before even her own voice has faded, walks
up the three back steps and opens the screen door, basket still balanced on her hip. She pauses in the doorway. Jasper has not moved. She cannot see his face or eyes. She opens her mouth to say something. Closes it. Lets the screen door slam shut behind her. Joanne’s laughter fades.
Walking along the country road that leads from the house back towards town, Jasper’s not fully sure he likes how Lizzie has divided up Daddy’s land. The Turners rent and farm the north cornfields now. The Grays rent out the south acres to graze their longhorns. That’s how Lizzie scrapes by – those rents and the odd bits of mending she picks up. Not a good living but enough to scrape by. He can see that. Can see the stress of a hard life worn into her weathered skin. She’s not the sister he remembers. He respects her for that.
Around the house stretches unused prairie that was there even when Jasper was a boy. He likes that. Likes that she kept it, kept the wildness of it. Wishes all the land had grown wild like that, had never been farmed again.
When Daddy died, Jasper never went back out to work the fields. Didn’t feel right out there without him. Worked with Bobby for a couple years instead. A small garage in town. Grease on his hands all day instead of dirt. The hum of motors sparked to life. A part of him wonders if that’s why he watched his father die.
Jasper had looked on helpless as the heart attack shook all life from the big man’s frame. Daddy’s eyes had rolled back in his head till just the whites showed. Mouth moved and twisted as dried lips gasped for breath. Jasper had wondered if perhaps Daddy were praying under all that
pain. Jasper himself said no prayers. Just watched in silence till the tremors no longer spasmed through Daddy’s body. He’s thought back on that many times. Has often wondered why he didn’t pray. Has wondered, if he had, might Daddy have survived?
They were forty-five acres from the house when it happened. Ploughing season. Daddy fell right off the tractor, left arm clutched, face pale. Jasper could have run for help. He’s thought over that many times, too. Has asked himself what it means that he didn’t. If it means anything at all. Deep inside, Jasper knows nothing could have saved his daddy. When your time is up, it’s up. Nothing can save you. A simple fact. Praying, running, screams for help – all useless and he knows it. Jasper watched his father die. Simple as that.
It took only two minutes. Kneeling there, watching his father’s lips dry as they gasped for final breaths, Jasper did not shed one single tear. Not then. Not later. Not at the open casket or even back at the house during the after-funeral spread the church ladies had laid out. Mama cried, frail and white and lost in a sea of well-wished condolences. And Lizzie, eyes red with newly dried tears. At the funeral, behind his pulpit, Reverend Gordon had described Daddy as an ‘outstanding citizen’, a ‘man of morals’. Stretched truths at best. But Jasper had never been a man to cry. Had never been a man to hold grudges against kin. And he’d never been a man to run for help neither.
He asked that therapist once, the one in Huntsville sent that first year to evaluate his mental health. He asked him what it meant that he watched his father die. That he
didn’t run for help. But the therapist had just sat there in his pinstripe suit, peering down through bug-eyed glasses, marking things on a pad Jasper could not read. Eventually Bug Eyes had looked up at him, chewing on his pencil’s eraser, and had asked Jasper if his daddy had ever touched him ‘inappropriately’, and Jasper had laughed right in his fat face at the stupidity of such a question. His father never touched him. No slap. Or pat. Or hug goodnight. Even when he was young and acted up and Daddy had to put manners in him, it was always Daddy’s belt that touched Jasper, never Daddy’s hand. They shook
up the three back steps and opens the screen door, basket still balanced on her hip. She pauses in the doorway. Jasper has not moved. She cannot see his face or eyes. She opens her mouth to say something. Closes it. Lets the screen door slam shut behind her. Joanne’s laughter fades.
Walking along the country road that leads from the house back towards town, Jasper’s not fully sure he likes how Lizzie has divided up Daddy’s land. The Turners rent and farm the north cornfields now. The Grays rent out the south acres to graze their longhorns. That’s how Lizzie scrapes by – those rents and the odd bits of mending she picks up. Not a good living but enough to scrape by. He can see that. Can see the stress of a hard life worn into her weathered skin. She’s not the sister he remembers. He respects her for that.
Around the house stretches unused prairie that was there even when Jasper was a boy. He likes that. Likes that she kept it, kept the wildness of it. Wishes all the land had grown wild like that, had never been farmed again.
When Daddy died, Jasper never went back out to work the fields. Didn’t feel right out there without him. Worked with Bobby for a couple years instead. A small garage in town. Grease on his hands all day instead of dirt. The hum of motors sparked to life. A part of him wonders if that’s why he watched his father die.
Jasper had looked on helpless as the heart attack shook all life from the big man’s frame. Daddy’s eyes had rolled back in his head till just the whites showed. Mouth moved and twisted as dried lips gasped for breath. Jasper had wondered if perhaps Daddy were praying under all that
pain. Jasper himself said no prayers. Just watched in silence till the tremors no longer spasmed through Daddy’s body. He’s thought back on that many times. Has often wondered why he didn’t pray. Has wondered, if he had, might Daddy have survived?
They were forty-five acres from the house when it happened. Ploughing season. Daddy fell right off the tractor, left arm clutched, face pale. Jasper could have run for help. He’s thought over that many times, too. Has asked himself what it means that he didn’t. If it means anything at all. Deep inside, Jasper knows nothing could have saved his daddy. When your time is up, it’s up. Nothing can save you. A simple fact. Praying, running, screams for help – all useless and he knows it. Jasper watched his father die. Simple as that.
It took only two minutes. Kneeling there, watching his father’s lips dry as they gasped for final breaths, Jasper did not shed one single tear. Not then. Not later. Not at the open casket or even back at the house during the after-funeral spread the church ladies had laid out. Mama cried, frail and white and lost in a sea of well-wished condolences. And Lizzie, eyes red with newly dried tears. At the funeral, behind his pulpit, Reverend Gordon had described Daddy as an ‘outstanding citizen’, a ‘man of morals’. Stretched truths at best. But Jasper had never been a man to cry. Had never been a man to hold grudges against kin. And he’d never been a man to run for help neither.
He asked that therapist once, the one in Huntsville sent that first year to evaluate his mental health. He asked him what it meant that he watched his father die. That he
didn’t run for help. But the therapist had just sat there in his pinstripe suit, peering down through bug-eyed glasses, marking things on a pad Jasper could not read. Eventually Bug Eyes had looked up at him, chewing on his pencil’s eraser, and had asked Jasper if his daddy had ever touched him ‘inappropriately’, and Jasper had laughed right in his fat face at the stupidity of such a question. His father never touched him. No slap. Or pat. Or hug goodnight. Even when he was young and acted up and Daddy had to put manners in him, it was always Daddy’s belt that touched Jasper, never Daddy’s hand. They shook
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