by Sam Halpern
“What are you interested in teaching?”
“I had thought th’ early grades, but lately, more about high school,” she answered, turning back to the hamburgers and shoveling them onto toasted buns.
“What courses?”
She turned toward me again, this time with a grin on her face. “Literature. The UK students that come out of Eastern Kentucky are all hot to get into somethin’ that’s goin’ t’ make them a living. I don’t blame them. I’m in favor of using college for a better life. But they leave with an engineering degree and they’ve never even heard of Harriette Arnow or Jesse Stuart and they were great Kentucky writers. They’ll never read them or any other great writer unless they get introduced to them before college.”
“Where did you get your interest in literature?”
“At the orphanage,” she answered, turning back to her work. “Not from th’ people who ran it. The thanks go t’ Aunt Jen. She went to college for two years. She reads all th’ time, and even has Uncle Melvin readin’ when there isn’t a basketball game on TV. She checked out hundreds of books from th’ library for me over th’ years and delivered them during her visits. I used to lie in bed at night and read until lights out. I got straight A’s in high school in my English and literature courses. I like t’ write too, but I’m not very good.”
“Jenny and Melvin have been very important to you, haven’t they?”
Lisa June didn’t answer, instead she seemed to pour energy into making the home fries.
The food was good, but our conversation had ended. I decided that my question about the Langleys had hit an unhealed wound. “Lisa, I’m sorry about touching a sensitive spot.”
A weak smile returned to Lisa June’s face. “You don’t have to apologize, what you said was true. I just have a hard time accepting that th’ only people who’ve ever given a damn about me are Jenny and Melvin Langley. Not one drop of their blood is in me. I have a mother out West who has never written me a postcard. I have a great-aunt th’ same way. Do you know why I refused to go t’ any more foster homes?”
I suspected what was coming and didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want more guilt. It was Fred I had abandoned, dammit, not Lisa June! “No.”
“Because the menfolk put their hands in my britches as soon as their wives weren’t looking. I was going t’ get pregnant and people were goin’ t’ say I was trash. I thought all my folks were trash until you told me your stories.”
There it was, and to add to it, Lisa June’s hands went to her face and she began to cry. “You know what it’s like . . . t’ think you come from trash? Cheap white trash!”
I felt horrible. I got out of my chair, walked around the table, and lightly placed my hands on her shoulders. I wanted to hug her, but I couldn’t. This was too much, too much. I couldn’t give any more. Suddenly, Lisa June rose from the chair, wrapped her arms around my chest, and cried. I stroked her hair and her back, and as I did, I thought about Thelma Jean. I had felt sorry for Thelma Jean, but I felt caring, compassion, hurt . . . I felt . . . I didn’t know what . . . for Lisa June.
When she let go of me, she sat down again, then wiped her eyes. “I don’t generally do that,” she said, sniffing back tears. “Don’t feel sorry for me, I can’t stand it.”
I returned to my own chair, my mind in turmoil. I wanted to say things to comfort her, but nothing came out. Then words just began flooding from me. “Lisa June, you’re not trash. You . . . you’re a wonderful person. I am so proud of you. Your family wasn’t trash either. I understand your pain concerning your mother and father, but there were many good people in your family. I’d like to tell you more about your family. Little things that I haven’t covered.”
When she nodded, I knew immediately that I had passed the point in our relationship of friendship, college funding, and advisor. This girl meant something special to me.
55
I spoke for two hours about things so small I couldn’t believe I remembered them. Whenever I thought I had nothing left to say, Lisa June would ask a question, it would trigger something in my memory, and I was off on another story. Finally, she began clearing the table. “Aunt Jen and Uncle Melvin don’t speak of th’ things you tell me. I never thought I’d hear anything good about my great-aunt Annie Lee.”
“Jenny and Melvin don’t know most of th’ things I’ve told you! I understand why you judge Annie Lee harshly, but she carries terrible wounds. She probably ran away from bein’ a Mulligan because she wanted a second chance. Another life.”
Lisa June scraped the dishes, then returned to her chair, put her elbows on the table, and took a sip of coffee. “Do you know where Grandpa Fred’s buried?”
I thought the question odd. “Jenny and Melvin said your mom cremated him.”
“That’s what she told them, but it isn’t true. Grandpa had a little piece of property that Mom knew about, but somehow th’ county didn’t. One day th’ company I work for had me check records on somebody buried in potter’s field and I came across the name Fred Cody Mulligan. Mom let him be buried there so she could sell th’ property, keep th’ money, and not have t’ pay for a funeral. Potter’s field is just outside Lexington. Would you like t’ go?”
I felt weak. “Yes, please.”
Two days later, Lisa June and I stood beside a numbered stone peg, one of hundreds that dotted a large open field. From a distance the pegs looked like rows of tiny soldiers. I placed the flowers I was carrying on the grave, and cried. When I stopped crying, Lisa June asked, “Would you like to be alone with him?”
I shook my head. “Not now. He was religious, though. I think he’d like it if we said th’ Twenty-third Psalm.”
Lisa June thought for a few seconds. “I remember a little. You start.”
I choked up as I started. “The . . . Lord is . . . my shepherd . . .”
After we left the grave, I asked Lisa June why she had never told Jenny and Melvin where Fred was buried.
She didn’t answer immediately. We were in the car when she said, “I thought about tellin’ them, then I decided Grandpa’s grave was all I had of my family. Th’ only thing personal I would ever have of the Mulligans. I wanted it to be just mine.”
“Why did you decide to tell me?”
“Because I think Grandpa would have wanted you to know,” she said softly. “Samuel, I love Aunt Jen and Uncle Melvin and they might be hurt if they knew I told you and not them. I’d appreciate your not sayin’ anything.”
“I won’t. Is it okay though if I visit th’ grave ever’ now and then?”
Lisa June smiled. “That’s fine. Y’all have some catchin’ up t’ do.”
We did, and over time that took place. “You don’t own anything that belonged to your Grandpa, do you?”
“My DNA.”
“Somethin’ you can get your hands on?”
“Are you talkin’ about somethin’ Grandpa Fred gave you?”
“Actually, no. It’s things that belonged to both Fred and me. Interested?”
Lisa June giggled. “You sly old fox, what have you got up your sleeve?”
“If you answer yes, you’ll find out.”
She laughed. “All right, yes!”
I turned at the next corner and pointed the BMW toward Old Cuyper Creek Pike.
Our first stop was a hardware store in Spears where I bought two shovels, a grubbing hoe, and two pairs of gloves. Lisa June kept asking me questions about what we were going to do and I would answer with a wink and a grin.
By the time we got to Cummings Hill, the shadows were lengthening. I looked at the top of the hill, which was probably three hundred yards from where we stood. About a third of the way to the top, trees began. At first, there were just a few trees, but at the top they became an oak forest. At first I didn’t recognize any landmarks. Then I saw a giant oak near the top of the hill. Perhaps a hundred feet below the sentinel oak was a slightly smaller oak. Nothing else in that direction even approached the two in size. Those had to
be the trees Fred had selected. I lined them up and lay my shovel handle as the third point for my first coordinate.
As I worked, I glimpsed Lisa June. She was sitting on the hillside holding her knees with a bemused look on her face, occasionally shaking her head and chuckling.
For the other coordinate Fred had chosen a big pine tree on the pond side of the hill. One large pine dwarfed the many smaller pines. I decided the large pine was the one Fred had chosen as a horizontal landmark, but there was nothing to line it up with because the oak was gone. Without it, I had no idea how to complete my triangulation. I wandered over to a limestone outcropping and sat, letting my legs dangle over the edge.
Lisa June joined me. “Problems?”
I sighed. “Lisa June, I’m afraid somethin’ has destroyed one of th’ landmarks your grandfather used for finding our treasure.”
Lisa June, nudged me with her shoulder. “It’s all right. I’d have liked to have somethin’ that belonged t’ him, but th’ memories you gave me are more important than whatever you and he hid away. Let’s go have dinner, I’m hungry.”
I didn’t feel like eating. I was no more than a few hundred feet from the only remaining relic from my best friend’s life to which I had a true connection, and it was being denied me. Was this my final punishment for abandoning him, for letting him die alone in despair? God had eternity in which to punish me, why disgrace me in front of Fred’s granddaughter? We walked toward the equipment that lay strung out like a dashed line. The moment I reached for one of the shovels, I had an epiphany. I returned to the rock ledge. When I reached it, I studied the angle it made with the line that ran down the hill. The ledge was thick. Bedrock, probably covered for millions of years until erosion uncovered it over the past sixty. Bedrock that Fred and I encountered when we buried the slingshots. I took a sighting down the ledge.
“Lisa June,” I called, “get th’ shovel that’s farthest up th’ hill and bring it down ’til I tell you t’ stop.”
Minutes later the shovel marked a spot and we began digging. We hit rock in less than two feet. I decided we should extend our dig uphill. An hour and a half later we were still digging, then my shovel point hit what sounded like metal. I put the shovel aside and scraped with the broad end of the grubbing hoe. Remnants of gunnysack appeared in the growing darkness. I freed the box and tore away the rotted cloth.
The lunch box was badly rusted and my shovel had crashed through one edge. My hands were shaking as I pried the box open.
There they were, the rubber and leather shriveled and barely recognizable, but the wooden handles were still intact. I recognized mine, picked it up and rolled it around in my hand. It felt good. I put it back in the box and picked up Fred’s. It was all I had of my best friend. Then I remembered Lisa June and passed the handle to her. “Your grandfather made this over sixty years ago. When we buried them he said we would never make slingshots for ourselves again, only for our children. We had a pact that someday we’d come back and dig them up together.”
My voice broke. “Fred’s slingshot was his most prized possession. It’s yours now.”
The tears flowed from both of us as we held each other. A young woman and an old man had both found part of their past.
56
I canceled my reservations for New Hampshire. For the next few weeks, Lisa June and I spent a lot of time together. UK was between sessions and she was taking some vacation from her day job. We walked through the world of my childhood, Berman’s, the Shackelford place, the graves of her family, and, of course, the Blue Hole, where we went swimming. I made elm poles and we fished where the four of us had caught the buffalo.
It was a wonderful time of year, the oaks and maples were slightly turning and the sky had a hint of October blue. It was a wonderful time for me too. One day Lisa June and I picnicked under the sweet apple tree. When we finished eating I was full and happy and stretched out on my back with my head propped up on a tree root. “Guess what I did yesterday?”
Lisa June was sitting against the tree’s trunk, her jean-covered legs crossed. “I wouldn’t be surprised at anything after watchin’ you drive up in a new car. What?”
“Put a down payment on a little piece of property this side of Spears.”
Lisa June’s mouth fell open and her eyes lit up. “What’s it like!”
“Beautiful land, not so good house. Kind of a cross between Walden and a moonshiner’s paradise.”
Lisa June’s head went backward, and she laughed loudly. “That description could only come from a literature professor. I can’t wait t’ hear th’ details.”
I turned my head toward her. “Two weeks ago, I saw an ad for six and a half acres. It’s heavily wooded. Th’ only road in is a gravel lane. The house sets in a little clearing. There’s a big pond surrounded by trees that I’m going to stock with bass. Wanta see it?”
Lisa June got to her feet so quickly she startled me. “Samuel Zelinsky, you take me there right now!”
The trees that bordered the lane to my house were tall and blocked a lot of light, making it difficult to see the gravel beneath the weeds. My new Ford must have thought it had died and gone to automotive hell as it plunged in and out of chuckholes.
“This is beautiful, just beautiful,” Lisa June kept saying, clapping her hands and grabbing my shoulder and shoving me back and forth sideways.
“Wait’ll you see my abode.”
We rounded an oak and the lane ended. Lisa June began laughing. The house was a step up from present day Berman’s, but it was a small step.
“Whadayathink?” I asked.
“The house is a wreck, but this forest is so beautiful. Where’s th’ pond? When are you gonna build a new house? It should be a cabin . . . th’ furniture should be rustic, built like they did in th’ early years in th’ Kentucky Mountains. This place is just too beautiful for words. Just too beautiful,” and she spun like a ballerina across the grass, holding her arms straight out.
“Come on, I’ll show you th’ pond,” I called.
We walked past the house and into the trees. Shortly, we were beside a small lake nestled among the timber. A meadowlark trilled, then it became very quiet. “Like it?”
“Oh my God, yes!” Lisa June whispered and she stood as though transfixed.
“I like your idea for a cabin. Soon as escrow closes, I’ll meet with an architect. I’d like to move in by next September. Spend the fall here.”
Lisa June’s face lost expression.
“What?” I asked.
When Lisa June answered, her voice reminded me of a little girl’s. “Aren’t you going to move to Kentucky permanently?”
I shook my head. “Spring and fall. Summer and winter with my kids and grandkids. New Hampshire is beautiful in winter and th’ whole family skis. In summer, I can take th’ grandkids trout fishin’. I’ll spend spring and fall with you and th’ Langleys and Kentucky. I’m th’ man who has everything.”
What happened next was an eruption Vesuvius could envy. “Oh sure! Everything’s dandy for you. What about me? You go back to your kids and grandkids and see me in your spare time! Just what am I to you anyway! You come here and get tight with Aunt Jen and Uncle Melvin so you can spend time with th’ little orphan girl? So you can feel less guilty about having let your best friend kill himself? That’s what I am to you, isn’t it, your highway out of th’ guilt swamp. After that I’m nothin’! T’ hell with you! Go back t’ your damn family!”
With that, Lisa June Winchester ran out of the woods.
I felt . . . I’m not sure what adjective fits. Devastated? Destroyed? I just stood there as she disappeared. The worst fears of Jenny, Melvin, and me had come to pass. I walked into the trees in a daze, trying to understand how I had allowed this to happen. Then came a question: What was Lisa June to me? I stopped walking, leaned against a maple, and waited while my mind played with the issue.
I was probably there half an hour when I heard a twig snap. I looked up and there was Lisa Ju
ne. Her eyes were red and a mask of anguish covered her face. She looked so much like Fred when he was hurt that it frightened me. She walked toward me with tentative steps until we were a couple of feet apart.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m such a bitch. You’ve been wonderful to me and th’ last thing you deserved was th’ crap I just laid on you. I was just so jealous. I wanted you to myself. You to be my grandpa. I know you’re not my grandpa, but I . . . I . . . Can you ever forgive me?”
I took one step forward and she lunged into my arms. I stroked her hair while she cried and squeezed my chest. I was still trying to understand what I felt. The only answer I was sure of was that somehow, I loved this child. Was it as much as I felt for my kids? I didn’t know. Why the hell did I have to quantify everything anyway? I untangled us but held on to her arms. “Lisa June, I’m not good at expressing my emotions, but I’m gonna try in my own way. Promise me if I screw this up that you won’t run away from me again. That you’ll let me explain. Can you promise me that?”
Lisa June answered with a nod.
“I told you about th’ death of Ben, th’ time in his cabin when he was mortally wounded. I told him that I loved him before I ran out th’ door for help. Earlier in our friendship he had said th’ same thing t’ me but I couldn’t say it back to him. I’m sure that I did love him, but I just couldn’t say it for some reason. It took his being minutes from death for me be able t’ tell him that. I don’t want that t’ happen now. I love you, Lisa June. I don’t know how much or anything else, just that I love you and I want to be as much grandfather as I can be to you until I die. That’s all I know, Lisa. I hope that’s enough.”
Lisa June gave me a bear hug. “I love you too. Thanks for puttin’ up with me . . . Grandpa.”
Our arms went to our sides, then we stood looking at each other. Neither of us knew where things went from here. Then I heard myself say, “You ever been in New Hampshire?”
