A Thousand Little Blessings

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A Thousand Little Blessings Page 2

by Claire Sanders


  Etta accompanied them to the front door, thanked them again, and watched them drive away. When the last automobile had disappeared, she slumped against the door frame and allowed the quiet to seep into her bones. Things would never be the same without her mother, but at least she and her father could relax now that everyone had left.

  Sara walked through the front parlor and hurried to Etta’s side. “Oh, Etta. Are you all right?”

  Etta straightened her spine and faced the other woman. “I’m fine.”

  Sara wrapped her arms around Etta’s shoulders and held her close. “I know I’m not your mother, but I hope you’ll call when you need something. I’m only a few minutes away.”

  Etta returned Sara’s embrace, glad to have her mother’s best friend looking out for her. Sara had been part of her mother’s life as long as Etta could remember. She’d often traveled to Pennsylvania with her mother to visit Etta at school, and her mother’s letters always contained news about what she and Sara were working on. They co-chaired church committees, worked on numerous fund-raising campaigns for the town library, and hosted one social after another. If Etta could step away from her own sorrow, she’d surely see how sorely Sara grieved the loss of her best friend. “Thank you for all your help, Sara. I couldn’t have handled everything without you.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second, but it’s the least I could do. Would you like to walk over to my house? We could have a cup of tea and a long talk, or simply sit and do nothing.”

  Sara’s house was only five minutes away, but even that short walk seemed overwhelming. “Maybe later. I want to make sure Papa gets some rest.”

  “That’s good advice for you, too.” Sara kissed Etta’s forehead and stepped through the front door. “I’ll check on you both tomorrow.”

  After watching Sara make her way to the footbridge connecting the Benson property to the Davis land, Etta closed the front door and walked quietly to the wall of windows in the dining room. Her father sat by himself in the courtyard, his head resting in his hand. “Help my Papa, Lord,” she whispered. “Only You know the depth of his grief. Only You can alleviate his pain.”

  Etta’s footsteps echoed on the stairs as she made her way to her bedroom. She’d wanted the visitors to leave, but now that the house was silent, the hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach intensified. Her mother’s gentle presence was gone from the house but not from her heart. She’d see her mother again someday, but Etta dreaded the years of sorrow that lay ahead of her.

  At the top of the staircase, Etta came face-to-face with the closed door of her mother’s sewing room. A shaft of afternoon sunlight blinded her as she swung the door open, and her mother’s scent, a blend of lavender and vanilla, wafted around her. A man’s unfinished dressing gown lay on a table, probably a gift for her father, and piles of folded fabric were stacked on a ladder-back chair. How her mother had loved to sew. Etta knew little more than how to hem a skirt or mend a torn seam, but her mother had loved to design everything from evening gowns to curtains.

  Etta sat at the machine and ran her fingers over a stack of blue and white quilt squares. Her mother hadn’t made many quilts, but she did occasionally join Sara’s quilting bees when the ladies of the church gathered to make one as a way to raise funds.

  Etta caressed her cheek with one quilt square. Just last week, her mother had been her usual busy self, softly singing a hymn as she arranged yellow roses in a crystal vase. This week, she was gone, one of the many victims snatched away by Spanish influenza.

  How long would it take until grief loosened its jagged talons? If Etta could open a doorway to heaven, she’d step right in, pay a visit, and then return to her normal life. She yearned for her mother’s loving touch, but she wouldn’t feel it again for many, many years.

  ****

  Lantana shrubs brushed the hem of Etta’s brown cotton work skirt as she stepped into her mother’s flower garden the next morning. So much needed to be done. She retrieved hand pruners from her basket of tools and began to deadhead the yellow roses.

  From the nearby stable, horses sounded their morning greetings as her father led them from their stalls and turned them out to pasture. He allowed no one to care for his prize-winning Arabians except himself, a task which included mucking their stalls. Her father, who was seldom seen wearing anything other than a three-piece suit, donned work pants and a chambray shirt to work in the stable.

  Etta pulled on her mother’s gardening gloves and dropped to her knees. Nettles grew beneath the bright green foliage of Mexican heather, and she’d learned the hard way that pulling them with bare hands would lead to painful stinging. Growing flowers was yet another skill she’d neglected to learn. But then, she’d never had to work for her mother’s affection and approval. Her mother’s esteem had been given as freely as the air she breathed.

  If only her father’s approval could be so easy to attain. It was no secret he’d wanted a son to carry on his name and his business. But complications from Etta’s birth had sealed her mother’s womb. She was his only heir, and, although he’d provided for her care and education, it had been her mother who’d lavished love and affection.

  Etta rested on her heels and watched the antics of the half-feral cats that made the stable their home. As a child, Etta had begged for a kitten as a pet, but her father hadn’t allowed that indulgence. “No animals in the house,” he’d pronounced in his strictest voice.

  “Except for little monkeys,” her mother had said with a wink and a hug, soothing away the hurt of her father’s denial.

  A painful yearning rose from Etta’s heart to her throat, and she wiped away tears with the back of her gloved hand. “Am I still your little monkey, Momma?” she whispered.

  No answer came, but the horses neighed loudly as they cavorted around the large field. The bay stallion, Antares, made his way to the lead mare, Mira. He nuzzled her neck and huffed a loud breath. Mira shook her head and turned away from him, but the stallion was undaunted. He repeated the action with the three other mares.

  How easy it was for the horses, Etta mused as she moved to another part of the garden where chickweed had invaded. The Arabians knew their places in the world and managed the give-and-take of equine society. But as a dutiful daughter who worked alongside her father six days a week, Etta was on her way to spinsterhood.

  Things could be worse, she reminded herself. The world of finance intrigued her, and maintaining a healthy balance between fiscal risk and security was challenging. If she kept at it, perhaps her father would reward her with more responsibility.

  Etta pushed a strand of hair away from her face and watched her father stroke the stallion’s neck. She loved the horses almost as much as her father did and often ended the day grooming them by his side. In June, they would travel to the state capital for the annual horse show. It had always been her mother’s favorite trip, although Etta suspected her mother went for the many social gatherings rather than anything related to equine husbandry.

  Etta repositioned herself near the green shoots of the daffodils. How her mother had loved their cheerful announcements of spring. But as Etta worked in the dirt, a chorus of horse calls pulled her attention back to the pasture.

  Antares’s head pointed to the sky as he trumpeted one squeal after another and the mares formed a circle. Perhaps they smelled a predator, or one of the horses was hurt.

  Etta rose to her feet and scanned the field.

  The mares snorted in agitation and moved restlessly in their defensive circle.

  Etta dropped the gloves into her basket of tools and walked down the hill toward the stable. The stallion galloped to the wooden fence and neighed loudly as she approached.

  “Papa?” she called as she entered the stable. The opened stall doors and the empty wheelbarrow meant her father was half-finished with his morning chores. “Papa?”

  The horses answered, but there was no response from her father.

  Etta passed through the stable, opened the g
ate that lead to the pasture, and closed it behind her.

  What was her father doing?

  Then Etta recognized a dark shape within the mares’ protective circle. “Papa!” The frigid hand of fear grasped her heart as she picked up her skirt and ran.

  The mares parted, allowing Etta access to her father. Panic gripped her throat as she dropped to the ground and turned him over.

  A deep moan came from his twisted face and his left arm swung wildly.

  “What’s happened, Papa? Did you fall?”

  Her father answered her question with an unintelligible grunt.

  “Can you stand, Papa? Or sit up?”

  His eyes were dazed and his body rocked from side to side.

  Etta slipped her arm beneath his back to help him to a sitting position, but he pushed her away with a wordless groan. She gasped for air as she fought her rising panic. She couldn’t leave him alone, but he needed help. The house was too far away for Rosa to hear her shouts. Etta removed a handkerchief from her father’s shirt pocket and wiped his face. “I’m going for help, Papa. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Against everything in her heart, she left him in the pasture, the morning sun beating down on him, and ran to the house. “Rosa!” she screamed. “Rosa! Call Dr. Russell!” Etta’s dry throat ached from exertion and panic. “Rosa!”

  The housekeeper opened the back door and shielded her eyes against the sun. “What’s wrong?”

  Etta bent at the waist, her hands on her knees, and struggled to catch her breath. “Papa…call Dr. Russell…Papa’s had some kind of accident.”

  Rosa’s dark eyes grew wide with alarm. She hustled into the kitchen, leaving Etta panting outside.

  Knowing she could count on Rosa to get in touch with the doctor, Etta ran back to where her father lay moaning on the dusty ground. With each step, she sent a desperate prayer heavenward. She couldn’t lose her father as well as her mother. No one could expect her to survive such a loss.

  The mares had reformed their protective circle, but upon hearing Etta’s approach they nickered and disbanded. Etta knelt at her father’s side and raised his head until it rested in her lap. His eyes were closed and his breathing labored.

  Rosa carried a crockery pitcher and a glass into the pasture and bent over him. “Oh my, Miss Etta. He looks bad. His face is all crooked.”

  Impatience flared in Etta’s chest. The last thing she needed was Rosa’s dire prognosis. “Give me some water.”

  Rosa followed the order, and Etta held the glass to her father’s lips. “Papa, here’s some water for you. Dr. Russell is on his way. Here, Papa. Drink some water.” She tipped the glass into his mouth, but the water ran down his chin. She reached for the handkerchief she’d used earlier, soaked it with cool water, and placed it in his mouth.

  Her father groaned and bit at the wet cloth.

  If only she could get him into the house. But if he’d broken a bone or suffered internal injuries, moving him might prove worse. “Stand over there,” she directed Rosa, “and block the sun.” How long would her father have to lie in the dirt before help arrived?

  Rosa moved to the location.

  The horses nickered nervously as Etta wiped her father’s face with the wet cloth and prayed. Not my father, too. No, Lord. Please.

  ****

  An hour later, Etta stood as still as an alarmed rabbit outside her father’s bedroom.

  Dr. Russell had finally arrived, given her father a cursory examination, and then returned to his car for a litter. It had taken all three of them to carry her father into his room, and, once there, the doctor had ordered her out.

  If only her mother were here. Her mother always knew what to do.

  Etta resumed her prayer. “Help Papa, Lord,” she muttered in the darkened hallway. “Please help him recover. Show me what needs to be done.” Her words were disturbingly similar to the prayers she’d made when her mother fell ill.

  The door to her father’s room eased open, and Dr. Russell stepped out. “Your father’s sleeping,” he said, slipping his arms through his gray suit jacket. “He’s had a stroke. At this moment, I can’t know the severity of his condition, but he’s paralyzed on his right side, and he’s lost the ability to speak. However, he is able to follow commands and to give a simple yes-no response.”

  Etta’s hands flew to her mouth to stifle the tumult of emotions that threatened to escape.

  Her father was only in his fifties, much too young to suffer something so debilitating.

  “I’ve called a nurse to stay with Henry tonight, but he’ll need much more than that in the weeks and months to come.” Dr. Russell smoothed his salt-and-pepper hair, picked up his bag, and walked down the stairs. “I gave your father something to help him sleep through the night, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning to check on him.” The doctor put on his hat and turned to Etta. “If he makes it through the next few days without having another stroke, I’ll look into admitting him to a convalescent home in Dallas where he can receive the care he needs.”

  Etta felt as though her feet had been cast in iron.

  Dr. Russell strode to his car, threw his medical bag through the open back window, and drove away without one word from her.

  Etta heard a floorboard creak and turned to see Rosa standing in the dining room.

  “Your Papa, he’s all right?”

  Etta’s tears would no longer be denied. Her face crumpled in hopeless sobs as her knees buckled.

  Rosa ran to Etta’s side. “No, no, mija. This is not the time for tears. Come on, now. Be strong for your Papa.”

  Etta hid her wet face in Rosa’s worn calico apron. How could Rosa tell her to be strong? Her mother was the strong one.

  Rosa caressed Etta’s hair. “I called Señora Benson. She’ll know what to do. Now come into the kitchen, and I’ll make you some lunch.” Rosa slid one arm behind Etta’s back and led her toward the kitchen.

  ****

  “I’m not sending my father to a convalescent home.”

  Sara reached across the round kitchen table and patted Etta’s hand. “I agree. Henry would wither away in a place like that. But he wouldn’t approve of you taking care of him. Your father is a proud man, Etta. The last thing he needs is his daughter feeding him or, worse yet, bathing him.”

  Etta winced at the thought of having to care for her father’s physical needs. He would be humiliated if she tried. “If a convalescent home is out of the question and caring for him by myself is inadvisable, there’s only one option left.”

  “Right.”

  “But where in the world will I find ‘round-the-clock nurses?”

  “You could start with the convalescent home. They may have names of people looking for a job. Dr. Russell could probably give you several contacts, or you could run an advertisement in the newspaper. Lots of people need employment, Etta.”

  Etta breathed her first hopeful breath of the day.

  No wonder Sara had been her mother’s best friend. She had a no-nonsense way about her that blew away confusion and disorder.

  “I suppose I could find someone to care for Papa’s horses, as well. You know how particular he is about them.”

  A sparkle lit in Sara’s eyes. “I know exactly the right person for that job. Gabriel’s coming home in a few days!”

  “Gabriel? Your son?”

  “One and the same.”

  “I didn’t realize…I mean, I’m sure Mom said something about him, but…”

  “Catherine didn’t know. We got a telegram just last night. Oh, Etta, I can hardly wait to see my boy.”

  Since she’d spent most of her girlhood away at school, Etta knew little of Gabriel Benson. He was older, tall, and lean with black hair and dark eyes. He’d gone to Camp Bowie with almost every other young man in the county when America had entered the Great War, and from the snatches of conversation she’d overheard between her mother and Sara, he’d seen action in France. “Is he all right?”

  “In his last lett
er he wrote that he was fine, but I won’t believe it until I see him with my own eyes. I hope life in the Army has cured him of his wanderlust. After he got that engineering degree in college, he told us about job prospects in Chicago. As if that wasn’t far enough from home, he joined the Army and went to France.”

  “Do you think he’d be willing to care for Papa’s horses?”

  “Of course. Horses were the only thing on our farm Gabriel didn’t object to. Besides, Etta, you need to get back to the bank and make sure nothing happens in your father’s absence. In one way or another, everyone in town depends on the well-being of that bank. You find someone to help your father. I’ll send Gabriel over to take care of the horses, and then you march right back to that bank and do what needs to be done.”

  Etta’s breath caught in her throat. “Go back to the bank without Papa? I’m merely his assistant. There is no way I can take over his responsibilities. What if I…?”

  Sara’s eyebrows raised in question. “What if you fail?”

  Etta’s chest tightened. Failure was a very real possibility. She’d been her father’s unpaid assistant for two years, and she understood the day-to-day operations required to keep the bank solvent, but she’d never imagined herself filling his shoes.

  Sara touched Etta’s wrist. “What if you don’t fail? You’re a young woman at the dawn of a new age. We’ll have the vote soon, and women are making their way in the world like never before. Why shouldn’t you be one of them? Show the people of this town what Henrietta Davis can do.”

  Despite her anxiety, Etta smiled.

  Sara’s words sounded so much like something her mother would have said. Catherine Davis wouldn’t have sat in a corner, wringing her hands with worry. Etta’s mother would have done whatever she could to solve the problem.

  Etta stood, a renewed sense of determination filling her. “I’ll drive to Dallas and talk to the doctors at the convalescent home. Would you like to go?”

 

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