Flavors (10 page)

“Everybody loved him,” I reminded her, taking both her cold hands in mine to warm and encourage, expecting her to maybe reject such intimate succor or grow uncomfortable. But she did neither. Instead, her generous lips curved ever so slightly into a grateful, wobbly smile. “Nobody has said anything bad about him.”

Which was absolutely true.

Despite Conrad's terrible fate, everybody loved him. He was one of those rare creatures who glowed with a quiet, nonintrusive charisma and had so much to offer had he only made wiser decisions.

Sadly, that unmerited favor meant little in the face of things. It made the entire situation infinitely more tragic. Even the other driver in the head-on crash miraculously survived with serious yet not life-threatening injuries. Only person Conrad hurt was himself. He was his own worst enemy. His weekend
binge-drinking persona was a gross departure from the pleasant Conrad I knew.

After that initial emotional outburst from Grandma, hers and Grandpa's display of grief was limited to an eerie stoical silence and discreet swiping away of tears. It was the look in my grandmother's eyes that struck me like a cold, steel mallet. The anguish in those hazel depths was stark and primitive. That look drove home that Conrad had been Grandma's heart. Her soft spot.

As he had been mine. His beauty and potential was sabotaged by alcohol abuse. The heartbreak of it sunk its claws into me and would not turn loose. Nellie Jane and I wept together in the meadow, where no one reviewed our display.

As we huddled together there in the sweet honeysuckled breezes, beneath a derisive sun, Clarence Henry appeared and plopped down beside us. The eleven-year-old mischief-maker bawled like an agitated newborn, until his breath ran out and his face turned blue and Nellie Jane, putting aside her own grief, grabbed his shoulders, shook him and cried, “Stop it! Stop it right now!” When he gasped in some air and pink returned, she gathered him in her arms and held him until he was restored.

Conrad's body was brought home, his casket set up in the main sitting room. To make space for it, most furniture was piled into one of the lean-to bedrooms. It didn't matter about sleeping space; nobody slept much, and when we did, it was slouched down in any armed chair or on the floor, tucked into a corner to catch a few winks.

The aptly named wake did, indeed, honor my Uncle Conrad.

It was hard to gaze upon his beauty. Make-up covered some of it, to camouflage injuries, but – in his youth – he was still breathtaking. The loss was so profound it smothered me. I had to turn away, gasping for breath. I felt I would die from it. I no
longer had my Melton-male soul mate. How could this happen to someone so young and vital – so
alive?

With so many unfulfilled dreams?

Lulu, his girlfriend, was inconsolable. Her wails could be heard all over the countryside that first day and into the next night. When Lulu, beside herself and debilitated with grief, was half-carried into the house to view Conrad, Grandma Melton actually went to her and put her arms around her briefly, silently validating her sorrow.

I wept, along with everyone present who witnessed the profound moment.

To her credit, Maveen tried to comfort Grandma. I watched her overtures be ignored or rebuffed and experienced a different grief. I watched Maveen wither under the rejection. I watched hope die. I watched her walk away. Empty. I decided then and there that I would never, ever cause anyone that kind of pain. I promised the Maker that I would have a forgiving and merciful heart. After all, it doesn't cost anything to be kind, does it?

Mama and Daddy, knowing how I'd loved Conrad, gave special attention to being with me. Daddy's strong, gentle hands and rumbling voice consoled and soothed me while Mama's arms held me close as she murmured how much she loved me and how it would be all right.

Conrad was laid to rest in a lone burial plot in the little country church cemetery where generations of Meltons lay. No wife or child would rest next to him. Ever.

It broke my heart yet again.

When the last flowers were placed over the fresh dirt mound, I felt like I had been wrung out like a dish rag.

Nellie Jane and I slopped Frances that night. Frances's appetite, unlike ours, remained unaffected. It seemed surreal as I stood there, witnessing a creature's zesty
being.

I burst into tears and presently heard Nellie Jane weeping, too.

Would it ever stop hurting?

Life goes on. Another of life's lessons.

No one is indispensable. The world does not stop when someone young dies. Normalcy returns with cruel efficiency. The flavor was dark and bitter, yet reeked of carnations and funeral flowers, a smell that smothers me till this very day.

It appalled me, the way life ignored Conrad's demise. But the relentlessness of life's continuity superseded my indignation and soon, it overrode even my frame of mind.

Grandma and Grandpa never again talked openly about Conrad. They probably talked about him in private, but not for other ears to hear. I would catch Grandma wiping her eyes with her apron when she thought no one was looking and I knew she was thinking about him. Grandpa's departures to the fields were ghostly silent.

The younger kids' activities in those following days and weeks were dissonantly solitary and subdued. Laughter was silenced. Nellie Jane spent more time with Maveen and me when we escaped to the meadow or forest to have girl talk.

“I rolled up a blanket for us to sit on,” Nellie Jane said, revealing a threadbare blanket, rolled up discreetly under her arm, to spread for our seat. She didn't say it, but she didn't want to make too big a production of our outings for fear that Grandma would disapprove. Fun was
so not
a priority with my grandmother. Was, when it came to Nellie Jane, Maveen and me, frivolous. But now that the entire house lay thick with death's pall, her inclination to vigilance waned.

That was one of the rare times I saw in my stoical grandma
vulnerability.

So the three younger Melton females spent more time lolling indolently on earth's floor, inhaling the distinctive fragrance of earth, creek bed and foliage. We shared things about Conrad that made us laugh and some that made us cry. But the important thing was that we kept him
alive
for a while longer. To me, that was somehow the most important thing on earth. To not forget my soulmate, Conrad. The commiserations were infinitely precious because we three female Meltons were on the same page in mind, soul and body as we lay there together, remembering.

And in a strange way, for once, we were on the same page as Grandma.

My weekend home furlough helped me begin to heal. Being with Mama and Daddy and seeing Debbie Reynolds in
I Love Melvin
at the King Cotton Drive-In Theater buoyed me from the low-hanging pall. “Abba Dabba Honeymoon
,
” despite my vow to honor Conrad's departure, soon had my toes tapping, my lips syncing and my brain computing the lyrics. Even Little Joe joined in with me as I accompanied Debbie, with Mama and Daddy harmonizing a little, too.

We ended up belly-laughing at all the screw-ups.

It felt good.

Few things overcome grief, but new life has a tendency to do just that.

It was a joyful event when Daisy, the Meltons' Heinz 57 female gave birth to puppies. The mama-dog, who'd wandered onto the farm one day and blended into the household in a remarkable way, considering the family's usual slow adaptation to
new critters. Daisy seemed to smile at me and Nellie Jane when we went to the barn where she'd given birth and now nested. We dropped to our knees to pick up and nuzzle the squiggly, joyful little bundles of multi-tan fuzz.

We ran to get Maveen and share our discovery with her. She was as enthralled as we were. For the next few weeks, we watched the metamorphosis of the pups. One, in particular, was my favorite. Flossie's exuberant celebration of me made me tingle with joy. I even snuck her into Maveen's corner several times to feed her crumbs and leftovers. That lasted until Grandma found out and warned me not to get “too attached.”

“Why should it be bad to love a puppy?” I asked Maveen after I'd taken Flossie back outside to join the rest of the litter, who now wandered freely about the yard, romping and joining in the kids' play.

“Huh. She don't believe in that kinda thing. It's too much fun,” Maveen drawled. “So it's bad.”

One day, Nellie Jane joined Maveen and me at the meadow. She was pale and shaking. When I asked her what was wrong, she looked at me with stricken eyes.

“Da's gonna kill ‘em.”

“Who?” Maveen asked, suddenly concerned. My hair stood on end and dread coursed through my veins. I knew it was going to be something I really, really did not want to know.

“Ma saw Daisy sucking eggs. And the puppies, too.” Nellie Jane looked down at her hands as they grasped meadow grass and yanked them up with loud
pings.
“At our house, that's a death sentence.”

“Why?” I wailed, horrified.

Nellie Jane slowly shook her head and looked away. “‘Cause, once they taste eggs, they won't ever stop. Ma says the eggs are more important.” I heard the acceptance in her voice, saw it on her face. Resignation.

I jumped to my feet and began running, tears coursing down my cheeks.

“Flossie!” I shrieked, willing my legs to move faster.

The first shotgun blast. Oh God. Let me find Flossie.

I could see Grandpa in the yard, shotgun anchored on his skinny shoulder, drawing a bead on another target.

Before him lay two lifeless, fluffy forms. A third was flopping about in death throes.

Oh God!
I froze. Flossie, at the edge of the yard, saw me and began to wag her tail exuberantly, a smile on her little face.

Boom!
I watched in horror as my little pet was blown apart and began to twitch and wallow, dying.

I could not bear it. I could not!
Oh God, oh Godoh God! Not little Flossie!

I ran to the yard, past Grandma, who sat stoically watching the drama. Past Grandpa, the killer, and disappeared into the house to Maveen's sanctuary. I dove onto her bed, usually my safe haven in the dwelling.

Not today.

I burrowed my head under the pillow, clawing it, every atom of my body constricting with shock and loathing.

Eaten alive with the sheer horror of it all.

Presently, I felt Maveen's hands rub my arm, soothe my back.

“I hate it!” I moaned. “I hate it, hate it
, hate it!”

“Me, too,” Maveen murmured hoarsely. Her bedroom corner's tiny makeshift window provided the only view to the front yard and I knew she'd witnessed at least the first of the slaughter.

Silence. But even it screamed and tore at me.

I cautiously removed the old musty pillow from my head and, clamoring up on my knees, peered outside. Six lifeless furry puddles littered the yard amid pools of blood. I immediately plopped backward on the bed, moaning, feeling my own life's blood leaving my head. It was too, too much. I felt sick to my stomach and my hands tingled.

Nellie Jane soon crept in and crawled up on the bed with us. I could tell she was nearly as stunned as we were. Almost. She was just a little more seasoned than we were to life's brutality.

“Ya'll know that they don't want to kill ‘em,” she shrugged sadly with acceptance. “It's just that we need them eggs. Once the dogs eat ‘em, they can't be broke from it.”

A part of me understood. But I still could not come to grips with putting eggs above a life. In this case, six little lives.

The front screen door slammed. Grandma summoned Nellie Jane to help cook supper. Again, life went on.