Preview of What Happened, Randi?"

1-Orange County VA: 2007

“Grandpa, am I adopted?”

Grove Mathews turned his eyes on the slender twelve-year old, and began to slowly shake his head.

“No, Rachel, you’re not. Why do you ask?”

Patches of stray flaxen hair caught in the wind and danced across her brow.

“I heard Mom say that she is.”

They were sitting next to one another on the stoop of the side porch. Grove shifted, leaned against a post, squinted against rays of afternoon summer sun.

“Did you ask her about it?”

“No.”

His eyebrows rose. She scrunched her face, her deep brown eyes narrowing.

“I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t?”

“It was today, on her phone, just before we got to the farm. They started talking about something else.”

“And then?”

She shrugged.

“You always tell me the truth, so I waited.”

He gnawed at his lower lip a moment, nodding.

“I adopted your mom when she was two, and your uncle, who was about one.”

She looked at him a moment longer then turned, leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring at her knuckles. Then she abruptly flipped her hands palms up, and cocked her head toward him.

“Is it a secret?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

Grove stood, stretched his six-foot frame as the breeze tossed his thinning gray hair.

“I know why I didn’t tell you.”

He reached for her hand and tenderly tugged her off the stoop.

“I just didn’t think to. Not because it’s a secret.

They began to stroll toward a vegetable garden that filled a level quarter-acre at the foot of the sloping side lawn.

“Are you angry, or hurt, that I didn’t tell you?”

She glanced into his pale blue eyes. “No.”

They walked in silence until he pointed to a hawk circling over a distant field. “He’s hunting.”

She nodded; didn’t reply. The hawk vanished into a small flotilla of cirrus clouds, swooped out again with wings pumping, floated back in a wide arc, raining doubtless agony upon its prey.

Grove refocused on the nearer at hand. They entered the garden. He stopped, examined tomatoes, picked off a bug.

”Nasty.”

Rachel ambled on, stopped at a row of corn, fidgeted with it aimlessly until he caught up with her.

“It’ll be in soon,” Grove assured her. ‘There’s ripe corn on the other side now.”

She nodded. They walked on.

They followed a worn path to an old pump well in the center of the garden. Grove kept it in good order. Water gushed soon. He stooped, cupped his hands under the flow, and drank.

“Umm.”

He shook his hands, deliberately flicking a few drops at Rachel, grinned.

“Cool and good. Want some?”

She shook her head ‘no,’ put her hand over her brow as a visor and gazed away at distant cows. She spoke evenly.

“Why didn’t her real mom and dad keep her?”

She twisted, hand still over her brow, looked him in the eye.

“Honey, your natural grandmother wasn’t with your natural grandfather very long.”

She didn’t move.

“He left before your mom was born.”

She didn’t speak.

“Your natural grandmother was raising your mother alone.”

“Did you know my real grandpa?”

“No.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know, Rachel.”

“You don’t know?”

“I honestly don’t.”

She dropped her hand from her brow, glanced away a moment, then jerked her focus back onto her grandpa.

“What was her name?”

He looked at his hands, rubbed them again.

“Randi.”

He cleared his throat and looked at Rachel.

“R-A-N-D-I. Randi.”

“And you knew her? Randi?”

A strained smile, a quick nod.

“Yes,” he said with a slight sniffle.

“I knew Randi.”

She pivoted, centered her attention onto two sparrows fluttering about the barn, and watched them race off toward the creek that ran parallel to them a hundred yards to the west until they vanished into the trees by the creek.

Then she spun back to him, reached and took his hand, and they ambled up a gentle slope back toward the porch. She looked straight ahead.

“What happened to Randi?”

Grove drew a long breath.

“She died.”

“How did she die?”

He bowed his head, muttered “an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

He didn’t answer.

She waited.

He didn’t answer.

She stopped, faced him.

“What kind of accident, Grandpa?”

Eyes closed, he sucked his lower lip between his teeth. “I’d really rather tell you that another time.”

He tried to swallow, sniffed.

“It’s not a secret. It’s that…I just…”

Rachel put her hand over his and squeezed.

“It’s OK, Grandpa.”

Grove’s eyes were on the ground. Hers were on him. She spoke with resolute empathy.

“It’s OK.”

He nodded, stiffened, turned his hand to squeeze hers and said “thank you.”

They resumed their walk, silently, but after a few steps she looked into his tanned face and spoke.

“Can I ask other questions?”

Nodding, smiling: “sure.”

“How did you know her?”

“We were cousins. We came to the farm with our parents, when my grandpa owned it.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. “Here?”

“Right here. We usually spent a week each summer visiting here by ourselves.”

He looked at her tenderly.

“When I was your age she was my best friend.”

She returned his gaze. The wind caught her hair.

“In fact, she looked like you.”

“Like me?”

“A lot like you.”

She laughed, easing his somberness. He chuckled and tousled her hair. Her index finger tapped at her chin.

“Like me!”

“Yes.”

She giggled as her eyes swept over the landscape.

“And…here! Like, right here in this garden?”

“We got water out of that well just exactly like you and I do. We sat on the same porch, swung in that same old tree swing.”

Her jaw dropped as her hands snapped onto her hips, eyebrows arched, staring him down.

“The same porch – like, maybe exactly where we were just sitting?”

With intense focus, she took a very slow and deep breath. Then she did a smart ninety-degree pivot toward the well pump, marched out with her left foot and planted it firmly.

“Randi’s foot might have been right where mine is now.” She looked at her grandpa.

Grove studied her foot mischievously then inched his left toe to her heel and pushed it an eighth of an inch.

“There.”

She laughed. He joined her. They laughed together loudly for several seconds until, the laughter lightening, she shifted her gaze back to her entrenched left foot.

Then she carefully removed it, knelt, and softly ran her finger over the impression it had left.

“My real grandma.”

She was very still. Grove barely heard her murmur “Randi.” She traced the ridges of the shoe print twice more and spoke a little louder: “Randi.”

Drawing light circles in the heel print with her index finger she spoke yet a bit louder.

“My real grandma.”

A soft laugh.

“Randi, right here, my grandma.”

Then she rose, twisted her neck to look at Grove, happy tears, wide smile.

“My real grandma was right here.”

He nodded: “your real grandma.”

Raising her arms toward the sky, she spun about and shouted, “Right here!” She thrust her arms straight out, pointed at the ground with both index fingers, pumped furiously and screamed, “Right here!”

Grove roared, mimicked her pointing, stomped a foot: “Right here.”

Delirious hilarity swamped the garden for many seconds, faded gently into peace.

Rachel closed her eyes, sighed, and then opened them slowly to meet her grandpa’s – to that which cannot be said – until eternity ebbed as the porch gradually took shape through her glazed eyes; to stare, to finally utter:

“On that porch.”

“Every day,” he nodded.

“And she looked like me.”

He was still nodding: “so very much.”

She wrapped her arms around his slightly paunchy waist and was very quiet, staring now at the big tree beside the porch, the one with the swing. She wiped her eyes, was silent a little while longer.

“What was she like?”

He swallowed.

“She was wonderful.”

His arm on her shoulder, patting gently, his gaze following hers to the swing, imagining, remembering.

“Wonderful.”

They were still several moments. She spoke reverently.

“Will you tell me about her accident someday?”

His eyes fell on the ground. He swallowed again, gnawed his lips. Finally he spoke.

“I’ll tell you now if you’ll make me a promise.”

He looked down at her, put his hand under her chin, and gently lifted until her eyes met his.

“If you ever have a problem, need someone to talk to, about anything…you call me.”

The words struggled imploringly through clenched teeth, a thick throat.

“You promise to call me.”

He didn’t let go until she whispered “I promise.”

“I mean it, Rachel. You promise me!”

“I promise, Grandpa.”

He hugged her tightly.

2-Georgetown: 1972

Even at night, even if you didn’t have sunburn, August can be hot and steamy in Washington, DC. It had been worse when they left the beach with the sun hanging low but mean. Night had fallen - not the temperature. Night had aged, in an endless snarl awaiting the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.

And it felt hotter, with scarcely any breeze sifting through the tiny window of his forest green Triumph Spitfire Mark 3. What scant breeze he got was latent with the scorching exhaust of a million other cars.

Grove Mathews flicked the handle on the car’s top and began to roll it back. The snap of the latch startled and woke her.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

She shifted as best she could in the petite beige leather bucket seat to distance herself from him, glared out her window and exhaled through pursed lips.

“Are we a little grumpy?” Grove grunted.

“Don’t.”

“What’s wrong with putting the top down? It’ll help keep me awake and maybe drop the temperature in here to double digits.”

“Mister, the temperature in here will hit single digits when we get moving and the wind ruins my hair.”

He was agape. “Sharon, you’ve got three days of salt, sand, sea water and beach wind in your hair! What difference can it make if the top’s down?”

“It makes a difference because I washed and set it just before we left.”

He chewed his lower lip a second.

“Oh…it looks good.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Yes, Grove, I am grumpy, and tired, and hot. I’m sorry. But I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t make it worse.”

It was Grove’s turn to sigh.

“Me too, but, honey, it’s hot, and so humid, and the wind will help. I don’t ask for much. Please.”

“Suit yourself.”

She started to rub her eyes, stopped abruptly when she realized that even her lids were sun burnt. She stared at her normally fair complexioned fore arms and thighs, now reddened and fiery.

“Babe, I’m trying to be rationally considerate. The humidity must be 200%. If anything, the wind will keep your hair from tangling up worse.”

“I find that neither rational nor considerate. Where’s the cold cream?”

“Use the Coppertone in the glove compartment.”

“I want cold cream.”

“Sharon, damn it, I don’t know where the cold cream is, probably in the suitcase. What’s wrong with the…hey, what are you doing? Be careful. Let me.”

She was crawling toward the boot, stretching to reach the straps holding the suitcase onto the chrome luggage rack Grove had mounted on the trunk shortly after he got the car. Grove opened his door, dragged his lean body onto the pavement, but jumped back in when the traffic unpredictably began to move.

“Use the Coppertone, Sharon, and not another frigging word about it.”

And there wasn’t another word about it. In fact, it had been the Silent Treatment until she drifted off to sleep. They were in Georgetown now, about to reach his basement apartment, which they often shared.

Sharon had slept since Annapolis, shortly before the traffic opened up to 50-60 MPH. And her long, luscious auburn hair did blow – a lot. He pulled to the curb directly across the street from his apartment, looked at her normally elegant locks and moaned.

Oh my god, he thought. Do I wake her?

What a stupid question. I can’t leave her in the car. Maybe she won’t notice her hair. Right! I try to be a nice guy, but when I’ve been pistol whipped by sun and exhaustion – damn. Why do I do these things?

“Sharon? Honey, we’re home.”

“Huh? Oh.”

“Go on in. I’ll take care of the unloading. Want me to fix you a drink or something while you take a shower?”

Tangled tresses were all over her face. She pulled down the tiny visor and stared into an attached mirror.

“Oh, Grove!”

He reached out to pat her knee.

“Don’t! I’m sun burnt.”

“I’ll put some lotion on you after you wash off. It’ll cool you down.”

“Cool me down?”

“Oh, honey, I wasn’t being sarcastic. And I’m really sorry about your hair.”

Tilting her head toward him, she tried to blow the knotted mass out of her face, gave up. She parted it with her hands, peeked out and shot him a sleepy smirk.

“Guess I shouldn’t have washed it, huh?”

Then she stumbled out of the car, took a drowsy step, turned and grasped two shopping bags that were stuffed behind her seat.

“Sharon, I’ll get those, really. And I am sorry.”

He reached for them, but she had begun to stagger around the car, into the street, to head across the short front lawn into a narrow walkway between two sets of row houses that led to the side entrance to Grove’s apartment;

He quickly got the suitcase off the luggage rack and put the top up. Then he traced Sharon’s steps down the path to a little brick stoop in front of his door. She was standing there, more awake now, alert. Her attention turned from a note taped to the door to Grove.

“Honey, you’d better read this.”

She gently took his hand as he read out loud.

TRIED TO CALL

RANDI HAD AN ACCIDENT

HAVE GONE TO ORANGE

DAD

“Orange?”

“In Virginia, near Charlottesville.”

Grove stared off a moment then unlocked the door and carried their suitcase inside.

“It’s the family homestead.”

Sharon picked up the shopping bags and followed him in.

“Randi – that’s the cousin you’ve talked about?”

“Yes. But she was more like a sister when we were growing up.”

“Does she live in Orange?”

He shook his head, glanced at his watch.

“Richmond. I’m calling Dad.”

He paced briskly to a spindle end table next to an Early American sofa, picked up the phone, stood erect and dialed his folks’ home in Alexandria.

“When I called work Friday there was a message to call Dad. I phoned but no one was there…no one’s answering now, either.”

He stooped to hang up, plopped onto the sofa and cupped his chin with both hands. Sharon sat beside him and put her hand on his knee.

“Maybe you should call Orange.”

His eyes widened. “Yeah.”

He jumped to the end table, knelt, fished through the single drawer for his address book, found the farm number, and wrote it on his father’s note.

“I’d better find out what’s going on.”

Dropping onto the sofa he dialed his grandmother’s farm outside Orange. It was answered before the second ring. The voice was not drowsy.

“Garrett residence.”

“This is Grove Mathews. Are my father and mother there?”

“Grove?” she sang. “This is Aunt Helen.”

Then she languished.

“Yes, they are. Here’s Paul now.”

“Hello, Grove.”

“Dad, I just got in and found your note. What happened?”

“There’s been an accident, Grove. Friday.”

“What kind of accident? Is Randi alright?”

“Uh, no.”

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