Letters on the Table

by Pattie Howse-Duncan

  And there is another characteristic he shared with the world. He read several newspapers each morning, and he could converse with anyone on any area of business, sports, and politics because he understood the way those worlds orbited. He was reared and educated to be the CEO of the family business. He never once considered doing anything else; except the years he served our country during the war. His father and grandfather instilled in him that he was the seventh generation of the McGregor clan to honor the land that had been passed down to him. But they both hoped he would do more than honor; to love it as deeply as he could love a living being. And he did just that. So, while each of you knew him in one capacity or another, deep down he was simply just the young boy who grew to be a man who loved his homestead with all his heart. No matter what other accomplishments he achieved, he was most proud to be the guy who could navigate the backwaters and take you straight to the best fishing hole or rebuild the carburetor on the tractor or dig the irrigation system with a shovel or a backhoe, depending on the need. He cleaned up well, and I never ceased to be delighted by his good looks, but truth be known, he was most handsome to me when he had a smidge of axle grease above his eyebrow or a splinter that needed to be extracted after an afternoon of chopping wood. Especially knowing that that axle grease was from someone’s broken down car on the side of the road or the cord of wood was needed to warm someone’s house for the children’s sake.

  Obviously, Murphy’s gifts were encouragement, faithfulness, hospitality, and friendship. There is a small plaque sitting on Murphy’s bedside table. It is a replica of the one that sat beside his father’s and grandfather’s bedside tables. It says: Love every being God sends your way. Walk beside them, or carry them if needed, but love them as though they were your own. He loved all of us with his entire being. To me, that is the measure of a man. My man, Murphy Egan McGregor.”

  Katherine rested her head on Lily Mae’s shoulder as the driver lead the long procession to Holly Grove for Murphy’s burial. Very little was spoken during the drive. Lily Mae hummed softly, never ceasing to rhythmically pat the sorrowful hands resting in her old brown ones.

  She nudged Katherine to look out her window as the funeral procession entered the magnificent ornate gates of Holly Grove cemetery. The trees were in full glory, each looking like it wore its own version of Jacob’s coat of many colors. Just to the right of the gate’s entrance stood a man, his hat pressed over his heart with one hand while holding his bike upright with the other. His tear-stained face looked straight ahead, like a sentry on duty. Sam had come to tell Murphy goodbye in his own simple way—one friend telling another friend goodbye. The image and the sentiment settled in Katherine’s heart and remained there prominently the rest of her life. She conjured it anytime she heard mention of the word “loyalty.”

  Hollis’ Secret

  It was a late November evening, and she stopped by the caretaker’s cottage with a pan of apple crisp, still warm from the oven, to share with Hollis. Knocking lightly on the door, she could see him through the large front window holding a glass in one hand and a large photograph in the other.

  “We both know how much Murphy loved apple crisp.” That’s all she could say. It was all she needed to say. Hollis watched as her blue eyes clouded with tears. He hoped she would not ask him how long it takes to recover from losing the love of your life. His answer would be too grim for her ears. “I’ve not seen this. Did she send it recently?” The black and white photograph showed a barefoot Savannah in pedal pushers and a striped cotton blouse, grinning right at Katherine with that infectious smile that could melt any heart.

  “Katherine, that’s not Savannah.” Hollis paused, trying to decide if he really wanted to open Pandora’s Box. With a thick voice he continued, “That’s her mother only a couple of months before she died. My poignant reminder that today’s the anniversary of her death.”

  Katherine stared at the face of the woman, a replica of Savannah’s. There was so much she and Murphy and Lily Mae had always wanted to know but had refrained from asking, fearing it would be too painful and too private.

  “Oh, Hollis, all these years we’ve been so close, and I never knew November 29th was a difficult day for you. I wish Murphy and I had known so we could have given you support on this day each year.”

  “I know. I wish I’d told you from the start, but I made a big mess of the whole thing by not being honest with you, and worse, with Savannah. When she was about eight, she wanted me to tell her the date of her mother’s death. You remember how inquisitive she was. Still is. I made up a date because I was still trying to protect her from the truth. So, I pulled February 28th out of thin air, and from that point forward Savannah thought that was the date of her mother’s death.”

  “That doesn’t seem like such a terrible mistake. I bet if you explained it to her exactly the way you’ve just told me she would understand. But when you say “protect her from the truth,” what are you referring to? Something more?”

  Hanging his weary head, Hollis said, “Katherine, the web is so tangled. I’ve done a miserable job of being honest. It was so much easier to tell a lie than the truth. Even after all these years I wish I could hold fast to the lie rather than the ugliness of the truth.”

  He poured himself another glass of wine and offered one to Katherine. She could tell he was wrestling with some sort of agony that had tortured him for many years. He picked up the photograph and stared, in hopes those frozen lips would speak to him and tell him to come clean, to free what he had kept trapped for so many years.

  “Abigail. She was the most beautiful, talented, creative woman I had ever met. A true artist’s soul, and I loved her from the very day I met her. We were married for nine years before she became pregnant with Savannah. Nine years is a long time. They were wonderful years.” Hollis stopped and took a slow sip of wine. It seemed to revitalize him. He lowered himself onto the ottoman next to Katherine’s chair and inhaled a long, labored breath as the memories washed over him. “My God, we loved being Savannah’s parents. And Abigail was an incredible mother.”

  “I’m sure she was,” Katherine said in a tone that honored the woman who gave life to the child they all adored. “Hollis, you did what you had to do at the time. You were in survival mode. Savannah would surely understand that now. Anyone would.”

  He laughed ruefully and looked at Katherine for forgiveness. “But would anyone pull a date out of thin air and make up a fictitious cause of death, or would they have the integrity to tell the facts? I sure didn’t.”

  “I obviously don’t know the full story, but can’t we agree at the very least you did what you thought was best at the time. Please stop tormenting yourself.”

  “Your kind words do nothing to placate my guilt. I told her the cause of death was a car accident, and that was only a morsel of the truth. There was an accident on a cold winter night, and her mother did die, but her mother was drunk, and the driver of the other vehicle was killed.” The silence in the room was thick as he struggled to tell more. “She went with a friend to a gallery opening and later called me to come pick her up after she’d had a few glasses of wine. Too many. I was mad at her because I didn’t want her to go in the first place, so I told her I didn’t intend to wake Savannah and put her in the cold car.”

  Painful sounds escaped his throat, and they sucked the life from the room. Sobbing, he continued, “I told her to call a cab. I said those awful, selfish words to my wife. To Savannah’s mother. To the love of my life. But she didn’t call a cab. She got behind the wheel. My God, do you have any idea how many times I have wished I could have taken her place?”

  The painful facts were exhausting. To tell and to hear.

  Eventually, Katherine asked, “How much of this does Savannah know?”

  “She thinks her mother lost control on an icy turn and hit a bridge embankment. No other car involved. I tried so hard to protect her from the truth of what a
ctually happened.”

  “She’s never asked again? I’m surprised her ravenous curiosity didn’t get the best of her.”

  “I think I know why. I cried pitifully as I told her, and I think it was more painful for her to see me cry than it was to hear me explain the cause of her mother’s death. It’s surreal to think Savannah is now older than Abigail lived to be.”

  Katherine tried to offer hope. “The emotional triggers that arise during grief are a blessing and a curse. Eventually, we keep the ones that aid and abet the good memories, and we slowly let the traumatic ones lose their impact. In the end, it will be the cherished parts of the relationship that will remain. At least, that’s what it feels like to me.”

  Sharing the story with Katherine was the beginning of a lightened conscience for Hollis. They talked of it frequently in the months ahead and each conversation brought him more peace. He wondered why he kept the truth buried within him so long and was now eager to expunge what had eaten away at his heart. It was time to tell Savannah. But news like this needed to be told in person, for the listener’s and teller’s sake. They decided he would share the tangled story with her the next time he visited Africa.

  Delivery

  The note said:

  Katherine,

  I have decided. Call me.

  Blessings,

  Drew

  Three months prior, Katherine had given Father Drew an assignment and asked him to contact her when his decision was final. Obviously, he was ready to share.

  Katherine was giddy with excitement as she poured their coffee. “I must admit, I barely slept last night. It felt like Christmas Eve when I was a child. I must have heard the big clock chime every single hour.”

  Father Drew tried to sip the too hot coffee before responding. “You know you gave me a very difficult assignment…think of something we could purchase for St. Thomas that would make the lost feel welcomed, yet I was to tell no one where it came from. That was the hardest part of all.”

  “There is no reason for anyone to know it’s from me, but there is every reason in the world to make the lost feel welcome.” Her tone indicated to Drew that the decision was final.

  He smiled at Katherine as he made his announcement, “What would you think about a life-size crèche to be displayed during Advent on the grounds outside the church, the side facing Main Street. And we could offer warm cider or cocoa and Christmas hymns to anyone who wanted to come visit?

  He saw the excitement light up her face.

  “If our nativity scene could help just one…and yes, of course, it should be life-size.” She faltered for a moment trying to absorb it all. “I cannot think of anything I would rather purchase for the church right now. Anonymously, of course.”

  He was barely out of the drive before she was opening a new page in her journal and labeling it “The Christ Child.” After two busy weeks of long distance and international phone calls followed by written correspondence, Katherine secured her order for a life-size custom crèche from Groppetti’s, a fifth generation Italian company located in Tuscany, specializing in magnificently hand-carved nativities. The order was a large one. The holy family and manger, three wise men – two standing and one kneeling, a seated donkey, a camel, a kneeling ox, a standing sheep, and a shepherd boy holding a lamb. An order of that size would take five months to create and approximately two months for delivery across the Mediterranean Sea and the North Atlantic.

  Four days shy of thirty weeks from the date of the conversation with Father Drew, a phone call came.

  “Katherine McGregor?”

  After she verified, he went on to explain he represented TFO Freight and needed to schedule a delivery headed her way with a total of ten vast shipping crates. “It’s really quite simple. I just need to verify the delivery address and make sure the location has either a loading dock or an accessible forklift on standby.”

  The caller found himself stalling, not wanting to terminate the call, as he enjoyed hearing the excitement in her bubbling, elderly voice while she explained the destination was the Episcopal church in Kingston. Although it was none of his business, and he knew better, he couldn’t help but ask what on earth was housed in the crates that could possibly excite her so.

  “Young man, you have in your possession something that will remind the good folks of Kingston that love is all around us. Sometimes, you know, it just takes a little nudge. When you climbed out of bed this morning did you have any idea you were chosen for such a remarkable job?”

  There was a long pause, and Katherine wondered if the phone had disconnected in the midst of her rambling. “Are you still there? Hello?” As she moved the phone away from her ear, she heard the caller clear his throat.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m still here. I’m just trying to take it all in. I don’t really know what to say other than I’ve just decided to assign myself the honor of being the driver who’ll deliver your cargo. Your precious cargo. I originally planned to give this job to another driver, but now I think I’ll see if I can’t rearrange the routing schedule and let this gig be mine all the way through.”

  He was shocked to hear the words coming from his own mouth. Most of his workdays were spent in the office scheduling routes, yet he tried to schedule himself at least one good long delivery each month. The other drivers respected the fact that he enjoyed handling a rig, no matter how high up the chain he’d climbed, and he liked the freedom of the road. But he generally didn’t decide on the spur of the moment. It was usually well planned, seeing as how he didn’t care for surprises. He immediately began second-guessing himself and wished for a rewind button.

  “I think that is a tremendous idea you have, young man. I didn’t even catch your name.”

  “William. William Clay.”

  “Well, Mr. William Clay, when will I see you face-to-face? This promises to be an event I will not forget.”

  That startled him even more. It had been a very, very long time since he was involved in anything that would make a woman remember him for the rest of her life.

  Glancing at his calendar he said, “Looks like I’ll be pulling into the fine town of Kingston in four days, which means you’ll see me late Tuesday afternoon.”

  “William Clay, please drive very carefully. I want you to arrive safely. After all, you are an important man in my life these days. Be careful, son.”

  Another pause and a clearing of his throat, and all he could muster before hanging up was, “See you Tuesday.”

  William studied the phone. That phone conversation lasted exactly three minutes and fifty-two seconds yet in that timeframe this unknown woman had somehow convinced him he was an important man with an important assignment. He sat still for quite some time. Her words washed over him. You are an important man in my life these days. She made him feel as though something good was down the road ahead.

  He said aloud to no one, “Looks like I’m swapping routes and headed on a twelve hundred mile round trip to a place I’ve never heard of, to see a lady I don’t know, to deliver cargo I can’t imagine spending real money on. Exactly when did I turn into such a fool?”

  That night he Googled the town of Kingston. Typical small town. The website was maintained by the Kingston Chamber of Commerce. It was designated the county seat about eighty years after America won her independence. The website touted it to be a great place to live, work, and play. Situated in an area of the state thick in timber and plenty of other natural resources. Photographs of last year’s Christmas parade and the county fair were plastered all over the site. It appeared that the downtown merchants all flew American flags on significant flag-flying days, and the photos showed a magnificent display of red, white, and blue along Main Street. There were accolades for the local school system and a photograph of the current Future Farmers of America chapter, ranked seventh in the nation. Good looking clean-cut teenagers huddled together with handsome toothy
grins. Another section of the website mentioned the historic home place of the McGregor dynasty located just outside the city limits and showed a picture of the historical marker commemorating the site. The Arts, Culture, and Entertainment section described beautiful rivers and man-made lakes brimming with opportunities for fishing, boating, canoeing, and kayaking. Lots of photos of Kingstonites holding up their catch of the day. William had to admit he was impressed. It almost sounded like a place a person could call home. If someone were looking.

  That was the thing about William that many people couldn’t know or understand. He wasn’t looking for a home. He gave up on that quest at age eighteen when he was considered too old to be a ward of the state and was subsequently dismissed from the foster care system. He was five when his father died, and four years later his mother’s death left him alone. He had two older half-brothers on his father’s side and one older half-sister on his mother’s side who were all grown by the time he officially became an orphan. For a variety of reasons, none of his half-siblings could or would adopt him, so he became a ward of the state.