Chapter 7

At dinner Lizzie poked at her pork chop and only drank half a glass of milk before excusing herself.

She climbed the stairs to her bedroom slowly and then flopped on the bed. Outside her window she could hear the wind picking up, and rain had begun to fall. The weather forecast suggested a chance of thunderstorms, so she was a little edgy.

Lizzie hated thunderstorms. Rain was okay. She welcomed the first snow of the season with screams of delight. Windy days that sent dry leaves skittering across the lawn in an odd spiral dance were never a problem either. Lizzie didn't even mind lightning, but there was something about the way thunder made the windows rattle, and the ground shake, that sent a shiver up Lizzie's spine and raised goose bumps along her arms.

Her Dad had tried to calm her fears. He'd told her it was just God bowling, or two rain clouds kissing, but she remained unconvinced. At the first clap of thunder she would dive for cover. She never admitted it, maybe not even to herself, but the thunder reminded her of the accident that killed her Mom.

The pending thunderstorm wasn't the only thing making Lizzie anxious. It was the Jones project. It appeared there was almost nothing in the school library on him (one half of a page in one book)  and a search of the Internet after school turned up just 18 hits, most of which dealt with an American sailor who shared the same name.

The public library downtown hadn't been much better. After she summoned up the courage to ask one of the librarians for help, the woman, Mrs. Pendicott, said she'd never heard of Jones. She'd pointed Lizzie to a section of books on World War I, but they were too thick or too technical. She pulled one promising book off the shelf, and looked in the index. There was no listing for Jones.

Frustrated, Lizzie was gathering up her back pack and school books, ready to leave empty-handed, when Mrs. Pendicott appeared from an office area behind the main check-out counter. She explained the library was overcrowded and she had gone to another floor to look in a filing cabinet for newspaper clippings.

"There's not much here, but it is something," said the dark haired woman with cat glasses. "There's one old article, and one fairly recent one. From what I can tell from a quick read, Mr. Jones is a hero, but he wasn't treated fairly."

Lizzie couldn't have been happier if you'd told her she'd won free ice cream for a year at the Baskin Robbins in the Mall.

 Three hours later, looking at all her research material spread out on her bed, it didn't look like much. A couple of newspaper articles, a single photocopies page from the book Colchester Men, and a crumpled piece of paper on which she'd scribbled the words from the plaque screwed to the base of the Jones woodcarving on Willow Street.

Not much to base an essay on. Why did I have to walk past that statue anyway?  Maybe Shanice was right. Maybe I should go in and tell Mr. Thompson she'd made a mistake.

She braided, and then un-braided her hair as she thought about how she could tell Mr. Thompson she'd like to write about Viola Desmond instead. There was tons of stuff on how the New Glasgow businesswoman fought racism and was arrested for trying to sit downstairs in a the racial segregated theatre, instead of upstairs where the blacks traditionally sat.

As she sat pondering all this, there was knock on her door and her Dad poked his head in.

"You okay Pumpkin? You were quiet at dinner and you didn't eat much supper. Is that Borden boy bothering you again?"

 "Yes, but that's going to be his problem when I catch him. I've got a different problem right now."

 "Can I help?" offered Buddy, creeping into the room and leaning on the end of the bed.

"Do you believe in miracles?" Lizzie asked.

Buddy hadn't seen that coming. Questions about faith, and miracles, and almost all girl stuff, had always been his wife's area. He'd learned to deal with them over the last two years, but they still made him uncomfortable, mostly because they reminded him how she was no longer with him.

 "What kind of miracles?" he asked carefully. He had learned to ask carefully.

"You know, things that happen, but aren't supposed to happen."

The answer didn't offer much help, but Buddy had an idea where the conversation might be headed. He was glad to have a chance to finally get it out in the open.

“You mean like when a basketball player tosses a ball from centre court and scores the winning basket? Yeah I've seen that kind of miracle.”

"No, not that kind of miracle."

 "Oh you mean like the kind of miracle that would lead a beautiful woman to see the macho basketball jock in the high school halls and realize he's got more to him that a hook shot that was the envy of the league?”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. She's heard the story about her parents' courtship too many times already. She was in no mood to indulge him.

No, not that kind either," said Lizzie darkly.

Buddy took a deep breath.

 "Oh, you mean like mean the kind of miracle that sees your Mom dying in a car crash that barely dented the front of the car while you survived in the back seat, even when it was smashed beyond recognition?"

Tears started to form at the corner of Buddy's eyes. As far as he knew Lizzie had never talked to anyone about the accident. For weeks after the funeral he'd heard Lizzie and her sister Rejean crying in their rooms at night, but he was in too much pain himself to try and console them.

With the help of some family and friends, he got it together enough after a few months to try and talk to them about it. Rejean coped by barricading herself in her room and listening to music. If she had to talk about her mother, she did so in a detached way, as if her passing was inconsequential. Lizzie on the other hand, never talked about her mother. If her name came up, she would find a reason to run out of the room.

But now, Buddy reasoned, after two years, her daughter was ready to talk about it.

Or so he thought.

 "NO,” Lizzie exploded. “There was no miracle there. It was an accident. A terrible horrible, miserable accident I don't remember much about it and I  don't want to talk about it.”

Buddy took a step back, shocked by the force of his daughter's response.

 "I'm talking about the kind of miracle makes trees smell like peppermint and makes carvings wink at you. A miracle that prevents you from saying anything but the words “Jeremiah Jones” in class and then leaves you with an impossible project. I'm talking about the kind of miracle I'm going to need if I'm ever going to pass Mr. Thompson's Grade 5 class."

 She was standing beside her bed now, stomping her feet and shaking her fists in the air.

"Take it easy pumpkin. I only got half of what you're talking about, but if it gives you some comfort, I do know this. Miracles happen to those who believe in them. If you believe this wood carving winked at you, then maybe it did, and there is a reason for it. We just have to find it out.”

Buddy reached out and tried to put his arms around his daughter. She resisted initially, but, quickly allowed herself to be held.

“So you don't think I'm crazy?” she asked, her head resting on his shoulder. “Shanice thinks I'm losing my mind.”

“No dear, I don't think you are crazy and I don't think you should care what Shanice believes. You've got an active imagination, but you come by those things honestly. You know you're mother was very sensitive and very emotional. She was always a talking about spirits and ESP and knowing things before they were going to happen. When any woman in the neighbourhood got pregnant, they'd come ask your mother if it was a boy or a girl. And she was always right. Maybe you got some of that gift thing from her?”

Lizzie had heard about her mother's talents for predicting the future, but she'd never thought about it as gift. She simply thought all mothers had a knack for figuring things out faster than fathers.

After a minute of silence, Lizzie started to squirm and Buddy released her.

“Why don't you show me what you have and maybe I can help?” asked Buddy.

Lizzie gathered up the papers from her bed and handed them to him, one at a time.

The first one was the photocopied page from the book, Colchester Men. It was about four paragraphs long and featured a small black and white photo of a black man in a suit and tie. He had short dark hair and a big bushy moustache. It was impossible to tell how old he was.

“It says he was born near Truro, came from a big family and had a big family himself,” she said summarizing the article. “He had to lie about his age to join up because he was really too old to join up. He went to a place in France called Vimy Ridge where he captured a bunch of Germans. I guess he captured the machine gun too.”

 “That's about it for that one, but it talks about a letter written to the Truro Daily News in 1917. Thanks to the lady at the library I have that. It is a Letter to the Editor.”

Lizzie passed a photocopy of it to her father. The headline read “A DCM for a Truro Soldier.

“I had to read this one a couple of times, but it's a letter from a soldier in a military hospital. He heard other injured soldiers talking about how Jones has captured a bunch of Germans and their machine gun. He apparently carried it back to his commanding officer.

“It says he was recommended for a Distinguished Conduct Medal and the writer hoped that Jones would receive the welcome he deserved when he got home.”

Lizzie went on to explain that there was a part at the beginning of the article where the editor called Jones a well-known, and highly respected Ford Street resident. It referred to him as a brave, powerful and resourceful patriot who was a terror to the treacherous Germans on more than one occasion.

“That's about it,” said Lizzie. “I've got another picture of him from the newspaper put in by his sister Martha and the wording from plaque screwed to base of the wood carving down the street.”

She handed her father a crumpled piece of paper. On it was written:

 Jeremiah Jones: While serving in the Royal Canadian Regiment at Vimy in WWI, he single-handedly cleared out a German dugout, captured the survivors, and saved the lives of many of his comrades.

“So now what do I do Dad? That's everything I could find and I looked hard, honest.”

“Well,” began Buddy holding onto the papers. “If it was me, I'd be looking for clues in the information you've already collected. You might not be able to learn a lot more about Jones directly, but if you learn about what it was like when he was living, you might get a better idea of what he was like.”

Lizzie looked perplexed.

“Clues? What kind of clues?” she asked.

“Well, look at the first sheet here. It says he was fighting at Vimy Ridge when he captured the German machine gun. If you get an idea of what it was like at Vimy Ridge, you might get an idea of what it was like for him. And it says he used to live on Ford Street. Maybe you can ask some people in your class if they have any grandparents that remember him?”

“Interesting,” said Lizzie taking back the papers. “Look at it like a television detective. Search for clues. That might even make it fun.”