by Janette Oke
The small packet held two articles. One was a pocket watch. Mrs. Withers lifted it tenderly, caressing it with her eyes before she extended it to Damaris.
“Your grandfather’s,” she said softly. “He gave it to me the night before he died.”
There were tears in her eyes. Damaris couldn’t fully understand the reason.
“Here,” her mama prompted. “Take it.”
Damaris hesitated, realizing in her limited way just how much the keepsake meant to her mama. Damaris hadn’t known that her mama had anything totally her own. Even her few books had been unselfishly passed on to her daughter.
“Take it,” her mama repeated, thrusting the watch toward Damaris again.
“But—”
“I want you to have it—and this too,” said Mrs. Withers. She lifted a brooch of lacy gold adorned with shiny stones.
“This was my mama’s pin. Papa gave it to me, too. But I could never wear it. Had to hide it away in the barn. With you—you can wear it—like it should be. And the watch—though you wouldn’t wear it—can be displayed. I saw one once—in a little glass case—draped over blue velvet. It looked so beautiful.”
The words puzzled Damaris, but she reached out her trembling hands to accept the two priceless gifts. If her mama had to hide them from her pa, how would they be safe with her? He never showed any reservation about entering her room to look for something he could exchange for money to purchase another bottle.
“But how—how can I—?” Damaris stammered, not knowing quite how to express her thoughts.
Her mama seemed to read her—as always. She pressed the gifts into the palms of her daughter’s quivering hands and clasped them tightly in her own. Then she looked deep into the dark brown eyes.
“You are getting older, Damaris. Almost fifteen. And you are tall for your age. Why—you could ’most pass for seventeen. At that age a lot of girls are—are on their own. Do you understand?”
Damaris wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded her head.
“As to the gifts—keepin’ them safe …” Mrs. Withers hesitated, still looking at Damaris. “You—you’ll think of something,” she finished in a whisper.
Damaris saw pain in her mother’s pleading eyes. A tear spilled from one and ran down the pale cheek. Damaris had seldom seen her mama weep—even when her father yelled at her and hit her in a drunken rage.
Damaris reached down and tucked the little bundle in the pocket of her apron. She still wasn’t sure what her mama expected of her, but she would do her best. Perhaps she could hide the treasures in one of the farthest corners of the attic. Her pa never seemed to notice the small trapdoor in the ceiling above her dresser. Perhaps the cherished items would be safe there.
She looked at her mama and nodded again. The woman was standing, brushing back strands of wayward hair, blinking tears from her eyes.
“We must get to bed,” her mama said suddenly. “Must get some rest before he wakes. He might well be sick come mornin’.”
Damaris knew her mother was right. Her pa was often sick when he woke up from his drinking. It could mean bedding to wash, floors to scrub, nursing to be done. Her mama would do the comforting and easing of the misery. Damaris would be assigned the scrubbing—of clothes, blankets and wooden boards.
She sighed as she moved to wash the cups. She and her mama would enjoy only a brief respite. They should make the most of it.
With one hand in her apron pocket holding fast the two treasures, Damaris climbed the creaking steps and made her way to her simple bed. Perhaps she could get a few hours of sound sleep before her pa wakened.
Chapter Two
A Daring Idea
Climbing up through the attic hole in the darkness would be too risky. Damaris would have to wait for the light of day before hiding the treasures Mama had given her. She was sure she would be up and about long before her pa cried out for a cold cloth for his forehead and a slop pail for his upset stomach.
Long into the night Damaris lay thinking, fingering beneath her pillow the tiny cloth bundle with the treasures that had once belonged to her grandparents. Damaris sighed and turned over. If only there was no money. If only her pa didn’t make the trips into town to spend his time at the saloon tables. If only her mama didn’t look so old and tired all of the time. If only—
Damaris checked herself. There was no use going on. Things were as they were. Nothing would change. Nothing. Damaris reached a hand up to feel the scar above her temple. At least her pa had thrown nothing at her—this time. He had not slapped her nor twisted her arm. They had gotten off easy this time—both her and her mama. Damaris was thankful for that. But what about next time? And the time after that? She lived in fear and dread of each new day, and she was sure her mama did likewise.
What if her pa awoke and found out that the two womenfolk had been drinking his precious coffee? What if he discovered that an expensive-looking brooch had been hidden away from him for many years? What if he learned of the watch?
Damaris again slipped a hand under the pillow to feel the items. For a moment she felt a flash of anger toward her mama. Why had she given her these dangerous possessions? Was she too old and weary to continue hiding them herself?
Her mama had seemed so—so different tonight. Oh, she was still pale, still weary, but for just a moment she had let down her guard and shown the woman who used to be.
Damaris puzzled again over her mother’s words. Many girls of seventeen are on their own. You could pass for seventeen. The strange message played and replayed through the young girl’s mind. But she could make no sense of it.
There are choices we can make, the voice went on.
Choices? What choices. Not the color of one’s eyes. Mama had made that clear enough. Then what choices?
Damaris had never had choices. If she could have chosen, she would be attending school like all of the other children in the neighborhood. But she couldn’t choose. Her pa had done that for her when she reached the age of twelve.
“Yer ma needs ya,” he had growled. “Ain’t right fer you to be fritterin’ away yer day when yer ma is home doin’ all the chores. Girl big as you should be able to earn her keep.”
So Damaris had been taken from school and put to work with the household and farm chores. It wasn’t that she minded the work. She was big for her age and surprisingly strong, but she did hate to miss the classes. Now she had no access to books. Books and the adventure of learning. She missed school.
Damaris had never gone to the little church in town, but she longed to go. She envied the laughing, happy children dressed in their pretty frills and hair bows.
“Why don’t we ever go to church?” she asked once.
Her mother shook her head sadly and looked down at the faded apron covering her worn dress with its many patches.
“Can’t go to church like this,” she responded.
Damaris knew that was so. She closed her mouth on further coaxing and pushed the thoughts from her mind for a time, but later in the day she couldn’t resist pressing just a bit. She was hungry for information.
“Did you ever go to church?” she asked.
“Oh my, yes,” her mother answered quickly, then cast a glance around to see if they were being heard. When sure they were alone, she continued. “I always went to church when I was a girl. Papa and Mama always took us. Every Sunday.”
“Then you know about it. What is the black book they carry?”
“The black book? Why, that’s the Bible, child.”
“A Bible. Does it—does it have stories?”
For a moment her mother’s eyes shadowed; then she said, “Child, it’s a shame, it is, that you even have to ask. The—the Bible tells us about God. The stories are all about Him—and others. Many others. Some brave. Some kind. Some daring. Some—sinful. My pa used to read from the Bible every morning before I was allowed to leave the table.”
Damaris felt envious. To be read a story every morning seemed almost too good to be true.
“Your name came from the Bible,” her mama shocked her by saying.
“My name? It did?” Damaris felt her breath catch in her throat. Her name came from the black book.
“What does it—what does it say about me?” she asked in a whisper.
Her mama shook out another worn dishtowel and pegged it to the line. “I don’t rightly remember,” she said. “It was a long time ago thet I read the words. Just the name stayed with me.”
Damaris found it hard to contain her excitement. “I wish we had a Bible,” she sighed before she could check the words.
“I did—at one time,” said her mother through tight lips.
“When?” Damaris asked. “What happened to it?”
“When I was a girl. I even had it when I got married, but a few years later yer pa needed—” She checked her words and shook out one of the worn dresses that belonged to her daughter.
“Did you have pretty dresses?” Damaris asked, looking at her own faded dress hanging limply on the line.
Her mama looked at the shabby garment and sighed. “Yes,” she admitted softly, “I had pretty dresses.”
Damaris was about to ask another question, but her mama gave her hand a little wave to dismiss the conversation and spoke almost sharply, “Now off with you. The hens are waiting for fresh water.” Damaris ran to care for the hens, but her thoughts were still on the little white church, the black book with her name in it and pretty dresses.
She never again asked her mother about church, but she still wished she could join the carefree girls with their pretty frocks and discover for herself just what church was all about. But Damaris had no choice.
Are there really choices? Damaris wondered as she lay in the darkness. She had never known her mama to lie to her. What had she meant? Damaris shifted in her bed again. In the distance she heard her pa’s snoring turn to groans. Was he waking already? Wouldn’t they get the sleep they so badly needed? Damaris shut her eyes tightly against the blackness and willed herself to quit her troubled thinking and go to sleep while she had the opportunity.
But her thoughts would not be stilled.
Choices. Choices. Her brain kept hammering the word at her. What choices did she have? What choices did her mama have? They were trapped. Both of them. There was nothing they could do to free themselves.
If I had a choice, thought Damaris, I wouldn’t stay here. I’d go some place far away and—and work like mama said and—and buy a new dress and—and go to church and—and find my name in the Bible and read the story for myself.
The sudden train of thought surprised Damaris. Never before had she even dared to think of going away. Now she couldn’t dismiss the idea.
“I could,” she admitted to herself in a shaky whisper. “I could. I really don’t have to stay here. I—I am big enough to—to—”
The thought made Damaris shiver.
“I could. I could run away—to town. No, farther than that. Pa would find me there—for sure. I’d go—I’d go off down the road somewhere—somewhere far away—and I’d work for somebody. Hoeing gardens and milking cows or—doing the washing or something. I’d work hard. Then—” Damaris checked her thoughts. She must be careful. Extremely careful. If her pa had any idea that she was fostering such a wild and foolish notion, he would thrash her within an inch of her life. Damaris glanced at the stairs that led down from her little loft room, separating her from the living quarters and the bedroom below. She feared that her pa might even now be reading her thoughts—and spoiling her plan.
She must move carefully. She possessed very little, but she would need to bundle her few clothes. She would have to take her blanket. She might need to sleep in the open until she reached the far-off town. She would need to take a few slices of her mama’s bread and perhaps a boiled egg or two—or a few pieces of cooked salted pork. She would need a bottle of some kind with some well water. She wouldn’t be able to stop at farm homes on the way to ask for water because her pa would be able to track her if she dared to show herself. She needed to fix her worn shoes—somehow. They would never do for a long walk with the soles as worn as they were. And she must—must take the watch and brooch. She would sew them inside her garments or pin them in a pocket so that no thief would ever find them. Then, when she got where she was going, she would put the watch under glass on blue velvet, just as her mama had dreamed, and she would pin the brooch to the front of her dress and wear it to church every Sunday.
———
The next few days passed without incident. There was no money for a trip to town, so Mr. Withers spent his days working on the harness and puttering around the farmyard. He was almost pleasant when he had not been drinking, and Damaris even heard him whistle once or twice.
But toward the end of the week his need for liquor began to tell on him again. Damaris could see it in his eyes and hear it in the agitation of his voice. Would he find money? Damaris was sure they had nothing more to trade for cold cash—except the horse or one of the cows. Damaris noticed her mother cast nervous glances toward the barn. She hoped her pa was not desperate enough to totally forfeit their future. As the days ticked slowly by, his eyes became more shifty and he often licked his lips as though they were parched and dry.
Damaris speeded up her own plans. She managed to find some heavy cardboard and borrowed her mama’s sewing shears to cut insoles for her shoes.
She patched the three dresses she owned one more time and mended the tear in her apron.
She slipped her slice of dinner bread into her pocket. Later she wrapped it in brown paper and stashed it in her attic hiding place with the others she had been saving from each meal.
The next time her father rode off to town, she knew she must bundle her few belongings and slip through the woods that stood tall behind the farmyard. She dared not take the road for the first several miles lest she be seen by some of the neighbors.
It pained her that she would not dare tell her mama goodbye, but Damaris knew instinctively that the best parting gift she could give her mama was innocence. When her father questioned her whereabouts, her mama must be able to truthfully say she had no idea where their daughter was.
So Damaris watched and waited, biding her time, but carefully plotting her escape. She had been given a choice—a choice she had never expected to receive—and she knew she must seize the opportunity. Never again would she quiver with fright, wondering just what her pa might do in his drunken state.
Damaris stole quick glances at her mother as they worked side by side, scrubbing at the washboard, hoeing in the garden, caring for the farm hens, gathering eggs for bartering, wondering if she knew of her daughter’s plan. But they worked in silence for the most part, each glad for a respite from Mr. Withers’s drunkenness.
Then one day Damaris saw her pa slip into the chicken coop and stuff a pair of unwary fowl into a gunnysack. The urge for drink had gotten the better of him again.
Damaris watched her pa tie the gunnysack behind the saddle and hoist himself onto the back of old Rob. Without a glance toward the house he urged the horse down the lane and out onto the dusty road.
“He’s going,” Damaris said to her mama with anger, fear, and sadness all contained in her voice. “I saw him take two hens.”
Her mama only nodded, but as she turned away Damaris thought she caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. It puzzled her. Her mama was not one for crying—even when she was in pain.
Mrs. Withers cast a glance at the afternoon sky. The sun hung overhead, its warm rays beating down with strength.
“Two hens won’t keep ’im long,” she commented. Damaris nodded. Her pa was even more difficult when he went drinking and didn’t get his fill.
“He might be back by suppertime,” mused her mama, shading her eyes from the sun for a moment and then brushing the hair back from her face.
Damaris nodded again. For a moment she wavered. This didn’t seem like the right time to be going. If her pa came home without his thirst fu
lly quenched, he would be even more abusive than usual, and if she wasn’t there, her mama might receive double share.
Next time, Damaris told herself, but her mama surprised her by cutting into her thoughts.
“I know how much you like wading in the crick, an’ you haven’t had a chance fer weeks now. Why don’t you run on down an’ have you a wade ’fore yer pa gits back from town.”
Damaris felt a tremble go through her body. The creek was in the woods—behind the farmyard. It lay directly on the route that Damaris had planned to take.
“I think thet I’ll jest lay down an’ have myself a bit of a nap. Didn’t sleep too good last night,” her mama went on. And so saying she moved toward the house. Damaris followed at her heels, still undecided as to what she should do.
“Just sorta tiptoe out when ya leave,” the woman said. “My head is botherin’ me some.”
Damaris nodded and watched her mama enter her bedroom and shut the door.
The question seemed to have been decided for her then. There would never be a greater opportunity. Damaris urged herself up the stairs to the loft and quietly gathered her few belongings into her shawl. Then she stepped onto her bed, up onto the dresser, and carefully lifted aside the trapdoor. It was getting more and more difficult for her to hoist her body through the small opening. If she stayed, she wasn’t sure how much longer she would have been able to use her secret place.
From the safety of the rafters she withdrew her pieces of bread and her cloth-wrapped treasures. With one final look around the dusty cavern that had been her sanctuary, Damaris eased herself back through the trapdoor, pulled the cover into place, and stepped to the bed, then to the floor.
With as little noise as possible she finished the task of binding everything together. Then she crept from the room without looking back.
As she passed the bedroom where her mother lay, she hesitated for one moment, listened to the silence, then sighed deeply and continued on tiptoe.