Any Port in a Storm
Short Stories
By Paul Dean Coker, FRSA
Published by Coastwise Communications at Smashwords
www.coastwisecommunications.com
ISBN 978-1-886178-04-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 201290625
First Digital Edition
Copyright © 2009-12 by Paul Dean Coker
Cover Art by Paul Dean Coker
Cover Design by Claudia Previn Stasny
Edited by Claudia Previn Stasny and Justin R. Murray
Smashwords License Statement
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to thank Jeanette Morris, Koman Diabate, Catherine Collins, Darrel Templeton, Earnest Rabideau, Justin R. Murray and all those whose names I never knew as well as those I do not intend to divulge.
SPECIAL NOTE: A special thanks to colleague and friend Claudia Previn Stasny, for making possible a particularly calming refuge in an effusive storm.
Preface
Refuge—Inner, Outer and Innermost. Refuge is necessary at times and it is rare that we experience it alone. We often share refuge with seen and sometimes unseen companions. The following stories touch this theme directly and indirectly. They are an amalgam of experience and observations—mine and others—in some cases people I never encountered directly. They are offered here for your contemplation, enjoyment or disbelief.
Paul Dean Coker, FRSA
San Diego, California
August 2009, February 2012
The Port We Still Call Home
Morro Bay, California
I met a widow named Dawn yesterday afternoon. At least I assumed she was a widow: a “sea widow,” that is, a woman who has lost her boat, not her passion for boats. A woman who, above all else, in defiance of all else, clings passionately to being on the water, not to be overtaken by a mere predicament.
When I met Dawn she was sitting in the driver’s seat of a Ford Fiesta, an indistinct automobile if ever there was one and a pitiful replacement for a boat. I later learned she hailed from Dearborn, which explained the car and perhaps my affinity for its owner. Michigan folk are good-natured people, agreeable and pleasant to be around. Soft in the way “Michigan” sounds when spoken aloud—soft on the tongue like an Indian lullaby—hey, hey wan-ta-nay.
It was a languid Saturday afternoon and I stood in the parking lot above the bulkhead in Morro Bay, California, watching two gulls fighting for the remains of a fisherman’s catch. Pickup trucks dotted the parking lot, each with its trailer-mounted boat, each boat drying slowly in the salt-laden air. Morro Bay—seaside revelers, the embarcadero and a place for chance encounters.
Sitting inside the Fiesta, Dawn appeared preoccupied; I watched through the driver side window as she busily wrote. She didn’t notice me. I always notice writers, always wonder what they are writing. A quick look about the Ford made me wonder about her even more. There was a luggage carrier on top, the back seat was full of indistinguishable stuff and its occupant was road-worn though clearly not downhearted.
I saw that Dawn was right handed. Left would have made us clan. Short white hair adorned her angular head and her right hand was golden brown, making it apparent to me that the sun had worked some magic in her life. Her face was thin, though shy of gaunt. She peeked over a slender pair of glasses. I looked at the paper she wrote on, hoping for a clue to reveal what she was writing. Was it fancy stationery, plain white, or a form—an application form, perhaps? Was it poetry, an essay, a diatribe—a Dear John? Unexpectedly, the paper was on a clipboard, the kind a shop steward carries on the job floor. Was it a keepsake from an assembly line in Dearborn?
She wrote steadily, intently, the kind of writing I am supposed to be doing, according to writing pundits’ advice. It impressed me in an odd way—this place, this situation, this person I assumed to be a sea widow—all aspects focused through the window of a dusty and road-worn Ford. I thought, “Sea widows are a bit odd, but who am I to judge?” I am much like Dawn, a sea widower, her counterpart, which undoubtedly makes me odd, too. I soon became convinced that Dawn and I, widow and widower, were in Morro Bay doing the same thing—breathing salt air, dreaming of boats and enjoying an atavistic connection with a sea that holds all secrets in its depths, sad and happy all the same.
Dawn looked up, saw me watching, and abruptly asked, “Do you own a boat?”
I replied simply, “Not now.”
She smiled, rather knowingly I thought, and said, “Me neither, but I have this car. I park it down here when the campground is full. They let me stay there only fourteen days, then I have to move … but I can go back.”
I’ve heard that before. I’ve done that before; but it was a very long time ago while skippering a yacht, not a car, in Marblehead. “The boat will have to move, you can remain on a mooring only until …” I would pull up anchor, take the boat out for a couple of hours and motor back to a new mooring. I couldn’t see a future in it, though it enabled me to stay temporarily in a place I very much wanted to be.
“I’m from the Great Lakes,” she said next. This really surprised me. I thought I was the only one around the Central Coast making that claim. I had already started to like her, and now I considered her kin—an aunt perhaps, a schoolteacher in Allen Park with a tiny annuity, or a settlement from an accident that ended her marriage, an accident on the assembly line, perhaps. People around here don’t know how Michigan folk live and die. People here live and die differently, and I suspected Dawn was only now figuring this out. It had taken me several years, and not a little heartache, to discover life and death occur differently in different places.
My presumably widowed friend told me she had departed Michigan on May 10. A date pronounced distinctly, a date that meant something special, but that something she did not reveal. We chatted a few minutes longer. She wanted to know why I didn’t have a boat and I gave my standard, albeit ambiguous answer. “It’s kind of cold out front there, a lot of fog, and a chilly breeze when there is one.” This response Dawn would not let lie and, in the kindliest way, gave me a list of new fabrics, undergarments and special weaves that would keep me warm. I liked her even more, for in her innocence she could not possibly have known my deep aversion to the cold, and my deathly brush with hypothermia two days out in the Gulf of Maine. I didn’t explain and instead replied, “South Florida—that is where I’d like to be on a boat.”
Introductions over and feeling like family, we continued talking. She told me bits and pieces of her life, which I quickly wove into the story I had conjured to afford her a place in my memory. She asked about me; I gave a few highlights, seasoned for the palate of a sea widow, and it was about then that an old fellow climbed out of the fog, drew along the starboard side of the Fiesta as a proper yachtsman would, leaned down into the open window and asked if she was ready. “I’m starving,” she replied. She turned to me to explain, because I was her own kind, not a Californian. “He’s invited me to supper; I’ve made some friends here.” I thought of the Californians who had become my friends: good people, and that is something to be thankful for. Standing on land is enough to bear—to be a boat widow or widower as the case may be—but no reason not to have friends.
Then Dawn surprised me. She looked up, lifted her hand out the car window and extended it to me. It seemed unusual; I did not expect this gesture and stared momentarily into her calm eyes. As if lured by a siren on a blowing sea, I reached for her hand. I felt her warmth and noticed instantly her hand was not soft or delicate. Perhaps she wasn’t a teacher after all. Still, I shook the sea widow’s hand the way I had seen my father shake women’s hands, embracing it with both of mine. In doing so I became convinced it was the hand of someone who builds things. So, the assembly line … perhaps. Cars, transmission, brakes, maybe even boats—I didn’t care, really. I cared only that she was from home, the place I had sailed away from nineteen years ago, the place we all come from and never leave despite our movements in time and space.
The few seconds we humans give this ritual of mutual touching ended and I stepped away from the Fiesta. Dawn’s other friend shuffled his feet courteously—the sound reminding her that she was being courted. She smiled at me and spoke aloud a tenuous good bye—the farewell of like minds—of people who never really part, but find each other in the body of another. People whose souls sail upon dreams of boats, safe passages and the port from which they disembarked—the port they still call home.
The Double D Drifters
Paso Robles, California
“I watched a man die today, over at Crystal Springs.”
“You what?”
“He died—of old age.”
“My God, Russell, you were there?”
“Yes, and I’ve felt uneasy since.”
“Sweetheart, that’s awful, just awful. What were you doing?”
“Fixing the air conditioning—trouble with the control system in one of the rooms—as it turned out, the dying man’s room.”
Deborah glanced at the oven timer, then at me. She took a deep breath.
“His family, was anyone there?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He died with only you in the room?”
“No, no. There was a visitor. I thought he was family, at first—the dying man never spoke. I overheard the visitor while I was working. He sounded like an old friend. You know how you pick out things like that from a conversation? And it was easy because the guy spoke loudly—left me with the impression that he was, or they both were hard of hearing.”
“No wonder you feel peculiar. I wouldn’t have thought the residents at Crystal Springs were dying in their rooms. It’s a senior apartment complex, isn’t it? I know they’re elderly and I suppose anything can happen.”
“The resident was in bed when I arrived—even though he was fully dressed. He wore an old western-style shirt, with curlicues and pearl buttons. His jeans were wrinkled and bunched up, and he died with his boots on—and I don’t mean to be funny.”
The oven timer buzzed and Deborah reached for the dial and then a pot holder.
“A friend you say, not family?”
“Right, but he behaved like family. Whoever he was, he was attentive. He doted on the bedridden fellow. Did I mention that the dying man never spoke while I was in the room?”
“Yes, baby—can you clear the table? Sorry to interrupt. I’m concerned about you, are you going to be OK? I don’t know what I would have done.”
I felt Deborah’s empathy, like the visitor’s toward his dying friend. After twenty years together, Deborah can read me like a book. My pain is her pain and I didn’t want her to hurt. On the other hand, I knew I couldn’t keep so peculiar an event to myself, particularly the unexpected twist at the end. I wasn’t sure about revealing everything.
“Give your dad a call after dinner; you’ll feel better.”
“Oh, well, sure. I can call Dad, but I’m OK, sweetheart. I’ll be fine. I’ll call him later, after Randy goes to sleep.”
“I love you, Russell. You speak with Dad; you’ll feel better.”
“I will—but I don’t exactly feel bad. I saw a man die, but there was something special about seeing two old friends say goodbye, you know?”
“I think so. How did you pick up on all that, though? Were you there for a while? Was it a big job?”
“Yes and no. Ordinarily I’d have fixed the control in a couple of minutes, but after overhearing the visitor, I became intrigued. You see, sweetheart, he told stories to the dying man. I guess it was his way of saying goodbye. It was his voice, I think. It sounded like an actor’s voice, like that narrow-faced movie star with the big mustache who’s in all those Westerns. He was funny and colorful, you would have liked him.”
I chuckled and thought again of the final story, the one he told just before the old man died. It still affected me deeply, yet for the time being I decided not to mention it to Deborah. I wasn’t sure how she would react. I wasn’t sure it made sense, even to me.
“He didn’t have an accent exactly, it was the way he talked, like when my brother gets me going and makes me laugh out loud. Before I knew it, I was doing nothing more than fidgeting with the control mechanism and eavesdropping like nobody’s business. I should be ashamed of myself. I blew an hour messing around for no good reason other than to hear the next tale.”
Deborah placed dinner on the table and stood, looking at me, as that unmistakable crease between her eyebrows deepened. I thought about our son.
“Is Randy upstairs, Deborah?”
“Yes baby, you were running late and he keeps on schedule. He’s had his supper, now he is upstairs arranging his models. They need to point the same direction.”
“Well, there is a certain kind of logic in that idea. You know, airplanes should all point the same way, at least while they are on the runway. Let’s leave him be. I can use some uninterrupted Deborah time. What a day!”
“Sure baby, I’m all yours. Tell me more. Tell me one of the stories.”
“Well, the visitor—Dale was his name—chattered incessantly. I learned his name because he had a funny way of referring to himself in the third person: ‘so old Dale thinks,’ ‘Dale knows better,’ that kind of thing. Anyway, sure, I ought to be able to reconstruct a couple of the old codger’s stories.”
“Did you discover the name of the poor man who passed away?”
“Darrel—Dale and Darrel—and get this, they were musicians. Not famous ones, I think, but maybe popular in their own circle.”
I thought again about Dale’s last story and the peculiar feeling it had invoked. Could Dale have known Randy, or me, for that matter? Was it a coincidence? What would Deborah think?
“I want to say they might have been country singers, but that might not be right. They looked country—Darrel in his cowboy shirt and Dale in a dusty leather vest and raggedy hat. They looked like they had been ‘rode hard and put away wet’ as the horse people say. Darrel did little but lie there smiling, which suggested to me he was just weak, not necessarily about to die. He moved his left hand from time to time. The right hand had gone missing at the elbow. I suppose he moved like this to let Dale know he was still listening, or still alive.”
“Why do you think they weren’t country singers? There’s plenty around.”
“Right, but that didn’t seem to fit what I heard. Dale played fiddle and Darrel strummed guitar and sang. I don’t have a clear picture of their act, but I did pick up that they called themselves, the Double D Drifters. Sounds country, doesn’t it? Could be a folksy thing, train songs, hobos and such … catchy for the right audience.”
Deborah began serving dinner as I opened a bottle of wine.
“Obviously, they hadn’t made fortunes, unless they lost them. From what I gathered they played together a long time. ‘Decades, not days,’ is what Dale said. Jeez, Dad seems young by comparison.”
Deborah glanced toward the ceiling and I knew she was considering checking on Randy. I drew her attention back to me.
“He’ll be fine baby, he’ll be fine.”
I raised my wine glass and Deborah responded with a clink of hers. She smiled caringly at me across the goblets. My next thought was to wonder how Dale could know so much about Randy and our family. We had never seen or met him before that I was aware of. I thought Deborah might find this coincidence, or deliberate encounter, whichever it was, as unsettling as I did.
“To hear Dale prattle on, I had to conclude that they had had a great time playing together, a bunch of ‘good gigs’ and by the way, a bunch might have been hundreds. He must have been telling the truth, though, because Darrel lifted his lone hand in affirmation every time a story ended, and sometimes along the way. As I think of Darrel lying there, I guess he looked near finished, but I sure hadn’t expected him to … I said he was smiling most of the time, didn’t I?”
“Yes, baby. Please go on.”
I took another bite of supper followed by a sip of wine. I rolled the crystal stem in my hand, thinking a moment. I looked up to see Deborah smiling patiently. I then began recounting the stories told by the man who had become the surviving member of the Double D Drifters.
***
“We never knew, nope, never knew what the devil they’d think! There was risk a-plenty, weren’t like we was rock stars; ol’ Dale’s no pretty boy and you Darrel, you always did look like you was married up already so we could rule out groupies! Ha-ha. Rule out groupies, eh Darrel? Ha-ha!”
Darrel lifted his hand and Dale gave him a vigorous high five.
“The audience, Darrel my boy, the audience is just a different way of seeing the clouds pass overhead. Times they was pretty, times they was trouble, and times they parted and let the sun shine down and when they did, it really lit us up. Those were the best, eh Darrel, the ones that lit us up?”
Dale drew up a chair close to Darrel’s bedside. The Double D Drifters weren’t an arm’s length apart, yet Dale spoke as loud as an evangelical minister at a tent revival.
“Ol’ Dale, he’s just a fiddler, no better no worse. Dale has learned, and maybe this is hard to believe, has learned, that fiddlin’s not fer everybody … but it surely does beat a banjo! Ha-ha! Banjo, eh Darrel? Remember that joke, the wife that leaves her husband’s banjo in the back seat with the top down while shopping, just hopin’ fer it to go missing? Comes back, and what does she find—four more banjos. Ha-ha-ha! You get it Darrel? Four more banjos. Ha-ha-ha!”
Darrel raised his hand high as his chest joggled in amusement. Obviously he never tired of the crusty old banjo joke. Dale delivered another high five, but gentler this time, respecting Darrel’s fragile condition.
“I’ll say this, through the years ol’ Dale’s been fiddlin’ an’ Darrel’s been strummin’ we’ve seen it all. I can recollect the best shows and the worst shows just like we were standin’ onstage right this minute. We can thank our lucky stars the worst were few and far between, that’s for dang sure! And I’ll tell you this, Darrel my boy, it was those train wrecks, those few, we measured the good ones against. Ain’t that right ol’ buddy, isn't that right? By God, they made the good ones better and the best ones better yet!
“How about this one Darrel? Think back on this one. Remember that house warmin’ party at the winemaker’s mansion? Ho man, that weather was hot. I thought my fiddle would come unglued! Anyway, you recollect that night at the mansion, how we played and played? Drank that big Zin, too. Talk about loosening up the city folks! The whole darn bunch joined in singin’ right up till the tables were scooted outta the way. Then they danced till dawn—least it felt like all night from onstage. Ho man, what a gig that one was, eh? The crowd loved us. Best of all, was the music, Darrel, our music, you and me, we couldn’t keep it in—just couldn’t keep it in.”
Darrel raised his hand with visible effort and Dale clasped it gently rather than slapping it. They held tight for a long moment, longer than I would figure for old men.
“From time to time, when my mind wanders back to the good ones, I think of that ranch couple we married up—way up there high above them clouds at Big Sur. You remember that don’t you Darrel? Can’t forget that one. We were looking down on the clouds and could see the sparkling sea through the breaks, right there at San Simeon, a stone’s throw from Hearst Castle! Dang, we were high up, way past the cattle gate. Surely you remember that jeep ride up the mountain, one hand on the roll bar, the other on the Stetson, fiddle case lodged between ol’ Dale’s knees. I like to think back on that gig. Remember them longhorns, Darrel. Don’t forget them longhorns. Ho man, who could forget them critters? My God, I couldn’t believe my eyes when they showed up out of nowhere. Remember them joining the wedding march, right alongside the bride and groom? Thank Mary and Joseph that music soothes the savage beast—a six-foot spread tip to tip on them longhorns! And Darrel, my friend, ya sang pretty as could be for the newlyweds, pretty as could be, God love ya. Why, it brings a tear to ol’ Dale’s eye to remember them young folks striding toward their future, longhorns following right alongside. Truth be told I also remember hopin’ those critters didn’t mind a little fiddling. Might be screechy to a longhorn steer.
“And how about that anniversary party at the fairground, up in King City? Ho man, 50 years! That was a memorable gig, eh Darrel? Now, ol’ Dale always says that when you go and put a bunch of family in a room together and mix in booze, somebody is gonna step outta line. You gotta figure there’s one in the crowd that’s gonna mess up when attitude gets mixed with a little juice.
“If you think back on that gig Darrel, if you think back, those folks were the best-behaved bunch we’d ever played fer—from toddler, to teenager, to ma and pa. Well-dressed too, all neat and purdy. Ho man, that got our suspicions up! The whole house was polite to the point of being conspicuous. I remember how taken aback we were when we strolled over to the wall where the family memorabilia was hanging fer all to see. There was black and white photos of the happy couple on their wedding day standing in front of a 1932 Ford coupe and pictures of kids and grandkids too. But everything got real clear when we saw that giant photo of the anniversary couple receiving a one million dollar check from Ed McMahon. Ho man, The Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes! Oh my God! I fer one never believed that scam was real—but there it was—a one-million-dollar check! So this was more than an anniversary party, hey? You can be darn sure that everybody who stood a half chance at inheriting a buck or two from Gran and grandpa were on their best behavior! Ha-ha! A million bucks, ho man. And who said money’s not everything? It sure made fer a good audience!
“We had us some sad but happy audiences too, eh, Darrel? Ever think about those teary-eyed widows we played fer? Remember those ol’ darlings' in Paso Robles; their happy faces went sad with nostalgia when our music reached that special place in their hearts. I recall those pretty ol’ gals as if they stood before us now, wiping away tears with lacy pink hankies. Dang if it weren’t your romantic tenor voice, Darrel, dang if it weren’t. You always could draw out tears from a widder woman, that’s the undeniable truth. You even got ol’ Dale choked up from time to time.”
Darrel raised his hand slowly this time and Dale gripped it with both of his. Dale’s silence for the next few moments spoke volumes. I could feel Dale’s sorrow from across the room.
“And if I’m going to get all sentimental, mi amigo, I’ll remind you of that kindhearted audience of kith and kin who attended when I played Dad’s funeral. I thought I must be crazy, standing before y’all playing while tears filled my eyes and sorrow choked me up. Yup, it were a fine audience that day. One of them cloud-partin’ audiences, ya know what I mean. You was in the pew, Darrel, I’ll not forget, now or forever. You’ve been my best and trusted friend fer so long you fit right snug alongside my wife, may she rest in peace. Dad had told me many times, he’d say, ‘that Darrel, he could sing a coon right down from a tree.’ But I performed that gig alone. I know you offered and I woulda been happy to oblige, but some gigs you got to do alone. I don’t recall telling you before, from my vantage point on the riser I saw smiles on many faces when my bow drew its first note. I saw your nod too, my friend, I felt you at my side. It helped to know you were there. Ol’ Dale played good that day—didn’t miss a note.”
Darrel lay perfectly still while Dale paused as if he was contemplating the funeral. I was worried that Darrel might already be gone. But Dale wasn’t finished and he wasn’t leaving his friend’s side.
“Those are great memories. We did some good playing for some good folks. But ho man, you don’t play as long as we did without catching a couple zingers, right ol’ boy? We had a couple genuine train wrecks, but they’re fun to remember now—not then though—mighty painful then. Do you remember that mysterious wedding reception we signed on fer? Remember, we hired up fer only the reception and right quick discovered there had been no actual weddin’! Judging from the mood of the crowd, there apparently had been no joy either. Ho man, I remember steppin’ through the kitchen on my way to the little fiddler’s room before kicking off the festivities. The womenfolk were lined up at the counter preparing the celebration feast, and I swear, Darrel, the scene looked like Dad’s wake. I’m not kiddin’. Not a smile to be seen. No sir, I suffered a mighty urge to bolt, but the Double D Drifters never stiffed a gig. No sir, not ever.
“If you recall we spotted Tommy and Sue Bailey at one of the patio tables. We greeted them as fellow musicians - did the secret hand shake, you know. ‘The happy couple eloped six months ago,’ they whispered. ‘This reception is an apology to their families.’ Ho man, the Double D Drifters looked at each other as if a flood or pestilence or worse was about to rain down on them. Ha-ha! Remember that, Darrel?
“Now you of all people know ol’ Dale’s not a drinkin’ man, but there’s times when the squeezin’s of a grape can serve a higher purpose, and this definitely was one of those times. Sure enough, a general euphoria arose after a couple sips of juice all ’round. Finally, we connected with that somber bunch. I maintain to this day that Dale and Darrel saved that marriage. All in a day’s work fer the Double D Drifters, ol’ boy, all in a day’s work.”
Darrel, who I thought was surely beyond hearing, must have recalled quite well because his hand suddenly stirred and formed a thumb’s up. Dale laughed and laughed, relieved, I think, to see his friend still alive.
“Ho man, since I’m on a roll about dubious outcomes, do you remember that time we played fer the rich folks who threw a harvest hoedown where no one was willin’ to loosen up and hoe down? We played and danced and clapped and sang our hearts out as the spectators, and I do mean spectators, sat motionless, and I do mean motionless, on bales of hay set up in perfect rows ’round a barn so very clean. Ho man, that gig was barely worth the dough. In fact, if you recall, we redlined the whole cotton-pickin’ town after that! And made a policy to charge double for any gig inside the city limits. Worst of all, Darrel, saddest of all was the children. They were thin, pale and downright forlorn. I know you remember. Those poor kids had what joy they come born with all squeezed out way before we showed up. Why, yer silliest numbers didn’t crack a smile and you delivered them funny tunes as perfect as you ever did. Not to mention Dale’s feet were dancing twice as fast as ol’ Dale was fiddlin’ and that silliness has brought many a child out on the floor just a kickin’ and grinnin’. Begs a question don’t it? When they grow up will the fee still be double? What say old friend? What say?”
Darrel didn’t move. Dale looked startled. Then Darrel strenuously lifted his hand about half way up to the sky. It quivered and showed no strength, but it was up. Dale wheezed an audible sigh, glanced at me as I stood across the room holding the broken control, and began what would be the final tale.
“There was plenty of children that liked us, though.”
Dale stared right at me and nodded. The calculated motion drew my eyes to him, focusing my attention as if nothing else in the room mattered, or even existed.
“I remember one bunch at that special school in Templeton. I mean the sweetest, most innocent kids we ever did play for. Ho man, here’s a hint. They hugged us to the point of barely being able to play. I mean each and every young-un in the place. Most hugged us twice, even three times. We ain’t never had such love from an audience. Ha-ha. They loved us up and down, this way and that way and didn’t stop till we was packed up and headed out the door. Remember now? Do you know which kids I’m talking about?”
Now it was clear Dale was purposefully sharing this story with me, not just his old friend, though he spoke loud enough that Darrel, if he was alive, would surely hear it. I froze in place, listening. The whole scene became rather surreal. It felt as if there was an invisible rope, tying Dale and me together. I’m sure I had a bewildered look on my face. He continued to speak, as he gripped me in his gaze.
“Those kids, Darrel, were truly special. They didn’t just sit like bumps on bales of hay. Ho man, they danced—God only knows what them steps were. And they sang—God only knows what them words were. And they hugged us over and over again. They were the most wonderful human beings we ever had the honor of playin’ fer—no, let me correct that Darrel—that we played with, for that audience truly played right alongside us. You recall ol’ boy, we could smell their breaths and look right into their funny almond-shaped eyes. Them were innocent eyes, Darrel. They never thought no evil, they never knew no evil. They just loved us with big hearts and shiny bright eyes.”
I think it was the comment about the children’s eyes that stunned me. How would Dale know about an epicanthic fold? He obviously didn’t know the anatomical term, but he described it in a way that garnered my full attention. Surely he knew nothing of the 21st chromosome, the extra one, that is. And the unconditional affection! It’s true lots of kids hug, but…
“Ho man, I think of them kids often Darrel, and perhaps, if I’m fortunate, if I’m able, I’ll draw them present at my final hour. I’ll remember their playful dancing, their sweet smiles and their chubby tongues peeking out so cute. I’ll remember playing the music they loved, feeling their unconditional love, least no condition more than a hug back and who would have deprived them of that simple gesture? Not the Double D Drifters, no sir.”
I kept glancing over to see Darrel’s response. His hand didn’t rise. I wanted to rush to his side, take his pulse, or listen for his breath. He didn’t move a muscle. I was certain Darrel was gone and certain that Dale knew this—and that I was his final audience.
“Here’s the thing, Darrel my friend, my dearest friend. I don’t know none of their names. We were only ever with them that once. I can see them as if it was only yesterday. We was all dressed up like cowboys and so was they. We were the top of their day, and in the end my friend, them kids was the top of our day, maybe even the high point of all our playin’ days. It was them who gave us a gift, it was them who made our music the greatest ever heard by any audience, anywhere, anytime. Wouldn’t you agree, ol’ friend? It was them who made us Number One, the grandest musicians to ever bow a fiddle and strum a guitar!”
Dale’s voice cracked. I saw across the short distance between us that tears had welled up in the old fiddler’s eyes. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away, even as a tear escaped and slid down his old, wrinkled cheek.
I remembered our son Randy dressed up in a cowboy costume because a fiddle band was playing at his school. We had to buy him an extra big cowboy hat. He looked adorable under that hat with his big slanted eyes and chubby tongue. Randy was overjoyed, we were overjoyed. It was three years ago. He was crazy with excitement when he came home. It might have been the greatest day of his life. I can’t recall him being happier, although Randy so often finds joy in places we take for granted.
I was convinced that Dale remembered too. He had probably seen Randy and me around town, it’s not such a big place. I swear, none of this was a coincidence. Dale knew what he was doing—for Darrel, and for us, Deborah.
Dale finally broke the invisible string that connected us when he saw my eyes widen. I didn’t need to speak. Dale had finished and he knew his story had reached its mark. He turned slowly, took off his hat and leaned close to his friend’s body. He put his ear to Darrel’s chest and touched his belly very gently. Then he lifted Darrel’s only hand and placed it across his chest. He whispered for a long time, a prayer perhaps—or the words to a favorite tune? He lowered Darrel’s eyelids and stood upright beside the bed with his hat gripped in his thin, pale hands.
***
I watched as Deborah held her hand to her mouth, weeping silently. I reached out and pulled her close, my own tears flowing freely. But that was okay; we are not strangers to tears. No parent of a special child leads a life of no tears, though tears of joy count too!
“Darling, when I arrived home I was unsure about sharing Dale’s last story with you. I didn’t know how you might react. Truth be told, I didn’t think I had the courage. Randy has changed the course of our lives forever. You know how hard that has been for me to acknowledge, to fully comprehend. I hope you understand that I embrace the truth of our destinies and the even greater truth of Randy’s wondrous existence, his sublime innocence and his irrevocable place alongside us.”
Deborah clasped my arms and backed away only far enough to look into my eyes. I felt at ease, seeing she harbored no anxiety, she understood my predicament and my need to talk through the thoughts the strange old fiddler had elicited.
“It’s obvious to me now, in Dale’s requiem for Darrel, that even though he was a perfect stranger to you and me, he’d been graced by our son’s unbridled affection. I have never been so proud, sweetheart.”
Deborah wiped her cheek and remained mute, silently offering me assurance that if it was time for me to speak about pent up emotions then she would patiently listen.
“To discover that Dale was so affected, so influenced by this one chance meeting with Randy produced a lump in my throat I’ve been unable to be rid of all day. I’ve swallowed again and again and I realize now that it is gone and telling you was the necessary remedy.”