Good Hope Road (40 page)

I thought of the words from the old letters as I drove through Poetry, passing the buildings on Main Street, where the debris was being cleared and new blocks laid, driving slowly to the armory, where the baseball field was once again just a field, and the place where the glittering motor home had been was now just a shady spot under two threadbare oak trees. I thought of our house, and the fact that it would be empty when I got there.

Loneliness needled inside me, and I pulled into the armory parking lot instead of going home. Parking the truck, I looked around the lot, amazed at the number of cars there. People were coming into the armory with boxes, walking out with sacks and various belongings in their hands.

I climbed from the truck, hurried up the steps, and stood in the doorway. A sense of wonder filled me as I watched people moving around the armory, some taking down pictures, some putting up pictures, some just looking at the pictures, some staring at the walls in amazement, some overcome with emotion. So many people, only a few of them familiar, most of them strangers.

The last of the cots was gone, and even Mr. Jaans was no longer there. I looked around for Mrs. Gibson, but she was gone, also.

Near the doorway, the letters still fluttered in the breeze. An elderly couple stood in front of them, their hands clasped as they read the words, the man leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane. He touched his wife’s face, and she smiled, resting her head on his shoulder.

I moved closer. “Are the letters yours?” I asked.

They paused for a moment, seeming surprised by the question.

Finally the woman shook her head, her eyes glittering with emotion. “No. We read about them in the St. Louis newspaper. We just wanted to see them for ourselves, I guess.”

“I don’t suppose you ever found out who wrote them?” The old man looked at the letters, sighed, then turned back to me.

“No.” I watched as a young couple read the letters, holding their baby between them. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever know.”

The old woman smiled, her face soft, peaceful. “I don’t think it matters who wrote the words,” she said, then turned to her husband, her face filled with love and hope. “It only matters what the words say.”

Slowly, hand in hand, they turned and walked out the door. He limped as he walked, leaning on his cane. She intertwined her arm with his and slowed her steps to match his as they made their way into the sunlight.

“Good morning, Jenilee.” I recognized Doc Howard’s voice, and I turned to find him coming across the room toward me.

“Oh, Doc!” I ran forward, hugging him so hard I nearly knocked him off his feet.

He laughed in his throat, hugging me back. “Well, my goodness, you’d better take it easier than that on a fella just out of the hospital,” he said as we moved apart.

“I’m just glad to see you’re back. I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“Well, I darned near had another heart attack when I heard you were talking about going away to medical school.” He grinned, poking me playfully in the shoulder. “All these years I been trying to get you to go to vet school, and in three days some outsider steals you away. How is that fair?”

“Sorry.” I chuckled. “Anyway, you never know. I may be back. This medical school thing may not work out.”

Doc shook his head as if he knew otherwise. “You’ll be fine. You just do your best, and you’ll be fine.” He pointed a finger at me. “But if you ever get lonely up there in that big city, you give a me call. I’ll be here.”

“You’d better be.” I meant it. “You take care of yourself, all right? No more big adventures.”

“Let’s hope not.” He glanced around the room as if he’d suddenly remembered something. “Well, I’d better get home for lunch before Mrs. Howard comes after me with a dog collar. I’ll stop out at your place later on and check on you.”

“You don’t have to do that, Doc.” The thought of people dropping by our house still seemed strange.

He patted me on the head the way he used to when I was a kid working for him. “I know I don’t, but I will.”

I followed him out the door and climbed into Drew’s truck. A sense of peace and renewal filled me as I left the armory and drove toward home. For the first time in my life, I turned down Good Hope Road feeling as though I belonged there.

The gate was open as I passed Mr. Jaans’s place. I pulled into the driveway and coasted up to the yard fence, where the Gibsons’ car was parked. The door of the house opened, and Mrs. Gibson appeared with a broom, sweeping a cloud of dust out the door.

She saw me and set the broom aside, hurrying down the steps to open the gate.

“Oh, Jenilee!” she cried, reaching for me as I climbed out of the truck. “I’ve been wondering about you all day, and now here you are.”

I stretched my arms out and slipped them around her ample body, smelling the scent of vanilla and freshly baked bread. For a moment I thought of my own grandmother.

We held each other for a long time. Finally she released me and stepped back, her face growing serious. “How’s your father?”

I wondered how to answer the question. “He’s out of surgery. I guess the rest is up to God.”

Mrs. Gibson smiled. “It really all is, anyway.”

“Eudora!” I heard Mr. Jaans’s voice from inside. “Someone’s got to help me out of this blamed bathtub. I’m stuck in here.”

“Just a minute!” she hollered, then turned back to me and blushed. “Someone’s got to look after the old fool.” She chuckled sheepishly; then she called over her shoulder, “Just sit in there and soak awhile. It’ll do ya some good.”

I laughed under my breath, then remembered something. “I brought you something.” I hurried to the truck and returned with the stack of notebooks.

Her eyes widened and brimmed with tears. “My notebooks,” she breathed, taking them from me.

“I found them in your cellar. I guess you forgot you took them down there.”

“I guess so.” She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter anymore. “Next time my house is about to be blowed away by a tornado, I’ll have to stop and make myself some notes about where I’m leavin’ things.”

We chuckled, and Mr. Jaans hollered again from inside. “Good Lord, woman, I’m shrivelin’ up like a prune in here!”

Mrs. Gibson blushed again. “That man.” She rolled her eyes, looking exasperated. “I suppose I better go tend to him.” She set the notebooks on the corner of the porch, then turned back to me. “Dr. Albright is sending them internship forms to Doc Howard’s office for you. I want you to promise me you’re going to fill them out.”

“I am,” I said, knowing she was asking about more than just the forms.

She touched the side of my face, her eyes filled with a love that warmed every part of me. “Then some good will come of all this.”

I laid my hand over hers, thinking of everything that had changed the moment the wind blew us together. “A lot of good came of it.”

“You go on home. I’m going to get this old man out of the bathtub,” she said, lowering her hand. “I’ll be down to your place in a little while with some supper. We can sit and talk.”

“That sounds good. I have so much to tell you.” I turned to leave, comfort settling over me like an old quilt. “I have your stained-glass window at home. Drew saved it for you.”

“My dove?” she cried. “I thought it was ruined. I saw it in the dirt.”

“Some of the glass needs to be replaced, but the dove is still there.”

“Oh, Jenilee, what would I do without you?” She clapped her hands together, turned, and hobbled up the stairs. “My Lord, who knew everything would work out like this.”

Who knew everything would work out like this?
I thought as I climbed into the truck and drove away.
Who knew?

A dust devil crossed the road in front of me as I drew close to home. I stopped to watch it pass as it lifted bits of paper from the grass in our pasture, swirling them high into the air, like butterflies in a spring dance, until finally they fell free and floated to earth again, landing on the lawn of my grandparents’ old house.

I pulled the truck onto the side of the road and climbed out, squinting at the papers through the heat waves of the afternoon sun. Watching them flutter in the breeze, I slipped through the fence and moved closer, wondering if maybe . . .

My feet moved faster, until I was dashing through the grass, leaping over stands of milkweed and black-eyed Susans as I had as a child, rushing toward a place that was quiet and safe. As I came to the yard, I saw them all around me. Letters. Letters of every size and shape, on aging bits of paper of every color, spilling from what remained of the old white house, covering the grass, intertwining with the flowers.

I knew the handwriting without touching them. I stood, just looking, just listening to the low rustle of their voices. My grandparents’ voices. A part of what I was. The best part. The part that hoped, and loved, and believed, and belonged to a family.

I moved to the decaying wooden swing, still hanging from the elm tree near the tumbledown porch. Sitting carefully on the edge, I untangled a piece of plain brown paper from the wooden slats. Brittle with age, it had once been torn from a sack of feed or flour. I turned it slowly in my hands, touching the neat rows of cursive writing that seemed too fine for the carelessly torn scrap.

Looking across the grass, I imagined a cloud of Queen Anne’s lace, imagined my grandfather there among the horses. I imagined that he was smiling at me, as I sat there among those letters, so long trapped in that silent house, now set free by the wind.

Lisa Wingate lives on a horse ranch in the Texas hill country with her husband and two young sons. She was raised in Oklahoma and is a graduate of Oklahoma State University. She began writing books at the age of five, with The Story of A Dog Named Frisky, “published” with manila paper and a stapler and sold exclusively to grandparents. Since that time, she has continued her lifelong love of writing.

More information about Lisa Wingate and her upcoming projects can be found on her Web site at
www.LisaWingate.com
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