Our Heart (37 page)

“Now we come to the moment of enlightenment,” exclaimed Howard Kittelson. “You have no doubt come to the conclusion, as you should, that your father…grandfather was forever the master plotter. It’s a shame that he didn’t write mystery novels; he would have been darn good at it. Here’s the kicker, both you and your father are co-trustees of the trust and every decision requires the two of you to cosign to finalize. There is one caveat. As trustees, you have the right to sell and liquidate all the holdings, but should this occur, all the proceeds will be sent to various charities as listed in the trust doctrine. Either one of you, or both of you, can live in the house as long as the other agrees. Or, you may let someone else live there, as you agree on together, but no money shall be collected in the form of rent from them.”

The impact of Howard Kittelson’s words hit my father fairly hard. I could sense a fair amount of frustration building within him. I had no idea where my dad was financially and wondered if he wasn’t hoping to receive a boost in some way, from Grandpa’s passing. I know it was a dark thought, but it was still there at the surface of my brain; too many years of mistrust can’t easily be forgotten. For me, it was an entirely different feeling. I was inapplicably happy. My grandfather was a sharp and cunning individual and I clearly saw through his smoke screen to his true motives. Five weeks ago, and even three days past, I would have looked and felt much the same way as I saw my father behaving. Grandpa had hit on the one thing that was missing the most, the feeling of family and how it had been lacking for too long. I wanted to regain that feeling; I needed it, only recently did I understand just how much. I wished deeply to come home and begin again. The thought of staying in the old house with all of its memories and secrets would be a welcomed blessing…if I could somehow arrange it with my father.

Kittelson continued, “Jake wanted to make sure the house stayed a focal point of stability and, more importantly, a connection between the two of you that could not easily be tossed away. If there is no chance of a reunion of sorts, then you can sell everything and live your lives, but not with any additional help from him. He also made one other stipulation; the trust assets can’t be used in any way for your private benefit. If a couch needs to be replaced, then upon agreement, it will purchased by, and become part of, the trust. If you desire, you can always purchase your own couch and maintain ownership of it. Also, the trust cannot be dissolved during the first year. If either of you decides to live in the house, it must be agreed upon and so written. There has to be the acknowledgement that the occupant will pay little in the way of living expenses, only the utility costs and their personal needs. The only profit that your father…grandfather wished to see come out of this arrangement, is for the two of you to find value in being a family again.” With that last statement, Howard Kittelson became quiet, reflective. He leaned back in his chair and turned his gaze to the pictures on the wall. He let us absorb what he had dispersed, while it appeared that he was pondering thoughts of his next golf vacation.

The silence stayed for a long time, until my father became the first to speak. He asked Mr. Kittelson if we had anything else to discuss; if not, then he had other places he needed to be. Without looking at me, he excused himself as he rose out of his chair and dispassionately exited from the room. I caught a momentary look of sadness cross Howard Kittelson’s face, and then it was gone, replaced by the deft lawyer’s grin once more. My head was racing with thoughts, but Howard steered the conversation away from the topic of the trust. His only comment was to let me know that, after the funeral, there would be time to answer any questions. It would be better to sleep on it and save them for when the three of us met again. I wanted the house to live in, now that I was planning to come home. I was afraid, however, given my father’s reaction, the possibility of making it happen would be difficult, but I hoped not impossible.

Out of the blue, Mr. Kittelson asked how the arrangements were coming for the new music store that he heard was going to be opening downtown. He smiled as my mouth fell open, and then burst into a hearty laugh. I laughed too as he said to me, “Small town.”

I agreed with him as I replied, “Small town in deed.” His wife hugged me as I headed out the door, a good feeling to say the least. I was almost out the door when Howard offered me one last quip. “Remember the right combination to life is something worth striving for.” The door swung shut, leaving me alone to ponder this incredible and intuitive individual. I knew, without a doubt, he was letting me know he knew about the safe in the basement. He must have garnered by my mannerisms and in our conversation that I had already begun my search for the hidden combination. Howard Kittelson, I was surely learning, would be a tremendous ally to have on my side.

Chapter 19

Looking at my watch I saw it was three-fifteen, a good forty-five minutes before the visitation was to begin. I wasn’t in a mood to converse with anyone else, preferring to find a place of solace for some much-needed reflection on the events of this morning and afternoon. It dawned on me I could use a little peace, and the best place I knew to find it was just across from the funeral home. Like a mouse waiting for a door to the inside warmth to open, I stood for a few minutes outside the old double doors of my childhood church. It was the place where my mom had sung with all of her heartfelt love and tenderness and also the church where I would say my last goodbyes to Grandpa Jake. Knowing this made it difficult to open the doors, so I just stood there, undecided about what to do. Aware of the fact that I was probably drawing more attention by standing outside the doors, I committed myself to going in. I swung open the beautifully-carved oak door and stepped into the lighted area of the entryway. The big door swung quietly shut behind me.

The sounds and smells of a church are unique. It might only be me who feels this way, but I don’t believe it. There is a power inside the inner-workings of any viable church. It comes as much from the building, as it does from the people who immerse themselves inside. I’m not sure I have the ability to describe it, but one word comes close for me,
hope
, and I was looking for lots of it.

Off the entryway, were steps leading downstairs to the kitchen and social room and another set upstairs to the music loft. I continued forward through the large arch and into the church. I was glad to see no one else was currently sitting in any of the well-worn pews, as I made my way toward the front of the church. I felt, as much as noticed off to one side, the sunlight streaming through one of the intricately etched stain-glassed windows. It beckoned me to share its comforting warmth, and I obliged, sitting down in the pew.

My head was full and my heart was heavy. The altar was already decorated with several flowers, and I could only imagine what it would look like for the service on Saturday. I’ve always considered myself a believer, but felt remorseful knowing the last two times I’d been in this church or any church were for the funerals of two people I loved
dearly
. I took the time to look around and felt comforted from the old memories still lingering in the familiar surroundings. I turned around to gaze upward to the music loft, picturing my mother standing there and singing with all of her heart and faith to the congregation below. I wished that she could sing to me once more and guide me down the path of righteousness once again. Facing the altar, I locked my hands together and bowed my head. I had no idea where to begin or what to say. I sat in silence for a long time. So much running around inside of me, wanting to erupt, I found my voice and the sincerity to say what I’d kept in for so long, “I’m sorry.”

Surprisingly, I felt better after a few moments. Maybe it was the warmth of the sunshine that touched the back of my neck and shoulders, or maybe it was the solitude and comforting presence I had always felt inside of this church. Yet, somehow, I really believed it was the feeling of being less burdened by all of my bottled-up anger. I had been sorry in the past for how things had turned out, but only in respect to what I’d lost. Today, I was remorseful for the part I had played in those past events and the pain I’d inflicted on others. Call it maturity or the realization of what I’d really lost that gave me a new understanding of who I was and who I really wanted to be. I felt lighter and more hopeful than I had in a long time, and I solemnly promised to be a better person. I offered God an Amen, to seal the deal.

Reaching down, I picked up one of the hymnals and placed it in my lap. It was worn and showing signs of fraying around the edges. What struck me the most was the ornate design on the front, much like a woodcarving. As I ran my fingertips over it, feeling the texture of the raised and lowered areas beneath them, I had a sudden, inexplicable moment of convergence between a happy thought and sad awareness. I put the hymnal back in its holder and allowed the memories of the past to wash over me. My journey of self-reflection was far from over, as the memories of the past knocked hard on the door to my mind once more.

The image on the front cover of the hymnal had stirred the most precious and unsettled memories from my past, the ones that I had tried to lock deep in the recesses of my brain to keep them far away from my heart. Today, in this place of comfort and hope, I was given an opportunity to forgive myself and learn from my past. In forgiveness, I had hopes of rectifying that which I could and to finally move forward with purpose in my life. I let myself be submerged in the stillness surrounding me. Leaning back in the pew, I closed my eyes and drew on my encounter with Allison from earlier today. I fixed her in my mind and unbolted the last door of my troubled past. I shivered as the door in my mind swung open and a single candle lit the long, closed chamber. I stepped across the threshold and allowed the door to close behind me. This time, I faced the past, not alone, but with the guidance of everyone I had lost. I felt their hands on my shoulders, strengthening me, as I walked towards the candle’s glow. In its mellow light, I watched as my current vision of Allison began to transform. She was as she once was, not so many years ago, beautiful and still in love with me.

As springtime began to show the signs of an end to winter, Allison and I had become nearly inseparable. Warm weather had come a little earlier than normal and you couldn’t walk anywhere without seeing people with smiles, working outside in their yards. Grandma had Grandpa and me doing windows, a sure sign that winter was officially over. For our hard work, she had baked us an apple pie. Neither of us could resist taking an extra long break in the kitchen where the aroma was best. We delayed going back outside in hopes that we could persuade Grandma Sarah to give us a piece, sooner than later. Instead, we received her stern look and a promise to give the entire pie to the Dittmers if we didn’t finish the windows in a timely fashion. Grandpa and I exchanged our “Oh no, we’ll be good” looks much to the delight of Grandma who laughed and shooed us back outside to complete our task.

Grandpa always seemed to be a step ahead of me and, although he could be dense on some things, he would occasionally blow my mind with some of his meaningful comments. I had learned my Grandpa Jake was a man of thoughtful words, and he tried to use them frugally. He was never a gossip and never had a bad word to say about anyone. He was a people watcher to the fullest, and he knew what was going on, many times long before anyone else did. While I was standing on the top steps of the ladder, drying the window cleaner from the top portion of the window, Grandpa was doing the bottom part, and he made a generalized comment that was intended to probe and prod me at the same time. “With the weather taking a turn for the better, it won’t be too long before the sap starts to run in the trees.”

At first, I wasn’t paying close attention and I just responded, “Yes, probably so.” After I continued to dry the cleaner from the window, it hit me, the best time to carve on the old oak tree is before the sap in the trees begins to run. Grandpa was digging at me to find out if I had planned on putting Allison’s heart and mine on the tree in Murphy’s meadow. I stopped wiping as I thought about it. I had been planning to put our heart on the tree. I just didn’t know when and, for some reason, I was more than a little afraid about the consequences of doing it. It wasn’t something that could be erased or covered up, once it was done. I knew in my heart that I was meant for Allison. I realized with denseness all my own that Grandpa’s comment was, in his way, a blessing and acknowledgement that he also felt the two of us belonged together. I climbed down the steps of the ladder and stared directly into the biggest grin I had ever seen my grandpa wear. A man of few words, he didn’t say a thing and just grinned wider if that was even possible. I couldn’t help myself, and I smiled in spite of how embarrassed I currently felt. Grandpa had all the answers he needed and he picked up the ladder, carrying it to the next window, along the side of the house.

After the window was sprayed with cleaner and we began to attack it with our paper towels, Grandpa began whistling one of the many tunes from his repertoire. It was a beautiful melody I had heard him whistle many times, but one that I had never heard anywhere else. I came to believe that he had made it up. Previously, whenever I had asked him, he said it was a song from his youth and had remained stuck in his head all these years. Every time I looked at him, his eyes would sparkle, and he’d just keep on whistling. Finally, I’d give in and join him, even trying to harmonize when it seemed to fit and always giving my grandfather a reason to give me a little extra grin.

Life can be funny every now and then, which most certainly helps to even out the days or years when things have a way of piling up against you. The spring of my senior year is a great example of how life gave me harmony and helped to smooth out some of the hard times. My father was mostly forgotten, and I lived joyously in the here and now. Allison was never far from my thoughts. With an uncanny perception that bordered on the unbelievable, the exact moment I would be thinking about calling her or heading out the door to her house, my phone would ring or she’d walk in the kitchen door. She would smile at my utter look of surprise and touch her fingertip to her head, whispering, “ESP.” Our friends would joke that we were like an old married couple, finishing each other’s sentences and seemingly to be oblivious of everyone else around us, totally absorbed in our own little world. I think they were right, Allison had become everything I desired and needed, and yet, I still struggled with my perception of the future. The dreams of being the star quarterback at college had given way to the rock star sought after by the
paparazzi, and more recently, to the rock star with his beautiful companion.