Your Wings Were Ready But My Heart Was Not


Your Wings Were Ready But My Heart Was Not


Your Wings Were Ready But My Heart Was Not

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When a young black boy saw the girl from the train on horseback, he knew instantly that she was his new friend. He could have followed her, but there was no need.

When he had heard her tell the man at the inn where they were staying to call her if there was anything needed for him or anyone else in the room, and he had watched the two of them ride off down the street together, he knew exactly who she was.

And he knew it would be easy enough for him to find her. She had told him so herself. The boy knew what people said about him—that he was lazy, shiftless; but he wasn’t. People didn’t know how hard he worked to help the other kids get ready for school every year.

They didn’t know how often he helped out around town when he was old enough to do so. If the others weren’t working, he did. That’s why he knew that she was not only one of those nice white ladies on the train but also someone like himself —a person of color whose heart was true.

So he walked into the barn as soon as he had made sure the men were gone, took hold of his best horse’s reins, and led her away. His mother would have been ashamed of him; she always worried that someone might take their horses, thinking they belonged to them.

But she never minded that the boys sometimes rode off without telling her. There were worse things than letting a stranger take your horse for an afternoon ride with no harm done, even if it did mean missing dinner.

He rode slowly along behind the girl until they reached the outskirts of town. Then he stopped the horse, slid from its saddle, and went over to where his own mare stood grazing by the fence. He lifted the gate and walked quietly across the yard. The woman looked up. “Hello.”

“You look tired,” the boy said softly, not wanting to frighten her. He had known some women who couldn’t handle a child of color, just because they felt uncomfortable. Others simply thought of him as something dirty they wanted to wash off.

This woman smiled kindly. “I’m fine, thank you.” Her smile faded slightly as she stared down at her hands resting in her lap, but she quickly regained her composure.

“Are you hungry? I brought some sandwiches.” It was almost dark. A faint breeze rustled through the grass and blew across the open ground between the fences of two houses. A cat meowed loudly. The woman looked back toward town. “Yes, thank you.”

They sat on the grass next to the fence, the woman feeding the boy a sandwich and him eating it eagerly. As soon as they were finished, they both got up again and walked around the house until they came to the side door.

Inside was a small, neat living room where they could sit at the table while he showed her the photographs he had taken that morning. One picture captured the girl from the train sitting on the porch railing looking out to sea. He knew that this was a photograph she wouldn’t mind seeing.

As they gazed at each photo, the woman talked about all sorts of things. When she mentioned that she liked to read, he asked if she had ever heard of the writer Zane Grey, and she said she had. The name meant nothing to him, but after hearing what she told him about Grey’s books, he understood why she had enjoyed reading them so much.

He hadn’t known that some of the stories were based on facts. After they had looked over several pictures, the woman put down the book she was reading and picked up a copy of Zane Grey’s Riders of the Purple Sage. “I’ve never seen it before,” she said, handing it to him.

The boy thanked her, wondering if it was important that she had it or if it was just something she happened to have on hand. Either way, it meant more than any gift could have given him. He opened the book and ran his fingers over the pages as he flipped through the first few chapters. It was a real book—not one of those pulp magazines sold at the newsstands in town.

That night he lay awake thinking about the pictures he had taken that morning, but he found it difficult to sleep. The girl was a mystery to him; there was something special about her. Why had she chosen the life of an undercover agent instead of the one she had been born into?

What drove her to work against those who mistreated others? Did she believe that justice and peace would prevail if only people acted honestly and fairly? Or was she driven by hate for those who hurt others? Was it possible that she truly hated white folks?

He hoped that someday he would understand her motivations; then maybe he could learn how to help her stop hurting people, especially white folks. For if she hated white folks, he would surely be on her list sooner rather than later.

His mother used to tell him that the best way to make enemies is to speak ill of others behind their backs. He had learned to keep quiet about anything bad he heard about his mother’s friends; now he kept his mouth shut about everyone else, too.

He never criticized anyone publicly because that would draw unwanted attention. No matter how good a friend was, it was better not to say anything to a stranger that might lead someone to wonder if you knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t a murderer. People could be mean when they didn’t like you. So he had learned to live with silence.

In the end, though, he had made some mistakes, and those had cost him dearly. He knew he must be careful in the future if he was going to survive. That was why he needed to talk to the woman, to find out everything he could about her so he would know what questions to ask.

She certainly was odd in many ways, but it might be worthwhile talking with her. Perhaps she would give him some answers to the questions that bothered him so much.

He glanced up to see that the moon was shining brightly outside his window; it must still be early evening judging from its position. But why was he still lying awake? If his mother were here she’d scold him for sleeping late on such a warm night.

She would tell him to go out and play with his friends. He did want to play ball. They played every day, even at this time of year. But there were other things he wanted to do, like learning to shoot a rifle and riding a horse.

His mother thought a lot of her brother, and if he was willing to teach him to shoot a gun and ride a horse, then they would be able to spend some time together. The woman seemed eager to talk to him about all sorts of things, and that pleased him. Maybe she could answer some questions for him as well.

As he listened to the chirping of crickets and frogs, he decided to call her tomorrow morning. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock when he woke; she had gone back home before midnight, and that meant that she probably got up at five o’clock or six o’clock every day to get ready for her work.

He dressed quickly and went downstairs, where the cook was stirring something in a large pot. She stopped as soon as she saw him. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Much better.”

She smiled and returned to stirring the bubbling concoction, which smelled strongly of garlic and pepper.

“Is my mommy coming today?” asked the boy as he took a seat at the table. He picked up one of the pancakes from the plate in front of him; the first bite exploded in his mouth as hot syrup poured down his chin and burned his tongue.

The cook set another pancake and fork down on the table. “I’ll come right over,” she said. “It’s almost lunchtime, anyway.”

As he ate his lunch, he remembered his conversation with the man in the barn yesterday afternoon and felt ashamed that he hadn’t told her about it until this morning. He tried to decide how he should explain that he had forgotten to mention it last night. As if reading his mind, she came over and patted his hand gently. “Don’t worry, dear; I understand perfectly.”

“You do?”

“Yes, honey, we can always count on you being honest.” Her gentle smile made him feel warm inside. Then she added, “If you have more important business than eating, then you had better get it done quick because you will need your strength if you’re going to meet her this morning.”

When he finished, he went upstairs again to put on clean clothes. By then it was almost ten o’clock. He wondered if she had gotten home yet; maybe they could talk a few minutes before she went off to work. He found the house empty. He checked each room, finally finding her in the parlor sitting alone in an easy chair by the window.

There was a faint scent of flowers in the air. She looked peaceful and serene, but he knew that couldn’t be true. How could he forget to tell her about the strange man and his wife? Did she think he was a liar or a coward for failing to bring it up last night?

If she did, then she wouldn’t listen to any other stories he might share. And after the way he had treated her, that would be terrible because she was his mother’s friend; he owed her a great deal more than he ever had before.

A wave of remorse washed over him. It had been stupid to make such a big mistake, and even worse to leave it unmentioned. Now she was sure to think he didn’t trust her, and he didn’t deserve to be called her son no matter how hard she worked to support him.

He started across the room toward her and then changed his mind. He had already let her down too often, and he had no reason to expect anything different from her. Why bother trying? Instead, he turned away from her, knowing she would never be pleased to see him now.

That was the best thing he could do for her: to leave without saying anything further, just as she had once left him without explanation.

***

“That is the strangest little girl I’ve ever seen,” said Mrs. Smith as she sat down on the couch beside Molly.

Molly didn’t respond at first, not wanting to say anything that might embarrass her or upset her new friend. After a moment, though, she nodded and said, “I am pretty strange.”

“No you’re not,” replied the woman who seemed to know everything about everyone and had become their mother. “You look just like your daddy.”

Molly couldn’t imagine her father looking like her. What kind of a person could look like a child? Yet there was nothing wrong with her own appearance that she could see, except that it was impossible to tell what a person’s age was.

Most children looked younger than adults or older, but sometimes she met someone who was exactly the same as she was. In school, that was always the trouble—people assumed she was a kid.

Her eyes followed Mrs. Smith’s hand as she traced a pattern along one of the sofa’s upholstery stitches. She watched with fascination as the old woman turned and twisted each thread around itself in a different direction, making patterns that reminded Molly of lace curtains. “Why don’t you go play with your toys now, dear?” she said, returning to her seat. “Your mother and I need to talk.”

After playing with her dolls for a while, she sat down in the corner watching Mrs. Smith and the other woman talking quietly. They spoke low so that Molly couldn’t hear them, but she was certain they were having a disagreement about something very important.

She didn’t want to interrupt them, but she thought they needed help deciding whether or not she should stay with them. So she took a wooden block from her toy box and started banging it against the wall to make noise.

The two women stopped speaking and both stood up abruptly. One of them went to the piano and began to bang out a discordant tune. The other woman ran into the kitchen and returned with a large bowl full of water.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Molly hurried to the window where she could see both doors leading to the outside yard. Both were open, and she counted five people moving through the front garden carrying things that looked like bags of flour or sacks of grain.

She had never seen men and women working together, and she liked it. She was surprised when they all walked straight back to the front door, which opened for them as soon as they were inside. Molly could see Mrs. Smith holding her hand up for quiet before turning to the other woman and asking what they had bought.

“Two bags of wheat flour, some carrots—”

Mrs. Smith interrupted her and asked her to repeat her list again. Molly watched as the woman repeated what she had said.

“One sack of carrots,” added the woman.

“And what else did you buy, Mary Ann?”

“Nothing.”

They talked for a few minutes more until Mrs. Smith finally said, “I’m glad to know you weren’t wasting our money.”

Mary Ann sighed. “You don’t know me yet, ma’am. I wouldn’t waste your money if I were going to steal anything.”

“That’s good to hear, but I hope you won’t have to prove that theory.”

“I will not.”

“Good.” Mrs. Smith glanced at Molly and continued, “We’ll eat supper in an hour. If you haven’t eaten by then, we’ll send you to bed.”

Molly wanted to tell her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but she was afraid she would sound silly. So she kept quiet and went upstairs to find her dolly waiting for her under the table in her room. She gave her a quick hug and tucked her favorite blanket under her head.

It would be nice if she could sleep right now and forget what was happening to her, but she knew better. Sleep would come in time; for now, she had to get ready. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and combed her hair.

When she finished, she climbed back down the ladder, pulled off her petticoat, and slipped into a long dress she found hanging in her closet. She had worn it the day before, so she didn’t know why Mrs. Smith had brought it home.

Then she took out a small purse and stuffed it with some change, a few dollars, and whatever else she could fit into it. That was all she had in the world except her dolls—all of which were missing, so she hoped they would still be waiting for her.

***

Molly waited anxiously for them to finish dinner, hoping to hear what they had decided about her staying with them. But instead, all they did after finishing was to turn on the radio and sit at opposite ends of the room staring at the spinning dials and buttons that made music.

Neither of them said a word to each other, and Molly became increasingly uncomfortable sitting there alone listening to such unpleasant sounds.

She left her bedroom and went downstairs where she found both women sitting side by side, their backs against the sofa, watching a man and woman on the screen who argued loudly about what kind of work a person should do.

After a few minutes, the woman threw something at the screen and stormed out of the house. Molly had never heard such angry words coming from a human mouth before and wondered how anyone could say things like that to another person.

When the man started yelling back, Mrs. Smith got up quickly and turned off the radio. The man slammed the receiver down. He picked up his hat and coat and started toward the door without saying a word. Mrs. Smith followed him outside and shut the door behind her.

Molly couldn’t see what happened next, but Mrs. Smith returned with two large bags, placed one on the floor near the front door, and dropped the second onto the carpet in the living room. She went to the piano and put her fingers on the keys, causing her hands to move in odd patterns. Molly watched as the woman’s hands flew up and down the ivory keys, making a steady, loud melody.

Mrs. Smith turned around suddenly. “It seems he forgot to bring any clothes. We’ll have to get them tomorrow.”

“What is wrong with those two?” Molly blurted.

Mrs. Smith laughed. “They are fighting over a man. Nothing much more than a few scraps of clothing.”

“Why would anyone fight over a man?”

Mrs. Smith chuckled and said, “Because they’re not getting along very well.”

Molly looked at her blankly. She had no idea what they meant.

“Men and women can’t always agree, but it doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be together.”

“So…you think they should marry?”

Mrs. Smith hesitated and stared at Molly for several seconds before replying, “Some people do.”

Molly was confused. What did they want with a girl like her? Why hadn’t she been sent to some orphanage or children’s home where they could have taken care of her properly? And why was Mrs. Smith so eager to take her in?

As soon as Molly reached the bottom of the staircase, Molly saw Mr. Browning and Mrs. Smith standing in the hallway talking while a young boy and little girl stood behind them watching. They seemed to be arguing about something.

She stopped abruptly when she saw Mrs. Smith point a finger at the child, then turn and give Mr. Browning a look that caused him to drop his bag on the floor and walk away with the two children. When he finally came back inside, Mrs. Smith told him, “Don’t worry, she won’t run away this time.”

Mr. Browning smiled at Molly and asked, “How old are you?”

Molly tried to answer but couldn’t remember her age. “I’m six,” she said, but her mind was filled with too many questions.

Mrs. Smith answered for her, saying, “She is only four.”

Browning’s smile disappeared. He looked at the child beside him. The little girl had a sad look on her face. The moment Molly caught their eye, they began to cry. Their mother gave them one last glance and said, “You’d better go upstairs.”

The three of them turned toward the stairs, then turned back when Mr. Browning called, “We’ll be in the dining room if you need us.” With that, the adults closed the door behind them.

Molly felt lost and frightened. Where was she supposed to sleep tonight? There wasn’t even a bed for her! She ran over and sat down on the steps where she continued to stare at the closed door wondering if they planned to throw her out on the street.

It wouldn’t take long until someone else offered her a place to stay. That way she might find out what had really happened to her family. But it was obvious Mrs. Smith wanted her to live here. She would never give up so easily when she didn’t know what was best for Molly. How could they think she knew anything about what happened to her family? Molly was just a kid. She needed help.

“Are you hungry, Molly?”

Molly jumped as Mrs. Smith opened the door and walked over to her. Molly thought for a moment the woman might hit her again for running away, but instead she took hold of Molly’s hand and led her to the kitchen.

Molly noticed that Mrs. Smith carried two plates in her other hand as if there were more people in the house besides herself and Mr. Browning. As she followed Mrs. Smith into the kitchen, Molly realized this was the first time she had seen her cook.

A woman who appeared older than Mrs. Smith waited on the stove. She was wearing a white dress that matched Mrs. Smith’s perfectly, except she wore an apron and gloves, and a hat. Her hair had streaks of gray in it and a small bandanna had been knotted around her forehead, covering most of her head. She turned slowly and stared at Molly with wide eyes.

It reminded Molly of how they had first met in the saloon.

Molly was surprised by her appearance because she seemed to be dressed like a servant. “Did I…do something wrong?”

The woman said nothing.

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

Still, the woman said nothing. Then Mrs. Smith said, “Please show Molly where she can wash up for supper.”

With that, Molly was escorted through the doorway into a bathroom. There was an enormous tub full of steaming hot water. Molly stepped forward to fill her hands with the warm liquid when she noticed that Mrs. Smith was already filling a large bucket. The smell of soap brought tears to Molly’s eyes. After washing her face, she washed her arms, legs and feet in the cool water.

When she returned to the main part of the house, Mrs. Smith was standing beside the stove stirring a large pot that filled the entire space between the cabinets. Molly wondered what it could be. The aroma caused her stomach to rumble loudly.

Mrs. Smith said, “It’s soup tonight. You can have the table set.”

The moment Molly walked into the dining room, she stopped short. It was the strangest thing she had ever seen or imagined. The table looked like a buffet. The silverware, plates and glasses had been laid out neatly on a large cloth-covered table with two large wooden chairs facing each other.

The place settings were made from silver and porcelain—the same kind that had been in Molly’s apartment when she moved to New York City. On top of the table were a number of platters piled high with food.

Molly recognized ham and roast beef as well as some vegetables she had never eaten before such as peas and carrots. She thought for a moment she might faint from hunger when she saw all the food. But as she walked closer, she realized it was not meat and vegetables; it was candy.

Mrs. Smith said, “Don’t you want any soup?”

Molly shook her head, trying to keep from crying. What was this woman thinking? She obviously didn’t understand how important it was for Molly to eat right now.

But Mrs. Smith was adamant. “No soup for you, Molly.”

“Why…why do you hate me so much?” Molly cried. “If I hadn’t left here today…if I hadn’t run away…maybe my family would still be alive!” Molly couldn’t take another look at those sad, accusing eyes. Molly turned around and headed for the front door, determined to leave this strange house forever.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Smith shouted after Molly as she raced down the hallway leading to the staircase. “Come back here.”

“No! Don’t follow me!”

“Stop running!”

Molly reached the bottom stair just as her father came rushing up them. He caught hold of her arm as she ran past him. “You’re not supposed to be in the hall,” he said sternly.

He led her into the library and sat her down on one of the couches. “Now tell me exactly what happened.”

Molly began to sob quietly as she told her story about the saloon and being fired. When she finally finished, Tom asked her if she knew anything else that could help him find her family’s murderer.

“Not really…unless I know something happened to my mother in the saloon.” Molly felt a lump form in her throat as she remembered the last conversation she’d had with her mom. “She talked about getting a new job…”

Tom stood up and walked behind his desk, then pulled a small, thin book off a shelf. He flipped through the pages and stopped when he found what he wanted. “There should be some answers inside this book.”

The End

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