Wings of a Dream (13 page)

The mailman’s good-natured chortle faded into the distance. I’d been seen wearing nothing but an old blanket. And Dan’s head still needed mending. But then I realized what Mr. Culpepper’s presence meant: we had mail. Tears snaked down my face as I shook with laughter I couldn’t hold inside.

“You okay?” Ollie handed me clean underclothes, as well as what must have been one of her mother’s calico work dresses.

“I’m fine.” I giggled out more laughter as I dressed. It didn’t matter how hard I tried. I’d never be the lady Mama desired me to be.

I checked Dan’s head again. The gash didn’t look as horrific now. “James, why don’t you run out and get our mail? And for heaven’s sake, carry an umbrella.”

He darted for the door. I had no illusions that he’d come back dry. I just needed him out of the way while I doused Dan’s gash with iodine.

“Hold Ollie’s hand, Dan. Squeeze as hard as you want. This won’t hurt—much.”

I held my breath as I dabbed the medicine on top of the gash. Dan howled like a tomcat with his tail stuck beneath a wagon wheel. I looked up for a split second as James skidded to a stop just inside the kitchen, his face void of all color. Envelopes fell from his hand as he bolted from the house.

“James!” My voice followed him, but my legs couldn’t. Not until I’d finished with Dan.

Dan whimpered. I dried my hands, wiped Dan’s tears, and started out the door to find James. Then my foot rustled one of the letters. I stooped down to pick it up. My hand trembled as I scurried to find the others that had scattered. My treasure hunt produced two more. I fanned them out like playing cards. One from Daddy. One from Frank. And one from Arthur.

“Hold these.” I handed them to Ollie.

“One from Daddy!” Her squeal followed me as I dashed out the door, careful to lift my clean skirt above the mud and keep the umbrella directly over my head. If I knew James at all by now, he’d have buried himself in a haystack, probably with his hind end sticking out. I whistled my way into the barn, my nose wrinkling at the smell of moist hay and manure.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” I sang out as if we played a game of hide-and-seek. Sure enough, a chubby leg disappeared into a wall of hay. I reached in and pulled out my little man, his dirty face streaked with tears.

“Is he dead?” he asked, his bottom lip trembling.

I wrapped my arms around him and placed his arms around my waist. Not that he required much encouragement to cling to me. “He’s all better now, James.”

“I’m so glad I didn’t kill him.” His wail filled the barn, starting Ol’ Bob and the mules to bellowing, too.

A chuckle escaped me as I tipped his head back. “You come and see just how fine he is.”

He blinked up at me, as if weighing the truth of my words. A slow grin lit his face. I gave his behind a pat. He didn’t need any other encouragement. His little legs plowed through mud as deep as his knees until he reached the house.

“Now, Rebekah. Read it now.” Ollie pulled me toward the parlor, James jumping up and down beside her, Dan limping along behind, as if it were his leg hurt, not his head.

“Hush. You’ll wake the baby.” I let go of Ollie’s hand and picked up Dan instead. Not until I had him nestled in the corner of the sofa did I slit the envelope and pull out the letter.

Something plopped to the floor. Ollie stooped to pick it up.

“Look! It’s Daddy!” She held a photograph between her fingers.

“Let me see!” James tried to yank it away. Ollie held it out of reach and climbed up beside me. Dan leaned in. James hoisted himself over the back of the sofa, his hands on my shoulders for balance.

A blurry photograph. Three uniformed men beside a bridge, their faces too far from the camera to make out clearly. But they all looked young. More like Will’s age than Barney Graves’s.

My heart pounded in my ears. “Which one’s your daddy?”

Ollie pointed. The middle one. The one with his arms draped over the shoulders of the other two. The one with the solemn face.

“You sure, Ollie?” James climbed over my shoulder and squeezed in next to his sister, eyes scrunched as if trying to remember the man who stared up at him from the picture. Dan blinked in confusion.

I unfolded the sheet of paper and took a deep breath. The children quieted. I skimmed past his greeting to my aunt.

“Ollie Elizabeth, be good for Miss Ada. I expect you to help her and not to boss your brothers around. Take care of Janie, too. I’m praying that you will grow into as fine a woman as your mama was.

James, don’t try to split the wood by yourself. You scared Miss Ada near to death. Let someone else do that for now. Others will help out. A real man knows when to let others help.

Dan, I’m counting on you to grow big and strong so you can help plant in the spring. I’ll need you and your brother both when I get home.

My Janie, I can’t wait to meet you. How you must be growing up already! But please don’t get too big for your daddy to hold you.”

I heard Ollie sniffle, felt her head heavy on my knee. I smoothed back her hair but couldn’t look at her. My own tears lurked too close to the surface. Instead, I slid the picture and letter back into the envelope and cleared the bottled tears from my throat.

“Let’s go on to bed. It’s been a long day.”

No one protested. Not even a whine. And their silent grief unnerved me. With each shadowed step up the stairs after them, I pondered this man, his words so often short and stiff, yet these moments of tenderness, too. His sweet notes to his children, even the daughter he didn’t yet know.

I needed to understand Frank Gresham, the father of these children. I needed to know what would happen to them after Arthur whisked me away.

In the middle of the night I crept back down the stairs. I couldn’t sleep after reading my letters. Not with Daddy’s words burning in my head.
She’s out of danger, but the doctor says the influenza has weakened her. She might not ever be quite the same.

What did Daddy mean, exactly, by “weakened”? Never had I known such a word to describe my mother. I couldn’t imagine Mama as anything other than, well, Mama.

I eased open the bedroom door, touched the match to the lamp’s wick, and spread the letters of the day on the desk before me. I skimmed Daddy’s again.
Do you intend to stay with the children until their father arrives home?

Anger and guilt tangled up inside me. I believed God had sent me here. Aunt Adabelle had said it, too. And I’d promised her I’d care for the children. I even told the sheriff and the preacher that I would stay. But I wanted to go. I wanted to be with Arthur. I wanted a more adventurous, more exciting life.

My fingers traced Arthur’s signature, the flourish beneath in the form of an airplane. He hadn’t asked me to come to him. Hadn’t mentioned seeing me at all. Just detailed his boredom with the quarantine.

Frank might not come home for months or years. Or what if he never made it back? I held Frank’s letter toward the bit of lamplight.
October 11
was scripted at the top
.

Three weeks ago, on a day my aunt still walked the earth, he wrote these words. Surely he had the news of my aunt’s death by now. He’d write to someone he knew and ask him or her to step in and care for his children. Wouldn’t he?

I dipped pen into ink and bled my heart onto a clean page.
I need you, Arthur. I’m desperate to see your face.

On and on the words flowed. Desperate words. Aching words. I wrote until they stopped. Then I pulled the lamp closer and read over my letter. In one motion, I swept the paper into my hand, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it on the floor. I drew out a clean sheet. But the right words wouldn’t come. Only petty, empty words that sounded like a spoiled child.

Maybe I oughtn’t write to Arthur yet. As soon as they lifted the quarantine at Camp Dick, he would come in person. I felt sure of it. He didn’t mention it so as not to raise my hopes. Or perhaps he intended to surprise me with a visit.

But if I couldn’t write to Arthur, I had to write to someone. Almost of its own accord, my pen addressed a letter to Frank Gresham. I poured out the stories of Aunt Adabelle’s funeral, Dan’s head injury, James’s nightmares. I asked what to do with the fields and the livestock and the garden for winter. I assured him of his children’s health. Finally, I folded the letter into an envelope. But it wouldn’t reach the mail train until tomorrow. Crossing the ocean would take weeks. What if Arthur came for me before Frank replied?

I imagined one situation after another, but no matter which way I thought things out, I knew I couldn’t leave the children without knowing their father hovered close at hand.

T
wo days after my letter to Frank disappeared from the mailbox, I splurged with the white flour and baking powder, my rolling pin slamming into the slab of biscuit dough. Thud, roll. Thud, roll. Again and again.

Every frustration pounded the dough flat.

Then a knock rattled the kitchen door. My hand jumped to my chest as I huffed out air. Mama’d done that same thing ten thousand times when we burst into the kitchen and startled her from her task.

A stout woman opened the door and chuckled as she lifted a gingham-covered basket into the air. “I thought y’all might like some sweets we had sitting by.”

I wiped my hands on my apron before reaching out to accept the stranger’s offering. “Thank you very much.”

“I’m Irene Latham. I expect you met my husband.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. He said you’d been helping out with the sick.” I stepped backward, anxious to put some distance between us.

She shrugged. “I’ve done what I could. For many, that wasn’t enough. Took some so quick, like your aunt.” Her eyes went misty. “I’ll miss Adabelle. She was a good friend. But at least I have the comfort of knowing I’ll see her again.” Her gaze lifted toward heaven. It seemed a sincere gesture of friendship, not a showy display of piety.

I liked this woman immediately, and in that moment, I wished I would have had more time to get to know Adabelle. I believed we would have been friends, not just family.

“Please, sit down.” I pulled a golden-crusted pie from the basket before positioning the coffeepot on the burner.

“Where’re the children?” Mrs. Latham glanced about her.

“Ollie’s giving a tea party in the barn. And Janie’s napping.” I gave her a guilty smile. “I needed a little peace and quiet.”

“Of course you did.” Her laughter trilled through the room as she patted my hand. “A young thing like you isn’t used to the chaos of children at her skirts all day long.” Her eyes danced as a grin stretched her full lips. “Though by your age, I had two myself. But at least you haven’t wanted for company. I hear our sheriff has been quite attentive.”

My face burned as I turned to pour our coffee. Just like in Downington, everyone knew everyone else’s business around here. But did they know I was plotting my way out of this town?

I set cups of coffee on the table, deciding to ignore her insinuation. “When I came to take care of Aunt Adabelle, I had no idea she had charge of four children. I haven’t had much experience with children before now. Seems like we’ve had a crisis every day I’ve been here.” I plopped onto the bench at the table.