Water's Edge (9 page)

Elias opened the passenger door of the car. Rover pushed past the old man and hopped onto the seat.

“It’s okay, I can sit in back,” Elias said.

“No.” Tom came around the car. “He needs to learn to respect his elders.”

Tom dragged Rover out of the car, then lifted him into the backseat. He slipped a towel under the front half of Rover’s body just in time to catch a large glob of drool. Elias settled into the passenger seat with a walking stick between his legs. The older man seemed more energetic and alert today.

“How are you feeling?” Tom asked, turning the key in the ignition.

“Like I said, it’s a good day. Having you and Rover at the house is medicine to me.”

Tom started the car.

“And I’m back in the fight,” Elias continued. “It’s a paradox. The battle wears me out and builds me up at the same time.”

Tom didn’t want to open the door to a spiritual conversation. His morning encounter with Balaam’s donkey followed by the meeting with Pastor England and the members of the Ebenezer Church had been more than enough religion for a month of Saturdays.

It was about four miles to the spring-fed pond where John Crane and Harold Addington drowned. Tom knew the spot well. It was one of his father’s favorite fishing holes.

“There it is,” Elias said, peering ahead.

Tom slowed and turned to the right. It was less than a quarter mile to the first dirt road. Reaching it, he parked between two pine trees. A rusty “No Trespassing” sign was nailed to one of the trees.

“Bud Austin won’t recognize your car,” Elias said.

“I’ll leave a note. But first, I’d better leash Rover. He usually comes when I call, but I can’t completely trust him out in the open.”

Tom hooked a retractable leash to the dog’s collar. Rover sniffed in the immediate area of the car while Tom scribbled a note on a sheet of paper and stuck it under one of the windshield wipers.

The road was rarely used, but there were two bare tire tracks visible with grass and weeds growing in the middle. Tom opened a metal gate that led to the hayfields.

“You set the pace,” Tom said to Elias.

They set off at a slow walk, which suited Rover, who could spend ten minutes exploring the smells offered every hundred feet. Tom walked behind his uncle. Leaning on his stick, Elias looked like one of the Old Testament prophets in the illustrated Bible Tom read as a boy—except for the blue overalls and orange camouflage hat, of course.

The road was mostly flat with a few undulations, but before they reached the pond it crested a slight rise. Elias stopped. He was breathing heavily. Tom wasn’t sure letting the old man talk him into a mini-hike was a good idea.

“Are you okay? We’re almost there.”

“I know. Little hills I wouldn’t notice at your age seem like mountains now.”

“When we get ready to leave, I can walk back to the car, drive in, and pick you up.”

“We don’t have to decide that now.”

Elias took a long drink of water. Rover’s tongue was extended to its full length.

“Not much farther,” Tom said to the dog. “There’s a pond full of water in your future.”

“Go ahead so he can get a drink,” Elias said. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Tom and Rover walked rapidly down a short hill. When they reached the pond, Rover put his front paws in the water and began to lap noisily. Except for a few faint ripples, the water was smooth. The pond was oval, about 75 yards across and 150 yards in length. Not far from the spot where Rover enjoyed a cool drink, the surface of the water was disturbed by tiny bubbles produced by an underground spring seeping through the earth. The hidden spring was the water source for the pond and kept it from becoming stagnant.

Water grass and reeds rimmed the edge. Sunfish and smaller bass camped out near the reeds and waited for minnows and aquatic insects to venture far enough from safety to become dinner. The kings of the pond were the largemouth bass. John Crane had caught some of the behemoths in Austin’s Pond so many times he recognized them when he lifted them out of the water. The big bass lurked around an invisible mass of fallen trees about thirty yards from shore. It was where the aluminum boat had capsized. Tom imagined the peaceful scene disrupted by two men desperately struggling to stay afloat, then forever sinking beneath the surface. The bodies were found by divers from the sheriff’s department. He looked away.

Elias, his breathing still labored, came up beside him.

“Why did you want to come here?” Tom asked.

“Where did they find the boat?” the old man asked, wheezing slightly.

“Why is that important?”

“Please, tell me.”

Tom pointed to the spot above the sunken trees. “The report from the sheriff’s department contained a diagram showing the boat upside down over there. That’s where the big fish hang out. Dad and Harold Addington would have wanted to cast across the top of the logs underneath the water. They threw out a small anchor to keep the boat from drifting.”

“Was it still attached to the anchor when the deputies got here?”

“That’s what it says in the report. I’m not exactly sure where they found the bodies.” Tom clenched his teeth together for a moment. “Look, now that we’ve come and I’ve answered your questions, can we go? I’ll jog back to the car and drive to the other entrance.”

“It was a lot of work getting here,” Elias replied. “I’d like to sit quietly for a few minutes.”

“Suit yourself,” Tom responded abruptly. “I’m going to go for a walk.”

Tom jerked Rover’s leash. The dog backed out of the water, then shook his head vigorously. Tom followed a faint path around the end of the pond where a tiny stream trickled down a hill. He stepped across the stream and continued along the far side of the water. He could see Elias sitting in a sunny spot with his walking stick across his lap. The old man had his head bowed. Tom continued along the path. On another day, in another place, he would have enjoyed walking with his dog around a peaceful pond.

But not today, not here.

This was the place of his father’s death, its watery surface a cemetery monument. Rover wanted to take a leisurely stroll, but Tom pressed on. The sooner he made it back to Elias, the sooner they could leave.

They reached the far end of the pond where years before Bud Austin had placed a concrete picnic table and two benches in the middle of a small grassy space. An empty cardboard bait container that once held night crawlers rested on the edge of the table. Tom knocked the container to the ground so Rover could sniff it. After a few seconds, Tom pulled on the leash to continue, but Rover protested. He wasn’t finished savoring the exotic smells. Yielding to the dog, Tom sat down on a bench. The gentle heat of the sun warmed his face. He closed his eyes.

And he remembered a long-ago day.

It was another Saturday. Tom was about ten years old, and the Crane family had come to the pond to fish and eat a picnic lunch. Tom and his father hurried off to fish while Tom’s mother sat at the cement table, which then was smooth and white, and fixed sandwiches. After a few minutes she joined Tom, who was close by. She listened to him explain all he knew about catching fish. In proof of his expertise, Tom hooked several sunfish in rapid succession. Each one violently jerked his rod and dragged a red bobber underwater. Then his father called out from the far end of the pond. He’d hooked a big one.

Tom and his mother ran down the path and arrived in time to see a massive bass angrily churn the water. Compared to the scrappy sunfish, the bass was a great white shark. John Crane fought the fish until it tired and came to his hand like an animal to be petted. Lifting the bass from the water, he let Tom measure it against his body. It stretched from Tom’s fingertips to his shoulder. Looking into the fish’s gaping mouth, Tom knew why the species was called largemouth bass. After proudly holding the fish high up in the air, his father gently returned it to the water. In that happy moment, no one in the Crane family knew the tragedies that would one day shatter their lives. Tom returned to the present, leaned forward, and put his head in his hands.

And cried.

Tears that should have flowed freely when his mother died seeped from the caverns where they’d been confined. Tom wept like the ten-year-old boy in his memory. Tears seeped through his fingers. His chest heaved. He tried to stop, but the pent-up flow could not be denied. He struggled to catch his breath.

Tom had responded to the loss of his mother by attempting to forge strength from heartbreak, a manly thing to do, but tragically incomplete. His mother’s burial closed a coffin lid on his feelings, leaving him entangled in the veil between boyhood and manhood. He grew physically and intellectually, but inside he remained emotionally frozen, like an embryo in suspended animation. Then he laid the death of his father into the same broken paradigm.

In the autumn sun of Austin’s Pond, the thawing process began.

Tom wiped his eyes and cheeks on the sleeve of his shirt. Through blurred vision he saw Rover inspecting a clump of reeds at the edge of the water. Elias was still sitting in the spot where he’d left him.

Another wave of emotion hit him. This time he didn’t try to fight it. He even blinked his eyes to clear the way for more tears to flow. As each salty drop rolled down his cheeks, he felt a tiny release of pressure lodged deep inside his chest, an inner tension he’d come to accept as his normal state. He’d never considered that tears, even those produced by grief and loss, could be good.

Finally the caverns emptied, leaving his eyes swollen. He wiped his wet cheeks with his already damp sleeve. Rover returned from exploring, stuck his nose in Tom’s face, then licked his hand. Tom rubbed the dog’s neck. Rover groaned in pleasure.

“This is enough for one day,” Tom said. “Let’s get Elias.”

Tom walked slowly along the path. He didn’t want his uncle to see the signs of grief on his face. When he reached the old man, Elias was standing at the edge of the pond stirring the water with his walking stick. Tom cleared his throat.

“Ready to go?” he asked Elias.

“What happened?” Elias asked without looking up.

“What do you mean?”

“At the old picnic table.”

Before Tom could answer another wave of emotion swept over him. His assumption that he had no tears left was wrong.

Elias turned to face Tom. “Don’t fight it,” the old man said softly.

After a few moments the wave passed.

“I don’t think I have what it takes to fight this.” Tom sniffled. “When I sat down at the table, I remembered a happy day when I was a boy and came here with my parents. It was like a dam breaking. I’ve never cried like that.”

“You’ve lost a lot.”

“I wasn’t wallowing in self-pity. It was—” Tom stopped.

Elias put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Tears are a gift from God. Sorrow can grieve over a loss and still be grateful for the time you had.”

“Yeah.”

Elias tapped his stick against the ground.

“Do you want me to hike out and drive the car in on the other road so I can pick you up?”

“No,” Tom answered, managing a slight grin. “I’ll make it.”

Elias smiled broadly, causing his face to wrinkle. “I believe that with all my heart.”

They left the pond together.

chapter
SEVEN

T
om matched his steps to those of the older man. Rover, his nose overflowing with new smells, ambled along beside them. When they reached the car, both men took a long drink of water.

“I should take a walk every day,” Elias said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I stay cooped up way too much.”

Tom screwed the cap onto his water bottle.

“Rover would like it. Just don’t go too far from the house. I don’t want you passing out in a field or in the woods. Rover isn’t a rescue dog. As far as I know, he doesn’t have a drop of Saint Bernard in him.”

During the drive home, Tom glanced over at Elias. “Why did you want to go to the pond?”

“I wasn’t sure. I just knew from my time praying for you that we should go and the sooner the better.”

Tom kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the road.

Rover slowly hopped out of the car and made it to the porch where he collapsed. A few minutes later Elias was stretched out in a recliner with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. Tom found a copy of
Huckleberry Finn
in a bookcase upstairs and sat on the porch in a rocker to read. He’d not read for pleasure in years. He was surprised by how much he enjoyed escaping into Mark Twain’s imagination. Nineteenth-century life on the Mississippi wasn’t that much different from twenty-first-century life in Bethel.

That evening Tom and Elias ate a creamy chicken casserole for supper.

“Where do you want to go to church in the morning?” Elias asked.

“How do you know I want to go at all?”

“I don’t, but it seemed like a better way to ask the question.”

“Sunday is my day to sleep late and then enjoy the newspaper.”

“I don’t get the paper.”

“And I don’t want to be around a lot of people from the past. Except for Rick and Tiffany Pelham, I’m not in town to socialize.”

“We could visit Rocky River Church,” Elias suggested. “Not many people there know you, and I should thank the folks who’ve been kind enough to bring food.”

“Didn’t that church run you off?”

“That was years ago.”

Tom hesitated. “I guess I can tag along. But don’t expect much from me.”

“If you mean asking you to preach an impromptu sermon, you’re safe. The church has a good minister. We’d better get there early if you want a good seat.”

______

The church was on the south side of Bethel, and they had to pass through town to get there. Cars filled the parking lots for the large churches near the courthouse. Sunday morning church attendance was still part of the normal weekly routine for most people in Etowah County. Absence from worship on a regular basis carried a social stigma for which there was no polite excuse.

The Rocky River Church was two miles beyond the town limits. Located near the golf course, it was surrounded by new subdivisions. The sanctuary was built of smooth stones harvested a hundred years earlier from the stream that gave the church its name. Tom parked between a black luxury car and a red pickup truck with a bale of hay in the bed.