by john van becay

“Hello. “

“John, It’s Kel.“

“Hey, Kelley.  It’s good to hear from you.  How are you?  How’s Karen?”
“We’re good.  Working too much, but what else is new.  John, I have some news.  About Russ.“

“Oh?”

“He’s…” Kelley’s voice breaks a little, “John, he’s not good.  He’s weaker than he was.”

“Oh, Kelley, Kelley, I don‘t know what to say.”

“I know it’s hard.”

“I am so sorry.  It’s his heart?”

“Yeah.  Congestive heart failure.”

“Oh, Kelley.”

This phone call is not surprising.  Big, affable, Russ, overweight his entire life, is reaching the end of it.  Russell is my cousin, Kelly, his younger brother.  Once, Russell and I were close.  Kelly, at the time, was too young to hang around with us.  Now Kelly is the member of his family I communicate with, though not as much as I would like.  He is, usually, too busy.    He and his wife Karen live in Las Vegas, NV.  I live in Aurora, Co.  Russell lives in Spokane, WA.   Once all of us lived in the 4 corners region, my family and I in Durango, Co, Russell and Kelly and their family in Kirtland N.M., barely an hour apart then, the better part of a lifetime between us now.

I last saw Russell at his father’s funeral in Las Vegas some years before.  He did not attend his mother‘s funeral 2 years later.  Kelley told me at the time, in Las Vegas, at the second funeral, that Russell was unable to get on a plane.

“It was his weight, sure,” said Kelly then, “But I think it was the yo-yoing.  He’d get up to, I don’t know, 350 pounds, maybe more, maybe 400.  Then he’d go on a crash diet.  He’d lose a hundred pounds in a couple of months.  Can you imagine that?  I think it was hard on him.  Hard on his organs, hard on his heart.”  I hear sadness in Kelly’s voice but there’s more, there’s bewilderment, even anger.   “He can’t come to his mother’s funeral.  His mother.  He can’t get on a plane.  He’s too big, he’s too weak.”

Now, on the phone, Kelly seems to want to talk.  Though Kelly and I have had few encounters as adults, we have a strong bond.  We are both younger brothers.  Neither of us is afraid of emotion and we both like to cut to the chase.  “It’s our turn now,” I say.  “Our parents, our aunts and uncles, they’re all gone.  We’re the next generation.  We’re up.  Our children will start losing us.”  I have no children.  Kelly has 4 with a first wife whose name I don’t remember.  Russell has…I don’t know exactly.  I think he’s had 2 wives, but I’m not sure about the kids.  My eyes are scratchy, there’s a weight in my chest, I don’t know how many kids Russell had.  I don’t know their names, or the names of Kelly’s kids or the names of Betsy, their sister’s, children.  Or how many Betsy had.  Too late I remember Kelley lost his daughter Erin a few years previous, from sudden heart failure.  She was about 32, left a husband and 2 toddlers up in Canada somewhere.

“Not all our children bury us,” says Kelly.

“I’m sorry Kelly, I didn’t think.  I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s ok John.  Don’t worry about it.”  Kelly has the kindness that endeared me to his father, Raymond.  It is an innate goodness, and unwillingness to hurt others.  Raymond was the kindest man I ever met.  Kelly may be second.

I am nearly in tears, for Russell, for Kelly, for myself, for something irretrievable.    I try for safer ground.  “Russ and I used to run around in that Sprite of his.  He’d come pick me up in Durango and off we’d go.  It was freedom, independence, we ran around all the time.   All over the place.   I’d never done that before.  I don’t think Russ had, either.  We would spend the morning in Durango, the afternoon in Kirtland and the evening back in Durango.  We’d drive 50 miles on a whim.  Get hamburgers and cokes and drive someplace else.  I’ll always remember it.  The fun we had.”

“I remember,” said Kelly.  “you and Russ pal-ing around.  I was too young to go.”  He seems thankful for the change of subject but there is some longing in his voice.

“One time,” I said, “We were pulling away in that Sprite, Russ driving, the 2 of us crammed in that miniature car.  You were standing on the porch, in that house in Kirtland, watching us go.  We’d spent the afternoon there, probably ignoring you.  You were watching us go.  I waved at you and you waved back.  You seemed sad.   I felt bad about it.”

“I remember that,” said Kelly.  “I remember.  I was sad.  I felt left out.  But I was too young to go.”

“”And where would we have put you in that sports car?”

“Yeah, where.”

“Should I call Russ?”

“He’d love to hear from you,” said Kelly.  “He’s on oxygen all the time now.  His voice is a little raspy.  But he can talk.  Call him, he would like that.”

“Is he…?   Can he…?  How’s his memory?”

“He’s fine that way,” said Kelly.  He’s just weak.  Probably can’t talk very long.”

“Thank you, Kelly.”

“Sure.  And John. “

I wait.

“Do it soon.”

“I understand.  Kelly, I am so sorry.”

“I know.  It’s hard on everyone.”

I don’t remember the first time I saw Russ in that Sprite, but I can reconstruct how it probably went.  It was about 1965.  We still had Boots then.  Boots would have come unwound off the lawn and rushed the driveway announcing an unknown car.  I would be the first to respond.  I was the only one that could handle Boots all the time so in an unknown encounter I would always go.  I would grab him by the collar and watch this miniature British sports car roll to a stop on our gravel driveway.  When Russ got out with his big smile, out of that little car, it would have seemed  practically a magician’s act.  I controlled Boots while he sniffed Russ and the car.  When he was done he lifted his leg against the left rear wheel and wandered off.

Russ explained the where and the when of the car.  I was about 15, infatuated by all things automotive, and dumb as a post about actual mechanics.  Russ was a few years older but his relationship with cars was about the same.  I fell instantly in love with this quirky downsized British sports car made by Austin Healy.  The bug eyed headlights mounted on the hood (bonnet, I would have corrected people) gave the car a cartoon personality and insured its future cult status.  Austin Healey made the bug eyed version of the Sprite from 1958-61.  Its limited run only enhanced its iconic stature.

I couldn‘t wait for a ride.  The interior was Spartan and functional, as, I imagined, sports cars were supposed to be.  I was about half Russ’s size and I felt squeezed in the cramped interior.   All early Sprites were convertibles.  The plexiglass windows slid back and forth, when the top was up, like the vent window in a bathroom, no mechanism required.  The seats were bolted upright in the interior, no adjustment possible.   It had toggle switches, round no nonsense instruments and, of all things, a tach.   The storage area—the trunk– was behind the seats accessed by folding them forward.  There was no external trunk lid.  It was beyond cool.  The problem with the Sprite, even in our limited experience, was perched beneath its bonnet, its miniature inline 4, all 45 horsepower, though in its defense it was only 58 cubic inches.  The car weighed less than 1500 lbs, but even when new the best Car and Driver could manage was a 19 second 0-60 time.  With Russ and I aboard his well worn model during a trip from 0-60 you could probably eat a sandwich.

Looking back I wonder how Russ and I became close.  We didn’t see each other often when we were children.   Russ was about 4 years older.  That’s a big spread for kids and the gap between 15 and 19 is huge.  I think Russ did not have many friends his age.  Emotionally he may have been a little delayed.  My infatuation with cars probably was a factor.  Whatever the reasons, we hit it off.  One summer we spent every free moment together.

Adeline, my mom, and Raymond, Russ’s dad, were siblings and were deeply fond of one another.  Russ was Raymond’s oldest and Mom trusted him.  She thought Russ was more mature and levelheaded than my friends and thus allowed me to go with Russ all day and half the night sometimes.  Her trust was somewhat misplaced, we did some adolescent things together, he and I, but neither of us suffered major injury or caused felony property damage while together so we were safe enough.  Russ and I would drink if we could procure alcohol but that wasn’t easy.  I don’t think Russ was ever much of a drinker and at that age it did not have a big draw for me.  Tobacco did.  Russ would buy small cigars, Swisher Sweets.  There were no disposable propane lighters in those days.  We used paper matches, or if I remembered to take some from the house, wooden kitchen matches.  Neither of us could cup a match against the breeze and light the cigars like some of the adults in our acquaintance.  It was a required scene in every movie made in those days and we would practice it afterwards.  It was a cool move but we discovered it took adroitness and coordination, timing and the perfect placement of the match.  In any breeze it was a deft maneuver, the flame flaring inside our cupped hands, then buffeted and battered by the wind, lasting 2 or 3 seconds at the most, its simple look belying the difficulty of the task.  The swirling wind in the open cockpit of the Sprite only highlighted our ineptness at striking a match and getting it to the end of the cigar long enough to light the thing.  We would have to pull over for a moment to light up bending over in the shelter of the cowl.  We would take off, spinning the tires if there was gravel–the Sprite couldn’t spin its tires on pavement–and roll down the motorway, top down, squinting into the wind, hanging our cigars on the door edge.  We were living.

Headed to Kirtland from Durango we have just crossed into New Mexico and are climbing Cedar hill Russ’ foot smashed to the floor.  The Sprite is pulling for all its worth, but we’re losing momentum, 3^rd gear is too tall, the engine is dropping RPM, we’re going to have to grab 2^nd.  A horn and flash of headlights.  Behind us is Billy Hayes and his buddies in Billy’s ’55 Chevrolet Bel  Air.  We are holding them up as the Sprite slows on the hill.  The 265 cu. in. motor with a 3 speed manual transmission in Billy’s ’55 hardly qualifies it as a hot rod, despite his opinion of it.    A hole in the muffler gives it an aggressive sound, but that’s about all it had going for it.  It was a small V-8 with a 2 barrel carburetor and was pathetic as a performance car, even for that era, but it could pull the Sprite on the hill.  They honked and flashed and rode our bumper.  Finally traffic gave way and around they came jeering and flipping us off.  I was embarrassed and ashamed.  Billy bullied me occasionally and constantly showed off in his ’55 tearing around lesser cars, VWs, and Datsuns and 6 cylinders, cutting in too close, braking suddenly, then roaring off.   I had brought shame on us, on Russ and his Sprite for knowing this guy.  My face was hot.

“You know them?” said Russ.

“Yeah.  They’re in 11^th grade.”

“Tough guys,” said Russ.  It wasn’t a statement or a question or mockery.  It was Russ filing it away for future use.  Russ didn’t seem much bothered by the encounter.  He sensed my discomfort.  “Should try that on a road with corners,” said Russ.  It was the standard response from car guys who had smaller, lighter, slower cars.  They could out drag us but we could out corner them.  In the Sprite’s case, it was doubly true.  Not only was the car naturally more nimble due to its size, but Austin Healy had designed a true sports car.  Sprites’ cornered on rails and were a favorite of club racers in England and elsewhere.  ‘55 Chevys cornered like a pig on ice.

We top out and pick up speed as the road levels.  We enter the outskirts of Aztec.  “Let’s get some gas,” said Russ.  This is mildly surprising.  While the Sprite only holds 7 gals it gets about 40 MPG so getting gas isn’t an everyday event..  We roll into a station and there is Billy and his buddies gassing up the ’55.  My stomach starts to churn.  Russ pulls up behind the Chevy.  They are watching us, Billy gassing up and his buddies turned in the seats.  There are 3 of them and I am petrified of physical violence.  “Russ…?” I said.

Russ got out and walked toward Billy who had jammed the gas nozzle into the left rear fender behind the tail light assembly through that screwy hidden gas cap Chevy thought was cool in the mid-50s.  As Russ approached, Billy’s friends got out of the car and stood near Billy, belligerence all over their faces but also consternation.  What is this? practically screams from them.  Russ walks up and stops, his face a foot away from Billy.  “I’m Russell Van Camp.  That’s my cousin John Becay.  I play offensive lineman for the Kirtland Broncos.  We were New Mexico state champions last year.”  Russell has a big smile on his face and his tone is friendly, but his voice is a little too loud and he never takes his eyes off Billy.  “We played you guys at home last year.  Remember?  Your corner back broke his leg.  Remember?  That was too bad.  I heard he doesn’t play ball anymore.”  Russ is referring to a notorious incident the previous season.  In a controversial late hit a Kirtland player had indeed shattered the leg of Bruce Henning our only bright spot on defense.

Russ went on.  “That was a shame.  It was a clean hit.  I was there.  I heard the femur pop.  Yuck.  You know legs, they don’t grow back the same.  He’s going to have one leg shorter than the other.  We’re playing Durango away this year.  October 15, I think.  Maybe I’ll see you after the game.”  Russ’s tone was still friendly, his demeanor upbeat.  Billy and his buddies never said a word.  Russ climbed back in the car and off we drove.   None of them raised their eyes when we left.

“What about the gas?” I said.

“Gas gauge is messed up,” said Russ.  “We got plenty.”

“I thought you graduated,” I said.

“I did.  This June.”

“Then how can you play…?”

“I never said I was.  I’ll be at Western State in October, playing college ball, football scholarship.  Remember, I told you.  Are you hungry?  I’m starving,” said Russ.

When we got to Kirtland, after stopping for hamburgers, Aunt Dorothy greeted us from inside the dark cool interior.  “Hey.  We’re in the kitchen.”  She gave me a kiss which made me blush.  Sitting at the table peeling potatoes was Mrs. Rourke, Dorthy’s mom,  “Hello Russ.  Hello John.  Are you fellows hungry?  Go say hi to Pop,” she said.    The Rourkes spent a lot of time in sunny hot New Mexico with Raymond and Dorothy and the grandkids.  They were retired.  Mr. Rourke had made a lot of money in something.  They lived on the East coast or maybe Florida.  They were sophisticated, elegant at times.  Dorothy was an only child on whom they doted and had instilled their demeanor.  Dorothy was not just an attractive woman.  She was beautiful, by Hollywood or fashion or anyone else’s standard.  With her refinement, her etiquette, her upper class exposure, she was stunning.  Our family never quite believed that Raymond, a big, shy red headed country boy from a small farm in Colorado had landed this beautiful East Coast sophisticate.  Dorothy earned her nursing degree and served in Army rehab hospitals during WW II.  She met Raymond at Fitzsimmons, the Army base and hospital east of Denver after the war when Raymond was there recuperating from a Japanese POW camp.  They had fallen in love.  Dorothy would say later. “Raymond was the kindest man I ever met.”   The Rourkes did not correspond to my idea of rich people, not that I had met any.  They were quiet, kind, interested in their grandchildren and this cousin Russ had dragged in.  Even at that self absorbed age I marveled they knew my name.

Kelley bounced into the kitchen.  He hugged me.  “Wanna see my bicycle?”

I liked Kelley, and I tried to be nice to him despite our age difference  But Kelly annoyed Russ and I wanted to not offend Russ.  “I think you showed me last time,” I said.

“Oh,” Kelly said, crestfallen.  He brightened.  “Did you know you’re a shirt tail cousin?”  Kelley was bright and liked new words.  The adults laughed.

“No, Kelley, he’s your first cousin, “ said Mrs. Rourke.  “And that’s not a nice thing to say.  But now you know better.  Would you like to help me with these potatoes?”  Somehow she made it sound like a fun thing to do.

“Hello boys,”  Mr. Rourke stood in the kitchen doorway, tall and thin and somehow gentle, just standing there.  “I bought some new plugs for your car.  Let’s change them this afternoon.”

This got both Russ and my attention.  We were going to do real work on a car.  Not just wash it.  As if she could read our minds Aunt Dorothy said, “But first let’s have lunch.  Boys, go wash your hands.”

From the refreigerator Dorothy set a platter of pre made sandwiches on the table.  They were mounded high on the plate and protected with aluminum foil.  I loved visiting Uncle Raymond and Aunt Dorothy.  Their lives were different.  Take the sandwiches.  Though Mom made a lot of sandwiches they were generally for food away from home.  If we did have sandwiches for lunch at home Mom made one for each person.  The idea of extra sandwiches seemed abundant and generous.  Mom rarely covered food with aluminum foil.  It was too expensive.  She used plastic wrap or a bowl or plate,  If she did use a large sheet of aluminum foil, afterward she would wash it and use it again, crinkly here and there.  Sometimes she used it 3 times.   A large pitcher of fresh squeezed lemonade, bits of pulp floating in it, joined the sandwiches on the table.  There seemed like a gallon of it.  The extravagance of it made me blink.  How many lemons did that take?  At home we did not have fresh squeezed lemonade.  Mom used a bottle of lemon flavoring as a lemon substitute.  She would add just enough sugar to make it palatable.  It had a chemical refrigerator taste.  Lemonade was not sweet at our house or very good.  It didn’t have any pulp in it either.  This lemonade that Dorothy served was the most refreshing drink I could imagine.

After lunch Mr. Rourke joined us in the shade of the veranda on the north side of the house.  Russ had the bonnet up.  We had no tools.  Mr Rourke unrolled a canvas bundle secured with leather straps.  Inside in pockets were his tools.  They were old but of high quality and lovingly cared for.  I had never seen a tool roll before, all our cheap worn tools were jumbled in a tool box, or left scattered on benches here and there to rust and collect dirt.  Now looking back I marvel that Mr. Rourke travelled with tools and at the convenience of carrying them in their compact roll.  I vowed, long ago in Kirtland, N.M.,  someday to have my own canvas roll of tools.

Russ had managed to remove the spark plug wires.  Mr Rourke extracted the spark plug socket short extension and ratchet and showed us how to place the socket securely around the plug and strike the ratchet with the heel of your hand to break it loose.  He did 2 plugs then let us each do one.  He lay the spark plugs in order on the bench top.  “See how they are all the same black color?  There are no deposits on the electrodes.  See how none of them are wet or oily?  These plugs show age but they are fine.  Your motor is probably ok.”   He extracted a new plug from its box and using a feeler gauge checked the gap.  “If it’s just a little wide you can do this,” Mr. Rourke said, tapping the ground strap carefully on the generator.  He let us feel the proper drag of the gauge through the plug.  “I always put a drop of oil on the plug threads,” he said, “makes ‘em easier to take out next time.” He started 2 of the plugs and let Russ and me each do one.  It was a bit of a trick angling the plug properly with the hole in the head, matching the male and female threads.  I was able to start mine, Russ couldn’t get his.  I felt a superiority I didn’t deserve.  “New plugs are worth 10 horsepower,” I said, quoting from some article out of a car magazine.  Mr Rourke gently chuckled as he started Russ’ plug.  “Maybe on a big American V-8, but on a Sprite, probably not.”   I was a little chagrined, but nothing like I could have experienced.  If I had made that mistake around my father or brother I would have been ridiculed.  Or worse, they might have believed me.

“I’m hungry,” Russ announced.  We had finished installing plugs in his Sprite and changing the oil.  Mr. Rourke had promised help with the points and condenser next week.

“Oh I think you can wait ‘til supper, said Aunt Dorothy.

“No,” Russ said, “John has to get back early.”  It was Friday afternoon.  Russ wanted to cruise Durango on Friday night as well.

“Well look around.  You can find something.”

Russ rummaged through the refrigerator.  I thought he would find something already made, perhaps a sandwich from lunch. Out came raw chicken and butter.  Russ melted the butter on the stove, maybe a pound.  It was an inch deep in the pan.  He cut up the chicken and positioned each piece just so in the skillet, so they would all fit. They spit and spattered when they went in the butter but not very much.   I watched with interest.  At home mom kept a can of grease from earlier meals above the stove.  When she cooked chicken she let a spoonful of grease sputter across the skillet, tilting the pan to cover it thoroughly and plopped in the chicken, allowing the slow heat to render the fat from the chicken and provide additional cooking grease.

“The trick,” Russell said, “Is to cook it real low temperature so as not to burn the butter.”   The butter practically covered the chicken.  He added salt and pepper and another spice.   It smelled heavenly.

Russ served his chicken with dill pickles and bread.  We each got half a chicken of golden crusted pieces.  I didn’t know chicken could taste that good.  Did we clean up our mess? I don’t know.  I hope we did.  I don’t remember Russ’s sisters being there either.  That afternoon in long ago Kirtland, N.M. would provide a glimpse of years to come.  One of Russ’s hobbies as an adult was gourmet comfort food.  Kelley became even more intelligent and forthcoming.  Dorothy would gather beauty and grace around her like other women gather their skirts.  And Russ’s sisters were rarely there.

Russ and I are in the Sprite heading to Kirtland from Durango.  We have crossed into new mexico.  A truck piled high with hay bales is parked on the shoulder.  A man steps onto the highway and flags us down, waving his arms in the air.  When we stop on the shoulder he says, “Do you have a jack?”  He is sweaty and pale.  “We need a jack.”  Russ pulls the seats forward and rummages in the trunk.  I walk to the side of the truck away from the road.  The truck seems lopsided, curiously slanted to one side.  What I see makes my skin crawl.  A man is sitting on the shoulder of the road one leg under the truck.  It is a classic pose for changing a tire.  He has the tire off.  But the jack is trapped crookedly under the truck, pinned between the axle and soft dirt.  The man’s cowboy boot–his foot–is smashed nearly flat under the brake drum of the truck.  He is pinned there with no way to get the truck off his foot.  He is pale too, going into shock.  The jack had slipped on the soft shoulder, folded under the truck, and dropped the brake drum on his foot.  Russ runs up with the jack from the sprite.  It might as well be a toy.  At full extension it won’t reach from the ground to the truck axle.  Even if we set it on blocks, it was designed to lift a few hundred pounds, not the tons pinning this guy’s foot to the ground.  I feel queasy looking at the scruffed worn cowboy boot with its toe flattened under the brake drum.

Before long the friend flags down a state patrolman.  With him on the scene Russ and I leave.  We are sober and a little shaky.  I feel vulnerable, stripped, naked to the world.  Riding in that wide open Sprite, its body made of tin cans, doesn’t help.  “Did you see that?”  “Yeah.”  “How long’s he been there?”  “Yeah.”  “Be careful.”  “Oh, yeah.”  The scene would haunt me for years.

A day or 2 after Kelley’s phone call, I call Russ.  Someone else answers.  They take the phone to him.

“Russ, it’s John.

“John how are you?

Russ’s voice sounds much the same.  Maybe a little softer.  We chat a few minutes.  How’s his hobby growing roses?  Does he still have his boat?  All Russ answers are in the past.

Russ, remember running around in that Sprite?

I sure do.

Man that was fun.

Yeah it was.

Remember that guy pinned under that truck?  Remember how shook we were?

There is a pause…No I don’t.

The guy changing the tire?  The truck fell on his foot?  Pinned him to the ground?

No I can’t say I do.

We ran around all the time.

Yeah we did.

Remember when we drove past the pool hall in Durango real slow and tossed the smoke bomb through the open doors?  Remember we came back around the block and there were all these guys with pool cues standing on the sidewalk looking up and down the street, the pool hall filled with smoke.  Remember that?

No, I really don’t.  Sounds like fun.

Remember that fireworks that scooted under the car and hit you in the foot?  ‘bout broke your ankle?  Remember you were hoppin’ around.  Like to took your foot off.”

It did?  That must have hurt.

I realize that Russ has not asked about me.  I am carrying the conversation.  I think he must be tired.  Russ it’s good to hear your voice.  Take care.

You too, John, thanks for calling.  Call anytime.

I hang up.  Sadness washes over me.   It sucks me down.  It wells behind my eyes.  Russ does not share my memories.  And he didn’t ask about me.  I don’t think its lack of regard.  I think its 2 lives that no longer intersect, 2 lives spent apart.  I remember Kelley’s advice, call him soon, don’t wait too long.  I could have made an effort to spend time with him.  When I saw him in later years it was always for a few hours at most.  He was a big time personal injury lawyer, his cases worth millions.  He played the part.  I could see the Russ I knew inside the brash, confident, large man.  When he moved thru the world the world made space for him.  He was loud, entertaining.  He liked teasing people.  He always had a topper to your story.  He was important, he made sure you knew it.  I always saw him around other family and he never let that persona slip.  It might have put me off.  But I knew Russ, my pal, was inside there.  I could see glimpses.  I wish I had reached out to him more.  A few phone calls scattered over the years, a couple of visits here and there.  I could have done more.  Now we are a lifetime removed from each other.  My memories of us he doesn’t share.  Does Russ have any distinct memories of us or do they all run together?  I waited too long to call him.  Not the few days before our final conversation.  The 20 years I waited before that; the 50 years since we burned the roads together in a bug eyed Sprite.  Grief fills my chest, rises in me.  We were tight once, buddies, and now–well, it was a long time ago.  It rises, it rises higher.  Big Russ.  Russ and me.  We had some fun.

Copyright 2020 john van Becay

In memory of Russell Walter Van Camp  Aug 17, 1947—May 22, 2019