CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tho’ Deep’ning Trials....
Real sorrow began for me when the violet fell out the window.
Leatrice and I had quarreled — a rare thing. I loved Leatrice; and I was pretty sure she loved me. At the end of the school year, I had written in her autograph book something I thought was really clever, although not original.
Yors till Niagra Fals
And the oshun wears dipers
To keep its botom dry.
I LOVE YOU!! BETHY
She had written in mine:
I lov you litle,
I lov you big,
I lov you like
A litle pig!
XOXOXO Leatrice!
Feeling that way about each other, we never should have had a falling out. But we did.
We were jumping rope on our sidewalk with Leatrice’s new jump rope — blue and white striped with red handles. We were doing familiar counting chants as we jumped. Leatrice had just begun:
Grace, Grace,
Dressed in lace,
Went upstairs to powder her face.
How many boxes did she waste?
As she was opening her mouth to say, “four,” Titty-Poo, chasing a butterfly, ran between Leatrice’s legs and caused her to stumble.
“My turn! My turn! My turn!” I squealed.
“That dumb cat tripped me!”
“That doesn’t matter! it’s my turn!”
Reluctantly, Leatrice handed me the rope. I was determined to keep it as long as I could. I was jealous because the beautiful rope belonged to Leatrice and not to me. She hadn’t even had to save up her allowance to get it. Uncle Roland had let her take her George and Louise dollar out of the bank. Mamma and Daddy wouldn’t let me do that. I began slowly and deliberately to count and chant:
My mother, and
Your mother were
Hanging out clothes.
My mother gave
Your mother a
Punch in the nose!
How many punches did she give her?
One two, three, four...seven, eight, nine, ten...seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty....
Leatrice was getting impatient, standing on one foot and then the other, her mouth opening and closing, her hands reaching for the rope.
“Thirty-one, thirty-two....”
“That’s enough!” Leatrice complained.
“Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight....”
“It’s my rope!”
I shook my head. “Seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven...ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one-hundred! RED HOT PEPPER!”
I began to jump as fast as I could, my feet rising in synchronized leaps. Leatrice couldn’t stand it any longer. She gave me a hard shove, and I fell. I scrambled to my feet, outraged.
“You pushed me!”
“You were cheating!”
“You’re a big, fat liar!”
“Well, that’s your pointy view!” And Leatrice grabbed her rope, stomped off my sidewalk, and went home. I walked in the house, determined not to make up until she did. I wandered into the kitchen, where Mamma was ironing. No fun there. Daddy was busy in his study, looking over his teaching schedule for the next year. Irene was off someplace with Dorajean — and she was no fun at any time.
I got a book from the glass-fronted bookcase and sat down to read. The book was “The Mill On The Floss”. The first part was pretty interesting, where poor little Maggie Tulliver was treated so rotten by her family she decided to run away and join the gypsies. But then her Daddy found her and took her home; and then she grew up; and it got sort of boring.
I wished I had Leatrice to play with; but I wasn’t going to apologize until she did. I went up to my room and took a look at the African violet. I had been taking very good care of it — watering it, feeding it, nipping off the faded blooms. Now, new blossoms were coming in tight, little buds, their heads bent as though in prayer.
I turned around, propping my hands on the windowsill. I’d just lost my best friend. I didn’t want to lose her. How could I get her back? I leaned back — and felt something slide as I pushed against it. The flower pot! I whirled just in time to see it disappear over the edge of the windowsill and crash sickeningly below.
I had thought the screen would hold it; then I remembered, too late, that the screen was loose at the bottom. I had heard it tap-tapping in the night, but had thought nothing of it. I looked down to see the flowerpot lying broken on the ground below, the pieces scattered around. I screamed and flew down the stairs, through the house — startling Mamma in the kitchen — out the back door and around to look, horror-stricken, at the damage.
The pot had hit the cement edge of the basement window well and now lay shattered in uncountable pieces. Worse yet, Titty-Poo had arrived on the scene and had the plant in his mouth, shaking and clawing it apart, ripping leaves and blossoms to shreds.
“Get out of here!” I screamed and aimed a whack at Titty-Poo’s retreating back.
Mamma came out and saw me kneeling there crying, holding some of the broken blooms I had hastily scooped up. Mamma put her arm around me. I had often wished she would — but under better circumstances than these!
“Oh!", she said. “Oh, Beth, that’s too bad!”
“Can it be fixed, Mamma?” I asked piteously.
“I don’t know anything about African violets; but I wouldn’t think so — not all broken apart like that.”
“Why did it have to happen, Mamma? Why did God let it happen, when I was trying so hard to take good care of it?”
“Well,” Mamma hesitated, “It’s just something we don’t understand.”
“What can I do?” I wailed. “Miss Biggs trusted me! Do you know where I can get another one?”
Mamma shook her head. “I’ve never seen one but this. I just don’t know where you’d go to replace it. But,” Mamma gave me an encouraging pat on the back, “Miss Biggs will understand it was an accident. You can just pay her for it.”
“How — how much do you s’pose it’ll be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a dollar.”
A dollar! I had never had that much money all together in my whole life! It was two-and-a-half months allowance! Seeing my anguished expression, Mamma said, “Well, you have that dollar in the bank, you know — the one Cousin Louise and her husband, George, were kind enough to give you. And if that isn’t enough, you can do extra chores to earn more.”
I wished that Mamma would take me in her arms, hug me, and rock me, and kiss me, and say, “It’s all right, honey, it’s all right.” But that wasn’t Mamma’s way. Instead, she gave me another pat meant to be encouraging and went in the house.
In a sudden fit of anger at Whoever hadn’t caught that pot in midair, I swept the pieces of pot and plant into the cement window well. Then, savagely, with both hands, I pulled up chunks of sod, and dirt, and grass, and threw them on top until there were no signs of the disaster — just the ravaged lawn. Then I lay down and wept.
I was aware of someone kneeling beside me, breathing in my ear. Leatrice.
“What’s the matter, Bethy?”
I continued to weep. She tried again.
“Remember, Bethy, ‘I love you little, I love you big, I love you like a little pig?”
I couldn’t resist her, then. I sat up, hugged her, and said, through my tears, “An’ I love you like a little pig loves mud!”
We were friends again; and all would have been right, if the ruin of Miss Biggs’ violet hadn’t lain there in the window well.
As Lambs to His Fold Page 14
