On The Road – Passing Time With Sara Bear

By DHMcCarty 10/01/2018

Editor’s Note: Not my usual fare. But . .

If you were to give it a color it was a grey day. Somewhere between black and white. Certainly not rosy.

No family had called. No cards, letters or telegrams. No bouquets. No one was even aware. The pink teacup blooms atop the cardboard box were the best I could do.

The Rosaceae family.

I pulled over at a florist in Charlotte after I left the hospital. A dozen petite stems and a small floral arrangement with a little brown teddy bear.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

“I’m pregnant. Little blue cross on the pee stick. You’re going to be a Daddy.”

Sydney was leaning against her Celica, wearing Cyndy Lauper and holding an empty Budweiser in her hand.

“I think we should get married at Mountain Fellowship Church. It’s out in the country near Neely Bridge. It’s where Bobby’s Mama and Daddy are buried. Mama took me to Sunday School there when I was a little girl. During Sunday service,David popped my cherry in the barn out back. I was 13 years old. I got a bit of a late start.

The faithful were singing ‘How Great Thou Art’ in the sanctuary while David was sticking his tongue down my throat and his willy up my cooter. It wasn’t so great after all. David never was. I call him Jesse James. He thinks I see him as some kind of outlaw but he’s really just a quick shot artist.

I’m going to get another Bud. You want one? You could use it. You’re looking a mite fretful”

She was enjoying herself.

“Sydney, do you really think you should be drinking if you’re pregnant?”

“I know I’m pregnant. I knew it before I even did the little peestick. I knew it with both Michael and Deven.

I drank tequila every weekend when I was pregnant with Deven. David was bartending at ‘The Stompin’ Grounds’. I’d sit at the end of the bar drinking Cuervo shots and wait for him to get off every night. I’d get shit faced and we’d get crazy. Deven turned out just fine. Fact, I think that’s why she’s so mellow.

You should be celebrating, cowboy. You’re about to be a Daddy and marry the hottest piece of ass in South Carolina.”

“Sydney, we need to talk about a few things.”

“What? Why are you always so serious? Lighten up and have fun.

Don’t be getting any ideas. Bobby’s got a big shotgun.”

. . . . . . . . .

Bobby Bigham was Sydney’s Daddy. He lived in a log cabin on a hill, in the backwoods of Greenville County, with a framed certificate from the Ku Klux Klan on his wall and a mean disposition. He said the certificate was a joke.

It wasn’t.

I noticed a ceramic statue of a young black boy hunkered down eating a slice of watermelon next to his chair. There was a noose around its neck. The rope ran up over the arm of Bobby’s Barcalounger.

I tipped my head toward the figurine.

“Bobby, what you got there?”

“Oh, that’s my little pickaninny. I see them devils jitterbuggin’ on TV, I pull on the rope and let him dangle a little. Gives me a real warm feeling inside.”

One week later, Sydney talked me into going to a pig pickin’ at Bobby’s place. I was primed for an authentic backwoods Southern experience. Maybe a little out of my element, but I believed I could handle anything.

Every elected official in Greenville County was there. Sydney’s Uncle Jimmy had cleared the furniture out of the living room of his mobile home to create space. I was in a conversation with him when Bobby walked in holding a near empty bottle of Jim Beam.

“I hear me a Goht Damned Yankee. Anything I hate worse than Nigguhs, Catholics and Jews, it’s a Goht Damned Yankee.”

The place went quiet. Every eye was on me. There was only one Yankee in the room. A 32-year-old cocksure ex- Marine, well into my Buds and about to become acquainted with how stupid I was capable of behaving while intoxicated.

Bobby was 52 years old and 320# of bourbon swilling bigotry. Just don’t let him corner you. I doubted he could move any faster than a sloth, but he didn’t have to. With 45 people in an 8 foot wide trailer there was no room to maneuver. This was a home crowd. There was no neutral corner.

Sometimes your ego and your mouth, move faster than your common sense.

“Sounds like the bourbon talking Bobby. I’m curious how high Jim Beam can jump.”

There was an audible gasp in the room.

Bobby raised the bottle over his head and slammed it down on the table in front of him. He held on to the jagged broken neck and started climbing up over the table. The crowd parted to make room for him. There was nowhere to go. Sooner or later he would corner me.

My life flashed before my eyes in milliseconds. They would bury my carcass under a tree in these woods, and no one would ever speak of it. The whole fucking lot of them were in the Klan. Hell, the County Sheriff would probably help dig the hole. Contrition was my only option. I started backing up, my arms behind me feeling for the door.

My hand grasped the handle.

“If my behavior was unseemly, I truly apologize. Enjoy your pig pickin’ tomorrow.”

I was out the door and into the pitch black night. It took me twenty minutes to find my car. I drove the 125 miles back to Charlotte with my eyes fixed on all three mirrors. I had Michigan plates on my Rabbit. This Yankee had no desire to be pulled over drunk in Klan Country.

The next morning the phone rang at 11:00.

“You left me here last night. You need to come pick me up.”

“I’m not driving back there. Ever. You’re going to have to find your own way back. When you get here we got some serious talking to do.”

“What are you so mad about? Daddy was playing with you. Everybody laughed their ass off when you left.”

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“I’m not going to marry you. Ever, Theres no future in it. You’re 27 going on 14. All you ever want to do is party. I’ve bailed you out of jail twice now for DUI. The first time you had dried barf on your tutu and the second time you cussed out a cop. I should have let you rot in jail the last time.”

“It’s these damn big city police. They got a hair up their ass about everything. Back home they just drive you home or to ‘The Stompin Grounds’ for another drink. Girls just want to have fun.”

“It’s not the cops here, Sydney, it’s growing up in a damn mill town where you went to high school with John Law. They all know you. They’re probably screwing your best friend.

I will support the baby until it’s grown, but I will not marry you. In fact I been thinking about this a lot. I want full custody. I’ll raise the child myself.

You shuffle Deven and Michael off to David’s parents more than you watch them yourself. Good thing they’re loving Grandparents.

You don’t even like babies. You just like making them. I want you to move in here so I can keep my eye on you. No more partying and drinking until the baby is born.”

She grinned at me and adjusted her cleavage.

“OK Daddy. I’ll change your mind in no time. You won’t be able to resist these.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Five and a half months later I was in conference with my area supervisor when Sydney walked into the dining room with a grey pallor and a nasty watery red-brown stain on her white yoga pants.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Sara was stretched out in an incubator in the NICU. 33 ounces at birth. She hadn’t developed any baby fat yet so her features were well-defined.

She was beautiful. So tiny. So red. IV tubes infusing and an oxygen mask. Not much bigger than a Barbie doll.

I had my hand in the incubator through the sterile gloves. I was gently stroking her tiny feet when I sensed someone over my shoulder. There was a young NICU nurse standing next to me, biting her lip.

“We all have dreams. How could you not? But you need to know: her lungs weren’t developed yet. It would take a miracle. Everyone here is praying for her. I can direct you to the Chapel.”

What do you do when you don’t pray? When you don’t believe in miracles. Even when it’s your own daughter. I was going to thank her but I couldn’t get any words out.

That night, the phone rang at 3:00 a.m.

When I walked into Sydney’s room, she was holding Sara’s body as the young NICU nurse snapped a Polaroid. When the nurse saw me, she snapped another and then left the room. She was crying.

“Mama called me. She’s going to make all the arrangements. She’ll call you in the morning.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Estelle called me just after noon. She had made arrangements at Fountain Inn Memorial Gardens. They had a small section set aside called Baby Town.

“You’ll have to pick up the baby at the hospital and deliver her to the mortuary at the Memorial Gardens. I have a number for a Patient Representative. They’ll tell you what you need to know”

I showed up at the Hospital and was directed to the morgue in the basement. A small grey room with a single desk and nothing on the walls. The aide had me sign a form and asked me to wait in the office, Five minutes later he returned with a small cardboard box wrapped in packing tape. He placed it in my arms.

I hadn’t expected this.

I took back roads all the way to Fountain Inn. I didn’t want to share this trip with anyone else but Sara. Somewhere around Gaffney I started singing a nursery rhyme to her.

It was the only one I could remember. The closest thing I knew to a lullaby.

“Say night-ie night and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me
While I’m alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me . . “

. . . . . . . . . . . .

After the service I stood over the miniature white casket and glanced at the floral arrangement. I reached over and unwired the teddy bear and slipped it into my pocket. As I turned, Bobby was standing behind me.

“That Teddy bear is Sydney’s. You need to give it to her. She is the Mother.”

“And I’m the Father, Bobby. The bear is mine. Besides, that bear was made in Vermont. It’s a Yankee bear.”

Bobby smiled and walked away.

The next week I transferred to Atlanta.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

I found Sara Bear in a file cabinet when I was living on the farm. I hadn’t seen her in a few years. BabyLove took a liking immediately. She looked up at me and whimpered and then pawed at the cabinet.

“Sorry Baby. This is my bear. Keep away from it.”

I gave Sara Bear a little kiss and then placed her up on a shelf. No time for reminiscing on a farm. A week later I noticed Sara Bear was not on the shelf. There was no way that BabyLove could have gotten her down. Maybe Triumph standing on his hind legs.

Triumph was standing in the doorway to the side porch. When I looked his way he slunk off to the porch.

I kept my eyes open for weeks. I looked in the barn, the coop, the greenhouse, in the orchard . . . no luck.

A few weeks later I was up the ladder in the greenhouse nailing ceiling joists when I looked down and saw BabyLove sitting with Sara Bear in her mouth. I slowly climbed down the ladder so she wouldn’t playfully run away. I took the bear from her and wrapped my arms around her neck, thanking her for bringing back Sara Bear. The bear was missing both button eyes and its button nose. I took it to the tap beside the barn and washed it as well as I could and hung it in the rafters of the greenhouse to dry.

There it stayed.

When the situation on the farm deteriorated beyond repair, I made a hard decision to leave and start divorce proceedings. It was either that or I would end up dead. I had no doubt of it. I arranged a 6 month contract in Redding, California.

I was packing my car under the big hickory tree. Big Lug, Goose, Other Goose, Triumph, Bogues and BabyLove were all gathered around the car watching me make the trip from the farmhouse to the car. All four doors were open but none of them attempted to get in. They all knew. Chicken Pot Pie was watching from atop the fence. He was missing all his tail feathers.

That damn Bogues.

When I finished packing I kneeled down and wrapped Bogues in a hug. Triumph squeezed in to get his loving while Goose goosed my ass twice but didn’t even run away like he usually did. Other Goose stretched out her neck and bobbed her head twice. I sat down and pulled BabyLove onto my lap. She tucked her head into my shoulder and licked my face.

I slid into the driver’s side and started Bea. Suddenly Baby took off about 50 feet, stopped and started barking.

What is with her?

She took a few steps back toward the car and then took off again looking back my way. I turned off the car and followed her. She led me to the greenhouse, propped her feet up on the third step of the ladder and looked up at the ceiling joists.

Sara Bear. All covered in spider webs.

I sat down on the floor and wrapped my arms around Baby’s neck, sobbing into her fur. I couldn’t take her. She had free run on the farm and had never been on a leash. 2600 miles across country to live in an apartment would be a purely selfish act.

Baby followed the car all of the way down the drive and then out onto Little Sand Mountain Rd. where she sat down in the middle of the road. I watched her in the mirror until I crested the hill and she passed from sight.

When I hit Summerville, I stopped at Duff’s Flowers and bought a dozen pink teacup roses. I laid them on the seat in front of Sara Bear. It was twelve miles to Menlo and the Alabama border. 2600 miles to Redding.

When I crossed into Alabama, I glanced over at the passenger seat. Sara Bear was looking up at me. As well as she could minus two eyes and a nose. I reached out and scratched her ears.

“Want to hear a lullaby Sara? I only know one.”

“Say night-ie night and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me
While I’m alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me’