Wings of a Dream (8 page)

Did the quarantine mean Arthur didn’t fly? Or was he in the sky this very minute? I’d read a newspaper story about an airplane that crash-landed in someone’s yard. As the boys in the plane brushed themselves off, the family invited them in for dinner.

What if Arthur fell out of the sky? Would he survive with just a few bumps and bruises? A hawk soared a lazy circle high above my head, and I prayed the wings of Arthur’s planes held as sure. And that if he came crashing down in anyone’s yard, it would be mine.

When the sun stopped high overhead, I doused the children’s mud-caked feet with water, then wiped an arm across my damp forehead. Wet clothes remained to be hung on the line. Heavy work I didn’t think could be accomplished while keeping a close eye on the children. “I think y’all need naps this afternoon.”

Groans answered me from all except Janie. She clapped her hands and wrinkled her nose in an ear-to-ear grin. I didn’t imagine she’d understood what I’d said, but it helped all the same.

I rushed our cornbread and molasses lunch, noting that I must explore the cellar later and find us something different to eat. After sending the children to bed, I lifted wet fabric from basket to line until my shoulders ached and our clothing flapped. Yet in spite of my weariness, my hands and feet moved with the nervous energy of a horse before a race.

All my life I’d watched shining bays and dappled grays run the crude track outside of Downington on the Fourth of July. I watched them dance at the starting line, eager to be off. Watched them surge forward at the sound of the starting shot and run until they reached the finish line. My starting line stretched before me now—the coming of Mama’s telegram or Arthur’s letter calling me to him would be the gunshots that would send me running toward my destination. A track filled with tasks more magnificent than mucking out stalls, scrubbing laundry, or weeding a family-sized garden. But I’d keep my promise and take care of things here until then.

With the last clothespin in place, I explored the kitchen. I found middle-full sacks of flour and sugar as well as a few canned goods behind the cabinet doors. And of course the full sack of cornmeal. I’d glimpsed the empty garden just beyond the house. I hoped to find vegetables crowding the cellar shelves, ready for winter consumption. Should that be the case, we’d have plenty of variety in the coming days.

I lit a small lantern and tugged on the heavy wooden door leading into the belly of the earth. Truth be told, I hated cellars. Except during a twister, of course. The big door fell back and smacked the ground. Lantern held aloft, I descended the steps. Crude shelves lined the walls. I held the light higher and peered into the first bushel basket. Green beans. A barrel beside the shelf brimmed with potatoes. Squash. Onions. Turnips. Some peas and ears of corn. Bundled herbs hung from the wooden rafters.

I grabbed handfuls of green beans and potatoes, gathering my apron skirt into a kind of sack for my treasures. Back in the sunshine, I blew out the lantern. The thought of green beans and potatoes cooked with the salt pork I’d noticed in the kitchen stirred my appetite and sent me racing for the kitchen.

Then a high-pitched beeping caught my attention. Sheriff Jeffries’s car bounced along the grass at the side of the house. My heart leapt. Never had I thought the arrival of a sheriff would thrill my soul, but I was starting to look forward to Sheriff Jeffries’s visits. I raised my hand to wave before remembering the load I carried. Beans and potatoes spilled onto the back porch. I brushed dirt from my apron and met the sheriff in the yard.

“Where are the kids?”

“Sleeping. At least I hope they are.”

His mouth turned down for a moment as he plucked something from his pocket. “This is for you.” He handed me a telegram. My heart pumped wild with joy, until I read the ticker-tape words on the page.

Mama’s sick. Stay put. Letter coming soon.

Love, Daddy.

My feet paced as I read the words again. Mama sick? How sick? Spanish flu sick? I sat hard on the edge of the porch and leaned my head against the pillar holding the roof above my head. I forced the words in front of my eyes once more.

“What’s wrong?” The sheriff’s Adam’s apple bobbed as his hat began its familiar dance in his hands.

“My mama’s sick.” Saying the words out loud made it so much more real. Tears stung behind my eyes. I couldn’t look into his face.

“What are you saying?”

My gaze met his. “I’m worried about her.”

His eyes narrowed. “Won’t your daddy take care of her?”

“Of course he will. But I might—” I looked back at the black letters on white paper. Daddy’d said to stay here. But didn’t Mama need me?

“You’re not going to leave these kids, are you? Isn’t that why you came here?”

My head jerked in his direction. “I didn’t even know about them when I came here. I thought Aunt Adabelle would be better quickly. I thought—” I waved my hand and squeezed my eyes shut. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

“But you will stay, won’t you?” A rising voice, a slackened face. Panic, clear as crystal.

I captured my tilting emotions, returning them to solid and upright once more. “Can’t someone around here care for the children until their father comes home?”

The sheriff shook his head. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a swing pushed into motion with no one to still it. “I don’t think so. Everyone around here has more than their share of burdens right now, what with the war and the influenza. And what about Frank’s livestock? You can’t just walk off and leave.”

“This isn’t my responsibility.” I pulled in a deep breath and stood as tall as I could. Still I had to tilt my head back to see his face.

He slapped his hat against his thigh. “I expected any kin of Adabelle’s to do as she would do—her Christian duty.”

I flinched. How dare he imply I was less of a Christian than my aunt? My fist clenched tight as my lips pressed into one another. With a toss of my head, I forced my body to relax as if I hadn’t a care in the world.

“Of course I’ll stay and take care of the children—at least until their father says otherwise.” Or until Daddy says to come home. Or Arthur asks me to be his bride.

I swept up the porch steps, ignoring the beans and potatoes scattered at my feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must put supper on the table for these precious children.”

The sheriff jammed his hat on his head, his face red all the way to his ears. “I’ll be back when I can, but almost every house has the influenza now. Doc’s bleary-eyed. I’m trying to help out.”

I noticed Ollie Elizabeth then, stealing along the side porch, finally sitting at the corner. Sheriff Jeffries’s expression gentled. He reached into his pocket—this time extracting four peppermint sticks.

“Share with the others.” He handed them to Ollie before stalking to his car and puttering away.

Frustration tempted me to stomp and scream. But I refrained. Even so, I had no intention of staying in this place for months on end. I refused to get stuck on yet another farm. I was nineteen years old now. Wasn’t I entitled to make my own decisions? To live the life I desired?

I peered down the road that led to the train station. My dreams hovered close, like a dust cloud approaching from the horizon. If Arthur couldn’t come to me, I’d go to him. Prater’s Junction was far closer to him than Downington, no matter the circumstances.

My attention returned to Ollie. She stared in my direction, her head cocked, her eyes narrowed.

“Did you sleep?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Are the others awake?”

“Not yet.” Ollie licked her candy. “Miss Ada and Mama wouldn’t have made me lie down with the little kids.”

“Is that so?” I gathered the beans and potatoes into my apron skirt again.

Ollie sucked her sweet for a little while before she answered. “Yes.”

The defiance in her tone irritated me. I opened my mouth to answer back, but forced the words to stay locked behind my lips.

Nine. She’s only nine, I reminded myself. I sat down beside her. She scooted to the farthest edge of the step. I wondered how much she’d heard of my conversation with the sheriff.

Little feet pattered the porch behind us. James had even managed to drag Janie down with him. I didn’t want to know how. Ollie handed them each a peppermint stick. Grins erupted as quickly as a rainbow after a storm.

As I carried the vegetables inside and scrubbed them free of dirt, I thought about Mama. I should have known something was wrong. Mama would have answered a telegram right away. And what about Arthur? He must have received that first letter I sent, the one I mailed on the train ride to Texas. Wouldn’t he, too, have answered immediately if he was able?

After a glance at the children still on the porch, I ran to the mailbox outside the front gate. I hadn’t heard anyone arrive or leave, except Sheriff Jeffries, but I’d been in the cellar for a little while.

My letter to Arthur had disappeared. In its place were the
Dallas Morning News
and a farming magazine. I peered into the empty box for more. Nothing.

“Can I take those inside?” James asked with outstretched hands.

I gave him the newspaper and magazine. He bounded up the stairs and into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

A hand yanked at my skirt. “I’m hungry, Bekah.” Dan’s sticky face stared up at me.

I sighed and led him inside. Until God sent me elsewhere, I would do my best by these children.

O
n Wednesday, I began to think I might lose my mind with worry. There’d been no mail in our box. Not even the newspaper. Nor did anyone venture into our isolation. Were we the only ones left alive in this place?

We finished breakfast and morning chores. I knew I ought to clean the house, but instead I paced while the children played hide-and-seek in the yard. We could use a few things from the store. Oatmeal, for instance. But where would I get the money to purchase anything?

My search of the kitchen hadn’t turned up any cash. Would my aunt have kept some in the bedroom? I tore through the desk, the dresser. Still nothing. Then I spied a handbag on a hook behind the door. Whether Aunt Adabelle’s or Clara Gresham’s, it didn’t much matter.

But my rummaging turned up only a wadded handkerchief. Might as well throw that in the wash. I shook it out. A folded bill fluttered to the floor. I stooped to pick it up, smoothing it out straight.

Five dollars!

Thank you, Lord.
I held it to my chest for one brief second before lifting the window and sticking my head into the open air.

“Let’s go to town,” I called.

James and Dan hollered and whooped.

When Ollie and I met in the kitchen, she looked askance. “You hitchin’ Dandy to the buggy?”

“I could.” Hitching up the horse was usually Daddy or Will’s job, but I knew how to do it. I stopped to consider; I needed this trip to fill the whole afternoon. “But it’s such a pretty day. Why don’t we walk, instead?”

Her eyebrows rose. She looked at Janie in her arms, then back at me.

“I’ll carry her; don’t worry.” But really I had forgotten about the baby. Would I ever think through a plan before I spoke it?

We ate a quick dinner before noon. After cleaning up, I led my little brood down the dirt road toward town. Though the air held a chill as delicate as the lace circling my underskirt, the sun warmed our backs and our heads as we walked. The boys raced to this tree or that rock. Janie clapped her hands as a bird swooped near our heads. Ollie tried to carry her sister, but that didn’t last long, in spite of her determination, and she reluctantly passed her to me. Janie twisted and turned, kicking her chubby legs, wanting so badly to run with the others.

My arms drooped and my back grew stiff. When the train platform came into view, relief as refreshing as Saturday night bathwater flowed over me. My steps quickened, as did the children’s.

A trickle of perspiration slid down the side of my face. “Almost there, baby girl.”

Janie giggled at me with a toothless grin. I planted a kiss on her pug nose. Yes, everything would be fine.

The boys charged up the wooden steps to Mr. Crenshaw’s store. James pulled at the door, but it stayed shut. He turned to me, eyes wide. He yanked again, cheeks puffing out with effort. The door didn’t budge.

Ollie shook her head. “I’ve never known Mr. Crenshaw to close, except on Sundays. Are you sure it’s not Sunday?”

“Of course I’m sure.” In my head, I played back the days since Aunt Adabelle’s burial. This was definitely not Sunday. But the town did seem to be deserted. I knew most farmers wouldn’t be in town on a weekday, but no one? That didn’t seem right, either, even in a place as small as Prater’s Junction.

“He probably went out on a delivery. I’m sure he’ll be back in a minute.” I sat on the top step, Janie in my lap, and studied the town I’d only glanced at twice. False-front buildings, their siding weathered gray, flanked the dirt road. A board sidewalk ran along the length of each side. I squinted into the sun, reading the signs above the doors across the street.

A brick bank building anchored the corner. Beside it, the
Junction Sentinel
office, the sheriff’s office, and what looked like Attorney-at-Law stenciled on the next large window. I stood to see what resided near Mr. Crenshaw’s store. The post office, a barbershop, and was that a saloon farther down?