He tipped his head, listening. Soft clanks and clatters carried from the kitchen—Mr. Jonnson serving up the breakfast. Tommy was on his own. His hands shaking, he shoved his sleeves to his elbows and carefully felt around on the stand for the soap. His fingers found the smooth lump. He lifted it and dipped it in the water, then rubbed it between his palms. The scent of lye stung his nose, and his hands became slick. He plopped the wet soap back into its dish, returned his hands to the water, and wrung them together until all the slickness washed away. Then he leaned forward and rubbed his wet hands over his face. Droplets dribbled down his chin, and he gingerly felt around for the towel. The rough cloth in hand, he rubbed his face first, then wadded the fabric around his hands until they felt dry.
“You done over there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, come on, then. Let’s eat.”
Tommy dropped the towel on the edge of the stand and felt his way to the table. He slid into his chair, his fingers eagerly searching for the edge of his plate. Good smells rose from the plate. At the poor farm they’d always used eggs for baking instead of plain old eating. Tommy licked his lips, eager to taste them.
Chair legs scraped on the floor, so Tommy knew Mr. Jonnson was sitting. Miss Willems always prayed before they ate, but Mr. Jonnson didn’t bother. So Tommy slid his fingers along the plate’s rim and found a fork. He picked it up, poked it around on his plate ’til he’d stabbed a bite, then filled his mouth with a chunk of fried egg. He couldn’t resist releasing a low “Mmm …”
Mr. Jonnson chuckled. “A real treat, isn’t it? Since it’s Sunday, I thought we’d have something special.”
Tommy lifted another bite. “We goin’ to church since it’s Sunday?”
“No.”
Something in the man’s tone changed. Just a little, but enough to make the fine hairs on the back of Tommy’s neck prickle. He swallowed the bite of flavorful eggs. Even though he tried not to ask questions, one spilled out anyway. “How come?”
Mr. Jonnson harrumphed. “I have no use for hypocrites.”
Tommy scowled. Although hunger made him want to dig in, he braved another question. “What’s a … a hypocrite?”
“Somebody who says one thing but does another.”
The man’s voice lost its usual musical quality and held a hard edge. He sounded more like Pa than like himself. Tommy shivered, his pleasure in the fine breakfast slipping away.
“If you ask me, churchgoers are the worst kind of hypocrites.” Mr. Jonnson’s fork scraped on his plate again and again, as if he was chasing the food around. “So I keep my distance.”
Tommy’d been a churchgoer before his accident. He’d gone with Ma and his brothers and sisters. After his accident, after Pa took him to the poor farm, he sat in on Bible reading, singing, and prayer with Miss Willems. She called what they did “church.” That meant, in Mr. Jonnson’s eyes, he was a hypocrite. Someone to be avoided.
A sharp clank—the fork smacking the plate—made Tommy jump. “Eat up, boy. When you’re done, I’ll show you how to wash dishes. It’s time you started earning your keep.” Chair legs screeched. Boot heels thudded away.
Tommy ate every bit of food he could find on his plate, but the eggs and bacon had lost their appeal. An ugly thought filled his head. The more things he could do for himself, the less time Mr. Jonnson needed to spend with him. Maybe Mr. Jonnson wasn’t helping him learn because he liked him but because he wanted to avoid him.
Maybe Mr. Jonnson wasn’t so different from Pa after all.
Cora slipped into the church pew beside Miss Willems, her face flaming. Since they’d come in late, thanks to Mrs. Beasley insisting they clean up the breakfast mess before leaving, the only open pews were way in the front. How she’d hated parading past all those well-dressed parishioners who cradled Bibles in their arms the way Ma used to hold a jug of spirits. Ma had never taken Cora to church—she said church folk were uppity. Cora wrinkled her brow, puzzling over Ma’s comments. Miss Willems sure was different from the way Ma described church folk. Maybe Ma wasn’t so all-fired right about everything. Maybe—her heart fluttered as a tiny root of hope tried to take hold—Ma wasn’t even right about Cora.
While the preacher read from his big black Bible and then talked, Cora fiddled with a torn cuticle on her thumb and sent a quick glance over her shoulder. Her heart lifted when she spotted the familiar faces of the poor farm residents scattered among the congregation. Florie and Joe, Louisa, Rose, Alice and her youngsters … Wes was there, too, way in the back, sitting between Herman and Harriet. She waggled two fingers at him in a little wave, and he offered his great big, face-splitting grin in reply.
Miss Willems cleared her throat, and Cora zipped her attention forward. But she didn’t listen. The preacher’s deep voice might put her to sleep if she wasn’t careful. Tiredness wore at her bones. Part of it was the work. Resentment pricked. Mrs. Beasley kept both her and Miss Willems so busy they hardly had time to sit. But part of it was—She shut out the thought. She shouldn’t allow such disgraceful reflections while sitting on a church bench!
She wouldn’t have come to church at all if Miss Willems hadn’t insisted. She hadn’t minded the services Miss Willems led at the poor farm on Sunday mornings. Just Miss Willems reading some scriptures, talking a little bit, and then all of them singing a song or two together. Coming to church, though, meant being with a slew of people she didn’t know. Being gawked at. Judged maybe. But how could she say no to the woman who treated her so good? Besides, she’d have a chance to see the others and catch up with them. Not even Miss Willems had managed to get away and check on everybody in the last couple of days. Mrs. Beasley flew into an ugly dither anytime Miss Willems mentioned needing to see to her other responsibilities. So Cora could sit through a sermon if it meant getting to talk a bit with the people she considered her only friends.
The moment the service ended, the poor farm residents rushed at Miss Willems as if she were a stream and they were dying of thirst. Cora watched the woman hug each resident in turn, laughing even while tears filled her eyes. Longing flooded Cora’s frame. Ma had never hugged her, not even when she was little. The one time Cora had let somebody hug her, it had felt so good she’d done things she shouldn’t have. So as much as she wanted to hug—to be hugged—she hung back until they were all done.
“Miss Willems, Miss Willems!” Florie danced in place, her yellow braids flopping. “Miz Tatum says you an’ Cora an’ all the others”—she swept her arm to indicate the group—“can come to her place for lunch so’s we can spend the day together.”
Joe pressed forward, his hands clasped beneath his chin. “You’ll come, won’tcha, Miss Willems?”
Miss Willems smoothed Joe’s cowlick into place. “Of course we’ll come.”
The others murmured happily, and Cora couldn’t resist a little crow of exultation. Mrs. Beasley didn’t serve a noon meal on Sunday, so she’d told them as they’d hustled out the door that they wouldn’t be needed back until four to get supper started. Hours away from the boardinghouse and its dictatorial owner! Hours with the poor farm residents! Cora couldn’t think of anything better. Except not being in a family way without the benefit of a husband.
Little Florie tucked her hand in Cora’s and beamed upward. “Let’s go, Cora!”
Tears stung Cora’s eyes. The child was so young. So innocent. So welcoming. But soon—sooner than she wanted to consider—this little girl would be encouraged to stay away from her. Because once Miss Willems and the others learned about her shame, they’d want nothing to do with her, just like Ma.
Louisa stepped to Cora’s other side and slipped her arm around her waist. “While we walk to the banker’s place, you tell me how you and Miss Willems’ve been getting along over at the Beasley Boardinghouse. I hear tell that woman’s got a parlor with furniture nice as anything the town’s ever seen.”
Truth be told, the one time Cora had set foot in the parlor, Mrs. Beasley had screeched, “Out! Out! For payin’
guests only!” But she could tell Louisa plenty about the boardinghouse’s cantankerous owner. She opened her mouth to launch a list of complaints, but a proverb Miss Willems quoted when Cora complained about Mrs. Beasley—“He that is void of wisdom despiseth his neighbour: but a man of understanding holdeth his peace”—stilled her tongue. Soon enough these people she admired would learn how void of wisdom she truly was, but until then she could hold her peace.
She sent Louisa a bright smile. “You heard rightly. That parlor’s just about the prettiest room I ever did see.”
Chapter 7
Christina squeezed Mrs. Tatum’s hand as they paused beside the door leading to the porch. “Thank you so much for your kind hospitality. We all enjoyed ourselves.”
Afternoon sunlight bounced off the edges of the door’s oval beveled glass and created a halo above the woman’s crown of pure white braids. She and her husband had both been angels to the poor farm residents today, allowing them a time to visit and relax. And the dinner they’d been served—roasted meat, boiled potatoes, stewed okra and tomatoes, both tart and sweet pickles, thick slices of homemade bread slathered with butter and jam—as much as they wanted. Such a treat for people accustomed to eating simple meals.
The woman waved her hand as if shooing away Christina’s words. “Nonsense. It’s the least we can do, considering the tragedy that befell all of you.” She tipped her head and lowered her voice. “Have you determined the cause of the fire?”
Christina’s stomach wrenched at the question. No matter where she went in town—the café, the telegraph office, the mercantile—someone was sure to ask how the fire started. She gave the only answer she knew. “It began in the kitchen, but beyond that I don’t know.”
Mrs. Tatum gave Christina’s hand a sympathetic pat. “Such a sad thing, displacing so many people.” She clicked her tongue. “I’m certain it was an accident, no matter what peop—” Her eyes widened, and red streaked her cheeks. She released Christina’s hand with a jerk and stepped back. “But you said you needed to return to the boardinghouse, and here I’m blathering on.” An unnatural laugh spilled from her lips. “You and Cora feel free to stop by anytime to see the children. Joe and Florie miss you, you know.”
When the banker’s wife mentioned their names, the blond-headed pair bounced up from their spot on the parlor rug where they’d been constructing a wooden puzzle and dashed to Christina. Their enthusiastic hugs couldn’t quite erase the unease tiptoeing up her spine.
“We do miss you, Miss Willems—a whole lot,” Florie declared, her rosy lips curving into a pout.
“An’ Francis an’ Laura an’ Tommy, too,” Joe added.
Mrs. Tatum curved her arm around Joe’s shoulders and fitted the child against her ribs. “Francis and Laura have come by after school a time or two to play, but I know the twins would dearly love some time with their friend Tommy.”
Joe bounced on his toes, his face alight. “Yes! Can Tommy come visit? Huh, can he?”
Florie took up the cry as well until their combined voices were a cacophony of excitement. Christina started to calm them, but Mrs. Tatum leaned in first, capturing each child by the chin and tipping their faces upward. “Shh, now, you mustn’t bombard Miss Willems. She has enough to manage without arranging visits between you and your friend. Mr. Tatum and I will do our best to let you spend some time with Tommy.” She straightened and offered a smile to each crestfallen face. “Now, tell Miss Willems and Cora good-bye, and go finish your puzzle.”
The pair offered halfhearted farewells and trudged across the floor to Cora. Christina battled a wave of … what? Hurt? Jealousy? Or maybe it was resentment. How quickly Mrs. Tatum had usurped Christina’s place in the twins’ lives. Father would no doubt encourage her to be grateful the twins were responding so well to their new caretaker, but despite her best efforts, Christina couldn’t summon gratitude. Her heart felt bruised.
Even so, she forced a smile. “I appreciate your making an effort to bring the twins and Tommy together. At least Joe and Florie have each other, and Francis and Laura are nearby, but poor Tommy is all by himself at the Jonnson mill with no other children to entertain him.” And Mr. Jonnson had made it quite clear he had no interest in providing the boy with company.
Mrs. Tatum shook her head, her brow puckering. “Oh, you placed Tommy at the mill?” Her tone held an element of dismay. “That explains why the boy wasn’t with the others at service today. Mr. Jonnson isn’t”—she cleared her throat delicately as if seeking the appropriate words—“a believer. My Harold is a deacon, and he said Reverend Huntley has visited and invited the mill owner to attend services on numerous occasions, but …” Another light ahem replaced any final thought.
For reasons beyond Christina’s understanding, protectiveness tightened her chest. “Mr. Jonnson is the only one who was willing to take in Tommy, so there must be good in him.” She clung to her bold statement, praying it was true.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Why, certainly I never meant to intimate …” She ducked her head, the halo from the beam of sunshine disappearing with the motion. After several tense seconds she met Christina’s gaze once more. “Perhaps, Miss Willems, Harold and I could make room for Tommy here. Then he’d be with Joe and Florie rather than so far from town with a man who is … who is quite busy.”
Mr. Jonnson had given the same excuse—he was too busy to take proper care of Tommy. So why had she spoken in defense of the man? And why didn’t she immediately accept Mrs. Tatum’s offer?
Cora bustled up behind Christina, her new coat from the Creeger Mercantile across her arm. The sight of the coat reminded Christina of the many people who’d reached out in kindness to the displaced residents. What would they have done had the town refused to harbor them? Cora touched Christina’s arm, her expression hopeful. “You gonna fetch Tommy here, Miss Willems? Be nice, I think, to have him closer.”
Christina gave Cora a thoughtful look. “You’re right.” Mrs. Tatum’s willingness to offer shelter to Tommy was an answer to prayer. She turned to the banker’s wife, ready to ask when it would be convenient to bring the boy to her home. “I appreciate your willingness to make room for him here. But I think”—Christina drew in a breath, conflicting emotions suddenly tumbling through her chest—“we’ll leave Tommy where he is for now.”
Cora gave a start. “You sure, Miss Willems?”
Christina searched her heart. Was she declining Mrs. Tatum’s offer out of jealousy? Seeing Joe and Florie respond so readily to the woman’s admonition had pained her. Lord, I want to do the right thing for Tommy. An image of his beaming face appeared in her memory, his triumphant voice ringing in her ears: “I did it, Miss Willems. Do you see? I did it.” Peace settled around her as gently as new-fallen snow. She smiled. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.” Mrs. Tatum spoke sweetly, but a hint of disapproval glimmered in her eyes.
Christina slipped on her coat and bade the others farewell along with a promise to check on each of them during the week. Then she and Cora headed through the crisp air for the boardinghouse. Cora lagged, her head low, as they passed houses with picket fences and leafless bushes in the yards. She sent sidelong glances in Christina’s direction but remained silent until they turned the final corner. Then she came to a sudden halt. “Miss Willems, I don’t reckon I oughta question you. Rose and Louisa, they told me how your pa sent you to a school for young ladies after your ma died. You—you’ve had a lot more learnin’ than me, an’ I probably don’t have any more sense than some old goose, but—”
Christina put her hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “Cora, you are much smarter than a goose, old or otherwise. Please do not disparage yourself.”
Pink stole across Cora’s cheeks. Whether from pleasure or embarrassment, Christina didn’t know, but she intended to praise Cora as often as she could. The poor girl seemed weighted by boulders of unworthiness. Cora’s shoulders trembled briefly as she sucked in a mighty brea
th. She raised her chin and looked squarely into Christina’s face.
“Are you leavin’ Tommy outside of town because of what folks’re sayin’ about him?”
Christina’s hand fell from Cora’s shoulder. She took a stumbling step backward, confusion and concern smiting her. “What are folks saying?”
Cora grimaced. “Now, I don’t take much stock in gossip, but Louisa and Rose are plain irate at the rumors flyin’ around town. I told ’em they needed to let you know, an’ I hoped maybe they’d already talked to you, but …”
Christina caught Cora’s arm and gave it a shake. “Cora, please, tell me what is being said.”
Cora’s furtive glances flicked left and right, her brown eyes becoming slits of secrecy. “They said folks’re blaming Tommy for the fire. Sayin’ those scars on his cheek show he’s been burned once, which means he can’t be trusted around stoves an’ such, an’ that he probably did somethin’ foolish that sent the poor farm up in flames.”
Christina gawked at Cora. Mrs. Tatum’s evasive comment returned to taunt her. Could people really be so unkind as to hold a defenseless boy accountable for the destructive fire?
Cora’s eyes pooled with tears. “Louisa and Rose, they’ve been trying to set people straight on it—sayin’ no, sir, it couldn’t’ve been Tommy—but folks always wanna blame somebody.” For a moment Cora’s face twisted in despair, but she shook her head, replacing the pained look with a fierce scowl. “But they hadn’t oughta talk that way about Tommy. Ain’t right.”
No, it wasn’t right. But how should Christina handle the situation? When she was a child and wrote home from school, heartbroken over something one of the other girls had said about her, her father had sent a letter advising in his tender way, “Christina, people will talk. You cannot change this. But what you can do is live in such a way that those who hear the ill comments will not believe them.” At the time she’d wished her father had advised something more stringent or had offered to visit the school and tell the spiteful girl she needed to hush. Thinking of people saying such hurtful things about Tommy raised her hackles again, and she longed for someone—someone big and strong and forceful—to bring an end to the gossip.
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