by Leisha Kelly
I didn’t get any more mail from Anna, but we’d been in Andersonville a little more than a month when the letter finally came that I had begun to dread. From Walter Wiskirk, my father.
Leah,
Should have told me you were moving. I could have died trying to figure out where you are. Doctor tells me heart’s gone bad, said I should ask you to come. Don’t bring the girl if you got a place to leave her. Don’t want the noise in my house.
He didn’t even sign his name. I sat on Marigold’s front step staring at the page. How could he do this? Was he dying? How could he not wish to see his granddaughter? He didn’t even say that he wanted to see me.
His attitude in the letter angered me so much that I almost wanted to march in the house, throw it in the trash basket, and forget about it. But the doctor thought I should be there? That thought was dizzying. Surely something was seriously wrong.
Marigold’s mail lay in my lap and I would have to take it in to her. But maybe I needed to sit a moment and rein in my emotions first.
I hadn’t really wanted Marigold to know about this letter, about my problems with my father and his headstrong, uncaring ways. But I couldn’t simply forget this. If I didn’t answer him in some way, I would probably be plagued with guilt, despite his less-than-inviting overture. I wasn’t sure what to do and thought it might help to talk the matter through with someone.
So I carried the mail inside, found Marigold in the kitchen, and told her everything.
“What should I do? I can’t go.”
“Why not?” She looked at me rather sharply.
“First of all, I don’t have the money. But even if I did, I couldn’t leave without Eliza.”
She looked into the pot she was stirring. “You need to at least consider it, Leah, dear. It seems he needs you.”
“More like he wrote that letter under duress. It doesn’t sound like he wants me there at all. It was the doctor’s idea.”
“Maybe the doctor pushed him to it,” she acknowledged. “But believe me, if your father is as hardheaded as you say he is, if he didn’t want you, there’d be no letter in your hand. Doctors can give advice, but they sure can’t make any bullheaded man act on it unless he’s decided that he wants to.”
I stood in silence.
“You need to pray about going. The Lord will make a way. Maybe your father’s feeling that his time is short. He wants to see you, even if he can’t admit it outright. He needs you there, or he wouldn’t be pleading.”
“Pleading? He seems to be rebuking me more than anything.”
“Maybe you read a rebuke in that letter. But believe me, between the lines, he’s pleading. I can feel it – all the sorrow, and the hope that his little girl will come home for him, at least one more time.”
I sat in a chair, stunned with her interpretation.
“Sometimes when a person gets older and the strength of his body fades, the heart has a chance to speak,” she continued. “I’ve seen men desperate for restoration, for the love of their loved ones, if they can find any way to claim it. It’s a sad thing, but it can be beautiful if families are willing to forgive and let love be.”
“But . . . he . . . he doesn’t want my love. He doesn’t want anything from me.”
“If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have written.”
It seemed so simple. In Marigold’s mind. But I didn’t know how to reconcile her words with all the hurt inside me, so I went outside to rake the leaves.
When it came time to walk Eliza home from school, I met Dorothy Humphrey on the sidewalk as usual and we walked together.
I would never have thought to mention the whole matter to anyone else, but it must have been plain on my face that something was troubling my mind. She asked me right away what was wrong.
I almost told her nothing, but maybe because of Marigold and the way the Lord kept trying to soften my heart, honest words came pouring out instead.
“I’m so confused about what to do. I’ve never had a good relationship with my father. But now he’s sick with some kind of heart ailment and he’s written to tell me that the doctor said I should come. He doesn’t want Eliza to come with me. It makes me angry. And I think I may just have to write to him and tell him I’m not able.”
Dorothy shook her head. “But it sounds serious. Maybe the doctor advised against having a young child present. Sometimes they do that, even with the child’s own mother if she’s ailing with certain things. It would be hard for Eliza to miss school and see her grandfather looking poorly anyway. You really should consider going. Couldn’t Eliza continue to stay with your aunt?”
I didn’t think I’d told Dorothy that Marigold was my aunt, but I might have mentioned “Aunt Marigold” in our casual talking, or perhaps such things were generally discussed around this small town. “I don’t know,” I told her. “She said the Lord would make a way for me to go if I wished it, but we didn’t really talk about Eliza staying. Marigold has such trouble with her legs, I hate to leave her with the responsibility, especially of seeing her off to school in the morning. Eliza’s been very good, and loves to help her, but it might still be a bit much.”
Dorothy smiled. “Marigold’s probably tougher than you give her credit for. Besides, I could help. I could just start a little earlier in the morning and come right to Marigold’s house to help if she needs me to. That way Betty and I could walk Eliza every step of the way. Maybe she could even sleep over part of the time. Betty would love that.”
I didn’t love that. The thought of leaving my daughter and going back into Missouri without her was simply terrifying. I was glad I didn’t have the money. But I didn’t want to mention that. “Thank you so much for your kind offer. I will consider it.”
Betty and Eliza came out of the school arm in arm again, and I thought about all the things Dorothy had said. Might the doctor have asked that a young child not be brought in, as she had suggested? If that were the case, why wouldn’t my father say so? Could it be possible that he’d tried to hide from me just how serious this really was?
Eliza showed me a drawing she’d done, and I tried to shove thoughts of Father from my mind. None of it mattered anyway. Without money, there was no way I could go. It was as simple as that.
On the way home Dorothy said that she would be praying for my father and would ask her church to do so as well.
I cannot remember praying for my father, I thought guiltily. Maybe I had when I was little, along with my mother and with her guidance, but I certainly couldn’t remember ever doing it on my own. “Thank you,” I told her, and walked on.
The next morning, Eliza and I woke very early to the thunderous sound of a rainstorm. We huddled together for a moment and I tried to keep her fairly quiet, but then I remembered there was no one in the room next door and let her bounce about and sing to the rain. She hadn’t done that since she was three. I was stunned that she remembered. But maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was just part of her nature to celebrate some of the moments of life.
“Let’s pray for Grandpa like the Humphreys,” she suddenly said.
Like always, I couldn’t tell her no about something like this. So as she sank to her knees beside the bed, I nodded and sank beside her.
I thought she might be satisfied with both of our heads bowed in silence. But that was not good enough. “You pray, Mommy. Bless Grandpa.”
I’d never seen her so insistent. Such a simple request should have been easy, but I could scarcely manage the barest minimum.
“Bless Grandpa,” I muttered, feeling suddenly sick in the pit of my stomach. Why did she have to be this way? What if he died? What if he were already dead? How would she feel then?
“Help him feel better, Mommy. Say that too.”
“Honey, you can pray for him.”
“Please, Mommy, you pray.”
I didn’t know why it was so important to her. Some angry, broken part of me wanted to refuse any prayer for my father. He doesn’t deserve it, the hurt in my heart wanted
to scream. He doesn’t care about you, about God, or anyone!
For a second or two, a battle raged within my mind. But despite all the bitterness I held for my father, love for Eliza and for my mother finally won out. Mother had shown me how to be a good example. She was the best she could have been in her circumstance, and I would be wrong not to at least try to emulate her for my daughter’s sake. So many times I’d done poorly in that area, but now she was waiting expectantly, head still bowed.
“Help him feel better,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Thank you, heavenly Father. Amen.”
Still on her knees, Eliza smiled up at me. “I like when you pray, Mommy. It makes me feel all warm and believy inside.”
21
Josiah
I hadn’t planned to move in with Mr. Abraham. I went over first just to talk, then to try to help him get his clatter-trap car running again, without much success. The idea came up all of a sudden, and while we were both a little surprised, it seemed like a natural fit. I needed to be away from the women a while, and he needed to not be so alone.
Marigold wasn’t upset when I moved out, even though I’d thought she might be. She said it was probably the most appropriate thing to do and apologized for thrusting Leah and me together the way she’d done.
“Can’t push you to be good for each other just because I think you could be,” she said, and then thanked me for spending time with Mr. Abraham in his grief.
She must have had it through her head that I thought like she did, about doing for the man, just for the doing’s sake. But it wasn’t like that at all. I’d moved next door because I couldn’t stand another night with just one thin wall between me and Leah. And her humming daughter.
The last week there I’d hardly been able to sleep, just hearing them had bothered me so badly. Why, God? Why them? They didn’t do anything to deserve heartache. Why don’t you punish only the guilty and let everybody else stay with their loved ones until they’re old and gray?
Of course, even my finite mind understood that such a thing would be impossible. No adult in this world was purely innocent. I’d been around enough to know that. And there’d be no way to keep one person’s blessings or trials from affecting a multitude of others unless we were all hermits. I had no reason to struggle with God over the injustices of this world. As long as sin remained, bad things would happen. Until he brought an end to everything. It was as simple as that.
Mr. Abraham’s home was almost as large as Marigold’s but did not have so many bedrooms. He gave me a room down the hall from his own, the only other room in the house with a bed already in it. He was terribly quiet compared to the jesting and talking Marigold and I had done when no one else was around. It was almost like being alone. I’d thought I’d love it, but after only two days the silence was about to drive me insane. I’d talked to him plenty of times, I’d even seen a little mischief out of him now and then, at least in Marigold’s direction. So this was not characteristic surely. Finally one morning in the midst of flapjacks, I decided to ask.
“Has everything been all right with you? Since the funeral?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
“Really?” I questioned, not willing to let him slip back to silence that easily.
“Much to think about right now,” he said. “Much to pray about.”
“Like what?” I pushed, knowing full well it was none of my business. But I was going to be nosy whether he liked it or not.
“Da,” he said. And for a moment I thought he’d stopped, but then he spoke again with a solemn voice. “He told me many things before his final journey, and I must consider them all very well.”
“You mean your father?” I continued to prompt, hoping I wasn’t somehow stepping over a line. Sometimes my mouth rushed ahead of tact or common sense, and I didn’t usually care. But I’d been insensitive and offensive with Leah and just made matters worse. Better for that not to happen again.
“Yes. He was strong in his teaching. Strong in his opinions.”
“Did he preach? Like in a church? I mean, I’ve never really been sure what a rabbi does.”
Mr. Abraham passed me the plate of flapjacks for the fourth time, and I took what was left on it. “He was a teacher. In a big city he would probably already have had a building similar to a church because people would come to be taught and to worship. But the town where he lived was small, larger than this one, but with not very many Jews. They do not have a building yet but met every Sabbath in his home.”
“What do they do now?” I really wanted to know.
“Now they meet in my son’s home, or another of the families’. They are making plans for a building, especially since they expect several more families to join us in this area. And my son is the teacher now.”
I would have expected some kind of pride in that, but he seemed only far away, and sad. “Mr. Abraham, do you go and worship with them?”
“Call me Saul. You may as well, since we are housemates now. Why so many questions this morning?”
“I miss a good conversation. And I’d like to know. It’s not very far, right? Do you go there for the Sabbath?”
He sighed. “Sometimes. But many times I use an excuse, like the condition of my car or even the weather, to stay away, sometimes for weeks at a time. Then I try to worship and seek teaching right here in my own home.”
“You could come to church with Marigold and me. If you want. Maybe on a week when the weather’s not so good for leaving town.”
He smiled, just a little. “I think were I ever to do that, you might lose half your congregation.”
The words shocked me completely. “Why?”
He looked down a moment. “This town knows I am a Jew. And they don’t mind, if I stay in my home or use my cash in their stores. But if I came into one of the churches, I think many would be afraid.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I blurted out, though his face showed no sign of kidding at all.
“No. You would see it.”
“I can understand people being uneasy about me showing up in church. I nearly set the place on fire when I was thirteen messing around with a box of stolen cigars in the crawl space that used to be under the front steps. But you? You don’t have a hooligan’s reputation, a record of drunkenness, or anything like that.”
“I’m a Jew. That’s enough.”
The words made me angry, but he wouldn’t discuss it any further.
“Take every egg you can find to the Kurchers’,” he said. “I have half a dozen in the icebox and that is plenty. Marigold is probably ready with her biscuits. You’d better go.”
“What if I’m part Jewish?” I insisted. “Who would know? I don’t know where my people are from. And what the heck difference would it make anyway?”
“Josiah.” He smiled. “With a good Jewish name. Stop thinking and go to work.”
Right and wrong. Blessings and cursings. I couldn’t have stopped thinking that day any more than I could have stopped breathing. So many situations frustrated me. So many things just seemed out of place. Marigold had told me once that I was discontent because I hadn’t stepped into the place God had for me yet. Well, who had? Wasn’t the whole world discontent? Even Marigold herself, because she loved a Jew, an old man who still hadn’t proposed and maybe never would. Maybe never should if it meant either of them would have to change more than their heart wanted.
“You’re called, sure as I’m born,” Marigold had told me once, not long after I’d come from the jailhouse to her boardinghouse. “That’s why things touch you so deeply. He’s already got hold of a good piece of your heart.”
Called. To minister, she’d meant. And that thought was still almost as ridiculous now as it had been then. I just had a pitiful habit of getting my mind so wrapped around things it was hard to let loose again. Kept me frustrated much of the time, but it did nobody else any good.
When we pulled into the Brighton station, I knew immediately that there must be a problem with
the Kurchers. Dodie was not waiting on the platform as she usually did, the way it had been since Marigold had started sending biscuits over a year ago. At first I didn’t see anyone, but then scrawny little Bobby came racing like Man o’ War from behind a building to be in time to meet the train. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. The brakeman stopped us and I stepped to the platform with the biscuits and eggs. Poor Bobby was breathless.
“Mama’s sick,” he said immediately, sucking wind to get the words out. “Dodie too. Almost everybody. Been hittin’ pretty hard.”
“What has? What kind of sick are they?”
“Fever and spots. Measles, Mama says. I hope to never catch ’em. Mama’s got me doin’ the outside fetchin’ and we’s hopin’ I’ll stay clear.”
“Are all the older children ill, then?”
“Yeah. ’Cept Beth Ann, an’ she’s tending the younger ones. Mama wanted to know if Mrs. McSweeney might come out a few days and lend a hand. If she’s done had ’em, that is. Wouldn’t want her pickin’ up the measles herself.”
“No. You’re right,” I said. “We wouldn’t. She’s a pretty strong woman for the most part but with a lot of trouble with the rheumatism in her knees lately. I’m not sure she could do what you all have need of, or ought to even try. But I could ask her if she thinks somebody from our church would be willing.”
“Thank you. That’s good enough that you’ll ask.” He took the bundle of biscuits from my hand. “We sure thank you for bringing the food again. We sure need it, ’specially now with all the cookin’ and harvestin’ slowed down.” He reached for the basket of eggs. “I’m sorry I forgot to bring a basket to swap everything into. Can I bring yours back the next time?”
“I think we can manage without it. Can you carry it by yourself?”
“I’m going to. I sure will. Slow and gentle, Mama said. So I don’t break a one.”
“That’s right.”
