A Woman Named Damaris

by Janette Oke

  Damaris wished she hadn’t added the last statement. The truth was, she did not even wish to watch.

  “Well, we’ll play the first game then,” said Miss Dover.

  “We can make it a tournament,” suggested Gil.

  “But I don’t play. Really,” said Damaris again.

  “We’ll teach you then,” said Gil as he went to a drawer to withdraw the board and the checkers while Miss Dover placed an extra chair at a small table.

  “You sit right here and watch us,” she said. “We’ll explain the game as we go.”

  Damaris felt trapped. She sat in the chair as directed and carefully folded her skirts.

  At first she held herself back, determined not to become involved in the game, or the players, but in spite of her resolve her interest grew. She was surprised at the intensity Miss Dover gave to the game. The two played skillfully, each intent on winning, but it was Miss Dover who eventually won the game.

  “Great move,” Gil conceded. “You got me on that one. I’ll have to keep it in mind for next time.”

  “Now you play me,” said Miss Dover to Damaris, apparently eager for another turn at the board.

  “Oh, but I couldn’t. I mean—this is the first time I’ve seen the game. I couldn’t—”

  “Gil will help you. We’ll both coach you along.”

  Damaris could think of no polite way to argue further. She took the challenger’s chair and Gil pulled his chair up beside her. It was unnerving to Damaris. She felt her hand tremble as she reached for the checker for her first move.

  She was surprised at how much she had already picked up about the game. Gil often responded with a “Good,” or “Right,” as she made a move. When in doubt she would turn her eyes to his and look for his nod of approval or his whispered alternate move. Even Miss Dover gave approval or advice from her chair opposite. Damaris started to enjoy herself when she got into the game.

  Damaris and Gil finally won the game. Damaris knew that Miss Dover had not played with the same intensity as she had during the game with Gil, but still her heart raced with the thrill of victory.

  “Now I must play Miss Damaris and you coach,” said Gil as he moved to exchange chairs with Miss Dover.

  Damaris breathed a sigh of relief. It had been disconcerting to have him so close, whispering his bits of instructions into her ear. She was certain she would be able to relax and play a much better game with Miss Dover at her side.

  But in the end, looking up into the earnest, intense blue eyes unnerved her every bit as much as his presence at her elbow. It was Gil who won the game, in spite of Miss Dover’s good coaching.

  “Oh my! Look at the time,” Miss Dover exclaimed when the third game ended. “We must get some lunch before you have to take to the trail home.”

  Gil placed a hand on his stomach. “I’m still full from dinner,” he protested, but he did not argue further when Miss Dover hustled toward her kitchen to put on the coffeepot.

  Damaris rose quickly to follow. She had no intention of being left in a room alone with Gil and his unnerving blue eyes.

  They fixed cold turkey sandwiches and a plate of cookies and tarts and took chairs close to the fire. Damaris was much more comfortable with this arrangement. The room was cozy and warm, even though the frost had completely covered the window.

  They talked of simple things. Weather, neighbors, tasks that needed to be done. The fire crackled and snapped, spilling out its warmth. For one unguarded moment, Damaris wished she really could be a part of this family. Intense loneliness washed over her. It was not homesickness. She missed her mama in those moments when she would allow herself to think of her, but she was not homesick. She never wished to return home to her past circumstance.

  As she listened half-heartedly to the chatter of her companions, Damaris let her thoughts wander. Memories came in rapidly, small scraps of disconnected pieces, yet they merged and intertwined to make a disturbing whole. Christmases past. They had not been times of pleasure for Damaris. Nor would they be for her mama this Christmas, Damaris mused.

  It was even later back home. Her mama might even be in bed by now. She might be alone. Any excuse for a celebration sent her pa scurrying off to the town saloon to find comradeship and as much whiskey as he could afford. Poor as he was, he always found money for too much liquor.

  Her mama would worry about his homecoming—hoping that it would be peaceful—and strangely—worry even more that he might not come home at all.

  Damaris jerked her mind back to the present. She did not wish to think about home. It was much more pleasant here, in this room, with these two people.

  She cast a nervous glance toward Gil. He was a man. Yet he had made no mention of whiskey in connection with Christmas. Nor had he visited the local saloon. Damaris wondered about that. Then she thought again of Captain Reilly and Mr. Brown. They hadn’t used every excuse available to find a bottle, either.

  Maybe there really are men who don’t drink, she concluded. The idea startled her, though she’d had it before. She wondered how many sober men she would have to know before she could finally believe one, finally trust one. Recently she had started telling herself that not all men were like her father. But she always reverted back to the same old feelings—the same old fears—the same old conclusions. She stirred restlessly in her chair and brought two pairs of eyes to rest upon her. She flushed.

  “Are you getting tired?” asked Miss Dover with concern. “I know you get up early. I’m afraid I’m a sleepyhead and sleep in until eight. I forget about those who must rise at six.”

  Damaris shook her head. She was not tired. She wondered if she would even be able to sleep when she did go to bed.

  “I must go,” Gil announced. “I hate to, but I must.” He reached to set his cup on a nearby table. “This has been a wonderful day—but it is time now for the closing ceremony.”

  Miss Dover rose and went to get her Bible from a nearby shelf. Damaris felt her heartbeat quicken, as it invariably did at the sight of the book.

  Miss Dover passed it over to Gil and he turned quickly to the page he sought. The story he read was of the first Christmas and the birth of the Christ Child. Damaris leaned forward as she drank in the words. They seemed so—so powerful, so full of wonder. She longed to believe them, to accept them as truth.

  When Gil finished the account, he laid aside the Bible and closed his eyes. Damaris continued to stare as he spoke words of recognition and thanksgiving for the love that prompted the events of long ago. Suddenly realizing that he was praying, Damaris ducked her head and shut her eyes tightly. She had never heard anyone pray before. Something within her stirred at the sacredness of the moment. She felt as if she were walking across a newly scrubbed floor with dirty shoes. She squirmed, but even her discomfort could not keep her from straining to hear each word of the prayer.

  Gil talked just as though he were speaking directly to God himself. Damaris had never heard anything like it in her entire life. You would have thought that Gil was best friends with the one to whom he was praying. And yet there was an earnestness, a hushed appreciation to his voice. Damaris could not understand it. This Gilwyn certainly was a strange individual. Peculiar. In her confusion, Damaris decided to give him a wide berth. She couldn’t understand him at all. Although she had enjoyed this day as part of the family, she did not wish to have him try to foist his strange ways upon her. She longed for the prayer to end so she could breathe more easily again.

  It was not a long prayer, and Damaris soon had her wish, but even after the amen, the feeling of restlessness stayed with her.

  Gil rose and placed the Bible carefully on the table.

  “This has been good,” he said, “but the trail home is a long one.”

  “I wish you could spend the night at the boardinghouse and take to the trail in the morning,” Miss Dover said wistfully. “I just hate to think of you out in the cold—in the dark.”

  He brushed her cheek with his hand. “You worry too m
uch, Mother,” he chided gently. “I’ll be fine.”

  It was the first time Damaris had heard him call her Mother. Mother—not even Ma or Mama. It sounded nice. He spoke the word so naturally, and yet with such deep feeling. Damaris felt her heart stir with emotion. She rose to her feet to make the feeling pass more quickly.

  “I’ll get your things,” said Miss Dover and she moved to retrieve his heavy wraps.

  He accepted the coat and shrugged into it. Then he reached for the leather gloves. Before pulling them on, his hand went to a pocket and came out with a small packet.

  “For you,” he said, passing the gift to Miss Dover and leaning over to kiss her cheek.

  “Oh my!” she squealed, as excited as a child. Her cheeks flushed as she unwrapped the gift. “Combs,” she bubbled. “New combs. Oh, I just love them. Look at them, Damaris. Aren’t they beautiful!” She took his face in both of her hands and placed a kiss on his clean-shaven cheek. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you so much.”

  For a moment his hand rested on her hair as he looked deeply into her moist eyes; then he turned to Damaris.

  “And this is for you,” he said, reaching into his other pocket.

  Damaris caught her breath. She had not expected any such thing. She had not even considered giving him a gift. She was unable to extend her hand to accept the package.

  “But I—” she began.

  “I didn’t bring a gift my first Christmas here, either,” he said easily. “Mother has a way of making people feel at home—giving or receiving.”

  Damaris extended her hand. She still felt embarrassed, but terribly curious.

  A length of lace tumbled from the small package that her hands nervously unwrapped. Damaris was too moved to speak.

  “It will be perfect for that new dress you will make,” enthused Miss Dover.

  Damaris lifted her eyes and nodded her head. She could not find her voice, but she did manage to look up at him for just a minute. She saw understanding in the blue eyes before she quickly looked down again.

  Confusion made her head whirl. A minute ago she had decided to stay out of his way. It had seemed so settled. And then he offered her a gift, a beautiful gift. If she accepted it, how could she then refuse to become a part of this—this strange yet beautiful family?

  She wished he had not brought the gift for her. She wished she could hand it back. She wished they were not standing there looking at her. Accepting her. Welcoming her.

  It was all so—so much. Damaris wasn’t sure whether to smile or to weep. She had never felt so full of emotion. She didn’t want to be feeling—feeling everything so deeply now. She wished to rush home to her little room, bury her head in her pillow, and shut out all the strange, disturbing thoughts and sensations that were washing through her.

  As Damaris fought to gain control of herself, the man moved out into the coldness and darkness of the night. Damaris felt the chill wind as it swept into the room, sensed the movement of the older woman, heard her sighs of concern as she thought of his long ride home, then heard the door close sharply against the night.

  Damaris finally brought herself under control. She was still holding the lace, letting its delicate pattern run through her fingers. She pictured it on the bodice of the dress she hoped to sew. It would be so beautiful. Her new dress might just match the becoming little bonnet in elegance, after all.

  “I suppose you are anxious to get home, too,” Miss Dover was saying.

  “Yes. Yes, I must,” Damaris responded, her voice sounding to herself as if it were somewhere off in the distance.

  “Oh my,” responded Miss Dover with such force that Damaris lifted her eyes in response, giving her total attention to the older woman.

  “I almost forgot in all of the excitement of the day,” she said hurriedly. “I found the verse.”

  Damaris looked puzzled.

  “The verse,” repeated Miss Dover. “The Bible verse about your name. I found it. I wrote it down right here. You can look it up when you get home.”

  Damaris felt her heart begin to pound. Miss Dover had found her name. Her Bible name. The name she had been searching for so long. Damaris wondered how she could have possibly forgotten to share it with her until now. She reached eagerly for the piece of paper and stared at the words. Acts 17:34. Acts 17:34. She couldn’t wait to get home to read the passage. But it did seem strange that it was only one verse. The story of Daniel took several chapters. So did the accounts of Joseph, Noah, and Moses.

  She must mean this is where it starts, reasoned Damaris as she tucked the small scrap of paper protectively in her dress pocket. Damaris knew that even if she should lose the bit of paper, she would not forget the reference. It had been burned into her mind. Acts 17:34. She would never forget it.

  She thanked her hostess for a wonderful day, clutched her shawl tightly about her shoulders, and dashed out into the cold darkness and across the street to the boardinghouse.

  She hoped there would be no one about when she entered the back door and slipped off to her room. She wanted no delay or disturbance as she settled herself in her room to read the verses she had for so long wanted to read. The story of the woman whose name she bore.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Name

  “He can’t stay here tonight and that’s final!” Mrs. Stacy shouted in anger.

  Damaris closed the door as quietly as she could and held her breath so that no one would hear her enter.

  A male voice that sounded like the sheriff’s answered. She could not make out the words but the tone sounded as if they were meant to calm the distressed woman.

  “I will bide no excuses,” returned Mrs. Stacy in her loud voice, this time raised a pitch higher. “He was told before. He’s ruined Christmas for all of us. I will not have it. Do you hear? I will not.”

  The sheriff spoke again. Damaris caught the last few words. “…in the jailhouse until he sobers…but it is unbearably cold there.”

  A shiver made its way through her body. Someone—someone in the boardinghouse had found a Christmas bottle. She moved forward another step wanting to escape to her room. Surely she would be safe there.

  “I don’t care about the cold. He brought it on himself. Perhaps the chill will bring him to his senses.”

  Damaris paused in her flight. Perhaps Mrs. Stacy needed her. Needed her to fend off the drunken attacks like she had always done for her mama. Damaris froze to the spot, anger and fear gripping her. She wished to run, to hide, but she could not move.

  A new voice joined the din. Someone was moaning—or singing—Damaris wasn’t sure which. “Oh, hush up!” Mrs. Stacy cut in harshly. “You’ll waken everyone in the place.”

  Damaris wondered how Mrs. Stacy could think that anyone could be sleeping with the commotion that she herself was making.

  “I can bed him down in my room on the floor,” said the sheriff. “He’ll pass out an’ sleep until—”

  Mrs. Stacy interrupted the sheriff. “Not with my bedding and on my carpet. I won’t have him—”

  “Very well,” said the sheriff, his voice weary and filled with resignation. “I’ll git one of the fellas to help me git him over to the jailhouse.”

  “And the sooner the better,” insisted the woman. “Look what he’s done. Just look. And Damaris still out celebrating. Maybe if she’d been here—”

  “Thet wouldn’t have made any difference and ya know it,” the sheriff argued, his voice raised for the first time. “He was out to make a ruckus and he woulda done it no matter who was or wasn’t here.”

  Damaris felt her stomach tighten. What had gone on in the dining room? Had she been wrong to take the day off? She took another silent step toward her bedroom but just as she moved, the door to the kitchen opened and Mrs. Stacy stepped through. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes swollen from tears, and her face dark with anger and frustration.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said as she jerked to a stop at the sight of the girl. “I was about to send some
one over to get you. We’ve got a terrible mess in the dining room. That—that ol’ fool of a miner—”

  But Mrs. Stacy got no further. She flung her apron over her face and burst into tears again.

  Before Damaris could take another step the sheriff poked his head through the door.

  “Mrs. Stacy could use a cup of good strong tea,” he said to Damaris. “Her place has been pretty much torn apart.”

  Damaris managed to nod her head. She lifted the shawl from her shoulders and hung it on the hook by the door. Then she crossed to the stove to check on the kettle. It was still steaming, so she went for the teapot and the tea.

  Her hand stole into her pocket and fingered her slip of paper. “Acts 17:34,” she said to herself. “Acts 17:34.”

  While she prepared the tea she heard commotion in the dining room. More than one voice spoke as the sheriff and his helper manhandled the drunken miner and removed him from the premises. Damaris had no desire to enter the room until all the men had left.

  “Here you are, Mrs. Stacy,” said Damaris, passing the woman the cup of strong tea. Damaris wasn’t sure if Mrs. Stacy heard; she was still crying loudly into her apron.

  Damaris eyed Mrs. Stacy. She could detect no cuts or bruises, but Damaris knew that many painful injuries could be hidden.

  At last Mrs. Stacy removed the apron from her face, dabbed her eyes, and sniffed away her remaining tears.

  “He was even worse than last time,” she fumed. “I told him then that he couldn’t come again if…But he promised. Oh, he swore he was off the liquor. ‘Turned over a new leaf,’ he said. Humph!”

  “Where are—are you—hurt?” asked Damaris. She had never even asked her mother such a question. Not in all of the years they had silently suffered together.

  “Oh, he didn’t touch me,” the woman said quickly. “The sheriff was right there. But no one was quick enough to stop him from tipping the table and scattering my best china all over the floor.”

  She began to weep again and Damaris recoiled. The sympathy she felt a moment before suddenly evaporated. Why was the woman making such a fuss over broken china? Her mother had responded with less emotion to a broken arm.