by Leisha Kelly
Eliza was with her mother in the garden again as I strode across the yard on my way back to the house. They were probably looking at me. I got that kind of feeling but wouldn’t turn my head to find out for sure. Mari was in the kitchen working on pies again, the room already smelling like a little slice of the heaven I’d known here so often.
“I need to read now,” I told her, heading for the Bible on the shelf behind the table.
Marigold barely lifted her eyes. “Oh, well, that’s fine, dear. Why don’t you call Leah and ’Liza Rose so they can listen in?”
“No. Just us this time, Mari. I don’t want them here.”
She looked long at me, and I plopped in one chair with my back to the wall and stuck my feet up on another.
“What’s wrong?”
I ignored the question, spreading the Bible open in front of me. “Where were we? Psalm 142?”
She dropped what she was doing, wiped her hands, and limped to the table. “Josiah Mark. Tell me what it is troubling you.”
“I think we did leave off at 142,” I talked on. “I cried unto the Lord with my voice; with my voice unto the Lord did I make my supplication . . .”
“Josiah, if there’s a greater need for talk – ”
“I poured out my complaint before him; I shewed before him my trouble . . .”
The words seemed to swim on the page in front of me and inside of me. Why did they have to speak to the sort of thing I was feeling?
“Josiah – ”
“When my spirit was overwhelmed . . .”
I had to stop, and just stared down at the page.
“What’s wrong?” Mari sat beside me and reached her hand to my arm.
I could barely get the words out. “I want a drink.”
“You’ve been working outside,” she said quietly. “I can get you some water or make a cold lemonade.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I knew she already understood that, even as I said the words. And I knew she wouldn’t condemn me, but I felt condemned anyway.
“It’s the grieving this week,” she said softly. “Seeing that awful wreck. Such a thing can’t help but trouble your mind. But you can’t get a drink around here anymore, can you?”
“Oh, Mari. I know right where to go if I wanted it badly enough.”
“Did you drink? Last night?”
It plagued me considerably that she would think so. I was here, in front of her, confessing my temptation. If I’d already given in to it, there wouldn’t be much point. “I turned Harvey down last night. That’s easy enough. I don’t want to drink in company. I just want a quiet corner and a bottle all to myself . . .”
“Have you been struggling with this for very long?”
“No! Today!” I knew my tone took her aback, and I tried to temper the fire I couldn’t quite understand. “I can’t do this. I can’t be your godly assistant reaching out to save all the needy and fatherless! I don’t mind taking food to the Kurchers. It makes me feel good inside, seeing ’em smile and knowing they’ll eat a little better because I could carry your love and concern in their direction. It don’t touch me any deeper than that. But right here. With John’s wife – I come home and find her in the kitchen with you. I go to bed hearing that child humming late into the night. I wake up seeing them and I think of Rosemary. I don’t know why it bothers me, but . . .”
She gave my hand a pat, and I stopped.
“Why did you come inside, Josiah?”
It took me a moment to answer. “I was afraid . . . that I’d head on over to Jake’s and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I thought maybe, if I came in and read . . .”
“The good Lord would help you?”
I nodded. “Or you would.” I stared at the ceiling, hating the weakness in myself that had me leaning on an old woman. “Aunt Mari, I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve done enough straightening me out. It’s not right putting more on you. If Leah Breckenridge is needy like you said, then you oughta be able to concentrate on her.”
“You don’t think I’ve got room for both of you?”
“Yeah. Maybe. But you wanted my help and I can’t give it.”
“Who says you can’t?”
“I do! This crazy hunger for a drink again says it! I remember running around the yard and up and down those stairs with John when I was a kid, and I can’t help but think that you and Leah and her child are carrying an awful burden, an awful emptiness without him. But I’m no help. I just think of Rosemary and my own pitiful loss. I don’t even want to see it, Mari, but it’s in front of my face whether I like it or not. The world stinks! Sometimes God doesn’t even seem fair, and I’m supposed to be strong and reasonable anyway. But I can’t.”
She sighed. “So what will you do?”
I couldn’t answer for a minute, and my eyes were drawn back to the psalm in front of me. “Just complain, I guess.”
“I cried unto Thee, Oh Lord . . . thou art my refuge and my portion in the land of the living . . .” The words on the page drew my soul and somehow quieted me. “I don’t know what to do, Aunt Mari. I haven’t thought of drinking for months. I don’t want it anymore. But I know how weak I am. And I don’t want to cause you trouble.”
She suddenly leaned and hugged me. “You won’t cause me trouble. And you’re stronger than you think you are or you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“I probably upset that little girl.”
“How?”
“I was pretty short with her. Flat-out rude, I guess. But it’s too hard, talking to her.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess ’cause she’s a kid. Without a dad. And I’m – ” I looked at Mari. She was waiting, and I turned my eyes to the floor. “I’m not a father. I just wanted to be.”
“You don’t think you could be good for each other?”
I shook my head, trying to picture what Aunt Mari could be alluding to. Some kind of substitute relationship. “It’s not even healthy to think about. I’m not her father. And she’s not . . . not mine. And there’s Leah to think about, who has no reason to want anything to do with me.”
Mari smiled. “She might like to hear sometime about you and John playing together.”
“I can’t imagine how that would help anything.”
“And I think you should tell her about Rosemary.”
I shut the Bible. “I know that wouldn’t help matters.”
“How do you know? Talking about her again would help you, Josiah.”
I stood to my feet. “Thought this was about helping Leah and her ’Liza Rose.”
“It is. I think it would be good for them to feel that we’re making them a part of our lives.”
“Well, I guess we have, sharing a house with them.”
“Yes. But Leah’s still apprehensive, I can tell. She’s still not sure she can fit in here, or what to do with herself. And you know from experience, Josiah, how difficult it is to start over when the life you knew is taken away.”
“So do you. Longer ago. Why don’t you tell her about Uncle William?”
“Oh, I don’t know. So many years have passed since then that it’s scarcely real even to me anymore.”
“I remember.”
“Do you? When you were only five years old?”
“At least I remember that you had a husband when you first moved in. And then he was gone and you took in boarders. It was fun to meet the new people. As long as they were strangers. I never liked it when they stayed too long.”
“Oh, Josiah.”
“Now I think maybe I’ve stayed too long.”
“Nonsense.” She rose and glanced over at her half-rolled pie crust. “What sounds good for dinner today?”
“Anything. If I can eat it alone.”
“Josiah Mark, you needn’t keep such fears about you.”
I drew a heavy breath. “What fears?”
“You know what I mean. To connect again – ”
/> “I’m going for a walk.”
Her eyes flashed concern.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going after a bottle.”
“I wasn’t concerned about that, son. I trust you in the hands of the Lord.”
I wasn’t sure right then if I did, but I didn’t want to tell her that. My problems with drink weren’t the Lord’s fault, after all. They were of my own doing, but he’d definitely helped me turn away. I felt I really could stay in the opposite direction of Miller’s now. And I needed to pray.
“I’ll have dinner in about an hour,” she told me. “Maybe sooner.”
“Need anything from the grocer?”
“No. Leah picked things up for me yesterday.”
No surprise. Leah had become Mari’s right hand. And feet. I smiled a little. Maybe it was fitting.
I went out the front door, mainly to avoid seeing Leah and Eliza again. The wind had picked up, and a few leaves blew across the porch floor in front of me. I could remember years ago sitting out here on a fall day like this one, feeling depressed because summer was over and John’s mother had come to take him back home so he could start school again in Alton. And I’d be the whole school year without him. More, because he couldn’t come the following summer.
But at least I’d still had his Aunt Mari. Her cookies. And her listening ear. Thank God I’d remembered her when the police officer told me as I sat in jail, “You’re in a heap of trouble, son. Don’t you have nobody to call?” If it weren’t for her, I might be there still.
14
Leah
I’d expected to eat the noon meal with Josiah and was relieved that he didn’t come back from wherever he’d gone. But Marigold was quieter than usual, and I wondered if they’d had words before he left. It made me a little angry that Josiah may have been short with his aunt just as he’d been with my daughter, but she didn’t say anything about it. As I helped her clean up, she saved back the leftovers on a plate for Josiah. And then we started the afternoon’s work with a will.
I could tell, by the time we’d mopped and scrubbed and were ready for a break for tea, that she was watchful, wondering, expecting Josiah back. But he didn’t come and she didn’t give me any inkling of where he might have gone. I wanted to ask, but it wasn’t my place. I almost hoped that Eliza would ask, because at her age less restraint would be expected and then we’d get an answer to the question. But she didn’t ask, and I knew it would be improper to prompt her.
By late afternoon, I’d almost decided that Josiah Walsh was a thoughtless cad even if he did pay for rent and groceries here. Marigold seemed terribly uncomfortable, and I figured it was somehow his fault. Nonetheless, she still wasn’t talking about it, and I still couldn’t bring myself to ask. With our housework done, Eliza started sorting another basket of apples for Marigold on the back porch, and I went back to the garden again where my thoughts strayed to the letters I’d sent. It was far too soon to expect that the letters had arrived, let alone been answered, but I still wondered about the sort of reaction I’d get. Especially from my father. Would he write back? Surely he’d never consider actually coming here.
I’d told Marigold I would fill a bowl of greens for supper, but there were not enough of the turnip tops to go halfway. My mother used to forage for the edible yard weeds in the spring before the garden came into its own or in the fall like this when she thought the winter might be fierce and she wanted to preserve as much food as she could. I was walking about Marigold’s yard gathering what I could find of the wild greens to make enough for a mess, when Mr. Abraham stepped outside to carry something to his shed. When he saw me he waved and then motioned for me to come closer.
“Marigold is well?” he asked.
“Yes. I believe she’s all right.”
He looked into my bowl. “She would not like me asking this, but is there food enough for her table?”
I could see the honest concern in his eyes, and I knew I should reassure him quickly. “Oh yes. It’s all right. I offered to gather greens. It’s something I can do, and like to do this time of year. My mother used to say that the more of God’s bounty is harvested the less is wasted, and he put it under our noses for a reason.”
He smiled. “Your mother had a great deal of wisdom. You may harvest all you like in my yard too if you see anything you can use.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
He nodded. “Marigold might think I set you to pickin’ weeds so I wouldn’t have to trim them.”
“She might joke, but of course she’ll understand.”
His smile broadened a bit. “Greet her for me. Tell her my father is well and has greatly enjoyed her pie.”
“She’ll be glad to hear that.”
He began to turn back toward the house. “Take her some of my rhubarb, will you, please? All you want.”
“Thank you, Mr. Abraham.”
I continued my gathering as he went back inside. He was a pleasantly odd character, careful to check on Marigold and find something to share. Maybe I should have told him that she seemed a little preoccupied today because of Josiah. But she probably wouldn’t like that, and Josiah wouldn’t either.
I didn’t expect to see any more of him, but he came back out with a knife and cut an incredibly generous supply of rhubarb stalks for me as I finished filling my bowl.
“Thank you so much,” I told him again.
“My pleasure.”
Marigold was whistling when I went back in the house with the bowl of greens and Mr. Abraham’s bundle of rhubarb. When I first heard the sound, I thought Josiah was surely back and it was him doing the whistling. But Josiah was nowhere in sight, and she was beside the table with her back to me, cutting rolled dough and laying wedges of it on a baking pan.
I set the bowl in the sink, and Marigold suddenly jumped as though she hadn’t noticed me coming in.
“So sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” she answered quickly. “Not your fault if my mind was several blocks away and about some other business.”
I wasn’t sure what she was referring to. I just set the rhubarb beside the sink and started washing the greens so they’d be ready to fix for supper. Marigold started whistling again absently. It seemed so strangely out of character. I couldn’t recall hearing any grown woman whistle before. Marigold certainly hadn’t done it any other time since we’d been here.
“That’s a catchy tune,” I told her.
She shook her head and looked rather dismayed. “Oh, you caught me at it, didn’t you? Used to aggravate my sisters something fierce. I only whistle when I worry. And then only if I don’t catch myself soon enough. Must have let my mind get in the way of what I know to be so.”
Her words made little sense to me, so I asked her what she meant. Maybe she was inviting questions by being so open.
“I shouldn’t worry and that’s all there is to it,” she answered. “The good Lord is still in control.” She stepped a little closer. “All that rhubarb! Did you find that much in my yard?”
She surely knew I wouldn’t cut all hers without asking, and it wouldn’t have made quite this much anyway. “Mr. Abraham sent it to you.”
“Oh, bless him. I need to make him preserves again, like I did last year.”
“He said his father is well and enjoyed your pie.”
She smiled. “Wonderful news. Thank you so much.”
How could anyone not like Marigold’s pie? That part was no news at all, so surely she’d meant the good report about the old man’s health.
“There’s always a bright spot,” she said. “In the middle of every day.”
Before I could say anything in reply, her face changed, revealing again the concern I thought I’d been seeing most of the afternoon. “Josiah’s needing prayers. I guess you’ve noticed he was a bit out of sorts last night, and left today before lunch.”
“Yes,” I agreed, not sure if I should say more.
“I don’t kno
w why he’s been so long. But I know he’s being tested.”
“Eliza thought she might have upset him,” I admitted. “He seemed rather unhappy to have us around this morning.”
“That’s not the trouble.”
She didn’t look convincing. And I decided I might as well be honest. “I don’t think he’s favored having us here since the moment he found out who we are.”
Aunt Marigold sat in the nearest chair and looked up at me sadly. “Truth be told, dearie, that’s probably right.”
“But why?”
She sighed. “Maybe it’s not really so much who you are as who you aren’t.”
Eliza came in from the porch where she’d been selecting the “shiningest” apples to set in a bowl on the table.
“Was he expecting someone else to visit?” I asked Marigold, hoping for some further explanation. I didn’t like having the confirmation that her nephew and only other boarder did not appreciate our presence here.
“No.” Marigold gave Eliza a welcoming little smile. “He’s having a difficult time finding peace. Considering those who have gone on before us. I’m sure you understand.”
I thought I did. “Was he very close with John? I don’t remember ever hearing his name.”
“It’s been a lot of years.” She sighed again. “The boys weren’t but ten or so the summer John stayed with us. And they were quickly inseparable, day or night.”
This subject stirred my curiosity. “Did Josiah live here back then?”
“No. Not really. But I guess you could say he was here pretty much the whole summer too.”
“Then they must have become great friends in addition to cousins.”
She looked at me a little strangely, and I had to wait a moment before she answered. “I guess you could say that. Josiah would certainly have liked every summer to be like that one. He thought the world of John . . .” Her voice trailed off and I got the feeling there was more she wanted to tell me.
“Is everything all right?”
“I pray so, dear. I’d say aplenty more, but I don’t think he’d want me to.”
Whatever could this be about? Had there been trouble at some point between John and Josiah? If not, then why would Aunt Marigold hesitate at me calling them friends in addition to cousins? What might Josiah not want me to know?
