Wings of a Dream by Anne Mateer Read Free Book Online Page B

if the doctor sent a telegram to my mother?”
    He rested one foot on the tire of his automobile and gazed at me across its top. “I don’t know. I’ll find out.” He cranked the engine and drove away while the high-pitched cry called me back inside.
    “Dan sat on her.” Ollie bounced the screeching baby in her arms.
    “Sat on her?” I looked at Dan.
    “I wanted to see if she was squishy like the sofa.”
    I slapped a hand across my mouth, but laughter bubbled up anyway, coming out as a snort. I pressed my lips together. Tight. Not speaking until I regained my composure. I shoved my hands to my hips, hoping to mimic Mama’s sternness. “You shouldn’t sit on your sister.”
    Dan hung his head and shuffled away. James followed.
    “I’ll get Janie a tea biscuit. She’ll be fine.” Ollie carried her sister from the room.
    I plopped down on the nearest chair, my legs and arms splayed out, weariness consuming me. I’d thought being in Prater’s Junction would afford me a few weeks to concoct a plan to get to Dallas, to Arthur, to a whole new life. And I’d hoped I’d have my aunt’s help in that. Things certainly hadn’t proceeded as I’d expected. But I still believed God had sent me here for a reason.
    Of course, the only lasting reason I could imagine was Arthur.
    Dan wiggled his way into my lap, tucking his head beneath my chin and pulling his knees to his chest. My arms circled his warm body as I sighed. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be in Prater’s Junction with the children, but I was certain my time here would not be dull.

    Exhaustion claimed the children early that evening. I carried three of the four up the stairs to bed, their bodies slack with sleep. Only Ollie managed to climb the stairs on her own—barely.
    My body longed for rest, as well, but my mind refused to be still. Embers from the afternoon blaze glowed in the fireplace, lighting my way to the ornate parlor lamp on the table in the center of the room.
    A circle of light grew wide as I turned the lamp key, illuminating not only the room but the painted lilacs on the lamp’s globe—and the newspaper on the table. I snatched the paper into my hands and settled into the upholstered chair closest to the table to scan page after page. War news. Agricultural news. Local events. Then I reached the short blurbs about the Spanish flu.
    More cases cropping up in Dallas. Be diligent to prevent becoming ill. Hospital beds filling. Death notices rising. And Camp Dick under quarantine.
    I bolted upright, my heart thudding like a horse’s hooves on hard ground. I had to write Arthur. I had to know he wasn’t ill. My gaze searched the square room. No desk that would house pen and paper. Lighting a smaller lamp, I carried it to the kitchen and searched the drawers in the tall Wilson cabinet. Still nothing.
    Back in the hall, I stood before the closed door of the downstairs bedroom, Aunt Adabelle’s bedroom. Perhaps it had been her sanctuary from the scurry of little feet, her refuge in the long evenings. From here, she might have written letters to the children’s father or read his letters to them. But the feel of tucking my aunt’s cold arms into her best dress, fastening shoes on her stilled feet haunted me. Did a whisper of her remain there? Did I dare intrude?
    In spite of my hesitation, my worry over Arthur demanded an outlet. I placed my hand on the doorknob, then sucked in air and paused. Closing my eyes, I pushed the door open, releasing my breath at the same time. It took a moment before I found the courage to look. Brightness seeped from the small lamp in my hand, dispelling the darkness.
    A sharp wind careened through windows left open to air out the room. The chill set me shaking as I placed the lamp on the side table. The room burst into full view. The bed, stripped clean, ready to be remade. The empty porcelain basin on the washstand. The rocking chair, moved to the other side of the bed now, near the chest of drawers. And shoved