Room for Hope

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

She shot him a startled look. “His name wasn’t Gaines?”

  “No, ma’am. Shilling—Warren Shilling and his wife, Violet.”

  “Warren and his…” Neva’s knees buckled.

  “Whoa there!” Mr. Caudel caught her before she crumpled to the ground. He slipped his arm around her waist and guided her toward the back stoop. His hold on her could be considered brazen, but his firm, strong arm was too needed for her to protest the familiarity.

  He eased her onto the little bench sitting next to the water pump and then hunkered in front of her. “Guess the meaning of it all finally caught up to you, huh? Do you need a drink?”

  Their sweet well water couldn’t wash away the terrible pictures forming in her mind. “You said…Warren. Warren and…” She closed her eyes. Dear Lord, this is a nightmare. Warren—her Warren!—had another wife? And now he was dead? Bile rose in her throat. How would she tell Bud and Belle? What would she tell them? She couldn’t divulge the awful truth!

  She gulped. “My b-brother—Warren—he had a store in Beloit?”

  The man remained crouched in front of her knees, his hands braced on either side of her hips as if ready to grab her if she toppled. “A nice one, right on the main street. And he also did some traveling in a merchant wagon.” He grimaced. “I kinda forgot. The merchant wagon and horse got sold, too. That wagon over yonder belongs to a liveryman from Beloit.”

  She shifted her gaze to the wagon. Dusk had fallen, and from this angle the large wooden conveyance resembled a slumbering beast with yellow glowing eyes. She shivered.

  Very slowly the man pushed to his feet but stayed close. He flicked a look left and right. “I’m not meaning to be unkind, but could you fetch your husband? I need to get this wagon unloaded and back to Beloit tonight if possible. I won’t be able to empty it by myself.”

  Fetch her husband? Neva swallowed a hysterical laugh. She formed a sentence that pained her worse than anything ever had, even childbirth or having her womb removed from her body. “I’m a widow.”

  “Oh.” Great consternation filled the simple utterance. He scratched his chin, eyeing the wagon. “Then you probably can’t…”

  She tipped her head to look at him. Her head might have been filled with sand. Such effort it took to force her gaze upward. “No, I can’t unload the wagon.” Wild sobs pressed for release, but she pushed them down. She didn’t want any of the things Warren and his wife had left behind.

  Mr. Caudel turned a frown on her. “Ma’am, how well did you know this brother of yours?”

  Anguish twined through her. “Not well.” She clutched her stomach, nausea attacking. “Not well at all.”

  He nodded, the movement slow, as if his head were weighted, too. For several seconds he stared at her, unblinking, his full lips set in a solemn line. Then he crooked a finger at her. “Can you c’mere? There’s something…important…in the wagon you need to see.”

  The hesitant way Mr. Caudel said “important” stirred Neva’s numb brain to life. She rose on quivering legs and scuffed across the yard beside him. He plucked one of the lanterns free of its hook and carried it to the rear of the wagon. Then he paused with one hand braced on the high gate, his expression grim.

  “Ma’am, your brother gave instructions to send you his belongings, but also his—” He clamped his lips tight and grimaced. “Well, let’s just let you see, huh?”

  Neva stood unmoving while he set the lantern on the ground, unhooked the iron pins holding the gate in place, and eased the thick, unpainted wood gate downward. Heavy shadows turned everything in the wagon’s bed to gray lumps. He lifted the lantern. Its golden light illuminated the lumps, and Neva clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle her gasp. There, nestled together on a folded feather mattress like puppies in a litter, three children—a boy and two little pigtailed girls—sat staring with wide, uncertain eyes.

  Mr. Caudel spoke softly, almost singsong, the way someone might try to calm a frightened animal. “This is Charley, Cassie, and Adeline Shilling—Warren and Violet’s youngsters. Warren said to take them to Aunt Neva. I guess that’s you.”

  Neva

  The children stayed so still and quiet, Neva thought they might be carved from stone. But statues didn’t blink. Or shed tears. The littlest girl’s cheeks shone with fresh silver trails, but she didn’t make a sound. Despite the shock and revulsion rolling through her, Neva couldn’t deny a twinge of compassion. They looked so lost. The way she felt. She turned away from their sad, seeking eyes.

  Mr. Caudel set the lantern on the ground again, sending the children back into shadows. “Your brother must not’ve known you were a widow woman.”

  Like a prairie fire stirred by the Kansas wind, anger blazed through her. Of course he’d known! What had Warren been thinking to send these children to her? As quickly as it rose, her rage fizzled beneath the cold splash of guilt. If she’d been able to give him what he wanted most—a big family—he wouldn’t have lain with another woman.

  She glanced at Mr. Caudel—did he sense her deep shame?—but he was staring up at the apartment over the store. Neva lifted her gaze, too. Bud and Belle stood framed behind the square glass window above the kitchen sink, their curious faces peering down at her.

  Pain threatened to collapse her chest. Oh, my dear son and daughter, how I wish I could protect you from your mother’s failure.

  Mr. Caudel continued, his face still aimed at the kitchen window. “If he’d known, he wouldn’t have expected you to take these children in. Three youngsters, all at once, when you’ve already got some of your own?”

  A hopeful thought fluttered through Neva’s head. Maybe there was a way to protect Bud and Belle. She blurted, “Take them to Violet’s family.” Surely Warren hadn’t married another product of the orphanages, someone all alone the way both he and Neva had been before they found each other.

  Mr. Caudel shook his head. “Both of Mrs. Shilling’s brothers died of influenza when they were still boys. All that’s left of her family is a widowed mother who’s in poor health. The woman isn’t up to taking on three children either. She cried some, but she told the sheriff it was better if the children came to you.”

  Better for whom? Warren must have been wild with fever when he’d given instruction to bring those children to her.

  Mr. Caudel leaned toward the trio of pale, sad faces. “Watch your toes now. I’m closing the hatch.” The boy pulled his sisters close, and the little girls burrowed into their brother’s coat front as Mr. Caudel fastened the gate. “I’ll take them back to Beloit. The sheriff can arrange to send them on the train to an orphans’ home.”

  Neva stared at the wood planks, seeing instead the hopeless expression on the boy’s face. Her stomach spun, and she planted both palms against her apron, pressing hard.

  Mr. Caudel picked up the lantern and offered her a sheepish half smile. “Don’t feel bad about not being able to keep your nephew and nieces. ’Specially since it’s pretty clear to me you never even met these kids before today. Besides that, you’re hardly the only one making use of the state’s homes for orphans. With so many people out of work, lots of folks are handing over their kids for someone else to clothe and feed. So don’t you worry one bit, Mrs. Gaines. Violet’s mother will understand, and I’d wager even Warren and Violet wouldn’t hold it against you.”

  Warren’s voice echoed from the past. “Don’t take on so about not having more children, Neva. Even the doc says it’s not your fault. I don’t hold it against you.” But he must have. How else could she explain the presence of Charley, Cassie, and Adeline?

  Mr. Caudel, the lantern swinging from his hand and making shadows dance, started for the front of the wagon.

  “Mister?”

  The quavering voice carrying over the edge of the wagon halted the man. He angled his head toward the bed. “Yeah, Charley? What’cha need?”

  “Adeline needs the toilet.”

  Mr. Caudel, grimacing, looked at Neva. “Do you mind?”

  Did he
really think she would deny a small child the chance to relieve herself? “Of course not.”

  He glanced across the gray yard. “Where’s the outhouse?”

  Warren tore down the outhouse the day after their water closet was installed. “We have indoor plumbing. Bring her on inside.” Then, without thinking, she added, “Why don’t you all come in. It’s past suppertime. Have the children eaten?”

  “No, but I can give them some of the jerked beef and saltines I packed for the ride over here.”

  Such an unpleasant offering for small children. If she was going to send them off to an orphanage, she could at least feed them a decent meal first. “Save your beef and crackers. Share our supper instead.”

  His thick, dark brows descended. “Are you sure? There’s four of us, you know.”

  She forced her stiff lips into a smile. “That’s fine. The food’s not fancy—vegetable stew and biscuits—but there’s plenty.”

  “Mister!”

  The frantic cry seemed to prod Mr. Caudel into action. “Coming, Charley.” He glanced at Neva while he unlatched the gate. “Thank you, Mrs. Gaines.”

  She wasn’t Mrs. Gaines, but she nodded in reply and inched toward the back door. “Just bring them on up—staircase on the left at the end of the hall. You’ll find the bathroom at the top of the stairs, then follow your nose to the dining room.”

  Jesse Caudel

  At the base of the stairs, Jesse lifted Adeline and settled her on his hip. She was wiggling like nobody’s business, panic widening her blue eyes, and her short legs probably wouldn’t get her up the stairs fast enough. He took two steps at a time and called over his shoulder to the other kids. “Come on now. Hurry.”

  Charley held Cassie’s hand and the pair trailed Jesse up the narrow staircase. A peek inside the open doorway at the top of the stairs revealed a claw-foot tub, porcelain sink mounted on the wall, and a pull-chain toilet. He set Adeline on the floor. “Go on in.”

  But Adeline, still dancing in place, held her hand toward her brother. Charley ushered both little girls into the water closet. He closed the door in Jesse’s face, which was fine. The less he had to do for the little orphans, the better.

  Not that he disliked the Shilling kids. Over his hours with them they hadn’t been an ounce of trouble. But he’d already paid his dues in caring for youngsters that weren’t his own. No sense in getting too entangled with these three.

  The toilet flushed three times—apparently Adeline wasn’t the only one with a need—before the door opened and Charley guided the girls onto the landing. Jesse said automatically, “Did ya wash your hands?”

  Without a word Charley aimed his sisters for the sink. He grabbed Adeline around the middle and lifted her so she could reach, and Cassie stood on tiptoe. When the girls finished, Charley made use of the soap and water, then dried his hands on his trouser legs instead of the towel hanging next to the sink. They stood in a little group and looked up at Jesse with questioning eyes.

  A funny lump settled at the back of his throat. He cleared it with a rough ahem. “Well, c’mon then. Food’s this way.” The smell of biscuits and stew drew him easily. He guided the children through a nicely furnished parlor—there was even a harpsichord lurking in the corner—and into the dining room. The girl he’d seen in the window bustled around the table, setting out tin plates. The boy who’d gawked down at them slumped in one of the polished high-back chairs.

  The girl sent a shy smile over all of them. “Momma and I will bring out the food in just a minute. Please sit down.” She scurried through a doorway on the far wall, and her whisper carried from the room. “They’re done in the water closet, Momma!”

  Jesse looked at the boy. “Does it matter where we sit?”

  He shrugged, his hazel eyes slits of distrust.

  Mrs. Gaines bustled into the room with a covered china tureen in her hands. She flicked a mild scowl at the boy. “Gracious, Bud, where are your manners? Stand up and introduce yourself to our guests.” She placed the tureen in the middle of the table and hurried back to the kitchen.

  The youth rose slowly, as if his joints were rusty. With his mouth set in an unsmiling line, he extended his hand to Jesse. “Good evening, sir. I’m Bernard Shilling. Everyone calls me Bud.”

  Jesse experienced an inner jolt, but he hid it with a smile and gave the boy’s hand a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Bud. I’m Jesse Caudel.”

  “You one of the out-of-work folks passin’ through on the way to a big city?”

  The question could be considered insolent, but Jesse decided to answer anyway. But just a half answer. “Not exactly.” Bud’s forehead puckered. Jesse pretended not to notice and put his hand on Charley’s narrow shoulder. “Bud, this is Charley, Cassie, and Adeline Sh—”

  “And here are the biscuits!” Mrs. Gaines’s shrill exclamation cut off the rest of Jesse’s introduction. She settled an oval platter towering with golden biscuits next to the tureen and gestured her daughter forward. “Belle, put that butter and jam on the table and then fetch the milk pitcher. I would imagine these children would like a glass of milk. Am I right?”

  Her smile seemed overly bright, but the three little Shilling children nodded. “Good. Mr. Caudel, children, please sit down. As soon as Belle returns with the milk pitcher”—Belle entered on cue—“we’ll ask the Lord’s blessing and eat.”

  While Belle circled the table and poured milk into the waiting cups, Jesse helped the two little girls onto side-by-side chairs across from Bud. Charley eased into the chair next to the sullen youth. Belle slid in next to the little girls, and Mrs. Gaines took the chair at the foot of the table. That left two seats open—the one beside Charley and the one at the head of the table. But there was no plate at the head. Jesse moved past it and sat next to Charley.

  Mrs. Gaines folded her hands, and all five children followed suit as if they’d done it dozens of times together before. She sent a tight smile to Jesse. “Mr. Caudel, are you a God-believing man?”

  Those he worked with might give a different answer, but the Caudels had raised him to honor God, so he nodded.

  “Would you mind asking the blessing?”

  He hadn’t prayed in a good long while and he was pretty sure he’d sound out of practice, but how could he say no without seeming like a clod? So he gripped his hands together and closed his eyes. “God, that is, dear heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this food and for the kind woman who fixed…um, prepared it. We ask You—Thee?—to bless it that it might nourish our bellies. Bodies! Amen.” His breath whooshed out with the final word.

  Mrs. Gaines echoed, “Amen.”

  If she found his bumbling prayer offensive, she kept it hidden. She rose and lifted the cover on the tureen, releasing a billow of steam and a mighty good scent. Jesse’s stomach tightened in anticipation.

  Mrs. Gaines ladled thick gravy swimming with chunky carrots, potatoes, peas, and tomatoes onto Belle’s plate. “This simmered so long the broth nearly dwindled away, but that will make it easier to eat with a fork. Belle, pass the biscuits, then hand me the little girls’ plates. Bud, get the butter and jam going around the table. Pass your plates, Mr. Caudel and Charley, and I’ll dish you up.”

  Even the littlest girl waited until everyone had a full plate before picking up her fork. The kids had been taught manners, that was for sure. They ate without saying a word, swiping their mouths with their napkins between bites, and sipped their milk instead of guzzling. Bud and Belle sent long looks across the table at each other and quick sidelong ones at their mother and the guests, but they didn’t talk either.

  Jesse ate in silence, too, partly because the stew tasted good and partly because a cloud of tension hovered over the table. If Mrs. Gaines quit poking at her food and said something, he’d answer, but he wouldn’t start a conversation even though questions rolled in the back of his mind. How long had she been widowed? The four fine china plates stacked on a sideboard near the table gave him the impression she’d intended to serve suppe
r to that number of people tonight. So who was the fourth if not her husband?

  He surmised Bud and Belle were her children—their resemblance to her couldn’t be denied, the same way Charley had Warren Shilling’s straight dark hair and Adeline and Cassie were blond, blue-eyed miniatures of Violet—but then why had Bud introduced himself as Shilling instead of Gaines?

  He stifled a snort. And why did he care? As soon as they were done eating, he’d get somebody to help him unload the furniture from the back of the wagon, put the kids on the feather mattress, and head to Beloit. Given the late hour, they’d probably sleep instead of cry, the way they did half the drive over here. He hadn’t liked being so helpless against their sorrow.

  He used a biscuit to mop up the remaining smear of gravy on his plate and then offered Mrs. Gaines a smile. “That was real good, ma’am—best stew I’ve had in ages.”

  She colored, dipping her head, but he wasn’t sure if pleasure or embarrassment caused the reaction. “Thank you, Mr. Caudel. There’s more if you’d like a second serving.”

  He did, but the three Shilling kids were done eating. They fidgeted in the chairs. He should get on the road. “I’ve had plenty, thank you.”

  Belle stood and reached for the tureen. “Want me to fix a plate for Poppa and then put out the share-kettle, Momma?”

  The woman’s face blazed pink. “Don’t worry about fixing a plate. Just fill the kettle. Take the remaining biscuits, too. Unless…” She aimed a questioning look at Jesse. “Would you like to take some along to munch on while you travel?”

  Curiosity writhed through him. If she was a widow, who’d Belle mean by “Poppa”? He started to ask, but a different question popped out instead. “What’s a share-kettle?”

  Belle smiled. “Momma always makes extra food for supper and then puts out a soup pot so the men who hop off the train have something to eat.”

  Jesse jerked his gaze from Belle to Mrs. Gaines. “You feed the hobos?”

  His prayer hadn’t offended her, but apparently his question did, because her lips pinched into a grimace. She said quietly, “Yes, Mr. Caudel, I do.”