Ah So!

It's been something like five years since cancer took my mother, and equally as long since I've had the stomach to visit with my family. It wasn't just mom that died; the whole family institution crumbled, like a downed power line, whipping about and hissing, electrocuting anyone who got too close.

But two weeks ago I made the trip, me and my family, to surprise my Grandma Rose on her 80th birthday, a woman who had to endure the loss of her daughter, a roll of snake eyes in the craps of life, an ordeal worse than any this cruel planet has to offer.

I called her yesterday to wish her happiness on her real birthday, even though we had celebrated it together two weeks early. As usual, she was screening her calls. The mechanical machine monotone greeted:

"Hello... please... leave... a... message... Beep!"

"Hi Grandma, it's Scott, just calling to..." Click.

"Scotty! Hold on! Let me get the other phone! Hold on!" She is hard of hearing, has been all her life, so she has a special phone that is never the one she answers.

"Hello, Grandma."

"Hi sweetie, how are you?"

"Good. I'm just calling to wish you a happy birthday."

"Oh, my real birthday celebration was two weeks ago."

My wife and I mixed into the midst of her adoring friends and family as my aunt escorted her into the restaurant where Grandma expected to meet with my uncle for a quiet dinner. I was holding my twenty month old son in my left arm. Grandma saw my wife first and put both hands over her mouth and her eyes glossed over, and she reached out for her to come. Looking over my wife's shoulder, she finally saw me holding the baby.

"You have such a precious family, Scotty," she told me on the phone. "When I kissed little Emmett it was like Laura was there kissing him too. When I touched his little head it was like it was Laura's hand, and I just know she is here, watching over you."

I tried to keep my voice steady, "I hope so Grandma."

***

"Aunt Sandie, why did mom leave dad."

She looked at me with a stone poker face, but her eyes belied her casual countenance.

"I don't really remember back that far," was all she could muster.

"It's ok. I'm forty years old now; even you have to admit I'm not a baby anymore."

"Well, there might have been some abuse involved, I really don't know. Something happened on their wedding night, but I wasn't involved. But they went though with it anyway."

"Was mom pregnant then?"

"Of course not."

***

My step-mother never remarried since she left my father. She is a devout Catholic of the fire and brimstone variety, whose faith remains strong in a church that refuses to recognize a divorcee as a member. Perhaps she is punishing herself.

By happenstance, after the divorce she moved three thousand miles across the country, within ten miles of my biological mother, and neither had any idea. Whenever George Strait sings All My Exes Live in Texas, my father changes the station. Sometimes I have to believe that there is an angel looking after me, perhaps my great granny Deal, who reminds me that someone up there cares with little gifts like this. When I went to Houston to visit my mom, I got to see my brother and sister too, and for that I am eternally grateful.

"Mom," as I still call her, with a wisp of wryness, "what did you ever see in dad?"

"Have you seen any of his early pictures?" She laughed. "He was quite a macho man."

It's true, I remember seeing an old faded color photo of dad wearing blue jeans and a tucked in tee shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled into his sleeve, and a camel hairy butt hanging carelessly from his lips. He was tall and dark haired, and his face was cool and confident, like an actor from the day when men were men, like a young Charles Bronson or Clint Eastwood. His face was forbidding and yet a promise of great things to come.

"When did things go wrong between you?" I asked.

"Right around the time he started fucking my best friend from high school."

"Noooo!"

"Yes! Remember, we used to visit them on weekends when we lived in New York?"

"Yes I do."

"He would drive up there while he said he was away hunting or on business trips."

And it all snapped together for me. The day my father told me that I couldn't go on the fishing trip for lying to my step-mother, how even then I thought he was lying, that he had ulterior motive. I thought it was me.

***

A long time ago, my real mom and I were driving to see the Houston Oilers play the Cincinnati Bengals, on a typical oppressively heat soaked day.

"I wasn't a planned pregnancy, was I mom?"

She looked at me for a moment before answering. "No."

"How did dad take it? I can only imagine that he didn't want it."

"Not at first honey, but once he realized there was nothing he had to say about it, he was very happy."

I smiled wanly. My momma, such a sweet liar.

A Load of Bull

My cousin Fess was a cowboy in every sense of the word, and even Conway Twitty -- may he rest in peace -- who lamented, "don't call him a cowboy until you've seen him ride," would have agreed. His bull riding buddies were a breed apart, sculpted from the rock of our eastern Washington canyons, living their lives from one rodeo to the next.

One of his friends, Crazy Joe, I met at an overnight campout before the Winthrop Rodeo, where, to quote David Allan Coe, "the bikers stare at cowboys, who are laughing at the hippies, who are praying they get out of here alive." The town was a juxtaposition of Harleys and pickup trucks, "Mom" tattoos and oversized belt buckles. Crazy Joe was the quintessential bull rider, full of bravado and afraid of no man. Around the camp fire, he told the story of how he managed to evade the long arm of the law.

"The cop tells me to put my hands on the hood of the car and starts pattin' me down, so I bashed my fuckin' face like three times until I'm black and blue and blood is gushing from mouth and nose."

"Holy shit," I was stunned.

"Yeah, and the cop is yellin' at me to stop, and I'm yellin' stop hurtin' me, and people was drivin' by starin' and all."

"So he let you go?"

"Had no fuckin' choice."

Fess, sitting with me, laughed, "That's why they call him Crazy Joe."

Another of his friends, John, was a short and squat bulldog of a man, whose anger spit fumes like sauna rocks. Nobody ever said an unkind word to his face and walked away with theirs as originally arranged. He was a zen buddhist of attitude adjustment, and I've seen him back off men twice his size.

I saw a drunk once in the stands of another rodeo, popping off at everyone that walked by, spoiling for a fight. After a half hour of not finding any takers, he wandered back to where the bull riders were preparing, and started his flap with John. He stumbled back out of the chutes holding onto his nose like that little boy with his thumb in the dike.

All of Fess' friends had similar stories. But for all their grit and steel, they were the best people to be around, full of fun and good times, and as welcoming and considerate as you would please.

At this particular rodeo, Fess had finally convinced me to give it a crack. He was pleased with the bull that I had drawn. When my turn came to ride, the bull was fairly sedate in the chute. Fess coached me on what to do. I put a glove on my left hand, which had some kind of resin on it for grip. The bull had a loop at the base of it's neck through which I could barely slip my hand, and I feared that it would never come back out. The bull was furious but still, it's heaving breath sounded like a steam engine. Fess raised his right arm and slugged the bull in the nose, and the bull roared and tried to crawl out of the chute and nearly smashed me flat into the ceiling.

"What the fuck are you doing Fess?!"

"Getting him angry! He's too calm, you'll never score any points if he doesn't try to throw you."

Several cowboys jumped up and ushered him back down into the chute, but I was nearly spent. What courage I had mustered was quickly failing me, but I got back on.

What happened next might as well have been a dream. I nodded my head, which was the ready signal, but from behind myself, like I was a spectator at my own execution. The bull shot out and I fell off, simple as that. Fess took a picture and my long lanky body was already half way to the ground. The bull kicked up his back legs and landed in front of my chest by a few inches, then was ran off by rodeo clowns. Aside from the dirt sandwhich, I was fine, and feeling quite satisfied that I had tried.

But in neglect of conventional wisdom, I did not try try again.

The One That Didn't Get Away

My little brother and I -- he doesn't like that term now -- were fishing on the dock on Hayden Lake in Idaho when I was eleven and he was six. My dad was still married to John's mother back then, but these were the twilight years of that era. My brother John, the official junior of my father, was in many ways just like him. At six years old he was the scrappiest kid on the block, and was unafraid to take on kids several pounds and several years his elder. He once took on a whole little league baseball team, saved only by his superior speed that kept him ahead of the pursuing mob.

John cast his line into the water and scrutinized his bobber. I grew bored of fishing quickly, and had developed an empathy for the fish. I walked down the length of the dock, and much to my surprise, there, just under the surface, was a little crappie, staring at me in what I could only regard as wonder. I got down on my belly and stared back. His little fins worked against the mild current to keep him steady.

"John, look at this fish, he's just staring at me."

John rushed over to see. "Hold on, I'll get the net!"

When I was my brothers age, fishing with my dad was all I could think about. Our time together by the lakeside or wading in creeks was like being in heaven. He taught me how to bait the hook and clean the fish, and how to find a fishing spot that was just right.

While dad was at work one day, I told me step-mother a lie. I don't remember what it was about, probably that I had cleaned my room but really hadn't, but whatever the lie, it became a big issue.

Dad and I were going on a fishing trip that weekend, and I had built it up to be bigger than Christmas and my birthday combined. I was outside playing when I saw my dad approach from the direction of our apartment.

"Hey dad," I yelled, running up and giving him a hug.

His manner was cold as he held me at arms length. "You're mother told me that you lied to her."

I looked down. "Yeah."

"Well, I'm sorry, but you are staying home this weekend."

"No dad! I won't lie any more, I promise."

"I know you won't."

And I did stay home, but he went with friends. Even then I felt like it was an excuse to go without me, but now I am sure. Something died within me that day, in that moment. Fishing was never the same, and maybe that is why I always throw them back.

I managed to net the little crappie, and I felt bad for betraying the trust between us.

"I want to throw him back, John."

"Are you crazy, NO!"

"C'mon, we have a whole pile, why is it so important to have this one?"

But he wouldn't relent, so I let him keep it.

For years those eyes haunted me, to remember caused me a contraction in my chest. I've learned to live with some of my mistakes, to forgive myself perhaps for not listening to my heart. But if I could take anything back that I have done in this life, well, this wouldn't be it. But it says something that it's on the list.

The Funeral

Mom's cancer went into remission, and I fooled myself into thinking that she had a year, perhaps more, that I had time to make my peace with her, or perhaps with myself. She was an extravagant spender of the bank's money, and so deep was my denial that I told her to stop and think about the future. I wasn't the son that I would like to have been. I should have cried with her and told her that I loved her, that she would always be in my heart, that my children would regret not knowing her from the stories I would tell. I regret that I did not, but before she died, she was given a gift that eclipsed any she had ever received: a grandson.

My aunt called me and told me to come, that Mom was in the ICU and hooked to an air tube because her lungs were losing their ability to retain oxygen. My family and I flew to Houston but I went to see mother alone. The nurse, a Nigerian woman with a lilting accent, took me to see mom, laying there with that awful tube shoved down her throat so that her mouth was pried open in a permanent yawn.

"Laura," the nurse said loudly enough to address an audience, "your son is here."

Mom's eyes fixed on hers with a look that seemed to ask, "where?"

"Not me Laura," the nurse said in a tone that could be mistaken for mockery, to which I took offense, "he's right here." She pointed at me.

I put my hand in hers, smiled and said, "Hi mom." She looked at me for a moment, concentrating.

"That's your son Laura."

And the last conversation I ever had with my mom ended with a squeeze of her hand, and she knew I was there.

Mom's ex-husband Scotty -- technically he was an ex-husband, but in most all other aspects he was part of mom's life -- was in mom's house when I arrived earlier that evening. He knew I was coming and called my Aunt and demanded to have the keys to the house, or else, he threatened, he would break in.

His daughter Kimberly was a juvenile delinquent, with past drug and alcohol addictions, and had spent some time in jail. Mom hated her, and told me Kimberly had stolen jewelry from her that had to be bought back from the pawn shop. Kimberly and her father were both at mom's house the night I arrived, all hugs and condolences. I was too upset to fully understand what was really going on.

Mom had a safe hidden in her closet, which was now open and empty, but that detail would only be revealed later.

I shared my mothers last moments in the company of these two grave robbers. Kimberly held my mothers' hand. I know what I should have done, what would have made me feel better, but I knew that even though mom had divorced Scotty, that she loved him more than the breath she could no longer take.

The doctor pulled me aside and told me that the end was near, and after getting a second opinion to his diagnosis, I authorized a large dose of morphine so that she could go peacefully. When the time came, her eyes opened wide, and for the first time in my life, I noticed how beautiful they were, like a sunny blue crystal lake.

Scotty leapt on top of her and kissed her all over her face, sobbing and screaming, "my baby, my sweet darling, she's gone, oh my god!" I thought he was serious until his fingers started to probe her earlobes and removed her earrings. He never looked up, just reached back, face down on top of her, with his palm turned upwards, and presented them to me. I looked at his hand in horror, and knew the devil through his disguise. I kept my cool and took them and put them on a dresser. He got up and joined the group of nurses and doctors, who were all waiting for me to break down and give them an even bigger show, but my tears would wait. My grief didn't belong to them. I put my head on her chest and said simply, "Goodbye mom."

After that, the deluge.

The family descended like seagulls. A meeting at the mom's house was thrown together to decide how to divide everything up. According to the will, everything was mine, but for a few items specifically given to Scotty. But the pressure was immense.

"I gave this to my aunt and it is special to me. If you don't want it, but no pressure."

"Your mom had a deal with her friend, that whoever died first would give each other their dinnerware set."

"If you don't need this couch, my daughter sorely needs one."

"She once told grandma that she wanted me to have this necklace."

It was my aunt that noticed the safe.

"Laura had made brown paper sacks of her jewelry to give to each of the girls, and now they are gone!"

More family was called in. Everybody decided that I had to do something about it, but the only person who wanted to help me get through it, aside from my wife of course, was my cousin's husband Jim. He was a mountain of a man with the gentleness of a teddy bear. "I'll go over and get anything back that he took," he said to me.

"Do you think he really stole mom's things?" I asked him.

"This isn't his first rodeo."

I thought about it for a moment. "Jim, I appreciate that you would do that for me, but I have to handle this myself."

"Well buddy, I'm here if you need me."

The next day I called Scotty and demanded that he return everything he stole.

"Are you calling me a thief? Because if you are, then we are going to punch it out."

He had a little wiggle room, because earlier in the year, he had presented me with mom's will while she was upstairs sleeping, and asked that he be able to keep the jewelry he had bought her. I didn't want to talk about it at the time, and agreed without thinking. I didn't realize at the time he was talking about all her jewelry. And don't get me wrong, jewelry means nothing to me. I want the memory. It meant something to her, and like a song that brings you back to the time you heard it first, I feel my mother when I hold it close. That's all tainted now by the ugliness involved in getting it back.

He continued, "You said I could have it!"

"What were you doing in her house then, why couldn't we go in together. Instead you snuck in, desperate to be there before I got there. There's something wrong with that."

"I wanted to clean it up before you got there! I couldn't let you see the house in the state it was in." Like Jim said, this wasn't his first rodeo.

Houston is a big city, but I had the bad luck to pull right behind Scotty at a stop light. He got out and confronted me in the street. We shoved each other and had some hard words, but in the end, he stormed off and arranged for the jewelries return. I knew there was more, but how could I prove it?

I arranged for Scotty to have a private viewing before everyone else arrived. The family railed against me for letting him even come, but I blew up at the whole group of them.

"Everybody in this room needs to understand one thing: this is about MOM and what MOM would have wanted! Do you think she would be proud of what I have done so far? Mom loved him so he is coming to the funeral, and that is the end of it."

I sat down and wrote a eulogy, but it was weak. It lacked any real substance because I didn't even know her, that our lives had been spent apart.

When we got to the funeral, my family had taken all the front row seats. I stepped up and looked at them, and they all smiled back, but nobody offered me their seat. I sat in front of Scotty and avoided his gaze. His picture was amongst the other family shots on stands in front of mom's open coffin. He whispered in my ear, "Thank you for including my picture."

I turned to him. "She loved you Scotty, more than anything."

"And she loved you Scott, and she never doubted that you loved her."

The reverend finished his eulogy, and looked to me to give mine. I brought my printed speech and placed it on the podium. I turned to see my mother, laying there, adorned with all the jewelry Scotty had given back. A lump formed in my throat. I pursed my lips and looked at the audience, waiting patiently for me to say something.

"When I was sixteen years old," I forced out, then paused. The audience was waving like a desert mirage, my throat constricted and I couldn't talk. I collected myself and managed in a strangled bleat, "my mom made the biggest mistake in her life and gave me the keys to the car."

I looked helplessly at my wife, who pointed towards herself and mouthed, "Me?" I nodded and she took my place. She would later tell me that she was proud to be my wife that day, to be there when I needed her. And I did, so very much. I took my seat and cried like I never had before. Finally I was able to cry for my mom, but partly I did so out of relief, that I really did love her.

Scotty put both of his hands on my shoulders from his seat behind me. I grabbed the hand on my right shoulder and held on tight.