by Reid, Don
“Paul, from the first day I saw you on the stage at that Youth Council meeting at Radford, I have never been unfaithful to you. There have been moments … moments when I’ve been dishonest. But never unfaithful.”
He had never demanded she tell him about affairs of the heart she had before they met, nor had she ever required the same of him. Her faithfulness as a wife and partner had never been in question. Not until this minute. Maybe the dishonesty she was confessing was of the spirit and not of the body. Did he want her to say it? Did he need to hear this from the woman he loved so dearly; the woman who was the mother of his only child; the woman who had been such an integral part of his life and mission. Her next words brought him back to the kitchen.
“Did you hear me? Dishonest. But never unfaithful.”
“What does that mean, Dove … dishonest?”
“I—”
“No … wait. I don’t want to know. This is all a bit difficult, Dove. I trust you. I believe you when you say you’ve never been unfaithful. But that dishonesty … whatever it means … it’s still a broken trust, right?”
“Yes. And for that I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Paul was silent for a moment, fighting the urge to pepper her with questions.
“Can you forgive me?”
Forgive her for what? Did he have to know the sin and all its detail before offering vindication? And just who would he be judging? Her or himself? She broke the silence again, showing a desperate need for his answer.
“Can you forgive me?”
He reached out and touched her hand and felt the same warmth he had felt the first time he’d held it so many years ago. He looked in her eyes and saw repentance for some unnamed sin. And he saw something else … something that had always been there, but somehow seemed truer in this moment. He saw her love for him.
“How could I not forgive you? That’s what I do.”
Just then Millie bounced into the room. She took her daddy by the arm and led him to the hall tree and held his overcoat while he put his arms in it and then socked an old hat on his head and they both laughed at how silly he looked. She yelled back the hallway.
“Come on, Mamma. Hurry up. We’re ready.”
Dove said from the kitchen, “Okay. I just need a minute.”
CHAPTER 30
There was no knock on the guest room door to warn Walter someone was coming in. Hoyt burst into the room, high on Christmas, and jumped in his grandfather’s lap.
“Well, hello, big boy. I sure have missed you.” Walter hugged him long and hard, getting the same in return. Hoyt’s big brother, Louis Wayne, was not far behind and he bent over the chair and unashamedly gave Walter the same hug. Standing back, in the doorway, was the prettiest and shiest blonde-haired girl Walter had seen since he was her age. The ponytail, the blue eyes, and the perfect smile asked in humble silence if she too should come in. Louis Wayne turned around and motioned to her.
“Granddad, this is Shirley Ann Briggs. You know her from church and you’ve probably seen her at some of my ball games.”
“I certainly do know her and once you’ve seen her at a ball game or a turkey shoot, you’re not apt to forget her. And that, young lady,” he said directly to Shirley Ann, “comes from an old codger who has seen a lot of pretty faces. But yours is one for the books. Come here and give me a hug.”
And from that moment Shirley Ann was a part of the family. Walter had a way of putting his stamp on something and making it right for all who followed. Louis Wayne smiled big and sighed even bigger as Shirley Ann leaned over and pecked his grandfather on the cheek and then hugged him like they were blood kin.
They talked about Christmas and how cold it was. They didn’t talk about Walter’s illness. They talked about school and how much fun the next week of vacation was going to be. They didn’t talk about Shirley Ann’s pregnancy. They talked about gifts, and Walter asked Louis Wayne if he would go over to his house and pick up a few packages and asked Shirley Ann if she would do some last-minute wrapping for him, and she was thrilled that he would entrust her with such a task. Then they all listened to Hoyt tell about the cookies he was leaving for Santa and how last year he had actually heard reindeer hooves on the roof.
“I was going to see Santa this afternoon but now we’re not,” Hoyt said with a sudden sadness.
“Why’s that?” Walter asked, though he already knew the answer.
“He was supposed to be at Uncle Milton’s store, but something happened to his sleigh and he has to get it fixed so it’ll be ready for tonight.”
Walter listened as Louis Wayne and Shirley Ann added to Hoyt’s Santa fantasies and then laughed with them as they related some of their own experiences with St. Nick through the years.
As the laughter died down, Walter spoke. “Shirley Ann, would you be so kind as to go down to Doris’ sewing room, I think that’s where she keeps the wrapping paper and bows, and gather up some ribbon and boxes and paper? Hoyt can show you where it is. Would you do that for me?”
“I’d be glad to, Mr. Selman.”
“And then Hoyt can show you the tree and the train he has in his room. Take your time. I need to talk to Louis Wayne for a little bit.”
The youngest and the newest members of the clan left the room hand-in-hand, full of Christmas secrets and plans, and Louis Wayne sat on the side of the bed and smiled proudly as he watched them go. His little brother and his fiancée were going to be the best of friends.
“Close the door, Louis Wayne, and come over here and sit down.”
This is what Louis Wayne would miss most. His grandfather had never taken him fishing. He had never taken him for walks in the woods and shown him butterflies, and he had never taken him to a ballpark to see Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays. But he had spent lots of time with him eating ice cream cones and hamburgers and talking. They would ride around in Walter’s Ford station wagon and talk for hours about things that mattered and things that didn’t. One of his earliest memories was asking his granddad about the moon and why it was there some nights and not others. He asked him if God slept on the clouds and where people went when they died. He had asked him where babies come from and where the rain went. He asked him about girls and why they were different and why they made him feel funny. He was comfortable telling him who he got in a fight with and why, and his Granddad Walter always knew the right things to say to make him feel better. There was nothing taboo for the two of them and there never would be.
“How bad did your mother take the news about you and Shirley Ann?”
“Pretty bad. You told me weeks ago that I needed to tell her and Dad, and I know I shouldn’t have put it off. But I really appreciate you not saying anything. If they had heard it from you it would have been a lot worse. I knew I had to be the one to tell them. I really think it’s going to work out okay.”
“What about her parents? The cop? I’ve always liked him. Did he want to wring your rotten little neck like I should have?”
“He’s been great. I can tell he’s biting his tongue, but so far so good.”
“Well, good luck, boy. I don’t know if I’ve always done the right thing where you’re concerned, but I’ve always tried.”
“Granddad, you’re the best. Always there when I needed you.”
“Little pal, I need you now. I need you in a way I’ve never needed anyone else in my life. There is no one else on this earth that I trust or have the confidence in to understand what I’m about to tell you. But I want you to listen because what I’m going to say means a lot to me. Every word is true and not one word of it is meant for anyone else’s ears but yours. Do you understand me?”
Walter began at the beginning. He began with the winter of 1904 and nine days before Christmas. He told Louis Wayne about the play, The Nativity, the Crown Theater, the husband and wife team of Nicholas and Adrienne Knoles. He left out nothing and nobody. He put all of his memories into words and painted as accurate a picture of the past as his sentimentality would allow. When
he finished, he felt weaker and somehow transparent; as if he were made of glass, and Louis Wayne could see his bare, naked soul.
“I know where the grave is Granddad. It’s close to where your parents are buried, isn’t it?”
“It’s in the family plot. My dad gave the lot to her because there was no other place to bury her. He put her clear over next to the wall, and, unless you know better, and only you do, you really can’t tell it’s in our plot.”
“Does Mom know about this?”
“Nah. Everybody’s dead that knew about it. Of course, everybody has heard a part of the story. The whole town knows about the mysterious grave in Vestry Hills and the woman with the traveling show who came through town around the turn of the century and got shot. You can look that up in the papers. They just don’t know the story behind it.”
“Why have you kept it such a big secret all these years?”
“Well, at first it was because of the police. They threatened for a long time to keep the case open and I was the only witness. There were even a couple of guys on the force who wanted to try to pin it on me.”
“The murder?”
“Yeah. And then, as luck would have it, ole Bennington got caught up in a scandal and once the heat from all of that died down, the other had cooled off. I didn’t want to perpetuate the legend because it always implicated me and shined suspicion on my family. Can you imagine what it would do to your mother if this whole story had gotten out? She would never show her face at the country club again if someone thought her old daddy had been tangled up with an actress and a murder years ago.”
“I don’t know what to say. Well … I do have a few questions, though. Can I ask?”
“Fire away, little pal.”
“Why were there four roses?”
“Cause that’s all the money I had. If I’d had enough, there would have been four dozen. Old man Blanchard never gave a break to anybody. Good old fellow, but tight as a snakebite.”
“Why did you tell me this today?”
“Well, you’ve heard the legend about it and how some mystery person puts flowers on the grave every Christmas but no one ever sees him? I know you’ve heard all those stories.”
“I’ve heard about guys who have hidden behind tombstones on Christmas Eve to try and see who’s leaving the roses. There was a story about it in the newspaper last year I think.”
“There’s a story about it nearly every year. But nobody is smart enough to catch that sly, mysterious, old man. You know why? Common sense. Sure, every year for over fifty years now there have been teenagers and college joes who have staked out the place and tried to see who was leaving the flowers. But you know it’s cold around Christmas, and teenaged boys will sit out there for an hour and then lie and tell their friends they were out there all night, but it just isn’t so. All you got to do is go out there at 3 a.m. on any Christmas morning and, believe me, there ain’t nobody out but Santa.”
Louis Wayne looked at his Granddad Walter’s hairline; the white thick hair that still fell down across his forehead. He looked at his hands and saw an adventure in every wrinkle. He saw the creases above his eyes and the laugh that always seemed to dance around his mouth even when he was serious. He looked at his shoulders; still straight and strong enough to lift Hoyt over his head. But it was the emerald in the eyes that told him these were the same eyes that had seen it all so many, many years ago. The same eyes that had looked on Adrienne Knoles and held her secret and his for decades. Was he really the same age that Christmas as he himself was this very minute? Louis Wayne quickly did the math in his head and suddenly saw young Walter holding Adrienne in his arms in the basement of the old Crown. He saw him by the hobo camp looking for Nicholas. And he saw him sneaking in the back door of the hospital to bring her a final gift of flowers.
“Granddad, where do you find roses in the middle of winter?”
“Wherever you find love. Don’t worry. You’ll find them.”
There was a long comfortable silence in the guest room as grandfather and grandson sat in contemplation of all that had been said. Each had their thoughts and, if truth be known, they were the same thoughts. They were the same blood. They were cut from the same cloth.
“Did you love her, Granddad?”
“Sure I did, little pal. Sure I did. And still do today.”
CHAPTER 31
The skies were clear as the congregation began to arrive for the Christmas Eve candlelight service at the Mason Street Methodist Church. Falling snow would have made for a perfect scene, but the simple, bitter cold more than made up for the lack of precipitation. Women were dropped off at the front door while men parked cars in the lot behind the sanctuary or on the street by the curb. A rush of frigid air blew into the vestibule each time someone opened the front door. Splashes of color, red mufflers and green sweaters and Christmas corsages on coat lapels, filled the church, and the candles flickering in stained-glass windows sent a warm message to anyone passing by.
In every corner of Mt. Jefferson and in all the outlying areas, churches were duplicating the very same scene. Only the faces were different. Families left their dinner tables to worship and observe a simple service that would be the spiritual solace to a hectic season. There was no more shopping to be done. No more racing around town to buy last-minute ingredients for Christmas dinner or deliver last-minute gifts of cookies to friends. All that was left was Christmas.
You could see at least one other church from any one of the church parking lots. There were two Baptist churches, two Presbyterian, one Methodist, one Lutheran, a Brethren, and one Catholic church all within walking distance of one another. A bird’s-eye view of the town would have made the perfect picture postcard.
Some came to church in casual clothes. Some in their Sunday best. Some brought neighbors who had never been. But they all came because they felt it was the right place to be. There would be enough evening after the service to put the little ones to bed and get ready for Santa’s visit. Enough evening for families to get together and open packages with those they wouldn’t see on Christmas Day. Enough time to slow down and take a deep breath and let all the tension out and allow a little of the peace in.
And that was what was about to happen at Mason Street Methodist. The Rev. Paul Franklin was talking to choir members and watching the front door from his vantage point in a small room to the side of the pulpit. The seats were filling up nicely, and he was glad to see a lot of unfamiliar faces. He looked at his watch and wondered if Dove and Millie had left home yet.
Dr. Campbell Sterrett, Doris, and Hoyt came down the aisle and sat where they sat for every service: third pew from the front on the right. The organ was playing “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and Hoyt was playing with a yo-yo he had gotten as a gift from one of his school friends.
“I thought Louis Wayne and Shirley Ann would be here by now,” Doris said leaning into her husband after they were seated.
“I’m sure they’ll be along.”
“Hoyt, put that thing in your pocket or I’ll put it in mine. I told your father not to let you bring it.”
Louis Wayne and Shirley Ann arrived and slid into the pew.
“Where have you two been?” Doris asked with a familiar scolding tone.
“We brought Granddad,” Louis Wayne whispered.
“What? He’s not here is he?”
“Yeah, he’s back there talking to some people.”
Doris turned her frustration toward her husband.
“Campbell, you know he has no business out on a night like this and in his condition.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Louis Wayne said. “He’s feeling really good and he didn’t want to sit at home by himself on Christmas Eve.”
“Campbell, what are you going to do?” Doris asked. “Do you hear me? What are you going to do?”
Dr. Sterrett looked at the floor for a long time before finally raising his gaze to his wife. “I’m going to sit here, keep my mouth shut, and try to enjoy the
fact that it’s almost Christmas. And may I suggest that you, Doris, do the same.”
Amanda stood just inside the two large, wooden doors that opened into the narthex. She smiled and spoke politely to other church members while waiting on Buddy, who was parking the car. She spotted Shirley Ann in the sanctuary just as Buddy walked up.
“Where do you want to sit?” he asked as he looped his coat onto a rack.
“Well, your daughter is sitting up front. Do you want to go up that far?”
“Who’s she sitting with?”
“The Sterretts. There’s room in the seat right behind them.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t want to sit behind the Sterretts. That makes a statement I’m not ready to make.”
“Oh, Buddy, don’t be silly.”
“No. Really. I mean it. There’s room in front of them. Let’s go up and sit in front of them.”
“And that will put you practically on the front row, and I know you don’t want to do that.”
“Then what do you suggest? Just sit on the back row like we usually do?”
“No, I think we should sit with our daughter like we usually do. This may be the last Christmas we have that option and there’s room in the same pew.”
“So sit with the Sterrett family is what you’re suggesting, Mrs. Briggs?”
“That I am, Lieutenant. You did leave your gun in the car, didn’t you?”
“Why? Are you worried for me or for Doris?”
Paul still couldn’t see if Dove and Millie had arrived. He had only a couple of minutes before starting the service and he always liked to see that they were seated before walking to the pulpit. It was just a little quirk he had developed over the years, like knocking on wood or touching the silver cross he wore in his lapel. He thought of it as a ritual, not a superstition. Such things couldn’t take the place of religion, but they often did salve the insecurities of the human condition.
“Surprise, Daddy!” Millie poked him in the ribs from behind.
“Sorry we’re late,” Dove said as she folded her gloves and put one in each coat pocket. “We’ll just go around and slip in the back.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. It was a simple gesture but more meaningful to him tonight than it had been for years. Perhaps he had just found a new ritual to look forward to.