She gave the front door a light rap, surprised to hear approaching footsteps almost immediately. When Ezra opened the door, they both stood speechless for what seemed like an entire minute, and it wasn't until he broke the silence with a series of coughing spasms that she finally spoke. "You should have Doc Randolph check that cough."
"You sound like that preacher kid," he sputtered when the cough let up. He stepped aside so she could enter. "You cone out here to yell at me?"
Ignoring the question, she walked past him and looked around. Little had changed, she mused with a sigh, a sudden wave of memories flooding her head when she looked at the dishes stacked high in the sink.
`Ain't you got them done yet?" bellowed Papa, stomping mud off his feet at the door. "I went out to the barn a full hour ago."
Emma reeled where she stood and tasted fear. Papa had a bottle of ale in one hand and a stick in the other. Did he plan to hit her with the stick because she'd been dawdling with her chores?
"I'm tryin' to hurry, Papa, but this here pan has built-up grease in it. It ain't comin' out so easy." She wouldn't tell him that her stitching practice had distracted her for a time. Just that afternoon, Miss Abbott had given her some lessons with a needle and thread and sent her home with the prettiest gingham fabric Emma had ever laid eyes on. It was to be a pillow, Miss Abbott said, and once she finished the sides, they would stuff it with a wonderful soft filling. Emma planned to put it at the head of her cot.
To her relief, Papa tossed the stick into the fireplace. She felt the breath whoosh out of her and went back to her scrubbing.
"You got your schoolwork done?" he asked, moving to his chair. His eyes were extra red tonight. She figured that after collecting the eggs and milking old Wilma, he must have sat on his bench in the barn and consumed a bottle of whiskey. He had so many of them stored in various places out there. Sometime she would like to find each one and break them all into a million pieces. But that would mean a whippin' for sure.
"I finished it before supper," she fibbed.
He nodded, took a long swig, then reclined his head on his dingy old chair.
The next morning, before she headed off to school, he was still sitting there, eyes closed, mouth drooping, an empty bottle at his feet.
Her eyes roved the one-room house. "I ain't had time to pick up today," he mumbled.
When have you ever lifted a finger around this house?
She nodded and walked to the window. Hanging from it was a pair of brand-new curtains. She fingered the dark blue cotton and wondered who had hung them. Had it been a woman from the church or Jon himself? She marveled that anyone could be so generous to one so undeserving.
She felt her father's eyes bore holes through her back. "What'd you want?" he asked front behind. "I know this ain't no social call."
Turning, she gave hint a long, cold look. It felt good not to fear hini any longer. She'd passed through that stage some years ago and entered into one dictated more by bitterness and disgust. "You look different without a bottle in your hand," she said, deciding to ignore his remark. It was difficult to keep the mocking tone out of her voice.
He shrugged and tossed his head to one side, then swept a dirty hand across his whiskered face. "I been cuttin' back," he said.
Her eyebrows shot up on their own. "You don't say." Now that she took a moment to look at him, it did appear his eyes were somewhat clearer. Still, she held out no hope. That was another stage she'd passed through long ago.
His chest rattled before he released another string of coughs. She turned her face away so as not to watch the struggle that ensued. It appeared his years of heavy smoking along with imbibing had done a number on his aging body. Even though he was only in his late fifties, he appeared to be at least twenty years older.
"You should sit," she heard herself instruct, pointing at a chair. To her surprise, he took her suggestion. Once he sat himself down, she walked to the sink to study the dishes. Should she or shouldn't she? The rotten smells of caked-on food had her wrinkling up her nose, but something from within made her turn the water valve and dig for the pail he kept stored beneath the sink. She filled it without a word, then lit a flame at the old stove and lifted the full bucket of water to the single burner.
He was sitting in his chair watching her when she faced him.
"Who is Grace Giles?" she asked straight out.
He gave her a blank stare, then his mouth twisted downward. "Who?"
"Grace Giles. Who is she?"
"I got no idea." His tone rang of impatience. "Am I s'posed to know 'er?"
"You night. She lives in Chicago."
One shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. "Chicago," lie murmured. The tiniest glimmer lit in his eyes then quickly died away. "Don't know her. How'd you come to meet her anyway?"
She let go a frustrated sigh. "I haven't met her. She's a perfect stranger to me, but she's been sendin' me letters." Another flicker of something crept across his face. "Letters about what?"
Rather than go into detail, she gave her head a little shake. "Nothin' really important. Just-oh, never mind."
Rather than prod, he grew silent, which was just as well. He didn't appear to know Grace Giles, so what was the point of pressing the issue? She turned toward the sink and lifted a dirty dish. Something red stuck to the edges of the plate. Tomatoes? Beets? When she looked at him again to ask what he'd eaten, his eyes had closed, and his breathing was coming in labored spurts.
The old fool had drifted off to sleep, and here she was stuck with a pile of dishes.
Right on schedule, the schoolhouse furniture and a number of other building and school supplies arrived on the twenty-eighth of July. A whole slew of nien and boys and a sprinkling of women showed up for the unloading, including Jon, who felt like a kid himself when lie first laid eyes on the brand-spanking-new school desks.
Irwin Waggoner and Ben stood on one wagon, handing down things, while Torn Averly, Carl Hardy, Rocky, and Fred Swain handed down items from the other two horse-drawn rigs. They'd set up a sort of assembly line, the men handling the bigger items, the women taking the lighter things that had been placed on the ground.
With the big oak schoolhouse doors standing open, there was a constant stream of folks moving up and down the steps and into the fresh new building, a hubbub of excitement stirring the air with shouts of "Where should this go?" and "What's in this carton?" and even "Why, ain't this a lovely picture of George Washington?" It seemed that Sarah Callahan, who'd undertaken the majority of the ordering-with the help of a committee of other folks, including the former schoolteacher, Liza Broughton-had thought of everything, right down to the brand new textbooks, clock, bookcases and wall shelves, flags, maps, and beautifully framed pictures of former U.S. presidents.
A host of school-age children raced up and down the stairs, a few with items in hand, but most just filled with boundless energy.
"Ain't ya glad the school burned down?" Andrew Warner was heard to have said while he skipped through the yard, Todd Thompson chasing on his heels.
"Andrew James Warner!" his mother scolded. Beyond that, she said no more. Jon couldn't help the chuckle that emerged when he heard the innocent remark. He suspected the ten- or eleven-year-old boy had merely voiced what others thought but feared saying. Shoot, he felt it himself. Not that he ever wanted to relive the nightmare of that awful fire in which they'd nearly lost Liza Jane and Rufus Baxter-and had lost Clement Bartel. Still, there was nothing quite like the sights and smells of new wood and shiny, unmarred furniture, or the feel of fresh, unused textbooks yet to be read and explored with eager eyes. He handed a crate of books to the next person in line, Clyde Winthrop, with a grin.
"Heard you stopped by the store a few days ago," Clyde said, starting up a conversation before handing off the carton to the fellow behind hini, Elmer Hayward.
"As a natter of fact, I did," Jon answered. "Did your wife mention we plan to honor you two at this Sunday's services?"
"She did, and
I want you to know it's completely unnecessary, Reverend. We don't need the thanks."
"I happen to disagree," Jon said. "You've made quite a sacrifice Sunday after Sunday."
Clyde shook his head. "Loaning out our living room has been a privilege-for both of us. I know most felt like they were imposing." He leaned in close to Jon and lowered his voice. "Believe me; I know how outspoken that woman of mine can be."
Jon nodded and handed off another box. "Well, don't worry about it." He figured Clyde was mostly referring to the Sunday she'd put up a fuss about his plan to come to Ezra Browning's aid.
"You might not believe this," Clyde whispered, "but most Sunday afternoons when Iris is busy cleaning up the place, she'll comment on how much she likes the Sunday gatherings. I think they do her good-make her feel needed." He gave his head a gentle shake then paused with the box in his hand, dropping his voice to a low murmur. "She doesn't always cone off as being the friendliest, but if you want the truth, I think it's mostly a cover-up for her lack of children. Strange, I know, but she still carries around the hurt of her barrenness. You'd think at her age she'd have gotten past it, but I guess that sort of thing sticks with a woman."
Jon moved his head up and down in a show of quiet acknowledgment. "Knowing a person's background usually explains a lot about why they behave the way they do." The two continued passing off boxes as they talked. "You take someone like Ezra Browning, for example. He didn't become an alcoholic overnight. Something drove him to it."
Clyde nodded. "That's the truth." He turned and put another box into Elmer's arms, then scratched his head and looked to the sky, pausing for a breather. "And that daughter of his has suffered plenty. Long as I've known her she's made it her goal to avoid most men because of that old feller that raised her."
"And yet she has a boardinghouse full of nien," Jon remarked.
Clyde winked and laughed. "Well, o' course! None of them pose a threat to her." He tilted his face at Jon and grinned, his eyes flickering with bedevilment. "But now that you've moved in, well, that could be another story."
The sentence remained open-ended, causing Jon to cease what he was doing. "What you think I pose a threat?"
Now Clyde threw back his head for a great peal of laughter. When he finally composed himself, he opened his mouth to respond, but someone at the schoolhouse steps called out. "Hey, what's the holdup down there?"
Clyde took the box Jon held in his arms and chuckled as they resumed passing supplies from hand to hand. "She's a pretty tough little woman, that Emma Browning," he muttered under his breath. "But I got to believe there's someone out there who can tenderize her spirit." He leaned in closer. "Who better than the preacher?" Another one of his hearty chuckles followed.
Speechless, all Jon could do was stare straight ahead and ruminate on his words.
By late afternoon, the place looked ready for the first clay of school. Some had left for the day, while others lingered inside to admire the freshly painted walls, the floor's shiny wood planks, and even the big oak desk the new teacher would occupy. Liza Broughton stepped onto the platform at the front of the room, perusing the entire room with bright-eyed wonder. "Oh, it'd be such a pleasure to resume my job as Hickman's teacher." She rubbed her pregnant belly and wrinkled her nose. "But I don't think I'm the one for the job."
"No, nia'ani, you're not," Ben said, stepping up beside her to give her cheek a light peck and pull her to his side. Several in the room snickered. Liza's already rosy cheeks seemed to flush even more. Something close to envy pricked Jon at his core, but he quickly shrank back from it. What business did he, the preacher, have envying one of his best friends? It wasn't as if he'd ever carried a torch for Liza Jane, or even that he resented the love and happiness Ben so deserved.
No, it was more like he longed for something similar, the satisfying love of a soft woman.
There's someone out there who can tenderize her spirit. Clyde's words echoed in his head until he gave himself a mental scolding and chased out the words.
"Someone's comin' up Sugar Creek Road," announced young Thomas Bergen, who stood peering out one of the windows. Sugar Creek Road was one of the main roads into town, so Jon figured it was just some farmer coming in for supplies. "He's drivin' a weird-lookin' wagon. There's colorful flags and ribbons blowin' from the sides of it."
This got his attention, along with that of everyone else in the room.
tep right up here, young man."
Timid little Clancy Barton looked around as if to say, "Who, me?" His mother, Ophelia Barton, gave him a slight nudge in the middle of his back. Several had gathered around the yellow-and-blue wagon parked at the edge of town in the empty lot where the new church would stand and the former schoolhouse had once been. Brightly painted letters in many colors bore the name BILLY WONDER'S TRAVELING MAGIC AND MEDICINE SHow across two sides of the gaudy, canvas-covered rig.
Midday sunlight filtered through low-lying clouds, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the oak trees overhead.
"That's right. I'm talking to you. Come on up here, lad."
The nian who called himself Billy Wonder appeared to be in his mid- to late thirties and wore a fancy, white, puffedsleeve shirt with black trousers, shiny, black vest, and string bowtie. Perched on his head was a black top hat. Over one wrist, he'd draped a glossy wood cane; his other hand held a megaphone, which he used to project his voice to the town of Little Hickman. Up the street, a number of inquisitive folks made their way to the gathering crowd, children running ahead.
Jon watched with his own brand of curiosity, standing alongside the more dubious Doc Randolph. "He's one of those quacks," Doc muttered under his breath.
Jon shushed him with a grin and a nudge to the side. "Hear the poor man out, Doc."
Little Clancy was making his way to the platform Billy had set up at the rear of his wagon. Billy took his hand and shepherded him the rest of the way. Poor little Clancy looked as scared as a mouse in a snake hole.
Billy laid down his megaphone, apparently satisfied with the growing swarm of people, and rested a hand on the lad's shoulder. "How old are you, boy?"
"Six," came the nearly inaudible reply.
"Sick? You say you're sick, young man? Why, I wouldn't have bothered you if I'd known you were sick."
Clancy's eyes grew wide as he looked up at the nian. "No, six. I'ni six. Six."
"You're sixty-six?" Billy's own eyes doubled in size. "My, my, you look awful good for sixty-six. Have you been taking niy elixir?"
To this, the crowd guffawed, as if Billy Wonder had just told the funniest joke on earth. Doc groaned, and Jon laughedmore at Doc than anything.
"I'ni just funnin' ya, young man. Step on back down to your maw." Clancy moved back down the steps, his mother beaming from one ear to the other.
Next, Billy took up a deck of cards and set to some fancy shuffling. Almost as good as Charley Connors, Jon mulled with narrow eyes, but not quite. He folded his arms and watched. Billy was a smooth-looking character with a smile that could charm the feathers off a duck. He was of medium height and lean, moving with finesse. Definitely a practiced spellbinder, Jon concluded, in both looks and personality. "Pick a card, any card," Billy said, stepping forward and bending down to poke the deck under the nose of Lydia Swanson, making a point not to watch.
Her husband, Amos, laughed. "Take a card, Lyd." She pondered the cards with care, then finally took one from the center of the fanned-out selection.
"Show it to the crowd, but take care that you don't let me see it," warned Billy.
She lifted her hand with discreetness, and everyone could see it was a ten of spades.
"Now place it carefully back in my deck."
Lydia was vigilant about assigning it to an entirely different position in the deck. Billy shuffled the cards then fanned them, this time showing them to the crowd. Everyone leaned forward to give them close perusal, viewing them as a normal deck of cards. Once again, he set to shuffling faster than the naked eye c
ould follow.
Then he laid the deck down on a small table in front of him, waved some sort of silver wand over the cards, and split the deck in half. With heedful eyes, he scanned the burgeoning crowd. When his gaze landed on Bill Whittaker, who'd apparently slipped out of the bank for a midday break, he pointed at him. "You back there in the suit; you look like an honest, intelligent man," he announced. Bill's chest seemed to balloon out past his buttoned vest.
"Well, I...."
"Conte up here, if you please," Billy ordered.
Without so much as a moment's hesitation, Bill grinned with pleasure and moved forward, passing through the parting crowd until he reached the wagon's metal, collapsible steps. Taking hold of the rail, he climbed the stairs and came to stand beside Billy.
"Have we ever met?" Billy asked.
Mr. Whittaker studied the man's face. "No, sir, we haven't."
Billy looked him up and down, removed his top hat, bowed low, and then extended a hand. "Billy Wonder," he offered.
"Bill Whittaker," Bill said, chuckling. The two shook hands, as if they'd just closed on a large-size loan, Billy taking awhile to pump the banker's arm up and down. A twittering of hushed whispers fell over the crowd of curious bystanders. "See these cards?"
Bill looked at the split deck lying on the table in front of him. "Yes."
For a bank president, Jon thought he looked a bit befuddled.
"I'm afraid we have a small problem."
"See there," Doc Randolph hissed, poking Jon in the aria. "He can't produce the card. He's stalling. I told you lie's a quack."
"Hush before I put a muzzle on you," Jon warned him.
Bill Whittaker's frown deepened, and lie shrugged his measly shoulders as if to ask what the Wonder fellow wanted him to do about it.
Billy shifted his weight and bit his lip, feigning uneasiness. "What's your job, Mr. Whittaker? You don't appear to be a farrier."
Courting Emma (Little Hickman Creek Series #3) Page 12