Pete Conrad: Survival of the Sparrows

“I never knew you were so interested in astrology, Ben.”

“What else an old man got ta do with his time…”

“Heard the Falcons gon’ be lookin’ for a new QB after the war.”

Ben flicked a wrist in the air.

“Don’ look at me. Bum wrist.”

They giggled, and again let a great comforting silence envelope them. Often, it’s the silence shared between people that is the most intimate. This was likely the last time Winston and Ben would ever see one another. And they both knew it.

“Happy Labor Day,” Winston said.

“Oh, I forgot that was today. Same to you, Winston. I remember that final Labor Day barbecue Mayor Wellbeloved gave — before God called him home. Right up here under Medusa,” Ben said as he patted Medusa’s stump. He pointed to one of the faded photos under the thick, glossy epoxy. “There. That’s me and the Mayor right there. He was a good man, Mayor Wellbeloved.”

“The best. Thirty-four years ago this weekend was his last.”

“Bless his soul,” Ben replied and crossed himself and tumbled into a fond memory, deeply immersed, his emotions ulcerated onto his face.

Winston peeked at the photo. “I remember that day, Ben, but I remember them chicken wings a his even mo’.”

“I never ate a more perfect chicken wing, Winston. Crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside. And his macaroni and cheese?”

“Ta die for. Man could make a macaroni and cheese likely ta bring my britches up a size or two.”

“I wonder how many hogs the Mayor fed us over the years.”

“Gotta be a hunnerd or mo’, I’d say.”

“Thank the Kimballs for donatin’ ‘em.”

“Yep, good people, them Kimballs.”

Once again, the two men slipped into a salient silence, each recalling their fondest memories of Mayor Wellbeloved and the epic barbecues, their heads nodding as if listening to the ghosts of their pasts, and smiling wide grins.

“You ever get that fried chicken recipe before he died?” Ben asked.

“Recipe ascended with the Mayor ta heaven.”

“The Lord sure is a lucky man.”

“He surely is.”

They looked at each other and laughed.

“I was just picturing in my head, good ol’ Mayor Wellbeloved settin’ down with God and eatin’ barbecue — and God’s got a beard full a sweet Georgia mustard sauce!”

Ben erupted with laughter. Winston smirked.

“That would be a sight,” Winston supposed, “a fine sight I suppose.”

“It occurred to me, Winston, just now… we’ve been neighbors for some thirty-odd years now and I don’t hardly even know a thing about you. May’s family , sure, but I’m sorry I ain’t never got around to asking you about your roots.”

Winston had told the story of his youth to Ben on countless prior occasions. Winston didn’t recoil at Ben’s request, though, but prepared to tell it to him as he had done before. Ben was old and forgetful, and so was Winston. Perhaps they both needed to rejoice in the comfort of some much-needed sentiment — for Winston’s history felt more real than the reality they now endured.

“No need ta apologize, Ben. Not much ta say anyway. I know very little ‘bout my parents. My mother Lucy was born in 1932 jes’ outside a Kingston, Jamaica, in Morant Bay. My father George was born in 1930, in Trench Town, Jamaica. That’s everythin’ I know ‘bout ‘em. Well, I also know the date and location they died. You know how the news gives an ambiguous number a people killed by some event, like Hurricane Harvey or world wars or bus accidents?”

“Sure do.”

“Well, my mother and father were two of a-hundred-fifty people killed in Hurricane Charlie — August seventeenth of fifty-one, in Morant Bay, Jamaica. I don’ know why they were there — whether we lived there or if they were visitin’ family. I only know that I spent the next fourteen years in Robin’s Nest Orphanage on the north side a Jamaica, near Montego Bay, ‘til a white couple from Monrovia, California adopted me and brought me back to the states. I was fifteen. The Carters were nice enough people, though I tend ta believe their Christian beliefs were the main reason ta adopt an undesirable black teen, such as myself, from a second-world country. Now, stay with me, I’m not here ta badmouth the Carters, because they did something truly wonderful for me — removed me from a painful world, showed me love, made sure I had a decent education and, most importantly, naturalized me as a United States citizen.”

“Sometimes God works in mysterious ways.”

“He sure do. Without them, I wouldn’t a had the chance ta go ta Georgia Tech, and most important of all, meet the woman I’d spend the rest a my life with.”

Ben grinned. “ Now I hear that Jamaican accent.”

“It’s a tough ting ta hide, Ben,” Winston slipped easily into a Jamaican Patois, “but in Jamaica we would say, wata more ‘an flour.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that this is a time a great difficulty.”

“And so it is. You’re good people, you and May.”

“We feel the same about you, too, Ben.”

Ben’s face was somber.

“Have you heard the news today?”

“I can’t stand ta listen to that radio, Ben. So, no, what’s the news today?”

“They got Ryan.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Who’s in charge now?”

“I believe it’s the secretary of homeland security.”

“Well ain’t that jes’ a kick in the ass. Anybody know where the PLA is at now?”

“Tifton, I heard.”

“Tifton? That’s only a couple hundred miles away. They’ll be here in two days.”

“The trucks and tanks will be. It’ll probably take a week for the foot soldiers to reach Johnsonville, and another week for them to march on through.”

“God help us all.”

Ben’s face brightened up, “they’re still being held back in New York, Chicago, and San Antonio, last I heard. Bastards didn’t count on the American people gettin’ downright ornery — stupid sons-a-bitches forgot about nine-eleven — and neither did we. Radio says they’re getting their asses whooped, but it looks like we’re in a heap a shit, Winston. Them big cities can fend for themselves, but we ain’t gonna get much support down here in Bumfuck, Georgia.”

“Nope.”

“I was down to Calef’s this morning and you know what I heard that Med Willis saying?”

“What’s that, Ben?”

“Says he and a few of his boys went snoopin’ down south a couple days ago. Says the PLA animals are just shootin’ people in their cars — like ducks in a pond — nobody’s safe, Winston, kids, women, even they dogs an’ cats. Can you imagine that?”

“I can’t,” Winston shook his head in disgust.

May let the door slam behind her as she walked to the two men, three grilled cheese sandwiches and three glasses of iced tea, without the ice, on a platter. She set the lunch down on Medusa and kissed Ben on the forehead.

“Ben. It’s good to see you,” she said.

He half stood up, but she tapped her hand on his shoulder, quelling his graciousness.

“Always my pleasure, May.”

She sat down. “Dig in, fellas. This may be the last hot meal we have in a while. I’m sorry there’s no more ice.”

“Ice is a luxury,” Ben said, “it don’t make life worth livin’.”

“Least we got all the fresh spring water we can drink right there in Robin Lake,” Winston replied.

They each ate a sandwich, savoring every bite, eyes on the lake, and relishing what short time remained of their freedom.

“May, this sandwich tastes better than any meal I’ve ever eaten in my life,” Winston said.

May rolled her eyes.

Ben shook his head, and with a mouthful, said, “I’m grateful.”