Falling for June: A Novel Read online

  I couldn’t tell whether he was waiting to catch his breath or maybe saying some kind of prayer, but Mr. Hadley paused at the base of the hill and bowed his head for a moment. When he did finally start up, I followed behind, holding the umbrella and preparing myself to catch him in case he slipped. But I had nothing to worry about because the surefooted old dodger mounted the hill like a goat. I came up beside him and stood looking down at the leaf-covered mound. I knew what it was, of course, even before he knelt to brush away the fallen leaves.

  The humble stone was inscribed with these words:

  HERE RESTS

  JUNE LOUISE MCLEOD-HADLEY

  MARCH 3, 1933–OCTOBER 10, 2010

  HER SPIRIT HAVING RETURNED HOME, “JUST BEYOND THE SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT AND STRAIGHT ON TILL MORNING.”

  It was a simple headstone with a simple message that was not lost on me after having heard her story. But still, she hadn’t passed until 2010, which meant there was a lot of story left to hear. Mr. Hadley was kneeling beside the grave with his hand on the stone and his head bowed, and I stood quietly by, holding the umbrella but not wanting to disturb him. He eventually went to rise but wobbled on one knee and fell over and sat beside the grave. My initial instinct was to help him up, but then I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed, so I sat down beside him on the wet ground and propped the umbrella up between us.

  “I was just about to sit down for a rest myself,” I said.

  He smiled, obviously aware that I was full of shit. Then he put his hand on my arm as if to thank me. The rain pelted the umbrella above our heads and the waterfall poured down into the pool. It was kind of nice and kind of sad.

  “Isn’t it a beautiful sound?” he said.

  “The waterfall or the rain?”

  “Both,” he said. “All of it.”

  “It’s nice,” I said. “Although I prefer the sun to the rain.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Mr. Miami. I’d almost forgotten. But sunshine doesn’t have any history. You know where it comes from, anyway. Not so with the rain.”

  “Sure you do. Rain comes from a raincloud.”

  “Yes, but how did it get there?”

  “How did it get there? Well, I’m no meteorologist or anything, but I did take basic environmental studies. I think it’s called the hydrologic cycle. It evaporates from the oceans. Because of the sun, I might add.”

  He nodded. “Fair point, about the sun.” Then he wagged a finger. “But you said yourself it’s a cycle. That means each of those drops could have come from anywhere, you see.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Follow one drop with me. Come on. Try it. There. That big one that just hit. See it?”

  “I see a bunch of them.”

  “Exactly,” he said, raising his eyebrows like a proud professor. “A bunch of drops raining down onto an untouched glen, dripping off our umbrella, joining others in a clear mountain creek, swelling the rivers, and finally pouring into the sea to join all the other drops waiting there in that vast pool of experience, each molecule with a story of its own.”

  “You’re saying each raindrop has a story.”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? Each person sure does. And just think of the places and the people each raindrop might have touched. There. That one. Maybe it quenched Joan of Arc’s thirst while she carried her banner in Orléans. Or that one. A sacred drop, perhaps. Could it have landed like a prayer on the upturned face of our Man on the cross? Another, humbler drop. This one watered a field of poppies in Spain. This one fell on my sweet, sweet June on our wedding day. I watched it drip down her cheek. I tasted it on her lip when we finally kissed after saying ‘I do.’ No, it’s not just a cycle, young man. It’s an echo, I tell you.”

  “Is that why June named this Echo Glen?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Our lives echo. Love echoes. And that wish I yelled all those years ago echoes, right here, along with our love story that unfolded when it came true—the love story that lies beside the waterfall with my dearly departed June.”

  I looked over at the stone beside us, and for a moment it almost seemed as if there were three of us sitting on that hill together, watching the waterfall and the rain.

  “I know you told me not to say I was sorry,” I said, “but I am sorry about your wife’s passing. I would have loved to have had the chance to meet her.”

  He patted my arm. “She would have loved to have met you too.” He was quiet for a while. Then he said, “She wasn’t sad, you know. Not in the end. She died with a smile on her face. She couldn’t say it, but I think she knew she was going home. And she knew I’d be joining her there soon.”

  Somehow a falling leaf had gotten past our umbrella and was clinging to Mr. Hadley’s damp hair, and as he mentioned his someday joining her, his position next to his buried wife with leaves already landing atop him was not lost on me.

  “Does it make you sad to think about it?” I asked. “Dying, I mean.”

  As soon as I’d said it, I realized how inappropriate it seemed. But I guess I just never felt comfortable asking my own dad this kind of stuff, and I was curious. Plus, I really had grown to like Mr. Hadley, and the idea of his dying made me really sad for some reason. But he didn’t seem offended. He just thought for a minute, then looked directly at me as he spoke:

  “I don’t know if this answers your question—and I’ve never much cared for unsolicited advice, so forgive me this one time for offering it—but I’ll tell you this, young Elliot: one lifetime is enough when you spend it in love. Yes, it’s this old man’s opinion that a life lived for love is a life well spent.”

  I’ve never been a big believer in signs and all that junk, and after everything that’s happened I’m still not, to tell you the truth, but I’m not exaggerating even a little when I tell you now that as soon as Mr. Hadley uttered that sentence—well, the rain suddenly stopped and the sun dropped below the clouds, and an absolutely beautiful rainbow from the mist began rising above the falls. If it wasn’t a sign, it sure was impeccable timing. And it was a big bonus to finally set that huge umbrella down for a bit.

  “Hey, Mr. Hadley,” I said after a while. “Can I tell you something?” He looked at me and nodded, so I went on: “This has been both the strangest and the best birthday ever, and I’m glad it was me who got your letter.”

  “Well, don’t speak too soon,” he said. “You haven’t heard my proposal yet.”

  “I’d like to hear the rest of your story, actually.”

  He looked a little surprised. “You would?”

  “Yes. Like what was going on with June? And how did you two save Echo Glen? And you mentioned something earlier about being arrested in Spain. I’m really curious.”

  “I knew you’d fall for her,” he said. “Everyone falls for June. Maybe we should head back, get inside, dry off, and then I’ll tell you the rest. I’m afraid this wet moss has either soaked straight through my pants or I’ve had an accident sitting here. Give an old man a hand up, will you?”

  21

  WE WERE HALFWAY down the path when he fell. I didn’t even see it happen. I was strolling along ahead of him like a mindless idiot, using the closed umbrella as a walking stick, and if he shouted or made any sound at all I didn’t hear that either. All I remember is sensing that he was no longer following behind me and turning back to see him lying on the path. I dropped the umbrella and rushed to his side.

  “Mr. Hadley, are you okay? What happened?”

  He was lying facedown, and it looked as if he was struggling to breathe. I got my hands beneath him and turned him over, gripping his shoulders and helping to sit him upright. He was surprisingly light, and I noticed that he was actually wearing several layers of clothing, including the thick sweater, which made him appear much bigger than he actually was.

  “Are you okay? You’re having troubl
e breathing.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, gripping my forearm.

  He sounded anything but fine. His voice was raspy and strained, his breathing labored and shallow. The contents of his sweater pockets had fallen out onto the path when he took his spill, and I used my free hand to gather up his things and put them back: notebook and reading glasses, a pen, a small bottle of pills, replacement hearing-aid batteries, several wrapped peppermints, and an old photo.

  “Is this June?” I asked, looking at the photo.

  He reached out and pulled my hand closer so he could see the photo, even though there were no other photos in his pockets and I knew he didn’t need to identify it. I think he just wanted to see her, the old romantic, sitting right there on that dirt path, disheveled and muddied like some old rugby player refusing to quit the game. He took several deep, calming breaths and seemed to feel better after looking at her image.

  “That’s my June,” he said. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “She is striking. I see what you mean about her eyes. They’re smiling right off the photo. But why is she wearing a matador costume, and why is there blood on both your hands? I can’t see her killing bulls.”

  “Oh no,” he said. “That’s fake blood. Dye, actually. She’d never kill an animal for sport. Although we did eat bull stew at our reception. No, this was what June wore for our wedding. I joked that if she was going to keep that bloody matador costume on for the ceremony, I’d dress up as the bull. We were married right there by the jefe de la policía who had arrested us just twenty-four hours before.”

  I was glad he seemed to be feeling better, but my legs were getting tired squatting beside him in the path.

  “Well, let’s get you back and you can tell me all about it,” I said. “Here, let me help you up. You must be freezing. These old corduroys are soaked through.”

  “I can’t promise that that’s rainwater either,” he said. “I’m sorry to be such a burden. I really am. I’m sure this isn’t how you envisioned spending your birthday.”

  “I’ll hear none of that. Lean on me. Or do you want your cane?”

  “Who needs a cane when I fall so gracefully?” he asked, grinning. “But what about the umbrella?”

  “It’s not raining now.”

  “I won that in a radio contest, you know.”

  “I’ll come back for it.”

  The sun had set by the time we made it back to the house, and he was shivering in my arms. I got him inside and sat him in his chair. Then I lit the wood stove.

  “You usually build this thing up yourself?” I asked. “How do you get the wood inside? Maybe you should have a heat pump installed.”

  I realized my mistake the moment I said it. Here I was on a pre-foreclosure house call to evict the old man from his property, the property where his wife was buried, and I was dumb enough to be suggesting improvements to his heating system. Fortunately, when I looked up to apologize, he was already asleep in his chair.

  Once I had the stove going good, I slipped out and went back up the trail for his umbrella. It was quickly getting dark and I had a hard time locating it. I might not have if it hadn’t been so damn big. As I made my way back toward the house on the dusky path, the sound of the murmuring creek was carried to me on a soft breeze. I took in long breaths of cool pine-scented air, smelling the sap and the rain, and reflected on my life for the first time in a long time. Was it visiting June’s grave that had me reflecting? Maybe it was Mr. Hadley’s stories. It could even have been that it was my birthday, I don’t know. Maybe it was an early midlife crisis. Is there a one-third life crisis that happens to people?

  I stopped just on the other side of the creek and looked at the house. White smoke was rising from the chimney into the slate-colored sky, and the lamplight made the living room look warm and cozy. I could just make out Mr. Hadley sleeping in the chair where I had left him, and I wondered how many nights these last few years he had sat there alone, looking out at this creek, thinking about his wife. I wondered what their life had been like here before she died. Mostly, I wondered how in the hell I could even go through with trying to get him to leave.

  The teapot atop the wood stove was whistling when I entered the house. I ran to take it off before it woke Mr. Hadley, but he was already awake. He looked around the room, as if wondering how he had gotten there, and then he looked at me where I stood in front of him holding the steaming teapot.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Elliot Champ, sir.”

  He patted his breast pockets, as if searching for something, perhaps his notebook. But then he seemed to remember, letting his hands drop into his lap.

  “Oh yes. I’m afraid I’ve taken a nap. That happens sometimes. Why am I all wet?”

  “You fell, sir. On the path.”

  He either didn’t hear me or he ignored my comment.

  “I took a nap once down at Clancy’s, and Lisa tried to tell me I’d passed out. She said people don’t nap at coffee counters. I don’t go there anymore. Not because of Lisa or anything, though. I had to give up driving. Was I dreaming, or did we visit Echo Glen?”

  “Yes, you took me up there,” I said. “You fell on the way down, don’t you remember?”

  “That explains why I’m all wet,” he replied. “At least I hope it does. Hand me my cane there, will you, young man? I’d like to go freshen up.”

  I set the teapot down and retrieved his cane for him.

  “How about I make us some tea,” I suggested. “And then, if you’re feeling up to it, maybe you can continue your story.”

  “Okay,” he said. “There’s Smooth Move in the kitchen cupboard, just left of the stove. Maybe you could cut us up an apple too. I need to take my medication.”

  When he came out again he was wearing furry slippers and a bright-red paisley-patterned robe. Without all those layers of clothing, he looked much thinner than he had before, but he appeared to have recovered from whatever had been causing his coughing fits.

  “I didn’t know I was being hosted by Hugh Hefner.”

  “Hugh who?” he asked. Then he looked down at his robe and laughed. “Oh, this old thing. June ordered me this robe from a catalog. She claimed it was supposed to be blue, but then decided to keep it because she said my face matched the fabric I blushed so much the first time I put it on.”

  “I put your tea on the table there next to your chair.”

  “Thank you.” He lowered himself into the chair. “That stove heats the place pretty well, doesn’t it?”

  “It reminds me of the one we had in our house growing up. Well, it was more of a trailer than a house, but it had a nice stove. Once a week my dad would borrow the company truck and bring home mill scraps for us to burn. Sometimes, if it was really cold, he’d order a real cord of wood and pay me a couple bucks to split it.”

  “That’s good work,” he said, “splitting wood is. Makes a young man strong. But it’s a skill you won’t be needing in Miami, I’m afraid.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. Not this debate again. But I refused the bait, smiling and shaking my head instead of responding.

  “Listen, Elliot,” he said. “You’ve been patient enough with me, listening to my story and spending your whole day here. Let me cut to the chase and make my proposition so you can go home and think it over.” He reached into his robe pocket and took out his notebook. “Let’s see, you said you needed twenty thousand dollars to get that condo, is that right?”

  He was right, but I didn’t answer him. I wasn’t in the mood to hear his proposal just then. I knew I’d probably have to turn him down on ethical grounds, whatever his pitch was, and that would be hard for me to do. Also, I feared once I did tell him no I wouldn’t get a chance to hear the rest of his story, and I was really curious about what eventually happened to June.

  “You know what,” I said, “why don’t we
wait on the proposal part for a bit. I’d rather not leave now anyway. I’ll just hit traffic going into the city. Maybe you can tell me the rest of your story first. You know, how you saved Echo Glen and how you proposed to June. You need to explain being arrested in Spain and that matador costume.”

  “Oh you’ve been too kind already,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel right keeping you.”

  “No, I mean it. I want to hear the story. You wouldn’t turn down a request from a man on his birthday, would you?”

  “You really want to hear it?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yes, I really do.”

  He smiled. “June would have liked you. Have I told you that already? I have. Sometimes I repeat myself. You’re a good egg, Elliot Champ. You know that?”

  I felt myself blush. “My dad used to call me a good egg.”

  “Well, your dad was right,” he said. Then he returned the notebook to his robe pocket and pulled out an old newspaper clipping. He held the paper out for me. “Since you want to hear more, you might as well read this. It’s an anonymous letter to the editor I wrote about my stunt camp experience.”

  I took the letter and read it.

  Dear Editor:

  Who knew impersonating a newspaper reporter could be so life changing and so fun? I have hung from the rafters of an old barn dressed as Peter Pan, flown a glider through moonlit skies, and jumped a burning car. I have fought an angry ostrich and lost; I have fought my own fear and won. You see, just an hour and a half northeast from Seattle, in the Center of the Universe, is a place called Echo Glen. This animal sanctuary/Hollywood stunt camp saves the lives of desperate animals while changing the lives of courageous men and women desiring a career in stunt acting. Here you can get an adrenaline rush and a thousand-watt jolt of feel-good juice at the same time, because the profits from the stunt camp go to the worthy cause of caring for animals in need of a safe and healing place. And that’s just what they’ll find at Echo Glen. I know because I needed the same thing and I found it there too.