The Promise of Home

by Darcie Chan

  “And where would you two stay?” Ruth asked with a mischievous, puckered smile. “Surely you wouldn’t spend your wedding night at home.”

  “Well, I think—” Claudia began.

  “Oh, no,” Kyle interrupted, and Claudia turned to look at him again. “We’ll be out of here that evening. We’re not leaving for the honeymoon until after Christmas, but I’ve got something in mind for our first night as a married couple.”

  “You didn’t say anything to me about that,” Claudia said in a mock protest. She poked him gently in the ribs.

  “Of course I didn’t.” He grabbed her hand to protect against further jabs.

  “Where are we going?”

  Kyle smiled but didn’t answer. Instead, he spoke to Ruth. “So, what do you think about us maybe being your first customers?”

  “It would be an honor to host your families and your reception,” Ruth said. “Oh, I can’t wait to show you the whole house! You’ll be able to see how perfect everything will be. That is, if we can be ready. Emily, are you sure we can commit to it?”

  As Claudia watched, a fleeting look of concern passed over Emily’s face. It was gone in an instant, though, replaced with a wide smile.

  “Absolutely. It’ll be close, but I’ll make it happen.”

  —

  In the master bedroom on the second floor of the marble mansion, Emily turned off the edge sander she had been using and shifted into a sitting position on the floor. Without the noise of the machine, she could hear Ruth chatting with Kyle, Claudia, and Rowen on their way out. She tried to ignore the stress that had been building after she’d agreed to have the house ready in time for Kyle and Claudia’s wedding. True, she had plenty of experience working to meet deadlines, and she had brought enough old houses back to their original grandeur to know what remained to be done in the McAllister mansion, but it wouldn’t be easy. Between her part-time job at Turner’s Hardware and the odd jobs she did on the side for her mother’s real estate listings, she wouldn’t have a spare minute for the next two months.

  Emily sighed and got back on her hands and knees. Using a small handheld sander to remove the final bits of old finish on a wood floor was her least favorite part of the refinishing process. She took some comfort in knowing that this was the last room, though. She had finished the wood floors on the lower level during the summer, and the floors in many of the other bedrooms upstairs needed nothing but a good mopping and waxing, since they had never been used. Emily continued working her way around the room, crawling along the windows and into the closet.

  It was then that she felt the crack in the floor beneath her hand.

  She switched off the sander. The crack seemed to run perpendicular to the planks of the wood floor, and her first thought was that she might have to completely replace several of the pieces of wood. When she looked closely, though, she saw that the crack wasn’t a crack at all but one side of a well-camouflaged rectangle that had been cut into the floor.

  In fact, it looked like some sort of trapdoor.

  “Emily?” Ruth’s voice called, and the sound of footsteps on the stairs followed soon after.

  “In here,” she replied.

  Ruth entered the room, slightly out of breath. “Goodness, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to such a big staircase.”

  “A big staircase for a big house.”

  “Yes. I guess I’m ready to head home. I just wanted to check to see if you needed anything.”

  “No, I’m good,” Emily said. “I’m going to leave, too, as soon as I’m done edging in here. I’ll vacuum first thing in the morning and then get going on the stain. I’ll lock up everything, as usual.” Her hand was still resting on the floor, and she felt the crack leaving an indentation on her palm.

  “Thanks, honey. You have a good night.”

  Once Ruth had left the house, Emily jumped up. Her toolbox was on the floor near the base of the stairs, and she descended quickly to grab one of her putty knives and a flashlight. Then, back in the master bedroom, she entered the closet and knelt down. The thin blade of the putty knife just fit into the crack. It was difficult, but she was able to pry up a chunk of the floor, a rectangular lid, which she set aside. She switched on her flashlight and peered down into a hidden compartment. The space was perhaps two feet deep. The only thing inside, other than dust and cobwebs, was an old hard-sided briefcase.

  Emily took hold of the dusty handle and pulled it out. The case was made of smooth tan leather. Unlike most modern cases, which used combination locks, the brass locks on either side of the handle had keyholes. To her chagrin, the locks were engaged. She shook the briefcase gently. It wasn’t heavy, but a soft rustling noise from inside told her that it wasn’t empty, either.

  Maybe the key to the briefcase is still in the compartment.

  Again, she shone the flashlight down into the hole. She was more careful this time, moving the light slowly and running her fingers through the dust at the bottom of the compartment in the hope of finding a wayward key. She found nothing, and the disturbed dust rose in a cloud that sent her into a sneezing fit.

  When she had recovered, she took another good look at her find. A small bronze plaque attached to one corner of the case was engraved with P. MCALLISTER. Obviously, it had belonged to a member of the McAllister family and eventually, Mary McAllister. Which meant that now, like everything in the McAllister mansion, it was the property of Ruth and her husband.

  I can drop it off at the Fitzgeralds’ apartment on the way home, Emily thought, but telling herself this did nothing to lessen her intense curiosity about what was inside the old briefcase. Surely she could find a way to open it without breaking the locks. The case was in remarkable condition and probably valuable as an antique. Plus, she reasoned, it would be a favor to Ruth, since she and her husband would be able to inspect its contents easily.

  Of course, if I open it, I’ll be able to see what’s in it, too.

  A part of her was ashamed at her willingness to justify and commit such an inappropriate invasion of privacy. Still, that part wasn’t strong enough to prevent her from going back to her toolbox in search of a small screwdriver or a long nail—or anything else that might help her coax the locks on the briefcase into revealing what was inside.

  —

  As the afternoon gave way to a chilly evening, Father O’Brien drove carefully down the main road leaving Mill River. However, instead of following the curve of the road around and through the old covered bridge spanning the river for which the town was named, he turned left into a driveway and parked.

  As he had recently started to do before meeting with someone in person, he snapped his fingers several times, first on one side of his head and then the other, to make sure he could hear them properly. For a nonagenarian, he was in excellent health. His vision was still remarkably good; he’d easily passed the vision test the last time he had renewed his license. But his hearing was another matter. He’d finally had to get hearing aids for both ears, and they were simultaneously a godsend and a major annoyance. When they were inserted and functioning normally, he could hear quite well. But getting them adjusted to the proper volume in each ear, and making sure the batteries had enough juice, was a constant struggle. Today he had been called to the home of Karen Cooper, one of his parishioners, and he knew it was especially important that he be able to hear everything clearly once he was inside.

  A car in desperate need of a new muffler drove by just as he stepped down out of his pickup truck. He suddenly felt a bit dizzy, and he kept his hand on the doorframe until the sensation passed. Maybe his hearing aids weren’t quite as calibrated as he thought, or maybe the unusually loud noise of the car was too much for them to handle. He snapped his fingers again to reassure himself, then approached the front door of the Cooper residence. Jean Wykowski, Karen’s next-door neighbor, opened the door before he’d even raised his hand to knock.

  “Hello, Father. Thank you for coming so quickly.” Jean’s expression was gri
m.

  “Hello, Jean,” he said quietly. He could see over Jean’s shoulder into the kitchen, where Karen and her son, Ben, sat at the table. “You said on the phone that Nick’s gone missing?”

  “Yes, they just got word,” Jean said, her voice barely above a whisper. “No one’s seen him in four days, since he went out for supplies.”

  “Oh, my,” Father O’Brien said.

  “They’ve got people out looking for him, troops mostly, but some private security teams, too. Karen’s taking it pretty hard.”

  Father O’Brien nodded and went to the kitchen.

  Karen looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. “Thank you for coming, Father.”

  “Of course,” he replied. Carefully, he pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. He waited for Karen to speak.

  “I know Jean told you they can’t find Nick,” she said. “Four days ago, he and a colleague left work in the morning and never came back. They were supposed to pick up some things for the shop, and they made it to the warehouse and signed for the supplies, but after that…” Her voice trailed off. She took a deep breath. “Someone from his company called, a man. I wrote down his name and number. He said they have people searching for them, retracing their route and all that, but no other information at this time.”

  Her voice broke as she struggled to finish her sentence. Jean came up behind Karen to put an arm around her shoulders. Ben sat silently across from his mother and stared down at the table. Father O’Brien tried to think what he could say that would bring some comfort.

  “Karen, I know Nick is a good man. He’s smart and strong. Whatever happened, wherever he is, we have to believe he’ll find a way out of the situation. We have to trust that God is looking out for him. Now, listen to me, Karen. You’ve got to stay strong for Nick, and for your son here. Both of them need you.”

  Karen nodded through her tears, and Ben glanced up at him for the first time.

  Father O’Brien took Karen’s hand and Ben’s hand. “Will you join me in asking our Heavenly Father to protect him?”

  Karen nodded, and he and Ben bowed their heads. For a moment before he closed his own eyes, he watched Karen’s son. Ben was growing up so quickly, and yet he was still so young, perhaps twelve or thirteen. It was a difficult age, at the beginning of the transition from childhood to adulthood, an impressionable time during which the boy would need his father more than ever. He knew exactly how Ben must be feeling. Even now, in the sunset of his life, it was all too easy to remember himself at Ben’s age, sitting at his family’s table and facing the great uncertainty of his own father’s absence.

  Chapter 2

  Saturday, March 17, 1934

  From his place at the dinner table, Michael O’Brien watched his mother ladle stew into his father’s bowl. His stomach was gnawing at itself, and he tried to ease the uncomfortable feeling by fidgeting in his chair.

  “Be still, Michael,” his grandmother whispered from her seat beside him. “You’ll get yours in a minute.”

  “Thank you, Anna,” his father said as he accepted the bowl from his mother. “This smells delicious.”

  “Way better than that Hoover stew they were serving in Burlington.” Seamus, his brother, sat next to their father with his mouth scrunched up in disgust. At twenty-two years old, and over seven years his senior, his brother was a grown man. They had always been opposites. Seamus was brash, impulsive, even rough at times, whereas Michael was quiet and studious.

  Seamus and their father had worked at the textile mill in Winooski, and both had been laid off when the hard times hit. Desperate for income, they had accepted menial jobs with the Civil Works Administration in Burlington. The funding for the program had run out, though, and the two of them had taken to walking the few miles into the city each day in the hope of finding odd jobs. They ate at the soup kitchen regularly.

  “In times like these, you should be thankful for any food you’re given,” his mother said quietly to Seamus. “And tonight, there’s plenty of meat, thanks to Michael. He’s become quite the hunter.”

  Michael smiled, pleased at his mother’s praise, even though it had no effect on his empty stomach.

  “He has,” his father agreed. “And squirrel’s the best wild game there is. How many did you get, son?”

  “Six.”

  “Well.” His father smiled. “You keep it up. They breed like rats in the trees. The woods will never run out of them, especially with spring on its way. There’ll be a whole new crop of them, and other things to hunt, too. So long as you’ve got your good aim, having fresh meat is one thing your mother won’t have to worry about while Seamus and I are away.”

  The table fell silent save for the sound of the ladle scraping against the inside of the pot.

  Thinking about his father and brother’s looming departure was perhaps the only thing that could have pulled Michael’s attention away from his hunger. They weren’t going to Burlington this time. Instead, his father and brother would use the last of the family’s cash to travel to New York, where they had heard that men were being hired to work on the construction of a great bridge connecting the various boroughs of New York City.

  “I’m counting on you, Michael,” his father continued. “You’ll have to take care of your mother and grandmother while we’re gone. It’s a lot of responsibility.”

  “I will, Father,” Michael said quietly. “I promise.”

  Once the food was served and his father opened his eyes after saying grace, Michael snatched up his spoon. He had intended to try to eat slowly so his food would last longer. Still, he couldn’t help but take a huge first bite. The hot stew burned his mouth and his throat when he swallowed, but it quieted the ache in his stomach.

  It was safer to eat his bread first, and he dipped his piece into the rich gravy in his bowl. While he chewed, he watched the four other members of his family.

  His father, Niall, sat at the head of the table. He was tall, with thinning brown hair that faded to gray at the temples. His prominent shoulders were hunched forward as he ate. His tough, sinewy arms evidenced his long years of hard work at the mill.

  Anna, his mother, was meek and soft. She had dark hair and a fair complexion. With her dainty wrists and dimpled elbows, she appeared doll-like next to the lean, rugged form of his father.

  “This is good, Anna,” his grandmother said from the chair next to him. Her name was Elizabeth, but almost everyone called her Lizzie. She had a raspy voice and was as wiry and tough as her son Niall. Several of her teeth were missing. Michael knew his grandmother was partial to his mother’s stews because not only were they delicious, but also everything in them was tender and easy for her to eat.

  “I’ll sure miss your cooking, Mother,” Seamus said. “No telling what we’ll be eating while we’re gone.” Michael’s brother was a fiery-tempered, younger version of their father, except that his hair was dark, like their mother’s.

  “Now, son, you ought not to worry your mother by saying things like that,” Niall said. “We’ll be fine. And we’ll be able to look forward to better times, and more suppers like this, once we’re home.”

  “You’re sure you’ll travel tomorrow, then?” Michael noticed a slight tremor in his mother’s lip as she waited for a response.

  Niall nodded with his mouth full. “We’ll catch a train leaving Burlington in the morning. We should be to New York by nightfall.”

  “I just hope there will be enough work to go around,” Lizzie said. “Seems like the projects in Burlington ended soon after they started. It would be a shame for you to get all the way to New York and find nothing available.”

  “The real shame is that the projects around here were only designed to last the winter, and most of them weren’t anything of substance,” Niall said. “If the government wants to pay people, it should be for something more than make-work. At least the bridge in New York will be something that’s lasting and useful.”

  “And they ought to pay bridge workers a decent
wage,” Seamus said.

  “How long will you stay, Father?” Michael asked.

  His father’s face sagged into an apologetic frown, and he paused to swallow a mouthful of stew before he answered. “I suppose we’ll stay as long as we can. If we’re hired on, I expect there’ll be work to do at least through the summer and into next fall. I’d guess they’ll want to do as much as can be done while the weather’s good.”

  “If you get steady work, that will be all we could ask for,” his mother said. “You mustn’t worry about us here. We’ll be fine, the three of us. The animals and the garden will keep us busy, and Frank is nearby if we need him.”

  Michael smiled. Uncle Frank’s visits were something he hoped would happen more often. His mother’s brother was a priest at the Holy Cross Mission in Colchester, and he was always cheerful and pleasant. He often brought a small surprise or treat when he came to the house.

  “I’m thankful for that,” his father said. “We may be gone until next winter, if the work and the wages are good.”

  “What if things turn around here? What if the mill calls you back?” his mother asked.

  “You should send word to me, but I doubt it will happen. Orders had all but dried up when I left. If anything, the mill may close completely.” His father leaned back in his chair and looked earnestly at his family. “They say Roosevelt has all sorts of plans to lift the country out of the depression, but I’ll believe that when I see it. Until then, it’ll be every man for himself. There are no jobs here, and I won’t sit idle with a family to provide for. I’ll take my chances in New York.”

  —

  Michael heard his mother working in the kitchen soon after the first faint rays of sun came through his bedroom window. He turned his head and saw Seamus pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders. A large rucksack sat on the twin bed next to his brother.

  “Sorry to wake you,” Seamus muttered.