Stay a Little Longer

by Dorothy Garlock

  Maybe my mother isn’t so paranoid after all…

  Recklessly hurrying so that she wouldn’t fall any farther behind, Rachel caught her foot on an uncovered tree root and came crashing down painfully onto the rocky path. Somehow she managed to use her hands to keep from going facedown, but her body landed hard. Wincing as a burning ache flared up the length of her leg, she rubbed at her knee, aware the skin was scraped and bleeding.

  “Damn it all,” she cursed through clenched teeth.

  Gingerly rising back to her feet, she felt woozy with pain. Steadying herself against a maple sapling, she tried to focus on the path, to find some sign of Charlotte, but she couldn’t see anything of the girl through the thick foliage of tree and bush branches. She heard the sound of Jasper’s barking, but it was more distant than she would have expected, as if she’d fallen to the ground for minutes instead of seconds.

  “Oh, Charlotte, you little dickens,” she muttered to herself.

  Moving as gamely as her tender knee would allow, Rachel plowed through the underbrush of the trail, parting the remaining leaves of an elderberry bush. Sweat glistened on her brow and plastered her blouse to her skin. She hurried, concerned she might have fallen too far behind to know where Charlotte was headed.

  Rachel’s bruised knee would only permit her to go so far before she had to stop to rest. Every time that she halted, she tried to find the highest ground possible to look for any sign of Charlotte, but she never caught a glimpse. Worry began to gnaw at her that she would have trouble finding her own way out of the dense forest. If I were to be caught out here at night… Pushing the thought out of her head, she pressed on deeper into the woods on the opposite side of the lake. She hoped fervently that Charlotte knew her way out of the dark woods. Carefully making her way down a depression and up the steep incline on the other side, she once again paused to catch her breath.

  Suddenly, the sound of voices was carried in the air, so faint that she first thought they might have been the wind. Straining, Rachel caught the unmistakable sound of Charlotte’s voice, but then heard another, deeper, that of a man. Listening a bit longer, she also heard the whine of a dog. Confused by the second voice, Rachel hurried forward as quickly as she could. She pushed past a couple of rotted tree trunks and jumped across a narrow creek leading toward the lake. The thorns of a wild rosebush snared the hem of her skirt and she yanked so hard on the caught-up clothing that she heard the fabric tear. Finally, as the voices grew still louder, she stepped between a pair of elms and entered into a small clearing.

  There, tucked unsteadily against the trunk of an enormous tree, was a shack. From its dilapidated look, it had long ago been left to rot. Somewhere in the recesses of her memory, Rachel recalled having been there before; she remembered crawling inside during one of her and Alice’s games of hide-and-seek and not being found.

  Before she could recall any more, she heard a voice coming from inside.

  It was Charlotte’s!

  Charlotte tucked the wool blanket closer to the sick man’s neck and made sure that he was completely covered with the three other quilts she had taken the first day she’d returned to the small shack. A small pillow snatched from one of the boardinghouse’s extra rooms cradled his feverish head. Together, she hoped that they made the stranger more comfortable.

  Carefully, she broke up the leftover biscuits and fed them to the man one at a time, watching out for any crumbs that might want to lose themselves in his scraggly beard. Weakly, he took what was offered to him, chewing more slowly than a newborn calf taking its first grass. When he had finished eating, Charlotte gave him water she had collected from the lake, scooped into a china cup she had taken from her grandmother’s cabinet.

  Hungrily, Jasper whined in the corner of the shack.

  “Just hush yourself,” she scolded him. “You’ll get your share!”

  Charlotte couldn’t believe that only three days had passed since she had first come across the sick man in the broken-down shack. Ever since that fateful encounter, she had been caring for him as best she could manage, stealing whatever clothing, coverings, and food she could find. Once, she had even managed to avoid going to school to come to the woods instead.

  Still, the stranger didn’t seem to be getting any better. During most of her visits, he shivered violently no matter how many blankets she piled on him. Often he moaned or rolled around feverishly, staring at her with a far-off look in his glassy eyes. He never said much, usually some clipped words spoken through chattering teeth. Gently, she touched his forehead and felt a burning heat that managed to frighten her.

  “We need to get you to a doctor,” she said.

  “No… no, Alice…” the man mumbled. “I’ll… I’ll be better tomorrow…”

  “But we need to—”

  “Just stay… with me, Alice… and I’ll be… just fine…”

  From that first encounter in the darkened shack, the stranger had insisted on calling her Alice, her mother’s name. Once, she’d told him that she was called Charlotte, but he was too sick and confused to comprehend. Every time he said the name of her long-dead mother, a chill ran down her spine; somehow, she felt closer to the woman she would never know, had never even met, than she had at the cemetery. No matter how many times she asked, he had never been willing to tell her his name.

  “When I’m sick,” she argued, “I have to go to the doctor.”

  “I just… just need to…” he said before once again slipping into unconsciousness, something he was beginning to do more and more often.

  Charlotte frowned. At first she had hoped that she could keep the strange man all to herself, hiding him from her grandmother, and Aunt Rachel, and especially from the other kids at school. But as the days passed, she had begun to realize that if she hid the man much longer, there was more than a fair chance he would get sicker and die. Though she didn’t know anything about him, that was something she wouldn’t allow to happen.

  The inside of the shack, even with all of the things she had taken from the boardinghouse, was practically bare; there wasn’t even a door for her to shut! Other than the dilapidated table, there was no furniture. There was no lamp for her to light. There was no bed for him to lie on, only the damp, rotting floorboards covered in mouse droppings.

  Luckily, it hadn’t rained during the time he had been there, but that was something Charlotte knew she couldn’t count on for long; with the gaps between the boards above her, any water would come pouring inside. Besides, with the coming change in the weather, it would be getting much colder, especially at night. Soon even the blankets wouldn’t be enough to keep him warm.

  “So what am I gonna do to make sure you get well?” she asked.

  Not for the first time, Charlotte wondered if she might be able to light a fire. She had watched her uncle Otis do it many times, usually with a shot of whiskey and a match, but it had always been in a chimney. The shack didn’t have a chimney or a stove and she was much too afraid to try to light one inside. Maybe she could get him outside, but he hadn’t had the strength to go outside and relieve himself and she doubted she was big enough to move him on her own. Still, she wondered if she had a choice.

  Just as she was about to get up and look for a place to build a fire, Jasper came alert, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat and the hair on his back standing on end.

  “What is it, boy?” she whispered.

  As if in answer to her question, Jasper began to bark. Suddenly, there came the sound from outside the shack; the noise was as clear to Charlotte’s ears as when Otis rang the dinner bell. Her heart hammered with the fear that a fox or a wolf was approaching, or that someone had discovered what she was hiding in her special place. Either way, she knew she was in trouble.

  Rushing over to where the stranger lay, Charlotte cowered beside him, bringing her knees up to her chest and staring fearfully at the door. Yet another noise came from outside. Jasper’s growl filled the tiny room.

  Someone is out there.
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  Charlotte didn’t really know why she wanted to be closer to the man; in his current condition, unconscious with fever, there was nothing that he could do to protect her, and for that matter, she knew that there was little she offered to defend him. Still, something about the man called to her, and she wanted to be near him.

  And then, before she had time to worry any more, a shadowy figure darkened the shack’s door. Even in the gloom of the small shack, Charlotte could tell that it was a woman, her skirt billowing over booted feet. Purposefully, the stranger strode into the shack.

  Aunt Rachel!

  Rachel stood in the shack’s crooked doorway and peered into the deep gloom inside. Jasper continued barking in the corner nearest the door, but she paid him little heed; her attention was riveted upon Charlotte. The girl knelt on the floor in the far corner, her small body shaking and her eyes wide with fear. Next to her lay a makeshift bed, piled with blankets just like the ones Rachel had seen her taking earlier that morning. Undoubtedly, this was where she had brought the biscuits, too.

  “What’s going on here?” she demanded.

  “I’m just trying to help him, Aunt Rachel!” Charlotte cried. “Honest I am! He’s sick.”

  For the first time, Rachel noticed that there appeared to be someone lying among the pilfered blankets. This was why she’d been coming out here!

  Rushing over to her niece, Rachel grabbed Charlotte by the wrist and hauled her to her feet. Confused, frightened, and more than a bit angry, she began to pull the girl toward the door, to get her away. Charlotte began to fight against her, straining to stay by the man, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. In response, Jasper’s barking intensified.

  “Don’t make him leave!” Charlotte pleaded.

  “I’ve had just about enough of this, young lady! Come along this instant!”

  “But he’s sick! He needs me!”

  Looking down at the man, Rachel was surprised that Charlotte was so worked up; the stranger looked like nothing more than a down-on-his-luck bum. His scraggly beard was full of snarls and knots, his closed eyes looked ready to sink down into his skull, and his skin was weather-beaten. She’d seen men like him passing through town, looking for a rail car to hide in, and she had always felt pity for them. She was amazed that Charlotte had been coming into the dark woods to care for the man, and had been bringing him blankets and food.

  The realization that her mother was right all along struck Rachel like a lightning bolt. Eliza had warned her, had pleaded with her to follow Charlotte into the woods and find out what she was doing, but Rachel had ignored her mother’s admonitions as usual. This time her mother had been right.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Rachel warned the girl. “He could have something contagious.”

  “I just wanted to help him!”

  “This sort of man could be dangerous,” she explained. “He might be an outlaw or a jailbird.”

  “Don’t… don’t be mad at… your sister… Rachel,” the man suddenly spoke from the makeshift bed. “Alice… Alice was… helping me. She knew I’d not… hurt her.”

  Rachel’s knees felt weak as she looked at the stranger, his words echoing in her head. Releasing her grip on Charlotte, her mouth fell open as her heart thundered in her chest. Even as she stared at him, the man’s eyes fluttered and he once again descended into the darkness of unconsciousness. For the briefest of moments, she thought that she must have imagined the man’s words, but in her heart she knew that it was all startlingly real.

  He called me by my name!

  He said “Alice”… he thinks that Charlotte is Alice!

  Staring at the strange man’s face, Rachel felt a gnawing in her stomach, a slow realization beginning to dawn upon her. Parts of the man’s face, of his damaged features, began to take on some degree of familiarity. But it wasn’t possible…

  “It… it can’t be… He’s dead.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  TRY AS SHE MIGHT, Rachel couldn’t keep the strange man’s words from echoing over and over in her mind. Don’t… don’t be mad at… your sister… Rachel. Shaking her head, she hoped that things would begin to make sense, but she couldn’t help but feel more confused than ever. Alice… Alice was only… helping me…

  Cautiously, Rachel knelt down beside the makeshift bed and took a closer look at the stranger. She could see that, once again unconscious, he was utterly ravaged by illness; his breathing was ragged and sweat beaded on his weathered forehead. Still, it was there around his eyes, and maybe the nose, that she recognized him… or thought she did. It had been so long, so many years since the last time, since…

  Was it possible… could it be that this was…

  “Who is this man?” she asked Charlotte, her eyes never leaving his agonized face. “Did he ever tell you his name?”

  “No,” the girl answered, her eyes as wide as saucers. She inched closer to her aunt, still rubbing her wrist where she had been grabbed. “Every time I asked him, he said nothin’. Most times he didn’t even talk.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “Jasper and I were playing and we ran inside the shack and he was here. He was sick. Don’t be mad at me!”

  “I’m not,” Rachel answered soothingly. It was clear to her that Charlotte had become attached to the man. Even in the midst of her own confusion, she couldn’t help but admire what the child had done, though she knew that her own mother wouldn’t think kindly of things being taken from the house without her say-so.

  “Do you know who he is?” Charlotte asked.

  “I… I’m not sure…”

  “He knows who you are,” the girl persisted. “He said your name.”

  Rachel could only nod. Even with all of the evidence she was beginning to gather to the contrary, she still had trouble believing that the man lying on the blankets was Mason Tucker. There had to be another reason, another explanation for the stranger’s identity. Still, she couldn’t deny that Charlotte was right; he had spoken her name…

  But not just mine!

  Turning back to Charlotte, she asked, “Did he call you Alice?”

  The words practically raced themselves out of Charlotte’s mouth as she explained the things that the man had said since she had discovered him; about how he had called her Alice the first time they met and about how, even when she tried to explain that she wasn’t who he thought she was and to tell him her real name, he still persisted in calling her by another name. “I don’t think he knows who I am. Why doesn’t he believe me when I say I’m Charlotte?”

  Looking at her niece’s questioning face, Rachel wondered if she didn’t already know the explanation: there was so much of Charlotte’s mother in her that, if a man were incredibly sick, a bit delirious, he might manage to confuse them. With her blonde hair, her sparkling blue eyes, and even the sly purse of her lips, Charlotte looked so much like her mother.

  “Why does he call me that?” Charlotte asked. “Did he know my mother?”

  Unable to answer the girl’s questions, Rachel turned her attention back to the sleeping man. She couldn’t be sure that he was really Mason. So many years had passed since she stood beside her sister on the depot platform, watching the men head off for war. She remembered that she had always found him handsome; with his black hair and broad shoulders, he would have been a catch for any woman. It wasn’t that she had been jealous of Alice… maybe a bit envious. But this man, in his current condition, was so very far from being handsome…

  Suddenly, the absurdity of Rachel’s thoughts became apparent. It was utterly ridiculous of her to believe that this could be Mason! The truth was that Mason Tucker was dead and had been for more than eight years! He went off to fight the Germans and had died in France, just like thousands of other men!

  How can this man possibly be Mason?

  “He’s sick, Aunt Rachel,” Charlotte said softly.

  “I know that.”

  “What can we do?” Charlotte kept on as a fresh batch of tears began
to slide down her cheeks. “We can’t leave him. If we do, a wolf will get him.”

  Rachel found it hard to argue the point, as she had heard wolves howling in the night. She had also felt a growing cold in the air over the last several days. Winter in Minnesota came quickly; one day might be nice, a warmth still in the air, but the next could be the one that signaled the coming of chilling rains and, eventually, crippling snow. In his condition, the stranger couldn’t hope to last long. As bad as his illness was, it would only grow worse in the days to come. If she were to turn her back on him, to walk away from his desperate plight, she had no doubt that he would die a miserable, painful death.

  “We have to do something,” Charlotte implored.

  In her heart, Rachel knew that she didn’t have a choice; she knew that she had to take the man back to the boardinghouse. Even if she were to come to the shack every day, bringing him food and water, she knew that it wouldn’t be enough. It also wasn’t possible for her to bring Dr. Clark with her; she was certain that all it would accomplish was to cause even more questions to be asked, questions that had answers she wasn’t ready to share with anyone.

  If this man was really Mason Tucker, if he had somehow managed to survive the war all those long years ago, Rachel needed to find out on her own. She already knew that she would have to keep him secret from her mother and, for that matter, the rest of Carlson. Once she had nursed him back to health, she would ask him his name, and if her suspicions proved correct, she would ask him much, much more.

  And he will answer me!

  “We have to take him back to the house,” she said simply.

  “Oh, goody!” Charlotte clapped her hands.

  Before the girl’s excited voice had faded from the cramped inside of the shack, Rachel grabbed hold of her, fixing Charlotte with a stern stare. “You can’t tell another person about any of this,” she explained. “This has to be our secret, just yours and mine.”