What Follows After: A Novel (31 page)

Many years later, Colt’s mother would tell both Colt and Timmy that she had known a depth of happiness in that moment greater than all the happiness from all the happy moments she had ever known . . . combined.

T
HE
P
RESENT

I was standing now on that same back porch, on the very spot where my mom had hugged my little brother Timmy that day in 1962.

Three days had passed since I had come to this lake house to consider whether or not I could put the past behind me, treat this place as just a nice getaway spot for Elaine and me. I had made my decision. It was time to call Elaine.

I had called her each of the last three days, sometimes more than once, to let her know how things were going or just to hear her voice. Besides, I didn’t view this as just my decision. She convinced me it was. I was the one carrying all the baggage. She’d be just as happy to sell the place as use it, so she insisted I make the call for both of us.

Of course, August was the man who’d sent that registered letter to me, informing me that this house was now mine, free and clear. He’d left it for me in his will. He’d died recently in prison after receiving a life sentence for kidnapping, and a host of other charges the FBI had brought against him stemming from his conduct that week in ’62. There was also the matter of how his little boy, Bobby, had really died. His body had been found buried under an oak tree
on the property. August had insisted he had drowned in the lake, said he’d decided not to report it since it wouldn’t change anything and it might make a world of trouble for him. The autopsy proved inconclusive, and after that, Bobby was buried in a proper cemetery in Lake Helen.

Not sure why exactly August had left the property to me. I guess it was because I had come to feel some sympathy for him during the trial, which my father allowed me to attend. He was one sorry, messed-up individual, to be sure. But I also knew he wasn’t intending to harm my little brother, although he clearly did. He was just grieving and trying to find some kind of way to fill the hole in his heart left by his son Bobby’s death. A few months into his prison sentence, he actually sent a letter of apology to my family.

So every now and then over the years, usually when the Cuban missile crisis would come up for some reason, I’d send August a little note in prison.

Speaking of the Cuban missile crisis . . . you probably already guessed. The world didn’t blow up.

The day after our tearful family reunion at the lake house, Khrushchev agreed to turn his ships around and remove all the nuclear missiles from Cuba. World War III was averted. The whole world breathed a collective sigh of relief. Of course, it was hard to know if that included Mr. Weldon. I could never decide if he was relieved or disappointed. I also wondered how long he waited before opening up that shelter food.

Anyway, the world not blowing up was the headline in the Sunday paper. On page three, a little story ran about a kidnapped boy being rescued by the FBI. We barely paid attention to either story.

For our family, that Sunday dinner was a celebration for the ages. Better than any we had at Christmas or Easter, before or since. Timmy was home safe. Dad and Mom were back together
again. Mom announced she had decided to quit her job. Though after she sat down, I’d heard her tell my dad he would never see her cleaning the house wearing pearls. I don’t think he got the June Cleaver connection. Our favorite aunt and uncle, Mike and Rose, were there too.

And we had two special guests at that Sunday dinner, and at many other dinners and picnics and cookouts over the years that followed. Mamie Lee and Etta Mae.

For the rest of Mamie’s life, my father visited her and his own mom on Mother’s Day. Gave them both flowers, a box of candy, and a handwritten card. And after that day, Mamie Lee’s fortunes also changed in the Harrison house on Clara Avenue. My grandfather showed his gratitude for Mamie Lee’s role in rescuing Timmy by setting up a pension fund for her, which allowed her to retire in some comfort when she turned sixty-two.

And he and my grandmother did something nice for both Etta Mae and Josephine. He’d said he was just about to put up a sizable reward for any information that led to his grandson’s rescue and the arrest of the man who’d taken him. So he gave that sum of money to Etta Mae and Josephine to split between them. Not sure how much it was, but my dad was there when Etta Mae received her reward. He said he’d never seen her smile so much as the day she opened that envelope.

There’s probably one other thing I should mention. My father made good on his pledge to my mom that day in the car, as they neared this house in Lake Helen. The pledge I heard him make as I hid in the backseat. About putting her and us boys ahead of his career from now on. For the balance of their years together—and they made it all the way to their fifty-first anniversary before Dad passed—they behaved like a couple still very much in love. And he took us fishing, coached our Little League games, and planned
at least one decent family vacation every year for the rest of our childhood.

I smiled as I recalled this to mind, then walked over to the edge of the porch and looked out toward the lake. It really was a beautiful sight. As calm and peaceful as you could want to find in any getaway cottage. But even then, seeing that same beautiful view I had been enjoying the last few days . . . I knew.

We couldn’t keep this place. I could never fully relax here.

The emotions stirred by the events of that week still felt too close to the surface. I’d trip over them every time I came out here, like any one of the dozens of oak tree roots spread out across the property. Even if I could get past those memories, I wouldn’t feel right being here because of Tim. That’s what we all called him since high school.

He and I had remained close all these years, even though his family lived in Virginia. We always took one week’s vacation every year to bring our families together, usually somewhere in Florida. I could never ask him to come here to this place. If being here three days troubled me, what would it do to him?

The last couple of years Elaine and I’d had to pay for him and his wife to join us. Things have been pretty slow in his construction business. Almost lost his house last year. In our last phone call about a month ago, he said there were signs things were starting to pick back up, but money was still very tight.

No, it was time to call Elaine. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called her. She answered almost right away.

“You make a decision?” she said.

“I have. You sure you still want me to make this call without you?”

“I’m sure. I’ll be happy with you anywhere.”

She always said things like that. She was the easygoing one be
tween the two of us. “Well, I’ve decided we should sell it. It’s a weird thing, though. What followed after the things that took place here in ’62 actually changed our lives for the better. In some pretty big ways. I was just thinking about some of them. Made me remember the last conversation me and my dad had about it. He quoted that verse he loved in Genesis 50.”

“What men meant for evil, God meant for good,” Elaine said.

“Sorry, guess I’ve told that story a few too many times.”

“No need to apologize, Colt. About that or about selling the place. I don’t have any sentimental attachment to it. I’m just grateful God gave us such a gift. Think about it. We’re going to be able to buy a great little getaway somewhere. A dream we thought impossible till you got that letter. I’ve been looking on the internet. There’s lots of cute little places on lakes all over Florida.”

“It’s just, I want someplace that Tim can feel comfortable visiting too.”

“I know. We’ll find something. We can price that place to sell and buy something else pretty quick. Speaking of Tim, I’ve got some exciting news to tell you about that comic book you found.”

I had told Elaine about that Spiderman comic book the first day. Tim wound up getting rid of all his comic books after what had happened. “What did you find out?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Why, should I be?”

“Maybe. I did some checking on it. That one’s the first issue of Spiderman. With all the movies that have come out about him and the other comic book heroes, vintage comic books have become a big business.”

“How much is it worth?”

“Anywhere from twenty thousand dollars to over a million, depending on the condition it’s in.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Thought that might bring a smile to your face.”

It certainly did. “I’m not sure how they judge these things, but this one looks like it’s in great condition. I can’t wait to tell him about it. Maybe I should drop it off at a safe deposit box on the way home.”

“Maybe you should. Wouldn’t that be great if he got a million dollars?”

I told Elaine, nice and slow and in a few different ways, how much I loved her and that I’d be heading home soon. I was already packed up, even had my luggage in the car. But I decided to repack that comic book, make sure it wouldn’t wrinkle or fold on the ride home.

As I walked through the backyard toward the driveway, over that same area where the shootout had happened, I stopped to take one last look. Not just at the house but the entire property. It’s crazy how life goes sometimes. How God can take something so awful and turn it into something that becomes a great blessing in your life.

Even now, so many years later.

What my father said just before he died was true: “No one fixes broken things better than God.”

I was born in 1957, which would make me one year younger than little Timmy in
What
Follows
After
. Some of the things in the book (though not most) were drawn from things that happened in my life. But the memory of a five-year-old is often fuzzy. Because of that, and because most of what happens in this story did not actually happen to me, I relied heavily on research to get the details right about life in 1962. Thankfully, there was an abundance of material to draw from.

And I might add, I really enjoyed the research. It stirred some wonderful memories from my childhood. In many ways, my memories of those early years are rather idyllic. Not unlike the stories you’d see depicted in shows like
Leave It to Beaver
or
The Dick Van Dyke Show
. But I must confess, my research wound up tarnishing some of my memories. Life wasn’t always as rosy as I remembered . . . for a lot of Americans.

Many things about the “Camelot years” of Jackie and JFK were not what they seemed. Certainly, some things were better back then. Even statistics that measure certain aspects of society, such as the
economy, the education system, levels of violent crime, divorce rates, suicide rates, etc., all indicate life back then was simpler and, it would seem, safer (the world blowing up by nuclear annihilation notwithstanding).

But even with these positive things—things that many who lived back then may long to see restored—serious problems were simmering beneath the surface. For example, consider the way many white people treated black people. The way men treated women. The way bosses treated their employees. The way the government treated its citizens. The way all of us viewed money and materialism. Even the way people viewed church in general, and how little of what Jesus actually taught found its way into people’s daily lives.

We were thought of as a “Christian country” back then, and the overwhelming majority of Americans did attend one church or another. But those who cherish those days and wish they would return must face this hard reality: Could all of the societal problems that blew up like a volcano during the cultural revolution of the sixties have happened in a truly Christian country? Could they have happened . . . if all the people dressing up on Sunday, going off to church, and enjoying Sunday dinners together genuinely loved God and sought to love their neighbors as themselves?

I think a more honest assessment would suggest that many Americans’ church experiences in the fifties and sixties had more to do with the religion of Christianity than a clear understanding of the gospel.

Part of the reason I decided to set
What Follows
After
in the early sixties was to explore how the timeless truths of the gospel could have applied in an average American family during the
Leave It to Beaver
years. The things that cause relationships to succeed or fail are not dependent on the society or culture we live in.

They are just as relevant today in this “post-Christian” era.

And because of who Jesus is and the power he has to still change lives and make them better, no one should feel hopeless, no matter how challenging their circumstances. God can unravel any ball of twine we hand him, no matter how snarled and knotted it may be. We may not like the methods he chooses, for he often works through the trials of life and even our own failures.

But what follows after any life that is surrendered to him will one day be a life well worth living and lead to an eternity of everlasting joy.