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"If Amy and I can't... I don't think you and I...should. It wouldn't be right."

"But, what about me? You didn't think about how to not get me pregnant?" He hadn't
demanded an answer right then, because he hadn't thought about me, at all.

"I couldn't."

He wasn't giving me a choice. The responsibility of being a minister's son always fell on
him at the wrong time.

"Well, I'm sure glad you didn't seem over-anxious." I stood up, brushing the damp sand
from my clothes.

He jumped up. "But, I still love you as much as ever. Nothing's changed."

I looked at him.

"Well, a little. But, I'll fix it, you'll see." He tried to laugh. "After all, bigger men than
I--"

He stopped when I started laughing.

He went to bed with Amy that night and the next night he was back with me but I found
his closeness almost worse than when he wasn't there. Now I was willing, even with Amy in the
next room.

But he wasn't. It just didn't seem fair.

The room was dark and chilly with only coals from the fire sending a red glow into the
room. I looked at Aunt Sophie who was getting up slowly.

"We're going to have to put some more wood on that fire. Got those berries done just in
time." She went to the window and pulled the curtain aside.

"It's starting to rain." She ran her hand slowly back over her head, then brushed down
the front of her dress and apron, as if wiping away old memories. "Been dry too long anyway, I
like to see it rain."

She turned on a light over a small table in the corner. The table with the drawer that no
children could get into. She always told us, "I keep my private things in there. If you don't get
into my things I won't get into yours."

Aunt Sophie could be real nasty if we got into her pocketbook, or opened her mail, so
we learned not to. And we could trust her not to pry into our lives either. Consequently we told
her many things we couldn't tell our parents, and left things at her house we didn't want them to
see.

She pulled the drawer open slowly, her hands trembling with fatigue and emotion.
Taking out a long, narrow box, she set it on the table. She felt under the drawer until she found
the key that was taped to the underside. She pulled it loose. Slowly, her hands more steady, she
unlocked the box, lifted the lid and started to reach into it. But then she put the lid down and
walked slowly across the room, to me.

She put the box in my hands. "Here, you look through it if you want to. I'm going to
bed."

There were lines in her face that I'd not seen before. She looked old, and sad. I was
seeing her for the first time as the adult she now trusted I was.

"I'm too old, and tired. It was all a long time ago. I don't know if I even care
anymore."

I wanted to say, "You brought it up."

I didn't. I just held the box, feeling the comfortable weight in my hands.

She went into her bedroom off the living room.

Leaving the box on my chair, I added some wood to the fire and went into the kitchen to
make some instant cocoa. When I got back her door was closed. No light showed underneath so I
settled with the box into the familiar old chair.

The pungent fragrance of cedarwood was strong when I opened the box. In a neat stack
lay a collection of old newspaper clippings and letters, the painful record of love gone awry.
Only a few items appeared to have been handled much. I'd guess the others were simply put
away and not touched again, being the kinds of things it is difficult to keep, but impossible to
throw in the trash.

I read the papers as I came to them, in the order they'd been placed in the box.

DAVID SMITHERS died at his home in Cannon Beach yesterday, August 23,
1964. He was born in Natural Bridge, Va., July 20, 1884. He was preceded in
death by Amy Smithers, his wife of 57 years, July 12, 1964. Mr. Smithers was a
well known artist who had resided in Cannon Beach for many years. He is
survived by son Jonathan S. Smithers, of Cannon Beach and daughter Lillian M.
Lawnrose of Laramie, Wy.; by grandchildren Davie Smithers of Damascus, Or.,
and Gregory and Jennifer Lawnrose of Depoe Bay, Or. And great grandchildren
Amy and Alica Smithers, Damascus, Or., Funeral arrangements are pending.

I put David's obituary aside and picked up the next paper. It was Amy's death notice, in
July 1964, listing the same survivors. Had David died because without her there was no longer a
reason to live?

Perhaps. I wondered. No cause of death was listed for either.

I wondered too about their house. Was it still there or had it been torn down to make
way for an A-frame, or more likely, turned into a Gift Shoppe of Unusual and Rare Items From
the Sea, with parking space behind the building? Asphalt over Sophie's cabin?

I looked at the next item, an envelope.

It held a letter from Sophie's son, written at sea, the date placing it during World War II.
It appeared to have been opened only once and then put back. The pages were fresh, the pencil
writing clear and unsmudged.

On one of Uncle Sam's ships headed for only the Brass knows where.

Dear Mother,

It seems strange to call someone besides Mother Amy as Mother, but you are
my mother, so I will.

This whole letter might seem strange to you, after so many years of not
hearing from me but I've seen some bad things in this war and it seems to me if I
can only make one thing right in this world at least that's one less wrong, and
maybe every little bit helps. I hope so.

I'm writing about that letter I wrote to you on my 14th birthday. I'm sorry. I
didn't mean it. I guess I meant it at the time but I'm older now and I hope not so
stupid. Dad and Mom don't know what I said, they thought it was the usual
thank-you note.

When I come back, if I come back, I've seen some awful things and
sometimes a person gets scared, but, when I come back I want to come see you.
Would that be all right with you? I would just like to see you and talk with you for
awhile.

Well, I've got to go now. Wherever we are going it must be important. The
Brass is closed mouthed but we have our ideas. I will probably be all right. I've
been lucky so far.

Please write soon if you would like to see me. Even if that's not possible I
would like to hear from you.

Love,

Jon S.

There were no later letters from him. No clue as to whether she'd replied, or not.

I set the mail aside and drank my cold cocoa, staring into the flames of Sophie's stove. I
sat there for a while before opening the next letter. It was from Jon, the one he'd written at
fourteen.

April 4, 1933

To Miss Elm,

As you can see it's my birthday. I'm 14 years old now. Do you care? Don't
think that just because you send me a card and some money once a year that I care
anything about you! If you really cared about me you would come see me. You
could at least send a present but I guess it's too much trouble for you to find out
what a 14 year old boy likes and it's certainly too much trouble to write and ask
me. But I guess you are too busy. I wouldn't write back anyway.

Probably you just don't care, so I don't either!

Do not send me any more money! Just forget about me like I have forgotten
about you. I have my own Mother, and Father to give me money. They love me
to. But you don't know about that because you are just a phony mother.

Don't send me any more cards either.

Your ex-son

Jon S. Smithers

Children have a good sense of where to hit to hurt--near the same place where they feel
their own pain.

I was relieved to see that the next envelope was a Christmas card signed, "All our love,
David, Amy, Sampson and Lily."

Written on the back was simply:

Hoping you are well. We are all fine here, we are very busy. Found these
photographs, thought you might like to have them.

Love, Amy

p.s. I took the one of David and the children last summer on the beach, the
other we had taken when David sold a painting a few years back of some tourists
(should I say 'summer visitor's?'? ha ha) poking around the tide pools at
Haystack.

Between my books and David's paintings we sell enuf to keep body and soul
together and once in a while do something special, thus the studio
photograph. --Amy

The pictures and the last two envelopes all looked as if they'd been handled often,
yellowed and finger marked. I searched the photos closely. The studio photo revealed little of the
personalities of the people, only that they were all very attractive. The photos had been studio
tinted, giving them a liveliness not in most black and whites of the time. Amy looked more stern
than Aunt Sophie had described her, but then so do most photos from that time. She looked
contented, secure. Her eyes were clear and looked directly into the camera. David appeared to be
a normally attractive man with interesting bushy eyebrows that Aunt Sophie had never talked
about. Maybe they had gotten bushy with age. His eyes had a twinkle that came through the
photo and caught my attention.

As they had for Sophie.

The children were young, probably eight and nine or so; they were childishly attractive.
Sampson resembled his father but had the black, black hair of Aunt Sophie's youth.

The other was more revealing of their personalities. The three of them wore bathing
suits, mid-30's style I'd guess. David stood in the middle holding a beach ball high in the air and
the children on either side were reaching to grab it. Though obviously posed as all three were
looking into the camera, their casual attitudes revealed more than a studio seriousness. All were
grinning broadly. I stared at David. His hair was wild about his head, his face was tanned and his
grin was heart-stopping--and he was at least fifty by then. Jon and Lily looked like him, full of
fun, but fresh, eager. Lily had long blonde braids, brown eyes, and a perfect figure. Jon was no
taller than his dad but more muscular, and he still had the black curly hair that marked him as
Aunt Sophie's. Most remarkable was the full, good-natured intelligence shared by the trio and
caught by the camera.

I finally put the pictures back in the card and added them to the pile.

There were only two envelopes left. The first was another letter from Jonathan Sampson
when he was only seven.

April 4, 1926 Dear Mommy Sofie, How aur you? I am fin. Mommy show me
yur pixure toda Daddy drew me an you wen i was a babi. Mommy say i growed in
yur timi. Thats funni! Mommy say you luv me. i luv you to. i in skool now. Secon
grad. Mommy say i spel awfl. Daddy say i to smart! Well, got to go now. Mabe i
see you ths sumr. i 7 yers old toda. Thank your four car and too dolar. Luv
JONATHAN SAMPSON SMITHERS

Last, and explaining much, was a letter from David.

October 12, 1921

My dearest Sophie,

It's been over a year now since you left and I still miss you terribly, especially
when the sea is stormy and I walk lonely on the beach. Amy comes sometimes but
with the children it is hard for us both to get out together. Getting them to sleep at
the same time is hard. They both sleep in your old room and when it's daytime
they just keep jabbering at each other and won't take their naps until we put one of
them in our bed. And when they do sleep and we go out, Amy is nervous the
whole time that they will wake up and fall down the stairs or something so we
don't get many walks alone.

Love, are you ever coming back? I didn't believe you when you said you
wouldn't return but it's been so long. You can't know how much I miss you or you
wouldn't stay away. Surely you would be happier with us than with your sister. If
you want children to take care of we certainly have them here! Sampson kept
looking for you after you left. And so did I. My heart aches with wanting
you.

Are you still making your beautiful quilts? The Haystack one is on our bed
now and Amy often says how lovely it is and how nice it makes the room look
and wants you to know we are taking good care of it.

It's cloudy and stormy today. One of the kind you didn't like too much but that
I like best.

Sampson is well. He had a couple of colds last winter but that's all. He is
talking up a storm and we have to watch him all the time he is awake or he is out
the door and down the hill to the water. But don't worry, we put a lock high up on
the door so he can't do that anymore!

We take L.M. with us to Puffin's and I think she's helping our credit there.
Puffin is as proud of her as if he had done more than just drive her mother to
Seaside!

Amy says to say hello and tell you to come visit anytime. She means come
back soon, like I do. She is working now on a story about a little girl named L.M.
(guess who) who travels about the world with her parents and has a special
affinity for communication with dogs and cats which of course leads her into all
sorts of adventures. Amy hopes to work it into a series like the Sampson
books.

Please write us and tell us how you are. If you can't come now at least let us
know how you are doing.

Miss you awfully!

All my love, David

I read the letter twice. I didn't know whether Aunt Sophie had answered but since none
of the other letters had any reference to seeing her, and there were no other letters from David I
guessed he'd failed to win her back with emotional calls.

How strong she was. Or was it just stubbornness? I knew from the way she looked and
sounded when she talked of him that her love had not died. Nor had her love for her baby left
her. So what had she done with it?

That answer I knew. It had gone to Boyd most directly, and to the others of us who were
rocked in her arms and warmed in her bed and listened to when we had long complicated dreams
and stories to tell. And later on, our loves were brought before her, the pain and joy shared in
return for a soft shoulder or a sharp comment that we resented at the time but that would come
back in the dead of night and focus our own questions on his, or her, or our, actions. Once we
married though, her advice and soft shoulder disappeared. In fact, if she voiced an opinion at all
it was in favor of the other person.