One Summer's Storm

ONE SUMMER’S STORM

By Robert E. Ormstedt

Copyright 2014 Robert E. Ormstedt

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

About Robert Ormstedt

Dedication

in loving memory of

ROBERT EDWARD ORMSTEDT

1935 – 2006

Dad, you were many things to many people—a devoted husband, an involved father, a proud grandpa, a Major in the United States Air Force, a diehard UCONN women’s basketball fan, and a gifted college athlete in both soccer and lacrosse, to name just a few. In fact, to this day, you continue to hold the record at Hobart College for the most points scored in a lacrosse game by a single player (5 goals).

Dad, you will always be remembered for your clever wit, your storytelling abilities and your offbeat sense of humor. You relished challenging conversations; actually, you were known to introduce subjects just to get a rise out of us, which often resulted in verbally combative dinners. Your reading interests ran the whole spectrum although your selections usually gravitated toward nonfiction, from the popular science books of Isaac Asimov to the historical accounts of the world’s numerous wars. In addition to your love of reading, you were an avid enthusiast of classical music. A treasured memory we have is of you conducting your beloved Bach symphonies, Mozart masterpieces and Vivaldi violin concertos from your seat at the dining room table. Dad, you were also blessed with a beautiful tenor singing voice, the richness most apparent when singing your rendition of Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water.

This novel, One Summer’s Storm, is just one example of your many writing endeavors through the years, which included both fictional narratives as well as heartfelt poetry. While you were with us, your dream of publishing your work was never fulfilled.

Dad, this is our gift to you...Your dream is now realized.

Chapter One

My eyes had started to fill up again. Father always said I was prone to weeping, but Mother said I was born out of Father’s mold—so full of sympathy that it fairly ran down my cheeks. To that, Father would give a bemused grunt as if Mother were disturbing whatever he happened to be doing. The more I think back, the more I realize that Father was, indeed, prone to fill up now and again, but never when I would most expect it; not when the times were hard, nor when the people were difficult, but rather when things were calm and everyone enjoyed everyone else. However, at the age of nine, I would never have considered the possibility. Such a thought would have been just so much windblown snow; heavy perhaps, but never allowed to settle in one place long enough to amount to anything.

I don’t recall, now, what caused my eyes to swell with tears. Perhaps it was the bugle or perhaps the soft whisper of an answer from some unseen horn. It may have been because everyone was standing with their heads bowed without the hint of a whisper on their lips. But as I look back, I believe the urge to weep was brought on by the tears in Father’s eyes. With the breeze that played upon the three flags at the far end of the field rustling through Father’s thick, unruly hair, his head bent forward from his square shoulders so that his chin rested upon his neat black tie, his arms hanging loosely at his sides and his left hand squeezing my fingers so tightly, I could almost feel whatever it was he felt that made his eyes water and made him swallow so noticeably.

It had been a long morning, and as I was to learn in the years to come, Memorial Day was long in our family; not because of an overabundance of activity, but rather for the lack of it. There would be no baking, no playing about the kitchen, no encounters with Pammy in the backyard, no quips between Father and Mother—‘repartee,’ as Father would say. Instead, all was quiet, almost solemn. And at the age of nine, I never wondered why Father and I went to the park to hear music and listen to Mr. Rawlings, or why we then went to the cemetery to stand and listen to the horns. I did wonder why Mother hadn’t come. Everyone else was there, their Sunday best shimmering in the sun.

The band had played too long at the park, and my feet had begun to itch. I remember what a relief it was to walk toward the cemetery. Everyone walked in the street while Jerry Lawlor beat the side metal of his drum with the sticks, and everyone was very quiet. But Father and I strolled over the grass, taking as much time as we wanted—although whenever I dawdled and started dragging my feet, another tug from Father would spur me on. I remember that everyone had reached the cemetery before Father and me, so we stood behind them on a slight rise to see Mr. Rawlings place flowers next to three stones and say something I couldn’t understand. It was when Malcolm Everson played the bugle that I first noticed the tears in Father’s eyes and could feel my own eyes start to swell. I held my face up so the tears wouldn’t flow down my cheeks and looked into Father’s steady warm eyes. As Mother would say, he was ‘sifting sand on a beach miles away.’

As the wind blew the last notes of the hidden horn, everyone turned to leave and many put their hand on Father’s shoulder as they passed. No one spoke, and no one looked into Father’s warm eyes because he was still sifting sand. I recall thinking that many of these people appeared to be sifting sand, although I was certain that Father could do it much better. And no one looked at me with my new blue suit, spiffed black shoes, and freshly cut hair. The last to pass was Mr. Rawlings. He and Father were close friends, even I knew that. Mr. Rawlings was my friend, too, but when I smiled at him there was only the flicker of a return smile. And when I opened my mouth to speak, he quickly shook his head and pursed his lips. He was always pursing his lips. He laid a firm hand on Father’s shoulder, and then walked across the grass toward the cemetery gate.

For a short while, Father and I stood hand in hand upon the green gentle slope while everyone made their quiet way home, and Mr. Rawlings disappeared behind the neat hedgerow that bordered the cemetery. The day was warm. A late spring breeze moved among the flowers and whispered through the grove of spruce trees to our right. But the clouds had started to billow. Father raised his head, and we started down the slope toward the three stones. I looked up now and again wanting to ask why we hadn’t gone home with the others, but each time I felt it wouldn’t do to disturb Father. He looked at each of the three stones which were surrounded by many flowers. Then, as a particularly strong and somewhat cooler breeze swept upon us, he looked into the darkening sky beyond the far end of the cemetery and said in his deep, clear voice, Mother will be worrying, Royce. We’d best go.

Yes, sir. I was rather thankful to be on the move again. Like most young boys I was constantly moving: running here, scratching there, kicking this, poking that. I was in and out of trouble before anyone recognized it as trouble. I was not so much a dreamer as many young boys are, but more of a witness. I didn’t so much scheme and plan as I did see. This trait was the cause of my ‘sympathy’ as Mother called it. I could feel another’s shame and remorse at not being able to answer Miss Thom’s history questions. I could feel Philip Ranskin’s thrill and pride when he hit a home run on Parents’ Day, even though he split his trousers rounding second base. That added to the glory, I think. But more than anything I could sense Father’s sorrow and loneliness, and I could feel Mother’s sometimes unsuccessful attempts to put sunshine into every crevice of the old two-story house I grew up in.

Now, as we strolled home beneath the threatening sky and through the quite obviously rising wind, I sensed Father’s deep loss, for I had reasoned that the events of the day—the pomp of the park band, the silence at the cemetery, even whatever it was that Mr. Rawlings had said to the people—all centered on Father, perhaps because the enormity of losing not one but three sons to the war was hard to grasp. In fact, our presence at the affair appeared to be so fundamental that, for three or four years following, I thought Memorial Day was specifically ours.

Every now and then I would strain Father’s hand, reaching gainfully for a rock with my outstretched foot, attempting to maneuver its flight toward a large birch. If there wasn’t a stone to kick, there was a stick to pick up and scale. When we reached Tewekesbury Bridge, he let me go; with a sign of relief, I’m sure. But I knew his watchful eye was on me, making certain I didn’t lose my footing or attempt to snatch a leaf from the river which, even to my unwary eye, seemed mightier than usual.

River’s going to rise before sunup, Royce. School will be canceled due to the river overflow. Mind your wanderings tomorrow.

Yes, sir. And, as an afterthought, Where does the river come from?

From the hills, and when the rains come, the river fills up to here. And with that, Father made a leveling gesture with his hand along the base of a Gray birch tree as we stepped from the bridge to the trail. Feel the chill in the air now, boy?

Yes, sir. It sure is going to rain.

Yes, Royce, I fear so.

We quickened our pace along the trail which sectioned the birch grove, then cut off through the birches toward home. Father and I seldom went to the grove together, but both of us had used the shortcut, although for different purposes. Even at the age of nine, I knew Father well enough to realize he wasn’t prone to chasing rabbits or searching out lost treasure. There was a gold mine in the birches. I was certain of that and wondered why no one had come up with it before now. Another thing that confused me was that no one really bothered to look for it except Pammy and me and the Slatterly boy, Wren. It was possible that Father knew something of the gold, although he never mentioned it.

Father?

Not now, Royce. It’s getting late, and your mother’s alone. She’ll worry about us getting ahead of the storm.

There was never recourse to Father’s deep voice, and that day it seemed deeper than usual. So I quickened my pace, took hold of his outstretched hand and stopped wishing on hidden gold. That was bad luck anyway.

We could see the house with Mother rocking on the porch. She had a book perched in her lap, but I knew she was looking over the top, hoping to catch a glimpse of us coming through the grove. I could tell by Father’s faint smile that he was on to Mother’s ways.

So you think Mother can see us? I asked.

Mother sees more than we’ll ever know, Royce. She sees in us, around us, and through us. And if we’re not careful, she’ll oversee us.

I didn’t understand that at all, but I felt I wasn’t supposed to understand. Mother pushed to her feet as we came out of the grove.

Always tempting the elements, you two. Then after a pause, she added, Like father, like son.

I had a feeling that Mother was so happy to see us that she talked that way, with her make-believe scowl, to relieve herself. But just to be on the safe side, I kept quiet. Father put his arm around Mother’s neck, gave her forehead a kiss, and the three of us shouldered our way through the hall.

Lizzy, my small one, how could you possibly worry about Royce and me? Why, the elements are scared to death of us. Isn’t that right, boy?

Yes, sir, I said rather forcedly. I doubted my invulnerability to thunderclaps, tar-black nights and lightning.

Lizzy, indeed, Mother said with the slightest crack in her voice.

Royce?

I didn’t hear Father because I was suddenly taken by the fact that Mother’s eyes were red and puffy despite her joking with Father, and I was aware of an uneasiness I didn’t understand. Mother, your…

Royce!

Sir?

Perhaps a bath would wash that birchiness out of your ears. What do you think?

Yes, sir, I guess it would.

Then don’t stand there, boy. Get thee to thy bath. And Father gave me a nudge on the seat of my trousers, which was enough impetus to get me up the stairs with more than my usual bath speed. However, I wasn’t in so much of a hurry as to neglect to leave the door open just a crack.

How did everything go, Marc?

Everyone was very nice, Liz, and John Clendon has done a wonderful job on the graves. I think that next year you should try to come with us. It’s not good for you to be alone. It’s a bit sad when Taps is played, but I was proud, Liz, so proud of our boys. Come now, stop biting your lip and blinking your eyes. Our boys are gone, but they went with courage. All three were courageous enough to risk death, and as it turned out, they had to accept death. Now you and I must give Royce the kind of life his brothers died for, and we have to give ourselves that kind of life, Liz. Sure, you’ll cry every now and then, and I’ll think of how much I’ve lost to death, but if we remember each other, what we owe each other, what we owe Royce—if we remember what a courageous family we raised and how proud this town is to claim them, then we’ll be able to smile even when things look the darkest.

You’re always right, Marc. You’re always so right, and you’ve been wonderful. But sometimes, like today, when I heard the bugle so very far away, I burst open like a cracked dam. I couldn’t stop until I saw you and Royce coming through the grove. I need you both so badly, but I’m getting better at it, aren’t I?

You’ve been wonderful, and as your prize, Royce and I will clear the table, and you will do nothing but knit. Oh, once in a while you’ll be allowed to ask questions—nothing too lengthy, you understand, because Royce and I have had a hard day.

Oh, stop your verbal meanderings and stop kissing my forehead. I’m not a little girl any longer. Did you see Stephan Rawlings?

Yes, but nothing was said. He felt as empty as I did, I’m sure. It wasn’t the time or the place. He gave a wonderful address in the park. He has an old-fashioned way about him that lends itself to that sort of affair. Would you believe it, Liz, he talked for thirty minutes and no one moved a muscle. And the band was as sharp as I’ve heard them. Those lads will grow to be well-disciplined men, mark my words.

Well, there’s a compliment I’ll have to pass on to their mothers. They’ll be pleased to know that Marc Stalley has decided their boys will come to a good end after all.

Hmmmm. Well, don’t get the little mammas too hopeful. I didn’t say what their little pathfinders will be well disciplined in.

Oh, come now. One would think you were never a boy. Why, if people knew how I have to cajole you into eating cereal and vegetables, it would give them a new lease on life.

Nonsense, Liz. You talk too much, investigate too much, understand too much—and come to think of it—sense more than any three people I know. One nine-year-old boy and knitting are all you should be concerned with right now.

Add one doddering old man and I’ll go along with that. Come, help me with the table. We have a growing, intelligent, and, I hope, clean boy to feed.

* * * * * * *

The bath and