Never Too Late

by Michael Phillips

  “We are in Ogden, in the salt country of the Mormon settlers in the Utah Territory. We got off the train for a few days to rest. We must now decide whether to continue to California when the next train comes through, or to buy supplies and join a wagon train for Oregon. The railroad from here goes southwest, while the Oregon Trail moves north toward the Columbia River. The railroad is easier and faster, but as you know I had my heart set on Oregon.

  “Whatever we decide, we ought to be over the mountains and to the Pacific well before the winter snows. A few early snows on the Rockies, though pretty, remind us that we are at the mercy of the elements and that we must continue to press on.

  “I hope this letter arrives safely and that Mrs. Hammond gets it to you. I know she never—”

  Katie paused and glanced at the bed.

  “Go ahead, dear,” said Mrs. Hammond. “Whatever he says, I won’t mind.”

  “—I know she never thought much of me,” Katie went on, “but there is a soft spot in my heart for the dear lady, because, as circumstances work themselves out, had I not gone in to see her when I first arrived in Greens Crossing, who can tell, I might never have met you all . . . and my dear Emma.”

  I glanced unconsciously toward Mrs. Hammond. She was looking down at the bedcovers with kind of a sad look on her face.

  “We long for news of you all, but know we will have to wait until we are in the West for you to be able to write to us. We both send our love. You are dear to our hearts.”

  A bell sounded from below.

  “Uh-oh—a customer!” said Katie. “I’m almost done.

  “You are dear to our hearts,”she read again.

  “We miss you and thank you for everything.

  “God’s best to you all.

  “Micah Duff”

  Katie dashed downstairs, leaving me alone again with Mrs. Hammond.

  A VISIT

  31

  By late afternoon of the second day we had spent with her, Mrs. Hammond was feeling so much better that she told me she was ready to go downstairs to the shop. We went down together, and she told Katie that she was feeling better and that we should get on our way home before it was too late. She could handle things alone for the last hour or two. The color had returned to her face and she seemed to have most of her energy back. She assured us that she would be fine for the rest of the week.

  She thanked us again and we set out for Rosewood. I thought about waiting for Jeremiah and riding back with him, but realized it probably wasn’t such a good idea to stay in town alone.

  Everyone back at Rosewood was just as excited as we had been about the letter from Micah and Emma. It got read two or three times and there were more tears in that house than just Katie’s and mine!

  We had helped Mrs. Hammond on Wednesday and Thursday. We heard nothing more from town until midway through Sunday afternoon several hours after those of us who had gone to church—Katie and me and Papa—had returned to Rosewood.

  A buggy pulled by a single horse approached. Uncle Ward, who was the only one outside, was surprised to see Mrs. Hammond driving up toward the house.

  “Mrs. Hammond, good day to you,” he said, taking the reins of her horse and helping her down from the buggy.

  “Thank you, Mr. Daniels,” she said.

  “Are you sure you’re well enough to be out riding?” he asked as he tied the reins to a hitching rail.

  Mrs. Hammond smiled. “I needed some fresh air, and well . . . I just felt like—”

  “Come in,” he interrupted, “—everyone else is inside.”

  She followed him, carrying a small bag. He led her into the kitchen, where Josepha and I were cutting up some vegetables for a stew.

  “Look who’s here,” said Uncle Ward. “We’ve got a visitor!”

  “Mrs. Hammond!” I exclaimed.

  “Hello, uh . . . Mary Ann,” she said, then glanced nervously toward Josepha. “I came out just to . . . to thank you again for helping me like you did.”

  “Let me go get Katie,” I said and ran out of the kitchen.

  “Katie!” I yelled up the stairs. “Mrs. Hammond’s here!”

  Katie walked into the kitchen just as my papa and Henry came in from outside.

  “Uncle Templeton,” said Katie, “Mrs. Hammond came for a visit.”

  “I can see that.—Hello, Mrs. Hammond,” said Papa, walking toward her with a smile and his hand outstretched. “Welcome to Rosewood!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Daniels,” she said, more nervous than ever to be suddenly the center of so much attention. She had heard so many rumors about the strange goings-on at Rosewood . . . now here she was right in the middle of them . . . whites and blacks mixed up together like nobody could tell the difference!

  “Josepha,” said Papa, “put on a pot of coffee.—Let’s go into the sitting room.”

  We followed him into the parlor, all except Josepha, and sat down.

  “I said to Mary Ann a moment ago,” said Mrs. Hammond, “that I came out to thank you two girls again—”

  She glanced over at Katie.

  “—for your . . . for your thoughtfulness and for helping me like you did.”

  “We enjoyed it, Mrs. Hammond,” said Katie.

  “Why, they came back here,” said Papa, “raving about what a time they’d had being shopkeepers!”

  “You are very kind,” said Mrs. Hammond. “But you two girls did far more for me than I can ever repay, especially because I know I haven’t really ever done anything to deserve your kindness.”

  She glanced toward Katie and me and smiled.

  “And I . . .” she went on, hesitantly but somehow determined to continue, “I am . . . what I am trying to say, though this is very difficult for me—”

  She drew in a breath, glancing down at her lap, where she was holding the small bag she had come with.

  “—and that . . . well, I . . . I am sorry for the way I’ve been to you all.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Hammond,” said Katie, standing and hurrying over to where she sat on one of the couches. Katie sat down beside her and placed a hand on Mrs. Hammond’s arm.

  It was quiet a moment. Slowly the rest of us realized that she was crying softly. Katie continued to sit with her.

  At last Mrs. Hammond drew in a few deep breaths, sniffed a couple of times, and looked up and tried to force a smile.

  “And I also wanted to . . .”

  She glanced around the room.

  “Where is the colored lady?” she said.

  “Josepha?” said Katie.

  “Yes . . . Josepha—wasn’t she from the McSimmons place too?” she asked, looking over at me.

  “Yes,” I nodded. “But she didn’t come till after I was already here.”

  “Yes, well . . . I wanted to thank her for the delicious soup and bread.”

  “Josepha, let the coffee wait,” called Papa. “Come in here a minute.”

  A few seconds later, Josepha appeared at the door, though she wasn’t smiling.

  “Mrs. Hammond has something she wants to tell you,” said Uncle Ward.

  “Yes . . . well,” said Mrs. Hammond, glancing toward Josepha, “I was just telling the others that I was sorry I hadn’t been as nice as maybe I ought to have been. A lady living alone all her life like me, with nobody to keep her company but herself . . . she can get kind of crotchety and I’m afraid I have . . . and I remember one time when you were in the store with Mrs. McSimmons, God rest her soul, and I’m afraid I spoke rudely to you. I want to apologize for that . . . and to thank you for the wonderful soup and bread the girls brought me this week. I, uh . . .”

  She opened the bag on her lap and reached inside.

  “I brought you some chocolates,” she said. “I hope you will enjoy them.”

  She looked up toward Josepha and forced a timid smile.

  The room fell completely silent. After everything Josepha had said in the last day or two, the significance of the moment wasn’t lost on any of us, and I don’t think on
Josepha either.

  Mrs. Hammond got up and walked over and handed the box of candy to her.

  “Thank you,” she said again. “That was really the best soup and bread I have ever had, and I didn’t deserve them.”

  Josepha took the box, mumbled a few words of thanks, then said something about having to check on the coffee, and disappeared back into the kitchen. Mrs. Hammond went back to the couch and sat down again beside Katie.

  By the time Josepha appeared with a tray of coffee things, Papa had got Mrs. Hammond talking, like he is so good at doing. With the rest of us joining in, she was asking questions about Rosewood and all of us, and we were talking and laughing like she’d been part of it all along. Henry and Jeremiah even got a chance to tell her a little of their stories, and she listened just as interested and attentively as she had to the rest of us.

  Henry spoke so graciously to Mrs. Hammond. You could see from the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice that he really had compassion for her. It was as if he felt the pain of her loneliness himself. It made him love her and care about her all the more. I think she felt it too. Though she had always looked down on Henry, after that day I think there was some kind of special bond between them that Mrs. Hammond herself probably didn’t even understand.

  But love is like that. You can never tell how it is going to change you inside.

  When Mrs. Hammond left an hour later, we all knew that Rosewood had a new friend.

  HARD TALK

  32

  Josepha was quiet for a day or two after that. And I thought a little grumpy too. I wasn’t sure, but I had the feeling it had something to do with Mrs. Hammond’s visit.

  Remembering what she’d said about her promise to my mother, the thought struck me that maybe I had a responsibility to Josepha too.

  I got up my courage to have a serious talk with her.

  “Josepha,” I said the next day, “can I talk to you?”

  “Sure, Mayme, chil’,” she said, “what ’bout?”

  “You know that promise you made to my mama?”

  “I’s never forget it.”

  “You know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me, and for being such a friend to my mama?”

  Josepha nodded.

  “But now the time’s come when I’m almost grown up, almost as old as my mama herself was.”

  “And a fine han’some young lady you is too. Yo mama’d be proud.”

  “What I’m trying to say is—I’ve been wondering, now that I am almost grown up, if maybe that promise you made goes both directions.”

  “How you mean—bof directions?”

  “That maybe I have something like a responsibility toward you too, Josepha.”

  “You mean—like you needin’ ter take care er me too, like I said I’d do ter you?”

  “Maybe a little like that,” I said.

  “An’ you has, chil’. You an’ Miz Katie took me in an’ you’s given me a home like I never had before. An’ I’m mo grateful den you kin know. Why, you done more fo me den I kin ever hope ter repay.”

  “I’m glad, Josepha,” I said. “But that wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

  “What, den?”

  “Well, I . . . I have something to say to you that I only say because I love you so much and care about you, and I . . . I hope you won’t take it wrong, but—”

  “Go on, chil’—git out whatever it is you gots ter say.”

  “It’s just . . . I think you have been a little hard on Mrs. Hammond with some of what you said about her. I think she was trying to reach out to us all . . . and you too, and . . . well, Josepha, I thought you were pretty cold to her.”

  I let out a long breath. That was really hard to say!

  It was quiet and awkward for several seconds.

  “So you think I oughter show da lady mo kindness, is dat it?”

  “I suppose so,” I said.

  “Well, maybe you’s jes’ too young ter know how it is between whites an’ coloreds,” said Josepha.

  I could tell from her tone and the flash of her eyes that she was angry.

  “How many years wuz you a slave? You wuz jes’ a girl—what cud you know? How many people dat you loved did dey take away from you? You had a family, an’ now you gots Katie an’ yo papa an’ Jeremiah. Who I eber had ’cept a friend dat died when he wuz too young? What kin you know ’bout what I’s feelin’ inside an’ what it’s like ter be all alone an’ lonely wiff nobody ter look after you an’ nobody ter care for you! You ain’t got no call ter talk ter me like dat!”

  She turned and stalked out of the kitchen and away from the house. I stood staring at her back in shock. My heart was breaking!

  How could this have gone so terribly wrong? I sat down and began to cry.

  That’s where Henry found me five minutes later. I looked up and there he was. I didn’t know where Josepha had gone. She hadn’t come back.

  Henry sat down.

  “You want ter tell yo ol’ friend ’bout it?” he said.

  I started crying again. Then I gradually told him what had happened.

  Henry sat for a long time thinking about what I had said.

  “Growth’s a fearsome thing sometimes,” he said at last. “Some folks ain’t used ter soul-growin’ inside demselves. When da trunks er dere souls start ter git wider an’ stretching out, an’ when dere roots start ter go deeper, all dat growin’ an’ stretchin’ hurts an’ dey don’t like it.”

  Henry sometimes had such a simple but profound way of putting things!

  “But a tree can’t grow wiffout its ol’ bark stretchin’ an’ crackin’ an’ splittin’,” he added. “You eber look at one er dem pine trees yonder in da woods?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “What’s dere bark like? It all nice an’ smooth?”

  “No,” I answered. “It’s rough and cracked.”

  “Dat’s what growth does ter make room fo da insides er dose trees ter git bigger. Da skin’s gotter break fo da inside er dat tree ter grow. Da tree gits stronger, but da bark’s gotter break. People’s jes’ da same. Ef we’s gwine grow bigger inside, somethin’s gotter stretch. An’ sometimes dat ol’ soul-skin’s gotter break. Breakin’ hurts, but sometimes breakin’s da only way ter grow.”

  “But I didn’t want to hurt Josepha.”

  “ ’Course you didn’t. But maybe it’s her time ter do a little growin’. Maybe it’s time fo her soul ter git a little bigger. Maybe some ob da ol’ bark’s gotter break.”

  “But I hurt her, Henry. Now she’s angry at me.”

  “She won’t be fo long. Da lady’s got too much love in her heart ter stay angry at you. But most folks don’t like it much when other folks shows ’em places where da trunk er dere tree’s growin’ a mite crooked. Seems like we’d want other folks’ help, ’cause we need each other. But folks is funny dat way. Dey don’t want no help wiff dere growin’.”

  “What should I do, Henry?”

  “You let me hab a little talk wiff her, dat is if you don’t mind me tellin’ her what you tol’ me.”

  “No, of course not.”

  A COAT OF ALL SIZES AND SHAPES

  33

  HENRY FOUND JOSEPHA OUT IN THE VEGETABLE garden with a hoe in her hand. From the way she was attacking the weeds, he knew she was still agitated.

  “I came on Miz Mayme cryin’ in da kitchen,” said Henry. “She tol’ me what happened.”

  “Did she tell you what she said ter me?”

  “Dat she did.”

  “Da nerve ob dat girl! What she thinkin’ dat she kin talk ter me like dat!”

  “It didn’t sound ter me like she said anythin’ mo den what da Lord himself might say ef He wuz talkin’ ter you.”

  “What you sayin’, Henry Patterson—dat da Lord’d treat me wiff dat kind er disrespect?”

  “It din’t soun’ ter me like Mayme treated you wiff disrespect. Ain’t it da highest kind er respect ter try ter help a frien’ be mo like da Lord hisse’f?”<
br />
  “Not da way she done it!”

  “An’ ain’t it da Lord hisse’f dat tol’ us ter forgive our enemies? Ef you figger she dun you wrong, den you gots ter forgive her.”

  Henry’s words stung. Josepha had no immediate reply except another whack at the ground with her hoe.

  “An’ I’m thinkin’ maybe ol’ Mrs. Hammond deserves da same.”

  “Mrs. Hammond ain’t my enemy,” snapped Josepha.

  “Ain’t dat all da mo reason?”

  “I don’t like her, dat’s all, an’ I don’t figger it’s none er Mayme’s business, an’ none er yers neither!”

  “She’s a lonely woman dat ain’t got no frien’s in da worl’.”

  “An’ I still say it ain’t none er yo affair!”

  “Who’s business is it ef it ain’t da business er folks dat loves you? Mayme loves you, Josepha. Her heart’s like ter break right now.”

  “What right she got ter say dat ter me?”

  “Da right er love.”

  “Love . . . hummph!”

  “She loves you an’ wants you ter be da bes’ person you kin be. An’ she knows it ain’t bein’ yo best fo you ter harbor sour feelin’s in yo soul. You’s a better person den dat, an’ Mayme knows it. She’s seein’ da bes’ Josepha, but right now you’s not bein’ da bes’ Josepha.”

  “Now dere you go getting’ all high an’ mighty an’ talkin’ ter me like you wuz my daddy or my master! What gib you da right ter git dat way wiff me?”

  “Maybe da same right as Mayme’s got.”

  “Hummph! Mayme’s jes’ a girl!”

  “But a mighty wise girl. An’ she ain’t a girl no mo, Josepha, she’s a growed-up young lady. It sounds ter me like you’s got a dose er pride dat ain’t altogether been dealt wiff.”

  Josepha bristled and her eyes flashed.

  “What dat surposed ter mean?” she shot back. “Pride! Whatchu mean, pride!”

  “Jes’ what I said. Soun’s ter me dat Mayme picked at somethin’ dat you need ter take a look at.”