Guarded

by Angela Correll

  Chapter Thirteen

  BEULAH WENT TO bed feeling unsettled, and knowing sleep would not come easy. It was like stirring up some dark matter long ago settled to the bottom of her soul. And when she did sleep, her dreams were anxious. In one, she was a little girl and it was her birthday. One present looked like an envelope, which then turned into a gift. Try as she might, she could not open it. In another dream, she was with her mother in the garden with a shovel, digging one hole; and then in another she was looking for something but never found it.

  It was a relief to finally wake up even with the fuzzyheaded feeling that comes after such a night. Swinging her legs slowly over the side of the bed, she sat a minute, before pulling her favorite work dress off the hanger. It had cotton soft as lamb’s ear and felt good on her skin.

  Light shone from under Annie’s door and she heartened at the thought of coffee, already brewed. The rich smell greeted her when she entered the kitchen and she filled her cup and sat at the table. Her morning devotional, her Bible, and her Sunday school book lay on the table, but she wasn’t ready to read just yet. She wanted empty mind time to think about what she found in the secret compartment in the bottom of the old metal box.

  The letter from Texas was straightforward enough. But what to do about the letter from Italy? Had it ever been read by her parents? In the 1940s, there were no Italians living in Somerville, at least none Beulah knew about. The Somerville library was just a small office off Main Street with a small collection of books donated by a local teacher until the 1950s when a real library was built and the collection had grown. The University of Kentucky or maybe even the Lexington library could have helped, but trips to Lexington were few and far between, and she could not imagine her parents trying to navigate the university campus.

  Beulah smiled, remembering an incident when she was eighteen. She had driven her mother to Lexington so they could go to one of the big department stores down on Main Street near the old Phoenix Hotel. While in a crowded elevator, someone had stolen Beulah’s purse. Distraught, they returned home to tell her father the story. He shook his head and said, “You’ve got no business up in Lexington.” A trip to Lexington to search out an Italian dictionary was most unlikely.

  And if her own parents didn’t see the matter through, then why was it her responsibility? Or was it even more her responsibility because now she had the means to translate it?

  There was a niggling fear about knowing the contents of the letter. Ephraim died a hero, not only to her, but also to the community. His name was engraved on a monument that memorialized all the World War II dead on the courthouse square. Beulah had simply idolized him. If she were honest, part of what drew her to Fred was the qualities similar to Ephraim.

  And there was the heart of it: What if there was something in the letter that would destroy her view of him? What if Beulah saw a side of Ephraim in the letter not consistent with her view of him as the perfect older brother? No one was perfect, no not one. But the idea of Ephraim was all she had left of him. If she lost that, he might be lost to her forever.

  ***

  The screen door squeaked open and Annie kicked off her muck boots before coming inside.

  “The hens came in the coop to eat, so I shut the door on them. They are impossible to herd. Food was the only thing that got them inside the coop this morning, and that was after I hid behind the smokehouse and waited for thirty minutes,” Annie said, and filled a bowl with cereal and milk. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Not too good, but I’m sure tonight will be better.”

  “Me neither,” Annie said.

  “What’re you doing today?”

  “More of the same, reading the old letters and lots of work still to do at the old stone house.”

  “Busy day,” Beulah said, envious of Annie’s youth and energy. She remembered well her own ability to work circles around most people. With the onset of age, her energy had declined, and the recent knee surgery had slowed her down even more.

  “What about you?”

  “I’d like to do a little more work in the garden. Then I want to make up some more vegetable soup. I’ve never seen the like of sick people in the congregation. Seems like every time you turn around, somebody’s getting a bad report from the doctor. It does make a body wonder if it’s not in our food system, like Jake says. Something’s not right.”

  “Your home canned, organic vegetable soup is just the thing,” Annie said.

  “At least we know what’s in it.”

  ***

  Beulah popped open the sealed lid of a Ball jar, drained off the canning water, then dumped the squash into the pot. A problem like this made losing Fred even more grievous. He would pray with her about a troublesome situation and they would nearly always come to the same answer. It was confirmation they were making the right decision.

  The simmering soup smelled good and she stirred spices into the mixture. There was never a recipe for soup, just whatever she decided to add to the mix. This time she had yellow squash, tomatoes, onion, potatoes, corn, green beans, and carrots in it, all from her garden. Now all it needed was time to blend all the flavors together. Later, she would dole out the soup in quart jars for the singles and half-gallon jars for families.

  There was an old movie that won a big Hollywood award years ago. One of the characters said when he ran, he “felt God’s pleasure.” Beulah knew exactly what he meant when she cooked.

  After a while, she went upstairs for one more of Ephraim’s letters. After the one from his best friend, Beulah wanted to hear from Ephraim. Especially now with this dilemma of what to do about the letter from Italy. Settling into a kitchen chair, she opened the envelope.

  Naples, Italy

  November 24, 1943

  Dear Mother and Dad,

  We are still waiting around, which is just fine with me. Naples is a nice place, but there are a lot of street kids who beg and steal sometimes. They are tricky little fellows and if you don’t watch, they’ll take your wallet right out of your pocket. But I can say I don’t blame them. Everyone has suffered for this war, but them maybe the most. Naples is called Napoli by the Italians and I am even picking up a few words. They speak little English, but somehow we can talk through hand motions.

  I have become friends with the shopkeeper’s family—the one where I bought Mother’s lace pillow cover—and they try to help the street boys by feeding them. But no one has too much to share. I have had supper with them several times. My pal Arnie comes with me and we give them cigarettes they can sell for food in exchange for feeding us. They have a daughter called Elena and the whole family has been very kind to me.

  We are training while we are here, but I can’t say much more. We all hope whatever it is we are going to do when we leave here, it will bring us closer to coming home.

  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and it looks like we are going to have a real turkey dinner. A truckload of birds arrived today and we were happy to see it. I would like to be eating dinner at home with you all and Beuly, but it don’t do to think about any such things as that.

  In a few minutes I have to report for guard duty, so I better sign off. I love you both and look forward to being home soon. Mom, promise you won’t worry about me.

  Love,

  Ephraim

  She was startled to hear the back door open and a “Hello” called out since she hadn’t heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway. Evelyn walked in carrying a bag from the craft store and then stopped short at the threshold to the kitchen.

  “Are you okay, Beulah?”

  “Fine as a person can be digging up old bones,” she said, and put the letter back in the envelope.

  “The letters from Ephraim,” Evelyn said, sitting down in a chair next to her. “I thought about them all last night after you told me on the phone. I’d have to know what the letter said, but you’ve always had more discipline than me.”

  “Well, I don’t think discipline is behind this,” she said.

 
“Fear is not of God. I’m having to remind myself a lot these days,” Evelyn said, her face clouding over.

  “Something you want to talk about?” Beulah said, seeing worry in Evelyn’s face.

  “No, no, I’m fine. I do want your opinion on these fabrics.”

  She laid out a sample of four different color schemes.

  “I showed them to Mary Beth, and she likes them all. She told me to pick and just let her know how much she owes me. They’re all about the same price, but I kind of lean toward this combination.”

  Evelyn pointed to burnt orange and golden yellow.

  “Since it’s a fall wedding, I thought those colors on the table would make it easy to decorate with small pumpkins, winter squash, and branches of bittersweet. But is it too boring?”

  Beulah examined all the colors but her eyes were drawn to the burnt orange and gold. “No, I think it’s just right. And like you said, it’ll help keep everything else simple.”

  ***

  She was anxious for bedtime and another of Ephraim’s letters, but Joe and Betty Gibson had invited them all over for pie and a game or two of Rook. Truth was, things had been strained with Betty since she made those remarks about Annie. It simply wasn’t true, and she had told Betty so, to the point Betty had gotten her feelings hurt and left in a huff. But Beulah saw no sense in sitting there and listening to untruths and gossip about her granddaughter. Betty had to be corrected and there was nothing for Beulah to apologize about.

  The invitation was Betty’s way of extending an olive branch. In times past, when harsh words were spoken or a disagreement had popped up, they let it go for a few days, but one or the other extended an invitation—a sign that all was forgiven. It was the unspoken path of reconciliation for nigh on forty years.

  Even though she didn’t feel like it, Beulah had to accept the invitation as a way of forgiveness. Jake brought Annie, although her granddaughter was unusually subdued this evening, and along with Evelyn, they crowded into the small living room of the Gibson house where Joe had set up a card table.

  While Evelyn, Jake, Annie and Joe played the card game, Beulah sat next to Betty on the couch.

  “Beulah, what about those letters. I couldn’t believe Annie found them. Aren’t you glad now you didn’t tear the house down? I’d dearly love to read them sometime,” Betty leaned in, talking quietly.

  Beulah brought her hand to her throat.

  “I don’t think you would enjoy them,” she said. “If I come across something interesting, I’ll let you know.”

  Of course the letters were interesting and of course Betty would love to get her hands on them. She would be especially eager to find out about the mysterious Italian woman. In Beulah’s mind, it was a private family matter and this mystery was too dear and too precious until it could all be sorted out.

  A whoop went up from the card table where Annie and Joe had beat Evelyn and Jake. She hoped that signaled the end of game playing. All she wanted was to get in her nightgown and climb into bed with another of Ephraim’s letters.

  Something Evelyn said earlier today stayed with her and made her think she had come to a decision. But she wanted to hear from Ephraim again and she wanted to sleep on it one more night, in case the Lord needed to turn her in a different direction.

  She was glad when the party broke up a few minutes later and Annie drove her home. Finally, she settled in and took out another ivory envelope.

  Naples, Italy

  December 16, 1943

  Dear Mother,

  I sure do like getting your letters and knowing what’s going on with the neighbors and the farm. It makes me feel like I am there, even for a little while.

  My buddies and I like to sit around and tell stories. It passes the time and we need to laugh. I’ve been telling them about some of the characters in our town. They like especially to hear about Peddler Joe who travels around with his pet goat. I have told them every story I can think of, but if you remember more, please tell me. Sometimes it’s all we have to do to keep us entertained.

  Mr. Caivano and his wife send their greetings to you and Dad. They are the shopkeepers I wrote you about who have been so nice to me. I am teaching Elena English. She can speak a few words, but I haven’t taught her how to write much yet. I am just telling her what things are in English. I never thought of myself as being a teacher, but here I am. I eat with them as often as I am allowed. It makes me feel like I am a part of a family, even though their ways are different than what I have known.

  Please don’t worry. It’s hard enough to be here but knowing you worry makes it even harder. I think it must be over soon. We hope our training will help bring about the end of it.

  Love,

  Ephraim

  Beulah folded the letter up and placed it back in the box with the others.

  “Caivano,” she said the name out loud, turning it over on her tongue and feeling the strangeness of it. The name on the return address of the letter written in Italian. And the picture had to be Elena. Elena Caivano, the girl Ephraim loved.

  Yes, she had made a decision, but she would sleep on it one more night. Unless her path was redirected between now and tomorrow morning, she had her answer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IN THE KITCHEN, there was a note from her grandmother. It was on top of the letter written in Italian.

  Please have Janice translate.

  When she called Janice, the message went to voicemail.

  “I have a favor to ask; we found a letter written in Italian. Long story, and I’ll fill you in later, but I was wondering if you could translate it? I’ll scan it and e-mail it to you. See you next week.” She hung up and knew it might be another day to wait if Janice was on an overseas flight.

  Annie tucked her phone into her jeans pocket and felt confident her grandmother had made the right decision. In the meantime, there was still another day’s work or more of cleaning at the old stone house.

  After walking back through the farm lane, Annie snugged the work gloves onto her hands and grabbed a flat end shovel. In the room below the burned-out bedroom, she began scooping up pieces of broken glass, charred embers, and chunks of plaster.

  The mysterious letter had served as a temporary distraction from the penetrating reminders of her father’s abandonment. She had loved her grandfather and he had filled the role she needed. Her biological father was more like an exotic uncle who showed up from time to time bearing gifts, apologies, and outrageous stories. Annie had learned early that with no expectations there were no disappointments.

  But now, after all these years, coming home had created an unexpected situation: to be judged in a community not only on her father’s behavior, but the entire disreputable Taylor clan. For it seemed that in a small town, a person was never left to stand alone.

  Annie was angry at her father, not only for saddling her with this legacy, but the raw reminder of his selfishness by leaving her mother alone with a baby. What if Jake did the same to her? Or worse. What if Betty Gibson was right? What if she did the same to Jake because of some coded DNA?

  The sweat dripped down her back as she worked harder and faster, sweeping and shoveling. The relationship with her father had consisted of phone calls and the rare visit until she was older and she made the effort to reach out more. When she was in her twenties, he had paid for her to visit him when he lived in South America and then in Spain. On one of those trips, she had finally gotten the courage up to ask him, after all these years, why had he left her mother?

  “I got claustrophobic,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders, as if he were explaining why he had walked out of a restaurant. And after her mother, there were countless women, one after the other, as he followed his desires without looking back at the wake of destruction.

  Could I become claustrophobic, too? Her shovel hit shiny gunk on the hardwood floor, like hardened glue. She pushed again and it didn’t move. Harder this time until finally she dropped her shovel and folded onto the ragged co
uch. The thought of being without Jake was unbearable now that they had found each other again. At the same time, the fear of hurting Jake was growing and she had no idea how to stop it.

  ***

  The walnut leaves crunched under her feet in the gloaming as she stepped over the old stone fence to the Wilder farm. It was nearly October and the gentle breeze held a promise of cooler weather to come. The door to Jake’s cottage was open and she called a “Hello” before stepping inside. A baseball game blared on the television but he wasn’t in the living room.

  “Hey,” Jake said, coming out of his bedroom and putting on a flannel shirt over his T-shirt. Annie went to him and pressed her head to his chest, her arms around him and holding tight as if he might be ripped away from her. Jake wrapped his arms around her and they stood like that for a long and quiet moment.

  “Everything okay?” he said. His eyes searched hers until she had to look away.

  “A little tired,” she said.

  He kissed her, and then again. After a few minutes, she pulled away and sat down on the couch.

  “I e-mailed a copy of the letter to Janice. It might be a couple of days if she’s working,” she said, watching Jake as he found the remote and turned off the baseball game.

  “Then Beulah wants to know,” he said.

  “She does. I hope it’s nothing too earth-shattering after all these years. How did your meeting go?”

  Jake sighed. “Discouraging,” he said, sitting down next to her.

  “What happened?” she said.

  “I met with a bunch of guys who are in the thick of what I’m trying to do. Some of their stories … I don’t know.”

  “Like what?” Annie asked.

  “Like one guy who sold eggs but ended up making regular trips to the local food pantry because a customer didn’t come through on the order. Another guy said he was just about to turn the corner on making a profit on his beef when a late season drought kept his steers from finishing at prime weight. So many things are out of your control: weather, market price, and even seasonal changes. Another guy tried for a year to get this bakery to buy his eggs. They finally committed just before the fall equinox when his egg production dropped from fifty dozen a day, to twenty-three. Eggs, not dozen. I need to give it more thought before I get too invested.”