Wings of a Dream (24 page)

My mouth proclaimed words I hadn’t even thought through completely, words that popped from the soil of my heart like green beans on a hot summer day.

His mouth opened and shut, smooth words slithering from his grasp. That handsome face. Those deep blue eyes. They’d roped me in like a naïve calf. But I wasn’t as childlike as I’d once been.

I stood up, raised my chin, and gave him Mama’s disapproving look. “I think you’d better leave now.”

His eyes narrowed. Weighing his options, I guessed. Wondering how much fight I had in me. After what seemed like an eternity, he pushed back from the table. “Yes. I have to get back.”

I handed him his hat and gloves and tapped my foot as he shrugged into his coat. I didn’t bother to walk him to his car or even watch him out the gate. I slammed the front door behind him as soon as his feet cleared the threshold.

I found Dan and James pouting on opposite ends of the sofa in the parlor. The smile on my face felt like it rose up all the way from my toes. “C’mon boys. Let’s make some hot cocoa.”

They leapt to their feet, each grabbing one of my hands. I glanced back at the window. The car Arthur had arrived in had disappeared from sight.

I drew myself a bath that night. I didn’t care that it was bitter cold outside or that it wasn’t Saturday. I’d not taken very good care of myself since that trip to Dallas. But now I resolved to put Arthur completely behind me. To move forward—even if I remained unsure of my destination.

I leaned my head back until it hung over the side of the tin tub, the warm water like velvet on my dry skin. A bucket of rainwater sat nearby for my hair, but I didn’t relish the coolness it would bring to my bath. Not yet.

With a bar of lavender-scented store-bought soap, I scrubbed the grime from my body. And with sheer determination, I scrubbed Arthur from my mind.

I
made it easy for the kids to count down the days until Christmas by hanging a length of rope on the banister, one knot tied for each day until December 25. Just before bed each night, we released a gnarled knot and let it flow loose.

Each day the rope trailed longer, I felt worse for the children. Not only would it be the first Christmas without their mother, it seemed unlikely their father would make it home, either. Their questions plagued me, not the least of which were the queries about Santa Claus. How would Frank want me to answer?

And with each passing day my heart fluttered ever more at the thought of Frank’s sudden arrival into our little world. I wanted him to take over the care of his children and leave me free to pursue my dreams.

Didn’t I?

The last Saturday before Christmas, I hitched Dandy to the buggy myself and drove us into town. Turning up the collar of my coat, I directed our steps to the brick building on the corner. Our bit of cash had evaporated like a pond in summer, in spite of my efforts to buy only necessities after the Dallas fiasco. But I was determined that the children would have Christmas, even if their father couldn’t be with them. I’d make sure he provided presents all the same.

I couldn’t ask the Lathams to help. They struggled just to put food on the table for their family of ten. I didn’t imagine Christmas at their house consisted of much more than some fruit and candy. But Frank had to have money in the bank, didn’t he? His crops had been harvested in the fall.

A fierce wind held the heavy door fast, but I pried it open far enough for us to slip inside. Warmth cocooned me as the smell of wood polish and coal smoke mingled with the sharpness of the winter air. I pulled off my gloves, took a deep breath, and approached the barred window.

“May I help you?” The gentleman behind the bars craned his neck to look past me, looking for my husband or my father, I suspected.

“I need some money from Frank Gresham’s account.”

The man’s cheek twitched as he smoothed the edge of his moustache. “This is quite irregular, Miss . . . ?”

I pulled back my shoulders. “Rebekah Hendricks. I’ve been caring for the Gresham children since my aunt, Adabelle Williams”—my stiffness softened a bit—“since October.”

“Please wait here a moment.”

I sat the children on the floor, their backs against the amber wood that ran the length of the room. I didn’t figure this to take a long time. But the moments stretched. I peered into the space behind the iron bars but couldn’t see the teller I’d spoken with. Only the big silver door of the vault, closed tight.

“Miss Hendricks?”

I reeled around and found myself face-to-face with a man whose eyes danced in a jolly sort of way. “I’d be pleased to speak with you in my office.” He motioned for me to walk ahead. I gave the children a look that I hoped said “Stay put” before I followed.

Seated in the chair that faced his desk, my heart threatened to bounce from my chest as his smooth fingers closed around each other and settled calmly on his desk. Hands that counted money instead of clawing the dirt to make crops grow.

“I understand you have questions about Mr. Gresham’s account?”

I glanced at the children through the plate-glass window. “Actually, I need to withdraw some money. It’s nearly Christmas. I want it to be special for the children.”

He pulled a stack of papers toward him and settled a pair of spectacles on his pudgy nose. “I understand, Miss Hendricks. Unfortunately, Mr. Gresham maintains only a nominal amount of money in an account in our bank. Next to nothing, really.”

My stomach soured. Frank had nothing in the bank? But in one letter I’d read, he’d told Aunt Adabelle to divide the crop money as usual. Divide it how? Put it where?

I stared at my purse, fingering the clasp. Frank’s letters had been detailed and specific. He seemed to prefer his house and farm kept in similar fashion. Like my daddy. And Daddy always kept money saved in the bank.

“Hasn’t he sent home his army pay?” the banker asked.

“I found a little money in . . . the house.” My face burned as I thought again of what I’d wasted on my trip to Dallas.

The man cleared his throat, obviously ill at ease. “Given Frank Gresham’s reputation, I’m sure Mr. Crenshaw will accommodate you.”

My back straightened. Reputation for what? For spending money he didn’t have or making good on the debt he owed?

“Thank you.” I stood, shook his hand. If Frank hadn’t provided anything for his children, I’d have to take care of them myself. If only Daddy’s instructions never to buy on credit didn’t sound so loud in my head.

With only three knots left in our rope, we scampered through a sparse clump of trees near the creek in search of a small pine. We found one—barely more than a stick, really. But given that James and I had to cut and carry it, it was perfect.

Beads threaded on a string adorned its branches and a few store-bought decorations that had been wrapped in paper and stored in Aunt Adabelle’s dresser drawer bowed the limbs.

“Can we bake a cinnamon cake for breakfast?” Ollie asked.

I hesitated.

“Mama and Miss Ada always did,” she whispered.

“Of course we can.” But even while I smiled, I wondered if the recipe would show itself in one of my aunt’s books or if I’d have to make it up as I went along. A quick search of the kitchen turned up a newspaper clipping pasted on the flyleaf of another cookbook.

So we baked and worked all that night and most of the next day—Christmas Eve. Finally, we hung their socks on the mantel and crept to our beds.

“Will I hear Santa Claus when he comes?” Dan asked.

I tucked the covers around him and kissed his cheek. “I don’t think so. He won’t come until he knows you are asleep.” I tweaked his nose.

He laughed and squeezed his eyes shut. “Tell him to come now, Bekah. I’m asleep.”

Their whispers drifted through the thin wall until long past midnight, but even after they quieted, I couldn’t sleep. I’d done the right thing buying them gifts, hadn’t I? I tossed and turned and prayed, begging God to at least let Daddy cover the amount if Frank protested. Just about the time my eyelids drooped in sleep, four children scrambled into my bed, jarring me awake.

“Let me go down first,” I said, inching out from under the covers. “I’ll get the fire going and call you.”

“Don’t take our presents!” The look on Dan’s face told me he sincerely feared I would.

I brushed the hair from his forehead. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Throwing a shawl over my shoulders and socks on my feet, I hurried to the parlor. My hands shook as I lit the kindling beneath the fat logs laid just for this morning. Smoke billowed before the flame caught. I lit two lamps, bowing back the dim darkness of early morning. On the mantel, each sock bulged with an orange and a peppermint stick, a special toy peeking from the top.

The pitter-patter of feet on the stairs didn’t give me time for reflection.

“Merry Christmas!” I grinned and joined their frenzy of excitement in spite of the question pounding in my head. Would Frank have the money to cover his children’s presents? Would he approve of what I’d purchased? Ollie cradled her new doll. Dan tried to make words with the alphabet blocks, and James connected the sticks and wheels of the Tinkertoys. Janie stared at the teddy bear, occasionally putting out a pudgy hand to stroke the fur. Yet all I could see was the page in Mr. Crenshaw’s ledger book.

Frank Gresham. Five dollars and forty-three cents.

Five dollars that could have bought material to replace the clothes the children were fast outgrowing. Or buy a few canned goods to supplement our meals. Or patent medicines to keep us well.

I pressed my hands to either side of my head, trying to stop the furor of my thoughts. But it didn’t help. I thought of shoes and doctor bills and kerosene and candles, of soap and staple goods and seeds and—

I needed fresh air. I opened the front door and stepped outside, each breath swirling white in front of my face. Smoked puffed from our chimney, filling my nose with the sharp smell of burnt wood. I walked the length of the porch, my hands wrapping around each other, my thoughts racing off in directions I had no desire for them to go. To Arthur. Will. Mama. Frank.

I don’t know how long I stood there. Long enough to lose feeling in my fingers and toes.

Only after I sat in the parlor, a wool shawl around my shoulders, a cup of hot tea in my hands, did I realized that Irene had rescued me yet again.

“I had a Holy Spirit moment this morning,” she told me as we sat alone on the sofa, the children upstairs donning their visiting clothes. “While we were reading from Luke, the Lord told me there was another child, wretched and cold, who needed me this Christmas morning. But I didn’t imagine He meant it so literally.”

I tried to smile with her, but my cheeks remained still as icicles.

She laid her hand on my knee. “You miss your mama as much as they miss theirs.”

I nodded and took a sip of the honey-sweetened tea. Chamomile, if I had to guess. “I had a letter from her a few days ago, chiding me for not coming home for Christmas. I hate to disappoint Mama, but I know it’s right that I stay, even if she doesn’t understand.” I took another sip of tea. “I just didn’t think growing up would be so confusing.”

Irene patted my knee. “George and I didn’t think straight, what with putting up little presents for all the children. It slipped our mind that you’d be needing someone to be your family. Can you forgive us?”