The following is Chapter Three of a five-part short story entitled, “Peace.” Chapter Two ended with the arrival at Peace’s Grocery of a strange man asking to talk to Clarence Peace’s grandmother, Antha Hood - a woman who had been dead for 41 years.

Flat Rock
Spring, 1983

Clarence stared intently at the man who had just asked to speak with his grandmother—an elderly woman who had passed away decades ago. Oddly enough, the stranger didn’t seem the least bit shaken when Clarence informed him that Antha Hood had been dead for 40 years. He simply nodded, as if considering the news, before beginning to walk slowly along the shelves on the far side of the store, clearly searching for something.

“Antha is usually here to help me gather supplies for the doctors,” the man murmured as he rummaged through the store’s shelves.  “A lot of the boys are in rough shape. She has the medical supplies they need.”

Clarence regained his composure enough to object. “Now hold on, mister,” he called out. “You can’t just barge in here!”

The intruder ignored Clarence’s protest. “I need gauze, iodine, aspirin, bandages – anything you’ve got to treat wounds.” The man evidently saw what he wanted and strode quickly over to shelves stocked with basic medical supplies and started sweeping bottles and boxes into his leather satchel.

Clarence’s fear quickly turned to anger. “Hey! You can’t come in here and steal my stuff!” He stepped behind the store counter and rummaged through a box below the cash register. When his fingers found the cool metal of the small revolver, he stood up and aimed it at the stranger. "Put it all back or I’ll shoot."

The man paused, eyeing Clarence and the gun pointed at his chest. Calmly, he closed the flap of his now bulging satchel, adjusted the strap on his shoulder, and without a word, walked directly toward Clarence and the barrel of the gun.

“Don’t make me shoot you!” Clarence shouted, his voice quivering as the revolver shook in his outstretched hand. The stranger continued across the store until he was standing directly in front of Clarence – the revolver no more than 6 inches from the center of his chest. Then he slowly reached up and gently pushed the muzzle of the gun down toward the floor. The two men stood face to face, the only sound was that of Clarence’s heavy breathing.  The stranger smiled, “I intend to pay you for anything I take. I assure you I am no thief.” 

“Who are you?” Clarence’s voice and body shook as the adrenaline coursed through his veins. “I ain’t never seen you around here before.” 

The stranger reached up to his leather hat and raised it off his head a few inches. “The name is Henry T. Farmer. But my friends call me Squire. I own the Farmer Hotel. Just over yonder - across Buncombe Turnpike.”  He paused and considered the small rack of chewing gums Clarence kept next to the register. Looking back at Clarence, he continued. “Well, it used to be a hotel. Right now, it’s more of a hospital. Trying to patch up some of our boys hurt in the skirmish with Stoneman’s troops when they came through Hendersonville yesterday.”

Clarence’s mind reeled. “Across the turnpike? You mean the Woodfield Inn? On the other side of Greenville Highway?” 

Squire Farmer chuckled. “Yeah, Antha told me that’s what it’s called now. I built the damn place. Not sure why they needed to change the name.”

Clarence frowned. “Mister, that place is over a hundred years old. Ain’t no way you built it.”

Farmer didn’t answer and reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills, and deposited them on the counter. “That should cover it.”  He tipped his hat again and added, “When you see Antha, tell her Squire came by. She’ll know who I am.” 

With that, Farmer turned to leave, but then paused at the door, smiling back at Clarence. "By the way, she told me that gun in your hand is never loaded. Just for show."

“She’s been dead 40 years,” Clarence called after him. “I’m not going to see her.” 

Farmer stopped – his hand on the door handle – and looked back at Clarence. “Not dead exactly. More ‘relocated’ I’d say.”  With that, he stepped out of the store and closed the front door behind himself. The wash of golden light that had flooded the store receded and Clarence was alone again with only Squirt as a witness to the strange encounter.

For a long moment, Clarence stood in silence, trying to process the surreal events that had just unfolded. He walked over to the now-empty shelves where the pharmacy items used to be. His finger traced a line in the dust on the bare wood.

He walked slowly back to the cash register. Squirt was sitting on the counter and disinterestedly licking a paw next to the pile of bills left by the stranger. Clarence picked up one of the notes and stared at an image of three black men working in a field. Just below their engraved image, the $100 bill read, “Confederate States America.”

—-

Summer 1983
Flat Rock

Summertime in Flat Rock meant bustling days at Peace’s Grocery. A rush of summer residents and tourists descended upon the village and the store brimmed with adults looking for supplies for their evening parties. Noisy children crowded around the candy display and begged their parents for soft drinks from the big red coolers at the back of the store. Business was brisk.

But for Clarence, this surge in activity often translated to something less desirable: mounting account balances and not enough cash in the register.  He knew he needed to be more diligent about collecting the debts, but he had been extending credit to the locals and summer residents for so long, that he didn’t know how to start asking for the money they owed him. He’d tried to be assertive with customers whose balances were unusually large but they always had a ready excuse. “I like to pay my bills at the end of the month, Clarence,” or “I need to run into town and get some cash from the bank. I’ll settle up next time.”

At night, alone in his small apartment behind the store, Clarence tried not to dwell on the festive parties happening around the village.  Under a bare bulb and with only the sound of summer cicadas outside, he ate another plate of beans and Vienna sausages washed down with a Nehi grape soda - all the while pushing thoughts of his financial troubles to the back of his mind. 

On top of his money worries, Clarence’s physical and emotional health had been deteriorating. The strange encounters with the man claiming to be Carl Sandburg and the disheveled man with pockets full of Confederate bills left him doubting his own sanity. Was he seeing things? Or was he the victim of some sort of elaborate prank?  Night after night, he tossed and turned, unable to shake off the strange encounters. His imagination spiraled into dark places, convincing him that his frequent headaches and hallucinations might be the result of a brain tumor.

Still, Clarence did not dare tell anyone about what he’d seen. Or thought he’d seen. He knew that even his best customers considered him to be eccentric and a bit odd. He certainly didn’t need to give people any more reason to look at him with sideways glances and whisper to their companions while shopping at the back of his store. The last thing he needed was to be even more of an outcast.

Adding to his troubles, Clarence was also suffering from occasional bouts of severe abdominal pain. He knew he should see a doctor, but he was the only person in the store and besides, he wasn’t sure he could afford to pay a doctor’s bill right now. On top of everything, Clarence’s knee was more painful than ever. His life and body were falling apart 

After 61 years, Clarence felt every one of those years weighing heavily on his body and soul.

--

Clarence hadn’t always been an old man. When he enlisted in the Army in 1944 at the age of 23, he was lean and strong—not from athletics, but from years of unloading heavy crates of food and stocking shelves at his family’s grocery store.

Though he was older than nearly every other recruit at basic training in Fort Bragg, he was relieved to finally be there. Emma Middleton’s words had haunted him for over a year—her remarks about everyone she knew being so brave for volunteering. Usually, Clarence wasn’t one for arguments, especially not with his parents, but Emma’s comments stirred something inside him. After months of back-and-forth with his parents, they reluctantly gave in. His father grumbled that war was a waste, while his mother rocked in her chair, nervously rubbing her hands and repeating, “My only baby. My only baby.”

At basic training, Emma became Pvt. Peace’s secret patron saint. He kept the photo she’d given him the previous summer carefully wrapped in the folds of a shirt he never wore and tucked away at the bottom of his footlocker. In the evenings, after long days of drills and training, the other soldiers shared pictures of their girlfriends and wives – or pinups of Rita Hayworth and Betty Grable.  The barracks were filled with crude jokes and the occasional fistfight over someone’s girlfriend, and Clarence didn’t want to subject Emma’s image to such vulgarity. Besides, she wasn’t really his girlfriend—just a girl he’d met a few times in the store. He couldn’t even explain to himself why he kept the photo, much less to anyone else.

The United States Army tried to make the mountain boy from Flat Rock into a rifleman. Drill sergeants knew that recruits who grew up in the mountains and had been hunting their whole lives often made the best marksmen. But Clarence Peace had seldom held a gun, much less hunted with one. He was not proficient and did not enjoy the sounds or smells of the firing range. For once, he longed for the quiet and solitude of the grocery store on a lazy fall afternoon.

When his sergeant discovered that Clarence was a grocer – and clearly not a marksman – he assigned him to work in the mess hall. When Clarence later hurt his knee on a 20-mile hike with full packs, his consignment to kitchen duty was cemented. Clarence was not destined to be a warrior. His job would be to feed the warriors.

While his platoon practiced hand-to-hand combat, Clarence was peeling potatoes and sweating over huge vats of boiling vegetables. The rest of the kitchen staff were mostly Black men who had also been consigned to the service of others by the prejudices and discrimination of the time. In many ways, Clarence could relate to the cooks and dishwashers and soon found a camaraderie with his new friends in the kitchen that he had never known back in Flat Rock.

In his free time, Clarence sketched scenes from his life as a soldier. Recruits hanging out on their bunks in the barracks. Men carrying rifles and crawling under barbed wire. He also drew memories of life back in the village. The view from Front Lake looking up at Connemara.  The stately white columns and blooming hydrangeas of Mountain Lodge. The old mill perched on the edge of the Highland Lake dam.

And Clarence spent hours sketching Emma Middleton, the pretty girl standing in his grocery store. Her eyes flashing and her smile radiating an aura of kindness and warmth. Whenever another soldier passed by and wanted to see what he was drawing, Clarence would slip Emma to the bottom of his stack of drawings and slide out the sketch of life at Fort Bragg. Emma was his secret, his alone.

When he first arrived at basic training, Clarence wrote several letters to Emma at her Flat Rock address. His handwriting was messy and he frequently had to ask other recruits how to spell certain words. He hoped that the small sketches in the margins and on the back of the envelope would distract her from his poor penmanship and grammar.

In return, he received a couple of polite replies but when there had been no letter from Emma for over six months, he began to feel like he was a fool. Of course, someone like Emma would not have time for a man like Clarence. But still, he kept her photo, sneaking a peek on the hardest days to lift his spirits.

By the time he completed his basic training, the war was winding down and the army was rapidly disgorging unneeded soldiers like Clarence.  In June of 1946, Clarence Peace returned to Flat Rock and the job he never wanted at the family grocery store.

—-

Two customers, still smiling after overhearing another one of Wick’s preposterous stores, piled their purchases on the counter. Clarence dutifully jotted the items and prices on the brown bag next to the cash register. “That comes to $2.85.”  Clarence bagged up the purchase and handed it over to the shoppers. “Y’all have a good day. Come back.”

After the heavy wooden door closed and the customers were gone, Wick called out across the store. ”Clarence, you shoulda charged them folks an extra dollar for the privilege of hearin’ one of my stories.”  Albert snorted. “They shoulda gotten a discount for havin’ to listen to your bloviations.”

Clarence shook his head. “What I oughta do is charge both of you rent for all the time you spend sitting in those chairs.” The two men chuckled and resumed a conversation about Flat Rock’s first proposed stop light at the intersection of Little River Road and Greenville Highway. While the two old codgers argued back and forth, Clarence realized he’d been listening for over half a century to his neighbors share news, tell stories of the old times, and generally swap gossip about one another.

—-

As the day wound down, Clarence found himself doodling a picture of Squirt, his attention drifting. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of sea foam green—a vintage Oldsmobile gliding down Greenville Highway. The car, with its gleaming chrome bumpers and spotless whitewall tires, was probably en route to the antique car show in downtown Hendersonville that evening. The sight of the car nudged open a door in Clarence’s mind, letting memories of his youth and Emma Middleton flood back in.

The last time Clarence saw Emma was in the summer of 1946. He had just returned from Fort Bragg, trying to adjust to the long hours at his family’s store. Working in the mess hall had been exhausting and monotonous, but it had also given Clarence something he’d never had before—a circle of friends, men he genuinely liked and missed.

On that particular late summer afternoon, Clarence was behind the counter, lost in a sketch on a fresh sheet from the sketchbook his mother had given him as a welcome home gift. It had been over 18 months since he’d last heard from Emma when the doorbell jingled, and there she was—walking back into Peace’s Grocery and his life. Standing in the doorway, the sunlight behind her cast an ethereal glow around her face and slender figure. The girl he’d met three summers ago had blossomed into a stunning young woman, and the sight of her took his breath away.

“Clarence!” Emma’s voice was bright, though tinged with a hint of surprise. “You’re back! I didn’t expect to see you this summer.” There was a faint tremor in her voice, as if the cheerfulness was a bit forced. Clarence could tell she was just as taken aback by this unexpected encounter as he was.

Regaining her composure, Emma approached the counter briskly. “You are still drawing I see.” Her left hand rested on the counter between them. “May I see?” Clarence quickly withdrew the drawing and slid it into his lap under the counter. “It’s nothin’” He stared down at her long fingers with the bright red nail polish. There was a large diamond ring that sparkled in the light from the front windows. 

“I really do love your drawings,” she coaxed, flashing that familiar smile that had always seemed to reach into the depths of Clarence’s soul. “Just a quick peek?” 

“It’s not finished,” Clarence replied, the words coming out sharper than he intended. Suddenly, the air in the room felt thin and suffocating. His hands began to tremble, and he gripped the counter to steady himself.

They stood in awkward silence, two people from vastly different worlds brought together by chance. Clarence Peace, forever tethered to the family grocery store in a small mountain town, and Emma Middleton, poised on the brink of a life filled with endless possibilities far beyond the confines of Flat Rock.

Emma was the first to break the silence. “Mama sent me to pick up a few things for the garden party we’re having tonight. Before we head back to Charleston in the morning.” Clarence nodded, saying nothing. As Emma read off her mother’s list, he moved around the store mechanically, gathering the items, feeling detached from his own body.

Her voice floated through the store as she asked him about his time in the Army. Did he miss the store? Had he gone anywhere exciting? Wasn’t it a relief that the war was over so everyone could enjoy life again? Clarence answered with a string of monosyllabic replies. “Yes. Nope. Sure.” Inside, his thoughts churned with disappointment and self-loathing. What a fool he had been, nursing a fantasy that had always been out of reach.

Back at the counter, Clarence bagged the groceries without meeting Emma’s gaze. He scribbled the total on a paper bag. “That’ll be $4.65,” he said quietly. Emma opened her purse, pulling out a five-dollar bill. As she handed it to him, the light glinting off her ring felt like a dagger to his heart. He offered her the change, but she shook her head, smiling. “Keep the change, Clarence,” she said brightly. “Use it for art supplies.”

Clarence mumbled a “Thanks,” and Emma turned to leave. Just as she reached the door, she paused and looked back at him. “You should join us tonight, Clarence,” she offered with a smile. Clarence shook his head, managing a strained smile in return. “I’ve got a produce delivery from Dana tonight. Need to unload and stock the shelves.”

Emma’s gaze lingered on Clarence for a moment. They both knew her invitation wasn’t meant to be accepted. It was just a polite way to close an uncomfortable interlude. As she left, she spoke softly, “Clarence, I hope our paths cross again soon.”

Clarence watched in silence as Emma climbed into her car parked under the portico and drove away. Her car was still visible, disappearing up Greenville Highway, as Clarence pulled the sketch he’d been working on back onto the counter.

It was a drawing of a young couple sitting in the grass on a hillside overlooking a lake. They were holding hands, watching a pair of swans gliding across the water. The sky was dotted with soft white clouds, and the sunlight bathed them in a gentle spotlight. He’d been working on it all week, telling himself the couple in the drawing were just random figures. But deep down, he knew the truth. 

Clarence picked up his pencil and added some shading beneath the trees that framed the lake. When he was done, he held the drawing up with both hands. Despite his lack of confidence in his artistic skills, even he had to admit it was good work. One of his best.

Then, slowly, his hands came together. The heavy stock paper began to fold and wrinkle.  The outer edges began to tear and the couple in the center of the drawing were the last thing consumed by the collapsing paper.  By the time his clenched fists had come together, he had crushed the wadded paper into a tight ball. He dropped it into the trash can beneath the register.

Clarence Peace would never see Emma Middleton again.

—-

Wick and Albert were gone. The clock on the wall read 6:05. Clarence locked the door and then walked over to his painting of Markley’s Blacksmith shop. Finally alone, he gently took down the painting and flipped it around. Emma’s deep brown eyes peered back at him, as they had for nearly four decades now.

Long ago, when he knew Emma was never coming back, he took the photo she had given him and carefully taped it to the back of the painting. He chose the painting of the blacksmith’s shop because it hung on the store wall directly behind the cash register. The place where he spent most of his time in the store. No one else knew about the photo secreted behind the painting but it gave him comfort to know that Emma – or at least her memory – was always close at hand.

A sharp rap at the door startled Clarence and he hurriedly returned the painting to its place on the wall. Looking over at the door, he saw Louise Bailey peering through the glass front.  “Clarence, could you be a dear and let me in for just one second? I’m in desperate need of some baking flour.”

Normally, Clarence would have waved away customers who arrived late. The sign on the door clearly stated that he closed at 6 pm.  But this was Louise Howe Bailey. No one, least of all, Clarence Peace could say no to Louise.

As Clarence unlocked and opened the door, Louise asked, “What were you doing with your painting?  Are you going to take it down?  Did someone buy it?”

Clarence feigned nonchalance. “Nah. Just dustin’ the frame.”

Louise studied Clarence’s face for a moment. “Clarence, are you feeling OK? You seem to be at sixes and sevens.”

“I’m fine,” Clarence lied.  Louise cocked her head to one side and raised a doubtful eyebrow. Clarence had learned long ago that it was just about impossible to put anything past Louise. He sighed and admitted, “Not really. It’s been a hard summer.”

“Why is that, Clarence?” Louise was genuinely concerned. 

“I ain’t felt great for a while. My stomach hurts bad. I get these fierce headaches sometimes. I just ain’t right.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” Louise put her hand on Clarence’s arm. “Should I have Joe come by and check you over?”

Clarence held up a hand. “No. No. Don’t bother Doc Bailey. I’ll be fine. It will pass.”  Louise was about to insist when Clarence continued. “What’s botherin’ me most is some strange things I’ve been seeing lately.”

“Strange things?”

Clarence stared hard at Louise. “Now you can’t tell nobody, Louise.”

Louise threw her head back and laughed. “Clarence, you know you can trust me. Law, if I told folks everything I knew, half the people in Henderson County would never darken their front doors again. I assure you this is just between us.”

Clarence looked down at the dusty wood floor of the store. “I’ve been seein’ things,” he said barely audibly.

“Excuse me?

Clarence raised his gaze to Louise. “I’ve been seeing things,” he repeated. “I’ve been seeing …”, he paused, not sure he wanted to admit such a thing. Not even to Louise.

“Seeing what, Clarence?”

“Seeing people. Strange people. People I ain’t never seen around these parts before. They show up and then they … they just disappear.  Like it’s a dream or something.”

“Who are they, Clarence?”

“The last feller I saw said his name was Henry. Henry Farmer. ‘Fore that, it was a man claiming he was Carl Sandburg.”

Louise’s eyes widened and she took a deep breath.  “Henry Farmer?”

“He was talkin’ all sorts of crazy stuff. He said he needed medicine for soldiers across the road. He said he built the Woodfield Inn. That ain’t possible, Louise. That place is over a hundred years old and he didn’t look to be no more than 40 hisself.”

Louise’s expression became very placid and she nodded almost imperceptibly.  “Did he call himself, Squire, by any chance?”

Surprise filled Clarence’s eyes. “Yeah. He did.  How did you know that?”

“Did he mention your Grandmother Hood?  Antha?”   

Clarence felt stunned. He’d told no one about the stranger’s visit – and Louise was acting like she had been there herself. “He did,” answered Clarence. “He came a bustin’ in here. All covered in mud and what looked like blood on his britches. Demanded to see Grandma then he commenced to taking all the medicines and bandages on that shelf over there. Filled his satchel and then threw down a bunch of money on the counter. Told me he weren’t no thief.”

Clarence walked over to the register and opened the cash drawer. He lifted the tray at the bottom of the drawer and grabbed the bills he’d hidden underneath. He handed them to Louise. “This ain’t real money, Louise.”

Louise Bailey turned over the bills in her hand. “Confederate,” she said softly. “Antha told me about this when I was just a girl.”

“Told you about what?” demanded Clarence. His worry was changing to agitation.

Louise held him with a steady gaze for several moments. “Clarence, it’s time you knew about your grandmother … and this store.”

###

Next week, Chapter Four: “Descent”