End of the Road (22 page)

Uncertain Wishes…

And so, I had my
grand
tour de force
before I was ready for it. I have since wondered if it
happened because I was innocent enough to believe that I was ready
for the task, selfish enough to risk somebody else’s special day or
egotistical enough to think that at my young age, I could do what
had taken others a much longer time to achieve. Who
knows!

The day of the wedding, my “guards” had to
physically step in and firmly press down the pot lids in order to
stop the aunts from seasoning the meals behind my back. The aunts
didn’t like it, but all they could do was moan and curse and not
much else.

I was half through cooking at the wedding
when I remembered that I had not gone to see dad for the famous
“secret” of pulling this off. How could I have been so careless? A
wave of fear invaded me. I looked to my left and saw two of the
aunts sheepishly dicing tomatoes and peeling shrimp. On my right,
the rest of the army was hard at work too. Everything was going
well. I might not have the secret, but I was still very much on top
of everything.

Aunt María and her younger
sister did not exactly mince words when they called me a
gallo capón
almost to my
face. My personal “buffer” disappointed the small legion of
admirers who, having heard that I was in charge of the kitchen, had
come to wish me well and/or see me at work. They were all summarily
ushered out of the cooking area without much ceremony. The groom’s
mother tried her luck and was also escorted out of the
kitchen.

There were several curious souls
who–standing outside the cooking area–kept on yelling out asking
for my recipes on the spot. I had a sign posted announcing a
free-for-all talk after the party. But, I was not to be spoken to
while I was working. The sign helped a little.

By the time dinner was ready, I can proudly
say that, conservatively speaking, I had managed to irritate about
80% of the guests who had dared to try getting close to me. I did
not care! I was not there to socialize.

I had dinner ready for the official 8:00
P.M. sit-down dinner, but we had to wait another half an hour for
the roasted pig to be cut into serving portions and put onto the
serving trays. I used that time to take a quick shower and change.
Back in the kitchen, my “guards” were still on duty watching the
aunts. By the time I returned to the kitchen, they were calling out
to dinner.

Somebody came in with a note for me. Addys
María wanted to see me in the dining-room on the double. A million
thoughts crossed my mind. All my insecurities came out to haunt me.
Was the food so horrible that they were calling me after only two
bites?

When I entered the dining-room, Addys María
and the groom stood up. Though always beautiful, Addys María had
never looked as radiant. She was beaming with joy. This was her big
day and she was going to enjoy it!

I had secretly cursed her for giving me the
job, but looking at her at that moment, I could only thank her for
allowing me to contribute to her happiness. –“Here he is, ladies
and gentlemen. The best cook in town. A toast and a round of
applause!” Everybody followed the bride and groom in congratulating
me for the food. Godwall handed me a glass of wine. I could use a
drink! I raised my glass –“A toast for the bride and groom and
their never-ending happiness!” The people applauded and started to
sing. Addys María stood up again –“My friends, I thank you…but
now…we eat and drink! To your health and happiness too! God bless
you all!”

I turned around and began to walk out of the
room. I felt a hand on my right shoulder. It was the groom. –“Where
are you going? Your seat is right next to ours! Please, join us!” I
was moved.

I could hear the clinking noise of glasses
and the pecking of forks and knives on the plates…it was like music
from heaven to me.

Addys María’s mother and father had made an
extreme effort to be civil to each other. They were quietly
standing behind me. The old man pulled me by my right ear and said
to me –“Son, I always thought you were a bit of a goofball. I guess
I was wrong!” How flattering!

The bride and groom handed me a present. I
was ordered to open it on the spot. It was a ladle with the
inscription “Dave, Chef Extraordinaire.” I still have it in my
kitchen.

I scanned the room from left to right
looking for my mom. From the distance, she blew me a kiss. I could
barely speak. Godwall traded seats with the groom’s father and
moved next to me. –“Somebody needs to keep you watered, my fellow
chef!” Indeed!

There was one person I
wanted to see. Actually, there was a person I wanted to be seen by,
to be exact. Where was he? I felt a familiar heavy hand on my left
shoulder. –“I almost missed the wedding waiting for you to come by
so I could tell you
the
secret for pulling this off, chef!” Godwall asked my dad to
sit down. –“Only for a moment, Godwall. Don’t go far” dad
said.

I smiled. I had long realized that the
secret had been revealed to me a long time ago. Dad was making sure
I understood the heavy side of this new profession I was thinking
of choosing over teaching.

Après moi, le
déluge
…

After it was all over, I took stock of the
whole experience. One the plus side, I had now more confidence in
my cooking abilities and I had helped a great friend. I had also
made my mother very proud and showed my father that I was a man.
The dinner had been an outstanding success. Before the night was
over, I had my coat pockets stuffed with girls’ phone numbers and
with serious requests for me to cook at other weddings, birthday
parties and professional events. On the negative side, fed-up with
the inordinate amount of time I was spending wrapped up in the
preparation for the wedding, my girlfriend had broken up with me
just the day before the party. I was totally drained both mentally
and physically.

Yes, I
could
be a chef if I decided to become
one. I had proved that to myself. However, it was time for me and
me alone to decide if I wanted to be a chef or a teacher. That
“Oprah Moment”, as I can call it now, marked the beginning and the
end of what some 35 years later–more than an exciting adventure of
my youth–feels like a faded dream.

The Loss of a Good Friend

All that matters now is that I’m back at the
airport heading for my home in Las Vegas. Addys María, her husband
and Godwall’s oldest son have come to see me off.

It has been a heavy journey. I had not seen
Godwall in three years. –“Listen, you son-of-a bitch…you better
clean up your act. If I catch you screwing around, I’m going to
kick your ass when I come back next year” I had said to him only
half in jest when I was leaving. He was drinking too much. He gave
me a beaming smile, a big hug and told me not to worry about
him.

But, I did not come back. Life abroad can be
glamorous, but it comes at a very high emotional cost. I had told
my uncle Denis to keep an eye on Godwall. He was the one who had
sent me the message about Godwall’s death. I never envisioned that
my next meeting with Godwall would be like this.

As my uncle Denis explained to me, many of
the things my good friend Godwall held so dear, had been crumbling
down bit by bit. First, Godwall and Addys María’s mother died in a
car crash. She was in a coma for three days. Nobody told me until
she was buried. Then came Godwall and Myra’s bitter divorce. At
Godwall Junior’s wedding three years before, you could have cut the
tension with a knife. I almost had to play referee. Godwall and I
had double-dated two sisters. I had broken up with one of them, he
had married the other one.

I cling to the good memories. I have to.
When I watch a Western, I still think of Godwall. He loved the
genre so much. He enjoyed doing John Wayne impersonations,
recreating his “shootings” at our parties. His was a gentle sense
of humour that never put anyone else down. We laughed at his jokes,
not because they were terribly funny, but because he told them with
such candor. I miss him very much.

Every wedding I go to reminds me of Addys
María and Godwall. He was the best friend a man could have. He was
discreet, reliable and honest. Generous to a fault, he was the kind
of man who always thought of everyone else before getting anything
for himself.

Godwall had become isolated inside the
strange microcosm his life had turned into after so many
disappointments. He was alone, very alone. Strong enough to handle
the other travails of his hard life, he was no match for the big
silence and the vast emptiness.

While flying south for the funeral, I had
formulated in my mind many questions about his death. Somehow I
thought that if I found out the reasons, I could perhaps bargain
with the Universe and reverse the unfortunate course of events. I
knew deep down that that was not possible, but it was comforting to
me because at least I was “doing” something about my best friend’s
death.

All my questions were answered when I looked
at Godwall’s lifeless body. The muscular frame had given way to a
rather light, bony structure. Despite the undertaker’s best efforts
to make him look presentable for viewing, I noticed some degree of
disarray in his appearance. Godwall was laid-back, but at the same
time rather fastidious about his appearance. I bent down to touch
his forehead. I whispered a private message in his ear. I could
hear his voice answering back and his unabashed laughter filling up
the room. I smiled.

Pills or no pills…Godwall had died of a
broken heart and I was not there to stop it. I turned around to
look at the faces of the many people who had gathered to pay their
respects to a good person. I barely knew a handful of them. How
many of them truly knew my good friend the way I did? Yet, I was
jealous of them. They had spent the last 30 years with Godwall
while I was trying to make a living in exile.

Godwall was not the only lonely soul in the
room. Most of our common friends were somehow gone…dead, living
abroad, unaccounted for. Why do we end up running away from the
ones we love? I tapped my friend on the chest for the last time and
I returned to my seat to ponder on the answer.

Back to Top

David A. Cuban,
Ph.D.

Canadian-American author of French-Spanish
ancestry.

He attended the University of Toronto where
he received two Master’s degrees.

David moved to the U.S. to do doctoral
studies in the early 90s.

He has published academic books and essays
in the fields of literature, linguistics and teacher education.

He has also published works of fiction in
Europe, Latin America and North America.

He is fluent in English, Spanish and German;
with working knowledge of French, Italian and Portuguese.

David is a former university professor,
turned motivational speaker and counselor. He specializes in
comprehensive personal improvement and task management.

See his books at:
www.davidacuban.com

Chapter 21

The Sinkhole

By Scott Langrel

The sinkhole sat in the woods near the end
of the gravel road which wound lazily in front of my house and
disappeared into the pine thickets at the base of Drover Mountain.
Ol’ Hank, when he was feeling talkative (a condition usually
brought on by finding the bottom of a liquor bottle), would spin a
morbid tale about the old homestead which once sat on that spot,
and of the woman who dwelt within the house.

“
A witch,” he would say
with simple and absolute conviction, though the events that had
supposedly taken place there had transpired way before his time.
The graveness of his tone never failed to amuse me; however, Hank
would not speak of the thing unless the sun was bright overhead,
and even then only when alcohol had loosened his lips.

In truth, I never considered the story to be
anything other than an old wives’ tale, something constructed to
send children (as well as adults of questionable intelligence)
racing to their bedrooms to hunker under their covers until sleep
or dawn found them. Modern thinking and logic demanded no less;
these were not, after all, the ages of the witch trials in Salem.
Yet, though I fancied myself a man of reason since returning from
the university, I was still a child of the Appalachian hills in
which I had been raised. In some instances, ingrained superstition
refuses to be swayed by a fancy degree.

I tell you this in preface so that you might
understand my frame of mind during the events which occurred in the
spring of 1936. The area had received a copious amount of snowfall
during the previous winter season, and the spring had arrived wet
and chilly. Having finished my studies nearly six months prior, I
had returned home to Shallow Springs and promptly hung out my
shingle in the town proper. Being the only lawyer within fifty
miles guaranteed me a limited number of clients, though even then
it was apparent that I would have to move elsewhere to find more
than a meager income.

It began with a knock upon my door on a
rainy evening in April. I was still a bachelor in those days, and
given to working late into the night, so the knocking did not rouse
me from slumber. I was, however, immersed in my work and was thus a
trifle annoyed at the interruption, especially when I opened the
door and discovered that the source of the knocking was none other
than William Bennet, my direct neighbor to the north. Mr. Bennet
and I had recently exchanged heated words over a property boundary,
and I had no desire to resume the conversation at such an hour. I
strove to remain cordial, though, and inquired as to his
business.