On Wings Of The Morning (4 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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In time, Paul's accent would soften, though he would always speak carefully, enunciating his words the way people do who've been taught a language rather than grown up with it. His manner was a little formal, but sincere. If someone was talking to him he looked right at them and furrowed his brow just a little, concentrating on what the other person was saying instead of thinking about what he was going to say next. I liked him right off. We all did.
When he came to talk to Mama about Papaw's funeral, he said he was willing to say the service, but he thought someone else should give the eulogy, someone who really knew Papaw. Though I was just thirteen, he thought that someone should be me. Mama was hesitant, but Paul convinced her. I didn't say anything about my grandfather that everyone in town didn't already know. He was a good man, and everyone liked him. He was my hero. None of that was news to anyone, but being able to say it out loud was important to me. Paul said he couldn't eulogize a man he didn't know, but I think even if he'd known Papaw for years he would still have let the office fall to me. He knew how much I needed to say good-bye and how giving Papaw the honor in death that should have been his in life helped me let my grandfather rest in peace and move past my grief.
Yes, I remembered it all, and I thanked God that Paul had come into our family at the moment we most needed him.
“That was the first day I met your mother,” Paul continued in response to my nod. “It was such a sad day. Your grandfather's death was so sudden, so unexpected. You had this hollow, orphaned look in your eyes, and your grandmother was ... well, she wasn't herself. Clare was the widow, and by rights I should have been talking to her, but your grandmother was in no condition to see to the funeral arrangements. Eva handled everything.
“She was dressed in black and wore no powder or lipstick. She hadn't bothered much with her hair, and her eyes were puffy from crying. She was still the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. There was something about her, soft-spoken and thoughtful, utterly feminine. In spite of her own loss, she was taking care of everyone else—her mother, you, even Ruby. It is her nature to give. I could see how much she loved her father, but her mourning went deeper than this one tragedy. There was a lifetime of loss in her eyes, but she refused to speak of it to me, or to anyone. She never allowed herself the option of self-pity and would tolerate none from others. I didn't even notice her crippled leg at first. When I did, when I realized what determination the simple act of walking across the room required of her, I admired her more than ever.
“Even before I saw her quilts, how she uses those little scraps of cast-off fabric to give voice to her dreams, I was amazed. I thought she was the loveliest, strongest woman I'd ever met—and the most alone. I could not help myself. From that moment on, I loved her utterly.”
“Did you ever tell her?” I asked.
“I couldn't. Not then. I sought only her friendship because I sensed she would be slow to trust, that one word of love from me would send her running for cover. But I was willing to be patient. From that day forward, I knew there could be no other woman for me. In time, I felt she would reach the same conclusion. I was willing to wait a long time. I did wait a long time.” Paul closed his eyes and let his head loll back to rest on top of the tall, ladder-backed kitchen chair.
“But not long enough?” I asked, certain I already knew the answer because I knew Mama.
She was, as Paul had said, a loving and giving person, but she had a hard time believing anyone could love her back. Her crippled leg was part of it. Sometimes I would see her rubbing it when she thought no one was looking, but I wondered—was it bodily hurt that slowed her gait and made her foot drag along behind her like an anchor scraping along a lakebed, or was there more to it? Sometimes I thought Mama was like a wounded animal so severely marked by the memory of pain that it favors an injured limb long after the wound has healed.
Sure, there were people in town that had been mean to her on account of her not being married when she had me, but not everyone felt that way. Still, when anyone got too close she backed away like a spooked horse. That must have been what happened with Paul.
“You told her how you felt, and that scared her off? Paul, you shouldn't let that keep you away forever. It's been months since you've seen each other. In some ways, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. I know she misses you. After I leave for school you should go see her.” I was certain that when she saw him all would be forgiven and they would pick up where they left off. My departure would leave her feeling more alone than ever, and she was already lonely. I could tell. So was Paul. They needed each other, and I would feel better about leaving if I knew Paul was looking out for her. Oklahoma City was a long way away. Germany was even farther.
“Maybe you could bring her some flowers or something,” I suggested. “You know, kind of soften her up a little.”
Paul lifted his head and opened his eyes. “It isn't quite as simple as that.
“I love Eva, and I know that she is the only woman I ever have loved or ever will love, but her feelings are for someone else.”
“Someone else?” I protested. “But there has never been anyone else... .”
Then I stopped myself and remembered. It felt odd to be thinking about my own mother's romantic life, but I thought to myself, why should it? She was my mother, but she was still a living, feeling person. I was the proof of that. Mama never spoke of him, not since that night in my bedroom when I was four, so I thought any feelings she'd had for him had been snuffed out long before, but there had been someone else once. My father. And if Paul was right, she loved him as much as ever.
I should have known. Mama would never love lightly. Other girls might have crushes or ill-considered flings, but Mama wasn't like that. She was too cautious. Even as a girl, it would have been impossible for her to succumb to a teenage passion unless she'd really been in love. I should have known.
“Eva cares for me in a way, of course,” Paul said. “We understand each other. If I was willing to settle for friendship then I'm sure we could be friends, but I can't. I can't pretend my feelings for her are merely platonic. It would be too painful a charade. I'd show up on her doorstep with a whole florist shop if there were a prayer of her changing her mind, but there isn't. She loves him.” The faraway look returned to his eyes, and he shook his head, as if he couldn't quite believe it. “After all he's put her through, she still loves him.”
“My father?” I asked. Paul looked startled.
“You know who he is, don't you?”
“Forgive me, Morgan. I've said too much.”
“No! You got to tell me who he is, Paul. I have a right to know the name of my own father!”
Paul was quiet, gazing at me steadily, considering. “Yes, I think you do, but it isn't my place to tell you. It's Eva's. I promised her I'd never speak to anyone about it, and that promise extends to you. You'll have to ask her yourself, Morgan. This is something between the two of you. I've no right to butt in. This is a family matter.”
I wanted to tell him that he was family. That was what I'd come for in the first place, to thank him for all he'd done for me: for teaching me how to bait a fishhook, for listening to my complaints and questions about God without judging, for helping me with my calculus homework and teaching me how to change the oil in the Ford—for treating me like a son. I began to say just that but didn't get far before Paul interrupted me.
“There is no need, Morgan. Knowing you, seeing you grow from a boy to a man, and being allowed to play some small part in the process is thanks enough,” he said and smiled in a way that let me know he meant it.
Breakfast was over. I helped Paul clear the table and stood at the sink drying dishes after he'd washed them. We talked of small things—sports, and airplanes, and what classes I would be taking as a freshman. Paul tried to convince me to take Ancient Greek for my foreign-language requirement, but I just laughed. “No way! I'll be lucky to pass freshman Spanish!”
“Ah, well.” Paul shrugged and let out the rubber stopper to drain the water from the sink. “At least I tried.”
I looked at the wristwatch Mama had given me for graduation. It was time to go. Paul walked me to the front door to say good-bye. “I won't wish you good luck because you won't need it. You're completely up to this. And don't worry about your mother. She may not be speaking to me, but I'll still keep an eye on her. I'll make sure she's all right while you're at school.” He paused a moment and, without me saying anything, addressed the concern that was uppermost in my thoughts—the impending war and who would watch out for Mama when I joined up. “No matter what happens, no matter where you go, I'll always look out for her. You can count on it.”
“Thanks, Paul. That means a lot to me.” I put out my hand for him to shake, and he gripped it hard.
“Don't mention it.”
 
Later, I said my good-byes to Grandma and Aunt Ruby back at the house. Ruby cried and Grandma tried not to. Mama drove me out to the airfield herself. We didn't say much during the drive—just talked about the weather and about how good the harvest was looking. “Mr. Thompson said he's getting two bushels more per acre than he did last year,” Mama said.
Mr. Thompson was our closest neighbor. “Well, that's good,” I said. “He must be happy about that.”
Mama smiled and threw me a quick glance before training her eyes back on the road. “He said it would probably drive down the price. Said he'd be lucky if he broke even.”
I grinned. Some things never changed. Thompson was a full-time farmer who moonlighted as a part-time curmudgeon. He never had a good word to say about anything, but I was going to miss him. I was going to miss everyone. I couldn't think of what to say next, and Mama seemed to have run out of conversation, too, so I turned up the radio and we listened to music for the rest of the drive. Bing Crosby was singing “Only Forever.”
 
Do I want to be with you,
As the years come and go?
Only forever,
If you care to know.
 
Whitey was waiting at the airfield, standing next to my plane. My plane. I was still amazed to think she was actually mine. Rough paint job or no, the sight of her made me smile.
Whitey had already done a preflight check, so everything was ready. We loaded my gear into the plane. Watching my duffel bag and suitcase get stuffed into the cargo hold, Mama suddenly remembered all the good advice she'd ever forgotten to give me and started peppering me with reminders to eat right and get enough sleep, not to forget to wear my hat, and to remember that she'd put some horehound lozenges in my duffel in case I got a sore throat.
“They're in with your clean socks. Oh! And I put a roll of stamps in there, too. And some stationery and pre-addressed envelopes.”
“Mama, you didn't have to do that. I'm eighteen years old. I think I know my own address by now.”
“I know. I just thought it would be easier for you that way.” Whitey gave the propeller a good crank. The plane stuttered a little before the engine caught hold, but when it did, it roared, and the whole fuselage started to hum and vibrate as if she couldn't wait to get airborne. Mama was startled by the noise. Both her hands flew up to cover her ears.
“Promise you'll write!” She hollered to be heard over the engine.
“Every Tuesday and Saturday,” I shouted. “I promise!”
Whitey waved his arm, signaling it was time to go. I gave Mama one last squeeze, lifting her up off her feet, before hustling myself over the plane and climbing into the passenger seat. Mama backed away to stand by the car where she could watch us take off. She smiled and waved as if our parting brought her nothing but pride, but I could see her eyes shining with tears. She looked so small standing next to the battered old Ford. If she'd crooked a finger, or blinked an eye, given me the smallest indication she'd wanted me to stay, I would have. It just didn't feel right leaving Mama all alone, but we'd talked it out a hundred times, and she was determined that I had to go out in the world and make something of myself. It felt wrong to leave her, but not as wrong as it would have felt to let her down.
I threw Whitey a thumbs-up, indicating I was ready, and we started taxiing down the runway. As we picked up speed, the miracle that never would cease to amaze me happened again. Fighting headwinds and gravity, the nose of the plane lifted off the ground, and we were airborne. We took off toward the west, straight into the afternoon sun, and as we gained altitude, worries and contingencies fell away as surely as the earth fell away from our wings. I felt suddenly large and limitless.
Whitey made a wide arc across the sky, looping back to find the southeasterly course that would take us to Oklahoma City, and we passed over the airfield again. Mama stood below, sweeping her arm wide above her head. Thinking that I wouldn't be able to see them from the sky, she let the tears flow freely, but I could see she was smiling through her tears, and I knew that she'd meant what she said. She really was proud of me, and as much as she wanted me to stay, she wanted me to test my wings even more. It was all right to go.

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