Chapter Thirteen Mattie

THIRTEEN : MATTIE

DELANEY HORSE FARM

NOVEMBER 1969

Tomorrow was Thanksgiving Day.

I sat at the kitchen table with a small box that held Mama's recipes, each written on an index card in her neat handwriting, looking for inspiration. The special meal had always been Mama's favorite. She'd cook a feast and invite friends to join us. I felt obligated to continue the tradition. Not because we had anything to celebrate, but because she couldn't come downstairs and prepare the meal herself.

Memories from last year's dinner drifted over me.

It had been a disaster.

I'd come home from school the day after the hateful telegram arrived, telling us of Mark's death. It took the military two weeks to get his body back to Tennessee. Mama wanted her son buried near home rather than the national cemetery in Nashville or faraway Washington, and a service was planned, complete with a seven-gun salute. We'd laid Mark to rest on a Wednesday the week before Thanksgiving, and it felt utterly wrong to go forward with a meal that was meant to remind us of our blessings. Mama had insisted Mark would want us to, but when Pastor Arnold referred to Mark as a hero during grace, I lost control.

"Mark isn't a hero!" I screamed in response, drawing everyone's shocked attention.

I'd spent the wee hours of the morning in my room, crying and consuming an entire bottle of Jack Daniel's. My head throbbed, and my stomach rebelled at the aromas, but I'd let Mama coax me downstairs.

That was a huge mistake.

"Mark is a victim. You all killed him." I staggered over to Dad and dared him to look me in the eye. "You sent him to war. You had no right to encourage my brother to go to Vietnam. To sacrifice him on the altar of politics and money. I will never forgive you for what you've done."

Mama'd hurried to pull me from the room and escort me back upstairs. I saw disappointment and sorrow in her eyes as she stood in the doorway, but I ignored it.

"Mattie, you aren't the only one who loved Mark. We all miss him," she said, sniffling.

To my shame, I slammed the door in her face. The following morning, I boarded a bus for California.

A howling wind rattled the kitchen window, bringing me out of my miserable thoughts. The thermometer on the porch said the temperature was thirty-three degrees, but I suspected the windchill was in the twenties. Dad left the house early this morning to check on the horses. I'd caught glimpses of him and Nash coming and going as they cared for the animals. The disagreeable weather was yet one more reason we should forget Thanksgiving Day. I'd rather eat bologna sandwiches and call it done.

I glanced in the direction of the stairs, just out of sight from where I sat.

Mama wasn't doing well. She'd been in terrible pain the past week, which meant more medicine. While the tiny white pills took the pain away, they took Mama away too. She'd sleep for hours, and in the short periods she was awake, her speech was slow and difficult.

I thought back to my meeting with Dr. Monahan. It hadn't gone as I'd hoped. He had, just as Nash predicted, told me the same thing he'd told my parents: the cancer was too far advanced. New medicines and treatments were on the horizon, but they would come too late to help Mama. When I pushed back, declaring the need to take her to a specialist in Nashville, the man who'd tended my birth spoke bluntly.

"Mattie, there comes a time when we have to accept that life and death are not in our hands. We in the medical profession do our best, but we aren't God. If I thought the doctors in Nashville could save your mom, I would've taken her there myself. The best thing you can do now is spend time with her and make her as comfortable as possible."

I left his office and cried all the way home.

With a sigh, I closed the lid on the recipe box and stood.

Why bother with Thanksgiving? What did we have to be thankful for? Mark was gone, and if the doctors were right, Mama wasn't long for this world. Although Nash volunteered to go to town yesterday and came home with all the usual fixings, the very idea of preparing the meal without Mama's help made me want to chuck Tom Turkey in the garbage and forget the holiday.

I made my way upstairs and tiptoed into Mama's room, but she wasn't sleeping. Her eyes were glassy, and I guessed she'd taken another pill. It wouldn't be long before she was asleep again.

"There's my girl." Although her voice was rough from disuse, her smile was genuine.

"Can I get you anything, Mama? Some water or something to eat?" I came forward and sat on the edge of the bed.

She reached for my hand. "You're all I need. Stay and talk a while."

I curled my fingers around hers, swollen to nearly twice their size. Dr. Monahan assured me the swelling was a side effect from the medicine and showed me some massaging techniques that might help. I used one of them now while we chatted about the weather, the horses, and, finally, the upcoming holiday where I confessed I felt inadequate for the job.

"I remember the first Thanksgiving dinner I cooked after your father and I married," Mama said, her eyes half-closed and a soft smile on her lips. "Granny had moved out of the main house into the cabin and declared it no longer her responsibility to cook the meal. I'd never roasted a turkey before, but I was willing to try." She gave a weak chuckle. "As you might guess, it didn't turn out very well. I didn't know you had to baste the bird often to keep it from drying out."

I gently rubbed her arm up and down. "Granny was always so mean to everyone. She didn't even like Dad, her own son."

Sadness washed over her features. "Mattie, there are things you need to know. To understand. Our family... it isn't what you've always believed."

I stopped massaging her arm, trying to make sense of what she was saying. "What are you talking about?"

She closed her eyes, her face squinched in the way that told me she was hurting inside. When the episode passed, she looked at me with such urgency in her gaze, it set me on edge.

"I want to show you something." She motioned to the trunk in the corner. The same one she'd been rummaging through the day she dug out our baby things. "There's a box with some letters in it. Can you find it for me, please?"

I knew the box she meant. Although I'd rather not travel down memory lane by going through the trunk's contents, the task seemed important to her.

The hinges on the lid of the trunk creaked when I opened it. I knew exactly where to look for the old shoebox and soon placed it on the bed beside her. However, she didn't open it right away. She ran a hand over the top, as though it held something valuable.

"So many memories," she whispered as her eyelids drifted closed.

I waited for her to continue, but when she remained still, I said, "Mama?"

She struggled to open her eyes. "I'm so tired, dear. Take this." She pushed the box toward me. "Read the letters. You need to know who you are. Where you come from. You won't understand everything in them but read them. All of them. I'll explain later."

The strange request puzzled me. What could a box of old letters have to do with me? And then there was my father's reaction to seeing me with it the day Mama prowled through the trunk. "Are you sure Dad won't mind me looking at these things?"

Her eyes closed. "He might, but it's time for secrets to come into the light."

She fell silent then. Her breathing told me she was asleep. I waited a full minute to be certain she didn't wake up before I quietly left the room. I carried the box across the hall and set it on my desk. When I lifted the lid, the contents were the same as they'd been the day I'd returned it to the trunk. The old Bible lay on top of two stacks of yellowed envelopes, each tied with string.

What secrets was Mama talking about? How could knowing them help me understand who I was?

The letters apparently held the key, but a more important question was, did I want to unlock what could amount to a closet full of family skeletons? Would it even matter, especially if Mama didn't get any better? I'd purposefully avoided thinking about what I would do if she died, but I knew one thing for certain. Staying in Tullahoma was out of the question. The mysteries this shoebox held, therefore, were irrelevant.

I closed the lid to the box and shoved it under my bed.

Hopefully Mama would forget she gave it to me.

I had no intention of reminding her about it.

· · ·

I awoke Thanksgiving morning to find three inches of snow on the ground, with more coming by the looks of heavy clouds in the sky.

"Great."

I crawled out of my warm bed and looked out the frost-covered window. The scene outside was ideal for the front of a cheery Christmas card but little else.

A shiver raced through me as I threw on an old sweatshirt with Tullahoma High School Debate Team printed on the front, and a pair of bell-bottom jeans I'd brought with me from California. While the furnace in the basement did a decent job of heating most of the farmhouse, a draft from the old coal-burning fireplace in my room did its best to turn me into a block of ice every winter.

When I came out of the bathroom, the door to my parents' bedroom was open. I tiptoed over to peek in. Mama was tucked snuggly in bed, asleep. I'd heard her and Dad stirring during the night, their voices slightly raised, but I hadn't been able to make out the words. It had almost sounded as though they were arguing about something, which was unusual. Not only was it an odd time to have any kind of discussion, but the truth is they rarely argued. At least, not in front of Mark and me.

I went downstairs and found Dad and Nash sipping coffee at the table. Jake lay on a rag rug near the heating vent in the floor, his head on his paws and his lone eye on me.

"Good morning."

The men responded likewise. I assumed they'd already eaten, since a clean frying pan and two plates sat in the dish rack, drying. Nash was good about cleaning up after himself, which I appreciated.

"I guess I'll get started on the dinner preparations," I said with little enthusiasm. Between the foul weather and the daunting task of fixing a huge meal by myself, there wasn't much about this day I was going to enjoy.

I'd just opened the refrigerator to take out the turkey when Dad cleared his throat in a way that meant he had something to say. I glanced at him and waited.

"With the roads iced over, I doubt the Arnolds will be able to make it out to the farm today." He met my gaze. "I know the meal is a lot of work, especially without your mother to help. If you'd rather not go to the trouble, we can make do with simple fare."

I straightened.

Both his offer and his understanding of how overwhelmed I felt surprised me. I glanced at Nash, who nodded his agreement.

"What about Mama?" I said. "She always looks forward to Thanksgiving. Won't she be disappointed if we skip it?"

Dad stared into his coffee mug for a long moment. "Her disappointment is that she can't prepare the food herself. Being surrounded by her family and friends was always more important than what we ate. Cooking was her way of showing us love."

I knew he was right. Mama genuinely loved people. Even though it was just the four of us after Granny passed, she made every day special. Neighbors and friends from church often graced our table through the years. Fourth of July cookouts at the farm were lively events. Everyone brought a dish to share, but Mama's barbecued beef brisket was the star of the show.

A twinge of shame pricked me.

It would be easy to simply ignore the holiday—that's what I'd wanted to do from the get-go—but now, after Dad's reminder about Mama's heart for people, I suddenly felt differently, way deep inside. More... charitable, I guess, which admittedly wasn't something I came by naturally.

Maybe there was a tiny bit of my mother's goodness in me, after all.

"Let's have the big dinner," I said, surprising the two men as well as myself. "For Mama."

Dad pressed his lips together and nodded.

"After we get the horses settled, I'm happy to help," Nash said. His lips curved in a lopsided smile. "I can't promise it'll be edible, but I'm willing to try."

I shrugged. "I'm not making any promises either."

"Well, I will," Dad said, a rare glint in his eyes. "I promise to eat whatever you two come up with."

Even I had to chuckle at that.

My dark mood lifted, although the heavy clouds outside did not. After the men bundled in coats and gloves and left the house, I sat at the table with my own cup of coffee, amazed at what had just taken place. I'd come downstairs, depressed, and dreading the day, yet a surge of unexpected excitement and anticipation rushed through me now. Not about cooking a huge meal, but because I knew it would please my mother. And, if I were honest, my father, too.

That truly was a Thanksgiving miracle.

With a completely different mindset, I began preparations for the meal. Tom Turkey was in the oven, filled with Mama's famous sage stuffing, by the time Nash returned to the house. A blast of cold air came in with him. Earlier, he'd asked if Jake could stay in the kitchen with me, voicing concern for the dog's arthritic bones in the cold weather. Now, Jake slowly stood and ambled over to Nash, his tail wagging.

Nash bent to pet the dog. "I appreciate you letting him stay inside. It's brutal out there."

I sat at the table, peeling a mound of potatoes. "He slept the whole time. I didn't even remember he was here until just now."

Nash moved to the sink where a stack of dirty pots and pans filled the basin. "I'll take care of these," he said. He ran water and added soap, but when I glanced his way again, I noticed the cuff of his flannel shirt was getting wet.

I frowned.

Should I volunteer to roll up his sleeve? I didn't want to offend him. From what I'd noticed since arriving back in Tullahoma, Nash was stubbornly independent. He wouldn't let having one arm prevent him from accomplishing whatever he set his mind on.

But a wet sleeve would be uncomfortable, especially when he went back outside.

I stood and walked over to him. "Let me roll up your sleeve so it won't get soaked."

Surprise registered in his eyes before he removed his hand from the soapy water, patted it on a dish towel, then extended it toward me.

"Thanks."

I nodded and set about folding the damp material until it reached the bend in his arm. I couldn't help but notice how muscled his forearm felt beneath my fingers, with his biceps bulging above. Because he had to do everything with this one arm, it needed to be strong. I'd become so used to seeing him go about his work without slowing down, it was easy to forget he'd lost an arm in the war.

With the task taken care of, I returned to the table without looking at him. I didn't want to make a big deal of it, but the nervous quiver in my belly after being so near him had me confused. I'd never been attracted to Nash. Never. He was simply Mark's friend. I'd lost touch with Rusty Shaw after graduation, which hadn't left me heartbroken in the least. And even though I'd been with Clay the past six months, he'd made it clear marriage wasn't something he was interested in.

We worked in silence. When the dishes were washed and put away, he asked, "What's next?" He glanced at the stove. "The turkey already smells good. Should I baste it?"

I'd completely forgotten about the basting.

"Shoot!" I huffed. "Mama just told me a story last night about the first time she cooked the Thanksgiving meal. She didn't know she was supposed to baste the turkey and it turned out awful."

Nash grinned. "We don't want that to happen."

He dug around in a drawer of cooking utensils and pulled out a strange looking tubelike item with a bulb on one end. I couldn't remember ever seeing the thing before. I watched as he slid his hand into an oven mitt, opened the oven door, and proceeded to squeeze turkey juices over the top of the big, browning bird.

"How do you even know how to do that?" I asked, impressed.

"I used to watch my mom every year." He closed the oven and removed the mitt. "We never had much, but every Thanksgiving, Mom would splurge and get a turkey. My sister and I always wanted to be present when she opened the oven to baste it. I can still remember how good it smelled."

Regret came with his words.

I couldn't remember ever watching Mama do such a thing. Where had I been all those Thanksgivings while she was in the kitchen, cooking for hours on end?

Nash went to the cellar to retrieve a couple jars of Mama's canned green beans while I started on the dough for her mouthwatering yeast rolls. We planned to eat around four o'clock in the afternoon, so there was plenty of time to let the dough rise in the warm kitchen.

He'd just returned when we heard Mama call from upstairs. My hands were covered in dough and flour, so Nash volunteered to check on her. When he returned, he said she was awake and needed my help with the bedpan we'd begun to use now that it was getting difficult for her to walk to the bathroom in the hallway.

As I washed my hands, I glanced at Nash, who was already cleaning up my floury mess. "I don't think I've told you this, but... thank you." My throat tightened, and I couldn't say more.

He met my gaze. "I'm the one who's grateful. Your folks took me in and gave me a purpose when I didn't think I had one anymore."

I nodded, then made my way upstairs.

After I helped Mama use the bedpan, I sat in the chair next to her. "We have the turkey in the oven, stuffed and filling the house with delicious aromas."

She offered a weak smile. "I can smell it. Don't forget to baste it," she said with a wink.

I told her about Nash and his memories of his mother cooking the holiday meal. Then I confessed my own regret about my lack of such memories.

I reached for her hand, finding it icy. "I'm sorry I never helped you, Mama."

"I was always happiest in the kitchen, cooking for my family. You kids had better things to do, like build forts and ride horses and enjoy God's beautiful world."

She wanted to hear all about the meal preparations. After I'd told her every detail, she changed the subject.

"Have you read the letters from the box yet?"

I hedged. "I haven't had time, what with Thanksgiving and everything I needed to get done."

She nodded then winced. "I believe I need one of my pills, dear."

I hurried to comply.

After she'd settled again, she closed her eyes. "Your father doesn't know I kept them after all these years."

I knew she was talking about the letters. "What's this about, Mama? Why are the letters so important?"

Her eyes remained closed. "You need to know. Mark too. He shouldn't go to war without knowing."

I frowned.

Was the medicine messing with her mind? "What should I know?"

But she didn't respond.

I waited to see if she would rouse, but the pill had already taken hold. Dr. Monahan had prescribed a stronger dosage after Dad called him on Tuesday to let our family physician know Mama's pain was increasing with each passing day. I'd used my share of drugs while I was in California, with the desire to leave reality behind, but the little pills Mama took removed her from me. I didn't like that at all.

To our disappointment, Mama slept through most of the day. Pastor and Mrs. Arnold braved the cold and the icy roads and arrived right on time. I hadn't seen them since last Thanksgiving, when I'd been drunk and angry, yet they both greeted me with a warm hug and seemed genuinely happy to see me.

The dinner turned out better than I'd expected, with juicy turkey and lump-free gravy. The two empty chairs, however, reminded me holidays would never be the same. I missed Mark intensely. I could almost hear him cracking jokes about my cooking or challenging me to see who could eat the most rolls. Mama's absence, too, felt heavy, especially knowing she was upstairs in a drug-induced oblivion.

I'd just served everyone some of Mrs. Arnold's pumpkin pie when her husband brought up the war, a topic the rest of us had avoided.

"I read an article in the Reader's Digest the other day about the many POWs being held in Vietnam, and how we can help them." He wore a pained expression. "I can't imagine what those men are going through."

Everyone but me gave a solemn nod. Not because I didn't care about the men being held in a foreign country halfway around the world, but because providing them help should have come years ago. Back when the decision was made to send them there in the first place.

"Thankfully President Nixon has promised to withdraw our troops as soon as possible and bring all of our boys home."

I stared at him, stunned. "Are you kidding me?"

All heads turned in my direction, but I kept my focus on the pastor. "Nixon got up in front of TV cameras and told the nation a bunch of lies. He has no intention of ending the war anytime soon."

"Mattie," Dad said from his place at the head of the table, warning in the one word.

I faced him, frustrated. "It's true. Nixon couldn't care less about our boys . The coward admitted he wouldn't bring them home right now because it would be ‘the first defeat in our Nation's history' and that it would hurt Asia's confidence in American politics. What he's saying is that he cares more about Asia's confidence than he does the thousands of Americans who put themselves in danger over there every day. Including those poor POWs."

I glanced at Nash to see if he would join the conversation. We hadn't talked about it since I arrived home, but surely his views on the whole Vietnam issue had changed since he left for war. He'd lost an arm and his best friend to the madness.

But he didn't speak up. He simply stared at the pie on his plate.

"I believe President Nixon cares about all our military personnel overseas," Pastor said, keeping his tone even and calm. "But he has to think of the broader picture, and the repercussions of what will happen to South Vietnam if the United States pulls out. The polls show that most Americans approve of the way President Nixon is handling the war."

I shook my head with disgust. "You sound just like him and all the other Washington politicians. Nixon had the audacity to refer to people like me as a vocal minority because we won't stay silent like the rest of you sheep. In fact, I—"

Dad stood with so much force, the glassware on the table rattled. "That's enough." His voice echoed off the floral-papered walls. "We know how you feel about the war, but that's no reason to be rude to our guests." He looked at the pastor. "I'm sorry, Reverend. Mattie is too quick to share her opinions."

My face flamed.

Dad retook his seat.

Pastor Arnold didn't look angry. "I don't blame Mattie and the young people like her for speaking out for what they believe. You and I," he turned to me, "want the same thing. We want the war to end. But neither of us has been to Vietnam and seen firsthand what's going on over there." He faced Nash. "What do you think, son? Is it time for the United States to pull out?"

My eyes fastened on Nash, willing him to tell Pastor Arnold the truth.

After a long silence, he cleared his throat. "I think mistakes have been made since our involvement in Vietnam began," he said, giving me hope. "But I also think it would be a mistake to remove all US presence from the country right now." He glanced at me. "The people of South Vietnam need help. They're as much prisoners of the Vietcong as our boys in those prisons are. Until the job is finished and the South Vietnamese army can protect the people, we're needed there."

He held my gaze, almost in challenge. My throat tightened with angry tears, but I wouldn't give any of them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

I stood, snatched up the plate with my half-eaten pie on it, and stomped into the kitchen.

If they all thought of me as an ignorant child, I might as well act like one.

Low voices came from the dining room, but I didn't care if I was the subject of their conversation. One of these days, when it was too late, they'd have to acknowledge I was right. Even Nash.

Mrs. Arnold came into the kitchen, a look of empathy on her face.

"The meal was delicious, Mattie. Your mother would be proud." She walked to the sink and deposited the three plates she carried into the sudsy water.

She could have said so many things to me, but her kindness worked to loosen the grip anger had on my tongue.

"Thank you." I heaved a sigh. "I suppose I should apologize for speaking my mind."

She faced me. "It's never wrong to express an opinion on something you feel passionately about." She laid a gentle hand on my arm. "You and your family have suffered a great loss because of the war. I don't think anyone can blame you for feeling so strongly about how things are being handled in Washington."

I appreciated her understanding. "Does your husband know you don't agree with him?"

"Oh, I agree with him, for the most part." At my confused look, she continued. "We live in a wonderful country where we enjoy the kind of freedom millions of people in the world don't have. Communism strips citizens of the right to choose for themselves. Those living under it are little more than pawns. The North Vietnamese government has done terrible things under communism. If South Vietnam falls to them, they will suffer the same fate."

"But it isn't right to send our young men over there to police what is essentially a civil war," I said, keeping my voice lowered so Dad wouldn't hear.

She gave me a patient look. "Would you have said the same thing about the war in Europe? President Roosevelt kept the United States out of that war far longer than he should have, in my opinion. Hundreds of thousands of innocent lives were lost before our troops crossed the ocean."

I saw her point. "But the war in Europe was different. Japan attacked us, and Hitler wanted to rule the world."

"I don't think the people of South Vietnam would agree with you. War looks the same, no matter the circumstances. Innocent people are suffering because of the Vietcong's determination to rule the entire region."

Pastor Arnold entered the kitchen then and our conversation ended. The couple went upstairs to visit Mama before they took their leave. I carried up a plate of food, and although she ate a small helping of the special meal, I could tell Mama was in pain. Another white pill soon took her away.

Exhaustion—both mental and physical—rolled through me. I was more than ready to end this day. Nash and Dad had gone back to work in the barns after the Arnolds left, and it was dark when they returned, with Jake leading the way. I noticed Nash carried a bundle of personal belongings and Dad carried a dog bed.

"The furnace is out again in the cabin," he said at my silent question. "It's too cold without heat. I told Nash he could sleep in Mark's old room."

I stiffened. "Mark's room?"

Mama called from upstairs just then, and Dad hurried away, leaving Nash and me alone. I stalked to the sink and took a pot from the drying rack, banged it loudly, and slammed the cabinet door as I put it away. I repeated the process until the rack was empty, then wiped the already-clean counters with vicious swipes, all while Nash stood and watched.

"You have a problem with me staying in Mark's room?"

My jaw clenched, and I met his gaze. "I didn't say a word."

He scoffed. "You didn't have to. I can see it in your face."

I hurled the washrag into the sink and folded my arms. "All right. I do have a problem with you staying there. It's Mark's room. Dad had no right to... to... give it away."

"He didn't give it away, Mattie. He offered to let me sleep there rather than being out in the cold. Would you prefer I stayed in the cabin without heat?"

I scowled. "Of course not. But you can sleep on the couch in the den until the furnace is fixed."

He took a step toward me and leveled a hard look into my eyes. "Mark doesn't need his room anymore, Mattie. He's dead."

Before I knew what was happening, my palm connected with his cheek with a loud thwack .

Shock filled his eyes, and Jake let out a fierce growl.

I stared at Nash in horror, and then, much to my humiliation, burst into uncontrollable sobs.

I expected Nash to walk away or haul me over the coals for such outrageous behavior, but he didn't. I felt his arm go around me, and he tugged me into his chest.

I clung to him and bawled like a newborn baby.