The Good Man

A wistful feeling, situated between my head and my belly, left me longing for something I couldn’t explain. Lack of experience left me without words, but my feelings were real. Deep in my gut, I knew something wasn’t right at home.

“Mama, can I go in the back yard and swing?” I asked.

“No, you can’t go back there. Your Daddy hasn’t mowed in weeks,” she answered in a tone blaming Daddy for all our unhappiness.

“Why won’t he mow?” I asked.

“Why won’t he do anything?” she taunted.

“Does he know I wanna swing?” I pushed.

“How should I know?”

Somehow, I convinced Mama to let me go out and swing. I was blissfully happy to breathe the fresh air and be out of the suffocating silence that filled the single wide trailer.

I swang as high as I could, so high that the legs on the rusty swing set came out of the holes and back in with a swish and a thud. When I tired of the back and forth, I just sat, listening, and observing.

I heard a chirp of a bird and the buzz of a bee now and then. I tried talking to the animals hoping they would talk back, but even without words, I knew I was alone.

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After summer passed, I started school. Everyone said I was smart, but I didn’t understand because other kids could read, and I couldn’t. I’d never seen a book before - except the Bible. It wasn’t like the colorful fun books in the classroom, and only grown ups read it. I decided it didn’t count and hoped I would learn to read soon. My teacher was a lot like my Mama. Mama and Teacher never wanted to talk, and they didn’t want me to either. I didn’t think school could be worse than swinging alone in the backyard, but it was. Being around so many people but all by yourself was hard to explain. _________________________________________________

I did learn to read - very well, in fact. Mama didn’t like it much. Now that I was older, there were sisters to take care of, a house to clean, and laundry to wash. Mama didn’t want me laying around reading being lazy all day. As much as I loved Mama, I couldn’t stop reading. So, I hid my books and read when no one was home.

One day, when no one was home, I was quickly working through my list of chores. One was to change the sheets on Mama and Daddy’s bed. As I was tucking the sheets under the mattress, I felt something.

“Hmmmmm”, I thought. “Do I dare look?”

I’d gotten in trouble for less, but I decided to risk it anyway. Sliding my hand between the boxspring and the mattress, I felt it there. Soft, but firm. Smooth, square, supple. I pulled it out.

“A little black notebook,” I whispered to no one in particular. “I wonder who else is hiding books from Mama around here.”

I gathered my courage, peeked out the window to make sure no one was home, and opened the mysterious black book. _________________________________________________

It looked boring. The little black book was filled with names, numbers, and scribblings that didn’t make any sense to my 14-year-old mind.

“What’s Daddy doing with this?” I wondered. “Something crooked knowing him.”

I remembered being told one time that Daddy was a good man. The Man said Daddy would give the shirt off his back to anyone in need, but that was before Vietnam. He told me not to blame Daddy, rather, those who sent him to that hell hole. I didn’t know who would send anyone to a hell hole, so I blamed Daddy.

“Uh, oh,” I whispered to myself when I heard the front door slam. Quickly, I tucked the book back under the mattress. Mama was yelling for me and all the chores weren’t done. I expected the worst. ____________________________________________________ I ran down the hall of the single wide stopping at the entrance to the living room. Mama didn’t look good and something didn’t feel right. A different kind of tense. I thought I was ready for the worst, but I wasn’t.

Mama looked at me with stone-cold eyes, “Your Daddy is dead.”

“What?” I mumbled.

“I said he’s dead. Can’t you hear?” Mama said, her face turning red. She turned, staring out of the window I had just cleaned.

Mama wasn’t sad. Mama was mad because Daddy had left us in a financial pickle. Yes, that’s what Mama said. I remember because I had never heard of a financial pickle before. I had heard of dill, and bread and butter, and sweet, but never financial.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Finally, she spoke.

“You’re gonna go live with your Grandma. Can’t afford to keep you and your sisters. Besides, they need me. You don’t.”

If she saw my shock, she didn’t acknowledge it. Still staring, she told me to go pack.

“What about Daddy? What about a funeral? Wh-wh-wh?” I stammered not knowing what to ask next.

“Not for you to worry about,” she quipped. “Let’s be honest. There’s no love loss here. Your Daddy didn’t care about you, and it don’t do no good to pretend. Accept it and move on. We’re lucky he’s dead anyway. Things were only gonna get worse.”

Knowing better than to argue, I left the room to pack. As I packed, anger welled up inside my chest, and I felt an urge to scream. Screaming would accomplish nothing, so I snuck back in the room where Daddy used to sleep. The room where just a short hour ago I was putting fresh sheets on his bed. I might not have had much of a Daddy, but I was gonna have his secret. His little black book. I grabbed it quickly, put it in my coat pocket, and told Mama I was ready to go.

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Grandma wasn’t so bad. I see now where Mama got the not wanting to talk gene. She just sat, watching TV and doing her nails. But, she didn’t care if I read books, and she didn’t work me to death.

Grandma lived in a bigger town in an old house right next to a four-lane highway. I wasn’t used to that. At first, I couldn’t sleep at night. The sound of cars driving up and down the highway, the lights, the noise - overwhelming for a farm girl like me.

Mama never called, and I never heard anything about Daddy’s ashes. Spread over the farm or dumped in a toilet? It didn’t matter now. At least I had the book.

Sometimes, at night, when I couldn’t sleep because of all the noise, I pretended Daddy was a good man. I imagined he intentionally left the book for me. I fantasized that the letters, and numbers, and scribblings were a map leading to some kind of treasure he had buried. A message of love from beyond the grave. I took the book out, looking it over for the one-hundredth time. No clue. I wanted to ask someone, but I didn’t know who to trust with my secret. ____________________________________________________

One night, I dreamed about the Man who told me my Daddy was good. I can see his face but don’t know him. He’s calling my name. I wake up to the sound of Grandma's voice. Walking groggily into the living room, I see she is holding the phone to her chest. She mouths, “It’s for you,” never shifting her gaze from the TV. I go to the next room and pick up the phone.

“Hello”, I say timidly.

I hear the click of Grandma hanging up, then a man’s voice.

“Hey darlin’, prob’ly won’t remember me, but I was a friend of your Daddy’s. I’m in town and wondered if I could stop by?”

“Um, I guess so,” I said.

“Pretty jackass move for your Mama to ship you off, but it might work out in your favor. I know where your Grandma lives, I’ll be there in 30.” ____________________________________________________

Thirty minutes later, I was sitting on the front porch swing when the Man who said my Daddy was good pulled up. I watched him get out of his 1966 Chevrolet Impala with keys in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. He walked up to the porch with long strides and settled into the old wooden rocker facing the swing.

“Got any tea?” he asked while simultaneously putting out his cigarette in a plant pot, using far more concentration than required.

“Yeah,” I answered.

I went inside and filled a jar with ice and poured freshly brewed sweet tea over it. I was too nervous to drink anything, so I just poured one.

I stepped out on the porch and let the screen door slam behind me.

“Here ya go,” I said.

After a long sip, he sighed and took his baseball hat off. In one swift movement, he wiped his brow with one hand and replaced his hat with the other.

“Look, I ain’t gonna beat around the bush. Ain’t here to play games. I’m here to make a deal. One I think your Daddy would want,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I’m listening,” I answered.

“I know you took his black book, Lisa.” He didn’t accuse me of anything - more of an acknowledgment.

“How do you know?” I asked, shocked at being called by my name.

“Makes sense. You get hauled off to your Grandma’s and the book’s gone,” he surmised.

“What’s the deal?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you know,'' he began. "But, your Daddy was trying to make a living the best way he could. After Vietnam, things fell apart. Don’t expect you to understand, but he was a good man,” he looked at me earnestly.

For some reason, I believed him. Slowly, I handed him the little black book that had offered me a small measure of comfort.

______________________________________________

He opened it, glanced at the indecipherable markings, and satisfied, slipped it into his jacket. Taking a checkbook and pen out of another pocket, he scribbled as he started to speak.

“Your Daddy and I were in business together. We were bookies. Can’t say it was an honest business, but it provided for our families.” He paused, looking into my soul for some kind of understanding.

“This book will keep the business going,” he explained as he leaned forward and put a check in my hand. I looked at it - at him - then back at it.

“I don’t understand,” I said looking up. “This is a lot of money.”

He chuckled.

“Yeah, baby. $20,000 ain’t nothing to shake a stick at,” he joked.

“Why?” I questioned with a quivering voice.

“He wanted a better life, a future for you. It's hard to understand because of the drinking, but everything he did, it was for you, your sisters, even your Mama. He loved y’all in his own damaged way. He would want it to be more, but it's his percentage of the bets. I’m giving it to you.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I mumbled a simple, “Thank you.”

He smiled a crooked smile, took one last swig of sweet tea and said, “Don’t spend it all in one place.” He gave a quick wink, and the same long strides that brought him to the porch, took him back to the Impala, and he was gone. _________________________________________________

Years later, when my hair was gray, I reflected on that day. I reflected on those wistful childhood moments of feeling so alone in the world. I reflected on the Man with a memory of my Daddy and a secret about a little black book that changed my life. I realized that moment was the first time someone had looked me in the eye, called me by my name, and talked to me. It was the first time I didn’t feel alone.