"A Good Man is Hard to Find": Grandma's Perspective

And he said it. He said it to me finally. He extracted those hateful words from his own pursed lips, pursed, tight, hateful lips. My own son. The sound dimmed in my ears as the light streaming in from the row of trees out back struck my pupils. I pretended to not hear what he said.

        Bailey did not look me in the eyes. He still had one button undone on his parrot shirt, third one from the top, I wanted to mention it to him before we stopped but I got distracted by a fascinating road sign just outside of town. I wanted to mention it then, certainly I would not be able to mention it now seeing as sound stopped right at the larynx. I clenched my chest tightly in my shaking hand. The Misfit reddened at the comment. His anemic face lined with red veins as if he had been stuck in a freezer too long and taken out to thaw at the last possible time. His dirty paws. His eyes glimmered in two black beads in the afternoon sun, perfectly perched above his long curved nose that sunk into a hook in the middle of his face suggesting something impure in his family (at least somewhere along the line). Dirty hands. Sweat stained his front. Disgusting.

        He tried to apologize for her son's actions. I did not hear him. I did not care. What was I to do? I yelled (without meaning to) "you wouldn't shoot a lady, would you?" I then quickly flung my handkerchief from my cuff and dabbed the corner of my eyes with it- perhaps this will work. "Play-act" a little. Appeal to my age and his sympathies. The cut in my shin dripped blood to my ankle. It felt refreshing.

        To no avail: appeal to his sympathies? Appeal to his sympathies? He wiped that hook nose of sweat with the edge of his sleeve. Sympathies? What else? Air is hot now. 

        To no avail: I stretched out my hands in benediction and said "I know you're a good man. You don't look a bit like you have com-mom blood..."

        Common. The man was as common as dirt. As common as the cat breathing heavily under the large tree. Was there no one to come down this road all day? 

        He smiled and nimbly said "Yes mam, finest people in the world". His accent was not from here. My god his teeth are white. And strong. 

        He remarked at the sky. To no avail: appeal to his sympathies, appeal to his family: treat this boy like any ol' Southern boy I meet why not. Treat him like the cook, nay the chef at the road side joint. Like the multitude of other strangers I meet with sharp cordiality and make them feel included into my world.

        How: his goodness? Misfit, why misfit? Did the school children used to called him that or his parents maybe? I told him what a good man I think he his. A good good good good good good man fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—

        My son's voice shattered the din of small talk about the sky: "Hush! Everybody shut up and let me handle this!" He stood as if to leap into action yet remained immovable, stiff as a board. Do something: tackle him to the ground Bailey. He just stood still. Still as stone, he would be any help anyhow.

        I tried to adjust my hat but when I did it fell to the ground. I stared at it shape in the sunlight for a moment. It was actually quite ugly. I would have saved it for a lady's luncheon but the red dirt ruined that prospect. The Misfit's hat remained on.

        And then they took away my son, carted him off like a geriatric arising from his wheel chair. The silhouettes of their bodies streamed in through the afternoon light of the woods out back, finally disappearing into the thick shadow. This was not part of the plan. We need to stay together. I heard a fly buzz by my ear.

        I screamed towards the wood: "Come back this instant!". He was not to leave, they must not leave. Oh god.

        What to do next.

        I thought Bailey came back to me but it was just the Misfit glaring at me, stooping in the ditch. I'm desperate now: I've got to keep it together. My hands quivered as I voiced: "I just know you're a good man." Yes goodness, goodness— goodness. I'll assure him now: "You're not a bit common!"

        Okay, okay, try to get him off of what's happening in the woods have to get Bailey Boy and John. I told him about the life he could live: about the comfort of a warm the afternoon, a cup of coffee, try to make him think that he still has a chance. Like we do. We do have a chance, I know we will make this. He does not have to run anymore (can we run? No not right now).

        Our father who art in Heaven—

        Two pistol shots resonate through the labyrinth of bark and golden leaves. My heart drops into my stomach. My life ends.

        My hoarse voice mumbles: remind myself to "pray, pray, pray," I look to the baby asleep in his mother's arms, cradled in the sweaty crease of her elbow. I look up to her mother who looks like she has left her body and who's glassy stays fixated on a single point in space. I look to her almost commanding her to: "pray, pray,"

        Our father who art in Heaven

        Hallowed—

        I can still save us. I can do it and I will. I will pray with my words. I will be it. I will be the light of god for him and bathe him in my benediction. He was a gospel singer, he knows this game.

        I squeak "Jesus would help you..."

        Be thy—

        No avail:

        Name. Our Kingdom come—

        Our kingdom come—

        Our kingdom come—

        The girls are taken away.

        There was not a cloud in the hot hot sky.

        All I could think of to say was his name: Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. The name twisted in my jaw like a curse as I punched it out the cosmos: Jesus. The son of my god. Oh god. The son. My son my son my son. Bailey Boy.

        I sunk down to the earth dizzy from the heat and dehydration. And I looked up to my executioner. And providence divine: there he was! My boy! My-"you stupid bitch"-calling-me-boy!

        He is mine: My own son. My own. Mine. God's son. He is God's light as I stretch out my fingers towards him. His now clear blue eyes tight on me like the tightness with which he held the trigger or Gods fist jutting down from the hot sky like my mother clenching a pinch on the back of my elbow at a Debutant ball saying "stand up straighter".