End of the Road Page 16

  I turned around and began to walk out of the room. I felt a hand on my right shoulder. It was the groom. –“Where are you going? Your seat is right next to ours! Please, join us!” I was moved.

  I could hear the clinking noise of glasses and the pecking of forks and knives on the plates…it was like music from heaven to me.

  Addys María’s mother and father had made an extreme effort to be civil to each other. They were quietly standing behind me. The old man pulled me by my right ear and said to me –“Son, I always thought you were a bit of a goofball. I guess I was wrong!” How flattering!

  The bride and groom handed me a present. I was ordered to open it on the spot. It was a ladle with the inscription “Dave, Chef Extraordinaire.” I still have it in my kitchen.

  I scanned the room from left to right looking for my mom. From the distance, she blew me a kiss. I could barely speak. Godwall traded seats with the groom’s father and moved next to me. –“Somebody needs to keep you watered, my fellow chef!” Indeed!

  There was one person I wanted to see. Actually, there was a person I wanted to be seen by, to be exact. Where was he? I felt a familiar heavy hand on my left shoulder. –“I almost missed the wedding waiting for you to come by so I could tell you the secret for pulling this off, chef!” Godwall asked my dad to sit down. –“Only for a moment, Godwall. Don’t go far” dad said.

  I smiled. I had long realized that the secret had been revealed to me a long time ago. Dad was making sure I understood the heavy side of this new profession I was thinking of choosing over teaching.

  Après moi, le déluge…

  After it was all over, I took stock of the whole experience. One the plus side, I had now more confidence in my cooking abilities and I had helped a great friend. I had also made my mother very proud and showed my father that I was a man. The dinner had been an outstanding success. Before the night was over, I had my coat pockets stuffed with girls’ phone numbers and with serious requests for me to cook at other weddings, birthday parties and professional events. On the negative side, fed-up with the inordinate amount of time I was spending wrapped up in the preparation for the wedding, my girlfriend had broken up with me just the day before the party. I was totally drained both mentally and physically.

  Yes, I could be a chef if I decided to become one. I had proved that to myself. However, it was time for me and me alone to decide if I wanted to be a chef or a teacher. That “Oprah Moment”, as I can call it now, marked the beginning and the end of what some 35 years later–more than an exciting adventure of my youth–feels like a faded dream.

  The Loss of a Good Friend

  All that matters now is that I’m back at the airport heading for my home in Las Vegas. Addys María, her husband and Godwall’s oldest son have come to see me off.

  It has been a heavy journey. I had not seen Godwall in three years. –“Listen, you son-of-a bitch…you better clean up your act. If I catch you screwing around, I’m going to kick your ass when I come back next year” I had said to him only half in jest when I was leaving. He was drinking too much. He gave me a beaming smile, a big hug and told me not to worry about him.

  But, I did not come back. Life abroad can be glamorous, but it comes at a very high emotional cost. I had told my uncle Denis to keep an eye on Godwall. He was the one who had sent me the message about Godwall’s death. I never envisioned that my next meeting with Godwall would be like this.

  As my uncle Denis explained to me, many of the things my good friend Godwall held so dear, had been crumbling down bit by bit. First, Godwall and Addys María’s mother died in a car crash. She was in a coma for three days. Nobody told me until she was buried. Then came Godwall and Myra’s bitter divorce. At Godwall Junior’s wedding three years before, you could have cut the tension with a knife. I almost had to play referee. Godwall and I had double-dated two sisters. I had broken up with one of them, he had married the other one.

  I cling to the good memories. I have to. When I watch a Western, I still think of Godwall. He loved the genre so much. He enjoyed doing John Wayne impersonations, recreating his “shootings” at our parties. His was a gentle sense of humour that never put anyone else down. We laughed at his jokes, not because they were terribly funny, but because he told them with such candor. I miss him very much.

  Every wedding I go to reminds me of Addys María and Godwall. He was the best friend a man could have. He was discreet, reliable and honest. Generous to a fault, he was the kind of man who always thought of everyone else before getting anything for himself.

  Godwall had become isolated inside the strange microcosm his life had turned into after so many disappointments. He was alone, very alone. Strong enough to handle the other travails of his hard life, he was no match for the big silence and the vast emptiness.

  While flying south for the funeral, I had formulated in my mind many questions about his death. Somehow I thought that if I found out the reasons, I could perhaps bargain with the Universe and reverse the unfortunate course of events. I knew deep down that that was not possible, but it was comforting to me because at least I was “doing” something about my best friend’s death.

  All my questions were answered when I looked at Godwall’s lifeless body. The muscular frame had given way to a rather light, bony structure. Despite the undertaker’s best efforts to make him look presentable for viewing, I noticed some degree of disarray in his appearance. Godwall was laid-back, but at the same time rather fastidious about his appearance. I bent down to touch his forehead. I whispered a private message in his ear. I could hear his voice answering back and his unabashed laughter filling up the room. I smiled.

  Pills or no pills…Godwall had died of a broken heart and I was not there to stop it. I turned around to look at the faces of the many people who had gathered to pay their respects to a good person. I barely knew a handful of them. How many of them truly knew my good friend the way I did? Yet, I was jealous of them. They had spent the last 30 years with Godwall while I was trying to make a living in exile.

  Godwall was not the only lonely soul in the room. Most of our common friends were somehow gone…dead, living abroad, unaccounted for. Why do we end up running away from the ones we love? I tapped my friend on the chest for the last time and I returned to my seat to ponder on the answer.

  Back to Top

  David A. Cuban, Ph.D.

  Canadian-American author of French-Spanish ancestry.

  He attended the University of Toronto where he received two Master’s degrees.

  David moved to the U.S. to do doctoral studies in the early 90s.

  He has published academic books and essays in the fields of literature, linguistics and teacher education.

  He has also published works of fiction in Europe, Latin America and North America.

  He is fluent in English, Spanish and German; with working knowledge of French, Italian and Portuguese.

  David is a former university professor, turned motivational speaker and counselor. He specializes in comprehensive personal improvement and task management.

  See his books at: www.davidacuban.com

  Chapter 21

  The Sinkhole

  By Scott Langrel

  The sinkhole sat in the woods near the end of the gravel road which wound lazily in front of my house and disappeared into the pine thickets at the base of Drover Mountain. Ol’ Hank, when he was feeling talkative (a condition usually brought on by finding the bottom of a liquor bottle), would spin a morbid tale about the old homestead which once sat on that spot, and of the woman who dwelt within the house.

  “A witch,” he would say with simple and absolute conviction, though the events that had supposedly taken place there had transpired way before his time. The graveness of his tone never failed to amuse me; however, Hank would not speak of the thing unless the sun was bright overhead, and even then only when alcohol had loosened his lips.

  In truth, I never considered the story to be anything other than an old wives’ tale
, something constructed to send children (as well as adults of questionable intelligence) racing to their bedrooms to hunker under their covers until sleep or dawn found them. Modern thinking and logic demanded no less; these were not, after all, the ages of the witch trials in Salem. Yet, though I fancied myself a man of reason since returning from the university, I was still a child of the Appalachian hills in which I had been raised. In some instances, ingrained superstition refuses to be swayed by a fancy degree.

  I tell you this in preface so that you might understand my frame of mind during the events which occurred in the spring of 1936. The area had received a copious amount of snowfall during the previous winter season, and the spring had arrived wet and chilly. Having finished my studies nearly six months prior, I had returned home to Shallow Springs and promptly hung out my shingle in the town proper. Being the only lawyer within fifty miles guaranteed me a limited number of clients, though even then it was apparent that I would have to move elsewhere to find more than a meager income.

  It began with a knock upon my door on a rainy evening in April. I was still a bachelor in those days, and given to working late into the night, so the knocking did not rouse me from slumber. I was, however, immersed in my work and was thus a trifle annoyed at the interruption, especially when I opened the door and discovered that the source of the knocking was none other than William Bennet, my direct neighbor to the north. Mr. Bennet and I had recently exchanged heated words over a property boundary, and I had no desire to resume the conversation at such an hour. I strove to remain cordial, though, and inquired as to his business.

  “Cow’s been poisoned,” he said. “I mean to file a complaint.”

  “Poisoned?” I asked, uncertain as to whether he was accusing me or asking me to act on his behalf. “How can you be sure? Is the animal dead?”

  “No, it’s the calf. Come take a look.”

  “Mr. Bennet, I am an attorney. If you suspect that a crime has been committed, you need to contact the sheriff.”

  “Come take a look,” he repeated, and after a pause added, “please?”

  It was then that I noticed that his demeanor, which I had at first taken to be disgruntlement, was more fearful than contrary. Though I was loath to leave my warm and dry house, my curiosity began to get the better of me, and I consented to accompany him.

  After taking the time to get my coat and hat, I followed him to his pickup. The distance from my house to Bennet’s farm was less than a quarter mile, but the rain and darkness conspired to make the trip longer than it should have taken otherwise. After a time, however, Bennet’s farmhouse appeared in the yellowish glow of the truck’s headlamps.

  Bennet pulled in front of the house, yet seemed reluctant to leave the confines of the vehicle. Though the night was tinged by a definite chill, sweat had nonetheless formed on his forehead. I thought to inquire as to the nature of his apparent unease, but then he shut off the engine and exited the vehicle, motioning for me to follow.

  We proceeded not toward the darkened house, but instead to the large barn which sat at the rear of a fenced-in lot and bordered the pasture field. As we stepped out of the rain into the structure, I was hard pressed to see anything past the length of my outstretched arm. I heard Bennet fumbling with something, and suddenly the interior of the barn was cast into a bright light. Squinting against the glare, I saw that he had lit an oil lamp.

  “It’s back here,” he said, and advanced deeper into the black void. I followed quickly behind him, suddenly having no desire to linger in the inky shadows, though I had no tangible reason for my sudden unease. The smell of damp hay and manure was nearly insufferable, but I steeled my senses as we hastened to one of the stalls near the back of the barn. Here Bennet paused, either unwilling or unable to cross the threshold. Though still ill at ease, my curiosity was piqued. I strained to peer into the dark stall.

  “The calf is in there?” I asked, anxious to get this business over with and return to my warm house.

  Bennet nodded and licked his lips, a nervous gesture. He said nothing, but offered me the lantern. I took it from him impatiently. I had seen dead animals before, and nothing I had heard or seen up till then had led me to believe that I would see anything different here.

  “Mind the cow,” Bennet whispered harshly. “She’s plenty spooked.”

  I studied him for a moment before nodding, then turned my attention to the stall’s interior. The first thing that caught my attention was the cow. She was pressing heavily against the side of the stall, as if attempting to break through the wooden boards and escape beyond the confinement of the small room. Her large eyes were wide and fixated upon something on the floor, which I was as yet unable to see due to the mounds of hay and shadows.

  Cautiously, I stepped further into the stall, all the while being mindful of the cow, which looked to be ready to bolt at any given moment. A shrill noise stung my ears, a sound somewhere between the cry of a newborn baby and the screech of an attacking bird of prey. I swung around in an attempt to identify the source of this wretched sound and my gaze fell upon a sight which has haunted my nightmares to this very day.

  The thing that lay on the floor of the stall, thrashing weakly in the scattered hay, was nothing short of an abomination. That I did not drop the lamp and run blindly from the barn is something that I still marvel at. Surely any reasonable man would have done as much. Yet I believe now that only sheer terror held me rooted to the spot, though I would like to think that morbid curiosity kept me from fleeing into the rainy night.

  To call the thing a calf required a colossal stretch of the imagination. Only the color of the thing—and the fact that it had four legs—even remotely resembled a young bovine. The head was large and misshapen, in which were set a pair of eyes more closely akin to those of a reptile. A black tongue of improbable length and width lolled from the creature’s mouth, which was also unproportionally large. Forcing myself to inspect the thing more closely, I saw that the mouth contained teeth—not the rounded molars of a herbivore, but the saber-like teeth of a gar fish. The thing’s body was serpentine and lacked real substance, and the frail, spindly legs seemed to have been added merely as an afterthought.

  “Dear God,” I breathed, and turned to look at Bennet. He still stood outside the stall, his eyes averted downward. Whether it was from shame for not entering the stall with me or from no desire to look upon the pitiful creature again, I do not know.

  “Some kind of poison, wouldn’t you think?” he asked, still regarding the earthen floor. “I mean, it would have to be, to cause something like … that.”

  “I have no idea,” I replied truthfully. “I have never before seen anything like it.” I shuddered involuntarily. “What do you mean to do with it?”

  He shrugged. “It won’t live for long. Can’t. The mother’ll have nothing to do with it.”

  I couldn’t properly say that I blamed the cow. Yet the thought of leaving one of God’s creatures, even one so horribly disfigured, to starve to death did not sit well with me. I figured it would be more humane to end the beast’s suffering, and said as much.

  “Do as you like,” Bennet said. “I ain’t touching the thing.”

  I started to point out that it was, after all, his property, and that it was only fitting that he should assist me, but I wished to take my leave as soon as possible, and I didn’t see the need for argument. I inquired if he might have a shovel handy, and he went to fetch one.

  The few moments that Bennet was gone were some of the longest of my life. Though reason told me I had nothing to fear from the misshapen mass on the floor behind me, the mountain boy within me wanted desperately to flee. That part of me had no truck with poisons or freaks of nature. To that superstitious part of my mind, the reason behind the deformed calf was obvious.

  Witchcraft.

  I shook my head vigorously, determined not to fall victim to hysteria. Events such as this were not uncommon; most travelling carnivals had their share of such oddities stored in
large glass jars filled with formaldehyde. It was an unfortunate event, yes, but there was nothing supernatural about it. The weather and lateness of the hour simply combined to make it seem so.

  Bennet returned with the shovel, and I gave an involuntary sigh of relief. Steeling my resolve, I took the shovel from him and turned back to the pitiful creature. I took no pleasure in dispatching the beast, yet I would be lying if I said that I did not feel somehow better when it had taken its last breath. I do not say this to seem cruel. It was as if some small part of the world had been returned to normal. Even the cow seemed to sense it, and relaxed somewhat.

  I helped Bennet wrangle the carcass into a burlap sack, after which we hastily buried the thing behind the barn. As we walked back to the pickup, I couldn’t help but notice a change in him. The relief on his face was palpable. We spoke little on the drive back to my house, but as I was readying to get out of the truck, he put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I want to thank you,” he said. “As for that business with the property line, I want to apologize.”

  “There’s no need,” I assured him. “Bygones are bygones, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Even so, I feel bad for the way I acted.” His face brightened somewhat. “Why don’t you come over for dinner Friday? I haven’t had much company since the Missus passed away.”

  I started to beg off, but felt instantly ashamed. What would it hurt?

  “That would be nice. Thank you.” I again started to exit the pickup, but a question suddenly popped into my mind, and I turned back to him before I could think about it.

  “You haven’t been up to the sinkhole lately, have you?”

  “I was up that way last week, hunting. Why?”

  “Just wondering if it was still there,” I lied. “Haven’t been there since I was a boy.”

  “Hasn’t changed a bit,” he said. “Nothing much around these parts does.”

  I nodded. “Well, good evening. I’ll see you Friday.” I alit from the truck and shut the door behind me.