“I’ve got to call Lyman’s sister,” Lowell said. “I wonder what she’ll think.”
“Something tells me she won’t be all that surprised,” Hick said. “When a person is accused of doing the same thing over and over again, at some point even those closest to them have to suspect some of it is true.”
“I don’t know. Family are too often willfully and purposefully blind,” Carol argued. “I’ll be surprised if she believes anything you tell her. It’s been my experience that people are very good at disbelieving anything they don’t want to believe.” She looked around. “I’ve got to call this in. I think Uncle Arthur will be very surprised.”
29
Saturday, September 10, 1955
Moonlight streamed in the window and the sound of the crickets seemed as loud as thunder. The noise, the light, while no different than any other night, tortured Hick. He tossed and turned, put his pillow over his head, and finally tossed it across the room in frustration.
He picked up the clock from his nightstand. Four o’clock. His heart raced and his legs screamed to move so he rose and got dressed. He hadn’t slept, but he hadn’t expected to. After months and months of phenobarbital it seemed his body could no longer relax without it.
Hick shaved, dressed, and quietly closed the motel door behind him before making his way to the car. He tossed his already packed suitcase into the trunk, climbed in and drove straight to the Holy Redeemer Catholic Church.
As he parked, the sky was lightening in the east, the night’s darkness giving way to a dusky gray. He didn’t know why he was there—maybe to say goodbye to Father Glennon, maybe to just be somewhere he could have a moment’s peace before heading home. Whatever the reason, he walked to the church door and was surprised to find it unlocked.
The darkness inside was broken by a pinprick of candlelight coming from a holder that hung in the corner and a bit of dim lighting behind the altar. Hick walked down the aisle and stopped in front of the crucifix suspended from the ceiling. He stared at it, contemplating the expression on Jesus’s face—resignation and forgiveness.
At the sound of an opening door, Hick turned and saw Father Glennon enter the sanctuary. The priest seemed startled to see a man standing in the church, but then relaxed when he recognized Hick.
“I’m sorry Father Glennon,” Hick said in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I was surprised to find the church open.”
Father Glennon brushed him aside with a hand gesture. “Since I’m sleeping in here, I don’t bother locking the door. And don’t worry about waking me. At my age, I’m up and down all night anyway.” The older man sat in the front pew and then patted the seat beside him.
Hick joined him and the two men sat in silence for a moment.
“So tell me,” Father Glennon began, “why are you here?”
Hick clasped his hands between his legs and shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Father Glennon was silent for a moment and then said, “I find that being in here at night, when it’s dark and quiet, I can think. It’s peaceful for me to be here, in the presence of God. It helps me to sort my thoughts.”
“But what …” Hick began. “What if you’re not sure you believe anymore? What if you’re no longer sure of anything.”
“Assurance,” Glennon said with a sigh. “That’s a tricky one. We live in a world where we want everything to be easy. Like children, we want to explore through touch, sight, and smell. We want problems with simple solutions. We want proof. But God transcends that. He exists beyond matter and, therefore, cannot be understood through physical means. Most folks prefer easy, verifiable evidence. But God’s realm is not humanly accessible.”
Hick shook his head. “Why? Why would He make it so hard?”
“Does He?” Father Glennon, asked with a cock of his head. “Does He make it hard or do we?”
“I’m not following.”
“The Bible says we’re to have faith like a child. Children don’t question or dissect. They simply believe.”
Hick involuntarily rolled his eyes. “I knew it would come to that. You’re going to tell me my faith isn’t strong enough.”
“No, not at all. What most people don’t understand is that it’s healthy to question. Those who simply believe because they’ve never thought it through, because their faith is simply a part of the fabric of their identity, that’s really no faith at all. It takes no faith to do just what you’ve always done and what you’ve always been told to do. It does take an act of faith to step out and question God and demand answers.”
“But you said it yourself. There are no easy answers. I feel like I’m supposed to close my eyes and pretend that my kids aren’t hurting because they lost their mom. I’m supposed to be all grateful to this silent myth in the sky that allows war and evil and turns away and lets murderers escape justice.” Hick sighed. “I don’t mean to offend, but it seems like a lot of hocus pocus to me.”
Father Glennon smiled. “There can never be offense when someone speaks their truth. You have said nothing that I haven’t thought myself at one time or another.”
“Then why do you do what you do? How can you just leave your senses behind and trust some silent, invisible being who allows misery and heartache. Why do you bother?”
“I never said I leave my senses behind,” Glennon said. “In fact, it does a great disservice to say we have to abandon our senses, and especially our intellect. If anyone tells you to disbelieve what you see with your eyes and hear with your ears, don’t trust them. The truth makes itself known in the reality around us. Yes, bad things happen in this world, but don’t forget, there are good things, too. There is no reasonable explanation for the fact that it bothers you that evil is allowed to flourish other than the fact that you have a God-given sense of justice. There is no reason for you to love anyone—loving others does nothing to help you survive and often its effect is quite the opposite. We sacrifice and give, sometimes to our own peril. And though we don’t see God, we see nature and experience beauty. We may not hear him, but we hear the laughter of children. God never hides from us. He has no need to hide. We just don’t know what to look for.”
“Father Glennon, I have nothing but respect for you, but I can’t say I’m buying anything you’re selling right now.”
Father Glennon chuckled. “I’m not selling anything and you don’t have to ‘buy’ it. No one ever understands fully. That is the predicament. People want easy answers and there are none. In order to believe, you have to be comfortable with a certain amount of uncertainty.” He paused, and then asked. “Do you still believe there is a God?”
Hick thought and said, “I’ve always been in one church or another. I guess I reckon it’s hard for me to think, like Miss Quinn, that He just doesn’t exist.”
“Then let that be enough for now,” Father Glennon said, patting Hick’s knee and then rising. “I must prepare to celebrate Mass in just a bit so I will leave you to your thoughts, or prayers if you so choose. There is no timeline you must follow for belief. The important thing is to keep seeking.”
Glennon walked back to the sacristy and Hick watched the door close. After a few more minutes, he rose and left the church. The sun was peeking over the eastern hills and he stood in the doorway for a moment, and then strode to the trash pile that had not yet been burned. He picked up the cross-stitch sampler that had hung on Father Grant’s wall. One thing I do, forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead – Philippians 3. He carried it to the car and put it in the trunk.
The sun had risen when he pulled back into the motel parking lot. Carol Quinn was outside and waved as he stopped the car.
“You’re up early. I thought maybe you went back to Cherokee Crossing without me.”
“Couldn’t sleep so I drove around and did some thinking.”
“Well if I’m going to get all the way to Memphis to catch my flight this evening, we’d best get on the road.”
Hick climbed out of
the car and opened the trunk for Carol. She went to the back and put her suitcase beside his.
“You’ve been to the church?” she asked, indicating Father Grant’s sampler.
“Yeah.”
She cocked her head and stared for a moment but seemed to decide not to pursue the subject. Instead, she said, “I spoke with Uncle Arthur this morning. He was very impressed with you … again. We both realize your life is in a sort of transition period right now. But, he wanted me to tell you that, if you ever change your mind, there will always be a job for you in Washington.”
“Thanks.” He nodded and drew in a long breath. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She closed the trunk and turned to him. She swallowed hard, her eyes reddening. “On a more personal note, I want to thank you for all your help in finding justice for Ernest. He was definitely one of the good guys. On his days off, he mentored kids in the ghetto and helped them with their homework.” She sniffed, and then cleared her throat blinking back tears. “Anyway,” she continued reaching out her hand to shake Hick’s. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
He took her hand and smiled. “Call me Hillbilly.”
30
Sunday, September 11, 1955
“What kind of fish is that?” Jake asked as Hick took the cane pole from his youngest son’s hand.
“It’s a bluegill.”
“Is he tasty?” Jake asked, peering around him as Hick took the fish off the hook.
Chuckling, Hick replied, “He’ll help make a nice lunch.”
“That makes six,” Jimmy said as Hick strung the latest addition to the line in the water. “Isn’t that enough?” he added in a hopeful voice.
“It’s plenty. You boys can go exploring if you want, and I’ll start the fire and fry these up.”
Hick went to gather firewood and paused, looking over the ditch. It was a beautiful Indian summer day. A warm, gentle breeze blew against his face as the sun climbed toward its zenith, the way it did each day, comforting with its predictability. He bent down to gather some dry grass and leaves for kindling and then watched a great blue heron spread its wings as it quietly landed in the water.
He arranged the wood and kindling in a place he’d cleared and then struck a match. The flame licked at the grass and the wood to begin to smoke. The warmth spread, and Hick reached his hand toward it with the sudden realization that it was the first time he’d felt warm in over a year. A surge of something flickered through him and he was startled to realize it was hope.
Then let that be enough for now. The words spoken by Father Glennon lingered in the back of Hick’s mind. Unlike Carol Quinn, Hick was not firm in his disbelief. He was raised with the notion that there was a benevolent deity watching over him and, though life had blurred his vision and made the image he’d had of God opaque, it was hard for Hick to declare that God simply didn’t exist.
To be sure, his faith had been shaken. It had been shaken in the war, and Maggie’s death had almost extinguished it, but for Hick to deny God’s existence would mean Maggie was gone forever, that they would not meet someday on that far beautiful shore. As a child he’d been afraid of ghosts, but now, he begged Maggie to haunt him. He needed to know that she somehow remained, that she was still with him, watching over him. That somewhere, she still existed.
“I’ve never once lost my faith in God,” Father Grant had said to Hick many years ago. “It’s man I no longer believe in.”
Father Grant had seen the worst in man and, yet, he never lost faith in God. He seemed to have some special understanding that God remained good even when God’s children did not. For Hick, his understanding of God was interwoven with people—with those who loved, who cheated, who killed. Grant had tried to convince him that God was above war, that He didn’t design mankind for hatred or bigotry. He’d said that man, alone, was to blame for the savagery and brutality he committed.
But, in the end, Maggie was the only thing Hick never lost faith in. She was the only constant in Hick’s world, and the hurt of her absence was so deep he wondered how he was still breathing. Every cell in him yearned for her, for her voice, her wisdom, her gentle way of loving and encouraging him. Even when he’d turned his back on her after he returned home from Europe, the fact that she was still alive made that self-imposed isolation bearable. Bearable because she hadn’t turned her back on him. Bearable because there was always hope—even unspoken hope—that things would work out. But death had robbed Hick of that hope, and he had been left bereft. Alone. Except …
Today, with the sun burning his skin and the voices of his sons playing nearby, he was not alone. His hope had been renewed. Not that anything would ever be right again. That was too much to ask. Hick knew he would always feel Maggie’s absence and that missing her would never stop. But, he finally understood that he could again move forward. Even with this new pain embedded in him like a thorn, he could continue to limp through life. There was no choice. His sons were part of Maggie. He could never let her down. He could never let them down.
Their childish laughter wafted on the breeze as he carried the fish to the edge of the water to clean them. The great blue heron remained, frozen, its eye on his every movement as he filleted the fish. He stood and said, “Come and get it,” as he offered the entrails to the bird.
He coated the fish in cornmeal and fried them in a cast iron skillet then called to the boys. “Come on, boys. Let’s eat.”
The two little boys stampeded through the woods, laughing and roughhousing as they made their way.
“Careful around the fire,” Hick warned.
“Yes, sir,” Jimmy said. They sat on an old log, and Hick handed them each a tin plate. Hick sat across from them, and began to take a mouthful when Jimmy interrupted with, “Don’t forget to pray, Daddy.”
Hick placed the fork back onto the plate and gazed at his sons. In his heart, he fervently wished they would never know sorrow or hardship, but his mind told him that this was not possible. That his sons would suffer, that they’d already suffered. But he hoped they would somewhere find the strength to endure, and that they would come to understand that no life is without pain.
“Okay, let’s pray,” he said, and the boys looked at him expectantly. “God is great. God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. By His hand we are fed. Give us Lord, our daily bread.”
“Amen!” Jake exclaimed, and enthusiastically dove into the fish on his plate.
Jimmy sat beside Hick on the log. “When will we move back to our own house?”
“Don’t you like staying with Aunt Pam and your cousins?” Hick asked, tousling the boy’s hair.
“Yes. But we’ll still see them every few days. You’re our daddy. We want to be with you again.”
Hick put his arm around Jimmy and said, “It’s been closed up so it needs a few repairs. It won’t be long now, I promise.”
“Can I bring Merlin?” Jake asked, referring to his newly-found kitten.
“You can bring everything,” Hick said. “It’s your home.”
After they finished, Hick took the tin plates from the boys and made his way down to the ditch to rinse them. Squatting on his haunches by the water, he noted the entrails remained as did the bird. The boys joined him, each putting a hand on one of his shoulders and Jake asked in a whisper, “What kind of bird is that, Daddy?”
“It’s a great blue heron,” Hick said. The bird stood there, unmoving, with its eyes fixed on the three of them. And then it blinked, dipped its head, and suddenly flapped its enormous wings and with one swift move, rose and winged its way upward. Hick stood and watched, shading his eyes as it flew westward toward the sun. And then, the light of the sun stabbed his eyes, and the bird was gone.
Acknowledgements
As Hick and I continue our journey, we are grateful for old friends and new. Thanks to all who care about Hick and continue to want to know “what happens next?” Thank you to my writers’ group; Paula Birchler, Tom Boyd, and Deborah Weltman, for the many hours of critique
and friendship. Thank you to Steve Graham and Bob Dilg, as always, for being attentive and critical beta readers. Thank you to Bill Nettles and Father Harold Voelker for inspiration and encouragement. Thank you to all my friends and family who have been with me and have supported me in this endeavor through the years. And lastly, thank you to Kristina Makansi and Lisa Miller for your continued belief in Hick Blackburn.
About the Author
Cynthia A. Graham is the winner of several writing awards, including a Gold IPPY, two Midwest Book Awards, and was named a finalist for the Oklahoma Book Award. Her short stories have appeared in both university and national literary publications. She attained a B.A. in English from the Pierre Laclede Honors College at the University of Missouri in St. Louis. Cynthia is a member of the Historical Novel Society, the St. Louis Writers’ Guild, the Missouri Writers’ Guild, and Sisters in Crime.
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