Nelle had never heard her father talk this way. In fact, she couldn’t remember him ever really talking about his childhood or his mother and father. She hadn’t pictured much of his existence outside his military life, which was all she knew. Their military travels and constant change eclipsed any sense of history she had about how his early life had been.
“That must have been hard. I didn’t know that about you when you were growing up,” she said.
“You didn’t need to. Didn’t want you to. He tried to lay it all out for me, what I should do, what he would let me do, but I thought it was all mainly for him. I took some detours, ducked some bullets, caught some bullets. But maybe he did, too. Maybe everybody does,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But I always loved you girls.”
It had been a long time since Nelle had seen her father calm, and she had not once ever heard him introspective. Her memories were a mix of anger and fear, with mere flashes of laughter and carefree family time. To see him as a man grappling to navigate the realities and consequences of his life both unsettled and soothed her. She was at the same age now where he had already fought in a war, married, and had a wife and children to support in a hostile foreign country, all without any emotional support from his family. He had his share of anger, rage, and turmoil, too.
No wonder, she thought, at a loss to carry on the conversation.
“But you! Look at you! You all did okay, didn’t you?” he asked expectantly.
“Yes, Daddy,” she replied, not knowing what else to say.
“Tell me. Tell me about them. About you.”
Okay. This is easy. “Mary Ellen is a nurse in Baton Rouge. She loves it. Very busy. Don’t get to see much of her these days. Christine will graduate high school in June. Says she tired of studying and wants to go to work and make some money so she works part time at Spurlock’s Country Store in the neighborhood. She’s good with numbers, like you. Mr. Spurlock hired her to keep his books and tend the register. He’s getting on and says she charms the customers and is good for business. She has fun there. It’s good for now. She walks to work.”
Terry gave her a big smile, nodding happily at her cheery accounts of his other two girls. He waited for more, then had to coax her. “You? What about Nelle?”
Nelle took a deep breath. Facts or feelings, how far do I go? “I’m fine, Daddy. Almost done with vet school. I’m just fine.”
“You always did love your animals. Remember that cat John Bananas? He was a skittish little thing. And that pony Hot Shot you rode bareback all the time. You were a natural, weren’t you…never needed a saddle…” his voice trailed off, tinged with sadness. “You’d roam around on your bike from sunup to sundown. Always outside. Wild as the weeds.”
Nelle was touched by his memory and description of her and relieved to see the tenderness that surfaced, the same as she had known occasionally as a child. Much of him was still there, even if buried deep. He could still find his way through his own hurt to touch the good parts of his life, and she wanted to cling to this exchange to ease the sorrow and anguish that she carried in her own bundle of hurtful memories.
“I have something for you, Daddy. Granddad gave it to me when I started out in vet school. He said it would always help me find my way. He told me it belonged to you when you were just a kid.” Nelle reached into her handbag. She had not planned on giving him this gift. It had been her talisman since the moment her grandfather had passed it on to her when they first arrived in Louisiana.
The small brass compass was about the size of a quarter. An eagle in flight was embossed on the back, heavily scratched from wear but still shiny and bright. The red-tipped arrow moved rapidly back and forth as she handed it to him. It stopped on North.
Terry caught his breath as he took the object and held it in his hand. “I remember,” he said, expelling his air. “It’s mine. That’s the same thing he said to me. He gave it to me when I was ten right before he went on another long river trip. He used it to navigate the waters.”
“Now you can, too,” Nelle said.
They visited a few more minutes before Nelle announced it was time for her departure. “I need to get going now. I have a long ride back.” She had more than done her duty and felt a curious mix of depletion and serenity on seeing him in this strange place. Surprisingly, she felt neither fear nor pity.
Terry returned to his room grasping the compass tightly in his fist. He pulled out his cigar box from under the bed and opened the lid. His crow gifts lay neatly arranged and covered most of the bottom of the box. He created a small circle in the middle with his finger to make space and gently placed the compass in the center of his treasures. He sat quietly on his bed with his box on his lap for a long time, seeing the laughing boy, remembering the lonely boy, saying goodbye to his father.
When later in the afternoon he walked outside to his bench, he discovered the large white feather lying on the very spot he had long claimed as his. He had no doubt who had placed it there. “I won’t get lost again, Dad,” he whispered, looking upward at the brilliant blue, cloudless sky.
The Annual West River Jubilee was about to celebrate its fourth year. The small town of West River on the banks of the Ouachita River had grown in stature if not in size thanks to the ever-increasing interest in the burgeoning activities offered at the jubilee. Aside from cash prizes for the best tasting baked goods and homemade jellies and jams, and blue ribbons for fat pigs and prolific egg laying hens, more and more people came from all over the region to dance to Cajun music and picnic on the bucolic grounds of Reverend’s Dunn sprawling church property. Competition in the prestigious Masters Dominoes Tournament was also a big draw, but what had attracted the most attention was the horse race. Farm ponies had given way to fancier horses, bred for riding pleasure, instead of fieldwork. It was easy to spot the gambling outsiders with their soft hands and flashy shirts who gathered where the horses grazed before the big race that took place in the late afternoon.
Hot Shot, the pony so beloved by Nelle, was too old to compete anymore and his eyesight was failing, but he was still legendary among the locals who saw him miraculously outrun the gilded fancy mare owned by Tammy Boone, the privileged daughter from the town’s elite Tall Oaks neighborhood. Nelle road him bareback and secured a place in West River’s history, not only for Hot Shot but also herself as well. That race, the main attraction for the very first jubilee, was responsible for the tall tales and fantastic embellishments that put the West River Jubilee on the map for the whole region. Crowds doubled the second year, tripled the third, and the Reverend Dunn, pastor of the Word of God Holy Ministry Church, whose pastoral setting hosted the event and whose congregation organized much of the work, reveled in the fame and new blood it brought to his ministry. He knew how to capitalize on the infusion of interest, but was sincere in his belief that God was the key jockey in the race. He led his Sunday sermons as a cheerleader and proselytizer, promising the ultimate win by rising to the Kingdom of Heaven.
Hot Shot had become the jubilee race mascot, his picture featured on the flyers. Nelle was hailed “Queen” of the sport, to the chagrin of her pretentious competitors, and Pete had taken charge of managing the commotion that riders and horses brought to the church grounds that served as the racetrack.
Reverend Dunn was the man in charge of it all. Thanks be to God.
On the last Sunday before the start of the next jubilee one week away, he faced his full house congregation red-faced, huffing and puffing, pacing from behind the pulpit, angry and shaken.
“WHO? WHO! WHO!” he demanded accusingly at the seated and silent crowd.
Churchgoers reacted with wide eyes and blank stares, turning heads to one another, shrugging shoulders in question and alarm. Nelle and Pete were not members, but attended occasionally as a way to show support for the Reverend’s community work, but on this Sunday had come with special gratitude for the kindness and comfort he had extended at the recent death of their grandfathers.
&nbs
p; “What’s he talking about, Nelle?” Pete asked.
“I have no idea,” she whispered back.
The forceful pound on the pulpit startled everyone, sending audible gasps that reverberated into the vaulted beamed ceiling and echoed off the walls. Reverend Dunn had the attention he wanted.
“Every. Cent. Is. Gone. An empty box is all that’s left.” He waited for the words to sink in, scanning the crowd for reaction, hoping the culprit would give some clue. Perhaps an uncomfortable shift on the pew, or maybe lower his head, or cough from the choking as he swallowed his guilt. “Hmmm,” he said disappointedly and shook his head in irritation.
“If you NEED it, God will provide. If you STEAL it, the devil will triumph!” He paced and spun on his heels, throwing his arms high in the air.
His admonishment was not eliciting the revelation he had hoped for. He could see the upset faces and heard the nervous shuffling of feet and uncomfortable murmuring voices. Maybe the culprit isn’t one of us, he thought. I hope not. I surely hope not.
He addressed his congregation again, more composed, less shrilly, “Our collection funds for next week’s jubilee have been taken from the rectory. The money from the cash box is gone. Stolen. Who would do such a thing?” he asked painfully.
Shock gripped the congregation as many repeated the reverend’s refrain. Who would do such a thing, rumbled through the crowd.
“We will have our jubilee folks! We may be missing some money, however, the good Lord will see to it that we have what we need to go on. You may steal our money but, whoever you are, YOU WILL NOT STEAL OUR FAITH!”
The crowd sighed and nodded with relief.
“The Fourth Annual West River Jubilee is NOT hijacked by a thief!” he shouted, pounding the pulpit once again.
“Amen!” rang out in loud response from the steadfast congregation. “AMEN!”
“And now, we bow our heads in prayer both for the recovery of our money and redemption for the soul who took it, and lift our voices in song to praise the Lord.”
Sunday services carried on.
Nelle and Pete approached Reverend Dunn after the unusually short service.
“How much?” Nelle asked.
Pete didn’t wait for the answer. “Will it affect the race? Some of that goes for the prize money, doesn’t it Reverend?”
“Entry fee is up now to twenty-five dollars. Half the total goes to the winner, other half to the church for expenses. We got twelve running last count,” the Reverend responded flatly, his energy used by his passionate sermon that he had hoped would unmask the thief and keep his congregation united despite this unthinkable betrayal.
The prestige of the win far outweighed the cash prize, but the winnings still represented a sizable sum of money to many people in the mostly modest and poor community. For the affluent residents in the small but powerful Tall Oaks neighborhood, the win was mainly another opportunity for chest thumping and gleeful condescension, but for the others it meant a leveling of the field. It was the sentiment of pride and possibility that had catapulted Hot Shot’s unimaginable win into legend. An unexceptional pony and disadvantaged girl took the day on the first race. From that time on, anything was possible at the West River Jubilee.
The shocking theft turned the whole of West River into amateur detectives and vocal conspiracy proponents. Tall Oaks people accused the poor folks of stealing easy money. Those less fortunate were convinced that the theft was carried out by Tall Oaks sore losers who intended to stain the reputation for the consistent underdog wins that tarnished the status and rendered meaningless their bottomless money and power. Though it was driving a wedge in the community, it heightened interest in the race and drove the gamblers wild with predictions for the next winner.
For Nelle and Pete, it lessened the sorrow of the loss of their grandfathers by redirecting their attention on the details and tasks that required their time in the upcoming next few days. Nelle was also still reeling from the emotional visit she had with her father and was prepared to shelve her impressions and thoughts about him for now. She had told Pete upon her return that the visit “went fine” and was grateful that he didn’t press her for more. Pete, she knew, was astute at reading her.
Pete had trouble adjusting to the quiet of his trailer without the presence of his grandfather “Papaw”, when even in his last years as farming and gardening became too hard for his old bones, always had a pot of purple hull peas or savory stew simmering on the tiny stove. He missed sitting outside with him on the bench watching while Papaw whittled small animals out of bare wood, infusing life into mere sticks. Preparing the track for the big day mowing grass and clearing the field to ensure the safety of the horses offered the opportunity to leave the lonely quiet for a while. He was too full of his own emotion to give much comfort to Nelle anyway.
Nelle was not ready yet to tackle the burden of sorting through her grandfather’s belongings in the main house. She wanted to stay in the garage apartment out back where she had lived by herself since her mother had left. Christine had moved into the main house with Granddad, which helped her to cope with her loss, but it would be up to Nelle to handle the difficult chore of settling his modest estate. For now, his house was too empty and depressing without him in it. As a consequence of the security and stability he had provided, her life had evolved with the sweet rhythms of seeing Pete, studying in school, and working part time for the law office where she had been employed since high school. The only present urgency she felt was to continue the effort for the upcoming jubilee. All else would wait. And she was convinced that the culprit who stole from the church rectory would no doubt be caught in due time. West River was too small to hold such a big secret for too long.
On the Friday before the big weekend, Nelle entered the law offices of Parker, Harris, Turner and Lauer later than her usual afternoon starting time. Only her boss and mentor Mr. Parker and his secretary Mercel were still there. The jingling of the bells attached to the inside of the heavy front door announced her presence.
“That you, Nelle?” Mr. Parker called out from his office.
“Yes, sir. It’s me.”
“Everything okay?”
“I guess,” she replied, half-heartedly.
“Come in here, please, before you get started.”
“Yes, sir.” Am I in trouble for being late?
“Have a seat,” he said warmly.
Mr. Parker had taken great pride in Nelle’s development, seeing her grow from a gangly cautious girl into a determined assured young woman. He knew her potential from the first day he hired her, while she was still in high school. She beat out a pool as one of five girls who applied for the part time job through a partnership with the school’s vocational program. He saw past the ill-fitting clothes, scuffed shoes, and bruised shins of the skinny nervous tomboy. And he was well acquainted with her family’s difficulties involving charges and multiple police visits to her home. He was the town’s premier criminal lawyer and knew all the scandalous secrets of both the haves and have-nots.
The school had been shocked that Nelle was the candidate he chose. Four attractive, poised, well-dressed girls from well-to-do families, reflecting a proper fit with the respected law firm, arrived for interviews. And then there was Nelle. She was the last prospect at the end of a long day, who by the time it was her turn to go in, had given up all hope. When she sat down in front of him with her unpretentious indefinable spark, Mr. Parker knew instantly he had found his girl.
Nelle hurried into his office and took a seat. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Parker. I’ve been so busy with the jubilee and with Granddad and all. I went to see my father, too. I had to tell him. It was a long drive….”
“No, no. It’s not that, Nelle. How’s Terry doing these days by the way?” he asked with genuine concern. He had been involved in preparing the legal papers to have him committed. When Nelle’s mother subsequently abandoned the family, he believed that Maggie Lyons was running away from her broken heart, not from
her beautiful girls. These were private sentiments that fueled his desire to see to it that Nelle would be given the right opportunities to thrive. He wanted to help the Lyons family rebuild.
“Better than I thought,” she shrugged. “I don’t know what I really expected. He seemed to take it pretty well. Didn’t get too upset. Hard to tell. We played dominoes. I know it hurt him to hear it.”
Mr. Parker nodded sympathetically. “Well, I’m glad you could see him after all this time. Sounds like he’s getting the help he needs.” He cleared his throat and rested his elbows on the desk, changing the tenor of the conversation. Leaning forward intently, in a low rapid voice, he said, “We have another theft. I just learned about it this afternoon.” He pushed back against his chair. “Smashed the …”
“The church again?” Nelle interrupted, shocked.
“No. Not there. The community nature center. The old Indian vessel that you discovered on the riverbank with the frog markings and the old seeds inside. It made such a hullabaloo around here for a while. All that publicity in the newspapers. People swarming around here like we struck gold. Gone! Case was smashed. Had to have been at night. No one saw or heard a thing.”
“WHAT!” Nelle yelled loudly. “Who would want that?” she asked in disbelief, her eyes wide as she tried to digest the news. “Was it kids? Vandals? Anything else missing? Nobody cares about that pot anymore except the university people.”
“That’s what I don’t get. You tell me. Who would want an old clay vessel? Hundreds of years old, okay, I understand that part. But value? Sell it? A collector took it? Not in these parts. I don’t think it’s worth very much anyway. At least not around here. Besides, nobody would touch a stolen object that everybody would recognize.”
“I know. You’re right. It’s the historical value. Even the thief would know that. Maybe someone from a big city,” she wondered out loud, “who would sell it to a museum or antique shop…lots of people are here now for the jubilee from all over.” She shook her head at the appalling news. The ancient vessel had been both her discovery and her contribution to West River. It felt like a very personal her loss. Another loss, she thought. “Now what? What do we do about it?”
The Road to Home Page 4