The Promise of Home (23 page)

“It's her husband she was talking about,” Emily said quietly as a wave of sympathy spread through her. “After you left the store, I went to see if she needed help and found her crying. Karen's husband is a military contractor. He went missing in Saudi Arabia a few days ago. She was in the store again yesterday, and she hasn't gotten any new information.”

“I had a hunch it might've been something like that,” Matt said. “I wasn't going to ask any questions, but she seemed like she was on the verge of getting upset while we were talking. I feel so bad for her. And it brought back a lot of memories I wish I didn't have.”

Emily paused, wondering whether she should satisfy her curiosity and ask about his time overseas. “Did you…did you ever free someone who'd been kidnapped? When you were still in the service, I mean,” she said cautiously. “If you don't want to talk about it, I totally understand.”

“No, it's all right,” Matt said. He dipped his roller in a tray of paint and carefully placed it against the wall. “The truth is that I never went on a rescue mission like that, but there were times when I thought I might end up being taken hostage.

“The scariest time was once when I was in Afghanistan, on a night patrol with my company. We were in the mountains and started taking small-arms fire, but even with night vision equipment, we couldn't see where the enemy was hiding. We backtracked a ways, until they started firing rocket-propelled grenades from behind our position. We were surrounded. Ambushed, basically. One of our Jeeps was hit. Killed two guys and injured two more, even with armor reinforcements on the vehicle. It was just…chaos. The only reason we got out of there was because we called in an airstrike and got some cover. That, plus dumb luck, or Providence.”

Emily was frozen in place. She hadn't noticed the paint dripping off the end of her roller or the way her free hand had tightened its grip on the aluminum rail of the ladder. Instead, as Matt quietly rolled a stripe of paint up the wall, she was seeing him again for the first time. Here was someone who was amazingly strong—who had willingly chosen to protect others, who had been thrust into violent, terrifying situations more than once and emerged with his life and self intact. The uncertainty and drama and difficulties she had experienced during her own lifetime seemed insignificant compared with what he had seen and done.

“I can't imagine how terrifying that must have been,” she finally said. “I'm glad you made it out of there.”

Matt nodded with his eyes on the wall. “Me, too.”

At that moment, Gus got up off his dog bed, shook his collar, and whined. Emily exhaled a long slow breath, relieved at the opportunity for a break in their serious conversation. “Oh, that's the signal,” she said as she began climbing down from the ladder. “Hey, Gussie-pup, you need to go outside?”

Gus came over to her, tail wagging, and whined again.

“All right. I'm going to take him out back—I won't be long.”

Matt nodded and gave her an envious look as he applied more paint to his roller. “A well-house-trained dog is a beautiful thing.”

When Emily came back inside, Matt was leaning against one of the unpainted walls in the great room drinking a Coke. He held out a cold bottle of water to her. “There's more soda in the fridge, if you'd rather have that,” he said.

“No, water's great, thanks.” She took a drink, then poured some of the water into a bowl beside Gus's cushion. “We're making good progress, don't you think?”

“Yeah. This wall's about finished, so we can move— Look out!”

Matt's warning came too late. As Emily walked backward, looking upward to see to the top of their newly painted wall, her heel caught on the base of the ladder. She tripped and fell, landing on her rear in Matt's half-full tray of paint.

“Oh my God,” she said as she realized what she'd done. She felt a bright, hot flush of color spreading over her face and a cool, unpleasant wetness seeping through the seat of her overalls.

“Are you okay? Here,” he said, extending his hand. She allowed him to help her up and then looked down at the tray, which was nearly empty. The paint that hadn't coated her butt had sloshed out onto the tarp beneath the tray.

“I cannot believe I just did that,” she said, turning to try to see the damage. “So much for these overalls.” It was impossible to see without a mirror, but she was painfully aware that her whole ass was beautifully accentuated in “antique eggshell.”

“Do you have something else that you can put on?” Matt asked.

Emily sighed. “Not here. I'd run home for a change of something, but I don't even have a plastic bag I could sit on in the car. Besides, there's so much paint…” She twisted around enough to be able to see thick off-white rivulets running down the back of her legs. “I don't dare step off this tarp, or I'll get it all over the floor.”

“What about putting the tarp, or one of the other ones that doesn't have too much paint, around yourself?”

Emily looked down at the floor coverings and shook her head. “They're too big. I don't think I could drive wrapped up on one of those.”

“Well, I could drive you…Wait, I might have something in my car that you could wear. Let me go check.” Matt bounded out of the room.

She crossed her arms, trying to quell her embarrassment and frustration. She had always been independent and self-sufficient. Being able to take care of herself was a source of pride, something that heavily influenced her sense of self-worth. After years of working in a male-dominated trade and having to repeatedly prove herself, she took pains to ensure that she would never appear incompetent in her skills or be forced to be reliant on a man. To her, being a damsel in distress meant that she was weak and inferior, but here she was, having to rely on Matt a second time to help her out of a bind.

Of course, the damsel-in-distress situation in which she now found herself was unique. Frustrating, but unique. And even a tiny bit funny.

After a few minutes, Matt came back into the great room holding a wadded pair of black sweatpants. “These have been in my trunk for a while, and I don't think they're all that clean,” he said, cringing a little. “But you could slip them on long enough to go home and put on something else.”

“Thanks,” Emily said. “They're better than nothing, or what I'm currently wearing. Turn around for a sec, would you?”

When Matt's back was facing her, she unhooked and stepped out of the overalls and quickly pulled on the sweats. The pants were too big, but she was able to cinch them snugly around her waist.

“Not bad,” Matt said when he saw how she looked.

“Could be worse,” Emily agreed. “Er, it
was
worse. I'll just run home for a minute and change. Wouldn't hurt to have a change of clothes and a few plastic bags up here, too.”

“You'll need one to put those in,” Matt said, motioning to the heap of her overalls. “I'll just stay here and get a start on the next wall. Gus'll keep me company, won't you, boy?”

From his cushion, Gus raised his head and gave an agreeable
woof
. His tail started thumping against the wall, and before Emily knew it, her loyal canine companion was sitting down next to Matt, leaning against his leg, and staring up at him with an adoring, tongue-baring doggie smile.

Matt gaped at Gus before starting to rub the dog's ears. “I swear, it's like he knew exactly what I just said.”

“No doubt about it.”

“You really think they can understand complex speech?” Matt shook his head. “We always had dogs growing up. They stayed outside in their doghouses, went hunting with me and my dad, you know. They were just dogs. We loved them, and they obeyed all the basic commands, but that's pretty much it.”

“All dogs have a lot of potential to learn. But some are exceptional, especially if they spend lots of time with you. They can get to the point where they can understand pretty much everything you say and sense what you need better than you can yourself.”

The words were out of her mouth before Emily realized what she had said. She was still embarrassed over the paint mishap and surprised that Gus seemed to be developing an interspecies bromance with Matt. But maybe, that was just it. Maybe her pup was trying to tell her something that no one else could, in a way that she couldn't help but understand.

Tuesday, May 1, 1934

“W
hy would the police come here?” his grandmother hissed. “Michael, can you think of any reason? Or anything you should tell us?”

“No, Grandma. Unless someone saw me with the deer. It's the off-season.” His heart was thundering so loudly that he could barely articulate his reply. Quickly, he grabbed his game bag holding the deer's heart and liver from the kitchen counter and shoved it into one of the cupboards.
Surely,
he thought,
in times like these, they wouldn't really arrest someone for trying to feed his hungry family, would they?

His grandmother nodded her approval at his actions. “You best see what they want,” she said, again in a whisper.

His mother quickly pulled open the heavy door. “Hello. May I help you?” she said.

Michael saw two men on the porch, one dressed in a three-piece suit with an overcoat and hat, the other in a regular police uniform.

“Good evening, ma'am.” The more formally dressed of the two men stepped forward and tipped his hat. He opened a bifold wallet and flashed a badge as he did so. “I'm Detective Richard Jensen with the Burlington police. This is Officer John Kelly.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Michael's hand, resting on the back of a kitchen chair, tightened around the wood until his knuckles were white. The officer wearing the uniform was the same one who had stopped by the vault and spoken to his uncle four nights earlier.

Michael hadn't said a word to anyone about what he and his uncle had done, but he was frantic with worry. His thoughts returned to the officer who had stopped by the vault. He was almost certain Officer Kelly hadn't seen his face that night—he'd been careful to keep his back to the door of the vault. But perhaps the officer had suspected something even after leaving. Or maybe someone else had seen him and his uncle and reported them.
They're here because we hid the hobo in someone else's grave,
he thought.

“How do you do?” his mother asked calmly. “What brings you by this evening?”

“We're looking for a Mrs. Elizabeth O'Brien,” the detective said. “Is there someone here by that name?”

His mother turned to make eye contact with his grandmother, who rose from her seat at the table. “I'm Elizabeth O'Brien,” she said.

“May we come in?” the detective asked, and his mother nodded and stepped backward as the two men entered the house. “Mrs. O'Brien, I'm investigating an armed robbery that took place in Burlington last month. Bryson D. Woods, one of the city's most prominent businessmen, was robbed at knifepoint outside his home by an unknown assailant. Whoever it was made off with his wallet and a gold pocket watch that had been a gift from his father.”

“That's terrible,” his mother said as she came to stand by his grandmother's side, “but why on earth would this have anything to do with our Lizzie?”

“That's what we're hoping to find out, ma'am. You see, the watch that was stolen from Mr. Woods was located in the loan office in Burlington yesterday. The proprietor, Mr. Borisov, provided paperwork showing that he'd purchased the watch for twenty dollars from a Mrs. Elizabeth O'Brien, along with this address. So, you see, Mrs. O'Brien,” he said, turning again to his grandmother, “we need to verify that you did indeed sell the watch, and also to understand how it came to be in your possession.”

Michael stared at his grandmother. She was looking from Anna's surprised face to the two policemen, working her jaw slowly from side to side.

“I did sell the watch at Mr. Borisov's shop,” she said evenly. “I found it lying alongside the road, a few feet from our mailbox. I knew it didn't belong to any of our neighbors, since none of us that live out here have money enough to buy a watch like that. For folks like us, the money's more valuable than the watch. My daughter-in-law here is expecting a child in the fall and was recently in the hospital. We needed money to pay the bill, and selling the watch seemed to be the easiest way to get it.”

The detective was jotting down notes on a small pad as his grandmother spoke. When she mentioned his mother's condition, he saw the detective's eyes shift ever so slightly as his line of sight swept over his mother's abdomen. “Are you Mrs. O'Brien as well?” the detective asked Anna.

“Yes, I'm Anna O'Brien.”

“Were you aware that the elder Mrs. O'Brien had found or sold the watch?”

“I…I knew that she'd found it,” his mother stammered. “But I had no idea she'd sold it. I was quite ill at the time.”

The detective nodded and made further notes on his paper. “And just to confirm, neither of you ladies saw anyone drop the watch?”

“No,” his mother replied as his grandmother shook her head. “But being close to the road and the railroad tracks, we've had our share of wanderers passing by the place.”

Michael saw his grandmother's posture stiffen slightly at his mother's answer, and he realized immediately that she'd said more than she should have.

“Is that so?” The detective reached inside his overcoat and removed a folded piece of paper, which he unfolded and held out to them. “This is a sketch of Mr. Wood's assailant. It was nearly dark when he was robbed, so he didn't get a very good look at the man. This is the best our sketch artist was able to do. Have either of you seen someone who looks like this?”

Michael's mother and grandmother leaned forward together to look at the image on the paper. “I don't recognize him,” his grandmother said.

His mother took a moment longer to study the picture, bringing her hand up to touch her neck as she did. “I'm sorry. I've never seen this person before,” she said.

“Rick, let the boy take a look,” Officer Kelly suddenly said, and Michael started.

His grandmother took the drawing and passed it to him. For being based on a description limited by darkness, the image was remarkably accurate, and Michael's brow furrowed as he studied the grizzled beard, the large nose and deep creases in the face, and especially the cruel, beady eyes.

“No, sir,” Michael said. “I don't know this man.” He gave the drawing back to the detective.

Officer Kelly stared at him for a few moments, and Michael tried his best to keep a calm, neutral expression until the officer looked away.

Detective Jensen turned to his grandmother. “Are you aware, Mrs. O'Brien, that under the law, the money you received from Mr. Borisov should be returned to him, owing to the fact that the watch you sold him was stolen property?”

“I was not aware of that,” his grandmother said. “I'm not a thief. I'd give him his money back, if I had it, but as I told you, we no longer have it. We used it to pay my daughter-in-law's hospital bill.”

Detective Jensen let out a long sigh. “I guess this is all we can do. We'll be in touch with Mr. Borisov, and we'll explain the situation. It'll be up to him whether he wants to take any further action.” He glanced at Officer Kelly as he made a final note on his pad and then slipped it back in the pocket inside his overcoat. “It looks like our criminal made haste to clear the city and then jump a train after the robbery. Must've dropped the watch where Mrs. O'Brien found it. It's lucky for Mr. Woods, though. He was delighted when we recovered the watch. It was a gift from his father and worth far more to him in sentiment than its weight in gold. I'll be including your statements in my report,” he continued, looking at each of them in turn, “but I suspect the matter will soon be closed. Thank you for your time.”

“Of course,” his mother said. “I'm happy we could provide the information you wanted.”

Detective Jensen tipped his hat. “Good evening,” he said, and the two men left the porch.

After the door had been closed and the police car had pulled out of their driveway, the three of them sank into chairs around the table.

“That was unpleasant,” his grandmother said. She was leaning forward with one elbow on the table and her forehead in her hand.

“Thank goodness they're gone,” his mother said. “Lizzie, why did you sell the watch? And why didn't you tell me you did it?”

“It was just like I said to the detective,” she said. “You were sick, and we didn't have nearly enough to pay the bill. I didn't want to worry you about it. You had enough going on.”

“Just the same, don't I deserve to know these things?” His mother put a trembling hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Mother, are you all right?”

She nodded and moved her hand to wipe a few tears that had escaped her eyes. “I'm sorry, Lizzie. I know you were trying to do what you felt was right. It was just so upsetting, seeing him again in that drawing.”

“It
was
a good drawing,” his grandmother said. “Something about the expression was—well, it was—”

“Chilling,” his mother finished for her. “Like he was right here again, leering at me.”

“I pray that was the last we ever have to hear of him.”

Michael remained silent, but he nodded in agreement with his grandmother. The secret of the watch was out, and its weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The hobo's body seemed to be safely hidden in the last place anyone would think to look, and if the police didn't return, the burden of carrying that secret might continue to become easier to bear. Perhaps, over time, it would disappear completely.

If they truly had put the matter of the hobo behind them, there was only the secret of his mother's silver remaining, but that was easily manageable. The well-concealed flatware in the root cellar, his mother's insurance policy, was no more than a family heirloom—a beautiful thing given out of love. It was nothing to worry about. Indeed, Michael was far more concerned about his father and brother, struggling in far-off New York City, and about his mother's health and the health of the unborn child she carried.

They had been through a great deal as a family, and he wasn't so naive as to think that they wouldn't face more hardship in the future. But they had made it so far. That fact gave him a renewed strength to see his family through, as he had promised his father, until they were all together again.

After school on Wednesday, Michael and his grandmother were hard at work in the kitchen. He'd skinned and quartered the deer, and each of them was using a sharp knife to strip every bit of meat from the bones. Had it been late in the autumn, the normal time for deer hunting, they could have kept the carcass hanging in the barn, preserved by the freezing outdoor temperatures. But now, with the outside temperatures growing warmer by the day, the meat would spoil if left outside, and only the tiny cold compartment in the refrigerator would allow them to keep any of the venison frozen. The rest would have to be canned.

“I feel as if I should be helping, too,” his mother had said, standing at a distance from where they were slicing and cutting, “but I don't know whether my stomach could handle it. The raw meat smell…”

“Don't push it, Anna. We're making good progress here. Why don't you get some fresh air? Take a walk or maybe check the coop for eggs. The hens have been laying more now that the weather has turned. Once we're done, I'll keep out enough meat for venison stew, if you think you'll be up to fixing it for supper.”

“All right. I should be able to manage that. I'll get some vegetables from the root cellar while I'm outside.” She put on a jacket and went out the back door with the basket they used for egg gathering.

Michael focused on the job at hand. He was cutting the larger pieces of the deer into smaller ones, from which he then removed any large bones. His grandmother took each piece from him, checked to make sure no smaller bones or fragments were in it, and sliced it into small pieces or cubes suitable for making stew. It was an efficient partnership. He was particularly amazed by his grandmother's speed and skill in preparing the meat.

“So, Grandma, how many times have you done this, do you think? With venison, I mean?”

“Oh, I couldn't say. Hundreds, maybe. Too many times to count.” A small smile played across her face. “I used to help my mother process game when my father and brothers came back from a hunt. I was the only girl in the family, you know, so it was up to my mother and me to take care of everything they brought back. And wild game was a staple for us back then, so there was a lot for us to do.

“Then I married your grandpa, and we had your father and his brothers. I didn't have a daughter to help me then, so I learned to do everything quicker. I had to, to get everything done. On a farm, the work is never-ending.”

“Have you ever thought about what you might have done? If you hadn't met Grandpa, I mean?”

“I would have married someone else, I suppose. Don't know who. Once I laid eyes on your grandfather, I didn't even think about other fellows. When I was a young lady, I was expected to find a nice young man, settle down, and raise a family. And that's what I did.”

“But did you ever want anything else for yourself? Like to travel? To see the country and meet new people?”

“No, I can't say that I wanted to travel. I grew up here, and I was always happy being here.” She paused as she carefully removed the meat from one of the shank portions. “Other than to marry your grandfather and have a family with him, I can only think of one other thing I've ever really wanted.

“Your grandpa's family was well-off compared to mine. Not rich, mind you, but they had a prosperous farm and never went without. He gave me the most beautiful engagement ring when he proposed. He told me he ordered it special from a jewelry store in Burlington. It had a beautiful center stone, a rich red-brown garnet, surrounded by gems called opals. The opals looked like little rainbows when the light hit them. I'd never seen such a thing. It took me some time to adjust to having something so fancy.”