With Endless Sight

by Allison Pittman

  The routine held true every day, with the exception of the Sabbath. Early on I forced myself to recite each day’s date. Otherwise, it seemed the short days and long nights of our isolation turned time into one big melting mass.

  On Sundays, I insisted that we not gamble or play cards at all.

  “The Sabbath is a holy, somber day,” I told Laurent. “We must devote this day to worshiping God.”

  “Ain’t never been to church,” he said.

  “Then I’ll bring church to you.”

  After the breakfast things were cleared away, I took special pains to comb and freshly braid my hair, tying it with a ribbon I fashioned from the ruffle on my skirt. Laurent surprised me by shaving for the first time since I recovered from my illness, exposing that deep, ragged scar.

  Rather than sit at the table, for that is what we did every day, I made Laurent move the table to the space between the two cots, and we sat with our chairs facing each other—not quite knee-to-knee. The day’s lesson would focus on whatever Bible verse I could clearly recall.

  “John, chapter three, verse sixteen.” I began with the text most familiar to me. “ ‘For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ ”

  I made Laurent repeat the verse back to me until he could say it by heart. Once he did, I declared Sunday school over and moved into the church service. For this, I stood behind my chair while I delivered the sermon I’d practiced in my head the night before.

  I opened my first sermon with the question, “Who is God?” and I paced back and forth behind my chair, expounding everything I knew of Him as Creator, Protector, Savior.

  I did a three-week series on the Ten Commandments, paying special emphasis to “Thou shalt not kill” and “Thou shalt not steal” while bypassing the one about coveting a neighbor’s wife.

  I concluded a sermon on Psalm 23 by telling him that I had been in the valley of the shadow of death. “You were right there with me, Laurent. And even though I was afraid at first, the Lord did comfort me a little. Right now I’m on a mountain, but I still feel like I’m in that valley sometimes. And still, the Lord comforts me.”

  “So, you ain’t afraid?” he asked.

  “Not as much.”

  After the sermon came time for Sabbath meditation. Back home that meant sitting quietly in our room or on the sofa in the parlor for hours on end. It meant the same in this home too. I would stretch out on my bed; Laurent would restore the table to its place in the middle of the room and sit there. The best escape from the chill was to take a nap—which I often did—only to wake and find that he hadn’t moved an inch.

  After our Sunday suppers, the evening story was always some heroic, biblical tale: Moses and the pharaoh; Noah and the ark; Joshua and the walls of Jericho. All this time, Laurent was like that lake in the basin behind the cabin. It held every flake dropped down to it, keeping them all behind that cool, placid surface. And every day it seemed I could see the power of God’s Word reflected in his face. The glint that usually gave his eyes such a hard edge disappeared, as did the rigid set to his mouth. His beard was growing back, not only obscuring the scar, but softening the sharp planes of his face. His hair was growing longer and curling, reminding me of Chester’s, and I could fully understand Phoebe’s budding infatuation.

  One Sunday I realized we were in the month of December, the season of Advent. During the week, I recounted stories of my Christmases growing up, describing in detail the favorite doll I got when I was five and the little music box that was left among the ruins of our stagecoach. I ate my modest bowl of beans thinking of the feasts that would adorn our table. I shivered in the ice-cold room, longing for the warmth of the yule log blazing in the fireplace in our parlor.

  But with each Sunday of the season, as I told the story of the nativity, with the angels and shepherds, and saw this story for the first time through Laurent’s eyes, I thought I shouldn’t be anywhere else but here.

  Last Christmas, after Irene Dunsfield came down with a timely case of mumps, I was given the role of the Virgin Mary in our Christmas Eve program. On that night, I stood in our church, illuminated by a hundred candles, and spoke the words of Mary’s song to a hushed audience.

  Now, isolated in this tiny mountain cabin, with an audience of one, I reprised my role as our after-supper story. I opted to stand on my chair, instructing Laurent to turn the lamp down as low as the flame would allow, then close his eyes until I was ready. Once I’d taken a blanket and fashioned a costume for myself, I ascended my stage and told Laurent to open his eyes. I’ve no idea how he reacted to my appearance, because in true dramatic fashion, I kept my eyes fixed above and delivered my song.

  My soul doth magnify the Lord,

  And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.

  For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden:

  for, behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.

  For He that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is His name.

  And His mercy is on them that fear Him from generation to generation.

  I don’t know if I was expecting enthusiastic applause or a solemn amen, but I was not prepared for Laurent to stand, bringing himself nearly eye level with me, and smile. Not the tight-lipped, one-sided grin he allowed whenever amusement took him by surprise, but a full-on beam, framed by his beard, illuminated in the lamplight, and evidenced clear into his eyes that shone with a mist I’d never seen before. He took my hands in his and brought them to his lips; his beard dusted the backs of my fingers. Then he stepped back and helped me down from the chair.

  “Merry Christmas, Laurent.”

  “Merry Christmas, Belinda.”

  It was the first time he’d ever spoken my name.

  He went outside, as he did every evening, even though a steady snowfall had packed a small drift in front of the door. I took off my costume and crawled into bed to say my prayers. For the first time in a long time, I cried myself to sleep.

  The next morning I woke up to the familiar warmth of the room and the familiar smell of the coffee. And something else. Missing was the familiar sight of Laurent sitting at the table.

  But as my waking eyes adjusted to the room, I understood why. Cuttings of evergreen lined the shelf on the wall, filling the room with a fresh, sweet scent. Still more graced the center of the table, artfully arranged around three unlit tallow candles. Also on the table, at my place, was a canvas-wrapped bundle tied with a length of rope.

  Laurent himself was sprawled out on his bed, snow dripping off the boots that hung over the edge, sleeping.

  I climbed out from under my covers—heedless of my red nightshirt—and toured the room, looking at all of his efforts close up, breathing in the scent of pine. The taboo of touching a Christmas gift loomed large in my mind, so I allowed just the barest tracing of my finger along the coarse fabric of the bundle, unable to imagine what might be hidden inside. The coffee cups dangled from their hooks on the wall, so I took two down and poured a cup for myself.

  Before I could take my first sip, Laurent was up and beside me. I thought there might have been some shyness between us after last night’s display. Instead, we exchanged a warm “Good morning” before he excused himself to go outside while I dressed for the day.

  The gift and garland weren’t the only hallmarks that this was a holiday. When Laurent came back inside, his arms were full of treasures from the pantry, things long denied, as he carefully rationed our supplies to ensure we’d make it through the winter. Today he had cornmeal, brown sugar, and molasses, and two tins—one of milk and the other, peaches. I sat at the table while he made a breakfast of fluffy, sweet corncakes and even enjoyed a bit of milk swirled in my coffee.

  “Open it,” he said as soon as we were settled with our food.

  “Nope. Not until after the breakfast dishes are done. Family tradition.”

  “Fair enough.”
>
  We ate in our usual companionable silence, and I forced myself to eat slowly, savoring my treat. Perhaps later we could bring in fresh snow and make molasses candy.

  When the dishes were all wiped clean and dry, I sat in front of my gift again, rubbing my hands together in anticipation. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you.”

  “I ain’t never had a present. So I wouldn’t know what I’m missin’.”

  I picked up the package, unable to guess what might be hidden inside. The rope was fashioned into a simple bow, which I untied—savoring this experience as much as I had the breakfast—and leisurely pulled away the canvas.

  “Oh, my goodness …”

  They looked like boots but were creamy soft and brown and unlike anything I ever could have imagined for myself.

  “It’s rabbit.” He reached across to touch the fur that lined the top inside and out. “Inside’s lined with wool. Took that from an old pair of my brother’s socks. But I washed them.”

  The stitching along the top and back was a series of perfect, tiny loops, and a pretty, swirling design was stamped into the top of the foot.

  “You made these?”

  “They’re moccasins. What Indians wear. Figure they’d be warmer than what you have now.”

  I took off my old boots and slid these on, thrilled at the feel of thick wool and rabbit fur that hugged my feet.

  “They’re wonderful, Laurent. Thank you so much.”

  He looked so pleased, I knew it didn’t matter to him that I didn’t have a gift in return. But it mattered to me, and in that moment I knew what I would give him.

  “Laurent, I want you to know something.”

  “What’s that?” He cocked his head to look under the table and admire his handiwork.

  I took a deep breath. “I forgive you.”

  His smile disappeared, and he became the same hidden, guarded person I’d known until yesterday.

  “For everything,” I continued. “For what happened to my parents. For bringing me here. I want you to know that I don’t blame you anymore. I—I just forgive you.”

  He dropped his head and nodded. When he looked at me again, he wore an expression akin to pain.

  “Do you think—” his words caught in his throat, which he cleared before starting again. “Do you think that God can forgive me too? Not just for what happened with—to your family. But all them other things.”

  “He already has.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Jesus died on the cross. All the way back then, He offered you forgiveness. Do you believe that?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you’re forgiven.”

  “You don’t know what all I done.”

  “It doesn’t matter. God knows. He knows everything. And the Bible says there’s no sin too great for Him to forgive. It’s a gift.” I stretched my legs out, admiring my boots. “It’s a gift like any other. All you have to do is accept it.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, imagine for a minute. What do you think your life would’ve been like if you had been my brother?”

  “You mean growin’ up how you did?”

  “Yes. What if you’d had the opportunity to live in my home? What if my parents were your parents?”

  He let out a rueful laugh. “When you tell them stories, it’s like you was livin’ in another world. This little house is the only home I’ve ever known. Just my brother and my pa, both of ’em drunk as rats most the time.” He brought his hand up to his face and ran a finger along the scar. “Got this the time I broke my pa’s whiskey jar. He forgot he had that glass in his hand when he smacked me. I don’t figure I ever had no chance to be nothin’ but what I am.”

  “But that’s what forgiveness is.” My heart quickened at the thought of it. “God tells us that when we accept His forgiveness, when we truly believe in the sacrifice of His Son, it’s like we get a whole new life. Like we’re born all over again to get a fresh start to be something better than what we were before.”

  “What kind of a new life would you need?” he asked with sadness in his voice. “Can’t see you ever done anything to forgive.”

  “Of course I have. But that doesn’t matter. God doesn’t see any difference between your sins and mine. And once you really take Him into your heart—the way I have—we’ll really be the same. You’ll be my brother.”

  “I’d like that.” The words were thick in his throat.

  “Don’t just tell me.” I laid my hand on his. “Tell Him.”

  “All right.” He stood up. “But I think I’d like to go outside.”

  20

  Winter strengthened its hold after Christmas. Whereas before we had the occasional day when the sun would shine and Laurent would accompany me on a short walk out in the fresh, blinding air, now the wind kept the snow in a constant state of flurry, and the temperature dipped to a range that brought pain with every breath. Everything blurred. The view outside the cabin was a smear of gray. Inside, we rationed the light, refusing to light the lamp until delaying one minute more would make it impossible to find the matches.

  Everything within me—my mind and body—grew dull too. Hunger became very real for the first time as each day our portions got smaller. This wasn’t the sharp, insistent pain that I remembered when I couldn’t wait until the end of the school day to get back to my house to a stack of fresh sugar cookies. Rather, it was a subdued, constant presence in no way confined to my stomach but permeating throughout, consuming me with my own emptiness.

  One evening as we said our prayers together, I heard Laurent say, “Give us this day our daily beans.” After we’d said, “Amen,” I gave him a quizzical look.

  “Won’t be no more bread,” he said before digging in.

  Some days I woke up to have breakfast alone. “Didn’t think you was ever gettin’ up,” Laurent would say on those mornings. “I already ate.”

  “It’s a sin to tell a lie.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m forgiven.”

  I began to wonder if we’d have to surrender our poker beans to the boiling pot, but even that activity had lost its charm. If it wasn’t too dark to see the cards, it was too cold to hold them in my numb fingers. My head was so full of cold and dark and hunger, that kings and queens melted together, losing all their former charm.

  Laurent insisted that we needed to stay still to conserve our energy. That meant sometimes entire days spent huddled under the covers on our cots, fading in and out of troubled sleep. I no longer slept in the red flannel shirt. Every day—all day—I wore my dress and my coat, with Phoebe’s coat over it. My rabbit-fur-lined boots never left my feet.

  We still told stories, though now we often spoke them out into the darkness. And Laurent now recounted a few fun, happy memories from his childhood as well as reliving the torture of his violent father.

  “You need to forgive him,” I’d say, even after hearing about a brutal beating.

  “I have,” he finally said, his voice gentle in the dark.

  Then came the night I could not get warm. Usually if I just lay still enough, breathed deep enough, I could reach a level of comfort to allow me to sleep. But this night, hunger gnawed at my bones, and my skin stretched over them to the point of splitting open. All this, with the last of the fire burning in the stove. When the cold took over the final ember, I imagined I’d be turned to ice.

  “Belinda?”

  It was solid blackness inside the cabin—so much so that I couldn’t tell when my eyes were open—but I could tell from the proximity of his voice that he was kneeling right next to my cot, his head level with mine.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s cold.”

  I almost laughed. All winter long, any time I said, “It’s cold,” he’d replied with “Not yet.” To hear him admit it now seemed like a victory.

  “I’m only sayin’ this ’cause I’m worried. It’d be—you’d be warmer if—” He stopped, and I could picture him looking down
, scowling at the floor. “You should lay down beside me.”

  My blood ran a little colder as every word of warning Mother ever spoke to me wormed its way through my muddled head.

  “It ain’t what—You’re my sister. I’m sayin’ before God that I’m here to keep you safe. Keepin’ you safe is keepin’ you warm.”

  He was silent then, waiting for me to send him away, but I didn’t. I felt one more blanket, then another piled on top of me, then lifted away as Laurent took my arm.

  “Let me lay down first. Against the wall.”

  I silently obeyed and stood on the icy floor. I felt shifting and movement behind me, then his hand was on my arm again, and I was being pulled down. My feet found their way under the covers, then the blankets were pulled up under my chin. It was almost like any other night I’d spent on this cot until I felt a strong arm drape itself over me and draw me close to another, warmer body.

  “It’s a good thing when it’s this cold,” he whispered over my shoulder. “Means the thaw is just around the corner.”

  “Goin’ down the mountain just a bit today,” Laurent said. He’d spent the previous evening cleaning his rifle, which he slung over his shoulder after putting on his hat and coat. “See what there is to hunt.”

  We’d gone five days without a new snowfall, and what was piled up around the cabin was becoming soft and wet. The sun shone almost warm and inviting in the afternoons, but I could do little more than walk outside, turn my face toward it, and wish there was some way to feel full with light. I didn’t know how he had the strength for adventure; I hadn’t seen him take more than a few sips of coffee in days. His dark eyes were set deep in hollow sockets, and there was a tremor in his hands as he put his knife in the sheath he wore on his belt. He paused in the doorway and gripped the sides of the threshold before stepping outside.

  “Be careful,” I said.

  “Go on back to sleep.”

  I closed the door behind him, crossed the room to my bed, and burrowed under the covers. The next thing I knew, I was dreaming that Laurent came back, bursting into the cabin with none of his usual silence and stealth, shouting, “Fear not, kid! Big brother’s here to save you!”