by Leisha Kelly
This time was worse. This was the worst thing since Mama’s passing, and we wouldn’t have our pa with us today if Mr. Wortham hadn’t found him just in time when he’d took off then. It was a chance I just couldn’t take.
Seeing him all humped over made me hurt inside. I wished I could go and put my arm around him, but I thought sure he’d push me away. At least he looked to be prayin’, and I figured that was the thing he needed most.
I sighed deep, thinking of our growing-up years, the bad times and good times jumblin’ around together in my mind. I thought of Pa sick the first Christmas morning after Mama died, hungover from drinking the night before. He was a mess, weak as he’d ever been. But before the winter was out, he’d recovered himself enough to be some help to us, and he’d saved Mr. Wortham out of the pond ice and made himself a hero.
Surely it could work that way again. He’d recover himself. Somehow. We all would.
I sighed. Pa hadn’t moved. When he got ready to, I’d go over to him. I’d offer my shoulder, or anything at all I could do to be some help. I wondered if he was thinking on Joe. It was hard not to. I could picture him in the fields with his hair all sweaty, or strugglin’ over his books, ’cause even though he wasn’t a very good student, it’d been important to him. Willy used to throw me in the pond, clothes and all, and Joe’d be the only one to help fish me out and scold him for it. Joe was always kind. He’d helped Lizbeth with the little ones when she was havin’ to try an’ take Mama’s place.
With a sigh, I tried to push my mind off those things ’cause I knew I’d end up cryin’ if I didn’t.
God, I don’t understand it. This world don’t make any sense right now. Joe oughta be right here fellin’ trees for firewood, or seekin’ after a girlfriend, and instead he’s just gone, before ever gettin’ a chance to see what the rest of life might have been like.
I felt bad thinkin’ a prayer like that. Awful feelings had been tryin’ to drag my mind down for months, and even though I guess I’d known right about Joe, I still didn’t want to give in to the sad thoughts. I had to be able to be strong and keep up with everythin’ that was gonna need done, no matter what my feelings. Because the world didn’t just stop, much as it seemed like maybe it should.
All of a sudden a line jumped to my memory from that Hamlet book Mrs. Wortham had read: “How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world.”
I looked over to Pa and hoped he wouldn’t agree with words like that. It didn’t seem like the right attitude to take. But the world made no sense anymore. Maybe it was worth nothin’ at all, at least in the eternal scheme of things. And that would make Joe the blessed one, to be gone from here, from an unprofitable, stale, and weary world, and into a better one.
But it’d be foolishness to confuse Shakespeare with Scripture, and if I needed to train my thoughts on any-thin’ right now to provide any comfort, any answers, it had better be the Word of God. In this world is tribulation, I told myself immediately. But the trials of our faith are more precious than gold.
There was reason to this world. There was purpose. Because God didn’t create in vain. He gives us blessings, he allows us trials, so we can grow and learn and bless somebody else. God’s the God who gives rest to the heavy-laden and comforts those who mourn. I thought of some of the words that had caused Jesus trouble when he read them in the synagogue, and words that came right after them in the book of Isaiah: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me; because he hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted . . . to comfort all that mourn . . . to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness . . .”
That’s what we need, God, I prayed. Beauty in this situation somehow. Oil of joy for the mourning. A garment of praise for this heaviness I feel. Help us.
I sat on a stump, wishing I knew better what to do. I didn’t want to make Pa mad by walkin’ up closer after he’d told me so plain he wanted to be alone. But it seemed kind of awful to let him have his way even this much. It didn’t seem right for him to be kneeling there alone.
He still had his back to me. The wind was chilly, and I realized for the first time that neither of us had a hat. I started prayin’ for him. After Mama died, it’d been hard for any of us to think or do anythin’ for days. What would happen this time?
I wondered what Pa would be like when he got up. I wondered if he’d cuss me an’ tell me to go home again, or if he’d want to come home as bad as I was hopin’ he would. I really did love him. And I wished I knew a way to help him. But I wasn’t sure there was anythin’ I could do if he didn’t want nothin’ done.
I prayed again for Pa and Willy, Robert and Kirk and the rest of my family and the Worthams. Then I figured I oughta go over and try to talk to Pa because it’d been a while. But before I got two steps I started cryin’. I knew I was cryin’ over Joe, plus Willy and Pa and even my own self about how bad it all felt. I cried for my whole family, because I knew how hard it was gonna be for everybody.
And then I saw Pa turn around. The woods was so quiet I heard the crunch of his boot when he started gettin’ up. And I dried my eyes real quick again, not sure what to expect.
“Still here, huh, Franky?” He looked pale and lost. He didn’t meet my eyes.
“I thought you might need me.”
I saw him fix his eyes on a icy wild gooseberry bush that was still holding a dried berry or two. I sure wished I could read what he was thinkin’. “Was hopin’ you’d give up an’ go home,” he said sorta low.
“Well, Pa. It’s cold. I didn’t feel right about leavin’ you to walk home alone.”
“Maybe it’s just as well, boy,” he said without lookin’ up. “’Fore I get shuck a’ you, I’m gonna have to talk at you. I guess it ain’t gonna leave me alone.”
His words left me cold inside. He was still planning on leavin’. What would he say? Did he think it would help matters to tear me down first? I just stood, unable to answer him. No matter how badly he might think he needed to sound off at somebody like he’d done so many times before, me listenin’ to his hateful words wasn’t gonna bring my brother back or bring any comfort to our family. Didn’t he see that?
“You’re botherin’ my mind, Franky,” he started. “Ever since that night in the schoolhouse.”
He paused, and I forced myself to answer him. “I don’t understand.”
“You remember what you told me then? Same thing you said a little while ago.”
I nodded, my heart poundin’ furious in my chest. “I love you, Pa.”
He kept starin’ straight at that bush. “Maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you keep after me. An’ Lizbeth an’ Emmie’ve tol’ me they love me. Rorey too, once or twice.”
“I’m sure they do. We all do.”
“Ain’t but two a’ you boys ever said it, though. You an’ Joe. Why do you think that is?”
I hung my head. Just thinkin’ ’bout Joe made my insides feel like they were being squeezed. “I don’t know. Maybe him an’ me failed at learnin’ by example.”
He laughed. Just one short burst, but it cut at me something awful. “You’re right there,” he said. “Don’t guess I’ve said it much, have I?”
“No, Pa. You haven’t.”
“Well. Maybe that’s why you been botherin’ me.”
He was still staring at the same bush, lookin’ almost like he had in the schoolhouse, like a specter even though it was daylight this time.
“Can we go home, Pa? Please?”
“Hang it all, Franky! There you start in again, when I’m tryin’ to tell you somethin’! Why don’t you just shut up an’ listen?”
I closed my eyes, not sure what to expect. And I could hear the hesitation in what he said next.
“You tol’ me in the schoolhouse that you love me. You said it twice, an’ again today. I know real well that I ain’t never said it to you. I ain’t never tol’ none a’ you
. Never thought I oughta need to. But you don’t know it, do you? An’ I got a boy gone . . .” His voice broke. “Maybe two, that never did know . . .”
He stopped, and tears filled my eyes so quick there weren’t no holdin’ them back. “Oh, Pa—”
“Don’t say nothin’. I gotta talk. I gotta tell you some-thin’ I can’t say but once. You’re gonna have to tell the rest. You can do it. You’re better’n me at talkin’. And you’s the one I gotta tell face to face ’cause I reckon I give you cause to doubt it the most. I love you, son. I love all a’ you. Ever’ single one . . .”
He couldn’t go on. Suddenly, my pa was cryin’. I stood stiff for a minute, not knowin’ what to do. What would he want me to do?
But then I couldn’t wait any longer. I went to him. I held him. He put his arms around me too, and we both cried. I used to dream of Pa holdin’ me this way, but I never thought it would ever happen. I’m sorry for both of us that it didn’t happen until somethin’ so bad come along that we was too weak to do anythin’ else.
“Pa—”
“It ain’t your fault, boy. I don’t want you to go blamin’ yourself for no part a’ nothin’ in this, do you understand me?”
I tried to nod, wonderin’ why he felt he needed to tell me that. How could anyone think of blame for anyone but the enemy? Joe’d been so far away in the war.
“You tell the rest of ’em ever’thin’ I said.”
“Pa, you can tell ’em—”
“Nah. I tol’ you I can’t say it but once.”
“But Pa—”
“I’m wantin’ to go to town now.”
I knew he didn’t want me to argue. He wanted me to accept somethin’ I’d never gained from him in my life and go home thinkin’ that was enough. But I couldn’t. “Pa, I meant what I told you. I’m comin’ too.”
“An’ I tol’ you I can’t deal with no more.” He pulled away and started toward the trees.
“Pa—it’s crazy! We oughta go home! If you wanna walk eight miles in the cold, then we’ll go, but we belong at home where they’re gonna need us. This don’t make no sense—”
“There ain’t no sense to nothin’. Wouldn’t be no sense me sittin’ ’round home.”
He was getting further away, and I ran after him. “This won’t help, Pa. Drinkin’ won’t bring Joe back. It don’t make nothin’ better.”
“An’ you know somethin’ that does? Huh, boy? You got a Scripture for this? Do you? Let’s hear it.”
He stopped and stared at me, and I longed for words that would be some help. “I can tell you Scriptures ’bout how much God loves us, Pa. That’s the important thing to remember. Despite all the trouble in this world, God loves us so much that he saved us. He promised eternal life, where we can be with him and see our loved ones again.”
“You reckon Joe’s in heaven, do you?”
I sucked in a deep breath. “I believe it. I ain’t got no doubt. I know he prayed plenty a’ times, ’specially that time our church had the outside meetin’ when he was fourteen. You remember?”
“Yeah,” he said pretty solemn. “What about your mama? Got any doubts ’bout her?”
“No. I don’t have no doubts.”
“What about me, then? Will I see ’em when I die?”
He stood lookin’ almost like a child. But his words chilled me deep anyhow. I used to pray for Pa to ask questions like this, to be hungry to know that he was saved. But now my heart was poundin’ in my throat, and it was hard to talk to him. I didn’t like him asking about his own self dyin’. I didn’t like him thinkin’ on that. But I had to tell him something. He needed to know, and so did I. “Pa, I can’t answer that so well as you can. I’ve seen you praying. But is it true in your heart? Do you believe what Jesus done for us?”
“I heard the words plenty a’ times,” he answered me. “An’ I said the words the pastor tol’ me.”
“But do you believe it?” I asked him, my eyes fillin’ up with tears again.
He bowed his head. “Yeah. Yeah, boy, I reckon I do.” I hugged him again, but this time he stood stiff and didn’t hug me back. “Then you can be sure, Pa,” I told him. “If you prayed and you believe. We’re gonna see ’em again someday.”
He nodded, and he talked just as stiff as he’d felt. “Get back home. You oughta be there. You can tell ’em what I said.” He turned around.
“Pa?”
“Don’t fret. An’ don’t follow me. I ain’t gonna be out all night. It’s gonna be too blame cold.”
I didn’t want to disobey, but I still couldn’t let him go. “I’ll come with you. It’ll be all right.”
He glared at me. “There ain’t nothin’ all right about it, boy. An’ no way to make it better.”
I took a deep breath. Help me, Lord. I’m scared of what I’m still seein’ in him. Even after he says he’s prayed.
He turned from me and went walkin’ into the trees. The things he’d said might seem good, to tell me after all this time that he loved us. But it made me wonder at him, like maybe he was just settlin’ things in his own mind so he wouldn’t feel guilty if he left us at a time like this. So I started walking, resolvin’ in my mind that this was just the way it was gonna be. Pa too hardheaded to stop, and me too hardheaded to go back without him. “You’re acting a fool, Franky,” he told me.
“I’m finally learnin’ by example,” I answered him back.
He turned and eyed me coldly. “What’s the matter with you?”
I was careful not to back down from his gaze. “I thought we settled that already. We love you. We need you. An’ you ain’t gettin’ shuck a’ me.”
“So what if I’m gonna get me a bottle?” he suddenly demanded. “What’s so bad about that? I’ve done it before. Can’t you let it be?”
“This ain’t like before. You ain’t lost a son before.”
He took a deep breath, and it seemed like the weight of it was taking extra effort.
“I’m scared for you,” I told him flat out. “You tell me you can’t handle no more. An’ you been thinkin’ a’ leavin’. Pa, I know what things was like when we lost Mama.”
It was hard to see him clear; my eyes had suddenly got so damp and blurry. But his look had somehow softened. “Franky. I shoulda knowed better. There ain’t much use tanglin’ with you. I figured I could get ahead a’ you out here. But I shoulda knowed you’d keep up till you backed me down.”
“Pa—”
“You don’t have to say nothin’ else. I’ll come home. You’re right anyway. Drinkin’ don’t solve nothin’. It just gets in the way a’ thinkin’ ’bout it for a while.”
I hardly knew what to say. For him to back down was what I’d prayed for, but I still wasn’t sure of him. He still looked wild. We walked side by side back through the cold timber, and he told me he didn’t want to talk to anybody else. He just wanted to be left alone in his room a while. That bothered me. But just havin’ Pa home, silent or not, would be better than everybody frettin’ over him being gone. They didn’t need no more worry, that was for sure. And surely he’d be better after a while, like he was before. Surely he’d be okay.
We didn’t say nothin’ else on the way. But at least he was sober. At least he’d be home. Bad as everything else hurt, havin’ that much seemed like a victory.
27
Sarah
I wanted to get back to the Hammonds’ house so bad it hurt. And I knew it was for Frank. I couldn’t shake the thought of him getting knocked into a chair and then just minutes later taking my hand and stepping up to protect me from his father, when it was his father who had knocked him down. What would happen now that they were alone? Mr. Hammond flew apart in the bad times, and he was way too quick to take it out on Frank.
It was hard to breathe, all of this hit me so hard. By the time we’d got home, Bert was so upset he could hardly talk. He cried, and I knew he was still feeling sick. Mom hugged him and then said that he and she ought to ride back to be there for Frank and their pa
in plenty of time before school got out.
“No, Mrs. Wortham,” Bert said. “We can’t ride back. Frank said to take the horses an’ leave ’em here. I know what he’s thinkin’. He don’t wanna give Pa no easy way to leave.”
My mother nodded, the tears working in her eyes. “But I don’t want you walking back through the cold, Bert. We can’t have you getting worse. Sarah, I’m sorry to send you out again, honey, but you’re going to have to go to the Posts. I’d go myself, but I think I’d better stay with Bert.”
I nodded. She hugged me, and suddenly my faithful, strong mother wept. I didn’t know what to do but help her to a chair and hug her back, fighting my own tears. “I’ll go, Mom. Don’t worry. It’s really not that far.”
I could feel her taking in a deep breath, steadying herself. She nodded and pulled away a little. “We need Mr. Post to come by here, if he will, and take Bert and me back over to the Hammonds. We need to be there when the other children get home. And I expect that Frank and George could use some help. Then if Mr. Post would go to town—he needs to tell Samuel. That will be enough. Samuel will get word to Sam and Lizbeth, and the pastor. And probably tell Rorey and Katie on their way home . . .”
She took another deep breath and rose to her feet. I could see the pain seething raw in her eyes, worse than I’d ever known it, and I knew that this news on top of all the heartache for Robert was weighing her awful bad. But she went straight to the stove and put on water to heat. “While we wait for a ride, I’m going to make Bert some tea for that cough. Put my coat on over yours, Sarah. I want you to stay warm. I’m sorry . . . to have to ask you—”
“It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay.”
She nodded, already pulling something down from the cupboard. Bert had leaned his head and arms down on to the table. I hurried. I grabbed Mom’s coat like she told me and buttoned it quick as I could. I went running out the door and kept right on running down our icy lane. The Posts’ house was only a couple of miles. I’d walked there before. But not for anything like this.