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The Last Piece

By Terrie Todd

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Ray Matthews stared at the prairie landscape as the wheels made their hypnotic chug on the railway tracks below. For the next hour at least, he could allow the gentle rocking motion to lull him into a sort of oblivion. Into an alternate reality where the events of the last twenty-four hours were fairy tales and not truth. Where he was still in art school, scheduled to graduate in nine months. Where Dad was still the muscular, energetic man he’d always been—slinging hay bales from the dusty field onto the hay rack with the same ease required to swat a fly in his mother’s farm kitchen.
Ray had never imagined for a moment that the formidable, faith-filled Nate Matthews could be here one day and gone the next. The larger-than-life man had been the center of everything, not just the Matthews family but the entire community of Wishing Well and all its three hundred and twenty-nine inhabitants. They must be reeling. Dad had been a rock, the glue that held the community together through the leanest, driest years they’d ever known. And though drought and depression still raged, Nate Matthews had defied all odds by finding a way for Ray to enroll in the University of Manitoba’s art program and pursue his dreams.
Ray closed his eyes and tried to forget the brief telegram he’d read at least ten times before the words even began to sank in. Had it really been just yesterday? If only the telephone lines had been strung to Wishing Well—or anywhere in rural Manitoba, for that matter. He’d be able to reach Mum and get the details. Clearly, she’d taken great pains to use as few words as possible. RETURN HOME ASAP. DAD DIED. HARVEST.
Whatever happened to Dad must have been both sudden and accidental. That Mum had found it necessary to include the word “harvest” could mean only one thing. Ray was expected to stay home, at least until the harvest was in.
Only three weeks had passed since he’d said goodbye to his parents and sister and returned to university for his final year. The guilt of leaving his family to finish the harvest without him had reared its head then. But Dad’s parting words, like always, lifted the load. “Go make us proud, son.”
Ray had barely had time to learn the names of his new professors when Mum’s telegram arrived. He’d carried it with him into Professor Robertson’s office and explained. The man was a good course counselor, but had no understanding of annual farming cycles or how bringing in the harvest was a life and death matter. He hailed from Toronto, where both a theater and a gallery bore his family name. In Professor Robertson’s prestigious home, the arts were revered above all else.
Closing his eyes, Ray recalled the conversation as perfectly as if he still stood before the man’s desk.

“I’m truly sorry for the loss of your father.” Professor Robertson looked at Ray over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Take as long as you need to settle his affairs. I should think two weeks will be sufficient. Ask one of your classmates to stay in touch by telephone with your assignments. William Spencer would be a good choice.”
“Sir … respectfully, there are no telephones in my area of the province.”
The man stared at Ray for a moment while this sank in. “Well, mail, then. It will take longer, but you should be able to keep up. I’ll allow you to hand everything in together upon your return.”
Ray studied the tiled pattern on the floor. “Sir, I … I don’t know when I’ll be able to return. Harvest was in full swing when Dad passed, and I’ll need to finish the job. My father grows potatoes.” He didn’t bother explaining that Dad had started out a wheat farmer but the drought was followed by grasshopper infestations and then, when he finally managed to grow a significant crop, the price of wheat had dwindled to worthless. Nate Matthews had the wits, upon observing the success of his wife’s garden potatoes, to plant them in his low-lying field. His well was also the deepest and most consistent water source for miles.
This time the professor removed his eyeglasses. Holding them in his right hand, he frowned. “You are a promising young artist, Matthews. Exceptional, I would say. You’ve won a spot at this institution coveted by many others. You’ve done so on the recommendation of trusted teachers who believed in you enough to help you land the scholarships that got you this far. You’ve won how many contests? Six? Seven?”
“Seven, sir.”
“And at least two of those were international, if I remember right.”
“Yes, sir.” Ray focused on the painting on the wall behind Professor Robertson’s desk, a landscape that had earned the man an award of his own.
“Now you’re telling me you would toss all that away in order to pick vegetables? Don’t be absurd, young man. We could give your seat to any number of willing takers in a heartbeat.” He snapped his fingers.
Ray resisted the temptation to point out that potatoes are dug, not picked. “I know, sir. And I appreciate everything—I do. I want to return and complete my program. I just don’t think I can be back that quickly.”
“You do realize the deadline for any tuition refund just passed?”
Ray nodded. And since his dormitory and meals fees were paid monthly, there was nothing to collect there either.
The man gave Ray one final stare. “Two weeks. Or the spot goes to someone who can commit. Please extend my sympathy to your mother.”

The train whistle dragged Ray back to the present.
“Wishing Well!” the porter called out.
Stretching for his belongings from the overhead compartment served to remind Ray that, while he’d inherited Dad’s dark hair and eyes, his stature came from Mum’s side. He pressed his face to the window. Would anyone be waiting for him on the platform? Most likely not. His return telegram to Mum had said only that he’d come as soon as he could.
The late-September sunshine warmed his face as he stepped down from the train. One look around confirmed that no one was there for him. He began the two-mile walk to the Matthews farm. The solitude would give him a chance to collect his thoughts in these familiar and comforting surroundings. Was it his imagination, or had the dust begun to settle since he left? After years of it, one got so used to daily grit in the eyes, teeth, and hair that it seemed normal. But today it was easy to breathe. Nothing obscured the sun except the odd fluffy cloud. Many of the fields he passed lay barren, but the ones that had been planted looked more promising than in previous years. Perhaps the worst was finally behind them.
The walk home would take him past the church and cemetery on the edge of town. Should he stop and see Sarah’s grave? Common sense told him no. The sooner he got home, the sooner Mum would be relieved. And they would be burying Dad here in a day or two. He could always slip away to Sarah’s grave afterward.
But as the rows of crosses and headstones came into view, Ray’s feet seemed to take on a will of their own. He soon found himself standing at the grave of the woman he’d expected to share his life with. He knelt and brushed a small tumbleweed away from the stone, tossing it aside. He ran his hand over the simple engraving.

Sarah Grace Martindale
1913 - 1932

The stone displayed no date to mark her birthday, May 24. No date of death, though Ray would never forget that bitterly cold January 16. No scripture verse, though Sarah’s favorite had been Psalm 46:10: “Be still and know that I am God.” No hint as to the cause of death, though the pitiful sounds from her pneumonia-wracked lungs still rang in Ray’s ears whenever he heard someone coughing. No epitaph to describe her, though she’d been the nearest thing to an angel this earth would ever see. Ray and Sarah had been sweethearts from the time they were old enough to understand what the word meant, and they’d planned a spring wedding for exactly three months after the day she died.
“Hello, Sarah.” Ray’s words were barely audible. “I came home sooner than expected. But you probably know that. You probably know Dad’s up there now too. Have you seen him yet? If so, I envy him a little.”
He looked around the peaceful setting. The little church he’d attended all his life still held its steeple high, though sandstorms had peeled most of the white paint away. Despite the lack of green grass and flowers, the cemetery had remained pretty in its own way. Sparrows twittered from the evergreens that provided shelter along three sides. A mourning dove cooed. How fitting.
“I don’t know how I’m going to do it, Sarah. Mum’s going to need me to take over full-time, and you know I was never that great a farmer. Not like Dad. He had the strength and stamina of three men. Oh, I can do the work, and I will. I’ll give it my best shot, anyway. But my heart will never be in it. Dad knew that, and I know you did too. If it hadn’t been for you and for him, I’d never have gone to art school. Now you’re both gone. And I’m pretty sure it’s the end of school for me too.” His gaze returned to the stone.
“I sure wish you were here. We’d have celebrated our second anniversary already, you realize that? Would we have a little one by now? I could handle this if you were here. I could handle anything. Anyway …” He stood and tapped his hat against his pant leg before returning it to his head. “I need to get home. I love you, girl.”
Back on the road, Ray stepped up his pace and turned his thoughts toward the farm and all the work that surely awaited him there. With half a mile to go, a horn startled him, making him turn around. From the shape of the driver’s beat-up old straw hat, Ray recognized their neighbor and one of his father’s good friends, Eli Robinson. Eli stopped his old Ford truck and leaned across the passenger seat. “That you, Ray? Hop in.” He cleared some sundry junk from the seat, then swiped a sleeve across his whiskered cheek.
Without a word, Ray tossed his bags into the back of Eli’s truck and climbed into the cab where the scents of burlap, sweat, and something he couldn’t identify combined to make him glad the windows were rolled down. Eli put the truck back in gear and continued down the road toward home, which would take him right past the Matthews farm.
“Figured you’d be coming home today.” Eli kept his eyes on the gravel road. “Real sorry about your dad.”
“Thank you.”
Nothing more was said, nor needed to be. Eli turned down the Matthews’ lane and pulled up in front of the old house. Chickens scattered. Uncle Henry’s Chevy was parked next to Dad’s pickup truck in the yard. Old Barney, the mutt that Mum and Dad had presented to him as a pup on his twelfth birthday, lumbered over with a wagging tail.
“Sure appreciate the ride.” Ray climbed out and began rubbing Barney behind the ears. “Hey there, boy.”
“Think nothing of it. I was going right by.” Eli’s tone held compassion. “Please tell your mother how sorry I am. He was a good man.”
“I will. Thanks.” Ray watched his neighbor drive away. When he turned around, Mum and Caroline stood on the side porch. He hadn’t even heard the door open. For a moment, he felt frozen to the spot. Who was this woman, this girl? Mum looked more like his grandmother. Stooped. Wrinkled. And oh, so very weary.
And was it possible Caroline could have gotten even thinner? His sister had always been small for her age, but at fifteen, she should be showing the graceful curves of a young woman. Instead, she reminded Ray of the scarecrow they put up every year in Mum’s garden. Not that he’d say such a horrible thing aloud, not to anyone.
Both women showed signs of recent weeping—swollen, red eyes above dark circles. Guilt and grief wrestled for the top spot in Ray’s chest, paralyzing him. If only he could snap his fingers and be back in Winnipeg, in one of his art classes, focused on a project. If only none of this was true. If only his family was happy and thriving.
“Raymond.”
The sound of his name from Mum’s lips finally moved Ray to action, and he walked the few steps to the porch. He set his bags down to embrace Mum first, then Caroline.
“What happened?” His voice was little more than a weak croak. Still, no tears came.
“Come inside.” Mum held the door open while Ray passed through with his bags. “Say hello to everyone, and then we’ll talk.”
The familiar smell of home wrapped Ray in a comforting hug as he stepped into the kitchen. More food burdened the table than he’d eaten in weeks—sliced roast beef and ham, deviled eggs, homemade breads, cakes, and bowls of garden vegetables. A pot of soup simmered on Mum’s woodstove, releasing the soothing fragrance of potatoes and celery. His neighbors and relatives had sacrificed greatly to share their food when they all had so little. The obvious acts of kindness touched his heart.
Subdued voices came from the living room, and someone spoke his name.
Mum led him toward the entrance. “Ray’s here.”
Ray stood in the arched doorway and scanned the room. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors occupied every seat. Dad’s younger brother looked so much like Dad, it almost took Ray’s breath away.
He managed a weak smile. “Hi, everybody. Thanks for being here.”
The next few minutes were a blur of awkward hugs and words.
“So sorry, Raymond. So very sorry.”
“You must be famished. What would you like?”
“I can fill you a plate.”
“Thank you.” Ray looked at Mum, who nodded in the direction of the stairs. He grabbed his bags and followed her up to his room. They sat side by side on the edge of his bed.
“What happened to Dad?” Ray had imagined all sorts of awful things, from Dad being trampled and dragged by his team of horses to somehow becoming trapped under a tractor tire.
“It was his heart. Doc says he probably had a congenital heart problem all along. It just never showed up before.”
Had he misheard? Dad had a bad heart? “But … he was so strong.”
“I know.” Mum shook her head. “I’m still in shock too. He’d put in a long day, like always. When he finally came in around ten, I gave him his supper. He only ate a couple of bites. He was unusually quiet. Said he was going straight to bed. I stayed up to finish a few things—I’d been canning tomatoes and wanted to get the jars on the cellar shelves. When I came to bed around eleven, I couldn’t hear him breathing. Normally, he’d be snoring by that time. I listened awhile then called him softly. Then more loudly. No response.” Her voice cracked, but she cleared her throat and kept sharing her story. “Finally, I lit a lamp. I shook him. But he was gone. He was gone and I hadn’t heard a thing. I don’t know if he struggled. I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye!” She began to sob.
Ray wrapped his arms around her as she leaned into his chest. If only he could cry like that. What could he say to comfort her? Memories of losing Sarah rose to the surface. If his own heart stopped that day, how much worse must it be after twenty-five years of marriage? He held Mum close, gently rubbing her back and shoulder until the sobbing subsided.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Ray. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m just so … bewildered.”
“It’ll be all right. We don’t have to figure it all out today. Let’s just focus on laying Dad to rest. Then, the next thing will be finishing the harvest. I’m here now. Try not to worry.”
Even as he spoke the reassuring words, Ray’s confidence sagged. “Laying Dad to rest” sounded disrespectful. Dad had never been inactive a day in his life. He’d worked hard and played harder, when he got the rare opportunity to do so. More importantly, his faith in God was steadfast as a rock. Ray had no doubt that Dad was with the Lord and that whatever he was doing right now, it wasn’t resting.
Mum let out a big sigh. “I should go back down. Don’t take too long. Your aunties will have your plate heaping with food by now.” She stood and crossed the room.
“Be down in a minute.”
After Mum left, her shoulders a little straighter and chin a little higher than when he’d first arrived, Ray drew a deep breath. How strange to be sitting here again.
The toy tractor Dad had carved when Ray was five sat atop his dresser, its moving parts still in perfect order. An assortment of art-related books crowded a bookcase on the other wall. How to Sketch … Drawing Faces ... The Works of Van Gogh. All had been Christmas and birthday presents over the years. The quilt on which he sat had been lovingly pieced together by Grandma and handed down to Mum when she married. The curtains at the window were Mum’s handiwork—plaid fabric in navy, red, and yellow. Everything in here offered comfort and belonging. But the painting over his bed made his pulse speed up. He’d finished the portrait of Sarah for her eighteenth birthday and surprised her with it.
Her face had lit up. He could still hear her. “Ray! I don’t know what to say.”
He’d portrayed her in a garden, gazing down into a flower-laden wishing well, with more flowers in her hair. The well was only figurative. Though their little town had been named Wishing Well, no one seemed to know why or where there might have been such a well. Sarah’s dream from the age of twelve had been to raise funds to build a lovely wishing well in the town square. She’d lobbied the town council and solicited donations. She’d organized fundraisers. But the Depression had made Sarah’s well a low priority. When she passed away, the fund was donated to her family so they could afford a decent burial and headstone. Sarah’s parents had given the painting back to Ray.
“You should keep it,” he’d told them.
“No,” Mrs. Martindale had insisted. “It’s lovely. You captured her essence perfectly. But there is still no wishing well in this town, and every time I see the portrait, it’s a reminder that we failed her. I can’t bear the pain of it.”
Just like he couldn’t bear this pain now. He gazed into the likeness of his Sarah’s eyes, the windows to her gentle soul, and whispered softly. “Tell Jesus I need his help desperately, Sarah. Please.”
With a sigh, he stood and returned downstairs, leaving his suitcases behind—still packed.

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