Sarah's Promise

by Leisha Kelly

  There was water in the bowl under the carburetor, all right. I set to work taking the bowl off to empty and then putting it back together again. But after all that, the truck didn’t want to start, and when it did, it sputtered some more and then died. Lord, I need to get to a telephone. Here it is morning, and Mr. Wortham’s bound to be at that service station again, maybe Sarah too, waiting for a call.

  I pulled the collar of my coat up and the brim of my hat down and set to work again in the cold, glad I hadn’t forgotten my gloves. Would a’ been nice to have Sarah’s scarf, but I couldn’t recall what we’d done with it, whether it had been left in the Ensleys’ car or had gotten to the doctor with us. I doubted it was even ten degrees out, and the wind put a real bite in the air.

  I ended up having to take the fuel filter off the truck and clean it up, and that was a far longer job than what I’d wanted. I did the best I could at the repair and then had the problem of getting everything set in place again. The old gasket had fallen apart, so I took the tongue from my work boot to cut another one to size. Had to take a wheel off the truck to get at some axle grease to set the gasket and filter in place. And in all that time, I didn’t see even one other vehicle on the road.

  Somebody was on the porch of a farmhouse close by, but I didn’t pay much attention and thought they must have gone on in. After a while, as I was scrunched down replacing the wheel, I heard a voice calling, faint at first. I stood up, wondering where it was coming from.

  “Mister! Mister!”

  The voice got louder. A boy of maybe seven or eight was at that old farmhouse across the field, waving real big at me and hollering. I waved in response, thinking that would be the end of it. But his movement changed when he knew I’d seen him. Now he was trying to wave me in.

  “Mister! Please help!”

  He jumped off the porch and ran several feet forward.

  “Please, mister! Please!”

  I had no idea what was going on at that house. I was in such a hurry to get back on the road that I didn’t even want to think about it. But I couldn’t bring myself to turn my back on that pleading kid. Lord, help. What are you doing with me on this trip? Seems like everything’s gone out of my hands.

  “Mister! Mister!” the boy kept yelling. And I left my truck and tools where they sat along the road and set out across the snowy yard.

  “What’s wrong?” I hollered, but the boy didn’t answer. He just kept waving me forward.

  “Come in! Please, come in!” he begged when I got closer.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “My mother. An’ my brother and sisters—they’re freezin’ cold an’ sick. Please help.”

  He looked scared. And pretty cold himself.

  “Please come in,” he said again.

  “You got a pa?” I asked as I followed him.

  “H-he went t’ St. Louis. He’s s’posed to be home tonight. But we need help now.”

  He looked like he was gonna cry. I’d prob’ly guessed his age pretty close. And I didn’t think I had any choice but to at least talk to his mother, if I could. Maybe there was something I could do, even if it was just to take word into the next town for them, to have the doctor sent out. I could hear what sounded like at least two babies crying inside.

  The boy ushered me in quick, and a woman’s voice spoke up before I even saw her. “Sir, we’ve got the chicken pox. You might not want to take another step.”

  “I’ve had it,” I told her. “It won’t bother me.”

  She sat on a chair with one foot propped on a footstool. Her face showed five or six red pox marks, no more than that. But her eyes looked sunk and red, and the ankle of her propped foot was real swollen. From another room, the sound of the crying continued, along with another plaintive voice. “Mama . . .”

  “I’ll be there in just a minute, sweetie,” she answered the calling child, looking up at me with stark uncertainty.

  Then I noticed she was wearing a coat. It was barely any warmer inside than it had been out. “The children all sick?” I asked.

  “All but me,” the boy who’d called me answered. “I had the chicken pox when I was little. I been trying to help, but I don’t know what to do.”

  “You got wood?” I asked, noticing the fireplace filled with only ash and dying embers. I looked for sign of a coal stove or any other source of heat and spotted a grating pretty quickly. Coal furnace, prob’ly, but the iron grate was stone cold. “Out of coal?”

  “We thought we had enough. My husband’s bringing more when he comes, but I had to use the last this morning.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry, sir. I hate to beg help of anyone. But Bennie and I prayed. We asked God to make a way, and then Bennie saw your truck stop on the road. Please, just make us a fire, if you will. There’s more wood in the barn, but it needs to be split. I was going to get it, but I fell on the ice this morning. I’ve tried, but I can scarcely bear any weight—”

  One of the children in the next room wailed.

  “I had to put them to bed,” she explained. “All wrapped in blankets. It was the only way I knew to keep them warm. And they’re so uncomfortable with the pox . . .”

  She started trying to get up, but the pain was obvious. So was the strain of all this in her face.

  “I been bringin’ in what wood I could,” the little boy told me with tears in his eyes. “But . . . but the little pieces is all gone, and I can’t lift the big ones.”

  “Please,” the mother begged again. “Please just make us a fire.”

  She looked awful, like the wear of this was already far too much on her. And she had a bad sprain of the ankle. That was really clear. They were in awful shape.

  “I’ll make a fire,” I reassured her. “Don’t try to get up. Your big boy and I’ll bring the babies in to you once it’s going good and startin’ to warm in here.”

  I headed out straight for the barn.

  “Bennie, go . . . go and help him,” I heard that mother call behind me. And I wondered about a father who’d leave his family in such a mess, but maybe he didn’t have any notion that all this was going to happen. Wouldn’t do for me to judge without knowing the matter straight.

  Bennie showed me to the ax, hatchet, and handsaw, all of them badly in need of sharpening. And there was plenty of wood, all right. Most every bit of it needing split. From the other end of the barn, I heard a cow lowing. But I ignored it and started in immediately, dull ax and all, to split some of the driest stuff I could find, to get the quickest fire I could with only a little kindling.

  I’d have to split more for them. And carry plenty in. No doubt about that, but I stopped for now with just enough to get the fire blazing. The little boy helped me carry what he could, so we both went back inside with our arms full. One of the other children was up. A redheaded girl with hundreds of spots. I guessed her to be five or six years old, and she was absolutely miserable. Unable to wait for her mother any longer, she’d come out with a blanket wrapped around her. Now she just stood there and cried. She had a bad case of the pox, I could tell. And she was so cold her lips looked blue.

  God, help them.

  I stirred the coals and found a few more glowing embers than I expected. There was part of a catalog next to the fireplace on top of a basket of pinecones. I tore off several catalog pages, scrunched them in my hand, and set them on the coals along with some of the cones. Blowing real hard, I finally got a flame that licked and started to spread. I put the little pieces of bark and kindling I’d stripped off on top of that, then some other wood, small stuff first. Pretty soon the fire was crackling and roaring, and I had the big boy help me make a bed of blankets for the little ones close in front of it, and then scoot his mama’s chair close beside them.

  The other two children couldn’t have been more than about one and three. They had pretty bad cases of the chicken pox too, but I noticed that none of the children had the cough I was hearing in their mother now. She was worn down sick with it settling in her c
hest some, and I was concerned because that kind of thing not taken care of can turn into full-blown pneumony.

  “Thank you,” she said. “We’re so grateful for the small relief.”

  “Too small so far,” I told her. “That fire won’t last long without more wood to keep adding. Will you all be all right in here if I go and split some more?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Yes, thank you.”

  Once again, little Bennie followed me, but I wanted him to gain some benefit of the fire’s warmth too, so I sent him back in with the first armload split and told him to stay inside in case any of the others needed anything. “Your mother hadn’t oughta be up,” I told him. “Fetch anything she needs an’ put another log on the fire if it gets low.”

  I split enough more to make all the armload I could carry and was about to head back to the house with it when that cow let out an awful mournful sort of bellow. And I’d heard that kind of complaint before. I went to take a look, and sure enough, she was bulging with milk and awfully uncomfortable. Apparently, the lady hadn’t wanted to mention that and seem to be begging for more help, but it’d do them and the cow a lot more good to have the milking done as not. So I took more wood inside and asked where to find the milk pail.

  The lady’s eyes flickered with a kind of fresh hope. “You don’t have to do that, sir. I was going to. And Bennie was going to try again at the milking too. It’s just so awful hard for him to get very far with his little hands not used to it.”

  “Won’t take me long, ma’am,” I said with a sigh. “I’ve done it plenty of times before.”

  As I milked, I wondered if they had food in the house. None of the children had complained of being hungry, but maybe they were too sick to care, or well-trained enough not to beg and complain in front of strangers. It was awful heavy to me to be taking all this time, knowing I was already a whole day late calling and Sarah might be waiting at the station right now. But I couldn’t leave this family in a shape like this. I knew she’d understand that. If things had gone on with the house so cold as it was, those little ones or even their mother might have taken the hypothermia. They might have died.

  I was glad to bring the warm milk in to them and suggest that they all oughta have a cup. The woman, who said her name was Vera Platten, insisted that I have some too. So I did, just a little, not wanting to take more than a swallow from them. Mrs. Platten cried about my help, feeling bad to need it and grateful I’d give it freely. She told me twice that she wished she could pay me, but I told her to forget it, that I couldn’t accept anything from them for this.

  I split a third armload of wood and brought it in, wondering how much they’d need to carry them through until the man of the house was home. There’d be no telling, since I had no idea what time he would come. It started really bothering me what could happen to this family if I left them alone and the husband was delayed.

  Mrs. Platten’s cough sounded pretty awful, and the little ones were still uncomfortable too. I fetched in a bucket of water and set a teakettle full by the fire to heat, hoping to find something to put in it for them. “Got any kind a’ tea leaf?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Platten answered me. “We haven’t had regular tea in such a long time. I probably can’t offer you anything you’d care for.”

  She’d misunderstood me completely. “I don’t want nothin’ ’cept to get some made for you. Got any herbs? I could look ’em over and see what’s best.”

  “Top cupboard on the left,” she answered me. “We grow or forage our own. It’s so much cheaper.”

  That was nothing new to me. My family and the Worthams had been gathering tea herbs for as long as I could remember. I’d never had much store-bought tea except at outside functions. So none of the contents of Mrs. Platten’s jars were strange to me. Sassafras. Chicory. Chamomile. Red sage, rosemary, comfrey. I could tell most by the look, the rest by the smell. I picked the comfrey because I’d seen Mrs. Wortham use it when someone had a cough. There was a little baking powder in the cupboard with the herbs, and a little sugar. Salt and pepper and a near-empty bag of cornmeal. Not much else.

  “Do you have honey, ma’am?”

  “I don’t need it sweetened.”

  “Maybe not, but honey’s good for what ails you. When Mrs. Wortham makes a cough syrup, she always uses honey. Lemon’s good too, if you have it.”

  She was quiet, maybe not knowing for sure what to think of me, a stranger rustling around in her kitchen. Maybe I shouldn’t have snooped, but I opened the cupboard on the right too and was dismayed to find nothing at all but a single jar of home-canned tomato juice and half a loaf of homemade bread. There was a potato bin close to the back door, but it had only four potatoes in the bottom. Unless they had something stored someplace else, they were almost out of food.

  “Have you all had breakfast?” I asked.

  Bennie nodded and his mother confirmed the answer. “You don’t have to stay,” she told me, her voice suddenly sounding scared. “You’ve done enough.”

  “Truth is, ma’am, I don’t wanna stay,” I admitted. “But I ain’t gonna be able to drive off in good conscience and leave you like this. Three armloads a’ wood ain’t gonna last you long in this cold. And you got too much to deal with on top a’ that, with your sick babies and yourself being sick, plus the ankle sprain. I could go, if you tell me where to stop to send the doctor out to you, or some other help from town. I’d feel all right ’bout that.” I couldn’t even mention the food. Everything else was bad enough.

  But she shook her head. “We . . . we don’t need the doctor. The chicken pox—it’ll pass.”

  “There’s your cough too,” I prompted her. “And your ankle.”

  She looked like she might cry again. “We can’t pay the doctor. And it’s nothing serious. I’ll be all right.”

  “Got kin I can fetch? Somebody else you know?”

  She shook her head. “You’ve done so much already. We’ll be all right till my husband comes home.”

  “When’s he due?”

  “Tonight, I hope.”

  There was too much uncertainty in that for my liking, but I didn’t question her further. I just fixed her cup of tea and went back outside to split some more wood and think about this. That woman looked weaker to me than she let on. Or at least tireder. Maybe she’d been up half the night with a sick child. Or two. Or three. Maybe she’d been sick several days. Plus the fall this morning trying to get firewood. And if she was like Sarah’s mother, she prob’ly hadn’t been eating enough in the hard times, just to leave more for her babies.

  I couldn’t help feeling riled inside. Somebody should have seen to things better than this, if there was any possible way. Somebody at least should have had most of this woodpile split long before this.

  I knew plain enough that they didn’t have no telephone, but I was aching to get myself to one. Why couldn’t the lady have given me the name of somebody in town so I could go, relay the word, and know someone would be heading out here to help? I couldn’t leave them like this. But it pained me awful to stay, knowing I was worrying my loved ones if I didn’t get word to them.

  I whacked at that wood like it was gonna help matters for me to let myself get angry. Didn’t look like I had much choice in the matter. I at least had to do this much. At least get ’em a decent woodpile to last through the day and night. My conscience wouldn’t allow any less. Just thinking of that miserable little girl with her lips blue from cold made my gut squeeze.

  But what about food? There was a chicken house off to one side of the barn, but I hadn’t heard a squawk to know whether they even had chickens. I prayed so. That biggest kid could gather in what eggs there might be, if that was the case. And they had the rest of the milk. Not much else to last ’em very long. One meal, from what I’d seen. I prayed there was a pantry shelf someplace with plenty more on it, but the house was small, and the kitchen was tiny. I hadn’t seen anyplace but the cupboard for food.

  Lord God, what are you do
ing? First you take me past a wreck on the road and now this! It’s not exactly what I had in mind when I prayed you’d use me and use this trip. Lord, help. I don’t know what more to do here. And I want to get back on the road. But can I? In the face of this?

  There had to be some assurance somehow. Some way I could know I wouldn’t be leaving these people to freeze or starve if Mr. Platten didn’t get home and they were alone again tomorrow. Truth be told, it wouldn’t seem right for them to be alone even an hour, with the only able-bodied among them no more than eight years old. Three sick little ones. And a mother pretty near at the end of her rope. It wasn’t right. It made me sick inside it was so all-fired wrong.

  Sometimes this world stinks, I complained to God. There’s good people, children, that are blind, or deaf, or hurting. And people like these that are dirt poor and don’t know what to do about it. God, what are you gonna do? What do you want me to do?

  I prayed that God would send Mr. Platten, wherever he was. Or their kin. Or somebody. I filled my arms with split wood again and carried it to the house, thinking to ask Mrs. Platten again if there wasn’t somebody I could fetch for her or get word to. Surely even a neighbor would care enough to be neighborly and help them manage until Mr. Platten got home.

  But she said they hadn’t lived here all that long and she didn’t know anybody they could call on.

  “I gotta try,” I told her.

  She looked so sick. She couldn’t hardly answer me except to take to crying again. “You’ve already . . . already answered our prayers. We thank you so much. We . . . we can make it now . . .”

  One of the little girls took to crying too, and Bennie went to bring his sister to their mother’s lap.

  “Maybe she’s hungry,” he suggested with his sad eyes staring up at his mother’s face.

  “It’s not lunchtime yet,” she said real quiet, even though it had to be getting close to that time by now. The little girl buried her face in her mother’s blouse and kept right on fussing.

  “If she’s hungry, it’d prob’ly do her good to go ahead an’ have something to eat,” I told the woman. “I can get it if you want. So’s you stay off your ankle.”