Despite pulling a
double, Vanessa drove straight through the night from Philly. Turning onto the
familiar dirt tract, the sun was barely rising, but it gave her enough light to
dodge the deeper puddles left by the last high tide. It had yet to sink in that
she was here, especially after the last visit. It had been almost 15 years
since she’d been in Little Egypt, and only then to attend her grandmother’s
funeral. After the train wreck that turned
into, Vanessa couldn't imagine ever wanting to see the place again. But a phone
call she was too busy to answer had set this trip in motion. After she’d gotten
to all of her patients, there was time to sit and check her voice mail.
“Hey Nessie, this is Treena. I
know you probably don’t give a damn, but they say the old bastard will be dead
before Thanksgiving, that ‘zema is kickin’ his ass good. If they be anything
you wanna say, you better come say it soon.”
He was awake earlier
than he wanted, surrounded by his tubes and his tanks, listening to the numbing
sounds of the air conditioner. Though it was late in October he still needed it
to cut the humidity and ease his breathing, but the machine’s constant whir
made it difficult to tell what was going on in the rest of the house. He
couldn't remember if Treena had come home last night or not. She had given him
his pills and then headed to the club. She may not have gotten her mother’s
good looks, but she certainly got her taste for stepping out, as well as her
taste for the bottle. She was his only child still living in Little Egypt, and
despite her flaws, he was glad to have her around. The rest scattered as soon
as they were able, ungrateful all of them. He didn't like to think about how
much worse his boys would have turned out if he hadn't tried to show them what
hard work was, and if he hadn't beaten at least some of the wild out of them. After his wife ended up in the creek, he did
what he could to teach the girls what women were for, but they didn't make it
easy. His children couldn't care less with what he had to put up with all those many years
just so he could keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. He was a man, and those rich white bitches
spoke to him like a child. All the while he stood there feigning a smile, hat
in hand, saying nothing but yes ma’am so they would crack open those purses and begrudgingly throw a few hard earned
dollars his way. They, their bridge clubs, prized azaleas and yapping
little dogs, could all go to hell.
Knowing it had
never been locked, Vanessa came in through the kitchen door. She was greeted by
the smell of stale cigarettes, and the sound of the faucet
dripping on yesterday’s dirty dishes. Moving through the cluttered living room,
she wasn't sure if that was the same worn out furniture she remembered, now covered
by leopard and zebra throws. The floor creaked and gave a little as she walked
down the hall. Pausing in front of her father’s door, where a no smoking, oxygen in use sign had been
tacked up, she briefly closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then grabbed
the doorknob.
His sour train of
thought was broken by Treena coming through the door, and none too soon. He
needed her help getting to the bathroom before he wet himself. But this wasn't
Treena, it looked like his wife, but how could that be? She’s been dead for years, was she here to
take him with her? Not that they needed an excuse, but the shock caused his
lungs to let loose with a powerful round of coughing and spasms, and his
bladder emptied anyway. It wasn't until she opened her mouth did he recognize
his daughter Nessie.
On the long drive
south, Vanessa had plenty of time to rehearse everything she wanted to say. How
he left so many scars, internal as well as external, on her, her sisters and
her brothers. How his idea of parenting left a trail of stunted human beings, drug
addicts, alcoholics and yet another generation of abused children. How what he
referred to as father’s privilege, was known as child rape and incest
everywhere else. How if he wanted to
know why only one of his children still spoke to him, and why none of his
grandchildren knew him, he need look no further than his own black heart. As if
having him as a father was not scary enough, he wove terrifying tales of child-eating
monsters in the woods and marsh surrounding their house. But she wanted him to
know that he was the only monster to have ever to set foot in Little Egypt.
Vanessa entered
the room knowing clinically what to expect from the final stages of emphysema,
but she was stunned by her father’s appearance, and thoughts
of any confrontation gave way. Here lay the man who has loomed so large in her head,
whose decades ago actions still color every facet of her life, now small and weak
like some unfortunate hatchling. Under the white sheets he was all barrel chest
and stick legs, waving a thin brown arm erratically through the air in her
direction. After her father fell into a horrible bout of coughing, she turned
on the table lamp, and rooted through the contents of the nightstand until she found
an inhaler.
“Good morning daddy,
it’s Nessie. Let me try to get some of this in you, then I’ll go get something
to wipe that mess off your face and get these sheets and your clothes changed.
Maybe when you’re feeling better I’ll get you some tea and see what might be in
this house for breakfast.”
