Novel

MY BROTHER-IN-LAW should've left his car window rolled up when he chose to smoke with his mother beside him in the passenger seat, oxygen strapped to her nostrils. They were driving between Graywood Emergency Regional Memorial hospital and her home in rural Gruel. My mother-in-law, Ina-whom I called "Vudge" behind her back, insisting in my head that her middle name was Ina-had gotten released after a lung-surgery stint. According to oncologist Dr. Rolander, they should've filmed the procedure it went so textbook. A third of one lung got clipped out, no chemo or radiation would be scheduled, and Vudge could go on to live another seventy years. Rolander might've been the only good real doctor in all of Forty-Five, South Carolina. When he came out of surgery he told all of us-brother-in-law Irby, my wife, Rebekah, and me-"Man, that went way better than I ever thought!" I tried my best to sigh relief. This, of course, all took place outside the surgery waiting room exactly five days before Irby rolled his window down, which caused the ember of his cigarette to fly off, perform some kind of trick acrobatic backflip witnessed normally during Christmas, Fourth of July, New Year's Eve, or Confederate's Day celebrations in South Carolina when bottle rockets get minds of their own, and finally embed itself between Vudge's left nostril and the rubber tube spraying pure-tee oxygen in her face. The resulting explosion was merciless, as you can imagine-car, in-laws, and metal canister lifting skyward like a regular Scud missile. It got mentioned on a local television station newscast sixty miles away, not just on Forty-Five's local access. But let me get back to the surgery waiting room and explain what went on there, and what must've been a daily, ongoing routine. Evidently a six A.M. surgery admittance of a friend, relative, or long-lost acquaintance becomes the social highlight of the year for everyone in Graywood County. My wife and now-dead brother-in-law took cushioned seats between the giant-screen TV-morning cartoons, no national news-and the complimentary doughnut/coffee/hot chocolate/PayDay candy bar rolling kiosk. Blacks and whites gathered in groups of their own, and I noticed right off that one set of well-wishers dressed as if going to a funeral, the other as if on their way to a tractor pull. But I don't want to generalize whatsoever. I don't want to categorize my wife's people. I'm sure that some white people wear bib overalls and stained, bent LET THE BIG TIRES ROLL caps to loved ones' awkward eulogies. People called out to each other from one side of the room to the other. Introductions were made and more than once I heard, "Oh, I 'member you! You went by Little Bubba when you was a boy," or "I 'member you! You had a brother in my grade name of Little Bubba, back when you was a tiny girl," or "Hey, you 'member me! I went by L'il Scooby by some. Big Stuff by some. My sister was Shonuff," and so on from across the way. Not a magazine had been read on the wall rack, as far as I could tell. Both Time and Newsweek ran cover stories on Richard Nixon's daughter's upcoming wedding in the White House. I said, "Hey, Bekah, we should've brought some cards. Or pin the tail on the donkey." I should mention that Rebekah bragged how her name got spelled exactly like the Bible woman. Then four years into the marriage she decided to go by "Bekah." Bekah thought with such a moniker she'd come across as more easygoing, sympathetic, open-minded, and friendly. She cared. It was important in her job as a debt collector. So she went by Bekah for another four or five years. But for all I know, since the deaths of her mother and brother she's cut it all the way down to plain Kah. Kah, Kah, Kah. Back in the surgery waiting room my wife said, "People act in different ways when faced with diversity. Don't judge so much." I felt pretty sure she meant "adversity," butSingleton, George is the author of 'Novel', published 2005 under ISBN 9780151011285 and ISBN 0151011281.