was Evelyn Pierce. She died January 16, 1968 in a car accident with my sister. She was born June 20, 1938. Married my dad, Walter, on October 20, 1956. Unfortunately I don’t know her maiden name or her parents’ names.”
“And you ’re certain she was born and married in Clinton County? I can only search records for this county.”
“ Far as I know, yes.”
“Give me a few days. Call back on Thursday and I’ll let you know what I’ve found.”
Mason felt conflicted. He wanted to feel closer to the mother he could barely remember. But w hat if he found out something about his mother he didn’t want to know. Maybe that’s why his father was protecting him from finding the truth.
19 Saturday, June 4, 1977 (Sam)
I woke up in the back seat of the Rambler with a stiff neck and a growling stomach. The two-hour drive to Elkader last night had given me time to practice my story. Luckily, St. Joseph Church’s parking lot was still empty. I opened the back door, stretched my arms and legs.
E ight-thirty. I couldn’t believe I’d slept that late. I’d seen a Hardees on my way in town last night. I’d go there for breakfast and use the restroom to freshen up. Then it would be time to meet my great aunt.
Grandmother had received a birthday card from her sister every year and kept them in a locked pale blue suitcase under her bed. Grandmother had never mentioned that she had a sister. She was a liar, kept secrets. I was glad she was dead.
S he kept a few cards in their envelopes, with return addresses. I’d never know why Grandmother hid the cards, why she kept them, or why we never celebrated birthdays. I hoped my great aunt was as nice as she sounded in her letters.
The house was two miles off the highway , up a gravel road. The mailbox was painted red with harold & connie riley painted in white. The two-story hunter green house had white shutters. The machine shed was red, trimmed in white. The farm reminded me of Christmas.
I parked in front of the detached garage. I looked in the rear view mirror , making sure I looked presentable. Today I was going to find out whether I had family that would accept me. I took a deep breath, opened the car door.
A tire swing hung from a giant oak tree. On the right side of the house was a garden. Sweet corn was starting to grow. A statute of the Virgin Mary, surrounded with red geraniums, greeted me by the front door.
I rang the doorbell , my hands shaking.
A woman came to the door. “May I help you?”
“Are you Connie Riley?” My voice cracked.
“Yes , I am. What can I do for you?” She smiled.
“We ’ve never met, but I’m your relative. Your sister, Mildred, was my grandmother. Evelyn was my mother.”
Connie looked at me a moment. “You have your mother’s eyes. Come inside.”
The living room was painted light green , gold shag carpet. I’d never seen such a beautiful living room—burnt orange sofa and matching chair, large oak coffee table, stacks of books, a big picture window framed in cream drapes, a brick fireplace.
“Come in the kitchen and meet your uncle.” She gently took my arm and led me to the kitchen. A man was sitting at a square oak table, reading a newspaper.
“Harold , this is…,” Connie paused. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”
“Sam.”
“Harold, this is Sam. Sam’s grandmother was Millie.”
Harold stood. “Oh my, oh my. It’s been years since we’ve seen her.”
“My dad and brother were killed in a house fire when I was nine. That’s when I went to live with my grandparents, Ernest and Mildred. My mom abandoned me two weeks later. Grandmother died a few years ago. I recently found the birthday cards you sent her and wanted to meet you.”
“My poor sister. I didn’t realize she ’d died.” Connie sat.
“She died in her sleep.” I thought saying that might make her feel better.
“How is Ernest?” Harold’s voice was sharp.
“Grandfather is fine. I was eighteen in January and
“And you ’re certain she was born and married in Clinton County? I can only search records for this county.”
“ Far as I know, yes.”
“Give me a few days. Call back on Thursday and I’ll let you know what I’ve found.”
Mason felt conflicted. He wanted to feel closer to the mother he could barely remember. But w hat if he found out something about his mother he didn’t want to know. Maybe that’s why his father was protecting him from finding the truth.
19 Saturday, June 4, 1977 (Sam)
I woke up in the back seat of the Rambler with a stiff neck and a growling stomach. The two-hour drive to Elkader last night had given me time to practice my story. Luckily, St. Joseph Church’s parking lot was still empty. I opened the back door, stretched my arms and legs.
E ight-thirty. I couldn’t believe I’d slept that late. I’d seen a Hardees on my way in town last night. I’d go there for breakfast and use the restroom to freshen up. Then it would be time to meet my great aunt.
Grandmother had received a birthday card from her sister every year and kept them in a locked pale blue suitcase under her bed. Grandmother had never mentioned that she had a sister. She was a liar, kept secrets. I was glad she was dead.
S he kept a few cards in their envelopes, with return addresses. I’d never know why Grandmother hid the cards, why she kept them, or why we never celebrated birthdays. I hoped my great aunt was as nice as she sounded in her letters.
The house was two miles off the highway , up a gravel road. The mailbox was painted red with harold & connie riley painted in white. The two-story hunter green house had white shutters. The machine shed was red, trimmed in white. The farm reminded me of Christmas.
I parked in front of the detached garage. I looked in the rear view mirror , making sure I looked presentable. Today I was going to find out whether I had family that would accept me. I took a deep breath, opened the car door.
A tire swing hung from a giant oak tree. On the right side of the house was a garden. Sweet corn was starting to grow. A statute of the Virgin Mary, surrounded with red geraniums, greeted me by the front door.
I rang the doorbell , my hands shaking.
A woman came to the door. “May I help you?”
“Are you Connie Riley?” My voice cracked.
“Yes , I am. What can I do for you?” She smiled.
“We ’ve never met, but I’m your relative. Your sister, Mildred, was my grandmother. Evelyn was my mother.”
Connie looked at me a moment. “You have your mother’s eyes. Come inside.”
The living room was painted light green , gold shag carpet. I’d never seen such a beautiful living room—burnt orange sofa and matching chair, large oak coffee table, stacks of books, a big picture window framed in cream drapes, a brick fireplace.
“Come in the kitchen and meet your uncle.” She gently took my arm and led me to the kitchen. A man was sitting at a square oak table, reading a newspaper.
“Harold , this is…,” Connie paused. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”
“Sam.”
“Harold, this is Sam. Sam’s grandmother was Millie.”
Harold stood. “Oh my, oh my. It’s been years since we’ve seen her.”
“My dad and brother were killed in a house fire when I was nine. That’s when I went to live with my grandparents, Ernest and Mildred. My mom abandoned me two weeks later. Grandmother died a few years ago. I recently found the birthday cards you sent her and wanted to meet you.”
“My poor sister. I didn’t realize she ’d died.” Connie sat.
“She died in her sleep.” I thought saying that might make her feel better.
“How is Ernest?” Harold’s voice was sharp.
“Grandfather is fine. I was eighteen in January and
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