My Year in Harper: A Novel By

By Malcolm L. Wilkinson

My Year in Harper tells the story of a twenty-year-old Charles Chandler and his exile from Memphis to a small town in Southwest Mississippi. His encounter with the three old great-aunts he lives with, as well as the many town characters he meets during the year, changes his life in the most unexpected ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503590113

Malcolm L. Wilkinson

Malcolm L. Wilkinson is a retired pharmacist and pharmacy owner. He was born and raised in Southwest Mississippi and now lives in Atlanta, Georgia. His book of short stories and poems, Tales of Harper, was published in 2014.

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Copyright © 2015 by Malcolm L. Wilkinson.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015912135

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-9013-7

                Softcover        978-1-5035-9012-0

                eBook             978-1-5035-9011-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/29/2015

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Acknowledgment

SPRING

Exile

Dealing With LC

Train To Harper

My Arrival In Harper

Clara’s Welcome

I Meet The Other Sisters

Sunday Morning

Monday Morning

The Harper Bee

Meeting Harvey Lee Whitmire

Breaking Away From Memphis

Osprey

SUMMER

Summer

Summer Fun

Earning My Keep

Fishing With Harvey Lee

Charles Chandler, Cub Reporter

Mary Lou Hickenlooper

Agnes

Graham Hickenlooper

My Trip To New Orleans

Marlyss And Graham Meet For Coffee

Vicki Leaves For School

FALL

Fall In Harper

Keeping My Promise

Marlyss Rickenbacker

I Take Breakfast To Agnes

Johnny’s Visit

The Last Class

Outside The Classroom

Fire

Aftermath

A Call For Marguerite

The Remains Of Fall

WINTER

Winter In Harper

Agnes Is Dead

Grandfather And Mother Arrive

Funeral

My Talk With Vicki

A Meeting With Grandfather

Christmas

A Phone Call From Vicki

Farris And India Queen

ANOTHER SPRING

Spring In Harper

Harvey Lee Loses Another Wife

Grandfather Wants Me Home

Marguerite Leaves For Spain

Saying Goodbye To Vicki

Saying Goodbye To Mattie Faye

Saying Goodbye To Clara

End Of Year

MARCH 24, 1995

A Summons To Harper

A Farewell To Mattie Faye

Harvey Lee Fills Me In

A Lonely Night

Daddy

Grandfather And My Mother

Vicki And Johnny

Mr. Mason

Marriage

Vicki, My Love

Prologue

I heard somewhere, or maybe read it, that when a person looks back on his (or her) life he should pretend he’s watching a movie. The main character, namely himself, is just that a character in a movie script. Any foolish act or sin committed was done by this character and should be viewed in that way. In other words, the reviewers need to disassociate themselves from the past. They can only learn from it, not change it.

Acknowledgment

I want to thank Sarah Shope for guidance and encouragement, Jennie Helderman for many helpful suggestions, Karen Swim for all her support, and Jane Wilkinson for sharing ideas and providing much appreciated help in getting everything together.

The cover photo is the work of Dorsey Statham. The other photography within the book is the work of Dorsey Statham and Carroll Case. Dorsey also devoted time and technical skills to the process.

Steve and Elizabeth Lodwick committed time and effort to the development of art work.

Rick Thompson and Ronnie Wilkinson have been instrumental in offering many stories and suggestions that helped develop this work.

SPRING

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Exile

That March day in 1960, what appeared to be the low point of my life, saw an arrogant, spoiled boy—selfish, disrespectful, and ripe for straightening out. I had been asked to take a leave of absence from Ole Miss for an unspecified time. My offense—I’ll be telling more about that later—was considered grave, and only my grandfather’s influence and, I suppose, money prevented an outright dismissal for life. My car was totaled, my girlfriend never wanted to see me again (her words), and worst of all, I was scheduled to meet my grandfather in his office in downtown Memphis to face the music, or for what we called a come-to-Jesus moment.

Now without a car, a condition also because of my sin, I took the bus from the eastern suburbs into Memphis where my grandfather conducted his business. When I left my house, my mother had enclosed herself in her room and did not come out to see me off. I went to her door and decided not to knock when I heard her sniffling away. I felt no sympathy for her. As far as I was concerned, a lot of the responsibility for my wayward ways lay right at her doorstep. As the bus made its way into the city, I sat with my head down, feeling as sorry for myself as any nineteen-year-old possibly could. The bus passed the road that lead to Russwood Park, home of the Memphis Chicks baseball team and venue for many concerts, including a couple with Elvis as the main event. I had been to both—the second with Lou Costello and Jane Russell. Little did I know, within a month, the old ball park would go up in flames, so hot and devastating that the windows of Baptist Hospital next door would crack. Little did I know that my life as I knew it was also in for a big change—an immensely transformative and unanticipated change.

The year I was to spend in Harper began with that visit to my grandfather’s office in a tall building in downtown Memphis, though my journey toward exile had begun some years earlier with the development of wayward habits and socially unacceptable behavior. Some of the rationale of my unfortunate situation may be found in the condition my daddy left me in when he bolted from marriage and moved to Florida with Prudence, his secretary. I’ll not go there now, and maybe during the telling of my little adventure, details will come out to show the roots of my downfall.

Grandfather’s office was on the third floor of the Chandler Building where his operation—mostly printing school annuals and sports programs, but also a diversification of several smaller businesses—was distributed over all the six stories. He owned that twelve-story building. The choice of a lower floor epitomized his approach to life: Whenever possible pick the safe, practical road. The third floor provided an unobstructed view of the Mississippi River, the Mighty Mississip as the old man called it, but his office was low enough to accommodate the ladders of firefighters and easy enough to access the stairs in case of elevator failure.

Six wide windows faced west overlooking the river and the lowlands of Arkansas. A few building tops in West Memphis—the place where I had my first taste of alcohol, where I began gambling away my allowance, and where I lost my virginity—poked above the trees. They showed inconsequentially in light of the vast scene of sky, land, and water. The river was anything but trivial as it moved unhurriedly past my view. Its picturesque presence, commercial activity, and history drummed into our head by the Memphis schools, would not let me forget its importance to our community.

As I watched the cars traveling across the bridge, I had a strong urge to bolt from Grandfather’s office, jump in my MG, and relieve all my worries in the red-walled, perfumed bedroom of Hazel Maxx, a prostitute who knew me well enough to remember my name when she saw me. But alas, my MG was housed in a garage in Oxford, Mississippi, and was in no condition to take me anywhere. The mechanic, who owned the shop, had told me it wasn’t worth fixing. He said it would probably be declared a total loss.

The sun was in free-fall and gave me the feeling that Grandfather, who always had purpose interwoven into his decisions, had selected this time of day for the effect of bringing an end to things of the past. The horn of a southbound barge could barely be heard through the thick glass windows prompting me to say aloud, He even provides Gabriel signaling the end of the world, my world. I stood stark still when I heard my own words.

Little flecks of sunlight jumped to and fro on the river surface, seemingly trying to escape the slow-moving brownish water. I considered this dazzling effect and how it related to my difficult life but arrested the idea before it developed. This thought made me laugh out loud, at myself and my more or less desperate attempt to relate everything I witnessed as if it would provide solutions or maybe justification for something needing justifying.

I turned from the window and looked at the three walls filled with certificates and pictures, pictures mostly of Grandfather next to or surrounded by local and national celebrities. In one picture taken at a college graduation some forty years ago, I could see a young man, Grandfather, who could easily be mistaken for me. I had mixed feelings about this photograph. It gave legitimacy to family membership, but showed in a vague and nebulous way where I was headed in life. One of the largest pictures was a wedding photograph of both my grandparents. Grandfather stood almost a foot above Nana. Just five years ago, she’d suffered a stroke, and Grandfather hired nurses and house staff and kept her alive for three years. In that photo, it was obvious in the way he looked down to the face of his wife that she was the love of his life, his one and only love.

There were other family pictures. One that always caught my attention was of Grandfather and his three sisters standing in front of a body of water, Harper Lake. The lake was right in the backyard of the house where Grandfather had grown up and was a central part of many of the stories I’d grown up with. The sisters were younger than Grandfather, and none looked like the others. Also in the photograph, a young girl of fine ebony skin smiled at the camera, a smile that revealed a confidence not easily seen on people of color in that day.

The only picture of my daddy was a wedding picture. He had an enormous grin on his face, a grin I had seen so often. He was truly a happy soul. And standing beside the groom, my mother, every hair in place and in her fabulous white gown, waited for the right time and place to straighten this man out, to take all the good things his character offered and drop them in her mud and stomp the life out of them.

There were a few pictures of me, a smallish child with blond hair—almost white. It was hard to believe my hair had darkened so much in ten years. I recalled being told I would not attain the height of Daddy and Grandfather. But I had. Even in these pictures of my youth, I showed an air of confidence. I never thought of myself as a good-looking guy, but I knew I had what it took to get people to like me, especially girls.

I wandered around the room and found myself back in front of the windows, the spotless windows. As one of his perks, Grandfather had window cleaners raising their platforms up to the third floor weekly. I imagined Grandfather wanted an unobstructed view of the scene below. Even from the downward view of the air-conditioned office, the river and surrounding land looked sterile, free from dust and turmoil. Everything moved slowly in a cool, quiet world. This process gave tranquility more substantial than did Miltown or Equanil.

But I knew that in the real world, things were more hostile. The river was muddy, the shores were cluttered with weeds and trash, and the weather was hot as Calcutta—a lot like my life. People who knew me, without full knowledge of the turmoil in my brain, saw a lucky college student with a rich grandfather, an MG convertible, a pretty girlfriend. They didn’t know the shame I felt living with a mother who’d chased my daddy into the arms of his secretary and away from me. I had witnessed my mother’s nagging, tearing down a man who could have been on top of anything he tried if he’d had the right woman behind him or standing beside him. She’d driven my daddy to drink. And now I too was on his way to a life of booze and emptiness.

Grandfather opened the door to the office and stood half in, half out while he completed an order to his secretary. His words, while deliberate, were laced with a kindness that seemed to ease people into pleasing him. He turned and entered the office without acknowledging my presence. An old man, he cautiously walked to his desk, took off his coat, and sat. He began shuffling through a four-inch stack of papers. I summoned all my courage and confronted him. Grandfather, can we get this thing over with? I asked.

"I am in charge of the agenda if you don’t mind," said Grandfather as he continued working his way through the papers.

Well, I have to…, I started.

He looked over the top of his glasses with a look that caused me to accept the futility of trying to convince him to rush through this ordeal. Though he had the appearance of an old man, his gaze was firm and deliberate.

After a minute or two more of busy work, he straightened the stack of papers and took a small note pad from his pocket. He wrote himself a couple of notes with a no. 2 pencil then looked directly at me and said, Just listen. Don’t say anything.

I had no intention to do otherwise. As usual, I was in awe of Grandfather with his thick white hair and piercing blue eyes.

With weighty concern, he went on. You’ve come to a point in your life where you have to make a major decision. Will you continue on your path of self-destruction or will you decide to live like a normal human being? He blinked twice and held his gaze.

I started to say something but thought better and merely changed my posture to a more subservient position.

Now here’s the deal. I’m going to help you make up your mind. If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s helping people make up their minds. You’re my only grandson, more like my son since your father jumped ship and wandered off into a life of debauchery.

I’d hardly call it that, I objected and threw in a cocky smirk.

You operate with a different dictionary than I. Yours is filled with euphemisms. I prefer to call it like it is. Your father ran off with a younger woman, a woman vulnerable to his considerable charms, and left you and your mother high and dry. He shook his head in disgust.

He didn’t leave me. He left her. Her and her nagging, I defended.

Grandfather sat up more erectly. Boy, don’t you take his side against your mother. She stuck by you when few others would have. She’s had nothing but grief from you and him. I have resisted saying this all your life, but I have to say it now. You’re just like him. He looked me up and down. Self-serving, arrogant, and apathetic. You have no self-discipline. That’s why I’m going to help you. If you want any relationship with me, and that includes your considerable inheritance, you will change now. Not next year, not next month, not tomorrow, but now. This is your one last chance. There will be no other. And I think you know I will follow through on what I say. I didn’t get where I am by making idle threats.

That I knew. I turned my back to him and walked to the window view of the river. Okay, okay, I said as I looked out over Arkansas, a land dressed in crimson by the setting sun.

It’s not that easy, he said and then paused briefly. You’re without a school to attend. I don’t want you lurking around my office. Your mother is in no condition to put up with you, particularly with your verbal abuse and lack of civility. But I have a solution. An internship!

A what? I turn on my heel to face him.

An internship with a newspaper! he replied firmly.

"The Commercial Appeal?"

No, Charles, Grandfather laughed softly. "Not in Memphis. In Harper, Mississippi, with the Harper Bee. I have a friend…"

No way. I’m not going to Harper. That place is dead. Just because you grew up there, just because you have ties…

Now his voice turned contemptuous. "Boy, you have no choice. I’m making all your decisions. Unless you want to hit the road. Either way, I don’t care."

Then it’s the road. Just give me my allowance and I’m out of here. I’ll send you my address.

Ha! He forced a laugh. You’re about as dense as a turnip. Don’t you get what I’m telling you? There are really no choices here. It’s all me. What I say goes. End of discussion. This time the old man swivel the chair to turn his back to me, and for a moment, I feel a strange dread that halted my mouth. Finally, I eked out, Okay, okay.

You’ll be staying with my sisters.

No way, I objected faintly.

Charles. His gruffness shook me.

Okay, okay. I resigned to staring at my shoes.

Grandfather looked down at the papers on his desk and began to move them around. You’re leaving tomorrow on the Panama Limited.

A train? he said. Why can’t I drive?

In what—Your totaled your car?

I puzzled over his reply. Didn’t you have it insured?

He didn’t answer right away then. Of course, I did. And I have pocketed the money. There’ll be no car or anything else until you have proven yourself. And that’s my decision too, when and how you have to prove yourself. Don’t be calling me asking if you’ve arrived. I’ll call you.

That’s more punishment than I deserve. My plea in my voice was pathetic.

Grandfather looked straight in my eye. Please don’t ask for what you deserve. You don’t want that, Charles. Believe me, you don’t want that. LC will pick you up tomorrow an hour before train departure. You’ll have to find the exact time yourself. He’ll have your ticket. Be ready.

There’s another thing, I