The Road to Home

Nelle slept late, lulled by the gentle whir of the fan blades and the fresh morning air perfumed with sweet gardenia wafting into her room through the window left wide open to capture the kinder air of nighttime. She had fallen asleep to the hypnotic sounds of chirping crickets and croaking frogs that hushed the worries of her tired mind and soothed the aches of her weary body.

She stretched her limbs like a waking cat, releasing a small groan, turning on her side as she blinked herself awake. Time to get up, she told herself reluctantly. Another soft moan signaled the end to her blissfully deep sleep. She threw back the sheet, sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Sitting in stillness for a minute longer, Nelle began to devise her plans for the day.

As was her routine, Christine left early in the mornings to open up Spurlock’s General Store where she worked for the summer. Adored by him, the elderly Mr. Spurlock treated her as one of his own. His fondness buoyed her confidence and helped ease her feelings of loneliness. Nelle was grateful and relieved that Christine had a safe and nurturing place to go.

She was also grateful for her time alone today. Granddad’s affairs needed tending with her full concentration. She had barely scratched the surface in sorting through his mounds of papers. Locating his will and house papers were important documents for settling his estate. Modest though it was, the house and the garage apartment represented his life’s devotion to taking care of his family. Her nomadic existence made her appreciate the importance of his commitment even more. Her family had never owned anything at all. She thought of the contents of the paper bag that held her father’s belongings. It was all he had to account for his lifetime of traveling.

Nelle stood up from her bedside and turned off the fan. She switched on the radio that sat on top of the old dresser and picked out worn cutoff denim shorts and a fresh tee shirt, her summer uniform for the sweltering days of August. Suddenly, recognizing the tune, she straightened upright resting her hands on the bureau drawer and turned the up the volume.

John Lennon was singing to her. He had captured her reverie completely in his few words.

She picked up the Beatle’s song with a hum and sung herself through her shower.

And anytime you feel the pain hey Jude, refrain.
Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders….

Granddad’s house was eerily quiet. It occurred to her as she walked through the back porch and kitchen and settled herself in front of his desk again that she had never been inside without someone else there, and she hoped that Christine would be able to adjust to the new aloneness. She had never felt like a visitor in this house, until now. Granddad’s presence, even in his absence, was formidable. The depression in his mattress seemed to still hold his weight, the heaviness of his living that he took to bed each night, which he tried never to show his girls. Nelle could feel the shadow of him as she leaned back in his wide swivel chair, and took comfort in the sudden wave of reassurance that flooded through her. He is not really gone, she smiled to herself, as she gathered up her father’s belongings spread out on the felt pad from the day before and put them back in the brown paper bag. She opened the drawer to return it, and saw in the bottom a large manila envelope that bore the law office label Harris, Turner, and Lauer, Attorneys at Law, 6317 Main Street, West River, Louisiana. Underneath the faded label, Granddad had marked the contents with two simple words in all caps: WILL & DEED.

Thank you, Granddad. Nelle lifted the envelope from the drawer and took a deep breath before she turned it over to unfasten the clasp. Everything in order as it should be. Of course. Granddad was still guiding her. Perhaps he always would.

He had never mentioned to her that he had done personal business with the law firm that hired Nelle in her senior year of high school, when Mr. Parker chose her over the four other girls for the part time work program that also gave her high school credits. At the time, she was shocked by the decision since all the other candidates were from affluent Tall Oaks, and looked and talked like it, too. They were polished and poised. She remembered being embarrassed by her ill-fitting borrowed dress and scuffed shoes, the bruises on her shins showing her hardscrabble life. Nelle made no friends that day, except for Mr. Parker.

Her discovery of the documents would vastly simplify the process she faced, especially so because Mr. Parker’s firm had handled Granddad’s affairs. The ink from the postage date was faded but she could still make out the year 1945. That was the year the war ended, right before her father was shipped out to Japan as a member of the occupying forces, where she was born. And it was long before Mr. Parker had joined the firm.

She couldn’t wait to place a call to him, knowing she could count on his assistance and support.

Granddad had set up what he called the “telephone room” in the tiny screened vestibule located in the front of the house at the entryway. The phone’s black curvy handle was cradled on top of a rectangular base with a large rotary dial. It sat on a weathered book of White Pages five-inches thick, which rested on a rickety three-legged stool. He told her that he found the mechanical ring of the telephone harsh and annoying and placed it where he thought it would cause the least irritation. In his view, the device was intended for brief exchanges of information, not for socializing and “whittling time away”, as he used to say. He kept his original party line arrangement and never installed another telephone in the garage apartment. An additional telephone was an unnecessary indulgence as far as he was concerned. His unsympathetic relationship with the four other party line members had not endeared them to his occasional needs, and rendered them highly uncooperative when he told them curtly to get off the line.

Nelle heard the chatter as soon as she picked up the receiver. Two female voices, talking over one another, jabbering about the unfair judges and undeserving winners in the jubilee pie contest.

“Excuse me. Excuse me, please. Would you mind freeing the line? This is Nelle Lyons. I have an important call to make. It won’t take long. I promise.”

“What makes you think this call isn’t important,” said the other. “You’re just like him. Belligerent bully.”

Shocked by the insensitive comment, especially since her grandfather had just died, Nelle shot back. “Ma’am! That’s an awful thing to say to me! My grandfather just passed away. Didn’t you know that?”

Nelle heard the first click, then the second one. Silence for a moment, then the dial tone signal for the open line. She wrinkled her forehead. I thought everyone admired him, she thought, shaking off the unpleasant encounter, dialing Mr. Parker’s phone number.

Her call to Mr. Parker was put straight through. She had made friends and earned respect at the law firm through hard work and loyalty. The opportunity given to her in high school had changed the course of her life. She never forgot nor ever diminished the importance of it. And the firm took equal pride in seeing her mature and encouraged her pursuit of veterinary studies. She continued occasional part-time work over summers and holidays to mutual delight and benefit, which also helped with her expenses. Since her grandfather’s death, funeral arrangements and the jubilee festival had consumed most of her time. Her part-time work at the firm needed to wait.

“Nelle! Good to hear from you,” Mr. Parker said brightly. Then, in a soft and serious tone, he asked, “Are you doing alright?”

“I think so,” she responded quietly. “There’s so much going on right now. Granddad. Then I saw my father at that awful place. And the theft at the church and Miss Ruby’s store. Sick horses. And the race…” her voice went quiet when unexpectedly the burdens of the last two weeks hit in a heap of emotional exhaustion.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload all that on you. That’s not why I called,” she said apologetically. “I need help with his will and the house. I have the papers. Your firm drew everything up for him years ago. Long time before you were there. I had no idea.”

“Come see me, Nelle,” Mr. Parker replied. “We’ll take care of everything. When you’re ready. Come on in.”

Nelle walked through the house back toward his bedroom. Progress, she thought, sensing his presence in the walls and air. His cigar smoke ever present, his newspapers and Sears Roebuck Catalog laid out on the old rugged black walnut dining table, dented and scratched with the marks of his life. She ran her finger down the small cleared spot where he took his meals, leaving a track in the dust, wanting to touch him in this familiar place.

Nelle exhaled fully as she sat in the desk chair again picking up the envelope containing the documents. He had made things easy so far.

Leaning over to put it back, she spotted a small white envelope crumbled and stuck against the back wall of the drawer. She pulled it out and smoothed the surface. There was neither a return address nor postmark. BIG SHOT was typed on the front. The letter was not sealed. Nelle opened the folded paper, and gasped.

Nelle knew what it was to be an outsider. She had spent her whole life that way, from the traveling of a military family where each frequent tour rendered her the new kid, to the shunning of locals who quickly became familiar with and cruel over her family’s constant public turmoil. She was used to being judged and ostracized and made the butt of mean jokes. But it never occurred to her that her grandfather had been subject to such nastiness. He was a sanctuary in their sea of bitterness and unhappiness and if he had suffered in the backlash of their misery, he had never let on.

Did we do this to him? She folded the letter closed, covering the hateful words.

Nelle never considered how her father’s police record, his repeated jailings and commitment to the state hospital, and her mother’s infidelity and hard drinking by both of them had reflected back on him. He took them in unconditionally and shielded them the best he could from the harsh consequences of their family troubles. Nelle thought he was a big shot, indeed, in every good and kind way.

The threatening tone scared her and she decided that Mr. Parker needed to see the letter. She opened the small desk drawer that held the sundries of stamps, pens, and worn stubs of pencils. She was searching for a paper clip to attach the hate letter to the manila envelope containing the family documents, when the next shock came.

Jolting upright, the handwriting was immediately recognizable. For a moment, Nelle stopped breathing and she felt her heart skip a beat. Her mother’s script, so precise and ornate on a light blue envelope that enclosed a notecard lay in the shallow drawer covered by a few rubber bands and old purple postage stamps whose value had expired. The return address read simply Maggie Lyons. The red circular postmark was from Little Rock, Arkansas, and was over two years old.

Nelle saved the post cards that her mother had sent occasionally. Her messages were cryptic but loving and never revealed her exact whereabouts. Nelle treasured the colorful cards and kept each one, refusing to give up hope. Granddad never spoke of the scandal she created and Nelle never knew they had communicated after her mother left. From the very beginning, her mother and grandfather had never gotten along, each blaming the other for her father’s inability to cope and manage a life outside the military.

The shiny card featured a trellis of profuse climbing red roses in full bloom. Nelle remembered that it was her mother’s favorite flower and how she would burst into delighted giggles when her father brought them home for special occasions. Granddad would have no knowledge that this image captured better times.

Ralph,

I don’t expect you to understand. You have suffered through it, too, and not only from your son but your wife. I wonder if you have ever known peace, and while you may not believe me, I think you are deserving of it. I think I am, too.

I am not asking forgiveness but I am asking that you take care of my girls since neither Terry nor I can right now. I would give anything to change this wretched reality, for all of us. That is my deepest wish. But I am like a dandelion puff parachuting on a fast wind. My home is neither here nor there, and I can’t pull my children along any longer. You are their best hope, for now.

You will give them what I – what we – cannot. I have no home or job. He has no life. Although we have never agreed on much, we can agree on this. They love you. I know you love them and will give them what they need and deserve. Don’t give up on us.

Maggie