Sandrine turned away from the midwife and walked over to them. Jed was sitting in a chair, holding his head in his hands. He looked up into her searching eyes and nodded.
“Yes, I will, too.”
***
“Bonjour, Madame,” the old immigration officer at Orly Airport in Paris said, smiling as he took the passport the woman had just handed him. “Bonjour, Monsieur,” he nodded to the young man next to her. Suddenly, his eyes took on a new brightness as he looked at the passport.
“Ah. Welcome home, Madame Farthing. You have been away a long time. Your country has missed you,” he said to Sandrine in French.
“Oui, and I have missed it, very much,” she said back to him, glad to be speaking her own language again, her eyes filling with tears.
The old immigration officer took the passport from the man standing next to her. “Bonjour, Monsieur Austrailien,” he said to Jed with a slight sneer, then reached over to peek into the little blue blanket the woman held so delicately in her arms as she handed him another passport.
“Ah bonjour, ma petit fils de France, Monsieur Bram Farthing,” he said looking at the passport, nodding and smiling at the baby boy with a head full of bright red hair. “He will be raised a good son of France, n’est pas?” the old inspector asked, looking up at Sandrine.
She looked at Jed for the answer. Seeing the love in her eyes that she had for both of them, he just nodded. He loved them both so much; she could have whatever she wanted, all that mattered was that she was happy and that he could be near them, wherever it was.
Sandrine looked back to the old inspector, her face radiant. “Oui, he will be raised a good son of France, Monsieur,” she said, the pride of new motherhood and returning home for good seeming to make her glow.
“Tres bon! Felicitations,” the old inspector said with a twinkle in his eye as he stamped their passports. “Welcome home, ma petit fils de France,” he said, taking one last look at the child and handing the passports back to Jed as they passed through the gate.
Outside the immigration post, Jed walked Sandrine and the baby over to a bank of seats along the exit wall. “You rest here. I’ll go get the bags and some carts and be right back, okay?” he said, leaning over to kiss her before heading down the baggage claim ramp.
Sandrine was tired. The long journey to London, then the flight to Paris combined with all the excitement of coming home with her new baby was taking its toll. She sat down with a sigh, looking down into the opening in the little blue blanket. The baby’s eyes were open, turned up at the ends and such a beautiful green; his father’s eyes.
“What a beautiful little boy,” Sandrine heard in an American accent come from the seat beside her. She looked up. A young girl dressed in retro style hippy clothes was sitting beside her smiling, long dark brown hair and beautiful green eyes; strangely familiar.
“Yes, he is. Thank you. But I guess all mother’s think their babies are beautiful,” Sandrine said shyly.
“Is he your first?” the girl asked.
“Yes, and to tell you the truth, I’m a little nervous. I want more than anything to be a good mother,” Sandrine replied, blushing to think she could feel so open with a stranger.
“Well, don’t you worry a bit. You’re going to be a wonderful mother,” the girl said confidently, peeking again into the little blue blanket then looking back up to Sandrine.
“Do you really think so?” Sandrine asked, a sense of peace washing over her with the comfort she got from the girl’s words.
“Yes, I’m sure of it. You have home in your heart. I can tell, and that’s all that really matters,” the girl said touching Sandrine’s face lovingly.
“Sandrine, who are you talking to?” Jed’s voice came from her other side. She turned toward him.
“This nice girl…” Sandrine said turning back to the seat next to her.
“What girl?” Jed said, looking at the empty seat.
The End
Simon’s Song
We'll do it all Everything On our own We don't need Anything Or anyone
If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
I don't quite know How to say How I feel Those three words Are said too much They're not enough
If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world? Forget what we're told Before we get too old Show me a garden that's bursting into life
Let's waste time Chasing cars Around our heads I need your grace To remind me To find my own
If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Forget what we're told Before we get too old Show me a garden that's bursting into life
All that I am All that I ever was Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all that I can see I don't know where Confused about how as well Just know that these things will never change for us at all
If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Chasing Cars,
As performed by Snow Patrol (2007)
Jack’s Song
Good night my angel time to close your eyes And save these questions for another day I think I know what you've been asking me I think you know what I've been trying to say
I promised I would never leave you And you should always know Where ever you may go No matter where you are I never will be far away
Good night my angel now it's time to sleep And still so many things I want to say Remember all the songs you sang for me When we went sailing on an emerald bay
And like a boat out on the ocean I'm rocking you to sleep The water's dark and deep Inside this ancient heart You'll always be a part of me
Goodnight my angel now it's time to dream And dream how wonderful your life will be Someday your child will cry and if you sing this lullaby Then in your heart there will always be a part of me
Someday we'll all be gone But lullabies go on and on They never die that's how you and I will be.
Lullaby (Goodnight My Angel),
As performed by Billy Joel
Mitch’s Song
Time, time, time, see what's become of me While I looked around For my possibilities I was so hard to please But look around, leaves are brown And the sky is a hazy shade of winter Hear the Salvation Army Band Down by the riverside, it's bound to be a better ride Than what you've got planned Carry your cup in your hand And look around, leaves are brown now And the sky is a hazy shade of winter Hang on to your hopes, my friend That's an easy thing to say, but if your hope should pass away It's simply pretend That you can build them again Look around, the grass is high The fields are ripe, it's the springtime of my life Ahhh, seasons change with the scenery Weaving time in a tapestry Won't you stop and remember me (At any convenient time Funny how my memory slips while looking over manuscripts Of unpublished rhyme Drinking my vodka and lime) I look around, leaves are brown now And the sky is a hazy shade of winter
Look around, leaves are brown There's a patch of snow on the ground...
Hazy Shade of Winter,
written by Paul Simon (1972)
as performed by the Bangles (1987)
COMPANY
I spent 20 years tryin' to get out of this place I was looking for something I couldn't replace I was running away from the only thing I've ever known And like a blind dog without a bone I was a gypsy lost in the twilight zone I hijacked a rainbow and crashed into a pot of gold I've been there, done that, I ain't looking back The seeds I've sown, saving dimes, spending too much time on the telephone... Who Says You Can't Go Home Who Says You Can't Go Home There's only one place that calls me one of their own Just a hometown boy, born a rolling stone, Who Says You Can't Go Home Who Says You Can't Go Back Been all around the world and that's a matter of fact There's only one place left I want to go Who Says You Can't Go Home It's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright I went as far as I could, I tried to find a new face There isn't one of these lines that I w
ould erase I left a million miles of memories on that road And every step I take I know that I'm not alone You take the home from the boy, but not the boy from his home These are my streets, the only life I've ever know Who Says You Can't Go Home I've been there, done that, I ain't looking back It's been a long, long road Feels like I've never left, that's how the story goes It doesn't matter where you are Doesn't matter where you go If it's a million miles away or just a mile up the road Take it in, take it with you when you go Who Says You Can't Go Home
Who Says You Can’t Go Home,
As performed by Bon Jovi
From The Author
For anyone who has read Inside A Haunted Mind, you will remember that I used quotes from philosophers through the ages to open every chapter. I did this because I wanted the quotes to act like a Greek chorus to highlight the complexity of the situations and emotions portrayed.
When I sat down to write The Digger’s Rest and created the character of Mitchell Bramson as the son of a 1960s folksinger (drawing on my own love for the period and all that it stood for, including the music), I found myself humming and singing the songs as I wrote, remembering my own growing up and how so much of the way I viewed the world was affected by that music and decided to use the same format; this time with a musical angle, spanning several decades, to reflect how the character of Melanie Woodward colors the action of everything that happens in Digger’s, again intending it to act as a Greek chorus for the actions contained therein.
When I sent it to my editor for an early review, she asked me if I was sure I wanted to do it again because it might be viewed as being my trademark. I hadn’t thought of it that way until she said it, but upon reflection of her question, it came to me. Yes, I was perfectly fine with anyone who reads my work to be able to expect the added cultural levels “my trademark” would add to anything I did, as it would never fail to layer modern perspectives with well over 5,000 years of recorded human history and remind us all that we are not, nor have we ever been, alone in our struggle to understand ourselves, good and bad, right and wrong, flawed and striving, and question where we have been and where we are going in the hope that we would recognize ourselves as the complex and unique creatures known as the “human beings” that we are.
Having said that, for anyone who is not familiar with any of the song quotes used in The Digger’s Rest, I would encourage you to use your IPods, Cell Phones, CDs, Cassettes (or even vinyl record) players (do whatever you can) to seek out these songs, then re-read Digger’s, hum as you go along. Allow yourself to be as enriched, touched, and molded by them as I have been. Some will make you laugh, others may make you cry, but, in the end, isn’t that the true nature of art; what makes us what we are, with the ability to touch others and have a lasting effect on each other through time? Trust me; these songs will stay with you long after you’ve closed the cover.
KPM
The following is an excerpt from Malone’s award-winning Book of the Year: “An Unfinished House”
—————
Chapter One
Cruel Magic
Mike Golden sat quietly on a pallet of bagged mortar in the late autumn sun, bent over with a book in his hand, his lunch half eaten by his side. He heard the sound of footsteps come up behind him. “Reverend Willis!” he said, brightly smiling as he turned his head to see the shiny black face framed with a white collar approaching slowly with the aid of a walking stick.
“I jus’ came by to see how things were goin’, Michael. Sorry I missed you last week. I had a holy roller convention in Newark,” the old man said laughing. “So whatcha readin’ this week, son?”
“It’s called Brideshead Revisited, by an Englishman named Evelyn of all things,” Mike replied, a little embarrassed. He’d spent most of his adult life hiding from the world the fact that he couldn’t get enough English and American literature, and especially the fact that he had to wear glasses to do it. He was a contractor, after all, rough and tough, none too sensitive, and dirty most of the time. It would ruin his image if anyone knew that he was in the middle of reading the Modern Library’s List of the Top 100 Novels of the Century. Only Jane really knew about his passion for books, and understood how he came by it. She was the only one he ever told that it was how he managed to come through the battlefield of shouts, slaps, bellows and screams that was his parents’ marriage; hiding in the laundry room out of the line of fire with a book in his hand.
There he discovered a world where all he ever had to do to escape was to turn the pages, and he’d be transported to some other place, some other time, become somebody else. Otherwise, he was pretty successful at his camouflage. With his black hair shaved, rugged features, outdoor complexion and big, burly build, no one would ever have guessed just by looking at him…but the Reverend Willis was no fool. He knew the old adage about the eyes being the windows to the soul was true.
The old man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small volume. “I thought about you while I was gone,” the Reverend said, handing Mike the book. “I found it in a used book store when I was out one day and couldn’t help but get it for you,” he said smiling with satisfaction. The sun behind him made his black-clothed figure and skin seem like a silhouette. “It’s called Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe.”
Mike took the book and examined it closely. He put his hand out to the Reverend to shake. “Thank you, Reverend,” he said smiling, genuinely touched by the old man’s kindness to him in so many ways.
“You’ve given so much to us here at the church, I wanted to give you somethin’ back so you might better understand who we are and how much your help has meant to us,” Josiah Willis said, putting his hand on Mike’s shoulder. The old man looked into Mike’s sincere blue eyes, the windows to his soul, remembering the first time they met; this big, hulking, Aryan Nation-looking white man with a close cropped black goatee and shaved head coming up fast behind him.
The Reverend was walking to his car after interviewing builders to renovate his old 1870 church at the local Italian restaurant, Bella Angelina. He remembered how frightened he got thinking, Oh Lord, this is it. This man is goin’ to kill me, as he tried to rush with his walking stick toward the safety of his car but the man was too fast. A moment later the man was upon him. The Reverend turned, trapped between the man and the car, putting up his hands, instinctually defensive, almost crying out.
“Reverend Willis?” the big man asked. “I’m Mike Golden from Golden Touch Restorations and Renovations. Sorry I’m late, I almost missed you,” Mike had said, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the old Reverend was obviously scared to death of him.
The minute he heard Mike’s gruff voice with its gentle inflections and saw the almost childlike sincerity in his soft blue eyes, not at all understanding the effect his appearance could have on an old black man, Josiah Willis breathed a sigh of relief. Then when he saw Mike’s smile, he saw what anyone with eyes could see; this big, rough man had a kindness about him, an easy friendliness and openness that couldn’t help but make one take to him instantly. They talked outside of the car for awhile and Mike gave the Reverend his bid numbers and sketches for the work.
Reverend Willis hired him three weeks later. Mike had the lowest bid, the best portfolio and the Reverend just plain liked him. And his choice proved him right. The work Mike had done to restore the old church was exceptional, giving it back a life it had long lost and the fact that Mike hired some of the unemployed men from the church to help do the work and teach them a trade at the same time brought Mike close into their world. The ladies of the church were always bringing him food; Miss Ida Mae Bovee’s fried chicken and biscuits her sister, Miss Gwynnie’s potato salad and roast pork and especially Sister Florence’s fried fish, macaroni and cheese and greens. The best Mike had ever tasted. And every Thursday as he knew he could count on, Sister Florence would pull up into the church parking lot and shout from the car with a large voice that could carry across acres. “Hi, hunee, how’re you?�
��
As Mike and the Reverend walked through the recently completed work, they came to the back of the large, white, one-room church, to the nave behind where the altar would be. The back wall to the nave was covered with a multi- colored, paint-stained tarp. Mike left the Reverend in the vacant altar space and walked up to the tarp, grabbing one end and with a swift tug, yanked the tarp from the window. Reverend Willis gasped and took a step back. The stained glass window he loved but couldn’t afford had been installed while he was gone. “Oh, Michael!” he sighed, covering his mouth with his hand in awe, his eyes filling to overflowing.
“We can’t afford this.”
“It’s already paid for, Reverend,” Mike said, walking over to the old man and standing next to him to enjoy the beauty of the artwork. He put his hand on the Reverend’s shoulder, grinning from ear to ear with pride over his accomplishment.
“I didn’t cut corners either,” he said confidently. “I got the contractor’s ten percent off materials from The Home Depot over in Fennell and twisted the arms of a few of those starving artists over in New Hope to do the glass.” Reverend Willis just stood there, speechless before the sun-illuminated window; John the Baptist, robed in hues of purple, sitting on the edge of the river, radiant in hues of green and blue and staring into the sky, his face bathed in the holy light with yellows and oranges.
When he recovered himself, the Reverend looked at Mike with such an expression of peace and happiness that Mike wanted to take the old man in his big arms and hug him.
“He’s your man, ain’t he?” Mike asked, smiling.
“Michael, you were surely brought to us by God,” the old man said taking Mike’s big, meaty hand and shaking it warmly.
The Digger's Rest Page 35
