14th

14th

Sue Cruise

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Sue Cruise

All rights reserved.

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ISBN-10: 1468145924

EAN-13: 9781468145922

Acknowledgments

~~~

This is an Islander's tale...for Dave, my inspiration. With gratitude to all who helped…Mary Ellen, Patty, Bonnie, Peg, Paul, Judy and so many others who lent their time and memories.

Table of Contents

First

Second

Third

Fourth

Fifth

Sixth

Seventh

Eighth

Ninth

Tenth

Eleventh

Twelfth

Thirteenth

14th

Contact the Author

.

As the saying loosely goes:

Give a little boy an inch

and he’ll surely take a mile,

maybe even two.

True enough.

But…

give that little boy

an Island,

and he will create

a world of enchantment.

First

~~~

Forty-some-odd years haven’t dulled the memory. It was just another day, a typical, balmy Galveston afternoon. It was mid-July, to the best of my recollection, and I was eight years old. Mom was getting ready to go grocery shopping, and on that particular day, I begged to go with her. Oh sure, I generally preferred to spend my time zipping around the neighborhood on my bright-red, hand-me-down Western Auto bicycle, but an unforgiving sun ruled a cloudless sky, and the deliciously cold aisles of the store offered a tempting alternative. We had air-conditioning at home, of course—in my parents’ bedroom and in the small den—but my idea of summertime fun didn’t include being cooped up in the house.

Mom was unsure about letting me tag along; she needed to make a quick trip, and she’d already cut a deal with Lizzie to keep an eye on me and my baby brother. The day was slipping away; Pop would be home in a few hours, and supper was not on the stove yet, but I persisted and she relented… Okay, she said, but you have to help carry the bags in when we get back.

Rats, I remember thinking, there’s always a catch. But I jumped on the deal. I loved hanging out at the grocery store back then; still do now. There was also a secret bonus awaiting me at the store, which was nabbing a couple of caramels off the Brach’s display. I was certain there was no sin in this tiny bit of filchery, for you see, Mom did it too. And considering she was practically a saint in my eyes, that made it okay. Occasionally I would catch her palming a chocolate or two, wearing a quizzical face that said I’m just trying to decide which one to buy. You know, I honestly can’t recall ever seeing anyone fill a bag at that rack, and I always wondered how poor old Mr. Brach ever made a nickel.

Well, we hopped in the car and got underway. We backed out of the driveway and headed up 14th toward Seawall Boulevard, a grand old parkway spanning half The Island. It has a handful of nicknames, but BOIs just call it The Seawall. It’s a structure born of tragedy—the dreadful 1900 Storm—and to this day, it dutifully stands guard between roiling seas and the city proper.

Local legend once declared that The Seawall held the record for being The World’s Longest Uninterrupted Sidewalk, or something like that, and as a child, I took pride in the claim. I never verified it, of course—never felt the need. I was always totally satisfied knowing that, as an Islander, its magnificence belonged to me. No matter how many walkers, runners, bikers, gawking tourists, or hand-holding lovers I shared it with, it was all mine.

As we headed west, I glanced toward the celebrated old Balinese Room, and just beyond that the Flagship Hotel, which gleamed like a crown jewel atop the shimmering sea. Much like The Seawall, the Flagship was a child of disaster. She had risen above the water defiantly, a post-storm testament to Galvestonians’ resolve to grow stronger in the wake of Hurricane Carla.

For most of the ride, though, I simply gazed out at the Gulf of Mexico.

What a magnificent view! I thought. To this day, I have never wearied of the endless waves curling toward the shoreline, salty foam riding the crest, sticky spray filling the air. There’s just something about it that goes beyond the obvious. Ask any Islander, and he’ll tell you: It just gets in your blood.

It wasn’t a long drive, a few miles at most, but I was anxious to reach our destination. It was the Sixties, after all, and our old Plymouth station wagon was a minimalist piece of transportation. Oh sure, it had all the parts needed to get on down the road, plus an AM radio, but precious little else. Turn on the air meant roll the windows down, and Good Lord was it hot that day. Much to my discomfort, we weren’t going far enough for the breeze to cool the metal down, so the ten-minute ride was a cooker. Still, I was excited. The Henke & Pillot supermarket was massive, and it had the slickest floors in town—just right for sliding around the aisles in my socks.

All the way there, Mom fiddled with the radio, twirled a finger in her casually styled, salt-and-pepper hair, and spoke sparingly. Our thoughts that day remained our own, rather unusual for us. We were both talkers, gabbers, and generally chewed each other’s ears off...Mom was fun like that.

Soon enough we arrived, parked, and carefully peeled ourselves from the vinyl seats, and that is no exaggeration. On really hot days, those things had a way of magically bonding to exposed flesh, and when that happened…Ouch! Getting up too quickly was something akin to ripping a Band-Aid off a hairy forearm. Oh well, at least we didn’t have to wrestle with pesky seatbelts back then. Having extricated ourselves from the vehicle painlessly, we didn’t bother to lock up. First of all, honestly, nothing in our car would have tempted any self-respecting thief. Secondly, rolling up the windows would have been madness. That day, you could have cooked meat on the dash even with the windows down.

Mom fished around in her purse for the shopping list while I dashed off to fetch a cart. We both found what we were looking for, and I wheeled up next to her with a fairly good-looking piece of equipment. Straight wheels, no rust. I considered climbing in, but thought better of it. Only little kids did that, and having reached the advanced maturity level of your average eight-year-old, I considered myself way too grown up for such ignominy.

And then it happened. Or, rather…I did it.

That particular parking lot had a decent slope and was a popular spot for skateboarders. I’d been there before; I knew the terrain. With a few quick steps, I was off and rolling, swapping safety for speed. Warm winds whipped at my back, encouraging me to go even a bit faster. The total inability to steer the darn thing was inconsequential. Thirty, maybe forty yards…out of control! I swear I must have gotten up to about twelve miles per hour in that brief journey to the edge of the lot. Of course, I started running out of pavement pretty quickly, so I stuck a foot out and skidded to a halt. Fortunately, my shoe held up, and I didn’t have to use the old skin brake.

The whole time, Mom implored me to Stopthatrightnowyoungman! She was likely calculating the doctor bill as I rolled away. But the deed was done, and the smile on my face and joy in my heart were not to be denied. Body intact, I sprinted back uphill, leaving the basket behind. I met Mom at the door and nabbed a fresh cart. She muttered the obligatory admonitions, but there was no genuine anger. She was used to it…I had three older brothers, after all. I tossed my shoes in the basket, and whoosh, felt the blast of cold air as we entered the store.

Mom shopped while I slid up the produce aisle and back down the frozen section. We weren’t there long, and I don’t really recall any more specifics of the day. What will never fade is this: on that hot July afternoon, I was a carefree child, and a world full of problems and promises meant nothing to me. I did what came naturally...I ran, I rode, I laughed, and it was glorious.

Second

~~~

Many searing summer days have passed since then. Years, yes, decades have come and gone, and much has happened in my family. You know what I’m talking about…the stuff of life, some pleasurable, some not. Weddings and breakups, smiles and tears, holidays and funerals...and a funeral is where this story begins.

Mom’s health began a serious slide in the spring of 2008, and no one expected her to make it to Christmas. She got close, though…only missed it by a few weeks. My wife and I shared Mom’s last Sunday with her, only two days before she died. Franny and Mom adored each other from the first day they met some seventeen years earlier, and I have always been terribly thankful for that. Fran's folks were already gone by the time we started dating, so Mom filled a space in her heart, and it was always joyful when the three of us were together.

On that last Sunday, we arrived at Mom’s place for an early lunch, and stayed as long as her energy held up. The young lady from the hospice gave us all the privacy we wanted, but I was glad she was nearby, just in case. The hours passed all too quickly. By late afternoon, Mom was clearly fatigued, so as the sun beat a retreat, we followed suit. We knew, and Mom knew, we’d never be together again, but no such words were spoken. We hugged, we kissed, our hearts ached, and we said goodbye…but there were no tears. They just didn’t fit the moment.

So, when the call came two days later, on Tuesday afternoon, I wasn’t surprised. I was busy in the kitchen when my cell flashed Mom’s number, but I was fairly certain she would not be on the other end.

Hello, I answered.

Linus? It was my sister Marcy. It has to be bad news, she used my given name. Ugh.

Yeah Marce?

This is your sister Marcy. She identified herself anyway.

Hey Marcy. I knew what was coming.

Your mother is dead. No small talk, no attempt to soften the message…just a single deadpan sentence: Your mother is dead.

My first thought was, well, that was strange; she didn’t say Mom is gone, or, Our mother is dead. No, she said, Your mother. Now, I’ve always been pretty darn sure that Marcy and I have the same parents, but she was entitled to some leeway in the matter—indeed, for both of us, it was the first time our mother had died, so the awkward wording was completely understandable. I opened my mouth to offer a silly retort, but the seriousness of the moment checked my tongue. The call continued.

Marcy asked, Will you call your brother Terry and let him know?

Sure. Anyone else? Again, the odd phraseology. I shook my head silently, and I think I even smiled a bit. It was probably just her way of dealing with unpleasantness.

No. We’ve got everybody else covered already, she responded softly. We're all going to meet at Billy's tonight. What time do you think you can be here?

Not sure, Marce, but we'll get there as soon as possible. Maybe around six, seven.

Okay, Linus. I love you.

Sheesh! She knew better than to call me by that name, certainly not twice in one conversation. But, again, given the circumstances of the call, I chose not to fuss. Love you, too, Marcy.

It was about three-fifteen, and I immediately put in a call to Fran. She was at work, teaching at a