This story was originally published in
Southern Comfort: A Charitable Anthology for the victims of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. My original ending was very different and rather bleak. In light of the physical and emotional devastation of Katrina, the editors wanted a more hopeful ending, which I agreed to and rewrote.
Looking back on this, my first published story, I see a lot of things I would now change. Except for changing a couple of awkward-sounding sentences, this is pretty much how it appeared nearly five years ago. The title comes from a line in the Bob Dylan song “Dignity.”
**************
Where the Vultures Feed
I wait outside the barn, leaning against the gray wooden door that gets harder to close every year. My chores are done for the day, except for fixing supper. He’ll have to come tell me what he wants, so I just wait. Such a simple thing, a son waiting for his father. Simple, but not easy. It’s much easier to look out beyond the fields, to dream of someplace---anyplace away from him. Maybe tonight. Maybe.
His faded red tractor rumbles in the distance. I smell the heat of the late afternoon sun burning into the ground. The Mississippi Delta could pass for hell on a day like this. I know he’s getting closer, but it seems he’ll never arrive. I’m not patient anymore, not since Mom died. How can I be patient knowing that he’s the one responsible?
The sun moves quicker than he does, casting a red glow across row after row of our corn. When he gets close, I see that ridiculous straw hat he always wears while driving the tractor. His hair is now completely gray and longer than it should be for someone his age. He is a foolish king sitting on a throne of nuts and bolts from a place nobody cares about. His overalls are stained dark blue where the sweat flows from his neck to his chest. Dust and dirt mix with the sweat, forming a sheen of filth on his arms. Everything about him disgusts me.
He stops the machine and lets it idle. The air is filled with the metallic bitterness of tractor oil and I know I’ll taste it in everything I eat tonight. He removes his hat long enough to wipe his brow with a dusty handkerchief from a set Mom gave him ages ago. The the machine sputters and jerks, shaking him around in the seat. With an exhausting effort, he reaches for the ignition and the tractor dies a slow, ragged death.
He eases himself down from the tractor, favoring his right leg, the one he broke years ago falling down in the rain after drinking too much. The next day, all my friends at school knew only that he had slipped. The looks of concern on their faces told me they didn’t know the whole story. Looks of pity from their parents told me
they knew.
He takes an unsteady step and holds onto the steering wheel for balance. My stomach tightens. He clears his throat the same way he used to do when he’d been drinking and wanted to say something he thought was important, and me and Mom had “damn well better listen, I’ve got this belt here.” When it was over, Mom would pray for hours to be delivered from him.
He clears his throat again, but the sound is hollow, the rage gone.
He sits there, panting in a slow rhythm. “Roy,” he says, “how ‘bout getting me a glass of cold water. Please.”
I stand there looking at his dirty sweat, his filthy overalls, the pockets that are worn out from where the flask has been. The stench of sweat and dirt and heat slap me in the face and I hate even the thought of getting him anything. I want to let him stand out here, I want to tell him he can get his own water, I want to watch the mosquitoes swoop down and suck out every drop of his blood.
Birds circling the sky catch my attention. They’re so far off they look like specks of black pepper. I wonder why they don’t fly away to a better place. If I were a bird, I’d fly to another part of the world. If I were the Silver Surfer, I’d fly across the universe until I found the place I wanted to be.
My father clears his throat again, reminding me that I’m down here and not up there. I look up again anyway. The birds are closer. And larger. I think maybe they’re vultures.
Then I look down to the parched ground and walk to the kitchen to get his damn water.
*****
“You still readin’ them funny books?” Fay Waggoner says from behind the drug store counter. She looks beyond me to the two other customers in the store; only two, but enough of an audience for her. Old Mrs. Simmons turns her head from reading a bottle of Milk of Magnesia. Jeb Turner, waiting for his prescription, stops reading the newspaper.
“They’re comics,” I tell her.
“How old’re you now? Fourteen?” Fay says. She cocks her head to the left like she’s trying to figure something out. The black-rimmed glasses sway from the chain around her neck.
“Seventeen.” She knows damn well how old I am.
Fay smirks at the four comics I’ve placed on the counter. “
The Amazing Spider-Man,
The Incredible Hulk,
The Silver Surfer. Oh, listen to this one,” she announces, “
Fantastic Four - The World’s Greatest Comic Magazine! Huh! Crazy stuff!”
She stacks and folds the comics, her chipped thumbnail making a hard crease down the middle of the books, and drops them into a paper bag that’s too small. “Seventeen and still readin’ funny books...” She shakes her head then gives me a stern look. “You payin’ for this or you want me to put in on your daddy’s charge?”
I slap the money on the counter and grab my comics. Not much longer, I think. Maybe tonight. Maybe they’ll come back tonight and take me away. That’s what I think about as I push open the front door of the drug store and walk down Main Street toward the truck.
*****
It’s a clear sky and I’m thinking this would be a perfect night for the aliens to return. I stand behind the barn, looking to the east, toward the place I last saw their ship. It was a little trail of light, just like the Silver Surfer riding across the sky. I thought the light was a shooting star, but it changed direction. Shooting stars don’t do that.
I prayed that the light might be Mom and as soon as I did, it came closer. Against the blackness of the sky, it would have been impossible to tell if it was a ship, but the full moon reflected off it. I prayed harder and felt Mom was very close.
After several seconds, the ship flew out of sight. I prayed again but it didn’t return.
The sky is so clear. This would be the perfect night.
Mom must be responsible. I think she wants to bring me to her, wherever she is. She wants us to be together and so do I. I think about her most in the mornings, just before breakfast. I’ll walk downstairs, thinking that she’ll be standing there with fresh fruit cut, milk and cereal ready. But she never is.
It was all too sudden and it was too damn stupid the way she died and it was his fault anyway. If she hadn’t been riding with him, if he hadn’t been driving drunk. But he was. He’ll always be a drunk.
The stars look good tonight. Like they’re waiting for something to happen.
*****
“I need you to bring in the beans and tomatoes. Sam Kaskie’s gonna be stoppin’ by this evenin’.” He doesn’t even say
Good morning or
What the hell were you doing outside all night? Just Sam Kaskie and his damn beans and tomatoes.
“Yes sir,” I say. I salute him with a spoonful of Corn Flakes, but his back is turned. “I’ll get it done.”
He stands by the coffee pot and pours half a cup. “I need you to take a look at the tractor too. You hear how it just ‘bout died yesterdy?”
“I don’t know what you want me to do about it. I’m not a mechanic.”
He downs his coffee and wipes his face with a handkerchief and I wonder if it’s the same one he used yesterday. “It won’t hurt you to take a look at it,” he says.
Then he’s at the kitchen sink, turning on the cold water and splashing his face. Water drips off his leathery skin. His mouth hangs open like he’s just awakened and doesn’t know where he is. He glances up at the corners of the ceiling like he’s looking for something he’s lost. “You got the air on. Seven-thirty in the mornin’ and you got the air on.” He shakes his head and walks over to the thermostat. The whoosh of cool air coming into the kitchen ends in a whisper. He walks back outside through the kitchen door. I finish my cereal and decide to take a look at the weather on TV before I start on the tomatoes. Maybe we’ll have another clear sky tonight.
*****
It doesn’t take long before I’m working up a sweat from picking tomatoes. The sun feels like it’s right on top of me, sucking out what’s left of my life.
I thought the aliens would come last night. They must have heard her prayers. Did they hear mine?
I suppose they can make her happy, wherever she is. I’m sure they can do that. They can probably do just about anything, maybe even reconstruct her face from the accident. Do they know when I’m thinking about her?
Sometimes I can almost feel Mom standing next to me and sometimes I swear she’s right inside my head, trying to tell me something. I can’t make out her words, or else they’re words I’ve never heard before. Maybe she’s learned a new language where she is now and it’s the only way she can communicate. But I know she’s there. They’ll come. I just have to be patient.
I pick a few more tomatoes from the vine and reach down to place them in the bushel. The sweet smell overwhelms me for a moment and I get lost in an image of Mom slicing tomatoes for an afternoon snack. When I straighten up, the alien is there.
His eyes are two tiny black dots. The nose is just two little slits, like ones you’d make with a knife to vent a baked potato. His mouth opens no larger than a dime. The skin is colorless, transparent. Except for the black eyes, I can only see a vague outline of him as he moves in front of the vines and stalks. I can’t tell anything else about him.
“She will send for you,” the alien says with a calm, lilting voice, “when you are ready.” His eyes seem to grow larger as he looks me over. For a few seconds he shuts his eyes like he’s praying and when he opens them, they’re even bigger.
“She will send for you,” he repeats. The black eyes stare into mine, then shrink to their previous size. “But you are not ready. You are not finished.”
“I just finished,” I say. Then I realize he’s not talking about the tomatoes. I look at him and pull my head back. “What do you mean I’m not finished?”
He turns away. “You are not finished.” He walks into the cornfield and is gone.
*****
My father’s doing it again; the lies, the stories.
We’re sitting at the kitchen table. “Why are you going to Greenville tonight?” I ask him. I look at him sitting across from me and know what’s up.
“I told you, I have a meeting with Mr. Jennings.” He bends over the table eating salmon out of a can, which looks so primitive.
“Who’s Mr. Jennings?”
“I told you, Roy. Mr. Jennings works for the Department of Agriculture. He was supposed to make the rounds and come out here this afternoon. He called and said he couldn’t come and asked for me to meet him.”
I looked at the kitchen clock. “After seven o’clock?”
“That’s right. Said he’s having a right busy day.”
I look at him and wait for that twitch that he sometimes has in the corner of his eye when he’s lying. But he doesn’t do it. He’s gotten good.
“You’re going drinking,” I say.
He drops his head and stares at the gash in the kitchen table. Maybe he remembers making it that night years ago when he was so drunk he threw an iron skillet of Mom’s cooking at her. “No, son. I ain’t going drinking.”
“You’re lying. I’ve never heard of this Mr. Jennings. We’ve had ag men come out here before and none of them were ever named Jennings.”
“He’s new.”
“He’s new,” I say, nodding. “He’s the new bartender at some dive in Greenville, that’s who he is.”
“Son---”
“Go ahead, go on to Greenville, drink it up with Mr. Jennings!” I stand up and don’t even realize I’ve knocked over my chair until I hear it hit the floor. “I’m glad Mom isn’t here to see any more of this. I wish to God I wasn’t.”
I storm out of the kitchen into the night air. I run into the cornfield to lose myself in its high stalks, trying to think about her and forget about him. But the more I think about her, the more I remember all the times she hugged me hard after he’d exhausted himself from yelling and passed out on the floor. And all the times the bastard said he’d change. He swore he’d change.
I hear him start up the truck and head down the dirt road leading to the highway. Go ahead and soak it up with your buddy Mr. Jennings.
I look up into the blackness of the sky. I am so ready. Please. Tonight.
*****
The next morning I walk into the kitchen and notice he hasn’t made coffee. Probably hung over in his bed. I didn’t hear him come in. God knows what time it was.
The truck isn’t outside. The kitchen clock reads 6:35.
The phone rings and just about jerks me out of my skin. He’s probably calling from the county jail.
“Hello.”
“Roy Pearce?”
“Yeah.”
“Sheriff Watson. Roy, did someone bring your dad home last night?”
I knew it. Somebody had to drive him.
“I don’t know. I figured he--- Wait a minute. I’ll check his room.”
Empty. His bed hadn’t been slept in.
I walk back to the phone. “No sir, he didn’t come home.”
Sheriff Watson sighs so loud I have to pull the phone away for a second. “Son, I think you’d better come meet me. I’m on Highway 61 south, about a half mile past the Mt. Olive exit.”
I get dressed and ride my bike out to meet the sheriff. It should have taken fifteen minutes to make it, but I do it in eight. Sheriff Watson and two other policemen stand hovering around our truck parked on the side of the road. I pull up and notice two more policemen looking through the tall grass just beyond the truck.
I move off my bike and Sheriff Watson walks up to me. “Roy,” he says, “I’m sorry to have to call you out here.”
“Is he dead?” I ask.
Sheriff Watson’s eyes narrow. “When’s the last time you saw your father?”
“He left to meet someone in Greenville last night. At least that’s what he said.”
“About what time was that?”
“I dunno. Seven, seven-fifteen. Where is he, in the hospital?”
The sheriff shakes his head. “We don’t know. One of my deputies saw his truck here early this morning.” He points to a small strip of dirt between the truck and the road. “A couple of footprints right here, but that’s all. If he started walking on the shoulder, who knows where he went?”
Especially if he’s drunk.
“Roy, I want you tom come down to the station with me. This is no place to talk.”
“He was going to Greenville to get drunk, Sheriff.”
Sheriff Watson grimaces and looks down at his boots. “Roy, I know what your dad used to do, but he ain’t had a drink since your mother---”
“Sheriff, I live with him. I know what he does. He hasn’t changed. Maybe he’s fooled you into thinking he’s different now. But he hasn’t changed.”
*****
“Your dad knew a lot about farming, Roy. Pulled everything he could out of this little farm.” My Uncle Larry moves his empty lemonade glass in little circles on the kitchen table.
It’s been six weeks and they still haven’t found my father’s body. The memorial service is tomorrow. I don’t know what I’d have done without Larry and his two sons these last several weeks.
I get up to pour Larry another glass. My arm and leg muscles are so stretched they feel like worn out rubber bands. I think back to everything my father used to do on this farm and I realize there’s some truth in what Larry says.
“Roy, your dad’s drinking was a terrible thing. After your mom died, he changed. I know you can’t see it because you haven’t forgiven him, but after the accident, he put all his energy into making this farm work.”
I fill his glass and hand it to him. I feel like having another glass myself, so I finish the pitcher and sit back down. “I’m going to have to sell it, Uncle Larry. I can’t do it by myself. And I can’t ask you to keep helping me; you’ve got your own farm.”
Larry stops moving his glass and gazes at it. “What if I bought it, Roy? Kept it in the family? You could stay here, finish high school.”
I guess the look on my face shows how surprised I am. I never figured Larry would be interested, our farm is so much smaller than his. Maybe he’d give it to one of his sons.
“Just think about it, Roy. Okay?”
*****
I’m sitting on the front porch, watching the evening sun fade away like a sigh. Cricket music begins and I’m thinking about the offer Larry made yesterday, mostly because it keeps me from thinking about the memorial service we held this afternoon.
Larry’s right, the farm should stay in the family. Only I don’t want to work it anymore. I don’t even care about finishing high school. There’s nothing left for me here.
A breeze rushes in and stalks sway lazily in the cornfield. I used to think the field was so small, but it looks bigger now and I see something of the hard work it took to keep it going day after day, year after year.
Something stirs in the cornfield, but the sun is gone and I can’t make out what it is. The sound stops. I can’t hear the crickets anymore either. But I know that the alien is here.
“They send for you,” the alien says. I can’t see him, but I hear his voice.
“They?”
“Yes. They send for you. You are nearly ready.”
“She does?”
“Yes,” the alien says.
“And him? He’s there?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s with him? He’s with her?”
“Yes. Will you come?”
I stand up, madder than I’ve been in a long time. “You tell him,” I yell. And then I look to the stars and they stop me cold. I think that things must be a lot different out there, so different I can’t even imagine it. Maybe the aliens have different rules. Maybe they don’t have any rules at all. I stand there looking at all those stars and it makes me quiet.
But how could they take him? Don’t they know the suffering he’s caused?
“He did change,” the alien says, like he’s reading my mind.
“It was her wish,” the alien continues. “He did change, or we would not have accepted him. It is now their wish that you come. Can you accept this?”
I’ve got so many questions bottled up I don’t know how to let them out. But the alien seems to know my questions, my thoughts. His words come through the corn stalks softly, like a tender rush of wind.
“So many things in this place are not as they should be. When people are ready---willing to change---we are there.”
The thought that somebody - aliens, angels, I don’t know - can mend something so broken, the possibility that any good can come out of everything that’s happened, just the idea of what they’re offering, I----
It’s all too much and the sky is too big and the stars are too many and the world starts spinning so fast. And I realize I’m just a speck in it.
“I need a minute,” I say to the ground, trying to calm my breathing.
I leave the alien and step inside the house. I go to my room and reach underneath the bed for the framed picture that I took down from the living room after the memorial service.
We’re at Six Flags. I am seven. I’ve just gotten off the roller coaster and I’m smiling. Mom is standing to my left, also smiling. She looks so pretty. And there’s Dad on my right. He’s got brown hair and he’s standing straight and tall and proud.
For several minutes I just sit on my bed, staring at the picture.
I slide it back under the bed.
I walk through the kitchen on my way outside where the alien waits. The first thing I notice is the kitchen table and I stop and stare at that gash my father made. I feel the anger rising and I know what I want to do with it, but I think about the picture and realize it’s not about what I want anymore.
I close my eyes and try to breathe slowly.
I got back in my room and get the picture. Gently I lay it on the kitchen table. Over the gash. My breathing slows.
It’s what she wants. What they want.
What we want.
I look out the front door. The stars fill the sky, brighter than I’ve seen then in a long, long time. I close my eyes and step out into them.
