Shadows of the Past

Return to Blackberry The dilapidated old car rattled along the street, past several small business establishments, and came to a smoky halt at the entrance to a small garage and filling station. The bearded old man, who sat at the wheel of the car, looked at his passenger. “Well, were here! Ya said ya needed a lift to Blackberry. I’m right happy I could be of some help to ya!” The passenger, a man whom the driver judged to be in his early forties, turned, reached into the back seat, retrieved a battered suitcase, opened the car door, and stepped from the ancient vehicle. He eased the door shut, taking care to make sure it was securely latched, as he didn’t trust the old rattle-trap. He stooped and looked in through the open window. “Thanks for the lift. I’m much obliged.” “Yer welcome; I’m right glad I could be of some help to ya.” The whiskered old man dropped the car back into gear, as he looked through the window at his departing passenger. “Ya have a good day. I live a few miles on down the road from here. Perhaps I’ll see ya again!” He eased out the clutch and pressed his foot down on the gas pedal. The old car belched out a cloud of black smoke, rattled off down the street, rounded the corner, and was gone. The passenger stood at the edge of the street and watched the antiquated car until it was out of sight. He gave a sigh of some relief; he was surprised the old jalopy had held together long enough to get him to his destination. He had been standing beside the road, about fifty miles east, thumbing for a ride, when the man had brought the ancient car to a shuddering halt and offered him a lift. “Blackberry!” the old man had exclaimed through stained whiskers. “Yeah, I can take ya there as it’s on my way. We should be there in about an hour or so. It all depends on how hard I push my car!” Randell Cordell, recently discharged from the United States Army, stepped to the sidewalk at the edge of the service station and set his suitcase down. He stood for several minutes looking both ways along the street, as memories welled up from the backroads of his mind, and an involuntary shudder coursed through his slender body. It had been many years since he had fled this small town, under less than exemplary circumstances. He could see a few changes; the street was now paved, and a brick sidewalk had been constructed along both sides of the street. Except for these improvements the town didn’t appear to have changed much. His eyes left the street, and he looked up at the sky. It was a typical northern Minnesota spring day, with a deep blue sky and a few high clouds drifting along on a gentle breeze. Heavily forested hills of pine, aspen, and spruce trees made an encircling backdrop to the little hamlet. He took a deep breath. The air was clean and crisp and felt good to a tired and worn ex-convict and war veteran. His gaze returned to the street, and he watched the few pedestrians as they made their way along the short thoroughfare, his heart full of memories, and some considerable pain. If asked, he would have been hard pressed to give a coherent explanation for why he had returned to this town. It seemed as if he had been drawn, even compelled, to return to this little community. It had been twenty years since he had left this hamlet in considerable haste, with a woman who wasn’t his wife. He stooped to pick up his suitcase and then paused and stood, looking along the street again. From the street he lifted his gaze over the buildings and toward the tree-covered hills. Why had he returned to this little hamlet? Was it an attempt, a deep-felt need, compulsion, to right the terrible wrong of heartache, pain, and death, he had caused a young woman; a woman who had been his wife? Could he ever make things right again? Would returning here, to the place where it had all began, make any difference? An old friend had come to visit him while he was serving out a prison term and had told him of the death of his wife shortly after he had abandoned her. “From the reports that have come to me it appears your wife died, all alone, in a little cabin in Blackberry, Minnesota.” His friend had looked at him with pain filled eyes. “Randell, did you know your wife was very ill when you left her?” He had hung his head. “Yes, I . . . I knew she was very sick.” His friend had shaken his head. “You shouldn’t have done that Randell. That was wrong!” His friend had never returned to the prison to visit him again. He continued to stand in silence; his eyes roaming the tree covered hills. No, he couldn’t make things right again. He couldn’t undo the past, but he hoped to make a new beginning, here where it had all happened, and rebuild his life on a firmer, and better, foundation. This would be his penance for deserting his wife when she was dying. But could he really do this; make a fresh start here where his life had started to unravel? He had his doubts. It was a small community where everyone knew everybody. Would the people accept him after what he had done twenty years ago? The challenges would be great. He would stay for a few days, look things over, and then decide.