A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Although he hadn’t swallowed one drop of liquor since leaving New York, he knew where he could indulge. On the outskirts of town, near the river where the loading dock had once stood, fellows had pointed out a little shack where they gathered from time to time to shoot craps and tip a glass. He’d avoided the place—desire to honor Mary had kept him from venturing there—but all day he battled a fierce temptation to break the alcohol fast. Just once. Get rip-roarin’ drunk. Numbing drunk. Didn’t he deserve it after working so hard? Sure he did.

  At the close of the day, he fell in with the others to collect his wages. He’d taken his time ambling out of the fields, putting him last in line to receive his pay. By the time Simon slipped the brown envelope into his hands, he was twitchy with eagerness to ride into town and spend a bit of his hard-earned money on something that would fill the emptiness he carried inside.

  Simon closed a little tin box with a snap and shot him a smile. “An’ you be the last’un. Glad you came up last—gives me a chance to talk to you without holdin’ up the line.”

  Joss slipped the envelope into his shirt pocket without checking inside, the way most men did. He had no reason to suspect Simon of shorting him. He inched backward, his bootheels stirring dust. “Whatcha need with me?”

  “You started buildin’ them beds an’ such yet?”

  Foolish question. He’d just carted the saplings to the house last night and he’d been at work all day. When would he have had time to work? “’Course not.”

  Simon’s smile broadened, apparently unaware of the sarcasm Joss inserted in his tone. “I can come in with Ruth an’ the chillun this evenin’—Tarsie’s givin’ Ruth another lesson. I’ll lend you a hand if you’s wanting to get started on those beds. Got some sturdy rope good for stringin’, an’ when I tol’ Ruth you’s thinkin’ on buildin’ some chairs, she said she’d be glad to weave some seats outta reeds. She’s right clever when it comes to weavin’. Those chairs’d stand up real fine for you’uns.”

  Joss fidgeted in place, two desires warring inside of him. Oh, how he wanted a drink. But he also wanted to get everything finished for the house so he’d be free to leave. Once he was in Chicago, he could drink as much and as often as he took a mind to without it affecting anybody.

  “C’mon in with Ruth, then.”

  Simon tucked the tin box under his arm and limped around the little table he used for distributing pay envelopes. “We’ll head out aftuh we eat. Less’n you’d like us to bring some food ovuh an’ all eats togethuh. Prob’ly give us a little more workin’ time, were we to share a meal.”

  Joss could accept Simon’s help in building, but sitting down to eat with him indicated friendship. He wasn’t ready to stoop to that level. Another pang of guilt struck. Joss took a giant backward step. “After you finish eatin’ is fine. There’ll be plenty daylight hours yet. I can stay up late if I want to, since no work tomorrow.”

  “But there’s service.” Simon scuttled after Joss, his dark face serious. “Ain’t you started takin’ yo’ family to service on Sunday mornin’, Joss?”

  The same longing that gripped Joss when he’d glimpsed the word God claimed him again, increasing the empty ache in his middle. He folded his arms over his chest. “Don’t got time. When else am I gonna get things finished at that house except Sunday? I work every other day.”

  Simon’s smile returned. “But Sunday, it be the Lawd’s day. A day o’ rest an’ refreshment. If we honor the Lawd by keepin’ His day holy, like He tells us to in His book, then He gives us the time an’ strength we need to get ever’thing else done that needs doin’. Mebbe that’s why He’s been promptin’ me to lend you a hand. So’s you can feel freed up to go to Sunday service with yo’ wife an’ chillun. I know they’s wantin’ you to go.”

  Joss knew they wanted him to go, too. Although Emmy and Nathaniel had stopped asking out loud, he saw their begging faces as Tarsie led them down the hill to the chapel. Tarsie’d never stopped asking, though. She asked and asked. Almost harped. A grin tugged at his lips. She sure was a stubborn one.

  Simon broke into his thoughts. “’Sides that, I been thinkin’ on what you tol’ me ’bout you not knowin’ how to daddy yo’ chillun.”

  The word daddy shot like an arrow through Joss’s gut. “What about it?”

  His shoulders raising in a slow shrug, Simon took another shuffling step toward Joss. His words were low, quiet, and fervent. “You say there’s no school for learnin’ daddyin’, but you’s wrong, Joss. There be a school—best place evuh to learn what’n all a man needs to be a good husband, a good daddy, a good man. That place, Joss? It be called church.”

  26

  Tarsie walked between Nathaniel and Emmy, holding each one by the hand. Her leather satchel, once used to carry herbs, hung over her shoulder, weighted by her Bible. The little packets of herbs sat in the bottom of a trunk, nearly forgotten. After witnessing the deaths of the mother and baby on the journey and then losing Mary, Tarsie had no desire to use the herbs. Although she didn’t use them, she hadn’t been able to discard them. Carefully gathered in Aunt Vangie’s memory, she couldn’t toss them out. But neither would she offer them as a solution to anyone’s sickness. She couldn’t risk another failure.

  Instead, she poured herself into these children. She glanced down at the pair of blond heads, their hair shimmering gold in the sunlight. A lump filled her throat. How she loved them. As much as if she’d given birth to them herself, she was sure. Mothering them was better than nursing strangers to health. She welcomed her new calling.

  She sampled the word “calling,” playing over the minister’s message to the congregation that morning. He’d indicated that when people didn’t follow what the Lord had called them to do, they never found joy or fulfillment. Instead, they spent their lives always seeking happiness in things that could never satisfy and eventually died sad and discouraged. He’d claimed every man’s first calling was to accept the love of God into his life by acknowledging Jesus as Savior—then God could open his heart to his purpose in this world.

  During prayer time, she’d asked God to reveal His calling for her life to her, and behind her closed eyelids, an image of Emmy and Nathaniel had appeared. The realization lifted her heart. Yes, caring for these children—raising them to love and serve the Lord as Mary would have done—was now Tarsie’s purpose.

  But where did Joss fit in her calling? She’d sought the Lord’s wisdom concerning Joss. She’d committed to showing Him God’s love, as Mary had asked her to do, but might God intend more? “Oh, heavenly Father, be leadin’ me because I’m just a bundle of confusion. . . .”

  “Huh?”

  Not until Emmy turned her face upward and gave the puzzled query did Tarsie realize she’d spoken aloud. She released a light laugh, swinging Emmy’s hand. “Oh, never mind me, wee one. Just talking to myself, is all.”

  Emmy crinkled her nose. “That’s silly, talking to yourself. Then do you answer, too?” The little girl launched into a make-believe discussion, tipping her head this way and that and using her free hand to stir the air. “Why, hello, Emmy Grace, how are you today? I’m just fine, Emmy Grace, thank you for askin’. What’re you doin’ today, Emmy Grace? I’m just walkin’ home from church with Tarsie an’ Nattie. What’re you doin’ today? I’m doin’ the same thing, Emmy Grace! Fancy that!” She laughed, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

  Tarsie pretended to scowl, tsking at Nathaniel’s grin. “Listen to your sister’s blather now, Nathaniel. Is she a silly one or what?”

  Nathaniel grinned, hunching his shoulders.

  They continued onward, the sun warm on their heads and a breeze tousling the children’s hair. Sweat beaded on their noses, and Tarsie hurried them a bit as they neared the yard, ready for the shaded interior of their cozy home. “Change into your playclothes,” Tarsie directed as she sent the pair over the threshold. “I’ll be puttin’ some lunch on for us quick as a wink, an’ then we can take a rest.”

  Emmy chased Na
thaniel to the other side of the dividing wall, then she reappeared in the gap, hands on hips. “Hey! Where’s Papa?”

  Tarsie paused in retrieving a pot from the shelf. “Isn’t he on the pallet?” He’d stumbled behind the wall as they’d left for church, claiming a monstrous headache. Tarsie hadn’t believed him until he flopped onto her sleeping pallet, rolled onto his side, and promptly fell asleep.

  Emmy shook her head hard, her curls bouncing. “He ain’t there.” She dashed to the window. “Oh, there he is—sittin’ under the tree.”

  Tarsie crossed behind Emmy and peered out. Sure enough, there he sat, knees bent and widespread, his head drooping low.

  “I’ll go get ’im.” The little girl turned as if heading for the door.

  Tarsie caught her shoulders. “Go get changed, like I told you.” She aimed Emmy for the sleeping area with a little nudge. “You an’ Nattie set the table once you’ve changed your clothes. Then stay inside. I’ll be seein’ to your papa.”

  Emmy let out a huff of complaint, but at Tarsie’s frown she scurried to obey. Tarsie headed outside. She clipped around the house at a quick pace, but when she reached the corner she paused. For reasons she couldn’t understand, sweat broke out across her body. There was something about his pose—droopy, defeated—that gave her pause. A bitter taste filled Tarsie’s mouth. A wife would certainly know how to approach her husband regardless of the state in which she found him, but Tarsie was only floundering and uncertain.

  Tangling her hands in her skirt, she licked her lips and then braved a single-word query. “Joss?”

  His head bounced up as though yanked by a string, then bobbled slightly. His mouth hung slack, and his red-rimmed eyes squinted as if he found it difficult to focus. “Huh?”

  A sick feeling filled her stomach. She moved toward him, her narrowed gaze searching his face. The lack of muscular control, the red eyes, and the smell emanating from him told her everything she needed to know. Drunk. The man was drunk! She dropped to her knees before him. “Oh, Joss . . .”

  “What?”

  The word slurred out on a belligerent note that stirred Tarsie’s anger. How dare he sit there disheveled and disgraced on the Lord’s day and use that tone with her! She clenched her fists and pressed them to her thighs lest one of her hands chose to clop him upside the head. “Where’d you get a bottle?”

  He slumped low and plucked at blades of grass growing between his unlaced boots, his motions clumsy. “Place by the river. Bunch o’ fellas there last night.”

  Tarsie sucked in a sharp breath. Last night? He’d crept out while she and the children lay sleeping? It would be an easy thing to do, what with her and the youngsters on one side of the dividing wall and him sleeping on the other. It rankled that he’d taken advantage of her trust. “So you sneaked down there in the cover of dark like a fox raiding a henhouse an’ got yourself pickled, did you?”

  “No!” He jerked his head upright and glared at her. “Only had a couple o’ shots.” He held up three fingers. “That’s all.”

  “That’s all.” She raised her face to the gently-waving tree branches overhead and released a snort of derision. Looking at him again, she said, “Don’t be fibbing. You couldn’t still be this drunk after only a couple of shots. You must’ve had an entire bottle.”

  Joss squinted at her, one eye completely shut. His lips quivered into a lopsided grin. “Did have a whole bottle. Finished it this mornin’. Such a headache.” He grasped his head with both hands as if holding it on his shoulders. “Best cure is the hair o’ the dog that bit ya. That’s what my pa allus said.” He dropped his hands away from his head and let them flop on the grass.

  One of his hands lay palm up very near Tarsie’s knee. She stared at it, battling tears. Thick fingers, leathery palm dotted with calluses. The hand of a strong man who worked hard. A hand capable of building tables and walls, of swinging a child through the air into the back of a wagon, of cupping a woman’s cheek in tenderness. So much potential for good in that hand. But he’d used it to lift a bottle to his lips while she and his children attended Sunday services.

  Fury and disappointment rolled through Tarsie’s chest. All these weeks of trying so hard to be a godly example to him—all the moments of hope—seemed pointless now. Because he chose to use his hands for ill instead of good. She blew out an aggravated breath. “You oughta be ashamed of yourself, Joss Brubacher. I know I’m ashamed of you. And Mary—she’d be the most ashamed of all.”

  His face crumpled. “I know. I know.”

  “If you know, then why’d you do it, Joss? Why’d you give in?”

  He shook his head. His bleary gaze pinned itself to hers. “I was missin’ Mary so”—he gulped—“bad. Didn’t know what to do. Don’t know what to do without her.” He slumped forward and rested his head on Tarsie’s shoulder. “Only good in my life, an’ she up an’ died. What’m I s’posed to do now?”

  Tarsie wanted to feel compassion for him. So lost, so lonely. But revulsion coiled through her instead. Revulsion and a deep sorrow. She planted her hands on his chest and pushed him away, then bolted to her feet and glared down at him. “What you’re supposed to do, Joss Brubacher, is take care of your children. Give up the foul drinking that broke Mary’s dear heart. Live in a way that’d make Mary proud instead of wallowing in self-pity and excuses. For two cents I’d dump you headfirst into a vat an’ let you drown, but I made a promise to Mary an’ I intend to honor it. But right now . . . right now . . .” She growled and spun away from his detestable beaten puppy expression. “Right now I must get away from you before I dishonor both Mary an’ the good Lord above by sayin’ something I’ll regret.”

  She charged to the house where Emmy and Nathaniel sat at the table, swinging their feet. They’d laid out the plates, just as she’d asked, and they beamed up at her, expecting praise. Tarsie snapped her fingers at them. “Get up from there an’ come with me.”

  They scrambled from the benches, their eyes wide. “What about dinner?” Emmy asked.

  “We’ll eat later.” Tarsie grabbed them each by the hand and stormed outside, dragging them with her.

  “Ain’tcha gonna feed Papa?”

  “Feed Papa?” Nathaniel echoed his sister’s question, then started to cry.

  Tarsie didn’t break stride. Eyes aimed ahead, she barked out, “Your papa’s belly is already filled up. Nothin’ more I can give him.” And then she came to a halt, realization slamming down on her as effectively as a wall of bricks.

  Filled up . . . The minister’s message about man’s attempts to fill himself in ways that could never bring satisfaction returned. Joss’s bleary, empty expression flashed in Tarsie’s memory. He was trying so hard to fill his empty places with work, with building things, and with liquor. But until he answered the Lord’s call on his soul, he’d always be empty. Always be seeking. Always be less than what he had the ability to be.

  Nathaniel’s confused sobs finally penetrated Tarsie’s anger. Dropping to her knees in the roadway, she gathered both children close. “Shh, shh, wee ones, don’t cry.” She swallowed her own tears. She’d failed again, letting her temper take control. She was no better than Joss, who gave in to temptation to drink. Forgive me, Father.

  “But you ain’t gonna feed us, an’ we’re hungry.” Emmy pushed away from Tarsie’s grasp, her lower lip quivering.

  “I am going to feed you.” But Tarsie couldn’t go to the house. Not now, with Joss all liquored up and blubbering. The children shouldn’t witness their father’s weakness. Mary had always protected them. Tarsie must, too. “But instead of eating at home, we’re gonna have dinner with Mrs. Ruth and Mr. Simon. All right?”

  Nathaniel rubbed his fist under his nose and nodded. Emmy tipped her head. “They know we’re comin’ to eat with ’em?”

  They didn’t know, but they’d welcome her. Ruth and Simon wouldn’t turn them away. The thought brought a measure of comfort. Instead of answering Emmy’s question, Tarsie said, “It’s a far walk. Do
you think you can make it?”

  “I can!” Emmy proclaimed. “I’m big enough.”

  Nathaniel squared his skinny shoulders. “I’m big.”

  Tarsie gave them each another quick hug. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

  27

  He was drunk, you say?”

  The dismay in Ruth’s voice matched the heaviness in Tarsie’s heart. Tarsie gazed out the open door to the grassless yard where the children used sticks to stir up mud pies in a battered tin bowl. Looking at little Nathaniel, hair standing on end and a beaming smile on his face, a mighty lump filled her throat. So innocent and carefree, but over time, would he become like his pa? Bitter and dependent on alcohol to meet his needs?

  Turning back to Simon and Ruth, who sat on the opposite side of the cleared table, she sighed in frustration. “I thought he’d been doing better. Was changing. But seeing him liquored up that way . . .” She hung her head. “He hasn’t changed. Not really.” Disappointment had chased away her fury. Disappointment was harder to bear.

  Simon shook his head. “He’s doin’ what he knows, Miz Tarsie. He be a grown man now, so I ain’t makin’ excuses for him. He oughta be able to see that his pa’s way didn’t do nobody no good an’ choose a better way. But to choose a better way, he’s gotta have one laid out in front o’ him.”

  Tarsie shot Simon a defensive look. “But that’s what Mary spent her life doing—being a living, breathing example of godly actions an’ attitudes for her husband. An’ she gave me the responsibility right before she died. I . . . I know I fail sometimes.” Remorse smote her as she recalled the number of times she’d allowed anger to get the best of her. “But I try.”