Grave Heritage

by Blanche Day Manos

  There had to be more to Burke’s story. Why should it be hard to tell us about visiting with a World War II soldier? And, sad as it was, his death would surely not have been unexpected. Why didn’t Burke quit swirling the ice in his glass and get on with it?

  Burke reached down and patted Ranger’s head. The old dog thumped his tail on the porch in appreciation. “Jeff didn’t own much of this world’s goods. Oh, there was the usual nursing home stuff but other than that, he had just one piece of furniture in his room, an old treadle sewing machine kind of toward the back of the room. He said it had belonged to his mother and a cousin kept it for years. When he went to see this cousin, just before she died, she gave it back to him. A long time ago, Jeff meant to give it to the girl he was going to marry. He was mighty particular with that sewing machine. He’d roll his wheel chair over to it and dust it every day.”

  Burke paused and shook his head.

  “He had a picture sitting in a frame on top of the sewing machine, an old, faded picture of himself when he was just a young man, in his soldier’s uniform. His intended was in the picture too. They made a mighty handsome pair, smiling and happy, not knowin’ what lay ahead for either of them. Which, come to think of it, was probably just as well.”

  “Did he marry her?” Mom asked. “Is there a happy ending to this story, Burke?”

  “Depends on how you look at it,” he said. “Jeff told me his plane had been shot down in the war and he was captured. Then, he was in a hospital in France for a long time. His own folks thought he was dead. For a time, he didn’t remember much, not even who he was. During those years, his parents died, not knowing he was still alive, and he became bitter about life in general. After the war, he threw in with a sorry lot up north some’eres and got in trouble with the law for bank robbery, spent some time in jail.”

  Shaking her head, Mom said slowly, “That sure is a sad story. What about Jeff’s fiancée? Didn’t he want to see her again, tell her he was alive?”

  Burke took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling. He shook his head.

  “He said that he’d left her as a young fellow, with a good outlook on life and she deserved more than a cripple. Then, after his stint as an outlaw, he was ashamed to face her. Along the way, he found the Lord and became a Christian, but he said it was better that his sweetheart thought he was dead.”

  A suspicion began in the back of my mind. A preposterous idea was taking shape. Unshed tears felt hot behind my eyelids.

  “What was Jeff’s last name, Burke?” I whispered.

  “Now, let me finish up, Darcy. Jeff told me his name and his sweetheart’s name. And then I got a good look at that picture he had sittin’ on top of the sewing machine. He made me promise not to tell her that he was alive. He wanted her to remember him as the young man he used to be, all full of life and hopes and dreams.”

  Reaching into the sack he had brought with him, Burke pulled out an old picture and handed it to Mom. The porch swing stilled. Mom stared at the two people in the photograph, her brow furrowed. Quickly, I slid closer and took her hand in mine.

  She looked up at me, her eyes wide and wondering. “It’s Miss Georgia Jenkins and a young man in uniform,” she said. Then she looked directly at Burke. “Are you telling me that the man in this picture, this Jeff that you got to know at the nursing home, is actually Jefferson Thorne, and this is a picture of my birth parents?”

  My breath caught in my throat. Mom had known for some time that Granny Grace had adopted her. Recently, we found out Miss Georgia was her mother. I remembered Miss Georgia’s tears as she told Mom the pain she had felt at giving her up. She said that Mom’s father was a soldier named Jefferson Thorne, but Miss Georgia thought he had been killed during the war.

  Burke nodded, his eyes never leaving Mom’s face. “Yes, Flora, that was Jeff’s full name. The nursing home folks said that he wanted me to have the sewing machine and that picture he kept sittin’ on top of it. I took them, but I don’t want them. So, they are yours. You can decide whether you want Miss Georgia to know the story I’ve told you. It’s not for me to say.”

  Burke smiled and got to his feet. Ranger scrambled up and stood looking at him. “I feel better now that I’ve gotten that load off my chest. Maybe that’s selfish of me, ’cause I’ve just shifted it onto the both of you. Darcy, if you’ll give me a hand, I believe we can tote that machine into your house.”

  Chapter 15

  My mother sat gazing at the faded photograph. This revelation of Burke’s brought memories of the day last winter when she and I had confronted Miss Georgia and learned the truth about Mom’s birth.

  “So, what do you think, Mom?” I asked, as we sat at the hundred-year-old table, our cups of untasted coffee in front of us.

  She didn’t look up from the picture. “About what?”

  “About Burke’s story and Jefferson Thorne,” I said. “Are you going to tell Miss Georgia and take her the sewing machine and picture?”Slowly, Mom shook her head. “I don’t think so. She has her memories of a young Jeff Thorne, handsome, full of the joy of life. She never married, so she must have loved him very much.”

  “It didn’t sound like he ever married either,” I said.

  She sighed and looked at me. “No, he didn’t. But, if I tell Miss Georgia that he didn’t die in the war and was living only a few miles from her and didn’t contact her, it will hurt her all over again. She has come to terms with her past and this would really be a shock.”

  I nodded. “We’ll have to hide that picture. What are you going to do with the sewing machine?”

  “I don’t know. Miss Georgia probably wouldn’t recognize it. Maybe she never saw it, but yes, I’ll put the photograph away somewhere.”

  “Do you think Burke suspects that Jeff Thorne was your father? Is that why he brought those things to you?”

  “Of course he does. So far as I know, nobody but Miss Carolina, Miss Georgia, you and I are sure that Miss Georgia gave birth to me. It’s not anything I’m ashamed of but it’s just kind of private. There’d be people who would condemn Miss Georgia or make some sort of remark if it was common knowledge, and I guess it’s really nobody else’s business,” Mom said. “Burke figured it out, but he’d never say so.”

  “And, how about you, Mom? Are you okay with all this information? Did Burke upset you terribly?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “No, not really. I’ve wondered about my birth father ever since I knew that I was adopted. Now, I know what he looked like and what happened to him. I sure wish I could have met him, but a chapter in my life has ended so I can quit wondering about a lot of things. There’s one thing, though, that I still wonder about.”

  She closed her eyes for a second then continued.

  “I just wish I knew for sure, for sure and certain that Jeff meant to marry Miss Georgia. I hope he did, but those war years were turbulent times. People didn’t always think clearly when faced with the prospect of a long separation. When Jeff left, did he really intend to marry her, or was the love all on her side?”

  It would have been nice if Burke could have answered that question for us, but there was no proof that Jeff Thorne was an honorable man. I hoped he was, but his choice to live the life of an outlaw didn’t sound honorable.

  “I’m sure he meant to come back home and marry her,” I told Mom. “He kept the sewing machine and their picture all these years. War changes people, you know, and what Burke told us about Jeff’s reasons not to make himself known makes sense. If I put myself in Jeff’s place, I might have done the same.”

  Shaking her head, Mom said, “I choose to believe the best about both of my birth parents. I think Jeff must have been a good man. I hope he was.”

  Gathering our cups, I emptied them into the sink and poured fresh coffee.

  “Levi is a small town,” I said, “and a stranger might think everyone here lives a peaceful, open life, but I believe we have as many secrets as we have trees. This quiet surface is deceptive
.”

  Mom nodded as I set fresh coffee in front of her. “Yes. Nobody would ever guess some of the things that have gone on. I was just thinking back to last winter and to the eight of us, six of our closest friends, and Mama Grace’s journal. That journal held some pretty tough things, secrets that hadn’t seen the light of day for a long time. I guess you could call us the circle of silence because I trust every one of those people, Miss Georgia and Miss Carolina, Burke, Grant, Pat, and Jackson not to breathe a word that Mama wrote.”

  “I agree,” I said, remembering the sadness I had felt as I read my grandmother’s journal entry describing a terrible first marriage and how it ended. I could almost smell the wood smoke from the fireplace and see the snow, which had been deep on the ground at our house in town as I read Granny Grace’s words. Again, I felt the support and empathy from each person gathered to hear the journal read. Our friends might be a circle of silence, but they were also a warm and supportive group.

  Not only had Granny Grace written about her first husband, Markham Cauldfell, she had recounted a murder committed by Judge Jenkins and the fact that not many people, including the sheriff, ever knew about it. Yes, Levi had its secrets, and it seemed that my own family had a share in them.

  Laying the picture aside, Mom gazed at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “You know, Darcy, until this past year, I thought your heritage was a pretty good one. There never were better parents nor more sincere Christians than George and Grace Daniels. Now, I’ve learned that I was born out of wedlock and my birth father was, at one time, a criminal. Besides that, Mama sure didn’t show good sense when she married that Markham Cauldfell fellow. Your natural great-grandfather, Judge Jenkins, killed a man and kept it a secret. At best, I’d say your heritage is a grave one.”

  My mother’s tears shook me to the core. One of Dad’s many sayings was, “Sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying.” So, I did the only thing I could think of to break the aura of gloom that threatened to settle around us. I laughed.

  That worked! Eyes snapping, Mom said, “My goodness, Darcy! Have you lost your senses? What under the sun is funny about all this?”

  Reaching across the table, I squeezed her hand. “Oh, Mom, think of it! Think of the people we’ve always looked up to, so respectable and virtuous, so God-fearing and honest. How’d they get that way? Maybe it’s because they came through some tough times. Maybe it’s because they strayed from the Lord and He brought them back and they’ve experienced God’s grace first hand. I’d say our family is a shining example of God’s forgiveness. They sinned, they repented, and they held up their heads and kept going. They sure didn’t knuckle under in shame and defeat, and we won’t either! I’m pretty proud of them all!”

  Slowly, Mom smiled. It was like sunshine breaking through clouds. Then she began to laugh too.

  “You’re right, Darcy. And I’ll bet everybody has something they’d just as soon the world didn’t know. I guess you’ve got a pretty good heritage after all. We’re the gold standard of what the Lord can do. ‘When thou walkest through the fire…’” she murmured.

  Maybe it was our way of dealing with Burke’s sensational story. Maybe we had downed too much tea and coffee; whatever the reason, we both laughed until we cried. Jethro slipped off his cushioned chair, and, with a questioning glance at us, slunk into the living room. We laughed until the ceiling light flickered and caused us to glance out the window. It looked like another storm was coming.

  Chapter 16

  The afternoon had grown so dark that, inside the house, it almost seemed like night. Three things happened simultaneously: lightning flashed, the lights blinked off, and the front door rattled.

  My heart flip-flopped and landed in my throat. Mom sat frozen in her chair. This was eerily similar to the night when Walter Harris came to our door. Once again, someone knocked—loudly.

  “I’ll go,” I said. “You stay here.”

  “No. I’m coming too,” Mom replied.

  Peering through the front window, I shivered with a strange feeling of déjà vu. I recognized the figure on the porch and I feared him not at all.

  “Jasper Harris!” I yelled, yanking open the door.

  Mom grasped him by his soggy arm. “What are you doing? Don’t you know that your mother is worried sick about you and Grant Hendley is looking for you?”

  With his hair plastered to his forehead and his clothes dripping rain, Jasper was a spooky reminder of the elder Harris who had stood in this very spot not long ago.

  Closing the door behind him, I crossed my arms over my chest and used the sternest voice I could muster.

  “All right, Jasper, what gives?”

  Mom disappeared into the bathroom and came back holding a towel.

  “Darcy, give the boy a chance. He’s half drowned. Dry off, Jasper, then come into the kitchen and have something to eat. I imagine you are starving.”

  Sidling away from me, Jasper took the towel.

  “Thanks, Miss Flora. Yes, I’m right hungry,” he said.

  Mom bustled around the kitchen and soon had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a couple of apples, two pieces of cherry pie, and a glass of milk on the table for our impromptu guest.

  Jasper wasted no time digging in.

  “You aren’t finished, are you, Jasper?” Mom asked when he stopped eating after only half the food was gone.

  He wiped his mouth and grinned. “I’m full to the brim, Miss Flora, but I’ll save the rest for later. Thanks a lot! Do you mind if I take it with me? And, do you think I could have another glass of milk poured into a jar that I could take?”

  Mom looked puzzled but nodded. “Sure, I can fix it up for you but Jasper, aren’t you going home now? Why are you hiding?”

  Jasper’s forehead wrinkled as he gazed at Mom. “I can’t go home ’cause Darcy’s friend, Grant the sheriff, thinks I killed my pa, and Mom would cry and beg me to talk to Grant. I saw it in the paper, Miss Flora. I know that my pa is dead and folks think I done it.”

  “Now, look, Jasper,” I began, “you don’t want to be a fugitive from the law. If you didn’t kill your father, and I don’t think you did, it is best for you to go to Grant and tell him.”

  Shaking his head so vigorously that his wet blond hair stood out, he scowled at me. “You don’t know nothin’. I didn’t kill nobody. I ain’t got no way of provin’ it though. And, Mort wrote in that newspaper of his that my knife was found beside Pa.”

  “Now, now,” Mom said soothingly, “don’t get excited, Jasper. Why don’t you tell us what really happened while I put this food in a sack?”

  Mort and his mega mouth! I imagined Grant was pretty unhappy that Mort mentioned the knife.

  Laying my hand on her arm, I said, “Mom, do you realize you are helping Jasper evade the law? I don’t know how Grant will look at that, but I think it could be called aiding and abetting.”

  “For goodness sake, Darcy,” she said, “Jasper is a neighbor, Pat’s son. I’ve known this boy all his life and he’s hungry, needing food. He isn’t a fugitive. Besides, what Grant doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  It might, however, hurt us if Grant were to find out we befriended Jasper and helped him stay in hiding by feeding him. Mom had that stubborn look on her face and I knew that it was useless to argue.

  “Okay, Jasper, talk,” I said. “Tell us your version of what happened on that night your father wound up dead outside of Old String’s shack.”

  Rain poured from the stormy skies, lightning skittered across the heavens, and in the semi-darkness, Jasper looked as if he might bolt at any second. He glanced around the kitchen like a caged animal. Mom, I noticed, was taking her time about getting his food together. I felt sure she was using a delaying tactic to keep him talking.

  “Well…” he cleared his throat. “It was rainin’, you know, and the rain caught me out in the woods. I was owling and…”

  “Jasper!” I interrupted. “I didn’t know you were into owl
ing. That’s interesting.”

  Owling was an activity I wanted to try some moonlit night, if it ever stopped raining long enough for the moon to show its face. I loved owls, and searching for them and cataloging what kind and how many would be a fascinating activity.

  He looked offended. “Sure, I am, Darcy. They’re mighty neat birds. Anyway, the rain came up and I didn’t have time to get back to the house so I ducked into Old String’s place until the storm let up. Hurry, Miss Flora, will you?” he asked, fidgeting in his chair.

  “Go on,” I prompted as Mom lit a chunky candle and set it on the table.

  “Old String’s is a mighty good place for a hideout, or at least it was. That storm was loud and lasted a while. I picked up a stick off the floor and started whittling a whistle out of it, just to pass the time. I guess I wasn’t the only one lookin’ to get out of the rain that night. I hadn’t been there long when a man came runnin’ in. I shone my flashlight on his face, but he grabbed it and turned it on me. I didn’t like that one bit, I tell you.”

  Jasper stared down at his plate, frowning as he remembered. “Anyway, he looked me over and, real slow, he said, ‘I know you. You’re my son Jasper.’”

  “And then I remembered a little bit of what my pa looked like. Once I saw an old picture Mom had of him, so I knew he was tellin’ the truth. He said something about maybe he had made a mistake and he said he wanted to explain somethin’ to me.”

  Jasper shook his head, his face turning red. “I didn’t want to hear nothin’ he had to say. If he wanted to say he was sorry for runnin’ off and leavin’ Mom and me, it was too late. I got up and ran back out into the rain. I guess I must have dropped my knife.”

  Mom nodded. “Yes, you did and I’m sure sorry about that, Jasper. Somebody found it and killed Walter. I know it wasn’t you, but it makes you look guilty.”