by Janette Oke
Marty crossed to the nearest wall and poked a finger at the chinking. It didn’t just look muddy. It was muddy—muddy and funny. Marty wrinkled her nose. What had she done? The water, of course! It wasn’t the logs that had drunk up the water; it was the chinking! It had slurped up the scrub water thirstily and was now gooey and limp. She hoped with all of her heart that it would dry quickly before Clark got home. She looked at the clock. It wouldn’t be long, either. She’d better get cracking if supper was to be more than pancakes.
She had noticed that the bread was as good as gone. Then what would she do? She had never baked bread before, nor even watched her mother do it that she could remember. She hadn’t the slightest idea how to start. Well, she’d make biscuits. She didn’t know how to bake them, either, but surely it couldn’t be too hard. She washed her hands and went to the cupboard. She felt that it was more “her” cupboard now that she had put everything where she wanted it.
She found the flour and salt. Did you put eggs in biscuits? She wasn’t sure, but she’d add a couple just in case. She added milk and stirred the mixture. Would that do it? Well, she’d give it a try.
She sliced some potatoes for frying and got out some ham. She supposed that she should have a vegetable, too, so she went to work on some carrots. As she peeled them she heard Ole Bob welcome home the approaching team. Clark would care for the horses and then do the chores. He’d be in for supper in about forty minutes, she guessed, so she left the carrots and went to put the biscuits in the oven. They handled easily enough, and she pictured an appreciative look in Clark’s eyes as he reached for another one.
She went back to her potatoes in the frying pan, stirring them carefully so they wouldn’t burn.
“Oh, the coffee!” she suddenly cried and hurried to get the coffeepot on to boil. After all, she could make good coffee!
She sliced some ham and placed it in the other frying pan, savoring the aroma as it began to cook. She smelled the biscuits and could barely refrain from opening the oven door to peek at them. She was sure they’d need a few minutes more. She stirred the potatoes again and looked anxiously at the muddy chinking between the logs. It wasn’t drying very fast. Well, she wouldn’t mention it and maybe Clark wouldn’t notice it. By morning it would be its old white self again.
The ham needed turning and the potatoes were done. She pulled them toward the back of the stove and put more wood in the firebox. Then she remembered the carrots. Oh dear, they were still in the peeling pan, only half ready. Hurriedly she went to work on them, nicking a finger in her haste. Finally she had the pot of carrots on the stove, on what she hoped was the hottest spot to hurry them up.
The potatoes were certainly done, rather mushy looking from being overcooked and overstirred, and now they sat near the back of the stove looking worse every minute. The biscuits! Marty grabbed fiercely at the oven door, fearing that the added minutes may have ruined her efforts, but the minutes had not ruined them at all. Nothing could have done any harm to those hard-looking lumps that sat stubbornly on the pan looking like so many rocks.
Marty pulled them out and dumped one on the cupboard to cool slightly before she made the grim test. She slowly closed her teeth upon it—to no avail; the biscuit refused to give. She clamped down harder; still no give.
“Dad-burn,” murmured Marty, and opening the stove, she threw the offensive thing in. The flames around it hissed slightly, like a cat with its back up, but the hard lump refused to disappear. It just sat and blackened as the flame licked around it.
“Dad-blame thing. Won’t even burn,” she stormed and crammed a stick of wood on top of it to cover up the telltale lump.
“Now, what do I do with these?”
Marty looked around. How could she get rid of the lumpy things? She couldn’t burn them. She couldn’t throw them out to the dog to be exposed to all eyes. She’d bury them. The rotten things. She hurriedly scooped them into her apron and started for the door.
“Missie, ya stay put,” she called. Then remembering her previous experience, she turned and pulled the coffeepot to the back of the stove.
Out the door she went, first looking toward the barn to make sure that her path was clear. Then she quickly ran to the far end of the garden. The soil was still soft, and she fell on her knees and hurriedly dug a hole with her hands and dumped in the disgusting lumps. She covered them quickly and sprinted back to the house. When she reached the yard, she could smell burning ham.
“Oh no!” she cried. “What a mess!”
She washed her hands quickly at the outside basin, and the tears washed her cheeks as she raced for the tiny kitchen, where everything seemed to be going wrong.
When Clark came in for supper, he was served lukewarm mushy potatoes and slightly burned slices of ham along with the few slices of bread that remained. There was no mention of the carrots, which had just begun to boil, and of course no mention of the sad lumps called biscuits. Clark said nothing as he ate. Nothing, that is, except, “That’s right good coffee.”
SEVEN
A Welcome Visitor
Friday dawned clear and bright again, though the air did not regain the warmth of the first part of the week. Marty lay in bed remembering their supper the night before. She had carefully avoided any comment on the muddy chinking, but one small chunk in the corner had suddenly given way. It lost its footing between the logs, falling to the floor and leaving a bit of a smear on the way down. Clark had looked up in surprise but then had gone on eating. Marty prayed, or would have prayed had she known how, that the rest of it would stay where it dad-burn belonged. It did, and she thankfully cleared the table and washed the dishes.
Lamplight was needed in the evenings, as the days were short. The men worked in the fields as late as they could before turning to chores, so it was full dark before supper was over. Marty was glad when darkness had fallen that night. The lamplight cast shadows, obscuring the grayish chinking. As she washed Missie up before bed, she thought she heard another small piece give way, but she refused to acknowledge it, raising her voice to talk to Missie and try to cover the dismaying sound.
That had been last night, and now as Marty tried to prepare herself to face another day, she wondered what new and dreadful things it held for her. One thing she had already confronted. The bread crock was empty, and she had no idea of how to go about restocking it. She supposed Clark knew how to bake bread, but she’d die before she’d ask him. And what about the chinking? Had the miserable stuff finally dried to white and become what it was supposed to be? She dreaded the thought of going to look, but lying there wasn’t going to solve any problems.
She struggled up from her bed. Her muscles still ached from her strenuous efforts of the day before. She’d feel it for a few days, she was sure. Besides, she hadn’t slept well. Her thoughts had again been on Clem and how much she missed him. Now she dressed without caring, ran a comb through her hair, and went to the kitchen.
The first thing she noticed was the chinking. Here and there all around the walls, small pieces lay crumbled on the floor. Marty felt like crying, but little good that would do. She’d have to face Clark with it, confess what she had done, and accept her well-deserved rebuke for it.
She stuffed a couple of sticks into the fire and put on the coffee. Suddenly she wondered just how many pots of coffee she would have to make in her future. At the moment those pots seemed to stretch into infinity.
She found a kettle and put on some water to boil. This morning they’d have porridge for breakfast. But porridge and what? she wondered crossly. What did you have with porridge if you had no biscuits, no muffins, no bread, “no nuthin’,” Marty fretted out loud. Pulling the pot off the stove in disgust, she went to work again making pancakes.
Missie awakened and Marty went in to pick her up. The child smiled and Marty found herself returning it.
“Mornin’, Missie. Come to Mama,” she said, trying the words with effort to see how they’d sound. She didn’t really like them, she decide
d, and wished she hadn’t even used them.
Missie came gladly and chattered as she was being dressed. Marty could understand more of the baby words now. She was saying something about Pa, and the cows that went moo, and the chickens that went cluck, and pigs—Marty couldn’t catch the funny sound that represented the pigs, but she smiled at the child as she carried her to her chair.
Clark came in to a now-familiar breakfast and greeted his daughter, who squealed a happy greeting in return.
After the reading of the Bible passage, they bowed their heads for Clark’s prayer. He thanked his Father for the night’s rest and the promise of “a fair day for the layin’ in of the rest of Jedd’s harvest.”
Marty was surprised at the next part of the prayer.
“Father, be with the one who works so hard to be a proper mama for Missie an’ a proper keeper of this home.”
The prayer continued, but Marty missed it. Everything she had done thus far had been a failure. No wonder Clark felt it would take help from the Almighty himself to set things in order again. She didn’t know if she should feel pleased or angry at such a prayer, so she forcefully shoved aside the whole thing just in time for the “amen.”
“Amen,” echoed Missie, and breakfast began.
At first they ate rather silently, only Clark and Missie exchanging some comments and Clark scolding Missie.
“Don’t ya be a throwin’ pancake on the floor. Thet’s a naughty girl an’ makes more work fer yer mama.”
Marty caught a few other references to “yer mama,” as well, and realized that Clark had been using the words often in the past two days. She knew he was making a conscious effort at educating the little girl to regard her as mama. She supposed she’d have to get used to it. After all, that’s what she was here for—certainly not to amuse the serious-looking young man across the table from her.
Another piece of chinking clattered down, and Marty took a deep breath and burst forth with, “I’m afeared I made a dreadful mistake yesterday. I took to cleanin’ the kitchen—”
“I’d seen me it was all fresh and clean lookin’ an’ smellin’,” Clark said quickly.
Now, why’d he do that? she stormed inwardly. She took another gulp of air and went on, “But I didn’t know what scrub water would be doin’ to the chinkin’. I mean, I didn’t know thet it would all soak up like an’ then not dry right agin.”
Clark said nothing.
She tried once more. “Well, it’s fallin’ apart like. I mean—well, look at it. It’s crumblin’ up an’ fallin’ out—” “Yeah,” said Clark with a short nod, not even lifting his eyes.
“Well, it’s not stayin’ in place,” Marty floundered. “Whatever can we do?”
She was almost angry by now. His calmness unnerved her.
He looked up then and answered slowly. “Well, when I go to town on Saturday, I’ll pick me up some more chinkin’. It’s a special kind like. Made to look whiter an’ cleaner, but no good at all fer holdin’ out the weather—the outside chinkin’ has to do thet job. There still be time to redo it ’fore winter sets in. Water don’t hurt the outer layer none, so it’s holdin’ firm like. Don’t ya worry yerself none ’bout it. I’m sure thet the bats won’t be a flyin’ through the cracks afore I git to ’em.”
He almost smiled and she could have gleefully kicked him. He rose to go.
“I reckon ya been pushin’ yerself pretty hard, though, an’ it might be well if you’d not try to lick the whole place in a week like. There’s more days ahead, an’ ya be lookin’ kinda tired.” He hesitated. “Iffen ya should decide to do more cleanin’, jest brush down the walls with a dry brush. All right?”
He kissed Missie good-bye after telling her to be a good girl for her mama and went out the door for what he said might be the last day of helping Jedd Larson with his crop. Marty supposed he’d be around the place more then. She dreaded the thought, but it was bound to come sooner or later.
She put water on to heat so she could wash up the rag rugs before winter set in and then found a soft brush to dust the sitting room walls.
It didn’t take nearly as long to brush them as it had to scrub the kitchen, and it did take care of the cobwebs and dust. She was surprised to be done so quickly and went on to the windows and floor, as well.
The sitting room curtains were still fluttering in the fall breeze and the rugs drying in the sun when she heard the dog announce a team approaching. Looking out of the window, she recognized Mrs. Graham, and her heart gave a glad flutter as she went out to welcome her. They exchanged greetings, and Ma Graham put her team in the shade and gave them some hay to keep them content with the wait. Then she followed Marty to the house.
The dog lay on one side of the path now, chewing hard on a small, bonelike object. Marty saw with dismay that it was one of her biscuits. The dad-blame dog had dug it up. With a flush to her cheeks, she hurried Mrs. Graham on by, hoping the older woman would fail to recognize the lump for what it really was.
As they entered the kitchen, Marty was overcome with shyness. She had never welcomed another woman into her kitchen. She knew not what to do or say, and she certainly had little to offer this visitor in the way of refreshment.
Marty noticed that Ma Graham kept her eyes discreetly away from the crumbled chinking and remarked instead about the well-scrubbed floor.
Marty bustled about self-consciously, stuffing wood in the stove and putting on the coffee. Ma talked easily of weather, of delightful little Missie, whom her girls loved to care for, and the good harvest. Still Marty felt ill at ease. She was thankful when the coffee had boiled and she was able to pour them each a cup. She placed Missie in her chair with a glass of milk and put on the cream and sweetening for Ma in case she used it. With a sinking heart, she realized she didn’t have a thing to serve with the coffee—not so much as a crust of bread. Well, the coffee was all she had, so the coffee would have to do.
“I see ya been busy as a bee, fall cleanin’,” Ma observed.
“Yeah,” responded Marty.
“Nice to have things all cleaned up fer the long days an’ nights ahead when a body can’t be out much. Them’s quiltin’ an’ knittin’ days.”
Yeah, that’s how she felt.
“Do ya have plenty of rugs fer comfort?”
She was sure they did.
“What ’bout quilts? Ya be needin’ any of those?”
No, she didn’t think so.
They slowly sipped their coffee. Then Ma’s warm brown eyes turned upon her.
“How air things goin’, Marty?”
It wasn’t the words, it was the look that did it. The expression in Ma’s eyes said that she truly cared how things were going, and Marty’s firm resolve to hold up bravely went crumbling just like the chinking. Words tumbled over words as she poured out to Ma all about the pancakes, Missie’s stubborn outburst, the bread crock being empty, the horrid biscuits, Missie’s disappearance, the chinking, the terrible supper she had served the night before, and, finally, her deep longing for the husband whom she had lost so recently. Ma sat silently, her eyes filling with tears. Then suddenly she rose, and Marty was fearful that she had offended the older woman by her outburst.
“Come, my dear,” Ma said gently, her tone putting any fear of offense to rest. “You air gonna have ya a lesson in bread-makin’. Then I’ll sit me down an’ write ya out every recipe thet I can think of. It’s a shame what ya’ve been a goin’ through the past few days, bein’ as young as ya are an’ still sorrowin’ an’ all, an’ if I don’t miss my guess”—her kind eyes traveling over Marty’s figure—“ya be in the family way, too, ain’t ya, child?”
Marty nodded silently, swallowing her tears, and Ma took over, working and talking and finally managing to make Marty feel more worthwhile than she had felt since she had lost her Clem.
After a busy day, Ma departed. She left behind her a sheaf of recipes with full instructions, fresh-baked bread that filled the kitchen with its aroma, a basketful of her own goodie
s, and a much more confident Marty with supper well in hand.
Marty breathed a short prayer that if there truly was a God up there somewhere, He’d see fit to send a special blessing upon this wonderful woman whom she had so quickly learned to love.
EIGHT
It’s a Cruel World
Saturday dawned clear and cooler. The breakfast of porridge and corn muffins was hurried so Clark might get an early start to town. Marty presented him with the list that Ma Graham had helped her prepare the day before.
“Mind ya,” Ma had told her, “in the winter months it be sometimes three or four weeks between the trips we be a takin’ to town because of winter storms, an’ ya never know ahead which Saturdays ya be missin’, so ya al’ays has to be stocked up like.”
So the list had turned out to be a lengthy one, and Marty inwardly was concerned, but Clark did not seem surprised as he skimmed quickly through it. He nodded his agreement with the list, then bent to kiss Missie good-bye, promising her a surprise when he returned.
Marty sighed in relief at another day without him about and turned her thoughts to planning what she would do with it. Clark had cautioned her to take things a bit easier, and Ma Graham said she feared that Marty was “overdoin’ for a woman in her state,” but Marty knew she must have something demanding to fill her hours or the sense of her terrible loss would overwhelm her. She looked around to see what to tackle on this day. She’d finish her cleaning, she decided. First she’d put water on to heat so she could wash the bedding. Then she’d do the window, walls, and floor in the bedroom, and if time still allowed, she’d do the shed. She did not even consider cleaning the lean-to. That’s Clark’s private quarters, she told herself, and she would not intrude.
Setting Missie up with her little rag doll and a small handmade quilt to wrap it in, Marty began her tasks, forcing her mind to concentrate on what she was doing. A nagging fear raised its head occasionally. If she finished all the hard cleaning today, what would she do tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that? Marty pushed the thought aside. The tomorrows would have to care for themselves. She couldn’t face too far into the future right now. She was sure if she let her mind focus on the weeks and months ahead of her in this tiny cabin with a husband she had not chosen and a child who was not hers, she’d break under the weight of it all.