The Recluse Storyteller Page 2

  * * *

  “A single dark cloud hung over Harper’s Hill, making its lonely crab apple tree look like an umbrella prepped for work. Georgia reached the peak first and stood beneath the tree, looking eastward down the rolling hills of alfalfa. Gwendolyn trudged from the west through the high grass still thirty yards from the peak.

  “‘You see him?’ she yelled. It reverberated throughout the hollow.

  “‘Hurry up,’ Georgia shouted back. ‘Hurry. I see a wagon.’

  “Gwen quickened her steps and goose-necked over the peak, hoping to catch a glimpse at the earliest possible moment.

  “‘See?’

  “‘Is it him?’

  “‘I can’t tell.’

  “Georgia wiped a drop of sweat from her brow.

  “‘I hope it’s him. I’ve missed him so.’

  “‘Me too. He did promise that he’d be home by our birthday.’

  “‘Yes, but perhaps he’s been delayed.’

  “The wagon in the distance crawled along the hollow road, plodding slowly but purposefully. Two horses, in perfectly-timed steps, continued to encourage hope as the two spell-bound onlookers watched them weave along the winding road.”

  * * *

  Margaret was still leaning against the door, clutching the envelope that Mrs. Trumble had given her. She looked around and then slowly walked over to the couch, picked up her heart pillow and placed it on her lap. She carefully placed the envelope in the middle of the pillow so the embroidered heart pointed directly at her first name in the address line. “I heart Margaret,” she said aloud and smiled. The letter was from Reverend Davies. Her head lifted upwards in a muse-like state. She knew the story of the reverend very well.

  * * *

  “The reverend watched as his daughter, veiled in radiant white, hid her smile and tears as she proceeded down the aisle, one gloriously painful step at a time. Quan, her Vietnamese husband-to-be, stood on the reverend’s left. She was marrying a good man. That comforted him, but it did not take away the pain of his little girl flying away. Quan’s tuxedo looked two sizes too big for him, but he gazed at his bride-to-be with loving eyes. It was hard for him to imagine his life arriving at such an unbelievable junction. It was a tall order marrying into this family, but he was determined to make it work because he loved Nicki very much. As the bride approached the midpoint of the processional, she stopped just as they rehearsed the night before. The music paused as the reverend addressed the crowd.

  “‘Ladies and gentlemen, I will now ask the father of the bride to escort her the rest of the way to the altar.’

  “At that point, the reverend stepped out and handed Quan his Bible.

  “‘That would be me.’

  “Delightful sighs could be heard throughout the sanctuary as Reverend Taylor walked toward his daughter with tears streaming down his face. Flashes lit them up on all sides as he took his daughter’s hand and placed it through his arm.

  “‘Shall we?’

  “She nodded in approval, and the music began right on cue as they proceeded towards Quan, bridging culture, generations, and war—uniting two families together in a bittersweet mix which amazed even the most casual onlooker.”

  * * *

  Margaret stopped her narration and looked down at the envelope.

  “I’ll put it with the rest,” she said and walked over to her desk drawer, placing the unopened envelope on top of a stack of others that had never fulfilled their intended purpose.

  “Time for bed,” she said as she turned off the lights, pulled down the blinds, and jumped into her unmade bed in the little room off the kitchen. It was ten o’clock in the morning.

  Chapter 2

  A Can of Beans

  “Red Hat crouched down against the wall, the door-jamb leading into Quinn’s office flush against his nose. He heard Quinn inside and knew that he would have to make this quick and brutal for it to be effective. He didn’t think at all of his wife or little Meagan. He rarely did.

  “Red Hat took a deep breath and cocked his head around the corner so that he could see Quinn, who sat calmly behind his desk with stacks of papers strewn all over. The office was messy beyond repair, with boxes stacked on boxes, and half-open cupboards full of crumpled papers. Red Hat suddenly changed his mind and decided to do it the direct way. He slid his back up the wall into a standing position. He cocked his head once, straightened his shirt, and walked directly into the office to confront the shady accountant who had long meddled in his affairs.

  “‘What are you doing here?’ inquired Quinn. Red Hat stood silently, hands in his pockets, emulating his best Eastwood impression. ‘Collins said you were taken care of.’

  “‘I’m a persistent bastard,’ Red Hat said with calm authority. ‘Give it to me.’

  “Quinn put his hand up to his face like he was rubbing his sinuses then made a quick move for his top-right drawer. Red Hat flew over the desk, belly-flopped on the desk-calendar, and clasped his hands around Quinn’s neck. Red Hat’s momentum flipped the desk chair backwards, and the two of them flailed back and forth on the floor in writhing knots. Red Hat lifted Quinn’s head, knocking it senseless on the floor. He then got up on his knees and punched him four times. Quinn’s nose bled, and he flopped his head over to the right, leaning his cheek against the cold tile floor. He was unresponsive.

  “Red Hat stood up and looked inside the open desk drawer, revealing the small caliber handgun that Quinn had wanted to use. It didn’t interest Red Hat, who began to look around the room, trying to find the one place where Quinn would have hidden the key. He noticed a leather strap hanging off of Quinn’s belt that went into his front pocket. Red Hat reached down and pulled out the strap, which had three key chains holding about seven keys. He slid his hand into his front pocket, retrieving a pocketknife, cut the leather strap in two, and put the keys into his pocket. Quinn slowly came to and glanced at Red Hat as he started walking out the door.

  “‘Collins is going to kill you for this. Do you realize that? You’re dead.’

  “Red Hat knew one thing for certain. Quinn was wrong.”

  * * *

  Margaret stopped. An email notification from the computer jolted her back to reality.

  “Open,” she said, clicking on the mail symbol.

  Margaret,

  We received the revisions you sent us on the HVAC revised manual. This is excellent work. We appreciate your attention to detail. This was a big help for us. Your compensation has been forwarded to your account. I have another task I’d like you to work on. I’m meeting Stanley in personnel in the morning, and I’ll have a better idea of its scope and breadth after that. I’ll be in touch shortly.

  Chester Tomsey

  “You’re welcome,” she said out loud without emitting any emotion.

  She had woken up around six p.m., had a quick breakfast, and spent the last several hours working on manuals on her computer. She had just started narrating about Red Hat when the email came in. It was now eleven thirty p.m.

  Precisely at midnight, after eating some soup with buttered bread, Margaret walked out into the hallway with her purse strapped over her shoulder. Everything was quiet, except for the sporadic sound of the laugh-track from a sitcom coming from Michael Cheevers’ apartment. She thought about him sitting in front of his TV, donning his red cap. He wasn’t, however. Mrs. Trumble’s room remained dark and motionless, as was the apartment of the Johnson family and the twins. Margaret thought of them all as she slowly and quietly descended the staircase and went out into the brisk autumn night. Full Brands Market—open 24 hours—was only three blocks away, and it only took Margaret seven minutes to reach it due to the frantic way she traipsed. Every Tuesday night she did her shopping in the same manner at the same time. She hadn’t had a run-in with someone she knew in over two years and that was only the electrician who rewired her kitchen. Margaret felt safe out on Tuesdays.

  Her shopping went without incident, and she checked out without saying a wor
d. She had strapped her two bags onto her portable luggage trolley, and with head down, was walking towards the exit when unexpectedly, Reverend Davies approached her with a broad grin across his face.

  “Margaret. It’s so good to see you,” he said with genuine concern in his voice.

  Margaret stopped, nervously looked around but refused to look him in the eye. She did not reply.

  “How have you been? You look good. Did you receive the letters I sent you?”

  “Letters,” Margaret replied.

  “Yes, letters. I’ve been concerned about you, I—”

  “Letters. Yes. Received.”

  She put her head down and quickly scampered toward the door with the speed and intensity of a child on the last day of school, or in this case, perhaps a sinner after a sermon.

  “Margaret,” Reverend Davies called after her, feeling undaunted by her brush-back. “I’d really like to talk to you sometime. Do you think I can come over?”

  Margaret streaked down the block at a near run. One of the sidewalk cracks jolted a can of beans out of her bag, and Reverend Davies, who trailed behind her like an eager parent trying to protect a wobbly toddler, picked up the rolling can, shouting for her to stop. Margaret went right through a ‘Do Not Walk’ signal and sprinted over the crosswalk on Straits Street. Reverend Davies stepped off the sidewalk into a green light and a near head-on collision with an on-coming patrol car making its midnight run. When the officer saw the good reverend shouting at the lady who continued down Prescott toward her home sanctuary nary a block away, he flashed his blue lights, stopped the car, and quickly jumped out of the driver’s side.

  “Hey buddy, what’s going on here?”

  “She dropped her beans.”

  The officer curled his lip up wryly, thinking that he had another midnight wise guy to deal with.

  “She dropped her beans, huh? I think you’re full of beans. Why are you are chasing after that lady at one o’clock in the morning? Can I see some identification?”

  “Officer, look. Beans,” he held up the can.

  “You really do have beans.”

  “Yes, I’m Reverend Davies. That’s Margaret, one of my church members.”

  “You a reverend?”

  “Yes.”

  “You been drinking?”

  “No,” replied the reverend indignantly. “I …”

  “All your parishioners run away from you this quickly?”

  “Very funny. I’ve been trying to talk with her for a while, but she keeps avoiding me. I saw her in Full Brands, and … Well, let’s just say she has some issues.”

  “She has issues? You are yelling at a woman at one o’clock at night with a can of beans in your hand, and you say that she has issues?”

  “Look, officer.”

  “Nothing further, Reverend Davies,” said the officer as he handed back his driver’s license. Margaret was long gone. He hadn’t talked with her since her mother’s funeral more than four years ago. He had tried everything to correspond with her but nothing ever worked. He was disappointed that this encounter didn’t go well. He walked back towards Full Brand with the can of beans in hand.

  Margaret nearly slammed the door behind her when she reached the safety of her home. She took one deep breath, let go of her luggage cart, and started in immediately with her Vietnam story.

  * * *

  “Reverend Taylor shook with emotion as the large, white Land Cruiser jolted up and down like a carousel pony. The small dirt road hadn’t changed much in nearly forty years. There was a scattering of houses-on-stilts distributed throughout the rice fields, each one shaded by a cluster of palm trees. The road itself was lined with trees, and there were patches of banana-tree-clusters, whose large leaves would somewhat cover the road itself. Reverend Taylor’s daughter, Nicki, sat beside him. She watched the vivid expressions on his face and tried not to say anything at all. She could tell that he was reliving some intense moments—Vietnam moments that continued to haunt him to this day.

  “Vietnam drove him to faith. After his tours, faith haunted him like a VC in the jungle—he heard it breathing, felt its presence, and feared its next move. Faith gave life to his fears and nightmares, made sense of the senseless, and strengthened his resolve to become a better person. He would be dead without his faith. He was sure of it. But even all the prayers, all the years of Bible reading, and all the weeping and intercession could not help him escape the internal hell that Vietnam had wrecked on his soul. At least once a week, he would wake up screaming in a cold sweat, holding his phantom rifle, and standing over a young Vietnamese boy ready to shoot him to hell. He couldn’t shake the dreams, the visions, or the reality of what happened there.

  “He had pastored a small, successful church for the past fifteen years. He baptized the repentant; he dedicated the infants; he prayed for the infirmed; he comforted the families of the dead. He believed, sincerely, in what he was doing. But he couldn’t shake the pain, the doubt, and the sin of his own life. The nightmares had only become worse over the years. On a whim, a church elder asked him if he had thought about going back to Vietnam to ‘set the demons free’, so to speak. With some prodding from his wife and the encouragement of his college-aged daughter, he finally decided to do it, and he knew exactly where he needed to visit. He and his daughter flew into Ho Chi Minh City, took the train to Nha Trang, and hired a Land Cruiser with driver to deliver him to the source of his nightmares—a tiny village in Dak Lak named To Hap.

  “‘Daddy. What are you thinking?’

  “‘I don’t want to tell you what I’ve done.’

  “‘Daddy, it’s OK. It was a long time ago. We know what war is like.’

  “‘It’s not war that I’m concerned with. It’s humanity.’ He paused, his hands clenched together tensely as he looked out over the peasants in conical hats going about their daily lives. It was just a day like this when it all happened. The memories flooded thick, overwhelming his emotional state. He sighed like a man caught in a tempest. ‘Am I even human?’

  “‘Daddy!’”

  * * *

  Margaret stopped and looked down at the groceries on the floor. She went over to her work desk, opened the center drawer, and picked up the stack of about twenty envelopes from Reverend Davies. All of them remained unopened, and they dated back nearly four years. She felt it sitting heavy on her shoulders. The presence.

  * * *

  “The Land Cruiser stopped in a village of about a dozen houses spread out over an area half the size of a football field. Mesmerized as he walked into the past, Reverend Taylor stepped out and surveyed the familiar surroundings. He scoured the ridge on the northern end of the village which led to an elevated rice field built into the side of a small mountain which towered over the village. He panned south, past the thatched-roof houses, out over the waffle-ridged, flat rice fields which fanned out in both directions. His eyes trailed the dirt paths balanced delicately on grids made of earthen mounds which separated the paddies. Everything looked like it did forty years ago. His heart pounded, and his stomach nerves nearly bent him over in anxiety. His ears couldn’t hear his daughter’s questions. His eyesight kept drawing him back to the northern ridge.

  “‘Daddy, are you all right?’ queried his daughter, breaking through his psychological gridlock, her hand resting on his wrist.

  “‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m being pulled in all directions.’

  “At that moment, he sprinted twenty yards up the side of the ridge and stood hunched over staring down below. He lifted up his phantom rifle and pointed it downward. He saw the figment, the shadow, the boy intent on killing him. He yelled in a rage which frightened his daughter terribly. She had never witnessed her mild-mannered, jovial father so intensely express himself. He clicked the trigger over and over and in his mind heard the shot echo again and again like a church bell reverberating for an empty village.

  “‘Daddy!’”

  * * *

  Margaret jolted forward. She
had been sitting on the couch for quite some time thinking and talking when a loud knock at the door had startled her. It was nearly five a.m. Only one person ever came to the door at this hour.

  * * *

  “Janice backed away from the light as far as she could. Her back rested on the observatory glass behind her. A calm inevitability spread over her whole body as she prepared herself to willingly release her being into the light’s charge.”

  * * *

  “Margaret,” a voice from the hallway whispered. “Open up.”

  Margaret rubbed her face and slowly dragged her feet across the floor as if a member of the chain gang not too eager to start working.

  “The light was so bright,” Margaret said aloud.

  “Margaret. Please let me in.”

  Margaret opened the door widely—not at all how she treated Mrs. Trumble’s many intrusions. She barely looked at the visitor at all, but turned around with the door wide open, walked back to the couch, and sat down.

  Janice, Margaret’s aunt, walked in, closing the door behind her. She had been charged with doing her best to make sure that Margaret was taking care of herself in a satisfactory manner. She would visit every couple of weeks, always stopping by in the wee hours of the morning, knowing for sure that Margaret would be home and awake. Janice was in her early 60s, about twenty years older than Margaret.

  “Your groceries. You didn’t put them away yet. I’ll do it.”

  Margaret shook her head, jumped up, and grabbed the two bags which continued to sit on the floor next to the door. She carried them to the small kitchen counter and started to put each item in its place. Janice watched, wanting to help but knowing not to try. She walked around the apartment and noticed the stack of letters on the desk all with the return address of Reverend Davies.