Caleb's Story

by Patricia MacLachlan

  Sarah sighed.

  “First the war, then the influenza . . .” she said. “An early winter . . .”

  “And then Grandfather,” I said, making her smile.

  “I like Grandfather,” said Cassie. “He calls me the Queen of Questions!”

  Anna laughed.

  “Cassie will tell you all about him. She asks him questions from morning until night,” said Sarah.

  “And Caleb writes everything down in his journal!” said Cassie. “Someday I’m going to write everything down, too,” she added.

  “Heaven help us,” said Sarah. She and Anna began to laugh.

  Then Sarah’s face was serious again.

  “I want you to be very careful, Anna. We passed the Morgans . . .”

  “Oh, their baby, I know . . .” Anna’s voice trailed off.

  Tears came to Sarah’s eyes.

  “I’m careful. It’s getting better. It really is,” said Anna.

  Behind us the door opened and Grandfather came out, Sam behind him, frowning.

  “Well?” asked Sarah.

  Grandfather waved off her question.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

  “He’s a very stubborn man,” said Sam.

  “Is he all right, Sam?” asked Sarah.

  Sam looked at Grandfather. Grandfather glared at Sam.

  “I’m not allowed to talk about my patient, John Witting. It is confidential,” said Sam.

  “Confidential!” protested Sarah. “He’s family, Sam.”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders.

  “If he says it’s private, it’s private.”

  Papa came back then, a small box of groceries in his arms.

  “Let’s go,” said Grandfather. “Time to go.”

  Grandfather climbed up in the wagon. Papa looked at Sarah.

  “It’s private,” said Sarah crossly.

  Sarah hugged Anna and got up in the wagon. Papa kissed Anna.

  “I hope everything goes well with Justin,” Sarah called to Sam.

  “I hope so, too,” said Sam, taking Anna’s hand. “We hope so,” he added.

  The wagon started off.

  “Take your medicine!” Sam called to Grandfather.

  Grandfather didn’t answer.

  “Let me see your medicine, Grandfather,” said Cassie.

  Grandfather grunted.

  “It’s in your pocket,” said Cassie helpfully.

  Grandfather sighed and took two bottles out of his pocket.

  “What does this say?” asked Cassie.

  “I can’t tell you,” said Grandfather. “I don’t have my eyeglasses.”

  Eyeglasses?

  Cassie said what I was thinking.

  “I never saw you with eyeglasses,” she said. “Never once.”

  Grandfather leaned back and closed his eyes.

  We rode home through the quiet, empty town in afternoon light. We passed the train station, where Sarah had gotten off the train, her first step onto our prairie, and we passed the granary. We passed the empty cemetery where the fire had died out. The sun went lower in the sky that spread out above us. The only noise was the sound of the horses’ hooves. We came up the road and passed the slough and turned into our yard.

  I looked at Grandfather.

  What eyeglasses?

  I pushed open the door to Grandfather’s room.

  Grandfather was folding his clothes on the bed, the two or three shirts he had brought, his worn pants.

  “It’s late, Caleb,” he said. “You should be sleeping.”

  “You should be, too,” I said.

  “Good night then, Caleb.”

  Grandfather leaned over to blow out the oil lamp.

  “Wait,” I said. “Before you go to sleep I want you to read my book. I want you to read what I’ve written about you.”

  “Not now, Caleb,” said Grandfather.

  I took a deep breath.

  “I’ll read it to you, Grandfather,” I said.

  I opened my book. I began to read to him.

  “‘I love that Grandfather has come to our farm. His farm. I love having a grandfather who will teach me about a time I never knew. Someone who can tell me that he had a sweet dog, Rags, and that once he fell out of a tree in the west meadow. Someone who will teach me about Papa.

  “‘I know a secret about Grandfather.’”

  I looked up at Grandfather. He stared at me.

  “‘I know that Grandfather doesn’t wear eyeglasses. I know why he doesn’t read my journal, Anna’s journals. I know why he never wrote a letter to Papa when he went away.’”

  I stopped. I felt tears at the corners of my eyes.

  “You don’t know how to read, Grandfather, do you?” I said very softly, almost whispering. “So you didn’t know how to write a letter to Papa.”

  Grandfather didn’t say anything. I moved closer to the bed and showed him my book.

  “You can learn,” I said. “You can.”

  “That’s enough, Caleb,” he said.

  Grandfather moved to the window. He stared out into the dark.

  “I’m too old,” he said more softly.

  I went over and took Grandfather’s hand.

  “Grandfather,” I said, looking up at him. “I am going to teach you.”

  8

  There was school, day after day after day. I rode Bess the two miles there and back. I carried my notebook with me in my pack, writing in it at recess and lunch, sometimes writing in it when I was supposed to be doing other work. There were twelve of us in our one-room schoolhouse, ages six to fifteen. We all helped each other. Sometimes the older ones helped the younger ones. I taught Lily how to read. But sometimes the younger ones helped the older ones. Joseph was good at addition and long division. He was only nine, but he was the best at figures.

  I depended on Cassie for news at home during the day.

  “What happened today?” I whispered.

  “Nothing. It’s too quiet here, Caleb. Only Min plays with me. Stay home from school. Please.”

  “I can’t do that, Cassie.”

  “Papa doesn’t play games with me. He works in the barn all the time.”

  “What about Grandfather?”

  “Grandfather takes walks. Sometimes he talks to Sarah. He stays in his room.”

  “What does he do there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he reads,” said Cassie.

  “I don’t think so, Cassie,” I said.

  It was hard to escape Cassie. She wanted to play. She wanted me to read books to her. She wanted to skate in the slough with me when the snow had been cleared. But every evening I went up to Grandfather’s room and shut the door. The next two weeks, in secret, we read nearly all of Anna’s journals, so Grandfather knew about our lives without him. Grandfather learned quickly, as if he had been ready for this.

  “‘Dear Mr. Jacob Witting,’” read Grandfather haltingly, slowly. “‘I am Sarah Wheaton from Maine . . .’”

  He looked at me.

  “That was her first letter to Jacob?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “The answer to Papa’s advertisement for a wife and mother,” I said. “And then she wrote to us. See, there.”

  I pointed, and Grandfather began to read.

  “‘My favorite colors are the colors of the sea, blue and gray and green, depending on the weather.’”

  Grandfather sat back.

  “She came a long way.”

  “We were excited,” I said. “Sarah wrote that she was coming. And then she added something for Anna and me that made us even more excited.”

  “What?” asked Grandfather. “What did she write?”

  I turned the pages of the journal.

  “There,” I said. I couldn’t help smiling.

  “‘Tell them I sing,’” read Grandfather.

  He couldn’t help smiling either.

  “We were afraid she wouldn’t stay,” I said. “She lov
ed Maine.”

  Grandfather nodded. He closed the book that Anna had written so long ago. I could tell our lesson was over for today. Grandfather walked to the window and looked out over the farm.

  “You always love what you know first,” he said. “Always,” he repeated softly.

  On Saturday there were clouds in the sky. The air felt damp and raw. I knew it would storm again.

  It was stormy in the house, too. Papa came in for meals, but spent most of his time working: fixing fences, shoveling out stalls and putting down new hay, making sure the barn was strong enough for winter winds. Grandfather took long walks and once helped Sarah cook a stew. Sarah loved Papa and she liked Grandfather, but I could tell she was upset with them both for not talking. Cassie talked for everyone. And it was Cassie who caused the trouble.

  We ate an early supper, the wind outside whining around the corners of the house, the candles on the table flickering.

  “When I was born,” said Cassie suddenly, “Mama and Papa named me Cassie. That was my grandmother’s name.”

  Everyone was still.

  “Grandfather knows that, Cassie,” I said softly, warningly. “Grandmother was his wife,” I whispered.

  Papa didn’t look up. He kept eating his stew.

  Grandfather looked at Cassie and surprised us by smiling.

  “Your grandmother would have liked you, Cassie,” he said. “That is one thing I know.”

  Papa stood up, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. Cassie’s fork clattered to her plate.

  Papa’s face was dark, and I don’t ever remember seeing him so angry.

  “You!” he said to Grandfather. “You know nothing. Nothing! You, of all people, cannot speak for my mother.”

  “Jacob,” said Sarah. “Not here. Not now.”

  “Yes, now!” Papa shouted. “Why shouldn’t Cassie and Caleb know what he is really like? That he left us. That he walked away!”

  Cassie burst into tears. Sarah stood, her face as angry as Papa’s.

  “Not in front of the children, Jacob. Don’t do this.”

  Grandfather got up and walked to the door.

  “Sarah’s right, Jacob. Not here.”

  “Don’t you tell me what is right. Not you. Ever!” said Papa angrily.

  Grandfather put on his coat and went out into the wind.

  After a moment, Papa followed, slamming the door behind him.

  There was silence, except for Cassie’s crying. Sarah took Cassie on her lap. I got up quietly. I went to the door and put on my coat. Sarah watched me, over Cassie’s head, her face sad and scared, but she didn’t stop me. I went out the door. I walked across the snowy yard, the wind tearing at my clothes, snow crunching under my feet. There was no moon.

  The barn door was half open. I could hear Papa’s and Grandfather’s voices. I crept inside.

  “I want to know why you’re here,” said Papa loudly. “Why did you come back?”

  I peered around a stall and saw Papa come close to Grandfather.

  “Sometimes . . .” Grandfather began. “Sometimes you want to see how things are. How things turned out.”

  “Well, there are things you never saw! Things you couldn’t know!” said Papa. “I waited for you! Every day I looked down that road . . . waiting to see you.”

  I was afraid to move.

  “Things were different than you think, Jacob,” said Grandfather.

  “Different how?” shouted Papa. “Different than your leaving? Than Mama’s crying?”

  “Yes, different,” said Grandfather.

  “Why didn’t you write me a letter?” asked Papa. “You never even wrote to me.”

  I wanted to cry out “He couldn’t! Grandfather couldn’t!” But I said nothing.

  Papa turned to look at Grandfather.

  “I loved you!” he cried. “And I waited for your letters.”

  And then it happened. Papa pushed Grandfather and Grandfather pushed back. Hard. Papa fell back over the plow and lay still.

  “Jacob?” said Grandfather.

  Papa didn’t speak.

  Grandfather knelt down next to Papa.

  Papa moaned.

  “My leg. It’s my leg . . .”

  “I’ll get help, Jacob. Stay still,” said Grandfather.

  “Sarah! Caleb!” Grandfather shouted. “Help me!”

  I ran through the dark yard, where snow and sleet pounded at me. Wind caught the door as I opened it, bringing in snow and wind. Sarah turned from the sink, her smile slowly fading as she saw my face. When we both ran back to the barn and helped Papa to the house, the worst had happened.

  Papa was hurt.

  And a storm had come.

  9

  Papa lay on the bed, his face so pale. Cassie cried, and Papa held out his hand to her.

  “It’s all right, Cassie. I’m fine,” he said.

  “How did this happen?” asked Sarah. “How?”

  Papa looked at Grandfather and sighed.

  “I fell,” he said. “I fell in the barn.”

  Grandfather leaned over and ran his hands over Papa’s leg. Papa caught his breath in pain.

  “It’s broken,” said Grandfather.

  Papa moaned again, and Sarah put a cool washcloth on his head.

  “I’ll go get Sam,” I said.

  Sarah looked out the window.

  “It’s too fierce outside,” said Sarah. “You can’t go.”

  Sarah looked at Grandfather.

  “And you won’t go, either,” she said. “What should we do?”

  Grandfather pushed up his sleeves.

  “I’ll set it,” he said.

  “You?” said Sarah.

  “I’ve done it before. But I’ll need help,” said Grandfather.

  No one spoke. Sarah took Papa’s hand. He closed his eyes.

  “Do it,” Papa said softly. “Do it.”

  “I’ll need two poles the length of Jacob’s leg,” said Grandfather quickly. “And strips of cloth to tie them.”

  “In the shed, Caleb,” said Papa, his voice sounding weak.

  “Get them, Caleb,” said Sarah. “Hurry. I’ll get the cloth.”

  I ran out into the storm. The wind almost blew me over, and I felt sudden ice under my eyes. I knew I was crying.

  Lottie and Nick sat up and watched me when I came back into the warm kitchen. I carried two poles.

  In the bedroom, Cassie climbed up on the bed. Papa cried out with pain.

  “Cassie,” said Grandfather very softly and carefully. “I need you to do something for me. For your papa. I want you to go hide. I will come and find you later.”

  Cassie stared at Grandfather.

  “Do you promise?” she asked.

  “I promise.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now,” said Grandfather. “One, two, three . . .”

  Cassie ran out of the room.

  “Four, five . . .”

  “Slower,” said Papa softly.

  “Six . . . seven . . .” said Grandfather more slowly.

  “Sarah, I want you to hold Jacob from behind,” said Grandfather. “And hold him no matter what. Even if he tells you to stop.”

  Sarah nodded.

  Grandfather took my arm.

  “I want you to go with Cassie. She’ll need you.”

  “Now?” I asked, echoing Cassie’s question.

  Grandfather smiled at me.

  “Now,” he said.

  I went to the door and looked back once. Papa’s eyes were closed. Sarah got up on the bed behind him. Grandfather looked at me. A sudden burst of wind tossed sleet and snow against the window. I left the room.

  I fed Lottie and Nick. Seal and Min slept together in the basket. Then I put wood in the stove and sat down at the kitchen table. The kitchen was dark and dreary, and I shivered. I saw something move, and Cassie peeked out from under the daybed.

  “I’m waiting for Grandfather,” she whispered.

  “You may have a long wait, Cassie
.”

  Then, before Cassie could answer, there was a terrible cry from the bedroom. Papa. And then another cry. Cassie scrambled up and climbed into my lap. I held her, and she buried her face in my neck. We sat there as the room grew darker, and the wind blew snow against the house, and the dogs came to lean against my legs.

  “Caleb?”

  Sarah woke me late. I was sleeping at the kitchen table, my head on my arms.

  “Papa . . . ?”

  “Papa’s fine. He’s sleeping. John did a good job.”

  Grandfather came into the kitchen.

  “I hope I never have to do that again,” Sarah said.

  Grandfather nodded and poured a cup of coffee.

  “Me, too,” he said. “You were a good help, Sarah.”

  Grandfather sat down, rubbing his eyes.

  Sarah smiled.

  “But you did it,” she said.

  It was quiet in the kitchen, the wind suddenly dying outside.

  “Jacob. I remember once . . . when Jacob was very little,” said Grandfather, “he got his hand caught in a bridle and broke his finger. He never complained.”

  The wind came up again, a sudden burst rattling the windows.

  “Where have you been all this time?” asked Sarah so softly that her words were almost lost in the room.

  Grandfather looked at her.

  “Everywhere but home,” he said, just as softly.

  “I’m glad you’re here now,” said Sarah.

  “I’m glad, too,” I said.

  “It was my fault, though,” said Grandfather. “What happened to Jacob.”

  “It could have been you with a broken leg,” I said. “Papa pushed you, too.”

  Sarah smiled.

  “You two,” Sarah said to Grandfather. “You and Jacob. How alike you are.”

  “Who am I like?” I asked.

  “Who do you want to be like?” asked Sarah.

  I thought about that. I had thought about it for a long time, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Where’s Cassie, Caleb? Is she asleep?” asked Sarah.

  Grandfather smiled. He leaned over and took Cassie’s foot, sticking out from under the daybed.

  “I found you, Cassie,” he whispered. “I found you.”

  10

  I thought things would be better between Papa and Grandfather, but they weren’t. Papa was silent in his room. Grandfather and I mended fences and fed the animals and shoveled out stalls.