who took the other two remaining seats. We were all saying hi. Brenda remembered her manners first and introduced herself. I was so excited that I was bouncing almost in my seat. I just had to talk to Billy some more. “I’m Davy and this is Linda the prettiest girl in the whole school.” Before anyone could continue we heard Johnny say loudly, “Davy, everyone knows that you are the prettiest GIRL in the whole school.” Johnny was standing there looking at where he usually sat. I think most of the kids heard him. Being called a girl was not the best of things. Being called the prettiest girl kind of made it worse. But, anyway I just laughed because it was a joke and Johnny walked off and took a seat at another table. Did I hurt Johnny that day?
I have spent my life not thinking about that moment, because later I came to believe it marked the spot where my life changed somehow. Like a big X… here is where the trouble begins. It was subtle at first, I seemed to be teased more. Linda seemed a little distant. Johnny would stare at me and not talk to me. And Brenda just started ignoring me. And I guess I got a little stressed out by it, as the days passed. Can a ten year old get stressed out. Can a kid overcompensate. I wasn’t so much interested in Billy anymore. I was mopping around about this. This change. Then one day as my class was returning from the auditorium, I was grabbed by a group of seventh grade girls and pulled into the girls bathroom. They were laughing and saying things. “What a pretty girl you are. Why are you dressed as a boy. You really shouldn’t go into the boys’ bathroom. This is where you belong.” I was in a panic. I remember breathing hard and I knew I was red all over. And I felt tears running down my face. I broke loose from their hands and bolted out the door. Right into my teacher, Mrs. King.
It was just kids being kids. Oh, there was some lecturing. And apologies. And “Dry your tears Davy.”
I was whispered about then. I know I was and I probably imagined worst. The teasing became taunts and I wondered how long before I would have to fight someone, maybe Johnny. I remember the day Linda didn’t sit with me at lunch time. I tried to fix this. I said hey to everyone. I tried to smile. I tried to join in. But I had cooties now, no one let me close again. I guess I began to shut down then, I didn’t really notice anything for a few months. Not even Christmas. Well, maybe I did notice Christmas, I got a new bike. Red. But anyway, with the approach of Valentine’s Day I got a new idea. Somehow I had hope again. That it would fix everything.
School functions and parties were big back in the day and Valentine’s Day was no different. Class rooms were decorated with handmade, construction-paper hearts and everyone brought to school an old shoe box to decorate as a Valentine Mail Box. I worked hard to make my box a stand out and even harder on the thirty Valentine cards I made. One for the teacher and one each for my classmates. A few mothers showed up at the end of the day with refreshments, cookies and punch and Valentine candy. At the start of the party we were allowed to open our mail boxes. I was very excited. I had taken care with each card I made and tried to write something good in each one. I sat down at my desk and opened the box. It was empty. That confused me. I looked up, all my classmates were looking at me. All of them, just staring at me. Why didn’t I have the balls to just laugh, or something. Anything, but what I did. Because I couldn’t seem to do any thing but look back at them as I knew I was crying. Tears down my face as I sat frozen. I was hurt and I let it just take me over. The room was so quiet that Mrs. King took notice and soon she was asking me what was wrong. I couldn’t say, I couldn’t even put the shoe box down. I guess she put two and two together. She started talking not to me but the class. Then everyone came by my desk and dropped a Valentine in my open box and said “I am sorry Davy.” Mrs. King spoke some more and then took my hand and I followed her out of the room. She took me to the Boys Room and wet a handkerchief she took from her blouse. She washed my face talking the whole time. She led me back to the classroom door and said one more thing. “We are going to have some cookies and punch together and get thru this day together.”
I don’t know how much longer the party lasted. I remember leaving after everyone but Mrs King had left. The trash can at the door was full of Valentine paper plates and cups. On top was the Valentine card I had made for Linda.
Mandy Mason was singing now, some classical aria, all sad and triumphant at the same time. It sounded familiar, but I hadn’t bothered looking at the program. Her voice was still good for this, but she was retired now from the Met. It’s funny how close Mandy and Linda became considering the circumstances. Mandy and Billy have a daughter together.
After Valentine’s Day, I don’t remember much except riding my bike. I know my parents talked to me. About school. About my friends. About my grades. About… you name it. I just knew that if I could ride my bike as hard as I could, somehow other things became less important. Things I couldn’t handle. Things I couldn’t understand. I even got into trouble over my bike. Riding too hard. Riding outside my neighborhood. Endangering others and myself in my recklessness. But my parents didn’t take my bike away and they didn’t stop me from riding.
Needless to mention, I didn’t get an invitation to Linda’s birthday party later that school year. My parents didn’t mention it, but my mother planned a day of shopping downtown that day. A special one. Lunch for us in the Tea Room at Rich’s Department Store and new clothes for all of us. I don’t know how I managed it but I got out of it, somehow I think it was my father’s doing. So this particular Saturday I found myself home alone. Except for my father who was tinkering away in his garage. I was going to skip the father/son time too if I could and head out with my bike. Only the front door bell was ringing.
Billy Bayou was dressed for a party obviously and the present in his hands confirmed that. What was he doing at my front door. And what was I supposed to say, but Billy spoke first. “You want to play this game with me?” Billy began ripping the happy birthday gift wrap, enough to reveal a board game called, Sorry.
The funeral service was over. The pallbearers were passing. The family was passing. And I was back in the present. But I was not thinking about anything. Billy had stopped at the pew I was still sitting in. I stood and Billy reached out and pulled me into a hug. Letting me go a moment later, he pressed something into my hand, turned and followed what was left of Linda out the church door. I was left standing there with an envelope in my hands.
I was alone now... in the sanctuary... holding a Valentine.
Life is down right complicated, don’t you think.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
2011 - Winter - Aftermath Entry
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
2011 - Winter - Aftermath Entry
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