Irene

by Linda Ford

Mrs. Goodyear had set tables and chairs on the lawn, each table with a crisp linen cloth. A longer table stood in front of the house with a magnificent silver tea set and rows of fine china teacups. Cloths covered plates that Irene supposed were filled with the dainties Addie had mentioned.

  “It’s like home,” Irene whispered, choking back a flood of tears.

  “Do you miss it very much?” Addie asked.

  “Not often, but sometimes something will hit me. Like this.” Addie waited as Irene pressed back tears. “But life is too full to waste time pining. I’ll get back to visit someday, I’m sure. And Grace is close enough to visit occasionally.” She grabbed Addie’s arm. “Come on, let’s go join the fun.”

  A regal lady with a wide-brimmed straw hat and a long silk dress in pale green oversaw the garden party. Irene soon discovered that part of the program included circulating from group to group, visiting awhile before moving on.

  Irene moved to a new table, Addie by now on the far side of the yard. For a moment, Irene was alone, waiting for others to join her.

  “No one knows for sure, of course, but it seems reasonable to assume that the poor dear just quit living.” The whispered voice reached Irene from behind the tiny rose arbor where another table nestled. She couldn’t help overhearing the conversation.

  “I heard she was never strong.”

  “Yes, I heard that, too. But can you imagine what those two boys went through? No wonder the little one stopped talking.”

  Irene’s head came up with a snap. Were they talking about Donald and Harry? And Esther? She kept still, hoping to catch the rest of the conversation.

  “You know, I heard she was dead several days before anyone found her.”

  “No!”

  Irene’s stomach churned. She stumbled to her feet, looking around blindly for an escape, and found shelter beside a low shed. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to control her ragged breathing. Could it be true? Had the boys been in the house with their dead mother? She shuddered. It was too awful to contemplate.

  Slowly, her breathing settled; her heartbeat returned to normal. She smoothed her expression. No one would guess she felt like someone had poured a bucket of slop into her insides.

  The rest of the afternoon passed agonizingly slowly.

  On the way home, she turned to Addie. “What happened to Esther?”

  Addie gave her a wary look. “What has Zach said?”

  “Nothing, but you must tell me. I have to know what happened.”

  “Why are you suddenly so interested?”

  Irene grabbed Addie’s arm. “I’ve always thought she was ill. I don’t know what I thought, but I must know.”

  “Did someone say something to you?”

  “I overheard some comments.”

  Addie sighed. “People have said all sorts of things.” She drove on without speaking. Irene squeezed her arm again. Addie nodded. “I’ll tell you what I know. Perhaps she was sick before Zach left. If she was, she hid it, but after he joined the army, she got weaker and weaker. I thought at first she was having trouble adjusting and given a little time. . .” She rubbed her forehead as if trying to scrub away the memories.

  “Pete and I tried to get over as often as we could, but we had so many things to look after with moving into our own home and his brother being sent home injured and all. When we finally got over, we found Esther in bed, too weak to care for the boys. We took her and the boys home, but she never recovered.”

  A shiver reached up Irene’s spine and shook her shoulders. “What about the boys?” Her throat was so tight she could barely speak.

  Addie placed her hand over Irene’s. “They were huddled together in their room, almost too afraid to move.”

  Silence settled heavily over them.

  Finally, in an agonized voice, Irene whispered, “Those poor boys.”

  10

  The house was empty when Addie dropped Irene off. “Thanks for the good afternoon.”

  Addie gave her a sad look. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Try to forget about it.”

  Irene nodded and waved as Addie gave the reins a flick and headed out of the yard.

  Irene stumbled inside. Her pain practically drove her to her knees. What had her poor little boys been through? How much had they seen? Worse, how much had they imagined? She hadn’t truly cried for years—not since her own mother died. But hot tears would not be contained and spilled down her cheeks. She grabbed the kitchen towel, pressing her face into it to stem the flood.

  “Forget about it,” Addie had said. But Irene knew that wasn’t the answer. Too much had been buried, too many things left unsaid. All she could do was pray for healing for this family and pray God would use her and help her bridle her tongue. Her greatest fear was she’d do harm rather than good.

  By the time Zach came thumping in, two little boys hurrying after him, Irene had dried her tears and washed her face. Her mind was made up to confront Zach with her discovery.

  She waited until he crawled into bed beside her in the dark.

  “How was your afternoon?” he asked.

  “Very fine. A real nice time for all the ladies.”

  “Hmm. Not my cup of tea.”

  She chuckled at his choice of words then grew serious. “Seems it’s the time to share all the news of the community.”

  He grunted. “No doubt. Probably half of it made up.”

  Her well-rehearsed words seemed suddenly flat in view of his perceptive analysis of a bunch of women together. “I’m certain there’s some truth in what you say, just as there is often some truth in peoples’ speculations.”

  She hoped he would take the bait.

  “I get the feeling you’re referring to something more than idle chatter.” He sounded on edge.

  “I suppose I am.” She suddenly wished she could be spared this whole scene. “I overheard a conversation. I believe they were talking about Esther and the boys.”

  He made a noise in his chest that could have been agreement.

  “They said things I need to have clarified.”

  He remained silent.

  “Would you please tell me the circumstances of Esther’s death?”

  She lay quietly at his side, willing him to answer her question, even though she guessed by the way he stiffened that he was displeased by it.

  “What’s there to say? I guess she got sick and with no one to care for her, it was too much.”

  She waited, praying he would go on.

  “I didn’t know until it was too late.” His voice, crackling with pain, tore at her heart. She wanted to reach for him, assure him of her love and understanding, but she sensed how brittle his feelings were and wondered if he was angry with her for bringing up Esther’s death. “There was nothing I could do.” Someone else hearing his flat tone of voice might have thought he showed little emotions, but Irene knew how much self-control lay quivering under those emotionless words.

  “I’m sorry, Zach.”

  “Don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry for Esther.”

  She blinked. He wasn’t making sense. “What do you mean, be sorry for Esther?”

  “Figure it out yourself. She was the one left alone to deal with all the responsibilities. To lay in bed so sick she couldn’t help herself and have no one to do for her. I deserve whatever suffering I have to endure. She didn’t.”

  “Are you saying you’re to blame?”

  Angry now, he ground the words out. “Yes, I’m to blame.”

  She hated the self-loathing and despair she heard in his voice. “How are you to blame?” she demanded. “Are you God, to be responsible for life and death?”

  “Not God. Her husband. She was my first responsibility. But I couldn’t see that. All I could see was my need to play hero and join the army. And what did it gain me? The war ended without me. I lost everything.”

  “And how were you supposed to know she would get sick? Hundreds of men left their families behind without any more assurances than you had.
Why should you blame yourself for what happened?”

  “Who do you suggest I blame? No one forced me to go. In fact, Esther begged me not to, but I wouldn’t listen.”

  “What about the boys?”

  “What about them?” His hoarse tone warned her he didn’t want to discuss the boys.

  But she forged on, knowing there were things that had to be said. “What happened to the boys?”

  The harsh sound of his breathing was his only answer.

  She pushed aside the swell of tears clogging her throat, promising herself she would not cry. “What did our poor little boys see during those weeks? What did they think? Has anyone ever talked to them about it to see what happened? How they feel?” She broke off, her voice cracking.

  “It’s best to forget about the past and get on with the present.”

  “The present rides on the back of the past,” she protested, but Zach flung to his side, practically falling off the bed, he clung so tight to the edge. Irene knew nothing she said at this point would make any difference.

  The next morning he studiously avoided meeting her gaze and sat staring morosely into his coffee cup. She carried the coffeepot to him, touching his shoulder as she offered more.

  He jerked away like she’d slapped him.

  The pot quivered in her hand, then she pushed her shoulders back and silently filled his cup.

  The boys came from their bedroom.

  “Can we go with you again today?” Harry asked.

  Zach shook his head without looking up. “Not today, Son. You stay with your mama.”

  The way Harry’s face crumpled before he sighed in resignation, his expression serious and controlled, widened the cracks in Irene’s heart. She hurried to set the pot on the back of the stove and clenched her hands together. She hadn’t meant for the children to be hurt again. She almost wished she could take back the questions she’d raised last night. But her study of medicine made her certain that covering an infection with a clean dressing was futile. The wound had to be cleansed. And this family had a wound that needed to be cleansed. So if God chose to use her for their healing, to bring peace to them, she would gladly bear whatever pain it brought to her own heart.

  She kept her back to the room, praying for strength and wisdom. By the time she turned, her inner peace had been restored, and she was able to smile as she asked Harry, “Isn’t this the day we decided to find a rosebush to plant on the hillside?” She’d talked to the boys about her desire to plant a bush or two where the wash water ran down the hill. “No point in wasting the water,” she’d said, “when we could enjoy seeing something benefit from it.”

  Harry rewarded her with a smile that sent sparks into his eyes. “Are we going to get one ten feet tall?”

  She laughed, her humor restored. “Maybe we better find something smaller to dig up.” She squeezed his upper arm. “I’m not sure you’re strong enough to carry a ten-foot bush.”

  He flexed his arm and studied the swelling at his biceps. “I’m pretty strong, right, Dad?”

  “Yes, Son.” But his gaze didn’t touch the boy.

  “Someday I’ll be as strong as my dad,” Harry bragged.

  Irene nodded. “I’m sure you will.”

  As soon as they’d finished eating, the boys rushed to help Irene with the dishes. “We gotta go bush hunting,” Harry told Donald. Donald nodded, his black eyes dancing with pleasure.

  Zach slapped his hat on his head and left, mumbling something about work to do.

  Irene couldn’t believe how much it hurt to see him turn inward on himself, shutting her out completely—and even the boys to a lesser extent. A few months ago no one could have made her believe how intricately woven she would become with Zach and the boys, so much so that their pain was her pain, and rejection the sharpest arrow of all.

  “I’ll get a spade,” Harry offered, racing to the barn to find one.

  They wandered along the road, armed with shovel, gloves, and a gunnysack, searching the fence line for the most colorful and fragrant rosebush. The sweetness of the wild roses tore at her insides. Love should be like that, sweet and pure. She picked a fragile blossom, pricking her finger on a thorn and grimaced. Perhaps love was more like wild roses than she’d realized, full of sweetness when in full bloom, fragile as the soft leaves that fell to the ground at her touch, and studded with thorns to tear at one’s flesh.

  “We’ll take this one.” She pointed to the one on which she’d pricked her finger. “And this.” In the end, they carried home half a dozen roots and dug them into the brow of the hill.

  “How big will they grow?” Harry demanded, still stuck on her tales of ten-foot bushes.

  “You saw them along the road. I suppose they’ll grow that tall.” If they survive the move, she added to herself, struck again by the parallel to her own life. Her love would thrive if Zach could survive the loss of his first wife, but today, for the first time since she’d married him, she wondered if he would, instead, wither and die inside.

  After they’d cleaned up the tools, the boys went to play with their farm of twigs and marbles. She watched them. Donald still sucked on his fingers; Harry remained, for the most part, far too serious. She was convinced they hid secrets in their little minds, memories of their mother’s death that chained them to that event. She was equally convinced they could not break free from those chains until they were given the freedom and encouragement to discuss what had happened.

  As the boys played, she went inside and knelt by her bed, praying for God’s wisdom and strength in dealing with this issue. Her first instinct was to demand Zach face the issue and deal with it, but she knew she couldn’t force her will on him. Only God could help him confront his past.

  Day after day, Zach remained morose and withdrawn. She saw the boys lose much of the ground they’d gained since she’d come, and she knew the issue must be faced. But she put it off, fearing Zach’s reaction. She admitted she couldn’t bear the thought of driving him further from her.

  Night was the worst time. Over the summer they’d achieved an easiness that made it possible to touch in the night, knowing the other wouldn’t jump away in alarm. But now Irene could have stuffed both boys between them with ease. And if they happened to inadvertently touch, Zach practically jumped out of bed.

  She didn’t know how she would deal with any more distance between them. She smiled thinking if Zach added any more distance between them in bed, he would end up on the floor.

  Yet it was not a situation that invited humor. Her nerves were taut from the strain. She knew the boys felt it as well.

  Finally, she came to a decision. She could put off facing Zach no longer.

  Before Zach could push to his feet after dinner the next day, Irene said, “I need to talk to you.” The boys had gone out to play so it was an ideal time.

  He gave her a sharp look. “So go ahead. Speak your piece.”

  Her courage almost abandoned her. She took a deep breath, clenching her hands together in her lap. “We need to talk to the boys about their mother’s death. You need to talk to them.”

  He glowered at her, his eyes dark with anger. “Why can’t you let things alone? I don’t see the need for stirring things up.”

  Her eyes burned from forcing herself to meet his gaze without blinking. “They deserve a chance to express themselves.”

  “There’s no need for them to face the pain again.” He turned away, dismissing her request.

  She pressed her lips into a tight line and reached deep inside herself for strength. “You mean you can’t face the pain again. Look at your sons and tell me they don’t face it every day.”

  A flash of agony crossed his face, tearing at her heart like barbs from the rosebushes outside the door. “What do you expect?” He buried his face in his hands. “I should have seen it coming.”

  “Oh no, it isn’t your fault.” She sprang to his side, kneeling beside him, urgently grasping his knees. “How can you blame yourself? How were you to know
she would get sick? You’re putting far too much on yourself.”

  He jerked to his feet, pushing her aside.

  She scrambled to her feet, her heart thudding behind her eyeballs, sending a spasm of pain down her neck.

  “That’s easy for you to say.” His words were so taut they came out as a groan. “You seem to have all the answers except one. How do I forget? How do I forgive myself?” He strode from the house like a man trying to escape the pursuit of ghosts.

  Irene stared after him, knowing he fled his own ghosts—ghosts of his own making, but nevertheless, ones that must be conquered before he could be whole again. Before he could offer her love.

  Perhaps he would never be able to love her. Even so, she wished to see him freed from this torture.

  He returned for supper but sat hunched over his plate, his fists curled into knots beside the plate. After toying with his food for a few minutes, he shoved his chair back, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “I’ve things to do,” he muttered and strode from the house.

  Two boys stared at him. Donald sucked his fingers, his eyes round and black. Harry’s expression was shuttered, his eyes wary. “Where’s Dad going?” he asked.

  Irene tried to lighten the mood. “He must have something he needs to do. He’ll be back soon.” Her heart heavy with the weight of their strained looks, she asked, “Who wants to play hide-and-seek after we do dishes?”

  “I guess not.” Harry carried his dishes to the counter. “Maybe we’ll play with our blocks.”

  “That’s fine.” She realized they were even more troubled by Zach’s behavior than she’d guessed.

  She let the boys play long past bedtime, hoping Zach would return to put them to bed. Their glances slid often toward the door, and they strained toward every noise even as she did.

  “Boys, it’s time to get ready for bed,” she announced when she could delay it no longer.

  “Dad’s not home yet,” Harry said.

  “I know, but he’ll be back when he’s finished whatever he’s doing. He would expect you to go to bed.”

  Harry and Donald exchanged looks, then Harry nodded. “I guess so.”