Marshall Ramsey

Sunnybrook Nursing Home sits upon a small hill overlooking a quaint river valley in a rural part of the state. The backside of the main red brick building, which was built in the mid 1980’s, sports a giant picture window that looks out over rolling hills. Looking out, you could see nature. Looking in, you could see one shriveled old man in a wheelchair.

His name was Arthur Cummings.

Wrinkled, bald and scarred, Arthur Cummings looked every second of his 97 years. One of the last of the Greatest Generation, Arthur had stormed Omaha Beach during the first disastrous wave on D-Day. He was one of the few survivors from his Higgins Boat and still carried small pieces of shrapnel in his arms and legs. Those pieces of metal, and the nightmares caused by them, were his remaining souvenirs of his heroic actions on that blood-soaked beach.

Arthur Cummings earned a Purple Heart and a Silver Star and a promotion to sergeant and was, by every definition of the word, a genuine hero. But he ‘d have traded being a hero for peace of mind. Peace was something that didn’t come with the end of the war. For the rest of his life, the night brought him nightmares, filled with whizzing bullets and screaming Germans.

No one at the Sunnybrook Nursing Home knew that they had a hero in their midst. They just knew Arthur as the really old guy who sat in the chair by the window. Arthur liked to watch the clouds peacefully float by — something he had promised himself he’d do for the rest of his life that first night in Normandy.

A staff member brought Arthur his pills. As he handed him the small cup, he noticed his small Army pin on his collar.

“Were you in the Army?”

Arthur, just glad that someone spoke to him, lit up immediately.

“Yes.”

“Where did you serve?”

“Europe. I was part of D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge.”

“Wow! World War II? That’s amazing.”

Arthur had not even told his own children about his time in the Army. They had just suffered from the trauma he brought home with him from the war. They had both died recently — his daughter and his son had had cancer. His grandchildren didn’t come to see him. So he sat alone looking out the window.

“Tell me about D-Day,” the young man asked.

“Did you see Saving Private Ryan?”

“Yes. Was that what it was like?”

“I have no idea. I couldn’t relive that day by watching a movie. But I will tell you this much — Life is like storming a beach that you know you won’t make it off alive. The further you get up the beach, the more people fall around you. The longer you last, the more death you will see. Here’s the thing, though. You quickly realize that every second it precious. While you might have wasted time before you came ashore, once you are under fire, you are in the moment. Yes, you are scared. But you are also alive — until you aren’t. It changed my whole perspective on life. Every step up the beach is a gift. Don’t forget that son. Don’t forget that.”

“Yes, sir.” The staff member took the paper cup from Arthur.

Arthur swallowed his pills and watched the kid walk away. Then he rolled his chair back to the window and watched as the clouds floated gently past.

A trickle of sweat dripped down Franklin G. Spruance’s spine. The steamy summer evening felt like a warm, wet towel wrapped around his body. Mississippi’s oppressive heat was smothering in August; it was something he’d never get used to — like the Devil blowing his breath on your neck.

Born and raised in the Mississippi Delta, Franklin had moved to the Jackson area after Ole Miss law school. Now after 29-year career as one of Jackson’s top lawyers, he had a big salary, bigger house and even bigger stress levels to go with it. He walked to his BMW in the firm’s parking garage and fumbled for his fob. He didn’t see the shadow lurking behind the pillar, creeping between the cars.

Pain struck him like lightning.

Spruance gasped for air. His body hit the concrete parking deck; he was unable to cry out for help. Flopping painfully, his mouth opened and closed like a catfish dying on a dock. His vision turned to white and then went dark. The shadow stood over him and then moved on.

“Pity,” the figure thought as it faded into the shadows.

Deep in the middle of the Mississippi Delta sat a small, vine-covered stone church. Designed by Frank Wills, an English-born New York architect (who planned many Gothic Revival style churches for Episcopal congregations,) St. Meridian was hidden in a thicket of oaks and vine. Sprouting from the seeds of evil — its very structure was built by the Hell of slavery. Yet it had also served as a focal point of Heaven. In the 1960’s it served as a safe house during the Civil Rights movement. St. Meridian was like the the inter-Korean Peace House in the DMZ. It was the one place on Earth where Heaven and Hell could meet on neutral ground.

It was house of God built by an institution created by the Devil himself.

A lone figure shuffled down the dirt and gravel road. The setting sun backlit the man, obscuring his face as he approached St. Meridian. Dust had turned the sky orange. August’s heat had burned the vegetation. The world around the church looked like it had been painted with a palette filled with hues of brown. The man brushed the dust off his shoes and knocked on the faded red door.

• 

It swung open on its own.

At the far end of the nave, near the alter, sat two men sitting at a cheap card table. One, with a short haircut, wore a black suit. The other, long-haired and wearing white, picked up his rook and moved it with confidence.

“Check.”

The man in black shook his piece and used his queen to take out the rook.

“After all this time, that’s the best you have,” the man in black taunted. Both stopped their game and looked at the visitor.

Both smiled and said in unison, “Welcome Spruance, we have been expecting you.”

Franklin Geoffrey Spruance was born on January 13, 1968 to Frank and Martha Spruance. Frank was salesman. Martha a teacher. Both valued education and knew their little boy would achieve great things. From the street, 193 Maple Street looked like a happy, normal household. Frank volunteered at the school and as a little league coach. Martha donated time at the local soup kitchen. But every house has its secrets. And the Spruance household was a house with a secret. Martha Spruance struggled with untreated mental illness. One minute, she could be a loving mother and wife — they next, she was abusive and cruel. Poor Franklin spend his childhood walking on eggshells, trying to guess which version of his mother he’d face when he came home from school.

Martha Caylor Spruance was an only child who grew up in a wealthy family in Memphis. Her mother, a victims of child abuse herself, ignored Martha when she was young. It was multi-generational trauma — like the Devil himself had passed the torch down through the family tree. Young Franklin carried that piece of the Devil with him.

“Let me guess,” Franklin said looking at the two men,”You, the one in the black suit, are the Devil and you, the one in white, are God.”

Both men chuckled. “Not quite. Welcome to St. Meridian, Franklin,” they said together, “Let us introduce ourselves.”

The man in black said, “My name is Gabriel. I am an angel — and I’m wearing black because I sweat so much when I’m in Mississippi and this, as you guessed wrongly, is Lucifer.”

“I wear white because it’s too damn hot in Mississippi to wear black,” Lucifer fanned himself. “Hell is no where near this humid.”

Both men laughed again.

Gabriel continued, “I’m glad you found your way to St. Meridian, Franklin. I am sure you know why you are here.”

“To be judged?” Franklin guessed.

Lucifer sneered, “Oh now Franklin, you’ve been doing that your whole life. What can we add to your constant self criticism?”

Gabriel interrupted him. “Exactly. You’ve been living with Lucifer in you for your whole life.”

Lucifer scoffed, “Well, you’re in there too.”

Gabriel nodded, “This is true. Franklin, you carry both of us inside of you. Or at least you did.”

Lucifer interrupted, “humans are so weak and conflicted.”

Franklin looked out the leaded glass windows. The sky was an eerie, glowing white.

“So I’m dead.”

“Almost. You are here because it’s not your time yet. At St. Meridian, we are, if you will excuse the lack of a better term, life coaches.” Lucifer said as he moved another chess piece, smiling as he collected Gabriel’s knight.

“Yes, we are holding a chess match to decide your fate,” Gabriel continued, “— or at least coaching you to guide you to your own fate.”

Lucifer flicked his hand to the left and a screen illuminated above them. Franklin’s life flashed before his eyes. He cringed as he saw him sitting at the office, looking at his cell phone and selfishly turning inward to try to extinguish the flames of pain that burned in his heart. Franklin has spent five decades standing beneath a waterfall of pain. The pressure, the stress of so much cortisol, had finally caused his heart to seize. As the video ended, Franklin could see his body lying on the floor of the parking garage as Lucifer left it and slipped behind the nearby pillar.

“Sorry, bro. I had to go.” Lucifer rhymed. “It’s time for me to move on to your son.”

“NO!” Frank yelled.

Lucifer chuckled. “Well, it’s up to you, my friend. You have the power to break this cycle of trauma. But I hate to lose you. Like baseball, your family has been very, very good to me. Keep doing what you’re doing. Turn inward. Seek pleasure. Self medicate. Take the easy route.”

Gabriel started changing shape and bellowed, “NO!”

Giant white wings popped through his shirt as the black clothing ripped apart. Instead of black fabric, the giant angel was wearing a glowing, translucent robe. He hovered over the table and then swooped to alter. He then floated down to Franklin and hugged him. As he held him, he whispered in his ear. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. ‘ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.”

He paused, but then said, “But to truly be able to love your neighbor, you have to love yourself. What happened to your mother was not your fault. You have to stop blaming yourself. Today is the day you stop loathing yourself.”

Gabriel released Franklin and floated back to the chess table and moved his queen.

“Checkmate,” he said. Lucifer scowled and said, “I’ll get the next one.”

---

“Mom! Dad’s eyes opened!”

Franklin’s son Geoff, who had rushed to UMMC straight from Ole Miss to sit by his father’s bedside, yelled to his mother, who was standing out in the Hall. Franklin’s wife Andrea, who had asked for a divorce the day before Franklin’s heart attack, had sat for a week by his bedside praying for his recovery. Little did she know, her prayers were more than answered.

“Dad, It’s Geoff. Mom is here, too. You died in the helicopter but they got you back alive. You’re alive. It’s a miracle — no sign of brain damage or heart damage.”

“Honey, I’m glad you’re still with us. Nod if you understand us.”

Franklin blinked and then nodded. He had a long journey ahead of him, but one he was willing to take.

Six months later.

It was recovery worthy of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Without the demon holding him hostage, Franklin found joy and peace in the smallest ways. Gratitude ruled his heart and that change allowed his heart to heal. That healing extended first to Geoff and Andrea. Then it expanded out to the law firm and then to the community. Life had a sweet taste to it that he had never tasted before. And on that warm, spring Mississippi day, he and his family headed to the Mississippi Delta. It was time to say thanks in a very special place. “I have some place special to show you,” Franklin said as he headed north up Hwy. 61.

St. Meridian isn’t on Google Maps; but Franklin knew the way. He turned the SUV down the dusty road and planted hit foot on the gas with excitement. He wanted his family to see the place that changed his life. The SUV stopped in the middle of familiar thicket of oaks and vines, as Franklin expected to see the church. But instead, there was nothing but a pile of stones. There, in front of the ruins of the church, was a plaque. Franklin got out and read it aloud.

Here lies the ruins of St. Meridian Church. Built in the 1850s by slaves, it became a refuge for escaped slaves and then later as a sanctuary for Civil Rights activists in the 1960s. Tragically destroyed by the Klan on January 13, 1969, St. Meridian remains a reminder that we all carry a little bit of Heaven and Hell in our hearts. It’s our choice which voice we chose to listen to.

The dreams were happening more frequently and were more vivid.

There he was, back in World War 2, flying his fighter plane alone over Germany. Dark clouds boiled around his North American P-51D Mustang as flak and turbulence tossed him around the menacing sky. He cursed as he fought the planes controls. The plane responded with a reassuring scream from the Merlin engine’s supercharger. That screaming, which sounded beautiful outside of the plane, was more like a howling banshee inside. Hours of hearing it had cost him most of his hearing. But in these recent dreams, he could hear again. And his sense of smell was vivid, too. Oh how he could smell. The odor of sweat, oil, metal and fear lit his old memories like a fuse.

A flak shell went off to his right, bucking his Mustang and awaking him from his daydream. Daydreams could get you killed in war.

For nearly three years, he had fought over the skies of Africa and Europe, beating back totalitarianism and giving his gifts to his kids, grandkids and great-grandkids that they took for granted. Freedom wasn’t just a word. It wasn’t about having the right to whine on Facebook because someone hurt your feelings. It was the removal of the foot of fascism off the necks of the people. It was killing the scourge that murdered millions of innocent people in death camps. He saw so much whining today — but he knew sacrifice. He truly knew suffering.

The Great Depression had caused his parents to send him to his uncle’s house in California in 1932. While he understood later in life why they had to ship him away, the trauma it caused him drove him for the rest of his life. He had become very successful after the war. Starvation is a powerful motivator, after all. He remember where he was when Pearl Harbor was attacked. He remembering volunteering for the U.S. Army Air Corps.

From 1941 to 1945, he was truly a success. During those years, he was a knight in the sky who jousted with German fighter planes to protect U.S. bomber crews.

He felt his glove tighten on the stick. Flying came natural to him. He remembered watching Jimmy Doolittle in the newsreels as a kid and wanting to be just like him. Doolittle, who would later become a legend after leading the first bombing mission of Japan, made flying cool. They both shared the name Jimmy, too. Sitting in the cockpit of his trainer, he remembered the thrill of soloing for the first time. There was freedom in the air. Freedom from want. Freedom from feeling inadequate.

First he was assigned to fly the famous P-40. It was the plane the Flying Tigers had made famous in China dogfighting the Japanese. But one day, he saw the love of his life sitting at the end of his runway. Equipped with a bubble canopy and the powerful Merlin engine, the P-51D changed the war over Europe. Fast and maneuverable, it was also the first fighter able to escort B-17s Flying Fortresses and B-24 Liberator bombers all the way to Berlin and back. The bomber crews, who had been slaughtered by fighters and flak throughout the war, called the plane “the little friend.” The German Luftwaffe called it something much worse. He thought about the one time he escorted actor Jimmy Stewarts’ squadron over Germany.

A voice came over the radio.

“Cricket.”

While his name wasn’t “Jiminy,” his nickname in flight school became Jimmy Cricket, later shortened to Cricket.

“Tighten up formation, Cricket,” he heard the voice command. It was a voice he had not heard since 1944. It was his best friend Al — who had been shot down by a German fighter over France. The wreckage of Al’s plane had been found by advancing U.S. Army soldiers. He had not gotten out of the cockpit alive.

“Long time, no see, brother,” Cricket responded. The second Mustang wagged its wings in response.

“I’m here to take you home, brother,” Al’s voice warmly crackled over the radio.

“Home,” Cricket thought? Home had been a damn nursing home for the past 10 years since his beloved wife Dorothy died. Home had been a generic place with generic food. He had outlived three of his four his four kids and one of his grandkids. That was worse than losing Al. No one came to see him much anymore. The staff treated him like an oddity. The other residents were kids during the war. He just sat in the corner of the rec room in his wheelchair staring out at the sky. His beloved sky.

“Yes, home, Cricket,” Al repeated without being prompted. “And Dorothy is waiting for you back at the base.”

When Al said that, the flak stopped and the dark clouds began to part. The plane’s controls smoothed out and the Merlin engine began to sing. He checked his compass and couldn’t get a reading.

“Just stay on my wing,” Cricket, “I’ll get you home.”

Cricket pointed the nose of his Mustang into light.

And on a cold January morning, in the corner of a generic nursing home’s recreation room, one of the last members of the Greatest Generation faded into history.