All Things Return

by W.H. Harrod

The piercing sound of the alarm clock aroused an indignant sleeper. Terrance couldn’t imagine it being morning already. Why did he set this digitalized byproduct of Satan’s misanthropy for a Saturday morning anyway? He hated getting up in the morning and, especially, on Saturdays. Then it dawned on him, “the soup kitchen guy.” He needed to finish that snoozer article before the Sunday deadline. “Damn! I have to go to the funeral to boot. What a wasted day this is going to be.” He threw the covers off as reality seeped into his consciousness.

  A hot shower and a large cup of black coffee energized him, allowing him to get pretty much on track. He recalled the previous day’s efforts to get the ‘soup kitchen’ story together and how he, so far, failed to come up with anything new. Not a single neighbor knew anything new about the guy. They came into contact with him only on infrequent occasions when someone happened to pass him on the streets of the neighborhood or when he came outside in the spring or fall of the year to tend to yard work or make some minor repairs on the house. Most of them did know of his numerous civic activities from the newspapers. Other than that, they knew practically nothing.

  The people the subject worked with offered but slightly more help. They liked him and respected his dedication to his work, but not a single person could comment on his private life. He never talked about anything at work, except work. No one socialized with him outside of work. Some told of hearing about his umpiring baseball games and hauling kids to little league games. On infrequent occasions, they too met him out shopping or at the supermarket. He never told any of them about his private life, and he never talked about his past or the future. For all people knew, he went home and sat in a corner until time to come back to work the next day, and the next day was everyday. He never took a day off, and as far as anyone could remember, Joseph Right never took a vacation in all the years he worked at the shelter.

  Rumors told of him using his own funds to subsidize numerous civic and youth activities and of him hauling kids around to science fairs, debating contests, and swim meets in his own van. Not a single person ever recalled a time when he didn’t pull out his wallet when asked to donate money to a worthy cause. By all reports, he was a very decent person, a quiet person, and most of all, a private person.

  So why does this bother me? Terrance pondered. Am I actually that cynical at the age of twenty-four? Why am I so surprised to learn of the existence of a good and decent human being in the community? Upon what basis have I created this unflattering opinion of humanity so early in life?

  Terrance decided to quicken his pace. The landlady, the single person he wanted to talk to most last night, told him to go away when he knocked on her door at 7:30 p.m. He explained the purpose of his mission to her, but she still wouldn’t allow him into her house at such, according to her, an inappropriate time of the day. He persisted and at least got her permission to come back this morning. She likely represented his last hope for information on the local scene. With this in mind, he headed out the door to his car.

  Terrance went over some of the fundamentals employed by reporters during interviews as he traveled the short distance to her house: Get to know more about the subject. Listen, because a good reporter is a good listener. Don’t BS them. Explain to them what you are doing. Be sympathetic. Don’t chit—chat. Let the facts speak for themselves. Don’t judge. Thank them when you’re finished.

  He barely finished reciting the last reporting guide line as he arrived back at Joseph Right’s former address. This sunny Saturday morning brought quite a few people who lived in the neighborhood out and about. Some worked in their yards while others headed off with their children to soccer games. “Crazy!” Terrance exclaimed. “They all could be asleep in their comfortable beds if they wanted. They don’t have some silly filler piece to get ready for some insignificant small town newspaper.”

  The landlady, one Mrs. Judith Bidwell, stood on the front porch looking towards his vehicle as he pulled to a stop in front of her home. Her gaze never wavered as he shut off the motor, retrieved his pack, exited the vehicle, and headed towards the front porch where she stood waiting. Terrance discerned a look of distress on her otherwise featureless face. Her sullen appearance gave him cause to expect a difficult interview.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bid—” began Terrance as he approached the porch steps.

  “You’re late. You said you would be back early,” interrupted Mrs. Bidwell, reminding Terrance that elderly people have a different and often perverted concept of time as well as the terminology relevant to it.

  “I’m sorry,” responded Terrance, deciding not to waste time debating the subjective nature of the word early. “I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me this morning. I’ll not detain you any longer than necessary. I’m hoping you will be able to provide me with information relating to Mr. Right’s life and his activities in our community. So far, no one seems to know much about Mr. Right. As I told you last evening, we plan to run a lengthy piece on him in tomorrow’s paper. Anything you could tell me about him would be very helpful, I’m sure.”

  The landlady said nothing. She stood in place and stared him up and down. All five foot, ninety pounds, of her in a flowered housedress, partially covered by the full white cotton apron tied around her waist, made him think of individuals he’d seen in photographs taken in the 1930s. The wire framed spectacles and the silver-white hair tied back in a bun legitimized the dust bowl image. He estimated she had to be at least eighty years old.

  Terrance kept on standing in front of her on the big covered porch that wrapped around most of the front of the pre-1920s house. Her steady gaze didn’t falter until she abruptly turned and walked though the open front door into her front parlor. “Come inside,” she said over her shoulder. Her tone of voice left no doubt in Terrance’s mind that this wasn’t a request but an order.

  Her curt demeanor caused him to hesitate for perhaps a second too long. “Well?” she said expressing her puzzlement towards his inactivity, “Are you coming inside or not? It’s practically winter out there. You want me to freeze to death?”

  Terrance regained his composure and hastened into the house closing the heavy wooden door behind him. “Of course, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I must have been thinking.” He noticed then, for the first time, her red and swollen eyes looking back at him from behind the thin wire spectacles. Okay, thought Terrance, this is sure enough an indication of a very personal loss. She must know something about the guy to be feeling the loss this deeply. It only stands to reason since the guy lived in the same house with her for the last twenty years.

  She directed Terrance to a seat on one of the straight-backed chairs sitting across from a beautiful antique sofa where she situated herself in preparation for the interview. He felt a tingle of anticipation as he prepared his material prior to getting started. This lady has to know something about the guy, he assured himself.

  “Mrs. Bidwell, could you tell—”

  She cut him off. “What did you say your name is?”

  “Uh…It’s Terrance, Mrs. Bidwell, and I work for the local Gazette. I would appreciate you helping me to know more—”

  Again, she cut him off. “What’s your last name, and where you from?” she inquired curtly while at the same time dabbing her eyes with her dainty white handkerchief.

  Be patient, he told himself under his breath. Old people do this kind of stuff. “Uh, my last name is Butler, Mrs. Bidwell, and I’m from right here in Lawrence. Now could you please—”

  “Butler? Butler?” interrupted Mrs. Bidwell yet again. “I don’t expect I’m familiar with any Butlers from around here. I did know of some Butlers from over Atchison way some years ago. That any of your kin?”

  Terrance didn’t respond right away. He tried to think of some way to get control of the interview so he could finish and go back to the office to write this increasingly annoying article and get on with his life. He realized the need to convey a sense of urgency in some way that wouldn’t offend her or cau
se her to keep quiet about what she knows about the guy. “Mrs. Bidwell,” said Terrance softly as he leaned far forward on his seat to impress upon her the gravity of the situation, “I’m sure this is a very painful period for you, so I want to take as little of your time as possible. Could I please ask you a few questions about Mr. Right for the article I’m writing and then I’ll leave you in—”

  This time Terrance halted in reaction to Mrs. Bidwell’s dramatic change of expression. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed, and she withdrew as far as possible in her seat from his advances. Then an even stranger thing happened. Mrs. Bidwell’s countenance again changed—from one of sudden shock to one of recognition. Her actions dumbfounded him. What did she see? Did I do something to cause these totally unexpected reactions from her?

  He waited for an explanation but none came. She actually compounded his confusion as she leaned as far forward as possible and looked into his eyes. The almost imperceptible smile upon her now serene face struck Terrance as odd. What’s going on here? he wondered.

  “How old did you say you were?” asked Mrs. Bidwell as she slowly sat back on the sofa.

  How old am I? What difference does that make? “I’m twenty-four,” said Terrance, resignation apparent in his tone of voice. He realized that she needed to satisfy herself with the minutiae of his life before they went any further.

  “Um-hm, and you were born right here in Lawrence, you say?”

  “Yes, I, well no, I was born in Texas. I was raised here in Lawrence,” he answered politely.

  “And that pretty blond hair you have—expect you got that from your mother. Am I right?” continued his interrogator.

  Terrance chuckled at this question. “I don’t know if I did or not—for you see, I’m adopted. I don’t know anything about my birth parents.”

  Mrs. Bidwell thought hard about his answer. “But one would have to think, wouldn’t they?”

  Mrs. Bidwell then studied all of Terrance’s physical features, beginning with his face. She quickly observed that the young man sitting across from her possessed strikingly attractive facial features. His flawless skin tone and natural dirty blond hair further enhanced his appearance. His wiry frame, all five feet ten inches of it, displayed the characteristics of an active person. After having satisfied her curiosity, she returned to the matter at hand.

  “What is it you want to know about Joseph?”

  Her sudden attention to the sole purpose of his visit surprised Terrance and forced him to reorient himself back to the original subject. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m hoping you can give me some additional information about Mr. Right. No one else around here knows much about the man. Did he have any outside interests other than the numerous civic activities he stayed involved in—any political preferences? Did he favor any of the local sports teams? Did he have a religion? Did he do anything other than work and volunteer with about every civic organization in the community?” Relieved to have been allowed to ask some pertinent questions, he now waited for her response.

  Her response came quickly. “Sorry, I can’t think of a thing.”

  Her negative response puzzled him. He’d counted on this lady being able to provide him with something. In desperation, he persisted. “Mrs. Bidwell, I mean anything. No matter how insignificant you might think it is.” Again, he waited for a positive response from the old lady.

  Mrs. Bidwell hesitated barely a moment before answering. “No, can’t think of a thing. I’m quite positive that every single person you talked to so far told you that this was a fine and decent man who will be sorely missed by the entire community. Personally, my words cannot convey to you how deeply I feel this loss. I don’t know what else you need or want to know about the man. Now, if you don’t mind, I must prepare myself for today’s funeral. I urge you to attend. You will see, first hand, how the people of this community feel about Mr. Joseph Right.”

  A few moments later, Terrance stood in the front door way displaying a look of obvious disappointment. He turned one final time to say goodbye to Mrs. Bidwell, but she cut him off again before he could get a word out.

  “You know, it’s inherited, don’t you?” she commented.

  “Wha-what?” he stuttered, his confusion complete.

  “Heterochromia iridium. It’s inherited.”

  Not waiting for his response, she closed the door as the confused young man walked towards his car talking to himself.

  “What just happened here? She knows nothing? Heterochro—what?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN