The Letter. Elizabeth Blackwell

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СКАЧАТЬ felt her stomach tense with worry. If Reverend McDeal had been called, someone in the house must be very sick. Was it Henry’s mother or father? Could it be Henry himself?

      By lunchtime, Lydia couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. She lingered beside the table where George and his fellow baseball team members sat, drumming up the courage to speak.

      “What are you doing here?” asked one of the older boys, a junior or senior.

      “I, uh…George?” Lydia’s voice was trembling. “Do you have a minute?”

      George was obviously shocked at being approached by his class’s designated bookworm. He grinned at the other boys as he stood up, enjoying his moment in the spotlight. Lydia motioned him to follow, and she led him to a far corner of the lunchroom, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

      “Today, in Mr. Andrews’s class, you said something about the Armstrongs.”

      George’s self-satisfied expression gave way to wariness.

      “Yeah.”

      “Is something wrong with Henry?”

      George looked at her, his face uncharacteristically blank.

      “Please,” Lydia begged.

      “Well, I guess everyone’s going to hear about it anyway. It’s not Henry, it’s his brother. Killed in action.”

      A heavy chill settled over Lydia’s body, making her feel as if she were encased in ice. Timothy. Henry’s only sibling, the older brother he idolized. The person Henry’s father was training to take over the farm. His mother’s pride and joy.

      Lydia moved through the rest of the day in a haze, sick whenever she thought of Henry and what he must be going through. She was desperate to talk to him, but terrified at the idea of reaching out. She couldn’t possibly call the house. What if his mother answered the phone, hysterical? What would she say? Stopping by for a visit was out of the question. Seeing the Armstrongs in person, devastated by the news, would be unbearable.

      Shortly after returning home from school, Lydia told her mother she was going out to draw. She’d lose herself in something to take her mind away from what had happened. Spring in northern Illinois could shift from freezing to broiling within twenty-four hours, but that afternoon there was still a chill in the air. She tossed a scarf around her neck and pulled on her gloves, tucking her sketch pad under one arm and putting a small box of pastels in her pocket.

      She set off down the main road out of town, which led past Henry’s farm. She wasn’t planning on going to the house, not exactly. But she needed to be closer to him, even if he didn’t see her or know she was there. If the connection between them was so strong that his grief affected her physically, maybe he’d sense her nearness and draw some small comfort from it.

      The farmhouse where Henry lived lay at the end of a dirt track off the main road. Lydia stopped at the turnoff and looked toward the house. The only vehicle parked in front was Henry’s father’s truck. No visitors.

      She was just trying to decide whether to turn back or keep walking, when she noticed a movement in some trees to her right. She clutched her sketch pad, struggling to come up with an excuse for why she might have chosen this particular spot to draw. Then she saw a glimpse of light hair through the branches. It was Henry.

      Lydia’s fear about what to say instantly vanished. She dropped her paper and raced over the grass, calling his name. His body stiffened when he heard her voice. As she approached, and saw his face drawn with despair, his eyes rimmed with red, she knew that words wouldn’t be enough. She flung herself against him and hugged tight, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

      His thin frame felt surprisingly solid to her—what little substance he had was all wiry muscle and bone. One hand rested gently on her shoulder, the other tentatively patted her back.

      “You heard,” he said quietly, the words muffled by their embrace.

      “Yes,” Lydia said. “All day, I’ve been so worried. I can’t imagine what it’s been like.”

      She felt him shudder as he tried to speak. She kept her eyes pressed shut, afraid to see him in such pain.

      “It’s been awful,” he whispered. “My Ma…I don’t know what’s going to happen to her. It’s like she’s dead, too. Pop’s doing his best, but…”

      Lydia rubbed her hands against his back, as if the pressure could push out the hurt.

      “Tim was their favorite,” Henry said. “Everybody loved him. He was going to take over here someday. He was the one who tended to this apple orchard—did I ever tell you that? He had a knack for growing things. He said I wouldn’t have to worry about Ma and Pop, he’d take care of them while I went off and saw the world.” Henry’s body began shaking with sobs.

      “It’s going to be all right,” Lydia murmured, although she knew it wouldn’t. She repeated the words softly, in the tone Mother had used when she was a child, frightened awake by a bad dream.

      Henry’s fears tumbled out of him—his terror that his parents would never recover, the way he could barely face his own mother, the emptiness that stretched before him without end. Lydia kept her arms pressed around him. Not looking at him, knowing that he’d stop talking if he met her eyes.

      Eventually, Henry’s heaving breaths slowed down, and his voice drifted off into silence. His face was red from crying. Lydia pulled a handkerchief from her coat pocket and handed it to him.

      “Sorry about that,” Henry said, his voice returning to its usual flat tone.

      “Don’t worry,” Lydia whispered. “I’m glad you told me.”

      “There’s no one else I can tell,” he said. “No one to talk to. Except you.”

      They looked at each other, and between them flashed an acknowledgment that everything had changed. A moment before it happened, Lydia knew it was coming, knew Henry would put his hands against her cheeks and guide her face toward his, knew their lips would meet in a soft kiss. Lydia tasted a trace of salty tears on Henry’s lips, and she closed her eyes tightly to stop herself from crying.

      They might have stood there for a minute, or it could have been hours. Time stopped in that moment, underneath Timothy’s apple trees. Henry’s strong arms enveloped Lydia’s narrow shoulders, as if he was comforting her now, reassuring her that together, they could get through anything.

      “Lydia,” he whispered, his lips pulling away from hers and brushing against her cheek. “I’m sorry….”

      She reached up and moved his mouth back toward hers. “I’m not,” she said.

      Henry’s mouth twisted slightly to one side, as if he was unsure whether to move it toward a smile or a sob. “I love you so much,” he said.

      “I love you, too.” She said the words because it seemed right, but as soon as she’d spoken, she knew they were true.

      Then their lips were together again, and his tongue found hers, and they were locked together in a desperate embrace, their mouths hungry for each other in a way that left them gasping for breath. His fingers were tangled in her hair, while her hands pressed against СКАЧАТЬ