Chapter 70: Seven Oaks

I perked up when Wilson turned the limousine into the long driveway. It had been a depressing ride from the rail yard. Neither Catherine nor Nancy had seemed in the mood to talk much. Penny had begun the rather lengthy report she had to submit to the Bureau. Once we were on the ferry, the ladies elected to stay in the car, but I got out to stretch my legs and breathe in the salt air. I made the hour-long ferry trip across Long Island Sound, leaning against the hood of the limo, talking baseball with Wilson.

Listening to Wilson talk baseball would be more accurate. He spent most of the hour bemoaning Houk’s handling of the Yankee pitching staff, saying Thurman Munson, the Yankee’s catcher, could do a better job. He also had opinions, mostly negative, on the division leading Orioles, and of course the hated Red Sox, who were currently ahead of the third place Yankees.

When I discovered that Wilson had played second base for two seasons for the Johnson City Yankees farm team, before tearing his ACL, I made a mental note to Google it later. Then I realized that it was going to be MUCH later! More than thirty years, later.

Once we reached Long Island, we headed for Seven Oaks. Catherine and Nancy were talking when I got back in the car, but stopped, and remained silent for the remaining drive home. Penny continued writing up her report.

The driveway leading to the house really did have oak trees lining its length. I don’t know how long it was, but I guessed that it took over thirty seconds to travel from the road to the stately home on the bluff, overlooking Long Island Sound.

Seven Oaks was even larger than I had imagined. Built in the last century by Catherine’s grandfather, it had a large manicured front lawn with a driveway that circled the large fountain in front. I could see why Catherine wasn’t worried about the entire family invading for the weekend.

Wilson bypassed the front, driving around to the side of the stately home. He stopped the limousine near a low terrace with a wheelchair ramp built into it, he had Nancy’s chair out of the trunk and waiting beside the door before I could even get out.

Penny said that she was going downtown to drop off her report and then catch up to the other girls. She still had to find a gown for the party tomorrow night. Catherine told her that Wilson would be glad to take her wherever she wanted to go.

I wheeled Nancy up the short ramp, following Catherine into the elegant family home.

A large colored woman met me at the door, hugging me so tightly I thought I might pass out. And I could see her disappointment when she realized I didn’t recognize her. Catherine quickly reminded her of my amnesia, introducing her as Pricilla. I learned she had been the cook at Seven Oaks for the last twenty-four years, and was married to Wilson. Holding me by my shoulders at arm’s length, and “tsk-tsking” over my purported malnourishment. She decided I needed some good food to eat. Pricilla headed back to the kitchen, promising to whip up a couple of my favorite sandwiches for lunch.

Meanwhile, Catherine led the way to the dining room, with me still pushing Nancy’s wheelchair.

“Michael, move that chair and put Nancy at the end,” she instructed. “And if you don’t mind, would you keep her company, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“It would be my pleasure,” I told her.

“Nancy, if there’s anything you need, just tell Pricilla,” she said as she turned to leave the room.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been to Seven Oaks. The last time I was here, Greg was still alive,” Nancy said after Catherine left.

“I can’t remember the last time I was here,” I said truthfully.

Nancy didn’t respond. I could see she was deep in thought. Scanning her, I found she was trying to find a way to ask me about ‘talking to her mind’ as she called it. I decided I’d make it easy for her.

“Did you come here often, when Grandfather was alive,” I thought to her conversationally.

Before she could respond, Pricilla came in with a tea cart, asking Missus Nancy how she took her tea. She brought me a glass of what looked like fruit juice. After she left, Nancy looked at me.

“You’re like him, aren’t you?” she asked me directly.

“I don’t know, Nancy. I never met him. Why don’t you tell me about him?” I thought to her.

She considered it for a moment, but she was excited about the possibility that I could be very much like him, so she quickly lost her hesitation.

“I was the oldest, and Greg was the baby of the family. So when he was born, I helped my mother take care of him. He and I were the only children to survive to adulthood. I got married in 1918, and moved upstate, to a small farm near Albany. My husband left shortly after the wedding to fight in the Great War and never made it home. I think Greg was about five, when I left home. Being all the way up in Albany, we didn’t see each other much, except at holidays and such,” Nancy said.

I kept quiet, letting her tell the story.

“When Greg was fifteen,” she continued, “he was working on Mr. Phillips barn. Somehow, he fell out of the loft, hit his head, and was in a coma for over a month. When he woke up, he couldn’t remember anything either. But about a month after he got out of the hospital, he came to visit me.”

“How was he?” I asked.

“To tell the truth, I was glad to see him. Ever since Jim died in the war, I had been living on the small farm he left me and trying to make a living for me and Vivian.”

I quickly did the math. According to Nancy’s story, that meant Vivian was over fifty.

“He stayed for several months, finally convincing me to sell the place and come back to live in the old homestead with him and my mom. Mom passed away soon after I moved back. So I stayed to take care of him. I loaned Greg some of the money I got for selling the farm, to buy a small company that made parts for tanks and ships and such. Everyone called him a fool, telling him the war was over. But he always seemed to know what he was doing. He later sold that company for thousands of times more than he bought it for, but by then, he was already rich,” Nancy explained.

“He fell in love with your grandmother when she was just a small thing, and as soon as her daddy would allow it, they were married. But Greg always took care of me, and as we got older, we became much closer as brother and sister than we were when we were young. He made sure Vivian and I were taken care of and handled all my investments for me,” she said, pausing.

Nancy was now trying to decide how much risk she would take telling me his story. So once more, I spoke to her mind.

“When did he tell you he was a time traveler and an Empath?” I thought to her.

Pricilla came back in, carrying a big tray with two plates. One had some fruit on a bed of lettuce, for Nancy. The other plate had two large sandwiches with bacon, scrambled eggs, and tomatoes on toasted bread.

“I know you don’t remember, Michael, but that used to be your favorite sandwich,” she told me. “When you was little, you would get up after they done put you to bed and come paddling into the kitchen saying ‘Prissy make Mikey egg san-itch?’.”

I smiled as I bit into the sandwich. Whoa! It really was good. And I told Pricilla so as she returned to the kitchen.

“Where were we? Oh, yes. You asked when he told me,” she stated. “Well, he sort of told me in pieces, starting when he came to see me on the farm the first time. I’m not sure he ever told me everything, but he did tell me that crazy story about being from the future. I have to admit, it took a while for me to believe him,” she sighed as she remembered.

“Did he tell you he could hear your thoughts?” I thought to her.

“What did you ... why did you ask that?” Nancy was suddenly alarmed.

“I asked you if he ever told you he could hear your thoughts,” I repeated.

“I heard you, I want to know why you asked if Greg could hear my thoughts?” she said. “Wait, does that mean you can? Hear them, I mean?”

I simply replayed what she had thought when I first picked her up from the wheelchair and carried her onboard the train. You’ve heard of seeing the proverbial light bulb come on? Well, this was more like a floodlight that came on for Nancy. She quit speaking and idly picked at her plate as she remembered.