Return to Franklin Hill

by Elizabeth Walker Jennings

  The three women stood together, watching and listening to grunts and curses while the nest continued to come in tattered bits out the window. When the window closed, Grace looked right and left to find the twins gone as quickly as they had appeared, matching pumpkin pantsuits beating a retreat back into the cottage.

  Grace scolded herself mentally. Squirrels, perfectly harmless squirrels. She had been raised in a small town and spent time at her Grandfather Phillips’s farm. She had turned into a citified wimp, as her Granny Stillwell would say.

  Embarrassed, she stepped back toward the house when another thought occurred. It was profoundly odd how Norm and Ed, and now even the twins, appeared like magic when needed. Ed emerged, clearing the mess of the invaders’ home from the back steps of the small house. He swept the remaining bits neatly into a pile in his dustpan, then looked up sharply at Grace. She had the strange sensation he knew exactly what she was thinking. Opening the door for her, he handed her the broom and squinted, giving her a direct look.

  “Nasty critters, squirrels. Just like mice. Tear everything up.” He looked up toward the attic window and back at her again. “Nice ‘n clean up yonder now. No droppins.”

  Grace cringed. Droppings? Critter poop? Squirrel guano? Ed and Norm had saved her from certain disease and pestilence. Who cared where these two guardian angels had come from. Squirrel guano was a force to be reckoned with, but so were Norm and Ed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was 7:00 a.m. on a Tuesday morning and Bernadine Turner was not at her appointed station. Homer Emerson was sipping coffee when Grace found him standing at the school secretary’s desk, staring pensively at Bernadine’s calendar, “Is Bernadine ill today?”

  Homer frowned. “Bernadine has not taken a sick leave day in twenty-three years, Grace.” His heavy grey eyebrows furrowed. “I suspect she is taking care of that rotten father-in-law of hers, Elwyn Turner.”

  “Bernadine’s father-in-law is still alive?” Homer nodded, still brooding.

  Grace had heard stories about Elwyn Turner and none of them were pretty. While Bernadine’s soft-hearted husband, Gus, was alive, he had seen to the care of his surviving parent. Elwyn Turner, in his golden years, could only be classified as a misery. Hands gnarled with arthritis, he had carried a silver-headed cane, used as a weapon on more than one occasion, until the decline of his health forced him permanently into a wheelchair.

  Elwyn had been a giant of a man in his youth. Surpassing six feet in height, he towered over the employees and customers of the bank he governed. More than one widow in need of an extension for the payment of her mortgage had fled from the tall severe, banker. “That old black-eyed devil,” as Granny Stillwell called him.

  According to town gossip, on his eighty-first birthday the old man had rewritten his will, disinheriting every one of his children. His eldest daughter, upon hearing from the family attorney that she would not benefit from her father’s death had laughed bitterly, commenting that she could hardly benefit from his death when she had not benefited from his life.

  Gus Turner and his seven siblings had loved their mother dearly, but never understood how she had found herself with the self-involved and arrogant Elwyn. A sweet-tempered woman with a gentle smile, Meredith Turner calmly ran the household with a firm hand and loving touch.

  Much like his mother, Meredith, Gus Turner had loved Christmas with a sincere and abiding satisfaction that came from his deeply held sentiment toward the birth of Christ and the joy of sharing it with children from all over Franklin Hill. Bernadine and Gus had not been blessed with children, but every needy child in Franklin Hill had known that the sight of Gus’s red pickup truck on Christmas Eve meant a toy for them. Gus drove through the town and out to Grave’s Knot, bells jingling from the running boards of the truck, a lighted Christmas wreath fronting the grill. Gus Turner had died young. His heart, which had so much room for the Spirit of Christmas and the children of Franklin Hill, had failed him before the age of sixty. Bernadine was thankful for the years they had shared, but she missed her husband.

  Gus had told Bernadine only once when she asked about his holiday memories that his father “didn’t abide Christmas,” often making his way to his bank office regardless of cold and snow to avoid the family celebration. Meredith Turner had borne with her husband’s absence, realizing there was no joy or warmth in the season for Elwyn. She would sigh over his loss at seeing eight happy faces around a glorious tree, all in matching outfits, preparing to attend Christmas services. She passed on to her son and his siblings the sense of family without the involvement of their father, proving herself a woman of greater strength and character than the man she married.

  Gus Turner, seeing the sorrow and pain in Meredith’s eyes on Christmas Eve as she watched his father escape to his office, made himself a promise at a young age to never disappoint his mother on Christmas or any holiday. He carried out that promise and continued it with his wife for forty-two years.

  The stately Victorian house Elwyn occupied on Harper Street overlooking the river now remained dark most evenings. Beveled glass windows showed only one or two dim lights in the upstairs rooms. An overgrowth of trees blocked the view of the wide river below. The house was dark and forbidding, much like Elwyn Turner.

  The old widower had become more miserly and curmudgeonly as the decades aged him, his frame bent. Shrunken physically as well as in character. Now bound to a wheelchair, the only relative who would still attend him and give some relief to his doddering valet was his daughter-in-law, Bernadine.

  Grace was puzzled. “How does she do it? Isn’t Elwyn Turner completely immobile?” Grace had a hard time picturing silver-haired Bernadine moving even a frail old man out of a wheelchair and into a bed.

  “Old Man Turner installed an elevator in the mansion, he’s got his valet, Napoleon, and he’s got a night nurse. He certainly has the money to fund his own home care. He tried to pay Bernadine to come and help him after the Sisters of Gentle Care refused to come back to the house.” Homer smiled briefly. “I understand he smacked one of the novices in the backside with his walker. The Mother Superior stepped up to the house from the convent herself and gave him a piece of her mind. Bernadine told him to give her wages to a holiday toy fund in Gus’s name. Bernadine wants her father-in-law to be charitable. Elwyn Turner wants to pay her, he can’t stand the idea of someone being kind. So, the old man refused. And Bernadine likewise, refuses to give up on him.”

  Grace smiled in sympathy for Bernadine. She knew that one day Granny Stillwell would need care, but it would be burden she would be happy to bear and share with Ellie, Katy and even Babe. It was hardly the same as Bernadine’s current situation.

  “There’s a place in heaven for Bernadine.” Homer paused, reflecting “She’s certainly experiencing a hell every time she cares for that mean old basta—man” he cleared his throat. “up on Harper Street.”

  Bernadine did appear in the school office later that morning, harried and grim-faced. Grace stepped gingerly around the secretary’s desk, listening to her mutter, jumping at the slamming desk drawers. Finally she could bear no more and brought a steaming cup of tea to the tense woman. Her secretary looked up and then looked away, embarrassed, and acknowledged the offering with a small, tight “thank you.”

  Grace cleared her throat and leaned against a bookcase. “What will you do for the holidays, Bernadine?” she questioned, hoping to bring the mood back around to Bernadine’s normal level of stern positivity.

  Bernadine took a deep breath, “Well, next week we will pack up and ship off the boxes we put together for the soldiers and sailors. Myself, I made ten. But Judith, my sister-in-law? Judith made two dozen.” Bernadine took up the conversation, a light coming into the steel grey eyes behind her reading glasses. “Christmas Eve I’ll have dinner with Georgia, Gus’s sister, and her husband Aubrey. Their children will be coming in and we’ll open a little something early because the children enjoy it so much.” She ticked off on her finge
rs, “Then I’ll go to midnight mass with Patty Ann, Gus’s sister, and we’ll wrap a few little things for her grandchildren and have eggnog. Patty Ann makes a very fine eggnog. Then, there’s mass on Christmas morning with Iris, my sister-in-law. We’ll have breakfast together as we always have since our husbands passed, and we’ll open a little something.” A true smile now shone on Bernadine’s face. “I am giving Iris a quilting stand that she’s been wanting for two years.” Grace considered that a quilting stand was hardly “a little something” but let Bernadine continue.

  ”Then at ten o’clock, Josie, Gus’s niece, will bring by her little ones to see the tree and get their little something from me,” another smile. “And at noon I’ll ride with Nathan, Gus’s nephew, and his wife Laurel, to the farm and we will have a wonderful, wonderful meal with Roger and Emily and the rest of the nieces and nephews. Around five o’clock we will take a sleigh ride, if we get some snow. Last year, you know, there was no snow.” She frowned slightly at the memory. “At 7:30 we will go sing Christmas carols with the children and stop at the convent. The good sisters will give the children hot chocolate and then, we’ll open a little something with Jacob—” Bernadine took a breath.

  “—Gus’s nephew?” Grace interjected.

  “Why, yes, do you know Jacob? He lives over on Harper Street.”

  Grace listened in amazement. If she had ever pitied Bernadine her widowhood, she had been mistaken. The steady stream of in-laws and nieces and nephews had finally just flowed past her. She was lost in Bernadine’s extended family tree.

  “I’ll listen to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir—I never miss the Christmas Day concert—and drink a small glass of wine, until young Adam, Gus’s nephew, calls to wake me up while I’m sitting in the recliner in the living room, recovering!” She clapped her hands together once and then looked at Grace expectantly.

  “Bernadine, you have more energy than any of these school kids.”

  “Oh, and I’ve forgotten! Early on Christmas Eve, I’ll be out in Gus’s truck, of course, making the deliveries.” She paused, reflecting. “Better call Sid and see if he can get the thing running again. I haven’t driven it since the snow last March, dear me. Like I said, I’ll be out in Gus’s truck with the younger Nathan—.”

  “Gus’s nephew?” Grace couldn’t resist.

  “Do you know Nathan Jr.?” Bernadine didn’t wait for an answer, “and his son, Little Gus.” Grace saw Bernadine's glint of pride in her husband’s namesake. “We’ll be passing out the toys like we always—” her voice faded. “Just like when my Gus was alive.” She sniffed.

  Grace jumped in, redirection a necessity, “If I may ask, Bernadine,” it was an unspoken apology for her curiosity “where, or how are you able to get a truck full of toys? Franklin Hill is small, but we still must have forty or fifty families that could use—”

  “Donations! All year long we get businesses to donate. From the Knot to Diggsville to Flat Knob, and all the way in between. Even the lumber yard gives us a check.” Bernadine laughed triumphantly. “The manager at the supercenter hides when he sees me coming in after the new year. You know, that’s when you get the best deals! Last year I bought four Tickle Me Elmos and he threw in two for free! Then I talked him out of four baby dolls, a karaoke machine, six pairs of roller blades and ten NFL licensed footballs.” Bernadine was nothing, if not exact.

  “Gus and I, well, we do have the nieces and nephews, but we always saved all year just for Christmas. Some years it’s a squeeze, but we always ask a few dollars from those that can do a little something.” She looked at Grace expectantly and waited.

  “I’ll be happy to write a check . . . ” A little something was the least she could do for Bernadine Turner.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The brothers had been souls of patience following her to the local Christmas tree farm. The choosing of a tree was a task Grace loved, even in those lonely days back East, away from her family. Norm, dressed in the sage green hunting jacket that had kept her warm the day of the squirrel invasion, tromped behind her, chain saw in hand. Ed followed with the axe, tugging on heavy leather gloves as she searched through the rows.

  The December air was chilling, but Grace still refused to wear a coat. She layered a sweater with a hooded sweatshirt as red as the season and walked through the tree farm, inhaling the scent of crushed evergreen needles. Families tugged children in red wagons along rows of already-cut trees. The trill of childish laughter came through the orderly forest. In a windy clearing near the entrance, a bonfire burned cheerily, encircled with benches, and an old red barn serving as sales shed sheltered the tree farmer and his wife as they rang up customers. Pine garland ropes were gathered outside the wooden doors and giant wreaths with pinecones hung on the shed walls, tattered paper price tags fluttering. Cups of hot cider dotted the wooden benches lined with chilled customers and their children, warming up after the exhilarating work of searching for the perfect tree.

  Grace avoided the pre-cut trees that waited in netting for any rushed consumer and followed the worn path to the evergreen soldiers, standing dutifully in their ranks on the hillside, waiting to be called to duty. She crossed a line of firs, and then slowed at soaring scotch pines, the needles a healthy deep green. On to the next succession of tall spruces, the branches barely moving in the wind. The blue spruce was magnificent and stately, one would look beautiful in the bay window, twinkling onto the street.

  Then she looked past the perfect trees. Straggling against a large rock that the tree farmer had not pulled from the soil, she spotted a fat red cedar, nearly eight feet tall. It sprang up on the side of the hill, out of place amongst the elegance of the other trees. It was a cedar akin to the trees that Grandpa Stillwell cut every year for Granny’s parlor. The scent was strong and as she walked toward it, two bright male cardinals chased around the branches, territory in question. Round as a barrel across the dark lower limbs, it narrowed to a perfect shape forming the graceful, tapered crown. The cardinals flashed scarlet past her, disturbed. Grace looked carefully for any nest, standing on tiptoe and peering up into the dark jade of the limbs.

  Norm leaned on his axe, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Scrub cedar there, Miss Grace.”

  Ed nodded his agreement. “Like what we had as young un’s.” his brother added. “’zactly.”

  Grace grinned. “I want that one.”

  Norm sighed. Ed grunted and squinted. Glancing at one another as if with one mind, they grabbed their tools and moved toward the tree.

  The brothers had dropped the leaf ends of the mahogany table and taken it off to a corner of the small library to rest until after the holiday. Now the little house, filled with the scent of the large cedar, seemed dwarfed by its branches. Grace looked soberly at what she had gotten herself into. She was certain that the boxes of ornaments she had collected over the years might fill the bottom half of this great hulking beast of greenery and that would be it. She would have to string cranberries and popcorn for the next two days to fill the space.

  Time for some coffee, dark and strong, with a shot of Baileys Irish Cream and maybe even whipped cream. Then she would, as Granny Stillwell would say, make do about her Christmas tree.

  Somehow she had not realized the extent of her penchant for collecting ornaments. In the City, her Christmas trees had, due to lack of available floor space, been small. So it had been a long time since she had completely unpacked her holiday decorations. With the advent of children that had come into the family, she and her sisters agreed that no true gifts would pass between them, but they would see to the children’s gifts. Instead, they indulged themselves in exchanging every bit of Christmas bauble and glittering adornment they could find from crystal to cut glass. Grace began to unpack the trinkets gathered over her lifetime of holidays. Just when she thought nothing else could add to the glory of her now well-adorned tree, she would find another bundle of tissue concealing a sledding Santa, glittering angel, jeweled bell, then a gilded partridge, a po
rcelain drummer boy and a glass snowman.

  She pulled a large deep box from the corner and lifted the lid with a flutter of excitement, curious to see what she had forgotten. Inside lay a dozen delicate lace icicles, tatted from fine silk thread, then dipped and dusted with sparkling bits of glitter. Matching snowflakes, spun as though by some magical spider, accompanied the delicate silken ice. Adhering to the rule of nature, no two were the same. Four fragile Christmas angels with snow on gossamer gowns finished the collection of thread work. Delicate butterfly wings, icy white, shimmered, prisming the light from the tree around her hand. These were no grade school creations, this was art. She had never seen anything so graceful and fine.

  She looked in awe at each small miracle of icy lace, different in length, turned and edged with wisps and knots and strands of white, shot with a wire of gold or silver here and there. She held the slim ornaments up to the lights of the tree in amazement. It flashed, light bouncing from it to the greenery of the tree.

  The bottom of the box held a small card written by hand in perfect engraver’s script, “Welcome Home, Miss Grace. Merry Christmas.” It was signed “C & C”. The sisters! Cindy and Connie were Santa’s Elves in the flesh. Would wonders never cease.

  She moved around the tree, Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney warbling in the back ground. Humming as she worked, she wondered, what does one give angels for Christmas?

  When her phone rang late on the afternoon of the ninth of December, Grace was in front of the fireplace on a yoga mat, attempting the exercise she well and thoroughly hated. She reached for a cordless phone, thankful for the pardon, and surveyed a muddy grey sky from the front door, a promise of snow. Walking through snow, now that would be good exercise. And certainly a great deal more entertaining than this.