Chapter Fifteen Mattie

FIFTEEN : MATTIE

DELANEY HORSE FARM

NOVEMBER 1969

I couldn't believe I slapped Nash.

And I couldn't believe he let me get away with it.

We sat on the sofa, dim light from the kitchen giving shadowy illumination to the room. I'd cried until my body couldn't create another tear. I honestly couldn't say what prompted them. Embarrassment. Grief. Mental exhaustion. Yet throughout my sobbing, Nash's arm stayed wrapped around me, tucking me against his side like one of the footballs he'd carried across the end zone during high school.

When my hiccups subsided and I felt I could speak, I whispered, "I'm sorry I hit you."

He chuckled. "I have to admit I didn't expect it." He worked his jaw, as though making sure it functioned properly. "I'm just glad it wasn't a right hook. I might've lost some teeth."

I groaned. "It isn't funny, Nash." I sat forward, sniffling. "I'm a horrible person."

He removed his arm from my shoulders. "You're not a horrible person." His mouth quirked. "A bit temperamental and overly sensitive, but not horrible."

Considering what I'd done, I appreciated his humor. He had every right to bawl me out, but instead he tried to make me feel better.

"Mark used to call me Fourth of July when I'd get angry with him. He said I was like a bundle of Black Cat firecrackers, ready to take someone's arm off."

Nash grinned. "I remember."

I studied him for a long moment, seeing the boy Mark and I had known most of our lives. "You were a good friend to him. He loved you like the brother he never had. I sometimes used to think it would've been better if I'd been his identical twin rather than a fraternal twin. He would've been happier with a brother, I think."

"Don't say that. He loved you more than anyone else."

"I loved him more than anyone else, too."

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed ten times into the stillness.

"It's getting late," I said. "We better turn in." Yet neither of us moved.

"Can I ask you something?"

I nodded but added, "You may not like the answer."

My forthrightness didn't deter him. "Why have you always been angry with your dad?"

The question wasn't what I expected. "I haven't always been mad at him."

"You have. At least from what I remember. Even when we were young, you'd act like he was the worst person in the world, usually because he was working and wouldn't stop to do whatever it was you wanted."

I gave him a hard stare. "That's because he was always working. He never took time off to do anything with us. Mama did all the parenting. He didn't help with homework or come to any of our school plays or go to church with us, no matter how many times we asked." I shook my head. "I don't have a single memory of him playing with me. No piggyback rides. No dancing with my feet on his shoes. No bedtime stories. No nothing. On rare occasions he'd take Mark down to the creek to go fishing, but I wasn't invited. When they'd return, I'd ask Mark what they talked about, and he'd say they didn't talk at all."

Nash seemed thoughtful. "Maybe it isn't fair to compare, but I would have rather had a dad like yours than one like my old man. At least your dad wasn't a drunk who beat up his wife and kids. My old man couldn't keep a job, so he didn't go to work. He stayed home and drank." He looked away. "Count yourself lucky your dad didn't show you the kind of attention mine showed my sister when she turned thirteen."

I didn't know what to say. Mark had told me stories about Nash's father over the years, but either I hadn't truly been listening or life had taught me that nothing in this world is good. Not even fathers.

His revelation now, however, hit me in the gut. I reached for his hand. "I'm sorry, Nash," I whispered.

His grip tightened as he met my gaze. "If it hadn't been for your folks letting me stay over here so much, I don't think I would've survived."

We sat in silence a long time, our fingers locked. The enormity of what he was saying, what I believed he was confessing, reminded me that everything would have been different without Nash.

The way it was different without Mark.

"I guess I just wish I knew why Dad is the way he is, you know?"

"Someday you need to ask him. His answer might surprise you."

His words reminded me of my conversation with Mama about the shoebox she insisted I look through. I told Nash about it, adding, "I'm not sure I can handle the revelation of family secrets right now. I'm barely hanging on as it is."

"It sounds like it's important to your mom. She wouldn't have asked if it wasn't."

I heaved a sigh. "I know you're probably right, but—" I paused, trying to articulate the angst and confusion churning inside me. "I think I'm afraid. What if these secrets take me to an even darker place?"

Nash's hand tightened on mine. "If you want, I'll go through the box first, see what's in it, and then you can decide from there."

I didn't think I had any tears left in me, but here they came again. "Why are you so good to me? I don't deserve your kindness after the way I've treated you."

He shook his head. "No, you don't," he said, dodging when I pretended to slug his shoulder. "But that's what friends are for."

Nash had always been Mark's friend. That he considered me his friend now warmed me to my very core.

I bit my lip. "Would you want to look through the box now? I know it's late, but I can't promise I'll have the courage to do it tomorrow."

"Let's do this."

I tiptoed upstairs, not wanting to disturb Mama and Dad. No light came from the crack beneath their door. As I slid the box out from under my bed, I took a deep breath and blew it out.

"I don't know what secrets you hold," I whispered into the chilly air, "but please, be something good. I can't take any more bad news."

I returned to the living room. Nash had turned on the lamp, but he was nowhere to be seen. I'd just settled on the sofa when he came in from the kitchen, holding two mugs of hot chocolate with his one hand.

Doggone it. More tears sprang to my eyes.

"Thanks," I said, accepting one of the mugs. "I can't remember the last time I had hot cocoa. The weather in California is usually so pleasant, it's not something you think about making."

He sat next to me. "Where did you live?"

I stirred the chocolate, my mind going back to the day I left Tullahoma, determined never to return. "I spent the first four or five months in LA. Then I met a group of people who were headed to San Francisco, so I tagged along. That's where I met Clay." I glanced at Nash. "He's my boyfriend." But even as I said the word, I realized I hadn't missed him at all. Hadn't thought about him, really. I'd given Clay my parents' telephone number, but he had yet to call to check on me or ask how Mama was doing.

"Clay has a following. A family, they call themselves. He's their father, their mentor, their teacher, their preacher. I became part of them. We moved around a lot. Sometimes we lived in houses, but mostly we camped in parks or up in the hills."

Nash stared at the cup in his hand. "Did you like that kind of life?"

The answer to that question was complicated. "I think I needed that kind of life. I couldn't deal with all of this," I said, indicating the room, the house, my family. "I had to escape."

After a long moment, Nash nodded. "I understand wanting to escape. That's why I went to Vietnam."

If he had made that statement just yesterday, I would have lit into him about how ludicrous it was to believe going to war was an escape from anything. But I didn't argue with him now. I'm not sure why, but I suddenly got what he was saying. I may not agree with his thinking, but I realized Nash and I had something in common I hadn't recognized before.

"We're quite the pair, aren't we? Going off in all directions, only to come back to what we were trying to get away from in the first place."

We sipped our cocoa in silence until Nash set his empty cup on the coffee table next to the shoebox. He opened the lid and took out the old Bible.

"Dad wasn't pleased when he found me with that the other day." I set my empty mug next to his. "Maybe it's really valuable or something."

Nash carefully thumbed through the delicate, yellowed pages. "Looks like it's written in German."

"Or maybe Russian."

He closed it and set it aside, then reached for the first of the two bundles of letters. After untying one of the ribbons, he scanned the envelopes.

"They're all addressed to Ava Delaney." He squinted at the smaller handwriting in the top-left corner of the first one. "These came from someone in the military in Hawaii. The postmark is from 1941."

I sat forward to get a closer look. "That's strange. Mom's maiden name is Robinson. Granny's family were the Delaneys. She was so proud of her family name, she wouldn't change the name of the farm to Taylor Farms."

He turned to me. "Are you ready to find out what this is all about?"

My gut warned that the answer to his question was no . But Nash was right. Learning the secrets these letters held was important to Mama. Why, I couldn't begin to guess.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I hope you'll stick around to pick up the pieces when I fall apart."

He didn't smile at my half-hearted joke. Instead, he gave me the most intimate look I'd ever seen.

"Always."

Nash silently read the first letter while I held my breath, afraid of what it contained.

When he came to its end, his brow furrowed. "I'm confused."

I blinked. "By what?"

He pointed to the signature on the second page. "It's signed Aloha from your loving husband, Richard ." He faced me. "Is your dad's name Richard? I've always known him as Kurt."

I reached for the letter and studied the name. "Not that I know of. Are you sure these are to my mom? Maybe there was another relative named Ava, and Mom kept her letters for some reason."

Nash opened the second letter.

"Read it out loud," I said. "Please."

"June twenty-second, 1941. Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. My dearest Ava, I can't tell you how much I miss you. The guys are already making fun of me because this is my second letter to you in a week. But I told them they can tease me all they want. I plan to write to my wife as often as I can."

"Wife." I repeated. "Obviously this letter wasn't written to Mama. Dad's name isn't Richard, and he never joined the Navy or went overseas."

Nash continued to read, but the remainder of the letter was news about Pearl Harbor, the ships, the town, and Richard's hope that his Ava would join him soon. It was signed in the same manner as the first letter.

"I don't know much about Dad's side of the family. He never talked about them. Neither did Granny. Maybe that's what this is all about. Maybe these belong to some Delaney relative that shared the same name as Mama." I punctuated the comment with a huge yawn.

"Do you want to read the others? I'm not sure you'll be able to stay awake," he said with a grin.

"I guess they can wait until tomorrow. It doesn't appear they hold any deep, dark family secrets like I feared." We stood. "Don't mention this to Dad. Mama didn't think he'd approve, although I have no idea why not."

Jake rose from his place near the heating vent in the corner. I'd completely forgotten he was there and that he and Nash would spend the night in Mark's old room.

As though reading my mind, Nash said, "I'll sleep out in the cabin, but Jake would be warmer here in the house if that's okay with you."

I glanced down the hall. Although it was out of my line of sight, we had a room, empty and unused, with a comfortable bed and warm blankets. More importantly, we had a friend, a family member, in need of it.

"In some ways, that room is more yours than anyone else's." My eyes locked on his. "I really am sorry I got upset when Dad offered it to you. Mark wouldn't want you to sleep out in the cold."

"To be honest, I was feeling kind of weird about sleeping in there. You know, without him."

"That's how I've felt from the moment I stepped into this house. But it wouldn't make sense for you to stay in the cabin without a heater."

Nash took Jake outside while I rinsed our mugs. I tidied the living room, picked up the shoebox, and turned out the lights as I heard them come inside.

I waited at the base of the stairs in front of the closed door to Mark's room. When Nash opened it, Jake walked in and curled into a dark ball at the foot of the bed.

The emotional evening left me feeling vulnerable, yet I needed to be truthful with him too. "Tonight was good. Well, except for the part where I hit you."

He grinned, then shoved his hand into his pants pocket. "Good night, Mattie."

"Good night."

As I quietly climbed the stairs, Mark's bedroom door closed, a sound I'd heard a million times. Although my brother would never sleep in his room again, somehow knowing Nash was under our roof brought a sense of normalcy my life had lacked for over a year.

At the upstairs landing, I tiptoed to the window that overlooked the farm. Stars twinkled in the midnight sky, visible now that the storm had moved south, and everything was beautiful and still.

Peaceful.

"Good night, Mark," I whispered.

Good night, Sis, my heart heard him say.