Page 65 of All We Thought We Knew
“You sure like to keep me guessing, don’t you, Sis?” he used to say when I’d share my latest wild pipe dream.
Back in my room, I felt restless. My gaze landed on the shoebox of letters on my desk. Mama’d said they held secrets that needed to be revealed, yet after Nash and I read some of them last night, I’d found them harmless.
Settling on my unmade bed cross-legged, with the box in my lap, I took out the bundles of letters and read the addressee’s name.Ava Delaney.The scrawled name on the envelopes of both bundles were the same. The returnees’ names, however, were different. The first batch was from SN Richard Delaney. The second group came from someone named Gunther Schneider.
I studied the envelope in my hand.
Why would Mama have letters written to a woman named Ava Delaney? Did they perhaps belong tohermother? I couldn’t recall my grandmother’s first name. I’d only met her once. Had she been a Delaney too, like Granny?
Memories of the time Mama, Mark, and I took the train to Chicago when he and I were about five years old floated across my mind. I vaguely remembered meeting a woman with graying hair. She wasn’t mean or grumpy, like Granny. She simply wasn’t interested in us, her grandchildren from Tennessee. We didn’t stay long, as I recall. Maybe a couple days at most. She’d passed away when Mark and I were in high school. Mama went to the funeral alone.
Laying the letters aside, I reached for the old book.
Die Bibel.
As I thumbed through the pages, I was convinced my first assumption was correct. It was most likely written in German, and it was unmistakably a Bible. But why it was in Mama’s belongings, however, remained a mystery.
I leaned back against the pillows and turned to the front of the book. There I found neat but faded handwriting.
Für meinen Sohn, Ehre Gott immer. Ich liebe dich, Mutter.
I spoke the strange words aloud, no doubt destroying the correct pronunciation. Could the first sentence beFor my son? Possibly. The next words completely stumped me, but I felt certainMutterwas Mother. We’d once had an Amish family purchase a horse from us, and the cute little boy, dressed like his father in black pants, white shirt, and straw hat, had called his motherMutter. If my guess was right, then it stood to reason that someone’s mother gave them this Bible many years ago.
Again, the question I’d asked earlier returned.
Why did Mama have it?
I yawned, my eyelids suddenly heavy. After I returned the book and the letters to the box, I lay back against the pillows. MaybeNash would have time this evening after dinner to read more of the letters with me. The mystery regarding Ava Delaney was starting to bug me. I wanted to know who she was and why Mama had her letters.
I awoke an hour later. The sky out my window still had light, but it was dwindling quickly. When I walked into the hallway, Mama’s bedroom door was closed, but I could hear Dad speaking quietly.
I reached the kitchen to find Nash at the stove, frying hamburger patties.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just meant to close my eyes for a minute or two, but I fell asleep.”
“It’s no problem.” He flipped the sizzling meat. “I cooked a lot of burgers when I was a kid. Mom worked at the Dairy Bar drive-in, and she’d bring home ground meat the owner was going to throw out.”
As I helped chop onions and slice a tomato, I thought about Nash’s mom. I hadn’t known Mrs. McCallum well. She kept to herself for the most part. Mama’d tried to become friendly with her when the boys began to pal around, inviting her to come for lunch or join us at church. But Mrs. McCallum would politely decline, usually with some kind of excuse. If Mark and Nash ever talked about it, I didn’t know the details. Nash’s mom lived up north now. I hoped she’d found some happiness there.
Dad arrived in the kitchen, and we sat down to dinner.
“Nash says you offered to let his friend come out and ride,” he said after a stretch of silence while we dug into our food.
I glanced up, trying to judge his tone and facial expression. The disapproval I usually saw when I expressed an opinion on a subject, however, wasn’t there.
“I don’t know if it will work, but I think we should try.” I glanced at Nash. “I may not agree with the reason Fred was in Vietnam, but that doesn’t matter now. He’s home, he’s injured,and he needs people in his life who care about that. You and the Grahams are doing your part.” I gave a slight shrug. “I’d like to do mine.”
Dad nodded. “I told Nash his friend is welcome here, anytime.”
Long after we’d each finished eating the simple yet delicious meal, we sat at the table and discussed the details of teaching a paralyzed man to ride a horse again. Dad had a lot of great suggestions. He reminded us that Fred hadn’t walked in nearly a year. His balance, therefore, wouldn’t be the same as it was when both his legs functioned. There was also the fact that riding a horse typically required the rider to use pressure from their legs to guide the animal.
“He’ll need a horse we can retrain.” He rubbed his jaw. “Moonlight would have been good, but I don’t want to take any risks with her. Dawn’s Rose is our smallest mare. Her gait is smooth and won’t jostle him.”
“I was thinking about her too.” I felt unusually pleased to find myself in agreement with my father. It didn’t happen often. “Do you remember the belts you used when Mark and I were little and learning to ride? You’d hold on to the back of it while you walked beside the horse. I thought we could do something like that for Fred.”
The corners of his mouth lifted, and he nodded. “I remember.”
With plans in motion, Nash and I cleaned the kitchen while Dad took some soup to Mama.
