(This happened several years ago, and I have put this on here once, just thought it was worth remembering )
Just remembered about going Home For Lunch....
I made my way home for lunch in the middle of a busy day. It was very warm outside, not quite summer, but spring was short and summer was well on its way, and driving two miles home for lunch wasn't a bad deal. It had been cool in the office, the a/c turning right around, and it had broken out to be very hot in the truck, but with the window rolled down, one could stand the temperature.
I pulled in to the drive way, hopped out of the pickup, bounced on in the house for tomato soup and a tuna fish sandwich, and a glass of fresh cold iced tea. 810 N Wewoka, which was oddly enough between 9 th and 10 th streets, with the right side of the old ranch-style (looking out from the front door) on 10 th street, and the left side sitting on the back yard, the alley way, and across the garden, the old peoples two bedroom house sitting on 9 th street. The trees were full out, the basketball court just a few months old, birds in the air and a cloudless sky.
Momma had made lunch, and we sat there and ate, talked about this and that, and I finally got up to get around and head back to work.
Standing at the front door looking out, first right and then left, I noticed the old man, on the verge of 90, Mr. Davis, shuffling toward the house. It was like watching Tim Conway playing the old guy, where his feet would move about an inch at a time, he kept them in motion, moved slow, and I actually think I may have giggled at Mr. Davis making that trek between his yard across the garden and my driveway, kicking the rocks that lined the street.
I finally had stood there long enough to realize he was coming toward the house, and I needed to head back to work, so I told Momma good bye, and headed out to the driveway. I got to the rear corner of the truck, just as he got there, and he stopped. The words "Hey Mr. Davis what are you doing?" were on the tip of my tongue, when he looked up at me, stumbled just a hair-bit on his words, and what came out, was enough to upset the whole day. In fact, I hadn't said a word when the clouds began to gather, the birds stopped singing, traffic had quit, and the wind had died to nothing more than a whisper.
"She's dead" came out of his mouth as pure and emphatic as if he had said anything in the world. "She's dead." It came a little louder and you could see his sprig of gray hair falling over his forehead, his eyes wild, fraught with fear, both hands swinging about the air, standing still and moving at the same time, "She's dead."
There was silence, and then a loud, seemingly obnoxious pounding: "Thump Thump Thump Thump" banging at my head, and when I finally figured out it was my heart beating at a rapid, loud, and frequent pace, realized my mouth had gone extremely dry, feeling the summer like feeling dissipating into a damp moisture along my arms, and trying to figure out what to do, for Mr. Davis, thinking about Mrs. Davis, gray hair and glasses, thin as a root growing in the garden, and just trying to get it all together.
"She's in bed.", he offered bluntly, pointing toward the house.
I had forgotten that Mr. Davis had lost a lot of his speech, and his ability to move, and realized he had walked about seventy five yards, when I took off, still not saying a work to the little old guy, my shirt now beaded with sweat, and being cold at the same time.
I was across the yard and into the garden and Mr. Davis had barely made it out of my driveway. I walked to the back door, grabbed the handle, and stepped mightily forward inside the door.
That was when I figured out that my voice had disappeared, my throat was dry, my mouth was dry, and I suddenly came to a stop, trying to get my head back on straight.
Thump Thump Thump Thump
Their small white stove was on one side of the kitchen, their icebox on the other, their kitchen sink nestled up to the window, and everything was in perfect shape. Not a dish, not a tee-towel, nothing was out of place.
Thump Thump Thump Thump
Three steps into the kitchen and I was in the living room, when I finally said, "Mrs Davis?" It came out so weak and so small I thought of a ten year old boy. "Mrs Davis?" I emphasized the syllables and it sounded much stronger. My collar was wet. The house was immaculate.
Not a lot to it, but the rocking chair was sitting there, empty, the round woven rug in the middle of the room, the small two-seated divan was on the other side, a fine picture of a barn with an old Model A and animals was hung above the tiny fake fireplace, the wooden floors looking like they had just been waxed, and there was a bedroom right in front of me, bed made, clothes tucked neatly in the closet style boxes, nothing out of of place.
Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock.
I noticed the clock hung on the far side, next to the front door, ticking and tocking without stopping, bringing in eternity, the only sound louder was Thump Thump Thump of my heart.
I flashed a second. Oh my, what if she's dead in the bathroom, that would be awful.
"Mrs. Davis", I said with conviction. Nothing. Their air conditioner was off.
Tick Tock Tick Tock.
The bathroom was clean, tidy; hairbrush on the tray mirror, towel on the rack, clean. Totally clean.
(All of this could be seen two steps into the living room, it is a small house.)
I turned my head to the left, and I could see into the other bedroom. The navy curtains hung there like drapes that never moved, a pair of ladies house shoes were tucked just under the bed, and her form was covered up, from the feet, to the legs, to her chest, to her face. Half out was her nose and closed eyes. Semi-dark. All under the white cotton bed cover.
Thump Thump Thump Thump Thump.
I heard the back door start to open, I stepped in the room and looked down at Mrs. Davis. She looked so white, so at peace, so, dead. I stretched my hand to the blanket, bent down to look at her face, so slowly, so gently, when Mr. Davis stepped through the bedroom door, and yelled "She's dead".
That was when Mrs. Davis eyes opened wide, she grabbed the covers, and blubbered out, kind of half screaming "What do you want!?!"
That was when the memory of Mrs. Davis being deaf flooded my mind, the sweat was all over my face, my skin had dropped two colors of alabaster and made me look I was coming to take her away. Mr. Davis was standing behind me saying "She's Dead, She's dead" then "She's alive She's Alive"!
Thumpity Thumpity Thumpity Thumpity
He had me trapped, her bed had me trapped, you could feel the fear that swept through that room like a cold wind of winter sweeping across your naked brow. It took everything I had to keep from passing out on the floor, everything she had, to keep from passing out, trying to get out of bed and she didn't know why she wanted out, it just seemed the perfect thing to do, and when I turned I literally picked Mr. Davis up, twisted him around and stepped into the living room.
It wasn't too many months and Mr. Davis went in a nursing home, Mrs. Davis about two weeks after that, and me…..well…..who knows when that will happen.
Ralph Peck
Photo Ralph Peck
Eastern Oklahoma
Comments