by Janette Oke
“How much in yard goods do ya have on hand?” Clark had asked Marty.
“Four or five pieces, I reckon,” she had replied.
“Well, can’t ya find some way to make use of ’em?”
“I had purposes in mind fer all of ’em,” Marty had told him, “but I just don’t need ’em yet. One was to be a dress fer Belinda, but it’s too grown-up a print fer her yet—well, at the rate she’s maturin’, maybe not that long,” she quipped. “And one is fer aprons fer Kate, and one is fer the backin’ fer Amy Jo’s quilt when she finishes school an’ another fer—”
“I’ll go to town,” Clark had said. “I’ll go to town an’ buy some material with no purpose at all.”
“Then what’ll I have ’er do with it?” Marty had protested.
“I dunno. We’ll think of somethin’—how ’bout a new dress fer you?” Clark said with a smile and a hug.
“Oh, Clark, I don’t need somethin’ new,” Marty protested.
“Maybe not, but maybe Mrs. Simpson does,” was his gentle rejoinder, and she nodded her head in agreement.
And so he had gone to town and had come home with six lengths of yard goods. He had chosen some pretty pieces—or the clerk had, Marty wasn’t sure which, she told him with a twinkle in her eye—but she also said she still hadn’t figured out what to do with all of them. And who knew if Mrs. Simpson could even sew? She might only spoil the pieces.
Clark just shrugged his shoulders. “Throw ’em in the ragbag, then,” he had stated, at which Marty had looked dismayed.
It would have been so much simpler, so much less costly, if the family had just allowed the neighbors to outright help them.
Clark reviewed all of this in his mind as he coaxed the team forward. He was busy trying to properly prepare his words to the Simpsons. What could he say that would be totally truthful and would not offend them?
Clark tied the team and walked toward the door. His artificial limb was making his leg ache again. Or maybe it was just the cold—Clark didn’t know for sure. All he knew was that shivers of pain were shooting from the stump clear up to his hip.
He rapped loudly on the door and Mr. Simpson answered. He appeared ready to launch into his usual “we-don’t-take-any-charity” speech, so Clark began quickly, “Came to see ’bout clearin’ thet debt fer the wood and foodstuff.”
The door opened a bit wider and the man stepped back.
The woman was busy at the stove. By the smell that filled the room, Clark decided she was making stew for supper. It smelled good. Clark sniffed appreciatively and gave her a smile and a nod.
Clark looked around for the boys, but only the smaller one was present, listlessly playing cat’s-in-the-cradle with a piece of twine in a corner of the room.
The man motioned toward a chair, though he did not ask Clark to be seated, nor did he invite him to remove his coat.
Clark sat down and unbuttoned the coat to hang loosely.
“I’m listening,” growled the man, standing with hands on his hips.
“Well, I figured as how ya might be anxious to git the weight of this here debt off a’ yer shoulders,” Clark began. “I have a few jobs round the place thet I could put ya to doin’ as soon as ya can spare the time.”
“Time, I got lots of,” the man replied without a smile.
Clark nodded.
“How many days?” the man asked.
“Not sure. Two—maybe three.”
“That won’t pay off our debt,” the man stated sullenly.
“It’ll pay off the vegetables,” responded Clark. “Yer gittin’ out green logs next spring in exchange fer the firewood.”
Mr. Simpson nodded. Maybe it would cover the vegetables. He seemed to feel that the matter was closed.
“My wife has some sewin’ that . . . that . . . she could use some help on,” Clark continued. “Wondered iffen yer wife might be interested.”
“Thought you said the work I did would pay it off,” the man answered irritably.
“So it will,” Clark said without ruffling. “The sewin’—thet would be fer a wage.”
Clark saw the woman at the stove swing her head upward. He pretended not to notice.
“Yer wife can’t sew?” asked the big man with a hint of sarcasm.
“She can sew first rate,” Clark was quick to defend Marty. “No harm in a woman gittin’ a bit of help with her chores now an’ then. We’ve got ourselves lots of grandkids—”
The man mumbled something under his breath. “So what’re you offering to swap?” asked Simpson.
“Thought we might pay in cash,” said Clark. “We could swap, but we don’t know iffen there’s anythin’ we got thet ya might be needin’. But good help, now—thet’s hard to come by.”
The man’s eyes narrowed in obvious interest. He turned to the woman.
“You want to do that, Ma?” he asked her.
Clark was pleased he had asked, not ordered. He must have some good qualities in him under all that gruffness.
The woman responded with a nod of agreement.
“What’re you paying?” asked Simpson.
“What d’ya think is fair wage?” Clark countered.
“Ten cents an hour,” said the man.
Clark took his time before answering.
“Was thinkin’ on fifteen,” he finally informed the man. “Don’t wanna git the reputation of not bein’ willin’ to pay a fair wage.”
“Fifteen,” agreed Mr. Simpson, and the two men shook on it.
“I’d best be gittin’ on home, then,” said Clark, rising to his feet. “It gits dark powerful early these days, an’ I got me chores to do.”
“We’ll be over first thing in the morning,” the man told him.
“Then I guess I’d best tell ya where to find us,” Clark said with a hint of a smile. It did not bring any kind of friendly response to the face of the man. Clark pulled a stub of pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket and busied himself drawing a simple map. He was bending over the table when he heard the door creak open and close again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, but he purposely did not look up from drawing.
The older boy had come home. Clark finished his crude map and his bit of explanation before he lifted his head.
The boy still had not moved from the door nor removed his skimpy coat. The one sleeve had been tied into a clumsy knot to keep out the cold. A gun was tucked under his good arm, and in his hand he carried a couple of rabbits and a grouse. Clark nodded a greeting and eyed him evenly.
“Ya must be a good shot,” he acknowledged with genuine warmth.
The boy nodded in return, tossed the game into the corner, and hung the gun on the wall pegs.
“Do ya always have thet kind of luck?” Clark asked with a grin.
“Mostly,” said the boy simply and slipped the coat off his shoulders.
Clark moved toward the door. He buttoned his coat against the cold and reached to reclaim his hat from where he had dropped it by the chair. He could feel the boy’s eyes on him.
Clark looked at him, wondering what was going on in his mind.
He had almost reached the door when the boy spoke.
“Thought you claimed to have only one good leg,” he said with a bit of rancor in his voice.
Clark looked down at his legs. They both looked good all right. His trouser legs fell full and nearly to his boot tops. Only if one looked closely would he have seen that the boots did not match.
“No,” said Clark with a smile. “Me, I got two good legs. Now, one I borrowed, I need to admit, but I got me two.”
He reached down and hiked the pant leg quickly upward, exposing the wooden leg with its straps and braces.
He saw the woman wince before she turned quickly away and the younger son, who had sat quietly in the corner of the room, suddenly leaned forward, his eyes round with wonder.
“It works ’most as good as my old one did,” Clark went on. “Oh not quite. But Luke, my doctor son, he ins
isted thet I git me one. I fought it at first, but now I don’t know what I’d do without it. Frees my hands up”—Clark extended his hat in both his hands—“an’ makes things a heap easier fer me.”
The boy said nothing.
Clark turned back to the man as he slipped his hat back on. “Well, we’ll see ya in the mornin’, then,” he said and nodded his good-bye.
He let himself out the door, closed it firmly behind him, and limped his way to his restless team. He wasn’t sure if he had made any headway or not. His prayers as he drove home were even more fervent as he prayed for each member of the Simpson family.
Seventeen
Hired Help
Clark and Marty were still at the table the next morning, enjoying a second cup of coffee after the hurry of getting the youngsters off to school, when Marty heard the dog bark. She leaned forward and lifted back the curtain. To her surprise two people were walking up their lane.
“Now, who d’ya s’pose is out walkin’ at this hour?”
Clark joined her at the window.
“Must be our hired help,” he exclaimed. “Never thought ’bout not havin’ ’em a team or wagon.”
Marty frowned. “Ya mean the Simpsons?”
“Thet’s them.”
“Oh, dear, Clark,” Marty cried as she jumped up from the table, one hand quickly trying to smooth her hair. “I sure don’t know how I’m gonna use me hired help! Never had such help in my whole life. Why, I don’t even know how to go about givin’ orders.”
Clark laughed. “Jest pretend it’s one of your young’uns,” he told her. “Ya never had problems tellin’ ’em what to do.”
“Well, she’ll hardly seem like a young’un. An’ she might resent the tellin’, too. Who knows jest what we got ourselves into?”
“Do ya have a paper all set out?” asked Clark.
“A paper?”
“Yer gonna have to keep track of the hours. She gits paid by the hour, ya know.”
“No,” said Marty, shaking her head, “I don’t have me a paper.”
Clark went to the door. “Come on in,” he invited, and held the door wide for the two.
They came slowly in, looking carefully about them. Marty had never been so conscious of her own well-being and cozy, comfortable surroundings as she was at that moment. Why had God blessed her with so much when some had so little?
“Jest hang yer coats there by the door,” Clark was saying.
Marty went to get two cups from the cupboard. She wondered if they had even had breakfast, but she didn’t dare ask.
“We were jest having another cup of coffee before settin’ to work,” Clark informed them. “Won’t ya sit yerselves down an’ join us?”
Marty moved the plates left behind by Melissa and Belinda and wiped the table for the guests—well, hired help. Clark lifted the family Bible from the table back to its shelf in the corner.
“Yer nice an’ early,” Clark commented. “I like a man to be early. We’ll git us a good start.”
Marty poured the coffee, and Clark passed the cream and sugar. The two helped themselves, at first tentatively, then more liberally.
“Ya got any more of those cinnamon rolls?” Clark asked Marty. “Thinkin’ I might like one with my coffee here.”
Clark had just finished a hearty breakfast, but Marty understood and moved quickly to the pantry to bring out half a dozen of the rolls. She placed them in the middle of the table and had hardly let go of the plate when Clark reached for one. Marty was surprised that he helped himself even before offering one to the Simpsons.
“Jest help yerself iffen ya care to,” Clark said around a bite of roll.
Then it dawned on Marty why he had done that. Both Clark and Marty knew that the rolls were for the benefit of the Simpsons. But Clark did not want them to catch on to that fact and was afraid they would not avail themselves of the rolls if they were the only ones at the table eating. So when Marty sat back down, she, too, helped herself to a roll, though she didn’t know how in the world she would be able to get it down. Both the Simpsons helped themselves to the rolls and ate heartily.
The four really didn’t visit over their rolls and coffee. The new neighbors had very little to say. They seemed restless and anxious to get started, and Marty guessed that at fifteen cents an hour they wanted to waste no time.
“Best we git ourselves goin’,” Marty finally said. “Do ya mind givin’ me a hand with the dishes so we have the table to work on fer the cuttin’?”
Then Marty got out a piece of paper and wrote Thursday across the top. She looked at the time, sure to read it to the minute, for the lady’s eyes were on the clock, too.
“It’s seven forty-six,” said Marty. “We’ll start countin’ the time right now.” Marty cast a glance toward the big stove. “My lands,” she said. “We still didn’t drain thet coffeepot, an’ I do hate bein’ wasteful. Could ya drink another cup?”
And without waiting for an answer she rose to get the coffee and refilled the cups.
“It won’t be wasted time,” she informed the woman. “I’ll use the time to explain to ya what we’ll be doin’.”
They drank their coffee slowly. Now and then Clark or Marty gave some explanation about what the two would be expected to do. They seemed to be satisfied with this procedure.
At length Marty felt she could stall no longer. Clark sensed it and rose from the table and led the way out of the kitchen. The man reached for his coat, but Clark stopped him.
“Won’t be needin’ thet jest now,” he said. “First job is more fruit shelves down in the cellar. It stays shirt-sleeve warm down there.”
The man left his coat, cast a glance at his wife, and followed Clark.
Marty scurried about her kitchen, her thoughts running ahead of her. They would need to get the dishes out of the way. The kitchen floor should be swept. She planned to mix up a batch of fresh bread. Could the woman be trusted to do the cutting on her own? Oh, well. If worst came to worst, she could do as Clark had said and throw the piece into the ragbag.
The woman spied the dishpan on the peg beside the stove and went to get it.
“The water’s there in the reservoir,” said Marty and nodded toward the end of the stove.
The woman could not help but show her pleasure at the convenience. She lifted out dipper after dipper of the hot water until she had all she needed in the dishpan.
Marty let her begin washing up the dishes. Pretend she’s one of the young’uns, she repeated to herself as she dried them and put them away. She hoped that the pretending would work.
They finished the dishes with hardly a comment. Well, she sure won’t be hard to listen to, Marty said to herself with a hint of a smile. Never seen such a quiet one.
Then Marty realized she hadn’t been doing much talking, either. Well, she’d change that.
“Hear you’ve lived in the West,” Marty commented warmly.
The woman nodded her head.
“How long were ya out there?” asked Marty.
“About twelve years,” said Mrs. Simpson.
“Did ya like it?”
She looked at Marty. Now the questions were getting personal, her look seemed to say. She shut her lips tightly and shrugged her shoulders. Marty got the message. She must be careful not to pry.
Marty left her to wipe the table and went for the broom. When she had her pile of kitchen wood chips and breakfast crumbs gathered, she swept them into the dustpan and pulled back the lid of the stove to dump them in. The stove needed more wood and Marty reached for a few more sticks.
“You let it burn between meals?” Mrs. Simpson asked in disbelief.
Marty nodded. “Wood’s one thing we’ve plenty of,” she said, “an’ this kitchen stove is the main source of heat fer the house.”
The woman said nothing.
“I be needin’ to mix up my batch of bread,” Marty went on. “I’ll jest git it outta the way before we start our sewin’.”
Mrs. Simpson n
odded.
There was silence in the kitchen for many minutes as both women attended to their respective chores. Down in the cellar the sound of a hammer began to beat out a rhythmic pattern. The men were at work.
The stove was wiped up, the dishwater was discarded, and the pan hung back on its peg.
“What do you want me to do next, Mrs. Davis?” the woman asked.
“Jest call me Marty,” Marty responded. “I’m more used to thet.” Then she hurried on. “We’ll start on some sewin’ jest as soon as I finish this kneadin’. ’Most done now.”
“And what do I do while I’m waiting?” asked Mrs. Simpson.
Marty wanted to say, “Just sit ya down,” but she didn’t dare. She cast her eyes about her kitchen, looking for some job—any job. It was tough having hired help.
“The back porch could be swept,” she said at last.
The woman took the broom and dustpan and moved to the back porch. Marty hoped it was not too cold. The back porch, though enclosed, did not get the heat of the rest of the house.
Marty finished her bread mixing just as the woman returned with the broom.
“I’ll git the material,” Marty announced and went for the yard goods. She decided to bring only two pieces at a time. She didn’t want it to look as if she were flaunting their wealth. She had noticed the tattered and mended garment the woman was wearing. It had recently been washed, but there was nothing to disguise the fact that it was almost worn through in the spots where it had not already been mended.
“This is the one thet I want to start on,” said Marty, “an’ here is the pattern. Now, the machine is right in the family livin’ room there. An’ the scissors and thread are in thet basket beside it.”
Marty didn’t know what to do next. She didn’t want to appear like she was hanging around to see if the woman knew what she was doing. Yet she really had nothing else to take her immediate attention. She could churn some butter, but there was such a tiny dab of cream to be churned—she had just done the churning the day before. She could do some baking—but she didn’t need anything baked at present. She wanted to take up work on the braided rug she had been working at and had intended to fill her day with, but it seemed foolish and awkward for her to be doing hand sewing while her hired help used the machine. She could—