The Silver Suitcase

by Terrie Todd

  Benita let out a snort of contempt. “Fat lot of good it will do if you won’t even cooperate.”

  Ken had crawled into bed, turned his back to her, and not said another word until morning.

  Now the bell jangled on the door as some customers entered, pulling Benita out of her reverie. A man and a little girl walked in, hand in hand.

  “Can I get a treat, Daddy?” The little girl eyed the rows of candy on display.

  “Not today, sugar.” The man turned to Benita. “I’ll take a package of Player’s Light.”

  Benita turned, found the cigarettes, and laid them on the counter. As the man counted out exact change, she studied the obvious disappointment on his sweet daughter’s face. The man appeared blind to it, and Benita wanted to slap him as hard as she could. She wanted to take the little girl into her arms and never return her to a man who could be so self-centered. She wanted to offer the child anything her heart desired, just to spite him.

  Instead, she placed the money in the cash drawer. As she did, she saw her hands shake.

  Why this reaction?

  Benita stood in silence and stared while the pair left the store and continued on down the street. As she turned to straighten the rows of cigarettes, a business card fell from a shelf and fluttered to the floor. She bent to retrieve it, and when she read it, she instantly recognized the name Rod Schneider had mentioned at his parents’ funeral: Phillip Danson, Counselor.

  It was time.

  Benita picked up the phone. Five minutes later, she had an appointment for the following Thursday at ten o’clock. I did it, she told herself. I did something good for myself and for my family.

  Why then, she wondered, did she feel so weighed down with dread?

  That evening after tucking the children into their beds, Benita curled up in her own with a cup of tea and Gram’s diary from 1940. She hadn’t looked at it in months.

  December 15

  Dear Diary,

  It’s hard to believe, but I am almost half way through my year at Normal School. After working harder than I’ve ever worked in my life at Mrs. Marshall’s restaurant and now studying, there has been no time to write.

  I moved into the dorm in September and I’m thankful for the shortage of teachers because without it, I wouldn’t be here at all. The government has made school affordable. Between what I saved over the summer and what Daddy sends, I’ve been able to keep up with tuition. I also work in the cafeteria every morning, which means rising at 4:30, so I’m really exhausted every night. Three classes happen in the forenoon and three in the afternoon. Each runs about forty-five minutes long, with a break of about fifteen minutes in between, for changing classrooms.

  Mid-term exams are next week, so I thought I’d better write something now while I can steal a few minutes. It’s been going well, I think. I love studying, I love my teachers, with the exception of Miss Banning, and most of the other students are all right. I am learning so much. We even received some basic music instruction, something I never dreamed I’d get to learn. I can play “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on the recorder.

  The main building is a long, narrow stone structure enclosing offices, the chapel, classrooms, the library, art room, and science room. Above the library, on the third floor, are the female student quarters. I have three roommates: Rose, Noreen, and Ruby. They’re all right, although Rose can be loud at times. I mostly keep to myself, focusing on my studies and the work I do in the cafeteria under Johnny’s direction.

  Across the street sits a small two-room school for neighborhood children. The Normal School uses it as a model school, and Mr. Clarke took our class there for observation one day. I’ve been assigned to Pinkham School for two weeks to obtain elementary school experience, beginning right after Christmas.

  Last week was the anniversary of Henry’s death and I went by streetcar to the cemetery. Samuel and Eva were both standing there, but when I approached Henry’s grave, Samuel immediately walked back to the car without acknowledging me. Eva took my hand and we stood together for a long time without speaking. A sparrow landed on the grave marker and then hopped within five feet of me, where it stayed for a full minute before flying off.

  Eva and I cried and then she said a short prayer. She asked for strength for all of us and for all who are losing their boys to this awful war. And she asked God to watch over Mary Sarah, whom she simply called “the baby.” I felt touched. Although I’m grateful to have my studies to keep my mind occupied, not a moment goes by that she is not in my thoughts. It felt so wonderful to be with somebody who knows, even if Samuel remains hostile.

  Of course, last week also marked the anniversary of my special visitation and I still have not shared it with anyone. After all these months, it remains the most real experience of my life—more real than Henry, than Mary Sarah; more real than my teachers or classmates. More real than my hand in front of my face. How I wish Aziel would return and make it an annual event. Perhaps he doesn’t come lest I make him more important than Jesus.

  Or perhaps he is always around and I just don’t see.

  I’m going home for Christmas! Daddy sent me money for the train fare, and I’ll leave the day after exams and stay for two whole weeks. I can’t begin to imagine what it will be like.

  CHAPTER 33

  December 1940

  Cornelia saw her father and Jim waiting on the outdoor platform even before she rose from her seat. It warmed her heart to see Daddy blowing on his hands and Jim hopping from one foot to the other in the freezing cold. When she stepped onto the platform, she felt the urge to fly into her father’s arms and never let go. But they had never been demonstrative with one another, particularly in public. Instead, she accepted a quick kiss on the cheek while placing one hand on Daddy’s shoulder. With the other, she handed Jim her bag and then ruffled his hair, reaching up to do so. Jim seemed a foot taller than when she’d last laid eyes on him, and he wore the biggest grin Cornelia had ever seen on his face.

  On the ride home, Jim talked nonstop about how great it felt not having to go to school anymore, how good a cook he was becoming, and how he and his friends Harold and Walter planned to enlist next summer, even if they had to lie about their age. At this, Cornelia cringed, but said nothing.

  When they pulled into the farmyard, she thought her heart would stop. Everything looked the same, yet more run-down somehow. She had been away a full year after having never been away from home more than two nights in her entire life. When had the paint on the house started peeling? Had the fence always been crooked? Why had she never noticed the sag in the barn roof or the rusty hinges on the milk-house door? How long had Shep been walking with a limp? His tail wagging, the dog pressed his nose into Cornelia’s mitten, and she focused her attention on him for a while, stroking his back and trying to regain her equilibrium before entering the house.

  Inside, things looked the same except for a little more clutter and dust than Cornelia considered acceptable. When she had left a year ago, a Christmas tree had stood in the corner of the living room, but of course it was long gone.

  “We waited for you to get home before puttin’ up this year’s tree,” Jim said.

  Cornelia went upstairs to her own room. It looked as though nothing had been touched. She sat on her bed and looked around, overcome with a longing for Henry and for Mary Sarah that was so desperate her arms ached. She wadded up a blanket and hugged it to herself before lying down. She drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Daddy and Jim down below, donning their overalls and boots, and heading out to do late-afternoon chores.

  She awoke to complete darkness and the smell of pancakes cooking. Shocked, she tossed aside the blanket and hustled downstairs.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. I should be doing that!” She tried to take the pancake flipper from Jim’s hand, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “Silly girl. Think
I can’t make pancakes, Corny? I can make lots of things.”

  “Sit down and eat some supper, Corrie.” Charles pulled out a chair for her. “There’ll be plenty of meals for you to cook in the next couple of weeks. Right now, let us treat you.” He poured her a cup of coffee, and she sat.

  After they’d eaten their modest meal, Jim and Cornelia did the dishes while their father stoked the fire in the living room. The three spent a relaxing evening together, playing checkers and making plans to chop down a Christmas tree the next day. Together they agreed they wouldn’t exchange gifts this year, not even their usual homemade ones.

  “Having you home is gift enough for us.” Daddy smiled.

  “And being here is gift enough for me.”

  When Jim said good night and went upstairs, she remained behind, wanting desperately to have a meaningful conversation with her father but wondering whether that would ever be possible as long as she harbored such an immense secret.

  “Daddy, I’m sorry.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “What I mean is—thank you, I suppose. I had no intention when I left here of staying away so long . . . this has been unfair to you, yet you’ve been so gracious. Thank you for providing for my education. I just . . . can’t help feeling bad.”

  Her father packed the checkerboard and checkers back into their box. Then he reached across the table between them and took her hands in his.

  “Corrie, honey. This is something you wanted for a long time. After the loss you suffered, it seemed like the perfect opportunity for you to move on. Much better than coming back here to your same old life.”

  Cornelia studied him. His blue eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “I’m so proud of you, Corrie. And I’m thankful for Samuel and Eva, more than I can say.”

  By now tears were streaming down Cornelia’s face. Her father was such a good man. One part of her wanted desperately to tell him her story; the other part knew she could never break his heart. And explaining the truth to Jim was unthinkable. He’d practically worshipped the ground Henry walked on.

  In her dreams that night, Cornelia placed a doll in a suitcase. She locked the suitcase securely, threw the key into the creek, and watched the key descend slowly to the weeds and rocks below.

  CHAPTER 34

  March 2007

  “I’m so worried about Ken and me.” Benita finally said the words aloud. She had been sitting by Gram’s grave for ten minutes without saying a word. Sparrows fluttered and hopped about, gathering food in the late-winter shrubbery.

  “I wish you were here, Gram. I bet he’d listen to you. I’ve had two sessions with the counselor now, but Ken won’t come. We don’t constantly bicker like before, but that’s only because we are so distant from each other. It’s crazy. Living under the same roof, but living alone—you know? I hate it.”

  Benita brushed aside some dead leaves and raked through the brown grass with her fingers while she kept talking, getting dirt on her knitted mittens.

  “I’ve been reading your diary, Gram. I sure hope you don’t mind. You had to have known someone would, or you wouldn’t have left it behind, right? I have the silver suitcase, the quilt, the hymnbook, the ice-cream maker . . . they’re all treasures. But the diary is by far the most precious. I had no idea you carried such deep sorrow in your heart. How did you do it? How did you come through all that and end up such a sweet-spirited woman? Did you ever try to find Mary Sarah? Does Mom know? Does she have a sister out there somewhere? I have so many questions. Why didn’t you ever tell us?”

  Closing her eyes, Benita tried to remember the sound of Cornelia’s voice, as though doing so might bring answers to her many questions. But all she heard were the chirps of a few birds and the hum of traffic in the distance.

  “I loved your story about the angel coming to you by the creek, Gram. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, to have an experience like that for real? Did you make it all up, just to help yourself cope? You were so hurting, so young.”

  Benita looked at the gray sky and then glanced around at the other graves. Most displayed two dates with a short dash between, representing the span of a person’s life. Not Gram’s, though. By special request of Gram herself, her stone said:

  CORNELIA FAITH SIMPSON BAKER

  BORN AUGUST 1, 1921

  BORN AGAIN DECEMBER 11, 1939

  ENTERED HEAVEN MARCH 16, 2006

  Even in death, Gram’s life was a testament to her faith. From reading her diary, Benita knew the “born again” date represented Gram’s encounter with the angel by the creek. It had been that real to her.

  “I’ve been going to your church, Gram.” Benita felt somehow that Gram could hear, or perhaps that God could hear and would carry the message to Gram for her. Either way, it felt good to keep talking.

  “The kids like it, and I wish we had started a long time ago—when you were still here. The people who knew you speak so highly of you. And I’ve been realizing I need more in my life, too, Gram. I want the faith you had. One of the songs we sing says, ‘Earth has no sorrow that Heaven can’t heal.’ I want to believe God can take all our messes and make them good. That he can meet my needs. I need to believe it.”

  A tear fell unchecked onto Benita’s jacket.

  “I desperately need to believe it.”

  CHAPTER 35

  December 1940

  Sunday morning, Cornelia kept pausing for deep breaths as she prepared for church. She knew people would be happy to see her, or at least pretend to be. They would be kind and consoling about her loss of Henry. How would his aunt, uncle, and cousins respond to her?

  She studied herself in the mirror as she dressed. Her body had changed. Would anyone notice or suspect the reason? Did they find it strange that she had lived with Henry’s parents even though there was never an official engagement? She also knew enough about the small-town mentality to fear they would find her too uppity now that she was a city dweller. I’ll work extra hard at being warm and friendly, she decided, pulling on her gloves. So many things to think about. She chewed her bottom lip all the way to church.

  As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. Henry’s relatives embraced her warmly. Old school chums flocked around to ask about her adventures in the city. The Christmas spirit hovered in the air, and when anyone expressed concern about anything, it was about the war overseas. As it should be.

  Pastor Johnson prayed for the fighting in Europe to come to a swift end and for conscription to be avoided, as Prime Minister Mackenzie King had promised. This community relied heavily on its few remaining men.

  News abounded. Henry’s cousin Elizabeth had married Pastor Johnson’s son Paul last summer. Cornelia’s friend Agnes had delivered her second baby, a little girl named Susan. The schoolchildren were performing Dickens’s A Christmas Carol the following evening, and Tommy Staples had fallen from his horse and broken his leg. Old Mr. Kitchen had passed away and Elsie Miller’s dog had birthed a litter of twelve puppies. Betsy Miller still received regular letters from William, who was somewhere overseas.

  Cornelia’s heart swelled with many emotions as she joined in the carol singing, starting with “Joy to the World” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” She remembered her visit from Aziel down by the creek and wondered if he had sung at Jesus’s birth. She tried to imagine Jesus as a newborn baby—as tiny and helpless as her Mary Sarah. “Happy birthday, Jesus,” she whispered. “Thanks for coming.”

  When the singing shifted to “Silent Night,” Cornelia stopped singing, closed her eyes, and listened to the voices around her. How she longed to be swept away to a place where she could sleep in heavenly peace, where memories and longing for all she had lost did not dominate every waking moment. Jesus, please watch over my baby, she prayed.

  Noise reigned at Aunt Miriam’s as the whole family gathered for their Christmas celebration. Aunt Nonie’s little ones ran
through the house and wrestled with Jim on the living room floor. Everyone peppered Cornelia with questions about college and the city. What were her roommates like? How many teachers did she have? What did she wear to class? When was graduation? How were Henry’s parents coping? Did the war overseas make a more noticeable difference in the city than at home? Did she get to ride the electric trolleys? What were people wearing in the city?

  She felt like a celebrity.

  By four o’clock, almost everyone had cleared out, and Cornelia sat with Daddy, Jim, and Aunt Miriam, who had been, even if not less bossy, surprisingly kind to her. She had been studying Cornelia quietly but intensely, and this caught Cornelia off guard.

  “I’m delighted you’re following in my footsteps and becoming a teacher, Corrie dear. Good teachers mean everything in a child’s life.” Miriam pulled her glasses off and wiped them with an embroidered hanky, then held them up to the light for examination before returning them to her face. “We help shape society, we really do. And you’ll be one of the good ones, mark my words. Now I have something you need to give some serious thought to.”

  Cornelia looked up from her tea.

  “I happen to know that this year’s teacher at Rocky Creek School plans to leave in June, and the board must hire someone new. The position would suit you perfectly. You could live at home, be part of our community again, even walk to school when the weather’s nice.”

  Cornelia swallowed hard, trying to comprehend this change in attitude on the part of her aunt. Why was she going out of her way to be nice?

  Miriam walked over to a rolltop desk in the corner and picked up some papers. “I have the application right here. Now I want you to take this and fill it out as soon as possible, and I’ll see it gets in the right hands. Of course I’ll provide a reference for you, although the trustees know we’re related, so you’ll need to put the name of one of your instructors at Normal School as well, and . . . oh, perhaps Pastor Johnson? He thinks highly of you. I’m sure you’ll have a good chance of getting the position.”