Wings of a Dream

by Anne Mateer

  I looked at the letter again. Shaky handwriting. Stray drops of ink at the edges of the page. Not Mama’s usual pristine letter. Maybe Daddy hadn’t overreacted after all.

  I slid Mama’s letter into the drawer with my clothes. I’d answer it later, let her know, firmly but kindly, that I could make my own decisions now and that I intended to do my duty toward these children. But I wouldn’t tell her about Arthur. Not yet.

  A few evenings later, I chewed the end of my pencil, trying to make a list of what we’d need to see us through the winter. Cornbread didn’t seem as monotonous now that I’d found the churn and made butter. I’d even pressed the creamy white lump into a mold carved with intricate curlicues surrounding a fancy G.

  But we needed stamps. And the children wanted to make a Christmas box for their father. I hated to spend the last bit of cash, but I figured we could manage to purchase some trinkets for Frank—a comb, toothpaste, gum, Hershey’s bars, shaving cream, shoelaces. And yet, Thanksgiving would be upon us soon. And Christmas on the horizon after that. I’d need more money before then or there wouldn’t be presents for the children.

  Thump. Bump. A chorus of screams.

  I dropped my pencil and charged up the stairs two at a time, heart pumping faster than a steam engine, throat aching to release a wail of my own. But it wasn’t James having a nightmare. Two beady eyes stared back at me in the moonlight. Two beady eyes attached to a hissing possum.

  A branch from a big cedar elm waved near the open window, letting in the breeze on this warm evening. Just a short jump for a cunning creature. And the clucking from the barnyard told me we were not this rascal’s first stop for the evening.

  Ollie huddled the children on the far edge of the bed, next to the wall, the fear in her eyes naked in the pale wash of moonbeams. Dan’s screams filled the air, his eyes squeezed shut, mouth open wide. My anger flared, protective as a mama bird with helpless babies in the nest. I wouldn’t let them down.

  I wanted to say the word I’d heard Will say when Daddy’s wagon rolled across his toes, but I dared not. Instead I did what Mama—and the children—had taught me. I prayed.

  “Keep that nasty creature away from these children, Lord. And from our chickens, too.” I hissed the words toward the spitting possum, hoping it would frighten him away. It didn’t. He stood his ground.

  We stared at each other, both wondering who would make the first move. I decided it had to be me. I hopped up on the bed. The possum turned its head to stare at me. I leapt toward a cane-seated chair, grabbed it up, and jabbed the legs at the overgrown rat the same way I’d seen the lion tamer do when the circus pitched its tent outside of Downington a few years ago.

  “Get away.” I thrust the chair again. The possum backed toward the door. I poked again. He hissed and squirmed but kept scooting toward the hall.

  When we reached the top of the stairs that mean old thing decided to make one last stand. He lunged toward me. Ollie screamed from the doorway of the bedroom. I pushed one leg of the chair into the possum’s chest.

  Can a possum look surprised? This one did as he tumbled backward down the stairs. I followed his path as he rolled to the front door, scampered into the dining room, then through to the kitchen. I ran after him, picking up the broom and swatting him out the kitchen door before he could get his legs fully underneath him. Of course, by then I think he was glad to go. I slammed the door shut, barely missing the tip of his hairless tail.

  The children swarmed around me, arms circling my legs and my waist, Ollie’s moist eyes staring up at me in the dim light.

  “You saved our lives,” she said.

  I chuckled, trying to diffuse her fear, but my knees shook like warm jelly as I ran my hand down the braided rope of hair that fell to the middle of her back. The lamp still shone in the parlor, dimming the darkness of the kitchen like a faraway star on a moonless night.

  “Why don’t we all camp out in there?” I nodded my head toward the parlor.

  Ollie’s head bobbed with such force I worried it would fall off her neck. We gathered quilts from the bedrooms. I wedged Janie between the back of the sofa and Ollie’s body before pulling and tucking the quilts around the rest of us on the floor. I didn’t even bother to extinguish the lamp.

  Dan stirred first the next morning, bounding from atop the pile like a puppy ready for play. I raised my stiff neck and put a finger to my lips, but trying to keep a four-year-old quiet was, well, nigh impossible.

  James’s head popped up, his eyes blinking at the light and the unfamiliar room. Then his face brightened. After he disentangled his foot from my ribs, I could actually draw breath again. He ran to the kitchen. “Let’s see if that ol’ possum is still hangin’ around, Dan.”

  Dan followed, of course, as eager as his brother to see the creature that had scared him senseless in the night. Ollie groaned as I got up. She put her arms around Janie and they cuddled together.

  Rubbing my neck, I stumbled into the hall. James was under my feet almost before I knew it.

  “I bet I could get him with Daddy’s gun.” He looked up at me with the most serious expression I’d ever seen. As if he were fifteen, not six. My mouth twitched, but I determined not to laugh.

  “You know you’re not allowed to touch Daddy’s gun,” Ollie’s half-asleep voice called from the parlor.

  I put on my stern face. “Yes. I’m sure you know that, James.”

  His whole body sagged in defeat as he turned and stomped away. “She said no,” I heard him say from the kitchen. A smile twitched at my lips.

  “Rats,” came the younger voice, followed by the muffled thud of two bottoms hitting the floor.

  A giggle escaped me. I imagined their little faces full of disappointment over not getting to take their daddy’s gun after the nasty creature. I clamped my hand over my mouth until my stomach hurt from holding it in. I fled up the stairs and screamed my laughter into a plump feather pillow, tears streaming down my face. It felt as good as a hot bath on a cold day and made the adventure of the night worthwhile. I climbed into clothes as fresh as my attitude and hurried downstairs to rejoin the children.

  “Would you like me to take care of the milkin’ this morning?” Sheriff Jeffries’s baritone carried through the screen door.

  Now I could hear Ol’ Bob bawling. “Yes, thank you.”

  I stood at the door and watched him go, his boots crunching across the yard. Why couldn’t I have feelings for a man who always seemed to show up at the right time and say the right things? Mama would declare me a fool not to keep his ingredients in my pantry, so to speak. In fact, she might even put him ahead of Mr. Graves now.

  But I couldn’t dwell on such things today. I returned to the kitchen. Ollie scrubbed her face and hands at the washbasin as I started breakfast. I’d had my fill of oatmeal, so I fried up some corn cakes to drizzle with molasses, wondering if I could make the leftovers do for both dinner and supper.

  A clatter of voices rose in the yard. I glanced out the door. James and Dan sat on the porch, deep in conversation with the sheriff. The possum had grown in the retelling. It had nearly bitten off the baby’s hand, according to Dan. James had run it off, according to James. The sheriff nodded at each interjection, his face as serious as if they relayed the price of cotton.

  He spied me and straightened, holding out the milk pail as his cheeks brightened.

  “Would you care to breakfast with us?” I didn’t figure it mattered much anymore whether we had a chaperone or not.

  “I’d be glad to.”

  I held open the screen door. All three tromped inside. For the first time in a long while, breakfast seemed like the beginning of a good day.

  In spite of our dwindling supplies, I invited the ten Lathams and Sheriff Jeffries to spend Thanksgiving with us. I wanted a festive atmosphere, with company around the table. Like the day we’d heard news of the armistice. I relished the work, the exhaustion. It gave me less time to think.

  On the Wednesday before our fea
st, I rolled piecrusts and peeled and cooked the pumpkins. Even though the air outside hinted of winter, the kitchen burned like summertime.

  “I need more wood for the stove,” I called out the door while I wiped my arm across my forehead. “And would someone open the window for me, too?”

  James staggered through the kitchen door and opened his arms. Chunks of wood crashed to the floor.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I determined not to scold him for the racket. “Thank you.”

  Dan came up behind, a piece of wood in each hand. He tossed them on top of James’s pile. “Some ’uns coming.”

  I threw the wood in the stove before glancing out the window. Far off down the road walked a slender man, a suitcase swinging in his hand. It couldn’t be Frank. Not yet. But if not Frank, then, who? Fear and excitement, anger and relief jumbled together like berries in a cobbler until I couldn’t separate one from the other. Had Arthur changed his mind? Come to apologize in person? Did I want him to?

  “Ollie, watch the pies.” I ran outside and stepped into the road, my heart fluttering and my stomach in knots.

  The man waved an arm above his head. “Little sister!”

  All my anxiety melted into astonishment. “Will!” I raced down the road and threw my arms around my big brother’s neck.

  “Ho, there.” He stumbled backward. “Don’t cry.”

  “It’s you. It’s really you.” My tears wet his neck as his hand rubbed a circle on my back. When I finally pulled away to study his face, he appeared much older than when he’d left for France more than a year ago. Wrinkles framed his eyes, and pain glowed from their depths. War had changed him.

  My hand crept to my throat. Why had my brother shown up unannounced? “Is it Mama?” I whispered. “Is she—?”

  Will chuckled a little and shook his head, looking more like the big brother I remembered.

  “You always could make things seem worse than they were, Rebekah. No, you silly goose. Mama’s fine.” He lifted one shoulder, as if in resignation. “She’s not in danger, at least. But she wasn’t up for big doings, either. So I decided to come celebrate Thanksgiving with you.”

  My arms dropped to my side. Will had been the stable one, like the thick oak that spread its arms over our house in Downington. He knew his duty and always did it. If he hadn’t stayed home for Thanksgiving, something was definitely wrong.

  “When did you get home? And why didn’t anyone tell me?” I hooked my arm around my brother’s. It felt small and frail, as if my touch might break it. My stomach soured.

  “I was already on my way home when the armistice was announced.”

  I stopped, forcing him to stop, too. “Why, Will?”

  He stared off into the distance, his eyes narrowing as if he could see all the way to France. “I’m dying, Rebekah. They let me come home to die.”

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Was my heart still beating? Breath and motion returned with a wave of nausea, but before I could ask more questions, Will’s mouth lifted in a sad smile.

  “I hear you’ve become a mother, in a manner of speaking. You’d better introduce me.” Taking hold of my arm, he propelled me forward, my feet somehow obeying.

  An eerie silence stole over the yard, the house. It seemed fitting, given Will’s news, so it took me a moment to realize it wasn’t normal. Not for this house. Things were rarely silent, even in the middle of the night.

  “Ollie? James? Dan?”

  No answer.

  “Have you lost them already?” Will’s playful grin settled me some.

  “I haven’t lost them,” I sassed back. “At least I don’t think I have.” I went to the cistern first, always afraid one of the boys would fall in while “just looking.” But the lid remained firmly in place and the little stool didn’t stand near the edge. Hands on my hips, I called again.

  This time a giggle drifted up from somewhere nearby. I stepped off the porch, got down on my knees, and peered into the crawl space beneath the porch.

  Eight eyes twinkled back at me.

  “If you don’t get out from under there, that old possum’s gonna come and eat you up.”

  Squeals of delighted fear accompanied their scramble from their hiding place. They were filthy, of course. I opened my mouth to scold them, but the scent of something burning stung my nose. I sniffed the air again.

  “My pies!” I flew into the kitchen and opened the oven. Black smoke poured into the house. I waved it away, coughing, as I covered one hand with a dish towel and pulled the first pie from the oven. Instead of golden brown, the crust looked like dried mud. I dumped it in the wash bucket and pulled the second pie from the oven. Even worse than the first.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to eat that.” Will pointed at my pies, lifted Dan off his shoulders, and sank into a chair. His breath heaved out in gasps. Beads of sweat clung to his temples.

  I carted in water to souse the pies. The coffee needed warming, too. That would keep my hands busy and my back turned long enough to compose myself from the frustration of burning pies and the shock of Will’s news. I couldn’t bring myself to ask what he was dying of. Not yet. I only knew it couldn’t be contagious or he wouldn’t have come.

  The coffee boiled. I pulled it from the heat and poured a cup for Will. The children soon tired of the newness of the visitor and left to chase the last bit of sunshine. All except Janie. She sat in Will’s lap, gazing up at him in wonder. I think she thought Will was her daddy—some vague baby intuition none of us could quite comprehend.

  Will didn’t seem to mind. He held her, stroked her hair, planted little kisses on her nose.

  The daughter he’d never have. My shoulders sagged at the thought, but I forced them to straighten again. I had to start new pies. Besides, it helped to have something to do, something to think about. And while I worked, Will talked. About home. About his friends. About everything but himself. Or the war.

  “Are you fighting off beaus with a stick?” Will asked, bouncing Janie on his knee.

  I winced as his words unknowingly probed my wound. “No.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  My head whipped around. “What kind of ‘beaus’ do you think I have? I’m here with these children all the day long.”

  “And a fine mess you’re making of it, too.” His eyes twinkled and teased.

  I wanted to hit him over the head with my rolling pin.

  “So, you’re getting married soon? Do tell.”

  I slammed the rolling pin on the pie dough. “Did Mama tell you that?”

  “Yes. She seemed to think it a sure thing. Some junior ace from around here, or something. Of course, she hasn’t given up on ‘dear Mr. Graves,’ either.”

  “I’m not marrying either one of them.” I marched the cooled, soggy pies to the door and tossed them into the slop barrel before rolling the new piecrusts into the still-warm pie plates. I prayed I had enough pumpkin left in the pot to fill two more pies. If not, I guessed I could whip up chess pie instead.

  “Oh. You have other plans, then?” He sipped his coffee, set it down, and pushed it away from Janie’s reach.

  I scraped the remaining pumpkin into the piecrusts. “Yes, I have plans. Mama doesn’t know everything.”

  He looked as if he didn’t believe that any more than I did.

  Brother Latham gave a prayer of thanksgiving before dishes clanked, voices chattered, and food disappeared much more quickly than it had been prepared. Will ate well and joined in the conversation. But I didn’t. I couldn’t seem to get my mind off the facts that my brother was dying and all my other plans had vanished like ashes in a strong wind.

  The men and children drifted outside once they’d eaten their fill. Irene instructed her older girls to wash dishes. She and I dried and sorted them.

  “Want to tell me what’s happened?” Irene’s eyes brimmed with sympathy, no trace of aggravation. She handed me a platter, clean and dry.

  I stared at the dish as if I had no idea what t
o do with it. Then I breathed the kitchen air, tainted with the scent of stale food and soap. “My brother’s dying.”

  Irene took the plate from my hands, gently prying loose my fingers. Her head shook as she set it aside. “I’m so sorry, honey.” She put her arm around my waist and led me to the door. “You go on and visit with your brother. We’ll finish up here.” Her voice was as gentle as a mama with her newborn babe.

  I obeyed, wandering first into the backyard and then around toward the front of the house. Brother Latham had pulled a chair onto the porch. Will and Sheriff Jeffries sat in the rocking chairs while the gaggle of children frolicked on the lawn. Will looked tired, yet one corner of his mouth lifted as he watched the children laugh and play.

  I settled myself on the porch step in front of the men, hands clasped around my knees, eyes fixed on the children, ears strained to catch the low concert of voices behind me.

  “I just hope it’s what they say. A war to end all wars.” Will’s raspy voice. “I wouldn’t want any of those little guys to have to go through what we did.”

  Silence followed. Then Brother Latham rumbled indistinct words.

  A rocker creaked in its motion. Will coughed, deep and long and rattling in his chest, like Aunt Adabelle. A shiver traveled down my back as he composed himself.

  “Not sure which was worse—watching those poor souls suffocate in an instant, or having to waste away by inches, like me. Those gases did their damage in so many different ways.”

  Poison gases. I’d read of them in the newspapers. Were the gases responsible for Will’s demise? I turned slightly, hoping Will’s words wouldn’t stop. Instead, he seemed to speak more clearly, as if he wanted me to know without having to tell me directly.

  “Maybe I didn’t get my mask on in time. Maybe some of those gases lingered in the air after I thought it safe to unmask. Either way, they got into my lungs. And when they don’t kill you right away, they cause other things that kill you. Like cancer.”

  My throat tightened. Cancer ate away at a person, sometimes for months, sometimes for years. I wondered which it would be for my brother.