It's suppertime. My wife is teaching school late tonight and I don't like eating alone. So, I picked up barbecue from a place my mother-in-law likes.

I appeared on her doorstep, unannounced, holding a fresh bouquet—fresh from the supermarket.

Surprise.

She's independent, my mother-in-law. She lives alone—not counting her cats.

She fell recently. A few times. Once in the garage. Again this morning, in the bathtub. She has a bruised tailbone. I can tell she's in pain. I wish there were something I could do.

Sandwiches and flowers are the best I could come up with.

“I brought supper," I say. "Hope you're hungry.”

I'm in luck. She is.

Mother Mary uses a walker. It's candy-apple red. The same contraption that took me four tedious hours to assemble. We call it the General Lee.

When she finishes arranging flowers, she tells me she'd like to eat supper in the den, on her recliner. So I get her situated.

The Weather Channel is blaring at a volume loud enough to interfere with air-traffic transmissions.

I start to turn it off.

"No," she says. "Leave it

on, I wanna see tomorrow's weather."

Yes ma'am.

And so we eat pulled pork while Jim Cantore demonstrates the impact of high-pressure systems on the greater southeastern region.

"How's Ellie Mae?" my mother-in-law shouts.

She's being polite. I don't have kids, so she's asking about my coonhound.

"She's good," I holler.

She adds with a wink, "I like it when you write about your dog, but I like it better when you write about me."

Shameless.

I know Mother Mary's not feeling well. I can see it on her face. But she's sophisticated to a fault. She comes from a world that's peppered with Antebellum columns and parlors with high ceilings.

She's learned how to smile through pain and make dinner guests welcome.

In the years I've known her, I've watched her give that welcome to…

I'm at a barbecue. At least that's what they call it.

The man who threw this party is a doctor. He's the friend of a friend, and his house deserves its own zip-code. The propane grill looks nicer than most Japanese SUV's.

Someone offers me a beer. It's a European brand. Never heard of it.

I shake a man's hand. He's an attorney in Atlanta. He just bought a summer home on the Gulf. He shows photos of it to anyone within eyesight.

I meet a woman, she's the owner of a big-city PR firm. She cannot begin a sentence without saying, "I have to be completely honest with you."

I don't belong here.

I have to be completely honest with you, this doesn't feel like any barbecue I've ever been to.

The cookouts of my childhood were pitiful affairs. We had smoke pits. Not the kind from Sears, but the kind your granddaddy makes with cinderblocks and chain-link fencing.

If I close my eyes, I can see the whole thing.

On the grill—if you can call chain-link

a grill—sits a recently skinned pig. Men sit on stumps. They wear work-shirts with snap buttons. They have coolers of cheap beer. And clear stuff.

Behind the pit: a structure called the “hut.” It's not a barn, nor a shed, but a half-building, rusted to hell. It houses a broken tractor, a Ford, and an orange sofa.

From time to time, men lift the pit cover. They shovel glowing red pecan embers into the smoking hole. Some talk about baseball, hateful boss-men, or their war-hero daddies.

While they jaw, I notice a white-haired man missing his pinky.

“Lost this finger in the gear-drive of a stock-roller,” he tells me.

“Did it hurt?”

“What do you think, boy?”

Somebody's wife exits the house. Men notice her. Everyone stands when she nears because she's female. One man removes his hat—a practice I hope never…

I wrecked my truck one mile outside Georgiana, Alabama. Long ago. The only thing I remember is the smack of metal. My driver's window busted into ice.

I thought I was dead.

I had the life-flashing-before-my-eyes experience. I saw myself in diapers. Middle school. I saw my wife, Jamie, in the passenger seat.

She screamed, "I love you, Sean!" while my truck rolled.

They would've been her final words.

I was too shell-shocked to repeat those words back to her with what might've been my last lungful. I regret that.

She helped me climb out of the vehicle. We sat on the side of the highway. Jamie tore a piece from her shirt and dabbed blood from my face. She cried so hard she gagged.

I tried to say something, but my voice didn't work.

The paramedics arrived.

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” asked a large blue uniform.

I couldn't.

“Your NAME, sir.”

I was too confused. All I said was, "My truck."

"Yeah," he said. "That ain't a truck anymore. You're one lucky sumbitch, sir."

It was an understatement.

After

I regained my senses, the EMT's told me that earlier the same morning—only miles up the interstate—another accident had happened.

A semi truck jack-knifed. An economy car skidded beneath the trailer. The top of the car got ripped off—the family inside was ruined.

“It was a traveling gospel group,” said the paramedic. “They were leaving a church gig. They were high-schoolers.”

I'll never forget hearing about those kids. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I've seen my share of old-fashioned gospel groups.

Take, for instance, the time I drove six hours to North Alabama, just to watch three brothers sing. I used to lay concrete with them before they started traveling the circuit. The eldest, Aaron, was a good man—built like a Philco refrigerator.

I remember when a contractor tried to cheat Aaron and his brothers…

7:32 P.M.—I'm looking at heaven. My truck is parked in a peanut field right now. My coonhound, Ellie Mae, is in the passenger seat, eating my barbecue sandwich.

I just left a wedding. It was in an old clapboard church. I waited in line to shake the groom's hand.

He hugged me and said, "God, I wish my daddy were here."

Yeah.

His father's been dead a while. I remember the day his father fell off that roof. That year, my friend wore his daddy's jacket all the time—even in summer.

Just before I congratulated his bride, he whispered, “You think people in heaven can see us?”

All I could say was, "I hope so."

I wish I would've thought to say something more poetic.

Anyway, I had to leave the reception early because Ellie Mae was waiting in my truck.

On the drive back, we stopped for barbecue. I ordered one sandwich for myself, one for Ellie.

And now I'm in a field, wondering if this isn't what heaven's like. Quiet. I hope heaven isn't too loud and

obnoxious like some preachers claim.

I once attended an Iron-Bowl tailgate party in Birmingham. It was so noisy I had a headache for three days. If eternity is anything like that, I'd rather raise peanuts with my fellow sinners here below.

I also hope my friend Tyler is up yonder—wherever yonder is. He overdosed on Methadone. That was a shock. None of us thought he touched anything harder than Budweiser.

One afternoon, I showed up at his apartment. A woman in a maid's uniform answered the door. She told me the former tenant had passed.

Former tenant.

Tyler said once that he believed dead people turned into music. And I've thought about that a lot since he died.

“You know how music gives you chills?” he explained, killing a Budweiser. “And everything makes sense? That's where we go. Like music.”

Tight…

I saw her in the Winn-Dixie parking lot. I was walking in. She was coming out. I recognized her right off.

I've changed a lot over the years. She hasn't. She looks like she did when I sat in her English class long ago. White hair, pearls, dressed to the nines.

She taught night classes.

Back then, I'd arrive at campus early. I'd eat supper in my truck—a pimento cheese sandwich—while doing homework. Then, I'd change my work-shirt and go inside.

Hers was the only class I didn't hate.

She wasn't an overly friendly woman. And because of this, several students didn't care for her. But she was kind to me during a time when I felt lost.

And in my book that's a good teacher.

Though as it happens, I'm not exactly what you'd call a good pupil. I never have been. In my school career, I've spent most of my accredited hours trying to figure out whether the professors were speaking graduate-level Pig-Latin.

After my first semester with her, I signed up for her English II course.

After I graduated, I took two more of her classes, just because I liked her.

My mama asked why on earth I'd go to the trouble, taking classes I didn't need.

I hate goodbyes, I guess.

I remember when her husband passed. She didn't come to school for a week. The entire night-class-full of construction grunts and cocktail waitresses buried her desk in sympathy cards.

I went to the funeral with another student. We both wore neckties. She cried when she saw us.

We returned the favor.

The night of our last class, I remember her saying, “I've enjoyed having you, you're a smart boy.”

Smart.

That might seem like a small word. But she's one of the only teachers who's ever gone and said that. That single kindhearted sentence has done me a lot of good over the years.

That…

Early morning. Belleville Avenue. That's me in the kitchen, eating bacon by the handful, wearing a coat and tie.

I just got engaged. My future in-laws are throwing a brunch. My soon-to-be aunt, Catherine, cooked nearly fifty pounds of bacon for this shindig.

I even bought a new shirt for this brunch. Also: a coat, necktie, and new belt—one without a buckle.

“You can't wear a BELT BUCKLE to an engagement party," proclaimed my future-spouse. "People will think you're a 'neck. You need a DRESS belt.”

What could be dressier than a fella waltzing around, sporting a Beechnut buckle the size of a pie-plate?

It would never do.

Earlier that week, my wife carried me to JC Penny's in Andalusia. She selected a skinny belt not fit for stroping a razor. And a fifty-dollar button-down with a shirt-tag reading: “wrinkle-free.”

I want my money back.

The doorbell rings. Folks in their Sunday best begin to arrive. I've never met these people before, I'm not sure they'll like me. I am sick-to-my-stomach nervous about it because I have

about as much sophistication as an empty mayonnaise jar.

Many guests are elderly. Lots of pastel colors. Strings of pearls. Floral hats.

An old woman hugs me. Then another. Then another. And I smell like lady's perfume in a matter of milliseconds.

Someone invites me to church. Another invites me drinking. One fella invites me to do both.

Next: my future uncle. He's a small Baptist man, with eyes that shine. He shakes my hand, tells me he loves me.

Then, I meet a fella with a prosthetic arm and a warm face. He hands me a silver dollar and winks. I still have that coin.

I meet ten Flossies, five Roberts, one Mary, two aunt Catherines, a Mary-Catherine, eleven Jims, nine hundred Jameses, the West Boys, a Ben, a Bob, a Bill, a Blake.

And one Bentley.

I meet aunts, cousins, childhood…

Rascal's old. Too old to purr, she sleeps all day, she can't jump anymore. She's twenty years old.

Her back legs quit working months ago—arthritis. And she only eats soft food.

She came into this marriage as Jamie's illegitimate feline. Back then, Rascal was piss and vinegar, wrapped in fur, with a preference for squatting on expensive items.

I don't mind telling you: she used to hate me.

As a young cat, she'd glare at me like Rosemary's Baby. Once, she hid beneath our mattress to avoid a veterinary visit. I tried to remove her; she tried to sever a major artery.

Another time: she vomited in my dress-shoes. And once, on Christmas Eve night, she deposited a holiday miracle on my pillow.

But that's ancient history.

I'm not sure when it happened, but we fell in love. She quit despising me and started waiting in our windowsill for me to arrive home from work.

I even took her fishing once. I gave her a few baitfish. She tortured them, then licked their guts clean.

During football games, she'd

sit on our coffee table—beside my beer—watching TV. So help me, the cat watched television.

When I'd holler, “C'mon, dammit!” at Alabama's offense, she'd flick her tail.

And she's a daddy's girl. While I write stories, she sleeps on my desk, between my typewriter and computer. Or in my lap.

I went to pet her last night. A clump of twenty-year-old hair came off in my hand. Her skin is paper. She's been losing weight. Her bones are porcelain

God.

Time is running away. I've changed a lot in twenty years. You wouldn't even recognize the person I used to be, either.

I used to be stupid, impulsive, short-sighted. Long ago, I skipped a college English final to go on a fishing trip. I earned an F.

What was I thinking?

Some days, I look in the mirror and wonder at…

Calhoun County, Florida—a small world bordered by the mighty Apalachicola. A rural community, forty minutes south of the Georgia line. A place where you can get live crickets at supermarkets. Where you can still buy plug tobacco.

It's a progressive area.

Here, for instance, they observe Goat Day—a holiday honoring goat-milking, banjos, hell-fire preaching, and greased pig chases.

It bears mention: I've chased a greased pig once—at a Baptist fair. I broke two ribs.

So welcome to Blountstown. It's more than a small town. It's Tonya Lawrence's life. She grew up in these schools, played softball on this dirt, shopped at The Pig, birthed Calhoun-County babies.

One day, she went to the doctor for a routine visit. The doctor ordered lab work. The results were a punch to the face. Her kidneys were shutting down.

Tonya says, “It was devastating, I always considered myself a strong person, but once I started dialysis...”

Yeah.

Seven nights a week, she hooked to a machine, watching her strength run through little tubes.

Her condition isn't just the kind that kills. It's

the sort that ruins your life first.

And there's a problem: kidney-donor lists are more exclusive than US congressional barbecues. It takes a long time to locate an organ. Best case scenario: seven to fourteen years.

Tonya's children will be filing for AARP by then.

Still, this is Old Florida, a place where everybody knows everybody. Where the school principal graduated with your daddy's fishing-buddy's cousin. Where gossip flies across Facebook faster than a greased hog.

Tonya's friends put the word out for donors.

But sadly, this isn't a fairytale. And drumming up vital organs isn't as easy as holding canned-food drives at the sheriff's station. Tonya waited.

In the meantime, she's received affection. Lots of it.

She's been fielding billions of phone calls, responding to texts, tapping out Facebook thank-yous. And I'm willing to bet she received enough gift baskets to…