Love Comes Softly

by Janette Oke

  THIRTY

  Sorrow

  Marty looked out the window each morning to check on the progress of the garden. Tiny green stalks were starting to push through, and Missie was nearly as delighted as Marty as they watched them grow. The little girl quickly learned that she should not step on the tender plants or pull them up to inspect their roots.

  The activities and conversations in the household seemed to be normal, but deep down Marty knew something had changed. Clark was as considerate as ever, and they still talked things over and enjoyed the children. But there was an uneasy acknowledgment that things were different. She would not let herself think too deeply about it. It was fairly easy to go through the motions of the day in the same orderly fashion she had learned to follow.

  She rose early, fed baby Clare, prepared breakfast, and dressed Missie. Then they read Scripture, prayed, and ate the morning meal. She could sit across from Clark, could talk to him and share her plans for the day in as ordinary a way as ever, but she did not let her eyes linger on his for very long. She longed for things to stay as they had been and at the same time feared that they might. Oh my, she mourned, what’s happenin’? What’s gonna happen... ?

  Marty wandered out to the garden to see the growing things and hopefully take her mind off all the perplexing thoughts and feelings. Somehow the garden always gave her a sense of accomplishment and joy. She even found herself talking to the corn, then pushed a little dirt around a potato plant, coaxed the onions and lettuce to hurry a bit, and wondered why she had bothered with so many beans.

  She walked over to the fruit trees and was admiring each new leaf when she noted that one of the trees bore blossoms. Her heart leaped—apples. Imagine, apples! Oh, if she could only show Clark, but he was in the fields planting. Then she was surprised to see him coming toward her in long, purposeful strides.

  “Clark,” she called eagerly. “Clark, come see.”

  With her eyes fixed on the tree, she reached for his hand to draw him closer.

  “Look, Clark,” she enthused. “Apple blossoms. We’re gonna have apples. Jest look.”

  There was no answer. She looked up in bewilderment at the silence. Clark stood looking down at her, his face pale, and she could read such sorrow in his eyes. Her heart contracted with fear.

  “What... what be wrong?” she whispered through trembling lips.

  He reached for her then, placing a hand on each shoulder, and looked deeply at her as though willing her some of his strength to help her bear the news he was bringing.

  “It’s Laura. They done found her in the crik over by the Conners’ cabin.”

  “Is she... is she... ?”

  “She be dead, Marty.”

  She sagged against him, her hand pressed to her mouth.

  “An’ Ma?” she finally asked.

  “She be needin’ ya.”

  And then she was sobbing, her face against his chest. His hands smoothed her hair as he held her close. She cried for Ma, for Laura, for Ben, even for Sally Anne.

  Oh, God, she prayed. Ya be the only one to be helpin’ at a time like this. Help us all now. Please, God, help us now. Somehow she knew Clark was silently praying the same prayer.

  * * *

  Marty was there when Laura’s body was brought to the Grahams’. She would never forget the heartrending scene. Ma gathered the lifeless body into her arms, weeping as though her heart would break and rocking back and forth, saying over and over, “My poor baby, my poor little darlin’.” After a time, she wiped her tears, squared her shoulders determinedly, and began to tenderly prepare the body for burial. Ben’s grief certainly matched Ma’s, but he did not feel the same freedom to express it. Marty had never seen such an ashen face, such bewilderment and grief, as she saw in Ben. She was even more concerned for Ben than for Ma.

  Ben insisted on riding over to the Conners’ cabin. Unbeknownst to him, Clark had already been there. He had found a very drunk Milt, who swore he knew nothing of Laura’s death. He may have roughed her up a bit, he admitted. But she was quite alive when he’d last seen her, he insisted. Clark had convinced Milt in no uncertain terms that he would be wise to move farther west and to do so immediately.

  Clark rode over again with Ben, making no mention of his previous visit. The cabin looked to be deserted for good and in a great hurry. Clark told Marty later that he was very relieved Milt had already gone, fearing what Ben might have done in his present state.

  Neighbors came, and they lovingly set to work. The coffin was built and the grave dug, and the frail body of the girl was committed to the ground. In the absence of a preacher, Clark was asked to say the “buryin’ words.” Marty could sense how difficult it was for him as he held the Bible open and read the ancient words, “‘For dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.... ’”

  Solemnly they all turned from the new mound, leaving Ma and Ben to sort out and adjust to their grief. Ma, whose wisdom and care had comforted many a neighbor in tragic circumstances, once again said through her tears that time was the answer. This time she was saying it to herself.

  THIRTY-ONE

  New Strength

  By June the second cow had calved and, to Clark’s great surprise, bore twin female calves—a special gift from God, he announced. “We sure be able to make use o’ one more,” he told Marty. He was carrying Clare, and Marty held firmly to Missie’s hand as they watched the calves awkwardly trying to stand up. Missie thought it was quite funny and would have loved to climb in the pen with them.

  A week later the other sow had her pigs, not an exceptional litter but an acceptable one, and she had kept all eight of them.

  The hatching of the chicks meant three proud mothers were strutting around with a total of twenty-seven chicks fluttering between them. Missie was quite insistent that the chicks would want to be held, but fortunately they were able to keep away from her chubby hands.

  Marty still had not been able to shake off the sorrow of Laura’s tragic death. It seemed to hang about her, choking out the happiness she wanted to feel.

  Missie came down with the measles, and even though she was not awfully sick, Marty hovered over her, worried lest another tragedy strike. But the child was rather quickly up and around again, pretending that her doll had the measles “an’ needs a wet cloth on her head, too.”

  It was while Missie was still red-blotched and feverish that news came of the first wagon train passing through town, heading east. Marty was busy with doctoring Missie, and there would be other trains, she told herself.

  On a warm June day after Missie was back to health, Marty tucked the two youngsters in for their afternoon nap and decided to step outside for a breath of fresh air. She had been cooped up long enough and felt rather restless and uneasy.

  She walked through her much-loved garden, noticing how much the plants had grown during the time of Missie’s illness. The blossoms on the apple tree had dropped their petals, making room for the fruit forming on the branches.

  She walked past the buildings and down to the stream. She seemed drawn to that quiet spot she had discovered long ago when she had needed comfort—then because of her own loss, and now because of Ma’s.

  She really needed a place to think, to sort things out. Life was so confusing—the good mixed with the bad; such a strange combination of happiness and sorrow.

  She sat leaning against a tree trunk, watching the clear water gurgling by.

  “God,” she whispered, “what be it all about? I don’t understand much ’bout ya. I do know thet yer good. I know thet ya love me, thet ya died for me; but I don’t understand ’bout losin’, ’bout the pain thet goes so deep I can’t see the end. I don’t understand at all.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling the strength of the sturdy tree trunk behind her, listening to the rustling of the leaves, feeling the slight breeze ruffling her hair.

  She closed her eyes more tightly, drawing from the peace and beauty of the woods. When she opened them, Clark was there, leaning aga
inst another tree, his eyes on her face.

  She was startled at first and quickly stood.

  “Sorry to be frightin’ ya,” he told her. “I seed ya comin’ over here, an’ I thought ya’d maybe not mind me joinin’ ya.”

  “’Course not.”

  Silence fell between them. Clark picked up a branch and broke off small pieces. Marty watched the stream carry them swirling away in the current.

  “Guess life be somethin’ like thet stream,” Clark commented quietly.

  “Meanin’?”

  “Things happen. Leaves fill it up—animals waller in it—spring floods fill it with mud.” He hesitated. “Bright sunshine makes it like a mirror glass; sparklin’ rain makes it grow wider, but it still moves on—unchangin’ like—the same stream even with all the things thet happen to it. It breaks through the leaves, it clears itself of the animal wallerin’—the muddy waters turn clean agin. The sunshine an’ the rain it accepts, fer they give life an’ strengthen it like, but it really could have done without ’em. They’re extries like.” He broke another branch and added more to the stream.

  “Life’s like thet,” he picked up again. “Bad things come, but life keeps on flowin’, clearin’ its path gradual like, easin’ its own burden. The good times come, too; we maybe could make it without ’em, but the Lord knows we need ’em to help give meanin’—to strengthen us, to help us reflect the sunshine.

  “Guess one has to ’spect the good an’ the bad, long as we be livin’, an’ try one’s best to make the bad hurt as little as possible, an’ the good—one has to help it grow like, make all the good things count.”

  Marty had shut her eyes again as Clark was speaking. She stood there now, eyes closed, breathing deeply of the woods and the stream.

  Life was like that stream. It went on, whatever happened to it. She was ready to go on now, too. She had drawn strength from the woods. No, not that. She had drawn strength from the God who had made the woods.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Love Comes Softly

  Marty hurried through her mending, wanting to have it all finished before she had to get supper ready. She was working on a pair of Clark’s overalls, the last item in her mending basket. As she handled the garment, she was reminded again of what a big man she was married to.

  “Why, they’d swaller me,” she chuckled as she held them up in front of her. Missie thought it was funny, too.

  Missie was trying to copy her mama in everything she did. Marty had given her a scrap of cloth and a button. She threaded a blunt needle for Missie and showed the little girl the art of button sewing.

  “Ya may as well learn how it be done,” she told her. “Ya’ll need to be knowin’ how to do this afore we know it.”

  Missie busied herself pushing the needle in and out of the material. Marty smiled at the child’s efforts—the thread showed up in some very strange places, but Missie was quite happy with her newly learned skill.

  Baby Clare lay on a rug, cooing and talking to himself and anyone else who would care to listen. He was four months old now, a bright, happy, healthy child, who as yet had not fulfilled Clark’s dire predictions of “wait until the teeth come in.” All three of his family members doted on him, so why shouldn’t he be content?

  Missie talked to him as she worked. “See, baby. See big si’ter. She sewin’. Do ya like it? Look, Mama. He smiles. Clare likes it—my sewin’.”

  Marty nodded at them both and went on sewing the overall patch. A loud crash made her jump and Missie exclaimed, “Dad-burn!” as she looked at the spilled button box.

  “Missie, ya mustn’t say thet.”

  Missie stared up at her mama. “You did.”

  “Well, I don’t say it anymore, an’ I don’t want ya sayin’ it, either. Now, let’s git down an’ pick up all them buttons on the floor ’fore Clare gits ’em in his mouth.” Missie obeyed, helping put the buttons back in their container and placing it on the sewing machine.

  Marty finished her patch and hurried to get supper ready. Clark would be in shortly from chores, and she planned to talk with him about moving the children’s beds to their new bedroom. This would give her a bit more space to move around in her own small bedroom. Clark had moved his things into the other one just as soon as he’d been able to get a roof over it and the floor in. With Clare sleeping through the night now and the warmer weather, Marty didn’t need to worry about the children becoming uncovered. It would be nice to be able to reach her things without banging her shins on a small bed or tripping over Missie’s doll.

  She almost had the meal on the table when Missie came flying through the door.

  “Mama—Mama—Clare sick!”

  “Whatcha meanin’?” Marty spun around to look at her.

  The child grabbed her hand, jerking her toward the sitting room.

  “He sick!” she screamed.

  Marty ran toward the rasping, gurgling sound.

  She snatched up the baby, who was struggling furiously, his little fists flailing the air as he fought for breath.

  “He’s chokin’!” Marty cried. She turned him upside down and smacked him on the back between his tiny shoulder blades.

  Clare still struggled.

  “Run fer yer pa,” Marty told the small child, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. Missie ran.

  Marty reversed the baby and carefully pushed a finger down his throat. She thought she could feel something, but the end of her finger just ticked it. Clare was gagging, but nothing came up.

  Clark came running through the door, his eyes wild with concern.

  “He’s chokin’!” Marty told him.

  “Slap his back.”

  “I did.” Marty was in tears now.

  “Put yer finger—” “I tried.”

  “I’ll git the doc.”

  “There’s no time.”

  “Wrap ’im up,” Clark instructed her, his voice firm. “I’ll git the horses.”

  The baby was still breathing—struggling, gasping little breaths, but he was still breathing.

  “Oh, God,” Marty prayed desperately. “Please help us. Please help us. Jest keep ’im breathin’ ’til we reach the doc.”

  She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it about Clare. Missie stood, eyes wide, too frightened to even cry.

  “Missie, git yer coat on,” Marty ordered, “an’ bring a blanket from yer bed so thet ya can lay down in the wagon.”

  The child hurried to obey.

  Clark raced the team toward the house. Marty ran forward with the baby in her arms and Missie by the hand. Without speaking, Clark hauled Missie up, putting her and her blanket in a safe place on the wagon floor; then he helped Marty and the baby over the wheel, and they were off.

  The long trip to town was a nightmare. The ragged breathing of the baby was broken only by his fits of coughing. The horses plunged on, harness creaking as sweat flecked their necks and haunches. Clark urged them on and on. Marty clung to Clare; the wagon jostled her bones, sweat from the horses dotting her arms and face.

  We’ll never make it—we’ll never make it, Marty cried inwardly as Clare’s gasping breath seemed to be weakening and the horses’ breakneck speed slackened. But on they galloped, seeming to draw on a reserve Marty would have never guessed they had.

  The baby’s breathing was even more erratic as lights from the town finally came into view. Clark spoke again to the horses and they sped forward. How could they continue on at this pace? They must be ready to fall in the harness, but Clark’s coaxing voice seemed to strengthen them.

  Straight to the doctor’s they galloped, and Clark pulled the heaving horses to a stop and jumped down before the wagon had stopped rolling. He reached up for little Clare, and Marty surrendered him, watching Clark head for the door on the run. Marty turned to help Missie up from the floor of the wagon. For a moment Marty clung to the little girl, wanting to assure her that all would be well—but would it? She climbed over the wheel and held up her arms for the child.

  By the
time Marty entered the room that served as the doctor’s office, the baby had been placed on a small table under, what seemed to her, a very bright light. The doctor was bending over him, appearing to completely overwhelm the small gasping figure as he examined him.

  “He has a tiny object stuck in his throat,” he said matter- of-factly, just as though Marty’s whole world did not revolve around that very fact.

  “I’m going to have to go after it. We’ll have to put him to sleep. Call my missus, will you? She helps with this—has special training.”

  Clark rapped loudly on the door separating the office from the living quarters, and a woman came into the room. On seeing the small baby fighting for every breath, her eyes showed instant concern.

  “Oh my! What’s his problem?”

  “He has something in his throat. We’re going to have to put him to sleep and remove it.”

  The doctor was already in action as he spoke, and she quickly joined him, the two working as a well-matched team.

  The doctor seemed to have forgotten the rest of the family as he hurriedly prepared himself; then he looked up suddenly. “You folks can just take a chair in our living room. This won’t take long, but we work best alone.”

  Clark took Marty’s arm and led her from the room. She went reluctantly, hating to leave the precious little baby, fearing every breath might be his last.

  Clark helped ease her numb body into a chair. She was still clinging to Missie. He suggested that Missie could sit on another chair beside her, but she shook her head. Clark himself did not sit down but paced the floor with an anxious face. Marty knew he was petitioning his God. His hand trembled as he removed the hat he had forgotten. Watching him, Marty realized just how much he loved the wee baby. He loves him as though he were his own, she thought and didn’t find this strange at all. After all, she loved Missie in the same way and had as good as forgotten there ever was a time when the little girl had been only a tiny stranger.