by Janette Oke
“Looks like winter’s really settlin’ in,” Clark mentioned as he hurried the team with a flick of the reins. Marty shivered again. The thought of winter somehow fit with thoughts of the visit ahead.
As they turned the team down the lane to the log house, Clark and Marty both noticed the condition of the farmyard.
“Things sure do go down quickly when a farm is left vacant,” Clark commented, and Marty silently agreed.
Clark tied the team. They both had expected someone to come to the door, if not out to the yard, to welcome them, but there was no sign of movement anywhere. Clark led the way up to the door. A wisp of smoke was struggling from the chimney, fighting its way against the wind and snow. Marty pulled her coat more tightly about her and, too, fought her way against the wind.
Clark rapped loudly on the wooden door. They could hear some shuffling inside, but the door did not open. Clark rapped again.
The door opened a crack, and the pale face of a young man peeked out at them. He looked pained and hesitant.
“What d’ya want?” he rasped out.
“We’re neighbors—from down the road a piece,” Clark responded. “Jest thought we’d pay a call.”
The door opened a bit farther. Marty could see the bandages over the stub of an arm. There were traces of blood showing on the whiteness. She shivered but not from the cold. She wasn’t quite prepared for this.
“Nobody home but me,” the lad said, still not inviting them in.
“Then guess we’ll jest visit with you a spell,” answered Clark cheerily, and he moved slightly to usher Marty in before him.
The boy moved back from the door, allowing it to open wide enough for their entrance. Marty could tell that it was only manners, not desire, that allowed them into the cabin. Her heart was deeply stirred for the young man.
He turned to them. “Won’t ya sit,” he said gruffly.
Clark did not take the chair nearby, the one that had been offered. He helped Marty out of her coat and seated her, then walked across the room to a chair near the window. His crutch thumped strangely on the wooden floor. There had been a time when the thumping crutch had sounded familiar. Now, after a number of years with the artificial limb, it sounded strange and eerie.
The boy had noticed. Marty saw him stiffen.
Clark seated himself and laid the crutch aside. He turned to the young man.
“Don’t think I’ve heard yer name,” he began. The boy didn’t respond, and he went on, “Understand yer pa jest bought the place here.”
“We’re jest leasing,” answered the boy. “Got no money for buying.”
“Heard about yer accident. Powerful sorry. Terrible pain, ain’t it?”
The dark eyes of the boy shadowed. Marty wondered if he was about to ask Clark what he knew about the pain, but his eyes fell again to the stump of a leg. He didn’t say anything, just nodded dumbly.
“The worst should soon be over now,” Clark continued. “It should soon be lettin’ ya get some sleep at night.”
Again the boy nodded. He still said nothing. Marty concluded he did not want to discuss his missing arm.
“Care for some tea?” the boy finally asked into the silence.
“That would be nice,” exclaimed Marty, sounding a bit too enthusiastic to her own ears. The young fellow moved forward to lift the teapot from a cupboard shelf and put in the tea leaves. The kettle on the stove was already hot, and he poured the water into the pot. It slopped over some, hot water sizzling as it hit the iron of the stove surface. Clearly he was still adjusting to managing with only one hand.
“Can I give ya some help—” Marty began, rising from her chair, but as she caught the quick glance of Clark, she sat back down and busied herself with easing imaginary wrinkles from her full skirt.
The boy fumbled with cups from the cupboard. He handled them without too much problem, but when he went to slice some dry-looking bread to go with the drink, Marty turned away. She could not bear to see him struggling with the small task.
She could feel the tears stinging her eyes. Why? Why should one so young face such pain and loss?
Marty let her eyes move over the small room. She needed something—anything—to fill her thoughts.
The room was dingy and sparsely furnished. The little that was there needed care. The bare wooden floor was in need of scrubbing. Dirty dishes were stacked on the bit of available cupboard space. The stove was covered with charred bits of remaining spills. The walls and windows were empty of anything that would give the place a homey look. Marty shuddered again and turned back to the young boy. It was clear that the family was not very well off. Marty felt pity for them rising within her. Determinedly she shook it off. She felt sure they would not welcome her pity.
“Just pull up your chairs,” the boy was saying, and he placed the bread and tea on the table.
“’Fraid we’re outta butter,” he acknowledged without any real apology in his voice. He was just stating a fact.
Clark helped Marty move her chair to the table and then he pulled his own forward. Marty ached to be allowed the privilege of serving the tea, but she held her tongue. The boy poured. Some of it splashed on the table without comment from anyone.
“Where you folks from?” asked Clark as he sipped the tea.
“We jest came back from the West,” said the boy. “Afore that Pa worked in a hardware store. He was sure the West would make us a better living, but we had us some hard luck.”
“Sorry to hear thet,” responded Clark.
“My pa got sick with some kind of lung fever, and Ma an’ me just couldn’t keep things going. He’s some better now, but by then we’d lost our claim. Pa tried to get jobs in various towns, but there wasn’t anything there, either. So we came on back. Got this far on the cash we had. We heard ’bout this here place. Fellow in town said we could live here cheap. Just a few dollars a month, but it needs lots of fixing. Can’t rent the land though. Guess one of the boys still farms it.”
That would be Josh, the Coffins’ son-in-law. Clark and Marty knew that Josh farmed his father’s land along with his own.
It was not intended as a hard-luck story, they could tell, just a brief statement of how things were.
“Where’re yer folks now?” asked Clark.
“Logging,” replied the boy. “This fellow said we could help ourselves to all the logs we wanted. We need firewood, and Pa reckoned anything extra we could take out we could sell for supplies.”
Logging! Both his pa and his ma. Logging to try to get fuel supplies so that the family could survive the harshness of the prairie winter. Marty shivered again. Logging had already cost the young boy his arm.
“I got me a whole root cellar of vegetables and fruit,” Marty said. “I was wonderin’ what to do with all the extry. It’ll jest up and spoil a sittin’ there. I hate haulin’ out rotten vegetables come spring. We can jest bring some of ’em over here fer the use of you folk.”
Clark caught the look on the face of the young man. The family did not ask for charity. The boy threw a glance toward Marty, and she stumbled on quickly, “In exchange for some of the logs, thet is. Thet is—iffen ya be carin’ to trade?”
The boy relaxed. “I reckon we might,” he said evenly. “I’ll ask Pa.”
Marty wasn’t going to worry about what they would do with the extra logs.
“I’m a member of the school board here,” Clark was saying. “Ya got any sisters or brothers of school age?”
“One brother. He should be in school, right enough, but I don’t know as Pa can spare him. He’s out logging, too.”
Marty’s head came up, concern gripping her heart. Oh, Clark, we’ve got to stop him, she wanted to say. He might get hurt, too! But she did not say it. It was really out of their hands.
They drank their tea and ate their bread, Clark dipping his in his cup. Marty wanted to chide him, but the fact was, she wished she dared do the same thing. The bread tasted rather old.
Marty looked out
at the weather. The snow had increased. She thought about the man, woman, and child out in the woods chopping trees on such a day, but she made no comment.
“I was wonderin’,” Clark was saying. “I have me a surplus of dry firewood—but I could sure find ways to use green logs. I’m wonderin’ iffen yer pa would be willin’ to make a swap. I’m in no hurry fer the green. Anytime next spring will be jest fine. I can git the firewood over to ya right away—git it outta my way.”
Relief showed on the young face. “Reckon Pa would make the trade,” responded the boy.
“We’ll plan on thet, then,” Clark said and rose to go.
They thanked their host for the tea and shrugged into their warm coats. Clark was about to lead Marty to the waiting buggy when the young lad stopped them.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“Clark. Clark an’ Marty Davis.”
“My doc’s name is Davis.”
“Yeah, he’s our son.” There was pride in Clark’s voice. But the shadow in the eyes of the young boy quickly snatched it away.
“Yer wonderin’ iffen he coulda saved yer arm, ’stead of takin’ it, aren’t ya?” Clark said softly.
The boy turned slightly away. He swallowed hard. The tears that started to form were not allowed to fall. It was several minutes before he could speak.
“Naw,” he said. “Naw, not really. Ma an’ Pa told me he didn’t have any choice.” He swallowed again, obviously working to get his emotions under control. “He’s . . . he’s been back a number of times. He’s . . . he’s a fine doc. Nothing he could have done different.”
Marty watched as Clark put out a hand and let it drop to the muscular shoulder. He said nothing except what the boy might understand from the slight pressure of his hand, and tears filled her eyes.
They turned to leave when the boy spoke again. “Ma said there was a girl . . . she helped the doc. Ma says I owe both of them my life. You wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t know who she was, would you? I forgot to ask the doc.”
“Belinda,” said Clark. “Belinda. She goes with Luke some. Wants to be a nurse someday.”
“Belinda,” repeated the boy. “I . . . I guess I’m beholden to her. I’d like . . . I’d like to tell her thank you someday.”
Clark nodded. “I think thet could be arranged,” he said with a smile, and followed Marty out into the bitter wind.
Fourteen
Talking It Out
Marty kept thinking they would get their daughter back again, but Belinda was still thoughtful and quiet.
“Land sakes,” said Marty to Clark as they prepared for bed one night, “I’m havin’ me one awful time tryin’ to keep up to all these suddenlike changes. Our Belinda—she’s gone from one stage to the next before I can scarcely turn my head. A gigglin’ young girl one day, an’ the next, a serious young lady. Do ya think we’ll get Belinda’s childhood back fer a bit? I wasn’t quite prepared to let ’er go jest yet.”
Clark drew Marty close. He held her quietly for a few minutes, his hand stroking the long hair that she had unpinned to fall down around her shoulders.
“I’ve noticed it, too,” he said. “Thet there accident seems to have changed our Belinda.”
“Do ya think it’s eatin’ away at her, Clark?”
“She doesn’t seem bothered—jest more serious somehow.”
“Guess what she went through would sober up anyone,” Marty reasoned.
“It’s hard to let her grow up so fast . . . I know thet . . . but truth is, I rather like ’er this way. She’s kinda . . . kinda sweet, don’t ya think?”
Marty smiled. “She always was yer pet. Didn’t expect thet to change none jest because she adds a few years.” She reached up to playfully pat Clark’s cheek. “I’d expect ya to think she’s sweet.”
“I jest mean . . . well, she seems miles ahead of Amy Jo in her bearin’. She acts an’ looks like a grown-up somehow. Even more than Melissa. Ya noticed thet?”
“I’ve noticed,” said Marty.
There was silence for a moment.
“Clark, do ya think we should sorta help her talk it out? I mean, iffen this accident is botherin’ her, we don’t want it to turn up later in her life with scars we never guessed were there.”
Clark thought about it. “Wouldn’t hurt none, I guess.”
“Speakin’ of scars,” went on Marty, “did ya see the young man again when ya took over the foodstuff and the firewood?”
“Saw ’im,” Clark answered simply, knowing whom she meant.
He drew back and walked to the window. He ran a hand through his hair and stood quietly looking out at the night sky. Marty knew he was troubled. She crossed over to stand beside him and look out across the dark outlines of the farm buildings by moonlight. She laid a hand gently on Clark’s arm but waited for him to speak.
“He’s hurtin’, Marty. Really hurtin’,” Clark finally said, his voice low.
“But he seemed so . . . so acceptin’ when we saw ’im before.”
“I don’t think the reality of it all had hit ’im yet. He was still in so much pain with the arm . . . he was still in deep shock over the whole thing. But now . . . now he knows thet it’s fer real . . . permanent . . . an’ there’s nothin’ to be done ’bout it. He’ll always be a one-armed man. Thet’s tough. Thet’s really tough.”
“Do ya think the parson could help him any?”
“I thought so . . . until I talked to the parson. He’d already been there . . . twice. He didn’t even git in the door.”
Marty’s eyes grew large with concern.
“Did ya . . . did ya say anythin’ ’bout how God helped us when—?”
“Tried. Wouldn’t hear it. Luke says they won’t even let him make doctor calls anymore.”
“Oh my!” exclaimed Marty. “Might thet make a problem with the wound?”
“Not physically. Luke says the arm has healed nicely. Shouldn’t be infection or anythin’. But emotionally . . . well, Luke worries a fair bit ’bout thet.”
“Oh dear!” Marty lamented.
“Is there anythin’ we can do, Clark?” she finally asked.
“I’ve been thinkin’ and thinkin’ on it. Can’t think of one thing—’cept pray.”
“Did he ask ’bout Belinda again? We had promised to arrange fer ’im to see her. He wanted to thank—”
“Thet’s another thing. He said to fergit the whole thing. Doesn’t want to see her. Says she didn’t do ’im such a favor after all.”
“Ya mean—?”
“Says he’d be better off dead.”
Marty’s breath caught in a quick little sob. Clark put his arm around her.
“I was so taken with him,” she said. “Strugglin’ with thet heavy teapot an’ thet dry bread, as mannerly and self-possessed as ya please. I thought he was so plucky an’ brave an’—”
“Now, let’s not think less of the boy,” Clark was quick to say. “He is all those things. It’s normal what he’s feelin’. Remember, we had God and His help . . . or I might have done exactly what this here boy is doin’. It’s a tough thing he’s goin’ through . . . an’ understandable how he’s feelin’. I jest hope an’ pray he’s able to sort it all out and git beyond it . . . thet’s all. Talk ’bout scars. This young fella’s got scars all right . . . an’ the worst an’ deepest ain’t on thet arm.”
Marty thought about the Simpson family. So nearby, yet so shut off from the help of their neighbors. She wished there were some way—some way they could reach out and break down the walls.
“They didn’t refuse the food—the vegetables an’ fruit?”
“No-o. But I think they would have iffen they hadn’t been on the brink of starvation. They are proud people. It hurt them powerful to take it. Man insisted thet he’d work it off.”
“So what did ya do?”
Clark shrugged. “Told ’im he could. Now I gotta come up with somethin’ fer ’im to do.”
“Oh, Clark. What will ya give ’im? Ya g
ot everything done that needs doin’.”
“I dunno. It’s gotta be somethin’ in outta the cold. His coat is so thin ya could sneeze clear through it.”
“He could build some more fruit shelves in the cellar.”
“Ya needin’ more?”
“Not really. But it’s warm—an’ there’s room there—an’ it wouldn’t hurt none.”
“It’s an idea,” said Clark, reaching out to pull the window shade down. Then he turned to climb into bed. Marty turned to follow him. She was surprised to find she was still holding her hairbrush.
“An’ the firewood?” asked Marty as she returned the brush to her dresser.
“He’s determined to pay fer thet, too. Guess we’ll have us more green wood come spring.”
“What ya gonna do with it?”
“Dunno. I’ll check with Arnie an’ Josh. See iffen either of ’em have any need. We should be able to figger out somethin’.”
“Funny,” murmured Marty as though to herself. “I don’t care none fer a grown man with his hand out . . . but pride can sure enough be a hurtful thing, too.”
“Makes it a bit hard to be neighborly,” agreed Clark. “Still, a man needs his dignity. We’ve got to allow ’im thet.”
Clark blew out the light and they pulled the warm blankets up around their chins. The winter nights were cold, and there was no heat in the upstairs rooms except for what drifted up the stairs from the stoves below.
“Ya don’t have sewin’ thet ya need done, do ya?” Clark asked. “Clothes? Quilts? Rag rugs? Anythin’?”
Marty turned to him in the darkness. “Nothin’ I can’t git done over the winter. Why?”
“I was wonderin’—maybe the missus could help earn ’em a bit, sewin’ or somethin’.”
Marty was silent. There really wasn’t that much the household needed. And she liked to do it. The long winter days and even longer evenings were made more bearable by the things that took shape in her hands. She looked forward to the projects and planned for them all fall as she worked hard in her garden patch. And now—?
“Might be,” she answered Clark. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”
