Conn woke early. She lay in bed listening to the plaintive call of a mourning dove perched in the elm tree outside her open window. Finally, a night with no dreams. Sleepily, she lay there enjoying the snuggly warmth of her covers despite the cool breeze coming through the screen when, suddenly, she remembered. She was eleven today! She stretched, shivering in anticipation. Slipping quietly out of bed, she dressed and crept out of the house before anyone else was up.
She headed past the barn, and through the pasture beyond to a knoll where she had discovered the most marvelous tree. It was an oak that, early in its life, had somehow split into three divisions sprouting from the main trunk so that there was now a flattened area nearly large enough to lie down in. It was the perfect place to read or think. This morning, she settled with her back against one of the smaller trunks. She could just see the roof of the house from here.
With the ivy gone and fresh paint going up and no more broken windows, the house didn’t look haunted and neglected any longer. She giggled to herself, remembering that it was haunted, or at least she thought maybe it was. She still wasn’t sure if her conversation with Caitríona had been real or not. If there was a ghost in the house, she hadn’t reappeared since that night.
Sighing, she looked around and thought about how much she loved it here, and immediately felt guilty. It had been nearly a year since Daddy was deployed, but now… with him being MIA… Sometimes, when she was laughing or having fun, she would stop suddenly and remember. It felt wrong somehow to be enjoying herself, to be happy here, when he was out there….
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting in her tree, thinking about this when she noticed smoke coming from the kitchen stovepipe. Mom was up, getting breakfast. Conn climbed down from the tree and ambled back to the house. As she entered the kitchen from the back porch, her mother was standing stock still in the middle of the room, her face as white as the towel hanging over her shoulder.
“Mom?” Conn asked, scared. “What’s the matter?”
“Shhh.”
Conn realized the radio was on and listened, too. The announcer was very somber, speaking of someone who’d been shot.
“Who?” she asked.
Elizabeth looked at her. “Robert Kennedy was shot last night. He died early this morning.”
Conn’s eyes got big. “President Kennedy’s brother? But he’s the one –”
She left the kitchen and went up to her room where she pulled an old shoebox out of the bottom drawer of her dresser. Elizabeth followed her upstairs and sat beside her on the bed, watching as Conn pulled her treasures out of the box: a feather from her parakeet who had died two years ago, a tarnished ring Mark had won at a shooting gallery at a county fair and given to Conn, school photos of each of her classes at Sandia. Folded at the bottom of the box were some newspaper clippings. Conn unfolded them.
“The day before Daddy – the day Martin Luther King was killed, Robert Kennedy was supposed to give a speech in a colored section of Indianapolis. When he heard about what happened, he gave a different speech to tell the people the news because most of them didn’t know yet, and he asked them not to be filled with hate because he knew what it felt like to lose a family member. The papers said there were riots almost everywhere that night, but not in Indianapolis.” She handed the clippings to her mother.
Elizabeth blinked back tears as she read. Turning to Conn, she looked at her daughter as if she had never seen her clearly before.
Conn’s eyes searched her mother’s. “I don’t understand,” she murmured. “How can people hate so much? How can they do things like this?”
“I don’t know, honey,” Elizabeth said, folding Conn in her arms and rocking her.
“I don’t think we should do my birthday today,” Conn said, her voice muffled against her mother’s chest.
“Nonsense.” Elizabeth held Conn by the shoulders and looked at her. “Especially today, we need to celebrate something good, and you are the best reason I can think of.”
The rest of the day passed quietly, the atmosphere heavy with a sense of grief and foreboding. When Abraham arrived, they listened to the radio a bit longer as he hadn’t heard the news. Elizabeth turned the radio off when Jed arrived. He could see that they were distressed, but he didn’t know who Robert Kennedy was. Conn tried to explain, but, “He can’t understand,” she said to her mother and Abraham after lunch when Jed took his leave. “How do you make someone understand when he doesn’t know who the Kennedys or Martin Luther King were?” she asked in frustration.
Abraham glanced at Elizabeth as Conn went back to her painting. “Has she always been like this, Mrs. Mitchell? I mean,” he added hastily as if he feared his question sounded insulting, “I don’t know too many children her age who would even know who King and Kennedy were, much less grasp the impact of their assassinations.”
“I don’t know many adults who feel things as deeply as she does,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, remembering the newspaper clippings Conn had cut out and saved. “And yes,” she sighed, “she has always been like this.”
It was mid-afternoon when Elizabeth announced, “We’ve worked enough today. Time to celebrate. Let’s clean up.”
She soon had Abraham firing up and tending the grill while Conn and Will were put to work shucking the early corn she’d been able to find.
“It’s such a nice day,” she said, “how about we move the kitchen table and chairs outside and make it a picnic?”
Before long, they were seated around the table under one of the elms, enjoying Conn’s birthday dinner. Conn had to grin when her mother lit the eleven candles stuck in the crust of a cherry pie while everyone sang.
The sun dipped below the mountain ridge to the west as they finished their pie and ice cream. Elizabeth said, “Time for presents. Close your eyes.”
Conn obeyed, and a moment later, she heard, “Okay, open them.”
She opened her eyes to see her mother and Will holding a cane fishing rod with a reel and actual fishing line instead of string.
“We couldn’t wrap it,” Will said, bouncing in his excitement.
“Wow,” Conn breathed, taking the rod in her hands. “It’s beautiful.”
She admired it for a few minutes, and then Elizabeth placed a small wrapped box on the table. “This is from Daddy,” she said as Conn took her seat again. “He left it for you… in case he couldn’t be here for your birthday.”
Conn’s throat got tight and her eyes burned as she blinked fast. Her hands trembled a bit as she fumbled with the wrapping. Inside the box was a folded note lying on top of a smaller velvet box. She opened the note and, in her father’s handwriting, read, “For my favorite leprechaun. Love you forever and a day, Daddy.” She lifted out the little velvet box and opened the hinged lid to reveal a gold Celtic cross suspended on a fine gold chain.
When Conn just sat there looking at it, Elizabeth asked, “Don’t you like it?”
All Conn could do was nod. She closed the box gently without taking the cross out.
Abraham broke the silence by clearing his throat softly as he slid a package wrapped in plain, brown paper across the table to Conn.
“I thought we said no gifts,” Elizabeth said sternly.
“Connemara did tell me that, Mrs. Mitchell,” Abraham hastened to explain. “But this is an old book I had as a student, and I thought she might enjoy reading it.”
Conn waited for her mother to nod her consent before carefully pulling the crinkled brown paper away from a small leather-bound edition of Longfellow’s The Song of Hiawatha.
“Gosh,” Conn murmured, leafing through the beautiful little book.
“You read that, and we can discuss it,” Abraham said to her.
“I will,” Conn said solemnly.
Inside the house, the telephone rang.
“You’d better answer it,” Elizabeth smiled. “It’s probably your grandparents.”
Conn ran into the kitchen and answered. It was Grandma and Grandpa Mitchell who lived in Indiana, near Indianapolis. Conn talked to them for a few minutes, and then covered the receiver, calling out, “Mom, they want to talk to you.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, and muttered, “Better get it over with.”
Conn helped Will and Abraham carry the remainder of the dishes in from the table, and then the chairs while they could hear Elizabeth saying, “We’re fine here, Mother… No, we have people nearby to help out… We miss you, too…”
“We stopped by to see them on our way here from Sandia,” Conn explained to Abraham. “They wanted us to stay with them.”
Abraham’s eyebrows raised a little. “Didn’t you want to stay with them?”
Conn shrugged. “They’re really nice, but I think they would have driven Mom crazy.”
Abraham smiled. “I think your mother likes her independence.”
Conn grinned. “I think you’re right.”
Elizabeth sighed as she hung up. “I think I talked them out of coming for a visit, but I’m not sure.”
“I’d better be going,” said Abraham as he and Elizabeth carried the table back into the kitchen. “I can’t remember a nicer evening.”
Outside, they could hear the sound of tires crunching on the drive. Mr. Walsh climbed out of his truck and was on the back porch, walking uninvited into the kitchen before he saw Abraham.
“Well, Elizabeth, Abraham,” he said genially enough, but there was no amusement in his eyes as he spoke. “What are you doing here this time of the evening?”
Elizabeth stepped forward. “Mr. Greene was our guest for dinner. What brings you out here, Mr. Walsh?”
Mr. Walsh tore his gaze away from Abraham and held an envelope out to Elizabeth. “This come special delivery. From the gov’ment,” he said. “Thought I ought to bring it out to you straight away. Didn’t know when you might be comin’ into town next.”
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth, taking the envelope from him.
Mr. Walsh stood there, clearly hoping she would open it in front of him, but she set the envelope on the kitchen counter. “Thank you, Mr. Walsh, and be sure to say hello to Mrs. Walsh for me.”
With another curious glance at Abraham, Mr. Walsh nodded and left, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said, turning to Abraham. “I hope this won’t make trouble for you.”
Conn looked up at him. His scar was a vivid red.
“No more than I’m used to,” he said, but his words were clipped. Looking down at Will and Conn, he smiled crookedly. “Good night, William, and happy birthday to you, Connemara.” He bowed his head slightly in Elizabeth’s direction. “Thank you again for dinner, Mrs. Mitchell.”
As his pickup truck rumbled away, Elizabeth picked up the envelope. She pried the flap open as she sat at the table, and shook out the folded sheet of paper within. Her hand flew to her mouth as she read the typewritten page.
“Mommy?” Will leaned against her. “What does it say?”
Elizabeth’s voice shook as she said, “Daddy’s a POW in Vietnam.” Her hands dropped to her lap as the letter fluttered to the floor. “He’s alive.”