When We Were Saints

  When We Were Saints

  Han Nolan

  * * *

  Harcourt, Inc.

  ORLANDO AUSTIN NEW YORK

  SAN DIEGO TORONTO LONDON

  * * *

  Copyright © 2003 by Han Nolan

  All rights reserved.No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and

  retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work

  should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department,

  Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.HarcourtBooks.com

  First Harcourt paperback edition 2005

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Nolan, Han.

  When we were saints/Han Nolan,

  p. cm.

  Summary: Inspired by his grandfather's last words and guided

  by a girl who believes they are saints, fourteen-year-old Archie

  sets out on a spiritual quest that takes him from southern

  Appalachia to the Cloisters Museum in New York City.

  [1. Spirituality—Fiction. 2. Mysticism—Fiction. 3. Sick—Fiction.

  4. Emotional problems—Fiction. 5. Grandparents—Fiction.

  6. Christian life—Fiction. 7. Cloisters (Museum)—Fiction.

  8. Appalachian Region—Fiction. 9. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.N6783Wh 2003

  [Fic]—dc21 2003004346

  ISBN 0-15-216371-9

  ISBN 0-15-205322-0 pb

  Text set in Sabon

  Designed by Cathy Riggs

  First edition

  C E G I K J H F D B

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  For my husband, Brian,

  and

  my brothers and sisters:

  Jim, Mike, Lee, and Caroline—almost saints

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my husband, Brian Nolan, for his love, encouragement, and patience—always.

  Thanks to my editor Karen Grove, for her clear vision—it has made all the difference.

  Thanks to my agent, Barbara Kouts, for her support when I needed it most.

  Thanks to Lee Doty and Kathleen Rose, for their knowledge and help with this story.

  Thanks to my wonderful writing group: Sue Bartoletti, Lisa Fraustino, Dianne Hess, and Ann Sullivan, for listening to earlier, stranger versions, for the laughs and encouragement, and for the star-spangled pants.

  PART ONE

  "Enter by the narrow gate;

  for the gate is wide and the way is easy,

  that leads to destruction,

  and those who enter by it are many.

  For the gate is narrow and the way is hard,

  that leads to life,

  and those who find it are few."

  MATTHEW 7:13–l4

  Chapter 1

  ARCHIBALD LEE CASWELL had named the still he and his best friend, Armory Mitchell, had built in the basement of his grandparents' home The Last Hurrah, in honor of Armory, who was moving with his family to Washington, D.C. He couldn't believe that a still they had made with their own hands would really produce any alcohol. That's why he agreed to the scheme when Armory showed him the instructions for building it. How could a few copper pipes, some scrap metal, a hose, and Armory's Coleman stove produce real alcohol? So Archie went along with the plan, and for a week the two of them carried the bits and pieces they had found for the still past the living-room windows, where his grandparents could have looked out and seen them at any moment, to the bulkhead and down the steps to the basement. But there they stood, to Archie's great surprise, facing each other with their first mugfuls of the homemade brew in their hands.

  They were an odd-looking twosome. Archie was tall for his fourteen years and lanky, but his freckled face and wide blue eyes still had the look of a little boy in them. Armory, also fourteen, was three inches shorter than his friend and built like a truck, with a voice that carried like a truck's horn. He had small dark eyes that glinted with mischief.

  Armory held his mug out toward Archie's and said, "Here's to our friendship. Long may it sail. Hurrah!"

  Archie clinked mugs with Armory and waited for his friend to take the first sip, but Armory said, "No, let's drink it together. Down the hatch in one big gulp."

  Archie sniffed the brownish liquid in his mug. It smelled like a toilet. "Are you sure we didn't overheat this stuff? The instructions said to keep..."

  "I know what the instructions 'said.' You were the one looking at the thermometer every five seconds. You tell me."

  Archie sniffed again and shrugged. "I guess it's all right."

  "You wouldn't chicken out on me now, would you, Cas? The last hurrah and all that?"

  "Have I ever?" Archie asked.

  Armory chuckled. "Well there was that cliff face you and your bike didn't seem to want to go down a while back."

  "I went, didn't I? And I beat you down it, too."

  "Yeah, on your face. What did you call that maneuver you did off the front end of your bike? The arc and splat?"

  Armory hooted and Archie shushed him. "My granddaddy will hear us."

  "He's gotta know we're down here. He'd be more suspicious if we were quiet. So come on"—Armory lifted his mug—"to the last hurrah!"

  Archie hesitated a second while the memory of the broken arm and ribs he had gotten from his ride down the cliff flashed through his mind. What's the worst that could hap pen this time? He lifted his mug and said, "To the last hurrah!" Then he and Armory drank the bitter liquid down, each in one long gulp. When they had finished, they looked at each other and laughed.

  Archie said, "Shh, he'll hear us." Then he laughed again and added, "This stuff's terrible. It tastes like we scraped the mold off these basement walls." He looked at the musty walls of the old basement and felt a sudden gripping pain in his gut. He clutched his stomach, and then the pain was gone.

  Armory turned back to the still. "Let's go one more round."

  "Are you kidding?"

  "Come on, Cas, it'll put hair on your chest."

  "More like my tongue," Archie said, feeling another sharp pain in his stomach. "This stuff's not sitting too well."

  "Of course not. You never drank before. You're inexperienced, that's all." Armory held out his hand. "Give me your mug, Cas, come on."

  Archie handed it over and wondered how he could get out of drinking another mugful. He didn't want to wimp out on his best friend on their last day together but he didn't think he could keep another round down.

  Armory handed him back his mug, and Archie took it without looking into the cup or sniffing the brew this time. Again Armory held up his mug and said, "To the last hurrah!"

  "To the last hurrah," Archie said without enthusiasm. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and swallowed a big gulp. He heard his friend laughing, and he opened his eyes.

  "Caswell, I can't believe you drank that. This isn't brew, it's hair tonic." Armory shot forward and dumped his drink on Archie's head. Archie howled and emptied the rest of his brew onto Armory. "You lunatic!" he shouted.

  "What y'all doing down there? Archibald?"

  Archie heard the cellar door open and he froze. "Nothing, Granddaddy, we'll be quieter." He heard his grandfather coming down the steps and felt both panic and alcohol rising inside himself. He turned and looked wide-eyed at Armory, who wore an expression of surprised delight. Archie turned
back in the direction of the stairs and saw his grandfather appear in front of him.

  It took the old man no time to figure out what they had been up to, and Archie saw his face turn purple with rage. "What?" his grandfather shouted, grabbing the front of Archie's shirt.

  "Granddaddy, it—it's not what you think. It's..." Archie couldn't speak. He could feel the alcohol rising and rising. He tried to swallow it back down.

  His grandfather shook him and shouted, "This here is the last straw! You are in the clutches of the very devil himself! I'm gonna tan your hide, boy. Makin' a still in my own home. Drinkin'!" He shook Archie again, and Archie couldn't hold back any longer. He vomited all over the front of his grandfather's shirt and pants.

  Armory laughed and shouted out, "The last hurrah! Caswell, you did it!" As though Archie had vomited on purpose.

  Archie was stunned. He looked at his grandfather whose body shook with rage. The old man clenched his jaws and bared his teeth as though he wanted to rip into Archie and shred him to pieces. Archie tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. Then his grandfather's expression changed. In an instant it went from rage to alarm. Archie watched him wide-eyed as he fell forward onto his knees and then down to the floor, where he curled up into a tight ball.

  Armory stopped laughing.

  Archie dropped down beside his grandfather and touched his shoulder. "Granddaddy, are you all right? What should I do?"

  "Get your grandmama, boy," he whispered. "Get your grandmama. I'm dying."

  Chapter 2

  THE CURTAINS WERE drawn in the living room, where Silas Benjamin Caswell lay dying. The room had a gray-green cast to it and smelled faintly of boiled collard greens. Neighbors sat around his bed in chairs brought in from the kitchen and dining room, and as the end drew near more friends arrived, bringing with them lawn chairs, as if the death of Silas Caswell were an event like a summer band concert. Emma Vaughn Caswell sat closest to her dying husband, and her grandson, Archibald, sat next to her. Emma Vaughn was singing low, "Just as I am, without one plea, but that Thy blood was shed for me, And that Thou bidst me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come, I come."

  Archie studied his grandfather's face. All the familiar wrinkles and creases had been drawn to the sides, leaving the areas around his nose and mouth, and between his brows, smooth and pale from so many months of lying on his back. The only sign of life left that Archie could see was the movement of his grandfather's eyeballs beneath the closed purple lids. He knew if he was going to say something to him—apologize, or ask his grandfather for forgiveness—it had to be soon. He looked around the room at all the faces gazing upon his grandfather. He looked at his grandmother frail and sad, her eyes ringed with fatigue. She would want him to say something. He should do it for her but still, Archie remained silent. He couldn't do it, not in front of all those people, and anyway, he believed it was his grandfather who should speak to him. That's what he really wanted. He wanted to hear his grandfather say "I forgive you," or "I love you"—something that let him know that his grandfather didn't hate him.

  Emma Vaughn stopped singing and hummed. The neighbors hummed, too. Archie remained silent, watching the end of a life and reminding himself that his grandfather's illness was not his fault. It was not his fault that his grandfather was dying. Clyde Olsen had told him that, and Clyde knew Archie and his grandparents better than anybody. He had grown up living next door to them, and had been a playmate and best friend to Archie's father. He worked on the Caswells' farm, having taken it over and hiring Archie to help when Silas could no longer run it.

  Clyde had found Archie crouched down in the ruins of his parents' old farmhouse the day Silas Benjamin Caswell came home from the hospital and demanded that Archie haul his bed down to the living room so that he could die looking out through the picture window at Caswells' Mountain.

  "Hey, son, what you doing down there?" Clyde had asked when he'd come upon Archie.

  Archie squinted up at Clyde. The stone foundation where he hid was all that was left of the old farmhouse that had collapsed on his parents more than thirteen years before, killing them and leaving Archie's grandparents to raise him. Looking up, Archie could see the sky, the sun, the trees, and Clyde, who leaned over the edge of the foundation, his leathery face etched with concern. Archie rose to his feet but didn't speak.

  "Maybe you ought to come on up out of there, son," Clyde said.

  Archie climbed out of the ruins and stood in front of the older man, feeling awkward and embarrassed. He knew the man could tell that he had been crying. He looked down at the pine needles beneath his feet and stuffed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, not knowing what to say.

  "I seen your granddaddy come home today," Clyde said.

  Archie nodded and kept his head down. "He's dying. It's my fault."

  "Is that so?"

  "We had a fight, Clyde." Archie looked up into the man's face and saw him break into a smile.

  Clyde chuckled. "Well now, that's nothing new. You two been going at it near about since you could talk."

  Archie shook his head. "This time was real bad. I really did it this time."

  "If it was 'real bad,' then I'd say your good buddy Armory had a hand in it. Isn't that so?"

  Archie backed up to lean against a pine tree. Clyde stayed where he was, but he pulled his oil-stained work gloves off his hands and tucked them into his back pocket, a signal to Archie that the man was willing to stay and listen to what he had to say. He nodded at Archie.

  Archie knew Clyde was waiting for him to speak. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his pits, the way Armory always did. "We wanted to do something big, you know?" he said to Clyde. "He was moving all the way to Washington, so we wanted one last hurrah before he left. That's what we called it—the still, that is. The Last Hurrah, we called it."

  Clyde raised his eyebrows and nodded. "The still. I heard about that, and I'm surprised at you, Archibald. Making your own alcohol's illegal in this state, even today."

  "Armory got the instructions off the Internet. He said it was easy. He said it couldn't be illegal if you could get the directions off the Internet."

  Clyde wagged his head. "Son, why you always had to follow after that boy I'll never know. He's gotten you into more trouble with your granddaddy. Maybe it's good he's moved away."

  Archie rubbed his left arm, moving his hand over the area where Armory had tried to tattoo the words Live Fast, Live Dangerously with a razor blade and colored Sharpies. His arm still felt sore and swollen from the infection he had gotten from the dirty blade. His grandfather had been furious with him for that, too, but it was nothing like the anger and fury he had when he discovered the still.

  "It's my own choice what I do," Archie said. "I can't be blaming Armory for everything. It's not his fault me and Granddaddy don't get along. It's me. It's my fault." Archie stared off into the woods on his right. "Granddaddy has never liked me." Archie's voice was a whisper. "Not in the way he liked my father."

  Clyde cleared his throat and said, "I suspect your granddaddy got awful sore over that still, but he loves you every bit as much as he did your father. It's not your fault he's dying, son. No matter how much you and him goaded each other, that didn't cause his liver problems."

  Archie raised his brows and looked back at Clyde. "'Liver'? It's not his heart? He didn't have a heart attack? That day he found us in his basement with the still—he was so mad." Archie shook his head. "He's never been that mad. His whole body shook. And then—he just keeled oven" Archie felt tears stinging his eyes, and he blinked them away. "He hasn't talked to me since, except when he got home and wanted his bed brought down to the living room. He didn't say one word to me when I went to see him in the hospital. He blames me, all right, and so does Grandmama."

  Clyde stepped closer to Archie, his muddy work boots shuffling through the blanket of pine needles. "That doesn't sound like your grandmama. Did she tell you she blames you, or are you just imagining that's how
she feels?"

  Archie shrugged. "Grandmama never tells me anything. Why didn't she tell me it was his liver?" Archie answered his own question. "She hates talking about painful things. But still, she blames me. She has this look, you know? You ever seen her look when she's disappointed in you? She doesn't have to say anything; her look says it all. You ever seen it?"

  Clyde shook his head.

  Archie pushed himself off the tree, then fell back against it. "Yeah, well, it makes you want to just curl up and die, and she's been looking at me that way ever since Granddaddy took sick. And Granddaddy, if he looks at me at all, gives me his mean, squinty-eyed look, like he's plotting out seventy-five ways to get even with me."

  Clyde set a calloused hand on Archie's shoulder. "I'm not saying they aren't upset about the still; maybe they are, but they aren't blaming you for that bad liver. Your granddaddy's been suffering with liver trouble for a long time now. Maybe what your grandmama wants is for you and your granddaddy to talk things out. Son, you don't want to let him die before you two have had a chance to say what needs to be said to each other. You understand?"

  Archie looked into Clyde's gentle eyes and nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Once he dies those things can't be said. Now, maybe it's up to you to be the bigger man this time and speak up first. You think you can do that?"

  Archie had told Clyde that he thought he could. He knew he had to say something to break the ice and come to some kind of understanding with his grandfather before the old man died, but Archie never did muster up the courage—and so there he sat, with his grandmother and all the elderly people in the town, watching his grandfather breathe his final breaths. Instead of speaking up, he waited for his grandfather to say something first. He just wanted to hear one word, one word of encouragement.

  The neighbors waited, too. They hoped for one last word from the old prophet. Silas Benjamin Caswell had been the town prophet long before the small southern village hidden in the mountains had become an artists' colony where people from all over the country came to buy handmade pottery, landscape paintings, dulcimers, and finely crafted pieces of furniture. In the early years people took his predictions of famine and locusts and tornadoes seriously, but as he grew older and times and the population in the mountain village changed, his predictions became quaint, and the summer people, sitting out on their decks and balconies, would point as Silas passed by calling out to them and shaking his finger and say to their guests with a chuckle, "There goes the prophet, warning of hellfire and damnation." The people gathered at his bedside now were his old friends, the ones who remembered how it used to be.