As I’m not only a nonfiction writer but also a fiction one, I wanted to showcase a work of my short fiction that I wrote a while ago as my debut short story. This one may not be as thematically deep as my novels might be, but it gives you a glimpse of what I hope to capture through everything I wrote. Beautiful stories with broken characters yet hopeful resolutions.
This short story is titled “A Man Of My Word” and I really hope you enjoy it!
“And whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone, so that your Father who is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses.” -Mark 11:25 ESV
***
Dear Daddy,
It’s… been a while. Ten years to the date, actually. At least when I’m writing this.
This should have been my tenth letter. I have no idea if you got the others. When you never responded to any of them… well, I gave up. At least, I did last year. I swore to myself that after eight letters I would never write again.
But things are different this year. Really different. The kind of difference that led me to break this promise to myself. There’s a sickness going around the orphanage, you see. It’s been going around for months now. An older kid, Kenneth, struggled the hardest with it. He’d always been prone to illnesses like these, Daddy. But this time… this time he didn’t make it.
His death rattled my bones, Daddy. He told me he had parents too, who were going to come back for him someday. He’s been here for eleven years. They never got a chance to come back for him.
What if it happens to me? What if I’m next? What if this is the last time I pick up a pen and write you?
You promised me too, Daddy. I just hope your promise wasn’t a curse like his.
You’ve had ten years of chances to come back for me.
Where are you? Why have you never answered my letters? Why haven’t you come back for me? Daddy. I’m fifteen now. I can barely remember your face anymore.
I don’t remember much of anything about you anymore.
Except that one message you used to tell me. You would take me to the big open field at night and sit me on your shoulders so I could look at the stars. I would drum on your hat and you would say “Someday, Maggie, you’ll reach high enough to touch those stars. And when you do, I’ll be there beside you, lifting you up.” I used to question your words. And you know what you would say? You would say, “I’m a man of my word, Margaret. I won’t let you go until you’ve touched the sky.”
Well where are you now, Daddy? Have I not reached high enough for you?
You said you loved me, but if this is your idea of love, I don’t want any of it.
If this ends up being the last time I write to you, I want you to know that I’m at Hasting’s Orphanage now. The old one you dumped me at went out of funding.
Next year I’ll be launched out into the world and you’ll never be able to find me. That’s what happens when you turn sixteen. Make up your mind if you want me back, Daddy. God knows how much I need you.
-Margaret Kawe. Your daughter.
***
The stars were so inviting that night. The wide open space, dazzling light of the moon, all romanticized by my five-year-old brain.
I sneezed; the grass in the meadow tickling my nose. “Bless you,” Daddy chuckled, his smile akin to the brightness of the moon.
“Amen,” I joked, the same way Momma did. She’d been sneezing a lot lately. Daddy said it was just a cold. She’d needed to stay back and rest that night, so it was just Daddy and me. A father and daughter caught between the light and shadows of dusk.
“Daddy,” I asked, scooting over to his side and resting my head on his shoulder, “will Momma come back to join us tomorrow?”
“Of course she will, Maggie,” Daddy answered, standing and pulling me up along with him. “And the next night and all the other nights after that. She’s going to get better soon.”
I smiled. It made me feel better. I climbed up onto his shoulders. I felt taller than a tree. With one hand, I pressed down on his curly hair, and with the other I reached for the sky.
Daddy laughed. “Whatcha doin’, Maggie?”
“Momma’s been reading me a book about the stars,” I answered matter-of-factly, “and Momma said that people will touch the stars someday. I wanna be one of them.”
Daddy spun around, making me giggle. “That’s a wonderful idea. Can I come too?”
I laughed, “Of course you can, Daddy!”
Daddy reached his head up to look at the stars too. “Someday, Maggie, you’ll reach high enough to touch those stars. And when you do, I’ll be there beside you, lifting you up.”
I reached up again, extending my arm as far as it could go. There was nothing there. “I can’t do it,” I sigh in disappointment.
Daddy leaned his head back to look in my eyes. “You’ll do it someday, Maggie.”
“You promise?” I hope, leaning forward and tickling his face with my curly hair.
“I’m a man of my word,” Daddy nodded.
***
In all my years of living, I wouldn’t ever have expected to end up like this.
Sitting alone in the loudest pub in the square, with yet another eviction notice stuffed in my pocket, just about as destitute as any other wayward veteran in this part of the city.
“Uh, mista?” A lad asks, his eyes hidden under a cap. His gloved fingers grip an envelope that’s being extended to me. I set down my fork and look at the letter curiously.
“Is that for me?” I raise an eyebrow. I haven’t gotten mail in years.
The boy nods, “I’m pri’ey sure, sir. They said to give it to mista William Kawe.”
I, in turn, nod. “Yes, that’s me. Thank you, my boy.” I fish around my coat pocket, hoping none of the coins have slipped through the holes. I pull out a couple random bits of change and hand it to the boy, and he scampers off and out of the pub.
I remember I was like that when I was a boy. Though I used to deliver papers instead of mail.
How could anyone find me here? I’ve been wandering around for quite some time now. And who would want to write me anyway?
Flipping over the envelope, I scan the address. Not so much for the words, I know the address, but for the handwriting. If it’s someone’s I recognize it might be worth my time.
It’s a woman’s. That’s obvious by the words’ delicate loops and swirls and straight lines. I haven’t seen handwriting this beautiful since Eleanor would send me letters.
The memory of Eleanor sends a knife to my heart. I set the letter down and take a swig of ale, hoping it’ll wash the memories away. I don’t want to think about my late wife right now.
She’s been dead for ten years now. I should have gotten over it. But still today each mention of her name opens wounds as fresh as when she died.
She’s gone.
I shovel down the rest of my eggs in silence and leave the table, almost intentionally leaving the letter with it. But I pause, pressing weight onto my cane in the middle of the obnoxiously loud pub. I wince, remembrances of past pain stopping me in my tracks. It’s like Eleanor herself is stopping me. Or, at least, the hurt that came with her loss.
I turn around, looking at the letter sitting next to my empty dish. I simply stare at it for a second, then snatch it up and shove it in my pocket as quickly as I can. Out of sight, out of mind.
I make my way out of the pub and up the creaky stairs to my rented room. One of the many I’ve lived in over the past few years. Just trying to get by.
With stiffer knees than one would hope I would have at my age, I sit down on the bed. My leg’s just not what it used to be. Even at thirty-five I feel like an old man. Curse that dang war. One of the many things that ruined my life.
Well, the three things. The war, losing Eleanor, and not finding Maggie. The triple threat.
I breathe in and out through my nose, swallowing down my rage. Don’t think about it, Will. It made you stronger.
But when I think about Maggie… and my fellow soldiers… and Eleanor… I let every one of them down. It didn’t make me stronger, it made me a coward. And a coward I shall be for the rest of my days.
She made me swear I would never end up this way.
I toss the cane to the floor in a stiff fit of rage, a battle of memories, emotions, and will tearing through my mind. It’s just a letter, Will. You should have gotten over it, Will. Live your life while you still have it, Will. My mind raises its sword against my heart. It swiftly retaliates, never accepting defeat, Go back for her, Will. Apologize for everything, Will. Rebuild your life, Will.
I bring out the letter and stare at the dang handwriting.
Just open it.
It’s a mistake.
The first words are Dear Daddy.
***
It’s back when life was kind. The most joyful of days. Eleanor had decided that we all needed to go on a picnic that day.
The meadow was green with summer foliage, taller than little Maggie even when she stood on her toes. She rolled through the grasses and down the hill, getting covered from head to foot in dirt. Eleanor laughed as she followed, pulling me along for the ride.
It was the kind of freedom that a person could only feel when they were truly in love.
July, twelve years ago. Margaret was three. It’s outrageous how time can fly. It seems like only yesterday.
We all tumbled to the bottom of the hill, chuckling uncontrollably. My shirt was covered in grass and dirt, and Margaret said the stains looked like a face. Then we rolled around again in a tickle fight.
***
I’m staring into Eleanor’s eyes for the final time. On that day when my heart shattered into a billion tiny pieces at the sight of her tears. Tears because she was leaving us behind. She couldn’t hold on any longer.
We stared at each other for a moment. Just trying to comprehend the reality that was right in front of us. The reality that couldn’t be ignored anymore. The reality that joy never lasts forever. That scared her.
Margaret walked into the room with a confused expression. She raised her arms and I picked her up mindlessly, staring past her in shock.
Margaret looks around the room. “Where did Momma go?” she asked, concerned.
“She’s not here right now,” I croaked. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Maggie’s eyes drooped. “When will she come back?” She turned her head to try to look me in the eyes. “Daddy?”
I clenched my eyes shut. “I don’t know, Maggie. I don’t know.” I set her down and I start rubbing tears out of my eyes so she wouldn’t see.
Then there’s the casket. And the condolences. The flowers and the rain. And the light of summer dies with the darkness of winter. An eternal winter that casts a shadow on the life I’d lived before.
Out with the old, in with the new.
Joy never lasts forever.
***
The orphanage almost never gets this quiet.
There’s almost always the creaking of old floorboards, the whistle of wind down the halls, and the groaning of dreaming kids if you wake up this early in the morning.
I sit up straight in bed, the morning light of winter kissing my cheeks. It’s been a week since I mailed the letter. I guess that’s how I measure time now.
Hope is exhausting.
I thrust the covers aside and get dressed for the day. Everyone else is still asleep. With my warmest dress on, I sit by the window and watch the snow fall gently and silently from the sky. The bringer of silence. My breath clouds up the glass as I stare. The snow reminds me of a messenger, bringing good news from somewhere far away. The beauty of things that are silent always strikes me this time of year. How the entire world could be changed by something so small and so quiet.
“Miss Kawe?” Mrs. Hastings’ voice says from behind me. I yelp, startled. I don’t think I did anything wrong.
“Yes Mrs. Hastings?” I ask, turning around meekly. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all,” Mrs. Hastings smiles wider than I’ve seen her in a long time. “It’s actually good that you’re awake and dressed. There’s someone here to see you.”
I raise an eyebrow skeptically. That’s the last thing I expected from a cold December morning. “There is?”
“Yes, child. Come on!”
I slip into my slippers and follow Mrs. Hastings out of the room and down the hall. My hair is still rugged and my eyes crusted from sleep, but I don’t seem to care. It’s so out of the ordinary.
When we make it to the parlor, I see a man standing there, leaning on a cane. He’s tall and lanky with curly brown hair. One leg is bent like he doesn’t want to use it, but he’s still standing tall.
There is something familiar about this man.
“Yes, sir?” I ask, “Do you need something?”
The man’s jaw drops and his chest rises and falls with unbelieving breaths. “M-Maggie?” It’s the same voice from all the years ago.
This is… no. It can’t be.
“Maggie, is that really you?” The man asks, hobbling forward to get a better look at me.
I don’t want to believe it. I won’t let hope get me this time. “M-my name is Margaret Kawe, yes.” I answer, a stutter creeping into my words.
His smile turns to tears. “Margaret do you-” he stutters as well, pausing to swallow before continuing, “do you remember me?”
I blink back tears, hope’s grasp firm on my soul. Nodding, I reply, “Yes, if this is Mr. William Kawe speaking.”
Mr. Kawe nods vigorously, almost unable to stop. He sits down in one of the parlor chairs, rubbing his forehead. “Do you really? Truly?”
“I wouldn’t have written you if I didn’t,” I blurt, false hope taking control of my brain and words. I want so badly for it to be true. That my father is truly in the orphanage parlor, remembering me. Wanting me back. Wanting me back after ten years of leaving me alone. Finally, reason seeps back into my speech. “Why did you leave me? Why have I never heard from you? Why didn’t you care?” Some words can be written by a pen a million times and not come to their full weight until they leave your lips.
***
Her words press a weight on my chest. Because they’re true. True, honest questions that any child would ask when abandoned by their father for so long.
Coward.
“I-I…” I choke on my own words. The truth hurts too much to be spoken.
But a lie stabs like a sword.
“I’m so sorry, Maggie.”
Maggie stands stiff and straight, not moving. Not accepting. She deserves more than an apology. “That’s not an explanation.” She tucks her curls behind her ears and crosses her arms, looking more like her mother than I had ever thought possible.
“When… when your mother died, we went into so much debt. From doctors and from funeral expenses and it seemed like everywhere I looked there was something to pay for. It got to the point where I could barely afford food or our house or anything like that. Then, when the war started, I saw my chance. There it was, free food and shelter for my service in return.”
It was more than just my service. It was leaving everything behind. “But the hardest part was I couldn’t take you with me. I had to leave you in a place where I knew you would be safe. I had no relatives to leave you with, no neighbors or anyone who’d be willing to take you. Leaving you at an orphanage was really my only option.”
Margaret starts to breathe a little harder, a little faster.
“I damaged my leg in the fight. They couldn’t use me anymore, so they sent me home. Only to find that there was no home to go back to. Our house had burned down.”
Maggie blinks rapidly, as if trying to hold back tears.
“And when I tried to go back for you, the orphanage you were at had shut down. There was no trace of you.” The memory of that hopeless day brings back all the emptiness that’s been in my heart since I left. A huge, gaping hole with nothing to fill it.
Maggie nods, her eyes clenched shut now.
I open my mouth to continue, but then she speaks. “I’ve been sending letters to that address, you see. Every year on my birthday. I kept hoping that maybe someday you would read them and come and take me home. But I guess there’s no home to go back to now.”
More pain. I’ve been searching for her all this time but she’s actually been searching for me. I knew as much from her letter, but hearing it from her voice stings.
“I’m so sorry, Margaret.” The only words I can think to say.
Maggie nods, tears spilling down her pale cheeks. “I know.” It looks as if she’s battling on whether to say it, but when she does it rushes over me like a waterfall of peace. Consuming, violent, overtaking peace that crushes all despair in its path.
“I forgive you.” She’s teary-eyed, yet she steps over to hug me. I return the embrace, my joyful tears spilling onto her shoulder. I can tell hers are falling onto mine.
“You promised you’d help me reach the stars,” Maggie said, her voice wobbly, “but I like it better right here. Can we stay here forever, Daddy?”
I chuckle, hugging her tighter and tighter as tight as I can. “Of course we can, Maggie. I can promise you that.”