Authors: Will Allison
But first the corn had to be hauled up to the silo, a job my mother volunteered for as soon as she was able to reach the truck’s clutch. Even driving full-tilt with the windows down, it was sweltering work, the piedmont sun beating down on the cab until the steering wheel burned her fingers. One day when the mercury hit 102, my mother decided she’d had enough: she convinced a farmhand to help her take off the driver’s-side door, claiming it was Cal’s idea. They left it leaning against the milk house. My grandfather said it was a wonder she didn’t kill herself that day, no seatbelt and no door, nothing but her grip on the wheel to keep her from flying
into the air. The sight of her barreling like a madwoman up out of the swamp scared him so badly that he never let her drive the truck again. In fact, even after she got her license, he wouldn’t let her drive the family Plymouth unless he was with her. My mother only made things worse when she borrowed the Plymouth and took her friends for a joyride that ended in a ditch along Bluff Road. Still, she would not be denied a car. As soon as she graduated from high school, she took a job in the parts department of the local Ford dealership, moved out, and bought herself an old convertible. Within a few years, she talked her boyfriend into getting her a race car, a ’62 Fairlane, and began to make a name for herself at the track. Several times she invited Cal to come see her race, but she was still his little girl, and he could not bring himself to go.
The morning after I stole my grandfather’s sleeping pills, I found my keys in Lyle’s desk and snuck out while he was in the shower. Cal was already up when I got home. He came out of the bathroom holding his ivory-handled straight edge, his face half covered in shaving cream.
“You’re bleeding,” I said.
He dabbed his throat, smeared red between his fingers, winked at me. “Think a man could slit his own throat?”
I decided to hide the razor first chance I got—that, his shotgun shells, his hunting knife, whatever I could find. In the kitchen, I was getting a glass of tomato juice and some Tylenol when Cal appeared in galoshes, a fleck of tissue stuck to his Adam’s apple. He said it was too wet for golf, that we should hunt arrowheads instead, and I agreed, thinking
this might be our last time. The rain had finally stopped. Beyond the dairy building, the fog was just starting to lift, and the land smelled as rich as it had in my childhood, in the long-ago days when Cal used to spot arrowheads from high on the tractor as he dressed the fields. He’d taught me the best time to find them was after a storm, when the points gleamed white in the dark soil. We started at the barn and worked our way toward the bluff. Cal was in high spirits. He didn’t mention Lyle’s embarrassing visit the day before, nor did he comment on what poor shape I was in, wincing against the daylight, clinging to a thermos of coffee. Now that the house was done, he said, he wanted to celebrate by taking Lyle and me out to dinner.
“Ah,” I said. “The Last Supper.”
“Sure,” he said. “We could do the lamb and leavened bread. But actually I was thinking fried shrimp and hush puppies at Captain’s Calabash.”
“Okay.” I kept walking, wishing away the pain behind my eyes. We’d almost reached the bluff when he cleared his throat and asked me if, by the way, I wouldn’t mind putting back his pills.
“I can’t,” I said. “I threw them in the lake.”
He considered this as we turned and started back toward the barn. The sun had finally burned through the clouds, and wisps of steam were rising like ghosts from the wet earth. Behind us, at the edge of the swamp, crows cawed among the cypress and loblolly pines.
“You think I’m making a mistake,” he said.
I held my breath and tried to focus on the muddy furrow
at my feet. This was the first time he’d asked me point-blank what I thought. “I don’t know,” I said. “I just know I don’t want you to do it.”
Cal looked like he’d been expecting as much. He sighed a tired sigh and said he didn’t want anybody having to take care of him. He’d been through all that with his father, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
“What if I want to take care of you?”
He knelt to pick up what looked to be a small quartz arrowhead, my question too ridiculous to answer, but as he wiped mud from the stone with his thumb, I kept after him, saying that I didn’t see the hurry and that he should wait until he was truly sick, and besides, what ever happened to making the most of what you had left? Didn’t he want to be with me as long as he could? He gave me a disapproving gaze, a look I imagine my mother saw a lot of.
“The only reason the Colonel didn’t shoot his lights out is because he forgot to. That’s not going to happen to me.”
“Then why don’t you let me help?” This was an idea that had been in the back of my mind for years, but until now I’d had the sense to keep it there. With a grunt, Cal hauled himself to his feet and sized me up, trying to decide if I really thought I was serious. At the moment, I suppose I did. “I could give you the pills myself,” I said. “When the time comes.”
This got him laughing, which turned into coughing, which reminded him of the crumpled pack of Winstons in his shirt pocket. He lit one up and played along. “And when would that be?”
I unscrewed the thermos and sipped lukewarm coffee. This question was, of course, the reason I’d always kept the idea to myself, all the answers I could think of—when he could no longer remember his own name, no longer dress himself, no longer feed himself—being so arbitrary as to seem absurd, because how could I ever really know when his life was no longer worth living?
“You tell me,” I said.
He couldn’t help smiling at that, too, but it was a sad smile that didn’t last—and I could see I was getting to him. After all those years wishing he’d done better by my mother, all those years trying not to make the same mistakes with me, now it came down to this: Would he or would he not abandon me? I understood that I was using his love for me like a crowbar, trying to pry a promise out of him by making one I’d never keep, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Don’t you care how I feel?”
“Of course I do.” There was no longer irony in his voice, only resignation. He exhaled smoke, stared across the fields. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”
“Okay?” I said. “You mean it?”
“What’d I just say?” He finished examining the stone and passed it to me with a shrug. It might have been a chipped spear point, or it might have just been a piece of quartz—neither of us could tell, but I put it in my pocket and carried it home.
Captain’s Calabash was no five-star affair, but my grandfather was old-fashioned, and going out to dinner with him meant dressing up even if most of the other patrons were
in jeans. He wore his favorite seersucker suit, and I wore a blue cocktail dress I’d bought for rush. On the answering-machine message Cal left for Lyle, he advised him to look sharp as well, but Lyle didn’t call back. He didn’t return my call, either, the breathless message I’d left telling him about Cal’s change of heart. That surprised me—I figured he’d race over as soon as he got the news—but I wasn’t going to let Lyle’s absence spoil our dinner.
My grandfather was another story. “What’s keeping Lyle?” he said, checking his watch. “Think he got my call?” We were sitting in a corner booth beneath a mounted swordfish, picking at an appetizer plate of steamed clams. So far, the evening didn’t feel like much of a celebration. Cal had shown little interest in anything except his wine. All day, I’d been trying to cheer him up. I wanted to believe I hadn’t talked him into anything, that in the end, he was just like anyone else, in no hurry to die; I wanted to believe he was no more able to let go of me than I was of him. “You and Lyle,” he said, “you aren’t fighting?” I refilled his glass and tried to change the subject, talking about things we might do now that the house was finished. Cal just nodded along as I suggested a week at the beach, a trip to California to see his sister. It wasn’t until Lyle rolled into the restaurant at six-thirty, full of apologies, that Cal finally perked up. Lyle explained he’d been out shopping for a suit, then hustled around town looking for a tailor who could do alterations on the spot.
“Didn’t find one,” he said, wiggling his arms inside the long sleeves of his jacket.
“You look fine,” Cal said.
“For a circus clown,” I added, but Lyle was in too good a mood to take offense. You could tell a weight had been lifted from his shoulders: The end of his work hadn’t meant the end of Cal after all. Once we placed our orders, Cal excused himself to go to the bathroom. Lyle turned to me.
“Well?”
I feigned interest in the swordfish. “I guess he realized he was being selfish. Not that you’d ever have told him so.”
“So the stranger who showed up at my apartment last night,” Lyle said, “she’s still with us?”
“You should wash your sheets,” I said. “They still smell like turpentine. And you shouldn’t have let me sleep alone.”
He picked up a cocktail napkin and waved it like a white flag. “Ten-four. Won’t happen again.”
I wasn’t going to let him off so easily, but he looked like he meant it, and when Cal came out of the bathroom and smiled at the sight of us together, I couldn’t stay mad. The night turned into a celebration after all. We ended up with more food than three people could possibly eat—baskets of hush puppies and popcorn shrimp, platters of broiled oysters, scallops, flounder. Cal was in top form, ordering a bottle of champagne and flirting with the waitresses even more than usual. He brought up my idea of spending a week at the beach and declared that all three of us should go. “I’ve got a friend with a house at Surfside,” he said. “We’ll rent a boat, do some crabbing.” Watching him preside over the table, seeing him in such an expansive mood, I knew I’d done the right thing. We’d still have months together, maybe years.
After dinner, Lyle followed us back to the farm for a
nightcap, at which time Cal suggested a round of golf in the morning. We’d play at Forest Acres, then have lunch in the clubhouse. I told him I wasn’t ready to play in front of other people, but he just clinked his brandy glass against mine and told me to follow his lead. “Remember,” he said, “you can observe a lot just by watching.”
Shortly after I came to live with my grandfather, I decided to join my mother in heaven. My father had been gone for weeks, and though I’d not yet given up on him, I wanted to punish him for leaving me, and I wanted to punish my grandfather for thinking he could take my parents’ place. With half a peanut butter sandwich in my shirt pocket, I climbed out the dormer window of my bedroom and onto the roof. Below me, the propane tank glowed dull in the moonlight, a soft patter of raindrops on its metallic surface. My plan was to jump, but after I stood there awhile, gauging the distance between me and the ground, I decided to run away to heaven instead. From the corner of the roof, I was able to reach the chinaberry tree, but as I shimmied past Cal’s window, the branches scraped glass. By the time I reached the wet grass he was there, smoking a cigarette and looking at me like I was a mule. He took my hand and led me back inside, where he toweled my hair, helped me into dry pajamas, and tucked me into bed. On his way out, he stopped at the door. “Look here,” he said. “If you want to run away, I’m not going to stop you. I’m getting too old for that.” Then he shut off the light.
But the next morning, in spite of himself, he was up at the
crack of dawn with his tools. He nailed my screen shut, pruned the chinaberry tree so that its branches no longer reached the roof, and installed deadbolt locks on the doors. For weeks, he slept with the keys on a string around his neck, and unlike my mother, who in my place probably would have stolen them while he slept, I was comforted by the thought that he wanted to keep me close, that I was too precious to be let go.
After we finished our brandy, Lyle and I went back to his apartment and got busy making up for the previous night. We ended up oversleeping and had to hurry to the farm the next morning, when we were supposed to meet Cal. As soon as we turned off Bluff Road, I knew something wasn’t right. The newspaper was still in the yard, the porch light still on. Inside, the house was silent, save the ticking of the cuckoo clock on the mantel.
We called an ambulance, but it was too late. Cal sat slumped in his recliner, an empty pill bottle and rock glass on the table beside him. He still had his suit on, and as he sat there, motionless, it seemed as if the wide lapels were pressing down, pinning him against the worn upholstery. He did not look peaceful so much as deflated, his lips parted where the air had left him.
While Lyle was talking to 911, I held Cal’s hand like I should have done when he died—like he would have wanted me to, though of course he’d never have asked. I was crying so hard and so loud that Lyle had to take the phone into the bathroom. It was bad enough that Cal was gone, but to think he’d died alone because of me, because I’d left him no choice
but to go behind my back, that was almost more than I could take. My tears were making a spotty mess of his trousers. His skin was already cold, his fingers stiff. I would learn later that he’d been dead for hours, that he’d probably taken the pills as soon as we left.
When Lyle got off the phone, he came back into the den and put his arms around me. In between sobs, I tried to make him understand this was all my fault, but he kept insisting I wasn’t to blame, that regardless of what I’d said or done, things had turned out more or less the way Cal planned—he’d simply done what he thought was best, and we had to accept that. I knew Lyle was right, but even so, it would be a long time before I could forgive any of us. He was still holding me when the medics arrived, sirens splitting the morning air. “Careful,” he said, gently prying my fingers loose from Cal’s. “You don’t want to bruise him.”
Will Allison’s debut novel,
What You Have Left
, was selected for Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers, Borders Original Voices, and Book Sense Picks, and was named one of 2007’s notable books by the
San Francisco Chronicle
. His short stories have appeared in magazines such as
Zoetrope: All-Story, Glimmer Train
, and
One Story
and have received special mention in the
Pushcart Prize
and
Best American Short Stories
anthologies. He is the former executive editor of
Story
. Born in Columbia, South Carolina, he now lives with his wife and daughter in New Jersey. Learn more about Will Allison at
www.willallison.com
.