Sixty-two year old Emmaline O'Connor Weldon sat in her rocking chair holding a handkerchief damp from her tears. She was waiting for the doctor's verdict on her husband's illness. The date was April 17, 1928, and her Tom had been retired from the railroad less than a year. Dr. Sam Cory closed the bedroom door and walked across the sitting room to where Emma sat passively, now holding the handkerchief against her mouth with one hand and squeezing the arm of the chair with the other. His face and sad eyes gave him away. She stood up quickly, her ashen face showed she was obviously expecting the worst.

He said softly, "I'm sorry, Emma, he's gone."

Her eyes instantly filled to the brim with tears. She tried to maintain her composure, but a wave of grief swept over her and she appeared a little unsteady on her feet. The doctor took her arm and helped her sit.

"What am I going to do, Sam?" she pleaded softy, looking up at her old friend and family physician, with tears now running down her face. "He has always been there. I don't know how to do anything without him."

He took her hand between his and smiled weakly at the small, gray haired lady and said, "We'll work on that later. Right now we have a job to do. I'll take care of things here. You call your sister-in-law and tell her to come over to keep you company. Don't worry about the arrangements. I'll take care of everything."

Five months went by and Emma grieved. It is now September 18, 1928. The time had passed slowly and painfully for her. It was her sixty-third birthday and she was home alone with no one to help her celebrate. She shrugged as she said to the cat, "It's just as well, kitty, I'm in a bad mood today and anybody around me would be affected." The weather was gloomy. This was the first birthday she had celebrated alone in her life. Before her marriage there had always been the family, then after her marriage there was Tom. He never missed remembering and always made an event out of it. She knew it was because they had no children, so he used that to help fill the void.

She sat in the parlor with the cat on her lap, rocking hack and forth in Tom's favorite chair, looking around at the comfortable room. It was filled with the memorabilia of many years. Hanging on the wall were ancient photos of her mother and father. On another wall were the pictures of Tom's family. They were all long dead and the only reminder besides the pictures was some of the antique furniture in the room. Her mother's writing desk was in one corner, still with some of her monogrammed stationery in one of the small cubby holes that were revealed when the writing board was lowered. The tall bookcase came from the home of Tom's parents. He and his brother had divided up the furniture upon the last parent's death. He allowed Emma to take what she wanted and all she took was the bookcase. Tom told her years later that he was disappointed that she passed up some of the other objects that had contributed to his happy childhood. She had cried at the time and he spent days making it up to her. Tom was like that, he would never knowingly hurt anyone.

The old house was filled with memories of the nights when they sat by the fireplace, she knitting and he reading. Nothing was said for long periods, but the presence of one to the other was all that was necessary. Their love for each other filled the room like a rich perfume. They were supremely happy, except for the lack of children that they both wanted so desperately.

She was proud of her home on the north side of town. It sat on a corner lot with a garage in the back. The second story, mansard roof made the house look larger than it actually was. Their bedroom, along with the living room, a small parlor, the sitting room where she now sat and the kitchen and dining room and bath made up the first floor. The stairway to the second floor started in a central hallway separating the rooms of the first floor. The small sleeping rooms on the second floor were reserved for the children they had hoped to have some day. She furnished the rooms and treated them accordingly, one room for each of the two boys. They had sat silent and forlorn for many years. Tom seldom went to the second floor. He knew that she was grieving because of the lack of children to occupy the bedrooms, and allowed her to have that part of the house to herself for her fantasies. He didn't see any harm in it.

She was particular about the lawn and flowers. The yard had been Tom's pride and joy where he spent many happy hours, tending, planting and working. She wanted to keep it nice as a memorial to him.

On a table at her elbow was the picture of her Tom. They had been married thirty-eight years when he died. In her mind, she could not let him go. She honestly believed that he would return some day, and everything had to be ready. His death had been fast and painful. A stomach problem was the first diagnosis by Dr. Sam Cory. Tom was never quite sure, but accepted his old friend's diagnosis and let it go at that. Emma didn't need to know more. It would only add to the pain.

Tom had laughed at the illness. "Nothing that won't pass in a few days. Just a little upset stomach," he had said over and over.

It hadn't worked out that way. The pain got progressively worse each day. Dr. Sam did all that he could, but nothing helped. Tom died three weeks later.

Emma nodded her head and pursed her lips as she thought about their life together. They had never made a single trip after he retired as a passenger train engineer. For thirty-eight years they had planned for the day when he would retire from the railroad, and they would ride in the elegant Pullman coaches instead of him riding in the cab of the big steam engine.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift back to the many cold winter nights over the years when they would go to bed determined to try to have children. How afterwards she would lie there and pray that this one would take. That this would be the one to begin the process of bringing her first son into the world. She would worry about the second one later, because she was convinced there would be two. There was never any doubt in her mind. During all those years, Emma never gave one minute's consideration to the fact that, if she got pregnant, it might be a girl. It had to be a boy. But, regardless of how hard they tried, it never happened. After a few years, sex lost its enchantment for pleasure and became a mechanical device to satisfy a human demand.

She remembered how Tom would lie there breathing hard, talking himself to sleep by explaining some activity from his work. He would explain his life as a young engineer. How it felt to hold the throttle of the huge steam engine and feel it come to life at his slightest movement. How it would jerk the long line of cars into motion and strain to get it up to speed. She would always listen politely as his words would fade off into a gentle snore, as if the great engine had gotten up to speed and was traveling at full power.

She would smile to herself and snuggle closer to her man. Shortly, she would drift off to sleep also, with him holding her in his strong arms. She wouldn't consider getting up and washing his sperm down the drain. It had to stay there to mate with her egg. This was the night of her conception, and soon a son would be born to fill the terrible void she felt while Tom was away on his run.

A few years before he retired, she had written for information on all of the grand places they were planning to visit on their vacations: the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Hollywood, New York and others. She fantasized how great it would be to take her two boys along. She would even talk aloud to them at times while Tom was at work. She would scold them for not picking up a towel that had dropped to the floor or buttoning up their clothing wrong. She would actually call them, telling them to get ready for school. She had invented names for them. The first boy would be Tom Junior. They would call him Junior. The younger one would be named Jonathan, after her father. She would call him Johnny. As the baby of the family, he would get special attention.

She would call out in a loud, clear voice, "Junior! you quit picking on your brother. You get up now and come to breakfast, you must get ready for school." She would listen for a moment. The silence was deafening and she would snap back to reality, scolding herself for allowing her mind to play tricks.

She sighed when she thought of it now, because it was too late. It had been too late for twenty years. It was never to be. All of her dreams of having her boys had gone up in smoke with menopause and the passage of time. That was the only regret she ever had for marrying Tom. He was sterile.----

Ed Note:   He did it again.  This complex story starts off sweet and gentle, but look out.  A must read for mystery lovers.