Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (34 page)

Rose blinked tears away as she remembered the newspaper article Mrs. Partain had brought over that day. Even in prison, Mama had saved someone’s life.
Mama.
Rose curled onto her side.
Mama kept me safe. She saved someone else. And I made her go away.

The doctor’s footsteps retreated down the stairs. Rose turned over, her back to her bedroom door. When Aunt Flora came in to check on her, she breathed deeply, evenly, pretending to be asleep. She felt the mattress sag and the coverlet tug across her shoulders as Aunt Flora perched on the edge of the bed and combed through Rose’s hair with gentle strokes. “Poor baby,” she murmured. “Sleep… You’re safe… Aunt Flora’s here….”

Rose stirred a bit, burrowing into her pillow.
Please go away. Just—go—away.
It seemed to take forever for Aunt Flora to finally lean down and kiss Rose’s cheek, to get up and turn down the lamp, and finally, to leave the room.

Once alone, Rose opened her eyes. Aunt Flora had left the door cracked. As she lay quietly, waiting for the sound of snoring, resentment seethed.
You lied to me. You let me think Mama was gone. How could you lie to me that way, for all this time. How could you?
Her mind raced, connecting flashes of memory, asking questions of the absent Aunt Flora, crying tears of regret and longing until, at long last, soft snores sounded from Aunt Flora’s room.

Trembling, Rose scooted out of bed. Lying on her stomach beside the bed, she reached for the box. When she’d finally managed to wriggle it free, she lifted the lid and took up the letter.

Afraid to light the lamp, she tiptoed to the window and held the letter up in the moonlight. This time, the words held different meanings.
Dr. Zimmer has convinced me to come with him to Nebraska City, but I don’t expect that you will want to see me.
Mama had let everyone believe
she’d
done something terrible. She’d even made Rose believe it. She’d gone to prison to pay for something Rose did.

Rose shivered. What did they do to girls who killed their fathers? The thought was too horrible. She looked back down at the letter.
I don’t expect you’ll want to see me.
It was no wonder she’d thought that. She must have assumed that Rose believed the lie. And then Aunt Flora had lied, letting her believe Mama was dead.

Don’t be angry with your aunt Flora. She did what she thought best. She loves you. She probably thought my letters would be too confusing.
Rose supposed that could be right. After all, if Aunt Flora believed Mama had done murder, she’d want to protect Rose. Rose’s anger against Aunt Flora diminished a bit. Still, if there were letters from Mama, she wanted to read them. Would Aunt Flora have kept them?

I’ve made you something, and I hope you like the colors. They used to be your favorite. Perhaps they still are.
Rose looked across the room at the quilt in the box. She realized now that the blue bachelor buttons and the red roses were real childhood memories. She’d picked those flowers for Mama. Just outside the front door of the house out West. Rose didn’t remember the house very well, except for her own room. She remembered Papa shooting a gun at a can and calling her… Rose frowned.
He called me his little gunslinger. Mama didn’t want him to teach me, but he didn’t pay her any mind.

Rose still wasn’t positive which of her recollections about that night were memories and which were bad dreams, but she’d known shouting and loud noises in the night. And crying. She remembered Mama crying for what seemed like a very long time. And then voices. Footsteps. And more anger in still more voices. Fresh tears threatened, and Rose looked back down at the letter:

Rose looked up from the letter again and out the window to where the buggy had waited that day, the buggy with Mama in it. She didn’t remember a treasure box, but she remembered the key.
On a yellow ribbon around Mama’s neck.
She crossed the room and, taking the quilt from the box, took it back to the window seat and traced the brass key, disappointed when the feel of it didn’t help her remember anything more.

Rose touched the word
Mama.
Mama… who had taken the blame and gone away to a terrible place. A shiver ran up Rose’s spine. What would they do to her when she admitted to killing Papa? New fear clutched at her midsection. She wrapped her arms around the quilt and looked out the window as tears spilled down her cheeks. Papa had been good sometimes, but he’d been bad, too. Sometimes he hurt Mama. All Rose had wanted that night was to make him stop hurting Mama. Would anyone believe her? Would Mama ever forgive her for sending her away?

Suddenly, Rose was more tired than she’d ever been. Tired and afraid. Afraid to tell Aunt Flora what she’d remembered and yet afraid not to tell… someone. Rose sat at the window for a long time, looking out on the moonlit yard and wondering what to do. Aunt Flora loved her, but Aunt Flora’s love was the kind that fussed and flustered. Aunt Flora had let her think Mama was dead rather than face the questions Rose would have had if they’d gone to visit Mama at the jail. Aunt Flora would wish Rose had never remembered.

With a sigh, Rose placed the quilt with the key in the box and shoved it back beneath the bed. Tucking Mama’s letter beneath her pillow, she slid beneath the coverlet and closed her eyes. Remembering. Finally, she slid back out of bed and retrieved the “George Washy” doll quilt from the doll bed beneath her window. Clutching it in her hand, she curled onto her side and whispered, “Do You hear me, God? I don’t know what to do. Please help me know what to do.” Tears spilled onto her pillow until, finally exhausted, she slept.

S
eated across from Aunt Flora at the breakfast table, Rose prodded the soft-boiled egg on her plate with disinterest. Finally, she laid her fork down. “I’m sorry, Aunt Flora. Tea and toast is all I think my stomach will abide right now.” She took a sip of tea.

Clucking her concern, Aunt Flora reached over to put her palm to Rose’s forehead.

“I don’t have a fever. I’m sure of it. I just don’t feel able to go to church is all.” Rose feigned a cough. “I don’t think I’m contagious, but it wouldn’t be right to take a chance.”

With a sigh, Aunt Flora leaned back in her chair. “Well, I suppose I’ll stay with you. In case you need something.”

“I won’t need anything,” Rose protested. She forced a smile. “Really. I can manage by myself.”
I’m really trying not to lie, God. Could You make her stop asking questions?

With a long look in Rose’s direction, Aunt Flora sighed. “If you’re sure.”

Rose nodded. “I am. I’m sorry I’ll miss your solo.” Aunt Flora waved a hand in the air. “Oh, posh. It’s only half a line. It’s nothing.”

“Well, Mr. Vandemeer is counting on you to sing it, so you’d best get going.” She stood up. “And I’m heading back upstairs to bed.”
For now.
She forced herself to mount the stairs slowly, even as her heart pounded. Today was the day.

When she slid back into bed, she closed her eyes, feigning sleep even as Aunt Flora fluttered back and forth, bringing water and some of the new doctor’s powders, second-guessing herself, and threatening to stay home until Rose thought she would scream. Finally, after what felt like hours, Aunt Flora called good-bye from the doorway. Rose murmured a response, then lay still, listening to Aunt Flora’s footsteps retreat down the stairs and waiting for the door to close. Finally, she slid out of bed and went to the window, watching as Aunt Flora made her way up the street and around the corner. Only when she was out of sight did Rose pull the quilt box out from beneath the bed to wrap one of her belts around it, both to hold it closed and to create a kind of handle. She hurried to dress, slipping into a simple calico day dress and sturdy shoes.

Last, she retrieved a change purse from where she’d secreted it among her dolls. She re-counted the money. Exactly enough. From beneath her pillow, she extracted an envelope. She’d written the note a few days ago. Pausing to read it again, she crossed the hall and laid it on Aunt Flora’s bed where Zeus lay, curled up and shivering.

“Don’t tell me it’s going to storm,” Rose said to the dog, who only lifted his head momentarily, then whined and proceeded to burrow beneath the pillows on Aunt Flora’s bed. “I’m sorry, Zeus. I can’t stay. You’ll be all right. She’ll be back before too long.”

Turning her back on the dog, Rose descended the stairs, carrying the quilt box much like a suitcase. She went to the front door only long enough to pull her wrapper and bonnet off the hall tree. Was it her imagination, or did she hear thunder in the distance? Aunt Flora had taken the best umbrella. Rose reached for the older one, but it was in such sad shape, she decided she’d just have to brave the weather and hope for the best.

Please, God. Could You hold the rain off until I get there? And could You help Aunt Flora not be too angry with me?
It seemed odd to be worrying over Aunt Flora after what she’d done. But in recent days, Rose had read and reread Mama’s letter. Mama said she shouldn’t be angry with Aunt Flora. Rose wasn’t quite certain that was right, but then if anyone had a reason to be angry, it was Mama. If Mama could forgive, Rose thought she should, too. Maybe she would. But today… today she was angry. And determined.

Stepping outside, Rose looked around the backyard. She glanced over at Mrs. Partain’s back porch, where she’d been the day everything started to come back. The house looked forlorn, what with Mrs. Partain’s daughter having taken the old woman off to some “home” in Illinois where she would receive “proper care.” Rose wondered if the people at that home let Mrs. Partain wear bangles. She hoped so.

Thunder rolled. A train whistle sounded. And, quilt box in hand, Rose took off running for the station.

The October Sunday after she attended the Ladies Aid Society quilting, Jane rose shortly after dawn and made tea atop the tiny stove across from her narrow bed. The skies were overcast, and as church bells began to ring across the city, Jane gazed toward the south, thinking about the women in the female department and how dismal the ward could be when skies turned gray.

She wondered if Ellen McKenna had returned to minding the ward on Sundays yet, or if Pearl Brand’s violence had frightened her fully and completely away. Jane hoped not. Ellen was doing good work the women appreciated. Agnes Sweeney loved being able to read and do sums, and whether they admitted it or not, the women all liked being around a real lady who cared about them… and Ellen McKenna was nothing if not a real lady.

Thinking about Ellen roused the memory of Ian McKenna descending the stairs the day Jane left for Lincoln, thanking her, insisting she accept an envelope with money in it to help her get started on a new life. Insisting with a trembling voice that barely managed not to crack with emotion. Thinking of Ian and Ellen McKenna’s love for each other made Jane glance across her tiny apartment toward the box of mementos she’d kept for Rose. The few things that had belonged to Thomas seemed even more important in light of what Rose might remember someday about Owen.

As Jane steeped her tea and nibbled on a cold biscuit, she made her way to the box and opened the lid. Settling on the floor beside it, she took out the cabinet card of Thomas. Remembering Thomas made her smile. He’d cherished her the way Ian McKenna cherished Ellen. As she put the portrait back atop the mementos in the small chest, Jane thought of Max Zimmer. Was he enjoying his morning coffee out on that screened porch of his? Did he have to mind patients in the infirmary, or would he be at church this morning? Had he hired a city version of the Widow Mabry, who’d minded the office in Plum Creek? The thought tempted a flicker of jealousy.

Closing the lid to the chest, Jane took the last bite of biscuit and another gulp of lukewarm tea, even as she scolded herself.
You have far more important things to ponder in life than romantic notions of Max Zimmer.
Thoughts of Rose were never far away, but somehow she was managing to wait. To give Rose time. She had done what she could to reconcile—for now. At least that was what Max said, and somehow she thought Max was right.
Max.
What a dear man. What a faithful friend.

Setting her teacup aside, she unbraided and brushed her long hair, then smoothed it back into a neat bun. Church bells rang out again. She felt better about venturing out today. Thanks to the Ladies Aid quilting, she’d encounter familiar faces. She really was hoping that one of those familiar faces would be Max’s.

She smiled as she donned her blue dress. Black jet earbobs would do. At the last minute, she reached for her only brooch, a tiny mosaic of forget-me-nots inlaid into the center of an oval piece of polished onyx. She’d received it in the wake of Thomas’s sudden death from a woman she’d tended who was convalescing after a bad fall. Jane had tried to refuse the gift when the woman fished it out of an overflowing jewelry box. This morning, as she pinned it on, Jane saw the brooch as a symbol of the grace notes she’d missed hearing in the past. The blue flowers glimmered, accented by the cadet blue of the dress Minnie had stitched.