A Far Piece to Canaan (47 page)

It was bittersweet, seeing the seventy-eight-year-old woman I had loved when she was a sixteen-year-old girl. She looked ancient, but she remembered me and gave me a big hug as I was leaving. I reflected as I drove away that sixty years in the past I would have given a year of my life for that hug.

I turned the BMW north and east and drove through the mountains of Eastern Kentucky. I had always wanted to see Natural Bridge, a huge stone ledge that had been undermined by wind and water. I was mesmerized by the sweeping beauty that Nature's genius had designed.

When I was driving away from the park, the BMW's fuel gauge turned red and I pulled into an Eastern Kentucky version of a quickie mart—a general store with one gas pump. An old man came out to fill my tank. While he worked, I wandered around the store.

The interior looked like something you would expect to see in 1890. It carried everything: clothes, hardware, groceries, fertilizer, kerosene lanterns, and probably buttons. Four old men in overalls were playing Rook using the top of a wooden barrel for a table. The proprietor entered, went behind the counter, then asked if that was going to be all.

“Not sure yet,” I answered. “Any good place t' eat around here?”

One of the Rook players glanced in my direction. “Fair's goin' on, I'd eat there.”

That sounded like an idea. “How do I get there?”

“Head west 'til y' come t' Texas, then foller th' signs.”

Everyone laughed and I laughed with them.

“Aunt Tillie's Diner's ten mile up th' road,” said one of the Rook players, concentrating on his cards. “Makes good catfish 'n' hush puppies.”

“Best in these parts,” another player added.

“Sounds good,” I said. “Any candy bars around in case I miss Aunt Tillie's.”

“Lucy Spencer just brought some fudge in for sale,” said the proprietor. “Nobody makes fudge like Miss Lucy. I recommend hit.”

That sounded good. “I'll take a quarter pound. Total me up.”

I was walking out the door when I heard: “Run into any soldiers out there, wouldn't tarment 'em if I's you. Can't never tell what they'll do.”

I turned and smiled back at my grinning nemesis. “Confederate, right?”

He bit down on his cigar. “Done met up with 'em, did ye?”

This time there was a roar of laughter. I pointed my finger at him and winked.

When I finished touring Eastern Kentucky, I turned west. Mountains became hills, which became rolling, bluegrass land. Green, wonderfully green, and sweet-smelling. I went all the way to the Mississippi River. I felt free. I didn't care that I was paying for a hotel room I wasn't using. I drank from Abraham Lincoln's childhood spring, explored Mammoth Cave, went fishing in Kentucky Lake, ate like a king, drank only the best bourbon, and lost all track of time. I didn't even know the day of the week.

Suddenly, I wanted to see Jenny and Melvin and Lisa June. My growing friendship with Lisa June was beginning to concern me. How would she respond if we became closer, then I left for New Hampshire? Would she feel I was yet another person deserting her? I needed some advice. When I got to Lexington, I called Jenny and wangled an invitation for dinner.

It turned out that my concerns were shared by the Langleys. We were on the porch after dinner, when Jenny said, “Y' know, Samuel, you're goin' back t' New Hampshire. I'm not sure how close you should get t' Lisa June if you don't plan t' spend a lot of time with her in th' future. She was out here while you were gone. You were all she talked about. If you get too much closer and just up 'n' leave, it might not go well for her.”

“I think the same,” said Melvin. “Hit's somethin' t' give thought.”

I gave it a lot of thought. Anxious feelings, so recently vanquished, returned in waves. When I called her cell phone and she realized that it was me, her voice became happy.

“Where-have-you-been, Samuel Zelinsky? Aunt Jen says you've been gallivantin'.”

“All over Kentucky. Let me buy you dinner and I'll fill you in.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Then: “How do you feel about hamburgers, home fries, and cinnamon applesauce, with cherry pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert?”

“Sounds good. Where should I meet you?”

“Six o'clock at my apartment.”

I was surprised by the invitation. “I . . . I'll be there. Is there anything I can bring?”

“Something for an upset stomach. I do make a good cherry pie, though. Why don't you bring vanilla ice cream?”

I spent the day browsing, reading the local paper and a day-old copy of the
Washington Post
. I couldn't remember what I read because thoughts of Lisa June dominated my consciousness. Sometime in mid-afternoon I was jolted by a dose of reality. I wanted to help Lisa June, but I didn't want to go beyond friendship, financial help, and being the occasional advisor. I was seventy-two. I didn't need any more commitments! I already had the commitments Nora and I brought into this world together! Fred had been my best friend, but . . .

By the time I reached Lisa June's apartment, butterflies were banging their way through my belt. Lisa June opened the door and gave me a beautiful smile. She was wearing jeans and a UK T-shirt. “Come on in, Samuel, and tell me how you like your hamburgers. I'm about t' put them in th' skillet.”

I followed her inside, acutely aware that she had begun to call me Samuel. The butterflies in my stomach had turned into battering rams. This girl was moving our friendship along at a terrifying rate. I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down.

The apartment was a pretty little one-bedroom, with a living room, kitchen, and dinette. There was a long bookcase against one living room wall filled to capacity. On top of the bookcase was an eight-by-ten glossy of Jenny and Melvin Langley. The other furniture consisted of a TV and CD player that sat on a small table in one corner, a recliner chair with an end table and reading lamp, and a couch that was catty-corner against the wall facing the chair.

“Did you leave th' ice cream in th' car?”

My hand went to my forehead. “I forgot to buy the ice cream.”

“Well, don't fret. We'll just double up on cherry pie.”

For the next half hour, I sat in Lisa June's kitchen telling her about my trip as she made dinner. I began to relax. She seemed genuinely interested in my odyssey, laughing when I told her the story of the Rook players and looking sad at my descriptions of beautiful, mountainous, Eastern Kentucky where, unfortunately, poverty abounded.

Lisa June stopped her work after the comments about the mountain poverty and turned toward me, a hamburger flipper in her hand. “You know, I've met a lot of people from Eastern Kentucky since I started goin' to UK. It would be fun t' teach in th' mountains for a while.”

“What are you interested in teaching?”

“I had thought th' early grades, but lately, more about high school,” she answered, turning back to the hamburgers and shoveling them onto toasted buns.

“What courses?”

She turned toward me again, this time with a grin on her face. “Literature. The UK students that come out of Eastern Kentucky are all hot to get into somethin' that's goin' t' make them a living. I don't blame them. I'm in favor of using college for a better life. But they leave with an engineering degree and they've never even heard of Harriette Arnow or Jesse Stuart and they were great Kentucky writers. They'll never read them or any other great writer unless they get introduced to them before college.”

“Where did you get your interest in literature?”

“At the orphanage,” she answered, turning back to her work. “Not from th' people who ran it. The thanks go t' Aunt Jen. She went to college for two years. She reads all th' time, and even has Uncle Melvin readin' when there isn't a basketball game on TV. She checked out hundreds of books from th' library for me over th' years and delivered them during her visits. I used to lie in bed at night and read until lights out. I got straight A's in high school in my English and literature courses. I like t' write too, but I'm not very good.”

“Jenny and Melvin have been very important to you, haven't they?”

Lisa June didn't answer, instead she seemed to pour energy into making the home fries.

The food was good, but our conversation had ended. I decided that my question about the Langleys had hit an unhealed wound. “Lisa, I'm sorry about touching a sensitive spot.”

A weak smile returned to Lisa June's face. “You don't have to apologize, what you said was true. I just have a hard time accepting that th' only people who've ever given a damn about me are Jenny and Melvin Langley. Not one drop of their blood is in me. I have a mother out West who has never written me a postcard. I have a great-aunt th' same way. Do you know why I refused to go t' any more foster homes?”

I suspected what was coming and didn't want to hear it. I didn't want more guilt. It was Fred I had abandoned, dammit, not Lisa June! “No.”

“Because the menfolk put their hands in my britches as soon as their wives weren't looking. I was going t' get pregnant and people were goin' t' say I was trash. I thought all my folks were trash until you told me your stories.”

There it was, and to add to it, Lisa June's hands went to her face and she began to cry. “You know what it's like . . . t' think you come from trash? Cheap white trash!”

I felt horrible. I got out of my chair, walked around the table, and lightly placed my hands on her shoulders. I wanted to hug her, but I couldn't. This was too much, too much. I couldn't give any more. Suddenly, Lisa June rose from the chair, wrapped her arms around my chest, and cried. I stroked her hair and her back, and as I did, I thought about Thelma Jean. I had felt sorry for Thelma Jean, but I felt caring, compassion, hurt . . . I felt . . . I didn't know what . . . for Lisa June.

When she let go of me, she sat down again, then wiped her eyes. “I don't generally do that,” she said, sniffing back tears. “Don't feel sorry for me, I can't stand it.”

I returned to my own chair, my mind in turmoil. I wanted to say things to comfort her, but nothing came out. Then words just began flooding from me. “Lisa June, you're not trash. You . . . you're a wonderful person. I am so proud of you. Your family wasn't trash either. I understand your pain concerning your mother and father, but there were many good people in your family. I'd like to tell you more about your family. Little things that I haven't covered.”

When she nodded, I knew immediately that I had passed the point in our relationship of friendship, college funding, and advisor. This girl meant something special to me.

I
spoke for two hours about things so small I couldn't believe I remembered them. Whenever I thought I had nothing left to say, Lisa June would ask a question, it would trigger something in my memory, and I was off on another story. Finally, she began clearing the table. “Aunt Jen and Uncle Melvin don't speak of th' things you tell me. I never thought I'd hear anything good about my great-aunt Annie Lee.”

“Jenny and Melvin don't know most of th' things I've told you! I understand why you judge Annie Lee harshly, but she carries terrible wounds. She probably ran away from bein' a Mulligan because she wanted a second chance. Another life.”

Lisa June scraped the dishes, then returned to her chair, put her elbows on the table, and took a sip of coffee. “Do you know where Grandpa Fred's buried?”

I thought the question odd. “Jenny and Melvin said your mom cremated him.”

“That's what she told them, but it isn't true. Grandpa had a little piece of property that Mom knew about, but somehow th' county didn't. One day th' company I work for had me check records on somebody buried in potter's field and I came across the name Fred Cody Mulligan. Mom let him be buried there so she could sell th' property, keep th' money, and not have t' pay for a funeral. Potter's field is just outside Lexington. Would you like t' go?”

I felt weak. “Yes, please.”

Two days later, Lisa June and I stood beside a numbered stone peg, one of hundreds that dotted a large open field. From a distance the pegs looked like rows of tiny soldiers. I placed the flowers I was carrying on the grave, and cried. When I stopped crying, Lisa June asked, “Would you like to be alone with him?”

I shook my head. “Not now. He was religious, though. I think he'd like it if we said th' Twenty-third Psalm.”

Lisa June thought for a few seconds. “I remember a little. You start.”

I choked up as I started. “The . . . Lord is . . . my shepherd . . .”

After we left the grave, I asked Lisa June why she had never told Jenny and Melvin where Fred was buried.

She didn't answer immediately. We were in the car when she said, “I thought about tellin' them, then I decided Grandpa's grave was all I had of my family. Th' only thing personal I would ever have of the Mulligans. I wanted it to be just mine.”

“Why did you decide to tell me?”

“Because I think Grandpa would have wanted you to know,” she said softly. “Samuel, I love Aunt Jen and Uncle Melvin and they might be hurt if they knew I told you and not them. I'd appreciate your not sayin' anything.”

“I won't. Is it okay though if I visit th' grave ever' now and then?”

Lisa June smiled. “That's fine. Y'all have some catchin' up t' do.”

We did, and over time that took place. “You don't own anything that belonged to your Grandpa, do you?”

“My DNA.”

“Somethin' you can get your hands on?”

“Are you talkin' about somethin' Grandpa Fred gave you?”

“Actually, no. It's things that belonged to both Fred and me. Interested?”