Miscellany XLI Spring 2021
The Literary and Art Journal at The College of Charleston Cover art by Sara Hart
Miscellany Staff Editor in Chief E. Mallory Berry
Managing Editor Patrick Wohlscheid
Submissions Manager Cora Schipa
Table of Contents Poetry First tastes. Everyday at dawn. Snare June 11 Exoskeleton Writer’s Blot Us morning walk If Rape Culture Didn’t Exist
Hannah Hanes Hannah Hanes Luke Shaw Brianna Weikel Casey Allen Luke Shaw Jamarkus Hall Sage Jadrnicek Taylor McElwain
page 9 page 13 page 14 page 15 page 20 page 21 page 22 page 25 page 26
Leak See Through Me
Sage Jadrnicek Sage Jadrnicek
page 11 page 12
Untitled Untitled Hippobus Rufus
Amber Schipa Amber Schipa Anne Davis Anonymous
page 17 page 18 page 19 page 23
FR80 Crew
Anonymous
page 24
Visual Art
Table of Contents Prose
The Last Two Years Genealogy
Mollie Pate Allen Duggar
page 1 page 27
The Last Two Years
Mollie Pate
For her two year anniversary, Harper rented an RV. She pulled it into the driveway on a Friday afternoon after work, hopping out of the driver’s seat and up the driveway to the front door. “Julia!” She called out breathlessly. Julia walked barefoot out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s up? I’m cooking dinner.” “I have a surprise for you.” “A surprise?” “Yeah, a surprise. A gift, of which you had no previous knowledge. Come on.” She led Julia to the driveway where the RV sat—an enormous, tacky thing with an orange racing stripe on the side. “Harper. What the hell were you thinking?” Harper frowned. “I was thinking we’d go camping.” Julia stared at the RV incredulously. “When?” “Uh… now. I already called your office and told them you’d be out on Monday.” “I have a presentation on Monday.” “Well, now you have a presentation on Tuesday.” “You should have asked.” “Are you serious? Just go pack some stuff Julia, you love camping.” “I love camping when I’m not swamped at work,” Julia retorted, but she obeyed and headed back up the drive to pack. Inside, their dinner was burning on the stove. They made their way down the coast, listening to old Johnny Cash albums on the CD player and discussing various plans of action depending on the possible weather conditions that weekend. Harper drove, with one hand resting calmly on the wheel, weaving in and out of the slow lane. Although she was a good driver, she was impatient, and sometimes tended to cut off other cars if she felt the traffic wasn’t moving fast enough. Julia sat in the passenger seat, pouring over the county park maps and circling the best campsites in red marker. Harper wove between the cliff sides, rolling down the windows so that the cool air of the Pacific Ocean wafted throughout the cabin like a dizzying perfume, and the calls of gulls sounded overhead. When they finally chose a campsite, they parked their RV amongst the others and set up their camping supplies outside, unfolding their portable picnic table and hanging a tarp hammock between two pine trees. “Looks great. That didn’t take long at all,” Harper said when they had finally finished setting up. Julia slipped off her sandals. “No, not too bad. Do you want to walk down to the beach?” They walked down the hill together through the trees, their hands brushing lightly as they made their way down to the water. It was a cool evening, and the sun was begin1
ning to set behind the clouds. They were alone on the beach, and they waded into the water until it was just lapping at their hips and the waves pulled at their t-shirts. When night finally fell, they climbed up onto a cluster of rocks and lay down together, eventually removing their clothes and bathing suits, feeling like giddy teenagers. Every once in a while, as the tide rose, an especially large wave would crash against the bottoms of the rocks and spray them with foam, and they lavished in the sticky sweetness of the salt water drying on their bare skin. Finally, they put their clothes back on and headed back up the hill towards the campsite, where Harper uncorked a bottle of champagne that she poured into two plastic cups. “How is it?” She asked, raising her cup to her lips. Julia swished the champagne around in her mouth, tasting it carefully and letting it fizzle out on her tongue. “Pretty decent.” Harper laughed. “Well, it’s gas station champagne, so I didn’t have super high hopes.” “Honestly, for gas station champagne… it’s not too bad.” Julia ran her fingers back and forth along her skin, feeling the grit of leftover salt and sand. “Better that god awful wine they served at your cousin’s wedding reception last May.” “Who uses merlot for their toast? I don’t know what they were thinking.” “They should’ve just had an open bar.” Harper snorted. “So tacky. The whole weekend was a disaster. And of course we got in a car wreck the next day.” Julia gave her a puzzled look. “What?” “That’s the weekend we totaled the car. Driving home from the wedding.” Julia paused for a moment, irritated. “That’s not when that happened. We crashed the car in January. Actually, correction, you crashed the car because you were going 100 in a 75.” “It was after the wedding. I’m positive. I feel like I would remember.” Julia looked incredulous. “You think you would remember? I had to spend the night in the hospital! They thought I had a brain bleed!” Harper rolled her eyes. “Okay, they said there was a possibility you had a mild concussion. Which you didn’t.” “I don’t see how it makes a difference.” “Pretty big difference.” “I don’t know how you’ve managed to live this long. I swear you exist in your own world.” “Because we’re disagreeing on a date?” Blood rushed to Julia’s face. “Because you’re never paying attention. And it may come as a shock to you, but we can’t all live like that, because we have responsibilities, and 2
jobs—” “Is this about the presentation?” Harper laughed angrily, her face growing hot. “I’m up for a promotion.” “Well, I’m so sorry that I’ve apparently completely derailed your career by asking you to miss one day of work. I do hope they’ll take you back.” Julia stomped out of the camper, slamming the door behind her. “I’m sleeping in the hammock,” she said over her shoulder. “And we’re leaving tomorrow morning.” *** Julia and Harper met when they were both twenty-six years old, when Harper was bartending at the local dive and Julia was working on her graduate degree in anthropology. When she’d told her that, Harper had asked her what she planned to do in the field, and she told her she had no idea. Not a big planner? She’d asked. Julia answered that she wasn’t one to stress about the future. She ordered a martini, extra dirty, even though she’d never even had one and had no idea if she would even like it, but this bartender seemed so suave and mature, and she wanted to appear sophisticated. The bartender—Harper, according to her nametag—poured each ingredient effortlessly, her fiery red hair resting gently on her shoulders. 2 ounces gin. Half ounce vermouth. Half ounce olive brine. Shaken and poured into a frosty martini glass. She topped it with a skewer of olives and slid the drink across the bar to Julia. “Thanks,” she said, afraid to meet her gaze. She sipped it cautiously and resisted the urge to make a face. God, people actually drank these? Harper smirked. “I can make you a cosmo instead.” “No, no, it’s really good. I love it.” She took a big gulp and winced. “You don’t strike me as a seasoned drinker.” “Mm. You’re very perceptive. Yeah, I don’t get out a lot. Grad school and all that. Not a lot of time for exploring the local flavor.” “Not sure you’re missing out on a whole lot,” Harper laughed. She was right. The bar was coated in a layer of grime that probably dated back thirty years, and Julia was sure there was some new strain of disease lurking on the pool tables and pinball machines. She didn’t even know why she was here, but it was finals week and she was going crazy cooped up in her apartment, so she’d gone for a walk and ended up here. This girl didn’t look like she belonged here either. This place seemed grizzled and dated, its patrons seeming to be comprised mostly of old sailors and biker clubs. This girl was young, and for all her sharp features, she still looked delicate. “Are you in school?” Julia asked her. Harper began mixing some cheap liquor and bitters and adding them to a shaker. 3
“I got my undergraduate degree. I mean barely, but I got it. Astronomy.” She poured the mixture into a pint glass and clinked it against Julia’s martini. “Astronomy?” “Super interesting, terrible investment. So I just decided to cut my losses when it comes to higher education. So for now… this.” She gestured around vaguely. “So, what do you do when you’re not devoting yourself to your studies? Drink martinis?” She grinned. Julia scoffed. “Hardly. I was dating someone in undergrad, but that seems like forever ago now.” Harper studied her curiously. “What happened?” “Well, I think we just wanted different things. She wanted to go to New York for her music and I wanted to finish school. So I told her to go to New York. I heard she’s doing well. I haven’t spoken to her in a while.” Julia trailed off as she raised the martini glass to her lips. Harper nodded slowly, pondering that. “Another drink?” Later that night, they lay entangled in Harper’s bed, Julia tracing her crimson hair all the way down her back. She gazed lazily around the room, looking at her framed pictures—high school graduation, first Halloween, 13th birthday party. A poster for an old rock band that had obviously been packed and unpacked countless times hung above the desk, which was scattered with dance trophies and various medals. Inside her jewelry box, an old corsage from her senior prom peeked out. She tucked a strand of Harper’s hair behind her ear. “Who was the last person you dated?” “No one all that seriously. I had a boyfriend for a few years in high school, but I was hooking up with my best friend in the back of her station wagon the whole time we were together.” Julia burst out laughing. “You’re kidding. Did he ever figure it out?” “Oh yeah. He walked in on me going down on her in the bathroom on my eighteenth birthday. Very awkward. Completely ruined graduation.” They stared at each other in silence for a moment, then dissolved into laughter. *** “We’re going to be late,” Julia muttered as she touched up her lipstick in the hall mirror. “They’ve gotta be here. What the hell? Did someone sneak in and hide them?” “This is why we have a basket. If you’d just put the keys in the basket as soon as you came in the door, you wouldn’t have this problem.” Harper fumed as she tore up couch cushions and tossed throw blankets across the floor. “They’re here, I know they are.” 4
“We’ve had these tickets for three months. I don’t understand why you never think about these things ahead of time. Now we’re going to miss the overture.” “Oh, God forbid Julia misses the fucking overture. It’s not like you’ve seen the show five fucking times.” “It’s my birthday!” She tapped her foot impatiently and sniffed the air. “The litter box stinks. You were supposed to clean it today.” “Found them. Let’s go.” When the play ended and they stepped out of the theater in the cold air, Harper wrapped her coat around Julia’s shoulders, smoothing her hair down gently. “So, what’d you think?” Julia grinned. “It was amazing.” “Just as good as the other times?” “Better.” “Well, except for the baby crying during the third act. So obnoxious. There’s a special place in hell for people that bring babies to the theater.” “It wasn’t that bad. Besides, that’s probably gonna be us in a couple years, so I wouldn’t get too critical.” At home, Julia poured two glasses of cabernet and looked across the bar at Harper, who was gazing out the window absentmindedly. “You didn’t really say anything earlier.” Harper looked back at her and took a sip of wine. “Hm?” “Earlier, when we were leaving the theater, and I said the thing about kids. You didn’t say anything.” “Oh. Sorry.” “Well, you want that too, right?” Harper scraped at a soap spot on her wine glass. “Yeah.” “That wasn’t very enthusiastic.” She’d attempted to say it with a joking tone, but there was something accusatory underneath. “Well, how should I have said it?” Harper asked. “I don’t know. Like you meant it, I guess.” “Sorry. I’ll try to be more enthusiastic.” “Okay, well you don’t have to be snarky about it.” “Snarky?” “Yeah, snarky.” “Jesus Christ, Julia, I wasn’t trying to be snarky, I just don’t know what you want me to say.” “I want you to say more than that!” Julia set her wine glass down quickly on the counter. “I’m trying to talk to you about this like, major thing, and it’s like you don’t even care.” 5
“Why is it so important to you? Is it that imperative that we have some snotty, crying kid running around draining our savings and turning us grey-haired?” “So you don’t want kids.” “I didn’t say that. “Close enough.” “Now who’s being snarky?” “Did something happen to you in your childhood? Like your parents fought too much or you had some creepy uncle who got a little too handsy with you? I just don’t understand what could have happened to make you feel this way.” “Why did something have to happen? What, I had to have some kind of traumatic childhood experience or something to make me not want to be a mother? What if I don’t want kids purely because I just don’t? It’s not like every woman is born to be a mother, or even wants to be. That doesn’t mean there’s something inherently damaged about me.” “Well how come you’ve never brought this up before? This seems like the kind of thing you should have shared a long time ago.” “I didn’t think it was relevant.” “You didn’t think it was relevant.” She paused between each word. “Would it have changed anything?” “Yeah, Harper, it probably would have.” Harper stared at her in disbelief. “Right, so if I’d told you four years ago that I didn’t want kids, we wouldn’t be here right now?” “I’m not sure. I probably would have given it a little more thought.” Julia didn’t look Harper in the eye. She regretted the words nearly the second they left her mouth. Harper wavered. “Alright. So where does that leave us?” “I’m not sure Harp. I don’t think it leaves us anywhere. *** In their first year together, in the middle of the night, Julia and Harper often walked together, hand in hand down the road at night, strolling under the shadows of streetlights and pondering aloud to each other what kind of people might be asleep in each house. Julia would laugh breathlessly at everything Harper said, and when their voices grew too loud and someone turned on their front porch light, they would cackle and break into a run, feeling very much like children again. On an uncharacteristically warm night in the spring, as they wound around the neighboring streets of Harper’s apartment, they came to a dead end of a dirt road, at the end which stood a looming water tower. Julia sighed as they came to the end of the path, then swiveled on her heels. “Alright. Let’s head back.” 6
“Why? Let’s take a look around,” Harper said, continuing on ahead of her. Julia cocked her head. “At what? The water tower?” “Yeah, it looks interesting.” “I’m not sure what could be so interesting about it,” Julia mumbled, but she quickened her pace to catch up nonetheless. Harper studied the tower carefully for a moment, then wrapped a delicate hand around the peeling paint of the ladder and reached up with her other arm to grab the next rung. Julia jerked her hand back. “What the hell are you doing?” “What? It’s not dangerous. They must have like, maintenance guys up there all the time. Come on.” She continued on climbing, and finally, Julia followed after her hesitantly. When they reached the top, they sat down together and swung their legs over the side, so that their legs dangled above the ground, their shoulders touching. Harper pulled a pack of cigarettes from her jeans pocket and lit one, then held it out to Julia. Julia took it and raised it to her lips. “You’re supposed to be quitting.” “Last pack. You have to savor the last few, or else you never quit. You can’t just stop—you have to decide that this is the end.” Julia took a long drag. “Interesting theory. Not sure there’s any science to back that up.” “You’ll see. This is the last pack.” Julia shrugged. “You know the lease on my apartment is up next month.” “Oh?” Julia stared ahead. “Are you going to renew it?” “Well, I wanted to ask what you thought. Because there’s this other one bedroom house in my complex, and it’s a little bigger, and I was just thinking maybe if there was someone with me we could save on utilities,” She paused, waiting for Julia to respond, then added quickly, “Unless you think it’s a bad idea, in which case I totally understand, because we really haven’t been together that long, and now that I saw it out loud it sounds sort of stupid honestly.” “I think it sounds like a great idea,” Julia said casually. “I love saving on… utilities.” Harper laughed. “Okay. I’ll tell my landlord.” “Okay. Great.” Julia smiled, and they were quiet for a moment. “We should get a cat.” “A cat?” “Or a kitten. I’ve always wanted one. I always see them having pet drives at the animal shelter off highway 30.” Harper pondered that. “I’d be down for a cat. I always liked animals, but I never had any growing up.” Julia traced Harper’s hand with hers, affectionately taking note of every groove and 7
imperfection. “All right. Let’s get a cat.”
8
First tastes. Sometimes they’re like going home after, a long trip filmed on your hair your clothes your skin. travel clings in a way normal dirt never will it all seems so foreign now the way we jostled together like sardines tangled up with shoulders and luggage ensnared underfoot [sometimes] the world flies quickly in train stations all the ants milling about with somewhere to be — and it’s so easy for a city that draws eyes like portraiture to break a long trip still filmed like a fresh spoon to old stew—this is the best station food I’ve ever had crumb feta and portabella and figs and arugula tumbling in every direction off the plate. it all seems so foreign now—how hours passed like strangers clutching tickets gently pushing through bodies unaware of the fingers clasped inside their pockets —and like friends brushing cheeks like the hot breath of an old women in your ear like cloth over coffee rings on the table 9
Hannah Hanes
first tastes linger in departures from cities that paint your concrete expanse even slip stars from broken glass or loose change reflecting from the platform off the homebound train.
10
Leak
11
Sage Jadrnicek
See Through Me
Sage Jadrnicek
12
Everyday at dawn. It is quiet here at 7 am when you’re walking home and when you’re leaving it. I remember when I started turning left at the sun rise and the salon skipped right over a moonset theatre for women cutting, coloring, combing, and cackling. For the scraggly grey man and mutt poking holes in the gutter, for a teddy bear leaning out his second-story window. I remember when I started crossing the bridge above the tracks to pass the warmly lit glassing in of a torn paper, a children’s drawing chandelier. Here I catch the wandering eye of a tiger in a cage. Here I pass the welder and the cubist, a secret garden, steeple of femininity. And maybe one day I’ll write an ode to this monsieur and his dirty hair, nothing but a scarf and a cigarette, who sits here every day at dawn and tastes mourning salinity. We are looking at the same sea but he is looking at a woman. She is there too on an evening after rain when lava lamp skies turn stones to roses. She swallows the city like light under algae-slick arches like dirt in the cobbles like my heart like the albatross and his fish.
13
Hannah Hanes
Snare Luke Shaw Hold her as if she were a bird cup your hands around her feathered breast But don’t bend her wings. Remember me, my hollow boned companion. Chirp again.
14
June 11 Brianna Weikel He sat on the park bench It was dark Inside And out His friend At the age Of twelve Killed yesterday He didn’t want to go home No one was looking for him And no one could see Through the breaking He sat on the park bench It was pitch black He couldn’t see Through the breaking He felt the weight Of loss Of confusion Of the bag laid next to him The bag contained The thing he feared And the one thing That could save his friend It will save him When he’s 15 He kills For the first time He kills for His friend And his own life 15
Was saved He sat on the park bench It was mid-day He could see, but he couldn’t feel Through the breaking The breaking of his chest As he heard the bang That split Through the two parts of his heart The parts that were already broken When he found his friend At twelve The papers will say “Dead at 18”
16
Untitled
17
Amber Schipa
Untitled
Amber Schipa
18
Hippobus Anne Davis
19
Exoskeleton Casey Allen Stained glass and pearls, How glamorous this life is! Like bugs in amber casing, Dresses stay in garment bags And jewelry needs dusting. The aroma of lavender and jasmine Is the loudest smell in the room, Wax melts and the bath swells. Champagne floods sparkling glasses, And nails stay painted. A relaxing life still doomed to maintenance. But I do it for myself! You declare. The feeling of eyes bore into you, The voices and the gaze you cannot escape, Trap you like the straps on your favorite heels. The mirror reflects not just yourself, But the criticisms of others. Like bugs in amber casing, Our shell cannot always protect us.
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Writer’s Blot Luke Shaw I am fine here— suspended in thought and marooned in time. Stranded with one paper white bullet lying in the chamber. With a flash of black ink and a cloud of chemicals, it travels down the ancient barrel. Where it will lodge itself— I do not know. Not until I feel the oily ink puddle in the center of my chest. O light—my paramedic— take up your quill and dip into my heart.
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Us
Jamarkus Hall
You know it’s already bad enough that you already see Us as thugs or already have our image villainized and brutalized in the media. It’s hard enough in the education system because whenever we say we want to become a teacher or counselor they would always say that’s a little weird or creepy...... because you know it’s kinda obvious you rarely see men that look like us working with children and young teens who use to be Us because the media put out images that we are all deadbeats or always angry, and even portrayed as sexual predators and deadbeat fathers or we lust after some person that don’t even look or like Us as we look in the mirror I’m telling you that those stereotypes are not true and will not be tolerated by Us As I graduate from the College of Charleston in 2022 with my head held high to the sky As I go into my job interview with my Afro or Cornrows, they might judge me at first, but they will see my intelligence and that I want to teach young people of color. They will see I don’t believe in those negative images on television or on the internet about Us. I encourage Us to look in the mirror and you will see greatness that greatness is Us!
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Rufus Anonymous
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FR80 Crew
Anonymous
24
morning walk men perched on ladders shed the yellow house’s skin snakes weave black bodies through green threads pulled taut by the mouths of mourning doves
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Sage Jadrnicek
If Rape Culture Didn’t Exist
Taylor McElwain
things i would do if i was a man things i would do if rape culture didn’t exist: jog the bike path sleep on the beach go dancing by myself park in parking garages take the trash out at night not reach for my pepper spray when a man is behind me for two or more blocks not have pepper spray at all never look at my three closest friends and wonder which one of us will be a victim of sexual violence (one in four, right?) wear whatever i wanted without wondering how a judge and jury would react to my outfit, wondering if they’d deem my skirt too short and infer that i was therefore asking for it say “i’m not interested” instead of “i have a boyfriend” because being another man’s possession isn’t safer than just not being into him walk down the street without being catcalled by a middle aged man and then slut-shamed by his wife. be unburdened, not knowing a million little tips so i don’t “let myself ” be assaulted (throw up, men don’t like gross girls.) (scream “fire”— no one cares if it’s “rape.”) exist in a world that is safe. exist in a world where my continued bodily safety, and the safety of every woman, is not up in the air.
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Genealogy
Allen Duggar
I was among those who didn’t make the cut to attend the service in person. As of the week before the funeral, the state of Florida banned indoor gatherings of more than ten people, and since four were taken up by the pastor and musicians, third grandchild was not a close enough relation to the deceased to merit my inclusion. Instead I was at my grandparents’ house on the goat farm with my brother Matthew, Cousin Jack, his wife Charlotte, and a slew of assorted relations and various friends of my late Grandfather’s. The house was simple. There were some black and white wedding photos flanked by a group photo of my cousin and siblings and a late seventies snapshot of my Dad and Aunt in their teens. Apart from that, the living room walls were bare. There was an old recliner in the corner, now occupied by an older man who I didn’t recognize but figured must be a cousin of some flavor and two couches set across from one another. A fake log sat in the small fireplace which had gone unused for some time. I had set up my laptop on the coffee table to watch the funeral, and on the screen all that was visible was the little lectern, the casket in front of it, a handmade tapestry of the cross likely constructed by a profitable partnership of the Ladies’ Club and the children’s Sunday School, and of course the stocky preacher who presided over it all. Grandma, Dad, Aunt Kim, and the others present were all strategically placed behind the shot. I suppose that was so that nobody would see them crying, but this answer puzzled me because I couldn’t imagine anyone being embarrassed at crying at their own husband’s or father’s funeral. After a while, the thump of a shutting Bible punctuated the close of the eulogy. Two men and a lady with a guitar got up to join the pastor in singing the final hymn. “When I die, hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away!” The last notes of the song cracked through my laptop’s speakers as we all kneeled around the living room to listen to the end of the ceremony. As the musicians sat down, I realized that the aspect ratio of the video must be from an iPhone camera, and I wondered whose it could be. Before I came to any conclusion, the preacher approached the microphone once again. “As you know, Brother Freddie was a great lover of gospel music, so it has been an honor to sing for you all this morning.” As he spoke, I could hear the uncomfortable movements of the people offscreen who seemed anxious to get to the end. He continued, “Before we go, we want to extend our deepest condolences to Sister Peggy and her family in this time of grief, made even harder by the Covid keepin most of us apart. I hope you all will find the time to pray on Miss Peggy in the comin days.” He made a gesture with his hand to get the attention of the pallbearers before carrying on his benediction, “and with that I will dismiss you in the name of your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, in the words of the Book of Numbers, I pray that ‘the Lord will bless you and keep you and make his face shine upon, and grant you everlasting peace.’ Amen.” And with that flourish, six men hoisted the casket onto their shoulders and started their march out, and the bright suited little Pastor of Lake Mystic Baptist Church marched to the aisle of the squat 27
A-frame building and turned off the camera. The screen went black; I leaned forward and shut my laptop. Now that the service was over, the whole family was invited to a burial out in the overgrown graveyard of the church. I stepped outside with Matthew and Cousin Jack to the old, red GMC Canyon that sat parked in a pole barn out a hundred yards down the gravel driveway. We all went in the garage door. With the truck was a Farm-All tractor from the 50s that Grandad kept running for sentimentality’s sake. The last few months had been rough on the rest of the little place. It used to be perfectly clean, with each tool meticulously hung in its place on the vast network of pegboard that lined the wall. While Grandpa had been in and out of the hospital though, a thick layer of dust had fallen over everything, and bright green kudzu had conquered the outer walls of the barn. The old truck was what Grandpa used to ride out to the Hammock to do farmwork. The whole family used a swampy tract of land beside the Apalachicola for beekeeping and cane growing, and it was also the site of many an ill-fated hunting trip for my dad and me. I was used to riding in that truck with Grandpa driving and his loyal dog, Louise, riding in the back for a “field trip,” though it was never nearly as fun as the field trips I took in school. Usually it was to toss some corn for the deer, clean up the honey house, or some other such chore. This was my last field trip, I guessed. We came up to the truck, a little dusty but in good shape for being as old as I am, I hopped in the driver’s seat. I cranked it up and some light country music seeped out of the speakers – Hank Williams, I think. As I lifted my foot off the break, I realized that I didn’t know how to get to the church. I’ll never admit to my father that I couldn’t navigate his hometown even though it had only one stoplight, but the truth was, I had never paid much attention to Bristol in my many trips down to visit my grandparents. I choose instead to read or tramp around the garden that sat behind the farmhouse. “Does anyone know how to get there?” I asked, only a little embarrassed. “Uh yeah,” said Jack who had lived near Bristol his whole life. “Take a right when you come out of the driveway.” I obeyed wordlessly. Jack was raised in Altha, about five miles away, so he had always been close to Grandma and Grandpa. His father, my Uncle Clifford, was a supervisor on a corporate soybean farm where Jack worked for a little while after graduating High School. Eventually, though, a worker’s comp settlement allowed him to go back to school where he studied something with computers. He was working at a Christian radio station in Tallahassee these days. As I drove, I looked over at my brother who sat with his back towards me in the passenger seat. He rested his forehead on the window glass and peered silently out onto the peanut and cotton fields that spanned the vast gaps between resolute houses. He played offensive line on the high school football team, and his hulking body took up his whole little section of the cab. A couple of schools were looking at him, South Alabama, 28
University of Louisiana at Lafayette, but he was holding out for some big-name SEC school if he could. At the very least, he didn’t want anything that had to have a regional qualifier in the name. After a couple of miles, I broke the hush. “Matty, you know, I’ve been doing some genealogy research, and I was able follow our family tree all the way back to Norman England.” “Oh, yeah,” he replied quietly, as if he had dropped the word and then bent over to pick it back up. “You know we are the descendants of the nobility,” I explained. I didn’t reckon he was particularly interested, but I continued anyway to maintain anything of a conversation. “They’ve all got fancy French names,” I said as I hit the automatic windshield washer to clear away some of the dust. The green and purple flecked fluid hit the window and immediately turned brown as it was shuffled away by the wiper blades. I continued “they’re all Sir this and Viscount of that and so on and so forth, but I’m wondering how we got from those high bred folks to Liberty County?” “Somebody must have started marrying white trash,” Jack chimed in with a bit of a grin on his face. Matthew nodded his general assent but didn’t offer any of his own commentary. I laughed in a sort of reflexive self-deprecation (a trait that ran in most Southern families of a humble origin), but there was a certain bitterness in his voice which suggested that Jack didn’t care much for the discussion. “Take a right up here by the Dollar General,” he said. “I read about this one guy, Alaine de Breton, who got stabbed in a church by one of his knights,” I said, trying to redirect towards family history. “Isn’t that pretty crazy?” “You know, it’s funny,” Jack interrupted, leaning over the console from the backseat. “You know all this stuff about medieval guys, but you don’t even know how to get to the church that your great grandparents founded and the family has attended for over a hundred years.” He chuckled a little bit. I don’t think he meant that remark to be ugly, but clearly, he had had enough of genealogy for the day. I mustered up a light laugh in response but held my tongue for the rest of the ride. Even though I could see it by then, Jack made a point of gesturing out the window to the white church. “Ok, it’s up here on the left,” he announced proudly. The graveyard was just an open field, no fence around it, no gate to get in, and besides headstones, no real distinction made between it and the parking lot. I imagined there were a couple hundred graves, but there was ample room between them, so my estimate may have been off. Many of the tombstones were shaped like gaudy little hearts or had cherubim carved into them in cartoon style. Many more were adorned with little nylon roses that had been stained and torn by the weather such that they were threadbare. To its credit, it looked like it had been mowed recently, which was better than the last time I 29
had walked through it for the anniversary of my great grandfather’s death last year. I guess Grandpa was of high enough stature in the church, that the preacher saw it fit to get out the bush hog and clean the place up a little bit. At the graveside, I saw few of the people whose names and faces I saw occasionally cycled through on the top of my Zoom screen a half hour before. I was glad. Frankly, I barely knew any of them, having seen them only as part of the obligatory grandchild parade around the after-church conversations that my grandmother had whenever we were in town. Anyway, I didn’t have the energy to keep up the small talk until each of my third cousins and acquaintances of the deceased felt better about having sufficiently and politely expressed their grief to us grandkids. The particulars of the interment were not much different from the inside event, so I spent the most of the time studying the logo of Hoffman Funeral Home which was printed in great block letters on the backs of each chair. Before it was time to lay him in the dirt, though, my grandma insisted the casket be opened for each of us to get a look at him one more time before we saw him again in Kingdom Come. His embalmed face was gray like pecan bark, and his mouth sat very slightly open such that it made me pretty uncomfortable to look at him. They dressed him up like the Deacon that he was – charcoal suit and a wide teal tie with reading glasses still perched on his nose. I had to laugh about the glasses because I don’t know whether they were meant to read some fine print in the velvet lining of the coffin, or the folks at the mortuary thought his eyes would still need corrective lenses in Glory. After I took my seat, they lowered him into the mud, proclaimed the obligatory “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and we were on our way. Dad drove the truck back to the house, and the first leg of the trip was silent. Eventually, he said, “Nice service, wasn’t it?” We all murmured our agreement out of obligation. In the quiet, I tried to take in Bristol as much as I could. Luckily, there wasn’t much beyond the main drag, so I got to see nearly all of it on my ride. There were three gas stations all competing for passers through at the one intersection in town with a traffic light between Highways 20 and 17. Beside one is a little strip of shops housing Hi-Tek Vape, Lou’s Bait and Tackle, and a Family Dollar. We rode by a Methodist church that only has services once a month when the circuit rider rotates into town and a Pentecostal church that has services 5 times a week. Finally, we came up to the two nicest buildings in town, the Ace Hardware and the Bristol Post Office, the only one in the county. Riding down Highway 20 was generally unexciting. There were a few gravel driveways that branched off occasionally from the road and led back to trailers or prefab houses whose designs repeated themselves every couple of miles. The one thing that caught my eye was a sun-bleached billboard whose lettering was still barely legible. “See the Garden of Eden! Right in 2 Miles.” We saw it every time we were in Bristol. When we passed it in the car, I knew we were only a few minutes away from the farm, but I never really thought 30
about how strange it was for an Eden-themed attraction to be hiding out in the woods in the middle of no place. “Why haven’t we ever been out to the Garden of Eden?” I asked to no one in particular. “We pass the sign every time we’re here.” “Well, the main reason is that the place closed down when I was in elementary school,” Jack said. “You might not have even been born yet.” The fields turned into shaded woods, and the truck got noticeably cooler. “It’s a nature preserve run by the state now though, y’all ought to go see it next time y’all’re here.” “Back in middle school, we used to go there on church trips,” Dad added. “It was pretty cheesy, you know.” We drove past an unassuming gravel driveway in the forest that was marked with a brown sign announcing the Liberty State Forest Preserve. “It had these hand made wooden cutouts of Adam and Eve and all of the rest of them,” he continued. “They were all painted by the crazy amateur preacher who ran the place, and they looked so flat and everything.” The shady woods slowly faded back into soybean fields as the truck puttered down the road. When we got back to the farmhouse, Matthew and I decided to skip the greetings as much as we could. The travel and ceremony had been exhausting, and neither of us was in the mood to chat with a bunch of relatives that we didn’t know well. Such things always devolved into each of us taking turns to explain what we were doing in college or hearing various stories from when the family member in question had met us when we were toddlers. We walked back to the living room to see if we could sneak a quick snack from the platters of fried chicken, deviled eggs, and brownies that had been left by someone at the church. As I reached for a slice of pound cake, a white-haired man came up behind me and said, “Now which one is Eli, and which one is Matt?” “I’m Eli; he’s Matthew,” I replied bracing myself for the awkward chitchat to come. “Well, good to see you two again. I’m your Cousin Tommy. Well, I guess I ain’t your cousin, technically speaking, since I’m your Grandad’s cousin,” he said as he pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. “Y’all remember me?” A brief, but uncomfortable pause followed this seemingly innocent question. “I’m afraid not.” I looked around for any excuse to leave, and I found it in my Dad headed out the backdoor. “Oh,” he replied with a mixture of mild disappointment and utter determination to recount every meeting we’ve had in the past. “It sure is nice to see you though,” I said as cheerily as I could manage. “I’ve got to head outside to help my dad with supper, but I hope I can catch up with you soon!” I had no such intention. Matt and I followed Dad out the backdoor to the cook-room which was separate from the house but attached by the carport. Inside was a cramped kitchen space that 31
served to keep the heat of cooking out of the house during the summer months. The house was built before air-conditioning, or at least before it was available in rural Florida, so it made sense to have a separate cooking space from the house. Today, though, it functioned to provide me with the necessary shelter from the polite conversation of a funeral reception. I took a seat at the picnic table that I’m sure my Grandpa salvaged from a park or a church or something. It was covered in a plastic tablecloth to cover the deteriorating wood. There were a couple of windows propped open with screens to keep the bugs out as a small, but welcome cross breeze meandered through the little room. Despite the safeguard, a few bugs still orbited around the hanging metal light fixtures and occasionally darted down to buzz by my ear. As he checked the pot of greens and put on the pork tenderloin that had been kindly donated by the ladies at the church, Dad began to address us in a serious but compassionate voice that only a father can muster up. “Boys,” he said, “your Granddad was a very good man, and I hope that the number of people who came or logged on today, from the Ministry Center, the wild game suppers, and his coworkers at the Highway Patrol and things, proved that to you.” He reached up and grabbed a slotted wooden from a rack that hung over the sink. The greens swirled around and over themselves as the steam coming from the pot filled the dusty room with the acidic smell of collards. “He was a man who always kept Jesus in mind whenever he did something,” he said, using the spoon to gesture to the ceiling. As he talked on, I noticed a jar on top of the cabinet. In it there was the head of a rattlesnake, pickled, and with a toothpick propping open its capacious mouth so that it seemed to have three fangs rather than two. I nudged Matt and gestured to it. “Yeah, that’s always been up there,” he whispered annoyedly. “Haven’t you ever been out here before?” “Of course I have, I guess I just never noticed it.” I fell into a daze staring at it. It seemed to bounce slightly in the formaldehyde as if it was being suspended in the fluid by some magical force. A yellow shadow danced on the wall in the evening sun that cracked in through the window. It was repulsing, but at the same time so enchanting that I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. Dad droned on about his father, and his Heavenly Father, and the whole lineage of Singletarys that came before us. “Dad, why is there a dead snake on top of the cabinet?” I interrupted. With an amused smile he replied, “Son, don’t you know that a snake head keeps the haints away?” He chuckled a little to himself and plucked the jar from its resting place. Setting it on the table, he went back to his cooking, now turning his attention to the rice on the stove. “Don’t you think we’re a little past believing in haints?” I held it and was surprised by the weight of it. I tried to turn the jar so that the snake looked away from me, but only the glass rotated, not the contents. Matthew scrolled through something on his phone, 32
occasionally typing and smiling at a message or a meme. “You might be, and I might be too, but remember that your Grandpa grew up in a very different time than either of us did.” He cut off the stove and turned around, spoon still in hand. His face glistened in the light of the setting sun and betrayed the fatigue of a newly minted patriarch. He had organized the funeral, arranged for me and my siblings to fly here, drove ten hours, and buried his father all in the span of three days. “He didn’t have electricity until he was fourteen years old. He didn’t have access to any books, other than the Bible, I guess, so he just believed those old stories about ghosts and demons.” The pots and pans simmered down on the stove, and he pulled the pork out of the oven and allowed the baking sheet to clang down on a trivet that he set out on the counter. “They were a lot closer to the land back then. Your Grandad used to tell me about how he used to have to dig a potato bank every fall. Do you even know what that is?” I looked up from the jar and shook my head. “It’s a pit in the ground lined with pine straw separating layers of potatoes,” he explained. “That’s the only way they would have enough to eat for the winter.” He sat down on the bench seat next to me. Matt put down his phone and locked the screen looking at us quietly. After two or three minutes, Dad stood up, grabbing the pot of rice with the pork balanced on top, and headed back for the house. “Supper’s ready. Y’all grab the collards and dirty dishes.” Matthew and I stayed in the cook-room for a moment. I stood up on my toes and returned the snake to its rightful position guarding the dusty room from the top of the cabinets. We gathered up everything else and followed Dad inside. The screen door slapped behind us. *** The next day, I rode with my dad to Tallahassee to catch a flight home. As we crossed over the Apalachicola, the early morning sun cast orange and pink all over the bluffs, and the river reflected the early morning warmth. I fell asleep for most of the trip, and woke up as the car slowed into the airport drop-off area. My dad and I both got out to fetch my luggage from the trunk. He hugged me and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m staying in Bristol for a while,” he said. “I’ve got to take care of the estate and make sure your Grandma is doing alright.” I nodded my head, now covered by my mask. “And make sure you call her sometime when you get back. I know she’ll want to hear from you soon.” His tone was almost solemn as he offered his final admonition, “Be good.” We hugged again, and I stepped into the brown and grey of the dated airport. I got everything in order, slipped on a cloth mask, and stepped into the security line. When my time came, I boarded a Boeing 727 headed for home. 33
*** About a week after I got home, I got a package in the mail. My schedule had been so busy since I got home. I had three days’ worth of classwork to make up, friends who wanted to make up for a lost weekend to hang out with, and air travel to sleep off. I hadn’t even unpacked my duffle bag. Most of all, I just wanted a little quiet and time to think, but I was finding that hard to come by recently. My phone buzzed, and I saw an automatic email alerting me as to a package downstairs waiting on me. I slipped on my tennis shoes and went downstairs. When I came back, I snuck through my common room to avoid disturbing my roommates. I slipped into my tiny bedroom and flipped the package onto my twin bed. I fished around my desk drawer for my pocket knife and carefully opened the padded envelope. In it was an ancient King James Bible and a check for $65. My inheritance. I put the bible on my little bookshelf, deposited the check on my bank’s app, and dialed up a call for Bristol.
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