Bald Tire

By Tommy James Gothard

Skinner Lincoln was “happy, happy, happy” for the first 12 years of his life. On his 12th birthday, he witnessed his twin brother’s accidental death. He spent the next 50 years being suicidal and in a deep depression. He carried on with his life with the help of his family, a promise to his mother, a high-concentration job as a court reporter, and an extremely structured life. When he was 62, his mother died and so did his promise. His suicide attempt failed and he was committed to a mental hospital. Stories of Skinner’s life and his fears of chickens, fire and brimstone sermons, and grown men whispering are told by his own short-hand scribbling, his family, hospital staff, patients, and acquaintances from his slightly incestuous hometown. The man who ran over his brother and a bee-keeping, Poor Clare Nun, each tell stories of Skinner’s life and his search for peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers USA
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463055427

Tommy James Gothard

Tommy James Gothard is a native Texan who resides in Houston. He graduated from Sul Ross State University in Alpine, Texas. His work has appeared in The Houston Chronicle’s Among Friends and Texas Magazine’s State Lines. His play, Momma, Daddy, Jesus, Medicine was presented at the Actor’s Workshop in Houston. After 40 years in the airline industry, (31 for Southwest Airlines) he has recently retired. Like many of the characters in BALD TIRE, his family has deep Texas roots dating back to the early 1800s.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cutter and Skinner

On our 12th birthday, Cutter ended up dead and I ended up running naked down Farm Road 2200 being chased by our five older sisters and a bunch of chickens. Cutter and I had walked the eighth of a mile to the mailbox to see if our Grandma’s card with the two dollars in it had arrived. We were looking forward to our birthday dollars. Rebecca, our oldest sister, was going to drive us to the Dairy Queen later and we had planned on getting chocolate milkshakes and French fries. A chicken truck ran over Cutter instead.

On our 62nd birthday, I decided to join Cutter in heaven. I would have done it a long time ago but I’d promised my Momma that I wouldn’t. Momma died last year, so I was no longer stuck with that promise. Since she died, my whole body hurts all the time. My skin feels like it weighs a ton. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to take a bath. I don’t want to breathe. I’ve felt that way since Cutter died, but my damn sisters kept pushing me to keep going, Do it for Momma, she’s been through so much, her heart is broken. Keep trying for Momma. Now it is fucking unbearable. I’m tired of existing and I want to be with Cutter again. I’ve had enough; I want my god-damned life to be over. In my dreams, Cutter tells me that he will be the first to greet me. I think our souls will merge again.

Cutter’s real name is Vernon. My real name is Vaughn, but everyone has always called me Skinner except for my Momma. She called me by both of my names. We were named after our Uncles on our Momma’s side who were also twins. They didn’t die when they were twelve. Our five older sisters gave us our original nicknames of Cut and Uncut. I was Uncut. Momma insisted that they stop calling us by those vulgar names or to come up with something not so uncouth. My sisters added the er to cut, and since I still had my dick skin, they added the er to skin, and those names stuck and were eventually allowed by Momma. I don’t mind my name; I never knew any difference. I am happy that I didn’t have to go through life being called Uncut.

This is what my Momma told us about our cut and uncut predicament. She said they still owed Dr. Bender about two hundred dollars before he delivered us. That bill was from five previous births, a broken leg and a snake bite. That was a huge amount in 1954. He told them that since we were identical and no one could tell us apart, he would only snip one baby, and the other one could get snipped once the mother bond was established and she could tell us apart without looking at our penises. He also said, Pay down your bill and then I’ll perform the other circumcision. My Daddy threw a fit and called him a crazy mother fucker, and a Montgomery County Constable escorted him out of the hospital with my Daddy screaming that they already had a plan to tell us apart–a blue dot and a red dot. I imagine, if my daddy had his way, my sisters would have called us Blue and Red. They didn’t go back to Dr. Bender until I was fourteen years old (they did send him five dollars a month though) and I remained uncut. I don’t mind it; I don’t know any difference. My mother did not say mother fucker when she told me that story, that’s in my sister Peggy’s version of it. Momma doesn’t cuss. I’ve never heard her cuss anyway. She says jeepers. This is what happened that day.

The mailman had already delivered the mail because we saw the red flag was down. Our dog, Sunny-boy, had just had puppies and one of them followed us even though we tried to shoo him home. That puppy was trying to cross the cattle guard with us and fell in. I was trying to get that fucking puppy out and Cutter went on to the mailbox. That’s when it happened.

Old Man Johnson, from down the road, was hauling a load of chickens to market on his flatbed truck. About the time Cutter got to the mailbox, we heard a boom, and that truck barreled off the road with a flat and slammed into Cutter and the mail box, and that was that. Cutter was thrown way down the road. I went running to him and chickens were also running—because a bunch of the coops had been thrown off the truck and broken open when Mr. Johnson slammed on the brakes and came to a halt in the ditch. It was Cutter, me and a bunch of chickens, until my sisters and Momma and Daddy got there. I was told that Old Man Johnson had run down to our house, passing my mom, dad and sisters, to call an ambulance. They’d heard the boom and me wailing afterwards. This is how I ended up naked.

My sisters got there first, I was holding on to Cutter and screaming. I knew he was dead. They pulled me off him. I was in shock, I guess. I couldn’t say anything and just wanted to hold onto Cutter. Momma threw herself on the ground and was holding Cutter and howling. Momma started screaming, My baby, my baby, my baby. She didn’t know which of her twins was dead. It was the middle of summer, so we were shirtless and barefoot, and only wearing white gym shorts with a purple stripe down the side, embossed with purple letters that said Bender Jr. High P.E. Before we’d left for the mailbox, she had told us, Jeepers, I can’t tell you boys apart today, are y’all twins? We laughed like we always did when she told us that. As we headed out the door, she hollered, Be careful, and put some clothes on before Rebecca takes y’all to the Dairy Queen. Now she didn’t know which one of us was dead.

My dad came over to me questioning repeatedly, Cutter? Skinner? Cutter? Skinner? He couldn’t tell either. Cutter had been hit front first and was pretty much demolished. I couldn’t say anything. My dad kept screaming at me, Speak, Son. Speak. Speak, son. Speak. I guess he could tell I wasn’t able to speak, so he grabbed me from my sisters, and held onto me and hugged me, and then he took me over to where Cutter and Momma were. He pulled down my gym shorts and my Momma let out a scream. She held on to Cutter’s dead and bloody body, screaming, Vernon! I pulled loose from my dad, pulled my gym shorts the rest of the way off and started howling again, and then I ran away from it all. The constable and ambulance that had been called, blocked the road when they saw a naked and screaming 12-year-old boy, with blood stains all over him, being chased by five girls and a bunch of chickens, running towards them. I imagine it was a sight. Cutter and I both died that day, but I’m still alive and I’m sick of it. One of my sisters found the card from our Grandma in the ditch. I never opened it.

I’ve been at this hospital for a week. My mother-hen sisters put me here; they committed me. Those bitches have been running my life for 50 years now, but not anymore. My clean and neat suicide attempt was for their benefit. It was supposed to look like a natural death, I didn’t want them to be hurt by my suicide. No more of trying to protect their feelings, not now. When I get out of here, it’s going to be a splatter my brains all over the place kind of suicide.

For now, I’m just existing. I go to group sessions and zone out. I have refused to talk in the private sessions I have with this lady therapist named Gayle (the one that gave me this journal and suicide-safe pen). I know I’ll have to speak to her eventually, if I want to ever get out of here. I’ve refused to see my family. I don’t want to see that slight-tilt-of-the-head pity look they’ve been giving me since Cutter got killed by that chicken truck. I’ve never felt this angry. I hate it. I feel like I’m going to explode. I’ve always felt the opposite of that; like I was going to just melt away. In group session today, Gayle asked me for about the 20th time, to share, so I did.

FUCK YOU!

Chapter 2

Old Man Johnson

I was responsible for the deaths of a couple dozen Germans during World War II. One of the planes I helped shoot down, crashed into what looked like a schoolhouse, so it could have been more. I never gave those dead Germans a moment’s thought. I shed not a tear. They were chasing us, shooting at us, and I was glad when I shot one of them down. I shot four of them down for sure, maybe more. It doesn’t sound like much, but it was sort of a big deal. German war deaths did not weigh heavily on my conscience. I was the tail gunner in a B-17 and that was my job. It was what I did. It was war time. I came back to Bender, Texas and was treated like a big war hero. It was all red, white and blue all over that shitty little town, during my welcome home parade. I just knew I had a ticket out of that godforsaken place. The morning after my hero parade, I was raking chicken shit at my old man’s chicken farm. My ticket never arrived and my family needed me. Why I thought I’d be magically lifted out of Bender, just because I killed a few Germans, is beyond me now. My dad died in ‘53 and now it’s my chicken farm. I’ve been called Old Man Johnson since he died.

I’m a cradle Catholic. We were the only Catholics in Bender when I was growing up. We’d drive every Sunday morning in my Grandpa’s Model T, to the Sacred Heart Church in downtown Houston. After Mass, we’d have breakfast and lunch with my Mom’s family, and then leave in time to get home before dark. My mother had been christened at the original Sacred Heart, before the new one was built in 1912. They were the type of Catholics that attended daily Mass, and my Mom said it was hard getting used to just once a week, after she married my dad and moved to Bender in 1916. She said she felt like a heathen, just going once a week.

My dad worked on his dad’s chicken farm and had met my mother when he was delivering hens in the city. My Mom’s family would only let her marry him if he was a Catholic. He agreed to convert to Catholicism in order to marry her. It turned into a big scandal with his family in Bender, because Bender was a Baptist town and the Baptists thought Catholics were all going to hell. We Catholics believed the same damn thing about them back then. I was born in 1920 and christened at Sacred Heart a week later.

My momma cried for days, when I told her I was marrying a Baptist girl and that becoming a Baptist was part of the deal. She told me she had given me a Catholic soul and I’d eventually come home, but to do what I had to do (just like my daddy did) and that she’d love me anyway. I stopped going to Mass and promised my Virginia Sue that I was ready to be a Baptist. I joined the Bender 2nd Baptist Church (there were 8 Baptists churches in that town of 2,200). They re-baptized me because they said a Catholic baptism wasn’t valid. It pissed me off, but I took the dunking for the love of my Virginia Sue. I never really liked being a Baptist, but Virginia Sue was worth it. My kids are all Baptists. I went back to being a Catholic after I ran over that Lincoln boy back in 1966. I guess I needed to find some peace because I’d lost every damn bit of it after that accident, and no matter what those Baptists said in attempts to counsel me and comfort me, it didn’t help. No one in Bender knew I’d gone back to being a Catholic, except Virginia Sue. She finally got tired of making excuses for why I wasn’t at church after a couple of years and told them the truth. Not much was said about it to me, because I pretty much didn’t talk, except for business and when I was with my family.

I make the drive, every Sunday morning, into downtown Houston to go to Mass, just like when I was a kid. I’d say my Momma did give me a Catholic soul, because I’d never felt a thing in the Baptist Church. But once I went back home to Sacred Heart, I was able to live with what I’d done. I could feel and see, and hear and smell, and taste God’s mercy and forgiveness. No one blamed me for that boy’s death. It was an accident. A blown tire, on a bad road, hauling a heavy load. Tragedy strikes sometimes. The Lincoln family has never blamed me. My oldest boy married their oldest daughter, Rebecca. My first grandchild is named Vernon. The Lincolns went on with their lives. They all have the same sad eyes though. Little Vernon is the spitting image of his Uncles, Cutter and Skinner. Cutter’s the one I ran over.

My first trip back to Mass was three weeks after the funeral. Virginia Sue had found me early one morning in the barn, praying the rosary. I still hadn’t cried over that boy. I’m not a crier, never was. She asked me why I was praying on the rosary like a pagan. I told her I needed to find some peace, or else I’ll go crazy and never get over it. I’ll love her forever for what she said next. Do what you need to do. If you need to go back to being a Catholic, you go on back. You gave that up for me and I know it was a sacrifice. I’ll give up sitting next to you every Sunday now. If you’re not at peace, none of us are. Do what you need to do. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and went and got in my pick up and drove to the Sacred Heart Church. I walked in, dipped my finger in the holy water and made the sign of the cross. The smell of the place brought me my first bit of peace in weeks. That sounds odd, but it’s the smell of all Catholic churches, it’s unique. I think it’s from decades of incense burning. My mom always told me, it’s the smell of the Holy Spirit. I had been dreaming of that smell since I killed that boy. I was in my overalls, while the other men arriving for the 7 a.m. daily Mass were in suits and ties. The old women were veiled and in dresses. I didn’t care. I got in the confession line. I waited my turn. I went in, kneeled, made the sign of the cross and started.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been over twenty years since my last confession. These are my sins. I froze, I couldn’t speak. The priest told me, Go ahead, son. Speak, my son. Speak, son, speak. When I finally spoke, it came out in a tormented roar.

Oh Father, I knew that goddamned tire was bald. I began to weep. I wept like Jesus did, I believe. No one else got a confession that morning. I eventually heard the Father speaking over my weeping. I was forgiven. My penance was ten Hail Mary’s, ten Our Father’s, and an act of kindness to anyone I have ever hurt; intentionally or unintentionally. I try to perform an act of kindness every day. I’m at peace, as much as anyone can be that has ever run over a child.

Chapter 3

Rebecca Lincoln Johnson

When the kids were little, I used to let them look at my old photo albums to keep them occupied for a short while. I could cook supper or fold clothes, with only minor interruptions of Who’s that? or Where’s that? Vernon was 6 and Lucy was 4, the day they saw the picture of the Napalm girl. Holy shit, what in the world? Vernon knew he was going to get a pop on the mouth, for using the foul language that he’d learned from his Daddy and his Aunts. He took off down the hall.

Get back here young man, right this minute! I sat down by Lucy, to see what had prompted that holy shit, and saw the old newspaper article that I’d folded up and tucked into the back pocket of that album. I remembered, Holy shit is what I said when I first saw that picture. I looked at it a minute before Vernon peeked around the corner, to see why I hadn’t chased him and given him his pop. The day they printed that picture in the Post, I got calls from all four of my sisters. I think we all must have said, Holy shit. It had nothing to do with us; it was a picture that had just won the 1973 Pulitzer Prize. The little Vietnamese girl in the picture was running naked, burned and terrorized, down the road. It’s a horrid picture, and if you had any doubts about the horrors of war, it took them right away. I always felt like we had a lot of nerve, because that picture was so important, and so truth-telling about war and the pain dealt out in the name of peace, and we were trivializing it. We were making it about us, about our pain and Skinner’s never ending grief, and Cutter’s absence. The day Cutter died was my family’s Vietnam; we were damaged forever.

That picture took me and my sisters back to 1966, when we ran screaming after Skinner. Napalm girl and Skinner were both running in terror and in pain. The paper said that napalm girl was screaming, Too hot! Too hot! Skinner was just screaming, but I think Too hot! Too hot! is about right. My sister Betty called first, she and Skinner had just started court-reporting school in Houston and were sharing an apartment.

Sweet Jesus! That little girl is Skinner with napalm burns instead of blood. Just imagine us running behind her, throw in a few chickens and some pine trees and you’d be on Farm Road 2200.

She was planning to throw the paper away so Skinner wouldn’t see it, she was sure he’d make a connection, as was I. She called me the next day to say that Skinner had seen the Post in the smoking lounge at school and looked at that picture for about five minutes before he looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then he ripped it out and folded it up, and put it in his notebook.

He’s been quieter than his normal quiet. Should I say anything?

We agreed to just let it go and let Skinner bring it up if he wanted to talk about it. He never did. We knew he wouldn’t. Skinner listens, but he rarely speaks. Lucy’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I must have been looking at that picture for several minutes and gotten quietly lost in the past.

What happened to her?

Vernon had sat down by me, probably sensing I’d forgotten about his pop. I tried to explain as best I could to a 6-year-old and a 4-year-old that it was a picture of a girl, burned in a war, and that war is always bad. But they didn’t have to worry about wars, because they are children.

Did she worry about the war?

I’m afraid she did, but you don’t have to, there is no war now.

Why do you keep that picture, Mommy?

So I won’t forget.

Who could forget that?

Nobody can forget it once they’ve seen it.

I realized, at that moment, that I’d be having many more conversations with these kids that would be uncomfortable. Conversations that would test my skills as a mother. I didn’t want my kids to be scared or ponder such heavy subjects as war, or even to explain the day that their Uncle Cutter died and their Uncle Skinner became the saddest man in Texas. They understood, as children do, that Uncle Cutter was in heaven and that Uncle Skinner is sad and quiet. They are always happy to see Skinner. At holidays and family gatherings, he always softly tells them, I love you, and never fails to arrive without a little gift or bag of candy. He always hugs them, and always sits quietly and plays silly board games with them for hours. I think they instinctively know to settle down and not be rough-housing when he is around. I think they sense his fragility.

I decided that we’d have our Lincoln family’s Vietnam conversation when they were older, and that I needed to change the conversation. Holy shit, I exclaimed, I forgot to pop your mouth! The kids were delighted that I’d cursed and immediately the mood was changed.

We’re telling Daddy!

Jeepers, I said. I took another look at the Napalm girl before I folded the clipping up and put it back into the album.

Chapter 4

Opal Lincoln

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. I’ve always found peace in Holy Scripture and that should be enough. It isn’t. I never found any comfort in all of this. I never understood. I kept trying and trying, to understand, and I never did. The worst thing I’ve ever thought of is that, if God was going to call one of my boys home like he did Cutter, He should have taken Skinner at the same time. Isn’t that horrible? I grieve to this day over my baby Cutter, but I believe it would have been easier to have lost both of them, rather than just one of them. Watching Skinner mourn and grow up without his brother, was almost as painful as losing Cutter.

We’ll understand it all, by and by. I’ve always found peace in the songs from the Baptist Hymnal and that, along with the Holy Scripture, should have been enough. It wasn’t. The promise that I will understand it all in the hereafter didn’t bring me any peace either, and it sure didn’t help me to know how to help Skinner in the here and now. All I could figure out to do, was to stay strong and act like I believed all of that malarkey. I do believe all of that malarkey, but sometimes my faith is weak. Dear Jesus, I’m sorry for calling hymns and scriptures malarkey, but that’s how I feel at times. Please forgive me. I believe, help me in my unbelief.

The first few weeks after the accident, Skinner couldn’t even speak. We did what we thought was best