Echoes of Mercy: A Novel
Page 15
Letta’s blue eyes squinted half-shut, giving her a hard look. “Just let it go, Miss Carrie. Truth is, I don’t know that I’ll ever feel better again.” She crossed to her brothers, her steps slow and labored, and sank down to sit on the floor. She held open her arms, and the boys tumbled against her.
Caroline remained in her chair, observing the children through a sheen of tears. Such a sad picture they presented. Somehow she had to find a way to prove Letta wrong. The girl would feel better someday. Someday soon. But she couldn’t make it happen without help.
“Letta?” She waited until the girl shifted to look at her. “I need to make a telephone call. Will you and the boys be all right here alone for a little while?”
A strange look crept over Letta’s face—a cross between amusement and sorrow. She offered a brief nod.
“All right.” Caroline moved to the door, tossing a promise over her shoulder. “I won’t be long.” She caught her skirt, lifted the hem above her shoes, and dashed down the three flights of stairs to the lobby. If anyone would have ideas on how best to assist the Holcomb children, her own personal rescuer, Noble, would.
Caroline
Of course I’ll come. Annamarie, too. We’ll catch the earliest train.”
Tears of relief filled Caroline’s eyes. She knew Noble wouldn’t be able to resist offering assistance. His compassionate heart never failed to astound her. But to bring Annamarie. Caroline cringed. “Are you sure? It’s a lengthy journey, and Annamarie …” An image of the dear woman flooded Caroline’s mind. So fragile. So beautiful in spite of her infirmities.
Noble’s low chuckle rumbled through the line. “You know I won’t be able to leave her behind when she learns of these children’s situation. I’ll check train schedules and send a wire with the details so you’ll know when to expect us.”
Caroline hugged the little earpiece. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Noble and Annamarie until faced with the prospect of seeing them again soon. “I’ll likely be sleeping when you arrive, but you know the address. Just come to the apartment and wake me.” She sucked in a short breath, hardly able to squelch her delight. “Thank you again, Noble. You’re always there when I need you.”
Another chuckle reached her ears, followed by his distinct tsk, tsk, tsk. “You know full well you always have help at hand, Caroline. God is only a prayer away.”
She smiled. He’d make a fine preacher. “I know. And I’ve been leaning on His strength these past days. Especially since the Holcomb children came into my life.”
“Good. I’ll let you go now. We’ll see you soon, Caroline. Good-bye.”
She placed the receiver in its cradle and then rested her cheek in her hand. Perhaps it was selfish to ask Noble to bear this burden with her, but she couldn’t very well make burial arrangements, see to the children’s needs, and complete her investigation. Noble and Annamarie would take excellent care of the children, allowing her to focus on Bratcher’s death.
Her pulse sped. As annoyed as she’d been to find Ollie Moore outside that elevator shaft last night, his arrival had proved to be a boon. And now Noble would be here to view the blueprint of the elevator’s inner workings. Could the end of her investigation be near? If she’d be leaving soon, she needed to know Letta and her brothers would be cared for.
Their aunt’s telegram lay crumpled in her pocket. She patted it, thinking. She’d told Letta she would contact her aunt again, and even though her tired body yearned for sleep, the children were more important than her rest. She’d left her shawl upstairs, but a brisk walk would pump her blood and keep her warm. Determined to convince the woman to make the trek for the sake of her niece and nephews, Caroline headed for the station.
Oliver
Oliver thanked the minister for taking the time to visit with him and then tugged his coat and hat into place. Before departing the chapel, he crossed to the tin plate used to collect offerings and carefully laid a Liberty half eagle in its smooth bottom. Although lesser-valued coins rattled in his pocket, he wanted to repay the kind minister for rushing through his dinner and returning to the chapel to help Oliver understand prayer.
As he walked in the brisk fall air toward his apartment, he contemplated verses the minister had read from Matthew—Jesus’s instruction to His disciples. The minister had said Jesus’s prayer provided a structure, so to speak, for addressing God. Oliver reflected on the minister’s admonition that one should first praise God and seek forgiveness for any wrongdoings before making requests of Him.
The few prayers from pulpits that Oliver recalled had seemed formal and directed more to the listening audience than to God. Father’s simple prayers—asking a blessing for food—seemed almost meaningless in light of the seriousness of Letta’s and Caroline’s requests. When Oliver voiced his thought, the minister assured him all prayers are of value because all prayers are a means of communicating with God. “The more we talk to Him,” the man had said, his expression fervent, “the closer our relationship with Him grows, just as with any earthly relationship. So don’t worry so much about how you speak to Him, son. Just talk to Him.”
Oliver paused on the corner to allow two carriages to pass, then stepped onto the cobblestone street, his thoughts rolling onward. Just talk to Him. Desire to follow the simple directive stirred in him. Ahead on the boardwalk a bench huddled between two large pots overflowing with shriveled, browning flowers. The explosion of withered stems provided a makeshift screen. Oliver plopped onto the bench, rested his elbows on his widespread knees, and buried his face in his hands.
Head low, eyes closed, he pushed aside the sounds of the occasional wagon and the wind whistling between buildings and forced his attention on addressing God. Just talk to Him … “God …” He pushed the single word past his dry lips in a raspy whisper. “The reverend said You’re always listening. I guess that means You’re listening now. That You hear me.” He crunched his eyelids so tight his forehead hurt. “I don’t have anything to ask for myself. My life is good. I have need for nothing more.”
Except You.
The thought winged from the back recesses of his mind, startling him with the clarity. Had he ever considered such a thing before? No, never. But in that moment, bent forward on a bench in the middle of the city block, he recognized its truth. He—Oliver Fulton Dinsmore—needed God.
He gulped back a strangled sob. “But I don’t want to ask You for anything for me. There’s a girl—her name is Letta.” A raw chuckle found its way from his throat. “I suppose You already know all about Letta, her brothers, and her father. The minister said You know everything, so I don’t need to tell you Mr. Holcomb is sick. Very sick. Letta asked me to pray for him, so here I am, God, praying.”
Had he ever struggled more with a conversation? How awkward—how humbling—to bare one’s soul before God. Yet he wouldn’t stop now. Moistening his lips, he continued in the same halting whisper meant only for God’s ears. “The prayer Jesus offered said we’re to ask for Your will. I hope it’s Your will for Mr. Holcomb to recover and live to care for his children. That’s what I’m asking of You, God—to make Mr. Holcomb well.” He paused, trying to recall what should come next. He couldn’t think of anything, so he ended the same way he’d heard the minister close his morning prayer. “In Your Son’s name I ask this … Amen.”
He remained in his hunkered position, eyes closed, half expecting a reply. When none came, he released a sigh of disappointment and lifted his head. He gave a jolt of surprise. On the opposite side of the street, her skirts swirling, Carrie Lang strode along the boardwalk.
Oliver stood up and waved his hand. “Carrie! Carrie!”
She stopped but twitched in place, as if ants nibbled at the soles of her feet, but she waited for him to trot across the street. He leaped onto the raised walkway next to her. Despite the apprehension on her face, he couldn’t stop a smile from growing. He couldn’t wait to tell her he’d done as she’d asked—he’d prayed for Mr. Holcomb.
“I’m surprised you’re not sleeping,” she said. An odd greeting, almost an accusation.
Oliver drew back slightly, his smile faltering. “I could say the same thing to you. You worked last night, too.” He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and risked a grin. “I was glad to see you in the service this morning. You and the children. I’m sure being out of the hospital for a bit did Letta some good.”
Carrie’s brow pinched. “Yes.”
“I’m also glad I spotted you. I wanted to tell you, I—”
“Ollie, will this take long?” She eased sideways a few inches. “I’ve been on a lengthy errand and left the children unattended. I need to get back to them.”
“Oh!” He scratched his cheek, still itchy from its recent shave. Since she’d recognized him beneath all that fur, he’d been able to relieve his face of its uncomfortable growth. “Well, then, may I walk along with you?”
She glanced up the street, blew out a quick breath, then offered a brusque nod. Without a word she took off, her heels clipping a steady rhythm on the walkway.
Oliver walked along beside her. He longed to share his newfound efforts to pray, but her demeanor stilled his tongue. She always moved with determination, displaying confidence and grace, but her stiff posture and firmly set jaw spoke of an inner conflict. The fine hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck prickled. Something was surely awry.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She turned her face in his direction without slowing her pace. “What?”
“Your errand. It must have been a very trying one.”
They’d reached a corner, and a trolley’s bell warned them of its approach. Stranded until it passed, Caroline fidgeted in place, clearly eager to continue onward. “The errand itself wasn’t trying. Anyone can send a telegram. It’s just that I’m—”
The trolley rattled past, its brass bell clanging a cheerful farewell. She snapped her mouth closed and charged off the edge of the boardwalk into the street. A carriage pulled by matching Percherons rounded the corner, the broad chests of the large animals bearing down on her. Oliver leaped forward, caught Caroline’s arm, and yanked her to safety. She fell hard against him. Instinctively he wrapped both arms around her, holding her upright.
As soon as the carriage rolled by, she wriggled loose. Her chest heaved in frightened gasps. She turned a startled look on him. “I … I didn’t even see it. Thank you, Ollie.”
“You’re welcome.” He panted, too. “Why don’t you stand here for a minute and catch your breath?”
“I can’t.” She snatched up her skirts, quickly looked back and forth, then set off across the street, calling over her shoulder, “I must return to the children. They shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”
He followed on her heels. “Having their father in the hospital is a hardship for them, but you wearing yourself out or getting trampled by horses won’t help them much.”
She stopped without warning and spun to face him. Still caught in a forward motion, he nearly bumped noses with her. She took a stumbling step in reverse. Her mouth fell open, and she clapped her hand over it. “You don’t know …”
Her fingers muffled her words, but he heard them anyway. He frowned. “I don’t know what?”
Tears filled her eyes. “Mr. Holcomb died early this morning.”
She couldn’t have surprised him more if she’d socked him in the stomach. He stammered, “But … but I prayed for him.” Such a foolish statement. He wished he could retract it.
Sympathy softened her expression. “We all did. But the infection took him anyway.” Her shoulders sagged. “I sent a telegram to the children’s aunt when we left the hospital, asking her to come and assist the children. Her reply came early this afternoon. She refused to come and instructed me to put her brother in a pauper’s grave.”
Oliver swallowed a growl of frustration. He didn’t know this aunt, but he didn’t like her.
Caroline went on in a tired voice. “So I sent a second telegram, hoping to convince her to change her mind, but now I.” She tipped her head, her forehead puckering. “You wanted to tell me something. Is it about the blueprint?”
He’d forgotten about the blueprint in light of his conversation with the minister. And now he didn’t want to admit he’d learned to pray. What good had it done? Mr. Holcomb was already gone by the time Oliver had discovered how to talk to God. He would look like a fool if he told her now.
He took her elbow and began guiding her forward at a slower pace. “It isn’t important.”
Actually, it was important. The deep longing to truly know God that he’d experienced in the midst of his prayer still ached at the center of his being. But would such a relationship benefit him? He’d prayed too late, but Letta, Kesia, and Caroline had been praying all through the man’s illness. And still he’d died. So did talking to God make any difference?
He pushed aside his musings. “You sent a second telegram, you said, but you didn’t finish your thought. But now you … what?”
She shivered. Dark clouds had rolled in, hiding the sun, and shadows shrouded them with gray. In his warm jacket he hadn’t realized how much the temperature had dropped. He whipped off the jacket and draped it over her shoulders. He supposed he’d broken protocol by giving her a covering still warm from his body, and if she refused it, he wouldn’t be indignant, but he couldn’t stand idly by and allow her to catch cold.
To his gratification, she clutched the lapels and held the coat closed at her throat. “Thank you, Ollie.” She sounded more like herself, and the smile she offered appeared genuine.
He smiled in return, warmed even though the cool air now nipped at him. “You’re welcome.”
They fell into step, their strides evenly matched, and she finally answered his question. “Now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have sent the second telegram. If she comes, it will be only out of obligation or guilt, not true concern for the children. And they’ve suffered enough without being made to feel as though they’re a burden to their only remaining relative.”
Oliver decided to state the obvious. “If she’s truly the children’s only remaining relative, then she is obligated to them. She really has no choice.”
“But don’t you see, Ollie?” She turned a look of abject misery on him. “They deserve more than obligation. If she doesn’t intend to truly care for them, then she shouldn’t come at all.”
Oliver admired her convictions. Her concern for the Holcomb children touched him, but she needed to be practical. The children required shelter, food, and clothing. As their aunt, this unknown woman had a legal and moral obligation to provide it. He touched Carrie’s arm lightly, hoping to soften the blow his words would deliver. “Obligation is better than nothing. At least their needs will be met. You did the right thing.”
She stared at him in silence, the disappointment on her face stinging him worse than the cold drops of rain carried on the brisk breeze. She whipped off his jacket and pressed it into his hands. “My boarding hotel is just around the corner. You can take this now.”
“Carrie, I’m only trying to—”
“I know what you’re saying.” She skittered in reverse, her arms folded over herself. “I just don’t happen to agree with you. And I never will.” She turned and dashed off.
Oliver considered going after her, trying to make her see his point of view, but she was too emotionally entangled with the children to listen to reason. Truthfully, he ached for the children, too. He’d done his best to help, verifying that their father would receive medical care and paying for meals so they wouldn’t go hungry. But what else could he do?
Thunder rumbled, and the scattered drops became a steady downpour. He should return to his apartment rather than stand there getting drenched, worrying over a situation he couldn’t change. Pulling the collar of his coat up to protect his neck and tugging his hat low, he turned toward the closest trolley stop. He’d gone only a few steps, though, when a frantic cry sealed him in place.
Letta
Letta yanked on her little brother’s arm. “C’mon, Lesley, hurry up. We’re gettin’ soaked to the bone.”
Lesley let out a wail. “Stop it, Letta! You’re hurtin’ me!”
She yanked him again. “Well then, stop draggin’ your feet. We gotta get out of this rain.”
Seemed as though the sky dumped buckets. If she’d known this storm was coming, she wouldn’t have taken the boys out. But when Miss Carrie left, it seemed a perfect time to make their escape. Not that she wanted to escape Carrie—she was nice enough. But Carrie was bent on bringing Aunt Gertrude to Sinclair, and Letta wanted nothing to do with Pa’s sister.
“I wanna go b-back to Miss C-C-Carrie.” Lesley shivered so bad his teeth chattered and made him sound like Lank. “Can’t we g-go back?”
“No.” Holding tight to Lesley’s sleeve, she dragged him along beside her. Lank trailed behind, coughing into his fist. Their feet splashed up muddy water with every step, and rain doused their heads. She hoped Pa had left a good supply of wood in the wood box so she could get the boys warmed up again quick. If they got sick, she didn’t know what she’d do. “Soon as we get to the house, I’ll fix you some cocoa like you’ve been wantin’.”
Lesley squinted up at her. “Honest?”
In her pocket she had three pieces of chocolate, snitched from a bowl on Miss Carrie’s bedside table. If the rain hadn’t ruined them by now, she could melt them in some warm milk. “Honest. But we gotta hurry.”
“All right.” Crunching his hands into fists, Lesley broke into a run.
Letta and Lank did the same. She wished she’d thought of cocoa earlier. She wouldn’t have had to force Lesley out of Miss Carrie’s apartment. Gracious, but that boy was pigheaded. If it hadn’t been for Lank grabbing Lesley around the middle and wrestling him down the stairs, they might not have gotten away before Miss Carrie returned.