The Return

by Nicholas Sparks

  I blinked, wondering how I’d lost control of the conversation. A Cadillac? Where did that come from? “I didn’t say that,” I protested. “And I’d be glad to get you anything the grill offers…”

  Jerrold slapped his thigh, not letting me finish before suddenly locking eyes with me again. “Boy, you is dumb as dirt. A Cadillac! What on earth would he do with a Cadillac? He can barely drive as it is.” He shook his head, cackling. “A Cadillac!” he shouted to Jim.

  Standing in place, I could think of nothing to say. Jerrold didn’t seem to need me to say anything; he was too happy with himself to care what I might be thinking. Jim, meanwhile, struck me as oblivious. I decided to seize the initiative.

  “I was hoping to ask Jim about my grandfather, Carl Haverson.”

  Jerrold reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of snuff. After opening the package, he pinched a few of the leaves together before placing them between his lip and gum. His mouth made a few contortions and he settled back in the chair, looking like he had a tumorous growth in his jaw. “You’re telling me that you’re kin to Carl?”

  “He was my grandfather,” I said again. “I’m trying to learn what he was doing in South Carolina. Claude said Jim and my grandfather were close and I was hoping he could answer some questions.”

  “Might be hard,” Jerrold said. “Jim here, he don’t hear too well. And he wanders when he talks. Half the time, you don’t know what he means.”

  I could say the same about you, I thought. “It’s important,” I said instead. “Maybe you can help?”

  “Don’t know how.”

  “Did you know my grandfather? Did you speak with him before he left?”

  “Sure,” he drawled. “I got out here now and then and we’d talk. Not as much as Jim here, though. But then, one week, he wasn’t around, so it was just me and Jim. I was as surprised as anyone when I found out what happened to him. Carl was in good health as far as I knew.”

  “How about the trip to South Carolina? Did you know anything about that?”

  “He never mentioned anything about it to me.”

  “Was he acting differently? Anything like that?”

  Jerrold shook his head. “Not that I could tell.”

  I rocked back on my heels, wondering if I was wasting my time. Surprising me, Jerrold slowly rose from the chair. He had to grip both arms and moving into the vertical position seemed both laborious and painful.

  “You two go ahead and visit,” he said. “Maybe Jim knows something I don’t. He knew Carl better than I did. But talk loud, toward his right ear. It barely works, but don’t even bother trying with the left one.”

  “You don’t have to leave,” I said.

  “You’ll need my chair. He won’t admit it, but he needs to be able to see your lips moving so he can figure out what you’re saying. He’ll get about half of what you say, so just keep trying.”

  “Where are you going?” Jim said.

  “I’m hungry,” Jerrold shouted. “I want some food.”

  “Huh?”

  Jerrold waved him off and looked toward me. “Don’t just stand there looking dumb as a tree. Take a seat. I’ll be back.”

  I watched as Jerrold shuffled toward the door, and when he was safely inside, I sat in the same rocker, then leaned forward as Jerrold had done.

  “Hi,” I shouted. “I’m Trevor Benson.”

  “River fencing?”

  “Trevor Benson,” I said again. “I’m Carl’s grandkid.”

  “Who?”

  “Carl!” I said even louder, wondering if I should have kept Jerrold around to translate.

  “Oh, Carl,” Jim said. “He passed on.”

  “I know. He was my kin,” I said, hoping Jerrold’s phrasing would help.

  Jim squinted at me and I could tell he was searching. It took a few beats.

  “The Navy doc? You were married to Claire, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, even though Claire had been my mother. No reason to make it any more complicated than it already was.

  “He sure liked those bees, old Carl,” Jim added. “Had them a long time. Beehives. For the honey.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “I wanted to speak to you about Carl.”

  “I don’t much like bees,” he said. “Never could figure out what he saw in ’em.”

  Trying to keep it simple, I opted for the direct approach. “I have some questions that I was hoping you could answer.”

  Jim didn’t seem to hear me. “Carl had a hard time with the honey last summer,” Jim said. “Arthritis.”

  He pronounced it arthur-itis.

  “He probably did…”

  “He got help from the girl, though,” Jim added, not hearing me.

  “Girl?”

  “Yeah,” Jim said. “The girl. Inside.”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering what he was talking about. I hadn’t seen any girls in the store today, but Claude had warned me his mind wandered. Leaving that behind, I leaned closer, speaking slowly and replicating Jerrold’s volume.

  “Do you know why Carl went to South Carolina?”

  “Carl died in South Carolina.”

  “I know,” I said. “Do you know why Carl went to South Carolina?” I asked again.

  Jim took a bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly before answering. “I reckon he was going to visit Helen.”

  For a second, I wondered if he’d understood my question.

  “Helen? He was going to visit Helen?” I shouted.

  “Yep. Helen. That’s what he told me.”

  Or was that what Jim had heard? How much could I trust his hearing? Or the competence of his memory? I wasn’t sure.

  “When did he tell you about Helen?”

  “Huh?”

  I repeated the question, even louder this time, and Jim reached for a hush puppy. He took a bite and it took him a long time to finally swallow. “I reckon about a week or so before he left. He was working on the truck.”

  To make sure it could get there, no doubt, but…who was Helen? How would my grandfather have met a woman from South Carolina? He had neither a computer nor a cell phone, and he rarely left New Bern. It didn’t add up…

  “How did Carl meet Helen?”

  “Huh?”

  “Helen.”

  “I reckon that’s what he said.”

  “Did Helen live in Easley?”

  “What’s Easley?”

  “The town in South Carolina.”

  He picked up another hush puppy. “Don’t know much about South Carolina. I was stationed there during the Korean War, but said good riddance as soon as I got out. Too hot, too far from home. The drill sergeant there…oh what was his name…R-something…like a joke…”

  As he was searching the past, I tried to figure out what he’d told me, assuming Jim wasn’t completely bonkers. A woman named Helen was in Easley and my grandfather had gone to visit her?

  “Riddle!” Jim suddenly shouted. “That’s his name. Sergeant Riddle. Meanest, orneriest man there ever was. One time, he made us sleep in the bog. Dank and dirty place, and so many mosquitoes. They bit all night till I swelled up like a tick. Had to go to the infirmary.”

  “Did you ever meet Helen?”

  “Nope.”

  He reached for his Yoo-hoo but even though Claude had loosened the cap, he struggled to open it. I watched as he took a drink, still trying to sort it out, but suspecting he had nothing else to offer.

  “Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

  He lowered the bottle. “The girl might know more about it.”

  It took me a second to recall what he’d said earlier. “The girl inside?”

  He motioned with the bottle toward the window. “Can’t remember her name. He liked her.”

  “Helen?”

  “No. The one inside.”

  I’ll admit I was completely lost by then and as if on cue, Jerrold pushed out the door, carrying a plate similar to the one I’d brought out to Jim. Eastern North Carolina barbecue, w
hich is flavored with vinegar and red pepper flakes, is different from barbecue anywhere else in the world. When Jerrold was close, I stood from the chair, making room.

  “You two about done?” he asked.

  I thought about it, wondering what if anything I’d learned, or how much of it was even real.

  “Yes,” I said, “I think we’re through.”

  “I warned you, he can wander a bit when he talks,” Jerrold admitted. “Did you get the answers you needed?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “He said my grandfather was going to visit Helen. And he mentioned something about a girl inside, but I have no idea what he was talking about.”

  “I think I might have part of the answer to that.”

  “What part?”

  “The girl inside,” Jerrold said. “He was talking about Callie. She and your grandfather were pretty close.”

  * * *

  Claude was still at the register when I reentered the store. There were a handful of customers in line and I waited until he finished before approaching.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Still trying to figure it out,” I said. “Do you know when Callie will be working again?”

  “She’s here now,” Claude answered. “But she’s on break. She should be back in a few minutes.”

  Which explains why I hadn’t noticed her earlier.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “If she’s not feeding the cat, she usually eats at the picnic table down by the dock,” Claude said.

  “Thanks,” I said, pushing back out the door again. Figuring it would be easier to talk while she wasn’t on the clock, I rounded the side of the store, to a path that led toward the creek. I knew there was not only a picnic table there, but also some gas pumps near the water’s edge where boats could fill their tanks. I’d been there with my grandfather numerous times.

  The path wound through some trees and shrubbery, but when the view finally cleared, I saw Callie sitting at the table. As I crossed the grass, I noted the basic lunch she’d clearly brought from home. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, container of milk, and an apple—most of it nearly finished—in a brown bag. Hearing me approach, she glanced in my direction, then back to the creek again.

  “Callie?” I asked when I was close. “Claude told me that I might find you here.”

  She turned her attention back to me, her expression wary. I wondered why she wasn’t in school, and noticed another bruise on her arm, close to the one I’d seen when she’d walked past my house. Instead of speaking, she took another bite of her sandwich, nearly finishing it. Remembering her general wariness, I stopped just short of the table, not wanting to crowd her. “I was hoping to speak with you about my grandfather,” I said. “I heard that you helped him harvest the honey last summer.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said.

  Her comment caught me off guard. “I’m not implying that you did. I’m just trying to figure out why he went to South Carolina.”

  “Why would you think I know anything about that?”

  “I was told that the two of you were close.”

  Standing from the table, she shoved the last of her sandwich into her mouth and followed it with a final gulp of milk before stuffing the remains of her lunch into the bag. “I really can’t talk right now. I have to get back to work and I can’t be late.”

  “I understand,” I said. “And I’m not trying to get you in trouble. Like I said, I’m just trying to figure out what happened to my grandfather.”

  “I don’t know anything,” she repeated.

  “Did you help him harvest the honey?”

  “He paid me,” she said, color rising like a stain in her pale cheeks. “I didn’t steal any, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t steal anything.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. Why didn’t you tell me that you knew him as well as you did?”

  “I don’t know you or anything about you.”

  “You knew I was related to him.”

  “So?”

  “Callie—”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong!” she cried again, cutting me off. “I was walking by and he saw me and he asked if I wanted to help him with the honey, so I did. It only took a couple of days and after that, I put the labels on and stacked them on the shelves. Then he paid me. That’s it.”

  I tried to imagine my grandfather asking her on a whim for help with the harvest, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t. And based on the conversations we’d had to this point, I couldn’t imagine her agreeing to such a thing, either. At the same time, there was some truth there; she had, by her own admission, helped him harvest the honey. What, I wondered, was she not telling me?

  “Did he ever mention that he was going to visit Helen?”

  Her eyes suddenly widened and for the first time, I thought I saw a flash of actual fear. As quickly as it came, however, it vanished with an angry shake of her head. “I’m sorry about your grandfather, okay? He was a nice old man. And I was happy to help him with the honey. But I don’t know anything about why he went to South Carolina, and I’d appreciate it if you just left me alone.”

  I said nothing. She lifted her chin defiantly, before finally turning around and heading back toward the store. On her way, she tossed the remains of her lunch into a garbage can without breaking stride.

  I watched her leave, wondering what it was that I’d said that had upset her so.

  * * *

  Back at home, I considered what, if anything, I’d actually learned. Could I trust what Jim had told me? Or Jerrold? Had my grandfather gone to Easley because of a woman named Helen? And what was I to make of my conversation with Callie? What had I said to make her believe she was in trouble?

  I didn’t know. And yet, as I continued to reflect on my encounter with Callie, I had the gnawing sensation that she’d said something—or I’d seen something—important. It was the answer to one of my many questions, but the harder I tried to zero in on it, the hazier my thoughts became. It felt like I was trying to grab a handful of smoke.

  Chapter 9

  On Wednesday, while pondering my maybe-but-not-guaranteed date with Natalie, I decided to take my grandfather’s boat out to try to find the alligators and bald eagles I’d heard about the day before.

  I made a quick inspection before untying the lines and starting the motor. There were no other boats in the vicinity, which was fortunate, because I would need to get used to the steering again. I had no desire to participate in a water-based demolition derby or accidentally run aground, so I gently eased the throttle, turning the wheel as I pulled away from the dock. To my surprise, the boat was a lot easier to maneuver than I remembered, which meant my grandfather must have done some work on it, and I was quickly able to get it headed in the proper direction like the highly skilled Naval Academy graduate that I was supposed to be.

  As a kid, I always loved going out with my grandfather on the boat, but unlike most people, who preferred the wider Trent and Neuse Rivers, I always favored Brices Creek. Because the creek wound its way through the Croatan National Forest, it probably hadn’t changed since settlers first arrived in the area in the early 1700s. In a way, it felt like traveling back in time, and when my grandfather shut down the engine, we would hear nothing but birdcalls from the trees, while every now and then a fish would jump, making ripples on the otherwise black and silent water.

  I settled into the ride, keeping to the middle of the creek. As ugly as it was, the ride itself was surprisingly stable. My grandfather had built the boat the way he had because Rose was afraid of the water. As an epileptic whose seizures grew in frequency and intensity as she’d aged, she’d never learned to swim, so he’d designed something impossible to capsize or sink, with rails to keep her from falling overboard. Even then, it usually took some convincing for Rose to accompany him, so my grandfather often went alone, at least until my mom
was old enough to join him. When I began spending my summers with him, we spent almost every afternoon on the water.

  Boating always seemed to put my grandfather in a contemplative mood. Sometimes, he would tell stories about his childhood, which was far more interesting than my own, or talk about bees or his work at the mill, or what my mom had been like as a child. Almost always, though, his thoughts would turn to Rose, melancholy settling over him like a familiar shawl. The older he got, the more he repeated himself, and by the time of my last visit, I’d heard all of his stories often enough to recite them by heart. But I would listen without interruption, watching as he lost himself in the memories, because I knew how much she’d meant to him.

  I had to admit, their story was charming; it harkened to a place and time I knew only from black-and-white movies, a world replete with dirt roads and homemade bamboo fishing poles and neighbors who sat on their front porches to beat the heat, waving to passersby. After the war, my grandfather had first spotted Rose having a soda with her friends outside the drugstore, and he’d been so taken with her that he swore to his friends that he’d seen the woman he would one day marry. After that, he saw Rose everywhere, outside Christ Episcopal Church with her mother or strolling through the Piggly Wiggly, and she began to notice him as well. Later in the summer, at the county fair, there was a dance. Rose was there with her friends and though it took him most of the evening to work up the courage to cross the floor to ask her to dance, she told him that she’d been waiting all night for him to do just that.

  They married less than six months later. They spent their honeymoon in Charleston before returning to New Bern to settle into their life together. He built the house, and both of them wanted a brood of children. However, perhaps because of Rose’s condition, one miscarriage followed another, five in total over an eight-year period. Just when they’d given up hope, my mother was conceived, and the pregnancy went the distance. They considered my mom a gift from God, and my grandfather swore that Rose had never been more beautiful than when he saw mother and daughter together, playing hopscotch or reading or even standing on the porch, shaking dirt from the rugs.