Helen noticed the water seemed the slightest bit lower on her frog boots as she slogged across Jersey Avenue toward the little bridge over the creek at Springfield. At least that was good news, wasn’t it? Soon the streets would be dry again—albeit muddy—and life could get back to normal.
Yet that bright thought wasn’t enough to cheer her as she trudged toward the Winstons’ house to check in with Clara and see what she could do to help the family.
Though Betty had insisted she was fine, Helen was sure that wasn’t true. She remembered the numbness that had set in after Joe died. For weeks, she had put herself on autopilot, dealing with doctors and the mortuary and lawyers, taking phone calls from friends and relatives, reading the sympathy cards that began pouring into the mailbox. It wasn’t until after the memorial service, when she, her grown children, and her grandchildren had taken Joe’s ashes to the mausoleum, that it had hit her that he was dead.
Then she’d been inconsolable. Her physician had prescribed medication, but Helen hadn’t wanted to take it. She needed to feel the loss, to go through her own grief. It was harder than anything she’d done in her life.
Betty had been married to Bernie for sixty-odd years.
She was not fine. She would not be fine again, not for a long while.
Deep in her thoughts, Helen passed the first two houses nearest the bridge without seeing them. She’d nearly gone by a third when she heard someone call her name, and she turned her head as a screen door swung open then closed with a slap.
She paused, staring up at the pristinely maintained Victorian, painted peach with dark-green-and-white gingerbread trim, that belonged to Agnes March.
“Yoo-hoo!” Her friend waved as she strode up the brick paver pathway toward the soggy sidewalk. “Got a minute?”
She smiled absently as Agnes approached, looking as smart as her cottage. She had on a crisp white blouse with a patterned scarf tied nattily at her throat, and her flat-front tan pants were tucked neatly into black knee-high Wellies.
Helen felt wrung out and wrinkled, wearing the same sweatsuit she’d had on the day before and her grimy-looking frog boots. Maybe she should have showered and changed before heading toward the Winstons’, she thought, a little too late.
“I heard about Bernie,” Agnes said before Helen even greeted her. “It’s a horrible thing. Seems like we’ve had our share of losses lately, haven’t we?”
“I guess we have,” Helen said, thinking that a town filled with mostly old folks could hardly avoid it. But it never got any easier.
“Are you headed over to Betty’s?”
“Yes.”
“I need to go pay my respects, too,” Agnes said, “but I thought I’d wait a little bit. I’ve got a coffee cake baking that I can take in the morning.”
Helen nodded. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“It’s good Betty has Clara,” Agnes remarked. “The sisters are so close, despite their age difference.” She glanced toward the Winstons’ place a few houses down. “Did you know my family’s home sat across the street from Clara’s when we were growing up?”
“No,” Helen replied truthfully. Clara had never mentioned it.
“Those girls sure went through the wringer when they lost their father. Their mother married a rough sort who drank a lot more than he worked. Betty left right after high school, and Clara gained so much weight. She just seemed so sad and closed off. I’m not sure if she missed her dad or her big sister more.”
Helen thought of the photograph she’d found at the Historical Society, of Clara’s family, all of them looking rather grim. “Was Clara mistreated by her stepfather?” she dared ask, since Agnes was a friend and not as prone to gossip as some.
Agnes pursed her lips, seeming to weigh her answer before she said, “I don’t know what happened inside that house, but I do remember how Clara changed, and it wasn’t just her figure. She missed curfews a lot, even ran away from home, and her mother didn’t know what to do with her. I honestly think she was relieved when Clara went to stay with Betty and Bernie.”
“Clara must have been hurting.”
“She was. But I figure the time away was good for her,” Agnes said, nodding. “When she came back to River Bend after a year gone, she seemed her old self again. She was happier, lighter somehow.”
“Perhaps she needed time with her sister so she could heal.”
“Perhaps,” Agnes agreed, but there was something in her face, something that suggested she wasn’t sharing all she recalled about Clara’s sad home life way back when.
“I should go,” Helen said, though Agnes caught her arm.
“I ran into Sarah Biddle yesterday, and she seemed more convinced than ever that Luann Dupree isn’t gallivanting across the country with her mystery man. I’ve been hoping to get word from Luann myself, and now that new director, John Danielson, has been by asking questions about Luann and if she left anything with me that belongs to the Historical Society.” Agnes shrugged. “I really don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t have any more news about Luann,” Helen told her earnestly, because she wasn’t big on passing off fiction as facts. “I’m sorry, but I’m as in the dark as you.”
“I just don’t know if I feel like I can trust Mr. Danielson.”
“Trust him with what?”
“He’s asked on several occasions what certain items are worth, and I’ve told him that it doesn’t matter, as none of the current exhibits or additional items donated to the Historical Society are for sale.”
“Does he want to sell things?” Helen asked. “Or is he just trying to gauge what’s there, because he’s responsible for it all now? Maybe he needs appraisals for insurance purposes.”
“I hope it’s the latter,” Agnes said and screwed up her face. “I hope he takes as much care with the collections as Luann did, that’s all.” She patted Helen’s arm. “I’ve got to get back to my coffee cake. Do tell Clara and Betty that they have my heartfelt sympathy, and I’ll be dropping by in the morning.”
“I will.” Helen touched her friend’s hand before she let go.
As she walked up the sidewalk toward the Winstons’ place, she heard voices and the creak of the porch swing.
When she climbed the front steps, she saw Ellen and Sawyer.
Though Ellen’s eyes looked puffy and red, she wasn’t crying now. The swing moved back and forth gently as she engaged in silly chatter with her preteen daughter. Sawyer stuck out her tongue, then Ellen stuck out her tongue, and Sawyer shook her head, laughing.
Helen stopped on the porch and said, “That’s a lovely sound to hear today.”
The swing ceased its gentle swaying.
Ellen looked up. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Evans. Sawyer challenged me to roll my tongue, which I proudly admit I can do even though my offspring can’t.” She grinned. “Guess you didn’t inherit that trick, sweetie.”
“Aunt Clara can do it,” Sawyer announced, “but Grandma can’t.”
“Ah, that’s good to know,” Helen said, smiling at the child before she fixed her gaze on Ellen. “How’s everyone doing?”
“About as well as you’d imagine,” Ellen said, and the light left her eyes. “I know we’ve all been gearing up for this day, considering Dad’s been going downhill lately, but it’s still a shock when it happens.”
“I’m glad Betty has you,” Helen told her. “And you, too, Sawyer.”
“Grandpa’s in heaven now,” the child said matter-of-factly. “I woke up last night, and I saw him with the angels.”
“You did?” Helen glanced at Ellen, who put an arm around Sawyer’s shoulders.
The child nodded. “It was very dark, but I could see them. They looked all flowy, kind of like ghosts.”
“That’s reassuring, isn’t it,” Helen said, “to know your grandpa wasn’t alone in the end?”
“That’s what my mom thought, too.”
“It’s true,” Ellen remarked, her voice catching. She ruffled her daughter’s hair. “Thanks for coming by, Mrs. Evans. My mother and aunt are inside. Feel free to go on in. Sawyer and I are going to hang out here for a while. The fresh air is doing me good.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
Helen started for the door as the pair began pushing at the porch floor again with their feet, setting the swing to swaying, its chains creaking mournfully.
As Ellen suggested, she let herself in. Quickly, she shucked her damp boots on the interior mat. Hearing Clara’s voice arguing with Betty, she headed toward the noise.
“You need to lie down,” Clara was saying. “Bernie would want you to take care of yourself. He wouldn’t want you to punish yourself.”
“I have to do something . . .”
“I can wash Bernie’s bedclothes. It’s not like anyone’s coming by tonight, checking for dirty laundry . . .”
“Hello?” Helen said as she padded down the hallway in stocking feet. She peered through the door into a bedroom, spotting the two sisters at the foot of a double bed.
“There you are,” she said, and they swung about, wide-eyed. “I ran into Ellen outside, and she told me to come in.”
Clara glanced at Betty then hurried over to Helen. “Of course!” she chirped. “You’re welcome anytime. We’re just setting things to rights. Betty’s ready to strip Bernie’s bed, and I told her to go rest.”
“How about if I strip the bed, and you both go sit down,” Helen volunteered, waving away Clara’s protests. “It’s no problem. I’d like to make myself useful.”
Betty said nothing. Her face appeared pinched, her eyes glazed.
“If you’re sure it’s all right,” Clara said, taking Betty by the arm. Her sister didn’t seem so inclined to go. “Helen’s on our side, Betts.”
Betty stood and watched for a moment as Helen set about pulling bed linens down. She folded back the comforter first and then yanked out the top sheet.
“I’ll be done in a jiffy,” Helen said over her shoulder. “I’ve done this, oh, about a million or so times.”
She hummed while wrestling with the fitted sheet, which had been tucked tightly under the mattress. When she got it off and turned around, the sisters were gone.
She bundled the sheets together, dropping them into a pile on the floor. Then she reached for the nearest pillow and started to remove the case. She paused, noting delicate stitching within the end band. Someone had embroidered half a dozen butterflies in pretty spring colors. Was that Betty’s handiwork?
Helen’s chest tightened, imagining Bernie falling asleep on such a lovely pillowcase last night, only to awaken for whatever reason and wander outside.
Her gaze drawn to the door across the room, she held the pillow to her chest and went nearer. Through the open blinds that covered inset glass, she could see the back deck. Was this how Bernie had gotten out? Had someone left it unlocked, or had Bernie managed to unlock it himself?
Squinting out, she spotted the back lawn, or where grass would have been if it weren’t underwater. She envisioned Bernie fumbling his way to the outdoors, confused by a dream or by his own tortured brain. Had he waded into the creek without knowing what he was doing? Had the current tugged him off his feet? Had he not remembered how to swim?
It was no wonder Betty was punishing herself, as Helen had heard Clara remark. The poor woman probably felt like it was her fault that Bernie had gone outside in the dark while the whole house slept.
Helen had felt as guilty when Joe had died, even though there wasn’t a dad-blamed thing she could have done to keep his heart from giving out.
She had relived that nightmare in her head at least a million times since, always trying to imagine what she could have done to make things come out differently.
In the end, it didn’t matter.
Dead was dead.
And not even a million what-ifs could change it.