Platform Four: A Legacy Falls Romance

by Eden Butler

  ***

  That night, I wrote without really thinking. Often, when I sat down to write Garreth, I’d tell him all the things I felt. But after over a year, with the number of letters we sent each other, there was only so many times you could relate how much you wanted a kiss that never came. There had been filler letters as well; things we said to each other that were mundane. Those small troves of information made getting to know each other easier and sometimes, it wasn’t just details we disclosed.

  Sometimes our fears, our worries came out between each line, like the letter I sat down that night to write. It was simple, short and filled with the things I hoped he’d understand. The things I was trying to understand myself.

  Dear Garreth,

  Today my best friend received a telegraph from the war department. She’d just celebrated her tenth wedding anniversary with her Bill. I’d acted as stand-in since he was busy off fighting the Germans and we drank an entire bottle of wine on our own and she told me about their first date and all the times that came after that one, all the things he’d said, no matter how unsuitable to get just one kiss from her. They’d been eighteen when they married and now, at twenty-eight, she’s a widow.

  Is that what this war is leaving behind? Heartache? Worry? Is that what we can expect from here on out? The cruelty of women losing their men? Wives marking their anniversaries with girlfriends instead of their husbands? Mothers keeping a folded, pristine flag in a triangle on their front room mantel?

  Garreth, I miss you terribly. I miss all the things we never had a chance to do or say to one another. But more than the ache of missing you is the worry that I would never be as strong as my friend. I don’t if I would survive getting a telegram like that, or worse yet, of not knowing. And, if I’m being honest, I don’t know if my heart can take the potential of it. I know that is an awful thing to say. It’s an awful thing to admit, being a coward. But when there is so much pain and heartache around you, when you see the rage of loss filling every street in every city, self-preservation begins to become something real, something essential. Some primitive part of me wants me to tell you that I cannot risk my heart. That I am not strong enough to stand the sort of heartache loving someone brings. Another part of me, I suspect the same part that sends up endless prayers that one day I’ll finally have the kiss you wanted to give me one day, begs me to hold firm and be strong. But Garreth, I’m just not sure which voice is the loudest or which I should listen to.

  Maybe I just wanted him to give me permission to give up on him. Or maybe, just maybe, I wanted him to fight for me. I wanted him to tell me he needed me because we lived in a world where everyone desperately needed another day, another moment. Garreth was what I wanted, what I needed despite the threat of loss. Despite the gamble it was giving someone you’d only met once everything you had. And I wanted him to tell me that hanging on despite the fear and heartache was worth the gamble.

  “Ada Mae, help me, won’t you?” Uncle Bleu tugged one of his cows into the barn and I retrieved a shiny bucket for him as he settled down next to the heifer who swished her tail as a couple of flies flew around her belly. “How’s Cora today?” my uncle asked, resting his elbows on his thighs as he milked the cow.

  “Quiet but still getting around pretty well, despite it all.” He nodded, keeping his gaze on one brave insect as it came precariously close to that swishing tail. Uncle Bleu held a toothpick in the corner of his mouth—a distraction, he’d promised me not three weeks before, to keep himself from smoking. Mama’s cancer had scared him, though I suspected not enough to give up smoking altogether. I could smell the faint hint of pipe tobacco in his hair, likely a remnant of the midnight smoke he’d taken after his bath. “She was determined to go out and get the mail this morning.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes, sir.” As coolly as I could, I bent to his side, away from the cow’s kicking hoof and watched him work his fingers on those udders, not seeing anything but the memory of Mama struggling to hobble down our long walk to the mail box, chin up as she barked at me to let her be. She was a fighter, like most women in my family. “Needed a nap afterward and didn’t wake up for at least an hour afterward, but she got it done.”

  My uncle only nodded, not giving his opinion on why Mama was so determined to fight to the bitter end, but then I didn’t need to hear it. He had that fighting spirit too. It was what kept him from losing hold of himself with Mattie away and Mama fading.

  “Cora is made of strong stuff,” he finally said, moving the toothpick to the other side of his mouth before he winked at me. “So is her daughter.”

  That brief, toothy grin was sweet and small flakes of tobacco crowded between two teeth, but I didn’t bother to scold him. Men did what they would, especially old men my like uncle and no amount of complaining from me would stop him. Besides, I didn’t care that Uncle Bleu snuck a few drags from his pipe every once and again. He was the only father I’d ever remember. Certainly the only man save Mattie who gave one fig about me. But then even if my cousin lived to be a hundred, he’d always be the boy I grew up with.

  “Uncle Bleu,” I started, because I wanted him to speak to me without saving my feelings or trying to keep me calm. Sometimes you want the truth. Sometimes you need to tell someone else just how scared you are, just how weak you feel like being. Maybe my uncle needed that too. “Are you…do you worry?” He moved his head, frowning a little as he watched me. “I mean about Mattie and Mama. Do you worry we won’t…”

  “Ada Mae, there’s no sense in it.” He looked away from me. “You know that well enough.” His focus went to the heifer again and the slow, methodical tug of his fingers and the ring of milk filling up the bucket. “My Beth and your Papa, they left before their time. No sense in it, really, but I reckon there are some things the good Lord doesn’t want us to understand.”

  “Like when someone dies?”

  Uncle Bleu stopped for a second, hands stilling and his eyes went soft. “Like why, Ada Mae. Young or old, death comes from us all, and we have no say in the matter.” He went back to the milking, but he kept his voice gentle as he continued. “Death isn’t particular about who it takes.”

  “I guess it isn’t.”

  Death had taken my father before I really knew him. It had taken Mattie’s mother, Beth. It had taken Farrah’s Billy no matter that she had kept herself happy, busy, telling herself that he’d come back. My mother hadn’t wanted my father to die, just as Uncle Bleu had never wanted to lose Beth. There were thousands of people all over the world getting telegrams, hearing the news that their loved ones wouldn’t be coming home. Uncle Bleu was right. Death didn’t care who you were. It took us all one in the same. The tricky part, I started to realize, was figuring out how to fill the time before it comes for you.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dear Garreth,

  I think I was wrong. Maybe magic isn’t real. Maybe this is all a nightmare and we are in Hell. I hate to think that way, but sometimes, all the time lately it seems, I can’t help but feel that there is no magic left in the world at all.

  From Ada to Garreth, 1944

  Garreth had barely managed two weeks. It was unusual, unceremonious. I’d stuffed my confused, rambling letter to him in an envelope the day after Farrah learned her Bill had been killed and not even a full two weeks later, Garreth had replied. Work at the factory had made me exhausted the night before when Uncle Bleu laid the letter on the table in front of me. He’d taken one look at me, likely seeing the heavy bags under my eyes, telling me with one gesture he’d get Mama into bed himself.

  But today was Saturday, no work to do in the factory for two more days and I grabbed Garreth’s letter, wanting to see if I needed to reply before the mail carrier came the next morning. The scrawl on the front of the envelope was hurried. There were barely more than a few spaces between my name and address and the stamp had been placed sideways—all indications, it seemed, that Garreth had been in a hurry to send his letter off right away. I unde
rstood why when I read it.

  Dear Miss Ada,

  My heart breaks for you and your friend. It’s not the first news of the sort I’ve heard. Two of my sister’s mates have lost their men and more than a half dozen of the blokes I ran ‘round with from basic have been killed in this never-ending bleeding war. I do know why you feel as you do. I do know that you are mad with grief and worry. I understand that you would like nothing more than to smile and carry on with your mates and fear for nothing but where it is you’ll find your next laugh, your next adventure since I am aware how keen you are to have many as you can. I wish I could give that life to you. I wish you’d let me and maybe one day I can. There’s just this damn war to get over first.

  A good man would tell you to stop writing. A good man would say to you, “No, love, don’t wait for me. Live your life.” A good man would be happy that you were off somewhere in the world doing all the things you deserve. But, Miss Ada, I am no good man. I am, in fact, selfish, very bleeding selfish when it comes to you. Good man or no, I will tell you I believe a life lived without love is one not worthy of living a’tall.

  It’s true I’ve only ever spend a handful of hours with you and what I know of you comes from everything we’ve written, but I don’t care so much about any of that. I only know that I’ve spent a good bit of this war falling in love with you, bit by bit, line by line, letter by letter. I only know that I stare and touch your photograph so often, the edges have gone rounded and begun to fray. I know that when I am the most frightened, when I am so cold and weak and convinced that I could not march another step or be around any more death and destruction, it is only your sweet face that keeps me from giving up completely, that fuels my weak body and drives me closer and closer toward the end of this war.

  I am selfish, Ada, because I know, to the deepest marrow of my bones that I love you, that I want you, that I could not do, not a’tall, without making you mine one day. So call me weak, I don’t bleeding care. Call me greedy, for I am that. I want you now, forever and always. Please promise me you’ll not give up on me. Please swear that you’ll wait for me. If you do, I can guarantee that you’ll have all the adventures you want in life. I will bring you to all the places you want to go. We’ll dance in front of the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. We’ll drink wine fresh from the vineyards in Tuscany. We’ll carry on and kiss and touch and laugh naked together atop the Sphinx.

  My plan is to return to you first off. Right there in Legacy Falls. Promise me, please, to meet me on that Platform Four, it was, how could I forget? That’s the place where my life changed, didn’t it? I’ll send word when I’m on my way back to you, just promise me you’ll be there. I fear I won’t breathe, not proper like, until I have your word.

  Whatever you want, love, I’ll give to you even if it means I’m made to crawl through foxholes and bodies and bullets to do it. You are the reason I fight this war. You are the victory that waits me on the other side of the gunpowder.

  My heart is yours,

  Garreth

  Four times I read the letter and each time I did, my tears grew heavier on my lashes until they spilled over, ruining my mascara and clouding my vision. It didn’t matter. Garreth loved me. He wanted me. He needed a promise from me. Despite my mother’s illness and the worry in Uncle Bleu’s eyes, despite Farrah’s great loss and the fear of not being sure where Mattie or Garreth were, I could not make the smile leave my face.

  Garreth’s words were like an adrenaline shot, straight to my heart. It heated my insides, pushed back my fear and the worry of what would happen should he never return to Legacy Falls. A promise was a promise. “When I give my word, it sticks, Miss Ada.” He’d said that to me the day we met. I believed him then. I believed it now.

  There was more to say than, I promise. Platform Four. I’ll be waiting with a kiss. I love you, too, but something longer, something that told Garreth all that was in my heart could wait. The words buzzed against my fingertips as I jotted the note and addressed the letter. I wished for a time machine, maybe some imagined device that would zip me to Germany just to deliver this letter right to him. To let him know I’d go on waiting for him never mind my worry. Never mind what may happen to him. My heart was open wide and every inch of it was there for Garreth to claim on the platform whenever that day came.

  Mama frowned at me from her spot on the front room sofa, eyes sharp as she glared over the corner of the newspaper. Feeling mildly better these past few weeks, she’d taken to grabbing the mail each morning, but not much more than that. Today, though, I beat her to it, rushing to meet the mail carrier before she could make her way off the couch.

  Something niggled at me as I darted from the house, waving eagerly when I saw the mail lady tugging up her heavy bag as she moved from the Anderson’s mailbox just down the road and then on to the Miller’s directly across from us. Our orchard went on for miles behind us but the small farmhouse and the walkway leading to the front of the road was separated by a picket fence that dividing us from the other properties around us.

  The mail carrier normally smiled and waved back vigorously. Often, she’d inquire over Uncle Bleu, wanting to know what sort of baked goods he liked and how long he’d been a widower.

  Today, though, there was no smile, no eager expression that told me she was looking to flirt. Today, the mail carrier didn’t look at the farmhouse or at me when she came to our box, taking the letter I offered her. She inhaled, handing over the bundle of mail before she stepped back.

  “I…I am so sorry, hon,” she muttered, moving her gaze away from me when the screen door opened and slammed against the frame. Uncle Bleu’s presence was tall and broad as he strode up to us and took the mail from my hand. To him she said softly, “If you need anything…”

  My uncle had the telegram in his hands, the outer envelope ripped and floating to the ground below when I caught the name on the message. He needed to only see the name, same as me before he cursed low and soft, under his breath.

  “Sweet lord, no,” Uncle Bleu said before my knees hit the ground and I cried out, my sudden tears coming harder, longer, this time for a reason that had nothing to do with the Irish soldier who loved me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dear Garreth,

  A promise, once given, is an oath that cannot be broken. I gave you my word and I will keep it.

  From Ada to Garreth, 1945

  The dress Mama wore hung on her like a tent. It was too hot for her to wear, really, with the June temperatures scorching, showing up in the beads of sweat she dabbed dry along her temple. The precisely sown pleats along the ribs billowed below her hips and the dark, drab color made her look even paler, thinner than she already was.

  “We should have worn anything other than black,” I whispered, turning my mouth toward her ear, but she ignored me, nodding to several more stragglers who had come to meet the train. Uncle Bleu had been gone for nearly two weeks and it was time…to bring his boy home.

  “Black is appropriate,” Mama said, fussing with her hair when Raymond Samuels kissed her knuckles, a little unsuitable, I thought, given the circumstance.

  “Hmm…” There was a little too much judgment in my voice, something I hadn’t meant, but there wasn’t time to analyze a thing. The train was coming into the station and my stomach knotted hard. I wasn’t prepared for this. There were too many people here, watching, waiting. There were too many observers to witness our family’s heartache. For a second I closed my eyes, ignoring the way Mama pinched my arm, trying to get me to stay strong and not show any weakness.

  The station had gone silent like a crypt, the only real noise came from the low refrain Nelson Nixon made, announcing the departure time and station name. The murmurs I heard then were nearly mute and my attention was on the guard that left the train first, their uniforms pristine and starched. They wore their hats low, the brims covering their eyes and their white gloves were free of dirt or smudges. Each face that filed past us wore a somber, professional expression; a mirror o
f duty and honor that cut through me like a bonefish knife.

  Then, came a casket. Like the dozens of others that had come through the Pleasant Street station, there was nothing ornate or fine about this one. The wood was dark, and a lone flag draped over the surface as the guards carried it from the luggage cart, fisting tight the metal handles and keeping their steps sharp and small. No one spoke as the procession passed, directed to Richard Mossey’s fine black hearse that waited idling just beyond the outer doors that led from the platforms.

  “Bless,” Mama uttered, hiding the upset in her throat with a cough before she gripped my wrist. “There they are.”

  My attention shifted to the passenger car in front of us and Uncle Bleu stepped down, a wide, relieved smile making him look younger than he’d been the entire time Mattie had been away. And with my uncle’s speedy descent, he made the way clear for his son to hobble down the steps, looking fine in his formal uniform, if not exhausted from the trip and the injury he’d sustained.

  “Mattie,” I whispered, forgetting everything—the propriety my mother thought we should maintain, the crowd around us who had come to see poor Mitchell Warren’s coffin, and now stared at the one-legged Mattie Williams as he limped with his crutch from the train and right into my arms as I nearly suffocated him in a hug. “Oh, lord, Mattie.”