Spring Decision

By Helen Haught Fanick

Short stories with hopeful endings have always been favorites of Helen Haught Fanick, and her own stories are no exception. Her protagonists usually discover at the end that with effort, situations can change and life can improve. The young girl with a chance to go to college sees many obstacles, as does the wife who wants to help a disadvantaged boy. Their decisions, in the end, are right for them. These varied stories are about more than the problems faced by the characters. They're about hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helen Haught Fanick
• Release date: Jul 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516397808

Book preview

SPRING DECISION

Stories of Appalachia

By

Helen Haught Fanick

Copyright © 2012 by Helen Haught Fanick

Cover photo copyright © 2012 by Helen Haught Fanick

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

For Jim and Nancy

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My family includes several writers, and I’m grateful to all of them for their endless love, support, and encouragement. Books have always been important to me, and I can thank my family for this, too—my parents and aunts who read to me when I was young, and those who always made sure there were books in our house. My gratitude also goes to those who have read my work in manuscript form and suggested corrections and changes. Included are Ben Rehder, Ed Fanick, and Vernon and Marguerite Shettle. I’m also grateful to pixelstudio for their fine cover designs.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

FLOWERS IN A VASE

MAMA’S VIOLIN

SUMMER FUN

THE ELUSIVE BUCK OF KING BEND

THE ETERNAL FLAME

THE RELEASE

THE RESCUE

THE STOPPING PLACE

THE MAN IN THE RUFFLED HOUSECOAT

SPRING DECISION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MOON SIGNS EXCERPT

FLOWERS IN A VASE

By

Helen Haught Fanick

No one knew why John Workman showed up on the lawn of the Trinity Episcopal Church that cold November morning. I found him sprawled there, looking more like a pile of discarded rags than a man, when I arrived to turn on the heat in the church. Our two emergency medical technicians with the Pine Summit Volunteer Fire Department came right away to help me with him.

The story went around town that the alcohol in his blood saved him from death by exposure. He had fallen on a thin layer of powder snow, which had sifted down between the blades of grass, and a sparkling coat of frost had formed on his clothes by the time I found him.

I’m neither a doctor nor a medical worker of any sort; I’m simply a volunteer at our county hospital and the local nursing home. I don’t know whether alcohol in the blood protects against exposure or not. I do know that the appearance of John Workman in our town created crevasses in the sheet of ice protecting my small-town ideas of morality.

The doctors at Baxter County Hospital in Martindale, our county seat, managed to revive him, and after he was there three days, the social services worker was beginning to wonder what to do with him. The hospital was a small one where everyone got into the act when a problem like this came up. I was there as a volunteer that day, and I got on the phone and arranged for John Workman to be taken to the Summit Nursing Center in Pine Summit.

The nursing home was located in an elegant old house, which years ago belonged to the one well-to-do family in our town. The building had a porte cochere where cars could drive up and let passengers out to enter a side door. Corinthian columns outlined this sheltered area, and the flat roof of the porte cochere, which could be accessed from the second floor, was covered in green Italian marble tile installed by the original owners of the house.

This tiled roof immediately became John Workman’s favorite spot; the nurses told me so when I came to see him. They wheeled him out on warm afternoons, and he sat in the sunshine with a blanket over his legs. The hemlocks surrounding the house gave a feeling of seclusion to the roof, and they sheltered this sunny area from the gusty north wind, which blew constantly this time of year. John Workman had been at the nursing home for a week when I first joined him on the roof. I had just finished my duties at the hospital.

I guessed his age at around ninety. He was wearing a red and gray flannel shirt and a gray sweatshirt over it. Someone had found him some clothes in the closet where donated items were kept. His hair had been trimmed and neatly combed; one of the aides undoubtedly had done this for him. His appearance was much improved since the day I found him, but the weary and troubled look I had seen in the hospital hadn’t gone away.

I stood in front of him for a moment, wondering where he came from and what he was doing in our little town. Do you remember me, Mr. Workman? I’m Mrs. Campbell. I’m a volunteer at Baxter County Hospital. I’m the one who found you on the lawn of the church.

He looked at me for a moment. Can’t say I do, miss. Sorry. I guess I wasn’t feeling too well when I saw you.

No problem. You had a close call. You were pretty sick. Are you able to walk now?

I can walk a little. I’m not able to get up the stairs, but the girls bring me up in the elevator in this. He patted the arm of the wheelchair.

I took out a note pad and pen and sat down in a wrought-iron chair opposite him. I work as a volunteer here at the nursing home, too. It’s my job to see what benefits people are receiving so the home and the hospital can get paid. Do you draw Social Security, Mr. Workman?

No, ma’am.

What about veteran’s benefits?

No.

What’s your age, Mr. Workman?

I’m eighty-five.

Have you ever worked under Social Security?

His hand shook as he pushed back a strand of gray hair, which blew across his forehead. No, never worked under Social Security.

What about the military? Ever been in the military?

He sat for a while, not saying anything, just looking out through the hemlocks. I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind, he said finally.

Mr. Workman, I’m here to help you. You’re surely due some kind of check, or pension, and some medical insurance. I’m trying to help—that’s why I’m asking these questions. I leaned back in the chair and crossed my ankles. This was going to take a while. I laid the pad and pen on a low table between us. Where are you from? How did you happen to come to Pine Summit?

Oh, I’m from this area, way back. From out on Four Mile. You know where Four Mile Hollow is?

Sure. How long since you lived there?

Long time ago. Way back in the forties.

And you came back here to visit relatives?

He gripped the arms of his chair. I guess I was just looking for some answers.

What sort of answers, Mr. Workman?

He was silent again.

I’m sure you’ll agree with me that the nursing home deserves to be paid for the care they’re giving you.

Oh, yes, ma’am. It’s just that I don’t have any money right now, until I’m able to go back to work. I’ll pay them as soon as I’m able.

You still work?

I’ve been working on freighters now for years, all over the world. I got off in Norfolk three months ago and I’ve been making my way home, thinking I might find some answers here.

I can appreciate your wanting to work, but the doctor said you should count on being here for at least two months to get you back in shape. We need to check with Social Security, and with the Veterans’ Administration, too, if you’re a veteran, to see if we can get some help. I doubted he would ever be able to work again, and he probably would need nursing home care for the rest of his life.

He looked at me for a moment before speaking. You seem like a good lady, coming here to help people the way you do.

"I hope so. I’m a member of