Love Letters From the Grave
Paul Gersper
Prologue
* * *
Meeting Luther, 1989
* * *
Listen to me, mister. You're going to get back on that horse
and I'm going to be right behind you, holding on tight
and away we're going to go, go, go!
Ethel, On Golden Pond
I didn’t mean to follow him. It was just coincidence that led us to the same spot, on the same day, in the same unusual circumstances.
He was leaning on the fence, young and out of place, looking as if he’d rather be swimming across the lake, or - better yet - racing across it on water skis behind a motorboat. Anywhere, perhaps, than beside a field in a light drizzle.
Couldn’t say I blamed him. I felt pretty much the same myself.
‘Get a story,’ my editor had told me. ‘I want you to write about how the Amish are embracing the future.’
‘Seriously?’ It was hardly my usual fare, even for a local newspaper. ‘What about the trail of violent robberies in the east of the county?’
Garner had sighed, sliding his glasses down his nose to peer at me. ‘Brendon, you were nearly shot last time you insisted on investigating violent robberies. I don’t need you off sick for four weeks with a hole in your leg. Or longer, with a hole in another part of you. Take the job, and relax.’
It was an order, and I knew it.
So I’d done what he said. I’d rented a car, got myself a cabin by the lake for a week, deep in Amish country, and packed a fishing rod. I might as well do something I enjoyed while I was stuck here, trying to interview a bunch of people who had no interest in being interviewed.
Like the guy at the fence.
I’d seen him over at the lake the previous evening, heaving boxes out of a neat blue coupe and depositing them in one of the nearby houses, chatting amiably with the elderly couple who seemed to own it. It looked like a scene from On Golden Pond. My own cabin, three buildings away, was very much more functional, but it would do for a few days. Its lack of inspiration matched my own.
I pulled up some distance from the young man, taking care not to scare the horse attached to the traditional vehicle behind him before I ambled over to join him.
‘Car break down?’ I jerked my head at the Amish buggy; it creaked gently as the glossy black mare between its prongs reached out for juicier grass by the fence post.
The man smiled. ‘I’m just minding the buggy for my family while the barn-raising goes on. I said I’d wait to see if they need any spare hands.’
‘They seem to be doing pretty well,’ I said, leaning on the fence beside him and following his gaze. ‘I’m Brendon, by the way.’
‘Luther,’ he replied, and shook my offered hand.
We both resumed our staring, watching the flurries of activity across the field as the Amish community set about adding a new building to their small township. My own forebears had built their house this way, centuries ago, so it should have interested me more, but it was the young man beside me, staring so intently at the smattering of wooden buildings, that had grabbed my attention. Despite the peaceful and relatively dull surroundings, interrupted only by occasional laughter or a shout of ‘Hold it upright, Jacob!’, my journalistic instincts were beginning to twitch.
There was a story here, for sure.
Why else would a young black man be minding an Amish buggy for his folks, who were nowhere to be seen in the bustling legions of cooks and builders ahead of us?
‘So …’ I said casually, pulling out my notebook. ‘I’m a reporter with the joyful task of working out how the Amish are embracing the future. Do you have any suggestions as to where I should start? Maybe updating the transport.’
I nodded again to the buggy behind him.
For a moment, Luther took his eyes off the distant figure he was watching – a tall woman piling dishes onto one of the tables - and looked directly at me.
Then he laughed. ‘I think the transport is completely appropriate,’ he said evenly, with the considered speech of someone well accustomed to debating. ‘Quiet, practical, and doesn’t eat into our fossil fuel reserves. In fact,’ he added, nodding to the little heap of manure behind the buggy, ‘Black Beauty even makes her own fuel.’
‘True.’
Interesting. Silently, I congratulated myself on my story-sniffing abilities. Not many guys his age could have spoken so confidently like that, or even thought like that. This young man was definitely worth talking to – might even save me a heap of investigation.
I’d be back at the cabin with a beer and a fishing rod in no time.