The Quell Stone
By Z V SATTERWHITE
Copyright 2011 Z. V. Satterwhite
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I have so many to thank for making my dream come true. So many friends have encouraged me by reading and offering suggestions to make this story better. My handsome Bud, you’re the best. Thank you for reading, rereading, and helping me with the technical detail about drag racing. Lindsay, you are an amazing editor and idea person. Holly, thank you for listening and being patient. I love you all.
Come child!
Sit with me and listen to the stories
Grandfather told.
Let him tickle your ears,
And dry your tears.
Come!
Listen to the stories Grandfather told.
—Zada Virginia Satterwhite
Prelude
Dr. Griswold left the hospital, after his rounds, on a starry, crisp, autumn night. He looked up at the sky and shivered. “Won’t be long until the first freeze,” he thought.
He reached in his pants’ pocket, felt for his keys and pushed the clicker. His beautiful, new, 2012 black and silver Camaro started up and idled smoothly. As he reached to open the car door, he heard a cry. He stopped and listened. He heard the cry again. The sound seemed to come from the bushes behind his car. Dr. Griswold hesitated a moment before going to investigate. Underneath a holly bush, he could see two little eyes staring at him. “What in tarnation?” he uttered to himself.
He reached into the bush, felt the prick of thorns, grabbed the tiny shivering animal and pulled it out. “Why look at you! What are you doing out here?” Dr Griswold brushed off the leaves and saw a matted, wet, black kitten.
The kitten attempted a feeble hiss.
In a soft voice Fred Griswold began talking to the frightened kitty. “Calm down. It’s all right. You’re safe.” Soon the shivering stopped and the kitten relaxed.
“I’ve got to warm you up.” The doctor popped the trunk, took out a towel and got into the front seat of his car. As he was drying the kitty off and cleaning his paws he suddenly realized the kitten had seven toes on each paw. “I can’t believe it! You’re a Hemmingway! I’m taking you home.” Wrapped in the towel, the kitten closed its eyes and began to purr.
Fred gave the kitten a bath and it drank a saucer of warm milk. As the doctor watched the kitten, a strange sensation stirred up memories long forgotten. “Has it really been fifty years?” he said to himself.
Fred walked over to the hall table and picked up the invitation he had been ignoring for days. It was a Save the Date for the Wiggins Preparatory Class of 1962 50th Reunion. He had been dreading this event. After all, he had never gone to one before.
He built a fire in the fireplace, picked up the kitten, and settled into his favorite recliner. “I think I’ll name you Boots after the Hemmingway I had when I was a kid.”
The fire crackled and popped as Fred stared into its hypnotic light and Boots closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The memories began flooding back.
It was nearly midnight. He remembered the ambulance screeching to a stop on the emergency room driveway of Webbe Memorial. He remembered swarms of medics descending, whisking him from the ambulance, onto a gurney and through swinging hospital doors. He heard cries and moans. “What’s happened? Where’s my Mom?” he thought. Then, darkness. Silence.
* * *
“Francis.” His shoulder was being shaken. “It’s your grandmother. Can you hear me?” A terse voice beckoned through his foggy mind.
“What? Grandmother? I don’t have a grandmother, do I?” His thoughts were hazy, dreamlike.
She continued poking and prodding Freddy. She turned to the doctor. “Is he in pain?”
“He probably is now,” the doctor thought.
“Your grandson had quite an injury tonight. He has a concussion but I am confident that he will regain consciousness before too long and we can assess his condition better at that point.”
Mrs. Webbe fidgeted with her collar. “Oh, dear me, Dr. Throgmorton. Will he be all right? You know, mentally?”
“Again, we will assess his condition once he regains consciousness. Head injuries can result in permanent mental and physical disability, but that is very rare.” Dr. Throgmorton checked Freddy’s chart and made notations. “Most likely Francis will experience a serious headache for a day or two.”
“Mental and physical disability?” Mrs. Webbe looked distraught. “And I overheard a nurse saying there could be amnesia or loss of memory and that his mother…his mother may never recover,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. We simply do not know.” Dr Throgmorton paused. “I’m so sorry, Adele, I know you’re worried. Your daughter’s injuries are very serious. But your grandson is already showing a significant improvement. Let’s wait and see.”
Dr. Throgmorton dug into his pocket and pulled out a foil wrapped CarPop. “Adele, I recommend these highly.” He opened the wrapper, took Mrs. Webbe’s gloved hand, and placed the miniature car-shaped lollipop inside. “Look! It’s a 49 Ford”, he said resting his hand on her shoulder.
A faint smile creased her mouth. “I remember yours. What fun we had.” She drifted into her thoughts momentarily until the sound of the respirators roused her back to concern.
“I just don’t know what I’ll do. What if he’s not right? Could he end up a vegetable?” Mrs. Webbe sat twisting the foil wrapper in her hands as she gazed upon the motionless boy. “Our family name. You understand, don’t you?”
Dr. Throgmorton recoiled his hand in disbelief. “Your first concern should be to hope for a full recovery.” Disbelief gave way to disappointment. “He will need care once he leaves the hospital. Who will be taking care of young Francis here during his recovery?”
Mrs. Webbe recognized her familial responsibility, which polite society would expect her to assume. “I suppose he can stay at my home until more suitable arrangements can be made. Really, I don’t know a thing about boys.” Mrs. Webbe scrunched up her nose as though she smelled something rotten. “My house is full of priceless antiques. I simply can’t have…”
“You’re his next of kin,” Dr. Throgmorton interrupted. “I trust you recognize that with his mother in a coma, the boy needs your help if he is to heal properly.” He looked at her intently.
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Webbe began to pace the room. “Still, this might be difficult. You know Hannah and I have been estranged for the past ten years.” She stopped at the window and looked at the full moon. “Francis was only two when she left. She said she never wanted to see me again.” Snuffling Mrs. Webbe continued, “I don’t know what I did to deserve that.” She turned to face the doctor. “I just wouldn’t want to cross her wishes, you see.”
“Adele, I’d think you’d be overjoyed to see your family again…grateful. Who knows, you might even enjoy it.”
Dr. Throgmorton paused as if to say something more. Instead, he left the room.
It was quiet except for the sound of the breathing machine. Whooo, humm. Whooo, humm. Mrs. Webbe studied the cherry flavored CarPop, put it in her mouth, seated herself in the green hospital chair, sighed, closed her eyes and fell asleep.
The next morning, Freddy awoke to a thunderous pounding above his left eye. He blinked against the light and the pain spread around his skull to his right ear. His vision was blurry but he could sense a presence near.
“Francis, are you awake?” Mrs. Webbe peered intently at Freddy’s blinking eyes. “Can you see me?” She snapped her fingers above his eyes. “Are you able to talk? Count to ten.” She enunciated slowly. “Do— you— understand— me?” Hovering over him, she held her breath and waited for a response.
Freddy caught the faint scent of roses. He lay silent trying to make sense of what he heard. Exasperated, Mrs. Webbe straightened up and let out a loud sigh. She stood at the edge of his bed for a moment, then tucked the side sheet under the mattress and rearranged the blanket at the foot of the bed. She went to the sink, lathered, rinsed and dried her hands. She gazed at her long, red fingernails and admired her sparkling three caret diamond ring.
Freddy tried to speak through parched, cracked lips. “What?”
Mrs. Webbe turned to look at Freddy. “I’m your Grandmother.” She walked to the foot of the bed. “You and your mother were in an unfortunate accident on the way to Hickory Creek. It’s simply a miracle I was called to your rescue. Now, can you move your fingers? Your toes?” She reached for his foot and squeezed it.
Freddy winced. He had no idea what she was talking about or who she was. “Where am I? Where’s my mother?” He noticed his hospital ID bracelet, tried to roll over but became tangled up in the IV tube.
You’ve— been— in— an— accident,” She enunciated slowly. “You’re in the hospital recovering from a nasty blow to your head.” She gazed into space as she recollected the events, thinking out loud more than addressing Freddy. “A helicopter took you to the nearest hospital but your mother’s injuries were too severe for that second rate place so an ambulance brought you both to our hospital here in St. Wigbod. Our trauma unit is second to none.”
She looked back at Freddy and expertly smoothed out the kink in the IV line, pulled the top sheet up under his arms and pinched Freddy’s ear. “Your mother is just down the hall,” she added bluntly. “She’ll be fine. Now let’s take a look at you. Is your brain working well, Francis?”
“My name is Freddy,” he said before drifting behind his eyelids once again.
Mrs. Webbe pressed the call button on the wall above Freddy’s bed. Clicking her fingernails on the wall she waited. Impatient she pushed it again, twice.
“You certainly took long enough,” Mrs. Webbe said when a voice answered over the static of the intercom. “This is Adele Webbe. I expect better service here. Tell Dr. Throgmorton I need to see him immediately.”
“Yes, Mrs. Webbe, I’ll try to reach him.”
“You’d better do better than try.” She snapped. “What is your name?”… There was no reply.
Mrs. Adele Webbe fancied herself to be the upper crust of St. Wigbod society and expected to be treated as a person of privilege and entitlement. She was consumed with genealogy and claimed she had traced her lineage back to Godwulf, born in 80 A.D of Asgard, Asia. This pedigree entitled her to membership in many elite societies, most importantly, The Jamestowne Society, reserved only for individuals who could trace their family ancestry to the Jamestowne colony. Adele Webbe judged everyone by their position in society, breeding, and lineage. She was a founding member of the St. Wigbod Company of the Jamestowne Society and its Governor Elect. Her important friends were all members of the Jamestowne Society. She sought out and traded with merchants of prominence. Suffice it to say Adele Webbe was a snob.
The door to Freddy’s hospital room flew open and in bounded Dr. Throgmorton, red-faced. “How dare you speak to my staff with such condescension, Adele. You should be kissing the hands of those caring for your grandson instead of issuing edicts. One of these days – What did you want, anyway?”
With fawning obeisance, Mrs. Webbe addressed Dr. Throgmorton as she walked over to him and brushed some lint off his shoulder. “I certainly didn’t mean to offend anyone, Kellam. I was just so tickled at Francis here. He is speaking quite coherently today, although he doesn’t seem to want to answer my questions. It seems as though his brain is working just fine, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, he is recovering quite well, which I’m sure you’re very glad to know.”
“So, no brain damage?” Mrs. Webbe clasped her hands together smiling.
Dr. Throgmorton shook his head slowly with incredulity. “No, Adele, and he won’t be a ‘vegetable’, either,” he added sarcastically. “I do have concerns about Hannah though.”
“Yes, I was just thinking of dear Hannah lying in her room unconscious, alone, unable to do anything for herself.” She gazed at the flower painting across the room and put her manicured hand to her neck. “She doesn’t have any insurance, you know— her treatment will be horrendously expensive. Perhaps it would be better to transfer her to the County Hospital. After all, it is closer to her home. Will you arrange it?”
This is unfathomable, Adele.” Dr. Throgmorton spit his words out. “She doesn’t need to be close to her home; she needs to be close to you and her son! And you know very well that this facility far exceeds County. Hannah should stay here.”
Adele Webbe pursed her lips, stood with arms akimbo and said, “You will do as I say, Kellam. Arrange the transfer.”
Dr. Throgmorton turned on his heels, bounded out of the room and slammed the door with such force the water in the pitcher on Freddy’s side table quivered.
Seven days later Freddy was well enough to go home. However, he had no idea where that might be. His mother, Hannah Griswold, thirty-two years old, still in a coma and showing no signs of recovering had been transferred to Bruster County Hospital, twenty-five miles from St. Wigbod.
At precisely 7:15 in the morning Grandmother Webbe entered Freddy’s room looking like a tropical fruit basket. Her bright yellow summer frock featured bananas, pineapples and mangos. Atop her head was an oversized, floppy hat decorated with an assortment of fruits the likes of which you see in a Carmen Miranda movie. On the brim an ornamental macaw perched precariously; her dyed red hair peeked out. Crocheted yellow gloves clutched a matching straw purse. Briskly, Mrs. Webbe crossed the room, pulled open the curtains. Sunshine filled the room.
“It’s time to wake up, Francis, and get dressed. Put on that outfit I bought for you.” She pointed to khaki pants and a checkered shirt draped over the corner chair. Dr. Throgmorton said you’re well enough and so I’m taking you to my house.”
“What?” Freddy’s voice cracked. “Where’s Mama?”
Mrs. Webbe removed her gloves. “You’ve forgotten again, haven’t you?”
“I guess so…”
Mrs. Webbe signed. “Okay, I’ll tell you once more. Use those big ears of yours this time.”
Mrs. Webbe opened her purse, put her gloves inside and dug around for a lipstick. She walked over to the lavatory mirror, carefully applied lipstick to her mouth, blotted with her fingertip and smeared red on her cheeks. She clicked her purse closed and wheeled around.
“A week ago you and your mother were in a car crash outside of Hickory Creek. The police contacted me because I’m next of kin… your mother is my daughter.” She returned to Freddy’s bedside. “And so that makes you my grandson,” she said pinching him on the cheek.
“Ouch!” Freddy flinched and jerked away. Memory of his hospital stay began to return as he pulled himself out of sleep. He tried to sit up.
“I want to see my mother.”
Mrs. Webbe shook her head. “Not at this time.” She bent over and whispered in his ear. “Your mother is in a coma.”
Freddy twisted the edge of the sheet, noticed the parrot on her hat and felt panic rising in his chest. “I want to see my mother!” he repeated. “Please! Please tell me where she is!”
Mrs. Webbe tapped the bed railing while making a clucking sound with her tongue. “Bruster County.”
She then strolled to the window and blinked against the glare. Freddy was dumbfounded. She stared into the parking lot for a moment. Turning back she feigned a smile at Freddy.
“So Francis, for now you are going to live with me. This is quite an opportunity for you, as you’ll be attending Wiggins Preparatory in the fall with all of the boys and girls who rate in St. Wigbod.”
Freddy Griswold’s future had taken an unexpected turn. His life at Hickory Creek would fade to a dim memory. And so having no place else to go, Freddy went to live with Mrs. Webbe, his grandmother.
* * *
Grandmother Webbe agreed that Freddy would visit his mother as soon as possible so long as he would behave like a proper St. Wigbod boy should. And so began his new life.
* * *
A black limousine waited at the loading area outside the hospital. The driver, a young man, mid twenties, dressed in black livery shot out of the car, opened the passenger rear door and stood at attention. Freddy noticed his crooked smile and chipped front tooth. His cap squeezed down a mass of black curly hair. To Freddy’s astonishment, Grandmother Webbe got in and nodded for him to follow. He settled into the roomy backseat, the distinctive smell of old money wafted in the air.
“Charles, this is my grandson, Francis,” Mrs. Webbe said, as he put the car into gear and pulled into traffic.
“But please call me Freddy.”
“No, no, no! We have an agreement, young man. Don’t be common. No nicknames. You were named after your great-great-great grandfather, Sir Francis Snarsbrough, one of the original settlers of Jamestowne.” Mrs. Webbe puffed up like a peacock and her voice became shrill. “You come from a long line of royal ancestors, Francis. You must live up to your legacy.” She adjusted the air conditioner vent and the parrot on her hat jiggled.
“Yes sir, Francis. Listen to your grandmother.” Freddy saw Charles wink at him in the rear-view mirror.
Mrs. Webbe pulled out a notebook from her attaché, reviewed the notes she had made earlier and looked at Freddy with narrowed eyes. “You will be attending Wiggins Preparatory in September. First of all, we have to get your hair cut.” Mrs. Webbe pulled on his blonde rooster-tailed cowlick, “Seedy.” Freddy jerked his head to the side and stared out the window, his vision blurry and unfocused.
Checking her list Mrs. Webbe continued, “You need to be fitted with your school uniform. And you’ll attend Miss Wingfield’s School of Manners and Courtly Conduct… your name must be placed on the cotillion roster…” Her voice droned on and Freddy’s head started to pound.
The car traveled about three miles before turning onto a lane flanked by giant poplar trees— the driveway to Grandmother Webbe’s Bavarian mansion, Eagles’ Nest, perched on the highest point in St. Wigbod. Stopping at the oversized black wrought iron gate, Charles punched in the code. The gate parted revealing a magnificent garden of flowers and shrubs that filled the vast grounds. Freddy could not believe his eyes. Her house was like one of those gigantic English country estates he’d read about in geography class.
Three huge chimneys rose up from the high pitched gables of the red brick, three story Tutor style house. A bay window supported by decorative corbels graced the second story. The crisscrossing half timbered wood on the second story made Freddy think of the house from Hansel and Gretel.
The limousine rolled to a stop at the side entrance under the portico. Access to this part of the house, he would learn, was reserved for close family members and employees. Freddy reached for the door handle and Grandmother Webbe clucked her tongue in disapproval and nodded at Charles making his way to the side of the car. “Patience…please.” The door swung open and Charles stepped back allowing Freddy to get out and then he reached in to offer Mrs. Webbe his hand.
Mrs. Webbe led the way up the stairs to the side doorway. “Come along…don’t dawdle,” she quipped, shaking her head. “Just like your father,” she added under her breath.
A plump, short, middle-aged woman appeared at the door, her wiry white hair poking out of a black mesh hairnet. Her starched white pinafore apron covered a black uniform dress. “Welcome, welcome,” she gushed.
“Francis, may I introduce Mrs. McVicker, our housekeeper. I expect that you will treat her with only the best behavior.”
Mrs. McVicker made a small curtsy, beaming from head to foot and said, “Please, allow me to show you to your room, sir.”
“Your bedroom is on the second floor in the west wing and I expect you to stay in that area. I don’t want to hear you’ve been roaming all over or snooping about,” Mrs. Webbe added.
Freddy craned his neck trying to take in the vastness. “Yes Mrs. Webbe,” Freddy said.
“Mrs. Webbe? Why, son, this is your grandma!” Charles chimed in as he entered the doorway.
“Absolutely not, Charles. I don’t want to be called Grandma!” Charles looked startled. “Although I will allow Grandmother,” she added after a moment. “Yes, you may address me as Grandmother Webbe, Francis.”
Freddy nodded.
“Well, Mrs. McVicker will be seeing after your meals and your… other needs,” Mrs. Webbe added, failing to think of any other needs that a young boy might have. Freddy could hear the disdain in Grandmother Webbe’s voice. “Is there anything else before I leave you with Mrs. McVicker?”
Freddy shifted from one foot to the other. “When will I be able to see Mama?”
Clearly exasperated Mrs. Webbe replied, “I thought we made an agreement, Francis, and that agreement does not include you blathering about this day and night. I don’t know why you can’t get this into your brain— your mother is very ill. You would make her worse by visiting her before she is ready. Is that what you want?”
Freddy shook his head.
“FINALLY!” She turned, made a gesture of dismissal to Mrs. McVicker and entered the house.
Mrs. McVicker looked at Freddy with a befuddled expression and shrugged in apology; then a smile beamed over her face. “Come along, Francis. Let’s see your room, shall we?”
Mrs. McVicker led Freddy from the back entry-way through the mud room, down a hallway and up the narrow, steep servant’s stairs. On the second floor, Mrs. McVicker hurried down another hall and then stopped in front of a white door in need of a fresh coat of paint. She unlocked the door and Freddy peered in at the musty smelling cold room. On the windows hung heavy, red velvet drapes. At one end of the room was a double bed with an oversized headboard decorated with carved cherubs. Matching marble-topped tables were on each side of the bed. In one corner a knick-knack shelf was home to a variety of angel statuettes. Flanking the other corner was what appeared to be a shrine. Candles of different colors and shapes sat atop a table adorned by a white lace tablecloth. Figurines in colorful robes holding spears stood guard. A worn carpet, Persian design, covered the discolored unvarnished hardwood floor. For some strange reason Freddy felt a familiar presence.
“This will be your room,” Mrs. McVicker said. “It hasn’t been used in quite a while. Mrs. Webbe used to come up here, but that’s been years now.” Mrs. McVicker walked across the room, pulled back the drapes and opened the windows. A whoosh of dust blew in. “We hadn’t the time to do much more than clean your bathroom and change the sheets but Mister Charles and I will give your room a complete makeover this weekend.”
Freddy took a deep breath and the two stood quietly for a moment, searching for something to say.
“Your bathroom is through that door,” Mrs. McVicker said pointing. She hurried to the door directly across from the bedstead and opened it to reveal a full length mirror on the inside of the door.
She looked down at her hands and twisted her ring. “Also, Mrs. Webbe would prefer for you to use the servant’s stairway. She just thought that makes more sense for a boy, and really, you can come and go more freely that way.”
Mrs. McVicker looked up at Freddy, but he was gazing across the room at a yellow Formica and chrome table pushed up against the window. Beside it was a chrome chair covered in worn yellow vinyl. Yellow tape covered its many rips and tears.
“I know it doesn’t look like a boy’s room right now, Francis, but Mister Charles and I will find some things to make you feel more at home in this room. In the meantime, let’s make the best of things.” Almost as an after thought she said, “I’ve got some fresh baked oatmeal cookies down in the kitchen.” She hurried to the door, trilling, “Cookies and milk, cookies and milk – that’ll make you sit up and twilk.”
“Thank you Mrs. McVicker,” Freddy smiled weakly. “I’ll be right down.” Freddy went over to the bed and tested it for comfort. His mattress was as hard as a rock.
* * *
Freddy did not see his grandmother for the rest of the day. That evening Mrs. McVicker brought a radio to Freddy’s room. He sat on his bed listening to KTSM, the rock station, until he drifted off to sleep.
Suddenly, he was jolted awake by a flutter across his hand. He listened. Crunch, crunch, rattle, rattle. Something was on his hand! Freddy flung his hand through the air and reached for the bedside lamp. Light filled the room to reveal COCKROACHES! Fleeing black roaches, flew, ran, scattered across the room, many disappearing under the baseboards. Horror stricken, Freddy pulled a shoe from his foot and took aim at the monstrous insects, banging and crushing their guts onto the floor. One dazed roach flew at Freddy, its sticky legs grabbing hold as it found the opening to Freddy’s shirt and disappeared inside. Jumping, screaming, hitting, Freddy ripped the buttons from his new shirt, tearing it off. He struck at the roach as it nimbly fell to the floor and vanished.
His heart was racing. His eyes darted over the room, but the forces had retreated. He pulled off his second shoe, slipped under the covers, tucked the sheets close to his body and gripped a shoe in each hand. Freddy did not dare turn the light off again. He spent the rest of the night huddled against the headboard, his mind aware of every creak. At some point he drifted off to sleep.
Freddy awoke the next morning, his head pounding, shoulders stiff, aching. He closed his eyes as he stretched and bent over, touching the floor, and felt the hard shell and gooey remains of one of the nasty assailants in last night’s attack. His hand recoiled and his mind raced as he remembered the nightmare. He leapt back onto the bed and eyed the room for any evidence of live roaches. Finally he decided he was safe for the moment.
Hurriedly, he pulled on a pair of blue jeans, a t-shirt and tennis shoes, high-stepping out of the room avoiding the gooey corpses. As Freddy neared the kitchen he could hear Mrs. McVicker singing, “Oh mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy, a kid’ll eat ivy too, wouldn’t you?”
Freddy stood in the doorway until Mrs. McVicker looked up. “Good morning, Francis! Come in and have yourself a seat. I’m making pancakes.”
Freddy glanced around the room, looking for any sign of vermin— an antenna, hairy legs, beady eyes— that might indicate their hiding place. Deciding it was safe, he took a seat.
“It smells great,” Freddy said although his stomach felt queasy.
“How did you sleep?” Mrs. McVicker smiled revealing her stubby teeth as she placed a plate of pancakes at his place.
Freddy looked at the plate and his stomach curdled. “Honestly?”
Concern spread across Mrs. McVicker’s face, “Of course, dear!”
“It was the worst night of my life,” Freddy gasped. “My room is infested with cockroaches…they were crawling on me, on the bed until I turned on the light. There must have been a thousand of them!” Freddy stabbed his pancakes, took a bite and spit it out. “I’m sorry, these are really good, but the thought of those roaches makes me want to throw up. Yuck.”
“How frightful,” Mrs. McVicker said shuddering, wringing her hands. “We haven’t used that wing of the house in ages and I was afraid that the place would be overrun with rats,” Freddy’s face turned pale, “but I didn’t find any droppings. I just never thought about roaches! She went over to Freddy, hugged his neck, and assured him Charles would take care of the problem.
“Your grandmother wants to see you. She’s waiting in her study for you to finish breakfast. She would be beside herself if she knew about your nasty visitors. Let’s keep this to ourselves.”
Freddy shuddered, looked at the pancakes, and then back at Mrs. McVicker. “I just can’t,” he sighed. She nodded her head and handed him his orange juice, which he gulped down. He followed Mrs. McVicker through the butler’s pantry, past the dining room, the library, the formal parlor and into the study.
Grandmother Webbe was dressed in a grey suit; her red hair pulled up into a bun, was on the phone and motioned for Freddy to sit in a high back leather chair. When her conversation was over she put the receiver down with a silent, deliberate force. Looking at Freddy as though she were examining an insect under a microscope, she sighed, shook her head. “I don’t know if I can help you. Just now I was on the phone with your former public school, P.S. something or another. It seems your grades were less than stellar, although, you did manage to pull a B in physical education. No brains… just brawn. DISGRACEFUL!”
Mrs. Webbe rose from her chair, walked to the fireplace and checked the mantle for dust. “I’m going to have to pull some strings to get you into Wiggins. They only want the best and brightest, you know.” Freddy’s head started to pound.
Mrs. Webbe picked up a book on her desk and leisurely turned pages. “I don’t know if you can make it at Wiggins,” she said shaking her head. Then, lifting her eyes from the page she smirked “You look like a peon in those scruffy jeans. All I can do is try to make something out of you, Francis. Heaven only knows you mother hasn’t.
Freddy felt as though his head would split. “Don’t talk about my mother like that.” Freddy approached his grandmother, his arms stiff at his side, eyes bulging “I WANT TO SEE MY MOTHER!”
“Don’t use that tone with me, young man,” she shot back. Freddy choked back his tears but stood his ground. Mrs. Webbe realized she had gone too far. “Now I think we’re all under a strain… so many adjustments. I’m going to send you to see a…uh… doctor... Dr. Pickhouse. He might be able to help you.” Mrs. Webbe narrowed her eyes, turned away and hastily returned to her writing desk. She began scribbling on notepaper, “I’ll make an appointment for you today.”
Sensing Freddy’s eyes on her, she looked up, pursed her lips, and waved her hand in dismissal, “That is all. You may go.”
Freddy’s face flushed. He stared at this woman in disbelief, then turned and fled the room. Somehow he found his way back through the maze of rooms to the door that led to the abandoned second floor… Abandoned. Just like him. He opened his door and stopped dead in his tracks, reminded again of his roommates. He stared at the scattered roach remains on the floor, and then ran to his bed swinging punches. He punched and pounded his bed until his knuckles hurt from hitting the rock-hard mattress. Finally he collapsed from exhaustion and didn’t wake up until well into the afternoon.
Groggy and disoriented he gazed about his room. An assortment of books had been stacked neatly on the Formica table. He rolled off the bed and noticed that his floor had been swept clean. He sighed with relief, smiled and made his way to the table to review his choices. There were three Hardy Boys Mysteries and several of the Landmark Book series:
• King Arthur and His Knights
• Hero of Trafalgar – Lord Nelson
• Guadalcanal Diary
• Pocahontas and Captain John Smith
• The Lewis and Clark Expedition
None of them really sounded very intriguing, but he picked up Pocahontas and Captain John Smith and skimmed the first page…snakes, alligators, mosquitoes, death, savages.
“Not bad,” Freddy thought and he sat down on his bed to read on.
Before long, there was a knock at the door. “Time for dinner, Francis,” Mrs. McVicker called as she peeked her head into the room and surveyed the floor. “Get washed up and come on down.”
“In a jiff,” Freddy replied, but she was already gone. With clean hands and combed hair, Freddy opened his bedroom door and was immediately hit by the sumptuous smell of Mrs. McVicker’s cooking. He made it downstairs in record time. A pot was simmering on the stove…the kitchen had a warm, cozy feel. The round oak table was set for three; a vase of pink roses decorated the center. Freddy was delighted to see his favorite food, macaroni and cheese, among the assortment of dishes.
Charles sauntered into the kitchen, leaned around Mrs. McVicker, grabbed a green bean from the pot and popped it in his mouth, “OOOO WEE, that’s good. Come on, let’s eat.”
Each pulled out a chair, sat down and covered their laps with a napkin. Freddy took a gulp of macaroni and cheese then noticed Mrs. McVicker’s outstretched arms on the table, palms up. Charles placed his palm in hers, reached over and took hold of Freddy’s hand and said, “Let’s bless this food.”
Sheepishly Freddy swallowed his food and looked at Mrs. McVicker as she extended her hand to him, smiling, and bowed her head.
“Lord, bless this food,” Charles said as if it were one word. Then he winked at Freddy. “Let’s eat!”
The dishes were passed and Charles handed Mrs. McVicker a bowl of green beans. “So, Freddy, what did you do today?”
“Nothing,” Freddy said chewing on a chicken leg.
“Now, I know you did something to pass all that time upstairs.”
“Read a little.”
Mrs. McVicker chimed in, “I left Freddy some books. Were you reading any of those, dear?”
“Yeah. I started reading about the first guys who came to America. It sounds like they were pretty stupid… most of them died.” Freddy reached across for another drumstick.
Charles took a bite of macaroni and cheese, “What happened?”
“They didn’t know what the heck they were doing. But the best part was about when the alligators and snakes attacked. Those guys were getting killed all over the place. Some were talking about cannibals!”
Mrs. McVicker looked aghast, “NO! That can’t be true!”
“Yep, that’s what it said in the book.”
Charles added, “Oh, its gets better than that. John Smith meets this Indian girl named Pocahontas. She saved him from having his head chopped off…by her father! You can’t beat a story like that, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Freddy chewed on his food for a moment. “Uh, Charles, I was wondering…do you have anything to read about cars?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve got a big stash. Mostly Hot Rod. You interested in cars?”
“Sure am. Don’t know much about them, though.”
“Tell you what.” Charles scooted his chair out leaning it back on two legs. “I’ve got this old car I’m fixin’ up. I call it my rat rod. Maybe I could bring it over and we could work on it together.”
Freddy’s face lit up. “That would be awesome, Charles.” Then his excitement waned, “Awe, but I’d never get permission from Grand-dam-a…I mean, Grand-mama. Freddy’s hand shot up to cover his mouth in surprise. Charles chuckled and Mrs. McVicker tried to contain a laugh, which escaped as a snort.
“If it was presented right,” Charles said, “you just might. People can surprise you. Even Dam-Grand-mama.”
The next day Charles dropped Freddy off at the front entrance of Webbe Memorial for his appointment with Dr. Pickhouse at half past one.
“I’ll be back to pick you up in one hour. Right here. Don’t get lost now.” Charles waved as he pulled away.
* * *
The enormous lobby of the hospital reminded Freddy of a fancy hotel; a multitiered chandelier hung above elegantly appointed tapestry chairs. Freddy wandered around by himself looking for Suite 721 SW until he finally asked a volunteer for directions. He was instructed to take the elevator to the seventh floor, turn right, go down the hall until it forked, take the left hallway until you come to the nurse’s station, go right to the end of the hall. “You can’t miss it.”
Freddy opened the door to Dr. Pickhouse’s office. Soft elevator music played; the walls were painted a soothing mauve and the scent of lilac filled the air. A soft, gentle voice said, “May, I help you?”
Freddy pulled at the hem of his polo shirt, palms sweating, “Uh, I think I’ve got an appointment.”
“Are you Francis Griswold?” her voice as soothing as an ocean breeze.
“Yes ‘um.” Freddy noticed her name tag. Jewel. She sat erect. Sparkling stones adorned the black frames of her egg shaped glasses. Her auburn hair in a French twist had a pencil stuck in the side.
“Dr. Pickhouse is expecting you. Go right in,” Jewel said pointing to an office directly to her right.
Freddy stood in the office door. A wreath of smoke encircled Dr. Pickhouse’s head; the office smelled of pipe tobacco. He reminded Freddy of Santa Claus with his long white beard, white eyebrows and mustache, rosy cheeks, and piercing blue eyes. He was chewing on a black pipe. His office was cluttered with unshelved books, papers poked out from half opened drawers; discarded French fry containers littered the floor and the waste paper basket was overflowing. Bits of pipe tobacco were strewn around his desk and on the Oriental carpet. Dr. Pickhouse was scribbling on a yellow note pad when he became aware of Freddy’s presence.
The jolly looking doctor scooted his chair back, got up, stumbled on a book and knocked the wastepaper basket over. Out spilled crumpled paper, pencils shavings and apple cores. “JEWEL,” he bellowed, “Bring the broom and dust pan.”
Freddy looked from the waiting room to the office. His face felt hot, his palms moist. Dr. Pickhouse extended his right hand, grabbed Freddy pulling him in for a big bear hug. Freddy’s eyes bulged, he gasped for air while the doctor held him tight rocking him back and forth like a rag doll.
“Come on in and have a seat…the last time I saw you you were about two years old sitting on your mamma’s lap,” a big smile spread across his face.
Jewel hurried in and headed straight to the trash heap. Freddy inhaled deeply, brushed pipe tobacco off the seat of the chair and steadied himself on the edge. Jewel collected the spill, swept up the mess, set the wastepaper basket upright closing the door as she left.
Dr. Pickhouse studied Freddy’s demeanor then pulled his desk chair up beside Freddy and sat down. He searched for a clean yellow tablet, sharpened his pencil and sighed. “Your grandmother called me. She’s worried about you.”
Freddy rolled his eyes; his hands clinched together.
“What do you think her concerns might be, Francis?”
“My name is Freddy…Freddy. The veins on his neck distended followed by throbbing in his ears.
“Okay, then Freddy it is.”
Dr. Pickhouse reached across his desk grabbing two CarPops from a jar, “I’m here to help if I can.” He handed Freddy the candy, then reached in for another. “Put one in your pocket for later.” They unwrapped and admired the make and model of their sweet treats.
Licking his candy, Dr. Pickhouse said, “Tell me about anything that’s bothering you. I’m here to listen. Anything you say stays right here between us. You believe me?”
“Yeah, I guess.” His lips purple from the CarPop, fidgeting in his seat, Freddy asked, “Are you going to give me a test or some medicine?”
“I don’t wish to test you, just help you get better,” Dr. Pickhouse replied, recording a thought on his yellow pad.
“So, what kind of doctor are you?” Freddy looked perplexed.
“Well, I am the kind of doctor that listens to people describe problems they are having with their feelings, not problems with a sore throat or an earache. I’m a psychiatrist. My job is to help you with problems you are feeling. Understand?”
“So you just talk to people?”
“Mostly listen.” Dr Pickhouse smiled. “So let’s try this again…Tell me about anything that’s bothering you.”
“Okay… My mom’s in the hospital and I’ve got this scared feeling. Did you know I haven’t been able to see her? My grandmother won’t let me.” Biting his lip, Freddy gazed at the black silhouettes in a framed Rorschach image behind the doctor, his blue eyes misty, “I’m really feeling nervous about going to that fancy school Grandmother Webbe says I have to go to. I know I should be grateful. I mean, she’s given me a place to stay and all.” Freddy muffled faint sobs.
Dr. Pickhouse stopped writing, and the two sat in silence for a moment. Then he scratched his head, cleared his throat and said, “Freddy, what do you remember about the accident?”
Freddy closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, “I remember it was raining…hard. We were coming up on Highland Tunnel. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out trying to see the lines on the edge of the road. I saw a bright light coming at us as we entered the tunnel. Mom swerved right…that’s all I remember.
The good doctor patted Freddy on the shoulder, “That’s a lot to think about. You’re lucky to be alive. He rummaged through his desk drawer. “You say you haven’t seen your mom?” Freddy furrowed his brows and nodded. “Well that’s the first matter of business to sort out. I will talk to your grandmother. Ah, here it is.”
He handed Freddy a black, shiny, smooth stone, the size of a pullet egg. “This is a Quell Stone. It should help ease your worry. Carry it with you and rub it when you feel sad or lonely or afraid. Ponder what is true, what is noble, what is right, what is excellent. Rub this stone and your fear, your sadness, your loneliness will rub away. When the stone turns white, tiny little silver and gold sparks will shoot out and you will be guarded and protected.”
“Gee thanks, Dr. Pickhouse,” Freddy rubbed the stone as he slipped it into his pant’s pocket. His pocket came to life as the stone spit sparks out the seams.
Dr. Pickhouse laughed and broke wind at the same time. Freddy laughed at Dr. Pickhouse and fell to the floor holding his stomach. By the time the Quell Stone completed its lively antics Freddy was howling with glee and feeling strangely lighthearted.
“I will be sure to tell Grandmother Webbe thank you for sending me to the psychiatrist.”
“When it comes to your grandmother, I suggest that you stick to the word doctor.” Freddy cocked his head in contemplation.
* * *
Outside the hospital, Freddy leaned against the wall and glanced around for Charles. “What’s taking him so long?” he thought. Freddy reached into his pant’s pocket and gently rubbed the Quell Stone. He felt it rumble and a small spark feeling like static electricity stung his fingers. He yanked his hand back and looked at his fingers.
Then he reflected on his meeting, already feeling like he had found a friend to confide in. His smile faded, though as he thought again of his accident and his mother, whom he desperately wanted to see. Suddenly, one of the doctor’s statements came to mind again.
“That’s the first matter of business to sort out,” the doctor had said. Freddy noticed a bus approaching its stop at the end of the hospital drive way and an unexpected idea hit him. He hurried back inside to the information desk.
A gray-haired elderly lady smiled at Freddy. Her pink and white stripped apron was stiffly starched and clean as a whistle.
Freddy cleared his throat, “Excuse me. Do you know what bus I would take to Bruster County Hospital?”
“Oh my goodness, that’s a long way.” She stood up to study the area map on the wall behind her desk. “It’s on Bruster Road, which would be the number 12…”
Freddy squinted at the bus, spotted a number 12 above the windshield and shot out the door.
“It looks like it’s about twenty miles out,” she continued, “but I don’t know if the buses go that far.” She turned to see that Freddy was already gone.
Freddy ran at the bus, arms waving, as it pulled past the hospital and spit exhaust at the stop. He glanced around for any sign of Charles, then stuck his thumb up like he’s seen hitchhikers do. At least a dozen cars and trucks whizzed by before an old truck slowed down and rolled to a stop, its breaks squealing. Freddy wasn’t completely certain if the driver was stopping for him or if the sputtering engine had simply given out where he was. Freddy’s legs felt frozen in place.
A wizened, weathered face peered out the window, “Want a ride or not?
Freddy regained control of his legs and slowly approached the Negro driver. Freddy cleared his throat, “I need to get to Bruster County Hospital. Are you going that way?”
“Yeah, am. Git in.”
* * *
Traffic came to a standstill. Grimacing Charles hit the steering wheel. The road was blocked off. Charles rolled down the window and called out to a policeman, “What’s the holdup?”
“Farmer lost a load of hay.”
“How long before it’s cleaned up?”
“Shouldn’t be too long…maybe twenty minutes.”
Charles checked his watch. He wouldn’t be too late, maybe five minutes or so. His hands gripped the steering wheel. As time ticked by Charles felt his heart pounding. He honked his horn, the car behind him honked and then another until a cacophony of horns filled the air.
Slowly his lane began to move. With the pedal to the metal Charles passed a line of cars on the right shoulder, swerved back into his lane and flew through a yellow light.
Charles screeched to a stop at the patient pick-up just as the sputtering truck limped into traffic, coughing a black cloud of smoke in its trail. He set the engine in park, opened the latest issue of Hot Rod and thumbed the pages. After several minutes and no sign of Freddy, he tossed the magazine in the back seat and decided to take a look.
Charles entered the lobby and spotted the information desk. “Have you seen a boy… blonde hair…rooster tail?” Charles tried to sound calm.
“Why yes, I did… looking for a ride out to Bruster County on the bus,” the clerk replied.
“Bruster County? By bus?!” Charles’ mind raced.
“I know! That’s what I said. Buses don’t even go out that far. I think he found a ride though. He just got into an old pick-up,” the desk clerk said.
Charles looked stricken. “OH MY GOSH! Which way did he go?”
She pointed to the intersection where a thin veil of exhaust still hung in the air. “I don’t think they could’ve gotten far,” she added as Charles sprinted out the door, into the limo and through the intersection. His instincts told him Freddy was on his way to see his mother. “Mrs. Webbe shouldn’t be so hard-headed all the time.” Charles thought. “Shouldn’t’ keep a boy from his mother.”
Charles turned onto Bruster Road, a nauseating trail of fumes leading the way. His mind was racing with wild thoughts. Charles scrutinized the road ahead as the air grew thicker and blacker. The limo slowed down to go around an old junk truck stalled halfway off the road. An old colored man was peering through steam rising up from under the hood. Freddy was retrieving a bucket of water from the bed.
Charles let out a sigh, the tightness in his stomach relaxing. He pulled the limo onto the shoulder and casually got out. “Need any help?”
“Sho do,” the old man said.
Freddy dropped the bucket, sloshing water onto the road, ran up to Charles stammering, “The doctor let me out early so I decided to hitch a ride.”
“Uh, huh.” Charles felt his chest tighten. “So where were you hitching a ride to?”
“Charles, let me introduce you to a very interesting man,” Freddy said.
The old man turned, wiping dirt onto a red rag and extended his calloused hand, “Name’s Boangeres…Bo.
Charles clasped his hands behind his neck and spun around. “What were you thinking? Were you just going to let me wait there all afternoon? Your grandmother…Oh, I was scared out of my wits.”
“I’m sorry Charles. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Now don be too hards on da boy. You gotta fine boy here. Bin tellin’ me bouts his mother in da hospital.” Bo was a loud animated talker. His bib overalls were worn thread bare, spotted with black grease and paint. “The Lord wuz wid ‘im. Alleluja!” Bo thundered.
Charles took a deep breath and helped Freddy fetch the water. While Charles instructed Freddy about how the radiator uses water to keep the engine cool, Bo told them of his life as a share cropper and lay minister for the Colored Baptist Church in south St. Wigbod. He invited them to visit on Sunday for a “real spiritual revival”
“I sure appreciate the invitation, “he replied, shaking Bo’s hand. “Well, it looks like you’re all fixed up. Thanks for taking care of our boy here,” Charles said.
“Iz glad fo da compny. Take care yoselfs, now.”
“It was real nice meeting you, Bo,” Freddy said pumping his hand up and down. “See ya soon.”
* * *
The drive back to town was filled with silence. Freddy stared out the front side window, blowing air vapor onto the glass. Remembering Dr. Pickhouse’s gift earlier, he reached into his pocket. “Want a CarPop?” Freddy offered breaking the ice.
“I’m at a loss what to do. I should tell your grandmother.”
“Don’t do that, please. I promise I won’t pull something stupid like that again,” Freddy looked at Charles, his blue eyes pleading, then looked down at his hands and sighed, “I just wanted to see my mom.”
Charles softened.
“I think I should tell you something about your mother. It might help you get a handle on things. Even if you had made it to the County you wouldn’t have been able to see her. The doctors put her in a coma to keep her brain from swelling. It’s a very risky procedure.”
“Will she get well?”
Charles pulled into a parking lot, rolled down the windows and turned off the engine. “From what I hear she has a fifty- fifty chance. She has to be closely monitored because other problems can happen even after she wakes up.”
Gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath Freddy spurted, “I hate being treated like I’m nothing. This is my mother we’re talking about and I should’ve been told.”
“I know….I know.” Charles gazed out the window. “You know, your grandmother is from the old school when it was assumed that kids didn’t need to be told about ‘grownup’ things. I don’t feel that way though. I think the more we share the better things are.”
Freddy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Charles, will you do me a favor?”
“Sure, what?”
“If you hear anything about my mom will you let me know?”
“I surely will. And you can take that to the bank.” Charles started the engine. “Oh, I almost forgot with all this rigmarole and what not” Charles gestured to the back seat, “Take a look.”
“Hot Rod!” Freddy scrambled over the seat, grabbed the magazine and started thumbing through the slick pages. “I can’t believe it. This is so cool.”
Charles reached around, mussed up Freddy’s hair and pulled his rooster tail, “You’re welcome.”
Freddy settled into Eagle’s Nest over the following week waiting for the new school year to start. Mrs. Webbe was at a Jamestowne Society Convention in Washington D.C. and wouldn’t be back until Sunday evening, the day before school started, so Freddy was free to explore his new home. During the day he was left to himself while Charles and Mrs. McVicker were preoccupied with their responsibilities. He lounged about in the rose garden and plopped rocks in the lily pond, but he was careful not to venture beyond his bedroom in the cavernous west wing when he was indoors. He spent hours reading Charles’ Hot Rod magazines, learning about various car parts and custom additions.
In the evening, the trio enjoyed supper, laughing and telling stories. While Mrs. McVicker washed dishes, Charles and Freddy pieced together a model of a “57 Chevrolet that Charles brought home one night as a surprise. Freddy introduced Charles to his favorite rock station, KROD; one night he jumped up from the table to imitate dancers on the Steve Bosno dance show, The Hop. Every night, before he went to bed, he wrote to his mother about his new adventures, and how much he wished to see her.
Alas, summer vacation came to an end. The night before he was to start school at the prestigious Wiggins Preparatory, Freddy laid on his bed thinking. Charles was not home to work on the Chevy model, since Mrs. Webbe was returning from her convention, and Charles had left to meet her at the airport. Mrs. McVicker had invited him to watch The Ed Sullivan Show and see the mouse puppet, Topo Gigio, whom Freddy thought was hilarious. But he was too nervous to settle in front of the TV. His thoughts were racing.
Despite his grandmother, Freddy’s stay at Eagle’s Nest had been hospitable, thanks to Mrs. McVicker and Charles, but would he find his new school to be so accepting? Freddy’s stomach grew tight and he yearned for his mother. The thought of her, alone at the hospital surrounded by cold machines haunted him.
Freddy noticed that Mrs. McVicker had hung his freshly pressed school uniform on the hook of his closet door. His new attire included a tie, which was a new challenge that Charles had been helping him with. He eyed the crisp, forest green oxford shirt with the school insignia on the pocket, his new khaki pants, brown belt, forest green socks and his Weejuns, brown penny loafers. His stomach tightened again.
Freddy kicked off his shoes, pulled off his clothes, peeled back his bed sheets and slid in between the covers. He was still cautious about turning out the lights at night, concerned about inviting six-legged intruders, so he reached for his class schedule, laying on his night table. He reviewed each line once again, imagining faces to match each name and picturing what the classrooms might be like. He closed his eyes in thought and eventually drifted off to sleep.
BANG! BANG! BANG! Charles stood at Freddy’s open door, knocking.
“Rise and shine.”
Freddy put a pillow over his face. “Come on. Get up,” Charles said pulling the covers off the bed.
Grabbing for an edge of sheet Freddy yelled, “Charles, stop it. That’s not funny!”
“It won’t be funny if your ride leaves without you. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to get dressed and get down stairs for breakfast. The ‘limo’ is leaving in thirty minutes.”
After a quick visit to the bathroom to freshen up, Freddy buttoned up his crisply ironed shirt and thankfully had no problems with his tie this morning. He grabbed his crested navy blue blazer and stopped to visit with his reflection on his way down to breakfast. With unexpected nerve, he winked at himself, “Now that’s a good looking kid.”
By the time he reached the breakfast table, though, Freddy was too nervous to eat. Mrs. McVicker beamed at the sight of him and presented a feast of fried eggs, skillet fries, sausages, wheat toast, and orange juice. He nibbled on a piece of toast swallowed a gulp of orange juice before racing to the bathroom gagging.
At half past seven, Charles pulled the limo under the portico and came into the kitchen for a cup of coffee just as Freddy returned from the bathroom wiping his forehead. Seeing Freddy in his school uniform, Charles let out a whistle, “If I didn’t know better I’d think we had a bona fide Wiggie right here in our kitchen. My, my, you sure do look preppy.” Mrs. McVicker nodded and filled his cup with coffee.
“Your grandmother wants to inspect… I mean see you before you go to school,” Mrs. McVicker giggled.
“Mrs. McVicker, Charles…,” Freddy said, his voice cracking, “I just want to say that if it weren’t for you two I… I… just… don’t…”
Mrs. McVicker padded over to Freddy, put her arms around him and patted him on the shoulders, “There, there, “Freddy Griswold, we don’t want to be getting all blubbery on the first day of school, do we?”
Freddy shook his head and started laughing but a lone tear rolled down his cheek. Mrs. McVicker remembered the camera and fetched it from the butler’s pantry. “Mister Charles, would you take a picture of me and Freddy? I want to remember this day. Smile.” Charles snapped the picture.