I forced a smile. “Look again.”
With a disgust I would have to address when the field trip was over, he stared into the water where the log, as my son called it, shimmered beneath a kaleidoscope of shifting waves.
Chance craned his head forward. “Hey, there’s more of them. What are all those logs doing in the water?”
“They’re not logs. They’re dugout canoes.”
My son glanced at me. His thin, blond brows furrowed. “They’re what?”
“Dugout canoes. They were made by the natives who once hunted on this land and in this lake. When they finished fishing, they stored the canoes in the water, which has just enough acid in it to preserve the wood.” I pointed toward the artifacts below. “Those are over four thousand years old.”
Chance stretched over the side of our manufactured watercraft and stared at the piece of North Carolina’s past buried in the water. “Wow, you mean real Indians used those?”
With his attention now mine, I repeated what his teacher had taught me about the tribe and the life they’d lived in this isolated region. My arms ached as I strained to hold him while balancing the boat, but maybe now my son’s history grade—and our relationship—had a fighting chance of survival.
The Greatest Fan
A few more feet and then they could do whatever they wanted with him.
Frank Habersham eased his car between the brick posts of Savannah’s Bonaventure Cemetery. The Impala he’d purchased when his daughter was still in high school rattled and slowed as if terrified to cross the threshold of the resting grounds. He gripped the steering wheel. “Don’t worry, ol’ gal. It’s not time yet. Even if Marcy thinks otherwise.”
He nudged the car past the entrance and onto a road covered with dirt that resembled fine ash. Palm fronds intertwined with ratty gray moss tangled in the boughs of oak trees formed a canopy between the Georgia sun and the ground, shading most of the graves.
Despite its intended purpose, Bonaventure was a slice of heaven in its own right. If he’d had a choice about it, he’d picked this place for his bones, even if Caroline was buried on the other side of town. She’d never know unless God told her. But the lots had long been taken.
He drove into the shade. Air, sultry but cooler than the car’s interior, flowed around him, bringing with it the smell of fresh-cut grass and muddy water from the nearby Savannah River.
“Moonlight, sparkling on the river of love,” he crooned. One of his best. But he’d composed it near the end of the era when disco was just catching on. It made a few sales after Harry Connick, Jr. brought back real music to the airwaves, but then that George Strait boy came up with a country version.
“It isn’t fair, Caroline. Mine was just as good or better, wasn’t it?”
A gust of wind swirled through the window and caressed his face as Caroline used to do. Something hot burned his eyes. He brushed away the dampness and nudged the car around a corner, past magnificent arches representing the entrance to heaven and concrete angels mourning the loss of someone who’d left their mark on Savannah, or on the world.
He didn’t pause to read headstones as he usually did. Not today. The grave he wanted was just ahead, off to the right. Frank pressed the brake. The car slowed, but not as fast as he’d hoped. It slid to a stop between a dirt grave surrounded by a cement border on one side of the path, and a member of the Mercer family on the other. But at least it stopped this time.
He stepped out. Using the car for support, he lumbered around the rear bumper. Two steps led up to the grave and a bench beside it, and he dragged his feet up the rungs, landing square in the middle of each despite the wobble in his legs.
Near the long slab of white marble, he lowered himself onto the matching backless bench that faced the gravesite. The rustling of leaves and chitter of birds filled the air, along with the quiet grind of approaching tires. If someone else wanted to see Johnny, they would have to wait. This was his time. His last visit with the great man. Rather, what was left of him.
John Herndon Mercer
(Johnny)
Nov 18, 1909
June 25, 1976
“Let the Angels Sing”
Resting on top of the marble was a perfect long-stemmed red rose.
Johnny Mercer. His fans loved him. Loved him so much, they flocked to his gravesite, left roses, talked about his songs even though he’d passed on long ago. Songs they still sang. Tunes that had changed the world.
But who would sing for Frank Habersham?
“I tried, Johnny. I spent my life on music. I almost gave it up after marrying Caroline—she deserved a nice home—but she said no, I had a gift. A gift God surely intended me to use. I believed that too.”
He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers, a few as gnarled as the limbs of the ancient oaks around him. “No more. They’re done for.” He dropped his hands on his knees. “And so am I.”
The cell phone Marcy gave him rang in the breast pocket of his short-sleeve shirt. Despite the heat, a chill from the marble bench on which he sat crept up through his trousers. Punching the button she’d shown him, he answered the call and pressed the contraption to his ear.
“Daddy? Oh my, Daddy where are you? I came by to pick you up, but you weren’t here. Your car is gone. Please tell me you didn’t drive somewhere.” Her voice, rushed and breathless, broke the tranquility surrounding him.
“I’m fine, pumpkin.”
“Thank the good Lord. Now tell me where you are and I’ll come get you. We’ve got your room all ready.”
Years of struggling to make it in the biz. Playing small stages around the country. Even shaking hands with Johnny Mercer once. Gone now in exchange for a room across the hall from his grandson. A kid who preferred video games to music.
“Swell, honey. I’ll be back at my house as soon as I’m done here.”
“Daddy, you’re not supposed to drive, you know that.”
“I’m three miles away. I’ll be fine.”
He ended the call and returned the phone to his breast pocket. “Final call. I guess it’s time.” He pushed against his knees and stood. This would be his last visit. From that point on, Marcy would arrange his days, his outings.
“Goodbye, Johnny.” He touched his finger to his forehead and saluted the elegant grave, its sole decoration the long-stemmed rose. “You did good.”
He trudged to the car without stumbling, but as he opened the door, a splash of blue in the sparse plot beside his car caught his eye. He leaned closer. Near the headstone of a child, a perfect blue morning glory angled itself toward sunlight filtering through the trees.
A salty tear trickled down his face and into the ashy dirt at his feet. Morning glories. Caroline’s favorite. She loved the way they coiled around the porch railing each summer where she could enjoy them as she sat outside with a cup of tea. This one was about as pretty as they came. Growing alone in the dirt as it was, it couldn’t have been put there by anyone but God Himself.
A reminder, Caroline would have said in that loving way of hers, that God was the only fan he needed to worry about, whether he sang on stage or after dinner at Marcy’s. And only for the Father should Frank and the angels sing.
“You’re right, Caroline. As you always were.” Frank wiped the sweat and tears from his face, then dropped into the driver’s seat one last time. “Come on ol’ girl. It’s time to leave. My audience is waiting.”
Hear the Wind Blow
Dark clouds gathered in the western sky. Thick, gray puffs that roiled as if the Pale Horse were coming to trample me. No fear iced my veins or stuttered my heart. Given my attitude, I’d half expected to see the courier of judgement.
Water from heaven splashed on the windshield and parched earth as we drove along I-20 toward Dallas. So miffed was I at my husband, I couldn’t even enjoy the unexpected, and much needed, blessing of rain.
Drew flipped on the windshield wipers, then squeezed my hand. “You won’t regret this, I promise.”
“You also promised to take me to Hawaii. Look how that turned out.” I bit my tongue when the words, as bitter as old coffee, spilled from my mouth. We’d postponed our honeymoon when the pastor asked us to join the mission team to Honduras. After a long discussion, we’d agreed we would rather spend the time and money helping the sweet people we’d met two years before.
Drew released my hand and gave a deep, slow sigh. “So that’s what this is about. If you didn’t want to go—”
“That’s not what I meant.” My disposition grew as dark as the skies. “I don’t want to do this, and I don’t appreciate you pushing me into it.”
“Your old English teacher is dying. The school is trying to get as many of her students at this reunion as they can. You always said you appreciated her encouragement. Do you really want to miss out on saying goodbye?”
I tugged the hem of my dress over my knees. “If those girls are there, yes.”
Meaning the three girls who’d ruined my final years at the Christian academy. The girls who, among other things, had greeted me each morning with a soft laugh and an insult disguised as a compliment. Who’d mispronounced my name and referred to my light brown hair as dirty blonde before offering hints on hair care. Though I tried, I couldn’t fight the anger that had erupted when the reunion summons arrived in the mail.
The Pale Horse thundered in the clouds.
“We all did stupid things when we were teens, Reenie, and we all hurt others.” Drew slowed for a line of cars bottlenecked at the exit to 635, the loop around Dallas and the road that would take us to our destination. When he came to a stop, he leaned over and gazed at me with the breathtaking blue eyes that had caught my attention the day we met. “That was fifteen years ago. We’re older now. And as Christians, we need to forgive. If not for the sake of your witness, then to help you let go of the past. In the meantime, you need to be there for Mrs….What’s her name again?”
Emotional manipulation. Just what I needed right now. “Mrs. Daugherty.” The teacher who had helped me through those rough years. The only teacher who’d had the courage to acknowledge the harassment several of us had endured when the rest of the faculty had turned a blind eye for fear the girls’ parents would pull their children—and their financial support—from the school. “It would help if they asked for forgiveness.”
“Maybe they will, but as Jesus said, ‘the wind blows where it wishes.’ So if they haven’t changed by now, then do what Christ said and bless those who curse you.”
It was easy for him to say. He wasn’t a Daniel facing the lion’s den. Not that the particular illustration of faith didn’t further convict my heart. Regardless, as Drew merged onto the loop, I prayed the trio wouldn’t show.
~~
Hope got drenched like my hair in the rain when I walked into the hotel’s elegant ballroom and saw a placard thanking several donors for making this night possible. The list included three infamous surnames. Few could pass on that opportunity to accept praise. I signed the guest registry, then pressed through the crowd, waving to people I recognized as I moved toward the table where Mrs. Daugherty sat. A quick hello and thanks for everything she did, and I would be out the door.
A cluster of cocktail dresses and suits surrounded the table, obscuring my view of the frail mentor. As I waited, a familiar voice pricked my last thread of obedience.
“Renee, is that you?” Brooke, head of the Chanel gang, came up behind me. I continued to bob to the left and right, trying to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Daugherty. Drew tugged my hand. I ignored him and anyone else who didn’t have the courtesy to call me by my name.
“Honey,” my honey said. “I think someone wants to see you.”
I gave him The Look, then faced the woman I was dismayed to see could easily compete on America’s Next Top Model. Why me, Lord?
At least she was running solo. “I thought you were addressing someone else.” I smiled at the flawless face and hair that was now an expensive shade of blonde. “I’m Reenie, though you probably don’t remember since you called me anything but that during high school.”
Brooke flinched, and my husband squeezed my hand. Outside, the thunder rolled. The horseman racing to block the exit?
Brooke recovered and offered a fake smile. “Oh, well, it’s good to see you, Reenie.” She drew out my name just enough to let me know she hadn’t changed. Could I bless her now and leave?
She lifted her eyes toward Drew. “And this handsome man is your…?”
“Husband.” I resisted the urge to pull Drew closer to my side. I’d learned if you ignore a spider, it will ignore you. “We just celebrated our nine-month anniversary.”
“I’ve been married for six years, to an architect.” She extended her left hand, flashing a ring more expensive than her hair. “And what do you do, Reenie’s husband?”
Drew gave her an easy smile. “I’m an assistant pastor.”
“A pastor? So, Reenie, you’re a pastor’s wife?” Brooke looked at me with surprise. I couldn’t blame her since I’d left the Holy Spirit at home.
Drew cradled me beneath his arm. “A wonderful pastor’s wife and a speech therapist. We’re leaving for Honduras soon. She’ll work with children in need for three months while I minister to the congregation.”
A mask of insincerity I recognized from long ago veiled Brooke’s expression. A mask, I now realized, veiled her heart as well. “How sweet. My husband is on the board at our church. Thanks to him, we were able to renovate the sanctuary.”
She continued extolling the virtue of a man who, if present at the gathering, wasn’t by her side. I tightened my grip on Drew in silent thanks for being there for me.
When she finished, I smiled. Somehow, it was easier. “That sounds wonderful. Not to change the subject, but where are Ashley and Elizabeth? I don’t recall a time I saw you without them.” Not that I wanted to see either now, but the crowd around Mrs. Daugherty had thickened. Directions would help me know which areas to avoid.
The practiced smile returned. “Elizabeth is here. I haven’t spoken to Ashley in a year, as I’m sure you know, Ms. Pastor’s Wife.”
She strolled away, wiggling her fingers at several men in a flirty little wave as she passed.
“What was that about?” Drew asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m ready to go home.”
He nodded toward Mrs. Daugherty’s table. “What about her?”
“With all those people crowding around her, I doubt she’ll remember talking to me. I’ll see if I can set up a visit before we leave the country.” I slid my hands over Drew’s shoulders. “Besides, I think God’s purpose here was accomplished. I faced Brooke and saw her for who she is. I think I can finally forgive and move on.”
Drew dropped a light kiss on my lips and together, we made our way through the ballroom to the front entrance. The rain had tapered off, quenching the earth and cleansing the air. Before we stepped off the sidewalk, another voice, familiar and equally unwelcomed, called me from behind. “Reenie?”
With a dread I thought had dissipated after the confrontation with Brooke, I turned. An older version of Elizabeth, wearing a red dress, her dark hair styled in a short, smart cut, stepped through the automatic glass doors.
“I overheard your conversation with Brooke.” She stopped just out of arm’s reach. “Ignore her. You know how she is. She’s been even uglier since she found Ashley with her husband.”
My heart stuttered. So that’s what happened. And Brooke had assumed I got my revenge by throwing it in her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“She deserves everything she gets.”
I glanced at Drew. Wasn’t that true for everyone?
“That isn’t what I came to talk about.” She directed me toward a concrete pillar supporting the overhang. “Did you say you’re a speech therapist?”
I nodded. Elizabeth was far more articulate than I could ever be, so why the interest?
“I have a son. Bailey is only five, b
ut something is….” Worried eyes searched mine. “Something isn’t right. My husband won’t allow me to have him evaluated. He thinks Bailey just needs time.” She straightened. A move that suggested determination, not pride. “But I’m his mother. I don’t know if a speech therapist is what he needs, but if you’re willing, I would appreciate your help.”
Of all the people I knew, Brooke and her gang were the last I would expect to seek out my assistance. But as Drew—no, Jesus—had pointed out, the wind blows where it wishes.
In my silence, despair plumed through Elizabeth’s eyes. “After everything I did to you during high school, I would understand if you said no.”
“I’d love to help,” instantly slipped from my mouth. Seconds later, my heart agreed. “If I can’t, I know someone who might.”
“Thank you.” She gathered me in a hug that spoke gratitude, then gave me her number. We arranged to meet before I left the country.
After she went back inside, I draped Drew’s arm over my shoulder. Despite my attitude, God had used me as He’d seen fit. I raised my eyes in a silent prayer of thanks and saw the clouds had parted, leaving behind clear skies and the distant echo of hoof beats.
Honeysuckle Creek
Everything looked the same. Fields of wheat still covered hills that rolled down to farmhouses nestled at the base of the ridge, and cattle still loitered in pastures, flicking unseen bugs with their tails.
Everything looked the same, but looking at it now through a mist of memories, everything seemed different. Could I reset the past and restore it to its former glory?
The car topped a swell in the road. My stomach pitched with the gentle rise, and I opened the window and swallowed fresh air to quell it. The turn that once took us to Shenandoah National Park lay just ahead. I passed it, plunging ahead toward Etlan and reminders of those long summer days.
While growing up, my mother would pack the car hours after the last bell of the school year rang and drive me and my twin brother, Trace, to our Aunt Rae’s house in Etlan. We complained so much during the trip from Waynesboro, Mom barely stayed long enough to drink a cup of coffee before locking herself in the car for the silent trek home. But once the taillights disappeared around the bend, we ran inside for hugs and scoops of Aunt Rae’s homemade butter pecan ice cream.
Eternal Weight of Glory And Other Short Stories Page 5