by Janette Oke
Harrison and George would share a bed in one of the larger rooms. Bryony and Hazel were given another, which left Miss Grace and Lemuel each alone in a smaller room. It seemed to bother Miss Lillian to see her sister accepting a lesser portion of the home. Yet there was no point in arguing when Miss Grace was so adamant that her room was sufficient.
The other children snickered at the length of their discussion. This new room was actually smaller than the one Miss Grace had used previously. And Harrison reported to Lemuel that, even in the new bedrooms, Bryony would surely sneak into Miss Grace’s room during the night only to be discovered in the morning asleep across the foot of her bed, just as she’d done in their Lethbridge home.
Setting his worn case down on the floor beside his assigned bed, Lemuel closed his eyes. He drew in a slow breath and held it. More than the softness of the mattress, more than the privilege of privacy, it was the sweet smell of the fresh air that he appreciated most. The dank, sour smell of the alleyway shelter was still very sharp in his memory—as if it were burned to the inside of his nostrils. And once he opened his window, the aromas of grass and fields in the cool breeze of the September evening filtered in. This was much better—until he was reminded again of the farm. Instantly, a lump rose in his throat and he drew the ragged blanket, newly washed, from his case and spread it carefully over the fancy quilt. Then he stretched out on top of it to sleep. He knew now he’d never return to the farm, to Rufus and the man. That chapter of his life had ended. The thought made his chest ache in an all-too-familiar way.
In the morning, Lemuel studied the activity that spun around him, moved quickly to help whenever he saw opportunity. He found solace in the presence of the bustling children. As the oldest, he felt a stirring of responsibility for them, stayed close enough to watch over them, and did his best to counsel quietly. Not one of them challenged his passive authority. Even Harrison seemed prepared to accept Lemuel’s role of leadership among them, perhaps more as a way of giving himself a leg up in the new pecking order than for mere friendship. But it was something.
Lemuel understood the hierarchy among children, felt familiar with it. He’d learned it on the streets years earlier when he was still small and the hope of safety in numbers brought them together into a pack. Now he was the one more experienced, more worldly, more guarded. The others submitted when he warned them against exploring among the thornbushes or pestering the hornets’ nest in the corner of the barn. They allowed him to dole out instructions and to divide up the broader responsibilities. “George, you carry the pail and Hazel can wipe. Harrison, do the top parts and let Bryony have the lower.”
In return, he remembered how important it felt to be shepherded, sometimes merely acknowledged. He welcomed the sense of order and place, even amid the ruckus that the others caused, and he found satisfaction in the words of gratitude Miss Grace and Miss Lillian offered when they noticed him helping the others. But in the darkness of nighttime there was only one chain of thought that mattered. Thank God I’m not alone anymore! Thank God I get enough to eat now. But how long will it last this time?
By careful observation and listening well, he grew to understand that for the youngsters, the lifestyle Miss Grace had established in her home in the city had been woefully disrupted. The children seemed incapable of staying focused on any assigned chore without surrendering to the many distractions all around them, so that no task seemed to flow easily in the new home. Miss Grace seemed quite relaxed and comfortable with the transition, while Miss Lillian was constantly making demands.
“Hazel, we sit down on the sofa, we don’t climb across it. . . . How did this cup get broken? Children, I need you to tell me right away if you break anything. . . . No, George, you may not sleep in the attic instead of your room. You must stay in your own bed all night. . . . What on earth is that smell? . . . I don’t know where the kitten came from, but it just can’t come into the house. It needs to be outdoors where it can find its mother. Please take it back to where you found it.”
If there was one thing that seemed to draw the children like butterflies to flowers, it was the oversized piano. Though Lemuel managed to hold himself in check, patiently monitoring the other children from a distance, he noted that over time each child’s curious fingers lifted the mahogany lid to check the sounds that could be forced to emanate from it. Miss Lillian seemed determined to withhold her corrections where the piano was concerned and overlooked each stray, timid finger reaching out to plunk a key, ear tipped toward the sound. Sometimes the fingers explored different keys and compared the two sounds. Then stealthily the polished cover was lowered again as the investigator became aware that Miss Lillian was watching. But she always smiled back a little.
Lemuel noticed that it was little Bryony who most frequented the grand instrument. If ever she were to be tempted from Miss Grace’s skirts, it was to the piano she wandered. But she always hurried back again, to make sure that Miss Grace was never far away.
Lillian found it hard to bite her tongue at times. The new arrangement was far more difficult than she’d expected. After all, she hadn’t been accustomed to sharing her lovely home, other than with her parents and an occasional friend. Now children seemed to swarm everywhere, exploring everything. She found herself silently praying for wisdom to balance being hospitable with the way she’d been taught to value and steward blessings. Grace seemed to take it all in stride. It wasn’t that she left the children unsupervised or didn’t believe in discipline, but she seemed less concerned about things.
Exhausted, Lillian descended the stairs with Grace on Saturday night once all the bedrooms had quieted. They poured two cups of tea and retired to the parlor. It was becoming a lovely custom to end the day together in the hard-won quiet and serenity. Grace stretched out on the chaise while Lillian tucked her feet up under her on the sofa. She left Father’s big wing chair empty, preferring to picture him there instead.
“I think we should let them keep the kitten.”
Lillian startled at Grace’s suggestion. “But it’s so young. And cats are messy. It shouldn’t be in the house at all. What if they forget to let it out often enough?”
Grace tipped her head to one side. “They can take turns feeding her on the back porch, then. I think that would be enough to keep her close-by. And they might be allowed to bring her in for short periods of time so long as they stay with her. It teaches them responsibility and how to be gentle with small creatures. Plus,” she added emphatically, “I’ve seen two mice in the few days we’ve been here.”
“I think they’re coming up from the cellar.”
Pushing up onto one elbow, Grace nodded. “And I think that’s where the dreadful smell is coming from. I get a big sniff of it whenever someone opens the basement door. I’m afraid there’s something down there that’s rotting.”
Lillian grimaced, wondering what she and Father possibly could have forgotten to care for before he left for Wales. She’d always disliked the cellar. It had dirt walls and too many dark corners. And there had always been mice no matter how hard Father fought against them.
“We’ll put out more traps. I know where they are in the barn.”
“Oh, do we have to? Can’t we catch them some other way and let them loose in the field instead?”
Lillian laughed and shook her head. “I love you, dear sister. And I know you have a tender heart for all things. But I draw the line at mice. Sorry.” And then she paused. “Wait. It doesn’t bother you if we bring in a cat to kill the mice?”
“Well . . .” Grace seemed to struggle for a way to justify herself. At last she admitted, “Well, I guess I just like cats more. And it’s natural for them to eat mice. By the way”—she quickly changed the subject—“where are we going to church tomorrow?”
“Church? With these children? How?”
“I took them regularly while we lived in the city. I used to sit in the middle of the row with the girls next to me and the boys on the ends. But now it’ll be easy. We
can sit on the ends, with Lemuel in the very middle. It should help everyone behave.”
“That would be a sight to see.”
Ignoring her doubts, Grace asked, “Where did your family go to church?”
Lillian hesitated. “It’s clear across town. I’m not sure how we’d get everyone there. It’s quite a long walk from this edge of Brookfield to the other.” Something within her balked at the thought of taking the children to her church. Somehow the idea feels inappropriate. Unsuitable.
“Well, could we just go to the one nearby? It’s not far at all, really. Past the hayfield, the two little wood houses, and then the big garden. I noticed it the other day when I walked to the grocery for supplies.”
Lillian responded slowly, “Well, I’ve never been there. . . .” Yet the suggestion seemed oddly more palatable. Her own church was proper and structured and solemn. Those entering were quiet and respectful. Whenever Father’s car had sped past the nearer church on a Sunday morning, there were children running across the grass in front, groups of adults lingering around. Yes, it seems a better alternative. Perhaps when the children can behave better, we’ll take them to mine. She agreed aloud with Grace. “We could easily walk that far with them.”
It was settled.
But then Grace brought up another matter. “And we need to get a regular devotional time reestablished. They need that consistency, that training. Oh, and you can play the piano for us while we sing hymns. I’ve seen many curious little eyes.”
Yes, Lillian wished to say aloud, I’ve seen them too. And also wiped off some prints from sticky little fingers. Instead, she merely nodded. It would be nice to play for them and teach them to love music.
“I haven’t quite figured out what would be the best time for group devotions,” Grace continued. “It’s so hectic in the morning and will be even worse once they start off to school. But by the time they’re ready to tuck in at night, frankly, I’m beat. Maybe we all need that time to calm our frazzled nerves before heading off to bed. What do you think?”
Lillian had no answer. One thing she did know—she would hate to give up this delightful quiet time with her sister. It was their only serene moment to talk, to really get to know each other.
Grace shifted her position, sitting upright and slipping her feet back into the slippers on the floor. She smiled. “What would you think of doing it right after our evening meal? Before everyone gets busy with their chores? It would be much easier to keep them gathered before they scatter.”
Grace seemed pleased with her own idea, and Lillian was not about to argue. After the evening meal sounded fine.
“I can’t find my other shoe!”
It was the third time Hazel had appeared on the landing, only to disappear again up the stairs. Harrison, who’d been the only child ready and waiting with Lillian in the foyer, suddenly dashed up after her.
Grace appeared from the kitchen, followed close behind by Bryony. “Lillian, I’m going up. You stay here. I’ll send them down and you keep them with you.” She hurried away.
For a moment Bryony stood in confusion. Lillian reached a tentative hand in her direction and was surprised when it was received. The child moved closer, her eyes still watching the stairs. Lillian stooped down beside her and smiled gently. “I like how Miss Grace fixed your hair. Your yellow bow is very nice with your dress.”
A soft whisper. “Thank you, Miss Lillian.”
Standing again, still holding the girl’s hand, Lillian took a deep breath. She thought about Mother’s gentle persistence. How precious to have . . .
Hazel clumped down the stairs. “Miss Grace found it. I got both shoes on now.”
Lillian reached out to catch Hazel’s hand as well. What could she say to keep them pacified? She wanted to be lighthearted with them, encourage them to stay put, make them laugh. “I guess today the girls are faster than the boys.”
“Yeah!” Hazel hollered, too loudly and too close. “We beat you, Georgie Porgie!”
The front door burst open. “Did not, Hazelnut! Lemmy and me’re outside already.”
George slammed the door closed again. Hazel stuck out her tongue far too late to be insulting.
The younger boys had argued earlier in the morning that they were old enough now to have long trousers for church like Lemuel, but Grace held her ground. “Not until high school.” Secretly, Lillian loved the way the dapper knickerbockers and tall black socks looked—even the wool flat caps were fun for her. Long pants were fine for doing chores, but it was lovely to see the younger boys dressed up.
Harrison reappeared on the landing, followed by Grace, and they were finally off to church. Their little parade was impossible to overlook. Time and again as they traveled the short distance, they were passed on the road by bulky farm wagons, spritely little carriages, chugging automobiles, and the odd rider on his horse—each making its way to one of the two churches in town. And, Brookfield being a small town, their situation was already well known to these neighbors, who waved and nodded in acknowledgment.
“Good morning,” a young woman greeted them as they approached the church building. “We hoped you’d come here this morning—it’s so close.”
“Good morning,” Grace answered cheerfully. She led them across the lawn in stops and starts, speaking with several people on her way. With a firm grip on Hazel’s hand and a gentle nudge on Harrison’s shoulder whenever needed, Lillian guided her two charges along behind.
There were many faces Lillian recognized. She’d known some of them when she was a student. Her parents were also active members of the community, and she’d crossed paths with most of the townsfolk at one time or another. However, in the years when Mother had been ill, Lillian had become rather distant, even from friends.
At last they were settled on one half of a long, hard pew. Lillian was seated in the pew’s center next to Hazel. Then George and Lemuel, Harrison and Bryony. Grace was on the other end near the aisle, still smiling out greetings around her.
Just as the pastor stood, signaling the piano music to die away, Bryony’s terse whisper carried far across the hushed room. “Miss Grace, are we being-have?”
Grace answered back evenly. “Yes, dear. You are behaving well.”
Chuckles around them brought a hot flush to Lillian’s cheeks.
The simple Sunday evening meal had almost ended when a loud knock brought all activity to a stop. Lillian exchanged a glance with her sister. This was to have been their first group devotional time. Harrison jumped up to answer the door, and just as quickly Grace called him back. “No, son, I think it’s best if we let Miss Lillian go.”
As Lillian rose, Grace began assigning jobs for cleanup, lingering in the hall on their way to the kitchen, as if wanting to stay alert to any words she might overhear from the foyer. However, the children were far too loud.
After answering the door and inviting the guests in, Lillian went to the kitchen and spoke softly into Grace’s ear. “The pastor is here, with a couple he says are interested in adopting Bryony.”
Grace dried her hands and hung the flour sack towel back on its hook. Her voice was cheerful. She laid a light hand on Harrison’s shoulder and tousled one of Bryony’s curls as she spoke. “Children, I want you to finish your chores and then go straight up to your rooms, please. Miss Lillian and I need to speak with some adults in the parlor. Lemuel, will you please help them remember my instructions?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lillian noticed his eyes study Grace for a moment, then turn in her direction. She tried not to let her fear show, but Lemuel seemed to also suspect what the intrusion might mean.
Taking a deep breath, Grace led the way back to the front room. The pastor waiting in the parlor stood proudly beside a young couple, broad smiles across their faces. Lillian’s eyes swept over them quickly, noting the tidy appearance, the shy eyes of the wife, the mildly smug expression of the husband.
“Good evening,” Grace welcomed the three visitors. “I think we met this morni
ng. Pastor Bukowski, was it?”
The stout man received her hand jovially, his thick, dark beard bouncing as he spoke. “Yes, Miss Bennett. You talked with my wife, Betsy, and me. But most folk around here just call me Bucky.” He laughed and turned to the man beside him. “May I introduce Kenneth and Roxie Mooreland?”
Grace reached to shake the woman’s hand and Lillian followed suit.
“Please sit down,” Grace offered.
Lillian caught Grace’s eye, glanced toward the parlor doors. Grace nodded. With a fleeting look down the hallway toward the kitchen, Lillian closed the doors softly in order to have as much privacy as they could afford. Then she slipped into the near corner and sank down onto the piano bench, out of the way. Lillian didn’t remember the Moorelands. She thought Roxie’s face seemed familiar from long ago. Perhaps she was the older sister of a schoolmate.
Grace had already begun the small talk. “Yes, I think we’ve settled in well. And the children have enjoyed spending more time outdoors. It’s been less than a week, yet I think they’re thriving on all this fresh air.”
The pastor, with his gregarious demeanor, spoke just a little louder and with far more enthusiasm than most. “Oh, that’s what Betsy says. Keep ’em outside and there’s less cleanup after ’em. We got three boys and a girl ourselves. They move through the house like a herd of buffalo.”
Lillian studied Grace. She seemed poised, accommodating, and confident. There was no doubt at all that she was prepared for this encounter. But Lillian was speechless. What will Grace do? Can she possibly allow these strangers to walk away with Bryony? And will Bryony go willingly? It’s just inconceivable.
“Do you have children, Mr. and Mrs. Mooreland?”
“We do. Two boys,” Mr. Mooreland answered. “Paul and Andrew. Eleven and nine. But my wife has always wanted a little girl by her side. This morning when we saw her—she’s just the right age. And she’s quiet and calm. She seems just perfect. A true answer to prayer, really. We’d like to call her Esther. That’s the name we’d chosen if we’d had a girl of our own.”