What Once Was Lost

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Chapter 5

  Levi crossed the floor and fastened the door latch. Miss Willems had skedaddled in such a hurry she’d left the door yawning wide open behind her. Not too kind of her, allowing in the cold February air. But he supposed he wouldn’t hold it against her. Laughter threatened. She didn’t seem to like being proved wrong. But he’d sure done it. Or, maybe more accurately, Tommy had.

  He turned and spotted the boy, rooted in place right where Miss Willems had left him. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

  Tommy’s chin jerked, his head shifting to locate Levi. “N-no, sir.”

  Levi rubbed his finger under his nose. The kid had dressed himself, but his stuttered speech and the way his fingers fidgeted against his pant legs screamed uncertainty. Without warning, an image from two decades ago paraded to the forefront of Levi’s mind—his father slumped in a chair, his blank stare boring a hole in the wall while Ma combed his lank strands of gray hair into place. Levi gave himself a shake, sending the memory into hiding again.

  He crossed the wood-planked floor, retrieving his comb from the shaving table as he went, grabbed Tommy by the wrist, and pressed the comb into his palm. “Here. Use it. You’ve got a rooster tail tall enough to brush the rafters.”

  Tommy jolted, but then a wobbly grin broke across his face. “You made a joke, Mr. Jonnson.”

  Had he? Levi drew back, his pulse tripping into double beats. When was the last time he’d drawn on humor? Not since—

  Tommy raised the comb and made an awkward sweep from his forehead to the base of his skull. Levi watched, battling the urge to guide the boy’s hand. But he knew all too well how treating someone like an invalid made him an invalid. He aimed his feet for the back door.

  “When you’re done there, just drop the comb on the table. I’m going to rig up a rope from the door to the outhouse so you can find your way without my help. A boy who can dress himself and comb his own hair can take himself to the outhouse.” Levi grabbed his coat from the hook beside the door and headed outside.

  Christina brought the horses to a stop at the livery stable and handed the poor farm’s wagon and team over to the livery owner with a polite thank-you. Icy wind turned the powdery snow into writhing snakes that danced across the boardwalk beneath her feet. Gusts tore strands of hair from the heavy twist on the back of her head and tossed them across her face as she made her way to the boardinghouse. She hugged herself as a shiver shook her frame, but not even the chilly blasts could erase the flush from her face.

  Oh, how foolish—and even worse, how fastidious—she’d felt, standing before Tommy with Levi Jonnson’s low-pitched laughter rumbling in her ears. Hadn’t the man seen the ill-tucked shirt and mismatched buttons? If Tommy were to appear in town dressed in such a manner, he’d become a laughingstock. Yet somehow the man had made her feel as though she were in the wrong for wanting to help the boy!

  She entered the boardinghouse through the kitchen door. “Only payin’ guests use the front entrance,” Mrs. Beasley had snapped when she and Cora had arrived early this morning. Christina looked around the room, seeking either Cora or their benefactor, but the room was empty except for a patchwork cat snoozing on the rag rug in front of the stove. Christina creaked open the door to the little room she and Cora had been instructed to share. Cora lay crosswise on the bed, a faded quilt wrapped around her body, sleeping soundly. Holding her breath, Christina backed out and closed the door with a muffled click.

  Tiredness assailed her as she sank into a painted bentwood chair and rested her elbows on the worn surface of the kitchen worktable. She wished she could stretch out and take a nap. But she had too much to do. Although each of her charges was sheltered for the moment, she needed to arrange for permanent placement as quickly as possible. First thing that morning she’d sent a telegram to the mission board, informing them of the calamity, but she should pen a long letter detailing the fire’s damage and making a formal request for the funds to rebuild.

  The cat mewed and crept from its dozing spot, stretching each orange, white, and black splotched leg as it came. With a lithe leap, it claimed her lap and curled into a ball. Although Christina needed to locate pen and paper, she took a moment to run her fingers through the cat’s soft nape. A rumbling purr rose from the contented feline, and Christina relaxed against the back of the chair, some of the morning’s tension draining away.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it, kitty?” she crooned in a singsong whisper. “You enjoy me petting you, and I enjoy it, too. I always feel better when I’m ministering to someone else, even if the someone else is a cat.” A bemused laugh left her lips, but as quickly as it rose, it faded. Mr. Jonnson’s comment concerning Tommy, “Sure, it makes you feel good to help him,” played through her mind, stinging her with its conjecture that she only reached out to Tommy to please herself.

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. The cat dove off Christina’s lap, snagging her skirt with its back claws. The animal claimed a hiding spot beneath the stove, and Christina jumped up as Mrs. Beasley stormed into the kitchen.

  “ ’Bout time you was back.” The boardinghouse owner plunked her thick hands on her hips and glowered at Christina.

  “Yes, I realize I was gone a bit longer than I’d anticipated, but—”

  “Don’t wanna hear no excuses.” The woman’s brows formed a stern V. “That lazy friend o’ yours put herself to bed right after you left an’ ain’t done a lick o’ work all afternoon. She gonna be takin’ an hourlong nap every day?”

  Christina stifled a sigh and prayed for patience. Her father had always proclaimed a soft answer turned away wrath, but he might not have been so quick to quote the proverb if he’d been forced to deal with Mrs. Beasley. “Cora is far from lazy, ma’am. We had a trying night, and—”

  Mrs. Beasley waved her hand, shooing away Christina’s words. “Gonna be suppertime in less’n two hours, an’ I promised the boarders chicken an’ dumplings. So you’d best get to wringing a chicken’s neck.”

  A sick feeling overcame Christina. She’d never killed a chicken. Before Father died, he’d handled such unpalatable tasks, and afterward Wes had done any needed butchering. “Oh, Mrs. Beasley, I—”

  A loud snort left the woman’s lips. “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish.” She made it sound akin to being a bank robber.

  “Well, I—”

  “I’ll do it.” Cora entered the kitchen. Her eyes appeared bloodshot and her dirt-brown hair stood out in disarray, but she held her shoulders square. She snagged an apron from a hook on the wall and turned a resentful look on Mrs. Beasley. “I reckon I’m not too lazy to kill a dumb cluck.”

  Mrs. Beasley’s gaze narrowed. “An eavesdropper, are you?”

  “I don’t consider it eavesdroppin’ when you’re overhearing things about your own self.”

  The older woman pointed a finger at Cora’s face and opened her mouth as if preparing to unleash a torrent of words, but Christina stepped forward. “If we’re to have chicken and dumplings ready by the supper hour, we’d better get to work. Cora, head out to the chicken coop and … do what you must.” She watched Cora scurry out the back door, then she moved to the stove and began ladling water from the reservoir into a pot. They’d need to scald the chicken before it could be plucked, and time was of the essence. “Mrs. Beasley, will buttered carrots be an acceptable accompaniment to chicken and dumplings?”

  Mrs. Beasley’s thick brows crunched together. “You makin’ fun o’ me?”

  Christina blinked in surprise. “Fun?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “The way you talk. ‘Acceptable accompaniment.’ You tryin’ to make me look foolish?”

  “Of course not, ma’am!” Christina’s parents had valued education, and her mother—raised and educated in the East—had tutored Christina. After Mama died, Papa sent Christina to the same boarding school Mama had attended, and she’d remained there for four years, developing the skills she needed to teach any children who resided at the
poor farm. Her cultured speech made her feel close to her well-bred mother. She gulped and said, “I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

  Mrs. Beasley sniffed twice, her chin high. “Buttered carrots’ll be fine. An’ bake up a gingerbread cake for dessert. Recipe’s in my little box on the shelf.” Nose in the air and skirts swishing, she stomped out of the kitchen. The moment she disappeared around the corner, the cat came out of hiding and preened against Christina’s leg. She scooped up the animal and gave it a nuzzle.

  “I’m glad you’re more agreeable than your owner,” she whispered into the pointed black ear. After giving the cat a quick squeeze, she put it down and stoked the stove with an armload of wood to hasten heating the pot of water. Not until steam rose and little bubbles burbled along the pot’s edges did the back door open and Cora step through with a red-speckled hen dangling from her hand.

  Christina stared at the limp bird, her stomach churning, then raised a sympathetic glance to Cora. “Oh, you did it.”

  “I did it.” Her white face bore mute testimony to her displeasure in the task. She plopped the dead chicken on the table, then shuddered. “Probably wouldn’t have had the courage if she”—a belligerent toss of her head toward the doorway indicated Mrs. Beasley—“hadn’t got my dander up, callin’ me lazy.” Then her expression softened. “Thanks for defendin’ me, Miss Willems. I promise I won’t be sleepin’ any more afternoons away like I did today.”

  Christina gave Cora a quick hug. “Don’t worry about needing a nap. Truth be told, I could have used one myself after our short night.” She lifted the chicken by one prickly foot and dunked it up and down in the pot. Steam seared her hand, but she gritted her teeth and continued to dip and lift until the feathers clung like a second skin to the bird’s carcass and the smell of scalded down singed her nose. Holding the dripping bird well in front of her, she carried it to the table and stretched it out for plucking.

  “Want my help?” Cora asked, her white face puckering as she gazed at the sorry-looking hen.

  Christina grabbed a handful of feathers and yanked. “Mrs. Beasley wants gingerbread cake for dessert. Why don’t you retrieve the recipe from the little box over there and start baking. The ginger smell should make things more pleasant.” She wrinkled her nose as she yanked out a few more feathers, revealing pink mottled skin beneath.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Cora wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the possum belly cupboard in the corner, where she began scooping flour from the biggest drawer. “Tell you what, Miss Willems. You just plan on turnin’ in right after supper, and let me do all the cleaning. That nap freshened me right up.”

  As lovely as a long night of sleep sounded, Christina dismissed the idea. “I have other work to do after supper. I must locate pen and paper and get a letter posted to the mission board. They’ll expect a full report about the damage to the poor farm and information on where each resident has been housed.”

  Cora angled a glance over her shoulder. “Everybody got a place to stay?”

  Christina shook wet feathers from her fingers. “Florie and Joe are with the banker, Mr. Tatum, and his wife. Reverend Huntley arranged for Herman and Harriet to board with the church organist, Widow Dwyer. The butcher and his wife offered their back room to Louisa and Rose. Alice, Laura, and Francis have moved in with the seamstress, Tina Claussen. Wes insisted on staying near the horses, so he’s bedding down in the tack room of the livery stable. And Tommy …”

  Once again Levi Jonnson’s smug grin and amused chuckle rose to torment Christina. She fell silent as embarrassment heated her face.

  Cora turned, worry marring her brow. “Tommy’s all right, isn’t he? You found a good place for him, too?”

  How Christina prayed that Tommy’s placement would prove to be good rather than harmful. But she shouldn’t concern Cora—the young woman had been very kind to Tommy, more than most. She forced a smile. “Tommy is fine. He’s with the mill owner, Mr. Jonnson.”

  Cora’s face took on a dreamy expression. “Mr. Jonnson … I recall seeing him in the mercantile one time. He’s a handsome man.” Her hands stilled in measuring ginger into a blue-striped bowl.

  As Christina recalled his sturdy build, thick blond hair, and callus-dotted hands, heat filled her cheeks. “Yes. Well.” She pinched off stubborn pieces of down from the chicken’s flesh. “Handsome he might be, but he’s also quite cantankerous.”

  As Cora pushed a wooden spoon through the cake batter, a wonderful aroma drifted from the bowl. “But he took in Tommy, you said. So he must not be too cantankerous.”

  Cora had no idea how the man had balked. Or the way he’d treated her. And Christina wasn’t about to share those things with the young woman. She reached for a knife to gut the clean-plucked bird. “As I said, Tommy is fine. But …”

  If only Papa were still alive, she could share her concerns with him. Despite Tommy’s rare smile of success this afternoon, she held real misgivings about the care he would receive from Mr. Jonnson. But she didn’t dare voice her worries to Cora or to any of the poor farm residents. They looked to her for guidance. She couldn’t lean on them.

  Cora tipped her head. “But …”

  Christina shrugged, offering another smile, which she hoped passed as untroubled. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. In no time at all, the mission board will provide funds to rebuild, and we’ll all be together under one roof again.” Please, Lord. Soon …

  Chapter 6

  Tommy clung to the rope with one hand and held his other hand in front of him as he counted his steps to the outhouse. Fifty-three, fifty-four … The rope’s rough fibers pricked his palm, but he wouldn’t let go. His heart pounded. Although he’d already made this trek by himself three days in a row, he still battled dizziness when he was outdoors on his own. Fear made him break out in a sweat despite the cold wind that stung his bare cheeks, pulled at his jacket, and tousled his hair. If the wind tore him loose from the rope, how would he find his way back to the house?

  “If you get into trouble, give a holler. I’ll come running.” The promise Mr. Jonnson had made the first time he’d sent Tommy to the outhouse alone trailed through his head. His fear eased. He’d be all right. Mr. Jonnson was in the house, fixing breakfast. Only seventy-eight paces in all. He could holler loud enough to be heard from seventy-eight paces.

  Seventy-six, seventy-seven … His palm smacked the outhouse wall. Batting at the damp wood, he located the door and creaked it open. With the door’s edge firmly in his grasp, he finally released the security of the rope and stumbled inside. The walls blocked the wind, and he sighed, his warm breath whisking around his nose.

  He giggled, remembering Mr. Jonnson saying that once spring arrived, he might not need the rope to find his way to the outhouse—his nose could probably guide him. That Mr. Jonnson … Even though he was mostly serious, every now and then he said something funny. Tommy liked those moments. When Mr. Jonnson joked with Tommy, he felt normal. Normal, not a helpless blind boy who had to be tiptoed around and treated all careful-like the way most people did. Even Miss Willems.

  His business finished, Tommy fastened his britches and pushed the door open. His nostrils filled with the crisp scent of late winter as he caught hold of the rope again. He sniffed the air as he counted his way back to the house. Another aroma—rich, musky, leaving a tang on the back of his tongue—reached his nose. He’d never smelled anything like it before Miss Willems brought him here, so the scent had to come from Mr. Jonnson’s mill.

  The man spent most of the day away from the house, working in his mill. What did he do out there? The sounds were interesting—scrapes and thuds and rhythmic whish-whishes. And the smell … Tommy breathed deeply, savoring the essence. Curiosity tied his insides into knots. What made those sounds and interesting smells?

  Before the accident had stolen his sight, he’d asked lots of questions, and Pa had always shown him the answers. But afterward when he asked, “What’re you doin’, Pa?” Pa got mad and told him to get his grop
ing hands back before he ruined something. So Tommy didn’t ask. But he couldn’t help pondering and wishing he knew.

  He stepped into the house, and the savory smell of bacon chased the unknown scent from his nostrils. His stomach rumbled. He licked his lips and shuffled in the direction of the table with his hands outstretched, eager to sit and have breakfast. Just as his fingers encountered the back of his chair, Mr. Jonnson spoke.

  “Huh-uh. You haven’t washed up yet.”

  Tommy stood with his hands outstretched, waiting for a dripping cloth to drop into his hands.

  “Well, now, don’t just stand there.” Mr. Jonnson’s voice came from the kitchen area. “You know where the washbowl is. The water’s warm, and soap’s in the dish to the right of the bowl, like always. Wash your face while you’re at it.”

  Heels dragging, Tommy angled his body to the left and counted eight steps. On the final one his hip bumped the stand where Mr. Jonnson kept a washbowl, soap, and a length of toweling ready. Warm water splashed his front, and he grunted.

  “Just water.” Mr. Jonnson’s calm voice came from behind Tommy. “It’ll dry. Dip your hands and soap up. The eggs and bacon are getting cold.”

  Again Tommy paused. The man was close—so close he felt his breath on the back of his head. Would he push up Tommy’s sleeves? put the soap in his hands? He waited, but the thump of boot heels on the floorboards told him Mr. Jonnson was walking away. Tommy drew in a breath. Part of him appreciated Mr. Jonnson treating him like any other boy, but part of him was afraid. If he made a mess, he couldn’t clean it up. A person had to see a mess before he could clean it up. And he didn’t want to make messes for someone else.