Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  The rooms were uncommonly still as he made his way down the hall. At any other time the twins would have ambushed him before he got this far, hoping he might have a licorice or some gum balls tucked away in his coat pocket. But there was no sign of them, or the older children, either.

  What did assail him on his way toward the back of the house were the tempting aromas from the kitchen. If he wasn’t mistaken, he detected the smell of apple dumplings. Jack smiled in anticipation. Amelia’s apple dumplings were worth a trek across town, even on a hot August day.

  He found Amelia at the back of the house in the small alcove off the dining room that served as her sewing nook. She was sitting by the window, her head bent over what looked to be yet another colorful vest in progress for Rufus.

  He rapped lightly on the door frame to warn her of his presence.

  “Jack! Land, you gave me a start!”

  He walked in, motioning to the vest on her lap. “Whether he deserves it or not, that husband of yours has to be the best-dressed man about town.”

  “I told him just the other night that if he don’t shed a few pounds around his middle before long, I’m goin’ to have to stop making these vests and start workin’ on a tent. So, how’ve you been, Jack? And what in the world are you doing down here this time of day? I’d have thought you’d be off to one of those fancy restaurants on a Friday night.”

  “Not when there’s a chance I can wangle an invitation to your table,” said Jack.

  “You know very well you don’t have to ask,” she chided him. “I do believe you must have smelled those apple dumplings across town. Well, sit down,” she said, gesturing to the only other chair in the room, a slightly sagging, overstuffed armchair. “Don’t tell me you walked in this heat? Where’s that nice Sheridan boy with your buggy?”

  “He’ll be by later,” Jack said, loosening his tie and tossing his suit coat over the back of the chair before sitting down. “Where is everyone? I don’t think I’ve ever heard this house so quiet before.”

  “Gideon took them over to the cake social at his girlfriend Helen’s church, all except for Mary. She had to beg her daddy for two days, but he finally agreed to let her go to the band concert in the park with that nice Henry Johnson.” She gave a long sigh and looked up. “They’re all of them growing up, Jack. Rufus and me, we’re startin’ to feel old.”

  Jack laughed at her. “Before you know it, you’ll have yourselves a houseful of grandchildren, Amelia. You and Rufus won’t have time to get old.”

  She seemed to consider the thought, then smiled. “I expect you’re right. But what about you, Jack Kane? That’s what I’d like to know. A man your age ought to be thinking seriously about a good woman and a houseful of his own children. What are you doing about that?”

  “A man my age doesn’t have the patience for a lot of noisy children. That’s why I come to visit you so often. Anytime I get the mad notion that I ought to start a family, I just stop by the Carvers’ and take the cure.”

  “Oh, you,” she said, feigning a frown and shaking her head. “I don’t pay a bit of attention to you, Jack. You’re full of that Irish blarney, that’s what I think.”

  “Ah, Amelia, you know me too well. So, where’s Rufus? I would have stopped by the church, but I didn’t think I’d find him there this late.”

  “He’s over at the schoolhouse, helping Samantha clean up a bit. There was a window that needed to be reset, too. She teaches at the school on Friday afternoons, you know.”

  Jack nodded, trying to ignore the peculiar squeeze of his heart at the sound of Samantha’s name.

  They sat in silence for a time, Jack watching Amelia work the thread in and out of the material, a contented smile on her face. A thought occurred to him, and he voiced it. “I don’t expect you’ve ever thought of yourself as an artist, have you?”

  She glanced up. “I reckon not,” she said dryly. “Mostly I think of myself as the old woman who lived in the shoe.”

  Jack smiled but shook his head. “Those vests—” he motioned toward the one in her hands—“they’re like Brady’s paintings. The colors, the design—no two are alike. Each one is unique. And I suspect there’s a lot of Amelia Carver that goes into the making of them. If that’s not the work of an artist, I don’t know what is.”

  The idea seemed to please Amelia, and she studied the vest in her lap for a moment. “I never thought of it like that. Tell you what I do think about sometimes when I’m sewing on something new, though. I can’t help but wonder if it might not be a little bit like what the good Lord does in our lives.”

  Although he was curious as to her meaning, Jack deliberately refrained from asking, lest he invite some sort of religious application. Amelia wasn’t usually given to sermonizing like her effusive husband, but she had been known to make a point when the situation allowed.

  He suspected this might be one of those times. She held up the unfinished garment, multicolored with a satin sheen and finely stitched in dark gold. “It seems to me,” she said, her tone thoughtful, “that the Lord, he takes a piece of drab old fabric—a life—and fashions it however he wants. He plans it just so, gives it its own special shape and size and color. Some people’s lives seem to be all bright and glittery—and mighty flimsy, too, just like some of the fabrics I’ve tried to work with. Others might not be quite as showy—maybe not as elegant or fine looking. But they last longer, and they’ll take a sight more launderings and rough treatment than those frilly, useless little scraps.” She paused, smiled, then went on. “Even the buttons are different. Some are shiny and tarnish easy—and even break off after a while. Others have buttons that don’t show up as well, but they’re a whole lot sturdier and last longer.”

  Still smiling, she traced a finger down one seam. “Now the stitching, that’s the most important part of all. That’s what holds it all together, what gives the fabric its own special shape and makes it wear real good for a long time.”

  Again she paused, long enough to run a gentle hand over the fabric with unmistakable care and love. “Seems to me the stitching is like the Spirit’s work, taking every part of our life—all the good times and the bad, the joyful times and the hurting times—and weaving them all together to make a perfect, finished garment.”

  On impulse, Jack voiced a question that had only then occurred to him. “But what really decides the finished product, Amelia? The one who does the sewing or the fabric itself?”

  He hadn’t meant it as a challenge, but as was so often the case when it came to matters of faith, he heard the faint, sardonic twist to his own words.

  If Amelia noticed, however, she didn’t let on but simply regarded him with a searching look for a long moment. “Well, I expect that’s where the similarity ends, Jack,” she said, still caressing the material in her hands. “This piece of cloth doesn’t have any say-so over what I do to it. But when it comes to my life, I do. It’s up to me whether I want my life’s ‘stitching’ to be done by the Lord or by my own stubborn, clumsy hands. Everybody’s got a choice about that. As for me, I decided a long time ago I didn’t want my life to be some old throwaway rag. No, sir, I want my life fashioned right out of the cloth of heaven.”

  Her reference to the “old throwaway rag” was like a boot in the stomach to Jack. On those rare occasions when a quiet moment or two managed to squeeze between the overly busy, cluttered hours of his days and nights, when he allowed himself a singular clear thought about his existence, he might have described it just like that: an “old throwaway rag.”

  Jack stared at her, his emotions vacillating between admiration and disquiet. He respected Amelia Carver—and her husband—as much as, if not more than, anyone he’d ever known. For years he had been aware that there was something very special about their lives, something to which he couldn’t even hope to relate, could not begin to understand. And yet if he was completely honest, he envied them whatever it was.

  But at some deeper, darker level, there was a part of him—a disconte
nted, inexplicably angry part of him—that resented Amelia’s simplistic analogy. It had been his experience that nothing was that basic, that fundamental—that simple—in life, except possibly life’s pain.

  He was no fool. At the core of his being, he knew that his obsessive drive for success, for more money, for more power, had nothing to do with need. Whatever he might have felt compelled to prove years ago, as a boy and as a young man, he had proven many times over. The last thing he needed was more money, and he didn’t delude himself about the value of success or power—both were as fleeting as a midnight wind.

  No, the demon that rode his back, driving him to cram his every waking hour with more and more work—more busyness—wasn’t so much born of need, but desperation—a desperation to fill the black, grasping hunger within him. The sick beast called misery in the pit of his soul threatened daily to swallow him whole if he allowed himself time to think…really think. About life. About the meaning of life. About…something more than life.

  Rufus had once remarked that he found it next to impossible to comprehend what exactly Jack believed in. Understandable, since Jack himself didn’t know. He believed in something, that much he would concede. At least he wanted to believe there was something better, something higher, something that might ultimately give value to all the suffering and despair and injustice the game of life was forever dealing its players.

  Every year he seemed to sense old age—and death—hurtling faster and faster toward him. It accomplished nothing to throw his hands over his eyes in hopes of warding off the inevitable. He would give much to believe, really believe, in some divine righting of all life’s wrongs—some justice for all the innocent who had been slaughtered, some eventual healing for all those who had suffered, some final peace for those who had known nothing but fear or trouble or affliction.

  There had been a time, when he was a lad—he barely remembered it now—when his mother had taught him about a baby born in a stable and a Savior suffering on a cross for man’s sins. She had made it all so easy to understand, so utterly real and believable—even the part about their “blessed hope,” the risen Christ, who would be waiting at the gate of heaven, arms open wide, to welcome his children home.

  But then he had been a boy, and he had known nothing of life. Now he was a man and knew too much.

  “Jack?”

  Amelia’s soft, questioning voice brought him back. “Sorry, Amelia. I think the heat caught up with me there for a minute.”

  She was watching him with undisguised concern. “Why don’t I get you a nice cold glass of milk?” she said, putting her sewing down and pushing herself up from the chair. “Gideon went for ice just before he left with the children, so the milk ought to be chilled real good by now.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble, Amelia—”

  “No trouble,” she assured him. “I need to be setting the table anyhow. Rufus and Samantha will be along any minute now.”

  Jack had started to get up but froze at her words. “Samantha? She’s coming home with Rufus?”

  Amelia turned and smiled. “Why, yes. Samantha usually has supper with us on Friday nights, after Rufus helps her tidy up the schoolroom. I’m so glad you’re here, too. It’ll be nice, with the children gone. Just us grown-ups, for a change.”

  Jack got to his feet. Suddenly, he felt exceedingly rumpled. Wilted, actually. He needed a shave by this time of day, and his hair was still damp from perspiration. This wasn’t the way he wanted Samantha Harte to find him. “I…don’t believe I can stay after all, Amelia. I’ve remembered something I need to do—”

  What was wrong with him? Only a few days ago he would have clicked his heels in the air at a chance to sit down to supper with Samantha again. Now here was an incredible opportunity, and he was acting like a backward schoolboy.

  “Besides,” he added, “you hadn’t planned on another mouth to feed. I don’t think I ought to impose.” He felt as if he were babbling, and Amelia’s expression indicated as much.

  “Whatever’s gotten into you, Jack Kane? Weren’t you just hintin’ strong a few minutes ago for some of my apple dumplings? And if Rufus comes home and finds that you left without having your supper, he’ll fret about it all evening.”

  Jack glanced down over himself. “The thing is, Amelia, I didn’t realize Mrs. Harte was going to be here. I’m not exactly fit company for you ladies.”

  She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What kind of shape do you think Rufus is going to be in after working all day in this heat? Land, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to avoid Samantha. I thought you liked her.”

  “Well, of course I like her,” Jack said peevishly, feeling increasingly foolish. “I hired her, didn’t I?”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Amelia drawled, her gaze sizing up his appearance—and no doubt registering his discomfort. “You look just fine, it seems to me, but if it’ll make you feel any better, go on upstairs and wash up a bit. You can even tighten your necktie, if you think you must. Your shoes aren’t so bad, and I don’t see any gravy on your shirt, so you’ll do. Go on now, and stop with this foolishness. I declare, there’s no woman in the world so vain as a man, and that’s the truth.”

  Jack felt a little better at her encouragement, but he had no chance to act on it, for at that moment they heard the sound of Rufus’s booming voice in the hall. Jack only had time for a quick swipe of a hand through his hair before Rufus appeared in the doorway…with Samantha Harte.

  Her startled expression, Jack noted, indicated that she was every bit as flustered by this unexpected encounter as he was.

  39

  SAMANTHA’S SMILE

  She smiled and that transfigured me

  And left me but a lout.

  W. B. YEATS

  Samantha’s first thought upon seeing Jack Kane in the doorway of the sewing room was that she probably could not have looked worse.

  The heat in the schoolroom had been almost intolerable throughout the afternoon. By the time she sent the children home, she was already feeling wilted and cross. But that wasn’t the end of her day. Rufus had come to work on the window, then stayed to help her clean the supply pantry. In the meantime, Samantha had dusted, swept, cleaned the chalkboard, and tidied up the classroom.

  Her hair was damp, and a few strands had slipped free to frizz about her face. The front of her white bodice was dusty, and for all she knew, her face might even be dirty. Instinctively, she put a hand to her hair, brushing away an incorrigible strand that had fallen over one eye. She was disconcerted to see the way Kane’s gaze followed her movement. Why hadn’t she taken the time to freshen up before leaving the schoolhouse?

  Once she recovered from the surprise encounter, however, she observed that her employer’s appearance hadn’t been left entirely unscathed by the heat of the day. Kane wasn’t quite his usual natty self.

  So the titan is mortal after all, she thought with a faint touch of grim satisfaction. Unfortunately, the man’s slightly rumpled mien seemed to take nothing away from his appeal. The thought brought a stab of annoyance, and Samantha tensed, the familiar walls of self-protection closing in on her.

  Jack thought she had never looked lovelier, an observation that only heightened his own sense of dishevelment. Somehow he managed a civil greeting, to which Samantha Harte responded with cool composure.

  Rufus saved the moment by slapping Jack soundly on the back and immediately launching into a cheerful prediction of the coming storm. “We’d better enjoy the peace and quiet while we can,” he said. Already in his shirtsleeves, he whipped his necktie free and let it dangle around his neck. “Anytime now those children are gonna burst through the door. From the looks of the sky, this is going to be a bad one. Once it hits, the cake social will be over.”

  When Jack moved to retrieve his suit coat, Rufus stopped him. “Don’t you dare put that coat on, Jack! I’m uncomfortable enough as it is. I don’t reckon the ladies will mind on a night li
ke this.”

  They went on to exchange meaningless small talk about the heat and the storm on the way. Jack half wished he hadn’t let Amelia talk him out of leaving. For some reason, he felt uncommonly discomfited by the presence of Samantha Harte, and after a muttered remark about “getting some air,” he crossed to an open window and stood looking out.

  Rufus had been right about the sky. A great mass of sullen dark thunderheads had begun to boil over the city, and for the first time in days there was enough wind to stir the dry leaves. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and as he watched, quick, short bolts of lightning shot from the clouds.

  The air was hot and smelled scorched, offering no real relief. Even so, he stayed by the window until he heard Amelia and Samantha Harte leave the room.

  Thankfully, Rufus seemed unaware of his tension. They talked about nothing of any importance until Amelia called them to supper. By then, Jack had managed to regain at least a vestige of his composure.

  The Carvers’ kitchen was a large, high-ceilinged room that also served as the family’s dining room. Between two long windows on one wall stood the cookstove and a sink. A rough-bricked fireplace and a large cupboard lined the opposite wall. The room was spacious enough to accommodate the entire family when they were all together, as well as any guests who might drop by. It was a friendly, comfortable room that invited laughter and conversation.

  Jack normally thought of the kitchen as a kind of haven. The day’s tension would usually begin to leave him almost as soon as he entered, even when the entire noisy Carver clan was gathered round the table. Tonight, however, he felt slightly less at ease. A part of his restlessness might have been due to the approaching storm or even to the unfamiliar stillness in the house without the children. More likely, though, it resulted from his futile fascination with Samantha Harte.