Into the Garden

by Robert Hass

  She thought he might refuse, but he didn’t. “I’d like that. Now, let me show you what I found.”

  Sloan placed the ribbon-tied letters in front of Annie. He was having a lot of trouble with his emotions today. Yesterday the volunteers had nearly done him in with kindness and rattled his well-formed opinions of Redemption’s citizens. Then last night, he’d kissed Annie again and never wanted to let her go. Now this morning as they cleaned out more of the rooms and his family roots began to show, he yearned to reconnect with the Hawkinses he’d never known. It was as though his very life’s source resided within the walls of the old Victorian. Going home to the condo in Arlington held about as much appeal as living in Redemption once had.

  Weird. This was just plain weird.

  Annie had no idea what she’d started when she suggested gathering photos of his very lost childhood. None in the least. Suddenly, regaining memories of the childhood he’d tried to forget became very important. For his son and for himself.

  “Are those letters?” Annie asked.

  Sloan stared into green eyes as sweet as her kisses. Annie Markham was a force of nature strong enough to make him lose his good sense. “From Ulysses E. Jones to Aunt Lydia dating back nearly fifty years.”

  “No kidding. I always suspected they’d been in love, though neither ever said a word.” She traced her fingers over the faded blue address. “This is quite a find.”

  “The question is why they never did anything but write letters. Not that I’ve read more than a couple.” Invading someone’s privacy—outside of business—wasn’t his gig. “I think I should give these to Popbottle, don’t you?”

  “I think that would be a lovely gesture, Sloan.” Annie’s mouth curved, full, lush and tempting. He resisted the urge to kiss her again.

  He pushed back, putting space between temptation and himself. He’d never been much good at resisting temptation. Ah, why bother to try. He wanted to be with her as long as he could. Maybe God would grant a miracle and he would never have to leave. The notion stunned him. What was he thinking? Of course he’d leave. He wanted to. He had to. Didn’t he?

  “Want to come with me?” he asked. “We could stop for dinner afterward.”

  Annie glanced at her watch. “Sorry. My mother is having a cookout with corn on the cob and homemade ice cream. I promised to be there by six.”

  Disappointment filtered through him. “Have fun.”

  “You could come, too.” The statement was filled with hope.

  He tried to joke. “You’re having a cookout, not a shoot-out.”

  “Sloan.”

  Her heavy sigh settled in Sloan’s chest like a bowling ball. He and the police chief would always have the past between them. Keeping it there was the only way to protect Annie—and that put Sloan right back where he’d started.

  The house belonging to Popbottle Jones and his business partner G.I. Jack sat on a parcel of land not far from Redemption River. Sloan tucked the packet of letters into his saddlebag and roared off in that direction. A couple of times he’d considered buying a car, mostly to mess with the police chief’s mind, but so far he hadn’t. Lydia’s ancient Lincoln still ran when he hauled more than himself. Today, he needed a good, fast ride on his Harley, and hopefully Dooley was heading home for the cookout that Sloan could not attend.

  Stupid how that hurt.

  On the edge of town, he slowed near the diner where his mother had worked years ago. Since coming back, he’d avoided going inside. Maybe he would before he left again. Redemption Diner looked smaller than he remembered, and the parking lot between the narrow building and the bar next door was barely a strip of gravel. No wonder men stumbled from the bar to the diner for a chance to sober up on coffee and a late-night breakfast.

  In a few minutes, he turned up the gravel road leading to Popbottle’s place—a leaning frame house surrounded by the trappings one would expect from a pair of Dumpster divers. Two dogs charged out from beneath the board porch, yapping for all they were worth. Sloan braked the bike, coming to a halt beneath a scraggly shade tree. As he tossed a leg over the seat, a nanny goat skidded around the corner of the house, bleating.

  Sloan’s mood elevated. No one could come to this place without smiling.

  “Arf!” he said to the dogs and laughed aloud when both yipped, fell to their bellies and crawled beneath the porch. The nanny goat, however, was not intimidated.

  “I guess you’re in charge,” he said to her. She answered with a loud bleat as if in confirmation.

  The front door, a blue painted mismatch to the house, scraped open. Popbottle Jones called out. “Sloan Hawkins, greetings and enter.”

  Taking the bundle, Sloan went inside. The interior was jam-packed with every conceivable piece of junk.

  “How are you, Mr. Jones? I’ve been intending to come out and thank you again for Aunt Lydia’s eulogy.”

  “My privilege, though a sad one to be sure. Would you care for a refreshment?”

  “No, thanks. I have something I wanted to give you.” Sloan extended the packet. “Actually, sir, they’re yours to begin with. I’m simply returning them. And I apologize for reading a couple before realizing what they were.”

  The dignified old Dumpster diver tilted his head in curiosity but as he accepted the letters, recognition dawned. “I believe I shall sit down.”

  After taking the nearest chair, Popbottle stared at the pile of letters. Almost reverently, he opened one. The paper crinkled in his thick fingers as he read. Sloan remained silent, respectful as Popbottle slipped a finger beneath his glasses and rubbed.

  “Where did you find these?” he asked at last, looking up at the still-standing Sloan.

  “An old secretary in Lydia’s study.” And then unnecessarily, he added, “I’m cleaning out the house.”

  “To sell?”

  “Yes.”

  Popbottle carefully laid the letters in his lap. “So you will leave us again?”

  Sloan’s defenses rose. “I don’t live here. I’m just settling the estate for my aunt.”

  “So you say.” Popbottle removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses on his shirttail. “What of Annie and the children?”

  Sloan opened his mouth to give the standard denial, but heard himself say, “I love her.”

  “Of course you do. Anyone can look at the two of you together and know. She loves you, too.”

  Sloan sank into the only remaining unencumbered chair. “It won’t work.”

  “May I inquire as to why?”

  “Life. The past. Everything. It’s too complicated.”

  Popbottle lifted the packet of letters. “I thought the same thing fifty years ago, Sloan, as did your aunt.”

  “What happened?” Elbows propped on his knees, Sloan steepled his fingers and leaned forward.

  “As you say, life was complicated. I loved her. She loved me, and we discussed being wed in the Hawkins’s garden.” Popbottle Jones smiled a nostalgic smile. “I had wonderful visions of the future. So did she, but as we began to share, our dreams did not coincide. I, fool that I was, admired intellectual endeavors above all else. When the offer of an Ivy League professorship arrived, I asked her to go with me. She refused.”

  “Why?”

  “Your father.”

  “My—”

  Popbottle held up a silencing hand. “You must understand, my boy, Clayton was born very late in the life of your grandparents. They had despaired of having any children other than Lydia, who was nearly grown when the baby arrived. Clayton, the long-awaited male heir, was spoiled and coddled by everyone, including his older sister.”

  “Aunt Lydia.”

  “Exactly. Sadly, the young master grew to be a spoiled and reckless youth. When your grandparents passed on, Lydia took charge of her brother.”

  “And wouldn’t leave him behind.”

  “No, indeed. He needed her, she claimed, more than I, though she begged me to give up the professorship and remain in Redemption. Pride goeth befor
e a fall, Sloan. Remember that. Wounded to the quick, I wrapped my cloak of pride around me and left Redemption behind, believing if Lydia loved me, she would choose me over Clayton.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “No.” He gently fingered the pages, his jowls sagging more than usual. Softly, he said, “She kept my letters. I never knew.”

  “And she never married.”

  “But I did—a girl more amenable to my pursuits than fair Lydia. A fine woman. We had a son and a daughter.” He smiled softly. “After that, I was better able to understand Lydia’s unyielding love for the brother she’d reared. In time, the marriage and academia soured, and I took to drink.” The old gentleman rose from the chair and went to the doorway. “What happened next both destroyed and recreated me.”

  Sloan held his breath, aware that something terrible must have happened to change a professor into a junk dealer. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “Ah, but I must.” Popbottle turned back, eyes misty. “Drink is a terrible tyrant, Sloan, stronger than love for a woman or a child. One night, my little family and I attended a gathering. By evening’s end I was badly inebriated but insisted on driving, though my wife tried to stop me.”

  Sloan’s gut clenched. He knew what was coming.

  “I missed a curve and killed them all.” The dignified voice faded. “All but me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. So am I, but regret did not change what had happened. I paid a fine and spent some time in jail, filled with a self-loathing that I cannot begin to describe. My life was over, my family and career gone. I took to the streets, wandering, lost and undone, and there I met Jesus. Eventually, Redemption called me home, and I knew, though I had greatly changed, my pride gone, my intellect wasted, I would be welcome here.”

  “Did Aunt Lydia know about all this?”

  “No one in this town knows except G.I. Jack. But more than anyone, I could not bear for Lydia to know how low I had fallen. Drunkenness, negligent homicide. Neither are commendations.”

  “She must have known something had changed you.”

  “Certainly, but she had the grace never to broach the subject. As was her way, she accepted me as I am, although it took her illness to make me swallow my pride and approach her again.”

  “She had long ago forgiven you.”

  “Ah, yes. Forgiveness is a beautiful gift, but I struggled with accepting hers until it was too late.”

  “May I ask why you’re telling me this?”

  “Because, my dear boy, I loved the woman who loved you.” He rose and gently placed a hand on Sloan’s shoulder. “For her sake and in her memory, I do not want you to make the same mistakes. When God presents a second chance, grasp hold for all you’re worth and don’t let go for anything.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The scent of grilled chicken basted in Italian seasonings drifted over the redbrick patio in Dooley Crawford’s backyard. Annie shucked the fresh roasted corn while her mother, Carleen, set up the Slip ’n Slide for Justin and Delaney.

  “You kids put on some sunscreen.” Annie waved a tube at them. “Dinner is almost ready.”

  Already soaked, both kids ran dripping back to the patio, lathered on sunscreen and dashed toward the slide, bare feet slapping the plastic. Their squeals and laughter warmed Annie from the inside out.

  Mother lifted the grill lid, flipped the chicken breasts, smoke and scent rolling.

  “Smells great, Mom.”

  “I wonder where your dad is.” Her mother lowered the lid and laid the spatula aside. “He should be here by now.”

  “Give him a call. Tell him he has ten minutes before Justin devours his corn.” Annie stripped away the charred husk to get to the perfectly roasted yellow kernels.

  “That should get him moving. Be back in a minute.” Mother slipped through the patio doors into the house, returning with the cordless in hand and a disappointed expression.

  “What?” Annie asked. “Don’t tell me Dad’s still working.”

  “Yes. Again.” Her mother’s voice was tight with annoyance.

  “No wonder his ulcer eats him up.”

  “That’s what I tell him. He works too much. He has deputies that could handle things, but he thinks he’s the only one who can do it right.”

  “Dad’s way or the highway.” She plopped a cleaned ear onto a platter.

  “Isn’t that the truth?” Carleen tried to smile, but Annie could see how bothered she was by the absence. “He knew you and the kids were coming over. You’ve been so busy at the Hawkins’s place we haven’t had a cookout together all summer. He should have made the time.”

  “I know, but it’s okay. Really. I’m used to his absence.” From the time she was small, Dad’s police work came first. He’d missed more than one of her basketball games as well as her middle school promotion.

  Her mother sighed and finished putting the meal on the wrought-iron table. As the four of them ate dinner, Carleen was unusually quiet even though Justin and Delaney were clowning around and pretty funny. When the last corn was crunched and the meal cleared away, Annie thought of why she’d come over in the first place.

  “Mom, do you mind if I go through some of the photo albums? I want to find some old pictures.”

  “Why, no, of course not. You know where they are.”

  “Come with me.” Annie hooked an arm through her mother’s. “Maybe looking at those old snapshots will cheer you up.”

  “Some of them make me laugh, that’s for sure.”

  Leaving the kids to play, they headed inside. Carleen went to the bedroom and returned with a stack of albums. “Any particular pictures you wanted?”

  “Hmm. Yes.” Annie prowled through the half-dozen books. “From when I was small up through high school. I’m helping Sloan with a project.”

  “Oh.” Annie knew that tone of voice. Sloan was never a pleasant topic, even with her mother, though Mom was nicer about him than Dad. “What kind of project?”

  “A couple, actually. An album for Sloan of his boyhood, to start with. I’m sure there are some of the two of us in here.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Mother and Daddy hadn’t minded Annie and Sloan playing together as children, but at some point—probably when they began to date—all that changed. The son of Redemption’s worst criminal was not considered good enough for the police chief’s daughter.

  “I also had the idea of putting together a book of wedding photos taken in the Hawkins’s garden. Weren’t you and Daddy married there?”

  “We were. I have lots of wedding shots. You know how I love capturing special occasions.”

  They began leafing through the photos, selecting a few to be copied. Annie was glad to see her mother’s mood lightening as she told stories about the old snapshots.

  “This was when your daddy was first named police chief.” Carleen’s voice was filled with pride. “He’d worked such long hours to get there. He was the youngest chief in the state at that time.”

  Annie had heard the story before but didn’t mind. She was proud of her father, too. She turned another page. “What’s this one? Dad’s all dressed up but he doesn’t look too happy.”

  Her mother leaned in for a look. “That was his fortieth birthday. He was so bothered by that number he wouldn’t let me throw a party for him, but I bought him that beautiful watch.”

  The comment drew Annie’s attention to her father’s outstretched wrist. “I don’t remember him having one like that.”

  “That’s because he lost it that same night. I was already furious with him for going to work instead of letting me take him out to dinner as I’d planned. But duty called.”

  “As it always does,” Annie said wryly, thinking of tonight’s cookout.

  “Yes. And he was gone half the night. Something about cows on the road or a bull getting hit by a truck. I don’t remember. Anyway, he lost that expensive watch and I didn’t speak to him for days.”

  “Mom,” Annie admoni
shed.

  “Sounds silly now, doesn’t it? To be mad at him on his birthday.” She flipped a page. “Look here, honey. This one is you and Sloan. You were about Justin’s age, I guess. Maybe a little older.”

  “I remember that. We attended a birthday picnic in the town square.” Annie’s heart squeezed. She wondered if her mother noticed that Sloan and Justin shared the same lanky frame and the same way of tilting their heads to smile. “He was handsome even then.”

  “And sad-looking, I thought. This was after Joni ran off. Poor little thing. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him back then.”

  “I know you did. You were always kind to him.” Annie patted her mother’s arm. “I asked him to come with me tonight.”

  “Well, honey, I’m glad he didn’t accept. You know how your dad is, especially when it comes to his little girl.”

  “I’m not a teenager anymore, Mom. I’m a responsible adult. And in case Dad hasn’t noticed, so is Sloan. He just lost his aunt. He’s terribly alone. Showing kindness and compassion is the Christian thing to do. You taught me that.”

  “Yes, but Sloan was a wild child, Annie. A troublemaker long before his mother ran off with that trucker. Being kind and getting personally involved are two different things. I just don’t trust him after the way he hurt you.”

  Annie had to admit she struggled with the same issues, but her parents’ outright rejection of Sloan because of the past irritated her. “He’s changed, Mom. Besides, Sloan was never the terrible person Daddy made him out to be. He was ornery and rebellious, but never violent.” A lot like your grandson, she wanted to say. “Toilet-papering the principal’s house is not capital murder.”

  “Vandalism is nothing to take lightly. As you well know from Justin’s recent experience.”

  “I’m not excusing Sloan’s behavior. But he was a boy. A boy who thought the whole town hated him because of his parents’ mistakes. Besides, did anyone ever bother to ask why he did those things?”

  “The principal suspended him for fighting.”