1959

It’s been more than a year
since I saw my uncle Otis.
Last I was with him
me and my cousins
were tugging at his arms
while the sheriff and his deputy
pushed back on us.
Aunt Evalene just stood,
hands on her hips, jaw set.
She’d had it
with this man who couldn’t
set the bottle down.

Sheriff drove him off
to the train station
headed for Tuscaloosa.
That’s how it was back then.

Thanksgiving came.
We sat around the table
in my aunt’s dining room
that took her
three days to clear out
of all the things
she had piled up.
Aunt Evalene and her daughter
had a gift for finding
items on sale.
My cousin would load up
all the new stuff
in the front bedroom.
They’d decide on an order
to open the boxes,
saving the plastic wrapping.
Pictures hung on the walls
behind stacks of newspapers
and magazines
and copies of every
Reader’s Digest in print.
The uncle that played
with his food,
making us laugh
and Aunt Evalene cross,
was in a place many
hours and miles away.
I hated Aunt Evalene – her and her
Bible toting, verse slinging self.

The cousins played
out in the yard after dinner.
The older ones started saying stuff
to scare the younger ones.
I was about mid ways in age
so I was left to fend for myself.
It was okay until Roy started up about
Tuscaloosa and what went on
at the insane asylum.
Us kids had been told
the subject was off limits,
but Roy did and talked about
whatever he pleased.
His picture of the place
got stuck in my head
and that night I had nightmares
so bad I couldn’t get out of bed
to go to the bathroom.
Next morning my sheets
were wet and cold.
Late summer I began asking my mom
about Tuscaloosa and the insane asylum
and why Uncle Otis had to go there
and never come back.

What’s it like there?
I’ll show you tomorrow she said.

Sometimes we’d get in the car
and she’d start driving.
My mom had a natural wanderlust
that needed no more excuse
than me asking about a place
to get things rolling in any direction
away from our house.

We drove for hours.
Two lane roads in Alabama
were subject to slowing traffic.
We got behind an uncommon number
of tractors and harvesters that day.
Each time we had to slow up
we’d roll the windows down
to catch an imaginary breeze
against our skin
to whisk away the droplets
brought on by the heat.

My mom looked off in the distance
at a cluster of buildings
and said it was
the University of Alabama.
Could we please drive closer I asked
in case Bear Bryant was
walking between any of the buildings.
My mom said it wasn’t likely we’d see him,
but driving through couldn’t hurt.
I craned my neck at every man
in a hounds-tooth hat.
Guess Bear was otherwise occupied that day.
It was exciting all the same.
He was bound to have been
right where we were
at some time or other.
The place wasn’t that big after all.

The asylum was down
a long gravel drive
that crackled and popped
underneath the wheels of our Buick.
A uniformed man in a building
no bigger than he was stepped out.

“Hep you ladies?”

My mom stared ahead
at a plantation style house
with its columns
and shuttered windows
Only this one had bars
across the window panes.

My daughter and I
drove down from Huntsville
to see Otis Hudson.
He’s a relative she said.

The man in uniform frowned.

Ma’am, I’m real sorry.
for all your trouble,
but we don’t ‘low for no visits
'ceptin they’re approved.

He leaned in a little
and with a whisper asked
You approved?

My mom’s eyes glazed over
the way they did
when she was lost for words.

There’s no way we can see him?
she asked.

The man shook his head slowly
and apologized again.

And that was that.

We had come all those miles and hours,
slowed up behind tractors and harvesters,
and we were leaving without
any sign of Bear Bryant or Uncle Otis.
My mom looked defeated.
And hot.
And tired.
I wanted to fix things
by saying something
of comfort to her
but there was no use.

We drove back down
the long gravel drive,
windows down,
the radio on
some local station.
Bessie Smith singing
Boweavil Blues.

My mom’s music intrigued me.
She would sing Ave Maria
in her high pitched, opera voice
then turn on the radio
to a sound that
made my heart bleed and cry.
I’m guessing that’s
how she felt about now.

It was at church
during the Wednesday
evening prayer service.
A note was passed
from my dad
to my mom.
Uncle Otis died today
at 78 years of age.
Alcohol.

My mom’s eyes
turned red and moist.
I was mad.
And hurt.
And dazed
that I would never again see
or hear
my Uncle Otis.

Some years later when I had moved
away from all family
my dad called.

“Aunt Evalene passed. She was 102,” he said.

“That woman needed to die,” I said.

My dad cranked up his preacher voice.
“Now Evalene was a good woman.
She went to church and…”

I can’t say what came over me
or why I cared
what my dad thought
about Aunt Evalene
but I cut him off.

“She was wicked as Salome,” I shouted.
“Yes she was.
She might as well of cut
off Uncle Otis’ head.
Except she did worse.
She cut him all off
from everybody that loved him
and sent him to a place
where he knew nobody
and nobody loved him.
And he died with nobody
that loved him around.”

My dad said no more.

And that was that.
Uncle Otis and Aunt Evalene were gone.

New Jersey was cold that night.
Stars shown clear.
I tried to pick one out
and imagine
Uncle Otis was looking at it, too.