by Ann Tatlock
“Yes, Truman?”
He beckoned her closer with a lift of his chin. She took a step toward him and watched as he picked up the dinner roll beside his plate. Carefully, almost ceremoniously, he tore off one corner, placed the bread in Jane’s palm, and curled her fingers around it.
When he looked up, Jane found herself gazing into the kindest eyes she had ever seen.
Truman gave a small nod and squeezed her hand. “Broken for you,” he said.
45
Jane walked in silence through the corridors with Jon-Paul, the bit of dinner roll still clenched in the palm of her hand. What had it meant? she wondered. Had she and Truman shared the same dream, or had they somehow been given a glimpse of heaven?
When he gave her the bread, she had wanted to ask him: Truman, were you there? Was it real?
But she didn’t ask. Because she knew instinctively that it didn’t matter. What mattered was that here in this huge VA complex, among all the broken bodies from all the senseless wars, there was a reminder in her hand of one more broken body from one more senseless war, and the brokenness of that body, the brokenness that Laney called a sacrifice, was the only thing that made any sense at all.
“It’s love,” Seth had said. “It’s what you’ve been looking for.”
She knew now what she hadn’t quite been sure of, that it was true. There was only one sure place to lay a heart where it could rest securely and never be broken.
As she and Jon-Paul entered the atrium, Jane gasped. She signaled him to stop with a tug on his arm.
“What is it, Jane?” Jon-Paul asked.
“I had no idea . . .”
“What?”
“I had no idea this many people would be here.”
“How many?”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .”
Before Jane could continue, they were approached by Hoboken and Sausalito. Hoboken waved a hand toward the crowd. “It’s . . . what do you say? It’s standing room only!”
“Yes.” Jane nodded.
The atrium was filled from wall to wall, and overhead in the lobby a solid line of people leaned on the banister looking down, waiting for the concert to begin.
“Did all these people know Seth?” Jane asked.
“Everyone knew Mr. Seth,” Hoboken answered.
“Not only that,” Sausalito added, “but they loved him. We are all here to pay our respects.”
“We have a chair for you, Miss Jane,” Hoboken said. “Please follow us.”
Jane and Jon-Paul followed the cousins through a crooked path in the crowd. Two padded chairs waited by the piano. Hoboken waved Jane into one as Jon-Paul took a seat on the piano bench.
“Who’s the other chair for, Hoboken?” Jane asked.
The young Ugandan gestured with a nod of his head. “Here he comes now.”
Truman walked stiffly toward them through the shifting crowd. Sausalito went to him, laid a hand on his shoulder, and guided him to the second chair. Truman eased himself into it with a sigh. His eyes met Jane’s, and they shared a smile, though neither spoke.
In another moment Jon-Paul raised a hand to silence the crowd. When a hush fell over the atrium, he said loudly, “Well, I want to thank you all for coming to this impromptu concert, which isn’t really a concert so much as a tribute to our friend, Staff Sergeant Seth Ballantine of the North Carolina National Guard.”
At the mention of his name, a cheer went up and the crowd applauded. Jane looked in wonder around the room until her gaze came to rest once more on Truman. He nodded at her as though to say, Yes, he deserves the applause. He died a hero.
When the cheers diminished, Jon-Paul went on, “Now, anyone who’s heard me play before knows I’m not a concert pianist. I’m just someone who likes to bang out a song once in a while—”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Jonny,” someone shouted overhead. “You’re terrific!”
Jon-Paul laughed as the crowd applauded again. “All right, thanks,” he said. “But anyway, this isn’t about me. It’s about Seth. A great guy. A good friend. A terrific soldier. And a super chess player!”
Whistles. Cat calls. More applause.
“So this is for Seth,” Jon-Paul finished as he raised his hands to the keys. “And because I know he’d want it this way, it’s also for all the guys—all the men and women—who’ve given their lives to, well . . . as I’ve heard Hoboken put it, to defend the blessings.”
With that, an expectant calm filled the moments before Jon-Paul’s hands began to move. When the music started, Jane recognized the opening notes of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” She thought it an odd choice as a tribute to a fallen soldier, but as she became aware once more of the moist, doughy bread in her fist, she realized it was right. Even in a world such as this, there was joy.
For thirty minutes Jon-Paul played, moving without pause from one song to another and another. The crowd stood motionless, shifting only to let the occasional passerby through. Jane listened as though enchanted, the music carrying her back to childhood when she sat in the window seat in the parlor, grasping at the beauty beyond the glass. Once more, there was Grandmother on her knees in the garden, weeding the rows of freshly sprung tulips and budding delphinium, the early evening sunlight resting tenderly on the grass. And in the kitchen, Laney, singing her sad songs of hope as she washed the dishes yet one more time at the end of another sweet day. Only now Jane saw what she hadn’t seen before—God was there, master over all creation, scattering those seeds of beauty with open palms.
When at last Jon-Paul’s hands came to rest, the crowd broke out again in thundering applause. Jon-Paul seemed not to notice. Neither did he acknowledge it. Instead, he leaned toward Jane and settled his eyes on her face as though he could see her. He was smiling. “And this last one,” he said quietly to her alone, “this one’s for you, Jane.”
She knew what it was before he began to play. She listened as the familiar strains of “Clair de Lune” rose from the piano and twined themselves around the crowd. Jane felt herself wrapped up in moonlight, and as she watched Jon-Paul play for her, she was at peace.
Epilogue
Three Years Later
As Jane settled the vase of freshly cut gladiolus above the fireplace, she took a moment to run her hand along the mantelpiece. Seth would have liked this, she thought as she studied the hand-crafted scrollwork ornamenting the hearth. No doubt Seth would have fallen in love with every inch of the Travelers Rest Inn had he had the chance to visit. She could just imagine him walking through its rooms, observing with great diligence all the varied woodwork put in place a century and a half before. Certainly few visitors saw all that Seth would have seen had he been there.
But no time to think of that now. There was a celebration to prepare for, and the guests would be arriving in less than an hour. Laney was in the kitchen, frantically working up trays of hors d’oeuvres. She and Clapper had invited nearly a hundred guests to join them in marking their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Jane had come early, along with a few other volunteers and the three Jackson kids, to help cook and clean and set up and decorate. They’d been at it for hours, but they were almost ready. Jane glanced around the front room and decided the only thing missing was the food and the guests.
Some were still on the road, coming from long distances. Her grandmother and father were on their way from Troy; they should be showing up any minute. Though they still owned and lived in the Rayburn Bed & Breakfast, Gram was no longer involved in the day-to-day running of it. She had finally decided to retire to her gardening and her books and her music, and so she had hired a young couple to work alongside Peter Morrow. From what Dad said, David and Olivia Ballantine were doing a great job publicizing the place, bringing in new guests, and making sure each and every visitor was happy and comfortable during their stay.
Jane smiled at the thought of Seth’s brother running the old B&B. David wouldn’t appreciate the woodwork the way Seth had, but he no doubt appreciated the job in th
e midst of the current economic downturn. He was, after all, a family man now, his wanderlust having been permanently excised by the former Olivia Springman. He had run into her, his old high school flame, when he came back from Alaska for Seth’s funeral. Some months later, in a there’s-no-place-like-home kind of moment, he married her and once again planted his roots in the same Carolina soil he had formerly shaken off his feet. David and Olivia were expecting their first child in the fall. Sid and Jewel Ballantine were ecstatic. Dad said Olivia wasn’t even showing when David started handing out cigars.
Jane was just turning away from the fireplace when Bess walked into the room, holding a cheese tray in front of her with both hands. She was in her party dress of yellow eyelet, and even from a distance Jane could smell her perfume. Bess smiled at Jane with lips painted a deep shiny red. “Can you tell me where I ought to be putting this, Jane honey?” she said.
Jane pointed to one of the tables covered in white linen. “Cheese trays go right there next to the punch bowl.”
Bess nodded and placed the tray on the table. “Call it a miracle, but it looks like everything’s going to be ready on time.”
“That’s good,” said Jane, “though I think we’re all going to be exhausted by the time the party starts.”
“Speak for yourself, young lady. I’m ready to cut a rug till the wee hours.”
Jane laughed. “Does Truman know about this?”
“He knows he best keep up with me, or I’ll leave him in the dust.”
“So where is that husband of yours now?”
“In the kitchen begging scraps,” Bess said, her voice feisty. “Where else would you expect Truman to be?”
“What? You don’t feed him enough?”
“Honey,” Bess said, drawing herself up to her full five-foot height and putting her hands on her hips, “you know I feed that man plenty. He claims he’s still making up for the years of what he calls his old retired veterans food. You’d think they were feeding him C-rations instead of hot meals, but I know better. Maggie always said he had the appetite of a horse, and now I know it’s true.”
Jane shrugged nonchalantly. “The only thing I ever thought he liked was chocolate milk.”
Bess threw her hands up. “He drinks that stuff like there’s no tomorrow. He drinks it for breakfast, for lunch, for supper, and every hour in between. Sometimes he even brings a glass of it to bed. I have to tell him, ‘Truman, baby, you be careful now. You spill that chocolate milk in this bed and you’re on the couch tonight!’”
Bess’s comment was followed by hearty laughter from Truman as he walked into the room carrying a tray of finger foods. “Now, Bess,” he said, “we’re two years married and you’ve never once put me in the doghouse.”
“Yeah?” Bess shot back. “So far you haven’t spilled any milk. Just wait and see what happens when you do.”
“Hmm.” Truman nodded. He set the finger foods down by the cheese tray. “That’s settled, then,” he said.
“What’s settled, Truman?” Bess asked, frowning slightly. “What are you talking about?”
“No more chocolate milk in bed.” Truman smiled and shrugged. “I don’t want to spend a night away from you. Not a night and not a day. Not ever.”
Bess clasped both hands over her heart and laughed merrily. “Truman Rockaway! You’re a hopeless romantic. That’s what you are!”
Truman winked, bent down, and kissed his wife. “That’s right, Mrs. Rockaway. Nothing’s going to come between me and my bride.”
Jane watched as they kissed again, Truman leaning far down to reach the lips of his tiny wife. They’d been married in this very room, the front room of the Travelers Rest Inn, and had honeymooned in Charleston before setting up housekeeping together in Bess’s home just a few miles from the inn.
To Jane, the wedding seemed like yesterday. It had been one of the happiest days of her life. She smiled now as she watched Bess and Truman move arm in arm toward the door. Before they stepped into the hall, Bess stopped and said over her shoulder, “Speaking of hopeless romantics, Jane, where’s that young man of yours?”
“I think he’s still upstairs with Maggie.”
“Well, you best tell him to get dressed and get on down here. Guests will start showing up soon.”
Jane looked at her watch and nodded. “I’ll tell him to get a move on.”
While Truman and Bess disappeared down the hall, Jane headed up the broad staircase to the second floor. When she came to the guest room that was hers for the weekend, she paused in the doorway and looked inside. She could see just the back of her husband’s head above the rim of the padded rocking chair by the window. He was humming quietly while he rocked.
Gram had been thrilled when she learned Jane was marrying a lawyer and moving to Asheville. Initially, the fact that the young man was blind gave her pause, but once she met him her concerns largely disappeared. “He seems quite capable of a normal life,” she’d told Jane.
“Oh, Gram, of course he is. And I’m not marrying him because he’s a lawyer. All that doesn’t matter.”
“Well, dear, at least I know he’ll be able to give you a comfortable life.”
Jane paused a moment, smiled. “It isn’t comfort that I care about, Gram.”
Gram had looked puzzled, but Jane didn’t explain. There was really only one reason she was marrying Jon-Paul Pearcy. She couldn’t help it. She loved him.
Jane felt a rush of that love now as she stood in the doorway to their room. He had been patient and understanding, allowing her time to finish grieving Seth before pursuing her. She’d gone back to Troy for that first year, and though they’d stayed in touch, he let that year go by before deciding he had waited long enough. Finally he’d called and asked her if she might consider going on a blind date. She’d laughed and said she’d be delighted. A few months later, shortly after Bess and Truman’s wedding, Jane and Jon-Paul too were married in the front room of the Travelers Rest Inn.
Jane started when Jon-Paul spoke, interrupting her thoughts. “I know you’re there, Mrs. Pearcy,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you come in? What are you doing?”
“Well, Mr. Pearcy,” Jane answered, “I’m just standing here thinking how happy I am.”
“Really? That’s funny.”
“What’s funny about it?”
“I was sitting here thinking exactly the same thing.”
Jane smiled. She walked to where her husband sat and gazed down at the baby in his lap. The baby’s eyes were closed and her moist pink lips had stopped sucking at the bottle in Jon-Paul’s hand.
“Maggie’s asleep,” Jane said in a low voice.
“I know.”
“Why don’t you put her in her crib?”
“Because there’s nothing better than having her in my arms.”
Jane gazed lovingly at Magdalene Meredith Pearcy, not quite six months old. “She’ll steal the show tonight, of course,” she said. “She’ll take all the attention away from Laney and Clapper.”
“And that’s to be expected,” Jon-Paul replied. “I’m sure Laney knows she’ll have to play second fiddle to the most beautiful baby in the world.”
Jane laughed lightly. Laney adored the baby, as did Truman and Bess, Maggie’s honorary grandparents. Everyone adored her, it seemed. Gram was spoiling her first great-grandchild terribly, with the cooperation of Peter Morrow, the proud grandfather. Peter’s whole countenance had changed when he first laid eyes on Maggie, then changed again when he learned the child’s middle name was Meredith. “Are you sure, Jane?” he had asked. “Your mother wasn’t much of a mother to you.”
“I’m sure, Dad,” Jane had told him. “I want Mom to have her name on something other than a bunch of old movies. She needs to be remembered for something more important than that.”
Jane lifted the bottle from Jon-Paul’s hand and set it on the dresser. “You’d better let me put her down for her nap,” she said. “You need to get dressed. The guests are going to start show
ing up any minute now.”
“All right. If you insist.”
“I’m afraid I do.”
Jon-Paul sighed even as he smiled. He lifted Maggie to his lips and kissed her cheek. Then he handed her over to Jane.
Just as when the baby was born, Jane wished momentarily that Jon-Paul could see Maggie clearly. She wished he could gaze unimpeded at her perfect round face and into her clear blue eyes, but the sight he had left wouldn’t allow it. And yet, she was the one who ached, not Jon-Paul. He was decidedly content. He knew exactly how beautiful she was. Some things, he said, didn’t have to be seen to be believed. Some things could be taken on faith.
Jane laid Maggie in her crib and turned on the baby monitor attached to the railing. Jon-Paul reached into the closet for a freshly ironed shirt. Outside, a car pulled up in front of the inn. The engine was cut and the driver’s side door opened and closed. Jane stepped to the window in time to see her father helping Gram out of the passenger seat.
“Ah, Peter and Grandmother are here,” Jon-Paul said.
Jane turned wide-eyed from the window. “How did you know it was Dad and Gram?”
“Easy,” Jon-Paul replied as he worked his way down the buttons of his shirt. “I heard you smile.”
Before Jane could respond, more cars rolled up the drive. Tires crunched on gravel. Doors opened and slammed shut. Chatter rose up and laughter rang out. Jane paused long enough to give her husband a kiss before hurrying off to welcome family and friends to the place called Travelers Rest.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank-you to each of the following who shared their lives and their expertise with me. This book wouldn’t have been possible without their help.
Tom Mattox, PA-C, Spinal Cord Injury/Disease Clinic, Department of Veterans Affairs, Charles George VA Medical Center, Asheville, North Carolina
Dennis Mehring, Public Affairs Officer, Department of Veterans Affairs, Charles George VA Medical Center, Asheville, North Carolina
Judy L. Davis, Low Vision Technician, Low Vision Center, Mission Hospitals, Asheville, North Carolina
