Jarvis

When I was a boy, my family lived next door to an intriguing
character named Jarvis St. James. Jarvis, the grandson of a slave, was
a friendly old timer with a sparkle in his eye and a ready wit, but
what made Jarvis memorable for many was his penchant for telling tall
tales. There wasn't anything that old man St. James couldn't put a spin
on. He always had a ready store of Munchausen-like tales and when that
ran dry there was always the old man's gift, his ability to think them
up right on the spot.

He certainly had a vivid imagination, but with Jarvis, you couldn't
take offense; his tales were told with such a wonderful tone that you
hoped the old man never told you a truth.

There were so many tales about Jarvis and his life and Jarvis himself
started most of them. Some were humorous and most were exciting, but
they were all quite indelibly the work of Jarvis St. James.

One story had Jarvis as a convicted murderer who had escaped from a
Southern chain gang. The details varied, and it was certainly difficult
to see that kind old man hurting anyone, and indeed I'd never heard
Jarvis tell this tale. Still it was a wild, unfounded story that had
circulated around town for years.

One of Jarvis' favorite tales about his early days was how as a youth
he used to jump the rails. His eyes sparkled whenever he told these
stories, and he never tired of telling of his life as a tramp, which
might explain why the facts changed every time he told it.

Jarvis never meant to hurt anyone with his tall stories, he just
delighted in telling a yarn and I'd always supposed that the poor old
fellow had actually lived a boring, 9 to 5 life and it gave him
pleasure and lessened his sadness for never having lived. So who was I
to begrudge this man his pleasure...and mine too? After-all Jarvis
certainly told some amazing tales.

The Jarvis St. James that I knew was a worn down man of about 75. He
was often ailing, and could barely walk. He spent most of his time in
an old rocking chair on the front porch where I'd sit across from him
and listen to his stories.

Jarvis survived on a pension, though from what source I don't know.
It's not that Jarvis didn't tell me, it's that he simply told me too
many different versions.

One story had him in the merchant marines, where he told vivid tales of
his life abroad. Another placed Jarvis in the First World War as a Army
Colonel, though it was hard to picture the Jarvis that I knew as a man
of authority.

However, my favorite story about Jarvis' source of income was that he
was descended illegitimately from the English royal family. His mother,
Jarvis would tell, was an African Princess and his pension was hush
money from the Queen of England herself.

As Jarvis grew older his stories became wilder and more sketchy in
detail, but what these tales lost in validity they gained in panache.
He was no longer content to be just an Army Colonel but instead had
become Douglas Macarthur's right hand man. Jarvis never let facts get
in the way of his apocryphal tales. An inapposite character never
slowed him down.

Through all the prevarications, fabrications and out and out lies, one
subject never changed. Jarvis adored the memory of his late wife Daisy
and his stories about her always remained the same. I never knew Daisy;
she had died shortly before my parents had moved into town, but Jarvis,
had shown me dozen of photos and told me so much about Daisy that I
sometimes forget that I never knew her.

Jarvis' memory to his wife was faithful. In his stories, he and his
wife were always married in New York and these memories always had
their only son dying at 6 months old. He told me that she was a
nightclub singer in Harlem when they were first married and that she
had given it up to follow Jarvis as he chased a dream in California.
This story as with all that Jarvis told of his wife never varied, not
even by the slightest degree.

Jarvis never had a bad word to say about Daisy, he called her an angel
and always had a wistful, far off look in his eye. I don't think that
Jarvis felt that it was right to lie about Daisy; that she had been the
only real thing in his life.

Several years went by and I graduated High School and went to college
in Northern Maine, about 150 miles from where my parents and Jarvis
lived. I'd almost forgotten about the old man, having become absorbed
with college life and the search for a Daisy of my own. One day I got a
phone call from my Dad that Jarvis had passed away. The memory of the
old man flooded back into my mind and I knew I had to be there when he
was laid to rest.

The funeral was really quite simple. More infamous than famed, I don't
think Jarvis made much of a positive impression in this life. My family
and I paid our respects, as did a few townspeople and then the
storyteller Jarvis St. James, befitting a humble man, was soon
forgotten.

The Jarvis St. James story, however, wasn't over; He'd left one story
completely untold. It was a tale that was worthy of Jarvis' gift, but
one he could never tell.

The new owners of Jarvis' home had decided to put a swimming pool in
the backyard and had hired a company to excavate the area. The workers
upon digging had found a human skeleton buried in a shallow grave and
the medical examiner had declared it a homicide. Those bones, secretly
buried in old man St. James' yard had been identified and it had been
determined that the remains were those of Jarvis' beloved wife Daisy.
She had been struck over the head with a blunt object and the coroner
believed that she had died quickly. Inside the grave, tightly concealed
in a large water-proof container, there was a journal. This diary told
of Daisy's yearlong battle cancer and how she had pleaded with him to
help her "finally rest."

I guess in the end Jarvis saw his wife's pain and knew that it was too
much for Daisy and I suppose for himself. Jarvis played God, as many a
loving husband would do in that circumstance.

Well, I guess when it came to Daisy, there was one tale Jarvis knew not
to tell.