by Janette Oke
Marty supposed she should wait and let Wanda tell her news, but the glow on her face prompted Marty to question further. “But what’s yer news? I can see yer fairly burstin’.”
Wanda chuckled—almost a girlish giggle, Marty thought. She had never seen Wanda look so happy.
“Oh, Marty!” Wanda said. “That’s right, I’m fairly bursting.” Then she laughed, took a deep breath, and rushed on, “I’ve just been to see Dr. Watkins. I’m going to have a baby!”
At Marty’s exultant “Oh, Wanda!” she continued her report.
“Dr. Watkins says he sees no reason why I shouldn’t be able to keep this one. No reason why it shouldn’t live. Cam is so excited—says our son is going to be the handsomest, the strongest, the smartest boy in the whole West.”
“Well, I’m guessin’ Clark might have himself somethin’ to say about thet,” Marty laughed.
Wanda laughed, too. “When I asked him, ‘What if it’s a girl?’ he said she would be the prettiest, the sweetest, and the daintiest girl in the whole West. Oh, Marty, I’m so happy I could just cry.” And she did.
Marty went to put her arms around her, and they cried together, unashamed of the tears of joy that trickled down their cheeks.
“I’m jest so happy fer ya, Wanda,” Marty finally was able to say. “An’ with Doc here, everythin’ will go all right, I’m jest sure. Ya’ll finally have thet baby you’ve been wantin’ so bad. When will it be?”
Wanda moaned, “Oh, it seems so far away yet. Not until next April.”
“But the months will go quickly. They always do. An’ ya can have the winter months to be preparin’ fer ’im. Sewin’ and quilting an’ all. It’ll make the winter sech a happy time. It’ll go so fast ya’ll find it hard to be doin’ all ya want.”
“I hope so. Marty, can you show me the pattern for that sweater Arnie was wearing last Sunday? I’d like to make one.”
“Sure. Ya’ll have no problem at all crochetin’ thet.”
Over coffee and sugar cookies, Marty and Wanda worked out the pattern—Wanda taking notes as Marty showed her the sweater and explained the crochet stitches.
The afternoon went quickly, and when Arnie and Clare awoke from their naps, Wanda said she must be on her way.
Missie was sent to ask Clark if he would bring Wanda’s team. He complied at once, and with another embrace and well wishes, Wanda was on her way home.
Marty walked back to the grain bin with Clark. “Wanda had the best news,” she enthused. “She is finally gonna have thet baby she wants so badly. She’s so excited. Oh, I pray thet everythin’ll be okay this time.”
Marty could tell Clark was pleased for Wanda. She went on, “An’ Cam says iffen it’s a boy, it’ll be the smartest, handsomest, and best in the West, and iffen it’s a girl, the prettiest. I told her you might give him some argument on that,” and the two laughed together.
Then Clark’s eyes became thoughtful.
“Ya prob’ly don’t know Cameron Marshall too well yet, do ya?”
“I’ve hardly met the man—only seen ’im a few times at neighborhood meetin’s. Why?”
Clark’s expression became even more serious. He said, “He’s a rather strange man.” He paused a moment. “It’s jest like Cam to feel thet his boy’s gotta be the smartest, his girl the prettiest. Thet’s like Cam.” He waited a moment. “I think thet’s the reason he married Wanda. He figured she was the prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on—so she jest had to be ‘his.’ The problem with Cameron Marshall is the importance he puts on ‘mine’s the best.’ I ’member one time Cam saw a fine horse. He jest had to have it ’cause he figured it a little better’n any other horse in these parts. Sold all his seed grain to git thet horse. Set him back fer years, but he had him a better-lookin’ horse than anybody ’round about. Guess he figured it was worth it.
“Ever notice his wagon? All painted up an’ with extry metal trimmin’s. Could have had a bigger place to live. Men of the neighborhood figured on being neighborly a few years back and helped him log so’s he could build. ’Stead, he saw thet wagon, so he sold the logs an’ bought it—an’ he an’ Wanda still live in thet one little room. The way Cam sees it, a house belongs to the woman, not the man. Often wished he’d take him a notion thet he had to have the best house, too—might find ’im a way to git one. Sure would be easier fer Wanda—an’ now with a baby comin’, they sure do need more room.”
Clark was looking off at the distant hills as he finished. Marty had never known before what kind of a man Cameron Marshall was. She felt helpless and wished there was something she could do to help her friend.
Clark mused, “Often wondered what would make a man feel so unsure of himself like, thet he had to prove himself by gittin’ things. Somethin’ deep down must be troublin’ Cam to have made ’im like he is.”
Clark took a deep breath and seemed to bring himself back from a long way off. “Sure do hope thet the young’un be a dandy, or it’s gonna be awful hard on his pa.”
He turned to face Marty and smiled then. “Didn’t mean to put a damper on yer good news. I’m sure Cam will have reason to be proud—an’ Wanda—I’m real happy fer Wanda. It’ll wake her life up to have a baby in it.”
The day held a chill with reminders that winter was around the corner. As Marty packed a box with bread, soup broth, vegetables, and molasses cookies, she was thankful no wind was blowing.
Word had come that morning that Mrs. Larson was ill. It sounded like something far more serious than a common cold or flu, and Marty felt she should go and see her neighbor, even though the cold wind was rather daunting.
Clark did not like to see her go alone, but with the fact that Missie was far too young to be left in charge of Clare and Little Arnie, there was nothing for him to do but remain at home with the children.
Marty dressed as warmly as she could. Then, carrying her box with her, she went out to where Clark waited with the team.
“Don’t let yerself to be kept over-late,” he cautioned. “An’ should it start to really blow, head home quick like.”
Marty promised, tucked the blanket carefully around herself, and started off.
When the rather unkempt Larson homestead came into view, Marty noticed only a tiny wisp of smoke rising from the chimney of the cabin.
No one met her in the yard to assist her with the team, so she tethered Dan and Charlie to a nearby post and hurried, with her box, to the house.
There was a stirring at the window, and the tattered curtain fell back into place as she approached. Her knock was answered by the younger daughter, Clae, who quietly motioned her in.
Her sister, Nandry, was washing dirty dishes in a pan of equally dirty water. A stubby broom leaning against the table indicated to Marty that Clae had been making an effort to sweep the floor.
Well, at least they are trying, Marty thought with thankfulness. After greeting the girls, she turned to the almost-cold stove. The room was cold, too, and sent shivers through her, in spite of the fact she had not yet removed her coat.
She opened the lid of the stove to observe one lone piece of wood smoldering in the firebox.
“Where’s yer wood?” she asked hopefully.
Clae answered, “Is none. Pa didn’t get it cut, and we can’t split it.”
“Do ya have an axe?”
“Yeah . . . sort of.”
Marty discovered what the “sort of” meant when she went out to the scattered heap that made up their meager winter supply. Never had she seen such a dull and chipped tool. With a great deal of effort she was able to chop enough wood to take the chill off the house.
After she had built up the fire and placed a kettle on to boil, she went in to see Mrs. Larson.
The woman lay huddled under some blankets on a narrow bed in the second room of the small cabin. Marty was relieved to see that at least clothing was not strewn all over the room. Then she realized with despair that probably everything they owned was on their backs, in an effort to keep out a
s much of the cold as possible. Mrs. Larson lay white and quiet beneath the scant covers.
Why didn’t I think to bring a heavy quilt? Marty reprimanded herself, and even as the thought went through her mind, she saw the shiver that passed through Mrs. Larson. Marty stood close to the bed, reaching out to gently smooth the hair back from the thin white face.
“How are ya?” she whispered.
Mrs. Larson attempted an answer, but it was muted and low.
“I’ll git ya some warm broth right away,” Marty said and hurried back to the kitchen. She put the broth on to heat, then went out to the sleigh and returned with the blanket she had tucked around herself for the drive over. She warmed the blanket at the stove before she took it in to Mrs. Larson and wrapped it close about the shivering body.
The broth was soon warm, and Marty asked Clae for a dish and a spoon. She took the bread from the box and handed it to the girl.
“Why don’t you an’ Nandry have ya some broth while it’s hot, an’ some bread to go with it?” she said.
The hungry looks in the girls’ eyes told her they would do so eagerly.
Marty carried the hot broth to Mrs. Larson. She realized the woman was already too weak to feed herself and hoped she would not object to being spoon-fed. There was no need to worry. Mrs. Larson accepted the food with thankfulness showing in her eyes.
“The girls . . .” she whispered.
“They’re eatin’,” Marty assured her quickly, and Mrs. Larson looked relieved.
Marty chatted quietly as she spooned. “I’m so sorry thet yer down. I didn’t hear of it ’til today. Jedd should have let us know, an’ we could’ve been over to help sooner.
“Nice thet ya got those two fine girls to be helpin’. When I came, Nandry was washing up the dishes an’ Clae sweepin’ the floor. Must be a great comfort to ya—them girls.”
Mrs. Larson’s eyes took on a bit more life, and she nodded slightly. Marty knew how she loved her girls.
“Must be a real tryin’ time fer ya. A woman jest hates to git down—hates to not be carin’ fer her family. Makes one feel awful useless like, but God, He knows all ’bout how ya feel—why yer sick. There’s always a reason fer His ’llowin’, though we can’t always see it right off like. I’m sure there’s a good reason fer this, too. Someday, maybe we’ll know why.”
The broth was almost gone, but Mrs. Larson feebly waved the remainder aside. Marty didn’t know if she was full or just tired. Then Mrs. Larson spoke. Slowly at first, but gradually her words poured one over the other, tumbling out in quick succession in a need to be said. She breathed heavily, and the effort of speaking cost her dearly, but she seemed determined to get it out.
“My girls,” she said, “my girls never had nothin’, nothin’—thet’s not what I want fer my girls. Their pa, he’s a good man, but he don’t understand ’bout girls. I been prayin’—prayin’ thet somehow God would give ’em a chance. Jest a chance, thet’s all I ask fer. Me—I don’t matter now. I lived my life. Yet I ain’t sayin’ I’m wantin’ to die—I’m scared to die. I ain’t been a good woman, Marty. I got no business askin’ God fer nothin’, but I ain’t askin’ it fer me—only my girls. Do ya think God hears my prayers, Marty? I wouldn’t ’ave even dared to pray, but my girls, they need—” She finally broke off with a sob.
Marty caressed the thin hand grasping the blanket.
“’Course He hears,” she said with deep conviction.
Mrs. Larson looked as though a great weight was being lifted from her.
“Could He show love to young’uns of a sinful woman?” Her eyes pleaded that the answer be reassuring.
“Yes,” Marty said slowly. “He loves the girls, an’ He will help ’em. I’m sure He will. But, Mrs. Larson, He loves you, too, an’ He wants to help you. He loves ya, He truly does. I know thet yer a sinner, but we all are no different. The Book says thet we all be sinnin’ an’ hangin’ on to our sin like it’s somethin’ worthwhile keepin’, but it’s not. We gotta let go of it, and God will take it from us an’ put it there in thet big pile of sin thet Jesus took on himself the day He died. It isn’t our goodness thet makes us fittin’ to share heaven with Him. It’s our faith in Jesus. We jest—well, we jest say ‘thank ya, Lord, fer dyin’, an’ clean me up on the inside so’s I’ll be fittin’ fer yer heaven’—an’ He will. He takes this earth-soiled soul of ours an’ He cleans and polishes it fer heaven. Thet’s what He does, an’ all—jest in answer to our prayer of askin’.” Marty smoothed the tangled hair back from the feverish brow. “Do ya want to pray, Mrs. Larson?”
The woman looked surprised. “I’ve never prayed. Not fer myself—jest fer my girls. I wouldn’t know what to say to Him.”
“Ya said it to me,” Marty reminded her gently. “Jest tell Him thet yer done hangin’ on to yer sins—thet ya don’t want to carry ’em anymore, an’ would He please git rid of ’em fer ya. Then thank Him, too—fer His love an’ His cleanin’.”
Mrs. Larson looked hesitant but then began her short prayer. The faltering words gradually gathered strength and assurance. When Marty opened her tear-dimmed eyes, she was met by a weak yet confident smile and equally teary eyes.
“He did!” Mrs. Larson exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “He did!”
Marty squeezed Mrs. Larson’s hand and wiped the tears from her own cheeks.
“’Course He did,” she affirmed. “An’ He’ll answer yer other prayer, too. I don’t know how He’ll manage it, but I’m sure thet He will.”
She stood up. The sun was quickly moving to the west, and she knew she must be on her way home. “Mrs. Larson, I gotta go soon. I promised Clark I’d not be late, but there’s somethin’ I want ya to know. Iffen anythin’ happens to ya—an’ I’m hopin’ ya’ll soon be on yer feet again—but iffen anythin’ does happen, I’ll do my best to see thet yer girls git thet chance.”
Mrs. Larson was silent. She seemed to be holding her breath, and then Marty realized she was too deeply moved to speak—save to her newly found God.
Again the woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank ya, oh, thank ya!” she finally managed to say, over and over.
Marty touched her hand lightly and turned to go. She had to hurry home so there would be enough time for Clark to get back to the Larson homestead with a load of firewood and warm quilts.
Five
Exciting News
Marty finished patching a pair of Clare’s overalls and laid them aside. It was too early to begin supper. She picked up another item of mending and let her mind slide over some of the events of the past few months.
She had gone several times to visit Mrs. Larson. Ma Graham and other neighbor women helped out often, as well, nursing the woman and caring for the needs of the family. Though Mrs. Larson rested contentedly in her newfound inner peace, she continued to weaken, and though none of them expressed it in words, Marty knew they were fighting a losing battle. The doc had been called, too, and he silently shook his head and encouraged them to keep her as comfortable as possible.
The children’s laughter about something or other as they played near the warm stove pulled Marty’s thoughts away from Mrs. Larson’s illness to more cheerful things.
Spring would soon be upon them, and with its coming two new babies would be welcomed to their neighborhood—in April. Marty was very happy for the new mothers-to-be and prayed that all would go well.
The first to arrive would be Wanda’s. She, who had already lost three children and wanted a child so badly, deserved to have this happiness. Now with a doctor available, Wanda had been given the confidence to hope this time would go well.
“Please, God, let it be all right for Wanda,” Marty prayed many times a day.
The second baby was Sally Anne’s. This first grandchild for Ben and Ma would be very special. Sally Anne, too, had hoped to be a mother earlier but had not carried her first baby to full term. Now the days of her delivery were very near at hand and things seemed to be going well this time. Marty knew that Sally Anne
wasn’t the only one counting the days.
As Marty mulled over the promise of new young lives that the month ahead would bring, her eyes turned to her own small ones as they played contentedly near by.
Missie was dressing a kitten in doll clothes. After much arguing and persuading on Missie’s part, Marty had finally agreed to allow one small barn cat in the house. It was named Miss Puss by Missie and treated like a baby. Never had a kitten had more love and fondling than Miss Puss. Marty wondered if Miss Puss might have welcomed a few moments of peace.
Clare was piling blocks in an effort to construct a barn. The blocks would periodically fall on the unfortunate pieces of broom straw that were his farm animals, and then he would need to start over again.
Arnie, who could now sit alone, watched Clare intently, looking particularly fascinated by the noise created when the blocks came tumbling down. This would bring gurgles of delight, and his round little body would rock back and forth with excitement.
Clare dutifully explained to young Arnie which straws were the horses, which the cows, the calves, and the hogs. Arnie listened wide-eyed and squealed in response.
At the sound of Ole Bob, the room came alive. Clark had returned from town. Marty hadn’t expected him for another hour. She got up quickly and checked the clock to see if she had misread the time. No, it was indeed early.
Clare jumped up from his spot on the rug. “Pa’s home!” he shouted, letting his building blocks fall where they may, unmindful of the damage done to the straw horses and cows.
Marty started to call him back to pick up the toys, then changed her mind. He could pick them up when he came in for supper. It was important to him—and to Clark—that he now greet his pa.
Missie, too, holding carefully the blanketed kitten, headed for the door.
“Boy, I’ll bet Arnie’s sad!” Clare yelled as he ran through the kitchen.
“Whatcha meanin’?” Marty had to call after him to be heard.
“He can’t run,” the fleeing boy flung back over his shoulder and was gone, the door slamming behind him.
