by Dave Balcom
“Oh, I won’t tell...”
“C’mon yourself; I was born at night, but not last night.” He ignored her giggle and continued, “I have no interest in starting a beach romance. I’m not at all interested in having a fling with Karen or any other woman no matter how attractive, bright, and friendly she might be.”
“You don’t like girls?”
“I like women. I like to know all about them. Some day I’d like to fall in love with one and make a life with her, but it won’t be until after I’m out of the Navy...”
“But why? It’s a vacation, it’s not like she wants marriage! She’s attracted to you in a real big way, but not knowing how you feel is driving her crazy.”
“So she put you up to this?”
“She’d die if she knew I’d started this conversation. She’d kill me first, but she’d die of humiliation.”
Jim silently weighed the possibility that Renée’s characterization could be accurate and honest. He decided to accept it, and that gave him an idea, “There’ll be a party on this beach Friday night. You two should negotiate with the O’Connors for a couple hours to watch that party. It won’t kill you, but you’ll have at least a funny story or two to tell the kids back home.”
“Will you be there?”
“I’m not sure; let me know tomorrow if you’re going to attend, and I’ll see. I won’t be out late Friday night. I’ll be on the road Saturday morning before it’s very light.”
The next morning he could almost feel the frost emanating from Karen when she interrupted his Tai Chi forms on the beach, hands on her hips and a snarl on her face.
“Hey, girl. What’s up today?”
She wasn’t interested in small talk, and came straight to the point. “I had a long talk – confession, actually – with Renée this morning, and I’m pretty sore.”
“At me?”
“I have no right be sore at you, Mr. Stanton. But I think it’s pretty shoddy for my best friend to butt in on my behalf without so much as a ‘mind if I help.’” She had Renée ’s voice down pat, and Jim couldn’t help but chuckle at her impersonation.
“You think it’s funny?”
He concentrated on keeping his voice soft; his tone nonchalant, “I think you do a great Renée impression, and that made me laugh. If you’re put out because she told you I wasn’t interested in any romance right now, that would be flattering to me and wasted energy and emotion for you.”
“You’re patronizing me? How dare you even think I am attracted to you? What makes you so cock sure of yourself?”
He raised his hands in defense, as if he could stop the fury that was building behind her eyes. He stood without effort, seemingly rising like smoke to his full height. “I’m sorry, Miss O’Connor. I thought I was talking to a friend. I beg your pardon.”
He backed away two steps and then fled down the beach.
Chapter 1
2017
It was April and another birthday had been counted. My daughter, Sara, had visited for the weekend. My son, Jeremy, had begged off visiting as his consulting business in Upstate New York was running him ragged.
“Happy birthday, Pops,” he started the phone conversation that Monday morning.
“Hey, thanks!” I greeted him back. Jan, my wife, and I had expected the call on Sunday. “I thought you were going to call yesterday. Sara headed back to LA at first light this morning.”
“I thought I was going to call yesterday, too, but something weird came up after church...”
“What?”
“I received a call from a woman who claims that she and I share DNA information that makes me either her brother or father. Dad, I’m pretty sure I know my sister; and I’m positive I’ve never known anyone named Maggie Lennon or Julie Smith Lennon, even.
“Is that the woman’s name?”
“Yes. Lennon is Maggie’s name. Her mother was this Julie who was born out of wedlock in early 1974 in Washington, D.C. Julie, who married a guy named Lennon, died of ovarian cancer. This Maggie became curious and started doing research into her family. She’s trying to find out if ovarian cancer runs in the women of her family...”
“How old is this woman that contacted you?”
“I’m not sure; not too old, younger than I am for sure. She has become fixated on the genealogy –she’s worried as hell about cancer being in her future...”
“How did she come up with your name in connection with her DNA?”
“Oh, you know those mail-order DNA kits? A bunch of us ordered them as a gag last year. Used our results as a theme for a party, building our ‘findings’ into stories, and everyone tried to guess who’s report we were reading. It was just a lark...”
“So you ended up in some data base that this woman accessed in search of her own family tree?”
“I guess. She said that her report came back with a list of people who were possibly related to her, and my name is on that list.”
“Is it a paternity deal?”
“She said the markers matched up that we must be related. Like her grandmother and some guy with my markers might have made her mother. Or, she and I might be brother and sister ... It makes my head hurt.”
I was feeling a pain at that moment, too.
“Well, I don’t know about a Julie Smith born in 1973 in Washington, D.C., but I can promise you that she’s not a blood relative of yours.”
“And not yours, either?”
“For sure. I hadn’t been sexually active for long in 1973, and for sure not with anyone in Washington, D.C. I had never even been there by 1973.
“Isn’t this DNA stuff supposed to be the final word in accuracy?”
“Perhaps, but not as final as celibacy. I couldn’t be anyone’s mystery father, and you have to know that this Maggie would be – if it weren’t impossible – my granddaughter, right? You’re not my grandson. There’s a gap here that can’t be explained away.”
Jeremy was quiet so long I started wondering if he’d hung up, “So, Dad, what would your DNA look like compared to mine?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never had my DNA tested...” that sentence started my mind down another path.
“Dad? You all right?”
“Of course. I don’t know the history of DNA, but I suddenly wondered if my DNA might not be on record in St. Louis...”
“Military thing?”
“Yeah, but if that were true, I’m not sure how ... Crazy; I know I had nothing to do with this gal’s mother or grandmother...”
“Any idea how I should handle this?”
“Where does it stand now? Is she thinking of some kind of paternity suit?”
“I don’t think so... hell, Dad, I don’t know. I have her phone number; I’m thinking I’ll call her and tell her we’re unable to help her with her search.”
I told him it was okay if he wanted to give her my number, I could assure her that I wasn’t part of her equation.
Jan had left for a weekly shift at a soup kitchen. The Table of Grace had become something of a favorite cause for her since it had opened. Founded by a couple who had dedicated their lives to Christian endeavors, it relied on donations and volunteer hours. The owners, Elmo Martin and Grace Morton, had founded the effort on the basis they never asked for anything, just trusted the Lord to provide.
I was mulling Jeremy’s call when my phone rang. It was Jan. “Jim, can you come help at the kitchen today? We’re short two players plus Benny. Can you come and be Benny?”
I had pitched in a few times in the past when the dishwasher and ex officio third leg of the kitchen’s staff had been unavailable. “Of course. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes or so.”
“Perfect!” She said with a smile in her voice as she hung up.
The small diner was full of hungry people when I let myself in by the back door. The dishes hadn’t started piling up as yet, and Grace met me at the door with a smile and a hug. “We were fearful we’d be short of staff, but God provides, doesn’t He?”
“N
ot a problem, Grace. Where’s Benny this morning?”
“Don’t know. No show, no call; not like him at all these days...”
Jan was working as a server and busing tables along with Elmo. Two women were behind the counter with Grace plating entrées. Folks finished and others streamed in and the first 30 minutes went by in a blur, then the flow steadied to a more manageable pace.
Each new party was greeted by Elmo with a smile, kind words, and good humor. “You’re looking well today, Margo! You’re filling out nicely!” He patted the obese woman on the shoulder as she shuffled towards an empty chair that disappeared as she settled onto it. Her chicken and noodles, bread, and fruit were put in front of her, and Jan explained the dessert choices then fetched a pie slice as ordered.
The overall air of the place was quiet conversation with Elmo’s booming voice marking each new arrival as if the entire day was now in order thanks to that person’s presence.
The dishes occupied my mind and it was somewhat startling when I went to gather the next load to wash and found there wasn’t one. I realized then how quiet it was, and saw that all the other volunteers were now seated at the counter, eating their own lunch. It was minutes after 1 o’clock.
“Come and eat it, Jim!” Elmo boomed. “There’s just one more serving left.”
Grace was putting my plate next to Jan’s, and flashed her ever-present smile in my direction.
We completed cleaning up by 1:30 and Grace produced a pot of coffee from her kitchen. It was a tradition of sorts, the unwinding after the daily show.
“I always look forward to the coffee break,” Elmo said in his normal tone. “It’s like a marker that lets my mind simmer down. I think we did good today, all of us.”
Jan patted his free hand, “I’m sure your two-hour performance leaves you exhausted, Elmo; I know I couldn’t do that.”
“There’s no talent required,” he said soberly. “I think we feed more than appetites here. We have no way of knowing what baggage these folks bring with them, but we can, if we try, set the stage in such a way that they might leave their troubles and woes at the door... That’s my aim; to give them a breather along with the food.”
Jan had been involved in the food preparation part of the program for about a year, but, after one visit during the meal she’d been showing up to volunteer for several months.
She had pestered me repeatedly to join her, “C’mon, Jim; you can give up one lunch a week; the rewards are too good to pass up,” but I had resisted. I felt it was a “her” thing, and thought it was important to keep it that way. But each time I had pitched in, I had found it intoxicatingly fun.
We’d just finished our coffee when we heard a tapping at the front door. Grace went to share her regrets with a late comer, but, instead, she came back with a uniformed Pendleton Police officer in tow.
I immediately noted the wary and concerned look in her eyes. “Folks,” the officer began, “I’m Brad Huntley, and I have bad news.”
I saw tears streaming from Grace’s eyes, “Benny,” she whimpered.
“Ahem,” Huntley cleared his throat and started again, “Benjamin Travis was found dead a couple of hours ago in his apartment here on Emigrant. It appears it was a self-inflicted gunshot wound...”
“Oh, merciful Jesus,” Elmo breathed in a sigh. He wrapped his arms around Grace. They held that position, him straddling the stool, her wrapped in his arms with her head on his shoulder, her tears turning his shirt a darker shade of blue.
“I’m sorry, folks;” the officer said gently, “I really am, but I need to know if you can shed any light on why he’d do this. Had he been acting sad or depressed?”
The question hung out there until Elmo responded in a monotone, “Ben had his share of demons, but I hadn’t seen anything lately that makes sense of this.”
The silence remained in the room until the young officer broke it by pulling a stool out from the counter. “When was the last time you saw him?” He sat facing Elmo.
“Friday. He had finished cleaning up, and was loading boxed meals that come in each day from different groups into our van.”
“You deliver meals too?”
“Yes.”
“To shut-ins? Do you have a route list that I could follow, see if anyone saw anything?”
Elmo was shaking his head.
“No route list?”
“No,” Elmo said, gently pushing Grace away from him, “He never took the same route twice in a row. There are those in the community who do not condone our ministry to those without walls. Nothing is written down. He knew where he was needed, and he went to those spots...”
“So, who will deliver those meals today?”
“Nobody,” Grace said in a voice that carried the full weight of her loss; “Nobody.”
The officer waited but there was nothing more coming. He jotted a final note, and departed without further conversation.
We sat together and I heard, but couldn’t decipher, soft words coming out of Grace’s mouth. I realized she was reciting a prayer, and then, at the same moment, I realized Elmo’s lips were also moving, and he was silently reciting the same prayer...
After dinner that evening, Jan and I were sitting on the deck that overlooks the Columbia Basin from our home in the foothills of the Blue Mountains. Our conversation was unusually quiet.
“I don’t pretend to fully understand the relationships at the Table,” I started. “I mean, one minute Grace and Elmo act like rowdy buddies, and the next like old marrieds. In grief they acted like sweethearts, didn’t you think so?”
Jan’s voice was thoughtful, almost whimsical, “I see what you mean, but, really, I’m not sure it matters to them if anyone understands their relationship; hell, maybe they don’t understand it.”
“Do you know anything?” I asked.
“Just gossip, really. You know how people like to talk about people they like. It’s all kindly...” Her voice trailed off.
“I guess I just never think of you as being ‘one of the girls’ in that kinda stuff.”
She reached a gentle hand to touch mine and her voice went all reporter, a distaff Sgt. Friday: “They’re not married to each other, and never have been. They’ve been friends – they’re both ordained ministers – and have subbed for each other for decades; but Grace has been married twice during that time; one divorce, and she lost a husband tragically four years ago...”
“Where’d you learn all that?”
“Among the women who volunteer, that knowledge is as common as the speculation about how platonic their relationship really might be...”
“How old are they?”
“She’s 62; he’s 68.”
“Where does their money come from?”
“God, I guess.”
“How’s that?”
“She had a dream to start a soup kitchen. She was told not to worry about money and to never ask anyone for anything, just to trust in the Lord.
“She woke up the next morning and found she had $78 after all her bills were paid, so she went to Elmo and told him they were going to start a soup kitchen.”
“I’ll bet he was overjoyed.”
“Well, Elmo is a special case. He’s been dealing in antiques – especially Native American and emigrant artifacts – for years. He has a huge collection of wagons and farm implements from the early days on his family’s small spread over by Athena. About 30 of his rigs are part of the Round Up’s Westward Ho! Parade every year.
“Anyway, he leveraged enough cash to buy that building, and then he prayed, and then people just started showing up to help remodel, whatever... I think he – and together both of them – might be the most joyous people I’ve ever met.”
As I was contemplating that revelation, somebody pushed the doorbell. Judy, the Drathaaur pointer I work for, bounced up at the sound and trotted to the front of the house. I followed her, trying to recall the last time I’d heard that doorbell...
“Well, hello, Elmo!” I s
aid, my surprise obvious. “Come in, please.”
The man seemed to have aged considerably since I’d last seen him that afternoon. He was walking slowly, and he wore a haggard look. His smile was completely absent.
“Where’s Grace?”
“Home. She’s not feeling very chipper...”
I was leading him to the deck, and Jan came into the house, “I thought I heard your voice, Elmo! Welcome!”
“Thank you, Jan; I came to speak with Jim, if I could.”
“Of course. Want a cup of coffee? Iced tea? Anything?”
He was shaking his head. “Not now, thanks; I just need a few minutes of Jim’s time.”
The old man stepped towards the deck, and I caught a look of question from Jan. I shrugged and followed the man outside. He let me pass and pulled the sliding door closed.
“What’s up, Elmo?”
“I’ve heard things about you, Jim; good things, always good things, capable things that I think I might have a need for... Grace doesn’t know I’m here. I left her in her rooms above my garage. She’s in bed, crying for Benny. She’s devastated.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize they were that close, I always thought it was you and...”
“Nobody understands how the Lord works, least of all me; Grace is closer than a sister to my heart, but we’ve never been lovers or anything but friends. When she was younger other men attracted her, and I understood that; I knew her love for Jesus would bring her to me when those days were behind her, and so it has.
“She’s a dreamer. She has a special relationship with God and her savior; I’m merely one of those mysterious tools that the Lord uses to fulfill his needs; now I think you may be a tool to that end as well...”
“Here I am,” I said softly, recalling Bible teachings from my early years.
“I know you are,” he replied and a bit of his normal good nature wrinkled the skin around his eyes. “Grace’s vision prohibits my asking for anything, Jim; so I just need to tell you a story, and if it’s God’s will, you’ll know what you have to do.”
He cleared his throat. “There is no way Benjamin Travis took his own life, no matter what the police say.”