Sweetwater Springs Scrooge: A Montana Sky Holiday Short Story (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  SWEETWATER SPRINGS SCROOGE

  A Montana Sky Holiday Short Story

  by Debra Holland

  Copyright © 2012 by Debra Holland

  ISBN: 978-1-939813-20-6

  Digital Edition

  All other rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.

  1895

  Elias Masters was famous in Sweetwater Springs for being the greatest penny pincher around—and that said a lot for a town full of hard-working, thrifty people. He’d always been a prudent man—not that he needed to be, for it was common knowledge he’d inherited shares of railway stock. But only after Marian Hutchinson jilted him had Elias become a downright skinflint. And he was as close-fisted with his words as he was a tightwad with his money.

  Every year he became more taciturn and his appearance grew seedier, from the straggly brown beard, now threaded with white, and shoulder-length hair that looked like he’d hacked off the ends with a knife, to his shabby appearance. Elias wore his clothes until they were mostly rags, clean rags, but rags nevertheless, full of darns and patches. He had fine hazel eyes, but they lacked any spark of humor, although a few old-timers remembered him differently.

  Elias never invited guests over to his home so he didn’t have to serve them a meal, not even Reverend and Mrs. Norton, although he sometimes sat in a back pew on Sunday mornings. Worst of all, he passed the offering plate right on by, and no one had ever seen the man contribute a cent. Even the poorest families managed a penny or two from time to time, but not Elias Masters.

  Elias owned a pretty house in the back corner of Sweetwater Springs he’d inherited from his parents. His mother had planted a huge garden of flowers and vegetables, and it was a good thing that she’d chosen perennials like roses because Elias sure wouldn’t waste money on flower seeds. She’d also planted a small orchard, with apple trees that produced sweet fruit.

  He spent a lot of time in his big garden growing vegetables. What food he didn’t consume he traded at the mercantile. He was the only person able to out-bargain the Cobbs, who owned the store. Not that he ever bought much in return—just mere staples—so for him to make an appearance at the mercantile was usually an event that made the townsfolk gawk.

  ~ ~ ~

  Late in December, Elias stood in front of his pantry in his kitchen. A rare hunkering for something sweet had driven him to search the almost-empty shelves for a jar of jam. Not much else here, either.

  He stared glumly at the empty tea canister. He’d run out of the leaves three weeks ago. But going without tea wasn’t motivation enough to go shopping. He still had coffee beans, although the once-full sack was down to a paltry inch. Even though he’d carefully rationed out the sugar, both the crock of white and the one of brown had only a few glistening crystals left clinging to the bottom. For the last few weeks he’d felt poorly and had mostly stayed in bed, not left the house. But a return of his vitality had also brought back his appetite. I should just eat an apple. There’s still plenty in the cellar. But the thought didn’t excite him. He’d grown tired of the fruit.

  He tallied the rest of his stores and found he needed to stock up on flour, beans, cornmeal, rice, lard, butter, baking soda, and salt. No doubt about it. Elias knew he needed to make a trip to the mercantile. I’d rather get a tooth pulled.

  Elias debated about putting off going shopping. His normal energy had returned and he wouldn’t mind the long walk into the main part of town, yet he probably could get by for another week or so with the supplies in stock. He hesitated.

  But I really want that jam.

  And if truth be told, after weeks in bed, without sight of another human and too much time to think, he also had a rare hankering for some company.

  If he was going to the mercantile anyway, he could pick up one of Helga Mueller’s pies. Maybe even two pies. His mouth watered at the thought.

  He rubbed his chin. The gesture reminded him of his father and served to bring him back to frugality. I don’t need to waste money on pies.

  Perhaps due to his recent illness, his thrifty conscience failed to win out over his sweet tooth. For once, Elias decided to indulge himself.

  The vision of dried apple, cherry preserve, or mincemeat pie served to spur him into his tattered raccoon-skin coat. He wound two scarves around his head and neck—one blue and one green. A single one wasn’t enough because both were full of holes and let in the cold winter air. He pulled on his wool mittens that had the tips worn off, which suited him just fine. He didn’t have to remove them when he needed to do a task, and on the walk to the store, he could keep his hands in his coat pockets.

  Grabbing a large burlap bag with a double-reinforced shoulder strap he’d attached with large clumsy stitches, he pulled up the trap door leading to the root cellar. The baskets of apples were lined up against the wall near the ladder, so he didn’t even need to take a light.

  Elias filled up the bag with apples. He’d barter the fruit for some supplies and pay cash for the rest. He hesitated with his hand on the latch, wondering if he should walk the long way to town—past a certain house. He shook his head as if tossing away the idea and stepped outside.

  The chill winter air bit at his nose and cheeks. He moved briskly down the walkway. In spite of the cold, Elias enjoyed being outdoors.

  Snow lay in patches on the ground. But the stark blue sky looked clear of clouds. Even if a storm rolled in, he’d have enough time to walk to the store, make his purchases, exchange a few words with whomever else he might see, and haul the goods home where he could shut the door on the world and enjoy his solitary feast.

  On the street, he passed a woman who lived with her family back a ways in the forest. He didn’t know her name but knew she had several noisy sons with carrot-colored hair.

  Elias touched his hat. “Good day, ma’am.”

  She had a shawl wrapped around her head and face, almost obscuring her features, but not enough to hide her wide-eyed surprise at his greeting. She nodded. “Good afternoon, Mr. Masters.”

  He wondered how she knew him, then shrugged off the thought. Sweetwater Springs was a small town after all. Just because he went out of his way to avoid people didn’t mean he was invisible, though he liked to think he was.

  The feast, he reminded himself. But first, he had to brave dealing with the Cobbs. He steeled himself for the encounter.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marian Williams stared down at the shattered remains of a violet-patterned white vase, her most prized possession, and had to fight back tears. All of a sudden, her losses seemed too much to bear—the death of her husband Harold almost two years ago, followed by her beloved Juliana, her only child, five months later. But the vase represented the oldest pain of all, long suppressed until now, as if one of the sharp shards had sliced open the feelings she’d thought safely stored away.

  She struggled to hold in a surge of anger at her eight-year-old grandson, standing on the other side of the ruins, his hands still outstretched in the futile attempt to catch the vase he’d knocked over. “I told you not to run in the house, Noah,” Marian chided in the calmest voice she could manage. But in spite of her best efforts an edge slipped out. She pointed at the shards, scattered over the polished wooden floor. “This is why you are supposed to listen to me.”

  He stared at her with imploring blue eyes. “I didn’t mean to break your vase, Grandma.”

  �
�I know you didn’t. But you disobeyed me, and look what happened.”

  “I’m sorry.” Noah’s chin quivered.

  As Marian looked at him, she felt guilt pang, reminding her the vase wasn’t her most precious possession, her grandson was. Some of the anger ebbed but not the tight feeling in her stomach. She waved in the direction of Noah’s bedroom. “Go. I need to pick this up before the slivers fall into the floor cracks.”

  Shoulders hunched in dejection, he headed out of the room. If the boy had a tail, he’d be dragging the tip across the floor.

  Normally Marian would have been hard pressed to hide amusement at the sight. Ever since coming to live in Sweetwater Springs three months ago after his father died, her grandson had frequently tickled her funny bone, often without Noah even knowing it. Laughter was a gift during her time of mourning.

  Marian thanked God every day that Noah had not caught the influenza that killed his mother and weakened Edward, his father. Poor Edward had never completely recovered his health, leaving him vulnerable to a second illness that had carried him away a year and seven months after Juliana’s death.

  Still shaken by the broken vase, Marian fetched a broom, dustpan, and waste bucket from the kitchen, and then returned to the parlor.

  With a sigh, she bent to carefully pick up the biggest piece with her thumb and forefinger, in the process inhaling the dusty scent of dried flowers—the powdery remains of a bouquet of violets Elias had given her. She’d hung the flowers upside down and dried them, then displayed the arrangement in the vase. When Marian had given Elias back his ring, she’d been so hurt and angry that she’d crushed the flowers down into the bottom of the vase—out of sight. She’d never used the vase again, nor dusted the inside.

  Perhaps it’s just as well the vase is broken, Marian told herself in the brisk mental voice that sounded too much like her mother. She winced at the thought. Martha Hutchinson had never favored Elias Masters as a suitor for her daughter, preferring Harold Williams’s polite manners and stolid personality. I should have given away the vase years ago when I accepted Harold’s offer of marriage.

  She laid the fragment on her palm and studied the violet pattern. This time, tears welled up in her eyes as her mind took her back thirty years in time to when Elias courted her and life was exciting and full of promise. And I was young and foolish.

  That spring afternoon, while in the mercantile with Elias, she’d admired the white vase covered with her favorite flowers. When he’d impulsively bought it, the generosity of the gift had gone straight to her heart. Outside the store, he’d placed the vase in her hands and asked her to marry him. Of course, she’d said yes. She’d been deliriously happy, believing Elias to be the most generous and wonderful of men. That illusion had taken a while to wear off. But when it did….

  She shook her head, as if dislodging the girlhood memory from her mind. Usually all she needed to stop regretting the past was to think of the eccentric, miserly Elias of the present day.

  When she saw him around town, Marian would give him sideways glances, trying not to be obvious in her scrutiny of her former beau, feeling torn between old hurt and relieved validation of her decision to wed Harold. If I’d married Elias, would I have become as threadbare as he? Had to practice heaven knows what ridiculous economies at home? Constantly fought with him about money? Seen his stinginess slowly wear away my love?

  Marian tossed the shard into the waste bucket, hearing the piece clatter against the bottom. No, I made the right choice.

  She let out a pained sigh. So, why does the broken vase hurt so much?

  ~ ~ ~

  In his small room, Noah flung himself on the bed, ignoring how he rumpled the green-and-blue box square quilt his grandma had made him. A sharp, hot feeling welled up in him; at the same time, his throat tightened, recalling the stricken expression on his grandmother’s face after he’d broken her vase.

  If only I hadn’t come here to live. If only Pa and Ma hadn’t died.

  Longing seized him, and Noah wished he could go home. Crenshaw wasn’t far away—several hours by train. But the city was far bigger than Sweetwater Springs, and he and his gang of friends always found plenty to keep them occupied. His thoughts rattled over everything he missed. But even if he managed to get home, Ma and Pa wouldn’t be there.

  He rolled over and stared at a yellow stain in the ceiling from an old leak whose shape reminded him of the state of Rhode Island. But the sight only made him feel worse.

  In Crenshaw, the post office had a big map of the United States on the wall. When Pa needed to mail a letter, he’d taken Noah along. They studied the map so Noah could learn the states. The last few times they’d gone together, Pa quizzed Noah, then rewarded him with a penny when he’d guessed each one correctly.

  Noah had bought candy with one of the pennies but saved the rest. And he had more money from….

  His throat closed, remembering how, the summer before Ma died, Pa had come home laughing, his pockets full of dollar bills and coins. His mother had been sitting at the table, reading her Bible. When she saw Pa, she frowned and turned her back to him.

  With a laugh, Pa flung the money on the table.

  But instead of looking happy, Ma’s expression grew more pinched, even as she began to gather up the bills.

  With a growl of annoyance, Pa swept his hand over the loose coins and scooped them up. He tossed them into Noah’s lap.

  Noah had stared down at his riches in amazement. “Thank you, Pa!”

  Pa ruffled Noah’s hair. “Good to know someone around here appreciates me.”

  Back then, his father’s words and sharp glance at Ma had given Noah a squirmy feeling, not unlike the one he had now because of breaking Grandma’s vase.

  The idea came to him as clear as if someone had told him what to do. Buy grandma a new one.

  Feeling sudden hope, Noah jumped up from the bed and hopped to a chest of drawers where a cigar box sat on the top. He opened the lid, not stopping to admire the picture of the clipper ship on the front, nor to imagine sailing away like he usually did. The inside still held the faint scent of cigars. He didn’t know why, but sometimes, when he needed to remember his pa, he’d sniff the smell and feel comforted.

  Picking up the money pouch, Noah squeezed it. The coins clinked together and moved under his fingers. Opening his bedroom door, he peered down the hall and listened for the sounds of his grandmother. “Grandma?” he called, to be sure she wasn’t around.

  Silence met his ears, and Noah remembered her saying she was going to take some pea soup to Mrs. Murphy, who was ailing. He hoped the widow ate the whole pot, for he didn’t like pea soup. He didn’t like oatmeal either. But Grandma made him eat both. Not like Pa….

  His throat threatened to close again. Noah quickly donned his coat, hat, and mittens and stepped out of the house, making sure to close the door behind him—something he often failed to do. Once on the street, he began to run, anxious to buy the vase before his grandmother came home.

  ~ ~ ~

  In spite of himself, Elias couldn’t quell a rise of eagerness at walking down the main part of Sweetwater Springs. He hadn’t been to town for at least three months, not since he’d brought his harvest to the Cobbs for barter, and the changes he now saw caught him by surprise. He’d known of the construction of the fancy hotel owned by the banker and that the newspaper owner was putting up an office building, but he couldn’t believe the structures were finished, with shiny pinkish brown quartz facades sparkling in the pale winter sunshine.

  He stopped and stared. The four-story elegant hotel seemed out of place in this little frontier town. He looked up and down the street and scratched his chin. Maybe not so little any more.

  A young woman with long brown curls rode past him on a two-wheeled contraption, her legs moving up and down.

  Elias gaped after her. Who could have imagined such a thing?

  A few steps further, he noticed the spruced up exterior of what used to be a white two-st
ory building. He squinted to read the sign. Sugarplum Dreams. Is that a sweetshop?

  Beguiled, Elias took a few steps in the direction of the store. But then he saw some fashionable-looking ladies go inside. Instead, he reversed his course and headed toward the mercantile. The frozen mud of the street changed to rough-hewn blocks of the same quartz as the hotel. The whole road was paved all the way to the train station. Must have cost a pretty penny. He didn’t see any need for wasting money laying fancy stone over dirt.

  Shaking his head at the changes that had come to Sweetwater Springs, Elias approached the red brick mercantile. He opened the door and stepped into the warmth, inhaling the scent of evergreen from the swags of pine boughs and holly hanging from the counter and window displays and something that smelled of cinnamon. He headed toward the round black stove, nodding at a young German woman with a pale blond braid wrapped around her head, who passed him on her way out. He remembered her as a girl, playing with Marian’s daughter.

  One by one, he placed the apples in the large basket in the corner by the door, where the Cobbs expected people to set their barter items.

  He selected from the laden shelves with a lavish hand, tucking items in the bag—first staples, and then the coveted jam. Part of him marveled at what had come over him, buying more in one shopping expedition than he had in a whole year put together. But the other part of him couldn’t seem to care.

  His arms full, Elias carried his plunder to the counter of the mercantile. Today he’d chosen with reckless abandon—huckleberry, saskatoon, boysenberry, and chokeberry—two of each. The smell of fresh-baked cinnamon cookies on the rack of shelves near the front counter also tempted him. I’ll take half a dozen. His gaze slid to the pies next to the cookies, but his habits of thrift finally caught up with him. Jam will last longer. Resolutely, he turned his head away.

  Plump Mrs. Cobb, wearing a gray wool dress, stood behind the counter waiting on a boy in front of her. She raised an eyebrow in askance at Elias’s full arms.