Beyond the Carousel

by Bette Lee Crosby

  The following Saturday the Allied moving van pulled up in front of the house, and two burly men began carrying out furniture and boxes. It seemed as though it had taken years to get everything placed in just the right spot, but in a matter of hours the rooms were bare. It was like a puzzle painstakingly put together and then swept from the table. The only things left behind were an old broom, a potted ivy on the kitchen windowsill and dust mites that had been hiding beneath the furniture.

  Christine swept the rooms, watered the ivy and then herded everyone into the Buick. Boomer was pushed into the back with Junior and Chrissie. The Saint Bernard took up most of the seat. Christine sat in the front and held Frankie on her lap. Once everyone was settled, Jack pulled out of the driveway and turned toward the highway.

  In the side mirror Christine watched the house she loved get smaller and smaller until it was the size of a freckle; then it faded from view. She bit her lip to keep from crying.

  Before they turned onto the highway, Chrissie started complaining Boomer was squashing her.

  “He can’t help it; he’s a big dog,” Christine replied. “Just scoot over a bit.”

  That was only the start of it. All the way to Wyattsville it was one thing after another. Chrissie’s shoe got caught under the seat. Junior was hungry, and then twenty minutes later he was thirsty. Frankie needed a diaper change. Jack wanted to grab a container of coffee.

  In all they made nine stops, and it was almost dark by the time they arrived at the Wyattsville Arms. That perhaps was better since Emory had warned the building didn’t allow dogs, and Christine would have to slip him in without being noticed.

  “I think we should just look for a motel in the area,” she said. “I doubt it’s possible to bring a Saint Bernard in without being noticed.”

  Jack shrugged. “Just be discreet.”

  Fortunately the elevator was empty, and they made it to the apartment without encountering anyone. Before she rang the bell, Christine heard the sound of voices but figured it to be the television. Latched onto Boomer’s leash and Chrissie’s hand, she wiggled a finger free and pressed the buzzer. The door swung open immediately.

  “You’re late,” Emory said. “We were beginning to worry.”

  “We?”

  Before Christine could ask who “we” were, Clara squealed, “Oh, isn’t he precious!” and lifted Frankie out of Jack’s arms.

  “Didn’t I tell you they were cute?” Emory said proudly.

  When Christine looked around, there were four people besides her granddaddy waiting to greet them.

  “I thought you said…”

  Emory laughed. “Don’t worry about the little stuff. These are my friends, and after all the bragging I’ve done they wanted to meet you.”

  One by one he introduced Clara, Seth, Fred and Otto who by then had his own apartment on the fourth floor.

  “Come eat.” Clara waved a hand toward the dinette table spread with what appeared to be enough food for a week.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Christine said. “The kids ate hamburgers on the way over and—”

  “Nonsense,” Clara cut in. “After a long trip you always have to eat. It takes the edge off.”

  Jack eyed the table. “That potato salad looks great.”

  “Homemade,” Clara said. “My mother’s recipe.” She set Frankie down on the floor and headed for the table. He crawled after her.

  Once everyone began talking, Emory poured glasses of iced tea and Jack fixed plates for the kids. Not long after they’d eaten the day began to take its toll, and their little eyelids drooped.

  “I’ve got sleeping bags for the kids,” Emory said, “and I borrowed a crib for Frankie.”

  Although Christine had arrived with every nerve stretched thin, now she felt reasonably calm. She kissed Emory’s cheek, whispered a thank you and led the kids off for their nightly routine of teeth brushing, prayers and kisses.

  As she stood there listening to Junior ask God to bless everyone including Boomer and the lady who made potato salad, she marveled at how pleasantly the evening had turned out. They’d met Otto at their wedding, but this was the first time she’d met the others and it was impossible not to like them. They were a warm and welcoming group. It was easy to understand why her granddaddy had chosen to give up the house and come to live here.

  By the time Christine returned to the living room, the table was cleared and the guests gone.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  Emory smiled. “After a long day they thought you might be anxious to get some rest.” He gave her a hug then turned toward the door. “Seth’s waiting for me. You get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll see you in the morning.”

  That night as she and Jack settled into the darkness of the unfamiliar bedroom, Christine whispered, “I don’t think our staying here is going to be nearly as difficult as I thought.”

  * * *

  The next morning Clara invited everyone to her apartment for pancakes, which it seemed was her specialty. She also volunteered to help Emory babysit the children while Jack and Christine went to look at houses.

  They met Robert Lansing, the realtor, at his office, and he suggested they start with the house Jack favored.

  “Could be you’ll like that one so much you’ll want to stop there.”

  Remembering how they’d looked at more than twenty houses before they found the house on Alexander Street, Christine chuckled. “That’s pretty optimistic.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Robert said. “This house is a beauty. If you don’t mind putting in a bit of work to get it fixed up…”

  “We can look at it, but…” As Christine climbed into the back seat of Robert’s car, she mumbled something about three kids and no time for restoring old houses.

  Jack caught her words and said, “When Robert talks about it needing work, he means small stuff; nothing major.”

  “Okay,” she replied absently.

  It was a short ten-minute drive, but when Robert pulled up to the curb Christine was fishing through her purse and wondering if she’d left Frankie’s pacifier at the apartment. She didn’t see the house until she stepped out of the car. When she did she gasped.

  She turned to Jack wide-eyed and asked, “What street is this?”

  “Chester,” Robert answered.

  For a moment she said nothing as she stood there looking up at the house.

  Noting her reaction, Robert asked, “Is something wrong?”

  Christine shook her head. “No.” She then turned to Jack, “This was Granddaddy’s house before he came to live with us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack stuttered. “I didn’t know—”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about; I love this house.” She caught hold of his hand and started up the walkway.

  The minute they stepped inside Christine felt it. Although the house was devoid of furniture, she saw it the way it was all those many years ago. She lovingly traced her hand across the oak mantle and along windowsills that had gathered a thin layer of dust.

  “I was a kid the last time I was here,” she said. “Granddaddy and I used to sit in this room listening to the radio. On winter evenings when there was a chill in the air, he’d make a fire so we could toast marshmallows and we’d laugh ourselves silly listening to Amos and Andy.”

  She led the way from room to room, remembering family dinners in the big dining room and the squeaky step on the staircase.

  “This railing needs to be polished,” she said as they mounted the stairs.

  Robert trailed along behind Jack and Christine. “If you want something that doesn’t need a speck of work, I’ve got a brand new ranch I can show you. It’s down on Baker Street—”

  Jack turned and waved him off. He knew what Christine liked, and a sprawling ranch wasn’t on the list.

  Still holding on to Jack’s hand she said, “I can’t believe you picked this house. Did you know?”

  He shook his head. “I had no idea. When we s
tarted coming to see your granddaddy, he lived in that Cape Cod on Madison Street.”

  Christine laughed. “That was Mama’s house. She made Granddaddy come to live with us after Grandma died.” She gave a wistful sigh as the memories resurfaced.

  “At first Granddaddy argued and fussed, saying he could take care of himself just fine. Then Mama told him maybe he could, but we couldn’t. That’s when he finally gave in. It was the Depression years and things were tight, so he sold this house and made Mama take the money.”

  “If we bought this house, do you think he’d be upset? You know, because of the memories?”

  Christine pictured her granddaddy with his snow-white hair and the cane he used from time to time. Like her, he’d held on to the good memories and left the sorrowful ones in the past. He’d moved on and found friends and a new life at the Wyattsville Arms. He looked at life in much the same way Junior did, trusting that tomorrow would bring its own bounty of goodness.

  She smiled. “I think he’d be happy about it, but let’s ask him to make sure.”

  As they left the house and headed back down the walkway, Robert said, “There’s a great two-story colonial over on Belfry—”

  “Let’s not bother,” Christine said. “We’ve found the house we want.”

  Emory

  Yesterday afternoon Christine came and asked if I’d be upset were she and Jack to buy the old house on Chester Street. Of course I told her no. I can’t imagine why she’d even think such a thing.

  Knowing my granddaughter and Jack will raise their family in that house gives me nothing but pure pleasure, and I believe Rosie would be just as happy. Thinking back on how she used to love that house, I wouldn’t doubt she’s the reason they found it. Some people don’t believe in heaven and guardian angels, but the older I’ve gotten the more I’ve come to believe. Sometimes there’s no other explanation for the way things happen.

  I’m not saying it’s always fair, because it’s not. Franklin being killed for example; there’s no justice in that. And certainly none in the fact that his killer was never made to pay for his sin. But just as I’ve got my ways God has got his, and I don’t expect Him to offer up any excuses.

  Losing Franklin as she did Laura had a tough life, but she did a good job raising their daughter. Christine’s grown up to be a fine woman and a wonderful mama. She’s a lot like Laura.

  Once she knew for certain they were buying that house, she asked if maybe I’d like to move in with them. I said absolutely not. I figured it best to put a lid on that thought right away. I told her, Your mama got away with saying she needed me because of not having your daddy, but you’ve got Jack and he’s a darn fine husband.

  I had to laugh, because I looked over and caught Jack grinning ear to ear when I said that.

  I’ve got a good life here and I’m not looking to go anywhere, except maybe heaven so I can be with my Rosie again. When that time comes, it comes. Until then I’m just gonna sit back and enjoy this life I’ve got.

  A Place Called Home

  As it turned out, staying in Emory’s one-bedroom apartment was not much of a problem. A week after the Mahoney family moved in to Emory’s place they moved out, taking all three children and Boomer. Since the Chester Street house was empty anyway, they were allowed to move in two weeks before the actual closing.

  On moving day when the big Allied truck pulled up in front of the house and the men began carrying in their furniture, Christine knew exactly where each piece was to go. The sofa got pushed in the spot where it always was, and the breakfast set went in the bumped-out bay window overlooking the backyard. Piece by piece they settled in, each table, chair or dresser in exactly the right spot. By the end of the day when everything was in place, it looked as if each item of furniture had been purchased with precisely that spot in mind.

  Two days after they moved in the next-door neighbor, Brenda Hofstadter, knocked on the front door.

  “Aren’t you Christine Wilkes?” she asked.

  Christine laughed. “I used to be. Now I’m Christine Mahoney.”

  “I’m Brenda Garth, Mister Pinkerton’s biology class!”

  “Well, good gracious!” Christine exclaimed. “Shame on me for not recognizing you right off.”

  Brenda shook her head, and her blond curls bounced from side to side.

  “Nobody does,” she said with a chuckle. “It’s the hair. It used to be that mousy brown color.”

  Christine had been in the middle of cleaning the upstairs windows but she left the pail sitting on the landing and tugged Brenda inside, insisting that she stay for a cup of coffee.

  After downing two cups and sharing a slightly stale cheese Danish, Christine realized this actually was home. The girls she’d known in high school were now mamas just like her. Why, she wondered, hadn’t she remembered how wonderful Wyattsville was?

  “I can’t wait until the girls learn you’re back in town,” Brenda said excitedly. “Tuesday is book club at my house, so please say you’ll come.”

  Of course Christine did, and she slid right back into her group of friends as if she’d never been gone.

  In late September, after Jack had given the banister a new coat of varnish, replaced the broken hinge on the back door and changed the front door back to its original burgundy color, they invited Emory to a celebratory dinner.

  “Kind of a belated housewarming,” Christine said.

  By then she’d gotten a bit nervous about her granddaddy driving, so the plan was for Jack to pick up Emory and have him spend the night.

  On the way over the two men had been chatting, and Emory wasn’t really watching as Jack pulled to the curb. When he stepped out of the car and looked up at the house, a smile came to his face. The house looked as it did in the years when Rose tended the garden. A bed of yellow chrysanthemums bordered the walkway, and to the side of the front porch pansies and snapdragons blossomed in a perfusion of color.

  “It looks every bit as good as it did the first time I saw it,” Emory said.

  That evening they ate supper in the dining room, and the table was set with the good china that had once belonged to Rose. It had been handed down first to Laura and then to Christine. With it came a lifetime of good memories: festive family dinners, special holidays and celebrations.

  After dinner they sat in what was always called the front parlor, the only big difference being that a television set had replaced the radio. On this night, the television was not turned on. Instead they sat and talked.

  “It was right here in this very room that your daddy came and asked me for your mama’s hand in marriage,” Emory said. “He was a fine man, your daddy.”

  When Christine took the children upstairs to get ready for bed, the two men continued to talk.

  “You remind me of Franklin,” Emory told Jack. “Not so much in looks, but personality. You’ve got his love of family and dedication to duty.”

  He gave a saddened sigh of regret then continued. “Of course in Franklin’s case that dedication was what probably cost him his life. If he hadn’t been in the office that night…” Emory let the rest of his thought drift away. It was one of those things that not even time could change.

  Understanding the pain of such a thought, Jack said, “Sometimes a thing is destined to happen, and there’s nothing anyone can do to prevent it. If Feldman hadn’t found Franklin in the office that night, he most likely would have come back the next day or, worse yet, gone to his house. Then only God knows what might have happened.”

  Emory gave a nod of agreement. “I know. The truth is that I should let go of this resentment, but thinking about Feldman getting away with what he did weighs heavy on my heart.”

  Jack sat there saying nothing for a long minute before he asked if Emory had held on to the file folder of newspaper clippings about the incident.

  “Of course,” Emory replied. “I keep thinking maybe someday…”

  “Want me to take a look at it?” Jack asked. “After all these years
there’s probably nothing new, but it wouldn’t hurt to check.”

  When Christine returned to the room, they changed the topic of conversation.

  “I’m thinking the Washington Senators will have a better season next year,” Emory said.

  Jack, a hard-core Yankees fan, picked up on it right away. “They’re at the bottom of the league now. What makes you think they’ll be any better next year?”

  There was no further mention of Franklin or the tragedy of that night.

  It was close to midnight when they finally went to bed, and even though it had been a long day Jack found sleep impossible to come by. Two seconds after he kissed Christine, she turned on her side and fell fast asleep. But for him that was impossible. He kept coming back to thoughts of the earlier conversation.

  He pictured Franklin’s face as it was in the picture when he stood beside Christine on the carousel. Franklin was a young father, a man doing no wrong, a man simply trying to provide for his family. He was Christine’s daddy.

  Jack thought of how his own father had been there for him throughout the years of the Depression. It hadn’t always been easy, but he’d been there. He’d been someone Jack could turn to for guidance. He’d sat alongside Jack’s mama at the football games and at his graduation. Even in the lean years he was there every night, sitting at the head of the table saying grace and promising to take care of his family.

  Christine had had none of that.

  Cold Case

  Jack had planned to simply drop Emory off on his way to work the next morning, but instead he parked the car and followed him upstairs.

  “Mind if I take that folder of clippings now?” he asked.

  Emory pulled the file from the shelf of the hall closet and handed it to him. “Do you really think there’s a chance…?”

  Jack gave a doubtful shrug. “It’s been over twenty-five years; that’s an awfully long time, but you never know.” He grinned. “One lucky break, and we might have ourselves a case.”