by Janette Oke
“Oh no!” she cried. “What a mess!”
She washed her hands quickly at the outside basin, and the tears washed her cheeks as she raced for the tiny kitchen, where everything seemed to be going wrong.
When Clark came in for supper, he was served lukewarm mushy potatoes and slightly burned slices of ham along with the few slices of bread that remained. There was no mention of the carrots, which had just begun to boil, and of course no mention of the sad lumps called biscuits. Clark said nothing as he ate. Nothing, that is, except, “That’s right good coffee.”
Seven
A Welcome Visitor
Friday dawned clear and bright again, though the air did not regain the warmth of the first part of the week. Marty lay in bed remembering their supper the night before. She had carefully avoided any comment on the muddy chinking, but one small chunk in the corner had suddenly given way. It lost its footing between the logs, falling to the floor and leaving a bit of a smear on the way down. Clark had looked up in surprise but then had gone on eating. Marty prayed, or would have prayed had she known how, that the rest of it would stay where it dad-burn belonged. It did, and she thankfully cleared the table and washed the dishes.
Lamplight was needed in the evenings, as the days were short. The men worked in the fields as late as they could before turning to chores, so it was full dark before supper was over. Marty was glad when darkness had fallen that night. The lamplight cast shadows, obscuring the grayish chinking. As she washed Missie up before bed, she thought she heard another small piece give way, but she refused to acknowledge it, raising her voice to talk to Missie and try to cover the dismaying sound.
That had been last night, and now as Marty tried to prepare herself to face another day, she wondered what new and dreadful things it held for her. One thing she had already confronted. The bread crock was empty, and she had no idea of how to go about restocking it. She supposed Clark knew how to bake bread, but she’d die before she’d ask him. And what about the chinking? Had the miserable stuff finally dried to white and become what it was supposed to be? She dreaded the thought of going to look, but lying there wasn’t going to solve any problems.
She struggled up from her bed. Her muscles still ached from her strenuous efforts of the day before. She’d feel it for a few days, she was sure. Besides, she hadn’t slept well. Her thoughts had again been on Clem and how much she missed him. Now she dressed without caring, ran a comb through her hair, and went to the kitchen.
The first thing she noticed was the chinking. Here and there all around the walls, small pieces lay crumbled on the floor. Marty felt like crying, but little good that would do. She’d have to face Clark with it, confess what she had done, and accept her well-deserved rebuke for it.
She stuffed a couple of sticks into the fire and put on the coffee. Suddenly she wondered just how many pots of coffee she would have to make in her future. At the moment those pots seemed to stretch into infinity.
She found a kettle and put on some water to boil. This morning they’d have porridge for breakfast. But porridge and what? she wondered crossly. What did you have with porridge if you had no biscuits, no muffins, no bread, “no nuthin’,” Marty fretted out loud. Pulling the pot off the stove in disgust, she went to work again making pancakes.
Missie awakened and Marty went in to pick her up. The child smiled and Marty found herself returning it.
“Mornin’, Missie. Come to Mama,” she said, trying the words with effort to see how they’d sound. She didn’t really like them, she decided, and wished she hadn’t even used them.
Missie came gladly and chattered as she was being dressed. Marty could understand more of the baby words now. She was saying something about Pa, and the cows that went moo, and the chickens that went cluck, and pigs—Marty couldn’t catch the funny sound that represented the pigs, but she smiled at the child as she carried her to her chair.
Clark came in to a now-familiar breakfast and greeted his daughter, who squealed a happy greeting in return.
After the reading of the Bible passage, they bowed their heads for Clark’s prayer. He thanked his Father for the night’s rest and the promise of “a fair day for the layin’ in of the rest of Jedd’s harvest.”
Marty was surprised at the next part of the prayer.
“Father, be with the one who works so hard to be a proper mama for Missie an’ a proper keeper of this home.”
The prayer continued, but Marty missed it. Everything she had done thus far had been a failure. No wonder Clark felt it would take help from the Almighty himself to set things in order again. She didn’t know if she should feel pleased or angry at such a prayer, so she forcefully shoved aside the whole thing just in time for the “amen.”
“Amen,” echoed Missie, and breakfast began.
At first they ate rather silently, only Clark and Missie exchanging some comments and Clark scolding Missie.
“Don’t ya be a throwin’ pancake on the floor. Thet’s a naughty girl an’ makes more work fer yer mama.”
Marty caught a few other references to “yer mama,” as well, and realized that Clark had been using the words often in the past two days. She knew he was making a conscious effort at educating the little girl to regard her as mama. She supposed she’d have to get used to it. After all, that’s what she was here for—certainly not to amuse the serious-looking young man across the table from her.
Another piece of chinking clattered down, and Marty took a deep breath and burst forth with, “I’m afeared I made a dreadful mistake yesterday. I took to cleanin’ the kitchen—”
“I’d seen me it was all fresh and clean lookin’ an’ smellin’,” Clark said quickly.
Now, why’d he do that? she stormed inwardly. She took another gulp of air and went on, “But I didn’t know what scrub water would be doin’ to the chinkin’. I mean, I didn’t know thet it would all soak up like an’ then not dry right agin.”
Clark said nothing.
She tried once more. “Well, it’s fallin’ apart like. I mean—well, look at it. It’s crumblin’ up an’ fallin’ out—”
“Yeah,” said Clark with a short nod, not even lifting his eyes.
“Well, it’s not stayin’ in place,” Marty floundered. “Whatever can we do?”
She was almost angry by now. His calmness unnerved her.
He looked up then and answered slowly. “Well, when I go to town on Saturday, I’ll pick me up some more chinkin’. It’s a special kind like. Made to look whiter an’ cleaner, but no good at all fer holdin’ out the weather—the outside chinkin’ has to do thet job. There still be time to redo it ’fore winter sets in. Water don’t hurt the outer layer none, so it’s holdin’ firm like. Don’t ya worry yerself none ’bout it. I’m sure thet the bats won’t be a flyin’ through the cracks afore I git to ’em.”
He almost smiled and she could have gleefully kicked him. He rose to go.
“I reckon ya been pushin’ yerself pretty hard, though, an’ it might be well if you’d not try to lick the whole place in a week like. There’s more days ahead, an’ ya be lookin’ kinda tired.” He hesitated. “Iffen ya should decide to do more cleanin’, jest brush down the walls with a dry brush. All right?”
He kissed Missie good-bye after telling her to be a good girl for her mama and went out the door for what he said might be the last day of helping Jedd Larson with his crop. Marty supposed he’d be around the place more then. She dreaded the thought, but it was bound to come sooner or later.
She put water on to heat so she could wash up the rag rugs before winter set in and then found a soft brush to dust the sitting room walls.
It didn’t take nearly as long to brush them as it had to scrub the kitchen, and it did take care of the cobwebs and dust. She was surprised to be done so quickly and went on to the windows and floor, as well.
The sitting room curtains were still fluttering in the fall breeze and the rugs drying in the sun when she heard the dog announce a team approaching. Looki
ng out of the window, she recognized Mrs. Graham, and her heart gave a glad flutter as she went out to welcome her. They exchanged greetings, and Ma Graham put her team in the shade and gave them some hay to keep them content with the wait. Then she followed Marty to the house.
The dog lay on one side of the path now, chewing hard on a small, bonelike object. Marty saw with dismay that it was one of her biscuits. The dad-blame dog had dug it up. With a flush to her cheeks, she hurried Mrs. Graham on by, hoping the older woman would fail to recognize the lump for what it really was.
As they entered the kitchen, Marty was overcome with shyness. She had never welcomed another woman into her kitchen. She knew not what to do or say, and she certainly had little to offer this visitor in the way of refreshment.
Marty noticed that Ma Graham kept her eyes discreetly away from the crumbled chinking and remarked instead about the well-scrubbed floor.
Marty bustled about self-consciously, stuffing wood in the stove and putting on the coffee. Ma talked easily of weather, of delightful little Missie, whom her girls loved to care for, and the good harvest. Still Marty felt ill at ease. She was thankful when the coffee had boiled and she was able to pour them each a cup. She placed Missie in her chair with a glass of milk and put on the cream and sweetening for Ma in case she used it. With a sinking heart, she realized she didn’t have a thing to serve with the coffee—not so much as a crust of bread. Well, the coffee was all she had, so the coffee would have to do.
“I see ya been busy as a bee, fall cleanin’,” Ma observed.
“Yeah,” responded Marty.
“Nice to have things all cleaned up fer the long days an’ nights ahead when a body can’t be out much. Them’s quiltin’ an’ knittin’ days.”
Yeah, that’s how she felt.
“Do ya have plenty of rugs fer comfort?”
She was sure they did.
“What ’bout quilts? Ya be needin’ any of those?”
No, she didn’t think so.
They slowly sipped their coffee. Then Ma’s warm brown eyes turned upon her.
“How air things goin’, Marty?”
It wasn’t the words, it was the look that did it. The expression in Ma’s eyes said that she truly cared how things were going, and Marty’s firm resolve to hold up bravely went crumbling just like the chinking. Words tumbled over words as she poured out to Ma all about the pancakes, Missie’s stubborn outburst, the bread crock being empty, the horrid biscuits, Missie’s disappearance, the chinking, the terrible supper she had served the night before, and, finally, her deep longing for the husband whom she had lost so recently. Ma sat silently, her eyes filling with tears. Then suddenly she rose, and Marty was fearful that she had offended the older woman by her outburst.
“Come, my dear,” Ma said gently, her tone putting any fear of offense to rest. “You air gonna have ya a lesson in breadmakin’. Then I’ll sit me down an’ write ya out every recipe thet I can think of. It’s a shame what ya’ve been a goin’ through the past few days, bein’ as young as ya are an’ still sorrowin’ an’ all, an’ if I don’t miss my guess”—her kind eyes traveling over Marty’s figure—“ya be in the family way, too, ain’t ya, child?”
Marty nodded silently, swallowing her tears, and Ma took over, working and talking and finally managing to make Marty feel more worthwhile than she had felt since she had lost her Clem.
After a busy day, Ma departed. She left behind her a sheaf of recipes with full instructions, fresh-baked bread that filled the kitchen with its aroma, a basketful of her own goodies, and a much more confident Marty with supper well in hand.
Marty breathed a short prayer that if there truly was a God up there somewhere, He’d see fit to send a special blessing upon this wonderful woman whom she had so quickly learned to love.
Eight
It’s a Cruel World
Saturday dawned clear and cooler. The breakfast of porridge and corn muffins was hurried so Clark might get an early start to town. Marty presented him with the list that Ma Graham had helped her prepare the day before.
“Mind ya,” Ma had told her, “in the winter months it be sometimes three or four weeks between the trips we be a takin’ to town because of winter storms, an’ ya never know ahead which Saturdays ya be missin’, so ya al’ays has to be stocked up like.”
So the list had turned out to be a lengthy one, and Marty inwardly was concerned, but Clark did not seem surprised as he skimmed quickly through it. He nodded his agreement with the list, then bent to kiss Missie good-bye, promising her a surprise when he returned.
Marty sighed in relief at another day without him about and turned her thoughts to planning what she would do with it. Clark had cautioned her to take things a bit easier, and Ma Graham said she feared that Marty was “overdoin’ for a woman in her state,” but Marty knew she must have something demanding to fill her hours or the sense of her terrible loss would overwhelm her. She looked around to see what to tackle on this day. She’d finish her cleaning, she decided. First she’d put water on to heat so she could wash the bedding. Then she’d do the window, walls, and floor in the bedroom, and if time still allowed, she’d do the shed. She did not even consider cleaning the lean-to. That’s Clark’s private quarters, she told herself, and she would not intrude.
Setting Missie up with her little rag doll and a small handmade quilt to wrap it in, Marty began her tasks, forcing her mind to concentrate on what she was doing. A nagging fear raised its head occasionally. If she finished all the hard cleaning today, what would she do tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that? Marty pushed the thought aside. The tomorrows would have to care for themselves. She couldn’t face too far into the future right now. She was sure if she let her mind focus on the weeks and months ahead of her in this tiny cabin with a husband she had not chosen and a child who was not hers, she’d break under the weight of it all.
She finished her final task of the day just in time to begin supper preparations. Clark had said he should be home for the usual chore time. She thumbed through the recipes Ma had left. She’d fix biscuits and a vegetable stew, she decided, using some of the meat broth Ma had brought to flavor the stew. She went to work, discovering that she had overlooked stoking the fire again.
“Dad-burn it. Will I never learn?” she fretted as she set to work to rebuild it. Missie, clutching her doll, watched it all with wide eyes.
“Da’-bu’n it,” Marty heard the little girl murmur and couldn’t help but feel a bit sheepish. She took a deep breath to calm herself, and the vegetables were simmering nicely when the team pulled up outside. Clark unhitched the wagon near the house to make it easier to unload the supplies, then went on to the barn with the horses.
Marty continued her supper preparations. This time, thanks to Ma Graham, the biscuits looked far more promising.
She noticed that Clark looked weary when he came in from his chores. He gave Missie a warm hug before he sat down at the table, but Marty thought his shoulders seemed to droop a bit. Was shopping really that hard on a man, or had she made the list too long and spent all his money? Marty mulled it over from her place at the table, but there didn’t seem to be an answer, so she concentrated on cooling Missie’s stew.
“’Fraid the totin’ in of all of the supplies will sort of mess up yer well-ordered house fer the moment.” Clark’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Thet’s okay,” Marty responded. “We’ll git them in their proper place soon enough.”
“A lot of the stock supplies will go up in the loft over the kitchen,” Clark went on. “Ya reach it by a ladder on the outside of the house.”
Marty felt her eyes widen. “I didn’t know there’d be a loft up there,” she told him.
“It’s nigh empty right now, so there wasn’t much use in yer knowin’. We stock it up in the fall so’s we won’t run out of sech things as flour an’ salt come the winter storms. I’ll carry the stock supplies direct up so’s I won’t have to clutter yer house with ’em.
The smaller things, though, I’ll have to bring in here so’s ya can put ’em all away in the place where ya want ’em. Do ya be wantin’ ’em in the kitchen or in the shed?”
Marty knew it would be handier in the kitchen, yet if they were in the shed, there wouldn’t be such a clutter until she got them put away. She decided on the shed, and they hurried through their supper in order to get at the task.
After they had finished eating, Clark pulled from his pocket a small bag of sweets and offered one to Missie. Then he gave the sack to Marty, telling her to help herself and then tuck it away in the cupboard for future treats. Missie sucked in noisy enjoyment, declaring it “num” and “Pa’s yummy.”
Marty washed the dishes, and Clark brought the supplies into the shed as they had agreed.
As she filled cans and crocks, Marty felt heady with the bounty of it all. She could hear Clark as he labored under the heavy bags, climbing again and again up the ladder to the kitchen loft.
At last it was all done. The cupboards were bulging. Imagine if she and Clem could have stocked up like that. Wouldn’t it have been like Christmas and picnics and birthdays all wrapped up in one? She sighed and wiped away an unexpected tear.
Marty was tucking Missie in for the night, wondering if Clark was going to come hear the little girl’s prayers as he usually did, when she heard him struggling with a rather heavy load. Marty’s curiosity led her back to the kitchen to investigate. Clark, hammer in hand, was removing a crate enclosing some large object. She stood watching silently from the door while Clark’s tool unmasked the contents. Her breath caught in her throat, for there, shining with metal and polished wood, stood the most wondrous sewing machine she had ever seen.
Clark did not look her way but began speaking, his voice sounding as weary as his shoulders had looked. But he seemed to feel that some kind of explanation was in order.
“I ordered it some months back as a surprise fer my Ellen. She liked to sew an’ was al’ays makin’ somethin’ fancy like. It was to be fer her birthday. She would have been twenty-one—tomorrow.” Clark looked up then. “I’d be proud if ya’d consider it yourn now. I’m sure ya can make use of it. I’ll move it into yer room under the window iffen it pleases ya.”
