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Authors: Marie Bostwick

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BOOK: Fields Of Gold
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“Don't do that, Slim. Don't punish yourself for what you should have done.” I reached out and stroked his hair. It was unruly and full of waves, just like Morgan's. “There's plenty of guilt to go around on that score. If we talk about what we should have done, we could say that we should never have made love. Maybe we shouldn't have gone flying, or shared our dreams, or even looked at each other. Maybe we shouldn't have, but I wouldn't take back anything.” I pulled his hands away from his face, placed my palms flat against his, and leaned in to kiss him. He pulled me closer and responded deeply and gently, making an apology with his kiss for all that he'd missed and all the things he couldn't be.
Then he said the words that seemed to heal everything, that made me believe we'd always be one, though only in secret.
“Tell me about Morgan,” he whispered into the tangle of my hair. “Tell me everything about our son.”
The dusky afternoon cast long shadows through the front-room windows. We sat on the sofa, his arm draped over my shoulders while I showed him the small stack of photos taken with the camera Papa had bought when Morgan was born, a black-and-white biography. Baby, toddler, little boy. Morgan's eyes were hopeful and bright, always looking forward. We lingered over the most recent snapshot, one of Morgan sitting on Ranger's back, beaming from ear to ear and leaning down to wrap his arms around the horse's dusty mane.
“This one was at Fourth of July,” I narrated. “See there? He's got a little flag stuck in his back pocket. He ran around all day waving that flag. He and Papa set off a million firecrackers and made a terrible racket. The cow wouldn't milk for three days after.”
Slim laughed. “Wasn't he afraid of the noise?”
“No, Morgan's fearless,” I reported with pride. “More than he ought to be. I have to keep an eye on him every minute. One day I caught him piling up crates so he could climb up on the ridgepole of the tool shed. He had two big elm branches with him and he said he was going to strap them to his arms for wings so he could fly.”
Slim grinned. “Chip off the old block.”
“I'd say.” We sat together a moment longer, admiring our son. “Here. Keep this one.” I pressed the picture into his hands.
“Thank you.” He held the photo studying it throughly before putting it carefully in his shirt pocket. “What did you tell him about me?”
I hesitated a moment, knowing how cruel it would sound. “That you were dead. An airmail pilot who crashed.”
“Oh,” he said flatly and then was silent for a long moment. “I'd like to meet him, Evangeline. I know you said what you thought was right at the time, but I'm here now. Don't you think that would be better for him to know he's got a father and that I didn't run out on him?” He gave me a searching look. “I don't want him to think he was abandoned.”
“He doesn't,” I assured him. “Morgan thinks you were a brave, handsome pilot who died and flew higher than anybody has ever dreamed about, and now you're in heaven looking down on him, watching over him and me to make sure we're both all right. That makes sense to him right now. I don't think it would be fair to confuse him by suddenly resurrecting you, especially when you can't stay and he can't tell anyone about you.”
Slim flinched just a bit, stung by my unintended rebuke, but he knew what I said made sense. Longing and reason did battle in his eyes. Reason won out. “I just wish I could meet him somehow, without letting him know I'm his father. When he's older and can understand, I'd like him to know the whole truth. For now, I'd like at least to see him.”
Then it dawned on me, “You can! He's in Oklahoma City right now,” I exclaimed, “probably too excited to sleep because tomorrow, he's going to see his hero, Charles Lindbergh, the Lone Eagle.”
“You're right.” Slim's face brightened. “I could look for him tomorrow. He'll be with your folks, right? Do you think that would be all right if I talked to him, just for a minute?”
“That would be just great!” I enthused, thrilled to think of Slim and Morgan together even for a moment. “He'd love it.”
“Me too,” Slim answered, clearly pleased with the idea. We held each other close for a long quiet moment as the shadows became night and the clock ticked. “Evangeline, I don't know how long it will be before ... I mean, when I can write or something without ...”
“I won't go anywhere,” I answered his question before he had to ask it. “I'll be here, and Morgan will, too.” I laid my hand on his shirt pocket and felt his heart warm and beating through the layers of fabric and photograph paper. “You'll never be alone. None of us will.” I said it convincingly, like a prayer, willing it to be true.
I didn't cry when he left. I stood in the barnyard away from the house where the trees didn't obstruct the view, and I could see clearly in the dark night sky. Slim was just a flash of silver above me, impossible to tell if it was a plane or a bird or a balloon, it was so dark. His departure went exactly as planned, in darkness and secret so, even if they heard the engine, no one would know it was the
Spirit.
Everything about us was always done in secret; it always would be. Things seemed so simple for other people. Why should my life be different, I thought, joy rationed out in mean, stingy portions? It seemed so cruel.
A few days before, I'd told Papa that I had more than I could have ever imagined, and it was true, but now everything was different. The trouble with small bites of happiness is that they stretch you, teach you to imagine what it would be like to have a full plate. Now I would have to start all over again, learning to live without him. Still, I was glad he'd come. Why?
In my mind, mama's voice answered,
Don't ask so many questions, Eva. Be grateful for what you have.
“I'm trying, Mama. I'm trying my best.” Slim circled above one last time and then headed southeast toward his meeting with our son.
“I'll be here,” I called to the fading sound of the engine. “I'll be right here.”
Funny, I didn't think of it until later; he never said where he would be.
Chapter 7
Winter 1929
I
f I were telling a story, those next years after Slim left, after having him so close and then watching him slip out of my grasp again, would have been the saddest, but they weren't. They were some of the best. When Morgan came back from Oklahoma City beaming from ear to ear, hollering out the window of the Ford before Papa even had a chance to turn off the motor, all my self-pity fled. Suddenly it seemed like things would be all right in the end.
“Mama, look! He signed it himself, a picture just for me!” Morgan leapt out of the back seat, almost crushing Mama in the process and forgetting even to say excuse me, but I could see she didn't mind. Morgan ran to me and flung himself around my waist, hugging me tight as he could.
“Look what he wrote! It says, ‘To the World's Best Co-Pilot, Morgan: The sky's the limit! Sincerely, Colonel Charles Lindbergh.' I'm going to hang it on my wall in a real frame. Ain't it something!”
“It's beautiful, Morgan! Just beautiful.”
“And he let me sit in the cockpit of the
Spirit
and told me all 'bout how it works, and he said I could be his navigator anytime!”
Seeing the pure joy on his face wiped away the feeling of loss that had weighed me down just moments before. Morgan would always remember that day and feel special because of it. He and Slim were connected, tied with invisible cords, father and son. Nothing could change that.
Brief as it had been, Slim's visit authenticated everything: my life and his and Morgan's. Of course, in a perfect world, I would have had Slim stay, and we'd have lived happily ever after, but I was too old to believe in perfection. If I had doubts, I pushed them to the back of my mind. Life was always a struggle, I reasoned. Mine had been from the moment of my birth, I needed only to look down at my hand clutching my cane to see that. But life was nevertheless rich and real. And that would have to be enough.
Surprisingly, it was. Slim was somewhere out there, pushing himself, greeting the crowds, opening up the skies as Columbus had opened up the seas and, in the midst of all that, thinking of me, as I thought of him. If I couldn't share his life completely, at least I was part of his life, however secret that part might be. Knowing this was enough for me. I would make it so.
Soon after Slim had left, Mr. Ashton, of the First State Bank of Liberal, appeared on my doorstep. His name suited him well. He had a face so white and expressionless it reminded me of a pile of cinders, as though his whole head might crumble and blow away if he smiled or drew a deep breath. It was the sort of face that a person would have distrusted in a lover, but for a banker it was perfect; it spoke of confidentiality and discretion. Mr. Ashton handed me a bankbook with my name on it that showed a balance of one thousand five hundred dollars. “Where did this come from?” I asked.
“It was wired by a Mr. Lawrence Martin of the firm of Reilly, McCormick and Martin, Attorneys at Law of New York City, New York,” Ashton said blandly. “Mr. Martin sent a letter saying he represented an anonymous party, and that if the funds ran out I could contact the firm for replenishment annually.”
“But, I don't need all this,” I protested.
“Nonetheless, there it is. You may draw upon it whenever you wish, or leave it be and let the interest accumulate. Good afternoon, Miss Glennon.” He tipped his hat and twitched his lips in what I supposed was meant to be a smile. “If I can be of any assistance, please contact me at the bank.”
And just like that, I was rich, or richer than I'd ever thought I'd be. I didn't tell anyone, not even Mama and Papa. I resolved to keep the money where it was and save it for Morgan, so he could go to college. He was smart as a whip, had started reading the funny papers out loud, doing all the voices, even before he went to school. Now, in first grade, he brought home stacks of papers with shiny gold stars perched proudly in the upper right-hand corners. I had thought about him going to college once or twice in a dreamy sort of way but knew I couldn't afford it. Now everything had changed.
My little quilting business brought me a lot of satisfaction as well as a good income. We didn't need Slim's money to live on. Even before Mr. Ashton knocked on my door we had everything we needed. Though I suppose the female population of Dillon thought of me as an utter failure, I was proud that I could provide for my son on my own.
It seemed like every girl I'd gone to school with was in a rush to find and marry a good man, or any man, for that matter. Failing to marry would have been the worst kind disgrace imaginable to most of them. Ruby was one of the last brides in our class. She asked me to stand up for her at the wedding. I guess I was less enthusiastic than she'd hoped.
“Clarence Parker!” I hissed. “You must be joking!. We used to make fun of him. Remember? We called him Clare-Dunce behind his back.” I knew Clarence only too well. He was the boy who had kissed me on a nickel dare, the most humiliating and painful moment of my childhood, and now Ruby was going to marry him! It seemed like the worst kind of disloyalty.
“Eva,” Ruby reasoned, “that was a long time ago. I know he was terrible then, but he's grown up. We all have, haven't we? Clay isn't so bad, really. He's real nice to me. He's going to rent us a place not half a mile from here with a sweet little house and a quarter section that we can plant. The owner says we can buy it gradual if we want. Just think! I can see you and Morgan every day!”
She smiled at me convincingly, but I just shook my head. “I just can't believe you're going to marry Clarence.”
“Eva, I know he doesn't have a lot of imagination,” she said with a sigh, “but he's solid. He doesn't drink much, and he doesn't chew, and besides,” she added practically, “nobody else has asked. I don't want to be an old maid. You
know
I'm not smart enough to teach school.” She winked at me mischievously, but I refused to play along.
“Do you love him?” I asked.
“Oh, come on now, Eva,” she huffed. “Don't be like that. Hardly anybody gets to marry for love. At least if I marry Clay I'll
be
somebody! I can't live with my folks forever. Who knows? Maybe I'll even have a baby boy as cute as Morgan.” She smiled at the thought, and then her face clouded with a new concern. “You don't think I'm too old, do you? I'm already twenty-three ...”
“Don't be silly.” I dismissed the idea with a wave of my hand. I still wasn't thrilled with her choice, but the sight of Ruby's hopeful face made me put aside my misgivings. Besides, she was right. We'd all grown up. “You're fertile as a field. You and old Clarence will have a dozen babies. He'll probably have to hang an extra washing line just to keep up with diapers that'll need drying.”
Ruby brightened at the idea. “That'd be wonderful, wouldn't it,” she cooed. “A houseful of babies of my own.” She looked at me pleadingly. “So you'll do it, won't you, Eva? You'll stand up for me?”
“Yes,” I said, taking her two hands in mine and grinning. “I will stand up for you, Mrs. Parker. And as a wedding present I'll make you a big double wedding-ring quilt for your bed, and I will be happy for you. How's that?”
 
 
I was as good as my word, because if Ruby wasn't deliriously happy, she was at least content.
Heaven knows,
I thought,
that's more than a lot of people ever get.
But I told myself I didn't envy her the constraints of hearth and husband. After the wedding our lazy afternoon coffee visits were more hurried. The moment the clock struck three, Ruby would drop her teaspoon on the saucer with a clatter and rush out the door, afraid of being late to get Clarence's supper on the table. I did not feel at all sorry to be unmarried.
“You're lucky, Eva, not to have to answer to a man,” Ruby clucked in a knowing, matronly voice as she pulled on her coat. “If he don't eat within fifteen minutes of walking in the door he blesses me out something awful.”
Yes,
I thought as I stood on the porch waving to her jogging up the road to the little house she shared with Clarence.
I'm lucky not to have a man to answer to. It's better this way. Just me and Morgan and Papa and Mama. I don't miss being married a bit.
My life ran in pleasant, settled patterns, each separate activity a rivulet that flowed steadily and surely forward, emptying finally into a wide, flat river of days. The happy, monotonous rhythm of it was as sure and even as the stitches that made up my quilts, each one seeming exactly like the one before until you stood back and saw the tiny curves and curls that made pretty, satisfying patterns, a dozen gratifying little bits of business in a day that, one after another, made up a year.
Actually, next to taking care of Morgan and thinking about Slim, doing business was the most enjoyable part of my life. I loved imagining and planning a new quilt and then going to the dry goods store to finger the fabrics and make my choice, seeing the colors in my mind the way a painter designs his picture with mental brushes before laying a single dot of paint on canvas. Of course, the storekeepers' wives still avoided talking to me directly and were scandalized and disappointed that I didn't carry shame in my hands like an extra piece of baggage, but their husbands looked at me straight with the kind of friendly solemnity they reserved for other men. We were doing
business,
all of us sharp and fair, looking for as good as we got. The dignity of the transactions was right and proper for the occasion.
Working and saving brought me an inner satisfaction and self-respect. Gazing out over the ten acres of land I'd bought in Morgan's name, right next to Papa's, and seeing my bankbook growing to the point where I could almost buy another ten without touching a dime of Slim's money, filled me with a degree of pleasure that more than made up for the distance between the wives of Dillon and myself. Everything about my life felt fortunate.
For Slim it was another story. Fame was a chain that held him captive. His every move and word were noted and reported by a press and public that couldn't seem to get enough of him. Whether they were maddened by the opportunities opened by the world of aviation, maddened by admiration of their very own hero, or just plain mad, I never really knew. Probably some of each.
I didn't hear from him much. We had agreed that with reporters dogging his every step, even to the point of paying hotel maids to let them sift through his wastepaper baskets, it would be too dangerous for us to write. Any reporter who got to me would be only a step away from finding out about Morgan, and neither of us wanted our son exposed to that kind of attention. But every few weeks I'd get a postcard from some far-off town with a colored picture on the front and a few lines on the back, often nothing more than, “Thinking of you both. Miss you. S.” Never more than a dozen words, but they were like poetry to me. I kept them all, few and far between as they were. And even though the news he sent me of himself was nonexistent, I was still able to keep up with his every move. Lindbergh mania kept the papers full of Slim's exploits. It was almost as if he were there with me. I could pretend we really were man and wife, that he was away on an extended and important business trip, and each news story was a personal letter home keeping me up-to-date on his progress. It was easy, when he was away, to imagine him as I wished he was.
The illusion I invented became my own story. His picture was everywhere, and sometimes, without realizing it, I drew myself into the shots. The photos became stamped on my brain as though they were actual memories, the way parents show a child pictures of family reunion they were far too young to really recollect, but after seeing the pictures and hearing stories a hundred times you think you really do remember the exact shade of yellow dress you wore and the smooth sweetness of Aunt Martha's famous creamed onions on your tongue.
That was my secret life with Slim. In it he was always young, strong, calm, and as devoted, in his own way, to the memory of our love as I was devoted to supporting him in his life mission and holding down the home front in his stead. It felt noble and fine, this fidelity that asked nothing in return. I never had to learn of his imperfections—if he got grouchy when dinner was late, or rolled over to go to sleep without kissing me good night, or was mean about money or in-laws. We were the perfect couple, and I was content to share him with the world, knowing there was a secret part of him that belonged to Morgan and me alone.
I didn't think of that ever changing. In my mind Slim and I were frozen and constant as images in a photograph, and I liked it that way. But nothing is ever as steady as it seems. Life swirls and eddies around us like the infinite prairie sky in summer when the days are stifling and endless. Then suddenly, you smell something new in the air, and when you look up from weeding the garden to study the horizon you notice a little gathering of vapor. Before you can get to the end of the next row of beans the haze becomes a cloud, and then a black thunderstorm, and you run under cover to watch the pelting, angry sky in awe, wondering where it all came from. When the storm passes, you walk outside to see the plants are beaten down and nothing is like it was just moments before.
BOOK: Fields Of Gold
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