“What’s your horse’s name?” I asked Grandfather.
“Jack,” said Grandfather.
“Papa had a horse named Jack, too,” I told him.
Grandfather didn’t answer.
“Sarah’s right. You and Papa are alike,” I said.
I knew Grandfather wouldn’t answer. And he didn’t.
“And Jacob didn’t go to Maine when the drought was here?” Grandfather asked me. We were in his room, the door closed.
“He stayed here. Alone,” I said. “Until the rains finally came. And then he came to Maine, surprising us all. But he was the one who was surprised, because Sarah and Papa had Cassie after that. And she was the biggest surprise of all.”
I pointed to what Anna had written.
“‘When we came home by train, we passed trees and hills and lakes filled with water,’” read Grandfather.
Grandfather could read better now, his voice strong.
“‘They are beautiful, the trees and hills and lakes filled with water. But the prairie is home, the sky so big it takes your breath away, the land like a giant quilt tossed out.’”
Grandfather closed the book. It was very quiet in the room.
A knock at the door made us both jump.
“Hello? Are you in there, Caleb?” asked Sarah.
“Yes. I’ll be down soon,” I called to her.
“What are you doing? Is John there?”
“Yes, Sarah,” said Grandfather. “We’re almost done.”
“It’s private,” I said.
There was silence behind the door. Soon we heard Sarah’s footsteps going down the hall and down the stairs.
I handed Grandfather a blank book.
“What is this?” he asked.
“This is yours,” I said. “Yours to write in. You can do it now.”
Grandfather opened it. I had written his name—JOHN WITTING—there. He turned the pages and saw them all empty and white. Grandfather put a hand on his chest.
“Grandfather?”
I was scared. I thought he was sick.
Grandfather waved me away.
“It isn’t pain,” he said to me.
He closed his empty book and looked at me.
“It’s love,” he said.
When the weather cleared, Sam came out to the farm. He taught Papa how to use crutches so he could get around. Then he gave Grandfather a lecture I wasn’t meant to hear. I was in the hallway, out of sight. Sam and Grandfather sat at the kitchen table.
“You can’t do all the work, John,” said Sam. “Your heart can’t take it.”
“Nonsense,” said Grandfather.
“Oh, I see,” said Sam. “You feel guilty for leaving Jacob when he was little. So you’ll make up for it by working hard and dying. That will make things right again?”
“More nonsense,” said Grandfather. “Want some more coffee? I made it.”
Sam shook his head.
“Stubborn,” he said. “Old fool.”
Papa came into the kitchen on his crutches, Sarah and Cassie with him.
“Easy, Jacob,” said Sarah.
She helped Papa to a chair.
“I can do this,” said Papa. “It is good to be out of bed.”
“No work, Jacob,” said Sam. “I mean that.”
“Grandfather and Caleb are doing the work,” said Cassie, sitting on Grandfather’s lap.
Sam frowned.
“So I hear,” he said. “Is that true, Sarah?”
“There’s been a lot of repair work from the storms,” said Sarah. “I don’t know what Caleb and I would do without John.”
Sam frowned at Grandfather. Grandfather ignored him.
“Any letters from Justin?” Sarah asked Sam.
“No letters for a while. Anna waits for the mail every day.”
“Are you worried?” asked Sarah.
Sam got up and put on his coat.
“Yes, a little. Letters take such a long time.”
“And the influenza?” asked Papa.
“Better, Jacob. Fewer cases. I think it has run its course,” said Sam.
“We think about Justin every day,” said Sarah.
“Thoughts are good,” said Sam with a smile. “Having him here would be better.”
Sam went to the door and turned.
“No work, Jacob. And”—he looked at Grandfather—“you know what I think.”
“What does that mean?” asked Sarah.
“It’s—” Sam began.
“Private,” said Sarah and Sam at the same time.
It was evening. Sarah was in the bedroom with Papa. He was tired from learning to use his crutches. Grandfather was tired, too. We had replaced a barn beam. It had taken a long time.
I worry about Grandfather. Sam says his heart cannot take much work. I try to keep him from shoveling hay, from cleaning out the stalls. I try to keep him safe. But winter is hard here. Winter makes you tired. Even walking through the snowdrifts makes you tired.
In the kitchen, Cassie sat on Grandfather’s lap.
“What now?” asked Grandfather.
He sounded gruff, but Cassie knew better. Cassie wasn’t afraid of Grandfather.
“Would you sing me a song?” asked Cassie.
“I don’t know any songs,” said Grandfather.
“Yes, you do,” said Cassie. “I heard you humming a song when you were in your bedroom. When the door was closed. I was outside, listening.”
“Were you?” said Grandfather with a small smile. “What song?”
Cassie hummed a little of a song.
“Did I hum that?” said Grandfather. “That was a long time ago. Too long ago for me to remember the words.”
Cassie didn’t say anything. She stared at Grandfather for a long time. Finally, he gave in.
“Oh, all right,” he said.
“Don’t you laugh,” Grandfather warned me. “Don’t even smile.”
“Okay.”
And then, in the dark room, Cassie on his lap, Grandfather began to sing.
“Sleep, my love, and peace attend thee,
All through the night;
Guardian angels God will lend thee,
All through the night.
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping.
Hill and vale in slumber steeping,
I my loving vigil keeping,
All through the night.”
I looked up and saw Sarah standing in the doorway, Papa behind her on his crutches. Sarah smiled at Cassie, her head on Grandfather’s shoulder. But Papa didn’t smile. He looked odd. He looked sad. He looked like someone remembering something that he hadn’t thought of for a long time.
“Angels watching ever round thee,
All through the night;
In my slumbers close surround thee,
All through the night.
They should of all fears disarm thee,
No forebodings should alarm thee,
They will let no peril harm thee,
All through the night.”
When I looked up again, Papa had gone. Sarah’s eyes were wet from tears.
“Again,” whispered Cassie. “Sing it again.”
I stood outside Sarah and Papa’s bedroom. I raised my hand to knock, then stopped. I could hear voices inside the room. Sarah and Papa’s voices.
“John has done so much, Jacob,” said Sarah. “He—”
“Sarah, I know what you’re trying to do. I told you once, and I’ll say it again: I will not forgive him!”
There was a silence, then Sarah’s voice, sounding soft and hard at the same time.
“Your unforgiving nature is something I do not love about you, Jacob,” she said softly.
Papa didn’t answer her. And suddenly the door opened. Sarah looked at me for a moment, then she brushed by me without saying a word.
Papa just stood there inside. I had never ever heard Sarah say she didn’t love anything about Papa.
Sarah has always loved Papa. What will ha
ppen to us if Sarah doesn’t love Papa anymore? Sarah is sad, I know. I see her face when she looks at Papa. Sarah’s sad.
But Papa’s just angry.
“Papa?”
Papa turned from the window and sat on the bed.
“What is it, Caleb?”
“My birthday is coming,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” said Papa.
“And I don’t want books or tools or even a horse of my own for my birthday.”
Papa looked up, surprised.
“You’ve always wanted a horse of your own, Caleb.”
“Not this year,“ I said. “What I want this year is something different.”
“Different?” repeated Papa.
I nodded.
“This year I want most of all for you to forgive Grandfather. I want you to forgive Grandfather so I can grow up and be just like you,” I said.
Papa stared at me. He said nothing. He lay back on the bed, and, after a moment, I went away. I closed the door behind me.
11
Another storm came. I retied the rope to the barn. The horses had been restless, a sign there would be bad weather, and the dogs paced.
“Don’t fret, Lottie,” said Grandfather. “We’ll keep the fire going and feed you well. Your life is good.”
“Their lives are good, aren’t they?” I said. “They have no worries.”
Grandfather smiled.
“What worries do you have, Caleb?”
I shook my head, not wanting to talk about it. I had seen Grandfather’s bag packed. I had seen Papa pass Grandfather in the hallway, neither of them speaking. I had heard Sarah’s words to Papa, the words telling him what she did not love about him.
“Are you worried about your papa?” Grandfather asked.
I felt tears in my eyes. Grandfather put his arms around me. I looked over to the house, and I could see Papa watching us through the window.
“Your papa will be fine soon, Caleb. He gets stronger every day. Pretty soon he’ll only use a cane. He’ll be happy when he’s working again.”
“I’m not worried about his leg, Grandfather.”
My throat felt tight.
“Ah,” said Grandfather. “Look, Caleb. Your papa has reason to be angry with me. I did a very bad thing years ago. I did something that affected his life. Every single day of it.”
“But you can write him a letter now,” I said.
Grandfather sighed.
“I can, Caleb. But don’t go thinking it will make everything better with your papa.”
Grandfather went to feed the horses. I looked to the house, and Papa was still there, his face in the window, watching Grandfather and me.
Above us the sky darkened.
A noise woke me in the middle of the night. Was it the wind? Or was it the kitchen door closing? Snow blew against my windows, and I went down the stairs and into the kitchen. An oil lamp burned on the table. Lottie stood by the door, wagging her tail.
“Lottie? What’s the matter? Where’s Nick?”
Lottie whined and jumped up on the door. I looked out the window, but I couldn’t see anything in the storm.
“Sarah?” Papa called softly from the bedroom.
“No, Papa. It’s me. Caleb.”
I heard Papa get out of bed. He came into the kitchen slowly.
“Where is she?” he asked. “She was going to call Nick. He didn’t come in. Sarah was worried.”
Papa came closer to me.
“Caleb? Where is she?”
My heart seemed cold. Cold like the wind outside.
“Her coat is gone. She wouldn’t go out in this, Papa. She always told me never—”
Papa called up the stairs.
“Sarah? Are you there?”
There was only silence. Lottie began to howl.
“Sarah!” His voice sounded frightened.
Grandfather came down the stairs, his hair sleep-mussed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Sarah,” said Papa. “She’s out in this.”
Papa went over on crutches to get his coat.
“No,” said Grandfather. “You’re not strong enough yet. Not fast enough. I’ll go.”
Grandfather put on his coat and boots.
“She went after Nick,” I said.
“Her coat is red,” said Papa. “Look for a red coat.”
“Don’t worry, Jacob,” said Grandfather. “The rope is up. I’ll take Lottie with me.”
Grandfather took the lamp from the table.
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
“Stay with your papa,” he said. “Lottie will help.”
The door opened, wind and snow blowing in. Then the door closed again and it was quiet.
“I should go,” I said to Papa. “Grandfather’s sick. He’s not supposed to go out in this.”
“What do you mean?” asked Papa.
“I heard Grandfather talking to Sam. Sam told him he’d die if he worked too hard. I want to go, too.”
I stopped talking and began to cry. Papa put his arms around me and held me. We stood that way for a long time as the wind howled. Then the door opened suddenly, Nick and Lottie bounding in.
“Caleb,” said Grandfather quickly. “I need you. Now! We have to dig Sarah out of the snow.”
“Is she all right?” asked Papa.
“I don’t know,” said Grandfather softly. “Caleb?”
Together we went out into the storm.
“The rope broke,” shouted Grandfather. “I found her by the tree. Nick was with her.”
We struggled through the snow and wind. I could barely see Grandfather in front of me. And then I saw a little bit of red in the snow. Sarah was buried there, her face almost the color of snow.
“Sarah!” I shouted.
“She can’t hear you, Caleb!” shouted Grandfather. “Here, help me dig her out.”
We used shovels and our hands until we could half carry, half lift Sarah out. She was so limp. I was so afraid.
When we opened the door, Papa’s face looked as pale as Sarah’s.
“Sarah!” he cried out.
“Talk to her, Jacob. Try to wake her. Don’t let her sleep,” said Grandfather.
We lay Sarah on the daybed. Grandfather covered her with blankets and took off her boots.
“Get some tea, Caleb. Or coffee. Anything hot,” he said.
“Sarah,” said Papa, his voice frightened.
He touched her face.
“Sarah!” he said louder, frantically. “Don’t sleep. Don’t sleep!”
I handed Papa a cup of tea. Papa raised Sarah’s head and spoke softly to her.
“Sarah, drink this now. We want you to wake up. Now, Sarah. Please!”
Suddenly, Sarah’s eyes opened.
“Nick,” she said, her voice faint.
Papa smiled. Tears came down his face.
“Nick’s fine, Sarah,” said Papa. “Here, Nick.”
Nick went over to Sarah and nosed her hand. Sarah’s eyes closed again.
“It was cold. So cold,” Sarah said, confused. “And I was so tired.”
Grandfather rubbed Sarah’s feet.
“It’s all right, Sarah,” said Grandfather.
“And the rope broke,” said Sarah.
Papa took Sarah in his arms.
“It’s all right, Sarah.”
Papa looked at Grandfather and at me.
“You’re fine. Everything is all right now,” he said.
Grandfather took off his coat and boots. He went up the stairs to bed, walking slowly. After a while I left, too. Left Papa rocking Sarah while Lottie slept, and Nick sat watching Sarah while the wind howled outside.
12
I didn’t remember the wind dying in the night. I didn’t remember falling asleep. When I woke it was light, the sun high, shining on the iced trees. The fence around the paddock looked slick and cold. From my window I could see the horses’ cloud breaths as they ate hay.
Cassie’s room
was empty, her bed rumpled. Grandfather’s room was neat, his bed made. Next to the door stood his bag, all packed. The journal I had given him sat on top.
I ran down the stairs, stopping suddenly in the kitchen. Grandfather and Sarah sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. I could hear Cassie chattering to Papa in his bedroom.
Sarah smiled at me.
“Sleep well, Caleb?”
I shook my head.
“What happened last night was my fault,” I said. “I put up the rope, Sarah. I must have done it wrong.”
“Fault?” said Sarah. “Oh, Caleb, I want you to listen to me. There comes a time when fault doesn’t matter. Things happen. And we can’t blame ourselves—or someone else—forever.”
I heard a noise behind me, and saw Papa standing there, Cassie beside him. I knew he had heard Sarah’s words.
“Look,” said Cassie. “Papa’s using a cane now.”
Papa sat down at the table. Grandfather poured him coffee.
“You must have been up all night,” he said to Papa.
Papa looked at Sarah.
“I didn’t want her to go back to sleep,” he said.
Grandfather smiled.
“No, you didn’t.”
Grandfather stretched.
“I have some things to finish before . . .” He stopped.
He looked at us for a moment, then he walked up the stairs.
“Before what?” asked Cassie.
“Before he leaves,” I said quickly. “His bag is packed upstairs. He told me that soon you could go back to work, Papa. That you’d be happier then.”
Papa looked toward the stairs.
“I don’t want Grandfather to go away,” said Cassie. “I don’t.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Cassie,” said Sarah softly. “Please make your bed.”
“Do I have to?” said Cassie.
Sarah smiled.
“All right,” said Cassie.
She ran off, her shoes clattering on the wooden stairs.
Sarah looked at me, and I knew what her look meant. I should leave them alone, too. I took a biscuit and started up the stairs.
“Things happen, Jacob,” I heard Sarah say. “The rope broke. I could have died.”
“Don’t, Sarah,” said Papa.
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