The Thorny Path Read online

  “It might. I about blew it all with my stupid assumptions, though,” he said, easing the car into drive.

  Trish chuckled. “She was probably delighted to have an excuse to scold you a little.”

  He grinned. “Oh, well. I wasn’t very good at geometry, either.”

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  “ . . . May you seek until you find them”

  Bishop Shepherd felt a definite need of sustenance after his encounter with Leanore St. John, so when he and Trish came across a small drive-in at an intersection of two highways, he convinced her to stop and have lunch. Over his bacon cheeseburger (approved by his wife only because they were on vacation), he perused the paper Mrs. St. John had given him, showing the coordinates and directions to the general vicinity of Horsepen Branch, erstwhile home of the Rhys family.

  “You know,” he said, “in the record of Benjamin and Annie’s wedding—or, at least, the index to it—there was no R-I-C-E entry. But now I wonder if we ought to look again, under this spelling.” He flicked the paper with one finger.

  “It wouldn’t hurt, would it? Jim, are you sure your grandfather spelled his name like the rice we eat? Where have you ever seen it written down?”

  He frowned, trying to remember. “You know,” he said slowly, “now that you mention it, I think I’ve only seen it written down in my own handwriting, or my mother’s—and she may not have known the difference, either. I mean, if it was pronounced ‘Rice,’ why would she have thought to spell it differently? And you know, babe—this may be exactly why we never were successful at finding any of the family in the census!”

  Trish nodded, and took a long sip of her fresh lime drink. “We may have success there, too, with the new spelling. I’m getting excited to look!”

  He checked his watch. “We’ve got time to hustle back down to the courthouse and that war monument Ms. St. John mentioned. Let’s do it.”

  “And if the R-H-Y-S folks do turn out to be yours, we can check the cemetery for them, too. They were listed in the Methodist cemetery, weren’t they? Ms. St. John didn’t give us the names from that list, but we should be able to find them. She said the Methodist cemetery is in good condition, at least.”

  “You’re right. Boy, I hope this is the breakthrough we need!”

  * * *

  “Would you look at that, Trish!” he exulted, as they leaned over to peer at a name on a bronze war memorial in the park across from the courthouse. It read, “Pvt. Benjamin Rhys, 1895–1917.”

  “That’s got to be him, honey,” she whispered. “Bless his heart. So young.”

  The bishop snapped a couple of photos of the inscription, and Trish copied it into their notebook, after which they hurried up the steps of the courthouse once again. They had no luck with the marriage index, but there were several deeds under the name Rhys, which they copied and took with them for study at their leisure, stopping only to ask in which part of the county the land had been located—unsurprised to discover it was in the northeast quadrant. A quick perusal of the deeds yielded a couple of references to “Horsepen Branch of the Hatchacoonee River.”

  They next located the Methodist cemetery and divided it in half, each walking between the rows of markers and watching for Rhys names. After about twenty minutes, Trish called out, “Jimmy! Paydirt.” He made a note of where he had stopped looking and jogged over to her side.

  “Well, look at that. ‘Robert B. Rhys, born January 13, 1871, died November 2, 1925.’ You know what, hon—he’s about the right age to have been Benjamin’s father!”

  “Maybe the initial ‘B’ stands for Benjamin, and your grandfather was named for him,” Trish offered. “And look—this is his wife: ‘Edna Putnam Rhys, born 25 October 1874, died April 10, 1931.’ These people just might be your ancestors, Jim.”

  He photographed the stones and once again Trish copied the information into the notebook. They finished surveying the rest of the markers, but with no further discoveries.

  “I finally feel that we’re beginning to get somewhere,” he said with a deeply satisfied sigh as they headed back toward May Hinton’s.

  * * *

  “Now, ya’ll might just as well stay on over another night,” May told them as they relaxed in her living room with the fans cooling them after their exertions. “I’ve made us a chicken pie, and I thought I’d fry up some okry and slice some more of them good ripe tomaters. Ya’ll will, won’t you?”

  They nodded happily, having already agreed that if asked, they would stay.

  “One more night,” the bishop told her, smiling. “Mrs. Hinton, you could list your home in a Bed and Breakfast catalog and do a good business.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to do it that steady,” she replied. “Just a few guests now and again. Besides, it’s not like there’s a lot right around here for folks to see and do—just farmland.”

  “Exactly,” the bishop agreed. “That’s what’s so restful. It’s so quiet—well, except for the chickens and the donkey, of course, but they add to the charm. Anyway, we’re grateful for the offer. Thank you. Oh—and we have a message for you from Ms. St. John.”

  He delivered that lady’s request for a visit from her old schoolmate, in her own words.

  “Hmph!” snorted May Hinton. “Makes it sound like an invitation to see the queen, don’t she?” She laughed.

  “It did sound kind of like a royal summons,” Trish agreed, fanning her flushed face and Mallory’s with a magazine. “But I really do think she’s lonely. She made a little joke about how the people she spends her time with don’t talk much.”

  “Well, I reckon I’ll have to mosey on down and see her,” May said reluctantly. “It’s just she’s a mite hard to visit with, if you know what I mean. You say something, and she just stares at you with those little beady eyes, like you talked Russian or something. Then she says something that you think might be insulting, but you’re not sure. It’s hard to know how to take her.”

  Trish nodded. “Jim called that stare her ‘schoolmarm look.’”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Felt like I was back in seventh grade, being whittled down to size by my math teacher.”

  “But she is smart, and she knows a lot about family history,” Trish added. “She gave us some really helpful tips.”

  “So what’d you find out?” Tiffani asked. “Did you find Benjamin?”

  While May headed back toward the kitchen, the bishop caught Tiffani up on the new developments in the research, and Trish herded the two younger children up the stairs to have their baths before dinner.

  “Mom, we made blackberry ice cream for dessert,” Jamie told her as they approached the stairs. “But, man! It was an old-timey churn, and I had to turn the thing by hand. I thought my arm was gonna fall off!”

  “You’ll be a stronger and a sorer man,” Trish advised him. The bishop smiled in thanksgiving for the good things of life.

  * * *

  The next morning, they bade May Hinton farewell and continued their journey. May shook hands with Jamie and his father and hugged all the girls.

  “I don’t know when I’ve ever enjoyed any comp’ny as much as I have you folks,” she told them. “I just had a good feelin’ about y’all when I saw you down to Harvey’s store. And you’ve got about the cutest family ever. Stay sweet now, y’hear?”

  “We’ll try, and you take care, Mrs. Hinton. You’ve been a joy and a blessing to us, as well,” the bishop told her, and everyone waved as they drove away.

  “I like that lady,” Mallory said in a small voice. “I wish she lived next door to us.”

  Her parents exchanged glances. They were entertaining similar thoughts.

  * * *

  They drove the highways and back roads of the upper county, crossing and re-crossing the sleepy brown waterway known as Horsepen Branch, checking names on mailboxes and looking vainly for someone—anyone—to ask the location of Five-Mile Road. They pulled into driveways and knocked on doors that were open except for t
he screens; they heard a radio playing in one house, and a television was on in the open front room of another home that had laundry hanging on lines behind the house. A truck stood in the drive. But no one came to the door.

  “Okay, this is getting spooky,” Tiffani said, when her dad came back from knocking and calling at the fourth house that appeared to have people at home but offered no response.

  “I told you,” Jamie said nonchalantly. “It’s aliens. They come and collect the people and study them, then bring ’em back and erase their memories. Randy Timmons did a book report about it at school.”

  “I’m almost ready to believe that theory,” his dad muttered, backing the car to head down the road again. After a few more miles of interminable green, they approached another intersection of farm roads.

  “Which way should I go?” the bishop asked. “Have we been down this road before?”

  “Who knows?” asked Tiffani in disgust. “They all look exactly alike!”

  “Go straight,” Trish advised. “I see a little house down there on the right. Maybe someone’s home there.”

  “Don’t know why they would be,” her husband said with a grin. “Everyone’s still busy being alienated.”

  “Whoa, Dad, there’s a live one, on the porch! Don’t let him get away,” Jamie cried, leaning over the seat and pointing.

  “Well, sure enough, look at that,” his dad agreed, pulling the car off the road in front of a very small house with a porch across the front. An elderly man in an undershirt and pajama bottoms rocked in a chair on the porch. He raised one hand in greeting as the bishop got out of his car.

  “Hello, there,” the bishop called. “How’re you, today?”

  “Well, I’m right toler’ble, how you be?” replied the man.

  “We’re fine, thanks. But I wonder if you could answer a question for us? I think we’re kind of lost.”

  The elderly man chuckled. “Where you tryin’ to git to?”

  The bishop rested one foot on the top step and leaned forward. “We’re looking for Five-Mile Road,” he confided. “We’re down here looking up some of my people, and a lady told us some of them might still live on Five-Mile Road, but we haven’t seen a road sign.”

  “Who’s yer people?”

  “It’s my grandfather’s family. The name is R-H-Y-S, but we’re not sure if they pronounced it like Reese or Rice.”

  The man pulled his head up and searched the bishop’s face.

  “You a half-blood Rhys or a full-blood?” he inquired, giving it the “Reese” pronunciation.

  The bishop straightened. “Excuse me?”

  “Half-blood or full-blood?” the man repeated. “Me, I’m a full-blood.”

  “You? You’re a—Rhys?”

  “My daddy called it like Reese, but I got cousins that say it Rice. Spelt the same, though, so hit don’t matter.”

  “Okay. Wow. Now, I’m sorry to be ignorant, but I don’t get the half-blood, full-blood thing.”

  Trish got out of the car and went to stand beside her husband, and the children followed.

  The man nodded politely in their direction. “Well, see—I’m a full-blood Rhys because my mama and daddy was both Rhys descendants. They was second cousins.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, tell the truth, I don’t know for sure on that. All I know is that my grandfather was Benjamin Rhys. He died in World War One, after he had married a girl from Winns Corner—Annie Burke.”

  Mr. Rhys, who seemed practically toothless, appeared literally to chew on this bit of information, then spat a brownish stream a surprising distance out onto his scraggly lawn. Tiffani took a step back behind her mother, but Jamie whistled softly.

  “Whew! Wish I could spit that far,” he whispered.

  “Wal, I reckon we’d be cousins, like as not,” Mr. Rhys allowed. “My daddy was Ezra Rhys—an’ I’m Ezra too, named for him. I go by ‘Junior,’ though. My grandaddy was Arthur Rhys, and he married Eliza Lanier. My mama, though—she was Martha Ann Dowdy—and her mama was Ethlyn Rhys Dowdy. Now, I don’t rightly recollect a Benjamin, but iffen he was from around here, he’s bound to be kin.”

  “Mr. Rhys, I’m Jim Shepherd, and this is my wife, Trish, and our children Tiffani, Jamie, and Mallory. If you wouldn’t mind going through that again, so that we can get it down on paper, I think it’ll make more sense to me.”

  “How-do,” Junior Rhys said politely in the direction of Trish and the children. “It’s gettin’ a mite warm out here now the sun’s movin’ around thisaway. Iffen ya’ll don’t mind a mess, we can go inside for a spell. I got an electric fan in yonder.”

  He rose creakily from his rocker, pausing briefly halfway up to be sure he had his balance, then led the way inside his home, which appeared to consist of two rooms—a front room that held a double bed, a dresser and a couple of chairs, and beyond that, a kitchen with a free-standing sink, a table with a hotplate, and an ancient refrigerator. There were apparently no shelves or cabinets; a small stack of plates and cups shared a tabletop with a skillet and a battered saucepan and a collection of canned goods. He turned on the small fan that stood on the dresser. It rattled and whirred, but stirred the air.

  “Y’all sit you down,” Junior invited. “Sorry I ain’t got more chairs, though. Maybe y’all young ’uns can sit on them boxes.” He indicated a pile of several cardboard boxes sitting in the middle of a worn linoleum floor. “I’m fixin’ to move tomorry—that’s what all that conglomeration’s about,” he explained. “Goin’ to the old folks’ home,” he added. “Reckon it’s time. I ain’t gettin’ no younger, and I got nobody to look after me when I get down. Kinda hate to see it come to that. I’ll miss my place here, but it’s air-conditioned where I’m goin’, and the cookin’ ain’t half-bad—I been to visit there and tried it. Then I reckon, too, I’ll have folks my age to visit with, which beats talkin’ to my lonesome day and night!” He cackled good-naturedly.

  “How old are you, Mr. Rhys?” the bishop inquired.

  “Call me Junior, son. ‘Mr. Rhys’ sounds like my daddy. Wal, let’s see—reckon I must be nigh onto ninety—maybe ninety-one.”

  “You’ve done very well to live alone and take care of yourself this long,” Trish told him.

  “Wal—had my wife, Pauline, till about three years ago, then she left me. Passed away, I mean. Had a real sudden pneumonia come on her in the winter, and time I could contact somebody and get her to the doctor, she was well-nigh gone. Didn’t last the night.” He sighed. “Then it was just me and Blackie—my old dog—and even he’s went and died on me. Pauline and me, we married late, never did have no young ’uns. But we sure used to enjoy growin’ our garden, and ever’ now and then we’d take off and go fishin’. Times, we’d camp overnight and go froggin’. Whoo-ee, them frog legs is good eatin’! She was a good woman, Pauline.”

  The bishop thought she must have been a saint, to have lived in such primitive circumstances with her husband. He became aware of Mallory whispering insistently to Trish, and looked at her.

  “She needs a bathroom,” Trish said apologetically.

  “Wal, sure thing! The privy’s right out back, there—and it’s stocked with toilet paper,” Junior announced proudly. “Ya’ll ladies go right ahead.”

  Trish gave a questioning glance at Tiffani, who sat primly on a box with her arms wrapped around her knees. The girl gave a small but definite shake of her head.

  The bishop stifled a smile as Trish ushered Mallory outside. He picked up his notebook and began to draw out of Junior again the names of his family and to plot their relationships in a crude pedigree chart.

  “So you don’t remember a Benjamin Rhys, hmm?” he finally asked, and Junior shook his head.

  “Reckon I don’t—but I ain’t sayin’ I knew all my cousins and such. They spread all around, and over into Lee County, too. Ain’t so many of us left with the name of Rhys, any more. Some boys moved on to other parts, and o’ course most of the girls married and changed their names. But it’s a big cl
an, iffen you could just find ’em all.”

  “Well, I sure appreciate all you’ve given us. Do you happen to know who—let’s see—Robert B. Rhys and Edna Putnam Rhys were? We found their graves in the Methodist cemetery.”

  “Yessir, I had an Uncle Bobby and Aunt Edny. They was good people. A bit better off, somehow, than most of us, and real generous to ever’body. Aunt Edny made the best chicken and dumplin’s I ever et.”

  “Did they have any children?” Jim asked, half-hopeful that Junior would suddenly recall that they had a son called Benjamin.

  Junior nodded. “They had three girls—Zora, Lena, and Barbara. Lena was the purtiest thang I ever did see. I was mighty sweet on her, all through school, but o’ course I didn’t never say so. Zora and Lena growed up and married and moved away—I lost track of whereto—and little old Barbara made a secatary—worked in some big office up in A’lanta and never did marry, I don’t think. Don’t know if she’s still livin’ or not. Hard to keep track.”

  “It would be,” the bishop agreed. “I’ll have to see what I can find out about everybody, once I figure out where I fit in.”

  “You say your granddaddy was kilt in the First World War?”

  “That’s right. We don’t know if he was buried somewhere overseas or shipped back here.”

  “Pity. I didn’t serve—the Army didn’t like the sound of my lungs.” He laughed. “But they’re still a-breathin’—done outlasted most of them Army fellers.”

  “Junior, do you happen to know if anybody kept a family Bible record or anything like that?”

  Junior spat discreetly into a small teacup. “S’cuse me. Wal, I do know there was a family Bible, all right—my great-granddaddy had one. It was a handsome thing.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have it now?”

  “I had it for a long time. Then after Pauline died, my sister Dovie Jane come and took it away—said it oughter stay with a more stable part of the family, one that had kids to pass it on to. I reckon I could see her point, but I shore hated to see it go.”