Six Feet Away

By Dan Richart

The only son of the famed University of Alabama football legend, Duke Andrews, is poised to surpass his father's football greatness. A career ending injury, alcohol, and an all-consuming anger take over, as his dreams vanish before his eyes. The All-American boy evolves into someone unrecognizable. Thrown together with a depressed professor, with plenty of his own anger, the two begin a journey into unknown territory. A beautiful girl only makes everything more complicated, as the young man tests his every limit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483530413

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Chapter One

Where in the hell is she? he practically growled to himself, as he shuffled down the hallway.

It was an extraordinarily warm late-summer morning in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. At 8:00 a.m. it was already eighty-three humid degrees.

Oscar Taylor, Ph.D., snatched the pale blue cardigan out of the hall closet. He put it on and made his way outside to get the paper.

Oscar was fully aware of the current temperature, because he had checked the thermometer near the kitchen window twice, but he pulled on the sweater just the same. In his opinion it was getting to be a sweater time of year, and despite the anomaly of the current weather pattern, by God, he would wear his sweater if he damn well felt like it.

His joints felt like rusty hinges. The way they were working, it might have been thirty outside, instead of eighty-three. The aches and pains often made him imagine he had been aging in presidential years. It happened to all of them, he thought, Lincoln, FDR, Ike, and even the vivacious Theodore Roosevelt. They had all aged rapidly in the White House, just as he felt he was aging rapidly in his own house.

These thoughts had been occurring regularly since his sudden retirement from The University of Alabama in 1980, three years earlier. He no longer rode his bicycle or walked the six blocks to the university to give lectures anymore, even if asked.

After his retirement, the university quickly honored him with the title Professor Emeritus of Political Science, which he didn’t really consider much of an honor, though he would have at another point in his life. To him, the title was just another item on the long list of things he considered to be a pain in his ass. The list seemed to grow longer with each passing day.

The lawn on either side of him monkey grass-lined walk, which lead from his front porch steps in a perfectly straight line to the public sidewalk, was knee-high high and going to seed. Enormous, healthy clumps of crab grass, dandelions, chickweed, and thistles raised their ugly heads at random intervals tossing their seeds about like beads in a Mardi Gras parade.

Wild, unruly flowerbeds were filled to overflowing with a variety of weeds that spilled over their orderly brick edging like floodwater pouring over a spillway. Twisted, enormous George Tabor azaleas, camellias, crepe myrtles, gardenias, and ligustrum, some dead for a year or more, appeared in various areas of the front and side lawns. They also surrounded the wraparound front porch of the once grand Victorian mansion he called home and the Druid City Historic District called the Van Cleave House.

He stepped cautiously onto the lawn in search of the morning paper. Small limbs had fallen from the ancient oaks that lined both sides of the street for four blocks in either direction. He picked up a three foot long limb and probed the vegetation in search of the news that he really didn’t give a damn about. However, the process of locating it seemed a high priority, almost an obsession, which became increasingly important with each moment that the paper remained hidden from him. As his frustration grew, he began whacking some azaleas lightly hoping to dislodge the paper. Beads of sweat appeared on his bald head.

A slender, attractive woman, who was forty-six years old but easily looked ten years younger, leaned up against one of the oaks just across the street. She wore what she always wore to work, a crisp white button-up dress and comfortable white nurse shoes. Gazing with a combination of disinterest and mild amusement, she ate the last bite of her third glazed doughnut. She bought doughnuts almost every morning on her eight-block walk to work. She looked at Dr. Taylor through relaxed, peaceful eyes opened just enough to see. Still sleepy, she conserved every bit of energy, like a lioness that would hunt later in the day, knowing that energy would be required of her. She chewed the last bite of her breakfast slowly, enjoying every bit of its sugary goodness.

Oscar muttered a profusion of profanity as he rummaged through the chaos, now whacking with great abandon, leaves flying, and sweat pouring under the heat of the air and the sweater.

Finally, after swallowing the last bite, the woman liked each fingertip of her right hand before licking her smooth, chocolate-colored lips. Though she was in plain view, she continued to watch the growing spectacle completely unnoticed.

Hey! she erupted.

Startled by the outburst, Oscar stood tall, like a groundhog popping out of its hole, and quickly surveyed his surroundings until his eyes rested on her. He squinted through the round lenses of his gold glasses for a moment, registering her face. A look of pure disgust crossed over him for a moment, before doing his level best to ignore her very presence. The whacking resumed. He began whacking everything around him for a moment, with sweat streaming down his forehead and stinging his eyes.

Dr. Taylor, if you had somebody cut your grass and trim up them ol’ nasty bushes, then you just might find your paper, she said casually, still leaning against the oak. She had never addressed him by his first name during the twenty-four years she had worked for him.

What? Oh shut the hell up! First of all, nobody asked your opinion. And second, I’m not even looking for the paper, Miss Busybody, he spat.

Oh, really? You’re just bein’ mean to them bushes for nothin’? What’s they do to you to make you beat’em so bad anyhow? she asked.

"Listen, Minnie, what I do is absolutely none of your concern. Why don’t you stop slacking off and cook my breakfast. You know, like you’re supposed to? It is your job by the way."

Alright, alright. She sauntered across the street. You don’t have to get all nasty about it. What you want this morning, baby?

"What in the hell do you think I want? I’ve been eating the same damn thing for the last seventy-two years. Let me repeat it to you slowly, so that you might retain it this time. Two eggs, sunny side up, light toast heavily buttered, grits, also buttered, and two slices of bacon, crispy. Oh, and use the real butter. Don’t try to sneak any of that low calorie, low cholesterol crap on my toast either. I didn’t just fall off the cabbage truck last week, you know. Now, do you think you can manage that?"

Well, golly gee whiz, Dr. Taylor, I just don’t know, she said, grinning slightly as she tried her best to sound like Hattie McDaniel’s character, Mammy, from Gone With the Wind. It was a game she had played thousands of times before, but this time something seemed slightly different about Dr. Taylor. Although she thought it an impossibility, he seemed slightly more bitter than usual. She was intrigued.

Oh, don’t you play the smartass with me, Minnie! Just do your damned job! he roared, giving a camellia a sharp whack.

"Let me run it by you one time, just to see if I retained it, sir. Two scrambled eggs, extra runny, burned-up toast, hash brown potatoes, and two greasy, gristly sausage links?" she asked innocently, with a far more noticeable grin.

Okay, so you want to play games, huh? You’re a very clever woman, Minnie, but answer me this. If you’re so damned smart, then how come your parents named you after a cartoon rodent?

Now that, Dr. Taylor, is the $64,000 question. You got me there. I guess it’s just ‘cause I’m black and so adorably cute, she said, fluttering her long eyelashes comically in an effort to make him laugh.

Well, you’re black anyway, he said, clearly crossing a line.

"Oh, yeah? Well you a mean old man! What if I go in there and burn up your breakfast, and plop a bunch of junk on your plate that looks more like charcoal than anything else, huh? What you gonna do then, Mr. Mean Devil? Oh, oh, excuse me, you didn’t go to college for a hundred years to be called ‘Mr.,’ Dr. Mean Devil!"

That’s simple. I would fire you on the spot and you would forever be wondering why you stepped off of this glorious gravy train.

"Gravy train? Shoot, if I took off, you’d just curl up in a ball and croak like an ol’ frog. You can’t cook nothing but steaks on the grill, not that you’d even try, and you got no clue how to clean nothin’. Just look at this yard. You don’t even know how to clean this yard no more." He had pushed too many buttons and she had gone for the throat.

The hell I don’t! his pale, sweaty face had turned bright red.

"Oh, yeah? Well it sure don’t look like it to me. This yard looks like the Wild Kingdom T.V. show, it’s so growed up! I half expect Marlin Perkins hisself to jump out of that messy old magnolia tree, drinkin’ a martini. That big ol’ man, Jim, is probably out in the backyard fightin’ some big snake or giant lizard!"

Oscar scrunched up his face. Are you on drugs, Minnie? Seriously, where do you come up with such nonsense? You’ve been shooting up with hallucinogens all of these years and now you have severe brain damage. Is that it? You used to be such a sweet girl.

Well, you used to be a sweet man! Are you on drugs? Shoot, maybe you need some drugs.

Who needs drugs with a pill like you around?

Well, ha, ha, ha, that’s real funny. You drive me crazy – you know that? she fumed, with her hands balled into fists.

That’s why you love me so much, he said sweetly, trying to tone down the game. He didn’t want to make her too mad, or she might actually burn his breakfast out of spite.

"More like that’s why I can’t stand you. I can’t even stand being in the same nasty-assed, growed-over, front yard with you. So, I’m gonna go in and burn the mess out of your breakfast, so I don’t have to look at you no more. Have a good time beatin’ up your bushes, Dr. Taylor."

Wonderful. Have fun. I’m giving up on the damned newspaper. By the time I find it, it will no longer be news. I’m going to focus my attention on that ridiculous paperboy. That rotten little bastard must pay! He does this on purpose . . . I know it! he roared, holding the stick high in the air.

Chapter Two

The day he entered Paty Hall, one of the desperately ugly modern freshman dorms at The University of Alabama, Alex Andrews felt like he had just stepped off of a cliff – sort of like the cartoon character, Wile E. Coyote – and was levitating in space, waiting to fall. Despite the unimaginative architecture, the entire building was abuzz with excitement and activity, not unlike the other 315 acres that mad up the otherwise lovely campus.

Unlike all of the older buildings, Paty, like many dorms, was completely devoid of beauty. The area surrounding it was beautiful, with a small lake to the north and the tree-lined Black Warrior River not far beyond, at the bottom of the hill. Smells ranging from body odor, to popcorn, to cigarettes, to deodorant, to marijuana, to beer, to the occasional, and always welcome, scent of a girl’s perfume flowed through the air like a low lying cloud of not-quite-manhood.

A feeling of emptiness and dread consumed Alex. The other freshmen boys were laughing and kidding around. They were trickling in and out of the building, as they unpacked the belongings that they hadn’t minded their mothers preparing for them, perhaps for the last time. Alex felt in his heart that he really didn’t belong at Alabama, even though it was practically his birthright. He wasn’t sure he was ready for being away from his home, girlfriend, and mother back in Jackson, Mississippi, or if maybe he was already beyond his need to be there in terms of maturity and life experience. Either way, it felt wrong. Then again, he wasn’t really sure about anything important.

He went to his assigned room and, as expected, found it empty. He had practically begged April, his mother, for a private room. Against her better judgment, she had reluctantly complied. He thought he would have one of Paty’s single rooms, but his turned out to be a double, so he dropped his bags on the floor, just under the lone window.

Following his mother’s advice, he tested each mattress by laying down on them, to see if one was better than the other. He found them equally lumpy, but the bed on the right side had fewer stains. He was not sure what all of the stains were, but he was sure he didn’t want to know.

Alex stood at the window to see what kind of a view he had and noticed the window was unlike any he had ever seen. It opened from the bottom and was protected by a heavy, dark screen. The opening, had it been without the screen, was barely large enough for a small child to slip through. An anti-suicide window . . . how nice, he thought. Suddenly, he wondered how many freshmen had jumped out of the large windows in the old dorms at Alabama, or any university. He assumed it had been a significant number, considering how small his window’s opening was. He immediately felt the need to escape, so he left Paty.

As if he were a horse heading back to the barn, he gravitated toward the one part of campus that had been part of his life and dreams for as long as he could remember, just as he had done during freshman orientation only two months before. Bryant-Denny Stadium.

The name Bryant had been added in honor of Alabama’s legendary football coach, Paul Bear Bryant. Coach Bryant was famous for many things, but most people would agree that his greatest contributions to the university were the six National Championships he brought there, one of which Alex’s father, Duke, was fortunate enough to have helped earn.

The name Denny came from Dr. George Denny, who was the university’s president from 1912-1936. Under Dr. Denny’s steady hand, the university experienced an enormous period of growth. When he took over the helm in 1912, Alabama had six hundred fifty-two students and nine buildings. Upon his retirement in 1936, Alabama had twenty-three major buildings and over five thousand students. In addition to the stadium, the quad’s famous bell tower, Denny Chimes, was constructed in 1929 and named in his honor. Both men, Bryant and Denny, were so gifted at their appointed tasks that they were, in fact, legends in their own lifetimes.

All of the steel gates were locked at Bryant-Denny Stadium, but he knew very well what dwelled behind them. One of the finest playing fields in the United States was there, as well as room for 60,000 people to watch what happened on it.

His parents had taken him to Alabama games several times a year at Bryant-Denny, Legion Field in Birmingham, or to bowl games across America. No matter where the games were played, Alex had been treated like royalty, an heir apparent. This was partly because his father had played brilliantly for Coach Bryant in the 1960s, including a particularly outstanding performance in the 1961 Sugar Bowl against Arkansas, which resulted in a National Championship. In recent years, the royal treatment had been due to his own excellence on the gridiron. Less than two years before, the legendary Coach Bryant himself had been flown to Jackson aboard the sleek Alabama jet that was always at his disposal. Coach Bryant had come to Jackson to watch Alex play the last regular season game of his junior year at Hamilton Academy.

After the game, Coach Bryant sat with his father, famed Alabama tackle Due Andrews, in Duke’s library. As the two great men drank bourbon, they talked about their mutual past, including a toast to quarterback, Pat Trammel, who had been one of Duke’s best friends and was one of Bryant’s favorites. They discussed how Trammel’s untimely death, at only 28-years-old, had affected them so deeply. After they finished talking about the past, they talked very seriously about Alex’s future into the wee hours. Alex had been that close to realizing the only dream he had ever held close to his heart, playing for the Crimson Tide and Coach Bryant.

As Alex stood there, with his hands on the barred gate of Bryant-Denny Stadium, peering in at the small, perfect piece of end zone at the other end of the tunnel, he felt a raw, sick sensation deep in the pit of his stomach.

He wandered back toward the grand, manicured quad. It was located at the center of the oldest part of the campus. As he passed behind the communications building and crossed one of two mansion-lined sorority rows, he looked at one of the most prominent structures on campus, Denny Chimes. It soared above the tallest of the stately oaks that lined University Boulevard like sentries. Alex walked to a point on the sidewalk directly in front of the antebellum President’s Mansion, with its sweeping staircases rising to its second floor. He turned around and looked across the oak-lined street at the massive base of Denny Chimes, which had just begun to strike 11:00a.m. by playing a classical song he did not recognize on its carillon and then slowly striking each hour. As the music played, he crossed the street and stood at the tower’s base. At Alabama, the area surrounding the base is called, The Walk of Fame, and it is extremely revered. The area is divided into joined squares. Each square contains the names, hand prints, and cleat prints of the various Captains, Co-Captains, or Most Outstanding Players of each football season going back to the spring of 1948. Alex found all of his, and his father’s, favorites. Pat Trammel, 1961, who died so incredibly young; Jimmy Sharpe, 1962; Lee Roy Jordan, 1962, the greatest inside linebacker in Alabama’s illustrious history; Kenny Snake Stabler, 1967, a serious party boy who didn’t know how to lose; Joe Nameth, 1965, a flamboyant lady’s man and great leader; Ray Perkins, 1966, Bama’s new coach, who had been, and still was as tough as nails; Johnny Musso, 1971, a legendary running back; Sylvester Croom, 1974, who never disappointed the Bear and played with ferocity; Ozzie Newsome, 1977, a winner in the truest sense of the work; and dozens of other players surrounded Andrew. These Alabama greats seemed to be looking right at him, right through him. Alex had known many of them personally and a few had even spent the night in his family’s home. The names of those he had never met rang like bells in his head, as his father had told him countless stories about their lives, their excellence on the field, and their accomplishments in the NFL or business careers.

Alex knelt down and put his left hand in the left handprint of Kenny Stabler. It was as if Alex had made the handprint himself. He moved down a few seasons and found the one he cherished most of all, his father’s. Duke Andrews’ handprint was larger than Alex’s, but when Alex put his hand in it he felt as if he were actually touching his father’s hand. A flood of memories seemingly transferred from the handprint to his brain and a surge of emotion overcame him. Vomit streamed from his mouth and nose, splattering on Co-Captain, Wes Thomas, 1956. Alex bolted to his feet and ran in the direction of Gorgas Library, as not to further shame his family by crying at the foot of Denny Chimes.

Chapter Three

Christmas was a hard time of year for Dr. Oscar Taylor for a number of reasons. The chief reason was that he had grown accustomed to spending it all alone in his empty fifty-two hundred square foot home. No stockings hung by the chimney with care, no eggnog, no joyful carols, or yuletide spirit was to be found. He supposed God was no longer in his home, though he had been certain of His presence there for many, many years.

Again, he neglected to hang the thousands of colorful Christmas lights on his home, which had once been a favorite of local news crews. They deemed it a must see each Christmas. The lights remained in the Victorian’s expansive attic, hung on wooden pegs in well-organized coils. Stored against an attic wall were illuminated, green wooden letters that had typically hung from the long porch railing spelling Dominus illuminatio mea in capital letters. During his senior year in college, Oscar had studied for a semester and summer in England at Oxford. He liked their motto so much that he made it into large letters and hung it across his porch, letting passersby, at least the ones who understood Latin know The Lord is my light. Now the dusty letters rested in the quiet of the attic. With them were some thirty-odd red-bowed wreaths which had adorned each of the windows that could be seen from the street. The wreaths kept it in the Christmas spirit during the day and at night the lights took over the show. In years past, people drove from as far as Birmingham to see the home in its holiday finest.

Also, the interior had featured many lights and decorations, too. The Christmas tree was always large. He and his wife, Vivian, tried to get their trees exactly nine feet tall. The Christmas angel, which always adorned the top of the tree was a little over a foot tall, so when she was settled in at the top her halo was not very far from the ceiling. She was surrounded by lights twisting their way around the big tree several times. Vivian’s mother had sewn an ornate Christmas tree skirt, which depicted the Twelve Days of Christmas. Everyone who drove down their street could easily see the magnificent tree in the round corner of the front parlor, along with the porch rail Latin phrase, which Vivian expressed her feelings about each year, namely saying it seemed a bit pretentious. Oscar used the same defense of the letters each year, stating that it would confuse most people, thus prompting them to look up the meaning.

Honey, anything that gets people to look things up is a good thing, he’d say.

Oscar, most people won’t look it up. They’ll just think you’re a kook, she’d say, giving him a charming smile. They’re tacky, dear. Why not just write ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Noel’?

What is Latin for ‘over used’?

You’re the professor, professor. Better yet, look it up! Oh, Lord, I’ve been wanting to say that for years! she said, laughing loudly. He swatted her on the bottom, making her laugh harder.

It looked nothing like Christmas in Oscar’s house anymore. Everything was very clean, thanks to Minnie. The furniture and other furnishings were just as Vivian had left them, before she was too ill to be concerned with such things. During those days she had insisted she only needed two things, Jesus and Oscar. Now Oscar was jealous of Jesus. Jesus had the pleasure of Vivian’s company, while Oscar rattled around in the big house wishing it were haunted, so he could have at least one Christ guest.

As he sat in his leather recliner, one of the few pieces of furniture that wasn’t a nice period piece, he looked around the parlor. It could have been March 24, or June 24, and he wouldn’t have known the difference. December 24 had become just another day, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself.

Oscar heated up the dinner Minnie had left him in the microwave. He ate quickly at the kitchen table. After he finished, he put the dishes in the dishwasher and went back into the parlor and eased back into the recliner. The cold, dry December air was making his bones ache and he tried to think of something other than pain. His mind wandered to the first Christmas he had spent in the Victorian, so many years before.

Throughout the late 1950s, and all through the 1960s and 1970s, and until Vivian’s death in the spring of 1980, many grand and glorious Christmas celebrations had taken place in the Van Cleave House. Since the Taylors had five bedrooms, they could house the entire family for what they called Christmas Week. It began when the children were released for school and it ended a day or two after Christmas, when everyone loaded back into their cars, burdened with more gifts than they could carry and perhaps a few extra pounds on their middles.

Oscar had no immediate family to speak of. His parents had both died of lung cancer only a year apart from one another in the Vestavia Hills area of Birmingham. Oscar had been working on his B.S. in Political Science in Tuscaloosa. His big brother, William, had died of scarlet fever at the age of two. Oscar was only a tiny baby at the time and never knew him, so for all intents and purposes he grew up as an only child, and thus he had no living relatives other than estranged aunts, uncles, and cousins spread all over north Alabama.

Vivian was another story. Both of her parents were alive during the first decade of Christmas celebrations in the Victorian, as were Vivian’s two sisters, Kate and Candice, along with their husbands, Bill and Jack.

Kate and Bill eventually had three children, Bill junior, more commonly known as little Bill, Alice Ann, and Becky. Candice and Jack eventually had five children, Jackson junior, who went by J.J., Carl, Samantha, Tricia, and the youngest, Kirby, who Jack joked was named after the traveling vacuum salesman who fathered him. Candice usually punched him hard in the arm after the comment, which never made anyone laugh but Kirby and himself.

As Christmas drew near, Oscar’s in-laws would arrive with their respective broods and every inch of Van Cleave House hummed happily with the joy and anticipation of Christmas day. The parlor, family room, and especially the kitchen seemed to constantly be packed with happy loved ones, Christmas carols either sung aloud or playing on the hi-fi, old stories being told, and nearly constant eating. Food was a major part of their weeklong celebration. Vivian and her sisters constantly tried to outdo one another with elaborate meals and more delicious deserts than anyone could shake a stick at.

And then there was the drinking. Oscar’s holiday favorite was the dry gin martini, Vivian’s was eggnog with Kentucky sour mash whiskey, his sisters-in-law drank a variety of expensive wines, and his brothers-in-law drank cases of Budweiser. Vivian’s mother, Granny Pearl, drank tiny glasses of sherry, while Vivian’s father, Daddy Peabody, drank plenty of well-aged scotch. The drinking would begin at about 2:00p.m and continue, on occasion, into the wee hours of the night. Everyone usually kept their drinking consistent, but under control, with only a few exceptions.

Oscar vividly remembered that first Christmas, back in 1958. Oscar and Vivian had only lived there for eleven months, which were filled with backbreaking labor associated with renovating a very old home. Though the house was famous, its previous two owners had not taken good care of it.

Some of the previous owners jumped on the chance to own the home, mainly because of its relatively low price compared to the square footage. They soon found out that the heating bills, combined with the general upkeep of a large, old home was too much for their pocketbooks. Their dreams of living in the home dissipated, along with their savings accounts.

For the Taylors, the same upside of the low purchase price, joined with their attraction to the home’s brilliant architecture and advanced age made it a dream they could commit to for the long term. They entered the deal knowing full well that renovating Victorians was quite expensive and laborious, because they had asked many other families in the historic district about their experiences. They had simply walked up to beautifully restored old homes and knocked on the doors. Typically, they were greeted by proud owners who were more than happy to show off their handiwork. They told long stories about adventures and challenges that they had faced and conquered.

The predicted downside was that they had to hire contractors to replace the furnace with modern equipment, repair the old slate roof, and repair two of the four chimneys. The interior work consisted mainly of refinishing old oak floors, repairing water-damaged plaster work, repairing dozens of windows that no longer opened, minor woodwork repairs, and then the laborious and expensive process of decorating and furnishing most of the downstairs in the Victorian style that best suited each room.

Fortunately for the Taylors, Oscar had published his fourth book. Sales had been exceptionally high, even higher than his second and third books, which had done very well.

Oscar’s first book, a very academic, dry tome about President Woodrow Wilson’s time in office leading up to World War I and his eventual stroke, had earned done okay for such a book, but more significantly it gave him name recognition.

At the insistence of his editor and his agent, he changed his writing style so that it better reflected his lecture style. His lectures were both humorous and entertaining, while remaining very educational. Oscar was often quoted by former students as having said something to this effect, People often say the study of history is boring. Nonsense! It’s filled with thousands of flawed human beings mucking around and trying to make something happen. They sometimes did magnificent things, which were very interesting. Other times they did very bad things, like starting wars for no good reason. Others had sex with anything that moved, drank like college students, used drugs that are now quite illegal, and any number of other interesting things. Admittedly, textbooks are boring, but the whole story of history is quite fascinating!

His narrative style was unpopular among the academic elite, but he enjoyed teaching that way, his students enjoyed learning that way, and eventually he sold large numbers of books by writing that way.

Not everyone was happy about his success as a professor and author. Outwardly, at the beginning of Christmas Week 1958, Oscar’s in-laws were glad-handing him and nearly drowning him in praise.

On Christmas Eve, the drinking got out of hand and jealousies became apparent. Oscar’s brothers-in-law had both dropped out of the University of South Alabama in Mobile. Bill had dropped out his sophomore year, and Jack in his junior year. Bill managed to avoid military duty by getting a deferment due to a heart condition that nobody had ever hear of and Jack was in the National Guard and was never called up.

Both had taken jobs with one of the big paper companies in Mobile as salesmen. Neither had read any of Oscar’s books, but their wives, who had all graduated from college, had read them. They enjoyed them a great deal and learned things they had never learned in high school or college. The sisters would frequently share history tidbits from the books at their dinner tables or at parties, which quickly made both men jealous and somewhat furious at times. Bill thought that his wife was trying to rub his face in the fact that he had dropped out, while Jack simply couldn’t stop thinking about how much money Oscar and his sister-in-law must be making. Jack was struggling with a mortgage on a two bedroom house and a car payment. It just didn’t seem fair.

Upon their arrival on that first Christmas, Vivian’s family found themselves slack jawed. Vivian had mentioned in letters that they had bought a new house, but they didn’t get into details. Their former house had been a three bedroom bungalow, with the third bedroom being no larger than a large closet. It was located several blocks off of the strip and was near enough to the railroad tracks for the china and glassware to shake when trains passed. It was a nice house, but it was nothing to get too excited about.

However, the Van Cleave House was a different matter entirely. The grand exterior, with a turret rising from the parlor, to the second floor master bedroom, to a small, and typically very hot room on top, along with the enormous wraparound, gingerbread porch and fine Victorian architectural details took their breath away.

Inside, things were even more impressive. The broad entry hall and the substantial walnut stairway with enormous hand-carved newel posts made a statement, letting people know that Mr. Van Cleave was a powerful man of means.

To the left was the library. Its window seat featured an intricately designed stained glass window by Niccola D’Ascenzo of a maiden resting beneath a tree, and it immediately caught everyone’s attention, with the ladies gently touching the tree’s leaves. The colors of the window were broadcast by the sun onto the antique Persian rug. Oscar’s countless books were neatly organized in built-in floor to ceiling bookcases. It was a showplace of craftsmanship, featuring walnut paneling, mouldings, and the window seat itself.

Directly behind the library was the large formal dining room, with more amazing woodwork, an antique mahogany dining set, and a large wooden hutch built flush with the back wall. The hutch featured china and several silver pieces handed down to Vivian from her grandmothers. A bronze and crystal gasolier, which was original to the house, hung gracefully over a large bouquet of silk flowers.

Down the entry hall were the butler’s pantry, an updated kitchen, the informal back stairway, and a cozy bedroom and bathroom. These were quarters for one or two servants.

In the front of the entry hall, opposite the library, stood the formal front parlor with its grand mahogany and tile fireplace. Directly behind the formal parlor was the less formal back parlor, which they used as a family room. The tall, dark walnut pocket doors, which matched the ones in the library, joined it to the front parlor.

The Taylors took them upstairs to show them their rooms, and several comments were made about the craftsmanship of the banister and ornate spindles. At the top they found a large sitting area with more built-in walnut bookcases, though these had several pieces of porcelain on display and only a couple of dozen books. This was where Vivian liked spend time during cold months. She loved curling up on a well-worn leather couch to read her favorite poetry and fiction. Afterwards, she liked napping on the couch under a quilt which had been made by her great grandmother.

The only disappointment that the in-laws had, though they didn’t voice it to their hosts, was that they would have to share a large bathroom at the end of the hallway.

They saw the master bedroom next, with a large, circular sitting area in the middle part of the large turret, an ancient half-tester bed none of them had ever seen, a fireplace that matched the one directly beneath them in the formal parlor, and a bathroom with small, hexagonal, black and white tiles on the floor. Like the guest bathroom and the downstairs bath, the master featured an original clawfoot bathtub rigged with a curtain for showering.

The three additional upstairs bedrooms, with their massive four-poster beds and tiny closets, completed the tour for the ladies. The men insisted on climbing the somewhat narrow and steep stairs to the cavernous attic, which had it been finished could have served as a ballroom. They marveled at the original windows, which actually had bubbles within the glass panes.

All in all, the entire family was greatly surprised by Van Cleave House and all of its grandeur. The Taylors had planned it that way, never considering that petty jealousies might arise, and especially not from family.

Great food and comfortable surroundings made things seem like just another great Christmas week. Alcohol flowed freely and it secretly fueled a silent but growing fire inside of Bill and Jack.

One evening, Granny Pearl led Daddy Peabody, who had fallen asleep three times already, upstairs to bed. In 1958, none of the grandchildren had been born, so the three couples were free to relax in the parlor. They all lounged on the formal furniture, made comfortable with decorative silk pillows, and enjoyed the roaring fire.

Bill and Jack began complaining about their hectic sales jobs with the paper company, while on the other side of the fireplace, Vivian and her sisters were discussing babies. Everything was fine, until Oscar, who had tired of hearing nearly two hours of job complaints, made a simple and quite innocent suggestion.

Have either of you considered going back to school and completing your educations? Perhaps you can finish your degrees at night in something you might actually enjoy doing for a living. There is absolutely nothing like doing your favorite thing in the world and getting paid for it.

Well. You got it all figured out, don’t you smart guy? said Jack, his speech a little slurred.

What do you mean, Jack? asked Oscar, confused.

"What he means is you think you’re pretty fucking smart. Smarter than us. We could do what you’re doing, you know? But we had responsibilities. We got married and couldn’t finish college," replied Bill, equally inebriated.

I think y’all might have misunderstood me, said Oscar. He knew how much they had all had to drink and he knew that they were probably just talking shit.

"We understood you perfectly, Dr. Taylor. You think that just because you became a professional student and got your master’s and doctorate and all, that you’re better than us," said Jack.

Jack, you’re drunk, my friend. I don’t think anything of the sort, and I think you two know that, said Oscar, trying hard to keep his cool.

"Shoot, anybody can write a bunch of history bullshit on pieces of paper, and slap it all together and make wheelbarrow loads of money. It’s just that some of us have to do real work for a living!" said Bill, his face flushing.

Yeah, somebody has to keep this country rolling! It’s me and Bill, the working people of this world, that keep it rolling! said Jack, not at all aware of how loudly he was speaking. The ladies took notice and abruptly stopped talking about babies.

What are you boys talking about so loudly? asked Vivian, smiling. She was agitated but she did her best to sound happy.

Nothing important, dear. Y’all just keep talking about whatever y’all were talking about. We just have a small understanding over here, no big deal, said Oscar, who tried to mimic his wife’s attempt at cheerfulness. He didn’t want a drunken argument in his new house on Christmas Eve, of all times.

"No