The stench was incredible, rotten, disgusting, enough to make someone vomit. I stared at the animal corpse roasting in the excruciating Austin, Texas heat wave in August as flies hovered and landed, testing and tasting their newfound treat.
Instinctively I looked upward and there they were as I expected, bottom feeders in kinship with the insects circling, impatiently waiting buzzards ready to pounce on an opportune moment when so many pesky humans weren’t around so they could feast.
As I stared, I realized I couldn’t even tell what type of animal engrossed me. Its back was to me, wide open, guts oozing slowly to the hard, hot, red clay underneath. Fueling my imagination I spent my time attempting to guess the dead animal for an imaginary prize. It was brown and black matted fur with hind paws sticking out in a lopsided tilt. A squirrel? No way, it was too big to be one, subtracting also muskrats and ferrets. I racked my brain - What were those fuzzy beasts? A mole possibly? Or a groundhog? In my adolescent mind I felt Groundhog Day would be destroyed forever! Couldn’t be a groundhog. My mind settled on a Raccoon, bottom feeders of the forest, and thieves in the equilibrium.
Whatever the species was, to this day I occasionally have dreams about that murdered animal. Some nights it’s a nightmare, others not as bad. What was its motive, I thought, to have to get so badly across that road? Did it smell food? Some stinky animal pussy? Or damn did he just have to see if the other side of the road was that much better than his side? When you don’t have anything, the other side of the road always seems better.
Man I was so naïve then that everything was going to be all right. As I lie awake in my dark cell staring at the blank cement ceiling, I realized that’s the turning moment in my short life when I lost my innocence. My happy go lucky, don’t give a fuck childhood existence was dead, along with that rotten animal and along with my mother.
My Aunt Duwanna broke my animal concentration, “Boy could you please close that window? That stench is rolling through this car smelling like a skunk just came up in here and died! It’s becoming unbearable!” Her condescending tone irritated me to death so I ignored her best I could, she is so not my mother.
Uncle Joe chipped in, “Smells like shit to me.”
I looked past them at the rearview mirror of the hearse and looked at the small procession stuck behind us. Apparently the train was stuck up rail by a pesky boulder that had dislodged itself in recent rains from a hill. The engineers were busy attempting to implode the boulder as they rerouted many other travelers’ miles down the road. Unfortunately for us, our destination was within a mile across the blocked tracks, never mind that our motorcycle escort was stuck on the other side waiting for us.
As we sat there in the mind numbing heat, I wanted to ask all these so called well wishers why the hell were they here? Do these alleged friends, colleagues, and associates merely want to gawk and stare, such as at a tragic car wreck, or did they really mean well? I wanted to shout, “Nothing to see here! Please step aside!” Where were they when my family didn’t have heat, or food, or clothes for us to even go to school?
My Uncle Joseph guffawed at my quietness, “Boy you deaf or something – did you hear you’re Aunt? Close that got-damned window. Act like you staring at a ghost or something?!” I have no idea how I stared at him, but it must have been convincing, for he grumbled and looked back forward quickly.
My Aunt moved closer to him, “Joe, why you ask that boy that? You act like his momma didn’t just die and here you go asking him about ghosts!”
I still have never forgiven him for what he said next, tolerate maybe, but forgive I can’t. It seemed as if his body was overtaken by a demon as he uttered, “Boy act surprised this happen – like he didn’t know his momma was a whore or something…”
The next few minutes were a blank, but I do remember stubbing my toe on the pivot seat of the hearse as I had somehow launched myself forward with my balled up fist striking my adult Uncle square on the right side of his jaw. His head bobbled like a bobble head as I came to, kicking and screaming with my cousin Jack and my brother Jaymon, holding me hard against the floor.
The next few minutes were a blank, but I do remember stubbing my toe on the pivot seat of the hearse as I had somehow launched myself forward with my balled up fist striking my adult Uncle square on the right side of his jaw. His head bobbled like a bobble head as I came to, kicking and screaming with my cousin Jack and my brother Jaymon, holding me hard against the floor.
My Aunt was so in shock, she was speechless as I screamed, “Don’t you ever talk about my momma! Don’t you ever!! I’ll kill you – you hear me! Kill you!”
“Rashon! Calm down please son! Calm down! This won’t help you, you must calm down!” My aunt pleaded with me as Jaymon and Jack held me down.
Jaymon whined at me, his voice at a high pitch audible whimpering, “Rashon, come on man – Rashon it’s not worth it – mom wouldn’t want this!” I calmed down a little when he mentioned Momma.
Uncle Joseph adjusted his jaw, groaning, “Damn, boy got a mean left hook – bout dislocated my jaw and he’s how old Wanna? Why I ought to…”
Uncle Joseph bopped me on my head as my Aunt snatched up his arm griping, “Joseph – you quit it right now! You should know better – he’s only 9 years old and his mother, if you’ve forgotten, was my sister! I can’t believe you!”
My young age took a hold of me then, fueling my rage again as I screamed, “I want my Daddy! Where is my Daddy! Why isn’t he here!?” The car fell eerily quiet as I cried and shrieked, which sent out some type of alarm, which I understand better now.
I grew up quickly after my Uncle looked at me and stated, “Boy your daddy ain’t coming, might as well say your father is dead to you also son, to both of you, give it a rest, your life is changed forever.”
As Jaymon and Jack persuaded me back to my seat, I remember being awfully nervous, fidgeting, but finally calming down as the train finally started to move. I stared angrily but confused at my Uncle as my Aunt also turned her back to him upset, tears dripping down her face. I glanced over at my brother who I noticed also wiped away a tear as he turned back to the countryside. Jack and his sister Janice took turns staring either at me, or the floor of the hearse. I never cried again after that ride.
Our procession finally inched forward after basking in the heat for a good hour. Many of the well-wishers had turned around and spilt for whatever reasons. Screw them I thought, shows how much they really cared for my mother. Ironically our hearse driver had to blow the horn to wake up the snoozing motorcyclist escort, who had to scramble away from his comfortable perch under a shady Sycamore tree to regain the lead in our humble parade. I snickered as he missed the seat and had to regain his composure, but my family looked at me if I had lost my mind so I ceased immediately.
I took one last look at the separate funeral for the ill-fated animal that perished by the crossing. Instead of a fat woman warbling “Amazing Grace” and Pastor Jenkins giving a hell firing speech about my mother’s life and discrepancies, the roadkill’s fate was getting pieced out by predator buzzards and insects chewing and spitting out its carcass as humans whiz by unfazed. I wondered then why I felt more kinship with that animal than my own family, but I soon found out why.
JAYMON
I sat there watching my mother float towards me over the bean field. The plants seemed to sway in her wake as she came closer, she would hesitate, then inch a little more. She seemed to be trying to tell me something, I could tell by the look on her face when she didn’t know how to explain herself. I blinked and moved uncomfortably when I realized what I was seeing. I looked back at the hearse my family was traveling in to attend her funeral. My brother Rashon seemed transfixed on something outside of his window, while my cousins Jack and Janice fidgeted with their new clothes. My Uncle Joseph and Aunt Duwanna sat across from us talking quietly, that grown up talk where they didn’t want us listening. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t asleep before I peeked back outside the window. The image of my mother was gone but for some reason the bean plants looked like a trail had been made through them.
My Aunt and Uncle kept whispering something and looking over at my brother. I could tell something was wrong but tried to ignore it. I tried not to cry, but not understanding the situation I felt a strange pressure that brought me to tears, streaming down my cheeks uncontrollably. Of all days a train was stuck in front of us causing our whole procession to be stuck in a traffic jam in the middle of a hot day in August. The hearse driver had the air conditioning on but my brother kept his window down, letting in the hot heat and some stinky smell. I gasped thinking, when will this end? I blurted out, “Auntie can’t we go another way, I’m dying of thirst!”
But she didn’t even hear me because Uncle Joseph said something to Rashon making him freak! Rashon tagged my Uncle in his jaw, making him bob in the front seat. “Rashon, what are you doing! Stop it! Stop it!” I screamed, and tried to take him down with my cousin Jack. Rashon was fighting us, as my Auntie screamed. I couldn’t believe he was having a tantrum at our mother’s funeral but here he was, acting a fool!
Rashon finally calmed down when the train moved out of our way. I glanced back towards the field and swore I saw my mother again out in the middle of it, but I blinked and the image was gone. We bounced over the tracks as I heard Rashon snickering at something. Jack and I looked over and saw the motorcycle escort about fall off his bike, which was funny, but I didn’t dare laugh after what had just happened.
We made our way to a small field by a cemetery where they were having this so-called “celebration” of my mother’s life. She was already cremated but this was us saying goodbye. She wanted a tree planted in her name as a living testimony with a plaque to always remember her, that part I understood, the rest baffled me. As we walked up the hill past the small cemetery I watched the tombstones, and as I look back now, realize it was a silly thought but I wondered if the dead were watching us. I used to ride my bike up here with friends from school, and being the bad asses we were, would jump the headstones with our BMX bikes. Rashon had even perfected a flip off of one particular large slanted headstone. My, if the deceased families saw us! I’m sure daddy would have given us a whooping we wouldn’t have forgotten!! Now that we were leaving a tribute to our mother I felt I had been disrespectful of the dead – bet nothing better happen to this memorial plaque!
A large lady named Beloria was belting out “Amazing Grace” as the majority of the mourners gathered. I swear Rashon let out one of his patented snickers as we moved through the sea of black. Several of the adults grimaced at him, but I understood quickly what he laughed at when Beloria would pivot, then her fat drooped out the side of her blouse. I bit my lip and tried my hardest not to laugh either, but it wasn’t a pretty sight for such an adolescent mind.
Father Jenkins started to speak as we watched a group of teenagers from the Sun Street First Baptist Holy Episcopalian Church drape different flags and flowers over mother’s tree. Her ashes were in a vase propped on a stand in this tribute to her. “I have a heavy heart here today, so heavy, but I know Sister Turner would not want such a burden to fall upon her brothers and sisters gathered here on this fine summer afternoon, to send her accolades as she makes her final journey up to the holy land, can I get an amen?”
The crowd responded as he asked “Amen”.
As he continued in his gurgling accent, “For you see, sister Turner was so full of life and enjoyment, and a beautiful mother of two boys she adored more than life on earth itself, that the crying and bellyaches would only put her off. She was that type of woman who loved others, each one as she would want to be loved herself…”
Oddly, something caught my eye as he spoke, his garbling sounding like a distorted radio as I glanced around the strangers and familiar family and members of the church. A lone car kicking up dust stood out on the horizon, coming closer to us. Something in my stomach churned as I realized there was a light bar on top. Intuitively I could feel the stress of my family as they noticed also. The trooper made his way up the hill past our cars as even the Reverend paused from his elongated rant. A man seemingly not from our flock stepped out of a parked car I hadn’t noticed before as the troopers arrived. He was an older white man with slicked black hair and glasses, and wore a really nice brown suit carrying papers on a clipboard. He really stood out like a sore thumb.
“Folks, sorry to intrude at this time, but this request was approved late by the county commissioner and Governor of Texas. We’ll just need five minutes of time so Mr. Turner can say goodbye to his wife.” This man’s name was now worthless, as our crowd grew quiet. The troopers made us step aside to allow my daddy to say goodbye. According to government records the untimely intrusion was due to time constraints of getting back to county after his bereavement. But the “life celebration” went from a placid commemoration to an utter melee within minutes.
I didn’t know my father was even accused of our mother’s murder. Until that moment, I didn’t even know where he was. We gasped as he was led out of the car by the troops, handcuffed and chained, such as a slave, leading him to the tree. I glanced over at Rashon and saw him balling up his fist as our dad limped over to the tree. Dad’s face was flushed, his skin sweaty and beaded up. His handcuffed arm was still in a sling from the fight that erupted that fateful night. Bruises were visible on his upper torso. All I kept thinking about was he didn’t look the same as we had known him all of our short life.
They allowed Reverend Jenkins to go over by the tree to speak to him. The Reverend held what he could of dad’s hands as he spoke to him in hushed tones over the bible. Tears streamed down dad’s eyes as he kept his eyes on the vase. The troopers and the commissioner kept close watch as time was running out.
As if in slow motion we watched in silent horror what happened next. As the commissioner stepped forward to tell the Reverend they had to leave, dad snatched momma’s vase. “No Rev no! I can’t!”
Dad was inaudible, gripping the vase as the Reverend tried to stop him, pleading, “Raymond, no son, let it go, let it go!” The commissioner sent the troopers over who tapped dad on his shoulder with their baton. In a hot moment the trooper had been flipped over dad’s body and lay moaning in the grass. Dad stood up, his huge body trembling as he grasped onto the vase, holding it for dear life.
The other trooper swung at him with his baton and held up his mace demanding, “Son, don’t make me use this, you don’t want to cause anymore trouble now do you?” Dad was in a rage. Within seconds he caught the trooper’s baton with his handcuffed hand, and sent a blow to the man.
The church members were pushing us backwards quickly as Dad scuffled with the cops. Dad seemingly had the upper hand even though he was bound and shackled, thrashing the men to and fro as they clubbed and fought him. Somehow the commissioner got a dose of mace and the preacher had his glasses knocked off. After the commissioner quit bouncing around rubbing his eyes, he managed to call for backup from the squad car.
We became worried dad would get killed by these men as they started to choke him with their baton. One officer had managed to place it under his neck and was pulling up as dad still knocked the other officer around like a rag doll. Dad’s veins were popping out of his neck as he grunted and breathed hard struggling against them. The preacher was frantic, pleading, “Raymond, Lord be with you son, this is not worth this, stand down brother, stand down – please, in the name of the Lord the Holy Shepherd, and your dearly departed wife, who oh so wouldn’t want this!”
Suddenly Rashon squirmed out of the stunned crowd and took a few steps towards the chaos. Our Aunt was pleading, “Rashon no! Get back here now!”
I watched dumbfounded, wondering what he planned to do, as he stood there hesitating but seemingly unafraid. “Daddy! Stop!” Rashon said, his voice cracking barely above a whisper as if somehow he had lost it in the service. But our dad heard him.
Raymond opened his eyes wide and looked at Rashon; standing alone on the ground before them, biting his lip, fidgeting as he stared at him and the men. Our dad dropped to his knees as tears welled in his eyes. The troopers took the action to their advantage, finally subduing dad. They carted my father away like a madman into an arriving padded truck. The entire time he kept his eyes transfixed on Rashon, a mixture of sad anger, until we couldn’t see him any more. The policemen did a walk through of the scene, crunching gifts and flowers before they cleared the area and simply left. The commissioner uttered a grumbled apology before he went to his car and left quietly from the scene of the crime, the mental crime they presented to us that fateful day. This was to be my father’s legacy.
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About the Author:
A label of love since 1995, fashioned for the hot urban gangsta literature market, CJX presents “Roadkill”. Christopher Joseph aka CJX has a background in media and marketing and after diving into screenplays, hoping to stumble on that big score, CJX realized the pratfalls of the elite film industry, but did discover how easily stories flowed onto paper!
Help CJX publish his book by checking out his kickstarter page linked above and check out his website here!
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