Artist Statement
“Leddy Frye” is set in rural Appalachia in the 1950s. It explores the grief a mother feels after losing her son Leddy Frye, a larger-than-life character. Even though he is just a young boy, many are drawn to him. The only person who has difficulty seeing Leddy’s unique qualities is his mother, who begins to see just how special Leddy was only after he passes. The purpose of this story was to examine the effects of loss on love, to exhibit different experiences of grief, and to encourage sympathy towards those who cannot appreciate what they had until it is gone. Though the story deals with sensitive subject matter, moments of lightness and humor are developed through the use of southern colloquialisms. Despite being the namesake of the piece, Leddy is never introduced in real time. The story takes place after Leddy has passed to keep Leddy shrouded in a sort of mysticism and to allow the audience to have more compassion for Leddy’s mother. Leddy’s mother learns about Leddy through word of mouth rather than personal experience. The audience learns about Leddy after his passing, as well, allowing them to understand how one might come to love someone they never really knew.
Leddy Frye
There’s nothing worse than being born unlucky other than being born unlucky and also raised by fools. Such was the case with Leddy Frye. His mama never wanted him from the day he was conceived, and she made it known. At least once a day during Celia Burke’s nine and half month pregnancy she could be caught swearing that the moment the kid came screaming into this world she would forever be out of his, although she never used words quite as flattering as “kid.”
About six months into the pregnancy, Leddy’s mom caught a hot craving for cold dill pickles. Three times a week she would make the quarter-mile trek from her dilapidated shed of a house to the corner store. Those that worked in the store came to anticipate Celia’s arrival with a healthy level of fear. She would show up in the doorway, hands on her hips, hair plastered to her head with a mixture of sweat, dirt, and hairspray that was rumored to be stronger than cement. If a fresh jar of pickles wasn’t waiting on the counter for her purchasing needs, an innocent cashier was bound to be cut down by her sharp tongue. Some employees began making bets as to how many times she would synonymize the word “baby” with the word “devil” on these trips. Cash changed hands weekly. By the seven-month mark, Leddy’s father too was a popular subject of the woman’s condemnations.
Leddy’s father, Benedict Frye, wasn’t an evil man. By no stretch of the imagination did he deserve the curses that were hurled at him. But nice as he was, he approached life with a certain indifference that plain made it hard to trust him with much of anything, let alone raising a child. He was known around the town of Ruffton as Benny. The name Benedict lent itself a certain elegance that Benny certainly did not possess. His voice was gruff and his beard shaggy. His clothes, much like his mettle, were worn and tattered. You’d need more than fingers and toes to count the number of people to which Benny was indebted. Put simply, he was a man who’d never crossed his “Ts” or dotted his “Is” a day in his life, so much so that some wonder if he had intended to name his son Teddy, not Leddy.
Celia wasn’t from Ruffton. She came seeking refuge from the violent whims of her own daddy. She had been kept under strict rule as a child, and as she grew into a young lady with a hankering to see the world, her father wasn’t too pleased. He kept her in the house under lock and key. On certain occasions he would use a leather belt, just to make sure she knew what was good for her. Little did he know it was the belt that would end up scaring Celia away from home for good.
Suppose it was Benny’s ruggedness that had first attracted Celia. She needed an escape. It was only inevitable that she would fall for the well-worn adventurer. They had about a year together, a happy year before Celia found out she was pregnant and things turned sour. One can only imagine the future Celia saw unfolding before her. As she pictured spittle ridden blouses and soiled diapers, Ruffton must have started to look a heck of a lot like another prison to her.
After Leddy was born, Celia failed to keep her promise of leaving behind both her son and his father. Whether it was guilt or sore feet that kept her homebound, it was a decision she would come to regret. By Leddy’s fourth birthday, Benny’s right arm had been crushed in a tractor accident. The mangled appendage quickly succumbed to infection and led way to Benny’s passing five days after the incident. At the funeral, a change in Celia was palpable. She wore her grief as loudly as other attendants wore black, only she wasn’t grieving the tragic passing of her son’s father. For with his death, she had instead lost any harbored hopes of regaining her own freedom. As she left the graveyard, stumbling child in tow, only the lord could hear her soft, bitter whispers devoting herself to the role of resigned and absent mother.
This promise Celia made sure to keep. She stayed in Ruffton, but once Leddy could fend for himself, she rarely knew of her son’s whereabouts. She never locked him out, but she never gave any indication that he was wanted at home. He kept out of her hair, and she kept out of his.
Seeing as Leddy was left alarmingly unmothered as he bumbled through his middle grade years, he became quite the object of the town’s affections. On any given night, a place at dinner tables in at least five homes was sure to be set for Leddy. The hospitality laid before him started out as pity but quickly grew into something much stronger. There was an air about the kid that one, with the exception of dear old Celia, couldn’t help but fall in love with. He caused trouble wherever he went, but his intentions were always pure and honest. He plumb didn’t know any better. He was smart too. Real creative. Leddy could find his way out of any puzzle or predicament. Only problem was he didn’t have a lick of street sense to keep himself out of said puzzles and predicaments. While neighbors did their best to feed, clothe, and safely guide Leddy into teenhood, there was only so much that could be done to keep a child from falling into the fate prophesied by his unfortunate parentage.
—
It was midday when the local preacher came knocking on the door of one Harlowe Tucker, Leddy’s most devoted caretaker. Mr. Tucker was rattled by the presence of a soul on his doorstep at such an hour. Anyone whose bones were young enough should have been laboring in field or factory, and anyone whose body demanded retirement should have been holed up tight in their homes to escape the summer heat. Nevertheless, the preacher stood large in the doorway. Even though he was small in stature, the shadow of the news he had come to deliver clung to his back and stretched from floor to frame in every direction, effectively blocking out the sun. He carefully unfurled the facts of the matter to a silent Harlowe Tucker.
A fisherman from an hour west had gone searching for a creek with some flowing water or at least enough to catch a small trout or two. Seeing as Ruffton was just as plagued by heat and drought as anywhere else within a 50 mile radius, the fisherman had no luck on his hunt. It wasn’t until he began the trek back to his truck that he caught sight of a pair of lanky legs sprawled across the rocks. Upon further inspection he found that the legs belonged to the lifeless body of a boy who seemed to have found the only water for miles. He reported the body immediately. Officials confirmed that Leddy had drowned.
When the preacher reached the end of his report Harlowe let out something between a chuff and a chuckle. The preacher man, in all his good nature, was miffed by the gesture. Where he was standing, there wasn’t an ounce of humor in the occasion. He just didn’t quite know the full truth of the matter. Harlowe wasn’t surprised. It was almost harder to believe the boy had made it this far. Sure Harlowe was shattered, broken into pieces smaller than the shards left when Leddy knocked over his wife’s china, but man did that child have a knack for the impossible. He explained it then:
“Leddy Frye could and would do just about anything on this planet.”
The preacher nodded in acknowledgment. He was no stranger to Leddy Frye or at least the musings of him. He himself had shared a moment or two with the child, but seeing as Mr. Tucker was not a church going man, neither was Leddy, and their paths did not cross often. Most of what he knew came by word of mouth, and not all of it he entirely believed.
Harlowe continued, “Figure he’s the only person could’a managed to drown in a creek so dry you couldn’t use it to soak a sponge.”
“Ah,” the preacher sighed. “He did develop quite the reputation around these parts, didn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.
“Leddy Frye’s a living… Well, he was a living legend. It might not be all too pious to say, but I think death might suit him better. People like him only really exist in myth.” Even as he said it, fully believing every word, Harlowe couldn’t help but think it unfair that Leddy would only ever again walk in the valley of the shadow. He much preferred the sun. In the five years
Harlowe had truly known Leddy Frye, the dark seemed to be the only thing that could scare him.
The preacher spent the rest of the afternoon in the Tucker living room as funeral arrangements were made. The men made slow progress for neither seemed keen to speak. Harlowe never talked to much of anybody other than his wife and Leddy. The preacher could never get his words moving unless he was under the heat of a God fearing congregation. Most of the communication was done through nodding heads, deep grunts, and occasionally, murmurs of approval. For all their differences, the men found they could agree on two things: Leddy should be buried next to his father, and his funeral should be a celebration. Lives that burned as brightly as his deserved to be praised, not wept over.
It took five hours in total for the Tucker household to be rid of the intruder who brought tragedy to their doorstep. Despite having set a date for the funeral and arranging most details necessitated by the affair, there was a gaping hole that had failed to be addressed. As the silhouette of the preacher receded from view, Harlowe was left with a funny feeling setting in his gut. He was never one to agonize over other folks’ feelings, but he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had told Leddy’s mother about his passing. An image of a woman shrouded in black, weeping over her son’s limp body, clutching his drenched curls, grasping at any hope that he could return to the world of the living came to mind quickly followed by the image of Celia Burke. The difference was staggering. Celia, previously widowed, now bereaved parent, had never been bothered by sentimental matters. Harlowe knew you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. Celia wasn’t all that old, but he was pretty sure and certain the same philosophy applied to stone hearted dogs as well. Still, it didn’t seem right for a mother not to know her child had died. He resolved, after much contemplation and with the forever reliable wisdom of his wife and a bottle of whiskey, to leave a notice in Celia’s mailbox. It was anonymous but contained the vague details of Leddy’s death accompanied by the date and time of the funeral. It may have been impersonal, but it would not incriminate the Tuckers in any way should Celia have flown into a fit of rage upon seeing the news.
—
Sunday, July 26, 1952 bore none of the trademark indicators of a day defined by death. It was as if Harlowe Tucker had strong-armed mother nature into presenting the town of Ruffton with the finest summer weather she had to offer, thereby ensuring utmost attendance of Leddy Frye’s funeral. The sun was shining, but the oppressive humidity had seemingly vanished. White clouds scattered the baby blue sky. Any sweat brought forth by dark suits and stuffy Sunday dresses was wicked away by a soft breeze.
Harlowe wasn’t wearing a suit, but he did go so far as to don a button down shirt, a far cry from his usual plain cotton. His slacks were freshly ironed. He wasn’t exactly dreading the day to come, but the low drone of melancholy was ever present throughout his morning routine. There was no real purpose to his movements as he finished combing over the few thin hairs on his head. Once the comb was returned to its dresser drawer, and Harlowe’s precisely fixed hair was covered by his hat, he interlocked fingers with his wife’s and set on towards the cemetery.
If you could have seen Ruffton from a bird’s eye view that day, you might have been given the impression of ants flocking to their mound. It was as though people emerged from every corner, no matter how remote. Little black specs moved in droves, children trailing behind their parents in long lines. Their steps were seemingly synchronized, everyone united by their mourning. The ants filing into their nest came to rest atop the oak pews lining the walls of a humble church. It was one of many in the small town, but the events of the day disintegrated any barriers between congregations. The smallest of children rested in cradles made by their parents’ arms. Children pushing upwards of twelve, despite their hearty protests, were forced to sit sandwiched between their Mas and Pas. As if their being kept under watchful eyes would keep them from meeting any sort of doomed fate. The fragility of life, children’s lives in particular, colored most everyone’s thoughts.
The townspeople packed into the pews tighter than cattle. Harlowe sat with his wife at the forefront of the occasion. He was to give a eulogy. Public speaking was neither his desire nor his strong suit, but he figured he ought to let Leddy push him out of his comfort zone one last time. He watched on with fidgeting hands as scriptures were read by the preacher with whom Harlowe had planned the ceremony. The pipe organ began a slow dirge as the preacher ran to the end of Psalm 23. This was Harlowe’s cue to make his way to the pulpit.
He had no notes, so he fiddled with the well worn pages of the bible before him and kept his gaze low.
“Well I-I reckon most of you probably knew Leddy or at least knew of him. There ain’t much use in beatin’ a dead horse. Leddy had an unkickable spirit, a real hunger for life. We all know that. It was something you couldn’t ever put into words, so I’m not gonna try, but I will tell you a thing or two about the first time I met him.” Harlowe paused for breath to steal a chance look at the audience. He started to continue, but the words died in his mouth. There, leaning against the far wall, stood a short, lean figure whose hair added at least five inches onto her height. Celia wore her usual scowl. It was so memorable it could have been used to identify the body had she been the one found dead in a creek.
Harlowe tried to play it off, to keep speaking, but his stumble did not go unrecognized. Every single body shifted in their seats to see who had caused the disruption. In turn, a deafening silence fell over the church. No one dared move. Even the dust that floated in slatted shafts of light from the stained glass windows seemed to still. This is what he had intended. He wanted her to care enough to at least show face at her son’s funeral. So, he tipped his head in her direction. She replied with a curt nod, and Harlowe continued. This time he spoke pointedly at Celia.
“The first time I ever became real acquainted with Leddy was when he was eleven years old. Course I couldn’t have told you it was him at the time. I just heard a ruckus coming from the backyard. Thought it was raccoons or something of the like, so you can imagine my surprise when I saw the back end of a boy bent over, digging around in my tool shed. I would have run him off quick as I could had he not had such a strange manner about him. He spared no anxious glances to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Heck, he didn’t even look like he was in a hurry. He just worked.
“For half an hour I swear I just sat there and watched him methodically sifting through all sorts of junk. After a while he had accumulated a massive pile of scrap metal, old flooring, and miscellaneous pieces of chicken wire. And then he started carting it off. It was then that I realized who he was, when he’d finally turned around to face the house. Leddy was the spittin’ image of his father. His hair was just as wild and woolly, and his eyes just as piercing blue. It had been a while since I’d seen that face. And so young too. It wasn’t anger that brought me out to him, but curiosity.
“I was a boy once. I’d done plenty in my time to get me in trouble, so I was excited to see what kinds of wild lies he would spin. I approached him on the sidewalk in front of the house. He had just grabbed the last of his treasure. When I asked what he was doing, he looked at me with his big eyes and said he was working on a project. I asked him where he got the scraps, and he said, matter of factly, ‘From the shed back there. It was unlocked.’ Simple as that. He didn’t even seem scared or nothing. He gave no sense that he was doing anything wrong. Just kept on walking with scrap metal clanging on the pavement in his wake. I let him go that time, but the next time I heard him rustling around in my shed I asked if I could see his project. He shrugged, so I followed.
“When I got there, it was the greatest thing I’d ever laid eyes on a day in my life. He’d obviously been taking from my tool shed for months. He’d made himself his own personal ‘A’ frame. It had metal siding, my scrap metal. And I kid you not, it had a hinging door. What type of eight-year-old builds a door with hinges? And lord, the look on his face when he showed me his windows. He was so durn proud of the windows. When I asked him why they were so important, he sobered right up. His eyes turned serious, far older than his years suggested, as he told me ‘They keep out the dark. I don’t like the dark.’
“That’s just how Leddy was. The whole time I knew him. He would laugh, he would play, but you could tell there was always something else going on behind those eyes, a wisdom about the world. He would probably laugh seeing us all here. He’d say there’s a better way to spend our time. I don’t know if that’s true. Seems to me that anytime you can spend thinking a little more like Leddy Frye is time well spent. With the time I have left here on God’s green earth, I intend to waste none of mine.”
—
After the eulogy, food was served. People milled about as people in small towns do.
More stories about Leddy were shared. Harlowe had the pleasure of returning to his favored role of intent listener rather than speaker. Celia had slipped out of the church before anyone could stop her.
She stood on the small hill for the second time in her life. This time, two pale headstones rested at her feet. She gazed down at the freshly engraved words: Here lies Leddy Frye. She was still, unmoving, until she heard someone approaching from behind. The grass muffled the sound of the steps so she couldn’t discern if it was a pair of heels or wing-tipped shoes trudging towards her.
Harlowe approached slowly so as not to scare her off. If he made too much sound, he was afraid she would turn and bound down the hill, white tail in the air like a doe. When she didn’t run, he sidled up next to her and looked down at the headstone. Here lies Leddy Frye. Harlowe let out a long sigh. “Damn kid swore he’d never lie.”
“Funny.” Celia replied. She kept her eyes fixed on the grave.
“It’s true though. Didn’t matter what trouble he drugged up for himself, he’d always tell you God’s honest truth so long as you asked him for it.” Harlowe didn’t dare look at Celia, but he continued. “Guess his mama must have taught him something.”
Celia gave a dry laugh before responding.
“Well, he sure didn’t learn it from his daddy.”
They were quiet. There was a peace to the moment, a lightness neither wanted to break. Who’d have bet that Celia Burke and Harlowe Tucker would be cracking jokes at a dead man’s expense on the day of Leddy Frye’s funeral. Celia let the moment stretch for as long as it could, but there were words that needed to be had. “Did he,” Celia began, “have a good life?”
“Better than you could imagine given the tokens he was dealt.” Harlowe could have let her have it. Maybe he should have. She deserved every reprimand in the book, but she seemed to be feeling some remorse. “People adored that child. Hell, I’d have let him live with me if he would have stayed. I think we all felt a little younger when Leddy was around.” Harlowe turned a quarter-turn to face Celia.
She didn’t return the gesture, but she didn’t shy away from it. “I will tell you one thing, Celia. No matter where he was or who he was with, Leddy Frye always returned to the same place every night, that little A-frame. It’s in the woods right behind your house, you know. Leddy always went home to his mama.” Harlowe let his words sit for a moment before turning heel and finding his way back to the church.
Celia nodded in acknowledgement, but Harlowe had already gone. A single tear made its way down her face, pausing for a moment on her cupid’s bow before dripping into her mouth. Upon tasting the tear, her features softened. For once it looked as though she was feeling all of the emotions a grieving mother should, living all of the experiences she would never get to have, regretting all of the ones she had never let herself have. For the first time she allowed herself to fall in love with her son, all the while she was losing him in the same instant. She tried to pluck Harlowe’s words from the air and hold them as if they were Leddy himself. She caressed them as though she was patting his cheek.
He was a dream she would never be able to track down. She would never be sure if she was remembering him or remembering someone else’s account of the child she had never wanted, the child she would never get to have.
That first tear was quickly followed by a second and a third. Celia wiped her eyes so she could see the gravestone clearly again. Here lies Leddy Frye. A fond and gentle smile crept over her face. She raised her smile to the sky. The clouds had vanished. It was pure blue, almost as if she were looking into Leddy’s eyes. Celia, in a soft, motherly tone she had never used before, whispered to the heavens,
“Come home to mama.”