Tracking Packy continued...

So, I’ve been thinking about “Tracking Packy.” Writing is so subjective. Sometimes all you are doing is opening the window and vomiting a character that is rumbling around in your head. What I tend to do is honor the voice for whatever brief inspirational moment and then wipe my hands clean of it and move on. Not exactly the best mode if you want to finish something and be in print! So I started to think about the characters and what plot could move forward if allowed a little elbow room. I’m not wed to this, but it’s what I came up with IF Tracking Packy coughed and sputtered a few inches further on the page.

The thunderous pounding of the earth on Grandpa’s resting place seemed to jar Mama into thought. For a brief moment she stared at me, her eyes vacuous, like she was watching some other child of God whose bony knees shook in wet tights.

“Emmy, off to the car with you.” She grabbed my shoulder blades and pinched hard.

I knew better than to press Mama when she was feeling low, so I walked through the damp grass and stormy skies down to the gravel road where the limousine was idling. Sitting in the back, a cigarette lit between her frail fingers was Grandma Iris.

“Lordy me. What the hells gotten into that mother of yours? Letting you stand out there like you don’t have no good sense.” Grandma took a drag of her cigarette and blew the pale gray cloud toward the window. The smoke bounced off the glass and then curled around her face.

“Mama thought it’d be nice if I said my goodbyes.” 

“Emmy, let me tell you something.” Grandma Iris moved in closer and put her hand on my leg. “Your Grandpa Packy, God rest his weary soul, ain’t in that body anymore. It’s like he’s moved and left no forwarding address.”

“Where is he then?” I asked, wiping the steamy window with the heel of my hands so as not to lose sight of Mama.

“Well, now that’s a good question. If you ask Reverend Perry, he’ll probably tell you one thing, but since you’re asking your old Granny, I’ll tell you what I think. Right about now, your Grandpa is sitting in a lobby, like the fancy kind you see in theaters with bright red carpets and oriental fixtures, and hanging from the ceiling, those little gold angels about to explode from blowing trumpets.”

“I’ve never heard about a lobby.”

“I said they don’t talk about it much.”

“How long does he stay there?” I asked.

“Until St. Peter calls his number. Then there’s the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost he’s got to have a meeting with.”

“Why do they need a Ghost?”

I watched the pleats around Grandma’s mouth break into a smile. “Nobody knows for sure but I figure if you got God and Jesus trying to straighten out all the problems of the world, they are bound to disagree. So they bring in the ghost. To break the tie.”

“I’m scared of ghosts,” I said.

“It’s one of them Holy Ghosts, Emmy. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Do you think Grandpa Packy’s got a good chance of getting into heaven?” I asked.

“Course he does. He’s just got a fair amount of explaining to do is all.” Grandma Iris took another drag from her cigarette. She inhaled deep and instantly coughed as if it were coming straight from her toes. She covered her face in the fox stoll, muffling the sound.

“Why do people have to die, Grandma?”

“Plain and simple. Got to make room for the next batch.” She looked around for an ashtray, gave up the search and flicked the ash to the floor. Grandma punched the front seat with her fist. “Hey, driver, are we keeping you up?”

The young man lifted the hat off his face and smiled. “Just resting. No crime in that.”

“Hell, that’s for sure. No crime at all. What’s your name, son?”

“Jeremy.”

“Jeremy, huh. Jeremy what?”

“Jeremy Hines. But folks call me Digger since I started working the funeral route.”

“Are you married, Digger?”

“No ma’am. I’m not.”

“Well, that’s good. That’s real good. You’re one smart boy. Take your sweet time. That’s what I always say. There’s nothing like marriage to poison someone’s hopes and dreams.” Grandma rolled down the window and threw her cigarette butt onto the lawn.

In the distance, I watched the crowd scurry toward the parking lot. Mama came walking, one of the last, so grief-stricken and hollow looking that it was all I could do not to start crying myself. The door opened and I moved closer to Grandma to make room for Mama and her swollen eyes mapped in veins. She stared down at the water dripping off her wool coat, forming a small puddle on the carpet below.

Digger peered through the rear view mirror. “Where are you folks off to now?” He asked.

“The Dog House. I need a drink,” Grandma Iris said.

“You don’t need a drink. Besides, people will be stopping by. We’re going home.” Mama glared a red eye at Grandma.

“Mary Jo, why don’t you just lighten up? It’s my husband they just planted like a seed.” Grandma Iris leaned forward and tapped Digger on the shoulder. “I assume you know the way?”

If Digger had never been a visitor of the Dog House, he could have fooled anyone. He shifted the car in gear and headed down the gravel path through the big iron gates of the cemetery.

“Mama, how long we gonna be in the Dog House?” I asked, feeling tired and hungry.

“Hush, Emmy,” Mama said.

As we drove from the cemetery, a midwinter moon hung low over the white-tipped Cascade range and red leaves flew wild and soundless along the dark windy sky. Digger took an exit off State Route 532 and drove past a row of fast food restaurants, the Federal Courthouse, and a road kill before cutting down an alley and finally pulling to a stop in front of a broken-down building. A large sign with a long-eared bloodhound howling at a quarter moon was propped up on the roof. Smoke came billowing out a chimney and red-winged blackbirds hopped along the weathered shingles like riled prison guards. Two teenage girls straddling Schwinn bikes turned and waved at Digger from across the street at the Pizza Palace.

“Gonna join us, Digger?” Grandma Iris asked.

“Nah, I better wait here. It’s against the rules.” His eyes fixed on the girls’ spindly limbs extended like kick stands.

Grandma entered the Dog House first and looked around. A group of men sat at the bar drinking longnecks and some shooting pool. Two young men were leaning over the jukebox, making a selection. One rocked on his heels, sending him falling forward, his face pressed against the music box. When he righted himself, there was a spit smudge on the glass.

We walked to the counter where a balding man with a birthmark on his forehead the size of biscuit tended bar.

“Kid's gonna have to leave.” He pointed to the sign on the wall. “No minors allowed.”

“You remember me, don’t ya?” Grandma leaned forward to give him a better look.

“No, can’t say I do.”

“Then where’s Jimmy D?”

“Retired.”

“Retired? Well, I’ll be damned.” Grandma put one finger to her lips like she was contemplating something. “I better have me a drink to celebrate old Jimmy D’s good fortune.”

“Not with that kid, you ain’t.”

“Listen, we just come from burying my husband of fifty-three years. There’s nothing left in me ‘cept thirst.” Grandma looked as if the world had come to a screeching halt. She stared up at the spot on his forehead, a sadness spilling from her eyes. Even I was feeling sorry for her, wearing that smelly fox with her hair plastered to her head from the rain bonnet.

“I got me a liquor license and I don’t plan on losing it. Have the kid wait outside.”

“It’s cold outside.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll be damn cold inside if I lose my license.” From somewhere at the end of the bar someone muttered “no shit” and a ripple of laughter passed through the place.

“Mother, let’s go.”

Grandma gave Mama a stare that could sever a DNA strand and then turned toward me. Without warning, she wrapped her bony arm around my shoulder and cupped my chin in her hand, pushing it toward the light.

“Take a long look at this little darling. Pale and puny as a wet Chihuahua. Poor little thing contacted some rare disease that ain’t even found in medical books. Doctors tell us not to let her out of our sight. One seizure and,” Grandma snapped her fingers, “that could be it.” The bartender eyed me.

My mama’s mouth was working, just nothing was coming out.

“Lady, I’m real sorry about your husband and the girl being sick, but I just can’t have a minor in my place.”

“One drink. One measly belt. That’s all.” Grandma pleaded.

“Nope. Can’t help ya.”

“A shot. A quick nip. That’ll do it.”

“I think you need to test that hearing aid. I said, I can’t pour you nothing.”

“A little snort. A wee dram. Just one stinkin’ toast to Emmy’s health. For Godsakes.”

Grandma Iris stood beside me the same way I’d once seen a faith healer over a cripple. Her ranting seemed to draw the men like ringside seats at a fight. Moving closer and taking up a considerable amount of space was an over-sized man wearing striped suspenders holding up what appeared to be everything below the neckline.

“Come on, Bob, give her a drink.” He yelled, raising his beer in the air.

“What are you saving it for?” “Yeah man, pour the old woman something.” The voices around the room grew louder. Bob scratched his jaw.

Before I knew it, the men were hollering like kids on a playground, pounding on tabletops and beating on glassware with whatever they could get their hands on. Then Grandma let loose with an Indian war cry that brought the house down. I swear, even if I live to be a hundred and five, I may never witness anything like those men joining forces and unionizing in my Grandma’s time of need.

“ALL RIGHT, already,” the bartender snapped. “One drink and that’s it!”

Grandma turned to the men who were coming dangerously close to breaking things and put her two fingers in her mouth and drew a whistle. They turned toward the sound.

“Thank you, boys. Your award is in heaven. I’m sure I’ll be there to pass them out! In the meantime, I believe the nectar of the Gods is about to be served.” The men cheered before returning to their glass.

“You’re a good man,” Grandma smiled sweetly at the bartender.

“Yeah, I’m a real jewel. So what’ll it be?” Bob asked.

“Two Double Jacks and a Shirley Temple with a big red cherry for little Emmy here.”

We weaved our way through tables of men, the biggest guys you ever saw, smelling of smoke and sweat and flavors of imbibe. Grandma finally came to a halt at an empty table toward the back. She took off her coat and shook it before laying it on the chair beside her. I sat beside Mama as the bartender slammed the glasses down on the table, sending the liquid flying. A bowl of peanuts fell between us.

“Now that’s more like it,” Grandma Iris said, holding the glass to her nostrils and inhaling slowly.

“Why did you lie to that nice man about Emmy having a disease?” Mama watched the bartender clearing empties on his way back to the bar.

“We got a drink, didn’t we?” Grandma smiled a devilish grin and took a sip.

A tall man with a cowboy hat and boots entered the Dog House, a cigarette in one hand and a redhead in the other. A mournful song came on the jukebox and the man took the woman in his arms. She threw her head back, her long curling strands flowing down the back of her floral print dress. He held her tight, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. The redhead playfully pushed him away, and just at that moment, I recognized him. I was only five when he left, but I could identify him anywhere. There was one thing about my Daddy, he knew how to occupy space. He had something that made you inhale and forget to let it out, a smile that melted your heart and dimples the size of sink holes.

Grandma must have seen my face, because she craned her neck to take a look herself. Before I could stand and run to him, she grabbed my arm and gave me a look that kept me in my seat.

“Glory be to God, I thought we’d had ourselves enough sadness for one day, but it appears the good Lord feels we can handle more.” She watched him, her eyelids lowering, her jaw tight.

“What are you talking about?” Mama asked, her back to the dancing pair.

“Well now, Mary Jo, honey, I don’t mean to upset you…”

“Mother, tell me.”

“Sweety…it’s Cal. He’s done found his way home with a little help.”

“Cal?” The color drained out of Mama’s face in a steady, descending line.  “Where?” She sifted in her seat just in time to see my daddy plant a kiss on the redhead’s neck. One of the woman’s long flexed legs wrapped around his thigh, stroking the inseam of his pants with enough friction to ignite a stick match.

“I’m gonna kill that man.” Mama said, angry as a bee in a jam jar.

P.S. Sorry this is so long. I must have regurgitated even my stomach lining with this one.