“You…came…”
“Of course I came.”
“Now go…”
“No,” I said. “I’m going to stay right here. For as long as it takes, I’m staying with you.”
“Please,” he whispered, and then his eyes closed. That was the last thing he said to me. Less than two hours later, he took his final breath.
* * *
On the night he died, as I lay awake in a nearby hotel, I relived those last moments with my grandfather. I puzzled over the things he’d said, finally sitting up in bed to write them down on the notepad next to the phone, combining some of the words into phrases that I thought made the most sense.
Trevor…help care…and…if you can…collapsed…sick…like Rose…find family…go to hell…and run away…love you…you came…now go…please
There’d been a bit of rambling, some disassociation, but at least he’d recognized me. He’d told me that he loved me, and for that I was grateful. I’d told him that I wouldn’t leave, and I was glad I hadn’t. The thought that he might have died alone was nearly enough to break my heart.
After I’d finished the note, I folded the paper and stuck it in my wallet, continuing to ponder it. Of all that he’d said, telling me to go to hell was the one thing I couldn’t quite understand. Although I’d assured him he’d see Rose again soon, my grandfather had never been particularly religious. I wasn’t sure what he believed with regard to the afterlife, but I was glad I’d said it. Whether he believed it or not, it was what I think he wanted to hear.
* * *
Rising from my seat on the porch, I descended the steps, heading for the dock. Like the boat, the dock wasn’t much, yet somehow it had survived countless hurricanes since it was built. As I approached, I caught sight of the dry rot and stepped cautiously onto the ancient boards, wary that I might crash through to the water any second. But the boards held, and I eventually hopped onto the boat.
It was a boat that no one but my grandfather could have built. The outhouse portion, which my grandfather called “the cockpit,” was located near the bow and had three walls, a crooked window, and an old wooden wheel he’d likely found at a thrift shop somewhere. Because he hadn’t known much about boat design, the act of getting anywhere on the boat was more art than science. The wheel and rudder were connected, but only loosely; turning left or right usually required three or four rotations of the wheel, and how he was able to get it officially registered as legal watercraft was beyond me. Behind the cockpit were the two vinyl rockers, a small table he’d bolted to the deck, as well as a pair of secured metal stools. A railing made of two-by-fours prevented passengers from falling off, and the stern was decorated with a set of Texas longhorns mounted on a galvanized pole that he claimed a friend from the war had sent him.
The engine was as ancient as the rest of the boat; to start it, you pulled a cord, much like a lawn mower. When I was a kid, my grandfather had let me give it a try, and after numerous failed attempts, I could barely move my arm. With my good hand, I gave the cord a couple of sharp jerks now, and when the engine didn’t catch, I guessed the problem was something as simple as spark plugs. My grandfather was a whiz at anything mechanical and I had no doubt he’d been able to keep the engine in good condition right up until he’d made the trip to Easley.
Which made me wonder again why he’d been there.
* * *
After ransacking the barn to find a wrench, I removed the spark plugs and got in my SUV. I’ll admit my vehicle isn’t good for the environment, but because it’s stylish, I like to think that it adds beauty to the world, which makes up for it.
I drove a mile down the road to Slow Jim’s Trading Post, finding that the place hadn’t changed a bit. Inside, I asked the cashier where I might find spark plugs, and sure enough, the store had the exact ones I needed. My stomach gurgled as I paid for them, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Overcome with nostalgia, I wandered toward the grill. The six small tables were taken—the place had always drawn a crowd—but there were a few empty stools at the counter and I took a seat. Above the grill was a chalkboard highlighting the menu. There were more choices than I anticipated, though few were remotely healthy. But I’d run that morning, so what the heck? I ordered a cheeseburger and fries from Claude, a man I recognized from previous visits. Despite the apron he was wearing, he looked more like a banker than a cook, with dark hair turning silver at the temples and blue eyes that matched the polo shirt he was wearing beneath his apron. His father had originally founded the store—probably around the time my grandfather built his house—but Claude had been running the place for more than a decade.
I also ordered an iced tea, which was as sweet as I remembered. The South is famous for sweet tea, and I savored every drop. Claude then slid a bowl of small, brown soggy things toward me.
“What’s this?”
“Boiled peanuts. It comes with every order,” Claude explained. “I started that a couple of years ago. It’s my wife’s recipe, and there’s a pot going near the register. You can buy some before you go. Most people do.”
I cautiously tried one, surprised by its salty goodness. Claude turned away and dumped some frozen fries from a bag into hot oil, before slapping a burger on the grill. Off to the side, Callie was stocking some shelves, but if she’d noticed me, she hadn’t let on.
“Don’t I know you?” Claude asked. “I think I recognize you.”
“I haven’t been here in years, but I used to come all the time with my grandfather, Carl Haverson.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he said, brightening. “You’re the Navy doctor, right?”
“Not anymore. But that’s a story for another time.”
“I’m Claude,” he said.
“I remember,” I said. “I’m Trevor.”
“Wow,” he said. “A Navy doctor.” Claude whistled. “Your pappy sure was proud of you.”
“I was proud of him, too.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. I sure did like him.”
I shelled another peanut. “Me too.”
“Do you live around here now?”
“I’m staying at his place until June or so.”
“Great property,” Claude said. “Your pappy planted some fantastic trees. Really pretty this time of year. My wife has been making me slow the car whenever we pass by. Lots of flowers. Are the beehives still there?”
“Of course.” I nodded. “They’re doing well.”
“Your pappy used to let me buy and sell some of his honey every year. Folks love it. If there’s any left from either of last year’s harvests, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”
“How many jars would you want?”
“All of them,” he chortled.
“That good?”
“Best in the state, or so they say.”
“There’s a ranking?”
“I don’t know. But that’s what I tell people when they ask. And they keep buying it.”
I smiled. “Why are you at the grill? If I remember right, aren’t you usually working the register?”
“Almost always. It’s cooler and a whole lot easier, and I’m not covered in grease by the end of the day. But Frank is my regular grill man and he’s out this week. His daughter is getting married.”
“Good reason to miss work.”
“Not so good for me. I’m out of practice on the grill. I’ll do my best to make sure your burger isn’t burned.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He eyed the sizzling grill over his shoulder. “Carl used to come here two or three times a week, you know. Always ordered a BLT on white toast, with French fries, and a pickle on the side.”
I remembered ordering the same thing when I was with him. For some reason, BLTs never tasted quite as good anywhere else.
“I’m sure he loved the peanuts, too. These are great.”
“Nope,” Claude declared. “Allergic.”
“To peanuts?” I squinted in disbelief.
“The things you don’t know about a man,” I mused before recalling that Claude’s father, Jim, and my grandfather had always been close. “How’s your dad doing?” I suspected that Jim had gone the way of my grandfather, as they were close in age, but Claude only shrugged.
“Same as always, I guess. He still likes to come by the store a couple times a week and sit in the rockers out front while he has lunch.”
“Yeah?”
“As a matter of fact, your grandfather used to join him when he came by,” Claude said. “They were a regular pair. I guess Jerrold has sort of taken your grandfather’s place since your grandpa passed. Have you met Jerrold?”
“No.”
“He used to drive a truck for Pepsi. His wife passed on a few years back. Nice guy, but he’s an odd duck. And frankly, I’m not sure what either of them gets out of it. My pa’s deaf as a doornail and definitely slipping mentally. Makes it tough to have a conversation.”
“He must be almost ninety now.”
“Ninety-one. My guess is he’ll live to a hundred and ten. Other than his hearing, he’s healthier than I am.” Claude turned around and flipped the burger, then dropped the bun in a toaster. When the bun was ready, he added lettuce, tomato, and onion before facing me again.
“Can I ask you a question?” he said.
“Shoot.”
“What was Carl doing in South Carolina?”
“I have no idea. I still haven’t figured that out. I was hoping you could tell me.”
Claude shook his head. “He talked to my dad more than he talked to me, but after he passed, there was a lot of curiosity about it.”
“Why?”
He put his hands on the counter and regarded me. “Well, for starters, he usually didn’t go anywhere. He hasn’t left town in years. And then there was that truck of his—you remember it?”
I nodded. It was a Chevy C/K from the early 1960s. It might have been called a classic, except for the fact the body was a faded, rusting wreck.
“It was all that Carl could do to keep that thing running. He was really good with engines, but even he said the truck was on its last legs. I doubt it could top forty-five miles an hour. It was fine for getting around town, but I can’t imagine Carl taking it on the interstate.”
Nor could I. Clearly I wasn’t the only person wondering what had come over him.
Claude turned back to the grill and added fries to the paper plate. He set my meal in front of me.
“Ketchup and mustard, right?”
“Sure.”
He slid the bottles toward me.
“Carl liked ketchup, too. I sure do miss him. He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was,” I said absently, but my mind became fixated on the sudden certainty that Natalie had been correct when she’d told me that someone had been staying in my grandfather’s house. “I think I’ll bring this outside and eat out front. It was good talking to you, Claude.”
“That’s why the chairs are there. Nice seeing you again.”
Taking my plate and drink, I walked toward the doors. After using my hip to push open the door, I made my way to the rockers and took a seat. I set my plate on the small wooden table beside me, thinking again about the possible vagrant in my house and suddenly wondering whether it was somehow connected to the other mysteries surrounding my grandfather in the last few days of his life.
* * *
It was as I was finishing up my lunch that I saw Callie walk out of the store, carrying what looked to be her own lunch in a brown paper bag.
“Hey there, Callie,” I offered.
She glanced in my direction, looking suspicious. “Do I know you?”
“We met the other day,” I said. “When you were walking by my house. You told me the mothballs wouldn’t keep snakes away.”
“They won’t.”
“I haven’t seen any snakes since then.”
“They’re still there.” Surprising me, she squatted down and stretched out her arm, holding a paper plate with a glob of what looked to be tuna on it. “Come on, Termite. Time for lunch.”
She set the plate on the ground, and a moment later, a cat popped out from behind the ice machine.
“Is that your cat?” I asked.
“No. He’s the store cat. Claude lets me feed him.”
“He lives at the store?”
“I’m not sure where he lives during the day, but Claude lets him inside at night. He’s a good mouser.”
“Why is he named Termite?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you don’t know where he goes during the day?”
Callie didn’t respond until Termite was eating. Then, without looking at me, she spoke again. “You sure ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
“When I’m interested in something, I do.”
“You’re interested in the cat?”
“It reminds me of my grandfather. He used to like strays, too.”
Once the cat had finished, Callie picked up the plate. Termite, meanwhile, sauntered in my direction, ignored me completely as he passed, then disappeared around the corner of the store.
Callie still hadn’t responded. With a sigh, however, she tossed the paper plate into the garbage and, with her back turned to me as she started walking away, said something that surprised me. “I know.”
Chapter 4
Both CBT and DBT emphasize common-sense living, or things your mother taught you, as a way to help improve mental and emotional health. While everyone can benefit from behavioral therapy, for those people like me, who suffer from PTSD, common-sense living is critical to ensuring the quality of life. In real terms—how I behaved, in other words—it meant frequent exercise, regular sleep, healthy eating, and the avoidance of mood-altering substances as ways to make things better. Therapy, I’ve come to learn, is less about navel-gazing conversation than it is about learning habits for successful living, and then, most importantly, putting them into practice.
Despite the cheeseburger and fries I’d had for lunch earlier in the week, I generally tried to stick to those guidelines. Experience had taught me that when I was overtired, or if I hadn’t exercised for a while or if I ate too much unhealthy food, I was more sensitive to various triggers, like loud noises or irritating people. I could dislike running all I wanted, but the simple truth of the matter was that I hadn’t been awakened by a nightmare in over five months and my hands hadn’t trembled since I’d arrived in New Bern. All of which meant another workout on Saturday morning, followed by a better-than-usual cup of coffee.
Afterward, I changed the boat’s spark plugs. Sure enough, the engine coughed to life, then began to purr. I let it idle for a while, thinking my grandfather would have been proud, especially since—compared to him—I’m not an engine guy. As I waited, I remembered a joke my grandfather had told me on my last visit. A lady pulls her car into the mechanic’s shop because her car is running poorly. A little while later, the mechanic comes out and she asks him, “What’s the story with my car?” The mechanic replies, “Just crap in the carburetor.” “Oh,” she says. “How often do I need to do that?”
My grandfather loved to tell jokes, which was yet another reason I always enjoyed my visits with him. He would tell them with a mischievous glint in his eye, usually beginning to chuckle even before he reached the punch line. In this and countless other ways, he was the opposite of my own earnest, achievement-oriented parents. I often wondered how I would have turned out without his easygoing presence in my life.
After I shut down the engine, I went back to the house and cleaned up. I threw on khakis, a polo, and loafers, then made the ten-minute drive to downtown New Bern.
I’d always liked the downtown area, especially the historic district. There were a lot of ancient, majestic houses there, some of them dating back to the eighteenth century, which was a bit amazing since the town was prone to flooding during hurricanes
, which should have wiped them all out by now. When I first began visiting, many of the historic homes were in terrible condition, but one by one they’d been bought up by investors over the years and gradually restored to their former glory. Streets were canopied by massive oak and magnolia trees, and there were a bunch of official markers testifying to important historical events: a famous duel here, an important person born there, some roots of a Supreme Court decision the next block over. Before the revolution, New Bern had been the colonial capital for the British, and after he’d become president, George Washington visited the town briefly. What I liked most, however, was that compared to those in small towns in other parts of the country, the businesses in the downtown were thriving, despite the big-box stores only a few miles away.
I parked the car in front of Christ Episcopal Church and climbed out into bright sunshine. Given the blue skies and warmer-than-usual temperatures, I wasn’t surprised at the number of people thronging the sidewalks. I strolled past the Pepsi museum—the soft drink was invented here by Caleb Bradham—and then Baker’s Kitchen, a popular breakfast spot. It was already crowded, with people waiting on the benches outside for tables. A quick internet search before I left made the farmers’ market easy to find, located as it was near the North Carolina History Center. Since Natalie had recommended the place and I had nothing better to do, I figured why not?
A few minutes later, I reached my destination. It wasn’t the bustling agricultural horn of plenty I’d pictured, with overflowing bins of fruit and vegetables typical of roadside stands. Instead, the market was mainly dominated by vendors selling trinkets, baked goods, and all sorts of craft items out of garage-type stalls. Which made sense once I thought about it, considering it was only April and the summer crops had yet to come in.
Still, it wasn’t bereft of fresh produce, and I made a circuit of the market, getting a feel for the place and deciding what I needed for my own cupboards. As I looked, I bought a cup of apple cider and continued to wander around. In addition to food, I saw dolls made of straw, birdhouses, wind chimes made from seashells, and jars of apple butter, none of which I needed. It was getting crowded, though, and by the time I got back to my starting point I spotted Natalie Masterson hovering over a table of sweet potatoes.
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