Goin' Places

Goin' Places

  The first time I ever saw Mr. Emmett Crawford, he was hunched over a bed of red and yellow pansies, smothering them up to their necks with damp sawdust while autumn leaves covered the rest of the ground. 

  “Morning, sir!” I hollered, “You just move in?”

  “Yep, just this past weekend. Pretty nice place. We moved up here to be close to my son. You lived here long?”

  “All my life, actually,” I sighed. “I can't imagine what it'd be like to move to a new place.”

  “It’s kind of fun being someplace new,” he replied, briefly cupping his hands around each flower like he was wishing it good luck. “Everybody needs a change of scenery now and then. A body gets tired of staring at the same painted walls and plots of earth year after year.”

  “I don't reckon I'll ever get to move. My mama and daddy are just about cemented to this town.

How come you planted those flowers already with winter coming and all?”

  “You plant pansies in the fall, you'll have blooms all spring.” He stood up and tried to pat down bits of his white hair that were sticking out like the bristles of a used toothbrush. “And being outside helped me to meet my very first friend in this town. I'm Emmett Crawford. Nice to meet you.” He reached out his hand to me.

  I laughed. “I've never shaken hands with anybody before.”  I grasped his hand in mine as hard as I could so he could see how strong I was. “I'm Caroline. But I gotta run for supper. Bye for now.”

  I saw him again about a week later. This time he was sitting on his front porch with a bowl of green apples resting beside him, a knife in his hand, and a metal garbage pail wedged between his knees. 

  “Hello, Miss Caroline. Got time for a visit?”

  “I think maybe a short one. Mamma's gonna call for lunch real soon. You gonna have apple pie for dinner?” I asked.

  “Thinking about it. Mona likes apple pie a whole lot. Have you met Mona yet?” He took his knife and sliced me and him a thick chunk.

  “I guess I haven't. Who's Mona?” I sank my teeth into the sweet apple.

  “Mona is my lovely wife, love of my life, traveling partner, and pretty much my best friend. She's been feeling a bit under the weather lately, though. I think maybe some pie might make her feel better.”

  “Did she go to the doctor and get some medicine for whatever she's got?” I asked as sticky apple juice slid down my chin and dripped on my knees.

  “Oh yeah. She's got plenty of different kinds of pills that are going to make her better. Soon as she gets back on her feet again, we're going take a trip somewhere, someplace warm where the sun shines a whole lot. Mona and I just love goin' places.”

  “What kinds of places have you been to?” I licked the last bit of juice off my fingers and watched as a coiled snake-like sliver of green peeling slithered into the pail.

  Mr. Crawford sucked in a deep breath and looked out over at the line of mountains that rose up like a camel, hump-backed and bald, on the edge of town. “Well, Mona and I took our trip of a lifetime just last year. We set out in June and drove from one edge of the U.S. of A. to the other. On the road for two whole months. We stared up at the great Rocky Mountains that would make this ridge here look like molehills. We went swimming with dolphins once in the Atlantic Ocean down in Florida, and even woke up one morning in northern Montana with buffalo all around our camper. Yeah, Mona and I discovered how much we love traveling on that trip.”

  “We studied all about the Rocky Mountains in school,” I said, “but I've never met anyone who's actually see them. Tell me where else you went.”

  “I'll do better than that. Tomorrow, Mona will probably be feeling better, so why don't you come on over and I'll show you some of the pictures of places we went to. Got four or five albums full. Mona and I were just looking at them last night. They were the first thing we unpacked.” Mr. Crawford stood and picked up his bowl of peeled apples. “I'll save you a piece of pie, too.”

  I ran back to my house real fast. I couldn't wait to tell Mama about our new neighbor being such a traveler.

  I can still see the inside of Mr. Crawford's house as clear as if it were yesterday--neat as a pin and about as shiny. Rows and rows of books stood rod straight on shelves, with big ones ahead of little ones, like children lined up according to age. Pretty flowered curtains outlined every window. Four polished picture frames decorated the mantel and a blue vase of fresh cut flowers stood on the waxed kitchen table. A new brown suitcase stood waiting by the front door.

  “I'm glad you could come, Miss Caroline,” he said as he led me into the living room. “First thing we need to do is make proper introductions.” He gestured over toward the end of the room I hadn't had a chance to check out yet. “Miss Caroline, I'd like you to meet my lovely wife, Mona.”

  My gaze followed his outstretched hand. If he heard me gasp, he didn't let on. In the back corner of the room was a bed—the same type I had seen in the hospital when I was visiting Uncle Taylor after he'd had his stroke. Its shiny metal frame looked as if it'd just been polished like everything else in the room. Ironed sheets were tucked in neatly at the corners. Everything gleamed so that the sight of the rumpled old woman lying in the center of the bed caught me by surprise. Sharp outlines of bones were visible beneath the pink nightgown that lay about her shriveled body like an empty potato sack. Saggy rows of skin seemed to drip from her eyes and cheeks. I could see the blue veins in her hands under flimsy, yellow parchment.

  “Mona, Caroline here is interested in hearing about our trip.” Mr. Crawford motioned for me to sit down on a stool beside the bed.

  “Lovely trip,” the old woman whispered in short, shallow breaths.

  I edged cautiously down on the seat Mr. Crawford was still pointing toward. Clearing my throat a couple of times, I croaked out, “I think it'd be real fun to travel.” I looked back at the other half of the room where those pretty flowers sat safely on the shiny table.

  “Well, I think our trip across the country was one of the grandest things life has to offer, don't you agree, Mona? There were so many different places just waiting to be savored, like Thanksgiving dinner.” Mr. Crawford brushed several stray hairs from his wife's face. “Traveling is the best feeling in the world, isn't it, Mona?” He bent over and lifted his wife's limp hand, holding it between both of his.

  I thought I saw a brief smile, like a shadow, flicker across her face. “Wonderful feeling,” Mrs. Crawford murmured as she stared into her husband's eyes.

  I brushed the hair away from my own face and bit my lip before blurting out, “We might go to Lone Mountain State Park this summer on vacation.”

  Mr. Crawford looked at me and laughed. “See, you must have traveling in your blood, too, Caroline.” He turned back toward his wife. “Mona, what was your favorite place on our trip? Grand Canyon, maybe? Or what about the coast of Oregon? All those jagged rocks rising up out of the water. Oh, I know. You liked that little town on that island in Michigan. What was it called? Oh, yeah, Mackinaw. That was one of your favorites, wasn't it Mona?”

  Right then, Mrs. Crawford started coughing---deep, heaving coughs that seemed to shake her whole body. I watched as Mr. Crawford held onto her hand and rubbed her back, still talking about the places they'd been. 

  “Let's see. I liked the White Mountains in New Hampshire a whole lot. Remember how peaceful it was there, Mona? 'Course, I bet you'd like to be back in Florida, right now, warming yourself on that white sand. Mona doesn't like to be cold, Caroline. I think that's where we'll go, first thing, soon as she's back on her feet again.” Mr. Crawford got up and walked over to the bookshelf and pulled out a stack of albums. “Let's show our visitor the pictures, Mona.”

  Mr. Crawford laid one of the albums on top of the stiff white sheet draped over his wife's frail body. He opened it and placed her right hand below a photograph of a smiling couple. “Tell her where we were when this was taken, Mona. I know it was one of your favorites.”

  Mrs. Crawford's bony fingers slid off the page as another coughing spasm spread through her. I sat mute on my stool, wound my feet around the bottom rung, and wondered why the air in the Crawford's new house had begun to feel heavy and suffocating. I wished Mr. Crawford would open a window.

  My new neighbor continued his descriptions of places I could barely imagine while his ill traveling partner seemed to sink down lower beneath the sheets with each gasp of breath. Tears began to fill my eyes as I watched Mr. Crawford firmly place his wife's hand back on the album each time it slid off, as it was repeatedly shaken from its place by her heaving body. 

  “Personally, Caroline, I liked the coast of Maine the best. The smell of salt in the air is so strong it can bring tears to your eyes. You can even taste it on your lips as you talk. Remember when we took the mail boat over to that little island, Mona? What was the name of that place?” Mr. Crawford held his wife's hand and looked at her, waiting for her to answer. When no response came, he continued. “It was right off of Stoneybrook, wasn't it, Mona? Had kind of French sounding name. Oh, I know, Isle Au Haute. That was it. What a beautiful place it was—but not as beautiful as you, Mona. Remember when we walked up the path to the top of the hill where you could see all of the water surrounding the island?” Mr. Crawford's voice seemed to crack. “I know you remember what you said to me then, Mona. Say it, Sweetheart. Tell me what you told me at the top of that island.”

  Mrs. Crawford's eyes were closed and her breath loud and uneven. Her husband squeezed her hand and her eyes fluttered open briefly. “Say it, Mona. Say it for me again. Tell me what you told me on Isle Au Haute. How you and I would never stop goin' places. How you would never leave your favorite traveling partner.” Mr. Crawford held his wife's hand up close to his face, then lightly kissed the thin skin stretched loosely over fragile bones. The three of us sat silent for what seemed like an eternity, with only the sounds of Mrs. Crawford's raspy breathing and the ticking of the clock. I let myself out the front door, pulling it softly closed so as not to disturb the misty-eyed man hunched over the polished bed.

  Three days later, I watched as the hearse from Stoney Ridge Funeral Home parked next door. While the two men in black suits were inside the Crawford's house, another car arrived with a younger man whom I assumed was their son. I sat down on the grass and knew it was Mrs. Crawford's body, wrapped in a black bag, that was carried out to the waiting gray hearse. I ripped bits of grass out of the damp earth while I gazed at the younger man standing with his arms around the shaking body of the old man. 

  I didn't see Mr. Crawford for a long while after his wife died. Mama said he was probably staying with his son. Every time I went outside, I glanced over to see if he might be out tending to his pansies or peeling apples on his porch. One day, after the spring thaw, I looked out the kitchen window and saw him hunched over the spreading red and yellow blooms in his garden. I raced outside, excited that I would finally get to talk to my friend again. 

  “Mr. Crawford, I've been looking for you every day. Are you doing all right?” 

He looked at me for a long time before speaking. “Well, yes, yes, of course I'm fine. Thank you for asking. I'm afraid, however, that I've forgotten your name.”

  “I'm Caroline, Mr. Crawford. You know me. I live next door. You told me all about your trip, remember?”

  I can still see the strange look in his eyes. Like it wasn't him answering my questions. Like he had gone somewhere else and left only an empty shell to move and go about his day. 

  “Trip. Oh, yes, I remember all about my trip. We're going on another one, did I tell you? Up to Canada this time. Mona and I have never been to Canada. So, I'm finally going to take her. Had to wait 'til the weather warmed up a bit, don't you know. Mona doesn't like to be cold.”

  “Mr. Crawford, Mona—I mean, your wife is.....I mean, she can't go on a trip,” I stuttered out the words, not really knowing what to say.

  He looked straight at me with hollow eyes and said, “What do you mean, Mona can't go on a trip? She and I are traveling partners. We're leaving in a couple weeks, soon as the weather is warmer. Right now, I've got to tend to these flowers, though. We'll be gone for a while. Don't want them to die before we get back.”

  Mr. Crawford turned away from me, stooped down, and began pinching dead blooms off the pansies. I stood where I was for a while, then backed away, and ran toward my house. 

  After that day, I avoided Mr. Crawford. He had scared me so that I didn't know what to say to him. I wondered where he had gone, behind those empty eyes. I just couldn't figure out where he had traveled to. I remember Mama telling me that sometimes when people can't handle something, they lose their mind. I didn't think that Mr. Crawford had lost his mind, though. He'd lost his best friend. 

  About a month later, a moving van arrived next door. Two men, dressed in blue jeans and white cotton shirts loaded up all of the Crawford's furniture and drove away. Mama said she thought Mr. Crawford might be moving in with his son. I knew I would never see him again, but I remember being thankful that he had somebody to watch over him.

  I didn't think about Mr. Emmett Crawford for many years. The day-to-day events of growing up took precedence over occasional fond memories of childhood acquaintances. Best friends, parties, and new romances lead to high school graduation, college, and finally my own marriage. I never left my hometown, though. I have not traveled, like Mr. and Mrs. Crawford, on a special trip across the country. I have not filled photo albums with pictures of sights I have visited. But he must have left a legacy of some sort. Every weekday morning, I drive from my house to Stoney Ridge Middle School to teach unsettled seventh graders world geography. I keep hoping they can channel some of their energy into a thirst to see the world. I want to awaken in them an awareness of the many different places just waiting to be savored, like Thanksgiving dinner.

  Several months ago, on my way to school, I passed by the Ridgeway Nursing Home. As I rounded the bend in the road, I was startled to see a man stumbling along the graveled shoulder. He carried a worn, brown suitcase in one hand as he trudged on the wrong side of the highway. A faded green coat hung loosely on his hunched shoulders. Bits of wild, white hair stuck out beneath his cap. I slowed my car as I passed by, then pulled over to the side, just a short walk ahead of him. I started to get out of my car, then paused, and watched from my rear-view mirror as two nurses came up to each side of the man, gently turned him around, and guided him back toward the nursing home. One of the nurses tried to take the suitcase from his hand, but the man held it tight, as if it were priceless. 

  I see him frequently now. He totters along the side of the road with that tattered suitcase in his hand. The nurses must realize when he's left, and they always come to guide him back before he gets too far. I pull over every time, though, and wait, just to make sure. Though his face is more wrinkled and worn than I remember, I know without a doubt that it's Mr. Crawford. He has continued to travel far since I knew him as a child.  And I'm sure his Mona is with him while he travels.