The House Near the River (4 page)

“Mama?” he questioned in a quavering voice.

She couldn’t stand it any longer.  Ignoring all logic and all questions about how after fifteen years, the boy could look exactly as he had when he disappeared, she grabbed him up in her arms and started sobbing wildly.

“Ange,” he finally decided, his small arms wrapping around her neck, and his own tears beginning to flow.

“It’s all right, honey. It’s all right, David. Sister is here,” she tried to reassure him, the thought prominent in her mind that Mom would never know now and how was she going to explain to him that his mother was gone beyond reach and would never come back. How could a three-year-old take that in? How could he still be only three?

Then another voice said the name that only closest family members used for her. “Ange!” The voice was male and totally unfamiliar.

She looked over the child’s head to meet penetrating dark eyes set in a solemn, almost tragic face. The man looking at her was striking in appearance with the high cheekbones and chiseled face that betrayed native American heritage. He was tall and lean, too lean as though he’d been through a long illness, not handsome, but like a vintage image from the past.

He wore what looked like
khaki
pants from some old uniform, worn boots, and a short sleeve shirt that was a soft blue from being washed many times.
Around him there seemed to be a kind of light and, after about five seconds, she gave an almost hysterical chuckle as she realized that what she was seeing wasn’t some sort of magical halo, but simply the bright
heat
of a
warm
day. No snow, no gray sky. It was
spring
.

And the house that still stood as a backdrop to them was not only whole and sound, it looked relatively
n
ew with its neatly painted exterior and upright lines. It was newer than she’d ever seen it before, not the house she’d seen only minutes before, not even the one she remembered from years
ago when Grandma and Grandpa lived here.

A confusion of emotions flickered across the man’s face.  He looked pleased to see her, then angry, then pleased and angry together. “Ange,” he said again.

She wondered if he was dangerous.  He must be if he’d kidnapped her brother.

Kidnapped him fifteen years ago, she reminded herself.
It’s finally happened. I’ve well and truly lost my mind.

The main thing was David. He was holding on to her as though he’d never let go. Even though she was a grown woman instead of the teenaged sister he remembered, obviously she was a point of safety and familiarity for a badly frightened little boy.

Love flushed through her, mind and body. Nothing mattered but to make him feel that things were all right. Nothing mattered but that he was safe in her arms again. She couldn’t wait to tell Gran and Dad. She would even try to tell Mom, though maybe she already knew.

“So sorry, Mom. If it was my fault and I guess it must have been, I was only a girl. A girl who was jealous because he was born to you and I’d been born to some other woman.
”
There! For the first time she’d admitted aloud that being adopted had made a difference.  Maybe not to her parents, but to her.

It was then that she realized the man wasn’t listened to the conversation she was having with her deceased mother. He was having one of his own, conducted in a deep growl of a voice.

“I tried so hard to find you, but I had no choice but to report
for
training
. You probably thought I didn’t care.”

She stared at him over David’s head, fee
l
ing even more bewildered. Certainly she’d never seen this man before in her life. He was someone she would have remembered.

“Ange,” he said again. She told herself that he’d just heard David call her by his pet name
. T
hat was why he knew it. Then he enfolded both her and her brother in his arms, pressing them against him as though he never intended to let them go.

For a moment, she felt comforted as she was enveloped in his hug and David emitted a soft little sigh of content. Then she pulled away, looking up with startled eyes into his face.

Then she heard the slam of a door closing and another voice said, “Ange! Oh, thank God!”

She stared at a woman with graying hair and eyes like the man at her side.
S
he was dressed in a plain cotton dress made from material patterned with pink roses. She wore a serviceable looking apron that covered most of the front of her dress and
she
carried a broom.

Her smile was wide and welcoming. “Ange, my dear. I was beginning to think we’d never see you again. You aren’t married, are you?”

Open-mouthed Angie stared at this pleasant looking, rather plain woman who seemed to think she knew her. Maybe she wasn’t the one who’d lost her mind.
David squirmed in her arms, determined to get down. He seemed to have a friendly attitude toward the woman and grinned up at her.

“Ange,” he agreed.

Everybody seemed to know her name, but the only one
familiar to her
was the impossibly young David. In the last decade and a half she’d so often played the game of how old David would be now. Eighteen. He would be eighteen. And yet this three-year-old was her brother, she had no doubt of that.

The woman’s smile widened. “You know each other. I’m so glad, we’ve been so worried . . . “  Her smile vanished and she glanced worriedly at the man. “He’s not your little boy?”

“He’s David,” she managed to choke out the words. “How long has he been here?” Wherever here was?

“
Four
days ago he showed up out front. And he hasn’t said a word.”

“Not until just now when he said your name,” the man
’s
voice
was
harsh with tension.

It was as though they were both accusing her of something, though she couldn’t guess what. She looked more closely at her surroundings, taking in the fact that where her car had been parked bef
ore, there now set a shiny
car, made long before she was born. It was black
with a hump back
, a sedate sort of vehicle, the kind they made, she thought, back in the late 30s. Somebody took really good care of it though for it to be so old and look this good.

She saw sheds that had seemed tumbled down last night and a good sized barn. Chickens pecked their way across the barnyard, big fat red hens for the most part, though one was trailed by half a dozen downy chicks.

The tractor was small and red and looked nothing like the huge green models she’d seen in her drive yesterday. It looked old in style, but somehow not old enough in use.

A garden lay opposite the drive and she could see lettuces, onions, tomatoes growing, some of them approaching harvest ready, even though it was still winter.

Not here, she realized. It wasn’t winter here. The air was warm and soft and the scent of spring was in the air.

She realized that both adults were staring at her, though David had gone back to digging in the earth with the stick he’d dropped before. She looked warningly at him as she spoke, trying to send the message that she didn’t want him upset.

“You seem to think you know me.”

“I’ll never forget you,” the man said, sounding a little choked.

“It was an
unforgettable
meeting,” the woman said, “especially for my brother.” She paused, then went on, “even if it was all those
y
e
ars ago.”

Angie
stared back, puzzled and frightened. “How many years?”

“Let’s see,” the woman said, “one, two . . .”

The man interrupted. “December 8 1941, the Monday after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.”

Maybe all three of them were insane. She asked what must seem an unreasonable question. “And how long ago was that?”

“
Closing I on f
ive years ago.”

“This is 1946?” she whispered the question.

He put one hand on her arm. “Don’t you remember
?
You promised to marry me and then you vanished. I couldn’t find you . . .” 
Sudden understanding came to his face. “Have you lost your memory then? Don’t you know who you are?”

She wasn’t about to even try to make explanations, but David spoke up, “Sister,” he said.
“
Name’s Ange.”

He continued to examine her face. “You’re A
nge
Ward,” he said, smiling at her with tenderness. “My
fiancée
.”

“I don’t remember ever meeting you,” she said honestly.

“Matthew,” David said distinctly.

The other two adults looked down at him. “He hasn’t said a word,” the woman said, “not a word.” She patted the little boy’s head. “Maybe I should take him in for a bite to eat, so you t
wo
can talk.” She looked meaningfully at her brother.

Angie, who had no intention of allowing her brother out of her sight, grabbed him by the arm. “No. David stays with me,” she said firmly.

“You remember his name is David.” The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I remember that much and that he is my brother.”

“Awfully young to be your brother,” the woman said with obviously increasing suspicion.

The man put one hand against her back. “Let’s all go in,” he suggested, “so we can begin to straighten things out.”

Startled, Angie looked at the door into the back of the house. She was at a total loss. These people seemed to think they knew her. She knew she’d never seen them in her whole life. And David, fifteen years later, was still somewhere around three years old.

She looked up
into the man’s
sad, thoughtful face and thought that he didn’t seem dangerous. Something kind and loving looked at her through his eyes.  She nodded. “It’s been a long night. I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a minute.”

She went inside with them, holding David by the hand. What was she going to tell them? Hey, I spent the night stranded outside this
h
ouse in my car and when I left home it was well into the twenty-first century.

No way. She’d just have to stick with the amnesia story and work her way from there.

Over iced tea and homemade cookies, she learned that they were  Matthew Harper
and his sister Clementine
. She guessed Clemmie was a few years older than Matthew.

The widowed Clemmie’s three older children were at school this afternoon
.
The youngest, four-year-old Shirley Kay played with David while the adults talked.

All Angie really wanted to do was look around at this house with which she was so familiar.

They’d come in through the kitchen. In Grandma’s day it had been updated with built-in cabinets, refrigerator with ice-maker,
and
the latest in gas ranges. The room was big enough that a large oval table
was
set at one end, the place where the family often ate.

Now the storage units were old and makeshift, pieces of furniture rather than built-ins, the cook stove looked ancient but the refrigerator, tiny though it was, looked brand new. Clemmie explained proudly that it was one of the first available to buy after the war.

Of course, Angie told herself numbly. Shortages during the early forties because everything had gone into the war effort.  Even if they’d had the money, there wouldn’t have been new appliances to buy.

Brother and sister chatted about everyday events on the farm just as though nothing unusual had happened and Angie guessed they were giving her time to recover from her shock. But when Clemmie took the two children and said firmly that they were going out to pick fresh vegetables for supper, she knew the reason for their behavior was simpler. It was Clemmie’s second attempt to leave her alone with Matthew.

She didn’t resist this time. He wasn’t the only one who had questions to ask.

She sipped the last of her heavily sweetened tea, trying not to grimace at its taste, while he looked everywhere but at her. Neither of them knew where to start.

The clock on the wall ticked noisily like footsteps moving through the house. The wooden floors gleamed from polishing and, uncovered by either carpet or rugs, seemed to carry the sound through the rooms. So far she’d only seen the kitchen and this room, which had a heavy dining room set on one side and a sofa in a golden brown plush with a huge matching chair
at the other
. All the furniture looked ancient and she guessed it dated back to more prosperous days long ago.

A small glass
-
fronted book case contained copies of the Encyclopedia
Britannica
and another shelf held dark
-
covered, much read books. She was tempted to go see what the titles were, but refrained.