“Abra means ‘mother of nations.’” He said it before he could stop himself.
Marianne laughed. “You wanted her all along, didn’t you? Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
How could he not? Still, he felt a jab of fear. “We’re foster parents, Marianne. Don’t forget that. If things become too much for you, we’ll call the caseworker. We’ll have to give Abra back.”
“Give her back to whom? The caseworker wants this to work. And I don’t think there’s anyone in town who’d take Abra away from us now. Do you?” Peter Matthews, a teacher at the local elementary school, and his wife, Priscilla, had expressed interest early on, but with an infant of their own, they had agreed Abra should stay with the Freemans if they were able to handle it.
Marianne set the empty bottle aside and raised the baby to her shoulder. “We’ll need to save money so we can add another bedroom. Abra won’t be a baby for long. She’ll be in a crib, then a regular bed. She’ll need a room of her own.”
There was no reasoning with her. All of Marianne’s motherly instincts had kicked in, but each day wore her down a little more. Catnapping throughout the day helped, but catching a few minutes of sleep here and there wouldn’t be enough to keep her healthy. She was already tousle-haired and ashen, with dark circles under her eyes. “You sleep in tomorrow morning. I’ll take her with me.”
“In the dark?”
“Plenty of streetlights, and I know the town like the back of my hand.”
“She’ll be cold.”
“I’ll bundle her up.” He folded a blanket into a triangle, plucked Abra from Marianne’s arms, tied it around his waist and neck, and straightened. “See? She’s snug as a bug in a rug.” And right next to his heart, where she’d been from the first moment he laid eyes on her.
Sometimes Abra fussed when he took her out for his early morning walks, and he would sing hymns to her. “‘I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses . . .’” She’d sleep for a while, and stir when Zeke stopped in at Eddie’s Diner or paused to talk with Dutch.
“Good of you to take on that little one. Isn’t she a cutie, with all that red hair.” Eddie ran a fingertip over Abra’s cheek.
Even hard-hearted Dutch smiled as he leaned out the window of his truck to peer at her. “Looks like a little angel.” He drew back. “Sharon and I always wanted kids.” He said it like it was another black mark against God. Sharon had passed away, and Zeke knew the man was grieving. When Abra’s tiny fingers grasped Dutch’s pinkie, he looked ready to cry. “Who’d leave a baby under a bridge, for heaven’s sake? Good thing you happened by.”
“It was no accident, me going there that morning.”
“How so?” Dutch’s engine rumbled in neutral.
“I felt impelled to go. God does that sometimes.”
Dutch looked pained. “Well, I won’t speculate. No question that little girl needed someone that morning or she’d be dead and buried by now.” Like Sharon, his eyes said.
“If you ever want to talk, Dutch, just call.”
“Better just give up on me.”
“Sharon didn’t. Why should I?”
As Abra grew, she slept longer between feedings, and Marianne got more sleep. Even so, Zeke didn’t give up carrying Abra on his walks. “I’ll keep at it until she sleeps through the night.” Getting up every morning before the alarm, he’d dress and peek into the children’s bedroom and find Abra wide-awake, waiting for him.
1941
Even the demands of an easy child could wear on someone, and Zeke saw the toll on Marianne.
When he came home one afternoon in June and found Marianne asleep on the couch while Abra, now four years old, dunked her doll up and down in the toilet bowl, he knew things were going to have to change. “You’re exhausted.”
“Abra can get into something faster than I can say, ‘Jack Sprat could eat no fat.’”
“You can’t go on like this, Marianne.”
Others in the congregation noticed how tired Marianne looked and voiced concern. Priscilla Matthews spoke to them one Sunday after services. Her husband had put up gates so their four-year-old, Penny, couldn’t escape the living room. “The whole room is one big playpen right now, Marianne. I gave up and packed away everything breakable. Why don’t you have Zeke bring Abra over a couple afternoons a week? You can rest without worry or interruptions for a few hours.”
Marianne resisted, but Zeke insisted it was a perfect solution.
Zeke bought lumber, nails, tar paper, and shingles and started work on a bedroom off the back of the house. Nine-year-old Joshua sat on the boards, holding them steady while Zeke sawed. One of the parishioners added wiring for electricity. Another built a platform bed with pullout drawers and helped Zeke put in windows overlooking the backyard.
Though Zeke was less than enthusiastic about his son moving into a narrow, converted-back-porch bedroom, Joshua loved his “fort.” His best buddy, Davy Upton, came over to spend the night, but the quarters were so tight, Zeke ended up pitching a tent for them on the back lawn. When he came back inside, he slumped into his easy chair. “The fort is too small.”
Marianne smiled, Abra tucked close beside her in the easy chair, a book of Bible stories open. “I don’t hear Joshua complaining. Those boys sound happy as crows in a cornfield, Zeke.”
“For now.” If Joshua took after his father, and his uncles back in Iowa, he would outgrow the space before he reached high school.
Zeke turned on the radio and went through the mail. The radio had nothing but bad news. Hitler grew ever more ambitious. The insatiable führer continued sending planes west across the English Channel to bomb England while his troops stormed Russia’s borders to the east. Charles Lydickson, the town banker, said it was only a matter of time before America got involved. The Atlantic Ocean wasn’t any protection with all those roaming German U-boats eager to sink ships.
Zeke thanked God Joshua was only nine years old, and then felt guilty, knowing how many other fathers had sons who might soon be going off to war.
When Marianne finished reading the story of David and Goliath, she pressed Abra closer. The child was half-asleep, and Marianne looked too weary to rise. When she tried, Zeke came out of his seat. “Let me tuck her in tonight.” He lifted Abra away from Marianne’s side. The child melted against him, her head on his shoulder, her thumb in her mouth.
Pulling the covers up and snuggling them around her, he bowed his head. She made prayer hands, and he put his around hers. “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .” When they finished, he leaned down and kissed her. “Sleep tight.”
Before he could raise his head, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you, Daddy.” He said he loved her, too. He kissed each cheek and her forehead before he left the room.
Marianne looked wilted. He frowned. She shook her head, smiling faintly. “I’m fine, Zeke. Just tired. There’s nothing wrong with me that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
Zeke knew that wasn’t true when she started to rise and swayed slightly. He caught her up in his arms and carried her into their bedroom, then sat on the bed with her in his lap. “I’m calling the doctor.”
“You know what he’ll say.” She started to cry.
“We need to start making other plans.” He didn’t have the heart to say it any other way, but she knew what he meant.
“I’m not giving up Abra.”
“Marianne . . .”
“She needs me.”
“I need you.”
“You love her as much as I do, Zeke. How can you even think about giving her away?”
“We should never have brought her home.”
Zeke rocked his wife for a moment, then helped her remove her chenille robe and settled her in bed. He kissed her and turned out the light before closing the door.
He almost tripped over Abra, sitting cross-legged in the hallway, her teddy bear clutched against her chest, thumb in her mouth. He felt a jolt of misgiving. How much had sh
e overheard?
He lifted her into his arms. “You’re supposed to be in bed, little one.” Tucking her in again, Zeke tapped her on the nose. “Stay under the covers this time.” He kissed her. “Go to sleep.”
Sinking into his chair in the living room, he put his head in his hands. Did I misunderstand, Lord? Did I allow Marianne to sway me when You had another plan for Abra? You know how much I love them both. What do I do now, Lord? God, what do I do now?
Abra sat shivering in the front pew while Mommy practiced hymns at the piano, even though Daddy had turned on the furnace so the sanctuary would be warm for tomorrow’s service. Miss Mitzi said without the heater up and running properly, “the church smelled damp and moldy as a graveyard.” Abra told her she didn’t know what a graveyard smelled like, and Miss Mitzi said, “Well, don’t look at me like that, missy. Only way I’ll go is if I’m carried there in a pine box.”
Rain pelted the roof and windows. Daddy was going over sermon notes in the small office off the narthex. Joshua had gone off in his Boy Scouts uniform to sell Christmas trees on the town square. Christmas was less than three weeks away. Mommy had let Abra help make gingerbread cookies for shut-ins and set up the crèche on the mantel. Daddy and Joshua put up lights around the outside of the house. Abra liked going out the front gate after dinner and looking at the house all lit up.
Mommy closed the hymnal, set it aside, and stood. “All right, honey. Your turn to practice.” Abra hopped off the pew and flew up the steps to the piano bench. Mommy half lifted her and then let go, stepping aside to rest her hand heavily on the piano, the other hand against her chest. She panted a moment, then smiled encouragement and set a beginners book on the stand. “Play your scales first and then ‘Silent Night.’ Can you do that?”
Usually Mommy stood right next to her. Except when she didn’t feel good.
Abra loved to play the piano. It was her favorite thing to do. She played scales and chords, though it was hard to reach all the notes at once. She practiced “Silent Night,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” and “Away in a Manger.” Every time she finished one, Mommy said she was doing so well and Abra felt warm inside.
Daddy came into the sanctuary. “I think it’s time to go home.” He put an arm around Mommy and drew her to her feet. Disappointed, Abra closed the lid on the piano and followed them out to the car. Mommy apologized for being so tired, and Daddy said she’d be fine, just fine, with a few hours’ rest.
Mommy protested when Daddy carried her into the house. He sat with her in their bedroom for a few minutes. Then he came out to the living room. “Play quietly, Abra, and let Marianne sleep awhile.” As soon as Daddy went back out to the car, Abra went into Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom and climbed up on the bed.
“That’s my girl,” Mommy said and snuggled her close.
“Are you sick again?”
“Shhh. I’m not sick. Just tired is all.” She fell asleep, and Abra stayed with her until she heard the car out front. She slipped off the bed and ran into the living room to peer out the front window. Daddy was untying a Christmas tree from the top of the old gray Plymouth.
Squealing with excitement, Abra threw open the front door and ran down the steps. Hopping up and down, she clapped her hands. “It’s so big.”
Joshua came in the back door, his cheeks flushed from the cold, but eyes bright. Christmas tree sales had gone well. If the troop raised enough money this year, everyone could go to Camp Dimond-O near Yosemite. If not, Joshua had already talked to the Weirs and McKennas, neighbors down the street, about hiring him to mow their lawns. “They agreed to pay me fifty cents a week. Times two, that’s four dollars a month!” It sounded like a lot of money. “I’ll have enough saved to pay for camp myself.”
After dinner, Mommy insisted on doing the dishes and told Daddy to go ahead and open the box of ornaments and get started on the tree. Daddy untangled and strung the lights on the tree. He turned them on before he started unwrapping ornaments and handing them over one by one for Joshua and Abra to hang. “You take care of the top branches, Son, and leave the bottom half to Abra.”
Something crashed in the kitchen. Startled, Abra dropped a glass ornament as Daddy surged to his feet and bolted for the kitchen. “Marianne? Are you all right?”
Shaking, Abra stooped to pick up the pieces of the ornament she’d broken, but Joshua moved her aside. “Careful. Let me do it. You might cut yourself.” When she burst into tears, he pulled her close. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”
Abra clung to him, her heart thumping fast and hard as she listened to Mommy and Daddy arguing. They were trying to talk quietly, but Abra could still hear them. She heard sweeping and something being dumped in the trash under the sink. The door swung open and Mommy appeared, her smile dying. “What’s the matter?”
“She broke an ornament.”
Daddy picked Abra up. “Did you cut yourself?” She shook her head. Daddy patted her bottom. “Then there’s no reason to be upset.” He gave her a quick hug and set her on her feet again. “You two finish decorating the tree while I get a fire going.”
Mommy turned on the radio and found a music program. Settling into her easy chair, she pulled some knitting from her basket. Abra climbed into the chair with her. Mommy kissed the top of her head. “Don’t you want to put some more ornaments on the tree?”
“I want to sit with you.”
Daddy glanced over his shoulder as he arranged kindling. His expression was grim.
Sunday was cold, but the rains had stopped. Couples gathered inside the fellowship hall with their children, herding them off to Sunday school classes before going over to the sanctuary for “big church.” Abra spotted Penny Matthews and ran ahead of Mommy. When Abra reached her, they held hands and went off to their class.
After Sunday school, Mrs. Matthews came and got Penny. Mommy helped Miss Mitzi wash and dry cookie plates. Daddy talked with the last stragglers. After everyone left, the family went into the sanctuary. Mommy straightened up the hymnals, gathered discarded bulletins. Daddy put away the shiny brass candlesticks and offering plates. Abra sat on the piano bench, swinging her legs and playing chords.
The church door banged open, and a man ran in. Mommy straightened, a hand pressed against her chest. “Clyde Eisenhower, what on earth? You scared me half to death.”
The man looked flushed and upset. “The Japanese bombed one of our Naval bases in Hawaii!”
As soon as they got home, Daddy turned on the radio. He took off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair rather than put it away in the bedroom closet the way he usually did. “. . . the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, by air, President Roosevelt has just announced. The attack also was made on all Naval and military activities on the principal island of Oahu. . . .” The voice on the radio sounded upset.
Mommy sank onto a kitchen chair. Daddy closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I knew it was coming.”
Mommy helped Abra onto her lap and sat silent, listening to the voice that just kept talking and talking about bombings and sinking ships and men burning to death. Mommy started to cry, and that made Abra cry. Mommy held her closer and rocked her in her arms. “It’s all right, honey. It’s all right.”
But Abra knew it wasn’t.
Miss Mitzi opened the door with a flourish. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite little girl!” She whipped her shawl over her shoulder and held her arms wide. Giggling, Abra hugged her. “How long do I get to keep you this time?”
“As long as you like,” Mommy said, following them into the living room.
Abra liked spending time with Miss Mitzi. She had knickknacks all over the living room and didn’t mind if Abra picked them up and looked at them. Sometimes, she made coffee and even filled a teacup for Abra, letting her pour in cream and as much sugar as she wanted.
Mitzi looked concerned. “You look awfully tired, Marianne.”
“I’m going to go home and take a nice long nap.”
“You do t
hat, dear.” Mitzi kissed her cheek. “Don’t push yourself so hard.”
Mommy leaned down and gave Abra a hug. She kissed her on each cheek and ran her hand over her head as she straightened. “Be good for Mitzi, honey.”
Mitzi lifted her chin. “Go hunting,” she told Abra. Mitzi escorted Mommy to the front door, where they talked for a few minutes while Abra wandered the living room, searching for her favorite figurine—a shiny porcelain swan with an ugly duckling by its side. She found it on a corner table under a feather boa.
Mitzi came back into the living room. “Found it so soon.” She set it on the mantel. “I’ll have to find a better place to hide it next time.” Rubbing her hands together, she wove her fingers and cracked her knuckles. “How about a little honky-tonk?” She plunked down at the old upright piano and banged out a happy tune. “After you learn how to play Bach and Beethoven and Chopin and Mozart, I’ll teach you how to play the fun stuff.” Her hands flashed up and down. She stood, nudging the stool aside, and kept playing, putting one foot out and then the other, in a clumsy hop-kick, hop-kick. Abra laughed and imitated her.
Mitzi straightened. “That was just a little teaser.” She swung the end of the shawl around her neck again and lifted her chin, her face grim. “Now, we must be serious.” She stepped aside and waved her hand airily for Abra to sit on the stool. Giggling, Abra took her position as Mitzi put some sheet music on the stand. “A little simplified Beethoven is the order of the day.”
Abra played until the mantel clock struck four. Mitzi glanced at her watch. “Why don’t you play dress up for a while? I’m going to make a call.”
Abra slid from the stool. “Can I look at your jewelry?”
“Sure you can, honey.” Mitzi waved toward the bedroom. “Look in the closet; check through the drawers, too. Try on whatever you like.”
Abra found a treasure trove of sparkly baubles and beads. She put on a pair of rhinestone earrings, and a looped necklace of red glass beads. She added one of pearls and another necklace with jet-black beads. She liked the weight of flash and glory around her neck. Spying Mitzi’s rouge pot, she rubbed a bit on each cheek, then used Mitzi’s eyebrow pencil. She chose the darkest red lipstick from Mitzi’s horde of small tubes. Opening her mouth wide, she imitated one of the women she’d seen in the church ladies’ room and smeared on the lipstick. She dug through more makeup and powdered her cheeks, coughing as a sweet-scented cloud engulfed her.
Bridge to Haven Page 2