Remnant of Forgiveness

by Sally Laity

  “I can think of lots of places where I’d rather spend my time.”

  “Perhaps.” A spark of mischief brought a saucy grin. “But me you would not have.” The quip surprised even Mary. When had she last felt the lightness of spirit which made her want to joke with someone?

  Estelle bubbled into a giggle. “Now I know why I like you. When you’re around, a person doesn’t need sunshine.”

  The trill of the starting bell prevented Mary from having to concoct a response. With a playful nod, she took her seat and focused on her production goal, hoping that this day, too, would pass quickly.

  ❧

  Unaccountably restless, Nelson leaned on his crutches and idly plunked a few notes on the upright piano which dominated a length of parlor wall, then gave up and made his way to the front window.

  The usual after-school baseball game occupied the neighborhood boys out on the street, while a bit farther down the block, young girls chanted rhymes in the measured cadence of double Dutch, happy sounds which carried through the screens. Both sights made him feel old. It didn’t seem so long ago that he and Jon would have been among those boisterous boys, and Stella would have been out there taking turns jumping rope or manning the ends for others. Where had those simple years gone?

  “Such a nice day,” his mother commented, coming to join him. “I always look forward to the warm days of summer.”

  “You like humidity, huh?” he wisecracked, still watching the kids at play.

  “No, not humidity. The flowers, the fresh garden vegetables. I like knowing I’ll soon be canning again, putting up a supply for winter when the cold days come and we’re snowed in.”

  Nelson had to smile. Hectic canning days were among his most vivid memories of childhood. . .Mom and Stella, dwarfed by assorted piles of garden produce, their hair damp and frazzled and forming tiny ringlets around their faces as they worked. He could still conjure up the familiar smells of scalded, peeled tomatoes and peaches, the cinnamony scent of apples being cooked down to make endless quarts of sauce. And what a bounty for the pantry and cellar shelves! On the cold, rainy battlefields of Europe, he’d have given almost anything to find such delectable fare in his mess kit, instead of cold, monotonous K rations.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he finally answered.

  She slid an arm about his waist. “Can I get you anything? Fresh coffee? Tea? Lemonade?”

  “Now that you mention it, I guess I am kind of thirsty. Thanks, Mom.”

  “Stella should be off work by now. She’s bringing Mary Malinowski home with her for supper. My heart goes out to that little gal.” She sighed. “All alone in the world, trying to adapt to life in a whole new country. So much pain in those young eyes, yet never a complaint. Even to Stella.”

  Had it been anyone else, Nelson would have taken the comment about not complaining as a personal affront. But he knew his mom, and knew her words came from deep inside. And he, too, sensed the war had taken an immeasurable toll on the young Polish woman. He’d caught the haunted longing in those eyes several times himself, when Mary wasn’t aware of it.

  “Makes a body want to say some extra prayers,” his mom added on a wistful note, returning to the kitchen.

  Until then, Nelson had been trying hard not to think about Mary Theresa. He’d convinced himself no woman could possibly be as naturally beautiful as she’d seemed on her first visit. And it might not be wise to get involved in problems he probably couldn’t help her with, either. He took a seat in the easy chair, and in moments his mother brought him a tall glass of lemonade. “Thanks again.”

  She gave his arm a loving pat. “I do hope the girls come soon. I need your sister to try on the dress I’ve almost finished. Meanwhile, I’d better get back to what I was doing.”

  It wasn’t more than a few minutes later when the two chatterboxes arrived, their cardigans draped over their shoulders in the mild early evening. Their talking ceased abruptly with the bang of the screen door behind them.

  Nelson made an effort to appear deeply engrossed in Ernie Pyle’s Brave Men but found the touching accounts of real-life wartime heroes far too moving for now. So he merely stared at the pages, occasionally turning one in pretense.

  “Hi, Nelse,” Stella said airily.

  “Sis,” he returned, looking up. “Hello, Mary.”

  The visitor offered a shy smile.

  His heart thudded to a stop. Not only was she as beautiful as he’d first thought, but even more, if that were possible. Yet there seemed something far beyond her mere outward appearance that called out to his spirit whenever she was near. Something that made him think maybe he should try to help her, after all. All the more reason to focus his eyes on Ernie’s book. Before he’d made sense out of the top paragraph, however, his mother reappeared, greeting the girls with her usual enthusiasm.

  “Oh, Stella,” she continued in a breathless rush, “supper won’t be ready for a little while. Could you try on that new dress I’ve been working on? I’m sure your brother can keep Mary entertained for five minutes. I shouldn’t need longer than that to mark the hem. Would you mind, Dear?”

  Not entirely sure to whom she’d addressed the last question, Nelson shot her a glance.

  “Sure, Mom,” his sister answered. Then she turned to her friend. . .who stood frozen, her eyes wide with fright. “I hope you don’t mind, Mare. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Showing her to the couch, she leveled a glower on Nelson. “And you, big brother, be your old charming self. Mary has yet to see that side of you.”

  My charming self, he thought with chagrin as his sister and their mother retreated to the sewing room off the kitchen.

  Almost directly across from him now, Mary Theresa perched poker straight, her ankles crossed, her hands together in her lap, studiously refraining from glancing in his direction. Then her gaze drifted to the coffee table, where his mom’s frayed Bible remained from this morning’s reading.

  An audible span of seconds ticked by on the mantel clock, a poignant silence which hung in the air between them.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve. . .uh. . .worked up a little song and dance routine,” he began, “in case an awkward moment ever came along. . . .”

  Her lips parted in obvious confusion, and her eyes hesitantly met his, as if she couldn’t decide whether she should laugh.

  Nelson flashed his best smile and his most offhanded shrug. “Best joke I could come up with. Sorry.” A wave of relief washed over him as surprise skimmed across her face.

  She held his gaze for a flicker of a moment, then lowered her eyes. “It—it was not what I expect. To make the joke.”

  “Little wonder,” he admitted, “considering what a boor I was last time you were here. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  “No. You did not. I. . .understand.”

  “Know what? I think you probably do.” He paused. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to apologize, anyway. And this evening I will try to be charming, like my baby sister advised.”

  Mary brightened, relaxing even more. “A good friend, Estelle is. Big help when first I start job.”

  Watching Mary as she spoke, Nelson noted the way her attention inevitably returned to the Bible in front of her—and lingered with an almost tangible yearning. “It’s Mom’s,” he said quietly.

  Those lovely turquoise eyes turned to his in question.

  “The Bible. I noticed you admiring it.”

  She pinkened slightly. “It looks. . .loved,” she murmured.

  Nelson perused the leather-covered volume lying on the coffee table between them, realizing that the term he would probably have used to describe his mother’s Bible was worn out. But now, seeing it through Mary’s eyes, it took on a whole different quality. “It is that,” he agreed. “Mom reads it morning and night, and whenever else she finds time. She’s done that as far back as I can remember. Lately, she’s started memorizing the Psalms.”

  “Many Psalms are there?”

  The question
caught him off guard. From her apparent interest, he’d expected her to be more familiar with God’s Word. “A hundred and fifty,” he explained. “So she’s got a big task ahead.”

  “Someone else I once met knew much Bible,” she said, her breathless voice so soft Nelson had to strain to hear it. “She would read to us, tell us. . .things.”

  “Us?”

  But before she could explain, Stella and Mom breezed back into the parlor, which appeared to relieve Mary greatly.

  His sister went immediately to their guest and plopped down on the arm of the sofa beside her. “I am so sorry, Mare, to leave you here with our resident grump. I hope he hasn’t dragged you into his bad mood.”

  Nelson hiked his brows. “I’ll have you know Mary and I got along just fine without you. Between us, we’ve managed to solve all the world’s problems since the dawn of time.”

  “I can imagine.” His sister’s chin flattened in disdain. “Well, I’ve come to rescue her, anyway, so you can go back to whatever you were doing before we came home.” Rising, she offered Mary a hand.

  “As you wish,” he answered facetiously, but the impish grin faded as he looked up at their visitor. “Maybe we can talk again sometime, Mary Theresa, about things.”

  ❧

  Following Estelle to the second floor to freshen up, Mary drew what felt like her first real breath since arriving at the Thomas house. In her wildest imaginings, she wouldn’t have pictured herself being left alone with her friend’s brother for any length of time. Nor would she have expected to maintain a calm appearance. But, amazingly, Nelson had managed to put her at ease. . .at least on the surface. Underneath, she had been as jittery as her sewing machine’s vibrations.

  He seemed so different from the way he’d been last time she’d come. So much more pleasant and likable. But being a part of this family, how could he be otherwise?

  But you must not grow fond of him, her wiser side lectured. You must not even think of becoming close to any man.

  “So,” Estelle said, as the two of them sank down on the patchwork quilt covering her single bed, “what did you and Nelse talk about all that time?”

  “Mostly he talks. I listen.”

  Her friend giggled. “That’s my brother, all right. Hey, we have a few minutes before Dad comes home and calls everyone to supper. You can be first to wash up, if you like.”

  As Mary walked down the hall to the bathroom, the few moments of solitude felt strangely like a reprieve. Any minute now, and she’d find herself across the table from Estelle’s handsome brother. . .the young man who was becoming friendly. . . the young man who was starting to make her believe there could one day be restoration for her shattered trust.

  His lips made music of her name. She knew better than to assign too much importance to something so simple as that, yet he made it sound so. . .intimate. Meeting her flushed reflection in the mirror above the sink, she splashed cool water on her face.

  And he wanted the two of them to talk again. About things. Well, should the unlikely occasion ever arise, she would allow him to talk all he wanted. But she wasn’t about to let the conversation revolve to her. Once this kind family discovered the kind of girl their daughter had befriended, Mary would no longer be welcome in their home.

  Besides, even if she did allow herself to become interested in Nelson, what purpose would it serve? He couldn’t possibly want her. No man would ever want her.

  No, she had no plans of revealing her secrets. Not to Estelle, and especially not to Nelson.

  six

  “Would you care for another slice, Mary, dear?” Mrs. Thomas asked, the pastry server poised in readiness. “We wouldn’t want you to leave the table hungry.”

  Mary’s glance made a quick circuit around the loving Thomas household. Having polished off three entire meat pies, none of them could possibly still be hungry, least of all her. “No, thank you. Is full I am. Very good are the pasties.”

  “Why, thank you,” the kind mother beamed, pleasure pinkening her button nose.

  “I knew you’d like them,” Estelle said. “Mom’s are better than anyone’s. She makes the flakiest crust around.”

  “Far be it from me to disagree,” her father added pleasantly, patting his stomach. His thick brows arched higher, toward the receding hairline of his wavy, graying hair. “It’s a favorite meal in this house.”

  “I second that,” Nelson said with a nod. “They were great, Mom.”

  Feeling increasingly at ease around Estelle’s parents, Mary astonished herself by voicing a favorite. “As child I loved holubki, stuffed cabbage. To have that I sometimes wish.” Then, regretting having drawn attention to herself, she quickly sipped water from her glass, hoping she hadn’t initiated a barrage of personal questions.

  Mrs. Thomas sat forward in her chair at the foot of the table, hazel eyes alight. “Stuffed cabbage? Is it made with ground beef and rice? Tomato sauce?”

  Mary nodded. “Yes.”

  A satisfied smile plumped her rosy apple cheeks, and she sat up straighter, evening out the bib of the apron protecting her cross-stitched gingham housedress. “Well, isn’t that interesting? I happen to make that dish myself. I just wasn’t aware it had a foreign name. I’ll prepare some next time you come to supper.”

  “Hey,” Nelson cut in, “this is swell. More of the foods I missed out on when I was in the army.” A grin as teasing as a summer breeze added a glimmer to his light brown eyes. “Any other delectable delights you have a hankering for, Mary?”

  “What is served now I am liking,” she said, stifling a maddening blush before it could make an appearance. It was ridiculous that he should affect her so.

  “Well,” Mr. Thomas said, unwittingly coming to her rescue, “let’s put the icing on this tasty meal.” He reached around to the maple buffet behind him for the book of Scripture readings. . .another delight she hungered for.

  ❧

  Nelson watched Mary Theresa’s face while his father read the evening devotional selection, a collage of verses pertaining to humility. A person would have to be blind to miss that deep yearning, he realized. When had he last savored—or even paid much attention to—Bible passages that were so familiar to him that he’d taken them for granted most of his life? He’d owned a variety of Bibles since he was a young boy, the latest version being a classy, gold-edged Scofield edition his parents gave him the Christmas before he’d gone off to the army. But it had gathered so much dust since he’d come home from rehab, he’d finally put it inside the drawer of his nightstand to assuage his guilt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d opened it.

  Or the last time he’d prayed, for that matter.

  He’d prayed his head off in battle, with mortar rounds and shrapnel exploding around him. . .right up until a shell came along that had his name on it. His and army buddy Mike Par-sons’s. Mike had died instantly. That’s when Nelson decided nobody was listening to all those heavenly petitions.

  He could still hear the chaplain mouthing platitudes to him until the medics arrived to put his writhing, agonized body on a stretcher. Could still remember the torture of the bumping, jostling military ambulance ride, endless miles while his leg blazed with a fire no one could put out. . .except the surgeons at the field hospital.

  Those docs put the fire out, all right.

  Permanently.

  And from there he got a free ride home to America. To get rehabilitated. Man, how he hated that word.

  ❧

  “ ‘If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet,’ ” Mr. Thomas read, “ ‘ye also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example, that ye should do as I have done to you.’ ”

  The passage relating to the humility of Jesus had perplexed Mary since her days in the concentration camp. It seemed an incredible concept then, and still did, to think that the very Son of God had not considered Himself above such a menial task, but performed it with the deepest love. The Prince of Heaven, with a servant’s hear
t, as the Dutch woman would have said. Even as the priceless picture warmed Mary’s insides, her glance drifted idly across the table to Nelson.

  Apparently lost in a world of his own, an expression of intense bitterness had turned the young man’s features as hard as granite. The sight stunned her. Before supper, he had seemed at ease and quite witty, and during the meal he injected the conversation with a steady stream of humor. He’d been fine until the ensuing Scripture reading. What could possibly have caused such a change?

  Just then his gaze connected with hers, and the severity in his facial planes vanished almost instantly.

  Which baffled her even more.

  “Well, Son,” Mr. Thomas began, “we might find the Dodgers or Yankees playing somewhere on the radio if we turn the dial a bit. What say we get out of here and let the ladies do what ladies do best?” He eased his chair back and got up, pausing momentarily as if giving Nelson a chance to speak if he needed help. Then the two took their leave.

  Mrs. Thomas immediately began clearing the table.

  “Mom, you’ve worked enough today,” Estelle reminded her. “Mare and I are more than capable of cleaning up. Sit down and relax for a change.”

  “Well. . .” After a slight hesitation she gave in. “Maybe I’ll see if your father would like to go sit outside for awhile. There might not be a game on, after all.”

  Mary greatly appreciated yet another opportunity to visit with Estelle during the cleanup. Then, once the kitchen had been restored to order, they sought the comfort of the parlor, where they found Nelson at the card table working on a picture puzzle.

  He motioned with his dark head toward the front steps without even looking up. “Mom and Dad are outside.”

  “We know,” Estelle commented. “Want to join them, Mary?”

  A knock rattled the screen door even as Estelle spoke, and she went to answer it. “Jon! Finished your shift, huh?”

  “Sure did, Doll,” came a low male voice. “Thought I’d drag that brother of yours out for a soda.”

  “Good luck!”

  They both laughed.