by Terrie Todd
A makeshift stage was erected at the front of the classroom with curtains pulled across it, from wall to wall. As the school filled with families, Cornelia tried to organize the nervous children behind the curtain. She had never felt so much in demand.
“Miss Simpson, I can’t find the lamp I’m supposed to carry in.”
“Miss Simpson, she’s wearing my costume!”
“Can you tie my apron, Miss Simpson?”
As the children took their places before the play, Mr. Rogers, the board chairman, stood in front of the curtains to welcome everyone. Cornelia could vaguely make out what he said and thought she heard her name mentioned in the context of the board’s appreciation. Just then she spotted little Ivy Murphy inching dangerously close to the edge of the stage. Cornelia dashed toward Ivy, hoping to move her to safety before the applause died down and the curtains opened.
Instead, Cornelia herself slipped too close to the edge and down she went, landing on her rump in front of the crowd.
Mr. Rogers stopped mid-speech.
“Uh . . . It appears Miss Simpson has fallen off the stage,” he said in a voice as dry as dust.
The audience roared. Cornelia couldn’t remember having ever been so embarrassed in her life, but she merely smiled to the crowd and returned to her place as gracefully as possible. She consoled herself with the knowledge that if there had been any tension in the room before her fall, it was gone now. The curtains opened and the play began.
More than ever, the theme of peace dominated this Christmas. The students presented their little story about two families who feuded and then realized in the end that no one could recall what had started the fight. A little child, played by none other than the timid Ivy Murphy, became the first to initiate peace and friendship, and the two families became a community. The audience applauded with gusto and joined in on “Joy to the World,” “Silent Night,” and “Dona Nobis Pacem.”
Once the concert had ended and the children were running about with bags of peanuts while their parents visited, Cornelia felt a tap on her shoulder. When she turned, she recognized Stuart Baker, the young teacher from Roseburg School whom she’d met last year and saw occasionally at church.
“Great concert,” Stuart said.
“Hello, Stuart. I didn’t know you were here.” Cornelia reached out to pull a young Murphy boy away from his third trip to the cookie table.
“I especially loved the opening act. Excellent stunt work.”
Cornelia grinned even though she could feel her face flush. “Well, I was about to thank you for coming, but now I’m not so sure.”
“I try to take in as many of these Christmas concerts as I can. You know how hard it is to find good material. Yours was excellent. Do you mind sharing your scripts for the play, or telling me where I can order it?”
Cornelia laughed. “Well, you can’t order it. But you’re more than welcome to use it. I wrote it.”
“You didn’t.” Stuart looked at her with appreciation.
“It’s a lot easier to provide parts for everyone if you create them yourself, don’t you think? What did your school do this year?”
“Teaching at a bigger school has perks,” Stuart smiled. “It was one of the other teachers’ turn to take the lead on the Christmas program, and she picked a musical about bears and rabbits. I only had to set up a stage and play stage manager. And manage, I did. Barely.”
One of the parents, Cecil Black, waited behind Stuart for his chance to talk to Cornelia. She turned to acknowledge him.
The man stood with his arms crossed on his barrel-shaped chest. “I must say, I’m a little disappointed in this year’s concert, Miss Simpson. I assumed you knew Rocky Creek School always does a nativity scene. It was missed.”
Cornelia fought the instinct to apologize. She looked the big man in the eye. “Actually, I attended school here myself, Mr. Black. So yes, I am aware.” She gestured toward her students. “Actually, it was the children who requested something different.”
“Well, we can’t allow the children to decide everything for us, now can we?” Before Cornelia had a chance to respond, he walked away to collect his son, Allan. Stuart looked at Cornelia with one raised eyebrow.
Just then Cornelia’s father approached them and patted her shoulder with enthusiasm. “Great job, Corrie!” He turned to shake Stuart’s hand. “Merry Christmas, Stuart. I suppose you’ll head home to spend Christmas with family?”
Stuart hesitated. “Uh . . . no, actually. I’ll be sticking around here. I’ll probably spend the holidays trying to fix my radio. It’s kaput and I can’t afford to replace it. Sure would like to get it going again, though.”
“Well, bring it on out to our place. I don’t know much about them, but Jimmy likes tinkering with those things. He got ours working again a time or two. And if he doesn’t succeed, well, you can stay and listen to ours.”
“Really?” Stuart spoke to Charles, but his eyes rested on Cornelia. “When should I come?”
“Nobody should be alone at Christmas, and tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. Why don’t you come on out for supper and stay for the evening? Corrie here can cook as well as she can pull off a concert.”
“Well then, I’ll look forward to a fine meal. Thank you.”
Cornelia could feel her face getting hot. If she didn’t know better, she’d think her father was setting her up.
Cornelia, Charles, Aunt Miriam, and Jimmy all pitched in to prepare and serve roast chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, creamed corn, and Aunt Miriam’s dill pickles. Cornelia had made an apple pie for dessert. Before the meal, Charles asked Stuart if he would do the honor of saying grace, and Cornelia figured it was one of the finest prayers she had ever heard.
“Lord, in a world where so many go hungry, may we be truly grateful for all we have to eat. On a planet where war rages, may we bring peace wherever we can. And to the most precious gift you sent at Christmas, your son . . . may we devote our very lives. Amen.”
The five of them managed to refrain from talk of war during the meal, but later they took their coffee to the living room, and while Jimmy messed with wires in the back of Stuart’s radio, they tuned in the news on the Simpson family radio in time to hear a live broadcast from Washington, DC.
England’s prime minister, Sir Winston Churchill, was staying at the White House with President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Only seventeen days had passed since the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the entrance of American troops into the fray. The president spoke first.
“We have joined with many other nations and peoples in a very, very great war. One of their great leaders stands beside me. He and his people have paved the way, encouraged, and sacrificed for the sake of little children everywhere. So I’m asking my associate, my old and good friend, to say a word to the people of America, old and young. Winston Churchill, prime minister of Great Britain.”
The cheering of the crowd could be heard through the crackling static. Then the prime minister spoke.
“Fellow workers in the cause of freedom . . .” he began. “This is a strange Christmas Eve. Almost the whole world is locked in deadly struggle. We are in the midst of war, raging and roaring over all the lands and seas, creeping nearer to our hearts and homes. Here, amid all this, we have tonight the peace of the spirit in each home. We may cast aside for this night at least, the cares and dangers which beset us. Each home throughout the English-speaking world should be a brightly lighted island of happiness and peace before we turn again to the stern task and formidable year that lies before us. Resolve that by our sacrifice and daring, these same children shall not be robbed of their inheritance or be denied their right to live in a free and decent world. And so, in God’s mercy, a happy Christmas to you all.”
For the remainder of the evening, the group enjoyed listening to Christmas carols, playing Parcheesi, and drinking coffee. Miriam took
her leave at nine. At ten thirty, Stuart stood to leave.
“You can’t go yet,” Jimmy said. “Your radio’s not fixed. I think I know what it needs, though.”
“Well, maybe he’ll have to come again.” Charles smiled. “You’re not busy tomorrow, are you, Stuart?”
And that’s how schoolteacher Stuart Baker came to spend almost the entire 1941 Christmas school vacation at the Charles Simpson farm.
CHAPTER 41
September 2007
When Benita returned to the store, a curious message waited for her on the office desk, written in fine-point felt-tip by Ken’s deliberate hand. Call Ramona Stanford re: the suitcase was all it said, followed by a phone number.
“Who’s Ramona Stanford? What does she know about the suitcase?”
“No idea.” Ken shrugged and went out front to wait on some customers.
Benita scowled at his back. A quick search for the area code on her computer told her the number originated in the Toronto area, over two thousand kilometers away.
“How on earth could the suitcase have turned up in Toronto?” she muttered, dialing the number.
A voice-mail message informed her the cell-phone customer was out of the area. While she waited to try again, Benita tried to focus on household tasks. Could it be this easy to get the suitcase back? She’d received only one other call since the posters went up, but the caller had turned out to be someone with a similar antique suitcase, looking for a buyer.
About an hour later, Benita was watching the store while Ken worked on books in the back office. When she heard the overhead bell clang, she looked up from her rows of produce and did a double take. A woman walked in looking so much like Gram, Benita’s heart began to race.
Calm down, she told herself. She’d heard of the phenomenon that causes people to think they see their deceased loved one, still alive, but she hadn’t experienced it before. She watched while the woman scanned the store, spotted her, and started toward her. She even walked like Gram!
“Excuse me, are you Benita?” the woman asked.
Benita swallowed. “Yes.”
The woman resembled a younger version of Gram, the Gram she’d known as a child, but in contemporary clothing. The same soft curls framed a similar round face. The same gray-blue eyes met Benita’s, and when the woman smiled, it was Gram’s smile.
The woman held out her hand. “I’m Ramona Stanford. I called earlier?”
“Oh!” Benita returned the handshake. “I thought it was a Toronto number. I tried to call, but—”
“It is. I flew to Winnipeg yesterday, after my son called me. He saw one of your posters about the silver suitcase and the missing diaries.”
“Do you know where they are?” Benita could feel her heart beating faster.
“No, dear, I’m afraid not. He called me because of the name at the bottom. The poster said they were the diaries of Cornelia Faith Simpson. Is she a relative of yours?”
“Yes, she was my grandmother.”
“So . . . she’s passed away then?” Ramona’s smile faded.
“Yes, last year. I inherited her diaries, but they were stolen from our home about six weeks ago. Were you a friend of Gram’s?”
“No, dear. The fact is . . . well, I was born in Winnipeg in June of 1940 and given up for adoption.”
Benita sucked in her breath.
“The only information I’ve been able to obtain is my birth mother’s maiden name—Cornelia Simpson. I’ve been trying for years to find her. Is there any chance this could have been your grandmother?”
Benita thought her heart would stop beating. She hadn’t told a soul—not Ken, not even her mother—about Gram’s secret. She had given only a few brief thoughts to the idea of trying to find her long-lost aunt. Never in a million years would she have foreseen this happening now, as a result of her posters. She steadied herself against the cooler.
“I’m sorry, dear. I should have realized this might be a shock. I should have waited for you to return my call. I was just so excited, I wanted to come to the store myself and see if maybe—”
Benita felt as if she might pass out. She directed Ramona to the two chairs set up in the corner, then sat down beside her and took a deep breath.
“Yes, I’m just a little . . . um . . . yes . . . there is a good chance this is the same Cornelia. Although, if you’d come a year ago, I’d have told you it was impossible.”
Benita explained about the suitcase and told Ramona that she hadn’t finished reading the diaries before they went missing.
“Oh, this is exciting! I have a million questions. Are your parents alive? Do I have brothers and sisters? Who was my father?”
“Please. Can you give me some time? I’ll need to talk to my mother, for one thing. Can I call you tomorrow, Ramona? I need some time to process this.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I should have realized. I’ve been searching for so long, I forget this might be brand-new to you. Can I ask one question before I go?” She paused only briefly. “You still have your mother, but you didn’t say whether Cornelia was your maternal or paternal grandmother. Is your mother my . . .” Her voice faltered. “My sister?”
“If it’s true, then yes. My mother would be your half-sister. She was an only child. But we don’t know for sure, do we?” Benita stood to her feet, glancing toward the back office. Had Ken overheard? “Please, I really need you to go now.”
“Of course, dear, I apologize. I’ll look forward to hearing from you tomorrow, then.” Ramona walked to the door, where she turned to give Benita one last smile. “Good-bye.”
Benita said good-bye, locked the door behind Ramona, and turned the Closed sign around just as Ken wandered back into the store.
“Who was that? Why are you locking up early?”
For the next half hour, it was as though angels stood at the door, preventing customers from trying to come in. Benita poured out the whole story to Ken: about the child Gram had given up, the diaries, and now the visit from Ramona. She left out the part about Ramona’s resemblance to Gram, just in case that had been her imagination. Let him see it for himself, if it was real.
“And your mother doesn’t know anything about this?” Ken was incredulous. “I would think the first step would be to talk to her. She’ll need some preparation if Ramona is really Mary Sarah. And it sure sounds like she is.”
“You’re right. Oh, man. Now it’s more important than ever to find that suitcase! Why would they take it, Ken? Where is it?” Benita felt hot tears on her cheeks. “What on earth would petty thieves want with an old suitcase anyway?”
“I’ve wondered that, too,” Ken said. “But those silver suitcases sometimes hold large amounts of cash—at least they do in the movies. From what the police said, it was most likely a bunch of kids on a dare, or an initiation. Maybe they decided to grab the suitcase and run, and check out the contents later.”
“This is so unfair.” Benita paced around the office. “We’ve got to find it!”
CHAPTER 42
January 1942
“Are we playing train today, Miss Simpson?” Ivy Murphy asked, looking at the flash cards lined up along the ledge of the blackboard.
“We might.” Cornelia smiled. The little girl’s confidence had improved greatly since September, boosting Cornelia’s own confidence as a teacher. The formerly shy student would surely be one of her success stories.
The train game had proved to be a favorite with the youngest students. They would line up to form a “train” along the row of flash cards. When they could correctly read the word on the card at each “station” as they chugged along, they picked up that card and carried it as “freight” until the ledge sat empty. Then the children would begin again. This presented a challenge for the older students who weren’t playing, as they had to keep copying their own homework questions from the board into their noteboo
ks and try not to get distracted by the entertaining little ones.
Cornelia had distractions of her own that day. It was the fifteenth of January, and Stuart Baker had offered to pick her up from school so they could go out for supper together before attending the district teachers’ meeting at the Roseburg School. A speaker from the university would be explaining the government’s initiatives for the war efforts as they related to education.
That morning she had carefully chosen the green wool dress her aunts had given her as a congratulatory gift when she began teaching. She determined to delegate all chalk-brush duties to the students today, lest her date arrive to find her green dress covered in yellow dust.
Stuart’s attentions were not unwelcome. Cornelia found him intelligent, kind, and genuinely interested in his students. She sometimes wondered why he had not volunteered for military duty along with most fellows his age, but she hadn’t worked up the courage to ask him about it. Perhaps tonight would provide an opportunity.
Things went reasonably smoothly for most of the day. By now, Cornelia felt quite accomplished as a one-room schoolteacher and believed she was competent at the juggling her work required. While Brenda Murphy dictated spelling words to the youngest children, the students in grades four and five each paired off with a “buddy” from grades seven or eight for practice with reading aloud. Since Clara Rogers was the only student in grade six, she assisted Cornelia in copying worksheets on the hectograph for the next day.
This serene, organized scene abruptly ended during afternoon recess.
With the abundance of snow, the boys had decided to bring shovels from home so they could build an enormous snowslide in the schoolyard. They had begun working on it during morning recess, enlarged it further at noon, and were excited by the prospect of making it even bigger during their last break of the day. Cornelia was bundling into her coat and boots when Teeny Webber dashed into the school. She was crying so hard and talking so fast, Cornelia could hardly make out what the girl said.