Return To Franklin Hill

Two days later, Grace was still in possession of the envelope containing the key. It was, as yet unused. Almost a symbol of her hesitation about the little house she had begun to love. Grace stood in the kitchen, watching water pool around her feet. She realized, panic beginning to build, that she had no idea where the main shutoff was for the house. Then she heard Norm’s boots on the back porch. Angels of mercy again, no questions asked. She could only be gracious and grateful for the help.

Norm returned from the dark basement, crescent wrench in one hand and flashlight in the other, the water having finally stopped its spill from the broken pipe. “You’ll need to be fixing that floor now. Can’t be helped.”

Grace winced. Old houses were expensive to maintain. She knew that from Ellie and Timothy’s constant battles with leaking pipes and termite assaults. Grace also had the vague recollection of a house jack being installed under Granny Stillwell’s old shotgun cottage at some point. So this was home ownership. Well that first month’s rent she would save would be spent plus some, she supposed. Of course she didn’t have to take this house. Babe had said “if” in her note. This was turning into a major “if.”

“Need to do some plastering or put up some wall board back here.” Norm was talking to her from under the sink, his voice hollow in the cavernous space. “Might have to replace that pipe from the faucet on down. “

On cue, Ed came in the back door, reached down to scoop up Joy, who was investigating the water, dipping in each paw and then shaking it gingerly. “Here now, little fur ball, you’ll get yourself in a mess. Let’s see about sweatin’ that pipe, Norman.”

Grace mopped the water up, wringing until her hands ached and then watched the linoleum buckle as it dried. As Norm had said, a new floor would be needed, along with a serious trip to the hardware store. And she would have to venture into the dark basement so that her guardians could show her the shut-offs for the house water, gas and electric. Something every homeowner should know. She wondered if the house were even on circuit breakers or if fuses still sat in a cabinet in the darkest corner of the basement. She cringed. She would invest in a good flashlight and some hundred-watt bulbs for events like these. But she wouldn’t go down there without Norm and Ed now, not into the blackness of that old basement.

She was still making her shopping list when she heard an oath come from Ed as he backed out from under the sink. A warped baseboard came free in his hand. “Hmph,” he grunted.

“I know, I know.” Grace said. “It needs some work.” Ed squinted at her, the look on his weathered face showing that he knew what she was thinking.

Joy padded back across the now dry floor and climbed into the crook of Ed’s arm. He scratched her ear affectionately and advised, “Tell your Mistress there that anything worth havin’ usually needs some care now and then.” Joy’s head butted against Ed’s calloused fingers. “Had a flood up the hill there last year. Connie and Cindy mopped water for an hour. Took forever to get it dried out. But the new floor don’t squeak like the old one. Always got to look to the positive, it makes the bumps a lot easier to bear.”

He gently scooted the white kitten away and then examined the warped baseboard. “Got a piece of wood up at the shed. It’ll work.”

The trip to the hardware store in the green pickup truck with Norm was less painful than she had anticipated. The smell of fresh wood and clean linoleum invaded her senses and soon she was excited about the prospect of putting down the new floor. Norm guided her through the necessities, seeming to know everything that was required. He was unusually verbose on the trip back.

“We laid that linoleum for the Old Man forty years ago, I reckon.” They sat at the stoplight in town, Boyd Reed’s newest deputy watched Norm from near the courthouse, his tall hat tilted low over his clipboard.

“The Old Man didn’t want to spend more than fifty dollars on that floor. That sheet linoleum, I was thinking at the time, was thin as a dollar bill. Surprised it lasted this long. Had to fix those pipes one winter about twenty years ago, too.”

So things weren’t breaking in the house on a regular schedule. But Norm and Ed would know if something was wrong or if something was going to go wrong. Norm continued,

“We’ll be replacing that furnace next week. Your brother-in-law saw to that, and the roof. A few other things need fixing. Nothing else major.”

Grace felt the tension go out of her shoulders. At least Mercer and Babe weren’t leaving her with something she couldn’t care for. Another Hallelujah.

He had raised a gnarled hand to point over the windshield. “Look at that line outside the bakery. Never seen anything like that.”

The smell of apple fritters filled the cab of the truck as they drove back across town and up the hill to the little house.

The card from Gabriel, a beautiful glittering Christmas tree in the snow, had contained an invitation to dinner in Columbia on New Year’s Eve. She had thought to spend New Year’s Eve with Granny Stillwell, quietly sipping Irish coffee and contemplating the trip to Hawaii, the new house, and the Disney World vacation that Katy’s family would enjoy courtesy of Mercer and Babe. But she hadn’t had a night out on New Year’s Eve in forever, it seemed. She remembered one tense holiday with a former lover when they had glared at each other in silence over champagne while the toast was raised around them.

When Gabriel’s followup phone call came, she wasn’t prepared to say yes, but she wasn’t sure why. And she knew he could hear it in her voice.

“Did someone else get an invitation to you before mine?” it was a mildly placed question.

“No, no that’s not it. I had thought to—well, this sounds silly. But I had thought to spend the evening with Granny Stillwell.”

He was relieved. “Well, I understand, you’ve only been home a few months. But, maybe we can make that work. How about we go to an early dinner and then come back and toast the New Year with your Granny?”

Now Grace was relieved. “Really? You would do that, Gabe? I mean, I know it might not be what you had in mind, but—“

“I’ve never been one to enjoy driving the roads on New Year’s, Grace. There’s always someone with a sick dog, cat or horse somewhere and it’s good to be close to home when that happens. Besides, we can drink an Irish coffee tucked in on Lee Street, out of the way of the drunken peasants.”

She smiled into the phone. This man was very accommodating. And he had those amazing eyes.

“Wear your party dress for dinner, we’ll do something special. I’ll pick you up at 6:00.”

The restaurant Gabe selected for dinner was unknown to her, so she marshaled Ellie to help with her dress selection. Ellie produced a blue sweater dress from her own closet, shorter than Grace would have liked and with a plunging V neck and a clinging drape. Grace viewed herself in the full length mirror doubtfully. “Ellie?”

The next item out of Ellie’s closet was a stretchy black velvet number. With cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, it was reminiscent of Grace Kelly. Ellie pulled a belted cobalt blue cashmere coat from the closet, slipping it from the dry cleaning bag and displaying it across the bed.

“Where did you get this, Ellie? It’s amazing!” Grace shimmied into the dress and looked carefully over her shoulder checking the stretched fabric across her hips.

“No, I have something. Wow.” Her voice trailed off. Ellie reached over and pulled her hair up and off her neckline.

“Wear it up.” She grinned. “Our vet won’t be able to keep his hands to himself.” Grace wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

“I just want to have a nice meal and enjoy New Year’s Eve, Ellie. Let’s not plan any wrestling matches.” Ellie dropped her hair back down.

“You need a trip to the hairdresser, Gracie. Young Timothy is dating a girl from Columbia. She does amazing things with scissors.”

“You know I always wanted your curls, Grace. Just let her trim it. I’ll go call.” Ellie was fully underway now, planning and plotting and loaded for bear. Grace dutifully removed the dress and listened to Ellie scheduling her life in the next room.

By midnight, Granny Stillwell had nodded off in her chair. They sat near the soapstone stove in the living room, a small glow came from the fire behind a sooted window, blinking warmth. She and Gabe raised their cordial glasses and whispered “Happy New Year” to each other. Their kiss was brief, but rewarding. At least Grace found it so. Granny Stillwell stirred slightly. Perfect timing, thought Grace as she turned to kiss Granny on the cheek and wish her a happy new year as well.

Gabe reached for his pocket as his cell phone chirped. He looked at the screen and sighed. “There’s a mare down. Out in the Knot. I’m sorry, Grace.” His lips turned downward. This was the first frown Grace had seen since he’d bumped his head on the cabinet when they met.

“It was a wonderful evening, Gabe. Thank you for sharing New Year’s with us.”

“I haven’t spent New Year’s Eve with a charming, good-looking man in fifteen years. Not since Grandpa Stillwell died.” Granny dabbed her eyes with an amazingly crisp handkerchief, then patted Gabriel when he swept her into a hug.

“You must have been sleeping, Miz Stillwell, because no one thinks I’m charming!” he laughed over his shoulder as he left them, his breath white in the night air.

While January 1 in Franklin Hill was quiet and uneventful, January 2 brought much more news than the residents were accustomed to hearing in any one day. Elwyn Turner, member of the chamber of commerce and local banking magnate, had succumbed to old age in the early hours of the New Year. The “Reporter” deemed Elwyn’s death not worthy of a banner headline, but did devote a quarter of the front page to the banker’s history in the community. Grace was surprised and relieved to see that the “Reporter” noted that “Mr. Turner died peacefully in his sleep, his eldest son Nathan and his grandson Anthony Nathan Turner, Esq. by his side.” Elwyn Turner, that black eyed devil, had not died alone. Perhaps he had made his own peace.

Page two of the New Year’s “Reporter” carried a photograph of Alice Gerding Zimmerman, once again in her bright red pantsuit and three inch heels, smiling from the seat of a demolition excavator, her hands placed on the black-knobbed levers. A hardhat rested on her auburn and grey waves. The caption read:

The brooding dark bungalow had already taken a hit from the crane, and rubble lay around the expansive yard and at the foot of the giant machine. Two muscled men stood nearby, one bearing the logo of the gas utility on his uniform, the other with “Weaver Construction” emblazoned across his t-shirt.

New Year’s Day had been unseasonably warm, nearly fifty degrees, and Alice Zimmerman’s son had convinced Ike Weaver, the demolition foreman, to let his mother make the first assault upon the ragged bungalow. Weaver watched in admiration as the small woman gamely attempted to climb up into the operator’s seat, only to find her legs were not long enough. Finally, he had stepped over, bent down and made a stirrup with his hands giving Alice the step up she needed, as she balanced against his shoulder. Weaver had known Rebarb Zimmerman and had even played poker once with the loud, red-faced man. Which had been enough to summarily dismiss Rebarb and pity his pretty wife. A widower, Ike admired the way Alice Zimmerman carried herself. She may have been shy, but he had seen her around town. He’d seen her square her shoulders and march her children into church while the town gossips flapped their jaws. Weaver was easily ten years younger than Alice Zimmerman but he’d always appreciated her grace and quiet smile, especially given the adversity she faced on a daily basis.

When Alice turned her face to him to thank him, a clear bright light was in her eyes and that smile warmed him. Ike had been worried about her operating the excavator but she’d assured him firmly, after scanning at the clutch and the levers, “I drove my daddy’s tractor from the time I was eleven, Ike. I can do this.” She’d blinked at the house and sighed.

Her son stepped from his sister’s side, the girl sniffing into a tissue as she watched the spectacle. “Mama, are you sure?” The narrow shoulders squared again. Alice held up a hand halting her young man in his tracks.

The hardhat was entirely too big for Alice Zimmerman and the safety glasses looked ridiculous on her heart-shaped face. Ike Weaver thought she was adorable. He had no choice but to give her a leg up into that machine. He wanted to grab her and let out a whoop when the dilapidated house fell with the first blow. When Ike helped her down, she looked over at the ruins of nearly twenty years of pain and anguish, a cloud of dust hovering overhead. He saw no sorrow on her face. There was only that wonderful smile. Her children stepped forward, beaming and proud, along with the neighbors that had come to watch the show. Whoop is exactly what they did.

Elwyn Turner’s funeral procession through Franklin Hill was one of the longest in Granny Stillwell’s memory. Every Turner relative appeared, black limousines brought from Columbia to escort all the family members, under Elwyn’s last order to Anthony Turner, his esteemed lawyer. Little Gus Turner, wide-eyed at the throng of his relatives, there to see his friend, was very impressed, assuming that his Aunt Bernadine had asked everyone to come. Innocent enough not to be sad at his new friend’s death, Little Gus was resolute in his belief that “Mister Elwyn is in heaven with Uncle Gus.”

His new suit itched his neck. Little Gus soon discovered that the shiny black shoes his mother had bought for the funeral slid nicely on the snow-speckled ground near the graveside. His grandfather was stern-faced and grim, standing beside his great-aunts and uncles who were equally as stoic. Anthony Turner took his place behind a podium next to the elderly priest from St. James Catholic Church.

“Elwyn Turner was a stranger to most of us,” he began. “His life was led at a distance from his family, and until recently” he glanced at little Gus with a serious smile, “he did not acknowledge his grandchildren or his great-grandchildren. But he did leave us something to remember and he did have regrets. I met him only a month ago. He alternately insulted me and then he told me that I had the look of my Aunt Judith. There were tears in his eyes when he said it.”

Judith Turner looked across the dark wet winter grass at the new grave and the black mahogany coffin that rested beside the open ground. She stared hard, as if that gaze could pull her recalcitrant father from it to speak to her again. To give an explanation of why, after so many years, he remembered and finally cared.

“Cousins, most of us are not here to mourn Elwyn Turner, because we did not know him. I am here for my father, my uncle Gus, and my aunts, who loved Meredith Turner. And each of you are here for the Turners that you love.” Anthony paused and looked at the assembly. “At some point, we lost Elwyn Turner or he left us. Gus and Bernadine Turner were the only ones who did not lose him. They didn’t give up and they did not release him from his family and let him die alone. They continued to care for this bitter, lost soul.” Grace slid her hand through Bernadine’s. Bernadine grasped her hand tightly, her fingers like ice. “Elwyn Nathaniel Turner did not forget us. He remembered each of you.” Anthony looked at his father and then to his father’s siblings. “Let me share this with you.” Anthony carefully unfolded a letter.

My Son Nathan -

If you are reading this now, then I have left this earth. My hope is that I have not left it without seeing my oldest son again. I can’t explain to you the changes and turns in life that made me so unthinking and careless with the one that we both held so dear. Your mother’s death has been mine to carry, I shoulder that burden alone.

You will never make the mistakes that I have made, Nathan, because you are a good father, a caring husband. You have gathered your children around you, keeping them near your heart. Your mother was the one who shouldered that burden of joy for us and for me. My own parents—and know that I make no excuses for myself—were not warm people. My father did not care for children and considered us a nuisance to be seen and not heard. My mother cared for me as she should. But they only truly had eyes for one another. And so I married your mother, who heard and saw everything and shared it with us all.

You will not remember the times when I held you or when I helped your mother when you struggled with rheumatic fever. We sat in a cold, dark hospital room and prayed that you would live. I put my hand over your heart, felt it beating like a bird’s and I told myself that if you lived I would leave you to your mother’s protection. I felt inadequate to provide it. I had never felt the grief that a dying child could bring. It was strange and unsettling, that grief. And so you lived and I knew that I did not deserve the pleasures that you brought us. Now that I am an old man I understand too late that the joy of love carries with it the burden of worry and grief that only children and the fear of losing them have the power to bring.

Your brothers and sisters were all good children, so strange to me. All bright and smiling, laughing all the time with your mother. I was amazed that we could have eight miracles.

Nathan and Judith both were now visibly shaken, staring at the coffin. Nathan looked back at Anthony, willing him to continue.

My own parents had six children. All but two died. My mother retreated into herself after the death of my youngest brother and I felt her pain. But even as a grown man, I was not wise enough to keep from repeating the mistakes of my parents. And so I withdrew from you all and then from Meredith. The one whom I could trust to watch over my eight miracles, the only soul that understood me and knew that indeed, I did care about you. The woman who loved me but grieved at my alienation from the family. And then Meredith left us.

There are no excuses for a live not well lived. Mine is that life. Things will change for you and your children and grandchildren by my death. But for any of the Turners that will listen to my last wish and remember it, please tell them this and tell them again and again in case that wayward seed of misunderstanding travels somewhere through this line. There is no colder or more lonely heart than one that abandons family. Draw close and care for one another as I have not done.

I am prouder of you and your accomplishments, all of you, than I deserve to be. I am humbled by the good people you and your children and their children have become.

Signed,

Elwyn Turner

While the assembly stood in stunned silence, Anthony Nathaniel Turner, Jr. watched tears streak down his father’s face. Judith stood erect as a statute, taking deep breaths, her own eyes filling. She could feel forty years of repressed fury toward a cold, bitter man melting away.

“See, I told you my friend wouldn’t forget me!” Little Gus laughed as Anthony snatched him up and tossed him in the air, peals of the child’s piercing joy cutting through the cold. The Turners gathered en masse with their friends and laughed with the child that had finally touched the old man’s heart.