Letters on the Table

by Pattie Howse-Duncan

  “I think I’ve seen you riding your bike with a box of cans.” She omitted the fact that he had almost laid her out cold in front of the post office last summer.

  Only the slight trickle of an upward curve on his lips accompanied his stare.

  “I have some cans a few friends gave me, and I wondered if you’d like to have them? Or better yet, why don’t you let us bring them to you? My husband and I. If you’d like. I don’t mean to be a bother to you though.”

  “What kind a cans you got? The pork ’n bean kind or the soda pop kind?”

  “Oh, aluminum cans, like soda pop, the kind you can recycle. Would you like to have them?”

  He wanted to know more but remained wary. “How many you got?”

  Grinning, she said, “A few sacks” and then added, “Completely full.”

  “They crushed or whole?”

  “A little of both. Some cans are already crushed, and some are still whole.”

  “306 Potter Road. What time you gonna bring ’em?” he asked, looking at his analog wristwatch. The curve on his lips appeared again.

  They sorted out the details, and he gave her directions. Pointing to the intersection outside the drug store, he said, “You go down that road and turn by Seely’s Seafood, the eatin’ place with the big fish on the sign. Stay on that and then turn right by the water tower. You know where that is?”

  Katherine nodded, being very familiar with the water tower.

  Sam continued, “Turn when you see the mailbox with the pony on it. That’s Potter Road. My house is on that street. I’ll be watchin’—306 Potter Road. Don’t forget.”

  Katherine immediately headed home to orchestrate the beginning of Phase 3 of the Friends of Sam project. With Murphy gone and Hollis and Clarence working on a project on the west quadrant, no one was around to help her, and it took longer than she expected to load the bags into the farm truck.

  A new worry crept into her mind. She had already forgotten segments of his directions. Remembering the restaurant and something about a pony on a mailbox she found herself in a neighborhood she knew nothing about and was completely lost, wondering how on earth she would ever find Sam’s house. And then she spotted a mailbox on a street corner with a Budweiser Clydesdale on it.

  “Well, hello pony. Aren’t you a Godsend!”

  After turning onto Potter, she saw Sam standing at the end of his driveway at the far end of his dead-end street. She thought, how long has he been waiting? Or for that matter, how long have I been waiting for this moment? She realized then how very much she had wanted this day to arrive.

  His house was run down, in need of several repairs but not really much different than the other houses in his neighborhood. She envisioned what a difference a good spray wash and a few gallons of paint might make.

  “You get lost?” he asked as she pulled into his driveway. Standing in the summer’s heat made his dark hair sweaty and his green eyes shine above his reddened cheeks.

  “Just a little, but I was glad to see you standing there. You saved me.”

  He wrinkled his bushy eyebrows and said, “I won’t let ya get lost again.” Katherine heard the sincerity in his voice. It was thick and intentional, like pouring molasses from a jar.

  Sam’s face transformed when he realized the mountain of cans in the back of the truck were for him. All of them.

  They unloaded the truck bed silently and reverently, stacking them in the carless carport. Mutely, Sam handled each sack with deliberate care.

  “There are plenty more where those came from.”

  Sam shot her a bewildered look and then shyly smiled, “You sure drink a lot of soda pop and beer.”

  “I’m a member of a club, and the purpose of our club is for all seventeen members to collect aluminum cans.”

  “What kind ‘a club?”

  “Funny you asked. We actually call ourselves Friends of Sam.”

  “Well, my name is Sam, but I ain’t in no club.”

  “If you think you would like to be in this club, I could arrange it. Since you would be the only club member actually named Sam, we would probably need to make sure we bring all our cans to you each week; and you can do anything you want with them. What do you think about that? Would that be okay?”

  “Could I keep the money that I get for ’em?”

  “Oh, of course! We would love that!”

  “What day you gonna bring me some more cans?”

  The weekly rendezvous to 306 Potter Road began. As the weeks and months passed, Katherine, Murphy and Sam’s Friday encounters turned into can collection from the Friends of Sam’s members, lunch at the Burger Barn, a drive over to the aluminum recycling center for can redemption, and usually a long, leisurely ride through the countryside, reminding Sam of the rural home he lived in as a boy.

  It was clear Sam lived a simple life. There was a distant relative who checked on him about once a month to make sure his bills were paid, but he was detached from Sam’s day-to-day existence. Sam had some cognitive issues, obviously. Some things he just didn’t understand, and he read only a small number of words. But he was wise in other ways. His ability to judge a person’s character was as sharp as a butcher’s cleaver.

  It didn’t take Murphy long to realize Sam had an uncanny sense about maintaining his bicycle. He didn’t seem to know the actual names of some of the parts, but he understood their function and how to repair them if needed. He referred to the cogset as the “round thingy” and the fender as the “backend,” but he could explain the function of the gear shifting system with exact accuracy, in his own simple words.

  “Have you ever thought about working in a bike shop? You know so much about bicycles, and I bet you…” Murphy stopped when he saw Sam’s face fill with fear.

  “I don’t want no job at a bike place. I don’t like being around strangers. I always do something that makes ’em mad, or they pick on me and I don’t like that.” Sam’s voice was rising like mercury in a thermometer on a hot day in August and his entire body seemed agitated.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! No one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I just thought you would have a lot to offer, but I realize now there is more to it than that.” And they never mentioned it again.

  The weekly contributions from the Friends of Sam didn’t stop his quest for cans he found tossed here and there around town. It was ingrained in him. He had a passion for rummaging.

  Sam became a loyal friend to Katherine and Murphy, worrying about them when the weather turned angry, always the first to call and check on them when a storm had passed. He cautioned Katherine when the cold fronts were headed their direction, always afraid she might get cold and then sick. He gravitated to Murphy, longing to have male companionship, and Murphy never tired of his Friday comrade.

  Without fail, Sam insisted on washing out the truck bed at the end of each can redemption day. “If ya’ pull in that car wash there, I’ll spend my money to make that water hose work and I’ll wash out the truck, so you don’t get no flies. People don’t want a truck full of flies.”

  “Sam, you are loyal to the core, and I admire that about a man. Murphy and I are proud to call you our friend.”

  “My mama taught me you’re supposed to take care of your things.” He halted and looked at both of them, maybe waiting to see if he needed to tell them more. “I guess you’re one of my things now.”

  Driving back home, Murphy smiled at Katherine and said, “Isn’t it funny how it all worked out. We thought we were taking care of Sam, and it turns out he’s the one taking care of us.”

  Murphy

  Thankful she had thought to grab a cardigan, she wrapped it around her shoulders as they walked a section of the fourth quadrant. Murphy always liked to walk a portion of his ancestral land before setting foot on another country’s soil, and they were leaving the next day for anothe
r African adventure, more specifically, another trip to see Savannah.

  The breeze was crisp, and nature’s paintbrush had been busy, as the earth prepared for winter. A thick carpet of leaves crunched underfoot, and the bushy-tailed squirrels gathered and hoarded acorns in haste. The ducks could be seen flying in their aerodynamic V-flight formation. In the distance, someone was busy burning a pile of leaves.

  Murphy always spoke with nostalgia during the walks prior to any long departure. He said it rooted him, and Katherine was certain she knew what that meant, loving the land as much as he. As they walked the acreage, he often told stories of his family all the way back to the first McGregors—the early ones who homesteaded the land. There wasn’t a story she had not heard, but each one was worth repeating forever. On this day, however, he was quiet. She didn’t have to offer a penny for his thoughts. She could read his mind.

  Hand in hand they stopped to examine the rub marks left by a rutting buck on the bark of a tree. He pointed to the deer tracks in the mud near the creek, and silently they followed until the tracks disappeared.

  Stopping for a moment to watch another formation of ducks fly overhead, Murphy thought aloud. “No matter how old I get, I’m still fascinated by the migration of birds and their instinct that tells them it’s time to go and how far they must travel before returning home to us.”

  “It’s one of those marvels many people overlook, too busy with their own lives to ponder the mystery,” her soft voice coaxed him to say more.

  “How do they know when they’ve made it back home?”

  “They know. Just as you and I know.”

  “I wish Savannah had a bit of migration in her. Not the part that takes her far away. She already has that. The instinct that helps her navigate her way home is what she’s lacking.”

  “I could tell you were feeling melancholy this morning, and now I know why. I miss her terribly, too. Do you think she hasn’t returned because Clark chose to settle in Kingston? Surely after all these years she wouldn’t let that stop her.” Murphy wrapped his arms around his beloved, resting his chin on the top of her head while she continued, “You would think after six years, one of them would have married. Clark used to always ask about her, but he doesn’t anymore.” After a pause she said what they both knew to be true, “The hurt is still there, I can see it in his eyes.”

  “If Savannah did migrate home, do you think Clark would want to see her? After leaving so abruptly? I think the pain that still simmers within him stems from not understanding the why of it all. Maybe she, herself, didn’t understand what she was doing. Something was driving her to get out of his life immediately and move far, far away. Africa is about as far away as one could get, I guess. But I’m still surprised she’s never come back for a visit. I wouldn’t be able to leave this place and not return. This land pulls me like a magnet, and I really thought she loved it, too.”

  “I still say something happened. Something that devastated her. I thought by now we would understand it better, but none of it makes a bit of sense.” Katherine turned toward Murphy as she continued. “I do think I am better able than most to wrap my brain around the mystery since I’ve contemplated my father’s disappearance my entire life. I hope Clark has been able to work through the anger. It’s stifling and debilitating to feel such anger at someone you can no longer reach out and touch.”

  They embraced for several more minutes, soaking in all things autumn. “All I need in life is to stand with my feet planted on this ground and have you in my arms. I can’t imagine needing or wanting anything more than what I have right here.” Katherine tightened her grip around her husband’s waist.

  She knew a topic that would lighten the mood. “Let’s think of brighter things. So, our favorite Episcopal priest is going to marry the Bishop’s daughter! And to imagine we get to witness the union soon after we return. I guess the last time I felt this good about a marriage was when you proposed to me.”

  “Drew and Mary-Claire. Theirs will be a happy home. I knew he was smitten the very first time he told us about her. Do you remember? He said he finally understood the real meaning of all the love songs on the radio?”

  “I do remember. It will be quite the wedding. The whole town will turn out and probably every member of the clergy in the diocese. Get ready to see our beloved bachelor Father Drew wear a wedding band.” She touched Murphy’s band as she said it, and it brought back all the emotions of placing that ring on his finger so many years ago.

  “And get ready to meet his bingo ladies. They’ve all been invited and, according to Drew, they promptly went out and bought new hats. Big ones with feathers and wide brims. Every color of the rainbow. They’ll be ushered up to the very front to sit in the family pew.” Murphy laughed. “I’m looking forward to sitting with those colorful ladies. I have a hunch we’re going to love them.” In his best preacher voice he recited, “Dearly beloved, we have joined together in the presence of God and Drew’s bingo ladies to witness and bless the joining together of Drew and Mary-Claire.”

  On the walk back, Murphy said, “I need about fifteen minutes to run the tractor over those vines in the garden and then I’ll be ready for lunch. I’d like to get that done before we leave for Africa in the morning.”

  “That gives me time to fix lunch. Meatloaf sandwiches okay?”

  The grin and the kiss on her forehead were his way of reminding her he still found her captivating. “Your meatloaf sandwiches make me miss old Doc.”

  “Me, too. Which reminds me, I need to call Lily Mae and Sam and tell them what time we’re picking them up for dinner tonight.”

  While Murphy headed back to the barn, she listened as he tried to coax the bobwhites to answer his whistle. The land and all its glory ran deep in his blood.

  After making the sandwiches, Katherine decided she’d surprise Murphy by pulling out the old, musty canvas folding chairs that had once belonged to Doc. She carried them to the lake’s shore, stopping just long enough to watch a third V formation of ducks fly overhead, squawking at her as they passed.

  “Safe journey, my friends. Until we meet again, next year.”

  Then she stood at the kitchen window, watching for Murphy’s return, waiting to carry the tray of sandwiches and drinks to the lake. Glancing at her watch, she thought of fifty things that might have postponed his return. She began to worry when an hour had elapsed, and fifteen minutes after the anxiety set in she decided it was time to find him and bring him home. But first she called Hollis and Clarence to see, if by chance, they had run into him in the vicinity of the garden.

  She set out on foot and then thought better of it. Might wish I had a vehicle, was the thought that seemed to perch in her mind. Grabbing the truck keys off the hook in the garage, she drove the same route she last saw him travel.

  When the bend in the road revealed the parked tractor up ahead, she felt a tremendous sense of relief from the dread brooding deep within her, but the relief was short-lived. The tractor motor was still running, and the tractor was missing its driver.

  She called his name, looking for tracks or clues to indicate which direction he might have headed once he climbed down off the tractor. Stepping up to remove the key from the ignition, she saw what was lying on the other side.

  Murphy lay motionless on the ground where he had fallen, and his face firmly planted in the dirt. She struggled to pull his limp body over to confirm the premonition that she had lost him. And she had. He was already gone. The blood that ran through the veins of the person she loved most on this earth was as motionless as a frozen fountain in the dead of winter. Sitting cross-legged and holding his head in her lap, she cried, allowing her tears to fall onto his face as she told him again how much she loved being his bride.

  Hollis and Clarence were there with her when the coroner arrived to take his body away from his beloved homeland for the very last time. Katherine managed to say through her t
ears, “Safe travels, my love, until we meet again. You migrated home without me.”

  The funeral was four days later. The initial details all hinged on Savannah’s intent to arrive from Africa, so they were astonished when she chose not to make the trip home to tell Murphy farewell. That alone was heartbreaking for Hollis and Katherine. Savannah believed she could not face burying Murphy and seeing Clark face-to-face. Neither of them could argue that.

  The funeral at St. Thomas was all one would expect for a man of prominence and a great deal more. He was buried in a simple box made of timber taken from his beloved land, crafted by Hollis, Clarence, and Father Drew. The smorgasbord of people in the congregation mingled as one. The tailor-made suit with a monogrammed cuff sat next to another monogram of sorts, a uniform displaying the Waffle House insignia. The faces in the crowd were a sea of shades of white and black and brown and red. The ages were a continuum of infant to elderly. The vehicles in the parking lot ranged from work trucks to limousines. Katherine knew the gathered crowd of mourners served as a beautiful representation of the man who loved them all. In the strongest voice she could muster, Katherine addressed the massive, varied crowd.

  “We are united this day because of our love for the man we all referred to as Murphy, upon his insistence. Mr. McGregor was entirely too formal a name for him, although he was immensely proud of his Irish heritage, as you well know. I think the reason so many have congregated today is because each of you had a genuine relationship with him. Murphy had a way of conveying how special we were to him, every single one. If you were the cashier who rang up his groceries, he called you by name and asked about your family because he had listened to your response just a week or two before and now he wanted an update. If you came to our farm to work on a leaky pipe, he made arrangements for you to return with your children before the week’s end so they could catch some large-mouth bass. And you somehow knew he would be crushed if you didn’t take him up on the offer. Look around you. You were just as important to Murphy as the person sitting on your left and your right. It’s possible you might have already sized up the person sitting next to you and perhaps surmised you have nothing in common with them. If so, that’s how you differ from Murphy. He found something in common with every single person he met. Some of you might have been seated with him as a lobbyist at a dinner table in Washington, D.C., and he earnestly wanted to know your feelings on the matter at hand, not what your company or your political party expected you to say, but what you thought deep in your core. Some of you sat down to dinner with him in a crowded diner in a small town anywhere in America. His sincerity of wanting to share his table with you was irresistible, and before you parted at the end of the meal, you had exchanged names, numbers and addresses. You always received a Christmas card from him. Then he would check on you anytime he drove back through your small town.