DEATH BY CHOCOLATE

DEATH BY CHOCOLATE

WRITTEN BY: TIFFANY CALDWELL

The mood in the house was an eerie one the day dad went away. We jokingly call it the day the ghost left the building. We got the term from the old saying “Elvis has left the building” because much like Elvis my dad was somewhat of a legend. A high school football star with a full scholarship to Cornell. He had brains and brawn, something that is very uncommon in my small southern town… especially in todays politically correct world of soft sissies and dodo birds. He was a ghost that became a ghost. We hardly ever saw my dad before he left and now, we never see him. He’s gone. Disappeared. Vanished without a trace. He left everything behind. His wife. His kids. His clothes. His car. And a half full glass of milk sitting next to a plate with a piece of mom’s homemade chocolate cake. The cake had never been touched.

My Dad was a hard-working man before he left. My mom and him were high school sweethearts. Him being the starting linebacker for the St. Gravell High Trojans class of 1968. That was his 12th grade year. He had been playing ball since the peewee league with the city. His name is Earl. What a cliché’ My mom, Betty is her name, graduated the same year and had been dating my dad since the 6th grade. She was a cheerleader for the Trojans, her and father were the ideal couple.

Earl worked at his father’s, my grandfather’s gas station pumping gas and doing whatever else needed to be done when he was not playing sports or studying. My mother loved to go there and help and spend time with my father. The story is that I was conceived in the back seat of an old 1962 Chevrolet Studebaker that belonged to one Timothy J. Forester Esq. Attorney at Law and was in my grandfather’s gas station for a routine checkup, oil change, fill up, and complimentary wash provided by none other than my father himself. Apparently, the day Earl was to wash the car my mother was there to help. Day turned to night, night turned to closing time, closing time turned to a vacant building with the exception of my mother and father. You can guess the rest, I’m sure.

Due to my un-immaculate conception my father decided to pass on the scholarship to Cornell and stay in the town of St. Gravell to begin his career as a family man. Him and my mother graduated from high school, a somewhat embarrassing event for my mother with a baby bump that was impossible to hide. Back in those days such pre-marital events were frowned upon by the small-town public who had nothing better to do than feed the gossip machine and pass judgement on the poor folks of St. Gravell. They were married soon after graduation at a small church house ceremony and a couple of months later I was born. My name is Stacy. Stacy Ingram Peters. I hate my middle name.

My father continued to work at my grandfather’s gas station for several years after. He eventually started running the place for my grandfather, but it just was not enough money to survive the way he wanted to survive. Working for family is like that sometimes. They intrude in your personal life and think that it’s fair to pay you only enough money to keep a roof over your head and food in your mouth. That’s not living. My father wanted us to live. That’s probably why he is not with us today, because he wanted to live.

After a couple more years running the place for my Grandfather, St. Gravell Tire and Fill was the station’s name, Earl decided to take on a new career, but not before taking on the responsibility of a set of twin boys. My little brothers, Luke and Duke. Father went to work at the towns paper plant, St. Gravell Paper and Textile Products is its name, and soon after he was promoted to first superintendent, a high-ranking position in the paper and textile world. He had his own office and wore a tie to work every day. My father didn’t wear the clip on kind either, nope, he stood in the mirror and tied his own tie every morning with a sense of pride on his freshly shaven face. I know because I stood in the doorway and watched him almost everyday before mother handed him his lunchbox and kissed him goodbye. He would always lean down to hug me and give me a kiss on my forehead. Then he would walk out the door, get in his car, and back out the drive heading to the kingdom where working fathers dwell.

I remember going to visit him with mother on occasion to take him food or to just stop in to say hello. Women did things like that for their men back then. Stopped in without warning just to take them a surprise or tell them I love you. There was a sense of trust and loyalty that for some reason just is not in most relationships today. Everyone knew their places. Everyone was happy whether they liked it or not. The thing I remember most about going there was that about Four miles from the plant the air started to get really stinky. The closer we got the stinkier it got. When I use to mention it to my parents, they would both laugh and say it was just the smell of fresh money being made. I never really understood that explanation until I got older. Now I get it. Unlike my father the place is still there, and it still stinks. I know because I have been working at St. Gravell Paper and Textile for years. My father helped get me the job.

After my father’s disappearance the whole town was talking. The small-town gossip machine was having a field day with speculation of what might have happened to him. What was even worse for me was the fact that we worked at the same company in the same department and Earl had been there for many years prior. Like his high school football days, he was also a legend at the plant. Everybody came to me everyday wanting to be caught up on the latest news of Earls disappearance and hopeful return to the paper plant. Most failed to register the fact that I was his daughter, and that myself, my mother, and my six siblings loved and missed him dearly. We just wanted him to come home. When he disappeared, he took a huge portion of each of our hearts with him. Life was just not the same without him. These people just wanted Earl back at the plant. They did not care about my missing daddy. A total disregard for my feelings. When they went home, they did not think about Earl. When I went home, I still missed my father.

Living in the town of St. Gravell, much like any small town I’m sure, is a mundane task. I get up and follow the same exact routine daily. Sure, there are variations of it. I don’t eat the same foods every day. I don’t have the same conversations every day (with the exception of folks asking about father), I don’t watch the same shows on television every day, but other than that nothing ever changes. I feel like I’m trapped in the movie “Groundhog Day” with Bill Murray. You know the one where he lives the same day over and over. Fathers’ disappearance only added to this repetitive experience of life going in circles because now, no matter where I go I can always be sure that at least one but most of the time multiple people will ask me about my father. For years I have been telling them the same exact thing. We have heard nothing from him and when I do you will be the first to know. I truly hope I get to one day keep that promise.

My mother, Betty, bless her heart, has it just as bad. She just cannot leave the house without someone asking her if her estranged husband has come back home to her. It has been years and people still ask the same thing over and over. Sometimes I wonder if my father’s disappearance was some sort of cosmic scheme just to give these small town rumor starters something to talk about at our expense. Maybe my poor mothers’ penance for being with child out of wedlock. Why punish us all God? My mother, much like me, has her lines down to a science and is readily equipped to appease and fend off the vultures. “No,” she says, “I have not heard from Earl in over fifteen years, but when I do you will be the first to know.” If father ever does show up, I certainly hope we don’t get punished for telling all of these nosey folks they will be the first to know. We certainly can’t tell them all at once.

As I mentioned before it’s been over fifteen years since my father’s disappearance and still no word. My mother held on to that piece of chocolate cake until it grew mold and the crumbs started to vanish. She finally wrapped it in a piece of aluminum foil, put it in the freezer, and it is now the only visible memory we have left of my father. Earl was not much of a picture man and what few photos mother has she keeps hidden to herself. She will break them out from time to time when I’m over for a visit, but the memories are just to hard to bare. I still miss my father. Forget about him I have tried. Forgotten he is not. So, every year on April 15th, the day of my father’s disappearance, we go to the town’s only Waffle House, my fathers favorite place to eat, and honor his memory with their greasy goodness. Mother use to call ahead of time and reserve a section with three booths in order for all of us to fit (some of us are not skinny people, all of us love to eat) but now, after all these years they know we are coming and when we walk in there are signs that say reserved on three of the booths in the back corner. We all go in and take our rightful places awaiting mother’s arrival. She is always the last to show. This is no coincidence, I know my mother well, despite her humble demeanor she still has cheerleader blood below the surface and subconsciously desires to be the center of attention, especially within the family. When my mother finally arrives, we all stand to great her. In her hand is a plate and a piece of chocolate cake wrapped in aluminum foil. The same untouched piece of chocolate cake that my father left the day of his disappearance. She hugs us all one at a time and then slowly walks to the booth taking the seat we have reserved for her, right next to me of course. She sits the plate on the table, unwraps the piece of chocolate cake, and sits it carefully in the middle of the plate. As she does this every year like clockwork our eyes began to water and then we all, every single one of us, burst out in tears mourning our missing father, my mothers missing husband. When the tears are over, we look at each other and smile, thankful for what little family we do have left. Then we order our food and enjoy the famous southern cuisine of the town of St. Gravells only Waffle House.