Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 107673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
The scene was brutal to say the least. The local police reported that my father died on impact. And perhaps he did. But those same officers said my father’s blood alcohol level was below the legal limit. I didn’t believe that lie. My dad drank all day every day. He’d lost his job at Samford University in Birmingham. He had little choice but to relocate back to Mobile with a suspended driver’s license due to multiple arrests for driving under the influence.
I supposed the Mobile PD had shown my father leniency due to his reputation in the city. They usually helped him home instead of formally arresting him. In the end, their grace gave him power, not the help he really needed.
My mom patted my arm, drawing my attention to her. “Son, you’re being rude.”
“How can they be sorry he’s gone?” I whispered.
“You’re almost done. Hang on for a few more minutes. We’ll walk through the reception then leave. Can you be my big boy for a little longer.” She teased me with my old childhood moniker even though I was twenty years old. Happy memories of better times made it impossible not to smile. If I remembered correctly, there was usually a cookie involved to convince me to behave.
I stared hopeful that there was something in the variety of a home-baked chocolate chip treat in her pocket. I loved those things. It took a moment, but she caught on and responded with a dramatic eye roll. “I’ll bake them for you when we get home.”
“Look at you, sproutin’ up like a beanstalk. Seems like you’ve outgrown your grandad,” Arnold Williams, a friend of my grandfather’s said from behind me. “How tall are you these days?”
Arnold stared up at me with a good-natured grin. He was thinner than I remembered, more wrinkled, and shorter too.
“He’s six-three and two hundred and thirty pounds. Can you believe it, Arnie?” my mom answered for me, again highlighting my lack of communication skill.
“I tend to keep my belly full,” I added with a nod, watching Arnold’s widening grin. With fewer teeth and less hair, his weathered face creased with amusement. A pang of sadness squeezed my heart, wishing either of my grandfathers could be there today. Had they survived, my life would have turned out so differently.
“I can sure see that.” He chuckled, then shifted his gaze toward the parking lot, hesitating before heading in that direction. “It’s chilly out here. I keep hearin’ that we’re warm for this time of year, but I think they got it wrong.”
“Thank you for coming today,” my mom said sweetly.
Arnold paused, gazing between me and my mom before focusing only on me. With his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his voice got stronger as he said, “You were good to him. He didn’t deserve it, especially separatin’ you from your mama.”
I let go of an unsteady breath. No one, except maybe Scott, ever saw it from my side. Others acted in awe of the athlete my father had created, or in the NFL vision he had for our future, but never for me alone.
A swell of anger built swiftly. I ground my teeth into the flesh of my mouth as a tidal wave of undealt with emotion threatened to pull me under.
Fortunately, my mother came to the rescue once again. “Thank you, Arnold. It’s been a challenging few years. We’re going to the reception area then taking off. Beau needs to put all of this behind him and begin to live the life he wants.”
Arnold patted my bicep and started toward the parking lot again. “You sure do.”
We walked the remaining distance to the reception area, which consisted of a giant tent placed close to the family burial plots. It was a true countryside gathering.
As I stood at the entry, I steadied myself, blocking my feelings. No more bursts of anger to contend with. My mom waited patiently at my side.
The crowds of mourners fell silent and shifted their attention toward me. Evidently, my reputation preceded me. I sensed their wariness. Nothing new there. Most people treated me as if I was one quake away from erupting.
Luckily, the strong tangy scent of fresh BBQ waffled through the tent, stealing my spotlight. Scott’s father, Mr. Lee, was grill-master of the day. The reigning Dog River Festival champion of Backyard BBQs for two years in a row.
Leaning down, I whispered quietly to my mom, “Don’t fix a plate no matter how good it smells. We’ll grab something on the way home.”
Her nod of agreement clearly indicated we were in sync, like usual. My light in an otherwise dark world. The insurmountably heavy burden my father placed on my shoulders was rapidly lifting in a wonderful and appreciated way. We entered the tent side by side. She effortlessly held the conversation as we did one complete pass of the dining space.