Chinaberry Sidewalks by Rodney Crowell Read Free Book Online

aftermath of Dan Rather’s dematerialization. This is perfect television, and its drama couldn’t have been scripted any better. My father’s definitively unself-conscious “son of a bitch” raises the question that’s on everybody’s mind: What happened to him, and how do we keep this hellacious house-hammering hurricane from doing the same thing to us?
    Huddled in the chalky glow of a kerosene lamp, both families observe a moment of silence for our fallen newsman. Connection to the outside world has been downsized to the scratchy, on-again, off-again reception of a transistor radio.
    “It’s sure good to know somebody out there’s still alive,” Mr. Miller says.
    “Hellfire, Floyd,” my father snorts, “they could’ve tape-recorded what we’re hearin’ on that radio.”
    Outside, Carla’s pounding the house with what sounds like a custom-made battering ram, and she’s still thirteen hours from reaching her peak. Inside, the party has hit the skids. My father and Mr. Miller take this personally. They’re not the kind of men content to sit idly by while a storm kicks the living daylights—and all the electric ones, too—out of their neck of the woods, but their only recourse is to take yet another swig of whiskey.
    “Boys, y’all need to go on and get some sleep, this storm’s a long ways from bein’ over,” says a tipsy Mrs. Miller. In anticipation of our fathers’ further deterioration, she and my mother are herding us down the hallway with our path lit by a lone flickering candle.
    Count on bedtime to bring the end of the world into focus. In the far corner of the room, Andy and Mike’s bunk beds are stacked against the wall between bare windows. I’m sure neither walls nor windows will save us from the howling winds and driving rain, and say so aloud. The Miller boys pick up on this thread and make short work of turning a long day’s end into a whimpering quagmire. Their mother’s too drunk to know she’s being had, and mine’s too preoccupied with my father’s liquor intake to offer any real reassurances.
    Worse than any vision of collapsing walls is being stuck in the bottom bunk with Andy, who thinks trying to stick his pecker in my butt is funny. I put a stop to this by crawling under the bed with the Lincoln Logs and army figures. In spite of my worries about attacks from various directions, I drift off to sleep comfortably with an old baseball glove and a dirty towel for pillow and blanket.
    “Come on, son, wake up, we goin’ to the house.”
    I recognize the words, and the voice, but what I don’t recognize is where they’re coming from and why they’re so gruff. Even with a blistering, nicotine-scorched hangover, my father’s voice usually has a lyrical quality that’s totally absent in its present condition.
    Finally awake, I’m staring at his upside-down face, his blue bloodshot eyes searching my crawl space for life. His crimson cheeks and ears put me on notice that any questions will only make matters worse. Whatever it is that made him fish me out from under these bunk beds at this unknowable hour is serious enough to drain his voice of its musicality. That’s all I need to know.
    Going home is fine by me, and anything would beat Andy pointing his pecker at me. And I’d learned long ago that when my father makes his mind up, there’s no reason strong enough to alter his course. Besides, my mother seems equally determined to clear the hell out.
    The first obstacle we encounter is the six inches of water standing between the Millers’ back door and our car parked twenty yards away. Second is how formidable a threat the copperheads and water moccasins treading water and searching for an entrance to the house pose to our getting in the car alive. I’m thinking of myself as a cross between Jesse Owens and Jesus Christ as I sprint out there across the water. My mother matches me stride for stride, her crippled leg not the slightest hindrance. My father’s already