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Why Gum

Kevin Heaton

Uncle Herman broke Johnny’s
back with a two-by-four
for not finishing the chores
fast enough. Johnny was always
so quiet and gentle.

If Aunt Alice ever spoke out-
of-turn, or was late with supper;
he would beat her and snatch
fists full of hair from her head.
Sometimes when he beat her,
she would run away; then, he’d
beg, and she’d go back. In 1963,
she came to visit Grandma
and bought me a quarter pack
of Black Cats. I could always
see her scalp.

His face was prune pit-picked
and covered in twenty-year
old blackheads; long past ripe.
He farmed lush, fertile acres
of Kansas wheatland, but their
shack had wood floors. Each
field sprouted oil jacks; pumping
day and night, but that miser
counted every penny.

At reunions, he’d follow me out
to the porch swing and roll
cigarettes while telling
me stories. Each story ended
with the words: “why gum”.

All I could think about was
that two-by-four.

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