Butch's Room

By James Boyd

Leonard James is on an extraordinary quest: to be a man of value. The outcast of a dysfunctional family, Leonard is perplexed and incensed by life's injustices, beginning with the untimely death of cousin Butch. Leonard vows to overcome the adversity in his life. However, he resorts to alcohol and becomes addicted after failing to free himself from his frustration and anxiety. Life events, some of which are of Leonard's own making, leave him a vagabond without direction. Disillusioned, Leonard wanders back to a simpler time and discovers what it means to be a man of value.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514483800

Book preview

BUTCH'S ROOM

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JAMES BOYD

Copyright © 2016 by James Boyd.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016905959

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5144-8382-4

Softcover   978-1-5144-8381-7

eBook   978-1-5144-8380-0

All rights reserved. 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 permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/11/2016

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Contents

Chapter 1 Butch's Room

Chapter 2 My Brother Iginvtlii (ee-gee-nun-tlee)

Chapter 3 Valor

Chapter 4 The Meek of the Earth

Chapter 5 Dreams

Chapter 6 A Star Is Born

Chapter 7 I Remember

Chapter 8 The Missing Piece

Chapter 9 Unbridled

Chapter 10 Moses

Chapter 11 I Seek Strength

Chapter 12 Relativity (A Frame of Reference)

Endnotes

Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.

Matthew 7:20

CHAPTER 1

There were plants and birds and rocks and things, there was sand and hills and rings.

---America, A Horse with No Name

Butch's Room

Leonard and his cousin Linda stood in the funeral home parking lot talking after the memorial service for Tillie, Leonard's mother. They hadn't seen each other in twenty-five years, but they picked right back up, talking as if they had never been a day apart. Linda, who was Elgin's daughter, was one of the very few people Leonard shared a close bond with. Two hours passed as if it were only a few minutes. Toward the end of that conservation, Leonard said to Linda, I don't think I did too badly. But it's been rough, Linda. There's a lot you don't know about. It was bad, real bad. He concluded, I just wanted to be good, like Butch. I just wanted to be a good boy. Linda said to Leonard, You should write a book. It was probably the one hundredth time someone had said that to Leonard. Each time he heard someone say You should write a book, it felt like a brick being added to a stack he could barely carry. He looked away and said, Yeah, I know. At that point, Stewart, Linda's husband, came looking for her. It had been good to catch up with Linda.

Cousin Butch (who had lived with Grandma) had been a good boy, everyone said. But Butch had gotten sick and died. It disappointed Leonard that he didn't get to know Butch better. He felt sure he would have liked to have known Butch. The details of Butch's life were vague, with the grown-ups not saying much more than Nineteen is too young. But Leonard, who was five years old back then, was determined to put the story together. During a visit to Grandma's house, when the grown-ups were busy talking, Leonard sneaked his way up the stairway that led to Butch's room, immediately to the left of the top of the stairwell. Rebecca didn't want anyone playing in there. The solid wooden door to Butch's room was always closed, and Leonard sensed a feeling of intruding when he would carefully and quietly pull the door open and look into the room. Butch's room held clues about who he had been, the things he had liked, the stuff he had owned, and the kind of things that profile a person. A framed photograph of Butch, his high school senior year photo, was on the dresser. He wore a checked shirt that didn't match the clip-on tie that was mandatory for all high school yearbook pictures. A big smile showed large teeth; it was the kind of smile you found disarming. Butch had those bright, intelligent eyes that were full of honesty and complete trust. They reminded Leonard of Aunt Wanda's eyes. A nearly empty bottle of cologne was on the dresser, and behind the cologne was a ceramic majorette figurine that Grandma said, Some girl got for Butch. Leonard paused and imagined the happiness and excitement Butch must have known in his short life. Curious, Leonard cautiously removed the cap from off the cologne and smelled it. Aaahh, one more smell to make sure. It was like pine scent but better. He carefully returned the cap and put the cologne back where it had been. Of all the rooms in the house, it was Butch's room that captivated Leonard. He could never quite get to the end of Butch's room, in a manner of speaking. He knew there had to be more to it than met the eye. Leonard carefully studied the furniture arrangement. The bed was the centerpiece. Butch's bed was positioned diagonally, the headboard being wedged into the far corner, facing the doorway. There was enough space left so that the foot of the bed was about four feet away from the bedroom door. The arrangement worked, making it easy to move around within the room. Leonard had not seen a bed situated that way before. He liked it. Had it not been Butch's bed, Leonard would have jumped on it to see how it felt. However, Leonard was content to stand at the foot of the bed, noticing the bedspread was better quality than most. Butch's room had the nicest window, a very large window that faced toward the east. Like an eternal flame, fresh sunshine poured in through this glass portal each morning, affirming the sanctity and purity of this hallowed place. Yet death had come here, crushing death, sparing no one. The scene here was simple but bewildering---a confusing mixture of beauty and violence, hope and despair, life and death, love and grief. Butch's room was ultimately disturbing, impossible to fully understand, and somehow achingly beautiful.

He wanted to put the unsettling scene behind him, and so he tried to block it out of his mind the way the grown-ups did. But the sun had already burned the image into his memory. There was no way to undo what had been done. With a last and careful inspection, Leonard made sure he left Butch's room exactly the way he had found it before closing the door. Leonard then confidently sneaked his way back downstairs.

Now safely downstairs, Leonard went outside and stood in Grandma's yard, looking into the sky and thinking to himself, Maybe I can live forever. Yet even at age five, he knew everyone had to die. The thought frightened him. But the grown-ups said You're not going to die and just laughed. If they weren't worried about it, he didn't need to worry about it. Still, it was hard to shake Butch's room.

Leonard enjoyed life. There was much to look forward to. The grass was a rich-color green and smelled fresh. The sky was endless and unthreatened by the variety of things that either poke holes in the ozone or else neutralize it. There were races to be run and games to play, and macaroni and cheese. Bruises and cuts healed fairly quickly. It was a time of innocence and invincibility. Each day brought new and greater expectations but also more strength and ability. During Christmas get-togethers, he loved hearing his aunts and uncles exclaim, Leonard is growing and getting big!

Everyone looked forward to Christmas. The anticipation and excitement began to build during summer, reaching an unbearable intensity in those last two or three weeks. The waiting, the suspense, the not knowing---it was agony. Threats of Santa not stopping by unless you were good were sternly repeated. Leonard would retreat and withdraw to his room for serious introspection of his secret wrongdoings and hoped that somehow Santa didn't know about them. He longed to be a good boy, but it was so hard to be good.

Grandma's house, or Grandma's, was the site of the James family's annual Christmas gathering. The trip to Grandma's each year for Christmas meant several important things to Leonard, some good and some bad. The entire family dreaded the long and tiring ride in the red Ford, Leonard; his elder sister, Becky; and younger brother, Ben, crammed into the backseat. They all frowned the whole way, and conversation was prohibited. The old man had to have silence so he could pay attention to the highway and drive safely without distraction, both hands firmly gripping the steering wheel of the red Ford that smelled like gasoline. Someone would usually throw up from car sickness. Car windows would come down to escape the stench of the vomit, but even that wasn't enough. Leonard just hoped he wasn't the one who would be sick, the one to own the awful smell. Throwing up was hard to live down maybe because it was a sign of weakness. Grandma always wanted to know if anyone had thrown up. Uncles and aunts would ask, How did the kids do? Did anybody get sick on the way up? Leonard, always starving for approval, stood taller and straighter whenever he passed the test of making the trip without getting sick.

Christmas at Grandma's also meant that Leonard's family would open their presents early, which was a good thing. Getting to open your presents early went a long way to compensate for the long car ride to Grandma's. On the other hand, you couldn't bring your presents with you to Grandma's, and that was a bummer. However, the incredible food made you forget about that! Not only was Grandma's cooking the very best, it was all you could eat too! Yes, food was king at Leonard's young age. Food was the greatest of all pleasures to be had, except for using the bathroom when you really, really had to go! Grandma never disappointed in the food department. There was always plenty of good food! Nothing was missing from Grandma's table! Whatever Leonard was looking for, he found it there! He had supreme confidence in Grandma. Another thing Leonard liked about being at Grandma's house was getting loads of attention, which was something Leonard just never got enough of at home. Leonard had more uncles, aunts, and cousins than he could count. He could get lost in the crowd easily. The more the merrier. Everyone was always smiling and happy to see Leonard. And Grandma's house was fun to explore. There was so much to see and so much to discover! Leonard especially loved Grandma's big yard replete with meticulously kept hedges, flower beds, fruit trees, and all sorts of life, even different sounds there, like the splashing, busy, happy sound of the little branch that flowed between the house and the barn out back. He was never bored at Grandma's house. There was so much to do, so much good food to enjoy, and so many people too! There was always someone who was happy to talk with you or to join in and go exploring with you.

Rebecca James, Leonard's grandmother, was a widow and mother of ten. She stayed alone after Grandpa died in the large stone house they had built together about six miles south of a small cluster of stores, a jail, and a courthouse that more or less comprised town. Leonard had been impressed by the atmosphere of strength, stability, and permanency of Grandma's house. The mountains, weathered and heavily timbered, were old as time. The grown-ups proudly said, You can survive here if you're willing to work and put in a good garden. They saw themselves as an extension of or annex to the rock-solid, unmovable force that energized the deep long dark hollows and thundering rivers. The unstoppable undistilled raw power of nature that froze the fog on the trees of the high mountaintops in winter. Leonard sensed the mountains held secrets and knew everything about everyone. And once they had you, the mountains would follow you wherever you went and haunt you and never release you. The mountains were untouchable and out of reach, separated, and distanced. They stood back on their own terms in a kind of isolated loneliness Leonard loved. It was familiar, safe, and comfortable.

Grandma's house reminded Leonard of Noah's ark, a sheltering place, one built of rugged stone. The house had many rooms and was built of materials that could withstand heavy use and severe weather. The brownish-orange river stones, worn smooth as glass by the rushing water, plated the exterior walls in a way that was similar to a turtle shell composed of pieces that fit together that form a protective armor. The golden oak wood floors were tough. The interior walls were coated with a hard plaster finish or solid wood tongue-and-groove paneling. A sturdy weather-resistant metal roof that rarely required any maintenance provided a covering like a hen's sheltering wings that cover her brood. From a standpoint of an architect, it was an attempt at a French farmhouse, very relaxing to look at. It was apparent that a great deal of sacrifice, effort, and careful thought had gone into the making of this place.

Rebecca's house breathed like a living thing. A kind of mysterious unstoppable destiny was constantly at work. Starting with the crow of the rooster before dawn, the cooking of breakfast, the sound of the wind blowing, the smell of an approaching summer rain shower, the insects, the babbling stream, down to the unseen microbes breaking down discarded cornhusks, everything was magically synchronized and leading to its appointed purpose. The rusted garden tools, old work clothes no longer worn but now saved for cleaning rags, and pictures of Leonard's uncles and aunts in their younger years with their full heads of hair, strong faces, and bright eyes all told the same story of a journey and a destiny.

Grandma's place served as the capstone or monument of a rich history and a resilient heritage. Raised in a log cabin during the late 1800s, in what is today the Great Smoky Mountains National Park (or the Smokies), Rebecca---or Ms. Rebecca, as some knew her---understood the meaning of hard work and danger. And it took hard work, persistence, determination, willpower, and, most importantly, faith to survive in the mountains. Faith made the difference, the belief that somehow a way would be made no matter how impossible it seemed. Faith insisted that all things were possible, that all things could be overcome. It was a paradox that a place as serene and strikingly beautiful as the alluring Southern Appalachians could be so rife with hazard. Numerous gravestones that crowned the hilltops in this rugged terrain bore the dates of people who had died before reaching age thirty. In this primitive setting, it was starkly apparent that those who lived here were involuntarily a part of the food chain. Leonard learned from one of his aunts that, while a girl, Rebecca had been left alone inside the cabin when a hungry wolf tried to enter it, pawing at the cabin door. The wolf had succeeded at reaching a paw through the loose-fitting door, and Grandma had chopped off the wolf's foot while remaining safe behind the door. The story about the wolf was only one example of everyday danger. There was the very real possibility of frostbite or death from hypothermia during winter if you ran out of firewood. People died of starvation. Food had to be preserved or put back. During spring, the garden had to be put in, and the crows scared away or kept out of the corn. Grandma Rebecca would make her own scarecrow and prop it up with a tobacco stick or two. Then she'd find a piece or two of bailing twine and use that to suspend a few aluminum foil pie plates from a few more tobacco stakes. The whole idea was to create the illusion of activity that would, supposedly, scare away the crows. Rebecca would laugh and with a tinge of frustration say, I have a hard time keeping those crows out of the garden. They're pretty smart. They know what those pie plates are. But there's not a whole lot you can do I guess. Just do your best and hope they leave some for you! An important survival skill was knowing when to cut your losses and move on. Rebecca exemplified that skill. Having done her best, she could let go and walk away when something didn't work or when a plan fell through.

Rebecca picked wild blackberries, always keeping an eye out for the poisonous timber rattlesnakes and copperheads that frequented the berry patches in search of the birds and rodents that ate the berries. She used to say, Those rattlesnakes, you don't see them too often, and when you do, at least they warn you with that rattle. But those copperheads, you have to watch out for. They'll get you if you're not watching where you step. The log woods, as the locals called them, were another dangerous place that claimed the lives of many loggers who were crushed by a falling tree or by a rolling log. Yes, danger was ever present in the Smokies where Rebecca grew up.

The vegetable garden was the centerpiece and the pride of Rebecca's labors. The garden was her big production. And it required work nearly year round. Once the growing season had ended, it was time to turn it under, a way of rotating the soil and burying unwanted weed seeds that would otherwise germinate and compete with the vegetables for nutrients the following spring. Rebecca's hard work, diligence, and know-how showed in the results. Rebecca's corn was taller than anyone else's corn. Her tomato vines produced more and bigger and juicier and more flavorful tomatoes than anyone else's and so on. That's some good ground. It's good and rich. There was a guy who brought me a load of good black dirt and dumped on it back in February, I guess it was. That's what grows those tomatoes. I'll load you up a good poke of them before you go home, and you can take 'em with you, Leonard recalled her saying during a visit. That was the thing about these mountain people, even Leonard noticed. They looked out for one another. It was customary to share what you had and help one another out without the expectation of being repaid. A superstitious people, they feared an ever-watchful God who kept score of one's deeds.

Rebecca had a tense and serious disposition, Leonard noticed. Even when sitting in her favorite living-room chair, Grandma constantly fidgeted with her thick wrinkled hands, and she would faintly rock back and forth, although the chair did not rock. Her hands told the story of an honest busy life spent handling axes, shovels, hoes, rakes; washing pots and plates; and mending things whenever they needed mending instead of throwing things away to be replaced by new things. However, she had an air of confidence that everything was going to be OK. Leonard loved the way his grandma was never angry. He became accustomed to her serious disposition, and it was surprise to hear her laugh on rare occasions. That was fine with Leonard too. She was a great listener. She inquired about other people with a sincerity and chose to listen rather than to talk about herself. She would say to Leonard's parents, They say Jessica's boy, Keith, you know, Kenneth and Jessica, she paused before continuing, I guess he's started preach'n some up at the church. I've heard he's a pretty good preacher. Keith's always been a good boy. He's never given Jessica and Kenneth any trouble, at least not that I know of anyway. Well, I hope he sticks with it. It's a pretty hard job sometimes. Maybe he'll make it---another pause---hope so anyway. She continued, We had a pretty good rain here yesterday. I forgot to get my clothes in from off the line before it rained. After a while, the sun came back out, and everything dried out OK. That was good. You get busy doing things, and you forget sometimes, she said as if talking to herself.

Those annual visits to Grandma's for Christmas kept the family connected. Like ancient petroglyph, they reinforced, renewed, and passed down the traditions, beliefs, and values of the James family. Rebecca, the grand matriarch, ruled the kitchen, and it was a rare thing if Rebecca allowed any of the girls to be in the kitchen. And if they were allowed in the kitchen, about the only thing they might be allowed to do is possibly peel a potato or slice a banana for Rebecca's banana pudding, a Southern staple. As each family pulled into the driveway or parked alongside the busy highway, someone would loudly announce, Howard's here or Tom and Barbara just pulled up. Rebecca would wait until she heard the front door open before she came walking hurriedly, wiping her hands on her kitchen apron as she walked, and then greeting the party who had just arrived. The rhetoric was the same over and over: Come in! Come in! Come on in here! Come on in! she repeated until the last person was through the front door. How is everybody? she would ask. And then she would name each one, giving each person personal attention. How is Ray? How are you, Matilda? How's Leonard? she would ask, always making eye contact, always waiting for a reply before proceeding. No one was ever overlooked. It was one of her traits, this act of addressing people by name and never overlooking anyone. Leonard's relatives steadily arrived from midmorning until noon; a straggler or two usually arrived late after dinner had started. When the front door would open, a draft of fresh air would circulate through the living room; and then after a moment or two, the smells of Grandma's house would return: furniture polish, wood smoke, fresh clean linens, and good food. And Leonard was certain there was no better place on earth than Grandma's house.

Leonard had only one complaint, which he kept to himself. Grandma always got everyone the same present every year: a box of chocolate-covered cherries. It never changed. However, the Christmas dinner was unrivaled. It was the best food on earth! And food was such a wonderful equalizer in the sense that it was one of those things that transcended all social and economic classes. To discover that Aunt Wanda liked to eat brownies made for a connection between Leonard and Aunt Wanda. It was something they could talk about that wasn't serious or that would put someone on guard. Leonard thought it was interesting the way adults would noticeably become careful about some conversation topics but never about food. Discussions about the economy, houses, and cars were guarded as everyone was trying to get a feel for where they ranked or where they stood in the pecking order. But when it came to good food, everyone was at ease and all smiles. At Rebecca's table, there was wonderfully smoked sugar-cured country ham, turkey with cornbread dressing and homemade gravy, stacks of hot flaky biscuits, and creamy whipped potatoes (not mashed) made with real potatoes grown in Grandma's garden. She made macaroni and cheese for the boys (Leonard and his brother), and there was usually black bear roast or wild boar roast from game Uncle Elgin (the tough one and an outdoorsman) had taken during the year. All sorts of homemade breads, jams, puddings, cakes, and, of course, blackberry cobbler made with blackberries Grandma had picked that summer during her traditional summer trips to the berry patch, as she liked to say. Everyone would eat and eat until they could eat no more. Rebecca would regularly want to know. Is it OK? or Does anyone need anything? she kept asking. She hovered around everyone, asking if they needed anything. The sounds of cutlery clanging against dinner plates mingled with happy conversations in between mouthfuls of wonderful food, and the fireplace in the living room allowed enough wood smoke into the room to make the atmosphere reassuring and inviting. Such was Christmas at Grandma's.

It was during a summertime visit Rebecca made blackberry pudding for Leonard. And it had the most amazing flavor and thick texture like nothing else Leonard had ever eaten! Leonard, a middle child, loved the special attention he got from Grandma. It was something he wasn't used to getting at home. And because Grandma made the pudding, Leonard's mother wasn't allowed to limit how much he could eat. To Leonard, that was about as good as it got. He had wonderful food, no limit on how much he could have, and personal attention. The memory of it never faded but stayed with Leonard all his life.

After triumphantly eating his fill of blackberry pudding, Leonard, along with everyone else, gathered back in the living room where Rebecca joined them. She situated herself in her corner chair, as usual, and began a conversation. With her hands kind of folded but fidgeting, and with her upper body rocking faintly to and fro, she looked at Leonard and asked, Well, Leonard, how'd you like that blackberry pudding that I made you? Was it good? Leonard's enthusiastic reply was Yes! with a big smile. Rebecca said, Well, good! I'm glad it turned out OK. You have to watch it and not cook it too long. Just let it boil a couple of minutes and then set it off and let it cool down for a bit. She continued, We picked a good bit of berries back in the summer over at Will's place. I reckon we picked about five gallons that morning. That's a lot of blackberries. A quiet laugh came from Rebecca as she waited to see what reaction her comment would get. Leonard's dad said, "That is a lot (faking his enthusiasm). Seeing the subject had about run out, Rebecca said, Will showed me where the hornets had built their nest way up high in a big sourwood tree behind the barn. I reckon that means we might be in for a bad winter! You ever hear that? They say when the hornets build up high in the trees, it means we're going to get a lot of snow. Have you seen any hornet nests there where you're at? She went on to talk about how she didn't get to go to the Bald this year to pick huckleberries because Elgin was sick. Maybe next year, she said then adding, Hope so, anyway, for emphasis. Rebecca further explained, Those huckleberries make mighty good jam. They make good pies too. When no one responded, Rebecca continued, I never tried to make a cobbler with them. Always ran out and didn't have enough."

Leonard noticed that Grandma had this way of conversation that reminded him of someone who was talking to themselves. One thought would lead to another, and she could ramble and pontificate. Even Leonard, only five years old, could tell Grandma was lonely, and she kept talking so no one would have a chance to