Winter Is Not Forever

by Janette Oke

  I looked back at the gun and then let my shoulders droop in resignation as I turned my back on it and headed for the barn.

  Somehow Mary and Grandpa had managed to get Chester into his stall. They were talking in quiet tones as I entered the barn.

  “ … a good clean break,” Grandpa was saying. “No protruding bone.”

  “We need to keep his weight off it,” Mary replied, beginning to gentle Chester with her hands and voice.

  “How?” It was only one word from Grandpa, but it spoke for both of us.

  “We need to construct some kind of sling—to hold him up, off his feet.”

  Grandpa eyed the stall. It wouldn’t be easy.

  “I saw Pa do it once with a critter,” went on Mary. “Worked it on a pulley system.”

  Grandpa chewed on a corner of his mustache as he thought deeply. “Might work,” he said at length.

  “You keep him warm and try to quiet him, and I’ll go get Pa,” said Mary. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Grandpa or to me.

  It was an awfully long time until Mr. Turley got there. Mary didn’t come with him to the barn, but went right on to the house.

  I had spent the time soothing Chester. We had thrown a heavy horse blanket over him and rubbed his body down with clean straw. He was quieter. The fright seemed to have left him. He still quivered every now and then and snorted loudly when he tried to shift his weight.

  Mary’s pa went right to work. He called out orders so quickly that I was running to keep up. In a couple of hours we had Chester fitted with a body sling, and then with the pulley system Mr. Turley had rigged up above him, we gently hoisted him until his three feet just barely touched the floor. Chester’s right front leg was raised just a shade higher so that he couldn’t put any weight on it at all.

  Chester, of course, didn’t understand the arrangement. He snorted and pitched, trying to get proper control of his circumstances. It was some time until we were able to quiet him, and by then I was just sure it wasn’t going to work.

  As soon as Chester was settled down, Mr. Turley began to work on the leg. It had swollen a good deal, so it was difficult for him to feel the break. And any pressure on the area sent Chester flailing again.

  At length Mr. Turley stood up. “A real shame!” he said soberly. “Such a beautiful horse.”

  I thought he was going to agree with my first response, to say that nothing could be done for Chester—but he didn’t.

  “Good clean break,” he said instead. “Should heal nicely, barring any unforeseen complications.”

  The breath I had been holding came out slowly.

  Then with the help of Grandpa and me, Mr. Turley got a leg support on Chester. By the time we were through, we were all worn out.

  Grandpa invited Mr. Turley up to the house for a cup of coffee and I slumped down in the straw, my back to the manger and one hand on Chester. I just sat there—wondering, praying, hoping with all my heart that this beautiful animal would be all right.

  I didn’t even hear the door open.

  “Josh?” It was Mary. She spoke in a whisper. “Josh?”

  The barn lantern flickered with the slight movement of air from the door, the wavering flame sending the shivers of light dancing cross Mary’s face. She stood there, holding out to me a steaming mug of chicken soup. I took it in still-trembling hands.

  Without another word she lowered herself to the straw beside me and laid a hand on my arm.

  “He’s gonna be okay,” she whispered. “He’s gonna be fine.” I tried a weak smile.

  “How’s Matilda?” I asked, wanting to forget just for a moment the pain of Chester.

  “She’s okay now. She’s making dessert for supper. She’s been praying—steady—ever since it happened.”

  I sighed and turned back to Chester.

  “You really think he’ll be all right?” I asked Mary. Her smile was a little wobbly.

  “Look at him,” she said rather than making me any promises. “Pa says his leg felt real good. The bone seems straight—it’s just a matter of time.”

  I looked at Chester. He was much calmer now. I almost believed what Mary was saying to me.

  I turned to her. “Thanks,” I said, taking her hand. “Thanks.”

  I should have said a lot more. Thanks for stopping me from doing something foolish. Thanks for riding old Maude through the cold and snow for your pa. Thanks for bringing me the hot soup. Thanks for your support. But all that I could say was “thanks.”

  She gave my hand a slight squeeze, rose to her feet, and returned to the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 26

  Willie

  CHESTER ADAPTED REMARKABLY WELL to his body harness. Maybe he enjoyed the extra attention. I spent a great deal of time in the barn with him, and Matilda visited him often with treats of apples and sugar lumps. Mary inspected his entire body at least once a day, watching for any sores that might result from the harness straps.

  The swelling began to go down in the leg, and after Mr. Turley had taken a look at it a few times, he suggested putting on a new leg brace. Chester hardly complained at all as it was done.

  After a few weeks the brace was taken off altogether, but Chester was still not allowed to put his weight on it. I began to massage and exercise it. I wanted to be sure that the knee and ankle would still work well. Chester was able to move it with no problem—with my help, of course.

  Finally the day came when we lowered the hammock and let him test his weight. He seemed reluctant at first and snorted his concern. I rubbed his neck and spoke to him ’til he calmed down.

  We didn’t leave him on all four legs for long. We didn’t want to tire him. But every day he was allowed to stand for a longer period of time.

  At last I began walking him. At first he had a bit of a limp, and then even that disappeared. It was almost too good to be true, but it looked like Chester was going to be just fine.

  As the winter wore on, we all went about our daily chores. I fired up our new tractor every once in a while, just to make sure it was still working. Then Grandpa had the bright idea of dragging a log behind it to clear snow on our road. Uncle Charlie got in a bit of teasing about my “new toy.”

  We spent the evenings together in the big farmhouse kitchen, Pixie curled up contentedly on the lap of one or another. Those evenings were special times. On such nights, we were comforted by the thought of being snuggled in the kitchen, a warm fire crackling in the big cookstove. We could often hear another storm as it swept through, the wind howling and raging and rattling the loose tin on the corner of the eaves trough. Every time I listened to it, I reminded myself to fix it come the first nice day. But when the nice days came, I was always busy with something else.

  Every time I went to town—and I didn’t go any more often than absolutely necessary on those cold days—I picked up another bundle of Matilda’s papers to help pass the boredom of the winter days. It had been several weeks since I had heard from Willie, and I had been watching for a letter from him—but the letter didn’t come.

  Then one day I heard the farm dog bark a greeting, and I looked out the frosted window to see Uncle Nat flip the reins of Dobbin over the gate post. He came toward the house in long, quick strides, and I wondered if he was cold or just in a hurry.

  I met him at the door with enthusiasm. It had been a while since he had been out.

  Mary pushed the coffeepot forward and added fuel to the fire so that Uncle Nat could warm himself a bit, and Grandpa and Uncle Charlie pulled up chairs to the table, getting ready for a good visit.

  Uncle Nat sat down and indicated the chair next to him. I pulled it up and leaned forward, eager to hear how things were going in town.

  “How’s Chester?” asked Uncle Nat.

  I beamed. “He’s doing fine. I can’t believe it.You should see him. He can move around almost as good as before.”

  Uncle Nat smiled and nodded his head.

  “How’re Lou and the kids?” asked Grandpa for all of us. �
�Busy,” laughed Uncle Nat. “Real busy. That Jonathan!

  Lou hardly knows how to keep him occupied in this cold weather.”

  We all laughed, knowing enough about active Jon to feel a bit sorry for Aunt Lou.

  “You out callin’?” Grandpa asked.

  “No,” said Uncle Nat slowly. His head lowered and his face sobered. We all waited, knowing instinctively that there was more. He lifted his head again and looked directly at me.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said. “I thought you should know. It’s Willie.”

  “Willie?”

  “He’s gone, Josh.”

  I didn’t understand.

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “Word came to the Corbins by telegram this morning. Willie died a couple of days ago.”

  “But there must be some mistake!” I hardly recognized my own voice, hoarse with shock. “Willie is in South Africa. How do they know—?”

  “The Mission Society sent the telegram.”

  “But there must be some mistake,” I repeated, not wanting to accept or believe what I had just been told. I started to get up from my chair. Uncle Nat put a hand on my shoulder and eased me back down.

  “There’s no mistake, Josh,” he sorrowfully assured me. “The Mission Board sent their deepest regrets. Willie is dead.”

  I heard someone crying, and then I realized that it was me. I buried my head in my arms and cried until the sobs shook my whole body.

  “Not Willie!” my voice was saying over and over. “Dear God, please, not Willie.”

  And all the time a part of my brain kept saying, It’s all a mistake. You’ll see. They’ll soon discover that they were wrong. It was someone else—not Willie.

  In the background I could hear voices, but the words never really registered. Someone was comforting a weeping Mary. Someone was trying to comfort me.

  It was a long time until I was able to get some measure of control. Grandpa was asking more questions.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Some kind of fever—malaria, they expect.”

  “Was he sick for long?”

  “They still don’t know.”

  “How are his folks?”

  “Taking it hard.”

  It seemed so unreal, senseless. Willie had hardly arrived out there, and now he was gone.

  And then I thought of Camellia. And I began to cry again. “Poor Camellia. Poor Camellia,” I muttered over and over.

  That storm passed, too, and I sat, head bowed, shuddering and hiccuping as I wiped my eyes and blew my nose on the handkerchief I found in my hands.

  “Would you like to go to your room?” Uncle Nat asked, and I must have nodded. Uncle Nat helped me up the stairs and to my bed. I threw myself down there and began to weep again, but it seemed so useless. I started to pray instead. For Willie—though I don’t know why. Willie was safe enough. For the Corbins; I knew the whole family would be devastated. I had to go to the Corbins. I had to let them know that I too shared their suffering over the news of Willie’s untimely death.

  I prayed for Mrs. Foggelson; Willie was to have been her son-in-law. But mostly I prayed for Camellia. How would she ever bear it? She was all alone at the college, preparing herself to serve with Willie in his Africa.

  She would come home now, broken perhaps, but she would come home.

  I went back to the kitchen and splashed water on my swollen face. Uncle Nat had already left, but Grandpa and Uncle Charlie sat silently at the kitchen table. Untouched cups of cold coffee sat before them. They looked at me without saying a word. Mary was nowhere to be seen, but her bedroom door was closed tightly.

  “I’m going to the Corbins,” I said quietly, and Grandpa nodded.

  I wasn’t sure Chester’s leg was well enough, so I put a bridle on old Maude.

  I didn’t bother with the saddle; just grabbed up the reins and rode bareback. Maude wasn’t the easiest horse in the world to ride, but maybe I took some satisfaction in my discomfort.

  I found the Corbin family tear-stained and desolate. Mrs. Corbin sat in a rocker by the kitchen stove, saying over and over as she rocked, “My poor boy. My poor boy. My poor Willie.” When she saw me she held out her arms and I went to her. She held me so tightly that I could scarcely breathe, and I knew she was trying to hold on to a little part of Willie.

  Mr. Corbin paced back and forth across the kitchen floor, his face hard and his hands twisting together. Other family members huddled in little groups here and there, whispering and crying by turn.

  And then a very strange thing happened. SueAnn, who had been crying just like the rest of them, wiped away her tears, took a deep breath and managed a weak smile.

  “I know God doesn’t make mistakes,” she said. “There will be good, some reason in all this, even if we can’t think of any right now.”

  They began to talk, in soft whispers at first, with frequent bursts of tears, but gradually the tears subsided and the praise became more positive. There was even an occasional chuckle as someone recalled a funny incident from Willie’s life. Soon the whole atmosphere of the room had changed. Mrs. Corbin had stopped rocking and moaning, and Mr. Corbin was no longer pacing. Someone brought the family Bible and they began to read, passing the precious book from hand to hand as they shared its truths.

  Later, when I left for home, the Corbin family was still grieving, but each member had found a source of comfort beyond themselves.

  I waited a day or two before I called on Mrs. Foggelson. I didn’t think I could manage it earlier. I still felt a dull ache deep within me, and I was afraid if I tried to talk about Willie I would break up again.

  Mrs. Foggelson met me at the door. “Oh, Josh!” she said with a little cry and she moved quickly toward me, her arms outstretched.

  I held her for a few minutes. She was crying against my shoulder, but when she moved back she quickly whisked away the tears and motioned me to the sofa.

  We talked about Willie for a long time; we both needed it. I asked about Camellia.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “Crushed!” said Mrs. Foggelson. “She’s crushed—but she’ll make it. We’ve talked on the telephone a couple of times.”

  “When will she be home?”

  “Today. On the afternoon train. That was the soonest she could come.”

  There was a pause; then she added, “It seems like such a long way to come for such a short time, but we both felt it important that she be here for the Memorial Service.”

  “Short time? What do you mean?”

  “She has to go back right away. She’s writing important exams next week.”

  “You mean she’s going to stay on in school?” I couldn’t believe it. Why? Willie was no longer there to draw Camellia to South Africa.

  Of course, I reasoned, Camellia would not want to quit classes halfway through a year. I admired her for that. But she quit the Interior Design course before she had completed it. I was puzzled, unable to understand the difference.

  “If she doesn’t write these exams, she loses a whole semester. That would set her back considerably.”

  I nodded, a bit surprised that Camellia still wanted to be a nurse.

  I went with Mrs. Foggelson to meet Camellia’s train. Some of the Corbin family were there as well. There were more tears. Camellia went from one to another, being held and comforted. When it was my turn there was nothing that we could say to each other. I just held her and let her weep, and my heart nearly broke all over again. The three of us walked on home through the chill winter air and Mrs. Foggelson set about making us all a pot of tea.

  “Your ma says you need to go back soon,” I said to Camellia.

  She nodded slowly, a weary hand brushing back her curls. “You’re still set on nursing?”

  “Willie said that is the biggest need out there—and who knows? If there had been a nurse there, Willie might not have died.”

  I could understand that much but not what it had to do with her s
ituation. “I just wish I hadn’t wasted so much time,” she went on as though talking to herself. “If I had started my training at the same time Willie did …” She left the statement hanging.

  “But you didn’t know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” Her tone was tired, empty; then she smiled softly. “But at least I’ll have the joy of serving the people that Willie learned to love.”

  It f inally got through to me then. Camellia was still planning on going to Africa.

  “You’re going to go after this?” It seemed out of the question.

  “Of course,” she said simply, as though I shouldn’t even need to ask. “They need me.”

  CHAPTER 27

  God’s Call

  THE THREE OF US made it through the Memorial Service; Mrs. Foggelson asked me to sit with her and Camellia. And then we saw Camellia off on the train again. She held her mother a long, long time as the tears flowed.

  “Mamma, I love you so much,” she sobbed. “If I didn’t have to go, I’d stay with you—you know that.”

  Mrs. Foggelson seemed to understand. She looked Camellia straight in the eyes and said earnestly, “Remember—always, always stand true to your convictions, to what the Lord is telling you.”

  They hugged one another again, and then Camellia turned to me.

  “Thank you, Josh, for always being there. For being such a dear, dear friend to Willie and me.” I couldn’t say anything in reply. I just held her for a brief moment and then let her go.

  I was restless over the next several days. I couldn’t seem to think, to sleep. I didn’t care to eat—I couldn’t even really concentrate when I prayed. My prayers were all broken sentences, pleas of isolated words, fragments of thoughts.

  I walked through the days in a stupor. I went through the motions of chores each day. The animals were cared for. Chester got his daily massage and exercise. I moved. I functioned. I spoke. Occasionally I even heard myself laugh, but it was as though another person were existing in my body.

  I had to make a trip to town. We needed some groceries and the whole household seemed anxious for a new set of papers.