Song of Jacob
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: A boy against the odds meets them head on.
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Good or bad, everything we do is our best choice at the moment. – William Glasser
The 4-H camp in Halsey had been the highlight of Jacob Crowley’s summers for as long as he could remember. Now, 14 years old, he was no less enthusiastic about spending a week there, despite the fact that the kids that attended were now mostly younger than him. Serving as a group leader for the first time buoyed his eagerness to return. That the camp’s fee was waived because of his new role made him feel better, too, since money was always tight.
The Crowleys, father and son––Nadine Crowley had passed away four years earlier––eked out a living growing corn, wheat, and hay and raising a small herd of cattle on their western Nebraska 180-acre farm. The only extra help they had came at harvest time when they called in Sander Ketchum from his small spread five miles to the north.
Ketchum had lived by himself after being widowed 18 years earlier. His wife’s premature death had been more sudden than Jacob’s mother’s sudden passing from cancer. His prize bull had gored Ellie Ketchum. A freak accident, it had scarred her husband for life. He had blamed himself for the mishap, because he had failed to lock the stall where the animal was kept. It was two years before ol’ Ketchum––as he came to be called because his once black hair had turned completely white within a year of his wife’s passing––would even go into town for supplies. Jacob’s father had tended to his shopping needs until one day Ketchum just got into his old Ford pickup and began taking care of himself again.
When Jacob’s father, Hank, was diagnosed with MS five years ago, ol’ Ketchum began to return the favor. Until recently, the elder Crowley had been able to drive, but the growing numbness in his legs had made getting behind the wheel risky. While Jacob could drive, he was still too young for a learner’s permit. So Ketchum took him into town for what the Crowleys needed during his own weekly run.
“Not sure your dad’s going to be able to walk much longer the way he’s going. When that happens, things will change for you. I talked to your dad about selling the place before that occurs, but he doesn’t want to listen. Says he can manage for a good while longer. Figures when you go off to school, he’ll move into town. What you taking up in college, Jake?”
“I don’t know. Business maybe. Though I might stay and run the farm.”
”No future for a young man in that.”
“I like it, and we . . . er, I, can increase the crop yield and bring in more livestock. It can be far more profitable than it is now. Dad likes the way things are, but I know I can build it up, and he can stay on. He wouldn’t like living in town.”
“Well, that’s a good thought, and maybe you can, but it’s not easy and you’re only young once.”
* * *
By Thanksgiving, Hank Crowley’s condition had worsened to the point that he could work only in the morning. By noon, he was exhausted, and his limbs were nearly worthless. This meant that Jacob had to take on more of the farm chores after school. By the time he tended to the needs of the livestock, the daylight was long gone. While his father attempted to cook the evening meal, the results were less than appealing. So Jacob eventually took on that chore, too. His new responsibilities often left him with little energy for homework, and consequently his once excellent grades began to slip some.
Each night as he’d return to his room, he would stare out of his window and attempt to identify the constellations. When he was younger, he and his father spent hours on the front porch cataloguing the heavens. Although, the practice had ended after his mother died and things just got too busy to wile away the time in such an activity, Jacob continued to find pleasure in the practice. It helped put him in the mood to give in to his exhaustion. He had come to depend on the nighttime sky’s soothing effect as he had listening to the Rascal Flatts album, Me and My Gang. He’d gotten the CD for Christmas the first year when it was just he and his father left to celebrate the holiday. Jacob loved the music, but one song in particular, “My Wish For You”, took deep hold on him. Over the years, he must have played it thousands of times. While he lay in bed, he’d listen to it until his eyelids would shut down on his world. The song made him think of his mother and about his own life . . . where he was going and what he might become.
I hope the days come easy and the moments pass slow,
And each road leads you where you want to go . . .
It was a Crowley tradition to cook a pheasant on Thanksgiving, since they were common in the countryside of Western Nebraska. The wheat stubble after harvest guaranteed that, and as it turned out, the Crowley males preferred that type of grouse over the wild turkeys that also inhabited the flatlands. Jacob and his father liked the abundant white meat of a pheasant, while it didn’t matter to Nadine Crowley, who had not been much on game bird.
Ketchum had joined the Crowley’s for holiday meals for as long as Jacob could recall, and lately he also provided the centerpiece of the meal itself. Hank had reluctantly conceded the task of catching the bird to Ketchum because of his deteriorating condition, which made it impossible for him to hold a rifle long and steadily enough to gain a good shot. Jacob had volunteered to take on the chore, but his father wasn’t keen on him going hunting on his own, despite the fact that he’d taught Jacob how to handle a gun.
“I’m 14, Dad. You know I can do it just as good as ol’ Ketchum,” Jacob had protested.
“I know that, son, but if something happened to you, where’d that leave us? You practically run the place now, and I can’t afford to lose my foreman,” Hank had replied.
Jacob understood how his father felt, but he still thought he was being overly cautious, if not unreasonable. However, by the time Ketchum had brought over the pheasant for cooking, Jacob had overcome his displeasure. He always enjoyed seeing their closest neighbor, and it was hard remaining gloomy because Ketchum was always full of stories that made him and his father laugh.
“This here bird had more lives than a cat. Took four rounds to get him to stop hopping around. ‘Course I missed him with the first three shots, because he kept jitterbugging. Finally had to clobber him with the butt of my rifle. On the way over here, he came to and jumped out the bed of my truck. Just had to ring its neck to get him to calm down once and for all. Not sure he’s all that dead yet. Check him out, Jacob. He may have something to say about your plucking his feathers.”
* * *
Christmas dinner resembled Thanksgiving’s spread in all respects save one. Hank Crowley ‘s physical condition kept him from being able to sit at the dining room table. He spent the day in his recliner and barely touched his food. His speech had become slurred, and it was apparent he would soon be confined to his bed. When ol’ Ketchum suggested that he consider moving to the Wells Adult Care Center in town, Hank lodged his disapproval of the idea by pushing his dish to the floor.
“No! I’m not that far gone! Better off in the grave than there,” he blurted, and Jacob reassured him that he was going nowhere.
“You’ll get better, Dad. This is just one of your spells. You always improve,” said Jacob, cleaning up the dumped food.
“Sorry, Hank. Just thought it might help you get better quicker, is all,” said Ketchum, dejectedly.
“Never getting better,” replied Hank, attempting to move his glass to his lips but only managing to spill its contents on his shirt. “Shit. I’m just an invalid now. Pathetic! How do you like my wheelchair, Ketch? Of course, I can barely move the wheels with my worthless hands. Could get a motorized one, but they cost an arm and a leg . . . and my arms and legs aren’t worth much, as you can see.”
“C’mon, Hank, it ain’t like you to mope about like this. Let’s go out on the porch for a smoke. Got a couple of mean stogies,” said Ketchum.
“Okay, Ketch, if you give me a push. These noodles aren’t working too well today,” replied Hank, holding out his shaking hands and letting them dangle.
“Sure, but the meter’s running. Hope you got a fat wallet.”
The winter passed slowly and seemed more harsh than usual. Snow drifted over the porch and leaned high against the house. Jacob spent most of his early mornings shoveling the path that led out to the road where the school bus stopped for him. This he did after making breakfast for himself and his father, who was now mostly confined to his bedroom. His father had become less communicative, and Jacob was worried that one day he’d come home to find that he had passed away. He began to think his dad would be better off at the adult care center in town, where he’d have someone to watch over him during the day when Jacob was not home.
But Hank Crowley remained that he would rather die in his own home than in some end of life care facility. Jacob did not broach the topic himself but did ask Ketchum if he might continue to urge his father in that direction.
“You heard how he went off on me the last time I said he should move to town for better care. He’s just a hardheaded old fool like I am. No darn way I’m ever going to one of them bedpan houses myself, so I don’t blame him none for wanting to stay home in his sickness. ‘Course, I know it makes it hard on you having to watch over him and do everything this place needs done to it. Look, I’ll come over every other day and give you more of a hand than I have. I got the time, so I’ll spend some more of it here. My old place don’t require much tending.”
* * *
By the April thaw, Hank Crowley appeared to rally and was even able to stand, although not without holding onto something for support. A couple times, he even managed to reach the kitchen with the aid of his walker. The unexpected turn for the better gave Jacob hope that things might eventually get back to normal or at least to a point where life was more tolerable than it had been since his father had become an invalid.
Indeed, for the first time in almost a year, he began to feel more optimistic about the future. He even thought he might be able to return to the 4-H summer camp. But all that he had hoped for was suddenly swept away when he returned from school one early May day to find his father lying unconscious at the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. Jacob could barely detect his father’s pulse, and he called Ketchum for help. By the time his neighbor arrived a half hour later, Jacob knew his father had passed.
“Shoulda’ called 911, but I guess they wouldn’t of got out here any faster than me,” said Ketchum.
“If they know Dad died, they’d make me leave here and go live with my aunt,” replied Jacob, starring down at his father’s body.
“Well, I don’t see how that’s not gonna’ happen, son. Kid your age can’t live alone, or at least the law won’t let him.”
“I’ve been doing everything that needs to be done here since Dad got real sick. I can fend for myself. You know that, Ketch. You help, too,” said Jacob, dabbing his tears away.
“Jacob, we got to notify the authorities. He’s got to be funeraled and all. They got to do the paperwork on him. Don’t see no way around that, son.”
“I can’t go live with Dad’s sister. I only saw her once and didn’t like her then. She was an old sourpuss. I’ll run off before that happens, really.”
“How about other relatives? Your mom must have had some you liked.”
“Her parents died liked Dad’s did, and she didn’t have any brothers or sisters. There’s no one I want to live with. Here’s where I want to be.”
“But that ain’t gonna’ be easy, Jacob. People will come asking for your dad, and his body needs to be tended to.”
“We can bury him. He would be happy to be put to rest right here on the farm. This is where he loved.”
“Whoa, son, I don’t see how that would be right. Should have a normal funeral and stuff.”
“Okay, we’ll give him a funeral. We’re the only ones he cared about. That would make it right. We can bury him on the rise so he can see everything . . . keep an eye on me.”
“I don’t know. What’re you gonna’ say to folks when they notice he ain’t around?”
“He hasn’t been to town in a long time. If anybody asks, I’ll just say he’s away at the hospital in North Platte for some tests. People know he’s been sick. Besides, nobody ever comes out here. Dad didn’t have friends after Mom died, except you. Nobody will know he’s gone. When they do, I’ll be almost full grown, and they couldn’t force me to go live with my aunt.”
“Well, I got to think on this. Sounds like it’s asking for trouble to do what you want, even though I appreciate why you want to do it. Let’s move your poor Dad to the couch anyway. We’ll put the cover on him so he looks like he’s resting. I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll go from there.”
Jacob spent the night in a chair across from his father’s body. His favorite song played in his head until the morning sun rose over the livingroom windowsill.
And if you’re faced with a choice, and you have to choose,
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.
I have made a choice, thought Jacob. I have made one, and it does mean the most to me. I’m staying here.
The next morning as Jacob was tending to the farm animals, he heard Ketchum’s old truck chug up to the house. Be with me ol” Ketchum. I need you to be with me, he told himself and went out to greet the man who held his fate in his hands.
“Okay, better get your dad in the ground now. He ain’t gonna’ be good to be around much longer. Soil shouldn’t be too hard to dig up,” said Ketchum, holding a shovel.
“So you’re going to . . . I mean, thanks, Ketch,” said Jacob, choking up.
“Well, I hope we don’t both end up in the slammer. This is illegal as all get out.”
“I’ll take the blame if anyone finds out,” replied Jacob.
“Naw, you won’t be locked up. You’re a kid. They’ll put me behind the walls and throw away the keys.”
“Thanks, Ketch. No one will ever find out. We’ll just say Dad was in need of better care and went off to that famous Mayo Clinic place back east.”
“Well, hope they believe that story. If they don’t we’re in deep horse doo.”
Jacob and Ketchum dug a deep hole at the top of the slight bluff 300 yards behind the Crowley’s house and then took Hank’s body to the site. As they lowered him into the ground, they recited the Lord’s Prayer. Both men fought to hold back tears as they shoveled dirt over the tarp that held the person who had been a father and friend. Once the hole was filled, Ketchum walked away, leaving Jacob to himself. I hope the road leads you where you want to go, whispered Jacob, placing his mother’s wooden crucifix on top of the mound marking his father’s final resting place.
Ketchum suddenly returned to the gravesite. “Sticks out from a distance. Can see it too easily. Better tamp it down some, so it ain’t obvious to anybody’s eyes,” he suggested, and both men pressed their shovels hard against it until it no longer was so prominent.
“Ain’t got no good reason to return home for a couple days. Mind if I stick around with you, Jacob? Think you could use the company anyway. ‘Sides, I think you need a hand around here. You ain’t much for tidiness. Don’t have your dad’s sense of organization, that’s for sure.”
“How so?”
“Well, you’ve had that pile of junk near the barn for I don’t know how long. Not to mention the grass that’s risen knee high in the front yard. You could do something about that screen door in the back that’s hangin’ by one hinge, too.”
“I was planning to get to those things, but . . .”
“There’s a lot to take care of when it’s only you . . . I know. Ain’t gonna’ be easy without your dad. Still think you might be better off selling this place. You sure your aunt’s the only relative you got that’ll take you in?”
“I’m sure. At least there’s nobody else that I know of. Besides this is my home. Wouldn’t be happy living with people who are mostly strangers.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re a big fella for your age. Makes you look almost like a grown person. I still don’t know if people won’t start asking why you’re all alone out here. They’ll get suspicious. People always do when it ain’t none of their bees wax.”
* * *
No one dropped by the Crowley’s place as the days grew longer and the ground started to show color. Jacob had continued his daily routine of catching the bus to school and then tending to the farm’s needs when he returned. Ketchum spent a couple days a week with Jacob and took on enough of the chores that things went smoothly. In fact, his presence actually had made things easier than in the last year of his father’s life.
When school let out for the summer, Jacob knew there would be no 4H camp this year or any other. That part of his life was over. Besides, he had more than enough to keep him busy around the farm. The barn needed repair and the house was in desperate need of a coat of paint. With the help of Ketchum, they had managed to plant the fields in the spring and sell off two head of cattle. Actually, things were going better than he thought they might after the loss of his father.
As the new academic year began, however, the outlook began to get troublesome. The school requested the presence of his father at a student teachers meeting, and when he said his father was too ill to attend, they told him they’d make the trip to his house to see him. Some quick thinking saved the day when he asked Ketchum to fill in for his father. The plan was to tell the school officials that his father was at the Mayo Clinic and that Ketchum was his guardian in his dad’s absence. Ketchum reluctantly agreed to the idea and all went well when his teacher and the vice principal visited.
“Sooner or later, they’re gonna’ catch on that you’re out here by yourself, Jacob. Then they’re gonna’ press the issue about you going to live with your relative,” said Ketchum.
“Everything’s fine. I’ll never leave this place to go live with my aunt. You and me can work the farm. Look how good we’re doing. Ketch.”
“Well, I ain’t going to be around forever, son. And there are things that are going to take me away from here for a while. My sister’s ailing over there in Guernsey, and I got to pay her a visit soon.”
“I’ll be fine. You go ahead.”
“Be away for about a month. Docs don’t think she’ll last longer than that.”
“When you leaving?”
“Soon . . . next week, I figure.”
“Well, I’ll be okay. See you when you get back.”
“Got a phone number written down here. Call me if you have the need,” said Ketchum handing him the small piece of paper. “Meantime, I can give you a hand taking the last of the crops to market.”
“Thanks, Ketch. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Think you’d do just fine. Your dad would be proud.”
* * *
Life went on as usual a week after Ketchum’s departure to his sister’s. Jacob had managed to put a coat of whitewash on the bottom half of the house and tend to the myriad other chores necessary to keep the place going. The first sign of the winter to come left an inch of snow on the hardening ground and reminded Jacob of the months of bleakness ahead. It was during the bareness of winter that he expected the loss of his father would be the most difficult.
While Jacob had felt his dad’s absence throughout the summer and fall, there was always something about the winter that gave him the blues and put him in mind of his dead mother. Now the absence of both of his parents would deepen his melancholy, and he feared Ketchum might be away beyond what he’d predicted. What if his sister holds on much longer, it will really get lonesome then, he thought.
As he feared, Ketchum’s return was delayed. He’d been gone six weeks and now the ground was covered deep with snow curtailing Jacob’s outside activities. He plowed his way through the drifts to meet the school bus and ended up coming down with a case of the sniffles that was accompanied by a fever. For three days he suffered from the chills and sweats and by the fourth day his condition had worsened to where his whole body was racked by pain and his lungs felt as if cement had been poured into them. Despite his misery, he decided against calling for help fearing his home situation would be revealed and his independence taken.
His deceased parents appeared in many of his restless dreams and their presence comforted him. After what he calculated had been a week, he felt better, although he was weakened by his bout of infection. As he ate the first solid food he’d had in days, the telephone rang. It’s Ketchum, he thought, hopefully. Maybe he’s back. But the voice at the other end of the line was unfamiliar to him.
“Hello, is this Mr. Crowley? This is Malcolm Drury, the principal of Willard High. I’m calling because your son, Jacob, has been absent for several days and we’ve received no notification. Is there a problem?”
Jacob’s mind raced as he attempted to figure out what to say. And then he decided to pretend he was his father. The virus had left his voice deep and raspy, so he felt he could pull it off.
“Mr. Crowley, are you there?”
“Ah, yes . . . yes, I am. I’m sorry I didn’t call to report that Jacob has had a bad case of the flu that has kept him home and in bed. He’s better now, and should be back to school in a couple days,” said Jacob.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll look forward to his return. Thank you.”
Jacob took a deep, phlegmy breath of relief and returned to his oatmeal. I actually sounded like dad, he thought, and then he suddenly felt very empty and alone. “Why’d you and mom have to die?” he shouted, and his voice rang through the empty house.
Two weeks passed without further incident, and to Jacob’s great relief and delight Ketchum finally showed up.
“Thought you were never coming back,” he blurted, as the person he’d come to so deeply care about walked in through the front door.
“Hey, there young man. So it looks like you’re still alive and kicking. Got the old house painted up, too. Good for you.”
“Yeah, no problems, Ketch. I took care of what I had to. Everything was okay while you were gone. Had a real bad cold but got over it. Sorry about your sister.”
“She went gently in the end. Got no relatives left no more . . . just you, and you ain’t blood . . . but just about.”
* * *
The next few years passed quicker than Jacob anticipated and without any major bumps along the way––except for the time when ol’ Ketchum suffered a bout of diverticulitis that laid him low for a while. Otherwise, they had managed to fend off any possible disruption of their plan to keep things as they were.
When Jacob reached 18, he turned his house and land over to the person closest to him and enlisted in the Air Force. He had always wanted to see the world and was glad he could give his most valuable possession to the man who’d made it possible for him to live out the balance of his childhood as he wished.
On the day he was to take his oath of allegiance into the military, Jacob visited his father’s grave to tell him of the decisions he’d made and to say goodbye. Everything is going to be good, Dad. I’ll be back to visit you soon. And I always will . . . promise.
Ketchum drove Jacob to the recruiting station in North Platte. Along the way, the lyrics to his favorite song filled his head as he peered out at the high plains that had been the landscape of his life since his birth.
And if you’re faced with a choice, and you have to choose,
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you . . .
Deep inside Jacob felt that he had done just that.
When the bus bound for the army induction center in Denver passed the dirt road leading to his house, Jacob imagined seeing his father standing at its edge and waving his approval.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: A boy against the odds meets them head on.
_____________________________________________________________________
Good or bad, everything we do is our best choice at the moment. – William Glasser
The 4-H camp in Halsey had been the highlight of Jacob Crowley’s summers for as long as he could remember. Now, 14 years old, he was no less enthusiastic about spending a week there, despite the fact that the kids that attended were now mostly younger than him. Serving as a group leader for the first time buoyed his eagerness to return. That the camp’s fee was waived because of his new role made him feel better, too, since money was always tight.
The Crowleys, father and son––Nadine Crowley had passed away four years earlier––eked out a living growing corn, wheat, and hay and raising a small herd of cattle on their western Nebraska 180-acre farm. The only extra help they had came at harvest time when they called in Sander Ketchum from his small spread five miles to the north.
Ketchum had lived by himself after being widowed 18 years earlier. His wife’s premature death had been more sudden than Jacob’s mother’s sudden passing from cancer. His prize bull had gored Ellie Ketchum. A freak accident, it had scarred her husband for life. He had blamed himself for the mishap, because he had failed to lock the stall where the animal was kept. It was two years before ol’ Ketchum––as he came to be called because his once black hair had turned completely white within a year of his wife’s passing––would even go into town for supplies. Jacob’s father had tended to his shopping needs until one day Ketchum just got into his old Ford pickup and began taking care of himself again.
When Jacob’s father, Hank, was diagnosed with MS five years ago, ol’ Ketchum began to return the favor. Until recently, the elder Crowley had been able to drive, but the growing numbness in his legs had made getting behind the wheel risky. While Jacob could drive, he was still too young for a learner’s permit. So Ketchum took him into town for what the Crowleys needed during his own weekly run.
“Not sure your dad’s going to be able to walk much longer the way he’s going. When that happens, things will change for you. I talked to your dad about selling the place before that occurs, but he doesn’t want to listen. Says he can manage for a good while longer. Figures when you go off to school, he’ll move into town. What you taking up in college, Jake?”
“I don’t know. Business maybe. Though I might stay and run the farm.”
”No future for a young man in that.”
“I like it, and we . . . er, I, can increase the crop yield and bring in more livestock. It can be far more profitable than it is now. Dad likes the way things are, but I know I can build it up, and he can stay on. He wouldn’t like living in town.”
“Well, that’s a good thought, and maybe you can, but it’s not easy and you’re only young once.”
* * *
By Thanksgiving, Hank Crowley’s condition had worsened to the point that he could work only in the morning. By noon, he was exhausted, and his limbs were nearly worthless. This meant that Jacob had to take on more of the farm chores after school. By the time he tended to the needs of the livestock, the daylight was long gone. While his father attempted to cook the evening meal, the results were less than appealing. So Jacob eventually took on that chore, too. His new responsibilities often left him with little energy for homework, and consequently his once excellent grades began to slip some.
Each night as he’d return to his room, he would stare out of his window and attempt to identify the constellations. When he was younger, he and his father spent hours on the front porch cataloguing the heavens. Although, the practice had ended after his mother died and things just got too busy to wile away the time in such an activity, Jacob continued to find pleasure in the practice. It helped put him in the mood to give in to his exhaustion. He had come to depend on the nighttime sky’s soothing effect as he had listening to the Rascal Flatts album, Me and My Gang. He’d gotten the CD for Christmas the first year when it was just he and his father left to celebrate the holiday. Jacob loved the music, but one song in particular, “My Wish For You”, took deep hold on him. Over the years, he must have played it thousands of times. While he lay in bed, he’d listen to it until his eyelids would shut down on his world. The song made him think of his mother and about his own life . . . where he was going and what he might become.
I hope the days come easy and the moments pass slow,
And each road leads you where you want to go . . .
It was a Crowley tradition to cook a pheasant on Thanksgiving, since they were common in the countryside of Western Nebraska. The wheat stubble after harvest guaranteed that, and as it turned out, the Crowley males preferred that type of grouse over the wild turkeys that also inhabited the flatlands. Jacob and his father liked the abundant white meat of a pheasant, while it didn’t matter to Nadine Crowley, who had not been much on game bird.
Ketchum had joined the Crowley’s for holiday meals for as long as Jacob could recall, and lately he also provided the centerpiece of the meal itself. Hank had reluctantly conceded the task of catching the bird to Ketchum because of his deteriorating condition, which made it impossible for him to hold a rifle long and steadily enough to gain a good shot. Jacob had volunteered to take on the chore, but his father wasn’t keen on him going hunting on his own, despite the fact that he’d taught Jacob how to handle a gun.
“I’m 14, Dad. You know I can do it just as good as ol’ Ketchum,” Jacob had protested.
“I know that, son, but if something happened to you, where’d that leave us? You practically run the place now, and I can’t afford to lose my foreman,” Hank had replied.
Jacob understood how his father felt, but he still thought he was being overly cautious, if not unreasonable. However, by the time Ketchum had brought over the pheasant for cooking, Jacob had overcome his displeasure. He always enjoyed seeing their closest neighbor, and it was hard remaining gloomy because Ketchum was always full of stories that made him and his father laugh.
“This here bird had more lives than a cat. Took four rounds to get him to stop hopping around. ‘Course I missed him with the first three shots, because he kept jitterbugging. Finally had to clobber him with the butt of my rifle. On the way over here, he came to and jumped out the bed of my truck. Just had to ring its neck to get him to calm down once and for all. Not sure he’s all that dead yet. Check him out, Jacob. He may have something to say about your plucking his feathers.”
* * *
Christmas dinner resembled Thanksgiving’s spread in all respects save one. Hank Crowley ‘s physical condition kept him from being able to sit at the dining room table. He spent the day in his recliner and barely touched his food. His speech had become slurred, and it was apparent he would soon be confined to his bed. When ol’ Ketchum suggested that he consider moving to the Wells Adult Care Center in town, Hank lodged his disapproval of the idea by pushing his dish to the floor.
“No! I’m not that far gone! Better off in the grave than there,” he blurted, and Jacob reassured him that he was going nowhere.
“You’ll get better, Dad. This is just one of your spells. You always improve,” said Jacob, cleaning up the dumped food.
“Sorry, Hank. Just thought it might help you get better quicker, is all,” said Ketchum, dejectedly.
“Never getting better,” replied Hank, attempting to move his glass to his lips but only managing to spill its contents on his shirt. “Shit. I’m just an invalid now. Pathetic! How do you like my wheelchair, Ketch? Of course, I can barely move the wheels with my worthless hands. Could get a motorized one, but they cost an arm and a leg . . . and my arms and legs aren’t worth much, as you can see.”
“C’mon, Hank, it ain’t like you to mope about like this. Let’s go out on the porch for a smoke. Got a couple of mean stogies,” said Ketchum.
“Okay, Ketch, if you give me a push. These noodles aren’t working too well today,” replied Hank, holding out his shaking hands and letting them dangle.
“Sure, but the meter’s running. Hope you got a fat wallet.”
The winter passed slowly and seemed more harsh than usual. Snow drifted over the porch and leaned high against the house. Jacob spent most of his early mornings shoveling the path that led out to the road where the school bus stopped for him. This he did after making breakfast for himself and his father, who was now mostly confined to his bedroom. His father had become less communicative, and Jacob was worried that one day he’d come home to find that he had passed away. He began to think his dad would be better off at the adult care center in town, where he’d have someone to watch over him during the day when Jacob was not home.
But Hank Crowley remained that he would rather die in his own home than in some end of life care facility. Jacob did not broach the topic himself but did ask Ketchum if he might continue to urge his father in that direction.
“You heard how he went off on me the last time I said he should move to town for better care. He’s just a hardheaded old fool like I am. No darn way I’m ever going to one of them bedpan houses myself, so I don’t blame him none for wanting to stay home in his sickness. ‘Course, I know it makes it hard on you having to watch over him and do everything this place needs done to it. Look, I’ll come over every other day and give you more of a hand than I have. I got the time, so I’ll spend some more of it here. My old place don’t require much tending.”
* * *
By the April thaw, Hank Crowley appeared to rally and was even able to stand, although not without holding onto something for support. A couple times, he even managed to reach the kitchen with the aid of his walker. The unexpected turn for the better gave Jacob hope that things might eventually get back to normal or at least to a point where life was more tolerable than it had been since his father had become an invalid.
Indeed, for the first time in almost a year, he began to feel more optimistic about the future. He even thought he might be able to return to the 4-H summer camp. But all that he had hoped for was suddenly swept away when he returned from school one early May day to find his father lying unconscious at the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. Jacob could barely detect his father’s pulse, and he called Ketchum for help. By the time his neighbor arrived a half hour later, Jacob knew his father had passed.
“Shoulda’ called 911, but I guess they wouldn’t of got out here any faster than me,” said Ketchum.
“If they know Dad died, they’d make me leave here and go live with my aunt,” replied Jacob, starring down at his father’s body.
“Well, I don’t see how that’s not gonna’ happen, son. Kid your age can’t live alone, or at least the law won’t let him.”
“I’ve been doing everything that needs to be done here since Dad got real sick. I can fend for myself. You know that, Ketch. You help, too,” said Jacob, dabbing his tears away.
“Jacob, we got to notify the authorities. He’s got to be funeraled and all. They got to do the paperwork on him. Don’t see no way around that, son.”
“I can’t go live with Dad’s sister. I only saw her once and didn’t like her then. She was an old sourpuss. I’ll run off before that happens, really.”
“How about other relatives? Your mom must have had some you liked.”
“Her parents died liked Dad’s did, and she didn’t have any brothers or sisters. There’s no one I want to live with. Here’s where I want to be.”
“But that ain’t gonna’ be easy, Jacob. People will come asking for your dad, and his body needs to be tended to.”
“We can bury him. He would be happy to be put to rest right here on the farm. This is where he loved.”
“Whoa, son, I don’t see how that would be right. Should have a normal funeral and stuff.”
“Okay, we’ll give him a funeral. We’re the only ones he cared about. That would make it right. We can bury him on the rise so he can see everything . . . keep an eye on me.”
“I don’t know. What’re you gonna’ say to folks when they notice he ain’t around?”
“He hasn’t been to town in a long time. If anybody asks, I’ll just say he’s away at the hospital in North Platte for some tests. People know he’s been sick. Besides, nobody ever comes out here. Dad didn’t have friends after Mom died, except you. Nobody will know he’s gone. When they do, I’ll be almost full grown, and they couldn’t force me to go live with my aunt.”
“Well, I got to think on this. Sounds like it’s asking for trouble to do what you want, even though I appreciate why you want to do it. Let’s move your poor Dad to the couch anyway. We’ll put the cover on him so he looks like he’s resting. I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll go from there.”
Jacob spent the night in a chair across from his father’s body. His favorite song played in his head until the morning sun rose over the livingroom windowsill.
And if you’re faced with a choice, and you have to choose,
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.
I have made a choice, thought Jacob. I have made one, and it does mean the most to me. I’m staying here.
The next morning as Jacob was tending to the farm animals, he heard Ketchum’s old truck chug up to the house. Be with me ol” Ketchum. I need you to be with me, he told himself and went out to greet the man who held his fate in his hands.
“Okay, better get your dad in the ground now. He ain’t gonna’ be good to be around much longer. Soil shouldn’t be too hard to dig up,” said Ketchum, holding a shovel.
“So you’re going to . . . I mean, thanks, Ketch,” said Jacob, choking up.
“Well, I hope we don’t both end up in the slammer. This is illegal as all get out.”
“I’ll take the blame if anyone finds out,” replied Jacob.
“Naw, you won’t be locked up. You’re a kid. They’ll put me behind the walls and throw away the keys.”
“Thanks, Ketch. No one will ever find out. We’ll just say Dad was in need of better care and went off to that famous Mayo Clinic place back east.”
“Well, hope they believe that story. If they don’t we’re in deep horse doo.”
Jacob and Ketchum dug a deep hole at the top of the slight bluff 300 yards behind the Crowley’s house and then took Hank’s body to the site. As they lowered him into the ground, they recited the Lord’s Prayer. Both men fought to hold back tears as they shoveled dirt over the tarp that held the person who had been a father and friend. Once the hole was filled, Ketchum walked away, leaving Jacob to himself. I hope the road leads you where you want to go, whispered Jacob, placing his mother’s wooden crucifix on top of the mound marking his father’s final resting place.
Ketchum suddenly returned to the gravesite. “Sticks out from a distance. Can see it too easily. Better tamp it down some, so it ain’t obvious to anybody’s eyes,” he suggested, and both men pressed their shovels hard against it until it no longer was so prominent.
“Ain’t got no good reason to return home for a couple days. Mind if I stick around with you, Jacob? Think you could use the company anyway. ‘Sides, I think you need a hand around here. You ain’t much for tidiness. Don’t have your dad’s sense of organization, that’s for sure.”
“How so?”
“Well, you’ve had that pile of junk near the barn for I don’t know how long. Not to mention the grass that’s risen knee high in the front yard. You could do something about that screen door in the back that’s hangin’ by one hinge, too.”
“I was planning to get to those things, but . . .”
“There’s a lot to take care of when it’s only you . . . I know. Ain’t gonna’ be easy without your dad. Still think you might be better off selling this place. You sure your aunt’s the only relative you got that’ll take you in?”
“I’m sure. At least there’s nobody else that I know of. Besides this is my home. Wouldn’t be happy living with people who are mostly strangers.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re a big fella for your age. Makes you look almost like a grown person. I still don’t know if people won’t start asking why you’re all alone out here. They’ll get suspicious. People always do when it ain’t none of their bees wax.”
* * *
No one dropped by the Crowley’s place as the days grew longer and the ground started to show color. Jacob had continued his daily routine of catching the bus to school and then tending to the farm’s needs when he returned. Ketchum spent a couple days a week with Jacob and took on enough of the chores that things went smoothly. In fact, his presence actually had made things easier than in the last year of his father’s life.
When school let out for the summer, Jacob knew there would be no 4H camp this year or any other. That part of his life was over. Besides, he had more than enough to keep him busy around the farm. The barn needed repair and the house was in desperate need of a coat of paint. With the help of Ketchum, they had managed to plant the fields in the spring and sell off two head of cattle. Actually, things were going better than he thought they might after the loss of his father.
As the new academic year began, however, the outlook began to get troublesome. The school requested the presence of his father at a student teachers meeting, and when he said his father was too ill to attend, they told him they’d make the trip to his house to see him. Some quick thinking saved the day when he asked Ketchum to fill in for his father. The plan was to tell the school officials that his father was at the Mayo Clinic and that Ketchum was his guardian in his dad’s absence. Ketchum reluctantly agreed to the idea and all went well when his teacher and the vice principal visited.
“Sooner or later, they’re gonna’ catch on that you’re out here by yourself, Jacob. Then they’re gonna’ press the issue about you going to live with your relative,” said Ketchum.
“Everything’s fine. I’ll never leave this place to go live with my aunt. You and me can work the farm. Look how good we’re doing. Ketch.”
“Well, I ain’t going to be around forever, son. And there are things that are going to take me away from here for a while. My sister’s ailing over there in Guernsey, and I got to pay her a visit soon.”
“I’ll be fine. You go ahead.”
“Be away for about a month. Docs don’t think she’ll last longer than that.”
“When you leaving?”
“Soon . . . next week, I figure.”
“Well, I’ll be okay. See you when you get back.”
“Got a phone number written down here. Call me if you have the need,” said Ketchum handing him the small piece of paper. “Meantime, I can give you a hand taking the last of the crops to market.”
“Thanks, Ketch. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Think you’d do just fine. Your dad would be proud.”
* * *
Life went on as usual a week after Ketchum’s departure to his sister’s. Jacob had managed to put a coat of whitewash on the bottom half of the house and tend to the myriad other chores necessary to keep the place going. The first sign of the winter to come left an inch of snow on the hardening ground and reminded Jacob of the months of bleakness ahead. It was during the bareness of winter that he expected the loss of his father would be the most difficult.
While Jacob had felt his dad’s absence throughout the summer and fall, there was always something about the winter that gave him the blues and put him in mind of his dead mother. Now the absence of both of his parents would deepen his melancholy, and he feared Ketchum might be away beyond what he’d predicted. What if his sister holds on much longer, it will really get lonesome then, he thought.
As he feared, Ketchum’s return was delayed. He’d been gone six weeks and now the ground was covered deep with snow curtailing Jacob’s outside activities. He plowed his way through the drifts to meet the school bus and ended up coming down with a case of the sniffles that was accompanied by a fever. For three days he suffered from the chills and sweats and by the fourth day his condition had worsened to where his whole body was racked by pain and his lungs felt as if cement had been poured into them. Despite his misery, he decided against calling for help fearing his home situation would be revealed and his independence taken.
His deceased parents appeared in many of his restless dreams and their presence comforted him. After what he calculated had been a week, he felt better, although he was weakened by his bout of infection. As he ate the first solid food he’d had in days, the telephone rang. It’s Ketchum, he thought, hopefully. Maybe he’s back. But the voice at the other end of the line was unfamiliar to him.
“Hello, is this Mr. Crowley? This is Malcolm Drury, the principal of Willard High. I’m calling because your son, Jacob, has been absent for several days and we’ve received no notification. Is there a problem?”
Jacob’s mind raced as he attempted to figure out what to say. And then he decided to pretend he was his father. The virus had left his voice deep and raspy, so he felt he could pull it off.
“Mr. Crowley, are you there?”
“Ah, yes . . . yes, I am. I’m sorry I didn’t call to report that Jacob has had a bad case of the flu that has kept him home and in bed. He’s better now, and should be back to school in a couple days,” said Jacob.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll look forward to his return. Thank you.”
Jacob took a deep, phlegmy breath of relief and returned to his oatmeal. I actually sounded like dad, he thought, and then he suddenly felt very empty and alone. “Why’d you and mom have to die?” he shouted, and his voice rang through the empty house.
Two weeks passed without further incident, and to Jacob’s great relief and delight Ketchum finally showed up.
“Thought you were never coming back,” he blurted, as the person he’d come to so deeply care about walked in through the front door.
“Hey, there young man. So it looks like you’re still alive and kicking. Got the old house painted up, too. Good for you.”
“Yeah, no problems, Ketch. I took care of what I had to. Everything was okay while you were gone. Had a real bad cold but got over it. Sorry about your sister.”
“She went gently in the end. Got no relatives left no more . . . just you, and you ain’t blood . . . but just about.”
* * *
The next few years passed quicker than Jacob anticipated and without any major bumps along the way––except for the time when ol’ Ketchum suffered a bout of diverticulitis that laid him low for a while. Otherwise, they had managed to fend off any possible disruption of their plan to keep things as they were.
When Jacob reached 18, he turned his house and land over to the person closest to him and enlisted in the Air Force. He had always wanted to see the world and was glad he could give his most valuable possession to the man who’d made it possible for him to live out the balance of his childhood as he wished.
On the day he was to take his oath of allegiance into the military, Jacob visited his father’s grave to tell him of the decisions he’d made and to say goodbye. Everything is going to be good, Dad. I’ll be back to visit you soon. And I always will . . . promise.
Ketchum drove Jacob to the recruiting station in North Platte. Along the way, the lyrics to his favorite song filled his head as he peered out at the high plains that had been the landscape of his life since his birth.
And if you’re faced with a choice, and you have to choose,
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you . . .
Deep inside Jacob felt that he had done just that.
When the bus bound for the army induction center in Denver passed the dirt road leading to his house, Jacob imagined seeing his father standing at its edge and waving his approval.
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com