Chapter 9 #3
She gestured toward the newspapers, reunion programs, and pamphlets.
"How do I properly display the rest of the collection?
Although it's still substantial without the letters there's very little that belongs with any one family.
I've considered placing them with Colonel Briggs's family display since there's no other family display it will go with. Then I thought about adding it to the veteran’s honor board.
But neither of those solutions seemed quite right for what Colonel Briggs has put together. "
"So, what now?"
She smiled ruefully. "Now I'm no closer to an answer than I was yesterday." She met his gaze. "Any suggestions?"
Wilson picked up another labeled box and carried it toward the shelving while he thought over what she'd said. "Sounds to me like you're trying to answer two different questions."
Her brow wrinkled. "Two?"
"Where the collection belongs." He set the box beside the waiting display. "And what story you want it to tell."
Mercy's face took on that look he was coming to recognize as her 'thinking through a problem' expression.
He continued arranging the Lewis family's keepsakes. "You said this room tells about the lives people built here."
"No." She shook her head gently. "You said that."
Wilson looked up.
"The war was part of their lives," she said slowly, almost to herself. "But it wasn't the end of it." Her gaze dropped once more to Colonel Briggs's bundle. "These letters tell what came afterward."
Afterward.
The word settled over the room. Wilson's hands paused on the edge of the box. Every man who'd come home had an afterward.
Some built farms or opened businesses. Some raised families or moved further west. And some never quite found their footing again.
Like him.
Mercy's eyes lifted, a spark of realization brightening her expression.
"Perhaps that's the answer." She looked at Colonel Briggs's collection.
"Not separating them out but not creating another veterans display either.
" She spoke the words as though trying them out.
"What we need to create is a display that tells what became of Hawthorn's soldiers after the war, whatever the war. "
Wilson followed her gaze around the room. Sounds like she'd figured it out.
And had she just said we?
The remainder of the morning passed in a satisfying rhythm of steady work.
Wilson finished fastening the crate stands together, grateful he'd left his carpentry tools in the annex rather than hauling them back and forth to the livery each evening.
While he worked, Mercy continued arranging family displays, occasionally calling him over to judge the spacing between larger pieces or asking him whether a shelf could bear a particular display's weight.
By the time noon arrived, only a handful of family displays remained in the schoolroom awaiting their places.
He straightened, stretching the stiffness from his back. "I believe we've earned a break."
Mercy smiled in ready agreement. "You won't get any argument from me."
A few minutes later they sat on either side of the teacher's desk with a lunch of ham sandwiches a wedge of cheese and lemon cookies.
All of the schoolhouse windows were opened wide in an attempt to capture whatever breeze might brave the summer heat.
For a time neither felt much need for conversation.
The morning's labor had left them pleasantly tired.
Wilson looked toward the open annex door. "Hard to believe that's the same room I first walked into."
Mercy followed his gaze. "It has come a long way."
He took another bite before adding, "I'm curious about what our town's historian has put in her own display. you'll have to point it out to me when we get started again."
A wry smile touched her lips. "Sorry, I'm afraid I can't do that."
He glanced over, surprised. Was she refusing?
"I'm afraid I haven't managed to put it together yet."
He waited, sensing there was more.
"I know some of the things that belong in it." She traced one finger absently along the edge of her napkin. "I'm simply trying to decide what best tells our family's story."
Wilson considered that a moment.
"Maybe you're too close to it."
She looked up.
"You've spent weeks asking questions that helped everybody else see what mattered most." He shrugged. "Seems harder to ask those same questions when the family's your own."
She studied him thoughtfully. "I hadn't considered that."
He wasn't entirely certain where the next thought came from, but once it did, it seemed perfectly sensible. "Maybe what you need is somebody to interview you."
She held his gaze another moment before looking away, a thoughtful expression settling over her features.
"I believe you may be right."
Wilson hadn't expected her to agree, at least not so quickly.
She folded her napkin and set it aside. "Would you join Mother and me for Sunday lunch tomorrow?"
The invitation caught him off guard, but he didn't hesitate. "I'd be honored."
"Good." She smiled, this time without the earlier trace of uncertainty.
"Afterward, perhaps you could interview us.
Mama and me, I mean." She paused briefly before continuing.
"It might help me see our family's story the way I've been asking everyone else to see theirs.
" She wiped something from her lap. "You've sat through enough of my interviews so you know better than most what you'd be letting yourself in for. "
Wilson nodded slowly. "I can do that."
She smiled. "I trust that you can."
Mercy pushed back from the table as Mama reached for the serving platter.
"Leave that to me, Mama." She gathered the stack of plates nearest her while Wilson rose and collected the drinking glasses.
"We invited Mr. Porter to Sunday lunch," Mama protested with a smile, "not to spend the afternoon doing kitchen chores."
Wilson balanced the glasses in one hand. "Makes me feel useful."
"And we'll have everything cleared twice as fast," Mercy said.
Mama laughed softly but didn't argue further.
The meal had lingered far longer than any of them had intended.
Conversation had wandered from that morning's sermon to the centennial celebration, then somehow to stories of neighbors, childhood mishaps, and the many changes Hawthorn had seen over the years.
Wilson hadn't spoken often, but when he had, Mama had listened with genuine interest. Seeing the two of them settle so comfortably into conversation warmed something deep inside Mercy.
By the time the table had been cleared, Mama shooed them both away with a firm wave of the dish towel.
"You two go on and get started. Those dishes aren't going anywhere."
Mercy didn't argue. She crossed to the sideboard where she'd laid everything out before church service. One by one she carried the items back to the table, arranging them with the same care she'd shown every other family's keepsakes.
The worn family Bible came first, followed by her parents' marriage certificate tucked inside a protective folder.
Next came Father's account ledger, several of his saddler's tools, and a small packet of letters and official acknowledgments expressing gratitude for the saddles he'd supplied during the war.
Last she laid a faded family photograph near the center of the table.
Wilson remained standing until she'd finished arranging everything. "I thought you said you hadn't put your family's display together."
"I haven't." Mercy looked over the collection spread before them. "These are simply the things I'd already considered for the display." She glanced toward her notebook. "But until we capture our family's stories, I won't know for certain these are the right pieces."
Wilson nodded thoughtfully. "Then I suppose I'd better remember how you conduct one of these."
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "I'm not expecting perfection, Mr. Porter."
"I should hope not."
Mama returned from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron as she resumed her seat. "Now then," she said with an encouraging smile. "Where would you like to begin?"
Wilson waited until Mama had settled comfortably before opening a small notebook he'd had in his pocket. Mercy noticed at once that instead of carefully ruling neat columns as she did, he simply dated the top of the page and left the rest blank. His pencil hovered a moment before he looked up.
"I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning." A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "How long has your family been in Hawthorn?"
"My family or Josiah's?" Mama asked.
Wilson returned the smile. "I suppose they might be difference at that. Let's start with yours."
Mama folded her hands in her lap. "My family came here three or four years after Hawthorn was founded. I was only three at the time, so I don't remember much about the move itself. The way Mother used to tell it, she worried Father wouldn't find enough folks needing a doctor to keep him busy."
She chuckled softly. "As it turned out, she needn't have worried. Hawthorn was a growing town and people have an uncanny knack for falling ill at all hours of the day and night."
Wilson's pencil moved across the page in a series of quick strokes, then grew still again as Mama continued.
"Before long, Father scarcely had time to sit down for supper.
At first Mother tried helping him keep everything organized, but between the house and all the unexpected callers, there simply weren't enough hours in the day.
So I began fetching water, folding bandages, and carrying messages whenever I could.
As I grew older, Father trusted me with more.
By the time I was fifteen, I usually had his appointment book ready before he asked for it, and I could prepare whatever medicines he expected to need before the patient even stepped through the door. "
Mercy stared at her. "Mama...I never knew any of that."