The House on Malcolm Street

by Leisha Kelly

“No,” I said, looking down at the floor again.

  “You surprise me,” he said then. “I can tell when someone’s just spouting the right words. But I didn’t expect you to be honest about it.”

  As insightful as his observation may have been, it felt like a personal attack. “Who was Rosemary?” I asked him bluntly, hoping once again to get this conversation over with.

  “My wife. My love. She was killed in an automobile wreck almost three years ago.”

  I hadn’t expected that. Not at all. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. But there’s no need for you to say anything. I know you understand grief. And yours is even more recent.”

  I nodded, realizing that I’d misunderstood at least some of what Aunt Marigold had told me earlier. It wasn’t John that the grief of yesterday’s funeral had Josiah thinking about. Rosemary was the one he mourned, vehemently. Still.

  “Marigold wanted me to tell you about my loss because she thinks we should be friends. She thinks we can help each other.”

  Somehow the words frightened me, and I did not react well. “I – I don’t think . . .”

  He rose to his feet. “That’s fine. Her ideas don’t obligate you any.”

  “I – I only meant that I don’t think I’d be very good at helping anyone.”

  “My thoughts exactly. About myself, I mean.” He smiled, much to my surprise. “If we cordially agree to not be friends and to not even try at the helping part, she can’t argue with that, can she?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Did he feel as inadequate as I did? Or was he simply telling me he wanted nothing more to do with me now that he’d fulfilled Marigold’s request? “I don’t know what she’d think.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said immediately. “She doesn’t always see that other people just aren’t like her. I’m not. I’ve got nothing – ”

  He suddenly stopped, as if the words caught in his throat. He stared at the wall beyond me for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “There’s no reason to think that just because we’ve both lost a spouse and child that we could help each other make peace with it all.”

  “And child?” I asked, my curiosity now prompting me past the pain I could see in him.

  “She was with child,” he explained. “Less than a month from her due date.”

  My eyes filled with tears, and I could see that his did too. Despite the length of time it had been, the wound was still raw in his heart. Would I be that way in two more years? Or even worse? It was hurt I could see in him, but only hurt. Not the bitterness and anger all too often alive in me.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told him softly.

  “I’m sorry for yours,” he echoed. “John should have lived to be an old man. And any son of his should be sliding down drainpipes and playing Catch the Can with the best of them.”

  He turned his eyes to the wall again, and I knew it was in an effort to keep me from seeing all that was in them. I was glad, because he wouldn’t be able to see what surely would show itself in me.

  “Do you ever get angry at God about it?” I ventured without thinking. Maybe I was hoping he’d say that he did, just so I wouldn’t feel that I alone entertained such faithlessness.

  “At God?” He turned his back on me. “You think I’m gonna blame him for the utter stupidity in this world? For my own evil choices or that of the next guy?” He seemed to choke up. He brought his hands to his face, though his back was still to me. I couldn’t respond. I was afraid, though I wasn’t sure why, to make a sound.

  It took him a while to speak again.

  “I don’t know how you look at what happened to John. It’d be pretty tough to reconcile a God of order with such a senseless accident. I understand that. But I can’t question him when it comes to Rosemary. I could never think it was his fault. I’m the one who took that drink. Even though she asked me not to. I’m the one who thought I was such a man that there was no way a little liquor could ever affect my reflexes. We hit a truck, and she was thrown to the ditch. Broke her neck on impact.”

  He turned around. “There you have it. Josiah Walsh killed his own family. The truth’s out about Mari’s other charity case. Most of it, anyway. I went half loony for a while. Did a lot of damage getting drunk and trying to forget what I’d done. Marigold took me straight from the jailhouse to board, and there were a lot of people who thought she was making a big mistake. So you see, I’m not really good friend material for you anyway.”

  Speechless, I just watched him run his hand through his hair and turn his eyes toward the hall leading to the kitchen.

  “So do we have an agreement?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “An agreement. We’ve talked. I already knew about your family. Now you know about mine. Nothing more to be said. No use being friends or pushing the subject with each other any further. You can’t help me anyway. And there’s no way I can help you or anybody else. I’m not called the way Mari is, despite what she wants to think. I just can’t. And there’s no sense in pushing you.”

  I knew he wanted me to voice my immediate agreement. And though I had no plans to bring up this subject again, or attempt to engage him in conversation about anything, I couldn’t do what he asked. I’m not sure why not.

  “Well?” he prompted. “Do we have an agreement?”

  I took a deep breath, trembling inside. Marigold had been afraid for him today. I understood now that she was afraid he might go to drink again, that there might be something unpredictable, possibly even destructive, in him still. “Please forgive me,” I answered, feeling suddenly tiny and vulnerable. “But I don’t think I can agree with you.”

  He shook his head. “You’re not asking to be my friend. And you know it’s ridiculous that either of us could help the other. So why not agree with me? Do you just have to be contrary?”

  “It – it’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  I almost couldn’t speak. I really didn’t think I was in danger from him, but I could scarcely form the words anyway. What was I saying really, and why was it so important to me when it would be so much easier just to tell this man what he wanted to hear?

  “M-maybe it’s because I appreciate Marigold and what she tries to do for us,” I stammered. “Maybe it’s wrong for us to decide even the smallest piece of our own future like this, to close a door that might otherwise be open just a little. How do we know that something we do or say might not be some small help to one another, without us even realizing it?”

  He didn’t answer me. He just turned his back again. I thought he would go upstairs, but instead he crossed the entry hall and without a word went out the front door and closed it behind him.

  16

  Leah

  “Oh, Aunt Marigold, I’m afraid I upset him. I don’t know where he might have gone and I feel terrible.”

  She sat in her robe and slippers at the kitchen table, rubbing warmed camphor oil into her knees. “Put on the tea water, dear. We may as well have a cup. Hopefully he’ll be back in a moment to join us.”

  I knew he wouldn’t. Or at least he wouldn’t be joining me for a cup of tea any time soon. “I don’t know how to be his friend,” I confided in her as I rose to fill the pot and put it on to heat. “Especially since he has no desire for me to be that. But it just seemed wrong to pledge not to become a friend to anyone.”

  “Of course it’s wrong,” she agreed. “It would be like telling someone you’re not ever going to extend the love of God to them, regardless of what the Lord might choose to do with your heart.”

  “I didn’t expect anything like this.”

  “Of course not.” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “But I’m afraid it’s more my fault than it is his.”

  “Why?”

  “I shouldn’t have been pushing him past where he’s comfortable. But I did. I tried to get him to see that he’s more than he thinks he is and the Lord will use him to comfort hearts and accomplish great things if he’ll le
t him.”

  I could understand why all that would make anyone uncomfortable. “But you mean well,” I told her.

  “Still, if he can’t turn off my expectations, I suppose the next best thing would be to get you to close the door.”

  “What does he have against me that it would be so important?”

  “Oh, dear, nothing. It’s not you he’s trying to shut out but the very idea that he could minister so directly to anyone else’s hurts. It’s all my fault, like I said. Because he thinks he has to live up to something he’s not ready for. Join me praying for him. I don’t think he’ll succumb to the temptation of drink again. I know his experience with Christ was real and he truly was set free. But he needs strength.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant by “his experience with Christ.” And I probably should have been honest enough to admit to her that I wasn’t comfortable praying, but I was too ashamed. So she prayed, and I bowed my head and nodded agreement as though I was as spiritual as she. Why had it been easier to admit my doubts to Josiah than to this trusting soul? Why was I so intimidated?

  I’m not sure where Josiah went, nor how late it might be before he got back. Marigold and I had our tea and talked a while longer, then I went up to bed, mulling over his plight.

  I could think of only one thing worse than losing a loved one, and that would be carrying the guilt of the death being your fault. No wonder he was still struggling with it. For a moment I wished I were so solid in faith that I could pray for him with real hope of benefit. That was what Marigold wanted and expected from me. Apparently she wanted it from both of us for the other.

  Her logic seemed a bit skewed to think that two souls caught in grief could be of much use to one another. It was almost like expecting a pair of travelers mired together in quicksand to pull each other out. Still, she meant well, just like I’d told her, and it certainly wouldn’t hurt anything to be considerate of each other’s circumstances. I would certainly be a bit more patient with Josiah’s less-than-friendly moods. And a bit more cautious too, since despite Marigold’s confidence in him, he seemed more than a little unpredictable.

  He didn’t come home before I snuggled into bed beside Eliza, and I dropped off to sleep with our strange conversation still in my mind.

  I don’t know how much time passed. Off in the distance I heard a train whistle again, first low and slow and then gradually nearer. Before long it grew so deafeningly loud that it sounded like the track must be right behind the house. Strangely, instead of being horrified I was somehow fascinated. Spring was in the air. Mother’s daffodils and hyacinths were poking their heads above the ground. It was a grand day to be outdoors, and I wanted to travel as fast as my toddling little legs could carry me.

  New lilies poked their heads above the uneven ground near the tracks. Just beyond them I saw the rocks. Lots of delightful little round stones of varied colors. Just the sort of thing to catch my attention despite the ominous rumbling again now in the distance. I picked up handful after handful just to let them fall through my fingers again. It was a wonderful game that led me farther and farther up the gentle slope among the seemingly endless pebble array. It didn’t bother me to have to step over metal and wood at the top. That was just another part of the adventure. But my shoe caught on the track and I fell. And not until then did I realize the menace of the growing sound that had seemed so benign.

  The metal monster was huge, capable of devouring me in a single gulp, along with all the rocks, lilies, and shrubbery anywhere near its path. I was suddenly paralyzed, fear rushing at me with an all-consuming insistence. I screamed. But though I wanted to run as fast as I could and hide, I could not seem to move. The devil locomotive barreled down on me with an unearthly metal grin. I could do nothing at all. Until John, young and beautiful John, emerged from the haze around the tracks with urgency and determination written all over his face. I reached my arms to him, trying to forget the menace beyond him. If he could only reach me, if I could only be folded safely in the comfort of his arms . . .

  He grabbed at me so suddenly that one of my shoes fell to the tracks. I felt a trembling but couldn’t tell if it was me or the dreadful shaking of the ground as that metal monster came rushing at us. John had been running and he ran still, pushing me ahead of him with such force that I couldn’t hope to maintain my balance. I fell headlong into the stubbly ditch. He was right behind me. He should be tumbling head over heels any second into the lilies and clumps of bristle grass, and then we would be safe in each other’s arms.

  But I heard a scream and a horrid mechanical screech. John was not beside me as he should have been. Instead he’d been thrown, and all I could see was one leg that should have cleared the tracks in time. One broken and bloody leg.

  Panicked, fighting to breathe, I woke to a sob that must have been my own. I was cold and hot at the same time, sweaty and shaking so badly I could scarcely believe Eliza was yet asleep beside me. I gulped, twice, three times, trying to catch my breath and quiet my racing heart. And then I sobbed, unable to stop myself, because I’d seen John again. I’d seen his death as though it were my fault, as though I were the old man he’d lost his life to save.

  The dawning sun had begun to lighten the sky outside my window. This was Sunday, the day we were to accompany Marigold to the church that was so dear to her heart. How would I be able to steady my legs beneath me? How could I stop myself from shaking? It’d all been too vivid, too horrid, and I felt that I’d never be able to push the ghastly image from my mind.

  I pulled the blanket as close as I could around me and curled tight into a ball as I used to do when I was a child. How comforting it would have been to have my mother’s tender hand caressing my cheek, banishing the moment’s terror with her soothing touch. So many mornings I’d cried in her arms until I hadn’t the energy left even to lift my head.

  “Shhh,” she’d always whispered. “It’s over now and you are safe.”

  Mother’s words had been good. Kind and true. But it was not enough anymore that I was safe. The monster had accomplished its horrible deed. It had devoured, had stolen life and then moved on to steal and kill again.

  It was absolutely foolish, to lie in that bed and sob like a child. But I couldn’t help myself, even when Eliza began to roll and stir. I wiped at my tears, tried to swallow down the despair I was feeling, but to no avail.

  “Mommy, what’s wrong?”

  “I – I had a terrible dream, honey. But it’s – it’s over now. I’ll be all right.”

  She laid her head on my shoulder and her hand on my cheek. She said nothing for a moment and I wished I could be stronger for her. So often she was the one being strong for me.

  When she finally spoke with uncharacteristic solemnity, I felt completely unprepared.

  “I had a dream too. About Daddy and Johnny. I dreamed we was in our house in St. Louis and they was still there.”

  New tears came to my eyes and I hugged her. “I’m so sorry, honey,” I managed to say. “I’m so sorry he’s not here for you.”

  She was quiet again for a moment, motionless in my arms. But then she asked the question I’d dreaded for months even though I’d known it would eventually come. “Daddy wasn’t sick like my baby brother, was he, Mommy? I know he was supposed to go away so he’d be ready for Johnny James, but doesn’t something always got to happen when somebody goes to heaven? What happened to make Daddy die?”

  Why now? After all this time, why did I have to face her inquiries when my insides felt like they’d been wrenched sideways and I could barely hold my thoughts together? I’d told her only the bare minimum when her father died, just as I’d been advised by John’s minister, hoping she wouldn’t ask for details of his death until she was much older. Now how could I answer with such awful pictures still vivid in my mind?

  She waited in silence, clinging to me, petting my cheek with her hand almost the way my mother used to do. And I knew I had to answer her. My daughter was mature beyond her years sometimes,
certainly mature enough to have honest questions addressed. I took a deep breath, determined to forge ahead.

  “Honey, do you remember that Pastor Woolner said Daddy’d been in an accident?”

  “Yes.” She looked sober, pensive. “But what kind of accident? Once he got his finger pinched in a door.”

  “Yes. I remember that. But this – this was far worse. He – he was a hero, honey. I probably should have told you.”

  I steeled myself to go on in the face of her intense gaze. Should she really hear this story? If I still had difficulty handling the reality of what had happened, how could she? Yet she wanted to know. How could I deny her the truth?

  Surely she would cry. Maybe we would both be too broken to leave this bed today. I had no idea how Marigold might react to that, but I somehow could not refuse my daughter anyway.

  “It – it was a very sudden accident, honey.” I tried to abbreviate if she’d let me. “It didn’t hurt just his finger and it wasn’t just a door. It hurt much more of his body, so much that he couldn’t get better.”

  “But what kind of accident? How’d he be a hero?”

  I sighed, knowing she’d persist. And I hugged her tight, hoping I was doing the right thing.

  “Near a loud, busy station with a lot of tracks and trains, an – an old man was moving his cart of boxes across the tracks. It was a heavy load and he had a lot of trouble. Your daddy was waiting for a train and he went to help that old man.”

  I stopped and drew a deep breath. She was watching me closely with a hint of tears rimming her shining eyes, but the tears didn’t fall.

  “A train car started moving on a track where it wasn’t supposed to be,” I continued. “They never heard it because of all the other train noise. It would have crushed that old man if it hadn’t been for your father. That’s what they told me. Even though the man was hurt and had to go to the hospital, he was able to go home later and care for his sick wife and grandbabies. Your daddy saved his life.”

  To think again of the gift John had given to that family made me weak inside. It still seemed utterly unfair that my young, strong husband had not come home.