Return to Franklin Hill

by Elizabeth Walker Jennings

  While January 1 in Franklin Hill was quiet and uneventful, January 2 brought much more news than the residents were accustomed to hearing in any one day. Elwyn Turner, member of the chamber of commerce and local banking magnate, had succumbed to old age in the early hours of the New Year. The “Reporter” deemed Elwyn’s death not worthy of a banner headline, but did devote a quarter of the front page to the banker’s history in the community. Grace was surprised and relieved to see that the “Reporter” noted that “Mr. Turner died peacefully in his sleep, his eldest son Nathan and his grandson Anthony Nathan Turner, Esq. by his side.” Elwyn Turner, that black eyed devil, had not died alone. Perhaps he had made his own peace.

  Page two of the New Year’s “Reporter” carried a photograph of Alice Gerding Zimmerman, once again in her bright red pantsuit and three inch heels, smiling from the seat of a demolition excavator, her hands placed on the black-knobbed levers. A hardhat rested on her auburn and grey waves. The caption read:

  ZIMMERMAN HOME TO MAKE WAY FOR NEW FRANKLIN HILL CITY PARK

  The brooding dark bungalow had already taken a hit from the crane, and rubble lay around the expansive yard and at the foot of the giant machine. Two muscled men stood nearby, one bearing the logo of the gas utility on his uniform, the other with “Weaver Construction” emblazoned across his t-shirt.

  New Year’s Day had been unseasonably warm, nearly fifty degrees, and Alice Zimmerman’s son had convinced Ike Weaver, the demolition foreman, to let his mother make the first assault upon the ragged bungalow. Weaver watched in admiration as the small woman gamely attempted to climb up into the operator’s seat, only to find her legs were not long enough. Finally, he had stepped over, bent down and made a stirrup with his hands giving Alice the step up she needed, as she balanced against his shoulder. Weaver had known Rebarb Zimmerman and had even played poker once with the loud, red-faced man. Which had been enough to summarily dismiss Rebarb and pity his pretty wife. A widower, Ike admired the way Alice Zimmerman carried herself. She may have been shy, but he had seen her around town. He’d seen her square her shoulders and march her children into church while the town gossips flapped their jaws. Weaver was easily ten years younger than Alice Zimmerman but he’d always appreciated her grace and quiet smile, especially given the adversity she faced on a daily basis.

  When Alice turned her face to him to thank him, a clear bright light was in her eyes and that smile warmed him. Ike had been worried about her operating the excavator but she’d assured him firmly, after scanning at the clutch and the levers, “I drove my daddy’s tractor from the time I was eleven, Ike. I can do this.” She’d blinked at the house and sighed.

  Her son stepped from his sister’s side, the girl sniffing into a tissue as she watched the spectacle. “Mama, are you sure?” The narrow shoulders squared again. Alice held up a hand halting her young man in his tracks.

  “Ike, do you have some safety glasses? Just in case?”

  The hardhat was entirely too big for Alice Zimmerman and the safety glasses looked ridiculous on her heart-shaped face. Ike Weaver thought she was adorable. He had no choice but to give her a leg up into that machine. He wanted to grab her and let out a whoop when the dilapidated house fell with the first blow. When Ike helped her down, she looked over at the ruins of nearly twenty years of pain and anguish, a cloud of dust hovering overhead. He saw no sorrow on her face. There was only that wonderful smile. Her children stepped forward, beaming and proud, along with the neighbors that had come to watch the show. Whoop is exactly what they did.

  Elwyn Turner’s funeral procession through Franklin Hill was one of the longest in Granny Stillwell’s memory. Every Turner relative appeared, black limousines brought from Columbia to escort all the family members, under Elwyn’s last order to Anthony Turner, his esteemed lawyer. Little Gus Turner, wide-eyed at the throng of his relatives, there to see his friend, was very impressed, assuming that his Aunt Bernadine had asked everyone to come. Innocent enough not to be sad at his new friend’s death, Little Gus was resolute in his belief that “Mister Elwyn is in heaven with Uncle Gus.”

  His new suit itched his neck. Little Gus soon discovered that the shiny black shoes his mother had bought for the funeral slid nicely on the snow-speckled ground near the graveside. His grandfather was stern-faced and grim, standing beside his great-aunts and uncles who were equally as stoic. Anthony Turner took his place behind a podium next to the elderly priest from St. James Catholic Church.

  “Elwyn Turner was a stranger to most of us,” he began. “His life was led at a distance from his family, and until recently” he glanced at little Gus with a serious smile, “he did not acknowledge his grandchildren or his great-grandchildren. But he did leave us something to remember and he did have regrets. I met him only a month ago. He alternately insulted me and then he told me that I had the look of my Aunt Judith. There were tears in his eyes when he said it.”

  Judith Turner looked across the dark wet winter grass at the new grave and the black mahogany coffin that rested beside the open ground. She stared hard, as if that gaze could pull her recalcitrant father from it to speak to her again. To give an explanation of why, after so many years, he remembered and finally cared.

  “Cousins, most of us are not here to mourn Elwyn Turner, because we did not know him. I am here for my father, my uncle Gus, and my aunts, who loved Meredith Turner. And each of you are here for the Turners that you love.” Anthony paused and looked at the assembly. “At some point, we lost Elwyn Turner or he left us. Gus and Bernadine Turner were the only ones who did not lose him. They didn’t give up and they did not release him from his family and let him die alone. They continued to care for this bitter, lost soul.” Grace slid her hand through Bernadine’s. Bernadine grasped her hand tightly, her fingers like ice. “Elwyn Nathaniel Turner did not forget us. He remembered each of you.” Anthony looked at his father and then to his father’s siblings. “Let me share this with you.” Anthony carefully unfolded a letter.

  My Son Nathan -

  If you are reading this now, then I have left this earth. My hope is that I have not left it without seeing my oldest son again. I can’t explain to you the changes and turns in life that made me so unthinking and careless with the one that we both held so dear. Your mother’s death has been mine to carry, I shoulder that burden alone.

  You will never make the mistakes that I have made, Nathan, because you are a good father, a caring husband. You have gathered your children around you, keeping them near your heart. Your mother was the one who shouldered that burden of joy for us and for me. My own parents—and know that I make no excuses for myself—were not warm people. My father did not care for children and considered us a nuisance to be seen and not heard. My mother cared for me as she should. But they only truly had eyes for one another. And so I married your mother, who heard and saw everything and shared it with us all.

  You will not remember the times when I held you or when I helped your mother when you struggled with rheumatic fever. We sat in a cold, dark hospital room and prayed that you would live. I put my hand over your heart, felt it beating like a bird’s and I told myself that if you lived I would leave you to your mother’s protection. I felt inadequate to provide it. I had never felt the grief that a dying child could bring. It was strange and unsettling, that grief. And so you lived and I knew that I did not deserve the pleasures that you brought us. Now that I am an old man I understand too late that the joy of love carries with it the burden of worry and grief that only children and the fear of losing them have the power to bring.

  Your brothers and sisters were all good children, so strange to me. All bright and smiling, laughing all the time with your mother. I was amazed that we could have eight miracles.

  Nathan and Judith both were now visibly shaken, staring at the coffin. Nathan looked back at Anthony, willing him to continue.

  My own parents had six children. All but two died. My mother retreated into herself after the death of my youngest brother and
I felt her pain. But even as a grown man, I was not wise enough to keep from repeating the mistakes of my parents. And so I withdrew from you all and then from Meredith. The one whom I could trust to watch over my eight miracles, the only soul that understood me and knew that indeed, I did care about you. The woman who loved me but grieved at my alienation from the family. And then Meredith left us.

  There are no excuses for a live not well lived. Mine is that life. Things will change for you and your children and grandchildren by my death. But for any of the Turners that will listen to my last wish and remember it, please tell them this and tell them again and again in case that wayward seed of misunderstanding travels somewhere through this line. There is no colder or more lonely heart than one that abandons family. Draw close and care for one another as I have not done.

  I am prouder of you and your accomplishments, all of you, than I deserve to be. I am humbled by the good people you and your children and their children have become.

  Signed,

  Elwyn Turner

  While the assembly stood in stunned silence, Anthony Nathaniel Turner, Jr. watched tears streak down his father’s face. Judith stood erect as a statute, taking deep breaths, her own eyes filling. She could feel forty years of repressed fury toward a cold, bitter man melting away.

  “There is a P.S.” Anthony gathered himself and cleared his throat.

  P.S. Please tell Little Gus thank you for the socks.

  Laughter erupted from the crowd.

  “See, I told you my friend wouldn’t forget me!” Little Gus laughed as Anthony snatched him up and tossed him in the air, peals of the child’s piercing joy cutting through the cold. The Turners gathered en masse with their friends and laughed with the child that had finally touched the old man’s heart.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Four days later, Nathan, Judith, and the six adult Turner grandchildren, along with Napoleon Harker, sat in Anthony Turner’s small meeting room for the reading of the will. Elwyn Turner had changed his children’s lives in a profound way.

  “Could you repeat that, son?” Nathan Turner was once again in shock.

  Anthony pushed the will away and looked at his father.

  “Let me make sure you all understand. All of your children and grandchildren, whether they are natural, adopted, step or foster children will be provided with a college education. Your father,” (Anthony still found it hard to say “my grandfather”) “has set up a foundation to fund Bernadine’s Christmas toy drive until the year 2099, provided that drive is organized by a Turner relative by birth, adoption or marriage. With the interest on the money remaining in Mr. Turner’s estate, it is reasonable to expect, with wise investments, that even your great-great-grandchildren will be provided an education past high school.”

  “Well.” Was the only thing Nathan Turner could think to say.

  “The only provisions Mr. Turner specified which do not fall into that category are these: One, that Meredith Turner have a new headstone erected, and he provided specifications for that. And two, that any adult Turner relation be given an annuity, ”Anthony glanced at his paperwork, “Think of it as a supplemental income. He specified you, Aunt Bernadine.” Bernadine sat up in shock, with her mouth open. “He was worried about your arthritis, I believe. He thought you should retire.” Anthony paused again and cleared his throat. “Mr. Harker, you are to receive the proceeds from the sale of the house, any of Elwyn Turner’s personal effects, including, his pocket watch and of course, a retirement benefit.”

  Anthony let the news sink in for a moment. “Mr. Turner did suggest that the name of the Christmas drive become,” Anthony looked down and read, “The Annual Augustus Leland Turner Christmas Toy Drive.” Bernadine shook her head and blinked several times. Anthony offered tissues around the office. “You know, Dad, he didn’t expect anyone to come to the funeral. Aunt Judith, he was certain you would not be there.” Judith’s stern profile faltered. Anthony rose and handed copies of the will out to his family. “Please keep this in a safe and secure place. You may receive calls from the newspaper. I would advise against speaking to anyone about this right now.”

  “No, son. Of course not. We’ll need to think this over. This is—” suddenly Anthony realized that his own father had more than a touch of grey in his blond hair. He saw, too, that the elder Turner was slightly stooped as he rose from the chair. “—unexpected.” Nathan Turner’s voice faltered. Anthony came from around the desk and put his arm around his father’s shoulders. “Try to remember, Dad. He did understand what he had lost. Not until the end, but he did understand.”

  Grace was watching Norm place the finishing strokes on the freshly painted baseboard under the kitchen sink and admiring the recently replaced flooring. Just a few days into the new year and already the hole under the sink was closed, new pipes were gurgling safely and Grace had bravely assisted in the hanging of two long fluorescent shop lights in the basement. Only by way of handing tools to Ed and shutting the power off and on at his request, but still, she had helped. The sun was setting when she went up the stairs toward the shower, her hair frosted with drywall dust and a worrying splinter under one fingernail. Norm and Ed had stood back with her, admiring first the now-bright basement and then the kitchen floor.

  “That’s a good job there, Grace.” Norm said. Ed gave a committed grunt. The brothers picked up their tools and headed for the back door, escaping Grace’s effusive thanks. Comfort and Joy sat primly, side-by-side in the doorway, heads turning in unison, ears alert to Grace’s voice.

  “Let’s go, Spirits, away from the wet paint.” She picked them both up, moving them away from the temptations in the kitchen, then buried her nose against Comfort’s head and walked through the cozy house. In the small library, Comfort jumped for the favored afghan in the window seat. Joy leaped onto the sill nearby and watched the sunset, a silent meow at Grace.

  Grace reached over to stroke the kitten’s head and admired the long, orange-streaked sky in the distance. She could see the night creeping in. The phone jangled at her desk, bringing a narrow glance from the slant-eyed kitten. She and Ellie spoke about the news they had heard of Elwyn Turner’s plans.

  “Oh, Grace!” Ellie’s voice was filled with hope. “That’s phenomenal!

  “Yes, that certainly takes care of the Turner clan, doesn’t it?” Grace felt a sense of purpose now, a need to move on and help the other children in Franklin Hill. She hung up the telephone and looked back through the window. Next Christmas would be easier for Bernadine Turner and for a few more families in Franklin Hill and the Knot.

  A freezing fog was creeping fast up the valley and toward the small house. The air was cold. Grace heard boots scraping against the sidewalk outside, Then Norm and Ed’s quiet rumbles. A fire would be glowing by the time she was made it back to her hearth and comfortable chair. Comfort and Joy came to sit with her as she leaned against the window seat, listening to the sounds of her small house. They sat, watching her with knowing kitten faces. She smiled and drew the curtains, shutting out the seeping cold. The furnace quietly cycled on, no more loud ominous complaining from the basement hinterlands. A small blast of warm air came through the newly placed vent, warming her feet. She looked around the room. Cindy or Connie had placed a blooming rose in the vase on her desk. The worn, Russian Blue rug gave the room her personal mark. This was hers, her retreat. A steadiness was here. This was no temporary haven.

  Granny Stillwell’s, where she went for comfort and Ellie’s hearth, where she would go for understanding and companionship, were all good, but not like this house. She remembered the first time she had seen Babe’s ranch house with wide, beckoning porch, rockers sitting alongside a table holding a checkerboard, glasses of iced tea and a moisture-beaded pitcher waiting on the side rail. Babe sat on that porch with a satisfaction that Grace had envied. The ranch house was hot and dusty in the summer and drafty in the winter, but it spoke of home to Babe.

  Grace reached for the light switch as she left the ro
om, then stood in the hall. The quiet of the dark reached her. Ellie’s lasagna bubbled downstairs, filling the air with the savory aroma of a good meal. She walked down to the kitchen and looked through the window. Norm and Ed, silhouetted against the dim sky, lifted their hands to her before turning to go back up the hill to home. She raised her own hand and felt well-being wash over her.

  She thought of Elwyn Turner’s words to his children, “Draw close and care for one another.” She felt the closeness of Ellie and Tim, Katy and Chris, Babe, and now Mercer. Even Norm, Ed and Bernadine gave the comfort of family. But most of all, Granny Stillwell.

  Franklin Hill would not be important to anyone else, on any map it would be off a blue highway. But it held what her heart needed. And the little brick house warmed her to her soul. Grace felt at last no longer weary from her travels nor as if some need, want or desire was not met. She was home.