by Janette Oke
It was a weekday, so the dinner would be the evening meal. They always had an early dinner together when the celebration occurred on a weekday, and even then it tended to be rushed. Marty cast an anxious eye at the sky. It was getting late. Before too long the cows would need milking. Marty stirred restlessly on the seat. She did hate being rushed. Time with family always seemed so short.
It must be at Clare and Kate’s, she concluded. There just wouldn’t be time to drive to one of the other homes. I’m mistaken about three years back. That year must have been at Luke’s and—but no, she interrupted herself, I can distinctly remember Kate’s chicken and dumplings. For some reason, she decided, Luke and Abbie were unable to have the family this year and so Kate was taking their turn.
Marty’s thoughts turned from speculation to worry. Was Abbie not feeling well? No one had told her—
“Did ya have a good chat with Ma?” Clark’s voice broke into her thoughts.
Marty blinked in surprise and shifted her attention back to her husband. His face was relaxed, his hands firmly holding the reins as he expertly guided the team down the country road.
Why was he asking about Ma in the middle of thoughts of birthday? And then Marty realized that just because her mind was totally absorbed with her birthday dinner, that was no reason Clark’s thoughts should be taken with it, as well. Perhaps this time he had forgotten. Perhaps . . . Marty felt a little stab of disappointment. But once in all of the years of their marriage? Surely she could forgive him this once.
“Oh yes . . . yes,” Marty stammered. “We had us a good chat. Ma’s as perky as can be. Full of plans and tales of grandkids an’ . . .” she hesitated. “Where’d ya get the idea that she was feelin’ down?” she asked, turning on the seat so that she could look full at Clark’s face.
“Feelin’ down?” Clark echoed. “I don’t recall ever sayin’ Ma was down.”
“But ya said . . . ya said she needed a bit of a visit . . . some cheerin’ up, ya said.”
Clark just smiled his teasing smile. “I know yer visits always cheer Ma up. Jest by yer bein’ there I know.”
But Marty was not in the mood to listen. Something seemed to be wrong here. A little hurt stirred within her. Had her whole family forgotten her birthday?
She strained forward as the team slowed to make the turn up the lane that led to their farm. Her eyes scanned the hitching rails expecting to see signs of Arnie, Luke, and Josh, but no teams stood placidly swatting at annoying flies. No wagons sat empty in the farmyard.
They have, sighed Marty. Ever’ last one of ’em. They’ve all forgotten.
Marty felt an unaccustomed heaviness as Clark helped her down from the wagon. Was age catching up with her? She hadn’t noticed it before. Oh, true, she was slowing down some. She was aware of it as she hoed her garden or hung out the wash, but she had done nothing all day long and yet she felt weary—nothing, that is, except to “cheer up” Ma Graham.
Marty turned to go up the walk to the front door. She was almost there before she realized that Clark, who usually went right on down to the barn with the horses, was at her side. Ignoring her questioning look, he opened the door for her, and she led the way onto the big back porch.
Her mind was already in the kitchen. The hour was late. What would she prepare for their supper? She hadn’t planned on having to get the meal this night. It should have been her special birthday dinner. She wasn’t to have—
“Surprise!” “Happy Birthday!” exploded all around her as she opened the door into the kitchen. She heard her own voice catch in a gasp and felt Clark’s hand of support on her arm.
“Oh my!” said Marty, taking a step back from the noise and confusion. “Oh my!”
They were all there. Every one of them. The horses and wagons had been carefully hidden from sight. The trip to Ma’s had been a ruse—one that Ma herself had helped plan and support. Clark had gone to town and whiled away the hours until the time he was told to have Marty back home.
But this time it was the girls’ surprise. Belinda, Melissa, and Amy Jo. They had insisted to the family members that it was “our turn” to have Marty’s birthday dinner. They had even gotten an excused absence from their schoolteacher in order to have the afternoon free to prepare the meal. They had cooked every dish from start to finish. Marty could only exclaim over and over as she hugged the three and tried to swallow the tears crowding against the back of her throat.
A small bouquet of fresh spring wild flowers graced the table, which was carefully set with Marty’s good china. Everything was in readiness, and Clark quickly urged the family to take their places at the table “before the food gets cold,” the girls insisted.
After Clark’s prayer, the mothers fixed plates for the younger ones and the older children waited on themselves. With a flurry of noise and commotion they headed for their favorite spot on the back veranda. When things quieted, the adults began their meal, Belinda, Melissa, and Amy Jo hovering nearby to pour the coffee and wait on the table.
The gravy was just a bit lumpy, the biscuits a bit too brown, and the fried chicken a teeny bit dry, but to Marty, the meal was delicious and she kept telling the girls so, over and over.
“Did we surprise you? Did you guess?” Amy Jo kept asking.
“I had no idea,” Marty assured her. She didn’t add that she’d been a mite worried that her family had forgotten her. “Ya did it all? Yerselves?”
The girls laughed merrily, pleased that their plan had worked so well, and pleased, too, that Marty seemed so surprised at their achievement.
“We all shared in the cooking,” Melissa explained. “Even Amy Jo. She did the potatoes and the cole slaw.”
“An’ Melissa did the chicken an’ the biscuits, an’ Belinda the vegetables,” Amy Jo quickly put in, wanting to give proper credit where credit was due. “And Belinda made the cake, too,” she added as an afterthought.
“It’s yer favorite. Spice,” Belinda told her.
After the meal was over, the children were called in from the porch and the whole family joined together in the singing of “Happy Birthday,” the little ones anxious for the fun of handing out the gifts. Marty exclaimed over and over as the lovingly chosen and handmade gifts were presented to her.
The three girls saved their gifts until the other members of the family had all presented theirs.
“I wanted you to have this, Grandma,” said Melissa, passing to Marty a carefully wrapped gift in light-blue paper.
Marty unwrapped it to find a beautifully bound edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress. Marty knew it was selected from Melissa’s private library, making it all the more meaningful to her.
Amy Jo came next. Her gift was not as carefully wrapped, but the colorful paper was festive. Marty began to unwrap the present, noticing that her hands trembled from excitement.
She lifted away the paper and found herself looking straight into the eyes of Melissa—from Amy Jo’s first attempt at a portrait. There really was a likeness, and though Amy Jo’s art would need years of polishing and perfecting, Marty was amazed that the girl had done so well. “Oh my, Amy Jo! You did good—real good on this picture,” Marty exclaimed, and other family members began to crowd around to see Amy Jo’s art. There were many congratulations and enthusiastic comments, and Amy Jo beamed her pleasure.
When the excitement died down, Belinda pressed forward. She handed Marty a small package. “Remember the lace collar ya saw and liked?” she murmured. “Well, I couldn’t afford to buy it, but I found a pattern almost like it, an’ I crocheted ya one myself. It’s not as nice but—”
Marty slipped the lace collar out of the paper. Belinda had done a beautiful job. Marty traced the delicate floral pattern with a tip of her finger.
“Why, it’s even prettier,” she said softly, her eyes thanking Belinda even more than her voice did. “Thank ya, Belinda. Thank ya, everyone. I do believe this is the nicest birthday I ever had.”
Clare began to laugh. “Ma,” he said, “s
eems to me ya say thet every year.”
“An’ every year I mean it, too,” insisted Marty.
Then all eyes turned to Clark. The family knew well the tradition of Clark presenting the final birthday gift.
“My turn, is it?” said Clark, rising to his feet.
Clark’s hands were empty.
“Well, this year,” he said slowly, “I have nothin’ to give.” He hesitated. All eyes were on his face. No one spoke. Clark cleared his throat. None of his children believed for a minute that he had nothing to present to Marty.
“Leastways,” he continued, “nothing here at hand. My gift is outside. In the garden. Anyone who wants to see it has to follow me out there.”
No one remained behind. Clark led the way, taking Marty by the hand and leading her to the end of the garden. All the other family members trailed along behind, several of them making guesses as to what the gift might be. Marty heard the laughing and the teasing voices all around her, but her mind was busy trying to guess, too, what Clark had gotten for her.
“There it is,” Clark said, halting before a small, waist-high tree. It was not magnificent in appearance, but Marty knew it must be “special.” She reached out a hand and turned the tag that hung from a small branch, fluttering in the soft evening breezes.
“‘Jonathan Apple,’” she read aloud and then, with a little cry she threw her arms around Clark’s neck. “Oh, Clark, where did ya find it? Where did ya get it from? I been a wantin’ one but no one round here—”
“I sent away fer it,” said Clark as he held her. “Sneaked it in here an’ planted it yesterday. Was scared half to death thet you’d catch me at it.”
Marty looked around at her family. She reached out to try to pull all three of the young girls into her arms at one time. Each one of her gifts was so personal, so special. Her family knew her well. Her family showered her with love. She felt blessed beyond expression. Her eyes brimmed over with tears.
“Go ahead,” she challenged them with a smile, “laugh iffen ya want to, but this truly—truly has been my best birthday ever!”
Twenty-Four
A Caller
All through the spring and summer Drew struggled with his bitterness. Why had he lost his arm? If there was a God who cared about him, why had it been allowed to happen? Why hadn’t the doctor just let him die? He would rather be dead. At least he thought he’d rather be dead. Yet, at times, even Drew breathed deeply of the fresh spring air or exulted over the brightness of the summer sky, or tilted his head to catch the song of a bird.
Almost daily he thought of Belinda. And always his thoughts were troubled. He did not know how to sort out his feelings toward the young girl. Why was she so interested in nursing? How could she stand to see her brother cut people up? Didn’t she have any kind of feeling? At the same time that he questioned her interest in nursing, he admired her in a strange sort of way. He was quite sure he wouldn’t have been able to face some of the situations that Belinda did.
How does she do it? WHY does she do it? The whole thing puzzled him. He couldn’t understand her. He couldn’t understand this whole strange family. And Drew certainly could not understand his inner conflict.
In some way, Drew took pleasure in his self-pity. And yet there was something else that kept fighting to be free of the bitterness. He seemed to be at war with himself. He wondered why he didn’t just give in to his bitter feelings.
But just as he felt ready to give up his anger, his stump of an arm would catch his attention and a new wave of pain would sear, seemingly from fingertip to shoulder. Sobs of pain and anguish would cause Drew to bury his head in his pillow or flee the house in renewed bitterness.
And so Drew struggled with himself. One minute he was content to wrap himself securely in his shell of bitterness and pain, and the next minute almost responding to the urge to try to find some other way to live with what “fate” had handed him.
Another thing puzzled Drew. He felt there was something different about his mother, subtle changes he couldn’t put into words. Was it just his imagination or was it really there?
For the past several years, Drew’s mother had been shut away in silence and self-pity. She had not wanted to go west, had resisted with all her being. Oh, not in so many words. That was not her way. But they all knew how she felt. It showed in the tightness of her lips, in the stiffness of her stance, in the darkening of her eyes. Though she had never been one to laugh and chat easily, she became a woman living in a shell. It was as if the real person did not even share the dampness of the crowded soddy with the rest of the family. She became cold and withdrawn, even from her children.
There had been one thing that had seemed to bring life and fire to Drew’s mother, and that was lesson time. How her dark eyes flashed if the boys were reluctant to study. Her chin thrust forward stubbornly when she declared that she did not intend to rear unlearned children—west or no west. Their father, too, made sure time was found each day for books and learning.
At the beginning of the new school term, Drew had watched his younger brother Sidney being ushered off to school. Now that Sid was dressed in proper garments, their mother had insisted he should be in a real classroom where he belonged. Drew watched her holding her breath that first morning. How would he fare among the other students? Drew knew this was her worry. Would the youngster have years of catching up to do? But the first report of Mrs. Brown was filled with incredulous praise. The boy was unbelievably ahead of his age group, she stated, and she commended the Simpsons heartily for their excellent job in supervising the boy’s education.
Drew knew his mother had been tempted to send him, too, off to the local school. She undoubtedly would have insisted, had it not been for his age and his missing arm. She did not say so, but Drew knew that her mother-heart, though shriveled and broken by her hard life, ached for him. She knew it would be difficult for him to face the world.
Drew’s father did not seem to feel comfortable in Drew’s presence. He did not discuss the accident or Drew’s handicap. In fact, he seldom talked to Drew at all. But he did make it quite clear that he did not wish to have Drew back in the woods felling trees.
Even Sidney let his eyes skim quickly over the empty sleeve and then directed his gaze elsewhere. Drew began to feel he would go through all of life with people conveniently overlooking him.
So Drew was left to his gun and his wandering. He probably would not have been able to make it through those first difficult months had he not known that the family needed meat, and that he, even though missing a limb, was still able to supply it.
But in recent weeks Drew had been sensing a newness of life and hope in his mother. Oh, true, she still had very little to say, and she still never laughed, but her eyes looked different somehow. She seemed . . . she seemed warmer, less chilled and cut off from the rest of the family. Could it be that something was changing on the inside? And if so, why? Drew wondered. Was it simply because she was winning the struggle for survival? Oh, they were still in need—that was for sure—but they were not in debt to any man. They had lost nearly everything they’d owned, so there was really nothing more for anyone else to claim. But they were dressing better now—were eating more than rabbit stew. His mother even had her own garden, and come fall she would not be beholden to the neighbors.
But was that the whole reason for the hope in her eyes? Or did it have something to do with that Davis family? She shared the house with Mrs. Davis three times and even up to five times a week. Was some of that other woman’s optimistic spirit rubbing off on her?
Drew watched his mother closely, hoping with all his heart that the change might continue and that she would begin talking to him, chatting as mother to son, perhaps even allowing him a chance to talk about his missing arm. He studied his mother carefully each day when she returned from the Davis farm.
Drew did not understand the Davis family. But he could sense that they were different in some way. He had never seen a woman who seemed to be as
sensitive—as caring—as Mrs. Davis. Drew longed to see that look of love and caring in the eyes of his own mother. If only . . . if only . . . his heart kept crying. If only we could talk. If only Mother felt free to speak what she feels. If only she would ask me how I felt.
And what about the Davis father? The guy with just one leg? How had it happened and how come he could accept it . . . even joke about it? Why did he seem to have such a warm and generous spirit? His little schemes of the year before had not been missed by Drew. He knew Clark had “invented” ways to help the family through their first winter. He had seen the Davis’ woodpile. He had seen the farm. Drew knew Clark wasn’t the type of man to need outside help to keep things in order. What makes the fellow tick, anyway? he asked himself.
The whole thing was beyond Drew. He couldn’t figure out any of it. He stayed as far away from the Davises as he could get.
One fall day when the wind was rattling the red and gold leaves and the geese were crying overhead, Drew found himself walking toward the Davis farm. The gun was tucked in the crook of his missing arm. He always carried it that way. It made him feel that his arm—such as it was—was still good for something. But today the gun was forgotten. He would not have thought to shoot even if a rabbit or a grouse had crossed his path. Drew, deep in thought, decided he had to find some answers. With sudden resolve he quickened his step toward the only person who might be able to help.
Drew was relieved to find Clark clearing fallen leaves out of the spring. Drew did not wish to go near the house. He did not want to risk a chance meeting with Belinda.
“Drew!” Clark greeted him warmly. “Out huntin’ again I see. No luck?”
Drew laid the gun aside, his cheeks flushing a bit. He hadn’t really been looking for game.
“Not yet” was all he answered.
