Southern Comfort
• David Jester

That night it was cold. It was December. The lights were low in town. There was a stillness and a feeling of security, knowing somehow that cold prevents danger. Inside an apartment with wood flooring I sat in a hot bath with a candle bright enough and a headache which made the whole scene perhaps a bit absurd. The night was the type that could instill in a person a good kind of self pity that bordered on appreciation. But then, as the girl walked into my house, down the long and blank hallway and into my solace it turned, just ever so quietly, into dramatic pain.

What are you doing here? I said. I¹m confused. You left. You left quickly. I'm moving on now. I'm getting on with my life. I thought you would turn into a memory. I hoped you would. I almost died. I nodded my head and it felt heavy, it could have dropped and rolled to her feet, she standing there in the drafty door frame, she could have picked it up, hurled it into the center of the mirror hanging above the bath tub, and both would have shattered. I stared at the floor, shaking, head hanging backwards over the edge of the tub; water was quickly getting colder. You had a ticket. You left. You left. I'm dreaming. You're not real. I said this and the confused voice slowly turned itself inward.

When I said it, a picture, hanging from a wall in a bedroom next door, fell to the floor. The noise clapped and spread. She walked close to the tub, embracing me. I was wet. She smelled right. We fell into each other, and in a graceful and clumsy half-stance, we dragged and shuttered into the tub, alone yet together, making noises, forgetting our pain, and when it was over, we tried to breathe. For me it was hard. She breathed easy.

She dressed herself and left. I tried to sleep. It took hours. I kept thinking about the day I left, the day she came, the funeral... None of it was right, I had to get away.

7:22, alarm. I got up senses at their peak. I darted to breakfast, grabbed my bag, walked out the door. My parent's house was filled with paintings. They consumed every inch of space of each wall. None of them were quite centered or square in their places, and they all hovered around many others, but each had some type of space which it could call its own. The paintings are the last thing I remember looking at as I hurled a goodbye and an 'I love you' at my mother, breaking through the door onto the hot street.

I shuttled down white concrete, noticing smiles of children on their way to school coupled with frowns of adults, hovering over hot coffee, still asleep, dreading the day in front of them. I was leaving town today. I was moving to a colder city, somewhere north. It was a place where the breaths were brisk and could provoke inspiration with each in and out.

She was waiting for me at the train station. She was alone, looking for me, the highlights in her hair glinting in the sun. I thought it was a halo. It wasn¹t. She wanted me to go. She gave me the idea. She wanted the northern city, not me.

'I love you.' she whispered in my ear, half wetting it with her gentle lip. She hugged me in a moment which must have appeared to her as triumph.

'I love you.' I replied.

'You're gonna learn so much. You are going to find yourself. When you do, ''I'm gonna find you again. I love you. Write me.'

'Write me', she said. She would have never said to call. (Telephones weren¹t aesthetic enough for her sensibilities). But I couldn't call her, I had to write her a letter, like I was some Civil War general, astray and thinking of her from miles away, thinking so much that I would have to sit by candle light in a wind-bent tent, pouring my gratitude for her existence onto a curled and tanned page of antique paper. I never found that, but she had me try. I got onto the train and I watched her fall back into the times and people I loved so much and wouldn¹t see again for over a year.

I got a letter after a few months of life among books about laws and practices. There were many long lonely and academic nights with a few friends who kept me company. They did me this service for one reason; it completed their scene. That¹s what all this is about. It¹s about finding people that complete your scene. Every person has a perception of the way things should be and should look in a given place at a given time. In the northern city, at the prestigious law school, the over-popular scene was one that required walking through snow covered courtyards in p-coats, carrying heavy books, appearing confident and intelligent at all times, but also meek, as if your actions now will one day cure the world for a moment and when they do, and you are famous, people can look back at your life and imagine you walking through the snow covered quad, holding your heavy books, and conversing intellectually with peers. That is what I was to the friends I had there, a peer who helped complete a scene. All I was looking for is a glass of sweet tea, a smile, maybe a little comfort in talking about real things with one of them for a few moments. This had always been the scene I was trying to complete.

The letter said she was coming. I must have found myself. I got her letter on a Friday. Sunday morning, a bit hung-over, the door rattled with a knock. She had arrived, she had a bag bigger than I had ever seen her carry. She was going to be here for good.

The next year was spent wondering what we were doing. We walked around. She got a job in a local diner at nights. Every moment away from work we spent together. We went to coffee shops, hovered over our cups, held hands, sheltered each other from the dangerous city that surrounded us. We came to what we thought were earth shattering realizations about life and our perfect love for one another.

We were living in a dream world. The dream wasn¹t familiar. Every day I convinced myself that I was happy, tried not to think of home, tried not to think of everything I was missing. Instead I thought of all the things I would have, one day, if all this worked out. We told each other we loved each other too much. We touched each other too much. I wasn't comfortable. I wasn't happy. I was afraid the dream would never work. I feared her so much, feared losing what I thought was an impenetrable and never dying love.

One day, I received a phone call that changed my life. It awoke me. I was in a cold and distant place. The call concerned my brother. I hopped a train at 2:03 a.m., two hours after I received the call. The train was taking me home on what would be the longest ride of my life.She stayed in the northern city, more alone and colder than she had ever been.

I was alone too. I hardly noticed. I remembered the toast I gave him on his wedding day. I remembered the leaf piles Kris and I used to construct. I remembered the pecans we used to harvest and sell, at the ages of six and twelve, in a stand. They came out of our parent¹s trees. I remembered holding my father's hand, going to Victoria¹s diner on Saturday mornings, a short walk, and Kris, in front of us a few steps, ring of light adorning his head, watching birds fly or cars pass, carrying the green plastic yo-yo that defined him as a child. He had this way of carrying himself, something confident, knowledgeable, strong and sure of his place and calling. This had been obvious to me and all who saw him, touched him, talked to him and knew him since the day he was born. He was the exact opposite of the confused existance I had drowned myself in for the previous year and a half. I had loved my brother and then I had forgotten about him.

The train pulled in 14 hours later. I hadn¹t slept. I walked into my parent¹s house. They were surrounded by family and friends. I could see his wife Jewel and my nephew, Jon through a crack in the door that led to the kitchen. Jon, a spry 3 year old who was a spitting image of my brother, was seated at the table both Kris and I had grown up with. Remembering eating at that table, mom bringing us food, was like remembering communion. Jon had no idea what this meant, but his eyes were red. Jewel had lost her hope. She cried. I walked into the great room. My mother looked at me from away. I had been gone for a year and six months. She started crying and ran to me, holding me on impact, tight, firm, lovingly appreciative.

My father sat across the room on a couch, being consoled by old friends. He was drinking Southern Comfort. He rarely drank. Nevertheless, the smell of the sweet liquor on his breath was what I always thought of when I thought of him. This, I forgot. I couldn¹t have remembered if I tried. When I was away, this world didn't exist. An occasional phone call, a letter, a care package: simple and small reminders of the largest part of my life, that didn¹t exist. I looked at the bottle in his hand. I quivered.

ŒCome here, son.¹ Dad summoned. I shuffled, looking at the shoes of the older visitors, specifically the men. Their shoes had been to many funerals, many house warmings, many dreaded events, and had taken on a life of their own. Leather pouches on their feet holding more knowledge of pain, of living and strain than their owners. Dad said nothing. He looked at me, grabbed my hand strong and gave me the earnest and fond look a father has after being around for some time. He pulled me down next to him on the couch and I listened to the voices exclaim their joyful memories of my now dead older brother.

The funeral was the next day. We all had a hard time. I had spent the day drowning in regret and sorrow. He had been halted at 29. I hadn¹t said goodbye. I walked their land and the streets of the quiet southern town, re-inacting our childhood in hopes that it would give some life to this death.

There was only one thing I could do. The pain and lonlieness was going to be too much. I jumped from the bridge that crossed the only river in town, the Six Pen. I fell to my grave. I ended my regret. I was with Kris.

She arrived the day after, stumbled through my door slowly, cautiously; missing the point of all that had happened since I left her.

I was staying in the apartment next to my parent's house. The conversation was full, and heated, but in my memory it went much faster:

ŒRyan, I¹m sorry that this happened.¹ Her tone was insincere and unconcerned. Her trip down had been spent thinking about her own loneliness after I left. 'I know that your brother meant a lot to you.'

My response was calm in tone and harsh in word. It had to be.

'Grace, I don¹t love you. I can¹t live your dream.' She cried, reached for me. I resisted. She left. It hurt. 'I¹m leaving tomorrow. My ticket was round trip.' As far as I knew, she was gone then.

But, the next night she entered the apartment. I was in a bath tub. It was late. I talked at her. I couldn¹t figure out if she was real. We fucked. She left. She left for good.

I woke up the next morning and ate breakfast at the local diner. I met Anne sometime later. We smiled. We had kids. We spent the rest of our lives together in the small southern town.

© David Jester 2001

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