by Janette Oke
Ma stopped for a moment, then took a deep breath and went on. “Thet evenin’ we lost her, an’ Clark—” She stopped again.
Ma brushed away a tear and stood up. “But thet be in the past, child, an’ no use goin’ over it all agin. Anyway, ya be there now to care fer Missie, an’ thet’s what Clark be a needin’. Was awful hard fer him to do all his fall work while totin’ thet little one round on his back. I said I’d keep her on here, but I reckon Clark wanted her to know thet she be his an’ somethin’ special, not jest one of a brood. Besides, he never did want to be beholden to anybody. There was a childless couple in town who would have gladly took her, but Clark would have none of it. Said she needed her pa right then; that’s what Clark said. Anyway, Clark’s prayers seem to be gittin’ answered, and Missie has you now an’ a right good mama ya be a makin’, too—sewin’ thet sweet little dress an’ all.”
She patted Marty’s arm. “Yer doin’ jest fine, Marty. Jest fine.”
Through the whole speech of Ma’s, Marty had sat silent but listening with her heart as well as ears. The hearing of Clark’s sorrow had opened afresh the pain of her own. She wanted to weep, but she sat dry eyed, feeling anew the sorrow of it all. It indeed had been a shock for her to hear that Clem was dead, but she hadn’t had to sit by him for hours watching him suffer, not able to lift a hand to relieve him. She decided she probably’d had a mite easier suffering of the two.
Oh, Clem, her heart whispered. Clem, I’m glad thet ya didn’t have to bear pain like thet.
She roused herself as Ma scrambled up, exclaiming that time had just flown and the menfolk would be looking for coffee.
FOURTEEN
Missie
The next morning at breakfast Clark informed Marty that the coming Thursday Missie would have her second birthday. Marty immediately felt concerned. She wasn’t sure how Ellen would have celebrated the event. She didn’t want to let Clark down, but how was she to know what the family chose to do about birthdays? She silently weighed the matter for the rest of the meal.
Clark must have sensed her mood because he finally inquired, “Somethin’ be a troublin’ ya?”
“No,” Marty lied and remained silent for a few more minutes, then decided that would never do. If they had to share the same house, they’d just have to be frank and honest with each other, so she blurted out, “It’s jest thet I don’t know what ya would want planned fer Missie’s birthday. Do ya have company? Have a party? Do somethin’ different?” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I see,” Clark said, and she felt he really did understand. He got up and refilled their coffee cups.
Dad-blame, Marty scolded herself, I missed thet second cup agin with my deep thinkin’.
Clark didn’t appear to be bothered by it. He sat back down and creamed his coffee, pushing his plate back and pulling his cup forward as though preparing for a lengthy stay.
By this time little Missie was getting restless and wanting down from her chair. Clark lifted her down and she ran to find her new book.
“Funny thing,” Clark continued then, “but I don’t rightly remember any fixed thing thet we be a doin’ fer a birthday. Seems in lookin’ back thet they were all a mite different somehow. Missie, now, she only had one afore, an’ she was a bit young then to pay it much mind.” He hesitated. “I think, though, thet it would be nice to be a havin’ a cake fer her. I got a doodad in town last Saturday while I was there. I hope it pleases her. Jest a silly little thing, really, but it looks like it would tickle a little’un. I don’t think thet we be needin’ company’s help in celebratin’. She’ll enjoy it as much on her own with jest”—he paused slightly and finished quickly—“jest us.”
Marty was relieved. That kind of a birthday celebration she felt she could manage. She sat quietly for a moment and finally raised her eyes to Clark’s and said, “I been thinkin’. Seems thet I don’t know much ’bout Missie, an’ seems as though I should be a knowin’ a sight more iffen I be goin’ to raise her an’ all. Ya know how young’uns be. They like to hear their folks tell of when they did this an’ when they said thet, an’ how cute an’ clever they was, an’ quick in their ways an’ all. Someday soon Missie’s goin’ to be wantin’ to hear sech things, an’ I should be able to tell her. The only thing I really know ’bout her is her name.”
Clark surprised her by laughing quietly. It was the first time she had heard him laugh. She liked it, but she couldn’t figure out the reason for it. He soon explained.
“I be thinkin’ thet ya don’t really know even thet,” he said with another chuckle. “Her real name be Melissa—Melissa Ann Davis.”
“Thet’s a pretty name,” Marty said. “I don’t be goin’ by my real name, either. My real name be Martha, but I don’t much like it. All my family an’ friends called me Marty, ’cept my ma when she was upset. Then it was Martha, real loud like. Martha Lucinda—” She had nearly finished it with Claridge but caught herself in time. “But tell me ’bout Missie.”
“Well, Missie be born on November third, two years ago, ’bout four o’clock in the mornin’.”
Clark’s face became very thoughtful as he reflected back. Marty remembered Ma telling of the great excitement that Missie’s appearance had brought.
“She weren’t much of a bundle,” Clark went on. “Seemed to me she was rather red an’ wrinkled an’ had a good head of dark hair. She seemed to grow fast an’ change a lot right from the start, an’ afore ya knowed it she was a cooin’ an’ smilin’. By Christmastime she was most givin’ the orders round here, it seemed. She was a good baby as babies go an’ slept through the night by the time she was three months old. I thought I’d picked me a real winner. Then at five months she started to cut her teeth. She turned from a sweet, contented, smilin’ darlin’ into a real bearcat. Lucky fer us, it didn’t last fer too long, though at the time it seemed forever. Anyway, she made it through. So did we, an’ things quieted down agin.
“When she had her first birthday, she could already say some words. Seemed right bright for a little tyke, an’ al’ays, from as far back as I can remember, she loved pretty things. Guess thet’s why she took so to the little whatever it be thet ya sewed fer her.
“Started walkin’ ’fore her first birthday an’ was soon climbin’ to match it. Boy, how she did git around! One day I found her on the corral fence, top rail, when she be jest a wee’un. Got up there an’ couldn’t git down. Hangin’ on fer dear life, she was.
“She was gettin’ to be a right good companion, too. A lot of company she was. Chattered all the time, an’ more an’ more there was gettin’ to be some sense to it.
“One day she came in with a flower. Thrilled to pieces with it, she was. Picked it right off the rosebush. The thorns had pricked her tiny fingers an’ they was a bleedin’. But she never paid them no mind at all, so determined she be to take the ‘pretty’ to her mama. Thet flower is pressed in her mama’s Bible.”
Clark stopped and sat looking at his coffee cup. Marty saw him swallow and his lips move as though he meant to go on, but no sound came.
“Ya don’t need to tell me any more,” she said quietly. “I know enough from this to be able to tell young Missie some-thin’ ’bout her young days.”
She searched for something further to say and found that anything she could bring to mind seemed inadequate, but she stumbled on. “I know how painful it be—to remember, an’ anyway when the day comes thet young Missie need hear the story of her mama—an’ she should hear it, to be sure—but when thet day comes, it’s her pa thet she should be hearin’ it from.”
Marty rose from the table then so that Clark need not worry about saying more. Slowly he finished his coffee, and she set to getting her water ready to wash the dishes.
The day was quite cool, but Clark announced that he planned to see how much sod he could get turned on the land he was claiming for spring planting. Marty hoped the weather would hold, not just so that he could finish the plowing but also so that he would continue
to be busy away from the house. She was getting more used to him, but she still felt awkward and at loose ends if he was in the house very long.
Sometimes the days went too slowly for Marty, but she was relieved when she could always find work with which to fill them. What with washing, cleaning, bread baking, and meal getting, she had to look for time in which to do Missie’s sewing. Little garments did take shape under her capable hands, however, and Missie exclaimed in delight over each one of them.
Marty had a secret project in the works, as well. Missie’s birthday had sent her mind scrambling over what she might be able to do for the little girl. She didn’t have a cent to her name, even if she could have found a way to spend it. She then thought of the beautifully colored wool Clark had brought and the brand-new knitting needles. Each night she retired to her room as soon as her day’s tasks were taken care of, and with Missie sleeping soundly in her crib, the knitting needles clicked hurriedly. She must work quickly to be done in time. When she finally crawled into bed each night, she was too tired to even lie for very long and ache for Clem. She thought of him, and her last wish of the night was that he could have been by her side, cuddling close in the big double bed. But even though her thoughts turned to him, her tired body demanded sleep, and she mostly felt too weary to even cry.
Thursday dawned cold and windy. Clark was still determined to carry on with his plowing. Marty hoped he would not take a chill by so doing. He paid no mind to her worries and went anyway. She wondered secretly if he wished to be away from the house as much as she wanted that.
After dinner was over and Missie had been put down for her nap, Marty went to work on the birthday cake. She felt much more confident now, having practiced with Ma’s recipes. Carefully she watched her fire on this day. It would not do to have it too hot, nor to let it die out as she so often did.
She sighed with relief when she lifted Missie’s cake from the oven. It appeared to be all that she had hoped for.
The wind was colder now and Marty found herself fussing about Clark. What in the world would she ever do if he took sick and needed nursing? Dad-burn man! He shouldn’t be taking such chances, she scolded mentally. She’d keep the coffeepot on so whenever he decided to come in she’d have a hot cup waiting. She’d do almost anything, she figured, to keep him on his feet and walking. Why, if he went down sick, she wouldn’t know where to start on the chores. She’d never even set foot in the barn, she realized. Some womenfolk had to do the milking all of the time, and for that matter, some did the slopping of the hogs, too. Clark hadn’t even turned the feeding of the chickens over to her. Maybe he had expected it and she just hadn’t done so. She had been so mixed up and confused when she came to this place that she hadn’t given it a thought. Well, she’d ask. Maybe tomorrow at breakfast if the time seemed right. She was willing to do her rightful share.
She heard the team coming and cast a glance out the window.
“He be lookin’ cold, all right,” she murmured as she pushed the coffeepot forward on the stove.
When Clark came in, he stood for a few moments holding his big hands over the kitchen stove.
Marty poured his cup of coffee and went for some cream. She decided to also bring some muffins and honey in case he wanted a bite to go with the hot drink.
He watched her from the stove and said nothing until she had set it by his place at the table.
“Won’t ya be a joinin’ me?” he asked, then, “I hate to be a drinkin’ coffee all alone.”
Marty looked up in surprise but answered evenly, “Ya be the one thet be needin’ it. Ya be chillin’ yerself fer sure workin’ out in thet wretched wind an’ all. Lucky ya be iffen ya don’t be a puttin’ yerself down over it. Come, ya’d better be drinkin’ this while it be hot.”
It was a mild scolding, but something in it seemed to tickle Clark. He smiled to himself as he crossed to the table. She could hear his good-natured complaining. “Women—honestly, one would think a man was made o’ sugar frostin’ the way they can carry on.” He looked at her directly and said, “I may be the one a needin’ it, but I doubt thet a few minutes at the table an’ off yer feet be a hurtin’ ya much, either. You’re doin’ too much, I be a thinkin’.” But his tone was kind.
“No,” Marty said solemnly. “No, I don’t do too much. I jest find thet workin’ sure beats moanin’, thet’s all. But as ya say, a cup of coffee might be right good. I do declare, hearin’ thet wind howl makes my blood chill, even though it be warm in here.”
She poured herself a cup of coffee and joined him at the table.
After their coffee, Clark said he had come home early from the plowing because he thought a storm might be on the way and he wanted to have the rest of the garden things in the root cellar before it struck. So saying, he left the house.
Marty turned to Missie’s now-cooled cake. She wanted it to look special for the little girl, so she used all her ingenuity and ingredients available for that purpose. When she was finally done, she looked at it critically. It wasn’t great, she decided, but it would have to do. She placed it in the cupboard behind closed doors to await the proper moment. She set to work on plans for a little something extra for supper. Missie’s call from the bedroom interrupted her, and she went in for the little girl.
“Hi there, Missie. Come to Mama,” she said.
She had said the words before and hadn’t liked them, so she had not referred to herself as such since. But as she spoke them now, they didn’t seem nearly so out of place.
She lifted the wee one from the bed, noticing as she did so that her own little one was demanding more room. She was glad she had put plenty of fullness in the new dresses she had made.
Missie ran to get her shoes, and Marty carried child and shoes to the kitchen, where she put them on. Already it was chilly in the bedroom. She did not look forward to the cold winter ahead. How glad she was not to be in the covered wagon. The very thought made her shiver.
She gave Missie a mug of milk and half a muffin and went back to preparing the evening meal.
Clark finished up the work in the garden and did the evening chores a bit earlier than usual. Marty sensed an excitement he had not shown before. She knew he must have dreaded the arrival of his little girl’s birthday without Ellen there to share it, but she also knew he wanted to make the most of it for Missie’s sake.
After they had finished their supper, Marty went to the cupboard for the cake. Missie’s eyes opened wide in wonder, but she did not understand its meaning.
“Pwetty, pwetty!” she cried over and over.
“It’s Missie’s birthday cake,” Clark explained. “Missie’s havin’ a birthday. Missie was one,” he indicated with one upright finger, “now Missie be two.” Another finger joined the first.
“See, Missie,” her pa continued the explanation, “you’re two years old. Here, let me help ya.”
He took the small hand in his big one and helped Missie hold upright two fingers.
“See, Missie, ya be two years old.”
“Two—old,” Missie repeated.
“Thet’s right,” said Clark, sounding well pleased. “Two years old, an’ now we’ll have some of Missie’s birthday cake.”
Marty cut the cake and was surprised at how good it was. As she took a bite she thought of her first effort with the biscuits. Now, thankfully, with practice and Ma’s recipes, she could turn out things that she need not be ashamed of. Three weeks had made quite a difference. And Clark asked for and received a second piece of cake.
When they had finished, Marty was about to wash the supper dishes, but Clark suggested they first see what Missie thought of the gift he had purchased.
Clark went out to the shed and returned with a small box; then lifting Missie out of her chair, he presented it to her.
“Fer Missie’s birthday,” Clark said.
Missie turned and looked at the cake, as though wondering if she was to put “the birthday” in that small box.
“Look, Missie,”
Clark told her, “look here in the box. This is fer Missie on her birthday.”
He helped the child lift the top lid, and Missie stared in wonder at the item in the box. Clark lifted it out, wound it firmly, and placed it on the floor. When he released it, it began to spin, whirling out in many colors of red, blue, yellow, violet—too many to name.
Missie clasped her hands together excitedly, too awestruck to say anything.
When it stopped whirling she pushed it toward Clark, saying, “Do it ’gin.”
Marty watched for some time before she turned to the dishes, and then suddenly she remembered her own gift. It certainly wasn’t anything as delightful for a little girl as Clark’s, she thought as she carried it from the bedroom. Maybe Missie wouldn’t care for it at all. Well, she’d done what she could with what she had.
“Missie,” she announced as she entered the kitchen, “I have somethin’ fer ya, too,” and she held out her gift.
“Well, I be,” Clark muttered in astonished tones. “Missie, jest look what yer mama done made ya.”
Marty knelt in front of the child and carefully fitted ’round her shoulders the small shawl over which she had labored. It was done in a soft blue, with pink rosebuds embroidered on it. Tassels lined the edge, and they seemed to especially intrigue the little girl, whose hands kept stroking them.
“Oh,” said Missie. “Oh, Mama.”
It was the first time she had used the term, and Marty found herself swallowing a lump in her throat. She tried to hide her feelings by adjusting the shawl to hang right.
Suddenly she was aware that Clark was looking at her, and there was a puzzled look on his face. Marty glanced down self-consciously and in so doing saw with horror the reason for the look. In kneeling before the child she had knelt on her skirt, pinning it down firmly so its tightness outlined her growing body. Flushing, she scrambled to her feet.