The Silver Suitcase

by Terrie Todd

  Benita looked at her mother, who was well aware of Gram’s special relationship with birds in general and sparrows in particular. Benita could tell the significance of Ramona’s words was not lost on Grace. Yet somehow she felt that an explanation in words would seem woefully inadequate. Then, Grace reached into her tote bag and pulled out the old green hymnbook of Henry’s that Benita had given her. Wordlessly, she turned to where page 272 should have been and slipped Ramona’s page inside. Once again, the old hymnal was complete.

  Ramona clutched the book tightly to her chest while the other two women, one on either side, simply wrapped an arm around her and leaned their heads against hers. There they sat in silent communion, listening to the trickling of the shallow creek and watching the sparrows come and go. They were sitting there still when the others returned.

  Uncle Jim looked tired. James’s hands were filled with rocks and snails, Katie-Lynn’s with goldenrods. The eight of them piled back into the van somewhat reluctantly. This truly was a special spot.

  “One more stop,” Grace said. As they returned to Roseburg, she directed Ken to turn north and continue to the edge of town. When they reached the cemetery, he pulled in and once more they all climbed out.

  “My grandparents are buried right over in that corner.” Grace led the way. “Mom brought me here a lot.” The troupe made their way in silence to the corner of the cemetery, where they saw the name Simpson engraved in big letters across one stone. They gathered first around the grave of Cornelia’s mother, and Katie-Lynn read the headstone aloud.

  “Mary Sarah Simpson, February 16, 1895, to August 1, 1933.”

  “So young,” Ramona murmured.

  “She died on her daughter’s twelfth birthday,” Grace said. “Poor Mom. It must have been so hard. Uncle Jim would have been about your age, James, when he lost his mommy.”

  James reached over and took Jim’s hand, but Jim seemed unaware of where he stood or the gravity of the moment.

  Right beside Mary’s grave lay another. “Charles Simpson,” James read, not to be outdone by his sister. “November 3, 1885, to April 18, 1954.”

  Benita did some quick math. “Not quite seventy. And look at that, his wife was nearly ten years younger than he was.”

  “That wasn’t uncommon back then.” Grace continued walking. “Come this way, I’ll show you my father’s grave.”

  Lingering among the Simpson graves, Benita spotted Miriam’s. “Guys, look! It’s Miriam. This is the woman we think gave you Gram’s phone number, Ramona. Gram couldn’t stand her, though. She was bossy and always trying to tell Gram’s dad how to raise his children.”

  “What?” Grace frowned. “Honey, nothing could be further from the truth. Gram had a wonderful relationship with her aunt Miriam. I remember.”

  “No, Mom, that can’t be right,” Benita insisted. “Are you sure you aren’t thinking of her aunt Nonie?”

  “She loved her aunt Nonie, too, but there was something really special between Mom and Miriam. I was pretty young when Miriam passed away, but I remember.”

  “Well, then, whatever caused it happened sometime after 1941, because as far as I read in the diaries, Gram felt no great amount of love for her nosy Aunt Miriam, that’s for sure.” Benita chuckled. “Nowadays we’d call her a royal buttinski.”

  She squatted to take a closer look at the gravestone and brushed away a pile of decaying leaves that had gathered in front of it. A gasp escaped her when she saw the stone’s engraving.

  “Mom! Ramona! Come and look at this.”

  CHAPTER 58

  Skillfully etched into a corner of Miriam Theresa Simpson’s gravestone was a finely detailed and beautiful sparrow. Below her name were these words: Beloved Sister, Teacher, Mother, Friend.

  “Mother?” Benita asked. “Why does it say ‘Mother’?”

  “I have no idea.” Grace studied the stone, shaking her head.

  “Somebody probably got a good deal on a used headstone for the ol’ girl,” Ken joked.

  “Ken, you’re awful!” Grace slapped his elbow, then turned to Benita with furrowed eyebrows. “I honestly don’t know, honey.”

  Each family member traveled his or her own private journey as they wandered the parklike setting for another quarter hour. Grace paused by her father’s grave, remembering the day they’d buried him and the strength her mother had shown in the months that followed. Ken took the children to the corner of the cemetery where the war memorials stood. Together they found the name of their great-great uncle, William Simpson, Charles’s brother who had died in World War I.

  Ramona linked arms with Uncle Jim and wandered back to the graves of Charles and Mary. She stood patiently while his eyes scanned the surface of the stones and light began to dawn in them. He slowly raised a finger, pointing first to one and then the other. “Mother,” he said. “Father.” Ramona patted his arm.

  David searched for stones reading Roberts, and when he found some, he called Benita over. “Would these be relatives of Henry’s?”

  Benita studied the names, trying to remember what she had read in Gram’s diaries. Henry had worked that summer on his uncle’s farm, she knew. They had a large family, but mostly girls who would have married and changed their names. These stones said Benjamin Roberts and Emily Roberts.

  Benita thought hard. “Yes, I think Gram mentioned an Uncle Ben in her diary. And Henry had cousins about his own age—Elizabeth was one. I’m trying to remember the other.”

  David called his mother over then, and Benita let them share a quiet moment there together while she helped Uncle Jim back into the van. By the time the children were settled in their seats, Ramona and David had rejoined the group and they all headed back down the road toward the city.

  James, Katie-Lynn, and Uncle Jim fell asleep in no time. Grace and Ramona chatted in the middle seat until eventually they, too, fell quiet and began to doze. Up front, Ken drove while keeping up a running conversation with David about the economy and business opportunities in the city. That left Benita to sit quietly with her own thoughts. She regretted not sharing the diaries, not finishing the diaries, not protecting the diaries. Yet today wouldn’t have been possible had the diaries not been lost. This truth made her heart beat a little faster.

  God, help me let it go, she prayed.

  Benita looked at the two women resting peacefully, their heads touching. They had known each other for only twenty-four hours, but they were already sisters in every sense of the word. She knew the visit to the post-adoption registry tomorrow would reveal nothing they didn’t already know. Grace was already making plans to repay Ramona’s visit and had offered Benita and Ken plane tickets for later in the year. “Birthday presents,” she said, “so you can enjoy a little getaway alone together and have a chance to meet the rest of Ramona’s family.” Benita was curious to meet the cousins whose voices, according to Ramona, sounded so much like hers.

  She looked at the two men in front who had been introduced so recently but were already forming a fast friendship. She overheard David asking if the family could come to his home soon for a barbecue, to meet his wife, Gloria, and son, Evan, who was nearly the same age as James.

  It would be wonderful to have an expanded family. Benita’s family had always felt so small, and Gram had been the glue holding them together. Now, in a way, she would continue to be that glue.

  Ramona’s entry into their lives had also altered the atmosphere of her family’s home. Since Benita’s apology, it had felt as though a wall was finally coming down, and Ken had begun to express his pent-up grief.

  She gazed at her two sleeping children—Katie-Lynn clutching a handful of rapidly wilting wildflowers and James wearing on his face evidence of everything he had touched, smelled, or tasted that day.

  Benita rummaged in her purse until she found James’s latest report card, which she’d tucked into a side pocket after parent
interviews the previous week. “James seems a lot more confident and at peace,” his teacher had written without further comment. Those words were more than enough to make Benita feel hopeful about James’s future.

  Another prayer rose to her mind: Lord, help me leave a legacy for James and Katie-Lynn like the one Gram left for me.

  CHAPTER 59

  After seeing Uncle Jim safely home, the family drove the last leg of their journey in silence. By the time they pulled into their driveway behind the store, darkness had fallen and the night was charged with crisp autumn air. Ken carried a sleepy Katie-Lynn up the stairs, followed by an equally worn-out James, while Benita checked on things in the store. Richard had left a note saying all was well.

  Once the children were settled, the five adults sat around the kitchen table to share what remained of the unread diary. They gave Ramona the honor of reading the words aloud, and she spread the sheet out and took her time putting on her reading glasses before she began.

  “Oh my. This is dated August 20, 1939. Cornelia would have been—what, eighteen?”

  Benita knew that whatever Ramona was about to read, she had already read herself. She also knew it would be about Henry and marveled at the unlikely odds that Ramona should be given this particular entry to read aloud.

  “Dear Diary,

  “I’ve found him. I have absolutely found him. I don’t believe in soul mates, but if I did, Henry would be mine. And if I didn’t believe in heroes before, I do now.

  “It was potluck Sunday, and I decided to take a saskatoon pie. The berries are finished now, of course, but I canned some last month and Aunt Nonie taught me how to thicken the juice with cornstarch, add a scoop of sugar, and make pie filling. So I made the pie yesterday and hid it from Jimmy to keep him out of it. He kept complaining that he wouldn’t have a chance of getting any if that brute Stanley McKenzie got to it first.

  “So as soon as the food was all set out and the blessing given, Jimmy made a bee-line for my saskatoon pie and helped himself to a slice. He took a big bite, his eyes grew big, he spit the mouthful out and came over to me. I tasted it, too. It was the saltiest thing I ever tasted. It was awful! I must have scooped a cup of salt instead of sugar into that pie.

  “I told Jimmy we had to hurry and get that pie off the table before anybody else got any. But it was too late. Stanley McKenzie and his brother Burt had not only taken some, but each of them had a big bite of it in his mouth and they both ran to the edge of the churchyard to spit it out. Then they made the biggest theatrical performance out of it I’ve ever seen. You’d have thought I poisoned them.

  “‘Corrie made a pickle pie!’ Stanley yelled, and he and Burt kept hollering ‘pickle pie, pickle pie!’ I felt mortified when everybody laughed.

  “Everybody except Henry.

  “Henry marched right over to the pie, picked up the whole plate, and started eating. He polished off all three remaining pieces without so much as gagging or making a face. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and said, ‘Delicious. You can make pie for me any time.’

  “Now it was Henry’s word against the McKenzies’ and nobody could prove anything either way because the pie was gone. Henry made sure of it. He spent the rest of the day drinking a lot of water and taking endless digs from the guys, but he never complained once. When I thanked him for standing up for me, he shrugged. He told me the pie tasted good and those goons don’t know nothing. Then he said anybody as beautiful as me could make a pie out of dirt and it would still taste great.

  “I told him he’d never live it down. For as long as he stayed in Roseburg, he’d be known as the guy who ate Corrie Simpson’s pickle pie.

  “And you know what he said? He said, ‘I hope so. I hope I’m known that way for the rest of my life.’”

  Ramona looked up, a smile on her face. “Would it be too much to ask . . .” She paused to smooth the paper. “Could I keep this page?”

  Benita smiled. She and her mother had already agreed that they would give the silver suitcase to Ramona to restore or to keep as is, whichever she chose, along with the few diary pages they’d managed to retrieve.

  “There’s one left.” Ramona adjusted her bifocals and picked up the last of the scattered diary pages. “There’s no date.”

  “One of the things I remember most distinctly about that day is how Aziel told me I would one day tell the world the truth about Jesus. What on earth did he mean? I’ve asked myself about it a thousand times. His eyes held such promise, like he knew. He knew! And yet, all these years later I have never even mustered the courage to tell my sweet Stuart about the most significant encounter of my life. If I can’t even bring myself to tell my own husband, how—when—will I ever begin to tell the world?

  “I continue with this diary for my own eyes alone, hoping my life will somehow reflect the riches I know in my heart to be true. What makes it so hard to share the most important event of my life?

  “Today as I pondered on this yet again, asking God ‘when,’ he pointed me to Habakkuk 2:2 & 3. ‘And the Lord answered me, and said, Write the vision, and make it plain upon tables, that he may run that readeth it. For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.’

  “I feel I’m failing you in this, Lord. But I trust you. In your time, God, this will happen somehow. Help me trust you. And your timing.”

  A peaceful quiet settled around the kitchen table as Cornelia’s words sank in. Finally, Ken stood. “I have an announcement to make,” he said. “This seems as good a time as any.”

  Three sets of female eyes turned to him expectantly, but he looked only at Benita. He grinned, pulled a brochure out of the drawer behind his chair, and pushed it toward her. It came from a local community college and lay open to a page where bright yellow highlighter ink circled the words Interior Design Studies.

  Benita studied the page. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me finish.” Ken cleared his throat. “As you know, the store has done steadily better. What you don’t know is, I’ve been putting some money away. There’s enough in the account to pay the tuition if you’d like to take this course.”

  Benita was speechless. It had become obvious that of the two of them, Ken was the more talented businessperson and belonged in the store. He was gradually starting to trust their other staff members more, too. Now Benita would have a chance to pursue a dream of her own.

  “And by the time you graduate, I should have enough set aside to hire a decorator to spruce up the store a little. Provided I can find somebody who knows what they’re doing,” he teased.

  “Benita, that’s wonderful!” Grace smiled. “You can do my house, too.”

  “And mine,” Ramona chimed in. “Way to go, Ken!” She beamed at him.

  Benita threw her arms around Ken’s neck, nearly knocking him off his feet. “So does this mean you’ll do it?” Ken said. “Classes start right after Christmas.”

  “I’ll register tomorrow.” She kissed her husband squarely on the lips and held him close.

  Cheers went up around the table, and Katie-Lynn padded out to the kitchen in her rumpled pajamas to see what was going on.

  “Ewww. Why are Mommy and Daddy kissing?” She climbed onto Grace’s lap, rubbing her eyes.

  “Your mommy’s going to school,” Grace whispered, cuddling the sleepy girl. “And she really loves your daddy.”

  After everyone had gone home and Benita was preparing for bed, she noticed the dimples in the carpet where the silver suitcase used to sit. She knew that giving it to Ramona had been a good and right decision. After all, she and her mother treasured their own memories of the wonderful woman who had owned it. Giving up the suitcase seemed the least they could do for the daughter Gram had longed to know. Benita leaned down and ran her hand gently over the carpet
, climbed into bed beside her husband, and turned off the light. She snuggled up to Ken, and he enveloped her in his arms and kissed her forehead.

  A peaceful sigh rose from her lips, like a prayer meant for the ears of God.

  EPILOGUE

  Sixteen-year-old Jordan Martins grumbled as he pushed yet another shopping cart across the mall parking lot. He was still mad at his little sister, Meagan, for borrowing his iPod without asking. Now it wasn’t working right. That immature brat owes me big-time, he thought. Does she think iPods are free? He had yelled at her and told her again how ugly she was, saying no boy was ever going to look twice at her. It was a low blow, but she deserved it. She was always getting into his stuff and never got in trouble. If his parents weren’t going to do something, it was up to him to make her think twice about messing with him.

  The wind was picking up, adding to his dark mood. He hated it when flyers and other debris got stuck in the carts and slowed him down, and he wanted to get inside before the rain came. Besides, it was time for his break. He yanked a piece of trash from a corner of a cart and looked around for a garbage bin. Before he could find one, however, something on the page caught his eye. The sheet was covered in handwriting that reminded him of the old-fashioned fountain-pen writing he had seen in his grandmother’s penmanship book from her school days. He shoved the page inside his jacket on impulse and kept it there until break time.

  Once he was settled into the basement staff room with a sandwich in one hand, Jordan retrieved the page and smoothed it out on the table. Some of the writing was smudged, but he could make out most of it.

  April 23

  Dear Diary,

  Daddy passed away last week and I have just now found a chance to write. I don’t know what has been more overwhelming . . . my grief over his loss or the revelation from Aunt Miriam. We got through the funeral and buried Daddy beside Mother. The next day Aunt Miriam came to help me sort through Daddy’s things and clean out the old house. Before we began, though, she told me she held a long hidden secret she wanted to share with me . . . how when she was 25 years old, she became pregnant and knew she would lose her teaching position if it became known.