A Dime a Dozen (6 page)

Basically, the system worked well for everyone concerned. Picking apples was a labor-intensive process, and the window of opportunity for getting the apples off the trees and into storage was actually quite small. The migrants showed up when they were needed, worked inexpensively, and left when they were finished. Also, they were excellent pickers, highly skilled and careful with the fruit.

Of course, as well as the situation worked, some problems were inevitable. The housing of all of those migrants was a challenge, as were the child care and education of their children. A number of government programs had sprung up in recent years to treat some of these issues, but there were still needs that weren’t being met, and the goal of the Webbers’ organization was to fill in some of the gaps.

Back when Bryan was just a child, the migrants who came to their area lived in fairly deplorable conditions—usually in tents or in their cars along the creek near one of the bigger orchards. A huge migrant camp sprang up there every year, and even as a kid riding past in the family car, Bryan had been appalled at their living conditions. With no running water, no sewage disposal, and no real shelter, it seemed to him to be the worst kind of existence. When he was much older and studying architecture at college, his senior thesis had involved designing low-cost, functional housing for migrant workers.

When Bryan passed away, his parents chose to honor his memory by establishing a memorial fund. Keeping in mind the concern their son had always had for the migrants, Dean and Natalie had decided to take a closer look at the different migrant-related charities in the area and choose one where they could make a donation in Bryan’s honor. The more they saw and learned, however, the more they felt compelled to go beyond a simple donation. Dean, in particular, was a “big picture” person, and he could see that there was a need there for one overriding agency to facilitate the operations of the other, smaller agencies. Natalie possessed her own unique set of talents that related to the cause, since she had worked in facilities management for the local community college and knew a thing or two about coordinating different entities under one larger heading. At the same time, I was just starting out with the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, and it was almost as though the Lord were putting together pieces of a big puzzle. As I was learning the ropes in my new job with the foundation, Dean and Natalie both retired from their jobs and began their second, much less highly paid careers as executive director and volunteer coordinator of this new agency.

When I approved the first grant, all they had was their nonprofit status, some solid ideas of where they wanted to go, and an excellent business plan to get them there. Now I was excited to see how their ideas had translated into reality. Knowing them, I had a feeling the place was going to be everything they had hoped it would be, and more.

Tonight’s party had originally been planned as a way for me to meet the directors of some of the local migrant-related charities that MORE helped to support. Now, Natalie took my arm and began to introduce them to me.

First was Karen Weatherby, a soft-spoken woman about my age, perhaps a few years older, dressed in a simple, faded cotton dress and slipon flats, her hair pulled back from her face by a beaded headband. Karen was the director of a local education program for migrant children called Go the Distance Learning Center. Though Karen seemed shy, her face lit up and her voice grew stronger as she spoke about her program and the children it served. Karen gave me her card so that we could arrange to meet later this week. She said she was eager for me to see her program in action.

With her was a fellow in jeans and a flannel shirt, cute in a boyish way, though he had to be at least 35, with brown curly hair and dimples. He introduced himself as Danny Stanford.

“Danny works for Go the Distance as a volunteer,” Karen explained. “He’s our orchard liaison.”

“Really? What is that?”

“Oh, it sounds more important than it is,” Danny said. “I just keep the lines of communication open between the school, the parents, and all the orchards in the area. If somebody has a problem or a question, make connections and smooth things over. I guess you’d say I’m a facilitator.”

“You must have a lot of connections,” I said, “to do a job like that.”

“Well, actually, it’s kind of the opposite. I just moved here two months ago. The fact that I don’t have any connections at all probably helps, because then nobody thinks I’m playing favorites.”

He grinned and winked at Karen, and by her shy blush I guessed that there might be something more between them than simple friendship.

“So what do you do when you’re not volunteering at Go the Distance?” I asked.

He took a sip of iced tea and smiled.

“I work over at Tinsdale Orchards,” he said. “I started out as general farm help, but lately I’ve been training on the forklift.”

He went on to talk about the different jobs on the orchard, and I found the whole subject of growing apples fascinating. Clearly, there was much more to it than simply planting trees in a row and then picking the fruit when it was ripe! I sipped my own tea and listened as he talked about scabs and grafts and frost watches.

“I could give you a tour sometime, if you’d like,” he said, and Karen nodded enthusiastically.

“You really should tour the orchard, Callie,” she added. “It might give you a feel for what the migrants’ work entails. And Danny can explain the ways the migrants are essential to the whole process.”

I agreed that a tour of an apple orchard might actually be the perfect way to begin my investigation, and we made tentative plans for me to meet Danny at Tinsdale Orchards the next afternoon.

“While you’re out there,” another man said, “be sure to stop by Su Casa and say hello. Their facility is up behind the orchard.”

“Su Casa?”

“A nonprofit organization that builds dormitories for the migrant workers. My father runs it.”

The man introduced himself as Butch Hooper, owner of Hooper Construction. He was a big man with a booming voice, genial if a bit intimidating.

“My company works a lot with the Webbers too,” he added. “In fact, we built the MORE facility.”

“Is Hooper Construction a nonprofit?” I asked.

“Not intentionally,” he said, laughing.

Dean joined our conversation, putting one hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Don’t let Butch kid you, Callie,” Dean said. “He has a very successful construction company. But he always gives a big price break whenever he does work for us or one of our charities.”

After chatting for a few more minutes, Dean led me around and introduced me to the rest of the people who were there, including the director of services for the migrant clinic and the coordinator of the local Head Start program. All in all, it was an impressive bunch, and I felt honored to be there in my own capacity. All of these migrant-related charities were connected to the Webbers’ charity, MORE. Hopefully, my investigation here would benefit them all.

We eventually went outside and helped ourselves to the impromptu buffet. As I ate I talked with one person after another, and soon I realized I really had been able to relax. It was good to see everyone and to catch up on all of the family news. One by one, the charity directors finished eating and took their leave, and eventually I realized that all we were left with was family.

Since it was a school night, those who had children departed right after dinner, and once they were gone things quieted down considerably. As I sat on the porch and took in the smells and sounds of a night in North Carolina, I was hit with a wave of familiarity so raw and so fresh that I might as well have been nine years old again and sitting on the front steps of my cabin at camp. As fireflies blinked in the darkness and gentle waves lapped at the dock, I closed my eyes and went back into the past, wondering how I could’ve survived a full two years without coming here to this place that was like my second home.

As vividly as if it were yesterday, I could recall the first year I returned to Camp Greenbriar as a junior counselor, the year I turned 16. Like me, many of the counselors came from other states, but the camp also employed plenty of local teens—including one particularly cute fellow named Bryan Webber. During the afternoon sessions, Bryan was in charge of canoes and I was a swimming instructor, and soon our long hours at the lake together began to blossom into a romance. Among other things, Bryan loved to talk about his big family, his five brothers and sisters, and the new home they were building on the lake, not too far from the camp.

I couldn’t believe I was at that home now, remembering back to the first time Bryan had brought me here to see it one day during our free period. The camp was close enough that we could’ve walked up the dirt road to get here, but there were always people about, and somehow this was just supposed to be between the two of us. We had come by canoe instead.

The house was merely framed out at that point, a cement foundation with intermittent boards outlining where the walls would go. I could still picture him once we were here, going from “room” to “room,” describing to me how it was going to look. Even at the age of 16, Bryan already knew he wanted to be an architect when he grew up, and he had an enthusiastic way of describing images and ideas as if they were already a reality. At one point, I gazed up at him as he was talking animatedly about post-and-beam construction, and I thought to myself,
I’m going to marry him some day
.

And, eventually, I did.

Now I was back at that house, where Dean and Natalie Webber still lived even though all of their other kids were now grown with families and houses of their own. Nearby Camp Greenbriar was surely the same little unassuming place it had always been. At this time of year, it would be all closed up, but I hoped to be able to stroll around the grounds while I was in town. At the very least, I thought I might be able to borrow the Webbers’ canoe and paddle past.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” Dean asked, startling me from my thoughts.

“Like no other place on earth,” I replied, grinning.

I gestured toward the seat next to me and he sat, exhaling slowly as he did.

“Well, you certainly got quite a homecoming. Leave it to the whole Webber army to welcome you in such a big way.”

“It was good to see everyone.”

We talked about specific relatives—who was off at college, who was working where, who had been ill or had gotten married. I was pleased to learn that Bryan’s sister in Ohio was pregnant again, sorry to hear that his aunt had had a stroke.

Changing the subject, Dean asked how things were going with me, and I told him the truth, that my job kept me very busy, but that I had made some good friends around my new home and that I was happy.

“We hear from your parents now and then,” he said. “They worry about you.”

“You probably haven’t talked to them in the last few months,” I said. “I went home for Christmas, and we had real time of healing and bonding. We’ve made great strides. I don’t think they’re so worried anymore.”

“That’s good to hear.” He paused and then asked gently, “What about coming here? Was this difficult for you?”

I looked at him, at his kind face, and then I looked away.

“I was a bit worried,” I said honestly. “But seeing you and Natalie is worth—”

I couldn’t finish the sentence because I began to choke up, much to my surprise. It wasn’t that I was sad, really, just overwhelmed with emotion. I swallowed hard, glad no one else was near us at the moment to see two tears spill down my cheeks.

Perhaps not knowing what else to do, Dean reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing it firmly. When he spoke, his voice was also full of emotion.

“You don’t even need to explain,” he said, letting go of my hand. “We feel the same way too.”

Fortunately, Bryan’s first cousin, Ken Webber, chose that moment to come over and talk to Dean about a computer issue at the office. Ken was the family computer whiz, the go-to guy for almost any technical issue that came up. Because he did some consulting for MORE, he and I would probably be working together a bit later in the week as I did the research for the grant.

While they talked I went around the yard picking up cups that had been discarded by the kids and crushed on the ground. Out near the back of the yard along the woods it was dark away from the lights, but the cups were white, so it was easy to spot them in the grass. I had found about ten when I heard a rustling sound beyond the woodpile, and I looked up, surprised to see a man running past through the trees.

“Hey!” I called, but he didn’t stop or even glance my way. He disappeared into the darkness, and for a moment I wondered if I had seen anything at all or if it had just been an illusion.

Goose bumps dotting my arms, I clutched the cups to my chest and quickly walked back to the deck, telling Dean and Ken what I had just witnessed. From the brief glimpse I’d had, I described the person as a young male, dressed in dark clothes and wearing a baseball cap. Beyond that, I hadn’t noticed any specific details.

Dean seemed concerned, but Ken was a bit more relaxed.

“Was he running toward the church or away from it?” he asked.

“Away. He was kind of angling toward the lake.”

Ken nodded, the yellow lights bouncing off the circles of his wireframed glasses.

“Probably a teenager who stayed too late at the concert and had to get home before curfew,” he said.

“Home where?” I asked. “In a cave? There’s nothing out that way but woods and water.”

“Oh, no,” Dean corrected me. “They’ve put in a whole subdivision off of Marshall Road, about a quarter mile back from here as the crow flies.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, finding the trash bag and dumping in the cups. “I didn’t realize that.”

“Yeah, it’s a fairly pricey neighborhood. Especially the lots that are along the lakefront.”

I said I would have to drive through there and take a look, which led Ken to say that I might see more from out on the water, which led Dean to remind me that I was welcome to use the canoe any time I wanted to go for a paddle. Soon we were talking about canoeing and the lake, and I had forgotten all about the man I had seen in the woods.