The House Near the River (16 page)

“Mark piloted a bomber. One flight he and his crew didn’t make it back.”

At least from the air it was usually quick. He didn’t know if that was much comfort to offer her.

“I can’t talk to most people about Mark. They don’t like it, don’t know what to say, but I know you were there. You understand.”

Better
than you ever will
, he only said the words inside his own head. 
I hope and pray that you never truly know how awful it could be.

“You were on the ground?”

He didn’t want to talk about it. “With Patton’s army,” he said, “in the tanks.”

She shivered and not from the cold this time. “I would be terrified  to be
inside
a tank. I haven’t been able to stand closed in places since I was accidentally
shut
in the storm shelter when I was a child.”

“You get used to it.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d found he could accustom himself to most anything. Even now, he was adapting to a hopeless life. It was ingrained within him, the heritage of sturdy ancestors who had survived impossible hardships.

She nodded. “I feel guilty that I am a woman and nobody expected me to go fight and die.”

This was a new idea for him. He thought about Clemmie. He thought about the long separation from Ange. “I’m not sure but that the waiting is the hardest part.”

She looked down at her half empty plate. “I’m surprised you can understand that.” She looked up. “It’s so good to have somebody to talk to, Matthew. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

He would never have guessed. At work she seemed competent, always cheerful. He wouldn’t have suspected she had a serious thought in her pretty head.

“You lost some
one
too, didn’t you?”

Every word caused him intense pain, but he managed to answer. “Not in the same way.”

“How did it happen?”

“We were engaged quickly as sometimes happens in war time, then we got separated and I’ve never been able to find her again.” He made it as simple as possible, somehow unable just to refuse the information in light of what she had confided to him of her own feelings. But he wasn’t like her, he didn’t feel the need to talk. He just wanted to keep it all locked inside.

“You think she’s dead?”

He winced at her bluntness. She might as well be. He knew he would never see her again. “I don’t know.”

“Then you can still hope?”

He shook his head.

She reached out to take his hand. “You see, Mark’s death was never confirmed. They say the plane probably came down over the ocean and vanished into the water. But since it’s not certain, I still imagine him a prisoner somewhere, maybe injured and not able to help himself find the way home. I imagine him walking in to greet his son and me. It is in my mind every day.”

She tightened her hold on his hand. “It would be easier to be without  hope.”

He went limp with understanding, slumped in his chair. In slow, stumbling words, he began to talk about Ange, leaving out the unbelievable parts, but telling her why he could not go on and build a real life without her.

Hope held him fast, even as it did her. For neither of them was a new romance possible
, not for a long time anyway, but they could be friends.

Afterwards he drove out to the land that was soon to be his and looking over the old shack to see what he would have to do to make it livable. The school kids were just getting out down the road and the big yellow buses were lumbering past where he stood in front of the little house.

“Ange,” he said, and almost felt like she stood there with him, watching the buses go by.

Angie had never believed in the old saying that absence made the heart grow fonder, but she was beginning to
realize fully
now that Matthew wasn’t nearby how much he’d come to mean to her.

Jason had called again last night to say that he and his girlfriend had broken up, “she just wasn’t you,” and he wanted to see her again. She said she’d think about it.

Then she’d stood outside in the cold night air and thought she’d heard Matthew somewhere close and calling her name. As long as she was so hung up on the World War II vet
eran
, how could she build a relationship with Jason or anyone else.

This morning she’d learned that a copy of her original birthcertificate had been released and would be sent to her. It was a triumph of sorts, but she felt more than a little nervous about actually seeing her mother and father’s names.

She knew who she was. She was a Ward, the daughter her parents had raised. She was David’s sister, though because of the difference in their ages, she was more like a much loved aunt to the little boy. But because of the strange things that had happened, she needed to know where her blood and heritage had come from as well. The way things were, she didn’t belong anywhere.

Clarence Ward seemed to share his daughter’s restlessness and she guessed he feared what revelations would come, not because of any secrets he’d personally kept, but because he couldn’t know what his mother had done in his behalf.

Angie did everything she could to reassure him that no new information could change the relationship between them.

She was mopping the kitchen floor when he came in, carrying an envelope in one hand. “It’s here.”

She knew instantly that
‘
it
’
had to be the birth certificate. Her heart pounded as she took it from him, even though she had no idea why
this should
so important. She was a grown woman, not a child, whatever information this envelope contained could not change her life.

“I’ll just leave you alone to open it.”

She shook her head. “No. Stay.” She looked up at him. “Please, Dad.”

He nodded, but still moved halfway across the room to seat himself
in
a chair at the kitchen table. He reached for a cracker from the basket in the center of the table, opened the packet and began to nibble. She guessed he felt he had to
do
something.

She opened the envelope and took out the birth certificate, ignoring accompanying paperwork. Angela Gale, her given name
s
. Weight seven pounds, two ounces. Twenty inches long. Born in
Beckham County, no city listed,
November 14
, 1978.

Then she read the most important
line: Mother, Luiza Barry, age
19
.

Where her father should have been listed, she saw only the one word, ‘Unknown.
’

Stunned, she handed it to Dad. He read quickly, then looked up with concern, “back then, it wasn’t unusual not to name the father,” he pointed out.

She nodded. “Especially
if the parents weren’t married. That doesn’t shock me, Dad, it’s the woman’s name.”

He frowned, looking at the certificate again. “Luiza Barry,” he read aloud. “Nobody
with whom I’m familiar.”

“But  I know that name,” she said. “Remember the old grave back of Grandma’s house.”

“Of course. We were brought up to regard the care of that grave as a sacred duty.”

“And the name on the marker?”

He stared at her. “Honey, there was no name, nor any marker that I remember. That was just an unknown grave left along the trail as the settlers moved on.”

Now it was her turn to stare. “But Dad, when I saw  it
,
there was a stone marker and the name Luiza Barry was chiseled into it.
My mother’s name.
”

“Honey, I think  you must be mistaken. I grew up with that grave in my back yard. There was no stone and certainly no name.”

“There must be somebody I can ask. Somebody from that generation. But Grandma is gone . . .” She felt an ache as she did every
time she thought of Grandma and that thought led inevitably to the loss of her mother. “Grandma knew. She grew up when there was a stone and a name. But who would have removed it and why?”

Her father was silent.

She decided. “Dad, I have to go to Michigan to see Aunt
Kay
?”

She could see that he wanted to argue, to tell her that was a long trip and Aunt
Kay
had been ill for a long time.

But he only said, “You’ll need to fly that distance. I’ll see about arrang
ing
a flight while you pack.”

“You’ll need extra help. See if Ivy and
Edie
can come in some additional time.”

“I can take care of things. Anyway, I’m thinking of putting the old place on the market. Maybe now’s the time to look into that.”

“Oh, Dad!” she protested.

H
e gave her a hug. “It’s time you g
o
t on with your own life, Angie, and about time I retire and devote my time to raising David. “But it’s half yours, so if you want to take it on yourself, we’ll arrange that.”

This was more than generous, but right now she could only think of Luiza Barry and wonder who she was. “Can we talk about this when I get back?”

He nodded. “Sorry to spring it on you like this, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since we got back. Our share of the sale should give us enough to live on
along with our savings and you really do need more of a life than to be stuck here out in the country with so few friends your own age.”

She didn’t want to think about yet another change. “I’ll get packed,” she said.

Dad and David drove her
to DFW Airport and after the usual rather annoying process she was on a flight headed for Detroit, Aunt
Kay’s
address in her handbag. Dad told her that his aunt lived with a granddaughter in nearby Clio. In Detroit, she rented a car and found her way to the address in a pleasant, middle-class neighborhood, comfortable but certainly not ostentatious.

She stepped up to the doorbell, hoping Dad had been able to make contact with
t
he residents and give advance word of her coming.

At her ring, footsteps sounded in the house and then the door was flung open. A small, dark-haired woman stood looking at her with a
n
expression
of delight on her face. “Angie?” she asked.

“That’s me,” Angie replied, feeling suddenly awkward to be breaking in on them this way. “I hoped my coming here like this isn’t too inconvenient for you, but Dad said his Aunt
Kay
lives with you.”

“Of course and Gran can’t wait to see you. She was so sad  to hear of her sister’s death and would have gone to the funeral, but her health won’t allow her to travel.”

Kay
.
Shirley Kay.
The face of the little
four
-year-old she’d known flashed painfully into her mind.
Kay
was old now and for most of her life had called herself by her middle name.

“She’s the last of them now,” the woman said a little sadly, then brightened to add, “but I’m so happy to meet a relative. My name is Jennifer Harris and I have three boys who are only holding back from greeting you because I threatened their lives if they swarmed you the minute you arrived.”

A
ngie laughed a little nervously. “I’m used to boys. I have a little brother.”

“You haven’t met my boys,” Jennifer threatened darkly, but Angie  could tell she was proud of her kids. Once they were inside, she allowed three boys to come forward to be introduced to their new cousin. They were shining
-
eyed good-loo
k
ing boys, close in age, but she didn’t quite catch their names. She was too aware of the old woman in a wheel chair who sat in the next room, waiting.

Jennifer smiled. “The boys and I will go in the kitchen and make a little snack while you visit with Gran,” she said to Angie’s relief. She’d been afraid they wouldn’t be left alone to talk.

“Aw, Mom,” one of the boys protested.

Another said, “Are you really from Texas?”

“Do you know any cowboys?” the third asked.

Their mother gestured toward the other room. “Gran is expecting you. I’d get the  boys out of here if you’ll just go in and introduce
yourself. She’ll be so glad to meet you.”

She and the boys went the opposite way while Angie found her way into what appeared a mixture of bedroom and living room, a little studio apartment put together for the elderly woman, she supposed.

The woman tilted her head slightly at the approaching of footsteps, but didn’t say a word.

“Aunt
Kay
?” Angie said tentatively.

She was a tall, slim old lady with carefully groomed white hair. Angie could see few traces of the little girl she’d known.

“Dad said to tell you he wished he could have come to
o
, but one of us had to stay at home to
look after
the business.”