the real truth was, he received mail from Martha. Sometimes there would a half dozen letters from her. But now, what to do? Luke pondered and stewed for days. Letters would not suffice.
Meanwhile, Maggie, oblivious at this time to her mother’s illness, was learning the technique of playing the fretless banjo. Her ear was good, and she seemed to be born to it. Her memory was keen, and she learned the words just the way Luke taught her. But Martha was not doing well. As she became obviously more ill, Maggie noticed and asked why. Luke knew he had to tell her the truth.
Luke was frank with her. “I’m sure you can see that your mama is not healthy. Yes, she is in a family way, but she is not well. She is not only going to have a baby, but she has—she also has cancer.” He patted his own breast.
Maggie grasped her own breasts with both hands. “Her bosom, Papa? Oh no! Can’t Dr. Morgan cut it out?”
“Sweetheart, your mother has known for a long time. She knew she had a lump, but she didn’t tell Dr. Morgan. She didn’t tell me, either, but, well, we are, uh.”
“Papa, I understand about husbands and wives. You found it.”
“Yes.” His face reddened, but he had to pursue it with Maggie. “You mother wouldn’t let Dr. Morgan operate, and it has already spread. She may not even be able to keep the baby, and she could even pass away before the little one is born. She needs your comfort and your help. Can you do this for her?”
Maggie sobbed, hiding her face against his chest. He did his best to comfort the girl, but she cried and cried. Finally, when she had expended all her tears, she told him she was committed to caring for her mother. “Papa, I will even give up my new love of cooking if it means Momma will have it easier.”
By the end of March, at five months, Martha was not gaining weight as she should with her pregnancy, and she was weak. But the baby seemed to be growing despite her. Luke liked her to be with child, and Maggie was ecstatic that a little brother or sister was on the way. But at the same time, they were both worried sick over her Martha’s health.
But now Luke had to make a decision: go home to Zanny or stay with Martha till the end. Although she wouldn’t admit it, he knew she was dying. If she died before the baby was far enough along, it would die with her.
He would stay. But what would he tell Zanny? He stewed and pondered some more. Maggie had a lot to say about it.
“Papa, you can’t leave her the way she is. I know you always go back to Tennessee in April, but not only is Momma going to have a baby, she is going to die. I know it. You have to stay. If you don’t, much as I love you, I’ll hate you.”
That did it. He knew what he had to do. I’ll send Zanny a telegram that I have taken ill and will remain here until I’m well enough to travel. She will believe it. After all, I do come here for my health.
Chapter 7
Susan
Legacy at Highwoods Preserve Assisted Living,
Tampa, Florida,3 July 2009
Martha’s baby would come early and be healthy despite his mother’s cancer. Today, eighty-seven years later, that baby was enjoying his life at Legacy at Highwoods Preserve, one of the finest assisted living facilities in New Tampa.
As Susan dialed the home where Luke lived, she was so excited her fingers tingled. She was going to meet Junior Harvey. She had called the home to see if Mr. Harvey was up to having company. “I know his son, Harry, and he thought the old fellow would like to hear me play my banjo.”
Mac couldn’t come with her. He had to make a trip to Macon for some legal matters related to turning over his medical practice to his son a year earlier. He flipped through a pile of legal forms. “You would think by this time the paperwork would be a done deal. Sheesh!” he complained. “I will miss you. Call me every night, okay?”
Susan missed him. She did call him every night and gave him a running detail of her day. It had been the first time since they were married two months before that he had not been with her. But Susan knew she had to meet the old man to pick his brain. There were too many unanswered questions. Was his father really someone named Luke Harvey, or could it possibly have been Luther Willson? You know, it fits! Daddy’s name was Harvey, a family name way back. Luke or Luther. But what could Junior reveal, especially if he had memory issues?
As she walked down the hallway to his room, carrying her little banjo, she was unusually nervous. His door was open, and she saw him seated at a card table playing solitaire. Seeing him in a typical retirement home setting calmed her nerves. She knocked on the doorjamb. When he turned to face the door, her heart jumped. Grandpa!
“Come on in, good-lookin’! Are we gonna go jammin’? See ya brought yer banjer!”
Susan was put at ease by the old man’s country lingo. “Got yer fiddle tuned up, Mr. Harvey?”
“What’s this mister business? Just call me Junior. And yeah, I was playin’ just a bit ago. The fiddle is in fine fettle.” He laughed at his alliteration. “Just let me get it out, and then we’ll go a-jammin’. I have forgotten your name again. My memory is terrible when it comes to names, but I can remember details from eighty years ago. Figure that one out. Forgive me if I call you good-lookin’, but you are.”
Susan played along with the forgetfulness. “Oh, it’s okay if you can’t remember my name. It’s Susan. I was named for my grandmother, Susanna Willson.” She purposely mentioned the name Willson to see if it raised any memory. Was the flicker of his eyebrow an indication that the name means something?
“I learned about you from your son, Harry. Thank you for seeing me today, Junior.”
They went to the common room together. Junior almost jogged down the hallway, and Susan did well to keep up with the spry eighty-seven-year-old. He still sported a fine shock of straight, white hair, like all the men in her family. He was tall and lean but not unhealthy in appearance. And yes, there was more than a resemblance to Grandpa Willson. She looked at his hands. Not gnarled with arthritis, well-cared-for nails, but with veins standing out beneath thinning skin and several minor bruises, indicating the fragility of aging skin. He wore loafers without socks, and his baggy pants were held up by old-fashioned black suspenders. Once seated facing each other on straight chairs, they tuned together.
“You’ll hafta tell me if it’s in tune. My ear isn’t as keen as it once was. We Harveys got music in us, but gettin’ older plays tricks on the ears and eyes. Can’t see well enough to read much either, but well, I know all the old ballads.
“Where’d you get that mountain banjer with frets? Sorta like the one Papa gave me, but that’n didn’t have frets. My son, Harry, has it now. You need to meet him some day. He actually makes money playing his banjer. Oh, that’s right, you said you know him.”
Susan grinned. Not as forgetful as Harry suggested.
Susan told him she was from North Carolina and knew all the old tunes from there. “Could we start out with my favorite, Junior? ‘Little Maggie?’”
“Oh my! Yes. You know that was Mom’s song. Her name was Maggie. And she said Papa always sang it as her song.”
At that, he began the fiddle playing, with a slide up the A string, and then double stops. She caught up with him, and they were lost in the
