Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  She slept, but a fever blazed, hot and fearsome.

  I decided to run to Mr. Bleu’s. I burst in on him eating lunch by the water pump.

  “Ruth...” gurgled from my throat. I choked on my own tears.

  He saddled his horse in no time. He pulled me up behind him, unspeaking. I shamefully wept into his back on the ride home. He lifted me down as gently as a baby, his eyes locked with mine. I knew that he loved Ruth. I did too. He rubbed my arms in gentle reassurance and rushed into the house.

  Ruth had thrashed about and lost the cool cloth I’d left on her forehead.

  “I’ll be back with the doctor.” His tight voice did nothing to quell my fear.

  I wish I didn’t have to write the next words. Or many of the others I’ve had to write this year. Once a word is down in ink—a statement written out, a memory inscribed—I look at the undeniable truth and let it sink into to me, in an effort to believe it.

  Ruth died.

  I sat with her for hours, wondering what took Mr. Bleu so long to bring the doctor. She refused tea or any ministrations. We were helpless. Both of us.

  The afternoon sun filtered through the white curtains and lit her face. She grinned—laughed in a weakening shiver. All the while my resistance grew. I’d make her live. I spoke aloud, “Jesus, heal her.” Repeated the words again and again. His name did not stop the trembles as it did her night terrors.

  “She’s my family, God. Don’t take her.” Fruitless begging. I clenched my teeth and tightened my fist as before. She lay there, salt and pepper curls splayed across the pillow like a halo, grinning.

  Did she not know to fight the sickness? Her hands, though still a-tremble, lay relaxed and open. She was accepting her own death. Stop that! Don’t give up! I wanted to shout.

  “Please, God.” More begging. I reached for her hand, surprised that her fingers curled around mine. I leaned to her ear. “You are going to be okay.”

  She spoke then, repeating back to me the words, “You gonna be okay.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” I bit my lip in an effort not to weep again. Into how many pieces can a heart break?

  She responded with light joy, “Oh, Jesus.”

  Her hand slackened. Her smile sank away with her soul. But I could not let go of her hand. Her presence gone, I refused to believe she’d left me.

  How much longer I kneeled beside her, I do not know. The doctor pulled me away from her body and into Mr. Bleu’s embrace.

  We shared another cup of tea. One of grief. The others had been served on the cusp of frustration and pain. I stared down at the scar on the palm of my hand, where he’d stitched it for me. He gently touched the new jagged lines with his index finger. Evidence of my healing.

  I could not look up at him. At his face where history scarred and smoothed into the present. Strength in difficulty. Fortuis in arduis.

  He carried me to town on his horse and left me at the Reverend Meade’s house. Mrs. Meade wrapped me in her newly finished quilt and placed me in the room where Hammond had convalesced and then coldly cast me off.

  They left me alone, in the quiet upstairs as evening darkened. Ruth’s last living words, steeped in joy, whispered in my heart. Oh, Jesus!

  It has taken me over a month to record this account. Each time I raised my pen, ink dripped ugly blotches on an otherwise clean page. A succession of three smears mar the start of words that clogged my reality. Once more, death and loneliness thwarted life and friendship.

  I can breathe through it now. Let the silence envelope me as comforting arms. See the sunrise as brother to my day. God, my ever-present. My Jesus calms my personal terror over death.

  Lad wags his tail for bacon reminding me that I am not completely alone. Or am I? This cottage of my independence has become more than a shelter.

  I often walk to the church, since I hadn’t attended in several months. I didn’t want to make Aunt and Uncle uncomfortable. Or give the Meades something more to worry over. No, I attended alone and sat in the pew, Ruth’s song playing in my head. I was even brave enough to sing out loud, and all the while, believing God heard me. When I sang, hope rose out of my shuddering fear. Bravery born out of song. Never mind that my voice floats back down to the everyday, to what I’ve always known. I can reach for it again.

  God is with me. That I believe without a doubt.

  Kate Birch continues to come by for visits. But with the harvest coming in, she’d been extra busy with canning and drying food for the winter. I wondered how Aunt fares. And what of Helen and Kirsten? They are strangers to me.

  Ernest came to Ruth’s funeral a few weeks back. That’s the last I’d seen of my family. Mr. Bleu stayed away—busy with his own harvest, I believed. No longer as interested in me as I once had suspected. Probably exhausted—tired of the unceasing drama I’d brought to his life. Made sense. Perhaps he needs the chance to breathe, too. How I miss him.

  Chapter 34

  SEPTEMBER 14, 1880

  I have a choice before me. A good one, I think. It’s Ruth’s fault I treat such a weighty decision so lightly. How have I not thought to do this before? I’ve been single-minded. My only design had been to deliver the deed to the rightful owner, Mr. Bleu, who rejected it out of hand.

  Ruth. Her strong hands always open and serving me, though I neither deserved nor paid for such faithfulness. And how many others have been blessed by her ministrations? Her enthusiasm buoyed me, provided me a wholly unexpected presence while she lived here. And now I don’t care that I’m mistress to Uncle’s remaining fifty acres. Don’t give a whit whether or not I ever benefit from it again. I think of Aunt and the rest of my cousins—and Mr. Bleu’s efforts to keep them from poverty. Uncle’s acceptance of my parent’s help—and no one else’s.

  My parents didn’t tell me about owning the farm because it was never really theirs. The land never held their heart. Nor mine. T’was never any of my business, really. Not at all. Now, thank Heaven, I get to be the messenger of good news for a change. But I am afraid! Part of me still wanted their loving embrace because of who I am. Inclusion into the very heart of their home. I leave even this in God’s hands. What will be, will be, as Mother often used to say.

  First, I planned to ride Becky to town and see the deed rewritten—the way that made sense to me—then make haste to the farm. Can’t help smiling! Strange, how hope is rising, like when I sing. Unexplainable pleasure.

  SEPTEMBER 14, EVENING

  “My burden is light,” Jesus said. Mine also, when His will and His way are followed. Strange to think of the stronghold this land once had on me, as if my parent’s supposed destiny for me had to be the one lived out. As though I were locked into a plan, and following it was my only and perfect course. I can see now, that isn’t true—leastwise, not in the same sense.

  Despite the flaws, their lives had been lived with open hands. For all my doe-eyed desire to be like them. I’d missed the point. Their destiny for me had always been to care for those in need, to give and forgive. Not to keep wringing hot grief out of the thing.

  My prayers haven’t all been answered, but I feel free as a bird. When I knocked on Uncle’s door like a stranger might, I was met with wide eyed shock. Helen and Kirsten stood there waiting, arms folded. Once-glowing faces encased a sadness I wished to heal, but I couldn’t.

  Yes, I sold twenty acres. I’m sorry that hurt you. But here, I hold the deed! For you! I wanted to shout, hoping they’d rush to my side in sisterhood again. But I had to do this the right way.

  “I need to speak with Uncle. Please.”

  “He’s out in the barn. With Ernest,” Helen mumbled, disinterested. Kirsten had already turned away.

  I nodded. “Thanks.” I made my way to the new construction, much better looking than the previous barn, its wood still yet to turn gray with winter weather. I entered a small side door, breathed in musky air and hay, peered into a few empty stalls.

  Uncle sat on a stump turned stool, hands on his knees. Ernest was likely the one shoveli
ng on the other side of the barn. And then I saw that cat. My cat. The darling runaway! Here, in Uncle’s barn. Trading me for them. Or perhaps comforting the heartsick?

  Uncle looked to his left, avoiding my presence, while stroking my soft Rosie.

  “I’ve brought you something.” I feared his rejection.

  “Oh?” His eyes dared a flicker to mine. As though I’d have anything he’d want.

  “Here, take it.” I handed him the envelope like I was giving him the key to a treasure chest. “It’s yours.”

  He opened the packet and slid out the papers. His mouth dropped open, but he didn’t say anything. The cat rubbed against his legs, ignoring me.

  “Don’t know what I’d do with a farm anyway.” Awkward words for certain. But still, he remained silent.

  “Hi, Dorothy.” Ernest approached, holding a shovel. “What brings you here?”

  “The farm deed. Signed it over to Uncle this morning.” I stood waiting.

  Ernest embraced me, but Uncle got up and limped out, Rosie darted away. No sounds. No words. No thanks. Ernest followed with a spring in his step and left me in the hazy heat of the barn. Alone. Still waiting.

  A birthright had been restored, I hoped. Assuming Uncle can be trusted to never again risk gambling away his family’s security.

  JAMES WATCHED HAMMOND, feeling as much a coward as he’d always inwardly accused Hammond of being. “Good crop this year?”

  “Good enough to get back on my feet.” Hammond’s sun-weathered face had changed into something more stone-like. Deep creases had formed around his mouth.

  Helen plunked a plate of steaming biscuits between them, a welcome repose since Ruth’s death. How he missed her spirit, her sustenance. Even the missing food from his pantry! Found himself buying too much at Harley General.

  He’d tried to take her place and deliver a goodly amount to the family he knew suffered most as a result of her passing. They wouldn’t take a crumb from him, but the hungry-eyed old man that lived in the shanty next door had snatched it up right quick.

  He buttered a hot biscuit and gently placed his knife across the plate. “You might get Ernest. There’s something we need to discuss.”

  Hammond barely nodded, but scooted his chair back and hollered through the screen door.

  Ernest came without delay, grinned when he saw him. Ah, a hint of the old home he once knew. Would it ever be fully restored? Did good homes always have to be disbanded by greed and self-will? Or was this not truly his place? He envisioned the mansion that framed his mother’s social life, that left him in back rooms and darkened stairways, forever a stranger to the life he’d been born.

  Ernest snatched a biscuit, ate it whole and grabbed another. The one person in this family that maintained his character throughout their difficulties. The boy showed promise.

  “I’m needing to come clean with you both.”

  Brows arched and his stomach clenched. But he’d hold on for dear life. “It’s all my fault. I should never have interfered in your business, Hammond. You didn’t take help five years ago, but I gave it anyway.”

  Hammond looked confused.

  “Shouldn’t have, but I contacted your brother-in-law, Mr. Trafton. Told him what was happening to you.”

  Hammond’s face reddened. Ernest’s chewing slowed. He stared at his father.

  “I begged him to help you—to help keep you and your whole family from becoming destitute.” He’d just spit it out. “I gave them the money they needed to buy this place and, thereby, keep it in the family. Knew you wouldn’t take help any other way. So, I went around you, Hammond. I’m sorry. I should never have interfered.”

  “David,” came gargling from his throat, like an unused voice.

  “Dorothy inherited the place. Not sure what would have happened if I didn’t finance the purchase—none of you would own it now. You’d all be gone.” And he’d have missed years of good memories. He hoped to make many more.

  Ernest crumbled the edge of another biscuit. “Papa, I don’t understand.”

  Hammond looked to the ceiling, pain etched in those new lines. “I gambled...couldn’t stop...” the rest of his words choked in sorrow. “Trafton paid...and then...”

  Humiliation crashed over the big man like the waves of the sea as he tried to confess his weakness to the son who ought to look up to his father. His forehead glistened with sweat.

  James rose and put a hand on his shoulder. “Those days are over, Hammond. I want to start afresh. I promise that I’ll never overstep your desires again, if it’s God’s will. Please understand. I couldn’t see you drown in debt. Not after all you’ve been to me. Not after you saved my hide more times than I can count.” He’d listened to his screams as the burns tore into his soul. And cared. Hammond stayed by his side, through every whimper and cry.

  How did an act of kindness become a weight of debt in his own heart? How had he become willful enough to put a finger in the pie of another man’s trouble? If Hammond had wanted his help—such intervention would have been a great gift. But Hammond hadn’t been ready to reveal the depth of his failures. Was any man? Perhaps he had overstepped God’s work in Hammond’s life, but then God was always at work. They both should have trusted Him more.

  He feared anew losing a family. Again.

  Hammond dropped his head in utter defeat.

  Ernest glanced at the curious watchers clogging the kitchen doorway.

  Little Ruby ran to him. “David!” She clung to his leg and wouldn’t let go. “Dorofy gived us the farm back.”

  JAMES RODE HIS HORSE for hours on end. The experience had left him exhausted. His mind swirled, his pounding heart jerked at the wounds still healing. Life might never be the same between them. Awkwardly, they sat in the parlor, an attempt at visiting after the terrible truth was exposed. They were mighty fidgety. Barely civil. Glances avoided all ‘round.

  He thought that when he released the truth as God had propelled him to do, life would be right again. Simple as that. Dorothy might gain entry back within the family, where she belonged. Where she would feel most welcome.

  This was most certainly not the case. Positive sentiments did not lie in her direction.

  “Good thing she came to her senses.” Hammond pursed his lips together. “Before she sold the rest of my farm.”

  Those words again. My farm. Such ingratitude.

  “She’s caused enough damage around here.”

  Damage? What had she done but survive a difficulty? Isn’t that what they’d all done? Responded to pain? Survived? Hoped?

  “I’m sure she meant no harm. Just trying to make it on her own, without bothering any of you. She never wanted to be a burden.”

  Hammond grunted. “MacDonald’s been after my plot forever. Building himself an empire, as greedy as Napoleon. Ready to attack at any sign of weakness.”

  James glanced at Ernest who looked away. The MacDonald’s had supplied a great deal of effort towards rebuilding Hammond’s house. Ernest had accepted that neighborly help with open, humble hands, desperate to return to the life they knew. Hammond must not realize this or he’d cease his grumbling. If only Ernest might speak up like a man should. His words could help set things right.

  James wasn’t going to start another fight. The foundation of a bridge had been built, but it still needed more work. To be made secure, to stand.

  He caught Jenny in the kitchen. “You might want to go see Dorothy. Been through a tough spell, I think.”

  She balked, but didn’t seem opposed to the idea. “Maybe sometime. When Hammond can forgive her.”

  “What about you? Dorothy’s had plenty to forgive too.”

  Jenny’s face scrunched with pain. He left her.

  He hadn’t liked Dorothy selling the twenty acres, but now he rather agreed with her action. He admired her will to survive. And her ingenuity. Understood the odd position she’d found herself in. No one else had been there for her. Except for Ruth.

  Chapter 35

&n
bsp; SEPTEMBER 16, 1880

  The MacDonald’s have had me over for dinner. Don’t know why I was surprised by the invitation. Such dear folk. They’ve always been more than generous towards me on all counts.

  When I stepped into Cedar Gate’s foyer, I momentarily wondered why I ever felt compelled to leave! Until this moment, I hadn’t realized what a haven this place had been for me. But then, I remembered. Why I had to be on my own. In part to connect with Ruth. Her freed life—right out of slavery—freed mine up too. To rest where I am. To think of others ahead of myself for a change.

  “Oh, you’ve grown up, my child!” Mrs. MacDonald took in my tan with laughter. “Keeping house quite right, I imagine.”

  “And learning how to grow potatoes, believe it or not.” I laughed with her.

  “We miss you, dear. All of us do.” Her smile wavered slightly. “You were becoming part of our family, you know?”

  Mr. MacDonald sent me a quiet wink.

  The three of us dined together. Chess, they said, had left the harvest to the workers and settled in for his final year of college life. Philip was still sightseeing in New York.

  I missed them. Chess’s wit, Philip’s pointed rejoinders. I imagined Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald miss them too. This large home, full yet empty. And then I consider Mr. Bleu’s merry eyes... the thought had me staring down into my pile of potatoes far too long. I recovered, thankfully, with a spontaneous offer. “Will you please come to my home for dinner next? I am quite alone and would value your company.”

  Mr. MacDonald’s smile rarely blooms, but instead slowly pushes upward when he’s amused. Now it actually blossomed along with his wife’s. Like roses together in a garden. “We’d love to,” she said.

  I wondered then, even with the great gala they put on every year and the great wealth at their disposal, how many true friends they have. How often are they merely trophies invited to functions by those seeking to scurry up the slippery social ladder?