The Silver Star

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Jolie’s a nice girl, but you can’t adopt her, Peter. You always were quick to jump into things.”

  Jolie’s heart grew heavy as she heard Cass explaining to Peter that the responsibility for a half-grown girl was too much for a bachelor.

  “It won’t look right. You know it won’t, Peter.”

  “There’s nothing wrong. She’s just a girl. I’m twenty-five years old, Cass.”

  “It’s not age. It’s the fact that she’s a young woman, almost, and you’re a bachelor.”

  “Does Serena think this?”

  “I haven’t talked to her, but I’ve seen men get into trouble with situations like this. I know she’s just a young girl now, but she won’t be for long. I’m just saying be careful.”

  Peter said reluctantly, “All right, Cass.”

  The two men walked away, and their voices trailed off. But the joy of the day quickly disappeared for Jolie. She was quiet all the rest of the day, and when Peter stopped in front of her boardinghouse and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she had made up her mind.

  “No, you won’t, Peter.”

  Peter looked at her, blinking with surprise. “You’re not going to work tomorrow? We’re shooting, you know. There’ll be plenty for you to do.”

  Suddenly Jolie said, “I’m leaving. I won’t be around anymore.” She saw the surprise that her statement caused Peter, and he began to protest.

  “You just got here. You can’t just up and quit like that after Priscilla got you a job. You have to—”

  “I heard what your brother said to you,” Jolie interrupted him. “And he’s right. You can’t take on a girl to raise.”

  “Why . . . why, that’s foolish! Cass is wrong,” Peter said.

  “No, he’s not. You’re not my father or my brother. We’re no kin.”

  Peter suddenly put his hand out and grasped her arm. “We’re The Three Musketeers, you and me and Easy. We’re friends, and I’m not raising you. You’re making your own way.” He spoke earnestly and kept his hand on her arm.

  Jolie was very much aware of his grip. His hand was strong and warm, and somehow it gave her comfort, as did his words of encouragement. He urged her to stay, which really was what she wanted to do. Though she felt hurt by Cass’s words she had heard, she had nowhere to go. She began to weaken, but turned her face away from him to hide the scar.

  “Look,” Peter said finally. “This is silly. It’s foolish, Jolie. You’re not raising me any more than I’m raising you. You’ve got a job, and I’ve got a job. I need friends, and I think you do, too.”

  Jolie turned to look at him and saw the earnestness in his face. “That’s sweet of you, Peter,” she said. “But I still think I ought to go.”

  “Sure, when you get a few years older you’ll go.” He grinned rashly and released his grip. Running his hand over her smooth black hair, he said, “Look, Jolie. In a few years you’ll be all grown up, and I’ll marry you off to a rich prince.”

  She reached up and touched the scar and whispered, “No. That’ll never happen.” But she was glad for his kind words. She turned to him and asked, “Do you really want me to stay?”

  “Sure I do.” He tugged her hair gently and said, “No more talking of leaving. All right?”

  “All right, Peter.” She got out of the car, looked at him, and summoned a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Sure. Tomorrow. Remember, The Three Musketeers.”

  “Right.”

  ****

  When Peter entered the bunkhouse and sat down across from Easy, he looked up and said, “Had a little trouble with Jolie.”

  Easy was polishing his boots. He halted, looked across at Peter, and asked, “What kind of trouble?” He listened as Peter recounted the conversation, then said, “Well, it could be touchy, Pete. After all, she’s a young girl. Almost a young woman.”

  But Peter was relieved that Jolie had decided to stay. He pulled off his boots, tossed them on the floor, then sat down on the bunk and leaned back, locking his hands behind his head. His eyes were half shut and he murmured, “Oh, come on, Easy. How much trouble can one sixteen-year-old girl be?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Small Town in Kansas

  Dusk brought with it a gloomy leaden sky in the east, and as Dorothy Hansen Winslow looked out of the window, surveying the flat countryside that stretched out in front of the small cottage, a feeling of weariness swept over her. She had not liked Taylorville from the beginning, although it was no worse than many of the other small towns that had been temporary homes for her. As the sun faded beyond the horizon in the west, a sullen light illuminated the simple frame houses of her neighbors. Somehow they all looked alike to Dorothy, with their white siding and their one-story, monotonous plan. She felt sure that if she entered any of them, they would be no more cheerful than the one she had lived in for the past few weeks. Overhead a flock of blackbirds scored the darkening sky, their raucous cawing striking harshly on her ear. They lit in a barren cornfield two hundred yards from where she sat and began arguing and scuffling among the dried stalks.

  Wearily Dorothy turned from the window, and for one moment, she let her eyes run over the living room in her most recent home. Two small windows allowed only minimal sunlight to penetrate the gloom. Stained light brown wallpaper was peeling in many places, and not even one picture decorated the drab walls. The bare wood floor was also covered with stains. Around the stove small holes pitted the floor where hot coals had been dropped. The small couch in the center of the room, once covered in the best silk damask, now showed wear from years of hard use. The fabric was torn and threadbare, and a broken leg was being leveled by a large, flat rock. An old easy chair with a dirty green woolen covering had the stuffing coming out of the cushion. Next to it was an old walnut tea table, scratched and chipped from years of careless handling. Dorothy had covered it with a piece of cloth to hide the ugliness as best she could. On the table sat an old, tarnished brass oil lamp, which provided barely enough light to read by. As she looked over the dreary room, discontent rose in her so strongly that for a moment she shut her eyes and clenched her teeth. She crossed her arms and stood there trying to blot out the unhappiness that had been steadily growing in her for a long time.

  “How many more houses like this will I have to live in?” She spoke the words aloud, and the sound of her voice caught the attention of the three-year-old girl who was sitting on the worn couch looking at a picture book. She was a beautiful child with auburn hair that curled down on her neck, and large, innocent blue eyes, which she now lifted.

  “What, Mummy?”

  “Nothing, Amelia.” Concealing the discontent that ran through her, Dorothy moved over to sit beside the girl and said, “Let me look at your book with you.”

  “Okay,” Amelia said happily.

  She was a quiet child and loved picture books more than anything else. Dorothy had obtained a large supply, and the little girl enjoyed pointing at the pictures as her mother turned the pages. Dorothy put her arm around her daughter, drawing her close, and her eyes went over to Phillip, her infant son. He was sitting on the floor, pushing toy cars around, intent on them as he always was. He had black hair and eyes so dark blue that they almost seemed black, a trait that Dorothy knew went back to her own grandfather.

  “Daddy home soon?” Amelia asked, looking up suddenly.

  “I don’t know, dear,” Dorothy sighed.

  “Daddy gone bye-bye, Mummy?”

  “Yes, he has. But he’ll be back soon.”

  “For Christmas? Is Christmas soon?”

  “No, Amelia. Christmas isn’t soon. It won’t be for quite a long while.” Aware of Amelia’s problem with dates and the passage of time, she smiled and smoothed her daughter’s auburn hair down. “Daddy will be home for Christmas.”

  “We have tree and candy and presents?”

  “Yes, of course we will. Now, I’ve got to fix supper. You look at your book. Maybe you’ll get some new ones for Christ
mas.”

  Dorothy rose and moved across the room, entering the combined kitchen and dining room. A few hand-built cabinets hung loosely on the wall, some with doors missing. She stared in disgust at the old white wallpaper with faded yellow tulips on it. How she hated that wallpaper! Turning quickly to the icebox, she saw there was only a small chunk of ice, not more than six inches by twelve. I’ll have to get ice tomorrow, she thought. Though this house is cold enough without buying ice. The coal-burning stove in the living room did not throw out enough heat for the kitchen, too. The ancient woodstove that dominated one end of the small kitchen still had hot coals left in it, so she placed several small pieces of kindling inside and carefully fed it until the blaze caught. Then she weighed the firewood in the box beside the stove, selected two medium-sized pieces, and tossed them in. Closing the door to the firebox, she examined her supplies and found two pork chops, half a slice of salami, and the remains of two pounds of bacon. Not knowing when Andrew would be home, she decided to save the chops. As the stove warmed up, she pulled the remains of other meals out of the icebox. She had a small bowl of green beans, another of mashed potatoes, and another containing no more than a cup of English peas.

  As Dorothy Winslow stood surveying the meager stores, she thought of her home where she had grown up in Africa. Whole quarters of beef hung in the smokehouse, along with pigs that had been dressed, and wild game. She thought of the vegetables from the fertile garden beside the mission house—the beans, peas, succulent squash, and large cucumbers. The table had always been filled with more food than anyone could possibly eat, and she longed now for those days. Looking around the kitchen, the depressing reality of her situation shook her from her reverie. Shivering in the cold, she reached over and pulled on a worn blue woolen sweater, buttoned it up, and proceeded to heat the food. As it heated, she sat down at the rickety kitchen table, with chairs that were not much better and did not match. I’ll have to get Andrew to nail this thing together or it’s going to fall flat!

  She picked up a copy of the Topeka Journal and looked listlessly at the front page. The headlines blazoned the news that Teddy Roosevelt had won the presidential election by a landslide. Dorothy was not overly interested in politics. Her eyes dropped down, and she turned the page and read a story about the death of Frederic Auguste Bartholdi. She had never heard his name, but the article identified him as the French sculptor who had created the Statue of Liberty. With interest, she read how Bartholdi had constructed the steel and copper statue in Paris and then shipped the two hundred twenty-five ton, one hundred fifty-foot statue to New York.

  Dorothy read slowly, her mind going back to the time she had visited New York with Andrew shortly after their marriage. She had been stunned at the sight of the best-known statue in the world holding a torch in her outstretched right hand and the Declaration of Independence in her left. Dorothy shut her eyes and remembered how Andrew had held on to her tightly as they ascended up into the torch of the statue. It had been a cold day in December, and they had been alone for a brief time. Her lips grew soft as the pleasant memory flowed back through her of how he had suddenly turned her around. She could see him in her mind’s eye as if he were standing before her. He had worn a double-breasted camel’s hair wool topcoat with matching hat. She had worn a gray woolen suit-dress with a high neck and a full-pleated coat skirt over a narrower dress skirt. She even remembered that both of them wore spats and soft leather gloves they had bought in a shop in Manhattan. Her memory was very keen, and she could almost feel the silky softness of the brushed beaver tricorn and the fox stole that had been wedding gifts from her parents.

  The teakettle on the stove began to send forth a soft, sibilant signal. Opening her eyes with a start, Dorothy rose and went over to make the tea. As she stood before the stove, she remembered how Andrew had wrapped his arms around her and kissed her and then had whispered, “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and I love you more every day.”

  A sadness moved across Dorothy’s face, making the planes of her cheeks suddenly change as she bit her lip and thought of that happy time. They had been on an extended honeymoon, and Andrew had been appointed Superintendent of Missions for their denomination. She remembered how, as they stood in the torch of the Statue of Liberty after he had kissed her, he had hugged her tight and waved his arms around, saying, “We’ll do great things for God, Dorothy. We’ll have missionaries flowing out of this country to every nation on the earth. You’ll see.”

  And she had believed him—for a few years. But the glamor of the title Andrew held did not match the lifestyle that followed. His ministry meant traveling all over the country, visiting churches wherever he could get an invitation, speaking to congregations that ranged from ten people in a country church in Mississippi to a congregation of five thousand in Boston. His message was always the same: “God has told us to take the message, ‘Go ye into all the world and bear the gospel to every creature.’ ” He had been highly successful, and the mission volunteers had grown under his leadership until the ranks swelled with men and women willing to go to foreign lands to spread the gospel.

  But their life had been hard, and the excitement of travel soon faded for Dorothy. It became a series of long trips on crowded trains pulled by coal-burning engines that stopped at every crossing and every junction that bore a name. The interminable journeys across the land began to wear Dorothy down. She soon tired of being a guest in the home of strangers, and though most of them were kind, after the first year she began to long for a place she could call her own. Her dream for her own home did not happen.

  As she set the meal on the table and dragged Phillip’s high chair closer, Dorothy thought about her four-year marriage to Andrew. The joy and excitement had dimmed to a dull dissatisfaction. Things had not turned out as she had hoped. And since the children had been born, a monotonous pattern had developed that she had grown to hate. Andrew would find a rental house in some little town like Taylorville, or sometimes an apartment in a larger city, but there was little difference. He would help his family settle in, then say good-bye and leave on a tour, swinging over that section of the country, sometimes being gone for weeks. He was faithful to post letters regularly, but they were always filled with his news of recruiting missionaries, which did little to assuage her unhappiness that had begun years earlier and now was becoming almost unbearable.

  Shaking her head, she muttered, “I’ve got to stop thinking of it.” Stepping back into the frigid living room, she shivered and quickly walked over to check the stove. The coal supply was almost gone. She sparingly chose three small chunks of the black fuel, added it to the fire, then shut the door. “Come along. It’s time to eat, Amelia.” As the girl slid off the couch, Dorothy bent over and picked up Phillip, who began to protest at once. “You’ve got to eat! Now put your toy down!” she said firmly. Ignoring his protest, she carried him into the kitchen and had the usual struggle of getting his legs into the high chair. He seemed to delight in making it as difficult as possible, and she reached over and slapped his hand, saying, “Stop that, Phillip!” He began to cry, and compunction smote her. “Don’t cry. Look what good things we have to eat.” When he was securely fastened down, she put some of the vegetables on the plate and watched him scoop them up with his chubby fingers.

  “Wait for the blessing,” she said, but it was hopeless, for Phillip was more concerned with eating than waiting for a blessing. He reached down, scooped up a handful of mashed potatoes, and clamped it over his mouth.

  Dorothy watched as he made a complete mess and shook her head. “Now you and I will say the blessing, Amelia.” She bowed her head and said, “God, we thank you for the food. Bless Daddy and bring him back safely. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Amelia echoed. After Dorothy had filled her daughter’s plate, Amelia began to eat, struggling with her flatware as best she could. She was going to be a very neat person, for already she was showing dexterity with her fork and spoon.

 
As the children ate their meal, Dorothy merely picked at her own food, eating only a slice of fried bacon and the remains of the English peas. The bread was too old, and the crust was so hard that it crackled beneath her teeth. When the meal was over, she took a towel and cleaned the remains of it from Phillip’s face, then went through the same struggle of extricating him from the high chair. Carrying him into the living room, she plumped him down among his toys and said, “There. You can play until bedtime.”

  “Help do dishes?” Amelia asked.

  “Of course. Come along.” She went back to the kitchen and pulled a chair over to the stained enamel sink, took heated water, and listened as Amelia chattered happily. When the chores were done, she stood at the entrance to the living room and watched Amelia climb onto the couch with a favorite book in hand. Suddenly a profound sense of loneliness engulfed her. Andrew had been gone this time longer than ever—over a month—and she had grown to despise every inch of the small cottage. The neighbors were polite enough, but it was understood that she would be leaving soon, and there was no time to make lasting friendships. The little church that she attended each Sunday and each Wednesday night was small, and the members had known one another all their lives. She was a visitor, not one of them, and although they were courteous and several of the women had dropped by to pay their dutiful visit, still, it was a lonely existence. She felt like a gypsy, only without the happiness that she sometimes associated with those people.

  To distract her mind from the unsettling thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her, she eased herself into the worn arm chair and picked up the copy of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm she had started to read for the second time earlier that day. It really was a children’s book, but it had been the best-seller of the previous year, and her parents had sent her this copy for her birthday. She thought of the library in her childhood home in Africa—shelves lined with big thick books, many with leather bindings, biographies, books of travel, even a great many of the classic novels and works of well-known poets. She had always loved to read, but she and Andrew could not afford to buy books now. She made do with local libraries—when there was one.