Читать книгу Emory's Story - Paul Holleran - Страница 6

Prologue: Buying the Farm

Buying the Farm

May 2, 1999

“He won’t sell you that house. He has been in that house alone since his wife and son died. Everyone says he will burn it down before he sells it. He’s crazy.” The realtor they were talking to was showing her impatience. She had been showing them houses for weeks. They had not liked one of them. Her frustration was apparent. The house they were looking at now was beautiful. It was just what they had asked for. It was new construction. It had the open concept that was all the rage these days. The bathrooms were immaculate. The location was perfect. The realtor was about ready to give up on them when they mentioned old man Story’s house. She had to admit that his house was full of character. It sat alone at the end of a ridge. A row of red maples lined the quarter-mile-long driveway. Old Glory flew atop a thirty-foot flagpole, surrounded by a bed of purple irises. The apple tree in the front yard was in full bloom, and the flower beds circling the house were ripe with tulips and creeping phlox. The house itself was in disarray. It had been neglected for a couple of decades.

The old man who lived there was a loner. He had been alone since a tornado had damaged the house and left his wife and son dead inside. When Paul asked the realtor if she was willing to approach the old man, she respectfully declined. She commented that a colleague of hers once tried to persuade the old man to move. He literally threw her off the property. Paul asked her more questions, but he could tell that she had already given them all the information she had. He decided then that he would visit the old man himself.

Paul and Yvonne had just gotten married and were looking for a place in the country to start and raise a family. Paul had just been discharged from the US Air Force and had a guaranteed GI loan. He always assumed he wanted a new home because he was not too handy, but when he saw the house sitting majestically at the end of that ridge, he fell in love with it.

Paul asked the locals about the old man and found out that he built the house himself when he returned from World War II. That made the house almost sixty years old. He and his wife lived in the house for twenty years and had one son. When his wife and son died in a terrible tornado, he became a recluse. For thirty years now, he had lived there alone. He was in his seventies now and had never quite returned to normal. He had been a prominent farmer throughout the fifties and sixties, raising more than twenty acres of tobacco every year. Now he lived by himself with a dog and a few chickens and rarely left the ridge. Some said he would never leave the ridge. He used to ride horses with his wife and son, and he was very religious. For the past thirty years, no one had seen him in church.

May 3, 1999

Without hesitation, Paul decided to visit the old man. He told his wife that he would like to visit him alone. He had learned that the old man had also been in the air force. When he served in World War II, it had been called something else. Paul thought the old man might need a friend. He could break the ice with a conversation about the air force. The old man would still have to be interested in the air force. He had to be one of the first airmen.

Paul parked his car at the end of the ridge, just off the roadway. He walked back the puddle-filled lane and looked at each of the red maples as he passed them. They were beginning to bud. He could not wait to see them in full bloom. He could picture them as they would look in the fall season. Suddenly, he felt a sense of home. This seemed like a place full of love. When he approached the house and saw the apple tree in front of the house, it looked like it belonged there. Everything about the house made Paul feel like he was somewhere that had seen a lot of love.

He walked onto the porch and knocked on the door. He listened for any noise coming from inside the house. He knocked again and heard someone coughing. He turned around, and Emory Story walked around the corner of the house. “Can I help you?”

Paul looked at the fragile old man and then introduced himself. He said that he only wanted to meet the man who built this magnificent home. He spoke nervously and rambled on until Emory put his hand up to stop him. “Is there something I can do for you?” The old man looked exhausted. His hands were dirty, and he had stained teeth. Paul decided to just tell the truth and see where it took him.

“The truth is, I was just discharged from the air force, and my wife and I are going to be settling down here. We were looking at the house across the hill there when we saw your place.” Paul looked at the old man to see if he reacted to his declaration of being in the air force. He did not seem to react to anything. “I felt like I had to come back here and tell you that this is a beautiful place.”

Emory looked at his visitor and then just walked past him. He climbed the two steps to the porch and invited Paul to come in to his house. Paul entered the modest home and felt like he was walking back in time. The furniture was definitely from the fifties, and every wall had wallpaper on it. The design of the home was unique. Paul could see instantly that the home could be very nice. He followed Emory into the kitchen. The old man offered him some coffee, and Paul accepted.

They sat down at a table that definitely belonged in the fifties. Paul pulled his chair closer. The heavy chair with a vinyl seat cover made noise when it slid across the floor. The old man took his glasses off and drank from his stained coffee cup. “I built this place you know.” Paul took a drink of his coffee and was surprised that it tasted heavenly.

“As a matter of fact, I did know that. It seems you have quite a reputation around here. I even think the kids have made up stories about you.” Emory laughed and then coughed a little more. Paul thought that his cough sounded bad. It was coming from deep within his chest. “Are you all right?” Paul asked.

“I know some of those kids. I watched them all grow up. I’ve been here a long time.” Emory looked nostalgic for a second before he said, “Heck, I watched their parents grow up. Now, I’m going to see a new century. What do you think about that?” Emory stood up and went to the sink. He got a spoon and a sugar bowl and returned to the table. He offered Paul the sugar and reached for the coffee pot. He poured fresh coffee into each cup and sat back down.

“How old were you in the war?” Paul knew the question may not be appropriate, but he felt the old man was enjoying having someone to talk to. He decided that it was worth the risk, so he just blurted it out.

Emory did not hesitate when he answered, “I turned eighteen just two months before I got on the train. My friend and I joined together.” Paul saw the look on the old man’s face as he was remembering his past life. Paul had not spent any of his military tour in combat. He had even avoided Afghanistan. The air force had a limited role in the campaign in the Middle East.

“I lost a lot of friends in that war. I lost some friends in other wars too.” Emory looked like he was thinking about those friends now. He sat quietly for a few seconds and then said, “I don’t get much company back here. People have stayed away for a lot of years. I don’t really care. I prefer it by myself.” Paul looked at him and could not think of anything to say. Emory stared back at him. “You think that makes me a recluse. I know that is what people say. The truth is, I just have no reason to leave the ridge. Everything I ever cared about is right here.”

Paul thought that Emory seemed like he would be a very interesting man to get to know. He asked him if he would mind if he came back to visit some time and talk about the war. He told the old man that he was a history buff and would love to hear some stories of someone in the air corps. Emory told him that he indeed had stories, and he just might be ready to tell someone about his time in the war. When Paul told him that he was also a writer, Emory’s face lit up. Paul noticed and asked him if he was also a writer. Emory told him that unfortunately he was not. He said that his wife had been the writer in the family. He smiled as he continued, “I used to think that I was a writer, but I haven’t written anything in over thirty years. I used to keep a journal. My mother thought I would be famous.” Once again, he seemed to get lost in thought. Paul tried to think of anything to keep him talking.

“Do you still have any of your journals? I would love to read real thoughts written by someone in the war. I would be very discreet. I mean, if there is anything you would not want revealed.” Paul thought that he had pushed too hard, too fast.

Emory’s face suddenly looked amused. He laughed again and coughed again. Then he said, “Son, you wouldn’t believe half of what I could tell you.”

Emory got up again and opened a cabinet. “Would you like a drink, son?” Emory pulled a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and walked back to the table. He poured a generous shot into his coffee mug and offered Paul the bottle. Paul could tell the old man was struggling with something, so he took the bottle. Emory turned his cup up and swallowed every drop. Paul finished his coffee and poured himself a shot. He drank it quickly before he changed his mind.

“Do you believe in God, son?” Emory did not look at Paul. If he had, he would have seen an amused, surprised look.

“Yes, sir. I think I do.” Paul had never been asked that question in such a direct manner.

Emory laughed again. “You don’t sound so sure.” He poured himself another shot and then poured one into Paul’s cup. “I believe in God myself. I always have. His promises are all there is really. What else can we believe?” He picked his cup up and pushed Paul’s at him. They silently finished off another shot, and then Emory said, “I used to talk to Him all of the time.” Emory looked out of the front window. “You see that tree out there?”

Paul saw the apple tree in full bloom. “Yes, sir. I could see those blooms from the next ridge over. I’ll bet those apples are incredible.” He continued to look out the window at the tree.

“I brought that tree here from Hiroshima. I was there the day the bomb dropped. It’s never produced one apple. Do you believe that?” Emory already had a glassy look in his eyes.

Paul thought he might have already had a shot or two. “What on earth were you doing in Hiroshima?” Paul was beginning to think that Emory was losing touch with reality. Emory looked at Paul and laughed again.

“We went to get that tree. We thought maybe it was still a seed, but that’s what we went for. I never told anyone that before.” Emory lowered his glasses and squinted his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you now. You don’t believe me anyway. I can see it on your face.”

“No, sir. I believe you. I just don’t know why. Why would you go to get a tree?” Paul had to admit to himself that he had never been so intrigued. “I have to hear this story. Were you really there the day the bomb dropped? How did you survive?” Emory poured them another shot of bourbon and asked Paul how long he had. Paul looked at his watch. Yvonne was probably expecting him back any moment now. “I’m not leaving until you tell me this story.” He finished off another shot and suddenly started to feel the effects of the alcohol. He waited on Emory to begin his story.

Instead, the old man got up and walked into the hallway. He returned with a leather-bound notebook. Half of it was warped and stained by water. The pages were well-read. It looked like he had read it a thousand times. “This is my story. My wife wrote most of this down almost fifty years ago. Only three people have ever read this manuscript. I am the only one who is still alive. I always thought that the story would have an ending. I am still waiting.”

“Why don’t you just write an ending?” Paul asked him.

“I am waiting on God to finish this one.” Emory kept the saddest expression on his face. Paul thought that his earlier suspicions might be correct. Emory really might have some issues.

“Do you think maybe I could read it?” Paul thought he had nothing to lose.

“Don’t know why you’d want to. I told you it has no ending. God has a plan, and He is not ready to reveal it yet.” Emory began to slur his words just a bit. “Do you know what today is?” Paul had absolutely no idea where Emory was going with this question. “It’s May the third.” Emory grabbed the bottle and poured himself another shot. This time, he did not offer any to Paul. “Damn right, it’s May third.” He slammed the bottle onto the table. His voice got louder. “Thirty years. Thirty goddamned years. Nothing. If He has a plan, then I want to know what it is.” Emory was mainly talking to himself now.

Paul thought that maybe he would not hear those stories after all. Emory was fast becoming intoxicated. Paul decided he would stay a while and see if he could comfort the old man in any way. He was obviously nostalgic about this date. Paul did not think he should be alone. He asked if he could use the restroom. Emory just pointed. Paul called Yvonne on his cell phone and gave her a brief synopsis of what he was doing. She told him to stay as long as he felt necessary and to call her if he was going to be too late.

When he walked back into the kitchen, Emory was not in there. He saw no one in the dining room, so he walked into the living room. The front door was open, so he walked out into the front yard. Emory was standing under the tree pulling the blossoms off one by one. He had the bottle in his hand. Paul approached him and gently pulled the bottle from his grasp. Emory did not seem to notice. He just stared at the tree and pulled blossoms from it.

“Mr. Story, are you all right?” Paul watched him stop pulling the flowers from the tree.

Emory turned around and asked him, “Do you believe in fate too, son?” Paul did not know what to say. Emory waved his hand and said, “Never mind.” Then he gestured toward the tree and said, “I’m tired of watching this tree. I think He knows I’m tired too. I bet I know why you are really here. You’re going to ask me to sell you this house, huh?” Paul was taken aback. He had thought that the old man was not completely in touch with reality, but now he was not so sure. He concluded that Emory was smarter than he had given him credit for.

Paul decided once again that he was not fooling the old man and told the truth. “Honestly, I thought of asking you if you would consider it. You are alone, and this is much too much house for you. I want you to know that I respect the fact that you built this yourself. I can tell that you have put a lot of love into it.”

“Stop brownnosing. It doesn’t suit you.” Emory laughed again. He no longer coughed after he laughed. Paul thought there might be some positive effects from the bourbon. “The fact is, I’ve been waiting on a sign. When I saw you walking down that ridge, I prayed to Him and asked if you could be the one. Just as usual, I got no answers. I decided I might trust my instincts. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.” He walked back across the yard and onto the porch. This time, he did not invite Paul back inside. Instead, he stood in the doorway and said, “Today is not the best day. I apologize for boring you with my antics. If you’ll excuse me.” He turned to reenter the house, and Paul walked up onto the porch.

“Mr. Story, did I offend you in some way? I’d really like to hear those stories.”

Emory paused, then closed the screen door, and said, “Come see me tomorrow. We’ll talk some more.”

Paul was confused but turned and started walking back toward the road. He heard the door close behind him and felt that he was chasing shadows. He thought that the old man was, at the very least, confused. He didn’t even know if the house would be worth the price of remodeling. He called Yvonne and told her he was coming home, but he might just be able to persuade the old man to sell. She acted happy. He turned around and looked back the ridge and saw the long shadows of the maple trees stretching across the yard. The flag was waving atop the pole. It looked like a photograph.

When he got home, he told Yvonne about everything that had happened. She looked as confused as he felt. She asked if he thought that the old man might really be considering selling. Paul told her that he thought he just might. He made plans to go and see him the next day.

When he got to Emory’s house the next day, it was just after lunchtime. Emory met him at the door and invited him in. The first thing Paul noticed was the way Emory looked. He was bright-eyed and clean-shaven. He looked younger. Emory offered him a glass of iced tea and led him onto the back porch. The view from the rear of the house was just as impressive as the view from the front. The ridge was steeply sloped on both sides. Emory’s house sat at the end. The back porch offered a view of the creek at the bottom of the hill.

Paul stood by the rail and commented on the spectacular scenery. He saw two horses on the hill across the creek. “Are those your horses?” he asked.

Emory quickly responded, “It’s been almost thirty years now. Got some cows and a few chickens. That’s only because I have to eat.”

Paul could see that Emory’s frame of mind was drastically different today. “Mr. Story—”

Before he could continue, Emory said, “Call me Em. I have never been Mr. Story.”

“Em. You started to tell me a story yesterday. Do you remember?”

Emory looked insulted. “Of course, I remember,” he spat back. “Just been giving it second thought. Probably the whiskey talking yesterday.”

“Well, I’d really like to hear it.” Paul looked at Em and thought that he was going to ask him to leave.

Then Em got up again and went into the house. He returned with the leather notebook and sat back down. He put the notebook on his lap and then just leaned back in his chair. “Before I let you read this, I want to talk to you. Once again, I apologize for my behavior yesterday. The third day of May is not a good day for me. I miss them so much.” Paul then understood. His wife and son had died in a tornado. It must have been May 3.

“Mr. Story, I am so sorry for invading your space yesterday. I never knew.” Paul hoped that Emory would respond because he did not know what to say next.

“How could you? Anyway. I am thinking about selling this house. I never thought I would or could, but something tells me the time is right. When I met you yesterday, I felt that it was time to tell my story.” He patted the book in his lap and looked straight at Paul. “Everything in these pages happened. I do not know if there is meaning to all of it or not. Everyone else in this story is dead now, and I ain’t going to live forever.” Emory paused and then added, “I don’t even want to anymore.”

Paul thought the old man was losing it again. Emory adjusted his glasses and leaned up in his chair. “I have a sister in Florida. I am thinking of going to see her. Always thought me and Irene would walk on the beach when we got old.”

Paul tried to think of a word to describe his new friend. The only thing that came to mind was perplexing. One minute, he swore the old man was not in his right mind. Then the next, he thought he made more sense than most people. One thing he knew for sure was that he deserved respect. He was a veteran of World War II and an important part of the greatest generation.

“Mr. Story, can I tell you the truth?” Paul knew he might be blowing his opportunity for a chance to buy this house. “I really only came back here to try and talk you into selling your house. I was prepared to tell you anything to get you to consider it. I want to tell you how sorry I am for even considering that. Now that I’ve met you, I feel like I should tell you that I feel like I am the lucky one. You’re a fine gentleman, and I was foolish to think I could deceive you.” Paul stopped talking and looked at Emory. He saw the amused look on his face.

“I know you think I’m crazy. That’s okay. When you read this, you will understand. I want your wife to read it too. Then, if I sell you this house, you will know what kind of responsibility goes with it. I have been responsible for a long time. I accept that. I think He wants me to let it go.” Emory looked away. “I know she would tell me the same thing. Irene’s been telling me every night in my dreams to get away from here. I woke up every morning for years asking myself how I could ever leave this house. The answer never came. Then, yesterday, I decided to never leave this ridge. I even thought about doing what everyone around here thinks I am going to do. Then you walked back that ridge.” Emory paused while he let Paul think about what he had just said. “What do you think about that?” Then he laughed out loud. “Woo! Got you with that one, didn’t I?” He laughed again and slapped the manuscript in his lap. “You take this with you and read it tonight. Talk about it with your wife. Then you come see me tomorrow, and we’ll talk about your new house.”

Paul thought this whole situation was insane. He could not decide to buy a house because of a story he read about it. Yvonne had not even seen the house yet. However, he wanted to read that story so bad he thought he would promise anything to get his hands on it. “Mr. Story—”

Emory interrupted him immediately, “Call me Mr. Story one more time and I might ask you to leave.”

Paul apologized and said, “Em, this house is exactly what I am looking for. My wife is going to love it.”

Paul walked to his car with the manuscript in his hand. He half expected Emory to call him back. He got into the driver’s seat and looked back at the porch. Emory sat in his chair and rocked back and forth. He looked so peaceful sitting there. Paul drove out the lane and looked down at the thick notebook sitting on the seat beside him. The corners of the pages were smudged and had been turned a thousand times. He thought that if Emory’s wife had written this story, then Emory could very well be obsessed with whatever was written on those pages. Regardless of whether or not the story was true, Emory believed every word. That book might be the only memories he had of her.

Paul got home and told Yvonne about his morning. She was sympathetic to the old man’s sad life. She said that he was probably so lonely that he treated every visitor he ever received the way he had treated Paul. She looked at the notebook and asked, “How many people do you think have read that?”

“I don’t think that is the case. I really believe that he has never shown this to anyone. I think those pages only have his prints on them.” Paul picked up the notebook and thumbed through the pages. They were all typed and numbered. Stains were on so many pages that some of the words were smeared. It was at least two hundred and fifty pages. Paul told his wife that she had to read it too. He told her it was the old man’s wish, so she had to agree.

He left the manuscript on the coffee table and went to the kitchen to make a sandwich. He returned with two plates and two glasses of tea. Yvonne was already reading the first page.

“You didn’t tell me it was a love story.”

Part 1