Footloose in America: Dixie to New England (6 page)

Bill also invited us to dinner. He grilled huge pork chops, while his wife, Barbara, laid the table with homegrown tomatoes and the best dirty rice ever. And for dessert, she made a pineapple upside down cake. What a refreshing meal!

After dinner, in the glow of the McKinney’s porch light, Patricia and I walked to our tent. Halfway there, my bride slipped her arm around my waist and said, “Well, you were right.”

“About what?”

“About having faith that there was a treat up ahead. This has really been lovely! What nice people. What a wonderful meal.”

“What a great shower!”

Then my wife whispered, “So what’s for dessert?”

When I looked down at her, Patricia’s dimly lit face had a feisty grin between her rounded cheeks. She turned and wrapped her other arm around my waist. Then, snuggling her voluptuous breast against me, she said, “After all, it’s still my honeymoon, right?”

Now I remember why I wanted more than just a mule on the road
.

Bill McKinney didn’t have a stroke. He was a victim of agent orange from the Vietnam war. The contortions to his face were the result of the many surgeries to rid him of cancer caused by the defoliant. After his last operation at the Veteran’s Hospital, Bill could not close his left eye. Doctors at the VA told him there was nothing they could do about it.

“I’ve gone through a lot of tough things in my life. But none of it was as bad as trying to sleep with one eye open. It was hell!”

Bill fought in Vietnam twice. The second time as part of special forces. He was married when he went in, and had a couple of kids by the time he got out. “When I came home, I was no picnic to live with. Then, just as I was about to get my head straightened out, the tumors started popping up. When they told me it was cancer, I slipped into a whole new kind of hell. Every time they cut on me, it got worse. Finally, my wife had enough. She
took the kids and moved out. How could you blame her? I was nuts, and getting worse every day.” Pointing to his face he said, “And who wants to be married to this puss?”

If the right side of Bill’s face was any indication, he had been a handsome man with sharp features that complimented his tall straight physique. Although life had taken its toll on him, everything about Bill had a prodigious feel to it. The way he shook my hand, how he carried himself and the way the right side of his face lit up when he smiled–it all resonated strength.

Bill told us about the cancer during breakfast the next morning at his favorite café. The moment we walked in, it was obvious he was popular. Nearly everyone in the place greeted him. He brought his own cup. It had a lid with a spout so he could drink coffee without spilling it. At one point, he set the cup on the table and said, “When I was down and out, a lot of these folks came over and helped me. Barbara waited tables here then. Eventually she moved in to take care of me.”

Bill paused for a moment as the right side of his mouth curled into a grin. “You know, she’s young enough to be my daughter. When we got married, lots of tongues were wagging. But I didn’t care. She was there for me when I really needed someone. It wasn’t easy for her. I couldn’t sleep–I was up and down all night. We tried a patch over the eye, I took sleeping pills and none of it worked. It was wearing me out.”

A waitress came to our table and poured us more coffee. Bill snapped the lid back on his cup and said, “I’ve never been much of a church-goer, but Barbara is. Don’t get me wrong, she’s no bible-thumper, or anything like that. But she does a lot of praying. She kept telling me she had faith that it was all going to work out.”

He took a drink from his cup, wiped his mouth with a napkin, then laughed. “In those days, I didn’t have faith in much of nothing. But she said she had enough for both of us and kept praying for me. I guess it worked.”

After a year of not being able to close his eye, they found a plastic surgeon who said he could fix it. But it would be an expensive procedure that
entailed putting gold leaf in Bill’s eyelid. The Veteran’s Administration said they wouldn’t pay because it was cosmetic surgery.

“When they told me that, I lost it. Good thing they told me over the phone. I could have killed them.” Bill laughed. “I told them, ‘You think I want to close my eye so I’ll look pretty?’” Bill sighed, “I just wanted to sleep and dream like everybody else.”

When the surgeon heard the VA’s decision, he told Bill if he would pay for the materials, he’d do the operation for free. Now Bill can sleep and dream.

A couple of days later, as we walked alongside a road near Romance, Arkansas, five dogs ran from behind a farm house, stopped in the yard and watched us for a few moments. The gaggle included a Rottweiler, an Irish Setter and three smaller mutts. Suddenly, as if on cue, the five charged across the lawn in our direction. The intensity of their approach, and the timbre of their barking was ferocious. This was no social call. They were on the attack!

Patricia yelled. “They’re coming for Spot!”

She had been walking with him on the leash a few yards behind the cart. Now they were running to catch up, but the pack surrounded them before they got to us. Everyone’s hackles were up as they growled and gnashed their teeth.

Patricia screamed. “No! Get out of here!”

Just as she bent down to scoop up a handful of gravel, the Irish Setter charged. But before he got to Spot, my wife peppered his face with stones. He yelped and ran back to the rest of the pack.

I locked the brake on the cart and grabbed a rock from the ditch. Patricia had just picked up more ammunition when the Rottweiler lunged toward her. My rock ricocheted off the ground and up into his jaw as Patricia’s gravel rained down on his face. We both yelled. “Get out of here!”

The massive black and tan dog turned, bared his teeth and growled as he stalked toward me. I grabbed our ax off the cart and ran at him swinging it. “Come on, you bastard!”

Patricia went on the offensive throwing several fists full of gravel at him and the rest of the pack. In unison they all–including the Rottweiler–turned tail and ran back into their yard.

Later that night, in the tent, my wife said, “That was real scary. They weren’t after us or Della. They wanted Spot.”

Spot’s head was on Patricia’s lap and she was petting it. “I love Spotty, but I’m afraid he’s going to get killed.”

“Or get one of us killed trying to save him.”

In the past three weeks, Spot had been run over by the cart, darted out in front of numerous cars, and every chance he got, he’d take off to explore. Now the local dogs wanted to gang-up on him.

Patricia said, “That pack really frightened me today.”

“What do you want to do about it?”

Patricia was slow but sure in her reply. “I think we ought to call Suzanne and ask her to come get him. You know how she loves Spot.”

Everybody loved Spot. Over a year ago when he wandered into our yard as a stray pup, it was obvious from day one that he was a special hound. Within a week he learned to heal, sit and stay on voice command. “Come” was a different story. He learned it just as fast as the other commands, but he wasn’t always obliging. Every time we called him, he would pause a few moments to think it over. It was as if he was trying to remember if there was something else he needed to do. Those times when he chose to go the other way, it wasn’t like he was trying to get away from us. Spot just had something else he wanted to do. Aside from that, he was a smart loveable hound who loved to chase thrown sticks.

We had several friends tell us that if we ever decided to get rid of Spot, they wanted him. But our friend Suzanne, and her husband Dr. Paul Tucker, had the best situation. A secluded wooded estate adjacent to a national park. He would have room to roam and a swimming pool.

I could hear tears in my wife’s voice. “I love Spotty, and I’ll miss him. But I don’t want to see him killed on the highway.”

Four days later Suzanne and her nephew drove her motor home to Rosebud, Arkansas, to pick up Spot. They left with him about an hour before sundown. We had rendezvoused on the outskirts of town at a place that was being developed for new homes.

After Suzanne drove off with Spot, Patricia and I silently went about our usual evening tasks setting up camp. I took the gear down from the top of the cart, and we pitched the tent together. Then Patricia went in and pumped up the air bed, while I tended to Della. After we finished those chores, I set up our camp chairs, and we relaxed with a couple of the cold beers that Suzanne had brought us.

Conversation was minimal. Mainly about the gossip Suzanne brought from Hot Springs. But we didn’t talk about what was on the forefront of both our minds. Spot’s absence loomed over our camp like a cloud on the verge of deluge.

Shortly after sunset, Patricia said, “I’m pooped. Think I’ll turn in.” Then she kissed me on the forehead and climbed into the tent.

She usually went to bed before me, but Spot always retired before any of us. He would whine at the tent door until we let him in. Then he’d curl up on his blanket at the foot of our bed. When Patricia crawled in, she’d always chatter at Spot while she changed into her nighty. I always knew when she was under the covers, because the last thing I heard was “Good night Spotty. Your mama loves you.”

This night, on the edge of Rosebud, the only sound from the tent was the rustle of clothes being changed. Then a soft, “I love you honey. Good night”

I couldn’t stand it. She was hurting. Immediately I unzipped the door and laid down beside her. Patricia cuddled against me, as I said, “Baby, I think–”

She put her index finger to my lips and whispered, “It’s alright. We did the right thing. He has a great life ahead of him and so do we.”

A few minutes later she softly called out, “Good night Della, I love you. Good night Spotty. We will always love you.”

The next morning, we biked to the Jim Dandy Convenience Store and Restaurant for breakfast. We had just finished ordering our meal when a petite woman, who looked to be in her mid seventies, walked up to our table.

“Are you the people traveling with the mule?”

Her name was Ruth, and she worked in the Jim Dandy kitchen. She wore casual blue slacks and a pink flowery blouse. Although she was delicate, there was nothing frail about this white-haired lady. Her voice was strong as she asked the usual questions of where we were going and why.

Then she said, “My husband always wanted to sail around the world. He talked about it on our first date.”

A blush lit up her wrinkled face, and her eyes began to twinkle. “That’s what attracted me to him. He had this wonderful sense of adventure that the other boys didn’t have. Everybody made fun of his wanting to sail around the world. They said it was crazy talk, but I thought it was romantic–I never told anyone. They’d have made fun of me, too.”

She paused for a moment and clinched her hands together in front of her. Then, as if embarrassed, said, “I’m sorry. I got carried away. I’m sure you’re not interested in this.”

When she turned to leave, Patricia reached over and grabbed her arm. “No, please don’t go. We
are
interested.”

“You are?”

Still holding onto her, Patricia scooted over so there was room for Ruth in the booth. “Please, sit and tell us about it.”