Extended Vacation

By Doyle Duke

Sam Henson is a bitter, cantankerous, old redneck whose world is a prison of depression and anger. It was not always so. Once, he had the love and adoration of his wife, Martha, and children. Now, his wife has deserted him. His daughter, Karen, who provides his home healthcare, is stealing his money, and his son, Tom, is gay. Sam’s health is bad and he’s terrified of dying—the means, not the final results. The thought of being bed-ridden and completely dependent upon his daughter is more frightening than the images he conjures up of an extended and painful death.
After a terrific argument with Karen, he determines to take an extended vacation. He liquidates his savings, puts his house on the market, loads his RV, and heads from Macon, Georgia to Alaska. His plan is simple, along the way; he’ll spend all his money and shoot himself upon arrival.
At a truck stop, he meets Terri Warner, an eighteen year old, black, road whore running from her own demons. They come together like milk and beer—splashing at each encounter, but unable to mix. Terri is adept at spinning self-serving lies and Sam’s bigotry works like a poker in hot coals. Even so, she reminds Sam of the daughter he loved, and he begins wondering about Terri’s past. In his loneliness, Sam reveals bits and pieces of his story, and Terri learns of his family, the reason for the trip, and its intended ending. But it’s the dark secret Terri hides that shatters their world and forces them along a path of friendship and devotion neither desires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doyle Duke
• Release date: Dec 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310660443

Doyle Duke

My name is Doyle Duke; I’m seventy-six years old and retired. I’ve been married to my wife, Fay, for fifty-five years. We have two children, four grandchildren and two great-granddaughter. In the working world I made my living as a photographer and lab technician.I spent eight years in the U.S. Navy as a photographer’s mate. I attended three photographic schools, was a designated motion picture photographer, and rose to the rank of Third Class before I decided not to make the Navy a lifetime career.During my career in the real world my two major employers were the Chattanooga Times Newspaper and Hinkle’s Commercial Photographics. I attended local colleges, business and art, and managed to complete one year.

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Published by Duke Publishing

http://www.doyleeduke.com

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Doyle E. Duke, 2012

ISBN #978-131066044-3

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

BY DOYLE E. DUKE

http://www.doyleeduke.com

http://www.amazon.com

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/303800

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PREFACE

Following the abolishment of segregation in the US, many old customs, beliefs, and ideas were suddenly obsolete. Millions of Caucasians and Afro-Americans were forced to reevaluate ingrained values, adapt to new social mores, and conform to a new way of life. Differences and prejudices are seldom easy to overcome. Extended Vacation is a fictitious tale of one such meeting.

I’m aware of the risk I run by using misspelling in the dialogue and the ‘n word,’ but I feel both are critical to the characters’ development. Terri’s speech is a blend of uneducated southern black slang—which is also prevalent in the white segment of that culture—and northern black hood dialects.

For Dr. Martin Luther King and those who dream of a world without racial boundaries.

Extended Vacation

Doyle E. Duke

Chapter 1

Sam Henson leaned on the bathroom sink and stared into the tired, expressionless face of an old man of sixty-seven. He studied the sagging jowls, cry lines, and dull eyes that looked back from a forest of unruly, graying hair and bristling whiskers. His mouth barely moved as he addressed the image.

You're one sorry, useless, piece of shit. Can’t work, can't eat, can't fuck … Hell—can't even think. All you can do is sleep and fart.

The image stared back with disgust, and he closed his eyes to blot out the sight. His head fell as he inhaled, trying to still his heaving chest. His hands gripped the edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles ached. He stood with stiff arms, fighting to pull the elusive bits of his existence back together. It was hard, so hard to concentrate and move when he just didn't care. Nothing mattered. Food, work, sex, money, power—didn't matter. Once you got old and your body wore out, you might as well be dead. It was easier to just stand and let his mind roam. At least until his body tired, then he could go back to bed. No, not today. Karen was here. She was downstairs, fixing him a breakfast he wouldn’t be able to eat, a tasteless something that wasn't supposed to aggravate his stomach.

He removed a glucose strip from the medicine cabinet, and shuffled to the commode. As he relieved himself, he dipped the strip in his urine stream, wiped it with a cotton ball, and laid it alongside a color chart to dry.

Each morning, he awoke to things he didn’t want to face, blood sugar strips, shots, pills, breakfast, and on weekends, his daughter. Like now, there was no way out. He had to shave and paste a smile on before going downstairs, unless he wanted a male nurse doling out his medication and watching him take a crap. Or worse, a wheelchair in a nursing home. Well, maybe something did matter. The thought of lying around diseased and suffering, just waiting to die, always gave him a gut-twisting anxiety attack. Hell, just the thought of lying around bored was enough to screw up his nervous system. That would never happen to him—not so long as his finger had the strength to pull a trigger. He'd already thought about it, before his nerves went haywire and he started all the damn medication. Quality of life was just as important as quantity, and when there was nothing worth hanging around for, that would be the day he'd leave. The idea had grown tempting lately. Maybe it was time—but no, not this minute. Now, he had to go downstairs and smile. To hell with the shave.

#

Daddy, you're not dressed! Karen said. And you haven’t shaved!

I’m not going anywhere. He sat at the table and tossed the urine stained strip before him.

For Christ’s sake! Do you always have to do that?

What?

Put that filthy thing on the table. She pinched the strip in a paper towel and tossed it in the trash.

If I don’t you’ll accuse me of not pissing on one!

High or low?

Huh?

Your sugar—high or low?

High.

Dad, you need to get out of here, go somewhere! She brought a bottle of insulin from the refrigerator, shook it, and set it in front of him.

How the hell can I go somewhere? He withdrew a syringe from a box on the table and inserted it into the upturned bottle. You stole my driver’s license and checkbook!

Now, Daddy, you know why I took your license. You had two acci—

The sons-a-bitches hit me!

You had liquor on your breath.

I’d had three beers! I wasn’t drunk!

Karen turned with what looked like another retort, and a bowl of oatmeal, but held both as he shot the insulin into his belly. He disposed of the syringe and opened the daily pill organizer: 400 milligrams of Zantac and twenty milligrams of Dicyclomine in the mornings. Fifty milligrams of Trazadone at night.

Your blood alcohol was—Daddy. Why are you so ornery? You know Tom and I do everything we can to help you.

Tom! Tom the faggot, Sam said. He does nothing but send a little money.

Stop saying that! He’s your son. She slapped the oatmeal down so hard it did a top-wiggle before it stilled. Eat your oatmeal.

Well, he’s a queer anyway. And I don’t need his money … least I don’t reckon I do. He poked the oatmeal with a spoon to test its resilience. You haven’t spent all my money yet, have you? You and that sorry ass you married.

Leave Emmett out of this! Who I chose for a husband, and the father of my children, is none of your business.

It’s my business when you use my money to support him!

We don’t use your money. She was standing near the fridge with a glass in one hand, and a carton of milk in the other.

I saw my credit card statements. He rubbed his temples. How the hell could I burn fifty bucks worth of gas when I don’t even drive?

Daddy, I drive from Milledgeville every Saturday just to care for you. Surely you can pay for my gas.

Be no need to worry about money, if that sorry son-of-bitching husband of yours would stop pecking on that typewriter and get a job. Stay-at-home-dad my ass! What’s it been, twelve or fourteen years? And he ain’t sold shit.

I’ve told you, her hands shook, he’s been selling a few articles all along. She set a glass of milk before him and pointed to the oatmeal. Put some milk and Sweet’N-Low in it. You know I only use the checkbook to pay your bills.

I can pay my own bills! His face burned.

You forget to pay them. Daddy, we’ve been through all this crap before, and I’m not going to fuss with you again. You should be thankful you have someone to do things for you. Care for you.

Do for you … care for you. An image popped into his mind: him sitting at the breakfast table on a potty chair with a tube up his dick. The picture grew clearer; he was drooling into a bowl of oatmeal and washing it down with laxative-laced orange juice. Mentally, he flushed the image.

I can take care of myself! With a sweep of his arm, he cleared the table. The glass did a flip, dumping milk across the table. The bowl tumbled to the floor, and the oatmeal smacked the fridge like a huge, juicy spitball.

I am not cleaning that up. Karen’s voice was low, barely audible above the gritting of her teeth.

To hell with it! Sam slid his chair back, allowing the milk to dribble between his knees. The table shook under the strain of his rising. Give them back! Give me my checkbook and papers, and get the hell out of my life!

Karen’s palms rose, as if to ward off a blow, her face blanched, then reddened. She crossed the room to her purse, fumbled, withdrew a wallet and checkbook secured with a rubber band, and tossed them in the milk on the table.

Screw you! Take them you ungrateful ol’ bastard. Take them and go to hell!

Sam rescued the package and started blotting it with a napkin. The front door slammed behind his daughter. He stopped, laid the napkin aside, and waited, half expecting her return. He feared ... was that the right word? Was he actually afraid? Yes, but not of her. He was afraid of his helplessness. The anger drained from him and a tremor shook his body.

Same thing happened every week for the past six months. She came over every Saturday, to cook, clean, and check on him. He heard the same gripes every weekend. Daddy! This place is a mess! Don’t you do anything? You’re filthy. Are those the same pajamas you put on last Saturday? When was the last time you had a shower? Then the threat, Daddy, if you get any worse, we’ll have to put you in a home. He figured that was the reason she came over. Retirement homes cost money, and if she put him in one his small IRA would disappear like Frosty in July.

She did do things he knew he should do. It wasn't as if he was crippled or disabled. He just didn’t care. If he didn’t want to clean his house, or himself, that was his business. But all her cleaning and fussing made him feel guilty. He suspected that was the purpose. Whenever he tried to stop her, she'd only brush his objections aside. Daddy, I can’t stand the thought of you living in this filth. What kind of daughter would I be if I didn’t care for my daddy?

In the beginning, he’d thought she did it out of love. But each week, they’d start out calm, like today, then she’d start preaching or bitching and he'd lose his temper and began raving. In the end, she'd go home mad and upset while he had one more reason to wish he was dead. But something told him this time was different.

His hands shook as he thumbed through the wallet. Driver’s license, Social Security, Medicare, credit cards, and forty-two dollars. The picture holder flipped open and he looked at a much younger image of himself with a beautiful young woman, a skinny, tow-headed boy of ten, and a laughing, blonde girl of eight. He paused to study the picture before closing the wallet and picking up the checkbook. The balance was $1,232.68. Lower than he remembered for this time of the month. The register showed numerous purchases at Kroger, Raceway, Wal-Mart, and two for Sassies Beauty Salon. The Kroger bill was too high, he didn’t even drive, and he sure as hell never had his hair done at Sassies. About what he’d expected, after the unusual charges on his credit card statements—so much for love.

Sam cleaned up the spilled mess and, using the same bowl, poured some Rice Krispies. As he spooned the rapidly mushing cereal into his mouth, he pondered the consequences of this morning’s actions. He hadn’t won. Oh no, Karen wouldn’t leave him to his misery. She’d be back, probably with a court order to declare him incompetent. He finished the cereal and deposited the bowl, glass, and spoon in the empty sink. Empty, because Karen had just cleaned it. During the next few days, after it filled again, he’d simply rinse out a dirty dish as needed.

Back in his room, he looked at his pants draped over a side chair then at the unmade bed. All he wanted to do was crawl under the covers and slip back into that world of dreams and oblivion. He sat on the edge of the bed. A short nap...but no, a short nap and he’d wake up in a nursing home, spaced out on goof balls, and dressed in a pissy diaper. But did that matter? Wasn’t that what he wanted, endless sleep and no worries? Maybe it was time. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and cupped his forehead in his palms. Why fight it? She’d have her way in the end. He was too tired. He glanced at the base of the nightstand, and his gaze moved up to the top drawer. He struggled with the thought. If he waited, the men with a little white jacket might show up, and he wouldn’t have another opportunity. Mesmerized, he watched his hand reach out and pull the drawer open. It dipped inside and withdrew his holstered .38 Smith & Wesson. He stared at it, then slipped it from the stiff holster. The weapon was a nickel-plated snub-nose. Thin, easy to conceal. With thick fingers, he broke the cylinder open to expose the empty chambers. Time slowed as he sat motionless. His fingers moved to close the cylinder, then stopped. He rummaged in the bottom of the drawer and found some cartridges. His hands trembled as he dropped the bullets one by one into the chambers, and snapped the cylinder home. He chuckled—a cold, mirthless chuckle. Why had he loaded all six cylinders? His elbows settled back to his knees and he studied the cold, nickel finish. The heft and feel was familiar. How often had he fired this weapon, and felt its recoil jolt back through his arms? He remembered the times he’d stowed it in the door pouch of the RV when they vacationed, and the time he’d drawn it on someone—that night so many years ago when he was drinking.

He’d taught Tom and Karen to shoot.

His thoughts jumped back to a time when they were little, and to Martha. What did he do wrong? Why did they turn out the way they had? Why did Martha leave? Memories lead him on a twirling montage of his marriage to Martha—the births of Karen and Tom, wet diapers, sleepless nights in cramped apartments, and long hours in the garage at grease-monkey wages. Afternoons and weekends were filled with tee-ball, cheerleading, and Sunday school. Evenings brought homework sessions, and a struggle to understand new math and keep up with school curricula. Somehow, they crested the hump. Now, it had all changed. He had grown old, the children pulled away, and Martha left. Tears blurred the gun in his hand.

Through the fog, a mental image of the RV surfaced and merged with the picture of him sitting on a potty chair for breakfast. An idea was sparked. He opened the cylinder and let the bullets tumble back into the nightstand drawer, and replaced the gun. Not yet. He had one more road trip in him. He wasn’t able to stop Karen and Tom—Tom was involved someway—but by God, he’d choose the way it ended. He chuckled again, this time it had a malicious ring. You need to go somewhere, she’d said. Yeah! Maybe take a vacation—an extended vacation.

#

The RV was a 1972 Winnebago Chieftain II. She was thirteen years old, but had only fifty-two thousand on the odometer. Sam hadn’t cranked her in two years, and the battery was dead, but he knew she was in perfect mechanical condition. When he had parked her, she was running smoother than Karo syrup on a hot, buttered biscuit.

He pulled the engine battery and the 220-amp auxiliary battery, dropped them into the back of his old F-150 Ford, and drove into Macon. The steering wheel felt strange in his hands, but the familiarity of the old truck soon returned, and he wondered why he’d taken Karen’s brow-beatings so long.

After exchanging the batteries at the NAPA parts store, he stopped at the bank, where he removed Karen’s name from his account, then at Fickling and Company Realtors, to place his house on the market. Next, the pharmacy and the grocery, to stock