Mulberry Street

By Chuck Hughes

Mulberry Street is the story of an aging man struggling to redeem failures of his past. He faces another when an early morning phone call summons him to his dying sister’s bedside. Jenny has a last request, one that takes her brother back to the small Virginia town where they grew up. However, he does not know that while the journey to Waynesboro takes but a few hours, the road to redemption will take much longer.

Ian arrives in Waynesboro to find that corrupt politicians and an old nemesis from his past have an iron grip on the town. Waynesboro is no longer the place of his childhood adventures and misadventures.

Despite an accompaniment of unlikely allies, a historian, a librarian and a reluctant attorney, honoring his commitment to his sister appears hopeless. As Ian wanders between the challenges of the present and the tears and laughter of the past, he realizes that there is more at stake than his impossible quest.

Set in a small town cradled in the Shenandoah Valley just a few miles north of Charlottesville, Mulberry Street blends historical truth with a healthy allocate of fiction to provide an insightful and entertaining glimpse into the struggles of one man.

Hughes contends that everyone has a Mulberry Street tucked somewhere in the memories of their childhood. This is his.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450207270

Chuck Hughes

In 2006, Chuck Hughes and two friends opened their first restaurant, Garde Manger, in old Montreal. They haven’t looked back. A fanatical clientele made up of locals and tourists keeps the place hopping; everyone is in search of Chuck’s magical take on comfort food classics. Chuck defeated Iron Chef Bobby Flay in the battle of Canadian lobster and starred in The Next Iron Chef: Super Chefs. His show Chuck’s Day Off airs in over eighty countries including the U.S. (Cooking Channel) and Canada (Food Network), as does his follow-up series, Chuck’s Week Off. Recently he completed the first season of his primetime show, Chuck’s Eat the Street, for Cooking Channel, and he is currently discussing another series for Food Network Canada for 2013.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Alive with the chatter of monkeys, the mountain seems friendly enough during the light of day. However, as darkness pushes twilight over the horizon, night sounds and smells quickly replace the monkey banter. The metamorphosis reeks of sedition.

The unrelenting rain only adds to its treachery. Once darkness smothers the mountain, an eerie silence sets in. Only the swishing of weary windshield wipers disturbs the night. Despite their struggle, the rain robs visibility beyond a meter or two.

My only comfort is the familiarity of the frequently traveled road and the Marine beside me. Just as I know its twists and turns, I know that checkpoint Bravo’s guard shack will be in my headlights in a few meters. From there, it’s only ten minutes more before we reach the Tan Son Nhat Air Base, where we’ll pick up badly needed blood supplies. The shield of jungle trees adds to my relief.

Huey’s overhead with their blinking lights peeking through the shield of jungle trees add to my relief.

As we come closer to the checking point, I take a deep a deep breath and tell Corporal Daniels, We’re almost there. He’s just as relieved as me, and for good reasons-the Vietcong, AKA Charlie, is known to be waiting to ambush our medical trucks coming and going for medical pickups. "Thank God, Charlie must be sleeping tonight," Daniels says as he pulls a pack of Marlboros from his fatigue pocket and offers me one. I shake my head and say no; I always say no. With a shrug of indifference, he tosses the half-empty pack on the dashboard then lights his. The flick of the lighter brings a glow to his tanned face.

Just a day and a wakeup, he reminds me. Tomorrow, my shotgun rider boards a C-130 and heads stateside over the past months.

Man, you know you’re going to miss all this excitement, I say mockingly. Daniels rejects the thought with a grunt.

As the headlights turned around the curve, I looked for the familiar glow of a waving flashlight warning me to stop. There is no waving light. There never is.

What the hell? Daniels shouts as the cracker boxes headlights point to where the outhouse-sized guard shack should be. Wet brakes bring the vehicle to a sliding stop.

I see legs protruding from under shredded, wooden planks. I count six. I always count six.

Shit! I yell as I grab my carbine from its home in the overhead rack. The weapon is corroded and rusted. It’s always corroded and rusted.

Daniels laughs that stupid growling chuckle that he knows I find so irritating. I told you to keep it oiled, Doc, he says as he pushes the safety off his M-14. I’d share, but I only have one, so you better get us the hell out of here.

Urging the wheels to find firmer ground, I shift from reverse to third, then back to reverse. The gears respond with a growl, the wheels whine echoes into the night.

Daniels’ cigarette glows red as he takes a quick drag. Wishing I had taken one, I continued rocking the vehicle to help the oversized wheels find some traction. A flash in the distance says it’s too late. The exploding windshield confirms it.

Daniels moans as I wipe away the sticky wetness running down my face. A piercing whistle overshadows his cries. Eyes tightly closed, I wait helplessly for the explosion I know is coming. I don’t have to wait long. I never have to wait long.

A clap of thunder brings the bulky box on wheels rearing into the darkness then tumbling down the mountainside. It lands with its side embedded in the mud.

I reach for the passenger door that should be above me, but a heavyweight holds me back. It doesn’t matter. All I see is an open view of the dark, rain-smudged sky. How pretty it would be if moonlight broke through the clouds, I say.

Daniels screams in disagreement.

I move his head from my lap. It’s soft and gummy. Damn, Daniels, what is all this mess? I search under the seat for the first aid pouch stowed there. Here, put a Band-Aid on that.

Daniels just stares through the door that isn’t there. He seems content. I am not.

Despite the harmonious splatter of the torrential rain on mud and metal, I find the wet darkness unsettling. It becomes even more so when a new instrument overshadows the downpour’s melody, something not part of the nightly symphony. Its shrillness brings me sitting wide-eyed up in bed.

CHAPTER 2

The ringing telephone banished my demons, demons that even Irish whiskey laced with coffee, then Irish whiskey without coffee when the latter ran out, could not tame. I am free once again, at least for this night.

I dropped back onto the bed, waiting impatiently for the electronic voice to come alive and silence the disturbance with its well-practiced message. I cursed. There would be no rescue. The answering machine was a shattered pile of plastic on the other side of the room, victimized by irritating messages from an ex-wife.

Burying my head into the pillow, I repeated the curse. The ringing continued. Realizing that the standoff would persist until either caller or I tired of the contest, I surrender with a sleep heavy, Hello.

Uncle Ian . . . It’s me, the familiar voice sobbed.

I Regret allowing the telephone; its victory quickly set in. Early morning sniffles and snivels were always a bad sign.

I know, it’s awful early, Uncle Ian, but I. . .

A long pause followed as if waiting for my approval to continue. I searched the table for the alarm clock even though I didn’t need its glowing face to tell me it was well past even a drunk’s bedtime and as far removed from the arousal hour of a working man.

Trina, I finally said, hoping not to sound as annoyed as I felt. It’s not even daylight. I—

I know! But I wouldn’t be callin’ if it wasn’t important.

What’s so important?

Another pause, followed by the sound of air being dragged deep into her lungs. You still there? she asked after a long exhale.

Just not quite awake yet, she muttered."

I’ve been awake just about all night.

Trina, let me put you on hold for a second, okay? Nature’s demands began taking control. Don’t hang up. I’ll be right back.

After a gurgle from the toilet and a deep sigh, I picked the phone back up. Sorry about that. I’m awake now. So tell me, what kept you up all night?

No answer.

Like a director prompting an actress who has forgotten her lines, I asked again. Trina, tell me what’s going on.

I . . .

Eyes closed, head throbbing, I fell back onto the bed, waiting to get the next scene in the can. Finally, the star spit out her lines.

It’s Mom.

Jenny?

How many moms you think I got?

Ignoring the barbed words that would have been humorous at another hour, I said, Trina, just tell me what’s going on with Sis?

The same as usual.

A sudden chill closed the sweating pores opened by the earlier nightmare. I pulled the blanket around my shoulders. How bad is it?

Pretty bad. You’d think she would learn, but she never does. I even told her to . . . another deep inhalation, to try the filtered ones I smoke, but she—

Even though my patience wasn’t very strong when I talked with my niece, I held back my thought, Christ! Finish your joint and get to the point. Trina, just tell me how bad things are.

I ain’t no doctor, but it looks worse than last time.

Are you with her now?

Not now. I had to leave, but I’m going right back up as soon as I get the kids off to school and find somebody to watch Cindy.

Who watched her when you—

Patty, she interrupted. You know, the girl next door. Hell, it cost me twenty dollars just for her to look in on them while they were sleeping.

Can’t Gordon stay with her until you get back?

You mean my sorry-assed brother?

I just thought that since he wasn’t working the last I heard, he might—

Shit, Uncle! You can’t get Gordon away from deer hunting long enough for him to help look after his own kids, much less help take care of his momma. And he sure as hell won’t babysit.

What about Willie?

That dope head? He can hardly wipe his butt by himself here lately. I can’t count on either one of them for nothing. If it wasn’t for me, Mom would still be at the apartment choking for air, or worse.

It would be just until I get up there sometime tomorrow. Then you could go—

Tomorrow! she shouted.

I was just thinking that—

I lost my words in squeals on the other end of the line.

Damn it! The kids are awake now.

She dropped the phone. A string of curses followed. Ya’ll go on back to bed, you hear? I’ll be there in a minute. The telltale hiss of another pursed-lip inhalation said she had picked the phone back up. You see what I have to deal with, Uncle Ian?

Trina, are you still smoking that stuff?

I got to have something to help calm my nerves. At least it ain’t alcohol! A barb intended for me. "And I don’t do it regularly since Willie stole my Xanax; he took every tablet. Besides, you ain’t here. You don’t know all I go through, just like now. It was me that got Mom seen yesterday. It was me that brought her back home. It was me that called—"

I know, Trina. I know, I interrupted. It can be tiresome.

That’s just what it is, tiresome. You’d think I was her only child. I might as well be. Nobody else seems to care about her.

She must have been okay if the doctor let her come home.

He didn’t want to. In fact, he got really pissed when she wouldn’t go be admitted.

If the doctor thought she needed to be admitted, why didn’t you make her stay?

I tried, but she said she couldn’t. The doctor even told her he was worried she might have some bad problem, but she wouldn’t listen to him either. ‘I need to watch my granddaughter, so my daughter can catch up on things at home,’ she said. You know how she loves Cindy.

Almost as if she could see my condescending nods, she continued with a background of arguing with children. But I wished she had listened to him. She could have lent me the money to have Patty come back over, and we wouldn’t be going through all this emergency stuff in the middle of the night.

I rolled my eyes in befuddlement over her tirade of contradictions, then readjusted the phone to my ear. How long has she been this way?

To tell the truth, I don’t really know. Hell, I can’t be there every minute of the day.

I know, Trina. I know.

At least I try, but I ain’t been able to check up on her like I usually do. You know, with work and the kids and all. But I don’t think she’s been doing well for a while. When I came by to pick Cindy up a few days ago, she looked peaked. She said she had problems getting her breath. I offered her some of my Xanax; that was before the dope head got into them. Anyway, she said no; she just needed to fill her prescriptions. I told her I’d pick them up next time I went to the drugstore.

A deep yawn masked my frustration. If she noticed, she didn’t show it.

I do what I can, Uncle Ian. You know that. At least I go when she calls. That’s a damn sight more than other people do.

I rolled over and stared at the clock again. All hope of sleep had vanished. With the help of a grunt, I pulled myself to the other side of the bed. Suddenly, a bolt of pain ran up my back. Souvenirs from old adventures tend to remind you of things you might otherwise forget.Damn!

What?

Nothing, Trina. Just a little arthritis.

Yeah, I’ve got a lot of that too. So does Mom, but she’s got the real bad kind. Her fingers look like broken twigs. I tried to help. Why just last week, I asked if she wanted me and the kids to move in for a while. You know, just to help out. But she wouldn’t hear of it. Anyway, I offered.

Yeah, I know, I interrupted in a tone almost as hollow as hers. It’s hard to do all that needs doing.

I listened as the paint by numbers masterpiece expanded. The ambulance took their time getting here is all I can say. It’s lucky even made it to the hospital, leastways alive.

I grunted in mock agreement.

And the damn doctors weren’t in no hurry seeing her either. The canvas gathered more paint. To make things worse, I had a nosy clerk pouncing on me. Got insurance? Got Medicare? Got Medicaid? Just one stupid question after another. All they cared about was who was going to pay the bill.

Tiring of the spattering watercolors, I changed the subject. Did you call Kevin and James?

No, just you. Mom said to tell you she had something to tell you.

Did she say what?

No. I just told her to tell you it was something important.

Too important to wait until later today?

"I don’t know. I’m just doing what she said to do. Besides, she’s bad this time, really bad. Hell, she might not be able to hang on until later in the day."

I dismissed Trina’s prophecy since she had a romance with being theatrical. Every headache was a brain tumor, every stomach cramp cancer. In response to her dramas, I packed my overnight bags and headed out into the deepness of the night

Trina, I’ll see what I can do, but I’ll be there sometime tomorrow for sure. In the meantime, call James and Kevin. Okay?

With a disapproving grunt, she hung up.

Wiping the residue of sleep from my eyes, I pondered my options. Try to salvage a few more hours of sleep or wake up the overnight bag. The bed beckoned me while the bag screamed—better go! The bag was right. I had no real options. No one would forgive me if I underestimated the seriousness of Jenny’s condition this time. More importantly, I would never forgive myself.

Begrudgingly, I dawdled towards the shower. The sobering effect of hot water pounding on my head brought me to the realization of what lay ahead. Although Roanoke would be a challenge in itself if things went as they usually did, what troubled me the most was what separated me from Roanoke—heavy rain, narrow mountain roads, and hairpin curves.

Want me to ride shotgun? The nagging voice was dismissible; its point was not. Mountains and monsoons were beasts best dealt with in nightmares.

After throwing on a pair of time-faded jeans and a gulp of day-old coffee, I tossed a toothbrush and a change of underwear into my rarely used travel bag and headed north on I-85.

Gusts of rain-filled wind taunted me during the two-hour drive to Martinsville. Forty minutes later, the first sight of the mountain woke my inner demons. Some stomped mercilessly inside my chest while others labored at pushing beads of moisture through the pores of my skin. The more practiced found pleasure in allowing me only short, rapid breaths. The snow and sleet only encouraged them.

Twenty panic-stricken minutes later, a gentle dusting of snow replaced the harsh wind-driven sleet. The scream that put me on the road to Roanoke was now but a whisper. With the menacing mountain and drenching rain behind me, I followed the trail of red taillights as the two-lane highway widens.

That wasn’t so bad after all, I said as I dried my sweaty palms on my shirt a final time. Seeing the glowing city skyline ahead, I massaged the tension from my neck. Safe traveling from here, I whispered. My inner voice was quick to kick in. That’s what you said in Nam, Doc!

I haven’t always been a slave to my fears and nightly phantoms. I handled them better in my youth when time was just a flower in a field of many. Had I understood the bloom’s delicacy, I would have savored its fragrance and sheltered its petals. Sadly, only after the field withered did I appreciate its treasure and bleed from regret’s stabbing briers.

Although the glow no longer twinkles in her eyes, and her smile has long been demure since its wilting somewhere in the yesteryear of Waynesboro, there was a time when youth bubbled in my sister’s blood as well. Sadly, her vigor came to an early harvest, a victim of wickedness from which a more attentive brother might have spared her.

I would trade my remaining years if I could travel back to the Waynesboro of yesterday and redeem my failures. Sadly, time has no replays, no time-outs, just a final score.

CHAPTER 3

Cuddled in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley, Waynesboro was but a small gathering of houses surrounding a small church and cemetery in its infancy. Over the years, the church grew, and the community became a small town with promises of becoming a small city. However, the Waynesboro that I knew began as a steep hill sandwiched between the Wayne Theater on the left and the General Wayne Hotel on the right. After swooping past the Fishburne Drugstore, the bank, the courthouse, and a prosperous Rose’s Department Store, Main Street leveled and continued south where it grew four-foot-high barriers to become the South River Bridge.

Passing South River, Main Street continued as Route 250 twisted its way up the mountain past Swannanoa Gardens. Swannanoa, the stone garden where purple-veined statues of Aphrodite, Hera, Poseidon, even the great Zeus himself stood guard over manicured topiaries. Only the mountain’s overlook into the bowels of the valley itself overshadowed the splendor of the private garden of marble.

As the mountain reached its crest, it opened to form a small clearing just wide enough to hold the Miller Country Market. Ida Miller’s jars of homemade jams and sourwood honey made her market a must-stop for tourists as well as the locals. From Miller’s Market, the road became a series of hairpin curves descending towards Charlottesville. It was into this valley setting that I was born one brisk September morning in 1940.

I like to think the leaves were ablaze with color, waiting patiently on the branches until I arrived. The reality is that the event of my birth was of little consequence to the world. Still, it was an event nonetheless.

The labor began and ended in a room with stained wallpaper and a water-spotted ceiling. My first cries came from a quick slap on my bottom from my grandmother’s hand. I think she took to it, as it became a habit with her over the years.

My sister, Jennifer, Jenny, was what I called her, despite her hatred for the name, made her arrival into my insulated world by way of the same sweaty room where I had made my entrance seventeen months earlier. While a golden array of seasonal color heralded my debut, the bitterness and cold of a dismal February morning welcomed her. It seems this was the hallmark of her life.

Her birth is not in my memory. One day she wasn’t there; the next, she was. After her arrival, I watched with curiosity as she slowly evolved. Over time, the crying intruder became my shadow, sometimes at my side, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind. However, just as shadows cease to exist with the waning of light, so she ceased to exist when we were apart. That’s the way in the ever-changing world of a child—little exists once out of sight.

Sadly, the arrogance of youth gives birth to the sin of indifference. Even sadder is the haunting sorrow that follows once it is too late to seek atonement for the sin. Nevertheless, she did exist, as did I, as did Mulberry Street, and for better or for worse, it was our travels and adventures on Mulberry Street that brought us to where we were now.

MulberryStreet. The name is gentle, conjuring up visions of asphalt, sidewalks, picket fences, and manicured lawns as it rolls off the tongue. In this sense, Mulberry Street, with its dirt pavement bordered by strands of wire nailed to wooden posts protecting lawns made green and colorful by a blending of clover and dandelions, was not a street.

The dirt road narrowed and became a dirt path passing granddad’s house. Overgrown with honeysuckle and prickly branches of briers heavy with blackberries if the season was right, the trail ended its dusty journey after a half-mile when it met its first taste of hard surface.

Across the dirt road from our house, a collapsing wire fence enclosed a large field where a black and white dairy cow had free reign. A run-down shack stood cautiously at the edge of the field. A black man and two children called the shack and pasture home.

Our white, three-story, clapboard house stood in stark contrast. On the front of the paint-starved structure, thick pillars rose from a wooden porch to support a rusted tin roof. The roof was more than just a covering; it became a musical instrument when raindrops danced on it. Even the most resistant could be lulled into a deep slumber when the symphony began.

A weathered, wooden swing squeaked on the porch as its chain links rubbed against rusted eyehooks. The house number drooped from one pillar angle while a Wandering Jew plan climbed the other.

The house was