by Linda Ford
“You must share a lot of memories.”
He shifted away, freeing his arm from around her shoulders, and crossed his hands across his chest. “Too many.” She could feel the tension in him.
“Could I go with you to visit Frankie?”
He was quiet so long, she thought he wasn’t going to give her an answer; then, his voice strained, he said, “I’ll ask.”
She curled against him, trying to get him to return to their former closeness, but he remained stiff at her side. She relaxed, willing herself to sleep. A few minutes later, he slipped out of bed and left the room. What troubled him so much as to drive him from his bed—and from her arms—every night?
The next afternoon, remembering Caleb’s assurance she could play her flute away from the yard, Lizzie waited until Mother Hughes had delivered the eggs and shared a hurried cup of tea before she headed down the road.
It was the first time she’d had a chance to be away from the farm, and the open spaces, with so little sign of human habitation, enthralled her. The road dipped between a stand of tall, almost green poplars; and she turned aside, breathing deeply of the pungent poplar smell. In sunny spots the grass grew verdant and fresh. Spring, her favorite time of year with its riotous growth and untamed colors.
She found a sunny spot and began to play, letting the haunting strains of her music drift along the hills and waltz through the trees.
A young lad, about ten or eleven, slid into view. He crouched down on his legs and listened with rapt attention.
She lowered her instrument. “Hello, there. What’s your name?”
“Robbie.”
“My name is Lizzie. Do you like my playing?”
He nodded, his eyes sparkling. “I never heard nothing like it before. What do you call that thing?”
“It’s a flute. A woodwind instrument.”
“It sounds lonesome.” He shifted closer.
“It makes happy, dancing sounds, too. Like this.” She played him a lively tune.
He clapped his hands. “I like that,” he said when she finished. “Is it hard to play?”
“Would you like to try?”
He reached out eagerly. “Can I?”
She showed him how to hold it and blow across the mouthpiece. He looked surprised when no sound came out. “You have to concentrate your breath,” she explained.
He tried again, grinning when he produced an uncertain note, then handed the flute back to her. “Play some more.”
She played a march, then lowered the instrument. “I suppose you live close by.”
He nodded. “Over the hill on the edge of town.” He studied her. “You new here, ain’t ya?”
She nodded. “Only been here a few days.”
“Say, I bet you’re Caleb’s wife. He said you were somethin’ special.”
Pleased at the comment, she grinned at him. “He did, did he? I’m taking it you must know him well.”
The boy nodded, his eyes serious. “Pretty good, I guess, though it’s really my dad he comes to see. Say, could you come and play for my dad? He’d like it some, I bet. Please, lady—Mrs. Hughes.”
His intensity touched her as much as his obvious closeness to Caleb. “You say it isn’t far?”
“Oh, no. Just a hop, skip, and a jump away. You’ll come then?”
She nodded. “If you’re sure it’s all right. Your mother won’t mind?”
“She’d think it grand.” He ran toward the road. “Come on—I’ll show you the way.”
“Wait while I get my flute.”
He danced from foot to foot as he waited for her to fall in step with him. She could feel him urging her to greater haste as they hurried toward town.
“See—that’s our place.” He pointed to a narrow, two-storied house surrounded by a tall hedge.
“It looks big.” Not only the house but also the wide barn beside it.
“Yup. My dad built the place with room to grow. He owns the freight company, you know.” He slowed slightly. “ ’Course he can’t work now.”
Before Lizzie could ask why his father no longer worked, the boy drew her up the path toward the house. He rushed through the door calling, “Ma, I brought somebody to meet you.” Then remembering his manners, he came back to Lizzie. “Come on in.”
“Child, what’s all the racket about?” A plump lady with a tangle of auburn hair hurried into the room. “Oh, I beg yer pardon. I didn’t realize we had visitors.”
“Ma, this is Mrs. Caleb. I mean Mrs. Hughes. Caleb’s wife. Her name’s Lizzie.”
The woman wiped her hands on her apron, then engulfed Lizzie’s hands in both hers. “I say welcome. Glad I am to make your acquaintance. By the way, I’m Pearl Duncan.”
“Duncan?” Lizzie wondered why the name should be familiar.
“Ma, she can play the flute real purty. I asked her if she would play for Dad, and she said she would.”
“Well, now, isn’t that grand? But let’s not be forgetting our manners.” She took Lizzie’s hand and led her toward a big table with golden loaves of bread cooling on a towel. “I’m thinking ye’d be liking a spot of tea.” She turned to Robbie. “You run and tell your dad we have company.” Lizzie didn’t catch the rest of what she said to the boy before Robbie dashed through an open door into another room.
“Tea would be nice.” Lizzie took the chair indicated and looked around. Two little heads peeked at her from behind another chair.
“Come on, you two. Say hello to Mrs. Hughes—Caleb’s wife.”
A boy and a girl slid into sight. “This is Violet.” She indicated the little girl with sober, brown eyes. “She’s eight. And this”—she pulled the tiny, frightened boy forward—“is Junior. He’s almost five now.”
Lizzie said hello to the shy pair.
“Children, say hello.”
The two mumbled a response and ducked out of sight.
Pearl set a cup in front of Lizzie, studying her openly. “Caleb has told us a lot about you.”
That surprised Lizzie. He must tell these people more than he did her. “Is he here now?”
Pearl nodded. “Comes every day, but of course you know that. Say, how are you liking your new home? Caleb said it was a pretty poor offering.” The woman stirred a generous spoonful of sugar into her tea.
“I’m liking it fine.” Lizzie felt slightly bewildered by the disadvantage this woman had over her—she seemed to know a great deal about Lizzie whereas Lizzie knew nothing of her.
“I assured him you would be so glad to see him you wouldn’t mind at all where you lived.”
Lizzie laughed. “I told him the same thing myself.”
“There now. Don’t I always say women have a way of knowing?” Her expression grew thoughtful. “I don’t know what we’d do without Caleb’s help.”
Having no idea what the woman meant, Lizzie nodded.
“Lizzie. What are you doing here?”
Startled by Caleb’s voice, she jerked around to face him. “Robbie brought me—I hope you don’t mind.”
Pearl rose and took her teacup. “Come along then and meet Frankie. He’ll be pleased finally to lay eyes on you.”
Lizzie looked from her husband to the woman and back again. Frankie? Suddenly she understood. This was Frankie Duncan’s home—the place Caleb visited every day. Her senses sharpened, and she studied Pearl more closely. No longer young, the woman still bore the marks of beauty with her bright hair and dark brown eyes.
“Bring your tea,” Pearl ordered, leading the way into the other room.
Lizzie hesitated. Was Caleb reluctant to share this corner of his life with her? But Pearl’s urging drove them forward into the next room.
At once she saw the man lying on a bed against the far wall, some sort of contraption holding the covers off his feet. A glance told her this was the hub of the home. Chairs clustered around the bed; books, games, and used plates proclaimed family life centered here.
“Bring her closer,” the man called.
Lizzie set her teacup on a side table and stepped toward the man.
“Frankie, dear, this is Lizzie, Caleb’s wife.” Pearl smiled as she turned to Lizzie. “I’d like you to meet my husband, Frankie.”
Lizzie looked into his face and met a pair of bright blue eyes, twinkling with pleasure. “So I finally get to meet the sweet lass that has occupied this young fellow’s thoughts for so long.” He took her hand between his. “ ’Tis my pleasure. I hope I’ll see a great deal more of you.”
Her heart immediately warmed. “I’m certain you shall.”
“I’m grateful for yer good husband’s help. He does his best to see that I’m kept amused. Here, have a look at Petey.” He pointed to a wire cage on the shelf at his side.
Lizzie leaned forward. At first she didn’t see anything; then Frankie tweaked the wire and made a kissing noise. A fat brown mouse stirred from a nest of torn paper and ambled toward Frankie’s finger.
Lizzie jerked back. “A mouse.”
Frankie laughed. Behind her, Pearl and Caleb chuckled, and the children giggled.
“This is a special mouse. Lizzie, meet Petey.” The mouse sniffed Frankie’s finger, then shuffled away to scratch at a pile of seeds. “You see—Caleb caught this mouse and tamed him for me. Me and Petey have a good time. I could bring him out and let you hold him.” His eyes twinkled.
Lizzie shuddered. “No, thanks.” The children giggled again.
Little Violet sidled up to her father. “Could I hold him, Daddy?”
“You climb up here beside me, and you can hold him for a bit.”
Pearl lifted the child to the bed, setting her carefully at Frankie’s side, then lowered the cage to Frankie’s chest. He unwired a gate and scooped up the mouse, handing it to Violet, who cupped her hands and held the animal close to her chest. Frankie stroked the child’s head a moment, then turned back to Lizzie, his eyes glistening.
“I am so fortunate to be surrounded by friends and family.”
Lizzie’s nose stung with tears, but she managed to keep her voice clear. “I hope you’ll count me among your friends.” Something about this man and his family touched a tender spot in her heart.
“Why, my dear, I feel I’ve known you for years.” He grinned suddenly and turned to Caleb. “She’s every bit as pretty as you said.”
“I already told her that.” It was Pearl. She sat in a chair close to Frankie’s head. “Pull up a chair,” she told Lizzie.
But Caleb had already drawn two chairs close and held one for Lizzie before he plopped down on the other.
The younger boy—Junior—leaned against his mother’s knee, but Robbie opted for sitting cross-legged on the floor at Caleb’s side.
“It was me who found her,” Robbie pointed out. “I heard her playing a”—he turned to Lizzie—“a flute, right?”
Lizzie nodded, enjoying herself thoroughly. This was how she remembered family life—sharing and playing, a sense of closeness.
“She plays real good. I made her promise she’d play for you, Dad.”
A tightness crossed Frankie’s face, and then he smiled. “I’d like that, Lizzie. Will you play for us now?”
“Of course.”
Robbie shot out of the room, returning immediately with her flute.
Remembering Mother Hughes’s opinion, she asked, “Are you sure you want to hear me?”
Pearl leaned forward eagerly. “Would be our pleasure.”
Lizzie turned to Caleb; and when he nodded encouragement, she lifted her flute and began to play some lively tunes.
Pearl leaned back, smiling.
Frankie stared at the ceiling, a contented look on his face.
Little Violet’s eyes grew round as saucers.
The little boy, Junior, edged away from his mother and began swaying in time to the music.
Lizzie stopped playing, fearing she would bore them. She dropped her gaze to Robbie. He grinned widely and murmured, “I knew they’d like it.”
“ ’Tis the music I’ve been dreaming of for months,” Frankie said. He reached out and squeezed Lizzie’s hand. “Thank you. You’re a fine gal.” He lay back. “Would you mind giving us another tune?”
Violet dropped the mouse back in its cage and scrambled from the bed.
Lizzie was certain she heard Frankie groan and shot a worried look at Caleb. He nodded. She took her flute again and played while her heart unfolded with the warmth of this family and the encouragement of Caleb’s steady gaze.
Violet took Junior’s hand, and together they twirled and pirouetted to the music.
4
Lizzie lowered the flute and waited as the strains of the music drifted away.
Frankie coughed and flinched.
“Come on, children.” Pearl sprang to her feet. “Your dad needs his rest.”
Lizzie cleaned the flute and folded it away. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Not at all,” Pearl reassured her. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“You’ll come again?” Frankie sounded tired, but he reached for her hand, holding it insistently until she promised to return.
The sound of a heavy wagon rumbled past the house. Pearl cocked her head to listen. “That’s Audie. Robbie, run out and give him a hand.”
Robbie called good-bye to Lizzie and Caleb before he raced out the door.
Caleb took the flute case. “See you tomorrow,” he murmured to Pearl, then turned to Lizzie. “I’ll see you home.”
As they stepped into the sunshine, she fingered the fat envelope in her pocket. “Can I mail a letter someplace?”
“I’ll show you the post office.” They turned down the long wide street. From the barn came the noise of harnesses rattling and horses blowing. She caught the sound of Robbie’s voice and a deeper, slower one answering.
“Frankie owns a delivery business,” Caleb explained. “He left Pearl and his driver, Audie, to run it while he was away at war. I don’t know what he’ll do now. He can’t run a wagon anymore. It’s a shame—the thriving business would be a good source of income for the family.”
“How long before he’s up and about again?”
Caleb’s steps slowed. “He’s not going to get better.”
Lizzie gasped and stopped to stare at him. “He’s dying?”
Caleb nodded, his face a blanket of despair. “Pearl insisted on bringing him home from the hospital. Said she wanted to care for him.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, tangling his curls.
“What’s the matter with him?”
Caleb’s eyes darkened, his expression hardened. “He’s suffering the glories of war. Trench foot. Lungs damaged by chlorine gas.” He kicked a rock down the road. “And that’s the least of it.”
She’d heard of trench foot—where the feet rotted because of standing in water-soaked boots day after day. Her heart felt heavy, lifeless. “But he seems so cheerful. So does Pearl.”
He nodded. “Guess they keep up their spirits for the children.” He kicked again, leaving a pockmark in the dirt. “It shouldn’t be Frankie.”
The way he said it troubled Lizzie in a way she couldn’t understand. “It shouldn’t happen to anyone,” she corrected.
He stomped on down the road, Lizzie hurrying to keep pace. He didn’t slow until he pulled abreast of a square brick structure. “Here we are.”
“I’ll only be a moment,” she called, hurrying inside. The blond young woman behind the wicket took the envelope and studied it carefully.
“You’d be the new Mrs. Hughes.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you Brits have to steal our men away? Weren’t there enough on your side of the ocean without taking ours?”
Lizzie drew back. “We didn’t ask for war any more than you did.”
“Mr. Hughes already picked up the mail.” The girl turned away, ending the conversation.
Lizzie fled out the door.
Caleb stood looking in the window of the s
tore next door. At her approach, he turned away, heading out of town without a glance in her direction.
She choked back her confusion. Nothing seemed quite as she had imagined it would. She pushed her shoulders back. She had to give things time.
“We’ll go with my parents,” Caleb announced, waiting at the door for her to join him for church.
Her enthusiasm dampened at the sight of her in-laws, stiff and straight on the buggy seat, but she nodded and joined Caleb and accepted his help to the seat behind Mother Hughes.
“Good morning,” she greeted them.
“Good morning, Elizabeth.” Father Hughes smiled over his shoulder, then flicked the reins.
“It’s a fine Sabbath day,” Mother Hughes said. “A day holy unto the Lord.”
Her anticipation returning, Lizzie smiled at Caleb. She loved church—the singing, the way the light shafted through the windows touching this one or that in blessing, the soft rustle as everyone rose or sat in unison.
Caleb squeezed her hand. Content, she settled back for the ride into town.
Only they didn’t turn toward town; they turned in the opposite direction. She shot Caleb a questioning look, but he sat back staring straight ahead. She had assumed church was in Silver Creek, but perhaps there were other towns around, or the church might even be on a quiet little plot of land away from town. Her puzzlement returned, however, when Father Hughes turned toward a low, white house. Several buggies and one wagon stood before the house.
“I understood we were going to church,” she murmured, turning toward Caleb, but it was Mother Hughes who answered.
“We meet in homes as the New Testament church did.”
“I see.” The building made little difference; it was the people and the singing and the reading of Scripture that cheered and blessed.
Holding Caleb’s hand, she followed his parents inside. As she glanced around, her heart plummeted to her feet. Everyone sat in a circle, eyes darting toward the newcomers for an instant, then returning to quiet contemplation of the floor. But what made her feel as conspicuous as a squalling baby was that all the women wore black dresses to their ankles; all wore black scarves over their heads.
Lizzie held back, acutely aware of the brightness of her dark blue dress, which seemed obscenely short in the midst of these sober people. “I don’t belong here,” she whispered to Caleb past the constriction in her throat.