by Janette Oke
Marty swallowed back a sob. He was giving her this beautiful machine. She had always dreamed of having a machine of her own, but never had she dared to hope for one so grand. She didn’t know what to say, yet she felt she must say something.
“Thank ya,” she finally was able to murmur. “Thank ya. Thet . . . thet’ll be fine, jest fine.”
Only then did she realize that this tall man before her was fighting for control. His lips trembled and as he turned away, she was sure she saw tears in his eyes. Marty brushed by him and went out into the coolness of the night. She had to think, to sort things out. He had ordered the machine for his Ellen, and he was weeping. He must be suffering, too, she thought, stunned by the realization. The weary sag of his shoulders, the quivering lips, the tear-filled eyes. He . . . he must understand something of how I’m feeling. Somehow she had never thought of him as carrying such deep sorrow. Hot tears washed down Marty’s cheeks.
Oh, Clem, her heart cried. Why do sech things, sech cruel things, happen to people? Why? Why?
But Marty knew there was no easy answer. This was the first time Clark had mentioned his wife. Marty hadn’t even known her name. Indeed, she had been so wrapped up in her own grief she had not even wondered much about the woman who had been Clark’s wife, Missie’s mama, and the keeper of this house. Now her mind was awake to it. The rose by the door, the bright cheery curtains, Missie’s lovingly sewn garments that she was too quickly outgrowing, the many colorful rugs on the floor. Everything—everything in this little home spoke of this woman. Marty felt like an intruder. What had she been like, this Ellen? Had she ever boiled the coffee over or made a flop of the biscuits? No, Marty was sure she hadn’t. But she had been so young—only twenty-one tomorrow—and she was already gone. True, Marty was even younger—nineteen, in fact—but still, twenty-one seemed so young to die. And why did she die? Marty didn’t know. There were so many things she didn’t know, but a few things were becoming clear to her. There had been a woman in this house who loved it and made it a home, who gave birth to a baby daughter whom she cherished, a young woman who shared days and nights with her husband. Then he had lost her, and his loss had left him in grief and pain—like she was experiencing over losing her Clem. She had assumed she was the only one who bore that kind of sorrow, but it wasn’t so.
It’s a mean world, she mused as she turned her face upward. “It’s mean an’ wicked an’ cruel,” she said out loud as she gazed upward.
The stars blinked down at her from a clear sky.
“It’s mean,” she whispered, “but it’s beautiful.” What was it Ma Graham had said? “Time,” she’d said, “it is time that’s the healer—time an’ God.” Marty supposed she meant Clark’s God.
“Iffen we can carry on one day at a time, the day will come when it gets easier an’ easier, an’ one day we’ll surprise ourselves by even bein’ able to laugh an’ love agin.” That’s what Ma had said.
It seemed so far away to Marty, but somehow she had confidence that Ma Graham should know.
Marty turned back to the house. It was cool in the evening now, and she realized she was shivering. When she entered the kitchen she found that all traces of the machine and the crate had been removed.
On the kitchen table was a large package wrapped with brown paper and tied with store twine. Clark motioned toward it.
“I’m not sure what might be in there,” he said. “I asked Missus McDonald at the store to make up whatever a woman be needin’ to pass the winter. She sent this. I hope it passes.”
Marty took a deep breath. Just what did he mean? She wasn’t sure.
“Would ya like me to be movin’ it in on yer bed so’s ya can be a sortin’ through it?”
Without waiting for her answer, which may have taken half the night, she felt so tongue-tied, he carried it through to her room and placed it on her bed. He turned to leave.
“It’s been a long day,” he said quietly. “I think I’ll be endin’ it now,” and he was gone.
Marty’s fingers fumbled as she lit the lamp. Then she hurried to untie the string. Remembering the scissors in the sewing basket, she hurried to get them to speed up the process. She could hardly wait, but as the brown paper fell away she was totally unprepared for what she found.
There was material for undergarments and nighties and enough lengths for three dresses. One piece was warm and soft looking in a pale blue-gray; already her mind was picturing how it would look done up. It would be her company and visiting dress. It was beautiful. She explored further and found a pattern for a bonnet and two pieces of material. One lightweight and one heavier for the colder weather.
There was lace for trimming, and long warm stockings, and even a pair of shoes, warm and high for the winter, and a shawl for the cool days and evenings, and on the bottom, of all things, a long coat. She was sure no one else in the whole West would have clothing to equal hers. Her cheeks were warm and her hands trembled. Then with a shocked appeal to her senses, she pulled herself upright.
“Ya little fool,” she muttered. “Ya can’t be takin’ all this. Do ya know thet iffen ya did, ya’d be beholden to thet man fer years to come?”
Resentment filled Marty. She wanted the things, the lovely things, but oh, she couldn’t possibly accept them. What could she do? She would not humble herself and be beholden to this man. She would not be a beggar in his home. Tears scalded her cheeks. Oh, what could she do? What could she do?
“We are not fancy, but we try an’ be proper” came back again to haunt her.
Could it be that he was embarrassed by her shabbiness? Yes, she decided, it could well be. Again her chin came up.
Okay, she determined, she’d take it—all of it. She would not be an embarrassment to any man. She would sew up the clothes in a way that would be the envy of every woman around. After all, she could sew. Clark need not feel shame because of her.
But the knowledge of what she knew—or thought she knew—drained much of the pleasure from the prospect of the new clothes.
In his lean-to bedroom, Clark stretched long, tired legs under the blankets. It had been a hard day for him, fraught with difficult memories.
It used to be such fun to bring home the winter supplies to Ellen. She had made such a fuss over them. Why, if she’d been there today she would have had Missie sharing in the game and half wild with excitement. Well, he certainly couldn’t fault Marty, only five days a widow. He couldn’t expect her to be overly carried away about salt and flour at this point. She must be in deep hurt, in awful grieving. He wished he could be of some help to her, but how? His own pain was still too sharp. It took time, he knew, to get over a loss like that, and he hadn’t had enough time yet. The thought of wanting another woman had never entered his head since he’d lost Ellen. If it weren’t for Missie, this one wouldn’t be here now; but Missie needed her even if he didn’t, and one could hardly take that out on the poor girl.
At first he had resented her here, he supposed—cleaning Ellen’s cupboards, working at her stove—but no, that wasn’t fair, either. After all, she hadn’t chosen to be here. He’d just have to try harder to be decent and to understand her sorrow. He didn’t want Missie in an atmosphere of gloom all the time. No, he’d have to try to shake the feeling, and in time maybe Marty could, too, so that the house would be a fit place for a little girl to grow and learn. It’s going to be harder for Marty, he thought, as she is all alone. She didn’t have a Missie, or a farm, or anything really. He hoped Mrs. McDonald had selected the right items for Marty. She really was going to need warmer things for the winter ahead.
The idea that he was doing anything special for her in getting her the things she needed did not enter his thinking. He was simply providing what was needed for those under his roof, a thing he had been taught was the responsibility of the man of the house when he was but a young’un tramping around, trying to keep up with the long strides of his own pa.
Nine
The Lord’s Day
Sunday morn
ing dawned bright and warm with only enough clouds in the sky to make an appealing landscape. At breakfast, hoping she wasn’t too obvious, Marty asked Clark if he was through at Jedd’s or if he’d be going back for the day. Clark looked at her with surprise.
“Jedd has him a bit more to finish off,” he said, “an’ I wouldn’t be none surprised iffen he’d work at it today. Me, though, I al’ays take a rest on the Lord’s Day. I know it don’t seem much like the Lord’s Day with no meetin’, but I try an’ hold it as sech the best I can.”
Now it was Marty’s turn for surprise. She would have known better if she had given it some thought, but in her eagerness for Clark to be away from the house, she hadn’t considered it at all.
“’Course,” she whispered, avoiding his eyes. “I’d plumb fergot what day it be.”
Clark let this pass without further comment. After a moment or two, he said, “I been thinkin’ as how me an’ Missie might jest pack us a lunch an’ spend the day in the woods. ’Pears like it may be the last chance fer a while. The air is gettin’ cooler an’ there’s a feelin’ in the air thet winter may be a mite anxious to be a comin’. We kinda enjoy jest spendin’ the day lazyin’ an’ lookin’ fer the last wild flowers an’ smart-lookin’ leaves an’ all. Would thet suit yer plans?”
She almost stuttered. “Sure . . . sure . . . fine. I’ll fix yer lunch right after breakfast.”
“Good!”
It was settled, then. Clark and his little Missie would spend the day enjoying the outdoors and each other, and she, Marty, would have the day to herself. The thought both excited and frightened her. She wasn’t too sure how she would do with no little girl around to help keep her thoughts from dwelling on her loss.
Clark went out into the shed and returned with a strange contraption that appeared to be some sort of carrier to be placed on his back.
“Fer Missie,” he answered her unspoken question as she gazed at it. “I had to rig this up when I needed to take her to the fields an’ a chorin’ with me. She’s even had her naps in it as I tramped along.” He smiled faintly. “Little tyke’s gotten right heavy at times, too, fer sech a tiny mite. Reckon I’d better take it along today fer when she tires of walkin’.”
Marty realized she was giving them far more lunch than they needed, but the fresh air and the walk through the hills was bound to give them a hearty appetite.
Missie was beside herself with excitement and called good-bye over and over to Marty as they left. Ole Bob joined them at the door, and Marty watched the trio disappear behind the barn. As she turned back to clear the table and do up the dishes, she remembered that today would have been Ellen’s birthday. Maybe their walk would include a visit to her gravesite. Marty somehow believed that it would.
She hurried through the small tasks of the morning and then fairly bolted to her bedroom and the waiting material and shiny new machine. She wasn’t sure if she was breaking Clark’s Sabbath with her sewing or not. She hoped not, but she was not sure she could have restrained from doing so even if she had known. She did hope she would not offend Clark’s God. She needed any help He was inclined to give her. She pushed the thoughts aside and let her mind be completely taken up with her task—almost. At times she nearly caught her breath with feelings that came from nowhere.
Wouldn’t Clem be proud to see me in this?
This is Clem’s favorite color.
And later she whispered, “Clem al’ays did poke fun at what he called ‘women’s frivols.’” She couldn’t help a little smile, but soon it got caught on the lump in her throat.
No, it seemed there was just no getting around it. Clem was there to disquiet her thoughts, and his absence still made her throat ache. Stubbornly she did not give in to the temptation to throw herself on her bed and sob, but she worked on with set jaw and determined spirit.
In the afternoon she laid her sewing aside. She hadn’t even stopped for anything to eat. She hadn’t missed it, though, and her sewing had been going well. The machine worked like a dream, and she couldn’t believe how much faster seams were turned out with its help. She decided, however, that her eyes could use a rest, after staring so long at the machine foot. And her legs and feet were tiring after pumping the treadle all this time.
She walked outside, stretching her arms toward the sky. It was a glorious fall day, and she almost envied Clark and Missie’s romp through the crackling leaves. Slowly she walked around the yard. The rosebush had one single bloom—not as big or as pretty as the earlier ones, she was sure, but beautiful just for its being there. She went on to the garden. The vegetables, for the most part, had already been harvested. Only a few things remained to be taken to the root cellar. At the end of the garden was the hole she had dug to bury her biscuits. It had been redug by Ole Bob, who felt it was his duty to unearth them again. A few dirty hard lumps still lay near the hole—even Ole Bob had abandoned them. It no longer mattered as much, Marty thought as she gave one a kick with her well-worn shoe. Funny how quickly things can change.
She walked on, savoring the day. The fruit trees that Clark had told her of looked promising and healthy. Wouldn’t it be grand to have your own apples? Maybe even next year, Clark had said. She stood by one of the trees, not sure if it was an apple tree or not, but should it be, she implored it to please, please have some apples next year. She then remembered that even if it did, she would be long gone for the East by then. She didn’t bother to inform the apple tree of this, for fear that it would lose heart and not bear after all. She turned and left, not caring as deeply now.
On she walked, down the path to the stream just behind the smokehouse. She found a stone platform that had been built into the creek bed where a spring, cold from the rocky hillside, burst forth to join the waters below. The perfectly shaded spot cooled crocks of butter and cream in the icy cold water on hot summer days. Clark hadn’t told her about this, but then, there had been no reason to, it not being needed this time of year. She paused a moment, watching the gurgling water ripple over the polished stones. There was something so fascinating about water, she told herself as she moved away, and this would be a choice place to be refreshed on a sultry summer day. But of course she wouldn’t be here then, she reminded herself once again.
She went on to the corrals, reaching over the fence to give Dan, or was it Charlie, a rub on his strong neck. The cows lay in the shade of the tall poplars, placidly chewing their cuds while their calves of that year grew fat on meadow grass in the adjoining pasture. This is a good farm, Marty decided—just the kind Clem and she had dreamed of having.
Giving her head a quick shake, she started for the house, past the henhouse. She suddenly felt a real hunger for panfried chicken. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she had tasted any, and she remembered home and the rich aroma from her ma’s kitchen. At that moment she was sure nothing else would taste so good. Preparing chicken was one thing she had watched her mother do. Whenever they were to have fried chicken, she would station herself by her ma’s kitchen table and observe the whole procedure from start to finish. Her mother had never begun with a live bird, though. Marty had never chopped off a chicken’s head before, but she was sure she could manage somehow.
She walked closer to the coop, eyeing the chickens as they squawked and scurried around while she tried to pick out a likely candidate. She wasn’t sure if she should first catch the one she wanted and then take it to the axe, or if she should go to the woodshed for the axe and bring it to the chicken. She finally decided she would take the chicken to the axe, realizing that she would need a chopping block as well.
She entered the coop and picked out her victim, a cocky young rooster that looked like he would make good frying.
“Come here, you, come here,” she coaxed, stretching out her hand, but she soon caught on to the fact that a chicken would not respond like a dog. In fact, chickens seemed to be completely something else. They flew and squawked and whipped up dirt and chicken droppings like a mad whirlwind whenever she
got to within grabbing distance of them. Marty soon decided that if she was to have a chicken for supper, full pursuit was the only way to get one into the pan. She abandoned herself to an outright chase, grabbing at chicken legs and ending up with a faceful of scattered dirt and dirty feathers. Round and round they went. By now Marty had given up on the cocky young rooster and had decided to settle for anything she could get her hands on. Finally, after much running and grabbing that had her dress soiled, her hair flying, and her temper seething, she managed to grasp hold of a pair of legs. He was heavier than she had expected, and it took all her strength to hold him, since he was determined he wasn’t going to be supper for anyone. Marty held tight, just as determined. She half dragged him from the coop and looked him over. This was big boy himself, she was sure, the granddaddy of the flock, the ruler of the place. So what, she reasoned. He’d make a great panful, and maybe the bird hated the thought of facing another winter, anyway.
Panting with exhaustion as she headed for the woodshed, Marty nonetheless felt very pleased with herself to have accomplished her mission.
She stretched the squawking, flopping rooster across a chopping block, and as he quieted, she reached for the axe. The flopping resumed, and Marty had to drop the axe in order to use both hands on the fowl. Over and over the scene was repeated. Marty began to think it was a battle to see who would wear out first. Well, she wouldn’t be the one to give up.
“Ya dad-blame bird—hold still,” she hissed at him and tried again, getting in a wild swing at the rooster’s head.
With a squawk and a flutter, the rooster wrenched free and was gone, flopping and complaining across the yard. Marty looked down at the chopping block and beheld in horror the two small pieces of beak that remained there.