Down the Dirt Road (4 page)

     “Oh, Jennie, you are so young.  There is plenty of time to really fall in love.  What you had with
Michael -
that
was puppy love.  Not the real thing.  If it were, we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation right now.”

     “It just hurts so much, Momma.  I never knew how much a broken heart could hurt.  And I am so angry with them both but
I’m even madder at
Trisha.  I trusted her with all my secrets.”

    “The loss of trust hurts more than any physical injury I can think of and is so much
harder
to heal from.
  But you will
, sweet pea, you really will
.  Trisha may never recover completely from losing you as her friend, but you will
come out of this OK
.  You are much stronger than she ever will be.”

    “I hope it hurts her for a very, very long time.”

     A loud thump followed by the sound of breaking glass from the floor above them interrupted whatever Elise was about to say next.  Jennie looked at her mother in shock.

     “What was that, Momma?”

      “I…I’m not too sure.”  She rose from the table so quickly her tea sloshed over the side of the cup and onto the white lace placemat staining it a dark brown.

     In seconds Jennie was following her mother up the cr
eaky wood stairs and down the dim hallway to the master bedroom.  The door was closed
;
something heavy leaned against it because it would barely open a crack when Elise turned the knob.  The top of Daddy’s denim clad thigh was all she could make out
through the space.

     “Oh, Johnny, no!  What happened?!”  Momma was sobbing as she pushed against the heavy wooden door trying to slide Daddy’s still form forward just enough to squeeze into the room.  Jennie pushed alongside her, fear filling her heart.  She had tried to push a dead cow once, the weight
had been ridiculous, impossible to move
.  Daddy’s
living
two hundred pound
s should have been so much easier
but it wasn’t.
  A sob stuck in her throat as she dropped to the bedroom floor.

    “Please don’t be dead, Daddy.”  She whispered as she and Momma shoved the door with one final burst of
strength.  The body on the other side shifted just enough that they could fit through the opening.

     John Marshal lay as still as a stone and as haphazardly as a rag doll, his limbs turned at odd angles to each other.  The ashen grey of his skin, the bl
ue tint of his lips and the pain
locked forever in his brown eyes told them everything they needed to know.

      “Oh, God!  Oh, no!  Johnny, no!”  Elise crumpled to the ground next to her husband and grabbed his hand as she felt for a pulse.  “You can’t leave me, John Marshall!  You can’t!  DO  YOU HEAR ME?!  You must wake up now!”  She shook him hard, pulled on his arms, yelled in his ears but there was no response.  Tears ran down Momma’s face in rivers as she yelled and yelled
but
Daddy never made a sound.
Jennie watched in horror as harsh
reality sunk in. 

    
Daddy was dead.

     Momma looked up a
t her, wild eyed.  Her face already
tear streaked.  “Call 911 Jennie!  Call an ambulance!  Call Doc Hansen!  He will know what to do!”  She climbed on top of h
er husband and started pumping on his chest
frantically
.  John’s body flopped like a fish out of water with the effort but his heart refused to begin beating again.

    “Go, Jennie!  Get help!  NOW!”

      Jennie turned and fled from the room in search of the phone but she knew in her heart that it was too late.  No one could look that grey, that
dead
and still be alive.
  She moved in a fog, pushing the buttons on the telephone, giving her address to the operator, telling her what happened, describing the way her Daddy had
blankly
stared up at them from the cold, wood floor.

   
By the time the sirens made their way down the old, dirt road Daddy had been gone for over ten minutes.  Momma was sprawled on top of his lifeless body, exhausted and sobbing when Doc Hansen pronounced him dead.  They would find out later that he had had a massive heart attack.  Doc Hansen said he had died instantly but Jennie didn’t be
lieve it.  She had seen the sadness alongside the pain
in her father’s eyes as he lay on the floor, frozen in time forever.

3.

    It
finally
rained the day of the funeral.  As they stood under the blue awning watching
John Marshall’
s coffin lower into the ground, the rain came down sideways.  Heavy storm clouds rolled and rumbled overhead as if in
protest of the
loss of such a good man.  Even M
oth
er N
ature knew this was wrong, it was
so very
wro
ng for John Marshall to be gone from the world.

    Jennie barely heard the minister as he spoke, his
solemn
tone colored with admiration for a man he described as a pillar of the community.  Momma sobbed continuously, working her way through a box of tissues and Jennie just stared at the heavy wooden box where her beloved father would spend all of eternity.  It was all she could do not to scream when they began to lower the casket.  The hole was so narrow, the casket so dark. 

    Daddy hated the dark.  Always had
;
ever since the war.
  He never talked about it but there was always a light burning in the Marshall house.

    How could Daddy
now
spend an eternity bu
ried in darkness
?

   
A single tear rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the chest of her b
lack silk sheath.  Jennie had never
actually
own
ed
anything black. 
The five and dime and the farm store
in town
only carried practical work clothes, nothing pretty or formal or made for a funeral. 
Momma had to take
her into the city to find something suitable for that day
.  She hated it and would never, ever
wear it again. 

    Trisha stood three rows back clutching Michael’s hand, tears streaki
ng her tanned skin and sadness
filling her blue eyes.  T
risha
had never known
her own father
.
John Marshall had been the only father figure she had ever had.  His loss was
apparently
hitting her hard but Jennie didn’t
really
care.
How
dare Trisha even set foot on the memorial grounds
?
It
really
took a lot of nerve for her ex-best friend to show up there, especially on the arm of Michael McKee.

     The minister gave a final blessing and Uncle Tommy escorted her and Momma to the grave side.  They were supposed to toss t
he roses they held into the hole
on top of Daddy
’s casket
.  It didn’t make sense, Daddy didn’t
even
like roses and now
he would have to spend forever
smelling them.  At first she ref
used to toss hers in but then M
o
mma turned to
look at her, red-rimmed eyes full of anguish.  J
ennie dropped the flower immediately.

    
The rain slowed just long enough for the guests to make it to their cars.  There was a reception at the farm immediately following the service.  Jennie was in no mood
for guests but this was what they were supposed to do.  They were supposed to welcome people who had been close to Daddy in to their home to join their hearts in mourning the loss of one of the greatest
men ever to walk the streets of
their tiny little town.  She just wanted to go home and curl up in a corner to cry but Momma said they had to do it.  It was part of the
process
.

    
Well, to hell with the process.
   She wanted nothing to do with any of it.   All she wanted was to hear Daddy’s old truck bouncing along the rutted track toward home, engine growling, alternator whining.
  

    For three days
after Daddy died
,
Momma stayed in bed and cried while
Jennie took care of the chores, fed the animals and milked the cows.  Momma slept until noon every day and poured over old photo albums until the wee hours of the morning in between crying fits.  Jennie fielded phone calls, met well-meaning neighbors bearing casseroles in the kitchen and handled all of the arrangements for the funeral.  Momma never once acknowledged her presence until the day before the funeral when they climbed into Momma’s little car and drove thirty
miles to the nearest mall to buy her the black sheath dress she now wore and officially hated.

    
Now, Momma expected her to
go back to the house and make small talk with the townsfolk about the weather and what a good man Daddy was.

    And because she was a good girl, the ever diligent daughter, she would.  All the while waiting for the chance to escape to her tree house, to cry for her lost father and contemplate the days, hours and minutes until she could finally escape the farm and make her own life as far from her
e
as the confines of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans would allow for.

    The black Lincoln Towne Car from the funeral home stood waiting, the driver with an umbrella held the door open for her and Momma. The rain was falling at a steady rate, no more wind driven sideways downpour.  The black dress had long since soaked through around her legs.  The light fabric clung to her tanned skin and rubbed against the gooseflesh that had formed there.  All she wanted was a pair of cutoffs and
a soft, cotton tee shirt.  Momma
would
never allow such a thing though until all of the guests were gone. 

   The ride down the rutted track toward home was bumpy and uncomfortable.  Jennie kept her hands on the door handle, trying hard to keep herself on the leath
er seat slick with rain water wishing she was in an old blue Ford pick-up. 
Momma sat as still as a statue, eyes facing forward but focused not on the road ahead but some unknown picture in her mind.  Probably some long forgotten memory of Daddy, judging by the tiny
sad
smile playing at her lips.

    
By the time the Towne Car pulled up in front of the two story farmhouse, the sun had begun to peak out from behind the he
avy clouds, washing away the gra
yness of the day and adding a touch of warmth to the air.  Jennie jumped from the car without waiting for the driver to open the door.  Splashing through the muddy water pooled in the driveway,
she gave no mind to the fact that
her pumps were soaked through by the time she reached the wide front porch.  Kicking the offending shoes off before heading inside, she pretended not to notice the streak of black one heel left on the white siding.

      Daddy would have made her stop and clean it off but what did it matter?  Daddy wasn’t here anymore.
  And soon she wouldn’t be either.
  Besides, it
’
s not like Momma would notice anyway.  She hadn’t paid attention to anything since…since that day.

     The kitchen counters were
already
covered with casserole dishes and trays of deserts and cakes.  Everyone the Marshall family had ever known had dropped off some sort of food dish for this afternoon’s reception.  Padding around the kitchen barefoot and in her still damp funeral dress, Jennie began to warm things that needed warming and arrange meals on the big wood dining table. 

    The kitchen door creaked open as she dug through a drawer in search of serving spoons and a spatula.

    “Jennie?”  The
single
word was timid, tentative.  She froze, her shoulders instantly stiffening at the sound of her former best friend’s lilting voice.

     She didn’t say anything, just went back to digging through the drawers. Maybe if she ignored her, Trisha would just turn around and go back to Michael and leave
her alone.  Her heart couldn’t handle any more pain right now.

  
  “Jennie.”  The voice was closer, a little more resolute.  She ignored it until she felt the hand on her arm.  Trisha’s touch singed like a brand against her skin.