Steeplechase (26 page)

“I'm working on a book, you see, Miss Flint,” said Homer.

“It's a sequel, you see,” said Mary. “I mean, there was another book before.”

“You don't mean—not
Hen and Chicks?
” Julie Flint pulled herself out of her chair and stood up. “Sir, do you mean to say that you wrote
Hen and Chicks?
”

Mary looked at Homer fearfully, and he cowered. “Well, yes, Miss Flint, I'm afraid I did.”

But then she was seizing his hand and shaking it. “Congratulations, Homer Kelly. That's what I call a good book.”

“You mean”—Homer couldn't believe it—“you actually read it?”

“Of course I read it. Fascinating stuff. It should've been a bestseller.”

“Well, actually,” simpered Homer, “it was a bestseller, only you're the only person who seems to have read it.”

It was a breakthrough. Suddenly, the windows brightened with bursts of afternoon sunshine as Miss Flint opened wide the gates of her memory. She told them stories about her early life, about her mother, Elizabeth, and her father, Ebenezer; her brother, Henry, and his foolish son, Cosimo; and about Cosimo's even more foolish son, Howard.

“Howard?” said Mary. “You don't mean Howard Flint?” She gasped and looked at Homer, who laughed and slapped his knee. “You see, Miss Flint,” said Mary, “my sister and I must be related to you. At least we're related to Howard Flint. He's our second cousin three times removed, or perhaps our third cousin twice removed—we never could figure out which. Homer and I ran into him last year.”

“You're related to Howard?” said Julie Flint. “Well, I'm sorry for you. The boy's an ass.”

“We noticed that,” said Homer, “but never mind Howard. Please, Miss Flint, could you go further back? I mean way, way back?”

“Well, certainly, but before we leave the subject of my great-nephew,” said Miss Flint acidly, “you might be interested to know that he burned down my house.”

“He what?” Homer was aghast.

“Howie Flint?” said Mary. “He burned down your house?”

“The fool.” Julie's anger was mixed with scorn. “I was born in that house, and so were my father and grandmother. It meant the world to me. It stood right there on the green, across from the burial ground. Then in a few awful minutes, it was gone. Before the roof came down, I managed to rescue some of my precious papers and pictures. Luckily, the firefighters didn't see me running back inside, because they were trying to save the barn. But they were scandalized when I came running out with my pajamas on fire.”

“Oh, Miss Flint,” said Mary faintly.

“But how did it happen?” asked Homer. “Why on earth did Howie burn down your house?”

“Mad at me, I guess,” growled Julie.

“Mad at you!”

“Ten years ago, I invited poor orphaned Howie to share Thanksgiving with me. Well, it was a painful family duty. But that night, I found him stealing money from my desk drawer. When I bawled him out, he gave it back and sobbed and said he was sorry, but then during the night he started the fire and skedaddled, although I don't suppose that's a current expression.” Julie smiled grimly. “So doing a favor for a tiresome young relative turned out to be even more painful than I'd thought.”

Mary was indignant. “You mean he got away with it?”

“Clean away.”

“What a horrible man,” said Mary angrily. “He stole things from us, too. I mean from my sister and me.”

“Listen here, Miss Flint,” said Homer. “We just happen to know where Howard Flint can be found. He could be arrested and punished. He's a menace to the human race.”

“Oh, never mind. The house was gone, but I sold the land for a goodly sum, and there's a jerry-built mansion on it now. Then I built this place on a piece of land I'd inherited. It was the remains of my great-grandfather's woodlot. Well, say now!” Julie grinned at them. “I should tell you about my great-grandfather. For thirty-five years, Josiah Gideon was pastor of the parish church, the one on the green.”

“The church on the green,” repeated Homer reverently. “You mean Joe Bold's church, the one everybody calls Old West?”

“Tell us about it,” whispered Mary. “Oh please, Miss Flint.”

“Now look here, you two, why don't you call me Julie?” The old woman unhooked a cane from the back of her chair and hobbled across the room to her disordered desk. For a moment, she shuffled among the books and papers, then pulled out one of the books. “Some of it's pretty sad,” she said, glancing at Mary with one keen eye while the other stared blankly at nothing. “This is the medical record of Civil War cases handled by the surgeons who cared for my grandmother's first husband, Lieutenant James Shaw.”

Homer was quick to speak up. “We saw his tombstone, Miss Flint,” he said, but Mary murmured, “Wait, Homer, let her finish.”

“It's a medical textbook,” said Julie, handing the book to Homer. “Terrible pictures. Don't look at it now. Take it home.”

Homer took the book and said, “Miss Flint, can you tell us anything about the history of Jean's little restaurant? Back in the old days, when it was a church?”

“Oh, you figured that out, did you?” said Julie, her old eyes glittering. “Yes, indeed I can. How much time have you got?”

She talked and talked. Laboriously, she shuffled back and forth across the room to fish among the papers on her desk and snatch out photograph albums and newspapers and folders. She went on and on, as though she had been waiting for years to tell the story of Nashoba's Second Parish, and the small church with a homely steeple that had been built by her grandfather Eben and great-grandfather Josiah and all the rest of an obstreperous congregation of men and women intent on raising from the dead an illustrious fallen tree.

The Stump in the Graveyard

T
here was a sign at the gate:
NASHOBA MUNICIPAL CEMETERY.

The Reverend Joseph Bold walked down the hill with Mary and Homer Kelly to the foot of the burial ground, where a stone wall meandered along Quarry Pond Road.

“It's somewhere in this clump of trees,” said Joe. He led them ducking through a small forest of bushy saplings to an opening in the center, where a circle of small stumps surrounded a moss-grown giant like chairs around a table.

“It was huge all right,” said Joe. He took a tape measure out of his coat, stretched it across the stump, whistled, snapped the tape shut, and said, “Eight feet, four inches.”

As they fumbled their way out again, Homer said learnedly, “I've been reading about chestnut trees. The roots keep sending up shoots, but they don't last long. Ever since 1904, when the blight appeared, every chestnut tree in the country has been doomed to an early death.”

“Just like James Thurber's aunt.” Joe laughed and mopped at his eye, which had been scraped by a whippy twig. “If I remember correctly, she was the only human being who ever died of the chestnut blight.”

“But it wasn't the blight that destroyed this tree,” said Mary. “Miss Flint told us about it. It was cut down in 1868.”

“By order of your predecessor in the pulpit,” said Homer, prodding Joe's shirt with an accusing finger. “One Horatio Biddle. Act of vandalism.”

Joe held up protesting hands. “Don't blame me. It was long before my time. Now, if you two will excuse me, I've got an appointment with an engaged couple.”

Mary smiled. “You're going to lecture them about their marriage vows?”

“On the contrary—they'll lecture me. They'll want a service expressing their innermost convictions.” Joe said good-bye and ambled away, mumbling, “Big chunks of the
Rubaiyat
, I'll bet. ‘A jug of wine,' et cetera.”

Mary and Homer were in no hurry. The graveyard looked like a gold mine. For the rest of the afternoon, they wandered up the hill and down again, reading tombstones. Surely some of the dramatis personae in Julie Flint's stories and recollections and miniature biographies lay buried right here beneath their feet.

They began with the impressive tombstone at the top of the hill. “Deacon Samuel Sweetser,” said Mary, reading the inscription. “It looks older than the rest.”

Deacon Sweetser's monument dwarfed the small stone beside it:

THE REVEREND HORATIO BIDDLE

1820–1868

Pastor

FIRST PARISH OF NASHOBA

1851–1868

Mary frowned. “Wasn't he—”

“You bet he was.” Homer made a kicking motion at Biddle's tombstone, but he stopped his big shoe before it struck. “Horatio Biddle, he's the vandal vile, remember? The one who gave the order for the felling of the chestnut tree.”

“Oh, ugh,” said Mary, moving on.

Halfway down the sloping burial ground, they found the splendid memorial to the next pastor of Nashoba's First Parish:

THE REVEREND JOSIAH GIDEON

1823–1903

Cherished Pastor

FIRST PARISH OF NASHOBA

1868–1903

and

His Beloved Wife,

JULIA LORD GIDEON

1828–1908

“Julie's great-grandparents,” said Homer. “And this one marks the grave of her grandfather.”

EBEN BARTHOLOMEW FLINT

1847–1928

Pvt., 2nd Maryland

Volunteer Infantry, 1863

Architect, Deacon,

Selectman,

Moderator of Town Meeting

Let us now praise famous men,

And our fathers that begat us.

All these were honoured

in their generations,

and were the glory in their times.

“Eben Bartholomew Flint,” said Mary. “Remember him, Homer?” He was Ida's younger brother. Did Eben have a wife?”

“Well, of course he must have been married,” said Homer, “if Julie's his granddaughter. Look, we've got to go.”

But on the way back up the hill, they were attracted by the inscription on another stone. “Look, Homer,” cried Mary, “here are Jean's ancestors, the Spratt brothers.”

Homer laughed, remembering the twins in their bowler hats. “Not only were they born at the same time, but they died in the same year.”

“Maybe it was a joint decision.”

“Or perhaps they were called home at the same instant by the dear ones who had gone before.”

“Or it could have been a scientific miracle of molecular sympathy. You know, a simultaneous decay of protoplasm.”

“Well, whatever.”

Here Lie the Mortal Remains of

Two Brothers

JOHN AND JACOB SPRATT

Portrait and Aerial Photographers

1843–1913