My fingers moved quickly past the church bulletins and the old utility bills, searching for the folder marked 1971.
Near the back of the drawer, tucked behind a stack of old land tax receipts, I found a small bundle labeled 1971.
My heart beat hard against my ribs as I slid the green string off the bundle. There were three letters from the county courthouse, a bank ledger sheet showing the land transfer of the north pasture, and then the long, official envelope with the military return address from Fort Meade.
The military envelope was addressed to Daniel’s father, but the top edge had been torn open roughly, unlike Clara’s usual neat way with a letter opener.
Inside the envelope, there was no letter, only the empty paper smelling faintly of the lavender from Clara’s desk.
“Martha?” Clara’s voice called out from the kitchen, her precise footsteps beginning to move down the hallway. “Do you want sugar in yours?”
I slid the empty envelope into the deep pocket of my sweater just as her shadow crossed the threshold.
“No sugar, Clara,” I said, turning around and resting my hands on the back of the wicker chair.
She entered carrying the silver tray, her eyes sweeping over the desk for a brief second before she set the glasses down.
“You look flushed, sister,” Clara said, handing me a glass. “Perhaps we should skip the sewing today and let you rest.”
“I am perfectly fine,” I said, my fingers tightly gripping the dry paper inside my pocket.
The afternoon heat had begun to break by five, leaving the living room in deep, long shadows that stretched across the pine floor. Daniel sat on the edge of the sofa, his silver watch reflecting the faint light from the window as he rotated the bezel.
I pulled the empty 1971 envelope from my sweater pocket and laid it on the coffee table between us, right next to the faded lighthouse postcard.
“I found this in Clara’s desk today,” I said, smoothing my skirt down over my knees to keep my hands from shaking. “It was addressed to your father, but Clara had it hidden away.”
Daniel looked down at the envelope, his jaw tightening until the muscle twitched beneath his collar.
“She told me you were dead, Daniel,” I said, the words heavy and cold in the quiet room. “She told me the military sent a formal notice saying you were gone.”
“I was not dead,” Daniel said, his voice dropping to a low, hard rasp. “I wrote to you three times from the hospital in California as soon as I could hold a pencil.”
