by Teri Harman
“Yes, Mrs. O’Nell. Thank you.”
“Call me Mrs. O’Nell or ma’am again and I’ll slap you silly.” She smiled mischievously. “Abby is just fine.”
Henry actually laughed. It hurt his ribs, but it also loosened something wound into a tight knot behind his heart. “Yes, ma’am.” He grinned back.
She playfully slapped his shoulder before picking up his empty mug. “Towels are in the linen closet in the hall. Hot water lasts about a half hour. There’s an old set of crutches behind the door from about fifteen years ago when Gill broke his leg riding his stupid horse, Mator.” An eye roll. “Once you’re decent, I’ll take you to the clinic for those x-rays.”
Henry sat forward, wincing at the protest in his ribs. “Abby?” She turned around, the bedroom door open. “Thank you. Really. You didn’t have to …” Sudden emotion made his voice waver. Few people had showed him kindness in life. His mother, a crack addict, had dumped him on the stairs of a police precinct hours after his birth. From day one in The System, he’d had rotten luck, bounced from bad house to bad house, experiencing little of empathy and compassion. That Abby gave him all without question surprised him greatly.
Abby smiled, her eyes soft and warm. “You’re welcome, Henry.”
n
“Well, it’s not broken. Which is good and bad.” Dr. Wells, a giant of a man, loomed over Henry in the small exam room of the Silent Fields Medical Clinic. The town was so small there wasn’t a real hospital, only one doctor, it appeared. “A bad sprain takes a lot longer to heal than a break. I’m afraid you’ll need to be off it for at least two weeks and then only minimal activity after that for about four weeks.”
“Really? That long?” Henry looked down at his foot secured into a bulky black boot cast. Normally, he ran three to six miles a day, six days a week. He went for walks in the evening. He visited bookstores religiously. To be laid up with only his obfuscated thoughts … it might drive him mad. He came here to be distracted, to get better. Not worse. “But my new job … and I still need to find a place to live.”
Dr. Wells shook his head. “I’ll talk to Ronnie. I’m sure he’ll be okay with waiting another two weeks.” A deep laugh. “Heck, he’s waited this long!”
Henry exhaled in annoyance. He rubbed his forehead. “Um … okay. Is there a good hotel close by?”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Abby spoke up. She’d sat through the whole appointment with him, which made him feel awkward and comforted at the same time. “You’ll stay with us, in the spare room.”
“No, Abby, I can’t do that. I’ve imposed enough. You don’t even know me.”
Abby frowned like he’d insulted her. “Do you have a mother? A wife? A sister or even an aunt? A friend here in town?”
Henry blushed and looked down at his hands. “No, ma’am.”
“Well, I don’t have any sons of my own. God brought you to my door so someone could help you. What kind of Christian would I be to toss you out with little more than a ‘fend for yourself’ pat on the back?” She nodded once. “You’ll stay with me for the two weeks, and then we’ll find you an apartment. I think there’s one open in the Mayor House. I’ll find out. And don’t worry about Ronnie.”
Henry didn’t know if it was God or fate or plain old luck that had led him to her door, but he didn’t want to be a charity case. He’d always been able to take care of himself. She kept saying we. He wasn’t used to that. He opened his mouth to protest again, but Abby cut him off.
“Oh, I know. You can take care of yourself. You’re a big, strong man. But you can get over that for a couple weeks and let an old lady help you.” She adjusted her purse on her lap. “Besides, you’d be doing me a favor. Farm life can be lonely and Gill ain’t much for talking. So can we just skip the macho debate?”
Henry looked over at Dr. Wells, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Sounds reasonable to me,” the doctor said, trying to keep the laugh out of his voice. “The ankle and the ribs will make it tough to do much of anything. You’ll need help, whether you want it or not. Abby’s the perfect nurse, I promise you.”
Henry’s cheeks were hot, no doubt as red as apples. He turned to Abby, who smiled like the fox in the hen house, knowing she’d won. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She slugged him in the shoulder. “I told you to stop that ma’am crap.”
n
Abby had Henry settled into bed with a full belly and a teetering stack of books by his nightstand by nine that evening. The awkwardness of being waited on itched under his skin. Henry’s shyness, not his ego, made it so difficult. The attention was too much. As a kid, he’d trained himself to be as invisible as possible, to fly under the radar of his foster parents, especially the ones who liked to hit. He’d done everything for himself so he didn’t have to ask for anything. Now, here he was confined to a bed while the ideal grandmother tutted around him, taking care of every need like he deserved it.
“Abby, really, go enjoy your evening. I’ll be fine.”
“I know. But I got one more thing. Hold on—I’ll be right back.”
Henry dropped his head back to the pillows with a frustrated sigh. He cursed the rain and slippery road and his stupid ankle. He cursed the weakness that had brought him here.
A moment later, Abby was back, a large box in her arms. She set it on the end of the bed and disappeared out in the hall again. Loud scraping on the floor preceded her dragging in an ancient card table with an ugly green top. Lastly, she muscled in one of the kitchen chairs.
“What’s this?” Henry asked. “You’ll see,” she sing-songed. She set up the card table and placed the chair. From the box she lifted his black typewriter, low and sleek. “Ta-da! Penny Dobbs—that’s the secretary over at the police station—brought over your things. I thought you’d like this all set up. This is a beauty of a typewriter.”
Henry lowered his brows. His heart beat strangely at the sight of the machine. He wanted desperately to touch the keys. “Yes, it is,” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Where did you find it? Most people your age use computers.”
“Yeah, umm … I just sort of stumbled upon it. It’s a Remington Rand, from 1937. It was Agatha Christie’s favorite model.” Those were the only solid facts he could give her.
Abby touched the keys appreciatively.
Henry tried to keep his expression neutral. The words were already pounding on the inside of his skull. Words that wanted out, but that he couldn’t seem to release since waking up in the library with six years missing. “Thanks.”
Abby nodded. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” He pulled his eyes away from the typewriter.
Abby watched him for a moment. He tried to keep his emotions hidden under the surface. A longing rose inside him, so powerful he suddenly found it hard to breathe. And a fear, twice as bad.
Abby reached into the box again. “Here are some of your books.” She set a small stack next to the one already on the nightstand. A Thousand Sleepless Nights lay on top. The others he’d bought on the drive down. There’d been a used bookstore by the gas station outside Kansas City that he hadn’t been able to resist. It didn’t feel right not to have books. He’d walked out with a whole box and only a few dollars left to get him to Silent Fields.
Abby looked back in the box. “Where are your clothes?” She lifted her eyes to him and his stomach tightened.
“I like to travel light” was his pathetic excuse.
Abby nodded slowly, knowingly. “Well, then I’ll go into town tomorrow and get you some things. You can’t keep wearing Gill’s ugly hand-me-downs.”
“Abby, you really don’t—”
“And in case you want to do any writing on that typewriter …” Abby cut him off and hurried out of the room. Henry took long breaths and forced himself not to look at the typewriter or the books. Abby strolled back in and plopped a stack of white paper on the table. “I look forward to the soothing sound of the keys. Soothing and also inspirational. My mom
took in typing when I was young. I love the sound of a good solid typewriter. Those new computers just don’t have the same sound.”
Henry could only nod as he listened to the sound of keys in his head.
Abby paused for a beat and then went to the door. “Good night, then.”
“Good night. Thanks.”
Abby hummed her acceptance and shut the door.
Henry rolled over, away from the typewriter. How would he be able to sleep with all the words in uprising? And all the questions that came with them. The same ones that echoed in his head nonstop.
He shouldn’t have come here. How could he have thought he could run from his problems? From his mystery?
So stupid. You are a stupid man.
Yet he’d been unable to do anything else but come.
Run away, start over.
Henry felt certain it was the right thing to do, but he had no evidence to support this feeling. So far it wasn’t going well at all. Certainly, nothing like he’d imagined as he drove.
And now, the typewriter at his back, begging him to write and A Thousand Sleepless Nights beside him, begging to be read. But he didn’t have the strength to read Winston’s book, and he’d given up writing his own words. He was done. Henry switched off the bedside lamp and closed his eyes.
I’m done.
Matilda
Matilda stood under the grand chandelier in the library foyer gazing straight up into the crystals, like looking up at the star-filled sky. If she listened closely, she could hear them tinkle in the airflow from the heater. The rain had stopped before dawn, and the sun was quickly working on erasing it, but the air remained crisp. Sunlight danced over the crystals. She had the urge to spin in a circle.
For a moment she felt whole.
A very brief moment.
“Well, well. I almost thought Thea was making the whole thing up.”
Matilda lowered her chin, erasing her smile to greet Beverly with due humility. “Hello, Beverly.”
Beverly only raised an eyebrow. The head librarian looked exactly the same: matronly and severe. “Can I trust you?”
Matilda folded her hands contritely. “Yes, ma’am. I apologize for my leaving without notice before.” It still made her uncomfortable to admit to something she didn’t remember but she had to keep up the act.
Beverly’s eyebrow climbed higher. “Not much has changed. The computers have been updated, but I trust you’ll be fine with that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And I assume Thea informed you about your probation. Not one mistake, Miss White.”
The sound of her last name tugged at something in her head. Why didn’t it sound right? “Yes, of course.”
“Well, then get to work. There’s a cart that needs shelving.”
Matilda nodded and went to the circulation desk to stow her things. Pushing the cart down through the stacks gave her an unsettling sense of vertigo. This is right and yet … it isn’t. Matilda shook the thought away and focused on her work.
Thea found her a half hour later. It still surprised Matilda to see her friend with a pregnant belly. Thea wore a long blue knit dress, stretched tightly over her bump. Her fingernails were painted pink, no longer black. “Has Beverly been horrid?” she asked.
“Nothing more than usual. I see time has not softened her.”
Thea laughed. “The opposite, if anything.” Thea picked up a book from the cart and shelved it. “You doing okay?”
Matilda slid a book into place. “Yeah.” It was mostly true, as long as she didn’t allow her thoughts to wander into the blackness.
Thea nodded. “Want to go to lunch at The Mad Hash? It’s still as good as always.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Plus, I brought the last of your pasta to eat.”
“Is that all you’ve eaten for two days? I could have brought groceries. But really, you need to stop hiding.”
“I know. I’ll go to the market tonight—I have to. Not only do I need food, but things like toilet paper, deodorant, shampoo, toothpaste. A toothbrush, actually.” Thea made a face, but laughed. Matilda went on, “I wish there was a way to keep hiding—”
“Good heavens!”
Matilda had spoken too soon. Rosie Silverton stood behind Thea with a hand on her chest, as if the sight of Matilda had given her palpitations. Rosie was tall and thin, in her sixties, and always wore tailored pantsuits; she had one in every color. Her auburn-gray hair was tied into a neat chignon, not a hair out of place. Her family owned the mill, which made her Silent Fields royalty, especially in Rosie’s own mind.
“Matilda White. The prodigal child returns.”
Matilda winced and Thea rolled her eyes, her back to Rosie. “Hello, Rosie,” Matilda said quietly.
Rosie stepped closer. “I have to say I’m shocked. Just shocked. I didn’t think you would come back after what you did to poor Parker.”
“Parker is fine, Rosie,” Thea interjected.
Rosie waved a hand at her. “Oh, I know. I just mean … well, that was quite the drama, wasn’t it?”
“It’s nice to see you, Rosie,” Matilda said, trying to diffuse the woman’s curiosity. “How are Sid and Katie?”
“Oh, the kids are fine,” she glossed over the question and dove into her own inquisition. “What brought you back? Where have you been? Did you apologize to Parker? I’m surprised Beverly took you back. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her as mad as when she found out you’d disappeared. And the way Parker moped around town. His heart shattered …” Her manicured hand came back to her chest.
“Rosie, come on now,” Thea started.
Matilda put her hand on Thea’s arm and smiled at her. Then looked to Rosie. “It was just time to come home.”
Rosie frowned at this vague answer, but seeing the expression on Matilda’s face held back further questions. She, no doubt, was concocting her own story to spread around town. “Well, yes. Everyone likes to come home. Who wouldn’t want to come home to our perfect little town? You shouldn’t have left. I suppose you finally realized that.”
Matilda smiled stiffly and picked up a book to signal she was ready to get back to work. “It was nice to see you, Rosie.” Rosie frowned at her again, followed by a judgmental head to toe examination. Matilda was glad she’d worn a long skirt and long sleeved shirt to hide all her ugly scars. She hated to think what kind of rumors would come from people seeing those. She fought the urge to cover the tiny ones on her cheek with her hand and thanked the bad lighting in the stacks.
“You too,” Rosie finally said and turned on her heel.
Matilda and Thea exchanged a look. After a moment, Thea said, “Oh, yes. Perfect little Silent Fields.”
Matilda smiled weakly, thinking she’d also need to get some makeup for the scars on her cheek. Or maybe she should just disappear in the night again.
n
By the end of day, Matilda was blue in the face from answering—or rather not answering—questions about where she’d been for the last six years and why she’d come back and why she’d left like a thief in the night. It seemed people were coming in the library solely to pepper her with why and how and what. And to see Silent Fields’s lost child returned in the flesh. Matilda wasn’t the only one annoyed. Beverly had been steaming from the ears all day, put out to have her schedules and rules compromised for such petty drama. Several times, Matilda thought Beverly might fire her just because of the disturbance.
When Matilda locked the front doors, she heaved a long sigh of relief. “This town,” she muttered. No one had actually asked her how she was doing, if she needed anything, if they could help. All they wanted to do was gossip about her scars and her limp, which everyone seemed to know about despite her clothing. She guessed she had Dr. Wells to thank for that. One woman, Cindy Block, a baker at Estelle’s, had leaned close and asked if a man had given her the scars and limp. “Did he beat you? Is that why you’re back? You’re running away from a man.” A tongue click and head sh
ake. “Honey, it happens all the time.”
Matilda had blinked in shock, unable to answer, which Cindy probably took as a yes. But the truth was, it was possible. Maybe it’d been so bad that the trauma of it had blocked her memory. But Matilda couldn’t imagine herself ever being with a man who beat her. What if it had happened against her will?
Matilda couldn’t let herself wander down those slimy thought paths.
With the library now closed to the curious, she put her head on her arms on top of the circulation desk. “I hate everyone.”
Thea was there, shuffling papers. “Well, don’t feel too bad. They hate you more.” Matilda heard the smile in her words.
“I hate you most of all.”
“I know.” Thea closed a drawer. “Come on. Let’s go to The Mad Hash and eat fries until we explode.”
Matilda lifted her weary head. “Are you kidding me? It’ll be a public flogging. Rocks might be thrown.”
“Maybe a hamburger or two.”
Beverly interrupted, stomping over from out of the stacks. “Doors locked?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Matilda reported.
“I trust tomorrow will not include such an intrusion from your personal life, Miss White.” Beverly took her small purse from a drawer and tucked it under her arm.
“Oh, how I hope so.”
Beverly only frowned, and then turned on her heel to leave.
Thea giggled quietly. “She’s just jealous she never had a personal life.”
Matilda rolled her eyes. “I’m going home. I need to recover before I go to the market.”
“Want a ride? Think of the floggings possible walking down the sidewalk. Lots of readily available rocks.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
In Thea’s red Honda Civic, Matilda leaned her head against the cold window. The sun was shining and flowers were blooming, a lovely spring.
“Oh, did you hear about the mystery guy?” Thea gossiped.
Matilda closed her eyes, suddenly annoyed by the high-pitched tone of Thea’s voice. “No.”
“Well … apparently he crashed his car in the storm Monday night and walked like ten miles on a broken foot to Abby O’Nell’s house. And Abby being Abby—she took him in and is helping him recover from the accident. Dr. Wells saw him yesterday.”