Hidden Places (51 page)

‘‘But we were right in the thick of the war just then, and we were all depressed. We couldn’t imagine that we’d ever have a life again, that there was still a world of beauty and hope beyond all the horror and killing and death. I was just as depressed about my own future as Matthew was. I wanted to be a writer, but I didn’t think I deserved to be one after what I’d done to my father’s political opponent. I couldn’t return home any more than Matthew could. I knew the influence my father had over me, and I knew that if I went anywhere near Albany, I would never have a life of my own. Matthew and I talked about our futures a lot, but we decided nothing mattered because we were both certain we would die in France. If a bullet didn’t get us, then one of the diseases in the trenches surely would.’’

Gabe paused for a moment. ‘‘But we did live, through several major battles—Cantigny, Belleau Wood, and finally St. Mihiel. Too many men we knew did die in those battles, though...friends we’d lived with since boot camp. At St. Mihiel our bunker took a direct hit. There were six of us in there together, and four of our buddies died instantly. They were...well, one look and I knew they were all dead. I took a shrapnel hit in the chest—the scar you saw—and another hit in the gut. A falling sandbag had broken my leg.

‘‘Matthew was wounded, too, but when he saw that I was still alive and couldn’t walk, he made up his mind to get me to an aid station. Bombs and artillery shells and bullets were flying thick over our heads, but he carried me in his arms about a half mile back from the front lines. Everyone always called me ‘Willis,’ but that day Matthew kept calling me ‘Willie.’

‘‘ ‘Hang on, Willie...’ he kept saying. ‘You’re not going to die, Willie. I’m not going to let you die.’ I believe I would have died, too, if it hadn’t been for him.

‘‘Just before we reached the aid station, Matthew did a strange thing. He stopped and laid me down on the ground for a moment, and I saw him fumbling inside his uniform for something. Then he ripped open my shirt and I felt his hands near my chest wound. I didn’t know what he was doing. I screamed for him not to touch the shrapnel sticking out. I was in so much pain that I was starting to go into shock. I felt him put something around my neck and I vaguely remember him saying that now I could start all over again. ‘No one will care what happens to me, Willie. My mother is dead and no one else cares if I live or die.’

‘‘He picked me up again and ran a few more yards. He told me he could see the aid station ahead and the medics running toward us with stretchers. Then he collapsed to the ground. He landed on top of me and I passed out from the pain. When I awoke, a doctor told me I had survived the field surgery, and that they were shipping me by train to a French hospital.

‘‘ ‘What about my friend?’ I asked. ‘The one who saved my life?’ ’’

‘‘ ‘I’m very sorry,’ he told me. ‘Your friend had internal injuries— a ruptured spleen, massive bleeding...He died during surgery.’ ’’

‘‘For the next few weeks I was extremely ill. The wound in my gut had punctured my intestine, and peritonitis set in. When I recovered enough to be sent home to the States, they asked me to sign my separation papers. That’s when I saw the name they’d written on all my documents—Matthew Wyatt. I was going to correct their error, but then suddenly the memory came back to me of Matthew laying me on the ground, pulling something out from inside his shirt, slipping something around my neck. He had swapped dog tags with me.

‘‘I knew why he’d done it. I didn’t want to return home to my father, and Matthew’s father would never welcome him home. I also realized that by this time my family had already received word that I was dead. I was still so angry with my father that I decided to play along with Matthew’s idea. Let my father mourn his only son’s death. It served him right. I would begin a new life with a new identity. I could be a writer now, and no one would ever know or care.

‘‘They discharged me from the army hospital as Matthew Wyatt, born in Deer Springs to Lydia and Frank Wyatt. Whenever I published a story I used the pen name Gabriel Harper.

‘‘At first I felt liberated by my new identity, but as time passed, I reached a point where I didn’t know who I was anymore. The loneliness of not having a family ate away at me, and I longed to see my mother and younger sisters again, my aunt June and my uncle and cousins on the farm, the many friends I’d left behind in Albany. I was afraid to fall in love because I would have to be married under a false name, and then I didn’t know if the marriage would even be legal. And what would my children’s names be?

‘‘My new friends in Chicago knew nothing at all about the real me, only the multitude of lies I’d told about myself. I saw what a mess I’d made, but I couldn’t see a way out. Finally, in order to escape the guilt of living a lie, I left my new life behind, too, and rode the rails as a hobo.

‘‘I knew exactly where I was going the night I came to Wyatt Orchards. I wanted to meet Frank and Sam Wyatt and see the place where Matthew had grown up. I’d started writing his story as if it were my own, and I was so confused about who I was and who he was that I thought maybe if I came here I could figure it all out. Besides, I told myself I owed it to Matthew to make sure his brother Sam was okay.

‘‘But you know the rest, Eliza. Frank and Sam are both dead, and when I found out how badly you needed my help, I decided to stay. I needed to pay you back for saving my life—and to pay Matthew back, as well. And somewhere along the way I fell in love with you. I woke up delirious and the most incredible woman I’d ever met was holding me and crying with me. Becky and Luke kept calling me an angel, but I thought I’d died and you were the angel.

‘‘When Sheriff Foster confronted me down at Aunt Batty’s cottage and threatened to check up on me, I knew the masquerade was over. It was time to run. It was only a matter of time before the sheriff discovered my false identity. But I couldn’t leave you, Eliza.

‘‘The worst moment of all came the day I learned that my lies had prevented you and your kids from inheriting this place. Matthew was so sure his father had changed his will. Believe me, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was take this orchard away from you and your kids. But that’s what my lies had done.

‘‘I wanted to explain all this to you but I didn’t know how you would react. I decided to go to Washington and set the record straight, but first we had a crop to bring in. I kept hoping the sheriff wouldn’t track me down until after the harvest, but it didn’t work out that way. He came back to arrest me. After Aunt Batty warned me, I used the money I’d earned from my hobo story to go to Washington and turn myself in. I didn’t know what the consequences would be, if I’d go to jail for impersonating Matthew Wyatt all this time or not, so I decided not to write to you or contact you until I’d cleared my name. I’d messed up your life enough with my lies. I couldn’t involve you further.

‘‘When I’d finally straightened out the mess in Washington, I went home to New York to see my family. They’d already received a letter from the army explaining the mistake, so they’d had time to get used to the idea of me returning from the grave. My father reacted pretty much the way I’d expected him to—he was furious that I’d deceived him. I couldn’t make him understand why I’d done it. If he was happy to learn that his only son was alive after all these years, he never showed it. But it surprised me to discover that I no longer hated him. The months that I’d spent here with you and Aunt Batty changed me. I hadn’t been able to tell you who I was, but I was finally figuring it out for myself.

‘‘I’d always pictured God like my father, controlling and manipulating everyone. I thought I needed to earn His approval, and that I would never be quite good enough. But the day I hung up that swing for Becky, Aunt Batty pointed to it and said, ‘That’s just what our heavenly Father is like. He loves doing things to delight His children.’ She and I talked while I worked on her cottage and she showed me how to find His forgiveness. That’s why I could forgive my father...and myself.’’

Gabe leaned forward, kneading his strong hands together as he spoke. ‘‘I spent the happiest months of my life here, and I never wanted to leave. But I was afraid to come back, Eliza. I didn’t know if you could ever forgive me or not after I deserted you like I did. I love you, and I love your kids and Aunt Batty, and I’m so sorry that I hurt all of you. I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t forgive me, but—’’

Gabe never had a chance to finish his sentence. I was in his arms, kissing him, telling him the best way I knew how that I loved him and that I forgave him.

The most wonderful Christmas present the kids and I could ever wish for had come home to live with us, for good.

EPILOGUE

Spring 1932

W
e all got out of bed early that fine spring morning—probably because we were all too excited to sleep—and we hurried to finish our chores so we could get an early start on our trip. I cooked breakfast and Aunt Batty packed us a picnic lunch and Becky was feeding Winky, Queen Esther, and Arabella when she made an amazing discovery.

‘‘Mama! Daddy! Come look! Arabella has kittens!’’ Gabe had just come in from the barn with the boys and didn’t even have his coat off yet. Becky called him ‘‘Daddy’’ so easily—all the kids did—ever since the day Gabe and I were married, four months ago. Aunt Batty and I still called him ‘‘Gabe’’ out of habit, but he said he liked that name best of all because it was his writing name. Batty lived in the farmhouse with us all the time now, and she let Gabe use her cottage to write his books.

‘‘Don’t tell me,’’ Gabe said as he hung up his coat, ‘‘Have you and Aunt Batty been knitting again?’’

‘‘No, Daddy, they’re
real
kitties! Come look!’’

We all dropped what we were doing and went to look at Arabella’s nest behind the stove. Sure enough, curled up beside the cat and all the mitten-kittens Aunt Batty had knit, were two tiny newborn kittens with orange and white stripes. They looked just like Arabella.

Aunt Batty’s eyes were as huge as saucers. ‘‘Where on earth did
they
come from?’’ she exclaimed.

‘‘Yeah, where did those kittens come from, Mama?’’ Luke asked.

Gabe and I looked at each other and smiled. We would have to explain a few things to them, especially since they’d be having a new baby brother or sister next fall. But we didn’t have time for long explanations that morning.

‘‘They came from God,’’ I said simply. ‘‘That’s where every good gift comes from. Now, come on, let’s eat up. We’ll have to get a move on if we’re going to make it to the circus on time.’’

This day my dream would finally come true. We would have to drive more than fifty miles to where the Bennett Brothers’ Circus was performing, but the trip would be worth every mile. I’d told Gabe and the kids all about Daddy and Aunt Peanut and Charlie and Zippy and the Gambrini family, and they could hardly wait to meet them all.

When we arrived at the fairgrounds later that afternoon, I felt like I’d come home. Everything was wonderfully familiar, from the patched-up sideshow tent to the warble of the calliope and the smell of cotton candy. By the time we’d parked the truck, the first performance was about to begin, so we quickly bought tickets and went straight inside the Big Top. Gabe held Becky on his lap, and he let the boys gorge themselves on cotton candy and Cracker Jack.

‘‘They’ll have a tummy ache for sure,’’ I warned him.

‘‘Aw, it’s only once a year,’’ Gabe said.

The kids were amazed when they saw the towering clown on stilts—and even more amazed when I proudly told them, ‘‘That’s your granddaddy!’’ Tears filled my eyes as I watched my daddy perform. I’d watched him perform hundreds of times before, of course, but that day I saw for the very first time how good he was at making people laugh, how much he loved the work he did, and how much the audience loved him.

When the show ended, I led everybody inside the sideshow tent. I felt a little nervous about how my daddy would react after all this time, but I knew Aunt Peanut would welcome me home with open arms—and she did. In fact, everybody in the whole sideshow had gathered around me to hug me and meet my family, and the ticket hawker had to stop letting paying customers inside. Nobody wanted to pay to see a midget, an albino, a tattooed snake woman, and a rubber lady all bawling their eyes out. The only ones who stayed dry-eyed were the two-headed calf and the Abominable Snowman.

I finally got up my courage to ask Aunt Peanut about my father. ‘‘How’s Daddy? Is he mad at me for leaving him like I did? Do...do you think he’ll want to see me?’’

‘‘
Mad
at you! Want to
see
you... !’’ she sputtered. ‘‘Oh, honey, this is the answer to all his prayers! Come on.’’ She took me by the hand and dragged me out the rear door.

‘‘Your father cried like a baby the night you left,’’ Aunt Peanut said as we crossed the grass to the pad room. ‘‘When he ran back to his rail car after the performance and your mama told him you were gone, he put his face in his hands and sobbed. The only other time I ever saw Henry cry like that was when I showed him the letter you sent to me in Georgia. He wouldn’t give that letter back to me, you know. He still carries it around with him.’’

The tent flap was open and I saw Daddy in his baggy trousers and floppy shoes, talking to Charlie. Charlie saw me first, and when his jaw dropped open in astonishment, Daddy whirled around to see why. I think he expected to see Gunther’s tigers on the loose from the stunned look on Charlie’s face. When he saw me instead, he looked every bit as stunned as Charlie.

‘‘Eliza?’’
Daddy staggered to one side, like his legs were about to give out. I ran to him.

‘‘Daddy!’’

We clung to each other as if neither one of us wanted to let go. I inhaled his wonderfully familiar scent, a mixture of greasepaint and the Macassar oil he still used on his hair.

‘‘Daddy, this is my family,’’ I said when I could talk again. ‘‘This is my husband, Gabe, and this is Jimmy, Luke, and Becky Jean...and this is our Aunt Batty.’’