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The Stumbling Trail
The Stumbling Trail
The Stumbling Trail
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The Stumbling Trail

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Young Gerald Mauldin, new deacon of the Episcopal Church in the small Virginia town of Pinkstonville, steps off the train in the fall of 1931 and walks into a perfect storm of high hopes and shattered dreams. The Stumbling Trail follows the young Deacon Gerald as he works to establish a good reputation in both church and community. He learns much of country life in a short time, meeting his future wife and her friends around the area. When one friend is jailed for attempted rape, Gerald unwittingly finds himself at the center of a conspiracy that splits both church and town.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBookBaby
Release dateSep 1, 2014
ISBN9781483535852
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    The Stumbling Trail - Michael D. Moylan

    believed

    PROLOGUE

    The setting autumn sun over the water of Norfolk’s Hague inlet cast a sickly yellow pallor through the window of the attic where a rumpled, graying, middle aged man rummaged through scattered boxes and papers, muttering to himself as he carefully scanned each document. Had anyone been watching, they would have seen a fierce determination on his face, as if the fate of mankind itself might depend on the result of his search. Miles Mauldin, as the man was known by all, did indeed have a good reason for this particular paper chase beyond just cleaning up various knick knacks and newspapers accumulated over decades by his late father Gerald Mauldin and his mother Amelia Grace. Three days ago, Miles had received a curious request from a man living in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. His wife had answered the phone and handed the receiver over to him with a shrug of the shoulders as if to say I have no idea who this is. He took the phone and put it to his ear

    Hello, this is Miles Mauldin speaking. How can I help you?

    Miles Mauldin, the son of Gerald Mauldin, former Episcopal deacon?

    Yes, that’s correct. With whom am I speaking?

    I’m pleased to be talking with you, sir. My name is Andy Bates. I’m the grandson of Bill Bates, a man who I understand was a good friend of your father’s. Miles was stunned. He hadn’t heard that man’s name since he was a boy. What could the man on the phone possibly be seeking?

    I have to say, Mr. Bates, I haven’t heard that name mentioned by anyone in years. My understanding was that he moved out of state in the mid-thirties and more or less disappeared. At least that’s what my parents told me. Where are you calling from?

    The Shenandoah Valley. My grandfather moved out to Chicago for several decades after he got out of jail. One of his aunts in the valley up near Winchester had a large vacant acreage available, so my grandfather moved his wife and my dad back to that land in Virginia in the early sixties. He raised Black Angus beef and taught my dad how to run the business. When Grandpa died of cancer in the late seventies, Dad took over the farm with Mom and taught me the business. Dad died of a stroke about a year ago, and it was then I first heard your father’s name from my mother.

    That’s quite a story you have there, my friend, quite a story.

    Yes, it is. Grandpa never really talked to me about what got him in legal trouble. I think he believed that there were some things in life a person did not need to know unless he had a direct tie to those experiences. He did tell my dad, though, something about what happened in Pinkstonville in 1931 and ’32. Grandpa said to Dad just before he died that your father was one of the few people in that part of the valley to believe in his innocence. I wanted to let you know that, as a matter of courtesy.

    That’s good of you. From what my parents told me of that time and place, it sounded like your grandfather got in trouble and my father tried to make things a little easier for him. He paused to collect his thoughts, then continued. From what you say, it sounds like everything worked out for the best for your grandfather, and I’m personally glad to hear that. Could you tell me why you called?

    Of course, Mr. Mauldin, I’ll get to the point. After Dad died, my mother handed me a sealed envelope with a one-page letter inside. My grandpa had written on the envelope that only his grandson could open it when the preceding two generations of Bates men had passed on. When I opened the envelope and read the letter inside, your name and the city you lived in were on the paper, along with a request that you search your father’s possessions for a small brown soft-sided leather briefcase with a tag on the handle marked THE WHOLE TRUTH. At the end of the letter, Grandpa wrote: ‘My family and Gerald’s family both deserve the truth, so there it is. If the story of our lives helps your life, keep the story and the bag. If not, throw it away in some distant body of water. I hope you will not think ill of Gerald and me. We loved our families very much. Grandpa.’

    I hope you will not think ill of Gerald and me? What does that mean?

    If you don’t know, Mr. Mauldin, then I darned sure don’t either. Neither man spoke for a moment. The ever so faint electronic hissing in Miles’ receiver seemed to reflect the many miles between the two men as well as the divergent life paths of their families through the years.

    Miles suffered the same disadvantage as the young Bates. He told the younger man, I really don’t know much about my parents’ early life together. They rarely spoke of it. When they were both alive, then quiet and contemplation ruled at our house. Other than when he left each day for his work in the city social services building or when we all went to church or to do necessary shopping, Dad spent all of his time by my mother’s side. She was the same with him. After Mom died, Dad’s shoulders began to bow, and I noticed that he walked slower than before. At that thought, Miles felt an intense pang of regret. While his father had lived ten years after his wife’s death, Miles considered how truly lonely those ten years must have been for the old man.

    When his mother died, Miles, then a 45-year-old man, was as preoccupied as anyone with the wants and needs and activities of his own family. He had little time to devote to this gracious and thoughtful man who had raised him. On the night Gerald died, he died alone in this large house. The mysterious phone call and peculiar request he had just received stirred a sense of duty within Miles. He never felt he knew the full story of how his parents had met and married; he suspected a drama there that went unspoken. Perhaps this last request of Bill Bates would shed some light on those early years and should be honored out of respect for these two men, even if the implicit secrecy of the letter heralded unpleasantness or tragedy.

    And so, Miles had agreed to find the document, if he could, and send a copy to Andy Bates. He’d looked for several days now without success. He had no idea until he undertook this task how much paperwork and how many books of all kinds his parents had owned. His father’s study was full as was the attic. He had searched the study to no avail and was in the attic now. Were it summer, the stifling heat there would have severely hampered his efforts. Fortunately for him, cool fall weather hung over the Tidewater Virginia area and made his search less arduous.

    After three fruitless days of poring over books and papers, Miles had worked his way into a darker corner of the attic where he required a flashlight to continue. Shining the beam into the corner, he spotted a brown rectangular object against the outside wall partially hidden by various boxes and sticking up above compacted insulation between a pair of 2x4’s. On hands and knees he scuttled over to the object and saw that it was a brown leather bag. A tag attached to the handle read THE WHOLE TRUTH, just as Andy Bates had said. He pulled the bag from its hiding place and carried it out beneath one of the dim attic lights.

    It was very dusty and obviously quite old. He looked it over carefully. There were no spider webs hanging from the outside. When he brushed it clean with a handkerchief, he thought it looked good for an old briefcase. His search was over, yet in many ways it had just begun. Now he had to read what the bag contained if he was to keep his word to Bates, but the other man had made it sound like that might be a problem.

    I’d better get this downstairs, he muttered to himself. No, I need to open it up here just in case of spiders or mice or something. Mustn’t alarm the family. They had gone to a daughter’s soccer game, so he was the only one in the house. He unstrapped the case and opened it slowly. Holding it under a light bulb to be careful of vermin inside, Miles reached in and withdrew a smaller leather case folded over for security. It had the length and width of a piece of typing paper. Opening the fold, he pulled out a sheaf of papers, the top one printed in ink with the words THE WHOLE TRUTH.

    After carefully inspecting the document for pests and finding none, he placed it back in the leather case, and then took a few minutes to straighten the attic before heading down to the living room that overlooked the water. The setting sun shone straight through the large glass windows, so he settled into an armchair out of the sun’s glare. No doubt his family would arrive home soon, but he felt an urgency and eagerness to begin the manuscript. Making himself comfortable, Miles Mauldin began to read while the sun slid to the horizon, and the sounds of daylight city life slowly died away.

    * * * *

    Chapter

    1

    To my beloved son Miles, and anyone else reading this narrative, please see it as a faithful record of events that transpired in Pinkstonville, Virginia in the early 1930s. My friend Bill Bates and I, Gerald Mauldin, want the whole truth about those days to be known. Although I write this some years later, the events are as clear and vivid as if they just happened. Perhaps this narrative will vindicate us. That is for you and God to decide. It is still the whole truth.

    I came to the Blue Ridge Mountains in the fall of 1931, to the town of Pinkstonville a few years after the great stock market crash, to take a position as deacon at St. Rose’s Episcopal Church and principal of its two mountaintop schools. Pinkstonville then was an active little town built in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains to the east. Besides St. Rose’s, the immediate area boasted a slew of small Baptist and fundamentalist churches. Other than these church buildings, I was told that Sunday mornings were very quiet in the community.

    St. Rose’s drew on a larger geographic area than the other churches. My task was to help shoulder the load of ministering to the people living throughout that larger area and to administer the education of the children living in the more remote parts of the Blue Ridge to the east. I thought I came prepared and fearlessly approached the task. After all, how complicated could such a small place be?

    I arrived in Pinkstonville by train, having traveled to Roanoke and switched there to another that headed down the Shenandoah Valley toward Winchester. The train passed many small, whitewashed country churches along the roadside that sometimes paralleled the track—pretty little buildings that seemed to promise comfort and redemption inside and under that whitewash. When the train slowed and stopped in a cloud of steam at Pinkstonville’s raised concrete siding, I saw through its windows a small town square that proudly reflected order and serenity. At first glance, one could scarcely tell a depression was on.

    May I help you with your bag, captain? The porter’s cheery voice rang out from the corridor. I rose from my seat and nodded. He had evidently seen the rucksack of books and personal effects stuffed into the rack above my seat. I had sent the rest of my clothing and books ahead.

    Of course, thank you.

    You’re welcome, sir. The porter stood aside as I stepped into the aisle out of his way, then he reached up to pull my rucksack down. Oooh, you’ve got a load in this, sir, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. Thought I might rip my uniform under my arms.

    You’re all right, aren’t you? I took my bag from him and handed him a tip for his effort. With that, he nodded and smiled.

    I’m fine, captain, just fine, thank you. Sort of surprised me, that’s all. Mos’ folks don’t carry heavy things on the train, at least that’s my experience. They leans to notebooks to do some kind of work when they get where they goin’, but not real often as many books it seems you have in that bag. He unconsciously cocked his head back a little as he looked at me. I see you got a preacher collar around your neck. You a preacher, then? I shook my head.

    No, not yet. I’m just a deacon sent to work as the principal of some mountain schools. I expect I’ll be a priest after a few years of work here.

    Got no Catholic churches in these parts.

    Episcopal priest.

    Oh, my mistake, sir. No offense meant.

    None taken. However, I’ve got to get off this train. Thank you again for your help.

    You welcome, sir. He followed me down the aisle to the car’s rear door, standing at the top of the steps as I climbed down to the siding. If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, good luck to you, captain.

    I waved, and then walked up the concrete steps by the end of the siding, coming up to the town square I had seen from the train. The square reflected serenity and order that bespoke pride and heritage. The county courthouse, a two story stone building with a columned front portico that faced the railroad track, towered above a number of smaller buildings clustered around the small grassy square. A tall granite statue of a Confederate soldier dominated the square. It faced the courthouse with a rifle against one hip and the Confederate flag against the other. Clean and polished, it looked as if it had just been erected. The large red and gold sign of a Woolworth’s Five and Dime store set at a right angle to the courthouse advertised the importance of commerce in the town. A restaurant, a hardware store and some other smaller buildings faced the tiny park, forming with the black and white railroad siding a neat square, orderly and peaceful.

    The grass in this Confederate memorial park was neatly mown and trimmed as well. Together with the few shiny automobiles parked at the curbs and a handful of well-dressed men and women walking purposefully on the sidewalks, the park and the buildings gave the distinct impression that all was well in Pinkstonville. What more could a minister want in a flock than trouble free, prosperous, and happy people? I began to think this was a plum assignment, and I am sure an involuntary smile crossed my face as I stood next to the siding. I had been told someone would pick me up and carry me to the church. As I looked over to the Woolworth’s, I heard a woman’s voice behind me.

    Uh, excuse me, are you Deacon Mauldin? I turned and came face to face with the friendly smile of a woman whom I suspected was Peggy Morgan, the rectory and church office housekeeper.

    Mrs. Morgan?

    Yes sir, that’s me. Except please call me Peggy. I’m here to drive you down to the church, Deacon. A good thing since the church lay on the outskirts of the town and my luggage was becoming heavy.

    I extended my hand, and she gripped it firmly.

    Pleased to meet you, young man. I hope you had a pleasant trip out here. Very different from Richmond, I’m sure.

    Yes, from what I see, quite different. She laughed at that.

    We’ve heard many good things about you from the bishop’s office. And Father Mitchell has looked forward to your arrival for some time now. He’s got so much work to do, keeping up with the schools on top of everything else. He’ll be glad for your help there.

    I look forward to helping him. I thought she could continue with little trouble if encouraged, so I changed the subject. Where is the car, Peggy? I’d really like to get to the church and sit down a bit without the seat rocking back and forth beneath me. She laughed, and then waved toward a building across the square from Woolworth’s. It’s right over there, sir, in front of Barnhart’s Restaurant. She walked ahead of me to the church car, a shiny black Model T Ford. Opening the driver’s side door, she climbed in. If you’ll get in, Deacon, I can drive us to St. Rose’s.

    Very good, I replied, climbing in on the passenger side. Pushing pedals and pulling a lever or two, Peggy drove around the square, turning onto the road between the courthouse and Woolworth’s. You drive this like you’ve done it all your life. She smiled.

    It’s the first car I ever drove, period. The church has only had this car for two years or so. Till then, just wagons, horseback, or rented cars. Plenty of cars where you’re from, ain’t they? You’re more likely the one who’s been drivin’ all his life.

    Not much more than you, believe it or not. The difference between no car in the city and no car in the country is just the difference between taking a trolley or riding a wagon. Of course, you don’t have to rub a trolley down at the end of the day. She smiled and nodded at that but kept her eyes on the road.

    Around this here bend, and we’re at the church. As we came around the curve, I leaned forward instinctively to see the building. Rising above and away from the road on a low hill, the church’s stark white frame and wood siding gave it a plain yet alert and aware look. Large, dark double sanctuary doors opened out on a covered portico, while a dark metal bell hung in the steeple belfry above the entrance. Parallel to the road and attached to the church near the back ran a long white frame structure that I supposed served as the parish hall. Small windows located beneath the parish hall apparently gave light to rooms underneath. The windows of both church and parish hall hung in wooden frames rather than the leaden frames I was accustomed to seeing in larger city churches. This wood window trim gave the building a bare and somewhat less imposing appearance on closer scrutiny, but it still looked commanding in its position above the road. Peggy’s demeanor reflected pride in the structure.

    So, what do you think of our church? Right smart place, isn’t it? It took me a few seconds to realize she was talking about the building’s appearance, not its intellect. I would have to get used to that, as I felt sure most local people spoke in those archaic terms.

    Nice, Peggy, quite nice. Her smile seemed to fall a bit, so I continued: I like the way it was built on this rise. Very impressive, I think.

    You really think that, sir?

    Oh, yes ma’am, I said trying to mask my growing impatience. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.

    Thank you, sir. We’re very proud of it ourselves. She wheeled the car into the dusty graveled parking lot and turned off the engine. I glanced at the large empty space, and Peggy noticed my look. Sunday’s it’s full, believe me, it is. Today, middle of the week, no one’s here except me. Father Mitchell is out and about this afternoon with parishioners on church business, but as I told you he should be back at the rectory for supper. Let me show you your new office. It’s in the parish hall basement.

    I’m at your disposal, I said, climbing out of the car. Inspecting the church building more closely, I noticed something else—the white paint was peeling. It was invisible from the road, but very visible up close. Even here, I thought, in a place where one would think people would do all right, given their independence, even here the Depression had laid on its debilitating hand. The church functioned, but without fresh paint. Had the people of St. Rose’s let that go to pay for my services? Had they given up anything else? The unstoppable Peggy interrupted my thoughts.

    Watch your step there in this gravel, Deacon. I’d like to show you the inside of the church. Won’t take but a minute, and you can see what there is in the way of furnishings and suchlike as well as the kitchen.

    Thank you, Peggy, I’ll follow you. I trailed her into the parish hall. Most of it was open, with wooden folding chairs and tables stacked against the walls. The floor looked to be made of light colored pine boards, lending a bright tone to the room. The kitchen sported an icebox as well as a refrigerator, the latter a convenience the churchwomen likely appreciated when arranging and preparing church dinners. A hand pump rose from the sink with a large wooden stove beside it. Several shelves against the walls were crowded with dinnerware, lending an orderly appearance to what was no doubt a busy room on Sundays and other special occasions. This is an impressive parish hall and kitchen, Peggy, I said in all sincerity. You must have a lot of functions here.

    Not so many these days, Deacon. We do prepare meals for the poor in the county, and there’s plenty enough of them, for sure.

    No doubt. It’s good you do that. We had walked to the closed sanctuary doors, and she turned to me.

    Indeed it is. I think we’re a fortunate church, because we have some members who are still doing well despite this Depression. A lot of folks at St. Rose’s own farms and land or their own businesses and can give some money and help to the poorer ones. Lord knows, they don’t get much other help. We have several well-off families, even one that lives up in the mountains, the Cutchins family. They give money to our schools up there and give what they can for the welfare of their mountain neighbors.

    I’m here to manage those schools. Do many people live up in the mountains?

    Many left when the chestnut trees died a few years ago, but right many stayed as well. I’m sure you’ll find out more when you get up there. She leaned against one of the sanctuary doors, which opened with a noticeable creaking sound. Let me show you the sanctuary now, and then I’ll take you to your office.

    As I stepped inside, I thought the sanctuary impressive for such a small church, shorter than the parish hall but wider across. Dark paneling covered its walls and its vaulted ceiling, which was held up by large oak beams spaced some six feet apart down the length of the worship space. Cylindrical brass lamps hung from smaller beams running from one side of the ceiling to the other. Heavy dark oaken pews, which formed ten rows on each side of the center aisle, lent a final touch of solemnity and reverence to the space. I noticed four stained glass windows, two on each wall, but the overall darkness of the room overwhelmed their brightly colored scenes. Four short choir pews, two on each side of the aisle, filled up the space before the altar, the director’s upright piano behind the two on the left. A wooden pulpit rose three feet above the floor opposite the piano, giving Father Mitchell what I thought was a commanding view of his flock.

    Impressive place to give a sermon. Peggy smiled and nodded.

    You’re right there, sir.

    I’d like to look more closely at the altar, if you don’t mind.

    Not at all.

    I walked up to the altar, a simple table draped appropriately for the liturgical season, with a bright brass cross centered in the middle and brass collection plates on the left. This simple altar contrasted strikingly with the nearly palpable solemnity of the rest of the sanctuary. Its quiet elegance seemed to draw my eyes and my spirit away to contemplation. Peggy and I respectfully bowed before the cross, then turned and looked over the shadowy space.

    This is a beautiful church, Peggy, a beautiful church. You obviously take very good care of it.

    Not just me, Deacon. The entire congregation takes care of this. It’s only twelve years old.

    Really?

    Yes, it was built in 1919, when the economy was way better. We couldn’t afford to build a church like this today.

    I’m sure you’re right there, but it is kept up very well.

    Thank you, sir. I’ll pass your kind comments on to the vestrymen.

    Please do. Now, will you show me my office?

    Yes sir. We bowed again to the cross, and I followed Peggy through the double doors into the parish hall. She opened another door, which showed a flight of steps leading to an outside entrance, with a second flight down to the basement. Just follow me, sir, if you would.

    Of course. We descended to the basement and came out into a long hallway with closed doors on either side. Peggy turned left and walked down the hall to a closed door with a plaque marked ‘Deacon’ affixed to it.

    This is your office, she announced as she opened the door, revealing a desk, a tall file cabinet, and several bookcases stocked with the books I had shipped ahead. When we received your books and other belongings, Father decided to just go ahead and fill the bookcases. Your other office things we left in those two boxes on the floor. I hope everything is there.

    I walked into the office and studied the contents of the bookshelves that towered nearly to the top of the small room. I had sent ahead my favorite volumes, three hundred books covering subjects from theology to the Great War in Europe. I had left many more behind at my parents’ home. Yes, Peggy, it does look like everything is here.

    I’m glad to hear that. Sometimes things get lost on long trips, you know. I had never thought a trip from Richmond to the Shenandoah Valley a long trip, but I said nothing. A different standard must apply here.

    Thanks for all your help.

    You’re welcome. She looked up at the electric clock on the wall and put a hand to her mouth. Oh my, Deacon, it’s later than I thought. I have to get back to the rectory and make supper for tonight. I’ll have to get used to cooking for two instead of one now.

    I would imagine so. Do you think we might stop and check my accommodations before proceeding to the rectory? A guilty look crossed her face.

    I’m sorry. I should have pointed out your house to you on the way here. You’re only a few hundred yards down the road. In fact, I have the keys here in my dress pocket. She reached into the pocket, fumbled a bit, and then triumphantly withdrew a set of keys. I knew I had them. This large round one is the key to the church. The smaller square one is the key to your house, and the one half the size of the large one is the key to the rectory, which I don’t suppose you’ll be needing.

    Most likely not. We’d better get going, then.

    All right, let’s get back to the car, and I’ll take you to your house.

    Thanks, Peggy.

    Peggy drove back toward town and dropped me off in front of a small, white frame building set about forty feet back from the highway. I’m sure Father Mitchell will stop by to see you when he gets back to town, she said, handing me the keys. Just so you’ll know, I put your things away as best I could so’s you could relax a bit from your trip.

    Thank you, Peggy. I just might take a rest.

    I’ll see you shortly then. She drove on down the road toward town, and I walked across the small lawn to the front door of my new home. As with the church, the white paint on the sides and trim looked good from the highway but worn and peeling on closer inspection. A small porch stretched along the front of the house, containing two wooden rocking chairs and a small wooden table setting close to the front door. The house had a raised foundation, so I climbed two steps to the porch. Unlocking the door, I pushed it open and stepped inside.

    The house was small. From the front door, I could see into the bathroom, one of the two bedrooms and the kitchen. Smooth white plaster covered the walls throughout, and the builders had put in a pine floor everywhere except the kitchen, where somber gray linoleum served as flooring. I walked to the kitchen for a better look. It contained an ice box, a wood stove, and a large deep porcelain sink under the window. A hand pump rose from the floor beside the sink. There was a white wooden cupboard on the wall near the back door. Someone had placed a small table and two chairs

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