The Braxtons of Miracle Springs

by Michael Phillips

  “We are not meant to be our own masters. We are not meant to do what is right in our own eyes, even if our own eyes are very skilled at distinguishing right from wrong and then doing what really is right.

  “It may not be the what of our lives that is out of balance because we may be living very upstanding, moral, virtuous, even selfless lives. It is entirely possible to live selflessly and still have it said of us that we are doing what is right in our own eyes.

  “It is the how that is out of kilter. The method is wrong. We are determining what to do in the wrong way.

  “The Israelites of old were given a king because they failed to make God their king. They were given a king because they could not see the truth that Jesus later came to teach mankind—that God is our Father.

  “God is our Father,” he repeated, “and we were meant to live as his children.”

  Rev. Rutledge stopped and wiped his pale forehead. I could tell he was tired, for he had been preaching energetically.

  “I don’t suppose ten minutes is a very long sermon,” he sighed with a smile as he pulled his watch from his vest pocket and glanced down at it. “But I think I have about said what needs to be said about this extremely important topic. I doubt you will hold it against me if we dismiss a little earlier than usual.

  “I would ask you to do one thing, however,” he added. “This afternoon, will every one of you say to the Lord in the quietness of your room or barn or meadow or walking path, ‘Lord, if there are ways in which you want to be more my Father than you have been till now, please reveal them to me.’

  “Say that,” he added, smiling again, “and the Lord himself will finish this sermon in the private sanctuaries of your own hearts. Let us pray together.”

  He bowed his head and closed his eyes, as did everyone in the church.

  “Our Father in heaven,” Rev. Rutledge prayed, “we ask you to be more our Father now than ever before. Be our Lord, be our Master, be our King. Give us hearts and minds, give us hands and feet, give us a will, give us feelings that all turn to you to ask, ‘What would you have us think, feel, and do?’ Make of us a people who look to you for our decisions. Make of us a church and community of believers that is different. Let it be said by all those who observe us, ‘Those people do not do what is right in their own eyes. They do what their Father tells them.’ We ask that you would show us what you want of us, our Lord and our King. Amen.”

  Chapter 33

  The Fall

  You never know when something is about to happen that will change the direction of your life. It can even seem a little thing at first, like a storm that gathers as a tiny speck on the horizon. You hardly pay it any attention, but then it comes closer and closer until pretty soon the whole sky is black and threatening.

  When Christopher went to see Mr. Jones earlier in the summer and came back with the report that he seemed so weak and tired, of course we were excited that he’d given his heart to God, but we were concerned too. It was obvious that he was getting older and that his health wasn’t as good as it once had been.

  For several weeks after that, Almeda, Becky, and I made sure we always made extra of whatever we were fixing. If he didn’t happen to be eating with us and if one of the men wasn’t free, then one of us took a meal down to his cabin every afternoon, with enough for that night and the next day. For those weeks we did all his cooking, and we three women did what we could to help tidy up his place, although I don’t suppose there was much hope of making it too orderly after all those years of him living alone like he had.

  Pa tried everything he could to persuade Mr. Jones to leave the cabin for a while and come stay with us. We had plenty of extra rooms, he insisted, especially with Christopher and me out in the new bunkhouse.

  “Dad-blamed if he ain’t a stubborn ol’ cuss!” Pa exclaimed in frustration one afternoon after returning from a visit and leaving a portion of that night’s stew. “He’s as ornery as one of his own mules!”

  But Mr. Jones wouldn’t hear of leaving his place. He said he didn’t want to put us to all that trouble.

  “I told him he’d be making it easier on the women, having him right there instead of having to take his supper down to him every day. That almost did the trick. He doesn’t cotton to the notion of folks having to nursemaid him—even his best friends.”

  “What did he say to it?” asked Almeda.

  “He thought about it some, but then he said he was feeling a lot better and wouldn’t be needing our cooking much longer anyway, though he did tell me to tell you how obliged to you all he was.”

  Almeda smiled. She’d always had a special place in her heart for Alkali Jones. So had we all.

  “Is he better, Drummond?” she asked after a moment.

  Pa sighed. “Yep, I’d have to say so,” he nodded, “a little, anyway. But Alkali ain’t no spring chicken any more. He’s slowed more’n a step or two, that’s for sure.”

  He stopped and sighed again. Then he stood up from the table where he’d been sitting and turned away as if trying to find something to do. “I don’t know . . . I just don’t know,” he muttered to himself.

  Pa and Almeda were older than the rest of us. They knew the signs and had seen them. We all just thought Alkali wasn’t feeling well for a while and would get better like people usually do.

  We kept taking him his meals, and by and by through the summer he did start feeling better and before long was coming up most days to the mine. We were glad to see him more like his old self again, and whenever he did come, he ate with us and that made it easier. Pa still tried every day to convince him to stay the night with us. He figured if he could just get Mr. Jones to sleep one night in one of our beds under our roof, then he wouldn’t mind the idea so much and would stay longer.

  But it didn’t work. Mr. Jones insisted on returning every evening to his own cabin.

  One day in August, all the men were up working at the mine. We women were in the kitchen, plucking a couple of chickens for that night’s supper when all of a sudden the door burst open with such a crash it sounded like it had broken off its hinges. We all jumped and turned to see Christopher running into the room.

  “Get me that bottle of whiskey you keep in the medicine chest, Almeda!” he cried.

  “What is it?” we all asked, terrified from the look on his face if nothing else, as Almeda ran for the whiskey.

  “Alkali’s had a bad fall. Becky, you’ve got to ride for Doc Shoemaker. Get him here as fast as you can. Corrie, can you get our bed ready for him in the bunkhouse.”

  “Of course.”

  Almeda ran into the room with the bottle and handed it to Christopher.

  “He’s unconscious,” he told her. “I’m hoping I can rouse him with this!”

  Christopher turned to leave, then stopped and turned back again.

  “Bring up some blankets,” he said. “We’ll make a stretcher to carry him down with.”

  He ran out and was gone.

  None of us said a word. Almeda went scurrying around for blankets. Becky and I ran out to the barn—Becky for the horses and I for the bunkhouse. I heard her gallop off a minute later while I was getting our stuff off the bed and a new blanket thrown over the top of it. Then I ran outside and met Almeda hurrying up toward the mine. I took half her armful of blankets, and we ran up together.

  We found Pa and Christopher and Tad huddled around Mr. Jones, Pa kneeling down and holding a wet cloth on Mr. Jones’ forehead while Christopher was trying to dribble bits of the whiskey into his mouth.

  “What happened?” said Almeda as we rushed up.

  “He was trying to climb up around that boulder there,” answered Pa with a toss of his head. “I’m not sure what he was thinking, but the rocks gave way and started to slide under him. He toppled over and rolled down here to the bottom.”

  The blood had drained from Mr. Jones’ head, and his face had become so pale it was pure white. His features always had such a weathered look—I’d never seen him l
ike this. If I didn’t know better I’d have thought he was dead, lying there so still and with his eyes closed.

  “Did . . . he strike his head?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” said Christopher. “Nowhere that I can find, at least.”

  “Why is he unconscious?”

  “He’s old, that’s why, Corrie,” said Pa. “Old folks aren’t meant to be climbing around rocks or falling down either.”

  There was frustration in his voice, and it was clear Pa blamed himself for not paying closer attention.

  “Do you think anything’s broken, Drummond?” asked Almeda. Before Pa could answer, a groan sounded from Mr. Jones.

  As miserable as it sounded, we were glad at least to know he was alive!

  He didn’t open his eyes, and I don’t think he was even conscious yet, but after another groan or two, his lips started twitching, and his tongue seemed to be looking for more of the whiskey it had felt.

  “Open up your mouth, Alkali,” said Pa.

  His lips seemed to part a crack. Christopher tipped the bottle toward it. Though most of the amber liquid went off down his chin, his tongue and lips started moving a little faster to retrieve what they could of the precious brew.

  Meanwhile, Almeda was spreading the blankets out beside him, folded double-thick. I helped her, and we put down three blankets in all.

  Pa and Christopher now stood, Pa at Mr. Jones’ shoulders and Christopher at his feet, and lifted him just enough to ease him over onto the blankets. Then we laid the fourth blanket out over the top of him.

  “If we all five grab at a piece of the blankets, we oughta be able to lift him and get him comfortably down to the bunkhouse,” said Pa. “Tad, you and me’ll get the two corners up here at his head. Christopher, you get the other end—you can manage both corners. Almeda and Corrie, you hold on there in the middle, by his waist, on both sides.”

  We all did just as Pa had said, took our positions, and laid hold of the blanket edges.

  “Okay, let’s lift him up—gentle as we can,” said Pa.

  With all five of us, Mr. Jones was lighter than I’d have thought. Working our way gradually down off the rocky slope, with Pa and Tad leading the way, we inched our way down onto the level ground and then toward the house, almost like we were carrying a funeral casket. All we heard was another groan or two, but Mr. Jones must have still been unconscious because he hardly moved a muscle.

  In five minutes we had him on top of our bed.

  Pa pulled his boots off—what a smell it was when he got them off, too! Our helping Mr. Jones with his wash hadn’t seemed to do much for his socks!

  Christopher unbuttoned his shirt to look for any injuries we hadn’t seen, but there didn’t seem to be any.

  We all gathered around, and as Pa began to pray we all inched closer to poor Mr. Jones.

  “Father,” he said, “we’d like to all ask you to take care of your son here, our good brother and friend Alkali Jones. Bring him back to us, Lord, and help us to be able to do what we need to get him back on his feet again.”

  “Amen,” said Christopher. “Restore him to health, Lord.”

  “Amen again,” added Almeda. “Bless him, Father. Keep him in your care.”

  We all fell silent. It was a somber moment, and we all felt it.

  “Well, let’s let him rest,” said Pa. “I’ll sit here with him a spell, till the doc comes.”

  “You’ve been trying to get him to give up that cabin of his all summer, Drum,” said Christopher. “Corrie, let’s you and me take what we’ll need over to the main house. I think Alkali has just moved in.”

  Chapter 34

  Waiting

  By the time Doc Shoemaker arrived, Mr. Jones was showing some signs of life, but mostly just groaning and licking his lips for more whiskey.

  The doc spent thirty or forty minutes with him doing all the things doctors do, listening to his heart and feeling his pulse and looking into his eyes and poking around everywhere to see if anything was broken. Nothing was, though the doc said he had enough bruises to keep him sore for a month.

  By the time Doc Shoemaker left, Mr. Jones had woken up, still groaning but awake enough to talk and answer a few questions and have a good glassful of the whiskey before he rolled over, with more groans, and went back to sleep.

  I saw Pa and the doctor come out of the bunkhouse. They talked for several minutes. Then Doc Shoemaker got in his buggy and went back to town. Pa came into the house where the rest of us were waiting.

  “What’d he say, Pa?” I asked, hardly giving him a chance to get the door closed.

  “Is he going to be all right, Drummond?” asked Almeda almost as quickly.

  Pa sat down and sighed.

  “Yeah, he’s gonna be all right . . . for now,” he said. “Doc said he couldn’t find a thing wrong to be concerned about, except . . .”

  “Except what?” asked Christopher.

  “Except just that he’s so weak. He asked me if he’d been eating. Course he’s been eating, I told him. We been feeding him ourselves. ‘Then it don’t figure why he’s so weak,’ the doc said. He said he seemed like he was too worn out to keep breathing. All Alkali said when he woke up was asking where he was. I told him he was in Corrie and Christopher’s bunkhouse and that’s where he was staying for a spell, and at least he didn’t argue none this time. I think he finally realized he wasn’t in very good shape. Doc said we oughta make sure someone’s with him most of the time.”

  “Why, Pa?” asked Tad, “if he’s all right.”

  “’Cause he’s old, son.”

  “But if he’s okay—”

  “He’s old and he’s weak, Tad,” said Pa sharply. “Ain’t no more reason than that.”

  Tad was quiet. Pa saw that he’d taken out his frustration by speaking too harshly.

  “I’m sorry, son,” he said. “I had no call to be rude to you. I’m just worried about Alkali, that’s all.”

  “Forget it, Pa,” smiled Tad. “I know you didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “It’s just that sometimes things happen when folks get old, things you don’t expect. That’s why you gotta be watching, you gotta be ready in case they need you.”

  Again it was silent. We all understood well enough what Pa was getting at.

  “Pa,” said Tad.

  “Yeah, son?”

  “Is Mr. Jones gonna die?”

  “Someday, Tad.”

  “I mean soon.”

  Pa let out a long breath.

  “I don’t know, son . . . I don’t know. He may. Only the Lord knows when a man’s time is.”

  “But you said he was weak.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, I reckon he is. But we’ll do all we can for him, and we’ll hope that tired, old body of his has a few more years in it.”

  We would pray too, of course.

  We all took turns sitting beside Mr. Jones’ bed the rest of that day and all night. Pa took some blankets out and slept the night on the floor.

  Mr. Jones seemed better by the next morning. He woke up and was able to drink some soup, but he didn’t talk about getting up. He slept most of that second day, too—at least he seemed to be sleeping. Maybe he was just lying there with his eyes closed.

  I read to him some from the New Testament that afternoon when I was pretty sure he was awake, and he said he liked it. Pa stayed there with him through the second night, too.

  Doc Shoemaker came out on the third day to check on him. He said Mr. Jones seemed better, but he didn’t look too happy when he said it, and I didn’t know if I liked the sound of his voice. He said he’d check on him in another few days.

  After three or four more days, we didn’t have to stay with Mr. Jones all the time. He wasn’t groaning anymore, and he remained awake through most of the day. But I knew Pa was still worried. I don’t think an hour would go by that Pa didn’t go into the bunkhouse and check on him and see if there was anything he wanted.

  “He ain’t eating, Almeda
,” I heard him whisper to her one morning in the kitchen.

  I saw her nod her head, but the rest of their conversation was too low for me to hear. I knew they were both concerned but didn’t know what to do.

  Chapter 35

  Losing an Old Friend

  It was the next evening after that when Tad came running into the house. He’d been out with Mr. Jones for a while.

  “Pa, Pa,” he said as he came in. “Mr. Jones said to get you.”

  Pa jumped up and headed for the door. “Is he . . . all right?”

  “I don’t know, Pa. His voice was real soft—I could hardly hear him. He just said to get you.”

  Pa went running out.

  All the rest of us looked around at each other. I know what we were all thinking, but nobody said anything. All at once we were all on our feet and hurrying after Pa.

  “You stay here, Ruth,” said Almeda, pausing and stooping down.

  “But I want to go, too.”

  “You have to stay here and pray, Ruth. Pray for God to be real close to Mr. Jones right now. Can you do that?”

  Ruth nodded.

  We all ran across the ground to the barn, but there was a feeling of having to stay quiet, too. Nobody said anything.

  My heart was pounding, and it wasn’t from the run. I was afraid. I knew I shouldn’t be and that there wasn’t anything to fear, but I couldn’t help it.

  Christopher hung back, not being one of the immediate family. Almeda opened the door and crept inside with Tad, Becky, Zack, and me right behind her. Then I felt Christopher’s hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

  “I’ll run for Nick,” he whispered.

  I nodded, then went inside. The atmosphere in the small bunkhouse room was hushed. The air felt momentous.

  Pa was already at the bedside, kneeling down, and Mr. Jones was speaking to him in a voice so soft you could barely hear it.

  “ . . . been as good a friend as a feller coulda had.”

  “And I’m gonna keep right on being your friend, you ol’ rascal,” said Pa, trying to sound gruff, like there wasn’t anything wrong.