The Descent
The bridge brings the wagon past a ripe sewage treatment plant, bright-colored fishing camps on postage stamp plots, palm trees, palmettos, and many monstrous motorized sport boats.
The sites do not impress Ben. Not yet. He looks at his father, at his grey grizzle beard and his tired sallow eyes; Ben worries about his papa. They have driven non-stop, save for a few gas and restroom breaks, all the way from New York. Some 1600 miles.
After Mina’s funeral, everything was a rush. A whir of must-dos. The rental of a tow-along and cramming all their scarce articles of love and time into black garbage bags, reused liquor crates from the wine store down 10th St. and Amazon smile boxes.
The most precious parts of their belongings other than Claude’s paintings, and Ben’s toy bull, Moritz, is a small black box containing Mina’s ashes. It rests in the back of the wagon, in between boxes and the stow-away cat. Ben turns to look at the black box often to be sure his mama is ok. They pull into the parking lot of the general store and Ben quizzes his mother’s comfort.
Mama, we are here. Do you remember being here. This island?
Of course, there is no response from the black box, and Ben sighs when the wagon finally turns off and rests in the store parking lot.
A blue heron also parks in the lot. He stands still, waiting for food. It’s a village wide joke and practice feeding the heron named George; folks throw rotted bait fish and Doritos at George. George being a wise and discerning bird, knows he can wait for the good stuff, the fresh food early in the morning when the store opens, and a kind-hearted clerk, old and stiff in the joints like George, brings fresh fish heads from his other place of business, a small seafood processing hut.
George’s small bubble-eyes rotate when he focuses on Ben, who clambers out of the hot Volvo, standing and stretching and waiting for his father to roll out of the car.
“Wow, this is a trip, huh — same old store,” says Claude to nobody.
Ben smiles. He is getting used to his father Claude’s statements to no one.
Since Mina’s death, Ben sees his father slipping. Sure, the long drive south left little space for full conversations. At one point Claude sang ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, just to force some sound to the still air that filled their wagon traveling south through the Pennsylvania mountains.
Then the heavy Virginia traffic switched Claude to a silent stress.
Each time Ben mumbled about something interesting in their passing-bys, Claude jumped, shaken from concentration. Trying to please his boy while keeping them from an accident, he exclaims often...
“Benboy, I need to drive, ok?”
So Ben was silent the rest of the trip through the Carolinas, Georgia and Tennessee. It wasn’t until they entered Alabama and the endless procession of pine tree landscapes on I65, which gripped Ben silly with boredom, that Claude finally comforted Ben’s restlessness and talked.
You know, your mother didn’t care for the South either.
Ben smirks and stuffs his hand into the Igloo cooler at his feet, pulling out a plastic bottle full of warm water. He offers it to Claude, the driver needs to be hydrated at all times.
You will see, that where we are going, it’s inspiring. The beaches, the salt air. It’s ...
Claude’s sentence drifts with the movement of traffic.
Ben puts the bottle of water away. He doesn’t require his father to entertain him. Ben, a wise child senses that silence is more important then talk right now, but he also knows his father worries about his comfort, so Ben says, “It’s all ok Papa, we are in this together!”
“Yes thick as thieves and pirates.”
“Pirates Papa?”
“Yes Pirates, there are lots of pirates where we are going.”
And so Claude exits the volvo, stretches his sun kissed arms, adjusting threadbare jeans that hang loosely with the help of a bungee cord serving as a belt, Claude presses his hands across his forehead.
“ARRgh,” Claude whispers, touching Ben’s shoulder.
Like pirates with new hunger they enter the store.