Final Viewing

short story set in the South

 

             Final Viewing

 Ellis Dodd had time on his hands, not a lot probably, but certainly all he had left was his own. He still went to his office every day, although, these days he needed it more than it needed him. Things ran splendidly without his hand at the tiller and Ellis had little real business to conduct. Every morning, in the manner of a ritual, he read the newspaper, not all of it, but the obituaries always,  the sports from summer into early fall, and on good days the comics.

One morning his grandson came up to see him.

“Have you seen this, Grandad?”

Ellis looked at his grandson as though he hadn’t seen him in years, wondering how the boy had gotten so old. He looked at the pages placed before him. By the time Ellis finished, his grandson was gone. No, he hadn’t seen this. He most certainly had not. Ellis took the rest of the day off.

Ellis Dodd walked along the chain link fence, searching for something he was certain he would find. He didn’t expect to be the first or the only one looking, because someone, he felt, was bound to have been there already. Someone had, and between the rusted water tank inside the fence and the back of the ruined community center outside, he found a neatly snipped opening. A foot hardened trail led from the fence to the mill building.

So many, he marveled. So many that they wore a path.

He bowed beneath the remaining wire and entered as one who had a right to be there, not as a trespasser. Like those others on this path before him, he knew he had earned a last visit�"-a right to view the body before it disappears into the earth.

Ellis walked away from the half-wrecked community center building. He couldn’t bear to look at it, but it followed him, entered him, and revealed itself to him not as the ruin he saw now, but as it was “then.”

Then...it was night, a hot, humid, honeysuckled night, and Ellis was sixteen again. There was music and laughter. The street in front of the Community House...Yes, that was it, the Community House, not center, but house. How could he have forgotten that? The street? Oh yes, the street was blocked off. People were dancing. Japanese lanterns were strung over the street and people were dancing underneath them. People, people everywhere, on the verandah of the Community House, sitting on their porches, standing on the sidewalks, everywhere. Where could he go? His palm began to sweat lightly and she squeezed it tighter. Iris, her name was Iris and she knew a place.

“This way, Ellis,” she said.

Behind the Community House, darker, cooler, private, between the wall and the tall boxwoods--a bower, she knew how to get there. Iris knew. The smells: night air, the earth, her body. A cotton dress under his hand sliding over her thigh, her hip...

They remained there through the speeches. They listened to Donald Cramer Jr., silver hair and silver tongue, talk about the great things that had happened that year, the progress the mill had made, about the dreams of his father, his grandfather, the whole race of Cramers. The history of the mill from the first two bricks mortared together to the most recent load of seersucker shipped out this morning. He went on so long that they embraced again.

“We have plenty of time, Ellis.”

When the speech ended, and they joined the crowd swelling toward the refreshment tables, they were starving. Ellis wanted to eat, but he also felt like running and jumping and singing. He marveled at himself, he was amazed at how he felt. Iris smiled at him, she had seen this before, and tucked in into her mind like a secret trophy.

Iris. He had not thought about Iris in years. There had been a time he could think of nothing else. What happened? And when? He walked past the rusty tank, the mill was a shadow in the corner of his left eye. Not yet, he wasn’t ready. Ellis walked to his right. The doors of the warehouse stood wide open, inviting. The warehouse first, then, when he was ready, the mill.

It was empty, swept clean. Not so much as a bale ticket left. He wasn’t surprised. Donald Jr. had kept things clean. The Cramers always kept things clean, even at the end. Who had overseen this? The son? No, probably one of the grandsons. They were all cut from the same cloth, whatever one Cramer did every Cramer did. Except perhaps this very last one who lost the mill. But, it was clean, and there is something to be said for leaving a place clean, especially for the last time.

 

The sound of his heels echoed off the walls. If there had been pews he would have felt he was in a church �" the service over, the people gone to Sunday dinner, nothing left but Ellis and…

He looked at the rough wooden walls, and saw white spots in the gloom. Cotton, bits of cotton stuck to nail heads and splinters in the wall. He tore a piece loose and rubbed it between his fingers. He held it to his nose and smelled Roger Ivey.

Roger Ivey never wore shoes in the summer and when Ellis spent summers with his grandparents he threw his own shoes into a closet to be forgotten until dread September neared.

Then, Ellis lived. He lived in shifts of days with Roger and nights with his grandparents. Ellis slaved with Roger in the cotton fields to buy them time in the woods or at the creek. They took turns, one at the plow, one on the mule’s back until the cotton grew as high as Mr. Ivey’s thigh. Then, with hoes so worn that the blades were no wider than the breath of three fingers, they chopped until the hoe handles were baptized with blister water. It was glorious; it was youth; it was barefoot summer.

By September he was almost as wiry as Roger, but by September it was over for Ellis and feet that had spread until one toe never knew its neighbor had to be painfully crammed back into shoes, shoes that would climb onto a city bound train, shoes that would be jailers until that great liberator, summer, came once more to imprison shoes and free boys.

Then finally, one summer was the last summer and Ellis never lived barefoot again.

In the empty warehouse Ellis stood tearing the cotton fibers into fine lint that floated to the floor like milkweed. The place was clean, not so much as bale ticket remained.  The Cramers were like that, leaving a place picked clean.His chest heaved once and he turned and walked into daylight, toward the mill.

 

The lock had been broken then hung in the hasp after the door was open. An apology? Ellis knew he would have done the same thing. Inside was the vestibule, straight ahead the doors to the weave room, that would be reserved for last. Left, the stairs rising up to the other floors, each floor the home of some operation essential to the making of cloth. The wall to his right...the time clock was gone. The metal racks for the timecards were empty. Hundreds of slots, filled hundreds of times, thousands of days, millions of hours. Pennies for wage.

He remembered something he had heard countless times. “The mill don’t pay much, but they treat you good.” It was half true. There were the street dances, there was low cost housing in the mill village, there was Mr. Donald Cramer Senior’s camp on the coast where every worker could have a week a year in a cinder block bungalow, but there was no escape. It was a life sentence. No, it was more than that. The same subtle indenture that bound Roger to the cotton field, had bound Iris to the mill village, and each generation of seasons there would appear a new Roger, a new Iris--a new Cramer.

He went up the stairs and visited each room, the place of each operation: the roving room, the spinning room, the slasher room, the dye house, the spooler room, the quill shop, the machine shop, the winder room, the carding room. His head swam at the thought of how many men and women it took to produce a bolt of cloth. And children, he had started at fourteen, it was hard to remember that he had ever been a child.

In the carding room he found one bit of debris that the last Cramer sweeper had missed. It was a piece of brittle cast iron from one of the carding machines, the big bristling drums that combed and stretched the cotton fibers so they could be turned into loose fluffy yarn called roving. The piece of iron had a date, 1898. Over a hundred years, he thought. This place has been “good” to people for over a hundred years.

Ellis had lived long enough to become a hostage to his possessions. There is a responsibility to survivorship, a death duty that can be paid only by another death. Until then graves must be tended against the day when…. Ellis thought morbid thoughts every time he tried to catalog the mass of crumbling photographs that he was heir to. The thought of these long dead faces had added compulsion to his visit, they were with him now. He had become the eyes of the dead. He could find among his memories few persons who had no connection to the mill, to cotton- a grandfather in a band uniform, the mill band. At twelve years old this grandfather had conducted John Philip Sousa’s band at a concert. One tune, Stars and Stripes Forever? He could not remember, he knew the mill had sponsored Sousa’s visit. Another picture, the same grandfather, hair parted down the middle, thin mustache, a tuxedo. His own band, the drummer had painted a palm tree on the big drum. Jazz, he could almost hear it. Years later, an aging man in overalls, a weaver for the mill. What happened?  His mother’s father in a baseball uniform, the mill team. He knew this story; a bad hop at the Cubs try-out, the eye never the same, but there was always a place at the mill for even a one-eyed machinist. They were good about that.

Pictures, faces, stories �" all different, all the same. He dropped the bit of iron and walked down to the weave room.

The doors opened inward. He prepared himself for the silence and entered. Once, when he was fifteen or sixteen, the power in the weave room had failed. The stillness was upsetting, the nerves in his ears resonated to a vanished tempo, the way an amputee feels an itch on a discarded limb. He took a few steps into the huge room, one whole floor of the mill. It wasn’t so bad.

If the warehouse had been a church, the weave room was a cathedral the tall ceiling supported by massive piers, all wood. There were no longer trees from which to cut such gigantic beams and planks. There would never again be such trees; they couldn’t live on the same planet as men.

The oak floor showed the places the looms had stood, over four hundred of them. He was standing in what had been the central aisle. He moved to one side and stood in a worn cross aisle, looking down at four ragged bolt holes in the flooring.

A Draper, this had been a Draper Loom, slow, steady, rhythmic, and able to weave horseshoes and dice onto a western pattern, never missing a spot on the dice. He held out his hands like a child standing before a piano. He could feel it, a bass thump, thump-thump-thump. From the rear of the room the tenor of the E Models, the oldest looms, English made. The Belgian Picanols, a hum, a blur, fast tight weavers- rich baritones. Soon he could hear them all, feel the floor vibrate beneath his shoes. From the din, the cacophony; a theme began to develop, theme of motion, heat and passion. He looked at his flabby arms and saw the muscular arms of a teenager, arms that every night had wrestled ninety pound rolls of cloth away from whirring, smashing, pounding machines.

He had great - grandsons now, older than he was then, one of them worked with him �" just down the hall, in an office of his own. Ellis looked across the vast room, a wooden door. The foreman’s office, industrial green to the height of a man’s shoulder, stark white above. His great- grandson’s office was larger and certainly better decorated. The boy worked at a computer terminal there, constructing from electrons and imagination, structures of glass and steel, modern, light, clean buildings. Buildings with dimensions tailored to fit the voids left by the passing of the great cumbersome dinosaurs like this mill. New kinds of buildings for a new kind of men, a new kind of world. The boy teased the old man because he was “computer illiterate.” Ellis was and he would stay that way, but his looms had been primitive computers.  Loops of chain had controlled the batteries of shuttles that shot across the loom, batted in ceaseless line drives by tappets on each side of the breast beam. Ellis could weave any pattern by adjusting his chain; stripes, checks, plaids, dice that rolled boxcars instead of little Joe. He could create any pattern the foreman would allow or demand.

Ellis went into the foreman’s office and closed the door. He closed it just as Mr. Donald Jr. had done all those years ago.

Donald Jr. gave Ellis a gift. He was proud of Ellis. He said so. It is hard to finish high school and work a regular shift.

(A twenty-five dollar savings bond, it would appear in the mill bookkeeping the next day at cost: $18.50.)

Was Ellis aware that the mill needed educated men if it was to survive and compete during the coming years? Had Ellis ever thought about becoming a foreman?

He never had but he did not say so.

Loans could be arranged. Ellis could go to technical college. Repayment by payroll deduction, just like for housing in the mill village. No cinder block bungalows for foremen, they could stay in the big house on the Florida trips, unless a Cramer was in residence, of course. Think it over Ellis, think it over.

Ellis Dodd walked out of the mill a little straighter than he had walked in. Tomorrow, after he had finished the obituaries, checked the box scores, and read Peanuts, he would walk downstairs to Ellis III’s office. He would thank his grandson and return the documents about the mill property project. He would approve the plans his great-grandson had drawn. Then he would move up the demolition schedule.

Ellis Dodd wanted it to make a clean job of it.

 

Author's Note

You comments welcome

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Quite an enjoyable, well-written short story.Although there were no mills around where I grew up, there's still a bit of familiarity to the ghost of a structure where once industry and living took place. On shoes--I recall having to wear shoes on the first day of school and being pretty unhappy about it. In the spring when the coldest temps were gone, I was a tenderfoot treading about to get my calluses back. Remembering early romance--wow. On the genius bit of wording concerning hoe handles, I need to relate something similar from my early life. Often, when there was digging or hoeing going on, someone would say, "Be careful that you don't burn the handle out of that hoe!" It was a joke, of course. (I actually did see shovel with burned handle once, but I think it probably came from being too close to a burning pile of trash.) I may be the last person qualified to give advice on punctuation, but the absence of a comma here and there made me back up and study the sentence to figure it out.

[Delmar Cooper]

Sam'l, thanks for reading this effort. Yes, there are some mechanical glitches and writer errors extant. I had forgotten this story until Campbell and I had a discussion about bloody axe handles. This story has had several incarnations, most were decapitations for excess length. There is no particular theme to this thing just a smattering of plot, but as I recall I wrote it initially on a good Friday, perhaps the churchy references came from that. Anyhoo, thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts.

[CD Campbell]

Probably one of the finest stories I have ever read. To walk along memory line at an advanced age, knowing that you will be the catalyst for it's destruction is tragically bittersweet. This is true southern americana, straight down to the cinder block bungaloes that each employee gets to share one week a year. Your stories take no effort to follow and this one is no exception. And you were right; the blister baptized hoe handle is one of the best lines i've heard. You should be proud of this story. CD

[Delmar Cooper]

Computer issues have kept me away. Thank you for reading and for your very flattering comments. I am proud of the story and of the characters that inhabit it. It is possibly the most sentimential thing I have ever written.
Stories longer than a few hundred words don't have much readership here so when A reader does find one of mine and comment I appreciate it. I will never hold that I am a poet, but I do want to be the best short story writer I can be. Still trying.

[CD Campbell]

I try not to flatter. That's probably why we're sarcastic 90% of the time. Have you tried to have this published?

[redflutterby]

A wonderful journey...well written and very good imagery.

[Delmar Cooper]

I appreciate your gracious words. Thank you for reading this story.

[Frieda P]

Love the nostalgia of this piece and the lesson acquired, I don't usually read stories here due to time constraints but Einstein Noodle sent me and it's Saturday, so I was lucky enough to be able to catch this priceless gem. Vivid imagery, I could see it play out right before my eyes...outstanding.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks for reading. Yeah, not a fertile ground for stories I have to hunt them out. I really appreciate your comments and noodle's recomendation.

[TL Boehm]

Oh wow this is good. I too so enjoyed the setting of this in the mill, the descriptions and the way Ellis moved through his past - sometimes skipping a gear or two and sometimes smoothly giving the feel that Ellis is aged. That little bit about his wife got me. Well done. Another superb bit is that I didn't see that ending coming at all. Wonderful write.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you for reading this old story. I enjoyed writing it, in all of its incarnations. It pleases me beyond measure that you enjoyed it.

[Lyn Anderson]

When I read your stories, I jump right into them. Like they are a real place. A movie. That to me is the sign of a good fictional write. The characters and settings are very real. The style is dry and somewhat narrative, but in a very effective way. I imagine it being read by some wonderful orator, like Morgan Freeman. I feel peaceful when I read your writes, even when the theme is somewhat dark.

[Delmar Cooper]

Kind words are always good to hear. "Somewhat dark?" what pray tell can a person of my sunny disposition ever have to do with dark? Hummm? Thanks for your kind comment.

[Lyn Anderson]

Yes, you are such a sunny man.:)

[Einstein Noodle]

whoa! i enjoyed every bit .. your use of time and memories and great job of investigating all the weaving mill terminology and machines .. totally felt and heard the rhythms in the weave room .. :) i didn't stumble nor was distracted by time constraints .. (difficult to slow down to read a long piece such as this) .. we all want to read, write, review and comments as much as possible .. so much to keep up on .. but this is well worth it .. marvelous twist at the end .. wouldn't change a thing .. this short story has threads that send roots out for a novel in my mind .. so glad i took the time to read this .. well worth it!
E.

[Delmar Cooper]

I was astonished to see you had read and reviewed this story. Frankly, so few have bothered with it that I forgot I had it in inventory. I posted a few long pieces and got so few reviews that I gave it up as a bad job and stuck to smaller things. Thank you sincerely for your comment.

[Einstein Noodle]

glad you left it here .. i think it is very good .. i would recommend it to anyone .. its worth the time :)

[Nusquam Esse]

Nostalgia is a powerful force; even the smallest things can send ripples through our memories decades later. In fact, it seems that as we grow older, it is the smaller things that really stand out when we re-visit our hometown. My old man grew up in Monroe LA, and every time we visit, he always brings up those small things; even as the city continually changes. I really enjoyed this, because I could envision much of this story; and despite my age, I felt connected to its nostalgia. I particularly liked the way you portrayed an entire town built around the mill, and the meticulous way it was ran. And then at the end of it all, as time moves forward; there is a final 'clean job' to be made... to say goodbye to those memories. Excellent, Pity this has not had more views!

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks for reading and for your excellent comment. I enjoyed writing this because it utilized "off the shelf" inventory from my mental library. Maybe a little too sentimental.

[Nusquam Esse]

Often sentimental pieces are not widely popular; because they rely so much on your own personal experiences. But bluntly put, these very pieces are often those we hold most dear as writers. I try to write a variety of stories, some are more personal and unlikely to be as popular, but I have never regretted writing them.