Clare Vanderpool - Moon Over Manifest

As day turned into night and soft music began, the gentlemen of Manifest took their ladies’ hands and escorted them onto the open-air dance floor lit by a canopy of electric lights.

Jinx sat to the side of the stage, his shoulder in a bandage and sling. Shady brought him a glass of punch. Together they watched children scampering about with glowing faces and eventually nodding off in their mothers’ arms. Ivan DeVore stole glances at Velma T. across the dance floor as he worked up the nerve to ask her to dance. Hadley Gillen was on the stage, playing first trumpet in the band. Hattie Mae, with no pen or paper in hand, looked splendid in a pink chiffon dress as she danced a waltz with Mr. Fred Macke.

Pearl Ann, home from college, served punch while Mrs. Larkin held court with a bevy of women. The ladies listened with rapt attention to the story of how Mrs. Larkin and the boy, Jinx, had cooked up the scheme of tricking Lester Burton into buying the springs and how it had been her idea not to tell anyone, including Shady, of their plans. Mrs. Larkin had done some theater work in high school. She had, in fact, played the lead in the senior class production of All on Account of Polly and was confident she could pull off her part, but felt they’d get a better performance out of Shady if he was unapprised.

People were smiling. Especially Mrs. Cybulskis, who sat to the side of the dance floor, holding a healthy new baby boy. The whole town was filled with the hope and promise that the hard times were behind them.

Until the army truck pulled in.

At first people thought it was just a latecomer to the dance. But when the young man, dressed in a crisp brown uniform, stepped out of his automobile, they knew otherwise. The music died out with a painful moan. The soldier made his way into the crowd. He showed a paper to Mr. Matenopoulos, who motioned toward the band platform.

Hadley stood, waiting for the news.

“Are you Mr. Hadley Gillen?” the soldier asked.

Hadley nodded.

The man spoke a few quiet words and handed Hadley an envelope. Hadley held the envelope for a moment, then passed it to Shady. “Read it, Shady. To all of us.”

Shady read.

“REGRET TO INFORM YOU, YOUR SON NED GILLEN WAS KILLED IN ACTION OCTOBER EIGHTH STOP HIS BODY RECOVERED IN ARGONNE REGION SOUTH FRANCE STOP LAID TO REST IN ST. DIZIER STOP PERSONAL EFFECTS TO FOLLOW STOP.”

A deathly silence became the music that reverberated throughout. The town of Manifest had loved Ned Gillen. And now the town of Manifest was crushed under the weight of that love.

But the boy, Jinx. It buried him.

PVT. NED GILLEN

OCTOBER 6, 1918

Dear Jinx ,

Took a piece of shrapnel in the arm yesterday. Didn’t even see it coming, but it was just a scratch. So not to worry. Today was a good day. Whenever we quit running or fighting long enough to look around, France turns out to be a beautiful place. Seems like all we’ve been seeing lately is our own muddy green uniforms, so the bright fall leaves are like a colorful kaleidoscope .

Stopped for a spell today on the roadside. A group of fresh replacements sauntered past. Talk about colors. They were greener than green. Jaunty clean-cut fellas, walking like they had someplace to be. Heck, Holler, and me sat there, all of us thinking those boys reminded us of someone. Could it be someone from home? Was there still such a place? Then we realized it was us back in June. “Did we ever look like that?” I asked. Heck answered, “Yeah, when we were in the sixth grade.” Then, true to his name , Holler yelled out, “What’s your hurry, ladies? The senior promenade was last week.” In a bygone day, we’d have laughed one of those laughs that keeps going on after you forget what was so funny. But that doesn’t happen anymore .

We’ve been on a two-day hike and have had the good fortune to come across trenches already dug. You can tell a lot about a man by the trench he digs for himself. Some are shallow and clumpy. Others are well dug and roomy enough for two. Kind of feels like sleeping in someone else’s bed for a spell, but I always feel a debt of gratitude to whoever dug it. Funny thing, it also makes me take a little extra care when I dig one so it might be a place of respite for the next guy to come along .

I’m reminded of a line in a book I read in high school. “It is not down in any map; true places never are.” I can guaran-darn-tee you, these foxholes won’t be found on any map after the war is over. But for now, my home is wherever me and my buddies lay our heads at night. And where we pray to God we’ll wake up in the morning .

There’s been some talk of peace. Armistice, they call it. Hope is something most of us have been none too familiar with lately. Some men try to fight it off like a bad cold. Others let it wrap around them like a blanket. Me? It creeps quietly into my dreams and it looks like Pop, and you, and home .

Vive la nuit (Long live the night) ,

Ned

The Shadow of Death

AUGUST 23, 1936

Miss Sadie stared ahead. This time she lingered in the story after she told it, as if she was looking for a different ending.

Even though she had not told me to go, I stood and started out the door. Then, turning back, I took the compass from the hook on which it had hung all summer. My work here was finished. It felt like we’d all done enough.

I can’t say I knew where I was heading when I stepped off her porch and walked down the Path to Perdition. I knew when I got to the end of the path that there was no place else for me to go. I wandered around a little but eventually found the tombstone I’d come across the day Lettie, Ruthanne, and I had been frog hunting. The one all by itself in the clearing, near an old craggy sycamore tree.

I studied the letters on the tombstone, letting them tell me their story. Letting them help me make sense of something that made no sense. The letters spelled out my father’s name. Gideon Tucker. That was my father. The boy, Jinx. They were one and the same, as I’d wondered about and hoped for all along.

Sitting down with my back against the stone, I took the compass from my pocket and opened the latch. Inside were the words I’d mistaken for the compass maker’s name. Now I knew them for what they were. ST. DIZIER. OCTOBER 8, 1918. This was Ned’s compass, on which Gideon had engraved Ned’s date of death and place of burial. Because for my father, that was the day he began his wanderings in the valley of the shadow of death.

I sat mourning the loss of Ned, a young soldier at arms. Grieving the death of a town. Wishing for my father, who was still wandering.

My tears had been falling for some time when Shady came for me. He stood beside me, stroking my hair.

“He thought it was his fault, didn’t he, Shady? Because he helped Ned raise the twenty-five dollars to join the army underage and then Ned was killed. Because he thought he was a jinx.”

“I suppose.”

“So what happened that night? After the telegram came about Ned?”

Shady sat down beside me. “He left and never came back. With Ned gone, I suppose he felt he’d done the one thing the town couldn’t forgive him for. We didn’t blame him. No, sir. There was nothing to forgive him for. The problem was we couldn’t forgive ourselves.”

“For what?”

“For not being able to live up to what we’d convinced ourselves of. That there was something special about Manifest. That we could overcome our past and start over.”

“What about the springwater, the metal ore in the ground?”

“Some of us started believing our own tale. That it might be healing water, hallowed ground. But it was just water and dirt, plain and simple.”