New Mercies by Sandra Dallas

much of it—just an old house, probably encumbered, and a herd of goats. Did Father ever mention her?”
    “It was so long ago.” Mother tasted the cake, then mashed a little of it with her fork to make it look as if she’d eaten more. She set down the fork. I’d forgotten that she didn’t like coconut.
    “Could she be my grandmother?”
    Mother bit her lip. “Your grandmother died when your Father was born. I remember that much. Maybe Amalia was your father’s sister. After he died, I looked through his things to see if there was anyone I should notify, and I came across a name. It was a woman’s, and I remember thinking the name was pretty. But Amalia?”
    She got up and stood looking out over the park. “Your father wasn’t close to his family. He didn’t talk to me about them. He never wrote to them, and he didn’t get any letters. Whoever I sent the notice to telling of his death didn’t reply. Wink said once he might as well have been an orphan, for all the affection he got as a child. It seemed to me there was some kind of secret in that family, something he wouldn’t talk about. I didn’t pry, thinking that one day he would tell me.” She shrugged. “He did think they blamed him for his mother’s death. After you were born, Wink said he wanted to make sure you never felt abandoned. I thoughtthat was so sad. He adored you. You don’t remember that, do you?”
    “No.” I wished then that I did remember Father.
    “I put Wink’s things into a box when Henry and I were married, thinking you might want them one day. I’d forgotten all about them. The box must be in the basement.” Mother picked up a slice of lemon and squeezed it into her cup, although she had drunk the tea. For an instant, the citrus scent hung in the air like a ray of sunshine. Mother ate a bite of cake and placed her fork, tines down, on her plate; then, picking up her silver teaspoon, she removed a lemon seed from her cup and set it on the saucer. “It’s sad, isn’t it? All that’s left of a man’s life is in one small cardboard box.” She put her hand on mine.
    “There’s me. He left me.” Because she looked downcast, I added, “Me and the goat lady.”
    I sent a Western Union to Mr. Satterfield, asking him to clarify my relationship with Amalia Bondurant and saying it would be impossible for me to leave for several days. That would give me time to go through Father’s things and find out about the family. But as it turned out, the box contained little. Father’s college diploma from the University of Denver was there; his middle name was Tobias, not Thomas, as Mother had believed. Father’s death certificate was in the box, along with a copy of his will and an article from a society page about his marriage to Mother. There were several books—one of poems, a grammar-school text, and two novels, James Fenimore Cooper’s
Leatherstocking
Tales
and
The Gem of the Season (1850)
. Leafing through the poetry book, I found a flower pressed between the pages of a Thomas Moore poem, “The Vale of Avoca.” One of the
Post
articles had reported that Amalia Bondurant’s house was called Avoca, and from the telegram, it appeared that the mansion had been left to me. I did not know people who named their houses—except for mountain cabins, and then they chose silly names, such as “Wit’s End” and “Bide-a-wee”—and was curious about where Amalia’s family had gotten the estate’s name. Two lines of the poem were underlined:
    Sweet vale of Avoca! How calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best
    Had Father highlighted the lines? Perhaps his father or grandfather, whoever had built the house, had done so. Maybe Amalia Bondurant had picked the name and the book had been hers.
    A small leather box with AB on the lid contained father’s jewelry—a stickpin with a diamond in it, collar studs, a red amber cross on a gold chain—which Mother did not remember—a gold pocket watch, engraved