Crucible: McCoy

by David R. George III

  At the head of the aisle, before the altar and Pastor Gallagher, she joined Leonard. Dashing in the new black suit he had ordered through Robinson’s General Store, he looked at her with unabashed admiration. Wearing the beautiful gown that Daisy Palmer and Mary Denton had helped her make—a raw silk bodice joined ivory satin skirt and sleeves, with rosettes running from shoulder to wrist—she had hoped that she would turn his head. Seeing the love in his smile now as he gazed at her filled her heart with joy.

  Lynn knew that she had suffered from loss in her life, some might even say from tragedy. But she also knew that she could not claim any uniqueness because of that; everybody endured loss. Right here, right now, standing with Leonard, she felt truly blessed, and she thanked God for all the good that He had given her.

  Pastor Gallagher, looking regal in his white robes, began the wedding ceremony. He read several passages from the Bible that Lynn had selected, and he added a few words of his own. Then he led Lynn through her vows, and when she’d completed them, he addressed Leonard. “Do you, Leonard Horatio McCoy, take this woman, Lynn Jennie Dickinson, to be your wife?” he said. “Do you promise to love her, to comfort and keep her, and to forsake all others and remain true to her, for as long as you both shall live?”

  Lynn peered over at Leonard, who looked back at her with his deep blue eyes. “I do,” he said, and she felt a rush of happiness and anticipation course through her. The power of his love, the power of her own, seemed to lift her up.

  “Please repeat after me,” Pastor Gallagher said, and then he read a version of the vows Lynn had earlier spoken herself. Leonard recited them without taking his gaze from her.

  “I, Leonard Horatio McCoy,” he said, “take thee, Lynn Jennie Dickinson, to be my wife, and before God and these witnesses, I promise to be a faithful and true husband.” The pastor held out his hand. In his palm, he held a brand-new gold wedding band that Leonard had gotten for her in Greenville. Leonard took the ring, then reached for Lynn’s left hand. Once again, he repeated the words the pastor provided. “With this ring, I thee wed, and all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he said. “I promise to love and cherish you, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death do us part.” He slipped the gold band onto Lynn’s ring finger.

  “Then by the authority given to me by the state of South Carolina,” Pastor Gallagher said, “and under the loving and watchful eyes of God Almighty, our Savior and Redeemer, I now pronounce you man and wife.” The pastor leaned forward and, with a twinkle in his eye, told Leonard, “You may kiss the bride.”

  Leonard stepped forward, taking her hands tightly in his own. Gently, sweetly, he offered her the first loving gesture of their new life together. The townsfolk of Hayden erupted in applause.

  As those at the back of the nave headed outside, Lynn and Leonard stood there for a few moments, their love pledged to each other before everybody. Then, hand in hand, they walked down the aisle and out the front doors of the church. As they descended the steps, they found themselves showered with small pieces of cotton.

  At the end of the walk, Leonard helped Lynn into Pastor Gallagher’s buggy. From there, she peered back and saw the church overflowing with smiling, happy people. She watched as the pastor appeared and made his way to the buggy. Then he climbed aboard and drove them himself out to Lynn’s farm.

  The McCoys’ farm, she happily corrected herself. Leonard’s and my farm. They had decided that they would live out on Tindal’s Lane, keeping the house in town for Leonard to continue using as his doctor’s office. Since the people of Hayden still owned what had once been Dr. Lyles’s home, Lynn and Leonard had needed to check with the town council about their plans, but nobody had objected. They even approved of Leonard’s idea to convert the living areas of the place into a small ward for patients who might be better served by being able to stay there. Right now, though, before any of that happened, everybody in town would be headed over there with food and drink for the wedding reception this afternoon.

  When they reached the farm, Lynn and Leonard thanked Pastor Gallagher, then walked up the front steps. Leonard opened the door, then put his arm around Lynn’s back and hoisted her into his arms. He kissed her, then carried her across the threshold. “Welcome home, Missus McCoy,” he said as he set her down in the parlor.

  “And welcome to your new home too, Doctor McCoy,” she said.

  Together, they headed into the bedroom, where they would change out of their formal cloths—Leonard had earlier brought something to change into from his house—before going back into town for their party. As Lynn kicked off her shoes and prepared to take off her wedding dress, it struck her in a real way that it hadn’t before, that she would need help getting out of her gown and that Leonard would be the one providing that help. “Would you…would you unbutton my dress for me?” she asked, surprised and a little amused by the timidity in her voice.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Leonard said, and she giggled at his playfulness. She turned her back to him, and then felt his fingers as they worked down from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. She crossed her arms across the bodice of her dress to keep it on. “That’s all of them,” he said when he’d finished.

  Lynn took a couple of steps away from Leonard, then turned back around to face him. With a knot of excitement twisting in her belly, she lowered her arms and let the dress fall to the floor, revealing her lacy undergarments. She felt her face flushing as Leonard gazed at her.

  “Lynn,” he said quietly, “you are a beautiful bride.”

  He walked over and took her in his arms. His mouth found hers, and then his lips moved, easing across the rise of her cheek, then trailing down the side of her neck. Her breathing grew heavier as her body reacted in a way that it hadn’t in a long time.

  I’m fifty years old, Lynn thought, and I feel like a schoolgirl.

  The package sat beside him on the front seat of his car. Wrapped in elegant, white moiré paper and adorned with a silver ribbon tied into a bow, the large, flat box contained the culmination of six months’ worth of effort. It had been that long ago when he’d begun thinking about what he could give to Lynn when they celebrated their first wedding anniversary. He’d wanted to find something both special and meaningful, something that his wife would not expect, but that she would love.

  McCoy could not have been happier with Lynn. Their first year together as husband and wife had not only been the happiest of his life, but something of a revelation to him. Never before had he experienced such a prolonged and peaceful romantic relationship, one he did not attempt to sabotage or flee—as he now recognized that he had done in previous liaisons. Understanding the impact that the deaths of his parents had on him, and the deep-seated guilt and fear that had for so long been ingrained within him, had finally allowed him to move beyond those emotions. He had learned to trust Lynn, and more important, to trust himself.

  As he drove along Tindal’s Lane, heading home from his office at the end of the workday, McCoy could barely contain his excitement. When Lynn had made note of the date half a year after their wedding, Leonard had soon after visited the few stores in town, deciding that he needed plenty of time to find the perfect present. He’d learned from Mary Denton that people traditionally linked different materials with the gifts for each wedding anniversary—silver for the twenty-fifth year, gold for the fiftieth—and that the first year was associated with paper.

  With this information, an idea began to percolate in McCoy’s mind. Eventually, he purchased a camera, then managed to take several photographs of Lynn without her knowledge. He also secretly took pictures of her wedding dress, and of himself wearing the suit he’d worn for their ceremony. Then he’d found an artist in Greenville and hired him to produce a painting of the two of them together in their wedding clothes. Working from the photographs McCoy had given him, the man had managed to create a beautiful work, executing it in oils. McCoy had framed it, and it now sat in the wrapped package beside him in t
he car.

  McCoy turned from the road onto the drive beside the house, parking beside Lynn’s truck. Already home from the mill, she’d probably be in the kitchen making dinner for them. McCoy picked up the present, resituated the card beneath the ribbon, then bounded up the front steps. Opening the door and stepping into the parlor, he called, “Missus McCoy, I’m home.”

  He heard Lynn put something down in the kitchen, then she appeared in the doorway across the hall. “Hello, Doctor Mc—” she began, but stopped when she saw him. “You remembered,” she said, obviously talking about the anniversary gift he held out before him.

  “Of course,” McCoy responded as Lynn crossed the hall and came into the parlor. “Why wouldn’t I remember the best day of my life.”

  “I think most men don’t remember things like that,” Lynn said. “But then you’re not like most men, are you?” She leaned in over the present and greeted him with a kiss.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” McCoy said.

  “Good, because that’s how I meant it,” Lynn said. She peered down at her present. “Can I open it now?” she asked.

  “Oh, you think this is for you?” McCoy teased.

  “Oh, you,” Lynn said, slapping lightly at his arm. She took the package and sat down on the davenport, setting the box across her thighs. As she reached to undo the ribbon, though, McCoy heard an unfamiliar noise outside. Lynn must’ve heard it too because she looked up with a curious expression, as though listening and trying to identify the sound. “What is that?” she said.

  McCoy thought he knew, and concern—even fear—washed over him. Without saying a word, he turned and raced out the door and down the steps. In front of the house, he turned his gaze upward, toward the sky. He heard Lynn’s footsteps behind him as she followed him outside.

  “What…?” she said as the buzzing grew louder. “Are those planes?” she asked, her own anxiety evident in her tone. Though not completely unheard of, aircraft rarely intruded upon the skies of Hayden, and when they did, they typically flew at high altitude. Right now, though, the sounds coming out of the east clearly emanated from low in the sky. Worse, as the drone increased in volume, it became abundantly apparent that it did not originate from a single plane, but several—or many.

  At last, McCoy saw them, a squadron of small, fast fighter planes, arranged in no obvious formation. They wouldn’t fly directly overhead, he realized, but farther out in the valley, over the fields. McCoy and Lynn watched as they neared. With a single prop in the nose, they looked like pictures of many aircraft he’d seen in the newspapers and on television, though he did not recognize their grayish blue color scheme.

  But the black swastika was unmistakable.

  Closer now, the group of planes resolved into not a single squadron, but at least two. McCoy saw the darker colors of the second group, as well as their United States markings. Just as he recognized the pursuit of the Nazi aircraft by their American counterparts, the first planes soared past, out over the fields. An eruption of syncopated bangs burst forth and could only be gunfire. McCoy grabbed Lynn and hurried with her toward the house, taking cover beside its front side. Cautiously, they peeked around the corner, out toward the fields, as they watched the last of the planes fly past.

  Suddenly, about half of the Nazi aircraft banked sharply left, while half continued straight ahead. The American group split in two as well in their pursuit. A lone plane broke right, toward the center of town, and then flames burst from its tail section. It lost altitude rapidly and soon disappeared from view. McCoy heard a loud sound, muffled by distance, but knew that the aircraft had crashed somewhere nearby.

  He looked at Lynn. “Was that an American or German plane?” he asked her.

  “I couldn’t tell,” she said.

  “Stay here,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his keys. He ran to his car, opened the door, and threw himself into the driver’s seat. At the same time, Lynn climbed into the car on the opposite side. “I need you to stay here,” McCoy told her.

  “I’m going with you,” Lynn said, and he knew that he would not be able to convince her otherwise.

  McCoy backed out onto Tindal’s Lane, then raced toward town. On Church Street, as they approached the commons, Lynn pointed out through the front windshield, ahead and to the left. “Smoke,” she said, and McCoy saw the black column rising into the sky. He followed it, continuing on Church Street, past Carolina Street and Mill Road, and finally turning left on Riverdale. They passed several houses and a farm, until finally he saw two pickups and a car off to the side of the road up ahead. McCoy skidded to a stop beside them, and as Lynn jumped out of the car, he reached into the back seat and picked up his doctor’s bag.

  On the edge of a cotton field, several people from town—Jimmy Bartell, the deputy sheriff; Duncan Macnair, the mill superintendent; and Doug and Millie Warnick—stood staring out at the wreckage of the plane, perhaps fifty yards distant. The aircraft, McCoy saw, had broken into pieces. Behind it, a section of wing had snapped off and stood embedded in the ground. The nose of the plane had broken from the main body, as had the tail section. The fuselage had landed it on its side, and flames rose from behind the shattered glass of the cockpit canopy, spewing dark smoke. The plane was painted grayish blue, and clearly visible on the upright tail was a swastika.

  McCoy started into the field.

  “What are you doing?” Lynn yelled after him.

  McCoy stopped and looked back. “Somebody might still be alive in there,” he said, addressing not only Lynn, but the other people gathered as well.

  “Doc,” Jimmy Bartell said, “that’s a Nazi plane.”

  “People may be hurt,” McCoy said, and he peered directly at Lynn. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “That’s all I care about right now.” As he started forward, he heard Lynn speak up again.

  “Jimmy, go with him,” she said. McCoy looked back and saw the deputy hurrying to join him. He waited, and when Bartell had reached him, they walked toward the downed plane together.

  When they’d gotten within about thirty feet, McCoy could make out the body of a man half in and half out of the front of the cockpit. He lay with his right side on the ground, his face obscured by a mass of blood. McCoy tapped Bartell on the arm and pointed. “Look,” he said. As he headed toward the man, Bartell came with him, unsnapping his holster and pulling out his gun. McCoy did not object.

  At the plane, the foul smell of burning fuel filled the air. The torso of the man McCoy assumed to be the pilot stuck out of the cockpit at an unnatural angle. If he’d been wearing a helmet, it had disappeared, and his brown leather jacket had been torn open in numerous places. McCoy dropped to his knees beside the man and carefully reached for the side of his neck. He felt for a carotid pulse, the tips of his index and middle finger sliding across the blood-covered skin. He waited for several seconds, repositioned his fingers, then waited some more. Finally, he looked up at Bartell. “He’s dead,” he told the deputy.

  “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that,” Bartell said.

  McCoy wiped his fingers along the dirt to rid them of the blood on them, then stood up and looked into the rear of the cockpit, his view partially blocked by the fractured canopy. He reached for the twisted metal frame and pulled. It came forward a few inches with a screech of metal against metal, and pieces of glass dropped away from it. He heaved again, and this time the canopy came completely free, falling to the ground with a thud and the sound of breaking glass.

  McCoy leaned into the cockpit. Debris littered the interior, broken and confused. An arc of red colored one section of a control panel that had come free of its housing, and McCoy followed the trail of it to a hand. “There’s somebody else in here,” he called to Bartell. McCoy reached in and carefully took hold of the panel. He lifted gently, expecting resistance from its weight and the tangle of wires, but it moved easily. He shifted it forward, from atop the body of a man.

  But not a dead body.

  The airman looked
at him with obvious suspicion. Blood had flowed down the center of his face from beneath his helmet, and a gaping wound had been opened in his upper arm through the sleeves of his jacket and shirt. McCoy reached toward the injury, wanting to examine it, and the man jerked away.

  “It’s all right,” McCoy said, trying to calm him, and holding up his hands to show that he held nothing in them. He slowly reached forward again, carefully taking hold of the edges of the hole in the airman’s jacket and pulling them apart so that he could examine the wound beneath.

  He never saw the blade, but as the airman suddenly moved, McCoy felt the knife penetrate his body. He heard himself cry out in pain as he looked down and saw his own blood gush from the wound, splattering the leather jacket of his attacker. The man pulled the weapon free, his eyes wide open in their hatred, his face a mask of frightened zealotry. He pulled the blade free and then brought the weapon down again, slicing between McCoy’s ribs and into his heart. He heard a woman scream, and he knew that he was dying. A report rang out, deafening him, and still the woman screamed.

  Lynn, he thought.

  He heard another bang, and more screams, but they seemed to reach him from far away. His vision clouded, and his fingers could feel nothing. He fell backward, away from the plane.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  IV

  In Dying Songs a Dead Regret

  No longer caring to embalm

  In dying songs a dead regret,

  But like a statue solid-set,

  And moulded in colossal calm.

  Regret is dead, but love is more

  Than in the summers that are flown,

  For I myself with these have grown

  To something greater than before;