by Ann Tatlock
“I think he’s actually doing a little better,” Jane said.
Truman nodded. “Good, good. It’s a battle, but I thought once they got that IV going, he’d be all right.”
“He’s a fighter,” Jon-Paul commented.
“Yes, he is,” Jane said quietly. “I’ve been really worried, wondering whether . . . whether maybe he wouldn’t make it. I have to remind myself that even if he does make it—”
“Of course he will, Jane,” Jon-Paul interrupted.
“But even if he does . . .” She tried to go on, tried to say that even if he lived, she had lost him. They were no longer engaged. Everything had changed. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
Somehow, though, Truman knew. He understood. “It will be all right, Jane,” he said. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
She nodded slowly. “I know, Truman. I just have to keep moving forward.”
Truman smiled. “That reminds me of something. Did I ever tell you what Maggie used to say?”
“I don’t think so.”
Truman leaned forward, rubbed his chin thoughtfully at the memory. “She’d say, ‘Life’s gearshift’s got no reverse, so you’ve got to just keep moving forward.’” He chuckled lightly, shook his head. “If she said it once, she said it a thousand times. ‘Life’s gearshift’s . . . ’ What’s the matter, Jane? You don’t look well. Did I say something wrong?”
34
Jane laid a hand on Truman’s forearm and squeezed tightly. “Are you telling me that’s what Maggie used to say?”
“Yes. But why? What’s wrong?” Truman frowned, shook his head.
“Yeah? What’s the matter with that?” Jon-Paul echoed.
“She said ‘life’s gearshift’s got no reverse’?” Jane asked again.
“Yes. Is that so strange?”
“No, it’s just that . . . it’s just that . . . Truman, you said you have Maggie’s obituary. Do you know where it is?”
“I believe it’s in the top drawer of my dresser. In my room.”
“Can we go get it?”
“Yes, but why?”
“I’ll explain after I see it.”
She jumped up, grabbed Truman’s hand eagerly, and pulled him up out of the chair.
“Can I come?” Jon-Paul asked.
“Come on,” Jane said. “Take my arm.”
Jon-Paul folded up his white cane and slipped his hand into the crook of Jane’s arm. As Truman led the way through the hospital to the clinic, Jane was mindful of Jon-Paul. Though he was sure-footed she wanted to guide him safely through the maze of corridors and past the ever-moving traffic of patients and visitors. At the same time, she wanted to hurry, wanted to know whether her suspicions were correct. Could it be? Could Laney be . . . ? But then, maybe it was a common saying in the Upcountry. Maybe everyone in the Greenville area said the same thing a thousand times over.
Jane tried to squelch the rising impatience in her chest as Truman moved forward on arthritic knees. If he knew what she was hoping to find in the obituary, surely for once he would move a little faster.
“I wish you’d tell us what this is about,” Jon-Paul said quietly, giving Jane’s arm a squeeze.
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe nothing.”
“Well, if it’s nothing, I’m going to be disappointed.”
“Believe me, so am I.”
Truman took them out a side door of the clinic and cut across the sidewalk to the Community Living Center. He gave Jane a perplexed look as he held open the door for her and Jon-Paul, but he said nothing. Once inside, they moved in tandem down the corridor to Truman’s room.
“All right now,” Truman mumbled as he opened the top drawer of his dresser. “I know I put it somewhere in here for safekeeping.”
Jane stood by anxiously as he riffled through the contents of the drawer—pill bottles, old address books, a shaving kit, a jar of coins, several date books. “I know it’s here,” he said again.
“Are you sure you didn’t put it somewhere else?”
“I’m sure. I . . .” He looked up from the drawer as his brows hung low over his eyes. “Oh yes, I remember.” He turned away from the dresser and walked to the small bedside table. From the single drawer he pulled out a Bible. “I put it in here,” he said. “Yes, here it is.”
Truman lifted a small fragile newspaper clipping from the Bible’s pages and held it out to Jane.
Jane took it and scanned it quickly, her lips moving as she read half-aloud. Her voice rose in volume when she came to the words, “‘Mrs. Dooley is preceded in death by her husband, Dr. Cyrus Dooley. She is survived by four children, a daughter, Magdalene and husband Roderick ‘Clapper’ Jackson of Greenville. . . . ’” She looked up at Truman wide-eyed. “Magdalene? Laney?”
Truman took a step toward her. “What is it, Jane?”
Jane shook her head in disbelief even as she smiled. “Truman, you’re not going to believe this, but my Laney is your Maggie’s daughter.”
Truman drew himself up and looked hard at Jane. For a long moment, silence hung over the room. Finally, Truman said, “Laney?”
Jane nodded vigorously. “Yes.”
“She’s Maggie’s daughter?”
“Yes, Truman. She is.”
“Are you sure?”
“According to this,” Jane said, waving the obit in the air, “Maggie’s daughter is married to Clapper Jackson. How many Clapper Jacksons do you know?”
Truman reached for the obituary with trembling fingers. “Do you think . . .” He paused, looked around the room as though lost. “Do you think we can find her?”
“I don’t know. We can try. She’s probably still living in Greenville. Listen, here’s where we start.” She pulled her cell phone out of her pocketbook and punched in the number for information.
She heard the ringing on the other end, then a weary voice asking, “What city, please?”
“Greenville, South Carolina.”
“What listing?”
“Roderick Jackson.”
“One moment please.” A pause. Then, “We have a listing for twenty-two Roderick Jacksons. Do you have an address?”
“No, that’s what I’m looking for. Do you have a listing for a Clapper Jackson?”
“Slapper Jackson?”
“No. Clapper. With a C-l.”
“Clapper?”
“That’s right.”
“Who would name their kid Clapper?”
“It’s just a nickname, but that’s what he goes by.”
“Well, we don’t list nicknames here.”
“Can you check anyway? Please. Just in case.”
“One moment.” Another pause. “No, we don’t have any Clapper Jacksons listed. No Slappers either, for that matter.”
Jane ignored her final comment. “Okay. What about a Magdalene Jackson?”
“Magdalene? Like Mary Magdalene in the Bible?”
“That’s right.”
“Holy Mother of . . . Listen, I’m busy here. I have a quota to make. If you’re pulling my leg . . .”
“No, I’m serious. Do you have a listing for Magdalene Jackson?”
Jane heard a sigh. “One moment.” Pause. Then, “No Magdalenes in Greenville. You might try the empty tomb, though.”
“The what?”
Another long sigh. “Nothing. Never mind. Is there anyone else you want to try?”
“No. That’s it.”
“Judas Iscariot maybe? Pontius Pilate?”
Jane held the phone away from her ear and glared at it. Then she snapped it shut and rolled her eyes at Truman. “Somebody’s not having a good day,” she said. “I’d report her, if I weren’t such a nice person.”
Jon-Paul, leaning against the wall by the dresser, broke in. “Would somebody mind telling me what’s going on?”
“You tell him, Truman,” Jane said as she headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
“But, Jane, where are you going?” Truman
called after her.
“I’m going to go talk to someone who actually might be able to help.”
She didn’t want to call home on her cell from the hospital. Too much chance of static. Too many dropped calls. She’d rather talk on the landline in the Penlands’ house. Roscoe and Juniper were delighted to see her home so early, but she didn’t pay them much attention. She gave them both a dog biscuit and sent them out back to get them out of the way. Then she picked up the extension in the kitchen.
The phone at the other end rang four times, and Jane was afraid the answering machine would pick up. But just before the fifth ring, her father answered with the familiar formal Rayburn House greeting. Before he could finish saying, “This is Peter Morrow,” Jane interrupted with “Hi, Dad!”
“Oh, hi, Janie. How are you?”
“Fine, Dad. Listen, I need to know . . . do you remember Laney Jackson?”
“Laney Jackson?”
“Yeah. She used to cook for us years ago.”
“Um . . . oh yeah. Yeah, I remember her. Married to the guy with the funny name. What was it? Rapper?”
“Clapper, Dad. It was Clapper.”
“Oh yeah. But that’s been—what? Ten years?”
“More than that. But listen, do you know where she is?”
“Where she is?” He gave a small incredulous laugh. “I don’t have a clue, Janie. Why? What’s this about?”
“I want to find her.”
“Okay.”
“It’s kind of important.”
“Okay. But I’m not sure I can help. Maybe you can do an Internet search—”
“Is Gram there?”
“Uh-huh, she’s here, but she’s not in the best mood at the moment. It’s the Fourth, and you know what that means. The Rayburn House has to throw the best party in Troy—”
“Dad, can I just talk to her for a minute?”
“I’ll call her, but a minute is about all the time she’ll give you.”
“Maybe it’s enough.”
Jane heard her father holler at the other end, “Mother, can you come to the phone for a minute?”
Then, in the background, “Who is it, Peter?”
“It’s Jane. She needs to talk to you for a minute.”
“I’m just about to head out to the grocery store. Ask her if I can call her back tomorrow.”
“No!” Jane said. “Dad, tell her I want to speak to her now.”
“Mother, she wants to speak to you now.”
Silence, then impatient footsteps tapped across the wire all the way from Troy. “Jane, I’m up to my eyebrows in preparations for the party tonight,” Gram said. “Can you make it quick?”
“Do you know where Laney Jackson is?”
“What?”
“Laney Jackson. Do you know where she is?”
“The woman who used to cook for us?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . why?”
“Listen, Gram, I know you’re in a hurry, and so am I,” Jane said. “Do you know if she still lives in Greenville? The obit says she lived in Greenville—”
“The obit?”
“Yes. Oh, never mind that, Gram. I’ll explain later. Can you just tell me if you know where Laney is now?”
“I’m sorry, Jane, I don’t. Well now, wait a minute. We usually exchange Christmas cards. I think we did this past year too.”
“Do you save them?”
“What?”
“The Christmas cards. Do you save them?”
“Jane, you know me better than to ask a question like that. You know I save everything.”
“Well, can you find the card and give me her return address?”
“I’ll have to dig through some stuff. I can’t do it today, Jane. I’m far too busy.”
“Can you do it tomorrow, then?”
She heard her grandmother sigh. “I guess so.”
“Thanks, Gram. It’s really important.”
“I can’t imagine what—”
“I’ll let you go now, but I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye, Gram. Love you.”
Jane, Jon-Paul, and Truman sat in folding chairs on the grounds of the courthouse, along with several hundred other people waiting for the fireworks to light up the sky over Asheville.
“So,” Truman said, “your grandmother thinks she can find Laney’s address?”
He had already asked the question a dozen times, but Jane just smiled and answered patiently, “She said she would try.”
“And you’ll call her tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’ll call her tomorrow.”
Jon-Paul cocked an ear toward them. “And what is it exactly you want to find out from Laney, Truman?”
The old man smiled as he shook his head. “I don’t know, exactly. I guess I’d just like to talk with her, if I can.”
“You know what I just remembered, Truman?” Jane said, sitting up a little straighter.
“What, Jane?”
“I saw Maggie once.”
“You did?” Truman’s eyes widened.
“Yeah. When I was a kid, about thirteen. She was sitting in the back of the car when Clapper came to pick Laney up at our house.” She looked at Truman and smiled. “Just imagine. It kind of makes you want to say it’s a small world, doesn’t it?”
Truman shut his eyes, nodded, opened them. “How did she look?”
Jane thought a moment. “Dignified. Happy.”
Truman nodded again. “Was Dr. Dooley in the car?”
“Yes, he was there.”
“He was my partner once, you may remember.”
Jane nodded. “He looked like a nice guy.”
“He was. He was a good man. For a long time I was angry, you know. The two of them marrying and all. But”—he shrugged—“it all worked out for the best. I could know Maggie was well taken care of.” He was quiet a moment before adding, “I’m glad you saw her, Jane.”
“Me too, Truman.”
The milling crowd settled into place as dusk deepened into night. Everywhere, faces turned upward in anticipation of the fireworks display. Finally, in the distance, a whistling split the air, followed by a brief explosion, a scattering of fire, flashy gemstones rolling through the sky, then slowly sinking earthward and giving out. But then another, and another, and another. Boom, boom, boom! The crowd gave up sighs of approval.
Jon-Paul leaned closer to Jane. “You’re supposed to tell me what it looks like, remember?”
Jane smiled as she watched each burst of shimmering color move in waves across the sky. “It looks like . . . well. . . .” And then she knew. “It looks like hope.”
Jon-Paul nodded and sat back in his chair, satisfied.
35
Did you find the card, Gram?”
“Jane, it’s nine o’clock in the morning. The party kept us up late last night, and I had to get up early to help with breakfast. I’ve hardly had time to breathe since we spoke yesterday.”
“Okay, sorry to call so early. But can you please try to find it today?”
“I wish I knew what all the fuss was about—”
“It’s a long story, Gram. I’ll tell you all about it soon. Right now, I just want to get Laney’s address.”
“Well, you know it means climbing up into the attic where I keep all the Christmas stuff. I bet I’ve got fifty shoe boxes filled with old cards. Why on earth I’m such a pack rat . . .”
As her grandmother rattled on, Jane felt her heart sink. How would Gram find the one card Jane needed when there was a lifetime’s worth of junk up in the attic?
“Gram, maybe I should come home and help you.”
“Don’t be foolish. You don’t need to come all that way just to help me find a Christmas card. I may have lots of junk, but at least it’s organized.”
“You won’t get sidetracked, will you? I know how you are when you start digging around in the attic.”
“I won’t get sidetracked, Jane. I don’t have time to be sentimental today. We have full occupanc
y, and I want our guests to be more than satisfied. That’s what brings them back, you know.”
“I know, I know, Gram. But listen, call me when you find the card, will you?”
She heard her grandmother sigh. “Yes, I’ll call you if I find it. I can’t say for sure when I last got a card from her.”
“Well, just call me when you know anything at all, will you? I’ll let you go now. I know you’re busy.”
“All right, Jane.”
“And thanks, Gram.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Wait till I find the Christmas card, if there is one.”
Jane hated putting on the gown, the gloves, the mask. She cringed at the antiseptic smells of the ICU, the various whooshing and beeping sounds, the lighted numbers above the bed counting out the heartbeats, the number of breaths. She had grown to dislike white linens and cheap woven blankets, metal beds, bare floors, and narrow windows that showed a world outside she hardly felt a part of anymore.
The world inside—that was Seth’s world. And hers. Not a pretty place. Not a place she would have asked for nor wanted. But here she was.
Seth was asleep. Unlike a few days before, he now slept peacefully. His head was turned slightly to one side, as though today he was listening to something pleasant. And maybe he was. As long as he was sleeping, he could dream. And in his dreams he was whole again and life was good and pleasurable and full of promise, just as it had been before Iraq. She wondered what he was doing in his dream right now. She wondered where he was and what he saw and what he heard. Wherever he was, it was a place far better than this bleak room. Anyplace would be better than this.
She wouldn’t wake him.
In the hall she stripped off the gloves and mask, stepped on the pedal of a stainless steel can to pop the lid, and tossed them in. She slipped out of the gown and stuffed it in a linen hamper.
She found Truman in the waiting room. He had two pint cartons of chocolate milk, one in each hand. He held them up for her to see. “It’s a beautiful day outside,” he said. “Want to join me in the gazebo for a drink?”
The cold milk was refreshing. She was surprised at how good it tasted, surprised too at how—between the milk, the open air, and the roses blooming around the gazebo—she felt a little more hopeful. A few snatches of ordinary life and just a glimpse of beauty and already she felt stronger than she had only moments before.