~ by M. C. Pehrson
Each day, the sun lingered a bit longer, warming the garden soil. Uncle Lars started up the tractor and began to plow. Soon a new crop was sprouting, and it became Emma and Susan’s job to help keep the weeds down. With hoes in hand, they walked the even rows, chatting away. Like any sisters, they still had an occasional disagreement, but they had weathered a serious storm and were more considerate of each other’s feelings.
On this pleasant weekend, the upcoming May Festival was the main thing on their minds. Next Friday, the playground of St. Germaine School would be transformed into a fair, complete with a carnival ride. It would be Susan’s first festival, and she was particularly excited. Mom was going to bring Tommy, and Aunt Daisy had volunteered to help out at the popular pizza booth. With the upcoming festival and summer vacation just around the corner, it was one of the happiest times of the year.
But Monday morning, misfortune struck. Susan and Tommy awoke feverish and achy. Mom confined them to bed, and the following day they broke out in itchy bumps. A doctor came to the house and confirmed that it was chickenpox.
Emma was in no danger of getting sick. She had already had chickenpox when she was three, but that did not make her feel any better — not with Susan and Tommy about to miss the biggest, most wonderful event of the school year. It did not seem right for Emma to have fun while they were sick in bed, so she told Papa that she wanted to stay home that day, too.
Papa would not hear of it. “Festival or not, it’s still considered a school day. You’ve had your chickenpox, now go have a good time with your classmates.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a couple of dollars. “Here’s a little extra money. Bring home something nice for Tom and Sue Bee.”
That eased Emma’s mind, and she went into her bedroom to finish her homework.
Before long, Mom peeked in and said, “Emma, I’m getting some reading material out of the attic for Tommy and Sue. Want to help?”
Emma gladly followed her down the hall that ran alongside her room to a second door. She had seen that part of the attic only once. Inside, Mom reached for a wall switch, and a naked bulb lit the dusty enclosed space. The wooden flooring was solid underfoot, but the walls were unfinished. A few cobwebs hung overhead in the rafters. It was a strange, mysterious place, piled high with boxes and trunks and odd pieces of furniture.
Mom sorted through some old National Geographic magazines and handed a stack to Emma. “Here, hang onto these while I find the bed trays.”
Atop an old chest of drawers, Mom came across two wooden trays with little side bins to hold cups and crayons and pencils. Emma could tell they were not store-bought.
“Who made those?” she asked.
“Their father,” said Mom. Then her eyes went sad, and she changed the subject. In that way, she was very much like Susan, never wanting to talk about Mr. Kester. But the silence only stirred Emma’s curiosity.
***
The day of the festival dawned with perfect weather. Emma spent a restless morning in the classroom while the playground was readied, but at last, the dismissal bell sounded. Emma paired up with Franny Brocado. Between the rides, the games, and the food, she had to admit that she was enjoying herself, but she did not forget Susan or Tommy, or the mysterious Mr. Kester.
Stopping for a second slice of pizza, she asked Aunt Daisy, “How can you find out about someone when nobody will tell you anything?”
Daisy stood straight in her apron and sun hat. “If by ‘nobody’ you mean your parents, I’m sure they have a good reason.” Her sharp eyes cautioned her. “Be careful, young lady. That imagination of yours always lands you in trouble.”
Emma almost wished she could confide in Daisy, but the Kester secret had become her secret, now. It was not something that she could even tell Franny.
The afternoon passed in a rush of excitement. It was almost dinnertime when Emma brought home chocolate fudge and “grab bags” for Susan and Tommy. The little surprises perked them up, but they were still jealous of all the fun they had missed, and Emma did not blame them.
***
Saturday morning, Uncle Lars came by and relieved Emma of the daily weeding chore. Donning beads and feathers, she saddled Brownie and rode out to the tipi while Buddy trailed along. But the village seemed lonely without Susan or Tommy. After some solitary scouting, she took off her feathers and put Brownie back in the corral. At the henhouse, she found a couple of big brown eggs to take inside. Then she went down into the basement to visit Papa. With smog season fast approaching, Papa was spending more and more hours on his hydrogen fuel project, certain that he was “on the verge of a breakthrough.” Emma had heard it many times before, and for Papa’s sake, she hoped for the best, but it was disappointing to find him hunched over the work table with one of his students, deep in some vital calculation.
All but unnoticed, Emma left the basement. She was heading for Susan’s bedroom when Mom asked her to go into the attic for more magazines. Visiting the attic on her own sounded like a fine adventure, so up she went, flipping the wall switch just inside the door. The soft light revealed an interesting array of storage boxes and old cast-offs. Emma began to poke around curiously.
She was looking at a wooden baby crib when a movement startled her. Whirling, she came face to face with her own image in a big dirty mirror. Stuck in the mirror’s frame was a black and white photo of a young soldier. Emma moved in closer and recognized Susan and Tommy’s father from the color photograph of Mr. Kester that hung in Susan’s bedroom. The first time Emma saw the portrait, she had been very surprised by Mr. Kester’s thick dark hair. She had always assumed that he was a redhead like Susan and Tommy. But Papa had explained that a blond parent and a dark-haired parent sometimes gave birth to red-haired children.
Emma stared at the dusty old photograph. As a young soldier, Mr. Kester was clean-shaven, but in Susan’s portrait, her father wore a carefully groomed mustache that made him look very manly. In both pictures, his brown eyes seemed gentle and shy, not at all like the eyes of someone who liked to get drunk. Maybe it was that hint of shyness that drew Emma to him, for she was shy around people, too. It helped some, having Susan as a friend and sister, but there were still times when Emma shrank from the attention of others. Reciting aloud in class was always a terrible ordeal. She did not know how Papa could stand in front of a classroom and teach all day. It was certainly not the sort of job for a person like Emma…or Carl Kester.
Suddenly, Emma remembered the magazines. As she turned, her shoe struck the corner of a big wooden chest. It looked homemade, like one of Carl Kester’s creations. She lifted the heavy lid and peeked inside. An army uniform was on top. Just underneath, she saw letters, documents, and religious items. There were lots of loose photos with writing on the back.
Emma picked one up and studied it. There was young Carl standing alongside row upon row of rabbit hutches. She flipped the picture over and found the words “Carl’s Rabbitry 1940”, together with the farmhouse address. So, all those rabbits had been right here on this property! Whatever became of them? Why would someone as ingenious and enterprising as Mr. Kester waste his time drinking? Maybe the answers lay right here in front of her, but Mom was downstairs waiting for the magazines. For now, Emma returned the photo to the chest and closed it. But she was not ready to forget Mr. Kester.
The very first chance, Emma slipped back into the attic and rummaged deeper into the old chest. Each day she put in a little time. The more information she uncovered about Mr. Kester, the more she wanted to learn about him. Piece by piece, the story of Carl’s life emerged, and she began to wonder how much Susan really knew about her own father, beyond a few tainted memories. While thinking on this very subject, Emma reached the bottom of the chest and found a scrapbook. Its leather cover looked almost new and its yellowed pages were large enough to hold all sorts of keepsakes, yet it was completely empty. As Emma wiped a little dust from the cover, a marvelous idea popped into her head. Right away, she set to work.
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