My Father's World

by Michael Phillips

  “A snake is more like it!” shot back Uncle Nick. “If you’re wanting to find sinners, Reverend, I’d take that Gospel of yours and preach it in his bank!”

  “I’m sure no man is without his faults,” said Mrs. Parrish quickly, before Rev. Rutledge had the chance to respond. “Now, who would care for another piece of pie?”

  “Iffen you’s got plenty there, Miz Parrish,” said Marcus Weber sheepishly. “It’s de bes’ I ever dun ate. And tha’s de truth!”

  The minister didn’t seem sensitive to the fact he was scratching away at a live hornet’s nest, because the moment there was a pause in the conversation, he started in again about building a new church.

  “Once we do find a location, and come to terms with the financing, I see nothing to stop us. I’m certain if the Lord’s blessing is with us, we will see a completed church by next summer. I believe there are plenty of able-bodied men who would be willing to lend their talents to the project, fine men who are not ashamed to stand and be counted for the cause of Christ. Men much like yourself, Mr. Drum—”

  As he spoke, he turned in Pa’s direction, and it was clear he was attempting to smooth over the recent bumpiness of the conversation with what he felt was a compliment.

  “Men of courage, saying to their community, as you did when you stood up and spoke out on my behalf, that they are part of the church’s ministry to the lost. Fine Christian men who—”

  “Look, Reverend!” Pa suddenly burst out in a loud voice. “When are you gonna get it through that head of yours that I ain’t of the same mind as you? I gave up all that righteous stuff . . . well, years ago—when I figured I wasn’t fit for it, an’ it wasn’t fit for the likes of me. Your brain’s so filled with old-fashioned talk and Bible verses no ordinary man like me can understand, that you don’t have sense to see what’s right in front of your nose. I’m one of them sinners you’re always talkin’ about, Reverend! I may go to some of your meetings, and I may help you build your blamed church, and I’ll read my—I’ll read the kids here the Christmas story ’cause I believe in givin’ the Lord his due. But stop makin’ me into somethin’ I ain’t! I don’t rightly know why I stood up to make the boys shut up that day. I half-regretted it ever since, and I sure ain’t gonna do it again!”

  He stopped and took a deep breath, then turned to Mrs. Parrish. Everyone was absolutely still.

  “I thank you kindly for the meal, Ma’am,” he said in a softer tone. “But I’d best take my leave—I got business in town.”

  He stood, then looked in my direction with what appeared a fleeting, unspoken apology in his eyes, then added, “I’ll be back for you kids in an hour or so.”

  Then he turned and made for the door, saying as he went, “You coming, Nick?”

  Uncle Nick hesitated a moment, then rose, tipped his hat toward Marcus Weber and the minister, then to Mrs. Parrish, “Ma’am, I thank you too, for makin’ this day special for us all.” Then he too was gone.

  An awkward few minutes followed. At length, Rev. Rutledge sighed, and shook his head with a look of great pity.

  “Sometimes, I do not understand the ways of God,” he said. “To my limited vision, it seems a deplorable turn of fate that men like that should be given charge of these precious little ones.”

  “Only a few moments ago you were calling at least one of them a fine Christian, Avery,” said Mrs. Parrish softly.

  “Ah, but that was before I knew the true state of his heart toward God. He is clearly in rebellion against his Maker.”

  “Be that as it may, I truly feel they are doing the best they can for the children,” persisted Mrs. Parrish. Her defense of Pa and Uncle Nick came as a surprise. She didn’t have the best to say for them in times past, and I wondered who was doing the changing—they, or her.

  “Yo’ betta b’lieve they is,” put in Mr. Weber, who had been silent for most of the meal. “Well,” he added, pausing for a moment’s reflection, “’ceptin’ fer them hosses, that is.”

  “I fear their best may not be enough,” continued Rev. Rutledge.

  “There’s little other choice, regardless,” said Mrs. Parrish.

  “Surely there must be some decent family willing to take them in.”

  “He’s our kin!” I suddenly heard myself saying. “Nothing’s going to make us leave him—that is, unless he says so.” The words were no sooner out of my mouth, and I wanted to sink under the table, for I could feel all eyes turned toward me.

  “Yes, child,” said the minister, and his voice was gentle and full of compassion. It was his normal voice, not the stern, preachy one full of memorized words. “I truly hope it will work out for you—and for your uncle. I can see that you care a great deal for him, and I’m sure he does for each one of you, too. I will be committing this situation with your uncle and his partner, as well as the souls of the two men, to much prayer.”

  It sure didn’t help matters when, an hour later, Uncle Nick came to the door again with the smell of whiskey on his breath. Pa was sitting on the buckboard waiting, and didn’t even get down. Uncle Nick and the preacher exchanged not a word.

  Both Pa and Uncle Nick were quite talkative on the way home. Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was just their way of letting off steam.

  “Some high and mighty cuss, wasn’t he!” exclaimed Uncle Nick.

  “We ain’t exactly saints, Nick, now are we!” laughed Pa, seeming proud of the fact.

  “Well, you always said you’d rather be an honest sinner than a dishonest hypocrite. You shoulda told him that, Drum!”

  “And I’d still rather be!”

  “I’m with you, pard!” laughed Uncle Nick. “I’m with you!”

  Chapter 31

  New Dresses

  A week after Christmas, Mrs. Parrish came to call. It seemed every other day was full of surprises.

  She asked Pa if she could take us girls into Miracle Springs with her until suppertime.

  “A ladies’ day on the town,” she said with a mysterious grin.

  “They’re old enough that I don’t have to watch ’em every minute,” he replied. “If they want to go, it’s all right by me.” He wasn’t exactly friendly. We hadn’t seen Mrs. Parrish since Christmas Day and I think her presence reminded him of what happened.

  But the girls and I could hardly contain ourselves!

  Once Ma took me into Bridgeville. “Just for fun,” she’d said. I’ll never forget that day, because I felt so much a special part of Ma’s life, as if we were friends.

  I felt the same way on this day in town with Mrs. Parrish. I hadn’t known her very long, but the few times spent with her had been important ones. I suppose in a way she made up a little for the loss of Ma. I don’t know what Ma would think if she knew I thought such a thing. But knowing Ma, she would be glad I had someone to rely on. As much as I wanted things with Pa to work out, there are times when a girl needs a woman to talk to.

  When we got to Miracle Springs, the first place we went was the General Store. I would have been content to just look at all the fine things, but Mrs. Parrish had other plans.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bosely,” she greeted the storekeeper.

  “Morning, Ma’am. Fine day, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is. May I see your new shipment of calicos?”

  “Parrish Freight brought them in, Ma’am. I would have thought you’d already looked them over.”

  “I did, briefly. But now I have three young ladies who will want to look them over.”

  Mr. Bosely grinned. “I see! I’ll be right back.”

  He went to a back room out of sight. Mrs. Parrish turned to the three of us, knelt down so that she could talk on Becky’s level, and then said, “Girls, I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but I want to give you Christmas presents. I thought you might each like a new dress.”

  I gasped in surprise, and couldn’t say anything. But as usual, Becky was not at a loss for words.

  “Oh, goody! Just for us?”

  “
Just for you,” laughed Mrs. Parrish.

  “What about Tad and Zack?” she said, as if she had discovered a terrible flaw in Mrs. Parrish’s idea. “They can’t wear dresses.”

  Mrs. Parrish laughed again. “Don’t worry, Becky. I’ve thought of that, too. I thought they might each like a shirt and vest.”

  She stood, and now spoke to me. “But before I went any further, I needed to have you come into town for fittings.”

  Finally I found my voice. “That’s so kind of you, Mrs. Parrish. But it’s too much. You don’t have to—”

  “Have to, child?” said Mrs. Parrish smiling. “Don’t you understand? You are my friends! Please, Corrie, allow me to do this, won’t you? It’s as much a pleasure for me as for you.”

  “Are you sure, Ma’am?” I asked. I suppose I didn’t really understand, at least not quite like she meant it.

  “I’ve always wanted children, Corrie. Especially little girls to do things for. Seeing these dresses on you will give me great happiness.”

  “Well, if you put it that way. . . .” I began. Then Mr. Bosely returned, and all else was forgotten.

  He was carrying five different patterns of calicos. Mrs. Parrish must have ordered them with us in mind, because the minute we saw them, each of us knew immediately which cloth we wanted for our new dresses. Becky’s hands went right for the red. Emily took more time with her choice, though I think she knew from the beginning, but was just too shy to announce that she wanted the pink. I chose sky blue.

  While Mr. Bosely cut off the needed lengths, Mrs. Parrish explained that Mrs. Gianini was an excellent seamstress and would make the dresses, and that she was expecting us that very morning to measure and fit us. It was all more than I could comprehend. Ma had always made our clothes in the past. But to have a fancy new dress, with the lace Mrs. Parrish was asking Mr. Bosely about even as we looked at the fabric, made by a seamstress—it was all too exciting to imagine! We hadn’t had anything new since we’d left New York.

  The pleasant Italian lady welcomed us as warmly as ever, and after some time complimenting our choice of fabrics and discussing styles with Mrs. Parrish, she said it was time to get started. She took the younger girls first, and told Mrs. Parrish that tea was brewing in the kitchen, and we could relax and visit. Her dark eyes were twinkling and her pink cheeks glowing as she took charge of Emily and Becky. It wasn’t hard for me to see that she felt the same way as Mrs. Parrish about the opportunity to do something for the little “bambinas,” as she called Emily and Becky. I watched her plump frame shuffle into the sitting room, an arm around each of my sisters, thankful that they had more mothers than me to help look after them.

  Chapter 32

  A Talk with Mrs. Parrish

  While the younger girls were occupied, Mrs. Parrish and I remained in the kitchen. She poured us each some tea, and then offered me a cookie from a delicate China plate. Mrs. Gianini called them biscottes, and they were something like a sweet biscuit with a faint licorice flavor.

  “Well, Corrie,” she said, sitting down at the table opposite me and taking a sip from her hot tea, “you are practically a full-fledged Californian now. What do you think of this land?”

  “It sure is pretty, I’ll say that much,” I answered.

  Then I paused. Mrs. Parrish could tell I was thinking, and waited for me to continue.

  “Back home Zack trapped a baby raccoon once,” I went on. “It was so cute and furry. Ma kept saying, ‘You kids be careful. That little coon’ll grow up one day and’ll turn wild just like that.’ ’Course we didn’t believe her. We figured he’d stay cute and cuddly forever. But Ma was right. One day all of a sudden, he turned savage and bit Zack in the arm. Real bad too. Ma said Zack was lucky he didn’t have rabies. And so we had to let our pet raccoon go back to the forest.”

  I stopped again, and once more Mrs. Parrish just waited for me to think out what I was trying to say.

  “I suppose I feel about our new life in California a little like we was watching a baby raccoon grow up. You just can’t tell yet how it’s going to turn out. It might turn out good, it might not. Maybe that’s not such a good . . . what do you call it?”

  “Analogy?”

  “Yes’m, that’s it. Maybe it’s not such a good analogy, comparing California with a baby raccoon. But it’s something like how I feel inside. I can’t tell yet what’s going to come of it all—good, bad . . . or maybe some of both.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good analogy or not either, Corrie. But it is certainly very perceptive. Do you think like that often?”

  “Well, I guess I’m always thinking, Ma’am. Trying to make sense of things.”

  “You ought to write your ideas down.”

  I felt my cheeks suddenly get warm. “I have been writing down a lot of things lately, Ma’am,” I told her.

  “Are you writing letters—keeping a journal . . . what?”

  “I don’t have anybody to write a letter to. And it’s nothing very fancy, just a diary, putting down in writing what happens and whatever else comes to my mind. Ma suggested I do it before she died.”

  “That’s wonderful! I would love to read it.”

  “Oh, I’d be too embarrassed, Ma’am,” I replied. “I’m probably a terrible writer.”

  “I doubt that, Corrie. Besides, practice makes perfect.”

  “I am trying to write it better all the time. But it sure doesn’t sound like the books I read. It’s just the way I talk, Ma’am. Nobody’d want to read that!”

  “I think you may be wrong about that, Corrie. I’m certain it would be fascinating for a good many people to read about a young girl’s life and reaction to the new land of California.”

  “Well, maybe, but I do know how much I appreciate all you have done for me and my brothers and sisters since we came,” I said.

  “As I said, this is as much fun for me as for you,” replied Mrs. Parrish. She took a cookie. “Mrs. Gianini really is a superb cook!”

  “I was meaning more than the dresses, Mrs. Parrish,” I said. “You’ve done so much since we came to California. You’ve . . . well, you know—with Ma gone and all . . . sometimes I don’t know what I would have done without your kindness.”

  She reached over and laid her hand, still soft and smooth in spite of her work, on top of mine. Her eyes looked into mine, and were full of tears. I could tell she knew what I was feeling.

  “Dear Corrie,” she said softly, “you’ve made my life richer, too. Each one of you, really, but especially you. You are more than just an acquaintance, Corrie. You are my friend. I want you to know that I will be here for you whenever you need someone. I would never presume to take your mother’s place, but there are times when a girl needs the companionship or the listening ears of a woman.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Parrish,” I said. I guess I was crying by now too. “I think Ma would be thankful you came along in our lives when you did.”

  “If ever you need to talk about anything, I hope you will feel free to do so.”

  I looked down at my tea. I think she knew I was thinking hard about something serious, because when she spoke again she was really earnest.

  “What is it, Corrie? What’s troubling you?”

  “I guess I’ve been confused about both Pa and Uncle Nick,” I said, “especially since the preacher came.”

  “Confused . . . in what way?”

  “Well, neither of them makes a secret of their reluctance about church. Since Christmas, Pa’s said some—I don’t know—negative things, especially about the minister. And then the way he and Rev. Rutledge argued at your house . . . and of course there’s Uncle Nick’s drinking and gambling. And Pa’s too, I suppose. I know Uncle Nick and Ma went to church when they was kids. And Pa read to us from the Bible once. Inside I want to believe Pa’s a God-fearing man, Mrs. Parrish. But sometimes I get real scared, and I wonder if he cares for God at all. He’s told me he and Uncle Nick were involved in real bad things and that’s why they had to leave the
east. I don’t want to think ill of him, Mrs. Parrish, but Mr. Rutledge, I’m sure he’d count my Pa as a sinner and an evil man and on his way to hell!”

  I started to break down, but did my best to hold back the tears.

  Mrs. Parrish gave my hand a squeeze, and tried to comfort me.

  “There, there, child . . . you just cry all you need to, and then we’ll talk some more.”

  I was quiet for another minute. Mrs. Parrish handed me her handkerchief and I wiped my eyes. She looked over at me with a deep smile on her face. I tried to smile back, but what came out was a half laugh and half cry that made me feel kind of stupid all over again.

  Mrs. Parrish laughed with me.

  “You love your father, don’t you, Corrie?” she said.

  “Oh, of course,” I replied, sniffing. “I’m trying to, but he’s just a puzzling sort of man.”

  “I know he is, Corrie. But I do think you love him. Otherwise, you wouldn’t feel this hurt over him.”

  She paused, seeming to think over what to say next while I blew my nose and took a deep breath.

  “Corrie,” she said, “is your concern that you think your Pa might be a heathen . . . a bad man?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I suppose that’s it.”

  “And because he’s not a churchman, and spoke rudely about Reverend Rutledge, you’re afraid he is a sinner?”

  “I guess so. Along with the gamblin’, and what they did in New York.”

  “Ah, yes. Those are rather serous issues, aren’t they.”

  “Do you think those are sins, Ma’am?”

  “No doubt they are, Corrie. I’m sure you’re right there.”

  “So do you think my Pa’s a sinner?”

  “Tell me first of all what you think a sinner is, Corrie.”

  “Doing bad things, I suppose, and not going to church and not caring about God.”

  “But what about a person who didn’t do bad things, and who went to church every Sunday, and who was always saying religious things . . . would that kind of person be a sinner?”

  “Oh no, Ma’am.”