by Traci DePree
“Look who’s here!” he said, sitting upright and clapping Paul on the knee. “What brings you to Chattanooga, Paul?” Several heads turned to see who was talking.
“You do, actually,” Paul whispered. “I could use a visit with my old friend, but it looks like you’re enjoying a nice concert.”
Nehemiah’s gray eyes turned toward the piano, and he nodded. “She comes every Wednesday. She’s more punctual than the trains in France. This week it’s ragtime. Last week it was classical. She has a large repertoire.”
The woman who was sitting in a wheelchair closest to the front gave Nehemiah a scorching look, then she added the universal “shushing” signal with index finger to lips.
“Do you want to stay and hear the rest of this, or shall we take our talk elsewhere?” Paul asked.
“Oh, don’t mind her,” Nehemiah said. “She gets bent out of shape by most anything. But maybe we should go talk in the dining room.”
Paul and Nehemiah stood to leave, then weaved their way through the wheelchairs and walkers that dotted the room. Despite his age, Nehemiah still got around without the aid of either. He said it was simply his stubborn nature not to submit to such contraptions, but Paul was sure it was that same stubborn nature that made him as fit as he was. He still walked two miles every day, either outside when the weather permitted or on the treadmills the facility had in its physical-therapy section. He also faithfully followed the vitamin regimen his wife, Rose, put him on years before when she was alive. And every morning he did the calisthenics routine he’d first learned in the navy during World War II.
In part, his example was the reason Paul had taken up running. It wasn’t that he wanted to live as long as Nehemiah. The old man was always sure to remind him that “to die is gain.” The thing that inspired Paul was the quality of life the man still enjoyed.
The two men made their way to the dining room, which was directly behind the piano room. It had several tables with white cloths; each table had already been set for the next meal. The room extended off the back of the building so that there were banks of windows on three sides, and it overlooked a pond where swans and geese made their home in the warm months. Paul could see children on the opposite bank playing in the melting snow.
Paul chose a table nearest the back window and sat facing the view. “Is this good?” Paul asked.
“Perfect.” Nehemiah settled into his seat. Then he pointed toward the door to the kitchen, where a coffee station was set up. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all,” Paul said. “Still take it the same way?”
Nehemiah nodded.
Paul got up to make two cups of coffee. He returned with the steaming cups and took his chair.
“Those kids play there all the time,” Nehemiah said, his eyes still fixed on the children outside the window. “Makes me wish I had some snow pants.” His smile belied his words. “Still, it’s good to watch them having fun. Sometimes I wonder if they don’t play there just to give us old folks a show.”
His statement reminded Paul of the Wilson brothers. He cleared his throat and said, “That brings me to one of the reasons I came to see you today, Nehemiah.”
“Oh?” The old man took a sip of his coffee.
“I was hoping you could give me a bit of advice. I always value your wisdom.”
“I don’t know that that’s the best idea.” Nehemiah laughed. “There’s a reason the cliché ‘old fool’ exists, you know.”
Paul leaned back in his chair and chuckled.
“Go ahead.” Nehemiah’s tone turned serious, his eyes meeting Paul’s. “Whatever it is, it’s obviously troubling you.”
Paul thought for a moment before speaking, then he said, “There are two brothers—Jack and Carl Wilson. Do you know them?”
“I know Zeb Wilson. I think he was their dad. I vaguely remember the boys. They don’t go to Faith Briar, do they?”
“No,” Paul said. “Getting them to church is a bit beyond my reach. Right now I’d be happy if they could get along and not kill each other. Eli Weston called one day about some neighbors who were arguing loudly. Wanted me to come mediate.”
“The Wilsons?”
Paul nodded. “Seems they’re both laying claim to ownership of the same dog.”
“So, buy another dog,” Nehemiah said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“The problem is, whoever gets the dog gets a five-thousand-dollar prize. I haven’t been able to get anywhere with them; they go round and round to the point of exhaustion. The youngest has even taken the dog and moved out of the house. Have you ever come across anything like it?”
“Oh, I’ve seen much worse,” Nehemiah said with a laugh. “It’s amazing what greed will do to a person. It’ll twist you inside out if you let it.”
“I’ve tried reasoning with them, but that gets me nowhere. I’ve thought about talking separately with each of them, but I don’t know what good it would do. Each just accuses the other of lying...” Paul sighed. “You see my dilemma?”
Nehemiah sat in thought for a long time, his eyes trained on the children. Paul thought he’d forgotten the subject, when he finally turned back to him. “Seems to me,” the old man began, “you need to heed the words of James 1:5 that goes something like ‘Pray for wisdom and God will give it to you.’ It’s as simple as that, Paul.”
But it didn’t sound simple.
Chapter Eight
By the following Tuesday, Sam had delivered the worktable Kate had ordered from the Mercantile and set it up in the center of her studio. She was pleased with her purchase. It was a good-sized table, though not so huge as to completely dwarf the small studio, and the top was a durable plywood that would stand up to the abuse of soldering and glass cutting. She couldn’t wait to use it.
She had completed the template for her surprise project for the church. Circular in design, it would have a diameter of thirty-six inches, making it one of the largest stained-glass windows she’d ever attempted. It would be a big undertaking, especially since it was so detailed. But Kate loved a challenge, and she couldn’t wait to see people’s faces when they saw it brightening the plain-Jane sanctuary.
The next step in the process was selecting the colored glass for the piece. She chose several shades of green and brown, with blue and white and touches of red and purple, deciding which she wanted where. Then she taped her template to the table and began the meticulous task of cutting the glass; first in measured strips to make the small cuts easier to accomplish. Then from those strips she cut the smaller pieces, setting each one on its designated spot on the template, careful to make sure it would fit exactly when the time came to put all the pieces together.
As with drawing, the glass-cutting phase of the process seemed to pull her into another world, a calm world where only she and her creation existed. There were few things like it. Cooking had the same effect, as did baking, and she relished those tasks almost as much as this.
She wondered if God felt the same way about creating the world. Did he get a sense of purpose and fulfillment in watching something new come from his own hands as she did? She couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t, especially since people were created in his image.
She pushed the small glass-cutting tool into the green glass as she followed the lines of the template. The cutter made a zipping sound and left a tiny line on the glass’s surface. Kate lifted the glass and tapped along the line’s edge, then with a quick flick of her wrist, she snapped off the perfectly shaped piece. It was a job that took a little getting used to. At first she’d been timid about snapping the glass, afraid the whole piece would shatter with the motion. But in a short time, she’d come to trust her ability to press hard enough with the cutter so that the glass would break off easily after she tapped it. Any pieces that weren’t exact after the first cut were either recut and snapped off using the pliers or taken to the grinder for more precise finishing. The rounded pieces she took to the glass-cutting saw, which was made just for curves.
<
br /> She’d been working for hours before she raised her head and realized it was eleven o’clock. Rising from her stool, Kate stretched the muscles in her back that had gone rigid from being bent over in the same position for so long. Sometimes getting older wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She extended her arms and shook them out as well.
She walked into the living room when the sound of the mail truck pulling up to the box drew her attention outside. She waved to the long-bearded mail carrier whose nickname was Fish. She’d never heard what his real name was, but he seemed happy enough with Fish, though why any grown man would want to be known by such a smelly pseudonym was beyond Kate. Slipping on her shoes, she went out to the mailbox, which contained the usual smattering of bills and junk mail. She padded back into the house, tossed the items on the kitchen counter, and poured herself another cup of coffee.
It had been more than a week since Patricia had told her that Marissa would be too busy to see her. Kate wondered how she’d be received if she came by today. She’d been thinking of the pair nonstop since their last visit. Marissa had been so in need of a friend. Kate’s heart ached at the thought of the ill girl all alone in her room, and poor Patricia doing her best to care for her, yet bedraggled and worn down by the task.
The savory aroma of the barbecued beef she’d put in the Crock-Pot earlier that morning tempted her senses and drew her to look through the glass lid. It was a simple recipe, just a pound or two of beef with pickle relish and her homemade barbecue sauce. She’d set it to cook when she’d first gotten up, so now it was bubbling in juicy tenderness. Then a thought occurred to her, and she pulled down a package of buns and scooped some of the barbecue into a glass bowl, which she covered with its plastic lid. She retrieved a container of coleslaw from the fridge, then found her purse and car keys and headed to the Harrises’. Food had worked before, she decided. Maybe it would work again.
When she arrived at the red Colonial, it was dark inside. The blinds were drawn tight against the day. Kate rang the bell, half expecting no one to answer, so when Patricia opened the door, she was surprised.
“Good morning,” Kate said tentatively. Then she lifted the paper bag that held the barbecued beef, buns, and coleslaw. “I brought lunch.”
Patricia’s expression softened, and the vulnerability in her eyes nearly tore out Kate’s heart.
“Let me feed you,” Kate urged. “It’s the least I can do...Okay? See, barbecued-beef sandwiches and coleslaw.”
A trace of a smile tugged at Patricia’s lips.
“Ah, a weakness!” Kate said.
Patricia blushed, and the women shared a chuckle as they made their way to the kitchen. Patricia pulled down three white ironstone plates. Then she retrieved a scoop, flatware, and three glasses. Kate took up the scoop and prepared the hot sandwiches, with a heap of coleslaw on the side. Steam rose from the delicious-smelling meal.
“Marissa will like this, and having you back,” Patricia admitted. “I’m sorry...again. You’ve been so persistent, and so kind...”
Kate smiled kindly. “Don’t you worry about it—you’ve been under tremendous stress.”
She handed a plate to Patricia, then took the other two herself. She followed Patricia to Marissa’s room, which was quiet except for the faint sounds of “Blue Suede Shoes” coming from the CD player next to her bed. Marissa’s eyes were closed, and her head scarf had slipped, revealing her bald head beneath. Her face was gray and had a waxy appearance. Kate waited as Patricia bent over to talk to her daughter, setting her plate on the bedside table.
“Hey, honey,” Patricia said. She lightly touched Marissa’s shoulder. “You want to wake up? We have some lunch for you. Kate’s here. She brought barbecued-beef sandwiches. Doesn’t that sound good?”
Marissa nodded in response.
“She had another round of chemo yesterday,” Patricia explained. “She’s still feeling pretty weak from it. They said her red count might be down a little.” She turned back to her daughter. “Come on, honey. Time to wake up. You need some food to help you gain your strength.”
Marissa opened bleary eyes that were longing to droop shut. Then when her gaze turned to Kate, she released a glimmer of a smile. “You’re here.”
“You didn’t expect me to stay away, did you?” Kate said. She raised the plate for Marissa to see. “I brought you lunch. Are you up for it?”
Marissa nodded and struggled to push herself to a sitting position, but she fell back exhausted.
“Come on,” her mother said. She reached her arms around her daughter’s back and helped her to sit. Then she propped pillows behind her and set the tray across her legs.
Marissa gave her a grateful look.
Kate handed her the plate of food along with a spoon. The three sat and enjoyed the meal together, though Marissa ate very little.
Patricia was sitting on the edge of the bed, alongside her daughter. She placed a hand on the bedspread where Marissa’s legs were. “The treatment has seemed far worse than the leukemia at times,” she said.
Kate nodded her understanding.
“Next week is the last one,” she went on. “Then we’ll find out if she’s in remission.”
“Maybe I’ll grow some hair again,” Marissa said, and weak though she was, that touch of humor in her voice warmed Kate’s heart. “Maybe you’ll get to meet the old Marissa after that.”
“Let’s hope that happens,” Patricia said.
THAT AFTERNOON Paul, Eli Weston, and Jack Wilson met at the home of Jack’s aunt. As they sat in the small living room, sounds of Aunt Susan bustling about the kitchen in the back of the house filtered down the hall. Scout ran frantically around the threesome, eager for anyone to give her a pat on the head.
No one had said a word since they’d all taken their seats. Jack traced circles on the country-blue fabric of the couch with his finger while Paul waited. Eli folded his hands together and let out a heavy sigh.
Aunt Susan’s home was a pleasant enough place on the northeast corner of Ashland Street and Quarry Road. A Cape Cod, the house had a classic feel with a country touch. Handmade quilts and coverlets were draped across the backs of padded chairs and the couch. A fire in the Ben Franklin wood-burning stove at the center of the living room glowed with midwinter charm. Paintings of old farmhouses and horses with buggies spoke of a home that was well loved, as did the many antiques throughout the room. Hardwood floors were covered by a thick area rug in a deep shade of blue that complemented the couch where Jack now sat.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Paul said. “Come on, Jack, surely you know that moving to your aunt’s house won’t resolve anything. It will only escalate matters.”
Scout came alongside Paul and nudged her nose into his knees, the jingle bell on her blue collar tinkling. He patted the animal on the head, which only served to further excite the dog. She tried to climb onto Paul’s chair with him, but he pushed her back.
“Down,” Paul said. The dog tilted her head at him and sat.
“Carl can end the fight whenever he’s ready to admit the truth.” Jack pushed his dark bangs out of his eyes and glanced down the hallway.
“How likely is that to happen?” Eli asked.
Now Scout was beside Eli, begging for attention. She jumped up and made a whoof sound. Eli ignored her.
Jack merely shrugged his shoulders. “Scout’s my dog. What else can I say? Carl wrote that essay to try to steal the prize that belonged to Scout’s rightful owner—me.” He punched his forefinger into his chest.
Paul wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe Carl too, but they couldn’t both be telling the truth. What bothered him most was that they were so willing to tear apart their relationship over it. That he couldn’t understand. He thought of his own brother, Charlie. He’d give anything to have him back for a day, and he wouldn’t waste it with silly bickering.
Just then Aunt Susan came into the room bearing a tray of desserts. “How are you boys handling yourselves in he
re?” she asked. Paul noted a faint Scandinavian accent in the way she said you with a long o, as if it were spelled yoo. When Scout saw her, she was instantly at the woman’s side, nudging into her legs as she walked and circling her.
“Oh, you silly pooch,” Aunt Susan said.
Eli offered her a smile. “We’re doing fine, Miss Wilson.”
“Call me Susan,” the plump blonde woman said. In her late sixties or early seventies, Jack and Carl’s aunt was about five feet tall, if that. She had a double chin and a jovial smile. Her pale hair was caught up in a sort of beehive, though Paul was sure that couldn’t be the right name for the style. Hadn’t beehives gone out of vogue in the sixties? She wore a pearl necklace and matching earrings, and a blue-and-white-checkered apron covered her pink housedress.
“Would you like some cheesecake and hot cocoa?” she asked Paul.
The thought of Kate’s reaction to the sugar-filled dessert gave him pause, then deciding he’d exercise later, he took a plate and a mug.
“Thank you,” he said. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
She offered the same to Eli, who also reached for a helping.
“It’s no bother,” Susan said. “I keep treats like this on hand since Jack came to live with me. Got to keep up his strength, ya know.”
Paul looked dubiously at Jack, who simply smiled in return. The fog was beginning to clear.
“It’s just a crying shame these boys can’t get along,” she added. She set the tray on an end table, then took a seat in the gliding rocker that flanked the glowing fireplace. Scout was right beside her, trying to nose into the cheesecake on her tray. Susan patted the dog’s head and said in a milquetoast tone, “No no.” Surprisingly the dog obeyed. Scout took a step back and sat facing Susan.
She reached for the poker and gave the fire a nudge. Once the flames were back on course, she retrieved her own snack. “My brother, Zeb, would be so upset if he knew what his boys were doing to each other. Thank the Lord he’s fairly oblivious to such things these days. Jack,” she said, turning her attention to her nephew, “surely you and Carl can come to an agreement.”
