Sundown in zion

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 Our hero meets Abbey's family

Nelson arrived home shortly after 7:00 o’clock the next morning as Charlie was headed out the door. When Charlie cocked his head as if about to ask a question, Nelson interrupted him. “Nice evening,” he said. “End of conversation. Where you headed?”

            Charlie exhaled and shook his head in disappointment. “Message received,” he said, “and, in answer to your question, to MacArthur Park to take a walk. I think maybe I can make it around once without resting.”

            “Good,” Nelson said. “I’ll have some breakfast and try to get set up to meet Abbey’s parents. “Want to go with me if I do?”

            “Do I have to?”

            Nelson laughed. “The enlisted can’t order an officer around. You know that. It’s just that, as nosy as you are about some things, I thought you wouldn’t dare miss out on the chance to hear something interesting.”

            Charlie thought about this. “Some things have more interest value than others,” he said. “I’ll work on my health. I think my strength is beginning to return. Besides, Sunday morning is a good day to watch the girls jogging.”

            Nelson gave him a look of fake authority. “No panhandling in the park,” he said.

            “Not unless you kick me out.”

            “Have fun,” Nelson said, walking toward his bedroom.

            “Carry on lad,” Charlie said, and he walked outside.

            Nelson showered, shaved, and dressed in a long-sleeved shirt with a light strip design and khaki trousers. He prepared himself a bowl of oatmeal and sat at the kitchen table, reading the morning newspaper while he ate. When he had finished, he washed the bowl and poured himself a cup of coffee. He walked onto the front porch and drank the coffee as the city sprang to life before him. The chill seemed to be departing and this day offered the promise of the warm spring to come. A leggy and attractive woman in sweats and leading a German Shepherd walked by, headed in the direction of the park. She nodded at Nelson and he raised his cup in greeting. He settled back and enjoyed the quiet and peaceful morning.

            When he finished his coffee, he set the cup on the floor of the porch and drew his cell phone and note paper from his shirt pocket.  Mr. Stubblefield answered Nelson’s call and greeted him warmly, stating that he had expected the call and was looking forward to their meeting. Why not just meet this morning? Nelson nodded as he received directions, then said, “I should be there in twenty minutes or so.”

            The Stubblefields lived in an area known simply as “The Central High Neighborhood,” after the site of the famous civil rights showdown of the 1950s. It was traditionally a blue-collar neighborhood, had suffered neglect in recent years, but was enjoying a return to health as newcomers renovated the handsome structures gracing the area.

            Homes varied in size and design. The Stubblefield home was one of the larger ones and was located on a corner lot. A driveway led to a large building behind the main house. Nelson parked in the drive, stepped from his truck and looked both ways. Then he took a newly constructed brick walk to the front door and rang the doorbell. Waiting, he surveyed the surrounding area. It was a quiet, tree-lined street of well-maintained homes. As he took in the scene, the door opened and he turned to see a tall African-American woman in her early forties and wearing a skirt and blouse that reflected a more formal period of American life. She was likely dressed for church. Her medium-length hair was carefully groomed and was pure black, adding a severe look to an otherwise cheerful demeanor. “Mr. Nelson?” she said.

            “Yes,” Nelson said. “Are you Mrs. Stubblefield?

            “In person,” she said. She extended a hand and said “Martha.”

            “Gideon,” Nelson said. “I hope I’m not interfering with your Sunday.”

            “I attend late services,” she said. She lowered her eyes. “Eli won’t be attending.”

Nelson waited before responding, then said, “May I come in?”

            “Of course you could,” she said, “but Eli is in his shop and wanted to you to meet him there.” She pointed to a walk leading around the corner of the house. “Just follow the walk and it will take you right into the shop. I’ll join you after you two have a few moments together.”

            Nelson nodded and turned down the path. It led directly to the front door of the large wooden building. He reached the door and knocked. He could hear the soft hum of equipment inside. It stopped and was replaced by the soft movement of feet approaching the door. A tall man in his mid-forties opened the door. He was wearing jeans, a short-sleeved tee-shirt advertising Operation Iraqi Freedom, and a hat that advertised woodworking tools. A day-old beard accompanied a modest mustache and he was removing a pair of safety googles as he smiled and motioned Nelson inside. “Come in,” he said. He laid the goggles on a bench and extended his hand. “Elijah Stubblefield,” he said. “They call me Eli.”

            He led Nelson into a large workshop, well arranged and maintained. Amidst the saws and other power tools was a large, sturdy bench and on it sat an upright rectangular box constructed of walnut. It was 18 inches or so to a side and about two feet in height. The top was bounded by a frame with meticulously constructed miters and rounded edges. The sides appeared to be of a solid piece of wood but the front featured a carved figure of the insignia of an Air Force Master Sergeant with Diamond. It was a remarkable piece work and Nelson stared in appreciation.

            “I make these for old buddies who retire,” Eli said. “They buy the wood and the insignia and I do the rest.”

            “It’s beautiful,” Nelson said. “I imagine you sell these for a nice price.”

            “Oh,” Eli said, “I don’t charge them anything. It is a hobby. They just furnish the materials.”

            Nelson stared at him as if disbelieving, then said, “A person must be lucky, to have a friend like you.”

            “Come sit,” Eli said, and motioned Nelson to a corner where a table and chairs had been placed. Nelson walked across the shop and stared at the tools placed throughout and the handmade and well -crafted cabinets and counters that lined the walls. The two men sat.

            “Thank you for coming,” Eli said. “It’s nice to have a visitor out here.”

            “You must spend a lot of time here,” Nelson said.

            “Most of my time,” Eli said. “It is the one place that doesn’t constantly remind me of Abbey.” When Nelson looked surprised, Eli said, “She wouldn’t come in here because of the dust,” he said. “She claimed it got in her hair and clothes.” He looked up, took a breath, and said,” If you ask me, I think she was a little jealous of the attention I paid to my projects. She called them ‘addictions’ when she wanted to get my goat.”

            “And your wife,” Nelson said, “does she help you out here?”

            “She brings me food,” Eli said. “She likes to be alone these days.” He flicked a small piece of wood from the table and said, after another breath, “I guess I do as well.”

            Nelson spoke. “So you were a career Air Force man?”

            “Twenty-five years. I got out when Abbey turned sixteen so I could enjoy her last few years before college.” He smiled. “She claimed it was so I could devote more time to woodworking.”

            “She sounds like quite a young lady,” Nelson said.

            “Mr, Nelson,” Eli said, “have you ever loved someone so much you would have thrown yourself in front of a speeding train to save their life?” He quickly stopped and lowered his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that’s a stupid thing to say to a Navy SEAL.”

            “I never had children,” Nelson said. “The Navy was the closest thing to a family I ever had. I can’t imagine …”

            “You ever been to Alabama?” Eli said, altering the course of the conversation.

            “Through there a couple of times.”

            “No,” Eli said, “I mean have you ever been to the backwoods of the state? The part where you are born, you live, and you die without ever having a solid meal in your life.”

            “No,” Nelson said. He said it simply and quietly. “No I haven’t.”

            “My daddy was a good man,” Eli said. “Worked for the white man and brought every cent he could home to feed and care for us.” His eyes narrowed to a faraway look and Nelson waited. “It was never quite enough,” Eli said. “But we got by. That is until one day a drunk veered off the road and ran right over my daddy as he was walking home.” He stopped, looked at Nelson, and continued. “Then things got hard.”

            A spell settled on the room. The air seemed to grow heavy and the quiet was deafening. Nelson waited.

            “The two oldest kids left and I was home alone with Mama,” Eli said. “Sometimes they sent a little money and we managed for a while. Mama worked for a white lady in town and got some part time work at the mill when it was operating.”  He set his jaw firmly before he spoke again. “When we were really hard up against it, a man might come and stay the night. Then we would have food to eat for a few days.”

            Nelson nodded and, when Eli didn’t continue, he said, “Is she still living, your mom?”

            “Died five years ago,” Eli said. “Happy ending. When I was twelve, she met a Methodist minister, a widower. They courted and got married. He helped her finish raising me and kept her in comfort until she died. I still call him ‘Daddy’ although he hasn’t recognized anyone for a year or so now.”

            “Still in Alabama?”

            “No, the last place the Conference sent him was in Pensacola Florida. He’s in a nursing home there.”

            “I’m glad things ended well,” Nelson said.

            “The best thing he ever did was call me in one day during my senior year in high school, sit me down and say ‘Son, I know you’ve gone hungry before and had a pretty tough life.’ Before I could answer, he went on, ‘You need to thank your Mama for making you study and finish school.’ I nodded my head and he kept going. ‘Now I can’t send you to college and they’re not lining up outside door to help a little black boy go to one, so I’m going to give you some advice, whether you want it or not.’”

            Nelson leaned forward and Eli continued. “He asked me if I truly never wanted to go hungry again and I said yes. Then he changed my life.”

            Nelson cocked his head in anticipation.

            “He told me,” Eli said, “to get my ass down and enlist in the military. Said they would feed me one meal, and when I got hungry they would feed me another one, then another, and it would never stop. On top of it all, they would pay me to eat those meals. Only requirement was to do what they told me.”

            “So you did,” Nelson said.

            “I did,” Eli said. “I figured the fastest way to get as far from Alabama as I could was by plane, so I signed up to go into the Air Force a week after I graduated.”

            “No regrets?”

            “I retired as an E-9 Command Chief Master Sergeant,” Eli said. “No regrets.”

            Nelson whistled softly as a show of appreciation.

            “I spent a great part of my career training troops to become Loadmasters, if you know what that means.”

            “Nelson thought before speaking. “Let’s just say that I benefited from your services on more than one occasion.”

            Eli smiled and said, “Thank you. It’s nice to know that I counted for something. Oh, and I never went hungry, either. Along the way, I met Martha. She’s a teacher you know. You can fill in the rest. The Air Force helped me to come within a few credits of having a college degree. That helped with promotions. We saved our money and that allowed us to have this place, feed my addiction …,” he waved his hand around the shop “and indulge Abbey.” Eli stopped suddenly and great sobs burst from his chest like subterranean monsters finding passage. “God damn it, … god damn it, … god damn it,” he said between sobs.

            Nelson reached across the table and patted his shoulder. Eli struggled to regain composure and neither man spoke. An intercom on the wall sputtered and Martha’s voice filled the room. “Are you men ready for coffee and a snack?”