He’d plowed the fields, telling the oxen Babe and Jude about her. He’d taken her to war and talked to his buddies about her and not told them that he’d only seen her once and fallen in love forever. She’d been with him when he commanded a tank in the snows near Bastogne, when he’d been injured pulling one of his men from a burning tank, and when he’d gone with Patton’s army to Berlin in the last days of the war.
He’d tried to shut her out when they’d seen unbelievably terrible things at the prison camps. Like most soldiers he’d wanted to protect the folks back home from a world unimaginably cruel.
He’d wished she were there when he came back home, but, of course, she wasn’t. Though sometimes he’d imagined her near at hand, hovering just beyond reach as he suffered the shameful breakdown they called shell shock. He’d sat in a corner, shaking, lost again in the burning tank, seeing his friends die one after another in battle, starving at Bastogne, unable to believe he was back home again and troubled about so many who would never return.
Before the war, he’d thought of himself as invincible, able to take anything that fate dealt him, but now he knew he was weak and flawed and now that he was as well as he’d ever be, he avoided his neighbors and allowed only his family to see what was left of the man he’d been.
It was easier to think of her than of the war, a dream that might have been if he’d remained whole and sane. Then he would have gone searching for her until she was found and would have made her his wife.
Now he was resolved to let her go. She deserved better than the man he had come back as from war-torn Europe.
By day he worked so hard he didn’t have to think and the farm demanded everything he could give. He was sole support of his widowed sister and her family and it took hard work to bring a living from western Oklahoma prairie land. He told himself that he’d kept them going through the dusty years of the late 30s and now that Clemmie’s husband, his brother-in-law, was dead on the beaches of the Normandy invasion, she and her four children had no one but him to depend on. That was the thought that kept him going through the torment the war had left him in. He was desperately needed.
If only Charlie had lived and he had died, then Clemmie would have a husband and her children a father and his pain would have quickly ended.
He couldn’t see much in the dark, but he didn’t need to see. He knew what lay around him. The Harper family had struggled to keep the farm going through the thirties and because of the strength of newly broken land and the drought-resistant soil, they’d managed, barely, to survive.
Those were the years when Matthew was growing from twenty to thirty, that miserable decade, when the hard times the farmers had known in the years before turned to battle just to keep the family fed and reasonably healthy.
His father having died in 1929, leaving him and his mother with a mortgage because of the new house they’d so proudly managed to build, less than a thousand dollars owed for the two story house with its wide front porch, but more than Matthew thought he’d be able to pay.
He’d lived with the nightmare of worry and fears that they’d lose house and farm and be forced to join the trail of migrants finding their way to the hope of jobs in distant California.
And then Clemmie and Charlie lost their farm and, of course, they’d taken them in. Things were both harder and better. Both he and Charlie to do the work, but eventually they’d had four kids—which left them with eight people to feed instead of just him and mama.
But agonizing year after year, they hung on, under-nourished and increasingly gaunt, Mama looking ninety when she was only sixty so that she died while he was away in the army, leaving the farm to him and his sister.
And then Charlie had been killed and Clemmie, back at home, a woman alone trying to keep the farm going when all the men were away and no help to be had. He’d no choice but to come back, broken man that he was. If Clemmie could keep going doing a back-breaking job that no woman should have to do by herself, then he must keep going for her sake and for the children.
Only the spirit was gone out of him, the drive to live and succeed that ran so strongly in the family had been drained from him by the war. He should have died, he knew that. He was a man living beyond his intended time, a walking ghost.
He walked back toward the house. The eggs were gathered, the chickens locked in for the night, the calves fed.
Things were better. Now in this year in the midst of the wasted 40s, prosperity was just around the corner and everybody was anxious to put the war behind them.
Not that he would ever talk about the war years. All he wanted was to forget.
He braced himself, feeling painfully older than his years as he stepped up on the narrow back porch and opened the screen door to let himself in. Clemmie was used to him not showing up for supper and she never talked about being worried, but he knew guiltily that she was concerned that he’d been home for months now and didn’t seem to get any better.
He found her in the living room, hunched over her sewing. Clemmie was forty now with an angular body and sharp featured face. Nobody would say his sister was a pretty woman, but he liked the looks of her. She looked like his mama, who was the best woman he’d ever known, and she spent her life for others. Just look how she’d taken in the little stranger who had shown up in their lives four days ago.
Clemmie took one glance at the dirty, frightened little boy and fell instantly in love. For Matthew no such sudden attachment was possible. He suspected that for him the ability to love could be divided in two. Those people he’d known before the war he loved and would continue to love.
But Ange, the girl he’d met while home on leave, was the last person he’d allowed himself to care for. He was stiff and frozen inside, his affection reserved for his sister and her children.
“The children are in bed,” she said. “Your supper’s on the stove.”
“Not really hungry.” He sat down on the worn sofa across from her, rubbing his hands over its nubby fabric. Mama had been so proud of this sofa back when it was new, but that was a long time ago now.
“You’ve got to eat. Can’t work on air and water.”
Slowly he nodded. She was right. He owed it to the rest of them to keep his body in working order. Without further argument, he got to his feet and went into the kitchen.
“It’s cornbread and milk,” she said, “with some of my pickles.”
Mama would have waited on him. She didn’t think her menfolk capable of so much as making a sandwich for themselves, but Clemmie insisted on treating him as though he had good sense.
“Bring your supper in here and keep me company,” she called..
He crumbled cornbread into a tall glass and poured milk so fresh it had been in the cow not too many hours ago in to cover the bread. He put some of Clemmie’s homemade pickles onto a saucer and carried his food back to the sofa in the living room.
Clemmie’s green eyes examined him critically. “You’re getting skinny,” she accused.
“You’re not exactly putting on the pounds yourself,” he informed her.
He took a bite of the bread and milk, then a bite of pickle, and found it tasted good. Surprised, he realized he was hungry after all.
“How’s the little fellow doing?”
“He’s tucked in with Sharon. She likes to mother him.” She shook her head. “Still not saying a word, not even ‘mama.’ He just looks at us with those big eyes, poor baby, though he smiles sometimes when he watches the girls play.”
Clemmie and Charlie had three girls: Sharon, Anna and Shirley Kay. The oldest child, Danny, was a nine-year-old boy who missed his daddy something terrible and liked to follow his uncle around while he worked.
“What’s the sheriff saying?”
She shrugged. “Came out again today to try to talk to him. Boy just hid behind me and wouldn’t look at him. Acts like he’s scared to deat
h. The sheriff says they’ve no reports of missing children and if we’ll keep him, he’ll be best off here while they try to run him down. It’s real worrying, Matthew. I can sure imagine what his family’s feeling.”
Just one more problem. Matthew thought about the fair-haired, blue-eyed toddler who’d suddenly shown up four days ago on the steps of the front porch. Unlike Clemmie he didn’t so much feel sorry for the boy’s mom and dad as wonder what they were thinking to misplace the little guy.
He had enough fear and anger stored up inside that he didn’t want to take on any belonging to someone else. He just hoped that who-ever-they-were showed up quick before Clemmie and the kids got any more attached. The kids seemed to think he was like a stray puppy and wanted to keep him for their own.
Clemmie sat quietly mending a pair of Danny’s trousers while he finished his simple meal. When he finished, she got up to take the dishes into the kitchen for him and he heard the sounds of water running at the sink.
He was old enough to remember when the house had no running water, no inside bathroom, and electricity was still something available only in nearby towns. Modern improvements had been slow in coming to western Oklahoma farm country and he was glad, for the sake of Clemmie and the children that they’d managed to obtain those luxuries. For himself, he would never take them for granted, and he smiled a little to think of the chamber pot under the bed and having to race through all kinds of weather at night to go to the old out-house.
Clemmie came back, bringing him a cup of coffee and a homemade oatmeal cookie. This time he didn’t protest, but gladly took both. Clemmie made good coffee and the best oatmeal cookies in the world.
“Don’t know how you can drink that stuff at this hour of the night,” she commented. “I’d be awake to dawn.”
He didn’t tell her what she already knew, that he slept fitfully coffee or not, and that for a while he would feel a little better. He drank lots of coffee these days, sometimes he thought it was all that kept him going.
Somehow neither of them wanted to go to bed tonight. “What do you think of Tobe Nelson as sheriff?” he asked slyly, trying to sound as though he was just making conversation. Six years older, she was still his big sister.
She’d gone to school with Tobe, who was at forty an old bachelor. As a kid, he’d been popular with all the girls, but word was that since coming back from the war, he’d only went out with one woman and about a year ago that had broken off.
“I guess he’s all right. Tobe was always so honest it wasn’t even funny.”
“Wouldn’t know a joke if it hit him in the face,” he agreed. “Never did have a sense of humor.”
She bristled indignantly. “How would you know? You were just a little kid when we went to school together.”
He allowed his eyebrows to slide upward in an expression of surprise. “Tobe doesn’t need you defending him. He’s a big boy.”
Brother–sister stuff. Arguing back and forth the way they always had. It was easy to get under Clemmie’s skin. Like Tobe she took things seriously.
He was glad some things hadn’t changed.
“I’ve told you before, little brother, that I’m not interested in marrying again. I fell for Charlie long about fifth grade and never wanted any other man.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Besides my kids don’t need a stepfather. Those kinds of things don’t often work out.”
He didn’t take up the debate. Obviously she’d been thinking things over. He wouldn’t put in his two cents.
Then she surprised him. “What about you and that woman you fell so hard for? Thought about looking her up?”
He’d searched two counties and asked as many people as he met if they knew a woman named Ange Ward. His face reddened at the question. “That was just one of those things. She’s probably married and got a couple of kids by now.”
Her face showed neither approval or disapproval. When they were younger and she was married to Charlie, she’d made a practice of finding girls for him. That had never worked out and finally Ange had decided to give up. He supposed that she’d accepted the fact that, like Tobe, he was destined to remain an old bachelor.
“You seemed to really like her,” she said, looking down at her busy fingers.
Such an understatement. His feelings were his own, though, and he didn’t want to discuss them with anyone, not even his sister.
“It was right after Pearl Harbor and everybody went crazy for a while what with the country being attacked and all the guys rushing to sign up. People got married right and left.” He wasn’t sure what this had to do with anything and so finished rather lamely, “I only knew her for a day, Clemmie. Only a day!”
She looked at him as though startled that he would show such anger.
Then she yawned and said, “Guess I’d better get to bed. It’s after ten.”
He nodded, picturing her checking the two rooms: the small one that Danny supposedly shared with the visitor, and the larger one where the three girls, Sharon, Anna, and Shirley Kay each had a small bed. That’s where the little boy would be sleeping, as he had each of the nights he’d been here, apparently taking comfort in being cuddled by Clemmie’s Sharon, who at seven was accustomed to looking after younger siblings. Maybe, Matthew speculated casually, he had a sister somewhere in his own home.
CHAPTER THREE
Huddled again inside on the back seat of the car, Angie thought the long night would never end. Cramped and cold, she was certain she’d never been so miserable in her life before. Her only hope now was that by morning at least, Amanda would come looking for her.
She found some comfort in remembering long ago days when she and her cousin used to sit in the little upstairs bedroom reading from the tall stack of comics that the other girl always brought with her for visits. Amanda preserved everything, even her favorite doll hung in a glass case on the wall now that she was outgrown while Angie used things up with fierce enthusiasm. Her favorite doll was in the back of a closet somewhere at home, its skull bald of hair and an arm missing and her comics never lasted through more than two weeks hard reading.
At thirteen, they’d spent a lot of time planning exciting futures. Amanda was going to Hollywood to become a star like Jodie Foster. Angie wavered between being a doctor and a firefighter.
She smiled at the thought. Amanda was now the mother of twin girls, married, and running her own business in the nearest small town big enough to support such industry. Angie, having earned a master’s degree in American literature, read something besides comics now and managed the small bed and breakfast her parents had started in a midsize town north of the spreading city of Dallas which was gobbling up all the smaller towns and turning their own into a bedroom community with more commuters than tourists, in spite of the rolling prairie setting.
Amanda kept encouraging her to come back home and start a business here. She was tempted, but doubted that she’d be able to draw in enough visitors to keep a bed and breakfast going. And that, along with reading books (and comics), was the thing she knew best.
For her weekend, she’d left Dad once more solely in charge back at home and encouraging her to get away for a break.
Some break, she thought now. She’d get even with Dad for insisting she needed to escape to the peace of true country life.
Sleeping was almost worse than staying awake. She would doze off, only to awaken with a jerk to realize how much she ached all over and how cold she was, gradually getting sleepier until she went through the whole process again.
Dawn brought little cheer. Clouds were so thick overhead that sunlight only dimly lit the day and a few flakes of snow began to fall. She decided to wait a couple of hours before beginning to walk, hoping for a little more warmth.
Beginning to hate her own automobile, she still knew that in case of bad weather it was her only shelter. She wouldn’t like to h
ave to seek shelter inside that tumbled down old house. After a few more slow passing minutes, she decided to get out and walk a little to warm up and loosen her aching legs. After one jog up and down the long drive, she stood again looking at the house and thinking of the days when she’d played here with her cousin.
Deliberately she tried to shut painful memories of David from her mind and, from long practice, was largely successful until, through what looked like a slash of warm sunlight in the general grayness, she saw a small, golden-haired child drawing on the ground with a stick.
Her mouth dropped open and she stepped closer, mesmerized by the child and the light, her mind dazed beyond reason. One step, two, then three and she stood within warmth and light and a little boy who was unquestionably her brother stared up at her.
He seemed unsure of who she was, stunned by both the strangeness and the unfamiliarity of her. After all, she hadn’t been thirteen in a long time now.
“Mama?” he questioned in a quavering voice.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. Ignoring all logic and all questions about how after fifteen years, the boy could look exactly as he had when he disappeared, she grabbed him up in her arms and started sobbing wildly.
“Ange,” he finally decided, his small arms wrapping around her neck, and his own tears beginning to flow.
“It’s all right, honey. It’s all right, David. Sister is here,” she tried to reassure him, the thought prominent in her mind that Mom would never know now and how was she going to explain to him that his mother was gone beyond reach and would never come back. How could a three-year-old take that in? How could he still be only three?
Then another voice said the name that only closest family members used for her. “Ange!” The voice was male and totally unfamiliar.
The House Near the River Page 2