Twelve Months by Steven Manchester Read Free Book Online Page B

weren’t about to stick around until he did.
    The older I got, the more I realized that the generations who passed before us were just as screwed up. Though they criticized and judged our every move, they’d also indulged in alcohol abuse, domestic violence and infidelity – my dad more than most. If anything, the one thing that had changed was that there was less hiding it.

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    The one person I’ll never forget from my childhood is Mr. Duhon, Dewey’s dad.
    Mr. Duhon worried terribly over his son from the moment his boy was born. And for years, the worries were justified; the trials and terrors of toddlers, the daring dangers of youth. Even the quirky quests of adolescence were very upsetting to him; us borrowing his car without permission or licenses, and so on.
    Then Dewey grew up. He was all done jumping from roofs and eating hard candy while lying on the couch. But his dad still couldn’t adapt. Whether it was the years of conditioning, or his own internal wiring – or a combination of the two – he just couldn’t let his guard down. He was a bundle of nerves.
    For as long as I knew him, I thought the man’s twitchiness was no more than his poor attempt at humor. Years went by before I realized he wasn’t kidding at all. He was always overly concerned, without being able to conceal his fears.
    Once, the old man sprinkled rat poison under a porch that stood no more than a foot off the ground. When Dewey and I returned home from school, his father was frantic. “Have you boys been playing under the porch?” he asked, as Dewey and I walked up the driveway.
    â€œHuh?” Dewey grunted.
    â€œHave you eaten any of the white powder under the porch?” he asked, his voice high-pitched and anxious.
    Dewey just walked away, with my grinning face in tow.
    The old man called out behind us. “Because it’s rat poison…”
    We never looked back.
    â€œYou know that holly berries are poisonous, too…right?”
    I thought I was going to pee my pants from laughing so hard. “It’s not funny,” Dewey said and slammed the door behind us.
    But it was funny. The best, oddly enough, was the morning Mr. Duhon buried his mother.

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    After a life filled with shared misery, Dewey’s grandmother gasped her final complaint and left the world bawling as loud as she had coming in. “She’s no longer suffering,” Father Grossi sighed. The young priest ran his hand across her wrinkled face and closed her distant eyes on his way.
    â€œSure,” the family mumbled under its breath, “and neither are we.”
    At fifteen, I was honored with being chosen a pallbearer. It was my first assignment as such and I welcomed the opportunity to help my best friend.
    It was a cold morning when Aldina Duhon – or Grandma – was laid to rest. Dewey, his father, and his Vovo – Dewey’s other grandmother, the Portuguese one – swung by to pick me up. Dewey gestured his hello and then smiled wide, motioning his eyes over the front seat toward his strangely clad father. In one quick moment, I took it all in: Vovo was snoring like a bear. Mr. Duhon, however, was awake and ridiculously out of style. He wore a brown corduroy sports jacket, one size too small, over a white button down shirt. The slender Western rope tie matched perfectly with a pair of black snakeskin boots. To top it off, a belt buckle the size of a hubcap reading, “If It Ain’t Country, It Ain’t Music,” held up a faded pair of blue khaki slacks. He smelled of cheap cologne and he was smiling.
    I nodded and returned the smile. “Mornin’, Mr. Duhon,” I said and then glanced back at Dewey. My friend winked. I choked on the laugher that clawed to break free. “This oughta be one hell of a funeral,” I whispered to Dewey.
    He grinned. “You have no idea.”

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