Annie is horribly damaged by life.
She believes she cannot be loved.
Then Bud becomes her pen pal
and love finds them both...
in one way or another.
Every few days I will post a little more.
Soon you will be able to read it all.
If you absolutely can't wait to find out
what happens between Annie and Bud,
(and I hope you can't!)
you are welcome to click a link and buy an e-book or a paperback copy.
And now, today's post:
CHAPTER ONE
Part 2
Saturday, May 15, 2004
My reflections were cut short when I executed a full-body slam
into the back of the driver’s seat, my face smashing into the headrest. I was
sitting behind my dad in his beloved Cadillac, or had been up until a few
moments ago, and he, my mom, and I were heading home from Bennie’s interment
service. A dog had run into the street, forcing my dad to hit the brakes.
“Lawrence!” my mother yelled from the front seat. “Are you all
right?”
On the day I was born, my dad insisted the world could do without
an Avery Horace the fourth, so my mom named me Lawrence Harvey, in honor of her
father and her grandfather. My dad thought Larry was a lousy name for a baby,
so he just called me his little buddy, and, at some point it got shortened to
Bud, and that’s what everybody calls me. Except my mom, obviously.
“I’m fine,” I said, climbing off the floor. “I guess I forgot to
fasten my seatbelt.”
“Well for gosh sakes, put it on now.”
I did as she instructed. When my dad heard the click, he looked
at me in the rearview mirror.
“That was a hard one, wasn’t it, Bud?”
I assumed he meant the funeral and not the headrest. I grunted in
response.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come home?” he asked. “Have a
little lunch?”
“No. I’m going to take a nap.”
It was his turn to grunt. He wasn’t much for naps. Neither was I,
really, but I couldn’t imagine being awake for the next few hours. Grieving is
hard work.
A few minutes later, my dad pulled up to the curb in front of my
apartment complex.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I opened my car door. My mom opened hers, too, and we climbed out
together. Wrapping her arms around me, she rocked me like when I was a child,
and I lay my head on her shoulder, breathing in her love. When enough was
enough, she broke the embrace, pushing me back so she could search my eyes.
“Are you all right?” she asked for the second time.
“I will be,” I told her. “I just need to be alone for a while.”
“I understand.” She patted my arm. “Come for dinner.”
My mom is like that. She feeds people. ‘Come for dinner’ was an invitation
heard by hundreds over the years. Are you new in town? Come for dinner. New in
church? Come for dinner. Been gone for a while? Grieving? Sad? Lonely? Come for
dinner.
I thought it was corny when I was a kid, but standing there on
the sidewalk, the memory of Bennie draping over my heart like an altar cloth, I
understood it.
“Okay. What time?”
“When you get there.”
“Okay. Love you, mom.”
“I love you, too.”
One more hug, more mine than hers, and she got back in the car.
My dad put the Cadillac in gear, and they pulled away.
Alone – and I mean really alone – for the first time in eight
years, I stood on the sidewalk, building up the courage to go inside. At some
point, my need for the men’s room overcame my dread of the empty apartment and
I started moving, picking up the mail as I went.
Picking up the mail had not been a priority in the last week, for
obvious reasons, and the pile was huge, with bills and condolence cards leading
the number. At the bottom of the pile, smaller than the other items, was a
letter in a plain, white envelope. It was postmarked from Boston and addressed
to Bennie in a barely discernable chicken scratch. I recognized it immediately.
It was from Annie Parker, Bennie’s pen pal of the last seven years.
Chapter Two, Part 1 Coming Soon
