Spring's Gentle Promise

by Janette Oke

  Mary chuckled softly. It was the first I had heard her laugh for some time. She smiled often, sincerely, almost sadly, but she did not laugh. With the soft laughter a heavy weight seemed to lift from me deep down inside somewhere. I looked around the circle, wondering why there was no celebration, but no one else seemed to have noticed that Mary was laughing again.

  Still I tucked the sound of that laughter away inside and replayed it over and over during the next days.

  As soon as I finished the spring planting, I went over to see Mr. Turley. I ended up buying the cow he told me about plus a couple of her heifers. I also bought the sow along with the recent litter. We decided we shouldn’t move her at the present, so Mr. Turley agreed to feed her for a few more weeks.

  Mr. Turley carried through with his plans to sell off all his livestock, and neighbors dropped by to look over the animals and buy what they figured they could use. I thought it strange for a farmer to be without stock. But I guess the fields were enough to keep one man busy, and, as Mr. Turley had said, Mitch didn’t seem inclined to come back home. It sounded as if he liked city life and was happy with the job he had found.

  Lilli was restless, though. She didn’t even plant much of a garden. Mary planted even more and prepared herself for a busy canning season. She went over to her ma’s cellar and brought back some boxes of canning jars so she could fill them for her pa and Lil.

  Matilda suggested to me that Mary might like another trip over to see Faye before her busy summer began. Mary didn’t get together with her sisters nearly enough, I knew.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I nodded to Matilda as we sat idly swinging on the back porch swing.

  It was the first we had spent any time together for several months, and with school almost out I immediately thought ahead to Matilda being gone for another summer. I wondered if I had allowed my busyness to interfere with courting again. If I keep on at my present rate, I’ll never get around to findin’ myself a girl, I concluded.

  Maybe I’d lost my sense of urgency. Word passed around the neighborhood that Will Sanders had decided he preferred city living and had left his brother’s house to return there. I felt a bit of smugness when I reminded myself of it.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Matilda.

  “You needn’t do anything about it, Josh,” she was saying. “I can drive Mary over to Faye’s.”

  I was about to object when I realized that there was really no reason why Matilda couldn’t. She could drive the car as well as I could. And Mary might not feel as rushed if I weren’t hanging around, impatient to get back to some farm chores.

  I nodded without saying anything, wondering if I was about to get another impulsive hug. Rather shamelessly I wondered if this time I should do some huggin’ back. But the hug never came. Just then the back door opened and Mary stepped out with a tray of cold lemonade.

  “Guess what?” squealed Matilda. “Josh says I can take the car and drive you over to see Faye before I leave for the summer.”

  Mary’s eyes shone in the soft darkness, and I could see her appreciative smile. She didn’t speak, but her eyes met mine and I read the thank you there. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to get a hug from Mary. And then I remembered the time when I had held her—not like Matilda, bouncing in and out of my arms with a quickness that took one’s breath away. Mary had lingered, had leaned against me like a lost child, drawing strength and understanding from me. I had felt protective, needed. In spite of the sadness of that moment, I treasured the memory. Yet I couldn’t really explain—

  My thoughts were interrupted.

  “When should we go?” Matilda was asking Mary.

  Mary put the tray down and handed each of us a glass. “We don’t have long,” she reminded Matilda. “You have only another seven days to teach.”

  Had time really slipped by so quickly? It seemed that the year had just started, and here we were heading into another summer vacation.

  “I know,” moaned Matilda.

  “I think we should go at a time when we don’t have to worry about darkness,” went on Mary. “Maybe Saturday.”

  “Saturday,” said Matilda. “That sounds great!” Then she had the good grace to turn to me. “Will you need the Ford for anything on Saturday, Josh?”

  I shook my head. I still had field work to do.

  “Then we’ll leave on Saturday morning,” agreed Matilda.

  Mary seemed to think carefully about it. “I guess we could,” she said at last. “I could leave dinner all fixed for the men, and we’ll be sure to be back in plenty of time for supper.”

  When Matilda went to school the next day, Mary sent a note for Faye, and Matilda sent the note home with one of the students who rode past Faye’s new home. A reply stated that Faye would be watching for the two of them the next Saturday.

  Saturday morning I moved the car from the shed, filled it with gas and checked the tires. One needed more air so I got out the pump and pumped it up until I was sure it was okay. Then I left the keys on the table for Matilda and went off to the field to do some summer-fallow work that needed doing.

  I was interrupted midafternoon by a sudden rain squall. I studied the dark clouds for a few moments and headed in with the tractor.

  I hope the girls aren’t on their way home now, I thought, but the shower passed over. When the girls did not arrive, I dismissed the incident from my mind and started some evening chores.

  By suppertime there still was no sign of an approaching car. I remembered Mary’s words about being home in plenty of time to get supper, and I felt just a little aggravated that her visiting had put us hungry menfolk from her mind.

  I went on to further chores and was surprised when Grandpa joined me at the pig barn. After making small talk for a few minutes, he turned to me. “The girls aren’t home yet, Josh.”

  It wasn’t news to me. I nodded rather glumly.

  “It’s past suppertime,” went on Grandpa.

  “Guess we can get our own supper,” I grumbled. “We’ve done it before.”

  I wondered why Grandpa or Uncle Charlie weren’t in the kitchen doing just that. Why should I need to do the chores, then—?

  But Grandpa kicked at a fluff ball; then his eyes met mine.

  “It’s not like Mary, Boy.”

  It finally got through my thick head. Grandpa was worried. I threw a look at the sky. It was getting rather late. I should have been worried. I just hadn’t been thinking straight.

  “I’ll get Chester,” I said, throwing my slop buckets down beside the pig pen. But I hadn’t even gotten the saddle on Chester’s back before I heard voices. Someone was “yahooing” my grandpa. I left Chester and went to see who had come and what news he had brought. It was one of the young Smiths, but he had already delivered his message, whirled his horse and was on his way back down the lane.

  I started to holler at him to come back; then I noticed Grandpa still standing there, his hands lifted helplessly to the gatepost as though to steady himself. I hurried to him. His face was shaken.

  “The girls—” he choked. “There’s been an accident. The car flipped.”

  CHAPTER 11

  An Awakening

  I JUST STOOD THERE, staring at Grandpa, trying to get his meaningless words to make sense to me. I couldn’t get them to connect somehow.

  “Wh-what?” I finally heard myself stammer.

  There was no response from Grandpa. He still clung to the post, weaving slightly as though fighting against a strong wind.

  Uncle Charlie seemed to bring us both back to reality. He had hobbled out with his two canes to see what the commotion was about. He had heard the galloping horse—and I knew he realized it meant some kind of trouble. I could read it in his face when he demanded an explanation.

  “What is it? Is it the girls?”

  “They—they flipped the car.” I mouthed the words but still did not really understand them. “The Smith kid—” But that was all I knew. I reached out a hand
and squeezed Grandpa’s arm.

  “What did he say?” I insisted.

  Grandpa shook his head as if to clear it. Still, it was a moment—a long moment—before he got his dry lips to form words.

  “He said they—flipped the car.”

  “I know—I know,” I heard myself agreeing impatiently, “but are they hurt?”

  My own common sense told me that they would be hurt. I began to shake. “How—how badly—?” but I couldn’t finish.

  “I—I don’t know,” Grandpa said with a shudder. “The older boy went fer Doc. Thet’s—thet’s all he said.”

  I came alive then. Spinning around I ran for the barn, calling over my shoulder, “Where are they?”

  Grandpa called back, “At Smiths’,” and I raced to get to the barn and Chester. My insides felt as if they were in a vice. I was frantic for both girls, but I heard only one word escape from my lips. “Mary!”

  Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me, I don’t know. I probably should have been smart enough to know it all along, but it was painfully clear to me as I ran that if anything happened to Mary, I—I wouldn’t be able to bear it.

  Chester had stood stock-still. I guess he sensed I hadn’t finished the job of properly putting on his saddle. If he had moved at all it most certainly would have fallen down under his feet somewhere. I jerked it off and thrust it aside now. I sure wasn’t going to take the time to fuss with a cinch.

  I threw myself across Chester’s back even before we left the barn, ducking low to miss the crossbeam of the barn door. I didn’t stop even to fasten the door behind me as I had been taught. I put my heels to Chester, and we were off down the lane.

  It was the first time in my life that I let Chester run full gallop for any distance, but I didn’t check him. He seemed to sense my agitation and took advantage of the situation. But even with the Smiths being fairly close neighbors and Chester running at full speed, the trip still seemed to take forever.

  I wanted to cry but I was too frightened—too frozen. Even the whipping wind failed to bring tears to my eyes. All of my being seemed shriveled and deathly cold with fear. All I knew was that Mary had been hurt—maybe badly hurt—maybe even—I need to get there—need to get to Mary! my mind screamed at me.

  When we came to the Smiths’ lane, I forgot to rein Chester in and we very nearly didn’t make the turn at their gate. Because of his speed, Chester swung wide when I turned him and ended up almost running into the fence rails. That near-accident sharpened my senses a bit, and I began to think rationally again.

  I pulled Chester in and was able to get him under control as we entered the farmyard. I flung myself off his back and flipped a rein carelessly over a fencepost. I could see Doc’s horse tied to a post down by the corral. I breathed a prayer for him and the girls as I raced toward the Smiths’ back entry.

  I guess I didn’t knock—I don’t know, but there I was in the Smiths’ big kitchen. Mrs. Smith was clucking over the tragic event.

  “—such a shame,” she was saying. “Such nice young ladies, too. Just to think—”

  “Where are they?” I cut in, completely ignoring any manners.

  “Doc is with them,” she replied, not seeming to take any offense at my rudeness.

  “How—how—?” But I still couldn’t ask the question.

  Mrs. Smith just shook her head, motherly tears of concern filling her eyes. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I wanted to scream. Mrs. Smith was busy pouring a cup of coffee, and I knew without her even saying so that she expected me to sit down at her table and drink it. I turned my back on the table and the coffee cup, biting my lip to get some kind of control. I had to know! I had to know!

  “Where are they?” I asked Mrs. Smith again, fighting to control my voice.

  “The young schoolteacher, Miss Matilda, is in Jamie’s room,” she said slowly. “We thought that—”

  “Where’s Mary?” I cut in.

  But I didn’t get an answer. Right at that moment Mr. Smith entered the kitchen. He eased himself to a chair at the table and took the coffee that had been poured. Mrs. Smith just reached for another cup.

  “A shame, Josh, just a shame,” Mr. Smith said, shaking his head in sympathy. “Here ya only had thet there new car fer such a short time, an’ I’m afraid thet it won’t never be quite the same.” At the look of horror on my face he hurried on. “Oh, Jamie and me pulled it outta the ditch with the team. Got it back right side up—but the frame—”

  I couldn’t believe it. Mr. Smith was bemoaning my motor car, and the girls were somewhere in the house in a condition I could only guess at, with the doctor trying to piece them back together.

  “I don’t care none about the car,” I fairly exploded and then knew I wasn’t being fair. “I—I’m sorry,” I apologized. “It’s just—just—what about the girls? You see,” I went on, nearing Mr. Smith’s chair as I spoke, “I don’t even know what happened. How badly—?”

  “I’m sure Doc will—” started Mrs. Smith, but I didn’t even turn to hear the rest of her sentence.

  Mr. Smith interrupted her. “Near as we can figure it,” he said, “they was headin’ home when thet there storm hit. The road likely got slippery. You know how it gets.”

  I nodded and Mr. Smith stopped for another sip of coffee.

  I urged him on with another nod. That storm was hours ago! my brain was telling me.

  “Well, they went off the road. The car flipped over. Miss Matilda wasn’t able to go fer help. I suspect thet she has a broken leg—along with other things.”

  “Mary?” I asked numbly.

  “She—she was pinned under the car—she couldn’t go fer help either.”

  Pinned under the car. The words sent my world spinning. She was pinned under the car. She might be—she could be— “Mary,” I heard myself say again, but this time I was pleading. “Please, dear God, don’t let Mary—”

  “Too bad they had to lay there in the wet fer so long,” Mr. Smith was saying. “Not many folks travel along thet road. Jamie an’ me jest happened to—”

  But I couldn’t stand it anymore. I knew the rules. One was supposed to wait patiently until the doc had finished with the patient and given permission for you to go in to call at the bedside. But this is Mary! I had to know.

  I headed for a door that would lead me to the inner part of the house. There were no sounds coming from anywhere but the kitchen, so I had nothing to guide me. “Josh,” Mrs. Smith was calling from behind me, “Josh, you should—”

  There was a stairway—and I took it. It led me to a hallway with doors leading off it. Four doors, in fact. I assumed them to be bedrooms and opened the first one. No one was in the room. I hurried on to the second. Doc was there. He was bending over the bed where someone lay quietly. I moved forward, part of me demanding that I turn tail and run.

  It was Matilda. Her hair was wet and matted. Her face was bruised and had several tiny bandages. One leg, which lay partly exposed outside her blankets, was wrapped in whiteness. I guessed that Mr. Smith’s diagnosis had been right.

  I had never seen a human all bruised and broken before. She looked just awful.

  At the sight of me she began to cry. “Oh, Josh. I’m so sorry,”

  she sobbed. “The rain—the road just—”

  Doc didn’t scowl me out of the room. He even moved aside slightly. I knelt down beside Matilda and ran a hand over her tangled hair.

  “It’s all right,” I said hoarsely. “It’s all right. Don’t cry. Just—just get better. Okay?”

  I wanted to cry right along with Matilda, but I couldn’t. My eyes were still dry—my throat was dry. I could hardly speak. I just kept smoothing her hair and trying to hush her.

  Matilda seemed to quiet some. I stood to my feet and looked Doc straight in the eye. “How’s—” I began. “How’s—?”

  “Mary?” he finished for me.

  I nodded mutely.

  “She’s in the room across the hall,” Doc said and turned his attent
ion back to Matilda’s arm.

  I swallowed hard and turned back to the hallway. The first few steps made me feel as if I had lead boots. I could hardly lift my feet, and then I almost ran.

  The door was closed and I shuddered as I turned the handle. Seeing Matilda had really shaken me. How might Mary look?

  She had been—had been pinned under the motor car. I didn’t want to go into the room—but I had to know. I had to be with her.

  I opened the door as quietly as I could. A small lamp on the dresser cast a faint light on Mary’s pale face. There was a large white bandage over one eye, and another covering most of an arm lying on top of the sheets, which were pulled almost to her chin. Two heavy quilts were tucked in closely about her body. What are all those blankets hiding? I asked myself. She was pinned—

  My eyes went back to her face. So ashen. So still. Her eyes shut. Was she—? Is she already gone? And then I saw just the slightest movement—almost a shiver.

  In a few strides I was beside her, kneeling beside her bed, my hand reaching to gently touch her bruised face.

  “Oh, Mary, Mary,” I whispered.

  Her lashes lifted. She focused her eyes on my face. “Josh?” she asked softly.

  “I was so scared,” I admitted as I framed her cheek with my hand. “I was afraid I’d lost you—that—”

  “I’m fine,” she whispered, moving her bandaged arm so that she could reach out to me.

  “Don’t move,” I quickly cautioned, fearing she might come to more harm.

  “I’m fine,” she assured me again in a whisper.

  “But—but you were pinned—”

  “Miraculously pinned,” Mary responded and she even managed a weak smile. “Oh, it caught me a bit on the arm—but it was mostly my coat sleeve. Doc says I’m a mighty lucky girl.”

  “You’re—you’re not hurt?”

  Mary moved slightly, and groaned. “I didn’t say I’m not hurt,” she admitted; then seeing the look of panic in my eyes, she quickly went on, “But nothing major and nothing that won’t heal.”