by Ruth Glover
If it had not been for the occasional contact from her unknown correspondent, Birdie would have found the days bleak indeed. Walk to school, walk home a few hours later; wind the Drop Octagonal every Friday, signifying another week had slipped away.
Her revelation to Big Tiny, made that day in the heart of the snowstorm, had in some subtle way made a difference in their relationship. True to his word, he remained her friend, picking her up often in his cutter and giving her a ride home from school; his smile was just as ready, his words as warm. But his eyes—something in his eyes had changed. Something she had not known existed but missed. Something had taken its place; something that Birdie sorrowfully identified as pain.
The revealing of her marital status—that day of the first snow—had undoubtedly been a severe shock to the big-bodied, bighearted man. After a silence, a silence compounded by the heavy snowfall that seemed to wrap them in a small and private isolation, Big Tiny had asked, rather heavily, staring straight ahead, jaw clenched in spite of his gentle tone: “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Not really. She hadn’t wanted to mention it at all, ever, to anyone. She had wanted life to go on, barren in some ways as it was, with this great man as her friend and her Silent Speaker as a soul mate—for that’s how she was beginning to think of the unknown sharer of words and thoughts.
Still, Big Tiny deserved an explanation, even an explanation of sorts.
“It was seven... eight years ago,” she said haltingly. “Far from here. And it didn’t work out. I had to get away, escape, I suppose you’d call it. And I’ve just sort of hidden myself ever since.”
“I see,” Big Tiny said quietly, clenching and unclenching his jaw.
But apparently he didn’t see at all. How could he? There was no way she could tell—in a few sentences on a lonely strip of road whipped by snow and storm—of the bitter realization that happiness had, after all, eluded her, and dreams of love had been imagination and far from reality. Maurice—that was his name, Maurice Gann—had quickly changed from a mild, rather colorless man to a vicious monster. It was the drink, the liquor that she hadn’t known about, that changed him so that at times he came home small and slender physically but ten feet tall potentially, and powerfully mean. In stumbling words Birdie shared this much.
It had been the boy.... Here—in her short explanation—Birdie’s grief surfaced and her throat thickened, and the name Davey never passed her lips.
“Anyway,” she finished, her thin tones barely reaching the ears of the man who listened, silent for the most part, his usually merry face strangely still, “I stood it until the school year was over, then packed up and slipped away, bruises and all, going as far as I could as quickly as I could, and started over. Eventually I came... to... to... Bliss.”
The name had a hollow sound. Saying it, her voice faltered. A hamlet, a district, though called Bliss, made no promises, offered no assurances. Still, saying it now, it seemed strangely empty of anything at all.
Perhaps it was the sad disclosure made to Big Tiny and bringing into focus the hopelessness of her future, perhaps it was her own heart-need, but from then on Birdie’s grip on her unknown correspondent tightened, perhaps a bit feverishly; she almost lived, it seemed, for the sweet, the meaningful, the beautiful, the satisfying phrases that flowed from his pen. Here was someone who thought the things, wrote the things, perhaps lived the things that she believed in. Oh, that she might converse with him! Might talk, hungrily and needfully, face-to-face! Though she felt she knew him intimately, he remained faceless, detached, a dream man if ever there was one.
While the relationship with Big Tiny changed in some subtle manner, Birdie was almost passionately grateful that her soul mate remained faithful, unchanged. From time to time, treasured portions of beautiful literature continued to reach her. Occasionally, at the Reading Society gatherings, she came across a book, perhaps by Shakespeare, that was in circulation among the group and around the district and wondered who had held it, had memorized, had copied, had shared with her its expressive words.
But occasionally a suggestion, uncomfortable and quickly stifled, presented itself to her: Had she fastened on to the unknown correspondent because it was safe to do so? Not free to relate to a flesh-and-blood man, had she substituted an insubstantial creature, one who made no demands on her, who called for no response? Not able to deal with fact, had she settled for flummery? And would it satisfy for long?
Birdie hugged to herself the small scraps of happiness that came her way and dared not wonder where they could possibly lead.
Transportation, though often difficult, was seldom impossible. And winter, with the ground covered, fields frozen, and seeds dormant, allowed time for fellowship, for socializing.
For Ellie, the time was spent far more happily than she ever could have imagined. Though missing her father and at times recognizing the barren place that once Tom had occupied, still, something stirred into hope, some tendril of new life put forth a shoot in her heart and struggled toward spring and resurrection. And those days that Sam and the children came over were times of deep and deepening pleasure.
There had been the usual Christmas festivities centered in the school and church. Miss Birdie Wharton had worked hard and long for the evening of the so-called “School Concert.” Mainly a time of recitations and songs and a short play, it was the highlight of the year, and well attended. After the performance, gifts were distributed to each child—some small item ordered through the catalog and paid for by the school board and perhaps the only Christmas present some children received.
A Sunday morning had been given over to a similar performance by the Sunday school children, with a short sermon by Parker Jones following and bags of treats handed out to each child.
Ellie invited Sam Dickson and his children to attend the Christmas Concert; they, in turn, invited her to attend the Fairway school’s program. Those times, and the occasions when the Dickson sleigh jingled its way to the Bonney place, usually on a Saturday or Sunday when the children were free, were high points.
More than once, Sam and the children stayed for dinner, the noon meal, leaving for home in time for the evening chores. Hans and Gretchen loved playing with Ellie’s childhood toys; Sam was not content unless he made himself useful by mending and fixing, checking stock and equipment, and before he left, splitting a large pile of wood.
Ellie never asked them to attend the Bliss church with her, knowing for one thing that they had services in the Fairway schoolhouse on an intermittent basis, and also reluctant to stir up the curiosity their presence in Bliss would be certain to arouse.
Even to Marfa, her dear friend and confidant, Ellie had not mentioned the name of Sam Dickson nor the astonishing account of how Old Ned had taken her, straight as an arrow, to his door. Rather, she hugged the experience to her, a treasure not to be shared. At least not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Eventually, as the weather shifted and there was an occasional soft wind to hint of winter’s demise and spring’s birth, there came a day when Ellie and Sam touched on, just touched on, a subject that was warming each heart, calling for attention but until now only wondered at, dreamed of, prayed about.
Sitting comfortably beside the fire with a cup of tea, with Hans and Gretchen absorbed at the table in a game of checkers, Sam and Ellie, albeit hesitantly, guardedly, talked about the affairs of life that had brought them to this hour: he having lost his wife, she having broken off what was intended to result in a partnership for life, and the strange twist of fate that had caused them to meet so surprisingly, so summarily, almost abruptly.
Sam stretched out his long legs, leaned back, his cup raised and his eyes staring into it, and said the very thing Ellie had been daring to entertain: “Doesn’t it seem almost unbelievable? I mean, how many times have you been lost in a storm? Doesn’t it seem, Ellie, as if a hand greater than our own arranged our meeting?”
Ellie’s eyes, though she never knew it, shone like stars and filled wit
h an unspeakable sort of hope as she lifted them to his, now searching her own. “Oh, Sam, I’d like to think so! But... but I have to remember—the reason I broke off with Tom is... is still very much a hindrance in my planning a future with... with anyone.”
“So,” Sam said gently, “we’ll just leave it there. I’m sure you, as I, pray about such matters—”
“All the time!” Her voice was earnest, almost desperate.
Looking at him sitting there, natural, relaxed, the picture of strength at rest, Ellie could think of no fine masculine trait that was not present in the form and face and character of Sam Dickson.
And she simply hadn’t the courage to tell him of the death—murder—of old Aunt Tilda all those years ago and the conviction that she was responsible.
Arguments presented themselves to her now as before: She had only been a child—yes; doing a good Samaritan deed—yes; in the eyes of the world she was unaccused... yes.
But still, a woman, a helpless old woman, had died because of someone’s carelessness. And try as she might, Ellie could not rid herself of the suspicion, perhaps the conviction, that it was she.
Though Sam waited for her to say more, Ellie could not bring herself to spread out before him and between them the miserable tale, pour out her abject fears, tell of her frightening nightmares. The moment passed; Sam took a sip of tea, and the subject was changed.
Often and often, as winter slipped away, Ellie was on the verge of confiding her problem to him. But fearing it might make a difference—if not with him then with her—she bit it back. She looked at the children and loved them. She looked at Sam—and loved him.
When Sam said he would be responsible for her fieldwork, Ellie’s heart leaped. To see him often! To fix dinner for him! To have the dear children underfoot during the summer days!
It was because of the fieldwork that Marfa eventually learned about Sam. With a blessed chinook and the rapid melting of the snow, with black fields lying rich and ready, with hens becoming broody, with cows calving, with garden spots calling for attention, Marfa could be excused for her concerned probing.
“Can George be a help?” she asked one day, having stopped by Ellie’s on her way to the store. “Ellie,” she urged, when Ellie hesitated, “have you made any arrangements for the work?”
“Actually, Marfa,” Ellie said in an offhand fashion, thereby exciting her friend’s suspicions immediately,“I have. There’s a Sam Dickson... from Fairway. Have you heard of him?”
Marfa had. Districts were small, clustered close around their individual schools so that no child had too far to go, and Fairway was dependent on the Bliss store for supplies. And though they were isolated, they were not ignorant. News in the backwoods traveled as quickly as a passing rig.
“I know of him,” Marfa said, eyes thoughtful. “Didn’t his wife die last year?”
Ellie nodded, playing casually with small Bonney’s plump hand. “He’s going to do the fieldwork for me. I’ll manage the rest somehow—”
“Wait a minute, Ellie Bonney! How did this come about? Where did you meet him to talk to him that personally? What’s going on here?”
“Oh, Marfa!” Ellie laughed lightly. “He’s just a neighbor taking on some extra work. He’ll share in the harvest proceeds, of course—”
“Ellie Bonney!” Marfa said again, crossly this time. “You can’t fool me! What’s going on here?”
With a sigh, knowing she couldn’t mislead her friend and trusting her completely, Ellie gave in and confided the account—the rather romantic account—of her immurement at the Dickson home... overnight... in the snowstorm and the subsequent meetings with Sam Dickson.
When Marfa finally rose to go, it was to give Ellie a warm hug and say, almost tearfully, “Oh, Ellie! It’s time something good happened for you! I hope—I do hope—”
“Don’t say it!” Ellie interrupted with a shaky laugh. “Although... if you’re like me... you may imagine it.
“But oh, Marfa—if you ever prayed, pray with me about this!”
When the last worn boot had scuffed its way through the door, when the final shriek of childish voices had ceased and the last hoofbeat faded away, Birdie sat alone at her desk, with only the sound of the Drop Octagonal breaking the silence. For some reason the usually unobtrusive tick seemed to swell in sound until it reverberated through the room, calling for her attention, calling insistently.
In obedience, Birdie’s mind groped back a year ago, almost to the day, and the moment she had taken a scrap of paper and a pencil and deliberately and cheerlessly totted up the clock’s unrelenting counting of the passage of her life.
Now, on an impulse, she opened a drawer of miscellaneous items and scrabbled around until she found it—the crumpled piece of paper she had recovered from the kindling box and hidden away: Sixty ticks per minute... 3,600 ticks for every hour... 86,400 ticks per day. Birdie’s eyes slid away from the scribbling that so baldly pointed out the vast number of seconds that had ticked emptily away. It was too sickening to contemplate.
But her head knew what her heart refused to hear: A few million ticks had tolled away the sum total of her life, bringing her to this hour as lonely, as unfulfilled as ever.
A year, twelve months, 365 days, thousands of hours, millions of minutes—gone, all gone; it didn’t bear thinking about!
And still the clock ticked on.
In cadence with the relentless ticking, certain words began rolling over and over in Birdie’s mind until, listening, giving heed, she focused on the words of the last letter she had received from her silent correspondent. Ever since first reading them, she had been aware that they had dropped, willy-nilly, into her heart, surfacing from time to time in a gentle, persistent way. Suddenly it seemed important to read them again, to understand them, to get to the bottom of them, to make them her own.
With hands that shook now—so great was her dismay over her meaningless days and the urgency of the impression—Birdie turned to the desk drawer and withdrew the last quotation she had received. Though not from the Bible, it was spiritual in content and, like the Bible quotations, struck and quivered in her heart like an arrow to its mark. This unknown, unseen person, through his beautiful, meaningful, and persistent words, had witnessed to her as no preacher had ever done. And not seeing him, she could not refute what was said, could offer no argument, could only feel this growing sense of his confidence in Christ and her own emptiness.
Once again she read:
Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with spirit can meet—
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.
—Tennyson
It mattered not who wrote it, who copied it, who quoted it; it was the Holy Spirit Himself who spoke it now, piercingly and sweetly, into the hollow that was the heart of Birdie Wharton. It was as though He said, “I’m the one your heart is yearning for. Speak to me, for I’m listening. Come to me, for I’m here.”
With a cry that was half anguish, half yearning, Birdie dropped her head onto the old scarred Bliss desk and there laid her burdens, her loneliness, her emptiness. There her wanderings ceased. There she cried out her repentance; there she received the acceptance she had been seeking; there she found the happiness that had eluded her. There she found God.
Finally, raising her head, it was to hear the Drop Octagonal chime out the hour: four o’clock, and Birdie marked it down as the happiest hour of them all, and blessed the clock that indicated, by its faithful reminder, that there was time enough to know life as it ought to be. There was time to do the things she ought to do.
First of all, with steady hands she searched through the desk, searching out any vagrant quotations that might be there, bringing them to the light of day; slowly, methodically, with a lifted heart, she tore them into shreds.
What they said was good and true; some would linger in her heart, used of the Lord to point the way, to encourage her walk, to bring beauty and blessing. But the slavish attention she had giv
en them was broken; her reliance on them and on the one who sent them was finished. Birdie’s world, rather than crashing like the biblical house built on the sand, was rising strong and sturdy on the solid rock.
Watching the little pile grow in front of her, Birdie felt like putting a match to it, so free was she. She would always be grateful for the part the quotations had played in bringing her to this moment; someday, perhaps, she would have occasion to meet and thank her human ministering angel. But there would be no more unhealthy attention given him.
Birdie would henceforth search out her own Scriptures, led by Another, who cared for her and knew her needs specifically, One upon whom she could call at any time. There would be no waiting for surreptitious messages through the mail; her daily bread would be supplied as she read and absorbed God’s Word for herself.
Without hesitation Birdie forsook the unknown for the known. Her reliance, henceforth, would be on God’s Word. And she would come to know the writer intimately.
The last shred had barely dropped from her hand to the wastebasket when there was the sound of a rig outside, then voices. Turning, she was facing the door when Big Tiny stepped inside, followed by an elderly man and... and a young man.
Though Big Tiny spoke, Birdie’s eyes were fixed on the youngest member of the trio, her eyes puzzled.
“Miss Wharton, I met these folks in the Bliss store. They were inquiring about you...”
Big Tiny’s words, only half heard, continued. “This is Mr. Abner Jacoby, and his grandson...”
“Davey. Davey Gann. Davey!”
With a cry Birdie was around the desk, across the floor, her arms reaching for and clasping the young man, who—unashamed—was spouting tears. He was taller than Birdie; his head dropped to her shoulder, and his thin, young body shook with the feelings that could not be contained. Nor did he try.