by Sarah Pawley
Behind her at the table, Charlie rose unsteadily to his feet.
"Who the hell do you think you are? Barging in here and trying to tell me what to do. I'm a grown man. I don't need no little girl like you telling me how to behave." He started to stumble toward her. "I'm going to throw you out of this house right now."
She took a step back from his approach, suddenly afraid of what he might do.
What had she gotten herself into? She prepared herself to run. But just as he neared her, he suddenly stumbled in his footing. He fell to the ground with a flailing of limbs, landing face down on the floor, and instinctively she jumped out of the way. He lay unmoving where he fell, and for several long moments she just stood there, looking down at him.
It cut her heart to the quick to see him there, in a state of helplessness and stupor. Suddenly she didn't care how angry he got, or even if he cursed and shouted at her. She wasn't going to leave him like this. She went to him and knelt on the floor beside him. She tried to help him up, but he pushed her hands away, as she had thought he would. But there was no anger in him now. She saw only shame and embarrassment, and it showed in his voice when he spoke to her.
“I can get up by myself,” he said, his voice low. He managed to rise, but didn’t get to his feet. He sat on the floor, hanging his head and muttering to her. “He didn’t even know who I was. He forgot about me, just like he did before.” He looked at her for the first time, and his eyes were hollow and sunk.
It broke her heart to look at him, but she managed to hold back her tears. He didn’t need her sorrow, when he was so deeply buried in his own. Her attention was all she could give.
“In almost ten years,” he said bitterly, “No letters. No visits. Nothing.” His voice shook, with pain and anger all at once. “But I got through everything just fine without him. Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert took me in and raised me. Do you know how hard they worked to bring me up right? When I got into trouble at school, Uncle Robert would take me home and put the fear of God in me…to teach me to do right. My father never did that. But I never needed him anyway. I finished school without his help. I served my two years in the military just like every good man. I ran a whole company of men on my own. I didn’t need him for any of that, did I?”
She shook her head, unable to speak for the lump in her throat.
“I hope he burns in hell,” he said.
She saw a tear roll down his cheek. Then, before she had time to react, he put his arms around her and buried his head in her shoulder. He began to cry like a little boy lost, and she didn’t know what to do. All she could do was sit there, holding him gently in her arms.
* * * * *
His tears had ceased. But now, his head was a heavy weight on her shoulder. She tried to stir him, but he only mumbled incoherently. He was still conscious…but she was sure that wouldn't last for much longer. She took his arm, draping it around her shoulders, and after much coaxing on her part, she managed to get them both to their feet.
It's like dragging the dead weight of a carcass, she thought, as she moved with him to the little bed in the other room. Once she had him on the bed and let go, he fell into a heavy heap, out cold. She tended to him as she would tend a child, adjusting his head on the pillow, pulling the blanket over him. And then, for quite some time, she just sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him.
Her mind was a jumble of confusion. He had spoken of his father with such bitterness - almost with pure hatred. Why, then, had he come back to take care of him? More confusing still were her feelings for him. It wasn’t the same as when they were kids, when he’d almost seemed like one of her brothers. It would be silly to think of him that way now. Just being near him, even when he was in this state of mind, she felt something more. Was it love? She shook her head in denial at that notion. Love seemed too strong a description, for they hardly knew each other anymore. And yet, she cared for him deeply. Something within her wanted to care for him, to give him the affection he needed so much.
But who was she to be his savior? She looked down at his handsome face, soft and peaceful in repose. There were probably other girls, other women, who cared for him too. She would be a fool to think he didn't have someone out there waiting for him. If there was a woman in his life, she’d likely had many years to know him and grow close to him. She had known this man less than two days. She sighed, feeling a pit of sadness opening in her stomach.
A knock came at the door, startling her out of her daydream, and she hurried to the door to answer it. At the threshold were a man and a woman, both of middle age. She didn't recognize them, and they didn't recognize her, from the stunned looks on their faces.
"I'm Robert Brown," the gentleman said. "This here’s my wife Mary. We're looking for our nephew, Charles. We left him here a little while ago so we could see to his Daddy.”
Grace's expression brightened and she smiled slightly. "Oh, the Aunt Mary and Uncle Robert that Charlie was talking about. I’m mighty glad you’ve come. Come in, will you?" She stepped back and let them pass into the dimly lit house. "I'm an old friend of his. I’m Grace Langdon. I just came up here to give condolences." She led them into the little room where Charlie slept. "I found him in a real sorry state. He's sleeping it off now, thank goodness."
Mary sat on the bed beside him, reaching over to feel his forehead.
"Poor boy," she said. "I just hope he's in decent shape for the service tomorrow morning.”
Robert scoffed, and as Grace looked at him, she saw him shaking his head.
“After all the trouble we’ve gone through for that boy…all the Sunday learnin’ we’ve tried to put in him, and he’s just like his Daddy. A worthless drunk.”
Unsure of what to say, Grace simply asked the first question that came to mind.
"Are you going to stay here with him?"
Robert shook his head, his tone vehement.
"No, no. We're taking him out of this den of evil. We're staying over at the boarding house until after the service. And it's better for him if we just get him on out of this place."
She didn't have to ask why. One could almost feel the haunting in the house. It had spooked her from the first, and now that the sun was sinking quickly, the spookiness was even stronger. She looked out the window at the fading of the day, and suddenly it occurred to her that she ought to be getting on her way quickly. She could do that now, and feel secure, knowing that Charlie would be taken care of.
"I’d best be on my way home," she said. "Thanks for tending to him. God knows, he'll need it. We'll all be praying for him."
Robert just nodded his head. Mary was pulling Charlie to a sitting position, and as Robert went to assist her, Grace quietly made her way out the door. She crossed the yard to her horse…and hoped that with his aunt and uncle caring for him, Charlie would be just fine.
Now she just had to worry about herself.
It would be dark by the time she got home. Chances were pretty good that her Mama and Daddy would be waiting up for her, probably with a switch in hand. They wouldn’t have taken kindly to one of their youngsters running off and not saying where they went, especially when they came home so late.
But what of it? she thought.
She'd been in trouble before. Not often, but enough to know what came with being in trouble. And right then, she didn't care what they did to her. She would take it as it came, no matter what, for it would be a small price to pay for what she'd done. Charlie had needed her, and that was more important than anything.
As she rode up to the house, she noticed quickly that only one light was burning. The lamp on the porch was the only one lit, and that seemed strange to her. If they were waiting to punish her, there would be lights burning bright in the living room, for that was where they would be sitting up. Had they actually gone to bed, and left the light burning for her? No, that seemed too far-fetched. It would be too kind, at least where she was concerned. Then she heard a familiar sound far off in the distance...the sound of coon hounds
bawling, and she realized with relief that the men and boys were off on a hunt. She breathed a sigh of relief at her good luck, and quickly she put her horse in the stall and made her way to the house.
As she got near the porch, she saw in the dim light that her mother was sitting in the rocking chair. Rachel looked at her as she came near.
"You went up to see Charlie, didn't you?"
Grace lowered her head, her voice low. "Yes."
"He was in a bad way, wasn't he?" said Rachel.
Grace nodded. "His aunt and uncle came to look after him. But I don't know if that'll be enough."
Rachel sighed. "With the Lord's guidance, he'll be just fine.”
Grace wanted to believe that was true. But after what she'd seen and heard, she wasn't so sure. Still, miracles happened every day, didn't they? Someone above had certainly been watching out for her this night, and before she went to sleep, she remembered to send up a prayer of thanks…and a prayer of peace for Charlie's broken soul.
* * * * *
There was something especially morbid about Walter Hillard's funeral, or so it seemed to Grace. All of these people, who had hardly seen or spoken to the man in ten years, were suddenly mourning his death as if he were one of their own. It made her angry just thinking about it, and she had to bite her tongue hard to keep from cursing at every person around her. Only one person had the right to mourn here… and that person was Charlie.
How different he seemed this morning. Gone was the raging and disheveled thing of yesterday. And gone, too, was the broken little boy who had cried on her shoulder. What a puzzlement he was. She looked at him, standing silent and stoic by the grave. Even from the distance where she stood, she could see no tears in his eyes, no pained expression, no gestures of any kind.
How he must be holding it all inside, she thought sadly.
His lips did not move to “In the Sweet By and By,” as the crowd was singing all around them. His mouth was set in a grim line, and she wanted so badly to go and stand at his side. For a sudden impulsive moment, she started to do just that. But then she held back. She would not make fools of the both of them. There was a time and a place for boldness, and this was not it.
Finally the service ended, and the crowd began to thin out. One by one they turned and walked away - her family included, and Charlie was left to stand alone. She knew, because she turned around to look at him. It was then that she broke from the pack, not caring what anyone thought, and she walked over to stand near him. She wanted to say something profound… something healing and comforting. But her tongue seemed tied in knots, and all she could do was stand there. It made her feel like a useless fool, and she turned to make a retreat.
At the same moment, he turned to her.
"Thank you for being there last night." There was a small pause, as if he didn't know what to say next, and he seemed flushed with shame. "I must have looked like such a fool."
She was tense…her nerves quite on edge. It caused a reply to bubble forth that she had not wanted to say out loud… but it escaped her lips before she could quite catch it.
"You did," she said. As soon as she said it, she cursed herself for her stupidity. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I didn't mean that."
But he just chuckled slightly. "It's all right," he said. "After all the two-faced talk I've heard today, I could use a bit of honesty." As the smile faded from his face, he sighed deeply, still looking at the grave in front of him. "I don't know why I ever came back here," he said. "I should have known things between me and him would never change."
"You had a right to hope," she declared. "It's only natural."
He gave a snort and smiled again, but bitterly this time, and he looked up at the sky, his eyes dancing coldly. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Or maybe I really am a fool." He turned sharply and walked away. His Aunt and Uncle stood by their car, waiting for him, and he went to them without a backward glance.
* * * * *
She felt miserable. The sway of the buggy, jostling everyone back and forth, only made her more so. The progress home was always slow. Her father never rushed the horse, for anyone or anything. Under normal circumstances, the trip wouldn't have bothered her. But today, she just wanted to jump out of the buggy and run home. She didn't feel like crying, which never did any good. She just wanted to be alone, to think and breathe. She would have done anything to find solitude, especially at that moment, when her little brother was trying to hang over the back of the buggy. Their mother gripped Robert by the shirt collar and forced him into his seat, scolding him.
"We just come from a funeral, boy. Sit down there and have a lick of respect." To emphasize her point she whacked him on the back of the head, and he started to cry.
The sound grated on Grace's nerves like nails on a chalk board. If she had been a little more daring, she might have reached over and slapped him herself.
Up in the driver's seat, John turned his head and glared, his voice calm but deadly serious.
“Boy, you better quit that sissy crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Suddenly, Grace's loathing shifted from her brother to her father. John Langdon didn't give second warnings, and when he said quit crying he meant it. The next thing to come from him would be a vicious switching, sure to silence anyone into submission. And the thought of it made her furious.
Robert may have been a terror at times, but he was just being a boy. Why did the man have to always be a tyrant?
When they got home, Rachel had barely stepped down from the buggy when she started barking out orders.
“I’ve got to get supper started," she declared. Her eye caught sight of fourteen-year old Thomas. "Get on down to the barn and do the milking.” Then she turned to her daughter, who had barely made it half way across the yard. “Gracie, don’t forget to feed the chickens.”
Grace felt a fire of rage shoot up her back. It radiated through her arms, traveling down to her fingers, which she clenched into tight fists. It burned its way into the muscles of her face as well, and she clenched her jaw tightly, fighting back the urge to scream. How long had she been doing that same stupid chore, along with all the others? Since the age of six, if she remembered right. Had she ever not fed those devilish birds? Why did she have to be reminded, every day, of every month, of every year? It was enough to drive her out of her mind.
Good God, why can’t they all just disappear? For just a few blessed hours, at least.
Inside the coop, she grumbled to herself as she reached for the bucket. She filled it with seed and lugged it outside, and the chickens came flocking around her feet in anticipation. When she had scattered it all, she did what she had done so many times before. Turning her bucket upside down, she sat on it and watched the birds as they clucked and pecked around her. Sitting there, it was quiet for the moment. And because she was alone, if only briefly, she dropped her head in her hands and rested.
She thought of Jack at that moment. Lucky devil. He was the manager of a railroad station, where he worked five days a week. He was home by six each night, and he even got to go out and have fun sometimes on the weekend. In his letters, he told her how he and Alice liked to take in baseball games and go to movies. On Sunday afternoons, they liked to play golf or tennis. She knew nothing of tennis or golf, but she did know one thing. The two of them enjoyed their lives, and they always took time out for fun. Much as she loved her brother, she couldn't help but be jealous of him when she thought of his life. How she envied his freedom...the freedom to love and live, just the way he pleased.
"Gracie?" called a voice.
It was her father's voice, deep and commanding, and it was enough to make her jump up in fright and knock the bucket over. She stammered for an excuse, but to her surprise, her father held up his hand to silence her. His voice was calm and soothing. A rare thing, but genuinely welcome when the occasion rose, and after the day she'd had, it seemed a true blessing indeed.
"Supper's almost ready," he said. "You'd better get on in th
e house and help your Mama."
She nodded obediently, and he walked away. She reached down and picked up the bucket, and as she did, she wondered at the fickle nature of life and fate. One minute cruel, the next minute kind. A person could only hope there would be more of one than the other.
* * * * *
She fell back into her usual routine quite naturally. If there was one small consolation in working, it was that it helped time to pass, and it kept the mind occupied…most of the time.
She still thought about Charlie and his troubles, and quite often she wondered what he was going to do now that his father was gone. There wasn't anything to keep him here. He'd most likely go back home, and if he did, she didn't know what she would do with herself. Not that he was a great part of her life. But his being back had given her a purpose. In a strange way, and despite the sad circumstances, he had given her something to look forward to. Life would seem so empty without him, more so than it was already.
It had been just over a week since the funeral, and as she'd expected, there was little mention at all of the Hillards, living or dead. She did hear one tiny bit of news. Walter Hillard had actually left a will. But who knew what was in it? They weren't likely to know, unless by some chance they ran into Charlie, but that wasn't likely, seeing as how they almost never went into town. Even that old blabbermouth, Jim Wilson, wouldn’t know something as secret as the contents of a will. And so, she seemed resigned to her fate...to languish in this lonely life, and no matter how many times she read her favorite books and sought comfort from them, they just didn't seem to help anymore.
