The Promise of Home (19 page)

Emily took a deep breath. The correct answer was
no
.
I was going to be an art teacher,
she thought,
until my world was shattered and plans to finish college went out the window.
But she wasn't sure whether she wanted to say anything about that to Matt.

“No,” Emily replied, “but I knew I wanted to do something creative. This just happened to be the work I ended up falling into. You told me you were in the Marines before you came to Mill River. Was that the career you always planned on having?”

Matt nodded. “Yeah, definitely. I went to the Naval Academy down in Annapolis right after high school. After I graduated, I was on active duty for sixteen years. Did three tours in the Middle East, two in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. I made it to the rank of lieutenant colonel, and I was considering re-upping, but I got offered an early retirement package. It was a nice deal, and I didn't want to spend more time in the desert on another redeployment. Besides, Congress ended up cutting the military's budget the year after I left. Several of my friends who stayed in had their positions eliminated, so I might've been forced out, anyway.”

“I don't think there are too many people out there who haven't had some sort of problem with the economy we've been in.”

“I totally agree, and it's sad,” Matt said. “I was happy to get the job with the police department. Not everyone in my class at the academy had a job lined up.” He pulled two of the clementines from the bag and tossed one gently to her.

“So,” Emily said as she turned the miniature orange around in her hands, “you already know a little about my family. Tell me about yours.”

“Okay,” Matt said. “I have two older sisters, Margaret and Samantha. Meg and Sam for short. They used to gang up on me when I was growing up. I got bullied into wearing nail polish and having tea parties.”

Emily snorted. “Is that why you joined the Marines? To get back in touch with your masculinity?”

Matt chuckled. “Could be, now that you mention it. Those Marines sure worked me over. They did their best to beat my sisters' influence right out of me, but you know, it isn't completely gone. I'll tell you a secret.” He glanced at her sideways, the corner of his mouth curved up into a sly grin. “I can still brew a mean cup of Earl Grey.”

Emily laughed. She pictured Matt handing her a mug of hot tea before sitting down to snuggle with her on some cozy sofa. It was startling, how natural and realistic the image seemed. It was also a bit disconcerting when she realized that she
liked
the idea of being cuddled up with him.

“My mom and dad are still married…fortysomething years now. And still living in the house in Maine where we grew up.”

“That's a long time,” Emily said, and wistfulness crept into her voice before she realized it. “Are you close with them?”

“Very,” Matt said. “My sisters, too, surprisingly, after everything they did to me. Meg lives outside Boston. She's married with two boys and works as an ICU nurse. Sam lives in Maine, not too far from my parents. She's an accountant and has her own business.”

“Sounds like a nice family.”

“Yep, we're pretty typical. Do you like having your whole family here in town? Your sister and your mom, I mean.”

“Yeah, I do, actually. And my great-aunt, Ivy, too. She's my mom's aunt. That's all I've got in terms of family, other than Rose's husband and son. My dad died when I was two, so I never knew him or his side of the family. My grandmother on my mom's side died before I was born, and my grandfather was killed in Vietnam. I never knew them, either.”

“That's rough.” Matt paused, seeming to consider his next comment carefully. “You and Rose seem to be getting along better now. Compared to this past summer, I mean.”

Emily sighed. “We're trying. We used to be close, growing up, and we're trying to get back to that. It'll take time, though.”

“What happened to make you not close? Not that it's any of my business,” Matt added quickly. “If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine.”

Should I tell him?
she asked herself.
He could probably ask around town and someone would give him the scoop. If he really doesn't know, it might scare him off if he thinks I'm not ready for someone else. Hell, maybe he already knows and he just wants to hear my take on the situation. Besides, I'm over it. I'm over…Andy.
She took a deep breath.

“Well, back when I was in college, I was dating a guy. He'd arranged to come down to Mill River over spring break and surprise me with an engagement ring. My mom sent Rose to the train station in Rutland to pick him up, not realizing that she'd been upstairs sleeping off a drinking binge. There was an accident on the way back. Andy was killed. Rose was injured, but she survived, obviously.”

Matt had stopped chewing and was staring at her. “I really don't know what to say. That's…horrible. Worse than horrible.”

Emily shrugged. “It was. And is. But I really need to move past it. All those years after the accident, I felt like I was drifting. I don't think I ever came to terms with what happened until I moved back here, to Mill River, last July. I just want to go forward, try to forgive Rose, and build a real life for myself. It's easier said than done, but I'm working on it.”

“That's a lot to forgive. I don't know if I could do it if I were in your situation.”

“I hope you never are.” She smiled at him. “But you have only one life, and I finally decided I'd spent enough of mine being miserable. I wanted to be happy again, really happy, and I realized that would never happen unless I stopped living in the past.”

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean. When I came out of the service, I was pretty messed up for a while. I didn't have any PTSD problems, like some of the guys did, but it took some time before I could relax easily and focus on the future. And some of the things I saw…like guys being blown up or shot right in front of me…I don't think I'll ever be able to get those images out of my head.”

“I can't imagine seeing something like that.”

“Most people can't. It changes you for sure. Makes you realize what you have and what other people have given up so you can have it.”

Emily nodded. Neither of them said anything, but strangely, the silence didn't seem awkward. Instead, it was almost a moment of mutual reflection.

“I love these,” she finally said, holding up the clementine that he'd given her, “but I think I'm going to save it for a snack later. I know we haven't been sitting here long, and I don't mean to be rude, but I should get working again. I need to get a lot of the edging done tonight to stay on schedule. This has been great, though. A lot nicer dinner than I would've had, and with unexpectedly pleasant company to boot.”

“I guess the picnic idea was a good one?” Matt asked with a smile. He was turning his own clementine over and over in his hands. “I have another idea. What would you say if I helped you with the painting?”

“What?”

“I'm serious,” Matt said. “I'm off tomorrow, so I could stay tonight and help you edge, and then I could help you roll the rest of the walls in the morning. And when I'm not on duty, I can help with some of the other things, like the locks on the bedrooms.”

“Oh, goodness,” Emily said, “I couldn't ask you to do that.”

“You didn't ask. I'm offering,” he continued, and his earnest expression made Emily feel strange, as if her heart had started to glow. “Look, I understand you've got a lot on your plate for the next few months. I'd like to spend more time with you any way I can. If that means I have to work for a…lady contractor…that's cool with me.”

Matt's eyes sparkled as he watched how she'd react to his razz, and Emily couldn't help but smile. She rested her hands on her knees as she pondered his offer. “Do you know how to paint?”

“Sure. My parents' house got painted inside and out every five years. My sisters and I did most of it once we were old enough.”

Emily squinted at him. “I couldn't pay you anything.”

“I'm not asking for payment.”

“You are, in a way,” she said. “You want my company.” The quid pro quo nature of his offer made her feel cheap.

“C'mon, Emily. We'd be no different from any other man and woman normally spending time getting to know each other, except that the time we spend would happen here. For now, at least.”

“What if I decide I'm not interested in getting to know
you
any further? Or if I decide that I can work better without you here?”

“You're the boss,” Matt said simply. “You call the shots. Whatever you say goes, no questions asked.”

Emily felt a rush of emotion, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading throughout her body. Maybe Matt was just a smooth talker, but since their initial contact at the hardware store, his words and his intentions had seemed honest and sincere. If they were, she realized that he might just be the rarest of creatures: a handsome man who was accomplished, intelligent, and thoughtful, one with a good sense of humor who was capable and self-confident enough that he wasn't threatened by who she was or what she did for a living. Plus, he liked dogs.

There had been only one other person in whom she had found all of these qualities, and that person was no longer living.

It scared her to feel the way she did and to think about giving Matt the answer he desired. But it was an answer she wanted to give him, too.

She had been alone a long time. Maybe that was about to change. Maybe she owed it to herself to find out.

“All right,” she said quietly. “Let's get to work.”

Saturday, April 28, 1934

M
ichael and his uncle reached the Holy Cross Mission in Colchester just after eleven o'clock. Instead of driving into the cemetery on the narrow road that circled it, they left the sedan in its usual parking spot outside the rectory and walked into the graveyard.

As his uncle had instructed before leaving the farm, Michael was wearing mucking boots and work clothes. He had brought a lantern and a sturdy stick he had whittled sharp at one end.

The graveyard was dark and preternaturally still. Without a hint of a breeze, the dormant trees that stood interspersed among the headstones were great sentry-like pillars with bare, outstretched arms. The snow that had blanketed the cemetery several weeks earlier was gone. In its place, between the dark, wilted patches of grass, the mud was slick and several inches deep, stubbornly persisting as spring continued to coax the cold ground to warm and soften.

“Right over here,” his uncle whispered over his shoulder as he turned from the paved road to walk down one of the rows of headstones. Michael followed him to a spot in the middle of the row, beneath the branches of one of the trees. A great mound of earth was piled near the tree trunk, and two shovels were stuck upright in the dirt. Next to the pile was a freshly dug grave.

“The grave diggers barely got through the ground,” his uncle said. “They managed, though, which is lucky for us.”

Michael shuddered, growing fearful about what his uncle had planned. “Uncle Frank, what are we going to do?”

“You'll see. First, give me the lantern.” Michael did as he was instructed, and his uncle took him by the arm and guided him closer to the hole in the ground. “This was dug today, for the first burial of the spring Monday afternoon. A grave needs to be five feet deep, measured from the bottom of the casket to the surface. We need to make this one a little deeper, at least another eighteen inches. I'll hold the lantern. You jump down there, and I'll pass you a spade.”

“What if someone sees us?”

“Not likely, at this hour. But if I see someone coming, I'll tell you, and you keep low and quiet. I'll walk over to the path and make the excuse that I was inspecting the grave for tomorrow's burial.”

Michael stared at his uncle. “Would someone really believe you're out inspecting a grave just before midnight?”

“Yes. Once thing I've never had is a problem with credibility.” He raised his chin higher, as if to call attention to his white collar. “Now, let's get you down there. The quicker you dig, the quicker we can be done.”

Michael hopped into the grave and took the shovel and stick his uncle handed to him. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, holding up the stick.

“Push the sharp end into the side at one end, flush with the ground you're standing on. That way, you'll be able to gauge how much deeper you've gone.”

Even with the light from the lantern, the pit in the earth was a dank, cramped place. Michael worked at a feverish pace, using the shovel to cut through tree roots and throw out fresh dirt. The sweat ran down his face and dripped off the end of his nose. He ignored the pain from blisters forming on his hands. He began to get a stitch in his side from the effort, but he pushed through it, stopping every once in a while to glance down at the stick protruding from the dirt wall of the grave.

After what seemed like hours, Michael paused and looked up toward the lantern light. “Uncle Frank?” he whispered as he caught his breath. “Is this deep enough?”

His uncle peered down into the pit, where the protruding stick now pointed to Michael's knee instead of being on the same level as the sole of his boot. “Yes, that's nearly two feet. Come now, pass me the shovel and then grab on,” he said, extending his hand. “I'll help you out.”

Back on regular ground, Michael took several deep breaths. It was a relief to feel cool, fresh air on his face and not stagnant air scented by soil and rot.

“Let's go get what we left in the vault,” his uncle said, thrusting the spade back into the dirt pile. Michael followed him, grimacing at the odor as they entered the storage structure. His uncle noticed his expression as he closed the door behind them. “You understand now why we hold burials quickly once the ground thaws,” he said with a wry smile.

Michael looked around as his uncle readied the coffin cart and unlocked the cupboard containing the hobo's body. He noticed that of the several charity caskets that had been stacked beneath the cross the first time he'd been inside the vault, only one remained.

A knock on the door of the vault startled him. He looked at his uncle, panicked.

“Hello? Is someone in there?”

His uncle stared in the direction of the door before whispering to Michael. “I don't recognize the voice. Now, listen carefully. I need you to go over to that casket.” He pointed to the lone coffin in the shadows near the far wall. “Act distraught, as if someone you love is inside it. Keep your head down and try not to make eye contact with whoever this is. I don't want you to say anything unless it's in response to a question I ask you. Do you understand?”

Michael nodded. His heart was pounding, and he felt a bit light-headed. His uncle gave a single nod and quickly relocked the cupboard he'd opened and went to open the door. Michael knelt before the spare casket, glancing back just long enough to see who had knocked.

A uniformed police officer stood on the other side of the door.

Michael snapped his head back around and bowed it as if in prayer.

“Good evening, officer. I'm Father Frank Lynch. May I help you?”

“Oh, hello, Father. I was just driving past the church here—my shift ended a little while ago, and I was heading home—and I saw the light on. Given the hour, I thought there might be someone in here who wasn't supposed to be.”

“Ah. I appreciate your checking. I opened the vault for the son of one of my parishioners.” His uncle spoke more softly, his voice filled with sympathy. “That's his father in the box there, the poor child.”

Michael was kneeling before the casket with his back to the door of the vault, and he took his uncle's words as a cue. Slowly, he clasped his trembling hands together and rested them on the lid of the empty coffin. He also sniffed loudly.

“That is a pity,” the officer said. “But why are you here at this hour?”

“Arrangements have been made for the boy's care. He's been staying at the rectory temporarily, but he'll be sent to live with an aunt in Maryland early tomorrow,” his uncle replied. “Since the ground is barely thawed, we haven't been able to hold a burial yet. He saw my light was on and came to ask for a moment with his father to say goodbye before he leaves. I didn't have it in me to refuse.”

“Well, if that isn't something. That's mighty good of you, Father, mighty good. I'm so sorry for intruding, just wanted to make sure everything was on the up-and-up.”

“Of course, and it was no intrusion. You were just doing your job. Thank you again, Officer—?”

“Kelly. Officer John Kelly. Good night, Father.”

Michael didn't turn around again even when he heard the door of the vault swing closed. He let out a long breath, one that he seemed to have been holding for several minutes, and gasped with relief.

“You did well,” his uncle said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We'll wait a little while to make sure he's gone before we finish what we came to do.”

They stayed inside the vault for another hour, and his uncle took a thorough look around outside before he unlocked the vault box containing the hobo's body. Once they'd pulled it onto the coffin cart, they turned out the light and carefully wheeled it to the grave site.

“There'd be no way the two of us could lower him down there in a casket,” his uncle said as he peered down into the grave. “Even simple wooden ones weigh over a hundred and fifty pounds empty. You'd need at least four strong men, preferably six, to handle this fellow in a casket.”

His uncle positioned the coffin cart parallel to the grave and then turned the crank on the end to lower the body as far as it would go. “All right, Michael,” he said, kneeling beside the body, “we're almost done.” Michael squatted next to his uncle, ready to push the body in and push the entire ordeal out of his mind. “On the count of three. One, two, three!”

Together, they rolled the body, still wrapped in the horsehair blanket, off the cart and over the edge of the grave. It hit the bottom with a muffled
thud.

Frank grabbed the two shovels stuck in the dirt and handed one to Michael. In a few minutes, they'd shoveled enough soil over the body to cover it completely. “That should be fine,” his uncle said.

“What if someone finds him before the funeral? Or what if an animal of some kind gets in there and digs him up?” Michael felt the panic rising again.

“Highly unlikely. I'll keep an eye on the grave, but he's well hidden. At the burial on Monday, a casket will be lowered on top of him and the grave will be sealed. This will be his permanent resting place.”

“What if he has a family out there? They'll never know what became of him.”

His uncle exhaled slowly before he began to speak. “He might have a family, or he might not. Given his actions toward your mother, I shudder to think how he would treat his own family. But this is one of those tough situations, Michael, where there are no good solutions. It isn't possible to do something right without somebody else getting hurt or paying a price. These situations will come up every once in a while during your lifetime, and you need to recognize them and choose which solution does the least harm and who should suffer that harm.

“With this fellow, we could've gone to the police and explained what happened, but there's no telling whether they'd have believed us. We don't even know if anyone can identify this man to notify his next of kin. We could have left him somewhere—a remote forest, maybe—where he might never have been discovered. Of course, he wouldn't have had a proper burial then, and if someone
did
end up finding him and linking him back to us…Well, you see how that would make for a very complicated situation.

“Leaving him buried here will avoid any problems with the law, and your father can stay at his job without being called home. True, the man's family, if he has one, will never know. They're the ones who pay the price, if it can be considered that. But I look at it this way: He's in consecrated ground, and my family is protected. That's two out of three positives, and the best choice, in my book.”

As he'd done when they first left the body in the vault, his uncle quietly said a series of prayers and blessings. Michael stood alongside him, waiting.

In his mind, he replayed the horrible events of the night the hobo had attacked his mother. He wished with everything in him that, by some miracle, his memories of that night would disappear. Yes, the man had attacked his mother. Yes, part of him hated the hobo and realized that he'd been justified in taking the hobo's life. He knew that. He
knew
it. And yet the guilt was still there. He'd pushed it aside as much as he could while his mother was becoming more and more ill, but right now he wasn't as focused on her. That left an opening for the guilt to come roaring back.

In the dark, quiet cemetery, as he listened to his uncle pray for the soul of the
man
he'd shot, the
human being
he'd removed from the earth, Michael's eyes welled up and overflowed. For the first time that night, a wisp of wind brushed through the graveyard and over his face, cooling the moist paths down his cheeks. It left as quickly as it came, and all became still once again.