by Leisha Kelly
“I think you’re blind,” I spat at both of them, squelching the tears before I turned around. “Frank was the one who held things together during the war. He kept up your farm and helped us too, even with his business on top of that! He’s helped my father at the service station when they were full with repairs. The neighbors call on him when they need a hand. Even the pastor, when he had to be gone, asked Frank to step in and speak for him that Sunday—”
“He was pert’ near a wreck then,” Kirk put in with a laugh. “Awful nervous.”
“Of course he was!” I snapped. “Wouldn’t you be? The important thing is, he did it! He did a fine job! Everybody said so. And you couldn’t have done it. Neither of you! You’ve got no right to talk like he can’t handle what he faces, no matter where he is.”
“We’re sorry,” Bert said quickly. “Never meant to upset you.”
Kirk didn’t say anything at all. I looked at Mom, who was across the room frying cabbage, and I wondered if this was exactly what she’d meant about letting Frank be his own man.
I prayed differently now. For God to touch Frank’s family to see him the way they should. And for Frank to have the confidence and strength to make the decisions he should despite their thoughts.
But when I was alone that night, I started wondering even about myself. I really liked to read to Frank. I liked to help him with paperwork and things. And I could remember coming upon him more than once when he’d seemed so consumed in faraway thinking that he didn’t notice my presence, even when I spoke. Could I be a little like Kirk and Bert, in hoping he’d stay close to home? I’d been practically frantic for him when he was on the road. Would I have been so worried if it was my brother or my dad making the same trip?
It was hard to think like that, hard to confront the doubts in my own head. It made me think again of the question Rorey’d asked in her letter: “Can you imagine reading orders and everything else for him for the rest of your life? He’ll be dependent on you or your parents, Sarah. Is that what you want?”
I’d thought I wouldn’t mind a bit because of how much I loved him. I’d thought that doing things for Frank would make me feel all the more needed and we’d be a team. But was I selling him short too, even thinking in such a way? It wasn’t what he wanted, to be dependent on anybody at all. Even me.
Father, help. You have the answer, and I promised to trust you. No matter what, I will. But I promised to trust Frank too. And I do. I try. So is it being realistic to think of his limitations, like Bert says? Or is it just unfair?
12
Frank
In the four days since I’d gotten to Sam’s house, we’d made a lot of progress getting things moved. Mr. Pratt wasn’t happy with Sam or me, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Sam had to do what was best for his family, and I did too, even if I only had me and Sarah to think about for now. I knew neither of us would really be happy running Mr. Pratt’s store. We’d be better off picking the place that was really right for us from the start. I had some definite ideas, and I took to praying about it.
I need a bigger workshop, Lord. Even a bigger storefront if possible, and a back or side door big enough to load or unload all kinds of things. And a nice house right next door, that would be ideal. With plenty of yard, and even a garage.
It was Monday, and Sam was starting his new job tomorrow. We’d be spending the night for the first time in the new house. The kids were all excited, running every which way, especially up and down the stairs, which I wasn’t keen on because I hadn’t had time to fix them a rail yet. Thelma finally corralled the whole troop and got them settled down to read or color pictures while she finished supper.
Albert seemed more nervous than the other kids about being in the new place. I wondered how much he’d been able to figure out about what was happening. The move itself was surely clear enough, but not the reason for it. I wondered if he knew about the deaf school, or if he’d understand where Georgie and Rosemary’d be going when they started at their new school next week.
I let him sit on my lap while he drew Crayola pictures. He liked to draw people. Babies without legs. Boys and men with blue pants and really big ears. And all the girls with long curls like Rosemary’s. If a picture didn’t suit him, he’d scribble over it in black and start another one. I thought he was mighty good for his age and a lot tougher critic of his own work than he oughta be.
Dorothy and Pearl were coloring too, but Georgie was whittling off to himself and Rosemary had settled down with a little book her teacher had given her before Christmas. I watched her for a while the way I used to watch Bert or Emmie read at home. She laid her bookmark across the page and lowered it a little every time she got to the end of a line. Mrs. Wortham had suggested that to me once, to help me keep from losing my place on the page or getting overwhelmed by such a jumble of words. It hadn’t helped much because my eyes didn’t seem to know what to do with a whole line, especially if there were more lines above it.
There must be something I could do to read a book on my own someday. I pictured myself with my nose buried in a thin book like Rosemary’s. I could imagine even harder books, like the ones by Charles Dickens that Sarah had read to me recently. They’d looked impossible with all that small print and so many lines jumblin’ together. But if I was to cut a piece of paper with a window in it to block off everything but one line on the page, and then add a strip of paper to slide over and show only one word at a time, maybe that would work for me. I could break down a long word into syllables if I had to. It’d be like turnin’ a whole page of print into a pile of Mrs. Wortham’s word cards. And then it wouldn’t seem so bad. Tedious, maybe. But not impossible.
I oughta try it. On a kid’s book first, even though I’d rather jump into reading the Bible or a newspaper if I could. I smiled to think of myself with a newspaper tucked under my arm or a Bible on a nightstand, and the good feeling inside that must come from having actually read it on your own.
But suddenly I felt somebody’s hand nudging against my shoulder.
“Franky?”
I turned my head. Sam stood looking at me with a funny expression. Albert was gone off my lap. Rosemary was gone too.
“Franky, it’s time to eat. Where’ve you been? Thelma called twice, and even Albert responds to hand motions.”
“Just thinkin’,” I answered him, a little disgusted that he prob’ly thought he’d caught me in one of those “spells” people talked about. My brothers all seemed to think I just blanked out sometimes, or had my head in the clouds like Pa used to say.
“You all right?” Sam asked me as I stood up.
“Of course I’m all right.”
“What’re you thinkin’ about?”
I didn’t wanna tell him. I figured he’d find it pathetic. Or funny. “Nothing much.”
“Lot a’ concentration for nothing much.”
I ignored him and went to the table. Thelma was serving roast beef, and she was mighty proud of the way it came out with her new oven. She was pleased as punch with this new house, I could tell. But I knew I needed to be spending the time while Sam was gone to work tomorrow getting that stair rail built. Too many little kids runnin’ around here to put it off. I told them I thought the little ones oughta sleep downstairs for safety until I got that done. Thelma agreed with me, and since the kids all wanted to be by me, we ended up camping in the living room that night.
Next morning I woke up before light thinking again about reading. In one of my toolboxes I had some stiff paper that I used for patterns, so I got a piece, put a light on in the kitchen, and cut myself a rectangle with a window and a smaller piece to move back and forth. The house was quiet. I picked up the book Rosemary’d been looking at yesterday, wondering if I was bein’ a dreamy fool thinking I’d ever really read.
I just picked a page—wouldn’t matter where I started— and covered all but one line. It looked like a crazy string of letters, so I hid all but one word and started in.
It
was easier than I expected, one isolated word at a time. Reading a whole book this way’d take forever, but at least I seemed to be making progress. But when I lifted the paper to look at the line I’d read, the letters almost got lost in the jumble again. Why should this be so hard? I could hardly count the lines on the page ’cause they ran together so bad. I might have kept working at it, but sudden footsteps jarred my thinking. I slammed the book shut.
Sam was standing in the doorway, looking at me with a peculiar smile. He’d seen what I was doing, no question about it. “You still keep tryin’, huh?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Makin’ any progress?” He walked to the cupboard and found a tin of coffee.
“A little.”
“Really? Any good stories in that book?”
“Didn’t get very far.” I stood up, not wanting to talk any more about it.
“Want some coffee?”
“In a while.” I put Rosemary’s book away for now so I could think about the business of the day.
Sam was ready to get me started on his new house. Before he went to work that morning he showed me where the lumberyard was. I picked out all the wood I’d need, hauled it back to Sam’s, and started building the stair railing. I’d never worked on such a project with kids climbin’ over everything, but I let them be as long as they left the nails and tools alone. Nine-year-old Georgie wanted to help, and I tried to show him how he could, but he really only wanted to pound nails, so I cut some scrap pieces for him, showed him how they fit together, and marked where the nails should go. He’d have himself a little stool when he got done, if he’d been paying attention.
Pretty soon Albert got in his way, and Georgie got upset. Looked like Albert wanted to try his hand too. At his age, I would’ve. And I figured six was old enough to start, so I set him up with scrap pieces and nails to make a stool of his own.
Thelma got mad at me when Albert hit his thumb. She said I had no business givin’ him a hammer and nails when he was so little and couldn’t hear me tell what to do.
“He don’t need told,” I tried to explain. “He was watchin’ Georgie, and I pointed it all out.”
She put a cold cloth on Albert’s thumb and tried to get him to color again. But he wouldn’t sit still till he got that hammer back in his hand and set back to work.
“That’s the spirit, kid,” I told him. Thelma glared at me, but she let it be.
The longest part of making that railing would be carving the individual balusters. Sam and Thelma wanted them nice, so I got a basic rail in place with temporary support first so the kids’d have something between them and the stair edge, and then I set to work carving. Sam wasn’t particular on the design. “Something with leaves, maybe,” he’d told me. I thought about making each baluster look like it had a leafy vine around it, but I didn’t want to spend that much time, so I decided on a simple leaf design at the tops. As it was, it’d take me better’n a week to get them all carved, and we still had at least another load a’ things to haul from the house in Camp Point. I thought maybe if the weather was nice, I’d take the truck tomorrow and load up the rest by myself.
When Sam got home he was pleased with my progress but sober about something too. Soon as we had a minute alone, he sat himself down and looked at me kind of hard.
“Who’s Mary Ensley?”
I was so startled I didn’t know what to think. “How’d you know about her? Don’t think I mentioned her name.”
Sam crossed his arms and looked disgusted. “Franklin Drew, it ain’t right for you even to be thinkin’ on no other girl.”
“She’s only ’bout Georgie’s age,” I explained quick. “Remember the family that had a wreck? Mary Ensley’s the blind daughter I told you about.”
He pulled a piece of mail out of his pocket. “How could a little blind girl write you a letter?”
“Maybe her mama helped her with it. Or her teacher.”
“So why’s she writin’ to you?” Sam pressed even after I’d gotten the letter into my hand.
“I don’t know.”
I hoped it was printed in big letters and I’d have some chance of deciphering at least part of it myself. But it was written in the flowing cursive of an adult, the very hardest script for me. It all looked like curling vines with leaves every which way. “Guess you’ll find out why she wrote,” I told Sam. “If you wanna read it to me.”
He did, and right away. But the letter wasn’t what either of us could have expected, and it left me not knowing what to say. Mr. Ensley had passed away from complications with his heart. Mary was thanking me for helping them, and asking me to pray for her and her mother. Sam noticed immediately that at the end of the letter she called me “Reverend.”
“She thinks you’re a preacher?” he protested. “Did you tell her that?”
“No.”
Seemed to bother Sam that I’d left that impression, but I didn’t know why they’d thought the way they did. Bothered me a lot worse to think a’ that little girl’s father dyin’. Mr. Ensley’s shaky hands and pale face were plain in my mind. Didn’t seem right that he could be gone when his daughter still needed him so bad. I prayed like she asked me to, but it was heavy on my heart that she’d said she didn’t know nobody else to ask prayer from. Her teacher’d helped with the letter; she oughta know someone. But maybe not. I wished I knew a preacher in their area to send ’em to.
Sam asked me what the Worthams might a’ thought of me gettin’ that letter. I didn’t know if they’d recognize the name or not, but it wouldn’t a’ been no big deal to them. I was just glad they’d forwarded it on so I’d know to pray.
Thelma sat with me after supper and wrote what I wanted in a return letter to Mary and her mother. Sympathy for their loss. Explanation that I was a wood carver, not a preacher. And a promise to continue prayin’ for them anyway, as any believer should. At first I thought that was enough, but then I had Thelma add the twenty-third psalm at the end, because I figured it might be some comfort.
The next day was clear and sunny. Sam left for his second day at his new job, and Thelma was busy as always with her kids. I took the truck back to Camp Point for the rest of their things. It was a nice drive. I’d spent so much time with Sam’s kids and all their lively noise that the time alone in my truck was a welcome change.
I was thinking about Sarah, wishing she was with me. Maybe when we were together again, I could have her work with me on spelling words and word cards like we used to do when we were younger. Surely I could get to reading at least a little better, even if I was still slow. Part of me scoffed inside, because I’d worked so hard at it and accomplished so little over the years. But there had to be a way.
My thoughts turned from there to Mr. Pratt’s store. Sarah’d been so relieved for me to turn it down. I prayed again that she’d be able to understand that I needed to be somewhere besides Dearing or Mcleansboro. I hated that there could be a rift between us over anything at all, and this issue might not be an easy one to resolve.
Then I thought of the Scripture in Ephesians: “Husbands, love your wives even as Christ loved the church and gave himself for it.”
Considering that made my heart heavy. Sarah loved her folks. She wanted to stay close to home. How could I take that from her, no matter what I felt? If I loved her enough, I oughta be able to live where she wanted to, make a living, and find a way to be happy, even with my brothers and all looking on. Even if they was to whisper behind my back that I was there ’cause I couldn’t a’ made it anywhere else.
I tried to quit thinking like that. Sarah was right that it didn’t matter what anybody thought. All I was responsible for was to do my best at pleasing the Lord and loving my soon-to-be wife. I tried to picture a nice shop on the outskirts of Dearing, with a house beside it and a tree with a swing in it for the kids we might have someday. It was an all-right picture. We could be happy anywhere. But there was a strange emptiness to it that I didn’t understand.
But then I thou
ght of another Scripture, this one from Proverbs. “In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy path.” That was what was missing. I couldn’t plan this on my own, because surely God already had a plan for us. Maybe he already had a place in mind.
Where do you want us to settle, Lord? I don’t have a lot of time left to figure this out. I should prob’ly be knowing already, to put Sarah’s heart at ease. But I don’t know what’s best the way you do. Show me, Lord. Direct my path.
I got to the town of Clayton, where I’d dropped off the soldier on my first time through, and decided to stop at the little café on the main street where he’d wanted to buy me a cup of coffee. A bit a’ coffee would taste good right now, and there wasn’t any to be had at Sam and Thelma’s old house anymore.
It was a comfortable café, but I didn’t stay long ’cause I was feeling an urgency to get Sam and Thelma’s moving done. Somehow heaviness settled on me the rest of the way to Camp Point. Felt like I oughta get away from here as soon as I could to start searching for a home somewhere else. But at the same time I hesitated, with no idea why. Lord, help me. I want your leading. Your will.
Driving into Camp Point this time was strange. It hadn’t oughta have seemed so familiar so soon. I pulled into the drive at Sam’s old house and went right to work, trying to keep from thinking too much about where we oughta settle and what I oughta do with myself after this.
Thelma’s sewing table was the first thing to load, along with a pair of bedside tables. I packed boxes under and around them and then set a few more boxes on top of the first ones, almost filling the back of my truck. I had to tie the ottoman and a couple of extra chairs on top. I set a box with glass things in the front seat and then checked the house over to make sure I’d gotten everything.
I was upstairs when somebody pounded at the door, but they didn’t wait for me to open to them. I could hear them inside before I got all the way downstairs.
“Yoo-hoo!” a woman’s voice was calling.
“I’m right here. Can I help you with something?”