A Southern Place (7 page)

“He barely made enough money to eat,” Brother Ron said. “He made up his mind that he would return home and beg the forgiveness of his father, hoping to be taken back as only a hired servant. But as he returned, his father ran out to meet him and hugged him.”

Phil pictured it all in his head. He’d run to his dad, everything in slow motion, his father’s voice pleading like the kid who cried, “Come back, Shane” in Phil’s favorite movie.

“And the son said unto him,” explained Brother Ron. “Father, I have sinned and am no more worthy to be called thy son.”

Phil’s eyes burned as he blinked back tears. Phil couldn’t read and write like other people, and that’s why he was a bad son. He would never be able to help with his father’s work: His father needed a smart son.

“But his father,” Brother Ron said, “upon hearing these words, restored his son to his estate. He gave him the best robe, a ring signifying his authority as a son, and new shoes on his feet. Then they prepared a feast and had a big party.”

Phil didn’t need a robe or a ring or any new shoes. He didn’t care about the feast or the party. He just wanted to be smart, smart enough for his father to—

“For this my son was dead, and is alive again, he was lost and is found!” Brother Ron used a different voice, deeper and wiser, to show the voice of the father. He stopped for a minute, giving them time to think about what he’d said.

Finally, he spoke. “This story is called the Prodigal Son. I think a better title would be “Our Loving Father” because the outcome of everything in the story depends on how the father reacts to his wayward son. The father could have refused to even see his son again after he squandered his living. Upon his return, the father could have hired him back as a servant for the rest of his life to teach him a lesson. Instead, we see a loving father that waits for his son to come to his senses, realize his mistake, and return home. We have all sinned, or been disobedient to God, but our God is a forgiving God. If you have faith as a mustard seed, nothing will be impossible to you. Let us pray again.”

This time a few kids kept their heads up, and a few more were asleep. But Phillip Twitty Foster IV prayed with hope and fervor the young boy had never known. He had faith. He believed. God would fix him. He would learn to read and write. He’d have to work harder, but he could do it, nothing was impossible because he had faith. He’d become smarter and his dad would forgive him and want him to come home.

Phil walked out of chapel a different boy. He stood taller, had a quicker smile, and met the eyes of those who walked by him. He went into the classroom eager to learn, and though he still struggled, his new self-image allowed him to relax and use the coping skills he’d been taught. Phil began to learn, and he gave God all the credit.

Phil remained at The King’s Academy for six years, going home only for Christmas and winning colorful ribbons in horseback riding, rafting, and ice-skating while at school. He became a Junior Counselor for Kamp Kingspiration his last two years, his most rewarding and fulfilling experience. Phil wondered if this was God’s way of showing him a vocation, and had dreams of becoming some sort of youth counselor or minister when he grew up.

Many King’s Academy families attended special activities throughout the year, some religious occasions, others simply labeled as “parent weekends.” Phil’s father dropped him off in September as necessary, and no other family member saw him until the next Christmas. Concerned about Phil’s family life, his religious studies teacher sent a special invitation for the Easter Pageant.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Foster,

Your son, Phillip, has been a joy to the King’s family for six years. Although his academic achievements are not up to national standards, his work ethic, dedication to improving, and willingness to help others make him a fine example of the Savior’s command to “let your light shine.” Recently admitting that he is considering a career in the clergy, we felt moved to share this wonderful news with you.

Phillip has been chosen to portray the role of Christ in our upcoming Passion Play, held each night during Easter Week. We would be honored for you and your family to share this blessed occasion with us.

In Christ,
Rev. Ronald Edwards

Phil’s family did not share the blessed occasion; in fact, Phil was not allowed to participate in the play. Phil’s father found a “more academic” school for him in north Georgia, and Phil transferred the last week of March, before Easter.

The Darlington School, established in 1905, was bigger than King’s and housed rich kids from six continents and forty-seven countries. There were crystal-looking springs and brooks running between hundred-year-old oaks, with the Blue Ridge mountains to the east and the quaint little city of Rome, Georgia to the west. The dorms resembled castles, but the classroom buildings were new and state-of-the-art. The school cafeteria was divided into three sections; a burger grill that also featured steaks and chicken, an Italian eatery, and an ethnic restaurant, offering the foods of a different country each night of the week. Students wore uniforms to class and expensive designer clothing the rest of the time. They were the most hateful, spoiled, and intimidating young teens Phil could ever imagine.

Phil did not enjoy his time at Darlington, and when his self-esteem disappeared, so did the academic progress he’d accomplished. He’d failed his father again, and he still wanted to redeem himself, but the prospect seemed like climbing Mount Everest. Still, Phil thought he could handle it. It would only be a few years. He’d figure things out and adjust. He always did.

The new school year had barely begun when Phil received a surprise visit from his father. Meeting him at the admissions office, Mr. Foster greeted him with a handshake.

“Good to see you, son,” he said, lightly patting his back. “Could we go for a walk?”

“Sure,” Phil answered.

They walked past the science building, the cafeteria, between the first sets of dorms. Leaves began to fall, and the air was crisp and cool. Phil’s father motioned to a picnic table, and the two sat down.

“Son, your mother is the reason I came here today. There is something I have to tell you,” he began.

“Is she here too? Can I see her?” Phil was excited. This could actually be a
good
surprise. His father said nothing.

“Are we going on a trip, like a vacation? When can I—” Phil continued.

“No, son, she isn’t here and we aren’t going anywhere. I came here to tell you—” his father stalled. “Phillip, your mother died this week.”

Phil was quiet for a moment, staring blankly while digesting what he had heard. “She died? No, wait, she wasn’t even sick,” he said. “She didn’t die, you would have sent for me if something was wrong, she would have needed me.” Saying the words, Phil realized how silly he sounded. His mother wouldn’t have needed him. She hadn’t needed him for the last eight years.

“No, son, she wasn’t sick. She had a heart attack. It was sudden and final. She didn’t suffer.”

“When?”

“Late last Sunday.”

“But today is Friday. Why—”

“I had my hands full with your sisters, your mother’s people, the funeral arrangements. I didn’t want you to receive the news from strangers, so I waited until I could come here to tell you.”

“But—she’s been dead, all week, and I didn’t know? You couldn’t call me? Laura and Fran, why didn’t they call me? You let me stay here all week, at this dumb school, going to my stupid classes, going to chapel in the morning and the tutor every afternoon, while I don’t even know that I don’t have a mother any more?” Phil screamed, jumping up from the table.

“Keep your voice down,” his father reprimanded, pushing him back onto the bench. “Control yourself, you don’t want to cause a scene, nor do you want other boys seeing you cry. You could make it very hard for yourself later.”

“My mother is dead. I don’t care who hears me, I don’t care!”

Mr. Foster stood in front of his son, blocking him from any onlookers. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and roughly wiped Phil’s face. “Be a man, son, it’s time to be a man. Your mother’s greatest hope was that you would get your reading straightened out and come back to school in Albany. You can still do that, but you’ll have to work. Think about that, son, think about what your mother would’ve wanted. Can you do it for her?”

“Then why didn’t I come back to Albany before instead of to this crappy school? Why am I still here?”

“We didn’t think you were ready—yet.”

Phil choked on his snot and nodded, agreeing just for show. Phil never wanted to see Albany, Georgia again.

“Get your grades up, study hard, and maybe we can get you home for Christmas.”

Phil nodded, thinking
why now?
Christmas was a dead word. A fairy tale. Like Bible stories.

Mr. Foster grabbed Phil in a quick and awkward embrace and shook his hand. Then he brushed off his suit, as if touching his son had been contaminating.

“Time to go back to class, Phillip. I’ve got an important meeting in Atlanta tomorrow, I need to get on the road.”

Phil walked back towards his classroom building, only to round the corner and disappear into the nearby woods as soon as his father was out of sight. That was the last time they spoke of his mother.

❦

Phil stayed at Darlington throughout high school. With special classes and mandatory tutoring, he put in enough effort to earn a high school diploma, but Phil knew it was a farce. The classes helped him memorize things, and the tutors did a lot of the outside work for him. That’s what his parents had paid for. Phil could still read only the simplest books without stopping and regrouping the words. He’d learned compensatory skills to deal with his disability, but the tools were lengthy to execute. He forgot most material before he finished reading it, and he’d lost the will to even care.

On graduation day, only his sisters attended. When he asked about their father, they seemed offended. “Good God, Phil. He bought a new
building
here so they’d let you graduate. What more do you expect?” asked Laura.

Phil shuffled along the path towards his dorm. Darlington was beautiful, and it looked more like Shakespeare’s England than like a carpet mill town in the South. But Phil wouldn’t miss the place. He wondered what he was supposed to do for the rest of the summer. No one seemed to expect him at home, but he was officially out of high school. Could he stay here?
Maybe since my dad bought that building
, Phil thought.

Phil had been accepted at the University of Georgia for the fall semester. He wondered if his father bought a building there, too.

❦

College life at the University of Georgia had been strictly party time for Phil. He joined his father’s fraternity, Sigma Nu, an on-campus social club filled with other spoiled, rich kids, and every day was a blast. He attended a few classes in his first quarter, but by the end of the year he seldom showed up at all. It seemed that he’d finally found a venue where his clothes, car, and spending money were enough
,
and life was good.

Phil and his fraternity brothers had plenty of female companionship, usually girls who’d hang out in the frat house for the free beer or ones they’d meet up with on the tracks, a section of railroad adjacent to the stadium, popular with the heavy drinkers on game nights. But in May of ’58, a great many of the Sigma keg kings found themselves escorting gorgeous sisters of Alpha Omicron Pi to the UGA Spring Mixer, a formal affair requiring tuxedos and corsages.

The Sigmas weren’t big on official college functions, but this was a master plan. In exchange for their duties as escorts, these stacked but somewhat conservative beauties would accompany their dates to the fraternity’s Wild Water Weekend, a nonstop beach party held on St. Simons Island. The Alphas had their own hotel rooms, paid for by the fraternity, of course.

Phil and his buddies washed and waxed their cars, shook the mothballs from their spiffy formalwear, and made sure they knew the exact shades of their ladies’ dresses. They sipped real liquor from discreet flasks and kept their buzz to a minimum, far less than a typical school night. The Monarchs, a six-piece combo from Memphis, played, and the Sigmas showed their dates a relentless time on the dance floor.

“Mind your manners, Phil, my boy,” said Kent, Sigma Nu president and resident ladies’ man. “Watch the knockers bounce when she jitterbugs, lean into those bare shoulders and smell her perfume. If your hand brushes her ass when you slow dance, make sure she doesn’t know it was on purpose. Cha cha with her like a faggot on cruise ship, but nothing more than a nice kiss when you take her back to the house. Perfect gentlemen, we are.”

“Okay,” Phil said.

“Then the next two nights we’ll fuck their eyes out!” Kent laughed, slapped Phil on the back, then squeezed him in a brotherly hug.

Phil and the rest of the guys followed Kent’s instructions perfectly.

Sunday morning was a bad dream. Only asleep for a few hours, the Sigmas awakened to police bullhorns outside, telling them all to come out, other officers pounding on individual doors. A girl screamed, a boy passed out, and several of the crew had to be shaken before waking up. The fifty reserved rooms were emptied, forty-six of which held one or more male-female unmarried couples. Several remaining gallons of liquor were confiscated, and an estimated $1,400 in damages were owed to the renowned King and Prince Hotel.

The girls left crying and hiding their faces, running to the arms of irate parents. Several were bruised but more ashamed and embarrassed than hurt. Two young ladies were taken to the ER to have their stomachs pumped, and one was treated on site for hyperventilation. Forty-three Sigma Nu brothers were escorted to the Glynn County Jail. After parents posted bail on Monday, a motley group returned to the Sig house late that afternoon. Awaiting their entrance were the Dean of Student Affairs, Chancellor of the Greek Council, and the President of the College.

Through the years, Phil tried his best to forget that painful alliance and the consequences it brought, but it still came back, decades later when he saw a showing of
Animal House
on late night television. Seeing practically the same experience happen to John Belushi, Phil threw up again then, too, wondering how the average American could view this flick as a comedy.

Phil and the rest of his new friends were sent packing. For once, Phil’s father didn’t seem that disappointed; it was like he’d expected it all along. He had a speech and a life planned for Phil, and it was mapped out and ready for execution the morning Delores first saw Phil at the factory entrance.

“Well, son, you’ve had your vacation,” his father said. “I knew you didn’t have enough sense to last, so I hope you enjoyed yourself. It’s time to go to work.”

“Whatever. Where am I working, Dad?” They sat in the office, door closed and piped-in music just barely loud enough to be audible. Phil breathed in the lemony scent of furniture polish, feeling both confined and out of place. His father had businesses all over the state, but Phil couldn’t imagine a job he was qualified to do.