Still, Forever, Promise

by D. L. Merritt

  She kept herself busy by straightening up and washing the dishes. Ben whistled while he put the leftovers in containers and stacked them in the refrigerator.

  When she’d finished, she came up behind him, her arms encircling his waist. She needed Ben’s comfort to help lessen the remorse she felt for her momentary lapse in judgement.

  He patted her hands, turned around, and gave her a quick peck on the tip of her nose. “It’s been a busy day, and I’m exhausted. Let’s go to bed. We have an attic to explore tomorrow.”

  As they climbed the stairs together, she was lost in her own world, wondering how much Ben had witnessed when he’d barged into the kitchen.

  He doesn’t seem upset. I won’t bring it up unless he does. She’d have to deal with it at some point, but only when the time was right.

  Chapter 18

  A steady throb at the front of her head, a result of too many Jell-O shots, made Brianna wish she could stay in bed for the entire day.

  Ben slept soundly on his side. At least he hadn’t ended up on the floor again. She slipped out of bed to keep from disturbing him and tiptoed to the bathroom. After popping four aspirins, she showered. By the time she was dressed and returned to the bedroom, Ben was sitting on the edge of the bed holding his head in his hands.

  “Aspirin’s in the medicine cabinet,” she mumbled, as she passed him on the way to the door.

  He groaned and dragged himself to the bathroom. When he strolled into the kitchen, fifteen minutes later, she had just finished drinking her first cup of tea, and was in the middle of making a smoothie.

  “Feeling any better?” she asked.

  He reached for the filters to brew a pot of coffee. “After three or four cups, maybe.”

  “Would you like some of this?”

  He glanced at the blender and shook his head before ambling to the refrigerator for eggs, bacon, and butter.

  She sat at the kitchen table, sipping her berry smoothie, watching him cook, and imagining his arteries clogging by the minute.

  “Have you had your cholesterol checked lately?”

  “I’m a growing boy. I need my strength.”

  “Make sure you don’t grow in the wrong direction, or I’ll have to trade you in,” she said, giggling.

  He sat across from her and dug into his breakfast, dipping the toast into the egg yolk. “Do you feel up to exploring the attic?”

  “Now that the throbbing in my head has been reduced to a dull ache, I think I can handle it. I’ll get the key while you finish eating.”

  Ben was putting his plate in the sink when Brianna returned with a bulky ring of keys in her hand. “Ready?” she asked.

  Ben took her hand and they approached the narrow stairs to the attic. A thick layer of dirt covered the stairs. They left footprints on every riser leading to the door.

  Ben fiddled with the keys, looking for the right one, and the door swung open without any resistance, as if someone wanted them there. Ben burst through the spiderwebs crisscrossing the doorway and Brianna followed, ducking to avoid the silken threads left dangling.

  Dust swirled in the air, ensnared in the beams of the early morning sun as it squeezed through the shutters. Bizarre shadows cast themselves into every corner of the room. The attic had the usual musty smell of old, closed spaces, and it was hot and stuffy. Exactly the kind of place she hated. It reminded her of a Halloween party she’d attended while at West Virginia State. Pledges had guided her through the creepy house, full of man-made cobwebs, spiders, and zombies, to the attic where a local band had played on a stage built for the occasion. Kegs of beer and finger foods had cluttered the wooden tables lined along the walls. The fraternity had gone to great expense to make their haunted house the best on fraternity row, and they’d succeeded.

  With flashlights in hand, Ben headed to the right side of the room, while she headed in the opposite direction. A broken bed frame leaned against the wall to the left of the door, and to the right, a battered bookcase. Old books filled the bottom shelf. She knelt down to run her hand over the cracked leather of an incomplete set of Encyclopedia Britannica. Opening the first volume, the 14th edition, published in 1929, she read the inscription written beneath the copyright. “To my beautiful daughter, Sophie. May the knowledge in these pages inspire you to soar to great heights. Love, Mother.” Sophie was the daughter of the Conklins. It looked like Sophie’s mother had held the same belief as her own, that books held the secret to success. Mrs. Conklin must have been a forward-thinking woman in a time when women had won the right to vote but were still repressed and expected to be subservient to men.

  “Are you having any luck on your side?” Brianna shouted across the attic.

  “Nada. This is a waste of time. Let’s pack a lunch and drive to that state park you mentioned yesterday.”

  She made her way to the attic door and waited as Ben clomped toward her, his footsteps echoing in the dusty darkness. As Brianna pushed the door open, there was a sudden thwack from somewhere behind them.

  “What was that?” Brianna asked, grabbing Ben’s arm.

  “It sounded like metal hitting the floor. It came from over there,” he said, pointing toward the darkest corner of the room.

  She whipped her flashlight in that direction and, though reluctant, tagged along as Ben inched closer to the area. Her foot hit a solid object, and it scraped across the wood floor.

  Ben shined his flashlight on a silver-plated hairbrush lying next to an antique dresser. The initials S.S. were etched into the handle.

  Brianna picked up the brush and laid it on the dresser next to a matching handheld mirror. “There’s dust all over this dresser except a spot the exact shape as the brush. It isn’t anywhere near the edge, so how did it fall on the floor?” she asked.

  “Maybe my stomping around moved it just enough. This dresser is old, but it’s in good shape. I say we check it out and see what’s inside.”

  Ben pulled out each drawer. The first three were empty. The fourth drawer refused to budge. He jiggled and tugged until the drawer flew open. He was unprepared for the suddenness and lost his balance, falling to the hardwood floor with a loud thump.

  Brianna covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her laughter.

  “That wasn’t funny.”

  “Yes, it was,” she said, still laughing.

  Ben scrambled to his feet, and brushed the dirt off his clothes. The beam of his flashlight bounced off a shiny object lying in the drawer—a silver comb that matched the brush and mirror. “Look at all this stuff,” he said as he proceeded to pull out an empty tin can, the label faded and illegible, the comb, and a tattered fabric-covered packet tied with heavy yarn. Ben handed the packet to Brianna.

  She untied the yarn, careful not to rip the material, and pulled the edges apart to reveal a handful of letters. They were all addressed to a Miss Sarah Satterfield. They came from a Private James Cleary, stationed at Camp Lee in Virginia. The last one was mailed from France.

  Ben examined the letters. Due to the postmarked date, he assumed the private served in World War I.

  “This vanity set must have belonged to this Sarah, but I don’t remember seeing her name or Mr. Cleary’s as a previous owner,” Brianna said.

  “They might have been a relative or someone who visited the manor at one time. If we read the letters, we could get a clue to who they were and why these letters were left here.”

  She clasped the packet to her chest. “These letters were private. It doesn’t seem right to pry.”

  “I know, but we don’t have any other clues.”

  Ben gathered the other objects, and threw them in an empty box he’d found. They returned to the apartment to start their investigation.

  ***

  “We’ll organize the letters according to the postmarked dates,” Ben said, stuffing a sandwich in his mouth. He’d made a detour to the kitchen for a snack. He said he needed sustenance before they tackled their discoveries. He sat on the sofa and opened the cloth pa
cket to scatter the letters across the coffee table.

  She knelt on the floor opposite him, examining the tin can. Even with the brighter light, she still couldn’t make out the label. Brianna found the box of office supplies, and searched until she found the magnifying glass she’d purchased to read Mr. Moretti’s blueprints. This should help. She took the can to the window to inspect it.

  “Can you tell what it says?” Ben asked.

  “It looks like T, a, n, s, y. Tansy leaves. What’s that?”

  “Never heard of it. My computer’s in the bedroom. Why don’t you Google it?”

  Brianna ran into the other room and returned with the laptop. She typed in the letters, and a dozen sites popped up. She clicked on one that seemed relevant. It gave a description of the herb and its many uses, one as an insect repellent and another to make a bedtime tea to induce sleep. Who’d want to drink this stuff? she wondered as she continued to read. “Listen to this! In the late 1800s and early 1900s, they used tansy leaves to induce abortions. You could even die if you took too much. This stuff is dangerous. Why would Sarah have it in her dresser?”

  “Maybe she liked tea or the manor had an insect problem,” Ben said.

  “You’re so funny. Seriously, do you think she might have died from drinking this stuff?”

  The overhead light flickered. Sarah glanced out the window to a clear sky with no storm clouds visible. She looked at Ben, wide-eyed.

  “Electrical problems?” he said with a shrug.

  “The wiring passed inspection days ago, but I’ll ask Mr. Moretti to check it again the next time he comes.”

  “This is an old house,” he said and focused his attention on the letters again. “I’ve got them all in order. Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Ben opened the first letter and read it aloud.

  May 7, 1918

  My Dearest Sarah,

  I promised to write you, but I have a confession. I can’t read or write. I’ve asked one of the other men in my unit to write this and read your letters to me. His name is William.

  Our bus made it to Camp Lee early yesterday. I am sitting inside a tent listening to the rain hitting the canvas. It started raining at first light and hasn’t stopped since.

  We don’t muster ’til morning, so I thought I would write you and Henry a letter. Eats are pretty good so far. I’ve heard it all depends on who has kitchen duty.

  My unit is part of the 80th. They call us the Blue Ridge Division ’cause we all come from cities around the Appalachian Mountains. I’m in the 317th infantry, hand-to-hand combat. Training starts tomorrow. I sure hope it stops raining by then.

  I know I’ve only been gone a couple of days, but I miss you already. Wait for me, my love. Once this war is over, I will come back for you. Now that the US is in the war, it should be over soon.

  I have so much company in here I can hardly hear myself think. One of the guys saw your picture yesterday ’cause I look at it every night before I go to bed. He swore I bought it from the Great Five Cent Store ’cause I couldn’t have anyone as pretty as you waiting for me. I sometimes wonder that myself. He did say you were one of the prettiest gals he ever saw. I could tell he was jealous when he left cussing under his breath. I sleep with your picture under my pillow and dream about all the times we walked along the riverbank. I do miss our walks.

  Do you remember our last day together? You asked me if I still loved you, and I told you I’d love you forever. Then you asked me to promise that I always would. So I decided that is how I will end my letters.

  Still, Forever, Promise,

  James

  “It sounds like James loved Sarah, so what happened to them?” Brianna said.

  “From the date, we know he was in World War I. A lot of soldiers didn’t come back. We have several more letters. Maybe we’ll find out.” Ben picked up the next one in sequence.

  May 12, 1918

  My Dearest Sarah,

  I know it has been awhile since I wrote last, and this is a poor excuse for a letter. I promise to write more soon. I don’t have much to write about. It hasn’t stopped raining since I got here. We have been training in the mud, mostly on how to handle grenades and mortar. My day starts at first light and ends not much before midnight.

  This weekend they gave us time off to do whatever we wanted. Me and a couple of the guys played football in an open field near camp. It was nice to pretend for a while that the world isn’t at war.

  The food has gotten worse since last I wrote, ’cause my friend Schuster started working in the mess hall. Can’t say I’m surprised. His uniform is always a mess and never passes inspection. It don’t matter much. I’m too tired at the end of the day to care what I eat. All I want to do is crawl onto my cot, sleep, and dream about you.

  Four men in my company had to go to the infirmary yesterday. I suspect it’s the poor weather. I am faring well. The army is much easier than working in the mines.

  I get paid at the end of the month, and I’ll put it in a safe place until I have enough to set you free.

  The letter ended the same as the first: Still, Forever, Promise. Brianna touched Ben’s shoulder. “What do you suppose he means by he’ll set her free?”

  Ben shrugged. “We still have a bunch of letters left.”

  They read the next letter and the next. One mentioned a woman named Becky, a friend of Sarah. She must have been seriously ill, because James wrote that he would pray for her to get well. From what they could gather in later letters, the woman had died, but there was no mention of how or why.

  The rest of the letters didn’t reveal anything important. James continued to complain about the bad weather and his daily routine in boot camp. He always promised to return to Fairmont as soon as the war ended and prayed it would be soon. Every letter ended with Still, Forever, Promise.

  In the next to last letter, James said he’d received his orders, and his unit would ship out for France sometime in the first week of June. He told Sarah the army would censor his letters from then on, so they might take longer to reach her, and she wasn’t to get discouraged. Mailing facilities were scarce where he was going.

  The last letter came from France. James wrote about how monotonous the voyage was. The scenery was always the same, with a little salt spray splashing in his face whenever he got too close to the railing. Several of the men in his unit slept on deck to avoid getting seasick. He admitted to joining them most nights. All he wanted to do was cross the ocean one more time and never travel by boat again.

  Before he closed, he mentioned they’d joined with the British Fourth and were heading into battle. He left the location of the battle out, as it was against regulations to share it. He told Sarah he had close to half the money saved to pay her debt to Ms. Kennedy.

  Ben slapped the last letter on the coffee table.

  “I wonder how much Sarah owed and for what?” Brianna asked.

  “He doesn’t say, but at least we know the connection to the house. Sarah was either a servant or a relative who’d borrowed money from Ms. Kennedy and couldn’t leave until she repaid the loan.”

  “It’s obvious James was in love with Sarah. I hope he came back for her like he promised.”

  “When I had to do a story on a World War I vet about a year ago, I found that ancestry.com digitalized the draft cards of all men born between 1872 and 1900. These men would have been eligible for service in World War I. They also had them listed by state, with name, rank, and cause of death. We have James’s name, division, and the city he lived in. That’s a good starting point.” Ben scooted closer to Brianna, took the laptop, and let his fingers fly over the keyboard.

  Brianna watched Ben click from one screen to another until he stopped typing. “Here’s our man. 80th Division, 317th Infantry. He was only eighteen when he enlisted, and he was sent to France in June, like the letter said.” Ben fell silent.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “He was killed dur
ing the Somme Offensive.”

  “That’s awful. He was so young. Well, that answers my question. He didn’t come back, but what happened to Sarah?”

  “That’s anybody’s guess.”

  Brianna stood up and paced across the living room. “We may be able to find out.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Connie told me there was a local woman descended from one of the previous owners, and she supposedly has information about the manor. She owns a bookstore in town, but it’s closed on Sundays. We can go and see her Monday. She might have more information about James and Sarah.”

  Ben agreed and helped Brianna place all the items back in the box. If Sarah was their ghost, she hoped she wouldn’t visit them tonight. Whoever the ghost was, they didn’t like men. They had attacked both Ben and the painter, but not her. At least not yet.

  Chapter 19

  Holcomb watched the suspect through the two-way mirror. The eight-by-ten-foot room afforded little comfort to those interrogated. He liked it that way. This was the best part of his job, making suspects squirm while they agonized over what would happen to them. Even if they weren’t guilty, in that room everyone broke a sweat.

  Clay Wesley sat on the stainless steel bench that was bolted to the floor. His right leg bounced in a steady beat. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his head in his cupped hands. His breathing was rapid; his shoulders drooped.

  The lieutenant smiled. He’s scared shitless. I have him right where I want him.

  “Sir, are you ready to interrogate the suspect?” The announcement preceded Deputy Gray’s arrival in the room.

  “Not yet, Gray. Let’s let him sweat a little more.”

  They watched the man through the glass. This was Deputy Gray’s first interrogation, and the lieutenant thought he seemed jittery.

  “Why do you want to wait, sir? Wouldn’t it be best to get it over with?”

  “You’ve got a lot to learn, Gray. The more time the suspect has to wait and wonder, the more likely they’ll confess or give us what we need.”