by Nick Poff
Ernie, not looking up from the notebooks, nodded. “Mr. Denison built that hearth. I’m sure he created those hiding places for Daniel. It was the kind of thing he’d do. He was a nice man.” Ernie paused. “At least Daniel was lucky enough to have the parents he did.”
“Ernie,” Rick said, “I guess there’s just one thing I don’t understand. How did you manage to do all you did for Evie by long distance?”
Ernie had opened his desk drawer, apparently looking for something. He closed it and smiled at Rick. “I have a couple of very good, very closeted friends in Porterfield. I can’t reveal their identities, but they did the footwork for me. Evie knew and understood. Somehow we muddled through up until her death. In fact, when you first expressed interest in the house, it was these two friends I called to find out about you.” He beamed at them. “I cannot tell you how pleased I was when the two of you were described to me. That’s when I decided to sell you the house for a dollar.”
Ed and Rick looked at each other, both silently wondering just who those friends were.
“Oh!” Ed said suddenly. “I almost forgot. What was up with the whole B.M. Tarpley/Brenda Lee business?”
“I’m amazed you figured that out, considering your age.” Ernie chuckled.
Rick rolled his eyes. “My husband is a Top 40 nerd, past, present, and probably future. Your secret simply wasn’t safe with him around.”
Ernie looked at Ed with respect. “You must have good taste in music.”
“But why did you use Brenda Lee’s name to hide your identity?”
Ernie smiled wistfully. He collected the notebooks and handed them to Ed. “I think I’d like to read these sometime, but not now. It’s…too soon, after what I’ve learned today. Please keep them safe, just in case.”
“I’ll do that,” Ed promised. “But what about Brenda Lee?”
“’I’m Sorry’ was one of Daniel’s favorite songs. We listened to it over and over again that last summer.”
Sadness washed over Ernie’s face. “I just wanted him to know I’m sorry.”
###
Ed and Rick stood on the empty sidewalk outside of Custer Hardware headquarters. They looked at each other in silence. Finally Ed started toward their rental car and Rick followed him. “I’m not sure what to think now,” Ed said.
“I think I’m still a little bitter,” Rick said. “That whole series of events was such a cluster fuck, but I can’t help thinking if Ernie had had just a little more in the way of balls, Daniel wouldn’t have died.”
Ed shrugged. “Yeah, I get you, but right now I think I just feel sorry for him, more than anything. I can’t imagine carrying that kind of guilt around for so long.”
Rick smiled. “That’s my Ed,” he said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Rick said, reaching for his hand, “that you have an amazing reservoir of compassion. Oh, I care, you know I do. I care a lot, but if there was a caring contest, you’d win, hands down. You’re a kind man, Ed Stephens.”
Ed squeezed his hand and chuckled. “Thanks, but I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.” He reached into his pocket for the car keys, and the messenger bag slid off his shoulder.
“Aw, crud,” he muttered. He had not bothered to close the latch on the flap and several of the notebooks had slid out onto the sidewalk. He bent to pick them up, and an envelope dropped from one of them. “What the…” Ed muttered. He opened the envelope and found a handwritten note on Custer Hardware stationery.
Dear Ed and Rick,
I cannot thank you enough for your hard work on the restoration of the Denison house, nor can I ever thank you properly for the closure you’ve given me. I do hope the enclosed will help to show my gratitude.
Gentlemen, if you ever, for any reason, find a need for my assistance, do not hesitate to call. I’m not as fearful as I once was, and I can assure you I would do whatever I needed in order to help the two men who managed to do what Daniel and I could not – live openly and lovingly in Porterfield, Indiana.
Best Wishes,
Ernie Jacks
Wrapped inside the note were two checks, one made out to Rick, the other one to Ed. They were both in the amount of four thousand dollars. Stunned into silence, Ed returned the note and the checks to the envelope, and put the notebooks in the bag, remembering to fasten the latch this time. They walked to the car and got in, and Ed started the engine, but didn’t shift out of Park.
“Well, Mr. Benton,” Ed finally said. “Now that we are suddenly up eight grand, where do you suggest we go?”
Rick shook his head. He looked out the window. He looked at Ed. And then he sighed a tired sigh. “Well, Dorothy, after everything that’s happened, I only have one thing left to say. There’s no place like home.”
###
They didn’t bother to talk about it. What was the point? They knew what each other was thinking. They were thinking it was boring and unadventurous to turn around and go back home with eight thousand dollars at their disposal. They could have gone anywhere, or done just about anything they wanted, within reason. However, they were in agreement. It had been a hectic, emotional summer, and they wanted to go home and rest. Ed was sure Rick was also thinking what he was thinking, that they were both damn lucky to have what they did, and perhaps the wisest choice was to just enjoy it.
“I know what we should do with that eight grand,” Rick said as they fastened their seat belts for the flight home.
“What?”
“We should use it to get rid of Rex and Effie Maude for the rest of the week so we can have the house to ourselves.”
Ed laughed, “I like it.”
He was indeed ready to spend some quiet time with his husband. Their mission was accomplished. They had turned a neglected, rundown house into a comfortable home for a new family to love. The rest – the mystery and the journals – could be set aside. They had uncovered the truth of Daniel and Evie Denison, and Muriel had finished the job for them by sharing a story too long hidden with the community that needed to hear it. The tragedy of Daniel and Evie Denison isn’t so much what happened to them, Muriel had written in conclusion, but rather the reason it happened at all.
The irrational fear of ideas and people who don’t necessarily march to the drumbeat of the majority are responsible for their sad ends. This isn’t unique; people have been destroying each other for these reasons for centuries. One might also find tragedy in the fact that had he lived, Daniel might even today be one of the most respected and beloved teachers at Porterfield High, a genuine gift to our young people. Evie would have had the opportunity to share her warmth and generosity with others instead of being taunted to the point of repeating over and over “leave me alone”.
The small-minded, hateful people directly responsible for this loss, not to mention the community of Porterfield in general, should be sad, ashamed, and most definitely remorseful. The long-held silence regarding the fates of Daniel and Evie Denison leads one to believe they are not. Way to go, Porterfield. Have you learned a lesson? Are you sad, ashamed, and remorseful? One certainly hopes so, for a community that acts so negatively against its individuals lacks compassion, and without that compassion, we lack community itself.
Ed felt the plane pull away from the jetway, and he also felt Rick reach for his hand. Ed smirked at him. “Since when are you spooked by takeoffs?”
“I’m not,” Rick said seriously, “as long as I can hold your hand.”
Hands clasped, they smiled at each other, secure in knowing no additional words needed to be spoken. The tactile warmth of their joined hands told the tale of Ed Stephens and Rick Benton.
Rick suddenly gave Ed’s hand a hard squeeze. “Know what, baby? I think autumn is gonna be amazing.”
As the plane began to lift off from the runway, Ed squeezed Rick’s hand just as hard. “As long as we’re together it can’t be anything else.”
e Handyman's Summer
