The Silver Suitcase

by Terrie Todd

  After another thirty minutes or so of talking business and looking over some files from the store’s office together, Rod rose from his chair. “We’re sticking around for church tomorrow morning so we can connect with a few old friends, especially those who couldn’t make it to the funeral. Then Stacey flies out in the afternoon. I’ll pop in at the store on Monday morning to see if there’s anything you need, and then I have to head down the highway myself. Thanks for considering this. Mom and Dad thought very highly of you, Benita.”

  Ken and Benita followed the siblings to the front door, where they shook their hands and watched them drive away. Once the car was out of sight, they silently returned to the back porch and sank into their wicker chairs with a sigh. A full minute passed before their eyes met, and they both burst out laughing.

  “What . . . just . . . happened?” Ken’s hands gripped his knees.

  “I have no idea.” Benita shook her head. The silver suitcase lay at her feet, shimmering in the afternoon sun. It just winked at me, she thought.

  “We’re store managers!” Ken said, shaking his head.

  “Well, for now anyway.”

  “And furthermore,” Ken declared with more authority than Benita had heard from him in a long time, “we’re going out for supper tonight to celebrate.”

  Protest immediately rose up in Benita’s heart. “Ken, we can’t afford—”

  “And another furthermore!” Ken stood to his feet, his pointer finger up. “We are going to church tomorrow.”

  “We are?” Benita smiled up at her husband. Who was this character with the newfound ambition?

  He smiled back. “We are. I have some serious thanking to do!”

  CHAPTER 20

  December 1939

  Cornelia wrapped the blanket more tightly around herself and gazed out over the creek as the late afternoon sun glistened on the water. Winter had been mild so far, and although there was now ice along the edges, the middle of the creek still ran cold and clear. In the morning, she would leave for Winnipeg with Henry’s parents, but right now she knew where she needed to be—at the spot that had been so precious to her ever since the day she’d practically kidnapped Henry from his cousins’ home. Cornelia lost track of how long she’d been sitting there, hardly noticing the cold, still stunned with shock and disbelief.

  God is punishing me, she decided. I did wrong and now he has taken Henry away forever. And he’s left me alone to deal with a bigger mess than I can imagine. How could she bring Henry’s child into a world that would only shame Henry’s memory, reject his child, and embarrass Henry’s entire family? She stood to her feet and picked up icy-cold stones to hurl into the water.

  “Punish me if you must,” she yelled. “But what did Henry’s parents do? Why on earth are you punishing them? Why are you making them pay for something we did?”

  With each fist-size stone that she heaved into the frigid water, she flung out a fresh accusation. “You are the meanest God ever. You don’t care about any of us. I wish I’d never been born! I wish you didn’t exist. Everything would be so much easier . . . if only . . .”

  She dropped the blanket and slumped down upon it with a whimper. “If only I could believe for one minute you didn’t exist.”

  Cornelia sat crying for so long, she lost track of time. She lay on the blanket, curled up as tightly as she could, and sobbed. When at last she could cry no more, she lay still. Overcome with exhaustion, she stared into the distance and spotted the frayed remnants of an old rope swing Jimmy had rigged several summers before. She remembered the story of Judas hanging himself after betraying Jesus. How exactly does one accomplish that?

  How easy it would be to lie here until she froze to death. She closed her eyes and wished for it. I deserve death for my stupidity. Why did I let myself love him? I should have known he would only get taken away. That’s how it works.

  Her mind was made up. She would climb that tree, tie that old rope around her neck, and jump.

  As she reached for the lowest branches, Corrie thought she heard a voice. Had the wind picked up? She stopped to listen. It sounded like someone whispering in her ear: “Corrie.”

  Was it the motion seen out of the corner of her eye or the sound that caused her to look up again, across the water? She felt her pulse quicken when she saw a man standing there, on the opposite bank of the creek. In spite of her impulse to flee to the truck, she remained riveted to her spot. The man looked at her with such intensity, it was as if he stood a mere three feet away. When he spoke, his words sounded as gentle as a whisper in her ear, despite the distance between them. “Corrie.” Although she tried to look away, Cornelia couldn’t take her eyes off the man. He began walking toward her, across the creek, yet without creating ripples. Had the creek frozen after all? Why wasn’t he sinking?

  I’m dreaming, she thought. But it felt more real than anything she’d experienced before. Wake up, she told herself. Had she frozen to death? What was happening to her?

  “Henry?”

  No. As he drew closer, Cornelia realized that this was the tallest man she had ever seen, and his face looked completely unfamiliar. The war crossed her mind. Had Canada been invaded?

  “Corrie, don’t be afraid,” the man said.

  Cornelia couldn’t say another word, nor could she move. This stranger knew her name. Who was he? Did he know Henry? Had he come here to tell her the details of Henry’s death? Better yet, maybe he’d come to tell her it was all a horrible mistake. That it was he who’d died and Henry remained alive and well. That’s it, she decided. He’s a ghost.

  The man reached her side of the creek and stood a mere six feet away. He’d just crossed the creek, yet his clothing appeared dry. He crouched. His eyes had not left hers since the moment she first saw him. Had he even blinked? His eyes looked sad. He didn’t smile exactly, yet she discerned a kindness in him, a tenderness that minimized her fear and gave her the courage to speak.

  “Who . . . who are you?”

  The man merely turned, gathered a handful of stones, and began pitching them into the water just as she had. He said nothing until he had tossed precisely seven stones into the water. Cornelia instinctively knew that the number of stones he’d thrown matched hers.

  “Am I dreaming?”

  The man turned back toward her. “What do you think?”

  “I—I don’t know. This is too strange to be real.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “But it’s too real to be a dream. Are you going to tell me who you are? Do you know Henry? Do you have a message for me?”

  The man smiled. “Yes. I know Henry.”

  Know. Not knew.

  “Is he alive? When can I see him?”

  The man reached out and touched the corner of Cornelia’s blanket. “Henry is alive. But you will not see him for a very long time.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” She looked at him in confusion. “Why don’t you speak plainly?”

  “As far as your life here is concerned, Henry is dead.”

  Cornelia stared at him. “Why don’t you tell me who you are?”

  “I’ve been sent to you, Corrie.” Cornelia had never before heard such a gentle, compassionate voice. “From someone who loves you more deeply than you’ll ever know.”

  Cornelia did not respond. She looked back at the creek, at the stubble field on the other side. Her eyes roamed from her blanket to the hem of her coat to the truck still parked at the top of the bank behind her. She realized she was not the least bit cold. The man emanated a warmth that completely surrounded her. The air seemed easier to breathe somehow, and the sounds of the water and the birds were crystal clear—richer than any sounds she had ever heard before.

  Cornelia felt glued to the spot, though a part of her wanted nothing more than to flee. They sat in silence, for how long she didn’t know. Minutes? Years?

&
nbsp; Who was it that loved her more deeply than she knew? Moments from her life floated past, beginning with her earliest memories. Her mother, rocking her in the old wooden rocker, the creaky rhythm of the chair keeping time to her mother’s singing: “Jesus loves me, this I know . . .” Sunday school lessons about Jesus and the children, Jesus walking on water, Jesus healing the sick, Jesus dying on the cross. Her father tucking her into bed and praying aloud for guardian angels to protect her through the night, for God’s blessing on Cornelia’s life. Praying in Jesus’s name. Her father, faithfully thanking God at every meal, though provisions at times were pitifully small. Her little brother getting baptized in the creek last summer, while she herself never took that step of faith, never desired to take her charade that far. Pastor Johnson reading the Twenty-third Psalm at her mother’s graveside. “I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”

  Cornelia had every reason to feel afraid, but she did not. Why not? She looked at the man beside her.

  “Are you Jesus?”

  “No. But I consider it an honor to be sent here by him to you, Corrie.”

  “Are you an angel?”

  “We’ve been called by that name, yes.”

  “Do you have a name of your own?”

  “They call me Aziel.”

  “Aziel?”

  “It means ‘God is my power.’”

  Cornelia looked around her. No one else was in sight. Who would ever believe her if she told them? Should she take this Aziel character home with her? When she glanced back at him, he was still gazing at her with warmth, and something more. It felt like recognition, as if he’d known her all her life.

  Cornelia lifted her chin and looked Aziel in the eye. “Why are you here now? Why have I never seen you before?”

  Aziel glanced up at the rope dangling from the tree. “You have never been this desperate before.”

  “I’ve had questions for God as long as I can remember. Why did he let my mother die? Why did he let Henry die?”

  Aziel took his eyes off Cornelia and looked out over the creek. “Why? It’s always the first question, isn’t it? Until he multiplied food for the masses or healed a cripple. Nobody asked ‘Why?’ then. Then, all they wanted to know was ‘How?’”

  Cornelia felt her anger rise at this. “All right. You like how better? Fine.” She had waded in too deep to back down now. “How could he have let both my mother and Henry die? If he’s all-powerful, like they taught us—if he cares so much, like they taught us—then it makes no sense. Either he is a loving god or he is a powerful god, but he surely cannot be both.”

  “One of the reasons I’m here, Corrie, is to help you see that neither the why answers nor the how answers will satisfy your heart. One day, you will have both. But even if you could grasp them now, they would not heal your wounds. Only love can do that. And God loves you more than you can ever understand or imagine.”

  When Cornelia looked directly into his eyes she could see that he spoke the truth. No one had ever looked at her like that. Not anyone in her family, not even Henry. Though she couldn’t explain it, she sensed that this man had access to every thought she’d ever entertained, every ache in her heart, every tear she’d ever cried. And of those, there were many.

  “But I’ve hated him,” she insisted.

  “I know.”

  “And that makes no difference?”

  “Oh, it makes a difference all right. It pains him, Corrie. It hurts him more deeply than I can say.” He reached out and touched her hand gently. “But as to how much he loves you? It makes no difference at all.”

  CHAPTER 21

  April 2006

  Church had changed a great deal since Benita attended as a child. Gone were the wooden pews, the pulpit, the hymnbooks. Women were as likely to be wearing jeans as dresses. Ushers greeted her, Ken, and the children warmly at the door and pointed them in the direction of the children’s church area, where volunteers in bright red T-shirts welcomed them. James spotted a friend from his grade two class at school, and gladly joined him. Katie-Lynn opted to stay with her parents.

  They sat in a gymnasium on chairs that hooked together in rows, and they were led in singing by an upbeat band, complete with electric guitars and drums. The words they sang were projected on a giant screen behind the band, with moving images appearing in the background. Benita looked around her. These people sang as though they’d written the lyrics themselves, some raising their hands in joy, others closing their eyes and simply soaking the music in. One woman rested her hands over her chest, and Benita saw tears streaming down her cheeks. Staring seemed like an invasion of privacy, but it was hard to turn away. She didn’t know whether to be in awe or disturbed by it all.

  So this was Gram’s church. Although the pastor had officiated at Gram’s funeral, it had taken place at a funeral home with all the traditional trappings, such as organ music and stained glass windows. She tried to picture Gram worshipping with this crowd, wondered how many people here knew her, and felt a pang of regret for not having participated in this part of Gram’s life.

  When the singing ended and everyone had taken their seats, Benita felt relieved to see Pastor Gray’s familiar face as he walked to the center of the stage. At least one thing hadn’t changed since her childhood, if you didn’t count his gray hair and casual clothing. Like many of the men there, he wore a simple button-down shirt with no tie or jacket. She guessed he must be close to seventy now. It surprised her that he had changed with the times and welcomed this new style of music and informality into his church. Perhaps it was a matter of survival. Give the people what they want.

  Yet as she looked around, she knew there had to be more to the church’s appeal than what she had cynically concluded. For a church to be filled to capacity like this, not just with gray-haired folk but many young families, something significant must transpire within its walls.

  Today, Pastor Gray spoke about “discovering the gifts God gave you” and using them to “build his kingdom.”

  “God has uniquely gifted you and put within you a dream to pursue,” he said to the gathered crowd. “A dream so big that if you follow it, it will terrify you, but if you ignore it, it will torment you.”

  Lofty words, Benita thought. They sound good, but I’m just trying to figure out how to keep our children fed and clothed without running myself into the ground. Who’s got time to build God’s kingdom, whatever that means? Her long-held dream of working in interior design lay dying, only rarely raising a weak hand to wave a faint farewell.

  She looked over at Ken, who was taking notes on the sheet provided in the program. Her mind kept going to the new opportunity that had landed in their laps the day before. She wondered if there was a way to keep their home in case the arrangement with the Schneider family didn’t pan out. Perhaps they could rent the house out for enough money to make the mortgage payments. Selling the house while they moved in above the store seemed like a bigger leap of faith than she wanted to take right now.

  Katie-Lynn squirmed beside her and asked for her help in finding a bathroom. When they returned several minutes later, the congregation was rising to sing a final song, so Benita waited at the back rather than try to find her place beside Ken. Pastor Gray said a brief prayer and the service ended.

  By the time she caught up with Ken, he had found someone he knew and was deep in conversation. Benita felt in no mood to be sociable. Wanting to hurry home and continue reading Gram’s diary, she gripped Katie-Lynn’s wrist and went to find James. When they returned, Ken was still conversing with the couple.

  “Benita.” He waved her over. “This is Bill and Caroline Grainger. Bill and I used to work together. Do you remember?”

  Benita reached out to shake hands. “You do look familiar. Are you still with the company?”

  “No, I got laid off the same time as Ken,” Bill said. “And I’m still looking for work, too. Ca
roline teaches at the private Christian school the church runs, right here.”

  “Bill and Caroline knew your Gram.” Ken put one arm around Benita’s shoulder.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” Caroline said. “Ken explained to us about your employers as well. We read about the accident in the paper. That’s a lot for you to deal with all at once. It must be pretty overwhelming.”

  “Yes.” Benita didn’t know how else to respond.

  “Well, your grandmother certainly was a sweetheart. I once attended a women’s study group she led, in her stronger days. She had so much life experience and wisdom, but she never forced it on anyone.”

  Benita knew this to be true. “Now that she’s gone, I sometimes wish she’d pushed a little more,” she confessed. “There’s a lot I don’t know.”

  Caroline smiled and nodded.

  “Mom, I’m hungry,” James piped up.

  “Me, too.” Ken reached out to shake Bill’s hand. “We’d better get going. Good to see you again, Bill.”

  “Hope you enjoyed the service.” Bill smiled.

  “I think you’ll see us here again.” Ken nodded and the family headed off to their car—and to another meal of macaroni and cheese at home.

  “So . . . ?” Ken asked a little later, once they were seated around the kitchen table.

  “What?” Benita knew what he was after.

  “What did you think? Is this church idea a good one? Do we want to get up every Sunday and do this? Should we go back, or do you want to try another church?”

  “I want to go back,” James said, reaching for a second helping of macaroni. “We got snacks and played games and some big kids acted out a story about Jesus walking on the water. And Peter too.”

  At the mention of snacks, Katie-Lynn looked at her brother with wide eyes. “Next time, can I go with James?”

  “Of course, sweetie.” Benita smoothed Katie-Lynn’s hair. “We can go back.” It was Gram’s place of worship, and that was good enough for her.