Twelfth Angel (2 page)

Since the company’s headquarters and main plant were in Concord and my old hometown of Boland was only about a thirty-minute drive away, on good roads, Sally and I decided to look for a home in Boland, and we got lucky. Of course our West Coast furniture was completely out of place within the traditional architectural styling of the new rooms, but that didn’t faze Sally a bit. Almost overnight she was deep into books and catalogs on early-American and colonial interiors and she solemnly assured me that before we had our first house party for Millennium’s executives, our new home
would be furnished in a manner that would make even Paul Revere proud, providing we didn’t run out of money first.

“Well,” I sighed, after Sally had finished singing my praise, “they said they wanted us down on the town common at two, so I think we had better get going. Where’s our son?”

“Rick is in the living room, sulking. He’s not very thrilled about his usual Saturday afternoon baseball game with his friends being fouled up by adult doings, but since it’s his birthday next Wednesday, he’s struggling hard not to lose any points.”

I grinned. “Well, let’s go take our bows and get on with our lives.”

II
 

I
remember so vividly the rare sight of heavy traffic on Main Street as our Town Car inched past automobiles parked on both sides of the recently tarred pavement on that Saturday morning. Drawing closer to the common, we began to hear the brass and drums of a marching band.

The township of Boland, population five thousand plus, founded in 1781, was such a typical small New England community that it almost looked like a Hollywood set. Along its two-lane, maple tree–lined main thoroughfare were three old spired white churches, one small restaurant, a grocery and hardware store, police station and town offices sharing the same aging redbrick building, a Grange hall, two filling stations and a branch bank. Not a single new building had been erected along the town’s downtown “business” district
since I had gone off to college in ’67, and only a huge stone foundation remained, now nearly covered by weeds and brush, from a fire four years ago, that had totally leveled the Page Public Library, my favorite hangout as a youth. That spacious Georgian-style building had been erected through a generous bequest from one of Boland’s most successful citizens, industrialist Colonel James Page, and his gift to the town had also included sufficient funds to fill all the library’s shelves with books. Unfortunately neither while the edifice was being erected nor in all the years it had served the people of Boland had any of the town’s officers ever thought about making arrangements to insure their most beautiful municipal building, and the small town, despite several attempts, had never been able to raise the necessary funds to rebuild after the fire. Across from the library ruins was the bench-lined common, and at its northern site stood the bandstand with a new coat of light-blue paint.

“Wow,” exclaimed Rick as he leaned closer to the front windshield, “look at the crowd of people, Dad! Are they all here for us? If they are, can I please just stay here in the car and wait for you two?”

I pointed ahead at the banner that hung tautly across Main Street,
WELCOME HOME, HARDINGS … BOLAND IS PROUD OF YOU
! “See that, Rick? That greeting includes you, fella!”

My son tugged at his baseball cap and puckered his lower lip. “Why me? I didn’t do nothing.”

“Well … you are a Harding, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are an accomplice. You’re in this with us.”

A uniformed police officer standing close to the sidewalk near the commons began waving his arms frantically as soon as he spotted my car. He gestured toward an empty parking space that he must have been saving for us. As we stepped from the car, to loud applause and cheers, the officer raised both his arms protectively. “Welcome, folks. Will you three kindly take each other’s hand and follow me closely to the bandstand? Please don’t stop to greet old friends during this trip, because if you do, we’ll never get to that platform before sunset. There will be plenty of time for all that later, but right now they need you up there,” he said loudly as he nodded toward the bandstand. The townfolk were sitting so close to each other on the common’s newly mowed grass that many had to stand in order to make room for us, but with the officer’s help we finally did reach the bandstand’s steps, where we were greeted by a smiling man with a huge crop of white hair.

“Welcome, John,” he shouted above the band’s rendition of “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here!” “I’m Steve Marcus. Don’t know if you remember me but—”

“Steve, of course I remember you. Our class treasurer, played left field your junior and senior year … and I heard you now have your own law practice in Concord. You look great and haven’t changed at all—except for the color of this …” I said as I ruffled his hair.

On the bandstand, seated in a half circle of wooden folding chairs, were the other guests. Steve walked us
down the row, introducing Sally, Rick and myself to the three town selectmen, the fire chief, police chief, high school principal and the pastors of the town’s three churches. I knew none of them from my early days except one of the selectmen, Thomas Duffy, a retired judge who had been a good friend of my dad’s.

“John,” he said in his fondly remembered basso-profundo voice, “my only regret is that your mother and father are not here today to take part in this very special occasion.”

“Mine, too, sir. Judge, you are looking just great!”

“And so are you, son, so are you.”

Steve paused before the next chair but made no introduction. Instead, smiling slightly, he asked, “Do you remember this lady, John?”

I leaned closer. She was a tiny woman, wearing a delicate summer floral-print dress, her silver hair pulled back tightly in a bun, a small white-cloth handbag resting on her lap. She looked up at me almost timidly, through rimless glasses, and there was a slight quiver in her lower lip as she moaned and reached up with both hands toward me.

“Miss Wray,” I gasped, “is it you?”

She closed her eyes and nodded. I knelt down to embrace my first-grade teacher, that special person to whom I owed so much because she had instilled in me a passion for books that had contributed toward every step I had been able to take up the ladder of success. I kissed her cheek gently and said, “Now this truly is a special day!”

Miss Wray nodded while tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks. After I had introduced her to Sally, she motioned toward Rick and asked, “Is this your son, John?”

“Yes. This is Rick, Miss Wray. He’ll be in the third grade this fall.”

“Rick,” she said in a firm voice, placing her small hands over my son’s, “I hope that you are as proud of your father as we all are. We knew, even when he was very young, that he would be an important person someday.”

Rick finally found his tongue and asked, “Did you really and truly teach my dad when he was only in the first grade?”

“I certainly did. Almost thirty-five years ago.”

“Was he very smart when he was little?”

Miss Wray nodded vigorously. “If I could have promoted him directly into the third grade, I would have done it. That’s how smart he was!”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry to break this up for now,” Steve said apologetically, “but everyone is ready to start the program. John, you and Sally and Rick take those three empty seats in the center and we’ll get started.”

First we all stood and sang “The Star Spangled Banner” accompanied by the Boland High School Band in its familiar uniform colors of maroon and white. Then one of the clergy gave a brief invocation followed by a buxom woman with a lovely voice singing the Streisand classic “Memories” while I held my wife and my son’s
hands very tightly, thanking God again and again for all my good fortune.

Judge Duffy then rose slowly, walked to the microphone with no introduction, tilted the instrument slightly upward, cleared his throat and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of Boland, this is indeed a special chapter in the history of our old town as we gather here to honor one of our own for all that he has made of his life in such a few short years. I am most proud to say that I was a friend of Priscilla and Leland Harding. I can remember when John was born and how proud his dad was when we met outside the bank and he shoved a cigar into my shirt pocket. Leland’s pride in his son would have multiplied through his later years had he lived. John was an all-star shortstop in the Boland Little League, he was a member of the National Honor Society and he graduated from Boland High with straight A’s. During his senior year he captained both the football and the baseball teams and was an all-state forward in basketball. Also, during his senior year on the baseball team, his batting and fielding were so sensational that he won a scholarship to the college with perhaps the finest baseball program in the nation, Arizona State University. During his senior year at Arizona State, John was batting more than four hundred and had major-league scouts drooling before torn knee cartilages sadly ended his dreams of a big-league career.…”

Main Street had obviously been closed to traffic as soon as the program had commenced, but what amazed
me, as I sat and listened to Judge Duffy, was the behavior of the huge crowd. Except for an occasional cry from a baby, everyone was, or seemed to be, hanging on the judge’s every word. I wasn’t sure whether they were captivated by his marvelous oratory or my record.

The judge continued, still without referring to any written notes. “As broken-hearted as John Harding was when his baseball-playing dreams came crashing down, he still graduated near the top of his class in 1971, was recruited by a California high-tech firm and now, in less than twenty years, he has certainly made it to the major leagues in the business world! As most of you know, our beloved young friend was recently selected to become president and chief executive officer of a computer company, perhaps the largest in New England, with annual sales of more than a billion dollars—that’s a thousand million, in case you’ve forgotten your high school arithmetic, folks! The media, from our own
Concord Monitor
and
Manchester Union Leader
to the
Wall Street Journal, USA Today
and
Forbes
, have all joined the loud chorus singing the praises of John’s managerial style as well as his character. If you have had the pleasure of seeing him on national television recently, you cannot help but like as well as respect this bright young man. However, what makes me most proud is that when John came east to assume leadership of his company, he chose this town as the place where he wanted to settle with his family. Oh, he could have selected many high-fallutin’ communities around Concord, but he picked Boland. He’s home
again, right back on the land where he spent so many happy years growing up, back with the people who remember him and still love him!”

While the applause grew louder and louder, Judge Duffy turned toward me, smiling as he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew what seemed to be a large bronze medal dangling from a wide red ribbon. “John Harding,” he said in his best courtroom voice, “would you kindly come forward to receive a small token of how these good people feel about you?”

The medal was at least three inches in diameter. The judge held it close to his face and said, “On this medal are the words, ‘To a favorite son, John Harding. Boland is truly proud of you.’ Our town seal is on the other side along with the state’s motto, ‘Live free or die!’ ” He held the medal high above his head as the crowd roared, turned and draped the red ribbon around my neck before embracing me. Then he limped slowly back to his seat.

The people had risen to their feet, applauding and cheering, and the band suddenly began playing “The Impossible Dream.” I turned toward Sally. She was crying, but Rick was standing and applauding. I just stood at the microphone until the music ceased and the crowd quieted down.

“Friends and neighbors,” I began as I tucked the heavy medal inside my sweater to prevent it from banging against the microphone. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this warm and very special gesture of
love toward myself and my family. Also, I deeply regret that even though we have lived among you now for almost two months, I have been so busy in Concord, taking over the reins of Millennium, that I still haven’t had time to visit with many old friends from the past, and I beg your forgiveness. I shall correct that omission as soon as possible. Before too long, I promise you, the Hardings will throw the barbecue to end all barbecues at our home, and when we do, all of you are invited!”

I waited until the cheering subsided. “One of the things that has amazed me since my return is how many of you have never left Boland. You were born here, grew up here, went to school here, got married—and now you’re raising your kids here. How wise! You all know a good thing when you see it. I cannot think of a better environment in which to live a happy and peaceful life than right here, in the heart of New Hampshire.

“Like Judge Duffy, I, too, wish my mom and dad could have been here to share this special moment with us but … but … I’m sure they are watching, just as I am certain that I could have accomplished very little without their love and guidance. I thank you all for coming. This day is without doubt the highest point of my life.”