The House on Malcolm Street (22 page)

Her logic seemed a bit skewed to think that two souls caught in grief could be of much use to one another. It was almost like expecting a pair of travelers mired together in quicksand to pull each other out. Still, she meant well, just like I’d told her, and it certainly wouldn’t hurt anything to be considerate of each other’s circumstances. I would certainly be a bit more patient with Josiah’s less-than-friendly moods. And a bit more cautious too, since despite Marigold’s confidence in him, he seemed more than a little unpredictable.

He didn’t come home before I snuggled into bed beside Eliza, and I dropped off to sleep with our strange conversation still in my mind.

I don’t know how much time passed. Off in the distance I heard a train whistle again, first low and slow and then gradually nearer. Before long it grew so deafeningly loud that it sounded like the track must be right behind the house. Strangely, instead of being horrified I was somehow fascinated. Spring was in the air. Mother’s daffodils and hyacinths were poking their heads above the ground. It was a grand day to be outdoors, and I wanted to travel as fast as my toddling little legs could carry me.

New lilies poked their heads above the uneven ground near the tracks. Just beyond them I saw the rocks. Lots of delightful little round stones of varied colors. Just the sort of thing to catch my attention despite the ominous rumbling again now in the distance. I picked up handful after handful just to let them fall through my fingers again. It was a wonderful game that led me farther and farther up the gentle slope among the seemingly endless pebble array. It didn’t bother me to have to step over metal and wood at the top. That was just another part of the adventure. But my shoe caught on the track and I fell. And not until then did I realize the menace of the growing sound that had seemed so benign.

The metal monster was huge, capable of devouring me in a single gulp, along with all the rocks, lilies, and shrubbery anywhere near its path. I was suddenly paralyzed, fear rushing at me with an all-consuming insistence. I screamed. But though I wanted to run as fast as I could and hide, I could not seem to move. The devil locomotive barreled down on me with an unearthly metal grin. I could do nothing at all. Until John, young and beautiful John, emerged from the haze around the tracks with urgency and determination written all over his face. I reached my arms to him, trying to forget the menace beyond him. If he could only reach me, if I could only be folded safely in the comfort of his arms . . .

He grabbed at me so suddenly that one of my shoes fell to the tracks. I felt a trembling but couldn’t tell if it was me or the dreadful shaking of the ground as that metal monster came rushing at us. John had been running and he ran still, pushing me ahead of him with such force that I couldn’t hope to maintain my balance. I fell headlong into the stubbly ditch. He was right behind me. He should be tumbling head over heels any second into the lilies and clumps of bristle grass, and then we would be safe in each other’s arms.

But I heard a scream and a horrid mechanical screech. John was not beside me as he should have been. Instead he’d been thrown, and all I could see was one leg that should have cleared the tracks in time. One broken and bloody leg.

Panicked, fighting to breathe, I woke to a sob that must have been my own. I was cold and hot at the same time, sweaty and shaking so badly I could scarcely believe Eliza was yet asleep beside me. I gulped, twice, three times, trying to catch my breath and quiet my racing heart. And then I sobbed, unable to stop myself, because I’d seen John again. I’d seen his death as though it were my fault, as though I were the old man he’d lost his life to save.

The dawning sun had begun to lighten the sky outside my window. This was Sunday, the day we were to accompany Marigold to the church that was so dear to her heart. How would I be able to steady my legs beneath me? How could I stop myself from shaking? It’d all been too vivid, too horrid, and I felt that I’d never be able to push the ghastly image from my mind.

I pulled the blanket as close as I could around me and curled tight into a ball as I used to do when I was a child. How comforting it would have been to have my mother’s tender hand caressing my cheek, banishing the moment’s terror with her soothing touch. So many mornings I’d cried in her arms until I hadn’t the energy left even to lift my head.

“Shhh,” she’d always whispered. “It’s over now and you are safe.”

Mother’s words had been good. Kind and true. But it was not enough anymore that I was safe. The monster had accomplished its horrible deed. It had devoured, had stolen life and then moved on to steal and kill again.

It was absolutely foolish, to lie in that bed and sob like a child. But I couldn’t help myself, even when Eliza began to roll and stir. I wiped at my tears, tried to swallow down the despair I was feeling, but to no avail.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“I – I had a terrible dream, honey. But it’s – it’s over now. I’ll be all right.”

She laid her head on my shoulder and her hand on my cheek. She said nothing for a moment and I wished I could be stronger for her. So often she was the one being strong for me.

When she finally spoke with uncharacteristic solemnity, I felt completely unprepared.

“I had a dream too. About Daddy and Johnny. I dreamed we was in our house in St. Louis and they was still there.”

New tears came to my eyes and I hugged her. “I’m so sorry, honey,” I managed to say. “I’m so sorry he’s not here for you.”

She was quiet again for a moment, motionless in my arms. But then she asked the question I’d dreaded for months even though I’d known it would eventually come. “Daddy wasn’t sick like my baby brother, was he, Mommy? I know he was supposed to go away so he’d be ready for Johnny James, but doesn’t something always got to happen when somebody goes to heaven? What happened to make Daddy die?”

Why now? After all this time, why did I have to face her inquiries when my insides felt like they’d been wrenched sideways and I could barely hold my thoughts together? I’d told her only the bare minimum when her father died, just as I’d been advised by John’s minister, hoping she wouldn’t ask for details of his death until she was much older. Now how could I answer with such awful pictures still vivid in my mind?

She waited in silence, clinging to me, petting my cheek with her hand almost the way my mother used to do. And I knew I had to answer her. My daughter was mature beyond her years sometimes, certainly mature enough to have honest questions addressed. I took a deep breath, determined to forge ahead.

“Honey, do you remember that Pastor Woolner said Daddy’d been in an accident?”

“Yes.” She looked sober, pensive. “But what kind of accident? Once he got his finger pinched in a door.”

“Yes. I remember that. But this – this was far worse. He – he was a hero, honey. I probably should have told you.”

I steeled myself to go on in the face of her intense gaze. Should she really hear this story? If I still had difficulty handling the reality of what had happened, how could she? Yet she wanted to know. How could I deny her the truth?

Surely she would cry. Maybe we would both be too broken to leave this bed today. I had no idea how Marigold might react to that, but I somehow could not refuse my daughter anyway.

“It – it was a very sudden accident, honey.” I tried to abbreviate if she’d let me. “It didn’t hurt just his finger and it wasn’t just a door. It hurt much more of his body, so much that he couldn’t get better.”

“But what kind of accident? How’d he be a hero?”

I sighed, knowing she’d persist. And I hugged her tight, hoping I was doing the right thing.

“Near a loud, busy station with a lot of tracks and trains, an – an old man was moving his cart of boxes across the tracks. It was a heavy load and he had a lot of trouble. Your daddy was waiting for a train and he went to help that old man.”

I stopped and drew a deep breath. She was watching me closely with a hint of tears rimming her shining eyes, but the tears didn’t fall.

“A train car started moving on a track where it wasn’t supposed to be,” I continued. “They never heard it because of all the other train noise. It would have crushed that old man if it hadn’t been for your father. That’s what they told me. Even though the man was hurt and had to go to the hospital, he was able to go home later and care for his sick wife and grandbabies. Your daddy saved his life.”

To think again of the gift John had given to that family made me weak inside. It still seemed utterly unfair that my young, strong husband had not come home.

“Did the train hit my daddy?”

I nodded. Though the slow-moving train car had only knocked him aside into the pushcart along the tracks, he had lived just six hours in the hospital emergency ward, with internal bleeding that could not be controlled. It was wrong. Senseless. He should have lived. He would have lived, the doctors said, if he hadn’t both hit his head and ruptured a blood vessel in the impact.

Eliza’s tears rolled softly, soundlessly, down one cheek. “Did the old man have lots of grandbabies?”

I would never in a thousand years have expected that question. “Yes. I think someone told me there were five children in his home who’d lost their mother a year or two before.”

“Then they needed him. Daddy helped them.”

She didn’t seem to see the inconsistency of her own statements. She needed her daddy too. We both did. Why hadn’t that mattered to the Almighty God?

“Yes,” I was able to tell her, despite my selfish thoughts. “He helped them very much.”

“Then God made a bad thing be a good thing,” she reasoned. “Because those people needed their grandpa and Johnny James was gonna need his daddy to hold him as soon as he got to heaven. I miss him, but it wouldn’t be right for baby Johnny if Daddy wasn’t there.”

“But there’s nothing to fear there and no one is alone,” I protested. “There are angels, and the Lord himself. Johnny would have been – ” I suddenly couldn’t go on.

“If it was me that went to heaven, I wouldn’t want to go first of anybody I knew,” Eliza told me. “I’d be glad for somebody to be right up there waiting for me. We could have a party when I come in the door. That’s what Aunt Marigold says it’s like in heaven when somebody gets saved. The angels have a party, and then everybody has a big party all over again when the person gets to come right up there to be with them and God.”

“Yes,” I muttered uncomfortably. “Maybe that’s so.”

“Daddy and Johnny is waiting to have a party for us, isn’t they?”

I raised my head from the pillow and propped on one elbow. “We really should be getting up in a few minutes . . . see? It’s daylight outside.”

She hugged me again. “Okay.”

We both sat up slowly, and I was relieved for her attention to be turned to the start of our day. I could not have borne another moment of talk about death and heaven. Though such things seemed to be a comfort to Eliza, who’d brought up the subject more than once with Marigold, I could barely manage, and this time had been the worst. I felt wobbly in the knees and entirely drained of stamina. How could I make it through a morning that might require even more strength than usual? I’d be facing church for the first time in so long. And Josiah again, and who could know how he’d react to me today?

The horror of my dream stuck to my mind like a haunting phantom, and worst of all, I could see the tears still in Eliza’s eyes. Though her countenance had brightened, I knew she couldn’t help but be affected by the things she’d learned. Had I told her too much? I did not want her to be fearful as I was, or mournful and glum.

I could not eat anything at breakfast, especially when Eliza decided to tell Marigold every word she’d heard about her father’s death. I could not even bear to listen but had to step outside to catch my breath.

And that was a mistake. Apparently Josiah’d had the same idea in order to avoid encountering us at the breakfast table. He was sitting on the slant of the cellar door, and I didn’t see him until it was too late.

“Did Mari send you out to fetch me?”

“No,” I said, far more snappily than I should have. “I guess she figures if you want to skip breakfast that’s your privilege. She didn’t say a word about it.”

“Fine. What are you doing then?”

“Nothing. Just getting some fresh air.” I was feeling rather peevish that he would ask about my business again, but at least I had the sense not to say so. I turned from him and walked to the garden, wishing he would go inside. I didn’t like knowing he would be where he could see me. I only wanted to be alone while Eliza and Marigold finished their jelly toast and cambric tea.

In a few moments I heard him get up from the cellar door. But I didn’t hear the porch door and wasn’t sure where he went. I turned, afraid he’d be right behind me, but he was nowhere in sight. I sunk to my knees on the garden path, feeling suddenly guilty. Had he been outside all night? I wasn’t sure, but those might have been the same clothes he’d been wearing. Should I have been more gracious and told him that indeed Marigold did wish him to come in?

She’d said nothing about him this morning. I hadn’t asked. I’d only assumed he must have come in sometime after I went to sleep, but had he? Where had he gone? Had he succumbed to drinking again? What must it be like to carry the guilt that he bore?

I remembered my thoughts last night that if I were a praying person, I should pray for him. Someone should. And someone should pray for my daughter too, who despite her cheerful reasoning still carried the lonely ache of missing the father she dearly loved. But Aunt Marigold was praying for all of us. I was sure about that, and as long as there were prayers being said, it didn’t matter where they came from. Or where they didn’t.

I tried to comfort myself with that logic but knew nonetheless that it was dead, empty, and utterly selfish. I was being stubborn and spiteful. Far less than the person John and my mother would have wanted me to be. Over and over my own heart tried to tell me that prayer could help bring peace, but I was still waiting for God to satisfy my own personal demands. Yet at what cost?