“How can they be sorry he’s gone?” I whispered.
“You’re almost done. Hang on for a few more minutes. We’ll walk through the reception then leave. Can you be my big boy for a little longer.” She teased me with my old childhood moniker even though I was twenty years old. Happy memories of better times made it impossible not to smile. If I remembered correctly, there was usually a cookie involved to convince me to behave.
I stared hopeful that there was something in the variety of a home-baked chocolate chip treat in her pocket. I loved those things. It took a moment, but she caught on and responded with a dramatic eye roll. “I’ll bake them for you when we get home.”
“Look at you, sproutin’ up like a beanstalk. Seems like you’ve outgrown your grandad,” Arnold Williams, a friend of my grandfather’s said from behind me. “How tall are you these days?”
Arnold stared up at me with a good-natured grin. He was thinner than I remembered, more wrinkled, and shorter too.
“He’s six-three and two hundred and thirty pounds. Can you believe it, Arnie?” my mom answered for me, again highlighting my lack of communication skill.
“I tend to keep my belly full,” I added with a nod, watching Arnold’s widening grin. With fewer teeth and less hair, his weathered face creased with amusement. A pang of sadness squeezed my heart, wishing either of my grandfathers could be there today. Had they survived, my life would have turned out so differently.
“I can sure see that.” He chuckled, then shifted his gaze toward the parking lot, hesitating before heading in that direction. “It’s chilly out here. I keep hearin’ that we’re warm for this time of year, but I think they got it wrong.”
“Thank you for coming today,” my mom said sweetly.
Arnold paused, gazing between me and my mom before focusing only on me. With his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his voice got stronger as he said, “You were good to him. He didn’t deserve it, especially separatin’ you from your mama.”
I let go of an unsteady breath. No one, except maybe Scott, ever saw it from my side. Others acted in awe of the athlete my father had created, or in the NFL vision he had for our future, but never for me alone.
A swell of anger built swiftly. I ground my teeth into the flesh of my mouth as a tidal wave of undealt with emotion threatened to pull me under.
Fortunately, my mother came to the rescue once again. “Thank you, Arnold. It’s been a challenging few years. We’re going to the reception area then taking off. Beau needs to put all of this behind him and begin to live the life he wants.”
Arnold patted my bicep and started toward the parking lot again. “You sure do.”
We walked the remaining distance to the reception area, which consisted of a giant tent placed close to the family burial plots. It was a true countryside gathering.
As I stood at the entry, I steadied myself, blocking my feelings. No more bursts of anger to contend with. My mom waited patiently at my side.
The crowds of mourners fell silent and shifted their attention toward me. Evidently, my reputation preceded me. I sensed their wariness. Nothing new there. Most people treated me as if I was one quake away from erupting.
Luckily, the strong tangy scent of fresh BBQ waffled through the tent, stealing my spotlight. Scott’s father, Mr. Lee, was grill-master of the day. The reigning Dog River Festival champion of Backyard BBQs for two years in a row.
Leaning down, I whispered quietly to my mom, “Don’t fix a plate no matter how good it smells. We’ll grab something on the way home.”
Her nod of agreement clearly indicated we were in sync, like usual. My light in an otherwise dark world. The insurmountably heavy burden my father placed on my shoulders was rapidly lifting in a wonderful and appreciated way. We entered the tent side by side. She effortlessly held the conversation as we did one complete pass of the dining space.
Ten minutes later, we were out on the other side of the tent with a to-go box big enough to feed a family of ten.
Ten. Ten.
Dasham.
Dash.
In an instant, Dash’s smiling face appeared vividly in my mind. My beacon in an otherwise lonely, lost life. Dash’s piercing blue eyes gave me a source of solace from the moment I was whisked away by my father.
After all these years, Dash still mattered. I wondered now if I could finally let him go.
One Week Later,
Birmingham, Alabama
“What about any of this?” I glanced over my shoulder toward Scott Lee who had his head stuck inside my father’s crappy old refrigerator. With the loud knocking the condenser made every time it came on, I was certain it was on its last leg. “It looks foul in here.”
“Go in careful,” I cautioned, lifting from the backbreaking work of scrubbing the grimy, crumbling forty-year-old linoleum floor. “There might be botulism inside there.” I raised then wiggled my yellow plastic gloved fingers to encourage him to grab a pair before diving in. “Glove up. Masks are over there too.”
