The Key

"Looks like you could use this" David said, a glittering arc issued from his huge hand. Reflexively, I caught the toss. It jingled in my hand, catching his eye, there was a twinkle there behind the sadness, a slight knowing smile.

The Honor Guard fired their rifles skyward for the last time. A tall man stooped to the table at the front of the assembly, a small boom box sat there, its speakers eyeing us, owl-like. His finger pressed PLAY.

Only moments before, I heard the growl of the big Yamaha, 1000 cc's of the worlds fastest production bike. Oh cool I thought, David brought her by so I could get a closer look. Jesus, anything to break the mood. My bike had sat for months in the parking lot of our apartment its four carburetors lovingly rebuilt, but not breathing in unison. There had been so much else to do.

Daddy was in the prairie, at Hardy's feet, resting beside the ashes of his Doris. "Elle" he called her, short for Elvira, her middle name in word only, she loathed it and to her chagrin, a copy of her birth certificate said simply 'Doris Gardner'. He had placed her there one night, trusting me with tales of his deed, the urn bearing her remains now safely in the family plot beneath her headstone which read, "Her talents were many and far beyond this world".

Mama-nannie sat on the front row, her face shaded as usual by a visor. Dark glasses and a fogged eyeglass lens covered the hurt of so long ago. I had always been fascinated by that empty orbit, tales of its making varied, "Oh, Hardy was shootin' glass jugs and she was hit in the eye!" It was only slightly terrifying to a 6 year old learning to fire his first .22. rifle, a cautionary fable at best. I shot at bottles anyway, their shards exploding 50 yards away with a satisfying pop. Quack doctors had injected her cataract covered eye with milk! Mama-nannie would be 80% blind from the age of 40, but her home was spotless and always welcoming. There was pound cake and ice-milk to top it, and these wonderful spun aluminum tumblers, cold, like spring water. Her depression era home had been filled with neighbors' children, some wet-nursing, all inhabitants of 'Incubator Alley' right off the main drag downtown. It was my grand-parents town home, supplied by her husband Hardy, with venison and beef from the great grass-land prairie. No child went hungry there. Grandpa Hardy, Grandpappy was a game warden in the '30's. There was a fever tick outbreak, folks were so poor they couldn't afford bullets to hunt with and the deer population had boomed endangering the cattle. Grandpappy's job was to kill as many buck and doe as he could. Thelmer, Mama-nannie would drive the Model T, Hardy sat the front fender, as they careened across the prairie. His Remington .20 gauge pump across his lap, Thelmer, blind in one eye followed his commands. They dropped 70 deer in one month, lots of folks were fed.

From deer hide Hardy had made for himself two of the finest bull-whips I had ever seen, one day he bragged, "I can crack both of 'em over my head at once!". I had only seen him drag hose to water his five acre grove and work crossword puzzles. If I could have said bullshit to him, I would have. I teased him with a grin. "Alright Godammit!" he swung his six foot frame from his chair. He grabbed a ladder, popping the scuttle that was over the TV in his living room. "What are you doin' Grandpappy" I asked. "Well shit John Hardy, I gotta get 'em if I'm gonna show you how it's done." I stood on the concrete porch out front leaning against the forest green wood railing. Sap stuck to my fingers. A slight smile creased his face as he limbered and stretched himself and the buckskin whips. First the right, then the left tip snaked forward, CRACK! CRACK! He flicked them out to his side smiling and picked them both up in a lariat motion, swinging them slowly like he was fly-fishing. KA-FUCKING-POW POW, deafening it was. I stood mere feet from the supersonic tips, awestruck. I was 10, he was 68.

My hand turned, slowly opening. A small key fob was there, its only accessory said "YAMAHA". I looked up bemused, David's smile had grown showing an even row of white teeth. The braces had done their job. "Go ahead man, she's all yours" he chuckled. "Well, for a while anyway". David and his crew were infamous speeders, 5 or 6 of them would be out on the prairie running 170 mph. The big Yamaha was the fastest. I had not taken riding partners, I rode to be alone, for the peace of it. David knew that.

We stood around Daddy's bed, the three of us. He was so thin, once 190 pounds, and quarterback of the team, now 120 pounds of suffering. It was the same weight he had carried home from the jungles of New Guinea, from whence he held a bronze secret he would take to his grave. His body was small but for his wrists, wide and stained with blood and scars from the intra-veinous needles. I took his broad hand in mine, he managed a slight smile or was it a wince?

David and I stood at the back room shrine, shelves tangled with boys toys, baseball gloves, Jarts, the happily jumbled debris of my cousin's boyhood. "Here try this one" his eye twinkled as he handed me the helmet. "David, shit! I'll never get this melon in that thimble". "Oh c'mon just try it". For comedic effect I obliged; forcing the rim of it past my ears. "Ouch. Goddammit! No!" He grinned widely at me; my face pinched like a grape between fingers. "Very funny, I'll just use yours man." I extracted my head swearing. "I don't know John, my helmet is huge." David was the only person I knew with a head larger than mine, carried atop his 6'5" frame it suited him. He hovered over me, "Now she's got 2000 miles on her and she's all broke in, the chain is new and so are the tires".

The first tinny strains of "Taps" blew like wind along the prairie. It had been home to three generations of Walkers, Florida Cracker Cowboys, the last of a breed, their lifestyles taken by the automobile, barb-wire and Depression Era land swindlers. "I'll be at Basinger for you" I had told him. "I'm not fucking goin' to some goddamm funeral home!" "You will wear the Stetson I gave you?" he implored. "Of course Daddy, of course I will."

Mama-nannie stiffened. I heard her gasp from the back row where I stood under the shading brim of Daddy's Stetson. The crowd tensed, I began to step forward to her as the first bar of "Taps" drifted away. "Oh! ho!, I hate that song!" she cried out. The boom-box froze in unison with the mourners heartbeats and stopped dead. Was it batteries, or the passion of a mother's grief?

I eased myself on to the edge of Daddy's bed, wanting to bend down and hold him. His body jerked, his face became ashen. It stopped me, I stood looking down at him, tears welled in our eyes. I turned away: so he would not see. My sisters stood statue like, crying softly. Johnnie had been gutted from throat to ankle; seeking a vein to replace the bulging aorta in his chest. He was tough, had survived these long months, but had been unable or unwilling to get out of bed. The scar tissue had fused; forming a ticking bomb.

"You'll want to wear gloves too, try these" another joke, I thought. "Alright, let me have 'em". David seemed to take comfort or was it amusement in my garb. His cavernous helmet wobbled about on my head as I pulled on his riding gloves, his jacket swallowed me. "Shit, well if I double over the wrist straps, I guess they'll do." My 5'9" frame a child's parody to the giant of a man grinning down at me. I toed the kickstand swinging the FZR upright, switch on, clutch in, I thumbed the starter. The big Yamaha roared to life. "OK now." he grinned, it's 1 down and 4 up!" His last words were drowned by dust and the blast of exhaust.

So I had lied. I stood in the reception area of the funeral home reading the names in Daddy's guest book. 'Namon Kent' boldly scrawled the first line. A proud black man. A powerhouse at 5'10", 230, he had beaten a man to death for lying down with his Inez. Daddy had been instrumental in securing his early release, manslaughter was different then; and it was after all another black man he had murdered. Partners forever; they were, I never doubted that Namon would kill again if anybody messed with my daddy, Mr. Johnnie. We spent long days in Namons house, early, late; it never mattered, his door was always open to us. There was always soul food and Namons high-pitched laughter. I signed in near the bottom, nodding to some, hugging and shaking hands. Namon was nowhere to be seen.

"Your father needs to rest now" she whispered. "Its time for his meds". The girls turned immediately away slipping past the matronly nurse poised in the doorway. My hand rested lightly on his. I stared into his crystal blue eyes looking past the heavy red rims and roadmapped sclera. He turned his hand over, grasping mine, squeezing with what he had left. I said "See ya tomorrow Daddy, I love you", I bent and kissed his lined brow. Wheeling; heading to the door with purpose in my stride, signalling that I would return, I glanced over my shoulder as I reached the door, Daddy smiled and winked.

The familiar streets rolled by. The FZR tiny beneath me, her levers were like surgeons tools compared to my Honda's clumsy controls, I was ruined. She flicked eagerly left and right, nimble beyond belief, a snorting, prancing two-wheeled Pegasus. North up Parrott Avenue we went, then right on 70. Shrunken trees slid by dream-like, coming home was always odd, all things seeming smaller than boyhood memories. The Town Pool where at six years I had saved a drowning toddler was now an empty lot of sandspurs, victim of liability and fiscal deficit. Traffic was light in town. I nodded, passing the parking lot covering my families last home here. Over the creek and one light to go, the railroad bridge beckoned, the only relief for miles, check over the shoulder and 2,3, 4 gears! 110 at the top of the span, roll out, brake. Breathtaking; the twin blades of track arced easily northeast. My course was set, due east at the fork, take the left on to the road. It was narrow now, even after widening. The past's nine foot lanes and low shoulders had beckoned many into the abyss of the road-side canals, their steep banks tugging east against the flow of the embryonic St. Johns River. Mosquito Creek lay ahead, Dead Man's Curve and Rim Ditch, fabled places, the last rest of many friends and neighbors, their blood-stained cars towed like souveniers and left to dry in the tropical sun. Old folks died in bed, young ones on the highway. State Road 70 was long straights followed by sweeping curves. There was miles of dairy land, flat open country, you could see forever. Jane had died here, my sisters best friend, Rory, Shane and Merillee would succeed her; somehow surviving, my friends spared death, yet never the same.

"Oh God John! Come quickly, the phone begged" Pam had gone early to see Daddy, she found his room awash in blood. He had been coughing and the bomb had finally gone off. By the time I drove the twisting mile there, he had been whisked away to be cleaned. His 5th Air Force cap lay spattered red. Now it was ICU and that damn machine laboriously inflating his chest, he spasmed slightly with each breath. "We see no hope of recovery at this point", sad eyes told his final story. "Now it's just a matter of goodbyes; we will prepare the papers." , "I...I can't sign them" I said, but I will agree to it. Was it hours we stood there, I can't recall, it was clear that the Daddy we knew, Mr. Johnnie was no longer there. Donna Rae signed off for him, it was the right thing to do. The nurse excused us from the room, tubes were pulled, small dignities arranged. I walked in swinging the heavy door, he was so pale, struggling now to breathe, the strong heart could not be silenced, I kissed him and walked away. On this journey Daddy went alone.

"Goddammit, this fucking helmet!" it rattled around like the bell of an alarm clock. I had removed the giant's gloves, the controls were crisp and cool under my fingers. Rocket sled, it's a fucking rocket sled. 90 mph was too slow, the once sharp and deadly corners straightened under the heel of the Yamaha, it was not so much riding as thinking, "yes; just there, 6 inches left of the white line" lean it in and throttle up. The road opened like a flower. I flew past the barns in the distance, phone poles a picket at my side.

This had been our road. Daddy and I, we delivered feed to the dairies. We stacked it high on his straight-job trucks. I had earned my first money here. I carried 50 pound bags of beet-pulp tossed across my back, sweating alongside Seal, Moses and Namon, their skin blackening under the sun. My legs strained to climb the stack, 12 years old and doing a man's day. I climbed to the ceiling of the feed-barn, 25 feet up. The moist grassy aroma was overwhelming in the heat of day. I tossed down my sack.

The camp road had quickly disappeared, Johnnies gut tightened, he walked ahead of his men, "Sergeant at war, yessiree!" chided Primo. He stayed at the fringes of sight trying to mimic Daddies steps, years of walking concrete had not helped his clumsiness in the jungle. The four men stretched back 50 yards. Daddy melted through the brush, slipping silently ahead. "Mother Fucker" Daddy thought, had to bring 5 fucking guys! It would take that many to fly her. The jungle-juice in his pocket was for him alone, it sloshed satisfyingly on his hip, the flask he had purchased in Brisbane, the liquor made in his still. Katie, the redhead had sealed it with a kiss. Ah, he loved Australia. They moved along the base of the ridge. It was 15 miles to the stricken Fortress, south of Rabaul, New Guinea just off the strand of black sand beach atop a bluff. A good 10 miles behind Jap lines. Her crew was rescued after a soft landing in a short field. They covered the plane in palm branches effectively hiding her. "Walker, we need that plane back" the colonel had said. "Well fuck!" Daddy thought, it was his flight wing, his lead plane there, stripped of her Norden bombsight, still bristling with .50 calibers and precious radio gear. "I'll need 3 men and Corporal Gentili" he said. Primo was his best friend and despite his city birthing could throw an ax like no one Daddy had seen. Clearing airstrips in the jungle, he had seen Primo drop a 12 inch palm, his long arms shuddering with each blow. Eight swings leaves a 3 inch stump at ground level. He would need Primos' speed to get his lead plane out, "Gafney's Duck" waited. 300 feet of jungle stood between her and the sheer cliff face, her war like countenance was draped in palm leaves, hiding.

Johnnie held the Thompson out parting the thinning jungle. He stopped. "Safe enough here", he assembled the men. Daddy was older, respected among these airmen, they had seen him do some unexplainable things with machines and women, for that, they trusted him.

There was Primo, a Colt .45 and a bayonet tucked on his side, his ax slung over his shoulder, Martin, Wilcox and Padgett rounded out the team. Padgett was a short man, barrel chested, his BAR carried lightly, he knew his role, stay at the back, listen, at two whistles count 3, open fire waist high. Our men will be down, anything else in the way, will be dead. They rested there together, night fell.

The jungle sounds revealed a presence, "Fuck, Primo, its Japs" he hoarsely whispered. "Hold your positions" Johnnie had made sure his men were concealed, now not breathing, waiting for the Imperial patrol to pass. You could smell them as the wind blew down the gulley, urine, sake, blood and sweat. The morning sea-breeze wafted their sharp odor. The cap was open on the flask and Johnnie took a long draw as the bastards filed away. "Fuck! I hate that shit Primo! Lets go get this fucking plane and get the fuck out of here!".

"Gafney's Duck" sat forlornly smothered in palm branches, hidden from aerial observers. It was 6 am. The short climb up the ridge had left the men breathless but ready. "Lets take down the jungle till we get to that last row before the edge". "That way the Jap patrol boats won't see us and then we can have a little fun with those last few trees". The men fell to their work, Primos blade felling 50, 60 trees, Martin the youngster bucking logs, Daddy and the other men dragging them clear of the quickly forming runway. Johnnie called to his men, "OK, time to spin her around, point the business end east." There could be no flat tires now, no bum landing gear, the big lady would have to rise from the roughed-out patch of jungle. The men walked the props through two at a time. Daddy kept a close eye on Pvt. Martin, only days before he and Willy had washed the remains of a young tail-gunner from a B-24. Daddy had held him later as he cried and vomited.

There... got the motors wet. Johnnie eyed the amp gauges, all four go, good batteries. The hydraulics had been the only casualty of the strafing that plopped the 'Duck' deep in the jungle. Johnnie eyed the pressure gauges, all zeroes, please God! Let that patch hold. "Load up mother fuckers, let's go home!" he cried. The four men swung into the belly of "Gafney's Duck". Primo manned the top turret, twin tree choppers rested at the touch of his forefinger. Willy Martin, with his massive arms manned the right seat. "Now godammit, Willy! When I pull back on this fucker, you pull with me".

Contact. The big Boeing sputtered, inboards firing, then 1, then 4, she shook there, blurring the horizon. Huge clouds of black smoke billowed away, driven by the mighty 4 blade propellers. "Take 'em out Primo!", Johnnie shouted, the twin Ma Deuce jumped to life, loud enough to be heard over the roar of four turbo-charged Wright Cyclones spinning to take-off speed. They were Daddies engines he had built them, tuned them, 5000 horsepower unleashed, the last bits of the jungle melted before withering machine gun fire. The pressure gauges flickered, held at 70 psi, enough to clear the landing gear quickly at take-off. Hydraulics or no, He and Willy would pull her up. Tracers chunked out palms and lit the drying brush aflame. Brakes on, full flaps, throttles up and pray. Daddy turned to Willy and winked.

Padgett said, "The only thing louder than the 'Duck' was fucking Johnnie, hollerin' when we cleared that cliff", 'I could hear him from the tail-gunners seat!" Yes, it had been easy in a way, they had done it. Johnnie drained the last bit of hooch from his flask, he thought of Kate, a bit of blue ribbon peeked from his left breast pocket. "Jesus Christ, I don't even know why we did that... fucking airplane? Would it have been worth all our lives?" "Oh for fucks sake Johnnie, you know you loved it." said Primo, his hand rested lightly on Daddies back. Johnnie was face-down on the table in the front row. The ceremony was over, time for the picture. Primo, grabbing his collar lifted Johnnie, bleary-eyed he was captured. Primo grinning and holding him there, Sarge had earned it. Johnnies' Bronze Star, tucked nicely in that pocket, the talk of Brisbane, would remain a secret for 50 years.

The tall man strode to the table, eyeing the silent tape-player. Pop went the STOP button, EJECT and the cassette door rattled open, he fidgeted the cassette in his hand, yes it was fine no snarls. His long forefinger snapped the door closed, he pressed PLAY. We held our breath, there was nothing, no sound. Pop went the stop button, PLAY he commanded, just silence, a long awkward pause, Daddies funeral was over.

"Wow, I wonder what Dad would have thought of that gun salute at his burial, He hated the fucking Army." I asked Dolly. "Well, the tape-player thing was odd wasn't it?" she said. "Yep spooky ol' Mamma-nannie, it will be a great story to tell the kids one day." The Prairie slid by, grassland dotted with palmetto and oaks, the faded blue cypress heads were mountainous in appearance, snaking along the distant creekbeds. The smell of dairy barns hung like smoke. "Well, lets get to Uncle Jerry's and eat, I need to chill for a while."

The next hard rain, it will all be gone. For now, the grease-stripe was menacing. It reduced rideable road to a patch 3 feet wide. I could feel the back end drift as I brushed it's edge. Goddamm! Forgot about these little bridges, humps in the road, the bike loved them, with just a touch of throttle I rode down the back side on one wheel. FREEDOM! The day melted away. There was just me, the bike and the highway. Twenty-five miles to Rim Ditch, I was passing what little traffic there was at 120 mph, warming it up. Check the road first. The trip home is always quicker.