Here and Now

by Constance O'Day-Flannery

  He looked up to her and his eyes were wide with amazement. “I made this,” he whispered in a shocked voice. “For Grace.”

  15

  “What do you mean, you made it?” She wasn’t sure if she was awake or dreaming. God, she needed a cup of coffee! And to hell with decaf! “How could you have made it? It was Kevin’s grandmother’s…” Her words trailed off as everything started to crash into place. It came so fast, so shockingly, all she could do was whisper the old woman’s name. “Grace!”

  They stared at each other in disbelief. It couldn’t be! Charlie’s Grace had married Kevin’s grandfather? Shaking her head, she said, “What we’re thinking is too unbelievable. Stuff like this just doesn’t happen in people’s lives!”

  “What about me being brought to this time? That’s unbelievable, but we both know it happened,” he muttered, staring at the box as though he still couldn’t believe it was before him. “There’s one way I can prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Here, let me show you.” He walked into the kitchen and reverently placed the chest down on the table. He lifted the front edge slightly and looked beneath it.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, brushing her hair back from her face as she watched him put his hand under the chest, as though he was feeling for something.

  “Shh, wait,” he murmured, concentrating on his actions.

  She heard a click and then, to her utter amazement, she watched a drawer slide out from the back of the chest. “My God, how did you know that?”

  “I told you,” he breathed, “I made it, with a false bottom, but I never told her about it.”

  She peeked into the drawer. “What is all that?” she whispered, seeing an envelope and pieces of paper that were obviously yellowed with age. She watched as he picked up the envelope. Underneath it was an old black and white photograph with a white scalloped border.

  “This is Grace,” he said in a low voice, holding the picture out to her. “And Mitch.”

  Suzanne looked down to his hand and saw the couple standing before an apple tree in full glorious bloom. “That’s Kevin’s grandparents. That can’t be Mitch, Charlie. It can’t. His name is Michael. Grace and Mike McDermott. Kevin’s grandparents,” she repeated.

  “That’s Grace and Mitch Davies. I ought to know the bastard that tried to kill me.” He sank onto a chair and just stared at the picture, as the implications of it all seemed to descend upon him. Suddenly, he threw the picture and the envelope on the table and picked up an old, yellowed piece of paper.

  She watched as he stared at it, an expression of awe upon his face. “What is it?” she asked, just as she heard Matty’s awakening cries of hunger.

  “The deed,” he muttered. “To my land.”

  “Wait! Wait… this is all getting too complicated,” she said holding up her hand. “I have to get Matty. Don’t move until I return!” She sprang up the steps, taking them two at a time. She picked up her son, quickly changed him, and had him at her breast as she hurried back downstairs. It couldn’t have taken her more than ten minutes to attend her son and yet, when she came into the kitchen, Charlie was gone. She called out his name, but there was no answer and her gaze took in the opened envelope and the pieces of paper laying on the table.

  Sliding into the seat that was still warm from his body heat, she picked up the first piece of paper as Matty suckled at her breast. It was in a woman’s beautiful script, a little shaky from old age, but Suzanne recognized it as Matty’s great-grandmother’s.

  I don’t know who will find this, if anyone, ever. It took me almost twenty years to discover the hidden drawer Charles had ingeniously created. Inside is the deed to his property. I know now that he never would have walked away and left it, or me, and I fear something terrible has happened to him. I have feared this for so many years since his sudden withdrawal from our lives in 1926. I never really believed Mike when he told me Charles disappeared that day they went to see the first orchard. He said he had left him there and had come back by himself. I fear I shall never know the truth.

  Why am I writing all this now? Is it the shadow of death that seems to hang over me in all my waking hours? Perhaps. Having an inoperable brain tumor makes me shun sleep. I want to stay awake and live whatever time I am granted. I don’t fear death, for I have lived a full, long life. I have been given a son, though Sean has shown more and more of his father’s grasping ways. Even my young grandson Kevin, who has just taken a wife, seems to have inherited that trait, and at times I question my role in all of this. Why do I not see more of myself in them? Have I been left closed off from it all, even in my bloodline? I don’t regret the marriage I have made, though I will admit here, on this paper that will remain hidden, my heart has always belonged to my first love.

  Charles Garrity.

  Mike, who came to me first as Mitch, Charles’s friend, knows of this love I have carried He told me his real name was Michael McDermott, and as he immigrated from Ireland, there are no records to dispute him. Perhaps it was the grief, after losing my Charles, but I allowed Mike to comfort me, to help mend my heart. I so wanted to see Charles’s dream come true that I married Mike and worked at his side to bring it into fruition. And we succeeded. I have tried to be a good wife, a supporter of my husband, but I must have failed. Was it that my heart was not large enough to fully include another? These questions haunt me, as does what really happened to Charles.

  When I found this drawer many years ago I was shocked to see the original deed for the land and Charles’s bill of sale for it. How could Mike have come back, a week after Charles disappeared with a new deed telling me he had bought the land with the money he had saved before going to jail? How could I have believed him? For all these years I have looked at my husband, the man who shares my bed, and I wonder what darkness he carries within his heart. I have kept quiet, knowing by now that Charles, dear Charles, will not come back to reclaim his land, nor me. And I have made my life by my choices and must see them through.

  I am an old woman now. The doctors give me five years to live, perhaps less. They say I will most likely go to sleep and never awake. What a blessing that is, but I cannot leave this world without clearing my conscience. I may not have had the courage to confront my husband, but I will leave this chest, made by the hands of my love, to someone who, I am certain, will one day discover the truth.

  May someone right this wrong I fear has been done. With a fervent prayer that God may forgive us all, 1 remain a quiet witness.

  Most sincerely,

  Grace Stinson McDermott

  “Oh my God,” she murmured, dropping the last piece of paper onto the table. She was stunned, beyond stunned, as she took Matty from her breast and placed him at her shoulder. Where was Charlie? Dear God, how he must be feeling!

  “Charlie!” she called out again.

  Nothing.

  Rising, she looked out the kitchen window, but didn’t see him. She hurried to the back door and flung it open. And that’s when she saw him standing at the corner of the property, looking out to the acres of houses that had been built on his land. She wanted to run to him, to take him in her arms, and her heart ached with what he must be going through.

  Rushing into the first-floor bathroom, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around Matty before hurrying from the house.

  He was standing with his hands dropped at his sides, as though all the strength had been knocked out of him.

  “Oh, Charlie,” she whispered, coming up to him and placing her hand on his arm. “I am so sorry. I read the letter and…” She didn’t know what more to say. It was so incredible, the whole story.

  “Is that sonofabitch alive?” he muttered. “That’s all I want to know.”

  She didn’t say anything, having never heard that coldness in his voice before.

  He turned and stared hard into her eyes. “Is he?”

  She simply nodded, as a fear began low in her belly.

  “Where is he?”

&n
bsp; She couldn’t seem to find her breath.

  “Where is he?”

  Startled, she clutched Matty tighter and muttered, “He’s… he’s in a nursing home. He’s old, Charlie, barely kept alive by machines.”

  “That’s good enough.” He turned and headed back for the house.

  Suzanne followed him. “Charlie, wait! Think about what you’re about to do!”

  Stopping, he held out his hand. In the palm of it was a small square of glass, edged in silver. She leaned down to look and saw it contained a lock of hair and was etched with the words Charles Patrick Garrity 1926.

  “She must have had it made.”

  “She cut your hair,” Suzanne whispered, remembering his story from the night before.

  “That man has stolen my land, my woman, my dreams, my entire life. All this time, Suzanne, and I’ve been right on the land… but I couldn’t recognize it.”

  “Of course you couldn’t. Look at it. Kevin sold it off and they cut down the orchards and put up these houses.”

  “But it’s my land! Mine! No one had a right to sell it. I’m going to take care of that bastard Mitch Davies.” Clutching the glass keepsake in his fist, he turned to the house.

  Scared, she followed him until they were inside. Shutting the door behind her, she held her son protectively closer to her chest, for she had no idea what was about to happen. She had never seen rage in anyone’s eyes that could match what she saw in Charlie’s. Looking around for Matty’s infant seat, she spied it in the corner of the family room. Hurrying, she brought it into the kitchen and put it on the table next to the antique chest. She placed the baby in his seat and buckled him in, while saying to Charlie, who was gathering up the papers, “Let me make some coffee and we’ll discuss this rationally. Too much has happened and there has to be a way to handle all this without resorting to violence.”

  “I want justice, Suzanne. And if Mitch is still alive, I intend to get it.”

  Nodding, she hurried to make coffee, busying her hands while her mind seemed to crash around her. “Will you just wait until we can discuss this? You can get justice. Why—” She turned around to him as the coffee maker began to drip. “Kevin sold off land that wasn’t even his to sell!”

  They both looked at each other and Suzanne’s brain really started to kick in. “Bless Grace’s heart for saving your hair. Charlie, do you know what this means?”

  He just shook his head.

  “Let me see that keepsake again.”

  Handing it over, he asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “Wait a minute,” she muttered, examining the silver edging. She took it to the kitchen window and exclaimed, “Here, c’mere… look.”

  He stood at her side as she held the keepsake in the rays of the morning sun. “Look at what?”

  “This,” she said, pointing to the silver edge. “There’s a marking here, from the silversmith who made this. All we have to do is have this marking traced to that person and we can verify its age.”

  “So what does any of that mean?”

  “Okay, let’s sit down and I’ll try and explain this crazy plan that’s running through my head.” She handed the glass keepsake back to him and poured them both a cup of coffee. “Could you give Matty his pacifier? I’m really shortchanging him this morning, but he’ll forgive me.”

  A few moments later she put both cups of coffee on the table and kissed her son’s forehead in gratitude for his accommodating nature. “Now this is what I’m thinking,” she began, sliding onto a chair. “If we can verify that keepsake actually was made around nineteen twenty-six, since it had to have been put together with glue first and then sealed in the silver, we’ve got proof… undisputable proof that you are who you say you are.”

  He was shaking his head. “How does that prove anything?”

  She smiled. “It’s the hair, Charlie.”

  “I don’t understand. What does my hair have to do with proof? It could be anyone’s hair.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “Be patient with me. Science has advanced so far that it can do a DNA test on that hair and the hair on your head and when they match… voilà! Proof. Together with your deed, the bill of sale, and Grace’s letter. It was your land, and Kevin’s grandfather stole it from you; then, Kevin sold it for thirty-three million dollars seventy years later.”

  “I don’t understand. What is this DNA?”

  “Oh, don’t ask me to explain it completely, because I don’t understand it all, but I can tell you what I know. Trust me. Remember when we had that talk about cells and chromosomes?”

  “When you said I was part female,” he muttered, picking up his coffee.

  “Well, you are, whether you like it or not, but this is about a… a blueprint of you. Uniquely you. Contained in your hair, in every cell, every flake of skin, is the whole blueprint showing there never was or ever will be another exactly like you. You are unique, one of a kind. We all are. That’s what DNA proves. Match the DNA of that hair in the keepsake with the DNA of the hair on your head now and we’ve got proof, viable proof, you are who you say you are.”

  “Suzanne, who is going to believe I’m…” He did the math in his head. “One hundred and eleven years old?”

  She stared at him, so young, so vibrant. “You’re right,” she whispered with disappointment. “No one will believe that.” In seconds her mind put together scenarios of the government using Charlie as a guinea pig. Then she thought about Grace’s letter. “But we can’t just let them get away with this.”

  “Tell me where Mitch is, and he won’t get away with it.”

  “Does it mean that much to you, that you would commit murder? Be put away in jail for the rest of your life? You’ve got to calm down and think this through. Kevin had to have had a deed to sell that land. They had to have done a title search. Everything must have checked out.”

  “Mitch didn’t have the money to buy that land, especially a week later. How could he have bought the land without me selling it? My deed was on record.”

  She slapped the table. “Then that’s where we go! To search the county records.”

  “Suzanne, just tell me where Mitch is.”

  “I’ll tell you after we search the records. He’s a very old man, in his late nineties, and kept alive by machines. I’m sure he’ll still be there tomorrow. I want to investigate this first, ’cause you know, Charlie, if we can find some proof of an illegal transaction, then you are a very wealthy man.”

  “Wealthy?”

  “Sure. If the McDermott family never legally owned that land, they had no right to sell it. And I happen to know that Kevin sold it for thirty-three million dollars. Look out there,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen window. “Look at all those expensive houses. Can you just imagine what a legal mess we will create if this is made public? Kevin would have to make good, not just to the developers, but to all those people in all those houses who think they have legally bought land. His name would be ruined, his precious fortune gone, because he’d have to pay you what has always been yours.”

  He just stared at her. “And you think we can do this?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But we can try. Beginning with doing our own title search today. Listen, Charlie, I can understand why you want to wring what little life is left in Mike’s—er, Mitch’s—neck. But that isn’t the way to get justice. Let’s try my way first.”

  He sat for a few moments, staring into his cup of coffee. “All right,” he finally consented. “We’ll try your way first.”

  She let out her breath in relief. She actually had no idea if her plan would work, but it would take Charlie’s mind off a murderous act and, for that, she was willing to do just about anything.

  Two hours later they were sitting in front of a microfiche machine, tracing back county records. Charlie had Matty strapped to his chest and Suzanne was working the machine. “We’re almost there. How’s he doing?”

  Charlie looked down to the in
fant snuggled against him. “He’s busy sucking on the pacifier. He’s still awake.”

  “Thank heavens for that pacifier,” she muttered, turning the forward knob to bring up the records. “Okay, here’s some from nineteen twenty-six. What month did you buy the land?”

  “May.”

  “Gimme a few seconds here, and oh my God…”

  “What?”

  “It’s here,” she whispered staring at the black and white film. “Along with a copy of your bill of sale.”

  Charlie leaned down and when his face was even with hers, he said, “How do we get a copy of this?”

  “We print it out,” she said with a nervous giggle, stunned that they had succeeded. “Now let me see where Mitch’s deed appears. There! A week later, just like Grace wrote. But wait a minute.” She moved the film forward and then brought it back to Mitch/Michael’s deed. “There’s no bill of sale. How could they record a deed without it?”

  “Of course there’s none.”

  “But it had to come from somewhere. He had to produce something to prove he bought the land. There’s your deed and bill of sale, and then there’s Mitch’s, recorded under the name Michael McDermott. There’s something strange here.”

  “You know it and I know it, but what can we prove?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, printing out Mitch’s deed. “I’m going to call up my lawyer and see what she thinks.”

  “You’re going to tell her about all this?”

  She looked up to him, holding his firm hand against her son’s back, and smiled. “When you’re dealing with this level of dishonesty, it’s best to stick to the truth. We have the truth on our side, Charlie.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t know what good it’s going to do us now. Who’s going to believe I’m Charles Patrick Garrity, even with the testing of my hair?”

  “I think we should talk to a lawyer, present her with all our documentation, and see what she thinks. Something will come out of this, Charlie. Grace gave me that chest when she was a very old woman. She gave it to me. She wanted me to find those papers. I didn’t, but then you came into my life. That’s more than a coincidence. It was all meant to happen, and I’m not going to let Grace down without trying to right the wrongs. Are you?”