by Judith Pella
Finally Rev. Sinclair, who appeared to be rising steadily to a boiling point, exploded.
“Silence! This instant!” There was more desperation in his tone than authority, but seemingly the children sensed they had pushed him to his limit because there was indeed instant acquiescence to his order. “I am turning down the lamp. The first one who makes a sound after that will be spanked!”
He went to the table and turned down the lamp until there was just shadowy light in the cabin. Only then, as he lifted his head, did he become aware once more of Liz’s presence. She had been sitting so quietly feeding the baby, he must have forgotten about her—at least he must have wanted to forget about her.
They exchanged looks filled with questions both were afraid to ask.
But of course they must eventually be asked, and as Sinclair knew, the task fell to him as host.
“I’ll go to the barn,” he said simply.
“I appreciate your not turning me out.”
“Did you truly think I would do such a thing?” He seemed both incredulous and hurt at this.
“I . . . didn’t know what to think with Mrs. Sinclair gone.”
He sighed. “I suppose our previous encounters might not have led you to believe otherwise, but I assure you, Liz, I am not the kind of man to put a helpless woman out in the cold.”
“People might talk if I stay.”
Then he did smile, but it was too cynical of a gesture to do him any good. He even chuckled, but the sound was as dry as a dead branch. “They already are talking.”
“Oh.” She had nothing to say to that cryptic statement and thought silence was the best approach anyway.
“In any case, I’ll sleep in the barn. If tongues wish to waggle over that, then so be it. I hardly care.” He quickly grabbed a couple of blankets, then headed to the door where he paused. “Your bed comes not without a price.” His gaze swept the room. “You will be at the mercy of the menagerie here.”
He swiftly exited, as if fearing she might choose the cold night instead. No such thought had entered Liz’s mind. Rev. Sinclair could not begin to imagine the kind of quarters she had escaped from. A night with five children, even if they kept her awake all night, would be absolutely heavenly by comparison.
CHAPTER
34
BENJAMIN THOUGHT IT WAS FITTING that even in the respite of the quiet barn he found no peace. By the time the first light of dawn penetrated the cracks in the log walls, he’d only found a few hours of fitful sleep. Wide awake now, he knew he should return to the cabin and feed Oliver. But the thought of facing his unhappy children once again nearly paralyzed him. If only Liz knew how grateful he was for her in those moments.
Yet the reprieve from his children did not give him a reprieve from himself. What was he going to do? How was he going to find the will to face life each day? In the past it had been so easy. Always he could turn his burdens over to God. Prayer had been his greatest comfort. Now he could not even find the courage to utter grace before meals.
At first he questioned the use of the word courage, but the more he considered it the more apt it became. Courage was exactly what he needed to face God, knowing he had failed Him so miserably.
Yet as much as the weight of his failure crushed him, it also still bemused him. He had spent his life serving God, trying to please Him. Where had he gone wrong? Some of Haden’s final words returned to him.
“She was so completely miserable, and she received nothing but holy admonitions from you. . . .”
Benjamin had always thought he’d been aiding Rebekah’s faith, helping her draw closer to God. Had he been wrong, then? Had he instead pushed her away from God? But everything he’d said had been right, completely scriptural. Suddenly a new slant occurred to him. Perhaps this tragedy was not a punishment of him but of Rebekah instead.
“The wages of sin is death,” the Scriptures said.
Maybe it wasn’t his fault after all. It was a thin hope—no, not even that. It was a sick hope. Rebekah had made her share of mistakes but nothing so horrible as to deserve such a terrible end. She had always been of a gentle, kindly spirit.
Then it was something else. Haden? Yes, of course. He had led her astray. He had filled her heart with discontent and hate toward her husband. Oh yes, what more could one expect from a man who was an avowed atheist! Benjamin let himself bask in this line of reasoning for several minutes before he came up against an irrefutable wall of truth.
Haden was many things, even some of the things of which Benjamin now accused him. But Haden was no liar, and he cared for his family, Rebekah included, and would never purposefully harm them.
And Benjamin could not conjure up enough venom to accuse him of behavior that the man simply was not capable of. Whatever Haden had done, it had been done out of ignorance.
Then why, God? Why has all this happened? Are you toying with me as you did with Job? Even as he sought to blame God for his troubles, Haden’s words came back to mind. And more convicting, Rebekah’s words. Though she tried so poignantly hard not to accuse him, the indictment was there so clearly.
“I am desperate with loneliness . . . forgive me for not being the strong woman of God you deserve. . . .”
How many times had he preached at her to be stronger? To trust God more? To support him in all his endeavors? Always he had focused on her, finding fault with her, never with himself, so that in the end she had done the same. Near to taking her own life, she still refused to lay blame at Benjamin’s feet.
And he had refused to accept any blame.
Until now.
The cycle of blame had come full circle. First Rebekah, then Haden, then even God himself. What kind of fool is so blind? What kind of arrogant miscreant could possibly think he was blameless in the sham.bles around him? Benjamin thought about the confession of guilt he had burst out to Micah. Even then he hadn’t realized the truth of his words.
But it was all his fault. And he was not just being cavalier in this admission. He saw it clearly now to the very core of his worthless being. His eyes were being pried open, and what he saw made his stomach twist painfully. Like images in a heinous nightmare, his faults paraded before him, like Judgment Day, when a man’s deeds were laid to his account. And Benjamin’s account was spiritually and morally bankrupt. He was a failure as a husband and a father. He’d been insufferably self-righteous. No wonder he’d turned away all who should have loved him.
Still Benjamin could not pray. He didn’t know what to say. It dawned on him that he had never in his life asked anyone for forgiveness. He didn’t know if he could now. He knew the theological basis of forgiveness. But everything he’d learned in seminary seemed to be mere words now. Nothing had ever truly gone to the core of his heart, not of what he’d learned and not of what he’d practiced in his ministry.
Suddenly he could see it all so clearly for the sham it was. He’d wrapped himself in words and bound everyone he knew in them. But it had been . . . yes, “a whited sepulchre . . . full of dead men’s bones. . . .”
“Oh, God!” he choked in agony. He knew it to be true, yet the truth was like a sword thrust through his heart. This moment of self-discovery was perhaps even worse than losing his wife and losing the love of his family because this revelation destroyed the very fabric of who he was, crumbling the only foundation upon which he could bear his losses.
He had nothing now.
“God, I want your forgiveness, even though I don’t deserve it!” he cried out, not even realizing this was his first true prayer since he’d heard of Rebekah’s death. Perhaps it was the first real prayer of his life.
Weeping, he found himself sprawled out on the floor of the barn, his face ground into the dirt. Yet as empty as he was, he was too afraid to complete the circle by asking God for absolution. God was a vengeful God. Benjamin preached constantly about God’s wrath. And he knew, among even the worst of his congregation, he deserved far more punishment than he’d already received.
�
�Reverend Sinclair.” A voice outside broke into his misery, but it wasn’t welcome. He was far from finished with his emotional flogging.
“What do you want?” he demanded hoarsely through the closed door. Then he thought what better punishment than to bare his humiliation before a stranger, especially this stranger whom he had once so pridefully rebuked. He jumped up and flung open the door. “I said, what do you want?”
“I . . . ah . . . it isn’t important.” Liz backed away from the door.
“Been too long without a man?” he sneered, not knowing why his self-accusation should be turned upon her.
She blanched at his crude words.
“Get out of here!” he yelled. “Leave me alone!” It was as much to spare her as for his own sake. He slammed the door shut. He heard her retreating footsteps and fell back against the rough surface of the door, a strangled sob escaping his lips. “What have I become?” he moaned.
More important, what was he going to do about it? He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to go on punishing himself. He wanted to draw blood, emotional if not physical. He wished Haden were here to do the job. He needed—needed!—to be hurt. But he couldn’t even indulge himself in that. He had the children to care for. They might be alone right now. Liz would have every right to walk out after his unforgivable words. No matter how much he wanted to stay where he was and continue mentally attacking himself, he had to return to the cabin. If anything happened to his children now because of him . . . Dear God, he didn’t even want to think of it.
He forced himself to his feet, and though he was far from finished wallowing in the mire of his wretchedness, he made himself return to the cabin.
CHAPTER
35
LIZ RETURNED TO THE CABIN thinking she would fetch Hannah and leave. She had not escaped one nightmarish situation only to be plunged into another. She was through taking abuse from anyone, especially men. And Benjamin’s words had hurt as much as any physical exploitation from Maurry’s customers. They had hurt because even despite Rebekah’s absence, Liz had begun to feel she had found succor here.
When Liz reentered the cabin, she found the same peaceful scene she had left a few minutes before. Micah was sitting in a corner whittling on a piece of wood, chips flying everywhere. True, the cabin was in shambles, but the wood seemed to add insult to injury. Though she could not be certain, Liz thought that Micah rather reveled in the mess.
Oliver was napping after his feeding an hour ago. Leah and Hannah were playing side by side on the bed. Hannah’s fever had improved, though she still had deeply congested breathing.
The only thing that appeared to be amiss in the cabin was that Isabel was sitting on her little bed weeping. When Liz went to her, the child lifted plaintive eyes to her.
“I miss my mama.” Her small voice trembled over the words as huge drops of moisture fell from her sweet blue eyes.
Liz knew she should not remain in the cabin lest Sinclair come in, find her, and continue to cast rebukes at her. But she simply could not turn her back on the miserable child. Liz sat on the bed and placed an arm around Isabel’s shoulder, a small gesture that the six-year-old, obviously starved for affection, took full advantage of by crawling into her lap. Liz’s heart clenched. How sad that the child must seek affection from a stranger. It made her think of the man she had encountered in the barn. What kind of man was Rev. Sinclair? He seemed as hard and cold with his children as he was with the vile sinners he preached to.
“Isabel, I am so sorry about your mother,” Liz said tenderly. “I know it is a hard thing to lose your mother.”
“Y-you d-do?" sobbed the child.
“I lost my own mother when I was young, too. I was probably younger than Leah.”
“D-did you miss her?”
“When babies are very young they aren’t completely aware of what is happening.” Liz ran a soothing hand through Isabel’s silky yellow hair. “But then, babies can’t tell anyone what they are feeling. I think they have a big empty place inside them. It wasn’t until I was just about your age when I truly understood what it meant to have a mama, that I really missed her. I miss her still.”
“I’ll always miss her?”
“Yes, but it won’t always hurt as much.” Liz kissed the top of Isabelfs head just as she often did to Hannah. “But you have something special that I didn’t have. You have memories of your mama, and they are special gifts from God to help the pain. I’ll bet if you close your eyes, you can see her face.”
“Papa says it is wrong to bet,” said the small voice quite innocently.
Liz smiled. “If your papa says it, it must be so.”
“Can you see your mama’s face if you close your eyes?”
“No, because I never knew what she looked like. I never even saw a picture of her. There is a painting, though, and I hope to find it some day and finally see what she looked like.” Only as she spoke the words did Liz realize how they signified a growing seed of hope that her escape had planted within her. Before her flight she had given up thinking of the painting because of her hopeless situation. Now maybe she wouldn’t be so ashamed to look upon her mother’s face. She returned her attention to Isabel. “Close your eyes, Isabel, and tell me what you see.”
Isabel obeyed and a few moments later said with a damp smile, “I see Mama’s hair. It was so pretty and shiny and kind of red, but Papa called it brown, because he said red was not sedate for a Christian woman. And I see her eyes—everyone always said mine were like hers. She’s smiling, too, but she didn’t smile much since we came to Texas.”
“That’s good, Isabel. And you have other memories, too. Did she call you an affectionate name?”
“Sometimes she called me ‘Auntie Is,’ because I was named for her aunt. She mostly did it when I was acting stubborn ’cause Aunt Isabel could be very stubborn, too. But when Mama called me Auntie Is, she always did it with a little smile on her face because she loved her aunt a lot.”
“It was her way of telling you she loved you even if you were a bit stubborn.”
Isabel nodded. “I didn’t mind when she did. It usually made me less stubborn.”
“Does it help, sweetheart, to remember?”
Again the child nodded. “Once, when I was just four years old and we were still in Boston, Mama took some of her grocery money and took me out to a fancy hotel for tea. Just her and me. She said sometimes girls need a time just to themselves.”
“You are awfully lucky to have such memories—“ Liz stopped as she heard a creak. Looking up, she saw Benjamin standing in the door-way. She wondered how long he had been there, unnoticed. She also wondered why Isabel stiffened slightly in her arms.
From outside he’d noted the quiet inside the cabin and had entered cautiously. He was now certain that it was he alone who had stirred such chaos in the place. Still, Benjamin was surprised at the scene that greeted him, especially that of Isabel cuddled in Liz’s lap. He’d heard a bit of the conversation, too, and only by great effort had he reined in his own tears. He knew it was the first time since coming home that little Isabel had received any comfort over her mother’s death.
Not wanting to disturb the tranquil scene, yet in a pathetic way wanting desperately to be part of it, he took a step into the room, closing the door behind him. The door creaked.
“I . . . uh . . .” he stammered when several heads jerked up. He felt like an interloper in his own home. He was an interloper! But he forged ahead with his initial intention. “Liz, may I talk with you?” He tried to sound as nonthreatening as possible. He knew she had every reason to spit in his face, but amazingly, she didn’t.
“Yes, of course.” Gently she slid Isabel from her lap, then giving her an encouraging smile and a quick hug, she rose.
“Can we talk outside?” he asked. “It’s not raining.”
She turned to Micah. “Micah, would you mind keeping an eye on the children while your father and I go outside?”
Benjamin marveled at how she as
ked the question as if it were her responsibility. But even more astounding was Micah’s response.
“Sure, Liz.” No rancor, no grimace, just simple willingness.
Benjamin swallowed back the bitter bile of further self-recrimination and led the way outside.
The sun had come out, warm rays slicing between a scattering of gray clouds. It appeared as if the rain of previous days had finally played itself out. In a way Benjamin regretted that, because the rain had provided an excuse for staying homebound, not that caring for four motherless children wasn’t excuse enough. But he did wonder what his future held. He couldn’t devote himself forever to the tending of his children, even if he wanted to. They had to have income. The source of that income was still very much in question with him. Even vague thoughts of the future of his ministry created a sickening lump of gall in his stomach. He simply could not face that now.
It seemed almost a pleasure to face instead the problem of the woman following him outside. Repenting of his harsh words was not nearly as difficult as the prospect of facing his scattered congregation. Though words now were practically impossible.
He walked to the edge of the yard, aware of her presence a couple of steps behind him. Pausing near a clump of small, new-growth pines, he searched his mind for some way to broach the delicate subject.
“You are good with the children.” Perhaps if he skirted around the thorn, approaching it from a peripheral direction, it would be easier.
“They are good children.” She had come up next to him.
That comment took him by surprise, and he knew he looked it.
She added, “Don’t you think so, Reverend Sinclair?”
“I’ve never thought of it in quite that way.” He paused, considering his next words, then realized he was only trying to find a way to put himself in the best light. Old habits do indeed die hard. Somewhat harshly, he said, “I’ve always regarded them as more of a burden of responsibility.”
