Wings of a Dream (9 page)

The road veered north at the end of the buildings. Along the cross street, the houses I’d noticed on our way to the churchyard sat quiet and still. No laundry flapping on the clotheslines. No babies crying or children shouting in play. I returned to sit near Mr. Crenshaw’s establishment. Ollie joined me while the boys kicked up dust in front of the quiet storefronts.

My heart inched toward the pit of my stomach. Where was everyone?

“May I help you?” A vaguely familiar voice came from behind me.

I jumped to my feet, pressing Janie close to my chest. The preacher, his hangdog face even sadder than I remembered, stared at me through red-rimmed eyes.

I moistened my lips. “We came to . . .” What had we come to do? “I wanted to get some things from Mr. Crenshaw.”

His mouth smiled, but his eyes remained distant. “He’s out helping Doc tend the sick.” His gaze roved over the five of us. “Any of you sick?”

“No, sir.” I watched the children’s heads shake in reply. “I’m expecting a letter. Or two. Nothing came in our box yesterday. I thought I’d check at the post office.” I glanced back at the post office, door shut, shades pulled.

“Mr. Jamison runs the post office, but he’s down with the influenza. Mrs. Crenshaw’s been helping out. I imagine she’s at home.”

Ollie grabbed my hand and pulled me in the direction of the first small house beyond the dry goods store. “It’s my friend Mildred’s house.” A rare smile lit the girl’s face.

“Thank you,” I called as the preacher plodded away in the opposite direction. A moment later we stood at the Crenshaws’ door. Ollie knocked. I knocked. The boys made no end of little-boy racket. Yet no one appeared. Just as I determined to go wait in front of the store again, the door creaked open. A woman appeared, hair disheveled, face white.

“Yes?” That one word seemed to steal every breath from her body.

I stepped back, pulling Ollie with me, glad that something in the yard had captured the boys’ attention. “Please, ma’am, we’re looking for Mrs. Crenshaw.”

She nodded once.

My breath came in quick gasps. “I’m Rebekah Hendricks, Adabelle Williams’s niece. I’m expecting a letter. From my daddy.”
And Arthur,
I said in my head.

Mrs. Crenshaw leaned her head against the doorframe, her body sinking toward the floor. I handed Janie to wide-eyed Ollie just as the sick woman crumpled in a heap.

“Ollie.” I held my voice steady instead of letting my panic spew. “Take the others and wait for me at Mr. Crenshaw’s store.”

“But—”

I clenched my teeth. “Just go.”

With a huff, she marched toward her brothers. “Come on.”

I should have scolded her for barking at them like that, but maneuvering Mrs. Crenshaw to her feet occupied my full attention. Already tears pushed at my eyes as Mrs. Crenshaw fought for breath. I hadn’t known enough to be frightened around Aunt Adabelle. But now I did. I didn’t want this woman’s fever to jump into my body, but neither could I leave her where she lay.

Easing the woman’s arm around my neck, I pulled her up with me, securing her with my arm about her waist. A little girl in a nightgown appeared, flush-cheeked and barefooted. Mildred, I assumed.

“Go back to bed, honey. I’m putting your mama back to bed, too.” The girl obeyed. I practically carried her mother to the bedroom, laid her down, and covered her with a quilt. Her eyes spoke gratitude.

“I’ll wait for your husband at the store. He should be back soon.”

She closed her eyes. I crept from the room and ran from the house. Halfway to the store, I stopped. The newspaper article I’d read encouraged washing your hands often and staying away from those with flu-like symptoms. I rounded the corner of town wondering if I dared allow the children around me now. What if one of them fell ill? Yet they’d all been with Aunt Adabelle. As had I. Maybe God would keep us well.

Mr. Crenshaw stepped outside his store.

I pushed ahead of the little ones. “Your wife . . .” I glanced over my shoulder and rubbed my hands against my skirt. “Your wife is very ill. I put her in bed. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Janie reached for me. Dan clung to my skirts. Mr. Crenshaw put a hand on my shoulder and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He ducked his head for a moment before his watery gaze met mine. His chest rose as if drawing in a wagonload of air. His arm dropped to his side, his gaze fixed on his house.

“Go home, Miss Hendricks. It’s the best place for y’all to be.” He closed the door to his store before he plodded down the steps and across the road toward his home.

My chest ached from holding back the full force of my fears. Reading about the scourge in the newspaper had been one thing. Seeing the Spanish Lady take its toll on an entire town made my knees weak. I practically dragged the children to keep up with me on the walk home.

When I glimpsed the mailbox in front of the house, I ran. My greedy hands searched inside. My fingers brushed paper. Mail. On top of the newspaper I’d come to expect, a letter from home.

But that would have to wait. Hot water was needed. And lye soap. I wouldn’t take any chances with this influenza. I scrubbed my hands three times and made the children wash, too. Then I shut myself in Aunt Adabelle’s bedroom, again shoving aside the memories of her lifeless body. I needed a place where no one would intrude, and I felt certain Ollie wouldn’t set foot in here. Not yet.

I sat on the still-naked mattress and slit open Daddy’s letter with my hairpin. I’d never known Daddy to write anything. Mama took care of the correspondence.

Rebekah,

Your mother is gravely ill.

I dropped the letter to my lap, unsettled as much by the shaky hand as by the words I’d hoped not to hear. Would God take Mama as He’d taken Aunt Adabelle? Wiping my cheek, I forced my runny eyes back to Daddy’s words.

She took the news about Adabelle hard, but I think she was glad you were with her at the end. Pray for your mama, girl. Keep yourself and those children as far from this illness as possible.

I love you,

Daddy

I walked to the window and leaned my forehead on a cool pane of glass. Would Mama be as ill if I’d have been there? Maybe Mama had hidden her illness from Daddy for too long. That would be like her. But I would have seen it. I could have told her—

No, I couldn’t have told her anything. Mama was Mama. She wouldn’t take advice from me.

And I couldn’t help her now. I could only help these children and myself. I threw open the sash, hands gripping the windowsill. “Please make Mama well,” I prayed. “Keep Will safe. Show me a way to get to Arthur. Give me strength.”

The words stopped. I had nothing left to say. Did God really hear such simple pleas?

From the window, I watched Dan and James line up at the far fence.

“Go!” James dashed ahead of his brother, both of them headed for the porch. James reached it first.

Dan threw himself into the dying grass and melted into hysterical sobs.

“Heavens to Betsy.” In a flash, I was out the door, lifting Dan from the ground. He refused to put weight on his feet as tears chased each other down his wind-chapped cheeks.

“Let’s go.” My voice held the same tightness I often heard in Mama’s voice. I tried to shake it away, but I wasn’t in the mood to coddle children. I plunked Dan on the bench beside the kitchen table, ready to scold. He hiccupped down another sob and brushed his sleeve beneath his nose.

Then my heart melted. This child had lost his mother and his Miss Ada—and might not even remember his daddy. I slid my hand down the side of his face, sweat and tears and dirt mingling on my hand. “I’m sorry you lost the race.” I stroked his face again before folding him into my arms.

“You should’ve whipped him good. Daddy would have.” Ollie’s cold eyes stared at me. I stared right back. Her gaze finally wavered, slipping to the floor in defeat.

My voice dropped to a whisper. “Why don’t you cut us all some cornbread and spread it with molasses?”

Her back stiffened again, but before she could defy me, Dan wriggled free from my grasp, his mourning turning to dancing, so to speak.

“You makin’ me somethin’ to eat, Ollie?” He shoved his thumb in his mouth.

Ollie pulled it out again and held him close. The look of a jealous woman flashed across her face. “Of course I am, Danny.”

Ollie Elizabeth stayed up later than the others that night. A stifling quiet descended between us, magnifying the night noises outside the slightly open window. She’d lost her mother, and she resented me. I understood that. But while part of me wanted to comfort her, another part of me, the part raised in Mama’s house, wanted to send her to bed without supper. What did she need more—a mother or a friend? If only someone would tell me what I was supposed to do.

I searched for something to say. “Perhaps school will start again soon. Would you like that?”

Ollie shrugged and twirled a lock of hair that fell near her chin.

“Do you enjoy school?”

She squirmed on the sofa.

I took a deep breath, needing to make some kind of connection with this girl who’d been carrying a woman’s burden. “I know you must miss your daddy a lot right now. I know I miss mine.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest, stuck the end of her hair into her mouth and chewed on it a minute. Then she flicked the strand of hair behind her shoulder. “Don’t you miss your mama?”

My throat tightened. “Yes. My daddy sent word that she’s sick right now. I wish I could help her.”

“Does she have the influenza?”

“I think so.” I moved to sit beside her. “What did you and your mama do in the evenings when you missed your daddy? After he went to France?”

She paused, her gaze rounding the room. “Sometimes Mama’d read to me from books or the newspaper. And she’d tell me stories about Daddy and her, when they were young. And we’d read Daddy’s letters. Miss Ada read us Daddy’s letters, too. But I don’t think one’s come in a while now.”

I chewed the nail on my thumb and crossed to the fireplace mantel, where the carved clock that tolled out the hour stood guard over the dying flames. “Maybe we can do some of those other things, too. You could even tell me the stories your mama told you—so you don’t forget.”

She shrugged, pulled her knees closer to her chest. I sat beside her again, folding my hands in my lap, trying to smile but fearing it came across as a grimace instead. “We’re both worried, aren’t we? You about your daddy. Me about my mama—and my brother over in France. Maybe we can help each other.”

She went quiet again. Then her eyes brightened. “We can pray for them.”

“Yes, Ollie Elizabeth, we can certainly do that.” Shame stirred my stomach. I should have been the one to suggest that. The clock clanged nine times, freeing me from my guilty thoughts. “Why don’t you run on up to bed, honey?”

Ollie inched from the sofa. I turned her shoulders toward the hall. “It’s getting chilly. Don’t want you to catch your dea—” I bit off the word and gave her behind a playful swat. “Scoot now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She hesitated, then reached up and pressed her lips to my cheek before scurrying away.

I touched the place on my skin, still warm with her breath. Every time I thought nothing more could surprise me, something did.

A
screech jarred me awaked. A thud followed. No morning dawn seeped through my window. I pressed my hand against my palpitating heart. Another screech, then sobs. I bounded from my bed.

James met me just outside the children’s bedroom door, rubbing sleep from watery eyes. I picked him up, pressed his head against my shoulder before peeking through the dark at the others. Shadows stirred. Ollie even sat up and blinked. I shushed them and slid to the floor, cradling the six-year-old like a baby. Another nightmare. His third since we’d buried his Miss Ada.

Of all the children, James seemed to be having the hardest time, but with Miss Ada’s passing or his own mama’s death, I couldn’t quite determine. Oh, he’d romp and play with his brother—and forget. But then he’d remember. And his grief would come so hard and fast that he couldn’t hold it inside. Like now.