KATHRYN’S

Excerpt from:

KATHRYN’S

FOUNTAIN

A Novel

David J. Claassen

CLADACH

Publishing

Kathryn’s Fountain: A Novel

Published by:

CLADACH Publishing - Greeley, CO 80634

http://www.cladach.com/

Prologue

Do you believe in miracles?” Kathryn’s intense blue eyes were locked on mine. Without taking her gaze from me, she reached for the handkerchief that was always stashed beside her in the wheelchair and wiped her wet, arthritic hands. She replaced the handkerchief and waited for my reply.

When I had arrived moments earlier for one of my regular visits to Victorian Manor, I’d found her as usual in the garden by the fountain. She had just returned the day before from an extended hospitalization; she’d been treated for pneumonia and other pulmonary complications. It didn’t surprise me that she looked weak and frail as she leaned over the side of the fountain, a little lady almost lost in her large wheelchair. Her white hair seemed to glow; her face, etched with wrinkles, was lightly dusted with makeup.

I paused to consider. She wasn’t looking for a theological answer. She had been building up the courage to ask the question; I’d seen that as she swished her hand around and around in the fountain. Her question wasn’t really a question. She was probing, getting a sense of whether it was safe to say what she wanted to say. Could she trust me?

I leaned forward in the wrought iron chair, put my elbows on my knees, and folded my hands. “Yes, I believe in miracles.”

She shook her head. “Not just the miracles of the Bible; I know a preacher should believe in those. I mean . . .” She paused, nervously stuffing the handkerchief more deeply into the space between her hip and the chair. “Do you believe that miracles happen today?”

“Yes,” I said.

She gripped both armrests and leaned forward; her blue eyes sparkled with intensity. In a voice not much louder than a whisper, she said, “Then I have a story to tell you.”

And so began the unfolding of a tale that took several visits to be told. It is one of the most amazing accounts I have ever heard, in years of ministry, before or since.

At that time, I was new at the church, and was eager to extend pastoral care to anyone who needed it. I had been told about Kathryn Williams by various members of the congregation in the first weeks after my arrival. She had been at the church “forever,” as one parishioner had put it. No one could remember when she hadn’t been there, and no one could think of a position in the church she hadn’t held. If Protestants had saints, Kathryn would have been on the fast track to sainthood.

The church was the only family Kathryn had. Her husband had been killed in a car accident twenty-four years earlier, and they had no children. Now she was in her eighties and unable to live on her own.

Victorian Manor was a pleasant enough place, with ivy climbing on the brickwork, tall windows, and a slate roof edged with ornate white trim. Originally the stately home of a wealthy financier, it had been refashioned by its current owners into a cozy, assisted-living facility. The husband, Jake, from what I could observe, bought into his wife Ruth’s dream of having such a home for the elderly and filled the role of slightly reluctant custodian.

Each of the ten residents had a private room. An elevator, added tastefully to the exterior of the building, made the three-story home handicapped-accessible. Those residents who were able shared meals around a large table set with fresh linens, delicate china, and real silverware from Ruth’s grandmother. African violets brightened the dining room windowsills. Antiques, many brought in by the residents as childhood memorabilia, occupied walls, shelves, and corners.

My favorite spot, though, was the small garden. Ivy covered most of the wrought iron fence that enclosed it, muting the city noises and obscuring the view of the sidewalk and street. The ivy was kept trimmed back at the gate to allow a glimpse of people and cars racing by, in sharp contrast to the unhurried calm that pervaded the garden. A maple tree dominated the garden, large with sprawling branches and probably as old as Victorian Manor itself. Tucked around its trunk and spreading out two or three feet like a Christmas tree skirt were red and white impatiens. An equally large oak tree near the fence lended half its branches to providing shade to the passersby on the sidewalk outside the garden. A crimson Japanese maple no more than four feet high gave a splash of color to the far back corner of the garden. A rhododendron, with its dried remnants of spring’s blossoms, occupied the other back corner. Lily of the valley lined the fence opposite the gate while hostas of various sizes, some with variegated leaves, lined the back fence. Red bricks formed a small patio tucked up against the house. A brick path meandered through the garden. The plants and bricks left little room for grass.

A large, three-tiered fountain near the gate was the centerpiece of the miniature paradise. Next to the fountain stood a small wrought-iron, round table with four matching chairs, all painted white. Here Kathryn and I had our conversations during that unusually hot, muggy summer when I assured her that I believed in miracles.

As I listened to Kathryn’s story, a hummingbird flitted about a feeder filled with sugar water, then moved in for a drink, ignoring the little perch, apparently preferring to stay airborne as it sipped. The coo of a mourning dove wafted through the garden. A cricket sang from somewhere near the base of the fountain, likely hiding in a dark crack between bricks in the patio. A robin sang from a branch in the maple tree.

Kathryn’s story tested my faith. During subsequent visits beside the fountain I had opportunities to ask questions. She filled in details and fleshed out portions of the story that didn’t come to her at the first telling.

I’ll share Kathryn’s story with you now, as best I can. My hope is that it will have a lasting impact on your life, as it has had on mine.

Chapter 1

There’s a vacant room.”

Kathryn looked up as Ed said this. He was leaning on his cane, waiting for her response, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the words he had just shared with her. She stared into his gray eyes, nearly hidden under canopies of bushy white eyebrows. They reflected sadness. His face, etched with deep wrinkles, created a facial landscape that spoke a silent message of concern.

A sick emptiness knotted Kathryn’s stomach. Someone had died. There had been three deaths since she had arrived at Victorian Manor a year and a half ago; Ed had said the same thing each time. He always seemed to know everything that went on. Kathryn attributed this near omniscience to his having been a minister for over fifty years: half a century of keeping track of an entire church of people. She took a deep breath.

“Whose room?”

“Mabel’s.”

“Oh, no!” Kathryn put her hand to her lips. “When?”

“Moments ago. The daughter barely made it in time.”

“I didn’t see her daughter come in.”

“You were dozing in your chair by the fountain.”

Reaching for her handkerchief, Kathryn dabbed her eyes. “I had a good visit with her just yesterday.”

“Sometimes it happens quickly,” Ed said. “That’s the way I’d like to go—just have Jesus come and surprise me and tell me it’s time to go to my heavenly home.”

“I think everyone would like to go quickly,” Kathryn replied.

Ed sighed. “You’re right. But that’s not up to us. It’s in his hands.” He pointed upward.

Kathryn nodded. Slowly she wheeled herself to the door leading to the garden and pushed the button to open it. Carefully she maneuvered the chair through the doorway and down the ramp into the heavy, humid air. She had just come in from the garden to escape the oppressive heat, when Ed had given her the news. She would put up with the heat now; she needed to spend some time alone grappling with this new grief.

Kathryn sat in her wheelchair by the fountain, hands folded, staring absently at the water cascading from the top level to the second to the third. Shimmering light reflected off the rivulets of falling water. The soft gurgling sounds muted the noise of the street beyond the garden fence. The fountain was often a comfort, but it did little to soften the harsh reality that Mabel was gone. Who would be next? Now there were nine residents; soon there would be eight, then seven, then six. No, that wasn’t true: within a day, most likely, a new resident would occupy Mabel’s room. That’s how it always was. People came and went, but the sad fact was that people never packed their things and said good-bye, moving on to someplace else. They just died. No resident ever left Victorian Manor alive.

“Hi!” A cheery voice interrupted Kathryn’s thoughts.

She glanced up. A little girl was looking at her through the gate. One dirty little hand grasped its bars while the other held an equally dirty rag doll.

“This is Maggie,” the girl said, holding up the doll. “My name is Jasmine.” The girl smiled, her teeth showing white in her brown face. Her black shoulder-length hair showed no signs of having been brushed.

“Glad to meet you, Jasmine—and you too, Maggie. My name’s Kathryn.”

“I saw you yesterday sitting by that fountain, eating something,” Jasmine said. “But you didn’t see me.”

“Yes, I often sit here and have a snack.” Kathryn nodded toward the fountain. “I like the sound of the trickling water.”

“Did you eat your snack?” Jasmine asked.

“No, it’s a little early in the day for a snack. Breakfast wasn’t all that long ago.”

“I didn’t have any breakfast,” Jasmine told her.

“You didn’t? You should always eat breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.”

“Mommy was gone when I woke up. And anyway, we don’t have any food in our apartment.”

Kathryn put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my! I’m sorry to hear that.” She thought a moment. “You know, maybe it isn’t too early for a mid-morning snack. What if I get something and you and I have a little picnic here by the fountain?”

The little girl glanced down at her doll. “Maggie, would you like to have a picnic with Kathryn?” She looked back through the bars at Kathryn. “Maggie says she’d like that.” Then she cast a doubtful glance toward the latch. “But I think the gate is locked.”

“I can open it from the inside. Come on in, and I’ll get us something to eat.”

Chapter 2

Kathryn and Jasmine must have talked, sitting and eating together by the fountain, for over an hour. Kathryn was shocked and saddened by what she’d learned. Apparently the little girl rarely got enough to eat, and was regularly left unsupervised for hours at a time. No child should have to live like that, Kathryn thought.

After Jasmine left, Kathryn went looking for Ed. Ed was her closest friend at the Manor; she usually went to him first when she needed to talk to someone. She couldn’t wait to tell him all about Jasmine.

She passed the card table where Margaret was carefully fitting another piece of a large jigsaw puzzle into place.

“You finished the covered bridge,” Kathryn observed as she rolled by.

“Yesterday,” Margaret said, glancing up briefly. “This one is of three kittens in a basket. It’s real cute. It would look good in your room, Kathryn.”

“I’d love to have it,” Kathryn said, wheeling toward the kitchen. She already had two of Margaret’s puzzles hanging in her room, but she would take a third. It was increasingly difficult for Margaret to find homes for all the puzzles she put together. Victorian Manor had reached a saturation point when it came to completed puzzles.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” Margaret asked as Kathryn moved on past her.

“I need to talk to Ed,” she replied without breaking the rhythm of her hands pushing on the wheels of her chair. Not only did she have something to tell him, she had something to ask, too. While she was sitting with Jasmine by the fountain eating cookies she had seen Ed ride by outside the gate on the Manor’s riding lawnmower! It had startled Kathryn, and she had momentarily been distracted from her conversation with Jasmine. There was Ed, trimming the swath of grass between the sidewalk and the garden fence. Ed had no business being on the lawn mower; that was Jake’s job. Kathryn would like to know just what he thought he was doing. She expected to find him in the kitchen making a pot of coffee; it was that time of morning, and Ed never skipped his coffee. He frequently grumbled about its poor quality, but he kept the ritual.

“Ed!” Kathryn exclaimed as she wheeled through the door into the kitchen.

Ed turned on the coffee pot and grinned at her. “Kathryn! Who was that little girl you were talking to?”

“I’m surprised you noticed. You should have been concentrating on driving the tractor.”

Ed winked, grasped his cane, made his way to a chair, and slowly sat down. “Are you going to tell me about the girl or not?”

“Her name’s Jasmine,” Kathryn told him, wheeling closer to the table. “She’s seven years old, she thinks. She says she can’t remember what day her birthday is.”

“Really?” Ed raised an eyebrow.

“It’s so sad,” Kathryn rushed on. “She lives with her mother in an apartment above a coffee shop. The mother works all day as a waitress at some restaurant and is gone most evenings and apparently half the night to who knows where. Ed, she’s not being taken care of. The poor child wolfed down five cookies!”

“No one watches her during the days when there’s no school?”

“Apparently not. Can you imagine her being on her own every day, all summer long? She was just walking along all by herself this morning when she stopped outside the garden and struck up a conversation with me. It’s dangerous, her walking the streets like that. Do you think I should report her case to the authorities?”

“You could,” Ed replied thoughtfully. “Maybe you ought to try to talk to her again and get more information. Kids can make things up or confuse the facts, you know. Maybe things aren’t as bad as she made them sound.”

“All I know is that she’s seven years old and out wandering around the city all by herself. That’s horrible!”

“I agree,” said Ed, rising stiffly to his feet. “But I still think you need to get more of her story.” He grasped his cane and hobbled back to the counter to check on his coffee.

Kathryn rolled herself away from the table.

Ed asked, “Aren’t you going to ask me about the lawnmower?”

She wheeled around. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. What in the world were you doing mowing the lawn? Does Jake know?”

“Jake gave me the okay. It took some convincing, but he finally said I could give it a try.”

“And Ruth agreed?”

Ed nodded. “Yeah. Jake said she was hesitant. He let her know that I was real anxious to do it and she finally gave in, but she told Jake that he had to give me the proper training. Imagine thinking I had to be trained to drive a lawnmower! Why, I was mowing lawns when Jake was in diapers.”

“But why, Ed? Why do you want to mow the lawn? It’s hot out there.”

“I know,” Ed replied. He breathed a whiff of steam and mumbled, “Lousy-smelling coffee.”

“Ed? You didn’t answer me. Why do you want to mow the lawn?”

“Because . . .” An impish smile crinkled his gray eyes. “I have a plan.”

Chapter 3

The gurgling splash of the fountain muffled the sounds of the street. The air hung around Kathryn like a warm, wet blanket. At her age she didn’t perspire easily, but today her sweaty palms were dampening the pages of the book she was trying to read. And she found it hard to concentrate. Her eyes would follow the words in the story but her mind would wander. She realized she couldn’t remember anything she had read in the last two pages.

The air-conditioned Manor would have been a far more comfortable place to spend an afternoon reading, but she was hoping to see Jasmine again. A plate of crackers and cheese sat on the small patio table beside her.

Kathryn gazed anxiously out the gate. The city streets weren’t child-friendly. A girl like Jasmine shouldn’t be allowed to wander about by herself. What kind of mother must she have? Kathryn thought of her own childhood and how happy and secure it had been. She wasn’t blind to the fact that all children weren’t as blessed as she had been growing up. After all, she had taught Sunday school in her church for years, and she knew a number of children who had to live in far-from-ideal home environments. But never a situation as bad as Jasmine’s seemed to be.

Beads of sweat formed on Kathryn’s forehead. She closed her book. Reaching for her handkerchief, she dipped it in the fountain, feeling the cool water on her hand.

She swished the handkerchief in the water absentmindedly. What Jasmine needs is a little friend—another girl her own age to play with, someone other than just a doll named Maggie, Kathryn thought. Such a friend could even provide a measure of protection. They could both watch for traffic as they crossed the street; and who would try to kidnap two little girls at the same time? It would be better than nothing, sort of like the buddy system people use when swimming. She remembered playing with her childhood friend Audrey. She hadn’t thought of Audrey for a long time. If only she could be a little girl again and truly befriend Jasmine.

What a strange thought! Why was she having such thoughts? She let the handkerchief float and swirl in circles in the clear water.

Kathryn stared at her hand, submerged in the water. It looked different. Younger. The ripples seemed to obscure the paper-thin skin and knobby knuckles. As she stared, the water almost hurt her eyes with its sparkling brightness. How strange! The fountain was always in the shade this time of day.

She pulled her hand from the water. Dancing reflections still swirled over her wet fingers. She blinked. The brightness didn’t go away. Was she getting cataracts? No, you don’t get them overnight. The heat was getting to her.

She lifted the wet handkerchief and wiped it over her face and closed eyes. The swirling images continued, as if they were dancing on the inside of her eyelids. Was she ill? Having a stroke?

The cool water on her face felt refreshing. It seemed to penetrate beneath her skin. Her face tingled. The sensation gathered force and crept down her neck to her bosom, down her arms to her fingertips. Then to her waist, down her legs, all the way to her toes. Nausea wrenched her stomach. Her heart pounded.

Her arms, neck and legs jerked in spasms. Then suddenly the nausea went away, her heart stopped pounding, the spasms ceased. Kathryn felt a wonderful lightness of being, a separateness from anything physical. Her whole body felt more alive and energetic than she’d ever remembered. Her surroundings seemed far away as she watched the watery light. What a glorious feeling! Was she dying? Going to heaven?

Then the swirling images and tingling stopped. Sharp sounds accosted her ears: water splashed, birds chirped, cars honked. She hadn’t heard anything with such clarity in years! Eyes still closed, she slowly moved her handkerchief toward its usual space between her hip and the wheelchair. The space had grown. Her hand slid across several inches of smooth chair seat. She opened her eyes and looked at her hand. It was so small! She gasped and held up her other hand also: child’s hands!

Kathryn became aware that her feet were dangling. She looked down and saw skinny legs and bony little knees, a flat stomach and chest, and little arms. Hesitantly, she felt her face. Smooth skin! It wasn’t the wrinkled skin to which she had applied makeup this morning.

What had happened? She needed to see herself. An ivy-framed mirror hung on the side of the house. Jumping out of the wheelchair, Kathryn ran to have a look. What? She could run! How could this be happening? She stopped just short of the mirror, afraid of what it might reveal.

Then she took a deep breath and stepped in front of it. But the mirror was so high now. It had been at eye level before; fortunately it was a long, slender mirror and she could stand on her tiptoes and just be high enough to see her face.

There in the mirror, staring back at her, was a little girl with bouncy brown curls and wide, amazingly bright blue eyes.

…

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