Carol Lynch Williams - Never That Far

What you doing, girl? Daddy said when the burying was done.

I stood on the unpainted block fence and looked off East.

The Lake Mary Church of Christ preacher, Melinda Burls, had said the dead go East. Couldnt give me a reason when I asked her why.

They just do, Libby, she said, and with one finger, she touched the top of my head like she was baptizing me all over again. Then she tapped her stomach where a long string of fake pearl beads ended up. I know it right here.

In your belly? I squinched my eyes.

The beads swung over her scrawny self. I felt a little sorry for her. But not too much.

In my heart, she said.

I gave a nod and looked away from her face. I stared straight into the sun for as long as I could, just because. Then I glanced back at her. For a moment, she seemed to glow. Your hearts awful low, I said, feeling mean on accounta the circumstances. You might need a operation to get that fixed.

Its Jesus heart, she said, like she didnt hear me. She looked off toward Daddy, who stood alone, staring at his shoe-tops. Then she licked her lips. This is a day you wont hardly forget, now will you? September third, in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and sixty-seven. No, sirree, you wont be forgetting today.

No, maam, I said. She was right about that.

I stomped off, mad. Didnt want to hear another word about it. No more Jesus stuff. No more in the year of our Lord stuff. No more religion. Not right now.

Dont seem right, I said, kicking through the dirt road on my way free of the morning. My sneakers was like tight red flowers. Behind me the funeral broke up. I could hear the high rise of bawling. Car doors slamming shut. Daddy, I knew, would be looking for me, Preacher Burls stuck close to his side.

I plowed on, my head bent so it led the way.

Dont seem fair she got Jesus heart. I kicked at an old Campbells soup can, rusted in the middle where it was bent. It flew into a high tangle of dried-out ditch weeds.

Life aint meant to be fair popped into my head. Preacher Burlss words when Daddy asked Why? I could almost see his lips making them words. Why now? Why us? Why again?

Its what he asked when we found Grampa. Almost gone, hanging on to life and to the yellow tablecloth from the kitchen.

If there was hearts to spare, I said, my cotton dress sticking to my back and under my arms, Burls shouldnt have got it.

Especially seeing the way Grampa had died. His own heart giving up, puttering out. His last words to me from where he lay on the floor was about the lake. It seemed to me that if anybody needed Jesus heart, it would have been Grampa, the best man ever born this side of the Lamb.

Burls seemed healthy enough without taking the extras for herself.

But life aint fair, I said. And when I heard cars coming up on me, I stepped into the weeds, down into that deep ditch, back up the other side, and into an orange grove, where the fruit was young and still just hard green balls.

I made my way home. Didnt nobody come looking for me. Not that I woulda took their help. Still, someone mighta had him some manners and come searching. It was Daddys doing. He probably told them I needed my time. He probably said, That girl is almost thirteen going on almost forty-four and she needs her time. He probably said, That girl dont need no one.

And then, like all them people knew what he said was truth, everybody nodded. And left me to walk in the wet fire of the Florida day. Loneliness stretched out like a path in front of me.

Through the grove I went, hot. The late morning air was tired and rested on me like it needed a lift somewhere. The trees, waxy-leaved, hid the sun some. My shoes filled with sand.

This all my grampas, I said. Course there was no one to answer.

No, I said. Now, this all mine and Daddys.

A mile or two more and Id be back home. But I wouldnt stop there.

Not a lick of breeze stepped up to cool things off.

I paused and leaned into a Parson Brown orange tree. Squeezed my eyes shut and walked into the branches until I was to the narrow trunk. I breathed deep the smell of oranges and dirt. The scent made me tear right up. Then I wrapped my arms around a limb and whispered so only the tree could hear, You know Grampa thought Parson Browns was the sweetest orange of all. You do good this year. You give us lots of fruit to show you loved Grampa, too.

A knot of tears clogged my throat. For a moment I thought I might die, my chest hurt so much. More heart business running in the Lochewood family. Broken hearts everywhere.

I let go of the tree and dropped to my knees. Three tears sneaked out and I wiped them away fast. My hands was dirty. Gray from my walk and the petting of this Parson Brown.

Grampa, I said, you done me wrong.