Windflowers

Ms. Agatha Windflower had died as she lived; alone in the red-brick house at the top of the hill on Evergreen Lane surrounded by antiques and an unhealthy layer of dust. Despite having lived next door, Rose didn't know much about Ms. Windflower. Though she was often outside, Rose hadn't stopped to greet the elderly woman. Besides, Ms. Windflower had not acquainted herself with Rose as the other residents of Evergreen Lane had, so Rose assumed that Ms. Windflower wanted to be left alone -- something that Rose understood. Spring Hollow was a town of friendly neighbours, and 37 years of living in peaceful urban anonymity had not prepared Rose for the rural intrusion of unearned intimacy.

The lyrical drone of the auctioneer rose and fell with rhythmic energy. Rose supposed that the charitable intent mitigated the macabre nature of the auction; though Ms. Windflower had been reclusive, she had provided significant financial support to the local hospital and was well respected for that single charitable habit. Ms. Windflower had, astonishingly, died without any significant debts, and all of the profits from the auction would go to the local hospital.

Rose walked among the detritus of the deceased: a poster bed, a tiffany-style lamp, an endless supply of floral dresses. A jewelry box presented strands of luminous ivory pearls, sparkling silver pins, and radiant clear stones that would have been lovely two generations ago. Why the residents couldn't donate to the hospital directly and discard this unwanted property, she couldn't understand.

Then she saw the trunk. It was a 1940s steamer trunk, black, with brass closures and a leather handle. It was worn but redeemable. Rose knew that trunks like this could be restored and re-sold, and she wondered if she could do the good deed of donating to the hospital with a bid and make a little money for herself as well.

After a few challenges to her claim, Rose owned the trunk. She relocated the heavy object to her home next door, brushed aside six decades of dust, and opened the lid. Inside she found a jumble of garments from the 1940s -- a mixture of maternity dresses and other vintage items in good condition which she could also sell. Perhaps these odd rural rituals had value after all.

Then Rose felt something hard brush against her hand. Startled, she pulled back. Cautiously, she pulled the dresses away to reveal a small notebook which she removed from the trunk. The black leather cover was secured with an elastic. She slid the elastic aside, opened the notebook at the fabric bookmark, and discovered ivory pages lined with delicate black ink.

Rose settled on her couch, and began to read.

June 29 1959,

I offered George the money. When pressed for an explanation, I admit that I felt compelled to share the truth. I had hoped George was of an age whereby he could understand the necessity of my deceit, but it seems that, in his shock and anger, compassion was beyond him. I know that, in my selfish need to be acknowledged, I have confused his reality, so I will give him time. For now, I will store the $20,000 in the trunk.

Rose stopped. It was improbable that $20,000 still languished somewhere among the tangle of worthless clothing, but, at the risk of regret, it warranted investigation.

She returned to the trunk and removed the clothes. She tapped the bottom and the hollow sound that answered back declared the bottom was false. Rose found a small tab and pulled it up. There, as the journal suggested, was $20,000.

Rose's hands shook; large sums of found money only occurred in fiction, but here she was with $20,000 cash in her hands, found in an antique trunk that she rightfully owned.

Ideas of what to do with her money spun through her head until they suddenly crashed against unforgiving questions. Who was George? Shouldn't he have the money?

No. If George Whoever-He-Was wanted anything to do with Ms. Agatha Windflower and her mysterious money, he would have shown up when he was notified of her death or something. Clearly there had been some sort of fight, and George had not wanted anything to do with Ms. Windflower or her money. So the money, Rose reasoned, was hers by virtue of being in the trunk that she now rightfully owned.

Her excitement, however, was haunted, not by ghosts, but by whatever superstitious part of her worried about the consequences of betraying the dead.

Rose returned to the journal to confirm Ms. Windflower's wishes.

I pray that when he is calm enough for reason, he will contact me. I am relieved to finally be honest, yet I am filled with regret; George was all I had left in the world.

This was where the journal stopped. The mysterious entry stared back at Rose as the notebook lay flatly in her hand, tethered by its sewn bindings. Perhaps the journal kept George's identity a secret, Rose thought, because she was meant to keep the money after all.

It seemed, however, that Ms. Windflower wanted her truth to be told. Rose, regretfully, continued to read.

December 25 1940,

There will be no celebration for the holidays this year. I am not allowed to leave the house in my condition. I am still angry at Mum and Dad for sending me away. I know that I have made mistakes and that I must face the consequences. I hear news of The Blitz on the radio, and I am afraid for my parents at home. My parents still do not write me. I do not know if Mum and Dad are among the dead. Regardless, their silence rings with my father's voice: "you are dead to me."

I stay in my room. My aunt tells people I am ill.

Rose leaned forward, the notebook resting in her hand. She hadn't realized Ms. Windflower was potentially interesting.

January 20 1941,

The baby has arrived. His name is George after our King. Now I am confined to my room, and I am not to see George. My aunt says that I am not to think of him as mine; for all accounts, he is hers. I am told to be grateful that I have family who will carry my burdens and protect me from the gossip and shame I have earned. I know that, without the generosity of my aunt, I would be in a worse situation. This is for the best.

July 1 1941,

It is Canada Day. I went outside with my aunt and George. My aunt walks with George in the pram, and people are very excited to see the children from England she has taken in. I do not speak; I am too ashamed for I am certain that people must know our secret. The sun was lovely and bright today. We spread a blanket on the lawn and ate egg salad sandwiches. My aunt and I work together in the garden to grow vegetables. I feed our chickens, and I am often in charge of sharing our unused eggs with our neighbours. We must all contribute now.

I will not have a party for my birthday; I will be 17 regardless.

September 12 1941,

Students returned to school recently. Though I have always loved school, I am not permitted to attend. I hope my aunt will agree to a private tutor. I would love to learn, though it will never be of use to me.

December 25 1941

Christmas again. I no longer hold out hope for hearing from my parents. I think Mum and Dad would like George, though, if they are still alive and if they were willing to give him a chance. George has grown so much! He is very busy, and my aunt needs help with his care. His face is exceedingly sweet! I think I have adjusted to Canada, except that the winters are terribly cold.

August 17 1944,

My uncle will not return from Europe. My aunt worries about our expenses. She is ashamed to work, but she may have no choice.

September 12 1944,

I take in sewing now. It requires a great deal of time. My aunt is burdened with grief and is unable to work. When she sews with me, her work is slow and interrupted by crying. I am left to care for George now.

December 25 1944,

I have sewn a rabbit toy for George. My aunt no longer leaves her bed and will not eat, so I am responsible for George and the house and our income. George views my aunt as his mother, and he asks me often why he can no longer see her. I explain to him that she is ill, but he is too young to understand.

June 12 1945

My aunt has passed. We are alone.

September 2 1945,

The war is over. I am relieved.

May 1 1948,

I have received an offer of marriage. Bertrand is everything I could ask for in a husband, and our marriage would provide a more legitimate home for George. I spite of this, I refused Bertrand. The stains of my conscience inform me that he is in love with only half of the truth.

Rose stopped. She closed the book and pulled the elastic back over the black leather cover. She ran her thumb thoughtfully over the rounded corners of the notebook. In the stillness, she allowed Ms. Windflower's story to rest on her. After a time, she went to her desk, took a piece of her stationary, and began to write:

To Mr. George Windflower:

Ms. Agatha Windflower of 216 Evergreen Lane, Spring Hollow, recently deceased, was a quiet but important part of our community. Though I did not know her well, I have learned through her journals that she was a resilient and resourceful individual who loved her son deeply. Ms. Windflower has been an ongoing source of philanthropy and support in our community which I now understand was grounded in the compassion she learned from the difficult experiences she accepted with grace and dignity. I am reminded that, but for our choice to document our own narratives, many essential pieces of history disappear within the amnesia of time.

I have enclosed Ms. Windflower's journal and the $20,000 intended for her son. I feel strongly that she would want these items to be passed along.

Sincerely,

Rose Waterstone

Many weeks later, Rose received a letter.

Dear Ms. Waterstone,

Thank you for your letter. After I argued with Agatha, my birth mother, I was too angry to return. I had already endured the pain of being an orphan only to learn that my birth mother had, in fact, raised me and that I was illegitimate, a status that bore a lot of stigma in that era. I realized eventually that Agatha was trying to protect me as she herself had been convinced to do. I am glad to see this attitude becoming outdated; despite difficulties, I felt very loved by Agatha. She created a content childhood for me despite the financial limitations and social difficulties she must have faced. I was not as appreciative as I should have been. After I became a father, I understood Agatha better and my anger cooled, but I was too ashamed to reconnect and apologize, something for which I am now deeply regretful.

Thank you for sending the journal. Reading Agatha's own expression of her experiences helps me feel some last connection, though it is now too late to return the love she so willingly gave me.

I am returning the certified check for $20,000. Consider it a reward for giving an old man cl osure.

Sincerely,

George Windflower