Chapter Eleven

 

Baltimore, Maryland

Wednesday, September 27, 1995

 

“So that’s how you met Uncle Billy. I thought you two were friends because he married Mom’s cousin, Hanna.” Lillianna had endured many childhood Sundays with Greg on the VanDyke farm in Rising Sun. Billy and his wife raised Holsteins and a family of boys who teased their only girl visitor beyond mercy.

“Hanna and Cassandra,” her father said, “only called themselves cousins. But they did grow up next door to each other in Lick Creek, near Clintwood. Funny how things work. It was because of Billy, I met your mother. And if I hadn’t run away from Grandmaw, I’d a never met Billy.” He shook his head, stared at the wall. “Almost makes you believe in a master plan.”

“Mom always told us you met in church.” Lillianna laughed. “It seemed pretty far-fetched to me, even as a kid. Knowing how you felt about religion.”

“I did go to her church once. But I actually met your mother the night before. But I don’t want to get ahead of my story. Billy and me was young and stupid, and we loved to raise hell. So we hitchhiked over to a dance in Kemblesville. You probably don’t believe it, but your old man could really cut the rug back when he had two good legs.”

Her father sighed, looked deep into his past and Lillianna could almost see the years scrape away his crinkly flesh, right down to the young bones of the dancing boy.

She settled back, ready to move into his memory.

 

Kemblesville, Pennsylvania

Fall 1940

 

Calvin Miller had worked for Mr. Lyncroft about five years and Billy VanDyke a year longer when Billy bought a Model A Roadster and drove it onto the farm.

As soon as he saw it, Cal burst out laughing. “Where did you get that piece of junk?”

“I need transportation,” Billy said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “I’m a man in love.”

Billy met Hanna at a square dance in Kemblesville. She’d been visiting her aunt for the summer, and by the time she left, old Billy was crazy in love. He couldn’t speak a sentence without Hanna’s name in it someplace.

“Did you see Hanna’s eyes, Calvin? Ain’t they the most beautiful shade of blue you ever seen? They got gold and brown flecks in ‘em. Bright as October leaves. Did you see ‘em?”

Cal laughed. “Can’t say that I did, Billy. But I reckon they’re in there if you say so.’” He wished Billy would get over Hanna. Calvin had never been in love, and he preferred it that way. He reckoned he’d loved his pa. And he knew he loved his mother more than anyone in the world. But her death had left him uncertain love could be kind or honest or even add to his happiness in any way he could count on. Calvin vowed he’d dance with all the girls and love none.

And that’s what he’d done at the square dance in Kemblesville. But Billy, now he was another story. Hanna lived down south, some place in Virginia, and Billy chomped at the bit to see her again.

“Why don’t you come with me, Cal? It’ll be swell. And maybe Hanna has a friend or a cousin, and we can have us a double date.”

“Lyncroft won’t give both of us time off. Who’d do the work ‘round here?” Calvin frowned, then stomped off toward the barn. He wasn’t at all sure he liked Billy being in love.

When they’d finished the evening milking, Billy took a deep breath and asked Lyncroft if he and Calvin could take a long weekend to visit their girls.

Lyncroft grinned. “So you fellas got yourselves some gals down south, huh? Reckon I won’t be keeping you much longer. Knew it wouldn’t last forever.” He took long strides toward the house and Billy, and Calvin paced their steps to match.

“We ain’t wanting to quit, Mr. Lyncroft. Honest. All we want is a few days to drive over to Clintwood,” Billy said.

“Where ‘bouts is Clintwood?”

“It’s in Virginia... not far from the Kentucky border. Right close to the Pine Mountains.” Billy had been studying the map at night.

“That’s a mighty far piece. You reckon that old Model A is up to the trip?”

“Runs like a charm.”

Mr. Lyncroft smiled. “If you’re set on it, you can leave two weeks from Friday. My brother will be visiting and can help. And it’s time I put my own boys to work. They’re big enough to help out now. I’ll be expecting you back in time for Tuesday mornin’s milkin’.” Lyncroft clambered up the porch steps.

“Great. That’s just great, Mr. Lyncroft, sir. We’ll be back, all right. Don’t you worry none.” Billy bounced on the balls of his feet.

The boys raced back to the bunkhouse. Billy ripped a sheet of paper from a tablet, threw himself onto the floor and immediately wrote a letter to Hanna asking that she fetch a date for his friend.

Before they left, Calvin persuaded Billy into a test drive to Crystal Beach to find his pa. Summer was over. The concession stands would be disassembled, the beach deserted, but he had no idea where else to search.

When they arrived at the little town near the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay where the Susquehanna and North East Rivers met, most of the cottages appeared empty and boarded up. The tide was low, and the air smelled like seaweed and salt. Only a few stragglers wandered the beach, imprinting the wet sand with their steps.

Calvin approached a man about his father’s age. “I hope you can help me, sir. I’m looking for my pa. He’s a big man... runs a concession stand here ‘bouts in the summertime. Name’s Walter Miller. Do you know him?”

“Matter a fact, I do, son. He stays in a little apartment over the grocery store on the main street.”

Calvin grinned and bounced from one foot to the other. “Thanks a lot, mister. I really thank you a lot.”

After climbing the rickety wooden steps to the apartment, Calvin knocked lightly. When no response came, he beat on the door with his fists.

“The door’s open. Quit your goddamn pounding and come on in.”

Calvin recognized his father’s voice, smiled and beckoned Billy who waited at the bottom of the stairs. “That’s him, all right. We found my pa.”

Inside, his pa hunched over a newspaper, circling help wanted ads at a small table in the filthy kitchen. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink and on the counters, and a half-filled whiskey bottle wobbled in front of him. He looked as if he’d worn the same stained and crumpled clothing for weeks. The warm and damp apartment smelled musty, like dirty socks and booze.

His sunken eyes stared through the newspaper print and off into some unimaginable distance. He must be so lonely, Calvin thought, wondering how his pa could stand it. Wondering if loneliness like that was contagious and if, in spite of everything else he felt, in spite of how much he’d wanted to see his pa, he should just turn around and run as fast as he could.

His father lifted his gaze and words tumbled out. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. If it ain’t Calvin. Where the hell have you been, boy? Pearl told me you took off running and ain’t nobody seen you for nigh-on five years.”

“That’s right, Pa. I couldn’t take Grandmaw’s beatings anymore.”

His father laughed, stumbled to his feet and slapped Calvin on the back. “Can’t say I blame you none. My ma’s a mean ole bitch, ain’t she, boy?” He was hunched over, his face weathered and etched with lines. The years and the whiskey had left their marks.

Calvin struggled with the weight of an enormous sadness he didn’t quite understand. He searched the red, unshaven face for something in his father’s look. Then, unexpectedly, his pa threw his arm around his shoulders. “I’m glad to see ya, boy. Glad to know you’re doing okay.”

“I’m glad to see you, too, Pa. I really am. This here’s my friend, Billy VanDyke.”

“How do you do, Billy? Sit right down here, boys. And have a drink with your old man.” He gazed at Calvin again. “You’re all growed up,” he said as he poured whiskey into small glasses for Billy and his son.

“Billy and me work together up in Kemblesville, Pa. On the Lyncroft farm. You know it?”

“Yeah. I knew old man Lyncroft. He died ‘bout eight years back. Hear tell it his boy runs the place now.”

“That’s right, Pa. We work for his boy.”

“That’s fine, son. Just fine. These is hard times, and I’m glad you found a place to work. Are they good to ya?”

“Couldn’t be better, Pa. They’re real nice folks. Treat Billy and me like family. But I been wondering about my sisters. Have you seen Nellie and Allie? How’s about Evie and Pam? Are they all right?”

“They’re fine, boy. Just fine. You needn’t be worrying none. It’s a good life for ‘em with your mama’s people. They got a big spread and a huge herd. Your sisters Evie and Allie is going to college. Nellie will be graduatin’ high school. They’re getting educated. Every single one of ‘em. Aunt Pearl adopted Pam and treats her like a princess. Your brother, Ron, has it good, too. Your grandmaw loves him more than she ever cared about me or you—that’s for damn sure. All the kids had it better than you did, boy.”

“It don’t matter, Pa. I didn’t finish my schooling. But I’m doing just fine.”

“Maybe you’re right, Calvin. A man’s better off if he can learn to live without things.” He looked down at his bare feet and then back up at his son. “That’s a fact.”

Calvin nodded, but his eyes misted up, and his stomach didn’t feel so good. He thought about his mother and sisters, and a sense of isolation took hold of him. Where had the years gone that turned his little sisters into women, educated and living with his mama’s people in Sugar Grove, Virginia—in a place he’d never even visited?

When Billy signaled his readiness to leave, Calvin shook his father’s hand and held onto it for a long time, but they didn’t say anything more and made no plans to see each other again. Calvin didn’t need or want words from his father anyway. Words could lie. They could heat up your heart and disappear.

As they drove back to the Lyncroft farm, the sky filled with thin, spidery clouds and time slowly coiled around Calvin. In the fields surrounding Crystal Beach pumpkins and stalks of drying corn dotted the pastures. Red and yellow leaves jutted out from the rain gutters, and when the wind rustled, they floated through the air like tiny kites. It was only the middle of October, but already cool. And there was something about that colorful, but dying season, that filled Calvin Miller with sadness.

 

Baltimore, Maryland

Wednesday, September 27, 1995

 

“I reckon I knew that day, Em, there wouldn’t be any family reunions for me and my sisters,” he said.

“But you were wrong, weren’t you?”

He nodded. “Your mother used to believe there was a gift in everything terrible that happened to us in our lives. I guess seeing my family again was the gift inside that grenade. But I’m getting ahead of my story.”

Throughout her childhood, her father refused to talk about the day the grenade blew up in his hand. She’d thought about it a thousand times—always believing it blew up in the hands of her brother Greg and the yet-to-be conceived child, Emma, as well. She wanted to hear it from his perspective, and it appeared he was finally willing to talk.

A phlebotomist slipped into the room, toting her plastic tray of syringes and test tubes. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But I need to draw blood for a donor match.”

Her father cringed, clamped his eyes shut and stuck out his left arm. The right one was still taped to a board and attached to the IV carrying his antibiotics.

“I know,” the woman cooed, rubbing his arm and searching for a vein. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller. But it can’t be helped.”

“It’s not your fault,” her father replied, his eyes still closed. “I know you’re just doing your job.”

After the first failed attempt at finding a good vein, Lillianna looked away. Thankfully, the nurse got what she needed on the second try, pasted a Band-Aid over the faint bruise already rising on the paper-thin skin inside his elbow, patted his shoulder and left the room. The story he’d just told about his father seemed to make him sad, and Lillianna wanted to do something to change the dark mood. “How about I go down to the cafeteria and bring you back an ice cream cone?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “Supper will be here before long. Besides, Pam’s bringing me in a coconut cream pie.”

Even though she’d already asked her father this question, she felt compelled to ask it again. “How did you feel about your father’s drinking? Did you hate it as much as I hated it when you drank? If it hadn’t been for your father and the booze, maybe your family could have stayed together.”

To her surprise, his eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know, Em. I couldn’t hate him. I think he was doing the best he could. Things were hard. It was the Great Depression. He loved my mama so much, and now she was dead, and he had six kids. All his dreams died, too. I know I was just a little boy, but somehow I understood him.”

Did the alcoholism gene live inside both her father and her grandfather? Was it there when Calvin Miller was just a boy, struggling to survive? Is that why he understood and forgave his father so easily? Or was Lillianna a selfish bitch who couldn’t see beyond her own pain? So many questions and so few answers that made sense.

An aide delivered his dinner tray. Her white, rubber-soled shoes sighed as she crossed the shining linoleum to his bed—the only sound in the quiet room.

Happy for something to do, Lillianna lifted the plastic dome to the merging smells of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and yellowish-green string beans. She poured his coffee, added the amount of milk she now knew he preferred and tucked the paper napkin into his T-shirt.

“Bon Appetit,” she said, close enough to his face for their breath to mingle. But he didn’t pick up his fork and dive in. She sucked in her cheeks, wondering what to do. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to suggest you felt something you didn’t about your father.”

“No.” He looked straight into her eyes. “I reckon I ain’t like you. I never hated my pa. Never. I couldn’t. He was all I had.”