by Sam Halpern
When the last day of March come around, we were ready to move. We had our furniture and everything packed into a great big truck which Dad had gotten use of as part of the deal for the farm. We had sold off most of our farm equipment since we were going to be farming with a tractor now, and what small amount of livestock we had was going to be hauled separate.
Things were set to leave early the next morning. I was real low. I figured we were leaving Berman’s forever and I was going to miss it so much. Also, I wudn’t going to get to see Fred before we left. It was toward evening when I decided to wander around the farm and take one last look. I went to the tobacco barn, and sheep barn, then down to the tenant house, which was empty now because Radar and his family had gone back to the mountains. I looked at the volcano hill and thought about not seeing it again. It hit me then that I didn’t realize how much I liked that hill. I could see little patches of green and knew that by mid-April everything would be lush and the cows and sheep would just be eating themselves silly.
I walked back to the house, and instead of going through the yard, I went through the barnyard gate for a last look inside the barn. I pushed the door and flipped on the electric. Boy, did it look lonesome. I wandered on past the stalls until I come to the back doors, pushed one out, and stuck my head through. I couldn’t believe what I saw. There was Fred, sitting on the top rail of the same gate where I first met him. He had heard the door squeak when I pushed it and turned his butt so he could face me. We just kind of stared at each other, then I came out of the barn and crawled up on the gate. He looked real old. His face was lined and leather tan from being out so much in the past few weeks. Just like the first time we met he was wearing a bunch of shirts and wore-out Levi’s. He smiled kind of weak and when he did his eyes seemed to sink back in his head.
“How y’ doin’?” he asked, holding on to the top slat and rolling his hands around on it.
“Okay, I reckon. We’re leavin’ tomorra mornin’.”
Fred nodded. “What I heard. Where y’all goin’?”
“Dad and Mom bought a farm up in Indiana. We’re gonna live up there.”
“You seen hit yet?”
“Yeah. Saw it before they bought it.”
“Is hit purty?”
I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t want to tell him it was ugly either. It was my dad’s farm, and he thought it was beautiful, and I didn’t want Dad to feel bad if he ever heard what I said. “Not as pretty as it’s gonna be when we get it all fixed up.”
“What’s hit like?”
“Flat as a stomped-on toad frog. Ain’t more’n two, three trees on it. But they’re pretty. No elm, though. Good thing I’m not makin’ slingshots anymore. You doin’ okay?”
Fred pursed his lips together and looked out at the pasture, which was pretty much still bare with little patches of green here and there and some rotting snow where the sun had a hard time getting to it. “I’m doin’ okay . . . little better.”
“That’s good,” I said.
There were so many things I wanted to say. Fred and his family had hard times coming and I was leaving and couldn’t do anything about them. This deep, heavy feeling come up in my chest like somebody mashing my heart. “What y’all gonna do, Fred?”
Fred reached into an inside shirt pocket and come out with a sack of Life Everlasting and some brown paper sack and offered me a slip which I took. After we rolled our cigarettes and lit up, he took a deep puff and blew it out slow. “Don’t know, Samuel. Mr. Berman come by th’ other day and said we had t’ move. He said he was sorry, but he hada have a tenant and I wudn’t able t’ do everything a man could yet . . . especially missin’ my finger.”
A lump come in my throat big as an apple and I had to wait to talk. After I fought back the lump I said, “Where y’all gonna go?”
“Ain’t sure,” he said, shaking his head slow. “Annie Lee said she knew a place in Spears behind some restaurant. Figure she and WK used hit some if y’ know what I mean. She said if we fixed hit up ourselves and she took a job waitin’ tables and me takin’ dirty dishes to th’ kitchen, th’ restaurant people might let us live in hit free.”
There was a little quiet spell, then Fred turned and looked into my eyes. “Samuel, I’m sorry I didn’t come t’ your door t’ say goodbye, but somehow I just couldn’t. You’re my best friend, and I ain’t never gonna have another one like you. After you and me and my fambly’s straightened out, I want us t’ get together. Hit might be a few years but we’re gonna do hit.”
Boy, did I have a lump in my throat now. I was gonna cry for dang sure and I hated it. I looked down at the ground until I thought I could at least say something without bawling. “You my best friend . . . too . . . Fred. We did a lot of things together, and I’ll never . . . forget . . . you. It’s a long way from here t’ our farm, but I’m gonna get back. One of these times I’m gonna get back and we’ll have a big time t’gether. You’ll see. Whenever you want t’ see me, just let me know and I promise I’ll come runnin’.”
Fred nodded. “I promise you too,” then he eased off the gate. He put one hand on the gate’s top and stuck his other between the slats and we shook. “G’bye old buddy. Tell your folks I said hi and thanks for bein’ s’ good t’ us.”
“G’bye Fred,” I croaked. “Tell your folks I said g’bye too, and that I’ll miss ’em.”
I watched him walk until he topped the rise and went into the hickory and locust grove. I felt like crying, but then I thought, this wudn’t the end. We were going to be seeing each other off and on all our lives. This was just the start of something different. That made me feel a lot better.
Early the next morning we drove out of the gate to our lane and headed for Indiana.
49
I had been driving aimlessly since leaving the university, consumed with memories. I was outside Lexington when I saw a fence row with a type of wild floribunda rose. The farmer on whose fence the roses were growing helped me pick an armload, then I took off, thanking him profusely. Now I knew exactly what I was going to do.
My journey to the Blue Hole took a slow, circuitous route as I checked mailbox after mailbox, still hunting for a name I recognized. No luck. I parked the car at the end of the blacktop and walked through the corn growing on the Little Bend’s high bottoms. The blades were already tall and brushed my shoulders. The farmer had planted close to the edge of the cliff and I was careful not to step into a hundred feet of air.
Finally, the high bottom cliff flattened and I turned toward the river feeling certain I was now below the level of the sandbar. When I reached the water, all I could see, up or down the bank, was ordinary mud. The sandbar no longer existed, victim, I guessed, of a heavy flood.
I walked upstream toward the Blue Hole. As I got closer, I started feeling anxious. I had promised myself I wouldn’t search for tracks, but to no avail. I would scold myself, then immediately start searching again. A lifetime later and my subconscious wouldn’t let go. Sweat was pouring down my face and my T-shirt was soaked. I glanced at my watch. One o’clock. It had to be a hundred degrees and the heat coming off the sand carried hot wet moisture that almost drowned me. No air was moving and the only sounds were the hum of insects.
Then I reached the little knoll. It rose small but proud above the brooding, pool-stage river. I climbed to the top and gazed at its fabled companion. The Blue Hole was absolutely still. Its water looked cool and inviting. I squinted toward the sun, a giant hazy ball of fire—Kentucky in July. Upriver, the brush-clad limestone cliffs and wide, green, mangrove-covered low bottoms shimmered through the heat waves. It reminded me of an impressionist painting.
I looked again at the Blue Hole. Its surface reflected the sky and cumulus clouds . . . cool, enchanted . . . waiting. All right, I thought, enough procrastination, do what you came here to do. I worked my way through the brush and when I reached the pool’s edge, stared at my reflection. My immature cataracts made the image fuzzy so I eased onto my knees.
> Hello, Cap’n Rhett, you gray-haired, half-bald, alta kocker!
Then I remembered the picture. I got my wallet out of the hip pocket of my jeans and began digging through credit cards, family pictures, and assorted junk. Yep, there was ten-year-old Samuel Zelinsky. Skinny, long-faced, big-nosed, and trumpet-eared, with shaggy hair and heavy eyebrows that shaded bright, laughing eyes and an impish smile. I held the picture next to my reflection. Little shit was better-looking than me.
I scanned the Blue Hole. It was amazingly beautiful, but in my mind a skeleton hand still lurked in its depths. I felt shaky. I knew what he would say—did say—and my life experiences confirmed he had been correct. It was time to conquer my fear and pay him honors.
I stripped naked. “This swim is for you, Ben,” I whispered. Then, against every instinct, I plunged headfirst into the water.
I felt like I was immersed in an ice bath. Everything was dark and mysterious. The dark terrified me. Then I realized my eyes were closed. I opened them and looked about. The walls were straight up and down. I kicked hard and went deeper. I couldn’t see the bottom even when the pressure hurt my ears. I could feel a cold upwelling; the pool was definitely spring-fed.
Air hunger forced me to ascend and by the time I reached the surface I was so in need of breath that my gasps hurt my lungs. I felt great! A conquering hero! “I’m here, Ben!” I shouted. “I’m swimming in it. I came back and I’m swimming in it. Samuel Zelinsky, Ben. You said I would someday and I have. I love you, Ben! God bless you wherever you are!”
The way back to the car was not easy, but incredibly enough, I didn’t look for tracks. I walked downstream and, instead of returning as I came, turned inland as soon as the cliffs became low enough that I could labor my way to the high bottoms. I was immediately in a cornfield. This corn was taller than what I had walked through previously, the leaves up to my eyes and the tassels over my head. Then I made the mistake of taking what I thought was a shortcut. One cornfield led into another until I was lost and drenched in sweat from the awful heat. I decided the only logical way back to the car was to walk down the rows.
I had covered quite a distance when the corn row ended at a clearing about twenty feet across. A large stone stood in the center of the clearing with neatly clipped bluegrass surrounding it. I circled the marker and discovered a profusion of flowers growing on what I knew to be Alfred’s grave. The Millers had promised to care for it and sixty years later somebody was making good their word. I found a pebble and put it on the stone.
I left the grave, walked into the next cornfield, and eventually came to Cuyper Creek. So much for dead reckoning. The stream was wider than I remembered. I stripped again and waded in. It turned out to be deeper too and I had to swim on my back to the other bank holding my wallet and clothes in the air, but I really enjoyed the cool water.
The drive down the Dry Branch Road was made on mental autopilot. My thoughts were of Ben. He had taught me so much. He rejected conventional thinking and demanded well-considered decisions as the path to action. You didn’t stop if it became hard. And you ignored people’s criticisms. Yet all I knew about Ben was what he presented to me. He took what he felt in his heart about his past to his grave. I wondered how often he thought about killing his wife and her lover and how much he had to have agonized about deserting his son. I remember the leaves he had arranged to look like a boy. And I could feel his arms around my body and hear his words, “I love you, Samuel.” The anguish he felt during those twelve years after the murders must have been horrible.
The blacktop of the Dry Branch Road had been extended past where the school bus had turned around and now ended at the last tree of the oak grove. I parked and stood among the oak titans, mesmerized by the thin beams of undulating light that filtered through the canopy. At the foot of the oaks, a cornfield stretched to the river covering the area where the melon patch had grown. I got out my floribunda, circled the field until I came to the river, and from there downstream to distant trees. Then I saw it. The sycamore! Smaller than my oak friends, but proud and largely leafed. I ran my hands over the sycamore’s trunk. It had grown mightier, but the river was undermining its roots. Eventually it would succumb to floodwaters. The thought made me sad. Then I noticed a chain around its trunk. Tethered to the other end of the chain was a skiff.
I found it difficult to breathe. When my emotions righted themselves, I took another bearing. I remembered the graves being about two hundred feet from the sycamore. With the floribunda under one arm, I used my free arm to move through the corn.
The clearing appeared as if by magic. I put the basket down and stared at the mighty stone that marked the grave, and flanking it the two flat rocks marking the graves of Cain and Abel. It was obvious that someone was meticulously caring for the graves.
I had visited this place innumerable times as a child, each visit one of tears and sorrow. Now I was returning like a surviving soldier, many years into his dotage, to the marker of a buddy who had fallen on a grenade and made that inexpressibly courageous exchange of his life for those of his comrades.
I spread most of the floribunda on Ben’s grave, then divided the remainder between the dogs’. I felt terrible grief. My sorrow wasn’t only for Ben; it was also for me. I had reached the end of my life dissatisfied. The visit to the world of my childhood had held up a devastating mirror that reflected my failures. I didn’t fit in—anywhere! I never made even one real friend during four years at Harlan Jeffords High. I didn’t fit in at Collingwirth either. NYU, the same. I had acquaintances on the Leland-May faculty, had helped many of them in their careers, but not one stood by me in my time of need. There was only my family.
Where were all my true friends? The ones I should have laughed and argued with, the ones who would mourn my death not for my accomplishments, but because my passing broke their hearts? I had made two close friends, Ben and Fred, and abandoned them both. Why? Because this part of my past was filled with pain and I didn’t want to hurt anymore? Because I had delayed so long that I couldn’t face Fred? I had fears, but I didn’t think I was a coward. How had I let it happen?
Others were not totally blameless for my failures, I thought. Ben and Fred and this community had collectively fashioned me to live life among them, not in my new world. My rigid convictions of right and wrong, convictions ingrained in me by these very people and this strange land by the river, partly determined my path. I had lived in two different worlds and they had different rules. I had never been able to free myself from the philosophy drummed into me during my childhood. In my soul I had believed that philosophy to be true. I still did! Ben Begley, the man I now mourned, was a triple murderer, yet I loved him. He gave his life partly for a community to which he owed nothing. I understood why he sacrificed himself. God forgive me, I now thought he was right to end his life as he did because “society” would have executed my hero had they known his past. Then again, maybe not. My odd sense of justice might have been seconded by the people who raised his marker, seeing him as I did, a man lifted from disgrace by confronting the evil that had cowed the community. The world in which I chose to live my adult life just hung labels. He was a murderer! The appearance of good was good and received accolades regardless of its verity; the fallen were damned forever so society needn’t consider the whole of their humanity! Somehow, I had lived a paradox, and the result was a less peaceful and possibly a less happy life than I could have attained had I not been so conflicted.
I placed a stone on the monolith and said a prayer over the graves, wondering if the God in whom I didn’t believe accepted prayers from those like me who pondered the confused existence of the species he had made in his image.
A huge river fly landed on my face, and as I swatted it away, I became aware again of the heat. Sweat trickled from my forehead into the corners of my eyes. I took off my baseball cap and wiped my face, then gulped down half my bottle of water. I felt like a man straddling time, part of me in the 1940s, the other part in the twenty-
first century. Something was missing between the halves, something that couldn’t be filled by awards, money, or even Nora. I needed those things of my distant past—the human beings with whom I had shared this imperfect place. Canaan land, complete with heroes and Philistine metaphors. Without them, I wasn’t whole.
I stared at Ben’s grave. Six feet under that carefully groomed bluegrass lay the mostly cremated remains of a man I had loved as much as my father. If I could thrust my arms through the ground and bring him to the surface whole and in the quick, I knew what I would I say to him. Without willing myself, I began talking aloud, trying to control my voice.
“Ben, I’ve journeyed sixty years through a strange life, out of step with everybody except my wife. I’ve been successful but lonely, and now, in my old age, I’m disappointed. I’ve never known what was bothering me, but now I know part of the answer.”
I pulled a weed from the edge of the grave. “I love you, Ben,” I whispered. “I wish I hadn’t stayed away so long. Perhaps you remember, I’m prone to that. Forgive me, and if there is a God, may he forgive us both.”
The heat left me parched and I drank the remaining water. I felt better. This had to be what Nora hoped would happen. She wasn’t sure of the answers I’d find but she understood that some of my angst lay between the two great bends of the river.
50
I turned to leave and was startled by the presence of a tall, thin, old man, standing in a corn row watching me. He was wearing Levi’s, a blue, long-sleeved work shirt, and a straw hat. His face was angular, with big ears and a prominent nose. In his right hand was a hoe. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either. I wondered if he had heard me speaking aloud. I approached him to explain why I was in what figured to be his cornfield. As I neared, his eyes remained fixed on the top of my baseball cap. I was struck with perfect clarity. “Hello, Melvin.”
