The Recluse Storyteller (25 page)

“She walked into his room and saw his rifle butt against the ground with the barrel pointing right at his head. He stared into the small dark hole that could bring him relief with one quick flick of his finger. He wanted to make the pain go away. He glanced sideways at his little girl. ‘Margaret, be brave. Be brave.’ The light flared, creating a new darkness. Life would never be the same.”

Janice put her hands over her mouth in shock. Reverend Davies quickly walked over to Janice, wondering if Margaret meant what he thought she meant.

“You were there. You saw it.”

All the stories, all the tortured looks, the hermit reactions, the detachment, the heartache finally made sense. Brought to life by an indelible image—a great crack of fire. It was a price too heavy to pay for just one mind.

“He couldn’t let it go. Margaret, I’m so sorry. But it isn’t your fault.”

Janice comforted her the best she could, but there was something still itching inside the reverend’s mind. He remembered the downward spiral that Taylor had been experiencing for years—never allowing anyone outside his family to get close—often accusing the reverend himself for bringing the tormented, fractured dreams upon him.

“Do you remember the time that Taylor disappeared for about six months?” the reverend asked.

“Oh, I remember it well. It devastated my sister. That must have been about fifteen years ago,” replied Janice, who thought back to many painful conversations she had with Margaret’s mother.

“Did you ever find out what he was doing?”

“No. Not that I was ever aware. He took off without a word many times. It was frightening and difficult for Margaret’s mother.”

“Well, after hearing Margaret’s story, I made some calls, and it just so happened that he had contacted an old sergeant buddy of ours, who clearly remembered Taylor calling him and talking about visiting Vietnam, and that Taylor was particularly interested in some of the places we used to track though. Our sergeant has a mind like a steel trap. He even created a diorama of every inch he walked through ‘Nam. Taylor went back to visit the site of the massacre. I’m sure of it. So you see, Margaret. Your father was a very tortured soul. Tortured by the haunting images, and he could never get over it. Your sister’s death must have really pushed him over the edge.”

Margaret stood up at once and walked over to her desk, opened the center drawer, and reached way in the back for a small white envelope. She slipped from it a black and white newspaper clipping with a photograph and handed it to Janice, who gazed at it while Reverend Davies came over to share. It was a wedding photo of a young couple—an Asian male and a white American bride. Reverend Davies zoomed in closer, trying to understand its significance while Janice read the caption:

On May 25, Quan Long Nguyen of Vietnam married Nicki Anne LeFever of Harper’s Hill in a ceremony performed by Reverend Harold J. Davies at the Falls Town Community Church.

“I remember this. It was quite a while back, and …” He paused in deep reflection trying to piece it all together. “This man, Quan, said that his friend recommended our church for the wedding and asked if I would perform the ceremony. Margaret, I don’t understand.”

“He visited me four years after my father’s death,” Margaret spliced together words in a rare lucid moment outside of a story.

They both cocked their heads in her direction and tilted in a manner signifying an unsettled issue on their hearts.

“He came to thank me,” said Margaret in a confused tone. “Father had sent him to college.”

Reverend Davies grabbed the article from Janice’s hand and scanned down through the nuptial descriptions. There it was. It stated:

Quan Long had come to America four years earlier through a special scholarship fund established to bring healing to the Vietnam War era through granting tuition costs for Vietnamese students whose families had been scarred by the war. Quan lost his entire family, except his father, to a tragic massacre back in 1972.

“Oh my,” said Janice. “That’s what he did with the money.”

“What money?” the reverend inquired quickly.

“Taylor had wiped out their retirement accounts without my sister even knowing it. She found out just days before Janice’s tragic death.” She paused. “She told him they were through and that he couldn’t be trusted anymore. Then Janice died, and he killed himself a few days later. Oh my …”

She turned quickly towards Margaret who had walked over to the picture window to watch the cars whiz by with such purpose and drive.

“He was repaying his debt, at any cost,” realized the reverend. “But he never knew the end of the story. Quan must have come and told you the rest of the story. The blessing from the curse.”

The realization of buried hope sits strangely upon certain people. Some only hear part of the story, for others, whose shoulders are broader or whose paths are less fortunate, have to bear it all. Margaret perhaps would never outlive her stories, which precariously sat upon her chest, weighing her down with such force that she had no other reality but their truth and their light.

“The light came for me. For me. But she took it. Sweet Janice took it.”

“Margaret, it’s not your fault.”

“Papa loved Janice. Janice was good. Janice, no! Janice, no!”

“Margaret.”

“Papa, no!” she yelled and then calmed quickly to a whisper. “Be brave. It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault.”

“It’s not your fault. Nobody is to blame. It just happened,” reassured Revered Davies.

Margaret collapsed into Janice’s arms, exhausted and spent. All the stories spun, all the happiness retrieved, leaving none for herself. Her heart ached for her sister, for her mother, for her father.

“But we have to keep living,” added Reverend Davies. “We can’t be paralyzed by things we cannot change. We have to move forward. That’s what your mother wanted more than anything for you before she died. She wanted you to live. Margaret, you have many amazing gifts.”

They had all been given. They had all been spent.

Janice led Margaret over to her bed, and she fell asleep at once.

* * *

It was five a.m. Reverend Davies had left around midnight, content that the cathartic evening of sharing and storytelling had done everyone a world of good. Janice wanted to stay behind and spend the night with Margaret, so she slept soundly on the couch. Margaret stared from the picture window towards the east. Slight hints of pink poked out from the top of the Hetchworth building, readying themselves to illuminate the night once more. She stared at every strand which unclasped the darkness from the underbelly of the blackened sky. Cheevers was wide awake. He held a phone number in his hand that he had surreptitiously coaxed out of Mrs. Trumble the evening before. Mrs. Johnson shared a bed with her husband for the first time in weeks. She gazed lovingly at him sleeping beside her as she gently rubbed her stomach. All was forgiven. Reverend Davies never made it home that night. He drove the city thinking of Taylor and the ridge of death that brought new hope to many. By this time in the morning, he stood over Taylor’s grave, news clipping in hand, and placed it on top of the gravestone.

Margaret could feel him all around her as if he never left. She dared not turn around because she didn’t want to see if he was flesh or not. But she felt his presence, felt the hair on her neck stand on end as he gently whispered reassurances into her ear. She could feel the soft air blowing from his lips, and she could hear his voice loud and clear as if it was an audible, soothing command.

“The light is coming, my dear. The light is coming once again.”

“Papa, don’t go,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, my dear. Be brave. Be brave.”

The light pierced through the dawn, spreading its course, illuminating all hope, extinguishing all doubt, revealing all hidden and private items which people hoard for comfort. The brilliant light stood waiting to encompass her. Margaret stood still, unmoved and unafraid.

Epilogue

The story of the recluse storyteller had intended to end at this point. Margaret certainly felt that her story had been told in full when she faced the dawn the morning after Reverend Davies left. It was just a matter of time for the light to run its course, and she waited for the final sign—an unmistakable sign—not unlike what Georgia had seen written across the dark prairie sky. But just when the light seemed to have had paid its final call, the most unexpected thing happened.

A knock at the door. She opened it for the first time in a week and noticed a lone can of beans sitting squarely in the middle of the hallway. She picked it up, re-entered her apartment, and ate lunch.

The next morning, the knock came again. This time there was a cardboard banana box without its top, overflowing with cans of soup, boxes of macaroni and cheese, and, of course, more beans.

The next day, Margaret found a large, heavy duty, double-insulated cooler sitting in the same spot. When she opened it, she counted ten cartons of Josten’s Chocolate Cherry Swirl—the exact flavor which had been discontinued a month earlier.

On the fourth day of the knock, on top of a lone stool sat a brand-new laptop computer—turned on with the following written across the screen in large letters: ‘Manual needs revising. See file “WorkFlow” on desktop.’ She took it into her apartment and went right to work.

On the next day, at precisely the same time, Margaret found a single red cap with the familiar ‘C’ across the front. She placed it on her desk next to the new computer.

The following morning, Cheevers knocked bashfully with a teenage girl on his arm. He smiled appreciatively at Margaret, and in a self-conscious manner, gestured with his right arm at his daughter.

“Meagan,” Margaret said.

“Yes.”

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you,” said the teen grinning widely.

Margaret smiled back.

“Thank you, Margaret,” said Cheevers. She noticed how different he looked without his red cap. He looked happy as they turned and went into 2A. Margaret closed the door and leaned her back against the familiar wood panel like she had done a thousand times before but nothing came. No nudge, no presence, no words.

It was morning, and time for bed, but she felt much too awake. She went to her desk and removed the large stack of envelopes still wrapped in the silver ribbon from the bottom right drawer. She began opening the remaining sealed notes from Reverend Davies and put them aside after reading their bland content. Then she noticed one envelope which was out of chronological order. It was dated only two weeks after her mother’s death. She unceremoniously opened it, carefully not wanting to damage any of its contents. From the envelope, she pulled out a single white note card with a lone scribbling across the front. It was in her mother’s hand.

Margaret, don’t forget to live.

She pulled it close to her chest and brought it up against the locket she still wore every day. She opened it once to admire the sketch of Janice and herself.

“Don’t forget to live.”

* * *

It was around noon when someone knocked at the door. She could hear their voices, bantering back and forth, trying to out-position the other. Margaret smiled and headed towards the freezer for some chocolate-cherry-swirl. Her inspiration, once exhausted, sprung forth in unexpected ways. A new story was about to be told for the first time ever, and she knew a captive audience waited at the door.

The End

About the Author

Mark W. Sasse grew up in western Pennsylvania. He has spent most of the last twenty years living in Vietnam and Malaysia. He is especially passionate about drama and has written and produced 9 full-length productions for the stage. His first novel,
Beauty Rising
, released in December 2012.
The Recluse Storyteller
is his second novel.

His third novel is already finished and will be releasing in July 2014. Entitled
The Reach of the Banyan Tree,
it chronicles the lives of three generations of one American family, who have their lives forever altered by their Vietnam experiences. Sweeping in scope,
The Reach of the Banyan Tree
is a fascinating mix of historical and contemporary fiction about the loss of love and the pull of family ties, set against the exotic backdrop of modern Vietnam and post-WWII French Indochina.

Connect with the Author

Blog:
http://mwsasse.wordpress.com/

Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/markwsasse