CHAPTER 8
Monday morning found John, Mary Beth, and the twins, along with Ela and Manu, at breakfast at Main House, getting ready for another day.
“Billy Dale, do not slurp your juice.” Mary Beth glanced up from the section of the newspaper lying by her plate.
He grinned. “I can make even better slurp sounds if I want to.”
“I’m sure you can, but don’t, okay? It’s not nice manners to slurp or to let people hear you drinking or eating.”
“It’s not nice manners to put corn on your teeth, to make smiles with orange slices, or to play with your food, either,” Bucky added with six-year-old authority, waving his cereal spoon in the air.
“That’s right.” Mary Beth’s attention shifted to her father. “Daddy, there’s an article in the paper today about the ghost sightings.”
“Cool!” Billy Dale leaned across the table, trying to see the paper. “Are there pictures?”
“Awww. You can’t take pictures of ghosts,” Bucky told him. “Everybody knows that.”
“There are no such things as ghosts.” Mary Beth spoke each word slowly and emphatically. “There are spirits, good and bad, and angels, good and bad—and sometimes people discern or see these. However, good spirits and angels never flap about trying to frighten people. If you remember in your Bible stories, one of the first things an angel usually says is ‘fear not.’ However, spirits from the dark side are likely to say or do anything—having no good intent and originating from the father of lies.”
“That’s the devil.” Billy Dale stuck two fingers up over his head.
“Yes, and evil spirits from the devil probably get a big kick out of frightening and deceiving little boys and getting people to believe in ghosts.”
“Aww, shoot.” Bucky wrinkled his nose. “So, you don’t think ghosts are dead people?”
“Absolutely not, although you hear people talking as though ghosts are dead people floating around trying to get revenge or find peace.”
Billy Dale paused around a large bite of pancake. “I see ghosts of dead people on TV all the time.”
John laughed. “Well, surely you boys know that half or more of what you see on television is made up to entertain people. On TV, dogs dance and talk. Butterflies sing. People have supernatural powers and can fly. And athletes tell you they love a certain kind of cereal for breakfast or a style of athletic shoes to run in, when they may not like either—and all for a big paycheck.”
“Daddy John is right.” Mary Beth poured herself another cup of coffee. “Television is all about making money and providing stories and fantasies to entertain people.”
Billy Dale puffed out his lip. “You guys are taking all the fun out of this. It’s cooler to think the ghost is that Indian, mad because he got murdered up on the ridge, or Nance Dude out to get little kids.”
“There are no such things as ghosts in the Christian view.” Mary Beth sent Billy Dale a sharp glance. “People don’t become ghosts when they die. They may ‘give up the ghost,’ meaning their spirits leave their bodies, but then their spirits go on to heaven or to hell. They don’t hang around causing trouble, trying to take revenge, or haunting places or buildings.”
“Your mother is sharing wise words with you.” John took a last sip of coffee and stood up. “And the more likely explanation of the ghost sightings around here is that someone is playing a prank for some reason. If that’s so, that individual could be dangerous. Maybe mentally unstable. I want you boys to promise me you won’t go to the Upper Farm around the area where you saw this ghost again, or go across Indian Creek above the ridge where other folks have witnessed these sightings. It might not be safe.”
Mary Beth folded up her paper, got up, and walked around the table to give both boys a kiss. “Daddy John is taking me to work at the store, since Clyde is fixing my car. You boys be good while I’m working today and you mind Ela and Manu.”
“Okay.” Bucky sent Ela a devilish grin. “Maybe we’ll go watch Ghost Hunters on TV.”
“Merciful heaven.” Ela rolled her eyes. “I’ll sure be glad when all this ghost business is resolved.”
Heading down the Farm Road in the truck a short time later, Mary Beth asked, “Daddy, what do you think is really behind the ghost sightings?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, Bee,” he said, using her childhood nickname. “The police department is looking into it, but they haven’t found any clues to lead them to affirmative answers yet.”
“Well, I don’t like any of it.”
Pulling up at the store, he followed her out of the car and inside the building. “While I’m here, I’ll bring in those boxes from the back storeroom that were delivered yesterday.”
“Thanks.” She tucked her purse into a cabinet under the register. “Most of the boxes contain apple-related gift items. I’m gearing up for the apple season to come.”
John smiled. “I think we’ll see a good crop of Early June apples this year. That will give you some apples to sell sooner than usual. I’ll go check the rows later today and see how they’re coming along.”
Mary Beth put a hand on his arm. “How are things coming along with you and Mom?”
John’s eyes narrowed and then he stiffened.
“Oh, don’t get all defensive, Daddy.” She leaned a hip against the counter. “I just meant in general. I know you’ve been to Hill House a time or two and that you took Mom to Cataloochee Ranch to clog Friday night. I wish I could have seen that. I used to love watching the two of you dance.”
“We had a good time. She enjoyed herself.” His lips twitched into a smile. “Vance Coggins said he wished you’d come along to sing with him and the band.”
She smiled. “I’d like to do that again soon. I promised him I’d sing with the group the next time they got scheduled at the Stompin’ Ground.”
“Let me know when that is.” He selected a Tootsie Roll from a candy barrel and tucked it in his pocket. “I’ll bring your mom down one night. She said she’d like to hear you sing.”
Mary Beth drummed her fingers on the counter. “I still feel strained with her. I wish I didn’t, but it’s been so long since we were close.”
“Go up and talk to her at Hill House on your own one afternoon. See if you can break the ice, get her to sharing.” He reached over to touch his daughter’s cheek fondly. “I talked to her a time or two like that, and I think it’s helped.”
“Do you think Mom will be mad when she finds out we’re really not having financial problems and didn’t need her to rent Hill House to help us out?” Mary Beth bit her lip.
John shrugged. “She might get whipped up at first, but I think when you explain that you and Rebecca cooked the idea up so you could spend time with her again, she might work herself past it. Might even feel flattered.”
“I hope so.” She slipped on a red Cunningham Farm Store apron, reaching around to tie it in back. “I need to open the store, Daddy.” She looked toward the big clock on the wall. “Ela said to remind you to take that basket of fresh vegetables by the church for the minister.”
“I’ll remember,” he said, heading for the door.
A quarter mile down Black Camp Gap Road, John looked for the turn to Fairview Methodist Church, sitting like a beacon on a hilltop at a rise in the road. The historic redbrick church, with its high, Gothic steeple and lovely old stained-glass windows, had been built with the same brick used for Cunningham’s Main House. The Cunningham family had donated the land and much of the money for the construction of the church, as well.
Mother certainly told me that often enough. John rolled his eyes at the memory.
He walked across the church lawn, after parking the car, to let himself in the iron-fenced cemetery, scattered with small and large monuments of church members gone by. The Cunningham plots lay near the back boundary of the cemetery, in almost a miniature cemetery of their own with so many markers now.
John took off his hat at his parents’ graves, the joint stone of Mary and John Cunningham’s standing next to them. Stuart’s monument stood a space or two away, with a white granite angel atop it. It always made John sad to see it.
“Hello, John.” Pastor Oliver Wheaton called his name as he walked across the cemetery to join him. He reached out to shake John’s hand.
“I saw you as I went out the door to put birdseed in the feeders.” He pointed toward an array of feeders near the side of the church.
John laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “Maybe you’d better not put those feeders so near the windows by the pulpit area.”
A flush ran up the minister’s young face. “You may have a good thought there.” He looked toward the feeders. “I guess you saw my attention drift the other Sunday. Right in the middle of the sermon, I looked out and saw a yellow-throated warbler. It’s a rare bird for this area. Bright yellow throat and distinctive birdsong.” He paused, looking toward the feeders again. “I’m fond of birds.”
“Nothing wrong with that, Oliver,” John said. “Country folk, like here in the valley, understand a love for wildlife.”
A tall man, nearly John’s own height, the young minister looked directly into John’s eyes. “But I need to keep my avocations and my vocations separate. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“You’re just starting out here, Pastor. You preach a good message, are liked by all the people in the church. No sense in giving folks something to talk about.”
He considered this, straightening his belt as he did. “You know, I think those feeders would fit nicely near that side fence covered in vines.” He pointed to the area. “I could easily see any bird visitors from my study window on the back side of the church, but not from the pulpit.” He grinned.
“Good plan.” John smiled. “Maybe you could use something about birds in one of your sermons. There’s a lot of references in the Good Book to birds, flowers, and trees. You might even make a series of it. Turn something that caught folks’ attention into a message.”
“Hmmm. You might have a good thought there, too.” He glanced at the grave below them. “Your brother?”
“Yep. Died just before his tenth birthday. Hard on all the family.”
“Hard on you?”
“Not in the way you mean. I was a late child and only a baby when Stuart died. But it left me the only son to carry on with the orchard.”
“Did you have other aspirations?”
“Not really.” John rubbed his jaw. “But my mother wasn’t an easy woman to live with. That caused problems with my family after I married.”
“Is that why your wife and boys left?” Oliver asked candidly. He lifted his hands. “As you say, it’s a small valley and people talk.”
“Yeah, I reckon that was the main reason why.”
“I hear she’s back and folks are wondering if you’ll reconcile. Is that what you want, John?”
John closed his eyes. “I never stopped wanting that from the day she left, but it’s hard getting back to a place of trust after all that’s happened. She keeps wanting to look back, rehash the past. I feel that what’s past is past. Isn’t that biblical?”
“Perhaps, but things still need to be talked out, even old issues, in order to move on. Especially with women.”
“You been married?”
“No, not yet.” Oliver laughed. “But I’ve pastored and counseled a lot of women in the ten years I’ve been in the ministry, in two different churches. They like to talk things out more than men, need to talk things out to move on.” He grinned. “You might want to change your plans about where to locate your own feeders, too—decide to put them out more in the open.”
“I get your point. But I’m not a man who likes to get all analytical. I’m more a man who likes to deal with today and move on.”
“Even if it means moving on alone?”
“Ouch. You’re direct.”
“Sometimes it pays to be.” Oliver ran a hand over the top of the angel on the grave. “And sometimes we don’t like to talk about things of the past because we don’t want to remember them. We want to bury them, even from ourselves. I’m not sure that’s always healthy. Here’s a scripture related to that idea you might want to think on from First Corinthians 13: ‘Love is patient. . . and rejoices with the truth.’ When hope and trust are lost in a relationship, you have to be willing to give the patience and love to restore it, even if that means dragging up some old memories you’d as soon bury and forget.” He glanced down at the graves. “These loved ones have gone on, but the ones who remain are precious. And time is short.”
“Nicely put, Pastor, but what about the scripture in Philippians that advises to ‘forget those things which are behind, and reach forth to those things which are ahead’?”
“Very good.” Oliver smiled. “I like a man who knows his Bible, but let me add that there’s a comma after those words in Philippians 3, and the next part of the sentence urges to ‘press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.’ I believe that scripture in full refers primarily to moving on in the Lord and onward in our walk in God.” He clapped John on the back. “But that was a good save, John. You showed quick thinking there.”
John couldn’t keep from grinning, but then as he looked toward the graves before him, the grin slipped from his face. “You’d think Lydia could at least meet me halfway.”
“Let me ask you this, John. Did you ever go after Lydia when she left, tell her you wanted her to come back?”
“Well, no.” John kicked at a rock on the ground. “She’s the one who left. I didn’t ask her to.”
“And she’s the one who’s come back.” Oliver put a hand on John’s arm. “A woman who had no interest in reconciling would never return to the place where her husband lives, John, and especially to a rental house right on his farm property.”
John jerked his eyes up.
Oliver’s gaze grew tender. “She’s already met you halfway, John Cunningham. Now you have to walk the other half distance—and do whatever it takes—if you want to win. Do you?”
John frowned, stepping away from him. “You’re a dang meddling man, Oliver Wheaton.”
“I might have said the same about you, coming here and hinting I move my bird feeders and keep my mind on my Sunday sermon.”
John laughed. “You’re right there. When are you going to come over to the house for dinner? I’d like for you to get to know the family better.”
“I’ll gladly come anytime. Ela Raintree’s cooking is legend around here.”
John clapped the minister on the back. “Speaking of which, that’s why I stopped by. Ela sent you a basket from the garden, and I think she tucked in one of her poppy seed breads, too. I have it in the truck for you.”
The men walked back to John’s truck, laughing.