An Ordinary Man
Daniel O'Shields
(August, 2013)
We buried Uncle Jackson on the fifteenth, a September Saturday afternoon that was cool and dreary with rain misting from lead-colored skies. As the silver coffin was lowered into the depths of the red clay earth, our family lined up on both sides of the newly-opened grave. My mom, smelling like Mum deodorant and Palmolive soap, stood beside of me holding my hand to keep me still. My grandmother stood across from us, lifted her wire rim glasses to wipe her wet eyes, maybe thinking of the day that she had given birth to Jackson and that it was unfair that he had not managed to live long enough or, even more painful, she had lived so long she was forced to witness a son being buried.
Preacher Crawford described Uncle Jackson as a loving father and husband, a man who was cared for in the community and who cared for others, a man steady in his work and in his religion, quiet, like most other men in our mill village. Jackson didn’t stand out; in fact he fit in. He was an ordinary man, Preacher Crawford said.
As we left the cemetery and wound our way through the glistening wet village streets, shadowed by the mill and its smokestacks, I thought about how different it was that Uncle Jackson never worked in the mills.
What Uncle Jackson did for a living had been more exciting to me: a job in the bright sunshine, where he could smell the fresh air and smile as he greeted the customers in his store, rather than being buried deep in the bowels of the noisy and dusty cotton mill like my father and the other men. Every man in our family worked in the cotton mills in Union County, but Uncle Jackson worked at Garner’s Grocery, driving a Studebaker pickup, delivering items all over the county. Since most families had only one car, which was parked at the mill all day, or had no car, the housewife needed only to pick up the phone, or use a neighbor’s phone if she didn’t have one, to call in an order to the grocery. Uncle Jackson would hop in his Studebaker and rumble through the village streets to deliver the fresh makings for that night’s supper.
Jackson had been driving the Studebaker, on his way to a delivery at Maxine Roger’s house, when the deputy behind him turned on his flashing red lights and motioned for him to pull to the side. Parking carefully on the narrow street, Uncle Jackson opened his car door and watched, confused as to what he had done wrong, as the deputy exited the police car, walking slowly toward him with his thumbs tucked deep inside his wide leather gun belt and his head hung low. With a voice stammering with emotion, the deputy described how a train had smashed into a stalled car an hour ago at the East Main Street crossing. Uncle Jackson’s wife, Crystal, and his son James had been killed instantly.
All of these events happened before I was born, but it has always been an important part of our family lore. My mother and grandmother have told this story to me repeatedly, especially any time that I was sent on a chore that involved crossing railroad tracks. I never knew Uncle Jackson’s wife and son; yet, at the same time, I knew them both better than any other relative. And I don’t ever remember a time that our lives were absent of Uncle Jackson’s pickup truck, hearing it rumbling steadily as he pulled up in front of our house, and of him walking through the front door, always failing to knock, always a welcome visitor, whether he had groceries or not.
As he walked by me, he would often reach into one of his deep overall pockets to pull out a piece of peppermint candy, after having snuck it by my mom, especially if it was close to supper time. One bright summer day, I stood in the kitchen and asked, in the stumbling, hesitant manner that child asks when he is absolutely certain he is going to receive a negative answer, if I could ride with him on his deliveries. Even before I had finished with my plea, my mom, wiping her hands on her apron with a motion of finality, answered sternly, “No.” But Uncle Jackson responded, “I don’t see why not." My mom reluctantly relented.
We zoomed throughout the mill hill that day, turning into side streets I had never seen, walking onto the porches of villagers I had never met, dogs jumping at our knees, cats scurrying off quickly; we handed over a pound of meat, a sack of sugar or flour, a can of coffee, and then back to the store to await further instructions. As we rode, I watched the sun glisten off the Vitalis on Uncle Jackson’s thin hair while he talked about the Yankees and Red Sox and my school the next year. The day passed by as fast as the pickup zipped along the tiny streets. I stood tall on the floorboard, rolled down the side window to yell at my buddies as we whizzed past, making sure that they did not miss my moment of glory. At the end of the day, Uncle Jackson complimented me for my tireless work and pulling me close to him to share with me his secret of how to pick out the coldest Pepsi in the box and how to scoot the other bottles over to the side in order to reach the one closest to the ice.
I spent most my days that summer with Uncle Jackson. He would pick me up in the early morning if I happened to be ready. I made sure I was. As soon as we completed our first deliveries, we would head back to the store. I was soon being greeted almost as a regular employee. With the salary of twenty-five cents a week that Uncle Jackson paid me from the pocket of his giant overalls, I was allowed to buy most anything from the store, at least as long as my mom didn’t know about it. Plus Mrs. Garner gave me the employee’s discount. During the occasional “downtime” as we waited on orders to come in, I was allowed to read Lone Ranger Comics, just as long as I made sure it was returned to the rack in the very same spot, unwrinkled and like new.
On one wet day in July, with the rain steady pounding the truck and my eyes feeling heavy as I listened to the steady rhythm of the wipers, I felt the truck lurch to the side of the road and stop. Fighting a desire to continue dozing, I opened my eyes and looked around but couldn’t figure out what was going on. I couldn’t see a house anywhere. Uncle Jackson had pulled over, stopping close to a railroad crossing and now he sat staring straight ahead as he switched the motor off. Then, I suddenly realized what this meant: this was the spot where Crystal and James had been killed. I sat silent, not knowing what to say but wide awake now, watching while the black and white guard arms that had been installed after that accident slowly lowered, looking grotesquely disjointed behind the waves of rain falling on our windshield as a freight-pulling engine approached from the depot side.
Not knowing what else I could do, I looked in his face and felt scared as I saw tears flowing out from under his glasses. He turned and caught me looking at him. “Today was the day, seven years ago,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I never miss coming here on this day, but I didn’t expect to get stopped by that freight.” He looked toward me and attempted to smile, trying to show me that he was okay. With tears still in his eyes, he tousled my hair playfully. “You know something, Benji, if we don’t get moving we won’t ever get done tonight.” But I knew he didn’t mean it; after all, we had had only one order all day.
Not long after that he stopped coming by to pick me up and Mama told me he was sick. A few days after that, she said he had been taken to the hospital. I begged to go see him. She finally took me to the big waiting room on the ground floor of the hospital, and we sat nervously on the cracked plastic covers of the big sofas, the people around us looking just as worried as I was. Grandma went to see him for a few minutes, then, Mama went while Grandma stayed with me. The nurse refused to allow me to go in.
The next day I walked the three blocks to Garner’s Grocery, hoping to see him, although I knew he was still in the hospital. Mrs. Garner smiled and told me he would be all right, and she said both he and I would come back to work soon. But something about the way she said it or maybe it was her weak smile, but that visit set me to worrying even more.
He stayed in the hospital the rest of the summer, and soon I was off to school.
At first I couldn’t figure out why Mama came into the classroom that day, with her kerchief tied tightly beneath her chin. She walked up to my teacher, then came to me. When I saw the tears flowing from her blue eyes, I knew it was about Uncle Jackson. I couldn’t stop the tears coming to my eyes either.
As I listened to what they said at the funeral, I realized something. My Uncle Jackson’s life may have been sad and tragic, happy and busy, and many other things, but it just wasn’t true that he “didn’t stand out from other men.” Preacher Crawford was wrong about that.
Daniel O'Shields is a retired psychotherapist who moved back home to South Carolina after working in Colorado and Utah. For several years he has been writing part-time and has had work published in Sandlapper Magazine, Birds and Blooms, the Antiques and Collectibles Journal, and Bobbin and Shuttle. "An Ordinary Man" is his first published work of fiction. Since retirement--in addition to writing--he spends his time attempting to raise bees, watching birds, growing vegetables that are made better thanks to the bees, enjoying the warm southern evenings from the screened back porch of his log house, and fighting constant losing battles with squirrels over birdseed.