Poor James
I was afraid. Not of dying, though my brother’s death conjured premonitions of my own. But of living with regrets. Flying from the coast, then driving through fallow fields dotted with stranded homesteads, I scanned the bleak horizon for fond memories of poor James.
Seventeen years younger, I hadn’t grown up with James. I first viewed his life through Mama’s lens. Her ghost still whispered in my ear. Having a Grapes of Wrath baby and raising my brother and sister solo during WWII, when Papa joined up, hardened Mama. Plus James felt fatherless by age 10. Papa didn’t come home for good until James turned 24.
Navy brats, we moved and moved again. James and my sister changed schools 13 times before finishing high school. Crossing the country three times his junior year, James missed studying the Civil War altogether. He’d joked once, “Geography was my strong subject.” School offered solace to my sister and me. It delivered disappointment to poor James.
Mama sobbed when James flunked out of college. He stayed stoic and silent until I received a university scholarship. His “You’ll just end up married” irritated me. I did marry, graduated, taught, and then turned business woman. One Christmas, I asked about his job at the oil station and his brood of four. He bristled. “Proud Mary, married to her career. Selfish, too, with one lonely child.”
“How would you know anything about my work? Or how hard it was to have one precious baby.” My eyes blazed with anger and hurt. He apologized. I didn’t accept. Like children, we picked at scabs. Our scars faded only with age.
After that spat, we avoided discussions about family and fortunes and exchanged clipped chat about the weather and our health. For years, James ended each call with, “Older is better than the alternative.” Until at ninety-one, he asked, “Who are you?”
He no longer remembered his crybaby sister who overshadowed his senior year or the toddler who tugged on his shirt tail. Or recalled our whooping wild rides from the farm to the town pool on steamy summer afternoons. With his arms in the air, his knee on the steering wheel, we flew over hill after hill. Thin threads stitched our relationship together until it unraveled.
My last in-person visit, casting about for clarity and comfort, poor James declared my mom hadn’t been his mother. My shock sank into sorrow.
“Aunt Vi was my real mother. She called me my little Jimmy.”
I squeezed his hand. “Vi did love you. So did Mama, in her way.” He frowned. I’d felt Mama’s affection and acceptance. I ached he hadn’t. Had he heard Mama, or me, call him poor James? Pity made a sour substitute for love. “I love you.” He closed his cloudy eyes.
Missed opportunities and misunderstandings popped up mile after mile until I saw the sign: Clarks, Population 363. James’ hometown for sixty years. No pumps stood at the gas station where he’d worked. Boards covered the broken windows of the bank. But, in the distance, blue skies outlined the roof of his home—his place of pride.
No turning back, I parked in front of the VFW Hall. A flapping banner invited all to ‘James Clements’ Celebration of Life.’ Taped to the open door, a collage poster pictured a laughing baby James, a handsome high school graduate, a dashing Army corporal, a jubilant bride and groom, proud parents with three sons and one daughter, and a glowing grandfather. I gaped at the happy faces.
I crept into a dim, empty room. Early or too late? Past the bar, past head shots of fallen veterans, past vending machines, his family—minus his wife Jane, dead last year—stood in a circle with heads bowed. I cleared my throat.
My niece waved me to join. “Does anyone have another memory to share?”
James’ youngest son spoke. “Dad never met a stranger he didn’t like. As teenagers, we rolled our eyes and muttered ‘WTF’ when he hung around a half hour outside the grocery store visiting. We asked, ‘Who was that guy?’ Dad would say ‘Don’t know, but a fascinating fellow.’” James fared better with strangers than with Mama or me.
One granddaughter added, “Grandpa loved Grandma Jane’s sweet rolls.”
Mama deemed Jane a pitiable choice. No. Mama got that wrong. I offered a too-long forgotten memory.
“The spring I turned twelve, James and Jane became engaged. Late at night, they giggled and whispered on our sofa at the bottom of the stairs while I crouched at the top and eavesdropped. Jane warbled, ‘Oh, Jimmy’ as James wooed. I didn’t get it then—James had found the love of his life.”
At the gravesite, my heart at peace at last, I celebrated my brother Jimmy.
Published in Twists and Turns, Personal Story Publishing Project Fall 2022