Billy Goat Hill by Mark Stanleigh Morris

Author:Mark Stanleigh Morris [Morris, Mark Stanleigh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-56341-5
Publisher: The Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2004-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

The moist chill of night has already fogged her windows when finally the Sergeant puts the key in Queenie and fires her up. Luke and I stand at Miss Cherry’s window. I feel awful not knowing when I will see them again. On top of that, there is no escaping my cowardice in missing the opportunity to confess my sins to the Sergeant.

It has been a very good day, the best in a long time. But the reality of April fools comes like a slap in the face when Miss Cherry smiles, reaches through the open window, and hugs me one last time. “Good-bye, Wade. I’m very happy I got to spend some time with you.”

“Me too, ma’am—bye.”

I try my best to be a man, but I can’t stop the uncooperative tear that trickles down onto the pudding box radio tucked snugly to my chest. I take a quick step back from the car and turn the radio up louder, desperate for a happy song to bring me back under control.

I am in trouble from the opening drumroll. The greatest rock and roll crooner of all time opens my floodgates wide, his bittersweet empathy burning into me like lashes from a whip. He sings of the painful side of love, of desperate longing for things that can never be, of pitiful crying when pitiful crying is the soul’s only defense against crushing abject sorrow.

A modicum of leftover pride compels me to turn away and walk toward the house, my head hanging low, Roy Orbison my singing guide. I close the front door and slump to the floor. Tears flow to beat the Arroyo Seco, and only Roy understands the depth of my misery.

Luke stays by Queenie and handles the last farewell. I turn off the radio, get up from the living room floor, and go into the bathroom to blow my nose. When Luke finally meanders into the house, I am sitting on my bed with my eyes closed. He hums something upbeat and cheerful as he comes over and sits on his bed directly across from me. Two inches separate the toes of our sneakers.

Mac strolls into the bedroom and jumps up beside me. He licks my cheek, not to be sympathetic or affectionate—he just likes the salty tear trails.

Carl has stepped it up a notch and is now blasting out a thunderous interpretation of “Wild Blue Yonder.” He usually finishes up on a religious note, probably a strategic move to mollify his wife. Tonight I am sensing he’s in the mood for “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

Behind my closed eyes I am thinking, What a way to live. My life has become a topsy-turvy ride down a churning rapid of wild emotion. In fact, I’m not really living at all. I am more like a slave with no hope for a better future or a better life. Except my master does not pop a bullwhip or wield a club to beat me into submission. My master is a wicked trio of guilt, loneliness, and heartache.

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