Chapter Twenty-Two

When the ice had cleared, Grace agreed to meet Bernadine at her attorney’s office on Main Street. Bernadine was executing some final documents into the names of her many nieces and nephews as well as signing her will, evidently feeling the pinch of her own mortality. Grace stepped into the small office from the still snow-packed street, with heavy grey clouds threatening again. It would definitely be a white Christmas in Franklin Hill this year.

She and Bernadine were offered bad office coffee by a smiling receptionist, then took seats to wait for another nephew of Gus Turner’s, who was in the world’s second oldest profession, lawyering.

When they left the office later, they stood in the snow-covered parking lot off Main Street admiring the glitter of ice on the trees. Grace noticed Bernadine’s expression had turned glum as she looked in the direction of Harper Street.

“How’s he doing?”

Bernadine sighed. “I thought maybe after he met Little Gus he might — Well, you know. There might be some hope for Nathan and the others. But he just stares out the window now. He doesn’t even bark at his valet like he used to. He’s just sitting in that dark old house, dying.”

“Has Little Gus been back there since the night we helped Mr. Turner back into his chair?”

“Nathan threw a fit. Doesn’t want his grandson near Elwyn Turner. Can I blame him? I’ve heard the stories about Elwyn. How he treated Nathan was a sin.” Bernadine shook her head. “There’s a lot of pain in that old man and the way he inflicts it on others. A lot of pain.”

“And a lot of joy in a child, Bernadine.” Grace added quietly. She was meddling, she knew it. But she also knew she had given voice to something Bernadine Turner had already considered.

Bernadine studied the house in the distance, barely visible through the icy trees, then drew in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “Will you go with me?”

Grace’s smile was her answer.

Bernadine and Grace drove to the preschool to fetch Little Gus Turner, who squealed in delight upon seeing “Miz Phillips!!” again. Going for a ride in the beat-up Toyota wagon was considered a fine way to spend the late afternoon by the four-year-old boy.

He waited patiently for his Aunt to unfasten his toddler seat and then reached into his oversized down coat for what resembled a squashed Christmas ribbon, attached to a puffy square of glittering wrapping paper. It was apparent Little Gus had wrapped this gift himself.

“Gus?” Bernadine bent down to the boy, who graciously let her examine the gift.

“This is for my friend Mister Elwyn. I think he needs it and Mama let me spent my ‘lowance on it. I had to feed the dog every night and help Merry put away her toys before she went to bed.”

Bernadine’s look was sad. “But sweetheart, I’m not sure — that is, Mister Turner may not celebrate Christmas.” She looked imploringly at Grace for help.

The small blond boy looked to Grace. Grace was at a loss.

Little Gus’s chin had developed a stubborn set. “Well, if he don’t, he should learn. Right, Aunt Sis?” The boy grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled. “C’mon Miz Phillips, let’s go see Mister Elwyn. Maybe he ain’t cranky this time.”

They were met at the door by a small, trim man dressed in a three-piece grey suit with a carefully-draped watch chain. Elwyn Turner’s valet looked as if he had stepped out of a turn-of -the-century photograph. His suit was fine wool, the white starched shirt impeccable, a muted striped tie blended with the subtle grey pinstripe of the suit. The valet’s hair, a shock of white, was parted in the middle, and glossed to a high shine. Round wire-frame glasses perched on the end of the man’s sharp nose. He appeared to be at least seventy-five and could not have weighed one hundred pounds.

“Mrs. Turner. Miss Phillips.” He nodded to each of the women in turn. “And this is . . .?” He looked dumfounded at the small blond Turner child before him.

“Little Gus!” the child piped up and he thrust out a small hand at the astonished valet.

Unused to being caught off his mark, the man reached down and shook the boy’s hand. “Napoleon Harker. A pleasure, Master Turner. Please come in.”

Grace wasn’t sure how Napoleon Harker knew who she was, but it was evident the invalid he attended had done some talking in recent days.

They stepped into the house. Bernadine, flushed and nervous, touched the valet’s arm. “Napoleon, has he been . . . better?”

The butler’s face became a mask. No emotion was revealed in his careful answer. “No, Mrs. Turner, not better. But, he did talk about the, ahem, visit with Miss Phillips and young Master Gus. We were surprised to hear that relatives had been to the estate.” Grace was not sure who, in this instance, was meant by “we.”

“It wasn’t a planned visit, Napoleon.” Bernadine tried to reassure him.

Grace turned as she heard two small feet hit the bottom step. Leland Augustus Turner had had enough of wasting time with the butler.

“Master Gus—” Napoleon nearly broke into a trot to follow the youngster who was now making rapid progress up the staircase.

“Mister Elwyn?” the boy called up the steps, as he scampered, crushing the package in one hand and clutching the wide, elegantly turned baluster with the other. “Mister Elwyn, are you up there?” the small voice carried down the hall.

The three adults followed helplessly, Bernadine reaching for Gus’ shoulder as he cleared the top step. “Oh, it’s okay, Aunt Sis, I ‘member where Mister Elwyn is.” and then called out with enthusiasm, “Mister Elwyn, I come back to see you!” Little Gus Turner raced down the dark hallway and through the open door into the dim light of the large sitting room.

All three held their breath as the child stopped dead in the middle of the room and looked toward the window where Elwyn Turner slumped in the wheelchair, staring into the grey afternoon light.

Unfazed, the boy stomped across the room, snow boots clumping on the once-fine Oriental rug. “Hey, Mister Elwyn, it’s me. Little Gus.”

Elwyn Turner appeared even more shriveled and shrunken than when Grace had seen him only days before. He turned to the child, unrecognizing, no light gleaming from what had once been sharp black eyes. His pallor was grey, the color of the winter sky that hung beyond the beveled glass window, his face a blank picture.

“I brung you something, Mister Elwyn!” Little Gus continued chattering, looking puzzled at the lack of greeting from the unseeing old man. “You know, it’s real close to Christmas and we might not get back by here, so we got to help Santa out sometimes. That’s what Uncle Gus used to say, right, Aunt Sis?” The room was quiet.

“Yes, Little Gus.” Bernadine’s voice caught as she watched her nephew take the old man’s hand and place the rumpled gift in the loose grasp. “Yes, we do have to help Santa out sometimes.”

“I picked this out myself, Mister Elwyn. Just for you. I even used my own money!” Little Gus Turner beamed proudly, and then looked into the eyes that stared vacantly his direction. “That’s a good present there, Mister Elwyn. You want me to help you open that up?”

The long wrinkled fingers grasped the package slightly, and then vaguely pushed it toward the small boy who stood near the wheelchair.

“See this ribbon? I tied that up myself! And I picked the paper with the reindeer on it, ‘cause I like them reindeer. Sometime I’m gonna see them when they come, Mama says. Here, Mister Elwyn, you gotta help, ‘cause this is your gift, not mine! Mama lets me help unwrap Merry’s gifts sometimes, but you’re old enough to do it yourself, aren’t ya? You must be a hunnerd years old!” The paper crinkled as the boy pulled, his words echoing through the room.

“Ninety-four, Young Master. Mr. Turner is only ninety-four years old.” Napoleon spoke.

Elwyn raised his head at the sound of Napoleon’s voice. He suddenly seemed to realize he was not alone. One frail hand reached out from the wheelchair to touch the blond head of Little Gus Turner.

“A gift for . . . is it Christmas?” The fog was lifting from the dull blackness of Elwyn’s eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Turner. It’s nearly Christmas.” Bernadine answered.

“You came back.” The old man, voice rusty, stared at the boy, remembering the shining blue eyes and fair features of his youngest son.

“Sure we did. Miz Phillips come too. C’mon, we got to get this open so I can get home to dinner. Little Merry will be looking for me. And I got to feed Jericho tonight.”

“I don’t celebrate this—this Christmas.”

Little Gus Turner was puzzled. “Don’t matter. Don’t give Christmas presents to get one back. I give this one to you.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “And you don’t owe me one. It don’t work like that, Mister Elwyn. Besides,” the boy’s confidence rebounded with the rapid stride that only a stalwart four-year-old can display, as he stage-whispered, “might be something you need.”

“Something I need. Nonsense.” Elwyn Turner was still not himself, but some small thing crept into his voice, some curiosity at what a child would give an old man whom he did not know, for a holiday which he did not celebrate.

He crinkled the paper, tearing it slowly and looked at Little Gus. “And you want nothing in return?” The eyes were sharp again, the voice still broken glass.

“Naw. I just want you to open it.” Little Gus was triumphant, his smile radiant in the dim room.

“Fine. If it means you’ll leave me alone, I’ll . . . ” Elwyn Turner pulled from the Christmas wrap a pair of ragg-wool socks, the thickest socks Grace had ever seen. He was clearly astonished. It was safe to guess that he had not been the recipient of such a gift before.

“Socks. These are socks.”

“Yep! ‘Cause this is a very old, very cold house, Mister Elwyn. And nothin’ feels better than a warm pair of socks in the winter! I got some just like ‘em.” The boy reached down and pulled up one pant leg to reveal a small but matching grey wool fisherman’s sock peeping out over green snow boots. “We gotta keep our heat turned down in the winter cause it’ll cost a whole fortune if we don’t, Mama says. Maybe you gotta do that, too. So, you gotta have warm socks!” Still triumphant, the small boy sat down in the chair opposite the astonished Elwyn Turner.

The old man lifted the bundle and looked to his valet solemnly.

“Young Master Turner, that is a fine and thoughtful gift.” Napoleon spoke firmly and moved into the breach, taking the package carefully .

“Your mother . . . ” Elwyn Turner attempted to clear his throat, his voice catching. “Your mother is a woman of some sense. What’s her name?”

“Laurel Schull Turner. Same last name as you, see?!” Another smile at his mother’s name.

“Schull? One of the Schull brothers’ daughters. No, that would be a granddaughter now, I suppose.” Bernadine saw his hesitation. Other than barking orders at nurses and his valet, Elwyn Turner had not engaged anyone in actual conversation for many years. He was on shaky ground.

“Yes, Mr. Turner. She’s Hilliard Schull’s granddaughter. You knew him, I think?”

“Hilliard Shell. Yes. I knew Hilliard Schull. He was a good man . . . a man with character.” The words trembled. Grace wondered if he thought of the run on the bank, when the brothers stood with him in front of the axe-wielding crowd.

The screeching, battling wretch of recent days had become simply a fragile, elderly patient, like those Grace had seen through the doors of the nursing home where Gina Rodwell’s mother tended them. Unlike that population of lost souls, Elwyn Turner’s money kept him in the dark Victorian and he had the care of Napoleon Harker, but still his mind was fading.

“She married Nathan’s boy?”

“My daddy is Nathan Turner and so is my granpaw!!” The legs swung against the rungs of the hard backed chair. Little Gus was enjoying the family attention.

“See, we all live in this small town, Mister Elwyn, so it’s like we’re all related ain’t—isn’t it?” A stern look from Bernadine corrected his grammar.

“Yes. Franklin Hill. Franklin Hill was always small. When I was at the bank you know, at one time we had only one hundred accounts. That was all.” The voice grew faint. Elwyn Turner was slipping back to the year of the financial disaster. The room was quiet.

“Little Gus, I think Mr. Turner is a bit tired. We need to let him get some rest.” Bernadine moved to take the child out of the room.

“Okay, Mister Elwyn, you get yourself some rest so you’ll be awake when Santa comes!”

The silver head lifted. “Santa? Santa doesn’t come to this house anymore, boy. He hasn’t come here in forty years.” Elwyn Turner did remember Christmas. He remembered it well. Meredith’s death had changed everything all those days and months and years before. There was the Time With Meredith and then the Time After in the old man’s mind. There was nothing after for him, not his children or grandchildren. No lights or tree had graced the old house, the smell of evergreen did not drift through the halls as it had when his wife was alive. The laughter of children had gone from him when the laughter of his wife was silenced.

A crease developed in the small forehead. Gus Turner stuck his hands into his britches pockets, thinking.

“I’ll tell him where you are, Mister Elwyn. You just try to stay awake. If I say a prayer, maybe Jesus will tell Uncle Gus and he can tell Santa. They all know each other up there, Mama says. And you said Mama’s got good sense.”

Grace reached for Little Gus’s hand, leading him toward the door. She had seen the beginning of tears on the old, lined face.

Little Gus shook off her grasp and ran back to the wheelchair. “Don’t you worry, Mister Elwyn. It’ll be okay.” The child half climbed the chair and hugged its elderly occupant.

Bernadine’s head jerked in astonishment. Napoleon stood motionless, watching the scene. Elwyn Turner lifted his arm and put it around the boy, touching the blond hair again. A strained noise came from his throat. “Just like Gus. Just like him.”

Little Gus Turner looked up in wonder at the old man.