Wings of a Dream

by Anne Mateer

  “Soon, Dan. He’ll be back soon.” Please, God, let him come back soon.

  As if in immediate answer to my prayer, the kitchen door banged open against the wall. Frank hung his hat on a peg, but it fell to the floor. He yanked the gloves from his hands, his bare fingers reaching for mine. “Irene’s coming.”

  “What did she say?” I gripped his hand more tightly, surprised at his touch, greedy for his strength.

  “She’s not far behind, in the wagon. I came through the field. It was faster.”

  I poured out hot coffee and handed him a cup. He savored that first drink, and then his eyes found mine. “They had a visitor—didn’t wait to find out who. He took Brother Latham to get the doc.”

  Doc Risinger. Fever, cough, chills. The nightmare had returned. But at least this time I didn’t have to face it alone.

  Irene, Frank, and I watched and prayed and nursed Ollie half the night before Doc Risinger arrived. His skin looked thin as paper in the lamplight as he leaned across the bed and examined Ollie.

  He gathered the rest of us in one corner of the room. “I’d hoped the scourge had passed over us, but I was wrong.”

  My skin prickled. “What do you mean?”

  His wiry hair, whiter now than when we’d first met, stuck out from all ends. “Spanish flu. I’ve seen enough of it now to recognize it.”

  I shook my head and backed toward the wall. “She can’t have that.” My hand crept to my throat, my whispers resounding until they ceased being whispers at all. “It’s gone. No one in these parts has it anymore.”

  “Rebekah.” Frank took my shoulders in his hands. “Doc’s here. Just let him—”

  “He doesn’t know. He’s just a doddering old man. Can’t you see? She needs a real doctor!”

  Ollie moaned. I pushed past Frank and rushed to the bedside. “Do something! Help her!” My shrieks filled the room before Irene slapped me right across the face.

  I stared at her in silent shock, just as she’d intended. Then her voice broke through, calm and gentle as an April dawn. “You have to be strong, Rebekah.”

  She glanced quickly at Frank’s pale face before raising her eyebrows at me. Then she put her arm around my waist. “Why don’t you go upstairs and rest? We’ll take care of Ollie.”

  I whimpered like a kicked puppy, but one look at Frank’s red-rimmed eyes composed me. He looked as if a stout wind would blow him over. “I’ll be quiet. I promise.”

  “Good girl.” Irene nodded as I sank down next to the bed, folded my hands, and begged God to give me the flu instead of Ollie.

  For two straight nights I fell asleep on my knees, my head resting on the mattress. When I woke the third day, a yellow streak of sun streamed in through the window and fell across Ollie’s body. Doc Risinger and Irene had cautioned me that we might not know the severity of the illness for several days. But as long as the purple spots didn’t appear, there was hope.

  I studied Ollie’s thin face. Pale, from forehead to chin. But no darkening tones. I forced my legs to straighten and my head to change direction. I staggered to the kitchen. Irene and Frank sat at the table drinking coffee. Irene poured me a cup, as well. I sipped it, plain black.

  Irene laid her hand on mine. “She’s holding her own.”

  I tried to smile, but my lips refused to obey.

  Ah-ooga. Ah-ooga.

  Before the others could move, I bolted for the porch, waving my hands for the visitor to cease his noise. One of the older Latham boys hopped from the running board of Mr. Culpepper’s automobile.

  “Tell Mama to come quick. Beulah’s sick. So’s Daddy.”

  Irene must have been standing behind me. She bustled down the walk, the hurry in her step the only indication of crisis. She even managed to remember to wave good-bye as she climbed in beside Mr. Culpepper.

  Little Beulah. I licked moisture into my lips as I reached for the column holding the porch roof overhead. But my hand landed on Frank instead. His arms closed around me. I buried my head in his chest.

  All I could think was that I’d sent Ollie to school carrying the Spanish flu.

  After Frank’s arms, I knew nothing, until I found myself in bed alternately hot and cold, throat parched, chest tight. But I needed to be with Ollie. I threw back the covers, or I thought I did. They barely fluttered. I groaned, closed my burning eyes.

  Then cool covered my forehead. A wet cloth. I tried to reach for it, but it hurt to move, so I succumbed to sleep. I dreamt strange vignettes of Mama and Will and Daddy and Aunt Adabelle. Arthur and Sheriff Jeffries even made appearances. And those sweet children. Far off in the distance I recognized Frank. I never saw his face, only his back, but somehow I knew him.

  Finally, my eyes opened to darkness. I sat up, head pounding with pain.

  “I’m here, Rebekah.”

  “Who?”

  “Frank.” An arm cradled my back. “Drink this.” Tart liquid dribbled into my mouth. “Sleep now.”

  “But Ollie—”

  “Shh.” A hand stroked my hair. “Just get yourself well.”

  I tried to focus on his face, but my eyes wouldn’t cooperate. So I returned my head to the pillow, drifting again into a crowded slumber.

  People I loved, and who loved me, jumbled together, saying things I knew they’d never say. I walked among them in confusion, no one speaking to me directly. I asked everyone what I should do, where I should go. But not one head turned in my direction. I could only listen.

  I woke again, every bone alive with aching. Daylight now, eyes focusing more clearly. No one sat in the chair by my bed. I pushed myself up, reached for a cup of water on the table next to me.

  “Let me help.” The cup lifted, held to my lips by hands much stronger than mine.

  “Thank you.” Hot tears slid down hot cheeks, stealing the clarity of my vision.

  “Don’t cry, Rebekah. Please don’t cry.” It sounded like Frank. Yet would he be so solicitous toward me? Another apparition, I imagined. I eased back down to sleep, anxious to shut out the pain that filled my chest with every breath.

  More tumultuous dreams. Then my brain registered the birds outside my window, my eyes recognized the sunshine streaming through the window. I shifted beneath the covers and spied Sheriff Jeffries dozing in the chair by my bed.

  I sat up too fast, spinning the world around me. My shaky hand went to my head, trying to still the motion. The sheriff hovered over me, touching my cheeks, my forehead. Without permission or embarrassment.

  He closed his eyes and fell back into his chair. “You gave us quite a scare, Rebekah. You’ve been in bed two days.”

  I attempted to pull threads of thought from a tangled ball of memory. “Ollie?”

  “She’s been asking for you.”

  I swung my feet over the side of the bed, noticing a rumpled skirt covering my knees instead of my nightdress. At least I had that much dignity left.

  The sheriff helped me stand, his shoulder and arm bearing my weight. “I’ll take you to her.”

  I wanted to voice my thanks, but I couldn’t manage the words. I had to concentrate on the steps. I had to get to Ollie.

  Frank slept in the chair beside Ollie’s bed, his elbow propped on a table, his hand holding his head somewhat upright. As we entered the room, he leapt to his feet.

  His confused gaze searched my face, and then his eyes narrowed at the sheriff. “Should she be out of bed?” Gravelly words.

  “Fever’s broke.” A clipped response.

  I looked from one man to the other, trying to comprehend the antagonism that crackled the air between them. A shiver swayed me. Each man’s face softened, but I disregarded their concern. I needed to know about Ollie.

  She looked so tiny in the middle of her parents’ bed. A slick, almost bloodless face. My stomach clutched. Was she dead? Then I realized that no spots shadowed her eyes or her cheeks. Her body shook with a deep cough. I winced, trying to suppress the answering one creeping up my own throat. Frank reached across the b
ed and felt her face and the back of her neck.

  He dropped back into the chair. “She’s still fine.”

  I wavered. Frank jumped up, caught hold of my arm, and kept me upright. He led me to the bed and urged me to lie beside Ollie.

  As the fog in my head cleared further, fear pounced at me like a threatened bobcat. “Where are the boys? And Janie? Tell me.” I gripped Frank’s shirtsleeves.

  “They’re fine. They’re at the Crenshaws. Under the weather, but not the flu. Definitely not the flu.”

  I looked to the sheriff. He nodded. Once.

  “Truly?” My gaze held Frank’s. He wouldn’t lie to me. He couldn’t.

  “I promise.”

  I let out my breath and relaxed into the pillow propped behind me. Then I remembered Irene—the news of Beulah and her hasty exit.

  “Irene?”

  Now Frank refused to look anywhere but Ollie’s face. I held my breath. Not Irene. Please, God, not Irene.

  A fit of coughing shook me. Frank’s tortured eyes found mine, but it was Sheriff Jeffries who found a cup of water. I sipped until the wracking calmed. I lifted my eyes to the sheriff. If Frank wouldn’t tell me about my friend, he’d have to.

  “Doc’s there.” The sheriff refused to hold my gaze.

  I pushed up from the bed, clung to his arm. “I have to go.” In spite of my dry eyes, my voice sounded gruff and full of moisture. “Please. Take me to her.”

  His gaze slipped to the floor.

  “Please . . . Henry.”

  His head rose. I hadn’t expected to see quite so much anticipation in his eyes, but I pushed my uneasiness aside. I had to be with my friend, as she had been with me.

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “You might want to change clothes.”

  If I’d had the strength, I’d have thrown my arms around his neck.

  Frank pushed past us. “She’s not going anywhere until she eats something.” Watching him retreat into the kitchen, I wondered why I couldn’t restrain the upward twitch of my lips.

  By the time I’d consumed some oatmeal and coffee, given myself a bird bath and changed my clothes, the sun had risen to full height and I had to lie down again. “Go for me, Henry. Please. I have to know.”

  He finally agreed. After he climbed into his car and chugged away, I sat at Ollie’s bedside and watched Frank coax broth between his daughter’s lips.

  Seven precious days had slipped away as Ollie, then I, fought off the Spanish Lady that claimed Aunt Adabelle. Days I could never regain. I figured up just over three weeks remained until I must board the train and leave this family behind.

  “No more, Daddy. No more.” Ollie’s rasp rent my heart.

  Frank dabbed her lips with a damp cloth, and her eyes closed in restful sleep.

  I straightened the top of the quilt near Ollie’s chin. A rush of tears dammed behind my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. I took a deep breath, pushed Ollie’s hair from her face as I’d done for my aunt, and laid my hand on her cheek, thankful for the coolness.

  The horror of my vigil over Aunt Adabelle returned as a knot in my chest. Did Irene share that experience now or was she in the oblivion of fever, as Ollie and I had been? And Mama. She couldn’t fight off the ravages of the flu a second time. And what if Daddy should fall ill? She certainly didn’t have the strength to nurse him.

  “What are you thinking?” Frank’s words came so soft I wasn’t sure I’d heard them.

  I tried to smile, to break the sorrow that stretched between us. “Thinking about Mama. And Will. And Adabelle.”

  Clara’s unspoken name shouted itself into the silence. My eyes sought his face. “Irene won’t die, too, will she?”

  “We can pray.” He bowed his head, his voice booming now as he implored the God of the universe to spare the life of his friend. Although tears rolled down my cheeks, I smiled as I watched him pray. Deep faith, strong character, and a love for others. Could there be a finer man?

  “Thank you,” I said when he finished. I wondered if I imagined the tremble in his hand as he straightened the covers over his daughter.

  “Irene’s not any worse, but the baby . . .” Sheriff Jeffries’s hat spun between his hands.

  I stood, in spite of the wooziness in my head. “I have to go to her.”

  Henry took my hand, led me back to the sofa. “She’ll need you more later, I think.”

  My hands dropped limp into my lap as Frank came into the parlor and sprawled in a chair. His stubbled chin and shadowed eyes sank into my understanding. He hadn’t rested in days, what with nursing Ollie.

  “Please, Frank. Get some rest. I’ll watch her. I promise.” I glanced at the sheriff. He didn’t look nearly as haggard as Frank. “Sheriff Jeff—Henry will stay a while longer and help.”

  Frank didn’t protest as I’d expected. Instead, he trudged from the room, bent like an old man with a lifetime of burdens. My throat ached with longing. But I knew he didn’t want me. He considered me only a blessed help in his time of trouble. Nothing more.

  I held out my hand to the sheriff, forced my dry lips to smile. “Come help me take care of my girl.”

  Three days after my feet steadied on the ground again, I stood in the graveyard by the church, a cold wind whipping my skirt around my legs and snaking up my stocking-clad legs. A pale-faced Brother Latham stood over the gaping hole, eyes raw with grief.

  Irene’s bundled shoulders shook as she wept silently. I laced my arm through hers, but liquid fear dotted my forehead. What if she swooned? I didn’t think I could hold her up.

  But even as the thought crossed my mind, Frank reached over and anchored her from the opposite side. I smiled my thanks, but his face remained blank, as if he grieved a loved one, instead of Irene.

  And maybe he did. Maybe this burial made his wife’s more real.

  Brother Latham paused several times during the service, but he made it through, prayed a final prayer, and dropped the first handful of dirt on Beulah’s child-sized box below. I winced as the hard clods banged on the soft wood. So different from the squish and plop of Aunt Adabelle’s final farewell.

  I squeezed my fingers around Irene’s arm as she bent forward to do what her husband had done. I turned away as the earth flew from her hand, trying to mute the sound. Then, at Brother Latham’s direction, I led Irene toward the church. She needed to sit, to rest. As did I.

  Doc Risinger took my arm as Frank gave Irene his full strength to lean on. We climbed the steps, and then Frank slipped back to the grave site. Inside, I unwrapped Irene’s shawl, unbuttoned her coat, led her to the back pew. She bowed her head. Doc Risinger found us there, pulled me just out of earshot.

  “She needs time to recover, body and soul.”

  I nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  His moustache twitched. “And what about the others that need yer care?”

  “Frank can handle them.”

  “He’s who I was meanin’. He’s walking on the edge of illness himself, what with nursing ye and Ollie both.”

  “Nursing us . . . both?”

  His bushy eyebrows inched up and down like caterpillars across a sidewalk. “Aye, girl. Didn’t ye know?”

  “But Sheriff Jeffries . . .” The fog in my brain vaguely remembered Frank by my bed, soothing words, gentle hands. But hadn’t I dreamed that?

  Doc shook his head. “Sheriff didn’t come until the last. He took the little ones to the Crenshaws’, but he had other things to tend.”

  My mouth gaped as my head whirled in confusion. Frank took care of me? Me and Ollie? “But he . . . How could he manage us both?”

  “Blamed if I know. But he did. Better than most, I might add. Went without sleep. Without food.” Doc shook his head. “Couldn’t bear to lose ye, either one.”

  Either one? My throat tightened, and tears blurred my vision. Could it be true?

  “Rebekah?” Irene’s voice croaked like an old woman’s, clawing at my heart.

  “I’m here.” I knelt besid
e her.

  She closed her hand over mine as she hauled in a bucketful of air. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. Nola Jean’s a good girl, but she doesn’t understand. Not like another mother.”

  Another mother? Did she really think of me like that? I felt so young. So inadequate in the face of her grief. I’d never birthed my own child, let alone buried one. But after watching Ollie suffer, I guessed I had more understanding than a schoolgirl would.

  She squeezed my hand and forced another smile, all at the same time. “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. I still choose to bless the name of the Lord.”

  I pressed my lips together. If she could believe those words in light of the death of her child, I determined I could, too, even if every desire of my heart ended in destruction.

  I stayed over at the Lathams’ the next day to help, though Nola Jean took care of things. I sat with Irene, letting her talk about whatever came to mind. When the silence stifled, I asked her questions, forcing her to think beyond her pain.

  “Tell me about Frank and the sheriff. They don’t seem to be friends, exactly.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s an old tale now, but neither one of them can seem to forget. Clara used to laugh at them both. Like two dogs circling a carcass picked clean, Adabelle used to say.”

  I laughed. Mama would not have approved of such an expression. “What happened?”

  Irene sighed. “It was just after Clara and Frank came here. You know all about that, I expect.”

  “Ollie told me their story.” I wondered if Irene knew about the story Ollie had told me of Nola Jean’s young suitor.

  As if reading my thoughts, Nola Jean arrived with two cups of tea. Irene held her daughter’s hand a long minute before letting go, but Nola Jean didn’t linger. Irene sipped at her tea. “Clara and Frank, both of them no more than children, rented a room at the Jeffries’s house.”

  I leaned forward. I hadn’t expected that.