FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 76

Billy Ray,” she started, then paused. I noted she changed from “Pup” to “Billy Ray” for no particular reason, but as precise as I’d learned she was, I’m sure she made a slight distinction in her mind.

She turned a little to the side. I could see how neatly she had weaved her dark but shiny hair around the sides to meet in the back.

“Do you think the Lord is watching us right now? Is he this close?” asked Corrina. “Is this something he’s giving us? I mean, even our standing here on this vacant lot. This plot of land may not mean much to some, but it means a great deal to us.

“For you, it’s a place that you remember growing up, and for me, it’s my growing up with you, just because you shared it with me today, as you share everything. I hope that makes sense?” she said more as a question than a statement.

I nodded in return, then turned and looked back over the top of our wood-framed house – sitting well below us – and toward the sun’s drifting low in the sky, less than an hour from hiding out of our view. I sighed, and Corrina read something in it that worried her.

“There’s more, isn’t there, Pup?” she responded.

“Yes,” I said, hesitating, “this lot has somethin’ else that I remember, Corrina.” She waited, and listened. “Maybe that’s why I wanted you to walk over here and just stand here with me.”

I looked down at her hand halfway in mine. “… and holdin’ hands while we talk, that’s jus’ a bonus.  Truth is, I might be able to tell it now, to you, I’ve never even wanted to tell it before.”

“You can tell me now, Pup,” she said. “Don’t worry about me. I know you do. I can always tell. But I’m a bigger girl now than when we met, and that’s because of you, and because of Miss Louise, too. What’s amazing is that you never set out to help me grow, it just came naturally. I know you feel sometimes you have to hold back. I can always tell. I can see it in your ocean-blues. They can be as mysterious as the ocean itself, you know,” she said with a soft smile.

A return smile was my only response. I knew the only way to begin is to begin.

“One day,” I said, “I must’ve been about eight. I was playin’ football here, as always. I was like you said, I didn’t have a care in the world. I was passin’ the ball, kickin’ it, leadin’ the Ramblin’ Wreck of Georgia Tech to yet another last-second victory,” I said with a grin.

The grin faded, and I continued. “I heard a siren comin’ from off of Dallis Avenue, off this way,” I said, pointing to the east. “I didn’t think too much of it, but it kept comin’, and kept gettin’ louder, and pretty soon it was right in front of Uncle Willie’s house here, and then it turned up this street and pulled into our driveway, with its lights flashin’.”

I took a deep breath.

“Corrina, I jus’ froze. The game stopped, I think the whole world stopped right then. I barely remember what I did, except I know I walked down to the house, the football still under my arm, and jus’ stood at the edge of the driveway, almost without breathin’.  You go from not havin’ a care in the world to this, to the sirens and the lights flashing – and this safe place, this little lot, all of a sudden didn’t seem safe anymore.

“All I remember is that the workers ran into the house with a stretcher and, after a few minutes, came back out the screen door. They had my daddy on that stretcher with a mask over his mouth. I stood there, and I watched them load my daddy up into that ambulance, turn those sirens back on, and head to the hospital.”

Corrina didn’t say anything – What could she? – but the further I got into the story, the closer she leaned in to me. After a minute, she let go of my hand and put her slender arm around my back. I had learned to talk very slowly whenever I had to tell a story like this – although it was rare for me to dig that deep into life and reveal what was down there. They were meant to be kept in your mind, not told, held in, not shared to the world. If you held it in, it would not seem real. That is why I wasn’t sure why I was telling that story then, especially after we had felt so at ease standing in my personal little stadium.

We stood without talking for a while, I don’t know how long, until Corrina broke the silence.

“Billy Ray, what happened next?”

“I don’t remember,” I said, as if I had been asking myself the same question. “It is almost as if the world stopped there, and I can’t remember anything more about that day. I learned later Daddy had taken some drugs and had an overdose, and they had to pump his stomach. The rest jus’ faded out like … like the sunset there,” I said, pointing to the sun now sunk halfway beneath the tall trees and the behind houses in the distance.

“Was your daddy okay, Billy Ray?” she asked, almost dreading to hear the answer.

“He was okay that time, and he was okay the next time and the next. And in between, he was as good of a man and as good of a daddy as you could ever hope for – but there was always a next time.”

After a moment, I dug deep, captured a smile, and said, “After that, this vacant lot jus’ seemed jus’ that, jus’ a vacant lot. It kind-of lost its magic. But I jus’ noticed somethin’,” I said, pausing. “Maybe sharin’ this with a good friend for the first time, maybe it will go back to the way it was.”

“Really, Billy Ray?”

“Really,” I said, “because now this is our spot, and I’ll always think of you when I look over here.”

“And it won’t be a vacant lot, anymore?” she asked, hope in her voice.

“No ma’am,” I said, “it won’t be vacant anymore. And it won’t have the bad mem’ries, either. I think it will be peaceful again.”

She took me by the arm, and we walked back to the house, greeted by the burnt orange sky that made the rooftop look afire.

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.