by Leisha Kelly
He might prove difficult to have around, though he’d graciously done what Aunt Marigold had asked of him. Except set out the towels. But that was a small thing and not something he should have to think about anyway. I’d be taking care of my own needs and Eliza’s soon enough without his help. I’d have the entire upper story of this house spotless as soon as I could manage it. And do what I could to help Marigold with the downstairs too.
For a moment I considered her words, that our timing tonight had been divinely arranged. She seemed to be talking only about our meeting Josiah at the depot, but perhaps she’d meant the possibility of having my help too. Obviously, her nephew was a benefit to her, but he was gone through the day. She needed me here for a time, that seemed clear, the way she struggled just getting from one room to the next.
I wasn’t much in a temper to give God credit for anything, but maybe good could be at work here. At least I wouldn’t have to feel like a useless burden, and that would be a decent start.
3
Leah
Bedtime was bittersweet and much the same as it had been in our own home and even in the St. Louis city park. Eliza used to love the tender good-night ritual her daddy had developed when he came home to us after the war. The first few nights after he died she’d cried for hours, inconsolable to be without him. But eventually she’d created a ritual of her own that seemed to enable her to shut out the world and close herself into a secret place alone. Though I had my small part, her daddy’s memory was the focus of her new nightly ritual, and I made no attempt to draw her attention away from it because she seemed to have found peace.
When she was all washed and changed, she came to me for hugs and kisses. And then she lay down and curled into a ball. Now the humming that had already started would be almost constant until sleep carried her away. Through the little drawing motions she made in the air, and the hair twirling, and the rolling side to side as though her bed were on rockers, she would continue humming the tune her daddy had sung to her night after night. This night I stretched beside her, and though she snuggled near me, she kept up the motion and the song and I lay with tears in my eyes, wishing I could hear John’s voice one more time. A bird I didn’t recognize called outside our window, and somewhere nearby I could hear low footsteps and the creak of furniture. Mr. Walsh, presumably, preparing for bed.
Why had Eliza and I come to this? A borrowed bed. Charity from a relative. We should have been a complete family, in the happy life I’d dreamed of since I was a child. We’d had plans to purchase a home of our own. It wouldn’t have been hard, even on the paycheck John had already brought in. But he’d wanted to provide more and kept looking at other jobs, hoping for a higher salary.
If he’d been satisfied, maybe he’d be alive today. But there was no telling such a matter as that, no point entertaining it in my thoughts. John had done the best he knew, and had he survived, we’d have moved to a home all our own this past spring. That had been his plan. We’d looked at several houses together. But now, such dreams were worthless as the dust.
The bed was comfortable, but I found it difficult to relax. Even when Eliza finally lay still and her humming had ceased, I had a hard time shutting off my thoughts and closing my eyes to really rest. Somewhere I could hear the tick of a clock. Except for Eliza’s gentle breathing, and my own, everything else was still. In the dark of night the same prompting that I’d felt on the train came to me.
Pray. This is the perfect time.
But I didn’t know what I could possibly say. If my anger jumped to the fore the way it had the last time I’d had such a thought, it would be better to stop before I even started. How might God respond to my ungrateful feelings? It was frightening to consider, and I didn’t want to make things worse.
But prayer brings peace. Without it, you’ve no foundation.
I rolled to my side, doing my best to shut off such uninvited thinking. Sleep. That was the most peaceful thing I could consider right now. My most immediate need. Eliza bumped her arm against my shoulder, and I let it rest where it landed. Morning would come soon enough, and a new day – a new beginning – for our lives with it.
Every sound and every worry faded into the night as eventually I managed to sleep. But the peace I’d longed for proved evasive. Black metal death was bearing down on me at breakneck speed. Huge. Spitting steam. I cried out soundlessly, every noise I made swallowed by the piercing devil scream of a train whistle. There was no way to flee in time. Unforgiving track stretched endlessly ahead and oddly to both sides, and I could not make my bloodied knees and trembling legs lift me from the rough-hewn ties where I’d fallen.
“Mommy!” I screamed, my tiny arms flailing in search of help.
But Mother was nowhere in sight, and my voice could not penetrate the train’s roar. Nothing could. It was a hungry monster with its hardened mouth wide open. It owned me already, and there was no escape.
I rolled, I jerked. My leg caught in a jumble of fabric, and I fell headlong to the braided rug at the side of the bed. My heart thundered so viciously that it hurt, and I lay still, trying to recover myself from the paralyzing effects of the dream.
A train. Again. My worst fears, my worst memories, encompassed trains. When I was a child younger than Eliza, I would panic at the sound of one, freeze at the sight of one, without knowing why. Even then I must have had such dreams. The memory of them had been vague, almost invisible, yet it had plagued me nonetheless.
“Could a train cut people in pieces?” I’d asked my mother one day, barely able to speak at all. I was trembling so badly after being frightened at the sight of one in the town near where we lived.
Never would I forget her doleful answer. “It could, Leahlove. It’s happened.”
Mother’s sorrow filled my mind so much that it took me a moment to realize that I lay on the hardwood floor in Aunt Marigold’s master bedroom. Mother had been terribly sad so often. Partly because of Father’s unkindness, I’d always thought. But partly for the sake of my older brother, who’d died when I was a toddler. If she were here now, if she were alive to be at my side, she would understand what I was going through with the loss of Johnny James. She would understand the bitterness, the pain and doubts because she’d probably gone through much the same herself.
Thank God my awful dream hadn’t wakened Eliza. I sat up, stiff and tense, suddenly annoyed at myself for the almost-prayer. What did God have to do with it? My daughter was a sound sleeper, which was a mercy often but especially at times like this.
Was it morning? Someone was awake somewhere close by, almost surely Marigold’s nephew again. His movements were quiet, and I hoped the tumble I’d taken was not the reason for him stirring. The darkness in the room made it seem like the full of night, but as I looked, I began to realize the first hint of dawn light at the big bay windows and I felt out of place. I’d never before lived in a house with bay windows, nor in a bedroom as spacious as this one.
I should pray about this new start, I considered again. But I was too stubbornly out of sorts over the day’s unpleasant beginning to heed my own admonition.
I’ll not do it. I’ll not pray. Why should I talk to God until he shows me why he continues to torment me this way? All my life I’ve been haunted by trains, and by the deaths of those who shouldn’t have died. The least he can do is tell me why!
I heard a door click somewhere beyond our door. Having John’s unfamiliar cousin in such proximity was more than a little unnerving, but to my relief the next sound I heard was footfalls on the steps. He was leaving. Perhaps he’d already be gone to work by the time Eliza and I went down the stairs for the day.
I’d have my work cut out for me. Aunt Marigold might not want to see it that way, but I felt obligated to start helping immediately. I could cook breakfast if it weren’t already done. And I could begin cleaning every nook and cranny that she couldn’t reach.
I dressed quickly and folded my bedclothes and the traveling clothes I’d worn yesterday. We had so
few garments left, but they’d have to do until I could earn money for the fabric to make more. Perhaps it might be possible to find some employment in this small town, though I would need to make sure Aunt Marigold’s needs here were taken care of first.
I had no idea how many bedrooms she had available to let out, but with only one paying boarder now, she might be struggling. We must not become a burden. With a job, I could pay her what was due and continue to contribute in other ways as long as we stayed here. That would be ideal.
I washed my face in the washbasin and checked the cupboard and drawers beneath it. Good. There were several other washcloths. Surely Aunt Marigold would approve of me using one for a dust cloth so I could use my time wisely while Eliza still slept. I didn’t want to go downstairs without her. Certainly not on our first day here. She had seemed far more cheery and adaptable than one might expect in our circumstance, but I didn’t want to risk her being alarmed at the unfamiliar surroundings upon wakening.
As the light from the window began to grow, I looked around carefully at the space provided for us. Obviously, this room had been furnished by a woman for a woman. The bedspread was ruffly, with a delightful quilted pattern of flowers. Aunt Marigold might be very handy with her sewing. Perhaps I could learn a thing or two to improve my own skills.
But the morning did not brighten quickly enough to suit me, and I lit the crystal lamp, knowing Eliza would sleep on despite it. What might I learn about Marigold, just from the room around me? The bedclothes were predominantly a soft pink, and indeed, most carefully hand sewn. The pale cream-striped walls were adorned with only two pictures: an inviting painting of hummingbirds flitting about a backyard bush and a tintype photograph of someone bearing a slight resemblance to my daughter. Her grandmother perhaps? John’s mother? I studied the picture but had to turn my eyes away in tears.
Perhaps being here was not such a good idea. I would be constantly reminded, constantly bombarded with the injustice of John’s absence. Because of that, I should not make plans to linger in this town any longer than necessary. I should see our visit only as Aunt Marigold had suggested, as a time to rest and prepare until I could get on my feet again. Elsewhere.
I lifted the lamp gently to dust beneath and around it and then wiped its crystal surface carefully. I would have to remember to remind Eliza to be extra careful not to touch this. I’d never seen one like it anywhere. Perhaps it had been quite expensive.
When the entire dresser top was clean, I opened a drawer, expecting to find it empty and in need of airing. Instead, I found folded garments, neatly tucked away with a sachet of cedar chips to prevent the infestation of moths. Marigold had probably not anticipated sharing this room with us. Maybe she hoped to be well enough to climb the stairs and use it herself again soon. It made me feel that we were intruding.
4
Leah
Eliza rolled a little on the bed and then sat up and looked around. I pulled the lacy window curtains wide and let the outside world rush in to greet her.
“Mommy – everything looks different in the daylight!”
Indeed it did. By the dim light last night, the room had seemed angular, shadowy. Now it had a comfortable air. I moved to the center window and looked out over Aunt Marigold’s side yard and the town beyond it. Everything appeared more alive and promising than it had last night. I saw an automobile and a milk wagon, a neighbor’s garden shed, several swaying trees, and standing tall above everything else, the big old windmill slowly turning in the distance.
Ellie leaped up to stand at my side. “Wow. What’s the name of this town again?”
“Andersonville.”
“It’s lovely.”
There was that word again. I nodded and tied the curtain in place with the sash I found dangling from a gold tie hook at the window’s edge.
“Can we take a daytime walk?” she asked excitedly.
I hadn’t expected that. Going out for a stroll was the last thing on my mind. But perhaps it was a reasonable idea. I would need to become acquainted with the town and its businesses if I hoped to find a position and pay for our board here. “We’ll not go walking this morning,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “We need to have breakfast with Aunt Marigold and help her with some cleaning chores first. But perhaps this afternoon, if she hasn’t any other plan for us – ”
“Maybe she would want to come walking too!”
“Oh, Ellie, I doubt she’s able. She’s having a lot of trouble right now with the rheumatism in her legs.”
“But I prayed for her last night to be all better.”
Her words stabbed at me. Not because my beautiful little daughter maintained a faith and commitment I now lacked but because I was afraid for her, afraid of the hurt she’d feel if Aunt Marigold did not get better. “Such things take time,” I said simply. “Let’s not ask her on a walk so quickly.”
“Maybe that Mr. Walsh will come then,” Ellie persisted.
“He has to go to work today,” I admonished. “But even if he didn’t, it would not be appropriate for young ladies to ask him out walking.”
Ellie continued looking out the window. “I’m glad he carried our things last night. I’m glad we met him so he could show us the way.”
I almost expected her to say she’d prayed for someone to guide us here from the train depot. I wouldn’t have been the slightest bit surprised. But instead she bounced back toward the bed and told me she was hungry.
“Already? You ate like a horse last night.”
“It was yummy. An’ I promise to eat like a young lady today.”
I smiled. “Of course you will.” I pulled her blue cotton dress from one of our bags, wishing I’d had opportunity to iron it. But it wasn’t too badly wrinkled. I’d folded and rolled it carefully.
“I like Aunt Marigold,” Ellie said. “She sure was nice to us last night. This room is lovely. Don’t you think? An’ I know she’ll be nice today too an’ prob’ly even after that. You think we’ll live in this town always?”
Quite a mouthful, but for Eliza Rose, not at all unusual. “I don’t know the answer to that, honey. And I’m not sure when I’ll know.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s okay. I think livin’ at Aunt Marigold’s is gonna be perfect fine, an’ if we ever do move, I hope it’s right down the street at one of them other pretty houses.”
“Let’s keep such discussions between ourselves, shall we?” I told her uncomfortably. “I’m not sure how long Aunt Marigold would like us to be here, nor am I ready to ask.”
I had her wash her face and get dressed while I continued to dust all around the room. I’d been too tired last night to think about it, but now I wondered how long it’d been since the bedclothes had been laundered, considering that Marigold hadn’t been able to climb the stairs. It wouldn’t be appropriate to ask first thing this morning, of course, but maybe later I could offer to do the washing, including all the bedding in the house. The windows could use a good wiping too, the floors dust-mopped, and the rugs shaken out – eventually. There might not be time for it all the first day. And I certainly didn’t want Aunt Marigold thinking that I disapproved of her housekeeping. I just wanted to pitch in with things that must be especially difficult for her.
I could smell something baking as soon as we reached the bottom of the stairs, and then I felt guilty that I hadn’t been down earlier. If Aunt Marigold prepared breakfast this early then I should be up helping in the kitchen. I would have to tell her that I did not want to be treated like a special guest. I wanted to work for our board starting immediately.
But it was quickly apparent that Marigold had different ideas.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed as soon as she saw us. “You’re up so early! Did my clattering about wake you? I wouldn’t have called you down this morning at all. You need your rest after the trip.”
I knew what had wakened me, but I didn’t want to say a word about that. “We’ve become accustomed to rising with the sun,” I said
simply, neglecting to add that the habit was a by-product of my own restlessness.
Her nephew seemed to be nowhere about. Perhaps he’d already left for work. If that were the case, we’d only need to concern ourselves with encountering him directly in the evenings, which would be far easier for me. Marigold seemed matronly in an immensely likeable way. And to all appearances she even needed us, as we needed her. Without Josiah Walsh’s presence throwing an unpredictable cog in the works, we could have a happy arrangement here.
Marigold was rolling out biscuit dough and Eliza was immediately fascinated. “Can I help?”
“Why, sure, child. You’re just the right age for this kind of thing.” Marigold reached to the wide pickle crock that held her kitchen utensils and grabbed out a much smaller rolling pin, just the size for Ellie. The handles were painted bright red with little yellow knobs on the ends. The little roller had probably been carved from a very lightweight wood, but it rolled just as easily as the big one.
Eliza was eager to do her part rolling out the biscuits, and Aunt Marigold was just as eager to teach. They made quite a pair, just as I’d expected. Ellie was beaming ear to ear as she bore down with her rolling pin over the smooth dough. I busied my hands with the little bit of dishes in the sink, and Marigold left Ellie alone for a minute to check the oven and pull out what I’d been smelling – the first pan of biscuits. She had the biggest cookie sheet I’d ever seen brimming full, and there’d be at least that many more. I’d never known anyone to fix such a big batch who didn’t have eight or nine children standing ready to eat them.
“I’m slow anymore,” she told me. “’Fore I get the second tray of dough ready, the first ones are comin’ out.”
