FOREVER AND A DAY
By
J.E. Bolton
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PUBLISHED BY:
Second Printing
Forever And A Day
Copyright © 2012 by J.E. Bolton. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Thank you for purchasing this eBook. No part of this book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews.
Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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Also, to my family and friends. To my Mom and Sisters for being yourselves. To Jessie and John for accompanying me on my own journey and always being there. To my precious nieces and nephews Angel, Charlotte, Chariot, Jacob, Zeke, Riley, and Morgan. Always do what’s in your heart and follow your own paths in life, no matter how it may seem to anyone else. And just remember your Uncle Jason will be your biggest cheerleader rooting you on.
To my writing mentor Joy Edwards-Davis, and my first book editor Michael Garrett. I’ve learned so much from you both. Thank you for the lessons. To Daddy. There’s not a day that goes by I don’t think about you. I love and miss you, and I hope you’re looking down from Heaven proud. This is our book, and you know what I mean when I say that.
Most of all, this book is dedicated to PBE. You had such a great big hand in this project. I couldn’t do any of this without you. All my love, “Forever and a day.”
--jeb
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FOREVER AND A DAY
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PROLOGUE
It wouldn’t be much longer before death would come for my father. His tightened pale skin felt colder to the touch with each passing hour. He laid dormant on his deathbed and quietly endured the final stage of cancer. The Hospice nurse placed him on a forty-eight hour death watch, but it was evident he‘d be gone come morning.
Unnerving silence in the house felt as frigid as the snow-clad winds that blew ferocious the night before. I fell deeper into helplessness with each shallow breath he drew. God knows I would’ve given anything to have taken his pain away. Instead, I did the only thing I could. I sat in a chair by his bedside and awaited his final hour.
Midnight slowly progressed into the early hours of the morning. Several memories came to my mind, as I sat in the darkened stillness. Some were wonderful, while others were nothing short of bittersweet. I could tolerate them, but it was the other complex memories I couldn’t handle. The ones that were best left forgotten.
Despite my grief, I was somewhat taken aback being in the same room as my father. Anyone who might’ve witnessed me at his bedside would have gotten the impression that he and I had the perfect father-son relationship. That was quite the contrary.
Memories of the previous year haunted me like a legion of vile, restless spirits. One by one, they viciously reminded me of what might’ve been. Both the good and the bad waited in the dark recesses of my life for a time such as this. And this was only the beginning.
CHAPTER 1: TO EVERY THING THERE IS A SEASON
I think it’s only fitting to call this a journey rather than a story. To call something a story makes the events and people involved sound like a work of trivial fiction, but a journey is as real as the blood that runs through our veins. My journey began on the first day of spring, nearly one year before my father’s death.
Spring was always one of my favorite times of the year. It meant the end of blizzard-like winds and the beginning of cool, gentle breezes. Leather baseball mitts replaced wool- knit mittens, and frozen skating ponds magically turned into a refreshing relief from the humid, sun-scorched atmosphere.
An important milestone also took place that same year. My great-grandmother, Eleanor Grayson, whom I often referred to as Granny Grayson, turned one hundred years old. My plans were to return to Weatherton, Tennessee for her birthday, as I did every year.
Early one evening, I started packing my last suitcase, and the phone rang. “Hello?” I answered.
It was Granny Grayson. “It’s Granny,” she said. “How are you doing, Jacob?”
The tone of her mountain soprano-like speaking voice possessed a certain aura of tranquility. It always brought a smile to my face. I sat on my couch’s arm rest and relished in her warm, gentle voice.
“I’m doing good, Granny. How’s my favorite birthday girl?” I asked.
“Alright, I suppose. My birthday’s tomorrow and it’s going to be a special one, you know. I’m going to be one hundred years old.”
“Congratulations, Granny. That‘s quite an accomplishment.”
She continued. “So far, I received a certificate from the mayor. A nice young man took my picture for the newspaper, and that man on the early morning show said my name. He even showed my picture on a jar of jelly.”
I lightly chuckled. “That’s pretty good, Granny. I’ll bet people will rush out and buy jelly just because they saw your face on the jar. You can be a centerfold like Marilyn Monroe.”
“Oh, heavens, no,” she protested. “I’ve never wore a bikini a day in my life. Mama would’ve striped my legs with a hickory switch if she ever caught me in one of those skimpy things. That is what‘s wrong with the world. No one’s got any morals.”
Before I was forced to sit through another hour-long speech about how uncouth and wicked she thought America was, I placed the attention back on her special day. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, Granny,” I said.
“What time are you getting here, honey?” She asked.
I studied the clock on the wall. “Sometime around noon tomorrow,” I replied. “It’s a five-hour drive from Chicago to Weatherton, maybe more.”
Granny Grayson oddly changed the subject. “Do you know if your father’s coming, too?
My father. The mere mention of him pierced my heart. Granny Grayson didn’t mean ill-intent when she mentioned him. No one had any idea how I felt about him. No one, except me.
I collected my strong emotions and downplayed my father’s potential appearance at her birthday gathering. “I’m not sure he‘ll come, Granny,” I replied. “He’s a busy man, and I‘m certain his time‘s limited.”
“I’ve tried calling him twice and never got an answer,” she said concerned. “Would you mind trying to call him for me? It would mean so much to have both of you here with me on my special day.”
I paused for a moment. “I’ll call him as soon as I get off the phone,” I said forcefully optimistic.
“Thanks so much, honey,” she said pleased. “Nothing would make me happier. It‘ll be so good to see you both together again.”
“I know it would, Granny. I’m going to hang up and call him right now. I love you and will see you tomorrow.”
I gently tossed the phone on the couch and contemplated reasons not to call my father. Why should I bother contacting him? He never bothered to contact me. No, wait. I take that back. One Christmas, I began receiving his annual Christmas cards. They were never one-of-a-kind and always read the same printed generic greeting, SEASON’S GREETINGS FROM THE GRAYSON HARDWARE COMPANY OF ATLANTA, GEORGIA.
My father was also proud of his so-called perfectlittle family that never included me. He married his second wife shortly after his divorce from my mother was final. Her name was Vickie. Tragedy struck their seemingly happy lives. Vickie died shortly before their one year wedding anniversary. Her dea
th was never discussed, and I knew to never ask questions.
I hated Vickie Grayson but knew she wasn’t to entirely blame for my parents’ divorce. Hate consumed me to the point I had to blame someone. In my martyr-driven mind, why not blame her?
Vickie had one child, a daughter named Madeline. Mattie, as we called her, gave up her normal life and became Granny Grayson‘s live-in caregiver. Time had taken a severe toll on Granny and left her unable to do basic household chores.
It was easy for anyone to be envious of Mattie. She had no bills to pay, and Granny Grayson made sure there was plenty of money in her bank account. But I never envied Mattie for a second. Her life was much more twisted and complex than mine, but that‘s another story.
Several minutes of procrastination passed. I finally picked up the phone and dialed my father’s office number. A receptionist answered and transferred me to his personal line.
My father quickly answered within the first ring. “Robert Grayson speaking. How may I help you?” He asked.
The sound of his deep, familiar voice rattled me. I cleared my throat, paused for a brief moment and greeted him forcefully polite. “Hi, it’s Jacob,” I replied.
He paused. It was evident the sound of my voice took him by surprise. “How are you?” He asked.
“I can‘t complain. How’s business?” I asked.
“Busy, but good,” he replied.
The tension slightly shifted, and I changed the subject. “The reason I’m calling is because Granny Grayson‘s one hundredth birthday‘s tomorrow,” I said.
“I mailed her a card and an electric blanket yesterday,” he said.
His impersonal, short answer made him sound evidently distracted, as I continued. “She wanted to know if you could see her tomorrow for her birthday,” I said warm and inviting for Granny Grayson‘s sake.
My father paused, as though he was looking for any reason to bail on Granny Grayson‘s special day. “I can’t just pick up and leave without any kind of advanced notice,” he argued. “A new hardware store opened here in Atlanta, and I’ve got tons of obligations.”
I shook my head. Another typical excuse. My father’s endless rejections used to leave me bitter and angry. The passing years eventually turned each empty promise into pointless wastes of my time.
“I’ll tell her you’re not coming,” I said.
“I’ve got to go,” he said stern. “Give her my love and tell her I’ll call her this weekend.”
He ended our phone conversation without saying another word. I placed the phone back on the wall, walked into the bedroom, and packed my last suitcase.
CHAPTER 2: A TIME TO GET, AND A TIME TO LOSE
I entered the city limits of Weatherton, Tennessee before noon the following day. The feeling of going home again was bittersweet. At first, wonderful memories embraced me. Stray thoughts of long, summer days fishing at the old pier and catching fireflies during starry nights flashed vividly in my mind.
A loud, continuous ding suddenly erupted from my vehicle. The gas gauge indicated the tank was empty. I coasted to a nearby gas station on fumes before the engine died.
The gas station attendant sat in a chair, obviously bored, and spat chewing tobacco into a Styrofoam cup. His eyes widened, as I coasted toward the nearest pump. He quickly darted out of his seat and toward me, evidently desperate for a customer.
The engine finally died. He leaned forward and propped his rough, oil-stained hands against the driver’s side of the vehicle. I rolled the window down and greeted him.
“What can I do for you?” He asked.
“Fill it up.”
The nametag on the attendant’s shirt was slightly tattered and stained with dried motor oil. It was barely readable, but I finally figured out his name was Tommy. “You’re not from around here, are you?” Tommy asked.
“I’m originally from here but moved away years ago,” I replied.
Tommy stared hard at my jeep’s license plate, as though he was in deep thought. “Where in Illinois do you live?” He asked and looked up, staring hard at me.
“I live in Chicago,” I replied.
“I’ll bet you’ve got a lot of crime up there, don’t you?” Tommy asked intrigued. “I see it on the news all the time where someone’s getting shot in a big city like that.”
My eyes rolled at Tommy’s continued rambling. Dear God, he’s a talker. Grayson was my next concern. I had tried to call her numerous times when I was close to Weatherton, but my cell phone had no reception. She must have been worried sick. There had to be another phone nearby.
“Do you have a phone I can use?” I asked Tommy politely. “My cell phone isn’t getting reception.”
“Is it a local call?” He asked.
“I have to call my great-grandmother and tell her I just arrived into town.”
Tommy pointed at his garage. “Go into the garage and the phone’s just around the corner.”
I left Tommy and his laundry list of questions, turned the corner and walked into
the garage. An old rotary phone hung loose on the wall. Several rings, almost ten, rang after I dialed Granny Grayson’s number but no one answered.
Something didn’t seem right. Granny Grayson always waited by the telephone for me to call. My unconfirmed instincts were forced in the back of my mind, and I walked back to my vehicle.
Tommy slammed my vehicle’s hood down. “I put air in your tires and checked all your fluids,” he boasted, as though he tried to impress me with his professionalism.
I fumbled through my wallet. “How much do I owe you?” I asked.
“It’ll be thirty-two dollars,” he replied.
I handed Tommy two twenty-dollar bills. He took my money and made change. To avoid more of Tommy’s pointless jargon, I quickly tucked my change away in my wallet and hurried to my vehicle.
Tommy oddly changed the subject. “So, who’s your kin?” He asked.
His selection of the word “kin” was something I hadn’t heard in years. I stopped. “I beg your pardon?” I asked confused.
“You said you were here to see your great-grandmother. “Who’s your kin folks?”
I smiled and remembered kinmeant family. “My great-grandmother’s Eleanor Grayson.”
Tommy’s crooked smile beamed. “Is that the same lady who was on the early morning show with her face on a jar of jelly?” He asked.
I chuckled. “She’s the one,” I replied.
Tommy had a sudden epiphany I never saw coming. “You must be Robert’s boy, aren’t you?”
His question was unexpected and echoed hard through me like thunder. “What makes you ask a thing like that?”
“You’re the spitting-image of him.”
What were the chances of that happening, and from the most unlikely source imagined? To be told I resembled him was far from anything I considered a welcomed compliment. I was certain I’d never have to come face to face with my father during my visit.
He continued. “When you told me your last name is Grayson, I had a feeling Robert had to be your daddy. We played football together in high school. He must have mentioned me, right?”
“No,” I replied. “I can’t say he did.”
Tommy followed me. I got into my vehicle and quickly started the engine. He leaned against the driver’s side and stared at me through the open window. “By the way, how’s that old son-of-a-gun doing?” He asked.
I shifted my vehicle’s gears from park to drive. Anger violently stirred inside me. “The old son-of-a-gunleft me and my mom when I was a child,” I replied slightly shaken. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
My tires spun and left Tommy in a translucent cloud of dirt. Painful memories followed the good ones. They always did. My mind raced with wrongs without right, and how much better my life would’ve been if things were different.
Each horrid event drove me out of the only place in the world I called home. The reason I chose Chicago as my new home often baffle
d me. My only answer was Chicago wasn’t Weatherton.
Everything was perfectly planned. I’d move to Chicago the day after I graduated business school. The painful memories of my past would eventually be forgotten, and I’d live happily ever after.
I was wrong. Those same memories followed me no matter how far I ran. Running from everything was equivalent to striking a match to gasoline. The flame started as a small flicker, but soon grew into a volatile wildfire that eventually consumed me.
Granny Grayson’s house, or the old home place as everyone often called it, finally appeared in the distance. The entrance was a partially-rusted gate with a graveled driveway that spanned a quarter of a mile. I parked my vehicle at the end of the road, grabbed my luggage, and walked toward the house.
I stepped inside and discovered everything was just as I remembered. The trinkets, the old photographs and paintings. Rich smells of sweet blossoms and bitter muscadine. Even the creaking sounds of wooden floors that frightened me as a child became a melody, timeless and beautiful.