Hearts Left Behind (16 page)

“I haven’t seen your daughter, Tucker, I
promise.”  He said it quietly, but he still quivered with fear.  Not
of me, though.  Frightened of that thing behind his eyes that I couldn’t
see and he wouldn’t share.  I wanted to pluck his eyes out with my thumbs
and see what hid behind them.

“If you see her, Alvin.
 
Just come tell me, ok?”

I found myself walking the dirt path alongside the
railroad tracks that I had helped wear into dusty existence so many years
ago.  My mind was jumping back and forth from where it had been to where
it now was.  I thought about that look from Old Man Keller, but my mind
couldn’t untie that knot.  I neared the area where Katie’s body had been
found and the scenery began to blur with the pace of my walk, the rocks
flanking the rails melting into a flowing river of purple and silver
quartz.  A lone bird whistled and an approaching train killed its song
with the blare of its horn. 
Stay
out of my way
, the horn said. 
Angry freight train coming
through.
 
Won’t be stopped
.

I felt the same way. 
Unstoppable
with the anger and the fear of a father who has lost a child.
  I
imagined myself standing on the
tracks –
a foot on each rail – bringing that freight train to screeching stillness with
nothing but a hard stare and an upright palm.

The blare of the horn grew louder
and I kept moving toward it.  Images flashed
before my eyes like the space between railroad cars.  Katie, Ethan, Tory,
Swinging Girl, Old Man Keller.  I don’t know if it was the wind produced
from the train or the sound of its horn, but when that train screamed past me
it knocked me to the ground.  I laid face down in the dirt and listened to
the rhythmic
chu-chung
chu-chung
chu-chung
until it faded away.  Like a boxer rising from
the canvas, I pushed myself up and spit blood.  I squeezed the dust and
tears out of my eyes and wiped my hands clean on my shirt.  Rocks dug
sharply into my hands and knees.  An especially large one rested directly
in front of me.  It was one of those shimmering purple quartz that had
strayed away from the tracks.  With clawing fingers, I dug it out and threw
it at the memory of the train and the wake of its echo
.
 
The train was gone from sight and sound and the thrown rock landed in quiet
oblivion.  That lone bird whistled once more and then all was quiet and
still.

I looked back down at the ground where the rock had
been and lying there in the divot it had left was a feather.  Not white
and pristine, but gray and ruffled.  Not from a golden swan, but from a
common pigeon.  Not what you would ask for, but what you were
promised.  I looked up and yelled, “Feathers aren’t enough!”

But when I lifted it, when I lifted that feather, what
I found underneath filled me with grace and shame and hope.  For lying
there beneath that broken feather that had been under that sparkling rock there
was a flattened copper coin.  A train-squashed penny dated 1980, and
imprinted with every memory of that summer and the little girl it had belonged
to. 
Yet another sign to be accepted with faith or
dismissed as coincidence.
  Alongside these railroad tracks where I
had picked asparagus with my father and where Katie Cooper’s lifeless body had
once lay. 
In this place and in this moment.
 
Right here, right now, on hands and knees scraped and scratched.  Inside
of me was the faith to believe or the rational mind to deny.  And despite
reason and common sense and all other constraints of logic, I realized that I
did believe.  In that little divot of earth in this big nowhere place, I
felt as if I had found proof of the everywhere of heaven.  It was under a
rock and hidden by a feather.

When I rose, it was with a new peace and with the
certainty that Tory was safe.  I
t
was also with the realization that I was close to that Garden of Eden that
Katie had once shown me.  I had never gone back after Katie’s death. 
I had wanted to, especially those times when I was missing her most.  I
wanted to go there to just sit and remember her, but I never did. 
Probably because I was afraid I’d be followed and our secret would be
revealed.  Or because I feared finding someone else there and the memory
violated. 
But probably mostly because Katie would never
go there again and so neither would I.

I
stepped
through the brush and the shrubs and the spindly branches until I came to the
clearing that led me to our secret spot.  And as I stepped into that
back-in-time place, the first thing I noticed was that the pond was nearly
dry.  Not much more than a muddy pit now, encircled by tall, sickly grass.

The air was stale and
thick, filled with the competing odors of decomposing vegetation,
worms, and dead fish.  This place had once been alive and the air so fresh
that it turned your insides rainforest green, made you feel as if you yourself
had sprouted from the earth like the trees and the flowers.  But
everything had died into must and mold.  All that had been green was now
brown.  All that had
blossomed,
now
withered.  All that had been alive was now dead.

Across the pond, though,
one big old maple tree still stood.  It used to
cradle me and Katie as we talked or shelter us from the summer sun as we
splashed in the pond.  Everything around it was brown and quiet and still
now, but that tree, at least, still stood.  Like all that is left after
all has been lost – like hope - that one tree still stood.  The rope we
had swung from swayed lazily in the breeze and I gripped that copper coin tightly
in my right hand.  There was justice to the absence of life here.

I put the coin in my pocket and left, knowing that I
would not return to this place again.

Still feeling very much the locomotive, I retraced my
steps along the tracks and headed back into town, a Johnny Cash song rumbling
through my head.  Inside, I was certain now that Tory was safe and
discovered as much when I walked through the front door and saw her in
Grandpa’s arms.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said sheepishly.

“And just where have you been, little girl?”

“I found her asleep behind the door in the spare
bedroom,” Grandpa said.

“Behind the door?”
  We
had looked under every bed and inside of every closet in every room.  We
had not looked behind the doors that opened into the rooms.

“I was playing with my dolly, Daddy.  That’s
where she sleeps.”

Grandpa turned her around in his arms and held her out
in front of him for me to come take her. “Well, we found you,” he said, giving
me a smile and a familiar wink.

I kneeled down and opened my arms to her.  Tory’s
arms around my neck and crying her apologies, I looked up at my wife. 

“It’s all right,” I said, eyes still locked on
Tammy.  “Everything is going to be all right now.  I promise.”

From a distance I could see that Swinging Girl was not
alone today.  As I walked closer, I could see that it was not another
child with her but rather – of all people – Old Man Keller.  He stood next
to her as she swung and the sight of them together made my stomach lurch. 
He moved behind her and clasped clingy little wrinkled hands around her hips
and I remembered that dirty-secret look on his face from the day before. 
I was over a block away, but my eyes zoomed and locked on the greedy little
fingers he clenched around her waist.  As I walked closer, I could see his
beady gray eyes, watched him moisten his dry lips with a thick wet
tongue.  He gave her a big push on the swing and when his hands released
her, his fingers hung in the air, wriggling slightly as if savoring the
residual taste of touching her.  They seemed to reach out longingly, those
touching, tasting fingers.  Suddenly, the Old Man clenched his hands into
fists that he tucked away into his overall pockets and marched back across the
street where his Cub Cadet sat in the Pullman’s front yard.  And away he
drove.

“Hello, Swinging Girl” I said when I had gotten close
enough.

“Hi, Thinking Man,” she said.

I took the swing next to hers and she coasted in for a
landing.  “Do you know that man you were talking to?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s Lawn Mowing Man.”

“Yes, he is. 
The lawn moving
man.
  Alvin Keller is his name.”

“Okay.”

“What were you two talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not really.”

“Well, you must have talked about something.”

“Nope.”

“Will you tell me what he said?  Please?”

She rolled her eyes at me.  “He said ‘
You’re sure a good swinger,
’ I said, ‘
Thanks
.’  He said, ‘
How
about a push, beautiful girl
?
’,
I said, ‘
Okay
.’ And that was it.”

“He called you ‘beautiful girl’?” I asked.  “Those
were the words?”

“Yes.”

“He shouldn’t have said that.  That’s not right.”

“You don’t think I’m beautiful?”

Beautiful girl
…
where I had I heard that before?  Who had said
that?

“What?  No.  I mean, yes, you’re
beautiful.  It’s
just,
old men shouldn’t talk
like that to little girls.”

“Well, my Grandpa is an old man and he tells me I’m
beautiful.”

“But he’s your Grandpa.  It’s okay for your
Grandpa to call you beautiful.”

“Mr. Keller is old like my Grandpa.”

“But he’s not your Grandpa,
Sweetie.  That’s the point.  He’s not your
Grandpa so he shouldn’t talk to you that way.  It’s not right.”

“Jeez, he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Jeez, he didn’t mean anything by it…something else I
had before.

“Would you like a spot of tea, sir?” Katie said.

“Why yes, indeed, I would.  Thank you, Governor.”

“Okay, first of all, I’m a lady so don’t call me
‘governor.’  Instead, refer to me either as “Miss Kate” or ‘my
lady’.  Secondly, when you do say ‘governor’, you have to say it like the
English
do
.  They say ‘
guvner
’,
like its only two syllables instead of three. 
Guv
.
Ner
.
  See what I mean?”

“Yes, my lady. 
Guvner
.”

She clapped approvingly.  “Oh, that was quite
lovely.”

“Too right!”

It was silly and wonderful to be sipping tea on a
summer’s day with Miss Kate.  Her mom had let us use her China tea set and
we set up a table and chairs in Katie’s bedroom.  The tea was bitter and I
felt ridiculous in the top hat and cane that she had pulled from the trunk at
the end of her bed, but the company was, well, quite lovely.

“I must say, that hat does suit you,” she said. 
“Very handsome indeed.”

Blood rushed to my face and brought a sweat with it.

“I say!  Are you blushing?  You are! 
You are!  How sweet!  You’re blushing.  Is it because I called
you handsome?”

I said nothing.  Just tried to will the red out
of my face.

“Oh, it’s okay.  I didn’t mean to embarrass
you.  You are handsome though. 
Truly.”

“KATIE!  Would you stop it,
please!
”

She giggled, “I’m sorry.  I know just how you
feel.  I did the same thing when Mr. Keller told me I was beautiful.”

“
Whadya
mean?”

“Yesterday, after he had mowed our lawn my mom had me
bring him a glass of lemonade and when I gave it to him he said ‘
thanks, beautiful girl’.
”  She tossed her hair back and raised her chin
to the stars as she said it.  “I blushed the same way you just did and he
laughed at me.”

“Well that’s just gross.”

“It most certainly is not!”

“He’s an old man.  That’s why we call him Old Man
Keller.  And old men shouldn’t be calling little girls beautiful unless
it’s their granddaughter or something.”

“Jeez, he didn’t mean anything by it.”

A great many things have happened in the blink of
eternity’s eye that has been my life. 
Space travel,
personal computers, microwave ovens, the birth and death of the VCR.
 
Post-it notes.  Men have gone here and
there,
women have done this and that.  Children have surprised us.  And all
of these things have happened as Alvin Keller sat perched atop his Cub Cadet,
rumbling through the streets and yards of Willow Grove, Illinois.  Of course,
the Old Man had been a young man for some of these things, but I think the Old
Man was probably an old man even when the Old Man was a young man.

Without the growing green grass, Alvin couldn’t have
eaten, wouldn’t have survived,
never would have evolved into
the Old Man.
  He would have slept in a chicken shack and died young
without ever having achieved the strange sort of small town celebrity that he
had earned because of that Cub Cadet.  No less so than s
ome grazing animal, like some wild goat, Old Man
Keller needed grass to survive.  But Alvin had more in common with goats
than a grassy subsistence.  The Old Man had the face of a goat. 
Wispy white hair on a long chin, narrow eyes that revolved in sockets on the
side of his narrow head, near alert triangular ears.  A face shaped by
years in the wind, the way a river shapes a canyon.

The Old Man was a simple man
living a simple life, and while he did carry himself
with a barely detectable air of superiority, it was almost
self-deprecating. 
Aware that he’s King of some mountain
that nobody cares about.
  Still, one had to admire his
ever-positive outlook.

“How’s it going, Alvin?”

“Good! 
Another day above
ground!”

After the hum of his mower, that is what I remember
most about Old Man Keller.

“Beautiful day today, eh, Alvin?”

“Outstanding! 
Another day
above ground!”

A cup of optimism he poured for all from his
perpetually half-full container. 
Usually shouted out
above the rumble of the mower.
  Usually, without any regard to what
the other person had even said.

“Careful not to run over my
tulips, Alvin.”

“Yes, ma’am!
 
Another day above ground!”

Another day above ground.
 
That’s what the Old Man said.

The Old Man’s Cub Cadet growled and grumbled through
every summer of my youth.  Sometimes loud as guilt, sometimes quiet as
denial. 
Always there, but like the hum in your head,
not always noticed.
  A quiet vibration tucked away in
memory.    Old Man Keller has a more prominent spot in my
memories than he deserves and it’s all because of that Cub Cadet. 
All because of grass.

Just like the first time, Mr. Innocent had placed the
unaddressed and unsealed white envelope under the rock near James Johnson’s
headstone.  It had been several days since my return letter and I had all
but given up on him, but here I was holding a new letter in my hand.  I
hoped that there was more than one word this time.  There was.

You asked me how I know Slim Jim is innocent and I
can’t tell you that, sorry.  Maybe I’m wrong but I don’t think so.  I
suppose it don’t matter much anyhow, been too long a time.  Probably
should not even have said
nothing
been so long.
Still innocent is innocent and guilty is guilty.

He sounded like a man who was done talking, which
pissed me off.  In clearing his own conscience, he had weighted mine
down. 
Except I wasn’t going to let him wash his hands
of everything quite so easily.
  I wasn’t going to let him
sleep.  I wasn’t going to let him get away with whatever the hell it was
he was getting away with. 
Hell, for
all I knew Mr. Innocent himself might be the real killer.  He sure talked
like a man who was guilty of something.

I suppose it don’t matter much anyhow, been too
long a time.

Bullshit.  Justice always matters.
  That’s how I would start my next letter. 
Then I would tell Mr. Innocent how he had no right to a clear conscience. 
That he hadn’t earned one.  Not yet anyway.  I would tell him that if
he didn’t come forward with everything he knew that he was an accomplice. 
In my first letter I had been afraid of being too aggressive and scaring him
off.  That approach had not worked.  This time I would attack. 
This letter would be loaded with threats and questions that required answers or
caused insomnia. 
How can you
live with yourself? You’re the real killer, aren’t you?  I’m going to find
you.  Your letters are being scanned for fingerprints.  You better
come forward before we find out who you are.

The next morning, I awoke before dawn and once again
marched like a soldier to the Willow Grove cemetery.  I had a book to read
and a
nother yellow envelope that I would
place under the gray rock that rested near James Johnson’s grave.  And
this time, after delivering my letter, I would lurk.  I would hide in
secret for as long as it took.  I would stay as long as I needed to,
reading my book and watching out for Mr. Innocent.

I sat in a small space between the evergreen bushes
and the utility shed.  From there I had a distant but clear sightline to
the grave of James Johnson.  Any car entering the cemetery would pass
directly in front of me and over the first couple hours of the day many
did.  There is a lot to be learned in lurking.

I watched
80 something
Joanie Platt
water the flowers at her parent’s
gravesite and I learned that you never stop needing your mom and dad.  I
watched Marylyn Jeffries stand before the grave of the little brother she had
lost over fifty years ago and I learned that we never forget and that we live
for each other.  I also learned that the phenomenon of the Grave Letters
was still going strong. 
From friend to friend, from
brother to sister, from daughter to mother.

From father to son.

As if dreaming, I watched the long black Chrysler
sedan slow to a stop in front of Ethan’s grave.  For a moment, it looked
as if the driver wasn’t going to get out and I suspected that was probably an
internal debate he was having.  But then the car shut off and the driver’s
side door slowly swung open.  Everything he did these days was either done
slowly or not done at all.  Dad had not treated his body well in his fifty-four
years and it had caught up to him. 
A collapsed lung, a
heart attack, another collapsed lung.
  Still, he claimed no
regrets.  If you asked him, his health issues weren’t the result of
smoking, drinking, and an undisciplined diet.  They were partly genetic
and partly environmental.  The hay dust and particles he had inhaled in
the barn during his early years working on a local farm.

“Sure, the smoking didn’t help, I know that.  But
that’s not why I’ve had the problems I’ve had, Tuck,” he had said to me after
the second collapsed lung.  “It’s what they call Farmer’s Lung.”

Rare is the man who has been so right about so many
things as my dad.  In all my years, I can recall just one time where he
conceded to me that he had been wrong about something.  It was a Sunday
when I was 17 and he had criticized me for how I had parked my car in Grandpa
and Grandma’s driveway.