Fried Chicken & Wine

The small commuter plane bounced through the sky like a cork on a stormy sea. The passenger in seat 4A gripped his barf bag, looking out the window for any sign of land.  Lightning skipped from cloud to cloud, painting the thunderheads with a frightening glow.  He preferred bigger planes.  They made it easier for the authorities to find the crash site.

It had been a long year up North. Cold winters and cold people had left his heart with a nasty case of frost bite.  But now he was coming home. To the place he loved. He felt his heart melting. If Flight 3212 from Atlanta would now only make it to the ground safely.

His stomach and the landing gear dropped toward the ground.  The plane had broken free of the storm and the full moon dramatically illuminated the ground below. Lights twinkled like stars in the Southern sky and he saw the ink-like reservoir pass beneath them.  The plane banked and make its final approach.  It was now headed South.

South.  A place where people dropped their g’s.  South. Where kids were still taught to say “Yes, Sir” and “No, Ma’am.” South. The place where he was raised. South. The place where his Mama was. Home.

The elderly black lady next to him closed her eyes as the plane’s wheels touched down.  Her name was Dorothy and lived in the small Delta town of Belzoni.  He had struck up a conversation with her when they had taken off — something he NEVER did when he was up North.  She had nine kids and 23 grandkids.  They had pitched in and bought her a trip to Europe for her birthday.  That’s where her deceased husband had fought bravely in World War 2.  He loved the South just for that reason: The stories.  Southerners loved to tell their stories.  He had missed that. Talk to someone on the sidewalk where he lived and he or she would think you were about to attack.

The door opened and he felt the blanket of hot, humid air cover his soul.  The damp air reminded him of his childhood. Of playing in the puddles after so many June thunderstorms. Of skipping stones in the nearby lake. He smiled, grabbed his carry-on bag and headed toward baggage claim.

The blonde woman at the rental car counter was studying a college textbook.  “How may I help you sir?”  He hung on every word of her Southern drawl, each one-syllable word was deliciously drawn out to at least two.

“I’d like a car.  I’m going home.”

Home.  He told his co-workers at the bond firm that home was where Mama lived. They laughed at him for saying, “Mama,” but he didn’t care.  If he had had a compass, it would not have pointed North. It would always point true South. It would point home.

He headed east on the interstate. Driving was weird. He had been riding trains and in cabs for so long he had almost forgotten how. Three does and a buck munched on grass in the highways’s median. A truck passed him with a Mississippi State sticker.  Pines reached up to the sky, defining the horizon.  A pink glow kissed them on their heads.  A Southern sunrise was welcoming him back.

He got off on “his” exit, turned right and drove South on the narrow state highway.  An armadillo ran across the road, nearly ending up as opossum on the half shell.  He laughed to himself — he had not thought of that corny joke in years. Thirty miles of hardwoods, pines, fence posts, trailers and homes until he saw the dirt drive.  He put on his signal (like there was anyone driving at this time of morning) and heard the familiar crunch of gravel beneath his tires.

The lake looked like a mirror.  Glass-like and reflecting the glorious pink storm clouds, it stood like a sentinel.  A guard between him and his final destination.  Vapors of mist danced across the ground from the earlier rain. He stopped his car, got out and felt the squish of the red clay beneath is Ferragamo loafers. He took them off and threw them and his socks into the backseat. He felt the mud between his toes. Just like he had when he was a kid.

He walked over to the lake and picked up a flat stone.  It was time to tithe to the gods of the lake.  The first rock skipped five times. The 20th rock skipped 10.  He watched as the rings grew and grew and grew each time the stone touched the glassy surface.  Each one changed the lake and then the lake when still again. Just like the event he was here for would change his life.

He pulled the car up to the driveway and saw the cars already there.  He walked to the small house’s front door and took once last breath of his childhood. He held it for as long as he could and then he exhaled.

The door opened and there was his father.  The two men hugged for the first time in their lives.

“Your Mama would have wanted to hug your neck.  I did it for her,” the old man said. “I’m glad you made it home for her funeral.  It was all so sudden.”

“I know Dad. I miss her already. I miss her laugh. Her comforting me when I was hurt. I miss her smile.”  The two men walked quietly into the kitchen. There the funeral food was already starting to pile up.  He looked on the counter and saw fried chicken and wine.

And then he lost it.

On that muggy Mississippi morning, he broke down in tears.  His compass had brought him South to where his Mama was. It had brought him home one last time.