A man called smith, p.1
A Man Called Smith, page 1
Copyright © 2019 by Tanya E Williams
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including the condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Printed in the United States of America
Published by Rippling Effects, Surrey, British Columbia, Canada. Visit the author’s website at www.tanyaewilliams.com
FIRST EDITION
Cover design by Ana Grigoriu
Print ISBN: 978-1-989144-04-6
EBook ISBN: 978-1-989144-05-3
For Gem
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
An Interview With The Author
Author Notes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tanya E Williams
Chapter 1
April 1949
Cedar Springs, South Dakota
* * *
John
* * *
I already long for the normalcy of a typical Tuesday morning. The afternoon sun filters through wisps of clouds hanging low in the April sky. The wind and early morning chill have evaporated. The same is true of the future I imagined for myself and my children, vanished like smoke through a chimney. The bright spring sun creates the deceptive appearance of a lovely day, the kind those who have been barricaded against the winter crave.
We gather around the deep rectangular hole, the freshly dug earth beside it in a small mountain of rich brown soil. The sun dips behind a cropping of dense clouds, perhaps realizing its error and apologizing for its appearance and warmth on a day such as this. I watch, my body numb, as grief dictates the crowd’s movements. With a bowed head and tear-filled eyes, I scan those gathered, all of whom seem to appreciate the view of their shoes more than that of the casket in front of us.
We were married just short of three years. I shake my head in disbelief. “It wasn’t enough,” I whisper to nobody in particular. I might never have had enough time with her to be satisfied. But having her life cut devastatingly short, without warning, is too much for my broken heart to handle. Mere days ago, I watched in slow motion as our happiness was blown away like dust in the wind. My heart sinks further as my thoughts turn to Calla and Jarred.
Children deserve a mother. Violet is, or rather was, an exceptional mother. A rogue sob escapes my closed lips at the thought of our loss. After less than a week without their mother, Calla and Jarred moved to my parents’ home at the edge of town. We made the decision out of necessity rather than emotion. My mother, well versed in raising children, took charge when the news of Violet’s death reached my family. Caring for her grandchildren is a joyous privilege my mother has adored since Calla entered our world. Given the situation, I can’t help but wonder if my mother’s own grief spurred her into action, driving her to busy her otherwise idle hands. When I found myself with a premature infant who needed care and a two-year-old girl devastated by the disappearance of her mother from her life, my parents opened my childhood home without hesitation, embracing Calla and Jarred with warm, loving arms.
To my left, Reverend Campbell stands with his back straight and his shoulders wide, at the head of Violet’s final resting place. His white robes billow gently near his feet as he opens his Bible to a marked page. I brace myself to hear his booming voice—the same voice that baptized every child in my family, prayed for me and many more during the war, and celebrated my marriage to Violet with great enthusiasm.
As his words ring out, reaching as high as heaven itself, Violet’s mother startles and a few solemn shadows to my right waver. Her slight and fragile body is flanked by Violet’s father on one side and my own mother on the other. Childhood friends themselves, the two mothers cling to each other for support. They both know the feeling that a mother experiences when the life of her child is snuffed out, in contradiction with the natural progression of life.
I stare at the casket, stained deep brown, and attempt to recall a time when Violet wasn’t in my life. I realize after several moments of deep concentration that no such time exists. Being slightly younger than Vi, I am slapped with the reality that I have never known a world without Violet. I certainly have no desire to know one now. The tears pool at the edges of my eyes and spill freely to the ground.
The tug-of-war inside my heart is real. Part of me can’t wait to escape this dreadful day. The thought of entertaining others at the reception is unimaginable. I am not certain I can resign myself to the obligation of listening to others speak of my Vi, with solemn faces and clasped hands. The desire to hide under the covers and forget this nightmare is both intoxicating and unrealistic. The other part of me doesn’t want to rush this final goodbye. This is my last time to be near her, to be of this same earth with her. I stiffen my resolve and straighten my posture. I am unable to let her go just yet, and I pray for Reverend Campbell to continue speaking, to draw out the service all afternoon.
My guilt over wasted time and lost moments creeps in and stands beside me, keeping me company like a schoolyard bully. The guilt’s overbearing presence is heavy, and I am compelled to swivel my head, snatching a glance to my right, ensuring that my guilt is not physically present.
Though, over time, Violet came to understand my decision to join the war effort, I regret that I was the cause of such heartache and worry for her. I wish I could take back the lost years, the pain, the fear, her worry. I know now that, once begun, a war never truly ends. The casualties of war are far too great, and they haunt both the living and the dead long after the battlefield has been abandoned.
Once overseas, it didn’t take long for my preconceived illusions of war to tarnish. We felt neither gallant nor heroic as we trudged through mud, snow, and rain with the constant threat of enemy fire. The daily battle against our own fears and the necessity to fight to the end, no matter the cost to our souls, left me battle weary and with an instinct to flee at the first sign of trouble.
I was far from a violent man when I left Cedar Springs for basic training. I always chose to take the high road in potentially inflammatory situations. I had never been in a schoolyard scuffle and always practiced patience during disagreements. Any fight I might have possessed upon enlisting vanished when I learned of the kind of evil humans are capable of committing.
The war taught me that fighting disengages a man from his true self faster than anything I had witnessed. The lesson stuck, and when I laid down my weapon for the final time, I vowed to avoid battles, big and small, for the rest of my life. They simply are not worth the harm they cause.
I am abruptly wrenched from my thoughts as Reverend Campbell touches my shoulder and says my name. His compassionate brown eyes house understanding mixed with his own grief. His love for Violet is written on his face, while his concern for me creases his forehead. Those gathered are singing one of Violet’s favorite hymns, swaying slightly as one, mournful and sedated in their grief-stricken states.
“John,” Reverend Campbell says again. “It is time.” He motions with his Bible-holding hand toward the casket that has somehow made its way into the ground. “It is time, John.”
A fresh shudder of tears invades my being. Duty bound to fulfill the task, I take one step toward the lowered casket. I say a silent goodbye and release the single white rose from my grip. After a moment, I reluctantly find my place among my family and close my eyes. A shiver runs through me at the repeated sound of a white rose being dropped onto Violet’s casket. Each person in attendance steps forward in turn to say farewell to my beloved Vi.
Chapter 2
June 1944
Caumont, France
* * *
John
* * *
Caked in dirt, I lie molded into the uneven ground. The fighting reached deep into the early morning hours, stealing any hope of rest. I could blame the Germans at Caumont, but I know my exhausti on is days old, from the rainstorm of destruction at the beach. Sleep is the luxury of a man who has never seen war.
“It’s a funny thing. War, that is,” a soldier, new to our platoon since we made it past the beach, says as we crouch along the hedgerow.
Having spoken with him briefly, I only know he is a farmer’s son from Idaho. I look over my shoulder in a feeble attempt to assess his sanity, all the while keeping an eye out for movement beyond the brush.
With no verbal response from me, he continues as if reciting something poetic. The breeze dances lightly across the backs of our necks, sometimes soothing the heat and other times delivering chills as cold as death itself. “I’ve seen so much violence in just a few short days. Feels like months though. It numbs me to know these things. The knowledge haunts me in daylight and at night. But the funny thing is . . .” He sighs. “I can see a memory in that there field, and I just don’t think I know what is real anymore.”
“Only real things we have to know right now are where the enemy is and whether they’re fixing to shoot at us,” I say dryly, hoping that holding my own emotions at bay will keep this soldier alive.
While I’m lying in the dirt, brambles tugging at every piece of cloth and skin, and searching the area with eyes that narrow and scope like binoculars, I see it. I understand what Idaho is talking about.
I am sitting beneath the large hackberry tree in Father’s field. Just sitting and whittling on a small fallen branch. The wind rustles through the tall yellow crop. Like an ocean moves in waves, a field sways to its own rhythm while offering a soothing song for those fortunate enough to hear it. I must have sunk deep into my own thoughts, though I couldn’t say now what they were.
A shadow catches my attention. I look up to find Violet standing a few feet in front of me, her dress swaying in the breeze, her hair aglow from the sunlight behind her. She’s just standing there, smiling at me. I can almost hear her. “Didn’t you hear me calling you, John?”
“John. John. Ten o'clock. Sniper in the hedge,” my commanding officer hisses. I realize my elevated position and ease back down, tucking my body as low as the earth allows.
June 1949
Cedar Springs, South Dakota
* * *
John
* * *
Immersed in the dream, I burrow my face into the pillow, so deep I might suffocate. I stretch my arm across the bed, instinctively reaching for her. During these years since the war’s end, she is the one person who could offer me peace and calm my mind. The coolness of the vacant spot where she used to sleep snaps me from my dreamlike state and into reality. I heave my body to a seated position, forcing my eyes not to look over my shoulder for confirmation. I place both feet on the floor to steady the dizzying sensation. Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my calloused hands, I press hard against the sockets to try to keep the tears from falling.
Two months have passed, and yet I still wake with the belief that Violet is alive and well. A shiver runs through me as my stomach turns and clenches in response to the grief that follows me like a shadow. I tug a t-shirt over my head and rise to face another day. Another day without her. Though reality tells me otherwise, my head refuses to accept this truth about my life.
The phone rings as I make my way into the kitchen. I reach for the receiver and glance at the clock on the wall. I slept longer than usual again. “Hello.”
“John, dear.” Mother has been at a loss for how to address me since Violet passed. I suspect she stops herself from saying good morning, solely because she knows there is nothing good about this or any other morning. “It is Saturday, and well, we are hoping to see you today.” Her words are tentative, but her resolve pushes them out.
I squeeze my temples with one hand. By “we,” she means Calla and Jarred, my children.
“Yes,” I say as both an acknowledgment of my duties and a promise to fulfill them.
“I will pack a picnic.” Mother’s voice wavers, and I imagine her nervously twisting the phone’s cord in her free hand. This loss is not mine alone. Violet was like a daughter to my parents and an older sister to my siblings. She was a well-loved woman. No matter how a person came to know her, she would capture their heart with her piercing blue eyes and warm smile. “Calla could benefit from some time out of doors.”
“See you at noon, then.” I hang up the phone before she can say another word. My head drops, and the anguish I’ve tried desperately to hold at bay escapes from the hollows of my chest. My tears hit the wood floor as I move about the kitchen, attempting to silence the agony with the distraction of daily chores. I demand that my body perform these mundane tasks. Coffee, shower, dress. These things keep me sane.
There is little food in the refrigerator, and my stomach grumbles in protest as I load my truck with boxes filled with colorful fabrics. Yesterday, I found myself in a puddle of despair on the living room floor, where Violet set up her sewing machine and supplies. Her sewing table was a happy place for her. In front of the large window that faces the front yard, she stitched together dresses for Calla and herself, along with thoughtful gifts intended for the Christmas season. She had been working on infant-sized articles in the months before Jarred arrived. A stockpile of cloth diapers made their way to Mother’s when it became clear that I was in no condition to care for a newborn.
The Singer squeals across the floor as I drag the machine and the desk I built toward the front door. I wipe a trickle of sweat from my brow and survey the space. A collection of dust and a basket of half-finished sofa pillows is all that remains of the sanctuary she created. I remember her joy that first Christmas after we married. Violet’s anticipation of Christmas morning had rivaled that of a three-year-old. Having been banned from the living room the afternoon prior so I could place her gift near the tree, she sat perched on the edge of the sofa, a wide smile spread across her face, eager for me to uncover her surprise.
When I lifted the bedsheet that covered the sewing machine and desk, her delight at the thoughtfulness and usefulness of the gift was apparent. All she required was the relocation of the machine to the center of the window, and every day after, Violet could be found sewing and humming along to the radio. When Calla arrived, the living room became a nap-time nursery and later a play space where the two of them would spend hours talking, singing, reading, and sewing. A fleeting smile brushes across my lips before I heave the machine and the desk into the back of my faded green truck. Its destination is Mother’s home and the back bedroom my sisters share. I couldn’t refuse their request to continue Violet’s sewing.
Violet’s scent permeates the air as I carry the basket of unfinished pillows, hugging it to my chest as I move. I open the truck’s door and toss the basket onto the seat beside me. Before I even turn the key in the ignition, I know I will take the long way to my family home. I want a few more minutes with her, even if only in my imagination.
Chapter 3
June 1949
Cedar Springs, South Dakota
* * *
John
* * *
I park the truck by the back of the house. The stench of grief permeates the air inside the stuffy cab. What only thirty minutes ago felt like an escape from reality now suffocates me with its weight. I press my finger and thumb into the pocket between my nose and eyes, determined to hold back another flood of tears. I give my head a firm shake and marvel at my body’s ability to produce a never-ending supply of liquid angst.
