Lindsey Renee Backen's Blog, page 7

Meet Lila

1944

The light pierced the darkness, alternating an X shape with two parallel lines in a continuous sweep of the sky.

“Not going to find her,” Lila whispered.

But the beams continued their vigil and so did she, studying each twinkling star like it might send short bursts of light like Morse code from Heaven. Instead, they blurred until the traitorous little tear leaked down her face and fled into her pillow.

“Don’t make friends.” She’d been warned on her first day. “You never know when they’ll be gone.” She’d never learned that girl’s name, but she must have known what she was talking about because the next day she was gone.

No one had given Molly the memo. She’d come, showing every emotion except shame over her tears or laughter or practical jokes.

“I like the lights,” she’d said. “I’ll bet they get God’s attention when he looks down.”

But God either hadn’t paid attention or hadn’t cared, because the only thing that came to take Molly away was polio.

Here one day. Gone the next.

All Lila had left of their two-year friendship was Molly’s little life book that she had taken before the adults cleaned up Molly’s bed, stripping the sheets and leaving it bare. Everybody knew if you left your things lying around, some other kid took it, so she’d taken it. Taken, but she hadn’t opened it. Tucked between the old magazine pictures and cut images from can labels was Molly’s dreams; everything she’d planned on doing with the life she no longer had.

Lila rubbed her face, worrying about her own future. At ten, she was too old to be adopted, yet too young to start looking for a job. Each year seemed to speed up, hurtling her closer to her eighteenth birthday when she’d be standing on the sidewalk with the orphanage behind her and the rest of her life ahead to be salvaged by sheer grit. The uncertainty was so intense that some nights she contemplated running away, just to end the suspense. But if she left for good, she wouldn’t be here when he returned.

She glanced at the other beds, listening to the various sounds of nine other breaths, slow and heavy with sleep. She pushed back the thin blanket, slipped into her gray shoes and clambered over the window sill. The lights continued searching the sky, prepared to sound the alarm if the Japs decided to drop another bomb on American soil. Lila ran beneath their shadows, feeling like one of the prisoners in the camps across the sea.

“Be good. I’ll return for you as soon as it’s safe.”

She wasn’t sure if the lie was cowardly or noble. Surely by now, he had realized that the entire world was at war. Nowhere was safe.

“Courageous,” he’d called her. “You have wit and resilience.”

The orphanage had other names for it: words like “stubborn,” “conniving” and “deceitful.” Docile, good and pleasing girls got honest work when they aged out. Everyone else ended up walking the streets.

She grasped the fence, vaulting it and landing with feline grace. If the streets were to become her home, she wanted to know what she was facing. Once every year, she’d slipped out to explore the ever-changing world. When the store displays sparkled with lights, she’d imagined herself as a window girl, modeling the latest styles. The next year, the war stole the sparkle, replacing the streets with soldiers. Uncle Sam wanted her, pointing directly at her from his poster. She’d decided to become a nurse.

This year… This year, she hugged her brown coat over her nightgown like Wendy searching for the boy who would take her to Neverland. This year she understood more about herself, more about the soldiers who crowded the streets, more about money and scarcity and what happened to girls who were alone in the world. This year she couldn’t continue to hold out for rescue, waiting for someone who may or may not be dead. God wasn’t going to see her. He’d be blinded by the lights searching the skies.

The high blare of a trumpet carried on the night air, and she stood still to listen. A note here and there. The lower vibrations of a cymbal disturbed the stillness in tiny waves. She followed the sounds, stopping at every street corner to relocate the song until the notes joined each other, creating a melody. Bursts of brass sang like people so joyous their lungs couldn’t contain the air. A beat sounded like a heart speeding in excitement, defying its monotonous rhythm of every day. The cymbal clanged like a raspy old lady who wasn’t willing to sit quietly in the corner while the young people had a good time.

The window cut its light into nine rectangles that shown across the fire escape in the alley. Lila searched the sidewalk, waiting for a lull in pedestrians before scampering to the darkest part. People rarely noticed her when she was higher than them. She climbed the rusted stairs until her face paralleled the top of the window, then peeked inside.

The hall was lit in a brilliant effort as though every dancer resented the day being taken from them, so they’d seized it and dragged it indoors. Forgoing sleep, men in uniforms swung girls with pin curls, bobbing like released prisoners.

Lila drew her knees close, tucking her hands beneath her chin.

Courage. Wit. Resilience.

This one little building defied the whole world. Tomorrow the soldiers may ship out. Most of them would be killed, some as soon as they stepped on foreign soil. The girls would return to their homes to figure out how to make do and do without. Some would work in boys’ jobs. Some would lose their men. Some might have no home, giving themselves to arms that would never hold them again.

But for tonight, the light beamed into the street, warding off the blackness the sun had left. The music continued, loud and gay in a defiant battle cry that protested the gloom of war. The dancers spun and leaped in daring moves that defied death itself.

Nobody else knew their future either. Some wouldn’t survive. Others would thrive. But Lila formed one goal. One solid goal, concrete enough to list at the end of Molly’s hopes.

I want to learn to dance.

To dance was to defy. To dance was to thrive.

Meet Trey

1940

It was so hot that his ice cream was melting faster than he could lick it. Trey slurped the sweetness from his fingers, then shook his hand, showering drops onto the sidewalk. Dave had become awfully generous since turning fourteen after he started earning more than a nickel allowance helping Dad after school. He’d bought Trey a ice cream with two scoops for only the promise that the kid would stay on the bench until he got back.

Trey hoped Dave came soon. His good fortune was turning into a mess.

“That’s a big ice cream for such a little boy.”

Trey turned his head, wiping his sticky mouth on his sleeve as a girl paused on the step. He knew her name was Martha, even though he hadn’t ever talked to her because she was new to town and always wore the same dress.

“I’m not little!” he said.

Martha blinked in surprise, shifting a brown package into her left arm and leaning against the pole of the porch. “I’m sorry. I meant young, not little.”

“I’m six,” Trey said.

“Six? Why you are getting big, aren’t you?” At his emphatic nod, a smile played around her mouth as she raised one eyebrow. “Practically a man. Are you going to be able to eat all that?”

Trey eyed the cone, before extending it to her. “Want some? I’ll share!”

She ducked forward like her grin pulled the rest of her body with it, but something in her dress snapped. She straightened, checking her tight bodice.

“No, thank you. But it’s nice of you to offer.” Her vowels oozed like syrup. Mama said it was because her folks came from Georgia and they talked a different kind of Southern than people from Texas.

“Didn’t you come for ice cream?” Trey asked.

“No.” Her smile froze on her face, but her shoulders drooped. “I came for a prescription.”

“Why do you need a prescription?” Trey asked before he ran his tongue around the base of the cone to keep the fountain in check. “Are you sick?”

“My Mama is.”

“Oh.” Trey frowned. “Well, maybe my mama can bring her some soup to make her better.”

“Maybe.” Martha’s face scrunched, erasing the smile with a grimace. Her eyes got shiny before she looked through the window of the drugstore. “Are you with your Mama?”

“She’s at the grocer’s.” Trey pointed across the street to the building. “I’m with Dave.”

The girl swayed away from the doorway. “Is Dave… inside?”

“Nah. He went someplace. He’ll be back soon.”

“Oh. Okay.” She patted her braid, though sections of her hair hung free. “Well, I better get along. I’ll see you later. You enjoy that ice cream, kay?”

“Kay.” Trey sighed as she went inside and the ice cream swelled into a glassy blob.

He gave another valiant attack, then leaned forward to peer around the corner where Dave had disappeared. Where was he?

He wiggled to the tip of the bench, but he still couldn’t see down the road. Slipping forward, he kept the seat of his pants touching, before, in desperation, he planted one finger on the wood as he inched closer to the end of the porch. He peeked around the corner. If Dave came, he’d run back and sit down before anybody saw him.

But the alley between the drug store and the hardware store was empty and the breeze swept the dust in a low circle like the set for a cowboy movie. Trey stepped into the alley, brandishing the cone like a pistol. What if Dave was kidnapped by outlaws? He slunk along the side of the building, squatting when a truck passed on the road ahead. Maybe they were running away after leaving Dave tied up on train tracks somewhere.

Trey ran to the sidewalk to get a glimpse of the outlaws, but it was only Mr. and Mrs. Barrie in their old red work truck. His shoulders fell, but as the truck passed he glimpsed Dave’s slacks and blue shirt behind the bushes at Lucy’s house. Trey darted across the street, glimpsing Dave’s back as he tiptoed to peek through the windows of a car parked at the curb.

Lucy stood pressed up against the picket fence. She glanced at the wooden triangles, then at Dave’s face, biting a pink lip. Her pin curls shook as she giggled at something Dave said.

Trey lowered the ice cream cone as he peeked over the hood just to be sure the glass windows weren’t fooling him. There was Dave and Dave’s arm, but his hand barely showed by the fence. Trey squinted before he realized he could see better if he widened his eyes.

And there were both of Dave’s hands holding both of Lucy’s hands.

Trey’s whole body sagged.

Lucy giggled again, then glanced toward her house. She leaned closer to Dave like he was telling her a secret. Then she turned her face and kissed him, right on the cheek.

She started to run like she’d infected him, but Dave leaned over the fence and caught her hand. Well, good. Now he’d give her the ‘what-for.’

But she didn’t look scared and he didn’t look mad. Dave didn’t even glance around before he tugged her toward him and put his lips right smack on hers.

Trey’s ice cream slid from the cone and plopped onto the sidewalk.

He blinked, wondering if he saw what he thought he saw. Lucy ran toward the house with a giddy smile as Dave backed up with his hands in his pockets.

Betrayal burned as Trey turned and ran back down the alley, panting by the time he reached the bench again. The dust must have gotten into his eyes because now he felt like crying. He knuckled his eyelid until it was so sticky it was hard to blink.

Dave rounded the corner, whistling like he was covering up his double-crossing, no good…

He stopped, eyeing Trace. “You got off that bench, didn’t you?”

Little shivers ran down Trey’s back as he said, “No!”

“Where’s your ice cream?”

“Uh….” Trey thought before he remembered it was melting somewhere near Lucy’s father’s tire. He hoped the whole car got sticky. “I ate it.”

“Every bite, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Dave eyed him, and for a moment his blue eyes held the skeptical searching expression their father so often wore. He looked more like Dad each day, getting tall and even showing the slightest signs of bulk in his arms. He planted one foot on the porch. “You saw, didn’t you?”

“No.” Trey’s face heated.

“Yeah, you did.”

Trey’s chin quivered, and Dave’s head fell back as he groaned.

“Aww, Trey. You’re not gonna go blabbing, are you?”

“No…”

Well. Maybe.

“Go wash your face and don’t say one word till you get back out here, kay?”

Trey rubbed his mouth again.

“No. Wash it. If you don’t, the bees are going to chase you.”

Trey sniffed. “We’re still gonna play catch, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Dave answered, like nothing in the world had changed.

Trey stomped to the door, yanking the handle with both hands and plowing into Martha’s flowered dress.

Martha dropped her package but managed to catch the prescription bottle.

“Trey!” Dave swung onto the porch as Martha’s package spun toward him.

She knelt bare-kneed on the rough planks, but she kept her back straight. He sleeves pressed into her arms as she tried to retrieve her things.

Dave caught the package before it skidded into the street. He stepped over, offering it to Martha. “Sorry about that. He’s just a kid.”

Martha stared past the parcel hovering near her nose.

Her face drained, and she wobbled until Dave held out his free hand. She caught it, balancing on the toes of her pinched shoes until she stood. Her knees were indented with the lines of the wood and her skin twitched like her legs might give out. She took the package, murmuring, “Thanks… Dave.”

He flashed a smile, then waved Trey to his side. “Come on, kid. Let’s go.”

She stared after them as Trey trailed him like a puppy.

How could Dave just…

Trey ran five steps to catch up to his brother.

“You… You…” he sputtered.

“I what?” Dave asked.

Betrayal swelled until the truth burst from his lips in an accusing whisper, “She’s a girl!”

Dave glanced down. “She sure is.”

“You kissed a girl!” Trey hissed.

Dave’s mouth twitched. “I sure did.” He dropped his voice to the low, confidential note that Trey usually liked to hear. “Don’t tell anybody. I got my reputation to protect.”

“But…”

“Nothing’s gonna change, okay?”

Trey stuck his hands into his pocket, kicking a stone from the road. “Okay. I won’t tell nobody.”

“Anybody. Who taught you English?”

“I won’t tell anybody,” Trey repeated.

“Good boy. Next time I’ll get you a candy bar, kay?”

Trey gnawed his lip, wondering when they’d be in town next. His mother held two bags of groceries, one in each arm as she backed out of the grocery store. Trey sighed. It would be a while.

He pressed his lips together, rethinking his promise. He didn’t want to be a tattletale, but secrets were so hard to keep.

The moment Mrs. Cunningham smiled at him, his classified knowledge swelled up inside until he felt like a balloon. He was going to say something, so before she could even ask, he blurted, “I didn’t see nothing!”

Mrs. Cunningham’s head cocked, glancing first at him, then Dave as she stepped onto the street.

“You didn’t? That’s funny. I didn’t see anything either.” She passed off one package to Dave, then crouched toward Trey, lowering her voice like they formed some sort of conspiracy. “What is it that you suppose we didn’t see?”

“Uh…” Trey squirmed. The worst place in the world was between brother and mother.

“Well… there was this bird…. and it um… um…”

“Yes?”

“It… flew?”

“Oh?” Mrs. Cunningham’s eyes went to Dave. “Do you know what he didn’t see?”

“You know it’s funny.” Dave stepped close to relieve his mother of the second bag. He grinned with a shrug. “I didn’t see the exact same thing he didn’t.”

“Well, that is quite a coincidence.”

A familiar rumble sent a thrill of hope through Trey. He spun, searching the road for the blue Chevrolet.

The man’s arm draped across the car as he slowed the car, leaning out and winking toward Mrs. Cunningham.

“Hey, beautiful. Want a ride?”

“Dad!” Trey jerked the handle, scrambling into the back seat.

Mr. Cunningham glanced into the rear-view mirror and laughed.

“Well, I suppose you can have a ride, too.”

Dave eyed Trey as he set the grocery bags between them. He frowned, but his lips twitched before he rolled his eyes and snorted half a laugh.

Trey glanced out the window, spying Martha ducking her head toward the sidewalk as she passed.

“That poor girl needs a new dress,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “She looks like she might burst some seams. What’s her name, Dave?”

Dave didn’t answer. He stared in the opposite direction with a goofy grin.

“Dave?” Mrs. Cunningham asked again.

“Huh?” Dave’s head snapped forward.

“The new girl in your class. What’s her name?”

“Oh. Martha.”

“Yes, that’s it. She seems like a nice girl.”

But Dave gave no reply, too busy peeking through the back window as Mr. Cunningham pulled from the curb.

Trey twisted around until he spotted gold curls and red cheeks as Lucy peeked around the corner of the drugstore.

Trey closed his eyes. He couldn’t tell nobody.

He nibbled his lip and glanced toward his parents, but Mrs. Cunningham turned away when she saw him look. Her mouth twitched as she glanced toward her husband. Trey couldn’t see his face, but he thought he heard the man give a breathy laugh. His parents eyed each other and he waited for them to say something. Mrs. Cunningham only smiled and reached for her husband’s hand.

Meet Dave

May 18, 1942



Dear Family,

Well, boot camp sure didn’t last long. I’m already halfway across the world, and I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Somebody warned me to look out for flying foxes. I thought he was pulling my leg or that it was an army term I hadn’t learned yet, but when we were in the Black Forest an animal swooped down out of the tree. Looked mostly like a bat, but it was the size of a fox. Sent us all scattering in ten different directions, screaming like a bunch of girls.

He’d been called a girl a lot lately, mostly by the sergeant whose favorite activity was yelling in their ears like they were deaf old men. Dave hadn’t expected to like anything about the army, but he hated it even more than he thought he would. He came because it was the right thing to do, but the sooner he could end this and get home, the better. The flying fox was the least of the terrors he’d seen, but it was the only one that was going to make it into his letter.

The cooking is awful here. But I’ve learned to make a mean pot of coffee. Dad, it would wire even you for a week.

It wasn’t doing much for him, though. Dave knuckled an eye, glancing at Jason sleeping with his mouth hanging open. Edward was already twitching. He’d probably wake soon, screaming until they calmed him down. Dave should sleep, too, but the guy on watch looked like he might doze off any minute, so he’d probably volunteer to swap places. He wasn’t sure he could stay awake either — but his dreams were turning out scarier than the actual fights.

He chewed his tongue and eyed the letter. There were so many things he should have asked his dad before he left. He couldn’t pen any of his thoughts in the letter. Any number of eyes might see it before it reached home and even if it arrived with no peeps, his little brother would be reading it.

The guys and I are pretty tight already. We look out for each other. I can’t tell you where we’re going next, but

But what? Some extra prayers from his mother wouldn’t hurt? The idea of where they were going made him want to wet his pants? 

Trey would be horrified if he’d seen how many times Dave had gone from paralyzed with terror to shooting like a maniac. He’d nearly shot the flying fox.

Then again, if Trey were here, the kid would be hiding somewhere. The idea of his little brother here was horrible, but Dave snagged it like it was a canteen of fresh water. If he didn’t stay here and fight, this would be going over to his home and Trey really could be facing war like the children here. That was enough to get his finger on the gun and pull the trigger over and over, without thinking too much about who he was shooting. The Nazis were getting so desperate they were having kids fight their battles. The first time he’d seen a boy behind a gun, he’d frozen up. The kid had nearly shot him, too, missing only because Edward had blasted him first.

Dave still couldn’t think about it. Forced or no, every person he shot was a person that wouldn’t kill anybody else. Every guy he let live might shoot him and go on to shoot a hundred other people – even Trey if this war lasted that long. He didn’t have a choice.

I can’t tell you where we’re going, but don’t worry if you don’t hear from me. Not sure when I’ll get to write again. The sarge said I was such a good shot that he thought I must have been a hunter before I came. I let the guys think that I’m from some little farm in Texas and feed my family on squirrels and deer or something. Honestly, Dad, I swear when I get back, I will never complain about shucking corn or cleaning out a stall again. Unless it’s Saturday night. Then I might.

He’d played the memories of his last Saturday night with Lucy so many times that if it was a film reel, he’d have worn it out by now. He’d finally gotten his first car. He’d graduated. He’d even gotten an acceptance letter from a college. And Lucy had promised to marry him when he returned.

How is Lucy, really? She sounds alright in the letters, but it’s hard to tell. Heard from any of the other guys? I saw Luke three days ago, riding by on a tank. He waved, but we didn’t get to talk. Trey, you’d like the big tanks here. They’re huge and they can roll over brush like its grass.

They could roll over a lot of other things, too. Dave gagged and swallowed, setting down the pencil to rub his mouth. He’d jogged behind them, careful not to look too closely at the flattened mud he’d stepped in.

He glanced at Sam, who lay propped against a tree trunk. “What do you say when you write home?”

Sam pushed to his feet, stepping to the fire to pour himself another cup of coffee.

“Lot of sweet nothings, to my girl,” he said. “Hope she’ll get the point and sent a bunch of ’em back.”

Dave’s mouth perked. Lucy’s letter had come smelling like her perfume.

`“What about your folks?”

“Aw, you know. The normal stuff. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. My handwriting’s so bad, they probably can’t read it anyway.”

Dave glanced over his short paragraphs, jumping from topic to topic and dancing around everything he really wanted to say. His handwriting wasn’t bad at all. Neither was his grammar, though his mother might get onto him for some of the short lines.

So far, his letters hadn’t caught up to him since boot camp. He had two from Lucy and one that his father had sent with him before he even stepped on the train.

“I’m proud of you, Son. I know that the decision wasn’t easy.”

Mr. Cunningham had said the words as he slid the letter into Dave’s hand. His eyes had misted as he clasped Dave’s shoulder.

“I love you.”

And what had Dave said back?

He closed his eyes, replaying the memory that he hadn’t let himself review until now. It was the tarnish on what would otherwise be something that would strengthen him.

His father had scared him. Mr. Cunningham had never been a man afraid of showing a softer side, but he wasn’t usually that upfront either. He’d spoken the words, quickly and quietly and almost brokenly like he was afraid he’d never have another chance.

And Dave, with the brashness of a guy more worried about covering fear than regretting unspoken sentiment had backed away from the man’s grasp. He’d grinned, like a youthful idiot.

“Aw, come on, Dad. I’m coming back.”

Then he’d swung onto the train, and he hadn’t had the guts to open whatever else the man had decided he’d better say while he had the chance. He should have — because the letter had gotten soaked with blood the blood of a friend he’d dragged to safety. When the guy had died anyway, Dave had burned the letter, and now he couldn’t bring himself to ask his father to rewrite it.

He’d ask what it had said when he got home.

Guns crackled in the distance and something boomed, shaking the ground. Jason woke with a yell as both Dave and Sam jumped.

“Too far to fight,” Dave said.

“But it’s getting closer,” Sam replied. “They’ll reach us by morning if not before.”

Dave’s stomach clenched, envisioning staying awake all night in anticipation and being too groggy to fight by the time the firing started. But how was he supposed to sleep?

He glanced at the stars and blew out a breath.

Sam settled back down, setting his gun across his knees. “Better get some sleep boys. Hell’s coming.”

“Hell’s already here,” Jason muttered.

Dave forced himself to sit back down.

He should have read that letter. He flipped open his own to sign while he could. He didn’t want it to arrive half-finished.

Sorry, it’s short. Mail’s going out soon and if I don’t get it in, it won’t go.

—Dave

He folded the letter and clenched his fingers lightly, closing his eyes.

I’m proud of you, Son. I love you.

Aw, Dad, I’m coming back.

Dave gritted his teeth and reopened the letter. His last two sentences had changed from neat to a shaky line that probably gave away his lie, but he forced his hand to hold steady as he laboriously penned the last bit.

P. S. I love you, too.

 

Meet Andrew

Andrew Callaghan

September 9, 1912
I keep thinking of my family. I haven’t played on the train at all. It seems wrong that I should be given everything while they struggle.

As if mocking his words, Andrew’s new coat slid to the floor from the table where he had set it aside. He blew out a breath, frowning at the letters he was creating and comparing them to the alphabet sheet on the side. He should have asked someone to teach him the letters long before this, but he’d been too embarrassed by the time he was thirteen – and here he was at fifteen, slogging through loops and lines without knowing if he’d even picked the right letter to spell the word. He blotted the letters, set the pen in the vibrating inkwell, and retrieved the coat off of the floor, folding it before setting it next to the sleeping gentleman he traveled with.
An Englishman no less.
He fingered the coins in his pocket; coins his father would have to find a way to replace to pay the rent, coins he hoped he would never have to spend.
“They’ll get you a passage home,” his father had whispered, “should you need it. If you feel unsafe – even a little – don’t say anything. Just leave and come home. We’ll find another way.”
So far, Mr. Mordaunt had kept his word. A patron who’d looked past the things that should have prevented them from ever meeting: he’d ignored the grime of the day-labor job, dismissed the Catholic beliefs and seen only an extraordinarily gifted musician. And if the wealthy, English, Protestant man was willing to extend a hand in friendship, to pull one of their children out of the slums and send him to school – they must show some faith – or risk forever losing a chance that one of them could break the cycle immigration had thrown them into.
The neighbor’s thought they were crazy, but he knew the truth. It wasn’t insanity. It was desperation.
“Use your sense,” Da had warned, “if it feels off, it is. Don’t talk yourself into staying if your head tells you to go. But if this man is honorable, if he sends you to school and introduces you to Americans, you learn and you listen, and for God sake, don’t stop.”
He watched the scenery change from the splashes of fall colors of the north to the densely wooded trees in the mountains. The seasons seem to turn backward. The further south they traveled, the more stubborn the land looked; grass retained a faded shade of green, leaves still clung to sprawling twigs. As they near the coast, the trees shrank while the grass grew taller and coarser.
Mr. Mordaunt lived on Galveston Island – which was really only a large sandbar. It seemed an odd place to build the fourth wealthiest city in the US, but Andrew kept quiet about it.
Robert grunted as he jerked awake, standing to move around the spacious cabin. “I swear, Andrew, my age is finally catching me. This trip grows longer every year. If it weren’t for Vincent and Clara, I’m not sure I’d make it.”
Andrew closed his writing book, suddenly ashamed of the ungrateful words he’d written. “Is Clara your daughter?”
“Granddaughter,” Robert corrected. “Vincent’s sister. You’ll meet her when we take Vincent home for what little holiday he has left.”
The man seated himself, taking time to light a cigar, before fishing in his pocket for a watch. He snapped open the face, then extended toward Andrew. “This is my daughter, Victoria Rose. Victoria after the queen — she was born in England, you know — and Rose because her mother wanted it. So we called her ‘Rose,’ and she was the most beautiful girl that ever stepped foot on earth.”
The watch held a portrait of a young girl with wavy hair that turned into soft spirals on her shoulders. High cheekbones accentuated the delicate mouth, turned upward in of smile that defied the sobriety of a formal portrait. Even her image seemed to radiate energy.
Mr. Mordaunt studied it as he spoke, “Her mother died birthing her, so I hired a young woman to be her governess. Hannah raised her in England while I traveled for business. But Rose wouldn’t have it and howled every time I left. She tried to hide in my bags until she outgrew them. When she turned ten, I took her with me and we set off to see the Seven Wonders of the World.”
He frowned as he adjusted his pipe. “Then she grew up and became the Eighth. She had her pick of men with every temperament and livelihood that you could imagine, but she chose a quiet man just starting a business in Galveston.” Robert’s eyes flickered as he took a slow puff. “He had promise and potential — and a stubborn streak that ruined him.” His eyes swung to Andrew. “Don’t you become stubborn. I can make you into someone great.”
“I won’t, sir,” Andrew replied, wondering what Rose’s husband had protested.
Robert nodded, “You have everything you need. Determination, honesty, and you don’t complain.”
Andrew felt himself flush, hearing words so different than those hurled at him by most men; barks to keep up with his work, orders to leave the shop, even his mother’s frequent admonitions and his priest gentle chastisement. Robert had traveled the world and met hundreds of people, yet had found Andrew at his worst and still saw potential that others missed.
He shifted, knowing that the aching hope his father’s eyes, the beam of pride in Robert’s face, and the lives of his family were all wrapped up in one chance to go to school. What if he couldn’t learn?
Reaching Galveston Island required moving from the train onto a ferry. Andrew paced the railing as Robert chatted with old friends. His eyes swept the crust of land behind them, dropping to the porpoises following the boat. The bow was crowded with people looking toward home on the island, so he kept to the stern, watching the churning water. Seagulls followed with various greetings for a small boy who threw bits of cracker. Feeding human food to the birds — oh, how far he had come.
Andrew pressed his fingers to his eyelids, willing away the images from home. If he couldn’t help his family, it was easier not to think of them at all and the island offered plenty of distraction.
It resembled New York far more closely than Ireland. Men worked like ants, unloading ships in the docks, calling in odd accents. The air was so thick with salt and heat that he felt he could choke on it and he tugged at his collar. Starch and humidity made a terrible marriage. Robert’s hand landed on his shoulder, but the man’s eyes swept the crowd as though he was seeing someone else entirely.
“Every time it gets harder to come back,” he murmured.
“Why do you?” Andrew asked.
The man set his jaw as his eyes misted. “Because my daughter is here somewhere.”
“Grandfather!”
The voice carried over the clanging bells, calling seagulls, and the hum of the red and golden-trimmed Buick driven by a stately middle-aged man. The very personification of idealistic youth jumped from the high-backed red cushions in the back of the vehicle. Vincent had brown hair that was combed to the side and eyes that darted in the direction of a twirling parasol even while long legs carried the boy toward them.
“Aren’t you a sight?” Vincent asked, stopping just in front of the pair. “I thought perhaps you changed your mind and weren’t coming after all.” The blue eyes snap to Andrew. “Hullo! Who’s this?”
Again a flush of pride crossed the old man’s face as he replied, “Andrew Callighan. He will be attending school with you next semester.”
Curiosity and amusement mingled during the formal introduction, but when they shook hands Vincent simply grinned. “Welcome to prison.”
As Andrew tried to think of an appropriate response, Robert spoke over him, directing his chauffeur to load the luggage.
“You know,” Vincent said, “my things are in the car already, and you have all of yours. It would be easiest just to turn right around on the ferry, and we could be on our way.”
Robert laughed heartily. “You forget my age, my boy.” The smile faded as the man considered, then nodded. “But I did promise Clara to come as quickly as possible. She’s no doubt been lonely this summer.”
It was a rapid reversal of plans, but Andrew was used to Robert’s changing whims by now. His heart pounded as he followed the man to the shining car.
The trip from Galveston to Palacios turned out to be the liveliest he’d ever had. For Robert, traveling was as much for pleasure as reaching his destination. There was no sharing of bread and cheese in the corner of a steerage car. Meals were taken at fine restaurants, serving oysters and gourmet sauces. Interesting landmarks were explored, and the history of the local terrain introduced him to battles, pirates, hidden treasure, and cannibalistic Indians.
Vincent snagged the wheel somewhere between Freeport and Palacios, pushing the car to its limits and making liberal use of the horn.
Robert shifted in the passenger seat to turn toward Andrew. “Your turn, Andrew. Every gentleman should learn to drive.”
His heart slammed against his ribs as Vincent applied the brakes.
“He’s right,” Vincent replied. “If you learn now, you may be allowed to drive it to the school, and you’ll have no shortage of friends.” The boy hopped out, disregarding the door handles to trade front and back with Andrew.
Andrew slid onto the sun-warmed leather seat, gripping the steering wheel. The breeze picked up with the machine as it rolled forward under guidance, and a grin crept onto his mouth. He desperately wished his father could see. Alister would still be giggling to himself knowing his son was driving an automobile.
As he turned a corner, Robert chuckled. “See Vincent? This is what I meant when I described ‘careful.’”
Vincent grinned unashamedly. “‘Careful’ is such a dull word. There are better ones. ‘Fast’ for instance. Now that is an interesting word, don’t you agree Andrew?”
“It is indeed,” Andrew answered, feeling his suppressed grin break through.
Robert tapped the top of his cane. “I don’t like the sound of it. It resembles ‘dangerous.’”
Vincent laughed loudly, before pouncing forward. “Left, Andrew! Left!”
Andrew coaxed the car onto a road created from broken shells, passing small but ornate buildings. A silver slip of the ocean peeked ahead.
“Follow Pavilion Street, and turn right on Harbor Avenue.” Vincent directed, before turning toward the back of the car. “Hallo! That’s James there. John said he’s the doctor’s apprentice now.”
“It’s good to see he did well in his studies,” Robert hinted.
“It’s not entirely my fault,” Vincent said. “I fell sick the first two weeks and never quite caught up.”
“Right here by the ice plant,” Robert ignored his grandson to guide his charge onto the correct road. A series of white, framed houses with generous porches lined the streets.
Vincent’s house was one of the largest on the road, white with black shutters and a second story porch. A bright quilt draped over the railing, airing in the breeze and adding a bit of cheer to the street.
Andrew pulled the car to a rather jerky stop as Vincent leaped from the back, calling, “We’ll give them a surprise attack.”
But he attacked alone, leaving Andrew to walk around the car, offering assistance to Mr. Mordaunt.
Robert cleared his throat, checking the car, then brushing imaginary lint from his coat. “Well, here we are then,” the man said. “I suppose we’d better go in.”
Despite his words, he squinted around the yard as though inspecting it. A quick glance revealed an apple and pear tree alongside a tiny fig tree just beyond a carriage house and a chicken hutch. By the time Andrew’s eyes swept the grapevine, he wondered if his family would have fruit trees on their farm once they got it – if they ever managed to get one.
Apparently, this estate was not enough to win Mr. Mordaunt’s stamp of approval, for the man grunted, waving a cane toward the left side of the house. “That tree is rotting there. Edmund ought to have it cut down.”
A peel of girlish laughter floated from the screened windows.
“That’s Clara,” Robert said, and now he smiled. “She’ll be out here if we don’t go in.”
Andrew followed the man to the back porch where the house shaded two chairs on either side of the small milk window. The paint was old, but the porch was as orderly as the kitchen it led to. A combination of cast iron and copper pots hung from a rack on the wall, with the exception of those sitting on a potbelly stove.
The woman tending the stove dropped her wooden spoon, wiping her hands on a small apron before opening them with a greeting, “Mr. Mordaunt, it’s good to see you!”
Andrew inched toward the pantry door, moving into a corner while Robert removed his hat.
“Hannah!” Robert embraced the woman. “It’s good to see you. You get prettier every year.”
The woman huffed a laugh, touching her gray braid to ensure it was still coiled in a tight bun. “Please, I’m too old for flattery.” Sparkling blue eyes landed on Andrew. “And who is this handsome man?”
“My boy,” Robert answered as though that should be perfectly obvious. “I wrote that I was bringing a boy.”
“You certainly did,” she replied. “Clara’s been puzzling over that sentence for a week.”
Robert chuckled, offering no explanation. “How is Clara?”
A flicker of hesitancy past the woman’s eyes before she replied carefully, “Well enough. I’m grateful you brought Vincent home, even for the short visit. She needs that boy.”
She sent a teasing smile toward Andrew. “She might need this one too.”
Robert chuckled and moved into the hall to meet the girl. Abandoned, Andrew stayed behind in the kitchen door peeking through a second doorway. Through the mirror in the hall, he caught a glimpse of a white cotton gown and long, brown curls, still swinging loose and free like the very youngest of his sisters.
Robert’s voice was playful as he said, “Let’s see you. Yes. She’s done well. Taller. Prettier.”
Andrew smiled, relieved to be free from the attention. Even the half glimpse he had of the girl plainly show that she was not tall at all. The assessment sounded the same the next moment when Robert continued, “Thinner. Gracious Edmund, don’t you feed this child? You could put her on a string and fly her like a kite.”
Nothing but mirth showed in the girl’s voice as she cried over Vincent’s laugh, “Grandfather!”
The fourth voice didn’t sound amused at all, when a man replied, “Of course I feed her.”
Andrew swallowed, reminding himself that no one could see his own bony frame under his coat.
“Andrew, lad. Come in! Don’t be shy!”
Hannah smiled as she reached to straighten his tie, then all but pushed him into the dining room where he nearly collided with the group coming from the hall.
Clara looked like her mother – the smiling girl from the photograph. She had the same delicate mouth and high cheekbones. The same cherry-wood color that illuminated strands of both red and golden intertwined in the brown hair. Yet there were differences. The almond-shaped eyes lacked the vitality and charisma that had been captured in the photograph. Clara’s eyes were a watercolor wash of green and brown, curiosity bleeding through the guarded expression.
“This is Andrew Callaghan,” Mr. Mordaunt said.
He tensed, waiting for whatever reaction might come from his name, but the girl looked more curious than disgusted – and perhaps frightened.
“My granddaughter, Clara.”
Clara. Should he call her Miss Mordaunt? No. Her last name wouldn’t be Mordaunt. It was – oh, he didn’t know what it was.
He hesitated, then replied, “Hello, Miss Clara.”
Clara dropped half a curtsy as if she felt as unsure about the response as he did. Was he supposed to bow?
Vincent grinned like it was some great joke, but the frown pulled at Mr. Edmund’s mouth as though he’d seen through the new clothing and rooted out the slum boy. Or perhaps he simply recognized the accent, the heavy brogue that betrayed his origins from County Cork. But Clara’s face broke into a smile, and Andrew glimpse the spirit of her mother.
Her father resembled Vincent, with a straight, slender figure and the same deep blue eyes under thick eyebrows.
Hannah bustled past with a serving dish. “Dinner’s ready. Don’t let it get cold. You know I hate serving cold food, and I’ve kept this warm for over half an hour. That poor chicken is going to turn into sawdust.”
Vincent laughed, moving to sit at his father’s left, giving Robert the place of honor to the right of the head of the table. Clara did a funny little dance, as though, unsure where to sit before she slid in next to her grandfather. Andrew took the chair next to Vincent.
Vincent leaned over to whisper, “It’s your fault we’re late. You were driving.”
Hannah did not sit, instead rushing back-and-forth from the kitchen to the table like a mother hen, bringing in dishes, checking spoons, and generally hovering about. Crusty chicken, gravy, creamed potatoes, and snapped beans were served along with a white gravy Andrew had never seen.
Everyone filled their own plates, except for Clara, who waited for her father to serve her.
Robert cut his chicken, then liberally spooned the gravy onto the meat. “So tell me, Edmund, what’s the local news in the big town of Palacios? Seemed to be quite a few people here today. Has it grown much?”
Edmund nodded. “The city was incorporated this year.”
“Officially on the map, I see.”
“The Palacios newspaper has changed itself to the Beacon,” Edmund said. “Mr. Stump is the editor and proprietor now. You remember him?”
“What in the world does the newspaper have to write about in this town?” Robert asked.
“The consumption and sale of alcohol,” Clara said.
“For or against?” Vincent grinned.
“Against, of course.”
Edmund shook his head. “There is talk of a deepwater port, making the roads better and putting in a new water system.”
“Sewage and electricity would be nice as well,” Robert muttered.
“The railroad has been bringing in people from Wharton from noon to five every day to visit the pavilion,” Edmund said. “It costs seventy-five cents for the entire trip. That alone is already securing our town’s future.”
“Well I hope it grows quickly,” Robert replied, winking at Clara. “This town could use a few hundred more people. We can’t have Clara getting too lonely.”
“I’m not lonely, Grandfather.” Clara squirmed in her chair, eyes shifting between Edmund and Robert.
“So, tell me about Mr. Callighan,” Edmund kept his eyes on his food, skillfully turning the direction of the conversation.
It worked. Roberts face softened into pride, even as Andrew swallowed, resisting squirming beneath the attention.
“I met Mr. Callaghan out an outdoor café in New York. I dropped some bills without realizing it, and Andrew was good enough to return them. We had a short conversation and I had an extra ticket to a concert that night, so I invited him along. He’s a musician, you see. I wish you could’ve been there. He replicated every song after the concert just as well as they played it on stage. I decided then and there that I must get him into school.”
Mr. Callaghan. Andrew’s fork stilled, again thinking of his father. The story was true. Everything Mr. Robert said really did happen. It was all the things he hadn’t said before that made him flush. Had Mr. Mordaunt really decided then and there to send them to school?
The man was confusing him with all the barbed remarks directed toward Edmund and the town the man had chosen to make his own. He had been nothing but polite when Andrew had taken to his apartment in New York. Despite his mother’s worries about what the man thought of the place, Robert had treated his family with the utmost respect.
Here, the children sat quietly while their elders exchanged underhanded insults. Andrew followed Vincent’s example until Edmund turned cold blue eyes on him. A half-hearted smile gave his face the resemblance of pleasantry, but the tension was evident in his voice when he asked, “What does your father do?”
Andrew glanced up from his half-eaten plate. He hated this question. What his father did at the moment, and what his father was capable of doing, were two entirely different answers. “He works at the wharf, Sir.”
He glanced at Robert before he spoke, unsure how he should answer. If Mr. Mordaunt was trying to give the impression that he was from a wealthy family, it wouldn’t work for long. He’d rather be truthful than be discovered a liar.
“Filling his lifelong dream I suppose,” Edmund muttered, reaching for his glass. “How many siblings do you have?”
Andrew thought back to his overcrowded house with a mixture of humiliation and longing. “Nine, Sir.”
He spoke as Edmund took a drink of water and the answer left the man sputtering for breath. Andrew braced but before Edmund recovered enough to speak, Clara stepped in.
Her voice was soft and a little timid, but she compensated with her smile as she asked, “Are they older or younger?”
“All younger,” Andrew answered. Fiona was only a year younger. Lauren two years, but she had been his companion since the cradle. “I have one brother, and the rest are sisters.”
Vincent grinned. “And you’re going to an all-boys school. That should be a change.”
Edmund opened his mouth, but Robert spoke over him.
“Andrew, why don’t you play something?”
Eager for the conversation to stop, Andrew slid from his chair, retrieving his violin from the corner where it sat in its new case. Its neck was worn smooth from his father’s hands. He played the last song he’d heard Alister play, remembering little Bridget spinning around in the room, holding her skirt out on either side. Bridget danced whenever she heard music, no matter how hungry she was.
He didn’t see his current listeners. He directed his bow into a softer song, one they would recognize and appreciate. One that made him remember riding on the hay wagon behind his grandfather, dances on the green, and the cold stones of the cathedral where he first learned to pray at his mother’s side.
As the song grew close to the ending, he peeked to survey his current audience. Robert’s sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, eyeing him with satisfaction that a teacher wore for a pupil. Even Edmund seemed to calm under the music, still eyeing him curiously, but the man shoulders had relaxed. Perhaps he was as relieved to be out from under Robert’s scrutiny as Andrew was to be away from his. Vincent wore his ever-present grin, eyes roving between Andrew and Clara. Clara didn’t notice her brother; her eyes were on the violin.
Andrew watched her until her eyes flickered from the violin to meet his for a split second. There was an eagerness coming alive in her, like spring peeking out of a long winter. Andrew smiled softly, recognizing the feeling the music invoked. None of the men understood the music — the story — that he conveyed. Most people didn’t. But Clara did.
Before he had finished playing, a knock sounded at the door. Vincent didn’t give Hannah chance to answer it, unfolding his long limbs out of the chair to go himself. The hallway rang with familiar greetings of friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while, and Hannah began clearing places as Robert and Edmund greeted their guest. The party moved outdoors to the porch and Andrew set aside his violin.
More introductions. More questions he didn’t know how to answer. He procrastinated, carrying his plate from the table into the kitchen where Hannah scraped the scraps out the milk window to a dog.
“No, don’t you be worrying about cleaning up.” She ordered, moving to the sink. “And don’t you be worrying about Mr. Castle and Mr. Mordant. Someday you’ll marry a pretty girl, and you probably won’t get along with her father either. You go out there and enjoy yourself and don’t let their competing bother you.”
“It’s crowded out there,” Andrew said. The woman made no protest, simply going about her chores. He glanced at the clock, imagining his father walking home right now. Alistair was probably hungry, tired and smelling like fish. He wondered if his father was thinking about him. Andrew had done more in his life the last week, then he had the entire fifteen years before.

Dear Father,
I’m safe in Texas. I’ve ridden first class on a train. I have a week’s worth of clothing. I’ve even driven an automobile. And today I played for the first time since I left.

Andrew chewed the tip of his tongue. Even if he could pen a letter, even if his father could read, there was no way to describe to his family what his life was like now. Already, his old life seemed like a dream, sometimes vivid and real, filled with aching for the sights and smells he grown up with. Sometimes it seemed like it had never existed. Was that normal?
Andrew let the screen shut softly behind him, moving past the group on the porch to the side rail where he watched the bay.
Something stung his arm and Andrew glanced down to a tiny insect perched on his arm with a minuscule beak plunged into his arm. He slapped it, leaving a streak of black bug and red blood across his palm.
Edmund’s shadow blocked the pinkish glow of the sunlit railing as he stepped to the rail beside Andrew. “You’ve got to be careful about the mosquitoes here,” Edmund said quietly. “They can carry diseases. Things in the south will suck the life out of you if you let them. You must be rugged to survive.”
Aware of the glint in the man’s voice and narrow distance Edmund had placed between them, Andrew bit his tongue, willing his feet to stay in place.
“You must have made quite the impression on Robert,” the man continued. “He’s brought all sorts of things back from his travels, but never a boy. What are his plans for you?”
Andrew felt his sleeves brush the man, keeping his eyes fixed on the sunset with its fading colors. “He wants me to go to school.”
“And then what?”
Andrew’s mouth opened, waiting for an answer that was not readily apparent. “I’m not sure.”
Edmund nodded. “He hasn’t told you? You know he’s a businessman. He’ll only invest in things he believes will turn a profit.”
Andrew swallowed, remembering Robert’s remark about Edmund being stubborn, and wondering if the bitter words were spoken from experience. Were they true?
Robert had a capricious nature, willing to part with money for whatever caught his interest. But there was no return on his many trips to the theater or symphony, except a night of enjoyment. He had been gracious to Andrew’s family, even after seeing their overcrowded home. It was the first time a non-immigrant had inquired about their story. Something had sparked again in Alistair’s eyes as he’d recounted his past in Ireland, and his hope for their future in America. Robert hadn’t laughed at their stubborn hope of leaving the tenements to gain a farm. He had reinforced the belief that in America, a man could rise to any circumstances he set his heart on. How could Andrew doubt him now, based on a bitter comment of a scorned son-in-law?
He attempted to redirect the conversation. “I imagine any businessman would. You seem to be quite successful yourself. You have a nice place.” His response seemed to disarm the man whose shoulders softened beneath the crisp jacket.
Edmund’s eyes swept the horse and cow in the pasture across the street.
“Well enough. The hurricane took everything I had nine years ago. It’s taken a while to recover losses.”
Thus the difference between the two men. Robert had investments in states all over, while Edmund had apparently consolidated his life onto the Galveston Island before the storm took his business and his wife.
Andrew nodded. “When we came to America, my father had arranged to buy a farm from a former friend who wanted to go west. But all of our possessions and money was taken just after we got off the ship. We haven’t managed to recover.”
“No, it’s not to recover when you’ve lost everything,” Edmund agreed. “It forces you to depend on others, on their resources and money. When their whims change, you can be cut, strangled, or tied.” He glanced down at Andrew. “You’re a long way from home if you discover you’re not meant for school life.”
It was true, and the idea panged harder than he would like. It wouldn’t come to that. Mr. Robert wouldn’t regret sending him to school, but even if he did…
“I’ve worked several jobs before,” Andrew said. “I could find my way home.”
“That’s your security? You could find your way home? It’s not much to fall back on.”
“Myself is all I’ve ever had, Sir.”
Edmund nodded, letting out a slow breath. “Which is why you’ll never be a businessman, Andrew. You just sold your only asset.”

Books by Lindsey Backen ...

Books by Lindsey Backen

 

The Act Like a Writer Drafting Journal will help you:

Meet your characters, using special tecniques to really understand how to get into their head
Imagine and create your locations so you know which details are important to your story
Define the goals of every chapter, so that you know what you’re going to write and why it’s important to your plot
Tally up your progress with a flexible system. You choose to track words, minutes, pages, or even days.
Chronical your writing sessions so that you can catch patterns and learn how to master writing
Remember the names of all those characters you keep forgetting
This will be the easiest book you’ve ever drafted. You’re welcome.







Across The Distance

“We are like secret friends…”

Dragged from New York to Texas by her newly-divorced father, Scarlet Beldon braces for a lonely summer in a Victorian house that allows only the faintest of wifi signals. A stack of letters dated 1910 introduces her to the house’s former occupant, Clara Castle, who lives with a strict and paranoid father and develops a friendship with a quiet, Irish violinist. When a music box connects the girls’ worlds, their friendship turns into a mad scramble to unlock the secrets of Clara’s future and alter history itself.

Swing

Orphaned and the only caretaker for his crippled brother, Trey Cunningham works at the local soda shop after school. Though he’s the best dancer in town, the missing growth spurts and local bullies team together to obliterate his chances to find a girlfriend. When another orphan arrives in town, she seems to be the perfect partner – if she was allowed to dance. But the girl of his dreams hides secrets far more dangerous than forbidden dance lessons. Caught between the growing tension between his brother and the increasing suspicion of townsfolk, Trey must decide how far he’s willing to go to protect the two people he loves most.

Come Write with Me!

Hello everyone!

I know it’s been a long time since I posted on my site. I’ve been working on a project that I’m really excited about, and that is a challenge for all my writing friends out there to finally finish that novel with me. I am currently working on the last stretch of the “Secret of Sentarra” series, and I have begun creating videos every day with a writing challenge for those of you who have your own book. I am working toward giving some online and in-person workshops and I hope to meet some of you there. For now, head over to https://www.stage2page.com and grab your pen (or computer). It’s going to be a fun ride. I can’t wait to see you there.

Lindsey

How Can I Help You Conquer Your Writing?

 

Hello Friends,

I’m working on creating a site and course for writers that will come out in 2018.  I want to share some of my unique techniques I’ve learned in the theater that I use to add character depth and realism to my stories. It’s a lot of work and I’m investing a lot so I want to make sure that what I’m creating is actually helpful to other writers. If you are a writer or have even thought of being a writer, would you mind taking this really quick survey so I can make sure that I make a place that is catered just for you? Thanks! (If you want me to let you know when the website is up and running, be sure and send me your email on the “Sign Up” page. I don’t want anyone left out!)

If you want to help me create the best website for you, you can find the survey here:  https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/YJLDZSL

Thanks, and keep writing!

Lindsey

Harvey Stole Her Dream: Help Me Reclaim It

Buy a Book. Save a Dream.

When Harvey hit, I fled my home before anyone thought it would be that bad. I thought my house might handle this hurricane as it had so many others – but right on the coast, I was going to get slammed and possibly flooded. In another part of Texas, I worried the river would rise and flood my grandparent’s old house as it has so many times. Then, I went to my parents home for evacuation only to find I was right next to the eye of the storm.

You know what? All of those houses had minimal damage. Harvey played its havoc on the one place that we weren’t expecting. My uncle’s homestead that he and his family have literally been building with their own hands for the last two years. They lacked the roof and the framing collapsed. Then a tree fell on their chicken coop. Their little bunkhouse they’d planned on moving into soon blew away. And overnight their dreams once more collapsed.

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The thing I love about them the most is that they have humor and are not afraid to be themselves no matter how different those selves are from each other. Kayla is a dancer and has mad makeup skills that I wish I had 1/10 of for my acting. Amy could probably build a robot bodyguard but she doesn’t need one because she can roundhouse kick you on her way to acting class. Tyler can handle sports whether they’re on the field or in the most complicated video game ever created. My aunt and uncle have a huge capacity for resilience and hope. In the last few years the family has faced multiple floods which ruined their house, scary illnesses which make working hard, and you know what? They just keep going.

[image error]But there was another dream that was destroyed and that’s the one I want to talk about. I have another cousin who is part of that family. Her name is Lauren and her dream was taken by Harvey too. Lauren and I have had many talks over the years about acting and entrepreneurship. She has listened to me talk for hours about my struggles publishing, my hopes for my imprint, my plans for developing my dreams. Her dreams are similar to mine.

[image error]Lauren around the age her first home was flooded and destroyed.

She wants to be an actress and perhaps a health coach. She’s stayed near her family to help them rebuild their home and she’s been growing a little dream of her own. She got an airstream trailer that she wants to call home. Besides launching her into independent living, it will allow her to travel to the places where she is acting. It will help her set aside money and become financially stable even in the early stages of her career when so many artists struggle to find the balance between doing what they love and paying the bills.

But when Harvey was finished with demolishing her family’s house, it went after her trailer too and the Roadhog was left in a shambled bit. The entire family is facing yet another tragedy, heartbreak, and discouragement. All of their resources went into building materials for their home and now they’re left to literally salvage what they can.

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Amy has started a “Go Fund Me” for the rebuilding of the family’s home and in honor of her parents who have worked so hard for their family. It frustrates me not to be able to help them rebuild, not to help them much financially because I got slammed with a series of car repairs. It breaks my heart to see all of their dreams shattered in a pile of lumber.

The hardest part of the aftermath of a disaster is that it affects so many friends. You want to help everyone and you can’t. How do you decide who to help? Do you go for the greater good or the individual? I’m an entrepreneur. I know that the larger pictures often crowd out the individual dreams. That people tend to set aside their own dreams and come to aid the people they love. And sometimes it’s harder to find that path again, harder to take up that dream, harder to sustain their hope when their family is suffering.

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While Lauren is helping fight family fires, I want to help keep the coals of her own dream burning for her. And I’ve realized I can. I don’t have a whole lot of money sitting around but I have a whole lot of books sitting around. So here’s the deal, folks. If you’ve been thinking about getting a copy of “Across the Distance” now’s the time to do it. If you will purchase your copy directly from my website, I will ship you a signed edition of “Across the Distance” until September 31 or I am out of copies. On October 1st, I’m going to put our collective contribution into Lauren’s “GoFundMe” account. That means every cent that you pay or donate for your copy of this book is going to go to Lauren to help her rebuild her home.

Will you help me show her that her dream still matters, is still in reach, and counts? Note: I can only ship to the USA.

Donate


Retail Price $9.99 USDSilver $20.00 USDGold $30.00 USDSuper Hero $50.00 USDAngel $100.00 USD

Thanks,

Lindsey

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A Letter from Clara

This following story is for the fans of Across the Distance and takes place  a year after the closing of the book. It is my Christmas gift to my readers. I hope you enjoy a bit of “what happened after.” If you have not read “Across the Distance” this is your spoiler warning.

Dec. 5, 1913

Dear Scarlet,

Lately, I’ve been crying, nearly uncontrollably and nearly at everything. We were in the wagon and I saw a hawk swoop down and carry off a sparrow. I cried for the poor little thing, and I did feel badly for it, but then I couldn’t stop. And later I was in the middle of telling Andrew a story which was touching but not particularly so, and I started to cry again.

“I’m sorry!” I said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Andrew started laughing and said, “I do,” And then he told me I’m going to have a baby. Apparently, that’s the only time his mother cries too. She has so many children, I would think she’d be crying all the time, but he says it only lasts the first bit. I didn’t believe him at first, but he was right.

I’m going to have a baby.

I don’t know why it’s coming as such a shock. I always did want children and there’s no reason why I shouldn’t have one now. It’s only that, between getting Father settled into his own little place (with a maid who updates us on his health), and nursing poor Tommey, and trying to ready the farmhouse for Andrew’s family, it somehow caught me completely by surprise. Some of Andrew’s siblings are here and some are still back in New York because his father is finishing up business there. We brought Tommey ahead in a desperate attempt to save his poor lungs, but he continues to worsen even with the fresh air and enough food, and the doctor says only a miracle can save him. Magdala – that’s Andrew’s mother. I can’t quite bring myself to call her my mother yet – believes in miracles, so I’ve not given up on him yet. But this year has been topsy-turvy with the changes, and selling houses and buying farms and exchanging my life with Father and two servants for a husband with ten siblings. I hadn’t even considered a baby being added to that mix.

But I think I’m glad now that we’ve decided to stay on the farm with his family for a year and help get it started. After that, Andrew wants to keep touring if anyone still remembers him, but if we’re going to bring a baby in the world, I feel better doing it near a woman who’s already done it eleven times. Actually, I’m terrified and nothing makes me feel better about it but I suppose it’ll be alright in the end. I hope it’s a boy. I want a girl too but I think every girl should have a big brother.

Anyhow, Andrew’s so excited he went off and made a cradle. By himself. Now, Alistair’s been down to the farm a few times and Andrew seems pretty handy when he’s got someone telling him what to nail where. And he was so pleased with himself, carrying that big old cradle in, that I felt obligated to give some sort of encouraging response. It’s enormous and I asked him if he was expecting twins. With two sets of those in his family, he might have been. But he laughed and said he hoped not. That two at a time was completely overwhelming when they both got to crying.

And then he had to leave again and it was the first time he’s left that I’ve actually been glad. Because the cradle is – well, even Andrew admitted it needed some work – but I couldn’t think of a good way to tell him that, as it is, there’s no chance at all that our child will ever be put in it. If it were a frame for my bed, I’d grit my teeth and climb in and pray to God that it didn’t collapse in the middle of the night. But this is a baby and I’m not about to endanger it in that contraption.

Alistair was back in New York and Andrew was leaving for overnight. I paced the house for a good hour, trying to think of what to do. I’d try to fix it myself, at least hammer in a few more nails, but I’m no more handy than he is. Besides, Hannah always says ladies shouldn’t work when they have a baby because they might kill it and I’m not sure how much work that implies. Apparently, all it took was a fall for my mother to lose a baby between me and Vincent. I know so little about babies I couldn’t stand the idea of accidently hammering the poor thing to death. Instead, I called Father. He’s been better lately without the strain of a looming bankruptcy. He’s not well, of course. He may never be, but his temper has lifted and he’s relaxed a bit as I assure him every time I see him that I’m happy and perfectly content. And he did rather perk at the idea of a grandchild, though I don’t want to ever leave a child alone with him in case he goes back into that frantic mood.

Anyhow. He arrived, and I didn’t have to explain anything. I just gave him a rather desperate look and said, “Help.”

And he glanced at the cradle, looked back at me, and turned back around to find a hammer. I was hoping he could just secure the cradle a little better and Andrew wouldn’t pay enough attention to notice, but once Father got started, he began humming as he sanded down the edges. And it already looked so different, I knew I’d have to tell Andrew something, so I decided to blame most of the change on Father – that it made him so happy I didn’t stop him. And I didn’t. He even carved in little designs and then carried it back outside to put on a stain. Father is a rather good carpenter and I never thought he’d be responsible for making something safer for my child – safer even than Andrew could – but he did. And it’s still far too large but it rocks without jolting, and it doesn’t rattle, and there are no rough sides to offer splinters.

And looking at it, I feel more hopeful about having the baby. Maybe it’ll be the same way. Maybe I’ll just have to do the best I can and trust my family to come along and help me raise the child. Maybe if it’s a girl, I’ll name her Scarlet.

Clara.

Living up the 1940's in the Luther Hotel

It was a night of firsts.

It was the first time the entire cast had been together, in place, ready to guide small groups through the halls and rooms of the historical Luther Hotel. It was the first time I’ve been approached before the show by an audience member who asked for a cast photo – and certainly the first that when we gathered on the steps, the buzz of a drone caused a stir. It hovered, taking photos and film clips, whizzing away as we waved and teased about Nazi spy crafts. We were happy to wave.

Then it was, “Places!” and a flurry of getting chairs on the porch for the audience, last minute tweaks, and the tour began.

 

The Tour

 

The Luther Hotel was one of the first buildings erected in Palacios, Texas in the early 1900’s. During the 1940’s the local base was turned into Camp Hulen. During that time Mr. and Mrs. Luther restored the old hotel, opening it on their 20th anniversary.

Jeanie and Bill portrayed the grand re-opening, welcoming the audience and sharing the restoration projects along with mentioning famous people who stayed in the hotel in older days. They welcome musician Artie Shaw portrayed by Mitchell, (who came equipped with a clarinet from the school where he works as a music teacher.) His performance was interrupted by the announcement that Pear Harbor has been attacked and the soldiers burst into action. Once the war started, Palacios became so full of soldiers who brought along their wives that people began renting out spare rooms and even chicken coops to provide shelter for

the throngs. The hotel was full providing a social life for both soldiers and locals. Many stars came to entertain the troops at Camp Hulen, staying at the Luther while they performed. The audience was invited in by Mr. and Mrs. Luther and treated to a barbershop quartet, local talent “Spare Change” branching off of the “Coastalaires.”

One film star who stayed at the Luther Hotel was Rita Hayworth. In the tour, the actress descended in a portrayal of Rita, posing to speak to a soldier where her photograph had been taken on the stairs of the Luther. She’s asked for an autograph, and with nothing to offer to sign, the soldier bums both pen and a cigarette box off a nearby comrade. She promises to save him a dance while the second soldier demands back his pen but sacrifices the cigarettes, making his way to the telephone booth. It’s already is use and his request for the soldier to hurry is met with, “Who you calling, kid? Your mother?”

The soldier in the booth has more important things in mind than ensuring a soldier gets a chance to call home. He’s decided not to wait until he returns from the war to get married and wants to know if his girlfriend can travel down by train to make things official. The distraction of the knocking boy has derailed his plans and his allotted time slot runs out, leaving him with a dead line and no answer. He also has empty pockets, but his plight is rescued by money from the waiting soldier with an, “Oh geez. Call her back and good luck.”

Across the room a couple on the couch is finding their own way to love, via an invitation to the singing held at the church. It’s a good time for the girls and guys in a sanctioned activity the parents couldn’t approve. Or can they? The couple’s conversation is interrupted by the entrance of her younger brother, who’s all too happy to remind her that Father said she wasn’t allowed to date the servicemen. The spunky girl’s been living on her own, working at the dry-goods store, and informs her brother that the servicemen behave like gentlemen which is more than can be said for a few of the local boys. After reminding the boy about the watermelon rinds from a neighbor’s garden that are hidden behind a tree in the backyard, and a recounting of repercussions of watermelon-stealing from the soldier, the boy welcomes the soldier to the family.

Mrs. Luther begins to book small parties to go upstairs, talking about how busy they’ve become since the war began, and how excited they’ve been by the guests in the hotel. One guest is the renowned Shirley Temple, who is now thirteen years old. She’s been attending boarding school after retiring from film, but she’s beginning to work on a new script, and she’s staying one one of the rooms. Peeking into the room offers a glimpse of Shirley most people don’t often see. A sophisticated, smart young woman, ever hopeful that even if her career in film doesn’t make a comeback, she will continue to flourish, making new friends at school and studying – perhaps to become a brain surgeon or even work in politics.

 

Moving on to the next room, the audience discovers time passing in the hotel, glimpsing a woman cradling a baby. Letters from her husband lay near the radio which plays a command performance of Bob Hope’s Christmas special, aired not only to the troops but for that night, to their families as well. Occasionally, that room received a cameo appearance by the show’s director ad-libbing an impromptu story from a young secretary working at Camp Hulen.



(Side note: This particular theater baby doll is creating an impressive resume. After surviving the sinking of the Titanic, and sleeping as a newborn in a manger, it was nice to see him cradled and cozy by the fire, finally receiving the treatment he deserves.He may or may not have ended up participating in a practical joke on me by peeking out the back window of my car (all the way to my house) from the prop box.

No hotel is complete without its staff, and

the maid at the Luther has plenty of juicy gossip to share about President Lyndon B. Johnson who is returning to America, called home from the front. She recounts that he too has stayed in the Luther, and describes the overheard story about his narrow escape when a trip to the “little boy’s room” caused him to miss boarding a bomber which crashed, killing all on board. Her friend brings up more local disasters, gossiping about the hurricane that recently hit Palacios and the damage that it left behind.

A delivery of towels brings the audience to the next room where Gerald and Francis, husband a wife, played Col. Phillip Younge and his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Younge lived at the hotel during the war while he worked as a judge advocate for Came Hulen. In the scene, they readied for dinner while discussing the growth of Palacios and the effect of the camp on the town. Reaching the hallway, they run into a young man lingering in a uniform just large enough to raise suspicion. The young hopeful has a photo and a pen, hoping to gain the signature of Mrs. Rita Hayworth.

Mrs. Hayworth arrives, giving the tongue-tied fan his wish, then enters her room to find another fan waiting. This time, it’s a little girl in possession of Rita’s love letters. The child wants to go to Hollywood and Mrs. Hayworth offers tidbits of encouragement, and the warning that being a star takes a lot of work and demands a lot from childhood.

Her own childhood was filled with dancing performances with a demanding father, never-ending rehearsals, and an early marriage living in an apartment with no furniture while her husband spent his money on advertising her as the “it” girl. But she’s made it, found a new love, and is drawn by the singing from the kitchen where a young lady does her own rehearsing.

 

 

Ann is queen of the kitchen, and dishes won’t stop her from being a star as she sings along with the record player. Darla sits at the table engrossed in deciding how to pen a letter to her husband who is in the war. A photo of the army group hangs above. Despite Ann’s reassurances that Dave’s letters will arrive in a large stack like they always do and she’ll have worried about the lack of them for nothing, Ann’s nerves don’t go away.She has news – a baby is on the way – but after the last miscarriage, she fears to raise his hopes too high. A knock at the door startles them both. A soldier delivers, not a stack of letters, but a single page with the condolences of the country. Dave’s body was recovered in Cecily. The sympathetic soldier ushers the audience through a small hallway into the next room, leaving Ann to comfort Darla.



The mood in the next room comes to an abrupt turn around as we meet a woman in a bright red dress with the personality to match. She is voluntarily husbandless after being given the ultimatum by her husband between “the real thing, and an emotional affair with the voice on the radio.” The voice belongs to Bing Crosby and she’s spent so much time listening to him on the radio that she’s neglected the house and her husband. In this, she is not alone, for more than one divorce paper has stated neglect caused by Bing Crosby binges, but this woman has a plan. She’s going to be a star and she’s staked herself at the Luther after hearing that Bing has come in the past. She’s not sure when he’ll come, but she’ll be ready. And his friend, Bob Hope, is in the next room.

Bob Hope brings up the final room of the tour. He’s been out on the front bringing smiles and a bit of home to the boys, hoping to chase away a few of the shadows on their faces. Even now, he practices his routine with the audience, until he is interrupted by an announcement on the radio.

Japan has accepted the terms of surrender.

The war is over, and so is the tour. At least, until next year.

Over 70 people went through the tour, raising over $700 to help restore the building. Audiences and actors alike enjoyed the evening. After the last guest left, the actors helped break down the set, carrying pieces to a trailer to be returned to my house. Several of us went to Dairy Queen, invading the place in street clothes and a few costumes. The conversation turned to, “What’s next for Palacios theater?”

I make no promises. But if it happens, it will be next Summer. And it will be “Swing,” brought to life on stage. Despite my vow to take things easy and turn my focus back to publishing, I returned home excited. For, what is better than putting out books, is watching them be brought to life? For me? Very little. And this show-despite the hours of prep, sweat, and lost sleep-was fun.