A Father for Philip Read online

  A Father for Philip

  By

  Judy Griffith Gill

  Text copyright © 2013

  Judy Griffith Gill

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All events and locations except for real place or institution names are the invention of the author.

  This book is dedicated to my sister Joyce and, as always, to my husband, Bob with thanks for his unfailing patience.

  Table of Contents

  A Father for Philip

  By

  Judy Griffith Gill

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  The morning sun poked fingers of light into the small natural clearing in the forest. A bird trilled a few sharp notes, then was still, while a squirrel chattered angrily before dashing high into a fir tree. A katydid called from over the hill.

  Into the clearing stepped a tall, broad shouldered man carrying in one hand a double bitted axe while the other swung a wicked looking machete. He stepped over a downed tree, which until recently had stood in the edge of a glade but now lay on the mossy earth. He began swiftly to denude it of branches and bark. When it was nothing more than another log, he rolled it with some difficulty to a spot nearby where lay other logs. As he worked, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippled, his dark hair fell with great persistence over his thick brows and into his slate gray eyes. His big hands paused now and then in their work to brush the hair back, and one time, engaged in the act of clearing his vision, he gazed with a saddened expression upon a leafy dogwood tree and sighed heavily.

  He swung his axe into the newly made stump, hung the machete by its thong from a limb and limped into the shade of a tree. His long body stretched out in a moss filled hollow beneath the dogwood and cradling his head in his bent arms, he whispered into the moss, “Eleanor, Eleanor, are you here? Is this where he put you, like you always said you wanted?”

  There was no answer but tender memories filled his mind, the scent of the forest, the moss, and the new warmth of the April sun brought her presence to him. As the breeze sighed through the branches, it was almost as though she were there, whispering, “David...my David...”

  Comforted, he slept.

  ~ * ~

  The boy pedaled his bike as hard as he could, riding pell-mell, headlong and reckless across the meadow, along a path through the trees and into the edge of a clearing. His front wheel ran up against a branch protruding from the trunk of a newly fallen tree, spilling him off the bike. It, and he, fell softly to the thick carpet of pine needles. He jumped up. His blue shirt caught on a sharp knot and he jerked free. Grating sobs grunted between clenched teeth. His storm of fury, however, produced no tears. He was beyond that. He caught sight of the axe embedded in the stump. With the strength born of anger, he grasped it and jerked it free. He hefted the axe, which was nearly as long as he was tall and swung it wildly again and again, hacking small chips out of a log. As the child chopped, words came spasmodically from his contorted mouth, in time with each swing. “I hate him! I hate him! I hate him! There goes an arm! That was his leg! Here goes his head!”

  The man awoke in an instant, sat up and looked in the direction from which came the sound of someone chopping erratically with his axe. He saw a small boy swinging wildly, only one cut in three coming close to the previous marks. He rose quietly, not wanting to startle a child handling such a dangerous tool and moved towards him.

  As he approached, he heard the child’s words. That depth of fury, the blind, mindless anger in one so young shocked the man as did the passion, the hatred which colored the tones. This was no small boy annoyed with father or friend. This was a human soul filled with a deep and terrible anguish. He caught the axe handle on an upswing and held it. The boy stood stock still for a moment then let go of the axe to back away in a scurrying, scuttling manner that suggested he fully expected to be smacked. Hard. He was poised for flight and his eyes were full of abject terror.

  The stranger’s teeth gleamed white against his brown skin as he smiled at the child. “That was pretty good chopping for a young’un,” was his only comment.

  As though the words had released a spring, the child shot away into the underbrush. Shrugging, the man lifted his machete down from the knot upon which it hung and began stripping limbs from the fallen tree, whistling between his teeth as he worked. A flash of blue from the boy’s shirt appearing at odd intervals told him he was not alone.

  The squirrel, curious now, returned to watch with bright eyes the action of the intruder into his glade, and the man, spotting him, spoke quite loudly.

  “Hello, squirrel. Did you come to help me pile up the branches? You did? Well, that’s great. It’s mighty nice of you, but I’m afraid you’re too small. What I need to help me build this log cabin is a boy with strong arms. Sure do wish there was one around.”

  The splotch of blue behind a huckleberry bush stayed quite still, and the men bent, holding his back and groaning loudly as he gathered up an armload of branches. “Oh, that’s hard on my back. Maybe I’d better leave it for another day.” He dropped his load upon the pile he had already begun and ambled off, his axe across his left shoulder, the machete swinging from his right hand.

  ~ * ~

  The next morning he returned and smiled to himself when he saw that every scrap of rubbish from the previous day’s work had been cleared away. For some time he worked and the chips flew in white arcs, scenting the air with the perfume of newly cut wood. As each tree began to sway the man would leap back, call, “Tiiim-berrr!” loudly as with the rushing of air through the flailing limbs and an earth jarring shudder, the tree fell. As each tree met the ground, a flash of red shirt would jump with what might have been excitement. Picking up a small canvas bag, the man walked to his favorite resting place and with his back to the clearing, pulled a fat sandwich from its wrappings and began munching. “Hi there, squirrel,” he said conversationally to his nearest companion. “Was it you cleared up for me yesterday? If so then I guess the cabin will belong to both of us. After all, if two people work together on something, it has to belong to both of them, not just the one who began it.”

  A stealthy rustling behind him told the man clean-up work was under way once more, and he lay back, pretending to sleep until a distant voice raised the hair on the nape of his neck calling, “Philip! Phiiilip!”

  He heard the rattle of a bike as it bounced away from the far edge of the clearing, and then silence fell again.

  ~ * ~

  Shortly after another sunrise the glade rang again with the sound of the biting axe blade. Chips flew as the child was drawn closer, closer, watching, waiting, listening for the magic call of the word “Tiiim-berr!”

  When he went to rest, the stranger to the glade sat once more with his back to the clearing. When the whispers of sounds began he waited for a moment or two then turned slowly. As if sensing he was under surveillance, the child froze, bent by the weight of the aromatic bundle of greenery he carried. He raised apprehensive eyes to the man then dumped his load on the pile.

  “Cake?” asked the man quietly, extending a plastic wrapped object to the child.

  Philip walked closer, eyeing the cake with the normal greed of a small boy and reached for it tentatively, as if a show of eagerness might cause the offer to be rescinded.

  His finely cut jaw worked industriously for a few moments then, with a spray of crumbs he said,
“It’s good,” and smiled.

  The stranger nodded, picked up his machete and began peeling a log. Philip stepped a couple of short paces nearer. “What’s that thing?” he asked after watching a long time.

  “A machete.” The man’s quiet reply and quick smile seemed to reassure the boy, for he edged even closer. “It’s supposed to be for cutting through jungles, but it peels logs pretty well, too.”

  There was another long pause then, “Why you want them logs peeled?”

  “For the cabin we’re going to build.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here. In the clearing.”

  “Why?”

  “To live in.”

  “Why don’t you hire a contractor? Grant gets one whenever he wants something built.”

  “I like to do it for myself.”

  “Why don’t you use a chainsaw to cut down the trees?”

  The men bent deliberately, gathered up an armload of branches and took them to the scrap pile before he was ready to reply, and then he had to wait until Philip had returned from doing the same. “I don’t like the smell of power saws in the woods. I don’t like the noise they make and I think the trees feel better about being cut down if you don’t ruin their home with a noisy, smelly saw. When you’re cutting down a lot of trees you have to use machinery, but here for our little clearing, this way is best.”

  The boy was not yet ready to admit the stranger was right. “Grant’s contractors could have this clearing finished in one day with two power saws and one bulldozer.”

  The man nodded. “Maybe. But this is my clearing, and I like doing it this way.”

  “Where do you live?”

  He pointed to a path in the trees. “In a camper over that way. Until the cabin is finished.”

  “I mean where do you really live? Where is your house?”

  “The camper’s my home until the cabin’s ready.” He walked off with more branches. Philip struggled to keep up.

  “How come you limp?”

  “I hurt my leg a long time ago.”

  “Grant fell off his horse and hurt his leg. He doesn’t limp. I laughed and he was going to hit me with his crop but my mom made him stop. She told him I didn’t know he was hurt and he did look funny going into the hedge.”

  “He must have,” the man said with a smile. Then, “Who is Grant?”

  The child’s answer, if it was that, was oblique. “What’s a prep school? How come they dip-licine kids there?”

  “I think you mean discipline, Philip. It just means teaching you what’s right and what’s wrong. Showing you how to grow up to be a good man. A prep school’s like any other school.”

  “’Cept you gotta live there. Sleep there, Tommy told me. Every night and never come home. Ever. Even to see your mom.” His voice wobbled and his lower lip quivered.

  “Hmm… Not sure Tommy’s right about all that. I’m pretty sure you get to come home to see your mom. Are you going to go to one?”

  “Grant says he’s going to send me to one when he marries my mom. How did you know my name?”

  “Heard someone, your mom, maybe, calling you.” He walked to his resting place, sat down and asked the boy, who had followed him like a shadow, “What’s the rest of your name?”

  “Philip David Jefferson. What’s yours?”

  The man’s hand paused in the act of removing the top from his thermos. For a long moment he remained frozen. Then the child said, “What’s the matter, Mister? Your face looks all funny.” The man made a great effort, poured liquid into the plastic cup and passed it to Philip. “Lemonade?”

  Philip gulped greedily, then passing the cup back and repeated, “What’s your name?”

  “Jeff,” replied the man. Taking a shiny green-colored apple out of the bag he set strong teeth into it, cracked off a bite and offered the apple to the boy. “How old are you, Philip?”

  “Seven.” Then as if thinking it might be wise to add the truth, added “Almost.”

  “What’s your—” The distant call of the boy’s name interrupted Jeff, and his young companion leapt to his feet.

  “See you, Jeff!” he shouted over his shoulder as he ran. He snatched up his bike, mounted it, and was off.

  Jeff sat bolt upright for a long moment. Can it be? Could it be? But if it is, why? In God’s name, why?

  Jumping up, he hustled himself out of the clearing. His camper truck started and with a grinding of gears and spewing of gravel from its back tires, it sped toward the nearest town.

  ~ * ~

  Philip raced out of the forest, down the path bisecting the open grassy meadow and across the plank that bridged the narrow stream, on the other side of which waited his mother. She had her hands on her hips. A half smile played around her soft mouth and her deep brown eyes with amber lights in them twinkled down at him. Philip grinned at her and felt her warmth cover him. Everything about his mom was warm. The way she smiled, the way her eyes looked, but most of all her hair, like the deepest coals in the fire just before it went out, glowing deep red.

  “Hi, Mom!” he yelled, skidding to a stop in front of her. Then he turned as he always did to throw a rock in the creek. “Lunchtime?”

  “Yes,” she said, exasperatedly. “Just as it was lunch time yesterday when I had to come out here and call you. What’s so good about the woods lately?”

  “Jeff,” Philip replied thrashing the fence with a stick he picked up from under an gnarled crabapple tree. “Jeff and me are building a log cabin.”

  Eleanor smiled down at her son. “That’s nice, honey.” For the thousandth time she wished there were more, or nearer neighbors with children Philip’s age, so her son would have some real playmates. “But don’t wander off too far, okay?” She worried about the river, though it was a long way. Still, an active little boy…

  “I won’t, Mom. Just to the other side of the hill. That’s where me and Jeff are building the cabin.”

  “Jeff and I,” she corrected, absently wondering what the child psychologists would have to say about the name he had chosen for his latest imaginary friend. Would it be that in having chosen one which could be a diminutive of his own surname he was acting out a need to have a brother? “Stay away from the Anderson house, too,” she admonished “Remember, it’s private property even if no one lives there.” And to get to the river, he’d have to cross the fence between them and the Anderson place.

  “I just play in the woods, Mom. No one cares about the woods. No one even goes there. Just me and—just Jeff and I.” And me, she thought. I used to play there, too, even when Mrs. Anderson was still alive, and he’s right. Nobody cares about the woods. Not good pasture-land, and not good trees for logging, so that part of the Anderson property had always been left alone.

  ~ * ~

  Later, Eleanor ran a comb through her hair then walked up the path to the farmhouse, the house in which she had spent her childhood. She knocked at the door which had once been her own, and in a sense, still was.

  Kathy Robbins opened it and smilingly invited her landlady into the big, warm kitchen. “Ellie, come on in. Bill’s just bedding down his new baby. Coffee is on. Where’s Philip?”

  “Watching a video.” She cocked her head questioningly. “New baby? Morning Glory’s foaled?” Kathy’s grin was answer enough. She reached high over her head for coffee cups. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to do that?” Eleanor said.

  “Old wives’ tales.” Kathy scoffed with a grin. “Bill’s mother’s full of them and Bill, darn it, believes her. I hope his absorption with the foal will take his mind off his impending fatherhood for a day or two.” Kathy went on about Bill and his delight in his mare’s offspring. At length she subsided and looked carefully at Eleanor. “What’s the trouble, Ell? Book not doing so well?”

  “No, the new book’s doing just fine. It’s Phil, Kathy. He’s got another imaginary friend. That got me thinking. Maybe I should move into town so he’d be close to school and his friends, instead of keeping him wa
y out here in the country, so far from other kids. But, where would we live? Rent is so steep these days. And then there’s pollution, crime, drugs, all those things I don’t want him exposed to.”

  She sighed. “I keep wondering if Grant’s right, and I should send him to a boarding school. It’s just that he’s so little.” Her voice cracked slightly and she rubbed her forehead as she tended to in times of stress.

  “Of course he is,” said Kathy sternly. “He’s way too young to live anywhere but with you.”

  “But he is lonely,” Eleanor replied, more in answer to herself than to her friend. “Holidays must be awful for him, like weekends and after school only lasting much longer. I wish you’d hurry up and have that lump in your lap. It might not be playmate material for a few years, but at least he’d have another small person to take an interest in. I’ll try to talk him into coming up to visit Morning Glory’s baby in the meantime.”

  “Good luck with that.” Both women laughed. Horses, probably even baby horses, were not high on Philip’s like-list.

  “If said lump puts in an appearance before the end of June it’s going to have to find some other family. We simply won’t be ready for it.” Kathy refilled the cups. “But about Philip, Ellie, it can’t hurt for him to have imaginary playmates. He gets along well at school with the real kids, and lots of children have pretend friends. Not just only children, either.”

  “No,” said Eleanor, her tone wry. “Just lonely children. As a teacher, Kath, what do you think about sending kids away to school? Is it good for them? Especially,” she added, “kids who have no one at home to play with.”

  Kathy considered carefully before she answered. “Maybe, but personally, I can’t think of one child from my teaching days who would have been better off away from his family—except those who came from awful situations with very bad families, which is not the case here. When I apply that notion to Philip, think of him being sent away from here, away from you, I can only see him being terribly unhappy. So maybe he is a little bit lonely. Spring Break only lasts ten days and three of them are gone by. It’s not going to kill him, Ellie, to have an imaginary friend for the next week. Who is it this time? Spidey, or someone who turns green and bursts out of his clothing, or changes from car to space-ship at the flip of a switch?”