“Who’s going to take care of me now?” she sobbed. “Who’s going to take care of me now?”
“I’ll take care of you, Becca,” he promised. “I will.”
September 7, 1951
Betty looked around the house, one last time. For the past three weeks, she had gone through her sister’s belongings in their childhood home. She had to sort what she wanted, what she would save for Becca, and determine the ultimate destination of the rest. Her sister had lived at home since before their parents had both died, having been their caretaker when they both became ill. None of her family had ever indulged in fine trinkets, so most of her possessions had been pictures and a few pieces of fine jewelry that had been their grandmother’s. That and a few random pieces of second-hand furniture was all that they had acquired through the years.
John’s father hadn’t shown up that first night of her death. Or the next. Or the next. He had run his truck off the road after overindulging at the tavern that evening, having driven straight into the woods at the curve instead of turning. One of the local farmers found him three days later, disoriented and bleeding, wandering down a country road. The Good Samaritan took him into Fredericksburg to the doctor—the same doctor who had declared Becca’s mother dead. When they told him what had happened, he broke down and cried. Then he was arrested.
Those summoned to the scene were all witness to the brutality of his abuse just the night before her death. Her face and body were swollen and bruised, obviously not a result of her gunshot wound to the chest. But without a witness or anyone to press charges, he was released a few days later. John’s father insisted that the property and all the belongings were rightfully his because he and Becca’s mother had eloped. But his protest fell on deaf ears, since he failed to produce a marriage certificate. He and John were asked to leave the premises within thirty days of her death. And for the next thirty days, Becca’s Uncle Jimmy was waiting with a rifle to intimidate John’s father every time he came to collect his belongings.
Betty and her husband Jimmy were childless, but not by choice. They were in good health, mid-thirties, and Becca’s only living relatives, so they willingly took her in. They didn’t even question whether to take responsibility for their niece. They couldn’t bear to see her go into the foster care system. Betty looked out the window for Becca and spied her in the distance, sitting by the river. Becca had hardly spoken since her aunt and uncle’s arrival. They stayed with her to help her sort through her mother’s possessions and to take her to their home. Betty knew her niece would be forever scarred with the memories of what she had endured at her childhood home.
Becca sat on the short, wooden fishing pier over the river, stirring the water with her toes, her hands full of daisies from her mother’s garden. One by one she pulled the petals from the flowers and dropped them into the moving water. She didn’t hear her name being called. She could hear nothing except the rhythm of the water running over the ledge just a few feet away. She stared numbly into it, feeling too tired for a ten-year-old.
Three weeks has passed since her mother’s death, but it felt like yesterday. Becca would never be able to erase that memory. Ever. Her Aunt Betty told her she should forgive John’s father. “God wills it,” she had said. But how could she? Becca swore she’d never forgive him for what he did to her mother—for beating her, for berating her, for driving her to suicide. She looked down into the clear waters. She could see the rich green moss dancing on the pebbles at the bottom of the shallow river that flowed beneath the pier. Becca didn’t hear or feel John walking up on the dock behind her. He sat by her, hanging his legs off the pier, his feet dipping into the cool water next to hers.
“We’re about to leave.” John glanced over at her, wincing with the sun in his eyes. He looked down at the petals she was dropping, watching them float away. “I hate leaving you,” he said softly. “It’s always been us, taking care of each other.”
Becca didn’t move, didn’t speak, or even acknowledge his presence.
He drew in a deep breath then exhaled. “I guess I’ll see you later, Becca.” But before he could stand up, she reached over and took his hand. He looked in her direction and saw a tear sliding down her face. She leaned on his shoulder without speaking. He smiled in understanding. They sat there together in silence.
The silence was broken only by the gruff voice of his father. “Johnny, get in the truck.” The man who had seemed so threatening before suddenly didn’t seem as threatening now.
John didn’t move.
“Boy, did you hear me? I said, get in the truck! Now!” he repeated, his voice raised.
Becca turned to him and gave him a sad smile. “You have to go,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
John nodded sadly. He released her hand and stood up. “It’s gonna be okay, Becca. I promise.”
Becca nodded, trying to maintain her smile.
Slowly John turned and walked the short distance to the old pickup truck with the newly dented hood, which was filled with the few things they rightfully owned. Betty gave them John’s furniture but refused to give him the other pieces she didn’t want. He deserved nothing from her family that he hadn’t already taken. John’s father grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him toward the truck. John nodded a silent goodbye to Betty and Jimmy before crawling into the cab. His father climbed into the driver’s side and slammed his door, hoping that the action would emphasize his disdain for the family. John looked out the window and watched Becca disappear in the dust from the road as his father drove them away, taking him from the only people he truly loved.
LETTERS FROM BECCA
Chapter 1: September 22, 2000
John picked up his pace. Thanks to his age and a few old football and war injuries, that pace wasn’t what it used to be. His doctor had firmly instructed him to get more exercise. “Envision yourself working toward a purpose, or a goal,” the doctor had encouraged him. That motivation didn’t work at first. There was no place in particular he wanted to go. Then it happened. The Schultze sisters, Moira and Gerta, had just moved into the house on the corner. Since meeting him the day they arrived, the sisters had seemingly rescheduled their daily walks around his. The first time—and perhaps the second—might have seemed a coincidence. But for the better part of a month he ran into them daily. Now he moved with a purpose. Running away.
He envisioned them at the windows; one with spyglasses, alerting the other that he was coming. He even tried changing his route, but somehow they always appeared. In their former lives, they must have been spies and somehow figured out how to implant tracking devices on his person. It’s not that they were overly annoying. They were very nice, even cordial. It’s just that John liked his privacy. He kept to himself. His twin daughters urged him constantly to get out more. If it weren’t for his kids’ insistence and the doctor’s orders, he’d never leave the house.
John was the only “single” man of his age within three blocks, except for Old Man Humphrey, as the kids in the neighborhood called him. Old Man Humphrey, who had lived at the other corner of his street all of his seventy-six years, was rarely seen. His grass would sometimes go un-mowed for months at a time. And just when the neighborhood would start speculating as to whether he was decomposing inside, he would emerge to put out the trash (once a month) or to drive to the store (less often). Most of the other residents in the older community were either families or older couples that had been married forty plus years. It was a quiet neighborhood. Everyone left everyone else alone. John liked it like that.
He rounded the corner on his block, having gone a long way in a different direction to avoid the sisters. He smiled to himself, having outwitted the Schultze sisters today, but knowing that by tomorrow, they would have somehow figured out his new route. He arrived at his mailbox at the exact time as Van, his mail carrier. He smiled and nodded cordially, thanking him as Van handed him the mail. Then he made one vital mistake. He stopped to talk. Van asked him about his girls and grandk
ids, so he, in turn, asked about Van’s. They chatted for a few minutes, then before he stepped away, Van tipped his hat and smiled.
“Good morning, ladies.”
John cringed at the words. Darn it! So close.
Van smiled and winked at John, and for a moment, he wondered if Van was in on it and was deliberately sent to distract him until they arrived. Then Van, thanks to his excuse of work, said goodbye.
John turned and forced a smile over his frustrated face.
“Good morning, John,” Gerta giggled.
John nodded. “Good morning, ladies.”
“Oh, John,” Moira beamed. “No sense in being so formal with us.”
John stepped backward, toward his house.
“Did you have a nice walk?” Moira asked, keeping up with him.
Gerta smiled. “I’m so surprised we ran into you here this morning.”
“But we’re glad we did,” Moira added quickly.
“Me, too,” he lied through his smile.
“We were just on our way to the market. I was going to do some baking this afternoon and thought I’d make you something special,” Moira said.
“Because you’re always just so nice to us,” Gerta added.
“That’s really not necessary,” John replied.
“Oh, but we want to,” said Gerta, stepping closer.
“What’s your favorite dessert?” Moira asked.
“Um, er,” he stammered. “I’m a borderline diabetic. My doctor says I have to watch my sugar and carb intake.”
Both their faces fell at once.
“But thank you for your kind offer,” he added, cornered against his front door.
“Well,” Moira said with a sigh, “we’ll just have to find some other way to show you how much we appreciate you.”
“Really,” John insisted, “you ladies do way too much for me already.” He was on a roll now. “Why, just seeing you every day gives me such pleasure.”
They both smiled simultaneously. “You’re just too kind, John,” Moira added.
John slowly opened his door and stepped inside, feeling safer with just the screen between them. “I hate to go, ladies, but I have to finish something I was working on,” he said, struggling for something better to say, but falling short.
“Goodbye, John,” Gerta giggled.
“See you tomorrow, then,” Moira said with a confident smile.
John tried not to cringe, but maintained his smile until they turned and walked away. He closed the door and shook his head. Slowly, he smiled. He had to give them an “A” for effort. He walked to his desk in the hallway and set down the mail to look for his reading glasses. He turned with a start when Patches, his ten-year-old golden tabby cat jumped onto the desk beside him, sending his mail flying in every direction.
John reached down and began gathering the pieces of mail and putting them back onto the desk, then smiled and petted his only friend as she purred and rubbed against him, vying for his attention. He picked up his cat, reading glasses, and mail, and headed for the kitchen where the light was much better. He could care less about reading any of it. It was mostly bills or the annoying junk mail he never opened.
The only piece he would have cared about was still on the floor, under his desk, amidst the dust and cobwebs to be forgotten. For now.
Chapter 2: November 11, 2000
Patches lay crouched before the door, staring oddly at the face pressed against the screen. It had been a tiring morning of chasing a mouse around the kitchen, and she had no desire to move if not required.
“Grampa!” the face called out.
Patches rose to a sitting position; her tail swished back and forth as she contemplated whether the face required further investigation.
“Dad?” another face peered through the screen door from above. The woman knocked, then opened the door, allowing the small girl to rush through first.
Patches immediately rose, recognizing the child. Standing still was not an option, so she tried to become invisible by scurrying under the desk.
“Grampa!” the child yelled, running past the cat and into his arms as he entered the room.
“Jesse, Amanda, what a nice surprise!” he said, bending to pick her up.
“Grampa! Guess where we went yesterday!” Amanda asked excitedly.
“Where did you go, Punkin’?”
“We went to the zoo. And we saw giraffes and zebras and elephants and dinosaurs!”
“Dinosaurs? At the zoo?” John asked, his face showing amazement. Purposefully he turned to his daughter. “Your mother meet you there, Jesse?” he asked coyly.
“Now dad,” she said, cutting her eyes at him, trying to conceal a smile. She walked to the kitchen and opened his refrigerator, setting inside a dozen eggs and a carton of milk.
“No, silly. Real dinosaurs,” Amanda insisted.
“Okay, okay. That wasn’t very nice of me,” he said to his daughter over his shoulder before turning back to Amanda, who had her arms wrapped around his neck. “I’m sorry, Punkin. Go on,” he encouraged her.
“We saw a tri-ser-a-tops,” she pronounced slowly. “And a tarantula rex!”
“That’s Tyrannosaurus Rex, dear,” Jessica corrected from afar.
“So Gramma was there?” John asked his granddaughter in a lower voice.
Amanda rolled her eyes and giggled. “Grampa! You’re so silly!”
Jessica walked up behind him. “Dad,” she said in a scolding tone.
“What?” he asked innocently, as he turned and made an exaggerated fearful face at Amanda, who laughed.
“Dad, you really should let me pick up a few more things for you next time I’m at the store. I told you, I don’t mind.”
“I don’t need anything else,” he said, setting the wriggling Amanda down. “But thank you, honey.” He patted the child’s bottom as she scooted off after the cat she had spied hiding under the desk.
“There’s nothing to eat in here,” she added, turning back to the kitchen.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Jessica gave him a reprimanding glare. “Dad, you know what I mean. I worry about you.”
Amanda walked into the room, carrying the cat precariously, arms wrapped around and under Patches’ front legs. Patches’ back legs nearly dragged the floor, and the cat wore a perplexed look on her face.
“Worried that I can’t take care of myself after all these years?” he asked with a smile, patting his belly. “I don’t look like I’m starving to you, do I?” He turned to his granddaughter, the cat wriggling in her arms, attempting to free itself. “Does Grampa look like he’s missed many meals to you?” He reached down to tickle her tummy.
“Not a chance,” she smiled. Patches took advantage of his distraction, slid from Amanda’s arms, and scampered back to the safety of the desk, pressing herself firmly against the stairwell.
“Your old Grampa can fend for himself,” he added, turning to his daughter.
“Dad, you really should quit eating like this,” she remarked, holding up a can of soup. “I think this is the soup I brought you when you had your gall bladder surgery.”
John took the can from her hand and put on his reading glasses that had been sitting on the kitchen table, then looked at the label.
“Dad, that was 1992. It doesn’t even have an expiration label on it!”
“Then it must still be good,” he grinned, setting it back on the shelf as she removed another can from the cabinet.
“Dad, I don’t even think they make this kind anymore,” she argued. He put back all the cans as she was taking them down. She sighed. “C’mon Daddy, let me make you something healthy for a change. Let me and Amanda make you breakfast. I have more groceries in the car. I can make that chicken casserole you love. You could have some tonight and freeze the rest. I’ll just call home and—” she began, picking up his cordless phone to call her husband.
John took the phone from her hand and put it back in the cradle. “I know you and Am
anda mean well, but I’m just fine.” He smiled the sincerest smile he could muster. “Now, Jesse, I know old what’s-his-face is waiting for you at home this very minute and has his heart set on your homemade biscuits and gravy.” He picked up her purse and handed it to her. “And heaven forbid I would take one morsel of your wonderful cooking out of my precious grandbaby’s mouth.” He walked toward the front door, past her and his granddaughter, who was sprawled under the desk, still trying to retrieve the cat.
She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. “You’re frustrating. You know that, right?” Jesse looked around. “Amanda! Time to go!”
John smiled. “Oh, Jesse. I’m fine. Now, how do you think I stay so well fed? All the widows and divorcees on the block come by several times a week and snoop, like you do,” he lied. “Then they feel sorry for me and cook me incredible dinners and fatten me up.” He was only mildly exaggerating. “What do think they would say if they found real food in my cabinets?”
“They’d think you had a family that cared,” she sighed. “So you like appearing helpless?”
“Makes them feel needed, you see?”
A smiled crept onto her lips as she took her purse from her father’s hand. “Amanda! We’re leaving!” She turned to her father, “So, you’re doing this for them?”
“Absolutely!”
“Right,” she replied sarcastically. She spied her daughter’s legs kicking from under the desk and walked up to her. “Amanda. We need to go. Leave that poor cat alone and come out from under there right now!” Amanda simply giggled and kicked, ignoring her mother’s calls. Jessica reached down, grabbed Amanda’s legs and dragged her out from under the desk. Jesse lifted the child and patted her off, dust flying everywhere.
“Dad, you really should let me get someone to come in at least once a week to clean for you.”
“I clean,” he insisted.
Letters from Becca: A Contemporary Romance Fiction Novel Page 2