ISBN 0-97851-370-3
Copyright © 2006 by Richard Exley
Awaking early, after a fitful night in which I slept little, I make my way to the kitchen where I get the ancient percolator going. After pouring myself a mug of the steaming brew, I make my way to the porch overlooking the small backyard. It is not yet daylight, but to the east I can see the first hint of morning breaching the darkness. There is a chill in the air but I know it won’t last once the sun pushes its way into the sky. Here on the high plaines of northeastern Colorado the nights are cool but during July and August the heat returns with a vengence each day. Taking a sip of coffee, I position myself on the porch rail and contemplate my uncertain future.
Although my mother and I were not close, her death has left me more than a little disoriented. I telephoned her infrequently and almost never came to see her; still, knowing she was here seemed to give me roots. Having lost my father at an early age, I now feel totally alone. Of course there’s my sister Helen, but we have almost nothing in common. She’s married to a local minister and to my way of thinking is something of a religious fanatic, while I haven’t darkened a church door since I left home nearly ten years ago.
I am twenty-nine years old, and, although I would never admit it, my life is pretty much a mess. I dropped out of college after two years, and since then I have drifted from one dead-end job to another. Currently I’m a lineman for the power company, a good enough job as jobs go, but not something I want to do for the rest of my life. My divorce was final a few weeks ago, and I’m still reeling from the fallout. Thankfully there were no children, or things could have been worse.
My wife, or I should say ex-wife, said she loved me but she could no longer bear to watch me destroying myself. Protesting, I said, “I don’t drink or do drugs, at least nothing to excess. I go to work most days and come home when I am supposed to, so what are you talking about?”
“Bryan,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears, “I love you, but you are so full of anger and bitterness you can’t receive my love, and it’s killing me.”
I argued with her, professing not to know what she was talking about, but I knew all right. But knowing something and being able to do anything about it, or even wanting to do anything about it, are distinctly different things. Frustrated by my obstinacy she finally moved out and filed for divorce.
Thinking about it now, I realize I am tense with anger. Taking two or three deep breaths, I try to calm myself. Slowly my pulse rate returns to normal, and I find myself listening to the rumble of the big rigs out on the interstate at least a mile away. For a moment I envy their drivers’ solitude and their freedom, but I know it is only an illusion. Like the rest of us they have deadlines to meet, and, though they may be hundreds of miles from home, they pack their troubles with them, of that I am sure.
Taking a sip of coffee, I realize it has grown cold, so I dump it into the flower bed at the base of the porch and retrace my steps into the kitchen. Rinsing out my cup, I place it in the rack to drain, noticing, maybe for the first time, that Mom never owned a dishwasher. Reluctantly I admit that her life wasn’t easy; still, I cannot bring myself to feel much sympathy for her. Difficult though her life was, it was of her own making, at least in large part. She could have remarried. She didn’t have to try to raise my sister and me by herself.
Wandering through the modest house in which I grew up, I realize that I can recall only a few good memories. Mostly I remember my mother’s sadness. She tried to be brave for Helen and me, but her grief tainted everything. Birthdays and holidays were strained affairs in which our forced gaiety inevitably succumbed to the omnipresent shadow of my absent father. Although I was too young to fully understand what had happened, I knew it was something terrible, a tragedy of such magnitude that our family might never recover.
The first few months were the worst. Many a night I would awaken and hear Mom sobbing, a sound so sad I thought my heart would break. Sometimes I would slip from my bed and make my way on tiptoe, down the dark hallway, to sit on the floor before the closed door that shut her bedroom off from the rest of the house. One night, when her sobs seemed ceaseless, I dared to open her bedroom door, something that was strictly forbidden. When I did, so great was her grief that it seemed to suck me across the room and into her arms. For a moment she let her defenses down, and we clung to each other, mother and child, taking what comfort we could from one another.
Things might have been different if we could have built on to that moment, but too soon she reverted to her rigidity and sent me back to my room—an act so grievous to me that I have never been able to forgive her. In my more magnanimous moments I am almost able to believe she thought she was protecting me, but she was wrong. By trying to shield me from her grief she left me to grieve alone, a burden no child should have to bear.
Looking back, I think that was when my grief turned into anger. For years it was just a wordless knot in the pit of my stomach, a smoldering resentment I could neither deny nor explain. I knew it was related to the tragedy that had befallen our family, but I couldn’t explain how. My mother eventually worked through her grief, at least to some extent, but I have never been able to rid myself of this toxic rage. More than any other factor it defines who I am and charts my destiny, whatever that may be.
The ringing of the telephone jerks me from my troubling thoughts, and I hurry across the living room to answer it. Holding the phone on my shoulder, I manage a hello while fumbling through my pockets for my watch. It’s my sister, and her condescending tone immediately grates on my already frayed nerves.
“Bryan, I just wanted to check in with you and see if there is anything we can do.” When I don’t respond, she continues. “Would you like for us to come by and pick you up on our way to the church? It’s no trouble.”
Forcing myself not to react, I reply, “Thank you, but I prefer to drive my own vehicle.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”
“I’m sure.”
“And Bryan, please don’t be late.”
Although I have a lifelong history of tardiness, I resent being mothered by her. Refusing to dignify her request with a response, I allow a sullen silence to hang between us. “One other thing,” she ventures at last. “If you don’t have anything to wear to the funeral, Rob would be more than happy to loan you a suit, or if you prefer, a sport coat.”
“Helen,” I reply, making no attempt to disguise my anger, “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself so stop mothering me!”
Slamming down the phone, I pace the cramped living room as my anger subsides. At first glance her concern seems genuine, but I know better. What concerns her is not my well-being, but the family image. Rob is the senior pastor of a prestigious church, and she is afraid I will embarrass them in front of their congregation.
(Watch for Chapter 2. I will post it next Friday.)
To order your copy of "The Alabaster Cross" visit our online bookstore:
http://www.RichardExleyMin
Comments