P A P A D A D D Y ’ S
M I N D F I E L D
The Bug Hole
Life and death, boy and man, and the umbilical cord that connects us
BY CLYDE EDGERTON
An hour ago, at four o’clock
in the afternoon, my 7-year-old son and I were out back splashing around in our hot tub (a device I feel funny about owning; more on that in a later piece). He pulled up and sat on the side with his feet in the water. Just the two of us were at home.
I’m not alone often with one of my four kids. When it happens it seems almost surreal because of the calm and peace, the opportunity to talk. I decided to ask something that I don’t remember asking him directly. “Do you ever think about what you want to do when you grow up?” “A job?” “Yes.” “God has planned a job for everybody,” he said. Before I could say, “Who told you that?” he was stretching the skin around his bellybutton, looking at it, and asking, “What is that tube called?” “Do you mean the umbilical cord?” I said. “Yes — where does the other end go?” I realized I’d never thought about this — specifically. “It goes to the placenta. Do you —” “What’s that?” “Well . . . it’s like a . . . like a big heart with blood, except it’s not beating, and it provides blood for the baby through the umbilical cord.” Earlier this afternoon, before my son and I visited the hot tub, the phone rang and I could see that the call was from Jackson, Mississippi — my old friends, John and Connie Schimmel, friends I’d not seen in several years. As soon as Connie spoke I knew something was wrong. She said John died last night at 11 p.m. She told me the story. He’d had a massive stroke. They’d discovered six weeks ago that he had a rare disease, but John had downplayed it. Of course, as she talked, I could see John, his face, see him talking, laughing, hear his voice, his Mississippi Delta accent. It’s hard to know what to say at these times, as many of you know. I asked Connie if I could do anything.
I’d told my son about my friend John after the call, before our visit to the hot tub, but he didn’t know John and had no questions. And now, walking into the house from the hot tub, the conversation was still about belly buttons. I asked him as we walked up the back steps, “Did I tell you the name my mama called a belly button?” “Let’s see,” he said. “You told me. A something hole.” “A bug hole.” “Why?” “I guess because it’s kind of funny. You know, a home for a little bug. Or a big one, maybe. One time I heard a man named William Styron say in a speech that his grandma asked him when he was a little boy did he know where his belly button came from and he said no, and she said, ‘It’s where the Yankees shot you when you were a baby.’” “What’s a Yankee?” “Well. It’s what . . . it’s just a name for somebody from up north.” “Up north?” “We’re down south and other people live up north, and out west, and so on. And it’s —” “What do they call us?” “Let’s see. I can, ah, think of any number of names.” Just inside the back door of our house, I grabbed a towel and threw it to him. He caught it. I said, “It’s good when a parent and just one kid can spend time together, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is,” he said. When I had asked Connie if there was something I could do, she wondered if I would proofread John’s obituary — she was having some trouble getting it like she wanted it. I said I’d be glad to. It’s now almost 6 p.m. and I’m about to check my email to see if it’s there. John and Connie gave me a tour of parts of the Mississippi Delta about fifteen years ago. John was born in the Delta, a great storyteller, always reading books — about many subjects. A devoted husband and father of two children. A physician. He loved to laugh. If we’d had another chance to talk and the subject came up, I’ll bet both of us would have fretted about not spending more time with just one kid at a time. Talking. And listening. b Clyde Edgerton is the author of ten novels, a memoir, and a new work, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He teaches in the Creative Writing Department at UNCW. Illustration by Harry Blair
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Salt • June 2013
The Art & Soul of Wilmington