After Grandma Duncan's funeral, I was in a daze for a long time. As Grandpap had told me, Shavonda was willing and able to be the rock I needed, the steadying influence in a life that seemed out of control. I was stressed out from work. As usual, summertime was extremely busy and my truck was often either maxed out on weight or floor space. Both were a pain to deal with, either the extreme weight causing me to have to take extra care driving, or the truck full of lighter items would be an incoherent mess as the loaders stacked the loose items on top of the palletized freight without regard to who it was to be delivered to. A few times, I overlooked items for a specific customer, only to find them later after it was too late to turn around.
Of all the things I hauled, rebar was the most problematic. It was used to make forms for poured concrete, for reinforcement. Rebar was steel rods in various diameters, with ½ inch being the most common. We sold it in 10 foot and 20 foot lengths, in bundles of usually 150 pieces. Due to its weight, it had to be laid on the floor of the trailer. That meant that any palletized freight had to be stacked on top of it. Often that meant that the rebar had to be dug out from underneath other customers' orders, necessitating unloading and reloading of up to half the truck.
The ten footers were more of a pain in the ass than anything else, but the 20 foot lengths were another story altogether. To be honest, nothing I hauled really scared me except those 20 foot rebar. Lifting them with a forklift was like picking up wet spaghetti. The weight caused the ends to droop and bounce. There was a lethal amount of energy hidden in those bundles. This point was driven home one afternoon in Punxsutawney, when an inexperienced forklift driver started to back up before he had lifted the rebar fully clear of the trailer. The ends dragged along the floor, threatening to pull the whole bundle from his forks. Lucky for the both of us, the ends reached the side of the trailer before they could slide off the forks. But once clear of the trailer, they snapped back with bone crushing force, almost causing him to lose control. Nobody got hurt in this little demonstration of kinetic energy, but it was frightening to watch.
Having Shavonda to come home to was a godsend. Often, she'd run me a bath, and gently wash the road dirt off me. She had also started using her lotions and oils on my skin. Not that I needed them, but it sure felt good having her rub me down.
One evening, after my bath, I laid down on the couch. In my sleep, I heard Ethan and Brittany talking to Shavonda. They were worried about me.
"Why is Daddy so sad all the time?" Ethan asked.
"That lady in the coffin was his Grandma," Shavonda explained gently. "He misses her a lot. She never got to meet me or Miracle, and Daddy blames himself for that. Want to cheer him up? Play with him. Tell him how much you love him."
Shavonda was right. I did blame myself. If only I'd have taken her and the baby to meet Grandma maybe things would have been different. But they weren't. and she'd gone to her grave still avoiding me and my black wife. And while I was glad Grandpap had come around after meeting Shavonda, it also made me sad to think that Grandma might have done the same, if she'd only gotten to know Shavonda. Then again, she might never have accepted her. Aunt Nora certainly hadn't.
"You can't beat yourself up over what might have been," my ebony queen said gently one night as she held me close in bed. As usual, we were naked. We had slept that way since we met, and I found great comfort in her soft brown skin. "What you think would have happened if we just showed up? She might have run you off and told you not to come back. Could you have handled that?" In all honesty, it would have hurt like hell to be openly rejected solely because of who God had chosen as my life mate. And that was the reason I'd stayed away until it was too late. I was afraid of being rejected.
After that, I noticed the kids spending more time around me instead of playing in the yard or their room. I truly enjoyed playing with them. Shavonda and I taught them several games, including Uno and checkers. We often played a game in the evenings after my bath.
That Thursday, I was surprised when I came off the road to find Shavonda waiting for me in her wine red Cruze, wearing a blue halter dress I'd never seen before with her usual summer sandals. As I climbed down out of my Kenworth, she greeted me with a tight hug. "Baby," she said, "Tonight we try to heal you. Mama has the baby for the night, and Barbara has the kids for the weekend."
We took the turnpike to New Stanton, where she'd reserved a room for us. After a quick shower, I was ready to face the world again. Dinner was at Cracker Barrel, where I ordered the biggest steak they had and Shavonda had liver and onions. I looked at her as she ordered, mouthing the words, "Are You....?" She shook her head no. It was just as well. I needed to get my head right before we brought another life into this world.
After dinner, we went back to the room. Shavonda had brought a bottle of rum, and she poured me a stiff drink. Rum and Dr. Pepper. The drink that I'd never had until I met her. The one that was now my favorite, and the one that would always remind me of our first night of passion. But tonight, we just lay on the bed for a while, fully clothed, kissing. We let our hands wander, but made no move to strip each other. It just didn't seem the time. Our kiss was more gentle than passionate, the kind that says I care and I'm here for you.
"Jason," she whispered. "You know I love you right? I'm here for you. Don't you try to do this alone. We are together now, that means we share the burdens. You gave me total support when I went through the rough spots. Let me do the same for you."
I let her words sink in, not giving her an answer. She was right. I did need to let some of it go, so that she could help me. Why was it so hard to do? I'd tried to be a rock too long. As I looked back at what we'd gone through with the trials my stress levels had been through the roof. I'd put all my energy into making sure Shavonda was ok, that she weathered the storm. I hadn't been concerned about my own well-being.
Grandma Duncan's death had changed that. It had been the final straw. Actually, the final straw had ironically been Grandpap's grudging acceptance of Shavonda and our marriage. Had he outright rejected her, it would have been easier to deal with because I would have known there had been nothing I could do to gain acceptance of our relationship from that side of the family. But he didn't reject her, and I would forever wonder if I'd only reached out to them would Grandma have accepted us as well? That uncertainty, and the guilt that went with it, were the final straw.
I didn't want my life to unravel. We'd worked too hard to build what we now had, both separately as single people in search of true love, and later together as we combined our resources into something beautiful. I didn't want to lose any of that. I didn't want to lose the love and respect of the one person whose opinion mattered more to me than anything else in the world. Yet I felt powerless to stop myself from unravelling. I needed to come to terms with my life, which objectively wasn't bad. I needed to destress.
We lay there in each other's arms for a long time, me taking refuge in her softness. I was lucky to have her. I didn't have to go through it alone, if only I'd let her in.
Eventually, we got up and walked across the street to the tavern where our friends Darren and Minnie hosted Friday night karaoke. They greeted us warmly when we entered. Minnie had her long dark hair pulled back in a long braid similar to my own, looking just like a squaw. I stared at her as it dawned on me. "Are you Indian?" I asked.
"Seneca," she replied.
"Me too," I answered. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
