Curtis Died

I was (and still am) obsessed with accidents of fate. What if I had not glanced up that day to see Brenda in my rear view mirror? What if Curtis had not died? I even construct elaborate fantasies in which fate becomes altered and the universe takes a different turn. My novel REDUX is about that.

Brenda was more passive about life and fate. What happened happened.

Curtis started having chest pains in late summer or early fall of 1963. He went to a doctor, probably Heywood Thompson (the doctor who monitored my broken arm, who attended me when I was a child and prescribed sulfa drugs even though he knew I was allergic to them which caused him to be the object of my mother's ire). It was diagnosed as a heart condition. I expect Curtis was told to stop smoking and drinking, to take it easy. Maybe he did cut back on the drinking. But nothing else changed.

I don't know how concerned the family was, how seriously the condition was regarded. I recall being at the house one evening when Curtis came in after driving a used car to a dealer in another town. He was tired, maybe in pain. Brenda and Isabel were concerned about him but also anxious that he had not been there to hear what they needed to tell him. Isabel seemed almost frantic as she fluttered around him recounting things that had gone wrong during the day. Brenda hovered anxiously near them. I hovered near her.

Later that night or another night Curtis lay on the brown Naugahyde sofa in the long narrow den (the sofa where Brenda and I played before we got married, where Curtis stood at the door one night and with some embarrassment noted that it was time for me to go home). Brenda, her mother and I gathered around. Brownie the cat might have been sitting with Curtis, maybe on him. Brenda and her mother would have liked that, would have said "how sweet". Although obviously uncomfortable, Curtis seemed serene, at peace. For some reason, perhaps anxious to act out my part as a caring family member, I patted him on the head, the way you would pat a dog. His hair was greasy and slick. His head felt strange to the touch. He looked at me pityingly.

We got the call about eight or nine Friday evening November the 8th, 1963. It was from Isabel I guess. Curtis had gone to a Shelby High football game, which he loved to do, and had had an episode. He was at the hospital. We needed to go there.

Isabel and I went to the admitting office. Brenda was taken by somebody to the treatment area.

The hospital was crowded that night. Brenda said she found Curtis lying on a bed (a gurney?) in the hall. I don't know if he had the final heart attack there or in a room. I don't know if he said anything to Brenda. She said that he clutched the sheet; his face turned yellowish purple and he died. Maybe he gurgled. He was 51 years old. I don't know what happened then. I don't recall if Brenda or someone else told Isabel and me. I don't remember Brenda's face. But I do remember that some people wanted to pray with us and I threatened them, ran them off. Isabel might have screamed.

The blur continued for the next days. Details are sketchy.

I recall that Brenda's uncles on her mother's side asked me to accompany them to the funeral home to pick out a casket. I represented the immediate family, felt out of place, inadequate. I recall that I liked the car that we rode in, a new Buick.

I remember that Isabel wailed "What will happen to me?" and that I was offended because I thought she should be thinking about Curtis at this time and not herself.

I remember - and this probably happened after the funeral - Brenda told me she could not leave her mother alone on Blanton Street. If I wanted to live with her I would have to
come with her. I don't remember how easy or how hard it was for me to decide.

I remember giving away the little dog Purp and thinking that it was my life we were giving away.