by Don Reid
“College is not for everyone, Buddy. I want you to go to school, but so much of that college is social. If more stress was put on the books and a little less on the parties, I’d be all for it like your mother is. But I know that’s not how it is. I don’t want you to disappoint her, but I also don’t want you to lose who and what you are. You’re a good boy, Buddy, and I don’t want you spoiled.”
In the long run, he pleased them both. He applied to and attended a small college in central Virginia not far from home and made grades that would have made any mother proud. He came home on all the holidays and spring breaks, helped his father at the service station, and saved every penny possible. All the time, he was staying in contact with Amanda Peers, the little girl who had now grown up to be more than just an infatuation. He knew he loved her when no other girl on campus even tempted him. And by the third year, he was ready to transfer to her campus—which he did—and he finished his business degree with honors. They came home with diplomas in their pockets and wedding bells playing in their ears and were married within a month after graduation. Both were twenty-one and ready for a life together in the hometown they loved. But finding the work they both needed presented more of a problem than they first imagined.
“Son, now that you have all that learning behind you, what are you going to do with the rest of your life?” Chub asked.
“I’m not sure, Dad. I’ve never been one of those who has had a burning goal or even a dream. I’ve always wanted to live here in Mt. Jefferson, but I have never been able to picture exactly what I want to do.”
“You’ve got the learning for whatever you want, just like your mother wanted you to have. Not much opportunity here in this little town, though.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never wanted to live in a big city. We’ve got everything we need here, don’t you think?”
“Me? Yeah, that’s what I think. I’ve just always been worried about you. But if you mean it, I sure could use you here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the station here. Bigger than it’s ever been. We made it through all the Depression years and never had to close the doors. And now we’re showing good profits. More every year. And this new towing business I started while you were away is running me and Major ragged. We’re getting too old to put in the hours we used to. That’s where I could use you, son. You’ve got all the business knowledge. You take care of all the business—the books and taxes and payroll—and I’ll put in a few less hours and spend some time with your mamma. What do you say?”
Buddy didn’t even have to think about it. Working for and with his dad was a dream come true, and he and Amanda could stand a steady income no matter how small it might be. Within eighteen months, Chub Briggs signed over half the business to his son, and a four-by-six shingle went up over the front door: Briggs and Son Esso.
The sign went up just weeks before Christmas of 1939. Buddy and Chub would have two years, almost to the day, of prosperity and happiness in business together. And then life would become something neither one of them was expecting. And there was no way to prepare for it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Before Vic, Buddy, and Cal left Mulligans that afternoon, they’d decided on a strategy. Buddy noted there was no evidence that would even allow him to question one of the Drakos family members—father or sons. So Vic volunteered to see what information he might be able to gather. He offered to drop in on Nick to have coffee and a cigar as they sometimes did with each other, being neighborly restaurateurs, so he could “feel the situation out.”
Cal, being a minister and Harlan’s oldest friend, felt he might be able to offer some comfort and at the same time pry a little more information from Harlan. He refused to admit to Buddy that he thought Buddy had been too hard on Harlan earlier that day in the hospital room. He knew Buddy wanted him to say this, but he wasn’t willing to give in just to salve Buddy’s feelings. It was a friendly though certainly hard take on friendship, which only old and close pals could understand. Buddy accepted this silent and heartfelt treatment, but only from Cal. From anyone else who might give him that sideways smile, he would consider it a smirk and offer to slap it off his face.
Buddy, of the MJPD, decided and confided to his tablemates that he needed another swipe at the wife. He had to correct himself when he actually said those words and added, “I mean Darcy.” He was in his police mode, and he wasn’t thinking he needed to talk with Darcy again; he was thinking he needed to “take another swipe at the wife.” He knew he would have to watch his manner and attitude when he went to their house. He had to constantly remind himself he was talking to an old acquaintance and the wife of a friend, not just a witness in a shooting case.
When the check came and Vic wadded it up and stuffed it in his vest pocket, they all stood up to leave for their respective destinations. They would decide later if they needed to have coffee after supper or breakfast in the morning in the same booth. Vic watched as the other two went out the door and in different directions. He said to the girl standing by the cash register, “Going up the street for a little bit. If anybody calls, I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“How’s Harlan?” the girl asked, giving away her eavesdropping.
Vic turned and looked at her but never answered, and then went out the door.
* * *
He was in the room alone. His eyes were closed, but he opened them when he felt someone sit down in the chair next to the bed.
“You by yourself this time?” Harlan asked.
“Yeah. How are you feeling?”
“Worse.”
“Pain?”
“Pain and mad and if I could get out of this bed, me and Buddy Briggs would go round and round right there in the middle of the floor.”
“Why?”
“Why? You were here. You heard it same as I did.”
“Heard what? What was said that made you so mad?”
“He called me a liar, Cal. You heard him.”
“Mmm. I can’t say that I did. I don’t recall anyone saying anybody was a liar.”
“Then you weren’t listening. Or you’re in it with him all the way. That’s probably it. I’m laid up in here, and you two are in it together, making me some kind of villain.”
Cal said nothing. He turned his head slightly and looked out the window at a small hillside that butted up against the back of the hospital. It was a pleasant view for the convalescents who had to entertain themselves all day. It could also be depressing for the same patients who might long to be out there in the sunshine or to picnic on the tables that sat under the ancient pine trees. He indulged himself in these thoughts, giving his friend time to think and consider his reigning attitude. It worked because after only about forty-five seconds Harlan broke the silence and answered his own accusation.
“I’m not a villain, you know. I’m the one got shot. Looks like I’m going to be in here for a week. Maybe two. And what’s going to happen to the store? Who’s going to run that? You and Buddy going down there and open it up for me? You know Darcy can’t do it anymore.”
“Maxine?” Cal offered.
“Maxine can’t even balance the cash drawer. She can sell but doesn’t know a debit from a credit.”
“Fritz?”
“Would you want Fritz taking your deposits to the bank and meeting with salesmen? Yeah, that’s real funny.”
“How are things at the store?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning just that. Everything going okay? Business good?”
“Business is not great. We’re selling. But there’s a lot of expense. Why? Why do you ask?”
“Just concerned. You’re laid up here, and I’m just wondering if you can stay open.”
It was Harlan’s turn to look out the window. He saw the same scene Cal had just
studied, but it held none of the same meaning for him. It was just sunshine and grass, and it was making a glare in the room that hurt his eyes when it bounced off the metal bed rails. He turned his head away from it and hid behind his eyelids again.
“What do you know?” he finally asked.
“Come again?”
“Quit bulling me, Cal. What do you know? What are you getting at?”
“You tell me, old buddy. What’s up?”
“The store’s in trouble. I’m behind on everything. Rent. Overhead. Some personal loans. Everything coming down at once.”
“Darcy know about this?”
“No. Are you going to tell her?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not myself. I just got shot this morning, you know.”
And they both laughed at the old Stone sense of humor.
Nothing much more was said. Cal didn’t feel comfortable pushing it any further at the time. He planned to and promised to come back the next morning and knew he would have the chance to pursue the subject further without making Harlan more defensive today. Before he left, he said the prayer he had not been able to pray earlier that morning. He held Harlan’s hand as he said personal things to God.
“Kind heavenly Father, we have friends in need. A friend who needs to feel Your healing hand on his body, a friend who needs to know the grace of understanding and consideration, and a friend who needs a dose of comfort and coping that comes only from You. Be in our midst and bring the warmth of Your love to our friendship. Touch this man whose hand I am holding, and give him the spirit and strength to overcome all the needs of his heart, mind, body, and soul. This simple prayer we ask in Christ’s name. Amen.”
When he finished, they both had tears in their eyes.
As Cal glanced out the window as he left, he noticed a father and little boy eating ice cream at one of the picnic tables. It made him want to call home again.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cal Vaxter never made any friends in college like the two he left behind that September morning when he boarded the train with two small suitcases in his hands and one large knot in his stomach. His mom and dad and Aunt Betty Bell and Uncle Paul and Vic Princeton were all standing on the platform to wave good-bye. Right there among them were Harlan and Buddy, full of smiles and youthful spirit. As the years passed, he remembered often that first bend when the Chesapeake and Western line took the station and all its occupants out of his sight; it was the first time he knew what homesick felt like. It was the sense that everyone else was going about their comfortable life patterns and he was the only person in the world not enjoying it with them. He was alone, and he didn’t know whether to throw up or cry. For the first hundred miles he just sat silently and stared out the window at the passing blur of trees, rock hillsides, and outbuildings in backyards that only reminded him more of home and the people who mattered most to him.
He wondered what Harlan and Buddy would do that night. There had never been a time he wasn’t a part of the plans. He knew Buddy would be leaving for college in two days. Harlan, of course, was already firmly in charge of his own business at the young age of seventeen. So it was time they all started thinking separately and not as a threesome. But it would take time to get used to the idea. They already knew they’d see one another at Thanksgiving and again at Christmas. And they could call on the phone and even write. But guys don’t write other guys. Maybe once—maybe twice—but it was the nature of the gander not to stay in touch. For comfort’s sake, gazing out that train window, he had to hope this part of their lives would not affect or change the friendship they had known nearly all their lives. He just knew it wouldn’t. He would see to it.
His first few years at Duke University changed his life in dramatic ways. He got the education he was seeking, but he also experienced life in such extensive ways he questioned who he was and what his purpose in life should be. His junior year his heart took such a jolt, it changed his mind about everything he had ever pondered over and worried about. The three-year engineering student made an appointment to meet with his adviser before he even discussed it with his parents or two closest friends. He knew this was a decision he had to make by himself.
He knocked on the door of the small room in the corner of the history department.
“Come in. Come in. Come in.”
“Dr. Winifred?”
“Who would you be expecting to see behind this cluttered old desk if not Dr. Winifred? That’s the name on the door, isn’t it, son?”
“Yes, sir, it is. And good morning to you.”
Cal walked firmly toward him, extended his hand, and threw the elderly professor off his social balance. The man was tall, even sitting, and desperately thin. He had long, two-toned hair; it was easy to see he had been blond all his life and now, well into his sixth decade of life, tufts of gray were mingling with the blond. It gave him a sickly and colorless look about his face. He frowned as he shook Cal’s hand and left him standing for too long just to get a look at him and show him who was in charge. He finally took his gaze off the young student and said, “Sit. Move those books. Sit.”
Cal moved a heavy stack of six or seven books to the floor and then sat in a straight chair that wobbled and threatened to spill him with every shifting of his weight. He was patient while the old man in front of him shuffled paper and files until he finally settled on one and opened it. He studied it for what seemed like three or four minutes before speaking.
“James Calvin Vaxter. Third year, civil engineering. Mmm. What do you want to build, James? Bridges? Buildings? Pipe dreams?”
“Well, actually, sir, that’s what I came to speak to you about.”
“It says here, you’re from Virginia. Mt. Jefferson. I’ve heard of that. Think I’ve been through there a time or two. There’s a man from there … he’s a pro golfer … what is his name?”
“Vic Princeton. That’s his hometown.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Princeton. I love golf. Can’t play it all that well. Never could. Let’s see now, what’s on your mind today, James?”
“Well, sir, it’s really Cal. I don’t go by James. But I think I want to change my major.”
“You think you do.”
“I know I do.”
“You’re in engineering now. What are you looking at changing to?”
“I want to go into the ministry.”
Dr. Winifred looked at Cal a long, long time before speaking another word. It was not so much disbelief on his face and in his eyes as it was distrust. When he finally decided to continue the conversation, there was more cynicism in his voice than ever.
“Do you know what you’re saying, son? You came here two and a half years ago with engineering in mind. That’s a tangible, material, solid thing. Bridges and houses and canals and … and now you want to go to the very opposite and seek something that is not tangible or material or solid at all. That’s a big jump, James.”
“I know, sir. I’ve thought about it and prayed about it, and I know for sure this is what I want to do.”
“Some big road-to-Damascus experience you’ve had that changed your mind?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe it changed your mind, or maybe you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I came to talk about the process of changing my major. Not really to talk about why.”
“You’ve got a little bit of an edge to your tone, don’t you. James? You don’t like me interrogating you, do you?”
“I have nothing to hide if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, come on, boy. We all have something to hide. And those who say they don’t, usually have the most.”
There was uneasy silence again in the room until the old professor broke it.
“So, what do you say?”
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“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize what you said last required an answer.”
“James Calvin Vaxter, why do you want to become a preacher? Does dressing up every Sunday morning in a blue suit and a white shirt and performing in front of people from the pulpit appeal to you?”
“Certainly.”
“And do you think you’d like marrying men and women and sending them off on a lifetime of bliss? Think you can do that?”
“I think I could.”
“And does it appeal to you to counsel lost souls who don’t want to hear what you say and will ignore the good advice you offer them? Do you want to visit jails and prisons and hear heart-wrenching stories where you can’t discern the truth from the con? Do you relish walking into sickrooms and hospitals and holding the hands of the hopeless and praying for the dying even when you know there’s not a chance in heaven or hell for their recovery? And do you look forward to breaking the news to families who will scream and cry at the messenger and leave you as emotionally drained as they are themselves? Are you prepared to preside over more funerals than you will baptisms? Are you ready to be a referee between church members no matter how petty the problem and see children abused and the elderly forsaken and know that even though you’d give your very heart to make a difference, you probably won’t? No matter how hard you try and how much you yourself grieve over it? Is this what you want out of life?”
“Dr. Winifred, you don’t paint a very pretty picture. But if you think you’re listing things I haven’t thought of, then you must think I have an extremely shallow soul. This is not a whim. This is what I want.”
“Two and a half years ago you wanted to be a civil engineer. How do you know two and a half years from now you won’t want to change again?”
“Because the decision then was mine. This one is God’s.”
Dr. Alvin Winifred stacked papers on his desk, straightened his blotter and his pens, and reached in his top left-hand drawer and took out a form. He signed it and handed it over the desktop. “I’m just a lowly little history teacher who doesn’t know much about anything except the dates of battles and the signings of treaties and such things as that. But I’ve lived a few years longer than you, and I’ve learned not to always trust my instincts. Instincts are sometimes just excuses for the lack of preparedness. Fill this out, and turn it in to the administrative office.”