Robert McGee—2008

I spent most of my life blasting limestone for a smidge over minimum wage just so I could keep clothes on the backs of all my beautiful girls. Working for Ronald Chapman was a pretty good gig, especially for a guy who barely got his high-school diploma. In fact, the only reason I got that diploma was ’cause of Ron. I started working at the quarry on the day I turned sixteen. I’d work weekdays after school, shoveling stone and cleaning equipment. Ron told me I could move up the ranks, but to do that, I had to graduate. He said my education had to come first; the quarry would wait. It really wasn’t so bad, outside of the dust and the noise. I know how lucky I was to have a steady job for twenty-eight years. It was hard work, but it was a privilege.

The best parts of my life, though, had nothing to do with that quarry. The best parts were my music and my girls. Growing up, all I ever wanted to do was play my trumpet. My pop played the squeezebox in a zydeco band, and he used to let me play with them on Saturday nights. I wasn’t half as good as Timmy Melton, their regular trumpet player, but they always knew how to make me feel like I was.

The only downside to those nights was my pop letting me start to drink whiskey when I was fifteen. He said it made my lips looser, and I could hit the high notes without going all red in the face. I drank way too much, for too many years. But when Charlie came along, I cut it out. ’Cause I knew by then drinking didn’t make me a better man.

Louise was a wild li’l thing when we first met. She made eyes at me while I was playing at Scrimshaw’s one Saturday night, and I just couldn’t say no to such a pretty face.

She’d steal cigarettes from the Piggly Wiggly where she worked, and every Friday night we’d sneak down to the swamp to smoke and drink the beer she’d take outta her father’s fridge. We’d stay there all night long, making mayhem and love until the sun came up. It was always a good feeling to have Louise’s hand in mine.

She got pregnant with Charlie before we had the chance to do much growing up. Louise was barely nineteen when Charlie was born. I was going on twenty-five. Neither one of us was ready to be that kind of responsible, but we did it. We got married at City Hall and brought Charlie into this world the right way. As a family.

It wasn’t until after K’acy was born that Louise got real religious. At first, she’d only pray at night and thank God for her life, but then she started reading from the Bible all the time and taking everything so seriously. By the time K’acy was four, Louise was spending more time at the church than she was at home. When Reverend Thompson and his revival tent came to Houma, it was almost too easy for her to leave—she’d been “gone” for a long time before that. Still, I never could get over her picking religion over her girls. It just didn’t make sense.

The girls, though, grew up real good, despite my fumble-infused fathering. Charlie’s gonna make a spectacular beautician someday, and K’acy…well, she’s gonna shine no matter what she picks for her life.

On the day I died, K’acy was the one sitting on the side of my bed. Charlie was asleep upstairs, but K’acy wouldn’t leave my side until she knew my suffering was over. Things were real bad. There was so much pain, I’d spend my days hoping and wishing death would come and put a stop to it all. But it never did.

For a good three weeks before I died, I was hurting so bad I’d spend hours praying to Louise’s God to just end it. I’d silently beg Him to let me go. The insurance only paid for so much pain medicine, and every day, I’d hear the chubby hospice nurse telling the girls there wasn’t anything else she could do. It broke my heart knowing they were watching me suffer. I hated seeing them cry. But there was nothing I could do about it but keep praying for the end.

I would never have asked K’acy to do what she did; I wasn’t a brave enough man for that. Nor would I have ever willfully wanted to put that kind of burden on my own daughter. She did it all on her own. Somehow, she knew what to do, without me ever having to ask. She knew when I’d had enough. She knew when it was time. I cried that night, from the pain, and she wiped away my tears with strength and purpose, humming “That’s How Strong My Love Is” as her fingers brushed against my cheek. And when it was over, I was nothing but grateful to her for being courageous and caring and compassionate enough to give her own father the peace he so desperately needed.

I’d been telling my girls for years that you always gotta do the right thing, even when it hurts, and when it came down to it, that’s exactly what K’acy did. I looked up at her face the moment the needle entered my vein and saw nothing but love in her eyes. So much love.

She didn’t do it because she wanted to. She did it because I needed her to.