The weekend before Christmas, John began taking his meals inside the Richardson home. Part of it was he felt more comfortable around Dora after that morning with the Boldens. The other reason was Luke; if John spent more time with that youngster, perhaps his memories would return.
The other children didn’t stir John’s past; was his family dead, had he run away from…. He didn’t dwell much on that, although it remained a possibility, regardless of Walt’s continued assurances that no one was looking for him. Not even Hiram, which pleased Luke most of all. John wouldn’t have minded giving that boy a good talking to, for now that he’d spent time with the family, a few secrets had spilled; Luke and Hiram had cut school on the day President Kennedy was killed, and while John wasn’t privy to the boys’ exact whereabouts, he got the feeling they had been at the lake. From Tilda, John had learned that he was found two days later, but that Walt and Luke hadn’t been fishing as Walt originally said. John surmised the boys had gone hunting and most likely Hiram had shot him unawares.
Yet, why had John been at Caddo Lake? He wasn’t from here, which Susie had mentioned before she, Callie, and Marian left the other day. Susie had set her hand on John’s forehead, gazing into his eyes as if looking for answers. During that weekend, John had wracked his brain, recalling nothing, but giving himself a terrific headache. He spent much of those afternoons sleeping, but at suppertime he sat between Luke and Tilda, able to eat with his left hand, his right arm still tightly strapped, occasionally numb, usually painful. After dinner, Walt had asked if John might want a few shots of whiskey, but John had declined. Oddly enough he never had trouble falling asleep, and perhaps the pain might trigger a memory.
He’d been religious, which he had shared with Walt, finding relief in that man’s eyes when John specifically mentioned his pastor. But something else flitted in Walt’s dark irises when John mentioned Susie laying her hand on his forehead. John wanted to ask about that, but he wouldn’t speak to Dora, and Walt hadn’t shown any further interest. The Boldens were coming on Christmas Eve, which also seemed to be customary between the families. John didn’t know if other whites and Negros in Karnack were as close as the Richardsons and Boldens, and there wasn’t much way for him to find out. The Richardsons were going to Hannah’s for Christmas dinner, and John would stay behind, much to Luke’s displeasure. But John agreed with Walt and Dora; he didn’t wish to be seen by anyone else, mostly for how gruesome was his injury.
On Saturday, Walt had removed the bandages; it had been four weeks since John had been discovered, and while Walt was still amazed at how the shoulder and arm had knit themselves back together, the right side of John’s upper body was severely deformed. John had finally looked at the wound, which had never become infected, yet it was as if the corner of John’s shoulder had been sliced off, leaving his arm strangely attached, but useless. John couldn’t lift it, couldn’t bend his elbow, no longer could move his wrist. He was able to wiggle his fingers, but he couldn’t always feel those actions. Walt found it puzzling that for how much initial healing had occurred, now it was a matter of the scabs falling away while John learned to use his left hand for everything. Walt never speculated as to what John’s occupation had been. Whatever it was, he would never be able to do it to his previous skill level.
John had never realized how important were two good limbs; sometimes he still wished Walt had removed that bad arm, for the pain would have disappeared, as well as the sense of futility. Not that John had any hint to his former career, but that arm was now a nuisance in addition to always being sore. And sore wasn’t even close to describing the pain, which at times did make John wish for something stronger than aspirin. Neither Walt nor Dora drank and it didn’t seem the Boldens did either. John probably hadn’t as well, for he never craved it. He ate chicken without issue, and he loved Susie’s pies. Sweet potato was his favorite, but why that was seemed as mysterious as everything else.
On Monday the twenty-third, Luke and Tilda were home, no school for the next two weeks. Walt had to work, but would be off tomorrow afternoon, and might not go back until the following week. While redressing John’s shoulder, Walt had said work was slow and wouldn’t pick up until after the holidays. John didn’t know how this family celebrated Christmas, although wrapped presents were starting to appear under the tree, stockings hung near the fireplace. All four children were antsy, but Luke and Tilda were the most excited. Over the weekend, Luke had confided to John that there was no Santa Claus, but they needed to keep that from the girls. John had nodded, finding himself drawn to these people while trying not to wonder what his own traditions might be. Had he lived with Negro servants, maybe that was where he’d eaten sweet potato pie. Maybe he’d been a writer, trekking about The South, looking for novel fodder. But no matter what John considered, he always returned to the family he’d left behind. As Luke and Tilda headed down the path, approaching the shed, John was reminded of his own clan. Chatter turned to whispers as the kids reached the shed. “G’morning Mr. Doe. How’re you doing today?”
John had left open the shed door, but neither child stepped inside. “I’m doing all right Luke. Hello Tilda, how are you two this morning?”
Tilda smiled, but was still shy around him. She stayed behind her brother as Luke entered the shed, stopping at Walt’s work table. “We’re good, just wanted to see if you’re ready for breakfast.”
John had been awake for an hour, but hadn’t wished to interrupt the family, uncertain how early the children might have stirred what with the two eldest off school. “I am, but I hope you haven’t waited on me.”
“We didn’t,” Tilda said flatly. Then she coughed. “Mama told us to eat, so we did.”
John chuckled. “Well, best to mind your mother.” He still didn’t know how this girl figured into his memories, but her feistiness was a tonic. Maybe he’d had a sister like her or…. He shivered, never considering anyone other than his immediate family and that best friend. Were his parents already dead, did he have siblings? “I could use some coffee, certainly.” He kept his voice upbeat, but enormous sadness filled his heart. “Let’s start the day.”
“Indeed Mr. Doe, just two days till Christmas, I can’t wait!” Luke walked to where John now stood, and while John wouldn’t need help until they reached the porch, he appreciated the boy’s presence. Tilda waited for them on the path, then all three headed to the house, where Luke was used as a crutch while John gripped a wooden beam next to the steps. John could smell bacon, and there were probably eggs and toast waiting, maybe grits. John had come to like them, salted and buttered or with a dollop of jam.
But it was the coffee he craved and Dora always saved him three cups. He smiled at her, then took his seat, where a mug waited. As he sipped from it, a plate appeared, just what he’d expected, although the grits were plain. “Sweet or salty today,” Dora asked.
“How about sweet?” John reached for the jam; the lid had been left off, probably for his benefit. His dexterity was getting better, but there was no way he could open anything with just one hand.
He managed to retrieve some jam, then began to eat, which was still a slow process. But the extra time allowed him to savor more than his food. He watched as Esther tugged on her mother’s apron, which was tied above her growing belly. Was she having twins, John wondered. Walt had mentioned they had lost at least two babies, and he was greatly concerned about this pregnancy. Walt was a mystery to John, for while he harbored an intense dislike of Catholics, he was very close to Callie Bolden. He was gentle with his wife, a loving father to their kids, and he took good care of a strange man with no past. Callie had been in Korea, John considered. Had Walt served? John set down his fork, taking a long drink of coffee. Then he gazed at Dora, who had been staring at him. “This is delicious,” John said, then he chuckled. “Both the food and the drink.”
She smiled, nearly setting her hands on her apron. Then she dropped her arms to her sides. “Thank you.”
She turned back to the
counter, for which John was glad; her actions reminded him of his wife; they’d had a hard time getting pregnant. Then he closed his eyes, concentrating. The notion was fleeting, as were most of the snippets he recalled. They had been married for many years, and had only conceived in the last few. Why was that, John wondered, sighing aloud. When he opened his eyes, Luke stood across the table, staring at him. “What’s wrong Mr. Doe?”
The boy’s eyes were like the sky on a hot, cloudless day, as though John could grasp all of his life if he could just step into that blue, letting it envelope him. He smiled, perhaps he was a poet. “Nothing’s wrong Luke, nothing at all.”
The child nodded, then grinned, moving out of John’s view, but now Dora faced him. Yet she could sense more than Luke, for she deftly placed a hand on her belly, then nodded. John smiled, he couldn’t help it. Then he returned to eating breakfast, trying not to remember any more.
After breakfast, John explored the back acreage, Luke as his guide. They walked for twenty minutes, then John headed back, Luke’s chatter a pleasant distraction. John told the boy he was going to rest and Luke nodded, trying to meet John’s gaze. John purposely didn’t look at Luke, not wishing to see the child’s eyes.
John slept fitfully, dreaming of his wife, but as usual when he woke, those dreams were only fragments, causing him distress. He sat up, staring at the closed shed door. No one disturbed him if the door was shut, and fortunately the weather wasn’t dismal, permitting him to stay out as long as he wanted. For the first time since he’d woken here, he didn’t want to see any of the Richardsons. Then John sighed. If not for the harm he might cause Dora, John would consider ending his life. A month had passed, his family not having found him. Maybe he wasn’t a criminal, but perhaps he’d been a terrible person and they were glad to be rid of him.
Yet, that couldn’t be true, for he and his wife had only just started a…. He sighed heavily, then got up, walking to the door, opening it. Sun shone, and his right shoulder would benefit from the warmth, but John didn’t feel like stepping out. Just as he turned, he saw someone approaching. He gazed up, surprised to see Dora walking his way.
“You hungry for lunch?” she called.
He shrugged, which made him wince, both from pain and his previous thoughts. “Yeah, just woke up. I’ll be in soon.”
She stopped a couple of feet from the doorway. “Take your time.” She looked at the ground, then gazed toward him, not meeting his eyes. “I suppose Walt told you about….”
As she spoke, she placed her hand on what John felt was more than one baby. “Yeah, he said it was early still.”
She nodded. “Not yet three months, but maybe it’s twins.” Her voice lifted, then she sighed. “Saw the doctor last week, can’t hear a heartbeat yet, but he thinks the same.”
“When are you due?”
“July, but maybe sooner.” She paused, smoothing down her blouse, leaving her hands at her sides. “I’ve lost two, so who knows?”
Unsure what to say, John smiled. “Well, so far, so good.”
“Yeah, I’ve been plenty sick.”
He chuckled. “I did hear that.”
She huffed, then stepped toward him. “You have children, don’t you?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “A girl Gail’s age.”
“Any others?”
He sighed. “I think my wife’s expecting, but….” He shook his head. “It’s only a feeling.”
“I wondered. You’re good with the kids. Plus Susie said….” Dora paused, then cleared her throat. “Lunch’s ready when you are.”
As she turned to leave, John took a deep breath. “What did Susie tell you?”
Dora stopped, keeping her back to him. “Only that she thought you had a family.”
John stepped from the shed, walking to where Dora was still turned away from him. He didn’t face her, but stood close. “Is Miss Susie somewhat psychic?”
Dora stifled a giggled, then met John’s gaze. “She is, but don’t say that in front of Walt. He doesn’t believe in it.”
John nodded. “What else has Susie said about me?”
“Just that you have a family, that your wife’s pregnant, and that….” Now Dora trembled. “Lunch’s getting cold.”
She went to leave, but John reached out for her. He didn’t grasp her arm, but as if he had, she stopped, not meeting his eyes. “Does she know something? God knows I’ve thought about this. If there’s something you all know, please tell me.”
Tears trickled down Dora’s cheeks. “It’s just that whatever you used to do, you won’t be doing it no more ’cause of this.” Gently she traced what remained of his shoulder. “Susie knew what I was having every time, even the ones I lost. Not that she knew what she was expecting,” Dora had a soft chuckle. “Says she gets it from her mother, that her mother told her to marry Callie and come back down here,” Dora added. “Her family’d been up north for more than thirty years, and the last thing she wanted was to leave ’em, but her mother said she had to. Plus she loved Callie and….” Dora sighed, then took a deep breath. “Goodness, running off at the mouth, that’s me.”
As she stepped away, John patted her right shoulder. “Dora, did she tell you anything else?”
This woman had barely said two words to him, and here she was spilling her guts, or most of them. John didn’t consider his previous occupation, but if Susie knew more about his family…. Dora finally met his gaze, her cheeks still streaked with tears. “Just that nothing in your life’s ever gonna be the same. It’s all gonna be different from now on.”
“How?” he asked. “Does she think I’ll get home, what?”
“She didn’t know. That’s why she put her hand on your forehead.” Dora smiled, then frowned. “Don’t tell Walt I told you all this. He never puts any faith in all she says, although she’s never wrong.”
“I won’t. But can I ask you something?”
“You can ask,” Dora said.
John laughed. “Your husband said the same thing when I wanted to know….” John cleared his throat. “Did Walt serve in Korea?”
As Dora nodded, tears poured down her face. John ached to soothe her, but it seemed as if this outburst was necessary, for she wept, then wiped her eyes, continuing to nod her head. “Why in heaven he had to go, I’ll never know. Don’t tell him I told you, he didn’t want you knowing that neither.”
“I won’t say anything. It was just a feeling I had, maybe because Callie went, I guess.”
“They was both drafted. Served in different troops, of course.”
“Of course.” John nodded.
“Plus Walt was a….” Dora paused, then shook her head. “He came home, that’s all that matters.”
“Yeah, certainly.” Something inside John wished she’d continued speaking. He coughed, then softly squeezed her hand, releasing it quickly. “Thank you, I mean….” He met her eyes, silently pleading for whatever else she felt able to say. But maybe there wasn’t any more, maybe….
“He was a sniper.” Her voice was a whisper. “But a Jew saved his life, can you believe it? Some little Jewish guy.” Dora smirked, then looked right at John. “My husband hates Catholics, but don’t ever say nothing bad about Jews, crazy huh?” Dora shrugged. “Not that I’ve ever met one, but there was one in his platoon. From New York, which makes sense.” Her tone was wary. “He never knew what happened to him, said he was sorta, well, not all there.” She rolled her eyes. “But then Walt still suffers from….” Dora sighed. “Forgive me, you’re probably starving by now.”
John was hungry, but not only for lunch. Yet, he wouldn’t press for more information, plenty to ponder with all she had said. “I’ll keep this to myself.”
“Thank you.” Dora bit her lip. “Especially what Susie said. About you, I mean.”
He nodded. “Mum’s the word.”
Dora inhaled, then looked toward the house. “Kids’ll be wondering if you’re all right.” She started down the path, leaving John to follow. When he r
eached the steps, Dora stood on the porch, but she called for Luke. John glimpsed at the boy’s eyes, but other considerations crowded out those familiar irises. Dora’s revelations were a Christmas gift of sorts, and John slowly ate his meal, wondering when he saw Susie Bolden tomorrow, what else might she be able to tell him.
Chapter 176
The Hawk: Part Nine Page 19
