The Recluse Storyteller (3 page)

Her shopping went without incident, and she checked out without saying a word. She had strapped her two bags onto her portable luggage trolley, and with head down, was walking towards the exit when unexpectedly, Reverend Davies approached her with a broad grin across his face.

“Margaret. It’s so good to see you,” he said with genuine concern in his voice.

Margaret stopped, nervously looked around but refused to look him in the eye. She did not reply.

“How have you been? You look good. Did you receive the letters I sent you?”

“Letters,” Margaret replied.

“Yes, letters. I’ve been concerned about you, I—”

“Letters. Yes. Received.”

She put her head down and quickly scampered toward the door with the speed and intensity of a child on the last day of school, or in this case, perhaps a sinner after a sermon.

“Margaret,” Reverend Davies called after her, feeling undaunted by her brush-back. “I’d really like to talk to you sometime. Do you think I can come over?”

Margaret streaked down the block at a near run. One of the sidewalk cracks jolted a can of beans out of her bag, and Reverend Davies, who trailed behind her like an eager parent trying to protect a wobbly toddler, picked up the rolling can, shouting for her to stop. Margaret went right through a ‘Do Not Walk’ signal and sprinted over the crosswalk on Straits Street. Reverend Davies stepped off the sidewalk into a green light and a near head-on collision with an on-coming patrol car making its midnight run. When the officer saw the good reverend shouting at the lady who continued down Prescott toward her home sanctuary nary a block away, he flashed his blue lights, stopped the car, and quickly jumped out of the driver’s side.

“Hey buddy, what’s going on here?”

“She dropped her beans.”

The officer curled his lip up wryly, thinking that he had another midnight wise guy to deal with.

“She dropped her beans, huh? I think you’re full of beans. Why are you are chasing after that lady at one o’clock in the morning? Can I see some identification?”

“Officer, look. Beans,” he held up the can.

“You really do have beans.”

“Yes, I’m Reverend Davies. That’s Margaret, one of my church members.”

“You a reverend?”

“Yes.”

“You been drinking?”

“No,” replied the reverend indignantly. “I …”

“All your parishioners run away from you this quickly?”

“Very funny. I’ve been trying to talk with her for a while, but she keeps avoiding me. I saw her in Full Brands, and … Well, let’s just say she has some issues.”

“She has issues? You are yelling at a woman at one o’clock at night with a can of beans in your hand, and you say that she has issues?”

“Look, officer.”

“Nothing further, Reverend Davies,” said the officer as he handed back his driver’s license. Margaret was long gone. He hadn’t talked with her since her mother’s funeral more than four years ago. He had tried everything to correspond with her but nothing ever worked. He was disappointed that this encounter didn’t go well. He walked back towards Full Brand with the can of beans in hand.

Margaret nearly slammed the door behind her when she reached the safety of her home. She took one deep breath, let go of her luggage cart, and started in immediately with her Vietnam story.

* * *

“Reverend Taylor shook with emotion as the large, white Land Cruiser jolted up and down like a carousel pony. The small dirt road hadn’t changed much in nearly forty years. There was a scattering of houses-on-stilts distributed throughout the rice fields, each one shaded by a cluster of palm trees. The road itself was lined with trees, and there were patches of banana-tree-clusters, whose large leaves would somewhat cover the road itself. Reverend Taylor’s daughter, Nicki, sat beside him. She watched the vivid expressions on his face and tried not to say anything at all. She could tell that he was reliving some intense moments—Vietnam moments that continued to haunt him to this day.

“Vietnam drove him to faith. After his tours, faith haunted him like a VC in the jungle—he heard it breathing, felt its presence, and feared its next move. Faith gave life to his fears and nightmares, made sense of the senseless, and strengthened his resolve to become a better person. He would be dead without his faith. He was sure of it. But even all the prayers, all the years of Bible reading, and all the weeping and intercession could not help him escape the internal hell that Vietnam had wrecked on his soul. At least once a week, he would wake up screaming in a cold sweat, holding his phantom rifle, and standing over a young Vietnamese boy ready to shoot him to hell. He couldn’t shake the dreams, the visions, or the reality of what happened there.

“He had pastored a small, successful church for the past fifteen years. He baptized the repentant; he dedicated the infants; he prayed for the infirmed; he comforted the families of the dead. He believed, sincerely, in what he was doing. But he couldn’t shake the pain, the doubt, and the sin of his own life. The nightmares had only become worse over the years. On a whim, a church elder asked him if he had thought about going back to Vietnam to ‘set the demons free’, so to speak. With some prodding from his wife and the encouragement of his college-aged daughter, he finally decided to do it, and he knew exactly where he needed to visit. He and his daughter flew into Ho Chi Minh City, took the train to Nha Trang, and hired a Land Cruiser with driver to deliver him to the source of his nightmares—a tiny village in Dak Lak named To Hap.

“‘Daddy. What are you thinking?’

“‘I don’t want to tell you what I’ve done.’

“‘Daddy, it’s OK. It was a long time ago. We know what war is like.’

“‘It’s not war that I’m concerned with. It’s humanity.’ He paused, his hands clenched together tensely as he looked out over the peasants in conical hats going about their daily lives. It was just a day like this when it all happened. The memories flooded thick, overwhelming his emotional state. He sighed like a man caught in a tempest. ‘Am I even human?’

“‘Daddy!’”

* * *

Margaret stopped and looked down at the groceries on the floor. She went over to her work desk, opened the center drawer, and picked up the stack of about twenty envelopes from Reverend Davies. All of them remained unopened, and they dated back nearly four years. She felt it sitting heavy on her shoulders. The presence.

* * *

“The Land Cruiser stopped in a village of about a dozen houses spread out over an area half the size of a football field. Mesmerized as he walked into the past, Reverend Taylor stepped out and surveyed the familiar surroundings. He scoured the ridge on the northern end of the village which led to an elevated rice field built into the side of a small mountain which towered over the village. He panned south, past the thatched-roof houses, out over the waffle-ridged, flat rice fields which fanned out in both directions. His eyes trailed the dirt paths balanced delicately on grids made of earthen mounds which separated the paddies. Everything looked like it did forty years ago. His heart pounded, and his stomach nerves nearly bent him over in anxiety. His ears couldn’t hear his daughter’s questions. His eyesight kept drawing him back to the northern ridge.

“‘Daddy, are you all right?’ queried his daughter, breaking through his psychological gridlock, her hand resting on his wrist.

“‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m being pulled in all directions.’

“At that moment, he sprinted twenty yards up the side of the ridge and stood hunched over staring down below. He lifted up his phantom rifle and pointed it downward. He saw the figment, the shadow, the boy intent on killing him. He yelled in a rage which frightened his daughter terribly. She had never witnessed her mild-mannered, jovial father so intensely express himself. He clicked the trigger over and over and in his mind heard the shot echo again and again like a church bell reverberating for an empty village.

“‘Daddy!’”

* * *

Margaret jolted forward. She had been sitting on the couch for quite some time thinking and talking when a loud knock at the door had startled her. It was nearly five a.m. Only one person ever came to the door at this hour.

* * *

“Janice backed away from the light as far as she could. Her back rested on the observatory glass behind her. A calm inevitability spread over her whole body as she prepared herself to willingly release her being into the light’s charge.”

* * *

“Margaret,” a voice from the hallway whispered. “Open up.”

Margaret rubbed her face and slowly dragged her feet across the floor as if a member of the chain gang not too eager to start working.

“The light was so bright,” Margaret said aloud.

“Margaret. Please let me in.”

Margaret opened the door widely—not at all how she treated Mrs. Trumble’s many intrusions. She barely looked at the visitor at all, but turned around with the door wide open, walked back to the couch, and sat down.

Janice, Margaret’s aunt, walked in, closing the door behind her. She had been charged with doing her best to make sure that Margaret was taking care of herself in a satisfactory manner. She would visit every couple of weeks, always stopping by in the wee hours of the morning, knowing for sure that Margaret would be home and awake. Janice was in her early 60s, about twenty years older than Margaret.

“Your groceries. You didn’t put them away yet. I’ll do it.”

Margaret shook her head, jumped up, and grabbed the two bags which continued to sit on the floor next to the door. She carried them to the small kitchen counter and started to put each item in its place. Janice watched, wanting to help but knowing not to try. She walked around the apartment and noticed the stack of letters on the desk all with the return address of Reverend Davies.

“Margaret. All of these are from Reverend Davies, and they are unopened. What is all this?”

Margaret quickly lunged towards the desk.

“Some of these are dating back years.”

Margaret scooped them all into a neat stack in her hand and put them away inside the drawer, closing it with a bang.

“Margaret, why don’t you open those letters?”

She didn’t respond and turned back towards the kitchen counter.

“Reverend Davies is a good man. He helped your mother through many hardships. You don’t need to shut him out.”

Janice moved over to the kitchen bar.

“You don’t need to shut me out either. Why won’t you talk to me? You can be whomever you want to be, but you can still have friends. It’s just you and I. There is no other family. Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

No response. Margaret just wanted her to leave. Part of Margaret didn’t really understand why she wouldn’t talk to her aunt. A pinch of stubbornness, mixed with fear and years of isolation, left her an unchartered island, and that’s the way she wanted to keep it. She tolerated Janice’s occasional intrusions, but she welcomed no one else into her home.

“Are you still working for Hartford Corporation?”

Margaret nodded, a virtual novel of expression.

“Mr. Tomsey still your contact?”

Another nod, adding in an epilogue.

“All right then. You know my number if you need anything. Have a good day, Margaret.”

Margaret stood stone-faced next to the door and opened it wide for Janice to leave. Janice stopped in front of Margaret and slowly reached out to touch her cheek.

“The human touch isn’t all that bad, you know? Goodbye.”

As soon as she walked out the door, Margaret slammed it shut and latched all four bolts. She leaned back against the door, feeling its overwhelming presence touching her from all sides. She continued. Aunt Janice stopped as usual on the top step and quietly walked back to Margaret’s flat, listening to the storyteller on the other side.

* * *

“Janice was picked for a reason. She never had a father. Her mother had long since passed, and she never established a family of her own. She had double majored in bio-engineering and astrophysics and was summarily tapped by the government to do clandestine research at some desert facility. Her work was her life, and she would give her life for her work. Literally. But she had no idea, nor did the country, what that would really mean until the lights began flashing in the sky. Nothing would ever be the same.”

* * *

Margaret stopped. Aunt Janice could hear nothing more.

“Poor Margaret,” she said in a whisper and left.

Chapter 3

Lies and Signs

“Red Hat,” Margaret scampered back to the door to listen to the footsteps of Michael Cheevers as he left his apartment and descended the stairs. It was exactly seven a.m. She rushed over to the second-story window overlooking the street, and watched as Cheevers exited wearing his red baseball cap that had become a regular fixture at his consulting job. He crossed the street to a small newsstand which claimed another foot of sidewalk every year, bought a cup of coffee, and walked down towards Birch Street to catch the subway to work.