A low rumbling static sounded through the receiver. Sam could hear some heavy breathing—the kind which would make one slam the phone down or call the police if it didn’t involve a predetermined phone date with one Margaret Pritcher.
“Ms. Pritcher. I’m going to put the phone on speaker. Then you can tell the story, if you like.”
Margaret held the receiver in her right hand and rocked gently back and forth, trying to feel the rhythm of the story. The words began popping out one after the other.
“Two weeks had passed since the tragic death of their mother and the mysterious appearance of their father by the crab apple tree.”
Mrs. Johnson had walked down the hallway to enter the girls’ room when she heard a strange canned voice speaking loudly inside. She leaned her head in close and cracked the door open partway to try and determine what the twins were up to. She heard Margaret’s voice on what she determined was a speaker phone, and she was ready to charge in and put an end to it when a couple words caught her attention, immediately drawing her in. She put her ear in the small crack of the door that faced away from the girls’ sight line and listened.
“They longed for their father, the one who comforted them, the one who told them to be brave. They were trying to be brave as best they could. But it was hard with their new circumstances at the orphanage and with Gwen having to single-handedly take care of baby Benjamin. A baby changes everything in a family’s life.”
Mrs. Johnson reached down and placed her hands on her lower abdomen, three months pregnant with their first son. Tears formed in her eyes as she thought about her husband, who had left two weeks earlier—shortly before the neighborhood meeting in her apartment. She hadn’t heard from him since. Her heart grieved beyond what she could endure, and she ran back down the hallway and threw herself on her bed, weeping bitterly. She had been telling the girls that their daddy was away on business, hoping that everything would turn out all right. But it had now been two weeks with no word. Margaret’s story split her world in two.
After about five minutes, she wiped her face as best she could and walked back down the hallway to the girls’ room. As she entered, Sam and Pam immediately sat up and had both surprised and ashamed looks on their faces, but before they could start to explain or apologize, Mrs. Johnson quietly gave them a “shhhhh” and lay down between them on the bed. Margaret’s voice continued unabated as the girls glanced at each other in disbelief, each one snuggling up on one side of their mother, resting their heads gently on each shoulder. Mrs. Johnson hugged them closely and began caressing their hair, thinking of her new baby, and listened intently to the ramblings of the recluse storyteller.
“Georgia battled with the thought that their mother had lost hope and gave up on herself.”
Mrs. Johnson resolved in her heart that no matter what, she would never give up on her girls or her unborn child. She would be brave. She always did love the name Benjamin.
* * *
“Gwen struggled with keeping Benjamin happy, having to do a grown-up job as an adolescent. Mrs. Chesterway, while kind, had her hands full with twenty-seven other children at River’s End Orphanage that she had very little time to devote to the newcomers. Mr. Thompson was attempting to sell the girls’ beloved farm once the district magistrate acknowledged that it had been abandoned by the girls’ father—either through death or neglect. In the court’s eyes, it didn’t matter. The proceeds would help the orphanage with money to raise the girls and, of course, Mr. Thompson would profit from the sale as well for all the trouble he had to endure as default executor of the property. It was in his best interest to push ahead and try to find a buyer.”
* * *
At this point in the story, the phone dial abruptly went blank. Margaret had hung up, always seemingly clued into where to stop her storytelling. The twins were sound asleep, and Mrs. Johnson kissed them goodnight as the story of the orphaned twins gave her much to think about.
Chapter 17
Red Hat Unfolding
Reverend Davies knew, that at the very least, he owed Janice an explanation. At noon he showed up in her office not far from where Margaret lived to apologize for his bizarre behavior. Janice saw him immediately after he entered and waved him over to her desk.
“Hello, Reverend.”
“I feel like I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Reverend.”
“Well, at least an explanation would be in order.”
“I must admit it was a surprising scene.”
“Cheevers and I at the refrigerator?”
He looked at her for acknowledgment. She nodded her head and smiled.
“I couldn’t have predicted that.”
“Me neither. I’ve been afraid to tell my wife. I haven’t had a beer since before seminary. Our denomination frowns upon a drinking parson,” he said with a smile.
“Well, sometimes alcohol is all there is left to do.”
“Before yesterday, I would have disagreed with you.”
“It’s a nice day. Why don’t we take a stroll out in the park across the way? I have a break now.”
“Perfect.”
They made their way over to a bench across the street, and Reverend Davies, still buried in his thoughts, began to explain.
“Her words hit me right in the forehead.”
“In what way?”
“My middle name is Jackson.”
Janice immediately thought of the Jackson from Margaret’s story who called out in horror, trying to get his buddy not to kill himself.
“Nobody has called me Jackson since I was in the army.”
“Do you mean to tell me that she was telling your story?
“No. She was telling her father’s story.”
“Her father?”
“I was the platoon commander of her father’s unit back in ‘Nam, and …” he became emotional, unable to look at Janice anymore. He breathed out a sigh. “When I heard her story, I couldn’t take it anymore. Memories, like the oppressive heat of a Vietnam summer, just consumed me and covered me. I was out of my mind, out of this time. I had to run out of the room, and as soon as I did, there was Cheevers, beer in hand as if he was expecting me. As if he knew that I needed some solace. He led me right onto his kitchen floor with a dozen beer bottles strewn all around and said, ‘Courtesy of the recluse storyteller.’ So I sat there and drank and drank. I feel so ashamed.”
“Cheevers was obviously drunk.”
“Out of his mind drunk, no question. But he was so sad. He kept staring at his beer bottle, muttering the name ‘Meagan.’ Do you know who Meagan is?”
“No. I never met Cheevers until about two years ago. I don’t know anything about his life or if he had ever had a family.”
There was a long pause as both of them, in their own secluded way, thought about the two men commiserating with each other in Cheevers’ apartment.
“Reverend Davies, what happened in Vietnam?”
“Can we meet with Margaret one more time? I’d like to find out.”
Janice took in a deep breath and nodded her head, resigned to the fact that there was going to be no end to this debacle until Margaret said more.
“Sure. Why don’t we meet tonight at Margaret’s place?”
“Well, perhaps we should get the whole gang together one more time. There are many loose ends. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson could host us again. I’ll call her and find out and will let you know this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Janice.”
“Thank you, Reverend. This whole incident has been rather instructive, but not so revealing.”
For some reason Reverend Davies knew exactly what she meant.
* * *
Cheevers was in a stupor all day long. He sloshed down to the convenience store around lunchtime and picked up another two six packs, which would help nurse his hangover the rest of the day. He hadn’t gone to work and didn’t even bother to call in. He figured it didn’t matter anyways. His drunken stat
e had several locations to it. The refrigerator floor, of course, but there was also the couch, the bed, and the dining room table. Each place had its own means of condolence. Plus, as he stood up from one place to the next, the thrill of choosing the next spot took his mind off of Red Hat for a few moments. It was his turn on the couch when his front door opened suddenly. He saw Margaret standing there, but he was too drunk to get up or say anything. His head flipped around like a worn-out stuffed animal, and he tried to stay alert as she entered and sat down at station number one—leaning against the refrigerator. He groggily looked at her and tried to muster a response.
“What do you want?”
Margaret pressed her back firmly against the cool metal exterior of the refrigerator. She had never sat in this position before but could tell why it was one of Cheevers’ favorites.
“What do you want?” cried out Cheevers belligerently. “You did this to me, you know? You! Why did you tell me that story? I was happy. I was happy.”
“Not happy,” divulged Margaret. “Michael not happy. Quinn.”
Quinn. The name exploded emotions in his brain that partially helped him discover clarity in the midst of a day-long hangover. Quinn. Never had a name been so hated. Quinn. His head kept repeating it. Quinn.
“It’s impossible. How do you know about Quinn?”
“You killed him. Red Hat killed Quinn.”
Cheevers’ antagonism grew soft, and he laid his head down on the end of the sofa and began to cry.
“Meagan,” he sobbed. “Meagan.”
Just as quickly as the blues spread over him, he picked himself up and sat on the edge of the couch, looking intently at the strange oracle sitting on his floor amidst a party’s worth of beer bottles.
“Tell me more. I want to hear more of the story. Please.”
Margaret leaned her head back against the metal. Even here she could feel his presence. It comforted her, pushing her to do the right thing.
* * *
“Red Hat looked at his watch once again as Meagan clung onto her mother, who herself couldn’t bear to look him in the face. Williams was still locked away in the bedroom, but he kept everyone on the outside up to date with the latest information. Red Hat punched out a speed dial number on his phone and waited for someone to answer.
“‘It’s time. Five minutes? All right. I’ll leave in five.’
“Silence gripped the room as he went over to the device and unscrewed the flask on the outside of it.
“‘Michael, what are you doing? Michael!’
“Williams heard the scream from inside the apartment but could do nothing about it.
“‘Michael. How could you? How—?’
“Red Hat put the flask up to his lips, smiled evilly once, and then swallowed. His wife looked on in horror thinking that a nuclear disaster was imminent.
“‘It’s only water,’ Red Hat laughed. ‘This thing is just a toy. It couldn’t hurt a fly. Here, Meagan. You can have fun playing with this.’
“His wife pushed it away from him in anger.
“‘Stop it! Stop playing with this poor child’s emotions. You’ve already scarred us enough.’
“At that moment, Williams got a call from an unexpected source. He stood stoically at attention, taking his orders directly from the Commander-in-Chief.
“‘Yes, Mr. President. I understand. I will, Mr. President.’
“Red Hat came over and opened the door to let Williams into the room. He even turned his back to him without fear of retribution, and, in fact, Williams didn’t try anything at all. He walked into the room rather somberly, looking at Meagan and her mother in a melancholic fashion.
“‘So everything is set to go?’
“‘Yes, you are free to go.’
“Red Hat’s wife looked at Williams with great incredulity.
“‘How could you let him just walk out of here? He’s already confessed that this device is a phony. What about the incident at the bank? Arrest him!’
“‘I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands.’
“‘Out of your hands?’
“‘The orders came from the President himself.’
“She looked at him in disbelief and then back at her husband, desperately clinging on to the hope that he would be repaid, pain for pain, with the years of hollow marriage and vacant promises that had already decimated her heart. She walked right up into his face, one last time.
“‘Who are you?’
“Red Hat ignored the question, looking only at Meagan, who clung to her mother unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation. She fully expected to see her daddy at breakfast in the morning as usual.
“‘Meagan, Daddy has to go now.’
“He went over to her, still in his wife’s arms, and kissed her on the forehead. His wife clenched her fist and belted him with all her strength right in the ribs.
“‘Owwww,’ he said, cowering backwards in pain. ‘I’ll miss you too, dear.’ He turned around and handed Williams the officer’s gun he had borrowed from the bank. ‘I won’t be needing this anymore.’
“‘Daddy, will you be coming back?’
“The question actually jabbed at his emotions far more than he anticipated.
“‘No, sweetheart. I don’t suppose I will be.’
“He thought about the envelope that he had put in his pocket. It was his ticket out of the country. In essence, the only thing that kept him alive. He descended the steps and walked out into the street. The S.W.A.T. team had him surrounded, but he continued slowly and steadily to the police car he had previously been driving.
“In the apartment, Meagan sat on the couch talking to Agent Williams as her mother abandoned her, so she could go into the bedroom and sprawl herself out on the comforter to cry into her pillow.
“‘Mister Will,’ she looked up at Williams’ face not unlike a well-trained puppy forbidden to jump.
“‘Yes, sweetheart.’
“‘Was my Daddy a bad man?’
“‘Why do you say that?’
“‘Before he left, he said he was never coming back.’
“‘I suppose that’s true. I don’t think he’ll be back.’
“‘Williams knelt down on one knee and put his right hand behind her head.’
“‘But you are going to be fine.’
“‘I’m scared. I want my Daddy to be here.’
“‘I know. You have to be brave. You have to be very brave.’
“‘But was he a bad man?’
“Williams stopped for a moment and stared blankly out onto the street as Red Hat fled the scene one last time.
“‘He had to do what he felt was right. He may have made some bad choices, but no, I don’t think he’s a bad man.’”
* * *
Cheevers mind reeled and rolled, mesmerized by the rhythm of the story and the gentle persistent pounding from the alcohol. He pictured the day little Meagan sat on his lap, and he told her the same thing.
“You have to be brave, Meagan. You have to be brave. Be brave for your daddy, okay?”
Cheevers was a shriveled mess on the couch. He lay back down and kept repeating the word ‘brave’ over and over. Margaret left him alone once again and headed back to her apartment where she found herself spending less and less time. As she closed the door, she leaned back up against it and once again saw the light—so bright in front of her. It came barreling at her at great speed, but Janice was calm and stood there, bravely, ready to do this for her country. Ready to stand on the brink and sacrifice everything. The light was blinding.
“Janice! No!” Margaret cried out in a desperate plea, then collapsed to the floor.
Chapter 18
Mrs. Trumble vs. the World
An hour later, Margaret sat at her desk, neglected computer in front of her, and handled the bound packet of unopened letters from Reverend Davies that dated back nearly five years. She had never once thought about opening them until today. She started in chronological order, ripping open t
he one dated one week after her mother’s death.
Dear Margaret,
Your church family sympathizes with you during this time. Your mother had asked me to check in on you from time to time. I hope you will permit me to do this. We are praying for you.
In God’s Love,
Reverend Davies
Margaret crumpled the letter in her hands and threw it on the floor. She opened another and then another, all of them ending up next to the first. In her opinion, they all read like they had been dipped into a vat of insincerity, dripping with words like ‘We miss you,’ ‘We are praying for you,’ ‘Hope to see you on Sunday’, among other set phrases. Finally, twelve letters in, she noticed a distinct change in tone. She read it again and again, pulling out a highlighter and marking over and over one curious phrase.
Margaret,
I want to tell you something that your mother said to me before she died. She said to tell Margaret that ‘it’s not her fault.’ Why that phrase slipped my mind all this time, I’m not sure. But I woke up this morning remembering it, and I wanted to let you know.
Reverend Davies
“It’s not her fault,” Margaret repeated over and over again out loud. “It’s not her fault.”
She stood up and staggered at the weight of the words on her shoulders. “It’s not her fault.” She walked over to the picture window overlooking the street. The sliding door to the balcony sat next to her. She looked at the railing where she had dangled closely with death just the other day, wondering what it would have been like to fly face-first into the ground like a flower pot gently jilted from its stand. Would there have been a Red Hat to cushion her fall?
Her arms extended upwards, covering the glass in a position of praise in some churches—she once again gave in to her thoughts and her mind. She was mesmerized by the words, “It’s not her fault.”
The Recluse Storyteller Page 16
