Echoes

by Naida Kirkpatrick

  Rosa Yoder stood at my side. She and the man stared at each other, the hate vibrating between them like a taut, red bowstring then shattered into shards of glittering glass. I tried to scream or run but couldn’t. I awoke with a jerk, my heart pounding. The rain had lessened; the sky was pale lavender. Dawn was near.

  A shower cleared my head, but the nightmare remained. There was some kind of clue here if I could just find it.

  The storm left leaves, sticks and small branches strewn about the yard. Old plastic bags and paper cups were snagged in the bushes around the house and tangled in the broken branches. I cleaned up the yard then decided to be a good neighbor and help Lily. I knew she had gone to town to do the shopping, so I carried my rake and clippers and entered Mrs. Yoder’s yard through the side gate.

  When I had all the debris from the storm raked into a pile, I pulled open the rickety door of the shed and searched for trash bags. The shed was filled to the roof with a clutter of old lawn chairs, brooms, snow shovels and boxes of canning jars all crammed in at random. There was a small workbench along one wall and the top of that was so tidy, it stood out in all the gloom. My curiosity aroused, I stepped over a crate of glass jars to examine the workbench. The top was covered with several layers of brown wrapping paper. Along the back, like the spice jars in Mavis’ cupboard, stood a line of identical glass jars. Some were partially filled with a dark-colored substance, some with hardware like screws and washers. In a precise row, in front of the jars, was a set of tools ranging in size from a tiny screwdriver an inch and half long to one as long as my hand. There were pliers with small pincers and a handful of hollow, metal tubes the size of a knitting needle. This workbench was evidently important somehow; it looked like an oasis in all the surrounding clutter. I heard a step behind me.

  “Maggie, can I help you with something?” Lily stood in the doorway of the shed, blocking the outside light.

  “I was looking for trash bags.” I waved my hand across the workbench. “I got sidetracked by seeing this. What is all this stuff, Lily?”

  She peered over my shoulder at the neat array of tools, a look of puzzlement on her face. She shook her head “I have no idea. I rarely come in here. I keep the trash bags in the kitchen. I’ll get a couple.” She led the way out and I closed and fastened the door. “Thanks for cleaning up the yard, Maggie.”

  I finished the yard, placed the full trash bags next to the drive and returned home. The picture of the workbench stayed with me. It was so inconsistent with the rest of the shed. Another riddle to add to the list. It must fit in somewhere, but where?

  Chapter Seventeen

  My eyes burned from staring at pages and pages of fading ink in more dusty books than I ever knew existed. My search had taken me to the records department in the courthouse and I was trying to locate any pertinent information about the Washburn family and their property that would prove helpful. So far, I had found squat. That is, until I turned to the back of the last volume and discovered a series of fold out maps of the township. All the properties were marked off in a grid pattern and labeled. The property adjoining the Washburns’ was deeded to Wilfred and Faith Manning. How interesting that Willie hadn’t thought to mention this little fact.

  I walked home, got my car keys and drove out the new highway to find this property. There wasn’t any mention made of any structure on this land, so imagine my surprise to find heavy construction equipment chugging around raising quite a cloud of dust. Along the tree line at the edge of the property, next to the Washburn woods, there was a trailer and several temporary workbenches. A group of men stood around one of the tables, huddled over what I took to be blueprints.

  I fished my trusty notebook and pen from my purse and picked my way carefully across a weedy field toward the nearest table. One of the men saw me and came toward me, striding across the rutted ground, his boots stirring up the dust.

  “Hi!” I stuck out my hand. “I’m from the Marion Chronicle. I wonder if I could have a word or two?” I smiled my best at him. He was young enough to be my grandson and I counted on his being polite enough not to shrug me off. “I want to write an article about new construction in the area. Can you help me?”

  He was courtesy itself. “Sure. We’re clearing this area to build a factory.”

  “What kind of factory? How will it affect the rest of the area?” I scribbled something in my notebook to make it appear I was taking down his information.

  “I don’t know how it will affect things, but it should bring more business, and a lot of jobs. We’ve been told its being built for AlCon Steel. They’re waiting to put up the final building when the house over there is torn down.” He waved his arm at the trees of the Washburn woods. “The word is that the old woman doesn’t want to sell, but Mr. Manning told us not to worry; he’d convince her.” Just then we heard a shout and my informant grinned. “I’ve got to go. I hope you got enough for your article.”

  “Thanks. More than enough.” Not only that, I got a monstrous knot of anger in my gut, toward one devious, conniving Willie Manning.

  I drove back home, parked my car and headed to Maude’s to drown my troubles with her coffee and cinnamon rolls. Mable Prentiss and I reached the door together. She followed me in, and said in my ear,

  “Maggie, I have to talk to you. I’ll be right back.” She went to the counter, returning with tea and a plate of cookies. “Mr. Manning is interviewing a client this afternoon and he wanted me to get some of Maude’s little cakes to make things go more smoothly.”

  She set her things on the table, plopped into one of the yellow chairs and fumbled around in her purse. She took out a day planner and extracted a folded sheet of paper.

  “The other day, Willie asked me to make copies of a contract and this paper was in the batch. I don’t think he intended it to be there, but I copied it anyway. I always check the copies I make to be sure the margins and the print is clear, but something about this caught my attention and I read it all. Maggie, I know you and Willie used to be somewhat close. I don’t know if you still are, but you should see this.” She unfolded the paper and handed it to me.

  “Mable, just to make things clear, Willie and I were never that close. Ever since we graduated from high school, I have tried very hard to forget all about him, and it worked until I came back here. I never quite trusted Willie Manning, and I still don’t.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Neither do I.”

  A strange remark from his secretary, I thought. I read through the letter, and nearly dropped my cup. The letter was addressed to a Mr. Avery Melon, a developer who apparently represented certain small industries, one of which was AlCon Steel. In it, Willie assured Mr. Melon of being able to begin construction of his factory within a few months. He made reference to the preliminary clearing being carried out. Willie also referred to the present owner as being too old to resist any pressure and he was certain he could persuade her to agree to his terms.

  After recovering from the shock of such raw greed I nodded and folded the paper. “I had a feeling Willie was after more than just whether Faith was a child of Louis Devereaux. Did you know that right this minute there is a crew of bulldozers working on the land next to the Washburn property?”

  I told Mable that I had just come from there and what the young man told me about the work in progress, pounding the table with my fist.

  “What a nasty, little man. Miss Harriet is quite old, but she still has all her wits about her and more integrity in one eyebrow than Willie ever had in his entire soul.” The mountain of anger directed at Willie Manning that built inside me blended with the monstrous headache exploding behind my eyes. Mable got to her feet.

  “Maggie, my order is ready, I have to go. Let me know if I can help further.”

  “Why are you doing this, Mable? After all you do work for the guy.”

  “Short explanation. I trained as a legal secretary. When my mother became ill, I came back home to take care of her and Willie offered me a position. He
pays well and I needed every cent for Mother’s bills. He isn’t one of my favorite people, although I kinda like Faith, at least in small doses.”

  “Faith. I used to think she was such an airhead, but she seems different now.” I chewed my roll. “I wonder why she married Willie.”

  “She really loves him, as incredible as that seems.” Mable shrugged. “Besides, Willie can be very persuasive if he chooses, and he needed her, or at least, he needed her money.”

  “Her money?”

  “Yeah. Faith is a wealthy woman. She inherited a sizeable chunk of cash and investments when her father died. She owns that house on Van Buren Avenue where they live. Willie has a good practice, but he barely makes enough to cover the expensive lifestyle he likes.” Mable collected her purse and box of cakes and paused. “This plan to market the Washburn place would mean a very nice commission for Willie. He needs the money. I have a lot of respect for Miss Harriet and I wouldn’t cry one tear, Maggie, if this whole scheme collapsed.”

  Mable gave me a lot to think about. All Willie’s concern that Faith might be a relative of the Washburns was no more than a way to get someone, namely me, to find a way to soften the opposition. Damn you, Willie Manning! The thumping in my head kept pace with every step I took. I was angry with myself for letting him sucker me into even consider helping him. I muttered under my breath calling him all the nasty, hateful names I had ever heard, and believe me, my days in the ER left me with a colorful and descriptive vocabulary. I kicked a rock that was in my way on the sidewalk and sent it skidding into the street. At least it gave my universe a sense of stability to realize that Willie Manning was still an obnoxious, little worm.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I spent the next day puttering around the house straightening the magazines, rearranging the stacks of papers and my notes. Some of the newspapers were no longer needed so I carried them out to my car. I planned to return them to the Times office later. As I ate a light lunch, I made a list of the few facts I had.

  I had learned enough to know that Faith Manning was no relative of Emily Washburn, but I was sure Emily had a child while she was in France. I felt that was made clear from the letters Emily wrote to her brother. I also began to believe that Emily’s child was Rosa Yoder’s, Roberta. In an effort to get some sort of timeline I made a list. Roberta’s age was approximately eight to ten years older than mine. Her daughter would be about the age of my Charlotte and that would make her child about the age of Kevin Thatcher, give or take a few years. Lily Thomas was only a couple of years older than Kevin and it seemed quite reasonable that she was the granddaughter of Roberta. Besides, she had the certificate of adoption that proved the relationship. But I had no solid proof that she was related to the Washburns, and I couldn’t just go barging in on Miss Harriet with only guesses. Instead, I called Lily Thomas and asked her to come over for coffee.

  “Rosa’s attending a special service at her church,” Lily announced as she sat down beside the patio table. “I have a couple of hours before I have to leave to pick her up.”

  “Lily, I hope you won’t think I’m prying, but I’d like to know more about you and your family.”

  “Sure, Maggie. What do you want to know? I can’t think of why, though.”

  “Things like where you grew up and went to school, names of your parents, grandparents, your hobbies, studies, you know.”

  She poured milk into her coffee, and leaned back against the chair cushion.

  “I grew up in a small town in eastern Ohio, near the Pennsylvania border. My father was a reporter for the local newspaper before the war. He was sent overseas and, just before the end of the war, he met my mother. She was teaching in a school near where he was stationed. He met her in one of the little cafes where they would buy coffee and share a slice of cake. He told me once that he would always remember the way she ate her cake, nibbling around the edge, saving the center for last. She made it seem like a ceremony. He died when I was five. I don’t remember my mother. She died when I was just a baby. After Dad died, I lived with my grandparents. When I was fifteen, my grandmother’s heart just gave out one day, and she was gone. After that it was just Pops and me.

  “Pops was a great guy. He helped me get through high school world history and, as a result, gave me an appreciation for the past. He had a way of describing people and countries that made me feel as though I had actually been there. He had an artistic side, too, and a great eye for color. He actually helped me choose my prom dress. He made all my dates nervous because he would sit down beside each one and strike up a conversation. It was usually one-sided, because they were so on edge. He taught me to drive and helped me with college. When he died, I lost the best friend I ever had.” She sniffed. “I still miss him.”

  “I’m sure you do. People like that are more important than anything. What was your mother’s name, Lily?”

  “It was very beautiful and unusual. Allilie, but Pops called her Lily. He said she didn’t know her family. When my father met her, she told him she had grown up in a home run by the church. All she knew about her family was that they were destroyed during the war. She had a few things that had belonged to her mother, but nothing to identify her.”

  “Do you have any pictures of your mother, Lily?”

  “Not anymore. Pops had a small newsstand and several years ago, during a terrible storm, the power line was struck by lightning and the shop burned to the ground. We lived just over the shop and everything was lost. I was away at school at the time, but all the photos I had of my parents were at home. Everything was lost.”

  “I’m sorry.” I offered her another muffin, but she shook her head. “I think it must be about time to go fetch Rosa. Thanks for the chat, Maggie. I miss having someone to talk to. I talk to Rosa sometimes, but she never forgets about Roberta, and since I never knew her, I can’t be much help.” She stood, and hesitated. “Maggie, I realize you don’t know Rosa well, but she’s different, somehow.”

  “How do you mean, Lily?”

  “I can’t put my finger on why but, in the last couple of months, she has changed. When I first came here, and showed her my paper proving us to be related, she was such a happy person, but lately all she talks about is Roberta. She was so excited to show you her pictures and tell you about her but, when she began talking about Mr. Williams, she changed. She almost scared me, the way she looked when she talked about him. I didn’t know him; I only just saw him occasionally. She used to take a walk every afternoon and always came back past his house. She would stop and stare a long time, then cross the street. She would have such a strange look on her face. She never let me go with her, either.” She straightened and smiled. “Well, I really must go. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Anytime, Lily. Come again.”

  Well! So Donny and I weren’t the only ones who were concerned. The next time Rosa went to her church group, Lily returned and continued our chat. She brought slices of fresh bread just out of the oven and I made coffee, as usual. This time we sat on the porch because it had rained all morning and the chairs on the patio were wet.

  “Pops told me once that my mother could make the most wonderful bread and he taught me her recipes. I hope you like this.”

  The bread was incredible. Light and firm with a crisp crust, it almost melted in my mouth. I could only nod and grunt with satisfaction. Lily laughed.

  “Why did you come to Tuxford, Lily?”

  “I’m a graduate student at the university. I finished my undergrad work back in Pennsylvania and could have stayed for more, but I wanted someplace different. While I was packing everything and sorting through Pops papers, I came across this old beat up paper. I almost threw it away, but something caught my eye and I took a better look. It turned out to be an adoption certificate for my mother. Her name was listed as Allilie Yoder, daughter of Roberta Yoder. To shorten a very long story, I learned that Rosa is my great grandmother. I was really glad I chose to attend the university. That way I can stay with Rosa and ge
t to know a little more about my family. She needed some help and it all works out great. She insists on paying me, so this helps to supplement the money that Pops set aside for my education. The work isn’t hard and I can continue the research for my paper. Although, I must admit, I’ve been slacking off a little lately.”

  Lily left then and I made notes of the information she gave me about her childhood. Over the next few days, she returned several times. I think she just wanted to talk and didn’t know anyone else that she felt comfortable with. Since I was interested in learning more about the Washburns, and she seemed to want to talk about her family, I welcomed her visits. She told me about her early days in Tuxford.

  “There was a little store back home that sold candy and ice cream and always smelled of peppermint. The day I arrived in Tuxford, I walked into a little shop downtown that reminded me of that candy store. It’s owned by Maude Chambers. Do you know her? Maude reminded me of my grandmother.” She sat lost in reflection for a few minutes, smiling. “The store at home was quiet and cool on those hot summer days. It was my favorite place to go when I wanted to get away from my life, if only for a short time. The screen door had a little bell that jangled every time the door opened, just like Maude’s. Inside always smelled of peppermint and fresh baked cookies. When I go into Maude’s shop, I close my eyes for a moment and imagine I’m back home.”