I placed them on the table and lifted one decaying sheet at a time. The edges crumbled in my hands.
“Looks like business letters,” I said. “Here’s a date, April 22, 1860.”
“That’s the right time for David,” Sandra said. “Are there any names?”
“Most of the tops of the pages are too crumbled to read. Wait, here’s one.” I separated the page from the others. Across the top was printed David McIverson, Attorney at Law. I slid the paper to Sandra.
“We’ve found him,” she whispered.
For the next several minutes, we organized the remaining papers into what was legible and what was totally destroyed. All were letters or contracts pertaining to David’s legal practice. It felt strange to handle them, knowing the people they were drafted for were long dead. They would never have survived if the cave they had been sealed in was not one of the highest points in the county, making the water table below the bottom of the cave.
The storm arrived from the west. Thunder shook the walls. I glanced at Trina, remembering I used to tell her that thunder was God and the angels bowling. She was focused on Sandra. No one seemed to mind the storm except me.
Lightning slashed through the sky, followed by a shattering boom. Trina cried out and jumped closer to Ted.
“I need to go check on Jimmy,” Sandra said.
I stared out the kitchen window at myriads of rabid raindrops pounding the glass. I wasn’t sure which was worse, the sand chipping away or the rain attempting to shatter the barrier that protected us.
The storm had become a living entity. It sucked all the color from the room, leaving only gray. No one offered to turn on the light. Perhaps we were used to it; we had lived so long in our own personal grayness.
“He’s fast asleep,” Sandra said when she returned.
The next volley of thunder was quickly flung aside by the raging wind.
I slipped my hand back into the satchel. It felt empty, and I didn’t want to explore too much, just in case. As I pulled my hand out, my fingers brushed against something hard resting along the side. Tingles ran up my spine.
“Looks like a wallet,” Sandra said as I pulled it out.
The old leather cracked as I pulled it apart. The sound made me think of the dry bones that had been in the cave.
Inside was a folded piece of paper. Crumbling with age like the documents we had already found, the paper broke into sections as I opened it. There were two sheets, and I spread the broken fragments across the table. The writing was small and cramped, and faded from age. I knew whatever was on these pages was what I had been sent to discover. Confused, I wondered what could be so important, and why did I need to find it?
Sandra smoothed the edges. “It’s a letter.”
Lightning flashed, followed by a piercing crack and distinct thud. Sandra moved closer to my side. I could feel her trembling.
“Do you want me to check the house?” I asked, putting my arm around her, glad for the distraction.
“It had to be something in the yard, don’t you think? It didn’t sound like it hit the house.”
We listened to the fury. The walls vibrated around us. I wondered how our world would change after we read the letter.
“I’ll go check on Jimmy this time,” Trina murmured.
We waited until she returned. “He’s still fast asleep, one hand curled into a fist, like he’s holding something.”
“He used to do that at the hospital,” Sandra stated. “He said he was holding his friend’s hand. I hope I don’t have to worry about this friend. Maybe I should have asked Betsy about it…”
She looked at me. I didn’t know what to tell her. I was sure Betsy could help, but we still didn’t know who this other ghost child was. Jimmy believed him to be a real child. That would make him a ghost, which would make him a demon. It didn’t add up. There had to be another option, but I didn’t know what it was.
Sandra ran her slender fingers up the crumbling page. “There should be a date.” She carefully smoothed back brittle edges. “Look, here it is.”
She smiled. “May 14, 1860.”
The storm howled, matching the tension screaming through my bloodstream. Lightning lit up the room. Three pair of anxious eyes peered into mine. Looking across the table that separated me from Trina, I remembered my dream, and the man separated by the chasm. Suddenly reading the letter became a visceral need, as critical to my survival as breathing.
Holding the sections together, I took a deep breath:
Dearest Mary,
If you are in possession of this letter, it most likely means I am dead. The thought of leaving you and our two young sons during this dangerous time of war is causing me great distress. However, I owe it to you, my beloved wife, to inform you of the events of this day.
William and I were able to leave Darlington at sunrise, unseen. We shared a lunch, and I gave William the picture of Jimmy. I would have preferred giving him a family photo, but I had none. Since the bond between Jimmy and his Uncle William is so strong, I thought the picture would suffice as a reminder of his family. I did not think you would mind.
I left William at the bend in the path as it turns north. You know the one. We said a last prayer together before he left. You remember, Mary, how hard we prayed for God’s guidance when William shared his desire to leave South Carolina. In my final prayer with my brother, I prayed that God would remember His promise to protect William and bring him home. I trust God to keep His word.
I arrived safely back in Darlington, only to be stopped by the sheriff before I could lead Daisy to the barn. He asked about William, and challenged my loyalty to the south. When a disturbance broke out on the square, I thought the sheriff would leave me. Instead, he pulled his gun and forced me into our hidden cellar. I do not know how he knew of the place, but I am discovering little is unknown to the sheriff.
I would have fought him, but his gun and my fear over leaving you alone persuaded me otherwise. I am sorry for that now. He said he would be back, but hours have passed. I am wondering if he will keep his promise.
Shortly after the sheriff locked me in the cellar, I heard gunfire. We often hear shots close to town, but this sounded closer. Perhaps the good sheriff has greater matters to attend to. My fists are raw from pounding the door. What folly we replaced the crumbling closure with one more substantial.
Anticipating the very worst, I am either not to be rescued, or rescued and later killed. I am hoping this letter will escape their search and will eventually reach you, my beloved wife.
Other than to tell you goodbye and express my love for you and our sons, there is one more vital thing I must share. I could not persuade William to keep his name. He is determined to follow his heart on this matter, as he feels he has dishonored his Irish ancestors and brought danger to his family. After the war, he will write a letter. He will use his new name, the one we discussed. It is important, dear wife, for you watch for his letter and respond. Only by doing so will he know it is safe to return to his beloved south.
My heart is heavy as I pen this goodbye. I am grateful for the light from the candles that we carelessly left here. I am sitting among your mother’s china, our wedding silver, and your jewelry. I wish I could have given you more. Perhaps these few physical possessions will help provide for you in future years.
The tears are clouding my vision and my hand is much too shaky to continue. I love you more than life itself. Care for our sons, my beloved wife. I pray that you live on in a free south.
Sincerely,
Your faithful husband David
The abating storm filled the silence.
“He never defected,” Sandra finally whispered. “He was here all the time.”
“What about his brother?” Trina asked. “After the war, if he wrote, no one would have answered.”
I could see gentle Trina mentally struggle.
“Do you suppose William waited for an answer, and when he didn’t get one, he figured he was not welcome?” She asked. �
�For the rest of his life, he had to stay away from his home?”
Sandra reached across the table and placed her hand on top of Trina’s. “The south was in a real turmoil during the war, and more so during reconstruction. I don’t even know how to answer your question. We have to believe that whatever happened to him, God provided.”
The ache was gone in my chest, replaced by a great sadness, as though the story were personal. I wondered why God had wanted me to find this satchel and letter. It cleared Sandra’s ancestor of desertion, but the family history became more confused. I glanced toward her, wondering if she was feeling the same weight of sadness as I.
“The picture!” Sandra’s voice startled me. “In his letter, David said he gave his brother a picture of his son, Jimmy!” Sandra’s look was triumphant.
“You lost me,” I said.
“You’re right!” Trina clapped her hands together. “It makes sense.”
“What makes sense?” I asked, looking from woman to woman.
“Where did your ancestors come from, Bill? I bet they came from Darlington, South Carolina.”
“Sorry. Ohio.”
“No, before that. Where were your ancestors living, say 150 years ago?”
“I talked to Aunt Betsy about it when she was here,” Trina interrupted. “She said she can’t find any family history before 1867, when great-something grandfather got married in Cleveland, Ohio. She found records that showed he was an attorney, and she also thinks he may have had some connection to the Underground Railroad.”
I looked from Sandra to Trina and back again.
“Dad, all Aunt Betsy’s efforts to find any family records before 1867 were dead-ends. It’s like we didn’t exist before then.”
The faces of the two women broke into huge grins, like children on Christmas morning. I looked at Ted for support. He rubbed his jaw.
“You don’t think…” Trina stared at me. “Dad, those dreams… yes, it makes sense! David, in his letter, said he asked God to bring William home.”
“What dreams?” Sandra asked.
“Our family has been having the same dream for generations as far as I know,” Trina explained. “Grandpa Iver had them, and Dad, and I started having them when I was around twelve.”
My eyes grew wide. “I never knew you were having the dreams.”
“Since I started junior high.”
“You never told me. I thought the dream passed from father to son, and since you were a daughter…”
“Maybe it wasn’t father to son, but generation to generation, as God saw fit.”
She had a point.
“So your family has been having this same dream for generations?” Sandra prompted.
“As far back as I know,” I mumbled, still trying to wrap my head around Trina’s revelation. “You never said anything. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know, Dad. The dreams are just so weird; I guess I took for granted it was some kind of Iver genetic fluke.”
Sandra looked at Trina and me. “What are your dreams about?”
“There is a man on a horse on the other side of a wide chasm,” Trina explained. “I’m trying to find a way to get to him, but no matter how hard I look, I can’t find a way across the gap. Disappointed, the other man turns and leaves. That’s the tough part of the dream. When the man leaves, it feels like part of my heart is being torn out.”
Sandra stared at her.
“And we think some of the Bible stories are strange.”
“This is amazing,” Ted exclaimed. “God just answered a prayer that was uttered over a hundred years ago.”
I was dealing with my own amazement. Trina had just described the dream exactly as I had been experiencing it for decades, down to the emotions.
“Why did God wait so long?” Sandra questioned.
“Maybe it wasn’t God’s fault,” Ted said. “He was giving clues all along, and no one listened.”
Would God still answer the prayer of a man who’s been dead for generations? And preserve the picture of a southern boy and hang it on Betsy’s wall where it would be found?
Amazing things had happened lately. Had God known all along the dreams would be worked out in time to save Jimmy? Did He care enough to send a long-dead ancestor to comfort the boy, and did He try to tell me how to find Jimmy by using the vision of the two boys in the attic?
As impossible as it seemed, Pastor Steve was right. God could do anything He wanted.
“Bill Iver,” Sandra said with wide eyes, “you are William McIverson! You’re the long lost part of the McIverson family!”
36
With a sense of peace, I rounded the corner of the yard and approached the front porch. Stopping to admire the change in my favorite place, I had to marvel at the work we had accomplished in one summer. Just a few weeks ago, I had arrived in Darlington to find a hopeless shambles of a house. The place had been transformed.
The stairs bore new treads. White columns gleamed in the early evening sun. Potted geraniums, brilliant red, blazed in contrast to the blue wicker furniture. Windows sparkled and a new door mat with its traditional palmetto tree and the word “welcome” graced the foot of the door.
I scraped the sandy soil off my shoes and headed to the porch swing.
The squeak of movement was soothing, and I maintained a steady rhythm: I pushed the swing backward; metal against metal screeched as it came forward.
The swing was my favorite retreat, even more so after seeing the picture of Mr. Barnett. It was still hard for me to accept that he might actually be “Uncle Carl.” Short of DNA testing, there really wasn’t any way to prove it.
Trina and Sandra had leaped beyond science and had accepted the family connection as reality. They based their decision on the illusive female intuition. Betsy was still riding the fence, but then, that was Betsy.
The portrait in the attic, which now hung in the parlor, still made me wonder. I had always thought Mitch’s reaction to me that first night was strange. He had acted like he had seen a ghost. When we found the old picture, I realized that in a way he had seen a ghost.
Precious few major decisions had confronted me in my life, and when they did, I had always following the safe and sane path. Now there was a foolhardy and unpredictable fork in the proverbial road. I had to decide; school would be starting in two weeks. Should I stay in Darlington and walk the unknown path, or return to my teaching job—and my predictable life --in Ohio?
Part of me wanted to leave South Carolina, distance myself from the pain I knew was coming as Trina’s disease progressed.
I doubted my ability to confront the monster of cancer again. And yet, Trina was my daughter, and I loved her. I would do anything for her, even if it meant standing by helplessly to watch as the dragon devoured her, one body cell at a time.
The front door opened. Sandra, holding a pad of paper and a pen, came and sat on the swing beside me. We had developed a companionable silence lately, Sandra and I. Neither of us had a need to constantly fill the air with idle chatter. But I knew there was a question she would eventually ask, because I had asked the same question of myself a hundred times. I concentrated on the squeak of chain on hook.
“So, have you decided?” she asked.
Push. Screech. Push. Screech.
“I’ve lived in Ashland all my life. My dad lived there all his life. Betsy lives there, and my job is there.”
“We need teachers in South Carolina, too.”
“I know.” I wasn’t ready to tell her I had already looked, and found a couple of potential positions, should I decide to stay.
“When I have to make a decision,” Sandra continued, “I look at it as a business deal.”
“My future is hardly a business deal.”
“I know, but thinking that way helps me sort the emotion from the fact.”
“So I need to cut the emotion from my life?” I was feeling unusually argumentative, and if I had been Sandra, I would have got up and left me to sulk
alone on the swing. But she didn’t.
“Emotions are what give life meaning. But sometimes the emotional part is so thick it clogs our brains and we can’t think. That’s why I call it the business deal process. I try to take out the emotional part and focus on the facts.”
“All right,” I said, turning to face her. “If staying or leaving is business, how would you decide?”
“I would get a piece of paper and make two columns. One I would label ‘stay’ and the other ‘leave.’ Then I would list the reasons in each column. No emotions, just facts.”
“You’ve come prepared.” I nodded toward the paper and pen resting in her lap.
“Do you want help?”
“Sure,” I lied. Well, it was only a partial lie. What needed written on the paper was private, but having Sandra beside me more than balanced the discomfort.
She took the paper, drew a line down the middle, and then looked at me expectantly.
“First, the reasons to go home,” I said.
She poised her pen over the second column.
“My job is there, and I’ve taught at the same school for over twenty years. I’m comfortable there.”
“Job,” Sandra said as she wrote.
“Then there’s my house. It’ll be hard to give up the place; it has so many memories.” I had lost my wife there, and I had raised Trina alone. If I lost Trina, memories would be all I would have. But those were emotions, so I didn’t mention them.
“House,” Sandra repeated.
I was annoyed by Sandra’s way of reducing my life to one simple word, but I kept on. “I’ve always lived in Ashland. My father lived there. Betsy still lives there.”
“Betsy.”
“I have friends in Ashland: my church, people who count on me.”
“Friends.”
Push. Screech. Push. Screech.
“Should we work on the ‘stay’ column?” Sandra suggested.
“Sure.” This was going to be harder. The reasons to stay were keeping me awake at night. I started with a safe one. “The dreams have stopped.”
She turned and looked at me. “The dreams stopped? When?”
“Right after we opened the satchel. I haven’t had the dream since.”
Deadly Decision Page 24
