by Anne Mateer
“Rebekah Grace?” Mama’s voice sounded as if she didn’t realize Mr. Graves had gone on his way.
“Yes, Mama?” I stopped the motion of the swing as she stepped onto the porch. Her gaze roved this way and that, looking for an automobile still lingering at the roadside.
“Come help with dinner.” A clipped tone now.
“Yes, Mama.” I trudged through a carpet of dry leaves, once again yearning to be free of the old routines—cooking, cleaning, collecting eggs day after day. The heat of the kitchen closed around me as I stepped inside, stifling as a wool blanket on a summer day. Mama wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her simple, old-fashioned dress.
“I’ll do this. You catch a breath of air,” I said. She nodded and stepped outside.
An hour later, Daddy sat down at the old trestle table in the kitchen to eat his fried chicken. As much as Mama tried to make us out as some kind of landed gentry, we were just plain farmers. The chicken had come from our overflowing henhouse. She’d wrung its neck herself that morning. We might own a farm that produced more than most, or one that looked as if a bevy of old-time slaves kept every nook and cranny spotless, but really Mama and Daddy’s hard work kept it all going.
Daddy bit into his chicken and closed his eyes, as if he’d somehow made it to heaven in that moment. And I think he had. Meatless Tuesdays always made him grumpy, in spite of his support for Hooverizing to help the war effort. After he swallowed down that first bite, he leaned back in his chair as if to relive the experience in his memory before chancing another in real life.
“Did I see Barney Graves earlier?” His eyes twinkled at me, and I tried to twinkle back.
“He was by for a minute. Seeing Rebekah Grace.” Mama’s smugness irritated me, like a bad case of poison oak.
I laid down my chicken leg and wiped greasy fingers on my napkin. “He delivered Mama’s order from the store.”
“He stayed a bit, didn’t he? That was for you.” Mama turned her attention back to Daddy. “I invited him for dinner after church on Sunday.”
Daddy looked at me, his eyes asking if I consented. I bolted for the stove. “More green beans, Daddy? They sure are good.”
As I returned to the table, Daddy passed a sly glance to Mama. She acted like she didn’t see, or didn’t understand. I sat back down, my fork spearing one green bean at a time, lifting them to my mouth in an even cadence.
Only the clink of our forks against the old tin dishes broke the silence in the room. Then Mama jumped from her chair and hurried to the window. “I do believe someone’s coming up the road.” She peered through the glass before she straightened and smiled. “Mr. Graves is back, Rebekah. You better run right out and see what he wants.”
“Yes, Mama.” I went out there all right, but not in any hurry. I figured he wanted to invite me to a house dance or share some tidbit of gossip. But that wasn’t it at all. He just handed me a telegram and said to give it to my daddy.
Did Barney tip his hat and take his leave? I didn’t notice. I held that slip of paper between my fingers, my legs shaking like a newborn calf’s.
Everyone knew a telegram meant death.
I wobbled back into the kitchen, anxious to steady myself before I heard the worst.
What if it was Arthur, his death ending all our dreams? I imagined myself crying at his funeral, pictured my resigned walk down the aisle to meet Barney Graves.
Mama met me at the door. “Why didn’t you invite him in?” Her neck craned to see past me.
I held out the telegram in reply. Mama’s flushed face drained white as she snatched it from me and looked to Daddy. Then I thought of Will. My brother lived every moment in danger on the Western front. I sat hard in the nearest chair.
Mama didn’t sit. And she didn’t say a word. She pulled a hairpin from the tight knot of pecan-colored hair at the back of her head and slipped it beneath the flap of the envelope. I winced, the tearing of the paper ripping through my heart. But Mama remained unruffled. I admired her strength in that moment. Determining to show the same fortitude, I sat up straight, waiting for the words I felt sure would shatter me.
Mama let out her breath, never taking her eyes from the paper. “It’s my sister, Adabelle. She’s ill.” Her lips curled into a frown.
My whole body relaxed. Aunt Adabelle. She’d sent a short note and the shawl at my graduation last year, but I’d only seen her twice in my whole life. The first time I’d been seven or eight years old. I remembered a soft hug and a wide smile, green eyes, and smooth skin. She skipped with me, hand in hand, to the chicken coop to gather eggs, asking questions all along the way. Did I like school? Who was my best friend? Was Will a good big brother? Did I like to play with dolls or climb trees?
And when I answered, she listened.
We found twelve eggs that day. She cradled each one before setting it in the basket. I wondered if she knew how much Mama hated when I broke the eggs before they made it to the kitchen.
But when she and Mama came together, Aunt Adabelle changed. The laughter in her voice stilled, and the sparkle in her eyes vanished. She and Mama spoke in short, awkward sentences. I didn’t understand the distance between them. I only knew Mama disapproved of her sister. And Mama’s disapproval was nothing to be trifled with.
Yet something in me had always cottoned to those memories of my aunt. It gave me the courage to ask, “What should we do, Mama?”
“Do?” The spark of scorn in that one word could’ve started a prairie fire.
I glanced at Daddy. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed back his chair. It scraped across the kitchen floor, almost as a command to listen to the words that followed. “She’s all alone in the world, Margaret. Except for us.”
Mama plunged her hands into the water-filled tub. I watched her scrub a pot, rinse it, and scour it again.
Daddy stood, his presence filling the small room. “I expect you’ll do right by her. She’s your kin.” Three steps and the screen door slapped shut behind him.
Mama’s hands stilled. I held my breath, reveling in Arthur’s safety—and Will’s, too. My face warmed as I realized a telegram about Arthur wouldn’t have come to us anyway. It would have gone to his mama.
The clank and splatter of Mama’s dishwashing began again. “I guess you could go.”
At first I wasn’t sure I heard the words at all. Maybe they were in my head, the words I wanted her to say. Even if I was nineteen now, Mama wouldn’t like the idea of me traveling alone. I stared at her stiff shoulders. Her hands never abandoned their activity. Yes, I must have imagined the words. I reached across the table to pick up Daddy’s plate.
“Could you do that, Rebekah?”
My attention jerked back to Mama. “Do what?”
Her shoulders curved in an uncharacteristic slump as she wiped dripping hands on her apron. “Go to Texas and take care of your aunt.”
Texas. Where Arthur zipped across the endless skies. My breath stuck in my chest. Only the Lord could make Mama willing to send me to Texas, to Arthur, right now. Arthur was my God-ordained future. This could mean nothing else.
“By myself?” My voice squeaked a bit, but whether from excitement or nerves, I couldn’t quite tell.
Mama leaned against the Wilson cabinet and folded her arms across her chest. “Yes.”
I wanted to shout and dance my acquiescence, but I didn’t think she’d appreciate that. “I’d do my best, Mama.”
Her lips lifted in a small smile, as if she approved of my answer, but she seemed to consider me for a long time afterward. I didn’t look away. I wanted her to know I was old enough and mature enough to go to Texas. I longed to take on the challenge and a change of scenery, just as my brother had. And if such an adventure took me a closer to Arthur, all the better.
By evening, my suitcase and handbag stood at the door, ready for our pre-sunrise departure for the train station. Mama had spouted off more instructions for the journey than I could hope to remember, but I knew my stop was Pr
ater’s Junction, Texas. Mama figured someone there would be able to direct me to Aunt Adabelle’s place.
I had no idea of the distance between Prater’s Junction and Dallas, but trains went everywhere these days, didn’t they? Maybe Arthur could hire a team and buggy, or even an automobile, and come to me. We’d manage it somehow, I felt sure.
Long after the lights were extinguished, I crept downstairs, avoiding the squeaky place on the fifth stair and along the well-trod hall. In the parlor, I fumbled to ignite the wick of the smallest lamp. It finally glowed a tiny circle of light.
The October air seeped through my nightdress as I sat at the writing desk, the pen’s nib poised over the blank page. A tiny prick of black escaped, blemishing the pristine paper and overcoming my inhibitions.
I’m coming to you, my darling Arthur. Tomorrow night I will be in Prater’s Junction, Texas, at the home of my aunt, Adabelle Williams. Please address your letters to me there. I wait with great anticipation to see your face again.
Your forever love,
Rebekah Grace Hendricks
I rubbed warmth into my chilly fingers before addressing the envelope. Stamp affixed, I extinguished the lamp, groped my way to the kitchen, and slipped the letter into my handbag. I’d mail it tomorrow, along the way. Then I would wait. Arthur would find me soon, by letter or in person.
With careful steps I crept back to my bedroom, but I didn’t sleep. Instead, I spent the night at my window, my chin resting on the low sill, my gaze following the moon’s journey across the star-pocked sky.
The Lord finally had seen fit to deliver me from Downington. Arthur wasn’t the only one spreading new wings.
The train slowed and the conductor called out the stop at Prater’s Junction just after bare fields blazed orange with the waning sun. The whistle screeched our arrival into the station. I wondered if Mama would be relieved that no strange man had tried to strike up a conversation with me or be disappointed that I didn’t get to heed her advice and freeze him with a silent stare. Not that I would have done that, exactly. It might have been interesting to converse with a stranger who would walk off the train and out of my life. But the opportunity never presented itself.
Black smoke streamed in through open windows. I coughed until I made it to the open air of the platform. For the first time in my life, I’d left Downington—home—far, far away. My lips curved upward, my feet itching to dance a jig. Instead, they jumped when the whistle screamed and the train strained forward. A cinder landed on the skirt of my traveling suit. I brushed it away and lifted my chin, ready to meet my adventure.
But where to begin?
No one lingered near the empty tracks. Had anyone else disembarked? I didn’t recall. The heels of my laced boots clomped loud on the flat planks. I reached the small building at the back of the platform and peered through the windows. An empty waiting room opposite an empty office.
I turned to look beyond the station. In spite of the dimming day, I recognized that Prater’s Junction had even less to recommend it than Downington. But no matter. I’d get Aunt Adabelle back on her feet, and she’d help me find a way to Dallas, to Arthur. Then my life would really begin.
Two steps down and I stood in the rutted road that crossed the train tracks. A horse whinnied near my ear. I dropped my suitcase and jumped back with a squeal as hooves danced behind the hitching post. An empty buggy jiggled behind the startled animal. I stretched my hand toward the velvet nose.
“There now, pretty boy.” I stroked him until he calmed.
Voices murmured in the distance. I strained to see the people talking, but the depot building obscured my view. Surely one of them owned this horse and buggy. But as the shadows lengthened, the voices fell silent, leaving only the chirp of cicadas and an occasional lowing of faraway cattle.
A bit of tinny music sounded from one of the storefronts that lined the main street of town. Beyond that, faint squares of yellow broke into the gray of evening. The thought of walking up to a strange front door to ask directions filled me with horror, so I decided I’d wait for someone to claim the horse and buggy.
The coming night cooled the heat of day, and while I welcomed it, I still shivered as I picked up my suitcase and headed back up onto the platform. My foot hit something solid. I stumbled forward, the weight of my suitcase pulling me toward the floorboards. My ankle bent sideways, and I cried out in pain.
Strong hands caught my arms, held me aloft.
“Whoa, Nellie!” The man’s hat darkened his face.
“Thank you, sir.” I took a step back, wincing at the pain in my ankle. I lifted my sore foot until only the toe of my boot touched the ground and tried to balance myself with dignity.
“Are you injured?” The man pushed back the rim of his hat before cradling my elbow in one hand.
“No, sir. I’ll manage.”
He studied me now, seemed to realize he didn’t know my face. “Welcome to Prater’s Junction, Miss—?”
I raised my eyebrows and tried to look down my nose at him, but Mama’s face wouldn’t work on me. I burst out laughing. He joined in. “I’m Rebekah Hendricks. And you?”
“Henry Jeffries, sheriff.” He doffed his hat and tipped his head.
“The sheriff? Quite a welcoming committee, I do declare.” Did I spy a blush creep over his face? “I wonder if you could help me find my mother’s sister, Adabelle Williams. I’ve come to take care of her for a while.”
The jovial expression softened a bit, but if from the fading light or from something else, I couldn’t make out. “I’ll take you to her. Do you have any other luggage?” He glanced over his shoulder before lifting my suitcase and heading toward the road.
“No, just that.” I tried to follow, but as I took a step, dull pain throbbed in my ankle. I let out a tiny yelp.
“Forgive me.” The sheriff came back and helped me wobble down the steps. “Wait here.” He rushed past the horse and buggy and disappeared behind a building in the distance.
An engine sputtered to life out of sight. Then an old-model automobile chugged toward the platform. Sheriff Jeffries jumped out, stowed my suitcase in the back, and held the door open as I climbed into the car.
We lurched forward into the twilight, one of my hands clutching my bag, the other holding my hat on my head. Thin beams of light moved before us on the road.
I’d ridden with Barney Graves in his Model T once. With other passengers, of course. What would Mama think of me riding alone with a man she didn’t know? On second thought, maybe I wouldn’t tell her about this.
The jostling settled some. I removed my hand from my hat and glanced sideways at my companion. A well-made suit, though Mama would sniff at its rumpled state. Large, smooth hands gripping the steering wheel. His gaze pinned to the road.
We hit a rut. I bounced from my seat, the roof above me crushing the crown of my hat. I must have let out a whoop, because Sheriff Jeffries slowed the car.
“Are you all right?”
“Perfectly.” My cheeks hurt from grinning.
The car gained speed again. I couldn’t see the dust collecting on my white blouse, but I knew it was. I’d have to brush it clean at my aunt’s house. For now, I wanted to enjoy the ride.
“Do you know my aunt very well?” I asked.
Sheriff Jeffries hesitated. “Fairly well.”
Something in his voice pricked my interest. “What’s she like?”
He turned his head for a moment, his eyebrows slanting toward his nose. “Don’t you know her?”
“I’ve met her. But she and my mother don’t . . .” How did I say it without speaking ill of my mother or her sister?
He whistled long and low. “Wondered why I’d never heard of you before.”
It comforted me to know Aunt Adabelle hadn’t told our business about town. I didn’t want anyone to know about the argument I’d heard between Mama and her sister during Adabelle’s second and final visit to our home.
“I don’t see why you won’t ju
st move back here, Adabelle,” Mama had scolded, as if Adabelle were no more than my own eleven years.
Mama thought I was helping Daddy and Will in the south field, but I’d come back for lemonade, heard the voices, and slipped beneath the porch. I lay in the cool dirt, listening.
“I’ve lived on my own for over ten years now, Margaret. I like it. I like not having anyone tell me what to do.”
“Except your employers, of course.”
“I mean with my life. I get to make my own decisions; they just direct my duties within their households.”
“But a woman living alone is unseemly.”
“Why? I’m a widow, Margaret. How can you find fault with me for that?”
“If you hadn’t run away with that boy—sixteen was far too young.”
“I loved him. I still do.” Aunt Adabelle’s voice sounded sad.
She went away again without saying hello or good-bye. And Mama never mentioned the visit. Ever.
Had Aunt Adabelle loved her husband the way I loved Arthur? I hoped so. In fact, I was counting on it. I squinted into the darkness as I spoke to the sheriff. “Has Aunt Adabelle been feeling poorly for long?”
“No . . .” He drew out the word, almost as if he thought I should know the answer to my own question. Then he slid another look my way.
“Is she confined to bed?” I watched his eyes narrow as if he were trying to see something far away. I peered through the windscreen. All I saw was road.
“Seen any of the influenza up your way?”
I hadn’t heard of any particular outbreak of flu around our town, but I hadn’t paid much attention to the goings-on in anyone’s life but my own lately. Still, relief swept through me. I’d had the flu before. A week or so in bed and Aunt Adabelle would be up and around again, wouldn’t she? After that, I could figure out a way to get to Arthur.
Silence hung between us, awkward as a crooked picture. “Is that what she has?” I asked. “Influenza?”