A Man of His Word

by Karen Kelly

  “No,” answered Annie. “That’s one of the reasons I began to look at the verses more carefully. That, and the use in the margins of a language that isn’t English nor one of the original languages of the Old or New Testaments.”

  Reverend Wallace turned to the back of the Bible, checking the various appendices and maps to make sure there were no markings on them. Seeing nothing, he closed the book. “This is quite extraordinary, Annie, given its history of use in the courts. Let’s see what we can do about translating those notations.”

  Annie returned the Bible to the tote, while Reverend Wallace paged through his Oxford Latin Dictionary, looking for bellis perennis. After a moment he said, “Bellis perennis means daisy.”

  “Oh.” Annie tilted her head to the side. “What would daisies have to do with afflicting widows or fatherless children?” She took a mechanical pencil out of her bag and added the translation to her spreadsheet. “Oh!” she said again in an entirely different tone. “The other word means daughter. Could it be Daisy with a capital ‘D’? A daughter’s name?”

  “Is there a Daisy in the Holden family line?” asked the minister.

  “I don’t remember any in the family tree in Grandpa’s family Bible, but I’ll check again to make sure.” Annie consulted the spreadsheet. “What is vigilo?”

  “It’s a verb, first person singular, present tense.” The reverend flipped near the end of the dictionary. “I remember that much of conjugation.” He continued in the singsong voice of a schoolboy: “Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant. I love, you love—singular, he or she loves, we love, you love—plural, they love.” He turned a page and ran his finger along the words. “Here it is: To be awake, watch. Like vigilant.”

  Annie added it to the sheet and nodded, remembering what Stella had said during the club meeting. “Another derivative.” She looked up and smiled. “Stella could have made a formidable teacher.”

  “I have no doubt!” Reverend Wallace agreed with the hint of a wink. “Next word?”

  “Albus.” They eased into a rhythm of naming, translating, and recording. “Albus means white. … gladius is a short sword. … venator could be either hunter or huntsman.” Then they came to Revelation 18:17. Next to the verse, “For in one hour so great riches is come to nought. And every shipmaster, and all the company in ships, and sailors, and as many as trade by sea, stood afar off,” were two words. One, carmen, was easily translated to “song,” but the other word—Laima—baffled the minister. After consulting his dictionary and grammar books for an extended period of time he threw up his hands. “I surrender! I’ve searched all the possibilities from verbs to nouns, regular to irregular, and I can’t find it.”

  Annie had been pondering all the new notations her minister had translated. “Reverend Wallace, don’t be hard on yourself. You only left one word to translate, out of all these!” She shook the spreadsheet in front of her. “I’m amazed! You really know your way around ancient languages.”

  “Don’t forget, Annie. The shepherd focuses on the one lamb that goes astray.” A scowl of concentration crossed his face again as he stared down at the object of his frustration. Then he looked up again. “A school buddy of mine is chair of the classics department at the University of Chicago. I’m going to give him a call. If anyone can figure the word out, he can.”

  Annie glanced at her watch, aghast to see how much time had gone by. “Reverend, I didn’t realize how late it was. And I’ve kept you from your wife’s delicious pie.”

  “Then we better not keep her waiting any longer.” The minister closed his resource books and stacked them at the edge of his desk. “As soon as I get an answer from Jonathan, I’ll let you know.” He pushed his chair back from the desk and stood.

  Annie tucked the spreadsheet back into her tote and zipped the top. “You’ve given me plenty of clues to track down. It’ll keep me busy for some time.”

  A soft rap sounded on the library door; then June’s voice said, “If you two don’t hurry, I might just finish this pie by myself.”

  Reverend Wallace opened the door with a flourish. “Now there’s something I can finish without leaving any crumbs behind!”

  A slice of wild blueberry pie and cup of tea later, Annie bid farewell to the Wallaces and headed for A Stitch in Time to pick up her supplies for the Santa’s Stocking project. When she approached the store, she wasn’t surprised to see a bright poster already adorning the window under the store’s logo. By evening, most storefronts in Stony Point were sure to have matching posters displayed, thanks to Mary Beth’s industry.

  Forty-five minutes later Annie exited the shop with several skeins of yarn in different colors, weights, and textures for the mittens, gloves, and hats she planned to crochet for the brother and sister whose names she had drawn from the large stocking Mary Beth had hung from the edge of the main counter: “Girl, age six, and Boy, age eight.” She’d also picked out some ribbon and beads to add to the girl’s hat, as well as the extra hats she planned to make for the organization to use as needed. The new busboy at the diner, Breck, came to mind, and Annie wondered if he’d ever had anything made for him by someone who cared. “Hmmmm, I have plenty of yarn left over from Herb’s sweater last Christmas for a slouch hat,” she reminded herself. The plan to crochet a surprise for Breck was already decided by the time she reached the Malibu.

  Later in the evening Annie curled up on the living room sofa, settling in to read the rest of the letters from William and Ida Holden. She was just pulling the first letter from its envelope when Boots padded into the room and sprang lightly onto the sofa next to her, stretching out her nose to sniff a corner of the stationery.

  Annie shifted the letter away. “No cat slobber on the family heirlooms, you.” Boots’s ears pricked forward, and her mouth opened a little, as if in response. “Yes, you of the paper-shredding fetish.” The cat lowed her head and lightly bumped it against Annie’s hip. “I know you haven’t shredded anything lately. … and I want to keep it that way.”

  Once Boots was contentedly napping with her back curved against her owner Annie turned her concentration back to the letter she held, which was dated May 19, 1929.

  Dear Charlie,

  Attaboy! What a story about the osprey. A four-foot-tall boy nurses a bird with a five-foot wingspan. Must have been an exciting time to watch him fly away. I’m proud of you, Charlie.

  Only two weeks until Aunt Ida and I will be knocking on your door. I hope you’re ready for some canoeing. I want you to show me where you found the fish hawk. Maybe we’ll see him diving for dinner. Will you teach me how to whittle? We don’t have to tell Aunt Ida.

  See you soon,

  Uncle Will

  PS. No, I haven’t seen the moose again.

  Annie shook her head at the thought of her young wiry grandfather caring for such a large bird. It fit, though. Grandpa’s veterinary practice had mostly consisted of the small household pets of the families in and near Stony Point, but he’d always loved the challenge of the large farm animals the most. “I hope your mother was a less anxious woman than your Aunt Ida sounds to be, Grandpa,” Annie said out loud, tucking the letter back in its envelope. “Otherwise your hobbies would have driven her to distraction.”

  The next letter was postmarked August 25, 1929. Inside, Annie found a photograph nestled between the folds. Flipping the photo over, she saw written on the back in William’s now familiar writing, “Quinebaug River, Conn., May 1929.” Her grandfather and his uncle sat upright in a canoe, and around them sunlight danced over the ripples of the river. They both wore loose, dark, long pants—William with the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, and Charlie sporting a short-sleeved white T-shirt.

  A flush of thankfulness flowed through Annie at this glimpse into her grandfather’s childhood—one she had never before seen. And the man behind the notations and affectionate family letters was no longer a phantom, but a broad-shouldered fellow with dark hair with silver at his temples and a dim
ple that revealed itself in his smile. The picture spurred her on in reading letter after letter as the evening grew older. The writer and his nephew also grew older with each letter. The topics broadened out from animals and sports to contemplations of prejudice, service to others, justice, war, and the nature of man.

  She was reading the last of the letters, dated October 24, 1954, when Alice, a night owl to the core, called.

  “How goes the mystery?” she chirped in Annie’s ear.

  Annie stifled a yawn before answering, “The more information I find, the more becomes boggled my mind.”

  “It’s turning you into a poet. Did you read all the letters?”

  “Just finishing them, which is why I’m not burrowed under the blankets of my bed snoring away yet.”

  “I saw the light still on downstairs; that’s why I knew it was safe to call,” said Alice. “I thought maybe some great revelation was keeping you awake.”

  “I can’t complain. It’s been a productive day. Reverend Wallace translated all but one of the notations and promised to contact a friend who’s an expert in Latin. He thinks his friend can help with the rogue word. And the letters! Oh, Alice, the letters are a family treasure. It’s clear Grandpa’s relationship with his uncle was at least one strong influence in his outstanding ability to communicate with others throughout his life.” Annie folded the letter in her hand and slipped it back into its envelope.

  “That kind of mentoring is rare, no matter which century one lives in.” Alice paused, thinking. “Did William ever mention any specific trials he presided over?”

  “Not in any kind of detail—mostly generalities,” answered Annie. “But there was clearly something pressing down on William from late 1929 that affected him for almost two decades. And in one letter, Aunt Ida even asked Grandpa to pray for his uncle, quite emphatically. I can’t help but think it’s related to the mysterious weightiness in William’s letters.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with the notations in his Bible?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering too. But I can’t think straight with all the new translated words and now these letters jumbled in my mind.” Annie stifled another yawn, less successfully this time.

  “You are in serious need of sleep, you early bird. Would you like for me to come over tomorrow morning for a brainstorming session?”

  Annie nodded, her eyes falling to half-mast. Then she remembered that her friend was on the phone, not standing in front of her. “Yes, Alice, that would be great.”

  “I’ll come around nine-thirty. Make coffee. Lots of coffee.” Alice laughed and bid her friend a good night.

  Annie could only assume she had a good night, as once she drew her quilt beneath her chin she could remember nothing until the sun woke her up the next morning.

  9

  By the time Alice came knocking on the door of Grey Gables, the sun was in hiding. A lofty, warm southerly wind was taunting with rain the cold, northerlies that ranged over the granite cliffs and quiet hamlets of Lincoln County. The northern winds retaliated, catching the pelting warm raindrops and transforming them into freezing rain.

  When Annie opened the door, ice was already knitting a crystal blanket over the porch railing.

  “Will trade baked goods for coffee!” Alice held up a basket with a thick cloth covering the top snugly and tucked along the sides of the interior. A shiver ran through her, in spite of her thick coat, hat, and gloves. “Hot coffee!”

  Annie waved her friend inside, closing the door swiftly behind her with no compulsion to be hospitable to the mischievous weather. “Will brew for baked goods. Isn’t that convenient?”

  “Do you happen to have a pair of steel cleats?” Alice handed the basket to Annie so she could shed her outerwear. “I think I’m going to need them by the time I head back to the carriage house. Good thing we’ve got this mystery to keep us occupied today; it’s not a going-to-town day, by any stretch of the imagination.” She stowed her gloves in the pocket of her hanging coat and turned to accompany Annie down the hall to the kitchen.

  “No cleats, but you’re welcome to dig Grandpa’s ski poles out of the attic and try them. Or we can have a good ole slumber party, if need be.” Annie set the basket on the table and turned to the stove for the coffeepot. “What are we munching this morning?”

  “Pumpkin nut bread,” Alice answered, folding back the cloth covering and serving up a slice for each plate Annie had set out at one end of the table.

  “Mmmmm, one of my favorites.” Annie poured coffee into Alice’s cup, a friendly swirl of steam rising like a new fern uncurling. “Come to think of it, I say that about all your breads, don’t I?” She positioned the spout over her own cup and poured. After placing the pot back on the stove, she sat down.

  “At least I know you mean it.” Alice dribbled a tiny amount of milk into her coffee and leaned over her cup to enjoy the aroma as she stirred. “Nana used to rave about how wonderful my breads and muffins were, as though I didn’t notice she never actually tasted any of them. But she loved that hideous black licorice; you know, the kind that tastes like old tires.”

  “Ah, that’s why! The poor woman’s taste buds were demolished.” Annie broke off a piece of the pumpkin loaf and popped it into her mouth. After chewing and swallowing with obvious enjoyment, she continued, “Had to be it. No taste buds left. Definitely.” She took a sip of her coffee and then nabbed another piece.

  Alice nodded her head toward the spreadsheets and letters lying on the table in front of them. “So let’s get to work, since the caffeine is starting to circulate and do its job.”

  Annie wiped crumbs from her hands with a napkin, picked up the spreadsheets, and offered them to Alice. “First, you should read through all the words Reverend Wallace translated. Let me know if you see any connections in them.”

  Alice bent her head over the pages, alternating staring at the words with bites of pumpkin loaf and copious drinks of coffee. The clock on the wall quickly ticked off time.

  “Arg!” Alice swatted the table with the spreadsheets in her hand. “I can’t make any sense out of these or find any connections between them, for that matter. The possible exception is the seaport and the verses about ships. But why a seaport in Lithuania?”

  Annie filled her friend’s mug with more coffee. “I know. It’s like trying to put a puzzle together with half the pieces missing.”

  “Where do we find more pieces?” Alice reached into the basket, her hand finding nothing but crumbs.

  The two women stared at the papers, their minds sifting over what they already knew, trying to find another avenue that would lead them to more understanding.

  Annie’s eyes narrowed, and then she began combing through the letters. “William mentions Grandpa’s aunt, uh—” She stopped at a letter dated June 16, 1935, and scanned down the page. “Here it is, Aunt Maude. Maybe he sent letters and personal items to her children like he did to Grandpa.”

  “Would the cousins’ names be listed in the Holden family Bible?” asked Alice.

  “I would think so.” Annie pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “Let’s go find out.”

  Alice followed her to the library. Removing the heavy family Bible from a bookshelf, Annie laid it in the center of the rolltop desk and opened it to the pages filled with the Holden family genealogy. Working back from the twins, her fingers brushed a feather touch over her mother and father, grandmother and grandfather to Charles’s father, Clayton, and his siblings.

  “Here’s William,” she said. “Besides Grandpa’s father, there was another brother and two sisters. The brother Noah and one of the sisters died before having children.” Annie shook her head. “Noah only lived two years. The surviving sister was Maude Holden Atwater, and she had a son, Glenn, and a daughter, Lillian. Glenn had a daughter, Rebecca, and a son, Ronald. Lillian had two daughters, Gloria and Lorraine.”

  “Where do we start looking for contact numbers?” asked Alice. “The siblings were raise
d in Connecticut, but we know William relocated. Did Maude?”

  Annie raised the top of the laptop resting beside the Bible and pressed a key to wake it up.

  “I’d start in Connecticut and work out from there. It’s pretty likely that someone stayed home,” Alice said, pushing a wingback chair from its spot in the corner next to the leather office chair at the desk. “I hope so, anyway.”

  Annie nodded, fingers tapping on the keyboard. “Tolland and Windham counties would be the place to start, I suppose,” she said.

  “Were you queen of the geography bowl in school or what?” Alice teased.

  A light snort escaped from Annie. “With Mom and Dad being missionaries, I was better at world geography than the U.S. variety.” She gestured at the laptop LeeAnn had insisted she buy when she decided to stay longer in Maine. “I have, however, learned how to Google for Connecticut counties. The Holdens were from the northeast part of the state, so I figure those would be the best counties to check first.”

  “Good. The white pages are pretty easy to use. They come in handy in my business.” Alice reached over for a five-by-seven-inch pad from one of the desk’s compartments and selected a pen from the caddy in the corner. “You search, and I’ll be your scribe.”

  “We need to find you a feather pen so you can look like a proper scribe.” Annie smiled as she typed “Atwater” into the white pages name box and clicked “Search.” Both women leaned closer for the results.

  “There’s one in Andover,” Annie read out. “93 Forbes Street, and the phone number is … .” Alice jotted the information down. “And another in Willington, 202 Thompson’s Pond Road.” She gave two additional numbers, from the towns of Stafford and Coventry.