A Woman Named Damaris

by Janette Oke

  They were a pitiful sight and Damaris had to fight hard to keep the tears from her own eyes.

  The sheriff rose to his full height and cleared his throat. He looked dreadfully uncomfortable in his role. He refused to even look in the direction of the children.

  “Ya all know the sad circumstances thet bring us here today,” he said. He rubbed his neck self-consciously before he was able to go on.

  “We gotta somehow find these three little ones a place afore winter sets in—an’ the way it’s feelin’ this mornin’ we might not have long.”

  Damaris felt her stomach twisting. She had wanted Abbie—had been willing to sacrifice for the little girl—but as she looked at the three all huddled together on the bench, she knew she had been wrong. They could not be separated. They could not.

  “Now, I don’t know jest where to start. Maybe with the youngest one. Anyone here have a mind to take the little one?”

  Damaris held her breath. “Oh, God,” she prayed. “Show me what to do. Show me.”

  And then to her surprise she was raising her hand.

  The sheriff looked at her in shock.

  “You wantin’ her, miss?” he asked in disbelief.

  “I—I want them all—sir—please,” said a hoarse voice that Damaris hardly recognized as her own.

  “You—but—but you don’t have a—a h—”

  Damaris was sure the sheriff had been going to say “husband” but he changed it to “home.”

  “I—I know,” responded Damaris in a faltering voice, “but I thought the children might—might like to stay in their own home.”

  “Their own home?”

  “Yes, the—the house on the edge of town.”

  “But it’s nothin’ more’n a shack,” spoke up someone.

  “I—I know,” agreed Damaris, becoming bold in her fight. “But it was sturdy once. It can be—can be fixed up. Cleaned. I’ve been in it. I know it can be made—made quite—comfortable.”

  The sheriff lowered his eyes and cleared his throat again. He seemed terribly uncomfortable with the situation.

  “An’ how about—about carin’ fer ’em?” he asked.

  Damaris knew he had to ask the question for the children’s sake.

  “I—I have some money. A little.” Her cheeks flushed. She didn’t have much. Then a new thought came to her. “I can sew—at home.

  There is far more sewing than Miss Dover can keep up to. And I can sew.”

  Damaris saw someone in front nod in agreement. She took courage.

  “If we make it through this first winter—and we will—then next year we can have a garden—and maybe some chickens—we’ll manage just fine.”

  Sheriff Gordon fidgeted. Damaris knew he expected the proceedings to be difficult, but not this difficult.

  “Miss—I admire yer—yer unselfishness in wantin’ to take in three little ones—but I am also responsible to see to their well-bein’. As much as I know yer good intent—knowin’ you like I do—I still don’t think it possible fer a mere girl to be able to provide fer three little ones on her sewin’. Iffen ya had some help now I’d not—”

  “I’ll help,” offered a familiar voice from the back of the room. “I agree with her. They mustn’t be separated. I’ll help.”

  Damaris wanted to run to Gil and express her thanks, but the crowd held her where she was. She could not even see his face.

  “In what way?” the sheriff was asking.

  “I’ll see to it that the repairs on the house are done, supply her with plenty of winter wood, and make sure they don’t want for provisions,” promised Gil.

  Damaris knew that it was no idle, or easy, promise.

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Everyone was talking at once. The sheriff lifted his hand for silence, and gradually order settled over the crowd again.

  “Was there anyone who came here today with a mind to ask fer one of these children?” the sheriff asked in a voice that boomed out in the tight quarters.

  No one responded.

  The sheriff waited a moment, his eyes scanning the crowd.

  “Then is there anyone who objects to Miss Damaris Withers takin’ on the three of ’em?” he asked.

  Again no one responded.

  “Then I have a few more words,” said the sheriff. “This tragedy has belonged to all of us. Iffen these two are willin’ to take on the sole responsibility fer these little ones—then I think we oughta all be askin’ ourselves how we can lighten the burden. A hand here an’ there an’ a full stew pot now an’ then would be in order.”

  Then the sheriff turned to Damaris. “They’re yours Miss Withers—an’ God help ya.”

  Damaris waited no longer. She sprang forward and scooped all three little ones into her arms. Then she buried her head against them and let her tears mingle with theirs. The enormity of the task ahead hit her fully, and she feared that she would never be able to fulfill it. But suddenly peace filled her whole being. She wouldn’t have to do it—not alone. She was sure that God had directed her to take all three of them. She had not even been prepared with arguments to uphold her claim on one. And yet she had them—all three—and even a house in which to raise them.

  With the thought of the house, Damaris winced. There was so much to be done if she was to have it ready by winter.

  “Come,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  She lifted herself just as the last of the crowd left the room and there stood Gil, looking at her and her babies, a pleased yet concerned look on his face.

  “We did it,” she said, not really understanding her own words. “We got them.”

  He smiled and nodded his head; then his face sobered. “What do we do now?” he asked.

  Damaris was taken aback. “Well, I—I guess we take them home.”

  “What about you?”

  “Well—I—I need to go with them.”

  “And Mrs. Stacy?”

  “Oh my,” said Damaris. “I forgot about Mrs. Stacy. Well, I’ll just have to go tell her that I won’t be working for her anymore—and—and get my things.”

  “I’ll get the buckboard,” said Gil.

  ———

  It was not an easy task to take leave of Mrs. Stacy. She had become far too dependent on Damaris. In fact, there were many household duties she had almost forgotten how to do.

  “What will I do?” she moaned over and over. “What will I ever do? I have boarders, you know. There’s so much work with boarders.”

  Damaris nodded. “I am so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I would have given notice but I—I had no idea that—that it would turn out this way.”

  “Well, can’t you at least work—part time?” pleaded the woman.

  Damaris thought about it. “I can give you part time for two weeks,” she said, “in exchange for room and board for me and the children.”

  Even as she spoke the words, Damaris wasn’t sure how she would accomplish the task. But it would give them a bit of time to get organized—to fix up the run-down shack.

  Mrs. Stacy looked hesitant, but at length nodded her agreement. She wasn’t sure how well things would run with three young children underfoot.

  ———

  The plan worked even better than Damaris had dared to hope. Abbie cared for the children while Damaris worked. They were fed in the kitchen and allowed to sit and play in the warmth of the big room while Damaris scurried about getting the meals ready or washing up the dishes. The in-between time was spent over at the little house trying to put things in order.

  Mrs. Stacy was so impressed with the arrangement that she brought forth another proposal. “Why don’t you just stay on here? It’s working very well. There’s no need for you to move off to that horrible little shack.”

  But the horrible little shack was daily becoming more livable. Gil was there mending the roof, fixing the broken windows, and supervising a good clean-up job. Along with him worked the sheriff and any other residents he could shame into taking a part. Bedding, cl
othes, and food contributions had also been forthcoming. Though Damaris found it hard to accept them, she vowed not to let her own pride get in the way of the children’s comfort and well-being.

  By the time she had completed her two weeks of work for Mrs. Stacy, the little house was ready for them to move into and a nice stack of winter wood was piled neatly near the door.

  Damaris packed up her belongings, bade the boarders and Mrs. Stacy goodbye, and bundled the children up as best she could against the cold winter wind.

  “Come,” she said to them. “We are going home.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Home

  Damaris was unprepared for the feelings that swept through her when she walked into the small house at the edge of town with three little ones in tow. The sole responsibility for their care and happiness rested on her shoulders.

  She stopped and looked around her. The men had done a good job with the repairs, and Damaris herself, with the help of some of the women, had scrubbed and scoured until the place was at least clean—if not pretty. The three children looked around with wide eyes.

  “It’s—nice,” spoke Abbie in quiet surprise. But William hung back, his hand clutching a handful of Abbie’s skirt.

  It was little Tootles who broke the spell. She suddenly broke into a grin and ran for the bedroom. Damaris followed, thinking the little one was out to explore. But when Tootles reached the room, she slid to a stop. The familiar bed was missing. In its place was a cot for Damaris and small beds for the children.

  Tootles looked around, her eyes wide. “Mama?” she said softly, and then she began to cry.

  Damaris took her into her arms and rocked her gently back and forth as her own tears joined those of the little girl.

  “Oh, baby,” she sobbed against the child. “I never thought. You thought you’d find her, didn’t you? You poor little thing. How long—how long will it be until you forget?”

  Damaris wasn’t sure she would be able to endure the grieving of the little ones. “Perhaps this was not a good idea,” she said to Gil as he unloaded the wagon. “The reminders will bring pain instead of comfort.”

  “Give them a while,” responded Gil. “They have as good a chance of adjusting here as anywhere.”

  Damaris busied herself putting things away as Gil brought them in. When she returned to the kitchen to make the evening meal, she found a fire already burning in the stove and a good supply of wood piled in the rough entry.

  “Who’s hungry?” asked Damaris.

  “Me,” answered Abbie.

  “What should we fix?” continued Damaris.

  “Pancakes,” responded Abbie.

  “Do you like pancakes?”

  “Yeah. So does Willim and Tootles.”

  Damaris fixed pancakes, and judging by the volume the little ones ate, she had to agree with Abbie’s assessment. It appeared that William and Tootles did like pancakes.

  Damaris decided then that they would eat pancakes only on special occasions. They needed more nourishing food. Stews and soups and egg custards. Damaris looked at the thin little bodies and vowed to herself to have them filled out come spring.

  After the children had been tucked in bed for the night, Damaris busied herself about the small kitchen-living quarters, trying to find ways to make the little house more “homey.”

  “I really haven’t much to work with,” she mumbled to herself, feeling a bit discouraged at the barrenness.

  She hung a calendar from the store. The smiling face of the child with a puppy in his arms helped to brighten one wall.

  “I think they will like that,” she observed as she stepped back and surveyed her work, her head tilted slightly.

  “If I could just—” she began, then quickly cheered. “I know. I will get a box of crayons or some simple paints and let the children make their own pictures.”

  Damaris felt much better. They would make a home. After all, it was people dwelling together and how they felt about one another that really mattered. For a moment Damaris thought of her own home, and an ache became heavy in her chest.

  “I miss Mama,” she said in a half-whisper. “I do hope—I pray she is—is all right.”

  The parting gifts given to her by her mother came to mind, and Damaris brushed a tear away as she headed for the small carpet bag that still held her treasures.

  “Mama said that the watch should be displayed under one of those glass cases. Well, I still don’t have the glass—or the blue velvet—but I guess she won’t mind if I just hang the chain from a nail. And I’ll pin the brooch on a pretty scrap of Miss Dover’s left-over material and put it right beside it. It will make a nice bright spot on another wall—and be a reminder of Mama. I’ll—I’ll tell the little ones all about her—and the fine gifts that she gave me—tomorrow. She’ll be—she’ll be their—sorta “grandmother” even though they have never met her. I think they’ll like that—having a grandmother.”

  Damaris lifted out the watch and the brooch, intent on carrying out her plan. Her fingers caressed the treasures as the tears coursed slowly down her cheeks. She drew the gifts of love against the softness of her cheek for a moment, then rose quickly to carry out her plan.

  ———

  In spite of the help she received from others, it was a hard winter for Damaris.

  The children were sick often because of their run-down condition. Damaris especially feared for William. It seemed that he always had a cold. Damaris coaxed and pleaded and tempted him with special treats to get him to eat. Still, he put on little weight.

  Tootles began to gain. She seemed to soon forget her mother and before long was a laughing, teasing, mischievous child. Damaris adored her, even though she found her terribly hard to keep up to.

  Abbie still had a special place in Damaris’s heart. Damaris marveled at the girl’s big blue-green eyes and brushed the silky hair until it shone. She allowed the child to sit beside her and sew while she worked at alterations from the stack of hand-me-down clothing that had come from the town folk. By the time winter moved in to stay, she had them all pretty well clothed, but her meager account at Mr. MacKenzie’s store was sadly depleted. She knew she would have to turn her time and attention to trying to earn some money.

  She did take in sewing and mending, but she no longer had the use of Miss Dover’s machine, so it was slow work and paid her very little.

  “I’m going to have to figure out something,” she murmured to herself one evening as she sat sewing after the children had been tucked into bed. “Maybe Gil—” No, she couldn’t ask Gil to do any more than he was already doing. She knew that helping the family was costing him dearly from funds he had set aside for more stock.

  “I don’t know how I’d ever manage without the help of friends,” she admitted.

  Miss Dover often sent over little treats for the children in the form of cookies or puddings. Mr. MacKenzie was good about adding this and that to her grocery boxes when she shopped at the store. And Sheriff Gordon was often handing her change he said came from someone who was interested in her welfare. They were getting by. God was faithful in supplying as the needs arose.

  ———

  “I really miss you,” said Miss Dover as she sat at Damaris’s kitchen table one afternoon drinking tea from the best cup Damaris could produce.

  “I miss you, too,” admitted Damaris, but as she looked about the room she knew she would not change what she had done.

  “Is William feeling better?”

  “He’s not coughing as much—but his constant cold still worries me,” admitted Damaris.

  “It’s too bad you couldn’t get hold of some cod liver oil. It’s supposed to be good for building up one’s strength.”

  Damaris nodded. She knew of no place to purchase cod liver oil.

  “I’d like you to come for Christmas,” continued Miss Dover. “It shouldn’t hurt him, should it?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” said Damaris slowly, “if we wrap him up well. Though
I don’t know if I can carry both him and Tootles.”

  “Gil will come for you with the team.”

  Damaris nodded. Gil had been a frequent and welcomed visitor since she had settled in with the children.

  “Can I bring anything?” asked Damaris. “I mean it’s not like you are inviting one person anymore.”

  Miss Dover smiled. “The truth is,” she said frankly, “I can hardly wait. I’ve never had children for Christmas before.”

  “And you may well never want to have them again,” laughed Damaris. “They can be a little rowdy at times. Especially Tootles.”

  “Tootles,” laughed Miss Dover. “That is such a silly little name. What did you say her real name is?”

  “Florence,” replied Damaris.

  “Florence. That really doesn’t suit her, does it? She’s such a little bit of a thing.”

  “I thought we should continue to call her Tootles at least until the children have made some of their other difficult adjustments,” explained Damaris.

  Miss Dover nodded in understanding.

  “They have had a hard lot, haven’t they?” she said simply. “But they do seem to be settling in quite well. You make a good mama, Damaris.”

  Neither woman saw a little head lift and a small brow pucker in deep thought, but after Miss Dover left and Damaris had returned to her stitching, she felt a small body press up against her side. It was Abbie.

  “Are you really our mama?” she asked, catching Damaris totally off guard.

  “Well—I—I am the one who is caring for you,” she stammered.

  “But are you our mama?” persisted the little girl.

  Damaris didn’t know what to say. She laid aside the garment she held in her hands and drew the little girl close.

  “What—what do you think? Would you—would you like me to be your mama—or would you rather I—I just stayed Damaris?” she asked.

  “My mama,” said the child without hesitation.

  “Then—then we will—will think of me as your mama,” said Damaris.

  “Can I call you Mama?” asked Abbie.