Tessa McDermid - Family Stories (22 page)

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Margaret’s Story

Chapter 14

Pepperton, Iowa

Summer 1948

The room smel ed damp and musty. The ceiling was high and the available lighting was inadequate, casting dark shadows over the bookcases. As Margaret pushed the door wider, she peered around its heavy oak.

She ventured into the room, letting the door go. A draft caught it, the slam echoing through the shelves. She stood stil , waiting for certain reprisal.

A tal , thin young man walked from behind the shelves. Wiping his hands on a dish towel, he studied her silently. She hung her head, wishing her braids would magical y separate, providing a curtain of hair to hide behind.

"How did a little thing like you make so much noise?" he asked in a pleasant tone.

She peered up at him. He stood a foot away from her, the towel dangling from his hand. Dark hair sprang from his pale brow and he had deep-set dark eyes. He smiled at her.

"You must be new here," he said. "I don't remember seeing you around before. My name is Andrew Campbel ." He turned toward the back of the library as he spoke.

She fol owed him. She couldn't let him out of her sight; he might disappear. The other librarians had been old women who hissed at her when she made a sound. Mrs. Col ins, the librarian the last time they were here, would have banished her from the premises for the noise she'd just made.

But this librarian—Andrew, she breathed softly—he was actual y talking to her in the library. His voice was smooth, cultured, she told herself. At the age of thirteen, Margaret Robertson had encountered her first love.

She waited at the edge of the shelves. He'd gone into the room and was washing dishes in a smal sink. She was affronted by the sight of him doing such a menial task.

"I'll do that," she said sharply." You must have more important things to do."

He grinned at her over his shoulder. She had read about hearts beating irregularly but she'd never had it happen to her. Not until now. "Actual y, I don't have anything else to do," he said. "Not many people come into the library during the summer. Too busy boating and vacationing. You're my first visitor al day."

She walked over to him, proud of her boldness, and picked up a dish towel.

"You stil haven't told me your name." He wiped down the sink, then reached for the towel she was holding.

Their fingers touched, heating her skin and making it hard for her to breathe.

He tossed the towels into a basket under the smal table. "I'd like to cal you something besides the girl who came into the library and dried dishes."

She swallowed and backed up a step. She couldn't concentrate when she was so close to him. "Margaret Robertson." Her voice was squeaky, and she gulped down another breath. "My parents rented a cottage for the summer," she said, glad she sounded more normal. "We used to come to the lake al the time but this is the first year we've been back since before the war."

"Ah, that's why I haven't heard the name before. So where is this cottage?"

She pointed in the general direction. "About a mile that way. We were too late to find one in town but we're closer to the lake."

He'd moved into the main part of the library and settled on a couch in the reading area, one long leg draped over his knee. Margaret quickly sat down on a chair opposite him.

"Did your father bring you in?"

She shook her head. "I walked. That way, I can stay as long as I like." And right now, she'd be happy to stay al day.

"Wel , Margaret Robertson, what can I do for you? Obviously you didn't come to the library to visit with me."

No, but I wil . The idea of reading a book instead of talking to him was ludicrous. He was much more interesting than any story she could find.

"Let me sign you up for a library card."

He was walking toward the desk in the corner. Opening the top drawer, he took out a form and a fountain pen.

She watched as he graceful y inked her name onto the first line.

When he asked her age, she considered lying. But her mother would have to sign the form. And tel ing the truth was a big deal with her mom.

She- answered his questions in a low voice, hoping she seemed older. When al the lines were fil ed out, he handed it to her. She stared at his neat handwriting. Maybe she could take this one home and tel him she'd lost it. He'd figure she was careless but she would have something of his to treasure.

He pushed back his chair and stood up. "Now, I suppose you'd like a book. I can let you check out one book on temporary loan, I until you return your form." He studied her for a moment. "Horses. I bet you'd like a book on horses."

Horse stories had indeed been her passion, but now she wanted to read about love. Her face heated up at the very thought of asking him for a book about a man and a woman. She let him recommend a story she'd already read twice. Ten minutes later, she told him goodbye and left.

She walked home in a trance. She relived his words to her over and over. Her father was handsome, but Andrew was dashing and debonair. He'd held the door open for her and swept his hand forward in a low bow, wishing her "Godspeed." Her heart had threatened to jump out of her chest. In the late-afternoon light, he'd looked even paler. She'd been tempted to smooth back the dark lock of hair that had fal en over his eyes.

Instead, she'd murmured a quick goodbye and raced down the street.

Her life soon settled into a routine. She would arrive at the library midmorning. He would greet her and continue sorting and filing books while she read on the big couch. At lunchtime, she would close her book and take out her tiny packed lunch. He would invite her into the kitchen and they'd eat and chat about books they'd read, favorite authors, stories they wished someone would write. Occasional y people entered the library; he would leave for the few necessary minutes and then return to her side.

"Tel me about your family," he said one day.

Margaret paused midbite. How could she tel this amazing being about her ordinary family? He'd met her mother when Marian had come in for her library card. After that, she'd been content to let Margaret visit the library on her own, trusting Andrew to choose appropriate books for her.

"Wel ," he prodded, "tel me about the family group that created such a charming young lady."

She choked on her bite of apple. She couldn't resist his ornate flattery. "I have two sisters, one younger and one older," she said when she could speak.

"Ah, the sad, neglected middle child."

Oh, he understands. The dam broke and her words burst out. "Sometimes I don't think anyone even knows when I'm gone." She was certain her mother liked the idea of her spending so much rime at the library. Anne had gone back to Lincoln with their father; Marian and Alice preferred to laze around at the lake.

She settled in her chair, eager to bare her soul to this kindred spirit. She told of the months during the war, when her father was away, and then the days when her mother went to the Navy Hospital in Idaho, leaving the three girls alone, with only eleven-year-old Anne in charge. She talked about how hard Anne and her mother had worked in the shop with her father, getting the business established, while she was responsible for Alice.

And she told him funny stories.

"Once, before the war, when we used to come to the lake every summer, Anne decided to go to the movies.

She was about seven and she'd made friends with the lady in the next cabin, Mrs. Al en. One day, Anne went up to her and said, 'My mother said I could go to the movies with you if you'd like.' Mrs. Al en agreed and then Anne told Mom, 'Mrs. Al en said she'd take me to the movies if you didn't mind.' And off Anne trotted to the local cinema."

He laughed. She loved to hear it, a deep, rumbling sound that reverberated through the room. "Did they ever catch on?"

Margaret nodded, her lips curved in a smile. Anne had told her (he story, mocking her younger self. "Anne had to stay in the cottage- for two whole days and couldn't go with Mrs. Al en to any more movies. But she always said seeing Love Finds Andy Hardy was worth it. And Dad retel s the story every chance he gets."

His laughter brought out more stories. Soon she found herself looking for the humorous aspects of an event so she could tel Andrew.

"You should write these down," he said one afternoon.

"What? The stories I tel you?" She shook her head, her hair flying around her face. "No, I couldn't do that."

"Why not? You have a real flair, Margaret Robertson. See al these books?" He waved his arm toward the shelves. "One day, a book with your name on it will sit there, too."

She giggled, even as a flicker of excitement skittered along her spine. "You're sil y, Andrew. I can't write books."

He leaned forward, al traces of humor gone. "Of course you can. Even better than some of the books in here."

She'd nodded, astounded at the intensity in his voice. No one had ever believed in her like that. Listening to him, she knew she could accomplish great things, with his support and encouragement to guide her.

Al too soon, summer was over and the Robertsons were packing their bags to go home to Lincoln. Margaret managed to slip away the last day of their visit.

"Andrew, what will I do without you?" Tears trickled down her cheeks and she couldn't eat the sandwich she'd brought.

He passed her a tissue. "You'll write to me. You'll tel me stories about your life and the lives of the people around you. And I'll write back, tel ing you what I liked and what I didn't."

She brightened. "You'll write to me?"

"Of course. Did you think our friendship was over just because you're leaving? What kind of friend are you?"

"I don't know. I've never real y had a friend before." She never knew what to say when she was around girls her own age. It was easier to find friends in a book.

He walked her to the door and gave her a light hug. "Wel , now we both have a best friend. Don't forget that. I expect at least one letter a week."

Margaret struggled over her letters to Andrew. She spent hours trying to come up with the best word to describe a woman she saw at the grocery, the way a dog walked down the street. The letters she final y put into the envelopes for Andrew were neatly written, showing no indication of the many pages she'd discarded.

His letters were fil ed with advice and funny stories of his own. She treasured each page, and the days always seemed brighter when she saw a letter from Andrew on the bureau in the living room.

"Your librarian friend seems to have a lot of time to write," her mother said one afternoon, handing her the latest arrival.

Margaret hugged the letter to her chest. "He likes to write letters. He's a very good student."

Marian smiled and patted her on the head. Like I'm a little girl, Margaret thought resentful y. Andrew would never treat me that way.

"Don't forget to do your homework," Marian said. "I don't want to be cal ed into a teacher's meeting because you haven't been keeping up with your assignments."

Margaret rushed to her room, the angry words she'd wanted to shout at her mother ringing in her head. Her mother had never gone to a teacher's meeting about her! Her grades were good. The teachers liked her. Now Alice...

But the letter beckoned and Margaret forgot her family as she read his words. His friendship carried her through each day, helping her look at the world with bright, eager eyes. He recommended authors and she pored over their books, sending him impassioned letters about her reading. She floated through school, in her element, dreaming of next summer and seeing him again, spinning images of their life together once she was old enough to get married.

One April day, after unseasonably cold weather, the flowers poked cautious heads out of the ground and tiny buds appeared on the trees. A school assembly had included an award for an essay Margaret had written.

She couldn't wait to share the good news with Andrew, and she hurried home to start her letter.

An envelope was propped on the bureau in the dining room. The handwriting was different but the return address was as familiar as her own. Puzzled, she carried it to her room before breaking the seal. She dropped her books on the bed and sank down beside them.

At first, she couldn't understand the words. She read them twice and then a third time. Not until then did she begin to comprehend.

"No!" she screamed. She crumpled the letter and tossed it across the room. "No, no, no!"

Her mother ran in. "Margaret, for heaven's sake, what's the matter?"

Margaret lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "She's lying. Andrew had her write as a practical joke, to see how I'd react."

"Who's lying? What are you talking about?" Marian picked up the paper and smoothed it out. She scanned the page.

"Oh, Margaret, I'm sorry. I know how much he meant to you."

"Means to me!" Margaret screeched. "He's not dead. He can't be. He told me he'd write to me forever, that we'd always be best friends."

"Oh, honey."

Marian sat on the bed and Margaret buried her head in her mother's lap, the tears streaming down her face.

"How could he die, Mama? He's too young. You can't die that young. Only old people die."

Marian laid a hand on Margaret's hair. "His mother says he's been sick a long time, that the doctors aren't sure why he survived as long as he did." She smoothed the wild mane. "She thinks your letters gave him a reason for living."

"But he never said anything. He didn't tel me he was even sick."

"Maybe he didn't want to upset you. He cared about you, you know that. And he probably liked having somebody who didn't fuss over him."

Margaret sniffed, the tears rol ing down her cheeks. "What am I going to do now? His letters were my reason for living."

"Don't talk like that!" Her mother clutched her shoulders, shaking them gently. "Would he want you to give up like this?"

She didn't know. She didn't know anything anymore.