I quickly discovered that no one was kidding when they said Gorham was in the middle of nowhere and that it was small. Main Street, which was just the state highway through the center of town, boasted no more than three stoplights on either side of the plain concrete bridge that spanned Shaw Creek (I guess it wasn’t a river, after all). As we drove over said bridge, I was blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the water on my right. It turned the water and everything else around brilliantly orange, as if ablaze, for just a moment before we were on the other side and the evening light disappeared between the trees. I looked down at the clock and read 6:52. If there was anything that made the heat of summer days bearable, it was the length of the days. Marcy hung a left at the first street after the bridge and began pointing out landmarks as we drove along a thin track of asphalt that had definitely seen better days.440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwcJrhvcarc
“That’s Miller’s Diner, everyone goes there for waffles,” Marcy was saying, pointing to a bonafide 1950s-style diner that sat, neon lights and all, on the corner of Main Street. She aimed a slender finger at the little white building behind it, “That’s the First Baptist Church, not to be confused with Gorham’s actual first Baptist church, which is a little way down first street. Oh, and there’s the Gorham Public Library, where John works. He’s the head librarian; there’s nothing he doesn’t know about books or the people who write them. Don’t tell him I said that, though, it strokes his ego a little more than it probably should.”
I couldn’t help but grin at her continuous and creative descriptions of what just looked like a dusty old heap on the outside. That was Mike’s Auto, the only place in town where you could pay a man to break your car more than he fixed it. That over there was the abandoned boat house, said to be haunted by the spirit of a killer warthog. She continued to point things out for several more blocks, before the buildings thinned and the landscape become more trees than town.
“And that,” she said, pointing to a charming, plantation-style two story house tucked back behind a curtain of willows that framed a long dirt driveway, “That’s our house. Your house, of course, at least until August.”
Marcy pulled up behind a blue Prius--an odd sight in backwoods Alabama, where I felt like I had seen more muddy pickup trucks on the highway than mile markers. We got out and I nearly fell over, my legs felt like jelly. Nineteen plus hours driving. I made a mental note that, excluding the drive back at the end of the summer, I was never sitting on a vehicle for that long ever again. Marcy popped the trunk and I hauled out my suitcase. I stood there for a moment, suitcase in one hand, staring up at the big, white front door. I wondered what I would find on the other side. Good or bad, I couldn’t just stand out here and stare.
The heat was already getting to me.
“John, we’re here!” Marcy called as we entered into a sort of high-ceilinged foyer. We were immediately greeted by the smell of something quite delicious being prepared. The sort of Civil War Era atmosphere I had gathered on the outside of the house carried right on in through the door and permeated the house throughout, from the impressive-looking ornamental staircase to the left to the brass-framed black and white photographs hanging the length of the entryway. It wasn’t a mansion by any means, but I could tell my aunt and uncle were keen on order and appearance. I shifted my suitcase in my hand, thinking of the way I had just slammed anything that would fit into it, not bothering to really fold or organize anything that was swallowed up by the old canvas.
The man who only could have been my uncle John rounded the corner across the entryway, wiping his hands with a dishtowel. He was tall, taller than me, and he looked exactly how you’d expect a middle-aged librarian. He wore a button-up shirt under a loose-fitting grey suit coat and corduroy pants that were creased meticulously down the very center and sported thin-framed reading glasses perched on the end of his sharp nose. “You must be Adam,” he said cheerfully, extending a damp hand to me. I shook his hand with a nod of my head and was surprised that his handshake was very firm for a man of his slighter stature. He spoke with the slightest southern accent, but it was the smooth kind, the kind that made every S and T slide out in the most dignified manner. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name of our only nephew! Marcy can show you to your bedroom, I’ve just started making lasagna for dinner, it’ll be ready in an hour or so. Please, we’d love for you to make yourself at home. I won’t keep you if you’d like to go upstairs and get freshened up. Oh, and welcome to Gorham,” he added as a cheery afternote and gave me a slight smile. So both of them were smilers, apparently. Oh well, things could be much worse. I thanked him and let Marcy lead me up the stairs.
“This house was built way back in 1870,” she said, gesturing about her with one hand as we climbed the steps. “There was an old carpet-bagging Union colonel who decided to retire here just a few months after his company tore through and burned everything in the area to the ground. Naturally, that made him the richest man in the area, and this is the house he had built for himself. The backyard looks right out over the river, as does the window to your bedroom, which is right over here.”
We hung a left at the top of the stairs and passed an office and a bathroom before arriving at a huge room at the very end of the hall. When I say huge, I do mean positively massive. The ceilings, which sloped downward toward the outer walls, could only be ten feet high or so at the lowest point, giving it the air of an impressive and important chamber. A full four-poster bed, large dresser, and a matching nightstand took up all the room on the right side of the room. A large desk and a pair of armchairs stood near a full-mantled fireplace set into the adjacent wall. Finally, a tall set of decorative double doors framed by large windows made up the rightmost wall, and I could see that there was a little private half-porch just beyond. The whole place was immaculately cleaned and decorated in the same motif as the rest of the house. I felt instantly spoiled to the point of being uncomfortable, almost.
“Well, how do you like it?” Marcy asked, looking at me with a tiny hint of apprehension.
“It’s amazing,” I said honestly. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble, really,”
“Oh, it’s nothing!” Marcy said, beaming up at me. “It’s not every day you host your only nephew. I’ll let you get changed and freshened up for dinner, then, how does that sound? The shower is in the bathroom at the top of the stairs, fresh towels are hanging on the rack.”
I told her it sounded good, and she nodded. Suddenly, she stepped forward and wrapped me in a quick, tight hug, which I was too surprised to return before she let go and stepped back, looking me up and down. “Really, Adam, we’re so glad you could stay with us for the summer. We hope you love it here!” With that she backed out of the entryway and closed the door behind her with a soft click. I realized my mouth was hanging open slightly, so I snapped it shut and wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans.
My first order of business was to find something that wasn’t sweat soaked to wear for the evening. I wondered briefly if I’d actually have time to take a shower before dinner, and decided to get that done as soon as possible. As I emptied my pockets, I remembered the awful cigarettes once again. I wondered for a split second whether or not I could get away with smoking one in the shower, but found myself disgusted at the notion of repaying their hospitality in such a shitty way, so I tucked the pack deep inside my suitcase instead and decided to try to get out of the house after dinner so I could find some relief.
I took as cold a shower as I could manage without sucking breath like a deranged fish, and it felt awesome to have the muck and grime of almost a full day of travelling slip from my body like a thin film. After drying off with what had to be the softest towel mankind could have possibly invented, I dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a grey button-up shirt (I just noticed at that moment how much grey clothing I owned). I glanced down at my wrist to check the time and felt my stomach twist so hard I sat down hard on the fuzzy cover of the toilet. The feeling of loneliness hit me like a sucker punch and I choked a half-hearted sob into a groan. It took me almost a full minute to gather myself enough to leave the bathroom and make my way back to the bedroom. For the first time in my life, I had the sudden urge to call my parents and see how they were doing. That would also have to wait until after dinner, though, as my cellphone was deader than my chances of escaping the damn Alabama heat.
A glance at the grandfather--shit--clock in the hallway told me I still had half an hour to kill before going downstairs, so I decided to check out the porch. I tried the doorknobs on the double doors--French doors, I think they’re called--and found them unlocked. With a deep breath, I pushed on open and prepared for the wave of heat.
It never came.
It was still warm, yes, warmer than home would ever be at this point in the evening, but the pins-and-needles feeling of the sun had been replaced by a dull, thick warmth, kind of like being submerged in a hot tub. There was a decorative little table and a pair of aging wooden chairs that seemed to have missed the house’s immaculate cleanliness, which I found strangely refreshing. I eased down into one of the chairs. Marcy was right, this spot had a fantastic view of the river/creek, whose banks sloped smoothly down into the lethargic waters about a hundred yard from the back porch. My stomach gave a twist that was both happy and sad; Grandpa probably would have loved this spot.
You know, except for the stupid heat.
I pulled myself up out of the chair and decided to head downstairs a little early. At the top of the stairs I glanced down the hallway that must have led to the master bedroom and the rest of the upstairs area. The wall was lined with some framed certificates and plaques that I assumed were John’s for exemplary librarian-ing, or whatever librarians got awards for, but the rest of the hallway was too dark for me to make out any more details. I wasn’t really one to snoop so I just descended the stairs and followed the sounds of soft voices into the kitchen, where I arrived just as John was pulling the lasagna out of the oven.
“Feeling better?” Marcy asked, looking up from the salad she was putting together. I nodded and tried to alleviate the awkwardness by offering to set the table. My parents and I rarely ate dinner together all at one time, so I was sure this would be a more intimate experience than I was used to. John directed me to the cabinet where I would find dinnerware and we were sitting down to the best lasagna I had ever had just a few short minutes later. After donated casseroles and sandwiches for the last few weeks, a hot dish was like heaven; even before the funeral, we weren’t big on home cooked meals. I plowed my way through two helpings while listening to the two of them exchange small talk before John finally turned his attention to me.
“So, Adam, how do you like Alabama so far?” He asked, dabbing his face with a napkin and leaning forward as if he had a genuine interest in my opinion of the state.
“It’s hot,” I blurted out, and both of them chuckled. “I like it, I guess. It’s quieter than home.”
“I would imagine so,” John said, taking a small bite. “Marcy says you’re going into your senior year now, are you enjoying school?”
“Yeah,” I said lamely. I wanted to apologize for being so awkward, but I really wasn’t a conversationalist. Even when my friends and I were together back home they would constantly give me crap about hanging around like a statue. As Ryan liked to put it, I “had the social acumen of an especially antisocial tuna sandwich.” He wasn’t wrong.
“There’s plenty to keep you occupied for the summer, though. There’s some nice young folks around here if you look around for them.”
My nod must have looked pretty unconvincing, though, ‘cause my aunt and uncle exchanged a glance. “So, ahem, do you play any sports?” Marcy asked sweetly.
“No,” I said. My dad had urged me to try out for the football team for sophomore year, but one can only take being called a faggot by all the jocks for so long. These days I could barely even run to the end of our block without getting winded. For the second time that day, I wondered if I should quit smoking.
“Any other hobbies?” John asked with a shrug.
“I, uh… I like fish.” I said, thinking of the deli in Birmingham. “And I like to read, I guess.” Both of them perked up immediately upon hearing this.
“Really?” John said, enthusiasm returning to his voice. “We’ve got no shortage of books around here, consider all them on personal loan for the rest of the summer.”
For a couple who didn’t have any kids, this must have seemed like a long shot in the dark, who read books anymore, what with all the electronics we had? “We’ve got a wonderful library just off the main hallway, why don’t you go take a look in there?” Marcy suggested as she stood and began to clear the dinner table.
“Maybe I can help you pick something out, huh?” John said, standing to his feet as well. “It’s my job, after all.” He and Marcy laughed and I forced a half-hearted chuckle. It wasn’t that they weren’t entertaining, it was just that I felt no desire to be entertained. I conceded and John led me across the hall and through another set of French doors into a library that only a librarian could possibly have within his home.
Dark wooden shelves packed with volume after volume of all manner of books stood along all four walls from floor to ceiling. There was a desk at the very back that had several thick volumes laying open, aging pages highlighted by an antique reading lamp perched in the corner. I looked around, genuinely impressed, which John seemed pleased about. Before I could set about choosing something to read, however, he beckoned for me to sit in one of the tall-backed armchairs that stood in the corner.
“Are you okay, Adam?” He asked just as soon as my butt touched leather. He himself eased into a chair opposite me and folded his hands gracefully, looking at me with concern.
“I’ve just had a long day,” I answered somewhat honestly. “Travelling on the bus and all.”
“Are you sure that’s just it?”
“I think so,.” I shifted in my seat. He was giving me that same look that all the adults gave me at the hospital, the funeral, and every day after. That oh-you’re-just-a-kid-how-could- you-possibly-understand-how-to-feel look.
“We want to help you, Adam,” he said softly. “We really do. That’s why Marcy and I offered to take you in for the summer.”
This was news to me. When my parents had told me they were sending me south, I had been too emotionally drained to discuss it with them much. The truth was that I didn’t really care much what happened to me after that. Still, I did my best not to look to surprised.
“If there’s anything you need to, you know, get back on the right track, you just let us know, okay?” He continued in that sympathetic tone. “Your mother and father are genuinely concerned that this… event, ahem, is making you act differently.”
“I’m fine,” I said a little too forcefully. I decided suddenly that a phone call to my parents could wait until tomorrow. “Can I get that book, please? I’d like to get some fresh air.” I did want a book, if just to keep me from being bored out of my mind, but it was also an excuse to disappear outside for a smoke before trying to get what I assumed would be a fitful night’s sleep.
“Sure thing,” John said with a tight smile. He crossed to me and patted me somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder.”What do you like to read?”
“Pretty much anything,” I said, looking around. Please, nothing about death, I added silently in my head as soon as John began pulling volumes from the shelves to show me. I had experienced my fair share of mortal-coil-shuffling for, hopefully, a lifetime.
That was the problem, though, wasn't it?
All the best stories are about death.440Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuD38ZRswKB
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