Wings of a Dream

by Anne Mateer

“Henry was right about their age, but still in school. Frank went off and worked on the railroad, hoarding money to buy that farm. That left Clara and Henry often in each other’s company. Clara invited sympathy, with her frailty. Just the kind men like to champion.”

  Unlike me. A girl with gumption. Maybe that’s why Mama kept trying to arrange things. She feared I’d end up like Aunt Adabelle, far from home, taking care of other people’s families. I chewed at my thumbnail. I guessed she had a right to that fear.

  Irene set her cup aside and leaned her head on the back of the chair. “Really wasn’t anything to tell. Frank came home late one night, found them together in the parlor. Playing checkers, if I remember right. He was young. He hauled off and hit Henry square in the nose. Clara was furious.”

  “And they never reconciled?”

  “Henry and Frank kept an amiable truce, mostly. Then Frank left for the war. Clara and Adabelle needed Henry’s help, and he always gave it.”

  It explained some things—but not what I felt to be a recent deepening of that rift. “I’m glad you told me.”

  Irene looked right into my eyes, and I felt she could read all the way to the bottom of my heart. “Be careful with them, Rebekah. With both of them.”

  My stomach twisted; my mouth went dry. I gulped the rest of my tea, wishing I could tell Irene all my uncertainties, my fears. About Henry. About Frank. About my ability to know my own heart. But she had burdens enough to bear at the moment, so I remained silent. As I carried our empty cups to the kitchen, I realized Irene’s intimations terrified and excited me all at the same time.

  Brother Latham preached from the sixth chapter of Matthew the Sunday after we buried his youngest child. I latched on to verse thirty-four: “Take therefore, no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

  It was easier said than done, for my thoughts constantly drifted toward the dwindling number of days and Frank’s continued refusal to discuss telling the children of my upcoming departure. I tried to force my mind away from Frank and Henry and Irene—and how it would rip out my heart to leave Ollie and James and Dan and Janie behind.

  My heart swelled as I watched Janie change each day. My baby. At least she felt like mine. And that made the battle over worry even more difficult. Day passed into night. Night into day. Yet each bird with wings outspread reminded me again that God cared for me, that He knew every wind that blew my way and changed my direction. And He knew the days that remained of my welcome in this home.

  So when a few days later the chug of an automobile up our road caught my ear, I instructed myself not to worry as I wiped my hands and stepped out onto the side porch. The automobile didn’t have the distinctive sound of Sheriff Jeffries’s car, but it had to be him. I’d prayed for the Lord to make clear my future. Was this His answer? What would Henry say?

  “Be with me, Lord.” I picked up Janie, thankful that the boys “helped” Frank in the farthest field from the house.

  The engine sputtered and stopped. I pinched color into my cheeks before stepping into the yard, wanting the soft grass to mute my footfalls. Janie clapped her hands and laughed. I hugged her to me as we rounded the front corner of the house.

  But I didn’t recognize the roadster parked near the fence, nor the young man in the driver’s seat. He whistled and pointed at another man, one standing at the front door. That man spun around.

  “There you are.” Arthur rushed down the steps to where I stood frozen. He looked serious, solemn even. His arms reached out as if to embrace me, then dropped to his side.

  “What are you doing here, Arthur?” My voice held a flatness I hardly recognized. And my heart didn’t skip a beat.

  “I, uh . . .” He glanced back toward his friend in the car before leaning closer to my ear. “We need to talk.”

  “Then, talk.” I shifted Janie’s weight to my other hip.

  He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Listen, Rebekah, I’ve been thinking.” His gaze moved to Janie, to the ground. “I was too hasty—about the children, about everything. We can work things out. I understand that they need you to take care of them for a while longer.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes just a bit. “But their daddy will be home soon, right?”

  Suspicion raised my eyebrows. “What’s happened, Arthur?”

  He swiped a hand through his pale hair, grown longer since our last meeting. “I’m being officially discharged. I thought maybe you and I, we could . . . all those things we talked about . . .”

  Words I had longed to hear teetered on the edge of his tongue, but I didn’t harbor tender feelings for Arthur any longer. I read more in the depths of his eyes than he knew, like I believed Clara had in Frank’s. Except she apparently saw good; she saw a future. I, on the other hand, sensed a danger in Arthur I’d overlooked before.

  “We could what?” I asked.

  He looked perturbed. “Get married, Rebekah. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  My head screamed that everything I wanted had changed, but I shut away my unease as I considered the possibilities. At the very least, I had to see if he meant what he said.

  I swallowed down my fear. “What happened with your fiancée? You never quite explained that, you know.”

  He slapped his hat on his head, glanced back at his friend waiting in the car. “Listen, I have to go. Borrowed auto and all. But I’ll be back.” He planted his lips on my cheek and jogged away. His friend started the engine and they tore off down the road without a backward glance.

  I stared after them, shocked. The strangeness of Arthur’s behavior niggled at me. Maybe he really meant what he said. Maybe I could learn to love and trust him again. But could I resurrect my passion for the dream now buried beneath my attachment to these children—and their father?

  We wandered to the back porch, Janie and I. I tethered her to my chair and poured cream into the churn, letting my uncertainties agitate it to butter. A half-hearted version of “Over There” hummed from my lips. The war might be “over, over there,” but a battle as fierce as any those boys ever fought raged inside me now. I’d followed my heart only to have my plans shatter like glass against granite. Not once, but twice. And now Arthur appeared again. Was he God’s plan for me?

  Yet he’d broken my heart, and he’d never made things clear about his previous engagement. I churned faster, harder.

  What would Mama say if I took up with him again? Or Irene? Frank, I felt sure, would be glad to be rid of me. But what about Sheriff Jeffries?

  More questions than answers arose from my musings. Questions and a lump of butter beneath my plunger.

  Long after the children drifted to sleep, I sat at Aunt Adabelle’s desk chewing the end of the fountain pen. Words didn’t come as easily as I’d thought they would. My hand refused to write Mama, Arthur came back.

  Long ago, as a little girl, I’d dreamt of my wedding day. I’d walk into our little church in Downington on my daddy’s arm. I’d leave on my husband’s. Mama’s roses would adorn my hair, as well as the altar. Afterwards, at home, we’d eat cake and drink lemonade while our neighbors and friends wished us well. That faceless man who stood beside me, holding my hand, would be completely at ease with everyone around him. He’d slip seamlessly into my world, as I would into his.

  But I couldn’t make Arthur’s face fit into the picture anymore, no matter how hard I tried. And the thought of his elusiveness on both occasions since that day at the airfield made me shiver.

  Unbidden, Frank’s face appeared in my mind. His agony in the graveyard. The love that spilled out of his eyes as he listened to his children around the dinner table. The feel of his hand on my head as I lay ill.

  I dropped my pen, trying to keep my thoughts from following trails that led to nowhere. But I still couldn’t bring myself completely back to Arthur. As much as it pained me to admit it, I’d allowed my head to be turned by a flattering tongue and a pretty face. I’d t
hought he was everything good and honorable, but his actions had proven him to be exactly the opposite. I didn’t think I could sacrifice the dream of a good man even for the promise of adventure.

  Restless feet carried me to the window. I lifted the sash just enough to let in a swirl of cold air and after-dark sounds. A bird called. Another answered. I spied a bright red wing and knew it was the pair of cardinals nesting between the twisted branches of the roses that crawled along the fence. Were they discussing their home? Their children? They twittered again before turning silent.

  With a longing so deep it surprised me, I realized my time to nest had arrived, too, even if it meant setting aside long-held ambitions. Arthur didn’t fit into that picture—not anymore. And I knew in my heart Sheriff Jeffries didn’t either, though he’d try.

  I wandered back to the desk. There in the cubby in front of me sat Frank’s letters. The few written to his wife. More to Aunt Adabelle. A couple to me. I pulled out the picture I’d once studied in ignorance. The now-familiar grin made Frank easy to spot, even from a distance. I ran my finger over the colorless image. If I were honest, I’d admit that what I really wanted was what I’d sworn I’d never have.

  And if I couldn’t have what my heart longed for now with such a fierce and sweet desire, I wouldn’t settle for something less. I’d trust the Lord before I jumped at the next handsome face and promise of adventure.

  I pulled a sheet of paper to me.

  Arthur,

  We cannot be together. Now or ever. I’m not sure it ever would have worked between us. Please forget we ever met.

  Rebekah

  I waved the ink dry and read it over again. A bit harsh, maybe, but not undeservedly so. I sealed the envelope and, for the last time, addressed it to Arthur Samson. I only wished that he’d receive it as fast as a telegram so I’d know it was over for good. But a telegram would have been cruel, as well as an unnecessary expense. I could be patient.

  Back in the parlor, I picked up the big Bible and read until my head nodded. Then I stumbled up the stairs and knelt beside my bed.

  “Help me to be patient, Lord. Help me to trust You.” The words stopped. On my knees in the dark silence, I realized that by committing my way to the Lord, I’d accepted a journey into the unknown. Fear tremored my heart.

  Maybe I didn’t crave adventure as much as I thought I did.

  Three days later, Janie screamed in protest as I lowered her into the crib for her afternoon nap. Her arms flailed toward me as if she knew that I had but two weeks left to hold her.

  “It’s okay, baby.” I savored her arms around my neck as she calmed, but when I tried to return her to bed, her hysteria began again. No words yet, just tears. If only she could tell me what was wrong.

  But she couldn’t. So I climbed into the bed the children shared, Janie still clinging to my neck. “I’ll sleep, too, Janie.”

  She calmed and curled into the crook of my body as if she belonged there. The sun streaked through the closed window, warming the room. After a few minutes, her breathing evened. I relaxed. My eyelids grew heavy.

  The bellow of a car horn caught me just before sleep. I eased out of bed, raced downstairs, and threw open the front door, eager to stop the noise and keep Janie napping.

  Arthur.

  My breath stilled in my chest as fear crawled up my back. Hadn’t he received my letter?

  He stood beside a large touring car, one hand on the horn, one foot crossed casually over the other. The old Arthur, full of swagger. In a dapper suit instead of an army uniform, hat tipped back on his head, satisfied smile on his face.

  “I’m here.” He opened his arms.

  I shrank back.

  “Uncle Sam’s through with me for good now.” He sauntered up the walk, until he stood with one foot on the porch step. “I’m a real civilian again. Mother is so pleased that I’m getting married, she bought me a new suit and a new car.”

  “Didn’t you—didn’t you get my letter?” My fingers gripped one another, twisting like the knot in my stomach.

  “Aw, little girl, you didn’t think I took that seriously, did you?”

  “You should have. I meant every word.”

  He ambled up the steps. “C’mon. It’s Valentine’s Day. You know you’re my best girl, Rebekah.”

  I crossed my arms and retreated closer to the door. “I don’t know that, Arthur. All I know is you had a fiancée and now you don’t. You seem to think you can exchange one girl for another, the same way you change from a uniform to a new suit.”

  His eyes took on the wariness I’d noticed the last time he’d visited. He inched toward me. “But you have to marry me, Rebekah. What’ll Mother say if you don’t?”

  “That isn’t really my concern, is it?”

  His eyes narrowed, his expression suddenly menacing. “But she thinks I’m getting married.”

  I. Not we.

  An idea swirled, soft as fresh taffy. I pulled it this way and that. Then I cocked my head and stared straight into his eyes. “Did you tell her about me or about the other girl?” As the thought hardened like cooled sugar, I stepped boldly toward him. “Did your mother make promises about when you married that you want her to keep? Then your fiancée left you. Is that it? Is that why you came running back to me?”

  He backed away, eyes wide, mouth gaping. I nodded in the direction of his new car. “Was that part of the deal? And the clothes? Maybe a business proposition, as well? Am I right, Arthur? Am I?”

  A movement caught the corner of my eye. Frank rounding the corner of the house, baseball and glove in hand, the boys cavorting around his feet.

  “Hello there.” Frank stopped just beyond us and handed the ball and glove to a speechless James. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  My lips felt stiff as wooden planks. “This is Arthur Samson. Arthur, meet Frank Gresham.”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed as Frank came forward, hand extended. Arthur slipped me a sideways glance, his face brightening.

  “Ah, the children’s father. So nice to meet you, Mr. Gresham.” He pumped Frank’s hand. “I know Rebekah is glad to have you back.” He sidled up to me, planted his arm around my waist, and pinned me to his side. “We’ve been waiting for you to return. You see, we’re engaged to be married.”

  Frank’s smile shifted a bit as his eyes sought mine. “You should have said something when I arrived home, Rebekah. I’d hate to think I made a man wait a minute longer than necessary to take a wife.”

  I pursed my lips and ripped myself from Arthur’s possessive grasp, wishing my glare could consume him like fire. “I am not engaged to this man. I told him we were through. I have no idea why he’s come here. He has no business with me.”

  Frank’s blue eyes turned stormy when he looked at Arthur. “Is this true?”

  “Well, I . . .” Arthur fidgeted with the lapels on his jacket and straightened his tie. “I didn’t think she really meant it.” His old grin returned, as if he and Frank had a long history of friendship between them. “Lovers’ spat and all.”

  His arm went possessively around me again. I tried to spin away, but he held me fast, his fingers digging into my side. “You know how women are, always saying one thing and meaning another.”

  I freed myself from his grasp, fists clenched, chest heaving like an angry bull.

  Frank stepped between us, the chiseled muscles in his arms flexing tight beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves. “I don’t believe I know that, son. Seems to me, women generally say what they mean. At least my wife always did. And I haven’t known Rebekah to do differently.”

  I peeked over Frank’s shoulder in time to witness the color drain from Arthur’s face, leaving his appearance more like an alabaster statue instead of a man. He backed down the dirt walkway, crashing into the fence, feeling behind him for the gate, then for the door of his shiny car. “Yes, sir. Maybe I was wrong, sir.”

  One corner of my mouth lifted as Arthur inched around the front of the car and reached for the doo
r.

  “You need some help with that?” The amusement in Frank’s voice made me imagine the twinkle in his eye.

  “No, thank you.” Arthur sat behind the steering wheel, looking like a little boy caught smoking in the hayloft. The gears growled as he turned the car to head back toward town.

  Frank raised his hand. “Sure was nice to meet you.”

  I stood next to my protector as Arthur’s tires kicked up a swirl of dust around us.

  “I hope I didn’t frighten your young man.” Frank stared after the car.

  “He’s not my young man.”

  Frank turned slowly, eyebrows raised, as if questioning that I spoke truth. My bravado deflated as quickly as a punctured tire.

  “I thought he was, once. But I realized a while ago that I was wrong.” I hesitated, suddenly embarrassed by the whole affair.

  James pushed between us. “Can we play ball now, Daddy?”

  Frank kept his eyes locked on mine for a long moment before he tousled his son’s hair. “Anytime you’re ready, son.”

  The next Saturday dawned clear and warm, like spring preening in her new dress. With a light step and a tune on my lips, I worked back and forth from stove to table. Bacon and eggs and biscuits and gravy. Whatever had possessed me to stir up such a breakfast?

  Frank rubbed his hands together as he slid into his chair at the head of the table. “Woo-whee. Smells like Christmas.”

  “Daddy,” Ollie scolded. “Christmas smells like cinnamon, not bacon and biscuits.”

  Frank laughed as he tucked a napkin into his shirt. “So it does, Ollie. So it does. But I’m thinking this breakfast smells mighty fine, too.”

  Janie squawked and reached for a biscuit. Ollie broke one open and laid it within her sister’s reach. I set a new ball of butter on the table and took my seat. Frank blessed our food before he filled his sons’ plates.

  It felt so right, the six of us around the table enjoying a meal. I set my elbows on the table, rested my chin on my clasped hands, and watched. Frank tipped his head, his question as clear as if he’d spoken. “What?” his gesture said. “Why are you looking at us like that?”