The month before I met Johnny boy, I was in tears almost every single day. The light of my life, my father, had just passed away. He was the pastor in our small town. Everyone in Sycamore, Georgia knew of him and knew of his family. The family he had left behind, which included me, my mother Renee, my brother Stephen, and my sister Louise, was in shambles. We struggled daily just to stay afloat. He had suffered from lung cancer for the past three years, and the daily battle had just become too tough to bear. It was so hard to walk into the Emory University Hospital and watch him choke for air. His breathing was faint that last week of April; we all knew his life was coming to a close. So, my family took him home per his request. He stayed in the antique wooden bed downstairs for the last week of his life, surrounded by the ones he loved the most. He had been whisked away from our family, and it was hard to stay strong.
But then, I met Johnny boy. He was the boy next door--literally. He was Mary Beth's grandson and lived in Sterling, but stayed in her house during the summer. I met him when I was out tending to the hosta plants in our front yard; they were dying, just like my father had. Johnny boy walked up to me, and in a soft voice whispered, "I'm sorry about your papa." I looked up at him as a tear stained my cheek. He had brown, soft yet tousled hair, and deep green eyes the color of the lake behind Old Man Hipp's house. I slipped off my gardening gloves, set them on the ground next to the blue-tinted plants, and stood up. He looked into my eyes as I looked back at him. "Thank you," I replied, and walked closer to him. His denim overalls were covered in stains, as well as his face. My dress only had one stain on it, and I never thought it would acquire more. He looked down at his shoes and wiped his hand across his overalls. "Well, my name's John," he told me matter-of-factly. "I'm Mallory," I replied, but kept looking at his soft features. He had a tight mouth and a button nose, but his eyes were strong and his eyebrows stronger. His face would have been perfect, if not for the dirt all over it. "My gram, Mary Beth Hinton, was wonderin' if you would like to stop by our place for some lemonade and biscuits. She makes them fresh every mornin'," he told me. John's accent was truly southern, but it was very charming. "Of course, that sounds lovely," I replied to him. "I will be over in just a minute. I have to put my gardening gloves back in the shed." "Alrighty then, miss. I will see you soon."
I set the stained gloves down on the desk in the shed. I then placed my arms on the desk and looked out of the window. My father sat here almost every day, with his sweet tea in hand, to write sermons and fix whatever needed fixing. The gloves sat there as a reminder of his past. I stood up and brushed off my dress, then walked to the large door of the shed. I opened the barn-style doors and walked out into the daylight.
I walked up the right side of the steps leading to Mary Beth Hinton's home. She lived in a historic Georgian-style home, which featured two flights of stairs opposite each other: one for the man, one for the woman. Back in the 1800's, it was against all social policy for men to peer at women's ankles, so the stairs were all constructed to protect this rule. I reached the mint-colored front door, grabbed the golden knocker engraved with the word Hinton, and hit it softly against the door three times. I then let go of the knocker and stepped back, so anyone looking out of the side window could see me. It took a minute, but eventually I could see John's face looking out of the window. He smiled, left the window frame. I could hear him unlocking the dead bolt in the front door. The door eventually opened. "Hi, Mallory, come on in."
"Oh, it is such a pleasure to have you here, darling," Mary Beth started. She was older now, and it took her a minute to walk from the kitchen to the living room with the tray of biscuits. John had already offered me a glass of lemonade, which I took from him with a smile. I was sitting on one of Mary Beth's soft chairs, which I had sat in hundreds of times before. Since her husband, Matthew, died four years ago, I came over every other day to check in on her and read a chapter of a book. The latest had been To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee; we were on chapter seven. John sat on the red couch across from me, and Mary Beth sat in the rocking chair right next to it. I reached to the ottoman and grabbed a light, fluffy, homemade biscuit. It sank into my mouth and almost melted. "How have you been doing, Mallory?" I snapped out of my daze. I had forgotten the whole point of being at the Hinton's house: to cheer me up after my father's passing. "Well, thank you. It is hard, you know, with the church. But we are holding up." Mary Beth looked at me with a feeling of remorse. "I know how you really feel, sweetheart. It is okay, I promise," she said with a soft smile on her face. I nodded my head, then looked at Johnny boy. He was on his third glass of lemonade; I could tell because he kept getting up to visit the kitchen. "Mallory," he started. "I remember you talking about y'all's shed out back. Does it need some fixin'? I would be up for a challenge, any day." I thought back to all of the time I had spent out there the past month. When it rained, at least once a week, I could feel the cold drops hitting my hands. "Yes, actually, I think the roof needs to be repaired. Thank you, John. It means a lot," I replied. I reached back for another biscuit, and let it sink in. Johnny boy had done the same thing. I could see the pleasure on his face when it melted in his mouth. His grandmother worked magic in that kitchen.
After another hour of discussing the recent happenings in Sycamore, John and I started back towards my house. He took the left stairs, while I took the right. He walked to the right of me across Mary Beth's yard and into mine. I stopped and pointed once we reached the shed. "There it is," I told him. "Wow, what a beauty," he continued. "And so are you." I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and stay there for just a minute. I was about to say something back, but he just walked towards the shed with his tool belt around his waist. I watched as he touched the siding with such care, then walked around the side. Before he walked around to the back, Johnny boy motioned towards me. "Come 'ere, Mallory. Don't be scared now." I picked my skirts off the grass and walked towards him. John picked up a piece of the tall grass growing from the ground beside the shed, and put it between his two side teeth. It was not a very gentlemanly thing to do, especially in front of a lady, but it was just Johnny boy. He took a step ladder from behind the shed, propped it out, and put his right foot up on the first step. "I'll go check out the lookins' of this mess," he told me, then walked up the ladder. I watched as he felt around the roof for a soft piece, and then picked one up and held it in front of his face. "Here's the problem. Just a loose piece of roofin' tile," he said. John took a nail and a hammer from his belt, carefully put the shingle back in place, and nailed it into the roof. He slid the hammer back into the belt and jumped down from the step ladder. "See, Mallory? Nothin' to worry about there," he said as he placed his hands on his hips and looked up at the roof. I looked where his eyes were going, then spoke. "Thank you, John. It means a lot for you to help me out in this time." I looked back at him, then noticed his eyes had been focused on me for the past minute. "Of course, darlin'. Nothin' a little handy work can't fix. Well, I best be off to my gram's house. I will see you tomorrow." And with that, Johnny boy ran back through my yard, to his yard, back up the left stairs, and into his house. I watched him the whole time. And through that experience, I knew I had fallen for John Hinton.
The last week of May and the whole month of June was spent with Johnny boy. He did little jobs around my house: fixing the farmhouse sink in the mudroom, cleaning the furniture on the porch out back, and putting a new blade on the fan in Stephen's room. When he wasn't completing a task, we sat out on the porch, drank sweet tea, and had long and deep conversations. My favorite was when we talked about the planets: John told me he had always wanted to be an astronomer growing up, but would never have the chance to go to college and follow his dreams. I placed my small, soft hand on his large, rough ones, and simply told him: "You can follow your dreams. As long as you fill your pockets with sunshine, they will carry you through life and all of your hardships." My father had taught me that when I was five years old and determined to become a pastor, just like him. You can follow your dreams. As long as you fill your pockets with sunshine, they will carry you through life and all of your hardships.
On the last Wednesday in June, Johnny boy came up to my house with tears staining his dirty cheeks. "Mallory, darlin', I--I--I--". He couldn't say what he wanted to. "Yes, John?" I asked while taking one of his hands. "I have to leave Sycamore and go back to my parent's place in Sterling. The growin' season is startin' early this year, and I have to leave." My heart shattered as I wrapped my arms around his body. His body and mine molded together, like a planet taking shape. "It's okay, John. It's okay. I will always be back here in Sycamore." He let go of me, grabbed my shoulders, and looked me in the eye. "But you won't be with me. And I need you to be," he said back to me. My eyes were stinging with another tear. I had refused to let myself cry since I met John, and I needed to stay strong now. "I know. We both need each other. I promise, I will always be here when you come to visit Mary Beth--". He cut me off. "I want you to come with me to Sterling, Mallory. I knew you were the one since I fixed your shed's roof. I love you." I was shocked by his words. I had never thought about possibly being in love with Johnny boy, but once I thought about it, I was flooded with emotion. "I love you, too, John. I am coming with you to Sterling."
That night, I packed my trunk to put in John's car. My parents had been talking to Mary Beth about our relationship, and they approved of it. I filled my trunk with my dresses, a pair of jeans, a chambray button down, some shoes, a couple of books, and my pair of gardening gloves. I looked at the gloves before I put them in the box, turned them over a few times to study the stains covering the outer side. I set them down on top of To Kill a Mockingbird and shut the top. I was headed to Sterling the next morning at sunrise.
Sterling was about two and a half hours away, and located on the coast. Good farming was located there, and so was Johnny boy's family. We were in his truck listening to music and staring at the country side for a good hour, when a storm started forming. "Looks like a storm's a-brewin', Mallory," John told me. "Let's get out at the next exit 'n cover the back of the truck with a tarp. I don't want your belongin's to get ruined." I nodded my head in agreement. "Yes, let's do that."
I was thankful I had dressed in a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, and a pair of boots that day. The tarp weighed about thirty pounds, and we had to lift it over the back of the truck and on top of the trunks. Once we had it in place, John secured it with ties on the side of the truck. We then hopped back into the truck and kept driving.
The storm kept brewing as we drove through the countryside. The highway was empty; not a soul to be found. The sun wasn't out either. Johnny boy was humming a song, and I couldn't tell what it was. I rested my head on the side of the door next to the window, and fell fast asleep.
I woke up twenty minutes later to the sound of thunder booming outside of the car. We had an hour left until we reached Sterling, more or less. I looked at John. He had a worried expression all over his face. His thick eyebrows were drawn in, his nose squinched, looking carefully at the road ahead. "John, are we safe?" I asked calmly. "Yes, darlin', we are fine here," he replied. I could tell he was still worried, but allowed myself to drift back to sleep.
I woke up a few moments later and felt the impact. I couldn't see anything. I kept screaming, "John! John! Oh, John, where are you?". I heard a faint reply with his accent. "Mallory, look in my pocket." I opened my eyes with a jolt and saw the strike of lightning hit the car. I don't remember anything else.
I woke up in Emory University Hospital the next morning. Nurses rushed around me, acting worried and nervous. "Are you Mallory Abbott?", one of the women asked me. I nodded my head, since I could barely feel my throat. Tears stung my eyes as another nurse took my blood pressure. I sniffled and motioned towards a pad of paper and pen with my other hand. After she took my blood pressure, the nurse walked to the other side of my bed and handed me the two items I had requested. I tried to move my arms, but the pain was too great. I wanted to scream in hurt, but my voice would not come out of my chest. I cried, but there was no sound. Just drops of liquid rolling down my face.
She came and visited me that night with a bouquet of flowers. "He loved these," she said. I was confused. Why would Mary Beth be here? Johnny boy is fine. I tried to speak and, thankfully, my voice came out of me, however shrill it was. "Where is John?" She looked at me and pursed her shaky lips together. She held a hand to her face. "He's gone, Mallory. I thought they had told you." She then opened her black purse and pulled something out of it. His denim overalls.
A few days later, when I was stronger, I pulled the pair of overalls out of the table next to my bed. I brought them to my face. I could smell John; it was almost like he was still there. I remembered what I had told him a week before the accident: You can follow your dreams. As long as you fill your pockets with sunshine, they will carry you through life and all of your hardships. I then thought of his last words. I reached into the back right pocket of his overalls. I felt two pieces of paper slip out. I put the overalls back on my lap and lifted the two pieces in my hands.
The first one was a photo of me and Mary Beth, sitting on her red couch, reading a story. It was four years ago: I had recognized the photo as one my mother had taken and given to Mary Beth as a gift. The second piece of paper was a note, folded into fours. I set the photo down on my lap and opened up the paper carefully. It was upside down, so I turned it until I was able to read his writing.
Dear Mallory,
I hope you are reading this with the knowledge of who wrote it. It is me, your Johnny boy. If you are reading this, it means something has happened to me. What it might be, I have no clue. But now, I want to let you know something about you. You are the most beautiful girl I have ever met. The moment I laid eyes on you that day in April, I knew you were the one. I told you that before we left to go to Sterling. Tomorrow, we are leaving to go back to my hometown. I have wanted to whisk you away and take you on a journey since I met you. Now, it seems, I must have been whisked away. I have been whisked away from you, my family, my truck--not that my truck was that important, anyways. Even though I am gone, I want you to remember what you taught me: "You can follow your dreams. As long as you fill your pockets with sunshine, they will carry you through life and all of your hardships." I listened and took your advice. So, I filled my pocket with sunshine. I filled it with you. You, Mallory Jean Abbott, are my sunshine. I love you. I love you and I always will.
Forever yours,
John Bauer Hinton
I didn't realize it until after I finished reading the letter, but I was in hysterics. My John, my Johnny boy, gone. But he took what I had said as a lesson, and kept his pockets full of sunshine. I had changed into my own clothes that morning, and was wearing the jeans I wore the night of the accident. I decided to fill my pockets with sunshine, too. I folded the letter back into fours and slipped it into my front pocket. I turned around and looked out of the window behind me. The moon was looking back at me. My sunshine was gone, and now, so was I.
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The hospital called Mary Beth at ten o'clock that evening. She walked over to the kitchen, where she baked her special biscuits, and answered the telephone. "Hello? This is Mary Beth Hinton. How may I help you?" She broke down in tears at the news. "Mallory Abbott passed away a few moments ago from a heart attack. We believe she was in such grief from the passing of John. We are sorry for your loss, ma'am." Mary Beth put the phone back on the wall and pulled out the piece of paper from her back pocket. It was a photo of Matthew. And a letter.
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You can follow your dreams. As long as you fill your pockets with sunshine, they will carry you through life and all of your hardships.
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Word Count: 3,323
Written: Thursday, June 23, 2016
Author's Note: This story is a tragic love story, yes, but it explains the meaning of true love. Both Mallory's father and lover were whisked away from her, but she stayed strong until the very end. In Natasha Bedingfield's song, "Pocketful of Sunshine", the speaker is taken away, but keeps a pocketful of sunshine, even in the darkness. It explains how a person can keep living even if something awful has occurred, by just knowing their identity and who they love. I hope you enjoyed this short story as much as I enjoyed writing it. xoxo, Charlotte