God’s Farm … A Story. Three. Point. Five.

25 Apr

 

 

God’s Farm … A Story.

Three.Point.Five

Chandler jammed on the breaks, at the same time shoving in the clutch and downshifting to 2nd gear when he saw the bright red brake lights suddenly appear in the fog. The Firebird skidded slightly to the right towards the curve rail on the road, but he managed to bring the car to a stop before hitting it.

“Damn!” he said, holding his arms locked straight, close enough to the back of the semi trailer to read the mud flaps.

He had driven nearly ten miles without being in conscious control, lost in his memories and worries.

A hand appeared out of the driver’s side of the semi with thumbs up, either in a gesture meaning either “you need to drive stock cars,” or, “I’m okay –– you okay?”

Chandler flashed his lights “I’m okay,” and the truck continued forward slowly, navigating around a large boulder that had apparently fallen into the road and come to a rest in their southbound lane.

Both vehicles crept forward, emergency lights now flashing. Chandler hoped the truck driver radioed the nearest highway patrol station about the rock, otherwise some other fool might come speeding down the grade and not be so lucky.

Highway 52 was the best –– meaning quickest –– route to and from Blacksburg, and Chandler had driven it dozens of times in the past. He had no memory of passing through what he called The Slaloms –– a stretch of the steep two lane road that swooped down in hairpin curves just below Galax.

“Damn!” he repeated, and turned on the car radio, forgetting he would find nothing clear where he was in the mountains. Still shaking, he flipped off the radio  and reached an eight track tape of Crosby, Stills and Nash, shoving it into the tape player mounted under his glove compartment.

Our house
Is a very very very fine house
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy ‘cause of you …

He and Teri had sung the lines at the top of their lungs not over a year ago. Sound turned up and windows rolled down; the wind in their faces and their hands tightly gripped on the console –– everything was easy ‘cause of her.

O wha tafoo liam.

They met on a blind date. He was home for spring break from Woodberry Forest where he was a junior. His childhood friend Judy Sloan had arranged the date, and she paired up with Sandy Lyle, Chandler’s best friend from school.

They went to see the movie In Cold Blood in Greensboro. Teri, who reminded Chandler of Sophia Loren, gripped his hand during the entirety of the film. Later, on the drive back to High Point, he and Teri snuggled and kissed in the back seat while Sandy chauffeured and chatted with Judy.

Teri Carson was his first love. While there were problems to overcome if the relationship was to grow, their love could handle anything.

He lived in the posh section of High Point, called Emerywood. She did not. He lived in a huge home with air conditioning and a two car garage. She did not. His father was a successful businessman making lots of money –– enough to send him off to private school where public school integration would not be a problem. Her father was an upholsterer for a small shop that renovated cars. Her mother sewed handbags in the basement of their small two-bedroom house using the vinyl fabric from discarded end rolls from her friends who worked in upholstery businesses and grabbed remnants for her at the end of the day.

Teri was, his father had hoped, a passing fancy.

But Chandler was slain by her. Smitten far worse than he had ever been smiled before, he liked to tell her. He even invited her to the Senior Formal at Woodberry that next fall. Woodberry Forest was and remains an elite prep school in the southern drawl area of Virginia, replete with acres of wandering rural grounds, the best education afforded south of the Mason Dixon, and steeped in a tradition of Southern aristocracy.

When the seriousness of the relationship became obvious to his mother, she nudged her husband to “do something about it.”

Chandler’s father invited Teri and him out to dinner on the occasion of her 18th birthday.

“We’ll go to the Plantation Supper Club,” he said.

Located on the edge of Jamestown between High Point and Greensboro, the club offered good food and dancing to live music. Not exactly a club per se, it was still somewhat exclusive, and offered brown bagging –– a requisite for success in the city limits of Jamestown, which had not yet voted in liquor by the drink.

On Sundays, the club served a ridiculous buffet, with meats and fish and all sorts of upper end dishes and desserts. Sundays were Family Day. Years earlier Chandler remembered that children were invited by the band leader to come up and direct the band in order to earn a huge, multi-colored lollipop –– one as big as a dinner plate. Chandler and his older sisters were prompted by their parents to go up, and Carrie and Leigh took turns swishing the baton in the air while the band played a popular tune to a beat not even close to their arm waving.

At Chandler’s turn, he asked if he could sing a song instead of leading the band.

“What song do you want to sing?”

Jesus Loves Me.

The diners and the band leader laughed.

“Well, that’s fine with me. Do you boys know the song?” He was pretty sure it was not in their repertoire of favorite music. They grinned back at the leader.

“Okay, then. Jesus Loves Me it is. Hold this mike close to your lips, son –– and sing away!”

The diners laughed again.

Chandler began softly.

“Jesus loves me, this I know …”

His mother often recalled the moment that this sweet little angel of a voice began, a bit nervous at first, but in perfect pitch.

“For the Bible tells me so …”

The band, still trying to figure out the tune in the background, was hushed to silence by the band leader, and Chandler continued a cappella.

“Little ones to him belong,
They are weak and he is strong …”

Then the diners began to sing along, like a congregation at church in accompaniment to a church soloist on the chorus.

“Yes, Je-sus loves me …
“Yes, Je-sus loves me …
“Yes, Je-sus loves me …
“The Bible tells me so.”

Chandler’s dad said you could have heard a pin drop, and Chandler’s grandmother, who was with them, pulled out a handkerchief to dry her eyes.

Grabbing the lollipop payoff, Chandler hopped down the steps and ran back to the table.

It was this same location Chandler’s dad took Teri and him for her birthday dinner –– though not on a Sunday afternoon.

A band played various tunes onstage, again led by the now aging band leader. The maitre d seated them close to the stage. He handed out menus and asked for their drinks. Teri and Chandler were not of legal age, but Chandler’s dad requested a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and glasses for everyone.

“Not to worry,” he said. “This is a private club and the police know better than to raid it!” He winked at Tina, who blushed.

They ate their dinner, chatting nervously about practically nothing, except for his dad. “So, Teri, what does your father do?” And “Teri, do you have college plans?” And “Teri, have you been to Cozumel? We went last winter. A great place to escape the cold weather here.”

Teri found it difficult to respond. Chandler seethed, trying to make eye contact with his dad to get him to stop the embarrassing grilling.

Suddenly the band leader broke off the music and, stepping forward to the edge of the stage, announced in circus barker style,

“La-dees and Gen-telmen! Now for the main attraction of this evening’s entertainment, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! From the lurid lairs of New Orleans, where legs and hips and other feminine parts gyrate and leave you nothing to speculate! Please welcome in whatever manner you wish, the bump-and-grinder who has come to remind you what a measure of pleasure is all about, from Winder, Georgia where –– truly –– nothing could be finer! The quintessential snake dancer of sensuality … Miss LAVI-TAAAAAA … HOT!”

The band launched into bump and grind mode as a spotlight focused on the side curtain of the stage. A net stockinged leg slowly emerged — like a writhing snake. Chandler suddenly realized that Tina was the only woman in the club, and the other tables were occupied by delighted and overly tippled men. He and his father were the only ones wearing ties and jackets.

Out squirmed Miss Lavita Hot, dressed only in a lacy bra and panties, plus the net stockings held up by a black garter belt. About her shoulders she held outstretched a see-through shawl. Her assets rippled with each step, and her more-than-ample breasts swayed like pomegranates in the wind as she wriggled onto the stage under the spot light.

Later at home, an enraged Chandler screamed at his father, who seemed as surprised as both he and Tina at the striptease that ensued a mere feet from their table.

“YOU PLANNED THIS ON PURPOSE!!! Oh, God, Dad! And TOTALLY like The Graduate, too! Jeesh! What the hell were you thinking?”

His dad’s sheepish responses only added fuel to his rage. Still, Charles C. Wilson, II held on to his insistence that it was all a horrible mistake, and he didn’t mean to embarrass Tina, and yes, he liked his son’s girlfriend, and not to worry –– this, too, will pass.

“I’m the victim of circumstance!” he pled to no avail.

Owha ta foo liam.

As he neared High Point, Chandler could feel the blood beating a pathway up his carotid arteries to his brain. He gripped the wheel and tried to calm himself. After all, the roles were about to be reversed. Instead of his father being the defendant, Chandler was about to go before his father and plead nolo contendere, except in this case, the guilt was not in question –– only the sentence.

He had eventually forgiven his father (who never confessed), and hoped that he would receive his father’s compassion for his own stupidity. His mother? She was another story. She had never denied help to plot to rescue her first-born son from someone she saw as an adversary. On the other hand, Chandler knew better than to ask his mother regarding her complicity. Plus, her rule of thumb was if you aren’t asked, don’t tell.

As far as her punishing him, she would simply say she was “disappointed” –– which was far worse than forty lashes.

All to quickly he found himself turning up the driveway to his house. He hoped his father was at work, or better, was away on business. He parked the car and set the hand brake. He hesitated, breathing a prayer.

“Lord, if you are there, I’m asking for your help.”

This is getting to be a pattern in my life, he thought.

 

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