Death from the Window (Chapter two, to: "The Last Plantation")
Chapter Two
Death from the Window
(Part of: “The Last Plantation” Chapters)
(1961) The December frost was over Fayetteville, and even more so on its outskirts, where the three plantations were, where the Abernathy, Stanley and Wallace Plantations resided; from twilight on the Wallace plantation was pretty quiet, its owners resting, or preparing to go to bed. Wally was awake in the living room this evening, by the health, rubbing his hands together, feeling the warmth of the heat on his balding head, glowing and heating up the rugs his bare feet stood on, making his white milky skin a pinkish red, and there he stood, stood erect, silently stood listening to sounds of the flickering flames, coming off the dry wood in the health; the old man, Wally Wallace, 81-years old, felt younger than he should have, perhaps his nineteen-year old lover, made him feel that way. She was sitting in a rocking chair, rocking back and forth, feeling her stomach, looking out the side window; there you could see the front gate to the plantation, and Wally and Frank’s 1950-Chevy, green, spotless (usually).
Down the road a bit, Cole and Caroline Abernathy, owners of the Abernathy Plantation, were writing out a check for their son’s school, Langdon Abernathy was attending a private prep school, prepping him for college along the way through his normal studies to be a future professional. He was twelve-years old.
Wally, looked out the window, the same one Burgundy Washington was looking out (his maid), “Black Beauty, what do you see with those big dark eyes?” he liked calling her that, the negress was more than a lover now to him, more than a maid also, she was carrying his kid, now six months pregnant, and she had only been working there seven months.
“Your car, I love your car, I think you brother left the window open though!” She commented.
He looked closer, put his nose against the glass, opened up his eyes-lids wider, the rain was coming down, it was hard for him to see, then he ran and got a flashlight, shined it on the car, and lo and behold, she was right, Burgundy was correct, it was open, the window was wide open, and the rain was coming in.
He said in haste, “Got to roll it up, got to roll it up,” as he stood there, looked at Burgundy’s belly, “I’ll do it, I’ll roll it, you can’t, and Minnie… she still up?” he asked, but he knew she was fast asleep in the back shanty by the barn. A rhetorical question, at best, “No, I’ll roll it up…!” he says again.
Burgundy was no longer sleeping in the maids room, next to the parlor, she was sleeping in one of the guests room up stairs on the second floor, next to Wally’s room, with a fire place, and a light lit fire every night.
Old Wally was going to have an heir, a successor, something that really never dawned on him before, and now it was special, and he was proud, Frank wasn’t, but for once, the fraternal twin brother didn’t care, it got too cold in the old house, and there was no furnace, nor electric or gas heat, just health’s, and his unborn was priority, thus he, Wally made it clear, there would be wood in her heath ever night until the child was born.
Quicker than a jack-rabbit, Wally ran to the back door, out it and onto the side to the front yard to close the car window.
Betty Hightower, and her husband Jason, were up for the holidays visiting her sister, Caroline, at the Abernathy plantation. She did almost every Christmas that is, those Christmas’ her sister did not go down to New Orleans to visit her. She brought her daughter Cassandra along (daughter to Betty Hightower, born 1954).
Old Wally ran like faster than a jack-rabbit out that door, to his beloved car, the one he and his brother worked on from the day they bought it, talked things over while working on it, actually created work that didn’t need to be done on it, so they could work on it and be together, and talk.
There was now a cold wind about, Wally felt warm inside though, almost not sensing the cold, he felt warm from the several shots of whisky he had in the past few hours, as he went to open the car door to roll up the window, but he slipped into the mud, onto his back, hit his head, but he was alright, looked up as if he was trying to refocus, felt like a turtle upside down, like humpty dumpy, then grabbed onto the handle of the car to help him pull himself up, gripped it with his hands, but the wind and the rain, and the coolness in the air, penetrated his muscles and bones—a spasm occurred in his joints, his muscles, and he couldn’t pull his weight up, and his fingers opened up and he slipped back down onto his back again, back into the mud, the cold freezing mud, that he felt warm in because of the several shots of whisky, fooling his body, because he was really cold, he just didn’t know it, his mind didn’t know it, his body functions did, this time he didn’t get back up, but screamed, yelled, yelped like a dying dog for someone help him, that is when Burgundy closed her eyes, and fell to sleep.
Written in the afternoon, and retyped in the evening of 6-17-2008
Death from the Window
(Part of: “The Last Plantation” Chapters)
(1961) The December frost was over Fayetteville, and even more so on its outskirts, where the three plantations were, where the Abernathy, Stanley and Wallace Plantations resided; from twilight on the Wallace plantation was pretty quiet, its owners resting, or preparing to go to bed. Wally was awake in the living room this evening, by the health, rubbing his hands together, feeling the warmth of the heat on his balding head, glowing and heating up the rugs his bare feet stood on, making his white milky skin a pinkish red, and there he stood, stood erect, silently stood listening to sounds of the flickering flames, coming off the dry wood in the health; the old man, Wally Wallace, 81-years old, felt younger than he should have, perhaps his nineteen-year old lover, made him feel that way. She was sitting in a rocking chair, rocking back and forth, feeling her stomach, looking out the side window; there you could see the front gate to the plantation, and Wally and Frank’s 1950-Chevy, green, spotless (usually).
Down the road a bit, Cole and Caroline Abernathy, owners of the Abernathy Plantation, were writing out a check for their son’s school, Langdon Abernathy was attending a private prep school, prepping him for college along the way through his normal studies to be a future professional. He was twelve-years old.
Wally, looked out the window, the same one Burgundy Washington was looking out (his maid), “Black Beauty, what do you see with those big dark eyes?” he liked calling her that, the negress was more than a lover now to him, more than a maid also, she was carrying his kid, now six months pregnant, and she had only been working there seven months.
“Your car, I love your car, I think you brother left the window open though!” She commented.
He looked closer, put his nose against the glass, opened up his eyes-lids wider, the rain was coming down, it was hard for him to see, then he ran and got a flashlight, shined it on the car, and lo and behold, she was right, Burgundy was correct, it was open, the window was wide open, and the rain was coming in.
He said in haste, “Got to roll it up, got to roll it up,” as he stood there, looked at Burgundy’s belly, “I’ll do it, I’ll roll it, you can’t, and Minnie… she still up?” he asked, but he knew she was fast asleep in the back shanty by the barn. A rhetorical question, at best, “No, I’ll roll it up…!” he says again.
Burgundy was no longer sleeping in the maids room, next to the parlor, she was sleeping in one of the guests room up stairs on the second floor, next to Wally’s room, with a fire place, and a light lit fire every night.
Old Wally was going to have an heir, a successor, something that really never dawned on him before, and now it was special, and he was proud, Frank wasn’t, but for once, the fraternal twin brother didn’t care, it got too cold in the old house, and there was no furnace, nor electric or gas heat, just health’s, and his unborn was priority, thus he, Wally made it clear, there would be wood in her heath ever night until the child was born.
Quicker than a jack-rabbit, Wally ran to the back door, out it and onto the side to the front yard to close the car window.
Betty Hightower, and her husband Jason, were up for the holidays visiting her sister, Caroline, at the Abernathy plantation. She did almost every Christmas that is, those Christmas’ her sister did not go down to New Orleans to visit her. She brought her daughter Cassandra along (daughter to Betty Hightower, born 1954).
Old Wally ran like faster than a jack-rabbit out that door, to his beloved car, the one he and his brother worked on from the day they bought it, talked things over while working on it, actually created work that didn’t need to be done on it, so they could work on it and be together, and talk.
There was now a cold wind about, Wally felt warm inside though, almost not sensing the cold, he felt warm from the several shots of whisky he had in the past few hours, as he went to open the car door to roll up the window, but he slipped into the mud, onto his back, hit his head, but he was alright, looked up as if he was trying to refocus, felt like a turtle upside down, like humpty dumpy, then grabbed onto the handle of the car to help him pull himself up, gripped it with his hands, but the wind and the rain, and the coolness in the air, penetrated his muscles and bones—a spasm occurred in his joints, his muscles, and he couldn’t pull his weight up, and his fingers opened up and he slipped back down onto his back again, back into the mud, the cold freezing mud, that he felt warm in because of the several shots of whisky, fooling his body, because he was really cold, he just didn’t know it, his mind didn’t know it, his body functions did, this time he didn’t get back up, but screamed, yelled, yelped like a dying dog for someone help him, that is when Burgundy closed her eyes, and fell to sleep.
Written in the afternoon, and retyped in the evening of 6-17-2008
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 7:59 PM
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