by Morgan James
There was a lull in the conversation before Sam remarked, “Susan tells me you are an Episcopalian.”
“Lapsed,” I replied, perhaps too quickly.
“Not necessarily a permanent condition,” she quipped.
I nodded and hoped she wouldn’t try to push me through St. Michael’s doors with guilt. “And what else has Susan told you about me? Only good things, I hope.”
Rev. Quinn hesitated, but only for a moment, then looked me squarely in the eyes. “She didn’t tell me about your great grandfather being asked to leave the Methodist church, or that he was suspected of removing his family from the cemetery, if that’s what you mean. I’m afraid that bit of gossip belongs to Rev. Kolb. Would you like to talk about it?”
I heard Susan clear her throat through the buzzing in my ears. Had this young woman really thrown that shameful bit of family history out there like it was nothing more than an odd news story? I was furious at her callousness, and at a loss for a reply.
“Wow, look at the time,” Susan announced. “I really have to get back to Granny’s and let Melissa go home. Her babysitter has to leave by two.”
I looked at Susan, still speechless. She made a comment to Sam about calling her later and walked toward the elevator. I think I may have given her a slight goodbye wave. I’m not sure. It took a few moments for Rev. Quinn’s remark to sink below my anger level to where truth lives. Two thoughts came to mind: people and things usually show up in my face for a reason, and healing is never painless.
“You know, I think I actually do want to talk about what happened with my great grandfather,” I began. “His name was January McNeal. I don’t know why he was named January. Odd name, don’t you think?”
We sat under the windows of the hospital’s third floor visiting area in molded plastic chairs the colors of birthday balloons, the snow outside melting— drip, drip, drip— from the gutters. Sam was patient while I told her the story. The dreams, the singing child, a stone ledge with Ezekiel 37 scrawled above it, candles long burned down to nubs, Fletcher burying the bones by the forsythia bush, and the long gone rowan tree cross. She didn’t interrupt as I spent my tale. I was exhausted. Quiet filled the space between us.
She closed her eyes briefly before she spoke. Her voice was soft and nonjudgmental. “Isn’t it interesting that the child sings: upstairs, downstairs, we all fall down? I’m familiar with the nursery rhyme. On another level though, it seems to describe January’s error in judgment—presuming he could influence God, summon the power to raise the dead. Like all of us sinners, he fell down, just like the rhyme. Except, if I remember correctly, the rhyme is meant to be about all the people who died in the London plague. I wonder if the singing child’s words and your dreams are connected—if your great grandfather is trying to tell you something about his need of forgiveness?”
Forgiveness? Where did she get that? That idea had not even crossed my mind. But then, I admit forgiveness isn’t my long suit.
Rev. Quinn continued, “Any idea who the singing child could be?”
I shook my head no. “I’ve tried to talk myself into believing she was Missy, or rather Alba, but I’m sure that isn’t the case.”
“Ah,” she replied and was quiet again for a few seconds. “Could the child be your great grandmother Reba’s spirit?”
“She was a grown woman when she died. How could the voice be hers?”
Sam stood up, stretched her back, and faced the windows. Her hair wicked up the last of the afternoon sunlight, burnishing each curl like newly smithed copper. After she sat down again, she offered an explanation. “Some believe spirits who linger on earth can manifest themselves as who they were at a happier time in their lives. For instance, let’s say a spirit feels the need to stay here to protect a loved one, but staying as they were at the traumatic death time is unbearable. Another age is comforting. I mean, the concept isn’t exactly covered in a seminary course; it’s just something I’ve heard discussed.
“On the other hand, I suppose the singing child could be any lingering spirit looking for the way home—no connection to your family at all. I really don’t know; I’m only thinking out loud. The Church has a rather complicated message on such matters, and I have absolutely no experience with souls who are earthbound. Though I will tell you, as the saying goes, I have a teachable spirit. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think you mean you’re willing to help, and I thank you for your willingness. You know, in considering what you said about a spirit sort of becoming another age, in my dream, when January says Ezekiel 37 to me, Reba and the baby are also in the dream— very much alive. I’ve been puzzled by the timeline of him saying that, because at that specific time Ezekiel 37 wouldn’t have the importance it took on after Reba died. It would seem my dream is mixing two different moments in time—the family praying together, and January becoming fixated with Ezekiel. I could leap from there to a spirit communicating from another moment in time, other than the moment of death. The idea follows a strange sort of logic. Time is not necessarily earth time.”
“Exactly. Time is not linear in eternity. However, I need not remind you that, at least from the Church’s view, a dream could be only a dream.”
“Oh yes, as a counselor, I’m well aware of that fact. Dreams remain a mystery locked in the human mind.”
“I’m finding there are many mysteries out there, Promise.” Sam sounded as though she was referring to something personal, a mystery about her own life. I wondered what that might be. “What do you think?” she asked. “Should we go to the graves? Perhaps offer prayers for January, Reba, the singing child, and the baby boy. Remind your great grandfather that forgiveness knows no time or space. Tell them all it’s time to go home?”
Go to the graves? Pray for them? The idea was at once terribly uncomfortable, and yet, absolutely necessary. “Yes, let’s go to the graves.”
“Excellent. How about tomorrow, say around one o’clock? We’ll meet at your house. I’ll ask Susan to bring me.”
30
I was moving coat hangers around in my closet, trying to decide what one wears to an exorcism. Although, as the Rev. Sam Quinn explained, exorcism technically applies to casting out demons. There were no demons on Fire Mountain. We were simply meeting at the graves to pray for troubled souls to find their way home to heaven, or wherever souls find peace. The phone rang. “Luke? Is it really you? How wonderful. How are you? Where are you? I’m so glad you called.”
“Hey Mom. Great to hear your voice, too. I’m in Greenville, South Carolina. Business. You know how that is. Listen, I heard you guys got snow over there, and according to the map I’m only about a hundred and forty miles from you. How about I rent a manly-type vehicle with four-wheel drive and roll on over. I haven’t seen snow in years.”
I didn’t say I felt like he hadn’t seen me in years, let alone snow; but I wanted to. I was grateful the snow was bait enough to entice my one and only son for a visit, and told him to drive carefully. “Do you think you can make it by one o’clock?”
“Sure. We got a bus to catch at one?”
“Something like that. I’ll explain when you get here.
“You think you could get Daniel and Susan to come for supper? It would be great to see them. I’ll do the grilling.”
“Oh, I think that can probably be arranged.”
Luke looked trim, tan, and grown up. But then, of course he is grown up. Twenty-seven this birthday makes him an adult, though he’ll always be my baby. I did notice his hair was buzz cut just like his dad’s, and still the same downy dark blond. I hoped the hair was the only similarity to the unfaithful Detective R.B. Barnes—may he choke on a peach pit. I’m sure the Committee in my head would tell me to get over it; grudges cause wrinkles. The committee would be right. Randall Barnes was a long time ago. I love Luke and was glad to see him. That’s all that mattered.
Besides, we had serious business up on Fire Mountain. Luke was a good sport about our mission. I told him I’d
recently discovered the graves of early McNeals who lived in the area, and we were holding a short, family service for them. All true, though admittedly, a somewhat abbreviated truth.
We piled in two ATVs like pickers headed for the tomato fields. Susan drove in the lead, with Sam beside her. Daniel followed behind, with me as passenger and Luke bouncing in the rear. Crusty, lingering snow made our climb up the mountain slow. No one felt the need to talk. I looked back at Luke a couple of times. He seemed to be drinking in the solitude of the landscape, and smiled back at me. His was that Rose Marie Fitzgerald smile of my mother’s, full of patience and gratitude for all the small things I take for granted.
Once we reached January’s high meadow, the wind was still, the sky a broad-brush watercolor of blue above white ground. Maybe spring would return after all. Fletcher was correct, of course. We found the granite stone marker less than three feet from the snow-topped forsythia bush.
Sam removed her long coat, folded it carefully, and placed it in the passenger seat of the ATV. She stood in the snow, a small copper-haired young woman in a long black cassock over black jeans and sturdy boots, a white clerical collar framed her face, and an enormous metal cross hung from her neck almost to her waist. A murder of crows riding the thermals overhead must have recognized her black plumage. They circled and tossed caws of welcome into the otherwise quiet skies.
Sam waved hello to the crows and grasped the cross in her right hand. She turned to me and answered my unasked question. “Was my grandfather’s. He was a lot taller.” As the metal fell back against her body, it reflected the afternoon sun and returned a blinding prism of light out into the meadow.
There was no conversation when Rev. Quinn asked our little congregation to gather around the granite marker. We bowed our heads and she said a short prayer. Then she opened her Prayer Book and read: “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live…”
Familiar words, though at first I couldn’t place where they were found in The Book of Common Prayer. She read on. “The Lord gave; the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.” Now I knew. Sam was reading from the service for the burial of the dead.
Memories of my mother’s and father’s funerals walked across my mind—the tearful words, the smell of lilies, my anger with my father for leaving us one last time. Then years later, my mother, the beautiful Rose Marie, forever still, and forever cloaked in a cream colored, satin casket blanket. My mind must have drifted. When I was back in the moment, Sam was praying, “O’ spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence, and be no more seen.”
I looked around the meadow—the tumble of a cabin, the rock chimney standing like a watchtower, grass breaking the snow in patches of green, life determined to outlast the March weather. Where was January? Did he exist only in my dream? Or was he here, a spirit bound to Fire Mountain and its tragedies?
Rev. Quinn read on, “Unto Almighty God we commend the souls of our brother January McNeal, our sister Reba McNeal, the child Ephraim McNeal, and any soul here who wanders lost and weary upon this land. By the power invested in me, through the life and death of our Savior Jesus Christ, we beseech thee, Oh Lord, to call these souls home to thee so that they may know your divine forgiveness, and rest in everlasting peace.” It was over. Sam closed the Prayer Book.
Maybe I expected thunder or the beating of angels’ wings, but when Sam said her amen, the only sound was the comforting caw of the crows trailing off in the distance. I wondered if these were the same crows that visit my pasture, arguing over the best perches or which will get the first bite of leftover goat feed. I hoped so.
We stood silently around the graves, perhaps none of us wanting to stir the quiet. A sudden breath of wind disturbed the forsythia bush, puffs of snow from its yellow blossoms shaking to the ground; then the wind stilled. I thought I smelled rosemary; though I don’t believe forsythia has a rosemary fragrance. Where had I smelled rosemary recently? Was it at Mrs. Allen’s house? Rosemary, I’d read somewhere, was for remembrance.
The word forgiveness had been on my mind since Sam mentioned it yesterday. Perhaps January was seeking God’s forgiveness. Perhaps I needed to forgive him as well, let go of my judgment on actions I could never understand. Otherwise, his bizarre behavior would shadow me for the rest of my life, and I would always feel the need to apologize for who I am, because of who I thought he was.
I hoped our prayers gave the earthbound souls on Fire Mountain peace. Each of us needs to go back to where we came from when this body is spent. Though I have to say, I’ll miss the little voice singing, upstairs, downstairs, we all fall down.
The Rev. Sam Quinn was the first to speak. In my reverie, it took me a second to realize she was talking to me. “Thank you, Promise, for inviting me today,” she was saying, “I am honored to be included with your family.”
I looked at each of them: Luke, Susan, and Daniel. “Yes,” I finally responded, “My family. Thank you, Rev. Quinn.” Daniel put his arm around me and I leaned into him. When I looked up, I believe I saw a look in his eyes that said, “I’ll never leave you.” There goes that Alison Krauss song— one more time.
Later I knocked and let myself into Luke’s room to say goodnight. He was rearranging clothes in his compact, soft suitcase. I noticed his clothes—shirts, underwear, and socks—were rolled tightly, like mini telescopes, to save space, just as the travel guru on television advises. I also noticed the butt of a gun protruding from the neat rows of necessities.
Luke realized I’d seen the gun and immediately waded into the subject. “The gun? Don’t panic, Mom. It’s legal. I have a permit. Remember, I travel a lot… with the oil company.”
“Yes, with Acadian Oil. I understand that.” Though I really didn’t. And I didn’t believe he worked for an oil company, unless the United States government owns foreign oil businesses—which it may for all I know. “It’s just that I’m not used to seeing you with a gun. It’s a shock. You didn’t even have a cap pistol as a child.”
Luke hugged me. The familiar scent of his skin settled on me and I wanted with all my heart for it to be then and not now. Then, a long time ago, when he was small and trusting, and I could protect him.
“I know Mom,” my son said, “you don’t get the blowback here in your little corner of mountain paradise, but, believe me, the world out there can be a mean and dangerous place.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh, or cry. The world out there? Right. Only the world out there?
I admit it; I seriously considered telling him everything that had happened, down to my being tied up by an escaped convict and having a bleeding, and dying man sprawled across me.
But of course, I didn’t. Mothers don’t do that. What I said was, “I’m sure you’re right, son. How about hot chocolate before we turn in?”
Dear Readers,
Thank you for being here again. Promise and I appreciate you spending time with us. The usual disclaimers hold true. This is a work of fiction. Although historical persons may move through the story, they are used fictitiously. Perry County and its residents are of my imagination; any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is entirely coincidental. License with the geography of Western North Carolina is taken at times to fit the story.
To friends and family, especially Dee, I am grateful beyond measure for your encouragement. To my son, Kevin: your cover art is awesome. To my husband, Rick: your day-job made the writing possible.
Special thanks for advice and information to Lionel Caynon and Rev. Sam Pope. Any mistakes in information they shared are mine, entirely. To early readers Gail and Cora Jane, who helped with comments and errors, I say thank you. A special thank you to Karen, who read tirelessly and marked numerous punctuation errors with precision and careful thought. Thank you to songwriters Paul Overstreet and Don Schlitz, and the amazing Alison Krauss, for the perfect love song, You Say It Best When You Say Nothing At All.
Take care, and see you next time,
Morgan
About the author
Morgan James is a transplant to the Western North Carolina Mountains, where she lives with her husband, dogs, cats, goats, and one loud Cockatiel. Her first Promise McNeal mystery, Quiet The Dead, received reader praise as, “everything a Southern mystery should be.”