Wings of a Dream (7 page)

A soft knock at the back door destroyed the last vestige of our peaceful tableau.

James raced from the room. I followed, stepping over sleeping Janie at my feet.

“Why’re you here, Sheriff? Nobody did nothin’ wrong.” James’s little-boy swagger carried from the kitchen.

I arrived as Sheriff Jeffries ruffled the wispy curls on top of James’s head. “I’m glad to hear it, son.” But when the sheriff raised his gaze to me, his eyes lost their twinkle. “How are you?”

“Fine.” His simple question stirred a nervous twitter in my belly.

He glanced down at James, and I breathed in relief. Of course. He’d have heard about the nosebleed yesterday and come to check on us. Mr. Crenshaw had said someone would.

“We’re fine. Really we are.” I watched his hat spin beneath his fingers. “May I pour you some coffee?”

The sheriff nodded and threw one leg over the bench at the kitchen table, his hat slapping the flat surface. He pushed back his damp hair and rested his head in his hands. Another tingle of uncertainty sailed through me. I had enough on my hands with the children. I didn’t need a melancholy sheriff, as well.

The coffeepot sat on the warming shelf at the back of the stove, but little heat radiated from the dying fire, and the remaining coffee had thickened since morning. Dared I throw it out? Mama always said waste was a sin. I swirled the sludge at the bottom of the pot and shrugged. From the look of things, Sheriff Jeffries probably wouldn’t notice anyway. The thick liquid dribbled from the spout into the cup, and I carried it to the table.

He didn’t look up, just lifted the cup to his lips and sipped the tepid drink without complaint. “We never thought it would come here.” He cradled the cup in his hands, even though I knew no warmth seeped into his fingers.

“Didn’t think what would come?” I glanced at James, then leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Scoot, now. Let me talk to Sheriff Jeffries.”

James hurried from the room. I pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat.

“Never seen anythin’ like this flu before.” He pulled a newspaper from his coat pocket and slid it across the table to me. “Got your mail out of the box. Didn’t figure you had time to think of it yesterday.”

The
Dallas Morning News.
My heart danced. Dallas had to be nearby if they received its newspaper. I tried to keep the excitement from my voice. “Does this come every day?”

He nodded, drained the last of his coffee. “Frank liked to keep up with things beyond the
Junction Sentinel.
” He clanked the cup back on the table. “I guess I’d best be going.”

He stood, as did I, but I kept one eye on the newspaper, greedy to drink in the words of the place I longed to be, the place Arthur lived.

“I’ll come check on y’all as often as I can,” he said.

“Thank you.” I patted the newspaper, as if to assure myself it would still be there when I returned from seeing the sheriff to the door.

His boots clomped across the floor, his hat twirling in his hands. I felt sorry for him, though I wasn’t sure why. A wail rose from inside the house.

“I have to—” I gestured toward the sound.

“I understand.” He jammed his hat on his head and hurried across the yard.

“Wait!” I ran outside, heedless of cold or rain or mud. “Can you tell me if the doctor sent a telegram to my mother?”

He rested one foot on the tire of his automobile and gazed at me across its top. “I don’t know. I’ll find out.” He cranked the engine and drove away while the high-pitched cry called me back inside.

“Dan sat on her.” Ollie bounced the screeching baby in her arms.

“Sat on her?” I looked at Dan.

“I wanted to see if she was squishy like the sofa.”

I slapped a hand across my mouth, but laughter bubbled up anyway, coming out as a snort. I pressed my lips together. Tight. Not speaking until I regained my composure. I shoved my hands to my hips, hoping to mimic Mama’s sternness. “You shouldn’t sit on your sister.”

Dan hung his head and shuffled away. James followed.

“I’ll get Janie a tea biscuit. She’ll be fine.” Ollie carried her sister from the room.

I plopped down on the nearest chair, my legs and arms splayed out, weariness consuming me. I’d thought being in Prater’s Junction would afford me a few weeks to concoct a plan to get to Dallas, to Arthur, to a whole new life. And I’d hoped I’d have my aunt’s help in that. Things certainly hadn’t proceeded as I’d expected. But I still believed God had sent me here for a reason.

Of course, the only lasting reason I could imagine was Arthur.

Dan wiggled his way into my lap, tucking his head beneath my chin and pulling his knees to his chest. My arms circled his warm body as I sighed. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be in Prater’s Junction with the children, but I was certain my time here would not be dull.

Exhaustion claimed the children early that evening. I carried three of the four up the stairs to bed, their bodies slack with sleep. Only Ollie managed to climb the stairs on her own—barely.

My body longed for rest, as well, but my mind refused to be still. Embers from the afternoon blaze glowed in the fireplace, lighting my way to the ornate parlor lamp on the table in the center of the room.

A circle of light grew wide as I turned the lamp key, illuminating not only the room but the painted lilacs on the lamp’s globe—and the newspaper on the table. I snatched the paper into my hands and settled into the upholstered chair closest to the table to scan page after page. War news. Agricultural news. Local events. Then I reached the short blurbs about the Spanish flu.

More cases cropping up in Dallas. Be diligent to prevent becoming ill. Hospital beds filling. Death notices rising. And Camp Dick under quarantine.

I bolted upright, my heart thudding like a horse’s hooves on hard ground. I had to write Arthur. I had to know he wasn’t ill. My gaze searched the square room. No desk that would house pen and paper. Lighting a smaller lamp, I carried it to the kitchen and searched the drawers in the tall Wilson cabinet. Still nothing.

Back in the hall, I stood before the closed door of the downstairs bedroom, Aunt Adabelle’s bedroom. Perhaps it had been her sanctuary from the scurry of little feet, her refuge in the long evenings. From here, she might have written letters to the children’s father or read his letters to them. But the feel of tucking my aunt’s cold arms into her best dress, fastening shoes on her stilled feet haunted me. Did a whisper of her remain there? Did I dare intrude?

In spite of my hesitation, my worry over Arthur demanded an outlet. I placed my hand on the doorknob, then sucked in air and paused. Closing my eyes, I pushed the door open, releasing my breath at the same time. It took a moment before I found the courage to look. Brightness seeped from the small lamp in my hand, dispelling the darkness.

A sharp wind careened through windows left open to air out the room. The chill set me shaking as I placed the lamp on the side table. The room burst into full view. The bed, stripped clean, ready to be remade. The empty porcelain basin on the washstand. The rocking chair, moved to the other side of the bed now, near the chest of drawers. And shoved into one corner, a combination bookcase, one half composed of shelves closed behind a glassed door, the other half a fold-down writing desk and drawers.

Window sashes fought against meeting their sills, but I eventually managed to lock the wind outside. Still shivering, I pulled out the straight-backed chair tucked in beside the bookcase, lowered the desk, and rummaged through pigeonholes and drawers.

Writing paper. Envelopes. Pen and ink. I gathered them to the desktop as greedily as if they were Arthur himself instead of my means of communication with him. Then I spied a bundle of envelopes crammed into a lower slot. I eased the letters into my hands, leaving the other accoutrements forgotten. I swallowed hard, unable to tear my gaze from the bold scrawl across the top envelope.
Adabelle Williams, Prater’s Junction, Texas, United States of America.

From Frank Gresham? My stomach roiled as I glanced back at the open door. But there was no one here to care whether I read the words not meant for me. I needed to know what these letters contained. This man would come home a widower, four small children and a farm left solely to his care.

If he returned at all.

Perhaps he’d been injured. Perhaps he’d already boarded a ship for home. Should I read the first letter—or the last? I let the letters slide to the desktop, fanning out like stepping stones across a shallow creek.

I picked up one from the middle and removed the single sheet of paper within.

My eyes zipped over its contents. It didn’t go on for any length, but it was a nice letter, just the same. One of profuse thankfulness to my aunt for stepping in. Instructions to his children, but few endearments. A letter like I imagined my daddy would write.

Remembering my urge to write to Frank, I pushed aside the envelopes and pulled a blank sheet near.

Dear Mr. Gresham,

My name is Rebekah Hendricks. I am Adabelle Williams’s niece. I regret that I must be the one to inform you of the illness and untimely death of my aunt two days ago. Just before her passing, she sent for my help. I didn’t know of her keeping your children, but I promised her I would stay with them, at least until other arrangements could be made. Would you have any instructions for us on that point?

Again, I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I understand you’ve had quite a lot of that since your arrival in France.

Sincerely,

Rebekah Grace Hendricks

I folded the letter into an envelope and copied the address from the corner of his letter to my aunt. After I set it aside, I wrote to Mama, letting her know I’d stay with the Gresham children until I heard from her or their father—or Arthur.

Then my hand finally took up its original task.

A smile curled my lips as I imagined the letters I’d receive in the coming months, rambling missives that would still my heart, I felt sure. And when the fighting ended, Arthur and I would fly together into the wild unknown, living in Dallas or New York or maybe Europe. Entire scenes stretched before me like a moving picture show, complete with tinny piano music.

My pen scratched against the paper. Frantic words imploring Arthur to stay well. Heavy words concerning Aunt Adabelle’s death and burial. Laughter-tinged descriptions of the children. Adorations of my beloved.

Come to me soon,
I urged again and again. I signed my name with a flourish.

By the time I folded my thoughts into the envelope and waved the ink of his address dry, my mind longed for sleep to capture and hold me. I climbed the stairs with heavy feet, telling myself that Mama would reply soon, by letter or telegram. Once she knew the circumstances, she’d come to help. And once I’d convinced her and Arthur that the Lord had brought me to Texas to speed our plans for the future, Arthur and I would embark on the life God intended us to live, in a world so much larger than the one Mama and Aunt Adabelle had chosen to inhabit.

T
he children and I hurried across the mushy ground as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds the next morning. We milked Ol’ Bob, fed the chickens, and turned the mules and horse into the corral after filling their troughs with feed. But we didn’t stay long in the barn. Too much sunshine to be enjoyed. And I’d decided it was time to do laundry.

I filled one tin tub with shirts and pants and skirts and dresses. Our clothing swam beneath browning water as I pushed up the sleeves of an old calico workday dress I’d stuffed in the bottom of my suitcase for just such a chore. Beneath the heavy kettle in the fire pit, I lit the kindling, adding in the newspaper from last night until the larger logs caught the flame. We took turns filling the pot with buckets of water from the cistern.

The sun toasted my neck and shoulders as I scrubbed cloth against washboard and fed each piece through the wringer. Squeals of laughter filled the air. I stretched my back and gazed into the expanse above my head.