The House Near the River

by Barbara Bartholomew

  The intensity of her need to be close to him grew inside her until she thought she would die of it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He considered the fact that it was only a couple of months to Pearl Harbor Day, the anniversary of the Japanese attack in 1941. He and Ange had met on the next day.

  The next day five years ago. Somehow it seemed important that the meeting happened so that she remembered it, so that it wasn’t just his memory.

  But what could he do about it? He wasn’t the one who walked in time, but was powerless; all he had was this homing instinct that seemed to lead him to her and which now was failing him big time.

  Matthew tried to make himself focus on the matter at hand. He had to build some kind of life for himself or else be a burden on his family and today was important to accomplishing that goal.

  The wind blew cold, a blue norther moving through his new clothes and threatening to tug the hat from his head. He wore his usual khaki pants and cotton shirt, he didn’t want to look like a man too rich to need a loan. But neither did he want to look like such a deadbeat that nobody would want to lend him a dime.

  He’d found the right spot. A little over a hundred acres with a shack to live in and a little tree-lined creek that ran across the back of the property. Somebody else had given up on it, but it was good land and , strangely enough, it adjoined the country school he’d found that day.

  He hadn’t looked any further. It was the only place where he could go and feel the closeness of the woman he loved. Others would think he was insane if he told them, not that he was about to say a word to anybody, but he felt as though he could almost keep going if that sense of nearness could be sustained.

  That made getting this financing doubly important. He needed land and equipment to start his own operation and be independent. He knew that working for somebody else, no matter how successfully, he would eventually crack and all the pain of the last few years would come running out of his head.

  But to be able to work alone and to feel Ange’s closeness, even if it was some kind of delusion, was something to keep him going.

  He took a deep breath and walked into the office where, with his current boss’s backing, the money he’d put away, and his history as a veteran, he was welcomed.

  He walked out with the loan arranged and the farm as good as his. He would continue to work away from home part-time for the next year while he got his farm started. He felt little elation, but only a certain stability under his feet, as though he would manage to keep going even if he had to fight off despair each day of his life.

  “Are congratulations in order?” a feminine voice rang across his thoughts and he looked up to see his boss’s daughter standing on the pavement in front of him.

  Salina Henderson Jordan, a dark-haired beauty who like his sister, had lost her husband during the war, kept books for her father, but lived in the nearby town with her small son. She and Matthew were speaking acquaintances and he’d gotten the feeling she’d like to get to know him better so that he’d been careful to be only polite, no more.

  He squirmed at the idea that she knew about his business, knew about his attempt to get a loan, but supposed it was only natural that the widowed Henderson talked about what was going on with his only daughter.

  He owed John a lot so he had no choice but to be courteous to Salina. He nodded. “Congratulations, if you consider taking on a burden of debt cause.”

  Her laughter sounded like water rippling over stones. “It’s a start,” she said, “I’m sure you’re going to be very successful. My dad has a high opinion of your skills.”

  His nodded acceptance of the compliment.

  She slipped her arm under his. “Let’s go celebrate,” she suggested, “a cup of coffee somewhere downtown.”

  As always, he only wanted to be alone, to at least go back to work where he could drown encroaching thoughts in labor. But he thought of all he owed Harry and he nodded. “Just a quick cup.”

  She shivered elaborately. “It’s so cold out, I could do with a warm-up.” She led the way, clinging to his arm as they walked the couple of blocks downtown to the square that surrounded the old courthouse. The scent of cotton burrs burning was in the air and the stores buzzed with activity, even on a weekday. McKinney was a prosperous little town, its money coming from the solid agricultural community that surrounded it. The soil was no better than back at home, but the rainfall was more than doubled. If he could pour water from Texas onto the farm back home, life would be a whole lot easier for Clemmie and her family.

  It was mid-morning and he hadn’t had breakfast so he ordered biscuits and ham gravy to go with his coffee and she did the same. He didn’t say much, she kept the talk going, chatting about her father and his farms, non-threatening conversation that he could let roll over him while he ate.

  “I thought we’d live happily ever after,” she said matter-of-factly and he realized that he’d lost the thread of what she was saying.

  “Mark was my boyfriend from the time we were in junior high. He went to A&M and planned to go into the farms with my dad and we lived that life for a little while, long enough to have Harry Joe, then the war came.”

  The very last thing in the world he wanted to talk about was the war. Clemmie had never said more than half a dozen words about her lost husband and the war once she’d broken the news of his death. That was her way of dealing.

  Apparently this woman thought because he was in the war, he was someone in whom she could confide.

  “Mark piloted a bomber. One flight he and his crew didn’t make it back.”

  At least from the air it was usually quick. He didn’t know if that was much comfort to offer her.

  “I can’t talk to most people about Mark. They don’t like it, don’t know what to say, but I know you were there. You understand.”

  Better than you ever will, he only said the words inside his own head. I hope and pray that you never truly know how awful it could be.

  “You were on the ground?”

  He didn’t want to talk about it. “With Patton’s army,” he said, “in the tanks.”

  She shivered and not from the cold this time. “I would be terrified to be inside a tank. I haven’t been able to stand closed in places since I was accidentally shut in the storm shelter when I was a child.”

  “You get used to it.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d found he could accustom himself to most anything. Even now, he was adapting to a hopeless life. It was ingrained within him, the heritage of sturdy ancestors who had survived impossible hardships.

  She nodded. “I feel guilty that I am a woman and nobody expected me to go fight and die.”

  This was a new idea for him. He thought about Clemmie. He thought about the long separation from Ange. “I’m not sure but that the waiting is the hardest part.”

  She looked down at her half empty plate. “I’m surprised you can understand that.” She looked up. “It’s so good to have somebody to talk to, Matthew. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

  He would never have guessed. At work she seemed competent, always cheerful. He wouldn’t have suspected she had a serious thought in her pretty head.

  “You lost someone too, didn’t you?”

  Every word caused him intense pain, but he managed to answer. “Not in the same way.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “We were engaged quickly as sometimes happens in war time, then we got separated and I’ve never been able to find her again.” He made it as simple as possible, somehow unable just to refuse the information in light of what she had confided to him of her own feelings. But he wasn’t like her, he didn’t feel the need to talk. He just wanted to keep it all locked inside.

  “You think she’s dead?”

  He winced at her bluntness. She might as well be. He knew he would never see her again. “I don’t know.�
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  “Then you can still hope?”

  He shook his head.

  She reached out to take his hand. “You see, Mark’s death was never confirmed. They say the plane probably came down over the ocean and vanished into the water. But since it’s not certain, I still imagine him a prisoner somewhere, maybe injured and not able to help himself find the way home. I imagine him walking in to greet his son and me. It is in my mind every day.”

  She tightened her hold on his hand. “It would be easier to be without hope.”

  He went limp with understanding, slumped in his chair. In slow, stumbling words, he began to talk about Ange, leaving out the unbelievable parts, but telling her why he could not go on and build a real life without her.

  Hope held him fast, even as it did her. For neither of them was a new romance possible, not for a long time anyway, but they could be friends.

  Afterwards he drove out to the land that was soon to be his and looking over the old shack to see what he would have to do to make it livable. The school kids were just getting out down the road and the big yellow buses were lumbering past where he stood in front of the little house.

  “Ange,” he said, and almost felt like she stood there with him, watching the buses go by.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Angie had never believed in the old saying that absence made the heart grow fonder, but she was beginning to realize fully now that Matthew wasn’t nearby how much he’d come to mean to her.

  Jason had called again last night to say that he and his girlfriend had broken up, “she just wasn’t you,” and he wanted to see her again. She said she’d think about it.

  Then she’d stood outside in the cold night air and thought she’d heard Matthew somewhere close and calling her name. As long as she was so hung up on the World War II veteran, how could she build a relationship with Jason or anyone else.

  This morning she’d learned that a copy of her original birthcertificate had been released and would be sent to her. It was a triumph of sorts, but she felt more than a little nervous about actually seeing her mother and father’s names.

  She knew who she was. She was a Ward, the daughter her parents had raised. She was David’s sister, though because of the difference in their ages, she was more like a much loved aunt to the little boy. But because of the strange things that had happened, she needed to know where her blood and heritage had come from as well. The way things were, she didn’t belong anywhere.

  Clarence Ward seemed to share his daughter’s restlessness and she guessed he feared what revelations would come, not because of any secrets he’d personally kept, but because he couldn’t know what his mother had done in his behalf.

  Angie did everything she could to reassure him that no new information could change the relationship between them.

  She was mopping the kitchen floor when he came in, carrying an envelope in one hand. “It’s here.”

  She knew instantly that ‘it’ had to be the birth certificate. Her heart pounded as she took it from him, even though she had no idea why this should so important. She was a grown woman, not a child, whatever information this envelope contained could not change her life.

  “I’ll just leave you alone to open it.”

  She shook her head. “No. Stay.” She looked up at him. “Please, Dad.”

  He nodded, but still moved halfway across the room to seat himself in a chair at the kitchen table. He reached for a cracker from the basket in the center of the table, opened the packet and began to nibble. She guessed he felt he had to do something.

  She opened the envelope and took out the birth certificate, ignoring accompanying paperwork. Angela Gale, her given names. Weight seven pounds, two ounces. Twenty inches long. Born in Beckham County, no city listed, November 14, 1978.

  Then she read the most important line: Mother, Luiza Barry, age 19.

  Where her father should have been listed, she saw only the one word, ‘Unknown.’

  Stunned, she handed it to Dad. He read quickly, then looked up with concern, “back then, it wasn’t unusual not to name the father,” he pointed out.

  She nodded. “Especially if the parents weren’t married. That doesn’t shock me, Dad, it’s the woman’s name.”

  He frowned, looking at the certificate again. “Luiza Barry,” he read aloud. “Nobody with whom I’m familiar.”

  “But I know that name,” she said. “Remember the old grave back of Grandma’s house.”

  “Of course. We were brought up to regard the care of that grave as a sacred duty.”

  “And the name on the marker?”

  He stared at her. “Honey, there was no name, nor any marker that I remember. That was just an unknown grave left along the trail as the settlers moved on.”

  Now it was her turn to stare. “But Dad, when I saw it, there was a stone marker and the name Luiza Barry was chiseled into it. My mother’s name. ”

  “Honey, I think you must be mistaken. I grew up with that grave in my back yard. There was no stone and certainly no name.”

  “There must be somebody I can ask. Somebody from that generation. But Grandma is gone . . .” She felt an ache as she did every time she thought of Grandma and that thought led inevitably to the loss of her mother. “Grandma knew. She grew up when there was a stone and a name. But who would have removed it and why?”

  Her father was silent.

  She decided. “Dad, I have to go to Michigan to see Aunt Kay?”

  She could see that he wanted to argue, to tell her that was a long trip and Aunt Kay had been ill for a long time.

  But he only said, “You’ll need to fly that distance. I’ll see about arranging a flight while you pack.”

  “You’ll need extra help. See if Ivy and Edie can come in some additional time.”

  “I can take care of things. Anyway, I’m thinking of putting the old place on the market. Maybe now’s the time to look into that.”

  “Oh, Dad!” she protested.

  He gave her a hug. “It’s time you got on with your own life, Angie, and about time I retire and devote my time to raising David. “But it’s half yours, so if you want to take it on yourself, we’ll arrange that.”

  This was more than generous, but right now she could only think of Luiza Barry and wonder who she was. “Can we talk about this when I get back?”

  He nodded. “Sorry to spring it on you like this, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since we got back. Our share of the sale should give us enough to live on along with our savings and you really do need more of a life than to be stuck here out in the country with so few friends your own age.”

  She didn’t want to think about yet another change. “I’ll get packed,” she said.

  Dad and David drove her to DFW Airport and after the usual rather annoying process she was on a flight headed for Detroit, Aunt Kay’s address in her handbag. Dad told her that his aunt lived with a granddaughter in nearby Clio. In Detroit, she rented a car and found her way to the address in a pleasant, middle-class neighborhood, comfortable but certainly not ostentatious.

  She stepped up to the doorbell, hoping Dad had been able to make contact with the residents and give advance word of her coming.

  At her ring, footsteps sounded in the house and then the door was flung open. A small, dark-haired woman stood looking at her with an expression of delight on her face. “Angie?” she asked.

  “That’s me,” Angie replied, feeling suddenly awkward to be breaking in on them this way. “I hoped my coming here like this isn’t too inconvenient for you, but Dad said his Aunt Kay lives with you.”

  “Of course and Gran can’t wait to see you. She was so sad to hear of her sister’s death and would have gone to the funeral, but her health won’t allow her to travel.”

  Kay. Shirley Kay. The face of the little four-year-old she’d known flashed painfully into
her mind. Kay was old now and for most of her life had called herself by her middle name.

  “She’s the last of them now,” the woman said a little sadly, then brightened to add, “but I’m so happy to meet a relative. My name is Jennifer Harris and I have three boys who are only holding back from greeting you because I threatened their lives if they swarmed you the minute you arrived.”

  Angie laughed a little nervously. “I’m used to boys. I have a little brother.”

  “You haven’t met my boys,” Jennifer threatened darkly, but Angie could tell she was proud of her kids. Once they were inside, she allowed three boys to come forward to be introduced to their new cousin. They were shining-eyed good-looking boys, close in age, but she didn’t quite catch their names. She was too aware of the old woman in a wheel chair who sat in the next room, waiting.

  Jennifer smiled. “The boys and I will go in the kitchen and make a little snack while you visit with Gran,” she said to Angie’s relief. She’d been afraid they wouldn’t be left alone to talk.

  “Aw, Mom,” one of the boys protested.

  Another said, “Are you really from Texas?”

  “Do you know any cowboys?” the third asked.

  Their mother gestured toward the other room. “Gran is expecting you. I’d get the boys out of here if you’ll just go in and introduce yourself. She’ll be so glad to meet you.”

  She and the boys went the opposite way while Angie found her way into what appeared a mixture of bedroom and living room, a little studio apartment put together for the elderly woman, she supposed.

  The woman tilted her head slightly at the approaching of footsteps, but didn’t say a word.

  “Aunt Kay?” Angie said tentatively.

  She was a tall, slim old lady with carefully groomed white hair. Angie could see few traces of the little girl she’d known.

  “Dad said to tell you he wished he could have come too, but one of us had to stay at home to look after the business.”