Through the Deep Waters

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Ruthie?”

  Dinah’s terse voice intruded upon Ruthie’s reverie. Slowly, she turned toward her roommate. “Hmm?”

  “What is the Calico Ball?”

  Although a frown creased Dinah’s face and her voice held more irritation than enthusiasm, Ruthie couldn’t squelch her own excitement. She dashed to Dinah’s side. “It is the social event of the year! The entire town is invited. People turn out in droves to partake of the banquet tables’ delicious offerings and spend the evening dancing. A band comes all the way from Peabody.” She grinned. “Papa thought the songs were a little too fast last year for his taste, but oh, I had such fun!”

  Ruthie closed her eyes, imagining the scene. “The men wear jackets, many of them jackets with tails, and they tuck cravats into their collars instead of wearing string ties. Some of them even have handkerchiefs to match. And the women wear fine calico gowns with skirts that flare out when they whirl around the floor, and they put their hair up in beautiful styles.” She sighed, pressing her palms to her chest and swaying slightly to the music in her head. “It’s an evening of pure magic …”

  She popped her eyes open and grabbed Dinah’s cold, wet hands. “Best of all, it takes place right here at the Clifton, and since we aren’t kitchen staff, we’ll be released from duty to attend. Isn’t it exciting?”

  Dinah pulled her hands free of Ruthie’s grasp and picked up her bucket. “I’m sure you’ll have fun.”

  Ruthie grabbed Dinah’s arm, staring at her in shock. “You won’t go?”

  Dinah shook her head.

  “But why not? We work all day, every day, and Mr. Irwin will let us off for the Calico Ball. The ball only comes once a year. You have to go, Dinah.”

  Dinah frowned. She wriggled her elbow until Ruthie released her. But Ruthie couldn’t drop the subject and trotted after Dinah as she marched to the remaining window in need of washing. “Why don’t you want to go?” She touched Dinah’s rolled-up sleeve. “If you don’t have a gown, you could borrow mine from last year. Mama is sewing me a new one since my last year’s one is too tight. I’m sure it would fit you, though, since you’re smaller than me. It’s a sweet shade of mint green scattered all over with tiny pink blossoms. And Mama even sewed a peek of lace around the collar.”

  Dinah froze with her hand in the wash bucket. Most of the suds had dissipated, leaving foamy smears that formed a circle around her wrist. Bent over, her head low, she said, “I don’t need a gown.”

  Embarrassment smote Ruthie. What had she been thinking? Of course, a wealthy girl like Dinah would have scores of gowns. Just because she hadn’t brought them with her didn’t mean they weren’t filling her wardrobe in Chicago. A telegram home and a trunk could be sent. She stepped backward as Dinah abruptly straightened and applied the rag to the window.

  “Well, then, if not a gown …” Her voice quivered. She swallowed and started again. “Why don’t you want to attend?”

  Dinah gave the window one final sweep, dropped her rag into the murky water remaining in her bucket, picked up the bucket, and walked off without a word.

  Dinah

  Dinah flicked the feather duster across the dressing table’s top. The oval mirror captured her from midthigh upward. She found herself pausing, as she had frequently over the past few days, to examine her reflection and imagine herself in a lace-embellished gown, swirling around a dance floor on the arm of a fine gentleman. As a child, she’d engaged in the same daydream countless times. But she wasn’t a child anymore.

  Her lips set in a firm line, she forced her gaze downward and continued cleaning. Despite her best efforts, her thoughts carried her backward in time to when she was eight, or maybe nine, and Rueben had given her a book filled with wonderful tales written by a pair of German brothers named Grimm. She’d loved it and read the stories again and again, savoring the escape into a world far beyond the confining walls of the Yellow Parrot, but her favorite was “Cinderella.”

  The girl in the story was so much like Dinah—banished to the attic when guests arrived, forced to labor for a woman who openly disliked her. Cinderella had been rescued thanks to a wishing tree and had found her prince at the castle ball. Castle ball. Calico Ball. Her chest constricted. Fairy tales couldn’t come true. It was foolhardy to even consider attending the dance. And yet …

  Her gaze returned to the mirror. She took in her simple black dress and bibbed white apron, envisioning a lovely gown in its place. She lifted the feather duster and held it like a bouquet of roses, even daring to sniff the tips of the feathers and smile as the sweet aroma of just-budded blooms filled her imagination. Fluttering her eyelashes, she cast a look at her imaginary dance partner and caught her own reflection again.

  She froze, staring into her pale-blue eyes—what Ruthie had called the window to her soul. Within moments her image wavered as tears filled her eyes. How could she even pretend a gentleman would want to sweep her into his arms and dance with her until she was breathless, as the prince had done with Cinderella? The only “gentleman” with whom she’d become acquainted had left a mark on her not even a magic wishing tree could erase.

  A beckon-me bell jangled, rescuing her from her dismal contemplation. Dinah swept her hand across her eyes, removing the glimmer of moisture, and darted up the hallway in the direction of the sound. The bell clanged again, more loudly, followed by an angry exclamation. Dinah tapped on the door behind which the noise had escaped, and it opened to reveal a frazzled-looking middle-aged woman and a teenage girl. The girl stood in the middle of the floor wearing a ribboned chemise, ruffled bloomers, and a tear-stained scowl.

  Dinah had encountered this pair in the hallway yesterday. They’d been arguing loudly about sharing a room, the woman insisting upon it and the girl demanding her own room. She thought the disagreement petty, considering the size of the rooms, and it appeared their spat hadn’t ended. Uncomfortable at having been pulled into their dispute, Dinah aimed her gaze to the side, away from the half-naked girl. “M-may I help you?”

  The woman grabbed her arm and pulled her inside the room, then closed the door with a snap. “Yes, you may. Does the hotel have a barrel where rubbish is burned?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” The woman bent over and scooped up a rumpled mass of light-blue fabric with ivory ribbons trailing from the center of the wad. She plopped the mess into Dinah’s arms. “Take this.”

  The girl wailed, “Mother, nooooo!” She raced at Dinah, reaching.

  The woman caught the girl and held her tight. “Stop this caterwauling at once, Ernestina! You’re not yet fifteen years old and have no business wearing such an elaborate costume.”

  “But we can save it until my birthday!” Ernestina, tears streaming down her fury-reddened cheeks, strained toward Dinah. “It’s too lovely to be burned!”

  “You should have thought of that before you commissioned it without my permission.” The mother spoke with such harshness that Dinah shrank back, but the girl continued to fight within the circle of her mother’s arms. Ernestina’s mother looked at Dinah again. “Go ahead—dispose of it. If it remains in our room, this rebellious child will find a way to don it and sneak out again.”

  With the daughter’s howls and the mother’s angry reprimands ringing in her ears, Dinah escaped the room with the wadded-up dress in her arms. She went straight downstairs, out the back door, and across the graveled area behind the carriage house where charred barrels stood in a row to receive rubbish. The busboys must have done the burning last night because the smell of smoke still lingered and only one barrel held trash.

  She lifted the dress to toss it into the nearest barrel, but curiosity gave her pause. The woman had called it an elaborate costume—too elaborate for a girl not yet fifteen. Flicking a glance left and right, Dinah ascertained no one observed her. Then she shook the gown from its tangled wad and held it up by the shoulders. She gasped. Although rumpled from the woman’s rough treatment, the beauty of the frock couldn’t be deni
ed. How could Dinah even consider destroying it?

  Fashioned in a fabric of weaving vines and sweet morning glories floating on a sea of periwinkle blue, the full skirt ended with a lace-embellished flounce scalloped with ivory ribbon. Its sleeves bore a flutter of delicate lace at the cuffs, and even more lace graced the gently scooped bodice where tiny pearl buttons marched from the neckline to the waist. Ivory ribbons cascaded in streams from both shoulders.

  Dinah hugged the dress to her chest, her heart pounding. She’d been instructed to dispose of the gown, but might it be enough to permanently remove it from the original owner? That would be a disposal of sorts, wouldn’t it?

  Her gaze drifted to the hotel window behind which the mother and daughter probably still fought. The pair were guests, so they’d leave eventually. If she kept the dress, they would never know. Her thoughts teetertottered between keeping the frock and tossing it away, and then another thought screeched into her brain.

  She’d envied Cinderella whose wishing tree had tossed down a lovely gown so she could attend the castle ball. Holding the dress at arm’s length once more, she pondered whether she should consider the angry mother her “wishing tree.”

  Amos

  Not until the end of the second full week of school did Amos send Cale up the road alone for the walk to town. The evening before, the sheriff had ridden out to inform Amos that he and his men were confident they’d killed all the dogs in the marauding pack. With the threat of attack gone, Amos felt secure letting Cale walk the road alone without Amos and his ready rifle for protection.

  The boy was so proud as he sauntered off, swinging a little tin pail with two buttered biscuits and a chunk of cheese in it. He didn’t even stop to wave good-bye before leaving the lane. Amos watched with Samson and Gideon whining at his feet until Cale disappeared around the bend. Then he put his hands on his hips and looked at the pair of growing pups.

  “That’s it, then. He’ll be back later. Come.”

  The dogs trotted along beside him—Gideon on the left, Samson on the right. Gideon put more distance between himself and Amos’s feet than Samson did, however. Amos had stepped on him once due to his hitching gait. Although Gideon didn’t avoid Amos afterward, he did take care. Pride filled Amos’s chest. The dog was smart.

  He enjoyed having his furry companions with him while he did chores. He’d missed them the days they stayed locked up in the barn, and he sent up a prayer of gratitude for the sheriff’s diligence in ridding the town of the pesky wild dogs. He’d be able to leave his chickens in their yard during daytime hours again, too, rather than keeping them in the chicken house. Egg production had slowed during their time closed away from the sun, and he looked forward to finding an egg in every roost again.

  Amos tossed out handfuls of ground corn for the chickens. He’d put the half-grown chicks into the yard with the laying hens early that morning. He easily spotted the young ones—smaller in body but with long, scrawny necks and feet too big. At first the full-grown hens had clucked in alarm at the newcomers, but they settled down quickly, and now they all pecked in the yard as if they’d always been there together. He released a contented sigh, thinking of the day when the chicks would be old enough to start laying. Not much longer. His plans were going well.

  “And as soon as my flock is large enough to bring in twice the money they do now, I will take a wife. Even if I’m not yet selling to the hotel, I will take a wife because I’ll have enough to support one.” He spoke to Sam and Gid, who whined in reply, his heart thrumming at his bold tone.

  Ever since his walk home when he’d admitted his fascination with Dinah Hubley, he imagined her at his farm. Working beside him, cooking at his stove and eating at his table, laughing at Samson’s and Gideon’s antics … Cale continued to prod Amos to consider marrying Ruthie Mead, but when Amos imagined taking a wife, Dinah Hubley’s face always appeared in his mind. He’d come to accept God had chosen her for him. She was young, true, but she’d get older.

  Of course, he reminded himself as he emptied the last of the corn on the ground, he’d have to let her know before she signed a contract to be a server. Servers couldn’t court for a full year after agreeing to work in the dining room. He didn’t want to wait that long. He hoped she’d see marriage to him preferable to serving travelers in the dining room.

  Shielding his eyes from the sun, he glanced across the feathered flock, nodding in satisfaction at how much larger it appeared with the new ones mingling with the full-grown ones. He needed to choose six adult hens to be brooders and close them in the barn with an egg in each hay-filled roost. He’d add an egg each day until there were five beneath every hen. If they all hatched, he’d have another thirty chicks to add to his flock. More than a dozen of the last batch of chicks were showing signs of cocks’ combs. He hoped in the next group there’d be much fewer boys. He needed more egg layers than he needed chickens for butchering. But it wasn’t up to him whether hens or roosters emerged from the eggs.

  Sending a glance skyward, he offered a short plea. “Lots of hens this time, hmm?” Some might laugh at him for praying about chickens, but Amos knew his Lord cared about everything in his life—even the difference between hens and roosters—so he didn’t mind sharing every thought with God.

  He headed for the barn where his egg-collecting basket waited. “Come, Sam and Gid. Let’s see how many eggs the girls left in the roosts since yesterday.”

  Over the day, Amos spoke to the dogs frequently. He liked the way they looked at him with attentive little faces, their ears alert and stubby tails wagging. Samson even had a habit of lifting his eyebrows, as if amazed at the things Amos said. The dogs made him laugh. He’d been right about them being good company. But he’d also been right about them not taking the place of human company. As much as he talked to them, they didn’t answer. Harboring Cale under his roof for the past few weeks had fueled his desire for a family of his own. And even Cale, who never lacked for something to say, wasn’t enough. Because Cale wouldn’t be with him forever. In fact, Cale would likely be going elsewhere before long.

  When the sheriff had told Amos about the wild dogs, he also mentioned he’d found the name of the preacher in New York who’d sent Cale to Kansas. He already sent a telegram to the church and expected a reply within a few days. Amos didn’t know whether someone from New York would come get the boy or if the sheriff would be expected to transport him to wherever the preacher chose, but he was already steeling himself for the day when Cale would leave. Because the day would bring a return to his deep loneliness. But only until he took a wife. Then he’d never be lonely again.

  Midafternoon, Amos tied Samson and Gideon to a stall post in the barn again. They whined, but he ignored their sad faces. “When I get back, I’ll have Cale with me, and he’ll romp with you in the yard. So take a nap now.”

  As if they understood, the pair flopped down, Samson resting his black, moist nose on Gideon’s neck. Amos chuckled at the picture they formed. He gave each pup a scratch on the top of the head, then retrieved his wagon. Outside, he lowered the barn door’s crossbar into place and thumped it good into the clamps. The pups were secured to their ropes, but if the door drifted open, the brooding hens might decide to leave their roosts. And he couldn’t have that.

  He paused beside the chicken yard, observing the flock. Should he chase them into the chicken house before going to town? The day was so nice—calm rather than windy, warm but not hot. A perfect early fall day. It seemed a shame to close them up when they hadn’t been able to scratch free for so many days. Hadn’t the sheriff said the threat was gone? Of course he had. Amos would leave the chickens to enjoy the sunshine for the hour or so he’d be away.

  The decision made, he checked the twisted wire that held the gate closed, then addressed the feisty rooster who lorded over every other bird in the yard. “You’re in charge now. Keep everyone safe.”

  The bird angled its head and blinked at Amos before strutting off.

  Smiling, Amo
s set off for town.

  A few mothers, one jostling a baby carriage and two with toddlers balanced on their hips, stood in a little circle in the shade of the elm tree in the schoolyard. Their voices competed with that of the teacher’s, whose lesson on grammar drifted from the open window.

  Amos parked his little wagon just outside the patch of shade and then sat in it. The wooden wheels groaned beneath his weight, but his tired hip needed the rest. Elbows on his knees, he aimed his gaze at the school doors and counted the minutes until they opened. His eagerness to see Cale emerge surprised him. Was this how it felt to be a father? He’d stayed in town a little longer than he originally planned so he could have the boy’s company while walking home again. If he’d be bidding Cale farewell soon, he should grab every available minute with him.

  Soft laughter rolled from the circle of mothers, and his lips quirked in silent response even though he didn’t know what had amused them. As a boy, he’d always joined in when he heard someone laughing just in case they were laughing at him. If he laughed instead of cried when someone gibed at him, often the teasing stopped. He never understood why some people took pleasure in another’s hurt, and if he was fortunate to have children someday, he’d teach them to defend those being teased rather than being the one to tease others.

  The doors opened, and children spilled from the schoolhouse with squeals and laughter. Cale was in the middle of the group, and when he spotted Amos, he grabbed the arm of a red-headed boy and galloped over, tugging the other child along with him.

  “Hey, Uncle Amos!” Cale greeted him with such enthusiasm the mothers all turned and sent smiles in their direction.

  Amos liked the title the boy had chosen for him. He had nieces and nephews, but in less than a month, he’d gotten better acquainted with this boy than he was with his own family. Sadness tried to wiggle its way through him, but Cale’s sunny countenance chased the gray cloud away.