The Charity

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Jessica put off stopping by Hoyt’s hardware store for a while. When she finally did step timidly through the door, her friend came up to her and opened his arms.

  “Tess! Tess! I was wonderin’ just when you were goin’ to decide to come in here an’ pay your buddy a visit.” The huge man enveloped her in a bear hug that was a little too strong. “Gawd. Who’da thought our Tess White would turn into a fugitive on the run.”

  Jessica picked a time when she thought his store would be empty. She was happy that her timing was fairly good. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica could see only one man edging closer toward them, all the while pretending to be fascinated with the bins of nails and screws along the aisle. The warmly dressed man raised his head and quickly lowered it again when he caught Jessica’s chilled look.

  “It’s Jessica, Hoyt. Nice to see you, too.” She was still trying to size up his manner. “I’ve seen Karen at the school and she seems great. Gapman and ClaireAnne are okay?”

  “Gapman had n’er been better, thanks. ClaireAnne is just fine.”

  “How’s business?”

  Hoyt pulled his arm back and smacked her back a lot more forcefully than she expected. She took a step forward to steady herself. The location of his ‘pat’ stung. “Bizness? Why, my bizness ain’t been better. You would not believe the people comin’ an’ goin’. Well, first it was to pat my back on havin’ my old horse save the day for Bleauvelt. Now, well, it seems like those reporters that swept into town behind you is wonderin’ why I been so successful of late. Like I been a part of yer whole scheme all along.” He raised the volume of his voice, determined that no words would be missed by anyone.

  “Oh, Hoyt! I am so sorry. With Electra telling my whole story the only other way for those reporters to get a scoop is to suggest connections and stories where there aren’t any! I hate hearing that this whole mess has hurt you.” She stepped forward to embrace her friend and was rebuffed by the stiffening of his back.

  “Tess, shoot, I mean Jess, why couldn’t you tell me what was wrong? I’da helped you.” His weather-beaten brow furrowed into lines of deep hurt.

  “Hoyt. I didn’t think I could talk to anyone. And if I did, I thought that would put whoever I did speak to into some kind of trouble, too.” Tears stung at her eyes and she blinked them back. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

  The big man looked at her and nodded. “Ya know. I always had this feelin’ that Tess White was a good woman. Jest that she had some kind of trouble like a bad husband er somethin’. I n’er in a million years thought you were caught up in murder and organized crime!” Large booted feet scuffed at the sawdust covered wood floor. “Ya know, ClaireAnne an’ I, well, we are jest simple, Gawd fearin’ folk. We took to likin’ Tess White jest fine, and, well, we jest don’t know anyone by the name of ‘Jessica Wyeth.’”

  The words hit Jessica harder than any punch could. A lump rose in her throat. “Oh, God, Hoyt. I never wanted to hurt anyone, especially you and ClaireAnne. You were so wonderful to me. I never wanted to lie or hurt anyone. Please believe me.”

  “Believe? Well, now, I don’t think that’s fair for you ta be askin’ me that.”

  Jessica stepped back and began to turn toward the door. “Hoyt, I really value our friendship.” She was considering leaving when she remembered her business reasons for seeing him. “I, um, I figured out how much I owed you for the work you did on my house.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I also put in a deposit for the work on rebuilding my barn.”

  “I don’t want yer bizness or yer money, Miss Wyeth.”

  She bit her lip. “Hoyt, I...” She began to try to talk with him again, but knew that the staunch man from the mountains of Kentucky would need more time before he would talk to her again. She left the envelope with a check in it on the counter.

  “Okay, well, thank you Hoyt.”

  It took more strength than she realized to keep the tears in as she walked back to her car. She cursed herself for being so foolish as to think that she could ever call Perc her home. If the people she loved hated being her neighbor, then she could hardly be a neighbor to them. As much as she hated to admit it, she was beginning to wonder whether Michael still wanted to buy her farm.

  February 1996

  A FEW MEN remained in the Belfast pub long after the last pints of ale were drafted and the hard red wooden bar top was wiped down. They were seated in the far corner, away from the faint light that shone on the stooped woman washing the floor. The dirty water slopped across the wide planked floor chased by an ancient rag mop. The rhythmic ‘swoosh slop slap rush’ motion of mop from bucket to floor lulled her into a false state of calm. The old woman paid no heed to the men. They, in turn, paid no heed to her.

  Tonight, as with all other nights, they took long pulls of their pints of ale and wiped a wayward drip with the back of a pale bare arm. Shirtsleeves rolled up, they were deep into another session.

  The oldest man, with thick, snow-white hair, clear blue eyes and eyebrows that formed a straight line across his forehead when he spoke, was in the midst of his rationale.

  “I told ye, the cease-fire is on and it has held for over one and one half years. I’ll admit that the process is slow, but we haf had some gains, here.”

  A younger man named Tim, barely in his twenties, burst in. “Some gain, Old Liam? What in the devil’s name do ye call a ‘gain’? One man’s picture taken with another? Our people do not care if members of our group gain recognition as statesmen. Having a leader’s image snapped with the President of the United States is a laughable ‘gain.’ What good does it do? Perhaps you think the barricades off Ulster Square have been removed because of a picture in the newspaper? Does it bring back our dead?”

  The older man leaned across the table in anger. His powerful presence made the younger man shrink back. The old blue eyes flashed with hatred and anger. “Who are you to talk about the dead or the price that has been paid for unification? I have lost three sons to our cause. My nephew, my namesake, died in a horrible explosion. My father and brother did all they could to help us from America, and now instead of enjoying his final years, my brother is defending himself against all odds in the American courts. If I am ready to find another road to peace, then a small elfin lad like yourself should be open-minded, too.” He paused as others around the table bowed their heads in respect for the dead that were mentioned.

  “Listen to yourself, Liam! You’ve just said it yourself. Magnus is too busy defending himself to lead. You are trying to use that as an opportunity to take over.”

  “You are wrong, Tim. I am not seeking to be chairman.”

  “You are trying to take our loyalties away from Magnus. You are splitting us apart.”

  “No. I’m not. I’m showing that there’s another way to push our political agenda without killing people.”

  “You’re not strong enough and are too old to lead us.”

  Old Liam ignored the comment and continued. His heavy brogue and emotions blended to soothe the tone of his words away from harsh realities. “One of our own has worked hard to create a niche for himself as a statesman. A few years ago he was wipin’ tables and draftin’ stouts in this very pub. Now he has the ear of a president as the leader of change through political means, not violence. Yes. I know it has taken time, precious time to do that. But nothin’ could be done on our issues until we had a man of image and substance behind us. For God’s sake, Tim, we are tryin’ to rid ourselves of the British Empire here! This is not some third world occupation that burns itself out in a decade. Our strife dates back centuries! The hatred and distrust both sides feel for one another will not be dissolved overnight. It takes time to change the minds and the emotions of the affected. Surely another few months won’t matter in the history of things.”

  Tim pounded the table as he took to his feet. “Spare me the history on our trouble
s, Old Liam! The Brits want us to lay down our weapons before they will talk to us. They know that’s like takin’ the lifeblood out o’ each an’ ev’ry one o’ us. They want us to surrender before they sit at a table with us. How can we ever get our home unified if we enter any talks after we’ve surrendered? What kind of bargaining power would we have then? Magnus is right to say that the time to strike hard is now.”

  The old man would not be deterred. “What kind of power do we have now? We have the threat of force. We have seen where the threat of action is often more powerful than the action itself. Restraint is not surrender. Rather it is the position of supreme strength of our cause that gives us the power to wait, the power to hold our ground!” He rose and grasped Tim by his collar. They stood nose to nose for a long moment, the younger man not flinching, the older man unyielding. Finally, Liam raised his knobby hand and gently grasped a handful of Tim’s thick black hair. “You are too much like your fiery mother, Tim. Use the gifts she gave you, lad. Think. Use your head before you do something you, or your nation, will regret.” He patted Tim’s cheek with paternal regard as he released the fistful of hair.

  “You’re wrong, Old Liam. Age has softened you. The only thing I will regret is sittin’ in this damn pub when I am an old man with white hair, thinkin’ o’ the things I should haf done to give myself and my family a life when I had a chance. Magnus is a strong leader even with his legal troubles. He has my loyalty for as long as he lives.”

  Liam scoffed. “For as long as he lives or for as long as you fear for your life. It’s no secret how fear assures loyalty.”

  The other men at the table had watched and listened to the heated exchanges. Decisions were being made tonight. Everyone felt the pressure of the moment—the love they had for one another combined with the hatred of the issues that drove them. Beads of sweat formed on foreheads and trickled down cheeks. Shirts clung to bodies even as the raw wind howled outside.

  A man at the end of the table in his late twenties with soft eyes and auburn hair began to speak. As he did so, he raised his large frame from his seat to add impact to his words. “Tim, we all feel the frustration of sitting on our hands. We are men of action and delegating the action to politicians goes against our very souls. Old Liam has a point when he says that a little more time is needed. The conflict dates back centuries, and we have been in a state of internal war for nearly seventy-five years, ever since our country was divided. But it is more than that physical division on a map. It is the minds and hearts of our own people that have been split in two by the conflict. It might be the Brits that we target in our rifle scopes or hope to blow up with our bombs, but this war is a many-headed serpent. It is a religious and civil war too. Protestants against Catholics. Neighbor against neighbor. It will take time to forgive. We need time to heal the sores of hatred.”

  A few men nodded in agreement. Others looked down and fidgeted with their mugs of ale, taking absent sips to ease their discomfort. “Daniel. What you’re talkin’ about is the fester around the thorn. Remove the thorn and the wounds will heal.” Tim was on his feet again. He began pacing up and down the wooden floor. His statement was met with a chorus of agreement.

  Tim continued. “You’re wrong about us sittin’ on our hands though. We have been busy building our ranks. Old Liam, at first I disagreed with you using funds to build schools and help families, but now I see your brilliance! With those and other acts of kindness, you softened the hardest of hearts enough for them to hear our message. I, myself, took much time to go out and talk to those young people who gathered in our schools. I was heartened by how many wanted to jump into action immediately. This is the time they have been waiting for.”

  “What?” Old Liam asked, shocked. “My God, man, you were never authorized to even go near those schools!”

  “Think of it Old Liam. The schools open the minds of the young. They become places where the dreams of nations are taught, where the perspective that there could be another way to live is learned. The schools teach them how to have a voice—”

  “They do not teach revolution! The schools are there to teach self-sufficiency and provide skills for jobs to stabilize families, not destabilize governments! These students enter the schools trusting them to help build a better future!”

  Tim ignored the interruption and continued addressing the group. “And they are not disappointed. Those that join us are all fine ‘sleepers.’ Not one has as much as a traffic ticket for a record and by all accounts never would have gotten involved in the cause if it weren’t for the steadfast recruiting Liam’s education and my efforts did. If the Brits ever caught one of them, they would be difficult to trace back to us. I will talk about them more later, but now let us remain focused on our plans.” He made sure he had the attention of everyone before continuing. “Our support from your brother in America never diminished. We have enough in our till to launch a strong offensive. Old Liam, surely you acknowledge that support and have understood its meaning?”

  Old Liam was stunned. “Have you no sense? Our foundation from Magnus is gone, a victim of its own greed. He stole from us just as surely as if he had his hands upon our wallets. He’s funneled his money into creating groups like us in other countries. We never got the total amount of support we were led to think we would receive. The money for the schools and families came from... from another source. We are no longer beholden to Magnus and must make our own decisions. This is what we have wanted for so long! Finally, we are free from the prospect of blackmail to do another man’s bidding. We can now, and must, create our own destiny.”

  A new figure emerged from the bowels of the blackness by the smoldering hearth. It stood quite still. Unmoved.

  “Have you chosen your path?”

  The voice caused the flesh to crawl on the bravest men. They looked up at the dead, dark eyes and swallowed hard. Fearful greetings were mocked by the smile that met their gazes. The mouth was permanently tortured into a skewed grin by a scar that ran up a ruddy cheek.

  The voice repeated its question. “You want to create a destiny, don’t you? Well, have you chosen a path?”

  Old Liam stood up and moved toward the killer. “You are not welcome here anymore. Our destiny is of no more concern of yours.”

  An otherworldly laugh filled the pub. “Is that the greeting your brother’s keeper gets now? Well, no matter.” While he spoke, he made a gesture with his arm which conspicuously displayed the familiar symbol of rank and, to some, hatred.

  Old Liam would not be intimidated. “The Charity can no longer wield its monetary heft around and lead us by rings in our noses. It’s done. It’s gone!”

  The scarred cheek twitched in amusement. “Is it? You have a new leader now.”

  Old Liam shot back. “You’re lying!”

  “Am I?”

  “Magnus is still alive and he has no one to succeed him.”

  “You said it yourself. Magnus is old, weak and distracted. His son is young and very driven.”

  “My God! Michael? Michael is going to succeed Magnus?”

  “Aye. It’s what the old man wants. Your new leader just has to prove himself as strong, just as I prove myself as a loyal soldier.”

  “Impossible! This is a lie. Michael has nothing to prove. He is a born leader but would never follow in Magnus’ footsteps.”

  “I’ve been watching him, Old Liam. Michael knows what he has to prove and when the time is right he will know how to do it. Plans have been laid. It will all be clear soon. So, I’ll ask you, does anyone here question that you’ll be following a new leader?” These words were spoken as he conspicuously adjusted the blade strapped to his arm.

  The last words were tossed up at the group of men and filtered slowly downward, met by an uneasy silence. Tankards of ale remained on the table, not lifted to dry, nervous lips for fear of drawing unwanted attention. The bravado of the strongest man shrank away from the challe
nge.

  Eyes, lifeless and stark as pits, moved from one face to another, making their usual assessments. That one is strong. Four cuts and he would be down. That one could be dealt with a punch to the throat. Deadly calculations were made and savored. The hard coolness of the waiting blade against the skin of his upper arm beckoned.

  “Anyone?” The question was repeated, hopeful for a fool.

  None was at the table that night.

  “We received more money today. I got confirmation of it before I came here tonight.” Tim shifted his weight and the motion drew all eyes to him.

  Old Liam was visibly rocked. “How can that be? Are you sure?”

  “You’re out of touch, Liam,” continued Tim. “This money means autonomy for the new cells and freedom to part from men who think words are stronger than bombs. It also is proof that you, Old Liam, were lying about Magnus forgetting us.” Tim drew in a deep breath and took a step closer to the killer. He looked into eyes that glowed with the flames of hell and his skin prickled at the price of his ambition.

  Tim added a final phrase. “Yes, Old Liam. The funds were sent to be under my control.”

  The old man’s frame slumped in his chair. “I cannot believe that. I never thought he could do such a thing.” The words were whispered to himself in a shocked, hoarse voice. Glancing around the room, he forced his limbs to support his weight. “This is a trick. This is all deception. We must know how we have been played. Like children hungering for an allowance, being promised a horse and given the brush while told to keep being good or the brush will go, too. All of the years of being promised a massive influx of needed cash and being thrown a picked bone infuriates me! Don’t be used anymore! Magnus has kept us fed only enough to keep the fire burning in the bellies of the soldiers. Only he has gotten rich off our strife!” He renewed his refrain. “We must not kill anymore! We haf our own souls to protect. Let the peace process continue and let the hearts and minds of our people become accustomed to the quiet. We can do it. We can bring peace to our country if we just use our heads!”