by Janette Oke
After the service several people greeted him, and she introduced him to any of those whose names she knew. But she could tell he was anxious to get away from the small congregation. He was edging toward the car, and she allowed herself to be led away as soon as she could do so without being rude.
“Well,” he said once he was behind the wheel. “That was a new experience.”
“Thank you,” said Christine. “For going with me, I mean.”
He merely nodded.
“Have you really never been to church before?” she dared ask.
“Never.”
“That’s sad. You’ve missed so much.”
He did not respond.
“Did your ... your mother attend church?” Christine knew she might be getting too personal, but she wanted to know.
“I don’t remember Mother.” It was said too sharply.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Look,” he said, angrily turning to her. “There’s not a thing you have done—or can do—about my mother. No sorrys. They don’t fix anything. So let’s just not bring it up, okay?”
Christine was shocked by his obvious emotional trauma. She wanted to say sorry again but didn’t dare. She just nodded.
The stormy interchange was over as quickly as it had come. He looked at her and smiled. Even reached out for her hand. “Where should we go for dinner?” he said as if nothing had happened.
There had been no arrangement made for dinner. Christine’s landlady would be expecting her at the boardinghouse table.
“Mrs. Green is expecting ...”
“Phooey on Mrs. Green,” he said dismissively. “She won’t even notice you’re gone. Besides, all she cares about is getting the money. As long as she has full pay, she’ll be glad she didn’t have to feed you.”
“You don’t know Mrs. Green. She doesn’t even serve anyone until all of us are at the table.”
“A cuff on the side of the head to Mrs. Green. She sounds like a spoilsport to me.”
She managed a light laugh. “Maybe next time.”
When they got to her place, he pulled over to the curb. Before she could thank him or open her door, he reached out and held her arm. His other hand raked through his hair with spread fingers.
“Look, Christine,” he said. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. About today.”
She swallowed nervously.
“I ... I don’t think I can handle going to your church again. It makes me feel creepy. All that singing and talking about a guy who’s been dead for nearly two thousand years. That’s really not where I’m at.”
She could have protested. The “guy” he talked about was not dead. He was alive. But all she did was nod her head. That painful little sadness tugged at her heart again. It hadn’t worked. Their worlds were too far apart. She should have known. She gave one more nod and turned to go.
“But I do want to see you again,” he stopped her.
Slowly she shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. You know that. I ... I don’t fit in your world, and you don’t fit in mine.”
“But there must be a ... a third world,” he protested.
She stared at him. What did he mean?
“We can make one. Please. I won’t ask you to go out with my friends—and you don’t ask me to go to your church. We’ll just go places we can both enjoy. Things we can share.”
Though her head was warning her not to be taken in, her heart yearned to at least listen.
“Our own two-person picnic,” he rushed on. “The beach. Drives in the country. Dinner. We’ll find lots of things,” he finished with enthusiasm.
“I don’t think—”
“Please. Let’s just try it, Christine. If you’re still uncomfortable ...”
He didn’t finish the thought, but he was wearing down her reserve. Breaking down the wall she had been carefully trying to construct.
“I’ll ... think about it.”
He leaned across and kissed her cheek—ever so lightly. “And I won’t think of anything else,” he murmured against her hair before he straightened up.
She stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive away. She was in turmoil. She did want to go out with him again. In fact, she knew in her heart of hearts that she would agree. Yet there was an inner conflict that would not let her agree in peace.
CHAPTER Ten
Though the detachment was kept busy, Henry felt the summer was slowly crawling by and time was standing still.
He had been in the area long enough to establish some first-name acquaintances. Not anything that could yet be called a true friendship, but at least townspeople no longer seemed to hold their breath when he appeared on the scene.
Most of those were people from the church. The pastor in particular was warm and open with Henry. He appreciated having someone who shared his faith to join him for an occasional cup of Jessie’s coffee.
But things had not changed with the young woman and her son. He still went for the periodic haircuts and was always politely received. But in spite of the fact they attended the same church, she remained distant and unresponsive.
He had noticed that she seemed like an entirely different person at church than in her shop—warm and outgoing, with a wonderfully warm smile and a delightful sense of humor. She doted on her son, but he guessed that was to be expected. Gradually he learned a few things just by keeping his eyes and ears open. Her mother also attended the church. She was a tiny lady with a big smile and hugs for everyone. She was the first person Henry knew whom he would have described as bustling. He noticed too that Mrs. Martin always seemed to have some package in her hand. A jar of fresh jam for some elderly couple, crocheted booties for the expectant mother, a fresh loaf of bread for a bachelor farmer. Everywhere the woman went she drew her little rainbow of happiness along with her.
Henry was not too surprised when she approached him one morning following the service. “I feel like I’ve neglected you,” she apologized. “Is it too late to invite you for dinner? I never know which Sunday you are on or off duty, so I’m afraid I haven’t been successful in planning ahead.”
He smiled and thanked her. Yes, Sunday dinner sounded wonderful, he quickly told her.
“I’m going to hurry on home,” she continued. “You come whenever you’re ready. It’s that house on the corner of Fifth and Seventh. With the white picket fence. You can’t miss it.”
He thanked her and turned to finish his conversation with a rancher who was having problems with a marauding bear.
“I’ve lost a few healthy calves,” the rancher continued as Mrs. Martin bustled away. “I think this here fella might be the cause. I’ve seen him a couple times and run across his spore several more. He’s a big one—but lanky lookin’. Like maybe he hasn’t been fattenin’ up like he should. Gettin’ closer to fall he’s gonna get more and more desperate. Knows he needs that fat to get him through the winter.”
Henry nodded, but in truth his mind had been on other things—about the possibility of learning more about “Sam” and her son. Surely, like all mothers, Mrs. Martin wouldn’t mind discussing her daughter.
“I’ll have one of the fellows look into it,” he heard himself saying to the rancher. “Drop by the office and give us some details of the location.”
The man thanked him, replaced his wide-brimmed hat, and ambled off in the direction of his horse.
Not wanting to rush the woman, Henry took his time walking to the house with the picket fence. When he arrived, the little lady met him at the door and led him into the living room. To his surprise, a man was sitting in the corner in an overstuffed chair, Bible in hand.
He smiled broadly, and before the woman could speak, he did. “Excuse me for not getting up. Got an awful mess of arthritis in my right knee.” He extended a hand, and Henry could see that he also had a mess of arthritis in that. Henry was careful to shake with caution.
“My husband, Sam.” The woman made the introductions and indicated a nearby chair
. “You can just sit and get to know one another while I put on the meal.”
Henry took the seat.
“Ma’s been telling me about you,” began the man named Sam. “Awful nice that you been joinin’ the folks at church. Used to be able to go myself until this here arthritis laid me up.
“I’m sorry about that,” Henry said sincerely. “Been giving you trouble for quite some time?”
“About two years now. Oh, it troubled me before that, but only in the last two years has it kept me in.” He held out his right hand and studied it. “I got so I couldn’t hold the scissors nor cut properly. Was afraid I’d cut off someone’s ear.” He chuckled. “That’s when I talked my daughter into getting some training and taking over the shop. She needed something anyway.” He stopped and waved the crippled hand. “But don’t need to bother you with all that. Of no interest to you.”
Oh, if he only knew, thought Henry, leaning forward in the chair. “No—please—go on,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. When the man looked at him curiously, Henry said, “I’ve ... I’ve met your daughter. At the shop and ... and at church,” he quickly added, hoping that would make his interest seem unremarkable.
“Well, she’s rather a private person. Don’t know she’d like me going on about her personal matters.” Sam closed down the conversation.
But all was not lost. Henry noted several pictures about the room. They showed the young woman from early childhood through her teen years. One in particular held his attention. It was the wedding picture, the beautiful bride and the young Swedish logger. Something twisted deep within him as he looked at their happy faces. What a tragic ending to such a beautiful beginning.
The last picture was of the woman and Danny. Henry could see it had been taken quite recently. Danny was probably about to celebrate his fifth birthday. Henry had to pull his eyes from the photo and try hard to concentrate on what Sam was saying.
“... so my wife, she says, ‘God has taken care of us all these years. He’s not going to let us down now.’ And then she went out and got herself a job at the grocer’s. So between God and Martha”—he stopped to chuckle—“we’re makin’ out just fine. Then my daughter—she’s buying Sam’s. Pays a little each month. Doin’ real good, though. Guess she must be a better barber than I was. Business has sure been boomin’.”
So that’s why little Danny spends his days in the care of Mrs. Crane, thought Henry. He’d wondered why the grandmother was not looking after the boy.
“One thing I feel bad about,” the man went on, “is little Danny. Poor little fella lost his pa, and now he’s got a crippled-up grandpa who can’t do things with him. I’d looked forward to takin’ him fishin’, teachin’ him how to throw a ball—all those things. And now these ol’ hands and this here knee won’t let me do anything like that.”
“I’ve got some free time,” offered Henry carefully, his throat tight. “I’d be glad to spend some with the boy.” He tried to check his eagerness. “If his mother is comfortable with it, of course.”
“She’s pretty protective,” Sam said, shaking his head.
“One can’t fault her for that.”
The fragrances coming from the kitchen were making Henry hope they soon would be called to the table. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was—nor how anxious he was to taste real food, apologies to Jessie. He watched as the man opposite him reached down to rub his afflicted knee. Henry wondered if he was even conscious of doing so.
“You know,” Henry dared say, “I spent much of my growing-up years in the North among the Indian people. They do wonderful things with their roots and herbs. Hardly ever see an Indian with arthritis. They have this bitter root they grind up and make into tea. Would you be interested in trying some if I could get it down here for you?”
Sam’s eyes brightened with interest. “If they drink it and it doesn’t kill ’em—guess it wouldn’t kill me either.” He chuckled.
“I’ll talk to my father. He’s back in Athabasca. But he often has contact with people who are in and out of Indian country. He might be able to get hold of some.”
“What’s your father do?”
“He’s with the RCMP.”
“That why you joined the Force?”
Henry nodded.
“Nice to have a son follow in your footsteps. I had hoped my boy ...” He stopped.
“You have a son?”
“Had a son,” he corrected. “Lost him in the Great War. Somewhere in Italy.”
“I’m sorry,” said Henry, genuine concern in his heart.
The man looked about the room. “Martha took down all his pictures. Moved them to our bedroom. Said she wanted to see him first thing every morning and last thing every night. His death was pretty hard on Martha. Hard on both of us.”
Henry heard a movement in the doorway, and Mrs. Martin was there, her signature smile in place. To look at her you’d think she’s never had a sorrow in her life, thought Henry.
“Here you go, Sam,” she said, offering an arm. “Let me help you up. Here’s your cane. Just take it easy, now.”
They moved into the dining room where steaming dishes of food awaited them. There were even fresh-baked baking powder biscuits, and Henry’s stomach growled in anticipation.
The meal was even better than it had smelled. Henry was embarrassed for being talked into seconds, but Mrs. Martin seemed pleased he was enjoying her meal.
“A hearty appetite is the nicest compliment to a cook,” she assured him.
Henry found it very pleasant to just sit and chat about ordinary daily happenings and people of the community. It was such a nice change from filing reports about community mishaps and worse.
Mrs. Martin served the pie and refilled coffee cups. She settled into her chair and turned to Henry.
“Now, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself,” she encouraged. “How long have you been a Mountie?”
“More than five years now,” answered Henry.
“His dad was an RCMP officer,” put in Mr. Martin.
“Really. So you grew up with the police.”
Henry nodded.
“Where was your dad posted?”
“Mostly the North.”
“You grew up in the North?”
“He says the Indians have some root medicine that he thinks might help my arthritis,” noted Mr. Martin.
“Really?” Her eyes widened in interest. “I’ve heard of their herbs. Our daughter and her husband spent some time in the North.”
Henry supposed he was to respond with question or comment, but he did not know what to say, so he said only, “That’s interesting. ”
“She liked it there—at first....” The woman’s words trailed off sadly.
“Danny was born up there at Peace River,” Mr. Martin explained.
“He doesn’t remember anything about it—but he pretends he does,” Mrs. Martin laughed. “He talks about ‘my North’ like he has some claim to it. He’s always asking his mother, ‘When are we going back to my North?’ It’s quite cute.”
Henry forced a smile.
“Does your daughter plan to go back?” he finally asked, hoping his voice was even and casual.
“No ... I don’t think so. Not now. I think ...” But Mrs. Martin again did not finish.
“There’s nothing there for her now,” Mr. Martin was quick to fill in. “Barbers aren’t in too much demand along the trap-lines or in the logging camps,” he joked to lighten the atmosphere.
They were just finishing their pie when the back door banged open and Danny skipped into the dining room. He ran straight to his grandfather. “Hi! How you feelin’ today, Papa Sam?”
Mr. Martin reached out with gnarled fingers and drew the boy close to his side. He kissed the tousled head before he replied. “I’m good ... now.”
“We came to see you.”
“I see you did. You check with Granny. She might have another piece or two of that pie.”
There was a quiet step b
ehind him, and Henry knew without turning around that the boy’s mother had arrived in the room. He could almost sense her moment of hesitation. Then she moved forward.
“How are you, Papa?” she asked as she proceeded toward the man. She bent to place a kiss on his forehead.
Mrs. Martin had sprung up from her chair. “There’s a seat for you, dear. Pull out that chair for Danny. I’ll get pie and more coffee.”
“Mama—we’ve already eaten.”
“Well, Danny can always make room for pie,” she answered with a grandmother’s certainty.
“Just a small piece, then.”
“You’ve met Sergeant Delaney?” Sam Martin asked.
Henry stood to his feet to acknowledge the introduction. He nodded silently, wondering if he should extend his hand or wait for her to make the move.
She just nodded. “Hello” was all she said. Then as an afterthought she waved her hand toward the table. “Please ... finish your pie.” »
Henry took his seat again.
Danny had rushed off to the kitchen to supervise his grandmother’s serving up of the pie. Henry could hear them.
“Who’s that man?”
“He’s our guest.”
“He’s got a red coat. Does that make him a Mountie?”
“Yes. He’s a policeman.”
“Tommy says policemans are to lock you away in big iron cages. ”
“Tommy is wrong. We’ll talk about it later.”
Mr. Martin turned to his daughter with a question, probably to cover up the kitchen conversation.
“How has your week gone?”
She nodded. “It’s gone.” Then she smiled and added, “Fairly good, actually.”
“Sergeant Delaney here has just been telling us about the North. He was raised up there. Also worked up there. Says there may be a chance the Indians would have some tea that would help my arthritis.”
But Henry wondered if the young woman had been following her father’s comments. He felt her eyes upon him, studying his face. “Really?” he heard her say.
Mrs. Martin and Danny returned, Danny carrying his own piece of pie. Mrs. Martin had another for her daughter and a cup of coffee in the other hand.
