Astray: A short story beginning or a scene
Detective Harry Beam sat way outside his jurisdiction in front of a disheveled house in rural North Carolina. As he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray of a non-descript black sedan, he opened the door and stepped out on the gravel-strewn driveway. He walked and entered the disintegrating side door of the house without knocking. The air was thick with grease, cooking seafood, and cigarette smoke.
A one-eyed black pit bull lay motionless on the floor in front of the kerosene heater. He stepped over it. An older woman slowly breathed oxygen through the airlines fished throughout the door casings of the decaying house from an oxygen machine that wheezed silently with every breath. She sat at the Formica kitchen table in a well-worn nightgown, aged glasses, no teeth and a complacent look. Very pretty at one time, now her hair was black with gray streaks, matted and hung in sweaty stringy clumps. Now she was just old. Beauty remained but very faint, hidden, subdued, and masked by old age and infirmity. Her exhalations came in deep gasps. She still loved life, fast escaping her, but could do nothing about it - despair, boredom, and pain on her face. She sipped iced tea.
Harry sat down at the table with her.
The furnace had broken thirty some years ago when he was a teen, since then hand held kerosene heaters heated only the main three rooms; kitchen, den, living room – all the other rooms remained unheated. Mornings, he awoke during high school with frost on he inside of my windows and sometimes on my bed covers. He slept fully dressed and bolted from the house at first light.
The old man wore a crisp white shirt, ironed black slacks, a skinny black tie, and a full white beard and mustache to cover his severe weight loss. The reason for business dress ended long ago, but he continued. He busied himself. He cooked. He waited on her and Harry. Lovingly - without complaint or hesitation. He looked like he now weighed about ninety pounds.
The old man slid a plate in front of Harry, shrimp, deviled crab, homemade macaroni and cheese, and steaming collard greens with big hunks of fatback dispersed thought. Harry devoured the shrimp first. There is nothing like butterflied pan-fried shrimp.
As Harry sat trying not to weep, he stared at the two people he barely recognized, who gave him life and raised him the best they could.
“You been to the doctor lately Dad?”
“Those bastards? I’m not going to them for minor aches and pains.” He said with a thick southern drawl.
“You look like you’ve lost a lot of weight since I was here last.”
“Na.”
“Dad, you know those ties are way out of style.”
“Harry, they always come back.” He shook his head and sighed, “I’ve been wearing these ties since the 50’s, and they always come back in style.” This was a standard interchange and he was right.
The spring in his step gone, the quick joke, the hearty laugh no more. Even the barbs poked back and forth were gone. Harry’s and his father never spoke of anything of substance. Always Notre Dame football, hats, ties, anything but life. Now, with his life was near its end Harry stumbled for words.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, son?”
“Can I have some more shrimp?”
“Sure.” He threw six more fist sized butterflied, crab stuffed shrimp in a big black wrought iron pan with a big hunk of Crisco. It sizzled as he stirred with a spatula. “These are prawns, ya know. They’ll be done in a few minutes. You want something to drink? You need cocktail sauce? Hot sauce?”
“Some iced tea.”
His father pulled out a Ball jar, filled it with ice and tea and sat it on the table.
The house, once a good-sized five bedroom, housed and raised four boys years ago, but now it crumbled around them. Yellow nicotine, grease, and thick dust dripped down the walls, paint pealed, the whole house cried for attention. Attention that would never come from it’s current owners.
Death hung in the air, thick and humid. A smell so thick Harry could taste it.
Shrimp, crab, and collards was also thick in the air. Smells of a childhood that had rallied friends and neighbors to this house in droves for many years and still. Any time of the day or night to have Dad pull out pots or pans and cook a meal. The Southern way. No one could be hungery. Feed everyone. They could barely afford to feed themselves but they did not complain. Don’t talk. Eat.
The family was never close. The turbulent 70’s snuffed out any thing that Harry had in common with them. Vietnam. Free love. Hippy culture. His dad was forty, when he was born, and my age now, was and is a complete enigma. They very rarely spoke, and if they did, it was usually because Harry had fucked up in some major way – and he fucked up often in my youth and more in his teen years.
By the time Harry was eighteen, he had totaled the family car, been arrested several times for drunk driving, shoplifting, assault, grand theft, auto theft, and many, many, other crimes. He had joined the Army to cleanse his record and get needed direction and discipline in his life. It had worked but distanced him from his parents.
So now, Harry sat at his table once again. Being fed again near end of his father’s journey, wanting to apologize and ask forgiveness.
“Dad?”
“Yeah son.”
“That’s some damn good shrimp. Is the crab from down at the marina.”
“Na. That’s some frozen crap I picked up last week. Fresh is a whole lot better. I”ll get some fresh for you next time you come down. Mom? You want some deviled crab?”
“Please.” She said.
“Harry?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“You want some collards with that?”
“Don’t put yourself out.”
“Na. Just take a minute. It’s frozen though. Grew it last year. I’m not sure I have the energy to put a garden in this year. But I got some fatback to throw in this. You’ll like it.”
“Ok.”
A flurry of plastic and pans and the greens were on the stove on high heat. Before long the house emanated the smell of fatback, that bacon-y hog jowl smell that’s fat when rendered gave any green a southern flavor that once acquired was impossible to resist.
Harry looked at his frail father. White shirt, black pants, and that damn skinny tie, his father smiled and whistled as he cooked. He loved this. Serving. This was his life...
A one-eyed black pit bull lay motionless on the floor in front of the kerosene heater. He stepped over it. An older woman slowly breathed oxygen through the airlines fished throughout the door casings of the decaying house from an oxygen machine that wheezed silently with every breath. She sat at the Formica kitchen table in a well-worn nightgown, aged glasses, no teeth and a complacent look. Very pretty at one time, now her hair was black with gray streaks, matted and hung in sweaty stringy clumps. Now she was just old. Beauty remained but very faint, hidden, subdued, and masked by old age and infirmity. Her exhalations came in deep gasps. She still loved life, fast escaping her, but could do nothing about it - despair, boredom, and pain on her face. She sipped iced tea.
Harry sat down at the table with her.
The furnace had broken thirty some years ago when he was a teen, since then hand held kerosene heaters heated only the main three rooms; kitchen, den, living room – all the other rooms remained unheated. Mornings, he awoke during high school with frost on he inside of my windows and sometimes on my bed covers. He slept fully dressed and bolted from the house at first light.
The old man wore a crisp white shirt, ironed black slacks, a skinny black tie, and a full white beard and mustache to cover his severe weight loss. The reason for business dress ended long ago, but he continued. He busied himself. He cooked. He waited on her and Harry. Lovingly - without complaint or hesitation. He looked like he now weighed about ninety pounds.
The old man slid a plate in front of Harry, shrimp, deviled crab, homemade macaroni and cheese, and steaming collard greens with big hunks of fatback dispersed thought. Harry devoured the shrimp first. There is nothing like butterflied pan-fried shrimp.
As Harry sat trying not to weep, he stared at the two people he barely recognized, who gave him life and raised him the best they could.
“You been to the doctor lately Dad?”
“Those bastards? I’m not going to them for minor aches and pains.” He said with a thick southern drawl.
“You look like you’ve lost a lot of weight since I was here last.”
“Na.”
“Dad, you know those ties are way out of style.”
“Harry, they always come back.” He shook his head and sighed, “I’ve been wearing these ties since the 50’s, and they always come back in style.” This was a standard interchange and he was right.
The spring in his step gone, the quick joke, the hearty laugh no more. Even the barbs poked back and forth were gone. Harry’s and his father never spoke of anything of substance. Always Notre Dame football, hats, ties, anything but life. Now, with his life was near its end Harry stumbled for words.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, son?”
“Can I have some more shrimp?”
“Sure.” He threw six more fist sized butterflied, crab stuffed shrimp in a big black wrought iron pan with a big hunk of Crisco. It sizzled as he stirred with a spatula. “These are prawns, ya know. They’ll be done in a few minutes. You want something to drink? You need cocktail sauce? Hot sauce?”
“Some iced tea.”
His father pulled out a Ball jar, filled it with ice and tea and sat it on the table.
The house, once a good-sized five bedroom, housed and raised four boys years ago, but now it crumbled around them. Yellow nicotine, grease, and thick dust dripped down the walls, paint pealed, the whole house cried for attention. Attention that would never come from it’s current owners.
Death hung in the air, thick and humid. A smell so thick Harry could taste it.
Shrimp, crab, and collards was also thick in the air. Smells of a childhood that had rallied friends and neighbors to this house in droves for many years and still. Any time of the day or night to have Dad pull out pots or pans and cook a meal. The Southern way. No one could be hungery. Feed everyone. They could barely afford to feed themselves but they did not complain. Don’t talk. Eat.
The family was never close. The turbulent 70’s snuffed out any thing that Harry had in common with them. Vietnam. Free love. Hippy culture. His dad was forty, when he was born, and my age now, was and is a complete enigma. They very rarely spoke, and if they did, it was usually because Harry had fucked up in some major way – and he fucked up often in my youth and more in his teen years.
By the time Harry was eighteen, he had totaled the family car, been arrested several times for drunk driving, shoplifting, assault, grand theft, auto theft, and many, many, other crimes. He had joined the Army to cleanse his record and get needed direction and discipline in his life. It had worked but distanced him from his parents.
So now, Harry sat at his table once again. Being fed again near end of his father’s journey, wanting to apologize and ask forgiveness.
“Dad?”
“Yeah son.”
“That’s some damn good shrimp. Is the crab from down at the marina.”
“Na. That’s some frozen crap I picked up last week. Fresh is a whole lot better. I”ll get some fresh for you next time you come down. Mom? You want some deviled crab?”
“Please.” She said.
“Harry?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“You want some collards with that?”
“Don’t put yourself out.”
“Na. Just take a minute. It’s frozen though. Grew it last year. I’m not sure I have the energy to put a garden in this year. But I got some fatback to throw in this. You’ll like it.”
“Ok.”
A flurry of plastic and pans and the greens were on the stove on high heat. Before long the house emanated the smell of fatback, that bacon-y hog jowl smell that’s fat when rendered gave any green a southern flavor that once acquired was impossible to resist.
Harry looked at his frail father. White shirt, black pants, and that damn skinny tie, his father smiled and whistled as he cooked. He loved this. Serving. This was his life...
