The Silver Suitcase

by Terrie Todd

  The thud of a door slamming below shook Cornelia. “Corrie?” her father called from downstairs.

  Her father was in from doing chores and ready for a hot lunch. With her little brother back in school after the Christmas break, barn chores now took Daddy longer. So far, he had not recruited her to take Jim’s place, and she wasn’t about to volunteer. She stuffed the quilt back into the suitcase, closed the lid, and hurried back toward the ladder. A quick glance in the mirror as she passed told her she had tangled with more than one cobweb. She paused long enough to brush a hand over her light brown hair. Others often commented on her resemblance to her father’s side of the family, but she saw her mother’s gray-blue eyes looking back at her.

  “Coming, Daddy.” Cornelia scrambled down the ladder to the second floor, where the family’s bedrooms were located. Then she hurried down the stairs to the first floor. In one smooth motion, she grabbed an apron from behind the kitchen door at the bottom of the stairs and began stoking the fire in the old cookstove.

  “Soup’s hot. Bread’s cool enough to eat,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Good girl.” Her father scrubbed his hands at the tin basin by the back door, hung the towel neatly back into place, and took his seat across from Cornelia at their kitchen table. Charles Simpson’s receding hairline, graying temples, and weathered skin made him appear older than his forty-two years.

  “Well, now. Why don’t you say grace for us today?” He smiled at his daughter.

  Cornelia had this down to a routine. Crossing the fingers of both hands under the table, she bowed her head. “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest; let this food to us be blessed. By his hand we all are fed; thank you, God, for daily bread. Please watch over Jimmy at school, and thank you for the shelter for us and for our animals in this winter weather. Amen.”

  With her father’s heartfelt “Amen!” they began slurping the simple soup and devouring the homemade bread.

  “Won’t be long till we have butter and cheese to go with this,” Charles said.

  Cornelia looked up from her soup. She’d gladly forgo butter and cheese if it meant prolonging the reprieve from milking, separating, churning, and cheese making. But she kept her opinion to herself.

  “Why? Is Hazel having her calf?”

  “Anytime now. And she always provides more than enough milk.” Charles’s chest grew noticeably broader at this declaration.

  Cornelia hoped the calf would wait for a break in the weather, both for its sake and for hers. With the meal complete, she dipped hot water from the reservoir on the side of the stove into a basin and began washing both the breakfast and lunch dishes while deep in thought. Is this to be my life, then? She sighed. The days running into each other, each one repeating the same cycle, like the hands of the clock on the mantel? The activities never changing except perhaps as dictated by the seasons? Different chores, slight variations in diet, but otherwise the same endless cycle?

  As she dried a chipped plate, she wandered over to the window and breathed on the glass to clear a peephole through the frost. The blinding sunlight reflecting off the snow made it hard for Cornelia’s eyes to adjust. She was thankful to be safe and warm inside. Still, something restless stirred inside her, and she envied her little brother’s opportunity to continue his education and see his friends each day. They’d argued about it last night as Jimmy anticipated returning to school.

  “You’re lucky, Corny. You get to stay home.”

  “Stop calling me Corny. And you’re the one who’s lucky.”

  “No, I’m not. Stick me on the tractor any day of the week. You can even stick me on a milking stool. It’s still better than those teeny little desks at school. And you get to sit here inside and stay nice and warm, Corny.”

  “I said stop calling me Corny!”

  “Corny, Corny, Corny.”

  It escalated into a tea-towel-snapping chase around the kitchen, during which Cornelia realized her baby brother was quickly gaining on her in both strength and stamina. Maybe she shouldn’t let Jimmy’s teasing get under her skin, but where was the fun in disappointing him by not reacting?

  Now, from the living room, the radio crackled with a weather report, bringing Cornelia back to the moment. She knew her father would soon doze off in his favorite chair, as he did every afternoon in the winter months. She dried the last dish and bundled herself into warm boots, coat, and hat. Outside, a clothesline full of frozen long johns and towels waited to be relieved of its icy burden, and Cornelia needed some fresh air. She stepped out into the brightness and stood still long enough to blink and suck in her breath before hustling over to the clothesline. Even old Shep, their border collie, hid in some straw under the back steps instead of tripping her up today.

  Fumbling with mittened hands, Cornelia freed the clothing from the grip of the pins and laid each piece in a pile on the snow. They looked like a stack of mummies. By the time she added the last one, her freezing fingers could barely manage the clothespins. In a rush to thaw her fingers, she abandoned the bucket of pins, picked up the clothes, and panted back to the house. This was ridiculous. It had not been nearly this cold when she’d hung the clothes out the day before. At least the bright sunlight had whitened them, as she’d hoped.

  “Are you proud of me, Ma?” Cornelia whispered.

  Back inside, she dumped her load unceremoniously on the kitchen table to thaw, and removed her winter wear. She threw more wood into the kitchen stove and filled the teakettle, rubbing her hands together over the stove while she waited for the water to heat up.

  Once the tea was ready, Cornelia filled one of her mother’s pink china cups and carried it upstairs to her bedroom. Humming “Side by Side” to no one in particular, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and then sat at a small desk by the window. She reached into a drawer and pulled out the brand-new diary she had unwrapped on Christmas morning. Like every other diary she’d received on Christmas mornings since the age of twelve, this simple school notebook held a thousand possibilities. And like her previous diaries, this one would no doubt fall apart and need string to hold it together before the year ended. But for now, it represented a world of pristine potential. Surely, somehow, this year my story will finally begin, she thought.

  While her tea cooled to a drinkable temperature, Cornelia dipped her pen in its inkwell, opened the diary to its first page, and wrote January 5, 1939.

  CHAPTER 2

  May 1939

  Cornelia buried the last of the seed potatoes in dirt, making a little hill with her hoe the way Daddy had taught her years before. It was mid-May and only the delicate tomatoes remained to plant. Now if it would only rain. If I hurry, I can take a bath before starting supper, she thought, gathering her hoe and empty gunnysack. But as she rounded the corner of the toolshed, she was surprised to see a bright red car in the farmyard. A tall young man climbed out of the driver’s seat while an older woman emerged from the passenger side.

  “Is this the Simpson place?” The woman looked vaguely familiar.

  “Yes. I’m Cornelia Simpson.” Cornelia glanced over at the driver and back to the woman, then brushed dirt from her clothing before hiding her blackened hands in her pockets.

  “Pleased to meet you, Cornelia. My name is Eva Roberts and this is my son, Henry.” Henry nodded in her direction, and Cornelia merely nodded back. His neatly combed hair, clean clothes, and shiny shoes emphasized her dishevelment.

  “Actually,” the woman continued, “we’ve met before, when you were small.”

  Cornelia waited for her to continue, trying to puzzle out where she’d seen her.

  “Your mother and I were friends as girls. I was so sorry to hear of her passing.”

  “It’s been five years, ma’am.” Cornelia tried not to sound rude, but it seemed a strange time to pay one’s respects.

  “Yes. I so badly wanted to come sooner.” Mrs. Roberts looked at
her shoes. “The economy being what it’s been . . . well, I haven’t been back to the area in nearly fifteen years.”

  Cornelia wasn’t sure what to say next.

  “Is your father home?” The woman glanced around the farmyard.

  “He—um, had to go to town for seed and will probably pick up my brother from school on the way back. They should be here any minute. Would you like to come in?” After fifteen years couldn’t they have waited an extra fifteen minutes and given her time to clean up?

  “Thank you, that would be lovely.” The woman turned to her son. “Henry, please bring the package.”

  Cornelia stepped onto the front porch, with Mrs. Roberts following.

  “Please excuse me, I’ve been planting the garden. I must be quite a sight.”

  “Perfectly understandable, dear. Good for you. And you look lovely. I saw your father in you right away. If you like, we can wait out here and give you a chance to clean up.”

  Feeling relieved, Cornelia remembered the manners her hospitable mother had ingrained in her. “Let me at least bring you a drink first. Coffee or a cold glass of water?”

  Once the two strangers were settled on the front porch with their water, Cornelia washed as quickly as she knew how. It was not the hot bath she longed for, but it would have to do. She changed out of her denim overalls into a brown straight skirt and a soft, short-sleeved pink sweater. She swept a teensy bit of rouge on each cheek and ran a brush through her hair, which Aunt Nonie had cut into a stylish bob just last month.

  As she returned to the porch, Daddy and Jim were just pulling up, with puzzled looks on their faces. They climbed out of her father’s old truck, and Jim hung back to admire the Robertses’ car while Daddy ventured forward.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Charles! It’s so good to see you.” Mrs. Roberts stood but offered nothing by way of explaining her identity.

  Cornelia watched, wondering whether she should introduce the two visitors. Her father stared at the woman. Did he know her or not?

  “Eva Holston!”

  She smiled. “Eva Roberts now. I’d like you to meet my son, Henry. We’re in the area visiting family, and I just had to come by and see you. We were so sorry when we heard about Mary.”

  “Thank you. Uh—this is my daughter, Cornelia, and my son, Jim.”

  “Yes, Cornelia has already been very gracious. Hello, Jim.”

  Jim shook Henry’s hand and turned back to the woman. “I think I’ve seen you in pictures.”

  “Mrs. . . . uh . . . Roberts, was it?” Daddy asked, and she nodded. “Mrs. Roberts was your mother’s maid of honor at our wedding, Jim. You’ve seen her in our wedding picture.”

  Now a light switched on for Cornelia. She had seen her parents’ wedding picture, too, of course. But she had also seen a picture from this woman’s wedding, in which Cornelia’s mother had been the matron of honor. She remembered her mother faithfully writing letters to her friend Eva, and speaking of her on many occasions.

  “Can you stay for supper?” her father asked.

  After offering the obligatory protests about not wanting to impose, and after Cornelia had provided equally obligatory assurances that their staying would be no bother, the Robertses agreed to stay. Cornelia excused herself to the kitchen where the three small chops she had planned to fry waited. She put on her apron and began cutting the meat into cubes for stew instead.

  Jim followed her inside a few minutes later. “Dad says I should help you.”

  “Fetch some potatoes, onions, and carrots from the root cellar.” She handed him a bucket. “Oh, and here’s a second bucket for apples. After that, you can start peeling. I’ll make apple crisp for dessert.”

  Cornelia set the table while the meat began to simmer. She jumped when she realized Henry was standing in the doorway.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You didn’t,” Cornelia lied. “How long have you been there?”

  “Not long.” His brown eyes studied her. “I remember you, you know. Do you remember me?”

  “No. I mean, yes. Well, not really.” Cornelia remembered seeing a photo of her mother posing with Eva, a two-year-old Cornelia, and a dark-haired little boy who could only have been Henry. “We have a photo of our mothers together, with you and I,” Cornelia stammered. “Me, I mean. You and me. But I only figured that out now. That it was you and your mother, I mean. I was just a toddler.” Cornelia bit her lip in an attempt to stop stumbling over her words.

  “I remember the visit.” Henry grinned. “You came to our home with your mother, and you wore a bright red dress. We chased the cat. You tripped on the stairs and skinned your knee, but you didn’t cry.”

  Cornelia’s eyes widened. “You have an awfully good memory.”

  “Well, I was probably just older. About four, I think. I’m nineteen now.”

  “And I’m seventeen.”

  “That explains it.” Henry leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed, one ankle casually resting atop the other, as though he talked to girls all the time.

  “Yes, that explains it,” she muttered, wondering why it was so easy to talk to her brother but talking to this stranger made her heart pound. She sighed with relief when Jim came up the cellar ladder and handed her the pail of vegetables.

  “Let me give you a hand with those.” Henry reached for a bucket.

  Jim gave Henry the apples, and the pair went to work peeling and cutting while Cornelia prepared the crisp part of the dessert. She was thankful that the boys talked easily about boy things, like baseball and cars. She wasn’t good at one-on-one conversations with people she didn’t know. Especially male people.

  Once the stew was simmering and the apple crisp baking, they returned to the porch, where her father and Mrs. Roberts were deep in conversation.

  “So you can see why it was worth the extra time to drive out here, Charles,” she was saying. “I’m sorry I waited so long. I should have sent this as soon as I heard about Mary’s passing—as soon as I learned of her illness, really—but I didn’t feel right putting it in the mail. It seemed to me it deserved a personal delivery.”

  Eva Roberts gave Daddy the package Henry had carried from the car. Daddy sat holding it and Cornelia thought he looked almost afraid to open it.

  “I don’t know what to say, Eva. I didn’t know this still existed. Are you sure?”

  “It’s yours now, Charles. To pass on to your children.”

  “What is it, Dad?” Jim couldn’t contain his curiosity.

  “Is supper ready, Corrie?” their father asked.

  “Almost.”

  “Sorry, son,” Daddy said with a grin. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait and see.”

  CHAPTER 3

  While the others enjoyed her hot apple crisp topped with fresh cream, Cornelia slipped away from the table and returned with a box of photographs. As her father poured coffee for everyone, she opened the box.

  “I thought you might enjoy looking at these.” She pulled out an assortment of framed and unframed photographs of various relatives, dressed in their finest and staring at the camera in a most serious manner. Cornelia picked up her parents’ wedding picture and handed it to Eva Roberts. August 1917 appeared in faded ink on the back.

  “Ah, yes.” Eva sighed and gave a little smile. “Look how young we all were! Of course, this wasn’t the actual wedding day, you know.”

  “It wasn’t?” Cornelia raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh, no,” her father said. “Back then you did your picture taking whenever the photographer came around with all his equipment and set up a studio.”

  “And you did your marrying whenever the preacher came around.” Eva laughed. “The two events never happened at the same time.”

  “Weddings were held after church on Sunday,”
Charles said. “And in Roseburg, we only had a preacher every other Sunday, when it was our turn. The wedding would be announced a month or so in advance. Then on the big day, everybody brought something for a grand potluck and stayed after church to witness the ceremony and eat together.”

  “No such thing as honeymoons, either,” Eva added.

  Charles nodded. “Well, maybe for the rich. Most grooms simply took their new brides home—if they were fortunate enough to have a place of their own.”

  “Did you?” Jim asked.

  “Not right away. Your mother and I stayed at the old Thompson cabin five miles north of town. We didn’t move to this place until five years later. By that time you had arrived, Corrie.”

  “So then when was this picture taken?” Jim studied the photo.

  “About a month after the wedding, I think,” Eva said. “Your mother and I had sewn new dresses for the wedding, and it killed us that we hadn’t yet had a chance to wear them a second time. We couldn’t wait to dress up again and pose for the picture. The men took a little more coaxing.”

  Henry took the photo from Jim. “Who’s the best man?”

  “That’s my brother, Bill.” Cornelia’s father gazed at the picture with a distant look in his eye. “We lost him in the war a few months later.”

  Cornelia reached into the box and pulled out another unframed photo: the one in which she and Henry appeared as small children, seated on their mothers’ laps. When she turned it over, she could barely make out her mother’s handwriting. “‘Cornelia and I with Eva and Henry in Winnipeg, June 1924,’” she read out loud. “‘A very pleasant visit.’”

  They passed the photo around the table. “Was that the last time you saw Mary, then?” Charles’s voice held a slight quiver.

  “Yes,” Eva said, sighing. “If only I’d known. She met my Samuel just that once. He would have loved to come with us on this trip, but his printing business keeps him much too busy.”