by Janette Oke
The man was not served from the stew pot. Instead, a slice of some kind of cake was placed before him along with a steaming cup of coffee. A small pitcher with rich farm cream followed. The woman poured herself coffee as well but didn’t cut another piece of the cake.
Deeming the stew sufficiently heated, she filled a small bowl, placed a slice of buttered bread on a plate beside it, and set it all in front of Lemuel. It was all he could do to refrain from digging in, but he forced himself to wait as he’d been taught by the society. Manners—they’d been told over and over—manners were important to some.
She sat and reached for her cup. Already the man had creamed his coffee and lifted it for his first swallow. The woman nodded toward Lemuel’s bowl, and he took that as permission to begin. The first bite assured him that the aroma hadn’t lied. It was hard to curb himself when his hunger urged him to feed as quickly as his hand could move from bowl to mouth. He was famished and the food was so satisfying, the bread so fresh. She rose to bring him a second piece when the first one disappeared. Silently he devoured that one as well.
By the time the man had finished his second cup of coffee, Lemuel’s bowl was empty, both slices of bread consumed, and his mouth wiped clean on the sleeve of his shirt. He felt overfull, an unfamiliar feeling.
The man rose from his chair, tucked it back against the table, and reached for his hat. Lemuel took it as his signal to follow. It was time for him to learn what his chores would be. The society had informed him that was the agreement. The bed—the food—came at a price. He was neither a boarder nor a vacationer. He was now a worker, a farmhand until he was eighteen. Am I part of the family too? Somehow, that had never been fully clarified. With firm resolution Lemuel followed the man from the room. He would earn his keep.
CHAPTER 3
Grace
Lillian lay in her bed, struggling with tumultuous thoughts. The revelation that Gracie might possibly be alive had been paralyzing, almost too much to comprehend. Is she truly out there somewhere? Still living in Alberta—or has she moved away? She’d be grown by now, a woman already.
Her mind tumbled with the endless questions. Was Grace healthy? Was she happy? Was she married? Perhaps even a mother herself? Did she have any idea that she had a sister? And worst of all, did Gracie feel she’d been knowingly abandoned?
All around Lillian were evidences of Mother’s care. She felt it in the weight of the thick quilt that warmed her, in the soft light diffusing through the thin lace shade Mother had tatted for the oil lamp, and in the musty smell of potpourri petals from her garden roses. “I miss you,” she whispered. “You’d know what to do.” Slowly she reviewed the most recent conversation with Father.
“But how can you stay alone, dear? Even your clothes have been shipped on ahead of you. Let the solicitors sort it out. That’s what they’re for.”
She had answered him quietly and slowly. “I do still have what I packed in my suitcase for our weeks of travel. Those clothes are sufficient for a while. I don’t care at all about my wardrobe just now.”
“Well then, there’s the house—in just a few days it’ll be entirely closed up. All the arrangements have been made. You’d be alone. I’ve dismissed Miss Clare. She’s moving back to the city to live with her sister. So there’ll be no one here to look after you.”
“I understand. I do, but . . .”
Even as she heard Father’s arguments replayed in her mind, Lillian could think of only one response. “But Gracie, Father. If Grace is alive . . .”
She’d then suggested, “I could follow you in a week—a month. I don’t know how long this might take, but I could come once it’s settled.”
At last he had raised his hands as if surrendering. “Then I should stay with you. You’ll have no idea how to manage without me.”
This time Lillian spoke more firmly. “No, you can’t, Father. They’re expecting you. Think of all your plans—the commitments you’ve made. And even if you could get out of the lectures, your family has planned events so you can see everyone again—and your ailing mother. We can’t ask them to postpone it all.”
His face became pinched. “Yes, it’s likely to be the last time I see Mam. But they’re expecting us,” he countered.
“But if Grace is alive . . .”
“Fine then.” He was defeated. Lillian noticed a surprising droop to his shoulders. She felt shameful, aware that her determined stance was costing much of him. “That’s fine. Let’s try to find a way. Can you manage for a week or so with just what you’ve packed for traveling?” Father had regained his practical tone. “I’ll leave you with access to the funds you need for expenses. I don’t want you to hesitate to take what you need from my accounts. God has provided well for my family.” He looked at her directly. “I’ll put it this way. You know how your dear mother would advise you. Be neither more frugal nor more wasteful than your mother would allow. Her example is your guide.”
“I will, Father. I’ll only spend your money as Mother would.”
“I’m not sure what to do about your housing. There’s no one to cook for you, no supplies in the cupboard, and no one to manage the home. I’ve sold the motorcar, so that’s not any help to you. Even the chickens will be crated up and taken away soon. Otto will only drop by weekly to tend to the yard and check on the house.” He made a notation on a sheet of paper in front of him. As he so frequently did, Father attacked the problem by making a careful list.
“It may be longer than a week.” Lillian’s voice had pleaded for him to understand fully what she was suggesting. He’d looked back grimly. Lillian hated to see him in such a state.
Rolling onto her side now to face the floral-papered wall of her bedroom, alone and brooding, Lillian pushed the thought of Father’s list from her mind. Her confidence had faded. Now she wondered whether this was all a terrible mistake, wondered if Grace could ever be found—or had truly already passed away.
The solicitor, Mr. Dorn, had said his firm hadn’t been able to locate Grace, and they’d been searching for some time, perhaps years. Where should she start? Lillian again began to feel overwhelmed and discouraged. Oh, God, why now? How many years have we lost? What if I can’t find her? What if she died from some other cause? It would be like losing her all over again. I’m not sure I could take that kind of pain. But still, I must try. There’s really no question that I must try.
In her mind she could see Father’s face as he looked up from his writing. “I know that it may take time to find this Grace Bennett—to find your sister.” Father had laid down his pen, his tone didactic. “Lillian, we must think practically. How long do you think you can spend looking? Mr. Dorn said that they’ve exhausted their information in searching for this girl. Let’s not be unwise, my dear. Once you’ve done what you feel you need to do—what your conscience demands—you must be prepared to have Mr. Wattley book passage for you so that you may follow me soon.”
“I don’t know how to make you understand.” She’d summoned more strength than she typically felt in his presence. “I can’t leave her behind. I can’t abandon her—not again. While I know she may be alive, I can’t . . .” Lillian couldn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she’d tugged at the string of Mother’s pearls around her neck, rolling one unconsciously between her fingertips.
Father had been silent for a moment. “I can’t claim to understand what you’re going through.” He seemed to measure each word separately. “But I do know the grief of losing someone close to you.”
Mother. Of course he understood at least that much of Lillian’s piercing pain. He’d lost her too. Lillian’s head lowered and her eyes squeezed tight. She hoped her arguments hadn’t seemed unkind.
Father continued, “However, you mustn’t allow yourself to be controlled by your loss, dear. Remember what you still have and move forward. Don’t allow the griefs of your past to swallow you.”
She had contemplated his words before responding earnestly, “This may be my way of moving forward,
Father. I just can’t leave her now. If she’s found . . .” But what would happen if Grace were found?
“Of course we’d make her welcome,” Father promised. “But we have no idea what to expect after that.” He sighed with resignation. “You may stay under the supervision of Mr. Wattley. As our family solicitor he’ll see that you have the resources you need and will escort you to Mr. Dorn’s office in Calgary to arrange for whatever can be done concerning these unexpected legalities. I’ll have him recommend a reliable boardinghouse for you there as well.” Leaning back in his chair, he faced Lillian fully. “I would feel so much better if I could stay here with you, caring for all these arrangements myself, but . . .” He shook his head and resumed. “Even with Mr. Wattley’s help, with Mr. Dorn’s help, this may be a fool’s errand, Lillian.”
The words had stung. Even now as Lillian lay in her bed analyzing the conversation, his phrasing still hurt.
Fool’s errand, Father? Lillian pulled the quilt Mother had made more tightly around her ears. That’s not what he meant, she tried to convince herself. Still the tears threatened again. Good gracious, I’ve become such a storm cloud of emotion lately. But who could imagine so much happening all at once?
“Mother would have understood,” she whispered aloud. “I have to try.”
Lemuel learned about the farm in the days that followed his arrival. The work was often difficult for someone of his small stature, but what he lacked in brawn he tried hard to make up for in grit. If the man saw him struggling with the weight of the full pails or the armloads of wood, he didn’t comment. Lemuel soon learned the routine—the rhythm of the farm. He could go about the chores without being told each task that was his.
Gradually, over the months, his slight body began to fill out, his height increased, and his arms showed signs of building muscle. The man made no mention of it, but the woman often smiled as she watched Lemuel hungrily consume all of the healthy food that was placed before him. Even as she approved she shook her head at his constant need for clothing in a bigger size.
It was a quiet life they lived together. Neither the man nor the woman was a talker. Words were sparingly used—for needed information, for new orders. Rarely were they wasted on mere chitchat. Lemuel felt comfortable with the silence, though he was frequently terribly lonely for another child to converse with. Gradually, though unknowingly, his own speech began switching from the accent of his homeland and became more in line with the pronunciation of the new country—not because of practice, but more because he was an intent listener and wanted to please. In truth, he spoke to Rufus the dog and Bossie the milk cow more often than to either the man or woman.
The day that always presented the most communication was Sunday. On Sunday the man lifted the big black book from the shelf and read aloud to the other two at the table. Sunday, no work was done outdoors except for the chores involved in feeding and caring for the animals. At first Lemuel was fidgety. What could fill the extra, silent time? He found himself moving between his bed and the shared spaces of the home, sometimes wandering outdoors for a romp with Rufus. But the day still dragged on. He hadn’t been there long when, unexpectedly, the woman invited him to the kitchen table one Sunday.
“Lem,” she began, “do you know how to read?”
He nodded, then changed to a shake of his head. In truth he couldn’t really read. All he knew were the letters needed to write Lemuel Stein.
“Do you know how to write your name?” she continued. He was proud to say he could. She placed a piece of blank white paper before him, handed him a pencil, and nodded toward it. Lemuel took the pencil in a rather clumsy hand and began to print his name. L-E-M. He was about to make the u when he stopped and looked at her hesitantly.
“Have you forgotten?”
He shook his head.
“Then, continue,” she urged.
Still he hesitated. But he must answer. He finally dared to say, “It’s not the same anymore.”
“Why?” was her puzzled response. “Isn’t your name Lem Brown? You’ve begun so well.”
“Because—because the man with the papers at the station said I shouldn’t use my real name. I should just say Lem.”
“Oh.” After a moment she spoke again. “What was your name?”
He knew that his secret, once spoken aloud, could never be taken back. Will it make a difference to her? Will it change things? He squirmed on his seat. Would even his first name be considered a Jew name too?
“It was . . . Lemuel,” he whispered and held his breath.
“Well, that’s lovely. I like it very much. What about your last name? Can you write Brown?”
He shook his head, wondering if he dared to tell her. At last Lemuel stammered and finally managed, “I—I don’t—know how to write Brown. I used to be—Stein.”
Her eyes reflected her confusion. “I don’t understand. Why was it changed?”
He lowered his head slightly, looking up at her through the ragged fringe of hair that almost hid his eyes. It was hard to find his voice. “Because—because it’s a Jew name.”
It was the only time he truly saw her eyes flash. First surprise—then suppressed anger. It all faded from her face quickly, and a gentle smile replaced it. “My Lord—Jesus—was a Jew,” she said softly, and there was only love in her voice.
He swallowed again. Jesus? Jesus was the man they read about in the big black book. He was a good man. Always helping people. Jesus was a Jew?
The woman roused then and turned back to the sheet of paper—blank but for the three shaky letters. “I see no reason for you to change your name, but if you wish you may share our last name. Andrews. Lem Andrews—does that sound all right to you? I’ll show you how to write it.”
He nodded mutely. Lem Andrews sounds just fine.
Father accepted Mr. Wattley’s boardinghouse suggestion in Calgary for Lillian. Through telephone conversations he concluded that Miss Simpson, who leased out three bedrooms in her ample home, seemed congenial enough. She would provide all meals and perhaps more supervision and advice than Lillian would’ve preferred. Father seemed pleased by the businesswoman’s no-nonsense demeanor. Somehow, though, all efforts to settle the arrangements felt rather unreal, as if they were only pretending that Lillian would soon be on her own—alone. There were many friends of the family in Brookfield, of course. But Lillian would be far away from them in Calgary. For the present Lillian would turn her attention to legal arrangements needing her care in the city. The home in Brookfield was ready to be locked up and deserted. Lillian would be isolated and unsupervised—except for the needed attorneys. The very thought of all that lay before her was frightening. If only Father . . . But she refused to allow herself to complete the thought. He’d made commitments. He’d see his family again at last.
With all the worries tumbling around in her mind, Lillian’s conviction began to fail as Father’s departure drew closer. And by the time they were waiting together for him to board his afternoon train at the Brookfield station, she was near to changing her mind. Had it not been for the presence of Mr. Wattley, she may well have succumbed to her fears and changed her plans again.
A long whistle pierced the air. Father drew her close, holding on for an especially long embrace. Then, with a hand on her shoulder, he whispered, “I love you, dear. I wish I didn’t have to go. I wish I could be the one helping you on this mission of yours. I wish . . .”
“It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”
He pleaded with his eyes. “My dear, just follow me soon. Wales won’t be the same without you. And I don’t want you to miss out on any of it. To see my relatives—to be able to introduce them to my daughter, of whom I couldn’t be prouder. I’ve waited so long, and now without you . . .”
“I’ll come as soon as I can. I’ll do my best,” she promised, feeling even more torn inside.
“Caru ti am byth.” His voice tightened. “I love you forever.”
Then he was gone. Lillian stood stiffly. She tried t
o make sense of what had just happened. It seemed a bad dream—to be without Father, to be without Mother. To be all alone. A strange sensation swept over her. She was a lost little girl again, uncertain about life and fearful of being swallowed up with loneliness.
There was one long, last whistle of the train as it disappeared around the bend on its way out of town. Lillian felt a shiver go through her.
“Let’s get you home, Miss Walsh. I’ll pick you up in the morning. What time shall we say?” Mr. Wattley’s voice startled her out of her brooding thoughts.
“Yes, that’s fine. I can be ready at seven.”
“At seven?”
Lillian turned to face him, noticing his strained expression. “At eight? At nine? At six? When did you have in mind?”
“Seven is fine.” He nodded with a sigh. “I’ll have my car ready for our drive to Calgary.”
Lemuel and the woman studied the alphabet together on succeeding Sundays. The man even took his turn teaching Lemuel numbers. Lemuel was an astute pupil and could not learn quickly enough to appease his desire for knowledge. Soon he was able to sound out words. One Sunday the woman retrieved a small set of books from the trunk in her bedroom. She brought them out carefully, reverently, and set them on the table.
“These primers belonged to our Daniel. He was eleven when we lost him. I think he would have been glad to have you share his schoolbooks. I know it would have pleased him to have met you, Lem. I think the two of you would have been very good friends.” Her eyes were dry but the softness in her voice betrayed her sorrow. “My Henry, he loved his son so.” She seemed to force a smile and drew rough fingertips down the spine of the top book. “I’m so glad you’re with us now—to be his helper about the farm. Henry needed a boy again.”
Lemuel wanted to ask questions. How long ago had their son died? How had it happened? Where had he slept? In the little storeroom? There’d been no evidence at all of another boy’s presence in the house. But instead Lemuel held his tongue. If the woman wanted him to know any more, he would wait until she chose to explain.