A Southern Place Read Online Free Page A

part of him, like red hair or a big nose or needing glasses, the kind of things that make folks different from each other. Looking back, I remember how he used to laugh and make fun of himself, especially when his buddies would hassle him about not having a wife or a girlfriend. There were other things he’d shy away from—swimming, water-skiing, stuff like that. I remember he got really mad one time when his friend told him he was lucky, that he’d never have to worry about the draft or getting sent to Viet Nam—that was the shortest card-playing night he ever had, threw ’em all out.
    I guess it all started going downhill at the same time, though I can’t for sure remember it that way. The odd jobs got fewer, and Uncle Cal spent more time at home. He started to drink more. Then he was always sad, moody-like. If Mama tried to talk to him about it, he slammed doors and then left for days at a time. He took to bringing folks home with him, some loud and some quiet, but all dwelling in the same, sadly passive world where he lived.
    Mama finally gave up on him, and we moved out.
    Our new home was a single-wide trailer behind a fire-condemned gas station. It was smaller and nastier than our first house, but Mama said it was the best she could do. I missed the dogs and Uncle Cal and looking out over the river at night.
    Uncle Cal came by to visit a few times, trying to laugh and joke and be the guy he used to be, but he wasn’t much of an actor. I could tell something was wrong, so I knew Mama had to know it, too, but we acted like everything was fine. When my uncle was there, Mama never stopped talking about how she was doing better, saving up to move us to a better place, find me a better school, maybe even prepare me for a college scholarship. Uncle Cal would smile that fake smile with the sad eyes, hug us, and leave.
    His visits became further apart until we rarely saw him at all, even though he lived just a couple of miles away. By the time I turned twelve I’d learned to sneak over on my bike after school a few times, finding my uncle alone and barely awake in a stale-smelling house in need of a good picking up and cleaning. The dogs were usually outside and starved for attention, greeting me with powerful, sloppy kisses and following me up the stairs and inside. His truck was always in the driveway, and if knocking did no good, the key was under the mat.
    Whether Uncle Cal laid on the couch, in his recliner, or in bed, two things were always the same: the television was on, and Kawliga lay on his chest, softly purring. From the shows flickering on the screen (soap operas or game shows) I figured my uncle simply never turned it off; when we lived there, he only watched the weather, old westerns, and Hee Haw . I’d try to make conversation with Uncle Cal, but he was different—reluctant; it was almost like he was ashamed to talk to me, like I’d walked in on him in the bathroom or something. Only one time can I remember a visit being less than awkward.
    It was a late fall afternoon, overcast when I started out but already beginning to sprinkle when I first saw the house on stilts. Uncle Cal opened the door before I was halfway up the stairs.
    “Cajun girl!” he cried. “Get your little butt in here before all that sugar starts to melt.” He grabbed me in a hug as the dogs, already wet and smelling, slid by us and settled themselves on the couch. “Does your mama know you’re out gallivantin’ in the rain?”
    “It wasn’t raining when I left,” I told him, leaving out the fact that Mama didn’t know I was out at all.
    “Well, take a load off, girl,” he said, motioning towards the couch. “Tell me ’bout how life’s treatin’ you these days.” He sat in the recliner, and I nudged between the two dogs. An old shoebox, big enough for a man’s work boots, lay open on the coffee table. A faded green lid with a Thom Mcann logo lay on the floor beside it. From my seat I could see yellowed papers,