by Anne Mateer
“Yes, but . . . ” His lips puckered shut.
“But what?”
The car slowed. A two-story farmhouse loomed against the darkening horizon. “Is that her house?”
“Yes.” A long, unsure word.
That same uneasy feeling I’d had when I held the telegram in my fingers returned now, pushing at my chest in a way I didn’t understand. Why did his manner disturb me so?
Light spilled from a downstairs window. I brushed aside my concern. Sheriff Jeffries probably didn’t know the whole situation. He probably imagined my aunt’s illness to be worse than it was.
We motored past the low picket fence that closed in the house yard and stopped near the back gate. I lowered my throbbing foot to the ground and stood. The pain made me wince, but I could bear it. I held the sheriff’s arm for support as he led me to a door—the kitchen, I felt sure. We stepped inside the dark room, the smell of stale food hovering over the shadowy dishes that littered the kitchen table.
“This way.” The sheriff hurried me along to the lit room across from the kitchen. A thousand questions started and died on my lips before a towheaded girl appeared. Her dirty dress hung limp. Her bare toes hugged the cold floor.
I stepped back. A child tended my aunt?
“Ollie Elizabeth”—Sheriff Jeffries put a hand on her head and tipped it back so he could see her face—“this is Miss Ada’s niece. She’s come to help.”
The girl’s large eyes turned in my direction, then looked back at the man she obviously knew. She pushed her unruly hair from her face before whispering into the stillness. “I told Miss Ada that Mr. Doc would come.”
“And I’m sure he’s doing his best to get here. Don’t you worry.”
The serious-faced girl nodded. Then she tilted her head and eyed me once more. “If you’re going to stay, you can use my room.” She tiptoed past us, toward the dark staircase.
The sheriff motioned for me to follow. For now, I saw no other choice.
Ollie Elizabeth led me up a narrow staircase. The pain in my ankle dulled a little with each step. And my boot didn’t pinch, so it must not have swollen much. When we reached the top, she pushed open the first of two doors. Its hinges creaked like an old man’s knees.
The night air squeezed between the window sash and sill, the smell of woodsmoke on its edges. I shivered, but more from the heaviness of this place than from the cool bite of the air. A thin strip of moonlight through the glass lit the room enough for me to discern a bed against one wall, a dresser against the opposite one. The simplicity reminded me of home. I relaxed, chiding myself for taking on Sheriff Jeffries’s foreboding.
Ollie remained with her back against the open door.
“Is this your room?” I asked her.
She lifted one shoulder. “I slept in here before, but with Daddy gone, James likes us all together.” She nodded toward the room next door and again brushed aside the lock of hair that fell across her eyes.
Before? Daddy? James? What didn’t I know about Aunt Adabelle’s life? I gritted my teeth, not sure how much to ask this child. Instead I laid my hand on her thin shoulder and knelt down, my eyes even with hers. “I’m here now, honey. Everything’s going to be fine.”
One corner of her mouth turned down. Didn’t she believe me?
“You go on to bed. I’ll take care of things for a while.”
Her mouth opened, as if to protest, then shut again before she scurried like a scared rabbit into the next room. I slid my suitcase next to the dresser and stared at the wall dividing one bedroom from the other.
Aunt Adabelle obviously needed help. I knew I could keep house and make the meals, but I’d never had sole responsibility for a child before. In fact, I’d rarely had any contact with children, except for the younger students in school. But Ollie seemed quite capable. She’d obviously been taking care of things until now.
Stepping back into the dark hall, I let my fingertips graze the wall and guide me back to the staircase and down again. I needed to ask the sheriff some questions before he left. Errant curls tickled my face as my shoes thudded unevenly toward the lit room. I stood blinking into the brightness.
“Here she is, Adabelle.” The sheriff’s voice held a tenderness that surprised me.
My eyes adjusted to the light, my nose to the overwhelming scent of camphor and mint. Sheriff Jeffries stood beside the bed holding my aunt’s small hand. I studied the face staring at me from under a mound of quilts. It didn’t hold any resemblance to my memory of Aunt Adabelle. No rosy cheeks or shiny eyes. Her skin looked taut against her bones, not soft and full as I remembered. I tried to hold back a gasp, but it half-escaped into the quietness of the room.
Sheriff Jeffries’s head jerked up. He stared at me as if my panicked thoughts had run loose into the room. Then he softened again, signaling that I should take the chair next to the bed. I did as he bade, but I’m sure my eyes resembled lily pads on a pond when I looked back at him. Mama had always kept me out of the sickroom. She nursed Will and Daddy and me all on her own.
I would ask the sheriff to stay.
But he couldn’t stay. Not all night. Not without a chaperone in the house.
His gaze locked on mine. “You’re in good hands now, Adabelle.”
I gave my head a slight shake. My hands weren’t good. They were young, inexperienced, immature. And this didn’t look like the flu symptoms I’d seen. Aunt Adabelle appeared seriously ill, with her sunken, dark eyes and pale face. I didn’t know how to take care of someone so sick.
Sheriff Jeffries only nodded. “Doc Risinger will come again as soon as he can.”
“Thank you . . .” came the croak from the bed. A rasping intake of breath followed before the word “Sheriff” found its way out of her mouth.
He stood. I did the same, following him to the door.
“Water’s in the basin,” he said to me. “Keep cool rags on her skin.”
“Who—” I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “Who is Ollie? Am I to care for her, too?”
He rubbed a hand down his face. “Adabelle’s been caring for Ollie Elizabeth and her brothers and sister since their mother passed. With their daddy off fighting the Germans, they needed someone.”
I tried to comprehend his meaning. Brothers? Sister? Did they have no one else?
“I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?” He settled his hat on his head and left before I could find my voice to protest. Watching the room empty of him was like watching the rope slither down the water well into oblivion, only the plunk of the bucket indicating the bottom had been reached.
My plunk came in the form of another rattling breath from the bed beside me. I forced myself to smile into my aunt’s face. Remembering the rags and cool water, I dipped a dry square of cloth in the basin, then wrung out the water before dabbing it on my aunt’s forehead.
“I expect you don’t recognize me, Aunt Adabelle. I’m Rebekah. My mama—your sister—sent me to look after you.” Hearing my own voice calmed my nerves.
A spasm of coughing shook her. I stepped back from the bed, the rag limp in my hands, until the coughing quieted.
She held out her hand to me. I returned to her bedside, my stomach boiling with panic.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
What did she mean?
“Won’t be long now.” Slow words. Tired words.
“Don’t worry, Aunt Adabelle.” I pulled the cool cloth down her hot cheeks. “I’m here now. You’ll be up and around in no time. I promise.”
My voice sounded far more confident than I felt.
I dozed in the chair, startling awake at intervals—sometimes to silence, sometimes to my aunt’s moans. Each time, I’d rub the sleep from my face and reach for another rag to baptize her feverish head in cool water.
Aunt Adabelle’s skin appeared darker near morning. Or perhaps the light waned, instead. I peered at the kerosene lamp on the bedside table, but its clear bowl showed plenty of fuel, and its flame blazed on a trimmed wick
. I touched another wet rag to her face. My fingertips warmed as if I touched bread fresh from the oven. If only Mama had let me watch her healing hands at work over those she loved. But she hadn’t. So I carried on with only the sheriff’s meager instructions as my guide.
He’d promised the doctor would come. But when? With shaking hands, I gathered my unruly hair, trying to pin the wildest strands into their proper places. Then I attempted to smooth the front of my skirt, the fabric now as wrinkled as an old woman’s hands.
As the outside darkness muted to gray, dark spots, almost purple, streaked my aunt’s ashen cheeks. Was that normal with a fever? Then a crimson line trickled from her mouth to her chin. It touched the white edge of the top quilt and spread into a blood-red stain.
My heart nearly stopped. I jumped from my chair and wiped her chin clear before inching away from the bed and the blood. As uninformed as I was, I knew this did not portend good. My back hit the solid wall. I slid toward the floor, gathering my knees to my chest.
Rattling, gasping breaths filled the room, filled my ears. I longed to run away, to listen instead to the rustle of the wind through the trees or the ripple of water over a cluster of stones. I hadn’t anticipated this. I’d only focused on escaping the farm and finding an adventure.
Sometime after dawn, Ollie stood at my side, blond hair matted, eyes swimming with tears that didn’t fall. She reached her thin arms around my neck and laid her cheek on my head. Relief tumbled over me as I closed my arms around her.
We held each other for only a moment before I stood on tingling legs and took Ollie’s hand in mine. We moved back to the chair near the bed. I pulled Ollie onto my lap. She reached for Aunt Adabelle’s hand and held it between her two small ones. I dabbed a damp cloth against the blood now coating my aunt’s chin.
Aunt Adabelle moaned, long and low, a weak cough shaking her whole body and spilling more bright blood onto her covering, this time streaming from her nose, too. Ollie didn’t flinch as I reached across to clean my aunt’s face. She only brought the waxen hand to her small lips, kissed it, and tucked it back beneath the quilt’s edge.
Muted thumps sounded overhead. I looked up, as if I could see through the ceiling. I ran my tongue over my dry lips.
Ollie slid from my lap. “I’ll get them.” She straightened her shoulders. “I put the oats in to soak last night. My mama taught me to make the oatmeal before she . . . before Janie.” Her small body bent slightly downward, like a sapling in a moderate wind, as she left the room without another word.
What was I doing here? Someone else should be in charge. Mama. The doctor. The sheriff. Not me.
“Help me, Lord.” My whispered words fluttered the stillness. Words I didn’t want Ollie to hear but needed in my own ears.
Aunt Adabelle tried to breathe, her head turning toward me. “The . . . children . . . please.” Blood gurgled from her mouth around the words.
One red spot dripped onto my hand. I stared at the crimson splotch. My aunt’s blood on my hand, the same blood running beneath our skin. Mama had long ago abandoned her sister. I couldn’t do the same.
Pushing back sweat-slick hair near her temple, I leaned close, breathing out my words near her ear. “I’ll take care of them, Aunt Adabelle. I promise.”
My aunt fought to pull in another breath. “There’s no one else.” She coughed out another flow of blood as my eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t know if I—”
“God sent you.” Her words rattled out with a heave as her spirit pushed free of her body and unabated silence covered the room.
The rain started between the time I closed Aunt Adabelle’s eyes and the moment I arrived in the kitchen. It was appropriate, I guessed, the sky raining down the tears Ollie Elizabeth did not cry. I could tell she knew, even though I didn’t say the words aloud. Watching her determination to be strong made me think of Mama, and made me want to weep along with the sky.
Two little boys looked up at me, too, their eager faces already smeared with breakfast. Ollie placed another bowl on the table, this one in front of a chair on the end, the place I assumed my aunt had occupied. I should have taken over the breakfasting, but I sensed the girl’s need to keep at it, so I sat. The boys stared at me with wide eyes as their spoons traveled from mouth to bowl and back again. Ollie dribbled molasses on top of the colorless blob in my bowl.
“Thank you.” I managed to pick up my spoon and stir in the thick sweetener. I wouldn’t slight her for the world, yet I had no desire for food of any kind. Aunt Adabelle lay dead in the other room. And I had no idea what to do next.
Ollie remained beside my chair. I shoved a spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth and forced it down my throat.
“That’s James and Dan.” She nodded at the boys, her brothers. “James just turned six. Dan turned four last summer.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, feeling ridiculous.
They looked at each other. I could almost see the thoughts flying between them, requiring no words to be understood.
“This is—” Ollie stopped short, staring at me.
“Rebekah,” I finished for her.
A wail pierced the air. The wail of a baby. My heart leapt into my throat. How young of a baby? Could it eat? Walk? Talk?
Ollie scurried up the stairs while James scowled. Dan copied his brother’s face.
I had no idea what to say to them. I hadn’t had many conversations with little boys. Especially those bereft of both their mother and the one who had stepped in to fill her place. How would I tell them their Miss Ada was dead? Even now, did they really understand what “dead” meant?
Cold prickled my skin. I pressed my hands to my face and suggested more fuel for the stove. James and Dan both scrambled off the bench seat.
“You get two pieces. I’ll carry three,” James said.
“I can carry three.” Dan hurried after his brother, his face fixed in determination.
When they reappeared, small logs overflowed their arms. A wood stove? We used coal at home, but how different could it be? James shoved the fuel into the side of the stove, then shut the grate again as I crossed the floor.
My anxiety quickly turned to pleasure, at least on this front. Six burners and a teapot or coffeepot warming stand in back. A warming shelf above and a hot water reservoir, too. A larger and newer range than Mama’s. I could manage this, even with the different heat source. Maybe I’d like it so much I would ask Arthur to buy one for our home.
Ollie returned carrying a round-faced, golden-haired baby.
“Oh!” I folded the cherub-like child—seven or eight months old in my estimation—into my arms. The baby grabbed my finger and pulled it toward her pink mouth. “And who is this little darling?”
“Janie.”
I bounced the dimpled girl up and down. She giggled and clapped her hands. I pulled her cheek to mine, inhaling her cotton-warmed-by-the-sun scent. The next moment she turned outstretched arms to her sister, aware, suddenly, that I wasn’t someone she knew.
“Does she eat oatmeal, too?” I asked.
Ollie cocked her head at me. “Of course.”
My cheeks warmed. I should have known. “I’ll fix hers.”
“Not too much.” Ollie pulled the high chair close to the table and plunked her sister inside its confines. “And no molasses, just a dab of milk.”
I nodded and went to work, but when I pulled a pitcher of milk from the evaporative cooler in the corner, I stopped.
Milk. From a cow.
I tried to keep the wariness from my voice. “Ollie, honey, do y’all have a cow?”
“Yes’m. Ol’ Bob.” She took the bowl from my hand and began to feed her baby sister.
“Bob?” Maybe she’d misunderstood my question.
“James named her that when he was just little. He didn’t know milk cows were girls.”
“I see.” I rubbed away the wrinkles I felt on my forehead. Was this my aunt’s home or the children’s? Had Aunt Adabelle take
n them in or come to stay? I really needed some answers. Pulling a large shawl from the row of hooks on the wall by the door, I flung it over my head and shoulders. The only thing I could be certain of now was that cows had to be milked. Every day. Twice a day. I assumed someone else had been tending to that task, but if they knew I’d arrived, the job would likely be left to me. I readied myself to plunge into the muddy yard.
“Can we come, too?” James’s eager eyes slammed into mine.
“Miss Ada always lets us help.” Dan nodded along beside his brother.
How could I resist? They didn’t know yet that Miss Ada had flown to heaven.
“Ollie, take care of Janie.” I opened the folds of the heavy shawl and gathered the boys around my legs before we plunged into the curtain of rain. We splashed past the gate and the garden, moving as fast as their legs would carry them. Ol’ Bob’s bawling grew louder. I swooped Dan under my arm and carried him the last little way.
By the time we pulled open the barn doors, our clothes hung heavy with water. The agonized plea of the cow spurred me onward. I knew how to do this. I’d been milking since I wasn’t much older than Ollie. I grabbed a pail from the wall and found a stool near the stall.
Ol’ Bob gazed at me with grateful eyes as I pulled her teats in a steady rhythm. With each stream that hit the bucket, questions swirled in my head. What connected my aunt to this family? How had the children’s mother died? When would their father return?
Finally, I stripped the last of Ol’ Bob’s milk, patted her rump, and stood. A large, empty barn met my gaze. Several stalls. Empty stalls. And double doors at the opposite end.
A whinny cut through the air.
“What’s out there?”
James and Dan stopped their game of tag, cheeks red and chests heaving. James managed to push out his words. “Tom and Huck. They’re our mules.”
“And Dandy,” added Dan.
“That’s Daddy’s horse.”
Daddy’s horse. “So this is your daddy’s farm, then?”