Wings of a Dream

by Anne Mateer

  I made it easy for the kids to count down the days until Christmas by hanging a length of rope on the banister, one knot tied for each day until December 25. Just before bed each night, we released a gnarled knot and let it flow loose.

  Each day the rope trailed longer, I felt worse for the children. Not only would it be the first Christmas without their mother, it seemed unlikely their father would make it home, either. Their questions plagued me, not the least of which were the queries about Santa Claus. How would Frank want me to answer?

  And with each passing day my heart fluttered ever more at the thought of Frank’s sudden arrival into our little world. I wanted him to take over the care of his children and leave me free to pursue my dreams.

  Didn’t I?

  The last Saturday before Christmas, I hitched Dandy to the buggy myself and drove us into town. Turning up the collar of my coat, I directed our steps to the brick building on the corner. Our bit of cash had evaporated like a pond in summer, in spite of my efforts to buy only necessities after the Dallas fiasco. But I was determined that the children would have Christmas, even if their father couldn’t be with them. I’d make sure he provided presents all the same.

  I couldn’t ask the Lathams to help. They struggled just to put food on the table for their family of ten. I didn’t imagine Christmas at their house consisted of much more than some fruit and candy. But Frank had to have money in the bank, didn’t he? His crops had been harvested in the fall.

  A fierce wind held the heavy door fast, but I pried it open far enough for us to slip inside. Warmth cocooned me as the smell of wood polish and coal smoke mingled with the sharpness of the winter air. I pulled off my gloves, took a deep breath, and approached the barred window.

  “May I help you?” The gentleman behind the bars craned his neck to look past me, looking for my husband or my father, I suspected.

  “I need some money from Frank Gresham’s account.”

  The man’s cheek twitched as he smoothed the edge of his moustache. “This is quite irregular, Miss . . . ?”

  I pulled back my shoulders. “Rebekah Hendricks. I’ve been caring for the Gresham children since my aunt, Adabelle Williams”—my stiffness softened a bit—“since October.”

  “Please wait here a moment.”

  I sat the children on the floor, their backs against the amber wood that ran the length of the room. I didn’t figure this to take a long time. But the moments stretched. I peered into the space behind the iron bars but couldn’t see the teller I’d spoken with. Only the big silver door of the vault, closed tight.

  “Miss Hendricks?”

  I reeled around and found myself face-to-face with a man whose eyes danced in a jolly sort of way. “I’d be pleased to speak with you in my office.” He motioned for me to walk ahead. I gave the children a look that I hoped said “Stay put” before I followed.

  Seated in the chair that faced his desk, my heart threatened to bounce from my chest as his smooth fingers closed around each other and settled calmly on his desk. Hands that counted money instead of clawing the dirt to make crops grow.

  “I understand you have questions about Mr. Gresham’s account?”

  I glanced at the children through the plate-glass window. “Actually, I need to withdraw some money. It’s nearly Christmas. I want it to be special for the children.”

  He pulled a stack of papers toward him and settled a pair of spectacles on his pudgy nose. “I understand, Miss Hendricks. Unfortunately, Mr. Gresham maintains only a nominal amount of money in an account in our bank. Next to nothing, really.”

  My stomach soured. Frank had nothing in the bank? But in one letter I’d read, he’d told Aunt Adabelle to divide the crop money as usual. Divide it how? Put it where?

  I stared at my purse, fingering the clasp. Frank’s letters had been detailed and specific. He seemed to prefer his house and farm kept in similar fashion. Like my daddy. And Daddy always kept money saved in the bank.

  “Hasn’t he sent home his army pay?” the banker asked.

  “I found a little money in . . . the house.” My face burned as I thought again of what I’d wasted on my trip to Dallas.

  The man cleared his throat, obviously ill at ease. “Given Frank Gresham’s reputation, I’m sure Mr. Crenshaw will accommodate you.”

  My back straightened. Reputation for what? For spending money he didn’t have or making good on the debt he owed?

  “Thank you.” I stood, shook his hand. If Frank hadn’t provided anything for his children, I’d have to take care of them myself. If only Daddy’s instructions never to buy on credit didn’t sound so loud in my head.

  With only three knots left in our rope, we scampered through a sparse clump of trees near the creek in search of a small pine. We found one—barely more than a stick, really. But given that James and I had to cut and carry it, it was perfect.

  Beads threaded on a string adorned its branches and a few store-bought decorations that had been wrapped in paper and stored in Aunt Adabelle’s dresser drawer bowed the limbs.

  “Can we bake a cinnamon cake for breakfast?” Ollie asked.

  I hesitated.

  “Mama and Miss Ada always did,” she whispered.

  “Of course we can.” But even while I smiled, I wondered if the recipe would show itself in one of my aunt’s books or if I’d have to make it up as I went along. A quick search of the kitchen turned up a newspaper clipping pasted on the flyleaf of another cookbook.

  So we baked and worked all that night and most of the next day—Christmas Eve. Finally, we hung their socks on the mantel and crept to our beds.

  “Will I hear Santa Claus when he comes?” Dan asked.

  I tucked the covers around him and kissed his cheek. “I don’t think so. He won’t come until he knows you are asleep.” I tweaked his nose.

  He laughed and squeezed his eyes shut. “Tell him to come now, Bekah. I’m asleep.”

  Their whispers drifted through the thin wall until long past midnight, but even after they quieted, I couldn’t sleep. I’d done the right thing buying them gifts, hadn’t I? I tossed and turned and prayed, begging God to at least let Daddy cover the amount if Frank protested. Just about the time my eyelids drooped in sleep, four children scrambled into my bed, jarring me awake.

  “Let me go down first,” I said, inching out from under the covers. “I’ll get the fire going and call you.”

  “Don’t take our presents!” The look on Dan’s face told me he sincerely feared I would.

  I brushed the hair from his forehead. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Throwing a shawl over my shoulders and socks on my feet, I hurried to the parlor. My hands shook as I lit the kindling beneath the fat logs laid just for this morning. Smoke billowed before the flame caught. I lit two lamps, bowing back the dim darkness of early morning. On the mantel, each sock bulged with an orange and a peppermint stick, a special toy peeking from the top.

  The pitter-patter of feet on the stairs didn’t give me time for reflection.

  “Merry Christmas!” I grinned and joined their frenzy of excitement in spite of the question pounding in my head. Would Frank have the money to cover his children’s presents? Would he approve of what I’d purchased? Ollie cradled her new doll. Dan tried to make words with the alphabet blocks, and James connected the sticks and wheels of the Tinkertoys. Janie stared at the teddy bear, occasionally putting out a pudgy hand to stroke the fur. Yet all I could see was the page in Mr. Crenshaw’s ledger book.

  Frank Gresham. Five dollars and forty-three cents.

  Five dollars that could have bought material to replace the clothes the children were fast outgrowing. Or buy a few canned goods to supplement our meals. Or patent medicines to keep us well.

  I pressed my hands to either side of my head, trying to stop the furor of my thoughts. But it didn’t help. I thought of shoes and doctor bills and kerosene and candles, of soap and staple goods and seeds and—

  I needed fresh air. I opened the fro
nt door and stepped outside, each breath swirling white in front of my face. Smoked puffed from our chimney, filling my nose with the sharp smell of burnt wood. I walked the length of the porch, my hands wrapping around each other, my thoughts racing off in directions I had no desire for them to go. To Arthur. Will. Mama. Frank.

  I don’t know how long I stood there. Long enough to lose feeling in my fingers and toes.

  Only after I sat in the parlor, a wool shawl around my shoulders, a cup of hot tea in my hands, did I realized that Irene had rescued me yet again.

  “I had a Holy Spirit moment this morning,” she told me as we sat alone on the sofa, the children upstairs donning their visiting clothes. “While we were reading from Luke, the Lord told me there was another child, wretched and cold, who needed me this Christmas morning. But I didn’t imagine He meant it so literally.”

  I tried to smile with her, but my cheeks remained still as icicles.

  She laid her hand on my knee. “You miss your mama as much as they miss theirs.”

  I nodded and took a sip of the honey-sweetened tea. Chamomile, if I had to guess. “I had a letter from her a few days ago, chiding me for not coming home for Christmas. I hate to disappoint Mama, but I know it’s right that I stay, even if she doesn’t understand.” I took another sip of tea. “I just didn’t think growing up would be so confusing.”

  Irene patted my knee. “George and I didn’t think straight, what with putting up little presents for all the children. It slipped our mind that you’d be needing someone to be your family. Can you forgive us?”

  I balanced the cup on my knees, still cradling its warmth with my hands, grateful tears sprouting in my eyes.

  She eased the teacup from my hands and wrapped her arms around me. “I’ll listen if you want to talk.”

  I didn’t think I could, but I poured out the sad tale of Arthur, of trying to be still and listen to the Lord’s direction, of my confusion over the sheriff’s words and Frank’s imminent homecoming. I’d left home believing I had the Lord’s blessing to follow my dreams. Now I didn’t know if I had any dreams to follow, let alone any direction from the Lord.

  Irene’s head tilted as if she listened for or to something far away. Maybe she heard the children’s ruckus overhead. Maybe she heard the voice of God. “I know it’s hard for a young woman like you to believe, but I once dreamed of a very different life for myself than the one I live.”

  Although she’d listened to my story without expression, I knew my shock at her statement showed clearly on my face.

  Irene chuckled. “You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but in my younger days, I had a beau for every day of the week.”

  I smiled.

  She laughed harder, her round girth shaking like the bowl of Jell-O I’d eaten at Arthur’s aunt’s house. “It’s true. I didn’t give George Latham a second look back then, with his droopy eyes and his never-ending piety. Good gracious. I had intended to marry someone handsome and wealthy. Someone who would lavish me with fine things. Someone fun!”

  Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I wanted . . . I don’t really know what I wanted. I just knew it wasn’t him. But life has a way of surprising you sometimes.” A dreamy smile appeared on her face.

  “And?” I prompted.

  She looked surprised, as if she’d forgotten anyone else shared the room. “It took time. You see, he had to wait for me to find real faith in the Lord, not just an It’s-expected-of-me Sunday attendance.”

  My back stiffened.

  “My favorite sister died of tuberculosis. Her death devastated me. Other beaus either came and petted me and told me everything would be fine or they stayed away, not knowing what to do. Only George offered me real hope. The Jesus kind. And he didn’t just say the words. He showed me by his actions. Then he showed me where to find the words in the Bible. The more I read, the more I understood that God wanted my whole life. Everything. Even my plans and dreams.”

  “So God told you to marry Brother Latham?”

  “In a roundabout way, yes. But I couldn’t fall in love with George until I’d fallen in love with Jesus.”

  “But I already know the Lord. So what does that mean for me?”

  Irene’s eyes held mine. “It means when your life belongs to God it doesn’t belong to you anymore. It means sometimes life turns out different than you plan. He will guide your paths, as it says in the Proverbs. But you have to trust that He has your good in mind and follow where He leads.”

  “He led me to Arthur.”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe He has something different in mind for you.”

  “But I’m not like you and Aunt Adabelle and Mama. I can’t bear the thought of living out my life on a farm. I need people and adventure. That’s what I was made for. I know it is.”

  Irene didn’t reply. Janie’s cry broke the tension of silence.

  Irene stood. “Follow the path that the Lord has laid out before you. If you listen for His voice and obey it, everything will turn out fine—in the end. Now, let’s go celebrate Christmas.”

  As the children bounded into the room clutching their gifts, I realized that God had not forgotten or abandoned me. He’d shown that by sending Irene—His special Christmas gift just for me.

  As it often did back in Oklahoma, the weather warmed the week after Christmas. I sat in a rocker on the porch, the sewing basket dormant at my side, unspoken anticipation of the new year filling my heart. Nothing could be as bad as the past months we’d endured. Between the Kaiser, the Spanish flu, and the loss of so many of our soldiers, everyone had waged war against an enemy.

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, soaking up the sun and the sound of the children playing. Ollie skipped rope, chanting a rhyme she’d brought home from school.

  “I had a little bird; its name was Enza. I opened the window and in flew en—” Her voice and the thump of rope stopped.

  “Who’s that?” James whispered next to my ear.

  I looked. Only a shadow of a figure really, far away down the road. I closed my eyes again.

  “Daddy!” Ollie’s shriek lifted me from my seat. She left her rope and bounded down the road. I clutched the porch post as I watched the man’s bag fall to the ground. He ran to meet her, swinging her up into his arms and holding her close.

  James rushed down the steps and then stopped, turned back to me.

  “Go on.” I shooed him away, as if it didn’t matter. In truth, my stomach clenched. Dan’s tentative steps toward his brother nearly drove the last bit of breath from my body. How would I leave these children? Would Frank send me away this minute? Should I begin collecting my things and saying good-bye?

  Then I thought of all Frank had lost, of how little this resembled the family he’d wanted to return to. He and I shared one bond, at least—loss.

  The boys wandered past the front gate—first James, then Dan, the two of them much more shy about meeting their stranger-Daddy.

  I lifted Janie, who was eager to be included. Tears slid down my face, though I told myself I had no reason to cry. Frank would take care of his children, and I’d be free to move to any city I wanted.

  He knelt on the ground now, hugging his boys to him. Then he looked up. In spite of the fact that I couldn’t see his face distinctly, I saw the longing in his gaze. I held my breath, afraid to shatter the moment, yet afraid the moment would shatter me.

  Straightening my shoulders, I carried Janie past the gate. We stood in the road, the little family walking toward us. Dan clung to one of his daddy’s hands, Ollie to the other. James danced back and forth in front of them.

  “It’s Daddy, Bekah. It’s Daddy!” He sang the words over and over again while I listened to the suck, suck, suck of Janie’s thumb in her mouth. I shifted Janie’s weight to my other hip.

  Emotion flickered across Frank’s face, twitching his lips and tightening his jaw. “You must be Miss Hendricks.” Eyes the color of a storm-darkened sky, and just as intense, held me mute.

  “Rebe
kah,” James corrected. “That’s what she told us to call her.”

  I couldn’t read Frank’s expression. Was he displeased with me? Wary? Grateful? Maybe just exhausted and sorrowful. His gaze slid over to Janie. He held out his hands. She jerked away, her arms tight around my neck, her mouth filled with whimpers.

  “I’m sorry.” I tried to smile.

  His arms dropped to his sides. Ollie and the boys grabbed at his hands. Janie turned for another peek at the man she didn’t recognize, thumb in her mouth, eyes big as saucers.

  “Don’t be scared of your daddy, Janie.” I jiggled her as I wrinkled my nose in her direction. She unplugged her mouth and laughed, just as I’d intended. I took a deep breath and stepped toward Frank. He reached for her again. She clung to me. I peeled her off, handed her into his calloused hands.

  She stared at him for a moment before Ollie pressed close to her daddy and smiled into her sister’s face. “It’s Daddy, Janie. Daddy.”

  Janie reached out baby fingers and touched Frank’s face, gently, timidly. Then the grin we all knew so well broke out like sunshine on a gray day. Moisture rose in Frank’s eyes. I turned away.

  “I imagine you’re hungry,” I said, staring off toward the beginnings of sunset.

  He cleared his throat. “That I am, Rebekah. That I am.”

  My hands refused to be steady. Frank had come home—and I had no idea what that meant for any of us. Part of me reveled in the elation that Janie had wanted me, not her daddy. But in the next moment, I felt guilty. How awful for your own child to not know you. I glanced at Janie, content on the ground near my feet.

  The high pitch of the children’s voices and the deep rumble of a man’s reply drifted in through the kitchen door, but I couldn’t discern the words. I cut lard into the last of the flour for biscuits while bacon sizzled in one big skillet and gravy bubbled in a smaller pot. After I slipped the biscuits into the oven, I stood back and surveyed my work. Hot and filling. I was becoming a pretty good cook.