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Preview of The Blossoming

Al Gannaby should have been thankful for the unpaved, rutted, craggy back roads of 1932 southeastern Virginia. But he wasn’t a grateful man.

He found the constant jarring to be a vexation; no appreciation that only these raucous jolts had kept his exhausted body from falling asleep at the wheel.

But now, comforting June warmth embraced him; heavy eyelids were succumbing; weary chin was gliding toward his chest. Al did not sense that he was coaxed, gently tugged, toward sorely overdue sleep.

A sudden thud, a harsh screech, jolted the bony man awake in time to be saved from plowing into the corn field that bordered this section of rugged byway.

Whatever his 1927 Chevy had scaled was still with him, rowdily objecting to the snag and drag the car had thrust upon it. Frightful noise. He stopped, got out, looked under the car, swore at what looked like half a tree.

Not at all in a mellow mood, he cursed having to scoot through dust, his back brushing the dirty underbelly of a car that had trekked forty-five very hard miles today, to grasp the large leafy limb that clung doggedly to something. It finally came out, but not easily; as did Al, who rose, surveyed his new clothes, and cursed again.

But he snickered when he recalled why he bought the outfit. Now, his working-man disguise of gray pants and shirt, broad-brimmed beige hat, workmen’s shoes, were dirty; sported rips.

Authentic.

Pleased with his appearance, he shifted his focus to the country road, peered eastward, away from the afternoon sun.

“Where am I?” he muttered aloud. His goal was Farmville, but he had no idea how far it was. He craved sleep, felt it closing on him, but had to drive on, had to hope the town wasn’t far.

It wasn’t!

Soon he was easing through evening traffic in the heart of Farmville, taking High Street, the Weyanoke Hotel in sight. Al spotted a parking space, hurried to grab it, but scowled brutally as a Model T puttered from the curb and scraped the right side of his car.

“Damn!”

Snarling, he leaped out and stomped to meet an old man, seventyish, by the passenger door. Two bystanders, witnesses, joined them.

“Sorry, mister. Didn’t see you. Hope I didn’t ruin your motorcar. This is a brand-new model, ain’t it, a 1932?”

“Clyde,” one of the witnesses moaned, “look what you’ve done,” as he ran his hand over the scratches. “You either pay attention to your driving, or…” He stopped, face contorted, and focused on light gray paint under one coat of dark brown. “New paint job?” he asked Al.

Al ran a nervous hand through his cropped chestnut hair. “Uh - - I’m in a big hurry. Let’s forget it.”

“Sir,” the second witness said, “Clyde ought to get this repaired for you. Here comes a town policeman now and you can bet Clyde’s going to get another citation to add to his collection.”

But Al was retreating to the driver’s side. “It’s alright. I’m in a hurry.” He jumped in, and took off.

“What happened?” the patrolman asked as he hastened to join the little group.

“Clyde being Clyde again. The fellow was furious, can’t blame him, but calmed down in a hurry when I asked if it was just painted. There’s light grey under that fresh coat of brown. Kind of strange.”

The officer made a note of the five digits of the Chevy’s license plate as Al drove off.

-    -    -

A year later, other Gannabys were festive.

The rich verdant lawn before Washington Hall was crowded with 1933 graduates and excited observers. Myra and Andy Gannaby grinned broadly when they heard “Edward Gannaby” called. Joined by their live-in best friend Nita, they clapped wildly when the slender, dark-haired, six-foot-two Great War veteran received his diploma.

They were polite during the remainder of the ceremony, but rushed him rowdily the moment it ended. Myra buried her husband, who she called Bo, in a wild embrace. Nita stood by timidly, awaiting her turn.

“Long time coming, Bo,” Myra hollered as she leaned back from the robed one-armed graduate. Playfully, and sporting a wide grin, she tugged his short, trim beard then flicked the tassel on his mortarboard cap. “Cute!”

“Congratulations, Dad,” Andy called over his expectant mother’s shoulder while he delicately took his father’s hand from her waist and shook it.

“Thanks, son. Andy, you look sharp in your Staunton uniform. Nita, that blue outfit looks wonderful on you. I’m so glad you’re all here.”

Myra backed away to make room for the short gray-haired Nita, who whispered, “I am so proud of you, Bo,” as she squeezed him.

“Thanks, for your cheers and support. At 37, I’ll bet I’m the oldest Washington & Lee graduate today; if not for y’all, it wouldn’t be happening.”

“Right on to law school now, Dad?”

Nodding, he said, “A short breather then jump into summer session.”

“Wrap it up fast, Ed! We need you,” a familiar voice urged from behind the graduate.

He spun about, was shocked to see his life-long dear friend. Ed shook his old pal’s hand vigorously as he sputtered, “Len Kitterman! You drove all the way up here from Salem?”

“Took the train; wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“Thanks, Len. Thanks for everything! Myra, you remember my best friend from High School.”

She shot Ed a teasing frown and lightly scolded, “Do I remember him!” as she waddled in to hug Len.

“And, Andy, you met Len in Salem when we went out to dinner at the club.”

“Yes sir,” the lad replied as he extended his hand. “Your father lent us his Ford Woody during our visit.”

A somber expression washed over Ed’s face.

“How is Kit doing, Len?”

“Coming along slowly. His speech is getting a little better, he can take a couple steps with his cane.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“You’re coming to lunch with us, Len,” Myra firmly declared.

“Uh - - well” he stammered. “Of course. Wouldn’t argue with a Texas cowgirl.”

“Specially a seven-month pregnant one who gets her way on everything,” Myra smirked as she looped her arm through Len’s and tugged him toward their car.

The group dined at the Mayflower Inn on the other side of town. They not only loved the food, but it had sentimental value as their lodging when the Gannabys first visited Lexington a year ago. After feasting on baked trout, roasted pork, and a triple club, the ladies and Andy went to the rest rooms. Len offered his old high school buddy a Lucky Strike. Ed declined.

“When did you start smoking, Len?”

“When dad had his stroke. I thought we were going to lose him. It upset me.”

“Of course it did.”

The attorney took a long drag, inhaled deeply, and blew smoke into the air above them.

“It wasn’t just the loss of the family patriarch, or his legal skills. As you know, he’s our litigator. He’s counted on you being his heir on that since we were in high school. But you’re two long years away. It’s terrifying.”

Ed’s gaze flashed away, he swallowed, then refocused onto his friend and future law partner.

“Frankly, Ed, Dad will never dance and prance like he did. There are no pressing cases now that hinge on him snake-charming a judge and jury. But there will be over the next two years.”

“Len, you do all the research, you set the strategies, you call the plays. You can litigate.”

“No,” he snapped. “I choke in public speaking.”

Ed spread his right arm and left stub, shook his head, and said, “You once choked at the foul line, or on an easy layup, but you got over it. And you’ll get over this. Face your demon and stare it down.”

The two dearest old friends, teammates, gazed at one another for nearly ten seconds.

“I need you to take and pass the bar, Ed, soon. You can spend the rest of your damned life in law school if you wish, but I need you ready to step in when the bullets fly. I need you, Ed. Now.”

Before Ed could reply, the ladies returned, Andy behind them.

-    -    -

Responding to a rap, Andy’s roommate at Staunton Military Academy, Cadet Mitchell, opened the door of his dormitory room to admit Cadet Weldon.

“Come in, Stretch.”

“Is Tex, I mean Andy, back?”

“I know Andy goes by Tex, too. No. I think he’s staying at home after his dad’s graduation today, then they’re coming tomorrow to get his things and leave for summer break.”

Stretch nodded, sat at Andy’s desk, glanced at the floor. Inhaling deeply, he looked at Mitchell.

“You know about Colonel Russell?”

“I know he’s in the hospital. Is he worse?”

The tall cadet exhaled through pursed lips.

“There’s no good way to say this, Mitch. He fell from a third story window and died on impact.”

Mitchell was speechless several moments, then his brown eyes narrowed, brows lowered.

“How do you fall out a window?”

“He didn’t jump, if that’s what you mean. He’s had dizziness, shortness of breath. He was probably at the window for air, having trouble breathing, got dizzy, and lost his balance.”

“Damn. I only knew he was in the hospital, didn’t know why,” Mitchell replied contritely.

Stretch waved him off. “That’s OK. I came to tell Tex, I mean Andy. He thought an awful lot of Russell. That’s who admitted him to the Academy last year.”

“Want me to get you when he comes in?”

“- - No,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “He’ll hear it somewhere; the whole school will be talking about it tomorrow. I just thought I could catch him tonight.”

“Well, if he hasn’t heard when I see him, I can tell him you came by tonight to let him know.”

“Yeah, that’d be good. Then he won’t hear boys chattering at mess, and have to ask what happened. Thanks, Mitch.”

-    -    -

“Detective Greene, you have a call. It’s Division Three, Farmville.”

The Virginia State Police investigator snatched his telephone and identified himself. The caller spoke.

“Detective Greene, you sent a letter to every office saying you had a fugitive, Alfred Gannaby, in a 1927 Chevrolet Series AA, light grey, and the tag number. We believe it may have been in Farmville yesterday, seen by a local policeman and three civilians.”

“You believe it was - - you’re not sure?”

“Not positive. It was in a minor accident, and one of the citizens saw light grey paint under fresh dark brown. The tag matched, and the driver was about the height and weight you gave. But his hair was blond.”

“Oh, this SOB is slick. He’s painted his car and dyed his hair. You’re holding him, right?”

“Afraid not, sir. He was seething when a Model T scraped his right side, but skedaddled when one of the witnesses noticed the gray under the brown paint and asked him about it. By the time the officer got there he was rushing off, but the patrolman got his license number.”

“Damn, you let him get away! What direction did he take?” the Investigator, who had people call him Detective, asked.

“East, but he was downtown and could have gone anywhere from there. I know the town cop, and had told him that morning that a fellow in a ’27 Chevy had killed six people in Craig County, so he called me. Sorry we don’t have more.”

“Damn, me, too. Well, at least you got me a little. I know he’s blond now, his Chevy is dark brown, and he’s been going east from Salem to Farmville. Let’s say he’s going to Richmond or Norfolk - - how would he go?”

“To Richmond, they’re patching together a bunch of roads into US Route 60, and I think it goes on down the Peninsula to the Hampton/Norfolk ferry. But, if he wanted to stay south of the James, to Petersburg and on to Suffolk, I don’t know. Of course, we’re guessing.”

“Yeah. Well. I’ll send another letter, and I’ll call a few offices. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

He hung up, spread out a state road map, and studied it. Then he hailed a trooper who sat just outside his office.

“Hey, got a minute? Help me figure this out. Gannaby was in Farmville yesterday late afternoon.” He put his left index finger on Salem, his right on Farmville. “Where’s he going? If it’s to Richmond, why the hell go by way of Farmville?”

Scratching his head, staring intently at the map, the trooper ventured, “Carolina?”

“Hmm. Could be,” Detective Greene muttered. “But he’s been going east, not south.”

“The coast? Norfolk?” the trooper muttered.

Both state policemen stared at the map.

“Yeah, I bet that’s it. That letter you sent for me a few days ago, whip out a second one, saying he was seen in Farmville yesterday, his hair’s blond now, and the Chevy’s dark brown with scratches on the passenger side door. While you’re getting that ready, I’ll call Norfolk.”

-    -    -

“Myra, do you mind driving?”

“Nope, not long as I can squeeze behind the wheel. Should be Andy, but the state nixed that. I’m mad at Virginia. Don’t mind requiring a driver’s license, but they could have waited a week or two till my boy turns 14.”

“Must I get license?” Nita asked as they all clambered into the huge, long-nose dark green Buick.

“If you want to drive,” Andy quipped. “And starting next month you need to pass a driving test.”

“Madre de Dios.”

The trip from Lexington to their home in Buena Vista was about eight miles and the road was decent. Soon they were piling out of the sedan at the large, white, T-plan Victorian they had rented on the northeast side of Buena Vista for nearly a year. Myra turned to her son.

“Andy, would you put the car away?”

As the rest of them headed indoors, the lad eased the Buick to a charming carriage house at the back corner of the lot, set the brake, and jumped out to open the barn-style garage doors. Soon, with the Buick tucked away and the carriage house secured, he began a trek over a brick path to the back porch.

“Are you in the Army?”

It was a slender woman of about fifty, silver hair bobbed short, very white teeth, and a charming smile.

“I’m Grace,” she purred with a deep south accent.

“Andy Gannaby. And, no ma’am, I’m not in the Army. I’m a cadet at SMA, Staunton Military Academy.”

“Oh. Splendid uniform, and you wear it quite well.”

The cadet was clad in grey trousers and tunic, a black collar snug about his neck. A wide black stripe ran down the center from neck to waist, a narrow one around his midriff, and two others near the bottom of both sleeves.

“Thank you, ma’am. I take it you live in the house next to ours.” He nodded toward a brick two-story home.

“Yes, I do. Are you home for the summer?”

“Almost. We’re going to the Academy tomorrow for my things. Then I’m here till August.”

“Good. I’m sure we’ll see each other often - - if your mother doesn’t mind.”

“Ma’am? My mother?”

“Oh, bless my soul. Please, forget I said that.”

With another big smile, she turned to tend her roses. Andy stared after her a second then shook his head. He scaled the few porch steps and went in the back door.

The family was in a parlor to his immediate left. It was outfitted with sturdy handmade furniture produced by ancestors of Nita’s late husband. The room was their tribute to the good memories of their life in Texas. And there were some fond reveries, several, before severe drought and dust storms had driven them out.

“Here’s our cadet, joining our graduate. I’m so proud of both y’all.”

 -    -    -

Al was too tired to push it to Blackstone, the next town likely to have a hotel. Damn shame. Evening was gathering, and he’d love to chew up gaggles of miles under cover of darkness. But falling asleep at the wheel and slamming into a tree - - no room for that in the plan! He used what light remained to find a pull off.

It was a narrow dirt road on his right, bisecting a field of waist-high grain. Perfect. He put a little distance between him and the highway, stopped the car, tucked his pistol in his lap, and fell asleep behind the wheel.

All was well for a few hours.

“Hey, fella!”

Jolted, Gannaby’s bloodshot eyes shot open as his right hand instinctively pointed his pistol toward the voice.

“Whoa,” the man yowled, hopping backwards, arms raised in surrender. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m on a milk run and need to get up this road.”

Briskly waggling his head to shake out cobwebs, Al focused on him and challenged “delivering milk out here, in the middle of the night?”

Contritely, staring at the pistol barrel, he stuttered, “Picking up milk, to take to the - - uh, look, can I talk to you instead of your gun? All I need is to get up the road, get the man’s milk, and go. It’s almost five, and I’m late.”

Al exhaled, lowered his pistol. “Got tired, needed a nap. Where can I turn around?”

“Less than a quarter-mile, straight ahead.”

Al nodded, motioned the man back to his truck, started the Chevy and pulled off. As promised, a little way up the lane he came to a creek ford with room on this side of it to reverse direction. He pulled over, motioned the milk man to come around, gently motored back to the road he’d been traveling last night, and resumed his journey eastward.

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