FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 82

That Friday night of July 1973 ended soon after we told the part of the car ride with my Uncle River that would change life forever. After that, we didn’t need any more words, not then. Mama had more tears because she had never heard how I found out and heard my account of the untold hurt and loss from that day. The three of us put our arms around each other, and for the longest time – I don’t know how long – we shared a few leftover tears from Dec. 12, 1967. Mama squeezed my hand, after a time, and said, “Thank you, son. I needed to know, and I needed you to tell me.”

She thanked Corrina, too. Her part in being in that room, in the sanctity of that moment, was that she had a fresh heart. She was an innocent soul who could share in a deep tragedy maybe because she had been blessed to avoid such in her own life. Her presence added a much-needed innocence as pure as the one that was lost that fateful day. Maybe it gave back a piece of a young boy’s heart that was yanked from him on that unsuspecting Tuesday afternoon. It took fifty years, but it occurred to me that on this night, the young girl gave the Pup part of her own youth – and she did it without losing any of herself.

There would be other times, but now we know that the vacant lot talks, the fire station memories, the sessions with Mama at 901 Juniper – these formed some of the greatest moments in this summer, even though they eventually, maybe inevitably, would take us to a long uninhabited place.

Corrina and I stayed with Mama that night until she fell asleep, and we slipped out quietly, and I drove Corrina home. A different person than before now was driving her home, different even from the young man who had talked to her at their special vacant lot only an hour before. Corrina was a different person, too. How could she not be? It is rare, perhaps, but there are times when you can see yourself and others grow right in front of your eyes.

When we got to the car, Corrina put her hand out for me to wait when I reached for the ignition.

“Pup, do you want to tell me the rest?” Putting her hand on my arm, she added quickly, “You don’t have to, but if you can, I want to know. I want to know for you. I want to know so that you will not have to carry all of this by yourself anymore. You understand?”

I had not understood before, but Corrina had a way of putting things that would allow you to take the pieces of a puzzle and connect them to where they form a clear picture in just a moment. I realized I did need to tell her the rest – She deserved to hear it out, she had come this far. And we could leave no loose ends.

Once told, we would not have to re-visit those scenes again for a long, long time. But should the day come that we did need to talk of them again, the burden would only be half as heavy because of a 16-year-old young lady, that being a miracle in itself.

We sat in the red Nova as we had done so many times over almost two months. Corrina took her place in the middle of the seat, close enough to reach out if she wanted but far enough away to look into the ocean of my eyes. The outside lamp from the Rowe’s driveway sent a beam through the car window, allowing Corrina to read between the lines as she read those eyes.

“What I learned in a short amount of time,” I said, beginning the rest of the tragic story of Dec. 12, “is that Buelah Mae was home with Daddy that morning. She didn’t have classes at LaGrange College until later in the day. At some point, Daddy called out and told Buelah to go hang the clothes on the line. I don’t know if she ever did that or not. Daddy was in the room that Mama is in now, the room where Pistol and I slept for years, and he must’ve been cleanin’ the rifles he and Mama had bought for my brothers; or he was doin’ somethin’ else with them, I can’t be sure.

“Buelah Mae heard the shot, and she heard my daddy fall to the floor. All she could do was scream for help. I do not know who came, jus’ that eventually the ambulance company came and found him in the floor. The bullet went through the right side of his temple. I remember seeing the entry – or the exit, I’m not sure – when Daddy lay in rest against the east wall of our living room. He looked so good. You wouldn’t know he wasn’t jus’ sleepin’. He looked 

as natural as when I was a baby and the two of us took a nap in the afternoon.

“The story was on the front page of the LaGrange Daily News on Dec. 13. It said, ‘Local man shoots self.’ I’ve wondered who wrote that headline. Everybody told me that my daddy killed himself – I mean, committed suicide. Corrina, I never believed that. Mama told me later that, after the funeral, when she called Dr. Hammonds and told him that Zeke had shot himself with a rifle, Dr. Hammonds said, ‘How is he?’ Mama said, ‘Dr. Hammonds, he’s dead,’ and the doctor couldn’t believe it. He said that it is very difficult and rare for a person to shoot himself in the head with a rifle.”

I took a breath, perhaps to get the strength to finish the story that night, and Corrina reached over and looped her hand under my arm. My arm was strong – handling thousands of brick and pushing mortar all summer will do that – but I think my heart was as weak at that moment as a flickering flame in a storm. She always knew.

“Corrina, I’ve always thought that if Daddy wanted to kill himself, he would’ve taken pills. That’s what he had done before. It jus’ never made sense for him to intentionally shoot himself that way and take his life. I think it’s possible that he did try to hurt himself, maybe injure himself somehow so that he wouldn’t have to go back to Milledgeville and could still be home for Christmas because that’s what he wanted. There were no real signs of suicide.

“And somethin’ else,” I added, glancing at the soft eyes of my newest friend, “there was no note. Wouldn’t he have left a note for Mama and for his children if he planned to leave us alone for good that way?”

In such conversations – and they aren’t the type many people ever have to have – you have to stop at times and let all the information sink in, to let all the emotions settle. Corrina waited as long as a minute until she realized I wanted her to give me her thoughts. When she was sure, she responded,

“Pup, words come hard. I can listen, but the words are too hard. You know that your Daddy loved you so much, and I don’t think he would’ve left you and left Miss Louise, and left your brothers and sister on purpose.”

She paused and leaned up to me so she could look me straight in the eyes. “What was it that he wanted more than anything, Billy Ray?

I nodded, but listened.

“He wanted to be home for Christmas,” she said, answering her question. “I don’t think he would ever have done anythin’ that would’ve kept him from that.”

I listened, but my words fell short. Corrina scooted closer to me, and we sat for I don’t know how long right there together beneath the stars and by Mama’s Magnolia Tree.

As we drove home that night, I could feel a six-year load lifted. When we passed the Y, I thought of something. I reached into the glove department and retrieved my new eight-track tape that her daddy had bought me, and held it up for her to see.

“Do you like it, Pup?” she said, hope in her voice.

“Oh, my, Corrina, I think we’ve found our new favorite group. I know it’s hard to beat the Carpenters, Three Dog Night, and Peter, Paul, and Mary – but these four boys are special.”

I handed it to her to plug into the eight-track. “All the songs are great,” I said, “but go to song number six. There’s one I want you to hear.”

Corrina scrolled down, and when the song came on, I said, “That’s it.”

It was a slow, heartfelt song, called “I’ll Take Care of You.” I suppose it was the sixth song I ever heard from the Statler Brothers – something I remember now 50 years later. It was the sixth of 10,000 or more.

Corrina and I were in a soft mood, that’s the best I know to say it, so it fit us just right. The night was quiet, few cars were on the highway, and the stars were shining. We cracked the front windows as we drove along to let a cool breeze blow through.

“That cool breeze feels good,” Corrina said, as she nudged closer.

“Oh, you bet,” I said, “it is better than the Cool Breeze out on the brick job, that’s for sure!”

We laughed, then listened to the slow sound of the song and the harmony of the Statlers, the narrator singing a love song about how he would always take care of the girl he loved.

“That’s pretty,” Corrina said, softly.

“Oh,” I said, there’s this one line I really like,” and we waited until they came to it. I held my hand up as they came close. She turned her head slightly, listening, giving her a beautiful silhouette against the darkness outside. She smiled when they came to that great line, “I’ll make good for you.”

“I like that,” I said, “it says it different. We should always make good for each other, no matter what.”

Sometimes Corrina would listen and not answer, or even gesture. She did that.

“Something else,” I added as the song wound down and we turned the tape off for that night, “in the song the man is promisin’ to take care of the girl. But, tonight, it’s different?”

“How so?”

“Tonight, you took care of Mama, and you took care of me, more than you’ll know.”

She smiled. “I don’t know, Pup, I felt helpless,” then after another thought, said, “But I’ll tell you what I will do, as long as I can.” She paused to get the words just right. “I’ll always make good for you, Pup, just like the song says, always.”

Her voice broke, and she bit her lip. She had taken on a big burden that day, to her credit. My only answer was to squeeze the dark-haired beauty a little closer.

Coach Steven Ray Bowen served as a teacher and basketball coach at Red Oak High from 1998-2012 and recently spent two years teaching and coaching at Ferris. He and his wife Marilyn (the “amazin’ blonde”) served many years with the Church of Christ of Red Oak at Uhl/Ovilla Roads, but now spend time evangelizing in several states in addition to Coach’s work as a writer and author, including the writing of the ongoing novel/memoir here in the Press. Call or text (972) 824-5197, or email coachbowen1984@gmail.com, or see frontporchgospel.com.