Where Hope Prevails

by Janette Oke

  Despite the other teacher’s tacit disapproval, Beth continued to stand at the front door and ring the school bell. True, it wasn’t necessary, as the children and their mothers were well aware of the time, but she found it a pleasurable way to begin a day, and she looked forward to greeting each personally as they entered the shared foyer. In truth, it was also a rare opportunity to speak with the older students, with whom she still felt a connection.

  “Good morning, Luela. My, that’s a lovely necklace.”

  “I got it fer my birthday. Momma ordered it from the store.”

  “Well, happy birthday, dear! Does that mean you’re sixteen now? Oh my.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  The girl’s eyes sparkled until her brother piped in with, “Sweet sixteen an’—”

  “You hush up, Addie!” Luela sputtered.

  Beth clucked at the teenage boy who towered above her, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “Addison, shame on you.” He merely laughed, and Luela swatted his arm.

  “Now, don’t forget,” Beth repeated often to each group who entered, “Bible club begins tonight. We’re meeting here at the school. I hope you can come.”

  As the days progressed, a significant source of irritation for Beth was the volume of Robert Harris Hughes’s voice. She doubted that her softly spoken lessons were nearly the imposition on him as were his commanding orations resonating through the gap at the bottom of the door. There were times she could even make out words, though thankfully it was more often the dull rumble of indistinguishable speech.

  The most common complaint from his students to Beth’s empathetic ear was that the new teacher simply talked far too much. Beth, from her position on the other side, could not agree more. Yet she knew there was really nothing this man would receive as a suggestion from her, and so she—and his captive audience—endured the droning throughout most of the day. Her young students seemed to tune him out just as easily as they did the racket of the lumber mill and mine.

  Admittedly, Beth took some small satisfaction that he was also hearing the oral recitations of her class. She tried not to allow this thought to influence how often she worked with her students on repeating poetry, or Bible verses, or songs together. In moments of utter honesty, she was rather certain the tensions she felt toward her colleague were provoking her stubborn spirit more than a little.

  When school was dismissed each day, a considerable amount of grading went home with her, though Beth found herself as grateful as the children to leave the classroom behind. Sometimes on a mild evening she would sit on Molly’s porch, feet tucked under her in one of the rocking chairs, with papers stacked beneath a heavy book to keep them from blowing away. As she worked through each of the pages, she appreciated the activity of the children playing nearby, of the women calling out to one another, of the men returning to their families after a long day. If there was mending to be done, Molly would sometimes join Beth for a chat as they sat grading and sewing on patches.

  “The church is ’most done. Ya been by to see it yet?”

  “I haven’t had time.”

  “Time? It ain’t that far away, dearie.”

  Beth sighed. “I know. I should just decide to walk over there one of these evenings. Do they keep it locked?”

  “Why, no. Ain’t nothin’ there to steal.”

  Beth smiled. “I guess you’re right. Maybe I’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Any one’a yer kids would be proud to go along to show it off to ya. Maybe you should ask ’em.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’m sure everyone’s excited to see it completed and to have church in a building meant for that purpose. Not to mention having Pastor Davidson all to ourselves.” A new thought brought a sigh. “When are Esther and Bardo getting married? Isn’t that soon? I’ll bet no one’s more anxious than she.”

  “Oh, maybe so. Though since it ain’t her first trip up the aisle, dearie, I don’t s’pose she’s as starry-eyed as you.”

  “Me? I’m starry-eyed?”

  Molly lowered the sock she was mending and peered over her reading glasses. Her pursed lips and one cocked eyebrow revealed her amusement.

  “All right,” Beth conceded with a little smile. “Yes, I am rather excited. But I have a long time to wait until April. It feels like forever. And what’s worse, I’ve hardly seen Jarrick at all.”

  “Well, I wish yer Jack was around more myself. I’d grown accustomed to his wit.” The sharp sound of a child’s cry turned both their heads. “Oh dear, it’s one’a the new girls.” Molly stood for a better look. “The smallest Ruffinelli child. What’s her name?”

  “Pearl? Ah, that’s too bad. She’s so sweet. Can you see her, Molly? Is she in trouble?” Beth hurried to gather the pages and tuck them under a book.

  Molly, with a hand over her eyes, said, “Her brother Henry’s got her now, carryin’ her home. Looks like she’ll be fine. Probably a skinned knee.”

  “You know what, Molly? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she stumbled over one of these silly stumps,” Beth muttered.

  “The stumps? What makes ya say that?”

  “They’re everywhere. One can hardly take a step in this town without having to weave in and out among them.”

  Molly settled back and took up her work again. “Where ya been walkin’ that’s so thick with stumps?”

  “Just . . . well, everywhere! They crowd in behind most of the buildings. Where the children are trying to play. Something should be done about them. They’re such an eyesore, and—and dangerous.”

  “Ya don’t say. What do ya figure should be done?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Can’t they be chopped out or dug up or something?”

  “Well,” Molly smiled, maybe a bit patronizingly, “why don’t ya go try to dig one? See how that goes fer yerself.”

  “Not me, of course. But with all these men, and most of them fathers, plus so many machines, you’d think there’d be a little more concern about the well-being of the children.”

  “Hmm?” A thoughtful pause. “You’re getting yerself all worked up like this on account’a the children, is it?”

  Beth was growing more impatient by the minute. “You don’t agree? I’m quite surprised.”

  “Dearie, I’m afraid ya don’t have any way’a knowin’ how powerful hard it is to get rid of a stump. They’re mighty stubborn about bein’ dug up.” Molly removed her reading glasses and scrutinized Beth’s face. “And what’s more, ain’t ya been watching these kids? Why, them stumps’re the best playground they got. The girls are using ’em fer tea parties and playin’ house round ’em. And the boys have rigged a board across one fer a teeter totter in the clearin’ behind their homes. I hear ’em laughin’ and playin’ there whenever I go visitin’. Seems to me they’re doin’ just fine.”

  Beth pressed her lips together, unable to yield. “But in the winter the snow will cover them, and the children will trip and get hurt. I think they’re dangerous. I really do.”

  Molly looked genuinely puzzled. “What’re you truly saying, dearie? What’s yer real complaint?” She rocked forward in her chair to be closer to Beth.

  “I just don’t like them. That’s all.”

  “But why?”

  With a long hesitation, trying to put into words her tumbling thoughts, Beth thought back to her feelings as she had first arrived back in town and when she saw the stubble on the hillside beyond the new mill. “I don’t know. They’re awfully ugly, I suppose—like scars on what was such a lovely landscape. Doesn’t it make you sad to think about it, Molly? The trees were alive once—beautiful, living things that grew and gave shade and held birds in their branches.” The more she voiced the rising bitterness aloud, the more Beth felt a hard lump rising in her throat. She hadn’t realized how much the sight of them had been festering. “It’s worse than barren now—worse than if there was simply a field instead. Down by the mill it’s absolutely ghastly to behold.”

  Molly placed a comforting hand on Beth’s kne
e. “Yes, dearie, but they stood in the way too. If our town was to continue to grow, them trees had ta come down, had to make room fer the new. And, what’s more, now those selfsame trees been turned into boards fer new homes, fer the blessings of a school wall and a fine church ’most done. Seems like a good trade to me.”

  “But I liked it the way it was.” Beth rubbed at her ink-stained fingers, refusing to raise her eyes. She suspected it could be helpful to discuss her frustrations, but it was also humbling to feel so vulnerable and childlike.

  “I see. It’s the changin’ that you don’t like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How different it all seems. That ya come back to find it don’t even look right no more. Leastwise, not how ya hold this place in yer memories. Maybe sometimes it even feels ugly to ya now.”

  Beth whispered, “I suppose. Yes, that is how I feel.”

  For a moment Molly seemed to be contemplating Beth’s reaction carefully, looking out at the view from her front porch. From this vantage point the missing trees revealed much more of the town than could be seen last spring. “Dearie, I’ve lived a long time. And I can tell ya that my own life’s been full’a stumps—all kinds of ’em. From the pain of losing my first husband, my dearest Bertram, and long before that to working through every single change in our plans together. Leavin’ friends and family, always movin’ on whenever he got some new scheme in his head.” Her throat seemed to constrict, and the words sounded more forced. “To comin’ to understand we’d never have a baby all our own. All of it hard—all of it not the way I wanted things to be. An’ as every one of ’em beautiful tall dreams come crashin’ down like felled trees in a clearin’, it felt like there weren’t nothin’ left fer me but an old field of stumps.”

  Beth took the woman’s hand in hers, squeezing it tightly.

  Molly continued, “I’ve found ya can’t cling to what ain’t gonna be—can’t even build on the ruins till the wishin’ for what ya wanted first dies away. But it takes time fer that to happen. Often time has ta pass ’fore you can see them old dead dreams fade to naught. And then, only then, somethin’ else can spring up instead. Like, fer me, it’s this town, my own new family with Frank an’ Teddy Boy an’ Marnie, an’ all these children, these friends—and you.” She wiped her cheek without apology, and her smile was a little wobbly. “I’m so sorry it ain’t easy, but it’s true nonetheless. Hard as it be, a body can’t grow without having some growin’ pains along the way. Can’t reach ahead ’cept that you let go of what lies behind. Not just in lettin’ the first dream get chopped away, but sometimes living beside the ugly old stumps’a the past till it wanes and somethin’ new takes root. But we got hope through it all that the good Lord knows long before we do what’s to come. And we can trust Him. Fer those of us with faith in our redeemin’ God, there’s always hope.”

  Beth tried to produce a smile. She wished she could wholly agree with Molly’s sage words. They clearly contained powerful truth. But the far-reaching implication was more than Beth, at this moment, could accept. There were dreams in her heart she couldn’t yet find the courage to give up. Instead she slid down to her knees beside the dear woman’s rocking chair, folded her arms around Molly, and shared a long, consoling embrace.

  CHAPTER

  7

  JUST AS BETH was gathering the last of her things for school, the scratching sound came as clear as day. Marnie had already skipped ahead down the stairs. Beth stood perfectly still, listening for a source—or at least a direction. And then a low rumble seemed to come from the kitchen window, already closed tight. As quietly as she could, Beth edged toward it, trying not to breathe. Slowly, ever so slowly, she moved closer to the glass, her eyes darting in every direction.

  First she saw only a tail. A long scruff with thin stripes arched and then dipped out of view. I think it is a raccoon!

  But when a whiskered, slant-eyed face with upright triangle ears emerged, Beth gasped. Why, it’s a cat! I think it’s Mrs. Grant’s old tabby cat, Penelope! So she’s the source of all the racket! But how could she have gotten in before, and even more incredible, into the cupboard?

  Seeing Beth in the window now, the tabby became more assertive, writhing back and forth, yowling to be allowed in. Telling herself she wouldn’t be afraid of a silly old cat, Beth twisted the handle and pulled the pane open a little, intending to shoo the intruder away. Immediately it slipped under one corner of the screen and pounced to the floor in a wild leap. Beth fell back against the table, trying to catch her balance. The screen is loose! Oh no, what have I done?

  Stalking and skulking around the room, Penelope actually was frightening to behold, as if the animal were searching high and low for her former owner. If I feed it, perhaps it’ll leave. Beth rushed to the icebox and poured a saucer of milk, placing it on the floor as quickly as possible without spilling it. Even more quickly the cat dove to crouch beside the bowl, licking furiously. Its stomach looked pinched in at the sides, its fur tattered and thin.

  Seeing its emaciated state, Beth removed a slice of chicken from the icebox and tossed it onto the floor beside the milk. The yowling dropped in pitch and became a fearsome warning tone. Beth backed away.

  Now what? School would begin shortly, and there was a cat in her kitchen. She couldn’t leave it inside, yet dared not touch it. So she waited, desperately wondering what on earth to do.

  The chicken soon had disappeared, and the saucer was licked dry. Penelope began again to prowl around the room. She jumped up and hooked her front paws on the lip of the trash can, pushing her head deep inside. Beth was grateful that the old metal pail was so heavy. How can I get rid of her now? She probably has fleas or ticks—or worse. I’ve got to get her out of here!

  Backing toward the door, Beth opened it wide. “Here, kitty-kitty. Come, puss, over here, Penelope.” What on earth does one say to a cat? Mother had never allowed the family to own an indoor pet, so Beth had no idea how to coax it into obeying. The cat ignored every appeal and leaped in a single bound onto the counter.

  “No!” Beth rushed forward, waving anxious hands. “Shoo! Get down! Shoo!” She was haughtily ignored.

  Then Beth spotted the broom in a corner. She reached for it and held it out as a weapon and a shield. “Shoo!” she repeated, now with the added threat of the broom. “Get out, Penelope! Go away!”

  For several minutes Beth played hide and seek with the bedraggled creature as it ducked under and around the furnishings, but it slowly edged closer and closer to the door. “Shoo! Scoot! Go!” Almost there—almost—almost . . . One last flip of the broom and Penelope slunk out the door. Beth slammed it and leaned against it, breathing in gasps.

  It took several minutes to tidy her hair, gather her papers and books, and hurry out the door. Only then did it occur to her that she could have simply set the chicken out on the step. The thought made her laugh aloud. She felt it was perhaps a mercy no one had seen the battle of wills and wits she’d waged with the Grants’ abandoned kitty.

  As Beth dismissed class for the day she asked, “Who would like to walk over with me to see the new church? I haven’t been there yet, and I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Aw, Miss Thatcher, I wanna go. But Mama says I gotta come right home,” Anna Kate complained.

  “Perhaps another time, darling. And besides, you’ll have lots of opportunities to see it. Your mother and her fiancé will be married there soon.”

  “Uh-huh, next week.” The little girl’s eyes brightened. “An’ I get to be flower girl. Levi’s gonna pick me some down by the crick.”

  Beth smiled broadly while giving the child’s braid a little tug. “That’s lovely, darling. Anyone else want to show me to it?”

  “I’ll take ya,” ten-year-old Ida Edwards volunteered. “My daddy’s been helpin’ build it. I go sometimes and take a snack over to him. So I know the way.”

  “Who cares,” Georgie called from across the room. “Everybody knows the way. It ain’t that far.”


  Beth raised a warning finger and answered the little girl, who was one of the new children. “Thank you, Ida. I’d be pleased to have a chance to chat with you a little on the way. We can get to know one another a little better.” A wide grin revealing two missing teeth flashed in answer.

  In the end a small group joined Beth and Ida for their walk past Molly’s and up the hill toward Frank’s former cabin. Instead of turning off the road onto the well-worn path through the woods, they continued on just over the crest of the hill and found themselves gazing at rows of bright new boards on the side of the new church building.

  “It gots lots’a windows,” Ida hurried to point out. “More ’an a dozen. And there’s a little room at the end, past the one where our church’ll meet, fer the pastor, Momma says. Not for livin’ in—just for workin’.” She paused, having confused herself with the explanation. “Don’t know what he does when he ain’t preachin’, but anyways, he gots a room for it.”

  Beth smiled affectionately. “I’m sure Pastor Davidson will find some good ways to stay busy.”

  “It’s gonna have a bell too. Not yet, but someday. They built a place up top ta put it.”

  “It’s rather a large building.” Beth scanned up the walls of the front narthex to the tall spire far above and the vacant space in the simple belfry. “I hadn’t pictured it quite so big. And the steeple so tall.”

  “Yeah, my daddy helped ta make it just like that—so high in the front. And he said it was a mercy nobody fell off it. They might’a died or somethin’.” Ida’s eyes grew large.

  Georgie muttered, “He didn’t do no more’n the rest of ’em. I know ’cause my momma does the washin’ for Mr. Gowan’s crew, and they talk about stuff like that waitin’ at my house sometimes. Mr. Gowan said that maybe God will be good ta our town, on account’a we’re buildin’ Him such a nice house ta live in. You think so, Miss Thatcher?”