Николас Спаркс - The Return

“You don’t have to leave,” I said.

“You’ll need my chair. He won’t admit it, but he needs to be able to see your lips moving so he can figure out what you’re saying. He’ll get about half of what you say, so just keep trying.”

“Where are you going?” Jim said.

“I’m hungry,” Jerrold shouted. “I want some food.”

“Huh?”

Jerrold waved him off and looked toward me. “Don’t just stand there looking dumb as a tree. Take a seat. I’ll be back.”

I watched as Jerrold shuffled toward the door, and when he was safely inside, I sat in the same rocker, then leaned forward as Jerrold had done.

“Hi,” I shouted. “I’m Trevor Benson.”

“River fencing?”

“Trevor Benson,” I said again. “I’m Carl’s grandkid.”

“Who?”

“Carl!” I said even louder, wondering if I should have kept Jerrold around to translate.

“Oh, Carl,” Jim said. “He passed on.”

“I know. He was my kin,” I said, hoping Jerrold’s phrasing would help.

Jim squinted at me and I could tell he was searching. It took a few beats.

“The Navy doc? You were married to Claire, right?”

“Yes,” I said, even though Claire had been my mother. No reason to make it any more complicated than it already was.

“He sure liked those bees, old Carl,” Jim added. “Had them a long time. Beehives. For the honey.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “I wanted to speak to you about Carl.”

“I don’t much like bees,” he said. “Never could figure out what he saw in ’em.”

Trying to keep it simple, I opted for the direct approach. “I have some questions that I was hoping you could answer.”

Jim didn’t seem to hear me. “Carl had a hard time with the honey last summer,” Jim said. “Arthritis.”

He pronounced it arthur-itis .

“He probably did…”

“He got help from the girl, though,” Jim added, not hearing me.

“Girl?”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “The girl. Inside.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering what he was talking about. I hadn’t seen any girls in the store today, but Claude had warned me his mind wandered. Leaving that behind, I leaned closer, speaking slowly and replicating Jerrold’s volume.

“Do you know why Carl went to South Carolina?”

“Carl died in South Carolina.”

“I know,” I said. “Do you know why Carl went to South Carolina?” I asked again.

Jim took a bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly before answering. “I reckon he was going to visit Helen.”

For a second, I wondered if he’d understood my question.

“Helen? He was going to visit Helen?” I shouted.

“Yep. Helen. That’s what he told me.”

Or was that what Jim had heard? How much could I trust his hearing? Or the competence of his memory? I wasn’t sure.

“When did he tell you about Helen?”

“Huh?”

I repeated the question, even louder this time, and Jim reached for a hush puppy. He took a bite and it took him a long time to finally swallow. “I reckon about a week or so before he left. He was working on the truck.”

To make sure it could get there , no doubt, but…who was Helen? How would my grandfather have met a woman from South Carolina? He had neither a computer nor a cell phone, and he rarely left New Bern. It didn’t add up…

“How did Carl meet Helen?”

“Huh?”

“Helen.”

“I reckon that’s what he said.”

“Did Helen live in Easley?”

“What’s Easley?”

“The town in South Carolina.”

He picked up another hush puppy. “Don’t know much about South Carolina. I was stationed there during the Korean War, but said good riddance as soon as I got out. Too hot, too far from home. The drill sergeant there…oh what was his name…R-something…like a joke…”

As he was searching the past, I tried to figure out what he’d told me, assuming Jim wasn’t completely bonkers. A woman named Helen was in Easley and my grandfather had gone to visit her?

“Riddle!” Jim suddenly shouted. “That’s his name. Sergeant Riddle. Meanest, orneriest man there ever was. One time, he made us sleep in the bog. Dank and dirty place, and so many mosquitoes. They bit all night till I swelled up like a tick. Had to go to the infirmary.”

“Did you ever meet Helen?”

“Nope.”

He reached for his Yoo-hoo but even though Claude had loosened the cap, he struggled to open it. I watched as he took a drink, still trying to sort it out, but suspecting he had nothing else to offer.

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

He lowered the bottle. “The girl might know more about it.”

It took me a second to recall what he’d said earlier. “The girl inside?”

He motioned with the bottle toward the window. “Can’t remember her name. He liked her.”

“Helen?”

“No. The one inside .”

I’ll admit I was completely lost by then and as if on cue, Jerrold pushed out the door, carrying a plate similar to the one I’d brought out to Jim. Eastern North Carolina barbecue, which is flavored with vinegar and red pepper flakes, is different from barbecue anywhere else in the world. When Jerrold was close, I stood from the chair, making room.

“You two about done?” he asked.

I thought about it, wondering what if anything I’d learned, or how much of it was even real.

“Yes,” I said, “I think we’re through.”

“I warned you, he can wander a bit when he talks,” Jerrold admitted. “Did you get the answers you needed?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “He said my grandfather was going to visit Helen. And he mentioned something about a girl inside, but I have no idea what he was talking about.”

“I think I might have part of the answer to that.”

“What part?”

“The girl inside,” Jerrold said. “He was talking about Callie. She and your grandfather were pretty close.”

* * *

Claude was still at the register when I reentered the store. There were a handful of customers in line and I waited until he finished before approaching.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“Still trying to figure it out,” I said. “Do you know when Callie will be working again?”

“She’s here now,” Claude answered. “But she’s on break. She should be back in a few minutes.”

Which explains why I hadn’t noticed her earlier.

“Do you know where she is?”

“If she’s not feeding the cat, she usually eats at the picnic table down by the dock,” Claude said.

“Thanks,” I said, pushing back out the door again. Figuring it would be easier to talk while she wasn’t on the clock, I rounded the side of the store, to a path that led toward the creek. I knew there was not only a picnic table there, but also some gas pumps near the water’s edge where boats could fill their tanks. I’d been there with my grandfather numerous times.

The path wound through some trees and shrubbery, but when the view finally cleared, I saw Callie sitting at the table. As I crossed the grass, I noted the basic lunch she’d clearly brought from home. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, container of milk, and an apple—most of it nearly finished—in a brown bag. Hearing me approach, she glanced in my direction, then back to the creek again.

“Callie?” I asked when I was close. “Claude told me that I might find you here.”

She turned her attention back to me, her expression wary. I wondered why she wasn’t in school, and noticed another bruise on her arm, close to the one I’d seen when she’d walked past my house. Instead of speaking, she took another bite of her sandwich, nearly finishing it. Remembering her general wariness, I stopped just short of the table, not wanting to crowd her. “I was hoping to speak with you about my grandfather,” I said. “I heard that you helped him harvest the honey last summer.”