Hidden Dreams

by Darlene Franklin

  Caught up in her study of the trees, she almost missed the turn for the cemetery. Only an overgrown path suggested that humans passed this way. A short distance after the geese’s nest, she found a plot with perhaps fifty grave markers.

  Even this early in the spring, when grass didn’t require cutting, someone took care of the cemetery. Fresh flowers grew around each grave, from the tiniest to the few graves with granite gravestones. Crosses that the years had pounded close to the ground marked a handful. Others had words scratched into the wood, and later ones had words and pictures carved in granite. Whether plain or fancy, each memorial represented someone loved and grieved.

  Oh, Daddy. Before she had left New York, she had met with her pastor in secret to give money so that Daddy would receive a proper burial. If the day ever came that she could return to the city, she would find his grave and make sure someone took care of it. Daddy didn’t have anyone else who would care.

  Wallace didn’t know how lucky he was. The middle of the cemetery held her tears for the lives the place represented and the one person she missed more than anybody in the world. Her tears turned to song, her surest cure for sadness ever since her childhood. “Amazing Grace,” “Blessed Assurance,” “Fairest Lord Jesus”—she had memorized every verse.

  Various scents pushed their way into her consciousness, the smells of new grass and flowers pushing their way through wet dirt. Mixed with the earthy fragrance smells she sensed a sharper aroma, that of burning wood. Looking around, she located a single column of telltale smoke not far in the distance.

  Wallace’s cabin.

  * * *

  Wallace sank deep into the atmosphere surrounding his retreat. He couldn’t describe it as quiet. Here and there mice skittered across the ground and birds flapped their wings overhead or sat in the trees and sang their mating calls. Once or twice he had brought his cat out to the cabin with him, but in general he preferred the cabin to remain the way it was when his great-greats first moved to Maple Notch. Closing his journal, he let the peace of the day flood him.

  An unexpected sound intruded on his solitude. A woman’s voice sang “Fairest Lord Jesus.”

  “‘Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands, robed in the blooming garb of spring.’”

  The hymn captured his feelings for the day. He joined in the song. “‘Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer.’”

  “‘Who makes the woeful heart to sing.’” Alone, Mary Anne’s voice rose in a final measure. “Aaaa—men.”

  The angels couldn’t have sounded much better when God created the earth. Mary Anne’s voice was so beautiful, for a moment he forgot he was irritated with her for interrupting his peace.

  “What a beautiful day.” Mary Anne twirled in a circle. “I’m glad I decided to come out this way.”

  She looked around as if seeking a place to sit, and Wallace scooted over on the step, making room for her. Gathering her skirts around her legs, she sat down and smoothed out the wrinkles in the skirt. The sun had warmed the air somewhat, or perhaps she had become heated on her walk, and she unbuttoned the front of her coat. The sailor collar peeking out took some of the harshness away from her bobbed hair and pale face.

  “Your journal.” The words came out with a reverential air. She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned in, as if unaware of the effect she could have on a man. She remained as forward as any flapper he had ever met, while she reflected an inborn innocence. “Raccoons! Do they live near here?”

  “They come down to the river. All the animals do, at dawn and at dusk. Only the brave come in the middle of the day, when predators abound.”

  Her laughter had a mocking tone. “Like the people who go to speakeasies from dusk to dawn and spend their days abed. I’ve always been more of a morning person.”

  She leaned over further, and he handed the sketchbook to her to make it easier. “Oh, may I?” She traced her fingers over the lines he had drawn. “What is it that they are playing with?”

  The colorful bead didn’t reveal itself well in shades of black and white. “It’s a bead. Betty broke one of Clarinda’s necklaces, and she let me take the pieces. Raccoons like pretty things.”

  Mary Anne turned the pages slowly, studying each sketch in detail. However, she didn’t pause to read his jottings, and he felt strangely aggrieved.

  She turned at last to a blank page and sighed. “I want to see more. How many of these books do you have?”

  “I’m working on my third volume.” At least three days a week, he worked on them. Even in the coldest days of winter, he had gone in hunt of animals that ventured out in the snow.

  She paged back to the mother raccoon with her babies, four identical faces peering up at him. “I’ve never seen a live raccoon before. They look like robbers, don’t they, with masks on their faces? And I guess they do rob things, if they grab beads. Daddy always said God must have a sense of humor.” The laughter vanished from her face. “Or maybe not.” Shutting the book, she handed it back to Wallace. “I was in the cemetery when I saw the cabin.” Her shoulders slumping, she stared pensively at the woods.

  How could he stay upset with this woman, who took the same joy he did in God’s creatures and escaped outside to find peace when she was grieving? He wanted to ask about her father, but she hadn’t mentioned him even when he brought up the subject of his own parents’ deaths.

  Time had passed since then, so he decided to risk it. “Your father must have been a special man.”

  “He was. There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about something he said or did, and I start missing him all over again.” When she looked at Wallace, tears glittered in her blue eyes. “Tell me, does it get any easier?”

  “Some people will tell you that time heals all wounds. And logic tells you that parents will die before their children do. But you and I, we’re too young to have lost both of our parents already. It’s not natural.”

  He heard the rise in his voice, and she began crying openly.

  “Aw, shucks, Mary Anne. It is better now than when they first died. Some days I hardly think about them, if at all. Every so often, I think of them so much I almost hurt inside. And other days, like when I see the baby animals, or when Clarinda had her children, I realize that life goes on. That’s the way God intends it.” In his attempt to offer hope to Mary Anne, he had revealed more of himself than he had to most other people.

  “We’re born, we live, we die,” she said. “That would be sad, except isn’t that how Paul describes the gospel? ‘Moreover, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel which I preached unto you, which also ye have received, and wherein ye stand...how that Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures. And that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day according to the scriptures.’”

  Mary Anne continued quoting from the fifteenth chapter of the first letter to the Corinthians, where Paul mentioned Jesus’s appearances after His resurrection. She didn’t hesitate as she continued quoting verse after verse, not making a mistake that Wallace could tell.

  “‘If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable.’” She stopped her recitation in mid-chapter. “I’ve always liked that verse. Without the hope of Jesus’s resurrection, and our own eternal life, we’re as miserable as everyone else. Thank you for reminding me that death isn’t the end of it. Daddy is in Heaven, waiting for me.”

  Wallace hadn’t reminded her of anything; rather, she had taken him back to the hope they shared because of the resurrection. Sunday school teachers had pounded into his head the short passage about Jesus’ death, burial and resurrection, and preachers frequently read from the passage before they partook of the Lord’s Supper. But Wallace had never heard anyone else quote half the chapter without a pause, not even the pastor. She rose several degrees in his estimation.

  Standing, she explored the o
utside of the cabin, rubbing her hands along the logs, her fingers poking through the chinks that needed attention before winter. He strolled behind her, studying her response to the place generations of his family had called home.

  “Was this your family’s home during the Revolutionary War?”

  “That house tumbled down eventually. The ruins are close to here, though, if you want to see them one day.”

  Why had he said that, when he came to the cabin seeking solitude? “My great-grandfather built this cabin. My parents lived here until they built their own place. Clarinda was born here.”

  Mary Anne grunted. She had reached the back wall and stopped at the chimney, feeling the smooth surface of the rock. Year-round, even when a hot fire burned inside, the outside walls stayed fairly cool to the touch. They made their way back to the front. “It’s small. As small as our apartment was.” Mary Anne spread her arms as if to she could circle the cabin in her embrace.

  Wallace laughed. “And yet families with eight children lived in places not much bigger than this.”

  “But you come out here to be alone.” She nodded her head as if to emphasize the point.

  Had he made her feel unwelcome? “Well...” Heat rose in his cheeks, and he started to turn away, then worried that movement would reinforce his unsociable attitude.

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” she whispered. “If I could have escaped to a quiet place, away from my loud neighbors, I would have gone in a minute.” She shuffled her feet. “In fact, I enjoyed having the house to myself this morning, although your family has been wonderful.” She opened the oval watch hanging from a chain around her neck. “It’s later than I thought. I better head back to the house before Clarinda gets home and wonders where I disappeared to.”

  A will-o’-the-wisp, no more substantial than a feather carried by the wind, Mary Anne buttoned her coat and headed down the path. She turned around once to wave.

  Her departure left a void Wallace didn’t care to examine too closely.

  Chapter 8

  Mary Anne sat wedged between Winnie and Wallace on the Tuttle family pew. A small plaque on the end of the pew even carried their names. Clarinda had seen her running her fingers over the brass, and she read it aloud: “‘In loving memory of Mr. and Mrs. George Tuttle, 1919.’” How many generations of Tuttles had sat in this same pew? Probably they had worshipped the Lord in this sanctuary since the first Sunday it opened.

  As a girl, Mary Anne had found it difficult to stay still. She learned better when her hands were busy doing something else. Daddy had allowed her to sit on the floor, coloring to her heart’s content. At home, she memorized chunks of scripture by listening to Daddy read from their Bible while she played with her dolls. That Bible had taken its place in her suitcase, although she didn’t expect to use it.

  Howie, Arthur and Betty stood with the other children in the back, awaiting the Palm Sunday procession. The organist stopped playing, and a hush descended over the congregation. In the back, feet shuffled and whispering voices conveyed last-minute instructions to the children.

  “This is Betty’s first time.” Wallace leaned over and spoke into Mary Anne’s ear.

  “I know,” she whispered back. “She hasn’t stopped talking about it all week.”

  Howard looked at them, and they both sat back, quiet, like two children caught doing something naughty.

  The organist played an introduction, and warbling high voices sang off-key as the smallest children marched down the center aisle, holding the hands of the older children. Howie held Betty’s hand, and they each waved a bunch of marsh grass that grew by rivers. Somewhere they might have palm branches for Easter, but not here in northern Vermont. When Betty reached the row containing her family, she dropped Howie’s hand and waved.

  The children sang, the words coming clearer as they neared the front. “First let me hear how the children stood round his knee, and I shall fancy his blessing resting on me...”

  “Tell me the stories of Jesus.” Nodding, hungry for the stories of Jesus that she had loved since childhood, Mary Anne swallowed against the lump that had formed in her throat. Oh, to have the innocence of these little ones as they climbed on His knees.

  The children remained at the front of the sanctuary while the hymn singing continued. “All Glory, Laud and Honor” followed “Hosanna, Loud Hosanna.” As the songs of praise lifted to the heavens, Mary Anne rejoiced in her decision to come to church to worship on this day. A careful application of makeup hid the bruises which had nearly faded. A few ladies of the church also used a bit of lipstick, a brush of color on their cheeks.

  Clarinda had provided Mary Anne with a crocheted hat that clung to her head. A thin black band around the rim and a larger band at the crown set off the pure white thread, a stylish design appropriate for this setting. It also hid most of her hair. A stranger in a small town, she didn’t expect to escape notice. But neither did she want to leave a bad impression. From what she had learned about the Tuttles, branches of the family spread across the northeast. Maybe the congregation would think she was a distant relative come for a visit.

  Whatever the danger of discovery, Mary Anne had to attend church on Palm Sunday and Easter. Even if her behavior during the past few months had led her into waters few Christians ever navigated, she felt compelled to worship her risen Savior, to celebrate all He had done for her. For her, Mary Anne Laurents or Marabelle Lamont, whatever she called herself. And Lord, next year, let me worship You in the place where You want me to begin my life over again.

  Mary Anne looked down the pew, at Betty fidgeting in her mother’s lap, at Arthur and Howie trading crayons across the floor, a scuffle halted by a stern look from their father. Wallace shook his head and returned his attention to the preacher. His pen drummed a light rhythm on his Bible, as if itching to sketch the people at worship, etching the pastor’s words into his memory.

  The pastor announced the passage for his sermon, the twenty-first chapter of Matthew. He called for the congregation to rise in honor of the reading of God’s Word.

  Wallace held out his Bible to share with her, and she slipped her hand beneath the left half of the Bible, but didn’t look down. Instead, she mouthed the words with the preacher. And if any man say ought unto you, ye shall say, The Lord hath need of them; and straightway he will send them.

  The Lord needed them? The Lord who created the universe needed that particular donkey and colt? She couldn’t imagine that God needed something she had.

  And what did I do with all the money God gave to Daddy and me? I ran away with it.

  The pastor finished reading, and dresses rustled as the congregation settled in their seats.

  A slight scratching noise grabbed her attention. Wallace had unfolded a sheet of paper on top of his Bible, probably to take quick sermon notes.

  The paper fell to the floor and both of them reached for it. Mary Anne caught it, glancing at it as she handed it back. He wasn’t taking sermon notes, or notes of any kind. Instead he was drawing again. Birds, the cat, the children as they marched down the aisle, a dozen miniatures danced across the page.

  She handed it to him without reaction, but he still blushed. Of course he knew she had seen.

  Not wanting to embarrass either one of them any further, Mary Anne redirected her attention to the preacher. Only strict discipline kept her from gazing at Wallace. Arthur handed her a picture he had drawn. His donkey and the man riding it consisted of stick figures, but the other people in the drawing were still recognizable. The Jerusalem crowd consisted of three children of varying sizes, two men and two women, one of them with a white hat. She pointed to the picture and then at herself.

  Delighted, Arthur grinned. “For you.” He whispered in the lowest possible voice, but his father glared at him and he buried his face in an empty sheet of paper.

  Today, wi
th children at her feet and all around her, Mary Anne experienced Jesus’s ride into Jerusalem in a new way. She could imagine how hard those parents tried to keep their children from bothering the man they believed would free Israel from Rome’s yoke. The children didn’t listen, but ran forward, hundreds of them, surrounding Jesus on all sides. How happy they made Jesus. So much so that when those spoil-sports, the Pharisees, said Jesus should scold the children, He said that if He did, the very rocks would cry out.

  This Palm Sunday was that kind of day as well. Vermont’s mountains rang with praise to the Lord. Today made Mary Anne look forward, someday, to children of her own, maybe a girl in pigtails and a boy with wavy brown hair and gray eyes like Wallace’s.

  Those children would look perfect sitting in a church pew like this one, polished maple covered with soft velvet seats, and a man sketching pictures at her side.

  * * *

  Wallace couldn’t believe he had allowed Mary Anne to glimpse his silly pictures. His father had rapped his fingers whenever he caught Wallace in the act of drawing instead of listening to the pastor’s rambling sermons. Their current preacher’s dynamic style should have cured Wallace of his childish habit, but he still listened better while his hands moved.

  He hadn’t given in to that temptation for a long time, however. The woman next to him was to blame. If he drew pictures, he could keep his mind on the sermon and off Mary Anne. After he folded the paper and flattened it with the base of his pencil, he closed his Bible, picture and all. His watch told him that the sermon should be drawing to a close. Tasty aromas from the church basement testified to the ham dinner to follow. Secretly he wished a quick end to the service, so that he could escape the growlings of his stomach, his inattention and Mary Anne’s presence.

  The sermon dragged on for five more minutes. The pastor appealed to the congregation to rededicate themselves to serving the Lord with all their hearts, but kept the invitation hymn to two verses of “A Charge to Keep I Have.” Maybe the man was human after all, ready for a meal.