“I’ll Fly Away” by JoLynn Powers

“Then in the fourth generation they will return here, for the iniquity of the Amorite is not yet complete.” –Genesis 15:16

The Way of Holiness Church’s parking lot overflows with farm trucks and sedans as I pull my 1999 Bronco up the gravel drive. Parking the truck in the grass, I hear the steeple bell toll eighty-seven times. Making everyone living in the valley aware that someone in the small West Virginia community has passed.

Looking in the truck’s rear-view mirror, my face appears older than thirty-one. The two tours in Iraq I served have sandblasted deep lines into my face. Along with the touches of gray I’ve gained in my charcoal hair, it is hard to imagine I was once young. Straightening my navy tie, I run my hands through my hair before opening the truck door. My worn cowboy boots crunch on the gravel driveway as I approach the white Chaple. Crowds overflow onto the second-story porch of the sanctuary. Floral dresses, plaid dress shirts, and new blue suits lean into the open doors to hear the preacher speak about my Mamaw. Skipping every other stair, I leap up the steps, stopping before reaching the landing under the covered porch, trying not to push my way into the gathering. I nod and shake hands with cousins and friends as the funeral sermon begins.

“My Dear Brothers and Sisters, we gather here today to pray for comfort for the Coffman family at the loss of Ava May Coffman, your loyal and humble servant… Amen…Can I get an Amen?” Pastor James Lewis’s voice rings out across the covered porch. With his black-robed arm raised above his head he continues, “Father we refuse, to let the Devil steal our joy today, Father we refuse, to let sorrow into our hearts that would stop us from our celebrations today. We rejoice in the knowledge that your daughter, Ava, is coming home. We know she is resplendent in your glory, Father. We recognize your power to comfort and give peace to this righteous family that you hold them in the hollow of your hand, Father God. With them standing firm on your word, this precious soul is redeemed and will rise up and sit at the right hand of God. Thank you, Master, for saving her soul and making her holy in your blessed name. Amen… Hallelujah.”  Taking another raspy breath, the pastor continues louder, “There is nothing certain in this life but death, Hallelujah…There is nothing certain in life but death, Hallelujah. Did you hear me, brothers? You best prepare for the end of your mortal life like you prepare for the coming of the LORD! Repent and be saved, for God will redeem you… Amen!”  Pastor Lewis’s face beads with sweat as he dances with both hands in the air.

When the preaching ends, the choir stands to sing “I’ll Fly Away.” Most of the congregation is already on their feet, singing and waving their arms to praise Jesus and sing my Mamaw right to the doors of heaven. The wooden floor shakes as the congregation sings.  

“Some glad morning when this life is over

I’ll fly away

To a home on God’s celestial shore

I’ll fly away

I’ll fly away, oh, Glory

I’ll fly away

When I die, Hallelujah, by and by

I’ll fly away…

Shaking my head, I think, These people have way more faith in God than I have. I work to swallow down every bit of anger lodged in my chest from events of the last few years. The hell that I experienced during the war seems much more real than the promise of heaven above. When all the amens and hallelujahs are over, I look for my mom and dad as they move from their pew inside the church. Watching them, I push through the crowd to catch up as they weave their way to the top of the stairs.

I see my mom’s swollen face from a distance as I approach her. Her new green dress hangs on her shoulders like a shroud. Catching her attention, I say, “Hey, mom,” and her blue eyes light up when she sees my face.  Touching the elbow of my much taller dad, she says, “Ben… Mitch is here.”  Benetton Coffman is still a strong man for 67 years old. His blue suit shows some wear but covers the frame of a man who has worked hard all his life.  His oversized hand reaches out to greet mine as we meet in the aisle. The pain of losing his mother makes him look more tired than I have ever seen him. The droop in his face barely changes when our eyes meet. “I’m glad to see you were able to come… your grandmother would have wanted you here,” he says.

“She might be the only one who’s glad that I showed up,” I say, as my mother wraps her arms around my waist as we talk.

 “Now…that’s not true, Mitchel Lee, plenty of people will be happy to see you,” she says.

The three of us stood in the aisle for a few moments before everyone started heading down the stairs and outside for the burial in the churchyard.  At the top of the stairs, my mom hands me something from inside her white purse. The sunny yellow envelope is a reminder that today is my 31st birthday. What a shitty way to celebrate, I think, but say,” Thanks, mom,” instead.

Mom can sense that I am struggling as I look over the crowd towards my Mamaw’s closed casket. In my mind, I can still hear her say, “Now, Mitchel, you come give me a hug, son. I’m not going to be here forever.” Mamaw always knew that hugging an older woman was uncomfortable for the soldier in me and understood how hard the years in the desert were. She believed the time alone with her in the mountains hunting and fishing would heal my mind. That her farm was a holy place, “Mitch, you come and see me,” she would say. “We got work to do.” We’d spend hours working, doing everything from collecting chestnuts for Thanksgiving to planting gardens when she couldn’t bend over to push the small seeds into the life-giving earth anymore.

Interrupting my thoughts, my mom looks up at me and says, “She loved you, Mitch… She knows you did everything you could to stop Lukis…. We all know you did everything…,” her voice trailing off into a sob.

 Leaning closer into our little circle, Dad whispers, “I just wished you had killed the son of bitch…Your Aunt Susan is at the hospital right now sitting with her son. Lukis is under armed guard instead of being here mourning.” Shaking his graying head he continues, “I will never understand them.” His eyes are red from the tears he has already shed.

A few other church-family members approach the three of us to give their condolences. Some look right past me with fake smiles and speak only to my parents; others shake my hand for defending Mamaw Ava against the attack that left her dead.  Desperate, I think to myself, Hold it together Mitch… No crying. Just hold it together today. Not wanting folks staring at me, I leave the chapel the way I came in. Down the steep stairs with the pipe railing onto the sidewalk in the parking lot.

 Mom and Dad join the flow of country families walking down to the entry hall. The stairs moan low and slow from the weight of their sorrow, losing another member of the small church’s congregation. Arriving downstairs, my parents stand with the pastor and his wife in her fine hat at the door going out to the cemetery. The couple, married for 43 years, are hardened by years of managing a logging company and the duties of a school secretary. They shake every hand and give hugs as the mourners file out the door, my mom saying, “thank you,” to every person who pays my Mamaw any respect at all.  

 Our family’s people will gather on the crest of the steep hill at the family cemetery. The wooded plot is also the resting place of my grandpa, my great-granddad, and my great-grandmomma. Mourners walk up the gravel road in groups as the pastor’s wife leads several elderly women from the church to the kitchen to start the 20-cup coffee pot and warm the rolls for the after-service meal.

 I stop in the parking lot only to pull out a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, I draw in a deep, relaxing drag while looking over the cars for my younger sister, Rhetta. I don’t plan to stand with my family at the graveside. I have seen plenty of dark pits in the ground in this lifetime, I think to myself. Memories of burnt soldiers smoking inside desert-bombed vehicles try to steal what calm I have. When I reach my Bronco, I open the card my mother gave me and read it. Scrawled below across the bottom of the card is a short note saying, “Mitch, enjoy your turkey hunting trip, Love Mom and Dad.” Tucked into the envelope is a gift card for hunting supplies.

Silent tears burn my face as I realize my mother bought this card before Mamaw Ava died in my arms. I do a farmer’s blow, tossing snot into the gravel beside my truck. I try to gather myself together, but images from the night Mamaw died are on repeat in my head. I hear myself saying over and over, “Don’t…STOP! I’ll fucking shoot you if you move!” just before pulling the trigger of the shotgun. The ringing from the blast is as real today as it was four days ago. I can’t hear or see a thing until the flash from the blast stops in my head. Finally, the nightmare fades and I quit shaking from the mixture of anxiety and adrenaline.

For years, I have taken this week off for my birthday to spend time with my Mamaw and Papaw Coffman on their farm. Papaw passed away back in 1987, a few years before my deployment. The time on their farm always gave me a place in the woods to relax and find peace. I was seven or eight when I started hunting with my Papaw. He would teach me all about turkey behavior, say’n “Mitch you can’t move, you gotta be real quiet… these birds can see for miles.”

 While sitting in my truck, I think to myself, this is one time I wish I hadn’t come for the visit. Why did he have to show up that morning? The last bit of smoke rolls from my cigarette as I crush the butt of the under my boot. Looking up the steep road to the small cemetery, I finally see my sister standing at the grave with my aunts and uncles. Above them, my mom and dad stand under a large oak tree near the head of the grave, across from the pastor.

Pastor Lewis speaks to the family with tears in his own brown eyes. Clearing his throat, he says, “Death reminds us that we live in a fallen world where evil tries in every way to keep us from reaching heaven. Today we know that Ava was taken away so she could rise up into heaven and be reborn. Rejoicing in her resurrection.” The preacher continues with a verse from the Bible, “As found in John 3:16, ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life’ amen.”  

As he finishes his sermon, he reaches for a handful of fresh black earth at his feet. Then, raising his fist, he says, ‘“We therefore commit this body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’ In certain hope of Ava May Coffman’s resurrection into a new and eternal life, Amen and Amen.” With that, he tosses the handful of dirt into the air above my Mamaw’s casket.

 At the graveside, my aunt Silvi stands in front of me. She looks over her shoulder and watches me with my head bowed during the sermon. At the end of the prayer, she hands me two flowers from the bouquet she carried up to the grave. “Here! Take these,” she says. Her gentle voice continues, “I’m so sorry to hear about what happened… I hope you are OK.”

 I lean back away from her and say, “Yeah, it’s going to be fine.”  Looking away, I find my eyes landing on my dad, standing next to the headstone that is already in place. I follow my aunt as she joins the line to walk by the open grave. But I continue to watch my dad as he bows his head in front of his father’s plot. My papaw Henry LeRoy Coffman has waited on Ava May for a long while. I think.

Aunt Silvi and I follow the rest of the family up the wooded hill, rounding Mamaw’s resting place. Tossing my flowers into the darkness chokes me hard. I hate looking down at all the flowers on top of the shining maple casket. How small everything looks for a woman who filled up so much of my world.

As I’m not planning to stay for the family meal at the church, I make my way to my sister who is talking with family outside the fellowship hall. Surrounded by the warm sun under the bluest sky we’ve had in weeks.

 My younger sister, beautiful in her black funeral dress, says, “Hey, where have you been? I’ve been looking for ya.” At that moment, I didn’t realize how much I needed to talk with someone and how much she needed to hear my story. We leave the large group of mourners, walking slowly to a bench under a canopy of trees that block the bright sun. In the quiet churchyard, we both sit and wait for a breeze. Finally, Rhetta breaks the awkward silence.

“Mom told me that she learned from the police investigators that Lukis Ray is apparently suffering from schizophrenia. Did you know that?”

 Leaning on the bench’s armrest, looking off into the layers of rolling mountains, I say, “Well, after the police questioned me, the cop said something like ‘Lukis didn’t even know who he was during their questioning.’ I just figured he was just high on something that night.”

            Rhetta explains, “Mom told me that Lukis got dragged off by the police for causing a public disturbance in Elkins a couple weeks ago. I guess he threatened to attack a couple outside Duke’s. When he started getting violent, Aunt Susan threw him out of her house.”

“So how did he get so pissed off at Mamaw?” I asked.

“I guess he went to the farm thinking he could stay with her. But Mamaw wouldn’t let him in. She knew something was wrong with him.”  

“I can’t blame her,” I said, with a deep sigh, “It’s a shame since we all growed up together at her house. All of us cousins playing softball together in the field.”

 Rhetta continued to report what she heard from our mother, “Sgt. Wesleyan says Lukis Ray heard voices that told him Mamaw Ava was why he had a crappy life. That she needed to pay for leaving him homeless.” With her voice cracking, Rhetta added, “You know, over the winter, he stopped and asked her for some money, right?”

As I shake my head in disbelief, Rhetta continues, “She wouldn’t give Lukis her Social Security check, so he threatened her a while back. He just snapped and turned on her. How can that even happen, Mitch?”

“I dun know Rhetta; I was sleeping over at the farm. Like every year, gettin’ ready for Turkey hunting the next morning.” Gathering my thoughts I continued, “I have no idea why he snapped.”

  Trying my best to explain what I woke up to that night, I say, “All I can tell ya is he slid open the bedroom window from the outside.  He crawled in the house hidden behind that big rhododendron bush that Mamaw loved so much.”

 My body begins to tremble again as I continue the story. “He ends up standing next to her iron bed. All dirty looking and crazy as fuck,” I say, pulling another cigarette out of the pack. “I didn’t know he was in there until he hollered out her name in the dark.” I slow my speech and drawing her name out in an evil hiss, “AVVvaaa… like some kind of freak.”

The horrible memory dragged me back to the darkest time in my life. Images of Lukis standing over her, with a kitchen knife about to stab her, came into focus in my mind.  When I entered the hallway, I was in shorts and no shirt. It was dark when I finally made out the shape of a man in there. It only took me seconds to reach for my shotgun. I put a bead on him and hollered as loud as I could, “Don’t…Stop! Stop, or I’ll fucking shoot you!” Finally, I realized it was Lukis and he just starts stabbing her in her neck and back. Blood was flying everywhere; she was defenseless, stuck in her bed!

Thinking twice about who he was, I still pulled the trigger. I just wanted her to live!  My ears rang from the blast in the tiny room, smoke rolled out of the barrel, and I couldn’t quite see her. I rushed to her side as Lukis slid to the bedroom floor. Blood splattered everywhere, more blood than I have ever seen, some pooling on the sheets, even her hair was black from all of it. The birdshot peppered the wall next to Lukis, where I blasted his leg through. I hugged her and wailed, but she was already gone.

As a wave of sadness rolls through me, I say,” I couldn’t get to her in time.” Tears roll down my lips and chin. My sister reaches out for me and I lean into her arms. “Rhetta,” I say as I choke and try to take another breath, “I shot him, Rhetta, I wanted him dead…But I didn’t,” I sob. My whole body shaking from the built-up pain. “I had mercy on him. But I couldn’t save her, there was just too much blood.”

            Rhetta wraps her tiny arms around me tighter, as if her petite body can protect me from the monster that is Lukis Ray. Together we weep until she finally says, “Mitch he’s crazy and nothin in this world would have stopped him.” Touching my face, she says, “Look at me.” I raise my face to look at her, “You did what had to be done, that’s all…Darlin, that’s all you have ever done. No one blames you for this or what happened in Iraq; you can’t save everyone.” I look up at the peaceful mountains that surround the valley of the church when she reminds me, “We are just happy you are one of the good guys.” Her smile warms my heart.

Pulling away from her, I try to straighten my shirt and adjust my tie. Wiping my face with both hands, we get ready to walk back across the lawn. Rhetta and I joke a bit to break the tension and to settle ourselves. She says, “Mitch, you look like shit!” Continuing to wipe the snot from my face, I say, “Thanks, you look great too!”

            At least Rhetta understands that I need to leave and I get that she needs to stay with my mom and dad. “She’ll explain everything to them,” I think as I walk with her to my truck.  In silence, I open the old Bronco’s door, reach out to her for a goodbye hug, and let out a loud sigh. We stand in each other’s arms for a long while. Then she says, “Mitch, have the police finished with you?” I nod.  She says, “That’s the best news of all.” Turning away, she heads inside the church to find our family.

 Returning to my childhood home after leaving the service, I could not face any more questions about what happened. The night drags on as my parents arrive home late. My dad is still angry when he walks in the door with a tie in one hand and his suit coat in the other. My mom heads straight to her bedroom to change, and Rhetta slips in, holding her gray dress shoes in one hand. After hanging up his coat, my dad heads into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. With his back turned, he asks me, “Do you think it’s a good idea hunting in the morning at Mamaw’s place?” I know he is still upset and wants me to mourn with him, but I can’t.

“Dad, I have two days left of my vacation… I’m going… I need to.” He turns around, looking me in the face. Reluctant to hear my words, he pours a cup of coffee for each of us on the large wooden kitchen table. As if in a dream, he says, “I’m not sure I will ever be able to go back… To my home place.” I imagine all the memories he has as he pushes a cup of coffee to me.  

The family spends the evening together, comforting my dad and reliving the best moments of Ava’s life. My father shares a story about how Mamaw was so short she couldn’t reach the top shelf in the kitchen cabinets. So, you’d see her hauling that old metal milk crate around to stand on. God forbid you ever moved it where she couldn’t find it; she’d cuss you until a fly wouldn’t light on you. We all remembered how she loved strays; dogs were her favorite. She always had a few mangy ones roaming the farm and house with her, trailing along like children. Mamaw was a constant source of love and laughter. I chose to stay with my folks that night. Sleeping fitfully in my old bed, with loud and painful dreams.

  I wake slowly in the darkness of an early spring morning in my childhood home. It is 4:30 a.m., and nothing has risen yet, not my father or the family dog. This is the most peaceful time of the day. I eat in silence and dress while loading my pack. Memories of my mother stuffing a sack lunch into my blue backpack for my first hunting trip with Papaw fill my head. Then, images of my father putting together a knapsack full of fishing bait and pepperoni rolls for a bass fishing trip to the neighbor’s pond. These memories swirl around as I think of all the times I stuffed everything I owned into an Army duffle bag. Yet, this dark morning, I placed a turkey decoy, my slate calls, and a sharp knife in my desert camo rucksack instead.   

 In the light of the moon, I pull up to the white farmhouse where my life changed.  I do not stop to relive the memories of a few days ago. I know where I am goin’ is more important. Alone, I pass the farmhouse in my turkey-season camo. The calm and damp feels fresh on my skin as I walk under the green tree line just before dawn. I carry a backpack and the shotgun I borrowed from my dad past all the memories of my childhood. I remember the summers growing up playing in her creek catchin’ craw crabs. The family suppers with my folks and her home-canned tomatoes, the winters I spent sledding down Mamaw’s big driveway hill, drinking hot cocoa with her when I got too chilled to do another run. I helped her plant her large garden plot and all the summers spent on the back porch snapping beans and peelin apples for her pies. It was hard not hearing her voice that morning, wishing me good luck.   

 Over my life, I had brought dozens of birds to my Mamaw’s back porch where we skin and dress ‘um. Her wearing a housecoat on the wooden floor, beaming at our luck. “God provides. Doesn’t he Mitch? He always provides,” Mamaw would say. Then, she would wait and listen to the story of the day’s hunt. By the end of the evening, after dinner was done and the bird safely in the house, she would say, “I think this one is the most beautiful bird you ever brought me,” knowing that I worked for her praises.

Tears swell in my eyes walking past the dark house at the base of the slope. Passing through the uncut pasture, I follow the path to the top of the ridge into the woods. In the predawn hours, it would be easy to get lost in the deep forests of West Virginia. I find my way by memory; I find the gas well storage tank near the top of the ridge and circle down in front of it. I find the hundred-year-old fallen poplar tree and take my place in the worn spot under a broken limb.

Within minutes, fairydiddles cross the ground in front of me in search of fallen acorns, as a herd of deer passes from one feeding ground to another. At dawn, when the sky grows gold and orange, every bird hidden in the trees begins their praises for the new day. Teary-eyed I think to myself, Please forgive me for ever wasting even a moment with her, and tell her I am here! Tell her I’m in her woods waiting for her turkeys to return. As the darkness disappears, the woods come into focus as the fog rises off the damp ground.

With the sky clear, a dozen or more wild turkeys leave their roosts high in the hardwood trees and glide to the forest floor, each crashing into the remaining winter leaves with a loud rustling. In my silence, I hear the clucking and peeps of the turkeys moving through the crisp morning. They scratch the forest floor looking for bugs and acorns. Bobbing their heads, they pass from old timber into a spring hedge row. The flock disappears one at a time, and then cautiously reappears, with the immature jakes leading the clan. A dozen or more hens then follow the boys out into the long grass. Finally, the last bird of the flock appears.      

Almost by surprise, the most regal tom emerges from the woods. He begins his strut at the end of the hedge, where the meadow crosses into my family’s pasture. With his head held high, he fans his great tail and drops his large black wings into the soil between the grasses. I hold my breath as the mature bird ruffles up all the bronze feathers on his body. Expanding his broad chest, he takes a deep breath and then lets out a loud echo of a gobble, turning his body to look at the hens who begin to follow his call across the field.  

  My dad’s shotgun rests on the dead fallen tree as I wait to see if the clucking hens will be impressed with his blood-red head and blue snood. The hens cluster around the tom, watching him dance proudly. This peaceful morning, the tom has won. This time, he will enjoy the safety of the moment, surrounded by the choir of the waking birds. Turning my head slowly in the low light of the early morning, I say to my Mamaw, “Glory Be! Isn’t he the most beautiful tom we’ve ever seen?”

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