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The Road Home Page 6

by Patrick E. Craig


  “Hey, peace out, brother,” he shouted out the window, making the peace sign with his two upraised fingers.

  “I’ll peace you out, you freak. Why don’t you go back to the Worst Coast where you belong? You won’t find it very comfortable around here. Now move that van before I shove it the rest of the way off the street.”

  “Okay, I’m moving it, I’m moving it.”

  Johnny started the van up and backed off the curb. He pulled out of the way of the delivery van, and as he did he noticed a distinct vibration from the front end of his van. He watched the belligerent truck driver move past him, and then he got back out of his van to check his front right wheel. He knew something must have bent when he ran up on the curb. He got down on his hands and knees and looked behind the wheel. He couldn’t see anything obvious, but he knew that something needed fixing. He decided that after he went to see the sheriff, he would find a mechanic—if the police didn’t put him in custody first.

  He stood and then remembered Jenny. He looked down the street where she had gone, but the strangely dressed girl was nowhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Old Friends

  BOBBY HALVERSON PULLED UP in front of the plain brown concrete building and turned off the motor of his sheriff’s cruiser. It was a crisp fall day, and last night’s rain had washed the air clean. Bobby got out of the car, walked up the steps, and headed through the wide glass doors. He was a well-built, trim man of forty-eight with a thick shock of sandy hair. He couldn’t be described as handsome, but his face was genial and friendly, and smile wrinkles surrounded his eyes. He walked with the upright bearing of a soldier, which made him look taller than his six feet, and except for a slight bulge around the middle, he was in good shape. His service revolver hung at his hip, and his khaki pants were pressed and neat. He wore a brown bomber jacket with a Wayne County Sheriff’s Department badge sewed on the shoulder and a beige Stetson hat. As he walked down the hall toward his office, friendly faces popped out of cubicles and small offices.

  “Mornin’, Sheriff.”

  “How’s it goin’, Sheriff?”

  “Hi ya, Bobby! How are you today?”

  Bobby answered each of the queries with a tip of his hat and a smile. After ten years as sheriff, he still hadn’t gotten used to all the fuss. He turned the corner past the reception area and walked into the spacious corner room that was the office of the sheriff of Wayne County, Ohio.

  Bobby closed the door behind him and looked around. The room was large and bright with windows on all the outside walls. A big dark mahogany desk covered with books and stacks of paper faced the door. A large chair sat behind the desk, and another one sat in front of it for guests. A heavy gun safe and a filing cabinet stood against the wall by the door. Next to the safe was a tall bookshelf made of cherry wood. A picture of his mom and dad as well as photos of some of Bobby’s favorite spots around Wooster and Apple Creek sat on the shelf in front of the books.

  The middle shelf had a built-in case with glass doors. In the case, on a board covered in black velvet, was a red, white, and blue ribbon with a five-pointed gold star hanging from it. A small brass plaque was mounted below the star. He walked over and read the words again. “To Sergeant Robert Halverson, for distinguished gallantry in action against an enemy of the United States.”

  Next to the medal was a faded black-and-white Kodak picture. It was stained and smudged, and one corner had been folded over and was almost torn off. In the picture were three tired-looking Marines in combat fatigues with a grizzle of beard on their faces. They were dirty and battle worn. One of the men was Bobby. The man in the middle was tall and dark-haired, very stern looking, with piercing eyes. His helmet tilted rakishly to one side of his head, and the strap hung loosely by his face. Next to him stood the tallest of the three men, a big, powerful-looking man with a crew cut and the triple chevrons of a master gunnery sergeant on his uniform sleeve. He was so tall he had to lean down to get into the picture. He had one hand on the shoulder of the man in the middle and a Thompson submachine gun cradled in his other arm. Bobby and the dark-haired man both held rifles with large scopes mounted on them. The caption on the white space under the picture, written in pencil, said, “Marine Sniper Scout Platoon 4, Guadalcanal, August 1942.”

  Bobby looked at the photo for a minute or two and then slowly drew to attention and saluted. He stood and held the salute silently for a moment and then turned back to his desk. He pulled off his leather jacket and hung it on the coatrack in the corner and stuck his hat on top. He smiled to himself and sat down in the comfortable chair. As he sat there he had to resist the impulse to put his feet up on the big desk.

  Even though he had been sheriff for ten years, he still felt a little out of place as a peace officer. After he was mustered out of the Marines, Bobby came back to Apple Creek and slipped into his old routine. He got his construction job back and tried to settle into his old patterns. But he hadn’t really fit in anywhere until this job came along. He had never intended to run for any office, but he was well liked and well known throughout Wayne County, so when the sheriff retired in 1955, the local businessmen, especially around Wooster, Dalton, and Apple Creek, drafted him to run.

  He had stiff competition from the man who had been the old sheriff’s chief deputy, but just when the race seemed to be going to his opponent, help came from an unexpected quarter. Bobby had been a good friend to the Amish folk in Wayne County for many years, and though they didn’t often vote in elections, a surprising number of the local Amish registered and voted for Bobby. It was enough to turn the tide, and Bobby Halverson was elected sheriff.

  In the ensuing years, Bobby became one of the most popular sheriffs in Wayne County history and for good reason. He was a war hero who was fair and impartial in his dealings with people, yet he was not afraid to step in when force of action was needed. Bobby prided himself in the fact that he had never shot anyone. Instead, he had often been able to defuse unpleasant situations with a smile and a slap on the back.

  The only trouble he ever really had was when he was first elected and some small-time gangsters came to Wooster to set up their operations. Bobby proved to be harder to handle than they had figured, and after they cooled their heels in the local jail for a few weeks, they left town. After that things stayed fairly peaceful in Wayne County.

  Bobby had also been smart enough to keep his opponent in the election—a big, gruff ex-serviceman named Bull Halkovich—on his staff as chief deputy. Bull was good natured, he liked Bobby, and he took his defeat with grace. Bobby relied on Bull to show him the ropes, and the two men became a good team and, in due time, close friends.

  Bobby started going through a stack of paperwork on his desk. This was the part of the job he liked the least. He was most effective when he was out in his cruiser, keeping an eye on things and dealing with people face-to-face.

  He looked at the first case on the top of the stack and stifled a yawn. “Well, you pay your money and you take your choice,” he said out loud and started in. Two hours later he was halfway through the stack when the intercom on his desk buzzed.

  “What’s up, Jill?” he asked, glad for the diversion.

  “Someone to see you, Boss,” answered his receptionist.

  “Who is it?” Bobby asked.

  “It’s an Amish gentleman,” Jill replied coyly.

  Bobby brightened, knowing it could only be one man, especially on this particular day.

  “Well, send him in, Jill” Bobby said with a laugh. “Don’t keep the poor man cooling his heels.”

  A moment later the door opened and Reuben Springer walked in.

  “How’d you get over here from Apple Creek?” without looking up from his paperwork.

  “Same as always. Henry Lowenstein brought me,” Reuben answered gruffly.

  “Don’t you think you’re old enough to get your own car?” Bobby asked as he laid down his pen and looked up.

  After all the years Bobby had known him, R
euben Springer still looked the same. The guy could have been a movie star. Reuben stared intently at Bobby, and then the stern features cracked into a wide grin, and the two men started laughing.

  “It’s good to see you too, you old barn rat,” the man said as Bobby stood up and walked around the desk.

  The two men gripped hands firmly and looked at each other. As they did, something passed between them that is shared only by men who have faced great trials together. The man pulled Bobby into a bear hug and then put his hands on Bobby’s shoulders and looked him over.

  “You’re still taking nourishment, I see,” he said. “Maybe a bit too much. Your mom still as good a cook as ever?”

  “Well, Reuben,” Bobby said, “I must admit that it’s awful hard to pass on a second piece of her strawberry-rhubarb pie, if that’s what you mean. It’s good to see you too, especially today.”

  “September thirteen, nineteen forty-two. Twenty-three years ago today. Some things aren’t easy to forget,” Reuben said as he glanced at the picture in the case.

  The two men walked over to the bookcase and looked at the faded picture. Finally Bobby spoke. “It seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

  Reuben was silent for another moment, and then he spoke, his voice breaking. “Ed Thompkins was a real man and a real soldier. He taught me many things, and in the end he laid down his life to save us both. If he hadn’t jumped on that grenade, neither one of us would be standing here.”

  Bobby stepped over to the desk and opened the bottom drawer. “I never drink on the job, but I thought today it might be all right to offer a toast. Care to join me?”

  “Well, it’s not usually my cup of tea, but considering the day and the man, I will,” Reuben said.

  Bobby pulled a small bottle of brandy and two glasses out of the drawer. Reuben smiled again. “So you think you know me well enough to bring an extra glass, do you?” he asked.

  “Yep,” said Bobby.

  He poured two small shots and offered one to Reuben. They stood silently in front of the case for a moment and then Bobby lifted his glass. “Here’s to you, Gunnery Sergeant Edgar Thompkins, good soldier, fighting Marine, and our friend. Semper Fi!”

  Reuben lifted his glass in salute, and the men drank the toast. Reuben handed his glass to Bobby and smiled. “It’s a good thing nobody walked in just then,” he said. “I’m sure they would have found it very interesting to come upon the sheriff having a drink with one of the local Amish.”

  Bobby smiled and motioned Reuben to the chair in front of the desk. “You can stay a bit, right? It would be good to catch up.”

  Reuben nodded and sat down. Bobby sat in his chair, and the two men sat for another quiet moment.

  “How’s Jerusha?” Bobby asked. “And Jenny?”

  “The girls are doing well. Jerusha is still as beautiful as the first day I saw her, and Jenny is growing up into a delightful woman.”

  “Is she still as rambunctious as ever?” Bobby asked with a smile.

  “Jenny does tend to rush in where angels fear to tread, but she’s been a joy and a great comfort to us since Jenna died,” Reuben said. “I love her like my own flesh and blood. I’ve always been amazed when I remember the way God sent her to us. And I will never forget the part you played in finding the two of them in that storm.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to buy me lunch today?” Bobby asked with a grin.

  “Is there a serious bone in your body?” Reuben asked.

  “Sure, but in this job, I try not to wear my heart on my sleeve. I think you know that besides my mom and dad, you, Jerusha, and Jenny are the only family I have. And that girl is precious to me too. Is that serious enough?”

  Reuben sighed. He loved this man more dearly than a brother, but Bobby wasn’t one to reveal his deepest feelings very often. Reuben’s thoughts went back to the fall of 1950, when he and Jerusha were separated after Jenna’s death and Bobby had been a loyal and steadfast friend. He had searched for Jerusha for three days in the middle of the worst storm Ohio had ever seen. And when Jerusha had found Jenny lost in the storm and the Springers adopted her, Bobby had transferred all the love he had focused on their first child, Jenna, to Jenny.

  “Twenty-three years ago, we were heading up to the top of that ridge on that hellhole of an island to fight the decisive battle of that whole campaign,” Bobby said. “If the Japanese had gotten past us and retaken Henderson field, we might not be sitting here today.”

  Reuben winced and then moved past the memory.

  “Still bother you to think about it, Reuben?” Bobby asked.

  “Es ist schwierig, es zu vergessen,” Reuben said. “It is difficult to forget. I used to have bad dreams about it, but in the last few years the whole scene seems to have faded from my memory, for which I am grateful. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m getting older or if I’ve just figured out how to block it from my thoughts.”

  “For sure it’s because you’re getting older,” Bobby said and then smiled. “Actually, Reuben, I have had the same dreams. I don’t think it’s something you really ever get over.”

  The two men sat silently for a moment, remembering the horror of the battle, the explosions, the cries of wounded and dying men, and the Japanese soldiers coming at them in wave after wave.

  “Ever since I figured out that I needed to trust God instead of just following the rules, I’ve found a great comfort in my faith,” Reuben said. “How do you deal with it?”

  “Now, Reuben, you know where I stand,” Bobby said. “I’ve always been glad that you’ve found solace in your church. But I just have never quite figured this whole God thing out. I’ll probably wait the rest of my life and then be a death-bed penitent.”

  “I pray that you’ll come to faith before then, my friend,” Reuben said, holding Bobby’s gaze.

  “Come on,” Bobby said as he jumped up and grabbed his coat and hat. “Let’s go have some lunch. I’ll drive.”

  “Ha-ha,” Reuben said. “Very funny. By the way, Bobby, I have something important to talk to you about over lunch. It’s about Jenny. I’m in need of your help.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Come Find Me

  JENNY WAS WATCHING FROM THE LOBBY of the library as the young man in the blue van drove past. For some strange reason she wanted to run out and stop him. Her meeting with Johnny Hershberger had been strange and disconcerting. He had made her feel uncomfortable and nice at the same time. She remembered looking into his eyes and starting to lose herself in them. She still felt the touch of his hand on hers, so she shoved the offending member into her pocket and tried to scrub the memory off against the wool lining.

  “What’s going on?” she asked out loud. “I’m having crazy dreams, I’m remembering weird things from my childhood, I’m telling everything about my life to complete strangers…”

  A library patron, hurrying past, gave Jenny a very strange glance.

  …and now I’m talking to myself!

  She stopped her thoughts and took a breath. She felt as if her life were spiraling out of control, and she realized that it might be a good idea to pray. But the idea made her uncomfortable when she remembered that she hadn’t prayed in a week, so she quickly bowed her head and whispered. “Lord, I’m feeling a little verblüfft, and I need Your help, I guess. Can You give me some help here please? Amen.”

  Jenny looked up and looked around. No one had noticed her praying, but it hadn’t been much of a prayer anyway. She glanced back out the glass door. The blue van was no longer in sight, and she didn’t know which way it had gone.

  She turned and walked toward the little desk that Mrs. Blake had given her in the back of the building. She decided to bury herself in her work all day and not think of the things that were troubling her anymore. She came to her desk, pulled off her coat, and hung it on the rack beside her cabinet. She pulled out her chair, sat down, and attacked the stack of historical material on her desk. But even as she worked, two images kept coming to
her mind. One was a pair of sea-blue eyes that drew her deep into their unknown depths, and the other was a woman’s face.

  The woman’s words echoed in Jenny’s head. “Jenny, come find me. I’m lost, so lost.”

  Later that afternoon, Jenny was still sitting at her desk. She had tried to work on a project with a fast-approaching deadline but hadn’t been able to make any headway. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the dying woman. Jenny remembered her face being beautiful. She had long black hair, and her eyes were deep and dark, almost black.

  Maybe that wasn’t my mother. My eyes are violet, not dark.

  As Jenny tried to recall everything she could about the woman, the words kept coming back to her. “Jenny, come find me. I’m lost, so lost,” she whispered to herself.

  Jenny wondered what that meant. Why was she lost? Where was she lost from? Then Jenny remembered something Papa said about the car where Mama found her. The car was from New York, and the police found a man in the pond with the sunken car. She thought about the man and wondered if he was her real father. Jenny didn’t like the thought. The man had tried to hurt her. She decided to look through the old newspaper files at the library for stories that could tell her more about the dead man.

  Jenny put her unfinished project back in the file folder and then carried it with her up to the front desk. Mrs. Blake was checking in returned books. She was an older lady with white hair and pointy Harlequin glasses that hung on a chain around her neck when she wasn’t putting them on her nose to peer at the paperwork in front of her. Jenny waited while Mrs. Blake finished checking in a copy of Swiss Family Robinson. Mrs. Blake looked up from her work and noticed Jenny standing there.

  “Hi, sweetie. Do you need something?”

  “Mrs. Blake, is anyone using the microfiche this morning? I need to do some research on my project, and I have to check the old newspaper and magazine files.”

 

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