In Memoriam of Olton Grove

Olton Grove was a town in decline. Since the construction of a new superhighway that bypassed the remote settlement entirely, the pothole-strewn streets saw less and less use by the year. Travellers and locals had left behind the rolling wheat fields for greener pastures, literal and figurative alike, and the dilapidated store fronts and desperate “For Lease” signs now rivalled the dwindling population of the town. And in his lonely cottage on the threshold of Olton Grove and the expansive Mid-Western wilderness beyond, John David had grown accustomed to the stillness of his quaint, quiet life.

A rapping on the front door a little after noon brought the stillness crashing in around John David. A local historian for all of his working life, Mr. David devoted his time to the study of all those that had long since faded from the memories of the one-horse town. Sepia-toned photographs, fractured clay sculptures, faded art and fabrics on loan from town hall - these were all the company Mr. David had known for nearly three decades, and all of the companionship he asked for. The rhythmic knocking had no place among his scribbled workings.

But reluctantly, Mr. David arose from his old and cluttered desk and shuffled to the front door, compelled by his commitment to the old-fashioned neighborly manners his mother had taught him when he was a child. Opening the door just a crack, he could glimpse the stranger on the other side, idly scanning the dismal surroundings from the poorly painted porch: a boy, hardly yet a man, with a nest of unkempt hair atop a lanky, toothpick body. With torn jeans and a thick suede jacket, the boy had the markings of a city kid, one impossibly lost amid the endless fields of grain. He certainly resembled none that remained in Olton Grove.

“What do you want?” John David whispered, his tired voice hoarse and strained from a lifetime of isolation. He loathed being pulled away from his work like this. Somehow, the colorless images he stared at all day long held more color and life than the world outside his front door.

But the stranger was real and standing on his porch, absently tending to his tousled, tangled locks. The dry heat of summer was a nuisance to those inexperienced with it. “I’m lookin’ for someone. The guy at the store said you could help.”

“Aye, perhaps. What’s it to ya?”

“Look, I don’t got much cash on me. But it’s important, yeah?”

Sighing, Mr. David shut the door and unhooked the security latch. Swinging the door wide open, he motioned the boy inside. “Fine, fine. What do ya want? I ain’t got all day.”

The boy stepped inside the cottage, the old floorboards creaking with every motion that he made. Mr. David gestured to a plush lounge chair in the corner, a gaudy floral pattern adorning every inch. Obligingly, he accepted the seat; despite the dated, grotesque fabric, the cushions were comfortable enough.

Opposite the chair, Mr. David sat on back on a sagging loveseat, a piece surely older than his guest and all the more reliable. “Not from ‘ere, are ya?”

“No, sir. Never. My ma spent some time out here, though, back in the day. I thought I’d check it out for myself.”

John David chuckled to himself. “Ain’t much to check out these days, I’m afraid. Your ma was smart to get out.”

“I guess.”

“So, what’s your name, boy? A what brings ya to my front porch?”

“Christopher, sir. Christopher Lewis. And like I said - I’m lookin’ for someone.”

“Christopher, eh? What kinda someone?”

Wringing his wrists, Christopher’s eyes dropped to a fraying carpet beneath his seat. “Well - see, I don’t know much about em’, sir. If they’re even out here anymore. What they mighta been like.”

“So, what do ya know, boy?”

“Just a name: Brandon Clarke.” Christopher shrugged. “I know it ain’t much. But… Ma said he was the love of her life, y’know? She said she left ‘im here to raise me. But I’m all raised now, so… I dunno. I thought I’d see if I could find ‘im. For ma. Has to be worth a shot, anyhow.”

“Ahh… I see...” Slowly, John David rose from the loveseat, grabbing the wool cardigan he’d left draped over the arm the night before. “You’re a good kid, ain’t ya? Yeah, I know the name. I’ll take ya to ‘im, if you care to visit..”

“Yessir. Thank you, sir.”

…

A short ride in John David’s worn sedan brought Mr. David and the boy to the single-story church just down the road. The sacred grounds where the stone church stood were carved into Mr. David’s mind, not only from 50-some years of Sunday services, but from a lifetime of studying the marble epitaphs that stood behind the building. With sturdy, methodic steps, Mr. David walked Christopher down the dirt path that ran along row after row of gravestones, leading him to the back of the cemetery with surety. There, in the back corner of the cemetery beneath a lone maple tree, he pointed to a grave placed away from the others, a somber look crossing his face.

Christopher knelt before the marble stone with interest; in neat calligraphy, the name Brandon Clarke stared back. “I don’t get it, sir… 1990 to 1992. He’s- It’s-”

“I reckon leavin’ ‘im behind hurt your ma somethin’ bad. The pain of losin’ a child… It ain’t one that ever goes away.”

“She never told me…” Gently, he traced the writing on the polished stone, his gaze vacant as he imagined a face to match the name. “I didn’t know…”

“Perhaps it was too hard to talk about. I’m sure she meant you no harm.”

Christopher looked up to John David with wide brown eyes. “You talk like you know her, sir.”

“Nah, not hardly. I know her pain, is all.”

“You lost a child, sir?” Mr. David looked away. “I don’t mean to pry-”

“Think nothin’ of it.” With a heavy heart and slouched shoulders, Mr. David strolled to a bench beneath the maple tree and sat with Christopher. “Y’know, I never did care much for history til’ I had a kid o’ my own. The only thing my ex-wife ever left me, save the house and a mountain o’ debts. He woulda been about your age by now, I reckon; certainly a hell of a lot more sturdy. 

‘Cept… He went missing, see? Broad daylight, middle o’ town - but there weren’t anyone around to see nothin’. Haven’t seen ‘im in - goodness, more than 20 years. After that, the past seemed a lot happier than the present.” Shutting his eyes, Mr. David breathed in the warm air and smiled. The sun seemed to shine brighter there than it ever did on his front porch. As the light fell across his face, he could almost feel his son’s breath on his cheek as he babbled about cowboys and cattle.

Christopher stood from the bench hurriedly, his expression blank as he approached the grave one more. Sighing, Mr. David forced himself up and returned to the young boy’s side - as always, the memories had to come to an end as reality set back in. “But I’m sure your ma is better off than I was - with a kind boy like yourself lookin’ out for ‘er-”

And the world around John David went dark.