Chinaberry Sidewalks by Rodney Crowell Read Free Book Online Page B

think to myself that for someone who craves winning as much as he does, it’s a shame it happens so infrequently.
    “You tell the Lord he can kiss my ass,” he gloats, refusing to acknowledge that her prayers might have been instrumental in the Studebaker’s finally cranking up. Similarly, his dismissal of Mr. Miller, our true benefactor, had been comical in its arrogance. He simply rolled down the window, flipped him the bird, and roared off into Carla. When the tow-truck lights disappear, I ask out loud what it was that happened back at the Millers’ house, but my parents, out of either exhaustion or relief, have withdrawn into themselves and aren’t taking any questions.
    When we arrived unscathed, my father’s overly careful about lining up the tires on the concrete driveway strips, barely visible under a half foot of water, and this seems peculiar given what our expedition’s been like so far. With a hurricane blowing full-tilt all around us, sliding to a sideways halt would seem a more fitting conclusion to this wild ride. But then I’m not the one driving.
    My mother gets out of the car, wades into the house, picks up a broom, and starts sweeping floodwater out the back door. Then she pops the refrigerator door open with a screwdriver—my father’s solution to its broken handle—and grabs a can of lukewarm Jax, drains half of it in one glug , wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist, burps loudly and, pointing the can at my father, says, “J. W. Crowell, next time you lay a hand on me, you better make sure you kill me, ’cause if you don’t I’ll kill you. I don’t care if I have to wait till you fall asleep to do it.”
    How quickly my mother switches from Pentecostal purist to beer-guzzling shrew is one of life’s deepest mysteries.
    My father pushes his luck lightly. “Aw, hell, Cauzette, I didn’t hurt you. If I meant to—”
    “You better be listenin’ to me, J.W. I swear on the Bible I mean ev’ry word I said. I’ll kill you deader’n a doornail.”
    My parents chain-smoked while the house went toe-to-toe with Carla, my mother singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” and sweeping out floodwater. Meanwhile I slept fourteen hours in the comfort of my own bed.
    When Carla finished, she’d converted our little house with a leaky roof into an indoor swimming pool. Outside, it looks to have survived the ordeal with little more than a black eye; inside, it’s more like a fatal brain hemorrhage. The final collapse won’t come for three and a half years, but when it does, there can be little doubt that Hurricane Carla delivered the blow that brought on the beginning of the end.
    In 1965 my parents threw in the towel. By the time the bank got around to repossessing the property, they’d long since quit Jacinto City and the house had collapsed. Later that year, whatever was left got bulldozed to the ground.
    The lot then remained vacant for thirty-three years. As an adult, I often had the urge and enough money to buy the property, with a vision of constructing a monument of some kind and dedicating it to my parents. But for reasons I could never explain, I balked at reclaiming the site of my childhood home.
    In 1998, near the small town of Highlands, Texas, less than a mile from the San Jacinto Monument itself, my mother will be buried next to my father, who died nine years before. During the funeral service, I’ll be overwhelmed by the desire to drive the fifteen or so miles into Jacinto City and buy the vacant lot at 10418 Norvic Street. Why, I’ll wonder, had I waited so long?
    With my heart racing ahead in anticipation, my wife and daughters will show their concern with soothing words and gentle reminders for me to breathe. The journey will seem to last another thirty-three years. When we arrive, a newly constructed home is proudly positioned where my parents’ little white house had stood so tentatively. All that remains of the lives gone before will be in the northeast corner of