Crazy in Heaven
Total Page：16
File Type：pdf, Size：1020Kb
University of Montana ScholarWorks at University of Montana Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers Graduate School 1976 Crazy in Heaven John Robert Smith The University of Montana Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/etd Let us know how access to this document benefits ou.y Recommended Citation Smith, John Robert, "Crazy in Heaven" (1976). Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers. 1930. https://scholarworks.umt.edu/etd/1930 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Graduate School at ScholarWorks at University of Montana. It has been accepted for inclusion in Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks at University of Montana. For more information, please contact [email protected]. CRAZY IN HEAVEN By J. Robert Smith B.A., University of Montana, 1969 Presented in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts UNIVERSITY OF MONTANA 1976 Approved by: Chairman, Board of Examiners D e ar^ G r a du ate School Date UMI Number: EP35252 All rights reserved INFORMATION TO ALL USERS The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. UMI Oissartation Publishing UMI EP35252 Published by ProQuest LLC (2012). Copyright in the Dissertation held by the Author. Microform Edition © ProQuest LLC. All rights reserved. This work is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code uesf ProQuest LLC. 789 East Eisenhower Parkway P.O. Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 48106- 1346 CRAZY IN HEAVEN CONTENTS Prologue. 1 Chapter 1 , 4 Chapter 2 7 Chapter 3 . 17 Chapter 4 24 Chapter 5 29 Chapter 6 , 38 Chapter 7 . 44 Chapter 8 53 Chapter 9 59 Chapter 10 , 68 Chapter 11 80 Chapter 12 86 Chapter 13 97 Chapter 14. 108 Chapter 15 . 115 Chapter 16. 129 Chapter 17. 143 Chapter 18 , 149 Chapter 19 . 159 Chapter 20. 173 Chapter 21 181 Chapter 2 2 , 190 11 Chapter 23.............................................. 197 Chapter 24.............................................. 207 111 PROLOGUE I remember the morning Uncle Moss Reed was buried and how Papa kicked me that same day and dislodged my right kneecap. The knee has caused me pain for well over half a century now, since it didn't ever set right, but I never once blamed Papa for it. The Nebraska Reeds, like Mama and Uncle Moss, were stout people with leathery skin and hard features. Even on the few occasions when they left their small farms --mainly for weddings and funerals --chunks of land went with them under coarse fingernails and on boot heels. Mama said the only tender part of a Reed was his heart, and I thought she was surely right as we stood around the mud hole that became Moss Reed's grave. I was not at all comfortable during the brief graveside service. A stiff downpour relaxed to a patient drizzle only as the last shrouds of mud fell with dull sloshing thuds over Uncle Moss. Rain seeped through my coat and shirt and made my back itch. My nose dripped from the piercing wind and I knew Mama wouldn't approve if I used the sleeve of my borrowed S m ith 2 white shirt, so I sniffed louder than most. But what distressed me more than my physical discomfort, and confused me too, was the way everyone was carrying on. Mama had told me, after prayers, as she tucked a quilt under my chin the night before, that it was sometimes a blessing when folks die. I thought I understood what she meant then, for it eased my own sorrow, but I could see no reason for the way even she cried over this particular blessing. Everyone knew Uncle Moss was crazy as a kootie--senile was the word Papa preferred--and that is how he came to kick my kneecap loose. While we were out laying Uncle Moss to rest. Aunt Littie , who suffered severe rheumatism in wet weather, spent the morning frying mounds of chicken and fixing green beans and corn and potatoes with pan gravy for the family dinner after the funeral. I took my place across the big oak table from Papa, scarcely knowing how I would save room for Mama’s ginger cookies. While Papa was saying grace, thanking the Lord for all our bountiful blessings, I got to thinking on what Mama had told me; and before the last "Amen" was uttered, I blurted out, "Papa, will Uncle Moss be crazy in heaven like he was here?" Papa frowned and I felt his boot dig into my knee. I knew he didn't intend it to be such a hard blow and even when I felt my knee swelling like a mad Tom cat, I didn't say a word about it to anybody. I never would have either, except I couldn't get up from my chair after dinner. I S m ith decided then I had more to learn about the nature of blessings, and left it at that. It was one of those hot pepper Texas afternoons when I first saw Doc Tate. I sat on a bench in the shade of the north wing, listening to the metered creaking of the old wicker rocker against Julien*s bulk. Julien dozed feverishly and the creaking stopped. 1 could smell liniment from my knee. In the distance 1 saw a taxi rounding the long drive towards the main entrance of the Manor. Clouds of red dust swirled over the pavement in its wake. When it stopped, dust settled on the taxi, reflecting a rusty rainbow in scorching heat. Julien's head bounced from his chest and the rocker squeaked again. "Mon Dieu--is hot one today," he muttered. "It’s warm,’* 1 agreed. The rocker fell silent. The driver got out of the cab first. He lifted his cap and wiped his forehead with one sweeping motion,then opened the back door for Doc, who rose slowly from the seat and stood for a moment squinting his eyes against the bright sun; while S m ith 5 a smiling attendant hurried down the walk to receive him into our "family." What impressed me most about Doc then was a certain dignity in his manner. Perhaps it was just the way he held his head, but I knew this was a proud man and I could see he was not pleased with the attendant who grasped his arm and began leading him up the walk like a stray puppy. As they passed closer to where I sat, I noticed the frown on Doc's face was not in harmony with the deep lines embedded there. The creases about his mouth seemed to have been formed by years of smiling, and his deep set eyes were clear and alert. I understood his disgust, for I have seen such expressions many times on new arrivals at the Manor. I must have appeared much the same myself when I came up that walk the first time. We all left many things. We came there with a multitude of memories and few expectations. Doc's grey suit was wrinkled too, but not from long wear. A neatness in his dress let you know those creases only came with the hot taxi ride. He was not a heavy man, but he filled his suit with a frame suggesting great strength in younger days. It was his silver goatee that made me think of him then as an old southern gentleman, perhaps a colonel like you see in moving pictures, a stately fellow who might at one time have owned a genuine manor like Leisure Highlands imitates. I did not know then what brought Doc to Leisure Highlands , but I noticed that even after several weeks he had not S m ith 6 established any kind of routine which most of us followed quite passively, if not comfortably. I often saw him in the garden where he chatted with other residents or sat alone writing notes on long yellow legal pads. I suspected he was jotting his memoirs; for old age is a comtemplative time, a time to philosophize, and perhaps even to write books. Doc was friendly and drew attention naturally when he entered a conversation. His sense of humor and wit allowed him to dominate any circle, and invariably led to stories told with enough bait of truth to lead us to believe he certainly had experienced them himself. Yet, he remained personally aloof, as guarded of details of his life as those notes he kept, and most folks eventually gave up trying to enlist his friendship. But I recognized a vitality that seemed bound within him, like a fine old timepiece only needing to be wound to revive its tenacity. I was even intrigued by that distant vitality and sought him out frequently. I had little idea then what fire smouldered in him until Julien LeBlanc, my former roommate,died in F-Wing late in May, and the Manor's director, Mr. Preston, suggested that I might share my apartment with Doc. Of course, I was sorry to see Julien LeBlanc go, but I guess he wanted it that way. Fourteen years "in cold storage," as he put it, finally numbed the old Frenchman's will to live. He put up one last struggle, though I wish now that I might have done more to discourage it.