Letters to Hank

Chapter Five

Rose's mind spun as she waited at the stoplight. "Woodland" by The Paper Kites played softly on the radio, her thumbs dancing on the steering wheel with the beat. When the light turned green and she turned left into the Sunset Memorial Cemetery. She followed a map on her phone and pulled to the side of the road when she got close. Climbing out of her white, Toyota Corolla, she tossed her purse over her shoulder, grabbed the postcards and pictures, and set out.

She read the names carved into stone as she walked. Her heart thudding gently in her throat, she blinked away tears. She had always hated cemeteries—too many lives were cut short and buried in the ground with little more recognition than a rock swallowed by the earth.

Though she was searching for a specific grave, she stopped at a small, pink plaque in the ground. Engraved in the shiny stone sat a name and date: Eliza May Becker, 2002. Born the same year she died. Too young, too little, too innocent. Wiping a tear from her cheek, Rose kept walking. The grass tickled her toes through her brown sandals and wet her ankles with the morning's dew.

Finally, after ten minutes of searching, she stood above a granite headstone that erupted from the ground. Rose set the old shoebox on the ground. She ran her fingers over the delicately carved name, each letter engraved with great care.

Henry Oliver Gordon

August 14, 1909 — February 14, 1944

Husband and Father

It was a simple headstone, one that made Rose's eyes well with tears again. She stared at it then sat down beside it, her legs crossed beneath the knee-length crimson dress she wore. Slowly, she laid out the postcards and pictures in front of her. Running her thumb over the brass pin, she gnawed at the inside of her cheek.

Hank—Henry—had a wife and children. He had a whole life set out in front of him, yet his body lay in a coffin deep within the earth. All the answers to Rose's questions resided six feet below her. Her world falling silent, Rose ran her fingers through the grass, her palm kissing the soft dirt.

"I just wish I knew," Rose muttered to herself. She pulled a notebook and pen from her purse and quickly began writing everything she knew.

Henry "Hank" Oliver Gordon. Born August 14th, 1909. Died Valentine's Day, 1944. Had a wife and a family. 90872 Forman Rd. St. Louis, MO. Hazel Ruth Gordon Kroyer. Born in 1910, died in 1986.

She stared at her notes for a long moment. Nothing made sense but their last name. Rose noted the dates on each of the postcards: 1963, 1987, 1995, 1977, 1997, 1979. But why were they written so many years after Hank died in 1944? Rose shook her head, her eyebrows furrowed. Sighing, she collected the cards and pictures and set them carefully in the box. Finally, she put the pin in and sealed the shoebox. She rose to her feet, her legs tingling with numbness.

"It was nice to meet you. " Heat rose to her cheeks. She sounded foolish to herself, talking to a dead man. Nevertheless, she ran her fingers through her hair and said, "I'll figure out what happened to you and Hazel. I promise it."

***

Ancesty.com left Rose disappointed. She stared at the green, leaf emblem in the top, left-hand corner. Biting her thumbnail, she closed her eyes. She shut her laptop closed and leaned into her pillow. Hank had little more to his name than a grave. She wanted to find his children, yet she couldn't find their names no matter how hard she looked.

As she wallowed in her confusion, her phone buzzed on her nightstand. She gnawed on her lip as Scout's name danced across the screen. Rose let it ring three times before she answered.