The Road Home

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “Jerry Grant?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Burke replied. “You knew him?”

  The man nodded. “He did some of his research here,” he said. “He was a friend of yours?”

  “Not him,” Burke admitted. “His wife. She’s kind of dating my father.” He laughed. “That sounds weird. Dating my dad. Like he’s fifteen.”

  “Wait until he asks to borrow the car,” the man said. His voice was low; his tone, dry. At first Burke wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

  “I’m Sam Guffrey, by the way,” the man said. “Town librarian.”

  “Burke Crenshaw.”

  “All right, Burke Crenshaw, what is it you want to know?”

  “Well, I’m a photographer,” said Burke. “I’m stuck here for the summer, and while I’m here, I thought I might photograph some sites related to the war.”

  Sam pushed his glasses up his nose. “I assume you know there are no actual battle sites here,” he said.

  Burke nodded. “I’m thinking something more personal,” he said. “Places where the soldiers lived. The other day I was photographing this pond by the ruins of an old house and—”

  “The Wrathmore place,” Sam said. “I know it.”

  “Is that what it’s called?” said Burke. “All that’s there is a foundation.”

  “And the pond beyond it, through the trees,” Sam said. “That’s the one.”

  “The friend who took me there said it dates from the Civil War,” said Burke.

  “A lot of things around here do,” Sam said. “It very well could. I know the last family that lived there was the Wrathmores. That was around the turn of the century.”

  “Interesting,” said Burke. He hesitated. “I don’t suppose you know anything about a man named Amos Hague?”

  Sam thought for a moment. “Doesn’t ring any bells,” he said. “Is he a relative of yours?”

  Burke shook his head. “One of his letters is in Jerry’s book.”

  “Oh, right,” said Sam. “The sweet flag letter. That’s an odd one, isn’t it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “‘Take thou also unto thee principal spices, of pure myrrh five hundred shekels, and of sweet cinnamon half so much, even two hundred and fifty shekels, and of sweet calamus two hundred and fifty shekels,’” Sam said. “Exodus thirty, twenty-three,” he explained when Burke looked at him blankly. “God is giving Moses the recipe for making anointing oil to consecrate the tabernacle and everything in it. Calamus is another name for sweet flag, although scholars argue about what the exact meaning of the original Hebrew is. But that’s the generally accepted translation.”

  “Sorry,” Burke said. “It’s been a long time since I read the Bible.”

  “It’s an interesting section,” said Sam. “The instructions for building the tabernacle and making sacrifices are very explicit. The directions for putting together an IKEA bookcase should be so easy to follow.”

  Burke laughed. Sam Guffrey was an odd little man. Burke wondered what his story was. Out of habit he glanced at Sam’s left hand, looking for a ring. It was something he did whenever he met someone new. Gregg teased him that he was looking to see if the guy was fair game, but Burke was just curious. He noted that Sam’s hand was bare.

  “That’s why the letter stuck in my mind,” Sam continued. “There’s something almost ritualistic about how he crushes the sweet flag and inhales the scent. Well, it’s not even almost ritualistic. It is ritualistic. You might already know this, but sweet flag ingested in high doses can act as a hallucinogen.”

  “No,” said Burke, “I didn’t know that.”

  Sam nodded and pushed his glasses up again. “It can,” he said. “So now we have a plant that is used in anointing oil and can cause visions. The fact that Amos Hague was using it to invoke visions of Tess Beattie is fairly, well, provocative.”

  “Provocative,” Burke repeated. “I suppose it is. So, do you know anything else about Amos and Tess?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” said Sam.

  “Do you know where Jerry got the letter and photo?”

  “Photo?” Sam said. “There’s a photo?”

  “Yes,” Burke replied. “I didn’t bring it, but next time I come in, I will.”

  “I didn’t know about a photo,” said Sam. “As for the letter, I think Jerry got it from the Sheldon Museum. I have a friend over there. I can give him a call if you like.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” said Burke. “I don’t know why this guy has piqued my interest, but he has.”

  “History has a way of doing that,” Sam said. “That’s why I became a librarian. Nobody cares if I spend all day looking up obscure information.”

  “They even pay you to do it,” said Burke.

  “I suppose they do,” Sam agreed. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  How could you not? Burke wondered.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Sam asked him.

  “We can start there,” said Burke. “I think I’ll pick up some novels while I’m here, though. I just finished Watership Down, and I think it’s the only thing in my father’s house I hadn’t read.”

  “‘If a rabbit gave advice and the advice wasn’t accepted, he immediately forgot it and so did everyone else,’” said Sam. “That’s my favorite line from Watership Down.”

  “You remember a lot of what you read, don’t you?” Burke commented.

  “‘Show me the books he loves and I shall know the man far better than through mortal friends,’” Sam replied. “Silas Weir Mitchell. Sorry,” he added. “It’s a bad habit. You’re right. Things do stick in my head. Usually they just bang around in there, but every so often two of them collide and—boom. That quote, for instance. We were talking about the Civil War. Mitchell was a physician during the war. He was also a Poet and a novelist.”

  “Isn’t he an actor?” said Burke, recalling hearing the name somewhere before.

  “Different one,” Sam said. “One was on My Name Is Earl. The other one is the inspiration for Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story ‘The Yellow Wallpaper.’ Have you read it?”

  “No,” Burke said. “Should I?”

  “Depends on whether or not you want to be depressed for a month,” said Sam. “New fiction is over there, if you want something more or less current. Everything else is on the shelves. I’ll leave you alone.”

  Sam went back to the desk, where he immediately started writing something down. As Burke looked through the books Sam had directed him to, he watched the librarian. What is he writing? he wondered as the man scribbled ferociously. He certainly was a character.

  He turned his attention to the books, finding two or three that didn’t look too bad. He was trying to figure out how to carry them to the counter to check them out when his father appeared in the doorway. “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “Just a minute,” Burke said. “Can you take these for me?”

  “Let me,” said Sam, coming over and picking the books up.

  “I don’t have a library card,” Burke told him.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Sam said, taking the checkout cards from each book. He wrote on each card. “Burke Crenshaw. You’ll be back.”

  “You’re very trusting,” said Burke.

  Sam wrote something on a piece of paper. “‘To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved,’” he said. “George MacDonald. This is the number here. Call me in a few days.”

  Burke took the paper and put it in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I will.” He looked at the books on the counter. “Dad,” he called out, “I need your help.”

  His father came and picked up the books, nodding at Sam. When they left the library, Burke discovered that his father had parked right in front. “Didn’t want you to have to walk too far,” he said as he opened the door for his son.

  “Did you find everything you were looking for?” his father asked a minute later, as they drove through town.


  “Maybe,” said Burke. “Sam is going to look up some things for me.”

  “Queer little fellow, isn’t he?” said Ed.

  “How do you know he’s . . . ,” Burke began. He means it the oldf-ashioned way, he realized. “I suppose he is a little . . . queer,” he agreed. “He certainly knows a lot.”

  “Don’t know why anyone would want to spend his life stuck in a room full of books,” his father said.

  “Some people just like knowing things,” said Burke. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I’d rather be doing,” his father said.

  “Did you find everything on Lucy’s list?” Burke asked, changing the subject.

  “Darn near,” said his father.

  Burke hesitated before asking his next question. Just do it, he urged himself. He took a breath. “I’m glad you found someone,” he said.

  His father said nothing, looking intently out at the road, as if at any moment someone might dash in front of the car.

  “I know it was hard for you to watch Mom get sick,” Burke tried. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you having to take care of her.”

  “I managed,” his father said.

  Burke turned to him. “You know, it’s okay to say it was painful,” he said. “You don’t have to pretend it wasn’t.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t,” his father said. “I just said I managed.”

  Burke shook his head. “You really can’t talk about how you feel, can you?” he said.

  “What’s this about?” his father asked. “Don’t you like Lucy?”

  “Of course I do,” Burke answered. “I told you, I’m happy for you.”

  “Then let’s leave it at that,” said his father.

  “Why should we leave it at that?” Burke said. “Why can’t we talk about anything?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “There is, Dad,” Burke said. “We can talk about your life and my life and Mom. We don’t have to stick to Old Jack and the weather and the fact that Vermont doesn’t have a professional baseball team.”

  “We’ve got the Lake Monsters,” his father said. “They’re good enough.”

  “Fuck the Lake Monsters!” Burke said.

  His father’s hands tightened on the wheel, and Burke saw the muscles in his jaw clench. Just like when I was a kid, he thought. He knew his father had clamped down tight, both on his words and on his feelings. He’s pretending this isn’t happening.

  Burke had a choice. He could keep prodding his father, or he could let it go. His entire life he’d avoided prodding. One of his earliest memories was of standing in the doorway of the kitchen watching his parents fight. It was late at night, and he’d come downstairs for a drink of water. His mother’s raised voice stopped him at the door, where neither of his parents noticed him.

  He was four, maybe five, not old enough to know what the fight was about but more than able to recognize the frustration in his mother’s voice. As she stood by the sink, her hands on her hips, Burke’s father sat at the table, his hands folded in front of him and his eyes looking down at the red Formica tabletop as if he were searching for meaning in the gold flecks that speckled the surface. “Talk to me!” Burke’s mother said over and over. “Say something!”

  But he hadn’t. Not a word. After several minutes Burke’s mother began to wash the dishes in the sink. Burke’s father, turning his head, stared silently at her back. Watching him, Burke found himself afraid. Something about his father’s refusal to speak frightened him. It was as if he were storing up his anger, and Burke feared that at any moment it would explode, killing them all.

  He’d turned and gone back to bed, his drink of water forgotten. And in the morning when he came down for breakfast his mother smiled as she set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, and they both pretended that everything was all right. But Burke had never looked at his father in quite the same way ever again.

  Burke quickly learned that the answer to the question “How are things?” was always “Fine.” Even if it was a lie. “Fine” apparently allowed his father to feel that he’d fulfilled his paternal responsibility by asking. Anything else resulted in uncomfortable silence. Similarly, saying, “I love you” to his father, which Burke had done on only a handful of occasions, was returned with a single nod of the head. Even hugging seemed to trigger something in him, some deep unease that caused his body to become rigid and his arms to turn into pieces of wood.

  It wasn’t until his first boyfriend, then the second, third, and fourth complained about his inability to communicate that Burke realized he had inherited—or at least learned to emulate—his father’s reluctance to show emotion. And it had taken him a long time to overcome it to the extent that he had. But could his father do the same?

  Maybe, he thought, it was too much to ask. Maybe after so many years it was simply too late. Maybe he just had to accept that his father was a closed book. Burke wondered if Lucy got anything out of him, or if she, too, just didn’t bother trying. How many times could you bang on a closed door before you got tired of hurting your hand and went away?

  He looked out the window. “Looks like it’s going to rain,” he said.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Don’t you want to go somewhere else?” Will followed behind as Burke made his way clumsily through the grass. They had returned to the ruins of the Wrathmore farm.

  “I want to try a different camera,” Burke said. He had brought the little Brownie Hawkeye with him. It was the simplest of the cameras he’d found in the collection of his grandfather’s things, essentially a box with a shutter, and the easiest for him to use with a broken arm. There was no focusing to be done, no lenses to manipulate or shutter speeds to consider. All he had to do was press a button and take the picture.

  His plan had been to go back to the pond, but now that he was there, he found himself drawn to the field behind the house. The grass there was spotted with patches of brown-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace, and he thought they might make a nice background.

  “Do you know why this is called Queen Anne’s lace?” he asked Will.

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me,” Will said, swatting at a bee that was flying around his head.

  “After Queen Anne, wife of James the First,” Burke said. “James was a big homo. Well, he was at least bi, but he certainly seemed to prefer men.”

  “Which has what to do with a flower?” asked Will.

  “Nothing,” Burke admitted. “It’s just interesting. Anyway, the story goes that some of Anne’s friends bet her that she couldn’t make lace in the shape of a flower. She did, only she pricked her finger, and that’s why there’s a drop of red in the center of every flower.”

  Will picked the head from a nearby plant and looked at it. “Sure is,” he said. “I suppose now you’re going to tell me how the brown-eyed Susan got its name.”

  “That’s an interesting story, too,” Burke said, stopping to catch his breath. “According to legend, a girl named Susan was warned by her father not to run through the fields after the hay was harvested, because she might trip and hurt herself. She ignored him and did it, anyway. Sure enough, she tripped and fell. One of the stalks went right into her eye, and when she got up, her eye was stuck to it. It looked just like the flowers that grew in the field, so they named them after her.”

  “You just made that up,” said Will.

  “No,” Burke said. “But my cousin Rhonda did. She told me that story when I was four, and I fell for it. She also told me the brown-eyed Susans could see me, and that if I did anything bad, Susan’s ghost would come for me.”

  “Nice girl,” said Will.

  “Yeah, well, she’s a proctologist now, so that will tell you something about her.” He walked a little farther and found a spot where the grass thinned out a little and the flowers were denser. “Stand over there,” he told Will. “You get to be my model.”

  “I thought you just wanted pictures of flowers,”
Will said.

  “I’ll get pictures of flowers,” Burke assured him. “But this is a fixed-focus lens, and I can’t bend my knee to get close. So I’m going to shoot the flowers with you. Now, get over there.”

  Will did as he was told. “How’s this?” he asked, standing in front of a clump of Queen Anne’s lace.

  “Boring,” Burke told him. “You’re not posing for a yearbook photo. Try looking interesting.”

  Will grinned. “Some people think this is interesting,” he said. “What do you want me to do? Stand on my head?”

  “Can you?” Burke asked.

  Will gave him the finger.

  Burke snapped the photo. “That’s better,” he said as he advanced the film. “At least you did something.”

  “So that’s what you want, is it?” said Will. “Then how’s this?”

  He unbuttoned the shirt he was wearing and pulled it off, revealing a white wifebeater underneath. He tossed the shirt aside and stood with his thumbs in the loops of his jeans, pulling them down a bit in front.

  “Very Abercrombie,” Burke teased. “You need to dirty it up somehow.”

  Will fumbled with the buttons on his fly, opening the top two. His jeans gaped, revealing a forest of dark hair. “Better?” he asked.

  Burke didn’t answer. He was busy framing Will in the shot. There was something both innocent and sexual about his pose, and having the flowers around him made the scene even more interesting. “Keep doing that,” Burke said.

  Will cocked an eyebrow. “You mean go lower?” he asked, reaching for his fly. Then his hand stopped. “Or maybe something like this.” He pulled the wifebeater over his head, revealing a lean, well-muscled torso. His skin was pale where it was normally covered with a shirt, brown where it was exposed to the sun. His nipples were small, and when he lifted his arms, he exposed underarms furred with dark hair.

  He’s beautiful, Burke thought as he took another picture.

  Will seemed to be settling into his role as model, turning one way and then another, looking directly into the camera and then away. Burke took shot after shot, until the roll ran out.