The Recluse Storyteller (21 page)

“Of course, you’re their mother. If you don’t want them to see her, that is your prerogative. But, have you asked yourself this question? Why are they so keen to spend time with Margaret?”

Mrs. Johnson paused for a moment and looked down. She didn’t have a good answer to that question either, and she hoped stalling could help her think of something.

“I don’t know. I guess they like her stories.”

“There is something about her stories,” suggested Janice as her mind wandered back to the beer drinking, weeping blood-brothers in Cheevers’ apartment.

“What is it you’re not telling me?”

“Apparently Cheevers has been listening to her stories as well. He’s drunk, crying inside his room.”

“What? That’s bizarre.”

“That isn’t even the half of it. Reverend Davies and I confronted Margaret today on a few issues, and she went into storytelling again, and it made Reverend Davies storm out of her apartment in tears.”

“That doesn’t seem possible.”

“But wait, there’s more. He is, as we speak, drinking beer and crying next to Cheevers.”

“This is unbelievable. Reverend Davies drinking beer in Cheevers’ apartment? What is going on?”

“I don’t know. I actually have no idea, but I do know it’s causing me the biggest headache in the world. What am I going to do with her?”

Mrs. Johnson finally felt some sympathy towards Janice, who had been the criticized point-person in the middle of the whole mess. She put her hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll figure something out, Janice. I’m not going to call the police or anything like that. I really don’t think Margaret is harmful.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Janice’s cell phone started ringing inside her purse.

“Oh, now what?” she wondered aloud, as she reached in and picked it up. “Oh no.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Mr. Tomsey. Excuse me.”

Janice paused, took a deep breath, and answered.

“Mr. Tomsey. Yes, I know. I am dealing with it right now. Can I call you back tomorrow? I should have more information by then. Thank you. Goodbye.”

“Trouble at work?”

“Reliable Margaret has been anything but lately. I don’t know what is going on, but I will find out. Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I’ll be in touch soon.”

“Thank you, Janice.”

Janice scuttled down the hallway, her head in a tizzy, wondering what she was going to say to Margaret. She entered the room and saw her sound asleep on her bed. It was, after all, her ‘night’ time. Janice sighed and thought that she would let it be until tomorrow. She walked past Cheevers’ apartment. The door was now wide open, and Cheevers continued to sit against the refrigerator with a great many beer bottles at his feet. Reverend Davies was no longer there. Janice closed his door, descended the stairs, and went home.

Chapter 16

Mrs. Johnson’s Secret

The girls had been tucked in bed since 8:45, but they lay wide awake, both of them in Sam’s bed, her cell phone on silent mode lying between them.

“Sam, I feel kind of funny doing this,” said Pam, always the more responsible one.

“Why?”

“You know that Mom doesn’t want us to be in contact with her.”

“I know, but Mom never told us we couldn’t talk with her on the phone. Plus, she hasn’t been fair to Ms. Pritcher, has she?”

“I guess not.”

“It’s not guess. It’s true. Ms. Pritcher has been nothing but kind to us. She’s fed us ice cream and told us stories. What’s the crime in that?”

“I know, but don’t you think she’s a little strange?”

“Who isn’t strange? You’re strange. Much more than me. What’s wrong with being strange?”

“Hey, I’m not strange. Plus, you know what I mean. She’s different. She never talks unless telling a story. And white bread and beans? I mean—”

“I have to admit that was a little strange.”

A lull in the conversation settled silence into the room. Just down the hall, the soft, punching, laugh track of a sit-com punctuated the living room with the tepid moments of evening life.

“Do you ever think she would hurt us?”

“Pam, how could you say such a thing? Why do you accuse people who are nice to you of being bad? I’m sure you would never do the opposite—for example, accuse Mrs. Trumble of being nice!”

Pam laughed.

“I just think Ms. Pritcher is lonely. Plus, I want to hear the rest of the story.”

“So do I,” agreed Pam.

At that moment, the phone vibrated on the bed. The girls looked at each other in anticipation, and Sam answered quickly.

“Hello.”

There was no reply.

“Hello? Ms. Pritcher. Is that you?”

A low rumbling static sounded through the receiver. Sam could hear some heavy breathing—the kind which would make one slam the phone down or call the police if it didn’t involve a predetermined phone date with one Margaret Pritcher.

“Ms. Pritcher. I’m going to put the phone on speaker. Then you can tell the story, if you like.”

Margaret held the receiver in her right hand and rocked gently back and forth, trying to feel the rhythm of the story. The words began popping out one after the other.

“Two weeks had passed since the tragic death of their mother and the mysterious appearance of their father by the crab apple tree.”

Mrs. Johnson had walked down the hallway to enter the girls’ room when she heard a strange canned voice speaking loudly inside. She leaned her head in close and cracked the door open partway to try and determine what the twins were up to. She heard Margaret’s voice on what she determined was a speaker phone, and she was ready to charge in and put an end to it when a couple words caught her attention, immediately drawing her in. She put her ear in the small crack of the door that faced away from the girls’ sight line and listened.

“They longed for their father, the one who comforted them, the one who told them to be brave. They were trying to be brave as best they could. But it was hard with their new circumstances at the orphanage and with Gwen having to single-handedly take care of baby Benjamin. A baby changes everything in a family’s life.”

Mrs. Johnson reached down and placed her hands on her lower abdomen, three months pregnant with their first son. Tears formed in her eyes as she thought about her husband, who had left two weeks earlier—shortly before the neighborhood meeting in her apartment. She hadn’t heard from him since. Her heart grieved beyond what she could endure, and she ran back down the hallway and threw herself on her bed, weeping bitterly. She had been telling the girls that their daddy was away on business, hoping that everything would turn out all right. But it had now been two weeks with no word. Margaret’s story split her world in two.

After about five minutes, she wiped her face as best she could and walked back down the hallway to the girls’ room. As she entered, Sam and Pam immediately sat up and had both surprised and ashamed looks on their faces, but before they could start to explain or apologize, Mrs. Johnson quietly gave them a “shhhhh” and lay down between them on the bed. Margaret’s voice continued unabated as the girls glanced at each other in disbelief, each one snuggling up on one side of their mother, resting their heads gently on each shoulder. Mrs. Johnson hugged them closely and began caressing their hair, thinking of her new baby, and listened intently to the ramblings of the recluse storyteller.

“Georgia battled with the thought that their mother had lost hope and gave up on herself.”

Mrs. Johnson resolved in her heart that no matter what, she would never give up on her girls or her unborn child. She would be brave. She always did love the name Benjamin.

* * *

“Gwen struggled with keeping Benjamin happy, having to do a grown-up job as an adolescent. Mrs. Chesterway, while kind, had her hands full with twenty-seven other children at River’s End Orphanage that she had very little time to devote to the newcomers. Mr. Thompson was attempting to sell the girls’ beloved farm once the district magistrate acknowledged that it had been abandoned by the girls’ father—either through death or neglect. In the court’s eyes, it didn’t matter. The proceeds would help the orphanage with money to raise the girls and, of course, Mr. Thompson would profit from the sale as well for all the trouble he had to endure as default executor of the property. It was in his best interest to push ahead and try to find a buyer.”

* * *

At this point in the story, the phone dial abruptly went blank. Margaret had hung up, always seemingly clued into where to stop her storytelling. The twins were sound asleep, and Mrs. Johnson kissed them goodnight as the story of the orphaned twins gave her much to think about.

Chapter 17

Red Hat Unfolding

Reverend Davies knew, that at the very least, he owed Janice an explanation. At noon he showed up in her office not far from where Margaret lived to apologize for his bizarre behavior. Janice saw him immediately after he entered and waved him over to her desk.

“Hello, Reverend.”

“I feel like I owe you an apology.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Reverend.”

“Well, at least an explanation would be in order.”

“I must admit it was a surprising scene.”

“Cheevers and I at the refrigerator?”

He looked at her for acknowledgment. She nodded her head and smiled.

“I couldn’t have predicted that.”

“Me neither. I’ve been afraid to tell my wife. I haven’t had a beer since before seminary. Our denomination frowns upon a drinking parson,” he said with a smile.

“Well, sometimes alcohol is all there is left to do.”

“Before yesterday, I would have disagreed with you.”

“It’s a nice day. Why don’t we take a stroll out in the park across the way? I have a break now.”

“Perfect.”

They made their way over to a bench across the street, and Reverend Davies, still buried in his thoughts, began to explain.

“Her words hit me right in the forehead.”

“In what way?”

“My middle name is Jackson.”

Janice immediately thought of the Jackson from Margaret’s story who called out in horror, trying to get his buddy not to kill himself.

“Nobody has called me Jackson since I was in the army.”

“Do you mean to tell me that she was telling your story?

“No. She was telling her father’s story.”

“Her father?”

“I was the platoon commander of her father’s unit back in ‘Nam, and …” he became emotional, unable to look at Janice anymore. He breathed out a sigh. “When I heard her story, I couldn’t take it anymore. Memories, like the oppressive heat of a Vietnam summer, just consumed me and covered me. I was out of my mind, out of this time. I had to run out of the room, and as soon as I did, there was Cheevers, beer in hand as if he was expecting me. As if he knew that I needed some solace. He led me right onto his kitchen floor with a dozen beer bottles strewn all around and said, ‘Courtesy of the recluse storyteller.’ So I sat there and drank and drank. I feel so ashamed.”

“Cheevers was obviously drunk.”

“Out of his mind drunk, no question. But he was so sad. He kept staring at his beer bottle, muttering the name ‘Meagan.’ Do you know who Meagan is?”

“No. I never met Cheevers until about two years ago. I don’t know anything about his life or if he had ever had a family.”

There was a long pause as both of them, in their own secluded way, thought about the two men commiserating with each other in Cheevers’ apartment.

“Reverend Davies, what happened in Vietnam?”

“Can we meet with Margaret one more time? I’d like to find out.”

Janice took in a deep breath and nodded her head, resigned to the fact that there was going to be no end to this debacle until Margaret said more.

“Sure. Why don’t we meet tonight at Margaret’s place?”

“Well, perhaps we should get the whole gang together one more time. There are many loose ends. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson could host us again. I’ll call her and find out and will let you know this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Janice.”

“Thank you, Reverend. This whole incident has been rather instructive, but not so revealing.”

For some reason Reverend Davies knew exactly what she meant.

* * *

Cheevers was in a stupor all day long. He sloshed down to the convenience store around lunchtime and picked up another two six packs, which would help nurse his hangover the rest of the day. He hadn’t gone to work and didn’t even bother to call in. He figured it didn’t matter anyways. His drunken state had several locations to it. The refrigerator floor, of course, but there was also the couch, the bed, and the dining room table. Each place had its own means of condolence. Plus, as he stood up from one place to the next, the thrill of choosing the next spot took his mind off of Red Hat for a few moments. It was his turn on the couch when his front door opened suddenly. He saw Margaret standing there, but he was too drunk to get up or say anything. His head flipped around like a worn-out stuffed animal, and he tried to stay alert as she entered and sat down at station number one—leaning against the refrigerator. He groggily looked at her and tried to muster a response.