The House on Malcolm Street (39 page)

That night, I had a dream again of wandering along the railroad tracks as a little girl. I woke sweating, unnerved, and with my heart racing. I could almost imagine the sound of a train whistle right outside, though I knew that to be impossible. The night was far from done, but I couldn’t coax myself back to sleep. So I rose from my bed and wandered to my mother’s room, just like I used to do as a child sometimes, when she didn’t come to my bedside first. I wanted comfort from my troubled thoughts. Somehow my mind still sought it in Mother’s room, though I couldn’t be sure why.

There was nothing there but the emptiness, and I sat on the bed, lifted one of Mother’s pillows, and hugged it to my chest.

“Oh, how I wish you were here,” I whispered into the silence. “And I wish I weren’t. I want to go back to Eliza. I can’t straighten things out for Father, or help him through this illness. He doesn’t even want me to. I don’t even know why he wanted me here.”

I lay my head to the bed, looking around the room in the dimness. Several of the things that had been Mother’s were gone. Sold, perhaps, I didn’t know. But much that was hers remained. A brush and mirror. The jewelry box. The bulky shape of her big Bible on the shelf.

I had John’s Bible, but for some reason I’d left it at Marigold’s. Maybe it was a strange thought, but I suddenly wanted to hold that Bible in my hands, as though cradling something that had been so precious to my mother would help me to feel her near me again.

I rose and lit the lamp.

“Lord, help me,” I prayed. I don’t know why.

And then I reached the dusty book from its shelf. First I brushed it off with my hand, and tears came to my eyes. Father had kept this, but not downstairs where he could see it or use it. At least it was still here. Surely he wouldn’t care if I claimed it for my own.

I lifted the dusty cover and parted the pages. It opened easily to a place near the beginning where Mother had stuck a thin sheet of paper. Notes on a sermon, perhaps? Or a message from a friend? I unfolded the brittle paper, written in Mother’s handwriting, and my breath stopped in my throat as I read the words on top.
Dear Leah.

A letter. To me. After all this time. It was like heaven opened up and talking. My hands started shaking and my eyes watered so that I could scarcely read. But read this I must.

Dear Leah,

I write this to you because I love you so very much and you need to understand the truth. Please don’t blame your father. He didn’t want me to tell you, maybe because he thinks it would make matters worse. I disagree because you have already suffered so much. Still he forbids it. And he is your father, to be respected even when he is not understood.

I had to stop and wipe my eyes with a bit of my sleeve. I didn’t know yet what she meant, but it seemed that she was here now and knew this present situation. There was no date on this letter, so I had no way to know when she had written it.

You’ve been plagued too long by the train dreams. And I wanted to explain to you from the beginning.

My heart raced and my hands felt numb. Oh. Mother! Oh, Lord God, would I really get an answer?

Dearest Leah, I know you were too young to remember what happened on the day your brother died. And you must never, never blame yourself. You were just an innocent toddler, and I’d been ill with the jaundice. I should have watched you more carefully. But instead I went to rest and left you in your brother’s charge.

He was a good boy, a courageous and gentle big brother who loved you more than my words could suffice to say. But he was a boy, with his eyes on toads and fishing worms, and you got away from him on your little toddling legs.

I was suddenly shaking so badly that I almost dropped the book. I could remember this. Vaguely. It seemed to come to me out of my dreams.

Whether the sand and rocks or the swaying flowers that flourished along the tracks, something drew your attention, and you must have been up the little slope and on the ties before he saw where you’d gone. I heard him call your name, and then I heard the train whistle. I ran, but I couldn’t get there fast enough. Your father heard the train whistle too, but I don’t know why he ran. He didn’t hear the voices. Somehow he just knew. We thought you were both gone. You were on the tracks and he ran so quickly to grab you. And then the train . . . it was too horrible, Leah, to ever describe. We found you screaming in the ditch on the other side. James must have pushed you, with no time to jump himself. You’d crawled and found his severed leg. I pulled you away from it, and you screamed for hours.

I had to stop. I had to try to take a deep breath, several deep breaths to fight away the panic, the nausea that tried to resurface. My dreams. They were real. Why hadn’t they told me when I was old enough to understand? Because Father didn’t want to? I had to read on.

Your father searched till he found James’ body, and we buried him in the Northridge cemetery. We moved less than a year later, because you couldn’t bear the sound of the trains rumbling through our backyard and I couldn’t stand the memory. But moving was not the remedy we’d thought it would be. The dreams plagued you, as though you could still hear the whistle of trains in the stillness of night.

Forgive us, Leah, for not explaining to you how your brother died.

Especially forgive your father. James was his joy, and he was broken, utterly shattered as a man and as a father when we lost him. Perhaps he blamed you in a way, because James had lost his life in sparing yours. But do not ever blame yourself. You were only two years old, and your brother did what he did for you willingly.

The words blurred on the page before me, and it was a long time before I could finish. So much this was, to finally understand. But there was more. Something else Mother had written at the close of her letter.

Try to be patient with your father. I know he’s difficult. He wasn’t always this way. He’s a good man soured by a broken heart. Love him anyway, Leah, for my sake if you can. I know if you are reading this, it must mean that I am gone. But let me hold you in spirit, my darling daughter, and pray your tears away. Deep in his heart, I know your father loves you. And I will love you ever. Mother

I folded the paper carefully and tucked it back into the same page. And then I hugged her Bible to my chest and wept until the night was far gone. I must have eventually slept, because in the morning Mother’s Bible lay to one side and I found myself sprawled with my hands over my head, eyes and cheeks still wet.

36
Leah

Talking to Father was different after that. I kept picturing him wandering a train track, searching for my brother’s broken body, and I could scarcely contain the tears, even right in front of him.

He must have resented me deeply for trying to act like the son he longed for. Maybe he’d even wished that James had not reached me in time, that it might have been me that was killed and not him.

Or maybe he just didn’t want the reminder night after night after night. What torture that must have been to hear my screams.

I tried to hug my father that next day. I tried to tell him again that I loved him. He only pushed me away and told me to go and make him a sandwich.

Finally I decided I couldn’t hide from this any longer. And why should he? Mother had wanted everything to be in the open. It should be. I couldn’t bear it any other way.

When his sandwich was done, I sat in the rocker beside my father’s bed. He said nothing, only lay there, staring at the ceiling as he so often did.

“Father?”

He took his time to answer. “What?”

“I need to talk to you.”

He snorted. “Well, you’re talking. Get on with it.”

“I – I found a letter. In Mother’s Bible – ”

“What are you doing looking at that?” He seemed very shaken. Might he already know?

“I knew she wouldn’t mind me reading her Bible. And I – I left mine in Andersonville.”

He turned his head, but just for a moment. Just before he did, I thought I’d caught the glimpse of a tear.

“The letter was addressed to me. She told me about James’s death. And . . . I wanted you to know that I’m so sorry.”

He stunned me by throwing his cover off and clear to one side. “About what? About what, girl? She told you not to be blaming yourself! She said that plenty plain!”

I couldn’t speak for a moment. He’d read it. He knew every word. And yet he’d left it there for me to find. When he so easily could have destroyed it.

“I’m sorry anyway, that it happened. For the pain it must have been for you and Mother, to lose a son – ”

“I guess you understand that yourself now, don’t you, girl?”

His words were almost cold, and yet edged with a pain that was clear in his face.

“Yes. Yes, Papa, I do.”

Slowly his hand moved to mine. I could scarcely believe it, but he held my fingers cupped in his for a long time, and neither of us spoke. Tears flowed down my cheeks and I gave up all attempts to restrain them. Finally, he reached for his own hanky and gave it to me.

“Wipe your nose, girl. Before you drip.”

I didn’t answer, just obeyed him quietly and then handed the hanky back to him.

He was different after that. When I asked him again about Orville’s pay, he told me there was an envelope of cash under the foot of his bed if I wanted to give him some of it.

“It won’t be enough. There’s the doctor and the grocer in town to pay too. I been using their credit most the summer.”

I found his book of records in a drawer in the kitchen, and based on that, I could get a pretty good idea of what should have been paid all this time. But his records simply stopped weeks ago. Like he’d just ceased doing anything. But maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was just expecting to die.

I told him I’d pay the doctor and the grocer but I’d like to speak with Orville about another arrangement. He’d done right. He’d done the best he could, as far as I could see, even when his pay had stopped. He’d saved my father’s life in all likelihood, with no thanks for it.

“We could set a fair price for the farm,” I told my father. “And deduct the amount you owe him. If he agrees, it’d be like he’d made payments already. And if he’ll keep working, keep checking in on you and helping where you need help, you could keep paying him, or letting him make payments against the farm, whichever you’d rather. He really wants it. And I don’t feel like denying him.”

I knew Father wasn’t happy. But he agreed. He sat up more. He walked around the house a little, even went to the porch once to yell out at Orville to trim along the fence better. I went to talk to Orville’s future bride about coming to cook and clean for my father sometimes after I left. And I was glad to know they’d be marrying within the month and had a place to stay at her parents’ farm until they could move into one of their own.

I started missing Eliza so much I could barely take another moment. And maybe I’d gotten things settled here enough that I could leave. Then when I was telling Father that I’d need to be going soon, he finally mentioned her name.

“Where’d you leave your little Eliza, anyway?”

“With some very dear friends.”

“Don’t you think it’s high time you got yourself back to her?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t help a smile. “I absolutely do.”

“I want you on that next train, girl. Can’t be leaving my granddaughter with strangers after this, you hear me? Next time you bring her along.”

“Yes, Father.”

I would never have thought I’d see anything from my father that I could interpret as tenderness. But he’d shown me differently. And I was amazed by it. But of course he was right, and my own heart had been telling me the same thing. It was time to go back to Andersonville.

“I’ll come back, Father. If you want me to.”

“I may not live another day.”

“I think you will. Maybe you could have been gone, back when the doctor says you were at your worst. But it’s better now. I think the good Lord has brought you through a storm.”

“You sound like your mother.”

“Good. That’s a compliment.”

He touched my hand again, just for a moment, and I’ll never forget it for as long as I live. But then he pulled away and snorted at me. “Make me another sandwich. And then go down the road, will you, and find yourself a ride to that train.”

I did just what he said, with a smile on my face. And I felt a lightness I’d never known before. A burden gone away. Without thinking about it, I found myself praying a simple prayer.
Thank you, Jesus. For Father. For Mother. For James. And peace . . .

37
Leah

Coming home to Andersonville seemed almost unreal. I called ahead to Mr. Abraham’s house, so I knew they’d be waiting for me at the depot. But still it was joyous and new to see them from the train window.

I hadn’t known if Josiah would be there, but he was, standing a little away from the others. I wondered if he’d told Marigold what had happened between us.

Eliza was bouncing up and down, nearly beside herself with excitement. And I could share that feeling, so immense was the happiness and the peace I was feeling inside. I dropped my bag as soon as my feet left the train steps, so I could fly and take her into my arms. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Josiah going to retrieve the bag for me, and I thought of the last time Eliza and I had greeted each other so fondly after being apart.

He must never have had such a homecoming, coming from a difficult childhood and with no child of his own. No wonder Marigold had hugged him that day and assured him he was loved.

Eliza squeezed me, kissed my cheek three or four times, and asked me how her grandpa was, all without ever managing to stand still. I lifted her and twirled her around, just to be doing.

“I love you,” I told her. “I am so glad to be back. And don’t worry. Your grandfather’s doing better. Much better.”

“Maybe next time I can go and see him?”

“Yes, dear. And he would like that.”

“Really?” Her big eyes grew even wider.

“Yes. Really. I told you he was much better.”