For Time and Eternity

by Allison Pittman

  “But he could if he wanted to?”

  “Of course. He can do anything.”

  “Then why doesn’t he? Wouldn’t it be easier if he did? Then we could just listen to him and know what to do.”

  Mama laughed. A treasure so rare I wanted to keep it forever. “Your father and I tell you what to do every day, and sometimes you still find ways to be disobedient. That’s why we have the Scriptures. No matter what our parents—or anybody else—tells us, we’ll always hear God’s voice in these pages. This is where he tells us what we should and shouldn’t do.”

  “But the world has changed a lot since those times.”

  “Not so much,” Mama said. “Not in ways that matter. People still seek him, and he still loves us. Remember that, Camilla, all your days. If nothing else, know that he loves you. And because you love him, you must obey his teachings.”

  I don’t remember ever feeling as close to my mother as I did that afternoon. Like the whole world just stopped for a moment to let us talk to each other. Sometimes I think of how things might have turned out so different if we’d had a chance to do that more. If I could have known every day of my life that we could slip into our parlor and talk about God’s love and the world’s frustrations over a cup of tea, I might not have taken the path I did.

  Still, I tucked my feet up tighter beneath me, not brave enough to ask what was really on my heart. I knew she and Papa would disapprove of my morning walks with Nathan. Partly because he was an older boy and a stranger to our town. But mostly because he was one of the Mormons. And I knew they didn’t approve of the Mormons, but I didn’t know why, exactly. So far, in all of my Bible readings, I couldn’t remember anything that would make Nathan a bad person. Mama had just said that God could still speak to people, just as he had to Samuel, and it seemed Nathan believed the same. She was looking at me now with such an open face, it seemed she was more a sister than a mother, and all the loneliness I carried around with being the only child in this house dropped away.

  “Do you think they believe his teachings?”

  “Who?” She looked confused, since I forgot I hadn’t said all of my thoughts out loud.

  “Those people by the river. The Mormons.”

  Just like that, her eyes narrowed and her whole face pinched up. “No, Camilla. They don’t.”

  “But they have a prophet who heard God’s voice.”

  “He’s a false prophet.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “Because their teachings are wrong.”

  “How? What do they—”

  “Enough about this.”

  “How can you be sure that—”

  “I said enough.” There she was, my mother again. Small and tight, her tea untouched beside her. “Now, what verse do you want to record in your journal?”

  “I don’t know.” Already the story of Samuel was lost. I leaned forward and put my cup on the little table in front of the sofa. “My head hurts too much to remember.” Which was mostly true. “Can you read it again?”

  “Don’t be silly. There’s not enough time. I’ll choose one for you.” She ran her finger down the columns of words and made an impatient clicking sound with her tongue against her teeth. “Here, verse 19. ‘And Samuel grew, and the Lord was with him, and did let none of his words fall to the ground.’”

  The brief respite of health began to fade, and I could barely muster the strength to pick up my journal, let alone open and write in it. True, a good portion of my weakness was nothing more than disinterest—disappointment, really. Still, I managed to sound pitiful when I told Mama I couldn’t bring myself to note down the words.

  “Can you write it for me?”

  She glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen before answering. “Very well; hand me the pen.”

  I complied, then sat back to watch her write, fearing for the paper as she bore down on it. Although Mama could read with a practiced air, writing seemed much more difficult for her. In fact, I could recall only a handful of occasions when I’d seen her do so. Her eyes darted constantly from the Bible’s printed page to the empty page on the journal, and her brow took on such a look of concentration I feared the furrows would be etched there like stone. The only sound in the room was that of the scratching pen. Watching Mama write was as laborious as writing myself, and I looked away, choosing instead to stare at my own hands listless in my lap.

  “There,” she said when the scratching stopped. “Now, how can this verse help you be a better Christian?”

  “Can you read it again?” I’d already forgotten what it said.

  There was none of her earlier gentleness left as she forced the words through her ever-narrowing lips. “‘And Samuel grew, and the Lord was with him, and did let none of his words fall to the ground.’”

  “Oh,” I said, trying not to smile at the irony. “I suppose it means that I need to know exactly what the Bible says.”

  Mama accepted this answer and posed the next question, about how this verse could help me be a better woman, but for that, I had no ready answer. I simply shrugged and said I figured it meant the same thing, being a woman or not.

  “No.” She closed the Bible and my journal, tying the ribbon to hold the pages closed. I can still hear the silk snagging against the roughness of her hands. “It’s different for women because you will someday be the mother of children. And it will be your job to know the Word of the Lord so you can teach it to them.”

  I felt myself blushing again. For the second time in as many days, somebody was talking about children.

  “What about fathers? Don’t they have just as much responsibility?”

  “Yes. And a good man will. Like your father.”

  “He doesn’t really talk to me.”

  A bit of compassion hinted at the corner of Mama’s eyes. “He does the best he can, Camilla. He’s not an expressive man.”

  I thought about Nathan, the broadness of his smile, the warmth of his words. “Was he ever?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “A little. Hard work takes its toll. Sometimes the person you marry isn’t the same person you end up being married to.”

  We both chuckled and, by an unspoken agreement, picked up our tea and sipped.

  “Did you love him instantly?” The details of my parents’ courtship had never been a topic of conversation.

  She nodded. “Almost. He was so handsome. And godly. That was important to me. He would lead the church in prayer, and I felt like he was lifting all of us up.”

  My tea was cool, but I still took small sips. “And did he love you?”

  Something like a shadow passed across her face as she stared into her cup. “It’s harder for men, you know. To express their feelings. It takes time. Why all these questions all of a sudden?”

  “No reason.” I fidgeted in my seat, untucking my feet. They were beginning to tingle, and I worried they might not carry me back upstairs. The shadow was back on Mama’s face, only now it seemed there to stay as she hardened right before my eyes.

  “Are you seeing a boy?”

  “No, Mama. Of course not.”

  “Because you know your papa and I wouldn’t approve—”

  “Trust me, Mama. None of the boys in this town want anything to do with me.”

  “They better not, nor you with them. You’re only fifteen—”

  “How old were you when you met Papa?”

  I knew the answer to this, but it was worth it to see her have to take a deep breath before answering me.

  “Sixteen. But things were different then.”

  I wanted to say that it couldn’t be so different. After all, she just said that the world was much the same as it had been since Samuel was a boy. What could have changed so much in her short life? But I didn’t, because I knew. I knew I’d lied and that there was a boy and I liked him very much. Right now, though, he was a treasure to ponder in my own heart. I knew the minute I opened up and showed him off, he’d tarnish in the light.

  * * *


  Later that night I found myself in bed, tossing and turning after a day spent dozing. I listened to my afternoon conversation with Mama over and over in my head. Sometimes, I imagined it ended differently. I heard myself telling her that, yes, I met the most handsome boy in the world and he touched my face. She’d set down her tea and say, with actual tears in her eyes, that she knew his heart must be pure if he loved a girl like me. But of course, none of that was said at all. It ended when Papa stomped into the kitchen hollering for the whetstone so he could sharpen a tool in the barn. Mama jumped up to find it and didn’t seem to think of me again until she brought up my tray for supper.

  The house at night was dark and silent and seemed especially so from my room. Mama and Papa slept downstairs, in the house’s original bedroom. I’d been sleeping in what used to be an attic storeroom ever since I grew too big for the trundle under my parent’s bed. Papa had built a wall straight down the middle, and there was a little door in my room leading straight across to what was still used for storage. The ceiling was high at that end, but sloped down to almost nothing on the other. When I was little, I used to pretend I was a giant, barely able to fit beneath the roof.

  When the attic became my room, Papa had to build a staircase to it too. There was no hallway or landing up here—just a ladder straight up from the kitchen through my floor. Before that, you got into the attic by climbing a set of stairs outside, built straight against the outer wall of the house and leading up to a door. Papa had framed out that door and made it into a window, and tonight I was especially glad because the moon was full and my room filled with light.

  Then I saw the shadow. Thankfully, I was too terrified to scream.

  “Camilla?” His voice was muffled by the glass, but still unmistakable. I didn’t know what time it was, but surely it was late, and I prayed that my parents were lost to sound sleep below. He rapped lightly on the glass, and I swung my legs out of bed. Mindless of the fact that I wore nothing more than a white cotton gown, I ran the two steps to the window and, after a quick glance to be sure my father’s head wasn’t about to emerge through the floor, placed my finger to my lips, imploring him to be quiet.

  “Open the window.” He spoke as much with his hands as with words, and with the threat that he might make even more noise if I failed to obey, I opened the latch and slid the pane up.

  “Are you trying to get me killed?”

  “I was worried when I didn’t see you this morning. Thank God you’re all right.”

  “I’m not all right.” I summoned a cough. “I’m sick.”

  “See?” He leaned against the window frame, making himself at home. “I said you were catching a cold.”

  I suppressed a smile. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to tell me I was right about you being sick.”

  “You were right.” It seemed best to agree.

  “I really did worry that you’d gotten into some trouble with your father. I’d feel terrible if he’d been in any way violent with you.”

  “My father—” I lowered my voice—“is not violent.”

  “Harsh, then. I didn’t want you punished for something I did.”

  “I haven’t been. Unless being sick is punishment.”

  He smiled, and it rivaled the moonlight. I was so happy he’d chosen tonight to visit. Last night I would have slept right through, no matter how he called my name. Seeing him there, though, brought to mind what Mama’d said about the Mormons, and it put a touch of fear in me. The same wrestling fear I had when I first saw him. Excitement all tangled up with terror and doubt, fighting to see which one would win the match. Right now Nathan and I were just standing up there together, him on my top step, and me inside. Nothing but moonlight between us.

  “Can I see you tomorrow, Camilla?”

  Terror won. “No. My parents would never let me. I don’t think I should see you at all.”

  “Well, don’t worry. Pretty soon you won’t have to. We’ll be gone in the next few days, but we’re having a sort of celebration tomorrow, and I thought you’d like to come.”

  My mind lingered on one word. Gone. “Why would you want me there?”

  “We’ve been slaughtering chickens all day. . . .”

  “What?”

  His smile returned. “I thought that would get your attention. We can’t travel with them, so we’ve spent the day plucking and stewing, and what do you think we used for flavoring? The wild onions from your very field. The least you should do is come have a taste.”

  “I can’t.” Although my own giggle threatened to betray my resolve. “My parents would never let me.”

  “Don’t tell them.” His eyebrows did a dance that brought my laughter to the surface. Like it would be just that simple. “You’re sick. Tell them you’re coming upstairs to rest. Then straight out this window and down the stairs. Your room was designed for escape.”

  “Like you’re going to do right now.” I reached for the sill, fully intending to close the window, but he reached his hands through, grabbing just the tiniest pinch of my gown. Nowhere near my body, but still a pinpoint of my flesh burned.

  “I’ll be waiting for you. Where the path turns.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Listen.” He strengthened his grip, holding a handful of the cotton fabric. I lowered my hands and he let go of my gown, gripping my wrist instead. Not hard. I could break away if I wanted to. But I listened. “You don’t know how lucky you are. Growing up with a home and a family. I never had that. I lived in an orphanage until I was turned out onto the street. And these people—yes, they’re my family. They love me and I love them and we take care of each other. But I don’t have anybody of my own. I don’t have anybody who belongs to me.”

  “I don’t belong to you.” Somehow, I found the breath to say it.

  “Really? Because I feel, very strongly, that you might. I’ve known it since the minute I saw you, and Heavenly Father confirmed it after the first time we spoke.”

  “When you stole from me?”

  “I’m sorry. That was wrong. But I felt, even then, that what was yours, was mine.”

  “But that was my father’s.”

  “Stop it!” His grip tightened, then released. “I would love to have just one conversation with you where you didn’t mention your father. Or your mother. Or the fact that you can’t meet me tomorrow.”

  “Shh!” I went and stood by the square-cut hole in my bedroom floor and listened. No stirring. When I returned to the window, he was once again leaning comfortably on his elbows, his head on my side of the glass. Even given this proximity, I kept my voice below a whisper. “You have to go.”

  He cupped a hand to his ear and mouthed, “What?”

  I took a step closer, pointing. “Get out. Now.”

  The next thing I knew his hand captured mine, and if the touch of our flesh wasn’t enough, he brought it to his lips, grazing my knuckles across them, then turned my hand and opened it, pressing my palm against his mouth. And then my wrist. I knew my pulse pounded; I could hear my heart in my ears. Without any effort on his part, I’d been drawn to the window, stooped down until mere inches separated our faces. When I was that close, he said, “Come to me tomorrow.”

  I felt his words rather than heard them, and my own reply wasn’t much more than a whimper.

  “I’ll be waiting where the path turns,” he said, releasing me at last. “I’ll be there at dawn. I’ll stay there all day.”

  And then he left. I kept the window open, feeling the night breeze cooling my body through the folds of my gown. Then I closed it and watched, my face against the glass, as he made his way through the yard, escorted to the rock wall by our faithful Bonnie-Belle. I remember thinking how odd it was that she didn’t bark. Not a peep. And she’s usually so vigilant about strangers. Apparently she loved Nathan Fox too.

  Chapter 5

  I slept very little during the remaining hours of the night, but the sleep I had was deep. The kind Mama ca
lled the sleep of the dead. And when I did wake up, I felt like my life had turned over on itself during my absence. I spent the first few minutes of wakefulness staring at my ceiling, trying to sort out what was real and what had been a dream. Never had I woken to such exciting reality.

  My fingers fumbled with buttons and ties as I dressed myself. The trembling was something new. I stopped and squeezed my eyes tight, saying, “Don’t think of him. Don’t think of him,” right out loud into the empty room, but it didn’t help. I couldn’t bring myself to brush and braid my hair, so I left it long and loose, figuring I’d throw myself on Mama’s mercy and get her to do it for me after breakfast. That is, if I could will myself to eat.

  Turned out for all my worrying, I’d slept too late to get breakfast at all, and Mama in all her mercy hadn’t tried to rouse me. I came downstairs to a single plate covered with a blue-checked towel sitting in the middle of the table. Underneath it was a cold biscuit.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Mama ran a damp cloth around the inside of the wash bin after dumping the dishwater out the back door. “I figured it was best to let you rest, and now there’s no time to cook you anything else.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, feeling a little hungry after all.

  Papa appeared in our doorway, wearing his second-best shirt, his hat gripped in his hand. “Ruth? I’ve got the team hitched up.”

  “Just one minute, Arlen.” Mama set the washbasin on its shelf and reached behind to untie her apron. “Let me run a comb through my hair.”

  “Is she going?” He gestured toward me with his hat.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Mama turned to me, adjusting the sleeves that had been rolled to her elbow. “You still don’t look well, dear. Do you feel up to going to the market?”

  I’d forgotten that today was market day—a convention our town observed the first Saturday of every month. It wasn’t an officially sanctioned event, more like a tradition struck among the local farmers and craftsmen. A day they all gathered to trade goods and services with each other, occasionally accompanied by a community picnic lunch during fair-weather seasons. I usually enjoyed the day, even if I spent most of it at my parents’ side or running from one wagon to another trading cheese for a dozen jars of pickled carrots or gathering bids on one of Papa’s spring calves. But on this morning I could think only of my late-night visit and Nathan’s invitation. When Mama asked if my health would allow me to spend an afternoon outside of the house, only one answer came out of my mouth.