Casteel 1 - Heaven (30 page)

I was up early every day to prepare breakfast for Kitty and Cal. She seldom came home for the evening meal before seven or eight o'clock, and by

that time Cal and I had eaten. For some reason this didn't annoy her.

Almost with relief she fell into a kitchen chair and broodingly stared at her plate until I dished up the food she wolfed down in mere seconds, without appreciation for all the trouble I took to learn her favorite dishes.

Before I could go to bed I had to put the kitchen in order, check all the rooms to see that everything was in its proper place and no magazines or newspapers cluttered the tabletops or lay on the floor. In the morning I hurried to make my bed before Kitty came in to check, then rushed downstairs to begin breakfast. Before I left for school, I washed clothes while I made the beds, put the dirty dishes in the washer, wiped up all fingerprints, smudges, spills, and such, and only when I had the door locked behind me did I begin to feel free.

Now I was well fed and my clothes were warm and adequate, and yet there were times when I thought longingly of home and forgot the hunger, the awful cold, the deprivations that should have scarred me forever. I missed Tom so much it hurt. I ached for Our Jane and Keith, for Grandpa and even Fanny. Logan's letters helped me not to miss him so much.

I was riding the school bus now that it was raining every day and Kitty didn't want to buy me a raincoat or boots. “Soon it'll be summer,” she said, as if there'd be no spring to mention, and that made me homesick again. Spring was a season of miracles in the mountains, when life got better and the wildflowers came out to coat the hills with beauty Candlewick would never know. In school I studied with much more determination than other students, on a mad hurry-​hurry schedule to get back home and dig into housework.

The many TVs were a constant temptation calling to me. It was lonely in the empty house, and despite Kitty's warning never to turn on a TV when I was alone, I soon was a soap-​opera addict. I dreamed about the characters at night. Why, they had even more problems than the Casteels, though none were financial, and all of ours had been related to money problemsor so it seemed now.

Day after day I checked the mailbox waiting for Logan's letters that came regularly, always anticipating that long-​awaited letter from Tom that didn't show up. One day, out of pure frustration from not hearing from Tom, I wrote to Miss Deale, explaining how we'd been sold and pleading with her

to help me find my brothers and sister. The weeks passed, and still no letter came from

Tom. The letter I'd written to Miss Deale came back stamped Addressee Unknown.

Then Logan stopped writing! My first thought was he had another girl. Sick at heart, I stopped writing to him. Every day that passed without hearing from Logan made me think that nobody loved me enough to last long enough to do me any good, except Cal. Cal was my savior, the only friend I had in the world, and more and more I depended on him. The quiet house came alive when he came in the door and the television was snapped on and housework could be forgotten. I began to long for him as the hour of six drew near and my dinner was almost ready to serve. I took pains to set the table prettily, to plan menus I knew he'd enjoy. I spent hours and hours preparing his favorite dishes, not caring anymore if Kitty grew fat from the pasta dishes he preferred and I liked, too. When the clock on the mantel struck six, my ears keened to hear the sound of his car in the drive. I ran to take his coat when he came in the back door, loving the ceremony of his greeting that was the same each day:

“Hi there, Heaven. What's new?”

His smiles brightened my life; his small jokes gave me laughter. I began to see him as bigger than life, and forgot all his weaknesses when it came to Kitty. Best of all, he listened, really listened, when I talked to him. I saw him as the kind of father I'd always wanted, always needed, the one who not only loved me, but also appreciated what I was. He understood, never criticized, and always, no matter what, he was on my side. Though with Kitty that never helped much.

“I write and write, and Fanny never answers, Cal. Five letters I've written to her since I've been here, and not even a postcard in return. Would you treat your sister like that?”

“No,” he said with a sad smile, “but then, my family members never write to me, so I don't write to themnot since I married Kitty, who doesn't want any competition for my affections.”

“And Tom doesn't write, even though Logan gave him this address.”

“Maybe Buck Henry doesn't give him the time to write letters, or prevents him from mailing the ones he might write.”

“But surely he could find a way?” "Hold on. One day you'll see a letter in our box

from Tom, I'm sure of it." I loved him for saying that; loved him for

making me feel pretty, for saying I was a good cook, for appreciating all I did to keep the house clean. Kitty never saw anything I did unless it was wrong.

Weeks passed during which Cal and I became closer and closer, like a true father and daughter. (Often Kitty didn't come home until ten or eleven at night.) I knew that Cal was the best thing in my Candlewick life, and for him I was going to do something special. He had a yen for all kinds of fancy egg dishes, so for the first time in my life I was going to prepare what he often asked Kitty to makea cheese soufflŽ. An amusing lady on TV was teaching me all about gourmet cooking.

The perfect time was Saturday, before our trip into Atlanta to see a movie.

I fully expected it to fail, as most of my experiments didand then I was drawing it from the oven, amazed to see it looked right. Golden brown, high and light! I'd done it right! If I could have patted myself on the back, I would have done so. I ran to the china cabinet, wanting to serve it on the royal dishes it deserved. Then I stepped halfway down the basement stairs, leaned over, and called in my most demure

voice, “Lunch is served, Mr. Dennison.” “Coming right up, Miss Casteel,” he called

back. We sat in the dining room, where he stared with admiration at my high and wonderful cheese souffle. “Why, it's beautiful, Heaven,” said Cal, tasting it, “and delicious,” closing his eyes to savor it. “My mother used to make cheese souffles just for mebut you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble.”

Why did he look uneasy sitting in his own dining room, as if he“d never eaten in here before? I looked around, feeling very uneasy. ”Now you'll have lots of dishes to clean up before we head for town and fun . . ."

Oh, that was all.

No one moved more swiftly than I did that afternoon. I stacked the pretty china in the dishwasher; while it washed, I ran upstairs to bathe and dress. Cal was ready and waiting, smiling at me, seeming relieved to have the dining room restored to a museum piece. I was ready to step out the door before I remembered. “One moment, and be back. Wouldn't want Kitty to come home and find her china not put back exactly in place.”

As I finished doing this and that, he decided to go back to the basement to put his own tools away

that's when the doorbell rang. We so seldom had guests the sound of the bell startled me, and I quickly went to the door. The mailman smiled at me.

“A certified letter for Miss Heaven Leigh Casteel,” he said cheerfully.

“Yes,” I said eagerly, staring at the pack of letters in his hand, so many.

He extended a clipboard with a paper. My hand trembled when I made my crooked signature.

Once I had the door closed, I sank down onto the floor. The sun through the fancy diamond win- dows near the door fell on the envelope of a letter I was sure was from Tombut it wasn't. Strange hand- writing.

. Dearest Heaven, I hope you don't mind my familiarity. I'm sure

you will forgive me this when you hear my good news. You don't know my name, and I can't sign this letter. I am the woman who came with her husband to become the mother of your darling little sister and brother.

If you recall, I promised to write and keep you in touch. I remember your great love and concern for your brother and sister, and I have to admire and

respect you for that. Both children are very well, and have, I believe, adapted to this family, and have stopped missing their mountain family so much.

Your father didn't want to give me your address; however, I persisted, believing I should keep my promise. Our Jane, as you used to call her, has recovered from an operation to correct a diaphrag- matic hernia. You can look this up in a medical encyclopedia, and find out exactly what it was that made that dear child so frail. You'll be happy to know she is now gaining weight and has a good appetite. She is as healthy and normal as any seven-​and-​a-​half- year-​old girl. Every day she and Keith have all the fruit juice they want. And I do leave night-​lights on in both of their rooms. They attend a good private school, and are driven there each day, and picked up when school is over. They have many friends.

Keith shows great artistic talent, and dear Jane loves to sing and listen to music. She is taking music lessons, and Keith has his own easel, and equipment for drawing and painting. He is especially good at drawing animals.

I hope I have answered all questions, and given you enough information to keep you from worrying. Both my husband and I love these two children as if

they were our own. And I believe they love us as much in return.

Your father says he has found good homes for all of his children, and I pray this is true.

Under separate cover I am sending you photo- graphs of your brother and sister.

My best-​wishes to you. R. . That's the way she signed her letter, with just an

initial, no address to give me a clue. My heart thudded madly as I stared at the envelope again, trying to read fingerprints, hidden numbers and street names. It had been postmarked in Washington, D.C. What did that mean? Had they moved from Maryland? Oh, thank God the doctors had found out what was wrong with Our Jane and had cured her!

For the longest time I just sat there, thinking about Keith and Our Janeand the kind of lady who'd been thoughtful enough to write. Again and again I read the letter. I brushed tears from my eyes as I read it through. Oh, it was wonderful to hear that Our Jane was well and happy, and she and Keith had everything but it wasn't good to hear they'd forgotten me and Tom, not good at all.

“Heaven,” said Cal from a few feet away, “would you rather sit on the floor and read letters all day than go to the movies?”

In a moment I was up, showing him the letter, eagerly telling him the contents even as he read them for himself. He appeared as delighted as I felt. Then he began to look through his own mail. “Why, here's another envelope for Miss Heaven Leigh Casteel,” he said with a broad grin, handing a heavy brown enve- lope to me.

A dozen snapshots were inside, and three photographs taken at a professional portrait shop.

Oh, dear Godsnapshots of Keith and Our Jane playing on the grass in a garden behind a huge, beautiful house. “Polaroid shots,” said Cal, looking over my shoulder. “What beautiful children.”

I stared at the lovely children in expensive- looking play clothes, both sitting in a sandbox with a bright awning overhead. Behind them was a swimming pool, the chairs and tables placed on flagstone borders. The same man and wife were there, wearing swimsuits, smiling lovingly at Keith and Our Jane. It was summer where they were! Summer! Did that mean Florida? California? Arizona? I studied the other snapshots that showed Our Jane laughing as

Keith pushed her on a swing play-​yard set. Others taken in her pretty bedroom with all the dolls and toys. Our Jane sleeping in a fancy little bed, all ruffled, with a pink canopy overhead. Keith in his blue room full of all kinds of toys and picture books. Then I opened a large, elaborate cardboard folder to see Our Jane really dressed up, in pink organdy with ruffles, her hair curled, looking as if she belonged in the movies, smiling at whoever was snapping her picture; and there was another of Keith dressed in a cute blue suit, wearing a small tie, and a third portrait showing them together.

“It cost money to take portraits like those,” Cal said from over my shoulder. “See how they're dressed. Heaven, they are very beloved children, well cared for and happy. Why, look at the shine in their eyes. Unhappy children couldn't fake smiles like that smiles that light up their faces. Why, in some ways you should thank God your father did sell them.”

I didn't realize how much I was crying until Cal blotted my tears by holding me against his chest. “There, there . . .” he crooned, cuddling me in his arms, giving me his handkerchief to blow my nose. "Now you can sleep at night without crying and calling out for them. Once you hear from Tom, your

whole world will brighten. You know, Heaven, there are very few Kittys in this world. I'm just sorry you had to be the one to suffer at her hands . . . but I'm here. I'll do what I can to protect you from her." He held me close, closer, so I felt every curve of my body pressed against his.

Alarm filled me. Was this right? Should I pull away to let him know he shouldn't? But it had to be right, or he wouldn't be doing it. Still, I felt uneasy enough to push him away, though I smiled tearfully into his face, and turned so we could leave, but not before I carefully hid the letter and the photographs. For some reason I didn't want Kitty to see how lovely Pa's other two children were.

That Saturday was even more special than the others had been. Now I could really enjoy myself, knowing Our Jane and Keith weren't really suffering . . . and someday I'd know about Tom, too.

It was ten-​thirty when Cal and I drove back from Atlanta, both of us rather tired from trying to do too much: see a three-​hour movie, eat in a restaurant, and do some shopping. Clothes for me that Cal didn't want Kitty to see. “I hate those saddle shoes as much as you do. However, don't let her see these new ones,” he warned before we drove into the garage. "Sneakers

are fine for gym, and the Mary Janes she bought for church are just too young for you now. I'll keep these locked in one of my workshop cabinets, and give you a duplicate key. And if I were you, I'd never let my wife see that doll or anything that once belonged to your mother. I'm ashamed to say that Kitty has an abnormal hatred for a poor dead girl who couldn't have known she was taking from Kitty the one man she could truly love."