Donnie, Not Donnie

Chapter One

Curtain Close at the Old Barn

The welcome sign isn’t much to look at, as far as township welcome signs are concerned; then again, neither is the town. It had brick red painted wood slats, bold white etched block letters, and the proud reminder that Fielding, UT has been a survivor since 1892. Most folks around here could easily tell you exactly when their familial line landed here; who married who, who tried to leave and came back and why, every milestone, every tragedy, every affair, and every bit of nothing in between, can all be recited by anyone holding a cold drink or a hot cup of tea. That’s how it works for all 400 or so Fieldingers, all of them, that is, except me.

My dad says we crashed more than we landed here, getting “stuck in the slush.” He’d say, “Donnie, We can spin our tires all we want to, but that horizon ain’t getting any closer.” I know he wasn’t at pace here, a town shorter than a mile up and a mile down could never be all that interesting to a man like my dad, but to me, able to walk around my whole world in an afternoon; it was all I ever knew to want. My dad and I were the only two Fieldingers not born here. Mr. Jepson tells me all the time how he remembers the laugh I gave him walking into his playhouse for the very first time. Near about four years old, wide eyed at the costumes and lights asking him, “is this where they make the movies?” His little theater, The Old Barn, was just a little town’s little Melodrama, where we all could go to make believe and dance and sing. I know now why he laughed so long and well at me then; he knew his Old Barn was far closer to magic than any movie ever could be.

That laugh was maybe fifteen years or perhaps a lifetime ago… laughter lately for me mostly just goes unnoticed. I think a part of your hearing gets selective when the only family you have is laying in a hospital bed in a medically induced coma. All that talk about sludge and slush keeping us here, I think he’d think it funny that that’s exactly what it’s gonna say on his ticket outta here. He and I were never really friends and I think most days, he didn’t even like me much, but he’d say, “I’d be off to like what you like kid, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” He was a good dad. What I never saw was my Fielding family had kept me so well, I never really even missed not having more family than my dad. I think he told me a bit about my mom once but seeing his hurt over her, I never asked much else after. I think on it now though and I have no idea where I actually come from. I wouldn’t know my mom passing me by on the street, nor my grandparents, siblings, aunts or uncles, cousins... ? We could just pass each other with a nod and never again be close. I figured my dad and I would have that talk one day. I figured he’d think me old enough or make some peace with it enough to share it all. I figured wrong

The funeral was cold, and like always, the whole town was there. It was the event to be at. A reason to dress and cook and cry. Every arm was a hug and shoulder to cry on, but none knew the answers I needed. I wanted to be alone but in this town, you’re never alone. I found some peace in my dad’s old jeep. The truck was totaled and gone with him, but the jeep was his from before this place and was going to be mine once we finished figuring the troubles and getting it road ready again. I guess that’s on me now too to solve. I was staring out the soot fogged windshield at the horizon somewhere out passed the cold, when the driver’s side door SLAMMED, shook, and startled me. An old familiar face squinted in at me. Mr. Marshall, the town diner’s owner, who’d left Fielding for a while and returned not long after my dad and I arrived, said, “Donnie, son, step out of the Jeep please.” He’d said he had a confession for me and handed me a manilla envelope that had been worn quite a bit from repeated folding and fidgeting. He requested I sit down, take a breath, and open, read, and go through all of its contents before saying a word to him or anyone. Although somewhere far off, this needed my full attention.

Assuming nothing, I opened it.

It was a letter in my dad’s handwriting. It wasn’t frantic or filled with corrections. It was a complete thought, directed to me and rehearsed.

My name wasn’t Donnie and my dad wasn’t who I thought. I must have gone into shock because I can’t recall the letter quite clearly. I remember reading witness, protect, innocent, and Marshall to show me home.

Mr. Marshall said, “I know you’ll have questions, and once you’ve read it all; cry if you have to, just not longer than you need to, I’ll be inside there with a piece of chocolate cake and whiskey, and we can talk.”

To be continued next week…

Chapter Two

Over Chocolate Cake and Whiskey