Hidden Places (37 page)

‘‘Is this the kind of writing you do all the time? Newspaper articles like this?’’

‘‘Yes. Why?’’

‘‘Because this article is very well-written, very informative...but very dispassionate,’’ Aunt Batty told him. ‘‘That’s fine for newspaper articles; it’s what’s expected. But I’ve come to know you pretty well, Gabe, and you’re a very sensitive, perceptive man, capable of great feeling. Why doesn’t the true Gabe Harper come through in your writing? You’re not a dispassionate person.’’

‘‘You said it yourself, it’s not what’s expected in a good newspaper article. I don’t write fiction or essays—’’

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘Well...because...Ijust don’t.’’

‘‘Get angry, Gabe! Get excited, get passionate! All truly great writers are never afraid to put their feelings, their very selves, into their work. It’s true of every profession, I think. It’s why John Wakefield makes such a fine attorney...It’s what Eliza had to learn in order to make this orchard work. Great writers don’t hold back part of themselves. But I think you’re holding back, Gabe.’’

‘‘Why do you say that?’’

‘‘There’s none of your own experiences in what you write, only your indifferent observations. You need to put yourself onto the page.’’

Silence filled the long pause. I wondered what they were both doing.

‘‘That idea scares you to death for some reason, doesn’t it?’’ Aunt Batty finally said. ‘‘I can see it in your eyes.’’

‘‘Yes, I admit it scares me.’’

I remembered how good Gabe’s hobo stor y was, yet I’d learned nothing about him from reading it. But the stories Gabe wrote about his father and about his younger brother falling through the ice—those had the kind of feeling I think Aunt Batty meant. He must not have let her read those stories—and I thought I knew why.

‘‘Do you know why my books were so popular?’’ Aunt Batty asked. ‘‘It was because when I wrote my series for girls, I remembered my own girlish yearning to be like Nellie Bly and I tapped into my own soul. I wrote about the longing I had to be my own person, not just somebody’s daughter or wife, my longing to make the right decisions and to be what God created me to be, my longing to make my mark on the world like Nellie Bly did. And when I wrote my series for boys, I wrote out of my deep love for Walter— each one of my heroes faced death and danger with the same courage and faith that he’d shown. But if I hadn’t risked putting myself onto those pages, those books never would have sold. So the question is, why are you so afraid to put yourself onto the page?’’

There was another long silence before Gabe replied, ‘‘I don’t know why.’’

‘‘What events in your life changed you the most, Gabe? Fighting in the war is one of them, I would imagine.’’

‘‘Yes...but I can’t write about the war. I’ve tried...and I just can’t.’’

‘‘None of us will ever be all that God wants us to be until we face our past, face the people and the events that God put in our lives that shaped us and made us who we are. But first we have to get over our anger at Him for allowing the bad things to happen. Jesus says if we ask our Father for bread, He won’t give us a stone. We have to stop seeing the bad things in life as stones—they’re really God’s bread. They’ll nourish us and help us grow if we accept them as food for our souls.’’

I heard shuffling sounds as Aunt Batty stood up. When she spoke again her voice came from just inside the door. I ducked down behind the grain bin, but I heard her say before she left, ‘‘Write your own story, Gabe. I guarantee it will not only be powerful, but it might help you accept your past.’’

I drove the wagon into town the next day to mail the Sears order and to sell our cream and extra eggs. I stopped by Mr. Wakefield’s office, too, and it was all I could do to keep from galloping the horses home in the August heat to tell Aunt Batty the latest news. She was out in the yard, taking the laundry we had scrubbed that morning down from the clotheslines.

‘‘Looks like you’re about to burst,’’ she said when she saw me. ‘‘You’ve got news, I take it—good or bad?’’

‘‘I’m not sure. I paid Mr. Wakefield a visit while I was in town. He had a court date over at the county seat so he wasn’t there, but his secretary let it slip that they might have found out where Matthew is living. The address the army hospital gave Mr. Wakefield is for a boardinghouse in Chicago. The address is thirteen years old, of course, but at least they know where to start looking.

Mr. Wakefield has people pursuing a few leads for him in Chicago and they think they’re getting close to finding Matthew. They might have some news for us in just a couple more weeks.’’

‘‘Oh, that’s wonderful news!’’ Aunt Batty still held one end of a bed sheet that was attached to the clothesline with a pin. She got so excited that she twirled right around in a circle with it like she was dancing around a May pole. Gabe walked out of the barn just then to unhitch the wagon.

‘‘You’re dancing, Aunt Batty. What are we celebrating this time?’’ he asked.

‘‘Matthew!’’ she said with a grin. ‘‘We might be close to finding Matthew!’’

‘‘Who?’’ Gabe asked. But I saw his face. He had turned as pale as the bed sheet in Aunt Batty’s hand. He knew who Matthew was. Pretending he didn’t know was a lie, an act. I knew it was.

‘‘Matthew Wyatt is my sister Lydia’s oldest son,’’ Aunt Batty told him. ‘‘He went off to fight in the Great War and never came back.’’

All of a sudden I wanted to stop her. I didn’t want her to tell Gabe the rest—that Matthew owned the farm, not me. I was desperate to interrupt her, to distract her.

‘‘Here, let me finish folding these clothes for you,’’ I said, taking the sheet from her hand. ‘‘It’s too hot for you to be standing around out here in the sun.’’ But Aunt Batty was too excited to stop. I listened helplessly as she blurted out the truth.

‘‘We’ve been looking all over for Matthew because Frank Wyatt’s will deeded the orchard and everything else to Matthew, not to Eliza. Now it looks like we might be close to finding him at last. He’s in Chicago, of all places!’’

Gabe appeared even more shaken than me. He leaned against the wagon as if he might fall over if something didn’t hold him up. Aunt Batty might have noticed it, too, if she hadn’t been so excited. But a moment later Gabe pulled himself together. In a few quick strides he stood so close to me I could smell the scent of his shaving soap on his face.

‘‘Your father-in-law left everything to someone else?’’ he asked in a tight voice. ‘‘None of this belongs to you and the kids? He left you with
nothing
?’’

‘‘That’s right,’’ I answered, my voice barely above a whisper.

I could see Gabe’s anger building, but he didn’t seem to have anywhere to release it. His jaw tightened and his hands balled into fists.

‘‘No wonder everyone hated Frank Wyatt,’’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘‘I hope he’s rotting in hell!’’

‘‘Oh, Gabe, no!’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘I wouldn’t wish hell on anyone, not even Frank Wyatt. Besides, I don’t know a single person who ever loved that man. To me, that’s hell enough. Can you imagine going through this wonderful life here on earth without ever being loved?’’

I took advantage of the distraction to escape from Gabe, backing away from him and lifting the wicker laundry basket to hold between us like a shield. Without another word, he turned and strode back to the wagon, leading the horses away into the barn.

Gabe didn’t seem like the same person after that day. I would catch him deep in thought at odd moments, like the time he stood on a picking ladder with an apple in his hand, just staring off into the distance, or the time I found him sitting on a milking stool beside Myrtle, staring into the empty pail while she bellowed to be milked. Most times when you tried to talk to him you got the feeling his thoughts were far away from Wyatt Orchards. Even the kids couldn’t interest him in playing ball or going fishing anymore. He stayed out in the barn in the evenings instead of listening to the radio with all of us, and even Aunt Batty couldn’t coax him inside.

His strange behavior made me feel like I walked a tightrope. If he really was Matthew, why didn’t he just step forward and admit it? Was he trying to make up his mind what to do now that he knew everything belonged to him? And if he wasn’t Matthew— well, maybe he was just trying to distance himself from us while he figured out how to say good-bye. Either way, it seemed as though we’d already lost the Gabe we once knew.

August flew past, and by the time the boys headed back to school in September, the end of the long growing season was almost in sight. We’d worked hard and now our labor had finally paid off. The tree branches were heavy with apples. Once they were picked and sold and the corn was harvested, we would all get a much-deserved rest.

Aunt Batty and I worked in the vegetable garden one afternoon while Becky napped. We were picking the last of the green tomatoes to fry before the frost killed them when Sheriff Foster’s car came up the driveway in a cloud of dust. A feeling of foreboding shivered through me, though I didn’t know why.

‘‘Uh-oh,’’ Aunt Batty said, echoing my thoughts. ‘‘Here comes trouble.’’

I didn’t move as the sheriff climbed from his car. He waved when he saw us, then walked across the yard to where we worked.

‘‘I need to have a word with that so-called hired hand of yours, ma’am,’’ he said, tipping his hat. ‘‘The one who calls himself Gabriel Harper.’’

‘‘I don’t care one bit for your tone of voice, Sheriff,’’ I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. Something about his grim face and the shiny badge pinned to his uniform made my heart start to pound. ‘‘Mr. Harper has worked very hard for me. We’re about to bring in the last of the harvest and I never would have been able to accomplish it all without his help.’’

‘‘Well,’’ he said with a heavy sigh, ‘‘I really don’t like being the one to tell you this, but the man who calls himself Gabriel Harper has been lying to you. He’s not who he claims to be...and both John Wakefield and I have reached the conclusion that Harper came here with the deliberate intention of cheating and defrauding you.’’

I felt my knees go weak. Gabe? Came here to defraud me? ‘‘I don’t believe it,’’ I murmured. But even as I said the words, doubt flickered in the back of my mind. I knew he had lied to me when he said that Gabe was his real name. And I knew he’d only pretended not to know who Matthew was. He’d kept a secret hidden from me since the time he’d arrived, but it couldn’t possibly be because he was out to cheat me, could it? That’s the part I couldn’t believe.

‘‘Well, ma’am, it’s true,’’ the sheriff said. He looked at me with pity. ‘‘I can see the man has won your affection and trust—and that makes his crime all the more reprehensible, in my judgment.’’

My words came out in a rush of anger. ‘‘I don’t know what crime you think he has committed, but it hasn’t been against me! He’s done nothing wrong in all the time I’ve known him, nor has he tried to steal my affections.’’ I nearly choked on the lie. Gabe
had
stolen my affections, as well as my kids’ affections. Whether he’d done it deliberately or not, I didn’t know.

‘‘Listen,’’ I continued, ‘‘all of Gabe’s actions toward me have been completely honorable! He has worked harder than any hired hand should be expected to work, and he’s taken absolutely nothing from me except his meals and a bed in my barn.’’

‘‘Now, calm down, Eliza. Give me a chance to tell you what John Wakefield and I have found out.’’

‘‘What does Mr. Wakefield have to do with this?’’

‘‘I’m getting to that. See, after I talked to Mr. Harper some months ago, I began making inquiries in Chicago to try and look into this fellow’s background.’’

‘‘Why? What right did you have? What reason?’’

‘‘Let me finish.’’ He held out his hands to quiet me. ‘‘The folks at the
Chicago Tribune
told me that ‘Gabriel Harper’ is a pen name he uses. But when I looked into his real identity, I found out that he claims his real name is Matthew Wyatt—same as your brother-in-law.’’

Gabe really was Matthew!
A tidal wave of emotions washed over me—relief, fear, joy, disbelief. I couldn’t even think about what that meant as far as the kids’ and my futures were concerned. All I knew was that I’d found the very man I’d been searching for and I was in love with him and I was pretty sure he loved me. But the sheriff still acted as though he wanted to throw Gabe in jail. He delivered the news to me as if announcing some great tragedy.