Chapter 4

 

 

 For Frank the mammoth task of toiling in the fields was about much more than income, it promoted true prosperity, perhaps in more ways than he knew. His sense of satisfaction came from the purpose he felt in providing for others. 

His loyal customers anxiously inquired for the start of berry season and were waiting for his arrival at the farmer’s market, anxious to greet him on his first day.  By the time he parked the truck and set up his table, a line had already formed. He sold out every Tuesday and Thursday nights at the town square. 

“Hello Mrs. Johnson,” Frank greeted his first customer.

“Well I’m glad that you’re finally here,” she said in response. “Seems like a long wait since last year.”

Frank nodded. “The weather was cooler this spring. Less sun. But the crop is good.”

“Two quarts please, and a jar of jam, if you have it.”

“Certainly,” the farmer confirmed as he pointed to a pasteboard box that sat on the tailgate of the truck, directing his assistant there. “And how is John doing?” he inquired politely.

“He’s got it bad now, you know, having a hard time breathing. Spitting up black mucus when he coughs,” she frowned hard as her chin dropped and her face became as stoic as a stone sculpture. “A miner’s plight. Black lung…” she whined, “just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Well I hope some fresh produce will cheer him up,” Frank offered a smile as he handed her a basket full of strawberries.

Mrs. Johnson shifted on her feet as she waited for her change. Frank smiled again and thanked her sincerely as she nodded and moved away.

Next his eyes met those of Jerry Kravitz. He was a family friend, a retired welder first introduced by a cousin. Jerry had been the life of their parties. He played the fiddle, always had an Irish jig that floated off his horsehair bow to stimulate the atmosphere and then aroused his friends with a hearty joke.

“Jerry!” Frank offered his hand in greeting and grasped his firmly. “It’s always good to see you my friend.”

His eyes brightened, but lacked the luster of days gone by. “How you doin’ Frank?” he inquired, intending to direct attention away from himself.

“Good, we’re doin’ good.”

“And Emma?” he quickly inquired.

“My wife’s still cooking up a storm!” Frank admitted and patted his large belly with a gratifying smile. He paused and looked into his friend’s eyes, seeing discouragement there. “But how is Betty feeling?” he asked. She was a high stepper those days of joyful gathering, leading the way for a square dance as she pulled others into the circle. It was the proper response to her husband’s making of merriment.

Jerry looked down and squinted as a teardrop fell to the ground. He tried to contain his emotions, but just as enthusiasm had been freely exhibited then, sadness was evident now.

“Oh you know,” he swallowed hard. “Betty has some good days,” Jerry attempted a smile. He paused, “mostly bad ones though,” and looked away, blinking hard again. “Today was a better day,” he cleared his throat. “She sent me here to get some berries. Making a shortcake. I’m happy to see her on her feet in the kitchen,” and his face cracked with a grin.

“Is she still getting chemo therapy?” Frank asked slyly.

“No,” he answered firmly. “No, her treatment is ended.”

“Give her our love,” Frank affirmed, “you know that she is in our prayers.”

“True friends,” Jerry agreed as he made eye contact and nodded. He gathered his purchase and prepared to leave.

 

Frank sold seventy-five quarts of strawberries that evening and was feeling tired after his fifteen hour work day. He sighed as he started the truck. The plight of his friends dominated his mind.  Emma was home making cakes and jams and anxiously waited for Frank’s return, and the news he would bring.

Frank dropped to the caned chair that sat in the corner of the kitchen and it squeaked under his weight. He began untying his work boots.  They would be deposited there, under the chair, confining the dust and dirt of the field to that single spot, a routine he had repeated for thirty-three years.

Emma watched impatiently, a dish towel in her hand. “Well?” she inquired, hoping for good news.

“I saw Mrs. Johnson,” Frank began his report. “She wasn’t too optimistic,” he reasoned, “guess old John is hanging in there though.”

Emma nodded in understanding.  “Well, who else did you see?” she asked again.

“Jerry,” he said, “I saw Jerry.  I don’t think Betty is any better though,” he admitted reluctantly, “probably worse.”

“Well, what did he say?” Emma continued her interrogation.

“Not much. He seemed emotional. Delicate.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Emma conceded.

“But Betty is in the kitchen and doing some cooking,” Frank recalled. “Perhaps,” he paused, “there is still hope.”

“Of course there is! As long as we are breathing God’s good air, there is always hope!” Emma almost scolded and began putting away utensils. “His Spirit gives us life,” her words drifted toward the open window.

Frank nodded and got up to walk down the hallway to the living room where his easy chair was waiting.

“Did you make my deliveries?” his wife interrupted Frank’s retreat.

“Sure did,” he answered quickly, “The box with shortcake and berries to the Robinsons and jam to the Sicklers.”

Emma turned to face him, waiting for details.

“Robinsons’ son, I think Jeffery is his name, answered the door, and Sicklers’ house looked dark so I left the box on their porch near their front door.”  His words faded as he stepped into the hallway. It seemed that his curious wife always had a need for conversation when he lacked the desire to say anything more. She could shoot questions at him like the rapid firing of an automatic weapon.

Emma grimaced as she returned to her sink. “Guess I’ll have to call them,” she instructed herself, intending her husband to hear her sentiment of disappointment.  She looked out the kitchen window to the faded sunset, orange strands lingering there among the grayish layers of clouds. “Lord have mercy,” she prayed softly as she dried her hands on a dish towel.  “Give me the strength to keep going,” she paused in reflection, “and help me be a blessing to others,” she requested in quiet reverence. “So much pain…” she sighed while in deep reflection.

It would be little more than an hour until Frank would begin the arduous trek up the steep stairway that led to his upstairs bedroom. Their home was a modest Cape Cod style house, the upper rooms crammed into the attic space enlarged by dormers, under the steep roof.  Frank and his father, Joshua Abel Vandenberg, built the house with hand tools: saws, hammers, chisels and shovels.  It was a two year feat. The basement, only five feet in depth, was dug by hand. Water trickled across the dirt floor most months, infrequently disappearing in August if it was a dry summer. Shelving covered the end wall and was filled with pint and quart size glass mason jars with Ball lids tightly sealed and containing canned produce from their garden, their winter’s food supply. In the center of the small dungeon like room a single bulb hung precariously by an electrical wire and offered a short pull chain to its operator. Once illuminated it would swing back and forth, casting eerie shadows on the stacked stone walls and alerting any critters that may have taken refuge there to immediately retreat. A musty smell dominated the unwelcoming place.

 Frank’s proper name was Merritt Franklin Vandenberg, but he preferred the shortened form of his middle name.  Few people knew his full name.

On nights after attending the farmers’ market, Frank’s routine was to unwind with a chapter from a book.  He was a history buff, and preferred detailed reports of the ravaging skirmishes of the Civil War.  His great-grandfather had fought in the Battle of Antietam and lost his lower left leg there.  Although Frank had never met his acclaimed relative who died shortly after the war ended, he heard many tales about him.

This night he was likely to nod off before completing even a few pages. Emma would finish the dishes in the kitchen and then gently nudge the arm of the man she devoted her life to and firmly believed in, toiling day in and day out, along his side.

 

#

 

Another house hidden under large oaks stood a short mile and a half away from Frank and Emma’s quaint abode, but the difference between the two was like the contrasting light of day and the darkness of night, good intentions and evil desires.

The paint on the window sill was cracked and blistered, showing obvious signs of years of neglect, evident even in the light of a half moon, dimmed by the clouds that chased each other across the night sky. Next to it a bearded man sat at a desk, a decrepit piece of old furniture, gouged and broken, with one half-leg resting upon a stack of two cinder blocks.  It was illuminated by the room’s ceiling fixture that had a fan above a single forty watt bulb attached there without a glass globe. The blades of the fan wobbled as the motor grinded and they rotated near the ceiling, casting shadows for a flickering on the man’s tabletop. Dust particles floated to the boards of the wooden floor below where they would conglomerate in wide cracks.

 He carefully held a round object in his left hand, between his thumb and forefinger. He looked through a magnifying glass held in the other hand, its first finger shortened to the second knuckle by an unfortunate accident.

His hands were rough, blistered, nails chipped and cracked, with dirt stains in the crevices.  His facial features were exaggerated: a large nose and huge ears. His eyebrows were like an untrimmed hedge row, its wild sprigs hanging low, these thick gray hairs nearly pricking at his glossy eyes. His beard was as an abandoned field, filled with weeds and thistles spurs; not edged, but burly, and matted from saliva drooled there as it encroached upon his lower neck. Blotchy skin bagged under his eyes and wrinkles rippled toward his cheek bones, the top of them connecting with the ridges of his forehead. They resembled a series of waves racing to the shoreline when there is a brisk wind.

A bottle of whiskey sat near the edge of the desk, one quarter of its contents still unconsumed, its lid lying on the floor near the baseboard after falling there and rolling toward the wall.

Old Joe Mansfield raised pigs in the thickets behind this decrepit house. With five breeding sows from last year’s brood surviving winter and a sassy boar, it looked to be a promising harvest for him this year.  When ignoring the hogs, he gathered fallen limbs from dead trees for firewood and scoured the area around his place for scrap metal, hoping to find an old appliance dumped on the bank along the roadway. His lane came to a dead-end about two miles further down the hill, near the creek. This was a popular fishing spot and offered secluded parking for couples who were all heated up, mostly high school seniors.  It was rumored that a crazy person stalked the place late at night. Some people wondered if the tall tale could be true and if the peeping tom was Joe. Lovers once died there, in the boy’s car, discovered late in the afternoon of the next day. It had been a chilly night and the car’s engine was still running when they were found. Their demise was attributed to carbon monoxide poisoning.  If a stalker had been nearby, he did nothing to save them.

Joe was Barton’s father, his old man, but certainly not by choice. It was the fate of their birth right, their position in life, and both resented it. The two of them scratched out a meager existence at the homestead, the front room of the shack the remnant of a surviving log cabin, said to be one of the original settlements in Sweetened Vales. But the area was not called as such back in the day. It was known as the northwest of Clayton County.

Bart was said to be the great-grandson of a bank robber, whose face once adorned a most wanted FBI poster, wild-west style.  This rumor was also popular among those who resided nearby. It was retold and circulated through the community at least twice yearly.

With a whoosh, the sound of rushing air, a large black bird landed on the window sill. His dark eyes shifted quickly, from side to side, as he ducked down low enough to clear the opening and hopped inside the house. This caught Joe’s attention. He dropped the gold coin and magnifying glass on his desk as he turned toward the bird. It squawked and jumped into the air. With a single flap of its wings it lighted on a perch made of tree limbs. It held a metallic object in its beak.

“Ah Raven, my old friend,” Joe greeted the fowl, “what do you have for me today?”

The crow shook its head and hopped again.

“You want a peanut, don’t you?” He pulled out the top desk drawer and reached for a treat, searching for one not already shelled by the mice that shared his accommodation.  Raven grunted as Joe tossed the peanut into the air. The bird dropped the shinny object and stretched its neck long enough to catch its reward. He shifted to a single foot and placed the peanut in his beak. Balanced there, he began to rip apart the nut’s outer shell, tossing the remnants of it in all directions.

Joe lunged for the contraband Raven had secured. As he bent over the bird jumped onto his back.  This caused the old man to lurch forward and spring upward, spinning on his heels while swinging his arms in the air. Raven had a firm grip on his shirt, his claws piercing the cotton material and needling at the man’s spine. It seemed that he enjoyed the ride, holding his wings out to glide through it. As Joe threw his back against the wall hoping to crush the fowl it escaped and went back to the window sill.

The man’s language was ineffable, profanity rolling off his tongue like a dog’s rage at the postman who knocks at the door.  Raven once clawed at his face and Joe thought the large bird intended to gouge his eyes out.

“This is crap!” he yelled and threw the broken earring, inexpensive costume jewelry, at the crow. “Get the hell outta here and fetch something worthwhile!” The bird squawked in reply and returned to its perch. He was finished hunting for the night. He eyed his adversary and watched for other signs of aggression.  Each hated the other and flaunted superiority, willing to engage in a fight when necessary.

#

 

Granny’s next letter said she hoped for a bumper crop and that she would be extra busy once the berries began to ripen on the vine, and she promised not to forget her grandson. She said that Nurse Jill consented to allow him to have a taste of her strawberry shortcake.

One day while Jill was feeding Vincent he decided to ask her some questions. “Will I ever get better?” he queried.

“Vincent, I have some good news for you today,” Nurse Jill began. “Your baseball team won again last night,” and she offered him a tarnished spoon with a cube of red Jell-O wiggling on it.

But he didn’t care much about sports that day. Despite the breeze generated by a fan nearby, he continued to sweat, feeling like a lobster dropped into an iron kettle.  But his discomfort was more than the sweltering hot, sticky air that smothered him; it was confinement.  He longed to run playfully down a woodland trail, to again explore the great outdoors, to experience the freedom of his dreams.

His face was turned upward, his eyes were tightly closed, and his lips pursed. As the nurse watched intently, he blinked and a tear appeared.  Like an inmate escaping, it ran down his cheek through the open area seeking a place to hide and took refuge as it pooled inside the base of his ear.

“What’s the matter, Honey?” the nurse asked sympathetically. “Com’on Vincent. You’re a trooper. No, you can’t give up now. I won’t let you.”

He slowly turned toward her and blinked hard, releasing several more imprisoned tears. He sniffed as his nurse reached for a tissue. She dabbed at his eyes and ears.

“But will this ever end?” the boy asked. “How much longer must I suffer like this?”

“Now you know I don’t have such answers,” she responded with resolute calm. “And you know what the doctor said… right?”

“No. No, I don’t,” Vincent moaned as his eyes met hers.

“Well, I remember,” Nurse Jill reaffirmed confidently. “Most other symptoms of the disease have disappeared,” she smiled broadly to emphasize this positive point.

“But when… when will I get out of this thing?” he complained. “Will I ever be able to walk again?”

“You must be patient,” the nurse now whispered as if she was revealing a secret. “One day at a time,” she reminded.

Vincent turned away and his crying increased momentarily.

“Vincent!” she spoke louder to demand his attention. “There are good signs. I still have hope. We have to have a little faith.”

Nurse Jill knew more than she was saying, withholding information so as not to raise her patient’s expectations to a dangerous place of vulnerability.

The doctor suspected that his lungs had a thirty percent capacity for breathing, and soon Vincent would begin therapy sessions, outside the lung. Even a normal person could hold his breath for a full minute. The time outside the iron lung would test and press upon his natural ability to increase his breath, but it would be painful. He would have to be a strong solider. She would help him overcome his fear. Another pill would numb the pain, and yet another would decrease anxiety.

“Let’s give it another week,” she said, “seven more days. Perhaps then you will be stronger,” she suggested hoping that he would accept this new goal. “You have the best doctors, and are receiving the best of care,” Nurse Jill reaffirmed. “And this lung is a marvelous invention. It is designed to help you and is intended to be temporary. We must be grateful for the life we have, and the healing God gives. His grace is sufficient,” she preached. “His grace is sufficient for each day.”

Her patient responded with a long sigh, his spirit reviving slightly.

“Now you must be a strong little solider,” she urged. “You are doing the hard fight. Keep going… for your Mom,” she suggested and then remembered, “and for Granny.”

At the mention of his loved ones he smiled slightly and Jill padded his forehead with a damp cloth.

“Hey,” she urged in a happy tone. “Speaking of your Granny, she is bringing in a special treat for you. Maybe tomorrow. You know what it is?”

And his smile broadened. “Yes,” he replied softly. He turned his face toward hers, still pleading, “Thanks for your kindness,” and Vincent offered the best smile his crushed spirit would allow.

 

That day she gently kissed his forehead and asked if he had a secret food desire, something other than Granny’s shortcake. It was 7 Up, which she brought in a tall, clear glass.  He sipped slowly from a long straw and watched the tiny bubbles as they rose to the surface of his sweet liquid joy. But all too soon it was gone and he closed his eyes, once again seeking refuge in his secret place.

#

 

Jewel stared in disbelief, hoping the wizard would reappear. After waiting several minutes, she started to walk along the Great Lake’s shoreline. Soon she came upon a vacant rowboat bobbing in the water. With the sun in her eyes, she pushed off and began rowing. It was then that she realized that she was seated in the wrong position as she remembered her uncle who taught her to sit facing the rear of the skiff, to row backwards. This was a more efficient way of breaking the wind, but now it was too late to move without rocking the boat. Yes, she was afraid of tipping it over because she was not a good swimmer.

#

 

Granny Em was very anxious to take fresh strawberry shortcake into the hospital for Vincent. It would be hand fed to him while in the mechanical lung.

Other children had already left the ward, but Vincent’s paralysis continued and his prognosis was poor.

Pops estimated that the first row of berries would be ripe for picking in three days.

 

It was Wednesday evening and since Frank didn’t have to go to market, he decided at his wife’s urging to visit Hank.  In a paper sack she had carefully placed two quarts of berries and a Bisquick shortcake.

Near the farm at Sweetened Vales was an old Victorian house, its origin dating back to a time before the Civil War.  The old man lived there with his only daughter, Julianne.

As a little boy Vincent was shy but would smile upon seeing her, playing in her yard with her puppy. She would stop and wave to him. He would quickly turn away as his heart leaped for joy, but was too embarrassed to acknowledge her.

It was a short walk up the dirt lane to the home of Hank and Julianne Culp. Frank continued to the rear porch. The door there was wide open. He rapped on the screen door that slapped at its jambs. He could hear the shuffle of a person inside.

“Oh, it’s you,” Hank said without a proper greeting. “Well, come on in.”

Frank stepped into the rear of the kitchen. Recently modernized, the cabinets connected to a countertop that formed a short “L.”  This peninsula was topped with red and green checkered linoleum and edged in shiny metal secured by nails. It was supported by a post at its end that jutted into the open space. On the other side of it was a sitting area with a large picture window that afforded a view of the roadway.

The cabinets, recouped from the old pantry, were whitewashed in many layers of paint. They received a fresh coating annually but a few chips revealed the many years of their existence, and an earlier layer that was cream colored.

“I had a nice gold piece, a gift from my father,” Hank noted as he led the way to the front parlor. “I was looking at it on my desk, there in front of the window. But now, I can’t find it,” he lamented, “I must have misplaced it. It was a liberty head gold eagle, a ten dollar coin.”

Frank shrugged in reply and looked around the room before returning his attention to his host. “You look like you’ve lost some weight,” Frank replied.

“My gut isn’t any good. I can’t eat anything that doesn’t bother me,” Hank explained. “Doc says its ulcerative colitis. No cure. No real treatment. Have to nurse it along. That with my bad back, keeps me pretty much in the house, almost immobile,” Hank whined.

“I’m so sorry,” Frank said with sincerity. He looked at the paper sack he still held. “Perhaps you don’t want Emma’s cake?”

“Oh no, I’ll munch on it, and Julianne will want some.” Hank grabbed the bag and sat it on the counter top before motioning toward the front room. “Let’s have a seat. Take a load off.” He dropped into an overstuffed chair, a cloud of dust bursting into the thick air. “I ever tell you the story about my descendant who fought in the Civil War? He was with the raiding parties that went into the Deep South, after Lee surrendered.”

Frank shook his head and quickly looked for another chair. He had heard rumors from others who claimed to have heard Hank’s tall tale. Some said he was hiding the treasure, but Frank thought Hank likely just talked too much.

“When Jefferson Davis fled for his life the Confederate treasury had $500,000 in gold coins,” Hank stated enthusiastically. “And that was just the beginning of it!”

Frank returned a questioning expression.

“It’s true,” Hank defended, “I did my research. I looked it up.”

“Assets of banks in Richmond, Virginia, the Confederate capital,” he continued, “gave the Rebels another $450,000 in coins.  The Treasury Train left Richmond in a hurry on April 2, 1865 headed to Georgia with plans for the President, Jefferson Davis and his cabinet, to eventually board a ship in Florida and escape with the loot.”

Frank appeared to be impressed with the details of his historical account.

“Lincoln was already assassinated by then,” Hank elaborated. “Everyone was in a turmoil. The coins alone would be worth over $15 million dollars today,” he exclaimed. “They planned to take their government out of the U.S., reestablish themselves, and keep the country divided – even expand their empire.”

“Yeah,” Frank admitted. “I heard that they hoped to move into Mexico, maybe even Central America.”

“That’s it!” Hank agreed. “But the Yankees had already invaded much of the south and as the money was transported by train and wagons, headed for Georgia, various units of the Union Army were closing in from numerous points.  Union spies had also infiltrated the ranks of the men charged with guarding the Confederate treasury.”

As Hank paused, Frank shifted in his seat.

“My great-grandfather was a Union soldier sent into Georgia at that time,” Hank continued.  “I never knew exactly what he did there because he wouldn’t tell.  But he always claimed that there was lots of money, gold and silver coins, gold bunion, and a treasure chest of jewelry that was quickly divided up, and then, some of it taken by bandits. Union spies and defected Rebels conducted raids. Some was confiscated by the Union Army, and then lost again, unaccounted for. Most of the coins were never found.”

Nodding in agreement, Frank grinned. “I’ve heard that.”

“You know the Colonel who built the mansion up on Black Rock Mountain? I’ve always wondered where his sudden wealth came from – and how much of the stash, especially the gold coins, were taken north, maybe even through this territory.  I mean heck, there could be some of it buried right here.”

“It’s fun to imagine,” Frank scratched at his arm and sighed as he looked to his feet. “But tell me, where did that coin you said you misplaced come from?” he inquired hoping to come back to their present reality. “And do you have more of them?”

“Nope, and don’t know,” Hank answered quickly. “It was passed down from generation to generation, to my father’s father, then to him and to me. You know, it’s dated from before the war. Could have originated from anywhere, I guess.”

The duo, long time neighbors and friends, caught up on local gossip before there was a lull in their conversation and Frank reached for his hat in departure. “Sure hope you’re feeling better,” he said in conclusion.  Hank appeared tired and offered only a slight nod in reply. Frank nodded too and looked toward the kitchen. “I’ll show myself out,” he said and waited a moment longer. Hank had apparently lost himself in his thoughts. “Goodbye my friend,” Frank offered before walking away.

 

 

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