Николас Спаркс - The Return

“Oh, that’s right,” he said, brightening. “You’re the Navy doctor, right?”

“Not anymore. But that’s a story for another time.”

“I’m Claude,” he said.

“I remember,” I said. “I’m Trevor.”

“Wow,” he said. “A Navy doctor.” Claude whistled. “Your pappy sure was proud of you.”

“I was proud of him, too.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I sure did like him.”

I shelled another peanut. “Me too.”

“Do you live around here now?”

“I’m staying at his place until June or so.”

“Great property,” Claude said. “Your pappy planted some fantastic trees. Really pretty this time of year. My wife has been making me slow the car whenever we pass by. Lots of flowers. Are the beehives still there?”

“Of course.” I nodded. “They’re doing well.”

“Your pappy used to let me buy and sell some of his honey every year. Folks love it. If there’s any left from either of last year’s harvests, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”

“How many jars would you want?”

“All of them,” he chortled.

“That good?”

“Best in the state, or so they say.”

“There’s a ranking?”

“I don’t know. But that’s what I tell people when they ask. And they keep buying it.”

I smiled. “Why are you at the grill? If I remember right, aren’t you usually working the register?”

“Almost always. It’s cooler and a whole lot easier, and I’m not covered in grease by the end of the day. But Frank is my regular grill man and he’s out this week. His daughter is getting married.”

“Good reason to miss work.”

“Not so good for me. I’m out of practice on the grill. I’ll do my best to make sure your burger isn’t burned.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

He eyed the sizzling grill over his shoulder. “Carl used to come here two or three times a week, you know. Always ordered a BLT on white toast, with French fries, and a pickle on the side.”

I remembered ordering the same thing when I was with him. For some reason, BLTs never tasted quite as good anywhere else.

“I’m sure he loved the peanuts, too. These are great.”

“Nope,” Claude declared. “Allergic.”

“To peanuts?” I squinted in disbelief.

“So he always told me. Said his throat would swell like a balloon.”

“The things you don’t know about a man,” I mused before recalling that Claude’s father, Jim, and my grandfather had always been close. “How’s your dad doing?” I suspected that Jim had gone the way of my grandfather, as they were close in age, but Claude only shrugged.

“Same as always, I guess. He still likes to come by the store a couple times a week and sit in the rockers out front while he has lunch.”

“Yeah?”

“As a matter of fact, your grandfather used to join him when he came by,” Claude said. “They were a regular pair. I guess Jerrold has sort of taken your grandfather’s place since your grandpa passed. Have you met Jerrold?”

“No.”

“He used to drive a truck for Pepsi. His wife passed on a few years back. Nice guy, but he’s an odd duck. And frankly, I’m not sure what either of them gets out of it. My pa’s deaf as a doornail and definitely slipping mentally. Makes it tough to have a conversation.”

“He must be almost ninety now.”

“Ninety-one. My guess is he’ll live to a hundred and ten. Other than his hearing, he’s healthier than I am.” Claude turned around and flipped the burger, then dropped the bun in a toaster. When the bun was ready, he added lettuce, tomato, and onion before facing me again.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said.

“Shoot.”

“What was Carl doing in South Carolina?”

“I have no idea. I still haven’t figured that out. I was hoping you could tell me.”

Claude shook his head. “He talked to my dad more than he talked to me, but after he passed, there was a lot of curiosity about it.”

“Why?”

He put his hands on the counter and regarded me. “Well, for starters, he usually didn’t go anywhere. He hasn’t left town in years. And then there was that truck of his—you remember it?”

I nodded. It was a Chevy C/K from the early 1960s. It might have been called a classic, except for the fact the body was a faded, rusting wreck.

“It was all that Carl could do to keep that thing running. He was really good with engines, but even he said the truck was on its last legs. I doubt it could top forty-five miles an hour. It was fine for getting around town, but I can’t imagine Carl taking it on the interstate.”

Nor could I. Clearly I wasn’t the only person wondering what had come over him.

Claude turned back to the grill and added fries to the paper plate. He set my meal in front of me.

“Ketchup and mustard, right?”

“Sure.”

He slid the bottles toward me.

“Carl liked ketchup, too. I sure do miss him. He was a good man.”

“Yes, he was,” I said absently, but my mind became fixated on the sudden certainty that Natalie had been correct when she’d told me that someone had been staying in my grandfather’s house. “I think I’ll bring this outside and eat out front. It was good talking to you, Claude.”

“That’s why the chairs are there. Nice seeing you again.”

Taking my plate and drink, I walked toward the doors. After using my hip to push open the door, I made my way to the rockers and took a seat. I set my plate on the small wooden table beside me, thinking again about the possible vagrant in my house and suddenly wondering whether it was somehow connected to the other mysteries surrounding my grandfather in the last few days of his life.

* * *

It was as I was finishing up my lunch that I saw Callie walk out of the store, carrying what looked to be her own lunch in a brown paper bag.

“Hey there, Callie,” I offered.

She glanced in my direction, looking suspicious. “Do I know you?”

“We met the other day,” I said. “When you were walking by my house. You told me the mothballs wouldn’t keep snakes away.”

“They won’t.”

“I haven’t seen any snakes since then.”

“They’re still there.” Surprising me, she squatted down and stretched out her arm, holding a paper plate with a glob of what looked to be tuna on it. “Come on, Termite. Time for lunch.”

She set the plate on the ground, and a moment later, a cat popped out from behind the ice machine.

“Is that your cat?” I asked.

“No. He’s the store cat. Claude lets me feed him.”

“He lives at the store?”

“I’m not sure where he lives during the day, but Claude lets him inside at night. He’s a good mouser.”

“Why is he named Termite?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you don’t know where he goes during the day?”

Callie didn’t respond until Termite was eating. Then, without looking at me, she spoke again. “You sure ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“When I’m interested in something, I do.”

“You’re interested in the cat?”

“It reminds me of my grandfather. He used to like strays, too.”

Once the cat had finished, Callie picked up the plate. Termite, meanwhile, sauntered in my direction, ignored me completely as he passed, then disappeared around the corner of the store.

Callie still hadn’t responded. With a sigh, however, she tossed the paper plate into the garbage and, with her back turned to me as she started walking away, said something that surprised me. “I know.”

Chapter 4

Both CBT and DBT emphasize common-sense living, or things your mother taught you , as a way to help improve mental and emotional health. While everyone can benefit from behavioral therapy, for those people like me, who suffer from PTSD, common-sense living is critical to ensuring the quality of life. In real terms—how I behaved, in other words—it meant frequent exercise, regular sleep, healthy eating, and the avoidance of mood-altering substances as ways to make things better. Therapy, I’ve come to learn, is less about navel-gazing conversation than it is about learning habits for successful living, and then, most importantly, putting them into practice.