Harry's Perpetuators, ALbert Russo [great reads .TXT] 📗

few hours ago. He drove along country roads, grasping the verdant landscape which unfolded before his eyes. Except for a couple of brief stops to fill up the tank, Kenneth Clarke felt no need to rest or even to have a snack. He couldn't tell why, but the destination his car chose - he had the impression he was being led by it - would end up in the adventure of his life. So, he whistled and let the Datsun carry him from Buffalo to Erie, and then across the Ohio border.

That same morning, Digby Russel felt a yearning to fly. He'd been working till two or three a.m. for the past week at the Space Research Center and decided he could afford a little break. He drove to the private airfield and picked one of the remaining Cessnas which were at the scientists'disposal. Once in the cockpit, Digby Russel reverted to a soothing, relaxing reality. For some of his colleagues, a good sauna bath did it. He, Digby Russel, always sensed that pinch of joy when boarding a plane, as though he were rediscovering the primeval sources of mankind. To him, it wasn't an escape, but rather a refreshing encounter with his persona. There was of course the initial feeling of exhilaration when he juggled with the aircraft, yet soon, he'd lapse into a contemplative mood which brought him back to his childhood years in Mssissippi and to that dense, meaningful decade he'd spent with his wife. The sky was clear, dotted here and there with a cumulus. The sun reflected in the altimeter, while at a star's throw, the lace-rimmed crescent moon seemed to beckon him: "Follow the trail of that jetliner gliding above you!" Not realizing why, he changed his trajectory, taking an eastward course and automatically checked the fuel level indicator. The plane had enough kerosene to reach Boston or New York City. Digby Russel began humming a tune he'd almost completely forgotten. Then, slowly, the words formed in his mouth. A tear blurred his left eye. He saw himself standing amid the choir of a tiny church, joining a dozen-odd children in Gospel songs. Another era, another generation, he thought as the craft, obeying the invisible command that guided his hand started the descent procedure. The Cessna flew past a village and landed on a grass strip parallel to a meadow where cattle were grazing.

The middle-aged lady claiming to be the sister of a deceased man named Harry invited Anita Jason into her house. She did not harrass the ragged teenager with questions. On the contrary, she offered to help her take a bath and wash her wound. Less than an hour later, Anita Jason found herself donning an embroidered dress from which emanated a heady smell of naphtalin.
"How well it becomesyou!" said the lady admiringly. "I wore it only once, for my Holy Communion." Anita Jason's benefactress introduced herself as Candice Neale. "We're having a memorial celebration this afternoon," she explained as Anita watched at her puzzled self in the wardrobe mirror. The tone of Miss Neale's voice sounded more serene now. There was a trace of affection in her attitude toward the young girl. "Harry would have been forty-three today." Then, without transition, she switched to the future tense. "Yes he will be very happy to see his friends, and I'm sure he'll be delighted to meet you." Upon saying this, Miss Neale frowned, looking intensely into Anita's eyes, "He is not dead," she whispered; then, a bit louder, “you must have come here for a purpose ... to visit him perhaps?"
Anita slowly opened up, mentioning Middleton Hospital, the delicate transplant she'd undergone, the incident of the broken orchid, her night-long walk to the village through unknown territory, and that force which led her to Miss Neale's place. Candice Neale took the young girl in her arms and embraced her as though they were mother and daughter.
"The same blood runs in our veins," she said, releasing her grip. Anita shared that strange and somewhat vague feeling. She knew now that she owed her life to Harry and that there was more to it than the bond between donor and receiver. In fact, though her parents always remained vividly in her mind, she felt she had met in Candice someone very special, someone who represented a link between this world and what she'd heard as being the hereafter. She'd read about such things. They belonged to the darker recesses of Fairytaleland. Until ... until this day, yet how different it all suddenly appeared to her, how very peaceful and ... beautiful! Here was a lady she'd never seen before. And she felt so close to her.
"Let's go to the kitchen, dear," Candice said invitingly, "we'll prepare the sandwiches and desserts. The dough is ready. We'll cook an apple pie, a strawberry tart and English scones." While slicing the tuna-and-salad filled double-deckers Candice remarked, "You have hands just like Harry’s, slender, almost too long. He does wonders with them. He repairs everything in this house. Me, like that, I'm hopeless." She chuckled. "He built this place with two bricklayer friends, installed the plumbing, the electricity and all the other amenities. He's so well liked in our community. Do you know that they nicknamed him King Sol for his sense of justice? He'll probably be elected sheriff next year. Guess what!" she exclaimed, "he always wanted a daughter, a girl just like you." Anita's lips parted, uncovering a gleam of pride. "Only," Candice went on, "the woman he was about to marry left him for somebody else. He still loves her. I'll tell you a secret. I'm grateful to that girl. Harry is the most important person in my life."

The memorial celebration had already commenced - among the guests stood the imposing Reverend Benchley - when two strangers made their appearance within a half hour lapse from each other. The odd thing that happened was that when the first stranger walked up to the terrace, he went straight to Anita, hugged the young girl, and without uttering a word searched for Candice. The house mistress approached him and, to the dismay of the attendants, extended the uninvited guest an affectionate welcome. The same occurred upon the arrival of the second stranger. And though the two men had never met before - this was obvious from their initial eye contact - they shook hands like old buddies.
After Kenneth Clarke and Digby Russel discreetly identified themselves to Candice, the hostess brought them together under her wings, Anita standing in the middle, as if to compose a family picture. For it had indeed the semblance of a family reunion. The visitors hadn't an inkling of what was going on. The four then embraced, and Candice announced, startling her friends further, "These people you see here with me are Harry's living perpetuators, for each one of them bears in him, in her, his seed and legacy.
All at once, Anita Jason dragged both Digby Russel and Kenneth Clarke toward the Evangelical minister, and as everybody watched aghast, she spoke in a voice terribly familiar to the guests. It was a low-pitched voice, almost that of a baritone and it seemed, at the same time, to resound through the chests of the two men whose hands she was grasping. She stared at the minister in a half provocative manner. A similar expression could be read on the faces of her two companions.
“Reverend," she - or rather - they - said, "I’ve always respected you for your probity and tolerance. You knew fully well that I was a non-believer. Before I went to Middleton we had a long discussion. It was a civilized one. Let the people here present hear about it. You asked me whether, in spite of my pylosophical stance I wouldn't allow you to give me the Last Sacrament." At this point of the echoing monologue, the voice’s strongest vibrations emanated from Kenneth Clirke. All eyes were now riveted to him. "I thanked you, firmly declining your invitation. Then you begged me to reconsider the matter. For my sister's sake. She was a devout Christian, you insisted." Digby Russell was now the one to whom the people were focusing their attention. Pointing at the hostess he said, "Candice and I accepted each other’s respective points of view. She wasn't the type to force me into religion. Don't forget, Reverend, I was no atheist. And yet you went on wanting to offer me your help, invoking this time the community’s opinion. I retorted that my real friends didn't object to my way of thinking. We shared convictions which were of a different level, though they were just as deep, nonetheless. You finally conceded that donating my organs to save other lives was an act of love. Yet, you couldn't refrain from throwing at me that I was going to depart this world in sin. I didn't want to comment. You lowered your eyes and murmured, 'since you've made your decision, I can only promise you I shall be praying for the salvation of your soul.' Our separation had been an emotional one, and though we did not think alike, I somehow trusted you .
Anita Jason glared at the minister and blurted out, "You call yourself a man of God. Aren't you ashamed? I had expressly told you not to disrupt my peace."
Candice who so far had remained silent intervened. "Don't blame the Reverend, Harry! He asked my permission to celebrate a memorial service for you. Remember, you never even had a decent burial. So I thought we might congregate here on your birthday."
"I'm sorry sister," Kenneth Clarke said, making an effort to contain his wrath, "you should have refused outright. Faith is something too personal to be dealt with so lightly."
The house mistress joined her fingers, bringing them to her forehead. She began to weep, "Won't you forgive me, Harry? I really meant no harm. Really, I didn't," she repeated, mortified.
All eyes now turned to Digby Russel. "Don't cry, Candice, I hold no grudge against you. He is the culprit." Reverend Benchley was nonplussed, and so were the other guests. "He should have known better than to play on your sentiments. I didn't belong to his church and he had no right to persuade you into this mascarade."
A burly man stood out from the stupefied looks. "I still don't understand who you folks are. One thing is sure though: if you won't stop railing against our minister and tread on us like we were dirt, I'll chuck you out of this village with my bare two hdnds." He looked around for approval and gleaned hesitant nods of support. The atmosphere in the room soon grew feverish. In a shrill voice, a woman took over where the burly man had left off. "Oh no, we certainly won't let strangers sow discord in our community. You're not Harry, you aren't. You're the devil. Harry never behaved like this. We knew him too well."
The minister, now livid and abundantly sweating, had to lean against the sideboard to fight against his dizziness. In doing so, he knocked his elbow against a colored crystal vase. It rolled off