Wings of a Dream

by Anne Mateer

  “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 au
nt 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.

  The 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.

  Did the quarantine mean Arthur didn’t fly? Or was he in the sky this very minute? I’d read a newspaper story about an airplane that crash-landed in someone’s yard. As the boys in the plane brushed themselves off, the family invited them in for dinner.

  What if Arthur fell out of the sky? Would he survive with just a few bumps and bruises? A hawk soared a lazy circle high above my head, and I prayed the wings of Arthur’s planes held as sure. And that if he came crashing down in anyone’s yard, it would be mine.

  When the sun stopped high overhead, I doused the children’s mud-caked feet with water, then wiped an arm across my damp forehead. Wet clothes remained to be hung on the line. Heavy work I didn’t think could be accomplished while keeping a close eye on the children. “I think y’all need naps this afternoon.”

  Groans answered me from all except Janie. She clapped her hands and wrinkled her nose in an ear-to-ear grin. I didn’t imagine she’d understood what I’d said, but it helped all the same.

  I rushed our cornbread and molasses lunch, noting that I must explore the cellar later and find us something different to eat. After sending the children to bed, I lifted wet fabric from basket to line until my shoulders ached and our clothing flapped. Yet in spite of my weariness, my hands and feet moved with the nervous energy of a horse before a race.

  All my life I’d watched shining bays and dappled grays run the crude track outside of Downington on the Fourth of July. I watched them dance at the starting line, eager to be off. Watched them surge forward at the sound of the starting shot and run until they reached the finish line. My starting line stretched before me now—the coming of Mama’s telegram or Arthur’s letter calling me to him would be the gunshots that would send me running toward my destination. A track filled with tasks more magnificent than mucking out stalls, scrubbing laundry, or weeding a family-sized garden. But I’d keep my promise and take care of things here until then.

  With the last clothespin in place, I explored the kitchen. I found middle-full sacks of flour and sugar as well as a few canned goods behind the cabinet doors. And of course the full sack of cornmeal. I’d glimpsed the empty garden just beyond the house. I hoped to find vegetables crowding the cellar shelves, ready for winter consumption. Should that be the case, we’d have plenty of variety in the coming days.

  I lit a small lantern and tugged on the heavy wooden door leading into the belly of the earth. Truth be told, I hated cellars. Except during a twister, of course. The big door fell back and smacked the ground. Lantern held aloft, I descended the steps. Crude shelves lined the walls. I held the light higher and peered into the first bushel basket. Green beans. A barrel beside the shelf brimmed with potatoes. Squash. Onions. Turnips. Some peas and ears of corn. Bundled herbs hung from the wooden rafters.

  I grabbed handfuls of green beans and potatoes, gathering my apron skirt into a kind of sack for my treasures. Back in the sunshine, I blew out the lantern. The thought of green beans and potatoes cooked with the salt pork I’d noticed in the kitchen stirred my appetite and sent me racing for the kitchen.

  Then a high-pitched beeping caught my attention. Sheriff Jeffries’s car bounced along the grass at the side of the house. My heart leapt. Never had I thought the arrival of a sheriff would thrill my soul, but I was starting to look forward to Sheriff Jeffries’s visits. I raised my hand to wave before remembering the load I carried. Beans and potatoes spilled onto the back porch. I brushed dirt from my apron and met the sheriff in the yard.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “Sleeping. At least I hope they are.”

  His mouth turned down for a moment as he plucked something from his pocket. “This is for you.” He handed me a telegram. My heart pumped wild with joy, until I read the ticker-tape words on the page.

  Mama’s sick. Stay put. Letter coming soon.

  Love, Daddy.

  My feet paced as I read the words again. Mama sick? How sick? Spanish flu sick? I sat hard on the edge of the porch and leaned my head against the pillar holding the roof above my head. I forced the words in front of my eyes once more.

  “What’s wrong?” The sheriff’s Adam’s apple bobbed as his hat began its familiar dance in his hands.

  “My mama’s sick.” Saying the words out loud made it so much more real. Tears stung behind my eyes. I couldn’t look into his face.

  “What are you saying?”

  My gaze met his. “I’m worried about her.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Won’t your daddy take care of her?”

  “Of course he will. But I might—” I looked back at the black letters on white paper. Daddy’d said to stay here. But didn’t Mama need me?

  “You’re not going to leave these kids, are you? Isn’t that why you came here?”

  My head jerked
in his direction. “I didn’t even know about them when I came here. I thought Aunt Adabelle would be better quickly. I thought—” I waved my hand and squeezed my eyes shut. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

  “But you will stay, won’t you?” A rising voice, a slackened face. Panic, clear as crystal.

  I captured my tilting emotions, returning them to solid and upright once more. “Can’t someone around here care for the children until their father comes home?”

  The sheriff shook his head. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a swing pushed into motion with no one to still it. “I don’t think so. Everyone around here has more than their share of burdens right now, what with the war and the influenza. And what about Frank’s livestock? You can’t just walk off and leave.”

  “This isn’t my responsibility.” I pulled in a deep breath and stood as tall as I could. Still I had to tilt my head back to see his face.

  He slapped his hat against his thigh. “I expected any kin of Adabelle’s to do as she would do—her Christian duty.”

  I flinched. How dare he imply I was less of a Christian than my aunt? My fist clenched tight as my lips pressed into one another. With a toss of my head, I forced my body to relax as if I hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Of course I’ll stay and take care of the children—at least until their father says otherwise.” Or until Daddy says to come home. Or Arthur asks me to be his bride.

  I swept up the porch steps, ignoring the beans and potatoes scattered at my feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must put supper on the table for these precious children.”

  The sheriff jammed his hat on his head, his face red all the way to his ears. “I’ll be back when I can, but almost every house has the influenza now. Doc’s bleary-eyed. I’m trying to help out.”

  I noticed Ollie Elizabeth then, stealing along the side porch, finally sitting at the corner. Sheriff Jeffries’s expression gentled. He reached into his pocket—this time extracting four peppermint sticks.