The Silver Suitcase

by Terrie Todd

  “Surely this will blow over.”

  “Yeah, by tomorrow. I just need some space and time to cool off.”

  “This is the first time you’ve walked out like that,” her mother said. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Although it’s not the worst fight we’ve had. But somehow . . . I don’t know . . . his calling Gram’s diaries stupid felt like a slap in the face, you know?”

  Grace sipped her hot chocolate. “I always thought Ken had a special bond with Gram.”

  “We all did, Mom. That’s the kind of person she was.”

  “Do you suppose there’s any chance Ken feels a little left out concerning the diaries, as if you were keeping secrets from him?”

  Benita looked up, considering this suggestion. “I suppose it’s possible. But they were there for him to read any time he wanted.”

  “Did you ever tell him so?”

  “No, I guess not. And he didn’t ask. I guess he didn’t know the extent of the mystery they contained until they went missing—or rather, until Ramona showed up.”

  “I guess it’s true. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” Grace sighed. “I know I’m certainly not the only one missing my mother. I went to see Uncle Jim the other day. He’s more confused than ever.”

  Jim had lived with Gram until her stroke, and then his son Andy had arranged for him to live in a nursing home. The transition had not gone smoothly, but Grace tried her best to make things easier for him. He often called her “Judith” and she simply let him believe she was his late wife.

  “Ken never knew his own grandparents, did he?” Grace asked. “Do you think he ever really grieved for Gram?”

  “That’s easy—no! Ken has never really grieved over anything. He faced the loss of his parents with hardly more than a shrug. When he lost his job—which he loved—he always wore a brave face and said things like ‘That’s life’ when people asked how he was doing. They commended him for handling it so well.”

  “In the meantime it ate him up inside, I bet,” Grace said. “Not that I’m a psychologist or anything.”

  “And that’s another thing. I’ve been seeing a counselor for months. Ken refuses to go. He figured the kids and I were the ones who needed fixing. I suppose we do need fixing, but I think he does, too.”

  Grace took another sip of her hot chocolate. “We all need fixing, honey. I’ll tell you what my mother always said. ‘When it comes to marriage, if both don’t win, nobody wins.’ The longer I lived with your dad, the more I saw the truth in that. In the end, nobody won.”

  “Well, at our house, it certainly seems like nobody wins.” A single tear ran down Benita’s cheek, running out of steam at her jawline. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. “I’m just so tired of it, Mom. So tired.”

  Grace said nothing at first, allowing her daughter to sit with her thoughts. After a while, she gently reminded Benita about Ken’s reading of the eulogy at Gram’s funeral. “He did such a beautiful job. Remember?”

  Benita sighed. “I guess I was in too much of a fog that day to remember anything he said. Or what anybody else said, for that matter.”

  “That’s why we keep stuff.” Grace leaned her chair back and pulled a decorative box off the counter behind her. She opened it and began pulling out mementos of the day—the funeral program, a dried rose, a bundle of sympathy cards, and Ken’s eulogy. She handed the typed, neatly folded sheet of paper to Benita, who paused a moment before taking it. She took another sip of her drink before reading it to herself.

  Cornelia Faith Simpson Baker was born August 1, 1921, in Roseburg, Manitoba, the first child of Charles and Mary Simpson. She attended Rocky Creek School and Roseburg Community Church. Cornelia attended Normal School in Winnipeg, graduating in 1941, and then returned to Roseburg to teach at Rocky Creek School until the school’s closing in 1968, taking a break during her daughter’s early childhood. In 1942 she married Stuart Baker, also a teacher in Roseburg. In 1972 Cornelia moved to Winnipeg to be closer to her daughter and granddaughter. Predeceased by her mother in 1932, her father in 1954, and her husband Stuart in 1960, she leaves to mourn her passing one brother, James; her daughter, Grace; her granddaughter, Benita, with husband, Ken, and grandchildren James and Katherine, all of Winnipeg.

  Benita stopped reading to look up at her mother. “Wow, Mom. I guess I never really clued in to how young you were when you lost your dad.”

  “I was seventeen.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Cancer. He fought a long battle. Most of my teenage memories include Dad being sick and Mom taking care of him.”

  “All this while she taught school?”

  “Yep. Seems incredible to me now, looking back. At the time, I mostly worried about how it all affected me, of course. But my mother was a remarkable woman. Dad died in late June, so Mom had the summer off and went right back to work in September.”

  “Did you know she only completed grade nine before . . . well, before she lived with Henry’s parents?” Benita asked.

  “No. That can’t be right. How on earth did she get into Normal School?”

  “She finished high school by correspondence, while she waited for the baby to come. She worked hard in a restaurant to save money, both before and after the birth. According to her diary, in order to attend high school in Roseburg, she would have had to board in town and her father couldn’t afford that.”

  Her mother looked incredulous. “I can’t believe you know all this when I didn’t.”

  “It was all in the diaries.” Benita turned back to the eulogy Ken had written.

  That brief paragraph, containing the barest of facts, cannot begin to sum up the person Corrie Baker was. We called her Gram, and from the moment I met her when I began dating her granddaughter, she was one of my best friends. That may sound like a strange thing to say, but it’s true. She had a quality about her I can’t describe. Easy to talk to, she invited me to share my heart and my life. She demonstrated her faith in ways I haven’t seen in anyone else. She knew Jesus so well, you’d think she’d seen him face to face. Or knew someone who had.

  And from the time our children came along, they were the delight of her life. She took them to the zoo, to the park, out for french fries and ice cream. We loved having her in our home because she could light up a room with her laughter. When you spoke with her, she had a way of making every conversation about you . . . maybe that’s why we don’t know more about her life.

  One day when Katie-Lynn was about three years old, she fell asleep on Gram’s lap in the rocking chair. Gram didn’t hear me come in or she likely would have stopped singing; she was pretty self-conscious about her singing, which, I’ll admit, was not one of her better talents. I’ll never forget the song she sang because it made me laugh and it was all I could do to cover my mouth to stifle the laughter so I could keep listening. How can I describe the picture of this 78-year old woman singing a hit song from the 1960s to a tiny girl cuddled in her arms, damp curls stuck to her forehead and hands clutching a ratty blanket? But there she was, in the most lullaby-like manner, crooning “Groovy Kind of Love.” If Gram had not already won my heart before, she certainly would have in that moment.

  Benita recalled the chuckles that had risen from the crowd when Ken had told the story, and she realized this was the song Gram had sung to Katie-Lynn in her dream the other night. Although Benita didn’t witness the actual event, she had heard Ken tell the heartwarming story about it many times. Somehow she had missed what a special moment that represented for Ken. She continued reading.

  As some of you know, our family has been going through a bit of a rough patch recently. My job came to an unexpected end several months ago and I haven’t found work yet. Gram, even throughout her failing health, has been my greatest source of encouragement. “Don’t worry, Ken,” she would say every time I saw her. “God’s got so
mething for you, and it will come along at the right time. He’s never too early or too late.”

  Then she’d mysteriously produce a twenty-dollar bill from out of nowhere and press it into my hand. Or, on her better days, she would bake cookies, muffins, brownies, bread, you name it . . . and share it, not only with us but with everyone she had opportunity to give to. Neighborhood children all knew her as “Gramma Corrie, the Cookie Lady.”

  What I will miss most, though, are her prayers. I know she prayed for us every day because she told us so every chance she got. We’d tell her our troubles and she’d say “I’m taking that one to Jesus.”

  And I, for one, know beyond a doubt that she had his ear.

  Benita sat stunned. She could not remember Ken delivering, let alone writing, this personal and deeply insightful tribute to Gram. How could she have missed it? Was she really so wrapped up in her own grief that she hadn’t seen or heard anything about his experience?

  “Mom . . . I don’t know what to say. This explains so much. I had no idea.”

  “I kind of thought as much,” her mother said. “I confess I didn’t hear much of what Ken said that day either, and I only reread this a few days ago. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “I need to go home, Mom” was all Benita could say. She gathered her purse and keys and fled.

  CHAPTER 50

  April 1946

  Feeling glad for the warmth of the spring day, Cornelia tightened the strings on Gracie’s new bonnet. At nineteen months old, the chubby-cheeked girl had no idea what all the excitement was about. She was just happy to be on an outing, held securely on her father’s shoulders.

  The parade was impressive for one organized by such a small community. Nearly a year had passed since VE Day, Victory in Europe Day, and Cornelia remembered sitting with her family around the radio in her father’s living room as the glorious news was made official. Three months later, Japan surrendered.

  The soldiers started trickling home, married men first, in the fall of 1945. Most made it home by Christmas, with two more groups arriving in February and March. At last, Roseburg was ready to celebrate, and the little town went all out. Each one-room school in the district put together its own version of a marching band. Most had few instruments but were made glorious by their marchers’ voices and feet. Cornelia waved to some of her former students, marveling at how much some of them had grown.

  At the end of the parade came the soldiers. Most of them were in uniform for the first time in months, and their solemn faces told the crowd that their hearts were with those who did not march alongside them. Roseburg had lost three men besides Henry. Of those, only two bodies had been recovered and positively identified. They lay buried in Europe. Leif Valdurson had lost a leg and was now pushed along in his wheelchair by his brother, Valdi. Everyone knew Bill Wilson had stayed home and refused to participate. Shell shock, they called it.

  The parade led to a celebration at the town hall, where speeches were given and awards presented. Each soldier received a leather wallet, and a plaque was reverently unveiled, inscribed with the names of the fallen. Cornelia felt pleased that the committee had included Henry, even though he had not died in battle and had been part of the community for only a short time. When his name was called, Stuart reached over and took his wife’s hand. She looked up at him, at Grace, and sighed. This day would look entirely different had Henry not died.

  Afterward, Cornelia helped the other women serve sandwiches and coffee. She felt thankful to be part of this little world, a married mother surrounded with people who loved and needed her. Still, a dull ache lingered deep inside, one that she suspected time would never erase.

  CHAPTER 51

  October 2007

  On Sunday morning, all four members of the Watson household were in church for the first time in more than a year. Benita sat feeling humbled by the response Ken had given her when she returned home the night before, well past midnight. She had found him in bed but awake. With tears in her eyes, she had apologized.

  “I read the eulogy you wrote for Gram,” she said. “Ken, it was so special, so beautiful. I didn’t understand. I didn’t hear it that day, and I really didn’t know how much she meant to you. I was too wrapped up in myself.”

  Ken looked at her with sad eyes. “You’ve never apologized to me before.”

  His words landed like a knife to her heart because she knew they rang true. But she knew that right now, she needed to make this about Ken, not about herself. Phillip had taught her that much.

  “You lost a dear friend, and you need to grieve your loss.” Benita stroked Ken’s arm.

  Ken looked away. “I don’t think I know how to do that.”

  They talked late into the night about Gram, their marriage, their failings, and their hopes for the future. In the morning, when Ken announced that he would attend church with the family, Benita could tell his heart was softening.

  Now the worship band led them in an old hymn set to an upbeat tune:

  Be still, my soul

  The Lord doth undertake

  To guide the future as he has the past

  Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;

  All now mysterious shall be bright at last

  Be still, my soul

  The waves and winds still know His voice

  who ruled them while he dwelt below.

  Benita stopped singing and let the words wash over her heart as thoughts swirled in her head. She thought of the lost diaries and of Ramona’s pending visit, only one day away. Benita didn’t know whether to hope Ramona really was Mary Sarah or to hope it was all a mistake. What if she turned out to be an awful person? What if the diaries were never found? She felt responsible for them and for their loss. Her concerns for her marriage, for Ken, and for the children made her soul anything but still. She desperately needed her soul to be still, if only for a little while. The band was repeating the first verse:

  Be still my soul, the Lord is on thy side

  Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain

  Leave to thy God to order and provide

  In every change he faithful will remain

  Be still, my soul

  Thy best, thy heavenly friend

  Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

  Benita found the words beautiful and longed for them to be true. God, are you really on my side? Help me trust you, with all of it. She wanted a friendship with God like the one Gram had. It had seemed nothing could shake Gram.

  That’s when a brand-new thought crossed her mind. Maybe that’s why the diaries were lost. Maybe it was time she quit reading about Gram’s faith and started growing her own. Maybe she should be reading God’s book and looking to it for answers instead. Was that what God was trying to say?

  That afternoon Ken and Benita were napping when James ran up the stairs to their apartment.

  “I found it, I found it! Mom, I found it!” he shrieked. Ken reached him first.

  “Son, what’s going on? What did you find?” Ken placed a firm hand on both of James’s shoulders and tried to settle him.

  “Gram’s silver suitcase!” he yelled, wiggling free from Ken’s grip and heading back down the stairs. “Come on!”

  Benita was behind him in a flash. At last! Had it really been nearby all this time? Had someone returned it? She asked James a question with every step, but he wasn’t answering, merely leading the way. He headed out the back door of the store office onto the tiny patch of yard, and scrambled over the wooden fence to the vacant lot behind them. The children had been warned about playing in there, as the tall grass no doubt concealed broken glass and other dangers. Apparently James and his buddy Robbie had been playing there anyway.

  Benita and Ken went around to the piece of fence that served as a crude gate, and opened it. James reached the spot he sought, and at his feet lay what
remained of Gram’s suitcase. Wide open, one hinge completely broken off, rust growing on every side, it had no doubt lain here for the entire two months since the robbery. They had obviously missed it in their initial search, but now the fall grass was dying off, exposing an assortment of litter.

  Ken took in the scene. “The thieves must have taken off over the fence, stopped here long enough to break it open, and then abandoned it once they determined it held nothing valuable.”

  “I didn’t touch it, Dad,” James said. “I remembered what you said. Do you think the police could take fingerprints off it?”

  “I don’t know, son. I doubt it, with all the dust and dirt on it now. And I’m not sure it will be an important enough case for them to bother with anyway. But let’s leave it here for now, and see if they’ll take a look.”

  Benita had stopped in her tracks when she saw the suitcase lying there. Now she ventured closer to it. Would they find anything left inside? All the feelings of violation that she’d experienced the night of the robbery now returned in a flood. When she got close enough to peer inside, the first thing she spotted was Henry’s old hymnbook, still intact. She lifted it carefully and tucked it inside her sweater. Two or three diary pages stuck to the bottom of the suitcase, held in place by something gummy enough to make them stick and wet enough to make the ink run. Benita peeled off what she could and examined the pages. Bits were still readable, but it was mostly a lost cause.

  “Let’s look for more diary pages,” she said. By this time, Katie-Lynn had joined them and the four of them spent the next hour covering every square inch of the empty lot. They recovered four pages, then continued through the afternoon searching streets and back alleys in the neighborhood. They carried garbage bags with them and gathered every speck of litter they could find, stuffing four large bags to near bursting. In all that garbage, James found one sheet from the diaries in a gutter, and Benita found two more mixed in with old garage-sale signs between a fence and an electric pole.