The Great Reminder

by R. R. Irvine

  “We call this our Hill Cumorah,” Laverla said when they reached the top. “After the hill in New York where the Angel Moroni revealed the holy word to Joseph Smith.”

  To save breath, Traveler nodded.

  “Cowdery Junction was going to build its own temple,” she continued. “That was before our town began to shrink. Our young people moved away. Even my own children refused to stay on the farm. They’re living in the big city now, up in Provo.”

  She lowered her head to stare at the ground around them. “There used to be a marker here and a garden, so people wouldn’t forget our purpose. Now there’s nothing but weeds. It was my mother who planted the garden. It was an act of faith, Mr. Traveler. You can see that by looking around. There’s no water. She had to carry it here by hand. Sometimes she walked all the way from the farm with a bucket.”

  Laverla turned away from him to look down on Cowdery Junction. Viewed from the hilltop, the town reminded Traveler of a movie set, abandoned for the moment but still usable.

  “Nothing’s been the same since the war,” she went on. “After that, the boom was over for us.”

  “It’s the same in all the small towns,” he said.

  “Do you know what it means to be a temple town, Mr. Traveler? ‘Saints would come here from all over to be married, to be sealed together for time and eternity.’ Those were my mother’s words. ‘Laverla,’ she’d say, ‘when our temple is done, you go through a second ceremony for me. Give me a special baptism for the dead when I’m called home.’ ”

  Laverla sighed. “I hate to think what she’d say if she were here now. I’ve broken faith with her, you can see that for yourself. That’s why I brought you here, Mr. Traveler. To show you and to explain.”

  He said nothing while waiting for her to continue.

  “My mother’s maiden name was Helen Richards. She was Lamar Richards’s only sister. When my father married her, a lot of people thought the two farms would be combined eventually. But after the war, the Broadbents didn’t prosper the way the Richardses did.

  “My mother knew she was dying that last time we came here, just the two of us. ‘You’re my only girl,’ she said, ‘the one closest to me all these years.’ I wasn’t a child when she said that, Mr. Traveler. I was fifty years old. ‘Promise me something,’ she said. ‘Anything,’ I answered because I was terrified by the sight of death on her face.”

  Blinking tears, Laverla watched the sun disappear into the clouds. The air turned abruptly cold.

  “I never kept that promise, Mr. Traveler. Later on it seemed unimportant. But starting tomorrow I’ll do it. I’ll go to Salt Lake and put flowers on the graves of those young men who died here in Cowdery Junction.”

  “Are you talking about the German prisoners?”

  She nodded. “Once a month for as long as I can remember, my mother made a pilgrimage to the army cemetery in Salt Lake. She grew the flowers here especially. ‘Temple flowers,’ she called them, ‘to honor the dead.’ In winter when there weren’t any blooms, she’d make wreaths out of evergreens and holly. It was a regular ritual. Sometimes my father would go with her, mostly not. But I always had to. Mother insisted. I hated that long trip as a child, losing a whole day away from my friends, when there were better things to do, or so I thought at the time.”

  She fell silent. Traveler waited a long time before speaking. “Why did your mother take the flowers?”

  “We had an argument when I was still a teenager. ‘Those Germans were nothing but outsiders,’ I told her. ‘Nothing but Gentiles.’ ”

  Laverla rubbed her arms briskly, one after the other, as if trying to rekindle the heat of youth. “Mother looked at me and said, ‘You haven’t known pain yet, child. One day you’ll understand.’ ”

  When she hugged herself against the growing cold, he took her by the elbow and began guiding her down the path while there was still light enough to see. She didn’t speak again until they were in the truck with the heater running.

  “I kept after Mother. ‘Why do the flowers have to be taken to Fort Douglas?’ I’d ask. ‘Because,’ she’d answer, ‘it’s something that has to be done. It’s our duty.’ Even when she was dying, I asked her to tell me her reasons. Do you know what she said? ‘I don’t want to burden my children’s consciences with what I know.’ Her very words. ‘But never forget, those flowers must be laid down.’ ”

  Laverla double-clutched the truck into gear, backed up carefully on the narrow road, and returned to Broadbent Avenue. There, she turned north as far as Wasatch Avenue, then left a block, and right again on Brigham. Three blocks later, she parked the pickup in front of the Cowdery Cottages Motel.

  The moment the engine died she leaned back and closed her eyes. “You coming here, stirring up old memories, made me realize I’ve been making excuses for myself ever since Mother died. She was old and sick, I told myself, and didn’t know what she was saying. Besides, I was too busy for such things, I kept telling myself. I had a husband and family to worry about. The dead didn’t care if they got flowers or not. I even asked my husband, that’s Ethan, what I should do. ‘The dead weren’t Saints,’ he told me. ‘They won’t be raised from the dead.’ ”

  She sighed. “I told myself he’s right. If the dead aren’t raised, they can’t confront me when I’m called home. But my mother can.”

  “What does your father say about all this?” Traveler asked.

  “It was an old argument between my parents. ‘A monthly trip to Salt Lake is a waste of gasoline and time,’ my father used to say. ‘The chores around the farm come first.’ That was one of the few times Mother would talk back to him. She’d shake her head like she did with us kids when we’d been bad, then put on her Sunday best. When she was ready, she’d go out and sit in the car and fold her hands, looking straight ahead, until my father would finally give in and do the driving.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “My mother was a wise woman, Mr. Traveler. She said it was her duty to God to see to those men in unmarked graves up at Fort Douglas. It’s my duty now. I think I knew it all along, only I wouldn’t admit it to myself until you showed up and started asking questions.”

  “Did your brothers go along on the trips?”

  “Sometimes, but my mother always said it was women’s work. I was the one who helped her before I got married. After that, Mother had to go by herself much of the time.”

  “What did Mahlon think of the flowers?” Traveler said.

  “You’d better ask Fern, his widow, because he never complained to me, not directly. He knew it would get back to Mother if he did.”

  34

  AS SOON as Laverla drove away, Traveler went into the motel’s office and roused Frank Cheney, the manager, from his folding cot.

  “I need a taxi,” Traveler told him.

  Rubbing his eyes, Cheney said, “There’s no such thing in Cowdery Junction.”

  “A car rental, then.”

  “They might have one up the road in Salina. If not there, you’ll have to go all the way to Gunnison.”

  “That must be twenty-five miles.”

  Cheney yawned. “I could close down the switchboard and drive you for a fee.”

  Traveler didn’t like the idea of having a local with him. If need be, he could get around Cowdery Junction on foot when it was light. Even so, Traveler felt that the timing was right to visit Fern Broadbent.

  “How much to take me to the Broadbent farm?” he said.

  “I just saw Laverla drop you off out front.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to pay my respects to the widow.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? Mahlon was a friend of mine, though considering who you are, he’d want me to keep an eye on you and his lady. How’s twenty dollars?”

  Traveler shrugged acceptance.

  Cheney snatched up the phone. “We’ll leave as soon as Fern tells me she’s receiving visitors.”

  ******

  The wake was over, the road empty of
cars by the time Cheney reached the Broadbent houses. Lights showed in both, though only the smaller home, Mahlon’s, had a porch light burning.

  Fern Broadbent, wearing a work blouse, slacks, and running shoes without socks, opened the front door holding a drink in her hand and smelling of elderberry wine. She had that tanned, desiccated look fifty-year-old women achieve on tennis courts. Only in her case, Traveler suspected, it had come from too much hard work. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  She ushered him into a living room filled with cardboard boxes. “If I pack all night,” she said, “I’ll be ready for the move tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Traveler reminded her.

  “My father-in-law wouldn’t spare anyone to help on a workday, not with Mahlon’s chores piling up.”

  “I can give you a hand right now.”

  She shook her head. “I have to know what’s in each box and mark it accordingly. If I don’t, I won’t know where anything is when it goes in the basement next door.”

  “Where are you going to live?”

  “When I married Mahlon, nobody bothered telling me that the house goes to the oldest surviving son. That’s Lowell now. You should have seen him here earlier, he and his wife, Thelma, measuring for curtains and furniture. They offered to help me move in the dark tonight, but I wouldn’t let them. That’s why I wasn’t at the funeral feast earlier. I couldn’t stand to see my sister-in-law gloat.”

  “I thought they had their own house on the other side of the farm” Traveler said.

  “When Owen built his south compound, money was scarce. As a result, those houses are nothing but cracker boxes compared to this one.”

  “You’ll be trading with Lowell, then?”

  “I may be Mahlon’s widow but I’m still only an in-law. If we’d had children it would be different. As it is, I’ll be moving in with my father-in-law.”

  She saluted Traveler with her glass before drinking the last of her elderberry wine. “Tomorrow the widow turns into an unpaid housekeeper. My father-in-law will need all the help he can get, God knows, since there won’t be much money coming in now that Mahlon’s gone. It was my husband who ran this farm and made most of the decisions. Knowing Lowell, he’ll run it into the ground, with Thelma’s help, of course.”

  “Did your husband ever mention my name?” Traveler said.

  She poured herself another glass of wine from an unlabeled bottle. “If you’re wondering why he came after you, I don’t know. Your name never came up between us. The first I ever heard of you was when Sheriff Woodruff drove down from Salina to break the news that Mahlon was dead.”

  Fern took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “As to why he tried to kill you, God only knows. God or Owen Broadbent.”

  “Do you think it had something to do with the German I’m looking for?”

  “I was five years old when the prisoners were here. Mahlon was ten.”

  Fern toppled a stack of boxes from a chair and sat down. Traveler settled onto the floor, keeping the spilled boxes between them so she’d feel less threatened.

  “The war soured my husband,” she said. “After that, he never liked anything German. Their cars were Krautmobiles as far as he was concerned and anyone who drove a Volkswagen was a Nazi. The German prisoners were to blame for ruining life here in Cowdery Junction, he told me once, though he never said why.”

  “Does the name Karl Falke mean anything to you?”

  She finished her wine and set the glass on the nearest box. “I don’t remember it.”

  Traveler rose and walked to one of the front windows, parting the curtain to look out. “There’s fallow land across the street.”

  “Morag’s field, you mean?”

  “Laverla remembers seeing German prisoners working there.”

  Fern joined him at the window. “I remember the milk cows. I loved watching them. They looked so big, yet so peaceful, chewing their cuds and staring back at me with their soft brown eyes.” She sighed. “Maybe the Broadbents got rid of them because Holstein sounds German.”

  Without turning his head, Traveler studied her reflection. “Did anything unusual happen on the day your husband came looking for me in Salt Lake?”

  She leaned her forehead against the window, her breath misting the glass. “I don’t see how it could make any difference now, so I might as well tell you. He got a phone call early in the morning and immediately went next door to talk to his father. They were at it for an hour at least. When Mahlon came back, he said he was going to Salt Lake to make sure the Germans didn’t get another chance at us.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “I asked his father the same thing at the funeral. He claimed he didn’t know. If he doesn’t, nobody does.”

  The woman turned to face him. She started to reach out but let her hand fall short at the last moment. “Tell me the truth. Was my husband driving drunk? Had he gone against the word?”

  “The police said no.”

  “Lowell and Hubert blame you for his death, you know. They told me I should do the same.”

  “Do you?” he asked softly.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. Judging from the way Mahlon looked when he left here that morning, he would have run over anyone who got in his way.”

  She leaned so close he could smell her elderberry breath. “I guess the Germans have won after all.”

  35

  TRAVELER HAD just fallen asleep when the phone rang. He switched on the bedside lamp, a naked, shadeless bulb, squinted at the time, 12:05, and picked up the receiver.

  “No calls after ten o’clock,” Cheney, the motel manager, said. “Tell your father that I won’t answer next time.”

  There was a click, followed by Martin saying, “We’re in luck, Mo. The graveyard in Cowdery Junction is on the Pioneer Registry.”

  “You sound like you’ve been drinking,” Traveler said.

  “You know me. Whatever it takes to get the job done.”

  Traveler turned off the light but continued to see flashes of afterburn on his retinas.

  “I’ve got two archaeologists coming down from BYU,” Martin said. “We ought to be there in the morning sometime.”

  “It’s hard to picture you drinking with members of Brigham Young University’s faculty.”

  “They’re practically foaming at the mouth at the prospect of finding a new pioneer grave. The cemetery in Cowdery Junction actually marks the spot where members of the Mormon militia fell during the Black Hawk War.”

  “It could be Broadbent was telling the truth then, about his relative being killed by Indians. There’s another spot we might look into, a place called Morag’s field.”

  “Do you want me to run it by my archaeologists?” Martin asked.

  “Let’s see how it goes at the cemetery first.”

  ******

  The Mormon archaeologists, wearing white shirts and dress slacks, would have looked like missionaries if it hadn’t been for their beards. They were both in their early thirties, with short, close-cropped hair and faces that glowed with the certainty of salvation.

  When Martin introduced them, Thomas Evans and Leland Russell, they stopped pacing the perimeter of the Broadbents’ burial tract long enough to shake hands. With them was Sheriff Woodruff, who’d come down from Salina after being notified of the pending disinterment.

  “Saints shouldn’t be disturbed,” the sheriff said, glaring at Traveler.

  “It’s our duty to make certain that every member of the Mormon militia is accounted for,” Evans said.

  “You can be certain we won’t make a move without proper authority,” his partner added.

  Both men were lean and tan and interchangeable except for hair color. Evans was blond, his beard red, while Russell had dark hair on his face and head.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Martin said for his son’s benefit. “The church is sending us an observer. We won’t be able to start until he gets here.”

  The a
rchaeologists looked disgruntled at the thought of waiting, but didn’t say so. Instead, they disappeared into the back of a panel truck with the BYU logo. When a Cadillac arrived a few minutes later, the pair reappeared wearing white overalls with blue BYU logos. There were two men in the front seat of the Cadillac, both wearing suits, ties, and dark glasses. They looked distinctly like church security as one kept watch while the other opened the rear door for their passenger.

  “I’m Walter Clawson,” the man announced immediately, shaking hands all around. He used a bishop’s two-handed grip. When he reached Traveler, he held on long enough to say, “Willis Tanner asked me to give you a hand if possible. Of course, my first duty is to the dead, should we uncover an undocumented soul in need of baptism.”

  He turned to the archaeologists. “Your dispensation to work on Sunday comes directly from Mr. Tanner, speaking for the prophet.”

  They looked awestruck.

  The look continued as they followed Traveler and his father to the site, where they went down on their hands and knees to mark off the area for digging. According to cemetery records, the fallen tombstone, Brigham Broadbent’s, belonged to the indentation on the left, closest to the other members of the family. The imprint on the right wasn’t recorded, except by word of mouth, as Ethan Broadbent.

  Evans and Russell, after consultation with Clawson, decided to extend their area of search toward the cemetery’s boundary line. Although the digging would take longer that way, they hoped to unearth artifacts from the Black Hawk War.

  “How long do you expect to be digging?” Traveler asked.

  “We ought to have the body uncovered before dark,” Evans said. “As for the rest, it depends on what we find.”

  Traveler pulled his father out of earshot. “Church will be letting out in a few minutes. Once that happens, word of the digging will be all over town. It might be a good idea if I talked to Owen Broadbent before that happens.”