He turned around, and Emory Story walked around the corner of the house. “Can I help you?”
Paul looked at the fragile old man and then introduced himself. He said that he only wanted to meet the man who built this magnificent home. He spoke nervously and rambled on until Emory put his hand up to stop him. “Is there something I can do for you?” The old man looked exhausted. His hands were dirty, and he had stained teeth. Paul decided to just tell the truth and see where it took him.
“The truth is, I was just discharged from the air force, and my wife and I are going to be settling down here. We were looking at the house across the hill there when we saw your place.” Paul looked at the old man to see if he reacted to his declaration of being in the air force. He did not seem to react to anything. “I felt like I had to come back here and tell you that this is a beautiful place.”
Emory looked at his visitor and then just walked past him. He climbed the two steps to the porch and invited Paul to come in to his house. Paul entered the modest home and felt like he was walking back in time. The furniture was definitely from the fifties, and every wall had wallpaper on it. The design of the home was unique. Paul could see instantly that the home could be very nice. He followed Emory into the kitchen. The old man offered him some coffee, and Paul accepted.
They sat down at a table that definitely belonged in the fifties. Paul pulled his chair closer. The heavy chair with a vinyl seat cover made noise when it slid across the floor. The old man took his glasses off and drank from his stained coffee cup. “I built this place you know.” Paul took a drink of his coffee and was surprised that it tasted heavenly.
“As a matter of fact, I did know that. It seems you have quite a reputation around here. I even think the kids have made up stories about you.” Emory laughed and then coughed a little more. Paul thought that his cough sounded bad. It was coming from deep within his chest. “Are you all right?” Paul asked.
“I know some of those kids. I watched them all grow up. I’ve been here a long time.” Emory looked nostalgic for a second before he said, “Heck, I watched their parents grow up. Now, I’m going to see a new century. What do you think about that?” Emory stood up and went to the sink. He got a spoon and a sugar bowl and returned to the table. He offered Paul the sugar and reached for the coffee pot. He poured fresh coffee into each cup and sat back down.
“How old were you in the war?” Paul knew the question may not be appropriate, but he felt the old man was enjoying having someone to talk to. He decided that it was worth the risk, so he just blurted it out.
Emory did not hesitate when he answered, “I turned eighteen just two months before I got on the train. My friend and I joined together.” Paul saw the look on the old man’s face as he was remembering his past life. Paul had not spent any of his military tour in combat. He had even avoided Afghanistan. The air force had a limited role in the campaign in the Middle East.
“I lost a lot of friends in that war. I lost some friends in other wars too.” Emory looked like he was thinking about those friends now. He sat quietly for a few seconds and then said, “I don’t get much company back here. People have stayed away for a lot of years. I don’t really care. I prefer it by myself.” Paul looked at him and could not think of anything to say. Emory stared back at him. “You think that makes me a recluse. I know that is what people say. The truth is, I just have no reason to leave the ridge. Everything I ever cared about is right here.”
Paul thought that Emory seemed like he would be a very interesting man to get to know. He asked him if he would mind if he came back to visit some time and talk about the war. He told the old man that he was a history buff and would love to hear some stories of someone in the air corps. Emory told him that he indeed had stories, and he just might be ready to tell someone about his time in the war. When Paul told him that he was also a writer, Emory’s face lit up. Paul noticed and asked him if he was also a writer. Emory told him that unfortunately he was not. He said that his wife had been the writer in the family. He smiled as he continued, “I used to think that I was a writer, but I haven’t written anything in over thirty years. I used to keep a journal. My mother thought I would be famous.” Once again, he seemed to get lost in thought. Paul tried to think of anything to keep him talking.
“Do you still have any of your journals? I would love to read real thoughts written by someone in the war. I would be very discreet. I mean, if there is anything you would not want revealed.” Paul thought that he had pushed too hard, too fast.
Emory’s face suddenly looked amused. He laughed again and coughed again. Then he said, “Son, you wouldn’t believe half of what I could tell you.”
Emory got up again and opened a cabinet. “Would you like a drink, son?” Emory pulled a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and walked back to the table. He poured a generous shot into his coffee mug and offered Paul the bottle. Paul could tell the old man was struggling with something, so he took the bottle. Emory turned his cup up and swallowed every drop. Paul finished his coffee and poured himself a shot. He drank it quickly before he changed his mind.
“Do you believe in God, son?” Emory did not look at Paul. If he had, he would have seen an amused, surprised look.
“Yes, sir. I think I do.” Paul had never been asked that question in such a direct manner.
Emory laughed again. “You don’t sound so sure.” He poured himself another shot and then poured one into Paul’s cup. “I believe in God myself. I always have. His promises are all there is really. What else can we believe?” He picked his cup up and pushed Paul’s at him. They silently finished off another shot, and then Emory said, “I used to talk to Him all of the time.” Emory looked out of the front window. “You see that tree out there?”
Paul saw the apple tree in full bloom. “Yes, sir. I could see those blooms from the next ridge over. I’ll bet those apples are incredible.” He continued to look out the window at the tree.
“I brought that tree here from Hiroshima. I was there the day the bomb dropped. It’s never produced one apple. Do you believe that?” Emory already had a glassy look in his eyes.
Paul thought he might have already had a shot or two. “What on earth were you doing in Hiroshima?” Paul was beginning to think that Emory was losing touch with reality. Emory looked at Paul and laughed again.
“We went to get that tree. We thought maybe it was still a seed, but that’s what we went for. I never told anyone that before.” Emory lowered his glasses and squinted his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you now. You don’t believe me anyway. I can see it on your face.”
“No, sir. I believe you. I just don’t know why. Why would you go to get a tree?” Paul had to admit to himself that he had never been so intrigued. “I have to hear this story. Were you really there the day the bomb dropped? How did you survive?” Emory poured them another shot of bourbon and asked Paul how long he had. Paul looked at his watch. Yvonne was probably expecting him back any moment now. “I’m not leaving until you tell me this story.” He finished off another shot and suddenly started to feel the effects of the alcohol. He waited on Emory to begin his story.
Instead, the old man got up and walked into the hallway. He returned with a leather-bound notebook. Half of it was warped and stained by water. The pages were well-read. It looked like he had read it a thousand times. “This is my story. My wife wrote most of this down almost fifty years ago. Only three people have ever read this manuscript. I am the only one who is still alive. I always thought that the story would have an ending. I am still waiting.”
“Why don’t you just write an ending?” Paul asked him.
“I
