Old Secrets Never Die

by Lois Blackburn

  Through all their years in Pennsylvania and in Woodstock, Hiram and Lucinda’s relationship remained a marriage without contract. He had known he couldn’t replace Louis in her life and they mutually agreed not to make it official in the world’s eyes. It never occurred to him that it bothered her; they hadn’t discussed it in years.

  They did all the typical family things together but Lucinda had said she wanted Thomas and Chad to retain the Litchman name in their father’s honor. Now that the boys were grown and out of the house, maybe her unmarried status was bothering her. Hiram wondered. What else could it be?

  She always had known he wasn’t as talkative a person as Louis. Several Army buddies nicknamed Litchman “Lucky Louie” because he loved to play pinochle, usually won, and kept a running patter of conversation through each hand.

  In contrast, Hiram didn’t need to fill the airspace with words, although he loved to walk in the woods and talk to himself. “That way I know I’ll be holding an intelligent conversation,” he laughingly told Lucinda.

  Recently, he had sensed a change in Lucinda but he had too many other matters on his plate to confront her. They had developed the habit of keeping busy separately since her sons had moved away. He thought she enjoyed her freedom, as he did his.

  He had found the storefront in Essex several years ago, about the same time he met Caroline Mathis who also was looking for space to sell antiques. It seemed a natural collaboration. Caroline was a native of the area and had an endless supply of friends and relatives who owned antiques, or wanted to.

  Hiram had the cash to buy the store and Caroline was willing to work with him in trade for some space. A good, strictly professional arrangement for both, but he wondered if that bothered Lucinda.

  He had never asked Lucinda to help him in his business. When Tom and Chad were growing up, she wanted to be the at-home Mom she and Louis had dreamed of. Her boys never developed much curiosity about antiques either. They saw it merely as the furniture in their house; they’d rather be out with their friends.

  Hiram hadn’t tried very hard to convince them to follow in his footsteps. He was more of a doer than a teacher and found it easier to handle the business alone. When he was starting to establish himself, Tom and Chad were still in school or involved in extracurricular sports when he made his rounds. Hiram and Lucinda encouraged the boys to disappear when customers came to the house, so they hardly realized the value of their surroundings until they were ready to leave home.

  He couldn’t imagine why Lucinda was suddenly taking such an interest in his comings and goings. Since they moved to Connecticut, he was frequently out buying and selling–that’s the way the antiques world works. Hiram knew Lucinda realized that.

  Her persistent questioning had begun long before his latest fierce argument with Tom, so he doubted it was connected to that. Couldn’t be. Hiram wasn’t about to tell Lucinda every detail of that fight. She would have to get Tom’s side of it, if she wanted to know.

  Hiram thought she felt that he had done his best to help her parent the boys. The pair were as different as brothers could be. Chad decided in the eighth grade that he wanted to be an accountant and did exactly that. He joined the math club in high school and excelled in all its competitions. During his junior year in college, he garnered an internship with one of the nation’s leading CPA firms and was offered a job in Boston upon graduation. He passed the difficult national CPA exam on his first attempt.

  Thomas, on the other hand, puttered along from one interest to another. He wanted to be an auto mechanic–too dirty. His friend’s father, Eric Emerson, sold life insurance and was at all their recreation league basketball and soccer games, unlike Hiram who rarely attended because he was out peddling during those years. But when Tom learned that Mr. Emerson had to take professional development courses, the job lost its appeal.

  Once they moved to Woodstock, Hiram occasionally took Tom on his rounds, exposing him to people in various fields, hoping something would click and he would be motivated.. Tom just didn’t “get it”, Hiram felt.

  He feigned interest, but every time Hiram gave him a little responsibility, Tom blew it. He seemed to think the road to riches was Hiram’s driveway. Hiram thought they had agreed a few years ago that they were not meant to work together.

  So that afternoon when Tom came to the house pleading for a loan, Hiram flatly refused. Every time this happened, Tom presented himself as the contrite beggar looking for a hand-up, not a handout.

  This time, he proposed borrowing Hiram’s money and inventory to open a store in one of the old truck terminals in Putney, Vermont where he lived. The rent was dirt-cheap; he knew he could make a success of it. He would sell Lucinda’s handiwork–small nature paintings, decorative china and tiles, note cards. The main attraction, however, would be Vermont furniture and antiques Hiram would consign to him.

  Hiram had listened with every ounce of patience he could muster. The last time he loaned Tom money to open a business, it was a homemade ice cream store destined for success because Tom knew a woman with her family’s delicious recipes who would work with him. One successful summer went on the books.

  Tom lacked something in commitment or dedication, Hiram felt, but he wasn’t willing to listen to suggestions. He just wanted cash in hand to run with. Tom said he would start repaying Hiram’s loan after the first year. He went out of business before that–he and his lady friend had a falling out and the winter slump was too much for him to stick with it. He’d rather be skiing.

  Before the ice cream store, Tom’s interests had been as varied as the colors in a rainbow. In ten years he had started a car wash franchise, partnered in a ski resort, and sold handmade wooden toys at local fairs and bazaars. Hiram couldn’t even remember all the ideas Tom had for getting rich in recent years; there were too many.

  He assumed Tom was still an auto insurance claims adjuster, which he’d been doing for a year or so. Obviously, coming looking for money meant he didn’t intend to stick with that either.

  Recalling his problems with family members was just increasing Hiram’s aggravation. He needed to take a break; maybe a walk outside would improve his concentration. He felt his temper rising just thinking about that last shouting match with Tom. They both had explosive tendencies.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Hiram grabbed his favorite navy, lined windbreaker, slipped his left arm deftly into the sleeve and shrugged forward to catch the right side. He zipped it full up, leaving his right arm cocooned in the warm, comforting blanket and inside the jacket. He chose a droopy, tan, canvas fishing cap to cover his pate and stepped outside, breathing deeply. The morning sun was bright but it barely reached the ground beneath the thick stand of hardwoods.

  He loved to walk in the woods when he needed to think things through. The place was remote enough for him to even shout without fear of being heard. He would never need a shrink, he felt, because he could throw his anxiety, anger and anguish to the Connecticut winds and go on with his life.

  He walked a little faster than a stroll, hoping to raise his heart rate and generate some warmth. It made him realize he had skipped his Army “Daily Dozen” exercises this morning. Sometimes his arm just felt numb; other times the shrapnel caused intense pain relieved only by medication. Now and then, gently rubbing his elbow would help.

  Hospital physical therapists had showed him how to modify the military exercise regimen to keep the rest of his body in good physical condition. He believed the exercises helped him mentally also. Yet, he was starting to notice some arthritic symptoms in his shoulders and his blood pressure and cholesterol were both higher than they should be.

  He couldn’t let anger over his current problems affect his health and it definitely was close to the surface whenever Tom came around. After their last argument, Tom nearly slammed the storm door off its hinges.

  Hiram had turned his back and walked into the kitchen, muttering under his breath and resisting the urge to follow Tom and keep the battl
e raging. He had slapped his hand on the table hard enough to hurt when he heard gravel scatter in the driveway as Tom hit the gas.

  Maybe he and Tom should just stay away from each other, so neither would do something regrettable.

  Hiram definitely knew that he and Shawn “Skip” Dempsey should stay away from each other. He just needed to figure out how to convince Skip that he really did not have a drug business going on the side with New England Antiques in Essex.

  Hiram had thought it odd that he didn’t recognize Skip when he arrived at the showroom that Thursday morning. Caroline had said the unknown visitor was dressed like a street bum who hadn’t bathed recently, but Hiram didn’t know any people like that. The man told Caroline he was an old friend, however.

  When Skip walked in through the glass door of the store, Hiram studied him closely. His scrawny frame, deep-set and downcast eyes, gaunt cheekbones, weathered skin and trace of a gray-blond beard reminded Hiram of many addicts who had been his customers in Philly. His sleeveless flak jacket had seen better, cleaner days. A brown plaid, flannel shirt was way past ragbag readiness.

  “My good old friend. Remember me? Shawn Dempsey. But you never called me anything except Skip,” the man said, striding forward, both arms extended in greeting.

  Hiram had tried to hide the fact that he didn’t recognize the man. He did remember the name as one of his drug customers in Vietnam and again when the war ended. He recalled that Skip went into business for himself in Philadelphia but Hiram had wiped all those old friends, customers and competitors from his mind when he moved away. Now Skip was in Hiram’s store; not a good sign.

  Hiram shuddered at the recollection of those first few moments. His stroll had taken him into a thicker part of the woods. He wasn’t certain if the sudden chill was the temperature or the realization that Skip’s sudden appearance could only mean trouble. Hiram increased his pace to get into a clearing, where there would be a little sunshine on his face.

  Hiram recalled guiding Skip through the door to his small office in the rear of the store, out of sight of passersby.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” said Skip. “Well, I’ve spent months looking for you and I need your help. I did nearly ten years in prison because of you and it’s time to get back into business.” He looked about. “I can see you’re prosperous here and you probably don’t want people to know how many poor Joes you got addicted and damaged back in Vietnam and Pennsylvania, do you?”

  The way Skip told it, his world had fallen apart nearly ten years ago because he took a handgun with him when he went to steal drugs from his neighborhood drug store. He didn’t plan to shoot anyone, just wanted to get some good pills to sell on the street.

  The store apparently had a silent alarm, Skip said, and he had to run when he heard approaching sirens stop in the parking lot. Two days later, the police arrested him. He got a stiff sentence, his third offense, and the gun showed clearly in the store’s surveillance video. One of his friends told him Hiram had turned him in.

  “Just because you got out of the business didn’t mean you had to rat on us guys still trying to make a living out there,” said Dempsey, his voice rising as he anxiously paced back and forth in the small office.

  Hiram had raised his hand in protest, but Skip continued, “Now I can’t find anyone to help me get started again. You owe me, I need a stake to get a supply and I know you could put in a good word for me with the mob.”

  Hiram had clenched his teeth, grinding hard enough to make his jaw hurt as anger rose within him. He was unaware of the incident Skip related. But he knew Skip wouldn’t believe that.

  “Look, Skip, I’ve been out of the drug business way longer than you’ve been in prison. I’m sorry if our life in Vietnam affected you so badly but I can’t help you turn it around. I have no connections here or there and I’m not interested in anything related to drugs or old Army acquaintances…” Hiram stopped abruptly, aware that saying “and especially you” would rile Skip even more.

  “You need more help than you realize; you look like you’re falling apart,” Hiram concluded. He noticed that Skip’s smoky blue eyes were dilated and wondered what he was using, but he didn’t really want to know. In the small quarters of the office, Hiram could smell the sickeningly sweet odor of marijuana.

  Hiram was well aware of the huge number of Vietnam veterans being treated for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Although PTSD was a product of Vietnam, veterans of many previous wars experienced the same thing, but it was called shell shock or battle fatigue. Experts claimed the younger a person was, the more severe the trauma.

  Shawn “Skip” Dempsey, Hiram thought, was still in his teens back then. Vietnam had been the first war in which drugs made such a significant impact, he knew. But he could not feel responsible for anyone else’s problems–not drug addiction, PTSD, or anything else that required rehabilitation.

  “How did you get here, to my store in Essex?” he asked.

  Someone in prison taught him to do research on the Internet, Skip told Hiram. When he Googled Lazarus, he said, there were more than fifteen million citations. “But I had plenty of time on my hands to pore through them. I checked to see if you fit into the old Lazarus Department Store family, or the Louisiana Lazarus project for men and women with HIV.

  “I can’t tell you how many links I followed until your name and this shop came up on an antiques magazine website. So I decided to come up–the article about your showroom said you had a very successful location and a good following of collectors. Oh, I also found something from the Bible about Lazarus and a beggar at a rich man’s table. I thought that was amusing.”

  Hiram’s temper had soared. He wanted to pick up his unkempt, smelly visitor and throw him out the door. Instead, he unclenched his teeth and calmly said, “You’re right, and that Lazarus died and he rose from the dead. Well, I started a new life also and I’m not going back to anything involving drugs–or you. Now, I’m going to escort you out, and don’t come back or I’ll find someone to get you out of business forever! Go back to Philly and get some help at the VA hospital.”

  Dempsey started to move closer to Hiram. Undeterred, Hiram eased him toward the door, while Skip shouted into his face, “You can’t get rid of me this easy, Hiram. I’ll be back and you better think long and hard about helping me!”

  Suddenly both men realized someone was in the storefront. Skip ducked his head and ran past Caroline Mathis, out the front door, grumbling to himself.

  Hiram couldn’t erase that image of Skip from his mind as he turned back toward the house, but his spirits lifted when a frisky rabbit hopped across his path. He laughed out loud just as his cell phone rang.

  A 517 number showed in the window–Donald Moore.

  “Hiram, I’ve decided to accept your price on this offer you gave me the other day at the house. I’ve contacted that realtor, Lee Ann Demaris, to list the place for sale. She has the key and you can arrange to pick up the furnishings whenever you wish.

  “Also, I’ll take you up on your offer to hire a wholesaler to get the items you’re not buying. I’ll trust your judgment that they’ll give me a fair price.

  “The realtor says she’ll get a cleaning crew in there when it’s empty and take care of it from then on.” Donald Moore was all business. “Oh, I’ll leave the signed copy of this purchase agreement with her and take a copy with me to show my mother what she missed out on–HA! As if she’ll change her mind or care.”

  Hiram confirmed the contract price from memory to Donald. It was firmly in his mind, since he’d had time to concentrate on that calculation when they were told to get out of the house after finding the mummified infant. He and Donald had plenty of time outside, waiting for backup to arrive, before Jankowski said they could leave.

  “I’m catching a plane in the morning but will drive to Hartford today so I can wrap loose ends with Battles.” Donald said. “My mother has a lot of explaining to do about her past, or our past. She won’t discuss it w
ith me on the phone. That’s not your problem though, Hiram. I thank you immensely for your help; I know you’re being fair with me at this price. You can just send the check to my home when it’s convenient.”

  “Good luck. I hope you get the answers you need,” Hiram answered.

  Well, that was one matter off Hiram’s checklist. He’d get up to Boston early next week and arrange a loan for the Goodell furniture purchase and the showroom expansion at the same time. So now, he should review the budget and blueprints as the banker would want to see those.

  Maybe this was a sign that all these problems would resolve soon. He’d forget about Tom–that was a dead issue. He could probably count on Lucinda causing a confrontation soon on whatever was bothering her, since he still had no clue.

  Surely nothing more could go wrong in his life. He had told Caroline to call the police if Skip came back and she was concerned for her safety. Thankfully, Dempsey didn’t know where he lived.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bashia knocked on the side door of Hiram’s home. It had been a wayside inn in colonial times, but now, with the new Highway 84 running from Boston to Hartford, there was little traffic. Through the years the two-story house had remained the same–gray clapboards, shutters, old bottle-glass windows. Modern plumbing and a kitchen had been skillfully installed to preserve its authenticity. An old outhouse in the back yard added character to the nearby summerhouse where Lucinda could work at her greenware.

  A few brave narcissuses had poked their purple pointed heads through the remaining snow patches. Ah, spring is here, she smiled at the thought. Enough with winter, on with spring!

  Waiting, she viewed the quiet countryside. The fallow fields patiently waited for the rumble of tractors like a bride waiting for the bridegroom. Piles of grimy snow lay under the maple trees, the last remnants of winter. A low stone wall ran along Hiram’s wide gravel drive.