Reunion

Reunion

There's a little Rosewood Casket

Resting on a marble stand     

with a packet of old love letters

written by my true love's hand 

"Little Rosewood Casket"

(recorded by Dolly Parton

 and many others)



Morning

It was early Fall, leaves turning, evening sun sinking lower in the afternoon sky every day.  Just now the sunrise was filtering through the tall black oaks of the surrounding woods.  It was an early morning in his eighty third year.  He is widowed, retired, and living alone save for his faithful little beagle, the birds and squirrels around the feeders the noisy old wall clocks throughout the various rooms. A huge old grandfather clock that stands sentinel by the staircase booming out the Westminster chimes on the quarter hour and striking the hour with all the enthusiasm and tones of the original Big Ben if not the full outdoor volume has just announced the seventh hour of what looks to be a beautiful day.  He has not been able to stand the quiet of an empty house since she went away.

***

He sat quietly in front of the blank laptop screen and watched pair of late spring fawns at the far edge of the woods, silhouetted against the late summer brown of the meadow beyond.  They were nibbling at the few remaining leaves of the underbrush just near the tree line and frolicking with their mother from time to time.  The twins' mother, still in her spring coat of soft brownish tan, kept a careful watch from the nearby stand of wild mountain laurel and made occasional playful romps with them.  The house was quiet just now.  Empty quiet.  Except for the clocks and Willy the pup who was still snoozing, upside down on the living room couch.  Almost three years since she passed!  How time flies, yet seems to drag agonizingly at times. It was gonna' be one of those mornings.  His mind wandered.  "Wonder what things are like back home now."
("Home" would always be the red gravel/clay hills of Crowleys Ridge in the northeast of Arkansas.)

He drifted back ..........

Memories

............ to the Summer of '52.  Home to help with the spring crops, from the small, store-front business college and back to being a farm hand again.  His dad had hurt his back badly and needed a hand driving the little two row Farmall and do some of the heavy lifting.  He loved to drive the tractor and had a knack for other machinery.  Could never deal with the horses, though, they always seem to sense that he didn't care for them and therefore was not one to be listened to.  He had gone to a business college straight out of High School the year before.  It was just a storefront building located on Madison Avenue in Memphis; two levels crammed with desks and classrooms, teaching the basics of typing, penmanship, bookkeeping and office machines with a smattering of law and math thrown if for good measure. Working at a part time job, bringing home less than twenty dollars per week and paying half that for a room and two meals a day at a boarding house left around two dollars per day for lunch, bus fare and entertainment.  Lunches (if any) and boarding house meals were not quite the same as the "farm hand dinners" he had been used to at home and his baby fat had, unnoticed to him, dropped away to a much more normal 140 pounds from the chubby 190 of high school days.

***

Then came the letter.  Most wonderful piece of correspondence he had ever seen Perhaps he could not be sure of the exact wording, but it was an invitation to friendship and he never forgot how it was signed.  "Love, Peggy". Could remember anyone ever using that term to him; certainly never a girl. Then came the letter.  They traded letters back and forth and when he came home in the spring to help with the crops, they dated. She was almost 17; he barely 18.  It was early April now; they dated with intense regularity.

She was his first love and they were both smitten.  Crowded pickup truck double-dating with his long time buddy and his girl. Saturday nights in town, maybe going to the late show. sometimes parking out by the lake, just the two of them. He was completely and totally in love with the most wonderful girl he had ever seen, met or kissed, as only teenagers can be and he was certain she felt likewise.  He had given her his high school ring, one of his most precious possessions, solid 14K gold complete with the high school emblem and the school's initials emblazoned on the top.  His year of graduation was on the sides, 19 on one side and 51 on the other.  His own initials engraved on the inside of the band.  He had even used up his last pay to buy a gold chain so she could wear it around her neck.  Paul was in heaven and he knew it!  Late June now, farm work slowing down.  Her birthday was soon and he had already bought her gift, a gold compact, which was as an intimate a gift as he dared at this point.

***

Then the crash!  The world ended.  The lights went out!
No disagreement, no argument, no transgression that he could think of,  nothing!
She just wouldn't talk, wouldn't respond to any communication.
Why?  He could not understand. Could not believe it.
What to do?  No frame of reference in his world.  No  prior experience to draw on.
Saturday night?  Well, go to town alone, just maybe .....
Took the old pickup, luckily found a parking spot near the theater and waited.  As she approached, he had opened the truck door and stepped out to stand by side of the raggedly old Ford, as she walked by on the sidewalk accompanied by a couple of younger sisters.  She never looked at him. Actually she did look, but not at him, more like, through him, and never missed a step. They bought their tickets and went inside.  There was no chain around her neck.

***

He was still standing there fifteen minutes later, just staring at the theater marquee.
"Pauley!" someone shouted from a parking spot on the square.
"Hey!" came another shout from his long-time friend and schoolmate from the community.
"Hi, Freddy," he responded weakly and waved back as Fred dodged through the early traffic, mostly kids, cruising the square, "Been here long?".
"Just got here, working late today, by yourself?  Where's the girlfriend?
"Inside, he replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. She ain't talking to me for some reason.
"So what did you do now?
"Nothin' that I can think of, she just walked right past me and didn't even look.
"I was thinking of going to  the movie, see if I could get a conversation started with someone.
"Well, the girls are probably sitting down front, probably in the first four or five rows,  Maybe they'll talk to you." He said, with more than a trace of sarcasm
"Come on, go with me.
"Naw, think I'll just go home.

***

So, he gathered up his pride and slowly and carefully drove home.  He brooded.  He talked to his pal, Luther, who could sympathize but could offer no solutions.  He played the truck radio as loud as possible, but Hank Williams' "Lovesick Blues" was no help either.  In the next few weeks he went to other social events, community picnics, movies, even church, talked to other girls, suggested dates, etc. but with little or no success. He was a marked man. He was "Peggy's friend", and  therefore not in the market.  His misery continued well into the fall, and once his father was able to work again, he went back to the city to complete his course of study and look for more lucrative employment.

Dreams

Lost in his memory, he dozed; he dreamed; and the dream shifted into "what might have been".   He dreamed on.

Another letter.  Beautiful envelope; it even smelled nice.  He recognized the smooth flowing cursive of the return address.  It was from Peggy, longer note this time. 

 

Haven't heard from you lately [she said] and I wondered how you were doing in the big city.  I really enjoyed the time we were able to spend together while you were home, and I really hope we can still be friends.  When will you be coming back?  I will be graduating soon and I really don't know what my plans are for after that.  Hope to see you soon.

And again, it was signed,  "Love, Peggy".

 

Those magic words again.  Not a word about her "cold shoulder" behavior, or any attempt at either apology or explanation, but the signature was the only thing he really saw. The rest didn't matter. He wanted to go home.  So he went; said goodbye to the girlfriend, quit his job, left his classes in mid term, packed his few belongings in the back seat of the battered '46 Ford and went back to Clay County with no idea of any source of income or any plan for the future.  He was in love, and nothing else mattered.

Moved back to the farm with his parents, helped with the crops there and did day work for other farmers while he tried to find employment.  And dated the girl with whom he was hopelessly in love.  There were Saturday nights in town, late movies and afternoon drives in the country after church services on Sunday.  Even Wednesday night church "prayer meetings", and a lot of close contact in the pickup truck.  They talked of marriage and planned a wedding in the spring; he even screwed up his courage and, in a short terror laced meeting, asked her father's blessing. 

The dream continued, fast forwarding through years farming a mortgaged forty acres of good bottom land, struggling to make payments on the costly equipment, seeing prices drop as the big acreage farmers became able to produce more for less.  It was the when the death knell of the small family farm tolling quietly; but they didn't hear it.  The family grew with the addition of three children, then four, then.....

He awoke in a sweat, wondering just where he was and when it was....

and realized finally that it was only a dream,
 

That was not what had happened.

***

He was awake now, and his failing memory, so problematic regarding the very recent, was clearly in focus as he recalled what had really happened.

Since there was now nothing in Clay County for him, he had gone back to the city and, through the help of a friend, secured a starting level job in a local wholesale bakery, boxing bread and loading trucks.  Not a fancy of "sittin' down" job, but the pay was reasonably good, far better than parking cars or jerking sodas as he had been doing. He worked nights and went to school days. Soon, with his brother's signature, (he was barely eighteen) was making payments on a tired old '46 Ford and dating a dark haired, hundred-pound farm girl from the hills of Mississippi who was also studying at the College.  Things were looking up.

 His mind raced on as the past seventy years flooded his memory.   Love, marriage, army time, problem pregnancies, children, a boy and a girl, now with families of their own and scattered.  Divorce, remarriage, another divorce, marriage, death and now here he was, all by himself, comfortable, well fed, well housed, but alone.  Good friends, still working some, hobbies, and so on, but he still had to scratch his own back.

"It been a good life, and God knows I'm grateful, but sometimes wonder just what might have happened ......."

Contact 

His train of thought ground to a halt as the phone rang. 

"Now who the hell could be calling at this early hour?"

"Hello," he answered rather gruffly.

"Mr. Broussard?", the voice was slow, soft and masculine but professional in manner.  The name was pronounced 'BRUSS-erd", not the 'bru-SARD' that he had become accustomed to since moving to the East Coast.  He had long since given up trying to preserve the way that only the folks of his home state pronounced it. He was alert and a bit suspicious.  Had not spoken with anyone from 'down home' in years.

"Yes"

"John Paul Broussard, formerly of Clay County Arkansas?

He hesitated a moment. "I am.  Call me Paul."

"Thank God I've found finally found you, I think I have called everyone on the East coast with your last name."

"So?"

"You don't know me, sir, but my name is Johnathan P. Hopkins, of the firm Hopkins, Matthews and Cole LLC of St. Louis Missouri."

"And?"

"We represent the estate of Mrs. Margaret Elaine Hopkins. I'm her Personal Representative.  She was my mother."

"Who?"

"You may have known her as Peggy Mathews; Mathews being her maiden name.  Apparently you two were friends in high school?"

"Peggy Mathews!  well, I'll be damned!  Yes we were."

"Mr. Broussard, I am here in Baltimore and I would like to meet with you.  At your convenience, of course.  I have some things of yours to return.  When can we meet?", again, the 'down home' pronunciation of his name.

"What things?"

"I would prefer to show you when we meet.  When would you be available, and where would be convenient?"

He thought for a minute. "MacDonalds, Westminster, on Route 140.  I should be in there about 10 tomorrow morning.  I 'll buy you coffee. I eat breakfast there most every morning." He lied, always made his own breakfast.  He wanted time to think.  Perhaps he should take someone along.

"Very well, I will see you then. Thank you for seeing me."

"You're welcome."

He sat for a long time just gazing into the woods, thinking.  And wondering.

***

"You won't believe what just happened to me!" he said when Vern picked up the phone.

"What?"

"I will tell you all about it tomorrow morning.  Stop by MacDonalds about 9:30, someone I want you to meet. This guy called me with information about years ago in Arkansas.  Not sure he's for real so I would like you there just in case."

"That's all you are going to tell me?"

"Yep"

Revelation

He had already seated himself with a large black coffee and a cookie in one of the most out of-the way booths in a remote corner when Vern strolled down the aisle with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and an Egg McMuffin in the other. 

"So where is this mystery man, and what's the big secret?  You afraid of getting molested or something?"

"He ain't here yet, wanted to give you a little background before he gets here, and wanted someone else's opinion of this guy's authenticity."

"So, what gives?"

"Guy says he's from a law firm representing the estate of an old girlfriend of mine from about a hundred years ago.  Said he had something to return to me."

"What?"

"Wouldn't say."

"Weird!  What's his name?"

"Johnathan something or other. Said she was his mother."

"Well, I can't wait to hear this."

***

He was maybe sixty or sixty-five years of age, slim, well dressed but casual in a sporty gold golf shirt and tailored brown slacks, and Italian loafers. Of medium build, with graying temples and a well tanned forehead which was receding into thinning hair on top.  He carried a letter-sized folder with a tied-down flap in his right hand, a steaming cup of coffee in his left, and he hesitated for a few seconds as he surveyed the room, his eyes settling on the two seniors loafing in the corner booth.

"Mr. Broussard?"

"Over here."

"I'm Johnathan Hopkins.  Call me John, or Johnny," he smiled, "May I sit?"

"Sure, I'm Paul, this is my friend, Vernon Appley. Vern, sit over here with me; give the man a seat."

"Thanks, pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you for agreeing to meet.  Beautiful morning isn't it?"

"'Tis indeed, sir.  You're the lawyer?"

"Senior partner, Hopkins, Mathews and Cole, St. Louis."

"You're a long way from home.  Want to tell us what this is all about?"
He took a deep breath, glanced out the window, then down at the folder on the table for a moment, then looked across the table.

"My mother knew she didn't have much more time when the cancer came back.  She had undergone months of chemotherapy and had been told that she was 'in remission'.  But it came back, and this time in spades.  A few days in the hospital then to the hospice for what we knew would be a week at most.

"She called me one morning and asked me to bring her small jewelry case that she had always kept on her dresser at home.  In the back corner in the bottom of the jewelry case she dug out a ring box with a rubber band stretched tightly around it, handed it to me along with a sealed envelope. Made me promise to find you and deliver them.  That was to be the last conversation I had with her.  I have kept my promise.  They have not been opened ",  he said quietly as he placed the two items in the center of the table.

Paul stared at the envelope for a long moment, then met the gaze of the man across the table, then picked it up carefully, set the small black box in the center of the table and quietly fished a small pen knife from his pocket, carefully slit one side of the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper.  He scanned it quickly, then read it again slowly and carefully then turned to Vernon.

"You better get to work, Vern, You'll be late and lose your job or something.  I think this guy's OK."  He turned and looked out the window and almost imperceptibly wiped his window side eye.

"But ........"

"Just get th' hell out of here, will you?"

"Reckon I am late, see you later..  Nice to have met you, Mr. Hopkins."
It was very quiet; Vernon retreated.

***

"So, Mr. Hopkins, John, what's the rest of the story?  I never forgot her; often wondered what had happened and how she spent the rest of her life.

"My mother and father had grown up in the same neighborhood, almost next door neighbors; schoolmates all through school.  My Dad was Edward Hopkins, same class in school as my Mom, perhaps you knew him?"

"Eddie Hopkins!,  Nerdy kid, always kept pretty much to himself, wore thick glasses and was always reading. Sure I knew him, not friends, but I knew who he was.  Go on."

"Mom said you and she had dated and things were getting pretty serious.  Her birthday was coming up in July and she suspected that you were about to ask the big question.  She knew that farm country and farming were not a life you had envisioned; you were looking to a bigger life in the city and beyond. All of her life and all her family and friends were in her home community and she feared being placed in a position where she would be asked to choose.  So she decided to preempt the situation by breaking her friendship with you and turning to her lifelong friend.  They were married quietly at the county seat in Corning, late in June.  After a short honeymoon in the Ozarks, the rented a small apartment in Poplar Bluff; I was born the following year.  Father went on to the University of Missouri for both his undergraduate work and law school, and partnered with an older attorney in Dexter and eventually took over the small town practice.  My uncle Thomas, (Mom's younger brother), came to the firm after Dad's partner retired and Jimmy Cole came along a few years later.  Dad moved the practice to St. Louis, where it thrived.   I completed law school,  joined the firm and became senior partner after father retired.  He died five years ago."

***

Paul quietly read the letter again and looked up at Hopkins, who returned his gaze impassively.

His gaze returned to the ring box, picked it up and watched the old rubber band crumble in his hand as he tried to remove it.  He pried the box open and out fell an old style high school class ring with a thin gold chain attached.   He picked up carefully and held it up to the sunlight coming through the window. The letters PHS were clearly emblazoned on it's face.  On one shoulder were the letters 19 and on the other side, 51.  Inside the band were the engraved letters "JPB".  Then quietly: "It's my ring, all right."

He looked at the ring again, held it up to the sunlight then placed it carefully back in the box, re-read the letter one more time, folded it carefully and slid it back into its envelope, tucked it in his shirt pocket and looked across the table.

Hopkins met his gaze with an impassive face and neither blinked for a very long moment.

"Do you have any siblings, Mr. Hopkins?

" Johnathan, please. No, I am an only child."

"I'm sure you  miss your Mom."

"I do. We were quite close."

"If you don't mind, when is your birthday?"

"January the 14th"

"January 14, 1953?"

"They said I was premature."

"then I guess you were a small baby then?" another steady gaze, similarly met.

"Seven pounds, five and one half ounces." He smiled and flushed slightly.

A long pause, then, "She told you". It was not a question.

"Yes"

"Well, I will be damned!  As God is my witness, I did not know."

"Neither did I until a few weeks ago."

"Always felt there must have been a reason; believed that she could not have been cruel as it looked. I was so angry for so long; now I'm sort of ashamed."

"No way you could have known."

"Well, it's good to know you, Johnnie." extending his hand across the table.  "Your middle initial, "P", what does the "P" stand for?"

He smiled, "Paul".

End