A Ford
in the River
Stories by
Charles Rose
NewSouth Books
Montgomery | Louisville
Also by Charles Rose
In the Midst of Life: A Hospice Volunteer’s Story (2004)
NewSouth Books
105 S. Court Street
Montgomery, AL 36104
Copyright 2011 by Charles Rose. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by NewSouth Books, a division of NewSouth, Inc., Montgomery, Alabama.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60306-112-4
eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-60306-113-1
LCCN: 2010015018
Visit www.newsouthbooks.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author and the publisher gratefully acknowledge the following publications in which stories in this collection first appeared: “The Skater,” “Remission,” and “White Orchid,” in Shenandoah; “Photographs,” “Island Grove,” and “Kelp,” in The Chattahoochee Review; “Vigil,” “A New Roof,” and “Mr. Hardcastle,” in Alabama Literary Review; “Harmonica,” in Crazyhorse; “Chairs” and “Treasure Hunt,” in Southern Humanities Review; “A Ford in the River,” in Blackbird; “Complicity,” in Willow Springs; “Pagoda,” in Passager; “The View from My Father’s Window,” in Cricket; “Spink Hotel,” in The Southern Review.
For Natalyn
Contents
The View from My Father’s Window
Marian Carcache and John M. Williams
In late December 2008, after this book was initially scheduled for publication, author Charles Rose suffered a stroke and spent a long time recovering, first in Birmingham and later in Auburn. There were times after the stroke, he says, when his mind could not process what had happened to him. “I didn’t know if I was crazy or not. I couldn’t tell.”
A lifelong reader and writer and piano player, Charlie was unable to read or write or play in the early stages of his recovery. Gradually he became more and more aware of the void the absence of music and literature had left in his life. The music came back first. A baby grand piano was the focal point of the parlor in the facility where he was recovering. As the long winter became spring, Charlie began playing his old beloved jazz standards and hymns for the enjoyment of the other residents.
Then, in May 2009, he picked up two books, one by Raymond Chandler and the other by Raymond Carver. These works sparked something in the dark confusion the stroke had left in his mind, and his love for writing reawakened. He says he had been making his way through Chandler’s The High Window when he encountered this passage:
It was a slim tall self-satisfied looking number in a tropical worsted suit of slate blue, black and white shoes, a dull ivory-colored shirt and a tie and display handkerchief the color of jacaranda bloom. He was holding a long black cigarette-holder in a peeled back white pigskin glove and he was wrinkling his nose at the dead magazines on the library table and the chairs and the rusty floor covering and the general air of not much money being made.
To the average reader this passage may seem typical Chandler and unremarkable, but for Charlie that was precisely its beauty. Something about that passage made him feel the ache and love of writing again. That feeling was only reinforced when, a few days later, working through Carver’s “What’s in Alaska?” (from Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?), he encountered this exchange:
Jack and Mary came back. Jack carried a large bag of M&Ms and a bottle of cream soda. Mary sucked on an orange Popsicle.
“Anybody want a sandwich?” Helen said. “We have sandwich stuff.”
“Isn’t it funny,” Mary said. “You start with the desserts first and then you move on to the main course.”
“It’s funny,” Carl said.
“Are you being sarcastic, honey?” Mary said.
“Who wants cream soda?” Jack said. “A round of cream soda coming up.”
Carl held his glass out and Jack poured it full. Carl set the glass on the coffee table, but the coffee table smacked it off and the soda poured onto his shoe.
“Goddam it,” Carl said. “How do you like that? I spilled it on my shoe.”
“Helen, do we have a towel? Get Carl a towel,” Jack said.
“Those were new shoes,” Mary said. “He just got them.”
“They look comfortable,” Helen said a long time later and handed Carl a towel.
“That’s what I told him,” Mary said.
Again, unremarkable. But our laughter as we sat in his room and read this passage again and again, brought delight to the soul in a way too simple and sublime to explain.
Marian: When I first saw Charlie, I was a high school senior who had come to Auburn for a College Day. He was sitting in his office in Haley Center, perhaps the least interesting building that has ever been. I was not very excited at the prospect