When Calls the Heart

by Janette Oke

  “To the Petersons. Anna has already told me that should I ever need a room, she could spare one.”

  He looked relieved.

  “Good idea,” he said and removed his pipe. He shook the ashes into the coal bucket and laid the pipe back on the shelf, as though to indicate that the matter was closed.

  I went back to the kitchen to thank Mrs. Laverly for the supper. She was busy wrapping a portion of the cold meat and a jar of her pickles for me to take home.

  “The boys have gone fer the team,” she said.

  At my questioning look, she explained, “Too late fer ya to start out a’walkin’. One of ’em will drive ya.” She began to chuckle. “Saw ’em a’flippin’ fer it.”

  I wondered who would be taking me—the winner or the loser of the toss. I found myself trying to decide which one I hoped it would be.

  The lucky—or unlucky—one was Bill. He came in grinning from ear to ear, announcing that he was ready any time I was. Bill—the one who was “a’lookin’.” I smiled rather weakly, I’m afraid, and followed him out. He didn’t offer to help me up, so I scrambled over the wagon wheel on my own, dragging my skirts and clutching my food parcels. Then we were off.

  The team was spirited and Bill liked speed, which didn’t enhance the comfort of the rough wagon. Bill muttered over and over about “havin’ to talk to Pa ’bout a light buggy.” Jostling along, trying to cling to my precarious perch, I felt sure that the sweating team, and all of Bill’s future passengers, would approve of a lighter vehicle for traveling at such a pace.

  My main concern was staying on the wagon seat. I had to hold onto the brown paper bag containing my cold beef and pickles, so I clutched the edge, white-knuckled, with the other hand. By the time we reached the teacherage, my bones felt like I had been trampled. I clambered slowly down over the wheel, wondering if my legs would still hold me when my feet reached the ground.

  Bill, removing neither himself from his seat nor his hat from his head, seemed rather pleased with himself, as though he had perhaps made the run in record time. I felt sure that he had. He grinned at me, and I knew that he expected me to appreciate his feat.

  “Thank you for bringing me home,” I said shakily. “It—it was very kind of you.”

  Bill’s grin widened.

  “Next time, maybe I’ll have me a buggy. Then we won’t be held back by this ol’ lumber wagon.”

  I hoped there would be no “next time,” but I said nothing. Bill wheeled the horses around and left the yard at a near gallop. I shook my head, waved the dust away from my face, and turned to go into my house.

  Tonight I would pack for my move to the Petersons and tuck everything else away, safe from the mice. I would go over right after my evening meal the next day, if this worked out for Anna.

  “You’d better enjoy yourselves tonight,” I warned the little varmints. “It might be your last chance.”

  From the evidence I found the next morning, it appeared they had.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Napoleon

  My week at the Petersons went by quickly. I enjoyed the company of Anna and the cheerful chatter of the children. Even Olga warmed up to me somewhat when the two of us were alone.

  On Friday, Bill Laverly stopped by the schoolhouse, grinning his wide grin, and assured me that the teacherage was now mouse-proof and mouse-free.

  I decided that I would move back on Saturday morning so that I could spend the day scrubbing and cleaning and putting the things back into my cupboard.

  Bill offered to drive me over to the Petersons for my things. I was quick to assure him that I had taken very little with me and would have no problem carrying it home. I thanked him for his kindness and returned to my classroom.

  Moving back home posed no difficulty. Olga and Else came with me, insisting on helping me carry my belongings. After they had left, I changed into an old skirt and shirtwaist and set to work with hot, soapy water. It gave me great satisfaction to see gleaming clean cupboards restored to their proper order.

  I was tired at day’s end but deeply pleased with my labors. It was good to be home and have my little house all to myself.

  The area harvest was nearing completion. Some of the farmers were already finished. The older boys had now come back to the classroom, making my days more difficult. They longed to be adults and yet they did not have the skills of even the youngest children in the room. My heart ached for them, but they did try my patience to the limit. Their attempts to flirt annoyed me, and at times I had to suppress a strong desire to express my displeasure. I knew that they were immature and unsure of themselves, so I tried very hard never to embarrass or humiliate them. But I did wish that they wouldn’t act so silly.

  We were all busily involved in planning for the coming box social and penny circus. Assignments had been given to the students, and they were working hard to prepare for the big event. The parents were wonderful in their support. Almost daily, some note of encouragement or offer of help was brought to school by a student. I was pleased and thankful for the community backing.

  On the home front, I felt rather smug: There had been no evidence whatever of mice in my kitchen. The tin patches in my cupboard and around the walls seemed to have done the trick. I did not know—nor ask—how the men had taken care of the unwelcome inhabitants. I was simply glad that they had been removed.

  I was weary by Friday night. The older boys had been particularly trying, and the week had been filled with many extra duties for the upcoming fund-raiser. After I had cleared away my supper dishes, I retired to my large chair (the lumps were now fitting nicely around me) with a cup of tea and a book. I slipped off my shoes and put my feet up on my footstool. How my mother would have gasped to see her daughter sitting in such an unladylike position, but it felt so good. I sighed contentedly, sipped hot tea and opened my book.

  A tiny movement near the stove caught my eye. The bit of shadow turned into a live thing—a tiny mouse poked out his head. His black, shiny eyes sought out any danger and his nose twitched sensitively. My first angry impulse was to pick up my shoe and throw it at him, but I froze where I was. Venturing out a little farther, he sat up and began to clean himself, rubbing his tiny moistened paws over his head, his back and his chest. He did look comical. He also looked small and helpless and hungry. I had never actually seen one of my house guests before—alive, that is. He IS rather cute, I reasoned, though there had been nothing much to commend them when they were dead.

  I must have stirred slightly, for he darted back under the stove and was lost in the shadows.

  He appeared a few more times that evening, each time carefully grooming himself. I wondered if this were just an attempt to keep himself busy and his thoughts off his empty tummy.

  Before I went to bed, I scattered a few crumbs by the leg of the stove. I told myself that I was doing it to provide what he needed so he wouldn’t have to climb into my cupboard looking for it. In the morning the crumbs were gone.

  In the next few days, very busy days, I saw the small mouse on several occasions. I named him Napoleon because he was so tiny, yet so bold. Each night I put a small amount of food out for him, each time reasoning that if he had food easily accessible he wouldn’t snoop in my cupboards for it.

  I found myself actually watching for him. He was entertaining, and I even had the ridiculous thought that I no longer bore the loneliness of living by myself.

  During school on Friday, a knock on the classroom door drew my attention. I excused myself and went to answer it. Bill Laverly had been to town and picked up some articles that I had requested for the penny circus. I told him to set them inside the door of the teacherage, then went back to my class, anxious for the school hours to end so that I could get busy on my projects.

  Bill was soon back at the classroom door.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “there was another mouse in yer place there. Don’t know how we ever missed ’im.”

  At the sight of my chalk-white face he hurried on,
“It’s okay, ma’am—I killed ’im.”

  My gratitude expected, I mumbled something that I hoped made sense, and Bill left, his eternal grin firmly in place.

  It was a few moments before I could go back to my class. I knew that it was right—that it was better—that it was what I should have wanted. But I’d miss Napoleon. He had been so little, and so clever—and so cute.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Box Social

  When the day of the Box Social arrived, my students were all so excited that they could scarcely think of another thing. They spent the morning attempting to finish their lessons, and devoted the entire afternoon to getting ready for the big event.

  The older boys strung wire across the room, and the girls pinned old blankets and sheets on the wires, thus forming small booths. Within each booth a game, contest or entertainment was set up by each of the students who had been put in charge. Excitement ran high, and it was hard for me to hold them all in check. At last we had done all that we could do in preparation, and they were dismissed to go home.

  I circled the room, checking and rearranging. The students had done a fine job on their projects. It looked as if the night would be great fun as well as a help to the Pastachucks. There was a ring-toss, a fish pond, pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, a mock camera, some pins to knock over, a pail-and-candy-toss game, and a bean-sack toss. Each game would cost the player a penny.

  Our main source of income was to be our box social. I had spent two evenings decorating my box and had sent to town for special food items to prepare for the lunch to fill it. Each woman and older girl would have a decorated box filled with enough lunch for two people—although the lunch stuffed into some boxes would feed many more.

  Mr. Dickerson had agreed to be our auctioneer. The men would bid on the boxes, and the highest bidder would share the food with the lady whose box he had purchased. I wondered who would end up being my partner for the evening’s lunch. It was harmless enough to sit in a roomful of people, eating together. I was not concerned about the evening—only curious.

  “Mama showed Pa her box,” Mindy Blake had declared.

  “She shouldn’t’ve,” said Maudie Clark.

  “Well, she did,” said Mindy in a huff. “She had to make ’nough for all us kids, ya know, an’ she wouldn’t want any ol’ man gettin’ all that.”

  “All you’re worried ’bout, Mindy, is the food,” Carl Clark accused.

  “Boy, I should git me thet box,” cut in Tim Mattoch, and everyone laughed. Tim was more than a little on the heavy side, and all of the students knew that he dearly loved to eat.

  “He’ll buy the biggest box there,” said Mike Clark.

  “He better not,” Else interrupted, “ ’cause it’ll be my ma’s. She had to pack for all of us kids, too, and she put it all togeder in a great big box, dis big.” She indicated how big the box was and then immediately clamped her hand over her mouth, realizing that she had divulged a secret.

  As I prepared my lunch, I was glad I didn’t need to fix one for a whole family; but I also knew that some of those hard-working single males of our community were hearty eaters. It would not do to short-change them.

  The wagons, buggies and saddle horses began to arrive shortly before eight o’clock. I was already in the classroom and had a big pot of water heating for making the coffee. Coffee tonight would be free, as was the milk for the children. All else would be paid for and the money would go into the Pastachuck fund.

  The schoolroom began to fill with excited children and chattering grown-ups. The attendance was going to be good and the little schoolroom was going to be crowded. Already some of the men were opening windows. How good of these people to care and do something about the need of a family in their community. Bless our efforts, Lord, I prayed silently.

  I had prepared carefully for the evening, putting on one of my favorite gowns. I knew that I was a bit overdressed for this informal occasion, but somehow I thought that folks would expect it of me. I had arranged my hair with fastidious curls, which I heaped mostly on the top of my head, carefully letting one or two hang down on one side. My appearance was not unnoticed by the cluster of single fellows near the door, who were ogling, guffawing and slapping one another on the back.

  The Delaneys arrived. Mr. Delaney found his mother a chair and took the coats of his womenfolk to pile on a corner table with those of their neighbors; we had long ago run out of coat hooks. The younger Mrs. Delaney reached a hand up to her hair, then smoothed her already smooth skirt. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face. I wanted to look at her—and I didn’t, both at the same time. She stood chatting with neighbors, a slim, dark-haired young woman, attractively attired. I found myself noting that her dress was not nearly as pretty as mine and immediately rebuked myself for my cattiness.

  When Mr. Delaney had gotten the womenfolk settled, he moved off to chat with some of the neighborhood men. The crowd around Mrs. Delaney thinned somewhat and she took a chair. I saw her clearly then. Dark eyes sparkled under long, dark lashes. She had a straight, rather small nose. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and full rosy lips parted slightly as she smiled easily at those she greeted. She was more than just attractive.

  I turned back to my duties but had hardly organized my thoughts before I felt a tug on my hand.

  “Miss Thatcher, my mom wants to meet you.” It was Phillip.

  For a moment near panic seized me, but I knew that I was being foolish. It was inevitable that I meet this woman, and it may as well be now. I prepared my nicest smile and let Phillip lead me toward her.

  As we approached, her eyes lit up, and she stood to her feet.

  “Miss Thatcher,” she said warmly, extending her hand, “I’m so happy to meet you at last. I’m Lydia Delaney. I’ve heard so many nice things about you.”

  She was so sincere, so open and friendly that I responded to her immediately.

  “Thank you,” I said; “it’s nice to meet Phillip’s mother.” I meant those words.

  She looked me over appreciatively. “No wonder Phillip was happy to stay after school.”

  I smiled. Phillip still held my hand, and he beamed up at me. I put my arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze. I’m sure that she could see how I felt about Phillip. I spoke then to the elder Mrs. Delaney; she took my hand in both of hers and greeted me.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Lydia, “that we haven’t yet had you over, but things have been so unsettled at our house. We have been off to Calgary most weekends and, well, we hope that things will soon change so we can return to normal living.”

  Called away by one of my students, I had to excuse myself. I walked away with the feeling of Lydia Delaney’s warm, brown eyes upon me.

  The evening progressed well. I was kept busy circulating among the students and helping them in any way that I could with their booths. Every now and then a whispered report was given to me of how many pennies had been collected at a certain station. The students were excited about their achievements.

  Activity at the booths began slowing down as the people started to think of the lunch boxes. We cleared some more room for chairs and benches by putting aside the games from the booths and taking down some of the dividers strung on the wires. Then Mr. Dickerson took his place at the front.

  Anna Peterson and Mrs. Blake were not the only women who had packed for extra mouths. Many of the boxes were enormous. As the bidding began, it became apparent that Mrs. Blake was not the only woman who had informed her spouse what to look for. Without exception, husband and wife got together and spread out their goodies for themselves and their offspring.

  I watched with interest and amusement as Mr. Delaney prompted Phillip in the bidding for his mother’s basket. Phillip felt very grownup as he shouted his bid, and when he had finally been successful in his purchase, Mr. Delaney counted out the money for him to pay the auctioneer’s clerk himself.

  The older girls had their own baskets, and the older boys, with dimes,
quarters, red faces and much teasing, lined up to make their bids.

  My basket was the last one to be held up. I scolded myself for my flushed cheeks and wished with all of my heart that I had begged off from participating. It was apparently common knowledge about whose basket was being offered, for the young men moved in from beside the door, and the bidding opened vigorously. The color in my cheeks deepened with each bid; I kept my eyes averted and pretended to be very busy serving coffee. The teasing and joking did not escape me; but it was a few moments before I realized that Mr. Delaney was among the bidders. This knowledge upset me so that I could not stop my hand from shaking as I poured coffee.

  Why would he do that? Why? There sat his wife and his mother—right before his eyes, and here he was . . . I choked on the humiliation for us all. A new thought struck me. Perhaps his mother had fixed a box, and he supposed this to be it. I glanced around the room and could see that such wasn’t the case, for there sat the two Mrs. Delaneys and Phillip sharing a chat with the Blakes as they ate their respective lunches. Lydia Delaney chatted gaily with Mrs. Blake, stopping occasionally to smile at the antics of the bidders.

  How can she? I thought. How can she? She must be humiliated nearly to death. How can she endure it so calmly? Is she used to such behavior? Doesn’t it bother her when her husband publicly deserts her?

  She certainly appeared unperturbed by it all. In fact, one could even have accused her of enjoying it. Was it just a cover-up? My anger boiled hotter with each bid placed by Mr. Delaney.

  There was much laughter, shouted comments and jockeying for position as the bids climbed. Finally only Bill Laverly and Mr. Delaney remained as bidders. I had never expected to find myself championing the grinning Bill Laverly, but I did so now, hoping with all my heart that he would outbid the other man. At a bid from Mr. Delaney, Bill went down on both knees and began to empty all of his pockets, spreading out all of his bills and change, even offering the auctioneer chewing tobacco and a pocket knife. There was much knee-slapping, joking and clapping by the appreciative crowd. It was obvious that Bill could go no higher. He implored some of his buddies for a loan, and the bidding continued. But it was Mr. Delaney who was finally handed the basket as he paid the clerk.