A Far Piece to Canaan (43 page)

I had covered quite a distance when the corn row ended at a clearing about twenty feet across. A large stone stood in the center of the clearing with neatly clipped bluegrass surrounding it. I circled the marker and discovered a profusion of flowers growing on what I knew to be Alfred's grave. The Millers had promised to care for it and sixty years later somebody was making good their word. I found a pebble and put it on the stone.

I left the grave, walked into the next cornfield, and eventually came to Cuyper Creek. So much for dead reckoning. The stream was wider than I remembered. I stripped again and waded in. It turned out to be deeper too and I had to swim on my back to the other bank holding my wallet and clothes in the air, but I really enjoyed the cool water.

The drive down the Dry Branch Road was made on mental autopilot. My thoughts were of Ben. He had taught me so much. He rejected conventional thinking and demanded well-considered decisions as the path to action. You didn't stop if it became hard. And you ignored people's criticisms. Yet all I knew about Ben was what he presented to me. He took what he felt in his heart about his past to his grave. I wondered how often he thought about killing his wife and her lover and how much he had to have agonized about deserting his son. I remember the leaves he had arranged to look like a boy. And I could feel his arms around my body and hear his words, “I love you, Samuel.” The anguish he felt during those twelve years after the murders must have been horrible.

The blacktop of the Dry Branch Road had been extended past where the school bus had turned around and now ended at the last tree of the oak grove. I parked and stood among the oak titans, mesmerized by the thin beams of undulating light that filtered through the canopy. At the foot of the oaks, a cornfield stretched to the river covering the area where the melon patch had grown. I got out my floribunda, circled the field until I came to the river, and from there downstream to distant trees. Then I saw it. The sycamore! Smaller than my oak friends, but proud and largely leafed. I ran my hands over the sycamore's trunk. It had grown mightier, but the river was undermining its roots. Eventually it would succumb to floodwaters. The thought made me sad. Then I noticed a chain around its trunk. Tethered to the other end of the chain was a skiff.

I found it difficult to breathe. When my emotions righted themselves, I took another bearing. I remembered the graves being about two hundred feet from the sycamore. With the floribunda under one arm, I used my free arm to move through the corn.

The clearing appeared as if by magic. I put the basket down and stared at the mighty stone that marked the grave, and flanking it the two flat rocks marking the graves of Cain and Abel. It was obvious that someone was meticulously caring for the graves.

I had visited this place innumerable times as a child, each visit one of tears and sorrow. Now I was returning like a surviving soldier, many years into his dotage, to the marker of a buddy who had fallen on a grenade and made that inexpressibly courageous exchange of his life for those of his comrades.

I spread most of the floribunda on Ben's grave, then divided the remainder between the dogs'. I felt terrible grief. My sorrow wasn't only for Ben; it was also for me. I had reached the end of my life dissatisfied. The visit to the world of my childhood had held up a devastating mirror that reflected my failures. I didn't fit in—anywhere! I never made even one real friend during four years at Harlan Jeffords High. I didn't fit in at Collingwirth either. NYU, the same. I had acquaintances on the Leland-May faculty, had helped many of them in their careers, but not one stood by me in my time of need. There was only my family.

Where were all my true friends? The ones I should have laughed and argued with, the ones who would mourn my death not for my accomplishments, but because my passing broke their hearts? I had made two close friends, Ben and Fred, and abandoned them both. Why? Because this part of my past was filled with pain and I didn't want to hurt anymore? Because I had delayed so long that I couldn't face Fred? I had fears, but I didn't think I was a coward. How had I let it happen?

Others were not totally blameless for my failures, I thought. Ben and Fred and this community had collectively fashioned me to live life among them, not in my new world. My rigid convictions of right and wrong, convictions ingrained in me by these very people and this strange land by the river, partly determined my path. I had lived in two different worlds and they had different rules. I had never been able to free myself from the philosophy drummed into me during my childhood. In my soul I had believed that philosophy to be true. I still did! Ben Begley, the man I now mourned, was a triple murderer, yet I loved him. He gave his life partly for a community to which he owed nothing. I understood why he sacrificed himself. God forgive me, I now thought he was right to end his life as he did because “society” would have executed my hero had they known his past. Then again, maybe not. My odd sense of justice might have been seconded by the people who raised his marker, seeing him as I did, a man lifted from disgrace by confronting the evil that had cowed the community. The world in which I chose to live my adult life just hung labels. He was a murderer!
The appearance of good was good and received accolades regardless of its verity; the fallen were damned forever so society needn't consider the whole of their humanity!
Somehow, I had lived a paradox, and the result was a less peaceful and possibly a less happy life than I could have attained had I not been so conflicted.

I placed a stone on the monolith and said a prayer over the graves, wondering if the God in whom I didn't believe accepted prayers from those like me who pondered the confused existence of the species he had made in his image.

A huge river fly landed on my face, and as I swatted it away, I became aware again of the heat. Sweat trickled from my forehead into the corners of my eyes. I took off my baseball cap and wiped my face, then gulped down half my bottle of water. I felt like a man straddling time, part of me in the 1940s, the other part in the twenty-first century. Something was missing between the halves, something that couldn't be filled by awards, money, or even Nora. I needed those things of my distant past—the human beings with whom I had shared this imperfect place. Canaan land, complete with heroes and Philistine metaphors. Without them, I wasn't whole.

I stared at Ben's grave. Six feet under that carefully groomed bluegrass lay the mostly cremated remains of a man I had loved as much as my father. If I could thrust my arms through the ground and bring him to the surface whole and in the quick, I knew what I would I say to him. Without willing myself, I began talking aloud, trying to control my voice.

“Ben, I've journeyed sixty years through a strange life, out of step with everybody except my wife. I've been successful but lonely, and now, in my old age, I'm disappointed. I've never known what was bothering me, but now I know part of the answer.”

I pulled a weed from the edge of the grave. “I love you, Ben,” I whispered. “I wish I hadn't stayed away so long. Perhaps you remember, I'm prone to that. Forgive me, and if there is a God, may he forgive us both.”

The heat left me parched and I drank the remaining water. I felt better. This had to be what Nora hoped would happen. She wasn't sure of the answers I'd find but she understood that some of my angst lay between the two great bends of the river.

I
turned to leave and was startled by the presence of a tall, thin, old man, standing in a corn row watching me. He was wearing Levi's, a blue, long-sleeved work shirt, and a straw hat. His face was angular, with big ears and a prominent nose. In his right hand was a hoe. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either. I wondered if he had heard me speaking aloud. I approached him to explain why I was in what figured to be his cornfield. As I neared, his eyes remained fixed on the top of my baseball cap. I was struck with perfect clarity. “Hello, Melvin.”

The thin man's eyes widened and he took a step back. “Afternoon,” he said, raising his chin. “You know me. How come I don't know you?”

I walked up and extended my hand. “Melvin, I'm Samuel Zelinsky. The reason you don't know me is that we haven't seen each other in sixty years.”

Melvin's arm rose slowly, then he grabbed my hand with a rush, his face blooming into a grin. “Recognized me 'cause I was lookin' at th' top of your cap, didn't you?”

I nodded and laughed. “Some things never change.”

Melvin joined in the laughter. “Reckon they don't. Come here t' see old Ben?”

“Yeah,” I answered, and glanced at the graves behind me. The heat waves rising off the sandy bottoms blurred the view. “This your cornfield?” I asked when I turned back toward him, aware that I was slipping back into the dialect of my youth.

“Daddy bought this bottom after y'all left. I was th' only one of th' kids stayed on th' farm. The others sold me their share after Mom and Daddy were gone.” He motioned with his head toward the graves behind me. “I keep th' weeds off'.”

Melvin sensed my fragile emotions and nothing was said for a few moments. “Sure somethin', ole Ben, wudn't he?”

I smiled weakly. “Yeah.”

In the tradition of the hill people, Melvin just nodded, considering it a private affair. “Sure is hot,” he said, removing his straw hat and running his hand over what remained of his gray hair. “Got my pickup yonder. That you at th' end of th' oaks?”

“Yep.”

“How 'bout followin' me up th' house and gettin' some cold lemonade? This here corn's gonna make hit whether I hoe or not.”

“How come I didn't see your name on th' mailbox?” I asked, certain I wouldn't have missed the name Langley.

“Truck hit th' old one. I put up that new one, but since th' mailman knows me, I ain't bothered t' put my name on hit. Wife keeps on me 'bout that,” and we both laughed.

I followed the truck up the Dry Branch Road to the spot where the school bus had turned around, then we went up the Langleys' lane until we came to the house. It was two-story redbrick, with two porches, one leading to the kitchen and the other a large, screened-in affair that faced west and looked out over a valley. It was lovely.

Melvin's wife, Jenny, met us at the kitchen door. Melvin introduced me as Samuel Zelinker. I didn't want to embarrass him, so I didn't correct the mispronunciation. Jenny was a slim, pretty woman of about sixty-five. Her face was still smooth and her red curly hair had traces of gray. She was a little shorter than Melvin, and I got the impression she had been very beautiful when she was young.

It was my first time inside the old Langley home. The bottom floor had a large kitchen with a table and a beautiful dining and living room. Ice-cold lemonade appeared quickly, accompanied by Jenny's offer of cherry pie. I couldn't resist. The slice was delicious, the cherries exploding with a sweet-sour taste. My mother's cherry pies had tasted almost exactly like Jenny's. When a second helping was proposed, I accepted along with a laugh from Melvin, who also had another slice. After we finished eating, I asked about his family.

“Everybody's someplace else . . . California, Ohio, Florida. Like I said, I'm th' only one stayed on th' farm. Hit's been a good life. Jenny and me have had a good life here. Don't know what I'm gonna do with th' old place. Gettin' too old t' run it and ain't got th' heart t' sell it.”

Jenny's movements about the kitchen became quicker, and I could tell something was bothering her. “Mr. Zelinker, you tell that old man of mine t' sell this place before he gets hurt. Scares me t' death every time he gets out on these hillsides with that tractor. One of these times it's gonna turn over and squarsh him.”

Melvin winked at me. “Aw, Jen, that Ford's steady as a rock.”

I just smiled. I wanted to hear about everybody, but especially about my close friends. Somehow, I didn't want to start with Fred. “Ever see Lonnie?”

“Lonnie married Jeanette Dillard and they moved out West. Wyoming, I think. Remember that fight you and him had?”

I laughed. “Not much of a fight, I'm afraid.”

Melvin put his elbows on the table and looked into my eyes instead of at the top of my head. “Hit was t' us boys. You done good. LD found that out too, I understand.”

That shocked me. “You knew about the fight in the barn?”

“There was lots of talk after Ben was killed. You were in th' hospital then. Folks around here blamed LD's pa for what happened 'cause he was always blatherin' on about th' Devil so much nobody ever thought things through. That whole thing ended bad and could've been a lot worse if hit hadn't been for Ben and you. That's why th' Howards lit out for Georgia. Ain't heard from 'em since. All th' old peoples gone, Bess Clark, the MacWerters, the Dillards, the Shackelfords. You were sweet on Rosemary Shackelford, wudn't you?”

Another pitcher of lemonade materialized. “I wondered when you two were gonna get 'round t' girls,” said Jenny, a big grin on her face.

I could not believe I blushed. All three of us laughed. “How did you know I was sweet on Rosemary Shackelford?”

Melvin grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Kind of hard t' miss when all a fella does for thirty minutes on a school bus is stare at one girl and only when she ain't lookin' at him.”

Jenny sat down at the table, a big smile on her face. “I wanta hear about this.”

I was still blushing. “I'm afraid it was a classic case of a young man falling in love with an older woman. She was sixteen, and I was . . . about ten, I guess. First thing I knew she was engaged. Broke my heart.”

“Rosemary had four kids and has a whole passel of grandkids,” said Melvin. “They all live somewheres down around Corbin. She sure was beautiful.”