by Jeff High
“The blind boys? There are blind guys who mow lawns?”
Connie regarded me with tired disdain. “No, Doctor. I’m talking about Kenny and Kevin Blind. They’re brothers. By now they’re probably in their early forties, but they’ve had a mowing service forever.”
“So you’re telling me there’s a business called the Blind Boys Mowing Service?”
“You catch on so quickly.”
I muttered under my breath, “Wow. Only in Watervalley.”
“How are you and the pretty schoolteacher getting along these days?”
“We’re just grand. It’s spring break and she’s been out of town all week visiting her grandmother in Florida. She’s driving back in today.”
Connie spoke to the general air. “‘In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’” She finished with a low, wheezy chuckle.
“Nice. Tennyson, huh? Seems like he’s the same guy who wrote, ‘Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.’”
Connie exhaled a low hum. “Mmm-mmm, Luke Bradford. What is wrong with you, boy? There’s not a finer, more beautiful young woman to be found than Christine Chambers. To be so smart, you sure are a slow learner.”
Despite this open challenge, I defaulted to my normal evasive tactics when my feelings were the topic of conversation. I responded with a dramatic flourish. “‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.’”
Connie glared at me above her glasses. “You can quote Alexander Pope all you want to. But remind yourself of this: all you’re doing is taking advice from another man.”
Retort seemed pointless. I rose and cleared my dishes from the table. “Connie, I would love to stay and explore the deeper aspects of this incredible circular logic of yours, but I must go cure the sick, heal the maimed, and care for the otherwise infirm.”
I headed up the kitchen stairs that led to the second floor. By about the third step Connie’s clear, imploring voice stopped me.
“Luke.”
She was staring at me with a changed, contemplative face. I knew that look. She had something important to say. But instead, she pursed her lips and shook her head lightly, signaling that she had thought better of it. Her eyes softened and she spoke with simple resolve.
“You’ve got a good, caring heart, Luke Bradford; a kind, loving heart. Don’t be afraid to let it see the light of day. You’re a lot stronger than you think.”
As I climbed the steps, I was again reminded that Connie Thompson was the smartest person I had ever known.
CHAPTER 36
An Old Secret
“Why don’t we go on a picnic? I’ll fry up some chicken. I still owe you a meal from the basketball game in the barn, you know.” Christine’s voice poured buoyantly through the phone.
It was Friday morning and I was taking the day off, since it was Christine’s last day of spring break. Mid-April had been cosmically beautiful in Watervalley, a perfect blend of warm sun, exploding color, and rich, earthy fragrances. Around nine o’clock I had called Christine to make plans for the day.
“Seems like I remember that bet came with a condition about wearing a saucy French chambermaid outfit.”
“Are you familiar with the phrase ‘when pigs fly’?”
“I’m going to take that as a no.”
“Just listen to you, handsome and smart. How did I get so lucky?”
“Brown eyes, I haven’t seen you in a week. You could wear a Hefty bag, and make me happy.”
“So, absence does make the heart grow fonder?”
“By the way, did I get that right? Your eyes are brown, aren’t they?”
“Stop while you’re ahead, Bradford.”
“Anyway, a picnic sounds wonderful. Where do you want to go?”
“How about out beside the lake?”
“I guess we could, but something about the sound of power saws and nail guns sort of takes the enchantment right out of the moment.”
“No, silly. I meant Moon Lake. You still have a key, don’t you?”
“That I do. Good idea. How does one o’clock sound?”
“See you then.”
As I hung up the phone, I became deeply aware of how much I had missed her—the light of her smile, the sound of her voice, and simply having someone to talk with about the events of the day. One o’clock couldn’t arrive soon enough.
It was unseasonably warm, reaching into the low eighties by midday. Christine met me at her door with a lingering, delightful kiss. Her time in Florida had given her a deep, rich tan. With her olive complexion and dark hair, her beauty now bordered on the exotic. She was breathtaking.
The drive out to Moon Lake was a celebration of laughter and excitement. It was a charmed day and the countryside was filled with the sensuous smells of spring, made all the more radiant by the freshly scrubbed air and the brilliant sun.
We spread a large blanket near the water’s edge and lazily ate and talked, lulled by the fragrant smell of the untamed grass and the delicate, shimmering light on the water. In time we finished, stopping before we completely stuffed ourselves. I was sitting with my arms draped around my knees, facing down the length of the lake. Christine shifted to sit behind me, pressing her back to mine, looking in the opposite direction. We sat in silence, letting the warm, sleepy afternoon breeze float idly by.
Finally, I said, “By the way, I have been asked to give the commencement speech at the high school graduation.”
“Really? And what choice bits of worldly wisdom are you planning on sharing?”
“Oh, the usual platitudes . . . don’t poke the bear, it’s a small world after all, smoke ’em if you got ’em.”
“That should inspire them.”
“Yeah, I’m a little nervous about it actually. Truth is, I haven’t quite figured out exactly what to say.”
“There’s plenty of time. You’ll come up with something.”
“Hey, there’s an added bonus.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve been asked to attend the prom dance. Or at least, I was asked and was told I can bring a date. You’re pretty close to the top of the list.”
“Sounds okay. But I’m going to wait and see who else offers before I give you a definite answer.”
“I expected no less.”
Christine rolled her head back, resting it on my shoulder. I spoke again. “So, tell me about your senior prom. I bet you were prom queen, weren’t you?”
“Not even close.”
“Really?”
“No, and that was fine by me.”
“So, who did you go with?”
“Went without a date.”
“Okay, were you a leper for several years and forgot to tell me about it?”
“Noooo. Several fellows asked, but I turned them down. They were all sweet guys, but they were just friends, not anyone special. I thought it would be more fun to dance with all of them.”
“And how did that work out?”
“It was fun. Kind of strange driving home alone when it was over, though.”
I closed my eyes, drinking deeply of the drowsy feel of the day. After a while, Christine spoke again. “Luke?”
“Hmmm.”
“Will you take me to the prom?” The question floated in the air, full of tenderness and yearning.
“Sure. How do I know you won’t stand me up, though?”
Her voice was delicate, almost fragile, and I could sense the affection in her words. “Because you are special.”
As she spoke, I could feel her back melt against mine, subtly pushing against me to somehow draw in closer. The breeze stilled and a lingering hush fell over the open fields. It seemed a perfect moment to sit and delight in the quiet world around us. But I would soon realize that I was mistaken. When Christine spoke again, her teasing voice had a faintly wounde
d quality.
“Okay, Bradford. You could at least try to do half of the work of this conversation.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize I was spoiling the magic.”
Foolishly, I let a tinge of sarcasm creep into my tone. Christine took it the wrong way and a veil came between us, ending the conversation. I felt her back stiffen and a knotty silence ensued. I needed to respond, to say something to reassure her, to convince her, to fill in the void. But the moment seemed already lost, the damage done.
I stood, reached down, and pulled her up, all the while looking deep into her sensitive face. What had she wanted? What should I have said? It seemed insane. We knew each other so well, yet here we stood in this clumsy, awkward moment. Not knowing what else to do, I blurted out a question.
“Want to take a walk around the lake?”
Christine’s tone was resigned, her eyes patient and understanding. “Sure.”
We circled the lake and talked for the next hour. But the air between us seemed thick with the clutter and confusion of uncertainty and bruised emotions. To make matters worse, dark clouds had built up in the west and we were caught on the far side of the lake in a nearly instantaneous downpour. The large drops pelted us, and by the time we gathered our things and reached the car, we were soaked.
The drive back to Christine’s passed largely in silence. Once there, we dashed toward the front door under an absolute waterfall. Thankfully, the onslaught took some of the edge off the tension between us and we stood in her entrance hall flipping water from our hands and gasping for air. Drenched and pathetic, we exploded in spontaneous laughter. It seemed we both were hungry for an excuse to put the unspoken awkwardness of the past hour behind us.
“Let me go upstairs and change. I’ll try to find something dry for you to put on,” she said.
“Sure, I’ll probably be fine, though.”
Christine ascended the steps and I was left holding the dripping picnic basket. I kicked off my shoes and headed toward the kitchen to put it away. But as I entered, I came upon her grandmother sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of tea and reading a magazine. Instantly, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. She stared at me with strained curiosity. “It’s Luke, isn’t it? Your name, that is.”
“Yes, Mrs. Chambers, Luke Bradford.”
She continued to focus on me, her mind distant, searching. “You’re soaked.”
“We were having a picnic. The rain caught us.”
I walked across the room and set the basket on the counter. She took a sip of tea, her eyes still on me. The silence was uncomfortable, but infinitely better than her threatening disdain of our previous encounters. She seemed harmless, approachable. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water from the fridge dispenser, and came and sat across from her. Admittedly, I was curious, wondering if this was actually a moment of lucidity. I couldn’t be sure.
“You were the one talking about Oscar Fox a couple of months ago, weren’t you?”
At first, the question threw me. “Yes, we were talking about him at Sunday lunch a little while back.”
“Mmm. I remember now. I’m glad I saw you. There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
My answer was hesitant. “Sure.”
“I want to tell you a secret. Oscar Fox was a good friend to my dad and my dad’s brother, Mutt. Mutt died in a car wreck in 1945, or maybe ’46.” She paused for a moment, her mind on a short detour.
“Anyway, Mutt was a real handyman and did a lot of the trim and finish work at the bakery. He was the one who did the tile work in front of the entrance door.”
I wasn’t sure where this was going. “Looks like he did excellent work. It’s still there today.”
“When I was a little girl, Mutt told me something, but he said I had to promise never to tell anyone. I forgot about it for years, but I remembered again after you mentioned Oscar Fox.”
I listened closely, caught up in this surreal conversation.
“Mutt said that when he was pouring the concrete before laying the tile, Oscar came to him with a metal box and told him he wanted it buried there. Oscar said it was a kind of time capsule, something for good luck. He made Mutt promise not to tell anybody. But I was Mutt’s favorite, so he told me. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you. But it was a long time ago. Doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”
A thousand thoughts poured through my head, a thousand possibilities of what the box might contain. I thanked Mrs. Chambers and excused myself. Christine was coming down the stairs as I was passing through the entrance hall. She read the excitement on my face.
“Your grandmother and I just had the most, well, unusual conversation. She told me something incredible.”
“Really? What on earth did she say?”
I briefly related the exchange, then told Christine I needed to go but that I would call her later. She nodded sweetly.
By nine the next morning Connie, Estelle, and I were at the old bakery with the contractor. He had scheduled some men to work that morning and was glad to jackhammer out the tile work and concrete ahead of schedule. We stood by anxiously as the work began.
The tile came up easily enough, but the concrete was less forgiving. Soon, however, small cracks began to appear. These gave way to bigger chunks that were methodically removed. They revealed nothing. But it was a large area. The hammering continued.
Finally, about two feet out from the door, a large chunk broke off and the corner of a heavy metal box was exposed. We all strained to get a view of it, barely able to contain our excitement. It took several more minutes to break away the surrounding concrete, but finally, with the help of a pickax, the large box was pried from the ground. It was approximately fifteen inches square and about four inches deep. I took it inside and set it on a cleared table.
“Estelle, technically, this belongs to you,” I said.
“Oh, heavens no, sugar. This is your thing. You have at it.”
I carefully flipped back the two metal hasps and lifted the lid.
CHAPTER 37
Time Capsule
The first document we found was a birth certificate written in German. It should have been no surprise to me that Connie could read that language well enough to interpret.
“The name on this is Oscar Wilhelm Fuchs, born in Wiesbaden, Germany, on November 17, 1913.” She grinned. “Well, isn’t that clever. Fuchs is German for ‘fox.’ Looks like Oscar Americanized his name.”
“So he really was German?” I exclaimed.
“Apparently so.”
“But how could he speak English so well that no one picked up on an accent?”
“Maybe the rest of this will tell us.”
We dug further.
I found an old black-and-white picture of Oscar standing with a woman in front of a bakery. All the signs were in German and an inscription was penciled on the back.
Connie interpreted. “My mother’s shop, Wiesbaden, 1923.”
“This picture was taken when Oscar was nine,” I added. “His mother must have owned a bakeshop and that’s where Oscar learned the business.”
“Listen to this,” said Connie. She had been reading a letter to Oscar from his father dated March 12, 1924. The envelope had a Wiesbaden address but had been sent from New York. “My German is a little sketchy, but it appears that Oscar’s parents had gotten divorced and his father had moved to America. The letter discusses arrangements for Oscar to come visit him in New York.”
We had spread the documents across the table and I was next drawn to one written in English. “And look here. This is a diploma from Dartmouth College, dated 1935. Oscar graduated with a degree in finance.”
Connie and Estelle found other documents and mementos from Oscar’s youth, including a receipt for a transatlantic passage on the liner Berengaria, report cards from his years in Mittelschu
le, and ticket stubs from New York Yankees baseball games. From what we gathered, it appeared that Oscar went to middle and secondary school in Germany but spent his summers in New York with his father. Ultimately, he attended college in America; among other things, we found pictures of him on the Dartmouth track team and programs to plays with him listed in the cast.
I stared at Connie and Estelle in amazement. “You know what this is telling us? Growing up, Oscar Fox led a dual life. That’s how he learned to speak English so fluently. He wanted to fit in. Looks like at Dartmouth he had a heavy interest in drama. And why wouldn’t he? He’d probably been acting all his life.”
The business papers we found told of Oscar’s career. He had worked for the Lamerslint-Jorg Diamond Company out of Frankfurt, Germany. He was their North American sales rep with company offices based out of New York. Oscar was a German citizen, working in America on a visa. Some of the final documents we found told the most interesting part of his story.
“My, my, my,” exclaimed Estelle as she was reading through a typed list of names. “Looks like Oscar did some time at Montreat.”
“What’s Montreat?” I inquired.
“The Presbyterian Assembly Grounds. You know, in North Carolina.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Well, when I was at Vanderbilt, a girlfriend of mine taught in the history department. She was the cutest thing and always wore the most wonderful shoes.”
Connie abruptly interrupted. “Montreat, sweetie, Montreat. Focus now.”
“Anyway, she loved to talk about twentieth-century American history. When the U.S. entered the war in 1941, German businessmen and diplomats were rounded up and interned for deportation. Many of them were held at the Montreat assembly grounds. This document is a housing assignment. It looks like Oscar was sent there and later, somehow, escaped.”
The three of us stood quietly, trying to fit together the pieces. Connie broke the silence. “If he spoke English without an accent, I guess it would be pretty easy for him to pose as an everyday person.”
“Looks like that’s what he did when he came here,” I said.