Ten Thousand Charms

by Allison K. Pittman

  “Can't you see how He has taken care of you? Guided you?”

  “Taken care of me? Weren't you listening?” Gloria's voice was rising. She dislodged herself from Maureen's grasp and stood up, laying the sleeping Danny back on the folded quilt on the floor. “Why would anyone who loved me want me to have that kind of life?”

  “Just because that's the life you had doesn't mean that's the life He wanted for you,” Maureen said, her voice gentle.

  “And what does He want for me?”

  “For you to have peace. And joy”

  “Well, He certainly never gave it to me, did He?”

  “Didn't He?” Maureen remained sitting on the floor. A drowsy Kate listlessly chewed on her finger. “I listened to your story. Watched you as you spoke. And your face changed, your voice changed when you talked about leaving that life.”

  “I haven't left that life/' Gloria said. “It's all I know. It's what I am.”

  “But it doesn't give you peace, now does it? Not like you feel here.”

  “The peace I feel now is for my son,” Gloria said. “All that matters is that he'll be cared for when I leave. When he doesn't need me anymore.”

  “And just when is that? When does a child stop needing its mother?”

  Kate was now fully asleep, and Maureen laid her gently on the blanket next to Danny She rose and stood next to Gloria, who was looking out the window, past the garden to where John William could be seen walking in the field.

  “When it has a father,” Gloria said. Her throat was raw with the threat of tears. “A real, live father on earth, not some spirit in the sky who just watches while you live your life scared and hungry and torn. A father who will pick him up and read him stories and sing him songs. A father with big strong arms to hold him so he can curl up in his lap when there are storms. A father with a deep voice who can tell her that he loves her, that everything will be all right. That she's safe.”

  Gloria began to shake, then. She clutched her arms to herself and willed her body to stop, closed her eyes to stop the tears, but the cleansing relief prevailed, fortified by the two small arms wrapped around her, a curly soft head resting on her back. They stood there, together, until their synchronized breathing brought a stillness to Gloria's body, even though tears continued to stream down her face.

  “He's an excellent man, you know,” Gloria said.

  “He seems so.”

  “He's not perfect.”

  “Nobody is.”

  “But he's so gentle with the babies. Sometimes I think he loves Danny as much as he loves his own child.”

  “I talked with him for a long time yesterday,” Maureen said. “Danny is his child.”

  “I didn't love Kate at first, you know.”

  “That's understandable.”

  “Maybe because I knew I was taking another woman's place. Maybe he could love Danny because he didn't have to worry about filling anyone else's shoes.”

  “Neither do you, Gloria." Maureen turned Gloria around, her two small hands firmly gripping Gloria's arms. “Can't you see? It doesn't matter what you've been or how you've lived.

  Look at what you have now. What God has given you. A son. How can you consider walking away from a gift like that?”

  “How can I stay?” Gloria said.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I'm afraid of him.”

  “Who?”

  “John William,” Gloria said. “I'm afraid of disappointing him. Not being what he needs me to be. We had a deal, you know. I'd take care of his child, he'd take care of mine. But I can't help but feel like he got the losing end of the stick.”

  Maureen laughed. Slight, at first, but then she reared her head back and let loose with deep, glee-filled noise.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “Child,” Maureen said, “you really don't see, do you?”

  “See what?”

  “You are a beautiful woman.”

  “I hate that.”

  “You hate it because of how others have seen you. But let me tell you,” she brought a hand up to caress Gloria's cheek, “I'm talking about the beauty I see on the inside of you. The way you love your children. The way you admire John William. The way you open up to me.”

  “I've never met anyone like you before,” Gloria said.

  “You're being given a chance at a new life, Gloria. Don't dwell on the old one, and don't go back.”

  “But I don't know how to do any of this new life.”

  “I'll teach you.”

  “But you're leaving.”

  “I'll stay.”

  Gloria could tell that Maureen hadn't considered staying until that moment. And when the realization hit both women, they burst into smiles and fell into each other's arms.

  “You'll really stay?” Gloria said. “You'll take care of the children?”

  “No, I'll take care of you. For now. Until you can take care of yourself.”

  Just then the door opened and John William's heavy steps entered the kitchen.

  “Smells wonderful in here,” he called out. He crossed the room to take a peek at the children, then glanced up to look at Gloria. “Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine,” Gloria said, hastily wiping the last of her tears.

  “You're sure?” he asked.

  “I'm sure.”.

  “We've been talking,” Maureen said. “Gloria and I had a long talk. She told me everything.”

  The weight of that word landed in the middle of the room. John William took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “So you know,” he said, “that we're not—”

  “I know,"Maureen said, “that we are all in a state of flux right now, and maybe we better take a deep breath before doing anything hasty”

  “So you're not going to sell?”

  “Oh, I'm going to sell. And it looks like I'm going to sell to you. I'm just not going to leave.”

  Gloria beamed silently at her side while the news sank into John William. His face registered shock at first, then acceptance, then a mysterious amusement.

  “So, shall we discuss this over dinner?” Maureen said, all business.

  “Yes,” Glpria said. “I'm starved.”

  They walked together into the kitchen. Maureen directed Gloria to the cupboard that held the dishes; John William pumped water from the faucet to wash his hands; Maureen busied herself dishing the stew into bowls and slicing the bread. When they sat around the little round table, John William bowed his head to say a blessing.

  “Oh, come now,” Maureen said. “Let's do this right.

  At her bidding, the three joined hands, and John William's deep voice filled the room. He thanked God for the food, the friendship, the family gathered in this place. Gloria felt his calloused fingers gripping her right hand, while her left enveloped the diminutive hand of Maureen. She wondered briefly which held more power, before the room echoed with “Amen,” and she bit into her first meal in her new home.

  t was as if they'd been a family forever. John William built a partition in the second bedroom, dividing it into two smaller rooms. Maureen found the unused railings, and once attached, Danny and Kate shared the biggest bed they'd ever known. The mattress from the wagon was stuffed with fresh hay, giving John William a bed in the newly created third bedroom. Maureen worried that a straw tick on a bare floor would be terribly uncomfortable, but John William declared that, after months of sleeping on hard, rocky ground, this felt like wafting toward heaven on clouds of feathers.

  Gloria shared the bedroom with Maureen.

  The days here started just as early as the days on the trail. Any thoughts Gloria had of lounging in the feather-stuffed mattress were dashed the first morning that Maureen's chipper voice woke her up, saying, “Gloria, dear? Rise and shine! Come see the new day God has given us.”

  Although she was grumbling on the inside, Gloria pasted on a smile and did her best to greet the morning. By the next day, the smile was
genuine, even though she quickly learned that Maureen would not cater to her.

  “Listen, dear," she said the first time Gloria plopped herself down at the table and waited for coffee, “you'll never learn to take care of yourself if you don't try. Now, our first lesson will be biscuits.”

  At Maureen's instruction, Gloria carefully measured, mixed, rolled, and baked. They were edible, if not airy, and as John William added an extra spoonful of gravy, he declared them the best she'd ever made.

  The days were a blur of chores. After the monotony of sitting in a wagon all day, Gloria welcomed the activity Every piece of clothing that she, John William, and the babies owned was washed and hung to dry. Their few tools and utensils were assimilated into Maureen's household. The garden was bursting with the earliest of its generous yield, and afternoons were spent hoeing weeds along its rows.

  The noon meal was a time of great camaraderie. Maureen assigned part of the meal's preparation to Gloria—even if it was merely slicing the pickled beets—and the three of them joined around the table, just as they had that first afternoon. It was often a rushed affair, as there were always a hundred things left to do, and the conversation was centered on the workings of the farm.

  “I never worked a spring wheat crop before,” John William said one afternoon. “Ain't it a bit late to be bringin’ it in?”

  “We'll be the last ones to be sure,” Maureen said. “But before you came along, it was just me, and all the crews are already working. I couldn't get anybody to come on until that last week in August.

  Then John William and Maureen's conversation turned to numbers—how many acres, how many machines. Gloria listened to all of this, but contributed nothing to the conversation. She liked it best when they would talk about the crew—who worked hard, who was shiftless. Names of men and women, people of the church and the community floated around the table.

  The afternoons were busy, too. Of course there were dishes to be cleaned and put away. The floors were swept. There seemed to be an endless supply of things to wash or repair. John William worked on creating the larger corral necessary to accommodate his horses. Gloria returned to the garden, finding a new love among its tidy rows of promise. It also allowed her, with just the slightest turn of her head, to watch John William work.

  The babies flourished. Gloria and Maureen took the canvas cover from the wagon and spread it on the ground for Danny and Kate to lie on while the women worked outside. They rolled from one end to the other, and frequently either Maureen or Gloria would have to rush to rescue someone in danger of rolling straight through the onions. At mealtime, the babies sat on laps around the table and experimented with whatever the adults were eating. Maureen soaked cubes of bread in milk and sugar, much to Kate's gummy delight. They also had tastes of cooked carrots and soft cooked noodles. Gloria's heart skipped a beat with each little mashed bite. The day would come when they wouldn't need her at all.

  Then there were the evenings. The hours after supper and before bed were Gloria's favorite of the day. Supper was usually a light fare—perhaps soup or stew that had been bubbling through the late afternoon—which made a quick and easy cleanup. Then everyone settled into the parlor. The lamps on the mantel and small table made a cozy glow in the room. Maureen taught Gloria a simple stitch, and soon she set herself to making what she hoped would be a scarf. John William sat on the floor, his long legs stretched in front of him, and played with the children, letting each take a turn grasping his fingers and stretching to early, tentative steps.

  And the conversations, the stories. The little parlor brimmed with laughter and thoughtful silences as, hour by hour, Maureen and Gloria and John William shared their lives with each other. This is where Gloria learned that John William grew up in Illinois. His father, an immigrant from Scotland, married a lovely Irish girl who died when John William was just five years old. He was a hired field hand who never owned his own farm. He drank heavily, much to the shame of his family, and John William's first fights were an attempt to defend his family's honor.

  He told Maureen about his days as a boxer, about the death of two men at his hands, about prison. Gloria sensed his acute shame as he told the story, and she longed to reach out and comfort him. But as he told of his “salvation,” his voice took on a tone of triumphant joy, and Maureen muttered a tearful, “Praise God.” Gloria felt a little like an outsider, like someone who didn't quite understand the language of the room.

  At some point, after the babies were fed for the final time and sleepy, the long day's work wore on everyone. There were yawns and stretches and declarations of being asleep before the head hit the pillow Every night, starting that first night, John William bent low to kiss Maureen's soft cheek, then stood and nodded good night to Gloria before going outside to check on the livestock one last time. Gloria and Maureen went into their room where, over the course of changing into nightgowns and brushing and braiding hair, the conversation continued to flow

  When Gloria finally sank into the softness of Maureen's feathered pillow, she lingered awake but silent, respectful of the prayers of the friend beside her. She listened until she heard John William come back in and latch the door. She waited for the soft thump of the second boot, the rustle of straw. She tried to wait for the familiar buzz of his snore, but often fell asleep before she heard it, wondering if he were praying, too.

  One evening there was a dazzling sunset that washed the farm in brilliant color. Gloria stood at the kitchen window, mesmerized, her hands wiping dishes. Behind her, John William sat at the table, jotting down rows of numbers that had something to do with the amount of seed needed to expand next year's crop. Maureen was out in the yard keeping the babies amused until Gloria was finished tidying up.

  “She really loves the children,” Gloria said, looking over her shoulder at John William.

  “Mm hmm.”

  “You shouldn't tip that chair back like that, you know. You'll crack your skull.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  Gloria sighed and returned to the task at hand. She remembered a conversation with the girls back at Jewell's, about the deep satisfaction of doing dishes. Right now, she thought she'd really rather be outside playing with the babies, but that stemmed more from the frustration of being ignored.

  “You know,” she said, amused with the prospect of annoying John William with her talk, “when I was at Jewell's, we had a thought about doing dishes. I said that 1 actually liked doing them because it was like getting a fresh start to the day. Then Biddy— I'm not sure you remember her; she was so young and so…sad.”

  Gloria allowed her voice to trail, wondering if John William would follow it. When he didn't, she simply picked up a cup and resumed.

  “Well, Biddy said that she thought what would be even better than that would be having your own home and doing your own dishes.” She smiled a little at the memory, and sent a wish that Biddy was sharing some of the happiness that she was now. “Then Sadie—I know you remember Sadie—she said.

  Again she left a silent little trail, but this time she simply remembered what Sadie had said, and decided she didn't want to share after all. She set the cup to drain on the countertop and rummaged through the soapy water in search of another.

  “What did Sadie say?” His voice was quiet, distracted.

  “It's not important. You know Sadie.”

  “No, tell me.” She could tell he was looking up from his papers. Looking at her.

  “Well, she said…” Gloria straightened her shoulders and assumed the tall woman's posture and worked her voice around an exaggerated German accent. “Washing in your own home would be gut, but what would be best would be to have the man of the house…”

  “Yes?”

  She dropped the accent. “To have the man of the house come up behind you—now remember, this was Sadie talking—come up behind you, give you a little nuzzle on your neck and say Tut, tut love, you look tired. Why don't you go lie down and let me finish up?'”

  She'd stayed
true to Sadie's words and immediately felt stupid for it. She could have said anything, made up any clever quip, but her mind was not as sharp and witty as her old friend's was, and the silence that followed was unbearable.

  Then she heard the sound of two chair legs landing on the smooth wood floor and the scrape of them as he backed the chair away. She sensed rather than heard him unfold his long body from behind the table, felt the footsteps that brought him up behind her.

  His breath was warm on the back of her. neck, but perhaps she felt it only because her own had stopped. He was leaning in closer, so close that if she were to turn her head, his whiskers would graze her face.

  She didn't turn her head. He turned it for her. He brought his hand around her to rest on her chin and turned her face to look straight into his.

  “Well now, darlin',” he said, that warm smile on his face. “I don't think you look a bit tired.” He brought the tip of his nose to briefly nuzzle the tip of hers, then took the last corn muffin from the platter about to be washed and went outside to play

  ou can't make me go,” she said that morning even as she carried the blanket and food for the church dinner out to the wagon.

  “You're going,” he said, amused by her protest.

  “What about the babies?”

  “They're fine with me,” said Maureen. “Kate oughtn't go out with this sniffle anyway. Besides,” she added with a wink, “might be nice for the two of you to have a little time alone.”

  The morning crackled with the timid chill of early September, a chill that would disappear long before noon. The sun climbed higher with each turn of the wagon's wheels, sending a golden light across acres and acres of ripened wheat ready for harvest. His wheat. His harvest. Or it would be some year. He had enough cash to meet half of Maureen's asking price for the farm; the other half he would pay in labor—taking no share of the profits—until a fair price had been paid. He still wasn't sure who profited from the deal more: Maureen for the opportunity to stay with the life she so dearly loved, or him for having a soft buffer to come between him and Gloria.