Wesley approached and offered his hand. Chan accepted.
“Just wanted to tell you how sorry I was about your father’s passing.”
Chan nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Wesley. I appreciate your sentiments.”
Maybe things had changed.
###
Outside, Chan stopped to gather his thoughts. The street was busy for mid-week. Adair was far enough from larger cities that locals still did their shopping there. A few passers-by nodded. Others studied the sidewalk. Adair was said to be a town where people loved you once they got to know you. The only problem was that it took twenty years to become known. By leaving town after graduation, Chan had fallen short of the criteria, like it would have mattered.
He had to admit it was a pretty place. Many residents came from long lines of German Lutherans who were fastidious in caring for their property. Most houses, even older ones, were neatly kept. The shops around the square were fronted with bright signs and awnings that provided a shaded walkway. That shade was welcome; as afternoon temperatures had risen into the upper eighties.
Two ornate wood doors opened into Harmon Funeral Home’s well-appointed foyer. Chan spotted a small office off to the side. A tall blonde man about his age came out.
“Chan, I’m Toby Harmon. Welcome back to Saxon County. Sorry it’s under difficult circumstances.”
“Hello Toby. Thanks for taking care of the details.”
“No problem at all. Your father prearranged his funeral some time ago. I took the liberty of dressing him in a pair of work jeans and a flannel shirt that I found at the house. He looks good, if I do say so myself. Want to see him?”
“Yes please.”
Chan followed Toby to a small visitation room. His eyes were drawn to the open casket. Approaching slowly, he looked at his father’s face for the first time in sixteen years, two months, and eleven days. What he saw took his breath away.
“Everything okay, Chan? If the hair or coloring is wrong, I can make adjustments.”
Chan shook his head. After a few moments the door closed behind him, signaling Toby’s thoughtful departure.
Earl Manning looked so young.
The daddy of his memories wore an expression of perpetual worry and fear. The face of the man before him was tranquil. Chan wished he had known this man.
He reached out and gently rubbed his Daddy’s arm through the flannel shirt, then touched his hands. It was the first time he could remember touching him. He moved closer and stroked a weathered cheek. Within moments he was wracked by sobs, bent over with his head on his daddy’s chest. The tears came, he knew, not from missing his father, but missing what his father and he could have been to one another.
After composing himself and closing the casket lid, Chan prepared to leave, certain that their last moment together was the closest they’d been.
SIXTY-NINE
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the sun-lit reception area.
He walked directly into her.
After spending twenty minutes saying farewell to a father he’d barely known, Chan was pulled into a fierce hug by his second mother.
He stepped back and took her in from head to toe. It wasn’t easy. Even in old age, Miss Bertie topped six feet. To a scared and undersized seventh grader she’d seemed a giant. As it turned out, she was a giant both in stature and heart; a true force of nature in Saxon County, and the person who helped him discover his academic talents.
Thinking of nothing he could say to appropriately express his pleasure, Chan settled for another embrace, reminiscent of the moment just before his high school graduation ceremony, when she’d stuffed an envelope full of cash into his hand. Did she seem frail? Maybe, but the combination of Ivory Soap and White Shoulders perfume were still there, making it seem as if only days had passed.
“Open your mouth and let me see those teeth.”
Chan complied, opening his mouth wide enough for Miss Bertie to inspect his teeth, tongue, tonsils, and perhaps a kidney. She nodded approvingly.
“Truth is, I’ve already seen them. I’ve been following you, Channing. I listen to your games when I can get them; I keep track of your statistics. You made me into a baseball fan.”
“Then you know...”
“That you were released? I wrote letters to the bigwigs in Louisville and Cincinnati, chastising them for their lack of loyalty and informing them of my change of allegiance to the St. Louis Cardinals.”
She reached out and grabbed his hand. They spent a few moments looking at each other, tracing with their eyes the changes brought by age and circumstances. Chan felt good, euphoric even, seeing her after all these years. Deeper, however, he felt something else.
“Miss Bertie, I’m sorry about the way I left.”
“Channing, stop.” She raised her hand to cut him off. “If anyone is due an apology, it’s you. Lowell Surratt treated you terribly. I told him that to his face. Told the school board too, though a lot of good that did.”
“Did you know I had an altercation? In the parking lot?”
Miss Bertie smiled. “Everybody knew. Between Stan Slaven’s broken nose and Bump Cannon’s cast and stitches, it was hard to keep secret.” She paused before adding, “Oh yes. You also broke the front window of the school. I’m hoping that was caused by Bump’s hard head.”
“I’ve changed since then,” he replied, shaking his head. “I haven’t fought since leaving Adair. A couple managers actually told me I needed to be more aggressive.”
“I wish I could tell you things have changed around here,” Miss Bertie said, gazing out the funeral home’s large plate glass window. “It’s not for a lack of effort on my part. I’ve verbally smacked half of this county upside the head. I’d like to physically smack a few others, but that’s not my way.”
“Same Miss Bertie,” Chan grinned. “I want you to meet my kids.”
“Lani and Ryan? I’d love to. Shall we head down to the doughnut shop?”
“You know their names and where they are?”
“You have to remember, Adair isn’t Louisville. When someone new comes to town everyone hears about it. I peeked in the window and saw them on my way over. Ryan had vanilla icing all over his face. Lani was trying to clean him up by spitting on a napkin.”
“Oh no,” Chan laughed. “He hates that. Let’s get down there before they start knocking over tables.”
Toby Harmon caught them as they were leaving.
“Chan, we’re set for a graveside service tomorrow at ten. Your father has a plot at the Grebey Island Cemetery.”
“It’s been years since anyone was buried down there,” Miss Bertie said.
“Apparently this spot’s been in your family for a long time,” Toby said. “We were worried about hitting water when we dug the grave, but it turned out okay. By the way, I noticed your mother isn’t buried there. Would you like to arrange for the two of them to be interred together?”
Chan thought for a moment. “This is embarrassing, Toby, but I don’t know where Mama is buried. I was pretty small, and Daddy never said. I always assumed she was in a family plot in Kansas City.”
“Well, let me know if I can help further.”
“Are there any additional costs I need to be aware of?”
“Your father had everything set up, and a small insurance policy that covered the costs.”
“I guess we’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
###
The humid afternoon air hit hard as they walked to the doughnut shop.
“I’d like to come out to the gravesite tomorrow if that’s okay, Channing.”
“I’d appreciate it. I’m guessing it’ll only be the kids and me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, I assumed... I mean, Daddy had cut himself off from everyone else.”
“Oh my,” Miss Bertie stiffened. “You haven’t been in communication with Earl at all?”
“No ma’am. I pretty much locked that part of my life away.
You more than anyone can understand why.”
“Well, there’s been a lot—”
Miss Bertie stopped abruptly, her stare fixed on a cluster of people gathered on the sidewalk beyond the doughnut shop. The laughter was raucous, and cursing could be heard over the general rowdiness. Chan was unable to see what held the group’s attention, but Miss Bertie seemed to know. She strode toward the gathering at a pace belying her age.
When they were close, Chan saw a man in a red baseball cap at the center of the gathering. His voice, distinguishable over the laughter and taunts of the others, hadn’t changed much since Drake’s Drive-In.
“Ricky Smoot, you stop immediately!” Fearless in the midst of confrontation, Miss Bertie elbowed her way into the middle of the skirmish. Several people stepped away, respectful of or intimidated by the woman who had taught high school English to three generations of Saxon County students. Ricky Smoot turned to face Miss Bertie, bemused by her sudden appearance.
In front of him, pushed against the front of a red Dodge pickup, was a boy, perhaps thirteen, terror etched on his bloodied face.
Chan knew the boy wasn’t from Saxon County. Despite the blood and the tears and the snot covering his face, Chan knew.
He couldn’t be.
He was black.
SEVENTY
Ricky Smoot was drinking. The clues were everywhere, from the long-neck setting on the curb near his feet to the smell of sweat and alcohol wafting off him.
“Well, Big Bertha,” Ricky drawled slowly. “What business have you got getting in the middle of this?”
Miss Bertie held her ground. She had three inches on Ricky and was looking down her nose at him.
“I’m putting a stop to it,” she said sharply, then turning to the others, added, “Something each of you should have had the decency to do.”
Her tone caused more of the spectators to slink away. Those who stayed backed up, leaving Chan in the inner circle with Miss Bertie, Ricky Smoot, and the bloodied young boy.
“If you have to know, Miss Bertie, this... kid busted a taillight on my truck.” Ricky used his chin to point at the pickup he was holding the boy against. “I seen him do it while I was sitting in the bar. Him and another colored boy was throwing rocks. They got no business being here in the first place.”
Ricky glared at Chan. “We took care of our nigra problem years ago.”
Chan grew tense. It had been awhile since he’d heard this kind of talk.
Sixteen years, two months, and eleven days.
While Miss Bertie tried to get to the bottom of things, Chan moved to the rear of the pickup. Sure enough, the right taillight was broken. He squatted down for a closer look, then returned to the sidewalk.
“I didn’t break no taillight, I swear! Lamont and me wasn’t throwing rocks. It was acorns from that tree over there, and we only threw two. None of ‘em came close to hitting anything.”
“You a lying little dirtbag,” Ricky said menacingly.
“He’s telling the truth,” Chan said quietly, steadying his gaze on Ricky Smoot.
“Manning, you don’t know nothing,” Smoot sneered. “If it weren’t for your crazy old man dying, you wouldn’t even be here. Might be best to bury Crazy Earl and head back to wherever you’re living these days, hotshot.”
Chan could feel the tension ratcheting around him.
“He didn’t break your taillight. There’s no broken glass and no sign of a rock, acorn, or anything else.”
This revelation appeared to confuse Ricky.
Then it happened.
A bystander threw down the gauntlet.
And Ricky Smoot was too drunk or too stupid to leave it alone.
“Manning just called you a liar, Ricky. To your face.”
Ricky turned red. He sized Chan up and somehow determined that a physical altercation wouldn’t bode well. Perhaps he also remembered that night at Drake’s Drive-In. Whatever it was, he was momentarily stumped.
Miss Bertie seized the opportunity, slipping past Ricky to take the young boy’s arm and lead him away. At the last moment Ricky reached out to pull him back.
“I’m not done with that nigra yet, Big Bertha! He owes me for a busted taillight.”
Ricky’s thrusting grab fell short of the boy but squarely struck Miss Bertie in the back. There was a collective gasp when she stumbled and almost lost her footing. With the situation escalating, more people turned away, leaving Ricky and three equally drunk friends.
Seeing Miss Bertie nearly thrown to the ground brought a primal feeling over Chan that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He gently steadied her, then turned his attention to Ricky.
“That broken headlight is nothing compared to the dent in the hood of your truck.”
Ricky glanced at the shiny red truck, a stupid grin crossing his face.
“Ain’t no dent in the hood of my truck... Mutt.”
Then there was.
SEVENTY-ONE
Miss Bertie’s homemade raisin bread was something special. Chock full of raisins and topped with vanilla icing, it tasted like cake. Three slices were Chan’s limit. Ryan was on his fourth and showed no signs of letting up, even after polishing off a plate of home fries and bacon.
“Miss Bertie I’m surprised you’ve lived past forty eating like this.”
Miss Bertie smiled as she topped off Chan’s orange juice.
“Breakfast for me is usually a slice of whole wheat toast and raisin bran.” Motioning to Lani and Ryan she added, “I thought these two might want a real country breakfast.”
“Can we take some raisin bread home with us?” Ryan asked.
Miss Bertie kissed his head. “I’ll make you your own loaf, Ryan Manning.”
They’d only been there a day, but Lani and Ryan had quickly taken to Miss Bertie. She was like a doting grandmother, something neither had known, but lapped up like hungry kittens.
Lani spent the night in a pink bedroom with a canopy bed. Ryan slept in an alcove next to the room where Miss Bertie put Chan, with a small single bed and a large window looking across the fields. Chan’s room was large and airy, with a comfortable bed where sleeping was made easier by the swirling hum of a ceiling fan. If the house had air conditioning it wasn’t on, but a constant breeze kept it comfortable.
Dinner the night before consisted of fried chicken that Ryan proclaimed better than KFC, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and pickled beets. After they finished eating, Miss Bertie shooed Chan and Ryan onto the front porch so she and Lani could clean up. Occasional peeks into the kitchen told Chan that most of the clean-up was done by Miss Bertie, but that she and Lani had talked constantly, girl stuff mostly. After an hour, as the sun was setting, Lani came out to the porch to show them the opal ring Miss Bertie gave her.
Nothing was said about the incident on the street. Munching away on their doughnuts Lani and Ryan had been blissfully unaware of what was happening a few doors away. Miss Bertie was shaken but other than a bruise, was fine. Ricky’s friends hightailed it after his head bounced off the hood of his pickup. He managed to crawl into the truck and, despite his shaky condition, drive away slowly, uttering drunken threats from the safety of the cab.
The day of the funeral was sunny and hot, and Chan debated what he should wear, finally settling on a pair of jeans and a black shirt.
“You look great, Daddy,” Lani said as she sashayed in wearing a white sundress. Chan checked himself in the mirror, tied his shoes, and hugged his daughter. When engulfed in her daddy’s hugs Lani almost disappeared. Small in stature, but mighty in spirit.
“I really like Miss Bertie,” she said, spinning in front of the mirror. “She said you were the smartest and bravest person she ever knew.”
“Did she say why?”
“Just that you became very successful after a hard childhood on that island.”
“Grebey Island.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Lani ended her personal inspection and started looking at pictures and knickknacks around
the room.
“What was it like, Daddy? Living here?”
Sitting on the bed, Chan considered the question. Lani was certainly past the point where she needed protecting from life’s difficulties. Perhaps it was time to open the door, just a little.
“I was scared pretty much every day.”
Lani stiffened as she was reaching for a small music box.
“But you’re so big and strong.”
“I was small for my age until high school.”
“Did you have friends?”
“Not really.”
“How about Miss Bertie?”
“She was my teacher, and I knew she cared about me, but she couldn’t be my friend. Not like she can be your friend.”
Lani mulled this over.
“Did you love your daddy?”
Chan took a deep breath. “The relationship wasn’t anything like what we have, Lani. My father worked hard, but he had no idea how to care for a son.” Chan searched for the right words. “Daddy had... problems. Mama’s accident hit him hard.”
“Is that why you left?”
Chan bristled. “How did you know that?”
“Miss Bertie told me. She said people weren’t nice to you so you left.”
“What else did she tell you?”
Lani’s lower lip jutted out like it always did when she was trying to remember.
“Nothing really. Just that it was hard for you here and she wished she’d done more.”
“Really?” Miss Bertie and Mr. Edgar were the only constants he had growing up, and she wished she had done more?
“Yeah, she said she had this big house and it was just her and her husband. She wished you could have come to live here.”
Chan remembered the offers. Once during eighth grade, another in tenth. He’d politely, but pointedly turned them down. Now, he tried to envision life in this house, sleeping every night in this bed. The house on Grebey Island was comfortable enough, even though it was twenty years out of date. The furniture was worn but usable. His bed was small, but other than that, there was nothing missing really.
Harvest of Thorns Page 31
