The Way Home is available on Smashwords.

After writing Always Faithful, I decided to write another love letter to America, this time honoring my Southern and small town roots.  This book is populated by the kind of church-going, pie-baking, NASCAR-watching salt-of-the-earth people you'll encounter in any small town in the South. I fell in love with each one of them as they emerged and turned into fully-dimensional people, many of whom were strangely reminiscent of my relatives (imagine that!).  The one who amazed me the most, however, was Pete Morgan. I don't know where he came from, but he captured my heart and almost stole the story from his sister.

Bessie Morgan left her tiny Georgia home town on a northbound bus shortly after graduating from high school, and returned only occasionally for short visits. Thirty years later, after her mother's death, Bessie becomes responsible for the care of her mentally handicapped older brother. She tries moving him to her home in Atlanta, but Pete cannot cope with new things, especially not big city new things. Reluctantly, Bessie brings Pete home where he will feel safe.She decides she will simply have to find a way to tolerate small-town life. She's afraid that won't be easy.

The first person she encounters upon her return is the man she jilted at the altar thirty years before.


Read a sample, below.

Chapter 1

“I know Mama is dead, but when is she coming home? It's gonna be dark soon and she never stays out at night!”

After Mama's funeral, Pete and I sat across from one another at the small metal table in the kitchen. I held both of my brother's hands firmly between mine. I noticed how large his hands were and how small and inadequate mine seemed to be for the task that lay before me. I leaned across the table, straining to make him listen and understand what I was trying to tell him. “Pete, you must listen to me. Mama's not coming back. She's dead. Do you understand?”

He nodded his head and said, “I'm really tryin'.”

I wanted to scold him. Hell, I wanted to scream and cry and throw a fit, but I knew that any display of strong emotion on my part could trigger an over reaction from him. I was not prepared to deal with one of his outbursts at that point. I needed to stay calm, so I moderated my voice as best I could, and tried again, “Pete, you must try really hard to listen to me. Mama is dead and she is not ever going to come home. You are going to come and live with me now.”

He looked at me with something like horror in his eyes and said, “No! I live here. I can't live with you. I have to stay here or Mama will be upset. I'm not allowed to go anyplace but in our town.”

I was beginning to feel something bordering on panic. I had a home, a career and a life in Atlanta. I had no intention of ever coming back to live in Osborne, even if it meant uprooting my mentally disabled brother from the only home he had ever known. I could feel his frustration level rising. My panic level was rising too, for that matter. Fearing a tantrum that I would not be able to cope with, I decided that I needed to back off for the night. We could start the conversation over in the morning. I knew he would probably not remember this one anyway.

I rubbed the backs of his hands gently. When I felt his breathing slow a little, I patted his hands and then lay my palm flat against his cheek, “We'll talk about it tomorrow. What would you like for supper?”

He thought about that for a minute and then said, “How 'bout fried chicken and biscuits?”

I wanted to cry. There was no way I could make fried chicken to suit him. He had been eating Mama's fried chicken and biscuits at least once a week his whole life. Mama made the best chicken and biscuits on the planet. I, on the other hand, was not much of a cook.

“It's too late for that now. How about chipped beef on toast?”

He sighed. I held my breath, hoping he would not be difficult. Burying Mama had been hard for both of us, but I was the only one in the room who really understood what had happened. I needed time to grieve. I wanted to make a cup of coffee and then go sit on the porch and cry myself out.

Instead, I was facing the prospect of a lengthy negotiation with Pete over dinner. Everything with Pete was a negotiation. I didn't feel up to it. I knew from experience that I had to relax. If he felt my tension, it would upset him, and that would make things worse. I tried to force myself to relax, knowing that it wouldn't work. I could feel him reacting to my anxiety. I knew for certain I was not equipped to cope with a tantrum from him at that moment, so I did the only thing that I thought might work: I resorted to bribery.

“If you eat chipped beef and toast for supper, you can have some ice cream for dessert.”

That did it. He would do just about anything for ice cream. I had no doubt that he would eat a lot of it over the next few days. Just to make sure I wasn't sticking my neck out too far, I peeked into the freezer to make sure there was plenty on hand.

He nodded. “Ok. How about chipped beef on biscuits? I don't like toast.”

I sighed. I had no idea how to make biscuits from scratch the way Mama made it. I used frozen biscuits at home. I noticed to my amazement and amusement that there was a bag of frozen biscuits in the freezer. I wondered how long Mama had been feeding Pete frozen biscuits. I didn't care. I agreed readily and turned on the oven. I calculated that by the time the biscuits were ready, I could have the chipped beef ready. I pulled the bag from the oven.

Pete shook his head, “Oh, no, you don't. I don't like those biscuits. I want home-made biscuits.”

I felt anger welling up and I fought it desperately – and not altogether successfully, “Pete, please don't be difficult. I don't know Mama's recipe for biscuits. Please eat these just for tonight.”

He looked at me like I was the one with the mental handicap and said, “I know how to make biscuits. I may be a retard, but even I can make biscuits, for heaven's sake. You make the chipped beef. I can do the biscuits.”

I was astonished. “When did you learn to cook?”

“Mama taught me a long time ago. I can fix a lot of things. Mama won't let me turn on the stove, but I can get the stuff ready. Then Mama cooks it.”

“What do you know how to make?”

“I can do biscuits and pie crust. Mama let's me cook eggs if she is standing there to turn on the stove and watch me. I can get the chicken all ready for frying, but I'm not allowed to fry it. I can do lots of things. You would be surprised.” He looked very proud. I felt proud for him.

“You have a deal. I'll turn on the oven and start the chipped beef. You get the biscuits ready.”

I was amazed at how efficiently he worked, gathering the ingredients and measuring them carefully. Mama had taught him well. He couldn't read, but he knew the recipe by heart, as Mama had. I doubt she even had that one written down anywhere. I was sure that he didn't understood the concepts of math, but he knew how to measure. I watched carefully and noticed that he was using plastic measuring cups that were each a different color. I surmised that Mama had taught him to measure by color. In no time, he had the biscuits cut in perfect circles and ready for the oven.

Meanwhile I fiddled with the white sauce, which showed every sign of being too thick and lumpy. I popped the biscuits in the oven. I didn't care about the white sauce. I intended to make a meal on biscuits, honey and coffee. I didn't even particularly care if the biscuits were any good, although I had watched Pete make the dough and I could tell the biscuits would be light and flaky, just like Mama's.

As we worked it occurred to me that it was very strange that we should be cooking our own dinner on the night of Mama's funeral. Every funeral I had ever attended in that town, and even in Atlanta when the deceased family were Southerners, had been accompanied by wave upon wave of hams, roasts, fried chicken, bundt cakes, pound cakes and just about any other portable food imaginable. It struck me as odd that Mama, whose family had lived in Osborne for generations, had died and the town had not responded with its typical generosity.

I mentioned that to Pete. He shrugged and went on setting the table, saying, “Yeah, when Mama was sick, people kept coming over to bring food but I sent them away. They woke her up with ringing the doorbell all the time and she needed to rest. Besides, we had food in the house. I was afraid they was offering what Mama always called 'charity' and that was something that she said we would never take, no matter what.”

“Oh.”

Even as I grieved the loss of my mother and feared for the future I faced as Pete's caregiver, for a moment my heart went out to the good people of Osborne. I knew that virtually all of the long-time residents of the town, many of them families who had lived there since before the Civil War, had probably lovingly prepared dishes to share with Mama and Pete over the past months as Mama's health declined. I felt sad that their gifts had been rejected. I knew how important that feeding ritual was to Southerners. Pete didn't. All he knew was that the doorbell woke Mama when she was sick. I blinked back tears and gave up on the white sauce. Pete would just have to eat it with lumps!

We bustled around the kitchen and before I knew it, we had a stick-to-your-ribs, comfort-food dinner on the table. Pete ate with relish. I picked at my food. Pete looked at the clock and ate even faster.

“Whoa. Not so fast! What's the hurry!?”

“My bedtime is nine o'clock. It is way too late to be eating supper. If I don't hurry, I won't have time for my ice cream.”

My head wanted to tell him to slow down. I wished that I could bring myself to tell him he could stay up later tonight. I kept my mouth shut, though. I didn't want him to get indigestion, but I longed for him to go to bed so I could be alone. I needed to cry. I needed to think. I needed him not to be sitting there, reminding me of what I was up against while at the same time grieving my mother.

Pete finished his meal. I gave him his ice cream, and then asked him if he wanted me to come up to tuck him into bed when he was finished getting ready. He looked hurt, “No. You don't have to tuck me in. I'm a retard. I'm not a little kid.”

I shuddered. I hated to hear him put himself down like that, but at the same time, I appreciated the fact that he had a degree of pride and dignity. He knew that he was not a child. He was mentally handicapped, but Mama had always pushed him to do as much for himself as he possibly could. The problem was that I was not sure how much he could do for himself. I knew that he would get mad if I tried to do things for him that he could do for himself. I also knew he would get frustrated if I asked him to do things that were beyond his ability. He expressed frustration in furious temper tantrums. I feared I was in for a rough time.

He pushed back from the table and put his bowl in the sink. I noticed he made no effort to wash it. He said, “I'm goin' to bed. If Mama comes back, tell her I said good-night.”

I started to correct him, but then changed my mind and said simply, “I will.”

He lumbered up the stairs, a large, elderly man trapped in a child-like mind.

I rummaged through the sideboard in the dining room until I found the bottle of Jim Beam that Mama reserved for special company. I poured three fingers in a glass, added another generous splash because this was something of an emergency, and took the drink out onto the porch where I sank, exhausted, into the swing. The house stood dark and silent behind me. In front of me the long, sloping yard ran down towards the red road into town. Deep woods bordered the yard on either side.

Thousands of fireflies rose from the ground and put on a light show that to my mind was more impressive than the expensive laser-light shows at amusement parks. If Pete were still up, he would be running around in the yard, catching “lightnin' bugs” and putting them into a glass jar, grinning and encouraging me to join him. I recalled that as recently as last summer I had done just that.

I knew that Mama spent many summer evenings running around the front yard with Pete, catching fireflies, laughing and acting the fool. The neighbors knew that Pete was mentally handicapped so they didn't think anything of him running about like a child. Mama told me that she believed the neighbors thought that she was just plain nuts because she was so willing to join in. Maybe Mama was a little nuts from living all those years in a big old house with only a handicapped son for company, but Mama liked to have fun. She had precious few occasions for that in her life so she seized every opportunity for enjoyment that came her way. I imagined that the neighbors did think she was a little off her rocker...

I pushed those thoughts out of my mind.

That was not the time to dwell on the neighbors or the painful pleasures of the past. At that point, I needed to figure out what the hell to do next. Mama was dead, and I was solely responsible for Pete. He was 62 years old, a relatively high-functioning mentally handicapped person. He could manage his owe self-care, with certain reminders. He could bathe and dress himself. He could do some routine cleaning and housework: he kept his room immaculately (almost obsessively) clean. I had just witnessed how competent he was in the kitchen, but noticed that he never touched a knife or turned on the stove. He functioned on the level of an elementary school child. He did not need or deserve to be institutionalized, but he did need constant supervision.

As the whiskey started to take effect, I stretched out my legs and pushed myself slowly in the swing. In one way, I was perfectly suited for my predicament. I was the principal of a school for handicapped children. I had all kinds of resources and support which could help me care for Pete. The problem was that all that support and potential help was in Atlanta but Pete was in Osborne. I did not expect him to tolerate a move to Atlanta without a fight. Nobody had ever won a fight with Pete. I did not know what to do.

I looked down the road toward the town that lay at the bottom of the hill. Lights were on in nearly every home around the perimeter. The downtown area was dark. The surrounding residential streets were settling down for the night. I had spent my childhood sitting in this porch swing wishing myself to be anywhere else. I left Osborne immediately after I graduated from high school. In the quarter century since then, I came back a couple of times a year to visit Mama and Pete. Those visits never lasted more than a few days, and I spent them almost exclusively in the house. I rarely ventured into town. As much as I loved my mother and brother, I felt suffocated in Osborne. Even that evening, as lovely as it was to look on the town lying peacefully in the growing dark, I felt the same old sense of claustrophobia.

I decided that Pete would simply have to adjust to a move to Atlanta. I said that inside my mind, and whispered it into the tiny breeze that blew through the honeysuckles at the end of the porch. I was anything but sure that it would truly come to pass.

The next morning, I walked into the kitchen and found Pete sitting patiently at the table, waiting for me. Unbaked biscuits were arranged neatly on a baking sheet ready for the oven. Eggs were blended in a bowl by the stove, and a skillet lay ready for them. Bacon was was lined up, white, limp and rather disgusting, in another frying pan. Pete looked up at me and said, “It is about time you got up. I am starving. I have everything ready for breakfast. Please turn on the stove and finish it up.”

I didn't argue. I was hungry, too. I had eaten very little for several days, and my hunger was overtaking my emotional turmoil. I finished cooking breakfast and we sat down to eat companionably without talking.

After breakfast, I raised the subject of Atlanta again. I decided not to refer to it as a move, but to couch it in terms of a visit. That might at least get him to agree to go. Once I got him out of Osborne, I would have to figure out how to keep him in Atlanta. I gently suggested that perhaps he might like to visit my home in Atlanta. He thought about that for a while as if truly considering it, and then shook his head, “I can't do it, Bess. I have to stay here. What if Mama comes back and I'm not home? She'll be worried.”

I suddenly had an idea. I shook my head, too, “No, she won't. I talked to her before she died. She told me she thought it would be a great idea for you to visit me in Atlanta. Didn't she tell you?”

He shook his head and regarded me suspiciously. He was mentally handicapped but not stupid. He was intellectually challenged in many ways but he more than made up for his deficiencies with the best instincts imaginable when it came to detecting other peoples' emotions, including insincerity or uncertainty. He was like a human lie-detector. I willed myself to exude an aura of certainty and confidence in that lie. He continued to stare at me through narrowed eyes. Just when I began to fear that he would never buy it, he said slowly, “Well, I reckon that with Mama dead, it might be a good time to pay you a visit. I've never been to your house. But, you have to promise me that when Mama comes back or if I don't like it, you'll bring me home.”

I nodded a totally insincere agreement, with fearful heart. I knew Mama wasn't coming back, but I had my doubts about his liking life in Atlanta. Something cold squeezed my heart and caused me to have difficulty breathing.