Conway is a peaceful southern town. Or is it? Across the river from this quiet burg is a row of saloons, and Maude, a feisty octogenarian, believes something doesn't feel right. Along with a young physician named Adam, Maude is beginning to think the so-called saloons are actually havens for unsavory and illegal activities. This collection of saloons is a blight on the town of Conway, and someone should do something about it. Why shouldn't it be old Maude and Adam? Together, they organize a crusade to get the saloons shut down. It's a moral battle more than anything else, or so they believe. When one of the saloon owners disappears, however, the moral battle becomes a battle to stay alive, despite opposing forces and the predatory Tony Caruso, who holds all the cards. The Splendor of Light follows Maude and Adam as they continue down the dark path of their crusade. Lives are in danger of being lost; a town is on the verge of collapse. Will Maude and Adam remain steadfast in their cause, despite a predatory and ruthless adversary? Will they accept the consequences of their answers, or will they fall into moral darkness themselves and lose everything they value?
The Splendor of Light
A NovelBy Vernon SandersiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Vernon Sanders
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-8112-6Chapter One
Friday, March 10th A flock of crows, black as soot, sailed ghost-like through a graying sky. The sun had slipped behind a distant tree line, casting long shadows across fields of fledgling plants. A chorus of crickets welcomed the darkness with evensong and cicadas chirped in shrill counterpoint.
Ben leaned against a large column and looked wistfully at the vast expanse of farmland; rich black soil, germinating the seed. Even as a child, he'd known that Madison Parish was cotton country and ten thousand acres belonged to Jacob Hamilton and his father before him. The elder Hamilton had left the Eastern shore of North Carolina before the Civil War, survived the hardships and dangers of an arduous journey, and dug his roots into the rank earth of the Delta.
Later, Ben learned the real reason his grandfather settled in Conway, once an old fort and trading post. He valued the river that flowed past the town; for its barges laden with cotton and produce and lumber, steaming south to the port in New Orleans; for the riverboats trailing black steam, paddle wheels churning the murky waters, bringing news and mail and passengers from distant places.
Ben turned to admire his stately antebellum house with its high ceilings and solid oak floors; walls of solid brick, stuccoed to give the appearance of stone and painted a pale yellow. The slate roof with dormer windows was crowned with a glass belvedere, a reminder of the Carolina coast.
Surrounded by giant magnolias and ancient oaks, the house sat majestically on a rise between Willow Road and the river. Ben could smell the sweet fragrance of jasmine and flowering quince rising from the early spring gardens.
He crossed the circular driveway and headed for his favorite tree, a towering sycamore, where as a boy he'd spent long hours among its sturdy branches. A bifurcation, halfway up, became his sanctuary following his mother's death. Ben was only twelve years old when Martha Hamilton developed lobar pneumonia with complications. He had vivid memories of those last days; the flush of fever, her racking cough, old Dr. Stafford nervously mopping his brow, an elixir that smelled of wintergreen. Her death left Ben despairing, and for weeks he cried himself to sleep.
Ben still believed it was his mother's illness that shaped his future; a decision made near the top of the sycamore tree. He shuddered when he remembered his father's heated reaction; an only child—the last in the Hamilton line—abrogating his sacred birthright. Despite the bitter protests, Ben kept the promise he'd made to his mother ... and to himself.
He was grateful she had encouraged him to be a good Samaritan, imbuing concern for the less fortunate; giving something back were the words she used—matters of no moment to his father. Ben could still recite the Browning poem his mother framed and hung above his desk.
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim: And straight was the path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me.
Nostalgia swept over him as if carried by the brisk March wind. He conjured her image out of the darkness; soft-hands, easy smile; her eyes the color of turquoise, ash-blond hair which fell below her shoulders. His shaving mirror was a reminder: he had inherited the symmetry of her face, the blond hair and fair complexion of her Swedish ancestry. While he looked nothing like his father, he possessed the rough edges and mulishness of a Hamilton. How often he'd wished for his mother's affectionate nature and her gentle ways. Even as a teenager, he had measured his parents—so different—and wondered about the forces that had drawn them together.
"Ben! Ben, are you there?"
He saw Knox in the lighted doorway. "I'm here ..."
"The guests will be arriving soon."
Ben tossed his cigarette and walked slowly toward the house. Over his shoulder he caught headlights turning into the driveway. In the distance, a barn owl screeched his defiance, an unsettling cry that pierced the darkness.
* * *
Adam, detained at the hospital, was late for the party. Knox greeted him in the foyer and brushed his cheek with a kiss.
She took his hand and led him to the edge of the crowd. Adam surveyed the living room. "Looks like half the town is here. Guess I'd better put on my party face and join in."
He felt her gently nudge.
Maude Harrington, shoulders bent, stood near the marble fireplace nursing a glass of wine. She was one of Adam's favorite people, full of sparkling wit and southern charm.
They had met during his first week in Conway. Maude had come to his office with a minor complaint which he believed was pretense for a get-acquainted visit. There he learned she had lived alone since the death of Ed Harrington ended a childless marriage. Looking for a constructive interest, she began the local newsletter, which later expanded, at the insistence of the business community, into a weekly newspaper with parish-wide appeal.
Adam chuckled at her admission: the weekly was more gossip than news. Marriage announcements, obituaries, and the weekly calendar of the local churches were front page material. The political climate in the nation's capital and important international events were relegated to an inside page under a column entitled, "Other News, Other Places."
He had read Maude's editorials, highlighting the back page ... subjects ranging from regional politics to church picnics. Adam admired her candor, speaking straight from the heart. In his opinion, The Review reflected her wholesome sense of humor and the transparency of her Protestant conscience.
She greeted him with a hug, then pushed him away while still holding his hands, and looked him over as a mother might inspect a son who had just returned from a long journey. "You look tired," she said.
"Well, there've been some long hours ..." Adam explained: The town was full of the flu. Some folks were real sick. Others were just running scared. A cough or a sneeze had them calling for a prescription or coming into the office for reassurance.
She understood and patted his hand. "Have you considered adding on?"
"You mean another doctor?"
"It would free up some time for your family." Maude picked up her glass which she had placed on the mantelpiece. "You and Allison could spend a few days in the mountains. I have a cottage with a glorious view and the dogwood and rhododendron will soon be in full bloom. You're welcome anytime." She hesitated, her shoulders sagged. "The vicissitudes of old age prevent me from using the cottage. Probably should sell the damn place."
Maude's salty tongue made Adam smile. "Thanks for the offer. I'd love to find the time."
She took a sip of wine and winked. "The nectar of the gods."
"Sorry I can't join you. But being on-call, well ..."
"You should have gone to law school or sold real estate like the dubious Mr. Warren standing over by the piano chewing on that disgusting cigar. You could have made some real money and had the time to go deep-sea fishing in the Gulf or cruise the Caribbean during our wretched winter weather. And ... you could share a glass of vino with me." Maude held up her glass which sparkled with light from the crystal chandelier. "But I guess it's too late for a career change," she said with a smile that stretched the wrinkles across her wizened face.
"'fraid so. But no regrets ... at least not so far."
Maude tugged at his coat sleeve with her free hand. "Before you get away, tell me about the Frey boy? Is he gonna survive?"
Adam rocked his hand. "We're hopeful."
"My cross-the-street neighbor, a nurse in ICU, told me the poor child is paralyzed."
"When Dick was thrown from the car, he fractured two cervical vertebrae." Adam stopped and pointed to the back of his neck. "The spinal cord was compressed and will require surgery. You know Elmo Thornton, the neurosurgeon?"
Maude nodded.
"Well, he's pretty much running the show."
"He's got the personality of a toadstool but I hear he's very good at what he does."
"One of the best," Adam said. "He'll go in and decompress the cervical spine. May need a bone graft to stabilize the segment. Recovery depends on the amount of damage that the cord has sustained and the regenerative potential of the patient. At best, it will be a very long and difficult period of rehabilitation ... with no guarantees."
"Such a shame," she lamented. "Two young men with the world by the tail; now one lies in repose at Nabors' funeral home and the other may be a cripple for life." Maude's chin quivered as she looked toward the ceiling. "Dammit, why not me, dear God? Or some other old buzzard?" She sighed deeply. "But I learned a long time ago there are no easy answers ... life's simply not fair."
Adam took his handkerchief and gently wiped the tears that trickled down Maude's cheeks. "I went by and spoke to Andy's mother this morning."
"She must be devastated."
"And she has to handle her grief alone." Adam stuffed the handkerchief in his coat pocket. "You may remember her husband, Clarence ... died two years ago."
"Heart trouble if my memory hasn't completely failed."
Adam nodded agreement. "Died in his sleep."
"The poor woman ... I hope someone called the preacher."
"Hal Brady went by this afternoon. And her daughter who lives up East—somewhere in New Jersey—will be here in the morning."
During their first meeting, Adam also learned Maude had experienced her own share of adversity, not the least of which was the loss of Ed Harrington after twenty years of marriage—the only man she ever loved. Then there was the successful battle with breast cancer and adjusting to the disfigurement of a radical mastectomy. He knew she had come to terms with pain and suffering, those jet-black threads woven inextricably into the vital fabric of Everyman's life.
Maude and Adam agreed the recent tragedy was not bad karma or the fatalism of John Calvin. And certainly not, as the Baptist preacher insisted, God's will. They also agreed the accident, involving Andy Lebauer and Dick Frey, had nothing to do with luck or the "turn of a card." Rather everyone was bound to a world of natural laws ... laws that were unassailable, immutable.
Maude took a sip of wine and dabbed her lips with the napkin. "You know Adam, Conway would be a better place if we could ride Markham and Dempsey and that Italian ... what's his name? ... out of town and close those saloons. I really mean it. They're contaminating the whole parish like the plague. And two young men named Dick Frey and Andy Lebauer would still be whole were it not for those sleazy dives."
"You have my vote, but ..."
"But what?"
"How do you shut them down?" he asked. "It may be impossible."
Maude's eyes narrowed. "Nothing is impossible."
"What about the newspaper?"
"Not enough ammunition. I could rattle their cages but it would only be an irritant, not a solution."
Adam looked around and then pointed toward the Steinway in the far corner of the room. "Maybe you should start with him. He holds the lease on all that property."
"Fred Warren," she sneered. "You gotta be kidding. I'd get more satisfaction by talking to that painting." She pointed to the Monet print in a gold frame above the fireplace.
"If you decide to pursue this further, I'll listen."
Maude drained her glass of wine. "Stop by for coffee and let's talk more about how to legally move those hell-holes out of the parish."
"If you'll sweeten the invitation with a slice of homemade pound cake," Adam said with a boyish grin.
Maude crossed her heart. "It's a deal."
Adam surveyed the smoke-filled room. "I better find Allison. She's here somewhere."
"Just look for the most beautiful woman in the house." Maude patted his cheek lightly. "You're a lucky guy."
"I am ... I'm a lucky guy."
"Stop by for that pound cake ... soon."
Adam gave her a hug and disappeared into the chattering crowd.
* * *
Adam spotted Allison across the room talking with the Mayor's wife. He changed his mind and headed for the stairs. The door to Jake's bedroom was open. His eyes swept the room, dim-lit by a table lamp next to a vacant recliner. A hospital bed lined a side wall, its covers unruffled.
Adam decided Jake must be on the porch and retraced his steps down the hall to the French doors that opened onto the upstairs gallery. Jake sat in his wheelchair staring impassively into the darkness. The night sky was star-flecked; moonlight shimmered on the surface of the river.
"Hi, Jake." Adam leaned against the cypress railing. He could see the old man's silhouette back-lighted through the bedroom window.
Adam had examined Jake Hamilton a few days ago. At the time, nothing had changed. While Jake had recovered some use of his left side, the stroke left other impairments, as if a monstrous wave of debility washed over him, leaving him forgetful and in a general state of regression. In Adams eyes, Jake had aged greatly since the embolic event ten months ago. A once vigorous Jacob Hamilton, the wealthiest man in Madison Parish, had withered into a shell of a man, flesh sagging from his arms and beneath his chin. And Adam was sure that without Knox's constant care and vigilance, Jake would not have survived.
"You're a hard man to find. Hope nothing's wrong."
The old man rubbed a bony hand across a few strands of gray hair. "Not up to partying," he said, almost a whisper. "At my age, I'll settle for a little brandy, a cool breeze and this old wheelchair." He banged the arm of the chair with his fist. "A real hell-raising evening."
Adam laughed, half-amused, half obligatory. "How much land is out there?" he asked, pointing toward the river.
"More'n ten thousand acres."
Adam whistled softly. "That's a lot of cotton." He looked at Jake and thought a faint smile had gathered at the sunken corners of his mouth. "Tell me about Ezra."
Jake shuffled his feet and moved the wheelchair closer as though energized by his father's name. "He was a good soldier."
"I've heard stories ..."
"One of the few survivors of the Battle of Franklin. After the war, he came home to North Carolina and married Anna Boswell, his childhood sweetheart. Together, they traveled south, settled here, built this house."
Adam knew that remote memory often survived the ravages of dementia. Still, the clarity of Jake's report surprised him.
"A legacy to be proud of," Adam said.
The old man nodded. "Ezra gave me the land and it's been a blessing. But Ben had other ideas ... broke my heart." His head dropped against his chest.
"Well, I'd better go find Allison."
The old man did not answer. He had retreated into his own silent world.
Adam took Jake's hand; it was stiff and skeletal and had lost its strength. He looked at the cadaverous old man, doubtful he could survive another insult. Adam patted Jake's shoulder and turned to leave.
He found Allison waiting at the foot of the stairs. "How's Jake?"
Adam took her arm and led her outside. "He has some lucid moments ..."
"But it's only a matter of time?"
"Afraid so." Adam opened her car door. "I'll follow you home."
Chapter Two
Monday, March 13th Like other towns scattered across North Louisiana, most of Conway's population came from sturdy Protestant stock. Some of Irish descent were proselytized by persuasive Evangelical voices, others by marriage. A remnant remained; vibrant enough to build a small Catholic Church and parochial school next to the post office.
The town's politics, inured by long years of an oppressive family dynasty, were conservative and provincial; in a sense, a microcosm of the Deep South. However, a fervent spirit of patriotism, rekindled by World War II, permeated the region even though it was far removed geographically from the national centers of commerce and political power.
The radio and the Sunday edition of the New Orleans' Times Picayune were its major links to the world beyond the parish line. Although news traveled slowly in and out of Conway, a sense of apprehension had settled over the town like ominous storm clouds, as the thunder of guns rumbled out of the Far East and the country trembled once more on the threshold of another turbulent conflict.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Splendor of Lightby Vernon Sanders Copyright © 2011 by Vernon Sanders. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
